025_War and Peace

By Leo Tolstoy/Tolstoi
Contents
[

By Leo Tolstoy/Tolstoi

  BOOK ONE: 1805

  CHAPTER I
  &ldquo;Well, Prince, so Genoa and Lucca are now just family estates of the
  Buonapartes. But I warn you, if you don&rsquo;t tell me that this means war, if
  you still try to defend the infamies and horrors perpetrated by that
  Antichrist&mdash;I really believe he is Antichrist&mdash;I will have
  nothing more to do with you and you are no longer my friend, no longer my
  &lsquo;faithful slave,&rsquo; as you call yourself! But how do you do? I see I have
  frightened you&mdash;sit down and tell me all the news.&rdquo;
 <br />
  It was in July, 1805, and the speaker was the well-known Anna Pávlovna
  Schérer, maid of honor and favorite of the Empress Márya Fëdorovna. With
  these words she greeted Prince Vasíli Kurágin, a man of high rank and
  importance, who was the first to arrive at her reception. Anna Pávlovna
  had had a cough for some days. She was, as she said, suffering from  being then a new word in St. Petersburg, used only by
  the elite.
<br />
  All her invitations without exception, written in French, and delivered by
  a scarlet-liveried footman that morning, ran as follows:
<br />
  &ldquo;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&mdash;Annette Schérer.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Heavens! what a virulent attack!&rdquo; replied the prince, not in the least
  disconcerted by this reception. He had just entered, wearing an
  embroidered court uniform, knee breeches, and shoes, and had stars on his
  breast and a serene expression on his flat face. He spoke in that refined
  French in which our grandfathers not only spoke but thought, and with the
  gentle, patronizing intonation natural to a man of importance who had
  grown old in society and at court. He went up to Anna Pávlovna, kissed her
  hand, presenting to her his bald, scented, and shining head, and
  complacently seated himself on the sofa.
<br />
  &ldquo;First of all, dear friend, tell me how you are. Set your friend&rsquo;s mind at
  rest,&rdquo; said he without altering his tone, beneath the politeness and
  affected sympathy of which indifference and even irony could be discerned.
<br />
  &ldquo;Can one be well while suffering morally? Can one be calm in times like
  these if one has any feeling?&rdquo; said Anna Pávlovna. &ldquo;You are staying the
  whole evening, I hope?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And the fete at the English ambassador&rsquo;s? Today is Wednesday. I must put
  in an appearance there,&rdquo; said the prince. &ldquo;My daughter is coming for me to
  take me there.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I thought today&rsquo;s fete had been canceled. I confess all these festivities
  and fireworks are becoming wearisome.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;If they had known that you wished it, the entertainment would have been
  put off,&rdquo; said the prince, who, like a wound-up clock, by force of habit
  said things he did not even wish to be believed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t tease! Well, and what has been decided about Novosíltsev&rsquo;s
  dispatch? You know everything.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What can one say about it?&rdquo; replied the prince in a cold, listless tone.
  &ldquo;What has been decided? They have decided that Buonaparte has burnt his
  boats, and I believe that we are ready to burn ours.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Vasíli always spoke languidly, like an actor repeating a stale
  part. Anna Pávlovna Schérer on the contrary, despite her forty years,
  overflowed with animation and impulsiveness. To be an enthusiast had
  become her social vocation and, sometimes even when she did not feel like
  it, she became enthusiastic in order not to disappoint the expectations of
  those who knew her. The subdued smile which, though it did not suit her
  faded features, always played round her lips expressed, as in a spoiled
  child, a continual consciousness of her charming defect, which she neither
  wished, nor could, nor considered it necessary, to correct.
<br />
  In the midst of a conversation on political matters Anna Pávlovna burst
  out:
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, don&rsquo;t speak to me of Austria. Perhaps I don&rsquo;t understand things, but
  Austria never has wished, and does not wish, for war. She is betraying us!
  Russia alone must save Europe. Our gracious sovereign recognizes his high
  vocation and will be true to it. That is the one thing I have faith in!
  Our good and wonderful sovereign has to perform the noblest role on earth,
  and he is so virtuous and noble that God will not forsake him. He will
  fulfill his vocation and crush the hydra of revolution, which has become
  more terrible than ever in the person of this murderer and villain! We
  alone must avenge the blood of the just one.... Whom, I ask you, can we
  rely on?... England with her commercial spirit will not and cannot
  understand the Emperor Alexander&rsquo;s loftiness of soul. She has refused to
  evacuate Malta. She wanted to find, and still seeks, some secret motive in
  our actions. What answer did Novosíltsev get? None. The English have not
  understood and cannot understand the self-abnegation of our Emperor who
  wants nothing for himself, but only desires the good of mankind. And what
  have they promised? Nothing! And what little they have promised they will
  not perform! Prussia has always declared that Buonaparte is invincible,
  and that all Europe is powerless before him.... And I don&rsquo;t believe a word
  that Hardenburg says, or Haugwitz either. This famous Prussian neutrality
  is just a trap. I have faith only in God and the lofty destiny of our
  adored monarch. He will save Europe!&rdquo;
 <br />
  She suddenly paused, smiling at her own impetuosity.
<br />
  &ldquo;I think,&rdquo; said the prince with a smile, &ldquo;that if you had been sent
  instead of our dear Wintzingerode you would have captured the King of
  Prussia&rsquo;s consent by assault. You are so eloquent. Will you give me a cup
  of tea?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;In a moment. ,&rdquo; she added, becoming calm again, &ldquo;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 , the good ones.
  And also the Abbé Morio. Do you know that profound thinker? He has been
  received by the Emperor. Had you heard?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I shall be delighted to meet them,&rdquo; said the prince. &ldquo;But tell me,&rdquo; 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,
  &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Vasíli wished to obtain this post for his son, but others were
  trying through the Dowager Empress Márya Fëdorovna to secure it for the
  baron.
<br />
  Anna Pávlovna almost closed her eyes to indicate that neither she nor
  anyone else had a right to criticize what the Empress desired or was
  pleased with.
<br />
  &ldquo;Baron Funke has been recommended to the Dowager Empress by her sister,&rdquo;
   was all she said, in a dry and mournful tone.
<br />
  As she named the Empress, Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;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 , and again her face clouded over with sadness.
<br />
  The prince was silent and looked indifferent. But, with the womanly and
  courtierlike quickness and tact habitual to her, Anna Pávlovna wished both
  to rebuke him (for daring to speak as he had done of a man recommended to
  the Empress) and at the same time to console him, so she said:
<br />
  &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The prince bowed to signify his respect and gratitude.
<br />
  &ldquo;I often think,&rdquo; 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&mdash;&ldquo;I
  often think how unfairly sometimes the joys of life are distributed. Why
  has fate given you two such splendid children? I don&rsquo;t speak of Anatole,
  your youngest. I don&rsquo;t like him,&rdquo; she added in a tone admitting of no
  rejoinder and raising her eyebrows. &ldquo;Two such charming children. And
  really you appreciate them less than anyone, and so you don&rsquo;t deserve to
  have them.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And she smiled her ecstatic smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t help it,&rdquo; said the prince. &ldquo;Lavater would have said I lack the
  bump of paternity.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t joke; I mean to have a serious talk with you. Do you know I am
  dissatisfied with your younger son? Between ourselves&rdquo; (and her face
  assumed its melancholy expression), &ldquo;he was mentioned at Her Majesty&rsquo;s and
  you were pitied....&rdquo;
 <br />
  The prince answered nothing, but she looked at him significantly, awaiting
  a reply. He frowned.
<br />
  &ldquo;What would you have me do?&rdquo; he said at last. &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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.
<br />
  &ldquo;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,&rdquo; said Anna Pávlovna,
  looking up pensively.
<br />
  &ldquo;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&rsquo;t be helped!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He said no more, but expressed his resignation to cruel fate by a gesture.
  Anna Pávlovna meditated.
<br />
  &ldquo;Have you never thought of marrying your prodigal son Anatole?&rdquo; she asked.
  &ldquo;They say old maids have a mania for matchmaking, and though I don&rsquo;t feel
  that weakness in myself as yet, I know a little person who is very unhappy
  with her father. She is a relation of yours, Princess Mary Bolkónskaya.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Vasíli did not reply, though, with the quickness of memory and
  perception befitting a man of the world, he indicated by a movement of the
  head that he was considering this information.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you know,&rdquo; he said at last, evidently unable to check the sad current
  of his thoughts, &ldquo;that Anatole is costing me forty thousand rubles a year?
  And,&rdquo; he went on after a pause, &ldquo;what will it be in five years, if he goes
  on like this?&rdquo; Presently he added: &ldquo;That&rsquo;s what we fathers have to put up
  with.... Is this princess of yours rich?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Her father is very rich and stingy. He lives in the country. He is the
  well-known Prince Bolkónski who had to retire from the army under the late
  Emperor, and was nicknamed &lsquo;the King of Prussia.&rsquo; He is very clever but
  eccentric, and a bore. The poor girl is very unhappy. She has a brother; I
  think you know him, he married Lise Meinen lately. He is an aide-de-camp
  of Kutúzov&rsquo;s and will be here tonight.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Listen, dear Annette,&rdquo; said the prince, suddenly taking Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s
  hand and for some reason drawing it downwards. &ldquo;Arrange that affair for me
  and I shall always be your most devoted slave- with an ,
  as a village elder of mine writes in his reports. She is rich and of good
  family and that&rsquo;s all I want.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And with the familiarity and easy grace peculiar to him, he raised the
  maid of honor&rsquo;s hand to his lips, kissed it, and swung it to and fro as he
  lay back in his armchair, looking in another direction.
<br />
   said Anna Pávlovna, reflecting, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll speak to Lise,
  young Bolkónski&rsquo;s wife, this very evening, and perhaps the thing can be
  arranged. It shall be on your family&rsquo;s behalf that I&rsquo;ll start my
  apprenticeship as old maid.&rdquo;

  CHAPTER II
  Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s drawing room was gradually filling. The highest Petersburg
  society was assembled there: people differing widely in age and character
  but alike in the social circle to which they belonged. Prince Vasíli&rsquo;s
  daughter, the beautiful Hélène, came to take her father to the
  ambassador&rsquo;s entertainment; she wore a ball dress and her badge as maid of
  honor. The youthful little Princess Bolkónskaya, known as , * was also there. She had been married
  during the previous winter, and being pregnant did not go to any large
  gatherings, but only to small receptions. Prince Vasíli&rsquo;s son, Hippolyte,
  had come with Mortemart, whom he introduced. The Abbé Morio and many
  others had also come.
<br />

The most fascinating woman in Petersburg.

To each new arrival Anna Pávlovna said, &ldquo;You have not yet seen my aunt,&rdquo;
 or &ldquo;You do not know my aunt?&rdquo; and very gravely conducted him or her to a
little old lady, wearing large bows of ribbon in her cap, who had come
sailing in from another room as soon as the guests began to arrive; and
slowly turning her eyes from the visitor to her aunt, Anna Pávlovna
mentioned each one&rsquo;s name and then left them.

Each visitor performed the ceremony of greeting this old aunt whom not one
of them knew, not one of them wanted to know, and not one of them cared
about; Anna Pávlovna observed these greetings with mournful and solemn
interest and silent approval. The aunt spoke to each of them in the same
words, about their health and her own, and the health of Her Majesty,
&ldquo;who, thank God, was better today.&rdquo; And each visitor, though politeness
prevented his showing impatience, left the old woman with a sense of
relief at having performed a vexatious duty and did not return to her the
whole evening.

The young Princess Bolkónskaya had brought some work in a gold-embroidered
velvet bag. Her pretty little upper lip, on which a delicate dark down was
just perceptible, was too short for her teeth, but it lifted all the more
sweetly, and was especially charming when she occasionally drew it down to
meet the lower lip. As is always the case with a thoroughly attractive
woman, her defect&mdash;the shortness of her upper lip and her half-open
mouth&mdash;seemed to be her own special and peculiar form of beauty.
Everyone brightened at the sight of this pretty young woman, so soon to
become a mother, so full of life and health, and carrying her burden so
lightly. Old men and dull dispirited young ones who looked at her, after
being in her company and talking to her a little while, felt as if they
too were becoming, like her, full of life and health. All who talked to
her, and at each word saw her bright smile and the constant gleam of her
white teeth, thought that they were in a specially amiable mood that day.

The little princess went round the table with quick, short, swaying steps,
her workbag on her arm, and gaily spreading out her dress sat down on a
sofa near the silver samovar, as if all she was doing was a pleasure to
herself and to all around her. &ldquo;I have brought my work,&rdquo; said she in
French, displaying her bag and addressing all present. &ldquo;Mind, Annette, I
hope you have not played a wicked trick on me,&rdquo; she added, turning to her
hostess. &ldquo;You wrote that it was to be quite a small reception, and just
see how badly I am dressed.&rdquo; 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.

&ldquo;, you will always be prettier than anyone
else,&rdquo; replied Anna Pávlovna.

&ldquo;You know,&rdquo; said the princess in the same tone of voice and still in
French, turning to a general, &ldquo;my husband is deserting me? He is going to
get himself killed. Tell me what this wretched war is for?&rdquo; she added,
addressing Prince Vasíli, and without waiting for an answer she turned to
speak to his daughter, the beautiful Hélène.

&ldquo;What a delightful woman this little princess is!&rdquo; said Prince Vasíli to
Anna Pávlovna.

One of the next arrivals was a stout, heavily built young man with
close-cropped hair, spectacles, the light-colored breeches fashionable at
that time, a very high ruffle, and a brown dress coat. This stout young
man was an illegitimate son of Count Bezúkhov, a well-known grandee of
Catherine&rsquo;s time who now lay dying in Moscow. The young man had not yet
entered either the military or civil service, as he had only just returned
from abroad where he had been educated, and this was his first appearance
in society. Anna Pávlovna greeted him with the nod she accorded to the
lowest hierarchy in her drawing room. But in spite of this lowest-grade
greeting, a look of anxiety and fear, as at the sight of something too
large and unsuited to the place, came over her face when she saw Pierre
enter. Though he was certainly rather bigger than the other men in the
room, her anxiety could only have reference to the clever though shy, but
observant and natural, expression which distinguished him from everyone
else in that drawing room.

&ldquo;It is very good of you, Monsieur Pierre, to come and visit a poor
invalid,&rdquo; said Anna Pávlovna, exchanging an alarmed glance with her aunt
as she conducted him to her.

Pierre murmured something unintelligible, and continued to look round as
if in search of something. On his way to the aunt he bowed to the little
princess with a pleased smile, as to an intimate acquaintance.

Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s alarm was justified, for Pierre turned away from the aunt
without waiting to hear her speech about Her Majesty&rsquo;s health. Anna
Pávlovna in dismay detained him with the words: &ldquo;Do you know the Abbé
Morio? He is a most interesting man.&rdquo;

&ldquo;Yes, I have heard of his scheme for perpetual peace, and it is very
interesting but hardly feasible.&rdquo;

&ldquo;You think so?&rdquo; rejoined Anna Pávlovna in order to say something and get
away to attend to her duties as hostess. But Pierre now committed a
reverse act of impoliteness. First he had left a lady before she had
finished speaking to him, and now he continued to speak to another who
wished to get away. With his head bent, and his big feet spread apart, he
began explaining his reasons for thinking the abbé&rsquo;s plan chimerical.

&ldquo;We will talk of it later,&rdquo; said Anna Pávlovna with a smile.

And having got rid of this young man who did not know how to behave, she
resumed her duties as hostess and continued to listen and watch, ready to
help at any point where the conversation might happen to flag. As the
foreman of a spinning mill, when he has set the hands to work, goes round
and notices here a spindle that has stopped or there one that creaks or
makes more noise than it should, and hastens to check the machine or set
it in proper motion, so Anna Pávlovna moved about her drawing room,
approaching now a silent, now a too-noisy group, and by a word or slight
rearrangement kept the conversational machine in steady, proper, and
regular motion. But amid these cares her anxiety about Pierre was evident.
She kept an anxious watch on him when he approached the group round
Mortemart to listen to what was being said there, and again when he passed
to another group whose center was the abbé.

Pierre had been educated abroad, and this reception at Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s was
the first he had attended in Russia. He knew that all the intellectual
lights of Petersburg were gathered there and, like a child in a toyshop,
did not know which way to look, afraid of missing any clever conversation
that was to be heard. Seeing the self-confident and refined expression on
the faces of those present he was always expecting to hear something very
profound. At last he came up to Morio. Here the conversation seemed
interesting and he stood waiting for an opportunity to express his own
views, as young people are fond of doing.

  CHAPTER III
  Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s reception was in full swing. The spindles hummed steadily
  and ceaselessly on all sides. With the exception of the aunt, beside whom
  sat only one elderly lady, who with her thin careworn face was rather out
  of place in this brilliant society, the whole company had settled into
  three groups. One, chiefly masculine, had formed round the abbé. Another,
  of young people, was grouped round the beautiful Princess Hélène, Prince
  Vasíli&rsquo;s daughter, and the little Princess Bolkónskaya, very pretty and
  rosy, though rather too plump for her age. The third group was gathered
  round Mortemart and Anna Pávlovna.
<br />
  The vicomte was a nice-looking young man with soft features and polished
  manners, who evidently considered himself a celebrity but out of
  politeness modestly placed himself at the disposal of the circle in which
  he found himself. Anna Pávlovna was obviously serving him up as a treat to
  her guests. As a clever maître d&rsquo;hôtel serves up as a specially choice
  delicacy a piece of meat that no one who had seen it in the kitchen would
  have cared to eat, so Anna Pávlovna served up to her guests, first the
  vicomte and then the abbé, as peculiarly choice morsels. The group about
  Mortemart immediately began discussing the murder of the Duc d&rsquo;Enghien.
  The vicomte said that the Duc d&rsquo;Enghien had perished by his own
  magnanimity, and that there were particular reasons for Buonaparte&rsquo;s
  hatred of him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, yes! Do tell us all about it, Vicomte,&rdquo; said Anna Pávlovna, with a
  pleasant feeling that there was something  in the
  sound of that sentence: 
<br />
  The vicomte bowed and smiled courteously in token of his willingness to
  comply. Anna Pávlovna arranged a group round him, inviting everyone to
  listen to his tale.
<br />
  &ldquo;The vicomte knew the duc personally,&rdquo; whispered Anna Pávlovna to one of
  the guests. &ldquo;The vicomte is a wonderful raconteur,&rdquo; said she to another.
  &ldquo;How evidently he belongs to the best society,&rdquo; 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.
<br />
  The vicomte wished to begin his story and gave a subtle smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;Come over here, Hélène, dear,&rdquo; said Anna Pávlovna to the beautiful young
  princess who was sitting some way off, the center of another group.
<br />
  The princess smiled. She rose with the same unchanging smile with which
  she had first entered the room&mdash;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&mdash;which
  in the fashion of those days were very much exposed&mdash;and she seemed
  to bring the glamour of a ballroom with her as she moved toward Anna
  Pávlovna. Hélène was so lovely that not only did she not show any trace of
  coquetry, but on the contrary she even appeared shy of her unquestionable
  and all too victorious beauty. She seemed to wish, but to be unable, to
  diminish its effect.
<br />
  &ldquo;How lovely!&rdquo; 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.
<br />
  &ldquo;Madame, I doubt my ability before such an audience,&rdquo; said he, smilingly
  inclining his head.
<br />
  The princess rested her bare round arm on a little table and considered a
  reply unnecessary. She smilingly waited. All the time the story was being
  told she sat upright, glancing now at her beautiful round arm, altered in
  shape by its pressure on the table, now at her still more beautiful bosom,
  on which she readjusted a diamond necklace. From time to time she smoothed
  the folds of her dress, and whenever the story produced an effect she
  glanced at Anna Pávlovna, at once adopted just the expression she saw on
  the maid of honor&rsquo;s face, and again relapsed into her radiant smile.
<br />
  The little princess had also left the tea table and followed Hélène.
<br />
  &ldquo;Wait a moment, I&rsquo;ll get my work.... Now then, what are you thinking of?&rdquo;
   she went on, turning to Prince Hippolyte. &ldquo;Fetch me my workbag.&rdquo;
 <br />
  There was a general movement as the princess, smiling and talking merrily
  to everyone at once, sat down and gaily arranged herself in her seat.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now I am all right,&rdquo; she said, and asking the vicomte to begin, she took
  up her work.
<br />
  Prince Hippolyte, having brought the workbag, joined the circle and moving
  a chair close to hers seated himself beside her.
<br />
   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&rsquo;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.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not going to be a ghost story?&rdquo; said he, sitting down beside the
  princess and hastily adjusting his lorgnette, as if without this
  instrument he could not begin to speak.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why no, my dear fellow,&rdquo; said the astonished narrator, shrugging his
  shoulders.
<br />
  &ldquo;Because I hate ghost stories,&rdquo; said Prince Hippolyte in a tone which
  showed that he only understood the meaning of his words after he had
  uttered them.
<br />
  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 , as he called it, shoes, and silk stockings.
<br />
  The vicomte told his tale very neatly. It was an anecdote, then current,
  to the effect that the Duc d&rsquo;Enghien had gone secretly to Paris to visit
  Mademoiselle George; that at her house he came upon Bonaparte, who also
  enjoyed the famous actress&rsquo; 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&rsquo;s mercy. The latter spared him, and this
  magnanimity Bonaparte subsequently repaid by death.
<br />
  The story was very pretty and interesting, especially at the point where
  the rivals suddenly recognized one another; and the ladies looked
  agitated.
<br />
  &ldquo;Charming!&rdquo; said Anna Pávlovna with an inquiring glance at the little
  princess.
<br />
  &ldquo;Charming!&rdquo; whispered the little princess, sticking the needle into her
  work as if to testify that the interest and fascination of the story
  prevented her from going on with it.
<br />
  The vicomte appreciated this silent praise and smiling gratefully prepared
  to continue, but just then Anna Pávlovna, who had kept a watchful eye on
  the young man who so alarmed her, noticed that he was talking too loudly
  and vehemently with the abbé, so she hurried to the rescue. Pierre had
  managed to start a conversation with the abbé about the balance of power,
  and the latter, evidently interested by the young man&rsquo;s simple-minded
  eagerness, was explaining his pet theory. Both were talking and listening
  too eagerly and too naturally, which was why Anna Pávlovna disapproved.
<br />
  &ldquo;The means are ... the balance of power in Europe and the rights of the
  people,&rdquo; the abbé was saying. &ldquo;It is only necessary for one powerful
  nation like Russia&mdash;barbaric as she is said to be&mdash;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!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But how are you to get that balance?&rdquo; Pierre was beginning.
<br />
  At that moment Anna Pávlovna came up and, looking severely at Pierre,
  asked the Italian how he stood Russian climate. The Italian&rsquo;s face
  instantly changed and assumed an offensively affected, sugary expression,
  evidently habitual to him when conversing with women.
<br />
  &ldquo;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,&rdquo; said he.
<br />
  Not letting the abbé and Pierre escape, Anna Pávlovna, the more
  conveniently to keep them under observation, brought them into the larger
  circle.

  CHAPTER IV
  Just then another visitor entered the drawing room: Prince Andrew
  Bolkónski, the little princess&rsquo; husband. He was a very handsome young man,
  of medium height, with firm, clearcut features. Everything about him, from
  his weary, bored expression to his quiet, measured step, offered a most
  striking contrast to his quiet, little wife. It was evident that he not
  only knew everyone in the drawing room, but had found them to be so
  tiresome that it wearied him to look at or listen to them. And among all
  these faces that he found so tedious, none seemed to bore him so much as
  that of his pretty wife. He turned away from her with a grimace that
  distorted his handsome face, kissed Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s hand, and screwing up
  his eyes scanned the whole company.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are off to the war, Prince?&rdquo; said Anna Pávlovna.
<br />
  &ldquo;General Kutúzov,&rdquo; said Bolkónski, speaking French and stressing the last
  syllable of the general&rsquo;s name like a Frenchman, &ldquo;has been pleased to take
  me as an aide-de-camp....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And Lise, your wife?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;She will go to the country.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Are you not ashamed to deprive us of your charming wife?&rdquo;
 <br />
   said his wife, addressing her husband in the same
  coquettish manner in which she spoke to other men, &ldquo;the vicomte has been
  telling us such a tale about Mademoiselle George and Buonaparte!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Andrew screwed up his eyes and turned away. Pierre, who from the
  moment Prince Andrew entered the room had watched him with glad,
  affectionate eyes, now came up and took his arm. Before he looked round
  Prince Andrew frowned again, expressing his annoyance with whoever was
  touching his arm, but when he saw Pierre&rsquo;s beaming face he gave him an
  unexpectedly kind and pleasant smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;There now!... So you, too, are in the great world?&rdquo; said he to Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;I knew you would be here,&rdquo; replied Pierre. &ldquo;I will come to supper with
  you. May I?&rdquo; he added in a low voice so as not to disturb the vicomte who
  was continuing his story.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, impossible!&rdquo; said Prince Andrew, laughing and pressing Pierre&rsquo;s hand
  to show that there was no need to ask the question. He wished to say
  something more, but at that moment Prince Vasíli and his daughter got up
  to go and the two young men rose to let them pass.
<br />
  &ldquo;You must excuse me, dear Vicomte,&rdquo; said Prince Vasíli to the Frenchman,
  holding him down by the sleeve in a friendly way to prevent his rising.
  &ldquo;This unfortunate fete at the ambassador&rsquo;s deprives me of a pleasure, and
  obliges me to interrupt you. I am very sorry to leave your enchanting
  party,&rdquo; said he, turning to Anna Pávlovna.
<br />
  His daughter, Princess Hélène, passed between the chairs, lightly holding
  up the folds of her dress, and the smile shone still more radiantly on her
  beautiful face. Pierre gazed at her with rapturous, almost frightened,
  eyes as she passed him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Very lovely,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew.
<br />
  &ldquo;Very,&rdquo; said Pierre.
<br />
  In passing Prince Vasíli seized Pierre&rsquo;s hand and said to Anna Pávlovna:
  &ldquo;Educate this bear for me! He has been staying with me a whole month and
  this is the first time I have seen him in society. Nothing is so necessary
  for a young man as the society of clever women.&rdquo;
 <br />
  <br />
<br />
  Anna Pávlovna smiled and promised to take Pierre in hand. She knew his
  father to be a connection of Prince Vasíli&rsquo;s. The elderly lady who had
  been sitting with the old aunt rose hurriedly and overtook Prince Vasíli
  in the anteroom. All the affectation of interest she had assumed had left
  her kindly and tear-worn face and it now expressed only anxiety and fear.
<br />
  &ldquo;How about my son Borís, Prince?&rdquo; said she, hurrying after him into the
  anteroom. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t remain any longer in Petersburg. Tell me what news I
  may take back to my poor boy.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Although Prince Vasíli listened reluctantly and not very politely to the
  elderly lady, even betraying some impatience, she gave him an ingratiating
  and appealing smile, and took his hand that he might not go away.
<br />
  &ldquo;What would it cost you to say a word to the Emperor, and then he would be
  transferred to the Guards at once?&rdquo; said she.
<br />
  &ldquo;Believe me, Princess, I am ready to do all I can,&rdquo; answered Prince
  Vasíli, &ldquo;but it is difficult for me to ask the Emperor. I should advise
  you to appeal to Rumyántsev through Prince Golítsyn. That would be the
  best way.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The elderly lady was a Princess Drubetskáya, belonging to one of the best
  families in Russia, but she was poor, and having long been out of society
  had lost her former influential connections. She had now come to
  Petersburg to procure an appointment in the Guards for her only son. It
  was, in fact, solely to meet Prince Vasíli that she had obtained an
  invitation to Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s reception and had sat listening to the
  vicomte&rsquo;s story. Prince Vasíli&rsquo;s words frightened her, an embittered look
  clouded her once handsome face, but only for a moment; then she smiled
  again and clutched Prince Vasíli&rsquo;s arm more tightly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Listen to me, Prince,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I have never yet asked you for anything
  and I never will again, nor have I ever reminded you of my father&rsquo;s
  friendship for you; but now I entreat you for God&rsquo;s sake to do this for my
  son&mdash;and I shall always regard you as a benefactor,&rdquo; she added
  hurriedly. &ldquo;No, don&rsquo;t be angry, but promise! I have asked Golítsyn and he
  has refused. Be the kindhearted man you always were,&rdquo; she said, trying to
  smile though tears were in her eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;Papa, we shall be late,&rdquo; said Princess Hélène, turning her beautiful head
  and looking over her classically molded shoulder as she stood waiting by
  the door.
<br />
  Influence in society, however, is a capital which has to be economized if
  it is to last. Prince Vasíli knew this, and having once realized that if
  he asked on behalf of all who begged of him, he would soon be unable to
  ask for himself, he became chary of using his influence. But in Princess
  Drubetskáya&rsquo;s case he felt, after her second appeal, something like qualms
  of conscience. She had reminded him of what was quite true; he had been
  indebted to her father for the first steps in his career. Moreover, he
  could see by her manners that she was one of those women&mdash;mostly
  mothers&mdash;who, having once made up their minds, will not rest until
  they have gained their end, and are prepared if necessary to go on
  insisting day after day and hour after hour, and even to make scenes. This
  last consideration moved him.
<br />
  &ldquo;My dear Anna Mikháylovna,&rdquo; said he with his usual familiarity and
  weariness of tone, &ldquo;it is almost impossible for me to do what you ask; but
  to prove my devotion to you and how I respect your father&rsquo;s memory, I will
  do the impossible&mdash;your son shall be transferred to the Guards. Here
  is my hand on it. Are you satisfied?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;My dear benefactor! This is what I expected from you&mdash;I knew your
  kindness!&rdquo; He turned to go.
<br />
  &ldquo;Wait&mdash;just a word! When he has been transferred to the Guards...&rdquo;
   she faltered. &ldquo;You are on good terms with Michael Ilariónovich Kutúzov ...
  recommend Borís to him as adjutant! Then I shall be at rest, and then...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Vasíli smiled.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, I won&rsquo;t promise that. You don&rsquo;t know how Kutúzov is pestered since
  his appointment as Commander in Chief. He told me himself that all the
  Moscow ladies have conspired to give him all their sons as adjutants.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, but do promise! I won&rsquo;t let you go! My dear benefactor...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Papa,&rdquo; said his beautiful daughter in the same tone as before, &ldquo;we shall
  be late.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well,  Good-by! You hear her?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Then tomorrow you will speak to the Emperor?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Certainly; but about Kutúzov, I don&rsquo;t promise.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Do promise, do promise, Vasíli!&rdquo; cried Anna Mikháylovna as he went, with
  the smile of a coquettish girl, which at one time probably came naturally
  to her, but was now very ill-suited to her careworn face.
<br />
  Apparently she had forgotten her age and by force of habit employed all
  the old feminine arts. But as soon as the prince had gone her face resumed
  its former cold, artificial expression. She returned to the group where
  the vicomte was still talking, and again pretended to listen, while
  waiting till it would be time to leave. Her task was accomplished.

  CHAPTER V
  &ldquo;And what do you think of this latest comedy, the coronation at Milan?&rdquo;
   asked Anna Pávlovna, &ldquo;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&rsquo;s head whirl! It is as if the whole world had
  gone crazy.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Andrew looked Anna Pávlovna straight in the face with a sarcastic
  smile.
<br />
   * They say he was very
  fine when he said that,&rdquo; he remarked, repeating the words in Italian: 
<br />
 * God has given it to me, let him who touches it beware!

“I hope this will prove the last drop that will make the glass run over,” Anna Pávlovna continued. “The sovereigns will not be able to endure this man who is a menace to everything.”
“The sovereigns? I do not speak of Russia,” said the vicomte, polite but hopeless: “The sovereigns, madame… What have they done for Louis XVII, for the Queen, or for Madame Elizabeth? Nothing!” and he became more animated. “And believe me, they are reaping the reward of their betrayal of the Bourbon cause. The sovereigns! Why, they are sending ambassadors to compliment the usurper.”
And sighing disdainfully, he again changed his position.
Prince Hippolyte, who had been gazing at the vicomte for some time through his lorgnette, suddenly turned completely round toward the little princess, and having asked for a needle began tracing the Condé coat of arms on the table. He explained this to her with as much gravity as if she had asked him to do it.

  said he.
<br />
  The princess listened, smiling.
<br />
  &ldquo;If Buonaparte remains on the throne of France a year longer,&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;things will have gone too far. By intrigues,
  violence, exile, and executions, French society&mdash;I mean good French
  society&mdash;will have been forever destroyed, and then....&rdquo;
 <br />
  He shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands. Pierre wished to make
  a remark, for the conversation interested him, but Anna Pávlovna, who had
  him under observation, interrupted:
<br />
  &ldquo;The Emperor Alexander,&rdquo; said she, with the melancholy which always
  accompanied any reference of hers to the Imperial family, &ldquo;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,&rdquo; she concluded, trying to be amiable to the royalist emigrant.
<br />
  &ldquo;That is doubtful,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;From what I have heard,&rdquo; said Pierre, blushing and breaking into the
  conversation, &ldquo;almost all the aristocracy has already gone over to
  Bonaparte&rsquo;s side.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It is the Buonapartists who say that,&rdquo; replied the vicomte without
  looking at Pierre. &ldquo;At the present time it is difficult to know the real
  state of French public opinion.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Bonaparte has said so,&rdquo; remarked Prince Andrew with a sarcastic smile.
<br />
  It was evident that he did not like the vicomte and was aiming his remarks
  at him, though without looking at him.
<br />
  &ldquo;&lsquo;I showed them the path to glory, but they did not follow it,&rsquo;&rdquo; Prince
  Andrew continued after a short silence, again quoting Napoleon&rsquo;s words.
  &ldquo;&lsquo;I opened my antechambers and they crowded in.&rsquo; I do not know how far he
  was justified in saying so.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Not in the least,&rdquo; replied the vicomte. &ldquo;After the murder of the duc even
  the most partial ceased to regard him as a hero. If to some people,&rdquo; he
  went on, turning to Anna Pávlovna, &ldquo;he ever was a hero, after the murder
  of the duc there was one martyr more in heaven and one hero less on
  earth.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Before Anna Pávlovna and the others had time to smile their appreciation
  of the vicomte&rsquo;s epigram, Pierre again broke into the conversation, and
  though Anna Pávlovna felt sure he would say something inappropriate, she
  was unable to stop him.
<br />
  &ldquo;The execution of the Duc d&rsquo;Enghien,&rdquo; declared Monsieur Pierre, &ldquo;was a
  political necessity, and it seems to me that Napoleon showed greatness of
  soul by not fearing to take on himself the whole responsibility of that
  deed.&rdquo;
 <br />
   muttered Anna Pávlovna in a terrified whisper.
<br />
  &ldquo;What, Monsieur Pierre... Do you consider that assassination shows
  greatness of soul?&rdquo; said the little princess, smiling and drawing her work
  nearer to her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh! Oh!&rdquo; exclaimed several voices.
<br />
  &ldquo;Capital!&rdquo; said Prince Hippolyte in English, and began slapping his knee
  with the palm of his hand.
<br />
  The vicomte merely shrugged his shoulders. Pierre looked solemnly at his
  audience over his spectacles and continued.
<br />
  &ldquo;I say so,&rdquo; he continued desperately, &ldquo;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&rsquo;s life.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Won&rsquo;t you come over to the other table?&rdquo; suggested Anna Pávlovna.
<br />
  But Pierre continued his speech without heeding her.
<br />
  &ldquo;No,&rdquo; cried he, becoming more and more eager, &ldquo;Napoleon is great because
  he rose superior to the Revolution, suppressed its abuses, preserved all
  that was good in it&mdash;equality of citizenship and freedom of speech
  and of the press&mdash;and only for that reason did he obtain power.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;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,&rdquo; remarked the vicomte.
<br />
  &ldquo;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!&rdquo; continued Monsieur Pierre, betraying by
  this desperate and provocative proposition his extreme youth and his wish
  to express all that was in his mind.
<br />
  &ldquo;What? Revolution and regicide a grand thing?... Well, after that... But
  won&rsquo;t you come to this other table?&rdquo; repeated Anna Pávlovna.
<br />
  &ldquo;Rousseau&rsquo;s ,&rdquo; said the vicomte with a tolerant
  smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am not speaking of regicide, I am speaking about ideas.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes: ideas of robbery, murder, and regicide,&rdquo; again interjected an
  ironical voice.
<br />
  &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Liberty and equality,&rdquo; said the vicomte contemptuously, as if at last
  deciding seriously to prove to this youth how foolish his words were,
  &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Andrew kept looking with an amused smile from Pierre to the vicomte
  and from the vicomte to their hostess. In the first moment of Pierre&rsquo;s
  outburst Anna Pávlovna, despite her social experience, was horror-struck.
  But when she saw that Pierre&rsquo;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.
<br />
  &ldquo;But, my dear Monsieur Pierre,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;how do you explain the fact of
  a great man executing a duc&mdash;or even an ordinary man who&mdash;is
  innocent and untried?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I should like,&rdquo; said the vicomte, &ldquo;to ask how monsieur explains the 18th
  Brumaire; was not that an imposture? It was a swindle, and not at all like
  the conduct of a great man!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And the prisoners he killed in Africa? That was horrible!&rdquo; said the
  little princess, shrugging her shoulders.
<br />
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a low fellow, say what you will,&rdquo; remarked Prince Hippolyte.
<br />
  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&mdash;a
  childlike, kindly, even rather silly look, which seemed to ask
  forgiveness.
<br />
  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.
<br />
  &ldquo;How do you expect him to answer you all at once?&rdquo; said Prince Andrew.
  &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes, of course!&rdquo; Pierre chimed in, pleased at the arrival of this
  reinforcement.
<br />
  &ldquo;One must admit,&rdquo; continued Prince Andrew, &ldquo;that Napoleon as a man was
  great on the bridge of Arcola, and in the hospital at Jaffa where he gave
  his hand to the plague-stricken; but ... but there are other acts which it
  is difficult to justify.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Andrew, who had evidently wished to tone down the awkwardness of
  Pierre&rsquo;s remarks, rose and made a sign to his wife that it was time to go.
<br />
  Suddenly Prince Hippolyte started up making signs to everyone to attend,
  and asking them all to be seated began:
<br />
  &ldquo;I was told a charming Moscow story today and must treat you to it. Excuse
  me, Vicomte&mdash;I must tell it in Russian or the point will be lost....&rdquo;
   And Prince Hippolyte began to tell his story in such Russian as a
  Frenchman would speak after spending about a year in Russia. Everyone
  waited, so emphatically and eagerly did he demand their attention to his
  story.
<br />
  &ldquo;There is in Moscow a lady, , 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&rsquo;s maid, also big. She said....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Here Prince Hippolyte paused, evidently collecting his ideas with
  difficulty.
<br />
  &ldquo;She said.... Oh yes! She said, &lsquo;Girl,&rsquo; to the maid, &lsquo;put on a livery, get
  up behind the carriage, and come with me while I make some calls.&rsquo;&rdquo;
 <br />
  Here Prince Hippolyte spluttered and burst out laughing long before his
  audience, which produced an effect unfavorable to the narrator. Several
  persons, among them the elderly lady and Anna Pávlovna, did however smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;She went. Suddenly there was a great wind. The girl lost her hat and her
  long hair came down....&rdquo; Here he could contain himself no longer and went
  on, between gasps of laughter: &ldquo;And the whole world knew....&rdquo;
 <br />
  And so the anecdote ended. Though it was unintelligible why he had told
  it, or why it had to be told in Russian, still Anna Pávlovna and the
  others appreciated Prince Hippolyte&rsquo;s social tact in so agreeably ending
  Pierre&rsquo;s unpleasant and unamiable outburst. After the anecdote the
  conversation broke up into insignificant small talk about the last and
  next balls, about theatricals, and who would meet whom, and when and
  where.

  CHAPTER VI
  Having thanked Anna Pávlovna for her charming soiree, the guests began to
  take their leave.
<br />
  Pierre was ungainly. Stout, about the average height, broad, with huge red
  hands; he did not know, as the saying is, how to enter a drawing room and
  still less how to leave one; that is, how to say something particularly
  agreeable before going away. Besides this he was absent-minded. When he
  rose to go, he took up instead of his own, the general&rsquo;s three-cornered
  hat, and held it, pulling at the plume, till the general asked him to
  restore it. All his absent-mindedness and inability to enter a room and
  converse in it was, however, redeemed by his kindly, simple, and modest
  expression. Anna Pávlovna turned toward him and, with a Christian mildness
  that expressed forgiveness of his indiscretion, nodded and said: &ldquo;I hope
  to see you again, but I also hope you will change your opinions, my dear
  Monsieur Pierre.&rdquo;
 <br />
  When she said this, he did not reply and only bowed, but again everybody
  saw his smile, which said nothing, unless perhaps, &ldquo;Opinions are opinions,
  but you see what a capital, good-natured fellow I am.&rdquo; And everyone,
  including Anna Pávlovna, felt this.
<br />
  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&rsquo;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.
<br />
  &ldquo;Go in, Annette, or you will catch cold,&rdquo; said the little princess, taking
  leave of Anna Pávlovna. &ldquo;It is settled,&rdquo; she added in a low voice.
<br />
  Anna Pávlovna had already managed to speak to Lise about the match she
  contemplated between Anatole and the little princess&rsquo; sister-in-law.
<br />
  &ldquo;I rely on you, my dear,&rdquo; said Anna Pávlovna, also in a low tone. &ldquo;Write
  to her and let me know how her father looks at the matter. &rdquo;&mdash;and she left the hall.
<br />
  Prince Hippolyte approached the little princess and, bending his face
  close to her, began to whisper something.
<br />
  Two footmen, the princess&rsquo; and his own, stood holding a shawl and a cloak,
  waiting for the conversation to finish. They listened to the French
  sentences which to them were meaningless, with an air of understanding but
  not wishing to appear to do so. The princess as usual spoke smilingly and
  listened with a laugh.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am very glad I did not go to the ambassador&rsquo;s,&rdquo; said Prince Hippolyte &ldquo;&mdash;so
  dull&mdash;. It has been a delightful evening, has it not? Delightful!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;They say the ball will be very good,&rdquo; replied the princess, drawing up
  her downy little lip. &ldquo;All the pretty women in society will be there.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Not all, for you will not be there; not all,&rdquo; said Prince Hippolyte
  smiling joyfully; and snatching the shawl from the footman, whom he even
  pushed aside, he began wrapping it round the princess. Either from
  awkwardness or intentionally (no one could have said which) after the
  shawl had been adjusted he kept his arm around her for a long time, as
  though embracing her.
<br />
  Still smiling, she gracefully moved away, turning and glancing at her
  husband. Prince Andrew&rsquo;s eyes were closed, so weary and sleepy did he
  seem.
<br />
  &ldquo;Are you ready?&rdquo; he asked his wife, looking past her.
<br />
  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.
<br />
   cried he, stumbling with his tongue as well
  as with his feet.
<br />
  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&rsquo;s way.
<br />
  &ldquo;Allow me, sir,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew in Russian in a cold, disagreeable
  tone to Prince Hippolyte who was blocking his path.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am expecting you, Pierre,&rdquo; said the same voice, but gently and
  affectionately.
<br />
  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.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, ,&rdquo; said the vicomte, having seated himself beside
  Hippolyte in the carriage, &ldquo;your little princess is very nice, very nice
  indeed, quite French,&rdquo; and he kissed the tips of his fingers. Hippolyte
  burst out laughing.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you know, you are a terrible chap for all your innocent airs,&rdquo;
   continued the vicomte. &ldquo;I pity the poor husband, that little officer who
  gives himself the airs of a monarch.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Hippolyte spluttered again, and amid his laughter said, &ldquo;And you were
  saying that the Russian ladies are not equal to the French? One has to
  know how to deal with them.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre reaching the house first went into Prince Andrew&rsquo;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&rsquo;s ),
  and resting on his elbow, began reading it in the middle.
<br />
  &ldquo;What have you done to Mlle Schérer? She will be quite ill now,&rdquo; said
  Prince Andrew, as he entered the study, rubbing his small white hands.
<br />
  Pierre turned his whole body, making the sofa creak. He lifted his eager
  face to Prince Andrew, smiled, and waved his hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;That abbé is very interesting but he does not see the thing in the right
  light.... In my opinion perpetual peace is possible but&mdash;I do not
  know how to express it ... not by a balance of political power....&rdquo;
 <br />
  It was evident that Prince Andrew was not interested in such abstract
  conversation.
<br />
  &ldquo;One can&rsquo;t everywhere say all one thinks, . Well, have you
  at last decided on anything? Are you going to be a guardsman or a
  diplomatist?&rdquo; asked Prince Andrew after a momentary silence.
<br />
  Pierre sat up on the sofa, with his legs tucked under him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Really, I don&rsquo;t yet know. I don&rsquo;t like either the one or the other.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But you must decide on something! Your father expects it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre at the age of ten had been sent abroad with an abbé as tutor, and
  had remained away till he was twenty. When he returned to Moscow his
  father dismissed the abbé and said to the young man, &ldquo;Now go to
  Petersburg, look round, and choose your profession. I will agree to
  anything. Here is a letter to Prince Vasíli, and here is money. Write to
  me all about it, and I will help you in everything.&rdquo; 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.
<br />
  &ldquo;But he must be a Freemason,&rdquo; said he, referring to the abbé whom he had
  met that evening.
<br />
  &ldquo;That is all nonsense.&rdquo; Prince Andrew again interrupted him, &ldquo;let us talk
  business. Have you been to the Horse Guards?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Andrew only shrugged his shoulders at Pierre&rsquo;s childish words. He
  put on the air of one who finds it impossible to reply to such nonsense,
  but it would in fact have been difficult to give any other answer than the
  one Prince Andrew gave to this naïve question.
<br />
  &ldquo;If no one fought except on his own conviction, there would be no wars,&rdquo;
   he said.
<br />
  &ldquo;And that would be splendid,&rdquo; said Pierre.
<br />
  Prince Andrew smiled ironically.
<br />
  &ldquo;Very likely it would be splendid, but it will never come about....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, why are you going to the war?&rdquo; asked Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;What for? I don&rsquo;t know. I must. Besides that I am going....&rdquo; He paused.
  &ldquo;I am going because the life I am leading here does not suit me!&rdquo;

  CHAPTER VII
  The rustle of a woman&rsquo;s dress was heard in the next room. Prince Andrew
  shook himself as if waking up, and his face assumed the look it had had in
  Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s drawing room. Pierre removed his feet from the sofa. The
  princess came in. She had changed her gown for a house dress as fresh and
  elegant as the other. Prince Andrew rose and politely placed a chair for
  her.
<br />
  &ldquo;How is it,&rdquo; she began, as usual in French, settling down briskly and
  fussily in the easy chair, &ldquo;how is it Annette never got married? How
  stupid you men all are not to have married her! Excuse me for saying so,
  but you have no sense about women. What an argumentative fellow you are,
  Monsieur Pierre!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And I am still arguing with your husband. I can&rsquo;t understand why he wants
  to go to the war,&rdquo; replied Pierre, addressing the princess with none of
  the embarrassment so commonly shown by young men in their intercourse with
  young women.
<br />
  The princess started. Evidently Pierre&rsquo;s words touched her to the quick.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, that is just what I tell him!&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand it; I
  don&rsquo;t in the least understand why men can&rsquo;t live without wars. How is it
  that we women don&rsquo;t want anything of the kind, don&rsquo;t need it? Now you
  shall judge between us. I always tell him: Here he is Uncle&rsquo;s
  aide-de-camp, a most brilliant position. He is so well known, so much
  appreciated by everyone. The other day at the Apráksins&rsquo; I heard a lady
  asking, &lsquo;Is that the famous Prince Andrew?&rsquo; I did indeed.&rdquo; She laughed.
  &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre looked at his friend and, noticing that he did not like the
  conversation, gave no reply.
<br />
  &ldquo;When are you starting?&rdquo; he asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, don&rsquo;t speak of his going, don&rsquo;t! I won&rsquo;t hear it spoken of,&rdquo; said the
  princess in the same petulantly playful tone in which she had spoken to
  Hippolyte in the drawing room and which was so plainly ill-suited to the
  family circle of which Pierre was almost a member. &ldquo;Today when I
  remembered that all these delightful associations must be broken off ...
  and then you know, André...&rdquo; (she looked significantly at her husband)
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;m afraid, I&rsquo;m afraid!&rdquo; she whispered, and a shudder ran down her back.
<br />
  Her husband looked at her as if surprised to notice that someone besides
  Pierre and himself was in the room, and addressed her in a tone of frigid
  politeness.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is it you are afraid of, Lise? I don&rsquo;t understand,&rdquo; said he.
<br />
  &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;With my father and sister, remember,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew gently.
<br />
  &ldquo;Alone all the same, without  friends.... And he expects me not
  to be afraid.&rdquo;
 <br />
  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.
<br />
  &ldquo;I still can&rsquo;t understand what you are afraid of,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew
  slowly, not taking his eyes off his wife.
<br />
  The princess blushed, and raised her arms with a gesture of despair.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, Andrew, I must say you have changed. Oh, how you have....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Your doctor tells you to go to bed earlier,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew. &ldquo;You had
  better go.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The princess said nothing, but suddenly her short downy lip quivered.
  Prince Andrew rose, shrugged his shoulders, and walked about the room.
<br />
  Pierre looked over his spectacles with naïve surprise, now at him and now
  at her, moved as if about to rise too, but changed his mind.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why should I mind Monsieur Pierre being here?&rdquo; exclaimed the little
  princess suddenly, her pretty face all at once distorted by a tearful
  grimace. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Lise!&rdquo; was all Prince Andrew said. But that one word expressed an
  entreaty, a threat, and above all conviction that she would herself regret
  her words. But she went on hurriedly:
<br />
  &ldquo;You treat me like an invalid or a child. I see it all! Did you behave
  like that six months ago?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Lise, I beg you to desist,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew still more emphatically.
<br />
  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.
<br />
  &ldquo;Calm yourself, Princess! It seems so to you because.... I assure you I
  myself have experienced ... and so ... because ... No, excuse me! An
  outsider is out of place here.... No, don&rsquo;t distress yourself....
  Good-by!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Andrew caught him by the hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, wait, Pierre! The princess is too kind to wish to deprive me of the
  pleasure of spending the evening with you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, he thinks only of himself,&rdquo; muttered the princess without restraining
  her angry tears.
<br />
  &ldquo;Lise!&rdquo; said Prince Andrew dryly, raising his voice to the pitch which
  indicates that patience is exhausted.
<br />
  Suddenly the angry, squirrel-like expression of the princess&rsquo; pretty face
  changed into a winning and piteous look of fear. Her beautiful eyes
  glanced askance at her husband&rsquo;s face, and her own assumed the timid,
  deprecating expression of a dog when it rapidly but feebly wags its
  drooping tail.
<br />
   she muttered, and lifting her dress with one
  hand she went up to her husband and kissed him on the forehead.
<br />
  &ldquo;Good night, Lise,&rdquo; said he, rising and courteously kissing her hand as he
  would have done to a stranger.

  CHAPTER VIII
  The friends were silent. Neither cared to begin talking. Pierre
  continually glanced at Prince Andrew; Prince Andrew rubbed his forehead
  with his small hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;Let us go and have supper,&rdquo; he said with a sigh, going to the door.
<br />
  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&mdash;as one who has long had something on his
  mind and suddenly determines to speak out.
<br />
  &ldquo;Never, never marry, my dear fellow! That&rsquo;s my advice: never marry till
  you can say to yourself that you have done all you are capable of, and
  until you have ceased to love the woman of your choice and have seen her
  plainly as she is, or else you will make a cruel and irrevocable mistake.
  Marry when you are old and good for nothing&mdash;or all that is good and
  noble in you will be lost. It will all be wasted on trifles. Yes! Yes!
  Yes! Don&rsquo;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&rsquo;s the good?...&rdquo;
   and he waved his arm.
<br />
  Pierre took off his spectacles, which made his face seem different and the
  good-natured expression still more apparent, and gazed at his friend in
  amazement.
<br />
  &ldquo;My wife,&rdquo; continued Prince Andrew, &ldquo;is an excellent woman, one of those
  rare women with whom a man&rsquo;s honor is safe; but, O God, what would I not
  give now to be unmarried! You are the first and only one to whom I mention
  this, because I like you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  As he said this Prince Andrew was less than ever like that Bolkónski who
  had lolled in Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;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.
<br />
  &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t understand why I say this,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;but it is the whole
  story of life. You talk of Bonaparte and his career,&rdquo; said he (though
  Pierre had not mentioned Bonaparte), &ldquo;but Bonaparte when he worked went
  step by step toward his goal. He was free, he had nothing but his aim to
  consider, and he reached it. But tie yourself up with a woman and, like a
  chained convict, you lose all freedom! And all you have of hope and
  strength merely weighs you down and torments you with regret. Drawing
  rooms, gossip, balls, vanity, and triviality&mdash;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,&rdquo; continued Prince Andrew, &ldquo;and at Anna
  Pávlovna&rsquo;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&mdash;that&rsquo;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&rsquo;s nothing, nothing, nothing! No,
  don&rsquo;t marry, my dear fellow; don&rsquo;t marry!&rdquo; concluded Prince Andrew.
<br />
  &ldquo;It seems funny to me,&rdquo; said Pierre, &ldquo;that  should consider
  yourself incapable and your life a spoiled life. You have everything
  before you, everything. And you....&rdquo;
 <br />
  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.
<br />
  &ldquo;How can he talk like that?&rdquo; thought Pierre. He considered his friend a
  model of perfection because Prince Andrew possessed in the highest degree
  just the very qualities Pierre lacked, and which might be best described
  as strength of will. Pierre was always astonished at Prince Andrew&rsquo;s calm
  manner of treating everybody, his extraordinary memory, his extensive
  reading (he had read everything, knew everything, and had an opinion about
  everything), but above all at his capacity for work and study. And if
  Pierre was often struck by Andrew&rsquo;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.
<br />
  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.
<br />
  &ldquo;My part is played out,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew. &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the use of talking
  about me? Let us talk about you,&rdquo; he added after a silence, smiling at his
  reassuring thoughts.
<br />
  That smile was immediately reflected on Pierre&rsquo;s face.
<br />
  &ldquo;But what is there to say about me?&rdquo; said Pierre, his face relaxing into a
  careless, merry smile. &ldquo;What am I? An illegitimate son!&rdquo; He suddenly
  blushed crimson, and it was plain that he had made a great effort to say
  this. &ldquo;Without a name and without means... And it really...&rdquo; But he did
  not say what &ldquo;it really&rdquo; was. &ldquo;For the present I am free and am all right.
  Only I haven&rsquo;t the least idea what I am to do; I wanted to consult you
  seriously.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Andrew looked kindly at him, yet his glance&mdash;friendly and
  affectionate as it was&mdash;expressed a sense of his own superiority.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am fond of you, especially as you are the one live man among our whole
  set. Yes, you&rsquo;re all right! Choose what you will; it&rsquo;s all the same.
  You&rsquo;ll be all right anywhere. But look here: give up visiting those
  Kurágins and leading that sort of life. It suits you so badly&mdash;all
  this debauchery, dissipation, and the rest of it!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What would you have, my dear fellow?&rdquo; answered Pierre, shrugging his
  shoulders. &ldquo;Women, my dear fellow; women!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand it,&rdquo; replied Prince Andrew. &ldquo;Women who are , that&rsquo;s a different matter; but the Kurágins&rsquo; set of women,
  &lsquo;women and wine&rsquo; I don&rsquo;t understand!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre was staying at Prince Vasíli Kurágin&rsquo;s and sharing the dissipated
  life of his son Anatole, the son whom they were planning to reform by
  marrying him to Prince Andrew&rsquo;s sister.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you know?&rdquo; said Pierre, as if suddenly struck by a happy thought,
  &ldquo;seriously, I have long been thinking of it.... Leading such a life I
  can&rsquo;t decide or think properly about anything. One&rsquo;s head aches, and one
  spends all one&rsquo;s money. He asked me for tonight, but I won&rsquo;t go.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You give me your word of honor not to go?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;On my honor!&rdquo;

  CHAPTER IX
  It was past one o&rsquo;clock when Pierre left his friend. It was a cloudless,
  northern, summer night. Pierre took an open cab intending to drive
  straight home. But the nearer he drew to the house the more he felt the
  impossibility of going to sleep on such a night. It was light enough to
  see a long way in the deserted street and it seemed more like morning or
  evening than night. On the way Pierre remembered that Anatole Kurágin was
  expecting the usual set for cards that evening, after which there was
  generally a drinking bout, finishing with visits of a kind Pierre was very
  fond of.
<br />
  &ldquo;I should like to go to Kurágin&rsquo;s,&rdquo; thought he.
<br />
  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; &ldquo;besides,&rdquo; thought he,
  &ldquo;all such &lsquo;words of honor&rsquo; are conventional things with no definite
  meaning, especially if one considers that by tomorrow one may be dead, or
  something so extraordinary may happen to one that honor and dishonor will
  be all the same!&rdquo; Pierre often indulged in reflections of this sort,
  nullifying all his decisions and intentions. He went to Kurágin&rsquo;s.
<br />
  Reaching the large house near the Horse Guards&rsquo; barracks, in which Anatole
  lived, Pierre entered the lighted porch, ascended the stairs, and went in
  at the open door. There was no one in the anteroom; empty bottles, cloaks,
  and overshoes were lying about; there was a smell of alcohol, and sounds
  of voices and shouting in the distance.
<br />
  Cards and supper were over, but the visitors had not yet dispersed. Pierre
  threw off his cloak and entered the first room, in which were the remains
  of supper. A footman, thinking no one saw him, was drinking on the sly
  what was left in the glasses. From the third room came sounds of laughter,
  the shouting of familiar voices, the growling of a bear, and general
  commotion. Some eight or nine young men were crowding anxiously round an
  open window. Three others were romping with a young bear, one pulling him
  by the chain and trying to set him at the others.
<br />
  &ldquo;I bet a hundred on Stevens!&rdquo; shouted one.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mind, no holding on!&rdquo; cried another.
<br />
  &ldquo;I bet on Dólokhov!&rdquo; cried a third. &ldquo;Kurágin, you part our hands.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;There, leave Bruin alone; here&rsquo;s a bet on.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;At one draught, or he loses!&rdquo; shouted a fourth.
<br />
  &ldquo;Jacob, bring a bottle!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Wait a bit, you fellows.... Here is Pétya!
  Good man!&rdquo; cried he, addressing Pierre.
<br />
  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: &ldquo;Come here; part the bets!&rdquo; This was Dólokhov, an
  officer of the Semënov regiment, a notorious gambler and duelist, who was
  living with Anatole. Pierre smiled, looking about him merrily.
<br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand. What&rsquo;s it all about?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Wait a bit, he is not drunk yet! A bottle here,&rdquo; said Anatole,
  and taking a glass from the table he went up to Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;First of all you must drink!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre drank one glass after another, looking from under his brows at the
  tipsy guests who were again crowding round the window, and listening to
  their chatter. Anatole kept on refilling Pierre&rsquo;s glass while explaining
  that Dólokhov was betting with Stevens, an English naval officer, that he
  would drink a bottle of rum sitting on the outer ledge of the third floor
  window with his legs hanging out.
<br />
  &ldquo;Go on, you must drink it all,&rdquo; said Anatole, giving Pierre the last
  glass, &ldquo;or I won&rsquo;t let you go!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, I won&rsquo;t,&rdquo; said Pierre, pushing Anatole aside, and he went up to the
  window.
<br />
  Dólokhov was holding the Englishman&rsquo;s hand and clearly and distinctly
  repeating the terms of the bet, addressing himself particularly to Anatole
  and Pierre.
<br />
  Dólokhov was of medium height, with curly hair and light-blue eyes. He was
  about twenty-five. Like all infantry officers he wore no mustache, so that
  his mouth, the most striking feature of his face, was clearly seen. The
  lines of that mouth were remarkably finely curved. The middle of the upper
  lip formed a sharp wedge and closed firmly on the firm lower one, and
  something like two distinct smiles played continually round the two
  corners of the mouth; this, together with the resolute, insolent
  intelligence of his eyes, produced an effect which made it impossible not
  to notice his face. Dólokhov was a man of small means and no connections.
  Yet, though Anatole spent tens of thousands of rubles, Dólokhov lived with
  him and had placed himself on such a footing that all who knew them,
  including Anatole himself, respected him more than they did Anatole.
  Dólokhov could play all games and nearly always won. However much he
  drank, he never lost his clearheadedness. Both Kurágin and Dólokhov were
  at that time notorious among the rakes and scapegraces of Petersburg.
<br />
  The bottle of rum was brought. The window frame which prevented anyone
  from sitting on the outer sill was being forced out by two footmen, who
  were evidently flurried and intimidated by the directions and shouts of
  the gentlemen around.
<br />
  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.
<br />
  &ldquo;You have a try, Hercules,&rdquo; said he, turning to Pierre.
<br />
  Pierre seized the crossbeam, tugged, and wrenched the oak frame out with a
  crash.
<br />
  &ldquo;Take it right out, or they&rsquo;ll think I&rsquo;m holding on,&rdquo; said Dólokhov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is the Englishman bragging?... Eh? Is it all right?&rdquo; said Anatole.
<br />
  &ldquo;First-rate,&rdquo; said Pierre, looking at Dólokhov, who with a bottle of rum
  in his hand was approaching the window, from which the light of the sky,
  the dawn merging with the afterglow of sunset, was visible.
<br />
  Dólokhov, the bottle of rum still in his hand, jumped onto the window
  sill. &ldquo;Listen!&rdquo; cried he, standing there and addressing those in the room.
  All were silent.
<br />
  &ldquo;I bet fifty imperials&rdquo;&mdash;he spoke French that the Englishman might
  understand him, but he did not speak it very well&mdash;&ldquo;I bet fifty
  imperials ... or do you wish to make it a hundred?&rdquo; added he, addressing
  the Englishman.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, fifty,&rdquo; replied the latter.
<br />
  &ldquo;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&rdquo;
   (he stooped and pointed to the sloping ledge outside the window) &ldquo;and
  without holding on to anything. Is that right?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Quite right,&rdquo; said the Englishman.
<br />
  Anatole turned to the Englishman and taking him by one of the buttons of
  his coat and looking down at him&mdash;the Englishman was short&mdash;began
  repeating the terms of the wager to him in English.
<br />
  &ldquo;Wait!&rdquo; cried Dólokhov, hammering with the bottle on the window sill to
  attract attention. &ldquo;Wait a bit, Kurágin. Listen! If anyone else does the
  same, I will pay him a hundred imperials. Do you understand?&rdquo;
 <br />
  The Englishman nodded, but gave no indication whether he intended to
  accept this challenge or not. Anatole did not release him, and though he
  kept nodding to show that he understood, Anatole went on translating
  Dólokhov&rsquo;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.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh! Oh! Oh!&rdquo; he muttered, looking down from the window at the stones of
  the pavement.
<br />
  &ldquo;Shut up!&rdquo; cried Dólokhov, pushing him away from the window. The lad
  jumped awkwardly back into the room, tripping over his spurs.
<br />
  Placing the bottle on the window sill where he could reach it easily,
  Dólokhov climbed carefully and slowly through the window and lowered his
  legs. Pressing against both sides of the window, he adjusted himself on
  his seat, lowered his hands, moved a little to the right and then to the
  left, and took up the bottle. Anatole brought two candles and placed them
  on the window sill, though it was already quite light. Dólokhov&rsquo;s back in
  his white shirt, and his curly head, were lit up from both sides. Everyone
  crowded to the window, the Englishman in front. Pierre stood smiling but
  silent. One man, older than the others present, suddenly pushed forward
  with a scared and angry look and wanted to seize hold of Dólokhov&rsquo;s shirt.
<br />
  &ldquo;I say, this is folly! He&rsquo;ll be killed,&rdquo; said this more sensible man.
<br />
  Anatole stopped him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t touch him! You&rsquo;ll startle him and then he&rsquo;ll be killed. Eh?... What
  then?... Eh?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dólokhov turned round and, again holding on with both hands, arranged
  himself on his seat.
<br />
  &ldquo;If anyone comes meddling again,&rdquo; said he, emitting the words separately
  through his thin compressed lips, &ldquo;I will throw him down there. Now then!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Saying this he again turned round, dropped his hands, took the bottle and
  lifted it to his lips, threw back his head, and raised his free hand to
  balance himself. One of the footmen who had stooped to pick up some broken
  glass remained in that position without taking his eyes from the window
  and from Dólokhov&rsquo;s back. Anatole stood erect with staring eyes. The
  Englishman looked on sideways, pursing up his lips. The man who had wished
  to stop the affair ran to a corner of the room and threw himself on a sofa
  with his face to the wall. Pierre hid his face, from which a faint smile
  forgot to fade though his features now expressed horror and fear. All were
  still. Pierre took his hands from his eyes. Dólokhov still sat in the same
  position, only his head was thrown further back till his curly hair
  touched his shirt collar, and the hand holding the bottle was lifted
  higher and higher and trembled with the effort. The bottle was emptying
  perceptibly and rising still higher and his head tilting yet further back.
  &ldquo;Why is it so long?&rdquo; thought Pierre. It seemed to him that more than half
  an hour had elapsed. Suddenly Dólokhov made a backward movement with his
  spine, and his arm trembled nervously; this was sufficient to cause his
  whole body to slip as he sat on the sloping ledge. As he began slipping
  down, his head and arm wavered still more with the strain. One hand moved
  as if to clutch the window sill, but refrained from touching it. Pierre
  again covered his eyes and thought he would never open them again.
  Suddenly he was aware of a stir all around. He looked up: Dólokhov was
  standing on the window sill, with a pale but radiant face.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s empty.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He threw the bottle to the Englishman, who caught it neatly. Dólokhov
  jumped down. He smelt strongly of rum.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well done!... Fine fellow!... There&rsquo;s a bet for you!... Devil take you!&rdquo;
   came from different sides.
<br />
  The Englishman took out his purse and began counting out the money.
  Dólokhov stood frowning and did not speak. Pierre jumped upon the window
  sill.
<br />
  &ldquo;Gentlemen, who wishes to bet with me? I&rsquo;ll do the same thing!&rdquo; he
  suddenly cried. &ldquo;Even without a bet, there! Tell them to bring me a
  bottle. I&rsquo;ll do it.... Bring a bottle!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Let him do it, let him do it,&rdquo; said Dólokhov, smiling.
<br />
  &ldquo;What next? Have you gone mad?... No one would let you!... Why, you go
  giddy even on a staircase,&rdquo; exclaimed several voices.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll drink it! Let&rsquo;s have a bottle of rum!&rdquo; shouted Pierre, banging the
  table with a determined and drunken gesture and preparing to climb out of
  the window.
<br />
  They seized him by his arms; but he was so strong that everyone who
  touched him was sent flying.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, you&rsquo;ll never manage him that way,&rdquo; said Anatole. &ldquo;Wait a bit and I&rsquo;ll
  get round him.... Listen! I&rsquo;ll take your bet tomorrow, but now we are all
  going to &mdash;&mdash;&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Come on then,&rdquo; cried Pierre. &ldquo;Come on!... And we&rsquo;ll take Bruin with us.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And he caught the bear, took it in his arms, lifted it from the ground,
  and began dancing round the room with it.

  CHAPTER X
  Prince Vasíli kept the promise he had given to Princess Drubetskáya who
  had spoken to him on behalf of her only son Borís on the evening of Anna
  Pávlovna&rsquo;s soiree. The matter was mentioned to the Emperor, an exception
  made, and Borís transferred into the regiment of Semënov Guards with the
  rank of cornet. He received, however, no appointment to Kutúzov&rsquo;s staff
  despite all Anna Mikháylovna&rsquo;s endeavors and entreaties. Soon after Anna
  Pávlovna&rsquo;s reception Anna Mikháylovna returned to Moscow and went straight
  to her rich relations, the Rostóvs, with whom she stayed when in the town
  and where her darling Bóry, who had only just entered a regiment of the
  line and was being at once transferred to the Guards as a cornet, had been
  educated from childhood and lived for years at a time. The Guards had
  already left Petersburg on the tenth of August, and her son, who had
  remained in Moscow for his equipment, was to join them on the march to
  Radzivílov.
<br />
  It was St. Natalia&rsquo;s day and the name day of two of the Rostóvs&mdash;the
  mother and the youngest daughter&mdash;both named Nataly. Ever since the
  morning, carriages with six horses had been coming and going continually,
  bringing visitors to the Countess Rostóva&rsquo;s big house on the Povarskáya,
  so well known to all Moscow. The countess herself and her handsome eldest
  daughter were in the drawing room with the visitors who came to
  congratulate, and who constantly succeeded one another in relays.
<br />
  The countess was a woman of about forty-five, with a thin Oriental type of
  face, evidently worn out with childbearing&mdash;she had had twelve. A
  languor of motion and speech, resulting from weakness, gave her a
  distinguished air which inspired respect. Princess Anna Mikháylovna
  Drubetskáya, who as a member of the household was also seated in the
  drawing room, helped to receive and entertain the visitors. The young
  people were in one of the inner rooms, not considering it necessary to
  take part in receiving the visitors. The count met the guests and saw them
  off, inviting them all to dinner.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am very, very grateful to you, ,&rdquo; or &mdash;he
  called everyone without exception and without the slightest variation in
  his tone, &ldquo;my dear,&rdquo; whether they were above or below him in rank&mdash;&ldquo;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, 
  On behalf of the whole family I beg you to come, &rdquo; These
  words he repeated to everyone without exception or variation, and with the
  same expression on his full, cheerful, clean-shaven face, the same firm
  pressure of the hand and the same quick, repeated bows. As soon as he had
  seen a visitor off he returned to one of those who were still in the
  drawing room, drew a chair toward him or her, and jauntily spreading out
  his legs and putting his hands on his knees with the air of a man who
  enjoys life and knows how to live, he swayed to and fro with dignity,
  offered surmises about the weather, or touched on questions of health,
  sometimes in Russian and sometimes in very bad but self-confident French;
  then again, like a man weary but unflinching in the fulfillment of duty,
  he rose to see some visitors off and, stroking his scanty gray hairs over
  his bald patch, also asked them to dinner. Sometimes on his way back from
  the anteroom he would pass through the conservatory and pantry into the
  large marble dining hall, where tables were being set out for eighty
  people; and looking at the footmen, who were bringing in silver and china,
  moving tables, and unfolding damask table linen, he would call Dmítri
  Vasílevich, a man of good family and the manager of all his affairs, and
  while looking with pleasure at the enormous table would say: &ldquo;Well,
  Dmítri, you&rsquo;ll see that things are all as they should be? That&rsquo;s right!
  The great thing is the serving, that&rsquo;s it.&rdquo; And with a complacent sigh he
  would return to the drawing room.
<br />
  &ldquo;Márya Lvóvna Karágina and her daughter!&rdquo; announced the countess&rsquo; 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&rsquo;s portrait on it.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;m quite worn out by these callers. However, I&rsquo;ll see her and no more.
  She is so affected. Ask her in,&rdquo; she said to the footman in a sad voice,
  as if saying: &ldquo;Very well, finish me off.&rdquo;
 <br />
  A tall, stout, and proud-looking woman, with a round-faced smiling
  daughter, entered the drawing room, their dresses rustling.
<br />
  &ldquo;Dear Countess, what an age... She has been laid up, poor child ... at the
  Razumóvski&rsquo;s ball ... and Countess Apráksina ... I was so delighted...&rdquo;
   came the sounds of animated feminine voices, interrupting one another and
  mingling with the rustling of dresses and the scraping of chairs. Then one
  of those conversations began which last out until, at the first pause, the
  guests rise with a rustle of dresses and say, &ldquo;I am so delighted...
  Mamma&rsquo;s health... and Countess Apráksina...&rdquo; 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&rsquo;s day, Count Bezúkhov, and about his
  illegitimate son Pierre, the one who had behaved so improperly at Anna
  Pávlovna&rsquo;s reception.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am so sorry for the poor count,&rdquo; said the visitor. &ldquo;He is in such bad
  health, and now this vexation about his son is enough to kill him!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What is that?&rdquo; asked the countess as if she did not know what the visitor
  alluded to, though she had already heard about the cause of Count
  Bezúkhov&rsquo;s distress some fifteen times.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s what comes of a modern education,&rdquo; exclaimed the visitor. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t say so!&rdquo; replied the countess.
<br />
  &ldquo;He chose his friends badly,&rdquo; interposed Anna Mikháylovna. &ldquo;Prince
  Vasíli&rsquo;s son, he, and a certain Dólokhov have, it is said, been up to
  heaven only knows what! And they have had to suffer for it. Dólokhov has
  been degraded to the ranks and Bezúkhov&rsquo;s son sent back to Moscow. Anatole
  Kurágin&rsquo;s father managed somehow to get his son&rsquo;s affair hushed up, but
  even he was ordered out of Petersburg.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But what have they been up to?&rdquo; asked the countess.
<br />
  &ldquo;They are regular brigands, especially Dólokhov,&rdquo; replied the visitor. &ldquo;He
  is a son of Márya Ivánovna Dólokhova, such a worthy woman, but there, just
  fancy! Those three got hold of a bear somewhere, put it in a carriage, and
  set off with it to visit some actresses! The police tried to interfere,
  and what did the young men do? They tied a policeman and the bear back to
  back and put the bear into the Moyka Canal. And there was the bear
  swimming about with the policeman on his back!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What a nice figure the policeman must have cut, my dear!&rdquo; shouted the
  count, dying with laughter.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, how dreadful! How can you laugh at it, Count?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Yet the ladies themselves could not help laughing.
<br />
  &ldquo;It was all they could do to rescue the poor man,&rdquo; continued the visitor.
  &ldquo;And to think it is Cyril Vladímirovich Bezúkhov&rsquo;s son who amuses himself
  in this sensible manner! And he was said to be so well educated and
  clever. This is all that his foreign education has done for him! I hope
  that here in Moscow no one will receive him, in spite of his money. They
  wanted to introduce him to me, but I quite declined: I have my daughters
  to consider.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why do you say this young man is so rich?&rdquo; asked the countess, turning
  away from the girls, who at once assumed an air of inattention. &ldquo;His
  children are all illegitimate. I think Pierre also is illegitimate.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The visitor made a gesture with her hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;I should think he has a score of them.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Princess Anna Mikháylovna intervened in the conversation, evidently
  wishing to show her connections and knowledge of what went on in society.
<br />
  &ldquo;The fact of the matter is,&rdquo; said she significantly, and also in a half
  whisper, &ldquo;everyone knows Count Cyril&rsquo;s reputation.... He has lost count of
  his children, but this Pierre was his favorite.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How handsome the old man still was only a year ago!&rdquo; remarked the
  countess. &ldquo;I have never seen a handsomer man.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He is very much altered now,&rdquo; said Anna Mikháylovna. &ldquo;Well, as I was
  saying, Prince Vasíli is the next heir through his wife, but the count is
  very fond of Pierre, looked after his education, and wrote to the Emperor
  about him; so that in the case of his death&mdash;and he is so ill that he
  may die at any moment, and Dr. Lorrain has come from Petersburg&mdash;no
  one knows who will inherit his immense fortune, Pierre or Prince Vasíli.
  Forty thousand serfs and millions of rubles! I know it all very well for
  Prince Vasíli told me himself. Besides, Cyril Vladímirovich is my mother&rsquo;s
  second cousin. He&rsquo;s also my Bóry&rsquo;s godfather,&rdquo; she added, as if she
  attached no importance at all to the fact.
<br />
  &ldquo;Prince Vasíli arrived in Moscow yesterday. I hear he has come on some
  inspection business,&rdquo; remarked the visitor.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, but between ourselves,&rdquo; said the princess, &ldquo;that is a pretext. The
  fact is he has come to see Count Cyril Vladímirovich, hearing how ill he
  is.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But do you know, my dear, that was a capital joke,&rdquo; said the count; and
  seeing that the elder visitor was not listening, he turned to the young
  ladies. &ldquo;I can just imagine what a funny figure that policeman cut!&rdquo;
 <br />
  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. &ldquo;So do come and dine with us!&rdquo; he
  said.

  CHAPTER XI
  Silence ensued. The countess looked at her callers, smiling affably, but
  not concealing the fact that she would not be distressed if they now rose
  and took their leave. The visitor&rsquo;s daughter was already smoothing down
  her dress with an inquiring look at her mother, when suddenly from the
  next room were heard the footsteps of boys and girls running to the door
  and the noise of a chair falling over, and a girl of thirteen, hiding
  something in the folds of her short muslin frock, darted in and stopped
  short in the middle of the room. It was evident that she had not intended
  her flight to bring her so far. Behind her in the doorway appeared a
  student with a crimson coat collar, an officer of the Guards, a girl of
  fifteen, and a plump rosy-faced boy in a short jacket.
<br />
  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.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, here she is!&rdquo; he exclaimed laughing. &ldquo;My pet, whose name day it is.
  My dear pet!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;, there is a time for everything,&rdquo; said the countess with
  feigned severity. &ldquo;You spoil her, Ilyá,&rdquo; she added, turning to her
  husband.
<br />
  &ldquo;How do you do, my dear? I wish you many happy returns of your name day,&rdquo;
   said the visitor. &ldquo;What a charming child,&rdquo; she added, addressing the
  mother.
<br />
  This black-eyed, wide-mouthed girl, not pretty but full of life&mdash;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&mdash;was just at that
  charming age when a girl is no longer a child, though the child is not yet
  a young woman. Escaping from her father she ran to hide her flushed face
  in the lace of her mother&rsquo;s mantilla&mdash;not paying the least attention
  to her severe remark&mdash;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.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you see?... My doll... Mimi... You see...&rdquo; was all Natásha managed to
  utter (to her everything seemed funny). She leaned against her mother and
  burst into such a loud, ringing fit of laughter that even the prim visitor
  could not help joining in.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now then, go away and take your monstrosity with you,&rdquo; said the mother,
  pushing away her daughter with pretended sternness, and turning to the
  visitor she added: &ldquo;She is my youngest girl.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha, raising her face for a moment from her mother&rsquo;s mantilla, glanced
  up at her through tears of laughter, and again hid her face.
<br />
  The visitor, compelled to look on at this family scene, thought it
  necessary to take some part in it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Tell me, my dear,&rdquo; said she to Natásha, &ldquo;is Mimi a relation of yours? A
  daughter, I suppose?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha did not like the visitor&rsquo;s tone of condescension to childish
  things. She did not reply, but looked at her seriously.
<br />
  Meanwhile the younger generation: Borís, the officer, Anna Mikháylovna&rsquo;s
  son; Nicholas, the undergraduate, the count&rsquo;s eldest son; Sónya, the
  count&rsquo;s fifteen-year-old niece, and little Pétya, his youngest boy, had
  all settled down in the drawing room and were obviously trying to restrain
  within the bounds of decorum the excitement and mirth that shone in all
  their faces. Evidently in the back rooms, from which they had dashed out
  so impetuously, the conversation had been more amusing than the drawing
  room talk of society scandals, the weather, and Countess Apráksina. Now
  and then they glanced at one another, hardly able to suppress their
  laughter.
<br />
  The two young men, the student and the officer, friends from childhood,
  were of the same age and both handsome fellows, though not alike. Borís
  was tall and fair, and his calm and handsome face had regular, delicate
  features. Nicholas was short with curly hair and an open expression. Dark
  hairs were already showing on his upper lip, and his whole face expressed
  impetuosity and enthusiasm. Nicholas blushed when he entered the drawing
  room. He evidently tried to find something to say, but failed. Borís on
  the contrary at once found his footing, and related quietly and humorously
  how he had known that doll Mimi when she was still quite a young lady,
  before her nose was broken; how she had aged during the five years he had
  known her, and how her head had cracked right across the skull. Having
  said this he glanced at Natásha. She turned away from him and glanced at
  her younger brother, who was screwing up his eyes and shaking with
  suppressed laughter, and unable to control herself any longer, she jumped
  up and rushed from the room as fast as her nimble little feet would carry
  her. Borís did not laugh.
<br />
  &ldquo;You were meaning to go out, weren&rsquo;t you, Mamma? Do you want the
  carriage?&rdquo; he asked his mother with a smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes, go and tell them to get it ready,&rdquo; she answered, returning his
  smile.
<br />
  Borís quietly left the room and went in search of Natásha. The plump boy
  ran after them angrily, as if vexed that their program had been disturbed.

  CHAPTER XII
  The only young people remaining in the drawing room, not counting the
  young lady visitor and the countess&rsquo; eldest daughter (who was four years
  older than her sister and behaved already like a grown-up person), were
  Nicholas and Sónya, the niece. Sónya was a slender little brunette with a
  tender look in her eyes which were veiled by long lashes, thick black
  plaits coiling twice round her head, and a tawny tint in her complexion
  and especially in the color of her slender but graceful and muscular arms
  and neck. By the grace of her movements, by the softness and flexibility
  of her small limbs, and by a certain coyness and reserve of manner, she
  reminded one of a pretty, half-grown kitten which promises to become a
  beautiful little cat. She evidently considered it proper to show an
  interest in the general conversation by smiling, but in spite of herself
  her eyes under their thick long lashes watched her cousin who was going to
  join the army, with such passionate girlish adoration that her smile could
  not for a single instant impose upon anyone, and it was clear that the
  kitten had settled down only to spring up with more energy and again play
  with her cousin as soon as they too could, like Natásha and Borís, escape
  from the drawing room.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah yes, my dear,&rdquo; said the count, addressing the visitor and pointing to
  Nicholas, &ldquo;his friend Borís has become an officer, and so for friendship&rsquo;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&rsquo;t that friendship?&rdquo; remarked the
  count in an inquiring tone.
<br />
  &ldquo;But they say that war has been declared,&rdquo; replied the visitor.
<br />
  &ldquo;They&rsquo;ve been saying so a long while,&rdquo; said the count, &ldquo;and they&rsquo;ll say so
  again and again, and that will be the end of it. My dear, there&rsquo;s
  friendship for you,&rdquo; he repeated. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s joining the hussars.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The visitor, not knowing what to say, shook her head.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not at all from friendship,&rdquo; declared Nicholas, flaring up and
  turning away as if from a shameful aspersion. &ldquo;It is not from friendship
  at all; I simply feel that the army is my vocation.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He glanced at his cousin and the young lady visitor; and they were both
  regarding him with a smile of approbation.
<br />
  &ldquo;Schubert, the colonel of the Pávlograd Hussars, is dining with us today.
  He has been here on leave and is taking Nicholas back with him. It can&rsquo;t
  be helped!&rdquo; said the count, shrugging his shoulders and speaking playfully
  of a matter that evidently distressed him.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have already told you, Papa,&rdquo; said his son, &ldquo;that if you don&rsquo;t wish to
  let me go, I&rsquo;ll stay. But I know I am no use anywhere except in the army;
  I am not a diplomat or a government clerk.&mdash;I don&rsquo;t know how to hide
  what I feel.&rdquo; As he spoke he kept glancing with the flirtatiousness of a
  handsome youth at Sónya and the young lady visitor.
<br />
  The little kitten, feasting her eyes on him, seemed ready at any moment to
  start her gambols again and display her kittenish nature.
<br />
  &ldquo;All right, all right!&rdquo; said the old count. &ldquo;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,&rdquo; he added, not
  noticing his visitor&rsquo;s sarcastic smile.
<br />
  The elders began talking about Bonaparte. Julie Karágina turned to young
  Rostóv.
<br />
  &ldquo;What a pity you weren&rsquo;t at the Arkhárovs&rsquo; on Thursday. It was so dull
  without you,&rdquo; said she, giving him a tender smile.
<br />
  The young man, flattered, sat down nearer to her with a coquettish smile,
  and engaged the smiling Julie in a confidential conversation without at
  all noticing that his involuntary smile had stabbed the heart of Sónya,
  who blushed and smiled unnaturally. In the midst of his talk he glanced
  round at her. She gave him a passionately angry glance, and hardly able to
  restrain her tears and maintain the artificial smile on her lips, she got
  up and left the room. All Nicholas&rsquo; animation vanished. He waited for the
  first pause in the conversation, and then with a distressed face left the
  room to find Sónya.
<br />
  &ldquo;How plainly all these young people wear their hearts on their sleeves!&rdquo;
   said Anna Mikháylovna, pointing to Nicholas as he went out.  * she added.
<br />
 * Cousinhood is a dangerous neighborhood.

“Yes,” said the countess when the brightness these young people had brought into the room had vanished; and as if answering a question no one had put but which was always in her mind, “and how much suffering, how much anxiety one has had to go through that we might rejoice in them now! And yet really the anxiety is greater now than the joy. One is always, always anxious! Especially just at this age, so dangerous both for girls and boys.”
“It all depends on the bringing up,” remarked the visitor.
“Yes, you’re quite right,” continued the countess. “Till now I have always, thank God, been my children’s friend and had their full confidence,” said she, repeating the mistake of so many parents who imagine that their children have no secrets from them. “I know I shall always be my daughters’ first confidante, and that if Nicholas, with his impulsive nature, does get into mischief (a boy can’t help it), he will all the same never be like those Petersburg young men.”
“Yes, they are splendid, splendid youngsters,” chimed in the count, who always solved questions that seemed to him perplexing by deciding that everything was splendid. “Just fancy: wants to be an hussar. What’s one to do, my dear?”
“What a charming creature your younger girl is,” said the visitor; “a little volcano!”
“Yes, a regular volcano,” said the count. “Takes after me! And what a voice she has; though she’s my daughter, I tell the truth when I say she’ll be a singer, a second Salomoni! We have engaged an Italian to give her lessons.”
“Isn’t she too young? I have heard that it harms the voice to train it at that age.”
“Oh no, not at all too young!” replied the count. “Why, our mothers used to be married at twelve or thirteen.”
“And she’s in love with Borís already. Just fancy!” said the countess with a gentle smile, looking at Borís and went on, evidently concerned with a thought that always occupied her: “Now you see if I were to be severe with her and to forbid it … goodness knows what they might be up to on the sly” (she meant that they would be kissing), “but as it is, I know every word she utters. She will come running to me of her own accord in the evening and tell me everything. Perhaps I spoil her, but really that seems the best plan. With her elder sister I was stricter.”
“Yes, I was brought up quite differently,” remarked the handsome elder daughter, Countess Véra, with a smile.
But the smile did not enhance Véra’s beauty as smiles generally do; on the contrary it gave her an unnatural, and therefore unpleasant, expression. Véra was good-looking, not at all stupid, quick at learning, was well brought up, and had a pleasant voice; what she said was true and appropriate, yet, strange to say, everyone—the visitors and countess alike—turned to look at her as if wondering why she had said it, and they all felt awkward.
“People are always too clever with their eldest children and try to make something exceptional of them,” said the visitor.
“What’s the good of denying it, my dear? Our dear countess was too clever with Véra,” said the count. “Well, what of that? She’s turned out splendidly all the same,” he added, winking at Véra.
The guests got up and took their leave, promising to return to dinner.
“What manners! I thought they would never go,” said the countess, when she had seen her guests out.

  CHAPTER XIII
  When Natásha ran out of the drawing room she only went as far as the
  conservatory. There she paused and stood listening to the conversation in
  the drawing room, waiting for Borís to come out. She was already growing
  impatient, and stamped her foot, ready to cry at his not coming at once,
  when she heard the young man&rsquo;s discreet steps approaching neither quickly
  nor slowly. At this Natásha dashed swiftly among the flower tubs and hid
  there.
<br />
  Borís paused in the middle of the room, looked round, brushed a little
  dust from the sleeve of his uniform, and going up to a mirror examined his
  handsome face. Natásha, very still, peered out from her ambush, waiting to
  see what he would do. He stood a little while before the glass, smiled,
  and walked toward the other door. Natásha was about to call him but
  changed her mind. &ldquo;Let him look for me,&rdquo; thought she. Hardly had Borís
  gone than Sónya, flushed, in tears, and muttering angrily, came in at the
  other door. Natásha checked her first impulse to run out to her, and
  remained in her hiding place, watching&mdash;as under an invisible cap&mdash;to
  see what went on in the world. She was experiencing a new and peculiar
  pleasure. Sónya, muttering to herself, kept looking round toward the
  drawing room door. It opened and Nicholas came in.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sónya, what is the matter with you? How can you?&rdquo; said he, running up to
  her.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s nothing, nothing; leave me alone!&rdquo; sobbed Sónya.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, I know what it is.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, if you do, so much the better, and you can go back to her!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Só-o-onya! Look here! How can you torture me and yourself like that, for
  a mere fancy?&rdquo; said Nicholas taking her hand.
<br />
  Sónya did not pull it away, and left off crying. Natásha, not stirring and
  scarcely breathing, watched from her ambush with sparkling eyes. &ldquo;What
  will happen now?&rdquo; thought she.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sónya! What is anyone in the world to me? You alone are everything!&rdquo; said
  Nicholas. &ldquo;And I will prove it to you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t like you to talk like that.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, then, I won&rsquo;t; only forgive me, Sónya!&rdquo; He drew her to him and
  kissed her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, how nice,&rdquo; thought Natásha; and when Sónya and Nicholas had gone out
  of the conservatory she followed and called Borís to her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Borís, come here,&rdquo; said she with a sly and significant look. &ldquo;I have
  something to tell you. Here, here!&rdquo; and she led him into the conservatory
  to the place among the tubs where she had been hiding.
<br />
  Borís followed her, smiling.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is the &rdquo; asked he.
<br />
  She grew confused, glanced round, and, seeing the doll she had thrown down
  on one of the tubs, picked it up.
<br />
  &ldquo;Kiss the doll,&rdquo; said she.
<br />
  Borís looked attentively and kindly at her eager face, but did not reply.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you want to? Well, then, come here,&rdquo; said she, and went further in
  among the plants and threw down the doll. &ldquo;Closer, closer!&rdquo; she whispered.
<br />
  She caught the young officer by his cuffs, and a look of solemnity and
  fear appeared on her flushed face.
<br />
  &ldquo;And me? Would you like to kiss me?&rdquo; she whispered almost inaudibly,
  glancing up at him from under her brows, smiling, and almost crying from
  excitement.
<br />
  Borís blushed.
<br />
  &ldquo;How funny you are!&rdquo; he said, bending down to her and blushing still more,
  but he waited and did nothing.
<br />
  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.
<br />
  Then she slipped down among the flowerpots on the other side of the tubs
  and stood, hanging her head.
<br />
  &ldquo;Natásha,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you know that I love you, but....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You are in love with me?&rdquo; Natásha broke in.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I am, but please don&rsquo;t let us do like that.... In another four years
  ... then I will ask for your hand.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha considered.
<br />
  &ldquo;Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen,&rdquo; she counted on her slender little
  fingers. &ldquo;All right! Then it&rsquo;s settled?&rdquo;
 <br />
  A smile of joy and satisfaction lit up her eager face.
<br />
  &ldquo;Settled!&rdquo; replied Borís.
<br />
  &ldquo;Forever?&rdquo; said the little girl. &ldquo;Till death itself?&rdquo;
 <br />
  She took his arm and with a happy face went with him into the adjoining
  sitting room.

  CHAPTER XIV
  After receiving her visitors, the countess was so tired that she gave
  orders to admit no more, but the porter was told to be sure to invite to
  dinner all who came &ldquo;to congratulate.&rdquo; The countess wished to have a
  tête-à-tête talk with the friend of her childhood, Princess Anna
  Mikháylovna, whom she had not seen properly since she returned from
  Petersburg. Anna Mikháylovna, with her tear-worn but pleasant face, drew
  her chair nearer to that of the countess.
<br />
  &ldquo;With you I will be quite frank,&rdquo; said Anna Mikháylovna. &ldquo;There are not
  many left of us old friends! That&rsquo;s why I so value your friendship.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Anna Mikháylovna looked at Véra and paused. The countess pressed her
  friend&rsquo;s hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;Véra,&rdquo; she said to her eldest daughter who was evidently not a favorite,
  &ldquo;how is it you have so little tact? Don&rsquo;t you see you are not wanted here?
  Go to the other girls, or...&rdquo;
 <br />
  The handsome Véra smiled contemptuously but did not seem at all hurt.
<br />
  &ldquo;If you had told me sooner, Mamma, I would have gone,&rdquo; she replied as she
  rose to go to her own room.
<br />
  But as she passed the sitting room she noticed two couples sitting, one
  pair at each window. She stopped and smiled scornfully. Sónya was sitting
  close to Nicholas who was copying out some verses for her, the first he
  had ever written. Borís and Natásha were at the other window and ceased
  talking when Véra entered. Sónya and Natásha looked at Véra with guilty,
  happy faces.
<br />
  It was pleasant and touching to see these little girls in love; but
  apparently the sight of them roused no pleasant feeling in Véra.
<br />
  &ldquo;How often have I asked you not to take my things?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;You have a
  room of your own,&rdquo; and she took the inkstand from Nicholas.
<br />
  &ldquo;In a minute, in a minute,&rdquo; he said, dipping his pen.
<br />
  &ldquo;You always manage to do things at the wrong time,&rdquo; continued Véra. &ldquo;You
  came rushing into the drawing room so that everyone felt ashamed of you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Though what she said was quite just, perhaps for that very reason no one
  replied, and the four simply looked at one another. She lingered in the
  room with the inkstand in her hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;And at your age what secrets can there be between Natásha and Borís, or
  between you two? It&rsquo;s all nonsense!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Now, Véra, what does it matter to you?&rdquo; said Natásha in defense, speaking
  very gently.
<br />
  She seemed that day to be more than ever kind and affectionate to
  everyone.
<br />
  &ldquo;Very silly,&rdquo; said Véra. &ldquo;I am ashamed of you. Secrets indeed!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;All have secrets of their own,&rdquo; answered Natásha, getting warmer. &ldquo;We
  don&rsquo;t interfere with you and Berg.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I should think not,&rdquo; said Véra, &ldquo;because there can never be anything
  wrong in my behavior. But I&rsquo;ll just tell Mamma how you are behaving with
  Borís.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Natálya Ilyníchna behaves very well to me,&rdquo; remarked Borís. &ldquo;I have
  nothing to complain of.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t, Borís! You are such a diplomat that it is really tiresome,&rdquo; said
  Natásha in a mortified voice that trembled slightly. (She used the word
  &ldquo;diplomat,&rdquo; which was just then much in vogue among the children, in the
  special sense they attached to it.) &ldquo;Why does she bother me?&rdquo; And she
  added, turning to Véra, &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll never understand it, because you&rsquo;ve never
  loved anyone. You have no heart! You are a Madame de Genlis and nothing
  more&rdquo; (this nickname, bestowed on Véra by Nicholas, was considered very
  stinging), &ldquo;and your greatest pleasure is to be unpleasant to people! Go
  and flirt with Berg as much as you please,&rdquo; she finished quickly.
<br />
  &ldquo;I shall at any rate not run after a young man before visitors...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, now you&rsquo;ve done what you wanted,&rdquo; put in Nicholas&mdash;&ldquo;said
  unpleasant things to everyone and upset them. Let&rsquo;s go to the nursery.&rdquo;
 <br />
  All four, like a flock of scared birds, got up and left the room.
<br />
  &ldquo;The unpleasant things were said to me,&rdquo; remarked Véra, &ldquo;I said none to
  anyone.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Madame de Genlis! Madame de Genlis!&rdquo; shouted laughing voices through the
  door.
<br />
  The handsome Véra, who produced such an irritating and unpleasant effect
  on everyone, smiled and, evidently unmoved by what had been said to her,
  went to the looking glass and arranged her hair and scarf. Looking at her
  own handsome face she seemed to become still colder and calmer.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  In the drawing room the conversation was still going on.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, my dear,&rdquo; said the countess, &ldquo;my life is not all roses either. Don&rsquo;t
  I know that at the rate we are living our means won&rsquo;t last long? It&rsquo;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&rsquo;t let&rsquo;s talk
  about me; tell me how you managed everything. I often wonder at you,
  Annette&mdash;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&rsquo;s quite astonishing. How did you get things
  settled? I couldn&rsquo;t possibly do it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah, my love,&rdquo; answered Anna Mikháylovna, &ldquo;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,&rdquo; she added with a certain pride.
  &ldquo;That lawsuit taught me much. When I want to see one of those big people I
  write a note: &lsquo;Princess So-and-So desires an interview with So and-So,&rsquo;
  and then I take a cab and go myself two, three, or four times&mdash;till I
  get what I want. I don&rsquo;t mind what they think of me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, and to whom did you apply about Bóry?&rdquo; asked the countess. &ldquo;You see
  yours is already an officer in the Guards, while my Nicholas is going as a
  cadet. There&rsquo;s no one to interest himself for him. To whom did you apply?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;To Prince Vasíli. He was so kind. He at once agreed to everything, and
  put the matter before the Emperor,&rdquo; said Princess Anna Mikháylovna
  enthusiastically, quite forgetting all the humiliation she had endured to
  gain her end.
<br />
  &ldquo;Has Prince Vasíli aged much?&rdquo; asked the countess. &ldquo;I have not seen him
  since we acted together at the Rumyántsovs&rsquo; theatricals. I expect he has
  forgotten me. He paid me attentions in those days,&rdquo; said the countess,
  with a smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;He is just the same as ever,&rdquo; replied Anna Mikháylovna, &ldquo;overflowing with
  amiability. His position has not turned his head at all. He said to me, &lsquo;I
  am sorry I can do so little for you, dear Princess. I am at your command.&rsquo;
  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,&rdquo; continued
  Anna Mikháylovna, sadly, dropping her voice. &ldquo;My wretched lawsuit takes
  all I have and makes no progress. Would you believe it, I have literally
  not a penny and don&rsquo;t know how to equip Borís.&rdquo; She took out her
  handkerchief and began to cry. &ldquo;I need five hundred rubles, and have only
  one twenty-five-ruble note. I am in such a state.... My only hope now is
  in Count Cyril Vladímirovich Bezúkhov. If he will not assist his godson&mdash;you
  know he is Bóry&rsquo;s godfather&mdash;and allow him something for his
  maintenance, all my trouble will have been thrown away.... I shall not be
  able to equip him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The countess&rsquo; eyes filled with tears and she pondered in silence.
<br />
  &ldquo;I often think, though, perhaps it&rsquo;s a sin,&rdquo; said the princess, &ldquo;that here
  lives Count Cyril Vladímirovich Bezúkhov so rich, all alone... that
  tremendous fortune... and what is his life worth? It&rsquo;s a burden to him,
  and Bóry&rsquo;s life is only just beginning....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Surely he will leave something to Borís,&rdquo; said the countess.
<br />
  &ldquo;Heaven only knows, my dear! These rich grandees are so selfish. Still, I
  will take Borís and go to see him at once, and I shall speak to him
  straight out. Let people think what they will of me, it&rsquo;s really all the
  same to me when my son&rsquo;s fate is at stake.&rdquo; The princess rose. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s now
  two o&rsquo;clock and you dine at four. There will just be time.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And like a practical Petersburg lady who knows how to make the most of
  time, Anna Mikháylovna sent someone to call her son, and went into the
  anteroom with him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Good-by, my dear,&rdquo; said she to the countess who saw her to the door, and
  added in a whisper so that her son should not hear, &ldquo;Wish me good luck.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Are you going to Count Cyril Vladímirovich, my dear?&rdquo; said the count
  coming out from the dining hall into the anteroom, and he added: &ldquo;If he is
  better, ask Pierre to dine with us. He has been to the house, you know,
  and danced with the children. Be sure to invite him, my dear. We will see
  how Tarás distinguishes himself today. He says Count Orlóv never gave such
  a dinner as ours will be!&rdquo;

  CHAPTER XV
  &ldquo;My dear Borís,&rdquo; said Princess Anna Mikháylovna to her son as Countess
  Rostóva&rsquo;s carriage in which they were seated drove over the straw covered
  street and turned into the wide courtyard of Count Cyril Vladímirovich
  Bezúkhov&rsquo;s house. &ldquo;My dear Borís,&rdquo; said the mother, drawing her hand from
  beneath her old mantle and laying it timidly and tenderly on her son&rsquo;s
  arm, &ldquo;be affectionate and attentive to him. Count Cyril Vladímirovich is
  your godfather after all, and your future depends on him. Remember that, my
  dear, and be nice to him, as you so well know how to be.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;If only I knew that anything besides humiliation would come of it...&rdquo;
   answered her son coldly. &ldquo;But I have promised and will do it for your
  sake.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Although the hall porter saw someone&rsquo;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&rsquo;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.
<br />
  &ldquo;We may as well go back,&rdquo; said the son in French.
<br />
  &ldquo;My dear!&rdquo; exclaimed his mother imploringly, again laying her hand on his
  arm as if that touch might soothe or rouse him.
<br />
  Borís said no more, but looked inquiringly at his mother without taking
  off his cloak.
<br />
  &ldquo;My friend,&rdquo; said Anna Mikháylovna in gentle tones, addressing the hall
  porter, &ldquo;I know Count Cyril Vladímirovich is very ill... that&rsquo;s why I have
  come... I am a relation. I shall not disturb him, my friend... I only need
  see Prince Vasíli Sergéevich: he is staying here, is he not? Please
  announce me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The hall porter sullenly pulled a bell that rang upstairs, and turned
  away.
<br />
  &ldquo;Princess Drubetskáya to see Prince Vasíli Sergéevich,&rdquo; 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.
<br />
  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.
<br />
  &ldquo;My dear,&rdquo; she said to her son, once more stimulating him by a touch, &ldquo;you
  promised me!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The son, lowering his eyes, followed her quietly.
<br />
  They entered the large hall, from which one of the doors led to the
  apartments assigned to Prince Vasíli.
<br />
  Just as the mother and son, having reached the middle of the hall, were
  about to ask their way of an elderly footman who had sprung up as they
  entered, the bronze handle of one of the doors turned and Prince Vasíli
  came out&mdash;wearing a velvet coat with a single star on his breast, as
  was his custom when at home&mdash;taking leave of a good-looking,
  dark-haired man. This was the celebrated Petersburg doctor, Lorrain.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then it is certain?&rdquo; said the prince.
<br />
  &ldquo;Prince, , * but...&rdquo; replied the doctor,
  swallowing his &rsquo;s, and pronouncing the Latin words with a French
  accent.
<br />
 * To err is human.

“Very well, very well…”
Seeing Anna Mikháylovna and her son, Prince Vasíli dismissed the doctor with a bow and approached them silently and with a look of inquiry. The son noticed that an expression of profound sorrow suddenly clouded his mother’s face, and he smiled slightly.
“Ah, Prince! In what sad circumstances we meet again! And how is our dear invalid?” said she, as though unaware of the cold offensive look fixed on her.
Prince Vasíli stared at her and at Borís questioningly and perplexed. Borís bowed politely. Prince Vasíli without acknowledging the bow turned to Anna Mikháylovna, answering her query by a movement of the head and lips indicating very little hope for the patient.
“Is it possible?” exclaimed Anna Mikháylovna. “Oh, how awful! It is terrible to think…. This is my son,” she added, indicating Borís. “He wanted to thank you himself.”
Borís bowed again politely.
“Believe me, Prince, a mother’s heart will never forget what you have done for us.”
“I am glad I was able to do you a service, my dear Anna Mikháylovna,” said Prince Vasíli, arranging his lace frill, and in tone and manner, here in Moscow to Anna Mikháylovna whom he had placed under an obligation, assuming an air of much greater importance than he had done in Petersburg at Anna Schérer’s reception.
“Try to serve well and show yourself worthy,” added he, addressing Borís with severity. “I am glad…. Are you here on leave?” he went on in his usual tone of indifference.
“I am awaiting orders to join my new regiment, your excellency,” replied Borís, betraying neither annoyance at the prince’s brusque manner nor a desire to enter into conversation, but speaking so quietly and respectfully that the prince gave him a searching glance.
“Are you living with your mother?”
“I am living at Countess Rostóva’s,” replied Borís, again adding, “your excellency.”
“That is, with Ilyá Rostóv who married Nataly Shinshiná,” said Anna Mikháylovna.
“I know, I know,” answered Prince Vasíli in his monotonous voice. “I never could understand how Nataly made up her mind to marry that unlicked bear! A perfectly absurd and stupid fellow, and a gambler too, I am told.”
“But a very kind man, Prince,” said Anna Mikháylovna with a pathetic smile, as though she too knew that Count Rostóv deserved this censure, but asked him not to be too hard on the poor old man. “What do the doctors say?” asked the princess after a pause, her worn face again expressing deep sorrow.
“They give little hope,” replied the prince.
“And I should so like to thank once for all his kindness to me and Borís. He is his godson,” she added, her tone suggesting that this fact ought to give Prince Vasíli much satisfaction.
Prince Vasíli became thoughtful and frowned. Anna Mikháylovna saw that he was afraid of finding in her a rival for Count Bezúkhov’s fortune, and hastened to reassure him.
“If it were not for my sincere affection and devotion to ,” said she, uttering the word with peculiar assurance and unconcern, “I know his character: noble, upright … but you see he has no one with him except the young princesses…. They are still young….” She bent her head and continued in a whisper: “Has he performed his final duty, Prince? How priceless are those last moments! It can make things no worse, and it is absolutely necessary to prepare him if he is so ill. We women, Prince,” and she smiled tenderly, “always know how to say these things. I absolutely must see him, however painful it may be for me. I am used to suffering.”
Evidently the prince understood her, and also understood, as he had done at Anna Pávlovna’s, that it would be difficult to get rid of Anna Mikháylovna.
“Would not such a meeting be too trying for him, dear Anna Mikháylovna?” said he. “Let us wait until evening. The doctors are expecting a crisis.”
“But one cannot delay, Prince, at such a moment! Consider that the welfare of his soul is at stake. Ah, it is awful: the duties of a Christian…”
A door of one of the inner rooms opened and one of the princesses, the count’s niece, entered with a cold, stern face. The length of her body was strikingly out of proportion to her short legs. Prince Vasíli turned to her.
“Well, how is he?”
“Still the same; but what can you expect, this noise…” said the princess, looking at Anna Mikháylovna as at a stranger.
“Ah, my dear, I hardly knew you,” said Anna Mikháylovna with a happy smile, ambling lightly up to the count’s niece. “I have come, and am at your service to help you nurse . I imagine what you have gone through,” and she sympathetically turned up her eyes.
The princess gave no reply and did not even smile, but left the room as Anna Mikháylovna took off her gloves and, occupying the position she had conquered, settled down in an armchair, inviting Prince Vasíli to take a seat beside her.
“Borís,” she said to her son with a smile, “I shall go in to see the count, my uncle; but you, my dear, had better go to Pierre meanwhile and don’t forget to give him the Rostóvs’ invitation. They ask him to dinner. I suppose he won’t go?” she continued, turning to the prince.
“On the contrary,” replied the prince, who had plainly become depressed, “I shall be only too glad if you relieve me of that young man…. Here he is, and the count has not once asked for him.”
He shrugged his shoulders. A footman conducted Borís down one flight of stairs and up another, to Pierre’s rooms.

  CHAPTER XVI
  Pierre, after all, had not managed to choose a career for himself in
  Petersburg, and had been expelled from there for riotous conduct and sent
  to Moscow. The story told about him at Count Rostóv&rsquo;s was true. Pierre had
  taken part in tying a policeman to a bear. He had now been for some days
  in Moscow and was staying as usual at his father&rsquo;s house. Though he
  expected that the story of his escapade would be already known in Moscow
  and that the ladies about his father&mdash;who were never favorably
  disposed toward him&mdash;would have used it to turn the count against
  him, he nevertheless on the day of his arrival went to his father&rsquo;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&mdash;the one who had met Anna Mikháylovna. The two younger ones
  were embroidering: both were rosy and pretty and they differed only in
  that one had a little mole on her lip which made her much prettier. Pierre
  was received as if he were a corpse or a leper. The eldest princess paused
  in her reading and silently stared at him with frightened eyes; the second
  assumed precisely the same expression; while the youngest, the one with
  the mole, who was of a cheerful and lively disposition, bent over her
  frame to hide a smile probably evoked by the amusing scene she foresaw.
  She drew her wool down through the canvas and, scarcely able to refrain
  from laughing, stooped as if trying to make out the pattern.
<br />
  &ldquo;How do you do, cousin?&rdquo; said Pierre. &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t recognize me?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I recognize you only too well, too well.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How is the count? Can I see him?&rdquo; asked Pierre, awkwardly as usual, but
  unabashed.
<br />
  &ldquo;The count is suffering physically and mentally, and apparently you have
  done your best to increase his mental sufferings.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Can I see the count?&rdquo; Pierre again asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;Hm.... If you wish to kill him, to kill him outright, you can see him...
  Olga, go and see whether Uncle&rsquo;s beef tea is ready&mdash;it is almost
  time,&rdquo; she added, giving Pierre to understand that they were busy, and
  busy making his father comfortable, while evidently he, Pierre, was only
  busy causing him annoyance.
<br />
  Olga went out. Pierre stood looking at the sisters; then he bowed and
  said: &ldquo;Then I will go to my rooms. You will let me know when I can see
  him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And he left the room, followed by the low but ringing laughter of the
  sister with the mole.
<br />
  Next day Prince Vasíli had arrived and settled in the count&rsquo;s house. He
  sent for Pierre and said to him: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Since then Pierre had not been disturbed and had spent the whole time in
  his rooms upstairs.
<br />
  When Borís appeared at his door Pierre was pacing up and down his room,
  stopping occasionally at a corner to make menacing gestures at the wall,
  as if running a sword through an invisible foe, and glaring savagely over
  his spectacles, and then again resuming his walk, muttering indistinct
  words, shrugging his shoulders and gesticulating.
<br />
  &ldquo;England is done for,&rdquo; said he, scowling and pointing his finger at
  someone unseen. &ldquo;Mr. Pitt, as a traitor to the nation and to the rights of
  man, is sentenced to...&rdquo; But before Pierre&mdash;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&mdash;could
  pronounce Pitt&rsquo;s sentence, he saw a well-built and handsome young officer
  entering his room. Pierre paused. He had left Moscow when Borís was a boy
  of fourteen, and had quite forgotten him, but in his usual impulsive and
  hearty way he took Borís by the hand with a friendly smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you remember me?&rdquo; asked Borís quietly with a pleasant smile. &ldquo;I have
  come with my mother to see the count, but it seems he is not well.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, it seems he is ill. People are always disturbing him,&rdquo; answered
  Pierre, trying to remember who this young man was.
<br />
  Borís felt that Pierre did not recognize him but did not consider it
  necessary to introduce himself, and without experiencing the least
  embarrassment looked Pierre straight in the face.
<br />
  &ldquo;Count Rostóv asks you to come to dinner today,&rdquo; said he, after a
  considerable pause which made Pierre feel uncomfortable.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, Count Rostóv!&rdquo; exclaimed Pierre joyfully. &ldquo;Then you are his son,
  Ilyá? Only fancy, I didn&rsquo;t know you at first. Do you remember how we went
  to the Sparrow Hills with Madame Jacquot?... It&rsquo;s such an age...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You are mistaken,&rdquo; said Borís deliberately, with a bold and slightly
  sarcastic smile. &ldquo;I am Borís, son of Princess Anna Mikháylovna
  Drubetskáya. Rostóv, the father, is Ilyá, and his son is Nicholas. I never
  knew any Madame Jacquot.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre shook his head and arms as if attacked by mosquitoes or bees.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh dear, what am I thinking about? I&rsquo;ve mixed everything up. One has so
  many relatives in Moscow! So you are Borís? Of course. Well, now we know
  where we are. And what do you think of the Boulogne expedition? The
  English will come off badly, you know, if Napoleon gets across the
  Channel. I think the expedition is quite feasible. If only Villeneuve
  doesn&rsquo;t make a mess of things!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Borís knew nothing about the Boulogne expedition; he did not read the
  papers and it was the first time he had heard Villeneuve&rsquo;s name.
<br />
  &ldquo;We here in Moscow are more occupied with dinner parties and scandal than
  with politics,&rdquo; said he in his quiet ironical tone. &ldquo;I know nothing about
  it and have not thought about it. Moscow is chiefly busy with gossip,&rdquo; he
  continued. &ldquo;Just now they are talking about you and your father.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre smiled in his good-natured way as if afraid for his companion&rsquo;s
  sake that the latter might say something he would afterwards regret. But
  Borís spoke distinctly, clearly, and dryly, looking straight into Pierre&rsquo;s
  eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;Moscow has nothing else to do but gossip,&rdquo; Borís went on. &ldquo;Everybody is
  wondering to whom the count will leave his fortune, though he may perhaps
  outlive us all, as I sincerely hope he will...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, it is all very horrid,&rdquo; interrupted Pierre, &ldquo;very horrid.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre was still afraid that this officer might inadvertently say
  something disconcerting to himself.
<br />
  &ldquo;And it must seem to you,&rdquo; said Borís flushing slightly, but not changing
  his tone or attitude, &ldquo;it must seem to you that everyone is trying to get
  something out of the rich man?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;So it does,&rdquo; thought Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;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&rsquo;t regard myself as a relation of his, and neither I
  nor my mother would ever ask or take anything from him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  For a long time Pierre could not understand, but when he did, he jumped up
  from the sofa, seized Borís under the elbow in his quick, clumsy way, and,
  blushing far more than Borís, began to speak with a feeling of mingled
  shame and vexation.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, this is strange! Do you suppose I... who could think?... I know
  very well...&rdquo;
 <br />
  But Borís again interrupted him.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am glad I have spoken out fully. Perhaps you did not like it? You must
  excuse me,&rdquo; said he, putting Pierre at ease instead of being put at ease
  by him, &ldquo;but I hope I have not offended you. I always make it a rule to
  speak out... Well, what answer am I to take? Will you come to dinner at
  the Rostóvs&rsquo;?&rdquo;
 <br />
  And Borís, having apparently relieved himself of an onerous duty and
  extricated himself from an awkward situation and placed another in it,
  became quite pleasant again.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, but I say,&rdquo; said Pierre, calming down, &ldquo;you are a wonderful fellow!
  What you have just said is good, very good. Of course you don&rsquo;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&rsquo;s splendid. I am
  very glad to have made your acquaintance. It&rsquo;s queer,&rdquo; he added after a
  pause, &ldquo;that you should have suspected me!&rdquo; He began to laugh. &ldquo;Well, what
  of it! I hope we&rsquo;ll get better acquainted,&rdquo; and he pressed Borís&rsquo; hand.
  &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And so you think Napoleon will manage to get an army across?&rdquo; asked Borís
  with a smile.
<br />
  Pierre saw that Borís wished to change the subject, and being of the same
  mind he began explaining the advantages and disadvantages of the Boulogne
  expedition.
<br />
  A footman came in to summon Borís&mdash;the princess was going. Pierre, in
  order to make Borís&rsquo; better acquaintance, promised to come to dinner, and
  warmly pressing his hand looked affectionately over his spectacles into
  Borís&rsquo; eyes. After he had gone Pierre continued pacing up and down the
  room for a long time, no longer piercing an imaginary foe with his
  imaginary sword, but smiling at the remembrance of that pleasant,
  intelligent, and resolute young man.
<br />
  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.
<br />
  Prince Vasíli saw the princess off. She held a handkerchief to her eyes
  and her face was tearful.
<br />
  &ldquo;It is dreadful, dreadful!&rdquo; she was saying, &ldquo;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&rsquo;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...&rdquo;
 <br />
   answered Prince Vasíli turning away from her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, he is in a dreadful state,&rdquo; said the mother to her son when they were
  in the carriage. &ldquo;He hardly recognizes anybody.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand, Mamma&mdash;what is his attitude to Pierre?&rdquo; asked
  the son.
<br />
  &ldquo;The will will show that, my dear; our fate also depends on it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But why do you expect that he will leave us anything?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah, my dear! He is so rich, and we are so poor!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, that is hardly a sufficient reason, Mamma...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, Heaven! How ill he is!&rdquo; exclaimed the mother.

  CHAPTER XVII
  After Anna Mikháylovna had driven off with her son to visit Count Cyril
  Vladímirovich Bezúkhov, Countess Rostóva sat for a long time all alone
  applying her handkerchief to her eyes. At last she rang.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is the matter with you, my dear?&rdquo; she said crossly to the maid who
  kept her waiting some minutes. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you wish to serve me? Then I&rsquo;ll find
  you another place.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The countess was upset by her friend&rsquo;s sorrow and humiliating poverty, and
  was therefore out of sorts, a state of mind which with her always found
  expression in calling her maid &ldquo;my dear&rdquo; and speaking to her with
  exaggerated politeness.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am very sorry, ma&rsquo;am,&rdquo; answered the maid.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ask the count to come to me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The count came waddling in to see his wife with a rather guilty look as
  usual.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, little countess? What a  of game  we
  are to have, my dear! I tasted it. The thousand rubles I paid for Tarás
  were not ill-spent. He is worth it!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He sat down by his wife, his elbows on his knees and his hands ruffling
  his gray hair.
<br />
  &ldquo;What are your commands, little countess?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You see, my dear... What&rsquo;s that mess?&rdquo; she said, pointing to his
  waistcoat. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the , most likely,&rdquo; she added with a smile.
  &ldquo;Well, you see, Count, I want some money.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Her face became sad.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, little countess!&rdquo; ... and the count began bustling to get out his
  pocketbook.
<br />
  &ldquo;I want a great deal, Count! I want five hundred rubles,&rdquo; and taking out
  her cambric handkerchief she began wiping her husband&rsquo;s waistcoat.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, immediately, immediately! Hey, who&rsquo;s there?&rdquo; he called out in a tone
  only used by persons who are certain that those they call will rush to
  obey the summons. &ldquo;Send Dmítri to me!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dmítri, a man of good family who had been brought up in the count&rsquo;s house
  and now managed all his affairs, stepped softly into the room.
<br />
  &ldquo;This is what I want, my dear fellow,&rdquo; said the count to the deferential
  young man who had entered. &ldquo;Bring me...&rdquo; he reflected a moment, &ldquo;yes,
  bring me seven hundred rubles, yes! But mind, don&rsquo;t bring me such tattered
  and dirty notes as last time, but nice clean ones for the countess.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, Dmítri, clean ones, please,&rdquo; said the countess, sighing deeply.
<br />
  &ldquo;When would you like them, your excellency?&rdquo; asked Dmítri. &ldquo;Allow me to
  inform you... But, don&rsquo;t be uneasy,&rdquo; he added, noticing that the count was
  beginning to breathe heavily and quickly which was always a sign of
  approaching anger. &ldquo;I was forgetting... Do you wish it brought at once?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes; just so! Bring it. Give it to the countess.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What a treasure that Dmítri is,&rdquo; added the count with a smile when the
  young man had departed. &ldquo;There is never any &lsquo;impossible&rsquo; with him. That&rsquo;s
  a thing I hate! Everything is possible.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah, money, Count, money! How much sorrow it causes in the world,&rdquo; said
  the countess. &ldquo;But I am in great need of this sum.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You, my little countess, are a notorious spendthrift,&rdquo; said the count,
  and having kissed his wife&rsquo;s hand he went back to his study.
<br />
  When Anna Mikháylovna returned from Count Bezúkhov&rsquo;s the money, all in
  clean notes, was lying ready under a handkerchief on the countess&rsquo; little
  table, and Anna Mikháylovna noticed that something was agitating her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, my dear?&rdquo; asked the countess.
<br />
  &ldquo;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...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Annette, for heaven&rsquo;s sake don&rsquo;t refuse me,&rdquo; the countess began, with a
  blush that looked very strange on her thin, dignified, elderly face, and
  she took the money from under the handkerchief.
<br />
  Anna Mikháylovna instantly guessed her intention and stooped to be ready
  to embrace the countess at the appropriate moment.
<br />
  &ldquo;This is for Borís from me, for his outfit.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Anna Mikháylovna was already embracing her and weeping. The countess wept
  too. They wept because they were friends, and because they were
  kindhearted, and because they&mdash;friends from childhood&mdash;had to
  think about such a base thing as money, and because their youth was
  over.... But those tears were pleasant to them both.

  CHAPTER XVIII
  Countess Rostóva, with her daughters and a large number of guests, was
  already seated in the drawing room. The count took the gentlemen into his
  study and showed them his choice collection of Turkish pipes. From time to
  time he went out to ask: &ldquo;Hasn&rsquo;t she come yet?&rdquo; They were
  expecting Márya Dmítrievna Akhrosímova, known in society as , a lady distinguished not for wealth or rank, but for common sense and
  frank plainness of speech. Márya Dmítrievna was known to the Imperial family as
  well as to all Moscow and Petersburg, and both cities wondered at her,
  laughed privately at her rudenesses, and told good stories about her,
  while none the less all without exception respected and feared her.
<br />
  In the count&rsquo;s room, which was full of tobacco smoke, they talked of the war
  that had been announced in a manifesto, and about the recruiting. None of
  them had yet seen the manifesto, but they all knew it had appeared. The
  count sat on the sofa between two guests who were smoking and talking. He
  neither smoked nor talked, but bending his head first to one side and then
  to the other watched the smokers with evident pleasure and listened to the
  conversation of his two neighbors, whom he egged on against each other.
<br />
  One of them was a sallow, clean-shaven civilian with a thin and wrinkled
  face, already growing old, though he was dressed like a most fashionable
  young man. He sat with his legs up on the sofa as if quite at home and,
  having stuck an amber mouthpiece far into his mouth, was inhaling the
  smoke spasmodically and screwing up his eyes. This was an old bachelor,
  Shinshín, a cousin of the countess&rsquo;, a man with &ldquo;a sharp tongue&rdquo; as they
  said in Moscow society. He seemed to be condescending to his companion.
  The latter, a fresh, rosy officer of the Guards, irreproachably washed,
  brushed, and buttoned, held his pipe in the middle of his mouth and with
  red lips gently inhaled the smoke, letting it escape from his handsome
  mouth in rings. This was Lieutenant Berg, an officer in the Semënov
  regiment with whom Borís was to travel to join the army, and about whom
  Natásha had teased her elder sister Véra, speaking of Berg as her
  &ldquo;intended.&rdquo; 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.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, then, old chap,  Alphonse Kárlovich,&rdquo; said
  Shinshín, laughing ironically and mixing the most ordinary Russian
  expressions with the choicest French phrases&mdash;which was a peculiarity
  of his speech. &ldquo;; *
  you want to make something out of your company?&rdquo;
 <br />
 * You expect to make an income out of the government.

“No, Peter Nikoláevich; I only want to show that in the cavalry the advantages are far less than in the infantry. Just consider my own position now, Peter Nikoláevich…”
Berg always spoke quietly, politely, and with great precision. His conversation always related entirely to himself; he would remain calm and silent when the talk related to any topic that had no direct bearing on himself. He could remain silent for hours without being at all put out of countenance himself or making others uncomfortable, but as soon as the conversation concerned himself he would begin to talk circumstantially and with evident satisfaction.
“Consider my position, Peter Nikoláevich. Were I in the cavalry I should get not more than two hundred rubles every four months, even with the rank of lieutenant; but as it is I receive two hundred and thirty,” said he, looking at Shinshín and the count with a joyful, pleasant smile, as if it were obvious to him that his success must always be the chief desire of everyone else.
“Besides that, Peter Nikoláevich, by exchanging into the Guards I shall be in a more prominent position,” continued Berg, “and vacancies occur much more frequently in the Foot Guards. Then just think what can be done with two hundred and thirty rubles! I even manage to put a little aside and to send something to my father,” he went on, emitting a smoke ring.
“… * A German knows how to skin a flint, as the proverb says,” remarked Shinshín, moving his pipe to the other side of his mouth and winking at the count.

  * So that squares matters.

The count burst out laughing. The other guests seeing that Shinshín was talking came up to listen. Berg, oblivious of irony or indifference, continued to explain how by exchanging into the Guards he had already gained a step on his old comrades of the Cadet Corps; how in wartime the company commander might get killed and he, as senior in the company, might easily succeed to the post; how popular he was with everyone in the regiment, and how satisfied his father was with him. Berg evidently enjoyed narrating all this, and did not seem to suspect that others, too, might have their own interests. But all he said was so prettily sedate, and the naïveté of his youthful egotism was so obvious, that he disarmed his hearers.
“Well, my boy, you’ll get along wherever you go—foot or horse—that I’ll warrant,” said Shinshín, patting him on the shoulder and taking his feet off the sofa.
Berg smiled joyously. The count, followed by his guests, went into the drawing room.
It was just the moment before a big dinner when the assembled guests, expecting the summons to , * avoid engaging in any long conversation but think it necessary to move about and talk, in order to show that they are not at all impatient for their food. The host and hostess look toward the door, and now and then glance at one another, and the visitors try to guess from these glances who, or what, they are waiting for—some important relation who has not yet arrived, or a dish that is not yet ready.

 * Hors d&rsquo;oeuvres.

Pierre had come just at dinnertime and was sitting awkwardly in the middle of the drawing room on the first chair he had come across, blocking the way for everyone. The countess tried to make him talk, but he went on naïvely looking around through his spectacles as if in search of somebody and answered all her questions in monosyllables. He was in the way and was the only one who did not notice the fact. Most of the guests, knowing of the affair with the bear, looked with curiosity at this big, stout, quiet man, wondering how such a clumsy, modest fellow could have played such a prank on a policeman.
“You have only lately arrived?” the countess asked him.
replied he, looking around him.
“You have not yet seen my husband?”
He smiled quite inappropriately.
“You have been in Paris recently, I believe? I suppose it’s very interesting.”
“Very interesting.”
The countess exchanged glances with Anna Mikháylovna. The latter understood that she was being asked to entertain this young man, and sitting down beside him she began to speak about his father; but he answered her, as he had the countess, only in monosyllables. The other guests were all conversing with one another. “The Razumóvskis… It was charming… You are very kind… Countess Apráksina…” was heard on all sides. The countess rose and went into the ballroom.
“Márya Dmítrievna?” came her voice from there.
“Herself,” came the answer in a rough voice, and Márya Dmítrievna entered the room.
All the unmarried ladies and even the married ones except the very oldest rose. Márya Dmítrievna paused at the door. Tall and stout, holding high her fifty-year-old head with its gray curls, she stood surveying the guests, and leisurely arranged her wide sleeves as if rolling them up. Márya Dmítrievna always spoke in Russian.
“Health and happiness to her whose name day we are keeping and to her children,” she said, in her loud, full-toned voice which drowned all others. “Well, you old sinner,” she went on, turning to the count who was kissing her hand, “you’re feeling dull in Moscow, I daresay? Nowhere to hunt with your dogs? But what is to be done, old man? Just see how these nestlings are growing up,” and she pointed to the girls. “You must look for husbands for them whether you like it or not….”
“Well,” said she, “how’s my Cossack?” (Márya Dmítrievna always called Natásha a Cossack) and she stroked the child’s arm as she came up fearless and gay to kiss her hand. “I know she’s a scamp of a girl, but I like her.”
She took a pair of pear-shaped ruby earrings from her huge reticule and, having given them to the rosy Natásha, who beamed with the pleasure of her saint’s-day fete, turned away at once and addressed herself to Pierre.
“Eh, eh, friend! Come here a bit,” said she, assuming a soft high tone of voice. “Come here, my friend…” and she ominously tucked up her sleeves still higher. Pierre approached, looking at her in a childlike way through his spectacles.
“Come nearer, come nearer, friend! I used to be the only one to tell your father the truth when he was in favor, and in your case it’s my evident duty.” She paused. All were silent, expectant of what was to follow, for this was clearly only a prelude.
“A fine lad! My word! A fine lad!… His father lies on his deathbed and he amuses himself setting a policeman astride a bear! For shame, sir, for shame! It would be better if you went to the war.”
She turned away and gave her hand to the count, who could hardly keep from laughing.
“Well, I suppose it is time we were at table?” said Márya Dmítrievna.
The count went in first with Márya Dmítrievna, the countess followed on the arm of a colonel of hussars, a man of importance to them because Nicholas was to go with him to the regiment; then came Anna Mikháylovna with Shinshín. Berg gave his arm to Véra. The smiling Julie Karágina went in with Nicholas. After them other couples followed, filling the whole dining hall, and last of all the children, tutors, and governesses followed singly. The footmen began moving about, chairs scraped, the band struck up in the gallery, and the guests settled down in their places. Then the strains of the count’s household band were replaced by the clatter of knives and forks, the voices of visitors, and the soft steps of the footmen. At one end of the table sat the countess with Márya Dmítrievna on her right and Anna Mikháylovna on her left, the other lady visitors were farther down. At the other end sat the count, with the hussar colonel on his left and Shinshín and the other male visitors on his right. Midway down the long table on one side sat the grown-up young people: Véra beside Berg, and Pierre beside Borís; and on the other side, the children, tutors, and governesses. From behind the crystal decanters and fruit vases, the count kept glancing at his wife and her tall cap with its light-blue ribbons, and busily filled his neighbors’ glasses, not neglecting his own. The countess in turn, without omitting her duties as hostess, threw significant glances from behind the pineapples at her husband whose face and bald head seemed by their redness to contrast more than usual with his gray hair. At the ladies’ end an even chatter of voices was heard all the time, at the men’s end the voices sounded louder and louder, especially that of the colonel of hussars who, growing more and more flushed, ate and drank so much that the count held him up as a pattern to the other guests. Berg with tender smiles was saying to Véra that love is not an earthly but a heavenly feeling. Borís was telling his new friend Pierre who the guests were and exchanging glances with Natásha, who was sitting opposite. Pierre spoke little but examined the new faces, and ate a great deal. Of the two soups he chose turtle with savory patties and went on to the game without omitting a single dish or one of the wines. These latter the butler thrust mysteriously forward, wrapped in a napkin, from behind the next man’s shoulders and whispered: “Dry Madeira”… “Hungarian”… or “Rhine wine” as the case might be. Of the four crystal glasses engraved with the count’s monogram that stood before his plate, Pierre held out one at random and drank with enjoyment, gazing with ever-increasing amiability at the other guests. Natásha, who sat opposite, was looking at Borís as girls of thirteen look at the boy they are in love with and have just kissed for the first time. Sometimes that same look fell on Pierre, and that funny lively little girl’s look made him inclined to laugh without knowing why.
Nicholas sat at some distance from Sónya, beside Julie Karágina, to whom he was again talking with the same involuntary smile. Sónya wore a company smile but was evidently tormented by jealousy; now she turned pale, now blushed and strained every nerve to overhear what Nicholas and Julie were saying to one another. The governess kept looking round uneasily as if preparing to resent any slight that might be put upon the children. The German tutor was trying to remember all the dishes, wines, and kinds of dessert, in order to send a full description of the dinner to his people in Germany; and he felt greatly offended when the butler with a bottle wrapped in a napkin passed him by. He frowned, trying to appear as if he did not want any of that wine, but was mortified because no one would understand that it was not to quench his thirst or from greediness that he wanted it, but simply from a conscientious desire for knowledge.

  CHAPTER XIX
  At the men&rsquo;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.
<br />
  &ldquo;And why the deuce are we going to fight Bonaparte?&rdquo; remarked Shinshín.
  &ldquo;He has stopped Austria&rsquo;s cackle and I fear it will be our turn next.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The colonel was a stout, tall, plethoric German, evidently devoted to the
  service and patriotically Russian. He resented Shinshín&rsquo;s remark.
<br />
  &ldquo;It is for the reasson, my goot sir,&rdquo; said he, speaking with a German
  accent, &ldquo;for the reasson zat ze Emperor knows zat. He declares in ze
  manifessto zat he cannot fiew wiz indifference ze danger vreatening Russia
  and zat ze safety and dignity of ze Empire as vell as ze sanctity of its
  ...&rdquo; he spoke this last word with particular emphasis as
  if in it lay the gist of the matter.
<br />
  Then with the unerring official memory that characterized him he repeated
  from the opening words of the manifesto:
<br />
  ... .
<br />
  &ldquo;Zat, my dear sir, is vy...&rdquo; he concluded, drinking a tumbler of wine with
  dignity and looking to the count for approval.
<br />
  &ldquo;* &lsquo;Jerome, Jerome, do not roam, but
  turn spindles at home!&rsquo;?&rdquo; said Shinshín, puckering his brows and smiling.
  &ldquo;.*(2) Suvórov now&mdash;he knew what
  he was about; yet they beat him ,*(3) and where are
  we to find Suvórovs now? ,&rdquo; *(4) said he,
  continually changing from French to Russian.
<br />
 * Do you know the proverb?
<br />
 *(2) That suits us down to the ground.
<br />
 *(3) Hollow.
<br />
 *(4) I just ask you that.

“Ve must vight to the last tr-r-op of our plood!” said the colonel, thumping the table; “and ve must tie for our Emperor, and zen all vill pe vell. And ve must discuss it as little as po-o-ossible”… he dwelt particularly on the word … “as po-o-ossible,” he ended, again turning to the count. “Zat is how ve old hussars look at it, and zere’s an end of it! And how do you, a young man and a young hussar, how do you judge of it?” he added, addressing Nicholas, who when he heard that the war was being discussed had turned from his partner with eyes and ears intent on the colonel.
“I am quite of your opinion,” replied Nicholas, flaming up, turning his plate round and moving his wineglasses about with as much decision and desperation as though he were at that moment facing some great danger. “I am convinced that we Russians must die or conquer,” he concluded, conscious—as were others—after the words were uttered that his remarks were too enthusiastic and emphatic for the occasion and were therefore awkward.
“What you said just now was splendid!” said his partner Julie.
Sónya trembled all over and blushed to her ears and behind them and down to her neck and shoulders while Nicholas was speaking.
Pierre listened to the colonel’s speech and nodded approvingly.
“That’s fine,” said he.
“The young man’s a real hussar!” shouted the colonel, again thumping the table.
“What are you making such a noise about over there?” Márya Dmítrievna’s deep voice suddenly inquired from the other end of the table. “What are you thumping the table for?” she demanded of the hussar, “and why are you exciting yourself? Do you think the French are here?”
“I am speaking ze truce,” replied the hussar with a smile.
“It’s all about the war,” the count shouted down the table. “You know my son’s going, Márya Dmítrievna? My son is going.”
“I have four sons in the army but still I don’t fret. It is all in God’s hands. You may die in your bed or God may spare you in a battle,” replied Márya Dmítrievna’s deep voice, which easily carried the whole length of the table.
“That’s true!”
Once more the conversations concentrated, the ladies’ at the one end and the men’s at the other.
“You won’t ask,” Natásha’s little brother was saying; “I know you won’t ask!”
“I will,” replied Natásha.
Her face suddenly flushed with reckless and joyous resolution. She half rose, by a glance inviting Pierre, who sat opposite, to listen to what was coming, and turning to her mother:
“Mamma!” rang out the clear contralto notes of her childish voice, audible the whole length of the table.
“What is it?” asked the countess, startled; but seeing by her daughter’s face that it was only mischief, she shook a finger at her sternly with a threatening and forbidding movement of her head.
The conversation was hushed.
“Mamma! What sweets are we going to have?” and Natásha’s voice sounded still more firm and resolute.
The countess tried to frown, but could not. Márya Dmítrievna shook her fat finger.
“Cossack!” she said threateningly.
Most of the guests, uncertain how to regard this sally, looked at the elders.
“You had better take care!” said the countess.
“Mamma! What sweets are we going to have?” Natásha again cried boldly, with saucy gaiety, confident that her prank would be taken in good part.
Sónya and fat little Pétya doubled up with laughter.
“You see! I asked,” whispered Natásha to her little brother and to Pierre, glancing at him again.
“Ice pudding, but you won’t get any,” said Márya Dmítrievna.
Natásha saw there was nothing to be afraid of and so she braved even Márya Dmítrievna.
“Márya Dmítrievna! What kind of ice pudding? I don’t like ice cream.”
“Carrot ices.”
“No! What kind, Márya Dmítrievna? What kind?” she almost screamed; “I want to know!”
Márya Dmítrievna and the countess burst out laughing, and all the guests joined in. Everyone laughed, not at Márya Dmítrievna’s answer but at the incredible boldness and smartness of this little girl who had dared to treat Márya Dmítrievna in this fashion.
Natásha only desisted when she had been told that there would be pineapple ice. Before the ices, champagne was served round. The band again struck up, the count and countess kissed, and the guests, leaving their seats, went up to “congratulate” the countess, and reached across the table to clink glasses with the count, with the children, and with one another. Again the footmen rushed about, chairs scraped, and in the same order in which they had entered but with redder faces, the guests returned to the drawing room and to the count’s study.

  CHAPTER XX
  The card tables were drawn out, sets made up for boston, and the count&rsquo;s
  visitors settled themselves, some in the two drawing rooms, some in the
  sitting room, some in the library.
<br />
  The count, holding his cards fanwise, kept himself with difficulty from
  dropping into his usual after-dinner nap, and laughed at everything. The
  young people, at the countess&rsquo; instigation, gathered round the clavichord
  and harp. Julie by general request played first. After she had played a
  little air with variations on the harp, she joined the other young ladies
  in begging Natásha and Nicholas, who were noted for their musical talent,
  to sing something. Natásha, who was treated as though she were grown up,
  was evidently very proud of this but at the same time felt shy.
<br />
  &ldquo;What shall we sing?&rdquo; she said.
<br />
  &ldquo;&lsquo;The Brook,&rsquo;&rdquo; suggested Nicholas.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, then, let&rsquo;s be quick. Borís, come here,&rdquo; said Natásha. &ldquo;But where
  is Sónya?&rdquo;
 <br />
  She looked round and seeing that her friend was not in the room ran to
  look for her.
<br />
  Running into Sónya&rsquo;s room and not finding her there, Natásha ran to the
  nursery, but Sónya was not there either. Natásha concluded that she must
  be on the chest in the passage. The chest in the passage was the place of
  mourning for the younger female generation in the Rostóv household. And
  there in fact was Sónya lying face downward on Nurse&rsquo;s dirty feather bed
  on the top of the chest, crumpling her gauzy pink dress under her, hiding
  her face with her slender fingers, and sobbing so convulsively that her
  bare little shoulders shook. Natásha&rsquo;s face, which had been so radiantly
  happy all that saint&rsquo;s day, suddenly changed: her eyes became fixed, and
  then a shiver passed down her broad neck and the corners of her mouth
  drooped.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sónya! What is it? What is the matter?... Oo... Oo... Oo...!&rdquo; And
  Natásha&rsquo;s large mouth widened, making her look quite ugly, and she began
  to wail like a baby without knowing why, except that Sónya was crying.
  Sónya tried to lift her head to answer but could not, and hid her face
  still deeper in the bed. Natásha wept, sitting on the blue-striped feather
  bed and hugging her friend. With an effort Sónya sat up and began wiping
  her eyes and explaining.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nicholas is going away in a week&rsquo;s time, his... papers... have come... he
  told me himself... but still I should not cry,&rdquo; and she showed a paper she
  held in her hand&mdash;with the verses Nicholas had written, &ldquo;still, I
  should not cry, but you can&rsquo;t... no one can understand... what a soul he
  has!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And she began to cry again because he had such a noble soul.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all very well for you... I am not envious... I love you and Borís
  also,&rdquo; she went on, gaining a little strength; &ldquo;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&rsquo;t be done. And
  besides, if she tells Mamma&rdquo; (Sónya looked upon the countess as her mother
  and called her so) &ldquo;that I am spoiling Nicholas&rsquo; career and am heartless
  and ungrateful, while truly... God is my witness,&rdquo; and she made the sign
  of the cross, &ldquo;I love her so much, and all of you, only Véra... And what
  for? What have I done to her? I am so grateful to you that I would
  willingly sacrifice everything, only I have nothing....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sónya could not continue, and again hid her face in her hands and in the
  feather bed. Natásha began consoling her, but her face showed that she
  understood all the gravity of her friend&rsquo;s trouble.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sónya,&rdquo; she suddenly exclaimed, as if she had guessed the true reason of
  her friend&rsquo;s sorrow, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sure Véra has said something to you since
  dinner? Hasn&rsquo;t she?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, these verses Nicholas wrote himself and I copied some others, and
  she found them on my table and said she&rsquo;d show them to Mamma, and that I
  was ungrateful, and that Mamma would never allow him to marry me, but that
  he&rsquo;ll marry Julie. You see how he&rsquo;s been with her all day... Natásha, what
  have I done to deserve it?...&rdquo;
 <br />
  And again she began to sob, more bitterly than before. Natásha lifted her
  up, hugged her, and, smiling through her tears, began comforting her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sónya, don&rsquo;t believe her, darling! Don&rsquo;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&rsquo;t quite remember how, but
  don&rsquo;t you remember that it could all be arranged and how nice it all was?
  There&rsquo;s Uncle Shinshín&rsquo;s brother has married his first cousin. And we are
  only second cousins, you know. And Borís says it is quite possible. You
  know I have told him all about it. And he is so clever and so good!&rdquo; said
  Natásha. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you cry, Sónya, dear love, darling Sónya!&rdquo; and she kissed
  her and laughed. &ldquo;Véra&rsquo;s spiteful; never mind her! And all will come right
  and she won&rsquo;t say anything to Mamma. Nicholas will tell her himself, and
  he doesn&rsquo;t care at all for Julie.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha kissed her on the hair.
<br />
  Sónya sat up. The little kitten brightened, its eyes shone, and it seemed
  ready to lift its tail, jump down on its soft paws, and begin playing with
  the ball of worsted as a kitten should.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you think so?... Really? Truly?&rdquo; she said, quickly smoothing her frock
  and hair.
<br />
  &ldquo;Really, truly!&rdquo; answered Natásha, pushing in a crisp lock that had
  strayed from under her friend&rsquo;s plaits.
<br />
  Both laughed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, let&rsquo;s go and sing &lsquo;The Brook.&rsquo;&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Come along!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Do you know, that fat Pierre who sat opposite me is so funny!&rdquo; said
  Natásha, stopping suddenly. &ldquo;I feel so happy!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And she set off at a run along the passage.
<br />
  Sónya, shaking off some down which clung to her and tucking away the
  verses in the bosom of her dress close to her bony little chest, ran after
  Natásha down the passage into the sitting room with flushed face and
  light, joyous steps. At the visitors&rsquo; request the young people sang the
  quartette, &ldquo;The Brook,&rdquo; with which everyone was delighted. Then Nicholas
  sang a song he had just learned:
<br />

At nighttime in the moon’s fair glow
How sweet, as fancies wander free,
To feel that in this world there’s one
Who still is thinking but of thee!

That while her fingers touch the harp
Wafting sweet music o’er the lea,
It is for thee thus swells her heart,
Sighing its message out to thee…

A day or two, then bliss unspoilt,
But oh! till then I cannot live!…
He had not finished the last verse before the young people began to get ready to dance in the large hall, and the sound of the feet and the coughing of the musicians were heard from the gallery.

Pierre was sitting in the drawing room where Shinshín had engaged him, as a man recently returned from abroad, in a political conversation in which several others joined but which bored Pierre. When the music began Natásha came in and walking straight up to Pierre said, laughing and blushing:
“Mamma told me to ask you to join the dancers.”
“I am afraid of mixing the figures,” Pierre replied; “but if you will be my teacher…” And lowering his big arm he offered it to the slender little girl.
While the couples were arranging themselves and the musicians tuning up, Pierre sat down with his little partner. Natásha was perfectly happy; she was dancing with a man, who had been . She was sitting in a conspicuous place and talking to him like a grown-up lady. She had a fan in her hand that one of the ladies had given her to hold. Assuming quite the pose of a society woman (heaven knows when and where she had learned it) she talked with her partner, fanning herself and smiling over the fan.
“Dear, dear! Just look at her!” exclaimed the countess as she crossed the ballroom, pointing to Natásha.
Natásha blushed and laughed.
“Well, really, Mamma! Why should you? What is there to be surprised at?”

In the midst of the third there was a clatter of chairs being pushed back in the sitting room where the count and Márya Dmítrievna had been playing cards with the majority of the more distinguished and older visitors. They now, stretching themselves after sitting so long, and replacing their purses and pocketbooks, entered the ballroom. First came Márya Dmítrievna and the count, both with merry countenances. The count, with playful ceremony somewhat in ballet style, offered his bent arm to Márya Dmítrievna. He drew himself up, a smile of debonair gallantry lit up his face and as soon as the last figure of the was ended, he clapped his hands to the musicians and shouted up to their gallery, addressing the first violin:
“Semën! Do you know the ”
This was the count’s favorite dance, which he had danced in his youth. (Strictly speaking, was one figure of the .)
“Look at Papa!” shouted Natásha to the whole company, and quite forgetting that she was dancing with a grown-up partner she bent her curly head to her knees and made the whole room ring with her laughter.
And indeed everybody in the room looked with a smile of pleasure at the jovial old gentleman, who standing beside his tall and stout partner, Márya Dmítrievna, curved his arms, beat time, straightened his shoulders, turned out his toes, tapped gently with his foot, and, by a smile that broadened his round face more and more, prepared the onlookers for what was to follow. As soon as the provocatively gay strains of (somewhat resembling those of a merry peasant dance) began to sound, all the doorways of the ballroom were suddenly filled by the domestic serfs—the men on one side and the women on the other—who with beaming faces had come to see their master making merry.
“Just look at the master! A regular eagle he is!” loudly remarked the nurse, as she stood in one of the doorways.
The count danced well and knew it. But his partner could not and did not want to dance well. Her enormous figure stood erect, her powerful arms hanging down (she had handed her reticule to the countess), and only her stern but handsome face really joined in the dance. What was expressed by the whole of the count’s plump figure, in Márya Dmítrievna found expression only in her more and more beaming face and quivering nose. But if the count, getting more and more into the swing of it, charmed the spectators by the unexpectedness of his adroit maneuvers and the agility with which he capered about on his light feet, Márya Dmítrievna produced no less impression by slight exertions—the least effort to move her shoulders or bend her arms when turning, or stamp her foot—which everyone appreciated in view of her size and habitual severity. The dance grew livelier and livelier. The other couples could not attract a moment’s attention to their own evolutions and did not even try to do so. All were watching the count and Márya Dmítrievna. Natásha kept pulling everyone by sleeve or dress, urging them to “look at Papa!” though as it was they never took their eyes off the couple. In the intervals of the dance the count, breathing deeply, waved and shouted to the musicians to play faster. Faster, faster, and faster; lightly, more lightly, and yet more lightly whirled the count, flying round Márya Dmítrievna, now on his toes, now on his heels; until, turning his partner round to her seat, he executed the final , raising his soft foot backwards, bowing his perspiring head, smiling and making a wide sweep with his arm, amid a thunder of applause and laughter led by Natásha. Both partners stood still, breathing heavily and wiping their faces with their cambric handkerchiefs.
“That’s how we used to dance in our time, ,” said the count.
“That a ” exclaimed Márya Dmítrievna, tucking up her sleeves and puffing heavily.

  CHAPTER XXI
  While in the Rostóvs&rsquo; ballroom the sixth  was being danced,
  to a tune in which the weary musicians blundered, and while tired footmen
  and cooks were getting the supper, Count Bezúkhov had a sixth stroke. The
  doctors pronounced recovery impossible. After a mute confession, communion
  was administered to the dying man, preparations made for the sacrament of
  unction, and in his house there was the bustle and thrill of suspense
  usual at such moments. Outside the house, beyond the gates, a group of
  undertakers, who hid whenever a carriage drove up, waited in expectation
  of an important order for an expensive funeral. The Military Governor of
  Moscow, who had been assiduous in sending aides-de-camp to inquire after
  the count&rsquo;s health, came himself that evening to bid a last farewell to
  the celebrated grandee of Catherine&rsquo;s court, Count Bezúkhov.
<br />
  The magnificent reception room was crowded. Everyone stood up respectfully
  when the Military Governor, having stayed about half an hour alone with
  the dying man, passed out, slightly acknowledging their bows and trying to
  escape as quickly as possible from the glances fixed on him by the
  doctors, clergy, and relatives of the family. Prince Vasíli, who had grown
  thinner and paler during the last few days, escorted him to the door,
  repeating something to him several times in low tones.
<br />
  When the Military Governor had gone, Prince Vasíli sat down all alone on a
  chair in the ballroom, crossing one leg high over the other, leaning his
  elbow on his knee and covering his face with his hand. After sitting so
  for a while he rose, and, looking about him with frightened eyes, went
  with unusually hurried steps down the long corridor leading to the back of
  the house, to the room of the eldest princess.
<br />
  Those who were in the dimly lit reception room spoke in nervous whispers,
  and, whenever anyone went into or came from the dying man&rsquo;s room, grew
  silent and gazed with eyes full of curiosity or expectancy at his door,
  which creaked slightly when opened.
<br />
  &ldquo;The limits of human life ... are fixed and may not be o&rsquo;erpassed,&rdquo; said
  an old priest to a lady who had taken a seat beside him and was listening
  naïvely to his words.
<br />
  &ldquo;I wonder, is it not too late to administer unction?&rdquo; asked the lady,
  adding the priest&rsquo;s clerical title, as if she had no opinion of her own on
  the subject.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, madam, it is a great sacrament,&rdquo; replied the priest, passing his hand
  over the thin grizzled strands of hair combed back across his bald head.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who was that? The Military Governor himself?&rdquo; was being asked at the
  other side of the room. &ldquo;How young-looking he is!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, and he is over sixty. I hear the count no longer recognizes anyone.
  They wished to administer the sacrament of unction.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I knew someone who received that sacrament seven times.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The second princess had just come from the sickroom with her eyes red from
  weeping and sat down beside Dr. Lorrain, who was sitting in a graceful
  pose under a portrait of Catherine, leaning his elbow on a table.
<br />
  &ldquo;Beautiful,&rdquo; said the doctor in answer to a remark about the weather. &ldquo;The
  weather is beautiful, Princess; and besides, in Moscow one feels as if one
  were in the country.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, indeed,&rdquo; replied the princess with a sigh. &ldquo;So he may have something
  to drink?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Lorrain considered.
<br />
  &ldquo;Has he taken his medicine?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The doctor glanced at his watch.
<br />
  &ldquo;Take a glass of boiled water and put a pinch of cream of tartar,&rdquo; and he
  indicated with his delicate fingers what he meant by a pinch.
<br />
  &ldquo;Dere has neffer been a gase,&rdquo; a German doctor was saying to an
  aide-de-camp, &ldquo;dat one liffs after de sird stroke.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And what a well-preserved man he was!&rdquo; remarked the aide-de-camp. &ldquo;And
  who will inherit his wealth?&rdquo; he added in a whisper.
<br />
  &ldquo;It von&rsquo;t go begging,&rdquo; replied the German with a smile.
<br />
  Everyone again looked toward the door, which creaked as the second
  princess went in with the drink she had prepared according to Lorrain&rsquo;s
  instructions. The German doctor went up to Lorrain.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you think he can last till morning?&rdquo; asked the German, addressing
  Lorrain in French which he pronounced badly.
<br />
  Lorrain, pursing up his lips, waved a severely negative finger before his
  nose.
<br />
  &ldquo;Tonight, not later,&rdquo; 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&rsquo;s condition.
<br />
  Meanwhile Prince Vasíli had opened the door into the princess&rsquo; room.
<br />
  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.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, is it you, cousin?&rdquo;
 <br />
  She rose and smoothed her hair, which was as usual so extremely smooth
  that it seemed to be made of one piece with her head and covered with
  varnish.
<br />
  &ldquo;Has anything happened?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;I am so terrified.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, there is no change. I only came to have a talk about business,
  Catiche,&rdquo; * muttered the prince, seating himself wearily on the chair she
  had just vacated. &ldquo;You have made the place warm, I must say,&rdquo; he remarked.
  &ldquo;Well, sit down: let&rsquo;s have a talk.&rdquo;
 <br />
 * 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, , but I can’t.”
“Well, my dear?” said Prince Vasíli, taking her hand and bending it downwards as was his habit.
It was plain that this “well?” referred to much that they both understood without naming.
The princess, who had a straight, rigid body, abnormally long for her legs, looked directly at Prince Vasíli with no sign of emotion in her prominent gray eyes. Then she shook her head and glanced up at the icons with a sigh. This might have been taken as an expression of sorrow and devotion, or of weariness and hope of resting before long. Prince Vasíli understood it as an expression of weariness.
“And I?” he said; “do you think it is easier for me? I am as worn out as a post horse, but still I must have a talk with you, Catiche, a very serious talk.”
Prince Vasíli said no more and his cheeks began to twitch nervously, now on one side, now on the other, giving his face an unpleasant expression which was never to be seen on it in a drawing room. His eyes too seemed strange; at one moment they looked impudently sly and at the next glanced round in alarm.
The princess, holding her little dog on her lap with her thin bony hands, looked attentively into Prince Vasíli’s eyes evidently resolved not to be the first to break silence, if she had to wait till morning.
“Well, you see, my dear princess and cousin, Catherine Semënovna,” continued Prince Vasíli, returning to his theme, apparently not without an inner struggle; “at such a moment as this one must think of everything. One must think of the future, of all of you… I love you all, like children of my own, as you know.”
The princess continued to look at him without moving, and with the same dull expression.
“And then of course my family has also to be considered,” Prince Vasíli went on, testily pushing away a little table without looking at her. “You know, Catiche, that we—you three sisters, Mámontov, and my wife—are the count’s only direct heirs. I know, I know how hard it is for you to talk or think of such matters. It is no easier for me; but, my dear, I am getting on for sixty and must be prepared for anything. Do you know I have sent for Pierre? The count,” pointing to his portrait, “definitely demanded that he should be called.”
Prince Vasíli looked questioningly at the princess, but could not make out whether she was considering what he had just said or whether she was simply looking at him.
“There is one thing I constantly pray God to grant, ,” she replied, “and it is that He would be merciful to him and would allow his noble soul peacefully to leave this…”
“Yes, yes, of course,” interrupted Prince Vasíli impatiently, rubbing his bald head and angrily pulling back toward him the little table that he had pushed away. “But… in short, the fact is… you know yourself that last winter the count made a will by which he left all his property, not to us his direct heirs, but to Pierre.”
“He has made wills enough!” quietly remarked the princess. “But he cannot leave the estate to Pierre. Pierre is illegitimate.”
“But, my dear,” said Prince Vasíli suddenly, clutching the little table and becoming more animated and talking more rapidly: “what if a letter has been written to the Emperor in which the count asks for Pierre’s legitimation? Do you understand that in consideration of the count’s services, his request would be granted?…”
The princess smiled as people do who think they know more about the subject under discussion than those they are talking with.
“I can tell you more,” continued Prince Vasíli, seizing her hand, “that letter was written, though it was not sent, and the Emperor knew of it. The only question is, has it been destroyed or not? If not, then as soon as ,” and Prince Vasíli sighed to intimate what he meant by the words , “and the count’s papers are opened, the will and letter will be delivered to the Emperor, and the petition will certainly be granted. Pierre will get everything as the legitimate son.”
“And our share?” asked the princess smiling ironically, as if anything might happen, only not that.
“But, my poor Catiche, it is as clear as daylight! He will then be the legal heir to everything and you won’t get anything. You must know, my dear, whether the will and letter were written, and whether they have been destroyed or not. And if they have somehow been overlooked, you ought to know where they are, and must find them, because…”
“What next?” the princess interrupted, smiling sardonically and not changing the expression of her eyes. “I am a woman, and you think we are all stupid; but I know this: an illegitimate son cannot inherit… ”* she added, as if supposing that this translation of the word would effectively prove to Prince Vasíli the invalidity of his contention.

 * A bastard.

“Well, really, Catiche! Can’t you understand! You are so intelligent, how is it you don’t see that if the count has written a letter to the Emperor begging him to recognize Pierre as legitimate, it follows that Pierre will not be Pierre but will become Count Bezúkhov, and will then inherit everything under the will? And if the will and letter are not destroyed, then you will have nothing but the consolation of having been dutiful * That’s certain.”

 * And all that follows therefrom.

“I know the will was made, but I also know that it is invalid; and you, , seem to consider me a perfect fool,” said the princess with the expression women assume when they suppose they are saying something witty and stinging.
“My dear Princess Catherine Semënovna,” began Prince Vasíli impatiently, “I came here not to wrangle with you, but to talk about your interests as with a kinswoman, a good, kind, true relation. And I tell you for the tenth time that if the letter to the Emperor and the will in Pierre’s favor are among the count’s papers, then, my dear girl, you and your sisters are not heiresses! If you don’t believe me, then believe an expert. I have just been talking to Dmítri Onúfrich” (the family solicitor) “and he says the same.”
At this a sudden change evidently took place in the princess’ ideas; her thin lips grew white, though her eyes did not change, and her voice when she began to speak passed through such transitions as she herself evidently did not expect.
“That would be a fine thing!” said she. “I never wanted anything and I don’t now.”
She pushed the little dog off her lap and smoothed her dress.
“And this is gratitude—this is recognition for those who have sacrificed everything for his sake!” she cried. “It’s splendid! Fine! I don’t want anything, Prince.”
“Yes, but you are not the only one. There are your sisters…” replied Prince Vasíli.
But the princess did not listen to him.
“Yes, I knew it long ago but had forgotten. I knew that I could expect nothing but meanness, deceit, envy, intrigue, and ingratitude—the blackest ingratitude—in this house…”
“Do you or do you not know where that will is?” insisted Prince Vasíli, his cheeks twitching more than ever.
“Yes, I was a fool! I still believed in people, loved them, and sacrificed myself. But only the base, the vile succeed! I know who has been intriguing!”
The princess wished to rise, but the prince held her by the hand. She had the air of one who has suddenly lost faith in the whole human race. She gave her companion an angry glance.
“There is still time, my dear. You must remember, Catiche, that it was all done casually in a moment of anger, of illness, and was afterwards forgotten. Our duty, my dear, is to rectify his mistake, to ease his last moments by not letting him commit this injustice, and not to let him die feeling that he is rendering unhappy those who…”
“Who sacrificed everything for him,” chimed in the princess, who would again have risen had not the prince still held her fast, “though he never could appreciate it. No, ,” she added with a sigh, “I shall always remember that in this world one must expect no reward, that in this world there is neither honor nor justice. In this world one has to be cunning and cruel.”
“Now come, come! Be reasonable. I know your excellent heart.”
“No, I have a wicked heart.”
“I know your heart,” repeated the prince. “I value your friendship and wish you to have as good an opinion of me. Don’t upset yourself, and let us talk sensibly while there is still time, be it a day or be it but an hour…. Tell me all you know about the will, and above all where it is. You must know. We will take it at once and show it to the count. He has, no doubt, forgotten it and will wish to destroy it. You understand that my sole desire is conscientiously to carry out his wishes; that is my only reason for being here. I came simply to help him and you.”
“Now I see it all! I know who has been intriguing—I know!” cried the princess.
“That’s not the point, my dear.”
“It’s that protégé of yours, that sweet Princess Drubetskáya, that Anna Mikháylovna whom I would not take for a housemaid… the infamous, vile woman!”
“Do not let us lose any time…”
“Ah, don’t talk to me! Last winter she wheedled herself in here and told the count such vile, disgraceful things about us, especially about Sophie—I can’t repeat them—that it made the count quite ill and he would not see us for a whole fortnight. I know it was then he wrote this vile, infamous paper, but I thought the thing was invalid.”
“We’ve got to it at last—why did you not tell me about it sooner?”
“It’s in the inlaid portfolio that he keeps under his pillow,” said the princess, ignoring his question. “Now I know! Yes; if I have a sin, a great sin, it is hatred of that vile woman!” almost shrieked the princess, now quite changed. “And what does she come worming herself in here for? But I will give her a piece of my mind. The time will come!”

  CHAPTER XXII
  While these conversations were going on in the reception room and the
  princess&rsquo; room, a carriage containing Pierre (who had been sent for) and
  Anna Mikháylovna (who found it necessary to accompany him) was driving
  into the court of Count Bezúkhov&rsquo;s house. As the wheels rolled softly over
  the straw beneath the windows, Anna Mikháylovna, having turned with words
  of comfort to her companion, realized that he was asleep in his corner and
  woke him up. Rousing himself, Pierre followed Anna Mikháylovna out of the
  carriage, and only then began to think of the interview with his dying
  father which awaited him. He noticed that they had not come to the front
  entrance but to the back door. While he was getting down from the carriage
  steps two men, who looked like tradespeople, ran hurriedly from the
  entrance and hid in the shadow of the wall. Pausing for a moment, Pierre
  noticed several other men of the same kind hiding in the shadow of the
  house on both sides. But neither Anna Mikháylovna nor the footman nor the
  coachman, who could not help seeing these people, took any notice of them.
  &ldquo;It seems to be all right,&rdquo; Pierre concluded, and followed Anna
  Mikháylovna. She hurriedly ascended the narrow dimly lit stone staircase,
  calling to Pierre, who was lagging behind, to follow. Though he did not
  see why it was necessary for him to go to the count at all, still less why
  he had to go by the back stairs, yet judging by Anna Mikháylovna&rsquo;s air of
  assurance and haste, Pierre concluded that it was all absolutely
  necessary. Halfway up the stairs they were almost knocked over by some men
  who, carrying pails, came running downstairs, their boots clattering.
  These men pressed close to the wall to let Pierre and Anna Mikháylovna
  pass and did not evince the least surprise at seeing them there.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is this the way to the princesses&rsquo; apartments?&rdquo; asked Anna Mikháylovna of
  one of them.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied a footman in a bold loud voice, as if anything were now
  permissible; &ldquo;the door to the left, ma&rsquo;am.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Perhaps the count did not ask for me,&rdquo; said Pierre when he reached the
  landing. &ldquo;I&rsquo;d better go to my own room.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Anna Mikháylovna paused and waited for him to come up.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, my friend!&rdquo; she said, touching his arm as she had done her son&rsquo;s when
  speaking to him that afternoon, &ldquo;believe me I suffer no less than you do,
  but be a man!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But really, hadn&rsquo;t I better go away?&rdquo; he asked, looking kindly at her
  over his spectacles.
<br />
  &ldquo;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.&rdquo; She sighed. &ldquo;I
  have loved you like a son from the first. Trust yourself to me, Pierre. I
  shall not forget your interests.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre did not understand a word, but the conviction that all this had to
  be grew stronger, and he meekly followed Anna Mikháylovna who was already
  opening a door.
<br />
  This door led into a back anteroom. An old man, a servant of the
  princesses, sat in a corner knitting a stocking. Pierre had never been in
  this part of the house and did not even know of the existence of these
  rooms. Anna Mikháylovna, addressing a maid who was hurrying past with a
  decanter on a tray as &ldquo;my dear&rdquo; and &ldquo;my sweet,&rdquo; asked about the princess&rsquo;
  health and then led Pierre along a stone passage. The first door on the
  left led into the princesses&rsquo; apartments. The maid with the decanter in
  her haste had not closed the door (everything in the house was done in
  haste at that time), and Pierre and Anna Mikháylovna in passing
  instinctively glanced into the room, where Prince Vasíli and the eldest
  princess were sitting close together talking. Seeing them pass, Prince
  Vasíli drew back with obvious impatience, while the princess jumped up and
  with a gesture of desperation slammed the door with all her might.
<br />
  This action was so unlike her usual composure and the fear depicted on
  Prince Vasíli&rsquo;s face so out of keeping with his dignity that Pierre
  stopped and glanced inquiringly over his spectacles at his guide. Anna
  Mikháylovna evinced no surprise, she only smiled faintly and sighed, as if
  to say that this was no more than she had expected.
<br />
  &ldquo;Be a man, my friend. I will look after your interests,&rdquo; said she in reply
  to his look, and went still faster along the passage.
<br />
  Pierre could not make out what it was all about, and still less what
  &ldquo;watching over his interests&rdquo; 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&rsquo;s reception room. It was one of those sumptuous but
  cold apartments known to Pierre only from the front approach, but even in
  this room there now stood an empty bath, and water had been spilled on the
  carpet. They were met by a deacon with a censer and by a servant who
  passed out on tiptoe without heeding them. They went into the reception
  room familiar to Pierre, with two Italian windows opening into the
  conservatory, with its large bust and full length portrait of Catherine
  the Great. The same people were still sitting here in almost the same
  positions as before, whispering to one another. All became silent and
  turned to look at the pale tear-worn Anna Mikháylovna as she entered, and
  at the big stout figure of Pierre who, hanging his head, meekly followed
  her.
<br />
  Anna Mikháylovna&rsquo;s face expressed a consciousness that the decisive moment
  had arrived. With the air of a practical Petersburg lady she now, keeping
  Pierre close beside her, entered the room even more boldly than that
  afternoon. She felt that as she brought with her the person the dying man
  wished to see, her own admission was assured. Casting a rapid glance at
  all those in the room and noticing the count&rsquo;s confessor there, she glided
  up to him with a sort of amble, not exactly bowing yet seeming to grow
  suddenly smaller, and respectfully received the blessing first of one and
  then of another priest.
<br />
  &ldquo;God be thanked that you are in time,&rdquo; said she to one of the priests;
  &ldquo;all we relatives have been in such anxiety. This young man is the count&rsquo;s
  son,&rdquo; she added more softly. &ldquo;What a terrible moment!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Having said this she went up to the doctor.
<br />
  &ldquo;Dear doctor,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;this young man is the count&rsquo;s son. Is there any
  hope?&rdquo;
 <br />
  The doctor cast a rapid glance upwards and silently shrugged his
  shoulders. Anna Mikháylovna with just the same movement raised her
  shoulders and eyes, almost closing the latter, sighed, and moved away from
  the doctor to Pierre. To him, in a particularly respectful and tenderly
  sad voice, she said:
<br />
  &ldquo;Trust in His mercy!&rdquo; and pointing out a small sofa for him to sit and
  wait for her, she went silently toward the door that everyone was watching
  and it creaked very slightly as she disappeared behind it.
<br />
  Pierre, having made up his mind to obey his monitress implicitly, moved
  toward the sofa she had indicated. As soon as Anna Mikháylovna had
  disappeared he noticed that the eyes of all in the room turned to him with
  something more than curiosity and sympathy. He noticed that they whispered
  to one another, casting significant looks at him with a kind of awe and
  even servility. A deference such as he had never before received was shown
  him. A strange lady, the one who had been talking to the priests, rose and
  offered him her seat; an aide-de-camp picked up and returned a glove
  Pierre had dropped; the doctors became respectfully silent as he passed
  by, and moved to make way for him. At first Pierre wished to take another
  seat so as not to trouble the lady, and also to pick up the glove himself
  and to pass round the doctors who were not even in his way; but all at
  once he felt that this would not do, and that tonight he was a person
  obliged to perform some sort of awful rite which everyone expected of him,
  and that he was therefore bound to accept their services. He took the
  glove in silence from the aide-de-camp, and sat down in the lady&rsquo;s chair,
  placing his huge hands symmetrically on his knees in the naïve attitude of
  an Egyptian statue, and decided in his own mind that all was as it should
  be, and that in order not to lose his head and do foolish things he must
  not act on his own ideas tonight, but must yield himself up entirely to
  the will of those who were guiding him.
<br />
  Not two minutes had passed before Prince Vasíli with head erect
  majestically entered the room. He was wearing his long coat with three
  stars on his breast. He seemed to have grown thinner since the morning;
  his eyes seemed larger than usual when he glanced round and noticed
  Pierre. He went up to him, took his hand (a thing he never used to do),
  and drew it downwards as if wishing to ascertain whether it was firmly
  fixed on.
<br />
  &ldquo;Courage, courage, my friend! He has asked to see you. That is well!&rdquo; and
  he turned to go.
<br />
  But Pierre thought it necessary to ask: &ldquo;How is...&rdquo; and hesitated, not
  knowing whether it would be proper to call the dying man &ldquo;the count,&rdquo; yet
  ashamed to call him &ldquo;father.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He had another stroke about half an hour ago. Courage, my friend...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre&rsquo;s mind was in such a confused state that the word &ldquo;stroke&rdquo;
   suggested to him a blow from something. He looked at Prince Vasíli in
  perplexity, and only later grasped that a stroke was an attack of illness.
  Prince Vasíli said something to Lorrain in passing and went through the
  door on tiptoe. He could not walk well on tiptoe and his whole body jerked
  at each step. The eldest princess followed him, and the priests and
  deacons and some servants also went in at the door. Through that door was
  heard a noise of things being moved about, and at last Anna Mikháylovna,
  still with the same expression, pale but resolute in the discharge of
  duty, ran out and touching Pierre lightly on the arm said:
<br />
  &ldquo;The divine mercy is inexhaustible! Unction is about to be administered.
  Come.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre went in at the door, stepping on the soft carpet, and noticed that
  the strange lady, the aide-de-camp, and some of the servants, all followed
  him in, as if there were now no further need for permission to enter that
  room.

  CHAPTER XXIII
  Pierre well knew this large room divided by columns and an arch, its walls
  hung round with Persian carpets. The part of the room behind the columns,
  with a high silk-curtained mahogany bedstead on one side and on the other
  an immense case containing icons, was brightly illuminated with red light
  like a Russian church during evening service. Under the gleaming icons
  stood a long invalid chair, and in that chair on snowy-white smooth
  pillows, evidently freshly changed, Pierre saw&mdash;covered to the waist
  by a bright green quilt&mdash;the familiar, majestic figure of his father,
  Count Bezúkhov, with that gray mane of hair above his broad forehead which
  reminded one of a lion, and the deep characteristically noble wrinkles of
  his handsome, ruddy face. He lay just under the icons; his large thick
  hands outside the quilt. Into the right hand, which was lying palm
  downwards, a wax taper had been thrust between forefinger and thumb, and
  an old servant, bending over from behind the chair, held it in position.
  By the chair stood the priests, their long hair falling over their
  magnificent glittering vestments, with lighted tapers in their hands,
  slowly and solemnly conducting the service. A little behind them stood the
  two younger princesses holding handkerchiefs to their eyes, and just in
  front of them their eldest sister, Catiche, with a vicious and determined
  look steadily fixed on the icons, as though declaring to all that she
  could not answer for herself should she glance round. Anna Mikháylovna,
  with a meek, sorrowful, and all-forgiving expression on her face, stood by
  the door near the strange lady. Prince Vasíli in front of the door, near
  the invalid chair, a wax taper in his left hand, was leaning his left arm
  on the carved back of a velvet chair he had turned round for the purpose,
  and was crossing himself with his right hand, turning his eyes upward each
  time he touched his forehead. His face wore a calm look of piety and
  resignation to the will of God. &ldquo;If you do not understand these
  sentiments,&rdquo; he seemed to be saying, &ldquo;so much the worse for you!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Behind him stood the aide-de-camp, the doctors, and the menservants; the
  men and women had separated as in church. All were silently crossing
  themselves, and the reading of the church service, the subdued chanting of
  deep bass voices, and in the intervals sighs and the shuffling of feet
  were the only sounds that could be heard. Anna Mikháylovna, with an air of
  importance that showed that she felt she quite knew what she was about,
  went across the room to where Pierre was standing and gave him a taper. He
  lit it and, distracted by observing those around him, began crossing
  himself with the hand that held the taper.
<br />
  Sophie, the rosy, laughter-loving, youngest princess with the mole,
  watched him. She smiled, hid her face in her handkerchief, and remained
  with it hidden for awhile; then looking up and seeing Pierre she again
  began to laugh. She evidently felt unable to look at him without laughing,
  but could not resist looking at him: so to be out of temptation she
  slipped quietly behind one of the columns. In the midst of the service the
  voices of the priests suddenly ceased, they whispered to one another, and
  the old servant who was holding the count&rsquo;s hand got up and said something
  to the ladies. Anna Mikháylovna stepped forward and, stooping over the
  dying man, beckoned to Lorrain from behind her back. The French doctor
  held no taper; he was leaning against one of the columns in a respectful
  attitude implying that he, a foreigner, in spite of all differences of
  faith, understood the full importance of the rite now being performed and
  even approved of it. He now approached the sick man with the noiseless
  step of one in full vigor of life, with his delicate white fingers raised
  from the green quilt the hand that was free, and turning sideways felt the
  pulse and reflected a moment. The sick man was given something to drink,
  there was a stir around him, then the people resumed their places and the
  service continued. During this interval Pierre noticed that Prince Vasíli
  left the chair on which he had been leaning, and&mdash;with an air which
  intimated that he knew what he was about and if others did not understand
  him it was so much the worse for them&mdash;did not go up to the dying
  man, but passed by him, joined the eldest princess, and moved with her to
  the side of the room where stood the high bedstead with its silken
  hangings. On leaving the bed both Prince Vasíli and the princess passed
  out by a back door, but returned to their places one after the other
  before the service was concluded. Pierre paid no more attention to this
  occurrence than to the rest of what went on, having made up his mind once
  for all that what he saw happening around him that evening was in some way
  essential.
<br />
  The chanting of the service ceased, and the voice of the priest was heard
  respectfully congratulating the dying man on having received the
  sacrament. The dying man lay as lifeless and immovable as before. Around
  him everyone began to stir: steps were audible and whispers, among which
  Anna Mikháylovna&rsquo;s was the most distinct.
<br />
  Pierre heard her say:
<br />
  &ldquo;Certainly he must be moved onto the bed; here it will be impossible...&rdquo;
 <br />
  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&mdash;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.
<br />
  &ldquo;Catch hold of my arm or you&rsquo;ll drop him!&rdquo; he heard one of the servants
  say in a frightened whisper. &ldquo;Catch hold from underneath. Here!&rdquo; 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.
<br />
  As the bearers, among whom was Anna Mikháylovna, passed the young man he
  caught a momentary glimpse between their heads and backs of the dying
  man&rsquo;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.
<br />
  After a few minutes&rsquo; bustle beside the high bedstead, those who had
  carried the sick man dispersed. Anna Mikháylovna touched Pierre&rsquo;s hand and
  said, &ldquo;Come.&rdquo; Pierre went with her to the bed on which the sick man had
  been laid in a stately pose in keeping with the ceremony just completed.
  He lay with his head propped high on the pillows. His hands were
  symmetrically placed on the green silk quilt, the palms downward. When
  Pierre came up the count was gazing straight at him, but with a look the
  significance of which could not be understood by mortal man. Either this
  look meant nothing but that as long as one has eyes they must look
  somewhere, or it meant too much. Pierre hesitated, not knowing what to do,
  and glanced inquiringly at his guide. Anna Mikháylovna made a hurried sign
  with her eyes, glancing at the sick man&rsquo;s hand and moving her lips as if
  to send it a kiss. Pierre, carefully stretching his neck so as not to
  touch the quilt, followed her suggestion and pressed his lips to the large
  boned, fleshy hand. Neither the hand nor a single muscle of the count&rsquo;s
  face stirred. Once more Pierre looked questioningly at Anna Mikháylovna to
  see what he was to do next. Anna Mikháylovna with her eyes indicated a
  chair that stood beside the bed. Pierre obediently sat down, his eyes
  asking if he were doing right. Anna Mikháylovna nodded approvingly. Again
  Pierre fell into the naïvely symmetrical pose of an Egyptian statue,
  evidently distressed that his stout and clumsy body took up so much room
  and doing his utmost to look as small as possible. He looked at the count,
  who still gazed at the spot where Pierre&rsquo;s face had been before he sat
  down. Anna Mikháylovna indicated by her attitude her consciousness of the
  pathetic importance of these last moments of meeting between the father
  and son. This lasted about two minutes, which to Pierre seemed an hour.
  Suddenly the broad muscles and lines of the count&rsquo;s face began to twitch.
  The twitching increased, the handsome mouth was drawn to one side (only
  now did Pierre realize how near death his father was), and from that
  distorted mouth issued an indistinct, hoarse sound. Anna Mikháylovna
  looked attentively at the sick man&rsquo;s eyes, trying to guess what he wanted;
  she pointed first to Pierre, then to some drink, then named Prince Vasíli
  in an inquiring whisper, then pointed to the quilt. The eyes and face of
  the sick man showed impatience. He made an effort to look at the servant
  who stood constantly at the head of the bed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Wants to turn on the other side,&rdquo; whispered the servant, and got up to
  turn the count&rsquo;s heavy body toward the wall.
<br />
  Pierre rose to help him.
<br />
  While the count was being turned over, one of his arms fell back
  helplessly and he made a fruitless effort to pull it forward. Whether he
  noticed the look of terror with which Pierre regarded that lifeless arm,
  or whether some other thought flitted across his dying brain, at any rate
  he glanced at the refractory arm, at Pierre&rsquo;s terror-stricken face, and
  again at the arm, and on his face a feeble, piteous smile appeared, quite
  out of keeping with his features, that seemed to deride his own
  helplessness. At sight of this smile Pierre felt an unexpected quivering
  in his breast and a tickling in his nose, and tears dimmed his eyes. The
  sick man was turned on to his side with his face to the wall. He sighed.
<br />
  &ldquo;He is dozing,&rdquo; said Anna Mikháylovna, observing that one of the
  princesses was coming to take her turn at watching. &ldquo;Let us go.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre went out.

  CHAPTER XXIV


  There was now no one in the reception room except Prince Vasíli and the
  eldest princess, who were sitting under the portrait of Catherine the
  Great and talking eagerly. As soon as they saw Pierre and his companion
  they became silent, and Pierre thought he saw the princess hide something
  as she whispered:
<br />
  &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t bear the sight of that woman.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Catiche has had tea served in the small drawing room,&rdquo; said Prince Vasíli
  to Anna Mikháylovna. &ldquo;Go and take something, my poor Anna Mikháylovna, or
  you will not hold out.&rdquo;
 <br />
  To Pierre he said nothing, merely giving his arm a sympathetic squeeze
  below the shoulder. Pierre went with Anna Mikháylovna into the small
  drawing room.
<br />
  &ldquo;There is nothing so refreshing after a sleepless night as a cup of this
  delicious Russian tea,&rdquo; Lorrain was saying with an air of restrained
  animation as he stood sipping tea from a delicate Chinese handleless cup
  before a table on which tea and a cold supper were laid in the small
  circular room. Around the table all who were at Count Bezúkhov&rsquo;s house
  that night had gathered to fortify themselves. Pierre well remembered this
  small circular drawing room with its mirrors and little tables. During
  balls given at the house Pierre, who did not know how to dance, had liked
  sitting in this room to watch the ladies who, as they passed through in
  their ball dresses with diamonds and pearls on their bare shoulders,
  looked at themselves in the brilliantly lighted mirrors which repeated
  their reflections several times. Now this same room was dimly lighted by
  two candles. On one small table tea things and supper dishes stood in
  disorder, and in the middle of the night a motley throng of people sat
  there, not merrymaking, but somberly whispering, and betraying by every
  word and movement that they none of them forgot what was happening and
  what was about to happen in the bedroom. Pierre did not eat anything
  though he would very much have liked to. He looked inquiringly at his
  monitress and saw that she was again going on tiptoe to the reception room
  where they had left Prince Vasíli and the eldest princess. Pierre
  concluded that this also was essential, and after a short interval
  followed her. Anna Mikháylovna was standing beside the princess, and they
  were both speaking in excited whispers.
<br />
  &ldquo;Permit me, Princess, to know what is necessary and what is not
  necessary,&rdquo; said the younger of the two speakers, evidently in the same
  state of excitement as when she had slammed the door of her room.
<br />
  &ldquo;But, my dear princess,&rdquo; answered Anna Mikháylovna blandly but
  impressively, blocking the way to the bedroom and preventing the other
  from passing, &ldquo;won&rsquo;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...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Vasíli was seated in an easy chair in his familiar attitude, with
  one leg crossed high above the other. His cheeks, which were so flabby
  that they looked heavier below, were twitching violently; but he wore the
  air of a man little concerned in what the two ladies were saying.
<br />
  &ldquo;Come, my dear Anna Mikháylovna, let Catiche do as she pleases. You know
  how fond the count is of her.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t even know what is in this paper,&rdquo; said the younger of the two
  ladies, addressing Prince Vasíli and pointing to an inlaid portfolio she
  held in her hand. &ldquo;All I know is that his real will is in his writing
  table, and this is a paper he has forgotten....&rdquo;
 <br />
  She tried to pass Anna Mikháylovna, but the latter sprang so as to bar her
  path.
<br />
  &ldquo;I know, my dear, kind princess,&rdquo; said Anna Mikháylovna, seizing the
  portfolio so firmly that it was plain she would not let go easily. &ldquo;Dear
  princess, I beg and implore you, have some pity on him! ...&rdquo;
 <br />
  The princess did not reply. Their efforts in the struggle for the
  portfolio were the only sounds audible, but it was evident that if the
  princess did speak, her words would not be flattering to Anna Mikháylovna.
  Though the latter held on tenaciously, her voice lost none of its honeyed
  firmness and softness.
<br />
  &ldquo;Pierre, my dear, come here. I think he will not be out of place in a
  family consultation; is it not so, Prince?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you speak, cousin?&rdquo; suddenly shrieked the princess so loud that
  those in the drawing room heard her and were startled. &ldquo;Why do you remain
  silent when heaven knows who permits herself to interfere, making a scene
  on the very threshold of a dying man&rsquo;s room? Intriguer!&rdquo; she hissed
  viciously, and tugged with all her might at the portfolio.
<br />
  But Anna Mikháylovna went forward a step or two to keep her hold on the
  portfolio, and changed her grip.
<br />
  Prince Vasíli rose. &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; said he with reproach and surprise, &ldquo;this is
  absurd! Come, let go I tell you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The princess let go.
<br />
  &ldquo;And you too!&rdquo;
 <br />
  But Anna Mikháylovna did not obey him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Let go, I tell you! I will take the responsibility. I myself will go and
  ask him, I!... does that satisfy you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But, Prince,&rdquo; said Anna Mikháylovna, &ldquo;after such a solemn sacrament,
  allow him a moment&rsquo;s peace! Here, Pierre, tell them your opinion,&rdquo; said
  she, turning to the young man who, having come quite close, was gazing
  with astonishment at the angry face of the princess which had lost all
  dignity, and at the twitching cheeks of Prince Vasíli.
<br />
  &ldquo;Remember that you will answer for the consequences,&rdquo; said Prince Vasíli
  severely. &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t know what you are doing.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Vile woman!&rdquo; shouted the princess, darting unexpectedly at Anna
  Mikháylovna and snatching the portfolio from her.
<br />
  Prince Vasíli bent his head and spread out his hands.
<br />
  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.
<br />
  &ldquo;What are you doing!&rdquo; she cried vehemently. &ldquo;He is dying and you leave me
  alone with him!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Her sister dropped the portfolio. Anna Mikháylovna, stooping, quickly
  caught up the object of contention and ran into the bedroom. The eldest
  princess and Prince Vasíli, recovering themselves, followed her. A few
  minutes later the eldest sister came out with a pale hard face, again
  biting her underlip. At sight of Pierre her expression showed an
  irrepressible hatred.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, now you may be glad!&rdquo; said she; &ldquo;this is what you have been waiting
  for.&rdquo; And bursting into tears she hid her face in her handkerchief and
  rushed from the room.
<br />
  Prince Vasíli came next. He staggered to the sofa on which Pierre was
  sitting and dropped onto it, covering his face with his hand. Pierre
  noticed that he was pale and that his jaw quivered and shook as if in an
  ague.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, my friend!&rdquo; said he, taking Pierre by the elbow; and there was in his
  voice a sincerity and weakness Pierre had never observed in it before.
  &ldquo;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...&rdquo; and
  he burst into tears.
<br />
  Anna Mikháylovna came out last. She approached Pierre with slow, quiet
  steps.
<br />
  &ldquo;Pierre!&rdquo; she said.
<br />
  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:
<br />
  &ldquo;He is no more....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre looked at her over his spectacles.
<br />
  &ldquo;Come, I will go with you. Try to weep, nothing gives such relief as
  tears.&rdquo;
 <br />
  She led him into the dark drawing room and Pierre was glad no one could
  see his face. Anna Mikháylovna left him, and when she returned he was fast
  asleep with his head on his arm.
<br />
  In the morning Anna Mikháylovna said to Pierre:
<br />
  &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre was silent.
<br />
  &ldquo;Perhaps later on I may tell you, my dear boy, that if I had not been
  there, God only knows what would have happened! You know, Uncle promised
  me only the day before yesterday not to forget Borís. But he had no time.
  I hope, my dear friend, you will carry out your father&rsquo;s wish?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre understood nothing of all this and coloring shyly looked in silence
  at Princess Anna Mikháylovna. After her talk with Pierre, Anna Mikháylovna
  returned to the Rostóvs&rsquo; and went to bed. On waking in the morning she
  told the Rostóvs and all her acquaintances the details of Count Bezúkhov&rsquo;s
  death. She said the count had died as she would herself wish to die, that
  his end was not only touching but edifying. As to the last meeting between
  father and son, it was so touching that she could not think of it without
  tears, and did not know which had behaved better during those awful
  moments&mdash;the father who so remembered everything and everybody at
  last and had spoken such pathetic words to the son, or Pierre, whom it had
  been pitiful to see, so stricken was he with grief, though he tried hard
  to hide it in order not to sadden his dying father. &ldquo;It is painful, but it
  does one good. It uplifts the soul to see such men as the old count and
  his worthy son,&rdquo; said she. Of the behavior of the eldest princess and
  Prince Vasíli she spoke disapprovingly, but in whispers and as a great
  secret.

  CHAPTER XXV


  At Bald Hills, Prince Nicholas Andréevich Bolkónski&rsquo;s estate, the arrival
  of young Prince Andrew and his wife was daily expected, but this
  expectation did not upset the regular routine of life in the old prince&rsquo;s
  household. General in Chief Prince Nicholas Andréevich (nicknamed in
  society, &ldquo;the King of Prussia&rdquo;) ever since the Emperor Paul had exiled him
  to his country estate had lived there continuously with his daughter,
  Princess Mary, and her companion, Mademoiselle Bourienne. Though in the
  new reign he was free to return to the capitals, he still continued to
  live in the country, remarking that anyone who wanted to see him could
  come the hundred miles from Moscow to Bald Hills, while he himself needed
  no one and nothing. He used to say that there are only two sources of
  human vice&mdash;idleness and superstition, and only two virtues&mdash;activity
  and intelligence. He himself undertook his daughter&rsquo;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&rsquo;s estate lay
  considered it his duty to visit him and waited in the lofty antechamber
  just as the architect, gardener, or Princess Mary did, till the prince
  appeared punctually to the appointed hour. Everyone sitting in this
  antechamber experienced the same feeling of respect and even fear when the
  enormously high study door opened and showed the figure of a rather small
  old man, with powdered wig, small withered hands, and bushy gray eyebrows
  which, when he frowned, sometimes hid the gleam of his shrewd, youthfully
  glittering eyes.
<br />
  On the morning of the day that the young couple were to arrive, Princess
  Mary entered the antechamber as usual at the time appointed for the
  morning greeting, crossing herself with trepidation and repeating a silent
  prayer. Every morning she came in like that, and every morning prayed that
  the daily interview might pass off well.
<br />
  An old powdered manservant who was sitting in the antechamber rose quietly
  and said in a whisper: &ldquo;Please walk in.&rdquo;
 <br />
  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.
<br />
  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&mdash;all indicated continuous, varied, and
  orderly activity. The motion of the small foot shod in a Tartar boot
  embroidered with silver, and the firm pressure of the lean sinewy hand,
  showed that the prince still possessed the tenacious endurance and vigor
  of hardy old age. After a few more turns of the lathe he removed his foot
  from the pedal, wiped his chisel, dropped it into a leather pouch attached
  to the lathe, and, approaching the table, summoned his daughter. He never
  gave his children a blessing, so he simply held out his bristly cheek (as
  yet unshaven) and, regarding her tenderly and attentively, said severely:
<br />
  &ldquo;Quite well? All right then, sit down.&rdquo; He took the exercise book
  containing lessons in geometry written by himself and drew up a chair with
  his foot.
<br />
  &ldquo;For tomorrow!&rdquo; said he, quickly finding the page and making a scratch
  from one paragraph to another with his hard nail.
<br />
  The princess bent over the exercise book on the table.
<br />
  &ldquo;Wait a bit, here&rsquo;s a letter for you,&rdquo; said the old man suddenly, taking a
  letter addressed in a woman&rsquo;s hand from a bag hanging above the table,
  onto which he threw it.
<br />
  At the sight of the letter red patches showed themselves on the princess&rsquo;
  face. She took it quickly and bent her head over it.
<br />
  &ldquo;From Héloïse?&rdquo; asked the prince with a cold smile that showed his still
  sound, yellowish teeth.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, it&rsquo;s from Julie,&rdquo; replied the princess with a timid glance and a
  timid smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll let two more letters pass, but the third I&rsquo;ll read,&rdquo; said the prince
  sternly; &ldquo;I&rsquo;m afraid you write much nonsense. I&rsquo;ll read the third!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Read this if you like, Father,&rdquo; said the princess, blushing still more
  and holding out the letter.
<br />
  &ldquo;The third, I said the third!&rdquo; 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.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, madam,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Now, madam, these triangles are equal;
  please note that the angle ...&rdquo;
 <br />
  The princess looked in a scared way at her father&rsquo;s eyes glittering close
  to her; the red patches on her face came and went, and it was plain that
  she understood nothing and was so frightened that her fear would prevent
  her understanding any of her father&rsquo;s further explanations, however clear
  they might be. Whether it was the teacher&rsquo;s fault or the pupil&rsquo;s, this
  same thing happened every day: the princess&rsquo; eyes grew dim, she could not
  see and could not hear anything, but was only conscious of her stern
  father&rsquo;s withered face close to her, of his breath and the smell of him,
  and could think only of how to get away quickly to her own room to make
  out the problem in peace. The old man was beside himself: moved the chair
  on which he was sitting noisily backward and forward, made efforts to
  control himself and not become vehement, but almost always did become
  vehement, scolded, and sometimes flung the exercise book away.
<br />
  The princess gave a wrong answer.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well now, isn&rsquo;t she a fool!&rdquo; shouted the prince, pushing the book aside
  and turning sharply away; but rising immediately, he paced up and down,
  lightly touched his daughter&rsquo;s hair and sat down again.
<br />
  He drew up his chair, and continued to explain.
<br />
  &ldquo;This won&rsquo;t do, Princess; it won&rsquo;t do,&rdquo; said he, when Princess Mary,
  having taken and closed the exercise book with the next day&rsquo;s lesson, was
  about to leave: &ldquo;Mathematics are most important, madam! I don&rsquo;t want to
  have you like our silly ladies. Get used to it and you&rsquo;ll like it,&rdquo; and he
  patted her cheek. &ldquo;It will drive all the nonsense out of your head.&rdquo;
 <br />
  She turned to go, but he stopped her with a gesture and took an uncut book
  from the high desk.
<br />
  &ldquo;Here is some sort of  that your Héloïse has
  sent you. Religious! I don&rsquo;t interfere with anyone&rsquo;s belief... I have
  looked at it. Take it. Well, now go. Go.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He patted her on the shoulder and himself closed the door after her.
<br />
  Princess Mary went back to her room with the sad, scared expression that
  rarely left her and which made her plain, sickly face yet plainer. She sat
  down at her writing table, on which stood miniature portraits and which
  was littered with books and papers. The princess was as untidy as her
  father was tidy. She put down the geometry book and eagerly broke the seal
  of her letter. It was from her most intimate friend from childhood; that
  same Julie Karágina who had been at the Rostóvs&rsquo; name-day party.
<br />
  Julie wrote in French:
<br />
  Dear and precious Friend, How terrible and frightful a thing is
  separation! Though I tell myself that half my life and half my happiness
  are wrapped up in you, and that in spite of the distance separating us our
  hearts are united by indissoluble bonds, my heart rebels against fate and
  in spite of the pleasures and distractions around me I cannot overcome a
  certain secret sorrow that has been in my heart ever since we parted. Why
  are we not together as we were last summer, in your big study, on the blue
  sofa, the confidential sofa? Why cannot I now, as three months ago, draw
  fresh moral strength from your look, so gentle, calm, and penetrating, a
  look I loved so well and seem to see before me as I write?
<br />
  Having read thus far, Princess Mary sighed and glanced into the mirror
  which stood on her right. It reflected a weak, ungraceful figure and thin
  face. Her eyes, always sad, now looked with particular hopelessness at her
  reflection in the glass. &ldquo;She flatters me,&rdquo; thought the princess, turning
  away and continuing to read. But Julie did not flatter her friend, the
  princess&rsquo; eyes&mdash;large, deep and luminous (it seemed as if at times
  there radiated from them shafts of warm light)&mdash;were so beautiful
  that very often in spite of the plainness of her face they gave her an
  attraction more powerful than that of beauty. But the princess never saw
  the beautiful expression of her own eyes&mdash;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:
<br />
  All Moscow talks of nothing but war. One of my two brothers is already
  abroad, the other is with the Guards, who are starting on their march to
  the frontier. Our dear Emperor has left Petersburg and it is thought
  intends to expose his precious person to the chances of war. God grant
  that the Corsican monster who is destroying the peace of Europe may be
  overthrown by the angel whom it has pleased the Almighty, in His goodness,
  to give us as sovereign! To say nothing of my brothers, this war has
  deprived me of one of the associations nearest my heart. I mean young
  Nicholas Rostóv, who with his enthusiasm could not bear to remain inactive
  and has left the university to join the army. I will confess to you, dear
  Mary, that in spite of his extreme youth his departure for the army was a
  great grief to me. This young man, of whom I spoke to you last summer, is
  so noble-minded and full of that real youthfulness which one seldom finds
  nowadays among our old men of twenty and, particularly, he is so frank and
  has so much heart. He is so pure and poetic that my relations with him,
  transient as they were, have been one of the sweetest comforts to my poor
  heart, which has already suffered so much. Someday I will tell you about
  our parting and all that was said then. That is still too fresh. Ah, dear
  friend, you are happy not to know these poignant joys and sorrows. You are
  fortunate, for the latter are generally the stronger! I know very well
  that Count Nicholas is too young ever to be more to me than a friend, but
  this sweet friendship, this poetic and pure intimacy, were what my heart
  needed. But enough of this! The chief news, about which all Moscow
  gossips, is the death of old Count Bezúkhov, and his inheritance. Fancy!
  The three princesses have received very little, Prince Vasíli nothing, and
  it is Monsieur Pierre who has inherited all the property and has besides
  been recognized as legitimate; so that he is now Count Bezúkhov and
  possessor of the finest fortune in Russia. It is rumored that Prince
  Vasíli played a very despicable part in this affair and that he returned
  to Petersburg quite crestfallen.
<br />
  I confess I understand very little about all these matters of wills and
  inheritance; but I do know that since this young man, whom we all used to
  know as plain Monsieur Pierre, has become Count Bezúkhov and the owner of
  one of the largest fortunes in Russia, I am much amused to watch the
  change in the tone and manners of the mammas burdened by marriageable
  daughters, and of the young ladies themselves, toward him, though, between
  you and me, he always seemed to me a poor sort of fellow. As for the past
  two years people have amused themselves by finding husbands for me (most
  of whom I don&rsquo;t even know), the matchmaking chronicles of Moscow now speak
  of me as the future Countess Bezúkhova. But you will understand that I
  have no desire for the post.  of marriages: do you know
  that a while ago that  Anna Mikháylovna told me,
  under the seal of strict secrecy, of a plan of marriage for you. It is
  neither more nor less than with Prince Vasíli&rsquo;s son Anatole, whom they
  wish to reform by marrying him to someone rich and , and
  it is on you that his relations&rsquo; choice has fallen. I don&rsquo;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.
<br />
  But enough of gossip. I am at the end of my second sheet of paper, and
  Mamma has sent for me to go and dine at the Apráksins&rsquo;. Read the mystical
  book I am sending you; it has an enormous success here. Though there are
  things in it difficult for the feeble human mind to grasp, it is an
  admirable book which calms and elevates the soul. Adieu! Give my respects
  to monsieur your father and my compliments to Mademoiselle Bourienne. I
  embrace you as I love you.
<br />
  JULIE
<br />
  P.S. Let me have news of your brother and his charming little wife.
<br />
  The princess pondered awhile with a thoughtful smile and her luminous eyes
  lit up so that her face was entirely transformed. Then she suddenly rose
  and with her heavy tread went up to the table. She took a sheet of paper
  and her hand moved rapidly over it. This is the reply she wrote, also in
  French:
<br />
  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 
  complain, I who am deprived of all who are dear to me? Ah, if we had not
  religion to console us life would be very sad. Why do you suppose that I
  should look severely on your affection for that young man? On such matters
  I am only severe with myself. I understand such feelings in others, and if
  never having felt them I cannot approve of them, neither do I condemn
  them. Only it seems to me that Christian love, love of one&rsquo;s neighbor,
  love of one&rsquo;s enemy, is worthier, sweeter, and better than the feelings
  which the beautiful eyes of a young man can inspire in a romantic and
  loving young girl like yourself.
<br />
  The news of Count Bezúkhov&rsquo;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!
<br />
  I cannot agree with you about Pierre, whom I knew as a child. He always
  seemed to me to have an excellent heart, and that is the quality I value
  most in people. As to his inheritance and the part played by Prince
  Vasíli, it is very sad for both. Ah, my dear friend, our divine Saviour&rsquo;s
  words, that it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle
  than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God, are terribly true. I pity
  Prince Vasíli but am still more sorry for Pierre. So young, and burdened
  with such riches&mdash;to what temptations he will be exposed! If I were
  asked what I desire most on earth, it would be to be poorer than the
  poorest beggar. A thousand thanks, dear friend, for the volume you have
  sent me and which has such success in Moscow. Yet since you tell me that
  among some good things it contains others which our weak human
  understanding cannot grasp, it seems to me rather useless to spend time in
  reading what is unintelligible and can therefore bear no fruit. I never
  could understand the fondness some people have for confusing their minds
  by dwelling on mystical books that merely awaken their doubts and excite
  their imagination, giving them a bent for exaggeration quite contrary to
  Christian simplicity. Let us rather read the Epistles and Gospels. Let us
  not seek to penetrate what mysteries they contain; for how can we,
  miserable sinners that we are, know the terrible and holy secrets of
  Providence while we remain in this flesh which forms an impenetrable veil
  between us and the Eternal? Let us rather confine ourselves to studying
  those sublime rules which our divine Saviour has left for our guidance
  here below. Let us try to conform to them and follow them, and let us be
  persuaded that the less we let our feeble human minds roam, the better we
  shall please God, who rejects all knowledge that does not come from Him;
  and the less we seek to fathom what He has been pleased to conceal from
  us, the sooner will He vouchsafe its revelation to us through His divine
  Spirit.
<br />
  My father has not spoken to me of a suitor, but has only told me that he
  has received a letter and is expecting a visit from Prince Vasíli. In
  regard to this project of marriage for me, I will tell you, dear sweet
  friend, that I look on marriage as a divine institution to which we must
  conform. However painful it may be to me, should the Almighty lay the
  duties of wife and mother upon me I shall try to perform them as
  faithfully as I can, without disquieting myself by examining my feelings
  toward him whom He may give me for husband.
<br />
  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&mdash;at the
  heart of affairs and of the world&mdash;is the talk all of war, even here
  amid fieldwork and the calm of nature&mdash;which townsfolk consider
  characteristic of the country&mdash;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&mdash;and that men attribute the greatest
  merit to skill in killing one another.
<br />
  Adieu, dear and kind friend; may our divine Saviour and His most Holy
  Mother keep you in their holy and all-powerful care!
<br />
  MARY
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, you are sending off a letter, Princess? I have already dispatched
  mine. I have written to my poor mother,&rdquo; said the smiling Mademoiselle
  Bourienne rapidly, in her pleasant mellow tones and with guttural &rsquo;s.
  She brought into Princess Mary&rsquo;s strenuous, mournful, and gloomy world a
  quite different atmosphere, careless, lighthearted, and self-satisfied.
<br />
  &ldquo;Princess, I must warn you,&rdquo; she added, lowering her voice and evidently
  listening to herself with pleasure, and speaking with exaggerated ,
  &ldquo;the prince has been scolding Michael Ivánovich. He is in a very bad
  humor, very morose. Be prepared.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah, dear friend,&rdquo; replied Princess Mary, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
 <br />
  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&rsquo;clock, as the day was
  mapped out, the prince rested and the princess played the clavichord.

  CHAPTER XXVI


  The gray-haired valet was sitting drowsily listening to the snoring of the
  prince, who was in his large study. From the far side of the house through
  the closed doors came the sound of difficult passages&mdash;twenty times
  repeated&mdash;of a sonata by Dussek.
<br />
  Just then a closed carriage and another with a hood drove up to the porch.
  Prince Andrew got out of the carriage, helped his little wife to alight,
  and let her pass into the house before him. Old Tíkhon, wearing a wig, put
  his head out of the door of the antechamber, reported in a whisper that
  the prince was sleeping, and hastily closed the door. Tíkhon knew that
  neither the son&rsquo;s arrival nor any other unusual event must be allowed to
  disturb the appointed order of the day. Prince Andrew apparently knew this
  as well as Tíkhon; he looked at his watch as if to ascertain whether his
  father&rsquo;s habits had changed since he was at home last, and, having assured
  himself that they had not, he turned to his wife.
<br />
  &ldquo;He will get up in twenty minutes. Let us go across to Mary&rsquo;s room,&rdquo; he
  said.
<br />
  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.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, this is a palace!&rdquo; she said to her husband, looking around with the
  expression with which people compliment their host at a ball. &ldquo;Let&rsquo;s come,
  quick, quick!&rdquo; And with a glance round, she smiled at Tíkhon, at her
  husband, and at the footman who accompanied them.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is that Mary practicing? Let&rsquo;s go quietly and take her by surprise.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Andrew followed her with a courteous but sad expression.
<br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve grown older, Tíkhon,&rdquo; he said in passing to the old man, who
  kissed his hand.
<br />
  Before they reached the room from which the sounds of the clavichord came,
  the pretty, fair-haired Frenchwoman, Mademoiselle Bourienne, rushed out
  apparently beside herself with delight.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah! what joy for the princess!&rdquo; exclaimed she: &ldquo;At last! I must let her
  know.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, no, please not... You are Mademoiselle Bourienne,&rdquo; said the little
  princess, kissing her. &ldquo;I know you already through my sister-in-law&rsquo;s
  friendship for you. She was not expecting us?&rdquo;
 <br />
  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.
<br />
  The little princess entered the room. The passage broke off in the middle,
  a cry was heard, then Princess Mary&rsquo;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&rsquo;s arms
  warmly pressing their lips to whatever place they happened to touch.
  Mademoiselle Bourienne stood near them pressing her hand to her heart,
  with a beatific smile and obviously equally ready to cry or to laugh.
  Prince Andrew shrugged his shoulders and frowned, as lovers of music do
  when they hear a false note. The two women let go of one another, and
  then, as if afraid of being too late, seized each other&rsquo;s hands, kissing
  them and pulling them away, and again began kissing each other on the
  face, and then to Prince Andrew&rsquo;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.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah! my dear!... Ah! Mary!...&rdquo; they suddenly exclaimed, and then laughed.
  &ldquo;I dreamed last night...&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;You were not expecting us?...&rdquo; &ldquo;Ah! Mary,
  you have got thinner?...&rdquo; &ldquo;And you have grown stouter!...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I knew the princess at once,&rdquo; put in Mademoiselle Bourienne.
<br />
  &ldquo;And I had no idea!...&rdquo; exclaimed Princess Mary. &ldquo;Ah, Andrew, I did not
  see you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Andrew and his sister, hand in hand, kissed one another, and he
  told her she was still the same crybaby as ever. Princess Mary had turned
  toward her brother, and through her tears the loving, warm, gentle look of
  her large luminous eyes, very beautiful at that moment, rested on Prince
  Andrew&rsquo;s face.
<br />
  The little princess talked incessantly, her short, downy upper lip
  continually and rapidly touching her rosy nether lip when necessary and
  drawing up again next moment when her face broke into a smile of
  glittering teeth and sparkling eyes. She told of an accident they had had
  on the Spásski Hill which might have been serious for her in her
  condition, and immediately after that informed them that she had left all
  her clothes in Petersburg and that heaven knew what she would have to
  dress in here; and that Andrew had quite changed, and that Kitty Odýntsova
  had married an old man, and that there was a suitor for Mary, a real one,
  but that they would talk of that later. Princess Mary was still looking
  silently at her brother and her beautiful eyes were full of love and
  sadness. It was plain that she was following a train of thought
  independent of her sister-in-law&rsquo;s words. In the midst of a description of
  the last Petersburg fete she addressed her brother:
<br />
  &ldquo;So you are really going to the war, Andrew?&rdquo; she said sighing.
<br />
  Lise sighed too.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, and even tomorrow,&rdquo; replied her brother.
<br />
  &ldquo;He is leaving me here, God knows why, when he might have had
  promotion...&rdquo;
 <br />
  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.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is it certain?&rdquo; she said.
<br />
  The face of the little princess changed. She sighed and said: &ldquo;Yes, quite
  certain. Ah! it is very dreadful...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Her lip descended. She brought her face close to her sister-in-law&rsquo;s and
  unexpectedly again began to cry.
<br />
  &ldquo;She needs rest,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew with a frown. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you, Lise? Take
  her to your room and I&rsquo;ll go to Father. How is he? Just the same?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, just the same. Though I don&rsquo;t know what your opinion will be,&rdquo;
   answered the princess joyfully.
<br />
  &ldquo;And are the hours the same? And the walks in the avenues? And the lathe?&rdquo;
   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.
<br />
  &ldquo;The hours are the same, and the lathe, and also the mathematics and my
  geometry lessons,&rdquo; said Princess Mary gleefully, as if her lessons in
  geometry were among the greatest delights of her life.
<br />
  When the twenty minutes had elapsed and the time had come for the old
  prince to get up, Tíkhon came to call the young prince to his father. The
  old man made a departure from his usual routine in honor of his son&rsquo;s
  arrival: he gave orders to admit him to his apartments while he dressed
  for dinner. The old prince always dressed in old-fashioned style, wearing
  an antique coat and powdered hair; and when Prince Andrew entered his
  father&rsquo;s dressing room (not with the contemptuous look and manner he wore
  in drawing rooms, but with the animated face with which he talked to
  Pierre), the old man was sitting on a large leather-covered chair, wrapped
  in a powdering mantle, entrusting his head to Tíkhon.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah! here&rsquo;s the warrior! Wants to vanquish Buonaparte?&rdquo; said the old man,
  shaking his powdered head as much as the tail, which Tíkhon was holding
  fast to plait, would allow.
<br />
  &ldquo;You at least must tackle him properly, or else if he goes on like this
  he&rsquo;ll soon have us, too, for his subjects! How are you?&rdquo; And he held out
  his cheek.
<br />
  The old man was in a good temper after his nap before dinner. (He used to
  say that a nap &ldquo;after dinner was silver&mdash;before dinner, golden.&rdquo;) 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&rsquo;s favorite topic&mdash;making
  fun of the military men of the day, and more particularly of Bonaparte.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, Father, I have come to you and brought my wife who is pregnant,&rdquo;
   said Prince Andrew, following every movement of his father&rsquo;s face with an
  eager and respectful look. &ldquo;How is your health?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Thank God,&rdquo; said his son smiling.
<br />
  &ldquo;God has nothing to do with it! Well, go on,&rdquo; he continued, returning to
  his hobby; &ldquo;tell me how the Germans have taught you to fight Bonaparte by
  this new science you call &lsquo;strategy.&rsquo;&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Andrew smiled.
<br />
  &ldquo;Give me time to collect my wits, Father,&rdquo; said he, with a smile that
  showed that his father&rsquo;s foibles did not prevent his son from loving and
  honoring him. &ldquo;Why, I have not yet had time to settle down!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Nonsense, nonsense!&rdquo; cried the old man, shaking his pigtail to see
  whether it was firmly plaited, and grasping his by the hand. &ldquo;The house
  for your wife is ready. Princess Mary will take her there and show her
  over, and they&rsquo;ll talk nineteen to the dozen. That&rsquo;s their woman&rsquo;s way! I
  am glad to have her. Sit down and talk. About Mikhelson&rsquo;s army I
  understand&mdash;Tolstóy&lsquo;s too... a simultaneous expedition.... But
  what&rsquo;s the southern army to do? Prussia is neutral... I know that. What
  about Austria?&rdquo; said he, rising from his chair and pacing up and down the
  room followed by Tíkhon, who ran after him, handing him different articles
  of clothing. &ldquo;What of Sweden? How will they cross Pomerania?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Andrew, seeing that his father insisted, began&mdash;at first
  reluctantly, but gradually with more and more animation, and from habit
  changing unconsciously from Russian to French as he went on&mdash;to
  explain the plan of operation for the coming campaign. He explained how an
  army, ninety thousand strong, was to threaten Prussia so as to bring her
  out of her neutrality and draw her into the war; how part of that army was
  to join some Swedish forces at Stralsund; how two hundred and twenty
  thousand Austrians, with a hundred thousand Russians, were to operate in
  Italy and on the Rhine; how fifty thousand Russians and as many English
  were to land at Naples, and how a total force of five hundred thousand men
  was to attack the French from different sides. The old prince did not
  evince the least interest during this explanation, but as if he were not
  listening to it continued to dress while walking about, and three times
  unexpectedly interrupted. Once he stopped it by shouting: &ldquo;The white one,
  the white one!&rdquo;
 <br />
  This meant that Tíkhon was not handing him the waistcoat he wanted.
  Another time he interrupted, saying:
<br />
  &ldquo;And will she soon be confined?&rdquo; and shaking his head reproachfully said:
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s bad! Go on, go on.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The third interruption came when Prince Andrew was finishing his
  description. The old man began to sing, in the cracked voice of old age:
   *
<br />
 * &ldquo;Marlborough is going to the wars; God knows when he&rsquo;ll
 return.&rdquo;

His son only smiled.
“I don’t say it’s a plan I approve of,” said the son; “I am only telling you what it is. Napoleon has also formed his plan by now, not worse than this one.”
“Well, you’ve told me nothing new,” and the old man repeated, meditatively and rapidly:
“. Go to the dining room.”

  CHAPTER XXVII


  At the appointed hour the prince, powdered and shaven, entered the dining
  room where his daughter-in-law, Princess Mary, and Mademoiselle Bourienne
  were already awaiting him together with his architect, who by a strange
  caprice of his employer&rsquo;s was admitted to table though the position of
  that insignificant individual was such as could certainly not have caused
  him to expect that honor. The prince, who generally kept very strictly to
  social distinctions and rarely admitted even important government
  officials to his table, had unexpectedly selected Michael Ivánovich (who
  always went into a corner to blow his nose on his checked handkerchief) to
  illustrate the theory that all men are equals, and had more than once
  impressed on his daughter that Michael Ivánovich was &ldquo;not a whit worse
  than you or I.&rdquo; At dinner the prince usually spoke to the taciturn Michael
  Ivánovich more often than to anyone else.
<br />
  In the dining room, which like all the rooms in the house was exceedingly
  lofty, the members of the household and the footmen&mdash;one behind each
  chair&mdash;stood waiting for the prince to enter. The head butler, napkin
  on arm, was scanning the setting of the table, making signs to the
  footmen, and anxiously glancing from the clock to the door by which the
  prince was to enter. Prince Andrew was looking at a large gilt frame, new
  to him, containing the genealogical tree of the Princes Bolkónski,
  opposite which hung another such frame with a badly painted portrait
  (evidently by the hand of the artist belonging to the estate) of a ruling
  prince, in a crown&mdash;an alleged descendant of Rúrik and ancestor of
  the Bolkónskis. Prince Andrew, looking again at that genealogical tree,
  shook his head, laughing as a man laughs who looks at a portrait so
  characteristic of the original as to be amusing.
<br />
  &ldquo;How thoroughly like him that is!&rdquo; he said to Princess Mary, who had come
  up to him.
<br />
  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.
<br />
  &ldquo;Everyone has his Achilles&rsquo; heel,&rdquo; continued Prince Andrew. &ldquo;Fancy, with
   powerful mind, indulging in such nonsense!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Princess Mary could not understand the boldness of her brother&rsquo;s criticism
  and was about to reply, when the expected footsteps were heard coming from
  the study. The prince walked in quickly and jauntily as was his wont, as
  if intentionally contrasting the briskness of his manners with the strict
  formality of his house. At that moment the great clock struck two and
  another with a shrill tone joined in from the drawing room. The prince
  stood still; his lively glittering eyes from under their thick, bushy
  eyebrows sternly scanned all present and rested on the little princess.
  She felt, as courtiers do when the Tsar enters, the sensation of fear and
  respect which the old man inspired in all around him. He stroked her hair
  and then patted her awkwardly on the back of her neck.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;m glad, glad, to see you,&rdquo; he said, looking attentively into her eyes,
  and then quickly went to his place and sat down. &ldquo;Sit down, sit down! Sit
  down, Michael Ivánovich!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He indicated a place beside him to his daughter-in-law. A footman moved
  the chair for her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ho, ho!&rdquo; said the old man, casting his eyes on her rounded figure.
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve been in a hurry. That&rsquo;s bad!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He laughed in his usual dry, cold, unpleasant way, with his lips only and
  not with his eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;You must walk, walk as much as possible, as much as possible,&rdquo; he said.
<br />
  The little princess did not, or did not wish to, hear his words. She was
  silent and seemed confused. The prince asked her about her father, and she
  began to smile and talk. He asked about mutual acquaintances, and she
  became still more animated and chattered away giving him greetings from
  various people and retelling the town gossip.
<br />
  &ldquo;Countess Apráksina, poor thing, has lost her husband and she has cried
  her eyes out,&rdquo; she said, growing more and more lively.
<br />
  As she became animated the prince looked at her more and more sternly, and
  suddenly, as if he had studied her sufficiently and had formed a definite
  idea of her, he turned away and addressed Michael Ivánovich.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, Michael Ivánovich, our Bonaparte will be having a bad time of it.
  Prince Andrew&rdquo; (he always spoke thus of his son) &ldquo;has been telling me what
  forces are being collected against him! While you and I never thought much
  of him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Michael Ivánovich did not at all know when &ldquo;you and I&rdquo; had said such
  things about Bonaparte, but understanding that he was wanted as a peg on
  which to hang the prince&rsquo;s favorite topic, he looked inquiringly at the
  young prince, wondering what would follow.
<br />
  &ldquo;He is a great tactician!&rdquo; said the prince to his son, pointing to the
  architect.
<br />
  And the conversation again turned on the war, on Bonaparte, and the
  generals and statesmen of the day. The old prince seemed convinced not
  only that all the men of the day were mere babies who did not know the A B
  C of war or of politics, and that Bonaparte was an insignificant little
  Frenchy, successful only because there were no longer any Potëmkins or
  Suvórovs left to oppose him; but he was also convinced that there were no
  political difficulties in Europe and no real war, but only a sort of
  puppet show at which the men of the day were playing, pretending to do
  something real. Prince Andrew gaily bore with his father&rsquo;s ridicule of the
  new men, and drew him on and listened to him with evident pleasure.
<br />
  &ldquo;The past always seems good,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;but did not Suvórov himself fall
  into a trap Moreau set him, and from which he did not know how to escape?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Who told you that? Who?&rdquo; cried the prince. &ldquo;Suvórov!&rdquo; And he jerked away
  his plate, which Tíkhon briskly caught. &ldquo;Suvórov!... Consider, Prince
  Andrew. Two... Frederick and Suvórov; Moreau!... Moreau would have been a
  prisoner if Suvórov had had a free hand; but he had the 
  on his hands. It would have puzzled the devil himself! When you get there
  you&rsquo;ll find out what those  are! Suvórov
  couldn&rsquo;t manage them so what chance has Michael Kutúzov? No, my dear boy,&rdquo;
   he continued, &ldquo;you and your generals won&rsquo;t get on against Buonaparte;
  you&rsquo;ll have to call in the French, so that birds of a feather may fight
  together. The German, Pahlen, has been sent to New York in America, to
  fetch the Frenchman, Moreau,&rdquo; he said, alluding to the invitation made
  that year to Moreau to enter the Russian service.... &ldquo;Wonderful!... Were
  the Potëmkins, Suvórovs, and Orlóvs Germans? No, lad, either you fellows
  have all lost your wits, or I have outlived mine. May God help you, but
  we&rsquo;ll see what will happen. Buonaparte has become a great commander among
  them! Hm!...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t at all say that all the plans are good,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew, &ldquo;I
  am only surprised at your opinion of Bonaparte. You may laugh as much as
  you like, but all the same Bonaparte is a great general!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Michael Ivánovich!&rdquo; cried the old prince to the architect who, busy with
  his roast meat, hoped he had been forgotten: &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t I tell you Buonaparte
  was a great tactician? Here, he says the same thing.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;To be sure, your excellency,&rdquo; replied the architect.
<br />
  The prince again laughed his frigid laugh.
<br />
  &ldquo;Buonaparte was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He has got splendid
  soldiers. Besides he began by attacking Germans. And only idlers have
  failed to beat the Germans. Since the world began everybody has beaten the
  Germans. They beat no one&mdash;except one another. He made his reputation
  fighting them.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And the prince began explaining all the blunders which, according to him,
  Bonaparte had made in his campaigns and even in politics. His son made no
  rejoinder, but it was evident that whatever arguments were presented he
  was as little able as his father to change his opinion. He listened,
  refraining from a reply, and involuntarily wondered how this old man,
  living alone in the country for so many years, could know and discuss so
  minutely and acutely all the recent European military and political
  events.
<br />
  &ldquo;You think I&rsquo;m an old man and don&rsquo;t understand the present state of
  affairs?&rdquo; concluded his father. &ldquo;But it troubles me. I don&rsquo;t sleep at
  night. Come now, where has this great commander of yours shown his skill?&rdquo;
   he concluded.
<br />
  &ldquo;That would take too long to tell,&rdquo; answered the son.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, then go off to your Buonaparte! Mademoiselle Bourienne, here&rsquo;s
  another admirer of that powder-monkey emperor of yours,&rdquo; he exclaimed in
  excellent French.
<br />
  &ldquo;You know, Prince, I am not a Bonapartist!&rdquo;
 <br />
   hummed the prince out of tune and,
  with a laugh still more so, he quitted the table.
<br />
  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&rsquo;s arm and drew her into another room.
<br />
  &ldquo;What a clever man your father is,&rdquo; said she; &ldquo;perhaps that is why I am
  afraid of him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, he is so kind!&rdquo; answered Princess Mary.

  CHAPTER XXVIII


  Prince Andrew was to leave next evening. The old prince, not altering his
  routine, retired as usual after dinner. The little princess was in her
  sister-in-law&rsquo;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&mdash;a present from his father who
  had brought it from the siege of Ochákov. All these traveling effects of
  Prince Andrew&rsquo;s were in very good order: new, clean, and in cloth covers
  carefully tied with tapes.
<br />
  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&rsquo;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?&mdash;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.
<br />
  &ldquo;I hear you have given orders to harness,&rdquo; she cried, panting (she had
  apparently been running), &ldquo;and I did so wish to have another talk with you
  alone! God knows how long we may again be parted. You are not angry with
  me for coming? You have changed so, Andrúsha,&rdquo; she added, as if to explain
  such a question.
<br />
  She smiled as she uttered his pet name, &ldquo;Andrúsha.&rdquo; It was obviously
  strange to her to think that this stern handsome man should be Andrúsha&mdash;the
  slender mischievous boy who had been her playfellow in childhood.
<br />
  &ldquo;And where is Lise?&rdquo; he asked, answering her question only by a smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;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,&rdquo; said she, sitting down on the
  sofa, facing her brother. &ldquo;She is quite a child: such a dear, merry child.
  I have grown so fond of her.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Andrew was silent, but the princess noticed the ironical and
  contemptuous look that showed itself on his face.
<br />
  &ldquo;One must be indulgent to little weaknesses; who is free from them,
  Andrew? Don&rsquo;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&rsquo;s
  situation. . * Think what it
  must be for her, poor thing, after what she has been used to, to be parted
  from her husband and be left alone in the country, in her condition! It&rsquo;s
  very hard.&rdquo;
 <br />
 * To understand all is to forgive all.

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

 * Kutúzov.

He spoke so rapidly that he did not finish half his words, but his son was accustomed to understand him. He led him to the desk, raised the lid, drew out a drawer, and took out an exercise book filled with his bold, tall, close handwriting.
“I shall probably die before you. So remember, these are my memoirs; hand them to the Emperor after my death. Now here is a Lombard bond and a letter; it is a premium for the man who writes a history of Suvórov’s wars. Send it to the Academy. Here are some jottings for you to read when I am gone. You will find them useful.”
Andrew did not tell his father that he would no doubt live a long time yet. He felt that he must not say it.
“I will do it all, Father,” he said.
“Well, now, good-by!” He gave his son his hand to kiss, and embraced him. “Remember this, Prince Andrew, if they kill you it will hurt me, your old father…” he paused unexpectedly, and then in a querulous voice suddenly shrieked: “but if I hear that you have not behaved like a son of Nicholas Bolkónski, I shall be ashamed!”
“You need not have said that to me, Father,” said the son with a smile.
The old man was silent.
“I also wanted to ask you,” continued Prince Andrew, “if I’m killed and if I have a son, do not let him be taken away from you—as I said yesterday… let him grow up with you…. Please.”
“Not let the wife have him?” said the old man, and laughed.
They stood silent, facing one another. The old man’s sharp eyes were fixed straight on his son’s. Something twitched in the lower part of the old prince’s face.
“We’ve said good-by. Go!” he suddenly shouted in a loud, angry voice, opening his door.
“What is it? What?” asked both princesses when they saw for a moment at the door Prince Andrew and the figure of the old man in a white dressing gown, spectacled and wigless, shouting in an angry voice.
Prince Andrew sighed and made no reply.
“Well!” he said, turning to his wife.
And this “Well!” sounded coldly ironic, as if he were saying: “Now go through your performance.”
“Andrew, already!” said the little princess, turning pale and looking with dismay at her husband.
He embraced her. She screamed and fell unconscious on his shoulder.
He cautiously released the shoulder she leaned on, looked into her face, and carefully placed her in an easy chair.
“Adieu, Mary,” said he gently to his sister, taking her by the hand and kissing her, and then he left the room with rapid steps.
The little princess lay in the armchair, Mademoiselle Bourienne chafing her temples. Princess Mary, supporting her sister-in-law, still looked with her beautiful eyes full of tears at the door through which Prince Andrew had gone and made the sign of the cross in his direction. From the study, like pistol shots, came the frequent sound of the old man angrily blowing his nose. Hardly had Prince Andrew gone when the study door opened quickly and the stern figure of the old man in the white dressing gown looked out.
“Gone? That’s all right!” said he; and looking angrily at the unconscious little princess, he shook his head reprovingly and slammed the door.

  BOOK TWO: 1805

  CHAPTER I


  In October, 1805, a Russian army was occupying the villages and towns of
  the Archduchy of Austria, and yet other regiments freshly arriving from
  Russia were settling near the fortress of Braunau and burdening the
  inhabitants on whom they were quartered. Braunau was the headquarters of
  the commander in chief, Kutúzov.
<br />
  On October 11, 1805, one of the infantry regiments that had just reached
  Braunau had halted half a mile from the town, waiting to be inspected by
  the commander in chief. Despite the un-Russian appearance of the locality
  and surroundings&mdash;fruit gardens, stone fences, tiled roofs, and hills
  in the distance&mdash;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.
<br />
  On the evening of the last day&rsquo;s march an order had been received that the
  commander in chief would inspect the regiment on the march. Though the
  words of the order were not clear to the regimental commander, and the
  question arose whether the troops were to be in marching order or not, it
  was decided at a consultation between the battalion commanders to present
  the regiment in parade order, on the principle that it is always better to
  &ldquo;bow too low than not bow low enough.&rdquo; 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&mdash;instead of the straggling,
  disorderly crowd it had been on its last march the day before&mdash;presented
  a well-ordered array of two thousand men each of whom knew his place and
  his duty, had every button and every strap in place, and shone with
  cleanliness. And not only externally was all in order, but had it pleased
  the commander in chief to look under the uniforms he would have found on
  every man a clean shirt, and in every knapsack the appointed number of
  articles, &ldquo;awl, soap, and all,&rdquo; as the soldiers say. There was only one
  circumstance concerning which no one could be at ease. It was the state of
  the soldiers&rsquo; boots. More than half the men&rsquo;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.
<br />
  The commander of the regiment was an elderly, choleric, stout, and
  thick-set general with grizzled eyebrows and whiskers, and wider from
  chest to back than across the shoulders. He had on a brand-new uniform
  showing the creases where it had been folded and thick gold epaulettes
  which seemed to stand rather than lie down on his massive shoulders. He
  had the air of a man happily performing one of the most solemn duties of
  his life. He walked about in front of the line and at every step pulled
  himself up, slightly arching his back. It was plain that the commander
  admired his regiment, rejoiced in it, and that his whole mind was
  engrossed by it, yet his strut seemed to indicate that, besides military
  matters, social interests and the fair sex occupied no small part of his
  thoughts.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, Michael Mítrich, sir?&rdquo; he said, addressing one of the battalion
  commanders who smilingly pressed forward (it was plain that they both felt
  happy). &ldquo;We had our hands full last night. However, I think the regiment
  is not a bad one, eh?&rdquo;
 <br />
  The battalion commander perceived the jovial irony and laughed.
<br />
  &ldquo;It would not be turned off the field even on the Tsarítsin Meadow.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What?&rdquo; asked the commander.
<br />
  At that moment, on the road from the town on which signalers had been
  posted, two men appeared on horse back. They were an aide-de-camp followed
  by a Cossack.
<br />
  The aide-de-camp was sent to confirm the order which had not been clearly
  worded the day before, namely, that the commander in chief wished to see
  the regiment just in the state in which it had been on the march: in their
  greatcoats, and packs, and without any preparation whatever.
<br />
  A member of the Hofkriegsrath from Vienna had come to Kutúzov the day
  before with proposals and demands for him to join up with the army of the
  Archduke Ferdinand and Mack, and Kutúzov, not considering this junction
  advisable, meant, among other arguments in support of his view, to show
  the Austrian general the wretched state in which the troops arrived from
  Russia. With this object he intended to meet the regiment; so the worse
  the condition it was in, the better pleased the commander in chief would
  be. Though the aide-de-camp did not know these circumstances, he
  nevertheless delivered the definite order that the men should be in their
  greatcoats and in marching order, and that the commander in chief would
  otherwise be dissatisfied. On hearing this the regimental commander hung
  his head, silently shrugged his shoulders, and spread out his arms with a
  choleric gesture.
<br />
  &ldquo;A fine mess we&rsquo;ve made of it!&rdquo; he remarked.
<br />
  &ldquo;There now! Didn&rsquo;t I tell you, Michael Mítrich, that if it was said &lsquo;on
  the march&rsquo; it meant in greatcoats?&rdquo; said he reproachfully to the battalion
  commander. &ldquo;Oh, my God!&rdquo; he added, stepping resolutely forward. &ldquo;Company
  commanders!&rdquo; he shouted in a voice accustomed to command. &ldquo;Sergeants
  major!... How soon will he be here?&rdquo; he asked the aide-de-camp with a
  respectful politeness evidently relating to the personage he was referring
  to.
<br />
  &ldquo;In an hour&rsquo;s time, I should say.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Shall we have time to change clothes?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know, General....&rdquo;
 <br />
  The regimental commander, going up to the line himself, ordered the
  soldiers to change into their greatcoats. The company commanders ran off
  to their companies, the sergeants major began bustling (the greatcoats
  were not in very good condition), and instantly the squares that had up to
  then been in regular order and silent began to sway and stretch and hum
  with voices. On all sides soldiers were running to and fro, throwing up
  their knapsacks with a jerk of their shoulders and pulling the straps over
  their heads, unstrapping their overcoats and drawing the sleeves on with
  upraised arms.
<br />
  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.
<br />
  &ldquo;Whatever is this? This!&rdquo; he shouted and stood still. &ldquo;Commander of the
  third company!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Commander of the third company wanted by the general!... commander to the
  general... third company to the commander.&rdquo; The words passed along the
  lines and an adjutant ran to look for the missing officer.
<br />
  When the eager but misrepeated words had reached their destination in a
  cry of: &ldquo;The general to the third company,&rdquo; the missing officer appeared
  from behind his company and, though he was a middle-aged man and not in
  the habit of running, trotted awkwardly stumbling on his toes toward the
  general. The captain&rsquo;s face showed the uneasiness of a schoolboy who is
  told to repeat a lesson he has not learned. Spots appeared on his nose,
  the redness of which was evidently due to intemperance, and his mouth
  twitched nervously. The general looked the captain up and down as he came
  up panting, slackening his pace as he approached.
<br />
  &ldquo;You will soon be dressing your men in petticoats! What is this?&rdquo; shouted
  the regimental commander, thrusting forward his jaw and pointing at a
  soldier in the ranks of the third company in a greatcoat of bluish cloth,
  which contrasted with the others. &ldquo;What have you been after? The commander
  in chief is expected and you leave your place? Eh? I&rsquo;ll teach you to dress
  the men in fancy coats for a parade.... Eh...?&rdquo;
 <br />
  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.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, why don&rsquo;t you speak? Whom have you got there dressed up as a
  Hungarian?&rdquo; said the commander with an austere gibe.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your excellency...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, your excellency, what? Your excellency! But what about your
  excellency?... nobody knows.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Your excellency, it&rsquo;s the officer Dólokhov, who has been reduced to the
  ranks,&rdquo; said the captain softly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well? Has he been degraded into a field marshal, or into a soldier? If a
  soldier, he should be dressed in regulation uniform like the others.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Your excellency, you gave him leave yourself, on the march.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Gave him leave? Leave? That&rsquo;s just like you young men,&rdquo; said the
  regimental commander cooling down a little. &ldquo;Leave indeed.... One says a
  word to you and you... What?&rdquo; he added with renewed irritation, &ldquo;I beg you
  to dress your men decently.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And the commander, turning to look at the adjutant, directed his jerky
  steps down the line. He was evidently pleased at his own display of anger
  and walking up to the regiment wished to find a further excuse for wrath.
  Having snapped at an officer for an unpolished badge, at another because
  his line was not straight, he reached the third company.
<br />
  &ldquo;H-o-o-w are you standing? Where&rsquo;s your leg? Your leg?&rdquo; shouted the
  commander with a tone of suffering in his voice, while there were still
  five men between him and Dólokhov with his bluish-gray uniform.
<br />
  Dólokhov slowly straightened his bent knee, looking straight with his
  clear, insolent eyes in the general&rsquo;s face.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why a blue coat? Off with it... Sergeant major! Change his coat... the
  ras...&rdquo; he did not finish.
<br />
  &ldquo;General, I must obey orders, but I am not bound to endure...&rdquo; Dólokhov
  hurriedly interrupted.
<br />
  &ldquo;No talking in the ranks!... No talking, no talking!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Not bound to endure insults,&rdquo; Dólokhov concluded in loud, ringing tones.
<br />
  The eyes of the general and the soldier met. The general became silent,
  angrily pulling down his tight scarf.
<br />
  &ldquo;I request you to have the goodness to change your coat,&rdquo; he said as he
  turned away.

  CHAPTER II


  &ldquo;He&rsquo;s coming!&rdquo; shouted the signaler at that moment.
<br />
  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.
<br />
  &ldquo;Att-ention!&rdquo; shouted the regimental commander in a soul-shaking voice
  which expressed joy for himself, severity for the regiment, and welcome
  for the approaching chief.
<br />
  Along the broad country road, edged on both sides by trees, came a high,
  light blue Viennese , slightly creaking on its springs and
  drawn by six horses at a smart trot. Behind the  galloped
  the suite and a convoy of Croats. Beside Kutúzov sat an Austrian general,
  in a white uniform that looked strange among the Russian black ones. The
   stopped in front of the regiment. Kutúzov and the Austrian
  general were talking in low voices and Kutúzov smiled slightly as treading
  heavily he stepped down from the carriage just as if those two thousand
  men breathlessly gazing at him and the regimental commander did not exist.
<br />
  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, &ldquo;Health to
  your ex... len... len... lency!&rdquo; and again all became silent. At first
  Kutúzov stood still while the regiment moved; then he and the general in
  white, accompanied by the suite, walked between the ranks.
<br />
  From the way the regimental commander saluted the commander in chief and
  devoured him with his eyes, drawing himself up obsequiously, and from the
  way he walked through the ranks behind the generals, bending forward and
  hardly able to restrain his jerky movements, and from the way he darted
  forward at every word or gesture of the commander in chief, it was evident
  that he performed his duty as a subordinate with even greater zeal than
  his duty as a commander. Thanks to the strictness and assiduity of its
  commander the regiment, in comparison with others that had reached Braunau
  at the same time, was in splendid condition. There were only 217 sick and
  stragglers. Everything was in good order except the boots.
<br />
  Kutúzov walked through the ranks, sometimes stopping to say a few friendly
  words to officers he had known in the Turkish war, sometimes also to the
  soldiers. Looking at their boots he several times shook his head sadly,
  pointing them out to the Austrian general with an expression which seemed
  to say that he was not blaming anyone, but could not help noticing what a
  bad state of things it was. The regimental commander ran forward on each
  such occasion, fearing to miss a single word of the commander in chief&rsquo;s
  regarding the regiment. Behind Kutúzov, at a distance that allowed every
  softly spoken word to be heard, followed some twenty men of his suite.
  These gentlemen talked among themselves and sometimes laughed. Nearest of
  all to the commander in chief walked a handsome adjutant. This was Prince
  Bolkónski. Beside him was his comrade Nesvítski, a tall staff officer,
  extremely stout, with a kindly, smiling, handsome face and moist eyes.
  Nesvítski could hardly keep from laughter provoked by a swarthy hussar
  officer who walked beside him. This hussar, with a grave face and without
  a smile or a change in the expression of his fixed eyes, watched the
  regimental commander&rsquo;s back and mimicked his every movement. Each time the
  commander started and bent forward, the hussar started and bent forward in
  exactly the same manner. Nesvítski laughed and nudged the others to make
  them look at the wag.
<br />
  Kutúzov walked slowly and languidly past thousands of eyes which were
  starting from their sockets to watch their chief. On reaching the third
  company he suddenly stopped. His suite, not having expected this,
  involuntarily came closer to him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, Timókhin!&rdquo; said he, recognizing the red-nosed captain who had been
  reprimanded on account of the blue greatcoat.
<br />
  One would have thought it impossible for a man to stretch himself more
  than Timókhin had done when he was reprimanded by the regimental
  commander, but now that the commander in chief addressed him he drew
  himself up to such an extent that it seemed he could not have sustained it
  had the commander in chief continued to look at him, and so Kutúzov, who
  evidently understood his case and wished him nothing but good, quickly
  turned away, a scarcely perceptible smile flitting over his scarred and
  puffy face.
<br />
  &ldquo;Another Ismail comrade,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;A brave officer! Are you satisfied
  with him?&rdquo; he asked the regimental commander.
<br />
  And the latter&mdash;unconscious that he was being reflected in the hussar
  officer as in a looking glass&mdash;started, moved forward, and answered:
  &ldquo;Highly satisfied, your excellency!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;We all have our weaknesses,&rdquo; said Kutúzov smiling and walking away from
  him. &ldquo;He used to have a predilection for Bacchus.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The regimental commander was afraid he might be blamed for this and did
  not answer. The hussar at that moment noticed the face of the red-nosed
  captain and his drawn-in stomach, and mimicked his expression and pose
  with such exactitude that Nesvítski could not help laughing. Kutúzov
  turned round. The officer evidently had complete control of his face, and
  while Kutúzov was turning managed to make a grimace and then assume a most
  serious, deferential, and innocent expression.
<br />
  The third company was the last, and Kutúzov pondered, apparently trying to
  recollect something. Prince Andrew stepped forward from among the suite
  and said in French:
<br />
  &ldquo;You told me to remind you of the officer Dólokhov, reduced to the ranks
  in this regiment.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Where is Dólokhov?&rdquo; asked Kutúzov.
<br />
  Dólokhov, who had already changed into a soldier&rsquo;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.
<br />
  &ldquo;Have you a complaint to make?&rdquo; Kutúzov asked with a slight frown.
<br />
  &ldquo;This is Dólokhov,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; said Kutúzov. &ldquo;I hope this will be a lesson to you. Do your duty.
  The Emperor is gracious, and I shan&rsquo;t forget you if you deserve well.&rdquo;
 <br />
  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.
<br />
  &ldquo;One thing I ask of your excellency,&rdquo; Dólokhov said in his firm, ringing,
  deliberate voice. &ldquo;I ask an opportunity to atone for my fault and prove my
  devotion to His Majesty the Emperor and to Russia!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Kutúzov turned away. The same smile of the eyes with which he had turned
  from Captain Timókhin again flitted over his face. He turned away with a
  grimace as if to say that everything Dólokhov had said to him and
  everything he could say had long been known to him, that he was weary of
  it and it was not at all what he wanted. He turned away and went to the
  carriage.
<br />
  The regiment broke up into companies, which went to their appointed
  quarters near Braunau, where they hoped to receive boots and clothes and
  to rest after their hard marches.
<br />
  &ldquo;You won&rsquo;t bear me a grudge, Prokhór Ignátych?&rdquo; said the regimental
  commander, overtaking the third company on its way to its quarters and
  riding up to Captain Timókhin who was walking in front. (The regimental
  commander&rsquo;s face now that the inspection was happily over beamed with
  irrepressible delight.) &ldquo;It&rsquo;s in the Emperor&rsquo;s service... it can&rsquo;t be
  helped... one is sometimes a bit hasty on parade... I am the first to
  apologize, you know me!... He was very pleased!&rdquo; And he held out his hand
  to the captain.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t mention it, General, as if I&rsquo;d be so bold!&rdquo; 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.
<br />
  &ldquo;And tell Mr. Dólokhov that I won&rsquo;t forget him&mdash;he may be quite easy.
  And tell me, please&mdash;I&rsquo;ve been meaning to ask&mdash;how is he
  behaving himself, and in general...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;As far as the service goes he is quite punctilious, your excellency; but
  his character...&rdquo; said Timókhin.
<br />
  &ldquo;And what about his character?&rdquo; asked the regimental commander.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s different on different days,&rdquo; answered the captain. &ldquo;One day he is
  sensible, well educated, and good-natured, and the next he&rsquo;s a wild
  beast.... In Poland, if you please, he nearly killed a Jew.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, well, well!&rdquo; remarked the regimental commander. &ldquo;Still, one must have
  pity on a young man in misfortune. You know he has important
  connections... Well, then, you just...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I will, your excellency,&rdquo; said Timókhin, showing by his smile that he
  understood his commander&rsquo;s wish.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, of course, of course!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The regimental commander sought out Dólokhov in the ranks and, reining in
  his horse, said to him:
<br />
  &ldquo;After the next affair... epaulettes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dólokhov looked round but did not say anything, nor did the mocking smile
  on his lips change.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, that&rsquo;s all right,&rdquo; continued the regimental commander. &ldquo;A cup of
  vodka for the men from me,&rdquo; he added so that the soldiers could hear. &ldquo;I
  thank you all! God be praised!&rdquo; and he rode past that company and overtook
  the next one.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, he&rsquo;s really a good fellow, one can serve under him,&rdquo; said Timókhin
  to the subaltern beside him.
<br />
  &ldquo;In a word, a hearty one...&rdquo; said the subaltern, laughing (the regimental
  commander was nicknamed ).
<br />
  The cheerful mood of their officers after the inspection infected the
  soldiers. The company marched on gaily. The soldiers&rsquo; voices could be
  heard on every side.
<br />
  &ldquo;And they said Kutúzov was blind of one eye?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And so he is! Quite blind!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, friend, he is sharper-eyed than you are. Boots and leg bands... he
  noticed everything...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;When he looked at my feet, friend... well, thinks I...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And that other one with him, the Austrian, looked as if he were smeared
  with chalk&mdash;as white as flour! I suppose they polish him up as they
  do the guns.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I say, Fédeshon!... Did he say when the battles are to begin? You were
  near him. Everybody said that Buonaparte himself was at Braunau.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Buonaparte himself!... Just listen to the fool, what he doesn&rsquo;t know! The
  Prussians are up in arms now. The Austrians, you see, are putting them
  down. When they&rsquo;ve been put down, the war with Buonaparte will begin. And
  he says Buonaparte is in Braunau! Shows you&rsquo;re a fool. You&rsquo;d better listen
  more carefully!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What devils these quartermasters are! See, the fifth company is turning
  into the village already... they will have their buckwheat cooked before
  we reach our quarters.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Give me a biscuit, you devil!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And did you give me tobacco yesterday? That&rsquo;s just it, friend! Ah, well,
  never mind, here you are.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;They might call a halt here or we&rsquo;ll have to do another four miles
  without eating.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Wasn&rsquo;t it fine when those Germans gave us lifts! You just sit still and
  are drawn along.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And here, friend, the people are quite beggarly. There they all seemed to
  be Poles&mdash;all under the Russian crown&mdash;but here they&rsquo;re all
  regular Germans.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Singers to the front&rdquo; came the captain&rsquo;s order.
<br />
  And from the different ranks some twenty men ran to the front. A drummer,
  their leader, turned round facing the singers, and flourishing his arm,
  began a long-drawn-out soldiers&rsquo; song, commencing with the words:  and concluding:  This song had been composed in the Turkish
  campaign and now being sung in Austria, the only change being that the
  words &ldquo;Father Kámenski&rdquo; were replaced by &ldquo;Father Kutúzov.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Having jerked out these last words as soldiers do and waved his arms as if
  flinging something to the ground, the drummer&mdash;a lean, handsome
  soldier of forty&mdash;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:
<br />

 <br />
   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&rsquo; hoofs were heard. Kutúzov and his suite were returning to the
  town. The commander in chief made a sign that the men should continue to
  march at ease, and he and all his suite showed pleasure at the sound of
  the singing and the sight of the dancing soldier and the gay and smartly
  marching men. In the second file from the right flank, beside which the
  carriage passed the company, a blue-eyed soldier involuntarily attracted
  notice. It was Dólokhov marching with particular grace and boldness in
  time to the song and looking at those driving past as if he pitied all who
  were not at that moment marching with the company. The hussar cornet of
  Kutúzov&rsquo;s suite who had mimicked the regimental commander, fell back from
  the carriage and rode up to Dólokhov.
<br />
  Hussar cornet Zherkóv had at one time, in Petersburg, belonged to the wild
  set led by Dólokhov. Zherkóv had met Dólokhov abroad as a private and had
  not seen fit to recognize him. But now that Kutúzov had spoken to the
  gentleman ranker, he addressed him with the cordiality of an old friend.
<br />
  &ldquo;My dear fellow, how are you?&rdquo; said he through the singing, making his
  horse keep pace with the company.
<br />
  &ldquo;How am I?&rdquo; Dólokhov answered coldly. &ldquo;I am as you see.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The lively song gave a special flavor to the tone of free and easy gaiety
  with which Zherkóv spoke, and to the intentional coldness of Dólokhov&rsquo;s
  reply.
<br />
  &ldquo;And how do you get on with the officers?&rdquo; inquired Zherkóv.
<br />
  &ldquo;All right. They are good fellows. And how have you wriggled onto the
  staff?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I was attached; I&rsquo;m on duty.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Both were silent.
<br />
   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.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is it true that Austrians have been beaten?&rdquo; asked Dólokhov.
<br />
  &ldquo;The devil only knows! They say so.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;m glad,&rdquo; answered Dólokhov briefly and clearly, as the song demanded.
<br />
  &ldquo;I say, come round some evening and we&rsquo;ll have a game of faro!&rdquo; said
  Zherkóv.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, have you too much money?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Do come.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t. I&rsquo;ve sworn not to. I won&rsquo;t drink and won&rsquo;t play till I get
  reinstated.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, that&rsquo;s only till the first engagement.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;We shall see.&rdquo;
 <br />
  They were again silent.
<br />
  &ldquo;Come if you need anything. One can at least be of use on the staff...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dólokhov smiled. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t trouble. If I want anything, I won&rsquo;t beg&mdash;I&rsquo;ll
  take it!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, never mind; I only...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And I only...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Good-by.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Good health...&rdquo;
 <br />
    <br />

Zherkóv touched his horse with the spurs; it pranced excitedly from foot to foot uncertain with which to start, then settled down, galloped past the company, and overtook the carriage, still keeping time to the song.

  CHAPTER III


  On returning from the review, Kutúzov took the Austrian general into his
  private room and, calling his adjutant, asked for some papers relating to
  the condition of the troops on their arrival, and the letters that had
  come from the Archduke Ferdinand, who was in command of the advanced army.
  Prince Andrew Bolkónski came into the room with the required papers.
  Kutúzov and the Austrian member of the Hofkriegsrath were sitting at the
  table on which a plan was spread out.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah!...&rdquo; said Kutúzov glancing at Bolkónski as if by this exclamation he
  was asking the adjutant to wait, and he went on with the conversation in
  French.
<br />
  &ldquo;All I can say, General,&rdquo; said he with a pleasant elegance of expression
  and intonation that obliged one to listen to each deliberately spoken
  word. It was evident that Kutúzov himself listened with pleasure to his
  own voice. &ldquo;All I can say, General, is that if the matter depended on my
  personal wishes, the will of His Majesty the Emperor Francis would have
  been fulfilled long ago. I should long ago have joined the archduke. And
  believe me on my honour that to me personally it would be a pleasure to
  hand over the supreme command of the army into the hands of a better
  informed and more skillful general&mdash;of whom Austria has so many&mdash;and
  to lay down all this heavy responsibility. But circumstances are sometimes
  too strong for us, General.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And Kutúzov smiled in a way that seemed to say, &ldquo;You are quite at liberty
  not to believe me and I don&rsquo;t even care whether you do or not, but you
  have no grounds for telling me so. And that is the whole point.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The Austrian general looked dissatisfied, but had no option but to reply
  in the same tone.
<br />
  &ldquo;On the contrary,&rdquo; he said, in a querulous and angry tone that contrasted
  with his flattering words, &ldquo;on the contrary, your excellency&rsquo;s
  participation in the common action is highly valued by His Majesty; but we
  think the present delay is depriving the splendid Russian troops and their
  commander of the laurels they have been accustomed to win in their
  battles,&rdquo; he concluded his evidently prearranged sentence.
<br />
  Kutúzov bowed with the same smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;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,&rdquo; said Kutúzov.
<br />
  The general frowned. Though there was no definite news of an Austrian
  defeat, there were many circumstances confirming the unfavorable rumors
  that were afloat, and so Kutúzov&rsquo;s suggestion of an Austrian victory
  sounded much like irony. But Kutúzov went on blandly smiling with the same
  expression, which seemed to say that he had a right to suppose so. And, in
  fact, the last letter he had received from Mack&rsquo;s army informed him of a
  victory and stated strategically the position of the army was very
  favorable.
<br />
  &ldquo;Give me that letter,&rdquo; said Kutúzov turning to Prince Andrew. &ldquo;Please have
  a look at it&rdquo;&mdash;and Kutúzov with an ironical smile about the corners
  of his mouth read to the Austrian general the following passage, in
  German, from the Archduke Ferdinand&rsquo;s letter:
<br />
  We have fully concentrated forces of nearly seventy thousand men with
  which to attack and defeat the enemy should he cross the Lech. Also, as we
  are masters of Ulm, we cannot be deprived of the advantage of commanding
  both sides of the Danube, so that should the enemy not cross the Lech, we
  can cross the Danube, throw ourselves on his line of communications,
  recross the river lower down, and frustrate his intention should he try to
  direct his whole force against our faithful ally. We shall therefore
  confidently await the moment when the Imperial Russian army will be fully
  equipped, and shall then, in conjunction with it, easily find a way to
  prepare for the enemy the fate he deserves.
<br />
  Kutúzov sighed deeply on finishing this paragraph and looked at the member
  of the Hofkriegsrath mildly and attentively.
<br />
  &ldquo;But you know the wise maxim your excellency, advising one to expect the
  worst,&rdquo; 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.
<br />
  &ldquo;Excuse me, General,&rdquo; interrupted Kutúzov, also turning to Prince Andrew.
  &ldquo;Look here, my dear fellow, get from Kozlóvski all the reports from our
  scouts. Here are two letters from Count Nostitz and here is one from His
  Highness the Archduke Ferdinand and here are these,&rdquo; he said, handing him
  several papers, &ldquo;make a neat memorandum in French out of all this, showing
  all the news we have had of the movements of the Austrian army, and then
  give it to his excellency.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Andrew bowed his head in token of having understood from the first
  not only what had been said but also what Kutúzov would have liked to tell
  him. He gathered up the papers and with a bow to both, stepped softly over
  the carpet and went out into the waiting room.
<br />
  Though not much time had passed since Prince Andrew had left Russia, he
  had changed greatly during that period. In the expression of his face, in
  his movements, in his walk, scarcely a trace was left of his former
  affected languor and indolence. He now looked like a man who has time to
  think of the impression he makes on others, but is occupied with agreeable
  and interesting work. His face expressed more satisfaction with himself
  and those around him, his smile and glance were brighter and more
  attractive.
<br />
  Kutúzov, whom he had overtaken in Poland, had received him very kindly,
  promised not to forget him, distinguished him above the other adjutants,
  and had taken him to Vienna and given him the more serious commissions.
  From Vienna Kutúzov wrote to his old comrade, Prince Andrew&rsquo;s father.
<br />
  Your son bids fair to become an officer distinguished by his industry,
  firmness, and expedition. I consider myself fortunate to have such a
  subordinate by me.
<br />
  On Kutúzov&rsquo;s staff, among his fellow officers and in the army generally,
  Prince Andrew had, as he had had in Petersburg society, two quite opposite
  reputations. Some, a minority, acknowledged him to be different from
  themselves and from everyone else, expected great things of him, listened
  to him, admired, and imitated him, and with them Prince Andrew was natural
  and pleasant. Others, the majority, disliked him and considered him
  conceited, cold, and disagreeable. But among these people Prince Andrew
  knew how to take his stand so that they respected and even feared him.
<br />
  Coming out of Kutúzov&rsquo;s room into the waiting room with the papers in his
  hand Prince Andrew came up to his comrade, the aide-de-camp on duty,
  Kozlóvski, who was sitting at the window with a book.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, Prince?&rdquo; asked Kozlóvski.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am ordered to write a memorandum explaining why we are not advancing.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And why is it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Andrew shrugged his shoulders.
<br />
  &ldquo;Any news from Mack?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;If it were true that he has been beaten, news would have come.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Probably,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew moving toward the outer door.
<br />
  But at that instant a tall Austrian general in a greatcoat, with the order
  of Maria Theresa on his neck and a black bandage round his head, who had
  evidently just arrived, entered quickly, slamming the door. Prince Andrew
  stopped short.
<br />
  &ldquo;Commander in Chief Kutúzov?&rdquo; said the newly arrived general speaking
  quickly with a harsh German accent, looking to both sides and advancing
  straight toward the inner door.
<br />
  &ldquo;The commander in chief is engaged,&rdquo; said Kozlóvski, going hurriedly up to
  the unknown general and blocking his way to the door. &ldquo;Whom shall I
  announce?&rdquo;
 <br />
  The unknown general looked disdainfully down at Kozlóvski, who was rather
  short, as if surprised that anyone should not know him.
<br />
  &ldquo;The commander in chief is engaged,&rdquo; repeated Kozlóvski calmly.
<br />
  The general&rsquo;s face clouded, his lips quivered and trembled. He took out a
  notebook, hurriedly scribbled something in pencil, tore out the leaf, gave
  it to Kozlóvski, stepped quickly to the window, and threw himself into a
  chair, gazing at those in the room as if asking, &ldquo;Why do they look at me?&rdquo;
   Then he lifted his head, stretched his neck as if he intended to say
  something, but immediately, with affected indifference, began to hum to
  himself, producing a queer sound which immediately broke off. The door of
  the private room opened and Kutúzov appeared in the doorway. The general
  with the bandaged head bent forward as though running away from some
  danger, and, making long, quick strides with his thin legs, went up to
  Kutúzov.
<br />
   he uttered in a broken voice.
<br />
  Kutúzov&rsquo;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.
<br />
  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.
<br />
  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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s time he might, perhaps, see and
  take part in the first Russian encounter with the French since Suvórov met
  them. He feared that Bonaparte&rsquo;s genius might outweigh all the courage of
  the Russian troops, and at the same time could not admit the idea of his
  hero being disgraced.
<br />
  Excited and irritated by these thoughts Prince Andrew went toward his room
  to write to his father, to whom he wrote every day. In the corridor he met
  Nesvítski, with whom he shared a room, and the wag Zherkóv; they were as
  usual laughing.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why are you so glum?&rdquo; asked Nesvítski noticing Prince Andrew&rsquo;s pale face
  and glittering eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;There&rsquo;s nothing to be gay about,&rdquo; answered Bolkónski.
<br />
  Just as Prince Andrew metJust as Prince Andrew met Nesvítski and Zherkóv, there came toward them
  from the other end of the corridor, Strauch, an Austrian general who was on
  Kutúzov&rsquo;s staff in charge of the provisioning of the Russian army, and the
  member of the Hofkriegsrath who had arrived the previous evening. There
  was room enough in the wide corridor for the generals to pass the three
  officers quite easily, but Zherkóv, pushing Nesvítski aside with his arm,
  said in a breathless voice,
<br />
  &ldquo;They&rsquo;re coming!... they&rsquo;re coming!... Stand aside, make way, please make
  way!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The generals were passing by, looking as if they wished to avoid
  embarrassing attentions. On the face of the wag Zherkóv there suddenly
  appeared a stupid smile of glee which he seemed unable to suppress.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your excellency,&rdquo; said he in German, stepping forward and addressing the
  Austrian general, &ldquo;I have the honor to congratulate you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He bowed his head and scraped first with one foot and then with the other,
  awkwardly, like a child at a dancing lesson.
<br />
  The member of the Hofkriegsrath looked at him severely but, seeing the
  seriousness of his stupid smile, could not but give him a moment&rsquo;s
  attention. He screwed up his eyes showing that he was listening.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have the honor to congratulate you. General Mack has arrived, quite
  well, only a little bruised just here,&rdquo; he added, pointing with a beaming
  smile to his head.
<br />
  The general frowned, turned away, and went on.
<br />
   * said he angrily, after he had gone a few steps.
<br />
 * &ldquo;Good God, what simplicity!&rdquo;

Nesvítski with a laugh threw his arms round Prince Andrew, but Bolkónski, turning still paler, pushed him away with an angry look and turned to Zherkóv. The nervous irritation aroused by the appearance of Mack, the news of his defeat, and the thought of what lay before the Russian army found vent in anger at Zherkóv’s untimely jest.
“If you, sir, choose to make a of yourself,” he said sharply, with a slight trembling of the lower jaw, “I can’t prevent your doing so; but I warn you that if you to play the fool in my presence, I will teach you to behave yourself.”
Nesvítski and Zherkóv were so surprised by this outburst that they gazed at Bolkónski silently with wide-open eyes.
“What’s the matter? I only congratulated them,” said Zherkóv.
“I am not jesting with you; please be silent!” cried Bolkónski, and taking Nesvítski’s arm he left Zherkóv, who did not know what to say.
“Come, what’s the matter, old fellow?” said Nesvítski trying to soothe him.
“What’s the matter?” exclaimed Prince Andrew standing still in his excitement. “Don’t you understand that either we are officers serving our Tsar and our country, rejoicing in the successes and grieving at the misfortunes of our common cause, or we are merely lackeys who care nothing for their master’s business. he said, as if strengthening his views by this French sentence. . (2) Only a could amuse himself in this way,” he added in Russian—but pronouncing the word with a French accent—having noticed that Zherkóv could still hear him.

 * &ldquo;Forty thousand men massacred and the army of our allies
 destroyed, and you find that a cause for jesting!&rdquo;
<br />
 * (2) &ldquo;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.&rdquo;

He waited a moment to see whether the cornet would answer, but he turned and went out of the corridor.

  CHAPTER IV


  The Pávlograd Hussars were stationed two miles from Braunau. The squadron
  in which Nicholas Rostóv served as a cadet was quartered in the German
  village of Salzeneck. The best quarters in the village were assigned to
  cavalry-captain Denísov, the squadron commander, known throughout the
  whole cavalry division as Váska Denísov. Cadet Rostóv, ever since he had
  overtaken the regiment in Poland, had lived with the squadron commander.
<br />
  On October 11, the day when all was astir at headquarters over the news of
  Mack&rsquo;s defeat, the camp life of the officers of this squadron was
  proceeding as usual. Denísov, who had been losing at cards all night, had
  not yet come home when Rostóv rode back early in the morning from a
  foraging expedition. Rostóv in his cadet uniform, with a jerk to his
  horse, rode up to the porch, swung his leg over the saddle with a supple
  youthful movement, stood for a moment in the stirrup as if loathe to part
  from his horse, and at last sprang down and called to his orderly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, Bondarénko, dear friend!&rdquo; said he to the hussar who rushed up
  headlong to the horse. &ldquo;Walk him up and down, my dear fellow,&rdquo; he
  continued, with that gay brotherly cordiality which goodhearted young
  people show to everyone when they are happy.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, your excellency,&rdquo; answered the Ukrainian gaily, tossing his head.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mind, walk him up and down well!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Another hussar also rushed toward the horse, but Bondarénko had already
  thrown the reins of the snaffle bridle over the horse&rsquo;s head. It was
  evident that the cadet was liberal with his tips and that it paid to serve
  him. Rostóv patted the horse&rsquo;s neck and then his flank, and lingered for a
  moment.
<br />
  &ldquo;Splendid! What a horse he will be!&rdquo; he thought with a smile, and holding
  up his saber, his spurs jingling, he ran up the steps of the porch. His
  landlord, who in a waistcoat and a pointed cap, pitchfork in hand, was
  clearing manure from the cowhouse, looked out, and his face immediately
  brightened on seeing Rostóv.  * he
  said winking with a merry smile, evidently pleased to greet the young man.
<br />
* &ldquo;A very good morning! A very good morning!&rdquo;

   * said Rostóv with the same gay brotherly smile which
  did not leave his eager face.  *(2) said he, quoting words often repeated by the German
  landlord.
<br />
* &ldquo;Busy already?&rdquo;
<br />
* (2) &ldquo;Hurrah for the Austrians! Hurrah for the Russians!
 Hurrah for Emperor Alexander!&rdquo;

The German laughed, came out of the cowshed, pulled off his cap, and waving it above his head cried:
*

* &ldquo;And hurrah for the whole world!&rdquo;

Rostóv waved his cap above his head like the German and cried laughing, Though neither the German cleaning his cowshed nor Rostóv back with his platoon from foraging for hay had any reason for rejoicing, they looked at each other with joyful delight and brotherly love, wagged their heads in token of their mutual affection, and parted smiling, the German returning to his cowshed and Rostóv going to the cottage he occupied with Denísov.
“What about your master?” he asked Lavrúshka, Denísov’s orderly, whom all the regiment knew for a rogue.
“Hasn’t been in since the evening. Must have been losing,” answered Lavrúshka. “I know by now, if he wins he comes back early to brag about it, but if he stays out till morning it means he’s lost and will come back in a rage. Will you have coffee?”
“Yes, bring some.”
Ten minutes later Lavrúshka brought the coffee. “He’s coming!” said he. “Now for trouble!” Rostóv looked out of the window and saw Denísov coming home. Denísov was a small man with a red face, sparkling black eyes, and black tousled mustache and hair. He wore an unfastened cloak, wide breeches hanging down in creases, and a crumpled shako on the back of his head. He came up to the porch gloomily, hanging his head.
“Lavwúska!” he shouted loudly and angrily, “take it off, blockhead!”
“Well, I am taking it off,” replied Lavrúshka’s voice.
“Ah, you’re up already,” said Denísov, entering the room.
“Long ago,” answered Rostóv, “I have already been for the hay, and have seen Fräulein Mathilde.”
“Weally! And I’ve been losing, bwother. I lost yesterday like a damned fool!” cried Denísov, not pronouncing his ’s. “Such ill luck! Such ill luck. As soon as you left, it began and went on. Hullo there! Tea!”
Puckering up his face though smiling, and showing his short strong teeth, he began with stubby fingers of both hands to ruffle up his thick tangled black hair.
“And what devil made me go to that wat?” (an officer nicknamed “the rat”) he said, rubbing his forehead and whole face with both hands. “Just fancy, he didn’t let me win a single cahd, not one cahd.”
He took the lighted pipe that was offered to him, gripped it in his fist, and tapped it on the floor, making the sparks fly, while he continued to shout.
“He lets one win the singles and collahs it as soon as one doubles it; gives the singles and snatches the doubles!”
He scattered the burning tobacco, smashed the pipe, and threw it away. Then he remained silent for a while, and all at once looked cheerfully with his glittering, black eyes at Rostóv.
“If at least we had some women here; but there’s nothing foh one to do but dwink. If we could only get to fighting soon. Hullo, who’s there?” he said, turning to the door as he heard a tread of heavy boots and the clinking of spurs that came to a stop, and a respectful cough.
“The squadron quartermaster!” said Lavrúshka.
Denísov’s face puckered still more.
“Wetched!” he muttered, throwing down a purse with some gold in it. “Wostóv, deah fellow, just see how much there is left and shove the purse undah the pillow,” he said, and went out to the quartermaster.
Rostóv took the money and, mechanically arranging the old and new coins in separate piles, began counting them.
“Ah! Telyánin! How d’ye do? They plucked me last night,” came Denísov’s voice from the next room.
“Where? At Bykov’s, at the rat’s… I knew it,” replied a piping voice, and Lieutenant Telyánin, a small officer of the same squadron, entered the room.
Rostóv thrust the purse under the pillow and shook the damp little hand which was offered him. Telyánin for some reason had been transferred from the Guards just before this campaign. He behaved very well in the regiment but was not liked; Rostóv especially detested him and was unable to overcome or conceal his groundless antipathy to the man.
“Well, young cavalryman, how is my Rook behaving?” he asked. (Rook was a young horse Telyánin had sold to Rostóv.)
The lieutenant never looked the man he was speaking to straight in the face; his eyes continually wandered from one object to another.
“I saw you riding this morning…” he added.
“Oh, he’s all right, a good horse,” answered Rostóv, though the horse for which he had paid seven hundred rubbles was not worth half that sum. “He’s begun to go a little lame on the left foreleg,” he added.
“The hoof’s cracked! That’s nothing. I’ll teach you what to do and show you what kind of rivet to use.”
“Yes, please do,” said Rostóv.
“I’ll show you, I’ll show you! It’s not a secret. And it’s a horse you’ll thank me for.”
“Then I’ll have it brought round,” said Rostóv wishing to avoid Telyánin, and he went out to give the order.
In the passage Denísov, with a pipe, was squatting on the threshold facing the quartermaster who was reporting to him. On seeing Rostóv, Denísov screwed up his face and pointing over his shoulder with his thumb to the room where Telyánin was sitting, he frowned and gave a shudder of disgust.
“Ugh! I don’t like that fellow,” he said, regardless of the quartermaster’s presence.
Rostóv shrugged his shoulders as much as to say: “Nor do I, but what’s one to do?” and, having given his order, he returned to Telyánin.
Telyánin was sitting in the same indolent pose in which Rostóv had left him, rubbing his small white hands.
“Well there certainly are disgusting people,” thought Rostóv as he entered.
“Have you told them to bring the horse?” asked Telyánin, getting up and looking carelessly about him.
“I have.”
“Let us go ourselves. I only came round to ask Denísov about yesterday’s order. Have you got it, Denísov?”
“Not yet. But where are you off to?”
“I want to teach this young man how to shoe a horse,” said Telyánin.
They went through the porch and into the stable. The lieutenant explained how to rivet the hoof and went away to his own quarters.
When Rostóv went back there was a bottle of vodka and a sausage on the table. Denísov was sitting there scratching with his pen on a sheet of paper. He looked gloomily in Rostóv’s face and said: “I am witing to her.”
He leaned his elbows on the table with his pen in his hand and, evidently glad of a chance to say quicker in words what he wanted to write, told Rostóv the contents of his letter.
“You see, my fwiend,” he said, “we sleep when we don’t love. We are childwen of the dust… but one falls in love and one is a God, one is pua’ as on the fihst day of cweation… Who’s that now? Send him to the devil, I’m busy!” he shouted to Lavrúshka, who went up to him not in the least abashed.
“Who should it be? You yourself told him to come. It’s the quartermaster for the money.”
Denísov frowned and was about to shout some reply but stopped.
“Wetched business,” he muttered to himself. “How much is left in the puhse?” he asked, turning to Rostóv.
“Seven new and three old imperials.”
“Oh, it’s wetched! Well, what are you standing there for, you sca’cwow? Call the quahtehmasteh,” he shouted to Lavrúshka.
“Please, Denísov, let me lend you some: I have some, you know,” said Rostóv, blushing.
“Don’t like bowwowing from my own fellows, I don’t,” growled Denísov.
“But if you won’t accept money from me like a comrade, you will offend me. Really I have some,” Rostóv repeated.
“No, I tell you.”
And Denísov went to the bed to get the purse from under the pillow.
“Where have you put it, Wostóv?”
“Under the lower pillow.”
“It’s not there.”
Denísov threw both pillows on the floor. The purse was not there.
“That’s a miwacle.”
“Wait, haven’t you dropped it?” said Rostóv, picking up the pillows one at a time and shaking them.
He pulled off the quilt and shook it. The purse was not there.
“Dear me, can I have forgotten? No, I remember thinking that you kept it under your head like a treasure,” said Rostóv. “I put it just here. Where is it?” he asked, turning to Lavrúshka.
“I haven’t been in the room. It must be where you put it.”
“But it isn’t?…”
“You’re always like that; you thwow a thing down anywhere and forget it. Feel in your pockets.”
“No, if I hadn’t thought of it being a treasure,” said Rostóv, “but I remember putting it there.”
Lavrúshka turned all the bedding over, looked under the bed and under the table, searched everywhere, and stood still in the middle of the room. Denísov silently watched Lavrúshka’s movements, and when the latter threw up his arms in surprise saying it was nowhere to be found Denísov glanced at Rostóv.
“Wostóv, you’ve not been playing schoolboy twicks…”
Rostóv felt Denísov’s gaze fixed on him, raised his eyes, and instantly dropped them again. All the blood which had seemed congested somewhere below his throat rushed to his face and eyes. He could not draw breath.
“And there hasn’t been anyone in the room except the lieutenant and yourselves. It must be here somewhere,” said Lavrúshka.
“Now then, you devil’s puppet, look alive and hunt for it!” shouted Denísov, suddenly, turning purple and rushing at the man with a threatening gesture. “If the purse isn’t found I’ll flog you, I’ll flog you all.”
Rostóv, his eyes avoiding Denísov, began buttoning his coat, buckled on his saber, and put on his cap.
“I must have that purse, I tell you,” shouted Denísov, shaking his orderly by the shoulders and knocking him against the wall.
“Denísov, let him alone, I know who has taken it,” said Rostóv, going toward the door without raising his eyes. Denísov paused, thought a moment, and, evidently understanding what Rostóv hinted at, seized his arm.
“Nonsense!” he cried, and the veins on his forehead and neck stood out like cords. “You are mad, I tell you. I won’t allow it. The purse is here! I’ll flay this scoundwel alive, and it will be found.”
“I know who has taken it,” repeated Rostóv in an unsteady voice, and went to the door.
“And I tell you, don’t you dahe to do it!” shouted Denísov, rushing at the cadet to restrain him.
But Rostóv pulled away his arm and, with as much anger as though Denísov were his worst enemy, firmly fixed his eyes directly on his face.
“Do you understand what you’re saying?” he said in a trembling voice. “There was no one else in the room except myself. So that if it is not so, then…”
He could not finish, and ran out of the room.
“Ah, may the devil take you and evewybody,” were the last words Rostóv heard.
Rostóv went to Telyánin’s quarters.
“The master is not in, he’s gone to headquarters,” said Telyánin’s orderly. “Has something happened?” he added, surprised at the cadet’s troubled face.
“No, nothing.”
“You’ve only just missed him,” said the orderly.
The headquarters were situated two miles away from Salzeneck, and Rostóv, without returning home, took a horse and rode there. There was an inn in the village which the officers frequented. Rostóv rode up to it and saw Telyánin’s horse at the porch.
In the second room of the inn the lieutenant was sitting over a dish of sausages and a bottle of wine.
“Ah, you’ve come here too, young man!” he said, smiling and raising his eyebrows.
“Yes,” said Rostóv as if it cost him a great deal to utter the word; and he sat down at the nearest table.
Both were silent. There were two Germans and a Russian officer in the room. No one spoke and the only sounds heard were the clatter of knives and the munching of the lieutenant.
When Telyánin had finished his lunch he took out of his pocket a double purse and, drawing its rings aside with his small, white, turned-up fingers, drew out a gold imperial, and lifting his eyebrows gave it to the waiter.
“Please be quick,” he said.
The coin was a new one. Rostóv rose and went up to Telyánin.
“Allow me to look at your purse,” he said in a low, almost inaudible, voice.
With shifting eyes but eyebrows still raised, Telyánin handed him the purse.
“Yes, it’s a nice purse. Yes, yes,” he said, growing suddenly pale, and added, “Look at it, young man.”
Rostóv took the purse in his hand, examined it and the money in it, and looked at Telyánin. The lieutenant was looking about in his usual way and suddenly seemed to grow very merry.
“If we get to Vienna I’ll get rid of it there but in these wretched little towns there’s nowhere to spend it,” said he. “Well, let me have it, young man, I’m going.”
Rostóv did not speak.
“And you? Are you going to have lunch too? They feed you quite decently here,” continued Telyánin. “Now then, let me have it.”
He stretched out his hand to take hold of the purse. Rostóv let go of it. Telyánin took the purse and began carelessly slipping it into the pocket of his riding breeches, with his eyebrows lifted and his mouth slightly open, as if to say, “Yes, yes, I am putting my purse in my pocket and that’s quite simple and is no one else’s business.”
“Well, young man?” he said with a sigh, and from under his lifted brows he glanced into Rostóv’s eyes.
Some flash as of an electric spark shot from Telyánin’s eyes to Rostóv’s and back, and back again and again in an instant.
“Come here,” said Rostóv, catching hold of Telyánin’s arm and almost dragging him to the window. “That money is Denísov’s; you took it…” he whispered just above Telyánin’s ear.
“What? What? How dare you? What?” said Telyánin.
But these words came like a piteous, despairing cry and an entreaty for pardon. As soon as Rostóv heard them, an enormous load of doubt fell from him. He was glad, and at the same instant began to pity the miserable man who stood before him, but the task he had begun had to be completed.
“Heaven only knows what the people here may imagine,” muttered Telyánin, taking up his cap and moving toward a small empty room. “We must have an explanation…”
“I know it and shall prove it,” said Rostóv.
“I…”
Every muscle of Telyánin’s pale, terrified face began to quiver, his eyes still shifted from side to side but with a downward look not rising to Rostóv’s face, and his sobs were audible.
“Count!… Don’t ruin a young fellow… here is this wretched money, take it…” He threw it on the table. “I have an old father and mother!…”
Rostóv took the money, avoiding Telyánin’s eyes, and went out of the room without a word. But at the door he stopped and then retraced his steps. “O God,” he said with tears in his eyes, “how could you do it?”
“Count…” said Telyánin drawing nearer to him.
“Don’t touch me,” said Rostóv, drawing back. “If you need it, take the money,” and he threw the purse to him and ran out of the inn.

  CHAPTER V


  That same evening there was an animated discussion among the squadron&rsquo;s
  officers in Denísov&rsquo;s quarters.
<br />
  &ldquo;And I tell you, Rostóv, that you must apologize to the colonel!&rdquo; said a
  tall, grizzly-haired staff captain, with enormous mustaches and many
  wrinkles on his large features, to Rostóv who was crimson with excitement.
<br />
  The staff captain, Kírsten, had twice been reduced to the ranks for
  affairs of honor and had twice regained his commission.
<br />
  &ldquo;I will allow no one to call me a liar!&rdquo; cried Rostóv. &ldquo;He told me I lied,
  and I told him he lied. And there it rests. He may keep me on duty every
  day, or may place me under arrest, but no one can make me apologize,
  because if he, as commander of this regiment, thinks it beneath his
  dignity to give me satisfaction, then...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You just wait a moment, my dear fellow, and listen,&rdquo; interrupted the
  staff captain in his deep bass, calmly stroking his long mustache. &ldquo;You
  tell the colonel in the presence of other officers that an officer has
  stolen...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not to blame that the conversation began in the presence of other
  officers. Perhaps I ought not to have spoken before them, but I am not a
  diplomatist. That&rsquo;s why I joined the hussars, thinking that here one would
  not need finesse; and he tells me that I am lying&mdash;so let him give me
  satisfaction...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all right. No one thinks you a coward, but that&rsquo;s not the point.
  Ask Denísov whether it is not out of the question for a cadet to demand
  satisfaction of his regimental commander?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Denísov sat gloomily biting his mustache and listening to the
  conversation, evidently with no wish to take part in it. He answered the
  staff captain&rsquo;s question by a disapproving shake of his head.
<br />
  &ldquo;You speak to the colonel about this nasty business before other
  officers,&rdquo; continued the staff captain, &ldquo;and Bogdánich&rdquo; (the colonel was
  called Bogdánich) &ldquo;shuts you up.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He did not shut me up, he said I was telling an untruth.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, have it so, and you talked a lot of nonsense to him and must
  apologize.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Not on any account!&rdquo; exclaimed Rostóv.
<br />
  &ldquo;I did not expect this of you,&rdquo; said the staff captain seriously and
  severely. &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t wish to apologize, but, man, it&rsquo;s not only to him but
  to the whole regiment&mdash;all of us&mdash;you&rsquo;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&rsquo;t see it like that. And Bogdánich was a brick:
  he told you you were saying what was not true. It&rsquo;s not pleasant, but
  what&rsquo;s to be done, my dear fellow? You landed yourself in it. And now,
  when one wants to smooth the thing over, some conceit prevents your
  apologizing, and you wish to make the whole affair public. You are
  offended at being put on duty a bit, but why not apologize to an old and
  honorable officer? Whatever Bogdánich may be, anyway he is an honorable
  and brave old colonel! You&rsquo;re quick at taking offense, but you don&rsquo;t mind
  disgracing the whole regiment!&rdquo; The staff captain&rsquo;s voice began to
  tremble. &ldquo;You have been in the regiment next to no time, my lad, you&rsquo;re
  here today and tomorrow you&rsquo;ll be appointed adjutant somewhere and can
  snap your fingers when it is said &lsquo;There are thieves among the Pávlograd
  officers!&rsquo; But it&rsquo;s not all the same to us! Am I not right, Denísov? It&rsquo;s
  not the same!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Denísov remained silent and did not move, but occasionally looked with his
  glittering black eyes at Rostóv.
<br />
  &ldquo;You value your own pride and don&rsquo;t wish to apologize,&rdquo; continued the
  staff captain, &ldquo;but we old fellows, who have grown up in and, God willing,
  are going to die in the regiment, we prize the honor of the regiment, and
  Bogdánich knows it. Oh, we do prize it, old fellow! And all this is not
  right, it&rsquo;s not right! You may take offense or not but I always stick to
  mother truth. It&rsquo;s not right!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And the staff captain rose and turned away from Rostóv.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s twue, devil take it!&rdquo; shouted Denísov, jumping up. &ldquo;Now then,
  Wostóv, now then!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Rostóv, growing red and pale alternately, looked first at one
  officer and then at the other.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, gentlemen, no... you mustn&rsquo;t think... I quite understand. You&rsquo;re
  wrong to think that of me... I... for me... for the honor of the regiment
  I&rsquo;d... Ah well, I&rsquo;ll show that in action, and for me the honor of the
  flag... Well, never mind, it&rsquo;s true I&rsquo;m to blame, to blame all round.
  Well, what else do you want?...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Come, that&rsquo;s right, Count!&rdquo; cried the staff captain, turning round and
  clapping Rostóv on the shoulder with his big hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;I tell you,&rdquo; shouted Denísov, &ldquo;he&rsquo;s a fine fellow.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s better, Count,&rdquo; said the staff captain, beginning to address
  Rostóv by his title, as if in recognition of his confession. &ldquo;Go and
  apologize, your excellency. Yes, go!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Gentlemen, I&rsquo;ll do anything. No one shall hear a word from me,&rdquo; said
  Rostóv in an imploring voice, &ldquo;but I can&rsquo;t apologize, by God I can&rsquo;t, do
  what you will! How can I go and apologize like a little boy asking
  forgiveness?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Denísov began to laugh.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;ll be worse for you. Bogdánich is vindictive and you&rsquo;ll pay for your
  obstinacy,&rdquo; said Kírsten.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, on my word it&rsquo;s not obstinacy! I can&rsquo;t describe the feeling. I
  can&rsquo;t...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, it&rsquo;s as you like,&rdquo; said the staff captain. &ldquo;And what has become of
  that scoundrel?&rdquo; he asked Denísov.
<br />
  &ldquo;He has weported himself sick, he&rsquo;s to be stwuck off the list tomowwow,&rdquo;
   muttered Denísov.
<br />
  &ldquo;It is an illness, there&rsquo;s no other way of explaining it,&rdquo; said the staff
  captain.
<br />
  &ldquo;Illness or not, he&rsquo;d better not cwoss my path. I&rsquo;d kill him!&rdquo; shouted
  Denísov in a bloodthirsty tone.
<br />
  Just then Zherkóv entered the room.
<br />
  &ldquo;What brings you here?&rdquo; cried the officers turning to the newcomer.
<br />
  &ldquo;We&rsquo;re to go into action, gentlemen! Mack has surrendered with his whole
  army.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not true!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve seen him myself!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What? Saw the real Mack? With hands and feet?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Into action! Into action! Bring him a bottle for such news! But how did
  you come here?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been sent back to the regiment all on account of that devil, Mack.
  An Austrian general complained of me. I congratulated him on Mack&rsquo;s
  arrival... What&rsquo;s the matter, Rostóv? You look as if you&rsquo;d just come out
  of a hot bath.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, my dear fellow, we&rsquo;re in such a stew here these last two days.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The regimental adjutant came in and confirmed the news brought by Zherkóv.
  They were under orders to advance next day.
<br />
  &ldquo;We&rsquo;re going into action, gentlemen!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, thank God! We&rsquo;ve been sitting here too long!&rdquo;

  CHAPTER VI


  Kutúzov fell back toward Vienna, destroying behind him the bridges over
  the rivers Inn (at Braunau) and Traun (near Linz). On October 23 the
  Russian troops were crossing the river Enns. At midday the Russian baggage
  train, the artillery, and columns of troops were defiling through the town
  of Enns on both sides of the bridge.
<br />
  It was a warm, rainy, autumnal day. The wide expanse that opened out
  before the heights on which the Russian batteries stood guarding the
  bridge was at times veiled by a diaphanous curtain of slanting rain, and
  then, suddenly spread out in the sunlight, far-distant objects could be
  clearly seen glittering as though freshly varnished. Down below, the
  little town could be seen with its white, red-roofed houses, its
  cathedral, and its bridge, on both sides of which streamed jostling masses
  of Russian troops. At the bend of the Danube, vessels, an island, and a
  castle with a park surrounded by the waters of the confluence of the Enns
  and the Danube became visible, and the rocky left bank of the Danube
  covered with pine forests, with a mystic background of green treetops and
  bluish gorges. The turrets of a convent stood out beyond a wild virgin
  pine forest, and far away on the other side of the Enns the enemy&rsquo;s horse
  patrols could be discerned.
<br />
  Among the field guns on the brow of the hill the general in command of the
  rearguard stood with a staff officer, scanning the country through his
  fieldglass. A little behind them Nesvítski, who had been sent to the
  rearguard by the commander in chief, was sitting on the trail of a gun
  carriage. A Cossack who accompanied him had handed him a knapsack and a
  flask, and Nesvítski was treating some officers to pies and real
  . The officers gladly gathered round him, some on their knees,
  some squatting Turkish fashion on the wet grass.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, the Austrian prince who built that castle was no fool. It&rsquo;s a fine
  place! Why are you not eating anything, gentlemen?&rdquo; Nesvítski was saying.
<br />
  &ldquo;Thank you very much, Prince,&rdquo; answered one of the officers, pleased to be
  talking to a staff officer of such importance. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a lovely place! We
  passed close to the park and saw two deer... and what a splendid house!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Look, Prince,&rdquo; said another, who would have dearly liked to take another
  pie but felt shy, and therefore pretended to be examining the countryside&mdash;&ldquo;See,
  our infantrymen have already got there. Look there in the meadow behind
  the village, three of them are dragging something. They&rsquo;ll ransack that
  castle,&rdquo; he remarked with evident approval.
<br />
  &ldquo;So they will,&rdquo; said Nesvítski. &ldquo;No, but what I should like,&rdquo; added he,
  munching a pie in his moist-lipped handsome mouth, &ldquo;would be to slip in
  over there.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He pointed with a smile to a turreted nunnery, and his eyes narrowed and
  gleamed.
<br />
  &ldquo;That would be fine, gentlemen!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The officers laughed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Just to flutter the nuns a bit. They say there are Italian girls among
  them. On my word I&rsquo;d give five years of my life for it!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;They must be feeling dull, too,&rdquo; said one of the bolder officers,
  laughing.
<br />
  Meanwhile the staff officer standing in front pointed out something to the
  general, who looked through his field glass.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, so it is, so it is,&rdquo; said the general angrily, lowering the field
  glass and shrugging his shoulders, &ldquo;so it is! They&rsquo;ll be fired on at the
  crossing. And why are they dawdling there?&rdquo;
 <br />
  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.
<br />
  Nesvítski rose, puffing, and went up to the general, smiling.
<br />
  &ldquo;Would not your excellency like a little refreshment?&rdquo; he said.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a bad business,&rdquo; said the general without answering him, &ldquo;our men
  have been wasting time.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Hadn&rsquo;t I better ride over, your excellency?&rdquo; asked Nesvítski.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, please do,&rdquo; answered the general, and he repeated the order that had
  already once been given in detail: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Very good,&rdquo; answered Nesvítski.
<br />
  He called the Cossack with his horse, told him to put away the knapsack
  and flask, and swung his heavy person easily into the saddle.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll really call in on the nuns,&rdquo; he said to the officers who watched him
  smilingly, and he rode off by the winding path down the hill.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now then, let&rsquo;s see how far it will carry, Captain. Just try!&rdquo; said the
  general, turning to an artillery officer. &ldquo;Have a little fun to pass the
  time.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Crew, to your guns!&rdquo; commanded the officer.
<br />
  In a moment the men came running gaily from their campfires and began
  loading.
<br />
  &ldquo;One!&rdquo; came the command.
<br />
  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.
<br />
  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&rsquo;s throw away, and the movements of the approaching enemy
  farther off. At the same instant the sun came fully out from behind the
  clouds, and the clear sound of the solitary shot and the brilliance of the
  bright sunshine merged in a single joyous and spirited impression.

  CHAPTER VII


  Two of the enemy&rsquo;s shots had already flown across the bridge, where there
  was a crush. Halfway across stood Prince Nesvítski, who had alighted from
  his horse and whose big body was jammed against the railings. He looked
  back laughing to the Cossack who stood a few steps behind him holding two
  horses by their bridles. Each time Prince Nesvítski tried to move on,
  soldiers and carts pushed him back again and pressed him against the
  railings, and all he could do was to smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;What a fine fellow you are, friend!&rdquo; said the Cossack to a convoy soldier
  with a wagon, who was pressing onto the infantrymen who were crowded
  together close to his wheels and his horses. &ldquo;What a fellow! You can&rsquo;t
  wait a moment! Don&rsquo;t you see the general wants to pass?&rdquo;
 <br />
  But the convoyman took no notice of the word &ldquo;general&rdquo; and shouted at the
  soldiers who were blocking his way. &ldquo;Hi there, boys! Keep to the left!
  Wait a bit.&rdquo; But the soldiers, crowded together shoulder to shoulder,
  their bayonets interlocking, moved over the bridge in a dense mass.
  Looking down over the rails Prince Nesvítski saw the rapid, noisy little
  waves of the Enns, which rippling and eddying round the piles of the
  bridge chased each other along. Looking on the bridge he saw equally
  uniform living waves of soldiers, shoulder straps, covered shakos,
  knapsacks, bayonets, long muskets, and, under the shakos, faces with broad
  cheekbones, sunken cheeks, and listless tired expressions, and feet that
  moved through the sticky mud that covered the planks of the bridge.
  Sometimes through the monotonous waves of men, like a fleck of white foam
  on the waves of the Enns, an officer, in a cloak and with a type of face
  different from that of the men, squeezed his way along; sometimes like a
  chip of wood whirling in the river, an hussar on foot, an orderly, or a
  townsman was carried through the waves of infantry; and sometimes like a
  log floating down the river, an officers&rsquo; or company&rsquo;s baggage wagon,
  piled high, leather covered, and hemmed in on all sides, moved across the
  bridge.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s as if a dam had burst,&rdquo; said the Cossack hopelessly. &ldquo;Are there many
  more of you to come?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A million all but one!&rdquo; replied a waggish soldier in a torn coat, with a
  wink, and passed on followed by another, an old man.
<br />
  &ldquo;If &rdquo; ( meant the enemy) &ldquo;begins popping at the bridge now,&rdquo; said the
  old soldier dismally to a comrade, &ldquo;you&rsquo;ll forget to scratch yourself.&rdquo;
 <br />
  That soldier passed on, and after him came another sitting on a cart.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where the devil have the leg bands been shoved to?&rdquo; said an orderly,
  running behind the cart and fumbling in the back of it.
<br />
  And he also passed on with the wagon. Then came some merry soldiers who
  had evidently been drinking.
<br />
  &ldquo;And then, old fellow, he gives him one in the teeth with the butt end of
  his gun...&rdquo; a soldier whose greatcoat was well tucked up said gaily, with
  a wide swing of his arm.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, the ham was just delicious...&rdquo; answered another with a loud laugh.
  And they, too, passed on, so that Nesvítski did not learn who had been
  struck on the teeth, or what the ham had to do with it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Bah! How they scurry. He just sends a ball and they think they&rsquo;ll all be
  killed,&rdquo; a sergeant was saying angrily and reproachfully.
<br />
  &ldquo;As it flies past me, Daddy, the ball I mean,&rdquo; said a young soldier with
  an enormous mouth, hardly refraining from laughing, &ldquo;I felt like dying of
  fright. I did, &lsquo;pon my word, I got that frightened!&rdquo; said he, as if
  bragging of having been frightened.
<br />
  That one also passed. Then followed a cart unlike any that had gone
  before. It was a German cart with a pair of horses led by a German, and
  seemed loaded with a whole houseful of effects. A fine brindled cow with a
  large udder was attached to the cart behind. A woman with an unweaned
  baby, an old woman, and a healthy German girl with bright red cheeks were
  sitting on some feather beds. Evidently these fugitives were allowed to
  pass by special permission. The eyes of all the soldiers turned toward the
  women, and while the vehicle was passing at foot pace all the soldiers&rsquo;
  remarks related to the two young ones. Every face bore almost the same
  smile, expressing unseemly thoughts about the women.
<br />
  &ldquo;Just see, the German sausage is making tracks, too!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Sell me the missis,&rdquo; said another soldier, addressing the German, who,
  angry and frightened, strode energetically along with downcast eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;See how smart she&rsquo;s made herself! Oh, the devils!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;There, Fedótov, you should be quartered on them!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I have seen as much before now, mate!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Where are you going?&rdquo; asked an infantry officer who was eating an apple,
  also half smiling as he looked at the handsome girl.
<br />
  The German closed his eyes, signifying that he did not understand.
<br />
  &ldquo;Take it if you like,&rdquo; said the officer, giving the girl an apple.
<br />
  The girl smiled and took it. Nesvítski like the rest of the men on the
  bridge did not take his eyes off the women till they had passed. When they
  had gone by, the same stream of soldiers followed, with the same kind of
  talk, and at last all stopped. As often happens, the horses of a convoy
  wagon became restive at the end of the bridge, and the whole crowd had to
  wait.
<br />
  &ldquo;And why are they stopping? There&rsquo;s no proper order!&rdquo; said the soldiers.
  &ldquo;Where are you shoving to? Devil take you! Can&rsquo;t you wait? It&rsquo;ll be worse
  if he fires the bridge. See, here&rsquo;s an officer jammed in too&rdquo;&mdash;different
  voices were saying in the crowd, as the men looked at one another, and all
  pressed toward the exit from the bridge.
<br />
  Looking down at the waters of the Enns under the bridge, Nesvítski
  suddenly heard a sound new to him, of something swiftly approaching...
  something big, that splashed into the water.
<br />
  &ldquo;Just see where it carries to!&rdquo; a soldier near by said sternly, looking
  round at the sound.
<br />
  &ldquo;Encouraging us to get along quicker,&rdquo; said another uneasily.
<br />
  The crowd moved on again. Nesvítski realized that it was a cannon ball.
<br />
  &ldquo;Hey, Cossack, my horse!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Now, then, you there! get out of the
  way! Make way!&rdquo;
 <br />
  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.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nesvítski, Nesvítski! you numskull!&rdquo; came a hoarse voice from behind him.
<br />
  Nesvítski looked round and saw, some fifteen paces away but separated by
  the living mass of moving infantry, Váska Denísov, red and shaggy, with
  his cap on the back of his black head and a cloak hanging jauntily over
  his shoulder.
<br />
  &ldquo;Tell these devils, these fiends, to let me pass!&rdquo; shouted Denísov
  evidently in a fit of rage, his coal-black eyes with their bloodshot
  whites glittering and rolling as he waved his sheathed saber in a small
  bare hand as red as his face.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, Váska!&rdquo; joyfully replied Nesvítski. &ldquo;What&rsquo;s up with you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The squadwon can&rsquo;t pass,&rdquo; shouted Váska Denísov, showing his white teeth
  fiercely and spurring his black thoroughbred Arab, which twitched its ears
  as the bayonets touched it, and snorted, spurting white foam from his bit,
  tramping the planks of the bridge with his hoofs, and apparently ready to
  jump over the railings had his rider let him. &ldquo;What is this? They&rsquo;re like
  sheep! Just like sheep! Out of the way!... Let us pass!... Stop there, you
  devil with the cart! I&rsquo;ll hack you with my saber!&rdquo; he shouted, actually
  drawing his saber from its scabbard and flourishing it.
<br />
  The soldiers crowded against one another with terrified faces, and Denísov
  joined Nesvítski.
<br />
  &ldquo;How&rsquo;s it you&rsquo;re not drunk today?&rdquo; said Nesvítski when the other had
  ridden up to him.
<br />
  &ldquo;They don&rsquo;t even give one time to dwink!&rdquo; answered Váska Denísov. &ldquo;They
  keep dwagging the wegiment to and fwo all day. If they mean to fight,
  let&rsquo;s fight. But the devil knows what this is.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What a dandy you are today!&rdquo; said Nesvítski, looking at Denísov&rsquo;s new
  cloak and saddlecloth.
<br />
  Denísov smiled, took out of his sabretache a handkerchief that diffused a
  smell of perfume, and put it to Nesvítski&rsquo;s nose.
<br />
  &ldquo;Of course. I&rsquo;m going into action! I&rsquo;ve shaved, bwushed my teeth, and
  scented myself.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The imposing figure of Nesvítski followed by his Cossack, and the
  determination of Denísov who flourished his sword and shouted frantically,
  had such an effect that they managed to squeeze through to the farther
  side of the bridge and stopped the infantry. Beside the bridge Nesvítski
  found the colonel to whom he had to deliver the order, and having done
  this he rode back.
<br />
  Having cleared the way Denísov stopped at the end of the bridge.
  Carelessly holding in his stallion that was neighing and pawing the
  ground, eager to rejoin its fellows, he watched his squadron draw nearer.
  Then the clang of hoofs, as of several horses galloping, resounded on the
  planks of the bridge, and the squadron, officers in front and men four
  abreast, spread across the bridge and began to emerge on his side of it.
<br />
  The infantry who had been stopped crowded near the bridge in the trampled
  mud and gazed with that particular feeling of ill-will, estrangement, and
  ridicule with which troops of different arms usually encounter one another
  at the clean, smart hussars who moved past them in regular order.
<br />
  &ldquo;Smart lads! Only fit for a fair!&rdquo; said one.
<br />
  &ldquo;What good are they? They&rsquo;re led about just for show!&rdquo; remarked another.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t kick up the dust, you infantry!&rdquo; jested an hussar whose prancing
  horse had splashed mud over some foot soldiers.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;d like to put you on a two days&rsquo; march with a knapsack! Your fine cords
  would soon get a bit rubbed,&rdquo; said an infantryman, wiping the mud off his
  face with his sleeve. &ldquo;Perched up there, you&rsquo;re more like a bird than a
  man.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;There now, Zíkin, they ought to put you on a horse. You&rsquo;d look fine,&rdquo;
   said a corporal, chaffing a thin little soldier who bent under the weight
  of his knapsack.
<br />
  &ldquo;Take a stick between your legs, that&rsquo;ll suit you for a horse!&rdquo; the hussar
  shouted back.

  CHAPTER VIII


  The last of the infantry hurriedly crossed the bridge, squeezing together
  as they approached it as if passing through a funnel. At last the baggage
  wagons had all crossed, the crush was less, and the last battalion came
  onto the bridge. Only Denísov&rsquo;s squadron of hussars remained on the
  farther side of the bridge facing the enemy, who could be seen from the
  hill on the opposite bank but was not yet visible from the bridge, for the
  horizon as seen from the valley through which the river flowed was formed
  by the rising ground only half a mile away. At the foot of the hill lay
  wasteland over which a few groups of our Cossack scouts were moving.
  Suddenly on the road at the top of the high ground, artillery and troops
  in blue uniform were seen. These were the French. A group of Cossack
  scouts retired down the hill at a trot. All the officers and men of
  Denísov&rsquo;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&rsquo;s troops. The weather had cleared again since
  noon and the sun was descending brightly upon the Danube and the dark
  hills around it. It was calm, and at intervals the bugle calls and the
  shouts of the enemy could be heard from the hill. There was no one now
  between the squadron and the enemy except a few scattered skirmishers. An
  empty space of some seven hundred yards was all that separated them. The
  enemy ceased firing, and that stern, threatening, inaccessible, and
  intangible line which separates two hostile armies was all the more
  clearly felt.
<br />
  &ldquo;One step beyond that boundary line which resembles the line dividing the
  living from the dead lies uncertainty, suffering, and death. And what is
  there? Who is there?&mdash;there beyond that field, that tree, that roof
  lit up by the sun? No one knows, but one wants to know. You fear and yet
  long to cross that line, and know that sooner or later it must be crossed
  and you will have to find out what is there, just as you will inevitably
  have to learn what lies the other side of death. But you are strong,
  healthy, cheerful, and excited, and are surrounded by other such excitedly
  animated and healthy men.&rdquo; 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.
<br />
  On the high ground where the enemy was, the smoke of a cannon rose, and a
  ball flew whistling over the heads of the hussar squadron. The officers
  who had been standing together rode off to their places. The hussars began
  carefully aligning their horses. Silence fell on the whole squadron. All
  were looking at the enemy in front and at the squadron commander, awaiting
  the word of command. A second and a third cannon ball flew past. Evidently
  they were firing at the hussars, but the balls with rapid rhythmic whistle
  flew over the heads of the horsemen and fell somewhere beyond them. The
  hussars did not look round, but at the sound of each shot, as at the word
  of command, the whole squadron with its rows of faces so alike yet so
  different, holding its breath while the ball flew past, rose in the
  stirrups and sank back again. The soldiers without turning their heads
  glanced at one another, curious to see their comrades&rsquo; impression. Every
  face, from Denísov&rsquo;s to that of the bugler, showed one common expression
  of conflict, irritation, and excitement, around chin and mouth. The
  quartermaster frowned, looking at the soldiers as if threatening to punish
  them. Cadet Mirónov ducked every time a ball flew past. Rostóv on the left
  flank, mounted on his Rook&mdash;a handsome horse despite its game leg&mdash;had
  the happy air of a schoolboy called up before a large audience for an
  examination in which he feels sure he will distinguish himself. He was
  glancing at everyone with a clear, bright expression, as if asking them to
  notice how calmly he sat under fire. But despite himself, on his face too
  that same indication of something new and stern showed round the mouth.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who&rsquo;s that curtseying there? Cadet Miwónov! That&rsquo;s not wight! Look at
  me,&rdquo; cried Denísov who, unable to keep still on one spot, kept turning his
  horse in front of the squadron.
<br />
  The black, hairy, snub-nosed face of Váska Denísov, and his whole short
  sturdy figure with the sinewy hairy hand and stumpy fingers in which he
  held the hilt of his naked saber, looked just as it usually did,
  especially toward evening when he had emptied his second bottle; he was
  only redder than usual. With his shaggy head thrown back like birds when
  they drink, pressing his spurs mercilessly into the sides of his good
  horse, Bedouin, and sitting as though falling backwards in the saddle, he
  galloped to the other flank of the squadron and shouted in a hoarse voice
  to the men to look to their pistols. He rode up to Kírsten. The staff
  captain on his broad-backed, steady mare came at a walk to meet him. His
  face with its long mustache was serious as always, only his eyes were
  brighter than usual.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, what about it?&rdquo; said he to Denísov. &ldquo;It won&rsquo;t come to a fight.
  You&rsquo;ll see&mdash;we shall retire.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The devil only knows what they&rsquo;re about!&rdquo; muttered Denísov. &ldquo;Ah, Wostóv,&rdquo;
   he cried noticing the cadet&rsquo;s bright face, &ldquo;you&rsquo;ve got it at last.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And he smiled approvingly, evidently pleased with the cadet. Rostóv felt
  perfectly happy. Just then the commander appeared on the bridge. Denísov
  galloped up to him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your excellency! Let us attack them! I&rsquo;ll dwive them off.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Attack indeed!&rdquo; said the colonel in a bored voice, puckering up his face
  as if driving off a troublesome fly. &ldquo;And why are you stopping here? Don&rsquo;t
  you see the skirmishers are retreating? Lead the squadron back.&rdquo;
 <br />
  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.
<br />
  The two Pávlograd squadrons, having crossed the bridge, retired up the
  hill one after the other. Their colonel, Karl Bogdánich Schubert, came up
  to Denísov&rsquo;s squadron and rode at a footpace not far from Rostóv, without
  taking any notice of him although they were now meeting for the first time
  since their encounter concerning Telyánin. Rostóv, feeling that he was at
  the front and in the power of a man toward whom he now admitted that he
  had been to blame, did not lift his eyes from the colonel&rsquo;s athletic back,
  his nape covered with light hair, and his red neck. It seemed to Rostóv
  that Bogdánich was only pretending not to notice him, and that his whole
  aim now was to test the cadet&rsquo;s courage, so he drew himself up and looked
  around him merrily; then it seemed to him that Bogdánich rode so near in
  order to show him his courage. Next he thought that his enemy would send
  the squadron on a desperate attack just to punish him&mdash;Rostóv. Then
  he imagined how, after the attack, Bogdánich would come up to him as he
  lay wounded and would magnanimously extend the hand of reconciliation.
<br />
  The high-shouldered figure of Zherkóv, familiar to the Pávlograds as he
  had but recently left their regiment, rode up to the colonel. After his
  dismissal from headquarters Zherkóv had not remained in the regiment,
  saying he was not such a fool as to slave at the front when he could get
  more rewards by doing nothing on the staff, and had succeeded in attaching
  himself as an orderly officer to Prince Bagratión. He now came to his
  former chief with an order from the commander of the rear guard.
<br />
  &ldquo;Colonel,&rdquo; he said, addressing Rostóv&rsquo;s enemy with an air of gloomy
  gravity and glancing round at his comrades, &ldquo;there is an order to stop and
  fire the bridge.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;An order to who?&rdquo; asked the colonel morosely.
<br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t myself know &lsquo;to who,&rsquo;&rdquo; replied the cornet in a serious tone, &ldquo;but
  the prince told me to &lsquo;go and tell the colonel that the hussars must
  return quickly and fire the bridge.&rsquo;&rdquo;
 <br />
  Zherkóv was followed by an officer of the suite who rode up to the colonel
  of hussars with the same order. After him the stout Nesvítski came
  galloping up on a Cossack horse that could scarcely carry his weight.
<br />
  &ldquo;How&rsquo;s this, Colonel?&rdquo; he shouted as he approached. &ldquo;I told you to fire
  the bridge, and now someone has gone and blundered; they are all beside
  themselves over there and one can&rsquo;t make anything out.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The colonel deliberately stopped the regiment and turned to Nesvítski.
<br />
  &ldquo;You spoke to me of inflammable material,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;but you said nothing
  about firing it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But, my dear sir,&rdquo; said Nesvítski as he drew up, taking off his cap and
  smoothing his hair wet with perspiration with his plump hand, &ldquo;wasn&rsquo;t I
  telling you to fire the bridge, when inflammable material had been put in
  position?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am not your &lsquo;dear sir,&rsquo; 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 burn it, I could
  not know by the holy spirit!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah, that&rsquo;s always the way!&rdquo; said Nesvítski with a wave of the hand. &ldquo;How
  did you get here?&rdquo; said he, turning to Zherkóv.
<br />
  &ldquo;On the same business. But you  damp! Let me wring you out!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You were saying, Mr. Staff Officer...&rdquo; continued the colonel in an
  offended tone.
<br />
  &ldquo;Colonel,&rdquo; interrupted the officer of the suite, &ldquo;You must be quick or the
  enemy will bring up his guns to use grapeshot.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The colonel looked silently at the officer of the suite, at the stout
  staff officer, and at Zherkóv, and he frowned.
<br />
  &ldquo;I will the bridge fire,&rdquo; he said in a solemn tone as if to announce that
  in spite of all the unpleasantness he had to endure he would still do the
  right thing.
<br />
  Striking his horse with his long muscular legs as if it were to blame for
  everything, the colonel moved forward and ordered the second squadron,
  that in which Rostóv was serving under Denísov, to return to the bridge.
<br />
  &ldquo;There, it&rsquo;s just as I thought,&rdquo; said Rostóv to himself. &ldquo;He wishes to
  test me!&rdquo; His heart contracted and the blood rushed to his face. &ldquo;Let him
  see whether I am a coward!&rdquo; he thought.
<br />
  Again on all the bright faces of the squadron the serious expression
  appeared that they had worn when under fire. Rostóv watched his enemy, the
  colonel, closely&mdash;to find in his face confirmation of his own
  conjecture, but the colonel did not once glance at Rostóv, and looked as
  he always did when at the front, solemn and stern. Then came the word of
  command.
<br />
  &ldquo;Look sharp! Look sharp!&rdquo; several voices repeated around him.
<br />
  Their sabers catching in the bridles and their spurs jingling, the hussars
  hastily dismounted, not knowing what they were to do. The men were
  crossing themselves. Rostóv no longer looked at the colonel, he had no
  time. He was afraid of falling behind the hussars, so much afraid that his
  heart stood still. His hand trembled as he gave his horse into an
  orderly&rsquo;s charge, and he felt the blood rush to his heart with a thud.
  Denísov rode past him, leaning back and shouting something. Rostóv saw
  nothing but the hussars running all around him, their spurs catching and
  their sabers clattering.
<br />
  &ldquo;Stretchers!&rdquo; shouted someone behind him.
<br />
  Rostóv did not think what this call for stretchers meant; he ran on,
  trying only to be ahead of the others; but just at the bridge, not looking
  at the ground, he came on some sticky, trodden mud, stumbled, and fell on
  his hands. The others outstripped him.
<br />
  &ldquo;At boss zides, Captain,&rdquo; he heard the voice of the colonel, who, having
  ridden ahead, had pulled up his horse near the bridge, with a triumphant,
  cheerful face.
<br />
  Rostóv wiping his muddy hands on his breeches looked at his enemy and was
  about to run on, thinking that the farther he went to the front the
  better. But Bogdánich, without looking at or recognizing Rostóv, shouted
  to him:
<br />
  &ldquo;Who&rsquo;s that running on the middle of the bridge? To the right! Come back,
  Cadet!&rdquo; he cried angrily; and turning to Denísov, who, showing off his
  courage, had ridden on to the planks of the bridge:
<br />
  &ldquo;Why run risks, Captain? You should dismount,&rdquo; he said.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, every bullet has its billet,&rdquo; answered Váska Denísov, turning in his
  saddle.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  Meanwhile Nesvítski, Zherkóv, and the officer of the suite were standing
  together out of range of the shots, watching, now the small group of men
  with yellow shakos, dark-green jackets braided with cord, and blue riding
  breeches, who were swarming near the bridge, and then at what was
  approaching in the distance from the opposite side&mdash;the blue uniforms
  and groups with horses, easily recognizable as artillery.
<br />
  &ldquo;Will they burn the bridge or not? Who&rsquo;ll get there first? Will they get
  there and fire the bridge or will the French get within grapeshot range
  and wipe them out?&rdquo; These were the questions each man of the troops on the
  high ground above the bridge involuntarily asked himself with a sinking
  heart&mdash;watching the bridge and the hussars in the bright evening
  light and the blue tunics advancing from the other side with their
  bayonets and guns.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ugh. The hussars will get it hot!&rdquo; said Nesvítski; &ldquo;they are within
  grapeshot range now.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He shouldn&rsquo;t have taken so many men,&rdquo; said the officer of the suite.
<br />
  &ldquo;True enough,&rdquo; answered Nesvítski; &ldquo;two smart fellows could have done the
  job just as well.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah, your excellency,&rdquo; put in Zherkóv, his eyes fixed on the hussars, but
  still with that naïve air that made it impossible to know whether he was
  speaking in jest or in earnest. &ldquo;Ah, your excellency! How you look at
  things! Send two men? And who then would give us the Vladímir medal and
  ribbon? But now, even if they do get peppered, the squadron may be
  recommended for honors and he may get a ribbon. Our Bogdánich knows how
  things are done.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;There now!&rdquo; said the officer of the suite, &ldquo;that&rsquo;s grapeshot.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He pointed to the French guns, the limbers of which were being detached
  and hurriedly removed.
<br />
  On the French side, amid the groups with cannon, a cloud of smoke
  appeared, then a second and a third almost simultaneously, and at the
  moment when the first report was heard a fourth was seen. Then two reports
  one after another, and a third.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh! Oh!&rdquo; groaned Nesvítski as if in fierce pain, seizing the officer of
  the suite by the arm. &ldquo;Look! A man has fallen! Fallen, fallen!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Two, I think.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;If I were Tsar I would never go to war,&rdquo; said Nesvítski, turning away.
<br />
  The French guns were hastily reloaded. The infantry in their blue uniforms
  advanced toward the bridge at a run. Smoke appeared again but at irregular
  intervals, and grapeshot cracked and rattled onto the bridge. But this
  time Nesvítski could not see what was happening there, as a dense cloud of
  smoke arose from it. The hussars had succeeded in setting it on fire and
  the French batteries were now firing at them, no longer to hinder them but
  because the guns were trained and there was someone to fire at.
<br />
  The French had time to fire three rounds of grapeshot before the hussars
  got back to their horses. Two were misdirected and the shot went too high,
  but the last round fell in the midst of a group of hussars and knocked
  three of them over.
<br />
  Rostóv, absorbed by his relations with Bogdánich, had paused on the bridge
  not knowing what to do. There was no one to hew down (as he had always
  imagined battles to himself), nor could he help to fire the bridge because
  he had not brought any burning straw with him like the other soldiers. He
  stood looking about him, when suddenly he heard a rattle on the bridge as
  if nuts were being spilt, and the hussar nearest to him fell against the
  rails with a groan. Rostóv ran up to him with the others. Again someone
  shouted, &ldquo;Stretchers!&rdquo; Four men seized the hussar and began lifting him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oooh! For Christ&rsquo;s sake let me alone!&rdquo; cried the wounded man, but still
  he was lifted and laid on the stretcher.
<br />
  Nicholas Rostóv turned away and, as if searching for something, gazed into
  the distance, at the waters of the Danube, at the sky, and at the sun. How
  beautiful the sky looked; how blue, how calm, and how deep! How bright and
  glorious was the setting sun! With what soft glitter the waters of the
  distant Danube shone. And fairer still were the faraway blue mountains
  beyond the river, the nunnery, the mysterious gorges, and the pine forests
  veiled in the mist of their summits... There was peace and happiness... &ldquo;I
  should wish for nothing else, nothing, if only I were there,&rdquo; thought
  Rostóv. &ldquo;In myself alone and in that sunshine there is so much happiness;
  but here... groans, suffering, fear, and this uncertainty and hurry...
  There&mdash;they are shouting again, and again are all running back
  somewhere, and I shall run with them, and it, death, is here above me and
  around... Another instant and I shall never again see the sun, this water,
  that gorge!...&rdquo;
 <br />
  At that instant the sun began to hide behind the clouds, and other
  stretchers came into view before Rostóv. And the fear of death and of the
  stretchers, and love of the sun and of life, all merged into one feeling
  of sickening agitation.
<br />
  &ldquo;O Lord God! Thou who art in that heaven, save, forgive, and protect me!&rdquo;
   Rostóv whispered.
<br />
  The hussars ran back to the men who held their horses; their voices
  sounded louder and calmer, the stretchers disappeared from sight.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, fwiend? So you&rsquo;ve smelt powdah!&rdquo; shouted Váska Denísov just above
  his ear.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all over; but I am a coward&mdash;yes, a coward!&rdquo; thought Rostóv,
  and sighing deeply he took Rook, his horse, which stood resting one foot,
  from the orderly and began to mount.
<br />
  &ldquo;Was that grapeshot?&rdquo; he asked Denísov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes and no mistake!&rdquo; cried Denísov. &ldquo;You worked like wegular bwicks and
  it&rsquo;s nasty work! An attack&rsquo;s pleasant work! Hacking away at the dogs! But
  this sort of thing is the very devil, with them shooting at you like a
  target.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And Denísov rode up to a group that had stopped near Rostóv, composed of
  the colonel, Nesvítski, Zherkóv, and the officer from the suite.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, it seems that no one has noticed,&rdquo; thought Rostóv. And this was
  true. No one had taken any notice, for everyone knew the sensation which
  the cadet under fire for the first time had experienced.
<br />
  &ldquo;Here&rsquo;s something for you to report,&rdquo; said Zherkóv. &ldquo;See if I don&rsquo;t get
  promoted to a sublieutenancy.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Inform the prince that I the bridge fired!&rdquo; said the colonel triumphantly
  and gaily.
<br />
  &ldquo;And if he asks about the losses?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A trifle,&rdquo; said the colonel in his bass voice: &ldquo;two hussars wounded, and
  one knocked out,&rdquo; he added, unable to restrain a happy smile, and
  pronouncing the phrase &ldquo;knocked out&rdquo; with ringing distinctness.

  CHAPTER IX


  Pursued by the French army of a hundred thousand men under the command of
  Bonaparte, encountering a population that was unfriendly to it, losing
  confidence in its allies, suffering from shortness of supplies, and
  compelled to act under conditions of war unlike anything that had been
  foreseen, the Russian army of thirty-five thousand men commanded by
  Kutúzov was hurriedly retreating along the Danube, stopping where
  overtaken by the enemy and fighting rearguard actions only as far as
  necessary to enable it to retreat without losing its heavy equipment.
  There had been actions at Lambach, Amstetten, and Melk; but despite the
  courage and endurance&mdash;acknowledged even by the enemy&mdash;with
  which the Russians fought, the only consequence of these actions was a yet
  more rapid retreat. Austrian troops that had escaped capture at Ulm and
  had joined Kutúzov at Braunau now separated from the Russian army, and
  Kutúzov was left with only his own weak and exhausted forces. The defense
  of Vienna was no longer to be thought of. Instead of an offensive, the
  plan of which, carefully prepared in accord with the modern science of
  strategics, had been handed to Kutúzov when he was in Vienna by the
  Austrian Hofkriegsrath, the sole and almost unattainable aim remaining for
  him was to effect a junction with the forces that were advancing from
  Russia, without losing his army as Mack had done at Ulm.
<br />
  On the twenty-eighth of October Kutúzov with his army crossed to the left
  bank of the Danube and took up a position for the first time with the
  river between himself and the main body of the French. On the thirtieth he
  attacked Mortier&rsquo;s division, which was on the left bank, and broke it up.
  In this action for the first time trophies were taken: banners, cannon,
  and two enemy generals. For the first time, after a fortnight&rsquo;s retreat,
  the Russian troops had halted and after a fight had not only held the
  field but had repulsed the French. Though the troops were ill-clad,
  exhausted, and had lost a third of their number in killed, wounded, sick,
  and stragglers; though a number of sick and wounded had been abandoned on
  the other side of the Danube with a letter in which Kutúzov entrusted them
  to the humanity of the enemy; and though the big hospitals and the houses
  in Krems converted into military hospitals could no longer accommodate all
  the sick and wounded, yet the stand made at Krems and the victory over
  Mortier raised the spirits of the army considerably. Throughout the whole
  army and at headquarters most joyful though erroneous rumors were rife of
  the imaginary approach of columns from Russia, of some victory gained by
  the Austrians, and of the retreat of the frightened Bonaparte.
<br />
  Prince Andrew during the battle had been in attendance on the Austrian
  General Schmidt, who was killed in the action. His horse had been wounded
  under him and his own arm slightly grazed by a bullet. As a mark of the
  commander in chief&rsquo;s special favor he was sent with the news of this
  victory to the Austrian court, now no longer at Vienna (which was
  threatened by the French) but at Brünn. Despite his apparently delicate
  build Prince Andrew could endure physical fatigue far better than many
  very muscular men, and on the night of the battle, having arrived at Krems
  excited but not weary, with dispatches from Dokhtúrov to Kutúzov, he was
  sent immediately with a special dispatch to Brünn. To be so sent meant not
  only a reward but an important step toward promotion.
<br />
  The night was dark but starry, the road showed black in the snow that had
  fallen the previous day&mdash;the day of the battle. Reviewing his
  impressions of the recent battle, picturing pleasantly to himself the
  impression his news of a victory would create, or recalling the send-off
  given him by the commander in chief and his fellow officers, Prince Andrew
  was galloping along in a post chaise enjoying the feelings of a man who
  has at length begun to attain a long-desired happiness. As soon as he
  closed his eyes his ears seemed filled with the rattle of the wheels and
  the sensation of victory. Then he began to imagine that the Russians were
  running away and that he himself was killed, but he quickly roused himself
  with a feeling of joy, as if learning afresh that this was not so but that
  on the contrary the French had run away. He again recalled all the details
  of the victory and his own calm courage during the battle, and feeling
  reassured he dozed off.... The dark starry night was followed by a bright
  cheerful morning. The snow was thawing in the sunshine, the horses
  galloped quickly, and on both sides of the road were forests of different
  kinds, fields, and villages.
<br />
  At one of the post stations he overtook a convoy of Russian wounded. The
  Russian officer in charge of the transport lolled back in the front cart,
  shouting and scolding a soldier with coarse abuse. In each of the long
  German carts six or more pale, dirty, bandaged men were being jolted over
  the stony road. Some of them were talking (he heard Russian words), others
  were eating bread; the more severely wounded looked silently, with the
  languid interest of sick children, at the envoy hurrying past them.
<br />
  Prince Andrew told his driver to stop, and asked a soldier in what action
  they had been wounded. &ldquo;Day before yesterday, on the Danube,&rdquo; answered the
  soldier. Prince Andrew took out his purse and gave the soldier three gold
  pieces.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s for them all,&rdquo; he said to the officer who came up.
<br />
  &ldquo;Get well soon, lads!&rdquo; he continued, turning to the soldiers. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s
  plenty to do still.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What news, sir?&rdquo; asked the officer, evidently anxious to start a
  conversation.
<br />
  &ldquo;Good news!... Go on!&rdquo; he shouted to the driver, and they galloped on.
<br />
  It was already quite dark when Prince Andrew rattled over the paved
  streets of Brünn and found himself surrounded by high buildings, the
  lights of shops, houses, and street lamps, fine carriages, and all that
  atmosphere of a large and active town which is always so attractive to a
  soldier after camp life. Despite his rapid journey and sleepless night,
  Prince Andrew when he drove up to the palace felt even more vigorous and
  alert than he had done the day before. Only his eyes gleamed feverishly
  and his thoughts followed one another with extraordinary clearness and
  rapidity. He again vividly recalled the details of the battle, no longer
  dim, but definite and in the concise form in which he imagined himself
  stating them to the Emperor Francis. He vividly imagined the casual
  questions that might be put to him and the answers he would give. He
  expected to be at once presented to the Emperor. At the chief entrance to
  the palace, however, an official came running out to meet him, and
  learning that he was a special messenger led him to another entrance.
<br />
  &ldquo;To the right from the corridor,  There you will find the
  adjutant on duty,&rdquo; said the official. &ldquo;He will conduct you to the Minister
  of War.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The adjutant on duty, meeting Prince Andrew, asked him to wait, and went
  in to the Minister of War. Five minutes later he returned and bowing with
  particular courtesy ushered Prince Andrew before him along a corridor to
  the cabinet where the Minister of War was at work. The adjutant by his
  elaborate courtesy appeared to wish to ward off any attempt at familiarity
  on the part of the Russian messenger.
<br />
  Prince Andrew&rsquo;s joyous feeling was considerably weakened as he approached
  the door of the minister&rsquo;s room. He felt offended, and without his
  noticing it the feeling of offense immediately turned into one of disdain
  which was quite uncalled for. His fertile mind instantly suggested to him
  a point of view which gave him a right to despise the adjutant and the
  minister. &ldquo;Away from the smell of powder, they probably think it easy to
  gain victories!&rdquo; he thought. His eyes narrowed disdainfully, he entered
  the room of the Minister of War with peculiarly deliberate steps. This
  feeling of disdain was heightened when he saw the minister seated at a
  large table reading some papers and making pencil notes on them, and for
  the first two or three minutes taking no notice of his arrival. A wax
  candle stood at each side of the minister&rsquo;s bent bald head with its gray
  temples. He went on reading to the end, without raising his eyes at the
  opening of the door and the sound of footsteps.
<br />
  &ldquo;Take this and deliver it,&rdquo; said he to his adjutant, handing him the
  papers and still taking no notice of the special messenger.
<br />
  Prince Andrew felt that either the actions of Kutúzov&rsquo;s army interested
  the Minister of War less than any of the other matters he was concerned
  with, or he wanted to give the Russian special messenger that impression.
  &ldquo;But that is a matter of perfect indifference to me,&rdquo; he thought. The
  minister drew the remaining papers together, arranged them evenly, and
  then raised his head. He had an intellectual and distinctive head, but the
  instant he turned to Prince Andrew the firm, intelligent expression on his
  face changed in a way evidently deliberate and habitual to him. His face
  took on the stupid artificial smile (which does not even attempt to hide
  its artificiality) of a man who is continually receiving many petitioners
  one after another.
<br />
  &ldquo;From General Field Marshal Kutúzov?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;I hope it is good news?
  There has been an encounter with Mortier? A victory? It was high time!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He took the dispatch which was addressed to him and began to read it with
  a mournful expression.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, my God! My God! Schmidt!&rdquo; he exclaimed in German. &ldquo;What a calamity!
  What a calamity!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Having glanced through the dispatch he laid it on the table and looked at
  Prince Andrew, evidently considering something.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah what a calamity! You say the affair was decisive? But Mortier is not
  captured.&rdquo; Again he pondered. &ldquo;I am very glad you have brought good news,
  though Schmidt&rsquo;s death is a heavy price to pay for the victory. His
  Majesty will no doubt wish to see you, but not today. I thank you! You
  must have a rest. Be at the levee tomorrow after the parade. However, I
  will let you know.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The stupid smile, which had left his face while he was speaking,
  reappeared.
<br />
  &ldquo; Thank you very much. His Majesty will probably desire to see
  you,&rdquo; he added, bowing his head.
<br />
  When Prince Andrew left the palace he felt that all the interest and
  happiness the victory had afforded him had been now left in the
  indifferent hands of the Minister of War and the polite adjutant. The
  whole tenor of his thoughts instantaneously changed; the battle seemed the
  memory of a remote event long past.

  CHAPTER X


  Prince Andrew stayed at Brünn with Bilíbin, a Russian acquaintance of his
  in the diplomatic service.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, my dear prince! I could not have a more welcome visitor,&rdquo; said
  Bilíbin as he came out to meet Prince Andrew. &ldquo;Franz, put the prince&rsquo;s
  things in my bedroom,&rdquo; said he to the servant who was ushering Bolkónski
  in. &ldquo;So you&rsquo;re a messenger of victory, eh? Splendid! And I am sitting here
  ill, as you see.&rdquo;
 <br />
  After washing and dressing, Prince Andrew came into the diplomat&rsquo;s
  luxurious study and sat down to the dinner prepared for him. Bilíbin
  settled down comfortably beside the fire.
<br />
  After his journey and the campaign during which he had been deprived of
  all the comforts of cleanliness and all the refinements of life, Prince
  Andrew felt a pleasant sense of repose among luxurious surroundings such
  as he had been accustomed to from childhood. Besides it was pleasant,
  after his reception by the Austrians, to speak if not in Russian (for they
  were speaking French) at least with a Russian who would, he supposed,
  share the general Russian antipathy to the Austrians which was then
  particularly strong.
<br />
  Bilíbin was a man of thirty-five, a bachelor, and of the same circle as
  Prince Andrew. They had known each other previously in Petersburg, but had
  become more intimate when Prince Andrew was in Vienna with Kutúzov. Just
  as Prince Andrew was a young man who gave promise of rising high in the
  military profession, so to an even greater extent Bilíbin gave promise of
  rising in his diplomatic career. He was still a young man but no longer a
  young diplomat, as he had entered the service at the age of sixteen, had
  been in Paris and Copenhagen, and now held a rather important post in
  Vienna. Both the foreign minister and our ambassador in Vienna knew him
  and valued him. He was not one of those many diplomats who are esteemed
  because they have certain negative qualities, avoid doing certain things,
  and speak French. He was one of those, who, liking work, knew how to do
  it, and despite his indolence would sometimes spend a whole night at his
  writing table. He worked well whatever the import of his work. It was not
  the question &ldquo;What for?&rdquo; but the question &ldquo;How?&rdquo; that interested him. What
  the diplomatic matter might be he did not care, but it gave him great
  pleasure to prepare a circular, memorandum, or report, skillfully,
  pointedly, and elegantly. Bilíbin&rsquo;s services were valued not only for what
  he wrote, but also for his skill in dealing and conversing with those in
  the highest spheres.
<br />
  Bilíbin liked conversation as he liked work, only when it could be made
  elegantly witty. In society he always awaited an opportunity to say
  something striking and took part in a conversation only when that was
  possible. His conversation was always sprinkled with wittily original,
  finished phrases of general interest. These sayings were prepared in the
  inner laboratory of his mind in a portable form as if intentionally, so
  that insignificant society people might carry them from drawing room to
  drawing room. And, in fact, Bilíbin&rsquo;s witticisms were hawked about in the
  Viennese drawing rooms and often had an influence on matters considered
  important.
<br />
  His thin, worn, sallow face was covered with deep wrinkles, which always
  looked as clean and well washed as the tips of one&rsquo;s fingers after a
  Russian bath. The movement of these wrinkles formed the principal play of
  expression on his face. Now his forehead would pucker into deep folds and
  his eyebrows were lifted, then his eyebrows would descend and deep
  wrinkles would crease his cheeks. His small, deep-set eyes always twinkled
  and looked out straight.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, now tell me about your exploits,&rdquo; said he.
<br />
  Bolkónski, very modestly without once mentioning himself, described the
  engagement and his reception by the Minister of War.
<br />
  &ldquo;They received me and my news as one receives a dog in a game of
  skittles,&rdquo; said he in conclusion.
<br />
  Bilíbin smiled and the wrinkles on his face disappeared.
<br />
   he remarked, examining his nails from a
  distance and puckering the skin above his left eye,  the Orthodox Russian army,  *
<br />
 * &ldquo;But my dear fellow, with all my respect for the Orthodox
 Russian army, I must say that your victory was not
 particularly victorious.&rdquo;

He went on talking in this way in French, uttering only those words in Russian on which he wished to put a contemptuous emphasis.
“Come now! You with all your forces fall on the unfortunate Mortier and his one division, and even then Mortier slips through your fingers! Where’s the victory?”
“But seriously,” said Prince Andrew, “we can at any rate say without boasting that it was a little better than at Ulm…”
“Why didn’t you capture one, just one, marshal for us?”
“Because not everything happens as one expects or with the smoothness of a parade. We had expected, as I told you, to get at their rear by seven in the morning but had not reached it by five in the afternoon.”
“And why didn’t you do it at seven in the morning? You ought to have been there at seven in the morning,” returned Bilíbin with a smile. “You ought to have been there at seven in the morning.”
“Why did you not succeed in impressing on Bonaparte by diplomatic methods that he had better leave Genoa alone?” retorted Prince Andrew in the same tone.
“I know,” interrupted Bilíbin, “you’re thinking it’s very easy to take marshals, sitting on a sofa by the fire! That is true, but still why didn’t you capture him? So don’t be surprised if not only the Minister of War but also his Most August Majesty the Emperor and King Francis is not much delighted by your victory. Even I, a poor secretary of the Russian Embassy, do not feel any need in token of my joy to give my Franz a thaler, or let him go with his to the Prater… True, we have no Prater here…”
He looked straight at Prince Andrew and suddenly unwrinkled his forehead.
“It is now my turn to ask you ‘why?’ ,” said Bolkónski. “I confess I do not understand: perhaps there are diplomatic subtleties here beyond my feeble intelligence, but I can’t make it out. Mack loses a whole army, the Archduke Ferdinand and the Archduke Karl give no signs of life and make blunder after blunder. Kutúzov alone at last gains a real victory, destroying the spell of the invincibility of the French, and the Minister of War does not even care to hear the details.”
“That’s just it, my dear fellow. You see it’s for the Tsar, for Russia, for the Orthodox Greek faith! All that is beautiful, but what do we, I mean the Austrian court, care for your victories? Bring us nice news of a victory by the Archduke Karl or Ferdinand (one archduke’s as good as another, as you know) and even if it is only over a fire brigade of Bonaparte’s, that will be another story and we’ll fire off some cannon! But this sort of thing seems done on purpose to vex us. The Archduke Karl does nothing, the Archduke Ferdinand disgraces himself. You abandon Vienna, give up its defense—as much as to say: ‘Heaven is with us, but heaven help you and your capital!’ The one general whom we all loved, Schmidt, you expose to a bullet, and then you congratulate us on the victory! Admit that more irritating news than yours could not have been conceived. It’s as if it had been done on purpose, on purpose. Besides, suppose you did gain a brilliant victory, if even the Archduke Karl gained a victory, what effect would that have on the general course of events? It’s too late now when Vienna is occupied by the French army!”
“What? Occupied? Vienna occupied?”
“Not only occupied, but Bonaparte is at Schönbrunn, and the count, our dear Count Vrbna, goes to him for orders.”
After the fatigues and impressions of the journey, his reception, and especially after having dined, Bolkónski felt that he could not take in the full significance of the words he heard.
“Count Lichtenfels was here this morning,” Bilíbin continued, “and showed me a letter in which the parade of the French in Vienna was fully described: Prince Murat … You see that your victory is not a matter for great rejoicing and that you can’t be received as a savior.”
“Really I don’t care about that, I don’t care at all,” said Prince Andrew, beginning to understand that his news of the battle before Krems was really of small importance in view of such events as the fall of Austria’s capital. “How is it Vienna was taken? What of the bridge and its celebrated bridgehead and Prince Auersperg? We heard reports that Prince Auersperg was defending Vienna?” he said.
“Prince Auersperg is on this, on our side of the river, and is defending us—doing it very badly, I think, but still he is defending us. But Vienna is on the other side. No, the bridge has not yet been taken and I hope it will not be, for it is mined and orders have been given to blow it up. Otherwise we should long ago have been in the mountains of Bohemia, and you and your army would have spent a bad quarter of an hour between two fires.”
“But still this does not mean that the campaign is over,” said Prince Andrew.
“Well, I think it is. The bigwigs here think so too, but they daren’t say so. It will be as I said at the beginning of the campaign, it won’t be your skirmishing at Dürrenstein, or gunpowder at all, that will decide the matter, but those who devised it,” said Bilíbin quoting one of his own mots, releasing the wrinkles on his forehead, and pausing. “The only question is what will come of the meeting between the Emperor Alexander and the King of Prussia in Berlin? If Prussia joins the Allies, Austria’s hand will be forced and there will be war. If not it is merely a question of settling where the preliminaries of the new Campo Formio are to be drawn up.”
“What an extraordinary genius!” Prince Andrew suddenly exclaimed, clenching his small hand and striking the table with it, “and what luck the man has!”
“Buonaparte?” said Bilíbin inquiringly, puckering up his forehead to indicate that he was about to say something witty. “Buonaparte?” he repeated, accentuating the : “I think, however, now that he lays down laws for Austria at Schönbrunn, * I shall certainly adopt an innovation and call him simply Bonaparte!”

* &ldquo;We must let him off the u!&rdquo;

“But joking apart,” said Prince Andrew, “do you really think the campaign is over?”
“This is what I think. Austria has been made a fool of, and she is not used to it. She will retaliate. And she has been fooled in the first place because her provinces have been pillaged—they say the Holy Russian army loots terribly—her army is destroyed, her capital taken, and all this for the * of His Sardinian Majesty. And therefore—this is between ourselves—I instinctively feel that we are being deceived, my instinct tells me of negotiations with France and projects for peace, a secret peace concluded separately.”

* Fine eyes.

“Impossible!” cried Prince Andrew. “That would be too base.”
“If we live we shall see,” replied Bilíbin, his face again becoming smooth as a sign that the conversation was at an end.
When Prince Andrew reached the room prepared for him and lay down in a clean shirt on the feather bed with its warmed and fragrant pillows, he felt that the battle of which he had brought tidings was far, far away from him. The alliance with Prussia, Austria’s treachery, Bonaparte’s new triumph, tomorrow’s levee and parade, and the audience with the Emperor Francis occupied his thoughts.
He closed his eyes, and immediately a sound of cannonading, of musketry and the rattling of carriage wheels seemed to fill his ears, and now again drawn out in a thin line the musketeers were descending the hill, the French were firing, and he felt his heart palpitating as he rode forward beside Schmidt with the bullets merrily whistling all around, and he experienced tenfold the joy of living, as he had not done since childhood.
He woke up…
“Yes, that all happened!” he said, and, smiling happily to himself like a child, he fell into a deep, youthful slumber.

  CHAPTER XI


  Next day he woke late. Recalling his recent impressions, the first thought
  that came into his mind was that today he had to be presented to the
  Emperor Francis; he remembered the Minister of War, the polite Austrian
  adjutant, Bilíbin, and last night&rsquo;s conversation. Having dressed for his
  attendance at court in full parade uniform, which he had not worn for a
  long time, he went into Bilíbin&rsquo;s study fresh, animated, and handsome,
  with his hand bandaged. In the study were four gentlemen of the diplomatic
  corps. With Prince Hippolyte Kurágin, who was a secretary to the embassy,
  Bolkónski was already acquainted. Bilíbin introduced him to the others.
<br />
  The gentlemen assembled at Bilíbin&rsquo;s were young, wealthy, gay society men,
  who here, as in Vienna, formed a special set which Bilíbin, their leader,
  called . * This set, consisting almost exclusively of diplomats,
  evidently had its own interests which had nothing to do with war or
  politics but related to high society, to certain women, and to the
  official side of the service. These gentlemen received Prince Andrew as
  one of themselves, an honor they did not extend to many. From politeness
  and to start conversation, they asked him a few questions about the army
  and the battle, and then the talk went off into merry jests and gossip.
<br />
* Ours.

“But the best of it was,” said one, telling of the misfortune of a fellow diplomat, “that the Chancellor told him flatly that his appointment to London was a promotion and that he was so to regard it. Can you fancy the figure he cut?…”
“But the worst of it, gentlemen—I am giving Kurágin away to you—is that that man suffers, and this Don Juan, wicked fellow, is taking advantage of it!”
Prince Hippolyte was lolling in a lounge chair with his legs over its arm. He began to laugh.
“Tell me about that!” he said.
“Oh, you Don Juan! You serpent!” cried several voices.
“You, Bolkónski, don’t know,” said Bilíbin turning to Prince Andrew, “that all the atrocities of the French army (I nearly said of the Russian army) are nothing compared to what this man has been doing among the women!”

   * announced Prince Hippolyte, and
  began looking through a lorgnette at his elevated legs.
<br />
* &ldquo;Woman is man&rsquo;s companion.&rdquo;

Bilíbin and the rest of “ours” burst out laughing in Hippolyte’s face, and Prince Andrew saw that Hippolyte, of whom—he had to admit—he had almost been jealous on his wife’s account, was the butt of this set.
“Oh, I must give you a treat,” Bilíbin whispered to Bolkónski. “Kurágin is exquisite when he discusses politics—you should see his gravity!”
He sat down beside Hippolyte and wrinkling his forehead began talking to him about politics. Prince Andrew and the others gathered round these two.
“The Berlin cabinet cannot express a feeling of alliance,” began Hippolyte gazing round with importance at the others, “without expressing… as in its last note… you understand… Besides, unless His Majesty the Emperor derogates from the principle of our alliance…
“Wait, I have not finished…” he said to Prince Andrew, seizing him by the arm, “I believe that intervention will be stronger than nonintervention. And…” he paused. “Finally one cannot impute the nonreceipt of our dispatch of November 18. That is how it will end.” And he released Bolkónski’s arm to indicate that he had now quite finished.
“Demosthenes, I know thee by the pebble thou secretest in thy golden mouth!” said Bilíbin, and the mop of hair on his head moved with satisfaction.
Everybody laughed, and Hippolyte louder than anyone. He was evidently distressed, and breathed painfully, but could not restrain the wild laughter that convulsed his usually impassive features.
“Well now, gentlemen,” said Bilíbin, “Bolkónski is my guest in this house and in Brünn itself. I want to entertain him as far as I can, with all the pleasures of life here. If we were in Vienna it would be easy, but here, in this wretched Moravian hole, it is more difficult, and I beg you all to help me. Brünn’s attractions must be shown him. You can undertake the theater, I society, and you, Hippolyte, of course the women.”
“We must let him see Amelie, she’s exquisite!” said one of “ours,” kissing his finger tips.
“In general we must turn this bloodthirsty soldier to more humane interests,” said Bilíbin.
“I shall scarcely be able to avail myself of your hospitality, gentlemen, it is already time for me to go,” replied Prince Andrew looking at his watch.
“Where to?”
“To the Emperor.”
“Oh! Oh! Oh!”
“Well, , Bolkónski! , Prince! Come back early to dinner,” cried several voices. “We’ll take you in hand.”
“When speaking to the Emperor, try as far as you can to praise the way that provisions are supplied and the routes indicated,” said Bilíbin, accompanying him to the hall.
“I should like to speak well of them, but as far as I know the facts, I can’t,” replied Bolkónski, smiling.
“Well, talk as much as you can, anyway. He has a passion for giving audiences, but he does not like talking himself and can’t do it, as you will see.”

  CHAPTER XII


  At the levee Prince Andrew stood among the Austrian officers as he had
  been told to, and the Emperor Francis merely looked fixedly into his face
  and just nodded to him with his long head. But after it was over, the
  adjutant he had seen the previous day ceremoniously informed Bolkónski
  that the Emperor desired to give him an audience. The Emperor Francis
  received him standing in the middle of the room. Before the conversation
  began Prince Andrew was struck by the fact that the Emperor seemed
  confused and blushed as if not knowing what to say.
<br />
  &ldquo;Tell me, when did the battle begin?&rdquo; he asked hurriedly.
<br />
  Prince Andrew replied. Then followed other questions just as simple: &ldquo;Was
  Kutúzov well? When had he left Krems?&rdquo; and so on. The Emperor spoke as if
  his sole aim were to put a given number of questions&mdash;the answers to
  these questions, as was only too evident, did not interest him.
<br />
  &ldquo;At what o&rsquo;clock did the battle begin?&rdquo; asked the Emperor.
<br />
  &ldquo;I cannot inform Your Majesty at what o&rsquo;clock the battle began at the
  front, but at Dürrenstein, where I was, our attack began after five in the
  afternoon,&rdquo; replied Bolkónski growing more animated and expecting that he
  would have a chance to give a reliable account, which he had ready in his
  mind, of all he knew and had seen. But the Emperor smiled and interrupted
  him.
<br />
  &ldquo;How many miles?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;From where to where, Your Majesty?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;From Dürrenstein to Krems.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Three and a half miles, Your Majesty.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The French have abandoned the left bank?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;According to the scouts the last of them crossed on rafts during the
  night.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Is there sufficient forage in Krems?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Forage has not been supplied to the extent...&rdquo;
 <br />
  The Emperor interrupted him.
<br />
  &ldquo;At what o&rsquo;clock was General Schmidt killed?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;At seven o&rsquo;clock, I believe.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;At seven o&rsquo;clock? It&rsquo;s very sad, very sad!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The Emperor thanked Prince Andrew and bowed. Prince Andrew withdrew and
  was immediately surrounded by courtiers on all sides. Everywhere he saw
  friendly looks and heard friendly words. Yesterday&rsquo;s adjutant reproached
  him for not having stayed at the palace, and offered him his own house.
  The Minister of War came up and congratulated him on the Maria Theresa
  Order of the third grade, which the Emperor was conferring on him. The
  Empress&rsquo; chamberlain invited him to see Her Majesty. The archduchess also
  wished to see him. He did not know whom to answer, and for a few seconds
  collected his thoughts. Then the Russian ambassador took him by the
  shoulder, led him to the window, and began to talk to him.
<br />
  Contrary to Bilíbin&rsquo;s forecast the news he had brought was joyfully
  received. A thanksgiving service was arranged, Kutúzov was awarded the
  Grand Cross of Maria Theresa, and the whole army received rewards.
  Bolkónski was invited everywhere, and had to spend the whole morning
  calling on the principal Austrian dignitaries. Between four and five in
  the afternoon, having made all his calls, he was returning to Bilíbin&rsquo;s
  house thinking out a letter to his father about the battle and his visit
  to Brünn. At the door he found a vehicle half full of luggage. Franz,
  Bilíbin&rsquo;s man, was dragging a portmanteau with some difficulty out of the
  front door.
<br />
  Before returning to Bilíbin&rsquo;s Prince Andrew had gone to a bookshop to
  provide himself with some books for the campaign, and had spent some time
  in the shop.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; he asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, your excellency!&rdquo; said Franz, with difficulty rolling the portmanteau
  into the vehicle, &ldquo;we are to move on still farther. The scoundrel is again
  at our heels!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Eh? What?&rdquo; asked Prince Andrew.
<br />
  Bilíbin came out to meet him. His usually calm face showed excitement.
<br />
  &ldquo;There now! Confess that this is delightful,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;This affair of the
  Thabor Bridge, at Vienna.... They have crossed without striking a blow!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Andrew could not understand.
<br />
  &ldquo;But where do you come from not to know what every coachman in the town
  knows?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I come from the archduchess&rsquo;. I heard nothing there.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And you didn&rsquo;t see that everybody is packing up?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I did not... What is it all about?&rdquo; inquired Prince Andrew impatiently.
<br />
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s it all about? Why, the French have crossed the bridge that
  Auersperg was defending, and the bridge was not blown up: so Murat is now
  rushing along the road to Brünn and will be here in a day or two.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What? Here? But why did they not blow up the bridge, if it was mined?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That is what I ask you. No one, not even Bonaparte, knows why.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Bolkónski shrugged his shoulders.
<br />
  &ldquo;But if the bridge is crossed it means that the army too is lost? It will
  be cut off,&rdquo; said he.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s just it,&rdquo; answered Bilíbin. &ldquo;Listen! The French entered Vienna as
  I told you. Very well. Next day, which was yesterday, those gentlemen,
  , * Murat, Lannes, and Belliard, mount and ride to
  the bridge. (Observe that all three are Gascons.) &lsquo;Gentlemen,&rsquo; says one of
  them, &lsquo;you know the Thabor Bridge is mined and doubly mined and that there
  are menacing fortifications at its head and an army of fifteen thousand
  men has been ordered to blow up the bridge and not let us cross? But it
  will please our sovereign the Emperor Napoleon if we take this bridge, so
  let us three go and take it!&rsquo; &lsquo;Yes, let&rsquo;s!&rsquo; say the others. And off they
  go and take the bridge, cross it, and now with their whole army are on
  this side of the Danube, marching on us, you, and your lines of
  communication.&rdquo;
 <br />
* The marshalls.

“Stop jesting,” said Prince Andrew sadly and seriously. This news grieved him and yet he was pleased.
As soon as he learned that the Russian army was in such a hopeless situation it occurred to him that it was he who was destined to lead it out of this position; that here was the Toulon that would lift him from the ranks of obscure officers and offer him the first step to fame! Listening to Bilíbin he was already imagining how on reaching the army he would give an opinion at the war council which would be the only one that could save the army, and how he alone would be entrusted with the executing of the plan.
“Stop this jesting,” he said.
“I am not jesting,” Bilíbin went on. “Nothing is truer or sadder. These gentlemen ride onto the bridge alone and wave white handkerchiefs; they assure the officer on duty that they, the marshals, are on their way to negotiate with Prince Auersperg. He lets them enter the . They spin him a thousand gasconades, saying that the war is over, that the Emperor Francis is arranging a meeting with Bonaparte, that they desire to see Prince Auersperg, and so on. The officer sends for Auersperg; these gentlemen embrace the officers, crack jokes, sit on the cannon, and meanwhile a French battalion gets to the bridge unobserved, flings the bags of incendiary material into the water, and approaches the . At length appears the lieutenant general, our dear Prince Auersperg von Mautern himself. ‘Dearest foe! Flower of the Austrian army, hero of the Turkish wars! Hostilities are ended, we can shake one another’s hand…. The Emperor Napoleon burns with impatience to make Prince Auersperg’s acquaintance.’ In a word, those gentlemen, Gascons indeed, so bewildered him with fine words, and he is so flattered by his rapidly established intimacy with the French marshals, and so dazzled by the sight of Murat’s mantle and ostrich plumes, (2) In spite of the animation of his speech, Bilíbin did not forget to pause after this mot to give time for its due appreciation. “The French battalion rushes to the bridgehead, spikes the guns, and the bridge is taken! But what is best of all,” he went on, his excitement subsiding under the delightful interest of his own story, “is that the sergeant in charge of the cannon which was to give the signal to fire the mines and blow up the bridge, this sergeant, seeing that the French troops were running onto the bridge, was about to fire, but Lannes stayed his hand. The sergeant, who was evidently wiser than his general, goes up to Auersperg and says: ‘Prince, you are being deceived, here are the French!’ Murat, seeing that all is lost if the sergeant is allowed to speak, turns to Auersperg with feigned astonishment (he is a true Gascon) and says: ‘I don’t recognize the world-famous Austrian discipline, if you allow a subordinate to address you like that!’ It was a stroke of genius. Prince Auersperg feels his dignity at stake and orders the sergeant to be arrested. Come, you must own that this affair of the Thabor Bridge is delightful! It is not exactly stupidity, nor rascality….”

 * Bridgehead.
 <br />
 * (2) That their fire gets into his eyes and he forgets that
 he ought to be firing at the enemy.

“It may be treachery,” said Prince Andrew, vividly imagining the gray overcoats, wounds, the smoke of gunpowder, the sounds of firing, and the glory that awaited him.
“Not that either. That puts the court in too bad a light,” replied Bilíbin. “It’s not treachery nor rascality nor stupidity: it is just as at Ulm… it is…”—he seemed to be trying to find the right expression. (It is… it is a bit of Mack. We are ),” he concluded, feeling that he had produced a good epigram, a fresh one that would be repeated. His hitherto puckered brow became smooth as a sign of pleasure, and with a slight smile he began to examine his nails.
“Where are you off to?” he said suddenly to Prince Andrew who had risen and was going toward his room.
“I am going away.”
“Where to?”
“To the army.”
“But you meant to stay another two days?”
“But now I am off at once.”
And Prince Andrew after giving directions about his departure went to his room.
“Do you know, ,” said Bilíbin following him, “I have been thinking about you. Why are you going?”
And in proof of the conclusiveness of his opinion all the wrinkles vanished from his face.
Prince Andrew looked inquiringly at him and gave no reply.
“Why are you going? I know you think it your duty to gallop back to the army now that it is in danger. I understand that. , it is heroism!”
“Not at all,” said Prince Andrew.
“But as you are a philosopher, be a consistent one, look at the other side of the question and you will see that your duty, on the contrary, is to take care of yourself. Leave it to those who are no longer fit for anything else…. You have not been ordered to return and have not been dismissed from here; therefore, you can stay and go with us wherever our ill luck takes us. They say we are going to Olmütz, and Olmütz is a very decent town. You and I will travel comfortably in my .”
“Do stop joking, Bilíbin,” cried Bolkónski.
“I am speaking sincerely as a friend! Consider! Where and why are you going, when you might remain here? You are faced by one of two things,” and the skin over his left temple puckered, “either you will not reach your regiment before peace is concluded, or you will share defeat and disgrace with Kutúzov’s whole army.”
And Bilíbin unwrinkled his temple, feeling that the dilemma was insoluble.
“I cannot argue about it,” replied Prince Andrew coldly, but he thought: “I am going to save the army.”
“My dear fellow, you are a hero!” said Bilíbin.

  CHAPTER XIII


  That same night, having taken leave of the Minister of War, Bolkónski set
  off to rejoin the army, not knowing where he would find it and fearing to
  be captured by the French on the way to Krems.
<br />
  In Brünn everybody attached to the court was packing up, and the heavy
  baggage was already being dispatched to Olmütz. Near Hetzelsdorf Prince
  Andrew struck the high road along which the Russian army was moving with
  great haste and in the greatest disorder. The road was so obstructed with
  carts that it was impossible to get by in a carriage. Prince Andrew took a
  horse and a Cossack from a Cossack commander, and hungry and weary, making
  his way past the baggage wagons, rode in search of the commander in chief
  and of his own luggage. Very sinister reports of the position of the army
  reached him as he went along, and the appearance of the troops in their
  disorderly flight confirmed these rumors.
<br />
   * He remembered these words in Bonaparte&rsquo;s address to
  his army at the beginning of the campaign, and they awoke in him
  astonishment at the genius of his hero, a feeling of wounded pride, and a
  hope of glory. &ldquo;And should there be nothing left but to die?&rdquo; he thought.
  &ldquo;Well, if need be, I shall do it no worse than others.&rdquo;
 <br />
 * &ldquo;That Russian army which has been brought from the ends of
 the earth by English gold, we shall cause to share the same
 fate&mdash;(the fate of the army at Ulm).&rdquo;

He looked with disdain at the endless confused mass of detachments, carts, guns, artillery, and again baggage wagons and vehicles of all kinds overtaking one another and blocking the muddy road, three and sometimes four abreast. From all sides, behind and before, as far as ear could reach, there were the rattle of wheels, the creaking of carts and gun carriages, the tramp of horses, the crack of whips, shouts, the urging of horses, and the swearing of soldiers, orderlies, and officers. All along the sides of the road fallen horses were to be seen, some flayed, some not, and broken-down carts beside which solitary soldiers sat waiting for something, and again soldiers straggling from their companies, crowds of whom set off to the neighboring villages, or returned from them dragging sheep, fowls, hay, and bulging sacks. At each ascent or descent of the road the crowds were yet denser and the din of shouting more incessant. Soldiers floundering knee-deep in mud pushed the guns and wagons themselves. Whips cracked, hoofs slipped, traces broke, and lungs were strained with shouting. The officers directing the march rode backward and forward between the carts. Their voices were but feebly heard amid the uproar and one saw by their faces that they despaired of the possibility of checking this disorder.
“Here is our dear Orthodox Russian army,” thought Bolkónski, recalling Bilíbin’s words.
Wishing to find out where the commander in chief was, he rode up to a convoy. Directly opposite to him came a strange one-horse vehicle, evidently rigged up by soldiers out of any available materials and looking like something between a cart, a cabriolet, and a . A soldier was driving, and a woman enveloped in shawls sat behind the apron under the leather hood of the vehicle. Prince Andrew rode up and was just putting his question to a soldier when his attention was diverted by the desperate shrieks of the woman in the vehicle. An officer in charge of transport was beating the soldier who was driving the woman’s vehicle for trying to get ahead of others, and the strokes of his whip fell on the apron of the equipage. The woman screamed piercingly. Seeing Prince Andrew she leaned out from behind the apron and, waving her thin arms from under the woolen shawl, cried:
“Mr. Aide-de-camp! Mr. Aide-de-camp!… For heaven’s sake… Protect me! What will become of us? I am the wife of the doctor of the Seventh Chasseurs…. They won’t let us pass, we are left behind and have lost our people…”
“I’ll flatten you into a pancake!” shouted the angry officer to the soldier. “Turn back with your slut!”
“Mr. Aide-de-camp! Help me!… What does it all mean?” screamed the doctor’s wife.
“Kindly let this cart pass. Don’t you see it’s a woman?” said Prince Andrew riding up to the officer.
The officer glanced at him, and without replying turned again to the soldier. “I’ll teach you to push on!… Back!”
“Let them pass, I tell you!” repeated Prince Andrew, compressing his lips.
“And who are you?” cried the officer, turning on him with tipsy rage, “who are Are you in command here? Eh? I am commander here, not you! Go back or I’ll flatten you into a pancake,” repeated he. This expression evidently pleased him.
“That was a nice snub for the little aide-de-camp,” came a voice from behind.
Prince Andrew saw that the officer was in that state of senseless, tipsy rage when a man does not know what he is saying. He saw that his championship of the doctor’s wife in her queer trap might expose him to what he dreaded more than anything in the world—to ridicule; but his instinct urged him on. Before the officer finished his sentence Prince Andrew, his face distorted with fury, rode up to him and raised his riding whip.
“Kind…ly let—them—pass!”
The officer flourished his arm and hastily rode away.
“It’s all the fault of these fellows on the staff that there’s this disorder,” he muttered. “Do as you like.”
Prince Andrew without lifting his eyes rode hastily away from the doctor’s wife, who was calling him her deliverer, and recalling with a sense of disgust the minutest details of this humiliating scene he galloped on to the village where he was told who the commander in chief was.
On reaching the village he dismounted and went to the nearest house, intending to rest if but for a moment, eat something, and try to sort out the stinging and tormenting thoughts that confused his mind. “This is a mob of scoundrels and not an army,” he was thinking as he went up to the window of the first house, when a familiar voice called him by name.
He turned round. Nesvítski’s handsome face looked out of the little window. Nesvítski, moving his moist lips as he chewed something, and flourishing his arm, called him to enter.
“Bolkónski! Bolkónski!… Don’t you hear? Eh? Come quick…” he shouted.
Entering the house, Prince Andrew saw Nesvítski and another adjutant having something to eat. They hastily turned round to him asking if he had any news. On their familiar faces he read agitation and alarm. This was particularly noticeable on Nesvítski’s usually laughing countenance.
“Where is the commander in chief?” asked Bolkónski.
“Here, in that house,” answered the adjutant.
“Well, is it true that it’s peace and capitulation?” asked Nesvítski.
“I was going to ask you. I know nothing except that it was all I could do to get here.”
“And we, my dear boy! It’s terrible! I was wrong to laugh at Mack, we’re getting it still worse,” said Nesvítski. “But sit down and have something to eat.”
“You won’t be able to find either your baggage or anything else now, Prince. And God only knows where your man Peter is,” said the other adjutant.
“Where are headquarters?”
“We are to spend the night in Znaim.”
“Well, I have got all I need into packs for two horses,” said Nesvítski. “They’ve made up splendid packs for me—fit to cross the Bohemian mountains with. It’s a bad lookout, old fellow! But what’s the matter with you? You must be ill to shiver like that,” he added, noticing that Prince Andrew winced as at an electric shock.
“It’s nothing,” replied Prince Andrew.
He had just remembered his recent encounter with the doctor’s wife and the convoy officer.
“What is the commander in chief doing here?” he asked.
“I can’t make out at all,” said Nesvítski.
“Well, all I can make out is that everything is abominable, abominable, quite abominable!” said Prince Andrew, and he went off to the house where the commander in chief was.
Passing by Kutúzov’s carriage and the exhausted saddle horses of his suite, with their Cossacks who were talking loudly together, Prince Andrew entered the passage. Kutúzov himself, he was told, was in the house with Prince Bagratión and Weyrother. Weyrother was the Austrian general who had succeeded Schmidt. In the passage little Kozlóvski was squatting on his heels in front of a clerk. The clerk, with cuffs turned up, was hastily writing at a tub turned bottom upwards. Kozlóvski’s face looked worn—he too had evidently not slept all night. He glanced at Prince Andrew and did not even nod to him.
“Second line… have you written it?” he continued dictating to the clerk. “The Kiev Grenadiers, Podolian…”
“One can’t write so fast, your honor,” said the clerk, glancing angrily and disrespectfully at Kozlóvski.
Through the door came the sounds of Kutúzov’s voice, excited and dissatisfied, interrupted by another, an unfamiliar voice. From the sound of these voices, the inattentive way Kozlóvski looked at him, the disrespectful manner of the exhausted clerk, the fact that the clerk and Kozlóvski were squatting on the floor by a tub so near to the commander in chief, and from the noisy laughter of the Cossacks holding the horses near the window, Prince Andrew felt that something important and disastrous was about to happen.
He turned to Kozlóvski with urgent questions.
“Immediately, Prince,” said Kozlóvski. “Dispositions for Bagratión.”
“What about capitulation?”
“Nothing of the sort. Orders are issued for a battle.”
Prince Andrew moved toward the door from whence voices were heard. Just as he was going to open it the sounds ceased, the door opened, and Kutúzov with his eagle nose and puffy face appeared in the doorway. Prince Andrew stood right in front of Kutúzov but the expression of the commander in chief’s one sound eye showed him to be so preoccupied with thoughts and anxieties as to be oblivious of his presence. He looked straight at his adjutant’s face without recognizing him.
“Well, have you finished?” said he to Kozlóvski.
“One moment, your excellency.”
Bagratión, a gaunt middle-aged man of medium height with a firm, impassive face of Oriental type, came out after the commander in chief.
“I have the honor to present myself,” repeated Prince Andrew rather loudly, handing Kutúzov an envelope.
“Ah, from Vienna? Very good. Later, later!”
Kutúzov went out into the porch with Bagratión.
“Well, good-by, Prince,” said he to Bagratión. “My blessing, and may Christ be with you in your great endeavor!”
His face suddenly softened and tears came into his eyes. With his left hand he drew Bagratión toward him, and with his right, on which he wore a ring, he made the sign of the cross over him with a gesture evidently habitual, offering his puffy cheek, but Bagratión kissed him on the neck instead.
“Christ be with you!” Kutúzov repeated and went toward his carriage. “Get in with me,” said he to Bolkónski.
“Your excellency, I should like to be of use here. Allow me to remain with Prince Bagratión’s detachment.”
“Get in,” said Kutúzov, and noticing that Bolkónski still delayed, he added: “I need good officers myself, need them myself!”
They got into the carriage and drove for a few minutes in silence.
“There is still much, much before us,” he said, as if with an old man’s penetration he understood all that was passing in Bolkónski’s mind. “If a tenth part of his detachment returns I shall thank God,” he added as if speaking to himself.
Prince Andrew glanced at Kutúzov’s face only a foot distant from him and involuntarily noticed the carefully washed seams of the scar near his temple, where an Ismail bullet had pierced his skull, and the empty eye socket. “Yes, he has a right to speak so calmly of those men’s death,” thought Bolkónski.
“That is why I beg to be sent to that detachment,” he said.
Kutúzov did not reply. He seemed to have forgotten what he had been saying, and sat plunged in thought. Five minutes later, gently swaying on the soft springs of the carriage, he turned to Prince Andrew. There was not a trace of agitation on his face. With delicate irony he questioned Prince Andrew about the details of his interview with the Emperor, about the remarks he had heard at court concerning the Krems affair, and about some ladies they both knew.

  CHAPTER XIV


  On November 1 Kutúzov had received, through a spy, news that the army he
  commanded was in an almost hopeless position. The spy reported that the
  French, after crossing the bridge at Vienna, were advancing in immense
  force upon Kutúzov&rsquo;s line of communication with the troops that were
  arriving from Russia. If Kutúzov decided to remain at Krems, Napoleon&rsquo;s
  army of one hundred and fifty thousand men would cut him off completely
  and surround his exhausted army of forty thousand, and he would find
  himself in the position of Mack at Ulm. If Kutúzov decided to abandon the
  road connecting him with the troops arriving from Russia, he would have to
  march with no road into unknown parts of the Bohemian mountains, defending
  himself against superior forces of the enemy and abandoning all hope of a
  junction with Buxhöwden. If Kutúzov decided to retreat along the road from
  Krems to Olmütz, to unite with the troops arriving from Russia, he risked
  being forestalled on that road by the French who had crossed the Vienna
  bridge, and encumbered by his baggage and transport, having to accept
  battle on the march against an enemy three times as strong, who would hem
  him in from two sides.
<br />
  Kutúzov chose this latter course.
<br />
  The French, the spy reported, having crossed the Vienna bridge, were
  advancing by forced marches toward Znaim, which lay sixty-six miles off on
  the line of Kutúzov&rsquo;s retreat. If he reached Znaim before the French,
  there would be great hope of saving the army; to let the French forestall
  him at Znaim meant the exposure of his whole army to a disgrace such as
  that of Ulm, or to utter destruction. But to forestall the French with his
  whole army was impossible. The road for the French from Vienna to Znaim
  was shorter and better than the road for the Russians from Krems to Znaim.
<br />
  The night he received the news, Kutúzov sent Bagratión&rsquo;s vanguard, four
  thousand strong, to the right across the hills from the Krems-Znaim to the
  Vienna-Znaim road. Bagratión was to make this march without resting, and
  to halt facing Vienna with Znaim to his rear, and if he succeeded in
  forestalling the French he was to delay them as long as possible. Kutúzov
  himself with all his transport took the road to Znaim.
<br />
  Marching thirty miles that stormy night across roadless hills, with his
  hungry, ill-shod soldiers, and losing a third of his men as stragglers by
  the way, Bagratión came out on the Vienna-Znaim road at Hollabrünn a few
  hours ahead of the French who were approaching Hollabrünn from Vienna.
  Kutúzov with his transport had still to march for some days before he
  could reach Znaim. Hence Bagratión with his four thousand hungry,
  exhausted men would have to detain for days the whole enemy army that came
  upon him at Hollabrünn, which was clearly impossible. But a freak of fate
  made the impossible possible. The success of the trick that had placed the
  Vienna bridge in the hands of the French without a fight led Murat to try
  to deceive Kutúzov in a similar way. Meeting Bagratión&rsquo;s weak detachment
  on the Znaim road he supposed it to be Kutúzov&rsquo;s whole army. To be able to
  crush it absolutely he awaited the arrival of the rest of the troops who
  were on their way from Vienna, and with this object offered a three days&rsquo;
  truce on condition that both armies should remain in position without
  moving. Murat declared that negotiations for peace were already
  proceeding, and that he therefore offered this truce to avoid unnecessary
  bloodshed. Count Nostitz, the Austrian general occupying the advanced
  posts, believed Murat&rsquo;s emissary and retired, leaving Bagratión&rsquo;s
  division exposed. Another emissary rode to the Russian line to announce the peace
  negotiations and to offer the Russian army the three days&rsquo; truce.
  Bagratión replied that he was not authorized either to accept or refuse a
  truce and sent his adjutant to Kutúzov to report the offer he had
  received.
<br />
  A truce was Kutúzov&rsquo;s sole chance of gaining time, giving Bagratión&rsquo;s
  exhausted troops some rest, and letting the transport and heavy convoys
  (whose movements were concealed from the French) advance if but one stage
  nearer Znaim. The offer of a truce gave the only, and a quite unexpected,
  chance of saving the army. On receiving the news he immediately dispatched
  Adjutant General Wintzingerode, who was in attendance on him, to the enemy
  camp. Wintzingerode was not merely to agree to the truce but also to offer
  terms of capitulation, and meanwhile Kutúzov sent his adjutants back to
  hasten to the utmost the movements of the baggage trains of the entire
  army along the Krems-Znaim road. Bagratión&rsquo;s exhausted and hungry
  detachment, which alone covered this movement of the transport and of the
  whole army, had to remain stationary in face of an enemy eight times as
  strong as itself.
<br />
  Kutúzov&rsquo;s expectations that the proposals of capitulation (which were in
  no way binding) might give time for part of the transport to pass, and
  also that Murat&rsquo;s mistake would very soon be discovered, proved correct.
  As soon as Bonaparte (who was at Schönbrunn, sixteen miles from
  Hollabrünn) received Murat&rsquo;s dispatch with the proposal of a truce and a
  capitulation, he detected a ruse and wrote the following letter to Murat:
<br />
  Schönbrunn, 25th Brumaire, 1805,
<br />
  at eight o&rsquo;clock in the morning
<br />
  To PRINCE MURAT,
<br />
  I cannot find words to express to you my displeasure. You command only my
  advance guard, and have no right to arrange an armistice without my order.
  You are causing me to lose the fruits of a campaign. Break the armistice
  immediately and march on the enemy. Inform him that the general who signed
  that capitulation had no right to do so, and that no one but the Emperor
  of Russia has that right.
<br />
  If, however, the Emperor of Russia ratifies that convention, I will ratify
  it; but it is only a trick. March on, destroy the Russian army.... You are
  in a position to seize its baggage and artillery.
<br />
  The Russian Emperor&rsquo;s aide-de-camp is an impostor. Officers are nothing
  when they have no powers; this one had none.... The Austrians let
  themselves be tricked at the crossing of the Vienna bridge, you are
  letting yourself be tricked by an aide-de-camp of the Emperor.
<br />
  NAPOLEON
<br />
  Bonaparte&rsquo;s adjutant rode full gallop with this menacing letter to Murat.
  Bonaparte himself, not trusting to his generals, moved with all the Guards
  to the field of battle, afraid of letting a ready victim escape, and
  Bagratión&rsquo;s four thousand men merrily lighted campfires, dried and warmed
  themselves, cooked their porridge for the first time for three days, and
  not one of them knew or imagined what was in store for him.

  CHAPTER XV


  Between three and four o&rsquo;clock in the afternoon Prince Andrew, who had
  persisted in his request to Kutúzov, arrived at Grunth and reported
  himself to Bagratión. Bonaparte&rsquo;s adjutant had not yet reached Murat&rsquo;s
  detachment and the battle had not yet begun. In Bagratión&rsquo;s detachment no
  one knew anything of the general position of affairs. They talked of peace
  but did not believe in its possibility; others talked of a battle but also
  disbelieved in the nearness of an engagement. Bagratión, knowing Bolkónski
  to be a favorite and trusted adjutant, received him with distinction and
  special marks of favor, explaining to him that there would probably be an
  engagement that day or the next, and giving him full liberty to remain
  with him during the battle or to join the rearguard and have an eye on the
  order of retreat, &ldquo;which is also very important.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;However, there will hardly be an engagement today,&rdquo; said Bagratión
  as if to reassure Prince Andrew.
<br />
  &ldquo;If he is one of the ordinary little staff dandies sent to earn a medal he
  can get his reward just as well in the rearguard, but if he wishes to stay
  with me, let him... he&rsquo;ll be of use here if he&rsquo;s a brave
  officer,&rdquo; thought Bagratión. Prince Andrew, without replying, asked the
  prince&rsquo;s permission to ride round the position to see the disposition of
  the forces, so as to know his bearings should he be sent to execute an order.
  The officer on duty, a handsome, elegantly dressed man with a diamond ring on his
  forefinger, who was fond of speaking French though he spoke it badly,
  offered to conduct Prince Andrew.
<br />
  On all sides they saw rain-soaked officers with dejected faces who seemed
  to be seeking something, and soldiers dragging doors, benches, and fencing
  from the village.
<br />
  &ldquo;There now, Prince! We can&rsquo;t stop those fellows,&rdquo; said the staff officer
  pointing to the soldiers. &ldquo;The officers don&rsquo;t keep them in hand. And
  there,&rdquo; he pointed to a sutler&rsquo;s tent, &ldquo;they crowd in and sit. This
  morning I turned them all out and now look, it&rsquo;s full again. I must go
  there, Prince, and scare them a bit. It won&rsquo;t take a moment.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, let&rsquo;s go in and I will get myself a roll and some cheese,&rdquo; said
  Prince Andrew who had not yet had time to eat anything.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why didn&rsquo;t you mention it, Prince? I would have offered you something.&rdquo;
 <br />
  They dismounted and entered the tent. Several officers, with flushed and
  weary faces, were sitting at the table eating and drinking.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now what does this mean, gentlemen?&rdquo; said the staff officer, in the
  reproachful tone of a man who has repeated the same thing more than once.
  &ldquo;You know it won&rsquo;t do to leave your posts like this. The prince gave
  orders that no one should leave his post. Now you, Captain,&rdquo; and he turned
  to a thin, dirty little artillery officer who without his boots (he had
  given them to the canteen keeper to dry), in only his stockings, rose when
  they entered, smiling not altogether comfortably.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, aren&rsquo;t you ashamed of yourself, Captain Túshin?&rdquo; he continued. &ldquo;One
  would think that as an artillery officer you would set a good example, yet
  here you are without your boots! The alarm will be sounded and you&rsquo;ll be
  in a pretty position without your boots!&rdquo; (The staff officer smiled.)
  &ldquo;Kindly return to your posts, gentlemen, all of you, all!&rdquo; he added in a
  tone of command.
<br />
  Prince Andrew smiled involuntarily as he looked at the artillery officer
  Túshin, who silent and smiling, shifting from one stockinged foot to the
  other, glanced inquiringly with his large, intelligent, kindly eyes from
  Prince Andrew to the staff officer.
<br />
  &ldquo;The soldiers say it feels easier without boots,&rdquo; said Captain Túshin
  smiling shyly in his uncomfortable position, evidently wishing to adopt a
  jocular tone. But before he had finished he felt that his jest was
  unacceptable and had not come off. He grew confused.
<br />
  &ldquo;Kindly return to your posts,&rdquo; said the staff officer trying to preserve
  his gravity.
<br />
  Prince Andrew glanced again at the artillery officer&rsquo;s small figure. There
  was something peculiar about it, quite unsoldierly, rather comic, but
  extremely attractive.
<br />
  The staff officer and Prince Andrew mounted their horses and rode on.
<br />
  Having ridden beyond the village, continually meeting and overtaking
  soldiers and officers of various regiments, they saw on their left some
  entrenchments being thrown up, the freshly dug clay of which showed up
  red. Several battalions of soldiers, in their shirt sleeves despite the
  cold wind, swarmed in these earthworks like a host of white ants;
  spadefuls of red clay were continually being thrown up from behind the
  bank by unseen hands. Prince Andrew and the officer rode up, looked at the
  entrenchment, and went on again. Just behind it they came upon some dozens
  of soldiers, continually replaced by others, who ran from the
  entrenchment. They had to hold their noses and put their horses to a trot
  to escape from the poisoned atmosphere of these latrines.
<br />
   * said the staff
  officer.
<br />
* &ldquo;This is a pleasure one gets in camp, Prince.&rdquo;

They rode up the opposite hill. From there the French could already be seen. Prince Andrew stopped and began examining the position.
“That’s our battery,” said the staff officer indicating the highest point. “It’s in charge of the queer fellow we saw without his boots. You can see everything from there; let’s go there, Prince.”
“Thank you very much, I will go on alone,” said Prince Andrew, wishing to rid himself of this staff officer’s company, “please don’t trouble yourself further.”
The staff officer remained behind and Prince Andrew rode on alone.
The farther forward and nearer the enemy he went, the more orderly and cheerful were the troops. The greatest disorder and depression had been in the baggage train he had passed that morning on the Znaim road seven miles away from the French. At Grunth also some apprehension and alarm could be felt, but the nearer Prince Andrew came to the French lines the more confident was the appearance of our troops. The soldiers in their greatcoats were ranged in lines, the sergeants major and company officers were counting the men, poking the last man in each section in the ribs and telling him to hold his hand up. Soldiers scattered over the whole place were dragging logs and brushwood and were building shelters with merry chatter and laughter; around the fires sat others, dressed and undressed, drying their shirts and leg bands or mending boots or overcoats and crowding round the boilers and porridge cookers. In one company dinner was ready, and the soldiers were gazing eagerly at the steaming boiler, waiting till the sample, which a quartermaster sergeant was carrying in a wooden bowl to an officer who sat on a log before his shelter, had been tasted.
Another company, a lucky one for not all the companies had vodka, crowded round a pockmarked, broad-shouldered sergeant major who, tilting a keg, filled one after another the canteen lids held out to him. The soldiers lifted the canteen lids to their lips with reverential faces, emptied them, rolling the vodka in their mouths, and walked away from the sergeant major with brightened expressions, licking their lips and wiping them on the sleeves of their greatcoats. All their faces were as serene as if all this were happening at home awaiting peaceful encampment, and not within sight of the enemy before an action in which at least half of them would be left on the field. After passing a chasseur regiment and in the lines of the Kiev grenadiers—fine fellows busy with similar peaceful affairs—near the shelter of the regimental commander, higher than and different from the others, Prince Andrew came out in front of a platoon of grenadiers before whom lay a naked man. Two soldiers held him while two others were flourishing their switches and striking him regularly on his bare back. The man shrieked unnaturally. A stout major was pacing up and down the line, and regardless of the screams kept repeating:
“It’s a shame for a soldier to steal; a soldier must be honest, honorable, and brave, but if he robs his fellows there is no honor in him, he’s a scoundrel. Go on! Go on!”
So the swishing sound of the strokes, and the desperate but unnatural screams, continued.
“Go on, go on!” said the major.
A young officer with a bewildered and pained expression on his face stepped away from the man and looked round inquiringly at the adjutant as he rode by.
Prince Andrew, having reached the front line, rode along it. Our front line and that of the enemy were far apart on the right and left flanks, but in the center where the men with a flag of truce had passed that morning, the lines were so near together that the men could see one another’s faces and speak to one another. Besides the soldiers who formed the picket line on either side, there were many curious onlookers who, jesting and laughing, stared at their strange foreign enemies.
Since early morning—despite an injunction not to approach the picket line—the officers had been unable to keep sight-seers away. The soldiers forming the picket line, like showmen exhibiting a curiosity, no longer looked at the French but paid attention to the sight-seers and grew weary waiting to be relieved. Prince Andrew halted to have a look at the French.
“Look! Look there!” one soldier was saying to another, pointing to a Russian musketeer who had gone up to the picket line with an officer and was rapidly and excitedly talking to a French grenadier. “Hark to him jabbering! Fine, isn’t it? It’s all the Frenchy can do to keep up with him. There now, Sídorov!”
“Wait a bit and listen. It’s fine!” answered Sídorov, who was considered an adept at French.
The soldier to whom the laughers referred was Dólokhov. Prince Andrew recognized him and stopped to listen to what he was saying. Dólokhov had come from the left flank where their regiment was stationed, with his captain.
“Now then, go on, go on!” incited the officer, bending forward and trying not to lose a word of the speech which was incomprehensible to him. “More, please: more! What’s he saying?”
Dólokhov did not answer the captain; he had been drawn into a hot dispute with the French grenadier. They were naturally talking about the campaign. The Frenchman, confusing the Austrians with the Russians, was trying to prove that the Russians had surrendered and had fled all the way from Ulm, while Dólokhov maintained that the Russians had not surrendered but had beaten the French.
“We have orders to drive you off here, and we shall drive you off,” said Dólokhov.
“Only take care you and your Cossacks are not all captured!” said the French grenadier.
The French onlookers and listeners laughed.
“We’ll make you dance as we did under Suvórov…,” * said Dólokhov.

   * asked a Frenchman.
<br />
* &ldquo;What&rsquo;s he singing about?&rdquo;

“It’s ancient history,” said another, guessing that it referred to a former war. “The Emperor will teach your Suvara as he has taught the others…”
“Bonaparte…” began Dólokhov, but the Frenchman interrupted him.
“Not Bonaparte. He is the Emperor! cried he angrily.
“The devil skin your Emperor.”
And Dólokhov swore at him in coarse soldier’s Russian and shouldering his musket walked away.
“Let us go, Iván Lukích,” he said to the captain.
“Ah, that’s the way to talk French,” said the picket soldiers. “Now, Sídorov, you have a try!”
Sídorov, turning to the French, winked, and began to jabber meaningless sounds very fast: he said, trying to give an expressive intonation to his voice.
“Ho! ho! ho! Ha! ha! ha! ha! Ouh! ouh!” came peals of such healthy and good-humored laughter from the soldiers that it infected the French involuntarily, so much so that the only thing left to do seemed to be to unload the muskets, explode the ammunition, and all return home as quickly as possible.
But the guns remained loaded, the loopholes in blockhouses and entrenchments looked out just as menacingly, and the unlimbered cannon confronted one another as before.

  CHAPTER XVI


  Having ridden round the whole line from right flank to left, Prince Andrew
  made his way up to the battery from which the staff officer had told him
  the whole field could be seen. Here he dismounted, and stopped beside the
  farthest of the four unlimbered cannon. Before the guns an artillery
  sentry was pacing up and down; he stood at attention when the officer
  arrived, but at a sign resumed his measured, monotonous pacing. Behind the
  guns were their limbers and still farther back picket ropes and
  artillerymen&rsquo;s bonfires. To the left, not far from the farthest cannon,
  was a small, newly constructed wattle shed from which came the sound of
  officers&rsquo; voices in eager conversation.
<br />
  It was true that a view over nearly the whole Russian position and the
  greater part of the enemy&rsquo;s opened out from this battery. Just facing it,
  on the crest of the opposite hill, the village of Schön Grabern could be
  seen, and in three places to left and right the French troops amid the
  smoke of their campfires, the greater part of whom were evidently in the
  village itself and behind the hill. To the left from that village, amid
  the smoke, was something resembling a battery, but it was impossible to
  see it clearly with the naked eye. Our right flank was posted on a rather
  steep incline which dominated the French position. Our infantry were
  stationed there, and at the farthest point the dragoons. In the center,
  where Túshin&rsquo;s battery stood and from which Prince Andrew was surveying
  the position, was the easiest and most direct descent and ascent to the
  brook separating us from Schön Grabern. On the left our troops were close
  to a copse, in which smoked the bonfires of our infantry who were felling
  wood. The French line was wider than ours, and it was plain that they
  could easily outflank us on both sides. Behind our position was a steep
  and deep dip, making it difficult for artillery and cavalry to retire.
  Prince Andrew took out his notebook and, leaning on the cannon, sketched a
  plan of the position. He made some notes on two points, intending to
  mention them to Bagratión. His idea was, first, to concentrate all the
  artillery in the center, and secondly, to withdraw the cavalry to the
  other side of the dip. Prince Andrew, being always near the commander in
  chief, closely following the mass movements and general orders, and
  constantly studying historical accounts of battles, involuntarily pictured
  to himself the course of events in the forthcoming action in broad
  outline. He imagined only important possibilities: &ldquo;If the enemy attacks
  the right flank,&rdquo; he said to himself, &ldquo;the Kiev grenadiers and the Podólsk
  chasseurs must hold their position till reserves from the center come up.
  In that case the dragoons could successfully make a flank counterattack.
  If they attack our center we, having the center battery on this high
  ground, shall withdraw the left flank under its cover, and retreat to the
  dip by echelons.&rdquo; So he reasoned.... All the time he had been beside the
  gun, he had heard the voices of the officers distinctly, but as often
  happens had not understood a word of what they were saying. Suddenly,
  however, he was struck by a voice coming from the shed, and its tone was
  so sincere that he could not but listen.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, friend,&rdquo; said a pleasant and, as it seemed to Prince Andrew, a
  familiar voice, &ldquo;what I say is that if it were possible to know what is
  beyond death, none of us would be afraid of it. That&rsquo;s so, friend.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Another, a younger voice, interrupted him: &ldquo;Afraid or not, you can&rsquo;t
  escape it anyhow.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;All the same, one is afraid! Oh, you clever people,&rdquo; said a third manly
  voice interrupting them both. &ldquo;Of course you artillery men are very wise,
  because you can take everything along with you&mdash;vodka and snacks.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And the owner of the manly voice, evidently an infantry officer, laughed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, one is afraid,&rdquo; continued the first speaker, he of the familiar
  voice. &ldquo;One is afraid of the unknown, that&rsquo;s what it is. Whatever we may
  say about the soul going to the sky... we know there is no sky but only an
  atmosphere.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The manly voice again interrupted the artillery officer.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, stand us some of your herb vodka, Túshin,&rdquo; it said.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why,&rdquo; thought Prince Andrew, &ldquo;that&rsquo;s the captain who
  stood up in the sutler&rsquo;s hut without his boots.&rdquo; He recognized the
  agreeable, philosophizing voice with pleasure.
<br />
  &ldquo;Some herb vodka? Certainly!&rdquo; said Túshin. &ldquo;But still, to
  conceive a future life...&rdquo;
 <br />
  He did not finish. Just then there was a whistle in the air; nearer and
  nearer, faster and louder, louder and faster, a cannon ball, as if it had
  not finished saying what was necessary, thudded into the ground near the
  shed with super human force, throwing up a mass of earth. The ground
  seemed to groan at the terrible impact.
<br />
  And immediately Túshin, with a short pipe in the corner of his mouth and
  his kind, intelligent face rather pale, rushed out of the shed followed by
  the owner of the manly voice, a dashing infantry officer who hurried off
  to his company, buttoning up his coat as he ran.

  CHAPTER XVII


  Mounting his horse again Prince Andrew lingered with the battery, looking
  at the puff from the gun that had sent the ball. His eyes ran rapidly over
  the wide space, but he only saw that the hitherto motionless masses of the
  French now swayed and that there really was a battery to their left. The
  smoke above it had not yet dispersed. Two mounted Frenchmen, probably
  adjutants, were galloping up the hill. A small but distinctly visible
  enemy column was moving down the hill, probably to strengthen the front
  line. The smoke of the first shot had not yet dispersed before another
  puff appeared, followed by a report. The battle had begun! Prince Andrew
  turned his horse and galloped back to Grunth to find Prince Bagratión. He
  heard the cannonade behind him growing louder and more frequent. Evidently
  our guns had begun to reply. From the bottom of the slope, where the
  parleys had taken place, came the report of musketry.
<br />
  Lemarrois had just arrived at a gallop with Bonaparte&rsquo;s stern letter, and
  Murat, humiliated and anxious to expiate his fault, had at once moved his
  forces to attack the center and outflank both the Russian wings, hoping
  before evening and before the arrival of the Emperor to crush the
  contemptible detachment that stood before him.
<br />
  &ldquo;It has begun. Here it is!&rdquo; thought Prince Andrew, feeling the blood rush
  to his heart. &ldquo;But where and how will my Toulon present itself?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Passing between the companies that had been eating porridge and drinking
  vodka a quarter of an hour before, he saw everywhere the same rapid
  movement of soldiers forming ranks and getting their muskets ready, and on
  all their faces he recognized the same eagerness that filled his heart.
  &ldquo;It has begun! Here it is, dreadful but enjoyable!&rdquo; was what the face of
  each soldier and each officer seemed to say.
<br />
  Before he had reached the embankments that were being thrown up, he saw,
  in the light of the dull autumn evening, mounted men coming toward him.
  The foremost, wearing a Cossack cloak and lambskin cap and riding a white
  horse, was Prince Bagratión. Prince Andrew stopped, waiting for him to
  come up; Prince Bagratión reined in his horse and recognizing Prince
  Andrew nodded to him. He still looked ahead while Prince Andrew told him
  what he had seen.
<br />
  The feeling, &ldquo;It has begun! Here it is!&rdquo; was seen even on Prince
  Bagratión&rsquo;s hard brown face with its half-closed, dull, sleepy eyes.
  Prince Andrew gazed with anxious curiosity at that impassive face and
  wished he could tell what, if anything, this man was thinking and feeling
  at that moment. &ldquo;Is there anything at all behind that impassive face?&rdquo;
   Prince Andrew asked himself as he looked. Prince Bagratión bent his head
  in sign of agreement with what Prince Andrew told him, and said, &ldquo;Very
  good!&rdquo; in a tone that seemed to imply that everything that took place and
  was reported to him was exactly what he had foreseen. Prince Andrew, out
  of breath with his rapid ride, spoke quickly. Prince Bagratión, uttering
  his words with an Oriental accent, spoke particularly slowly, as if to
  impress the fact that there was no need to hurry. However, he put his
  horse to a trot in the direction of Túshin&rsquo;s battery. Prince Andrew
  followed with the suite. Behind Prince Bagratión rode an officer of the
  suite, the prince&rsquo;s personal adjutant, Zherkóv, an orderly officer, the
  staff officer on duty, riding a fine bobtailed horse, and a civilian&mdash;an
  accountant who had asked permission to be present at the battle out of
  curiosity. The accountant, a stout, full-faced man, looked around him with
  a naïve smile of satisfaction and presented a strange appearance among the
  hussars, Cossacks, and adjutants, in his camlet coat, as he jolted on his
  horse with a convoy officer&rsquo;s saddle.
<br />
  &ldquo;He wants to see a battle,&rdquo; said Zherkóv to Bolkónski, pointing to the
  accountant, &ldquo;but he feels a pain in the pit of his stomach already.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, leave off!&rdquo; said the accountant with a beaming but rather cunning
  smile, as if flattered at being made the subject of Zherkóv&rsquo;s joke, and
  purposely trying to appear stupider than he really was.
<br />
  &ldquo;It is very strange, ,&rdquo; said the staff officer. (He
  remembered that in French there is some peculiar way of addressing a
  prince, but could not get it quite right.)
<br />
  By this time they were all approaching Túshin&rsquo;s battery, and a ball struck
  the ground in front of them.
<br />
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s that that has fallen?&rdquo; asked the accountant with a naïve smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;A French pancake,&rdquo; answered Zherkóv.
<br />
  &ldquo;So that&rsquo;s what they hit with?&rdquo; asked the accountant. &ldquo;How awful!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He seemed to swell with satisfaction. He had hardly finished speaking when
  they again heard an unexpectedly violent whistling which suddenly ended
  with a thud into something soft...  and a Cossack, riding a
  little to their right and behind the accountant, crashed to earth with his
  horse. Zherkóv and the staff officer bent over their saddles and turned
  their horses away. The accountant stopped, facing the Cossack, and
  examined him with attentive curiosity. The Cossack was dead, but the horse
  still struggled.
<br />
  Prince Bagratión screwed up his eyes, looked round, and, seeing the cause
  of the confusion, turned away with indifference, as if to say, &ldquo;Is it
  worth while noticing trifles?&rdquo; He reined in his horse with the care of a
  skillful rider and, slightly bending over, disengaged his saber which had
  caught in his cloak. It was an old-fashioned saber of a kind no longer in
  general use. Prince Andrew remembered the story of Suvórov giving his
  saber to Bagratión in Italy, and the recollection was particularly
  pleasant at that moment. They had reached the battery at which Prince
  Andrew had been when he examined the battlefield.
<br />
  &ldquo;Whose company?&rdquo; asked Prince Bagratión of an artilleryman standing by the
  ammunition wagon.
<br />
  He asked, &ldquo;Whose company?&rdquo; but he really meant, &ldquo;Are you frightened here?&rdquo;
   and the artilleryman understood him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Captain Túshin&rsquo;s, your excellency!&rdquo; shouted the red-haired, freckled
  gunner in a merry voice, standing to attention.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; muttered Bagratión as if considering something, and he rode
  past the limbers to the farthest cannon.
<br />
  As he approached, a ringing shot issued from it deafening him and his
  suite, and in the smoke that suddenly surrounded the gun they could see
  the gunners who had seized it straining to roll it quickly back to its
  former position. A huge, broad-shouldered gunner, Number One, holding a
  mop, his legs far apart, sprang to the wheel; while Number Two with a
  trembling hand placed a charge in the cannon&rsquo;s mouth. The short,
  round-shouldered Captain Túshin, stumbling over the tail of the gun
  carriage, moved forward and, not noticing the general, looked out shading
  his eyes with his small hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;Lift it two lines more and it will be just right,&rdquo; cried he in a feeble
  voice to which he tried to impart a dashing note, ill-suited to his weak
  figure. &ldquo;Number Two!&rdquo; he squeaked. &ldquo;Fire, Medvédev!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Bagratión called to him, and Túshin, raising three fingers to his cap with
  a bashful and awkward gesture not at all like a military salute but like a
  priest&rsquo;s benediction, approached the general. Though Túshin&rsquo;s guns had
  been intended to cannonade the valley, he was firing incendiary balls at
  the village of Schön Grabern visible just opposite, in front of which
  large masses of French were advancing.
<br />
  No one had given Túshin orders where and at what to fire, but after
  consulting his sergeant major, Zakharchénko, for whom he had great
  respect, he had decided that it would be a good thing to set fire to the
  village. &ldquo;Very good!&rdquo; said Bagratión in reply to the officer&rsquo;s report, and
  began deliberately to examine the whole battlefield extended before him.
  The French had advanced nearest on our right. Below the height on which
  the Kiev regiment was stationed, in the hollow where the rivulet flowed,
  the soul-stirring rolling and crackling of musketry was heard, and much
  farther to the right beyond the dragoons, the officer of the suite pointed
  out to Bagratión a French column that was outflanking us. To the left the
  horizon bounded by the adjacent wood. Prince Bagratión ordered two
  battalions from the center to be sent to reinforce the right flank. The
  officer of the suite ventured to remark to the prince that if these
  battalions went away, the guns would remain without support. Prince
  Bagratión turned to the officer and with his dull eyes looked at him in
  silence. It seemed to Prince Andrew that the officer&rsquo;s remark was just and
  that really no answer could be made to it. But at that moment an adjutant
  galloped up with a message from the commander of the regiment in the
  hollow and news that immense masses of the French were coming down upon
  them and that his regiment was in disorder and was retreating upon the
  Kiev grenadiers. Prince Bagratión bowed his head in sign of assent and
  approval. He rode off at a walk to the right and sent an adjutant to the
  dragoons with orders to attack the French. But this adjutant returned half
  an hour later with the news that the commander of the dragoons had already
  retreated beyond the dip in the ground, as a heavy fire had been opened on
  him and he was losing men uselessly, and so had hastened to throw some
  sharpshooters into the wood.
<br />
  &ldquo;Very good!&rdquo; said Bagratión.
<br />
  As he was leaving the battery, firing was heard on the left also, and as
  it was too far to the left flank for him to have time to go there himself,
  Prince Bagratión sent Zherkóv to tell the general in command (the one who
  had paraded his regiment before Kutúzov at Braunau) that he must retreat
  as quickly as possible behind the hollow in the rear, as the right flank
  would probably not be able to withstand the enemy&rsquo;s attack very long.
  About Túshin and the battalion that had been in support of his battery all
  was forgotten. Prince Andrew listened attentively to Bagratión&rsquo;s
  colloquies with the commanding officers and the orders he gave them and,
  to his surprise, found that no orders were really given, but that Prince
  Bagratión tried to make it appear that everything done by necessity, by
  accident, or by the will of subordinate commanders was done, if not by his
  direct command, at least in accord with his intentions. Prince Andrew
  noticed, however, that though what happened was due to chance and was
  independent of the commander&rsquo;s will, owing to the tact Bagratión showed,
  his presence was very valuable. Officers who approached him with disturbed
  countenances became calm; soldiers and officers greeted him gaily, grew
  more cheerful in his presence, and were evidently anxious to display their
  courage before him.

  CHAPTER XVIII


  Prince Bagratión, having reached the highest point of our right flank,
  began riding downhill to where the roll of musketry was heard but where on
  account of the smoke nothing could be seen. The nearer they got to the
  hollow the less they could see but the more they felt the nearness of the
  actual battlefield. They began to meet wounded men. One with a bleeding
  head and no cap was being dragged along by two soldiers who supported him
  under the arms. There was a gurgle in his throat and he was spitting
  blood. A bullet had evidently hit him in the throat or mouth. Another was
  walking sturdily by himself but without his musket, groaning aloud and
  swinging his arm which had just been hurt, while blood from it was
  streaming over his greatcoat as from a bottle. He had that moment been
  wounded and his face showed fear rather than suffering. Crossing a road
  they descended a steep incline and saw several men lying on the ground;
  they also met a crowd of soldiers some of whom were unwounded. The
  soldiers were ascending the hill breathing heavily, and despite the
  general&rsquo;s presence were talking loudly and gesticulating. In front of them
  rows of gray cloaks were already visible through the smoke, and an officer
  catching sight of Bagratión rushed shouting after the crowd of retreating
  soldiers, ordering them back. Bagratión rode up to the ranks along which
  shots crackled now here and now there, drowning the sound of voices and
  the shouts of command. The whole air reeked with smoke. The excited faces
  of the soldiers were blackened with it. Some were using their ramrods,
  others putting powder on the touchpans or taking charges from their
  pouches, while others were firing, though who they were firing at could
  not be seen for the smoke which there was no wind to carry away. A
  pleasant humming and whistling of bullets were often heard. &ldquo;What is
  this?&rdquo; thought Prince Andrew approaching the crowd of soldiers. &ldquo;It can&rsquo;t
  be an attack, for they are not moving; it can&rsquo;t be a square&mdash;for they
  are not drawn up for that.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The commander of the regiment, a thin, feeble-looking old man with a
  pleasant smile&mdash;his eyelids drooping more than half over his old
  eyes, giving him a mild expression, rode up to Bagratión and welcomed him
  as a host welcomes an honored guest. He reported that his regiment had
  been attacked by French cavalry and that, though the attack had been
  repulsed, he had lost more than half his men. He said the attack had been
  repulsed, employing this military term to describe what had occurred to
  his regiment, but in reality he did not himself know what had happened
  during that half-hour to the troops entrusted to him, and could not say
  with certainty whether the attack had been repulsed or his regiment had
  been broken up. All he knew was that at the commencement of the action
  balls and shells began flying all over his regiment and hitting men and
  that afterwards someone had shouted &ldquo;Cavalry!&rdquo; and our men had begun
  firing. They were still firing, not at the cavalry which had disappeared,
  but at French infantry who had come into the hollow and were firing at our
  men. Prince Bagratión bowed his head as a sign that this was exactly what
  he had desired and expected. Turning to his adjutant he ordered him to
  bring down the two battalions of the Sixth Chasseurs whom they had just
  passed. Prince Andrew was struck by the changed expression on Prince
  Bagratión&rsquo;s face at this moment. It expressed the concentrated and happy
  resolution you see on the face of a man who on a hot day takes a final run
  before plunging into the water. The dull, sleepy expression was no longer
  there, nor the affectation of profound thought. The round, steady, hawk&rsquo;s
  eyes looked before him eagerly and rather disdainfully, not resting on
  anything although his movements were still slow and measured.
<br />
  The commander of the regiment turned to Prince Bagratión, entreating him
  to go back as it was too dangerous to remain where they were. &ldquo;Please,
  your excellency, for God&rsquo;s sake!&rdquo; he kept saying, glancing for support at
  an officer of the suite who turned away from him. &ldquo;There, you see!&rdquo; and he
  drew attention to the bullets whistling, singing, and hissing continually
  around them. He spoke in the tone of entreaty and reproach that a
  carpenter uses to a gentleman who has picked up an ax: &ldquo;We are used to it,
  but you, sir, will blister your hands.&rdquo; He spoke as if those bullets could
  not kill him, and his half-closed eyes gave still more persuasiveness to
  his words. The staff officer joined in the colonel&rsquo;s appeals, but
  Bagratión did not reply; he only gave an order to cease firing and
  re-form, so as to give room for the two approaching battalions. While he
  was speaking, the curtain of smoke that had concealed the hollow, driven
  by a rising wind, began to move from right to left as if drawn by an
  invisible hand, and the hill opposite, with the French moving about on it,
  opened out before them. All eyes fastened involuntarily on this French
  column advancing against them and winding down over the uneven ground. One
  could already see the soldiers&rsquo; shaggy caps, distinguish the officers from
  the men, and see the standard flapping against its staff.
<br />
  &ldquo;They march splendidly,&rdquo; remarked someone in Bagratión&rsquo;s suite.
<br />
  The head of the column had already descended into the hollow. The clash
  would take place on this side of it...
<br />
  The remains of our regiment which had been in action rapidly formed up and
  moved to the right; from behind it, dispersing the laggards, came two
  battalions of the Sixth Chasseurs in fine order. Before they had reached
  Bagratión, the weighty tread of the mass of men marching in step could be
  heard. On their left flank, nearest to Bagratión, marched a company
  commander, a fine round-faced man, with a stupid and happy expression&mdash;the
  same man who had rushed out of the wattle shed. At that moment he was
  clearly thinking of nothing but how dashing a fellow he would appear as he
  passed the commander.
<br />
  With the self-satisfaction of a man on parade, he stepped lightly with his
  muscular legs as if sailing along, stretching himself to his full height
  without the smallest effort, his ease contrasting with the heavy tread of
  the soldiers who were keeping step with him. He carried close to his leg a
  narrow unsheathed sword (small, curved, and not like a real weapon) and
  looked now at the superior officers and now back at the men without losing
  step, his whole powerful body turning flexibly. It was as if all the
  powers of his soul were concentrated on passing the commander in the best
  possible manner, and feeling that he was doing it well he was happy.
  &ldquo;Left... left... left...&rdquo; he seemed to repeat to himself at each alternate
  step; and in time to this, with stern but varied faces, the wall of
  soldiers burdened with knapsacks and muskets marched in step, and each one
  of these hundreds of soldiers seemed to be repeating to himself at each
  alternate step, &ldquo;Left... left... left...&rdquo; A fat major skirted a bush,
  puffing and falling out of step; a soldier who had fallen behind, his face
  showing alarm at his defection, ran at a trot, panting to catch up with
  his company. A cannon ball, cleaving the air, flew over the heads of
  Bagratión and his suite, and fell into the column to the measure of
   &ldquo;Close up!&rdquo; came the company commander&rsquo;s voice in jaunty
  tones. The soldiers passed in a semicircle round something where the ball
  had fallen, and an old trooper on the flank, a noncommissioned officer who
  had stopped beside the dead men, ran to catch up his line and, falling
  into step with a hop, looked back angrily, and through the ominous silence
  and the regular tramp of feet beating the ground in unison, one seemed to
  hear 
<br />
  &ldquo;Well done, lads!&rdquo; said Prince Bagratión.
<br />
  &ldquo;Glad to do our best, your ex&rsquo;len-lency!&rdquo; came a confused shout from the
  ranks. A morose soldier marching on the left turned his eyes on Bagratión
  as he shouted, with an expression that seemed to say: &ldquo;We know that
  ourselves!&rdquo; Another, without looking round, as though fearing to relax,
  shouted with his mouth wide open and passed on.
<br />
  The order was given to halt and down knapsacks.
<br />
  Bagratión rode round the ranks that had marched past him and dismounted.
  He gave the reins to a Cossack, took off and handed over his felt coat,
  stretched his legs, and set his cap straight. The head of the French
  column, with its officers leading, appeared from below the hill.
<br />
  &ldquo;Forward, with God!&rdquo; said Bagratión, in a resolute, sonorous voice,
  turning for a moment to the front line, and slightly swinging his arms, he
  went forward uneasily over the rough field with the awkward gait of a
  cavalryman. Prince Andrew felt that an invisible power was leading him
  forward, and experienced great happiness.
<br />
  The French were already near. Prince Andrew, walking beside Bagratión,
  could clearly distinguish their bandoliers, red epaulets, and even their
  faces. (He distinctly saw an old French officer who, with gaitered legs
  and turned-out toes, climbed the hill with difficulty.) Prince Bagratión
  gave no further orders and silently continued to walk on in front of the
  ranks. Suddenly one shot after another rang out from the French, smoke
  appeared all along their uneven ranks, and musket shots sounded. Several
  of our men fell, among them the round-faced officer who had marched so
  gaily and complacently. But at the moment the first report was heard,
  Bagratión looked round and shouted, &ldquo;Hurrah!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Hurrah&mdash;ah!&mdash;ah!&rdquo; rang a long-drawn shout from our ranks, and
  passing Bagratión and racing one another they rushed in an irregular but
  joyous and eager crowd down the hill at their disordered foe.

  CHAPTER XIX


  The attack of the Sixth Chasseurs secured the retreat of our right flank.
  In the center Túshin&rsquo;s forgotten battery, which had managed to set fire to
  the Schön Grabern village, delayed the French advance. The French were
  putting out the fire which the wind was spreading, and thus gave us time
  to retreat. The retirement of the center to the other side of the dip in
  the ground at the rear was hurried and noisy, but the different companies
  did not get mixed. But our left&mdash;which consisted of the Azóv and
  Podólsk infantry and the Pávlograd hussars&mdash;was simultaneously
  attacked and outflanked by superior French forces under Lannes and was
  thrown into confusion. Bagratión had sent Zherkóv to the general
  commanding that left flank with orders to retreat immediately.
<br />
  Zherkóv, not removing his hand from his cap, turned his horse about and
  galloped off. But no sooner had he left Bagratión than his courage failed
  him. He was seized by panic and could not go where it was dangerous.
<br />
  Having reached the left flank, instead of going to the front where the
  firing was, he began to look for the general and his staff where they
  could not possibly be, and so did not deliver the order.
<br />
  The command of the left flank belonged by seniority to the commander of
  the regiment Kutúzov had reviewed at Braunau and in which Dólokhov was
  serving as a private. But the command of the extreme left flank had been
  assigned to the commander of the Pávlograd regiment in which Rostóv was
  serving, and a misunderstanding arose. The two commanders were much
  exasperated with one another and, long after the action had begun on the
  right flank and the French were already advancing, were engaged in
  discussion with the sole object of offending one another. But the
  regiments, both cavalry and infantry, were by no means ready for the
  impending action. From privates to general they were not expecting a
  battle and were engaged in peaceful occupations, the cavalry feeding the
  horses and the infantry collecting wood.
<br />
  &ldquo;He higher iss dan I in rank,&rdquo; said the German colonel of the hussars,
  flushing and addressing an adjutant who had ridden up, &ldquo;so let him do what
  he vill, but I cannot sacrifice my hussars... Bugler, sount ze retreat!&rdquo;
 <br />
  But haste was becoming imperative. Cannon and musketry, mingling together,
  thundered on the right and in the center, while the capotes of Lannes&rsquo;
  sharpshooters were already seen crossing the milldam and forming up within
  twice the range of a musket shot. The general in command of the infantry
  went toward his horse with jerky steps, and having mounted drew himself up
  very straight and tall and rode to the Pávlograd commander. The commanders
  met with polite bows but with secret malevolence in their hearts.
<br />
  &ldquo;Once again, Colonel,&rdquo; said the general, &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t leave half my men in the
  wood. I  of you, I  of you,&rdquo; he repeated, &ldquo;to occupy the 
  and prepare for an attack.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I peg of you yourself not to mix in vot is not your business!&rdquo; suddenly
  replied the irate colonel. &ldquo;If you vere in the cavalry...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am not in the cavalry, Colonel, but I am a Russian general and if you
  are not aware of the fact...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Quite avare, your excellency,&rdquo; suddenly shouted the colonel, touching his
  horse and turning purple in the face. &ldquo;Vill you be so goot to come to ze
  front and see dat zis position iss no goot? I don&rsquo;t vish to destroy my men
  for your pleasure!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You forget yourself, Colonel. I am not considering my own pleasure and I
  won&rsquo;t allow it to be said!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Taking the colonel&rsquo;s outburst as a challenge to his courage, the general
  expanded his chest and rode, frowning, beside him to the front line, as if
  their differences would be settled there amongst the bullets. They reached
  the front, several bullets sped over them, and they halted in silence.
  There was nothing fresh to be seen from the line, for from where they had
  been before it had been evident that it was impossible for cavalry to act
  among the bushes and broken ground, as well as that the French were
  outflanking our left. The general and colonel looked sternly and
  significantly at one another like two fighting cocks preparing for battle,
  each vainly trying to detect signs of cowardice in the other. Both passed
  the examination successfully. As there was nothing to be said, and neither
  wished to give occasion for it to be alleged that he had been the first to
  leave the range of fire, they would have remained there for a long time
  testing each other&rsquo;s courage had it not been that just then they heard the
  rattle of musketry and a muffled shout almost behind them in the wood. The
  French had attacked the men collecting wood in the copse. It was no longer
  possible for the hussars to retreat with the infantry. They were cut off
  from the line of retreat on the left by the French. However inconvenient
  the position, it was now necessary to attack in order to cut a way through
  for themselves.
<br />
  The squadron in which Rostóv was serving had scarcely time to mount before
  it was halted facing the enemy. Again, as at the Enns bridge, there was
  nothing between the squadron and the enemy, and again that terrible
  dividing line of uncertainty and fear&mdash;resembling the line separating
  the living from the dead&mdash;lay between them. All were conscious of
  this unseen line, and the question whether they would cross it or not, and
  how they would cross it, agitated them all.
<br />
  The colonel rode to the front, angrily gave some reply to questions put to
  him by the officers, and, like a man desperately insisting on having his
  own way, gave an order. No one said anything definite, but the rumor of an
  attack spread through the squadron. The command to form up rang out and
  the sabers whizzed as they were drawn from their scabbards. Still no one
  moved. The troops of the left flank, infantry and hussars alike, felt that
  the commander did not himself know what to do, and this irresolution
  communicated itself to the men.
<br />
  &ldquo;If only they would be quick!&rdquo; thought Rostóv, feeling that at last the
  time had come to experience the joy of an attack of which he had so often
  heard from his fellow hussars.
<br />
  &ldquo;Fo&rsquo;ward, with God, lads!&rdquo; rang out Denísov&rsquo;s voice. &ldquo;At a twot fo&rsquo;ward!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The horses&rsquo; croups began to sway in the front line. Rook pulled at the
  reins and started of his own accord.
<br />
  Before him, on the right, Rostóv saw the front lines of his hussars and
  still farther ahead a dark line which he could not see distinctly but took
  to be the enemy. Shots could be heard, but some way off.
<br />
  &ldquo;Faster!&rdquo; came the word of command, and Rostóv felt Rook&rsquo;s flanks drooping
  as he broke into a gallop.
<br />
  Rostóv anticipated his horse&rsquo;s movements and became more and more elated.
  He had noticed a solitary tree ahead of him. This tree had been in the
  middle of the line that had seemed so terrible&mdash;and now he had
  crossed that line and not only was there nothing terrible, but everything
  was becoming more and more happy and animated. &ldquo;Oh, how I will slash at
  him!&rdquo; thought Rostóv, gripping the hilt of his saber.
<br />
  &ldquo;Hur-a-a-a-ah!&rdquo; came a roar of voices. &ldquo;Let anyone come my way now,&rdquo;
   thought Rostóv driving his spurs into Rook and letting him go at a full
  gallop so that he outstripped the others. Ahead, the enemy was already
  visible. Suddenly something like a birch broom seemed to sweep over the
  squadron. Rostóv raised his saber, ready to strike, but at that instant
  the trooper Nikítenko, who was galloping ahead, shot away from him, and
  Rostóv felt as in a dream that he continued to be carried forward with
  unnatural speed but yet stayed on the same spot. From behind him
  Bondarchúk, an hussar he knew, jolted against him and looked angrily at
  him. Bondarchúk&rsquo;s horse swerved and galloped past.
<br />
  &ldquo;How is it I am not moving? I have fallen, I am killed!&rdquo; Rostóv asked and
  answered at the same instant. He was alone in the middle of a field.
  Instead of the moving horses and hussars&rsquo; backs, he saw nothing before him
  but the motionless earth and the stubble around him. There was warm blood
  under his arm. &ldquo;No, I am wounded and the horse is killed.&rdquo; Rook tried to
  rise on his forelegs but fell back, pinning his rider&rsquo;s leg. Blood was
  flowing from his head; he struggled but could not rise. Rostóv also tried
  to rise but fell back, his sabretache having become entangled in the
  saddle. Where our men were, and where the French, he did not know. There
  was no one near.
<br />
  Having disentangled his leg, he rose. &ldquo;Where, on which side, was now the
  line that had so sharply divided the two armies?&rdquo; he asked himself and
  could not answer. &ldquo;Can something bad have happened to me?&rdquo; he wondered as
  he got up: and at that moment he felt that something superfluous was
  hanging on his benumbed left arm. The wrist felt as if it were not his. He
  examined his hand carefully, vainly trying to find blood on it. &ldquo;Ah, here
  are people coming,&rdquo; he thought joyfully, seeing some men running toward
  him. &ldquo;They will help me!&rdquo; In front came a man wearing a strange shako and
  a blue cloak, swarthy, sunburned, and with a hooked nose. Then came two
  more, and many more running behind. One of them said something strange,
  not in Russian. In among the hindmost of these men wearing similar shakos
  was a Russian hussar. He was being held by the arms and his horse was
  being led behind him.
<br />
  &ldquo;It must be one of ours, a prisoner. Yes. Can it be that they will take me
  too? Who are these men?&rdquo; thought Rostóv, scarcely believing his eyes. &ldquo;Can
  they be French?&rdquo; He looked at the approaching Frenchmen, and though but a
  moment before he had been galloping to get at them and hack them to
  pieces, their proximity now seemed so awful that he could not believe his
  eyes. &ldquo;Who are they? Why are they running? Can they be coming at me? And
  why? To kill me?  whom everyone is so fond of?&rdquo; He remembered his
  mother&rsquo;s love for him, and his family&rsquo;s, and his friends&rsquo;, and the enemy&rsquo;s
  intention to kill him seemed impossible. &ldquo;But perhaps they may do it!&rdquo; For
  more than ten seconds he stood not moving from the spot or realizing the
  situation. The foremost Frenchman, the one with the hooked nose, was
  already so close that the expression of his face could be seen. And the
  excited, alien face of that man, his bayonet hanging down, holding his
  breath, and running so lightly, frightened Rostóv. He seized his pistol
  and, instead of firing it, flung it at the Frenchman and ran with all his
  might toward the bushes. He did not now run with the feeling of doubt and
  conflict with which he had trodden the Enns bridge, but with the feeling
  of a hare fleeing from the hounds. One single sentiment, that of fear for
  his young and happy life, possessed his whole being. Rapidly leaping the
  furrows, he fled across the field with the impetuosity he used to show at
  catchplay, now and then turning his good-natured, pale, young face to look
  back. A shudder of terror went through him: &ldquo;No, better not look,&rdquo; he
  thought, but having reached the bushes he glanced round once more. The
  French had fallen behind, and just as he looked round the first man
  changed his run to a walk and, turning, shouted something loudly to a
  comrade farther back. Rostóv paused. &ldquo;No, there&rsquo;s some mistake,&rdquo; thought
  he. &ldquo;They can&rsquo;t have wanted to kill me.&rdquo; But at the same time, his left
  arm felt as heavy as if a seventy-pound weight were tied to it. He could
  run no more. The Frenchman also stopped and took aim. Rostóv closed his
  eyes and stooped down. One bullet and then another whistled past him. He
  mustered his last remaining strength, took hold of his left hand with his
  right, and reached the bushes. Behind these were some Russian
  sharpshooters.

  CHAPTER XX


  The infantry regiments that had been caught unawares in the outskirts of
  the wood ran out of it, the different companies getting mixed, and
  retreated as a disorderly crowd. One soldier, in his fear, uttered the
  senseless cry, &ldquo;Cut off!&rdquo; that is so terrible in battle, and that word
  infected the whole crowd with a feeling of panic.
<br />
  &ldquo;Surrounded! Cut off? We&rsquo;re lost!&rdquo; shouted the fugitives.
<br />
  The moment he heard the firing and the cry from behind, the general
  realized that something dreadful had happened to his regiment, and the
  thought that he, an exemplary officer of many years&rsquo; service who had never
  been to blame, might be held responsible at headquarters for negligence or
  inefficiency so staggered him that, forgetting the recalcitrant cavalry
  colonel, his own dignity as a general, and above all quite forgetting the
  danger and all regard for self-preservation, he clutched the crupper of
  his saddle and, spurring his horse, galloped to the regiment under a hail
  of bullets which fell around, but fortunately missed him. His one desire
  was to know what was happening and at any cost correct, or remedy, the
  mistake if he had made one, so that he, an exemplary officer of twenty-two
  years&rsquo; service, who had never been censured, should not be held to blame.
<br />
  Having galloped safely through the French, he reached a field behind the
  copse across which our men, regardless of orders, were running and
  descending the valley. That moment of moral hesitation which decides the
  fate of battles had arrived. Would this disorderly crowd of soldiers
  attend to the voice of their commander, or would they, disregarding him,
  continue their flight? Despite his desperate shouts that used to seem so
  terrible to the soldiers, despite his furious purple countenance distorted
  out of all likeness to his former self, and the flourishing of his saber,
  the soldiers all continued to run, talking, firing into the air, and
  disobeying orders. The moral hesitation which decided the fate of battles
  was evidently culminating in a panic.
<br />
  The general had a fit of coughing as a result of shouting and of the
  powder smoke and stopped in despair. Everything seemed lost. But at that
  moment the French who were attacking, suddenly and without any apparent
  reason, ran back and disappeared from the outskirts, and Russian
  sharpshooters showed themselves in the copse. It was Timókhin&rsquo;s company,
  which alone had maintained its order in the wood and, having lain in
  ambush in a ditch, now attacked the French unexpectedly. Timókhin, armed
  only with a sword, had rushed at the enemy with such a desperate cry and
  such mad, drunken determination that, taken by surprise, the French had
  thrown down their muskets and run. Dólokhov, running beside Timókhin,
  killed a Frenchman at close quarters and was the first to seize the
  surrendering French officer by his collar. Our fugitives returned, the
  battalions re-formed, and the French who had nearly cut our left flank in
  half were for the moment repulsed. Our reserve units were able to join up,
  and the fight was at an end. The regimental commander and Major Ekonómov
  had stopped beside a bridge, letting the retreating companies pass by
  them, when a soldier came up and took hold of the commander&rsquo;s stirrup,
  almost leaning against him. The man was wearing a bluish coat of
  broadcloth, he had no knapsack or cap, his head was bandaged, and over his
  shoulder a French munition pouch was slung. He had an officer&rsquo;s sword in
  his hand. The soldier was pale, his blue eyes looked impudently into the
  commander&rsquo;s face, and his lips were smiling. Though the commander was
  occupied in giving instructions to Major Ekonómov, he could not help
  taking notice of the soldier.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your excellency, here are two trophies,&rdquo; said Dólokhov, pointing to the
  French sword and pouch. &ldquo;I have taken an officer prisoner. I stopped the
  company.&rdquo; Dólokhov breathed heavily from weariness and spoke in abrupt
  sentences. &ldquo;The whole company can bear witness. I beg you will remember
  this, your excellency!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;All right, all right,&rdquo; replied the commander, and turned to Major
  Ekonómov.
<br />
  But Dólokhov did not go away; he untied the handkerchief around his head,
  pulled it off, and showed the blood congealed on his hair.
<br />
  &ldquo;A bayonet wound. I remained at the front. Remember, your excellency!&rdquo;
 <br />
  <br />
<br />
  Túshin&rsquo;s battery had been forgotten and only at the very end of the action
  did Prince Bagratión, still hearing the cannonade in the center, send his
  orderly staff officer, and later Prince Andrew also, to order the battery
  to retire as quickly as possible. When the supports attached to Túshin&rsquo;s
  battery had been moved away in the middle of the action by someone&rsquo;s
  order, the battery had continued firing and was only not captured by the
  French because the enemy could not surmise that anyone could have the
  effrontery to continue firing from four quite undefended guns. On the
  contrary, the energetic action of that battery led the French to suppose
  that here&mdash;in the center&mdash;the main Russian forces were
  concentrated. Twice they had attempted to attack this point, but on each
  occasion had been driven back by grapeshot from the four isolated guns on
  the hillock.
<br />
  Soon after Prince Bagratión had left him, Túshin had succeeded in setting
  fire to Schön Grabern.
<br />
  &ldquo;Look at them scurrying! It&rsquo;s burning! Just see the smoke! Fine! Grand!
  Look at the smoke, the smoke!&rdquo; exclaimed the artillerymen, brightening up.
<br />
  All the guns, without waiting for orders, were being fired in the
  direction of the conflagration. As if urging each other on, the soldiers
  cried at each shot: &ldquo;Fine! That&rsquo;s good! Look at it... Grand!&rdquo; The fire,
  fanned by the breeze, was rapidly spreading. The French columns that had
  advanced beyond the village went back; but as though in revenge for this
  failure, the enemy placed ten guns to the right of the village and began
  firing them at Túshin&rsquo;s battery.
<br />
  In their childlike glee, aroused by the fire and their luck in
  successfully cannonading the French, our artillerymen only noticed this
  battery when two balls, and then four more, fell among our guns, one
  knocking over two horses and another tearing off a munition-wagon driver&rsquo;s
  leg. Their spirits once roused were, however, not diminished, but only
  changed character. The horses were replaced by others from a reserve gun
  carriage, the wounded were carried away, and the four guns were turned
  against the ten-gun battery. Túshin&rsquo;s companion officer had been killed at
  the beginning of the engagement and within an hour seventeen of the forty
  men of the guns&rsquo; crews had been disabled, but the artillerymen were still
  as merry and lively as ever. Twice they noticed the French appearing below
  them, and then they fired grapeshot at them.
<br />
  Little Túshin, moving feebly and awkwardly, kept telling his orderly to
  &ldquo;refill my pipe for that one!&rdquo; and then, scattering sparks from it, ran
  forward shading his eyes with his small hand to look at the French.
<br />
  &ldquo;Smack at &lsquo;em, lads!&rdquo; he kept saying, seizing the guns by the wheels and
  working the screws himself.
<br />
  Amid the smoke, deafened by the incessant reports which always made him
  jump, Túshin not taking his pipe from his mouth ran from gun to gun, now
  aiming, now counting the charges, now giving orders about replacing dead
  or wounded horses and harnessing fresh ones, and shouting in his feeble
  voice, so high pitched and irresolute. His face grew more and more
  animated. Only when a man was killed or wounded did he frown and turn away
  from the sight, shouting angrily at the men who, as is always the case,
  hesitated about lifting the injured or dead. The soldiers, for the most
  part handsome fellows and, as is always the case in an artillery company,
  a head and shoulders taller and twice as broad as their officer&mdash;all
  looked at their commander like children in an embarrassing situation, and
  the expression on his face was invariably reflected on theirs.
<br />
  Owing to the terrible uproar and the necessity for concentration and
  activity, Túshin did not experience the slightest unpleasant sense of
  fear, and the thought that he might be killed or badly wounded never
  occurred to him. On the contrary, he became more and more elated. It
  seemed to him that it was a very long time ago, almost a day, since he had
  first seen the enemy and fired the first shot, and that the corner of the
  field he stood on was well-known and familiar ground. Though he thought of
  everything, considered everything, and did everything the best of officers
  could do in his position, he was in a state akin to feverish delirium or
  drunkenness.
<br />
  From the deafening sounds of his own guns around him, the whistle and thud
  of the enemy&rsquo;s cannon balls, from the flushed and perspiring faces of the
  crew bustling round the guns, from the sight of the blood of men and
  horses, from the little puffs of smoke on the enemy&rsquo;s side (always
  followed by a ball flying past and striking the earth, a man, a gun, a
  horse), from the sight of all these things a fantastic world of his own
  had taken possession of his brain and at that moment afforded him
  pleasure. The enemy&rsquo;s guns were in his fancy not guns but pipes from which
  occasional puffs were blown by an invisible smoker.
<br />
  &ldquo;There... he&rsquo;s puffing again,&rdquo; muttered Túshin to himself, as a small
  cloud rose from the hill and was borne in a streak to the left by the
  wind.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now look out for the ball... we&rsquo;ll throw it back.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What do you want, your honor?&rdquo; asked an artilleryman, standing close by,
  who heard him muttering.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nothing... only a shell...&rdquo; he answered.
<br />
  &ldquo;Come along, our Matvévna!&rdquo; he said to himself. &ldquo;Matvévna&rdquo; * was the name
  his fancy gave to the farthest gun of the battery, which was large and of
  an old pattern. The French swarming round their guns seemed to him like
  ants. In that world, the handsome drunkard Number One of the second gun&rsquo;s
  crew was &ldquo;uncle&rdquo;; Túshin looked at him more often than at anyone else and
  took delight in his every movement. The sound of musketry at the foot of
  the hill, now diminishing, now increasing, seemed like someone&rsquo;s
  breathing. He listened intently to the ebb and flow of these sounds.
<br />
* Daughter of Matthew.

“Ah! Breathing again, breathing!” he muttered to himself.
He imagined himself as an enormously tall, powerful man who was throwing cannon balls at the French with both hands.
“Now then, Matvévna, dear old lady, don’t let me down!” he was saying as he moved from the gun, when a strange, unfamiliar voice called above his head: “Captain Túshin! Captain!”
Túshin turned round in dismay. It was the staff officer who had turned him out of the booth at Grunth. He was shouting in a gasping voice:
“Are you mad? You have twice been ordered to retreat, and you…”
“Why are they down on me?” thought Túshin, looking in alarm at his superior.
“I… don’t…” he muttered, holding up two fingers to his cap. “I…”
But the staff officer did not finish what he wanted to say. A cannon ball, flying close to him, caused him to duck and bend over his horse. He paused, and just as he was about to say something more, another ball stopped him. He turned his horse and galloped off.
“Retire! All to retire!” he shouted from a distance.
The soldiers laughed. A moment later, an adjutant arrived with the same order.
It was Prince Andrew. The first thing he saw on riding up to the space where Túshin’s guns were stationed was an unharnessed horse with a broken leg, that lay screaming piteously beside the harnessed horses. Blood was gushing from its leg as from a spring. Among the limbers lay several dead men. One ball after another passed over as he approached and he felt a nervous shudder run down his spine. But the mere thought of being afraid roused him again. “I cannot be afraid,” thought he, and dismounted slowly among the guns. He delivered the order and did not leave the battery. He decided to have the guns removed from their positions and withdrawn in his presence. Together with Túshin, stepping across the bodies and under a terrible fire from the French, he attended to the removal of the guns.
“A staff officer was here a minute ago, but skipped off,” said an artilleryman to Prince Andrew. “Not like your honor!”
Prince Andrew said nothing to Túshin. They were both so busy as to seem not to notice one another. When having limbered up the only two cannon that remained uninjured out of the four, they began moving down the hill (one shattered gun and one unicorn were left behind), Prince Andrew rode up to Túshin.
“Well, till we meet again…” he said, holding out his hand to Túshin.
“Good-by, my dear fellow,” said Túshin. “Dear soul! Good-by, my dear fellow!” and for some unknown reason tears suddenly filled his eyes.

  CHAPTER XXI


  The wind had fallen and black clouds, merging with the powder smoke, hung
  low over the field of battle on the horizon. It was growing dark and the
  glow of two conflagrations was the more conspicuous. The cannonade was
  dying down, but the rattle of musketry behind and on the right sounded
  oftener and nearer. As soon as Túshin with his guns, continually driving
  round or coming upon wounded men, was out of range of fire and had
  descended into the dip, he was met by some of the staff, among them the
  staff officer and Zherkóv, who had been twice sent to Túshin&rsquo;s battery but
  had never reached it. Interrupting one another, they all gave, and
  transmitted, orders as to how to proceed, reprimanding and reproaching
  him. Túshin gave no orders, and, silently&mdash;fearing to speak because
  at every word he felt ready to weep without knowing why&mdash;rode behind
  on his artillery nag. Though the orders were to abandon the wounded, many
  of them dragged themselves after troops and begged for seats on the gun
  carriages. The jaunty infantry officer who just before the battle had
  rushed out of Túshin&rsquo;s wattle shed was laid, with a bullet in his stomach,
  on &ldquo;Matvévna&rsquo;s&rdquo; carriage. At the foot of the hill, a pale hussar cadet,
  supporting one hand with the other, came up to Túshin and asked for a
  seat.
<br />
  &ldquo;Captain, for God&rsquo;s sake! I&rsquo;ve hurt my arm,&rdquo; he said timidly. &ldquo;For God&rsquo;s
  sake... I can&rsquo;t walk. For God&rsquo;s sake!&rdquo;
 <br />
  It was plain that this cadet had already repeatedly asked for a lift and
  been refused. He asked in a hesitating, piteous voice.
<br />
  &ldquo;Tell them to give me a seat, for God&rsquo;s sake!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Give him a seat,&rdquo; said Túshin. &ldquo;Lay a cloak for him to sit on, lad,&rdquo; he
  said, addressing his favorite soldier. &ldquo;And where is the wounded officer?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He has been set down. He died,&rdquo; replied someone.
<br />
  &ldquo;Help him up. Sit down, dear fellow, sit down! Spread out the cloak,
  Antónov.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The cadet was Rostóv. With one hand he supported the other; he was pale
  and his jaw trembled, shivering feverishly. He was placed on &ldquo;Matvévna,&rdquo;
   the gun from which they had removed the dead officer. The cloak they
  spread under him was wet with blood which stained his breeches and arm.
<br />
  &ldquo;What, are you wounded, my lad?&rdquo; said Túshin, approaching the gun on which
  Rostóv sat.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, it&rsquo;s a sprain.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Then what is this blood on the gun carriage?&rdquo; inquired Túshin.
<br />
  &ldquo;It was the officer, your honor, stained it,&rdquo; answered the artilleryman,
  wiping away the blood with his coat sleeve, as if apologizing for the
  state of his gun.
<br />
  It was all that they could do to get the guns up the rise aided by the
  infantry, and having reached the village of Gruntersdorf they halted. It
  had grown so dark that one could not distinguish the uniforms ten paces
  off, and the firing had begun to subside. Suddenly, near by on the right,
  shouting and firing were again heard. Flashes of shot gleamed in the
  darkness. This was the last French attack and was met by soldiers who had
  sheltered in the village houses. They all rushed out of the village again,
  but Túshin&rsquo;s guns could not move, and the artillerymen, Túshin, and the
  cadet exchanged silent glances as they awaited their fate. The firing died
  down and soldiers, talking eagerly, streamed out of a side street.
<br />
  &ldquo;Not hurt, Petróv?&rdquo; asked one.
<br />
  &ldquo;We&rsquo;ve given it &lsquo;em hot, mate! They won&rsquo;t make another push now,&rdquo; said
  another.
<br />
  &ldquo;You couldn&rsquo;t see a thing. How they shot at their own fellows! Nothing
  could be seen. Pitch-dark, brother! Isn&rsquo;t there something to drink?&rdquo;
 <br />
  The French had been repulsed for the last time. And again and again in the
  complete darkness Túshin&rsquo;s guns moved forward, surrounded by the humming
  infantry as by a frame.
<br />
  In the darkness, it seemed as though a gloomy unseen river was flowing
  always in one direction, humming with whispers and talk and the sound of
  hoofs and wheels. Amid the general rumble, the groans and voices of the
  wounded were more distinctly heard than any other sound in the darkness of
  the night. The gloom that enveloped the army was filled with their groans,
  which seemed to melt into one with the darkness of the night. After a
  while the moving mass became agitated, someone rode past on a white horse
  followed by his suite, and said something in passing: &ldquo;What did he say?
  Where to, now? Halt, is it? Did he thank us?&rdquo; came eager questions from
  all sides. The whole moving mass began pressing closer together and a
  report spread that they were ordered to halt: evidently those in front had
  halted. All remained where they were in the middle of the muddy road.
<br />
  Fires were lighted and the talk became more audible. Captain Túshin,
  having given orders to his company, sent a soldier to find a dressing
  station or a doctor for the cadet, and sat down by a bonfire the soldiers
  had kindled on the road. Rostóv, too, dragged himself to the fire. From
  pain, cold, and damp, a feverish shivering shook his whole body.
  Drowsiness was irresistibly mastering him, but he kept awake by an
  excruciating pain in his arm, for which he could find no satisfactory
  position. He kept closing his eyes and then again looking at the fire,
  which seemed to him dazzlingly red, and at the feeble, round-shouldered
  figure of Túshin who was sitting cross-legged like a Turk beside him.
  Túshin&rsquo;s large, kind, intelligent eyes were fixed with sympathy and
  commiseration on Rostóv, who saw that Túshin with his whole heart wished
  to help him but could not.
<br />
  From all sides were heard the footsteps and talk of the infantry, who were
  walking, driving past, and settling down all around. The sound of voices,
  the tramping feet, the horses&rsquo; hoofs moving in mud, the crackling of wood
  fires near and afar, merged into one tremulous rumble.
<br />
  It was no longer, as before, a dark, unseen river flowing through the
  gloom, but a dark sea swelling and gradually subsiding after a storm.
  Rostóv looked at and listened listlessly to what passed before and around
  him. An infantryman came to the fire, squatted on his heels, held his
  hands to the blaze, and turned away his face.
<br />
  &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t mind your honor?&rdquo; he asked Túshin. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve lost my company, your
  honor. I don&rsquo;t know where... such bad luck!&rdquo;
 <br />
  With the soldier, an infantry officer with a bandaged cheek came up to the
  bonfire, and addressing Túshin asked him to have the guns moved a trifle
  to let a wagon go past. After he had gone, two soldiers rushed to the
  campfire. They were quarreling and fighting desperately, each trying to
  snatch from the other a boot they were both holding on to.
<br />
  &ldquo;You picked it up?... I dare say! You&rsquo;re very smart!&rdquo; one of them shouted
  hoarsely.
<br />
  Then a thin, pale soldier, his neck bandaged with a bloodstained leg band,
  came up and in angry tones asked the artillerymen for water.
<br />
  &ldquo;Must one die like a dog?&rdquo; said he.
<br />
  Túshin told them to give the man some water. Then a cheerful soldier ran
  up, begging a little fire for the infantry.
<br />
  &ldquo;A nice little hot torch for the infantry! Good luck to you, fellow
  countrymen. Thanks for the fire&mdash;we&rsquo;ll return it with interest,&rdquo; said
  he, carrying away into the darkness a glowing stick.
<br />
  Next came four soldiers, carrying something heavy on a cloak, and passed
  by the fire. One of them stumbled.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who the devil has put the logs on the road?&rdquo; snarled he.
<br />
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;s dead&mdash;why carry him?&rdquo; said another.
<br />
  &ldquo;Shut up!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And they disappeared into the darkness with their load.
<br />
  &ldquo;Still aching?&rdquo; Túshin asked Rostóv in a whisper.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Your honor, you&rsquo;re wanted by the general. He is in the hut here,&rdquo; said a
  gunner, coming up to Túshin.
<br />
  &ldquo;Coming, friend.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Túshin rose and, buttoning his greatcoat and pulling it straight, walked
  away from the fire.
<br />
  Not far from the artillery campfire, in a hut that had been prepared for
  him, Prince Bagratión sat at dinner, talking with some commanding officers
  who had gathered at his quarters. The little old man with the half-closed
  eyes was there greedily gnawing a mutton bone, and the general who had
  served blamelessly for twenty-two years, flushed by a glass of vodka and
  the dinner; and the staff officer with the signet ring, and Zherkóv,
  uneasily glancing at them all, and Prince Andrew, pale, with compressed
  lips and feverishly glittering eyes.
<br />
  In a corner of the hut stood a standard captured from the French, and the
  accountant with the naïve face was feeling its texture, shaking his head
  in perplexity&mdash;perhaps because the banner really interested him,
  perhaps because it was hard for him, hungry as he was, to look on at a
  dinner where there was no place for him. In the next hut there was a
  French colonel who had been taken prisoner by our dragoons. Our officers
  were flocking in to look at him. Prince Bagratión was thanking the
  individual commanders and inquiring into details of the action and our
  losses. The general whose regiment had been inspected at Braunau was
  informing the prince that as soon as the action began he had withdrawn
  from the wood, mustered the men who were woodcutting, and, allowing the
  French to pass him, had made a bayonet charge with two battalions and had
  broken up the French troops.
<br />
  &ldquo;When I saw, your excellency, that their first battalion was disorganized,
  I stopped in the road and thought: &lsquo;I&rsquo;ll let them come on and will meet
  them with the fire of the whole battalion&rsquo;&mdash;and that&rsquo;s what I did.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The general had so wished to do this and was so sorry he had not managed
  to do it that it seemed to him as if it had really happened. Perhaps it
  might really have been so? Could one possibly make out amid all that
  confusion what did or did not happen?
<br />
  &ldquo;By the way, your excellency, I should inform you,&rdquo; he continued&mdash;remembering
  Dólokhov&rsquo;s conversation with Kutúzov and his last interview with the
  gentleman-ranker&mdash;&ldquo;that Private Dólokhov, who was reduced to the
  ranks, took a French officer prisoner in my presence and particularly
  distinguished himself.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I saw the Pávlograd hussars attack there, your excellency,&rdquo; chimed in
  Zherkóv, looking uneasily around. He had not seen the hussars all that
  day, but had heard about them from an infantry officer. &ldquo;They broke up two
  squares, your excellency.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Several of those present smiled at Zherkóv&rsquo;s words, expecting one of his
  usual jokes, but noticing that what he was saying redounded to the glory
  of our arms and of the day&rsquo;s work, they assumed a serious expression,
  though many of them knew that what he was saying was a lie devoid of any
  foundation. Prince Bagratión turned to the old colonel:
<br />
  &ldquo;Gentlemen, I thank you all; all arms have behaved heroically: infantry,
  cavalry, and artillery. How was it that two guns were abandoned in the
  center?&rdquo; he inquired, searching with his eyes for someone. (Prince
  Bagratión did not ask about the guns on the left flank; he knew that all
  the guns there had been abandoned at the very beginning of the action.) &ldquo;I
  think I sent you?&rdquo; he added, turning to the staff officer on duty.
<br />
  &ldquo;One was damaged,&rdquo; answered the staff officer, &ldquo;and the other I can&rsquo;t
  understand. I was there all the time giving orders and had only just
  left.... It is true that it was hot there,&rdquo; he added, modestly.
<br />
  Someone mentioned that Captain Túshin was bivouacking close to the village
  and had already been sent for.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, but you were there?&rdquo; said Prince Bagratión, addressing Prince Andrew.
<br />
  &ldquo;Of course, we only just missed one another,&rdquo; said the staff officer, with
  a smile to Bolkónski.
<br />
  &ldquo;I had not the pleasure of seeing you,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew, coldly and
  abruptly.
<br />
  All were silent. Túshin appeared at the threshold and made his way timidly
  from behind the backs of the generals. As he stepped past the generals in
  the crowded hut, feeling embarrassed as he always was by the sight of his
  superiors, he did not notice the staff of the banner and stumbled over it.
  Several of those present laughed.
<br />
  &ldquo;How was it a gun was abandoned?&rdquo; asked Bagratión, frowning, not so much
  at the captain as at those who were laughing, among whom Zherkóv laughed
  loudest.
<br />
  Only now, when he was confronted by the stern authorities, did his guilt
  and the disgrace of having lost two guns and yet remaining alive present
  themselves to Túshin in all their horror. He had been so excited that he
  had not thought about it until that moment. The officers&rsquo; laughter
  confused him still more. He stood before Bagratión with his lower jaw
  trembling and was hardly able to mutter: &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know... your
  excellency... I had no men... your excellency.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You might have taken some from the covering troops.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Túshin did not say that there were no covering troops, though that was
  perfectly true. He was afraid of getting some other officer into trouble,
  and silently fixed his eyes on Bagratión as a schoolboy who has blundered
  looks at an examiner.
<br />
  The silence lasted some time. Prince Bagratión, apparently not wishing to
  be severe, found nothing to say; the others did not venture to intervene.
  Prince Andrew looked at Túshin from under his brows and his fingers
  twitched nervously.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your excellency!&rdquo; Prince Andrew broke the silence with his abrupt voice,
  &ldquo;you were pleased to send me to Captain Túshin&rsquo;s battery. I went there and
  found two thirds of the men and horses knocked out, two guns smashed, and
  no supports at all.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Bagratión and Túshin looked with equal intentness at Bolkónski, who
  spoke with suppressed agitation.
<br />
  &ldquo;And, if your excellency will allow me to express my opinion,&rdquo; he
  continued, &ldquo;we owe today&rsquo;s success chiefly to the action of that battery
  and the heroic endurance of Captain Túshin and his company,&rdquo; and without
  awaiting a reply, Prince Andrew rose and left the table.
<br />
  Prince Bagratión looked at Túshin, evidently reluctant to show distrust in
  Bolkónski&rsquo;s emphatic opinion yet not feeling able fully to credit it, bent
  his head, and told Túshin that he could go. Prince Andrew went out with
  him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Thank you; you saved me, my dear fellow!&rdquo; said Túshin.
<br />
  Prince Andrew gave him a look, but said nothing and went away. He felt sad
  and depressed. It was all so strange, so unlike what he had hoped.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  &ldquo;Who are they? Why are they here? What do they want? And when will all
  this end?&rdquo; thought Rostóv, looking at the changing shadows before him. The
  pain in his arm became more and more intense. Irresistible drowsiness
  overpowered him, red rings danced before his eyes, and the impression of
  those voices and faces and a sense of loneliness merged with the physical
  pain. It was they, these soldiers&mdash;wounded and unwounded&mdash;it was
  they who were crushing, weighing down, and twisting the sinews and
  scorching the flesh of his sprained arm and shoulder. To rid himself of
  them he closed his eyes.
<br />
  For a moment he dozed, but in that short interval innumerable things
  appeared to him in a dream: his mother and her large white hand, Sónya&rsquo;s
  thin little shoulders, Natásha&rsquo;s eyes and laughter, Denísov with his voice
  and mustache, and Telyánin and all that affair with Telyánin and
  Bogdánich. That affair was the same thing as this soldier with the harsh
  voice, and it was that affair and this soldier that were so agonizingly,
  incessantly pulling and pressing his arm and always dragging it in one
  direction. He tried to get away from them, but they would not for an
  instant let his shoulder move a hair&rsquo;s breadth. It would not ache&mdash;it
  would be well&mdash;if only they did not pull it, but it was impossible to
  get rid of them.
<br />
  He opened his eyes and looked up. The black canopy of night hung less than
  a yard above the glow of the charcoal. Flakes of falling snow were
  fluttering in that light. Túshin had not returned, the doctor had not
  come. He was alone now, except for a soldier who was sitting naked at the
  other side of the fire, warming his thin yellow body.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nobody wants me!&rdquo; thought Rostóv. &ldquo;There is no one to help me or pity me.
  Yet I was once at home, strong, happy, and loved.&rdquo; He sighed and, doing
  so, groaned involuntarily.
<br />
  &ldquo;Eh, is anything hurting you?&rdquo; asked the soldier, shaking his shirt out
  over the fire, and not waiting for an answer he gave a grunt and added:
  &ldquo;What a lot of men have been crippled today&mdash;frightful!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Rostóv did not listen to the soldier. He looked at the snowflakes
  fluttering above the fire and remembered a Russian winter at his warm,
  bright home, his fluffy fur coat, his quickly gliding sleigh, his healthy
  body, and all the affection and care of his family. &ldquo;And why did I come
  here?&rdquo; he wondered.
<br />
  Next day the French army did not renew their attack, and the remnant of
  Bagratión&rsquo;s detachment was reunited to Kutúzov&rsquo;s army.

  BOOK THREE: 1805

  CHAPTER I


  Prince Vasíli was not a man who deliberately thought out his plans. Still
  less did he think of injuring anyone for his own advantage. He was merely
  a man of the world who had got on and to whom getting on had become a
  habit. Schemes and devices for which he never rightly accounted to
  himself, but which formed the whole interest of his life, were constantly
  shaping themselves in his mind, arising from the circumstances and persons
  he met. Of these plans he had not merely one or two in his head but
  dozens, some only beginning to form themselves, some approaching
  achievement, and some in course of disintegration. He did not, for
  instance, say to himself: &ldquo;This man now has influence, I must gain his
  confidence and friendship and through him obtain a special grant.&rdquo; Nor did
  he say to himself: &ldquo;Pierre is a rich man, I must entice him to marry my
  daughter and lend me the forty thousand rubles I need.&rdquo; But when he came
  across a man of position his instinct immediately told him that this man
  could be useful, and without any premeditation Prince Vasíli took the
  first opportunity to gain his confidence, flatter him, become intimate
  with him, and finally make his request.
<br />
  He had Pierre at hand in Moscow and procured for him an appointment as
  Gentleman of the Bedchamber, which at that time conferred the status of
  Councilor of State, and insisted on the young man accompanying him to
  Petersburg and staying at his house. With apparent absent-mindedness, yet
  with unhesitating assurance that he was doing the right thing, Prince
  Vasíli did everything to get Pierre to marry his daughter. Had he thought
  out his plans beforehand he could not have been so natural and shown such
  unaffected familiarity in intercourse with everybody both above and below
  him in social standing. Something always drew him toward those richer and
  more powerful than himself and he had rare skill in seizing the most
  opportune moment for making use of people.
<br />
  Pierre, on unexpectedly becoming Count Bezúkhov and a rich man, felt
  himself after his recent loneliness and freedom from cares so beset and
  preoccupied that only in bed was he able to be by himself. He had to sign
  papers, to present himself at government offices, the purpose of which was
  not clear to him, to question his chief steward, to visit his estate near
  Moscow, and to receive many people who formerly did not even wish to know
  of his existence but would now have been offended and grieved had he
  chosen not to see them. These different people&mdash;businessmen,
  relations, and acquaintances alike&mdash;were all disposed to treat the
  young heir in the most friendly and flattering manner: they were all
  evidently firmly convinced of Pierre&rsquo;s noble qualities. He was always
  hearing such words as: &ldquo;With your remarkable kindness,&rdquo; or,
  &ldquo;With your excellent heart,&rdquo; &ldquo;You are yourself so honorable,
  Count,&rdquo; or, &ldquo;Were he as clever as you,&rdquo; and so on, till he
  began sincerely to believe in his own exceptional kindness and extraordinary
  intelligence, the more so as in the depth of his heart it had always seemed to
  him that he really was very kind and intelligent. Even people who had formerly
  been spiteful toward him and evidently unfriendly now became gentle and
  affectionate. The angry eldest princess, with the long waist and hair plastered
  down like a doll&rsquo;s, had come into Pierre&rsquo;s room after the funeral.
  With drooping eyes and frequent blushes she told him she was very sorry about
  their past misunderstandings and did not now feel she had a right to ask him
  for anything, except only for permission, after the blow she had received, to
  remain for a few weeks longer in the house she so loved and where she had
  sacrificed so much. She could not refrain from weeping at these words.
  Touched that this statuesque princess could so change, Pierre took her
  hand and begged her forgiveness, without knowing what for. From that day
  the eldest princess quite changed toward Pierre and began knitting a
  striped scarf for him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do this for my sake, ; after all, she had to put up with a great
  deal from the deceased,&rdquo; said Prince Vasíli to him, handing him a deed to
  sign for the princess&rsquo; benefit.
<br />
  Prince Vasíli had come to the conclusion that it was necessary to throw
  this bone&mdash;a bill for thirty thousand rubles&mdash;to the poor
  princess that it might not occur to her to speak of his share in the
  affair of the inlaid portfolio. Pierre signed the deed and after that the
  princess grew still kinder. The younger sisters also became affectionate
  to him, especially the youngest, the pretty one with the mole, who often
  made him feel confused by her smiles and her own confusion when meeting
  him.
<br />
  It seemed so natural to Pierre that everyone should like him, and it would
  have seemed so unnatural had anyone disliked him, that he could not but
  believe in the sincerity of those around him. Besides, he had no time to
  ask himself whether these people were sincere or not. He was always busy
  and always felt in a state of mild and cheerful intoxication. He felt as
  though he were the center of some important and general movement; that
  something was constantly expected of him, that if he did not do it he
  would grieve and disappoint many people, but if he did this and that, all
  would be well; and he did what was demanded of him, but still that happy
  result always remained in the future.
<br />
  More than anyone else, Prince Vasíli took possession of Pierre&rsquo;s affairs
  and of Pierre himself in those early days. From the death of Count
  Bezúkhov he did not let go his hold of the lad. He had the air of a man
  oppressed by business, weary and suffering, who yet would not, for pity&rsquo;s
  sake, leave this helpless youth who, after all, was the son of his old
  friend and the possessor of such enormous wealth, to the caprice of fate
  and the designs of rogues. During the few days he spent in Moscow after
  the death of Count Bezúkhov, he would call Pierre, or go to him himself,
  and tell him what ought to be done in a tone of weariness and assurance,
  as if he were adding every time: &ldquo;You know I am overwhelmed with business
  and it is purely out of charity that I trouble myself about you, and you
  also know quite well that what I propose is the only thing possible.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, my dear fellow, tomorrow we are off at last,&rdquo; said Prince Vasíli
  one day, closing his eyes and fingering Pierre&rsquo;s elbow, speaking as if he
  were saying something which had long since been agreed upon and could not
  now be altered. &ldquo;We start tomorrow and I&rsquo;m giving you a place in my
  carriage. I am very glad. All our important business here is now settled,
  and I ought to have been off long ago. Here is something I have received
  from the chancellor. I asked him for you, and you have been entered in the
  diplomatic corps and made a Gentleman of the Bedchamber. The diplomatic
  career now lies open before you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Notwithstanding the tone of wearied assurance with which these words were
  pronounced, Pierre, who had so long been considering his career, wished to
  make some suggestion. But Prince Vasíli interrupted him in the special
  deep cooing tone, precluding the possibility of interrupting his speech,
  which he used in extreme cases when special persuasion was needed.
<br />
  &ldquo;, I did this for my own sake, to satisfy my conscience, and
  there is nothing to thank me for. No one has ever complained yet of being
  too much loved; and besides, you are free, you could throw it up tomorrow.
  But you will see everything for yourself when you get to Petersburg. It is
  high time for you to get away from these terrible recollections.&rdquo; Prince
  Vasíli sighed. &ldquo;Yes, yes, my boy. And my valet can go in your carriage.
  Ah! I was nearly forgetting,&rdquo; he added. &ldquo;You know, , your father
  and I had some accounts to settle, so I have received what was due from
  the Ryazán estate and will keep it; you won&rsquo;t require it. We&rsquo;ll go into
  the accounts later.&rdquo;
 <br />
  By &ldquo;what was due from the Ryazán estate&rdquo; Prince Vasíli meant several
  thousand rubles quitrent received from Pierre&rsquo;s peasants, which the prince
  had retained for himself.
<br />
  In Petersburg, as in Moscow, Pierre found the same atmosphere of
  gentleness and affection. He could not refuse the post, or rather the rank
  (for he did nothing), that Prince Vasíli had procured for him, and
  acquaintances, invitations, and social occupations were so numerous that,
  even more than in Moscow, he felt a sense of bewilderment, bustle, and
  continual expectation of some good, always in front of him but never
  attained.
<br />
  Of his former bachelor acquaintances many were no longer in Petersburg.
  The Guards had gone to the front; Dólokhov had been reduced to the ranks;
  Anatole was in the army somewhere in the provinces; Prince Andrew was
  abroad; so Pierre had not the opportunity to spend his nights as he used
  to like to spend them, or to open his mind by intimate talks with a friend
  older than himself and whom he respected. His whole time was taken up with
  dinners and balls and was spent chiefly at Prince Vasíli&rsquo;s house in the
  company of the stout princess, his wife, and his beautiful daughter
  Hélène.
<br />
  Like the others, Anna Pávlovna Schérer showed Pierre the change of
  attitude toward him that had taken place in society.
<br />
  Formerly in Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s presence, Pierre had always felt that what he
  was saying was out of place, tactless and unsuitable, that remarks which
  seemed to him clever while they formed in his mind became foolish as soon
  as he uttered them, while on the contrary Hippolyte&rsquo;s stupidest remarks
  came out clever and apt. Now everything Pierre said was . Even if
  Anna Pávlovna did not say so, he could see that she wished to and only
  refrained out of regard for his modesty.
<br />
  In the beginning of the winter of 1805-6 Pierre received one of Anna
  Pávlovna&rsquo;s usual pink notes with an invitation to which was added: &ldquo;You
  will find the beautiful Hélène here, whom it is always delightful to see.&rdquo;
 <br />
  When he read that sentence, Pierre felt for the first time that some link
  which other people recognized had grown up between himself and Hélène, and
  that thought both alarmed him, as if some obligation were being imposed on
  him which he could not fulfill, and pleased him as an entertaining
  supposition.
<br />
  Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s &ldquo;At Home&rdquo; was like the former one, only the novelty she
  offered her guests this time was not Mortemart, but a diplomatist fresh
  from Berlin with the very latest details of the Emperor Alexander&rsquo;s visit
  to Potsdam, and of how the two august friends had pledged themselves in an
  indissoluble alliance to uphold the cause of justice against the enemy of
  the human race. Anna Pávlovna received Pierre with a shade of melancholy,
  evidently relating to the young man&rsquo;s recent loss by the death of Count
  Bezúkhov (everyone constantly considered it a duty to assure Pierre that
  he was greatly afflicted by the death of the father he had hardly known),
  and her melancholy was just like the august melancholy she showed at the
  mention of her most august Majesty the Empress Márya Fëdorovna. Pierre
  felt flattered by this. Anna Pávlovna arranged the different groups in her
  drawing room with her habitual skill. The large group, in which were
  Prince Vasíli and the generals, had the benefit of the diplomat. Another
  group was at the tea table. Pierre wished to join the former, but Anna
  Pávlovna&mdash;who was in the excited condition of a commander on a
  battlefield to whom thousands of new and brilliant ideas occur which there
  is hardly time to put in action&mdash;seeing Pierre, touched his sleeve
  with her finger, saying:
<br />
  &ldquo;Wait a bit, I have something in view for you this evening.&rdquo; (She glanced
  at Hélène and smiled at her.) &ldquo;My dear Hélène, be charitable to my poor
  aunt who adores you. Go and keep her company for ten minutes. And that it
  will not be too dull, here is the dear count who will not refuse to
  accompany you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The beauty went to the aunt, but Anna Pávlovna detained Pierre, looking as
  if she had to give some final necessary instructions.
<br />
  &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t she exquisite?&rdquo; she said to Pierre, pointing to the stately beauty
  as she glided away. &ldquo;And how she carries herself! For so young a girl,
  such tact, such masterly perfection of manner! It comes from her heart.
  Happy the man who wins her! With her the least worldly of men would occupy
  a most brilliant position in society. Don&rsquo;t you think so? I only wanted to
  know your opinion,&rdquo; and Anna Pávlovna let Pierre go.
<br />
  Pierre, in reply, sincerely agreed with her as to Hélène&rsquo;s perfection of
  manner. If he ever thought of Hélène, it was just of her beauty and her
  remarkable skill in appearing silently dignified in society.
<br />
  The old aunt received the two young people in her corner, but seemed
  desirous of hiding her adoration for Hélène and inclined rather to show
  her fear of Anna Pávlovna. She looked at her niece, as if inquiring what
  she was to do with these people. On leaving them, Anna Pávlovna again
  touched Pierre&rsquo;s sleeve, saying: &ldquo;I hope you won&rsquo;t say that it is dull in
  my house again,&rdquo; and she glanced at Hélène.
<br />
  Hélène smiled, with a look implying that she did not admit the possibility
  of anyone seeing her without being enchanted. The aunt coughed, swallowed,
  and said in French that she was very pleased to see Hélène, then she
  turned to Pierre with the same words of welcome and the same look. In the
  middle of a dull and halting conversation, Hélène turned to Pierre with
  the beautiful bright smile that she gave to everyone. Pierre was so used
  to that smile, and it had so little meaning for him, that he paid no
  attention to it. The aunt was just speaking of a collection of snuffboxes
  that had belonged to Pierre&rsquo;s father, Count Bezúkhov, and showed them her
  own box. Princess Hélène asked to see the portrait of the aunt&rsquo;s husband
  on the box lid.
<br />
  &ldquo;That is probably the work of Vinesse,&rdquo; said Pierre, mentioning a
  celebrated miniaturist, and he leaned over the table to take the snuffbox
  while trying to hear what was being said at the other table.
<br />
  He half rose, meaning to go round, but the aunt handed him the snuffbox,
  passing it across Hélène&rsquo;s back. Hélène stooped forward to make room, and
  looked round with a smile. She was, as always at evening parties, wearing
  a dress such as was then fashionable, cut very low at front and back. Her
  bust, which had always seemed like marble to Pierre, was so close to him
  that his shortsighted eyes could not but perceive the living charm of her
  neck and shoulders, so near to his lips that he need only have bent his
  head a little to have touched them. He was conscious of the warmth of her
  body, the scent of perfume, and the creaking of her corset as she moved.
  He did not see her marble beauty forming a complete whole with her dress,
  but all the charm of her body only covered by her garments. And having
  once seen this he could not help being aware of it, just as we cannot
  renew an illusion we have once seen through.
<br />
  &ldquo;So you have never noticed before how beautiful I am?&rdquo; Hélène seemed to
  say. &ldquo;You had not noticed that I am a woman? Yes, I am a woman who may
  belong to anyone&mdash;to you too,&rdquo; said her glance. And at that moment
  Pierre felt that Hélène not only could, but must, be his wife, and that it
  could not be otherwise.
<br />
  He knew this at that moment as surely as if he had been standing at the
  altar with her. How and when this would be he did not know, he did not
  even know if it would be a good thing (he even felt, he knew not why, that
  it would be a bad thing), but he knew it would happen.
<br />
  Pierre dropped his eyes, lifted them again, and wished once more to see
  her as a distant beauty far removed from him, as he had seen her every day
  until then, but he could no longer do it. He could not, any more than a
  man who has been looking at a tuft of steppe grass through the mist and
  taking it for a tree can again take it for a tree after he has once
  recognized it to be a tuft of grass. She was terribly close to him. She
  already had power over him, and between them there was no longer any
  barrier except the barrier of his own will.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, I will leave you in your little corner,&rdquo; came Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s
  voice, &ldquo;I see you are all right there.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And Pierre, anxiously trying to remember whether he had done anything
  reprehensible, looked round with a blush. It seemed to him that everyone
  knew what had happened to him as he knew it himself.
<br />
  A little later when he went up to the large circle, Anna Pávlovna said to
  him: &ldquo;I hear you are refitting your Petersburg house?&rdquo;
 <br />
  This was true. The architect had told him that it was necessary, and
  Pierre, without knowing why, was having his enormous Petersburg house done
  up.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a good thing, but don&rsquo;t move from Prince Vasíli&rsquo;s. It is good to
  have a friend like the prince,&rdquo; she said, smiling at Prince Vasíli. &ldquo;I
  know something about that. Don&rsquo;t I? And you are still so young. You need
  advice. Don&rsquo;t be angry with me for exercising an old woman&rsquo;s privilege.&rdquo;
 <br />
  She paused, as women always do, expecting something after they have
  mentioned their age. &ldquo;If you marry it will be a different thing,&rdquo; she
  continued, uniting them both in one glance. Pierre did not look at Hélène
  nor she at him. But she was just as terribly close to him. He muttered
  something and colored.
<br />
  When he got home he could not sleep for a long time for thinking of what
  had happened. What had happened? Nothing. He had merely understood that
  the woman he had known as a child, of whom when her beauty was mentioned
  he had said absent-mindedly: &ldquo;Yes, she&rsquo;s good looking,&rdquo; he had understood
  that this woman might belong to him.
<br />
  &ldquo;But she&rsquo;s stupid. I have myself said she is stupid,&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;There
  is something nasty, something wrong, in the feeling she excites in me. I
  have been told that her brother Anatole was in love with her and she with
  him, that there was quite a scandal and that that&rsquo;s why he was sent away.
  Hippolyte is her brother... Prince Vasíli is her father... It&rsquo;s bad....&rdquo;
   he reflected, but while he was thinking this (the reflection was still
  incomplete), he caught himself smiling and was conscious that another line
  of thought had sprung up, and while thinking of her worthlessness he was
  also dreaming of how she would be his wife, how she would love him become
  quite different, and how all he had thought and heard of her might be
  false. And he again saw her not as the daughter of Prince Vasíli, but
  visualized her whole body only veiled by its gray dress. &ldquo;But no! Why did
  this thought never occur to me before?&rdquo; and again he told himself that it
  was impossible, that there would be something unnatural, and as it seemed
  to him dishonorable, in this marriage. He recalled her former words and
  looks and the words and looks of those who had seen them together. He
  recalled Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s words and looks when she spoke to him about his
  house, recalled thousands of such hints from Prince Vasíli and others, and
  was seized by terror lest he had already, in some way, bound himself to do
  something that was evidently wrong and that he ought not to do. But at the
  very time he was expressing this conviction to himself, in another part of
  his mind her image rose in all its womanly beauty.

  CHAPTER II


  In November, 1805, Prince Vasíli had to go on a tour of inspection in four
  different provinces. He had arranged this for himself so as to visit his
  neglected estates at the same time and pick up his son Anatole where his
  regiment was stationed, and take him to visit Prince Nicholas Bolkónski in
  order to arrange a match for him with the daughter of that rich old man.
  But before leaving home and undertaking these new affairs, Prince Vasíli
  had to settle matters with Pierre, who, it is true, had latterly spent
  whole days at home, that is, in Prince Vasíli&rsquo;s house where he was
  staying, and had been absurd, excited, and foolish in Hélène&rsquo;s presence
  (as a lover should be), but had not yet proposed to her.
<br />
  &ldquo;This is all very fine, but things must be settled,&rdquo; said Prince Vasíli to
  himself, with a sorrowful sigh, one morning, feeling that Pierre who was
  under such obligations to him (&ldquo;But never mind that&rdquo;) was not behaving
  very well in this matter. &ldquo;Youth, frivolity... well, God be with him,&rdquo;
   thought he, relishing his own goodness of heart, &ldquo;but it must be brought
  to a head. The day after tomorrow will be Lëlya&rsquo;s name day. I will invite
  two or three people, and if he does not understand what he ought to do
  then it will be my affair&mdash;yes, my affair. I am her father.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Six weeks after Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s &ldquo;At Home&rdquo; and after the sleepless night
  when he had decided that to marry Hélène would be a calamity and that he
  ought to avoid her and go away, Pierre, despite that decision, had not
  left Prince Vasíli&rsquo;s and felt with terror that in people&rsquo;s eyes he was
  every day more and more connected with her, that it was impossible for him
  to return to his former conception of her, that he could not break away
  from her, and that though it would be a terrible thing he would have to
  unite his fate with hers. He might perhaps have been able to free himself
  but that Prince Vasíli (who had rarely before given receptions) now hardly
  let a day go by without having an evening party at which Pierre had to be
  present unless he wished to spoil the general pleasure and disappoint
  everyone&rsquo;s expectation. Prince Vasíli, in the rare moments when he was at
  home, would take Pierre&rsquo;s hand in passing and draw it downwards, or
  absent-mindedly hold out his wrinkled, clean-shaven cheek for Pierre to
  kiss and would say: &ldquo;Till tomorrow,&rdquo; or, &ldquo;Be in to dinner or I shall not
  see you,&rdquo; or, &ldquo;I am staying in for your sake,&rdquo; and so on. And though
  Prince Vasíli, when he stayed in (as he said) for Pierre&rsquo;s sake, hardly
  exchanged a couple of words with him, Pierre felt unable to disappoint
  him. Every day he said to himself one and the same thing: &ldquo;It is time I
  understood her and made up my mind what she really is. Was I mistaken
  before, or am I mistaken now? No, she is not stupid, she is an excellent
  girl,&rdquo; he sometimes said to himself &ldquo;she never makes a mistake, never says
  anything stupid. She says little, but what she does say is always clear
  and simple, so she is not stupid. She never was abashed and is not abashed
  now, so she cannot be a bad woman!&rdquo; He had often begun to make reflections
  or think aloud in her company, and she had always answered him either by a
  brief but appropriate remark&mdash;showing that it did not interest her&mdash;or
  by a silent look and smile which more palpably than anything else showed
  Pierre her superiority. She was right in regarding all arguments as
  nonsense in comparison with that smile.
<br />
  She always addressed him with a radiantly confiding smile meant for him
  alone, in which there was something more significant than in the general
  smile that usually brightened her face. Pierre knew that everyone was
  waiting for him to say a word and cross a certain line, and he knew that
  sooner or later he would step across it, but an incomprehensible terror
  seized him at the thought of that dreadful step. A thousand times during
  that month and a half while he felt himself drawn nearer and nearer to
  that dreadful abyss, Pierre said to himself: &ldquo;What am I doing? I need
  resolution. Can it be that I have none?&rdquo;
 <br />
  He wished to take a decision, but felt with dismay that in this matter he
  lacked that strength of will which he had known in himself and really
  possessed. Pierre was one of those who are only strong when they feel
  themselves quite innocent, and since that day when he was overpowered by a
  feeling of desire while stooping over the snuffbox at Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s, an
  unacknowledged sense of the guilt of that desire paralyzed his will.
<br />
  On Hélène&rsquo;s name day, a small party of just their own people&mdash;as his
  wife said&mdash;met for supper at Prince Vasíli&rsquo;s. All these friends and
  relations had been given to understand that the fate of the young girl
  would be decided that evening. The visitors were seated at supper.
  Princess Kurágina, a portly imposing woman who had once been handsome, was
  sitting at the head of the table. On either side of her sat the more
  important guests&mdash;an old general and his wife, and Anna Pávlovna
  Schérer. At the other end sat the younger and less important guests, and
  there too sat the members of the family, and Pierre and Hélène, side by
  side. Prince Vasíli was not having any supper: he went round the table in
  a merry mood, sitting down now by one, now by another, of the guests. To
  each of them he made some careless and agreeable remark except to Pierre
  and Hélène, whose presence he seemed not to notice. He enlivened the whole
  party. The wax candles burned brightly, the silver and crystal gleamed, so
  did the ladies&rsquo; toilets and the gold and silver of the men&rsquo;s epaulets;
  servants in scarlet liveries moved round the table, the clatter of plates,
  knives, and glasses mingled with the animated hum of several
  conversations. At one end of the table, the old chamberlain was heard
  assuring an old baroness that he loved her passionately, at which she
  laughed; at the other could be heard the story of the misfortunes of some
  Mary Víktorovna or other. At the center of the table, Prince Vasíli
  attracted everybody&rsquo;s attention. With a facetious smile on his face, he
  was telling the ladies about last Wednesday&rsquo;s meeting of the Imperial
  Council, at which Sergéy Kuzmích Vyazmítinov, the new military governor
  general of Petersburg, had received and read the then famous rescript of
  the Emperor Alexander from the army to Sergéy Kuzmích, in which the
  Emperor said that he was receiving from all sides declarations of the
  people&rsquo;s loyalty, that the declaration from Petersburg gave him particular
  pleasure, and that he was proud to be at the head of such a nation and
  would endeavor to be worthy of it. This rescript began with the words:
  &ldquo;Sergéy Kuzmích, From all sides reports reach me,&rdquo; etc.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, and so he never got farther than: &lsquo;Sergéy Kuzmích&rsquo;?&rdquo; asked one of
  the ladies.
<br />
  &ldquo;Exactly, not a hair&rsquo;s breadth farther,&rdquo; answered Prince Vasíli, laughing,
  &ldquo;&lsquo;Sergéy Kuzmích... From all sides... From all sides... Sergéy Kuzmích...&rsquo;
  Poor Vyazmítinov could not get any farther! He began the rescript again
  and again, but as soon as he uttered  he sobbed, 
  tears, and  was smothered in sobs and he could get no
  farther. And again his handkerchief, and again: ... and tears, till at last somebody else was asked to read it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Kuzmích... From all sides... and then tears,&rdquo; someone repeated laughing.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be unkind,&rdquo; cried Anna Pávlovna from her end of the table holding
  up a threatening finger. &ldquo;He is such a worthy and excellent man, our dear
  Vyazmítinov....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Everybody laughed a great deal. At the head of the table, where the
  honored guests sat, everyone seemed to be in high spirits and under the
  influence of a variety of exciting sensations. Only Pierre and Hélène sat
  silently side by side almost at the bottom of the table, a suppressed
  smile brightening both their faces, a smile that had nothing to do with
  Sergéy Kuzmích&mdash;a smile of bashfulness at their own feelings. But
  much as all the rest laughed, talked, and joked, much as they enjoyed
  their Rhine wine, , and ices, and however they avoided looking at the
  young couple, and heedless and unobservant as they seemed of them, one
  could feel by the occasional glances they gave that the story about Sergéy
  Kuzmích, the laughter, and the food were all a pretense, and that the
  whole attention of that company was directed to&mdash;Pierre and Hélène.
  Prince Vasíli mimicked the sobbing of Sergéy Kuzmích and at the same time
  his eyes glanced toward his daughter, and while he laughed the expression
  on his face clearly said: &ldquo;Yes... it&rsquo;s getting on, it will all be settled
  today.&rdquo; Anna Pávlovna threatened him on behalf of &ldquo;our dear Vyazmítinov,&rdquo;
   and in her eyes, which, for an instant, glanced at Pierre, Prince Vasíli
  read a congratulation on his future son-in-law and on his daughter&rsquo;s
  happiness. The old princess sighed sadly as she offered some wine to the
  old lady next to her and glanced angrily at her daughter, and her sigh
  seemed to say: &ldquo;Yes, there&rsquo;s nothing left for you and me but to sip sweet
  wine, my dear, now that the time has come for these young ones to be thus
  boldly, provocatively happy.&rdquo; &ldquo;And what nonsense all this is that I am
  saying!&rdquo; thought a diplomatist, glancing at the happy faces of the lovers.
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s happiness!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Into the insignificant, trifling, and artificial interests uniting that
  society had entered the simple feeling of the attraction of a healthy and
  handsome young man and woman for one another. And this human feeling
  dominated everything else and soared above all their affected chatter.
  Jests fell flat, news was not interesting, and the animation was evidently
  forced. Not only the guests but even the footmen waiting at table seemed
  to feel this, and they forgot their duties as they looked at the beautiful
  Hélène with her radiant face and at the red, broad, and happy though
  uneasy face of Pierre. It seemed as if the very light of the candles was
  focused on those two happy faces alone.
<br />
  Pierre felt that he was the center of it all, and this both pleased and
  embarrassed him. He was like a man entirely absorbed in some occupation.
  He did not see, hear, or understand anything clearly. Only now and then
  detached ideas and impressions from the world of reality shot unexpectedly
  through his mind.
<br />
  &ldquo;So it is all finished!&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;And how has it all happened? How
  quickly! Now I know that not because of her alone, nor of myself alone,
  but because of everyone,  must inevitably come about. They are all
  expecting , they are so sure that it will happen that I cannot, I
  cannot, disappoint them. But how will it be? I do not know, but it will
  certainly happen!&rdquo; thought Pierre, glancing at those dazzling shoulders
  close to his eyes.
<br />
  Or he would suddenly feel ashamed of he knew not what. He felt it awkward
  to attract everyone&rsquo;s attention and to be considered a lucky man and, with
  his plain face, to be looked on as a sort of Paris possessed of a Helen.
  &ldquo;But no doubt it always is and must be so!&rdquo; he consoled himself. &ldquo;And
  besides, what have I done to bring it about? How did it begin? I traveled
  from Moscow with Prince Vasíli. Then there was nothing. So why should I
  not stay at his house? Then I played cards with her and picked up her
  reticule and drove out with her. How did it begin, when did it all come
  about?&rdquo; And here he was sitting by her side as her betrothed, seeing,
  hearing, feeling her nearness, her breathing, her movements, her beauty.
  Then it would suddenly seem to him that it was not she but he was so
  unusually beautiful, and that that was why they all looked so at him, and
  flattered by this general admiration he would expand his chest, raise his
  head, and rejoice at his good fortune. Suddenly he heard a familiar voice
  repeating something to him a second time. But Pierre was so absorbed that
  he did not understand what was said.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am asking you when you last heard from Bolkónski,&rdquo; repeated Prince
  Vasíli a third time. &ldquo;How absent-minded you are, my dear fellow.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Vasíli smiled, and Pierre noticed that everyone was smiling at him
  and Hélène. &ldquo;Well, what of it, if you all know it?&rdquo; thought Pierre. &ldquo;What
  of it? It&rsquo;s the truth!&rdquo; and he himself smiled his gentle childlike smile,
  and Hélène smiled too.
<br />
  &ldquo;When did you get the letter? Was it from Olmütz?&rdquo; repeated Prince Vasíli,
  who pretended to want to know this in order to settle a dispute.
<br />
  &ldquo;How can one talk or think of such trifles?&rdquo; thought Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, from Olmütz,&rdquo; he answered, with a sigh.
<br />
  After supper Pierre with his partner followed the others into the drawing
  room. The guests began to disperse, some without taking leave of Hélène.
  Some, as if unwilling to distract her from an important occupation, came
  up to her for a moment and made haste to go away, refusing to let her see
  them off. The diplomatist preserved a mournful silence as he left the
  drawing room. He pictured the vanity of his diplomatic career in
  comparison with Pierre&rsquo;s happiness. The old general grumbled at his wife
  when she asked how his leg was. &ldquo;Oh, the old fool,&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;That
  Princess Hélène will be beautiful still when she&rsquo;s fifty.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I think I may congratulate you,&rdquo; whispered Anna Pávlovna to the old
  princess, kissing her soundly. &ldquo;If I hadn&rsquo;t this headache I&rsquo;d have stayed
  longer.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The old princess did not reply, she was tormented by jealousy of her
  daughter&rsquo;s happiness.
<br />
  While the guests were taking their leave Pierre remained for a long time
  alone with Hélène in the little drawing room where they were sitting. He
  had often before, during the last six weeks, remained alone with her, but
  had never spoken to her of love. Now he felt that it was inevitable, but
  he could not make up his mind to take the final step. He felt ashamed; he
  felt that he was occupying someone else&rsquo;s place here beside Hélène. &ldquo;This
  happiness is not for you,&rdquo; some inner voice whispered to him. &ldquo;This
  happiness is for those who have not in them what there is in you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  But, as he had to say something, he began by asking her whether she was
  satisfied with the party. She replied in her usual simple manner that this
  name day of hers had been one of the pleasantest she had ever had.
<br />
  Some of the nearest relatives had not yet left. They were sitting in the
  large drawing room. Prince Vasíli came up to Pierre with languid
  footsteps. Pierre rose and said it was getting late. Prince Vasíli gave
  him a look of stern inquiry, as though what Pierre had just said was so
  strange that one could not take it in. But then the expression of severity
  changed, and he drew Pierre&rsquo;s hand downwards, made him sit down, and
  smiled affectionately.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, Lëlya?&rdquo; he asked, turning instantly to his daughter and addressing
  her with the careless tone of habitual tenderness natural to parents who
  have petted their children from babyhood, but which Prince Vasíli had only
  acquired by imitating other parents.
<br />
  And he again turned to Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sergéy Kuzmích&mdash;From all sides&mdash;&rdquo; he said,
  unbuttoning the top button of his waistcoat.
<br />
  Pierre smiled, but his smile showed that he knew it was not the story
  about Sergéy Kuzmích that interested Prince Vasíli just then, and Prince
  Vasíli saw that Pierre knew this. He suddenly muttered something and went
  away. It seemed to Pierre that even the prince was disconcerted. The sight
  of the discomposure of that old man of the world touched Pierre: he looked
  at Hélène and she too seemed disconcerted, and her look seemed to say:
  &ldquo;Well, it is your own fault.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The step must be taken but I cannot, I cannot!&rdquo; thought Pierre, and he
  again began speaking about indifferent matters, about Sergéy Kuzmích,
  asking what the point of the story was as he had not heard it properly.
  Hélène answered with a smile that she too had missed it.
<br />
  When Prince Vasíli returned to the drawing room, the princess, his wife,
  was talking in low tones to the elderly lady about Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;Of course, it is a very brilliant match, but happiness, my dear...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Marriages are made in heaven,&rdquo; replied the elderly lady.
<br />
  Prince Vasíli passed by, seeming not to hear the ladies, and sat down on a
  sofa in a far corner of the room. He closed his eyes and seemed to be
  dozing. His head sank forward and then he roused himself.
<br />
  &ldquo;Aline,&rdquo; he said to his wife, &ldquo;go and see what they are about.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The princess went up to the door, passed by it with a dignified and
  indifferent air, and glanced into the little drawing room. Pierre and
  Hélène still sat talking just as before.
<br />
  &ldquo;Still the same,&rdquo; she said to her husband.
<br />
  Prince Vasíli frowned, twisting his mouth, his cheeks quivered and his
  face assumed the coarse, unpleasant expression peculiar to him. Shaking
  himself, he rose, threw back his head, and with resolute steps went past
  the ladies into the little drawing room. With quick steps he went joyfully
  up to Pierre. His face was so unusually triumphant that Pierre rose in
  alarm on seeing it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Thank God!&rdquo; said Prince Vasíli. &ldquo;My wife has told me everything!&rdquo; (He put
  one arm around Pierre and the other around his daughter.)&mdash;&ldquo;My dear
  boy... Lëlya... I am very pleased.&rdquo; (His voice trembled.) &ldquo;I loved your
  father... and she will make you a good wife... God bless you!...&rdquo;
 <br />
  He embraced his daughter, and then again Pierre, and kissed him with his
  malodorous mouth. Tears actually moistened his cheeks.
<br />
  &ldquo;Princess, come here!&rdquo; he shouted.
<br />
  The old princess came in and also wept. The elderly lady was using her
  handkerchief too. Pierre was kissed, and he kissed the beautiful Hélène&rsquo;s
  hand several times. After a while they were left alone again.
<br />
  &ldquo;All this had to be and could not be otherwise,&rdquo; thought Pierre, &ldquo;so it is
  useless to ask whether it is good or bad. It is good because it&rsquo;s definite
  and one is rid of the old tormenting doubt.&rdquo; Pierre held the hand of his
  betrothed in silence, looking at her beautiful bosom as it rose and fell.
<br />
  &ldquo;Hélène!&rdquo; he said aloud and paused.
<br />
  &ldquo;Something special is always said in such cases,&rdquo; he thought, but could
  not remember what it was that people say. He looked at her face. She drew
  nearer to him. Her face flushed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, take those off... those...&rdquo; she said, pointing to his spectacles.
<br />
  Pierre took them off, and his eyes, besides the strange look eyes have
  from which spectacles have just been removed, had also a frightened and
  inquiring look. He was about to stoop over her hand and kiss it, but with
  a rapid, almost brutal movement of her head, she intercepted his lips and
  met them with her own. Her face struck Pierre, by its altered,
  unpleasantly excited expression.
<br />
  &ldquo;It is too late now, it&rsquo;s done; besides I love her,&rdquo; thought Pierre.
<br />
   * he said, remembering what has to be said at such
  moments: but his words sounded so weak that he felt ashamed of himself.
<br />
* &ldquo;I love you.&rdquo;

Six weeks later he was married, and settled in Count Bezúkhov’s large, newly furnished Petersburg house, the happy possessor, as people said, of a wife who was a celebrated beauty and of millions of money.

  CHAPTER III


  Old Prince Nicholas Bolkónski received a letter from Prince Vasíli in
  November, 1805, announcing that he and his son would be paying him a
  visit. &ldquo;I am starting on a journey of inspection, and of course I shall
  think nothing of an extra seventy miles to come and see you at the same
  time, my honored benefactor,&rdquo; wrote Prince Vasíli. &ldquo;My son Anatole is
  accompanying me on his way to the army, so I hope you will allow him
  personally to express the deep respect that, emulating his father, he
  feels for you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It seems that there will be no need to bring Mary out, suitors are coming
  to us of their own accord,&rdquo; incautiously remarked the little princess on
  hearing the news.
<br />
  Prince Nicholas frowned, but said nothing.
<br />
  A fortnight after the letter Prince Vasíli&rsquo;s servants came one evening in
  advance of him, and he and his son arrived next day.
<br />
  Old Bolkónski had always had a poor opinion of Prince Vasíli&rsquo;s character,
  but more so recently, since in the new reigns of Paul and Alexander Prince
  Vasíli had risen to high position and honors. And now, from the hints
  contained in his letter and given by the little princess, he saw which way
  the wind was blowing, and his low opinion changed into a feeling of
  contemptuous ill will. He snorted whenever he mentioned him. On the day of
  Prince Vasíli&rsquo;s arrival, Prince Bolkónski was particularly discontented
  and out of temper. Whether he was in a bad temper because Prince Vasíli
  was coming, or whether his being in a bad temper made him specially
  annoyed at Prince Vasíli&rsquo;s visit, he was in a bad temper, and in the
  morning Tíkhon had already advised the architect not to go to the prince
  with his report.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you hear how he&rsquo;s walking?&rdquo; said Tíkhon, drawing the architect&rsquo;s
  attention to the sound of the prince&rsquo;s footsteps. &ldquo;Stepping flat on his
  heels&mdash;we know what that means....&rdquo;
 <br />
  However, at nine o&rsquo;clock the prince, in his velvet coat with a sable
  collar and cap, went out for his usual walk. It had snowed the day before
  and the path to the hothouse, along which the prince was in the habit of
  walking, had been swept: the marks of the broom were still visible in the
  snow and a shovel had been left sticking in one of the soft snowbanks that
  bordered both sides of the path. The prince went through the
  conservatories, the serfs&rsquo; quarters, and the outbuildings, frowning and
  silent.
<br />
  &ldquo;Can a sleigh pass?&rdquo; he asked his overseer, a venerable man, resembling
  his master in manners and looks, who was accompanying him back to the
  house.
<br />
  &ldquo;The snow is deep. I am having the avenue swept, your honor.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The prince bowed his head and went up to the porch. &ldquo;God be thanked,&rdquo;
   thought the overseer, &ldquo;the storm has blown over!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It would have been hard to drive up, your honor,&rdquo; he added. &ldquo;I heard,
  your honor, that a minister is coming to visit your honor.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The prince turned round to the overseer and fixed his eyes on him,
  frowning.
<br />
  &ldquo;What? A minister? What minister? Who gave orders?&rdquo; he said in his shrill,
  harsh voice. &ldquo;The road is not swept for the princess my daughter, but for
  a minister! For me, there are no ministers!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Your honor, I thought...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You thought!&rdquo; shouted the prince, his words coming more and more rapidly
  and indistinctly. &ldquo;You thought!... Rascals! Blackguards!... I&rsquo;ll teach you
  to think!&rdquo; and lifting his stick he swung it and would have hit Alpátych,
  the overseer, had not the latter instinctively avoided the blow.
  &ldquo;Thought... Blackguards...&rdquo; shouted the prince rapidly.
<br />
  But although Alpátych, frightened at his own temerity in avoiding the
  stroke, came up to the prince, bowing his bald head resignedly before him,
  or perhaps for that very reason, the prince, though he continued to shout:
  &ldquo;Blackguards!... Throw the snow back on the road!&rdquo; did not lift his stick
  again but hurried into the house.
<br />
  Before dinner, Princess Mary and Mademoiselle Bourienne, who knew that the
  prince was in a bad humor, stood awaiting him; Mademoiselle Bourienne with
  a radiant face that said: &ldquo;I know nothing, I am the same as usual,&rdquo; and
  Princess Mary pale, frightened, and with downcast eyes. What she found
  hardest to bear was to know that on such occasions she ought to behave
  like Mademoiselle Bourienne, but could not. She thought: &ldquo;If I seem not to
  notice he will think that I do not sympathize with him; if I seem sad and
  out of spirits myself, he will say (as he has done before) that I&rsquo;m in the
  dumps.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The prince looked at his daughter&rsquo;s frightened face and snorted.
<br />
  &ldquo;Fool... or dummy!&rdquo; he muttered.
<br />
  &ldquo;And the other one is not here. They&rsquo;ve been telling tales,&rdquo; he
  thought&mdash;referring to the little princess who was not in the dining room.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where is the princess?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;Hiding?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;She is not very well,&rdquo; answered Mademoiselle Bourienne with a bright
  smile, &ldquo;so she won&rsquo;t come down. It is natural in her state.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Hm! Hm!&rdquo; muttered the prince, sitting down.
<br />
  His plate seemed to him not quite clean, and pointing to a spot he flung
  it away. Tíkhon caught it and handed it to a footman. The little princess
  was not unwell, but had such an overpowering fear of the prince that,
  hearing he was in a bad humor, she had decided not to appear.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am afraid for the baby,&rdquo; she said to Mademoiselle Bourienne:
  &ldquo;Heaven knows what a fright might do.&rdquo;
 <br />
  In general at Bald Hills the little princess lived in constant fear, and
  with a sense of antipathy to the old prince which she did not realize
  because the fear was so much the stronger feeling. The prince reciprocated
  this antipathy, but it was overpowered by his contempt for her. When the
  little princess had grown accustomed to life at Bald Hills, she took a
  special fancy to Mademoiselle Bourienne, spent whole days with her, asked
  her to sleep in her room, and often talked with her about the old prince
  and criticized him.
<br />
  &ldquo;So we are to have visitors, &rdquo; remarked Mademoiselle Bourienne,
  unfolding her white napkin with her rosy fingers. &ldquo;His Excellency Prince
  Vasíli Kurágin and his son, I understand?&rdquo; she said inquiringly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Hm!&mdash;his excellency is a puppy.... I got him his appointment in the
  service,&rdquo; said the prince disdainfully. &ldquo;Why his son is coming I don&rsquo;t
  understand. Perhaps Princess Elizabeth and Princess Mary know. I don&rsquo;t
  want him.&rdquo; (He looked at his blushing daughter.) &ldquo;Are you unwell today?
  Eh? Afraid of the &lsquo;minister&rsquo; as that idiot Alpátych called him this
  morning?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, .&rdquo;
 <br />
  Though Mademoiselle Bourienne had been so unsuccessful in her choice of a
  subject, she did not stop talking, but chattered about the conservatories
  and the beauty of a flower that had just opened, and after the soup the
  prince became more genial.
<br />
  After dinner, he went to see his daughter-in-law. The little princess was
  sitting at a small table, chattering with Másha, her maid. She grew pale
  on seeing her father-in-law.
<br />
  She was much altered. She was now plain rather than pretty. Her cheeks had
  sunk, her lip was drawn up, and her eyes drawn down.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I feel a kind of oppression,&rdquo; she said in reply to the prince&rsquo;s
  question as to how she felt.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you want anything?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, .&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, all right, all right.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He left the room and went to the waiting room where Alpátych stood with
  bowed head.
<br />
  &ldquo;Has the snow been shoveled back?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, your excellency. Forgive me for heaven&rsquo;s sake... It was only my
  stupidity.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;All right, all right,&rdquo; interrupted the prince, and laughing his unnatural
  way, he stretched out his hand for Alpátych to kiss, and then proceeded to
  his study.
<br />
  Prince Vasíli arrived that evening. He was met in the avenue by coachmen
  and footmen, who, with loud shouts, dragged his sleighs up to one of the
  lodges over the road purposely laden with snow.
<br />
  Prince Vasíli and Anatole had separate rooms assigned to them.
<br />
  Anatole, having taken off his overcoat, sat with arms akimbo before a
  table on a corner of which he smilingly and absent-mindedly fixed his
  large and handsome eyes. He regarded his whole life as a continual round
  of amusement which someone for some reason had to provide for him. And he
  looked on this visit to a churlish old man and a rich and ugly heiress in
  the same way. All this might, he thought, turn out very well and
  amusingly. &ldquo;And why not marry her if she really has so much money? That
  never does any harm,&rdquo; thought Anatole.
<br />
  He shaved and scented himself with the care and elegance which had become
  habitual to him and, his handsome head held high, entered his father&rsquo;s
  room with the good-humored and victorious air natural to him. Prince
  Vasíli&rsquo;s two valets were busy dressing him, and he looked round with much
  animation and cheerfully nodded to his son as the latter entered, as if to
  say: &ldquo;Yes, that&rsquo;s how I want you to look.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I say, Father, joking apart, is she very hideous?&rdquo; Anatole asked, as if
  continuing a conversation the subject of which had often been mentioned
  during the journey.
<br />
  &ldquo;Enough! What nonsense! Above all, try to be respectful and cautious with
  the old prince.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;If he starts a row I&rsquo;ll go away,&rdquo; said Prince Anatole. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t bear
  those old men! Eh?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Remember, for you everything depends on this.&rdquo;
 <br />
  In the meantime, not only was it known in the maidservants&rsquo; rooms that the
  minister and his son had arrived, but the appearance of both had been
  minutely described. Princess Mary was sitting alone in her room, vainly
  trying to master her agitation.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why did they write, why did Lise tell me about it? It can never happen!&rdquo;
   she said, looking at herself in the glass. &ldquo;How shall I enter the drawing
  room? Even if I like him I can&rsquo;t now be myself with him.&rdquo; The mere thought
  of her father&rsquo;s look filled her with terror. The little princess and
  Mademoiselle Bourienne had already received from Másha, the lady&rsquo;s maid,
  the necessary report of how handsome the minister&rsquo;s son was, with his rosy
  cheeks and dark eyebrows, and with what difficulty the father had dragged
  his legs upstairs while the son had followed him like an eagle, three
  steps at a time. Having received this information, the little princess and
  Mademoiselle Bourienne, whose chattering voices had reached her from the
  corridor, went into Princess Mary&rsquo;s room.
<br />
  &ldquo;You know they&rsquo;ve come, Marie?&rdquo; said the little princess,
  waddling in, and sinking heavily into an armchair.
<br />
  She was no longer in the loose gown she generally wore in the morning, but
  had on one of her best dresses. Her hair was carefully done and her face
  was animated, which, however, did not conceal its sunken and faded
  outlines. Dressed as she used to be in Petersburg society, it was still
  more noticeable how much plainer she had become. Some unobtrusive touch
  had been added to Mademoiselle Bourienne&rsquo;s toilet which rendered her fresh
  and pretty face yet more attractive.
<br />
  &ldquo;What! Are you going to remain as you are, dear princess?&rdquo; she began.
  &ldquo;They&rsquo;ll be announcing that the gentlemen are in the drawing room and we
  shall have to go down, and you have not smartened yourself up at all!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The little princess got up, rang for the maid, and hurriedly and merrily
  began to devise and carry out a plan of how Princess Mary should be
  dressed. Princess Mary&rsquo;s self-esteem was wounded by the fact that the
  arrival of a suitor agitated her, and still more so by both her
  companions&rsquo; not having the least conception that it could be otherwise. To
  tell them that she felt ashamed for herself and for them would be to
  betray her agitation, while to decline their offers to dress her would
  prolong their banter and insistence. She flushed, her beautiful eyes grew
  dim, red blotches came on her face, and it took on the unattractive
  martyrlike expression it so often wore, as she submitted herself to
  Mademoiselle Bourienne and Lise. Both these women  tried to
  make her look pretty. She was so plain that neither of them could think of
  her as a rival, so they began dressing her with perfect sincerity, and
  with the naïve and firm conviction women have that dress can make a face
  pretty.
<br />
  &ldquo;No really, my dear, this dress is not pretty,&rdquo; said Lise, looking
  sideways at Princess Mary from a little distance. &ldquo;You have a maroon
  dress, have it fetched. Really! You know the fate of your whole life may
  be at stake. But this one is too light, it&rsquo;s not becoming!&rdquo;
 <br />
  It was not the dress, but the face and whole figure of Princess Mary that
  was not pretty, but neither Mademoiselle Bourienne nor the little princess
  felt this; they still thought that if a blue ribbon were placed in the
  hair, the hair combed up, and the blue scarf arranged lower on the best
  maroon dress, and so on, all would be well. They forgot that the
  frightened face and the figure could not be altered, and that however they
  might change the setting and adornment of that face, it would still remain
  piteous and plain. After two or three changes to which Princess Mary
  meekly submitted, just as her hair had been arranged on the top of her
  head (a style that quite altered and spoiled her looks) and she had put on
  a maroon dress with a pale-blue scarf, the little princess walked twice
  round her, now adjusting a fold of the dress with her little hand, now
  arranging the scarf and looking at her with her head bent first on one
  side and then on the other.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, it will not do,&rdquo; she said decidedly, clasping her hands.
  &ldquo;No, Mary, really this dress does not suit you. I prefer you in your little
  gray everyday dress. Now please, do it for my sake. Katie,&rdquo; she said to the
  maid, &ldquo;bring the princess her gray dress, and you&rsquo;ll see, Mademoiselle
  Bourienne, how I shall arrange it,&rdquo; she added, smiling with a foretaste of
  artistic pleasure.
<br />
  But when Katie brought the required dress, Princess Mary remained sitting
  motionless before the glass, looking at her face, and saw in the mirror
  her eyes full of tears and her mouth quivering, ready to burst into sobs.
<br />
  &ldquo;Come, dear princess,&rdquo; said Mademoiselle Bourienne, &ldquo;just one
  more little effort.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The little princess, taking the dress from the maid, came up to Princess
  Mary.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, now we&rsquo;ll arrange something quite simple and becoming,&rdquo; she said.
<br />
  The three voices, hers, Mademoiselle Bourienne&rsquo;s, and Katie&rsquo;s, who was
  laughing at something, mingled in a merry sound, like the chirping of
  birds.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, leave me alone,&rdquo; said Princess Mary.
<br />
  Her voice sounded so serious and so sad that the chirping of the birds was
  silenced at once. They looked at the beautiful, large, thoughtful eyes
  full of tears and of thoughts, gazing shiningly and imploringly at them,
  and understood that it was useless and even cruel to insist.
<br />
  &ldquo;At least, change your coiffure,&rdquo; said the little princess. &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t I tell
  you,&rdquo; she went on, turning reproachfully to Mademoiselle Bourienne,
  &ldquo;Mary&rsquo;s is a face which such a coiffure does not suit in the least. Not in
  the least! Please change it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Leave me alone, please leave me alone! It is all quite the same to me,&rdquo;
   answered a voice struggling with tears.
<br />
  Mademoiselle Bourienne and the little princess had to own to themselves
  that Princess Mary in this guise looked very plain, worse than usual, but
  it was too late. She was looking at them with an expression they both
  knew, an expression thoughtful and sad. This expression in Princess Mary
  did not frighten them (she never inspired fear in anyone), but they knew
  that when it appeared on her face, she became mute and was not to be
  shaken in her determination.
<br />
  &ldquo;You will change it, won&rsquo;t you?&rdquo; said Lise. And as Princess
  Mary gave no answer, she left the room.
<br />
  Princess Mary was left alone. She did not comply with Lise&rsquo;s request, she
  not only left her hair as it was, but did not even look in her glass.
  Letting her arms fall helplessly, she sat with downcast eyes and pondered.
  A husband, a man, a strong dominant and strangely attractive being rose in
  her imagination, and carried her into a totally different happy world of
  his own. She fancied a child, &mdash;such as she had seen the day
  before in the arms of her nurse&rsquo;s daughter&mdash;at her own breast, the
  husband standing by and gazing tenderly at her and the child. &ldquo;But no, it
  is impossible, I am too ugly,&rdquo; she thought.
<br />
  &ldquo;Please come to tea. The prince will be out in a moment,&rdquo; came the maid&rsquo;s
  voice at the door.
<br />
  She roused herself, and felt appalled at what she had been thinking, and
  before going down she went into the room where the icons hung and, her
  eyes fixed on the dark face of a large icon of the Saviour lit by a lamp,
  she stood before it with folded hands for a few moments. A painful doubt
  filled her soul. Could the joy of love, of earthly love for a man, be for
  her? In her thoughts of marriage Princess Mary dreamed of happiness and of
  children, but her strongest, most deeply hidden longing was for earthly
  love. The more she tried to hide this feeling from others and even from
  herself, the stronger it grew. &ldquo;O God,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;how am I to stifle in
  my heart these temptations of the devil? How am I to renounce forever
  these vile fancies, so as peacefully to fulfill Thy will?&rdquo; And scarcely
  had she put that question than God gave her the answer in her own heart.
  &ldquo;Desire nothing for thyself, seek nothing, be not anxious or envious.
  Man&rsquo;s future and thy own fate must remain hidden from thee, but live so
  that thou mayest be ready for anything. If it be God&rsquo;s will to prove thee
  in the duties of marriage, be ready to fulfill His will.&rdquo; With this
  consoling thought (but yet with a hope for the fulfillment of her
  forbidden earthly longing) Princess Mary sighed, and having crossed
  herself went down, thinking neither of her gown and coiffure nor of how
  she would go in nor of what she would say. What could all that matter in
  comparison with the will of God, without Whose care not a hair of man&rsquo;s
  head can fall?

  CHAPTER IV


  When Princess Mary came down, Prince Vasíli and his son were already in
  the drawing room, talking to the little princess and Mademoiselle
  Bourienne. When she entered with her heavy step, treading on her heels,
  the gentlemen and Mademoiselle Bourienne rose and the little princess,
  indicating her to the gentlemen, said:  Princess Mary saw
  them all and saw them in detail. She saw Prince Vasíli&rsquo;s face, serious for
  an instant at the sight of her, but immediately smiling again, and the
  little princess curiously noting the impression &ldquo;Marie&rdquo; produced on the
  visitors. And she saw Mademoiselle Bourienne, with her ribbon and pretty
  face, and her unusually animated look which was fixed on , but  she
  could not see, she only saw something large, brilliant, and handsome
  moving toward her as she entered the room. Prince Vasíli approached first,
  and she kissed the bold forehead that bent over her hand and answered his
  question by saying that, on the contrary, she remembered him quite well.
  Then Anatole came up to her. She still could not see him. She only felt a
  soft hand taking hers firmly, and she touched with her lips a white
  forehead, over which was beautiful light-brown hair smelling of pomade.
  When she looked up at him she was struck by his beauty. Anatole stood with
  his right thumb under a button of his uniform, his chest expanded and his
  back drawn in, slightly swinging one foot, and, with his head a little
  bent, looked with beaming face at the princess without speaking and
  evidently not thinking about her at all. Anatole was not quick-witted, nor
  ready or eloquent in conversation, but he had the faculty, so invaluable
  in society, of composure and imperturbable self-possession. If a man
  lacking in self-confidence remains dumb on a first introduction and
  betrays a consciousness of the impropriety of such silence and an anxiety
  to find something to say, the effect is bad. But Anatole was dumb, swung
  his foot, and smilingly examined the princess&rsquo; hair. It was evident that
  he could be silent in this way for a very long time. &ldquo;If anyone finds this
  silence inconvenient, let him talk, but I don&rsquo;t want to,&rdquo; he seemed to
  say. Besides this, in his behavior to women Anatole had a manner which
  particularly inspires in them curiosity, awe, and even love&mdash;a
  supercilious consciousness of his own superiority. It was as if he said to
  them: &ldquo;I know you, I know you, but why should I bother about you? You&rsquo;d be
  only too glad, of course.&rdquo; Perhaps he did not really think this when he
  met women&mdash;even probably he did not, for in general he thought very
  little&mdash;but his looks and manner gave that impression. The princess
  felt this, and as if wishing to show him that she did not even dare expect
  to interest him, she turned to his father. The conversation was general
  and animated, thanks to Princess Lise&rsquo;s voice and little downy lip that
  lifted over her white teeth. She met Prince Vasíli with that playful
  manner often employed by lively chatty people, and consisting in the
  assumption that between the person they so address and themselves there
  are some semi-private, long-established jokes and amusing reminiscences,
  though no such reminiscences really exist&mdash;just as none existed in
  this case. Prince Vasíli readily adopted her tone and the little princess
  also drew Anatole, whom she hardly knew, into these amusing recollections
  of things that had never occurred. Mademoiselle Bourienne also shared them
  and even Princess Mary felt herself pleasantly made to share in these
  merry reminiscences.
<br />
  &ldquo;Here at least we shall have the benefit of your company all to ourselves,
  dear prince,&rdquo; said the little princess (of course, in French) to Prince
  Vasíli. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not as at Annette&rsquo;s * receptions where you
  always ran away; you remember &rdquo;
 <br />
* Anna Pávlovna.

“Ah, but you won’t talk politics to me like Annette!”
“And our little tea table?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Why is it you were never at Annette’s?” the little princess asked Anatole. “Ah, I know, I know,” she said with a sly glance, “your brother Hippolyte told me about your goings on. Oh!” and she shook her finger at him, “I have even heard of your doings in Paris!”
“And didn’t Hippolyte tell you?” asked Prince Vasíli, turning to his son and seizing the little princess’ arm as if she would have run away and he had just managed to catch her, “didn’t he tell you how he himself was pining for the dear princess, and how she showed him the door? Oh, she is a pearl among women, Princess,” he added, turning to Princess Mary.
When Paris was mentioned, Mademoiselle Bourienne for her part seized the opportunity of joining in the general current of recollections.
She took the liberty of inquiring whether it was long since Anatole had left Paris and how he had liked that city. Anatole answered the Frenchwoman very readily and, looking at her with a smile, talked to her about her native land. When he saw the pretty little Bourienne, Anatole came to the conclusion that he would not find Bald Hills dull either. “Not at all bad!” he thought, examining her, “not at all bad, that little companion! I hope she will bring her along with her when we’re married, ” *

* The little one is charming.

The old prince dressed leisurely in his study, frowning and considering what he was to do. The coming of these visitors annoyed him. “What are Prince Vasíli and that son of his to me? Prince Vasíli is a shallow braggart and his son, no doubt, is a fine specimen,” he grumbled to himself. What angered him was that the coming of these visitors revived in his mind an unsettled question he always tried to stifle, one about which he always deceived himself. The question was whether he could ever bring himself to part from his daughter and give her to a husband. The prince never directly asked himself that question, knowing beforehand that he would have to answer it justly, and justice clashed not only with his feelings but with the very possibility of life. Life without Princess Mary, little as he seemed to value her, was unthinkable to him. “And why should she marry?” he thought. “To be unhappy for certain. There’s Lise, married to Andrew—a better husband one would think could hardly be found nowadays—but is she contented with her lot? And who would marry Marie for love? Plain and awkward! They’ll take her for her connections and wealth. Are there no women living unmarried, and even the happier for it?” So thought Prince Bolkónski while dressing, and yet the question he was always putting off demanded an immediate answer. Prince Vasíli had brought his son with the evident intention of proposing, and today or tomorrow he would probably ask for an answer. His birth and position in society were not bad. “Well, I’ve nothing against it,” the prince said to himself, “but he must be worthy of her. And that is what we shall see.”
“That is what we shall see! That is what we shall see!” he added aloud.
He entered the drawing room with his usual alert step, glancing rapidly round the company. He noticed the change in the little princess’ dress, Mademoiselle Bourienne’s ribbon, Princess Mary’s unbecoming coiffure, Mademoiselle Bourienne’s and Anatole’s smiles, and the loneliness of his daughter amid the general conversation. “Got herself up like a fool!” he thought, looking irritably at her. “She is shameless, and he ignores her!”
He went straight up to Prince Vasíli.
“Well! How d’ye do? How d’ye do? Glad to see you!”
“Friendship laughs at distance,” began Prince Vasíli in his usual rapid, self-confident, familiar tone. “Here is my second son; please love and befriend him.”
Prince Bolkónski surveyed Anatole.
“Fine young fellow! Fine young fellow!” he said. “Well, come and kiss me,” and he offered his cheek.
Anatole kissed the old man, and looked at him with curiosity and perfect composure, waiting for a display of the eccentricities his father had told him to expect.
Prince Bolkónski sat down in his usual place in the corner of the sofa and, drawing up an armchair for Prince Vasíli, pointed to it and began questioning him about political affairs and news. He seemed to listen attentively to what Prince Vasíli said, but kept glancing at Princess Mary.
“And so they are writing from Potsdam already?” he said, repeating Prince Vasíli’s last words. Then rising, he suddenly went up to his daughter.
“Is it for visitors you’ve got yourself up like that, eh?” said he. “Fine, very fine! You have done up your hair in this new way for the visitors, and before the visitors I tell you that in future you are never to dare to change your way of dress without my consent.”
“It was my fault, ,” interceded the little princess, with a blush.
“You must do as you please,” said Prince Bolkónski, bowing to his daughter-in-law, “but she need not make a fool of herself, she’s plain enough as it is.”
And he sat down again, paying no more attention to his daughter, who was reduced to tears.
“On the contrary, that coiffure suits the princess very well,” said Prince Vasíli.
“Now you, young prince, what’s your name?” said Prince Bolkónski, turning to Anatole, “come here, let us talk and get acquainted.”
“Now the fun begins,” thought Anatole, sitting down with a smile beside the old prince.
“Well, my dear boy, I hear you’ve been educated abroad, not taught to read and write by the deacon, like your father and me. Now tell me, my dear boy, are you serving in the Horse Guards?” asked the old man, scrutinizing Anatole closely and intently.
“No, I have been transferred to the line,” said Anatole, hardly able to restrain his laughter.
“Ah! That’s a good thing. So, my dear boy, you wish to serve the Tsar and the country? It is wartime. Such a fine fellow must serve. Well, are you off to the front?”
“No, Prince, our regiment has gone to the front, but I am attached… what is it I am attached to, Papa?” said Anatole, turning to his father with a laugh.
“A splendid soldier, splendid! ‘What am I attached to!’ Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Prince Bolkónski, and Anatole laughed still louder. Suddenly Prince Bolkónski frowned.
“You may go,” he said to Anatole.
Anatole returned smiling to the ladies.
“And so you’ve had him educated abroad, Prince Vasíli, haven’t you?” said the old prince to Prince Vasíli.
“I have done my best for him, and I can assure you the education there is much better than ours.”
“Yes, everything is different nowadays, everything is changed. The lad’s a fine fellow, a fine fellow! Well, come with me now.” He took Prince Vasíli’s arm and led him to his study. As soon as they were alone together, Prince Vasíli announced his hopes and wishes to the old prince.
“Well, do you think I shall prevent her, that I can’t part from her?” said the old prince angrily. “What an idea! I’m ready for it tomorrow! Only let me tell you, I want to know my son-in-law better. You know my principles—everything aboveboard! I will ask her tomorrow in your presence; if she is willing, then he can stay on. He can stay and I’ll see.” The old prince snorted. “Let her marry, it’s all the same to me!” he screamed in the same piercing tone as when parting from his son.
“I will tell you frankly,” said Prince Vasíli in the tone of a crafty man convinced of the futility of being cunning with so keen-sighted a companion. “You know, you see right through people. Anatole is no genius, but he is an honest, goodhearted lad; an excellent son or kinsman.”
“All right, all right, we’ll see!”
As always happens when women lead lonely lives for any length of time without male society, on Anatole’s appearance all the three women of Prince Bolkónski’s household felt that their life had not been real till then. Their powers of reasoning, feeling, and observing immediately increased tenfold, and their life, which seemed to have been passed in darkness, was suddenly lit up by a new brightness, full of significance.
Princess Mary grew quite unconscious of her face and coiffure. The handsome open face of the man who might perhaps be her husband absorbed all her attention. He seemed to her kind, brave, determined, manly, and magnanimous. She felt convinced of that. Thousands of dreams of a future family life continually rose in her imagination. She drove them away and tried to conceal them.
“But am I not too cold with him?” thought the princess. “I try to be reserved because in the depth of my soul I feel too near to him already, but then he cannot know what I think of him and may imagine that I do not like him.”
And Princess Mary tried, but could not manage, to be cordial to her new guest. “Poor girl, she’s devilish ugly!” thought Anatole.
Mademoiselle Bourienne, also roused to great excitement by Anatole’s arrival, thought in another way. Of course, she, a handsome young woman without any definite position, without relations or even a country, did not intend to devote her life to serving Prince Bolkónski, to reading aloud to him and being friends with Princess Mary. Mademoiselle Bourienne had long been waiting for a Russian prince who, able to appreciate at a glance her superiority to the plain, badly dressed, ungainly Russian princesses, would fall in love with her and carry her off; and here at last was a Russian prince. Mademoiselle Bourienne knew a story, heard from her aunt but finished in her own way, which she liked to repeat to herself. It was the story of a girl who had been seduced, and to whom her poor mother () appeared, and reproached her for yielding to a man without being married. Mademoiselle Bourienne was often touched to tears as in imagination she told this story to , her seducer. And now , a real Russian prince, had appeared. He would carry her away and then would appear and he would marry her. So her future shaped itself in Mademoiselle Bourienne’s head at the very time she was talking to Anatole about Paris. It was not calculation that guided her (she did not even for a moment consider what she should do), but all this had long been familiar to her, and now that Anatole had appeared it just grouped itself around him and she wished and tried to please him as much as possible.
The little princess, like an old war horse that hears the trumpet, unconsciously and quite forgetting her condition, prepared for the familiar gallop of coquetry, without any ulterior motive or any struggle, but with naïve and lighthearted gaiety.
Although in female society Anatole usually assumed the role of a man tired of being run after by women, his vanity was flattered by the spectacle of his power over these three women. Besides that, he was beginning to feel for the pretty and provocative Mademoiselle Bourienne that passionate animal feeling which was apt to master him with great suddenness and prompt him to the coarsest and most reckless actions.
After tea, the company went into the sitting room and Princess Mary was asked to play on the clavichord. Anatole, laughing and in high spirits, came and leaned on his elbows, facing her and beside Mademoiselle Bourienne. Princess Mary felt his look with a painfully joyous emotion. Her favorite sonata bore her into a most intimately poetic world and the look she felt upon her made that world still more poetic. But Anatole’s expression, though his eyes were fixed on her, referred not to her but to the movements of Mademoiselle Bourienne’s little foot, which he was then touching with his own under the clavichord. Mademoiselle Bourienne was also looking at Princess Mary, and in her lovely eyes there was a look of fearful joy and hope that was also new to the princess.
“How she loves me!” thought Princess Mary. “How happy I am now, and how happy I may be with such a friend and such a husband! Husband? Can it be possible?” she thought, not daring to look at his face, but still feeling his eyes gazing at her.
In the evening, after supper, when all were about to retire, Anatole kissed Princess Mary’s hand. She did not know how she found the courage, but she looked straight into his handsome face as it came near to her shortsighted eyes. Turning from Princess Mary he went up and kissed Mademoiselle Bourienne’s hand. (This was not etiquette, but then he did everything so simply and with such assurance!) Mademoiselle Bourienne flushed, and gave the princess a frightened look.
“What delicacy!” thought the princess. “Is it possible that Amélie” (Mademoiselle Bourienne) “thinks I could be jealous of her, and not value her pure affection and devotion to me?” She went up to her and kissed her warmly. Anatole went up to kiss the little princess’ hand.
“No! No! No! When your father writes to tell me that you are behaving well I will give you my hand to kiss. Not till then!” she said. And smilingly raising a finger at him, she left the room.

  CHAPTER V


  They all separated, but, except Anatole who fell asleep as soon as he got
  into bed, all kept awake a long time that night.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is he really to be my husband, this stranger who is so kind&mdash;yes,
  kind, that is the chief thing,&rdquo; thought Princess Mary; and fear, which she
  had seldom experienced, came upon her. She feared to look round, it seemed
  to her that someone was there standing behind the screen in the dark
  corner. And this someone was &mdash;the devil&mdash;and  was
  also this man with the white forehead, black eyebrows, and red lips.
<br />
  She rang for her maid and asked her to sleep in her room.
<br />
  Mademoiselle Bourienne walked up and down the conservatory for a long time
  that evening, vainly expecting someone, now smiling at someone, now
  working herself up to tears with the imaginary words of her 
  rebuking her for her fall.
<br />
  The little princess grumbled to her maid that her bed was badly made. She
  could not lie either on her face or on her side. Every position was
  awkward and uncomfortable, and her burden oppressed her now more than ever
  because Anatole&rsquo;s presence had vividly recalled to her the time when she
  was not like that and when everything was light and gay. She sat in an
  armchair in her dressing jacket and nightcap and Katie, sleepy and
  disheveled, beat and turned the heavy feather bed for the third time,
  muttering to herself.
<br />
  &ldquo;I told you it was all lumps and holes!&rdquo; the little princess repeated.
  &ldquo;I should be glad enough to fall asleep, so it&rsquo;s not my fault!&rdquo;
  and her voice quivered like that of a child about to cry.
<br />
  The old prince did not sleep either. Tíkhon, half asleep, heard him pacing
  angrily about and snorting. The old prince felt as though he had been
  insulted through his daughter. The insult was the more pointed because it
  concerned not himself but another, his daughter, whom he loved more than
  himself. He kept telling himself that he would consider the whole matter
  and decide what was right and how he should act, but instead of that he
  only excited himself more and more.
<br />
  &ldquo;The first man that turns up&mdash;she forgets her father and everything
  else, runs upstairs and does up her hair and wags her tail and is unlike
  herself! Glad to throw her father over! And she knew I should notice it.
  Fr... fr... fr! And don&rsquo;t I see that that idiot had eyes only for
  Bourienne&mdash;I shall have to get rid of her. And how is it she has not
  pride enough to see it? If she has no pride for herself she might at least
  have some for my sake! She must be shown that the blockhead thinks nothing
  of her and looks only at Bourienne. No, she has no pride... but I&rsquo;ll let
  her see....&rdquo;
 <br />
  The old prince knew that if he told his daughter she was making a mistake
  and that Anatole meant to flirt with Mademoiselle Bourienne, Princess
  Mary&rsquo;s self-esteem would be wounded and his point (not to be parted from
  her) would be gained, so pacifying himself with this thought, he called
  Tíkhon and began to undress.
<br />
  &ldquo;What devil brought them here?&rdquo; thought he, while Tíkhon was putting the
  nightshirt over his dried-up old body and gray-haired chest. &ldquo;I never
  invited them. They came to disturb my life&mdash;and there is not much of
  it left.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Devil take &lsquo;em!&rdquo; he muttered, while his head was still
  covered by the shirt.
<br />
  Tíkhon knew his master&rsquo;s habit of sometimes thinking aloud, and therefore
  met with unaltered looks the angrily inquisitive expression of the face
  that emerged from the shirt.
<br />
  &ldquo;Gone to bed?&rdquo; asked the prince.
<br />
  Tíkhon, like all good valets, instinctively knew the direction of his
  master&rsquo;s thoughts. He guessed that the question referred to Prince Vasíli
  and his son.
<br />
  &ldquo;They have gone to bed and put out their lights, your excellency.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No good... no good...&rdquo; said the prince rapidly, and thrusting his feet
  into his slippers and his arms into the sleeves of his dressing gown, he
  went to the couch on which he slept.
<br />
  Though no words had passed between Anatole and Mademoiselle Bourienne,
  they quite understood one another as to the first part of their romance,
  up to the appearance of the ; they understood that they had
  much to say to one another in private and so they had been seeking an
  opportunity since morning to meet one another alone. When Princess Mary
  went to her father&rsquo;s room at the usual hour, Mademoiselle Bourienne and
  Anatole met in the conservatory.
<br />
  Princess Mary went to the door of the study with special trepidation. It
  seemed to her that not only did everybody know that her fate would be
  decided that day, but that they also knew what she thought about it. She
  read this in Tíkhon&rsquo;s face and in that of Prince Vasíli&rsquo;s valet,
  who made her a low bow when she met him in the corridor carrying hot water.
<br />
  The old prince was very affectionate and careful in his treatment of his
  daughter that morning. Princess Mary well knew this painstaking expression
  of her father&rsquo;s. His face wore that expression when his dry hands clenched
  with vexation at her not understanding a sum in arithmetic, when rising
  from his chair he would walk away from her, repeating in a low voice the
  same words several times over.
<br />
  He came to the point at once, treating her ceremoniously.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have had a proposition made me concerning you,&rdquo; he said with an
  unnatural smile. &ldquo;I expect you have guessed that Prince Vasíli has not
  come and brought his pupil with him&rdquo; (for some reason Prince Bolkónski
  referred to Anatole as a &ldquo;pupil&rdquo;) &ldquo;for the sake of my beautiful
  eyes. Last night a proposition was made me on your account and, as you know my
  principles, I refer it to you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How am I to understand you, &rdquo; said the princess,
  growing pale and then blushing.
<br />
  &ldquo;How understand me!&rdquo; cried her father angrily. &ldquo;Prince Vasíli
  finds you to his taste as a daughter-in-law and makes a proposal to you on his
  pupil&rsquo;s behalf. That&rsquo;s how it&rsquo;s to be understood! &lsquo;How
  understand it&rsquo;!... And I ask you!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I do not know what you think, Father,&rdquo; whispered the princess.
<br />
  &ldquo;I? I? What of me? Leave me out of the question. I&rsquo;m not going to get
  married. What about  That&rsquo;s what I want to know.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The princess saw that her father regarded the matter with disapproval, but
  at that moment the thought occurred to her that her fate would be decided
  now or never. She lowered her eyes so as not to see the gaze under which
  she felt that she could not think, but would only be able to submit from
  habit, and she said: &ldquo;I wish only to do your will, but if I had to express
  my own desire...&rdquo; She had no time to finish. The old prince interrupted
  her.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s admirable!&rdquo; he shouted. &ldquo;He will take you with your dowry and take
  Mademoiselle Bourienne into the bargain. She&rsquo;ll be the wife, while you...&rdquo;
 <br />
  The prince stopped. He saw the effect these words had produced on his
  daughter. She lowered her head and was ready to burst into tears.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now then, now then, I&rsquo;m only joking!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Remember
  this, Princess, I hold to the principle that a maiden has a full right to choose.
  I give you freedom. Only remember that your life&rsquo;s happiness depends on your
  decision. Never mind me!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But I do not know, Father!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;There&rsquo;s no need to talk! He receives his orders and will marry you or
  anybody; but you are free to choose.... Go to your room, think it over,
  and come back in an hour and tell me in his presence: yes or no. I know
  you will pray over it. Well, pray if you like, but you had better  it
  over. Go! Yes or no, yes or no, yes or no!&rdquo; he still shouted when the
  princess, as if lost in a fog, had already staggered out of the study.
<br />
  Her fate was decided and happily decided. But what her father had said
  about Mademoiselle Bourienne was dreadful. It was untrue to be sure, but
  still it was terrible, and she could not help thinking of it. She was
  going straight on through the conservatory, neither seeing nor hearing
  anything, when suddenly the well-known whispering of Mademoiselle
  Bourienne aroused her. She raised her eyes, and two steps away saw Anatole
  embracing the Frenchwoman and whispering something to her. With a
  horrified expression on his handsome face, Anatole looked at Princess
  Mary, but did not at once take his arm from the waist of Mademoiselle
  Bourienne who had not yet seen her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who&rsquo;s that? Why? Wait a moment!&rdquo; Anatole&rsquo;s face seemed to say. Princess
  Mary looked at them in silence. She could not understand it. At last
  Mademoiselle Bourienne gave a scream and ran away. Anatole bowed to
  Princess Mary with a gay smile, as if inviting her to join in a laugh at
  this strange incident, and then shrugging his shoulders went to the door
  that led to his own apartments.
<br />
  An hour later, Tíkhon came to call Princess Mary to the old prince; he
  added that Prince Vasíli was also there. When Tíkhon came to her Princess
  Mary was sitting on the sofa in her room, holding the weeping Mademoiselle
  Bourienne in her arms and gently stroking her hair. The princess&rsquo;
  beautiful eyes with all their former calm radiance were looking with
  tender affection and pity at Mademoiselle Bourienne&rsquo;s pretty face.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, Princess, I have lost your affection forever!&rdquo; said Mademoiselle
  Bourienne.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why? I love you more than ever,&rdquo; said Princess Mary, &ldquo;and I will try to
  do all I can for your happiness.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But you despise me. You who are so pure can never understand being so
  carried away by passion. Oh, only my poor mother...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I quite understand,&rdquo; answered Princess Mary, with a sad smile. &ldquo;Calm
  yourself, my dear. I will go to my father,&rdquo; she said, and went out.
<br />
  Prince Vasíli, with one leg thrown high over the other and a snuffbox in
  his hand, was sitting there with a smile of deep emotion on his face, as
  if stirred to his heart&rsquo;s core and himself regretting and laughing at his
  own sensibility, when Princess Mary entered. He hurriedly took a pinch of
  snuff.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, my dear, my dear!&rdquo; he began, rising and taking her by both hands.
  Then, sighing, he added: &ldquo;My son&rsquo;s fate is in your hands. Decide, my dear,
  good, gentle Marie, whom I have always loved as a daughter!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He drew back and a real tear appeared in his eye.
<br />
  &ldquo;Fr... fr...&rdquo; snorted Prince Bolkónski. &ldquo;The prince is making a
  proposition to you in his pupil&rsquo;s&mdash;I mean, his son&rsquo;s&mdash;name. Do
  you wish or not to be Prince Anatole Kurágin&rsquo;s wife? Reply: yes or no,&rdquo; he
  shouted, &ldquo;and then I shall reserve the right to state my opinion also.
  Yes, my opinion, and only my opinion,&rdquo; added Prince Bolkónski, turning to
  Prince Vasíli and answering his imploring look. &ldquo;Yes, or no?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;My desire is never to leave you, Father, never to separate my life from
  yours. I don&rsquo;t wish to marry,&rdquo; she answered positively, glancing at Prince
  Vasíli and at her father with her beautiful eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;Humbug! Nonsense! Humbug, humbug, humbug!&rdquo; cried Prince Bolkónski,
  frowning and taking his daughter&rsquo;s hand; he did not kiss her, but only
  bending his forehead to hers just touched it, and pressed her hand so that
  she winced and uttered a cry.
<br />
  Prince Vasíli rose.
<br />
  &ldquo;My dear, I must tell you that this is a moment I shall never, never
  forget. But, my dear, will you not give us a little hope of touching this
  heart, so kind and generous? Say &lsquo;perhaps&rsquo;... The future is so long. Say
  &lsquo;perhaps.&rsquo;&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Prince, what I have said is all there is in my heart. I thank you for the
  honor, but I shall never be your son&rsquo;s wife.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, so that&rsquo;s finished, my dear fellow! I am very glad to have seen
  you. Very glad! Go back to your rooms, Princess. Go!&rdquo; said the old prince.
  &ldquo;Very, very glad to have seen you,&rdquo; repeated he, embracing Prince Vasíli.
<br />
  &ldquo;My vocation is a different one,&rdquo; thought Princess Mary. &ldquo;My vocation is
  to be happy with another kind of happiness, the happiness of love and
  self-sacrifice. And cost what it may, I will arrange poor Amélie&rsquo;s
  happiness, she loves him so passionately, and so passionately repents. I
  will do all I can to arrange the match between them. If he is not rich I
  will give her the means; I will ask my father and Andrew. I shall be so
  happy when she is his wife. She is so unfortunate, a stranger, alone,
  helpless! And, oh God, how passionately she must love him if she could so
  far forget herself! Perhaps I might have done the same!...&rdquo; thought
  Princess Mary.

  CHAPTER VI


  It was long since the Rostóvs had news of Nicholas. Not till midwinter was
  the count at last handed a letter addressed in his son&rsquo;s handwriting. On
  receiving it, he ran on tiptoe to his study in alarm and haste, trying to
  escape notice, closed the door, and began to read the letter.
<br />
  Anna Mikháylovna, who always knew everything that passed in the house, on
  hearing of the arrival of the letter went softly into the room and found
  the count with it in his hand, sobbing and laughing at the same time.
<br />
  Anna Mikháylovna, though her circumstances had improved, was still living
  with the Rostóvs.
<br />
  &ldquo;My dear friend?&rdquo; said she, in a tone of pathetic inquiry, prepared to
  sympathize in any way.
<br />
  The count sobbed yet more.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nikólenka... a letter... wa... a... s... wounded... my darling boy... the
  countess... promoted to be an officer... thank God... How tell the little
  countess!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Anna Mikháylovna sat down beside him, with her own handkerchief wiped the
  tears from his eyes and from the letter, then having dried her own eyes
  she comforted the count, and decided that at dinner and till teatime she
  would prepare the countess, and after tea, with God&rsquo;s help, would inform
  her.
<br />
  At dinner Anna Mikháylovna talked the whole time about the war news and
  about Nikólenka, twice asked when the last letter had been received from
  him, though she knew that already, and remarked that they might very
  likely be getting a letter from him that day. Each time that these hints
  began to make the countess anxious and she glanced uneasily at the count
  and at Anna Mikháylovna, the latter very adroitly turned the conversation
  to insignificant matters. Natásha, who, of the whole family, was the most
  gifted with a capacity to feel any shades of intonation, look, and
  expression, pricked up her ears from the beginning of the meal and was
  certain that there was some secret between her father and Anna
  Mikháylovna, that it had something to do with her brother, and that Anna
  Mikháylovna was preparing them for it. Bold as she was, Natásha, who knew
  how sensitive her mother was to anything relating to Nikólenka, did not
  venture to ask any questions at dinner, but she was too excited to eat
  anything and kept wriggling about on her chair regardless of her
  governess&rsquo; remarks. After dinner, she rushed headlong after Anna
  Mikháylovna and, dashing at her, flung herself on her neck as soon as she
  overtook her in the sitting room.
<br />
  &ldquo;Auntie, darling, do tell me what it is!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Nothing, my dear.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, dearest, sweet one, honey, I won&rsquo;t give up&mdash;I know you know
  something.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Anna Mikháylovna shook her head.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are a little slyboots,&rdquo; she said.
<br />
  &ldquo;A letter from Nikólenka! I&rsquo;m sure of it!&rdquo; exclaimed Natásha, reading
  confirmation in Anna Mikháylovna&rsquo;s face.
<br />
  &ldquo;But for God&rsquo;s sake, be careful, you know how it may affect your mamma.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I will, I will, only tell me! You won&rsquo;t? Then I will go and tell at
  once.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Anna Mikháylovna, in a few words, told her the contents of the letter, on
  condition that she should tell no one.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, on my true word of honor,&rdquo; said Natásha, crossing herself, &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t
  tell anyone!&rdquo; and she ran off at once to Sónya.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nikólenka... wounded... a letter,&rdquo; she announced in gleeful triumph.
<br />
   was all Sónya said, instantly turning white.
<br />
  Natásha, seeing the impression the news of her brother&rsquo;s wound produced on
  Sónya, felt for the first time the sorrowful side of the news.
<br />
  She rushed to Sónya, hugged her, and began to cry.
<br />
  &ldquo;A little wound, but he has been made an officer; he is well now, he wrote
  himself,&rdquo; said she through her tears.
<br />
  &ldquo;There now! It&rsquo;s true that all you women are crybabies,&rdquo; remarked Pétya,
  pacing the room with large, resolute strides. &ldquo;Now I&rsquo;m very glad, very
  glad indeed, that my brother has distinguished himself so. You are all
  blubberers and understand nothing.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha smiled through her tears.
<br />
  &ldquo;You haven&rsquo;t read the letter?&rdquo; asked Sónya.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, but she said that it was all over and that he&rsquo;s now an officer.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Thank God!&rdquo; said Sónya, crossing herself. &ldquo;But perhaps she
  deceived you. Let us go to Mamma.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pétya paced the room in silence for a time.
<br />
  &ldquo;If I&rsquo;d been in Nikólenka&rsquo;s place I would have killed even more of those
  Frenchmen,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;What nasty brutes they are! I&rsquo;d have killed so many
  that there&rsquo;d have been a heap of them.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Hold your tongue, Pétya, what a goose you are!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not a goose, but they are who cry about trifles,&rdquo; said Pétya.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you remember him?&rdquo; Natásha suddenly asked, after a moment&rsquo;s silence.
<br />
  Sónya smiled.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do I remember &rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, Sónya, but do you remember so that you remember him perfectly,
  remember everything?&rdquo; said Natásha, with an expressive gesture, evidently
  wishing to give her words a very definite meaning. &ldquo;I remember Nikólenka
  too, I remember him well,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;But I don&rsquo;t remember
  Borís. I don&rsquo;t remember him a bit.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What! You don&rsquo;t remember Borís?&rdquo; asked Sónya in surprise.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not that I don&rsquo;t remember&mdash;I know what he is like,
  but not as I remember Nikólenka. Him&mdash;I just shut my eyes and remember, but
  Borís... No!&rdquo; (She shut her eyes.) &ldquo;No! there&rsquo;s nothing at all.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, Natásha!&rdquo; said Sónya, looking ecstatically and earnestly at her
  friend as if she did not consider her worthy to hear what she meant to say
  and as if she were saying it to someone else, with whom joking was out of
  the question, &ldquo;I am in love with your brother once for all and, whatever
  may happen to him or to me, shall never cease to love him as long as I
  live.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha looked at Sónya with wondering and inquisitive eyes, and said
  nothing. She felt that Sónya was speaking the truth, that there was such
  love as Sónya was speaking of. But Natásha had not yet felt anything like
  it. She believed it could be, but did not understand it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Shall you write to him?&rdquo; she asked.
<br />
  Sónya became thoughtful. The question of how to write to , and
  whether she ought to write, tormented her. Now that he was already an
  officer and a wounded hero, would it be right to remind him of herself
  and, as it might seem, of the obligations to her he had taken on himself?
<br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know. I think if he writes, I will write too,&rdquo; she said,
  blushing.
<br />
  &ldquo;And you won&rsquo;t feel ashamed to write to him?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sónya smiled.
<br />
  &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And I should be ashamed to write to Borís. I&rsquo;m not going to.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why should you be ashamed?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, I don&rsquo;t know. It&rsquo;s awkward and would make me ashamed.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And I know why she&rsquo;d be ashamed,&rdquo; said Pétya, offended by Natásha&rsquo;s
  previous remark. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s because she was in love with that fat one in
  spectacles&rdquo; (that was how Pétya described his namesake, the new Count
  Bezúkhov) &ldquo;and now she&rsquo;s in love with that singer&rdquo; (he meant Natásha&rsquo;s
  Italian singing master), &ldquo;that&rsquo;s why she&rsquo;s ashamed!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Pétya, you&rsquo;re stupid!&rdquo; said Natásha.
<br />
  &ldquo;Not more stupid than you, madam,&rdquo; said the nine-year-old Pétya, with the
  air of an old brigadier.
<br />
  The countess had been prepared by Anna Mikháylovna&rsquo;s hints at dinner. On
  retiring to her own room, she sat in an armchair, her eyes fixed on a
  miniature portrait of her son on the lid of a snuffbox, while the tears
  kept coming into her eyes. Anna Mikháylovna, with the letter, came on
  tiptoe to the countess&rsquo; door and paused.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t come in,&rdquo; she said to the old count who was following
  her. &ldquo;Come later.&rdquo; And she went in, closing the door behind her.
<br />
  The count put his ear to the keyhole and listened.
<br />
  At first he heard the sound of indifferent voices, then Anna Mikháylovna&rsquo;s
  voice alone in a long speech, then a cry, then silence, then both voices
  together with glad intonations, and then footsteps. Anna Mikháylovna
  opened the door. Her face wore the proud expression of a surgeon who has
  just performed a difficult operation and admits the public to appreciate
  his skill.
<br />
  &ldquo;It is done!&rdquo; she said to the count, pointing triumphantly to the
  countess, who sat holding in one hand the snuffbox with its portrait and
  in the other the letter, and pressing them alternately to her lips.
<br />
  When she saw the count, she stretched out her arms to him, embraced his
  bald head, over which she again looked at the letter and the portrait, and
  in order to press them again to her lips, she slightly pushed away the
  bald head. Véra, Natásha, Sónya, and Pétya now entered the room, and the
  reading of the letter began. After a brief description of the campaign and
  the two battles in which he had taken part, and his promotion, Nicholas
  said that he kissed his father&rsquo;s and mother&rsquo;s hands asking for their
  blessing, and that he kissed Véra, Natásha, and Pétya. Besides that, he
  sent greetings to Monsieur Schelling, Madame Schoss, and his old nurse,
  and asked them to kiss for him &ldquo;dear Sónya, whom he loved and thought of
  just the same as ever.&rdquo; When she heard this Sónya blushed so that tears
  came into her eyes and, unable to bear the looks turned upon her, ran away
  into the dancing hall, whirled round it at full speed with her dress
  puffed out like a balloon, and, flushed and smiling, plumped down on the
  floor. The countess was crying.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why are you crying, Mamma?&rdquo; asked Véra. &ldquo;From all he says
  one should be glad and not cry.&rdquo;
 <br />
  This was quite true, but the count, the countess, and Natásha looked at
  her reproachfully. &ldquo;And who is it she takes after?&rdquo; thought the countess.
<br />
  Nicholas&rsquo; letter was read over hundreds of times, and those who were
  considered worthy to hear it had to come to the countess, for she did not
  let it out of her hands. The tutors came, and the nurses, and Dmítri, and
  several acquaintances, and the countess reread the letter each time with
  fresh pleasure and each time discovered in it fresh proofs of Nikólenka&rsquo;s
  virtues. How strange, how extraordinary, how joyful it seemed, that her
  son, the scarcely perceptible motion of whose tiny limbs she had felt
  twenty years ago within her, that son about whom she used to have quarrels
  with the too indulgent count, that son who had first learned to say &ldquo;pear&rdquo;
   and then &ldquo;granny,&rdquo; that this son should now be away in a foreign land amid
  strange surroundings, a manly warrior doing some kind of man&rsquo;s work of his
  own, without help or guidance. The universal experience of ages, showing
  that children do grow imperceptibly from the cradle to manhood, did not
  exist for the countess. Her son&rsquo;s growth toward manhood, at each of its
  stages, had seemed as extraordinary to her as if there had never existed
  the millions of human beings who grew up in the same way. As twenty years
  before, it seemed impossible that the little creature who lived somewhere
  under her heart would ever cry, suck her breast, and begin to speak, so
  now she could not believe that that little creature could be this strong,
  brave man, this model son and officer that, judging by this letter, he now
  was.
<br />
  &ldquo;What a  How charmingly he describes!&rdquo; said she, reading the
  descriptive part of the letter. &ldquo;And what a soul! Not a word about
  himself.... Not a word! About some Denísov or other, though he himself, I
  dare say, is braver than any of them. He says nothing about his
  sufferings. What a heart! How like him it is! And how he has remembered
  everybody! Not forgetting anyone. I always said when he was only so high&mdash;I
  always said....&rdquo;
 <br />
  For more than a week preparations were being made, rough drafts of letters
  to Nicholas from all the household were written and copied out, while
  under the supervision of the countess and the solicitude of the count,
  money and all things necessary for the uniform and equipment of the newly
  commissioned officer were collected. Anna Mikháylovna, practical woman
  that she was, had even managed by favor with army authorities to secure
  advantageous means of communication for herself and her son. She had
  opportunities of sending her letters to the Grand Duke Constantine
  Pávlovich, who commanded the Guards. The Rostóvs supposed that , was quite a definite address, and that if a letter reached
  the Grand Duke in command of the Guards there was no reason why it should
  not reach the Pávlograd regiment, which was presumably somewhere in the
  same neighborhood. And so it was decided to send the letters and money by
  the Grand Duke&rsquo;s courier to Borís and Borís was to forward them to
  Nicholas. The letters were from the old count, the countess, Pétya, Véra,
  Natásha, and Sónya, and finally there were six thousand rubles for his
  outfit and various other things the old count sent to his son.

  CHAPTER VII


  On the twelfth of November, Kutúzov&rsquo;s active army, in camp before Olmütz,
  was preparing to be reviewed next day by the two Emperors&mdash;the
  Russian and the Austrian. The Guards, just arrived from Russia, spent the
  night ten miles from Olmütz and next morning were to come straight to the
  review, reaching the field at Olmütz by ten o&rsquo;clock.
<br />
  That day Nicholas Rostóv received a letter from Borís, telling him that
  the Ismáylov regiment was quartered for the night ten miles from Olmütz
  and that he wanted to see him as he had a letter and money for him. Rostóv
  was particularly in need of money now that the troops, after their active
  service, were stationed near Olmütz and the camp swarmed with
  well-provisioned sutlers and Austrian Jews offering all sorts of tempting
  wares. The Pávlograds held feast after feast, celebrating awards they had
  received for the campaign, and made expeditions to Olmütz to visit a
  certain Caroline the Hungarian, who had recently opened a restaurant there
  with girls as waitresses. Rostóv, who had just celebrated his promotion to
  a cornetcy and bought Denísov&rsquo;s horse, Bedouin, was in debt all round, to
  his comrades and the sutlers. On receiving Borís&rsquo; letter he rode with a
  fellow officer to Olmütz, dined there, drank a bottle of wine, and then
  set off alone to the Guards&rsquo; camp to find his old playmate. Rostóv had not
  yet had time to get his uniform. He had on a shabby cadet jacket,
  decorated with a soldier&rsquo;s cross, equally shabby cadet&rsquo;s riding breeches
  lined with worn leather, and an officer&rsquo;s saber with a sword knot. The Don
  horse he was riding was one he had bought from a Cossack during the
  campaign, and he wore a crumpled hussar cap stuck jauntily back on one
  side of his head. As he rode up to the camp he thought how he would
  impress Borís and all his comrades of the Guards by his appearance&mdash;that
  of a fighting hussar who had been under fire.
<br />
  The Guards had made their whole march as if on a pleasure trip, parading
  their cleanliness and discipline. They had come by easy stages, their
  knapsacks conveyed on carts, and the Austrian authorities had provided
  excellent dinners for the officers at every halting place. The regiments
  had entered and left the town with their bands playing, and by the Grand
  Duke&rsquo;s orders the men had marched all the way in step (a practice on which
  the Guards prided themselves), the officers on foot and at their proper
  posts. Borís had been quartered, and had marched all the way, with Berg
  who was already in command of a company. Berg, who had obtained his
  captaincy during the campaign, had gained the confidence of his superiors
  by his promptitude and accuracy and had arranged his money matters very
  satisfactorily. Borís, during the campaign, had made the acquaintance of
  many persons who might prove useful to him, and by a letter of
  recommendation he had brought from Pierre had become acquainted with
  Prince Andrew Bolkónski, through whom he hoped to obtain a post on the
  commander in chief&rsquo;s staff. Berg and Borís, having rested after
  yesterday&rsquo;s march, were sitting, clean and neatly dressed, at a round
  table in the clean quarters allotted to them, playing chess. Berg held a
  smoking pipe between his knees. Borís, in the accurate way characteristic
  of him, was building a little pyramid of chessmen with his delicate white
  fingers while awaiting Berg&rsquo;s move, and watched his opponent&rsquo;s face,
  evidently thinking about the game as he always thought only of whatever he
  was engaged on.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, how are you going to get out of that?&rdquo; he remarked.
<br />
  &ldquo;We&rsquo;ll try to,&rdquo; replied Berg, touching a pawn and then removing his hand.
<br />
  At that moment the door opened.
<br />
  &ldquo;Here he is at last!&rdquo; shouted Rostóv. &ldquo;And Berg too! Oh, you
  &rdquo; he exclaimed, imitating his Russian
  nurse&rsquo;s French, at which he and Borís used to laugh long ago.
<br />
  &ldquo;Dear me, how you have changed!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Borís rose to meet Rostóv, but in doing so did not omit to steady and
  replace some chessmen that were falling. He was about to embrace his
  friend, but Nicholas avoided him. With that peculiar feeling of youth,
  that dread of beaten tracks, and wish to express itself in a manner
  different from that of its elders which is often insincere, Nicholas
  wished to do something special on meeting his friend. He wanted to pinch
  him, push him, do anything but kiss him&mdash;a thing everybody did. But
  notwithstanding this, Borís embraced him in a quiet, friendly way and
  kissed him three times.
<br />
  They had not met for nearly half a year and, being at the age when young
  men take their first steps on life&rsquo;s road, each saw immense changes in the
  other, quite a new reflection of the society in which they had taken those
  first steps. Both had changed greatly since they last met and both were in
  a hurry to show the changes that had taken place in them.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, you damned dandies! Clean and fresh as if you&rsquo;d been to a fete, not
  like us sinners of the line,&rdquo; cried Rostóv, with martial swagger and with
  baritone notes in his voice, new to Borís, pointing to his own
  mud-bespattered breeches. The German landlady, hearing Rostóv&rsquo;s loud
  voice, popped her head in at the door.
<br />
  &ldquo;Eh, is she pretty?&rdquo; he asked with a wink.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why do you shout so? You&rsquo;ll frighten them!&rdquo; said Borís.
  &ldquo;I did not expect you today,&rdquo; he added. &ldquo;I only sent you the
  note yesterday by Bolkónski&mdash;an adjutant of Kutúzov&rsquo;s, who&rsquo;s a
  friend of mine. I did not think he would get it to you so quickly.... Well, how
  are you? Been under fire already?&rdquo; asked Borís.
<br />
  Without answering, Rostóv shook the soldier&rsquo;s Cross of St. George fastened
  to the cording of his uniform and, indicating a bandaged arm, glanced at
  Berg with a smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;As you see,&rdquo; he said.
<br />
  &ldquo;Indeed? Yes, yes!&rdquo; said Borís, with a smile. &ldquo;And we too have
  had a splendid march. You know, of course, that His Imperial Highness rode with
  our regiment all the time, so that we had every comfort and every
  advantage. What receptions we had in Poland! What dinners and balls! I
  can&rsquo;t tell you. And the Tsarévich was very gracious to all our officers.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And the two friends told each other of their doings, the one of his hussar
  revels and life in the fighting line, the other of the pleasures and
  advantages of service under members of the Imperial family.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, you Guards!&rdquo; said Rostóv. &ldquo;I say, send for some wine.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Borís made a grimace.
<br />
  &ldquo;If you really want it,&rdquo; said he.
<br />
  He went to his bed, drew a purse from under the clean pillow, and sent for
  wine.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, and I have some money and a letter to give you,&rdquo; he added.
<br />
  Rostóv took the letter and, throwing the money on the sofa, put both arms
  on the table and began to read. After reading a few lines, he glanced
  angrily at Berg, then, meeting his eyes, hid his face behind the letter.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, they&rsquo;ve sent you a tidy sum,&rdquo; said Berg, eying the heavy purse that
  sank into the sofa. &ldquo;As for us, Count, we get along on our pay. I can tell
  you for myself...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I say, Berg, my dear fellow,&rdquo; said Rostóv, &ldquo;when you get a letter from
  home and meet one of your own people whom you want to talk everything over
  with, and I happen to be there, I&rsquo;ll go at once, to be out of your way! Do
  go somewhere, anywhere... to the devil!&rdquo; he exclaimed, and immediately
  seizing him by the shoulder and looking amiably into his face, evidently
  wishing to soften the rudeness of his words, he added, &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be hurt, my
  dear fellow; you know I speak from my heart as to an old acquaintance.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, don&rsquo;t mention it, Count! I quite understand,&rdquo; said Berg, getting up
  and speaking in a muffled and guttural voice.
<br />
  &ldquo;Go across to our hosts: they invited you,&rdquo; added Borís.
<br />
  Berg put on the cleanest of coats, without a spot or speck of dust, stood
  before a looking glass and brushed the hair on his temples upwards, in the
  way affected by the Emperor Alexander, and, having assured himself from
  the way Rostóv looked at it that his coat had been noticed, left the room
  with a pleasant smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh dear, what a beast I am!&rdquo; muttered Rostóv, as he read the letter.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, what a pig I am, not to have written and to have given them such a
  fright! Oh, what a pig I am!&rdquo; he repeated, flushing suddenly. &ldquo;Well, have
  you sent Gabriel for some wine? All right let&rsquo;s have some!&rdquo;
 <br />
  In the letter from his parents was enclosed a letter of recommendation to
  Bagratión which the old countess at Anna Mikháylovna&rsquo;s advice had obtained
  through an acquaintance and sent to her son, asking him to take it to its
  destination and make use of it.
<br />
  &ldquo;What nonsense! Much I need it!&rdquo; said Rostóv, throwing the letter under
  the table.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why have you thrown that away?&rdquo; asked Borís.
<br />
  &ldquo;It is some letter of recommendation... what the devil do I want it for!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why &lsquo;What the devil&rsquo;?&rdquo; said Borís, picking it up and
  reading the address. &ldquo;This letter would be of great use to you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I want nothing, and I won&rsquo;t be anyone&rsquo;s adjutant.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo; inquired Borís.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a lackey&rsquo;s job!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You are still the same dreamer, I see,&rdquo; remarked Borís, shaking his head.
<br />
  &ldquo;And you&rsquo;re still the same diplomatist! But that&rsquo;s not the
  point... Come, how are you?&rdquo; asked Rostóv.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, as you see. So far everything&rsquo;s all right, but I confess I should
  much like to be an adjutant and not remain at the front.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Because when once a man starts on military service, he should try to make
  as successful a career of it as possible.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, that&rsquo;s it!&rdquo; said Rostóv, evidently thinking of something else.
<br />
  He looked intently and inquiringly into his friend&rsquo;s eyes, evidently
  trying in vain to find the answer to some question.
<br />
  Old Gabriel brought in the wine.
<br />
  &ldquo;Shouldn&rsquo;t we now send for Berg?&rdquo; asked Borís. &ldquo;He would
  drink with you. I can&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, send for him... and how do you get on with that German?&rdquo; asked
  Rostóv, with a contemptuous smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;He is a very, very nice, honest, and pleasant fellow,&rdquo; answered Borís.
<br />
  Again Rostóv looked intently into Borís&rsquo; eyes and sighed. Berg returned,
  and over the bottle of wine conversation between the three officers became
  animated. The Guardsmen told Rostóv of their march and how they had been
  made much of in Russia, Poland, and abroad. They spoke of the sayings and
  doings of their commander, the Grand Duke, and told stories of his
  kindness and irascibility. Berg, as usual, kept silent when the subject
  did not relate to himself, but in connection with the stories of the Grand
  Duke&rsquo;s quick temper he related with gusto how in Galicia he had managed to
  deal with the Grand Duke when the latter made a tour of the regiments and
  was annoyed at the irregularity of a movement. With a pleasant smile Berg
  related how the Grand Duke had ridden up to him in a violent passion,
  shouting: &ldquo;Arnauts!&rdquo; (&ldquo;Arnauts&rdquo; was the Tsarévich&rsquo;s
  favorite expression when he was in a rage) and called for the company commander.
<br />
  &ldquo;Would you believe it, Count, I was not at all alarmed, because I knew I
  was right. Without boasting, you know, I may say that I know the Army
  Orders by heart and know the Regulations as well as I do the Lord&rsquo;s
  Prayer. So, Count, there never is any negligence in my company, and so my
  conscience was at ease. I came forward....&rdquo; (Berg stood up and showed how
  he presented himself, with his hand to his cap, and really it would have
  been difficult for a face to express greater respect and self-complacency
  than his did.) &ldquo;Well, he stormed at me, as the saying is, stormed and
  stormed and stormed! It was not a matter of life but rather of death, as
  the saying is. &lsquo;Albanians!&rsquo; and &lsquo;devils!&rsquo; and &lsquo;To Siberia!&rsquo;&rdquo; said Berg
  with a sagacious smile. &ldquo;I knew I was in the right so I kept silent; was
  not that best, Count?... &lsquo;Hey, are you dumb?&rsquo; he shouted. Still I remained
  silent. And what do you think, Count? The next day it was not even
  mentioned in the Orders of the Day. That&rsquo;s what keeping one&rsquo;s head means.
  That&rsquo;s the way, Count,&rdquo; said Berg, lighting his pipe and emitting rings of
  smoke.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, that was fine,&rdquo; said Rostóv, smiling.
<br />
  But Borís noticed that he was preparing to make fun of Berg, and
  skillfully changed the subject. He asked him to tell them how and where he
  got his wound. This pleased Rostóv and he began talking about it, and as
  he went on became more and more animated. He told them of his Schön
  Grabern affair, just as those who have taken part in a battle generally do
  describe it, that is, as they would like it to have been, as they have
  heard it described by others, and as sounds well, but not at all as it
  really was. Rostóv was a truthful young man and would on no account have
  told a deliberate lie. He began his story meaning to tell everything just
  as it happened, but imperceptibly, involuntarily, and inevitably he lapsed
  into falsehood. If he had told the truth to his hearers&mdash;who like
  himself had often heard stories of attacks and had formed a definite idea
  of what an attack was and were expecting to hear just such a story&mdash;they
  would either not have believed him or, still worse, would have thought
  that Rostóv was himself to blame since what generally happens to the
  narrators of cavalry attacks had not happened to him. He could not tell
  them simply that everyone went at a trot and that he fell off his horse
  and sprained his arm and then ran as hard as he could from a Frenchman
  into the wood. Besides, to tell everything as it really happened, it would
  have been necessary to make an effort of will to tell only what happened.
  It is very difficult to tell the truth, and young people are rarely
  capable of it. His hearers expected a story of how beside himself and all
  aflame with excitement, he had flown like a storm at the square, cut his
  way in, slashed right and left, how his saber had tasted flesh and he had
  fallen exhausted, and so on. And so he told them all that.
<br />
  In the middle of his story, just as he was saying: &ldquo;You cannot imagine
  what a strange frenzy one experiences during an attack,&rdquo; Prince Andrew,
  whom Borís was expecting, entered the room. Prince Andrew, who liked to
  help young men, was flattered by being asked for his assistance and being
  well disposed toward Borís, who had managed to please him the day before,
  he wished to do what the young man wanted. Having been sent with papers
  from Kutúzov to the Tsarévich, he looked in on Borís, hoping to find him
  alone. When he came in and saw an hussar of the line recounting his
  military exploits (Prince Andrew could not endure that sort of man), he
  gave Borís a pleasant smile, frowned as with half-closed eyes he looked at
  Rostóv, bowed slightly and wearily, and sat down languidly on the sofa: he
  felt it unpleasant to have dropped in on bad company. Rostóv flushed up on
  noticing this, but he did not care, this was a mere stranger. Glancing,
  however, at Borís, he saw that he too seemed ashamed of the hussar of the
  line.
<br />
  In spite of Prince Andrew&rsquo;s disagreeable, ironical tone, in spite of the
  contempt with which Rostóv, from his  army point of view, regarded
  all these little adjutants on the staff of whom the newcomer was evidently
  one, Rostóv felt confused, blushed, and became silent. Borís inquired what
  news there might be on the staff, and what, without indiscretion, one
  might ask about our plans.
<br />
  &ldquo;We shall probably advance,&rdquo; replied Bolkónski, evidently reluctant to say
  more in the presence of a stranger.
<br />
  Berg took the opportunity to ask, with great politeness, whether, as was
  rumored, the allowance of forage money to captains of companies would be
  doubled. To this Prince Andrew answered with a smile that he could give no
  opinion on such an important government order, and Berg laughed gaily.
<br />
  &ldquo;As to your business,&rdquo; Prince Andrew continued, addressing Borís, &ldquo;we will
  talk of it later&rdquo; (and he looked round at Rostóv). &ldquo;Come to me after the
  review and we will do what is possible.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And, having glanced round the room, Prince Andrew turned to Rostóv, whose
  state of unconquerable childish embarrassment now changing to anger he did
  not condescend to notice, and said: &ldquo;I think you were talking of the Schön
  Grabern affair? Were you there?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I was there,&rdquo; said Rostóv angrily, as if intending to insult the
  aide-de-camp.
<br />
  Bolkónski noticed the hussar&rsquo;s state of mind, and it amused him. With a
  slightly contemptuous smile, he said: &ldquo;Yes, there are many stories now
  told about that affair!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, stories!&rdquo; repeated Rostóv loudly, looking with eyes suddenly grown
  furious, now at Borís, now at Bolkónski. &ldquo;Yes, many stories! But our
  stories are the stories of men who have been under the enemy&rsquo;s fire! 
  stories have some weight, not like the stories of those fellows on the
  staff who get rewards without doing anything!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Of whom you imagine me to be one?&rdquo; said Prince Andrew, with a quiet and
  particularly amiable smile.
<br />
  A strange feeling of exasperation and yet of respect for this man&rsquo;s
  self-possession mingled at that moment in Rostóv&rsquo;s soul.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am not talking about you,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know you and, frankly, I
  don&rsquo;t want to. I am speaking of the staff in general.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And I will tell you this,&rdquo; Prince Andrew interrupted in a tone of quiet
  authority, &ldquo;you wish to insult me, and I am ready to agree with you that
  it would be very easy to do so if you haven&rsquo;t sufficient self-respect, but
  admit that the time and place are very badly chosen. In a day or two we
  shall all have to take part in a greater and more serious duel, and
  besides, Drubetskóy, who says he is an old friend of yours, is not at all
  to blame that my face has the misfortune to displease you. However,&rdquo; he
  added rising, &ldquo;you know my name and where to find me, but don&rsquo;t forget
  that I do not regard either myself or you as having been at all insulted,
  and as a man older than you, my advice is to let the matter drop. Well
  then, on Friday after the review I shall expect you, Drubetskóy. &rdquo; exclaimed Prince Andrew, and with a bow to them both he went out.
<br />
  Only when Prince Andrew was gone did Rostóv think of what he ought to have
  said. And he was still more angry at having omitted to say it. He ordered
  his horse at once and, coldly taking leave of Borís, rode home. Should he
  go to headquarters next day and challenge that affected adjutant, or
  really let the matter drop, was the question that worried him all the way.
  He thought angrily of the pleasure he would have at seeing the fright of
  that small and frail but proud man when covered by his pistol, and then he
  felt with surprise that of all the men he knew there was none he would so
  much like to have for a friend as that very adjutant whom he so hated.

  CHAPTER VIII


  The day after Rostóv had been to see Borís, a review was held of the
  Austrian and Russian troops, both those freshly arrived from Russia and
  those who had been campaigning under Kutúzov. The two Emperors, the
  Russian with his heir the Tsarévich, and the Austrian with the Archduke,
  inspected the allied army of eighty thousand men.
<br />
  From early morning the smart clean troops were on the move, forming up on
  the field before the fortress. Now thousands of feet and bayonets moved
  and halted at the officers&rsquo; command, turned with banners flying, formed up
  at intervals, and wheeled round other similar masses of infantry in
  different uniforms; now was heard the rhythmic beat of hoofs and the
  jingling of showy cavalry in blue, red, and green braided uniforms, with
  smartly dressed bandsmen in front mounted on black, roan, or gray horses;
  then again, spreading out with the brazen clatter of the polished shining
  cannon that quivered on the gun carriages and with the smell of linstocks,
  came the artillery which crawled between the infantry and cavalry and took
  up its appointed position. Not only the generals in full parade uniforms,
  with their thin or thick waists drawn in to the utmost, their red necks
  squeezed into their stiff collars, and wearing scarves and all their
  decorations, not only the elegant, pomaded officers, but every soldier
  with his freshly washed and shaven face and his weapons clean and polished
  to the utmost, and every horse groomed till its coat shone like satin and
  every hair of its wetted mane lay smooth&mdash;felt that no small matter
  was happening, but an important and solemn affair. Every general and every
  soldier was conscious of his own insignificance, aware of being but a drop
  in that ocean of men, and yet at the same time was conscious of his
  strength as a part of that enormous whole.
<br />
  From early morning strenuous activities and efforts had begun and by ten
  o&rsquo;clock all had been brought into due order. The ranks were drawn up on
  the vast field. The whole army was extended in three lines: the cavalry in
  front, behind it the artillery, and behind that again the infantry.
<br />
  A space like a street was left between each two lines of troops. The three
  parts of that army were sharply distinguished: Kutúzov&rsquo;s fighting army
  (with the Pávlograds on the right flank of the front); those recently
  arrived from Russia, both Guards and regiments of the line; and the
  Austrian troops. But they all stood in the same lines, under one command,
  and in a like order.
<br />
  Like wind over leaves ran an excited whisper: &ldquo;They&rsquo;re coming! They&rsquo;re
  coming!&rdquo; Alarmed voices were heard, and a stir of final preparation swept
  over all the troops.
<br />
  From the direction of Olmütz in front of them, a group was seen
  approaching. And at that moment, though the day was still, a light gust of
  wind blowing over the army slightly stirred the streamers on the lances
  and the unfolded standards fluttered against their staffs. It looked as if
  by that slight motion the army itself was expressing its joy at the
  approach of the Emperors. One voice was heard shouting: &ldquo;Eyes front!&rdquo;
   Then, like the crowing of cocks at sunrise, this was repeated by others
  from various sides and all became silent.
<br />
  In the deathlike stillness only the tramp of horses was heard. This was
  the Emperors&rsquo; suites. The Emperors rode up to the flank, and the trumpets
  of the first cavalry regiment played the general march. It seemed as
  though not the trumpeters were playing, but as if the army itself,
  rejoicing at the Emperors&rsquo; approach, had naturally burst into music. Amid
  these sounds, only the youthful kindly voice of the Emperor Alexander was
  clearly heard. He gave the words of greeting, and the first regiment
  roared &ldquo;Hurrah!&rdquo; so deafeningly, continuously, and joyfully that the men
  themselves were awed by their multitude and the immensity of the power
  they constituted.
<br />
  Rostóv, standing in the front lines of Kutúzov&rsquo;s army which the Tsar
  approached first, experienced the same feeling as every other man in that
  army: a feeling of self-forgetfulness, a proud consciousness of might, and
  a passionate attraction to him who was the cause of this triumph.
<br />
  He felt that at a single word from that man all this vast mass (and he
  himself an insignificant atom in it) would go through fire and water,
  commit crime, die, or perform deeds of highest heroism, and so he could
  not but tremble and his heart stand still at the imminence of that word.
<br />
  &ldquo;Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!&rdquo; thundered from all sides, one regiment after
  another greeting the Tsar with the strains of the march, and then
  &ldquo;Hurrah!&rdquo;... Then the general march, and again &ldquo;Hurrah! Hurrah!&rdquo; growing
  ever stronger and fuller and merging into a deafening roar.
<br />
  Till the Tsar reached it, each regiment in its silence and immobility
  seemed like a lifeless body, but as soon as he came up it became alive,
  its thunder joining the roar of the whole line along which he had already
  passed. Through the terrible and deafening roar of those voices, amid the
  square masses of troops standing motionless as if turned to stone,
  hundreds of riders composing the suites moved carelessly but symmetrically
  and above all freely, and in front of them two men&mdash;the Emperors.
  Upon them the undivided, tensely passionate attention of that whole mass
  of men was concentrated.
<br />
  The handsome young Emperor Alexander, in the uniform of the Horse Guards,
  wearing a cocked hat with its peaks front and back, with his pleasant face
  and resonant though not loud voice, attracted everyone&rsquo;s attention.
<br />
  Rostóv was not far from the trumpeters, and with his keen sight had
  recognized the Tsar and watched his approach. When he was within twenty
  paces, and Nicholas could clearly distinguish every detail of his
  handsome, happy young face, he experienced a feeling of tenderness and
  ecstasy such as he had never before known. Every trait and every movement
  of the Tsar&rsquo;s seemed to him enchanting.
<br />
  Stopping in front of the Pávlograds, the Tsar said something in French to
  the Austrian Emperor and smiled.
<br />
  Seeing that smile, Rostóv involuntarily smiled himself and felt a still
  stronger flow of love for his sovereign. He longed to show that love in
  some way and knowing that this was impossible was ready to cry. The Tsar
  called the colonel of the regiment and said a few words to him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh God, what would happen to me if the Emperor spoke to me?&rdquo; thought
  Rostóv. &ldquo;I should die of happiness!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The Tsar addressed the officers also: &ldquo;I thank you all, gentlemen, I thank
  you with my whole heart.&rdquo; To Rostóv every word sounded like a voice from
  heaven. How gladly would he have died at once for his Tsar!
<br />
  &ldquo;You have earned the St. George&rsquo;s standards and will be worthy of them.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, to die, to die for him,&rdquo; thought Rostóv.
<br />
  The Tsar said something more which Rostóv did not hear, and the soldiers,
  straining their lungs, shouted &ldquo;Hurrah!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Rostóv too, bending over his saddle, shouted &ldquo;Hurrah!&rdquo; with all his might,
  feeling that he would like to injure himself by that shout, if only to
  express his rapture fully.
<br />
  The Tsar stopped a few minutes in front of the hussars as if undecided.
<br />
  &ldquo;How can the Emperor be undecided?&rdquo; thought Rostóv, but then even this
  indecision appeared to him majestic and enchanting, like everything else
  the Tsar did.
<br />
  That hesitation lasted only an instant. The Tsar&rsquo;s foot, in the narrow
  pointed boot then fashionable, touched the groin of the bobtailed bay mare
  he rode, his hand in a white glove gathered up the reins, and he moved off
  accompanied by an irregularly swaying sea of aides-de-camp. Farther and
  farther he rode away, stopping at other regiments, till at last only his
  white plumes were visible to Rostóv from amid the suites that surrounded
  the Emperors.
<br />
  Among the gentlemen of the suite, Rostóv noticed Bolkónski, sitting his
  horse indolently and carelessly. Rostóv recalled their quarrel of
  yesterday and the question presented itself whether he ought or ought not
  to challenge Bolkónski. &ldquo;Of course not!&rdquo; he now thought. &ldquo;Is it worth
  thinking or speaking of it at such a moment? At a time of such love, such
  rapture, and such self-sacrifice, what do any of our quarrels and affronts
  matter? I love and forgive everybody now.&rdquo;
 <br />
  When the Emperor had passed nearly all the regiments, the troops began a
  ceremonial march past him, and Rostóv on Bedouin, recently purchased from
  Denísov, rode past too, at the rear of his squadron&mdash;that is, alone
  and in full view of the Emperor.
<br />
  Before he reached him, Rostóv, who was a splendid horseman, spurred
  Bedouin twice and successfully put him to the showy trot in which the
  animal went when excited. Bending his foaming muzzle to his chest, his
  tail extended, Bedouin, as if also conscious of the Emperor&rsquo;s eye upon
  him, passed splendidly, lifting his feet with a high and graceful action,
  as if flying through the air without touching the ground.
<br />
  Rostóv himself, his legs well back and his stomach drawn in and feeling
  himself one with his horse, rode past the Emperor with a frowning but
  blissful face &ldquo;like a vewy devil,&rdquo; as Denísov expressed it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Fine fellows, the Pávlograds!&rdquo; remarked the Emperor.
<br />
  &ldquo;My God, how happy I should be if he ordered me to leap into the fire this
  instant!&rdquo; thought Rostóv.
<br />
  When the review was over, the newly arrived officers, and also Kutúzov&rsquo;s,
  collected in groups and began to talk about the awards, about the
  Austrians and their uniforms, about their lines, about Bonaparte, and how
  badly the latter would fare now, especially if the Essen corps arrived and
  Prussia took our side.
<br />
  But the talk in every group was chiefly about the Emperor Alexander. His
  every word and movement was described with ecstasy.
<br />
  They all had but one wish: to advance as soon as possible against the
  enemy under the Emperor&rsquo;s command. Commanded by the Emperor himself they
  could not fail to vanquish anyone, be it whom it might: so thought Rostóv
  and most of the officers after the review.
<br />
  All were then more confident of victory than the winning of two battles
  would have made them.

  CHAPTER IX


  The day after the review, Borís, in his best uniform and with his comrade
  Berg&rsquo;s best wishes for success, rode to Olmütz to see Bolkónski, wishing
  to profit by his friendliness and obtain for himself the best post he
  could&mdash;preferably that of adjutant to some important personage, a
  position in the army which seemed to him most attractive. &ldquo;It is all very
  well for Rostóv, whose father sends him ten thousand rubles at a time, to
  talk about not wishing to cringe to anybody and not be anyone&rsquo;s lackey,
  but I who have nothing but my brains have to make a career and must not
  miss opportunities, but must avail myself of them!&rdquo; he reflected.
<br />
  He did not find Prince Andrew in Olmütz that day, but the appearance of
  the town where the headquarters and the diplomatic corps were stationed
  and the two Emperors were living with their suites, households, and courts
  only strengthened his desire to belong to that higher world.
<br />
  He knew no one, and despite his smart Guardsman&rsquo;s uniform, all these
  exalted personages passing in the streets in their elegant carriages with
  their plumes, ribbons, and medals, both courtiers and military men, seemed
  so immeasurably above him, an insignificant officer of the Guards, that
  they not only did not wish to, but simply could not, be aware of his
  existence. At the quarters of the commander in chief, Kutúzov, where he
  inquired for Bolkónski, all the adjutants and even the orderlies looked at
  him as if they wished to impress on him that a great many officers like
  him were always coming there and that everybody was heartily sick of them.
  In spite of this, or rather because of it, next day, November 15, after
  dinner he again went to Olmütz and, entering the house occupied by
  Kutúzov, asked for Bolkónski. Prince Andrew was in and Borís was shown
  into a large hall probably formerly used for dancing, but in which five
  beds now stood, and furniture of various kinds: a table, chairs, and a
  clavichord. One adjutant, nearest the door, was sitting at the table in a
  Persian dressing gown, writing. Another, the red, stout Nesvítski, lay on
  a bed with his arms under his head, laughing with an officer who had sat
  down beside him. A third was playing a Viennese waltz on the clavichord,
  while a fourth, lying on the clavichord, sang the tune. Bolkónski was not
  there. None of these gentlemen changed his position on seeing Borís. The
  one who was writing and whom Borís addressed turned round crossly and told
  him Bolkónski was on duty and that he should go through the door on the
  left into the reception room if he wished to see him. Borís thanked him
  and went to the reception room, where he found some ten officers and
  generals.
<br />
  When he entered, Prince Andrew, his eyes drooping contemptuously (with
  that peculiar expression of polite weariness which plainly says, &ldquo;If it
  were not my duty I would not talk to you for a moment&rdquo;), was listening to
  an old Russian general with decorations, who stood very erect, almost on
  tiptoe, with a soldier&rsquo;s obsequious expression on his purple face,
  reporting something.
<br />
  &ldquo;Very well, then, be so good as to wait,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew to the
  general, in Russian, speaking with the French intonation he affected when
  he wished to speak contemptuously, and noticing Borís, Prince Andrew,
  paying no more heed to the general who ran after him imploring him to hear
  something more, nodded and turned to him with a cheerful smile.
<br />
  At that moment Borís clearly realized what he had before surmised, that in
  the army, besides the subordination and discipline prescribed in the
  military code, which he and the others knew in the regiment, there was
  another, more important, subordination, which made this tight-laced,
  purple-faced general wait respectfully while Captain Prince Andrew, for
  his own pleasure, chose to chat with Lieutenant Drubetskóy. More than ever
  was Borís resolved to serve in future not according to the written code,
  but under this unwritten law. He felt now that merely by having been
  recommended to Prince Andrew he had already risen above the general who at
  the front had the power to annihilate him, a lieutenant of the Guards.
  Prince Andrew came up to him and took his hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am very sorry you did not find me in yesterday. I was fussing about
  with Germans all day. We went with Weyrother to survey the dispositions.
  When Germans start being accurate, there&rsquo;s no end to it!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Borís smiled, as if he understood what Prince Andrew was alluding to as
  something generally known. But it was the first time he had heard
  Weyrother&rsquo;s name, or even the term &ldquo;dispositions.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, my dear fellow, so you still want to be an adjutant? I have been
  thinking about you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I was thinking&rdquo;&mdash;for some reason Borís could not help blushing&mdash;&ldquo;of
  asking the commander in chief. He has had a letter from Prince Kurágin
  about me. I only wanted to ask because I fear the Guards won&rsquo;t be in
  action,&rdquo; he added as if in apology.
<br />
  &ldquo;All right, all right. We&rsquo;ll talk it over,&rdquo; replied Prince Andrew. &ldquo;Only
  let me report this gentleman&rsquo;s business, and I shall be at your disposal.&rdquo;
 <br />
  While Prince Andrew went to report about the purple-faced general, that
  gentleman&mdash;evidently not sharing Borís&rsquo; conception of the advantages
  of the unwritten code of subordination&mdash;looked so fixedly at the
  presumptuous lieutenant who had prevented his finishing what he had to say
  to the adjutant that Borís felt uncomfortable. He turned away and waited
  impatiently for Prince Andrew&rsquo;s return from the commander in chief&rsquo;s room.
<br />
  &ldquo;You see, my dear fellow, I have been thinking about you,&rdquo; said Prince
  Andrew when they had gone into the large room where the clavichord was.
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s no use your going to the commander in chief. He would say a lot of
  pleasant things, ask you to dinner&rdquo; (&ldquo;That would not be bad as regards the
  unwritten code,&rdquo; thought Borís), &ldquo;but nothing more would come of it. There
  will soon be a battalion of us aides-de-camp and adjutants! But this is
  what we&rsquo;ll do: I have a good friend, an adjutant general and an excellent
  fellow, Prince Dolgorúkov; and though you may not know it, the fact is
  that now Kutúzov with his staff and all of us count for nothing.
  Everything is now centered round the Emperor. So we will go to Dolgorúkov;
  I have to go there anyhow and I have already spoken to him about you. We
  shall see whether he cannot attach you to himself or find a place for you
  somewhere nearer the sun.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Andrew always became specially keen when he had to guide a young
  man and help him to worldly success. Under cover of obtaining help of this
  kind for another, which from pride he would never accept for himself, he
  kept in touch with the circle which confers success and which attracted
  him. He very readily took up Borís&rsquo; cause and went with him to Dolgorúkov.
<br />
  It was late in the evening when they entered the palace at Olmütz occupied
  by the Emperors and their retinues.
<br />
  That same day a council of war had been held in which all the members of
  the Hofkriegsrath and both Emperors took part. At that council, contrary
  to the views of the old generals Kutúzov and Prince Schwartzenberg, it had
  been decided to advance immediately and give battle to Bonaparte. The
  council of war was just over when Prince Andrew accompanied by Borís
  arrived at the palace to find Dolgorúkov. Everyone at headquarters was
  still under the spell of the day&rsquo;s council, at which the party of the
  young had triumphed. The voices of those who counseled delay and advised
  waiting for something else before advancing had been so completely
  silenced and their arguments confuted by such conclusive evidence of the
  advantages of attacking that what had been discussed at the council&mdash;the
  coming battle and the victory that would certainly result from it&mdash;no
  longer seemed to be in the future but in the past. All the advantages were
  on our side. Our enormous forces, undoubtedly superior to Napoleon&rsquo;s, were
  concentrated in one place, the troops inspired by the Emperors&rsquo; presence
  were eager for action. The strategic position where the operations would
  take place was familiar in all its details to the Austrian General
  Weyrother: a lucky accident had ordained that the Austrian army should
  maneuver the previous year on the very fields where the French had now to
  be fought; the adjacent locality was known and shown in every detail on
  the maps, and Bonaparte, evidently weakened, was undertaking nothing.
<br />
  Dolgorúkov, one of the warmest advocates of an attack, had just returned
  from the council, tired and exhausted but eager and proud of the victory
  that had been gained. Prince Andrew introduced his protégé, but Prince
  Dolgorúkov politely and firmly pressing his hand said nothing to Borís
  and, evidently unable to suppress the thoughts which were uppermost in his
  mind at that moment, addressed Prince Andrew in French.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, my dear fellow, what a battle we have gained! God grant that the one
  that will result from it will be as victorious! However, dear fellow,&rdquo; he
  said abruptly and eagerly, &ldquo;I must confess to having been unjust to the
  Austrians and especially to Weyrother. What exactitude, what minuteness,
  what knowledge of the locality, what foresight for every eventuality,
  every possibility even to the smallest detail! No, my dear fellow, no
  conditions better than our present ones could have been devised. This
  combination of Austrian precision with Russian valor&mdash;what more could
  be wished for?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;So the attack is definitely resolved on?&rdquo; asked Bolkónski.
<br />
  &ldquo;And do you know, my dear fellow, it seems to me that Bonaparte has
  decidedly lost bearings, you know that a letter was received from him
  today for the Emperor.&rdquo; Dolgorúkov smiled significantly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is that so? And what did he say?&rdquo; inquired Bolkónski.
<br />
  &ldquo;What can he say? Tra-di-ri-di-ra and so on... merely to gain time. I tell
  you he is in our hands, that&rsquo;s certain! But what was most amusing,&rdquo; he
  continued, with a sudden, good-natured laugh, &ldquo;was that we could not think
  how to address the reply! If not as &lsquo;Consul&rsquo; and of course not as
  &lsquo;Emperor,&rsquo; it seemed to me it should be to &lsquo;General Bonaparte.&rsquo;&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But between not recognizing him as Emperor and calling him General
  Bonaparte, there is a difference,&rdquo; remarked Bolkónski.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s just it,&rdquo; interrupted Dolgorúkov quickly, laughing. &ldquo;You know
  Bilíbin&mdash;he&rsquo;s a very clever fellow. He suggested addressing him as
  &lsquo;Usurper and Enemy of Mankind.&rsquo;&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dolgorúkov laughed merrily.
<br />
  &ldquo;Only that?&rdquo; said Bolkónski.
<br />
  &ldquo;All the same, it was Bilíbin who found a suitable form for the address.
  He is a wise and clever fellow.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What was it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;To the Head of the French Government... ,&rdquo; said Dolgorúkov, with grave satisfaction. &ldquo;Good, wasn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, but he will dislike it extremely,&rdquo; said Bolkónski.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh yes, very much! My brother knows him, he&rsquo;s dined with him&mdash;the
  present Emperor&mdash;more than once in Paris, and tells me he never met a
  more cunning or subtle diplomatist&mdash;you know, a combination of French
  adroitness and Italian play-acting! Do you know the tale about him and
  Count Markóv? Count Markóv was the only man who knew how to handle him.
  You know the story of the handkerchief? It is delightful!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And the talkative Dolgorúkov, turning now to Borís, now to Prince Andrew,
  told how Bonaparte wishing to test Markóv, our ambassador, purposely
  dropped a handkerchief in front of him and stood looking at Markóv,
  probably expecting Markóv to pick it up for him, and how Markóv
  immediately dropped his own beside it and picked it up without touching
  Bonaparte&rsquo;s.
<br />
  &ldquo;Delightful!&rdquo; said Bolkónski. &ldquo;But I have come to you, Prince, as a
  petitioner on behalf of this young man. You see...&rdquo; but before Prince
  Andrew could finish, an aide-de-camp came in to summon Dolgorúkov to the
  Emperor.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, what a nuisance,&rdquo; said Dolgorúkov, getting up hurriedly and pressing
  the hands of Prince Andrew and Borís. &ldquo;You know I should be very glad to
  do all in my power both for you and for this dear young man.&rdquo; Again he
  pressed the hand of the latter with an expression of good-natured,
  sincere, and animated levity. &ldquo;But you see... another time!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Borís was excited by the thought of being so close to the higher powers as
  he felt himself to be at that moment. He was conscious that here he was in
  contact with the springs that set in motion the enormous movements of the
  mass of which in his regiment he felt himself a tiny, obedient, and
  insignificant atom. They followed Prince Dolgorúkov out into the corridor
  and met&mdash;coming out of the door of the Emperor&rsquo;s room by which
  Dolgorúkov had entered&mdash;a short man in civilian clothes with a clever
  face and sharply projecting jaw which, without spoiling his face, gave him
  a peculiar vivacity and shiftiness of expression. This short man nodded to
  Dolgorúkov as to an intimate friend and stared at Prince Andrew with cool
  intensity, walking straight toward him and evidently expecting him to bow
  or to step out of his way. Prince Andrew did neither: a look of animosity
  appeared on his face and the other turned away and went down the side of
  the corridor.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who was that?&rdquo; asked Borís.
<br />
  &ldquo;He is one of the most remarkable, but to me most unpleasant of men&mdash;the
  Minister of Foreign Affairs, Prince Adam Czartorýski.... It is such men as
  he who decide the fate of nations,&rdquo; added Bolkónski with a sigh he could
  not suppress, as they passed out of the palace.
<br />
  Next day, the army began its campaign, and up to the very battle of
  Austerlitz, Borís was unable to see either Prince Andrew or Dolgorúkov
  again and remained for a while with the Ismáylov regiment.

  CHAPTER X


  At dawn on the sixteenth of November, Denísov&rsquo;s squadron, in which
  Nicholas Rostóv served and which was in Prince Bagratión&rsquo;s detachment,
  moved from the place where it had spent the night, advancing into action
  as arranged, and after going behind other columns for about two thirds of
  a mile was stopped on the highroad. Rostóv saw the Cossacks and then the
  first and second squadrons of hussars and infantry battalions and
  artillery pass by and go forward and then Generals Bagratión and
  Dolgorúkov ride past with their adjutants. All the fear before action
  which he had experienced as previously, all the inner struggle to conquer
  that fear, all his dreams of distinguishing himself as a true hussar in
  this battle, had been wasted. Their squadron remained in reserve and
  Nicholas Rostóv spent that day in a dull and wretched mood. At nine in the
  morning, he heard firing in front and shouts of , and saw wounded
  being brought back (there were not many of them), and at last he saw how a
  whole detachment of French cavalry was brought in, convoyed by a  of
  Cossacks. Evidently the affair was over and, though not big, had been a
  successful engagement. The men and officers returning spoke of a brilliant
  victory, of the occupation of the town of Wischau and the capture of a
  whole French squadron. The day was bright and sunny after a sharp night
  frost, and the cheerful glitter of that autumn day was in keeping with the
  news of victory which was conveyed, not only by the tales of those who had
  taken part in it, but also by the joyful expression on the faces of
  soldiers, officers, generals, and adjutants, as they passed Rostóv going
  or coming. And Nicholas, who had vainly suffered all the dread that
  precedes a battle and had spent that happy day in inactivity, was all the
  more depressed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Come here, Wostóv. Let&rsquo;s dwink to dwown our gwief!&rdquo; shouted Denísov, who
  had settled down by the roadside with a flask and some food.
<br />
  The officers gathered round Denísov&rsquo;s canteen, eating and talking.
<br />
  &ldquo;There! They are bringing another!&rdquo; cried one of the officers, indicating
  a captive French dragoon who was being brought in on foot by two Cossacks.
<br />
  One of them was leading by the bridle a fine large French horse he had
  taken from the prisoner.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sell us that horse!&rdquo; Denísov called out to the Cossacks.
<br />
  &ldquo;If you like, your honor!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The officers got up and stood round the Cossacks and their prisoner. The
  French dragoon was a young Alsatian who spoke French with a German accent.
  He was breathless with agitation, his face was red, and when he heard some
  French spoken he at once began speaking to the officers, addressing first
  one, then another. He said he would not have been taken, it was not his
  fault but the corporal&rsquo;s who had sent him to seize some horsecloths,
  though he had told him the Russians were there. And at every word he
  added: &ldquo;But don&rsquo;t hurt my little horse!&rdquo; and stroked the animal. It was
  plain that he did not quite grasp where he was. Now he excused himself for
  having been taken prisoner and now, imagining himself before his own
  officers, insisted on his soldierly discipline and zeal in the service. He
  brought with him into our rearguard all the freshness of atmosphere of the
  French army, which was so alien to us.
<br />
  The Cossacks sold the horse for two gold pieces, and Rostóv, being the
  richest of the officers now that he had received his money, bought it.
<br />
  &ldquo;But don&rsquo;t hurt my little horse!&rdquo; said the Alsatian good-naturedly to
  Rostóv when the animal was handed over to the hussar.
<br />
  Rostóv smilingly reassured the dragoon and gave him money.
<br />
  &ldquo;Alley! Alley!&rdquo; said the Cossack, touching the prisoner&rsquo;s arm to make him
  go on.
<br />
  &ldquo;The Emperor! The Emperor!&rdquo; was suddenly heard among the hussars.
<br />
  All began to run and bustle, and Rostóv saw coming up the road behind him
  several riders with white plumes in their hats. In a moment everyone was
  in his place, waiting.
<br />
  Rostóv did not know or remember how he ran to his place and mounted.
  Instantly his regret at not having been in action and his dejected mood
  amid people of whom he was weary had gone, instantly every thought of
  himself had vanished. He was filled with happiness at his nearness to the
  Emperor. He felt that this nearness by itself made up to him for the day
  he had lost. He was happy as a lover when the longed-for moment of meeting
  arrives. Not daring to look round and without looking round, he was
  ecstatically conscious of  approach. He felt it not only from the sound
  of the hoofs of the approaching cavalcade, but because as  drew near
  everything grew brighter, more joyful, more significant, and more festive
  around him. Nearer and nearer to Rostóv came that sun shedding beams of
  mild and majestic light around, and already he felt himself enveloped in
  those beams, he heard  voice, that kindly, calm, and majestic voice
  that was yet so simple! And as if in accord with Rostóv&rsquo;s feeling, there
  was a deathly stillness amid which was heard the Emperor&rsquo;s voice.
<br />
  &ldquo;The Pávlograd hussars?&rdquo; he inquired.
<br />
  &ldquo;The reserves, sire!&rdquo; replied a voice, a very human one compared to that
  which had said: &ldquo;The Pávlograd hussars?&rdquo;
 <br />
  The Emperor drew level with Rostóv and halted. Alexander&rsquo;s face was even
  more beautiful than it had been three days before at the review. It shone
  with such gaiety and youth, such innocent youth, that it suggested the
  liveliness of a fourteen-year-old boy, and yet it was the face of the
  majestic Emperor. Casually, while surveying the squadron, the Emperor&rsquo;s
  eyes met Rostóv&rsquo;s and rested on them for not more than two seconds.
  Whether or no the Emperor understood what was going on in Rostóv&rsquo;s soul
  (it seemed to Rostóv that he understood everything), at any rate his
  light-blue eyes gazed for about two seconds into Rostóv&rsquo;s face. A gentle,
  mild light poured from them. Then all at once he raised his eyebrows,
  abruptly touched his horse with his left foot, and galloped on.
<br />
  The younger Emperor could not restrain his wish to be present at the
  battle and, in spite of the remonstrances of his courtiers, at twelve
  o&rsquo;clock left the third column with which he had been and galloped toward
  the vanguard. Before he came up with the hussars, several adjutants met
  him with news of the successful result of the action.
<br />
  This battle, which consisted in the capture of a French squadron, was
  represented as a brilliant victory over the French, and so the Emperor and
  the whole army, especially while the smoke hung over the battlefield,
  believed that the French had been defeated and were retreating against
  their will. A few minutes after the Emperor had passed, the Pávlograd
  division was ordered to advance. In Wischau itself, a petty German town,
  Rostóv saw the Emperor again. In the market place, where there had been
  some rather heavy firing before the Emperor&rsquo;s arrival, lay several killed
  and wounded soldiers whom there had not been time to move. The Emperor,
  surrounded by his suite of officers and courtiers, was riding a bobtailed
  chestnut mare, a different one from that which he had ridden at the
  review, and bending to one side he gracefully held a gold lorgnette to his
  eyes and looked at a soldier who lay prone, with blood on his uncovered
  head. The wounded soldier was so dirty, coarse, and revolting that his
  proximity to the Emperor shocked Rostóv. Rostóv saw how the Emperor&rsquo;s
  rather round shoulders shuddered as if a cold shiver had run down them,
  how his left foot began convulsively tapping the horse&rsquo;s side with the
  spur, and how the well-trained horse looked round unconcerned and did not
  stir. An adjutant, dismounting, lifted the soldier under the arms to place
  him on a stretcher that had been brought. The soldier groaned.
<br />
  &ldquo;Gently, gently! Can&rsquo;t you do it more gently?&rdquo; said the Emperor apparently
  suffering more than the dying soldier, and he rode away.
<br />
  Rostóv saw tears filling the Emperor&rsquo;s eyes and heard him, as he was
  riding away, say to Czartorýski: &ldquo;What a terrible thing war is: what a
  terrible thing! &rdquo;
 <br />
  The troops of the vanguard were stationed before Wischau, within sight of
  the enemy&rsquo;s lines, which all day long had yielded ground to us at the
  least firing. The Emperor&rsquo;s gratitude was announced to the vanguard,
  rewards were promised, and the men received a double ration of vodka. The
  campfires crackled and the soldiers&rsquo; songs resounded even more merrily
  than on the previous night. Denísov celebrated his promotion to the rank
  of major, and Rostóv, who had already drunk enough, at the end of the
  feast proposed the Emperor&rsquo;s health. &ldquo;Not &lsquo;our Sovereign, the Emperor,&rsquo; as
  they say at official dinners,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;but the health of our Sovereign,
  that good, enchanting, and great man! Let us drink to his health and to
  the certain defeat of the French!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;If we fought before,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;not letting the French pass, as at Schön
  Grabern, what shall we not do now when  is at the front? We will all die
  for him gladly! Is it not so, gentlemen? Perhaps I am not saying it right,
  I have drunk a good deal&mdash;but that is how I feel, and so do you too!
  To the health of Alexander the First! Hurrah!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Hurrah!&rdquo; rang the enthusiastic voices of the officers.
<br />
  And the old cavalry captain, Kírsten, shouted enthusiastically and no less
  sincerely than the twenty-year-old Rostóv.
<br />
  When the officers had emptied and smashed their glasses, Kírsten filled
  others and, in shirt sleeves and breeches, went glass in hand to the
  soldiers&rsquo; bonfires and with his long gray mustache, his white chest
  showing under his open shirt, he stood in a majestic pose in the light of
  the campfire, waving his uplifted arm.
<br />
  &ldquo;Lads! here&rsquo;s to our Sovereign, the Emperor, and victory over our enemies!
  Hurrah!&rdquo; he exclaimed in his dashing, old, hussar&rsquo;s baritone.
<br />
  The hussars crowded round and responded heartily with loud shouts.
<br />
  Late that night, when all had separated, Denísov with his short hand
  patted his favorite, Rostóv, on the shoulder.
<br />
  &ldquo;As there&rsquo;s no one to fall in love with on campaign, he&rsquo;s fallen in love
  with the Tsar,&rdquo; he said.
<br />
  &ldquo;Denísov, don&rsquo;t make fun of it!&rdquo; cried Rostóv. &ldquo;It is such a lofty,
  beautiful feeling, such a...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I believe it, I believe it, fwiend, and I share and appwove...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, you don&rsquo;t understand!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And Rostóv got up and went wandering among the campfires, dreaming of what
  happiness it would be to die&mdash;not in saving the Emperor&rsquo;s life (he
  did not even dare to dream of that), but simply to die before his eyes. He
  really was in love with the Tsar and the glory of the Russian arms and the
  hope of future triumph. And he was not the only man to experience that
  feeling during those memorable days preceding the battle of Austerlitz:
  nine tenths of the men in the Russian army were then in love, though less
  ecstatically, with their Tsar and the glory of the Russian arms.

  CHAPTER XI


  The next day the Emperor stopped at Wischau, and Villier, his physician,
  was repeatedly summoned to see him. At headquarters and among the troops
  near by the news spread that the Emperor was unwell. He ate nothing and
  had slept badly that night, those around him reported. The cause of this
  indisposition was the strong impression made on his sensitive mind by the
  sight of the killed and wounded.
<br />
  At daybreak on the seventeenth, a French officer who had come with a flag
  of truce, demanding an audience with the Russian Emperor, was brought into
  Wischau from our outposts. This officer was Savary. The Emperor had only
  just fallen asleep and so Savary had to wait. At midday he was admitted to
  the Emperor, and an hour later he rode off with Prince Dolgorúkov to the
  advanced post of the French army.
<br />
  It was rumored that Savary had been sent to propose to Alexander a meeting
  with Napoleon. To the joy and pride of the whole army, a personal
  interview was refused, and instead of the Sovereign, Prince Dolgorúkov,
  the victor at Wischau, was sent with Savary to negotiate with Napoleon if,
  contrary to expectations, these negotiations were actuated by a real
  desire for peace.
<br />
  Toward evening Dolgorúkov came back, went straight to the Tsar, and
  remained alone with him for a long time.
<br />
  On the eighteenth and nineteenth of November, the army advanced two days&rsquo;
  march and the enemy&rsquo;s outposts after a brief interchange of shots
  retreated. In the highest army circles from midday on the nineteenth, a
  great, excitedly bustling activity began which lasted till the morning of
  the twentieth, when the memorable battle of Austerlitz was fought.
<br />
  Till midday on the nineteenth, the activity&mdash;the eager talk, running
  to and fro, and dispatching of adjutants&mdash;was confined to the
  Emperor&rsquo;s headquarters. But on the afternoon of that day, this activity
  reached Kutúzov&rsquo;s headquarters and the staffs of the commanders of
  columns. By evening, the adjutants had spread it to all ends and parts of
  the army, and in the night from the nineteenth to the twentieth, the whole
  eighty thousand allied troops rose from their bivouacs to the hum of
  voices, and the army swayed and started in one enormous mass six miles
  long.
<br />
  The concentrated activity which had begun at the Emperor&rsquo;s headquarters in
  the morning and had started the whole movement that followed was like the
  first movement of the main wheel of a large tower clock. One wheel slowly
  moved, another was set in motion, and a third, and wheels began to revolve
  faster and faster, levers and cogwheels to work, chimes to play, figures
  to pop out, and the hands to advance with regular motion as a result of
  all that activity.
<br />
  Just as in the mechanism of a clock, so in the mechanism of the military
  machine, an impulse once given leads to the final result; and just as
  indifferently quiescent till the moment when motion is transmitted to them
  are the parts of the mechanism which the impulse has not yet reached.
  Wheels creak on their axles as the cogs engage one another and the
  revolving pulleys whirr with the rapidity of their movement, but a
  neighboring wheel is as quiet and motionless as though it were prepared to
  remain so for a hundred years; but the moment comes when the lever catches
  it and obeying the impulse that wheel begins to creak and joins in the
  common motion the result and aim of which are beyond its ken.
<br />
  Just as in a clock, the result of the complicated motion of innumerable
  wheels and pulleys is merely a slow and regular movement of the hands
  which show the time, so the result of all the complicated human activities
  of 160,000 Russians and French&mdash;all their passions, desires, remorse,
  humiliations, sufferings, outbursts of pride, fear, and enthusiasm&mdash;was
  only the loss of the battle of Austerlitz, the so-called battle of the
  three Emperors&mdash;that is to say, a slow movement of the hand on the
  dial of human history.
<br />
  Prince Andrew was on duty that day and in constant attendance on the
  commander in chief.
<br />
  At six in the evening, Kutúzov went to the Emperor&rsquo;s headquarters and
  after staying but a short time with the Tsar went to see the grand marshal
  of the court, Count Tolstóy.
<br />
  Bolkónski took the opportunity to go in to get some details of the coming
  action from Dolgorúkov. He felt that Kutúzov was upset and dissatisfied
  about something and that at headquarters they were dissatisfied with him,
  and also that at the Emperor&rsquo;s headquarters everyone adopted toward him
  the tone of men who know something others do not know: he therefore wished
  to speak to Dolgorúkov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, how d&rsquo;you do, my dear fellow?&rdquo; said Dolgorúkov, who was sitting at
  tea with Bilíbin. &ldquo;The fete is for tomorrow. How is your old fellow? Out
  of sorts?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t say he is out of sorts, but I fancy he would like to be heard.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But they heard him at the council of war and will hear him when he talks
  sense, but to temporize and wait for something now when Bonaparte fears
  nothing so much as a general battle is impossible.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, you have seen him?&rdquo; said Prince Andrew. &ldquo;Well, what is Bonaparte
  like? How did he impress you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I saw him, and am convinced that he fears nothing so much as a
  general engagement,&rdquo; repeated Dolgorúkov, evidently prizing this general
  conclusion which he had arrived at from his interview with Napoleon. &ldquo;If
  he weren&rsquo;t afraid of a battle why did he ask for that interview? Why
  negotiate, and above all why retreat, when to retreat is so contrary to
  his method of conducting war? Believe me, he is afraid, afraid of a
  general battle. His hour has come! Mark my words!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But tell me, what is he like, eh?&rdquo; said Prince Andrew again.
<br />
  &ldquo;He is a man in a gray overcoat, very anxious that I should call him &lsquo;Your
  Majesty,&rsquo; but who, to his chagrin, got no title from me! That&rsquo;s the sort
  of man he is, and nothing more,&rdquo; replied Dolgorúkov, looking round at
  Bilíbin with a smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;Despite my great respect for old Kutúzov,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;we should be a
  nice set of fellows if we were to wait about and so give him a chance to
  escape, or to trick us, now that we certainly have him in our hands! No,
  we mustn&rsquo;t forget Suvórov and his rule&mdash;not to put yourself in a
  position to be attacked, but yourself to attack. Believe me in war the
  energy of young men often shows the way better than all the experience of
  old Cunctators.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But in what position are we going to attack him? I have been at the
  outposts today and it is impossible to say where his chief forces are
  situated,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew.
<br />
  He wished to explain to Dolgorúkov a plan of attack he had himself formed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, that is all the same,&rdquo; Dolgorúkov said quickly, and getting up he
  spread a map on the table. &ldquo;All eventualities have been foreseen. If he is
  standing before Brünn...&rdquo;
 <br />
  And Prince Dolgorúkov rapidly but indistinctly explained Weyrother&rsquo;s plan
  of a flanking movement.
<br />
  Prince Andrew began to reply and to state his own plan, which might have
  been as good as Weyrother&rsquo;s, but for the disadvantage that Weyrother&rsquo;s had
  already been approved. As soon as Prince Andrew began to demonstrate the
  defects of the latter and the merits of his own plan, Prince Dolgorúkov
  ceased to listen to him and gazed absent-mindedly not at the map, but at
  Prince Andrew&rsquo;s face.
<br />
  &ldquo;There will be a council of war at Kutúzov&rsquo;s tonight, though; you can say
  all this there,&rdquo; remarked Dolgorúkov.
<br />
  &ldquo;I will do so,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew, moving away from the map.
<br />
  &ldquo;Whatever are you bothering about, gentlemen?&rdquo; said Bilíbin, who, till
  then, had listened with an amused smile to their conversation and now was
  evidently ready with a joke. &ldquo;Whether tomorrow brings victory or defeat,
  the glory of our Russian arms is secure. Except your Kutúzov, there is not
  a single Russian in command of a column! The commanders are: Herr General
  Wimpfen, le Comte de Langeron, le Prince de Lichtenstein, le Prince de
  Hohenlohe, and finally Prishprish, and so on like all those Polish names.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Be quiet, backbiter!&rdquo; said Dolgorúkov. &ldquo;It is not true; there are now two
  Russians, Milorádovich, and Dokhtúrov, and there would be a third, Count
  Arakchéev, if his nerves were not too weak.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;However, I think General Kutúzov has come out,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew. &ldquo;I
  wish you good luck and success, gentlemen!&rdquo; he added and went out after
  shaking hands with Dolgorúkov and Bilíbin.
<br />
  On the way home, Prince Andrew could not refrain from asking Kutúzov, who
  was sitting silently beside him, what he thought of tomorrow&rsquo;s battle.
<br />
  Kutúzov looked sternly at his adjutant and, after a pause, replied: &ldquo;I
  think the battle will be lost, and so I told Count Tolstóy and asked him
  to tell the Emperor. What do you think he replied? &lsquo;But, my dear general,
  I am engaged with rice and cutlets, look after military matters yourself!&rsquo;
  Yes... That was the answer I got!&rdquo;

  CHAPTER XII


  Shortly after nine o&rsquo;clock that evening, Weyrother drove with his plans to
  Kutúzov&rsquo;s quarters where the council of war was to be held. All the
  commanders of columns were summoned to the commander in chief&rsquo;s and with
  the exception of Prince Bagratión, who declined to come, were all there at
  the appointed time.
<br />
  Weyrother, who was in full control of the proposed battle, by his
  eagerness and briskness presented a marked contrast to the dissatisfied
  and drowsy Kutúzov, who reluctantly played the part of chairman and
  president of the council of war. Weyrother evidently felt himself to be at
  the head of a movement that had already become unrestrainable. He was like
  a horse running downhill harnessed to a heavy cart. Whether he was pulling
  it or being pushed by it he did not know, but rushed along at headlong
  speed with no time to consider what this movement might lead to. Weyrother
  had been twice that evening to the enemy&rsquo;s picket line to reconnoiter
  personally, and twice to the Emperors, Russian and Austrian, to report and
  explain, and to his headquarters where he had dictated the dispositions in
  German, and now, much exhausted, he arrived at Kutúzov&rsquo;s.
<br />
  He was evidently so busy that he even forgot to be polite to the commander
  in chief. He interrupted him, talked rapidly and indistinctly, without
  looking at the man he was addressing, and did not reply to questions put
  to him. He was bespattered with mud and had a pitiful, weary, and
  distracted air, though at the same time he was haughty and self-confident.
<br />
  Kutúzov was occupying a nobleman&rsquo;s castle of modest dimensions near
  Ostralitz. In the large drawing room which had become the commander in
  chief&rsquo;s office were gathered Kutúzov himself, Weyrother, and the members
  of the council of war. They were drinking tea, and only awaited Prince
  Bagratión to begin the council. At last Bagratión&rsquo;s orderly came with the
  news that the prince could not attend. Prince Andrew came in to inform the
  commander in chief of this and, availing himself of permission previously
  given him by Kutúzov to be present at the council, he remained in the
  room.
<br />
  &ldquo;Since Prince Bagratión is not coming, we may begin,&rdquo; said Weyrother,
  hurriedly rising from his seat and going up to the table on which an
  enormous map of the environs of Brünn was spread out.
<br />
  Kutúzov, with his uniform unbuttoned so that his fat neck bulged over his
  collar as if escaping, was sitting almost asleep in a low chair, with his
  podgy old hands resting symmetrically on its arms. At the sound of
  Weyrother&rsquo;s voice, he opened his one eye with an effort.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes, if you please! It is already late,&rdquo; said he, and nodding his
  head he let it droop and again closed his eye.
<br />
  If at first the members of the council thought that Kutúzov was pretending
  to sleep, the sounds his nose emitted during the reading that followed
  proved that the commander in chief at that moment was absorbed by a far
  more serious matter than a desire to show his contempt for the
  dispositions or anything else&mdash;he was engaged in satisfying the
  irresistible human need for sleep. He really was asleep. Weyrother, with
  the gesture of a man too busy to lose a moment, glanced at Kutúzov and,
  having convinced himself that he was asleep, took up a paper and in a
  loud, monotonous voice began to read out the dispositions for the
  impending battle, under a heading which he also read out:
<br />
  &ldquo;Dispositions for an attack on the enemy position behind Kobelnitz and
  Sokolnitz, November 30, 1805.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The dispositions were very complicated and difficult. They began as
  follows:
<br />
  &ldquo;As the enemy&rsquo;s left wing rests on wooded hills and his right extends
  along Kobelnitz and Sokolnitz behind the ponds that are there, while we,
  on the other hand, with our left wing by far outflank his right, it is
  advantageous to attack the enemy&rsquo;s latter wing especially if we occupy the
  villages of Sokolnitz and Kobelnitz, whereby we can both fall on his flank
  and pursue him over the plain between Schlappanitz and the Thuerassa
  forest, avoiding the defiles of Schlappanitz and Bellowitz which cover the
  enemy&rsquo;s front. For this object it is necessary that... The first column
  marches... The second column marches... The third column marches...&rdquo; and
  so on, read Weyrother.
<br />
  The generals seemed to listen reluctantly to the difficult dispositions.
  The tall, fair-haired General Buxhöwden stood, leaning his back against
  the wall, his eyes fixed on a burning candle, and seemed not to listen or
  even to wish to be thought to listen. Exactly opposite Weyrother, with his
  glistening wide-open eyes fixed upon him and his mustache twisted upwards,
  sat the ruddy Milorádovich in a military pose, his elbows turned outwards,
  his hands on his knees, and his shoulders raised. He remained stubbornly
  silent, gazing at Weyrother&rsquo;s face, and only turned away his eyes when the
  Austrian chief of staff finished reading. Then Milorádovich looked round
  significantly at the other generals. But one could not tell from that
  significant look whether he agreed or disagreed and was satisfied or not
  with the arrangements. Next to Weyrother sat Count Langeron who, with a
  subtle smile that never left his typically southern French face during the
  whole time of the reading, gazed at his delicate fingers which rapidly
  twirled by its corners a gold snuffbox on which was a portrait. In the
  middle of one of the longest sentences, he stopped the rotary motion of
  the snuffbox, raised his head, and with inimical politeness lurking in the
  corners of his thin lips interrupted Weyrother, wishing to say something.
  But the Austrian general, continuing to read, frowned angrily and jerked
  his elbows, as if to say: &ldquo;You can tell me your views later, but now be so
  good as to look at the map and listen.&rdquo; Langeron lifted his eyes with an
  expression of perplexity, turned round to Milorádovich as if seeking an
  explanation, but meeting the latter&rsquo;s impressive but meaningless gaze
  drooped his eyes sadly and again took to twirling his snuffbox.
<br />
  &ldquo;A geography lesson!&rdquo; he muttered as if to himself, but loud enough to be
  heard.
<br />
  Przebyszéwski, with respectful but dignified politeness, held his hand to
  his ear toward Weyrother, with the air of a man absorbed in attention.
  Dohktúrov, a little man, sat opposite Weyrother, with an assiduous and
  modest mien, and stooping over the outspread map conscientiously studied
  the dispositions and the unfamiliar locality. He asked Weyrother several
  times to repeat words he had not clearly heard and the difficult names of
  villages. Weyrother complied and Dohktúrov noted them down.
<br />
  When the reading which lasted more than an hour was over, Langeron again
  brought his snuffbox to rest and, without looking at Weyrother or at
  anyone in particular, began to say how difficult it was to carry out such
  a plan in which the enemy&rsquo;s position was assumed to be known, whereas it
  was perhaps not known, since the enemy was in movement. Langeron&rsquo;s
  objections were valid but it was obvious that their chief aim was to show
  General Weyrother&mdash;who had read his dispositions with as much
  self-confidence as if he were addressing school children&mdash;that he had
  to do, not with fools, but with men who could teach him something in
  military matters.
<br />
  When the monotonous sound of Weyrother&rsquo;s voice ceased, Kutúzov opened his
  eye as a miller wakes up when the soporific drone of the mill wheel is
  interrupted. He listened to what Langeron said, as if remarking, &ldquo;So you
  are still at that silly business!&rdquo; quickly closed his eye again, and let
  his head sink still lower.
<br />
  Langeron, trying as virulently as possible to sting Weyrother&rsquo;s vanity as
  author of the military plan, argued that Bonaparte might easily attack
  instead of being attacked, and so render the whole of this plan perfectly
  worthless. Weyrother met all objections with a firm and contemptuous
  smile, evidently prepared beforehand to meet all objections be they what
  they might.
<br />
  &ldquo;If he could attack us, he would have done so today,&rdquo; said he.
<br />
  &ldquo;So you think he is powerless?&rdquo; said Langeron.
<br />
  &ldquo;He has forty thousand men at most,&rdquo; replied Weyrother, with the smile of
  a doctor to whom an old wife wishes to explain the treatment of a case.
<br />
  &ldquo;In that case he is inviting his doom by awaiting our attack,&rdquo; said
  Langeron, with a subtly ironical smile, again glancing round for support
  to Milorádovich who was near him.
<br />
  But Milorádovich was at that moment evidently thinking of anything rather
  than of what the generals were disputing about.
<br />
   said he, &ldquo;tomorrow we shall see all that on the battlefield.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Weyrother again gave that smile which seemed to say that to him it was
  strange and ridiculous to meet objections from Russian generals and to
  have to prove to them what he had not merely convinced himself of, but had
  also convinced the sovereign Emperors of.
<br />
  &ldquo;The enemy has quenched his fires and a continual noise is heard from his
  camp,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;What does that mean? Either he is retreating, which is
  the only thing we need fear, or he is changing his position.&rdquo; (He smiled
  ironically.) &ldquo;But even if he also took up a position in the Thuerassa, he
  merely saves us a great deal of trouble and all our arrangements to the
  minutest detail remain the same.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How is that?...&rdquo; began Prince Andrew, who had for long been waiting an
  opportunity to express his doubts.
<br />
  Kutúzov here woke up, coughed heavily, and looked round at the generals.
<br />
  &ldquo;Gentlemen, the dispositions for tomorrow&mdash;or rather for today, for
  it is past midnight&mdash;cannot now be altered,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;You have heard
  them, and we shall all do our duty. But before a battle, there is nothing
  more important...&rdquo; he paused, &ldquo;than to have a good sleep.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He moved as if to rise. The generals bowed and retired. It was past
  midnight. Prince Andrew went out.
<br />
  The council of war, at which Prince Andrew had not been able to express
  his opinion as he had hoped to, left on him a vague and uneasy impression.
  Whether Dolgorúkov and Weyrother, or Kutúzov, Langeron, and the others who
  did not approve of the plan of attack, were right&mdash;he did not know.
  &ldquo;But was it really not possible for Kutúzov to state his views plainly to
  the Emperor? Is it possible that on account of court and personal
  considerations tens of thousands of lives, and my life,  life,&rdquo; he
  thought, &ldquo;must be risked?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, it is very likely that I shall be killed tomorrow,&rdquo; he thought. And
  suddenly, at this thought of death, a whole series of most distant, most
  intimate, memories rose in his imagination: he remembered his last parting
  from his father and his wife; he remembered the days when he first loved
  her. He thought of her pregnancy and felt sorry for her and for himself,
  and in a nervously emotional and softened mood he went out of the hut in
  which he was billeted with Nesvítski and began to walk up and down before
  it.
<br />
  The night was foggy and through the fog the moonlight gleamed
  mysteriously. &ldquo;Yes, tomorrow, tomorrow!&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;Tomorrow everything
  may be over for me! All these memories will be no more, none of them will
  have any meaning for me. Tomorrow perhaps, even certainly, I have a
  presentiment that for the first time I shall have to show all I can do.&rdquo;
   And his fancy pictured the battle, its loss, the concentration of fighting
  at one point, and the hesitation of all the commanders. And then that
  happy moment, that Toulon for which he had so long waited, presents itself
  to him at last. He firmly and clearly expresses his opinion to Kutúzov, to
  Weyrother, and to the Emperors. All are struck by the justness of his
  views, but no one undertakes to carry them out, so he takes a regiment, a
  division&mdash;stipulates that no one is to interfere with his arrangements&mdash;leads
  his division to the decisive point, and gains the victory alone. &ldquo;But
  death and suffering?&rdquo; suggested another voice. Prince Andrew, however, did
  not answer that voice and went on dreaming of his triumphs. The
  dispositions for the next battle are planned by him alone. Nominally he is
  only an adjutant on Kutúzov&rsquo;s staff, but he does everything alone. The
  next battle is won by him alone. Kutúzov is removed and he is appointed...
  &ldquo;Well and then?&rdquo; asked the other voice. &ldquo;If before that you are not ten
  times wounded, killed, or betrayed, well... what then?...&rdquo; &ldquo;Well then,&rdquo;
   Prince Andrew answered himself, &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know what will happen and don&rsquo;t
  want to know, and can&rsquo;t, but if I want this&mdash;want glory, want to be
  known to men, want to be loved by them, it is not my fault that I want it
  and want nothing but that and live only for that. Yes, for that alone! I
  shall never tell anyone, but, oh God! what am I to do if I love nothing
  but fame and men&rsquo;s esteem? Death, wounds, the loss of family&mdash;I fear
  nothing. And precious and dear as many persons are to me&mdash;father,
  sister, wife&mdash;those dearest to me&mdash;yet dreadful and unnatural as
  it seems, I would give them all at once for a moment of glory, of triumph
  over men, of love from men I don&rsquo;t know and never shall know, for the love
  of these men here,&rdquo; he thought, as he listened to voices in Kutúzov&rsquo;s
  courtyard. The voices were those of the orderlies who were packing up; one
  voice, probably a coachman&rsquo;s, was teasing Kutúzov&rsquo;s old cook whom Prince
  Andrew knew, and who was called Tit. He was saying, &ldquo;Tit, I say, Tit!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well?&rdquo; returned the old man.
<br />
  &ldquo;Go, Tit, thresh a bit!&rdquo; said the wag.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, go to the devil!&rdquo; called out a voice, drowned by the laughter of the
  orderlies and servants.
<br />
  &ldquo;All the same, I love and value nothing but triumph over them all, I value
  this mystic power and glory that is floating here above me in this mist!&rdquo;

  CHAPTER XIII


  That same night, Rostóv was with a platoon on skirmishing duty in front of
  Bagratión&rsquo;s detachment. His hussars were placed along the line in couples
  and he himself rode along the line trying to master the sleepiness that
  kept coming over him. An enormous space, with our army&rsquo;s campfires dimly
  glowing in the fog, could be seen behind him; in front of him was misty
  darkness. Rostóv could see nothing, peer as he would into that foggy
  distance: now something gleamed gray, now there was something black, now
  little lights seemed to glimmer where the enemy ought to be, now he
  fancied it was only something in his own eyes. His eyes kept closing, and
  in his fancy appeared&mdash;now the Emperor, now Denísov, and now Moscow
  memories&mdash;and he again hurriedly opened his eyes and saw close before
  him the head and ears of the horse he was riding, and sometimes, when he
  came within six paces of them, the black figures of hussars, but in the
  distance was still the same misty darkness. &ldquo;Why not?... It might easily
  happen,&rdquo; thought Rostóv, &ldquo;that the Emperor will meet me and give me an
  order as he would to any other officer; he&rsquo;ll say: &lsquo;Go and find out what&rsquo;s
  there.&rsquo; There are many stories of his getting to know an officer in just
  such a chance way and attaching him to himself! What if he gave me a place
  near him? Oh, how I would guard him, how I would tell him the truth, how I
  would unmask his deceivers!&rdquo; And in order to realize vividly his love
  devotion to the sovereign, Rostóv pictured to himself an enemy or a
  deceitful German, whom he would not only kill with pleasure but whom he
  would slap in the face before the Emperor. Suddenly a distant shout
  aroused him. He started and opened his eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where am I? Oh yes, in the skirmishing line... pass and watchword&mdash; What a nuisance that our squadron will be in reserve tomorrow,&rdquo; he
  thought. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll ask leave to go to the front, this may be my only chance of
  seeing the Emperor. It won&rsquo;t be long now before I am off duty. I&rsquo;ll take
  another turn and when I get back I&rsquo;ll go to the general and ask him.&rdquo; He
  readjusted himself in the saddle and touched up his horse to ride once
  more round his hussars. It seemed to him that it was getting lighter. To
  the left he saw a sloping descent lit up, and facing it a black knoll that
  seemed as steep as a wall. On this knoll there was a white patch that
  Rostóv could not at all make out: was it a glade in the wood lit up by the
  moon, or some unmelted snow, or some white houses? He even thought
  something moved on that white spot. &ldquo;I expect it&rsquo;s snow... that spot... a
  spot&mdash;,&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;There now... it&rsquo;s not a ...
  Natásha... sister, black eyes... Na... tasha... (Won&rsquo;t she be surprised
  when I tell her how I&rsquo;ve seen the Emperor?) Natásha... take my
  sabretache...&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;Keep to the right, your honor, there are bushes
  here,&rdquo; came the voice of an hussar, past whom Rostóv was riding in the act
  of falling asleep. Rostóv lifted his head that had sunk almost to his
  horse&rsquo;s mane and pulled up beside the hussar. He was succumbing to
  irresistible, youthful, childish drowsiness. &ldquo;But what was I thinking? I
  mustn&rsquo;t forget. How shall I speak to the Emperor? No, that&rsquo;s not it&mdash;that&rsquo;s
  tomorrow. Oh yes! Natásha... sabretache... saber them... Whom? The
  hussars... Ah, the hussars with mustaches. Along the Tverskáya Street rode
  the hussar with mustaches... I thought about him too, just opposite
  Gúryev&rsquo;s house... Old Gúryev.... Oh, but Denísov&rsquo;s a fine fellow. But
  that&rsquo;s all nonsense. The chief thing is that the Emperor is here. How he
  looked at me and wished to say something, but dared not.... No, it was I
  who dared not. But that&rsquo;s nonsense, the chief thing is not to forget the
  important thing I was thinking of. Yes, Na-tásha, sabretache, oh, yes,
  yes! That&rsquo;s right!&rdquo; And his head once more sank to his horse&rsquo;s neck. All
  at once it seemed to him that he was being fired at. &ldquo;What? What? What?...
  Cut them down! What?...&rdquo; said Rostóv, waking up. At the moment he opened
  his eyes he heard in front of him, where the enemy was, the long-drawn
  shouts of thousands of voices. His horse and the horse of the hussar near
  him pricked their ears at these shouts. Over there, where the shouting
  came from, a fire flared up and went out again, then another, and all
  along the French line on the hill fires flared up and the shouting grew
  louder and louder. Rostóv could hear the sound of French words but could
  not distinguish them. The din of many voices was too great; all he could
  hear was: &ldquo;ahahah!&rdquo; and &ldquo;rrrr!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s that? What do you make of it?&rdquo; said Rostóv to the hussar beside
  him. &ldquo;That must be the enemy&rsquo;s camp!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The hussar did not reply.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, don&rsquo;t you hear it?&rdquo; Rostóv asked again, after waiting for a reply.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who can tell, your honor?&rdquo; replied the hussar reluctantly.
<br />
  &ldquo;From the direction, it must be the enemy,&rdquo; repeated Rostóv.
<br />
  &ldquo;It may be  or it may be nothing,&rdquo; muttered the hussar. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s dark...
  Steady!&rdquo; he cried to his fidgeting horse.
<br />
  Rostóv&rsquo;s horse was also getting restive: it pawed the frozen ground,
  pricking its ears at the noise and looking at the lights. The shouting
  grew still louder and merged into a general roar that only an army of
  several thousand men could produce. The lights spread farther and farther,
  probably along the line of the French camp. Rostóv no longer wanted to
  sleep. The gay triumphant shouting of the enemy army had a stimulating
  effect on him.  he now heard distinctly.
<br />
  &ldquo;They can&rsquo;t be far off, probably just beyond the stream,&rdquo; he said to the
  hussar beside him.
<br />
  The hussar only sighed without replying and coughed angrily. The sound of
  horse&rsquo;s hoofs approaching at a trot along the line of hussars was heard,
  and out of the foggy darkness the figure of a sergeant of hussars suddenly
  appeared, looming huge as an elephant.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your honor, the generals!&rdquo; said the sergeant, riding up to Rostóv.
<br />
  Rostóv, still looking round toward the fires and the shouts, rode with the
  sergeant to meet some mounted men who were riding along the line. One was
  on a white horse. Prince Bagratión and Prince Dolgorúkov with their
  adjutants had come to witness the curious phenomenon of the lights and
  shouts in the enemy&rsquo;s camp. Rostóv rode up to Bagratión, reported to him,
  and then joined the adjutants listening to what the generals were saying.
<br />
  &ldquo;Believe me,&rdquo; said Prince Dolgorúkov, addressing Bagratión, &ldquo;it is nothing
  but a trick! He has retreated and ordered the rearguard to kindle fires
  and make a noise to deceive us.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Hardly,&rdquo; said Bagratión. &ldquo;I saw them this evening on that knoll; if they
  had retreated they would have withdrawn from that too.... Officer!&rdquo; said
  Bagratión to Rostóv, &ldquo;are the enemy&rsquo;s skirmishers still there?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;They were there this evening, but now I don&rsquo;t know, your excellency.
  Shall I go with some of my hussars to see?&rdquo; replied Rostóv.
<br />
  Bagratión stopped and, before replying, tried to see Rostóv&rsquo;s face in the
  mist.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, go and see,&rdquo; he said, after a pause.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, sir.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Rostóv spurred his horse, called to Sergeant Fédchenko and two other
  hussars, told them to follow him, and trotted downhill in the direction
  from which the shouting came. He felt both frightened and pleased to be
  riding alone with three hussars into that mysterious and dangerous misty
  distance where no one had been before him. Bagratión called to him from
  the hill not to go beyond the stream, but Rostóv pretended not to hear him
  and did not stop but rode on and on, continually mistaking bushes for
  trees and gullies for men and continually discovering his mistakes. Having
  descended the hill at a trot, he no longer saw either our own or the
  enemy&rsquo;s fires, but heard the shouting of the French more loudly and
  distinctly. In the valley he saw before him something like a river, but
  when he reached it he found it was a road. Having come out onto the road
  he reined in his horse, hesitating whether to ride along it or cross it
  and ride over the black field up the hillside. To keep to the road which
  gleamed white in the mist would have been safer because it would be easier
  to see people coming along it. &ldquo;Follow me!&rdquo; said he, crossed the road, and
  began riding up the hill at a gallop toward the point where the French
  pickets had been standing that evening.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your honor, there he is!&rdquo; cried one of the hussars behind him. And before
  Rostóv had time to make out what the black thing was that had suddenly
  appeared in the fog, there was a flash, followed by a report, and a bullet
  whizzing high up in the mist with a plaintive sound passed out of hearing.
  Another musket missed fire but flashed in the pan. Rostóv turned his horse
  and galloped back. Four more reports followed at intervals, and the
  bullets passed somewhere in the fog singing in different tones. Rostóv
  reined in his horse, whose spirits had risen, like his own, at the firing,
  and went back at a footpace. &ldquo;Well, some more! Some more!&rdquo; a merry voice
  was saying in his soul. But no more shots came.
<br />
  Only when approaching Bagratión did Rostóv let his horse gallop again, and
  with his hand at the salute rode up to the general.
<br />
  Dolgorúkov was still insisting that the French had retreated and had only
  lit fires to deceive us.
<br />
  &ldquo;What does that prove?&rdquo; he was saying as Rostóv rode up. &ldquo;They might
  retreat and leave the pickets.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s plain that they have not all gone yet, Prince,&rdquo; said Bagratión.
  &ldquo;Wait till tomorrow morning, we&rsquo;ll find out everything tomorrow.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The picket is still on the hill, your excellency, just where it was in
  the evening,&rdquo; reported Rostóv, stooping forward with his hand at the
  salute and unable to repress the smile of delight induced by his ride and
  especially by the sound of the bullets.
<br />
  &ldquo;Very good, very good,&rdquo; said Bagratión. &ldquo;Thank you, officer.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Your excellency,&rdquo; said Rostóv, &ldquo;may I ask a favor?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Tomorrow our squadron is to be in reserve. May I ask to be attached to
  the first squadron?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s your name?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Count Rostóv.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, very well, you may stay in attendance on me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Count Ilyá Rostóv&rsquo;s son?&rdquo; asked Dolgorúkov.
<br />
  But Rostóv did not reply.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then I may reckon on it, your excellency?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I will give the order.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Tomorrow very likely I may be sent with some message to the Emperor,&rdquo;
   thought Rostóv.
<br />
  &ldquo;Thank God!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The fires and shouting in the enemy&rsquo;s army were occasioned by the fact
  that while Napoleon&rsquo;s proclamation was being read to the troops the
  Emperor himself rode round his bivouacs. The soldiers, on seeing him, lit
  wisps of straw and ran after him, shouting,  Napoleon&rsquo;s
  proclamation was as follows:
<br />
  Soldiers! The Russian army is advancing against you to avenge the Austrian
  army of Ulm. They are the same battalions you broke at Hollabrünn and have
  pursued ever since to this place. The position we occupy is a strong one,
  and while they are marching to go round me on the right they will expose a
  flank to me. Soldiers! I will myself direct your battalions. I will keep
  out of fire if you with your habitual valor carry disorder and confusion
  into the enemy&rsquo;s ranks, but should victory be in doubt, even for a moment,
  you will see your Emperor exposing himself to the first blows of the
  enemy, for there must be no doubt of victory, especially on this day when
  what is at stake is the honor of the French infantry, so necessary to the
  honor of our nation.
<br />
  Do not break your ranks on the plea of removing the wounded! Let every man
  be fully imbued with the thought that we must defeat these hirelings of
  England, inspired by such hatred of our nation! This victory will conclude
  our campaign and we can return to winter quarters, where fresh French
  troops who are being raised in France will join us, and the peace I shall
  conclude will be worthy of my people, of you, and of myself.
<br />
  NAPOLEON

  CHAPTER XIV


  At five in the morning it was still quite dark. The troops of the center,
  the reserves, and Bagratión&rsquo;s right flank had not yet moved, but on the
  left flank the columns of infantry, cavalry, and artillery, which were to
  be the first to descend the heights to attack the French right flank and
  drive it into the Bohemian mountains according to plan, were already up
  and astir. The smoke of the campfires, into which they were throwing
  everything superfluous, made the eyes smart. It was cold and dark. The
  officers were hurriedly drinking tea and breakfasting, the soldiers,
  munching biscuit and beating a tattoo with their feet to warm themselves,
  gathering round the fires throwing into the flames the remains of sheds,
  chairs, tables, wheels, tubs, and everything that they did not want or
  could not carry away with them. Austrian column guides were moving in and
  out among the Russian troops and served as heralds of the advance. As soon
  as an Austrian officer showed himself near a commanding officer&rsquo;s
  quarters, the regiment began to move: the soldiers ran from the fires,
  thrust their pipes into their boots, their bags into the carts, got their
  muskets ready, and formed rank. The officers buttoned up their coats,
  buckled on their swords and pouches, and moved along the ranks shouting.
  The train drivers and orderlies harnessed and packed the wagons and tied
  on the loads. The adjutants and battalion and regimental commanders
  mounted, crossed themselves, gave final instructions, orders, and
  commissions to the baggage men who remained behind, and the monotonous
  tramp of thousands of feet resounded. The column moved forward without
  knowing where and unable, from the masses around them, the smoke and the
  increasing fog, to see either the place they were leaving or that to which
  they were going.
<br />
  A soldier on the march is hemmed in and borne along by his regiment as
  much as a sailor is by his ship. However far he has walked, whatever
  strange, unknown, and dangerous places he reaches, just as a sailor is
  always surrounded by the same decks, masts, and rigging of his ship, so
  the soldier always has around him the same comrades, the same ranks, the
  same sergeant major Iván Mítrich, the same company dog Jack, and the same
  commanders. The sailor rarely cares to know the latitude in which his ship
  is sailing, but on the day of battle&mdash;heaven knows how and whence&mdash;a
  stern note of which all are conscious sounds in the moral atmosphere of an
  army, announcing the approach of something decisive and solemn, and
  awakening in the men an unusual curiosity. On the day of battle the
  soldiers excitedly try to get beyond the interests of their regiment, they
  listen intently, look about, and eagerly ask concerning what is going on
  around them.
<br />
  The fog had grown so dense that though it was growing light they could not
  see ten paces ahead. Bushes looked like gigantic trees and level ground
  like cliffs and slopes. Anywhere, on any side, one might encounter an
  enemy invisible ten paces off. But the columns advanced for a long time,
  always in the same fog, descending and ascending hills, avoiding gardens
  and enclosures, going over new and unknown ground, and nowhere
  encountering the enemy. On the contrary, the soldiers became aware that in
  front, behind, and on all sides, other Russian columns were moving in the
  same direction. Every soldier felt glad to know that to the unknown place
  where he was going, many more of our men were going too.
<br />
  &ldquo;There now, the Kúrskies have also gone past,&rdquo; was being said in the
  ranks.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s wonderful what a lot of our troops have gathered, lads! Last night I
  looked at the campfires and there was no end of them. A regular Moscow!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Though none of the column commanders rode up to the ranks or talked to the
  men (the commanders, as we saw at the council of war, were out of humor
  and dissatisfied with the affair, and so did not exert themselves to cheer
  the men but merely carried out the orders), yet the troops marched gaily,
  as they always do when going into action, especially to an attack. But
  when they had marched for about an hour in the dense fog, the greater part
  of the men had to halt and an unpleasant consciousness of some dislocation
  and blunder spread through the ranks. How such a consciousness is
  communicated is very difficult to define, but it certainly is communicated
  very surely, and flows rapidly, imperceptibly, and irrepressibly, as water
  does in a creek. Had the Russian army been alone without any allies, it
  might perhaps have been a long time before this consciousness of
  mismanagement became a general conviction, but as it was, the disorder was
  readily and naturally attributed to the stupid Germans, and everyone was
  convinced that a dangerous muddle had been occasioned by the sausage
  eaters.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why have we stopped? Is the way blocked? Or have we already come up
  against the French?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, one can&rsquo;t hear them. They&rsquo;d be firing if we had.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;They were in a hurry enough to start us, and now here we stand in the
  middle of a field without rhyme or reason. It&rsquo;s all those damned Germans&rsquo;
  muddling! What stupid devils!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I&rsquo;d send them on in front, but no fear, they&rsquo;re crowding up behind.
  And now here we stand hungry.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I say, shall we soon be clear? They say the cavalry are blocking the
  way,&rdquo; said an officer.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, those damned Germans! They don&rsquo;t know their own country!&rdquo; said
  another.
<br />
  &ldquo;What division are you?&rdquo; shouted an adjutant, riding up.
<br />
  &ldquo;The Eighteenth.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Then why are you here? You should have gone on long ago, now you won&rsquo;t
  get there till evening.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What stupid orders! They don&rsquo;t themselves know what they are doing!&rdquo; said
  the officer and rode off.
<br />
  Then a general rode past shouting something angrily, not in Russian.
<br />
  &ldquo;Tafa-lafa! But what he&rsquo;s jabbering no one can make out,&rdquo; said a soldier,
  mimicking the general who had ridden away. &ldquo;I&rsquo;d shoot them, the
  scoundrels!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;We were ordered to be at the place before nine, but we haven&rsquo;t got
  halfway. Fine orders!&rdquo; was being repeated on different sides.
<br />
  And the feeling of energy with which the troops had started began to turn
  into vexation and anger at the stupid arrangements and at the Germans.
<br />
  The cause of the confusion was that while the Austrian cavalry was moving
  toward our left flank, the higher command found that our center was too
  far separated from our right flank and the cavalry were all ordered to
  turn back to the right. Several thousand cavalry crossed in front of the
  infantry, who had to wait.
<br />
  At the front an altercation occurred between an Austrian guide and a
  Russian general. The general shouted a demand that the cavalry should be
  halted, the Austrian argued that not he, but the higher command, was to
  blame. The troops meanwhile stood growing listless and dispirited. After
  an hour&rsquo;s delay they at last moved on, descending the hill. The fog that
  was dispersing on the hill lay still more densely below, where they were
  descending. In front in the fog a shot was heard and then another, at
  first irregularly at varying intervals&mdash;trata...tat&mdash;and then
  more and more regularly and rapidly, and the action at the Goldbach Stream
  began.
<br />
  Not expecting to come on the enemy down by the stream, and having stumbled
  on him in the fog, hearing no encouraging word from their commanders, and
  with a consciousness of being too late spreading through the ranks, and
  above all being unable to see anything in front or around them in the
  thick fog, the Russians exchanged shots with the enemy lazily and advanced
  and again halted, receiving no timely orders from the officers or
  adjutants who wandered about in the fog in those unknown surroundings
  unable to find their own regiments. In this way the action began for the
  first, second, and third columns, which had gone down into the valley. The
  fourth column, with which Kutúzov was, stood on the Pratzen Heights.
<br />
  Below, where the fight was beginning, there was still thick fog; on the
  higher ground it was clearing, but nothing could be seen of what was going
  on in front. Whether all the enemy forces were, as we supposed, six miles
  away, or whether they were near by in that sea of mist, no one knew till
  after eight o&rsquo;clock.
<br />
  It was nine o&rsquo;clock in the morning. The fog lay unbroken like a sea down
  below, but higher up at the village of Schlappanitz where Napoleon stood
  with his marshals around him, it was quite light. Above him was a clear
  blue sky, and the sun&rsquo;s vast orb quivered like a huge hollow, crimson
  float on the surface of that milky sea of mist. The whole French army, and
  even Napoleon himself with his staff, were not on the far side of the
  streams and hollows of Sokolnitz and Schlappanitz beyond which we intended
  to take up our position and begin the action, but were on this side, so
  close to our own forces that Napoleon with the naked eye could distinguish
  a mounted man from one on foot. Napoleon, in the blue cloak which he had
  worn on his Italian campaign, sat on his small gray Arab horse a little in
  front of his marshals. He gazed silently at the hills which seemed to rise
  out of the sea of mist and on which the Russian troops were moving in the
  distance, and he listened to the sounds of firing in the valley. Not a
  single muscle of his face&mdash;which in those days was still thin&mdash;moved.
  His gleaming eyes were fixed intently on one spot. His predictions were
  being justified. Part of the Russian force had already descended into the
  valley toward the ponds and lakes and part were leaving these Pratzen
  Heights which he intended to attack and regarded as the key to the
  position. He saw over the mist that in a hollow between two hills near the
  village of Pratzen, the Russian columns, their bayonets glittering, were
  moving continuously in one direction toward the valley and disappearing
  one after another into the mist. From information he had received the
  evening before, from the sound of wheels and footsteps heard by the
  outposts during the night, by the disorderly movement of the Russian
  columns, and from all indications, he saw clearly that the allies believed
  him to be far away in front of them, and that the columns moving near
  Pratzen constituted the center of the Russian army, and that that center
  was already sufficiently weakened to be successfully attacked. But still
  he did not begin the engagement.
<br />
  Today was a great day for him&mdash;the anniversary of his coronation.
  Before dawn he had slept for a few hours, and refreshed, vigorous, and in
  good spirits, he mounted his horse and rode out into the field in that
  happy mood in which everything seems possible and everything succeeds. He
  sat motionless, looking at the heights visible above the mist, and his
  cold face wore that special look of confident, self-complacent happiness
  that one sees on the face of a boy happily in love. The marshals stood
  behind him not venturing to distract his attention. He looked now at the
  Pratzen Heights, now at the sun floating up out of the mist.
<br />
  When the sun had entirely emerged from the fog, and fields and mist were
  aglow with dazzling light&mdash;as if he had only awaited this to begin
  the action&mdash;he drew the glove from his shapely white hand, made a
  sign with it to the marshals, and ordered the action to begin. The
  marshals, accompanied by adjutants, galloped off in different directions,
  and a few minutes later the chief forces of the French army moved rapidly
  toward those Pratzen Heights which were being more and more denuded by
  Russian troops moving down the valley to their left.

  CHAPTER XV


  At eight o&rsquo;clock Kutúzov rode to Pratzen at the head of the fourth column,
  Milorádovich&rsquo;s, the one that was to take the place of Przebyszéwski&rsquo;s and
  Langeron&rsquo;s columns which had already gone down into the valley. He greeted
  the men of the foremost regiment and gave them the order to march, thereby
  indicating that he intended to lead that column himself. When he had
  reached the village of Pratzen he halted. Prince Andrew was behind, among
  the immense number forming the commander in chief&rsquo;s suite. He was in a
  state of suppressed excitement and irritation, though controlledly calm as
  a man is at the approach of a long-awaited moment. He was firmly convinced
  that this was the day of his Toulon, or his bridge of Arcola. How it would
  come about he did not know, but he felt sure it would do so. The locality
  and the position of our troops were known to him as far as they could be
  known to anyone in our army. His own strategic plan, which obviously could
  not now be carried out, was forgotten. Now, entering into Weyrother&rsquo;s
  plan, Prince Andrew considered possible contingencies and formed new
  projects such as might call for his rapidity of perception and decision.
<br />
  To the left down below in the mist, the musketry fire of unseen forces
  could be heard. It was there Prince Andrew thought the fight would
  concentrate. &ldquo;There we shall encounter difficulties, and there,&rdquo; thought
  he, &ldquo;I shall be sent with a brigade or division, and there, standard in
  hand, I shall go forward and break whatever is in front of me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He could not look calmly at the standards of the passing battalions.
  Seeing them he kept thinking, &ldquo;That may be the very standard with which I
  shall lead the army.&rdquo;
 <br />
  In the morning all that was left of the night mist on the heights was a
  hoar frost now turning to dew, but in the valleys it still lay like a
  milk-white sea. Nothing was visible in the valley to the left into which
  our troops had descended and from whence came the sounds of firing. Above
  the heights was the dark clear sky, and to the right the vast orb of the
  sun. In front, far off on the farther shore of that sea of mist, some
  wooded hills were discernible, and it was there the enemy probably was,
  for something could be descried. On the right the Guards were entering the
  misty region with a sound of hoofs and wheels and now and then a gleam of
  bayonets; to the left beyond the village similar masses of cavalry came up
  and disappeared in the sea of mist. In front and behind moved infantry.
  The commander in chief was standing at the end of the village letting the
  troops pass by him. That morning Kutúzov seemed worn and irritable. The
  infantry passing before him came to a halt without any command being
  given, apparently obstructed by something in front.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do order them to form into battalion columns and go round the village!&rdquo;
   he said angrily to a general who had ridden up. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you understand,
  your excellency, my dear sir, that you must not defile through narrow
  village streets when we are marching against the enemy?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I intended to re-form them beyond the village, your excellency,&rdquo; answered
  the general.
<br />
  Kutúzov laughed bitterly.
<br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll make a fine thing of it, deploying in sight of the enemy! Very
  fine!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The enemy is still far away, your excellency. According to the
  dispositions...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The dispositions!&rdquo; exclaimed Kutúzov bitterly. &ldquo;Who told you that?...
  Kindly do as you are ordered.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, sir.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;My dear fellow,&rdquo; Nesvítski whispered to Prince Andrew, &ldquo;the old man is as
  surly as a dog.&rdquo;
 <br />
  An Austrian officer in a white uniform with green plumes in his hat
  galloped up to Kutúzov and asked in the Emperor&rsquo;s name had the fourth
  column advanced into action.
<br />
  Kutúzov turned round without answering and his eye happened to fall upon
  Prince Andrew, who was beside him. Seeing him, Kutúzov&rsquo;s malevolent and
  caustic expression softened, as if admitting that what was being done was
  not his adjutant&rsquo;s fault, and still not answering the Austrian adjutant,
  he addressed Bolkónski.
<br />
  &ldquo;Go, my dear fellow, and see whether the third division has passed the
  village. Tell it to stop and await my orders.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Hardly had Prince Andrew started than he stopped him.
<br />
  &ldquo;And ask whether sharpshooters have been posted,&rdquo; he added. &ldquo;What are they
  doing? What are they doing?&rdquo; he murmured to himself, still not replying to
  the Austrian.
<br />
  Prince Andrew galloped off to execute the order.
<br />
  Overtaking the battalions that continued to advance, he stopped the third
  division and convinced himself that there really were no sharpshooters in
  front of our columns. The colonel at the head of the regiment was much
  surprised at the commander in chief&rsquo;s order to throw out skirmishers. He
  had felt perfectly sure that there were other troops in front of him and
  that the enemy must be at least six miles away. There was really nothing
  to be seen in front except a barren descent hidden by dense mist. Having
  given orders in the commander in chief&rsquo;s name to rectify this omission,
  Prince Andrew galloped back. Kutúzov still in the same place, his stout
  body resting heavily in the saddle with the lassitude of age, sat yawning
  wearily with closed eyes. The troops were no longer moving, but stood with
  the butts of their muskets on the ground.
<br />
  &ldquo;All right, all right!&rdquo; he said to Prince Andrew, and turned to a general
  who, watch in hand, was saying it was time they started as all the
  left-flank columns had already descended.
<br />
  &ldquo;Plenty of time, your excellency,&rdquo; muttered Kutúzov in the midst of a
  yawn. &ldquo;Plenty of time,&rdquo; he repeated.
<br />
  Just then at a distance behind Kutúzov was heard the sound of regiments
  saluting, and this sound rapidly came nearer along the whole extended line
  of the advancing Russian columns. Evidently the person they were greeting
  was riding quickly. When the soldiers of the regiment in front of which
  Kutúzov was standing began to shout, he rode a little to one side and
  looked round with a frown. Along the road from Pratzen galloped what
  looked like a squadron of horsemen in various uniforms. Two of them rode
  side by side in front, at full gallop. One in a black uniform with white
  plumes in his hat rode a bobtailed chestnut horse, the other who was in a
  white uniform rode a black one. These were the two Emperors followed by
  their suites. Kutúzov, affecting the manners of an old soldier at the
  front, gave the command &ldquo;Attention!&rdquo; and rode up to the Emperors with a
  salute. His whole appearance and manner were suddenly transformed. He put
  on the air of a subordinate who obeys without reasoning. With an
  affectation of respect which evidently struck Alexander unpleasantly, he
  rode up and saluted.
<br />
  This unpleasant impression merely flitted over the young and happy face of
  the Emperor like a cloud of haze across a clear sky and vanished. After
  his illness he looked rather thinner that day than on the field of Olmütz
  where Bolkónski had seen him for the first time abroad, but there was
  still the same bewitching combination of majesty and mildness in his fine
  gray eyes, and on his delicate lips the same capacity for varying
  expression and the same prevalent appearance of goodhearted innocent
  youth.
<br />
  At the Olmütz review he had seemed more majestic; here he seemed brighter
  and more energetic. He was slightly flushed after galloping two miles, and
  reining in his horse he sighed restfully and looked round at the faces of
  his suite, young and animated as his own. Czartorýski, Novosíltsev, Prince
  Volkónsky, Strógonov, and the others, all richly dressed gay young men on
  splendid, well-groomed, fresh, only slightly heated horses, exchanging
  remarks and smiling, had stopped behind the Emperor. The Emperor Francis,
  a rosy, long faced young man, sat very erect on his handsome black horse,
  looking about him in a leisurely and preoccupied manner. He beckoned to
  one of his white adjutants and asked some question&mdash;&ldquo;Most likely he
  is asking at what o&rsquo;clock they started,&rdquo; thought Prince Andrew, watching
  his old acquaintance with a smile he could not repress as he recalled his
  reception at Brünn. In the Emperors&rsquo; suite were the picked young orderly
  officers of the Guard and line regiments, Russian and Austrian. Among them
  were grooms leading the Tsar&rsquo;s beautiful relay horses covered with
  embroidered cloths.
<br />
  As when a window is opened a whiff of fresh air from the fields enters a
  stuffy room, so a whiff of youthfulness, energy, and confidence of success
  reached Kutúzov&rsquo;s cheerless staff with the galloping advent of all these
  brilliant young men.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why aren&rsquo;t you beginning, Michael Ilariónovich?&rdquo; said the Emperor
  Alexander hurriedly to Kutúzov, glancing courteously at the same time at
  the Emperor Francis.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am waiting, Your Majesty,&rdquo; answered Kutúzov, bending forward
  respectfully.
<br />
  The Emperor, frowning slightly, bent his ear forward as if he had not
  quite heard.
<br />
  &ldquo;Waiting, Your Majesty,&rdquo; repeated Kutúzov. (Prince Andrew noted that
  Kutúzov&rsquo;s upper lip twitched unnaturally as he said the word &ldquo;waiting.&rdquo;)
  &ldquo;Not all the columns have formed up yet, Your Majesty.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The Tsar heard but obviously did not like the reply; he shrugged his
  rather round shoulders and glanced at Novosíltsev who was near him, as if
  complaining of Kutúzov.
<br />
  &ldquo;You know, Michael Ilariónovich, we are not on the Empress&rsquo; Field where
  a parade does not begin till all the troops are assembled,&rdquo; said the Tsar
  with another glance at the Emperor Francis, as if inviting him if not to
  join in at least to listen to what he was saying. But the Emperor Francis
  continued to look about him and did not listen.
<br />
  &ldquo;That is just why I do not begin, sire,&rdquo; said Kutúzov in a resounding
  voice, apparently to preclude the possibility of not being heard, and
  again something in his face twitched&mdash;&ldquo;That is just why I do not
  begin, sire, because we are not on parade and not on the Empress&rsquo;
  Field,&rdquo; said he clearly and distinctly.
<br />
  In the Emperor&rsquo;s suite all exchanged rapid looks that expressed
  dissatisfaction and reproach. &ldquo;Old though he may be, he should not, he
  certainly should not, speak like that,&rdquo; their glances seemed to say.
<br />
  The Tsar looked intently and observantly into Kutúzov&rsquo;s eye waiting to
  hear whether he would say anything more. But Kutúzov, with respectfully
  bowed head, seemed also to be waiting. The silence lasted for about a
  minute.
<br />
  &ldquo;However, if you command it, Your Majesty,&rdquo; said Kutúzov, lifting his
  head and again assuming his former tone of a dull, unreasoning, but submissive
  general.
<br />
  He touched his horse and having called Milorádovich, the commander of the
  column, gave him the order to advance.
<br />
  The troops again began to move, and two battalions of the Nóvgorod and one
  of the Ápsheron regiment went forward past the Emperor.
<br />
  As this Ápsheron battalion marched by, the red-faced Milorádovich, without
  his greatcoat, with his Orders on his breast and an enormous tuft of
  plumes in his cocked hat worn on one side with its corners front and back,
  galloped strenuously forward, and with a dashing salute reined in his
  horse before the Emperor.
<br />
  &ldquo;God be with you, general!&rdquo; said the Emperor.
<br />
   * he
  answered gaily, raising nevertheless ironic smiles among the gentlemen of
  the Tsar&rsquo;s suite by his poor French.
<br />
 * &ldquo;Indeed, Sire, we shall do everything it is possible to
 do, Sire.&rdquo;

Milorádovich wheeled his horse sharply and stationed himself a little behind the Emperor. The Ápsheron men, excited by the Tsar’s presence, passed in step before the Emperors and their suites at a bold, brisk pace.
“Lads!” shouted Milorádovich in a loud, self-confident, and cheery voice, obviously so elated by the sound of firing, by the prospect of battle, and by the sight of the gallant Ápsherons, his comrades in Suvórov’s time, now passing so gallantly before the Emperors, that he forgot the sovereigns’ presence. “Lads, it’s not the first village you’ve had to take,” cried he.
“Glad to do our best!” shouted the soldiers.
The Emperor’s horse started at the sudden cry. This horse that had carried the sovereign at reviews in Russia bore him also here on the field of Austerlitz, enduring the heedless blows of his left foot and pricking its ears at the sound of shots just as it had done on the Empress’ Field, not understanding the significance of the firing, nor of the nearness of the Emperor Francis’ black cob, nor of all that was being said, thought, and felt that day by its rider.
The Emperor turned with a smile to one of his followers and made a remark to him, pointing to the gallant Ápsherons.

  CHAPTER XVI


  Kutúzov accompanied by his adjutants rode at a walking pace behind the
  carabineers.
<br />
  When he had gone less than half a mile in the rear of the column he
  stopped at a solitary, deserted house that had probably once been an inn,
  where two roads parted. Both of them led downhill and troops were marching
  along both.
<br />
  The fog had begun to clear and enemy troops were already dimly visible
  about a mile and a half off on the opposite heights. Down below, on the
  left, the firing became more distinct. Kutúzov had stopped and was
  speaking to an Austrian general. Prince Andrew, who was a little behind
  looking at them, turned to an adjutant to ask him for a field glass.
<br />
  &ldquo;Look, look!&rdquo; said this adjutant, looking not at the troops in the
  distance, but down the hill before him. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the French!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The two generals and the adjutant took hold of the field glass, trying to
  snatch it from one another. The expression on all their faces suddenly
  changed to one of horror. The French were supposed to be a mile and a half
  away, but had suddenly and unexpectedly appeared just in front of us.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the enemy?... No!... Yes, see it is!... for certain.... But how is
  that?&rdquo; said different voices.
<br />
  With the naked eye Prince Andrew saw below them to the right, not more
  than five hundred paces from where Kutúzov was standing, a dense French
  column coming up to meet the Ápsherons.
<br />
  &ldquo;Here it is! The decisive moment has arrived. My turn has come,&rdquo; thought
  Prince Andrew, and striking his horse he rode up to Kutúzov.
<br />
  &ldquo;The Ápsherons must be stopped, your excellency,&rdquo; cried he. But at that
  very instant a cloud of smoke spread all round, firing was heard quite
  close at hand, and a voice of naïve terror barely two steps from Prince
  Andrew shouted, &ldquo;Brothers! All&rsquo;s lost!&rdquo; And at this as if at a command,
  everyone began to run.
<br />
  Confused and ever-increasing crowds were running back to where five
  minutes before the troops had passed the Emperors. Not only would it have
  been difficult to stop that crowd, it was even impossible not to be
  carried back with it oneself. Bolkónski only tried not to lose touch with
  it, and looked around bewildered and unable to grasp what was happening in
  front of him. Nesvítski with an angry face, red and unlike himself, was
  shouting to Kutúzov that if he did not ride away at once he would
  certainly be taken prisoner. Kutúzov remained in the same place and
  without answering drew out a handkerchief. Blood was flowing from his
  cheek. Prince Andrew forced his way to him.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are wounded?&rdquo; he asked, hardly able to master the trembling of his
  lower jaw.
<br />
  &ldquo;The wound is not here, it is there!&rdquo; said Kutúzov, pressing the
  handkerchief to his wounded cheek and pointing to the fleeing soldiers.
  &ldquo;Stop them!&rdquo; he shouted, and at the same moment, probably realizing that
  it was impossible to stop them, spurred his horse and rode to the right.
<br />
  A fresh wave of the flying mob caught him and bore him back with it.
<br />
  The troops were running in such a dense mass that once surrounded by them
  it was difficult to get out again. One was shouting, &ldquo;Get on! Why are you
  hindering us?&rdquo; Another in the same place turned round and fired in the
  air; a third was striking the horse Kutúzov himself rode. Having by a
  great effort got away to the left from that flood of men, Kutúzov, with
  his suite diminished by more than half, rode toward a sound of artillery
  fire near by. Having forced his way out of the crowd of fugitives, Prince
  Andrew, trying to keep near Kutúzov, saw on the slope of the hill amid the
  smoke a Russian battery that was still firing and Frenchmen running toward
  it. Higher up stood some Russian infantry, neither moving forward to
  protect the battery nor backward with the fleeing crowd. A mounted general
  separated himself from the infantry and approached Kutúzov. Of Kutúzov&rsquo;s
  suite only four remained. They were all pale and exchanged looks in
  silence.
<br />
  &ldquo;Stop those wretches!&rdquo; gasped Kutúzov to the regimental commander,
  pointing to the flying soldiers; but at that instant, as if to punish him
  for those words, bullets flew hissing across the regiment and across
  Kutúzov&rsquo;s suite like a flock of little birds.
<br />
  The French had attacked the battery and, seeing Kutúzov, were firing at
  him. After this volley the regimental commander clutched at his leg;
  several soldiers fell, and a second lieutenant who was holding the flag
  let it fall from his hands. It swayed and fell, but caught on the muskets
  of the nearest soldiers. The soldiers started firing without orders.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh! Oh! Oh!&rdquo; groaned Kutúzov despairingly and looked around....
  &ldquo;Bolkónski!&rdquo; he whispered, his voice trembling from a consciousness of the
  feebleness of age, &ldquo;Bolkónski!&rdquo; he whispered, pointing to the disordered
  battalion and at the enemy, &ldquo;what&rsquo;s that?&rdquo;
 <br />
  But before he had finished speaking, Prince Andrew, feeling tears of shame
  and anger choking him, had already leapt from his horse and run to the
  standard.
<br />
  &ldquo;Forward, lads!&rdquo; he shouted in a voice piercing as a child&rsquo;s.
<br />
  &ldquo;Here it is!&rdquo; thought he, seizing the staff of the standard and hearing
  with pleasure the whistle of bullets evidently aimed at him. Several
  soldiers fell.
<br />
  &ldquo;Hurrah!&rdquo; shouted Prince Andrew, and, scarcely able to hold up the heavy
  standard, he ran forward with full confidence that the whole battalion
  would follow him.
<br />
  And really he only ran a few steps alone. One soldier moved and then
  another and soon the whole battalion ran forward shouting &ldquo;Hurrah!&rdquo; and
  overtook him. A sergeant of the battalion ran up and took the flag that
  was swaying from its weight in Prince Andrew&rsquo;s hands, but he was
  immediately killed. Prince Andrew again seized the standard and, dragging
  it by the staff, ran on with the battalion. In front he saw our
  artillerymen, some of whom were fighting, while others, having abandoned
  their guns, were running toward him. He also saw French infantry soldiers
  who were seizing the artillery horses and turning the guns round. Prince
  Andrew and the battalion were already within twenty paces of the cannon.
  He heard the whistle of bullets above him unceasingly and to right and
  left of him soldiers continually groaned and dropped. But he did not look
  at them: he looked only at what was going on in front of him&mdash;at the
  battery. He now saw clearly the figure of a red-haired gunner with his
  shako knocked awry, pulling one end of a mop while a French soldier tugged
  at the other. He could distinctly see the distraught yet angry expression
  on the faces of these two men, who evidently did not realize what they
  were doing.
<br />
  &ldquo;What are they about?&rdquo; thought Prince Andrew as he gazed at them. &ldquo;Why
  doesn&rsquo;t the red-haired gunner run away as he is unarmed? Why doesn&rsquo;t the
  Frenchman stab him? He will not get away before the Frenchman remembers
  his bayonet and stabs him....&rdquo;
 <br />
  And really another French soldier, trailing his musket, ran up to the
  struggling men, and the fate of the red-haired gunner, who had
  triumphantly secured the mop and still did not realize what awaited him,
  was about to be decided. But Prince Andrew did not see how it ended. It
  seemed to him as though one of the soldiers near him hit him on the head
  with the full swing of a bludgeon. It hurt a little, but the worst of it
  was that the pain distracted him and prevented his seeing what he had been
  looking at.
<br />
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s this? Am I falling? My legs are giving way,&rdquo; thought he, and fell
  on his back. He opened his eyes, hoping to see how the struggle of the
  Frenchmen with the gunners ended, whether the red-haired gunner had been
  killed or not and whether the cannon had been captured or saved. But he
  saw nothing. Above him there was now nothing but the sky&mdash;the lofty
  sky, not clear yet still immeasurably lofty, with gray clouds gliding
  slowly across it. &ldquo;How quiet, peaceful, and solemn; not at all as I ran,&rdquo;
   thought Prince Andrew&mdash;&ldquo;not as we ran, shouting and fighting, not at
  all as the gunner and the Frenchman with frightened and angry faces
  struggled for the mop: how differently do those clouds glide across that
  lofty infinite sky! How was it I did not see that lofty sky before? And
  how happy I am to have found it at last! Yes! All is vanity, all
  falsehood, except that infinite sky. There is nothing, nothing, but that.
  But even it does not exist, there is nothing but quiet and peace. Thank
  God!...&rdquo;

  CHAPTER XVII


  On our right flank commanded by Bagratión, at nine o&rsquo;clock the battle had
  not yet begun. Not wishing to agree to Dolgorúkov&rsquo;s demand to commence the
  action, and wishing to avert responsibility from himself, Prince Bagratión
  proposed to Dolgorúkov to send to inquire of the commander in chief.
  Bagratión knew that as the distance between the two flanks was more than
  six miles, even if the messenger were not killed (which he very likely
  would be), and found the commander in chief (which would be very
  difficult), he would not be able to get back before evening.
<br />
  Bagratión cast his large, expressionless, sleepy eyes round his suite, and
  the boyish face of Rostóv, breathless with excitement and hope, was the first
  to catch his eye. He sent him.
<br />
  &ldquo;And if I should meet His Majesty before I meet the commander in chief,
  your excellency?&rdquo; said Rostóv, with his hand to his cap.
<br />
  &ldquo;You can give the message to His Majesty,&rdquo; said Dolgorúkov, hurriedly
  interrupting Bagratión.
<br />
  On being relieved from picket duty Rostóv had managed to get a few hours&rsquo;
  sleep before morning and felt cheerful, bold, and resolute, with
  elasticity of movement, faith in his good fortune, and generally in that
  state of mind which makes everything seem possible, pleasant, and easy.
<br />
  All his wishes were being fulfilled that morning: there was to be a
  general engagement in which he was taking part, more than that, he was
  orderly to the bravest general, and still more, he was going with a
  message to Kutúzov, perhaps even to the sovereign himself. The morning was
  bright, he had a good horse under him, and his heart was full of joy and
  happiness. On receiving the order he gave his horse the rein and galloped
  along the line. At first he rode along the line of Bagratión&rsquo;s troops,
  which had not yet advanced into action but were standing motionless; then
  he came to the region occupied by Uvárov&rsquo;s cavalry and here he noticed a
  stir and signs of preparation for battle; having passed Uvárov&rsquo;s cavalry
  he clearly heard the sound of cannon and musketry ahead of him. The firing
  grew louder and louder.
<br />
  In the fresh morning air were now heard, not two or three musket shots at
  irregular intervals as before, followed by one or two cannon shots, but a
  roll of volleys of musketry from the slopes of the hill before Pratzen,
  interrupted by such frequent reports of cannon that sometimes several of
  them were not separated from one another but merged into a general roar.
<br />
  He could see puffs of musketry smoke that seemed to chase one another down
  the hillsides, and clouds of cannon smoke rolling, spreading, and mingling
  with one another. He could also, by the gleam of bayonets visible through
  the smoke, make out moving masses of infantry and narrow lines of
  artillery with green caissons.
<br />
  Rostóv stopped his horse for a moment on a hillock to see what was going
  on, but strain his attention as he would he could not understand or make
  out anything of what was happening: there in the smoke men of some sort
  were moving about, in front and behind moved lines of troops; but why,
  whither, and who they were, it was impossible to make out. These sights
  and sounds had no depressing or intimidating effect on him; on the
  contrary, they stimulated his energy and determination.
<br />
  &ldquo;Go on! Go on! Give it them!&rdquo; he mentally exclaimed at these sounds, and
  again proceeded to gallop along the line, penetrating farther and farther
  into the region where the army was already in action.
<br />
  &ldquo;How it will be there I don&rsquo;t know, but all will be well!&rdquo; thought Rostóv.
<br />
  After passing some Austrian troops he noticed that the next part of the
  line (the Guards) was already in action.
<br />
  &ldquo;So much the better! I shall see it close,&rdquo; he thought.
<br />
  He was riding almost along the front line. A handful of men came galloping
  toward him. They were our Uhlans who with disordered ranks were returning
  from the attack. Rostóv got out of their way, involuntarily noticed that
  one of them was bleeding, and galloped on.
<br />
  &ldquo;That is no business of mine,&rdquo; he thought. He had not ridden many hundred
  yards after that before he saw to his left, across the whole width of the
  field, an enormous mass of cavalry in brilliant white uniforms, mounted on
  black horses, trotting straight toward him and across his path. Rostóv put
  his horse to full gallop to get out of the way of these men, and he would
  have got clear had they continued at the same speed, but they kept
  increasing their pace, so that some of the horses were already galloping.
  Rostóv heard the thud of their hoofs and the jingle of their weapons and
  saw their horses, their figures, and even their faces, more and more
  distinctly. They were our Horse Guards, advancing to attack the French
  cavalry that was coming to meet them.
<br />
  The Horse Guards were galloping, but still holding in their horses. Rostóv
  could already see their faces and heard the command: &ldquo;Charge!&rdquo; shouted by
  an officer who was urging his thoroughbred to full speed. Rostóv, fearing
  to be crushed or swept into the attack on the French, galloped along the
  front as hard as his horse could go, but still was not in time to avoid
  them.
<br />
  The last of the Horse Guards, a huge pockmarked fellow, frowned angrily on
  seeing Rostóv before him, with whom he would inevitably collide. This
  Guardsman would certainly have bowled Rostóv and his Bedouin over (Rostóv
  felt himself quite tiny and weak compared to these gigantic men and
  horses) had it not occurred to Rostóv to flourish his whip before the eyes
  of the Guardsman&rsquo;s horse. The heavy black horse, sixteen hands high,
  shied, throwing back its ears; but the pockmarked Guardsman drove his huge
  spurs in violently, and the horse, flourishing its tail and extending its
  neck, galloped on yet faster. Hardly had the Horse Guards passed Rostóv
  before he heard them shout, &ldquo;Hurrah!&rdquo; and looking back saw that their
  foremost ranks were mixed up with some foreign cavalry with red epaulets,
  probably French. He could see nothing more, for immediately afterwards
  cannon began firing from somewhere and smoke enveloped everything.
<br />
  At that moment, as the Horse Guards, having passed him, disappeared in the
  smoke, Rostóv hesitated whether to gallop after them or to go where he was
  sent. This was the brilliant charge of the Horse Guards that amazed the
  French themselves. Rostóv was horrified to hear later that of all that
  mass of huge and handsome men, of all those brilliant, rich youths,
  officers and cadets, who had galloped past him on their thousand-ruble
  horses, only eighteen were left after the charge.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why should I envy them? My chance is not lost, and maybe I shall see the
  Emperor immediately!&rdquo; thought Rostóv and galloped on.
<br />
  When he came level with the Foot Guards he noticed that about them and
  around them cannon balls were flying, of which he was aware not so much
  because he heard their sound as because he saw uneasiness on the soldiers&rsquo;
  faces and unnatural warlike solemnity on those of the officers.
<br />
  Passing behind one of the lines of a regiment of Foot Guards he heard a
  voice calling him by name.
<br />
  &ldquo;Rostóv!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What?&rdquo; he answered, not recognizing Borís.
<br />
  &ldquo;I say, we&rsquo;ve been in the front line! Our regiment attacked!&rdquo; said Borís
  with the happy smile seen on the faces of young men who have been under
  fire for the first time.
<br />
  Rostóv stopped.
<br />
  &ldquo;Have you?&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Well, how did it go?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;We drove them back!&rdquo; said Borís with animation, growing talkative. &ldquo;Can
  you imagine it?&rdquo; and he began describing how the Guards, having taken up
  their position and seeing troops before them, thought they were Austrians,
  and all at once discovered from the cannon balls discharged by those
  troops that they were themselves in the front line and had unexpectedly to
  go into action. Rostóv without hearing Borís to the end spurred his horse.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where are you off to?&rdquo; asked Borís.
<br />
  &ldquo;With a message to His Majesty.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;There he is!&rdquo; said Borís, thinking Rostóv had said &ldquo;His Highness,&rdquo; and
  pointing to the Grand Duke who with his high shoulders and frowning brows
  stood a hundred paces away from them in his helmet and Horse Guards&rsquo;
  jacket, shouting something to a pale, white uniformed Austrian officer.
<br />
  &ldquo;But that&rsquo;s the Grand Duke, and I want the commander in chief or the
  Emperor,&rdquo; said Rostóv, and was about to spur his horse.
<br />
  &ldquo;Count! Count!&rdquo; shouted Berg who ran up from the other side as eager as
  Borís. &ldquo;Count! I am wounded in my right hand&rdquo; (and he showed his bleeding
  hand with a handkerchief tied round it) &ldquo;and I remained at the front. I
  held my sword in my left hand, Count. All our family&mdash;the von Bergs&mdash;have
  been knights!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He said something more, but Rostóv did not wait to hear it and rode away.
<br />
  Having passed the Guards and traversed an empty space, Rostóv, to avoid
  again getting in front of the first line as he had done when the Horse
  Guards charged, followed the line of reserves, going far round the place
  where the hottest musket fire and cannonade were heard. Suddenly he heard
  musket fire quite close in front of him and behind our troops, where he
  could never have expected the enemy to be.
<br />
  &ldquo;What can it be?&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;The enemy in the rear of our army?
  Impossible!&rdquo; And suddenly he was seized by a panic of fear for himself and
  for the issue of the whole battle. &ldquo;But be that what it may,&rdquo; he
  reflected, &ldquo;there is no riding round it now. I must look for the commander
  in chief here, and if all is lost it is for me to perish with the rest.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The foreboding of evil that had suddenly come over Rostóv was more and
  more confirmed the farther he rode into the region behind the village of
  Pratzen, which was full of troops of all kinds.
<br />
  &ldquo;What does it mean? What is it? Whom are they firing at? Who is firing?&rdquo;
   Rostóv kept asking as he came up to Russian and Austrian soldiers running
  in confused crowds across his path.
<br />
  &ldquo;The devil knows! They&rsquo;ve killed everybody! It&rsquo;s all up now!&rdquo; he was told
  in Russian, German, and Czech by the crowd of fugitives who understood
  what was happening as little as he did.
<br />
  &ldquo;Kill the Germans!&rdquo; shouted one.
<br />
  &ldquo;May the devil take them&mdash;the traitors!&rdquo;
 <br />
   * muttered a German.
<br />
* &ldquo;Hang these Russians!&rdquo;

Several wounded men passed along the road, and words of abuse, screams, and groans mingled in a general hubbub, then the firing died down. Rostóv learned later that Russian and Austrian soldiers had been firing at one another.
“My God! What does it all mean?” thought he. “And here, where at any moment the Emperor may see them…. But no, these must be only a handful of scoundrels. It will soon be over, it can’t be , it can’t be! Only to get past them quicker, quicker!”
The idea of defeat and flight could not enter Rostóv’s head. Though he saw French cannon and French troops on the Pratzen Heights just where he had been ordered to look for the commander in chief, he could not, did not wish to, believe .

  CHAPTER XVIII


  Rostóv had been ordered to look for Kutúzov and the Emperor near the
  village of Pratzen. But neither they nor a single commanding officer were
  there, only disorganized crowds of troops of various kinds. He urged on
  his already weary horse to get quickly past these crowds, but the farther
  he went the more disorganized they were. The highroad on which he had come
  out was thronged with , carriages of all sorts, and Russian and
  Austrian soldiers of all arms, some wounded and some not. This whole mass
  droned and jostled in confusion under the dismal influence of cannon balls
  flying from the French batteries stationed on the Pratzen Heights.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where is the Emperor? Where is Kutúzov?&rdquo; Rostóv kept asking everyone he
  could stop, but got no answer from anyone.
<br />
  At last seizing a soldier by his collar he forced him to answer.
<br />
  &ldquo;Eh, brother! They&rsquo;ve all bolted long ago!&rdquo; said the soldier, laughing for
  some reason and shaking himself free.
<br />
  Having left that soldier who was evidently drunk, Rostóv stopped the horse
  of a batman or groom of some important personage and began to question
  him. The man announced that the Tsar had been driven in a carriage at full
  speed about an hour before along that very road and that he was
  dangerously wounded.
<br />
  &ldquo;It can&rsquo;t be!&rdquo; said Rostóv. &ldquo;It must have been someone else.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I saw him myself,&rdquo; replied the man with a self-confident smile of
  derision. &ldquo;I ought to know the Emperor by now, after the times I&rsquo;ve seen
  him in Petersburg. I saw him just as I see you.... There he sat in the
  carriage as pale as anything. How they made the four black horses fly!
  Gracious me, they did rattle past! It&rsquo;s time I knew the Imperial horses
  and Ilyá Iványch. I don&rsquo;t think Ilyá drives anyone except the Tsar!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Rostóv let go of the horse and was about to ride on, when a wounded
  officer passing by addressed him:
<br />
  &ldquo;Who is it you want?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;The commander in chief? He was
  killed by a cannon ball&mdash;struck in the breast before our regiment.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Not killed&mdash;wounded!&rdquo; another officer corrected him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who? Kutúzov?&rdquo; asked Rostóv.
<br />
  &ldquo;Not Kutúzov, but what&rsquo;s his name&mdash;well, never mind... there are not
  many left alive. Go that way, to that village, all the commanders are
  there,&rdquo; said the officer, pointing to the village of Hosjeradek, and he
  walked on.
<br />
  Rostóv rode on at a footpace not knowing why or to whom he was now going.
  The Emperor was wounded, the battle lost. It was impossible to doubt it
  now. Rostóv rode in the direction pointed out to him, in which he saw
  turrets and a church. What need to hurry? What was he now to say to the
  Tsar or to Kutúzov, even if they were alive and unwounded?
<br />
  &ldquo;Take this road, your honor, that way you will be killed at once!&rdquo; a
  soldier shouted to him. &ldquo;They&rsquo;d kill you there!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, what are you talking about?&rdquo; said another. &ldquo;Where is he to go? That
  way is nearer.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Rostóv considered, and then went in the direction where they said he would
  be killed.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all the same now. If the Emperor is wounded, am I to try to save
  myself?&rdquo; he thought. He rode on to the region where the greatest number of
  men had perished in fleeing from Pratzen. The French had not yet occupied
  that region, and the Russians&mdash;the uninjured and slightly wounded&mdash;had
  left it long ago. All about the field, like heaps of manure on well-kept
  plowland, lay from ten to fifteen dead and wounded to each couple of
  acres. The wounded crept together in twos and threes and one could hear
  their distressing screams and groans, sometimes feigned&mdash;or so it
  seemed to Rostóv. He put his horse to a trot to avoid seeing all these
  suffering men, and he felt afraid&mdash;afraid not for his life, but for
  the courage he needed and which he knew would not stand the sight of these
  unfortunates.
<br />
  The French, who had ceased firing at this field strewn with dead and
  wounded where there was no one left to fire at, on seeing an adjutant
  riding over it trained a gun on him and fired several shots. The sensation
  of those terrible whistling sounds and of the corpses around him merged in
  Rostóv&rsquo;s mind into a single feeling of terror and pity for himself. He
  remembered his mother&rsquo;s last letter. &ldquo;What would she feel,&rdquo; thought he,
  &ldquo;if she saw me here now on this field with the cannon aimed at me?&rdquo;
 <br />
  In the village of Hosjeradek there were Russian troops retiring from the
  field of battle, who though still in some confusion were less disordered.
  The French cannon did not reach there and the musketry fire sounded far
  away. Here everyone clearly saw and said that the battle was lost. No one
  whom Rostóv asked could tell him where the Emperor or Kutúzov was. Some
  said the report that the Emperor was wounded was correct, others that it
  was not, and explained the false rumor that had spread by the fact that
  the Emperor&rsquo;s carriage had really galloped from the field of battle with
  the pale and terrified Ober-Hofmarschal Count Tolstóy, who had ridden out
  to the battlefield with others in the Emperor&rsquo;s suite. One officer told
  Rostóv that he had seen someone from headquarters behind the village to
  the left, and thither Rostóv rode, not hoping to find anyone but merely to
  ease his conscience. When he had ridden about two miles and had passed the
  last of the Russian troops, he saw, near a kitchen garden with a ditch
  round it, two men on horseback facing the ditch. One with a white plume in
  his hat seemed familiar to Rostóv; the other on a beautiful chestnut horse
  (which Rostóv fancied he had seen before) rode up to the ditch, struck his
  horse with his spurs, and giving it the rein leaped lightly over. Only a
  little earth crumbled from the bank under the horse&rsquo;s hind hoofs. Turning
  the horse sharply, he again jumped the ditch, and deferentially addressed
  the horseman with the white plumes, evidently suggesting that he should do
  the same. The rider, whose figure seemed familiar to Rostóv and
  involuntarily riveted his attention, made a gesture of refusal with his
  head and hand and by that gesture Rostóv instantly recognized his lamented
  and adored monarch.
<br />
  &ldquo;But it can&rsquo;t be he, alone in the midst of this empty field!&rdquo; thought
  Rostóv. At that moment Alexander turned his head and Rostóv saw the
  beloved features that were so deeply engraved on his memory. The Emperor
  was pale, his cheeks sunken and his eyes hollow, but the charm, the
  mildness of his features, was all the greater. Rostóv was happy in the
  assurance that the rumors about the Emperor being wounded were false. He
  was happy to be seeing him. He knew that he might and even ought to go
  straight to him and give the message Dolgorúkov had ordered him to
  deliver.
<br />
  But as a youth in love trembles, is unnerved, and dares not utter the
  thoughts he has dreamed of for nights, but looks around for help or a
  chance of delay and flight when the longed-for moment comes and he is
  alone with , so Rostóv, now that he had attained what he had longed for
  more than anything else in the world, did not know how to approach the
  Emperor, and a thousand reasons occurred to him why it would be
  inconvenient, unseemly, and impossible to do so.
<br />
  &ldquo;What! It is as if I were glad of a chance to take advantage of his being
  alone and despondent! A strange face may seem unpleasant or painful to him
  at this moment of sorrow; besides, what can I say to him now, when my
  heart fails me and my mouth feels dry at the mere sight of him?&rdquo; Not one
  of the innumerable speeches addressed to the Emperor that he had composed
  in his imagination could he now recall. Those speeches were intended for
  quite other conditions, they were for the most part to be spoken at a
  moment of victory and triumph, generally when he was dying of wounds and
  the sovereign had thanked him for heroic deeds, and while dying he
  expressed the love his actions had proved.
<br />
  &ldquo;Besides how can I ask the Emperor for his instructions for the right
  flank now that it is nearly four o&rsquo;clock and the battle is lost? No,
  certainly I must not approach him, I must not intrude on his reflections.
  Better die a thousand times than risk receiving an unkind look or bad
  opinion from him,&rdquo; Rostóv decided; and sorrowfully and with a heart full
  despair he rode away, continually looking back at the Tsar, who still
  remained in the same attitude of indecision.
<br />
  While Rostóv was thus arguing with himself and riding sadly away, Captain
  von Toll chanced to ride to the same spot, and seeing the Emperor at once
  rode up to him, offered his services, and assisted him to cross the ditch
  on foot. The Emperor, wishing to rest and feeling unwell, sat down under
  an apple tree and von Toll remained beside him. Rostóv from a distance saw
  with envy and remorse how von Toll spoke long and warmly to the Emperor
  and how the Emperor, evidently weeping, covered his eyes with his hand and
  pressed von Toll&rsquo;s hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;And I might have been in his place!&rdquo; thought Rostóv, and hardly
  restraining his tears of pity for the Emperor, he rode on in utter
  despair, not knowing where to or why he was now riding.
<br />
  His despair was all the greater from feeling that his own weakness was the
  cause of his grief.
<br />
  He might... not only might but should, have gone up to the sovereign. It
  was a unique chance to show his devotion to the Emperor and he had not
  made use of it.... &ldquo;What have I done?&rdquo; thought he. And he turned round and
  galloped back to the place where he had seen the Emperor, but there was no
  one beyond the ditch now. Only some carts and carriages were passing by.
  From one of the drivers he learned that Kutúzov&rsquo;s staff were not far off,
  in the village the vehicles were going to. Rostóv followed them. In front
  of him walked Kutúzov&rsquo;s groom leading horses in horsecloths. Then came a
  cart, and behind that walked an old, bandy-legged domestic serf in a
  peaked cap and sheepskin coat.
<br />
  &ldquo;Tit! I say, Tit!&rdquo; said the groom.
<br />
  &ldquo;What?&rdquo; answered the old man absent-mindedly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Go, Tit! Thresh a bit!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, you fool!&rdquo; said the old man, spitting angrily. Some time passed in
  silence, and then the same joke was repeated.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  Before five in the evening the battle had been lost at all points. More
  than a hundred cannon were already in the hands of the French.
<br />
  Przebyszéwski and his corps had laid down their arms. Other columns after
  losing half their men were retreating in disorderly confused masses.
<br />
  The remains of Langeron&rsquo;s and Dokhtúrov&rsquo;s mingled forces were crowding
  around the dams and banks of the ponds near the village of Augesd.
<br />
  After five o&rsquo;clock it was only at the Augesd Dam that a hot cannonade
  (delivered by the French alone) was still to be heard from numerous
  batteries ranged on the slopes of the Pratzen Heights, directed at our
  retreating forces.
<br />
  In the rearguard, Dokhtúrov and others rallying some battalions kept up a
  musketry fire at the French cavalry that was pursuing our troops. It was
  growing dusk. On the narrow Augesd Dam where for so many years the old
  miller had been accustomed to sit in his tasseled cap peacefully angling,
  while his grandson, with shirt sleeves rolled up, handled the floundering
  silvery fish in the watering can, on that dam over which for so many years
  Moravians in shaggy caps and blue jackets had peacefully driven their
  two-horse carts loaded with wheat and had returned dusty with flour
  whitening their carts&mdash;on that narrow dam amid the wagons and the
  cannon, under the horses&rsquo; hoofs and between the wagon wheels, men
  disfigured by fear of death now crowded together, crushing one another,
  dying, stepping over the dying and killing one another, only to move on a
  few steps and be killed themselves in the same way.
<br />
  Every ten seconds a cannon ball flew compressing the air around, or a
  shell burst in the midst of that dense throng, killing some and splashing
  with blood those near them.
<br />
  Dólokhov&mdash;now an officer&mdash;wounded in the arm, and on foot, with
  the regimental commander on horseback and some ten men of his company,
  represented all that was left of that whole regiment. Impelled by the
  crowd, they had got wedged in at the approach to the dam and, jammed in on
  all sides, had stopped because a horse in front had fallen under a cannon
  and the crowd were dragging it out. A cannon ball killed someone behind
  them, another fell in front and splashed Dólokhov with blood. The crowd,
  pushing forward desperately, squeezed together, moved a few steps, and
  again stopped.
<br />
  &ldquo;Move on a hundred yards and we are certainly saved, remain here another
  two minutes and it is certain death,&rdquo; thought each one.
<br />
  Dólokhov who was in the midst of the crowd forced his way to the edge of
  the dam, throwing two soldiers off their feet, and ran onto the slippery
  ice that covered the millpool.
<br />
  &ldquo;Turn this way!&rdquo; he shouted, jumping over the ice which creaked under him;
  &ldquo;turn this way!&rdquo; he shouted to those with the gun. &ldquo;It bears!...&rdquo;
 <br />
  The ice bore him but it swayed and creaked, and it was plain that it would
  give way not only under a cannon or a crowd, but very soon even under his
  weight alone. The men looked at him and pressed to the bank, hesitating to
  step onto the ice. The general on horseback at the entrance to the dam
  raised his hand and opened his mouth to address Dólokhov. Suddenly a
  cannon ball hissed so low above the crowd that everyone ducked. It flopped
  into something moist, and the general fell from his horse in a pool of
  blood. Nobody gave him a look or thought of raising him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Get onto the ice, over the ice! Go on! Turn! Don&rsquo;t you hear? Go on!&rdquo;
   innumerable voices suddenly shouted after the ball had struck the general,
  the men themselves not knowing what, or why, they were shouting.
<br />
  One of the hindmost guns that was going onto the dam turned off onto the
  ice. Crowds of soldiers from the dam began running onto the frozen pond.
  The ice gave way under one of the foremost soldiers, and one leg slipped
  into the water. He tried to right himself but fell in up to his waist. The
  nearest soldiers shrank back, the gun driver stopped his horse, but from
  behind still came the shouts: &ldquo;Onto the ice, why do you stop? Go on! Go
  on!&rdquo; And cries of horror were heard in the crowd. The soldiers near the
  gun waved their arms and beat the horses to make them turn and move on.
  The horses moved off the bank. The ice, that had held under those on foot,
  collapsed in a great mass, and some forty men who were on it dashed, some
  forward and some back, drowning one another.
<br />
  Still the cannon balls continued regularly to whistle and flop onto the
  ice and into the water and oftenest of all among the crowd that covered
  the dam, the pond, and the bank.

  CHAPTER XIX


  On the Pratzen Heights, where he had fallen with the flagstaff in his
  hand, lay Prince Andrew Bolkónski bleeding profusely and unconsciously
  uttering a gentle, piteous, and childlike moan.
<br />
  Toward evening he ceased moaning and became quite still. He did not know
  how long his unconsciousness lasted. Suddenly he again felt that he was
  alive and suffering from a burning, lacerating pain in his head.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where is it, that lofty sky that I did not know till now, but saw today?&rdquo;
   was his first thought. &ldquo;And I did not know this suffering either,&rdquo; he
  thought. &ldquo;Yes, I did not know anything, anything at all till now. But
  where am I?&rdquo;
 <br />
  He listened and heard the sound of approaching horses, and voices speaking
  French. He opened his eyes. Above him again was the same lofty sky with
  clouds that had risen and were floating still higher, and between them
  gleamed blue infinity. He did not turn his head and did not see those who,
  judging by the sound of hoofs and voices, had ridden up and stopped near
  him.
<br />
  It was Napoleon accompanied by two aides-de-camp. Bonaparte riding over
  the battlefield had given final orders to strengthen the batteries firing
  at the Augesd Dam and was looking at the killed and wounded left on the
  field.
<br />
  &ldquo;Fine men!&rdquo; remarked Napoleon, looking at a dead Russian grenadier, who,
  with his face buried in the ground and a blackened nape, lay on his
  stomach with an already stiffened arm flung wide.
<br />
  &ldquo;The ammunition for the guns in position is exhausted, Your Majesty,&rdquo; said
  an adjutant who had come from the batteries that were firing at Augesd.
<br />
  &ldquo;Have some brought from the reserve,&rdquo; said Napoleon, and having gone on a
  few steps he stopped before Prince Andrew, who lay on his back with the
  flagstaff that had been dropped beside him. (The flag had already been
  taken by the French as a trophy.)
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a fine death!&rdquo; said Napoleon as he gazed at Bolkónski.
<br />
  Prince Andrew understood that this was said of him and that it was
  Napoleon who said it. He heard the speaker addressed as . But he heard
  the words as he might have heard the buzzing of a fly. Not only did they
  not interest him, but he took no notice of them and at once forgot them.
  His head was burning, he felt himself bleeding to death, and he saw above
  him the remote, lofty, and everlasting sky. He knew it was Napoleon&mdash;his
  hero&mdash;but at that moment Napoleon seemed to him such a small,
  insignificant creature compared with what was passing now between himself
  and that lofty infinite sky with the clouds flying over it. At that moment
  it meant nothing to him who might be standing over him, or what was said
  of him; he was only glad that people were standing near him and only
  wished that they would help him and bring him back to life, which seemed
  to him so beautiful now that he had today learned to understand it so
  differently. He collected all his strength, to stir and utter a sound. He
  feebly moved his leg and uttered a weak, sickly groan which aroused his
  own pity.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah! He is alive,&rdquo; said Napoleon. &ldquo;Lift this young man up and carry him to
  the dressing station.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Having said this, Napoleon rode on to meet Marshal Lannes, who, hat in
  hand, rode up smiling to the Emperor to congratulate him on the victory.
<br />
  Prince Andrew remembered nothing more: he lost consciousness from the
  terrible pain of being lifted onto the stretcher, the jolting while being
  moved, and the probing of his wound at the dressing station. He did not
  regain consciousness till late in the day, when with other wounded and
  captured Russian officers he was carried to the hospital. During this
  transfer he felt a little stronger and was able to look about him and even
  speak.
<br />
  The first words he heard on coming to his senses were those of a French
  convoy officer, who said rapidly: &ldquo;We must halt here: the Emperor will
  pass here immediately; it will please him to see these gentlemen
  prisoners.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;There are so many prisoners today, nearly the whole Russian army, that he
  is probably tired of them,&rdquo; said another officer.
<br />
  &ldquo;All the same! They say this one is the commander of all the Emperor
  Alexander&rsquo;s Guards,&rdquo; said the first one, indicating a Russian officer in
  the white uniform of the Horse Guards.
<br />
  Bolkónski recognized Prince Repnín whom he had met in Petersburg society.
  Beside him stood a lad of nineteen, also a wounded officer of the Horse
  Guards.
<br />
  Bonaparte, having come up at a gallop, stopped his horse.
<br />
  &ldquo;Which is the senior?&rdquo; he asked, on seeing the prisoners.
<br />
  They named the colonel, Prince Repnín.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are the commander of the Emperor Alexander&rsquo;s regiment of Horse
  Guards?&rdquo; asked Napoleon.
<br />
  &ldquo;I commanded a squadron,&rdquo; replied Repnín.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your regiment fulfilled its duty honorably,&rdquo; said Napoleon.
<br />
  &ldquo;The praise of a great commander is a soldier&rsquo;s highest reward,&rdquo; said
  Repnín.
<br />
  &ldquo;I bestow it with pleasure,&rdquo; said Napoleon. &ldquo;And who is that young man
  beside you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Repnín named Lieutenant Sukhtélen.
<br />
  After looking at him Napoleon smiled.
<br />
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;s very young to come to meddle with us.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Youth is no hindrance to courage,&rdquo; muttered Sukhtélen in a failing voice.
<br />
  &ldquo;A splendid reply!&rdquo; said Napoleon. &ldquo;Young man, you will go far!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Andrew, who had also been brought forward before the Emperor&rsquo;s eyes
  to complete the show of prisoners, could not fail to attract his
  attention. Napoleon apparently remembered seeing him on the battlefield
  and, addressing him, again used the epithet &ldquo;young man&rdquo; that was connected
  in his memory with Prince Andrew.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, and you, young man,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;How do you feel, &rdquo;
 <br />
  Though five minutes before, Prince Andrew had been able to say a few words
  to the soldiers who were carrying him, now with his eyes fixed straight on
  Napoleon, he was silent.... So insignificant at that moment seemed to him
  all the interests that engrossed Napoleon, so mean did his hero himself
  with his paltry vanity and joy in victory appear, compared to the lofty,
  equitable, and kindly sky which he had seen and understood, that he could
  not answer him.
<br />
  Everything seemed so futile and insignificant in comparison with the stern
  and solemn train of thought that weakness from loss of blood, suffering,
  and the nearness of death aroused in him. Looking into Napoleon&rsquo;s eyes
  Prince Andrew thought of the insignificance of greatness, the unimportance
  of life which no one could understand, and the still greater unimportance
  of death, the meaning of which no one alive could understand or explain.
<br />
  The Emperor without waiting for an answer turned away and said to one of
  the officers as he went: &ldquo;Have these gentlemen attended to and taken to my
  bivouac; let my doctor, Larrey, examine their wounds. , Prince
  Repnín!&rdquo; and he spurred his horse and galloped away.
<br />
  His face shone with self-satisfaction and pleasure.
<br />
  The soldiers who had carried Prince Andrew had noticed and taken the
  little gold icon Princess Mary had hung round her brother&rsquo;s neck, but
  seeing the favor the Emperor showed the prisoners, they now hastened to
  return the holy image.
<br />
  Prince Andrew did not see how and by whom it was replaced, but the little
  icon with its thin gold chain suddenly appeared upon his chest outside his
  uniform.
<br />
  &ldquo;It would be good,&rdquo; thought Prince Andrew, glancing at the icon his sister
  had hung round his neck with such emotion and reverence, &ldquo;it would be good
  if everything were as clear and simple as it seems to Mary. How good it
  would be to know where to seek for help in this life, and what to expect
  after it beyond the grave! How happy and calm I should be if I could now
  say: &lsquo;Lord, have mercy on me!&rsquo;... But to whom should I say that? Either to
  a Power indefinable, incomprehensible, which I not only cannot address but
  which I cannot even express in words&mdash;the Great All or Nothing-&rdquo; said
  he to himself, &ldquo;or to that God who has been sewn into this amulet by Mary!
  There is nothing certain, nothing at all except the unimportance of
  everything I understand, and the greatness of something incomprehensible
  but all-important.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The stretchers moved on. At every jolt he again felt unendurable pain; his
  feverishness increased and he grew delirious. Visions of his father, wife,
  sister, and future son, and the tenderness he had felt the night before
  the battle, the figure of the insignificant little Napoleon, and above all
  this the lofty sky, formed the chief subjects of his delirious fancies.
<br />
  The quiet home life and peaceful happiness of Bald Hills presented itself
  to him. He was already enjoying that happiness when that little Napoleon
  had suddenly appeared with his unsympathizing look of shortsighted delight
  at the misery of others, and doubts and torments had followed, and only
  the heavens promised peace. Toward morning all these dreams melted and
  merged into the chaos and darkness of unconciousness and oblivion which in
  the opinion of Napoleon&rsquo;s doctor, Larrey, was much more likely to end in
  death than in convalescence.
<br />
  &ldquo;He is a nervous, bilious subject,&rdquo; said Larrey, &ldquo;and will not recover.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And Prince Andrew, with others fatally wounded, was left to the care of
  the inhabitants of the district.

  BOOK FOUR: 1806

  CHAPTER I


  Early in the year 1806 Nicholas Rostóv returned home on leave. Denísov was
  going home to Vorónezh and Rostóv persuaded him to travel with him as far
  as Moscow and to stay with him there. Meeting a comrade at the last post
  station but one before Moscow, Denísov had drunk three bottles of wine
  with him and, despite the jolting ruts across the snow-covered road, did
  not once wake up on the way to Moscow, but lay at the bottom of the sleigh
  beside Rostóv, who grew more and more impatient the nearer they got to
  Moscow.
<br />
  &ldquo;How much longer? How much longer? Oh, these insufferable streets, shops,
  bakers&rsquo; signboards, street lamps, and sleighs!&rdquo; thought Rostóv, when their
  leave permits had been passed at the town gate and they had entered
  Moscow.
<br />
  &ldquo;Denísov! We&rsquo;re here! He&rsquo;s asleep,&rdquo; he added, leaning forward with his
  whole body as if in that position he hoped to hasten the speed of the
  sleigh.
<br />
  Denísov gave no answer.
<br />
  &ldquo;There&rsquo;s the corner at the crossroads, where the cabman, Zakhár, has his
  stand, and there&rsquo;s Zakhár himself and still the same horse! And here&rsquo;s the
  little shop where we used to buy gingerbread! Can&rsquo;t you hurry up? Now
  then!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Which house is it?&rdquo; asked the driver.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, that one, right at the end, the big one. Don&rsquo;t you see? That&rsquo;s our
  house,&rdquo; said Rostóv. &ldquo;Of course, it&rsquo;s our house! Denísov, Denísov! We&rsquo;re
  almost there!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Denísov raised his head, coughed, and made no answer.
<br />
  &ldquo;Dmítri,&rdquo; said Rostóv to his valet on the box, &ldquo;those lights are in our
  house, aren&rsquo;t they?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, sir, and there&rsquo;s a light in your father&rsquo;s study.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Then they&rsquo;ve not gone to bed yet? What do you think? Mind now, don&rsquo;t
  forget to put out my new coat,&rdquo; added Rostóv, fingering his new mustache.
  &ldquo;Now then, get on,&rdquo; he shouted to the driver. &ldquo;Do wake up, Váska!&rdquo; he went
  on, turning to Denísov, whose head was again nodding. &ldquo;Come, get on! You
  shall have three rubles for vodka&mdash;get on!&rdquo; Rostóv shouted, when the
  sleigh was only three houses from his door. It seemed to him the horses
  were not moving at all. At last the sleigh bore to the right, drew up at
  an entrance, and Rostóv saw overhead the old familiar cornice with a bit
  of plaster broken off, the porch, and the post by the side of the
  pavement. He sprang out before the sleigh stopped, and ran into the hall.
  The house stood cold and silent, as if quite regardless of who had come to
  it. There was no one in the hall. &ldquo;Oh God! Is everyone all right?&rdquo; he
  thought, stopping for a moment with a sinking heart, and then immediately
  starting to run along the hall and up the warped steps of the familiar
  staircase. The well-known old door handle, which always angered the
  countess when it was not properly cleaned, turned as loosely as ever. A
  solitary tallow candle burned in the anteroom.
<br />
  Old Michael was asleep on the chest. Prokófy, the footman, who was so
  strong that he could lift the back of the carriage from behind, sat
  plaiting slippers out of cloth selvedges. He looked up at the opening door
  and his expression of sleepy indifference suddenly changed to one of
  delighted amazement.
<br />
  &ldquo;Gracious heavens! The young count!&rdquo; he cried, recognizing his young
  master. &ldquo;Can it be? My treasure!&rdquo; and Prokófy, trembling with excitement,
  rushed toward the drawing room door, probably in order to announce him,
  but, changing his mind, came back and stooped to kiss the young man&rsquo;s
  shoulder.
<br />
  &ldquo;All well?&rdquo; asked Rostóv, drawing away his arm.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, God be thanked! Yes! They&rsquo;ve just finished supper. Let me have a
  look at you, your excellency.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Is everything quite all right?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The Lord be thanked, yes!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Rostóv, who had completely forgotten Denísov, not wishing anyone to
  forestall him, threw off his fur coat and ran on tiptoe through the large
  dark ballroom. All was the same: there were the same old card tables and
  the same chandelier with a cover over it; but someone had already seen the
  young master, and, before he had reached the drawing room, something flew
  out from a side door like a tornado and began hugging and kissing him.
  Another and yet another creature of the same kind sprang from a second
  door and a third; more hugging, more kissing, more outcries, and tears of
  joy. He could not distinguish which was Papa, which Natásha, and which
  Pétya. Everyone shouted, talked, and kissed him at the same time. Only his
  mother was not there, he noticed that.
<br />
  &ldquo;And I did not know... Nicholas... My darling!...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Here he is... our own... Kólya, * dear fellow... How he has changed!...
  Where are the candles?... Tea!...&rdquo;
 <br />
* Nicholas.

“And me, kiss me!”
“Dearest… and me!”
Sónya, Natásha, Pétya, Anna Mikháylovna, Véra, and the old count were all hugging him, and the serfs, men and maids, flocked into the room, exclaiming and oh-ing and ah-ing.
Pétya, clinging to his legs, kept shouting, “And me too!”
Natásha, after she had pulled him down toward her and covered his face with kisses, holding him tight by the skirt of his coat, sprang away and pranced up and down in one place like a goat and shrieked piercingly.
All around were loving eyes glistening with tears of joy, and all around were lips seeking a kiss.
Sónya too, all rosy red, clung to his arm and, radiant with bliss, looked eagerly toward his eyes, waiting for the look for which she longed. Sónya now was sixteen and she was very pretty, especially at this moment of happy, rapturous excitement. She gazed at him, not taking her eyes off him, and smiling and holding her breath. He gave her a grateful look, but was still expectant and looking for someone. The old countess had not yet come. But now steps were heard at the door, steps so rapid that they could hardly be his mother’s.
Yet it was she, dressed in a new gown which he did not know, made since he had left. All the others let him go, and he ran to her. When they met, she fell on his breast, sobbing. She could not lift her face, but only pressed it to the cold braiding of his hussar’s jacket. Denísov, who had come into the room unnoticed by anyone, stood there and wiped his eyes at the sight.
“Vasíli Denísov, your son’s friend,” he said, introducing himself to the count, who was looking inquiringly at him.
“You are most welcome! I know, I know,” said the count, kissing and embracing Denísov. “Nicholas wrote us… Natásha, Véra, look! Here is Denísov!”
The same happy, rapturous faces turned to the shaggy figure of Denísov.
“Darling Denísov!” screamed Natásha, beside herself with rapture, springing to him, putting her arms round him, and kissing him. This escapade made everybody feel confused. Denísov blushed too, but smiled and, taking Natásha’s hand, kissed it.
Denísov was shown to the room prepared for him, and the Rostóvs all gathered round Nicholas in the sitting room.
The old countess, not letting go of his hand and kissing it every moment, sat beside him: the rest, crowding round him, watched every movement, word, or look of his, never taking their blissfully adoring eyes off him. His brother and sisters struggled for the places nearest to him and disputed with one another who should bring him his tea, handkerchief, and pipe.
Rostóv was very happy in the love they showed him; but the first moment of meeting had been so beatific that his present joy seemed insufficient, and he kept expecting something more, more and yet more.
Next morning, after the fatigues of their journey, the travelers slept till ten o’clock.
In the room next to their bedroom there was a confusion of sabers, satchels, sabretaches, open portmanteaus, and dirty boots. Two freshly cleaned pairs with spurs had just been placed by the wall. The servants were bringing in jugs and basins, hot water for shaving, and their well-brushed clothes. There was a masculine odor and a smell of tobacco.
“Hallo, Gwíska—my pipe!” came Vasíli Denísov’s husky voice. “Wostóv, get up!”
Rostóv, rubbing his eyes that seemed glued together, raised his disheveled head from the hot pillow.
“Why, is it late?”
“Late! It’s nearly ten o’clock,” answered Natásha’s voice. A rustle of starched petticoats and the whispering and laughter of girls’ voices came from the adjoining room. The door was opened a crack and there was a glimpse of something blue, of ribbons, black hair, and merry faces. It was Natásha, Sónya, and Pétya, who had come to see whether they were getting up.
“Nicholas! Get up!” Natásha’s voice was again heard at the door.
“Directly!”
Meanwhile, Pétya, having found and seized the sabers in the outer room, with the delight boys feel at the sight of a military elder brother, and forgetting that it was unbecoming for the girls to see men undressed, opened the bedroom door.
“Is this your saber?” he shouted.
The girls sprang aside. Denísov hid his hairy legs under the blanket, looking with a scared face at his comrade for help. The door, having let Pétya in, closed again. A sound of laughter came from behind it.
“Nicholas! Come out in your dressing gown!” said Natásha’s voice.
“Is this your saber?” asked Pétya. “Or is it yours?” he said, addressing the black-mustached Denísov with servile deference.
Rostóv hurriedly put something on his feet, drew on his dressing gown, and went out. Natásha had put on one spurred boot and was just getting her foot into the other. Sónya, when he came in, was twirling round and was about to expand her dresses into a balloon and sit down. They were dressed alike, in new pale-blue frocks, and were both fresh, rosy, and bright. Sónya ran away, but Natásha, taking her brother’s arm, led him into the sitting room, where they began talking. They hardly gave one another time to ask questions and give replies concerning a thousand little matters which could not interest anyone but themselves. Natásha laughed at every word he said or that she said herself, not because what they were saying was amusing, but because she felt happy and was unable to control her joy which expressed itself by laughter.
“Oh, how nice, how splendid!” she said to everything.
Rostóv felt that, under the influence of the warm rays of love, that childlike smile which had not once appeared on his face since he left home now for the first time after eighteen months again brightened his soul and his face.
“No, but listen,” she said, “now you are quite a man, aren’t you? I’m awfully glad you’re my brother.” She touched his mustache. “I want to know what you men are like. Are you the same as we? No?”
“Why did Sónya run away?” asked Rostóv.
“Ah, yes! That’s a whole long story! How are you going to speak to her— or ”
“As may happen,” said Rostóv.
“No, call her , please! I’ll tell you all about it some other time. No, I’ll tell you now. You know Sónya’s my dearest friend. Such a friend that I burned my arm for her sake. Look here!”
She pulled up her muslin sleeve and showed him a red scar on her long, slender, delicate arm, high above the elbow on that part that is covered even by a ball dress.
“I burned this to prove my love for her. I just heated a ruler in the fire and pressed it there!”
Sitting on the sofa with the little cushions on its arms, in what used to be his old schoolroom, and looking into Natásha’s wildly bright eyes, Rostóv re-entered that world of home and childhood which had no meaning for anyone else, but gave him some of the best joys of his life; and the burning of an arm with a ruler as a proof of love did not seem to him senseless, he understood and was not surprised at it.
“Well, and is that all?” he asked.
“We are such friends, such friends! All that ruler business was just nonsense, but we are friends forever. She, if she loves anyone, does it for life, but I don’t understand that, I forget quickly.”
“Well, what then?”
“Well, she loves me and you like that.”
Natásha suddenly flushed.
“Why, you remember before you went away?… Well, she says you are to forget all that…. She says: ‘I shall love him always, but let him be free.’ Isn’t that lovely and noble! Yes, very noble? Isn’t it?” asked Natásha, so seriously and excitedly that it was evident that what she was now saying she had talked of before, with tears.
Rostóv became thoughtful.
“I never go back on my word,” he said. “Besides, Sónya is so charming that only a fool would renounce such happiness.”
“No, no!” cried Natásha, “she and I have already talked it over. We knew you’d say so. But it won’t do, because you see, if you say that—if you consider yourself bound by your promise—it will seem as if she had not meant it seriously. It makes it as if you were marrying her because you must, and that wouldn’t do at all.”
Rostóv saw that it had been well considered by them. Sónya had already struck him by her beauty on the preceding day. Today, when he had caught a glimpse of her, she seemed still more lovely. She was a charming girl of sixteen, evidently passionately in love with him (he did not doubt that for an instant). Why should he not love her now, and even marry her, Rostóv thought, but just now there were so many other pleasures and interests before him! “Yes, they have taken a wise decision,” he thought, “I must remain free.”
“Well then, that’s excellent,” said he. “We’ll talk it over later on. Oh, how glad I am to have you!”
“Well, and are you still true to Borís?” he continued.
“Oh, what nonsense!” cried Natásha, laughing. “I don’t think about him or anyone else, and I don’t want anything of the kind.”
“Dear me! Then what are you up to now?”
“Now?” repeated Natásha, and a happy smile lit up her face. “Have you seen Duport?”
“No.”
“Not seen Duport—the famous dancer? Well then, you won’t understand. That’s what I’m up to.”
Curving her arms, Natásha held out her skirts as dancers do, ran back a few steps, turned, cut a caper, brought her little feet sharply together, and made some steps on the very tips of her toes.
“See, I’m standing! See!” she said, but could not maintain herself on her toes any longer. “So that’s what I’m up to! I’ll never marry anyone, but will be a dancer. Only don’t tell anyone.”
Rostóv laughed so loud and merrily that Denísov, in his bedroom, felt envious and Natásha could not help joining in.
“No, but don’t you think it’s nice?” she kept repeating.
“Nice! And so you no longer wish to marry Borís?”
Natásha flared up. “I don’t want to marry anyone. And I’ll tell him so when I see him!”
“Dear me!” said Rostóv.
“But that’s all rubbish,” Natásha chattered on. “And is Denísov nice?” she asked.
“Yes, indeed!”
“Oh, well then, good-by: go and dress. Is he very terrible, Denísov?”
“Why terrible?” asked Nicholas. “No, Váska is a splendid fellow.”
“You call him Váska? That’s funny! And is he very nice?”
“Very.”
“Well then, be quick. We’ll all have breakfast together.”
And Natásha rose and went out of the room on tiptoe, like a ballet dancer, but smiling as only happy girls of fifteen can smile. When Rostóv met Sónya in the drawing room, he reddened. He did not know how to behave with her. The evening before, in the first happy moment of meeting, they had kissed each other, but today they felt it could not be done; he felt that everybody, including his mother and sisters, was looking inquiringly at him and watching to see how he would behave with her. He kissed her hand and addressed her not as but as . But their eyes met and said , and exchanged tender kisses. Her looks asked him to forgive her for having dared, by Natásha’s intermediacy, to remind him of his promise, and then thanked him for his love. His looks thanked her for offering him his freedom and told her that one way or another he would never cease to love her, for that would be impossible.
“How strange it is,” said Véra, selecting a moment when all were silent, “that Sónya and Nicholas now say to one another and meet like strangers.”
Véra’s remark was correct, as her remarks always were, but, like most of her observations, it made everyone feel uncomfortable, not only Sónya, Nicholas, and Natásha, but even the old countess, who—dreading this love affair which might hinder Nicholas from making a brilliant match—blushed like a girl.
Denísov, to Rostóv’s surprise, appeared in the drawing room with pomaded hair, perfumed, and in a new uniform, looking just as smart as he made himself when going into battle, and he was more amiable to the ladies and gentlemen than Rostóv had ever expected to see him.

  CHAPTER II


  On his return to Moscow from the army, Nicholas Rostóv was welcomed by his
  home circle as the best of sons, a hero, and their darling Nikólenka; by
  his relations as a charming, attractive, and polite young man; by his
  acquaintances as a handsome lieutenant of hussars, a good dancer, and one
  of the best matches in the city.
<br />
  The Rostóvs knew everybody in Moscow. The old count had money enough that
  year, as all his estates had been remortgaged, and so Nicholas, acquiring
  a trotter of his own, very stylish riding breeches of the latest cut, such
  as no one else yet had in Moscow, and boots of the latest fashion, with
  extremely pointed toes and small silver spurs, passed his time very gaily.
  After a short period of adapting himself to the old conditions of life,
  Nicholas found it very pleasant to be at home again. He felt that he had
  grown up and matured very much. His despair at failing in a Scripture
  examination, his borrowing money from Gavríl to pay a sleigh driver, his
  kissing Sónya on the sly&mdash;he now recalled all this as childishness he
  had left immeasurably behind. Now he was a lieutenant of hussars, in a
  jacket laced with silver, and wearing the Cross of St. George, awarded to
  soldiers for bravery in action, and in the company of well-known, elderly,
  and respected racing men was training a trotter of his own for a race. He
  knew a lady on one of the boulevards whom he visited of an evening. He led
  the mazurka at the Arkhárovs&rsquo; ball, talked about the war with Field
  Marshal Kámenski, visited the English Club, and was on intimate terms with
  a colonel of forty to whom Denísov had introduced him.
<br />
  His passion for the Emperor had cooled somewhat in Moscow. But still, as
  he did not see him and had no opportunity of seeing him, he often spoke
  about him and about his love for him, letting it be understood that he had
  not told all and that there was something in his feelings for the Emperor
  not everyone could understand, and with his whole soul he shared the
  adoration then common in Moscow for the Emperor, who was spoken of as the
  &ldquo;angel incarnate.&rdquo;
 <br />
  During Rostóv&rsquo;s short stay in Moscow, before rejoining the army, he did
  not draw closer to Sónya, but rather drifted away from her. She was very
  pretty and sweet, and evidently deeply in love with him, but he was at the
  period of youth when there seems so much to do that there is  for
  that sort of thing and a young man fears to bind himself and prizes his
  freedom which he needs for so many other things. When he thought of Sónya,
  during this stay in Moscow, he said to himself, &ldquo;Ah, there will be, and
  there are, many more such girls somewhere whom I do not yet know. There
  will be time enough to think about love when I want to, but now I have no
  time.&rdquo; Besides, it seemed to him that the society of women was rather
  derogatory to his manhood. He went to balls and into ladies&rsquo; society with
  an affectation of doing so against his will. The races, the English Club,
  sprees with Denísov, and visits to a certain house&mdash;that was another
  matter and quite the thing for a dashing young hussar!
<br />
  At the beginning of March, old Count Ilyá Rostóv was very busy arranging a
  dinner in honor of Prince Bagratión at the English Club.
<br />
  The count walked up and down the hall in his dressing gown, giving orders
  to the club steward and to the famous Feoktíst, the club&rsquo;s head cook,
  about asparagus, fresh cucumbers, strawberries, veal, and fish for this
  dinner. The count had been a member and on the committee of the club from
  the day it was founded. To him the club entrusted the arrangement of the
  festival in honor of Bagratión, for few men knew so well how to arrange a
  feast on an open-handed, hospitable scale, and still fewer men would be so
  well able and willing to make up out of their own resources what might be
  needed for the success of the fete. The club cook and the steward listened
  to the count&rsquo;s orders with pleased faces, for they knew that under no
  other management could they so easily extract a good profit for themselves
  from a dinner costing several thousand rubles.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well then, mind and have cocks&rsquo; comb in the turtle soup, you know!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Shall we have three cold dishes then?&rdquo; asked the cook.
<br />
  The count considered.
<br />
  &ldquo;We can&rsquo;t have less&mdash;yes, three... the mayonnaise, that&rsquo;s one,&rdquo; said
  he, bending down a finger.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then am I to order those large sterlets?&rdquo; asked the steward.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, it can&rsquo;t be helped if they won&rsquo;t take less. Ah, dear me! I was
  forgetting. We must have another entrée. Ah, goodness gracious!&rdquo; he
  clutched at his head. &ldquo;Who is going to get me the flowers? Dmítri! Eh,
  Dmítri! Gallop off to our Moscow estate,&rdquo; he said to the factotum who
  appeared at his call. &ldquo;Hurry off and tell Maksím, the gardener, to set the
  serfs to work. Say that everything out of the hothouses must be brought
  here well wrapped up in felt. I must have two hundred pots here on
  Friday.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Having given several more orders, he was about to go to his &ldquo;little
  countess&rdquo; to have a rest, but remembering something else of importance, he
  returned again, called back the cook and the club steward, and again began
  giving orders. A light footstep and the clinking of spurs were heard at
  the door, and the young count, handsome, rosy, with a dark little
  mustache, evidently rested and made sleeker by his easy life in Moscow,
  entered the room.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, my boy, my head&rsquo;s in a whirl!&rdquo; said the old man with a smile, as if
  he felt a little confused before his son. &ldquo;Now, if you would only help a
  bit! I must have singers too. I shall have my own orchestra, but shouldn&rsquo;t
  we get the gypsy singers as well? You military men like that sort of
  thing.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Really, Papa, I believe Prince Bagratión worried himself less before the
  battle of Schön Grabern than you do now,&rdquo; said his son with a smile.
<br />
  The old count pretended to be angry.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, you talk, but try it yourself!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And the count turned to the cook, who, with a shrewd and respectful
  expression, looked observantly and sympathetically at the father and son.
<br />
  &ldquo;What have the young people come to nowadays, eh, Feoktíst?&rdquo; said he.
  &ldquo;Laughing at us old fellows!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s so, your excellency, all they have to do is to eat a good dinner,
  but providing it and serving it all up, that&rsquo;s not their business!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s it, that&rsquo;s it!&rdquo; exclaimed the count, and gaily seizing his son by
  both hands, he cried, &ldquo;Now I&rsquo;ve got you, so take the sleigh and pair at
  once, and go to Bezúkhov&rsquo;s, and tell him &lsquo;Count Ilyá has sent you to ask
  for strawberries and fresh pineapples.&rsquo; We can&rsquo;t get them from anyone
  else. He&rsquo;s not there himself, so you&rsquo;ll have to go in and ask the
  princesses; and from there go on to the Rasgulyáy&mdash;the coachman
  Ipátka knows&mdash;and look up the gypsy Ilyúshka, the one who danced at
  Count Orlóv&rsquo;s, you remember, in a white Cossack coat, and bring him along
  to me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And am I to bring the gypsy girls along with him?&rdquo; asked Nicholas,
  laughing. &ldquo;Dear, dear!...&rdquo;
 <br />
  At that moment, with noiseless footsteps and with the businesslike,
  preoccupied, yet meekly Christian look which never left her face, Anna
  Mikháylovna entered the hall. Though she came upon the count in his
  dressing gown every day, he invariably became confused and begged her to
  excuse his costume.
<br />
  &ldquo;No matter at all, my dear count,&rdquo; she said, meekly closing her eyes. &ldquo;But
  I&rsquo;ll go to Bezúkhov&rsquo;s myself. Pierre has arrived, and now we shall get
  anything we want from his hothouses. I have to see him in any case. He has
  forwarded me a letter from Borís. Thank God, Borís is now on the staff.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The count was delighted at Anna Mikháylovna&rsquo;s taking upon herself one of
  his commissions and ordered the small closed carriage for her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Tell Bezúkhov to come. I&rsquo;ll put his name down. Is his wife with him?&rdquo; he
  asked.
<br />
  Anna Mikháylovna turned up her eyes, and profound sadness was depicted on
  her face.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, my dear friend, he is very unfortunate,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;If what we hear
  is true, it is dreadful. How little we dreamed of such a thing when we
  were rejoicing at his happiness! And such a lofty angelic soul as young
  Bezúkhov! Yes, I pity him from my heart, and shall try to give him what
  consolation I can.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Wh-what is the matter?&rdquo; asked both the young and old Rostóv.
<br />
  Anna Mikháylovna sighed deeply.
<br />
  &ldquo;Dólokhov, Mary Ivánovna&rsquo;s son,&rdquo; she said in a mysterious whisper, &ldquo;has
  compromised her completely, they say. Pierre took him up, invited him to
  his house in Petersburg, and now... she has come here and that daredevil
  after her!&rdquo; said Anna Mikháylovna, wishing to show her sympathy for
  Pierre, but by involuntary intonations and a half smile betraying her
  sympathy for the &ldquo;daredevil,&rdquo; as she called Dólokhov. &ldquo;They say Pierre is
  quite broken by his misfortune.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Dear, dear! But still tell him to come to the club&mdash;it will all blow
  over. It will be a tremendous banquet.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Next day, the third of March, soon after one o&rsquo;clock, two hundred and
  fifty members of the English Club and fifty guests were awaiting the guest
  of honor and hero of the Austrian campaign, Prince Bagratión, to dinner.
<br />
  On the first arrival of the news of the battle of Austerlitz, Moscow had
  been bewildered. At that time, the Russians were so used to victories that
  on receiving news of the defeat some would simply not believe it, while
  others sought some extraordinary explanation of so strange an event. In
  the English Club, where all who were distinguished, important, and well
  informed foregathered when the news began to arrive in December, nothing
  was said about the war and the last battle, as though all were in a
  conspiracy of silence. The men who set the tone in conversation&mdash;Count
  Rostopchín, Prince Yúri Dolgorúkov, Valúev, Count Markóv, and Prince
  Vyázemski&mdash;did not show themselves at the club, but met in private
  houses in intimate circles, and the Moscovites who took their opinions
  from others&mdash;Ilyá Rostóv among them&mdash;remained for a while
  without any definite opinion on the subject of the war and without
  leaders. The Moscovites felt that something was wrong and that to discuss
  the bad news was difficult, and so it was best to be silent. But after a
  while, just as a jury comes out of its room, the bigwigs who guided the
  club&rsquo;s opinion reappeared, and everybody began speaking clearly and
  definitely. Reasons were found for the incredible, unheard-of, and
  impossible event of a Russian defeat, everything became clear, and in all
  corners of Moscow the same things began to be said. These reasons were the
  treachery of the Austrians, a defective commissariat, the treachery of the
  Pole Przebyszéwski and of the Frenchman Langeron, Kutúzov&rsquo;s incapacity,
  and (it was whispered) the youth and inexperience of the sovereign, who
  had trusted worthless and insignificant people. But the army, the Russian
  army, everyone declared, was extraordinary and had achieved miracles of
  valor. The soldiers, officers, and generals were heroes. But the hero of
  heroes was Prince Bagratión, distinguished by his Schön Grabern affair and
  by the retreat from Austerlitz, where he alone had withdrawn his column
  unbroken and had all day beaten back an enemy force twice as numerous as
  his own. What also conduced to Bagratión&rsquo;s being selected as Moscow&rsquo;s hero
  was the fact that he had no connections in the city and was a stranger
  there. In his person, honor was shown to a simple fighting Russian soldier
  without connections and intrigues, and to one who was associated by
  memories of the Italian campaign with the name of Suvórov. Moreover,
  paying such honor to Bagratión was the best way of expressing disapproval
  and dislike of Kutúzov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Had there been no Bagratión, it would have been necessary to invent him,&rdquo;
   said the wit Shinshín, parodying the words of Voltaire. Kutúzov no one
  spoke of, except some who abused him in whispers, calling him a court
  weathercock and an old satyr.
<br />
  All Moscow repeated Prince Dolgorúkov&rsquo;s saying: &ldquo;If you go on modeling and
  modeling you must get smeared with clay,&rdquo; suggesting consolation for our
  defeat by the memory of former victories; and the words of Rostopchín,
  that French soldiers have to be incited to battle by highfalutin words,
  and Germans by logical arguments to show them that it is more dangerous to
  run away than to advance, but that Russian soldiers only need to be
  restrained and held back! On all sides, new and fresh anecdotes were heard
  of individual examples of heroism shown by our officers and men at
  Austerlitz. One had saved a standard, another had killed five Frenchmen, a
  third had loaded five cannon singlehanded. Berg was mentioned, by those
  who did not know him, as having, when wounded in the right hand, taken his
  sword in the left, and gone forward. Of Bolkónski, nothing was said, and
  only those who knew him intimately regretted that he had died so young,
  leaving a pregnant wife with his eccentric father.

  CHAPTER III


  On that third of March, all the rooms in the English Club were filled with
  a hum of conversation, like the hum of bees swarming in springtime. The
  members and guests of the club wandered hither and thither, sat, stood,
  met, and separated, some in uniform and some in evening dress, and a few
  here and there with powdered hair and in Russian . Powdered
  footmen, in livery with buckled shoes and smart stockings, stood at every
  door anxiously noting visitors&rsquo; every movement in order to offer their
  services. Most of those present were elderly, respected men with broad,
  self-confident faces, fat fingers, and resolute gestures and voices. This
  class of guests and members sat in certain habitual places and met in
  certain habitual groups. A minority of those present were casual guests&mdash;chiefly
  young men, among whom were Denísov, Rostóv, and Dólokhov&mdash;who was now
  again an officer in the Semënov regiment. The faces of these young people,
  especially those who were military men, bore that expression of
  condescending respect for their elders which seems to say to the older
  generation, &ldquo;We are prepared to respect and honor you, but all the same
  remember that the future belongs to us.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Nesvítski was there as an old member of the club. Pierre, who at his
  wife&rsquo;s command had let his hair grow and abandoned his spectacles, went
  about the rooms fashionably dressed but looking sad and dull. Here, as
  elsewhere, he was surrounded by an atmosphere of subservience to his
  wealth, and being in the habit of lording it over these people, he treated
  them with absent-minded contempt.
<br />
  By his age he should have belonged to the younger men, but by his wealth
  and connections he belonged to the groups of old and honored guests, and
  so he went from one group to another. Some of the most important old men
  were the center of groups which even strangers approached respectfully to
  hear the voices of well-known men. The largest circles formed round Count
  Rostopchín, Valúev, and Narýshkin. Rostopchín was describing how the
  Russians had been overwhelmed by flying Austrians and had had to force
  their way through them with bayonets.
<br />
  Valúev was confidentially telling that Uvárov had been sent from
  Petersburg to ascertain what Moscow was thinking about Austerlitz.
<br />
  In the third circle, Narýshkin was speaking of the meeting of the Austrian
  Council of War at which Suvórov crowed like a cock in reply to the
  nonsense talked by the Austrian generals. Shinshín, standing close by,
  tried to make a joke, saying that Kutúzov had evidently failed to learn
  from Suvórov even so simple a thing as the art of crowing like a cock, but
  the elder members glanced severely at the wit, making him feel that in
  that place and on that day, it was improper to speak so of Kutúzov.
<br />
  Count Ilyá Rostóv, hurried and preoccupied, went about in his soft boots
  between the dining and drawing rooms, hastily greeting the important and
  unimportant, all of whom he knew, as if they were all equals, while his
  eyes occasionally sought out his fine well-set-up young son, resting on
  him and winking joyfully at him. Young Rostóv stood at a window with
  Dólokhov, whose acquaintance he had lately made and highly valued. The old
  count came up to them and pressed Dólokhov&rsquo;s hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;Please come and visit us... you know my brave boy... been together out
  there... both playing the hero... Ah, Vasíli Ignátovich... How d&rsquo;ye do,
  old fellow?&rdquo; he said, turning to an old man who was passing, but before he
  had finished his greeting there was a general stir, and a footman who had
  run in announced, with a frightened face: &ldquo;He&rsquo;s arrived!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Bells rang, the stewards rushed forward, and&mdash;like rye shaken
  together in a shovel&mdash;the guests who had been scattered about in
  different rooms came together and crowded in the large drawing room by the
  door of the ballroom.
<br />
  Bagratión appeared in the doorway of the anteroom without hat or sword,
  which, in accord with the club custom, he had given up to the hall porter.
  He had no lambskin cap on his head, nor had he a loaded whip over his
  shoulder, as when Rostóv had seen him on the eve of the battle of
  Austerlitz, but wore a tight new uniform with Russian and foreign Orders,
  and the Star of St. George on his left breast. Evidently just before
  coming to the dinner he had had his hair and whiskers trimmed, which
  changed his appearance for the worse. There was something naïvely festive
  in his air, which, in conjunction with his firm and virile features, gave
  him a rather comical expression. Bekleshëv and Theodore Uvárov, who had
  arrived with him, paused at the doorway to allow him, as the guest of
  honor, to enter first. Bagratión was embarrassed, not wishing to avail
  himself of their courtesy, and this caused some delay at the doors, but
  after all he did at last enter first. He walked shyly and awkwardly over
  the parquet floor of the reception room, not knowing what to do with his
  hands; he was more accustomed to walk over a plowed field under fire, as
  he had done at the head of the Kursk regiment at Schön Grabern&mdash;and
  he would have found that easier. The committeemen met him at the first
  door and, expressing their delight at seeing such a highly honored guest,
  took possession of him as it were, without waiting for his reply,
  surrounded him, and led him to the drawing room. It was at first
  impossible to enter the drawing room door for the crowd of members and
  guests jostling one another and trying to get a good look at Bagratión
  over each other&rsquo;s shoulders, as if he were some rare animal. Count Ilyá
  Rostóv, laughing and repeating the words, &ldquo;Make way, dear boy! Make way,
  make way!&rdquo; pushed through the crowd more energetically than anyone, led
  the guests into the drawing room, and seated them on the center sofa. The
  bigwigs, the most respected members of the club, beset the new arrivals.
  Count Ilyá, again thrusting his way through the crowd, went out of the
  drawing room and reappeared a minute later with another committeeman,
  carrying a large silver salver which he presented to Prince Bagratión. On
  the salver lay some verses composed and printed in the hero&rsquo;s honor.
  Bagratión, on seeing the salver, glanced around in dismay, as though
  seeking help. But all eyes demanded that he should submit. Feeling himself
  in their power, he resolutely took the salver with both hands and looked
  sternly and reproachfully at the count who had presented it to him.
  Someone obligingly took the dish from Bagratión (or he would, it seemed,
  have held it till evening and have gone in to dinner with it) and drew his
  attention to the verses.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, I will read them, then!&rdquo; Bagratión seemed to say, and, fixing his
  weary eyes on the paper, began to read them with a fixed and serious
  expression. But the author himself took the verses and began reading them
  aloud. Bagratión bowed his head and listened:
<br />

Bring glory then to Alexander’s reign
And on the throne our Titus shield.
A dreaded foe be thou, kindhearted as a man,
A Rhipheus at home, a Caesar in the field!
E’en fortunate Napoleon
Knows by experience, now, Bagratión,
And dare not Herculean Russians trouble…
But before he had finished reading, a stentorian major-domo announced that dinner was ready! The door opened, and from the dining room came the resounding strains of the polonaise:
Conquest’s joyful thunder waken,
Triumph, valiant Russians, now!…
and Count Rostóv, glancing angrily at the author who went on reading his verses, bowed to Bagratión. Everyone rose, feeling that dinner was more important than verses, and Bagratión, again preceding all the rest, went in to dinner. He was seated in the place of honor between two Alexanders—Bekleshëv and Narýshkin—which was a significant allusion to the name of the sovereign. Three hundred persons took their seats in the dining room, according to their rank and importance: the more important nearer to the honored guest, as naturally as water flows deepest where the land lies lowest.
Just before dinner, Count Ilyá Rostóv presented his son to Bagratión, who recognized him and said a few words to him, disjointed and awkward, as were all the words he spoke that day, and Count Ilyá looked joyfully and proudly around while Bagratión spoke to his son.
Nicholas Rostóv, with Denísov and his new acquaintance, Dólokhov, sat almost at the middle of the table. Facing them sat Pierre, beside Prince Nesvítski. Count Ilyá Rostóv with the other members of the committee sat facing Bagratión and, as the very personification of Moscow hospitality, did the honors to the prince.
His efforts had not been in vain. The dinner, both the Lenten and the other fare, was splendid, yet he could not feel quite at ease till the end of the meal. He winked at the butler, whispered directions to the footmen, and awaited each expected dish with some anxiety. Everything was excellent. With the second course, a gigantic sterlet (at sight of which Ilyá Rostóv blushed with self-conscious pleasure), the footmen began popping corks and filling the champagne glasses. After the fish, which made a certain sensation, the count exchanged glances with the other committeemen. “There will be many toasts, it’s time to begin,” he whispered, and taking up his glass, he rose. All were silent, waiting for what he would say.
“To the health of our Sovereign, the Emperor!” he cried, and at the same moment his kindly eyes grew moist with tears of joy and enthusiasm. The band immediately struck up “Conquest’s joyful thunder waken…” All rose and cried “Hurrah!” Bagratión also rose and shouted “Hurrah!” in exactly the same voice in which he had shouted it on the field at Schön Grabern. Young Rostóv’s ecstatic voice could be heard above the three hundred others. He nearly wept. “To the health of our Sovereign, the Emperor!” he roared, “Hurrah!” and emptying his glass at one gulp he dashed it to the floor. Many followed his example, and the loud shouting continued for a long time. When the voices subsided, the footmen cleared away the broken glass and everybody sat down again, smiling at the noise they had made and exchanging remarks. The old count rose once more, glanced at a note lying beside his plate, and proposed a toast, “To the health of the hero of our last campaign, Prince Peter Ivánovich Bagratión!” and again his blue eyes grew moist. “Hurrah!” cried the three hundred voices again, but instead of the band a choir began singing a cantata composed by Paul Ivánovich Kutúzov:
Russians! O’er all barriers on!
Courage conquest guarantees;
Have we not Bagratión?
He brings foemen to their knees,… etc.
As soon as the singing was over, another and another toast was proposed and Count Ilyá Rostóv became more and more moved, more glass was smashed, and the shouting grew louder. They drank to Bekleshëv, Narýshkin, Uvárov, Dolgorúkov, Apráksin, Valúev, to the committee, to all the club members and to all the club guests, and finally to Count Ilyá Rostóv separately, as the organizer of the banquet. At that toast, the count took out his handkerchief and, covering his face, wept outright.

  CHAPTER IV


  Pierre sat opposite Dólokhov and Nicholas Rostóv. As usual, he ate and
  drank much, and eagerly. But those who knew him intimately noticed that
  some great change had come over him that day. He was silent all through
  dinner and looked about, blinking and scowling, or, with fixed eyes and a
  look of complete absent-mindedness, kept rubbing the bridge of his nose.
  His face was depressed and gloomy. He seemed to see and hear nothing of
  what was going on around him and to be absorbed by some depressing and
  unsolved problem.
<br />
  The unsolved problem that tormented him was caused by hints given by the
  princess, his cousin, at Moscow, concerning Dólokhov&rsquo;s intimacy with his
  wife, and by an anonymous letter he had received that morning, which in
  the mean jocular way common to anonymous letters said that he saw badly
  through his spectacles, but that his wife&rsquo;s connection with Dólokhov was a
  secret to no one but himself. Pierre absolutely disbelieved both the
  princess&rsquo; hints and the letter, but he feared now to look at Dólokhov, who
  was sitting opposite him. Every time he chanced to meet Dólokhov&rsquo;s
  handsome insolent eyes, Pierre felt something terrible and monstrous
  rising in his soul and turned quickly away. Involuntarily recalling his
  wife&rsquo;s past and her relations with Dólokhov, Pierre saw clearly that what
  was said in the letter might be true, or might at least seem to be true
  had it not referred to . He involuntarily remembered how Dólokhov,
  who had fully recovered his former position after the campaign, had
  returned to Petersburg and come to him. Availing himself of his friendly
  relations with Pierre as a boon companion, Dólokhov had come straight to
  his house, and Pierre had put him up and lent him money. Pierre recalled
  how Hélène had smilingly expressed disapproval of Dólokhov&rsquo;s living at
  their house, and how cynically Dólokhov had praised his wife&rsquo;s beauty to
  him and from that time till they came to Moscow had not left them for a
  day.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, he is very handsome,&rdquo; thought Pierre, &ldquo;and I know him. It would be
  particularly pleasant to him to dishonor my name and ridicule me, just
  because I have exerted myself on his behalf, befriended him, and helped
  him. I know and understand what a spice that would add to the pleasure of
  deceiving me, if it really were true. Yes, if it were true, but I do not
  believe it. I have no right to, and can&rsquo;t, believe it.&rdquo; He remembered the
  expression Dólokhov&rsquo;s face assumed in his moments of cruelty, as when
  tying the policeman to the bear and dropping them into the water, or when
  he challenged a man to a duel without any reason, or shot a post-boy&rsquo;s
  horse with a pistol. That expression was often on Dólokhov&rsquo;s face when
  looking at him. &ldquo;Yes, he is a bully,&rdquo; thought Pierre, &ldquo;to kill a man means
  nothing to him. It must seem to him that everyone is afraid of him, and
  that must please him. He must think that I, too, am afraid of him&mdash;and
  in fact I am afraid of him,&rdquo; he thought, and again he felt something
  terrible and monstrous rising in his soul. Dólokhov, Denísov, and Rostóv
  were now sitting opposite Pierre and seemed very gay. Rostóv was talking
  merrily to his two friends, one of whom was a dashing hussar and the other
  a notorious duelist and rake, and every now and then he glanced ironically
  at Pierre, whose preoccupied, absent-minded, and massive figure was a very
  noticeable one at the dinner. Rostóv looked inimically at Pierre, first
  because Pierre appeared to his hussar eyes as a rich civilian, the husband
  of a beauty, and in a word&mdash;an old woman; and secondly because Pierre
  in his preoccupation and absent-mindedness had not recognized Rostóv and
  had not responded to his greeting. When the Emperor&rsquo;s health was drunk,
  Pierre, lost in thought, did not rise or lift his glass.
<br />
  &ldquo;What are you about?&rdquo; shouted Rostóv, looking at him in an ecstasy of
  exasperation. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you hear it&rsquo;s His Majesty the Emperor&rsquo;s health?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre sighed, rose submissively, emptied his glass, and, waiting till all
  were seated again, turned with his kindly smile to Rostóv.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, I didn&rsquo;t recognize you!&rdquo; he said. But Rostóv was otherwise engaged;
  he was shouting &ldquo;Hurrah!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you renew the acquaintance?&rdquo; said Dólokhov to Rostóv.
<br />
  &ldquo;Confound him, he&rsquo;s a fool!&rdquo; said Rostóv.
<br />
  &ldquo;One should make up to the husbands of pretty women,&rdquo; said Denísov.
<br />
  Pierre did not catch what they were saying, but knew they were talking
  about him. He reddened and turned away.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, now to the health of handsome women!&rdquo; said Dólokhov, and with a
  serious expression, but with a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth,
  he turned with his glass to Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;Here&rsquo;s to the health of lovely women, Peterkin&mdash;and their lovers!&rdquo;
   he added.
<br />
  Pierre, with downcast eyes, drank out of his glass without looking at
  Dólokhov or answering him. The footman, who was distributing leaflets with
  Kutúzov&rsquo;s cantata, laid one before Pierre as one of the principal guests.
  He was just going to take it when Dólokhov, leaning across, snatched it
  from his hand and began reading it. Pierre looked at Dólokhov and his eyes
  dropped, the something terrible and monstrous that had tormented him all
  dinnertime rose and took possession of him. He leaned his whole massive
  body across the table.
<br />
  &ldquo;How dare you take it?&rdquo; he shouted.
<br />
  Hearing that cry and seeing to whom it was addressed, Nesvítski and the
  neighbor on his right quickly turned in alarm to Bezúkhov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t! Don&rsquo;t! What are you about?&rdquo; whispered their frightened voices.
<br />
  Dólokhov looked at Pierre with clear, mirthful, cruel eyes, and that smile
  of his which seemed to say, &ldquo;Ah! This is what I like!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You shan&rsquo;t have it!&rdquo; he said distinctly.
<br />
  Pale, with quivering lips, Pierre snatched the copy.
<br />
  &ldquo;You...! you... scoundrel! I challenge you!&rdquo; he ejaculated, and, pushing
  back his chair, he rose from the table.
<br />
  At the very instant he did this and uttered those words, Pierre felt that
  the question of his wife&rsquo;s guilt which had been tormenting him the whole
  day was finally and indubitably answered in the affirmative. He hated her
  and was forever sundered from her. Despite Denísov&rsquo;s request that he would
  take no part in the matter, Rostóv agreed to be Dólokhov&rsquo;s second, and
  after dinner he discussed the arrangements for the duel with Nesvítski,
  Bezúkhov&rsquo;s second. Pierre went home, but Rostóv with Dólokhov and Denísov
  stayed on at the club till late, listening to the gypsies and other
  singers.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well then, till tomorrow at Sokólniki,&rdquo; said Dólokhov, as he took leave
  of Rostóv in the club porch.
<br />
  &ldquo;And do you feel quite calm?&rdquo; Rostóv asked.
<br />
  Dólokhov paused.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, you see, I&rsquo;ll tell you the whole secret of dueling in two words. If
  you are going to fight a duel, and you make a will and write affectionate
  letters to your parents, and if you think you may be killed, you are a
  fool and are lost for certain. But go with the firm intention of killing
  your man as quickly and surely as possible, and then all will be right, as
  our bear huntsman at Kostromá used to tell me. &lsquo;Everyone fears a bear,&rsquo; he
  says, &lsquo;but when you see one your fear&rsquo;s all gone, and your only thought is
  not to let him get away!&rsquo; And that&rsquo;s how it is with me. .&rdquo; *
<br />
* Till tomorrow, my dear fellow.

Next day, at eight in the morning, Pierre and Nesvítski drove to the Sokólniki forest and found Dólokhov, Denísov, and Rostóv already there. Pierre had the air of a man preoccupied with considerations which had no connection with the matter in hand. His haggard face was yellow. He had evidently not slept that night. He looked about distractedly and screwed up his eyes as if dazzled by the sun. He was entirely absorbed by two considerations: his wife’s guilt, of which after his sleepless night he had not the slightest doubt, and the guiltlessness of Dólokhov, who had no reason to preserve the honor of a man who was nothing to him…. “I should perhaps have done the same thing in his place,” thought Pierre. “It’s even certain that I should have done the same, then why this duel, this murder? Either I shall kill him, or he will hit me in the head, or elbow, or knee. Can’t I go away from here, run away, bury myself somewhere?” passed through his mind. But just at moments when such thoughts occurred to him, he would ask in a particularly calm and absent-minded way, which inspired the respect of the onlookers, “Will it be long? Are things ready?”
When all was ready, the sabers stuck in the snow to mark the barriers, and the pistols loaded, Nesvítski went up to Pierre.
“I should not be doing my duty, Count,” he said in timid tones, “and should not justify your confidence and the honor you have done me in choosing me for your second, if at this grave, this very grave, moment I did not tell you the whole truth. I think there is no sufficient ground for this affair, or for blood to be shed over it…. You were not right, not quite in the right, you were impetuous…”
“Oh yes, it is horribly stupid,” said Pierre.
“Then allow me to express your regrets, and I am sure your opponent will accept them,” said Nesvítski (who like the others concerned in the affair, and like everyone in similar cases, did not yet believe that the affair had come to an actual duel). “You know, Count, it is much more honorable to admit one’s mistake than to let matters become irreparable. There was no insult on either side. Allow me to convey….”
“No! What is there to talk about?” said Pierre. “It’s all the same…. Is everything ready?” he added. “Only tell me where to go and where to shoot,” he said with an unnaturally gentle smile.
He took the pistol in his hand and began asking about the working of the trigger, as he had not before held a pistol in his hand—a fact that he did not wish to confess.
“Oh yes, like that, I know, I only forgot,” said he.
“No apologies, none whatever,” said Dólokhov to Denísov (who on his side had been attempting a reconciliation), and he also went up to the appointed place.
The spot chosen for the duel was some eighty paces from the road, where the sleighs had been left, in a small clearing in the pine forest covered with melting snow, the frost having begun to break up during the last few days. The antagonists stood forty paces apart at the farther edge of the clearing. The seconds, measuring the paces, left tracks in the deep wet snow between the place where they had been standing and Nesvítski’s and Dólokhov’s sabers, which were stuck into the ground ten paces apart to mark the barrier. It was thawing and misty; at forty paces’ distance nothing could be seen. For three minutes all had been ready, but they still delayed and all were silent.

  CHAPTER V


  &ldquo;Well, begin!&rdquo; said Dólokhov.
<br />
  &ldquo;All right,&rdquo; said Pierre, still smiling in the same way. A feeling of
  dread was in the air. It was evident that the affair so lightly begun
  could no longer be averted but was taking its course independently of
  men&rsquo;s will.
<br />
  Denísov first went to the barrier and announced: &ldquo;As the adve&rsquo;sawies have
  wefused a weconciliation, please pwoceed. Take your pistols, and at the
  word  begin to advance.
<br />
  &ldquo;O-ne! T-wo! Thwee!&rdquo; he shouted angrily and stepped aside.
<br />
  The combatants advanced along the trodden tracks, nearer and nearer to one
  another, beginning to see one another through the mist. They had the right
  to fire when they liked as they approached the barrier. Dólokhov walked
  slowly without raising his pistol, looking intently with his bright,
  sparkling blue eyes into his antagonist&rsquo;s face. His mouth wore its usual
  semblance of a smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;So I can fire when I like!&rdquo; said Pierre, and at the word &ldquo;three,&rdquo; he went
  quickly forward, missing the trodden path and stepping into the deep snow.
  He held the pistol in his right hand at arm&rsquo;s length, apparently afraid of
  shooting himself with it. His left hand he held carefully back, because he
  wished to support his right hand with it and knew he must not do so.
  Having advanced six paces and strayed off the track into the snow, Pierre
  looked down at his feet, then quickly glanced at Dólokhov and, bending his
  finger as he had been shown, fired. Not at all expecting so loud a report,
  Pierre shuddered at the sound and then, smiling at his own sensations,
  stood still. The smoke, rendered denser by the mist, prevented him from
  seeing anything for an instant, but there was no second report as he had
  expected. He only heard Dólokhov&rsquo;s hurried steps, and his figure came in
  view through the smoke. He was pressing one hand to his left side, while
  the other clutched his drooping pistol. His face was pale. Rostóv ran
  toward him and said something.
<br />
  &ldquo;No-o-o!&rdquo; muttered Dólokhov through his teeth, &ldquo;no, it&rsquo;s not over.&rdquo; And
  after stumbling a few staggering steps right up to the saber, he sank on
  the snow beside it. His left hand was bloody; he wiped it on his coat and
  supported himself with it. His frowning face was pallid and quivered.
<br />
  &ldquo;Plea...&rdquo; began Dólokhov, but could not at first pronounce the word.
<br />
  &ldquo;Please,&rdquo; he uttered with an effort.
<br />
  Pierre, hardly restraining his sobs, began running toward Dólokhov and was
  about to cross the space between the barriers, when Dólokhov cried:
<br />
  &ldquo;To your barrier!&rdquo; and Pierre, grasping what was meant, stopped by his
  saber. Only ten paces divided them. Dólokhov lowered his head to the snow,
  greedily bit at it, again raised his head, adjusted himself, drew in his
  legs and sat up, seeking a firm center of gravity. He sucked and swallowed
  the cold snow, his lips quivered but his eyes, still smiling, glittered
  with effort and exasperation as he mustered his remaining strength. He
  raised his pistol and aimed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sideways! Cover yourself with your pistol!&rdquo; ejaculated Nesvítski.
<br />
  &ldquo;Cover yourself!&rdquo; even Denísov cried to his adversary.
<br />
  Pierre, with a gentle smile of pity and remorse, his arms and legs
  helplessly spread out, stood with his broad chest directly facing Dólokhov
  and looked sorrowfully at him. Denísov, Rostóv, and Nesvítski closed their
  eyes. At the same instant they heard a report and Dólokhov&rsquo;s angry cry.
<br />
  &ldquo;Missed!&rdquo; shouted Dólokhov, and he lay helplessly, face downwards on the
  snow.
<br />
  Pierre clutched his temples, and turning round went into the forest,
  trampling through the deep snow, and muttering incoherent words:
<br />
  &ldquo;Folly... folly! Death... lies...&rdquo; he repeated, puckering his face.
<br />
  Nesvítski stopped him and took him home.
<br />
  Rostóv and Denísov drove away with the wounded Dólokhov.
<br />
  The latter lay silent in the sleigh with closed eyes and did not answer a
  word to the questions addressed to him. But on entering Moscow he suddenly
  came to and, lifting his head with an effort, took Rostóv, who was sitting
  beside him, by the hand. Rostóv was struck by the totally altered and
  unexpectedly rapturous and tender expression on Dólokhov&rsquo;s face.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well? How do you feel?&rdquo; he asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;Bad! But it&rsquo;s not that, my friend&mdash;&rdquo; said Dólokhov with a
  gasping voice. &ldquo;Where are we? In Moscow, I know. I don&rsquo;t matter, but I
  have killed her, killed... She won&rsquo;t get over it! She won&rsquo;t survive....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Who?&rdquo; asked Rostóv.
<br />
  &ldquo;My mother! My mother, my angel, my adored angel mother,&rdquo; and Dólokhov
  pressed Rostóv&rsquo;s hand and burst into tears.
<br />
  When he had become a little quieter, he explained to Rostóv that he was
  living with his mother, who, if she saw him dying, would not survive it.
  He implored Rostóv to go on and prepare her.
<br />
  Rostóv went on ahead to do what was asked, and to his great surprise
  learned that Dólokhov the brawler, Dólokhov the bully, lived in Moscow
  with an old mother and a hunchback sister, and was the most affectionate
  of sons and brothers.

  CHAPTER VI


  Pierre had of late rarely seen his wife alone. Both in Petersburg and in
  Moscow their house was always full of visitors. The night after the duel
  he did not go to his bedroom but, as he often did, remained in his
  father&rsquo;s room, that huge room in which Count Bezúkhov had died.
<br />
  He lay down on the sofa meaning to fall asleep and forget all that had
  happened to him, but could not do so. Such a storm of feelings, thoughts,
  and memories suddenly arose within him that he could not fall asleep, nor
  even remain in one place, but had to jump up and pace the room with rapid
  steps. Now he seemed to see her in the early days of their marriage, with
  bare shoulders and a languid, passionate look on her face, and then
  immediately he saw beside her Dólokhov&rsquo;s handsome, insolent, hard, and
  mocking face as he had seen it at the banquet, and then that same face
  pale, quivering, and suffering, as it had been when he reeled and sank on
  the snow.
<br />
  &ldquo;What has happened?&rdquo; he asked himself. &ldquo;I have killed her , yes,
  killed my wife&rsquo;s lover. Yes, that was it! And why? How did I come to do
  it?&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;Because you married her,&rdquo; answered an inner voice.
<br />
  &ldquo;But in what was I to blame?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;In marrying her without loving
  her; in deceiving yourself and her.&rdquo; And he vividly recalled that moment
  after supper at Prince Vasíli&rsquo;s, when he spoke those words he had found so
  difficult to utter: &ldquo;I love you.&rdquo; &ldquo;It all comes from that! Even then I
  felt it,&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;I felt then that it was not so, that I had no right
  to do it. And so it turns out.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He remembered his honeymoon and blushed at the recollection. Particularly
  vivid, humiliating, and shameful was the recollection of how one day soon
  after his marriage he came out of the bedroom into his study a little
  before noon in his silk dressing gown and found his head steward there,
  who, bowing respectfully, looked into his face and at his dressing gown
  and smiled slightly, as if expressing respectful understanding of his
  employer&rsquo;s happiness.
<br />
  &ldquo;But how often I have felt proud of her, proud of her majestic beauty and
  social tact,&rdquo; thought he; &ldquo;been proud of my house, in which she received
  all Petersburg, proud of her unapproachability and beauty. So this is what
  I was proud of! I then thought that I did not understand her. How often
  when considering her character I have told myself that I was to blame for
  not understanding her, for not understanding that constant composure and
  complacency and lack of all interests or desires, and the whole secret
  lies in the terrible truth that she is a depraved woman. Now I have spoken
  that terrible word to myself all has become clear.
<br />
  &ldquo;Anatole used to come to borrow money from her and used to kiss her naked
  shoulders. She did not give him the money, but let herself be kissed. Her
  father in jest tried to rouse her jealousy, and she replied with a calm
  smile that she was not so stupid as to be jealous: &lsquo;Let him do what he
  pleases,&rsquo; she used to say of me. One day I asked her if she felt any
  symptoms of pregnancy. She laughed contemptuously and said she was not a
  fool to want to have children, and that she was not going to have any
  children by .&rdquo;
 <br />
  Then he recalled the coarseness and bluntness of her thoughts and the
  vulgarity of the expressions that were natural to her, though she had been
  brought up in the most aristocratic circles.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not such a fool.... Just you try it on.... ,&rdquo; *
  she used to say. Often seeing the success she had with young and old men
  and women Pierre could not understand why he did not love her.
<br />
* &ldquo;You clear out of this.&rdquo;

“Yes, I never loved her,” said he to himself; “I knew she was a depraved woman,” he repeated, “but dared not admit it to myself. And now there’s Dólokhov sitting in the snow with a forced smile and perhaps dying, while meeting my remorse with some forced bravado!”
Pierre was one of those people who, in spite of an appearance of what is called weak character, do not seek a confidant in their troubles. He digested his sufferings alone.
“It is all, all her fault,” he said to himself; “but what of that? Why did I bind myself to her? Why did I say * to her, which was a lie, and worse than a lie? I am guilty and must endure… what? A slur on my name? A misfortune for life? Oh, that’s nonsense,” he thought. “The slur on my name and honor—that’s all apart from myself.”

* I love you.

“Louis XVI was executed because they said he was dishonorable and a criminal,” came into Pierre’s head, “and from their point of view they were right, as were those too who canonized him and died a martyr’s death for his sake. Then Robespierre was beheaded for being a despot. Who is right and who is wrong? No one! But if you are alive—live: tomorrow you’ll die as I might have died an hour ago. And is it worth tormenting oneself, when one has only a moment of life in comparison with eternity?”
But at the moment when he imagined himself calmed by such reflections, suddenly came into his mind as she was at the moments when he had most strongly expressed his insincere love for her, and he felt the blood rush to his heart and had again to get up and move about and break and tear whatever came to his hand. “Why did I tell her that ” he kept repeating to himself. And when he had said it for the tenth time, Molière’s words: * occurred to him, and he began to laugh at himself.

  * &ldquo;But what the devil was he doing in that galley?&rdquo;

In the night he called his valet and told him to pack up to go to Petersburg. He could not imagine how he could speak to her now. He resolved to go away next day and leave a letter informing her of his intention to part from her forever.
Next morning when the valet came into the room with his coffee, Pierre was lying asleep on the ottoman with an open book in his hand.
He woke up and looked round for a while with a startled expression, unable to realize where he was.
“The countess told me to inquire whether your excellency was at home,” said the valet.
But before Pierre could decide what answer he would send, the countess herself in a white satin dressing gown embroidered with silver and with simply dressed hair (two immense plaits twice round her lovely head like a coronet) entered the room, calm and majestic, except that there was a wrathful wrinkle on her rather prominent marble brow. With her imperturbable calm she did not begin to speak in front of the valet. She knew of the duel and had come to speak about it. She waited till the valet had set down the coffee things and left the room. Pierre looked at her timidly over his spectacles, and like a hare surrounded by hounds who lays back her ears and continues to crouch motionless before her enemies, he tried to continue reading. But feeling this to be senseless and impossible, he again glanced timidly at her. She did not sit down but looked at him with a contemptuous smile, waiting for the valet to go.
“Well, what’s this now? What have you been up to now, I should like to know?” she asked sternly.
“I? What have I…?” stammered Pierre.
“So it seems you’re a hero, eh? Come now, what was this duel about? What is it meant to prove? What? I ask you.”
Pierre turned over heavily on the ottoman and opened his mouth, but could not reply.
“If you won’t answer, I’ll tell you…” Hélène went on. “You believe everything you’re told. You were told…” Hélène laughed, “that Dólokhov was my lover,” she said in French with her coarse plainness of speech, uttering the word as casually as any other word, “and you believed it! Well, what have you proved? What does this duel prove? That you’re a fool, , but everybody knew that. What will be the result? That I shall be the laughingstock of all Moscow, that everyone will say that you, drunk and not knowing what you were about, challenged a man you are jealous of without cause.” Hélène raised her voice and became more and more excited, “A man who’s a better man than you in every way…”
“Hm… Hm…!” growled Pierre, frowning without looking at her, and not moving a muscle.
“And how could you believe he was my lover? Why? Because I like his company? If you were cleverer and more agreeable, I should prefer yours.”
“Don’t speak to me… I beg you,” muttered Pierre hoarsely.
“Why shouldn’t I speak? I can speak as I like, and I tell you plainly that there are not many wives with husbands such as you who would not have taken lovers (), but I have not done so,” said she.
Pierre wished to say something, looked at her with eyes whose strange expression she did not understand, and lay down again. He was suffering physically at that moment, there was a weight on his chest and he could not breathe. He knew that he must do something to put an end to this suffering, but what he wanted to do was too terrible.
“We had better separate,” he muttered in a broken voice.
“Separate? Very well, but only if you give me a fortune,” said Hélène. “Separate! That’s a thing to frighten me with!”
Pierre leaped up from the sofa and rushed staggering toward her.
“I’ll kill you!” he shouted, and seizing the marble top of a table with a strength he had never before felt, he made a step toward her brandishing the slab.
Hélène’s face became terrible, she shrieked and sprang aside. His father’s nature showed itself in Pierre. He felt the fascination and delight of frenzy. He flung down the slab, broke it, and swooping down on her with outstretched hands shouted, “Get out!” in such a terrible voice that the whole house heard it with horror. God knows what he would have done at that moment had Hélène not fled from the room.

A week later Pierre gave his wife full power to control all his estates in Great Russia, which formed the larger part of his property, and left for Petersburg alone.

  CHAPTER VII


  Two months had elapsed since the news of the battle of Austerlitz and the
  loss of Prince Andrew had reached Bald Hills, and in spite of the letters
  sent through the embassy and all the searches made, his body had not been
  found nor was he on the list of prisoners. What was worst of all for his
  relations was the fact that there was still a possibility of his having
  been picked up on the battlefield by the people of the place and that he
  might now be lying, recovering or dying, alone among strangers and unable
  to send news of himself. The gazettes from which the old prince first
  heard of the defeat at Austerlitz stated, as usual very briefly and
  vaguely, that after brilliant engagements the Russians had had to retreat
  and had made their withdrawal in perfect order. The old prince understood
  from this official report that our army had been defeated. A week after
  the gazette report of the battle of Austerlitz came a letter from Kutúzov
  informing the prince of the fate that had befallen his son.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your son,&rdquo; wrote Kutúzov, &ldquo;fell before my eyes, a standard in his hand
  and at the head of a regiment&mdash;he fell as a hero, worthy of his
  father and his fatherland. To the great regret of myself and of the whole
  army it is still uncertain whether he is alive or not. I comfort myself
  and you with the hope that your son is alive, for otherwise he would have
  been mentioned among the officers found on the field of battle, a list of
  whom has been sent me under flag of truce.&rdquo;
 <br />
  After receiving this news late in the evening, when he was alone in his
  study, the old prince went for his walk as usual next morning, but he was
  silent with his steward, the gardener, and the architect, and though he
  looked very grim he said nothing to anyone.
<br />
  When Princess Mary went to him at the usual hour he was working at his
  lathe and, as usual, did not look round at her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, Princess Mary!&rdquo; he said suddenly in an unnatural voice, throwing down
  his chisel. (The wheel continued to revolve by its own impetus, and
  Princess Mary long remembered the dying creak of that wheel, which merged
  in her memory with what followed.)
<br />
  She approached him, saw his face, and something gave way within her. Her
  eyes grew dim. By the expression of her father&rsquo;s face, not sad, not
  crushed, but angry and working unnaturally, she saw that hanging over her
  and about to crush her was some terrible misfortune, the worst in life,
  one she had not yet experienced, irreparable and incomprehensible&mdash;the
  death of one she loved.
<br />
  &ldquo;Father! Andrew!&rdquo;&mdash;said the ungraceful, awkward princess with such an
  indescribable charm of sorrow and self-forgetfulness that her father could
  not bear her look but turned away with a sob.
<br />
  &ldquo;Bad news! He&rsquo;s not among the prisoners nor among the killed! Kutúzov
  writes...&rdquo; and he screamed as piercingly as if he wished to drive the
  princess away by that scream... &ldquo;Killed!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The princess did not fall down or faint. She was already pale, but on
  hearing these words her face changed and something brightened in her
  beautiful, radiant eyes. It was as if joy&mdash;a supreme joy apart from
  the joys and sorrows of this world&mdash;overflowed the great grief within
  her. She forgot all fear of her father, went up to him, took his hand, and
  drawing him down put her arm round his thin, scraggy neck.
<br />
  &ldquo;Father,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;do not turn away from me, let us weep together.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Scoundrels! Blackguards!&rdquo; shrieked the old man, turning his face away
  from her. &ldquo;Destroying the army, destroying the men! And why? Go, go and
  tell Lise.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The princess sank helplessly into an armchair beside her father and wept.
  She saw her brother now as he had been at the moment when he took leave of
  her and of Lise, his look tender yet proud. She saw him tender and amused
  as he was when he put on the little icon. &ldquo;Did he believe? Had he repented
  of his unbelief? Was he now there? There in the realms of eternal peace
  and blessedness?&rdquo; she thought.
<br />
  &ldquo;Father, tell me how it happened,&rdquo; she asked through her tears.
<br />
  &ldquo;Go! Go! Killed in battle, where the best of Russian men and Russia&rsquo;s
  glory were led to destruction. Go, Princess Mary. Go and tell Lise. I will
  follow.&rdquo;
 <br />
  When Princess Mary returned from her father, the little princess sat
  working and looked up with that curious expression of inner, happy calm
  peculiar to pregnant women. It was evident that her eyes did not see
  Princess Mary but were looking within... into herself... at something
  joyful and mysterious taking place within her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mary,&rdquo; she said, moving away from the embroidery frame and lying back,
  &ldquo;give me your hand.&rdquo; She took her sister-in-law&rsquo;s hand and held it below
  her waist.
<br />
  Her eyes were smiling expectantly, her downy lip rose and remained lifted
  in childlike happiness.
<br />
  Princess Mary knelt down before her and hid her face in the folds of her
  sister-in-law&rsquo;s dress.
<br />
  &ldquo;There, there! Do you feel it? I feel so strange. And do you know, Mary, I
  am going to love him very much,&rdquo; said Lise, looking with bright and happy
  eyes at her sister-in-law.
<br />
  Princess Mary could not lift her head, she was weeping.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is the matter, Mary?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Nothing... only I feel sad... sad about Andrew,&rdquo; she said, wiping away
  her tears on her sister-in-law&rsquo;s knee.
<br />
  Several times in the course of the morning Princess Mary began trying to
  prepare her sister-in-law, and every time began to cry. Unobservant as was
  the little princess, these tears, the cause of which she did not
  understand, agitated her. She said nothing but looked about uneasily as if
  in search of something. Before dinner the old prince, of whom she was
  always afraid, came into her room with a peculiarly restless and malign
  expression and went out again without saying a word. She looked at
  Princess Mary, then sat thinking for a while with that expression of
  attention to something within her that is only seen in pregnant women, and
  suddenly began to cry.
<br />
  &ldquo;Has anything come from Andrew?&rdquo; she asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, you know it&rsquo;s too soon for news. But my father is anxious and I feel
  afraid.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;So there&rsquo;s nothing?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; answered Princess Mary, looking firmly with her radiant eyes at
  her sister-in-law.
<br />
  She had determined not to tell her and persuaded her father to hide the
  terrible news from her till after her confinement, which was expected
  within a few days. Princess Mary and the old prince each bore and hid
  their grief in their own way. The old prince would not cherish any hope:
  he made up his mind that Prince Andrew had been killed, and though he sent
  an official to Austria to seek for traces of his son, he ordered a
  monument from Moscow which he intended to erect in his own garden to his
  memory, and he told everybody that his son had been killed. He tried not
  to change his former way of life, but his strength failed him. He walked
  less, ate less, slept less, and became weaker every day. Princess Mary
  hoped. She prayed for her brother as living and was always awaiting news
  of his return.

  CHAPTER VIII


  &ldquo;Dearest,&rdquo; said the little princess after breakfast on the morning of the
  nineteenth March, and her downy little lip rose from old habit, but as
  sorrow was manifest in every smile, the sound of every word, and even
  every footstep in that house since the terrible news had come, so now the
  smile of the little princess&mdash;influenced by the general mood though
  without knowing its cause&mdash;was such as to remind one still more of
  the general sorrow.
<br />
  &ldquo;Dearest, I&rsquo;m afraid this morning&rsquo;s  *&mdash;as Fóka the cook
  calls it&mdash;has disagreed with me.&rdquo;
 <br />
* Frühstück: breakfast.

“What is the matter with you, my darling? You look pale. Oh, you are very pale!” said Princess Mary in alarm, running with her soft, ponderous steps up to her sister-in-law.
“Your excellency, should not Mary Bogdánovna be sent for?” said one of the maids who was present. (Mary Bogdánovna was a midwife from the neighboring town, who had been at Bald Hills for the last fortnight.)
“Oh yes,” assented Princess Mary, “perhaps that’s it. I’ll go. Courage, my angel.” She kissed Lise and was about to leave the room.
“Oh, no, no!” And besides the pallor and the physical suffering on the little princess’ face, an expression of childish fear of inevitable pain showed itself.
“No, it’s only indigestion?… Say it’s only indigestion, say so, Mary! Say…” And the little princess began to cry capriciously like a suffering child and to wring her little hands even with some affectation. Princess Mary ran out of the room to fetch Mary Bogdánovna.
“ Oh!” she heard as she left the room.
The midwife was already on her way to meet her, rubbing her small, plump white hands with an air of calm importance.
“Mary Bogdánovna, I think it’s beginning!” said Princess Mary looking at the midwife with wide-open eyes of alarm.
“Well, the Lord be thanked, Princess,” said Mary Bogdánovna, not hastening her steps. “You young ladies should not know anything about it.”
“But how is it the doctor from Moscow is not here yet?” said the princess. (In accordance with Lise’s and Prince Andrew’s wishes they had sent in good time to Moscow for a doctor and were expecting him at any moment.)
“No matter, Princess, don’t be alarmed,” said Mary Bogdánovna. “We’ll manage very well without a doctor.”
Five minutes later Princess Mary from her room heard something heavy being carried by. She looked out. The men servants were carrying the large leather sofa from Prince Andrew’s study into the bedroom. On their faces was a quiet and solemn look.
Princess Mary sat alone in her room listening to the sounds in the house, now and then opening her door when someone passed and watching what was going on in the passage. Some women passing with quiet steps in and out of the bedroom glanced at the princess and turned away. She did not venture to ask any questions, and shut the door again, now sitting down in her easy chair, now taking her prayer book, now kneeling before the icon stand. To her surprise and distress she found that her prayers did not calm her excitement. Suddenly her door opened softly and her old nurse, Praskóvya Sávishna, who hardly ever came to that room as the old prince had forbidden it, appeared on the threshold with a shawl round her head.
“I’ve come to sit with you a bit, Másha,” said the nurse, “and here I’ve brought the prince’s wedding candles to light before his saint, my angel,” she said with a sigh.
“Oh, nurse, I’m so glad!”
“God is merciful, birdie.”
The nurse lit the gilt candles before the icons and sat down by the door with her knitting. Princess Mary took a book and began reading. Only when footsteps or voices were heard did they look at one another, the princess anxious and inquiring, the nurse encouraging. Everyone in the house was dominated by the same feeling that Princess Mary experienced as she sat in her room. But owing to the superstition that the fewer the people who know of it the less a woman in travail suffers, everyone tried to pretend not to know; no one spoke of it, but apart from the ordinary staid and respectful good manners habitual in the prince’s household, a common anxiety, a softening of the heart, and a consciousness that something great and mysterious was being accomplished at that moment made itself felt.
There was no laughter in the maids’ large hall. In the men servants’ hall all sat waiting, silently and alert. In the outlying serfs’ quarters torches and candles were burning and no one slept. The old prince, stepping on his heels, paced up and down his study and sent Tíkhon to ask Mary Bogdánovna what news.—“Say only that ‘the prince told me to ask,’ and come and tell me her answer.”
“Inform the prince that labor has begun,” said Mary Bogdánovna, giving the messenger a significant look.
Tíkhon went and told the prince.
“Very good!” said the prince closing the door behind him, and Tíkhon did not hear the slightest sound from the study after that.
After a while he re-entered it as if to snuff the candles, and, seeing the prince was lying on the sofa, looked at him, noticed his perturbed face, shook his head, and going up to him silently kissed him on the shoulder and left the room without snuffing the candles or saying why he had entered. The most solemn mystery in the world continued its course. Evening passed, night came, and the feeling of suspense and softening of heart in the presence of the unfathomable did not lessen but increased. No one slept.
It was one of those March nights when winter seems to wish to resume its sway and scatters its last snows and storms with desperate fury. A relay of horses had been sent up the highroad to meet the German doctor from Moscow who was expected every moment, and men on horseback with lanterns were sent to the crossroads to guide him over the country road with its hollows and snow-covered pools of water.
Princess Mary had long since put aside her book: she sat silent, her luminous eyes fixed on her nurse’s wrinkled face (every line of which she knew so well), on the lock of gray hair that escaped from under the kerchief, and the loose skin that hung under her chin.
Nurse Sávishna, knitting in hand, was telling in low tones, scarcely hearing or understanding her own words, what she had told hundreds of times before: how the late princess had given birth to Princess Mary in Kishenëv with only a Moldavian peasant woman to help instead of a midwife.
“God is merciful, doctors are never needed,” she said.
Suddenly a gust of wind beat violently against the casement of the window, from which the double frame had been removed (by order of the prince, one window frame was removed in each room as soon as the larks returned), and, forcing open a loosely closed latch, set the damask curtain flapping and blew out the candle with its chill, snowy draft. Princess Mary shuddered; her nurse, putting down the stocking she was knitting, went to the window and leaning out tried to catch the open casement. The cold wind flapped the ends of her kerchief and her loose locks of gray hair.
“Princess, my dear, there’s someone driving up the avenue!” she said, holding the casement and not closing it. “With lanterns. Most likely the doctor.”
“Oh, my God! thank God!” said Princess Mary. “I must go and meet him, he does not know Russian.”
Princess Mary threw a shawl over her head and ran to meet the newcomer. As she was crossing the anteroom she saw through the window a carriage with lanterns, standing at the entrance. She went out on the stairs. On a banister post stood a tallow candle which guttered in the draft. On the landing below, Philip, the footman, stood looking scared and holding another candle. Still lower, beyond the turn of the staircase, one could hear the footstep of someone in thick felt boots, and a voice that seemed familiar to Princess Mary was saying something.
“Thank God!” said the voice. “And Father?”
“Gone to bed,” replied the voice of Demyán the house steward, who was downstairs.
Then the voice said something more, Demyán replied, and the steps in the felt boots approached the unseen bend of the staircase more rapidly.
“It’s Andrew!” thought Princess Mary. “No it can’t be, that would be too extraordinary,” and at the very moment she thought this, the face and figure of Prince Andrew, in a fur cloak the deep collar of which covered with snow, appeared on the landing where the footman stood with the candle. Yes, it was he, pale, thin, with a changed and strangely softened but agitated expression on his face. He came up the stairs and embraced his sister.
“You did not get my letter?” he asked, and not waiting for a reply—which he would not have received, for the princess was unable to speak—he turned back, rapidly mounted the stairs again with the doctor who had entered the hall after him (they had met at the last post station), and again embraced his sister.
“What a strange fate, Másha darling!” And having taken off his cloak and felt boots, he went to the little princess’ apartment.

  CHAPTER IX


  The little princess lay supported by pillows, with a white cap on her head
  (the pains had just left her). Strands of her black hair lay round her
  inflamed and perspiring cheeks, her charming rosy mouth with its downy lip
  was open and she was smiling joyfully. Prince Andrew entered and paused
  facing her at the foot of the sofa on which she was lying. Her glittering
  eyes, filled with childlike fear and excitement, rested on him without
  changing their expression. &ldquo;I love you all and have done no harm to
  anyone; why must I suffer so? Help me!&rdquo; her look seemed to say. She saw
  her husband, but did not realize the significance of his appearance before
  her now. Prince Andrew went round the sofa and kissed her forehead.
<br />
  &ldquo;My darling!&rdquo; he said&mdash;a word he had never used to her before. &ldquo;God
  is merciful....&rdquo;
 <br />
  She looked at him inquiringly and with childlike reproach.
<br />
  &ldquo;I expected help from you and I get none, none from you either!&rdquo; said her
  eyes. She was not surprised at his having come; she did not realize that
  he had come. His coming had nothing to do with her sufferings or with
  their relief. The pangs began again and Mary Bogdánovna advised Prince
  Andrew to leave the room.
<br />
  The doctor entered. Prince Andrew went out and, meeting Princess Mary,
  again joined her. They began talking in whispers, but their talk broke off
  at every moment. They waited and listened.
<br />
  &ldquo;Go, dear,&rdquo; said Princess Mary.
<br />
  Prince Andrew went again to his wife and sat waiting in the room next to
  hers. A woman came from the bedroom with a frightened face and became
  confused when she saw Prince Andrew. He covered his face with his hands
  and remained so for some minutes. Piteous, helpless, animal moans came
  through the door. Prince Andrew got up, went to the door, and tried to
  open it. Someone was holding it shut.
<br />
  &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t come in! You can&rsquo;t!&rdquo; said a terrified voice from within.
<br />
  He began pacing the room. The screaming ceased, and a few more seconds
  went by. Then suddenly a terrible shriek&mdash;it could not be hers, she
  could not scream like that&mdash;came from the bedroom. Prince Andrew ran
  to the door; the scream ceased and he heard the wail of an infant.
<br />
  &ldquo;What have they taken a baby in there for?&rdquo; thought Prince Andrew in the
  first second. &ldquo;A baby? What baby...? Why is there a baby there? Or is the
  baby born?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Then suddenly he realized the joyful significance of that wail; tears
  choked him, and leaning his elbows on the window sill he began to cry,
  sobbing like a child. The door opened. The doctor with his shirt sleeves
  tucked up, without a coat, pale and with a trembling jaw, came out of the
  room. Prince Andrew turned to him, but the doctor gave him a bewildered
  look and passed by without a word. A woman rushed out and seeing Prince
  Andrew stopped, hesitating on the threshold. He went into his wife&rsquo;s room.
  She was lying dead, in the same position he had seen her in five minutes
  before and, despite the fixed eyes and the pallor of the cheeks, the same
  expression was on her charming childlike face with its upper lip covered
  with tiny black hair.
<br />
  &ldquo;I love you all, and have done no harm to anyone; and what have you done
  to me?&rdquo;&mdash;said her charming, pathetic, dead face.
<br />
  In a corner of the room something red and tiny gave a grunt and squealed
  in Mary Bogdánovna&rsquo;s trembling white hands.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  Two hours later Prince Andrew, stepping softly, went into his father&rsquo;s
  room. The old man already knew everything. He was standing close to the
  door and as soon as it opened his rough old arms closed like a vise round
  his son&rsquo;s neck, and without a word he began to sob like a child.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  Three days later the little princess was buried, and Prince Andrew went up
  the steps to where the coffin stood, to give her the farewell kiss. And
  there in the coffin was the same face, though with closed eyes. &ldquo;Ah, what
  have you done to me?&rdquo; it still seemed to say, and Prince Andrew felt that
  something gave way in his soul and that he was guilty of a sin he could
  neither remedy nor forget. He could not weep. The old man too came up and
  kissed the waxen little hands that lay quietly crossed one on the other on
  her breast, and to him, too, her face seemed to say: &ldquo;Ah, what have you
  done to me, and why?&rdquo; And at the sight the old man turned angrily away.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  Another five days passed, and then the young Prince Nicholas Andréevich
  was baptized. The wet nurse supported the coverlet with her chin, while
  the priest with a goose feather anointed the boy&rsquo;s little red and wrinkled
  soles and palms.
<br />
  His grandfather, who was his godfather, trembling and afraid of dropping
  him, carried the infant round the battered tin font and handed him over to
  the godmother, Princess Mary. Prince Andrew sat in another room, faint
  with fear lest the baby should be drowned in the font, and awaited the
  termination of the ceremony. He looked up joyfully at the baby when the
  nurse brought it to him and nodded approval when she told him that the wax
  with the baby&rsquo;s hair had not sunk in the font but had floated.

  CHAPTER X


  Rostóv&rsquo;s share in Dólokhov&rsquo;s duel with Bezúkhov was hushed up by the
  efforts of the old count, and instead of being degraded to the ranks as he
  expected he was appointed an adjutant to the governor general of Moscow.
  As a result he could not go to the country with the rest of the family,
  but was kept all summer in Moscow by his new duties. Dólokhov recovered,
  and Rostóv became very friendly with him during his convalescence.
  Dólokhov lay ill at his mother&rsquo;s who loved him passionately and tenderly,
  and old Mary Ivánovna, who had grown fond of Rostóv for his friendship to
  her Fédya, often talked to him about her son.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, Count,&rdquo; she would say, &ldquo;he is too noble and pure-souled for our
  present, depraved world. No one now loves virtue; it seems like a reproach
  to everyone. Now tell me, Count, was it right, was it honorable, of
  Bezúkhov? And Fédya, with his noble spirit, loved him and even now never
  says a word against him. Those pranks in Petersburg when they played some
  tricks on a policeman, didn&rsquo;t they do it together? And there! Bezúkhov got
  off scotfree, while Fédya had to bear the whole burden on his shoulders.
  Fancy what he had to go through! It&rsquo;s true he has been reinstated, but how
  could they fail to do that? I think there were not many such gallant sons
  of the fatherland out there as he. And now&mdash;this duel! Have these
  people no feeling, or honor? Knowing him to be an only son, to challenge
  him and shoot so straight! It&rsquo;s well God had mercy on us. And what was it
  for? Who doesn&rsquo;t have intrigues nowadays? Why, if he was so jealous, as I
  see things he should have shown it sooner, but he lets it go on for
  months. And then to call him out, reckoning on Fédya not fighting because
  he owed him money! What baseness! What meanness! I know you understand
  Fédya, my dear count; that, believe me, is why I am so fond of you. Few
  people do understand him. He is such a lofty, heavenly soul!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dólokhov himself during his convalescence spoke to Rostóv in a way no one
  would have expected of him.
<br />
  &ldquo;I know people consider me a bad man!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Let them! I don&rsquo;t care a
  straw about anyone but those I love; but those I love, I love so that I
  would give my life for them, and the others I&rsquo;d throttle if they stood in
  my way. I have an adored, a priceless mother, and two or three friends&mdash;you
  among them&mdash;and as for the rest I only care about them in so far as
  they are harmful or useful. And most of them are harmful, especially the
  women. Yes, dear boy,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;I have met loving, noble,
  high-minded men, but I have not yet met any women&mdash;countesses or
  cooks&mdash;who were not venal. I have not yet met that divine purity and
  devotion I look for in women. If I found such a one I&rsquo;d give my life for
  her! But those!...&rdquo; and he made a gesture of contempt. &ldquo;And believe me, if
  I still value my life it is only because I still hope to meet such a
  divine creature, who will regenerate, purify, and elevate me. But you
  don&rsquo;t understand it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, yes, I quite understand,&rdquo; answered Rostóv, who was under his new
  friend&rsquo;s influence.
<br />
  In the autumn the Rostóvs returned to Moscow. Early in the winter Denísov
  also came back and stayed with them. The first half of the winter of 1806,
  which Nicholas Rostóv spent in Moscow, was one of the happiest, merriest
  times for him and the whole family. Nicholas brought many young men to his
  parents&rsquo; house. Véra was a handsome girl of twenty; Sónya a girl of
  sixteen with all the charm of an opening flower; Natásha, half grown up
  and half child, was now childishly amusing, now girlishly enchanting.
<br />
  At that time in the Rostóvs&rsquo; house there prevailed an amorous atmosphere
  characteristic of homes where there are very young and very charming
  girls. Every young man who came to the house&mdash;seeing those
  impressionable, smiling young faces (smiling probably at their own
  happiness), feeling the eager bustle around him, and hearing the fitful
  bursts of song and music and the inconsequent but friendly prattle of
  young girls ready for anything and full of hope&mdash;experienced the same
  feeling; sharing with the young folk of the Rostóvs&rsquo; household a readiness
  to fall in love and an expectation of happiness.
<br />
  Among the young men introduced by Rostóv one of the first was Dólokhov,
  whom everyone in the house liked except Natásha. She almost quarreled with
  her brother about him. She insisted that he was a bad man, and that in the
  duel with Bezúkhov, Pierre was right and Dólokhov wrong, and further that
  he was disagreeable and unnatural.
<br />
  &ldquo;There&rsquo;s nothing for me to understand,&rdquo; she cried out with resolute
  self-will, &ldquo;he is wicked and heartless. There now, I like your Denísov
  though he is a rake and all that, still I like him; so you see I do
  understand. I don&rsquo;t know how to put it... with this one everything is
  calculated, and I don&rsquo;t like that. But Denísov...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, Denísov is quite different,&rdquo; replied Nicholas, implying that even
  Denísov was nothing compared to Dólokhov&mdash;&ldquo;you must understand what a
  soul there is in Dólokhov, you should see him with his mother. What a
  heart!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, I don&rsquo;t know about that, but I am uncomfortable with him. And do
  you know he has fallen in love with Sónya?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What nonsense...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;m certain of it; you&rsquo;ll see.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha&rsquo;s prediction proved true. Dólokhov, who did not usually care for
  the society of ladies, began to come often to the house, and the question
  for whose sake he came (though no one spoke of it) was soon settled. He
  came because of Sónya. And Sónya, though she would never have dared to say
  so, knew it and blushed scarlet every time Dólokhov appeared.
<br />
  Dólokhov often dined at the Rostóvs&rsquo;, never missed a performance at which
  they were present, and went to Iogel&rsquo;s balls for young people which the
  Rostóvs always attended. He was pointedly attentive to Sónya and looked at
  her in such a way that not only could she not bear his glances without
  coloring, but even the old countess and Natásha blushed when they saw his
  looks.
<br />
  It was evident that this strange, strong man was under the irresistible
  influence of the dark, graceful girl who loved another.
<br />
  Rostóv noticed something new in Dólokhov&rsquo;s relations with Sónya, but he
  did not explain to himself what these new relations were. &ldquo;They&rsquo;re always
  in love with someone,&rdquo; he thought of Sónya and Natásha. But he was not as
  much at ease with Sónya and Dólokhov as before and was less frequently at
  home.
<br />
  In the autumn of 1806 everybody had again begun talking of the war with
  Napoleon with even greater warmth than the year before. Orders were given
  to raise recruits, ten men in every thousand for the regular army, and
  besides this, nine men in every thousand for the militia. Everywhere
  Bonaparte was anathematized and in Moscow nothing but the coming war was
  talked of. For the Rostóv family the whole interest of these preparations
  for war lay in the fact that Nicholas would not hear of remaining in
  Moscow, and only awaited the termination of Denísov&rsquo;s furlough after
  Christmas to return with him to their regiment. His approaching departure
  did not prevent his amusing himself, but rather gave zest to his
  pleasures. He spent the greater part of his time away from home, at
  dinners, parties, and balls.

  CHAPTER XI


  On the third day after Christmas Nicholas dined at home, a thing he had
  rarely done of late. It was a grand farewell dinner, as he and Denísov
  were leaving to join their regiment after Epiphany. About twenty people
  were present, including Dólokhov and Denísov.
<br />
  Never had love been so much in the air, and never had the amorous
  atmosphere made itself so strongly felt in the Rostóvs&rsquo; house as at this
  holiday time. &ldquo;Seize the moments of happiness, love and be loved! That is
  the only reality in the world, all else is folly. It is the one thing we
  are interested in here,&rdquo; said the spirit of the place.
<br />
  Nicholas, having as usual exhausted two pairs of horses, without visiting
  all the places he meant to go to and where he had been invited, returned
  home just before dinner. As soon as he entered he noticed and felt the
  tension of the amorous air in the house, and also noticed a curious
  embarrassment among some of those present. Sónya, Dólokhov, and the old
  countess were especially disturbed, and to a lesser degree Natásha.
  Nicholas understood that something must have happened between Sónya and
  Dólokhov before dinner, and with the kindly sensitiveness natural to him
  was very gentle and wary with them both at dinner. On that same evening
  there was to be one of the balls that Iogel (the dancing master) gave for
  his pupils during the holidays.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nicholas, will you come to Iogel&rsquo;s? Please do!&rdquo; said Natásha. &ldquo;He asked
  you, and Vasíli Dmítrich * is also going.&rdquo;
 <br />
* Denísov.

“Where would I not go at the countess’ command!” said Denísov, who at the Rostóvs’ had jocularly assumed the role of Natásha’s knight. “I’m even weady to dance the .”
“If I have time,” answered Nicholas. “But I promised the Arkhárovs; they have a party.”
“And you?” he asked Dólokhov, but as soon as he had asked the question he noticed that it should not have been put.
“Perhaps,” coldly and angrily replied Dólokhov, glancing at Sónya, and, scowling, he gave Nicholas just such a look as he had given Pierre at the club dinner.
“There is something up,” thought Nicholas, and he was further confirmed in this conclusion by the fact that Dólokhov left immediately after dinner. He called Natásha and asked her what was the matter.
“And I was looking for you,” said Natásha running out to him. “I told you, but you would not believe it,” she said triumphantly. “He has proposed to Sónya!”
Little as Nicholas had occupied himself with Sónya of late, something seemed to give way within him at this news. Dólokhov was a suitable and in some respects a brilliant match for the dowerless, orphan girl. From the point of view of the old countess and of society it was out of the question for her to refuse him. And therefore Nicholas’ first feeling on hearing the news was one of anger with Sónya…. He tried to say, “That’s capital; of course she’ll forget her childish promises and accept the offer,” but before he had time to say it Natásha began again.
“And fancy! she refused him quite definitely!” adding, after a pause, “she told him she loved another.”
“Yes, my Sónya could not have done otherwise!” thought Nicholas.
“Much as Mamma pressed her, she refused, and I know she won’t change once she has said…”
“And Mamma pressed her!” said Nicholas reproachfully.
“Yes,” said Natásha. “Do you know, Nicholas—don’t be angry—but I know you will not marry her. I know, heaven knows how, but I know for certain that you won’t marry her.”
“Now you don’t know that at all!” said Nicholas. “But I must talk to her. What a darling Sónya is!” he added with a smile.
“Ah, she is indeed a darling! I’ll send her to you.”
And Natásha kissed her brother and ran away.
A minute later Sónya came in with a frightened, guilty, and scared look. Nicholas went up to her and kissed her hand. This was the first time since his return that they had talked alone and about their love.
“Sophie,” he began, timidly at first and then more and more boldly, “if you wish to refuse one who is not only a brilliant and advantageous match but a splendid, noble fellow… he is my friend…”
Sónya interrupted him.
“I have already refused,” she said hurriedly.
“If you are refusing for my sake, I am afraid that I…”
Sónya again interrupted. She gave him an imploring, frightened look.
“Nicholas, don’t tell me that!” she said.
“No, but I must. It may be arrogant of me, but still it is best to say it. If you refuse him on my account, I must tell you the whole truth. I love you, and I think I love you more than anyone else….”
“That is enough for me,” said Sónya, blushing.
“No, but I have been in love a thousand times and shall fall in love again, though for no one have I such a feeling of friendship, confidence, and love as I have for you. Then I am young. Mamma does not wish it. In a word, I make no promise. And I beg you to consider Dólokhov’s offer,” he said, articulating his friend’s name with difficulty.
“Don’t say that to me! I want nothing. I love you as a brother and always shall, and I want nothing more.”
“You are an angel: I am not worthy of you, but I am afraid of misleading you.”
And Nicholas again kissed her hand.

  CHAPTER XII


  Iogel&rsquo;s were the most enjoyable balls in Moscow. So said the mothers as
  they watched their young people executing their newly learned steps, and
  so said the youths and maidens themselves as they danced till they were
  ready to drop, and so said the grown-up young men and women who came to
  these balls with an air of condescension and found them most enjoyable.
  That year two marriages had come of these balls. The two pretty young
  Princesses Gorchakóv met suitors there and were married and so further
  increased the fame of these dances. What distinguished them from others
  was the absence of host or hostess and the presence of the good-natured
  Iogel, flying about like a feather and bowing according to the rules of
  his art, as he collected the tickets from all his visitors. There was the
  fact that only those came who wished to dance and amuse themselves as
  girls of thirteen and fourteen do who are wearing long dresses for the
  first time. With scarcely any exceptions they all were, or seemed to be,
  pretty&mdash;so rapturous were their smiles and so sparkling their eyes.
  Sometimes the best of the pupils, of whom Natásha, who was exceptionally
  graceful, was first, even danced the , but at this last ball
  only the , the , and the mazurka, which was just coming
  into fashion, were danced. Iogel had taken a ballroom in Bezúkhov&rsquo;s house,
  and the ball, as everyone said, was a great success. There were many
  pretty girls and the Rostóv girls were among the prettiest. They were both
  particularly happy and gay. That evening, proud of Dólokhov&rsquo;s proposal,
  her refusal, and her explanation with Nicholas, Sónya twirled about before
  she left home so that the maid could hardly get her hair plaited, and she
  was transparently radiant with impulsive joy.
<br />
  Natásha no less proud of her first long dress and of being at a real ball
  was even happier. They were both dressed in white muslin with pink
  ribbons.
<br />
  Natásha fell in love the very moment she entered the ballroom. She was not
  in love with anyone in particular, but with everyone. Whatever person she
  happened to look at she was in love with for that moment.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, how delightful it is!&rdquo; she kept saying, running up to Sónya.
<br />
  Nicholas and Denísov were walking up and down, looking with kindly
  patronage at the dancers.
<br />
  &ldquo;How sweet she is&mdash;she will be a weal beauty!&rdquo; said Denísov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Countess Natásha,&rdquo; answered Denísov.
<br />
  &ldquo;And how she dances! What gwace!&rdquo; he said again after a pause.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who are you talking about?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;About your sister,&rdquo; ejaculated Denísov testily.
<br />
  Rostóv smiled.
<br />
  &ldquo;My dear count, you were one of my best pupils&mdash;you must dance,&rdquo;
  said little Iogel coming up to Nicholas. &ldquo;Look how many charming young
  ladies&mdash;&rdquo; He turned with the same request to Denísov who was also a
  former pupil of his.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, my dear fellow, I&rsquo;ll be a wallflower,&rdquo; said Denísov. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you
  wecollect what bad use I made of your lessons?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh no!&rdquo; said Iogel, hastening to reassure him. &ldquo;You were only
  inattentive, but you had talent&mdash;oh yes, you had talent!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The band struck up the newly introduced mazurka. Nicholas could not
  refuse Iogel and asked Sónya to dance. Denísov sat down by the old
  ladies and, leaning on his saber and beating time with his foot, told
  them something funny and kept them amused, while he watched the young
  people dancing, Iogel with Natásha, his pride and his best pupil, were
  the first couple. Noiselessly, skillfully stepping with his little feet
  in low shoes, Iogel flew first across the hall with Natásha, who, though
  shy, went on carefully executing her steps. Denísov did not take
  his eyes off her and beat time with his saber in a way that clearly
  indicated that if he was not dancing it was because he would not and not
  because he could not. In the middle of a figure he beckoned to Rostóv
  who was passing:
<br />
  &ldquo;This is not at all the thing,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;What sort of Polish mazuwka is
  this? But she does dance splendidly.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Knowing that Denísov had a reputation even in Poland for the masterly way
  in which he danced the mazurka, Nicholas ran up to Natásha:
<br />
  &ldquo;Go and choose Denísov. He is a real dancer, a wonder!&rdquo; he said.
<br />
  When it came to Natásha&rsquo;s turn to choose a partner, she rose and, tripping
  rapidly across in her little shoes trimmed with bows, ran timidly to the
  corner where Denísov sat. She saw that everybody was looking at her and
  waiting. Nicholas saw that Denísov was refusing though he smiled
  delightedly. He ran up to them.
<br />
  &ldquo;Please, Vasíli Dmítrich,&rdquo; Natásha was saying, &ldquo;do come!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh no, let me off, Countess,&rdquo; Denísov replied.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now then, Váska,&rdquo; said Nicholas.
<br />
  &ldquo;They coax me as if I were Váska the cat!&rdquo; said Denísov jokingly.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll sing for you a whole evening,&rdquo; said Natásha.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, the faiwy! She can do anything with me!&rdquo; said Denísov, and he
  unhooked his saber. He came out from behind the chairs, clasped his
  partner&rsquo;s hand firmly, threw back his head, and advanced his foot, waiting
  for the beat. Only on horse back and in the mazurka was Denísov&rsquo;s short
  stature not noticeable and he looked the fine fellow he felt himself to
  be. At the right beat of the music he looked sideways at his partner with
  a merry and triumphant air, suddenly stamped with one foot, bounded from
  the floor like a ball, and flew round the room taking his partner with
  him. He glided silently on one foot half across the room, and seeming not
  to notice the chairs was dashing straight at them, when suddenly, clinking
  his spurs and spreading out his legs, he stopped short on his heels, stood
  so a second, stamped on the spot clanking his spurs, whirled rapidly
  round, and, striking his left heel against his right, flew round again in
  a circle. Natásha guessed what he meant to do, and abandoning herself to
  him followed his lead hardly knowing how. First he spun her round, holding
  her now with his left, now with his right hand, then falling on one knee
  he twirled her round him, and again jumping up, dashed so impetuously
  forward that it seemed as if he would rush through the whole suite of
  rooms without drawing breath, and then he suddenly stopped and performed
  some new and unexpected steps. When at last, smartly whirling his partner
  round in front of her chair, he drew up with a click of his spurs and
  bowed to her, Natásha did not even make him a curtsy. She fixed her eyes
  on him in amazement, smiling as if she did not recognize him.
<br />
  &ldquo;What does this mean?&rdquo; she brought out.
<br />
  Although Iogel did not acknowledge this to be the real mazurka, everyone
  was delighted with Denísov&rsquo;s skill, he was asked again and again as a
  partner, and the old men began smilingly to talk about Poland and the good
  old days. Denísov, flushed after the mazurka and mopping himself with his
  handkerchief, sat down by Natásha and did not leave her for the rest of
  the evening.

  CHAPTER XIII


  For two days after that Rostóv did not see Dólokhov at his own or at
  Dólokhov&rsquo;s home: on the third day he received a note from him:
<br />
  As I do not intend to be at your house again for reasons you know of, and
  am going to rejoin my regiment, I am giving a farewell supper tonight to
  my friends&mdash;come to the English Hotel.
<br />
  About ten o&rsquo;clock Rostóv went to the English Hotel straight from the
  theater, where he had been with his family and Denísov. He was at once
  shown to the best room, which Dólokhov had taken for that evening. Some
  twenty men were gathered round a table at which Dólokhov sat between two
  candles. On the table was a pile of gold and paper money, and he was
  keeping the bank. Rostóv had not seen him since his proposal and Sónya&rsquo;s
  refusal and felt uncomfortable at the thought of how they would meet.
<br />
  Dólokhov&rsquo;s clear, cold glance met Rostóv as soon as he entered the door,
  as though he had long expected him.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a long time since we met,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Thanks for coming. I&rsquo;ll just
  finish dealing, and then Ilyúshka will come with his chorus.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I called once or twice at your house,&rdquo; said Rostóv, reddening.
<br />
  Dólokhov made no reply.
<br />
  &ldquo;You may punt,&rdquo; he said.
<br />
  Rostóv recalled at that moment a strange conversation he had once had with
  Dólokhov. &ldquo;None but fools trust to luck in play,&rdquo; Dólokhov had then said.
<br />
  &ldquo;Or are you afraid to play with me?&rdquo; Dólokhov now asked as if guessing
  Rostóv&rsquo;s thought.
<br />
  Beneath his smile Rostóv saw in him the mood he had shown at the club
  dinner and at other times, when as if tired of everyday life he had felt a
  need to escape from it by some strange, and usually cruel, action.
<br />
  Rostóv felt ill at ease. He tried, but failed, to find some joke with
  which to reply to Dólokhov&rsquo;s words. But before he had thought of anything,
  Dólokhov, looking straight in his face, said slowly and deliberately so
  that everyone could hear:
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you remember we had a talk about cards... &lsquo;He&rsquo;s a fool who trusts to
  luck, one should make certain,&rsquo; and I want to try.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;To try his luck or the certainty?&rdquo; Rostóv asked himself.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, you&rsquo;d better not play,&rdquo; Dólokhov added, and springing a new pack of
  cards said: &ldquo;Bank, gentlemen!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Moving the money forward he prepared to deal. Rostóv sat down by his side
  and at first did not play. Dólokhov kept glancing at him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you play?&rdquo; he asked.
<br />
  And strange to say Nicholas felt that he could not help taking up a card,
  putting a small stake on it, and beginning to play.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have no money with me,&rdquo; he said.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll trust you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Rostóv staked five rubles on a card and lost, staked again, and again
  lost. Dólokhov &ldquo;killed,&rdquo; that is, beat, ten cards of Rostóv&rsquo;s running.
<br />
  &ldquo;Gentlemen,&rdquo; said Dólokhov after he had dealt for some time. &ldquo;Please place
  your money on the cards or I may get muddled in the reckoning.&rdquo;
 <br />
  One of the players said he hoped he might be trusted.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, you might, but I am afraid of getting the accounts mixed. So I ask
  you to put the money on your cards,&rdquo; replied Dólokhov. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t stint
  yourself, we&rsquo;ll settle afterwards,&rdquo; he added, turning to Rostóv.
<br />
  The game continued; a waiter kept handing round champagne.
<br />
  All Rostóv&rsquo;s cards were beaten and he had eight hundred rubles scored up
  against him. He wrote &ldquo;800 rubles&rdquo; on a card, but while the waiter filled
  his glass he changed his mind and altered it to his usual stake of twenty
  rubles.
<br />
  &ldquo;Leave it,&rdquo; said Dólokhov, though he did not seem to be even looking at
  Rostóv, &ldquo;you&rsquo;ll win it back all the sooner. I lose to the others but win
  from you. Or are you afraid of me?&rdquo; he asked again.
<br />
  Rostóv submitted. He let the eight hundred remain and laid down a seven of
  hearts with a torn corner, which he had picked up from the floor. He well
  remembered that seven afterwards. He laid down the seven of hearts, on
  which with a broken bit of chalk he had written &ldquo;800 rubles&rdquo; in clear
  upright figures; he emptied the glass of warm champagne that was handed
  him, smiled at Dólokhov&rsquo;s words, and with a sinking heart, waiting for a
  seven to turn up, gazed at Dólokhov&rsquo;s hands which held the pack. Much
  depended on Rostóv&rsquo;s winning or losing on that seven of hearts. On the
  previous Sunday the old count had given his son two thousand rubles, and
  though he always disliked speaking of money difficulties had told Nicholas
  that this was all he could let him have till May, and asked him to be more
  economical this time. Nicholas had replied that it would be more than
  enough for him and that he gave his word of honor not to take anything
  more till the spring. Now only twelve hundred rubles was left of that
  money, so that this seven of hearts meant for him not only the loss of
  sixteen hundred rubles, but the necessity of going back on his word. With
  a sinking heart he watched Dólokhov&rsquo;s hands and thought, &ldquo;Now then, make
  haste and let me have this card and I&rsquo;ll take my cap and drive home to
  supper with Denísov, Natásha, and Sónya, and will certainly never touch a
  card again.&rdquo; At that moment his home life, jokes with Pétya, talks with
  Sónya, duets with Natásha, piquet with his father, and even his
  comfortable bed in the house on the Povarskáya rose before him with such
  vividness, clearness, and charm that it seemed as if it were all a lost
  and unappreciated bliss, long past. He could not conceive that a stupid
  chance, letting the seven be dealt to the right rather than to the left,
  might deprive him of all this happiness, newly appreciated and newly
  illumined, and plunge him into the depths of unknown and undefined misery.
  That could not be, yet he awaited with a sinking heart the movement of
  Dólokhov&rsquo;s hands. Those broad, reddish hands, with hairy wrists visible
  from under the shirt cuffs, laid down the pack and took up a glass and a
  pipe that were handed him.
<br />
  &ldquo;So you are not afraid to play with me?&rdquo; repeated Dólokhov, and as if
  about to tell a good story he put down the cards, leaned back in his
  chair, and began deliberately with a smile:
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, gentlemen, I&rsquo;ve been told there&rsquo;s a rumor going about Moscow that
  I&rsquo;m a sharper, so I advise you to be careful.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Come now, deal!&rdquo; exclaimed Rostóv.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, those Moscow gossips!&rdquo; said Dólokhov, and he took up the cards with a
  smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;Aah!&rdquo; Rostóv almost screamed lifting both hands to his head. The seven he
  needed was lying uppermost, the first card in the pack. He had lost more
  than he could pay.
<br />
  &ldquo;Still, don&rsquo;t ruin yourself!&rdquo; said Dólokhov with a side glance at Rostóv
  as he continued to deal.

  CHAPTER XIV


  An hour and a half later most of the players were but little interested in
  their own play.
<br />
  The whole interest was concentrated on Rostóv. Instead of sixteen hundred
  rubles he had a long column of figures scored against him, which he had
  reckoned up to ten thousand, but that now, as he vaguely supposed, must
  have risen to fifteen thousand. In reality it already exceeded twenty
  thousand rubles. Dólokhov was no longer listening to stories or telling
  them, but followed every movement of Rostóv&rsquo;s hands and occasionally ran
  his eyes over the score against him. He had decided to play until that
  score reached forty-three thousand. He had fixed on that number because
  forty-three was the sum of his and Sónya&rsquo;s joint ages. Rostóv, leaning his
  head on both hands, sat at the table which was scrawled over with figures,
  wet with spilled wine, and littered with cards. One tormenting impression
  did not leave him: that those broad-boned reddish hands with hairy wrists
  visible from under the shirt sleeves, those hands which he loved and
  hated, held him in their power.
<br />
  &ldquo;Six hundred rubles, ace, a corner, a nine... winning it back&rsquo;s
  impossible... Oh, how pleasant it was at home!... The knave, double or
  quits... it can&rsquo;t be!... And why is he doing this to me?&rdquo; Rostóv pondered.
  Sometimes he staked a large sum, but Dólokhov refused to accept it and
  fixed the stake himself. Nicholas submitted to him, and at one moment
  prayed to God as he had done on the battlefield at the bridge over the
  Enns, and then guessed that the card that came first to hand from the
  crumpled heap under the table would save him, now counted the cords on his
  coat and took a card with that number and tried staking the total of his
  losses on it, then he looked round for aid from the other players, or
  peered at the now cold face of Dólokhov and tried to read what was passing
  in his mind.
<br />
  &ldquo;He knows of course what this loss means to me. He can&rsquo;t want my ruin.
  Wasn&rsquo;t he my friend? Wasn&rsquo;t I fond of him? But it&rsquo;s not his fault. What&rsquo;s
  he to do if he has such luck?... And it&rsquo;s not my fault either,&rdquo; he thought
  to himself, &ldquo;I have done nothing wrong. Have I killed anyone, or insulted
  or wished harm to anyone? Why such a terrible misfortune? And when did it
  begin? Such a little while ago I came to this table with the thought of
  winning a hundred rubles to buy that casket for Mamma&rsquo;s name day and then
  going home. I was so happy, so free, so lighthearted! And I did not
  realize how happy I was! When did that end and when did this new, terrible
  state of things begin? What marked the change? I sat all the time in this
  same place at this table, chose and placed cards, and watched those
  broad-boned agile hands in the same way. When did it happen and what has
  happened? I am well and strong and still the same and in the same place.
  No, it can&rsquo;t be! Surely it will all end in nothing!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He was flushed and bathed in perspiration, though the room was not hot.
  His face was terrible and piteous to see, especially from its helpless
  efforts to seem calm.
<br />
  The score against him reached the fateful sum of forty-three thousand.
  Rostóv had just prepared a card, by bending the corner of which he meant
  to double the three thousand just put down to his score, when Dólokhov,
  slamming down the pack of cards, put it aside and began rapidly adding up
  the total of Rostóv&rsquo;s debt, breaking the chalk as he marked the figures in
  his clear, bold hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;Supper, it&rsquo;s time for supper! And here are the gypsies!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Some swarthy men and women were really entering from the cold outside and
  saying something in their gypsy accents. Nicholas understood that it was
  all over; but he said in an indifferent tone:
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, won&rsquo;t you go on? I had a splendid card all ready,&rdquo; as if it were
  the fun of the game which interested him most.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all up! I&rsquo;m lost!&rdquo; thought he. &ldquo;Now a bullet through my brain&mdash;that&rsquo;s
  all that&rsquo;s left me!&rdquo; And at the same time he said in a cheerful voice:
<br />
  &ldquo;Come now, just this one more little card!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;All right!&rdquo; said Dólokhov, having finished the addition. &ldquo;All right!
  Twenty-one rubles,&rdquo; he said, pointing to the figure twenty-one by which
  the total exceeded the round sum of forty-three thousand; and taking up a
  pack he prepared to deal. Rostóv submissively unbent the corner of his
  card and, instead of the six thousand he had intended, carefully wrote
  twenty-one.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all the same to me,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I only want to see whether you will
  let me win this ten, or beat it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dólokhov began to deal seriously. Oh, how Rostóv detested at that moment
  those hands with their short reddish fingers and hairy wrists, which held
  him in their power.... The ten fell to him.
<br />
  &ldquo;You owe forty-three thousand, Count,&rdquo; said Dólokhov, and stretching
  himself he rose from the table. &ldquo;One does get tired sitting so long,&rdquo; he
  added.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I&rsquo;m tired too,&rdquo; said Rostóv.
<br />
  Dólokhov cut him short, as if to remind him that it was not for him to
  jest.
<br />
  &ldquo;When am I to receive the money, Count?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Rostóv, flushing, drew Dólokhov into the next room.
<br />
  &ldquo;I cannot pay it all immediately. Will you take an I.O.U.?&rdquo; he said.
<br />
  &ldquo;I say, Rostóv,&rdquo; said Dólokhov clearly, smiling and looking Nicholas
  straight in the eyes, &ldquo;you know the saying, &lsquo;Lucky in love, unlucky at
  cards.&rsquo; Your cousin is in love with you, I know.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, it&rsquo;s terrible to feel oneself so in this man&rsquo;s power,&rdquo; thought
  Rostóv. He knew what a shock he would inflict on his father and mother by
  the news of this loss, he knew what a relief it would be to escape it all,
  and felt that Dólokhov knew that he could save him from all this shame and
  sorrow, but wanted now to play with him as a cat does with a mouse.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your cousin...&rdquo; Dólokhov started to say, but Nicholas interrupted him.
<br />
  &ldquo;My cousin has nothing to do with this and it&rsquo;s not necessary to mention
  her!&rdquo; he exclaimed fiercely.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then when am I to have it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Tomorrow,&rdquo; replied Rostóv and left the room.

  CHAPTER XV


  To say &ldquo;tomorrow&rdquo; and keep up a dignified tone was not difficult, but to
  go home alone, see his sisters, brother, mother, and father, confess and
  ask for money he had no right to after giving his word of honor, was
  terrible.
<br />
  At home, they had not yet gone to bed. The young people, after returning
  from the theater, had had supper and were grouped round the clavichord. As
  soon as Nicholas entered, he was enfolded in that poetic atmosphere of
  love which pervaded the Rostóv household that winter and, now after
  Dólokhov&rsquo;s proposal and Iogel&rsquo;s ball, seemed to have grown thicker round
  Sónya and Natásha as the air does before a thunderstorm. Sónya and
  Natásha, in the light-blue dresses they had worn at the theater, looking
  pretty and conscious of it, were standing by the clavichord, happy and
  smiling. Véra was playing chess with Shinshín in the drawing room. The old
  countess, waiting for the return of her husband and son, sat playing
  patience with the old gentlewoman who lived in their house. Denísov, with
  sparkling eyes and ruffled hair, sat at the clavichord striking chords
  with his short fingers, his legs thrown back and his eyes rolling as he
  sang, with his small, husky, but true voice, some verses called
  &ldquo;Enchantress,&rdquo; which he had composed, and to which he was trying to fit
  music:
<br />

Enchantress, say, to my forsaken lyre
What magic power is this recalls me still?
What spark has set my inmost soul on fire,
What is this bliss that makes my fingers thrill?
He was singing in passionate tones, gazing with his sparkling black-agate eyes at the frightened and happy Natásha.
“Splendid! Excellent!” exclaimed Natásha. “Another verse,” she said, without noticing Nicholas.
“Everything’s still the same with them,” thought Nicholas, glancing into the drawing room, where he saw Véra and his mother with the old lady.
“Ah, and here’s Nicholas!” cried Natásha, running up to him.
“Is Papa at home?” he asked.
“I am so glad you’ve come!” said Natásha, without answering him. “We are enjoying ourselves! Vasíli Dmítrich is staying a day longer for my sake! Did you know?”
“No, Papa is not back yet,” said Sónya.
“Nicholas, have you come? Come here, dear!” called the old countess from the drawing room.
Nicholas went to her, kissed her hand, and sitting down silently at her table began to watch her hands arranging the cards. From the dancing room, they still heard the laughter and merry voices trying to persuade Natásha to sing.
“All wight! All wight!” shouted Denísov. “It’s no good making excuses now! It’s your turn to sing the ba’cawolla—I entweat you!”
The countess glanced at her silent son.
“What is the matter?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing,” said he, as if weary of being continually asked the same question. “Will Papa be back soon?”
“I expect so.”
“Everything’s the same with them. They know nothing about it! Where am I to go?” thought Nicholas, and went again into the dancing room where the clavichord stood.
Sónya was sitting at the clavichord, playing the prelude to Denísov’s favorite barcarolle. Natásha was preparing to sing. Denísov was looking at her with enraptured eyes.
Nicholas began pacing up and down the room.
“Why do they want to make her sing? How can she sing? There’s nothing to be happy about!” thought he.
Sónya struck the first chord of the prelude.
“My God, I’m a ruined and dishonored man! A bullet through my brain is the only thing left me—not singing!” his thoughts ran on. “Go away? But where to? It’s one—let them sing!”
He continued to pace the room, looking gloomily at Denísov and the girls and avoiding their eyes.
“Nikólenka, what is the matter?” Sónya’s eyes fixed on him seemed to ask. She noticed at once that something had happened to him.
Nicholas turned away from her. Natásha too, with her quick instinct, had instantly noticed her brother’s condition. But, though she noticed it, she was herself in such high spirits at that moment, so far from sorrow, sadness, or self-reproach, that she purposely deceived herself as young people often do. “No, I am too happy now to spoil my enjoyment by sympathy with anyone’s sorrow,” she felt, and she said to herself: “No, I must be mistaken, he must be feeling happy, just as I am.”
“Now, Sónya!” she said, going to the very middle of the room, where she considered the resonance was best.
Having lifted her head and let her arms droop lifelessly, as ballet dancers do, Natásha, rising energetically from her heels to her toes, stepped to the middle of the room and stood still.
“Yes, that’s me!” she seemed to say, answering the rapt gaze with which Denísov followed her.
“And what is she so pleased about?” thought Nicholas, looking at his sister. “Why isn’t she dull and ashamed?”
Natásha took the first note, her throat swelled, her chest rose, her eyes became serious. At that moment she was oblivious of her surroundings, and from her smiling lips flowed sounds which anyone may produce at the same intervals and hold for the same time, but which leave you cold a thousand times and the thousand and first time thrill you and make you weep.
Natásha, that winter, had for the first time begun to sing seriously, mainly because Denísov so delighted in her singing. She no longer sang as a child, there was no longer in her singing that comical, childish, painstaking effect that had been in it before; but she did not yet sing well, as all the connoisseurs who heard her said: “It is not trained, but it is a beautiful voice that must be trained.” Only they generally said this some time after she had finished singing. While that untrained voice, with its incorrect breathing and labored transitions, was sounding, even the connoisseurs said nothing, but only delighted in it and wished to hear it again. In her voice there was a virginal freshness, an unconsciousness of her own powers, and an as yet untrained velvety softness, which so mingled with her lack of art in singing that it seemed as if nothing in that voice could be altered without spoiling it.
“What is this?” thought Nicholas, listening to her with widely opened eyes. “What has happened to her? How she is singing today!” And suddenly the whole world centered for him on anticipation of the next note, the next phrase, and everything in the world was divided into three beats: … One, two, three… one, two, three… One… … One, two, three… One. “Oh, this senseless life of ours!” thought Nicholas. “All this misery, and money, and Dólokhov, and anger, and honor—it’s all nonsense… but this is real…. Now then, Natásha, now then, dearest! Now then, darling! How will she take that She’s taken it! Thank God!” And without noticing that he was singing, to strengthen the he sung a second, a third below the high note. “Ah, God! How fine! Did I really take it? How fortunate!” he thought.
Oh, how that chord vibrated, and how moved was something that was finest in Rostóv’s soul! And this something was apart from everything else in the world and above everything in the world. “What were losses, and Dólokhov, and words of honor?… All nonsense! One might kill and rob and yet be happy….”

  CHAPTER XVI


  It was long since Rostóv had felt such enjoyment from music as he did that
  day. But no sooner had Natásha finished her barcarolle than reality again
  presented itself. He got up without saying a word and went downstairs to
  his own room. A quarter of an hour later the old count came in from his
  club, cheerful and contented. Nicholas, hearing him drive up, went to meet
  him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well&mdash;had a good time?&rdquo; said the old count, smiling gaily and
  proudly at his son.
<br />
  Nicholas tried to say &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; but could not: and he nearly burst into sobs.
  The count was lighting his pipe and did not notice his son&rsquo;s condition.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, it can&rsquo;t be avoided!&rdquo; thought Nicholas, for the first and last time.
  And suddenly, in the most casual tone, which made him feel ashamed of
  himself, he said, as if merely asking his father to let him have the
  carriage to drive to town:
<br />
  &ldquo;Papa, I have come on a matter of business. I was nearly forgetting. I
  need some money.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Dear me!&rdquo; said his father, who was in a specially good humor. &ldquo;I told you
  it would not be enough. How much?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Very much,&rdquo; said Nicholas flushing, and with a stupid careless smile, for
  which he was long unable to forgive himself, &ldquo;I have lost a little, I mean
  a good deal, a great deal&mdash;forty three thousand.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What! To whom?... Nonsense!&rdquo; cried the count, suddenly reddening with an
  apoplectic flush over neck and nape as old people do.
<br />
  &ldquo;I promised to pay tomorrow,&rdquo; said Nicholas.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well!...&rdquo; said the old count, spreading out his arms and sinking
  helplessly on the sofa.
<br />
  &ldquo;It can&rsquo;t be helped! It happens to everyone!&rdquo; said the son,
  with a bold, free, and easy tone, while in his soul he regarded himself as a
  worthless scoundrel whose whole life could not atone for his crime. He longed
  to kiss his father&rsquo;s hands and kneel to beg his forgiveness, but said,
  in a careless and even rude voice, that it happens to everyone!
<br />
  The old count cast down his eyes on hearing his son&rsquo;s words and began
  bustlingly searching for something.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; he muttered, &ldquo;it will be difficult, I fear, difficult to
  raise... happens to everybody! Yes, who has not done it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  And with a furtive glance at his son&rsquo;s face, the count went out of the
  room.... Nicholas had been prepared for resistance, but had not at all
  expected this.
<br />
  &ldquo;Papa! Pa-pa!&rdquo; he called after him, sobbing, &ldquo;forgive me!&rdquo; And seizing his
  father&rsquo;s hand, he pressed it to his lips and burst into tears.
<br />
  While father and son were having their explanation, the mother and
  daughter were having one not less important. Natásha came running to her
  mother, quite excited.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mamma!... Mamma!... He has made me...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Made what?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Made, made me an offer, Mamma! Mamma!&rdquo; she exclaimed.
<br />
  The countess did not believe her ears. Denísov had proposed. To whom? To
  this chit of a girl, Natásha, who not so long ago was playing with dolls
  and who was still having lessons.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t, Natásha! What nonsense!&rdquo; she said, hoping it was a joke.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nonsense, indeed! I am telling you the fact,&rdquo; said Natásha indignantly.
  &ldquo;I come to ask you what to do, and you call it &lsquo;nonsense!&rsquo;&rdquo;
 <br />
  The countess shrugged her shoulders.
<br />
  &ldquo;If it is true that Monsieur Denísov has made you a proposal, tell him he
  is a fool, that&rsquo;s all!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, he&rsquo;s not a fool!&rdquo; replied Natásha indignantly and seriously.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well then, what do you want? You&rsquo;re all in love nowadays. Well, if you
  are in love, marry him!&rdquo; said the countess, with a laugh of annoyance.
  &ldquo;Good luck to you!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, Mamma, I&rsquo;m not in love with him, I suppose I&rsquo;m not in love with him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well then, tell him so.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Mamma, are you cross? Don&rsquo;t be cross, dear! Is it my fault?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, but what is it, my dear? Do you want me to go and tell him?&rdquo; said the
  countess smiling.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, I will do it myself, only tell me what to say. It&rsquo;s all very well for
  you,&rdquo; said Natásha, with a responsive smile. &ldquo;You should have seen how he
  said it! I know he did not mean to say it, but it came out accidently.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, all the same, you must refuse him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, I mustn&rsquo;t. I am so sorry for him! He&rsquo;s so nice.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well then, accept his offer. It&rsquo;s high time for you to be married,&rdquo;
   answered the countess sharply and sarcastically.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, Mamma, but I&rsquo;m so sorry for him. I don&rsquo;t know how I&rsquo;m to say it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And there&rsquo;s nothing for you to say. I shall speak to him myself,&rdquo; said
  the countess, indignant that they should have dared to treat this little
  Natásha as grown up.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, not on any account! I will tell him myself, and you&rsquo;ll listen at the
  door,&rdquo; and Natásha ran across the drawing room to the dancing hall, where
  Denísov was sitting on the same chair by the clavichord with his face in
  his hands.
<br />
  He jumped up at the sound of her light step.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nataly,&rdquo; he said, moving with rapid steps toward her, &ldquo;decide my fate. It
  is in your hands.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Vasíli Dmítrich, I&rsquo;m so sorry for you!... No, but you are so nice... but
  it won&rsquo;t do...not that... but as a friend, I shall always love you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Denísov bent over her hand and she heard strange sounds she did not
  understand. She kissed his rough curly black head. At this instant, they
  heard the quick rustle of the countess&rsquo; dress. She came up to them.
<br />
  &ldquo;Vasíli Dmítrich, I thank you for the honor,&rdquo; she said, with an
  embarrassed voice, though it sounded severe to Denísov&mdash;&ldquo;but my
  daughter is so young, and I thought that, as my son&rsquo;s friend, you would
  have addressed yourself first to me. In that case you would not have
  obliged me to give this refusal.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Countess...&rdquo; said Denísov, with downcast eyes and a guilty face. He tried
  to say more, but faltered.
<br />
  Natásha could not remain calm, seeing him in such a plight. She began to
  sob aloud.
<br />
  &ldquo;Countess, I have done w&rsquo;ong,&rdquo; Denísov went on in an unsteady voice, &ldquo;but
  believe me, I so adore your daughter and all your family that I would give
  my life twice over...&rdquo; He looked at the countess, and seeing her severe
  face said: &ldquo;Well, good-by, Countess,&rdquo; and kissing her hand, he left the
  room with quick resolute strides, without looking at Natásha.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  Next day Rostóv saw Denísov off. He did not wish to stay another day in
  Moscow. All Denísov&rsquo;s Moscow friends gave him a farewell entertainment at
  the gypsies&rsquo;, with the result that he had no recollection of how he was
  put in the sleigh or of the first three stages of his journey.
<br />
  After Denísov&rsquo;s departure, Rostóv spent another fortnight in Moscow,
  without going out of the house, waiting for the money his father could not
  at once raise, and he spent most of his time in the girls&rsquo; room.
<br />
  Sónya was more tender and devoted to him than ever. It was as if she
  wanted to show him that his losses were an achievement that made her love
  him all the more, but Nicholas now considered himself unworthy of her.
<br />
  He filled the girls&rsquo; albums with verses and music, and having at last sent
  Dólokhov the whole forty-three thousand rubles and received his receipt,
  he left at the end of November, without taking leave of any of his
  acquaintances, to overtake his regiment which was already in Poland.

  BOOK FIVE: 1806 - 07

  CHAPTER I


  After his interview with his wife Pierre left for Petersburg. At the
  Torzhók post station, either there were no horses or the postmaster would
  not supply them. Pierre was obliged to wait. Without undressing, he lay
  down on the leather sofa in front of a round table, put his big feet in
  their overboots on the table, and began to reflect.
<br />
  &ldquo;Will you have the portmanteaus brought in? And a bed got ready, and tea?&rdquo;
   asked his valet.
<br />
  Pierre gave no answer, for he neither heard nor saw anything. He had begun
  to think of the last station and was still pondering on the same question&mdash;one
  so important that he took no notice of what went on around him. Not only
  was he indifferent as to whether he got to Petersburg earlier or later, or
  whether he secured accommodation at this station, but compared to the
  thoughts that now occupied him it was a matter of indifference whether he
  remained there for a few hours or for the rest of his life.
<br />
  The postmaster, his wife, the valet, and a peasant woman selling Torzhók
  embroidery came into the room offering their services. Without changing
  his careless attitude, Pierre looked at them over his spectacles unable to
  understand what they wanted or how they could go on living without having
  solved the problems that so absorbed him. He had been engrossed by the
  same thoughts ever since the day he returned from Sokólniki after the duel
  and had spent that first agonizing, sleepless night. But now, in the
  solitude of the journey, they seized him with special force. No matter
  what he thought about, he always returned to these same questions which he
  could not solve and yet could not cease to ask himself. It was as if the
  thread of the chief screw which held his life together were stripped, so
  that the screw could not get in or out, but went on turning uselessly in
  the same place.
<br />
  The postmaster came in and began obsequiously to beg his excellency to
  wait only two hours, when, come what might, he would let his excellency
  have the courier horses. It was plain that he was lying and only wanted to
  get more money from the traveler.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is this good or bad?&rdquo; Pierre asked himself. &ldquo;It is good for me, bad for
  another traveler, and for himself it&rsquo;s unavoidable, because he needs money
  for food; the man said an officer had once given him a thrashing for
  letting a private traveler have the courier horses. But the officer
  thrashed him because he had to get on as quickly as possible. And I,&rdquo;
   continued Pierre, &ldquo;shot Dólokhov because I considered myself injured, and
  Louis XVI was executed because they considered him a criminal, and a year
  later they executed those who executed him&mdash;also for some reason.
  What is bad? What is good? What should one love and what hate? What does
  one live for? And what am I? What is life, and what is death? What power
  governs all?&rdquo;
 <br />
  There was no answer to any of these questions, except one, and that not a
  logical answer and not at all a reply to them. The answer was: &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll die
  and all will end. You&rsquo;ll die and know all, or cease asking.&rdquo; But dying was
  also dreadful.
<br />
  The Torzhók peddler woman, in a whining voice, went on offering her wares,
  especially a pair of goatskin slippers. &ldquo;I have hundreds of rubles I don&rsquo;t
  know what to do with, and she stands in her tattered cloak looking timidly
  at me,&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;And what does she want the money for? As if that
  money could add a hair&rsquo;s breadth to happiness or peace of mind. Can
  anything in the world make her or me less a prey to evil and death?&mdash;death
  which ends all and must come today or tomorrow&mdash;at any rate, in an
  instant as compared with eternity.&rdquo; And again he twisted the screw with
  the stripped thread, and again it turned uselessly in the same place.
<br />
  His servant handed him a half-cut novel, in the form of letters, by Madame
  de Souza. He began reading about the sufferings and virtuous struggles of
  a certain Emilie de Mansfeld. &ldquo;And why did she resist her seducer when she
  loved him?&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;God could not have put into her heart an impulse
  that was against His will. My wife&mdash;as she once was&mdash;did not
  struggle, and perhaps she was right. Nothing has been found out, nothing
  discovered,&rdquo; Pierre again said to himself. &ldquo;All we can know is that we
  know nothing. And that&rsquo;s the height of human wisdom.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Everything within and around him seemed confused, senseless, and
  repellent. Yet in this very repugnance to all his circumstances Pierre
  found a kind of tantalizing satisfaction.
<br />
  &ldquo;I make bold to ask your excellency to move a little for this gentleman,&rdquo;
   said the postmaster, entering the room followed by another traveler, also
  detained for lack of horses.
<br />
  The newcomer was a short, large-boned, yellow-faced, wrinkled old man,
  with gray bushy eyebrows overhanging bright eyes of an indefinite grayish
  color.
<br />
  Pierre took his feet off the table, stood up, and lay down on a bed that
  had been got ready for him, glancing now and then at the newcomer, who,
  with a gloomy and tired face, was wearily taking off his wraps with the
  aid of his servant, and not looking at Pierre. With a pair of felt boots
  on his thin bony legs, and keeping on a worn, nankeen-covered, sheepskin
  coat, the traveler sat down on the sofa, leaned back his big head with its
  broad temples and close-cropped hair, and looked at Bezúkhov. The stern,
  shrewd, and penetrating expression of that look struck Pierre. He felt a
  wish to speak to the stranger, but by the time he had made up his mind to
  ask him a question about the roads, the traveler had closed his eyes. His
  shriveled old hands were folded and on the finger of one of them Pierre
  noticed a large cast iron ring with a seal representing a death&rsquo;s head.
  The stranger sat without stirring, either resting or, as it seemed to
  Pierre, sunk in profound and calm meditation. His servant was also a
  yellow, wrinkled old man, without beard or mustache, evidently not because
  he was shaven but because they had never grown. This active old servant
  was unpacking the traveler&rsquo;s canteen and preparing tea. He brought in a
  boiling samovar. When everything was ready, the stranger opened his eyes,
  moved to the table, filled a tumbler with tea for himself and one for the
  beardless old man to whom he passed it. Pierre began to feel a sense of
  uneasiness, and the need, even the inevitability, of entering into
  conversation with this stranger.
<br />
  The servant brought back his tumbler turned upside down, * with an
  unfinished bit of nibbled sugar, and asked if anything more would be
  wanted.
<br />
* To indicate he did not want more tea.

“No. Give me the book,” said the stranger.
The servant handed him a book which Pierre took to be a devotional work, and the traveler became absorbed in it. Pierre looked at him. All at once the stranger closed the book, putting in a marker, and again, leaning with his arms on the back of the sofa, sat in his former position with his eyes shut. Pierre looked at him and had not time to turn away when the old man, opening his eyes, fixed his steady and severe gaze straight on Pierre’s face.
Pierre felt confused and wished to avoid that look, but the bright old eyes attracted him irresistibly.

  CHAPTER II


  &ldquo;I have the pleasure of addressing Count Bezúkhov, if I am not mistaken,&rdquo;
   said the stranger in a deliberate and loud voice.
<br />
  Pierre looked silently and inquiringly at him over his spectacles.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have heard of you, my dear sir,&rdquo; continued the stranger, &ldquo;and of your
  misfortune.&rdquo; He seemed to emphasize the last word, as if to say&mdash;&ldquo;Yes,
  misfortune! Call it what you please, I know that what happened to you in
  Moscow was a misfortune.&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;I regret it very much, my dear sir.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre flushed and, hurriedly putting his legs down from the bed, bent
  forward toward the old man with a forced and timid smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have not referred to this out of curiosity, my dear sir, but for
  greater reasons.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He paused, his gaze still on Pierre, and moved aside on the sofa by way of
  inviting the other to take a seat beside him. Pierre felt reluctant to
  enter into conversation with this old man, but, submitting to him
  involuntarily, came up and sat down beside him.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are unhappy, my dear sir,&rdquo; the stranger continued. &ldquo;You are young and
  I am old. I should like to help you as far as lies in my power.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, yes!&rdquo; said Pierre, with a forced smile. &ldquo;I am very grateful to you.
  Where are you traveling from?&rdquo;
 <br />
  The stranger&rsquo;s face was not genial, it was even cold and severe, but in
  spite of this, both the face and words of his new acquaintance were
  irresistibly attractive to Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;But if for any reason you don&rsquo;t feel inclined to talk to me,&rdquo;
  said the old man, &ldquo;say so, my dear sir.&rdquo; And he suddenly smiled, in
  an unexpected and tenderly paternal way.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh no, not at all! On the contrary, I am very glad to make your
  acquaintance,&rdquo; said Pierre. And again, glancing at the stranger&rsquo;s hands,
  he looked more closely at the ring, with its skull&mdash;a Masonic sign.
<br />
  &ldquo;Allow me to ask,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;are you a Mason?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I belong to the Brotherhood of the Freemasons,&rdquo; said the stranger,
  looking deeper and deeper into Pierre&rsquo;s eyes. &ldquo;And in their name and my
  own I hold out a brotherly hand to you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am afraid,&rdquo; said Pierre, smiling, and wavering between the confidence
  the personality of the Freemason inspired in him and his own habit of
  ridiculing the Masonic beliefs&mdash;&ldquo;I am afraid I am very far from
  understanding&mdash;how am I to put it?&mdash;I am afraid my way of
  looking at the world is so opposed to yours that we shall not understand
  one another.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I know your outlook,&rdquo; said the Mason, &ldquo;and the view of life you mention,
  and which you think is the result of your own mental efforts, is the one
  held by the majority of people, and is the invariable fruit of pride,
  indolence, and ignorance. Forgive me, my dear sir, but if I had not known
  it I should not have addressed you. Your view of life is a regrettable
  delusion.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Just as I may suppose you to be deluded,&rdquo; said Pierre, with a faint
  smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;I should never dare to say that I know the truth,&rdquo; said the Mason, whose
  words struck Pierre more and more by their precision and firmness. &ldquo;No one
  can attain to truth by himself. Only by laying stone on stone with the
  cooperation of all, by the millions of generations from our forefather
  Adam to our own times, is that temple reared which is to be a worthy
  dwelling place of the Great God,&rdquo; he added, and closed his eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;I ought to tell you that I do not believe... do not believe in God,&rdquo; said
  Pierre, regretfully and with an effort, feeling it essential to speak the
  whole truth.
<br />
  The Mason looked intently at Pierre and smiled as a rich man with millions
  in hand might smile at a poor fellow who told him that he, poor man, had
  not the five rubles that would make him happy.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, you do not know Him, my dear sir,&rdquo; said the Mason. &ldquo;You cannot know
  Him. You do not know Him and that is why you are unhappy.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes, I am unhappy,&rdquo; assented Pierre. &ldquo;But what am I to do?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You know Him not, my dear sir, and so you are very unhappy. You do not
  know Him, but He is here, He is in me, He is in my words, He is in thee,
  and even in those blasphemous words thou hast just uttered!&rdquo; pronounced
  the Mason in a stern and tremulous voice.
<br />
  He paused and sighed, evidently trying to calm himself.
<br />
  &ldquo;If He were not,&rdquo; he said quietly, &ldquo;you and I would not be speaking of
  Him, my dear sir. Of what, of whom, are we speaking? Whom hast thou
  denied?&rdquo; he suddenly asked with exulting austerity and authority in his
  voice. &ldquo;Who invented Him, if He did not exist? Whence came thy conception
  of the existence of such an incomprehensible Being? didst thou, and why
  did the whole world, conceive the idea of the existence of such an
  incomprehensible Being, a Being all-powerful, eternal, and infinite in all
  His attributes?...&rdquo;
 <br />
  He stopped and remained silent for a long time.
<br />
  Pierre could not and did not wish to break this silence.
<br />
  &ldquo;He exists, but to understand Him is hard,&rdquo; the Mason began again, looking
  not at Pierre but straight before him, and turning the leaves of his book
  with his old hands which from excitement he could not keep still. &ldquo;If it
  were a man whose existence thou didst doubt I could bring him to thee,
  could take him by the hand and show him to thee. But how can I, an
  insignificant mortal, show His omnipotence, His infinity, and all His
  mercy to one who is blind, or who shuts his eyes that he may not see or
  understand Him and may not see or understand his own vileness and
  sinfulness?&rdquo; He paused again. &ldquo;Who art thou? Thou dreamest that thou art
  wise because thou couldst utter those blasphemous words,&rdquo; he went on, with
  a somber and scornful smile. &ldquo;And thou art more foolish and unreasonable
  than a little child, who, playing with the parts of a skillfully made
  watch, dares to say that, as he does not understand its use, he does not
  believe in the master who made it. To know Him is hard.... For ages, from
  our forefather Adam to our own day, we labor to attain that knowledge and
  are still infinitely far from our aim; but in our lack of understanding we
  see only our weakness and His greatness....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre listened with swelling heart, gazing into the Mason&rsquo;s face with
  shining eyes, not interrupting or questioning him, but believing with his
  whole soul what the stranger said. Whether he accepted the wise reasoning
  contained in the Mason&rsquo;s words, or believed as a child believes, in the
  speaker&rsquo;s tone of conviction and earnestness, or the tremor of the
  speaker&rsquo;s voice&mdash;which sometimes almost broke&mdash;or those
  brilliant aged eyes grown old in this conviction, or the calm firmness and
  certainty of his vocation, which radiated from his whole being (and which
  struck Pierre especially by contrast with his own dejection and
  hopelessness)&mdash;at any rate, Pierre longed with his whole soul to
  believe and he did believe, and felt a joyful sense of comfort,
  regeneration, and return to life.
<br />
  &ldquo;He is not to be apprehended by reason, but by life,&rdquo; said the Mason.
<br />
  &ldquo;I do not understand,&rdquo; said Pierre, feeling with dismay doubts
  reawakening. He was afraid of any want of clearness, any weakness, in the
  Mason&rsquo;s arguments; he dreaded not to be able to believe in him. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t
  understand,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;how it is that the mind of man cannot attain the
  knowledge of which you speak.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The Mason smiled with his gentle fatherly smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;The highest wisdom and truth are like the purest liquid we may wish to
  imbibe,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Can I receive that pure liquid into an impure vessel
  and judge of its purity? Only by the inner purification of myself can I
  retain in some degree of purity the liquid I receive.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes, that is so,&rdquo; said Pierre joyfully.
<br />
  &ldquo;The highest wisdom is not founded on reason alone, not on those worldly
  sciences of physics, history, chemistry, and the like, into which
  intellectual knowledge is divided. The highest wisdom is one. The highest
  wisdom has but one science&mdash;the science of the whole&mdash;the
  science explaining the whole creation and man&rsquo;s place in it. To receive
  that science it is necessary to purify and renew one&rsquo;s inner self, and so
  before one can know, it is necessary to believe and to perfect one&rsquo;s self.
  And to attain this end, we have the light called conscience that God has
  implanted in our souls.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; assented Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;Look then at thy inner self with the eyes of the spirit, and ask thyself
  whether thou art content with thyself. What hast thou attained relying on
  reason only? What art thou? You are young, you are rich, you are clever,
  you are well educated. And what have you done with all these good gifts?
  Are you content with yourself and with your life?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, I hate my life,&rdquo; Pierre muttered, wincing.
<br />
  &ldquo;Thou hatest it. Then change it, purify thyself; and as thou art purified,
  thou wilt gain wisdom. Look at your life, my dear sir. How have you spent
  it? In riotous orgies and debauchery, receiving everything from society
  and giving nothing in return. You have become the possessor of wealth. How
  have you used it? What have you done for your neighbor? Have you ever
  thought of your tens of thousands of slaves? Have you helped them
  physically and morally? No! You have profited by their toil to lead a
  profligate life. That is what you have done. Have you chosen a post in
  which you might be of service to your neighbor? No! You have spent your
  life in idleness. Then you married, my dear sir&mdash;took on yourself
  responsibility for the guidance of a young woman; and what have you done?
  You have not helped her to find the way of truth, my dear sir, but have
  thrust her into an abyss of deceit and misery. A man offended you and you
  shot him, and you say you do not know God and hate your life. There is
  nothing strange in that, my dear sir!&rdquo;
 <br />
  After these words, the Mason, as if tired by his long discourse, again
  leaned his arms on the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. Pierre looked
  at that aged, stern, motionless, almost lifeless face and moved his lips
  without uttering a sound. He wished to say, &ldquo;Yes, a vile, idle, vicious
  life!&rdquo; but dared not break the silence.
<br />
  The Mason cleared his throat huskily, as old men do, and called his
  servant.
<br />
  &ldquo;How about the horses?&rdquo; he asked, without looking at Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;The exchange horses have just come,&rdquo; answered the servant. &ldquo;Will you not
  rest here?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, tell them to harness.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Can he really be going away leaving me alone without having told me all,
  and without promising to help me?&rdquo; thought Pierre, rising with downcast
  head; and he began to pace the room, glancing occasionally at the Mason.
  &ldquo;Yes, I never thought of it, but I have led a contemptible and profligate
  life, though I did not like it and did not want to,&rdquo; thought Pierre. &ldquo;But
  this man knows the truth and, if he wished to, could disclose it to me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre wished to say this to the Mason, but did not dare to. The traveler,
  having packed his things with his practiced hands, began fastening his
  coat. When he had finished, he turned to Bezúkhov, and said in a tone of
  indifferent politeness:
<br />
  &ldquo;Where are you going to now, my dear sir?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I?... I&rsquo;m going to Petersburg,&rdquo; answered Pierre, in a childlike,
  hesitating voice. &ldquo;I thank you. I agree with all you have said. But do not
  suppose me to be so bad. With my whole soul I wish to be what you would
  have me be, but I have never had help from anyone.... But it is I, above
  all, who am to blame for everything. Help me, teach me, and perhaps I
  may...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre could not go on. He gulped and turned away.
<br />
  The Mason remained silent for a long time, evidently considering.
<br />
  &ldquo;Help comes from God alone,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;but such measure of help as our
  Order can bestow it will render you, my dear sir. You are going to
  Petersburg. Hand this to Count Willarski&rdquo; (he took out his notebook and
  wrote a few words on a large sheet of paper folded in four). &ldquo;Allow me to
  give you a piece of advice. When you reach the capital, first of all
  devote some time to solitude and self-examination and do not resume your
  former way of life. And now I wish you a good journey, my dear sir,&rdquo; he
  added, seeing that his servant had entered... &ldquo;and success.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The traveler was Joseph Alexéevich Bazdéev, as Pierre saw from the
  postmaster&rsquo;s book. Bazdéev had been one of the best-known Freemasons and
  Martinists, even in Novíkov&rsquo;s time. For a long while after he had gone,
  Pierre did not go to bed or order horses but paced up and down the room,
  pondering over his vicious past, and with a rapturous sense of beginning
  anew pictured to himself the blissful, irreproachable, virtuous future
  that seemed to him so easy. It seemed to him that he had been vicious only
  because he had somehow forgotten how good it is to be virtuous. Not a
  trace of his former doubts remained in his soul. He firmly believed in the
  possibility of the brotherhood of men united in the aim of supporting one
  another in the path of virtue, and that is how Freemasonry presented
  itself to him.

  CHAPTER III


  On reaching Petersburg Pierre did not let anyone know of his arrival, he
  went nowhere and spent whole days in reading Thomas à Kempis, whose book
  had been sent him by someone unknown. One thing he continually realized as
  he read that book: the joy, hitherto unknown to him, of believing in the
  possibility of attaining perfection, and in the possibility of active
  brotherly love among men, which Joseph Alexéevich had revealed to him. A
  week after his arrival, the young Polish count, Willarski, whom Pierre had
  known slightly in Petersburg society, came into his room one evening in
  the official and ceremonious manner in which Dólokhov&rsquo;s second had called
  on him, and, having closed the door behind him and satisfied himself that
  there was nobody else in the room, addressed Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have come to you with a message and an offer, Count,&rdquo; he said without
  sitting down. &ldquo;A person of very high standing in our Brotherhood has made
  application for you to be received into our Order before the usual term
  and has proposed to me to be your sponsor. I consider it a sacred duty to
  fulfill that person&rsquo;s wishes. Do you wish to enter the Brotherhood of
  Freemasons under my sponsorship?&rdquo;
 <br />
  The cold, austere tone of this man, whom he had almost always before met
  at balls, amiably smiling in the society of the most brilliant women,
  surprised Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I do wish it,&rdquo; said he.
<br />
  Willarski bowed his head.
<br />
  &ldquo;One more question, Count,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;which I beg you to answer in all
  sincerity&mdash;not as a future Mason but as an honest man: have you
  renounced your former convictions&mdash;do you believe in God?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre considered.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes... yes, I believe in God,&rdquo; he said.
<br />
  &ldquo;In that case...&rdquo; began Willarski, but Pierre interrupted him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I do believe in God,&rdquo; he repeated.
<br />
  &ldquo;In that case we can go,&rdquo; said Willarski. &ldquo;My carriage is at your
  service.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Willarski was silent throughout the drive. To Pierre&rsquo;s inquiries as to
  what he must do and how he should answer, Willarski only replied that
  brothers more worthy than he would test him and that Pierre had only to
  tell the truth.
<br />
  Having entered the courtyard of a large house where the Lodge had its
  headquarters, and having ascended a dark staircase, they entered a small
  well-lit anteroom where they took off their cloaks without the aid of a
  servant. From there they passed into another room. A man in strange attire
  appeared at the door. Willarski, stepping toward him, said something to
  him in French in an undertone and then went up to a small wardrobe in
  which Pierre noticed garments such as he had never seen before. Having
  taken a kerchief from the cupboard, Willarski bound Pierre&rsquo;s eyes with it
  and tied it in a knot behind, catching some hairs painfully in the knot.
  Then he drew his face down, kissed him, and taking him by the hand led him
  forward. The hairs tied in the knot hurt Pierre and there were lines of
  pain on his face and a shamefaced smile. His huge figure, with arms
  hanging down and with a puckered, though smiling face, moved after
  Willarski with uncertain, timid steps.
<br />
  Having led him about ten paces, Willarski stopped.
<br />
  &ldquo;Whatever happens to you,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you must bear it all manfully if you
  have firmly resolved to join our Brotherhood.&rdquo; (Pierre nodded
  affirmatively.) &ldquo;When you hear a knock at the door, you will uncover your
  eyes,&rdquo; added Willarski. &ldquo;I wish you courage and success,&rdquo; and, pressing
  Pierre&rsquo;s hand, he went out.
<br />
  Left alone, Pierre went on smiling in the same way. Once or twice he
  shrugged his shoulders and raised his hand to the kerchief, as if wishing
  to take it off, but let it drop again. The five minutes spent with his
  eyes bandaged seemed to him an hour. His arms felt numb, his legs almost
  gave way, it seemed to him that he was tired out. He experienced a variety
  of most complex sensations. He felt afraid of what would happen to him and
  still more afraid of showing his fear. He felt curious to know what was
  going to happen and what would be revealed to him; but most of all, he
  felt joyful that the moment had come when he would at last start on that
  path of regeneration and on the actively virtuous life of which he had
  been dreaming since he met Joseph Alexéevich. Loud knocks were heard at
  the door. Pierre took the bandage off his eyes and glanced around him. The
  room was in black darkness, only a small lamp was burning inside something
  white. Pierre went nearer and saw that the lamp stood on a black table on
  which lay an open book. The book was the Gospel, and the white thing with
  the lamp inside was a human skull with its cavities and teeth. After
  reading the first words of the Gospel: &ldquo;In the beginning was the Word and
  the Word was with God,&rdquo; Pierre went round the table and saw a large open
  box filled with something. It was a coffin with bones inside. He was not
  at all surprised by what he saw. Hoping to enter on an entirely new life
  quite unlike the old one, he expected everything to be unusual, even more
  unusual than what he was seeing. A skull, a coffin, the Gospel&mdash;it
  seemed to him that he had expected all this and even more. Trying to
  stimulate his emotions he looked around. &ldquo;God, death, love, the
  brotherhood of man,&rdquo; he kept saying to himself, associating these words
  with vague yet joyful ideas. The door opened and someone came in.
<br />
  By the dim light, to which Pierre had already become accustomed, he saw a
  rather short man. Having evidently come from the light into the darkness,
  the man paused, then moved with cautious steps toward the table and placed
  on it his small leather-gloved hands.
<br />
  This short man had on a white leather apron which covered his chest and
  part of his legs; he had on a kind of necklace above which rose a high
  white ruffle, outlining his rather long face which was lit up from below.
<br />
  &ldquo;For what have you come hither?&rdquo; asked the newcomer, turning in Pierre&rsquo;s
  direction at a slight rustle made by the latter. &ldquo;Why have you, who do not
  believe in the truth of the light and who have not seen the light, come
  here? What do you seek from us? Wisdom, virtue, enlightenment?&rdquo;
 <br />
  At the moment the door opened and the stranger came in, Pierre felt a
  sense of awe and veneration such as he had experienced in his boyhood at
  confession; he felt himself in the presence of one socially a complete
  stranger, yet nearer to him through the brotherhood of man. With bated
  breath and beating heart he moved toward the Rhetor (by which name the
  brother who prepared a seeker for entrance into the Brotherhood was
  known). Drawing nearer, he recognized in the Rhetor a man he knew,
  Smolyanínov, and it mortified him to think that the newcomer was an
  acquaintance&mdash;he wished him simply a brother and a virtuous
  instructor. For a long time he could not utter a word, so that the Rhetor
  had to repeat his question.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes... I... I... desire regeneration,&rdquo; Pierre uttered with difficulty.
<br />
  &ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; said Smolyanínov, and went on at once: &ldquo;Have you any idea of
  the means by which our holy Order will help you to reach your aim?&rdquo; said
  he quietly and quickly.
<br />
  &ldquo;I... hope... for guidance... help... in regeneration,&rdquo; said Pierre, with
  a trembling voice and some difficulty in utterance due to his excitement
  and to being unaccustomed to speak of abstract matters in Russian.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is your conception of Freemasonry?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I imagine that Freemasonry is the fraternity and equality of men who have
  virtuous aims,&rdquo; said Pierre, feeling ashamed of the inadequacy of his
  words for the solemnity of the moment, as he spoke. &ldquo;I imagine...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Good!&rdquo; said the Rhetor quickly, apparently satisfied with this answer.
  &ldquo;Have you sought for means of attaining your aim in religion?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, I considered it erroneous and did not follow it,&rdquo; said Pierre, so
  softly that the Rhetor did not hear him and asked him what he was saying.
  &ldquo;I have been an atheist,&rdquo; answered Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are seeking for truth in order to follow its laws in your life,
  therefore you seek wisdom and virtue. Is that not so?&rdquo; said the Rhetor,
  after a moment&rsquo;s pause.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; assented Pierre.
<br />
  The Rhetor cleared his throat, crossed his gloved hands on his breast, and
  began to speak.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now I must disclose to you the chief aim of our Order,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and if
  this aim coincides with yours, you may enter our Brotherhood with profit.
  The first and chief object of our Order, the foundation on which it rests
  and which no human power can destroy, is the preservation and handing on
  to posterity of a certain important mystery... which has come down to us
  from the remotest ages, even from the first man&mdash;a mystery on which
  perhaps the fate of mankind depends. But since this mystery is of such a
  nature that nobody can know or use it unless he be prepared by long and
  diligent self-purification, not everyone can hope to attain it quickly.
  Hence we have a secondary aim, that of preparing our members as much as
  possible to reform their hearts, to purify and enlighten their minds, by
  means handed on to us by tradition from those who have striven to attain
  this mystery, and thereby to render them capable of receiving it.
<br />
  &ldquo;By purifying and regenerating our members we try, thirdly, to improve the
  whole human race, offering it in our members an example of piety and
  virtue, and thereby try with all our might to combat the evil which sways
  the world. Think this over and I will come to you again.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;To combat the evil which sways the world...&rdquo; Pierre repeated, and a
  mental image of his future activity in this direction rose in his mind. He
  imagined men such as he had himself been a fortnight ago, and he addressed
  an edifying exhortation to them. He imagined to himself vicious and
  unfortunate people whom he would assist by word and deed, imagined
  oppressors whose victims he would rescue. Of the three objects mentioned
  by the Rhetor, this last, that of improving mankind, especially appealed
  to Pierre. The important mystery mentioned by the Rhetor, though it
  aroused his curiosity, did not seem to him essential, and the second aim,
  that of purifying and regenerating himself, did not much interest him
  because at that moment he felt with delight that he was already perfectly
  cured of his former faults and was ready for all that was good.
<br />
  Half an hour later, the Rhetor returned to inform the seeker of the seven
  virtues, corresponding to the seven steps of Solomon&rsquo;s temple, which every
  Freemason should cultivate in himself. These virtues were: 1. ,
  the keeping of the secrets of the Order. 2.  to those of higher
  ranks in the Order. 3. . 4. . 5. .
  6. . 7. .
<br />
  &ldquo;In the seventh place, try, by the frequent thought of death,&rdquo; the Rhetor
  said, &ldquo;to bring yourself to regard it not as a dreaded foe, but as a
  friend that frees the soul grown weary in the labors of virtue from this
  distressful life, and leads it to its place of recompense and peace.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, that must be so,&rdquo; thought Pierre, when after these words the Rhetor
  went away, leaving him to solitary meditation. &ldquo;It must be so, but I am
  still so weak that I love my life, the meaning of which is only now
  gradually opening before me.&rdquo; But five of the other virtues which Pierre
  recalled, counting them on his fingers, he felt already in his soul:
  , and especially &mdash;which
  did not even seem to him a virtue, but a joy. (He now felt so glad to be
  free from his own lawlessness and to submit his will to those who knew the
  indubitable truth.) He forgot what the seventh virtue was and could not
  recall it.
<br />
  The third time the Rhetor came back more quickly and asked Pierre whether
  he was still firm in his intention and determined to submit to all that
  would be required of him.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am ready for everything,&rdquo; said Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;I must also inform you,&rdquo; said the Rhetor, &ldquo;that our Order delivers its
  teaching not in words only but also by other means, which may perhaps have
  a stronger effect on the sincere seeker after wisdom and virtue than mere
  words. This chamber with what you see therein should already have
  suggested to your heart, if it is sincere, more than words could do. You
  will perhaps also see in your further initiation a like method of
  enlightenment. Our Order imitates the ancient societies that explained
  their teaching by hieroglyphics. A hieroglyph,&rdquo; said the Rhetor, &ldquo;is an
  emblem of something not cognizable by the senses but which possesses
  qualities resembling those of the symbol.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre knew very well what a hieroglyph was, but dared not speak. He
  listened to the Rhetor in silence, feeling from all he said that his
  ordeal was about to begin.
<br />
  &ldquo;If you are resolved, I must begin your initiation,&rdquo; said the Rhetor
  coming closer to Pierre. &ldquo;In token of generosity I ask you to give me all
  your valuables.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But I have nothing here,&rdquo; replied Pierre, supposing that he was asked to
  give up all he possessed.
<br />
  &ldquo;What you have with you: watch, money, rings....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre quickly took out his purse and watch, but could not manage for some
  time to get the wedding ring off his fat finger. When that had been done,
  the Rhetor said:
<br />
  &ldquo;In token of obedience, I ask you to undress.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre took off his coat, waistcoat, and left boot according to the
  Rhetor&rsquo;s instructions. The Mason drew the shirt back from Pierre&rsquo;s left
  breast, and stooping down pulled up the left leg of his trousers to above
  the knee. Pierre hurriedly began taking off his right boot also and was
  going to tuck up the other trouser leg to save this stranger the trouble,
  but the Mason told him that was not necessary and gave him a slipper for
  his left foot. With a childlike smile of embarrassment, doubt, and
  self-derision, which appeared on his face against his will, Pierre stood
  with his arms hanging down and legs apart, before his brother Rhetor, and
  awaited his further commands.
<br />
  &ldquo;And now, in token of candor, I ask you to reveal to me your chief
  passion,&rdquo; said the latter.
<br />
  &ldquo;My passion! I have had so many,&rdquo; replied Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;That passion which more than all others caused you to waver on the path
  of virtue,&rdquo; said the Mason.
<br />
  Pierre paused, seeking a reply.
<br />
  &ldquo;Wine? Gluttony? Idleness? Laziness? Irritability? Anger? Women?&rdquo; He went
  over his vices in his mind, not knowing to which of them to give the
  pre-eminence.
<br />
  &ldquo;Women,&rdquo; he said in a low, scarcely audible voice.
<br />
  The Mason did not move and for a long time said nothing after this answer.
  At last he moved up to Pierre and, taking the kerchief that lay on the
  table, again bound his eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;For the last time I say to you&mdash;turn all your attention upon
  yourself, put a bridle on your senses, and seek blessedness, not in
  passion but in your own heart. The source of blessedness is not without us
  but within....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre had already long been feeling in himself that refreshing source of
  blessedness which now flooded his heart with glad emotion.

  CHAPTER IV


  Soon after this there came into the dark chamber to fetch Pierre, not the
  Rhetor but Pierre&rsquo;s sponsor, Willarski, whom he recognized by his voice.
  To fresh questions as to the firmness of his resolution Pierre replied:
  &ldquo;Yes, yes, I agree,&rdquo; and with a beaming, childlike smile, his fat chest
  uncovered, stepping unevenly and timidly in one slippered and one booted
  foot, he advanced, while Willarski held a sword to his bare chest. He was
  conducted from that room along passages that turned backwards and forwards
  and was at last brought to the doors of the Lodge. Willarski coughed, he
  was answered by the Masonic knock with mallets, the doors opened before
  them. A bass voice (Pierre was still blindfolded) questioned him as to who
  he was, when and where he was born, and so on. Then he was again led
  somewhere still blindfolded, and as they went along he was told allegories
  of the toils of his pilgrimage, of holy friendship, of the Eternal
  Architect of the universe, and of the courage with which he should endure
  toils and dangers. During these wanderings, Pierre noticed that he was
  spoken of now as the &ldquo;Seeker,&rdquo; now as the &ldquo;Sufferer,&rdquo; and now as the
  &ldquo;Postulant,&rdquo; to the accompaniment of various knockings with mallets and
  swords. As he was being led up to some object he noticed a hesitation and
  uncertainty among his conductors. He heard those around him disputing in
  whispers and one of them insisting that he should be led along a certain
  carpet. After that they took his right hand, placed it on something, and
  told him to hold a pair of compasses to his left breast with the other
  hand and to repeat after someone who read aloud an oath of fidelity to the
  laws of the Order. The candles were then extinguished and some spirit
  lighted, as Pierre knew by the smell, and he was told that he would now
  see the lesser light. The bandage was taken off his eyes and, by the faint
  light of the burning spirit, Pierre, as in a dream, saw several men
  standing before him, wearing aprons like the Rhetor&rsquo;s and holding swords
  in their hands pointed at his breast. Among them stood a man whose white
  shirt was stained with blood. On seeing this, Pierre moved forward with
  his breast toward the swords, meaning them to pierce it. But the swords
  were drawn back from him and he was at once blindfolded again.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now thou hast seen the lesser light,&rdquo; uttered a voice. Then the candles
  were relit and he was told that he would see the full light; the bandage
  was again removed and more than ten voices said together: 
 <br />
  Pierre gradually began to recover himself and looked about at the room and
  at the people in it. Round a long table covered with black sat some twelve
  men in garments like those he had already seen. Some of them Pierre had
  met in Petersburg society. In the President&rsquo;s chair sat a young man he did
  not know, with a peculiar cross hanging from his neck. On his right sat
  the Italian abbé whom Pierre had met at Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s two years before.
  There were also present a very distinguished dignitary and a Swiss who had
  formerly been tutor at the Kurágins&rsquo;. All maintained a solemn silence,
  listening to the words of the President, who held a mallet in his hand.
  Let into the wall was a star-shaped light. At one side of the table was a
  small carpet with various figures worked upon it, at the other was
  something resembling an altar on which lay a Testament and a skull. Round
  it stood seven large candlesticks like those used in churches. Two of the
  brothers led Pierre up to the altar, placed his feet at right angles, and
  bade him lie down, saying that he must prostrate himself at the Gates of
  the Temple.
<br />
  &ldquo;He must first receive the trowel,&rdquo; whispered one of the brothers.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, hush, please!&rdquo; said another.
<br />
  Pierre, perplexed, looked round with his shortsighted eyes without
  obeying, and suddenly doubts arose in his mind. &ldquo;Where am I? What am I
  doing? Aren&rsquo;t they laughing at me? Shan&rsquo;t I be ashamed to remember this?&rdquo;
   But these doubts only lasted a moment. Pierre glanced at the serious faces
  of those around, remembered all he had already gone through, and realized
  that he could not stop halfway. He was aghast at his hesitation and,
  trying to arouse his former devotional feeling, prostrated himself before
  the Gates of the Temple. And really, the feeling of devotion returned to
  him even more strongly than before. When he had lain there some time, he
  was told to get up, and a white leather apron, such as the others wore,
  was put on him: he was given a trowel and three pairs of gloves, and then
  the Grand Master addressed him. He told him that he should try to do
  nothing to stain the whiteness of that apron, which symbolized strength
  and purity; then of the unexplained trowel, he told him to toil with it to
  cleanse his own heart from vice, and indulgently to smooth with it the
  heart of his neighbor. As to the first pair of gloves, a man&rsquo;s, he said
  that Pierre could not know their meaning but must keep them. The second
  pair of man&rsquo;s gloves he was to wear at the meetings, and finally of the
  third, a pair of women&rsquo;s gloves, he said: &ldquo;Dear brother, these woman&rsquo;s
  gloves are intended for you too. Give them to the woman whom you shall
  honor most of all. This gift will be a pledge of your purity of heart to
  her whom you select to be your worthy helpmeet in Masonry.&rdquo; And after a
  pause, he added: &ldquo;But beware, dear brother, that these gloves do not deck
  hands that are unclean.&rdquo; While the Grand Master said these last words it
  seemed to Pierre that he grew embarrassed. Pierre himself grew still more
  confused, blushed like a child till tears came to his eyes, began looking
  about him uneasily, and an awkward pause followed.
<br />
  This silence was broken by one of the brethren, who led Pierre up to the
  rug and began reading to him from a manuscript book an explanation of all
  the figures on it: the sun, the moon, a hammer, a plumb line, a trowel, a
  rough stone and a squared stone, a pillar, three windows, and so on. Then
  a place was assigned to Pierre, he was shown the signs of the Lodge, told
  the password, and at last was permitted to sit down. The Grand Master
  began reading the statutes. They were very long, and Pierre, from joy,
  agitation, and embarrassment, was not in a state to understand what was
  being read. He managed to follow only the last words of the statutes and
  these remained in his mind.
<br />
  &ldquo;In our temples we recognize no other distinctions,&rdquo; read the Grand
  Master, &ldquo;but those between virtue and vice. Beware of making any
  distinctions which may infringe equality. Fly to a brother&rsquo;s aid whoever
  he may be, exhort him who goeth astray, raise him that falleth, never bear
  malice or enmity toward thy brother. Be kindly and courteous. Kindle in
  all hearts the flame of virtue. Share thy happiness with thy neighbor, and
  may envy never dim the purity of that bliss. Forgive thy enemy, do not
  avenge thyself except by doing him good. Thus fulfilling the highest law
  thou shalt regain traces of the ancient dignity which thou hast lost.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He finished and, getting up, embraced and kissed Pierre, who, with tears
  of joy in his eyes, looked round him, not knowing how to answer the
  congratulations and greetings from acquaintances that met him on all
  sides. He acknowledged no acquaintances but saw in all these men only
  brothers, and burned with impatience to set to work with them.
<br />
  The Grand Master rapped with his mallet. All the Masons sat down in their
  places, and one of them read an exhortation on the necessity of humility.
<br />
  The Grand Master proposed that the last duty should be performed, and the
  distinguished dignitary who bore the title of &ldquo;Collector of Alms&rdquo; went
  round to all the brothers. Pierre would have liked to subscribe all he
  had, but fearing that it might look like pride subscribed the same amount
  as the others.
<br />
  The meeting was at an end, and on reaching home Pierre felt as if he had
  returned from a long journey on which he had spent dozens of years, had
  become completely changed, and had quite left behind his former habits and
  way of life.

  CHAPTER V


  The day after he had been received into the Lodge, Pierre was sitting at
  home reading a book and trying to fathom the significance of the Square,
  one side of which symbolized God, another moral things, a third physical
  things, and the fourth a combination of these. Now and then his attention
  wandered from the book and the Square and he formed in imagination a new
  plan of life. On the previous evening at the Lodge, he had heard that a
  rumor of his duel had reached the Emperor and that it would be wiser for
  him to leave Petersburg. Pierre proposed going to his estates in the south
  and there attending to the welfare of his serfs. He was joyfully planning
  this new life, when Prince Vasíli suddenly entered the room.
<br />
  &ldquo;My dear fellow, what have you been up to in Moscow? Why have you
  quarreled with Hélène,  You are under a delusion,&rdquo; said Prince
  Vasíli, as he entered. &ldquo;I know all about it, and I can tell you positively
  that Hélène is as innocent before you as Christ was before the Jews.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre was about to reply, but Prince Vasíli interrupted him.
<br />
  &ldquo;And why didn&rsquo;t you simply come straight to me as to a friend? I know all
  about it and understand it all,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You behaved as becomes a man
  who values his honor, perhaps too hastily, but we won&rsquo;t go into that. But
  consider the position in which you are placing her and me in the eyes of
  society, and even of the court,&rdquo; he added, lowering his voice. &ldquo;She is
  living in Moscow and you are here. Remember, dear boy,&rdquo; and he drew
  Pierre&rsquo;s arm downwards, &ldquo;it is simply a misunderstanding. I expect you
  feel it so yourself. Let us write her a letter at once, and she&rsquo;ll come
  here and all will be explained, or else, my dear boy, let me tell you it&rsquo;s
  quite likely you&rsquo;ll have to suffer for it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Vasíli gave Pierre a significant look.
<br />
  &ldquo;I know from reliable sources that the Dowager Empress is taking a keen
  interest in the whole affair. You know she is very gracious to Hélène.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre tried several times to speak, but, on one hand, Prince Vasíli did
  not let him and, on the other, Pierre himself feared to begin to speak in
  the tone of decided refusal and disagreement in which he had firmly
  resolved to answer his father-in-law. Moreover, the words of the Masonic
  statutes, &ldquo;be kindly and courteous,&rdquo; recurred to him. He blinked, went
  red, got up and sat down again, struggling with himself to do what was for
  him the most difficult thing in life&mdash;to say an unpleasant thing to a
  man&rsquo;s face, to say what the other, whoever he might be, did not expect. He
  was so used to submitting to Prince Vasíli&rsquo;s tone of careless
  self-assurance that he felt he would be unable to withstand it now, but he
  also felt that on what he said now his future depended&mdash;whether he
  would follow the same old road, or that new path so attractively shown him
  by the Masons, on which he firmly believed he would be reborn to a new
  life.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now, dear boy,&rdquo; said Prince Vasíli playfully, &ldquo;say &lsquo;yes,&rsquo; and I&rsquo;ll write
  to her myself, and we will kill the fatted calf.&rdquo;
 <br />
  But before Prince Vasíli had finished his playful speech, Pierre, without
  looking at him, and with a kind of fury that made him like his father,
  muttered in a whisper:
<br />
  &ldquo;Prince, I did not ask you here. Go, please go!&rdquo; And he jumped up and
  opened the door for him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Go!&rdquo; he repeated, amazed at himself and glad to see the look of confusion
  and fear that showed itself on Prince Vasíli&rsquo;s face.
<br />
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter with you? Are you ill?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Go!&rdquo; the quivering voice repeated. And Prince Vasíli had to go without
  receiving any explanation.
<br />
  A week later, Pierre, having taken leave of his new friends, the Masons,
  and leaving large sums of money with them for alms, went away to his
  estates. His new brethren gave him letters to the Kiev and Odessa Masons
  and promised to write to him and guide him in his new activity.

  CHAPTER VI


  The duel between Pierre and Dólokhov was hushed up and, in spite of the
  Emperor&rsquo;s severity regarding duels at that time, neither the principals
  nor their seconds suffered for it. But the story of the duel, confirmed by
  Pierre&rsquo;s rupture with his wife, was the talk of society. Pierre who had
  been regarded with patronizing condescension when he was an illegitimate
  son, and petted and extolled when he was the best match in Russia, had
  sunk greatly in the esteem of society after his marriage&mdash;when the
  marriageable daughters and their mothers had nothing to hope from him&mdash;especially
  as he did not know how, and did not wish, to court society&rsquo;s favor. Now he
  alone was blamed for what had happened, he was said to be insanely jealous
  and subject like his father to fits of bloodthirsty rage. And when after
  Pierre&rsquo;s departure Hélène returned to Petersburg, she was received by all
  her acquaintances not only cordially, but even with a shade of deference
  due to her misfortune. When conversation turned on her husband Hélène
  assumed a dignified expression, which with characteristic tact she had
  acquired though she did not understand its significance. This expression
  suggested that she had resolved to endure her troubles uncomplainingly and
  that her husband was a cross laid upon her by God. Prince Vasíli expressed
  his opinion more openly. He shrugged his shoulders when Pierre was
  mentioned and, pointing to his forehead, remarked:
<br />
  &ldquo;A bit touched&mdash;I always said so.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I said from the first,&rdquo; declared Anna Pávlovna referring to Pierre, &ldquo;I
  said at the time and before anyone else&rdquo; (she insisted on her priority)
  &ldquo;that that senseless young man was spoiled by the depraved ideas of these
  days. I said so even at the time when everybody was in raptures about him,
  when he had just returned from abroad, and when, if you remember, he posed
  as a sort of Marat at one of my soirees. And how has it ended? I was
  against this marriage even then and foretold all that has happened.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Anna Pávlovna continued to give on free evenings the same kind of soirees
  as before&mdash;such as she alone had the gift of arranging&mdash;at which
  was to be found &ldquo;the cream of really good society, the bloom of the
  intellectual essence of Petersburg,&rdquo; as she herself put it. Besides this
  refined selection of society Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s receptions were also
  distinguished by the fact that she always presented some new and
  interesting person to the visitors and that nowhere else was the state of
  the political thermometer of legitimate Petersburg court society so dearly
  and distinctly indicated.
<br />
  Toward the end of 1806, when all the sad details of Napoleon&rsquo;s destruction
  of the Prussian army at Jena and Auerstädt and the surrender of most of
  the Prussian fortresses had been received, when our troops had already
  entered Prussia and our second war with Napoleon was beginning, Anna
  Pávlovna gave one of her soirees. The &ldquo;cream of really good society&rdquo;
   consisted of the fascinating Hélène, forsaken by her husband, Mortemart,
  the delightful Prince Hippolyte who had just returned from Vienna, two
  diplomatists, the old aunt, a young man referred to in that drawing room
  as &ldquo;a man of great merit&rdquo; (), a newly
  appointed maid of honor and her mother, and several other less noteworthy
  persons.
<br />
  The novelty Anna Pávlovna was setting before her guests that evening was
  Borís Drubetskóy, who had just arrived as a special messenger from the
  Prussian army and was aide-de-camp to a very important personage.
<br />
  The temperature shown by the political thermometer to the company that
  evening was this:
<br />
  &ldquo;Whatever the European sovereigns and commanders may do to countenance
  Bonaparte, and to cause , and  in general, annoyance and
  mortification, our opinion of Bonaparte cannot alter. We shall not cease
  to express our sincere views on that subject, and can only say to the King
  of Prussia and others: &lsquo;So much the worse for you. ,&rsquo; that&rsquo;s all we have to say about it!&rdquo;
 <br />
  When Borís, who was to be served up to the guests, entered the drawing
  room, almost all the company had assembled, and the conversation, guided
  by Anna Pávlovna, was about our diplomatic relations with Austria and the
  hope of an alliance with her.
<br />
  Borís, grown more manly and looking fresh, rosy and self-possessed,
  entered the drawing room elegantly dressed in the uniform of an
  aide-de-camp and was duly conducted to pay his respects to the aunt and
  then brought back to the general circle.
<br />
  Anna Pávlovna gave him her shriveled hand to kiss and introduced him to
  several persons whom he did not know, giving him a whispered description
  of each.
<br />
  &ldquo;Prince Hippolyte Kurágin&mdash;charming young fellow; M. Kronq,&mdash;chargé
  d&rsquo;affaires from Copenhagen&mdash;a profound intellect,&rdquo; and simply,
  &ldquo;Mr. Shítov&mdash;a man of great merit&rdquo;&mdash;this of the man
  usually so described.
<br />
  Thanks to Anna Mikháylovna&rsquo;s efforts, his own tastes, and the
  peculiarities of his reserved nature, Borís had managed during his service
  to place himself very advantageously. He was aide-de-camp to a very
  important personage, had been sent on a very important mission to Prussia,
  and had just returned from there as a special messenger. He had become
  thoroughly conversant with that unwritten code with which he had been so
  pleased at Olmütz and according to which an ensign might rank incomparably
  higher than a general, and according to which what was needed for success
  in the service was not effort or work, or courage, or perseverance, but
  only the knowledge of how to get on with those who can grant rewards, and
  he was himself often surprised at the rapidity of his success and at the
  inability of others to understand these things. In consequence of this
  discovery his whole manner of life, all his relations with old friends,
  all his plans for his future, were completely altered. He was not rich,
  but would spend his last groat to be better dressed than others, and would
  rather deprive himself of many pleasures than allow himself to be seen in
  a shabby equipage or appear in the streets of Petersburg in an old
  uniform. He made friends with and sought the acquaintance of only those
  above him in position and who could therefore be of use to him. He liked
  Petersburg and despised Moscow. The remembrance of the Rostóvs&rsquo; house and
  of his childish love for Natásha was unpleasant to him and he had not once
  been to see the Rostóvs since the day of his departure for the army. To be
  in Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s drawing room he considered an important step up in the
  service, and he at once understood his role, letting his hostess make use
  of whatever interest he had to offer. He himself carefully scanned each
  face, appraising the possibilities of establishing intimacy with each of
  those present, and the advantages that might accrue. He took the seat
  indicated to him beside the fair Hélène and listened to the general
  conversation.
<br />
  &ldquo;Vienna considers the bases of the proposed treaty so unattainable that
  not even a continuity of most brilliant successes would secure them, and
  she doubts the means we have of gaining them. That is the actual phrase
  used by the Vienna cabinet,&rdquo; said the Danish chargé d&rsquo;affaires.
<br />
  &ldquo;The doubt is flattering,&rdquo; said &ldquo;the man of profound intellect,&rdquo; with a
  subtle smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;We must distinguish between the Vienna cabinet and the Emperor of
  Austria,&rdquo; said Mortemart. &ldquo;The Emperor of Austria can never have thought
  of such a thing, it is only the cabinet that says it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah, my dear vicomte,&rdquo; put in Anna Pávlovna, 
  (for some reason she called it  as if that were a specially refined French
  pronunciation which she could allow herself when conversing with a
  Frenchman),  *
<br />
* &ldquo;Europe will never be our sincere ally.&rdquo;

After that Anna Pávlovna led up to the courage and firmness of the King of Prussia, in order to draw Borís into the conversation.
Borís listened attentively to each of the speakers, awaiting his turn, but managed meanwhile to look round repeatedly at his neighbor, the beautiful Hélène, whose eyes several times met those of the handsome young aide-de-camp with a smile.
Speaking of the position of Prussia, Anna Pávlovna very naturally asked Borís to tell them about his journey to Glogau and in what state he found the Prussian army. Borís, speaking with deliberation, told them in pure, correct French many interesting details about the armies and the court, carefully abstaining from expressing an opinion of his own about the facts he was recounting. For some time he engrossed the general attention, and Anna Pávlovna felt that the novelty she had served up was received with pleasure by all her visitors. The greatest attention of all to Borís’ narrative was shown by Hélène. She asked him several questions about his journey and seemed greatly interested in the state of the Prussian army. As soon as he had finished she turned to him with her usual smile.
“You absolutely must come and see me,” she said in a tone that implied that, for certain considerations he could not know of, this was absolutely necessary.
“On Tuesday between eight and nine. It will give me great pleasure.”
Borís promised to fulfill her wish and was about to begin a conversation with her, when Anna Pávlovna called him away on the pretext that her aunt wished to hear him.
“You know her husband, of course?” said Anna Pávlovna, closing her eyes and indicating Hélène with a sorrowful gesture. “Ah, she is such an unfortunate and charming woman! Don’t mention him before her—please don’t! It is too painful for her!”

  CHAPTER VII


  When Borís and Anna Pávlovna returned to the others Prince Hippolyte had
  the ear of the company.
<br />
  Bending forward in his armchair he said:  and having
  said this laughed. Everyone turned toward him.
<br />
   Hippolyte said interrogatively, again laughing, and
  then calmly and seriously sat back in his chair. Anna Pávlovna waited for
  him to go on, but as he seemed quite decided to say no more she began to
  tell of how at Potsdam the impious Bonaparte had stolen the sword of
  Frederick the Great.
<br />
  &ldquo;It is the sword of Frederick the Great which I...&rdquo; she began, but
  Hippolyte interrupted her with the words: 
  and again, as soon as all turned toward him, excused himself and said no more.
<br />
  Anna Pávlovna frowned. Mortemart, Hippolyte&rsquo;s friend, addressed him
  firmly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Come now, what about your &rdquo;
 <br />
  Hippolyte laughed as if ashamed of laughing.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, it&rsquo;s nothing. I only wished to say...&rdquo; (he wanted to repeat a joke he
  had heard in Vienna and which he had been trying all that evening to get
  in) &ldquo;I only wished to say that we are wrong to fight &rdquo;
 <br />
  Borís smiled circumspectly, so that it might be taken as ironical or
  appreciative according to the way the joke was received. Everybody
  laughed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your joke is too bad, it&rsquo;s witty but unjust,&rdquo; said Anna Pávlovna, shaking
  her little shriveled finger at him.
<br />
  &ldquo;We are not fighting , but for right principles. Oh,
  that wicked Prince Hippolyte!&rdquo; she said.
<br />
  The conversation did not flag all evening and turned chiefly on the
  political news. It became particularly animated toward the end of the
  evening when the rewards bestowed by the Emperor were mentioned.
<br />
  &ldquo;You know N&mdash; N&mdash; received a snuffbox with the portrait last
  year?&rdquo; said &ldquo;the man of profound intellect.&rdquo; &ldquo;Why shouldn&rsquo;t S&mdash; S&mdash;
  get the same distinction?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Pardon me! A snuffbox with the Emperor&rsquo;s portrait is a reward but not a
  distinction,&rdquo; said the diplomatist&mdash;&ldquo;a gift, rather.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;There are precedents, I may mention Schwarzenberg.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s impossible,&rdquo; replied another.
<br />
  &ldquo;Will you bet? The ribbon of the order is a different matter....&rdquo;
 <br />
  When everybody rose to go, Hélène who had spoken very little all the
  evening again turned to Borís, asking him in a tone of caressing
  significant command to come to her on Tuesday.
<br />
  &ldquo;It is of great importance to me,&rdquo; she said, turning with a smile toward
  Anna Pávlovna, and Anna Pávlovna, with the same sad smile with which she
  spoke of her exalted patroness, supported Hélène&rsquo;s wish.
<br />
  It seemed as if from some words Borís had spoken that evening about the
  Prussian army, Hélène had suddenly found it necessary to see him. She
  seemed to promise to explain that necessity to him when he came on
  Tuesday.
<br />
  But on Tuesday evening, having come to Hélène&rsquo;s splendid salon, Borís
  received no clear explanation of why it had been necessary for him to
  come. There were other guests and the countess talked little to him, and
  only as he kissed her hand on taking leave said unexpectedly and in a
  whisper, with a strangely unsmiling face: &ldquo;Come to dinner tomorrow... in
  the evening. You must come.... Come!&rdquo;
 <br />
  During that stay in Petersburg, Borís became an intimate in the countess&rsquo;
  house.

  CHAPTER VIII


  The war was flaming up and nearing the Russian frontier. Everywhere one
  heard curses on Bonaparte, &ldquo;the enemy of mankind.&rdquo; Militiamen and recruits
  were being enrolled in the villages, and from the seat of war came
  contradictory news, false as usual and therefore variously interpreted.
  The life of old Prince Bolkónski, Prince Andrew, and Princess Mary had
  greatly changed since 1805.
<br />
  In 1806 the old prince was made one of the eight commanders in chief then
  appointed to supervise the enrollment decreed throughout Russia. Despite
  the weakness of age, which had become particularly noticeable since the
  time when he thought his son had been killed, he did not think it right to
  refuse a duty to which he had been appointed by the Emperor himself, and
  this fresh opportunity for action gave him new energy and strength. He was
  continually traveling through the three provinces entrusted to him, was
  pedantic in the fulfillment of his duties, severe to cruel with his
  subordinates, and went into everything down to the minutest details
  himself. Princess Mary had ceased taking lessons in mathematics from her
  father, and when the old prince was at home went to his study with the wet
  nurse and little Prince Nicholas (as his grandfather called him). The baby
  Prince Nicholas lived with his wet nurse and nurse Sávishna in the late
  princess&rsquo; rooms and Princess Mary spent most of the day in the nursery,
  taking a mother&rsquo;s place to her little nephew as best she could.
  Mademoiselle Bourienne, too, seemed passionately fond of the boy, and
  Princess Mary often deprived herself to give her friend the pleasure of
  dandling the little &mdash;as she called her nephew&mdash;and playing
  with him.
<br />
  Near the altar of the church at Bald Hills there was a chapel over the
  tomb of the little princess, and in this chapel was a marble monument
  brought from Italy, representing an angel with outspread wings ready to
  fly upwards. The angel&rsquo;s upper lip was slightly raised as though about to
  smile, and once on coming out of the chapel Prince Andrew and Princess
  Mary admitted to one another that the angel&rsquo;s face reminded them strangely
  of the little princess. But what was still stranger, though of this Prince
  Andrew said nothing to his sister, was that in the expression the sculptor
  had happened to give the angel&rsquo;s face, Prince Andrew read the same mild
  reproach he had read on the face of his dead wife: &ldquo;Ah, why have you done
  this to me?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Soon after Prince Andrew&rsquo;s return the old prince made over to him a large
  estate, Boguchárovo, about twenty-five miles from Bald Hills. Partly
  because of the depressing memories associated with Bald Hills, partly
  because Prince Andrew did not always feel equal to bearing with his
  father&rsquo;s peculiarities, and partly because he needed solitude, Prince
  Andrew made use of Boguchárovo, began building and spent most of his time
  there.
<br />
  After the Austerlitz campaign Prince Andrew had firmly resolved not to
  continue his military service, and when the war recommenced and everybody
  had to serve, he took a post under his father in the recruitment so as to
  avoid active service. The old prince and his son seemed to have changed
  roles since the campaign of 1805. The old man, roused by activity,
  expected the best results from the new campaign, while Prince Andrew on
  the contrary, taking no part in the war and secretly regretting this, saw
  only the dark side.
<br />
  On February 26, 1807, the old prince set off on one of his circuits.
  Prince Andrew remained at Bald Hills as usual during his father&rsquo;s absence.
  Little Nicholas had been unwell for four days. The coachman who had driven
  the old prince to town returned bringing papers and letters for Prince
  Andrew.
<br />
  Not finding the young prince in his study the valet went with the letters
  to Princess Mary&rsquo;s apartments, but did not find him there. He was told
  that the prince had gone to the nursery.
<br />
  &ldquo;If you please, your excellency, Pétrusha has brought some papers,&rdquo; said
  one of the nursemaids to Prince Andrew who was sitting on a child&rsquo;s little
  chair while, frowning and with trembling hands, he poured drops from a
  medicine bottle into a wineglass half full of water.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; he said crossly, and, his hand shaking unintentionally, he
  poured too many drops into the glass. He threw the mixture onto the floor
  and asked for some more water. The maid brought it.
<br />
  There were in the room a child&rsquo;s cot, two boxes, two armchairs, a table, a
  child&rsquo;s table, and the little chair on which Prince Andrew was sitting.
  The curtains were drawn, and a single candle was burning on the table,
  screened by a bound music book so that the light did not fall on the cot.
<br />
  &ldquo;My dear,&rdquo; said Princess Mary, addressing her brother from beside the cot
  where she was standing, &ldquo;better wait a bit... later...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, leave off, you always talk nonsense and keep putting things off&mdash;and
  this is what comes of it!&rdquo; said Prince Andrew in an exasperated whisper,
  evidently meaning to wound his sister.
<br />
  &ldquo;My dear, really... it&rsquo;s better not to wake him... he&rsquo;s asleep,&rdquo; said the
  princess in a tone of entreaty.
<br />
  Prince Andrew got up and went on tiptoe up to the little bed, wineglass in
  hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;Perhaps we&rsquo;d really better not wake him,&rdquo; he said hesitating.
<br />
  &ldquo;As you please... really... I think so... but as you please,&rdquo; said
  Princess Mary, evidently intimidated and confused that her opinion had
  prevailed. She drew her brother&rsquo;s attention to the maid who was calling
  him in a whisper.
<br />
  It was the second night that neither of them had slept, watching the boy
  who was in a high fever. These last days, mistrusting their household
  doctor and expecting another for whom they had sent to town, they had been
  trying first one remedy and then another. Worn out by sleeplessness and
  anxiety they threw their burden of sorrow on one another and reproached
  and disputed with each other.
<br />
  &ldquo;Pétrusha has come with papers from your father,&rdquo; whispered the maid.
<br />
  Prince Andrew went out.
<br />
  &ldquo;Devil take them!&rdquo; he muttered, and after listening to the verbal
  instructions his father had sent and taking the correspondence and his
  father&rsquo;s letter, he returned to the nursery.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well?&rdquo; he asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;Still the same. Wait, for heaven&rsquo;s sake. Karl Ivánich always says that
  sleep is more important than anything,&rdquo; whispered Princess Mary with a
  sigh.
<br />
  Prince Andrew went up to the child and felt him. He was burning hot.
<br />
  &ldquo;Confound you and your Karl Ivánich!&rdquo; He took the glass with the drops and
  again went up to the cot.
<br />
  &ldquo;Andrew, don&rsquo;t!&rdquo; said Princess Mary.
<br />
  But he scowled at her angrily though also with suffering in his eyes, and
  stooped glass in hand over the infant.
<br />
  &ldquo;But I wish it,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I beg you&mdash;give it him!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Princess Mary shrugged her shoulders but took the glass submissively and
  calling the nurse began giving the medicine. The child screamed hoarsely.
  Prince Andrew winced and, clutching his head, went out and sat down on a
  sofa in the next room.
<br />
  He still had all the letters in his hand. Opening them mechanically he
  began reading. The old prince, now and then using abbreviations, wrote in
  his large elongated hand on blue paper as follows:
<br />
  Have just this moment received by special messenger very joyful news&mdash;if
  it&rsquo;s not false. Bennigsen seems to have obtained a complete victory over
  Buonaparte at Eylau. In Petersburg everyone is rejoicing, and the rewards
  sent to the army are innumerable. Though he is a German&mdash;I
  congratulate him! I can&rsquo;t make out what the commander at Kórchevo&mdash;a
  certain Khandrikóv&mdash;is up to; till now the additional men and
  provisions have not arrived. Gallop off to him at once and say I&rsquo;ll have
  his head off if everything is not here in a week. Have received another
  letter about the Preussisch-Eylau battle from Pétenka&mdash;he took part
  in it&mdash;and it&rsquo;s all true. When mischief-makers don&rsquo;t meddle even a
  German beats Buonaparte. He is said to be fleeing in great disorder. Mind
  you gallop off to Kórchevo without delay and carry out instructions!
<br />
  Prince Andrew sighed and broke the seal of another envelope. It was a
  closely written letter of two sheets from Bilíbin. He folded it up without
  reading it and reread his father&rsquo;s letter, ending with the words: &ldquo;Gallop
  off to Kórchevo and carry out instructions!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, pardon me, I won&rsquo;t go now till the child is better,&rdquo; thought he,
  going to the door and looking into the nursery.
<br />
  Princess Mary was still standing by the cot, gently rocking the baby.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah yes, and what else did he say that&rsquo;s unpleasant?&rdquo; thought Prince
  Andrew, recalling his father&rsquo;s letter. &ldquo;Yes, we have gained a victory over
  Bonaparte, just when I&rsquo;m not serving. Yes, yes, he&rsquo;s always poking fun at
  me.... Ah, well! Let him!&rdquo; And he began reading Bilíbin&rsquo;s letter which was
  written in French. He read without understanding half of it, read only to
  forget, if but for a moment, what he had too long been thinking of so
  painfully to the exclusion of all else.

  CHAPTER IX


  Bilíbin was now at army headquarters in a diplomatic capacity, and though
  he wrote in French and used French jests and French idioms, he described
  the whole campaign with a fearless self-censure and self-derision
  genuinely Russian. Bilíbin wrote that the obligation of diplomatic
  discretion tormented him, and he was happy to have in Prince Andrew a
  reliable correspondent to whom he could pour out the bile he had
  accumulated at the sight of all that was being done in the army. The
  letter was old, having been written before the battle at Preussisch-Eylau.
<br />
  &ldquo;Since the day of our brilliant success at Austerlitz,&rdquo; wrote Bilíbin, &ldquo;as
  you know, my dear prince, I never leave headquarters. I have certainly
  acquired a taste for war, and it is just as well for me; what I have seen
  during these last three months is incredible.
<br />
  &ldquo;I begin . &lsquo;The enemy of the human race,&rsquo; as you know, attacks the
  Prussians. The Prussians are our faithful allies who have only betrayed us
  three times in three years. We take up their cause, but it turns out that
  &lsquo;the enemy of the human race&rsquo; pays no heed to our fine speeches and in his
  rude and savage way throws himself on the Prussians without giving them
  time to finish the parade they had begun, and in two twists of the hand he
  breaks them to smithereens and installs himself in the palace at Potsdam.
<br />
  &ldquo;&lsquo;I most ardently desire,&rsquo; writes the King of Prussia to Bonaparte, &lsquo;that
  Your Majesty should be received and treated in my palace in a manner
  agreeable to yourself, and in so far as circumstances allowed, I have
  hastened to take all steps to that end. May I have succeeded!&rsquo; The
  Prussian generals pride themselves on being polite to the French and lay
  down their arms at the first demand.
<br />
  &ldquo;The head of the garrison at Glogau, with ten thousand men, asks the King
  of Prussia what he is to do if he is summoned to surrender.... All this is
  absolutely true.
<br />
  &ldquo;In short, hoping to settle matters by taking up a warlike attitude, it
  turns out that we have landed ourselves in war, and what is more, in war
  on our own frontiers,  and  the King of Prussia. We have everything
  in perfect order, only one little thing is lacking, namely, a commander in
  chief. As it was considered that the Austerlitz success might have been
  more decisive had the commander in chief not been so young, all our
  octogenarians were reviewed, and of Prozoróvski and Kámenski the latter
  was preferred. The general comes to us, Suvórov-like, in a , and is
  received with acclamations of joy and triumph.
<br />
  &ldquo;On the 4th, the first courier arrives from Petersburg. The mails are
  taken to the field marshal&rsquo;s room, for he likes to do everything himself.
  I am called in to help sort the letters and take those meant for us. The
  field marshal looks on and waits for letters addressed to him. We search,
  but none are to be found. The field marshal grows impatient and sets to
  work himself and finds letters from the Emperor to Count T., Prince V.,
  and others. Then he bursts into one of his wild furies and rages at
  everyone and everything, seizes the letters, opens them, and reads those
  from the Emperor addressed to others. &lsquo;Ah! So that&rsquo;s the way they treat
  me! No confidence in me! Ah, ordered to keep an eye on me! Very well then!
  Get along with you!&rsquo; So he writes the famous order of the day to General
  Bennigsen:
<br />
  &ldquo;&lsquo;I am wounded and cannot ride and consequently cannot command the
  army. You have brought your army corps to Pultúsk, routed: here it is exposed,
  and without fuel or forage, so something must be done, and, as you
  yourself reported to Count Buxhöwden yesterday, you must think of
  retreating to our frontier&mdash;which do today.&rsquo;
<br />
  &ldquo;&lsquo;From all my riding,&rsquo; he writes to the Emperor, &lsquo;I have got a saddle sore
  which, coming after all my previous journeys, quite prevents my riding and
  commanding so vast an army, so I have passed on the command to the general
  next in seniority, Count Buxhöwden, having sent him my whole staff and all
  that belongs to it, advising him if there is a lack of bread, to move
  farther into the interior of Prussia, for only one day&rsquo;s ration of bread
  remains, and in some regiments none at all, as reported by the division
  commanders, Ostermann and Sedmorétzki, and all that the peasants had has
  been eaten up. I myself will remain in hospital at Ostrolenka till I
  recover. In regard to which I humbly submit my report, with the
  information that if the army remains in its present bivouac another
  fortnight there will not be a healthy man left in it by spring.
<br />
  &ldquo;&lsquo;Grant leave to retire to his country seat to an old man who is already
  in any case dishonored by being unable to fulfill the great and glorious
  task for which he was chosen. I shall await your most gracious permission
  here in hospital, that I may not have to play the part of a 
  rather than  in the army. My removal from the army does not
  produce the slightest stir&mdash;a blind man has left it. There are
  thousands such as I in Russia.&rsquo;
<br />
  &ldquo;The field marshal is angry with the Emperor and he punishes us all, isn&rsquo;t
  it logical?
<br />
  &ldquo;This is the first act. Those that follow are naturally increasingly
  interesting and entertaining. After the field marshal&rsquo;s departure it
  appears that we are within sight of the enemy and must give battle.
  Buxhöwden is commander in chief by seniority, but General Bennigsen does
  not quite see it; more particularly as it is he and his corps who are
  within sight of the enemy and he wishes to profit by the opportunity to
  fight a battle &lsquo;on his own hand&rsquo; as the Germans say. He does so. This is
  the battle of Pultúsk, which is considered a great victory but in my
  opinion was nothing of the kind. We civilians, as you know, have a very
  bad way of deciding whether a battle was won or lost. Those who retreat
  after a battle have lost it is what we say; and according to that it is we
  who lost the battle of Pultúsk. In short, we retreat after the battle but
  send a courier to Petersburg with news of a victory, and General
  Bennigsen, hoping to receive from Petersburg the post of commander in
  chief as a reward for his victory, does not give up the command of the
  army to General Buxhöwden. During this interregnum we begin a very
  original and interesting series of maneuvers. Our aim is no longer, as it
  should be, to avoid or attack the enemy, but solely to avoid General
  Buxhöwden who by right of seniority should be our chief. So energetically
  do we pursue this aim that after crossing an unfordable river we burn the
  bridges to separate ourselves from our enemy, who at the moment is not
  Bonaparte but Buxhöwden. General Buxhöwden was all but attacked and
  captured by a superior enemy force as a result of one of these maneuvers
  that enabled us to escape him. Buxhöwden pursues us&mdash;we scuttle. He
  hardly crosses the river to our side before we recross to the other. At
  last our enemy, Buxhöwden, catches us and attacks. Both generals are
  angry, and the result is a challenge on Buxhöwden&rsquo;s part and an epileptic
  fit on Bennigsen&rsquo;s. But at the critical moment the courier who carried the
  news of our victory at Pultúsk to Petersburg returns bringing our
  appointment as commander in chief, and our first foe, Buxhöwden, is
  vanquished; we can now turn our thoughts to the second, Bonaparte. But as
  it turns out, just at that moment a third enemy rises before us&mdash;namely
  the , loudly demanding bread, meat, biscuits,
  fodder, and whatnot! The stores are empty, the roads impassable. The
  Orthodox begin looting, and in a way of which our last campaign can give
  you no idea. Half the regiments form bands and scour the countryside and
  put everything to fire and sword. The inhabitants are totally ruined, the
  hospitals overflow with sick, and famine is everywhere. Twice the
  marauders even attack our headquarters, and the commander in chief has to
  ask for a battalion to disperse them. During one of these attacks they
  carried off my empty portmanteau and my dressing gown. The Emperor
  proposes to give all commanders of divisions the right to shoot marauders,
  but I much fear this will oblige one half the army to shoot the other.&rdquo;
 <br />
  At first Prince Andrew read with his eyes only, but after a while, in
  spite of himself (although he knew how far it was safe to trust Bilíbin),
  what he had read began to interest him more and more. When he had read
  thus far, he crumpled the letter up and threw it away. It was not what he
  had read that vexed him, but the fact that the life out there in which he
  had now no part could perturb him. He shut his eyes, rubbed his forehead
  as if to rid himself of all interest in what he had read, and listened to
  what was passing in the nursery. Suddenly he thought he heard a strange
  noise through the door. He was seized with alarm lest something should
  have happened to the child while he was reading the letter. He went on
  tiptoe to the nursery door and opened it.
<br />
  Just as he went in he saw that the nurse was hiding something from him
  with a scared look and that Princess Mary was no longer by the cot.
<br />
  &ldquo;My dear,&rdquo; he heard what seemed to him her despairing whisper behind him.
<br />
  As often happens after long sleeplessness and long anxiety, he was seized
  by an unreasoning panic&mdash;it occurred to him that the child was dead.
  All that he saw and heard seemed to confirm this terror.
<br />
  &ldquo;All is over,&rdquo; he thought, and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He
  went to the cot in confusion, sure that he would find it empty and that
  the nurse had been hiding the dead baby. He drew the curtain aside and for
  some time his frightened, restless eyes could not find the baby. At last
  he saw him: the rosy boy had tossed about till he lay across the bed with
  his head lower than the pillow, and was smacking his lips in his sleep and
  breathing evenly.
<br />
  Prince Andrew was as glad to find the boy like that, as if he had already
  lost him. He bent over him and, as his sister had taught him, tried with
  his lips whether the child was still feverish. The soft forehead was
  moist. Prince Andrew touched the head with his hand; even the hair was
  wet, so profusely had the child perspired. He was not dead, but evidently
  the crisis was over and he was convalescent. Prince Andrew longed to
  snatch up, to squeeze, to hold to his heart, this helpless little
  creature, but dared not do so. He stood over him, gazing at his head and
  at the little arms and legs which showed under the blanket. He heard a
  rustle behind him and a shadow appeared under the curtain of the cot. He
  did not look round, but still gazing at the infant&rsquo;s face listened to his
  regular breathing. The dark shadow was Princess Mary, who had come up to
  the cot with noiseless steps, lifted the curtain, and dropped it again
  behind her. Prince Andrew recognized her without looking and held out his
  hand to her. She pressed it.
<br />
  &ldquo;He has perspired,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew.
<br />
  &ldquo;I was coming to tell you so.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The child moved slightly in his sleep, smiled, and rubbed his forehead
  against the pillow.
<br />
  Prince Andrew looked at his sister. In the dim shadow of the curtain her
  luminous eyes shone more brightly than usual from the tears of joy that
  were in them. She leaned over to her brother and kissed him, slightly
  catching the curtain of the cot. Each made the other a warning gesture and
  stood still in the dim light beneath the curtain as if not wishing to
  leave that seclusion where they three were shut off from all the world.
  Prince Andrew was the first to move away, ruffling his hair against the
  muslin of the curtain.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, this is the one thing left me now,&rdquo; he said with a sigh.

  CHAPTER X


  Soon after his admission to the Masonic Brotherhood, Pierre went to the
  Kiev province, where he had the greatest number of serfs, taking with him
  full directions which he had written down for his own guidance as to what
  he should do on his estates.
<br />
  When he reached Kiev he sent for all his stewards to the head office and
  explained to them his intentions and wishes. He told them that steps would
  be taken immediately to free his serfs&mdash;and that till then they were
  not to be overburdened with labor, women while nursing their babies were
  not to be sent to work, assistance was to be given to the serfs,
  punishments were to be admonitory and not corporal, and hospitals,
  asylums, and schools were to be established on all the estates. Some of
  the stewards (there were semiliterate foremen among them) listened with
  alarm, supposing these words to mean that the young count was displeased
  with their management and embezzlement of money, some after their first
  fright were amused by Pierre&rsquo;s lisp and the new words they had not heard
  before, others simply enjoyed hearing how the master talked, while the
  cleverest among them, including the chief steward, understood from this
  speech how they could best handle the master for their own ends.
<br />
  The chief steward expressed great sympathy with Pierre&rsquo;s intentions, but
  remarked that besides these changes it would be necessary to go into the
  general state of affairs which was far from satisfactory.
<br />
  Despite Count Bezúkhov&rsquo;s enormous wealth, since he had come into an income
  which was said to amount to five hundred thousand rubles a year, Pierre
  felt himself far poorer than when his father had made him an allowance of
  ten thousand rubles. He had a dim perception of the following budget:
<br />
  About 80,000 went in payments on all the estates to the Land Bank, about
  30,000 went for the upkeep of the estate near Moscow, the town house, and
  the allowance to the three princesses; about 15,000 was given in pensions
  and the same amount for asylums; 150,000 alimony was sent to the countess;
  about 70,000 went for interest on debts. The building of a new church,
  previously begun, had cost about 10,000 in each of the last two years, and
  he did not know how the rest, about 100,000 rubles, was spent, and almost
  every year he was obliged to borrow. Besides this the chief steward wrote
  every year telling him of fires and bad harvests, or of the necessity of
  rebuilding factories and workshops. So the first task Pierre had to face
  was one for which he had very little aptitude or inclination&mdash;practical
  business.
<br />
  He discussed estate affairs every day with his chief steward. But he felt
  that this did not forward matters at all. He felt that these consultations
  were detached from real affairs and did not link up with them or make them
  move. On the one hand, the chief steward put the state of things to him in
  the very worst light, pointing out the necessity of paying off the debts
  and undertaking new activities with serf labor, to which Pierre did not
  agree. On the other hand, Pierre demanded that steps should be taken to
  liberate the serfs, which the steward met by showing the necessity of
  first paying off the loans from the Land Bank, and the consequent
  impossibility of a speedy emancipation.
<br />
  The steward did not say it was quite impossible, but suggested selling the
  forests in the province of Kostromá, the land lower down the river, and
  the Crimean estate, in order to make it possible: all of which operations
  according to him were connected with such complicated measures&mdash;the
  removal of injunctions, petitions, permits, and so on&mdash;that Pierre
  became quite bewildered and only replied:
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes, do so.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre had none of the practical persistence that would have enabled him
  to attend to the business himself and so he disliked it and only tried to
  pretend to the steward that he was attending to it. The steward for his
  part tried to pretend to the count that he considered these consultations
  very valuable for the proprietor and troublesome to himself.
<br />
  In Kiev Pierre found some people he knew, and strangers hastened to make
  his acquaintance and joyfully welcomed the rich newcomer, the largest
  landowner of the province. Temptations to Pierre&rsquo;s greatest weakness&mdash;the
  one to which he had confessed when admitted to the Lodge&mdash;were so
  strong that he could not resist them. Again whole days, weeks, and months
  of his life passed in as great a rush and were as much occupied with
  evening parties, dinners, lunches, and balls, giving him no time for
  reflection, as in Petersburg. Instead of the new life he had hoped to lead
  he still lived the old life, only in new surroundings.
<br />
  Of the three precepts of Freemasonry Pierre realized that he did not
  fulfill the one which enjoined every Mason to set an example of moral
  life, and that of the seven virtues he lacked two&mdash;morality and the
  love of death. He consoled himself with the thought that he fulfilled
  another of the precepts&mdash;that of reforming the human race&mdash;and
  had other virtues&mdash;love of his neighbor, and especially generosity.
<br />
  In the spring of 1807 he decided to return to Petersburg. On the way he
  intended to visit all his estates and see for himself how far his orders
  had been carried out and in what state were the serfs whom God had
  entrusted to his care and whom he intended to benefit.
<br />
  The chief steward, who considered the young count&rsquo;s attempts almost insane&mdash;unprofitable
  to himself, to the count, and to the serfs&mdash;made some concessions.
  Continuing to represent the liberation of the serfs as impracticable, he
  arranged for the erection of large buildings&mdash;schools, hospitals, and
  asylums&mdash;on all the estates before the master arrived. Everywhere
  preparations were made not for ceremonious welcomes (which he knew Pierre
  would not like), but for just such gratefully religious ones, with
  offerings of icons and the bread and salt of hospitality, as, according to
  his understanding of his master, would touch and delude him.
<br />
  The southern spring, the comfortable rapid traveling in a Vienna carriage,
  and the solitude of the road, all had a gladdening effect on Pierre. The
  estates he had not before visited were each more picturesque than the
  other; the serfs everywhere seemed thriving and touchingly grateful for
  the benefits conferred on them. Everywhere were receptions, which though
  they embarrassed Pierre awakened a joyful feeling in the depth of his
  heart. In one place the peasants presented him with bread and salt and an
  icon of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, asking permission, as a mark of their
  gratitude for the benefits he had conferred on them, to build a new
  chantry to the church at their own expense in honor of Peter and Paul, his
  patron saints. In another place the women with infants in arms met him to
  thank him for releasing them from hard work. On a third estate the priest,
  bearing a cross, came to meet him surrounded by children whom, by the
  count&rsquo;s generosity, he was instructing in reading, writing, and religion.
  On all his estates Pierre saw with his own eyes brick buildings erected or
  in course of erection, all on one plan, for hospitals, schools, and
  almshouses, which were soon to be opened. Everywhere he saw the stewards&rsquo;
  accounts, according to which the serfs&rsquo; manorial labor had been
  diminished, and heard the touching thanks of deputations of serfs in their
  full-skirted blue coats.
<br />
  What Pierre did not know was that the place where they presented him with
  bread and salt and wished to build a chantry in honor of Peter and Paul
  was a market village where a fair was held on St. Peter&rsquo;s day, and that
  the richest peasants (who formed the deputation) had begun the chantry
  long before, but that nine tenths of the peasants in that villages were in
  a state of the greatest poverty. He did not know that since the nursing
  mothers were no longer sent to work on his land, they did still harder
  work on their own land. He did not know that the priest who met him with
  the cross oppressed the peasants by his exactions, and that the pupils&rsquo;
  parents wept at having to let him take their children and secured their
  release by heavy payments. He did not know that the brick buildings, built
  to plan, were being built by serfs whose manorial labor was thus
  increased, though lessened on paper. He did not know that where the
  steward had shown him in the accounts that the serfs&rsquo; payments had been
  diminished by a third, their obligatory manorial work had been increased
  by a half. And so Pierre was delighted with his visit to his estates and
  quite recovered the philanthropic mood in which he had left Petersburg,
  and wrote enthusiastic letters to his &ldquo;brother-instructor&rdquo; as he called
  the Grand Master.
<br />
  &ldquo;How easy it is, how little effort it needs, to do so much good,&rdquo; thought
  Pierre, &ldquo;and how little attention we pay to it!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He was pleased at the gratitude he received, but felt abashed at receiving
  it. This gratitude reminded him of how much more he might do for these
  simple, kindly people.
<br />
  The chief steward, a very stupid but cunning man who saw perfectly through
  the naïve and intelligent count and played with him as with a toy, seeing
  the effect these prearranged receptions had on Pierre, pressed him still
  harder with proofs of the impossibility and above all the uselessness of
  freeing the serfs, who were quite happy as it was.
<br />
  Pierre in his secret soul agreed with the steward that it would be
  difficult to imagine happier people, and that God only knew what would
  happen to them when they were free, but he insisted, though reluctantly,
  on what he thought right. The steward promised to do all in his power to
  carry out the count&rsquo;s wishes, seeing clearly that not only would the count
  never be able to find out whether all measures had been taken for the sale
  of the land and forests and to release them from the Land Bank, but would
  probably never even inquire and would never know that the newly erected
  buildings were standing empty and that the serfs continued to give in
  money and work all that other people&rsquo;s serfs gave&mdash;that is to say,
  all that could be got out of them.

  CHAPTER XI


  Returning from his journey through South Russia in the happiest state of
  mind, Pierre carried out an intention he had long had of visiting his
  friend Bolkónski, whom he had not seen for two years.
<br />
  Boguchárovo lay in a flat uninteresting part of the country among fields
  and forests of fir and birch, which were partly cut down. The house lay
  behind a newly dug pond filled with water to the brink and with banks
  still bare of grass. It was at the end of a village that stretched along
  the highroad in the midst of a young copse in which were a few fir trees.
<br />
  The homestead consisted of a threshing floor, outhouses, stables, a
  bathhouse, a lodge, and a large brick house with semicircular façade still
  in course of construction. Round the house was a garden newly laid out.
  The fences and gates were new and solid; two fire pumps and a water cart,
  painted green, stood in a shed; the paths were straight, the bridges were
  strong and had handrails. Everything bore an impress of tidiness and good
  management. Some domestic serfs Pierre met, in reply to inquiries as to
  where the prince lived, pointed out a small newly built lodge close to the
  pond. Antón, a man who had looked after Prince Andrew in his boyhood,
  helped Pierre out of his carriage, said that the prince was at home, and
  showed him into a clean little anteroom.
<br />
  Pierre was struck by the modesty of the small though clean house after the
  brilliant surroundings in which he had last met his friend in Petersburg.
<br />
  He quickly entered the small reception room with its still-unplastered
  wooden walls redolent of pine, and would have gone farther, but Antón ran
  ahead on tiptoe and knocked at a door.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, what is it?&rdquo; came a sharp, unpleasant voice.
<br />
  &ldquo;A visitor,&rdquo; answered Antón.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ask him to wait,&rdquo; and the sound was heard of a chair being pushed back.
<br />
  Pierre went with rapid steps to the door and suddenly came face to face
  with Prince Andrew, who came out frowning and looking old. Pierre embraced
  him and lifting his spectacles kissed his friend on the cheek and looked
  at him closely.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, I did not expect you, I am very glad,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew.
<br />
  Pierre said nothing; he looked fixedly at his friend with surprise. He was
  struck by the change in him. His words were kindly and there was a smile
  on his lips and face, but his eyes were dull and lifeless and in spite of
  his evident wish to do so he could not give them a joyous and glad
  sparkle. Prince Andrew had grown thinner, paler, and more manly-looking,
  but what amazed and estranged Pierre till he got used to it were his
  inertia and a wrinkle on his brow indicating prolonged concentration on
  some one thought.
<br />
  As is usually the case with people meeting after a prolonged separation,
  it was long before their conversation could settle on anything. They put
  questions and gave brief replies about things they knew ought to be talked
  over at length. At last the conversation gradually settled on some of the
  topics at first lightly touched on: their past life, plans for the future,
  Pierre&rsquo;s journeys and occupations, the war, and so on. The preoccupation
  and despondency which Pierre had noticed in his friend&rsquo;s look was now
  still more clearly expressed in the smile with which he listened to
  Pierre, especially when he spoke with joyful animation of the past or the
  future. It was as if Prince Andrew would have liked to sympathize with
  what Pierre was saying, but could not. The latter began to feel that it
  was in bad taste to speak of his enthusiasms, dreams, and hopes of
  happiness or goodness, in Prince Andrew&rsquo;s presence. He was ashamed to
  express his new Masonic views, which had been particularly revived and
  strengthened by his late tour. He checked himself, fearing to seem naïve,
  yet he felt an irresistible desire to show his friend as soon as possible
  that he was now a quite different, and better, Pierre than he had been in
  Petersburg.
<br />
  &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t tell you how much I have lived through since then. I hardly know
  myself again.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, we have altered much, very much, since then,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, and you? What are your plans?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Plans!&rdquo; repeated Prince Andrew ironically. &ldquo;My plans?&rdquo; he said, as if
  astonished at the word. &ldquo;Well, you see, I&rsquo;m building. I mean to settle
  here altogether next year....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre looked silently and searchingly into Prince Andrew&rsquo;s face, which
  had grown much older.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, I meant to ask...&rdquo; Pierre began, but Prince Andrew interrupted him.
<br />
  &ldquo;But why talk of me?... Talk  me, yes, tell me about your
  travels and all you have been doing on your estates.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre began describing what he had done on his estates, trying as far as
  possible to conceal his own part in the improvements that had been made.
  Prince Andrew several times prompted Pierre&rsquo;s story of what he had been
  doing, as though it were all an old-time story, and he listened not only
  without interest but even as if ashamed of what Pierre was telling him.
<br />
  Pierre felt uncomfortable and even depressed in his friend&rsquo;s company and
  at last became silent.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll tell you what, my dear fellow,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew, who evidently
  also felt depressed and constrained with his visitor, &ldquo;I am only
  bivouacking here and have just come to look round. I am going back to my
  sister today. I will introduce you to her. But of course you know her
  already,&rdquo; he said, evidently trying to entertain a visitor with whom he
  now found nothing in common. &ldquo;We will go after dinner. And would you now
  like to look round my place?&rdquo;
 <br />
  They went out and walked about till dinnertime, talking of the political
  news and common acquaintances like people who do not know each other
  intimately. Prince Andrew spoke with some animation and interest only of
  the new homestead he was constructing and its buildings, but even here,
  while on the scaffolding, in the midst of a talk explaining the future
  arrangements of the house, he interrupted himself:
<br />
  &ldquo;However, this is not at all interesting. Let us have dinner, and then
  we&rsquo;ll set off.&rdquo;
 <br />
  At dinner, conversation turned on Pierre&rsquo;s marriage.
<br />
  &ldquo;I was very much surprised when I heard of it,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew.
<br />
  Pierre blushed, as he always did when it was mentioned, and said
  hurriedly: &ldquo;I will tell you some time how it all happened. But you know it
  is all over, and forever.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Forever?&rdquo; said Prince Andrew. &ldquo;Nothing&rsquo;s forever.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But you know how it all ended, don&rsquo;t you? You heard of the duel?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And so you had to go through that too!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;One thing I thank God for is that I did not kill that man,&rdquo; said Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why so?&rdquo; asked Prince Andrew. &ldquo;To kill a vicious dog is a very good thing
  really.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, to kill a man is bad&mdash;wrong.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why is it wrong?&rdquo; urged Prince Andrew. &ldquo;It is not given to man to know
  what is right and what is wrong. Men always did and always will err, and
  in nothing more than in what they consider right and wrong.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What does harm to another is wrong,&rdquo; said Pierre, feeling with pleasure
  that for the first time since his arrival Prince Andrew was roused, had
  begun to talk, and wanted to express what had brought him to his present
  state.
<br />
  &ldquo;And who has told you what is bad for another man?&rdquo; he asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;Bad! Bad!&rdquo; exclaimed Pierre. &ldquo;We all know what is bad for ourselves.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, we know that, but the harm I am conscious of in myself is something
  I cannot inflict on others,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew, growing more and more
  animated and evidently wishing to express his new outlook to Pierre. He
  spoke in French. &ldquo;I only know two very real evils in life: remorse and
  illness. The only good is the absence of those evils. To live for myself
  avoiding those two evils is my whole philosophy now.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And love of one&rsquo;s neighbor, and self-sacrifice?&rdquo; began Pierre. &ldquo;No, I
  can&rsquo;t agree with you! To live only so as not to do evil and not to have to
  repent is not enough. I lived like that, I lived for myself and ruined my
  life. And only now when I am living, or at least trying&rdquo; (Pierre&rsquo;s modesty
  made him correct himself) &ldquo;to live for others, only now have I understood
  all the happiness of life. No, I shall not agree with you, and you do not
  really believe what you are saying.&rdquo; Prince Andrew looked silently at
  Pierre with an ironic smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;When you see my sister, Princess Mary, you&rsquo;ll get on with her,&rdquo; he said.
  &ldquo;Perhaps you are right for yourself,&rdquo; he added after a short pause, &ldquo;but
  everyone lives in his own way. You lived for yourself and say you nearly
  ruined your life and only found happiness when you began living for
  others. I experienced just the reverse. I lived for glory.&mdash;And after
  all what is glory? The same love of others, a desire to do something for
  them, a desire for their approval.&mdash;So I lived for others, and not
  almost, but quite, ruined my life. And I have become calmer since I began
  to live only for myself.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But what do you mean by living only for yourself?&rdquo; asked Pierre, growing
  excited. &ldquo;What about your son, your sister, and your father?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But that&rsquo;s just the same as myself&mdash;they are not ,&rdquo; explained
  Prince Andrew. &ldquo;The others, one&rsquo;s neighbors, , as you and
  Princess Mary call it, are the chief source of all error and evil. &mdash;your Kiev peasants to whom you want to do good.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And he looked at Pierre with a mocking, challenging expression. He
  evidently wished to draw him on.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are joking,&rdquo; replied Pierre, growing more and more excited. &ldquo;What
  error or evil can there be in my wishing to do good, and even doing a
  little&mdash;though I did very little and did it very badly? What evil can
  there be in it if unfortunate people, our serfs, people like ourselves,
  were growing up and dying with no idea of God and truth beyond ceremonies
  and meaningless prayers and are now instructed in a comforting belief in
  future life, retribution, recompense, and consolation? What evil and error
  are there in it, if people were dying of disease without help while
  material assistance could so easily be rendered, and I supplied them with
  a doctor, a hospital, and an asylum for the aged? And is it not a
  palpable, unquestionable good if a peasant, or a woman with a baby, has no
  rest day or night and I give them rest and leisure?&rdquo; said Pierre, hurrying
  and lisping. &ldquo;And I have done that though badly and to a small extent; but
  I have done something toward it and you cannot persuade me that it was not
  a good action, and more than that, you can&rsquo;t make me believe that you do
  not think so yourself. And the main thing is,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;that I know,
  and know for certain, that the enjoyment of doing this good is the only
  sure happiness in life.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, if you put it like that it&rsquo;s quite a different matter,&rdquo; said Prince
  Andrew. &ldquo;I build a house and lay out a garden, and you build hospitals.
  The one and the other may serve as a pastime. But what&rsquo;s right and what&rsquo;s
  good must be judged by one who knows all, but not by us. Well, you want an
  argument,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;come on then.&rdquo;
 <br />
  They rose from the table and sat down in the entrance porch which served
  as a veranda.
<br />
  &ldquo;Come, let&rsquo;s argue then,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew, &ldquo;You talk of schools,&rdquo; he
  went on, crooking a finger, &ldquo;education and so forth; that is, you want to
  raise him&rdquo; (pointing to a peasant who passed by them taking off his cap)
  &ldquo;from his animal condition and awaken in him spiritual needs, while it
  seems to me that animal happiness is the only happiness possible, and that
  is just what you want to deprive him of. I envy him, but you want to make
  him what I am, without giving him my means. Then you say, &lsquo;lighten his
  toil.&rsquo; But as I see it, physical labor is as essential to him, as much a
  condition of his existence, as mental activity is to you or me. You can&rsquo;t
  help thinking. I go to bed after two in the morning, thoughts come and I
  can&rsquo;t sleep but toss about till dawn, because I think and can&rsquo;t help
  thinking, just as he can&rsquo;t help plowing and mowing; if he didn&rsquo;t, he would
  go to the drink shop or fall ill. Just as I could not stand his terrible
  physical labor but should die of it in a week, so he could not stand my
  physical idleness, but would grow fat and die. The third thing&mdash;what
  else was it you talked about?&rdquo; and Prince Andrew crooked a third finger.
  &ldquo;Ah, yes, hospitals, medicine. He has a fit, he is dying, and you come and
  bleed him and patch him up. He will drag about as a cripple, a burden to
  everybody, for another ten years. It would be far easier and simpler for
  him to die. Others are being born and there are plenty of them as it is.
  It would be different if you grudged losing a laborer&mdash;that&rsquo;s how I
  regard him&mdash;but you want to cure him from love of him. And he does
  not want that. And besides, what a notion that medicine ever cured anyone!
  Killed them, yes!&rdquo; said he, frowning angrily and turning away from Pierre.
<br />
  Prince Andrew expressed his ideas so clearly and distinctly that it was
  evident he had reflected on this subject more than once, and he spoke
  readily and rapidly like a man who has not talked for a long time. His
  glance became more animated as his conclusions became more hopeless.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, that is dreadful, dreadful!&rdquo; said Pierre. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand how one
  can live with such ideas. I had such moments myself not long ago, in
  Moscow and when traveling, but at such times I collapsed so that I don&rsquo;t
  live at all&mdash;everything seems hateful to me... myself most of all.
  Then I don&rsquo;t eat, don&rsquo;t wash... and how is it with you?...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why not wash? That is not cleanly,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew; &ldquo;on the contrary
  one must try to make one&rsquo;s life as pleasant as possible. I&rsquo;m alive, that
  is not my fault, so I must live out my life as best I can without hurting
  others.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But with such ideas what motive have you for living? One would sit
  without moving, undertaking nothing....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Life as it is leaves one no peace. I should be thankful to do nothing,
  but here on the one hand the local nobility have done me the honor to
  choose me to be their marshal; it was all I could do to get out of it.
  They could not understand that I have not the necessary qualifications for
  it&mdash;the kind of good-natured, fussy shallowness necessary for the
  position. Then there&rsquo;s this house, which must be built in order to have a
  nook of one&rsquo;s own in which to be quiet. And now there&rsquo;s this recruiting.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why aren&rsquo;t you serving in the army?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;After Austerlitz!&rdquo; said Prince Andrew gloomily. &ldquo;No, thank you very much!
  I have promised myself not to serve again in the active Russian army. And
  I won&rsquo;t&mdash;not even if Bonaparte were here at Smolénsk threatening Bald
  Hills&mdash;even then I wouldn&rsquo;t serve in the Russian army! Well, as I was
  saying,&rdquo; he continued, recovering his composure, &ldquo;now there&rsquo;s this
  recruiting. My father is chief in command of the Third District, and my
  only way of avoiding active service is to serve under him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Then you are serving?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He paused a little while.
<br />
  &ldquo;And why do you serve?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, for this reason! My father is one of the most remarkable men of his
  time. But he is growing old, and though not exactly cruel he has too
  energetic a character. He is so accustomed to unlimited power that he is
  terrible, and now he has this authority of a commander in chief of the
  recruiting, granted by the Emperor. If I had been two hours late a
  fortnight ago he would have had a paymaster&rsquo;s clerk at Yúkhnovna hanged,&rdquo;
   said Prince Andrew with a smile. &ldquo;So I am serving because I alone have any
  influence with my father, and now and then can save him from actions which
  would torment him afterwards.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, there you see!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, but it is not as you imagine,&rdquo; Prince Andrew continued. &ldquo;I did not,
  and do not, in the least care about that scoundrel of a clerk who had
  stolen some boots from the recruits; I should even have been very glad to
  see him hanged, but I was sorry for my father&mdash;that again is for
  myself.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Andrew grew more and more animated. His eyes glittered feverishly
  while he tried to prove to Pierre that in his actions there was no desire
  to do good to his neighbor.
<br />
  &ldquo;There now, you wish to liberate your serfs,&rdquo; he continued; &ldquo;that is a
  very good thing, but not for you&mdash;I don&rsquo;t suppose you ever had anyone
  flogged or sent to Siberia&mdash;and still less for your serfs. If they
  are beaten, flogged, or sent to Siberia, I don&rsquo;t suppose they are any the
  worse off. In Siberia they lead the same animal life, and the stripes on
  their bodies heal, and they are happy as before. But it is a good thing
  for proprietors who perish morally, bring remorse upon themselves, stifle
  this remorse and grow callous, as a result of being able to inflict
  punishments justly and unjustly. It is those people I pity, and for their
  sake I should like to liberate the serfs. You may not have seen, but I
  have seen, how good men brought up in those traditions of unlimited power,
  in time when they grow more irritable, become cruel and harsh, are
  conscious of it, but cannot restrain themselves and grow more and more
  miserable.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Andrew spoke so earnestly that Pierre could not help thinking that
  these thoughts had been suggested to Prince Andrew by his father&rsquo;s case.
<br />
  He did not reply.
<br />
  &ldquo;So that&rsquo;s what I&rsquo;m sorry for&mdash;human dignity, peace of mind, purity,
  and not the serfs&rsquo; backs and foreheads, which, beat and shave as you may,
  always remain the same backs and foreheads.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, no! A thousand times no! I shall never agree with you,&rdquo; said Pierre.

  CHAPTER XII


  In the evening Andrew and Pierre got into the open carriage and drove to
  Bald Hills. Prince Andrew, glancing at Pierre, broke the silence now and
  then with remarks which showed that he was in a good temper.
<br />
  Pointing to the fields, he spoke of the improvements he was making in his
  husbandry.
<br />
  Pierre remained gloomily silent, answering in monosyllables and apparently
  immersed in his own thoughts.
<br />
  He was thinking that Prince Andrew was unhappy, had gone astray, did not
  see the true light, and that he, Pierre, ought to aid, enlighten, and
  raise him. But as soon as he thought of what he should say, he felt that
  Prince Andrew with one word, one argument, would upset all his teaching,
  and he shrank from beginning, afraid of exposing to possible ridicule what
  to him was precious and sacred.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, but why do you think so?&rdquo; Pierre suddenly began, lowering his head
  and looking like a bull about to charge, &ldquo;why do you think so? You should
  not think so.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Think? What about?&rdquo; asked Prince Andrew with surprise.
<br />
  &ldquo;About life, about man&rsquo;s destiny. It can&rsquo;t be so. I myself thought like
  that, and do you know what saved me? Freemasonry! No, don&rsquo;t smile.
  Freemasonry is not a religious ceremonial sect, as I thought it was:
  Freemasonry is the best expression of the best, the eternal, aspects of
  humanity.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And he began to explain Freemasonry as he understood it to Prince Andrew.
  He said that Freemasonry is the teaching of Christianity freed from the
  bonds of State and Church, a teaching of equality, brotherhood, and love.
<br />
  &ldquo;Only our holy brotherhood has the real meaning of life, all the rest is a
  dream,&rdquo; said Pierre. &ldquo;Understand, my dear fellow, that outside this union
  all is filled with deceit and falsehood and I agree with you that nothing
  is left for an intelligent and good man but to live out his life, like
  you, merely trying not to harm others. But make our fundamental
  convictions your own, join our brotherhood, give yourself up to us, let
  yourself be guided, and you will at once feel yourself, as I have felt
  myself, a part of that vast invisible chain the beginning of which is
  hidden in heaven,&rdquo; said Pierre.
<br />
  Prince Andrew, looking straight in front of him, listened in silence to
  Pierre&rsquo;s words. More than once, when the noise of the wheels prevented his
  catching what Pierre said, he asked him to repeat it, and by the peculiar
  glow that came into Prince Andrew&rsquo;s eyes and by his silence, Pierre saw
  that his words were not in vain and that Prince Andrew would not interrupt
  him or laugh at what he said.
<br />
  They reached a river that had overflowed its banks and which they had to
  cross by ferry. While the carriage and horses were being placed on it,
  they also stepped on the raft.
<br />
  Prince Andrew, leaning his arms on the raft railing, gazed silently at the
  flooding waters glittering in the setting sun.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, what do you think about it?&rdquo; Pierre asked. &ldquo;Why are you silent?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What do I think about it? I am listening to you. It&rsquo;s all very well....
  You say: join our brotherhood and we will show you the aim of life, the
  destiny of man, and the laws which govern the world. But who are  Men.
  How is it you know everything? Why do I alone not see what you see? You
  see a reign of goodness and truth on earth, but I don&rsquo;t see it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre interrupted him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you believe in a future life?&rdquo; he asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;A future life?&rdquo; Prince Andrew repeated, but Pierre, giving him no time to
  reply, took the repetition for a denial, the more readily as he knew
  Prince Andrew&rsquo;s former atheistic convictions.
<br />
  &ldquo;You say you can&rsquo;t see a reign of goodness and truth on earth. Nor could
  I, and it cannot be seen if one looks on our life here as the end of
  everything. On , here on this earth&rdquo; (Pierre pointed to the fields),
  &ldquo;there is no truth, all is false and evil; but in the universe, in the
  whole universe there is a kingdom of truth, and we who are now the
  children of earth are&mdash;eternally&mdash;children of the whole
  universe. Don&rsquo;t I feel in my soul that I am part of this vast harmonious
  whole? Don&rsquo;t I feel that I form one link, one step, between the lower and
  higher beings, in this vast harmonious multitude of beings in whom the
  Deity&mdash;the Supreme Power if you prefer the term&mdash;is manifest? If
  I see, clearly see, that ladder leading from plant to man, why should I
  suppose it breaks off at me and does not go farther and farther? I feel
  that I cannot vanish, since nothing vanishes in this world, but that I
  shall always exist and always have existed. I feel that beyond me and
  above me there are spirits, and that in this world there is truth.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, that is Herder&rsquo;s theory,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew, &ldquo;but it is not that
  which can convince me, dear friend&mdash;life and death are what convince.
  What convinces is when one sees a being dear to one, bound up with one&rsquo;s
  own life, before whom one was to blame and had hoped to make it right&rdquo;
   (Prince Andrew&rsquo;s voice trembled and he turned away), &ldquo;and suddenly that
  being is seized with pain, suffers, and ceases to exist.... Why? It cannot
  be that there is no answer. And I believe there is.... That&rsquo;s what
  convinces, that is what has convinced me,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes, of course,&rdquo; said Pierre, &ldquo;isn&rsquo;t that what I&rsquo;m saying?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No. All I say is that it is not argument that convinces me of the
  necessity of a future life, but this: when you go hand in hand with
  someone and all at once that person vanishes , and you
  yourself are left facing that abyss, and look in. And I have looked
  in....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, that&rsquo;s it then! You know that there is a  and there is a
   is the future life. The  is&mdash;God.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Andrew did not reply. The carriage and horses had long since been
  taken off, onto the farther bank, and reharnessed. The sun had sunk half
  below the horizon and an evening frost was starring the puddles near the
  ferry, but Pierre and Andrew, to the astonishment of the footmen,
  coachmen, and ferrymen, still stood on the raft and talked.
<br />
  &ldquo;If there is a God and future life, there is truth and good, and man&rsquo;s
  highest happiness consists in striving to attain them. We must live, we
  must love, and we must believe that we live not only today on this scrap
  of earth, but have lived and shall live forever, there, in the Whole,&rdquo;
   said Pierre, and he pointed to the sky.
<br />
  Prince Andrew stood leaning on the railing of the raft listening to
  Pierre, and he gazed with his eyes fixed on the red reflection of the sun
  gleaming on the blue waters. There was perfect stillness. Pierre became
  silent. The raft had long since stopped and only the waves of the current
  beat softly against it below. Prince Andrew felt as if the sound of the
  waves kept up a refrain to Pierre&rsquo;s words, whispering:
<br />
  &ldquo;It is true, believe it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He sighed, and glanced with a radiant, childlike, tender look at Pierre&rsquo;s
  face, flushed and rapturous, but yet shy before his superior friend.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, if it only were so!&rdquo; said Prince Andrew. &ldquo;However, it is time to get
  on,&rdquo; he added, and, stepping off the raft, he looked up at the sky to
  which Pierre had pointed, and for the first time since Austerlitz saw that
  high, everlasting sky he had seen while lying on that battlefield; and
  something that had long been slumbering, something that was best within
  him, suddenly awoke, joyful and youthful, in his soul. It vanished as soon
  as he returned to the customary conditions of his life, but he knew that
  this feeling which he did not know how to develop existed within him. His
  meeting with Pierre formed an epoch in Prince Andrew&rsquo;s life. Though
  outwardly he continued to live in the same old way, inwardly he began a
  new life.

  CHAPTER XIII


  It was getting dusk when Prince Andrew and Pierre drove up to the front
  entrance of the house at Bald Hills. As they approached the house, Prince
  Andrew with a smile drew Pierre&rsquo;s attention to a commotion going on at the
  back porch. A woman, bent with age, with a wallet on her back, and a
  short, long-haired, young man in a black garment had rushed back to the
  gate on seeing the carriage driving up. Two women ran out after them, and
  all four, looking round at the carriage, ran in dismay up the steps of the
  back porch.
<br />
  &ldquo;Those are Mary&rsquo;s &lsquo;God&rsquo;s folk,&rsquo;&rdquo; said Prince Andrew. &ldquo;They have mistaken
  us for my father. This is the one matter in which she disobeys him. He
  orders these pilgrims to be driven away, but she receives them.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But what are &lsquo;God&rsquo;s folk&rsquo;?&rdquo; asked Pierre.
<br />
  Prince Andrew had no time to answer. The servants came out to meet them,
  and he asked where the old prince was and whether he was expected back
  soon.
<br />
  The old prince had gone to the town and was expected back any minute.
<br />
  Prince Andrew led Pierre to his own apartments, which were always kept in
  perfect order and readiness for him in his father&rsquo;s house; he himself went
  to the nursery.
<br />
  &ldquo;Let us go and see my sister,&rdquo; he said to Pierre when he returned. &ldquo;I have
  not found her yet, she is hiding now, sitting with her &lsquo;God&rsquo;s folk.&rsquo; It
  will serve her right, she will be confused, but you will see her &lsquo;God&rsquo;s
  folk.&rsquo; It&rsquo;s really very curious.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What are &lsquo;God&rsquo;s folk&rsquo;?&rdquo; asked Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;Come, and you&rsquo;ll see for yourself.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Princess Mary really was disconcerted and red patches came on her face
  when they went in. In her snug room, with lamps burning before the icon
  stand, a young lad with a long nose and long hair, wearing a monk&rsquo;s
  cassock, sat on the sofa beside her, behind a samovar. Near them, in an
  armchair, sat a thin, shriveled, old woman, with a meek expression on her
  childlike face.
<br />
  &ldquo;Andrew, why didn&rsquo;t you warn me?&rdquo; said the princess, with mild reproach,
  as she stood before her pilgrims like a hen before her chickens.
<br />
   * she said to
  Pierre as he kissed her hand. She had known him as a child, and now his
  friendship with Andrew, his misfortune with his wife, and above all his
  kindly, simple face disposed her favorably toward him. She looked at him
  with her beautiful radiant eyes and seemed to say, &ldquo;I like you very much,
  but please don&rsquo;t laugh at my people.&rdquo; After exchanging the first
  greetings, they sat down.
<br />
* &ldquo;Delighted to see you. I am very glad to see you.&rdquo;

“Ah, and Ivánushka is here too!” said Prince Andrew, glancing with a smile at the young pilgrim.
“Andrew!” said Princess Mary, imploringly. said Prince Andrew to Pierre.
“Andrew, ” (2) Princess Mary repeated.

 * &ldquo;You must know that this is a woman.&rdquo;
<br />
 * (2) &ldquo;For heaven&rsquo;s sake.&rdquo;

It was evident that Prince Andrew’s ironical tone toward the pilgrims and Princess Mary’s helpless attempts to protect them were their customary long-established relations on the matter.
said Prince Andrew, *

 * &ldquo;But, my dear, you ought on the contrary to be grateful to
 me for explaining to Pierre your intimacy with this young
 man.&rdquo;

“Really?” said Pierre, gazing over his spectacles with curiosity and seriousness (for which Princess Mary was specially grateful to him) into Ivánushka’s face, who, seeing that she was being spoken about, looked round at them all with crafty eyes.
Princess Mary’s embarrassment on account was quite unnecessary. They were not in the least abashed. The old woman, lowering her eyes but casting side glances at the newcomers, had turned her cup upside down and placed a nibbled bit of sugar beside it, and sat quietly in her armchair, though hoping to be offered another cup of tea. Ivánushka, sipping out of her saucer, looked with sly womanish eyes from under her brows at the young men.
“Where have you been? To Kiev?” Prince Andrew asked the old woman.
“I have, good sir,” she answered garrulously. “Just at Christmastime I was deemed worthy to partake of the holy and heavenly sacrament at the shrine of the saint. And now I’m from Kolyázin, master, where a great and wonderful blessing has been revealed.”
“And was Ivánushka with you?”
“I go by myself, benefactor,” said Ivánushka, trying to speak in a bass voice. “I only came across Pelagéya in Yúkhnovo….”
Pelagéya interrupted her companion; she evidently wished to tell what she had seen.
“In Kolyázin, master, a wonderful blessing has been revealed.”
“What is it? Some new relics?” asked Prince Andrew.
“Andrew, do leave off,” said Princess Mary. “Don’t tell him, Pelagéya.”
“No… why not, my dear, why shouldn’t I? I like him. He is kind, he is one of God’s chosen, he’s a benefactor, he once gave me ten rubles, I remember. When I was in Kiev, Crazy Cyril says to me (he’s one of God’s own and goes barefoot summer and winter), he says, ‘Why are you not going to the right place? Go to Kolyázin where a wonder-working icon of the Holy Mother of God has been revealed.’ On hearing those words I said good-by to the holy folk and went.”
All were silent, only the pilgrim woman went on in measured tones, drawing in her breath.
“So I come, master, and the people say to me: ‘A great blessing has been revealed, holy oil trickles from the cheeks of our blessed Mother, the Holy Virgin Mother of God.’…”
“All right, all right, you can tell us afterwards,” said Princess Mary, flushing.
“Let me ask her,” said Pierre. “Did you see it yourselves?” he inquired.
“Oh, yes, master, I was found worthy. Such a brightness on the face like the light of heaven, and from the blessed Mother’s cheek it drops and drops….”
“But, dear me, that must be a fraud!” said Pierre, naïvely, who had listened attentively to the pilgrim.
“Oh, master, what are you saying?” exclaimed the horrified Pelagéya, turning to Princess Mary for support.
“They impose on the people,” he repeated.
“Lord Jesus Christ!” exclaimed the pilgrim woman, crossing herself. “Oh, don’t speak so, master! There was a general who did not believe, and said, ‘The monks cheat,’ and as soon as he’d said it he went blind. And he dreamed that the Holy Virgin Mother of the Kiev catacombs came to him and said, ‘Believe in me and I will make you whole.’ So he begged: ‘Take me to her, take me to her.’ It’s the real truth I’m telling you, I saw it myself. So he was brought, quite blind, straight to her, and he goes up to her and falls down and says, ‘Make me whole,’ says he, ‘and I’ll give thee what the Tsar bestowed on me.’ I saw it myself, master, the star is fixed into the icon. Well, and what do you think? He received his sight! It’s a sin to speak so. God will punish you,” she said admonishingly, turning to Pierre.
“How did the star get into the icon?” Pierre asked.
“And was the Holy Mother promoted to the rank of general?” said Prince Andrew, with a smile.
Pelagéya suddenly grew quite pale and clasped her hands.
“Oh, master, master, what a sin! And you who have a son!” she began, her pallor suddenly turning to a vivid red. “Master, what have you said? God forgive you!” And she crossed herself. “Lord forgive him! My dear, what does it mean?…” she asked, turning to Princess Mary. She got up and, almost crying, began to arrange her wallet. She evidently felt frightened and ashamed to have accepted charity in a house where such things could be said, and was at the same time sorry to have now to forgo the charity of this house.
“Now, why need you do it?” said Princess Mary. “Why did you come to me?…”
“Come, Pelagéya, I was joking,” said Pierre. “ * I did not mean anything, I was only joking,” he said, smiling shyly and trying to efface his offense. “It was all my fault, and Andrew was only joking.”

* &ldquo;Princess, on my word, I did not wish to offend her.&rdquo;

Pelagéya stopped doubtfully, but in Pierre’s face there was such a look of sincere penitence, and Prince Andrew glanced so meekly now at her and now at Pierre, that she was gradually reassured.

  CHAPTER XIV


  The pilgrim woman was appeased and, being encouraged to talk, gave a long
  account of Father Amphilochus, who led so holy a life that his hands
  smelled of incense, and how on her last visit to Kiev some monks she knew
  let her have the keys of the catacombs, and how she, taking some dried
  bread with her, had spent two days in the catacombs with the saints. &ldquo;I&rsquo;d
  pray awhile to one, ponder awhile, then go on to another. I&rsquo;d sleep a bit
  and then again go and kiss the relics, and there was such peace all
  around, such blessedness, that one don&rsquo;t want to come out, even into the
  light of heaven again.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre listened to her attentively and seriously. Prince Andrew went out
  of the room, and then, leaving &ldquo;God&rsquo;s folk&rdquo; to finish their tea, Princess
  Mary took Pierre into the drawing room.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are very kind,&rdquo; she said to him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, I really did not mean to hurt her feelings. I understand them so well
  and have the greatest respect for them.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Princess Mary looked at him silently and smiled affectionately.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have known you a long time, you see, and am as fond of you as of a
  brother,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;How do you find Andrew?&rdquo; she added hurriedly, not
  giving him time to reply to her affectionate words. &ldquo;I am very anxious
  about him. His health was better in the winter, but last spring his wound
  reopened and the doctor said he ought to go away for a cure. And I am also
  very much afraid for him spiritually. He has not a character like us women
  who, when we suffer, can weep away our sorrows. He keeps it all within
  him. Today he is cheerful and in good spirits, but that is the effect of
  your visit&mdash;he is not often like that. If you could persuade him to
  go abroad. He needs activity, and this quiet regular life is very bad for
  him. Others don&rsquo;t notice it, but I see it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Toward ten o&rsquo;clock the men servants rushed to the front door, hearing the
  bells of the old prince&rsquo;s carriage approaching. Prince Andrew and Pierre
  also went out into the porch.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who&rsquo;s that?&rdquo; asked the old prince, noticing Pierre as he got out of the
  carriage.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah! Very glad! Kiss me,&rdquo; he said, having learned who the young stranger
  was.
<br />
  The old prince was in a good temper and very gracious to Pierre.
<br />
  Before supper, Prince Andrew, coming back to his father&rsquo;s study, found him
  disputing hotly with his visitor. Pierre was maintaining that a time would
  come when there would be no more wars. The old prince disputed it
  chaffingly, but without getting angry.
<br />
  &ldquo;Drain the blood from men&rsquo;s veins and put in water instead, then there
  will be no more war! Old women&rsquo;s nonsense&mdash;old women&rsquo;s nonsense!&rdquo; he
  repeated, but still he patted Pierre affectionately on the shoulder, and
  then went up to the table where Prince Andrew, evidently not wishing to
  join in the conversation, was looking over the papers his father had
  brought from town. The old prince went up to him and began to talk
  business.
<br />
  &ldquo;The marshal, a Count Rostóv, hasn&rsquo;t sent half his contingent. He came to
  town and wanted to invite me to dinner&mdash;I gave him a pretty
  dinner!... And there, look at this.... Well, my boy,&rdquo; the old prince went
  on, addressing his son and patting Pierre on the shoulder. &ldquo;A fine fellow&mdash;your
  friend&mdash;I like him! He stirs me up. Another says clever things and
  one doesn&rsquo;t care to listen, but this one talks rubbish yet stirs an old
  fellow up. Well, go! Get along! Perhaps I&rsquo;ll come and sit with you at
  supper. We&rsquo;ll have another dispute. Make friends with my little fool,
  Princess Mary,&rdquo; he shouted after Pierre, through the door.
<br />
  Only now, on his visit to Bald Hills, did Pierre fully realize the
  strength and charm of his friendship with Prince Andrew. That charm was
  not expressed so much in his relations with him as with all his family and
  with the household. With the stern old prince and the gentle, timid
  Princess Mary, though he had scarcely known them, Pierre at once felt like
  an old friend. They were all fond of him already. Not only Princess Mary,
  who had been won by his gentleness with the pilgrims, gave him her most
  radiant looks, but even the one-year-old &ldquo;Prince Nicholas&rdquo; (as his
  grandfather called him) smiled at Pierre and let himself be taken in his
  arms, and Michael Ivánovich and Mademoiselle Bourienne looked at him with
  pleasant smiles when he talked to the old prince.
<br />
  The old prince came in to supper; this was evidently on Pierre&rsquo;s account.
  And during the two days of the young man&rsquo;s visit he was extremely kind to
  him and told him to visit them again.
<br />
  When Pierre had gone and the members of the household met together, they
  began to express their opinions of him as people always do after a new
  acquaintance has left, but as seldom happens, no one said anything but
  what was good of him.

  CHAPTER XV


  When returning from his leave, Rostóv felt, for the first time, how close
  was the bond that united him to Denísov and the whole regiment.
<br />
  On approaching it, Rostóv felt as he had done when approaching his home in
  Moscow. When he saw the first hussar with the unbuttoned uniform of his
  regiment, when he recognized red-haired Deméntyev and saw the picket ropes
  of the roan horses, when Lavrúshka gleefully shouted to his master, &ldquo;The
  count has come!&rdquo; and Denísov, who had been asleep on his bed, ran all
  disheveled out of the mud hut to embrace him, and the officers collected
  round to greet the new arrival, Rostóv experienced the same feeling as
  when his mother, his father, and his sister had embraced him, and tears of
  joy choked him so that he could not speak. The regiment was also a home,
  and as unalterably dear and precious as his parents&rsquo; house.
<br />
  When he had reported himself to the commander of the regiment and had been
  reassigned to his former squadron, had been on duty and had gone out
  foraging, when he had again entered into all the little interests of the
  regiment and felt himself deprived of liberty and bound in one narrow,
  unchanging frame, he experienced the same sense of peace, of moral
  support, and the same sense of being at home here in his own place, as he
  had felt under the parental roof. But here was none of all that turmoil of
  the world at large, where he did not know his right place and took
  mistaken decisions; here was no Sónya with whom he ought, or ought not, to
  have an explanation; here was no possibility of going there or not going
  there; here there were not twenty-four hours in the day which could be
  spent in such a variety of ways; there was not that innumerable crowd of
  people of whom not one was nearer to him or farther from him than another;
  there were none of those uncertain and undefined money relations with his
  father, and nothing to recall that terrible loss to Dólokhov. Here, in the
  regiment, all was clear and simple. The whole world was divided into two
  unequal parts: one, our Pávlograd regiment; the other, all the rest. And
  the rest was no concern of his. In the regiment, everything was definite:
  who was lieutenant, who captain, who was a good fellow, who a bad one, and
  most of all, who was a comrade. The canteenkeeper gave one credit, one&rsquo;s
  pay came every four months, there was nothing to think out or decide, you
  had only to do nothing that was considered bad in the Pávlograd regiment
  and, when given an order, to do what was clearly, distinctly, and
  definitely ordered&mdash;and all would be well.
<br />
  Having once more entered into the definite conditions of this regimental
  life, Rostóv felt the joy and relief a tired man feels on lying down to
  rest. Life in the regiment, during this campaign, was all the pleasanter
  for him, because, after his loss to Dólokhov (for which, in spite of all
  his family&rsquo;s efforts to console him, he could not forgive himself), he had
  made up his mind to atone for his fault by serving, not as he had done
  before, but really well, and by being a perfectly first-rate comrade and
  officer&mdash;in a word, a splendid man altogether, a thing which seemed
  so difficult out , but so possible in the regiment.
<br />
  After his losses, he had determined to pay back his debt to his parents in
  five years. He received ten thousand rubles a year, but now resolved to
  take only two thousand and leave the rest to repay the debt to his
  parents.
<br />
  Our army, after repeated retreats and advances and battles at Pultúsk and
  Preussisch-Eylau, was concentrated near Bartenstein. It was awaiting the
  Emperor&rsquo;s arrival and the beginning of a new campaign.
<br />
  The Pávlograd regiment, belonging to that part of the army which had
  served in the 1805 campaign, had been recruiting up to strength in Russia,
  and arrived too late to take part in the first actions of the campaign. It
  had been neither at Pultúsk nor at Preussisch-Eylau and, when it joined
  the army in the field in the second half of the campaign, was attached to
  Plátov&rsquo;s division.
<br />
  Plátov&rsquo;s division was acting independently of the main army. Several times
  parts of the Pávlograd regiment had exchanged shots with the enemy, had
  taken prisoners, and once had even captured Marshal Oudinot&rsquo;s carriages.
  In April the Pávlograds were stationed immovably for some weeks near a
  totally ruined and deserted German village.
<br />
  A thaw had set in, it was muddy and cold, the ice on the river broke, and
  the roads became impassable. For days neither provisions for the men nor
  fodder for the horses had been issued. As no transports could arrive, the
  men dispersed about the abandoned and deserted villages, searching for
  potatoes, but found few even of these.
<br />
  Everything had been eaten up and the inhabitants had all fled&mdash;if any
  remained, they were worse than beggars and nothing more could be taken
  from them; even the soldiers, usually pitiless enough, instead of taking
  anything from them, often gave them the last of their rations.
<br />
  The Pávlograd regiment had had only two men wounded in action, but had
  lost nearly half its men from hunger and sickness. In the hospitals, death
  was so certain that soldiers suffering from fever, or the swelling that
  came from bad food, preferred to remain on duty, and hardly able to drag
  their legs went to the front rather than to the hospitals. When spring
  came on, the soldiers found a plant just showing out of the ground that
  looked like asparagus, which, for some reason, they called &ldquo;Máshka&rsquo;s sweet
  root.&rdquo; It was very bitter, but they wandered about the fields seeking it
  and dug it out with their sabers and ate it, though they were ordered not
  to do so, as it was a noxious plant. That spring a new disease broke out
  among the soldiers, a swelling of the arms, legs, and face, which the
  doctors attributed to eating this root. But in spite of all this, the
  soldiers of Denísov&rsquo;s squadron fed chiefly on &ldquo;Máshka&rsquo;s sweet root,&rdquo;
   because it was the second week that the last of the biscuits were being
  doled out at the rate of half a pound a man and the last potatoes received
  had sprouted and frozen.
<br />
  The horses also had been fed for a fortnight on straw from the thatched
  roofs and had become terribly thin, though still covered with tufts of
  felty winter hair.
<br />
  Despite this destitution, the soldiers and officers went on living just as
  usual. Despite their pale swollen faces and tattered uniforms, the hussars
  formed line for roll call, kept things in order, groomed their horses,
  polished their arms, brought in straw from the thatched roofs in place of
  fodder, and sat down to dine round the caldrons from which they rose up
  hungry, joking about their nasty food and their hunger. As usual, in their
  spare time, they lit bonfires, steamed themselves before them naked;
  smoked, picked out and baked sprouting rotten potatoes, told and listened
  to stories of Potëmkin&rsquo;s and Suvórov&rsquo;s campaigns, or to legends of Alësha
  the Sly, or the priest&rsquo;s laborer Mikólka.
<br />
  The officers, as usual, lived in twos and threes in the roofless,
  half-ruined houses. The seniors tried to collect straw and potatoes and,
  in general, food for the men. The younger ones occupied themselves as
  before, some playing cards (there was plenty of money, though there was no
  food), some with more innocent games, such as quoits and skittles. The
  general trend of the campaign was rarely spoken of, partly because nothing
  certain was known about it, partly because there was a vague feeling that
  in the main it was going badly.
<br />
  Rostóv lived, as before, with Denísov, and since their furlough they had
  become more friendly than ever. Denísov never spoke of Rostóv&rsquo;s family,
  but by the tender friendship his commander showed him, Rostóv felt that
  the elder hussar&rsquo;s luckless love for Natásha played a part in
  strengthening their friendship. Denísov evidently tried to expose Rostóv
  to danger as seldom as possible, and after an action greeted his safe
  return with evident joy. On one of his foraging expeditions, in a deserted
  and ruined village to which he had come in search of provisions, Rostóv
  found a family consisting of an old Pole and his daughter with an infant
  in arms. They were half clad, hungry, too weak to get away on foot and had
  no means of obtaining a conveyance. Rostóv brought them to his quarters,
  placed them in his own lodging, and kept them for some weeks while the old
  man was recovering. One of his comrades, talking of women, began chaffing
  Rostóv, saying that he was more wily than any of them and that it would
  not be a bad thing if he introduced to them the pretty Polish girl he had
  saved. Rostóv took the joke as an insult, flared up, and said such
  unpleasant things to the officer that it was all Denísov could do to
  prevent a duel. When the officer had gone away, Denísov, who did not
  himself know what Rostóv&rsquo;s relations with the Polish girl might be, began
  to upbraid him for his quickness of temper, and Rostóv replied:
<br />
  &ldquo;Say what you like.... She is like a sister to me, and I can&rsquo;t tell you
  how it offended me... because... well, for that reason....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Denísov patted him on the shoulder and began rapidly pacing the room
  without looking at Rostóv, as was his way at moments of deep feeling.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, what a mad bweed you Wostóvs are!&rdquo; he muttered, and Rostóv noticed
  tears in his eyes.

  CHAPTER XVI


  In April the troops were enlivened by news of the Emperor&rsquo;s arrival, but
  Rostóv had no chance of being present at the review he held at
  Bartenstein, as the Pávlograds were at the outposts far beyond that place.
<br />
  They were bivouacking. Denísov and Rostóv were living in an earth hut, dug
  out for them by the soldiers and roofed with branches and turf. The hut
  was made in the following manner, which had then come into vogue. A trench
  was dug three and a half feet wide, four feet eight inches deep, and eight
  feet long. At one end of the trench, steps were cut out and these formed
  the entrance and vestibule. The trench itself was the room, in which the
  lucky ones, such as the squadron commander, had a board, lying on piles at
  the end opposite the entrance, to serve as a table. On each side of the
  trench, the earth was cut out to a breadth of about two and a half feet,
  and this did duty for bedsteads and couches. The roof was so constructed
  that one could stand up in the middle of the trench and could even sit up
  on the beds if one drew close to the table. Denísov, who was living
  luxuriously because the soldiers of his squadron liked him, had also a
  board in the roof at the farther end, with a piece of (broken but mended)
  glass in it for a window. When it was very cold, embers from the soldiers&rsquo;
  campfire were placed on a bent sheet of iron on the steps in the
  &ldquo;reception room&rdquo;&mdash;as Denísov called that part of the hut&mdash;and it
  was then so warm that the officers, of whom there were always some with
  Denísov and Rostóv, sat in their shirt sleeves.
<br />
  In April, Rostóv was on orderly duty. One morning, between seven and
  eight, returning after a sleepless night, he sent for embers, changed his
  rain-soaked underclothes, said his prayers, drank tea, got warm, then
  tidied up the things on the table and in his own corner, and, his face
  glowing from exposure to the wind and with nothing on but his shirt, lay
  down on his back, putting his arms under his head. He was pleasantly
  considering the probability of being promoted in a few days for his last
  reconnoitering expedition, and was awaiting Denísov, who had gone out
  somewhere and with whom he wanted a talk.
<br />
  Suddenly he heard Denísov shouting in a vibrating voice behind the hut,
  evidently much excited. Rostóv moved to the window to see whom he was
  speaking to, and saw the quartermaster, Topchéenko.
<br />
  &ldquo;I ordered you not to let them eat that Máshka woot stuff!&rdquo; Denísov was
  shouting. &ldquo;And I saw with my own eyes how Lazarchúk bwought some fwom the
  fields.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I have given the order again and again, your honor, but they don&rsquo;t obey,&rdquo;
   answered the quartermaster.
<br />
  Rostóv lay down again on his bed and thought complacently: &ldquo;Let him fuss
  and bustle now, my job&rsquo;s done and I&rsquo;m lying down&mdash;capitally!&rdquo; He
  could hear that Lavrúshka&mdash;that sly, bold orderly of Denísov&rsquo;s&mdash;was
  talking, as well as the quartermaster. Lavrúshka was saying something
  about loaded wagons, biscuits, and oxen he had seen when he had gone out
  for provisions.
<br />
  Then Denísov&rsquo;s voice was heard shouting farther and farther away. &ldquo;Saddle!
  Second platoon!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Where are they off to now?&rdquo; thought Rostóv.
<br />
  Five minutes later, Denísov came into the hut, climbed with muddy boots on
  the bed, lit his pipe, furiously scattered his things about, took his
  leaded whip, buckled on his saber, and went out again. In answer to
  Rostóv&rsquo;s inquiry where he was going, he answered vaguely and crossly that
  he had some business.
<br />
  &ldquo;Let God and our gweat monarch judge me afterwards!&rdquo; said Denísov going
  out, and Rostóv heard the hoofs of several horses splashing through the
  mud. He did not even trouble to find out where Denísov had gone. Having
  got warm in his corner, he fell asleep and did not leave the hut till
  toward evening. Denísov had not yet returned. The weather had cleared up,
  and near the next hut two officers and a cadet were playing ,
  laughing as they threw their missiles which buried themselves in the soft
  mud. Rostóv joined them. In the middle of the game, the officers saw some
  wagons approaching with fifteen hussars on their skinny horses behind
  them. The wagons escorted by the hussars drew up to the picket ropes and a
  crowd of hussars surrounded them.
<br />
  &ldquo;There now, Denísov has been worrying,&rdquo; said Rostóv, &ldquo;and here are the
  provisions.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;So they are!&rdquo; said the officers. &ldquo;Won&rsquo;t the soldiers be glad!&rdquo;
 <br />
  A little behind the hussars came Denísov, accompanied by two infantry
  officers with whom he was talking.
<br />
  Rostóv went to meet them.
<br />
  &ldquo;I warn you, Captain,&rdquo; one of the officers, a short thin man, evidently
  very angry, was saying.
<br />
  &ldquo;Haven&rsquo;t I told you I won&rsquo;t give them up?&rdquo; replied Denísov.
<br />
  &ldquo;You will answer for it, Captain. It is mutiny&mdash;seizing the transport
  of one&rsquo;s own army. Our men have had nothing to eat for two days.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And mine have had nothing for two weeks,&rdquo; said Denísov.
<br />
  &ldquo;It is robbery! You&rsquo;ll answer for it, sir!&rdquo; said the infantry officer,
  raising his voice.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now, what are you pestewing me for?&rdquo; cried Denísov, suddenly losing his
  temper. &ldquo;I shall answer for it and not you, and you&rsquo;d better not buzz
  about here till you get hurt. Be off! Go!&rdquo; he shouted at the officers.
<br />
  &ldquo;Very well, then!&rdquo; shouted the little officer, undaunted and not riding
  away. &ldquo;If you are determined to rob, I&rsquo;ll...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Go to the devil! quick ma&rsquo;ch, while you&rsquo;re safe and sound!&rdquo; and Denísov
  turned his horse on the officer.
<br />
  &ldquo;Very well, very well!&rdquo; muttered the officer, threateningly, and turning
  his horse he trotted away, jolting in his saddle.
<br />
  &ldquo;A dog astwide a fence! A weal dog astwide a fence!&rdquo; shouted Denísov after
  him (the most insulting expression a cavalryman can address to a mounted
  infantryman) and riding up to Rostóv, he burst out laughing.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve taken twansports from the infantwy by force!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;After all,
  can&rsquo;t let our men starve.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The wagons that had reached the hussars had been consigned to an infantry
  regiment, but learning from Lavrúshka that the transport was unescorted,
  Denísov with his hussars had seized it by force. The soldiers had biscuits
  dealt out to them freely, and they even shared them with the other
  squadrons.
<br />
  The next day the regimental commander sent for Denísov, and holding his
  fingers spread out before his eyes said:
<br />
  &ldquo;This is how I look at this affair: I know nothing about it and won&rsquo;t
  begin proceedings, but I advise you to ride over to the staff and settle
  the business there in the commissariat department and if possible sign a
  receipt for such and such stores received. If not, as the demand was
  booked against an infantry regiment, there will be a row and the affair
  may end badly.&rdquo;
 <br />
  From the regimental commander&rsquo;s, Denísov rode straight to the staff with a
  sincere desire to act on this advice. In the evening he came back to his
  dugout in a state such as Rostóv had never yet seen him in. Denísov could
  not speak and gasped for breath. When Rostóv asked what was the matter, he
  only uttered some incoherent oaths and threats in a hoarse, feeble voice.
<br />
  Alarmed at Denísov&rsquo;s condition, Rostóv suggested that he should undress,
  drink some water, and send for the doctor.
<br />
  &ldquo;Twy me for wobbewy... oh! Some more water... Let them twy me, but I&rsquo;ll
  always thwash scoundwels... and I&rsquo;ll tell the Empewo&rsquo;... Ice...&rdquo; he
  muttered.
<br />
  The regimental doctor, when he came, said it was absolutely necessary to
  bleed Denísov. A deep saucer of black blood was taken from his hairy arm
  and only then was he able to relate what had happened to him.
<br />
  &ldquo;I get there,&rdquo; began Denísov. &ldquo;&lsquo;Now then, where&rsquo;s your chief&rsquo;s quarters?&rsquo;
  They were pointed out. &lsquo;Please to wait.&rsquo; &lsquo;I&rsquo;ve widden twenty miles and
  have duties to attend to and no time to wait. Announce me.&rsquo; Vewy well, so
  out comes their head chief&mdash;also took it into his head to lecture me:
  &lsquo;It&rsquo;s wobbewy!&rsquo;&mdash;&lsquo;Wobbewy,&rsquo; I say, &lsquo;is not done by man who seizes
  pwovisions to feed his soldiers, but by him who takes them to fill his own
  pockets!&rsquo; &lsquo;Will you please be silent?&rsquo; &lsquo;Vewy good!&rsquo; Then he says: &lsquo;Go and
  give a weceipt to the commissioner, but your affair will be passed on to
  headquarters.&rsquo; I go to the commissioner. I enter, and at the table... who
  do you think? No, but wait a bit!... Who is it that&rsquo;s starving us?&rdquo;
   shouted Denísov, hitting the table with the fist of his newly bled arm so
  violently that the table nearly broke down and the tumblers on it jumped
  about. &ldquo;Telyánin! &lsquo;What? So it&rsquo;s you who&rsquo;s starving us to death! Is it?
  Take this and this!&rsquo; and I hit him so pat, stwaight on his snout... &lsquo;Ah,
  what a... what a...!&rsquo; and I sta&rsquo;ted fwashing him... Well, I&rsquo;ve had a bit
  of fun I can tell you!&rdquo; cried Denísov, gleeful and yet angry, his white
  teeth showing under his black mustache. &ldquo;I&rsquo;d have killed him if they
  hadn&rsquo;t taken him away!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But what are you shouting for? Calm yourself,&rdquo; said Rostóv. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve set
  your arm bleeding afresh. Wait, we must tie it up again.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Denísov was bandaged up again and put to bed. Next day he woke calm and
  cheerful.
<br />
  But at noon the adjutant of the regiment came into Rostóv&rsquo;s and Denísov&rsquo;s
  dugout with a grave and serious face and regretfully showed them a paper
  addressed to Major Denísov from the regimental commander in which
  inquiries were made about yesterday&rsquo;s occurrence. The adjutant told them
  that the affair was likely to take a very bad turn: that a court-martial
  had been appointed, and that in view of the severity with which marauding
  and insubordination were now regarded, degradation to the ranks would be
  the best that could be hoped for.
<br />
  The case, as represented by the offended parties, was that, after seizing
  the transports, Major Denísov, being drunk, went to the chief
  quartermaster and without any provocation called him a thief, threatened
  to strike him, and on being led out had rushed into the office and given
  two officials a thrashing, and dislocated the arm of one of them.
<br />
  In answer to Rostóv&rsquo;s renewed questions, Denísov said, laughing, that he
  thought he remembered that some other fellow had got mixed up in it, but
  that it was all nonsense and rubbish, and he did not in the least fear any
  kind of trial, and that if those scoundrels dared attack him he would give
  them an answer that they would not easily forget.
<br />
  Denísov spoke contemptuously of the whole matter, but Rostóv knew him too
  well not to detect that (while hiding it from others) at heart he feared a
  court-martial and was worried over the affair, which was evidently taking
  a bad turn. Every day, letters of inquiry and notices from the court
  arrived, and on the first of May, Denísov was ordered to hand the squadron
  over to the next in seniority and appear before the staff of his division
  to explain his violence at the commissariat office. On the previous day
  Plátov reconnoitered with two Cossack regiments and two squadrons of
  hussars. Denísov, as was his wont, rode out in front of the outposts,
  parading his courage. A bullet fired by a French sharpshooter hit him in
  the fleshy part of his leg. Perhaps at another time Denísov would not have
  left the regiment for so slight a wound, but now he took advantage of it
  to excuse himself from appearing at the staff and went into hospital.

  CHAPTER XVII


  In June the battle of Friedland was fought, in which the Pávlograds did
  not take part, and after that an armistice was proclaimed. Rostóv, who
  felt his friend&rsquo;s absence very much, having no news of him since he left
  and feeling very anxious about his wound and the progress of his affairs,
  took advantage of the armistice to get leave to visit Denísov in hospital.
<br />
  The hospital was in a small Prussian town that had been twice devastated
  by Russian and French troops. Because it was summer, when it is so
  beautiful out in the fields, the little town presented a particularly
  dismal appearance with its broken roofs and fences, its foul streets,
  tattered inhabitants, and the sick and drunken soldiers wandering about.
<br />
  The hospital was in a brick building with some of the window frames and
  panes broken and a courtyard surrounded by the remains of a wooden fence
  that had been pulled to pieces. Several bandaged soldiers, with pale
  swollen faces, were sitting or walking about in the sunshine in the yard.
<br />
  Directly Rostóv entered the door he was enveloped by a smell of
  putrefaction and hospital air. On the stairs he met a Russian army doctor
  smoking a cigar. The doctor was followed by a Russian assistant.
<br />
  &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t tear myself to pieces,&rdquo; the doctor was saying. &ldquo;Come to Makár
  Alexéevich in the evening. I shall be there.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The assistant asked some further questions.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, do the best you can! Isn&rsquo;t it all the same?&rdquo; The doctor noticed
  Rostóv coming upstairs.
<br />
  &ldquo;What do you want, sir?&rdquo; said the doctor. &ldquo;What do you want? The bullets
  having spared you, do you want to try typhus? This is a pesthouse, sir.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How so?&rdquo; asked Rostóv.
<br />
  &ldquo;Typhus, sir. It&rsquo;s death to go in. Only we two, Makéev and I&rdquo; (he pointed
  to the assistant), &ldquo;keep on here. Some five of us doctors have died in
  this place.... When a new one comes he is done for in a week,&rdquo; said the
  doctor with evident satisfaction. &ldquo;Prussian doctors have been invited
  here, but our allies don&rsquo;t like it at all.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Rostóv explained that he wanted to see Major Denísov of the hussars, who
  was wounded.
<br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know. I can&rsquo;t tell you, sir. Only think! I am alone in charge of
  three hospitals with more than four hundred patients! It&rsquo;s well that the
  charitable Prussian ladies send us two pounds of coffee and some lint each
  month or we should be lost!&rdquo; he laughed. &ldquo;Four hundred, sir, and they&rsquo;re
  always sending me fresh ones. There  four hundred? Eh?&rdquo; he asked,
  turning to the assistant.
<br />
  The assistant looked fagged out. He was evidently vexed and impatient for
  the talkative doctor to go.
<br />
  &ldquo;Major Denísov,&rdquo; Rostóv said again. &ldquo;He was wounded at Molliten.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Dead, I fancy. Eh, Makéev?&rdquo; queried the doctor, in a tone of
  indifference.
<br />
  The assistant, however, did not confirm the doctor&rsquo;s words.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is he tall and with reddish hair?&rdquo; asked the doctor.
<br />
  Rostóv described Denísov&rsquo;s appearance.
<br />
  &ldquo;There was one like that,&rdquo; said the doctor, as if pleased. &ldquo;That one is
  dead, I fancy. However, I&rsquo;ll look up our list. We had a list. Have you got
  it, Makéev?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Makár Alexéevich has the list,&rdquo; answered the assistant. &ldquo;But if you&rsquo;ll
  step into the officers&rsquo; wards you&rsquo;ll see for yourself,&rdquo; he added, turning
  to Rostóv.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, you&rsquo;d better not go, sir,&rdquo; said the doctor, &ldquo;or you may have to stay
  here yourself.&rdquo;
 <br />
  But Rostóv bowed himself away from the doctor and asked the assistant to
  show him the way.
<br />
  &ldquo;Only don&rsquo;t blame me!&rdquo; the doctor shouted up after him.
<br />
  Rostóv and the assistant went into the dark corridor. The smell was so
  strong there that Rostóv held his nose and had to pause and collect his
  strength before he could go on. A door opened to the right, and an
  emaciated sallow man on crutches, barefoot and in underclothing, limped
  out and, leaning against the doorpost, looked with glittering envious eyes
  at those who were passing. Glancing in at the door, Rostóv saw that the
  sick and wounded were lying on the floor on straw and overcoats.
<br />
  &ldquo;May I go in and look?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What is there to see?&rdquo; said the assistant.
<br />
  But, just because the assistant evidently did not want him to go in,
  Rostóv entered the soldiers&rsquo; ward. The foul air, to which he had already
  begun to get used in the corridor, was still stronger here. It was a
  little different, more pungent, and one felt that this was where it
  originated.
<br />
  In the long room, brightly lit up by the sun through the large windows,
  the sick and wounded lay in two rows with their heads to the walls, and
  leaving a passage in the middle. Most of them were unconscious and paid no
  attention to the newcomers. Those who were conscious raised themselves or
  lifted their thin yellow faces, and all looked intently at Rostóv with the
  same expression of hope, of relief, reproach, and envy of another&rsquo;s
  health. Rostóv went to the middle of the room and looking through the open
  doors into the two adjoining rooms saw the same thing there. He stood
  still, looking silently around. He had not at all expected such a sight.
  Just before him, almost across the middle of the passage on the bare
  floor, lay a sick man, probably a Cossack to judge by the cut of his hair.
  The man lay on his back, his huge arms and legs outstretched. His face was
  purple, his eyes were rolled back so that only the whites were seen, and
  on his bare legs and arms which were still red, the veins stood out like
  cords. He was knocking the back of his head against the floor, hoarsely
  uttering some word which he kept repeating. Rostóv listened and made out
  the word. It was &ldquo;drink, drink, a drink!&rdquo; Rostóv glanced round, looking
  for someone who would put this man back in his place and bring him water.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who looks after the sick here?&rdquo; he asked the assistant.
<br />
  Just then a commissariat soldier, a hospital orderly, came in from the
  next room, marching stiffly, and drew up in front of Rostóv.
<br />
  &ldquo;Good day, your honor!&rdquo; he shouted, rolling his eyes at Rostóv and
  evidently mistaking him for one of the hospital authorities.
<br />
  &ldquo;Get him to his place and give him some water,&rdquo; said Rostóv, pointing to
  the Cossack.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, your honor,&rdquo; the soldier replied complacently, and rolling his eyes
  more than ever he drew himself up still straighter, but did not move.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, it&rsquo;s impossible to do anything here,&rdquo; thought Rostóv, lowering his
  eyes, and he was going out, but became aware of an intense look fixed on
  him on his right, and he turned. Close to the corner, on an overcoat, sat
  an old, unshaven, gray-bearded soldier as thin as a skeleton, with a stern
  sallow face and eyes intently fixed on Rostóv. The man&rsquo;s neighbor on one
  side whispered something to him, pointing at Rostóv, who noticed that the
  old man wanted to speak to him. He drew nearer and saw that the old man
  had only one leg bent under him, the other had been amputated above the
  knee. His neighbor on the other side, who lay motionless some distance
  from him with his head thrown back, was a young soldier with a snub nose.
  His pale waxen face was still freckled and his eyes were rolled back.
  Rostóv looked at the young soldier and a cold chill ran down his back.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, this one seems...&rdquo; he began, turning to the assistant.
<br />
  &ldquo;And how we&rsquo;ve been begging, your honor,&rdquo; said the old soldier, his jaw
  quivering. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s been dead since morning. After all we&rsquo;re men, not dogs.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll send someone at once. He shall be taken away&mdash;taken away at
  once,&rdquo; said the assistant hurriedly. &ldquo;Let us go, your honor.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes, let us go,&rdquo; said Rostóv hastily, and lowering his eyes and
  shrinking, he tried to pass unnoticed between the rows of reproachful
  envious eyes that were fixed upon him, and went out of the room.

  CHAPTER XVIII


  Going along the corridor, the assistant led Rostóv to the officers&rsquo; wards,
  consisting of three rooms, the doors of which stood open. There were beds
  in these rooms and the sick and wounded officers were lying or sitting on
  them. Some were walking about the rooms in hospital dressing gowns. The
  first person Rostóv met in the officers&rsquo; ward was a thin little man with
  one arm, who was walking about the first room in a nightcap and hospital
  dressing gown, with a pipe between his teeth. Rostóv looked at him, trying
  to remember where he had seen him before.
<br />
  &ldquo;See where we&rsquo;ve met again!&rdquo; said the little man. &ldquo;Túshin, Túshin, don&rsquo;t
  you remember, who gave you a lift at Schön Grabern? And I&rsquo;ve had a bit cut
  off, you see...&rdquo; he went on with a smile, pointing to the empty sleeve of
  his dressing gown. &ldquo;Looking for Vasíli Dmítrich Denísov? My neighbor,&rdquo; he
  added, when he heard who Rostóv wanted. &ldquo;Here, here,&rdquo; and Túshin led him
  into the next room, from whence came sounds of several laughing voices.
<br />
  &ldquo;How can they laugh, or even live at all here?&rdquo; thought Rostóv, still
  aware of that smell of decomposing flesh that had been so strong in the
  soldiers&rsquo; ward, and still seeming to see fixed on him those envious looks
  which had followed him out from both sides, and the face of that young
  soldier with eyes rolled back.
<br />
  Denísov lay asleep on his bed with his head under the blanket, though it
  was nearly noon.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, Wostóv? How are you, how are you?&rdquo; he called out, still in the same
  voice as in the regiment, but Rostóv noticed sadly that under this
  habitual ease and animation some new, sinister, hidden feeling showed
  itself in the expression of Denísov&rsquo;s face and the intonations of his
  voice.
<br />
  His wound, though a slight one, had not yet healed even now, six weeks
  after he had been hit. His face had the same swollen pallor as the faces
  of the other hospital patients, but it was not this that struck Rostóv.
  What struck him was that Denísov did not seem glad to see him, and smiled
  at him unnaturally. He did not ask about the regiment, nor about the
  general state of affairs, and when Rostóv spoke of these matters did not
  listen.
<br />
  Rostóv even noticed that Denísov did not like to be reminded of the
  regiment, or in general of that other free life which was going on outside
  the hospital. He seemed to try to forget that old life and was only
  interested in the affair with the commissariat officers. On Rostóv&rsquo;s
  inquiry as to how the matter stood, he at once produced from under his
  pillow a paper he had received from the commission and the rough draft of
  his answer to it. He became animated when he began reading his paper and
  specially drew Rostóv&rsquo;s attention to the stinging rejoinders he made to
  his enemies. His hospital companions, who had gathered round Rostóv&mdash;a
  fresh arrival from the world outside&mdash;gradually began to disperse as
  soon as Denísov began reading his answer. Rostóv noticed by their faces
  that all those gentlemen had already heard that story more than once and
  were tired of it. Only the man who had the next bed, a stout Uhlan,
  continued to sit on his bed, gloomily frowning and smoking a pipe, and
  little one-armed Túshin still listened, shaking his head disapprovingly.
  In the middle of the reading, the Uhlan interrupted Denísov.
<br />
  &ldquo;But what I say is,&rdquo; he said, turning to Rostóv, &ldquo;it would be best simply
  to petition the Emperor for pardon. They say great rewards will now be
  distributed, and surely a pardon would be granted....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Me petition the Empewo&rsquo;!&rdquo; exclaimed Denísov, in a voice to which he tried
  hard to give the old energy and fire, but which sounded like an expression
  of irritable impotence. &ldquo;What for? If I were a wobber I would ask mercy,
  but I&rsquo;m being court-martialed for bwinging wobbers to book. Let them twy
  me, I&rsquo;m not afwaid of anyone. I&rsquo;ve served the Tsar and my countwy
  honowably and have not stolen! And am I to be degwaded?... Listen, I&rsquo;m
  w&rsquo;iting to them stwaight. This is what I say: &lsquo;If I had wobbed the
  Tweasuwy...&rsquo;&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s certainly well written,&rdquo; said Túshin, &ldquo;but that&rsquo;s not the point,
  Vasíli Dmítrich,&rdquo; and he also turned to Rostóv. &ldquo;One has to submit, and
  Vasíli Dmítrich doesn&rsquo;t want to. You know the auditor told you it was a
  bad business.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, let it be bad,&rdquo; said Denísov.
<br />
  &ldquo;The auditor wrote out a petition for you,&rdquo; continued Túshin, &ldquo;and you
  ought to sign it and ask this gentleman to take it. No doubt he&rdquo;
   (indicating Rostóv) &ldquo;has connections on the staff. You won&rsquo;t find a better
  opportunity.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Haven&rsquo;t I said I&rsquo;m not going to gwovel?&rdquo; Denísov interrupted him, went on
  reading his paper.
<br />
  Rostóv had not the courage to persuade Denísov, though he instinctively
  felt that the way advised by Túshin and the other officers was the safest,
  and though he would have been glad to be of service to Denísov. He knew
  his stubborn will and straightforward hasty temper.
<br />
  When the reading of Denísov&rsquo;s virulent reply, which took more than an
  hour, was over, Rostóv said nothing, and he spent the rest of the day in a
  most dejected state of mind amid Denísov&rsquo;s hospital comrades, who had
  gathered round him, telling them what he knew and listening to their
  stories. Denísov was moodily silent all the evening.
<br />
  Late in the evening, when Rostóv was about to leave, he asked Denísov
  whether he had no commission for him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, wait a bit,&rdquo; said Denísov, glancing round at the officers, and
  taking his papers from under his pillow he went to the window, where he
  had an inkpot, and sat down to write.
<br />
  &ldquo;It seems it&rsquo;s no use knocking one&rsquo;s head against a wall!&rdquo; he said, coming
  from the window and giving Rostóv a large envelope. In it was the petition
  to the Emperor drawn up by the auditor, in which Denísov, without alluding
  to the offenses of the commissariat officials, simply asked for pardon.
<br />
  &ldquo;Hand it in. It seems...&rdquo;
 <br />
  He did not finish, but gave a painfully unnatural smile.

  CHAPTER XIX


  Having returned to the regiment and told the commander the state of
  Denísov&rsquo;s affairs, Rostóv rode to Tilsit with the letter to the Emperor.
<br />
  On the thirteenth of June the French and Russian Emperors arrived in
  Tilsit. Borís Drubetskóy had asked the important personage on whom he was
  in attendance, to include him in the suite appointed for the stay at
  Tilsit.
<br />
  &ldquo;I should like to see the great man,&rdquo; he said, alluding to Napoleon, whom
  hitherto he, like everyone else, had always called Buonaparte.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are speaking of Buonaparte?&rdquo; asked the general, smiling.
<br />
  Borís looked at his general inquiringly and immediately saw that he was
  being tested.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am speaking, Prince, of the Emperor Napoleon,&rdquo; he replied. The general
  patted him on the shoulder, with a smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;You will go far,&rdquo; he said, and took him to Tilsit with him.
<br />
  Borís was among the few present at the Niemen on the day the two Emperors
  met. He saw the raft, decorated with monograms, saw Napoleon pass before
  the French Guards on the farther bank of the river, saw the pensive face
  of the Emperor Alexander as he sat in silence in a tavern on the bank of
  the Niemen awaiting Napoleon&rsquo;s arrival, saw both Emperors get into boats,
  and saw how Napoleon&mdash;reaching the raft first&mdash;stepped quickly
  forward to meet Alexander and held out his hand to him, and how they both
  retired into the pavilion. Since he had begun to move in the highest
  circles Borís had made it his habit to watch attentively all that went on
  around him and to note it down. At the time of the meeting at Tilsit he
  asked the names of those who had come with Napoleon and about the uniforms
  they wore, and listened attentively to words spoken by important
  personages. At the moment the Emperors went into the pavilion he looked at
  his watch, and did not forget to look at it again when Alexander came out.
  The interview had lasted an hour and fifty-three minutes. He noted this
  down that same evening, among other facts he felt to be of historic
  importance. As the Emperor&rsquo;s suite was a very small one, it was a matter
  of great importance, for a man who valued his success in the service, to
  be at Tilsit on the occasion of this interview between the two Emperors,
  and having succeeded in this, Borís felt that henceforth his position was
  fully assured. He had not only become known, but people had grown
  accustomed to him and accepted him. Twice he had executed commissions to
  the Emperor himself, so that the latter knew his face, and all those at
  court, far from cold-shouldering him as at first when they considered him
  a newcomer, would now have been surprised had he been absent.
<br />
  Borís lodged with another adjutant, the Polish Count Zhilínski. Zhilínski,
  a Pole brought up in Paris, was rich, and passionately fond of the French,
  and almost every day of the stay at Tilsit, French officers of the Guard
  and from French headquarters were dining and lunching with him and Borís.
<br />
  On the evening of the twenty-fourth of June, Count Zhilínski arranged a
  supper for his French friends. The guest of honor was an aide-de-camp of
  Napoleon&rsquo;s, there were also several French officers of the Guard, and a
  page of Napoleon&rsquo;s, a young lad of an old aristocratic French family. That
  same day, Rostóv, profiting by the darkness to avoid being recognized in
  civilian dress, came to Tilsit and went to the lodging occupied by Borís
  and Zhilínski.
<br />
  Rostóv, in common with the whole army from which he came, was far from
  having experienced the change of feeling toward Napoleon and the French&mdash;who
  from being foes had suddenly become friends&mdash;that had taken place at
  headquarters and in Borís. In the army, Bonaparte and the French were
  still regarded with mingled feelings of anger, contempt, and fear. Only
  recently, talking with one of Plátov&rsquo;s Cossack officers, Rostóv had argued
  that if Napoleon were taken prisoner he would be treated not as a
  sovereign, but as a criminal. Quite lately, happening to meet a wounded
  French colonel on the road, Rostóv had maintained with heat that peace was
  impossible between a legitimate sovereign and the criminal Bonaparte.
  Rostóv was therefore unpleasantly struck by the presence of French
  officers in Borís&rsquo; lodging, dressed in uniforms he had been accustomed to
  see from quite a different point of view from the outposts of the flank.
  As soon as he noticed a French officer, who thrust his head out of the
  door, that warlike feeling of hostility which he always experienced at the
  sight of the enemy suddenly seized him. He stopped at the threshold and
  asked in Russian whether Drubetskóy lived there. Borís, hearing a strange
  voice in the anteroom, came out to meet him. An expression of annoyance
  showed itself for a moment on his face on first recognizing Rostóv.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, it&rsquo;s you? Very glad, very glad to see you,&rdquo; he said, however, coming
  toward him with a smile. But Rostóv had noticed his first impulse.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve come at a bad time I think. I should not have come, but I have
  business,&rdquo; he said coldly.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, I only wonder how you managed to get away from your regiment. ,&rdquo; * he said, answering someone who called him.
<br />
* &ldquo;In a minute I shall be at your disposal.&rdquo;

“I see I’m intruding,” Rostóv repeated.
The look of annoyance had already disappeared from Borís’ face: having evidently reflected and decided how to act, he very quietly took both Rostóv’s hands and led him into the next room. His eyes, looking serenely and steadily at Rostóv, seemed to be veiled by something, as if screened by blue spectacles of conventionality. So it seemed to Rostóv.
“Oh, come now! As if you could come at a wrong time!” said Borís, and he led him into the room where the supper table was laid and introduced him to his guests, explaining that he was not a civilian, but an hussar officer, and an old friend of his.
“Count Zhilínski— N. N.— S. S.,” said he, naming his guests. Rostóv looked frowningly at the Frenchmen, bowed reluctantly, and remained silent.
Zhilínski evidently did not receive this new Russian person very willingly into his circle and did not speak to Rostóv. Borís did not appear to notice the constraint the newcomer produced and, with the same pleasant composure and the same veiled look in his eyes with which he had met Rostóv, tried to enliven the conversation. One of the Frenchmen, with the politeness characteristic of his countrymen, addressed the obstinately taciturn Rostóv, saying that the latter had probably come to Tilsit to see the Emperor.
“No, I came on business,” replied Rostóv, briefly.
Rostóv had been out of humor from the moment he noticed the look of dissatisfaction on Borís’ face, and as always happens to those in a bad humor, it seemed to him that everyone regarded him with aversion and that he was in everybody’s way. He really was in their way, for he alone took no part in the conversation which again became general. The looks the visitors cast on him seemed to say: “And what is he sitting here for?” He rose and went up to Borís.
“Anyhow, I’m in your way,” he said in a low tone. “Come and talk over my business and I’ll go away.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” said Borís. “But if you are tired, come and lie down in my room and have a rest.”
“Yes, really…”
They went into the little room where Borís slept. Rostóv, without sitting down, began at once, irritably (as if Borís were to blame in some way) telling him about Denísov’s affair, asking him whether, through his general, he could and would intercede with the Emperor on Denísov’s behalf and get Denísov’s petition handed in. When he and Borís were alone, Rostóv felt for the first time that he could not look Borís in the face without a sense of awkwardness. Borís, with one leg crossed over the other and stroking his left hand with the slender fingers of his right, listened to Rostóv as a general listens to the report of a subordinate, now looking aside and now gazing straight into Rostóv’s eyes with the same veiled look. Each time this happened Rostóv felt uncomfortable and cast down his eyes.
“I have heard of such cases and know that His Majesty is very severe in such affairs. I think it would be best not to bring it before the Emperor, but to apply to the commander of the corps…. But in general, I think…”
“So you don’t want to do anything? Well then, say so!” Rostóv almost shouted, not looking Borís in the face.
Borís smiled.
“On the contrary, I will do what I can. Only I thought…”
At that moment Zhilínski’s voice was heard calling Borís.
“Well then, go, go, go…” said Rostóv, and refusing supper and remaining alone in the little room, he walked up and down for a long time, hearing the lighthearted French conversation from the next room.

  CHAPTER XX


  Rostóv had come to Tilsit the day least suitable for a petition on
  Denísov&rsquo;s behalf. He could not himself go to the general in attendance as
  he was in mufti and had come to Tilsit without permission to do so, and
  Borís, even had he wished to, could not have done so on the following day.
  On that day, June 27, the preliminaries of peace were signed. The Emperors
  exchanged decorations: Alexander received the Cross of the Legion of Honor
  and Napoleon the Order of St. Andrew of the First Degree, and a dinner had
  been arranged for the evening, given by a battalion of the French Guards
  to the Preobrazhénsk battalion. The Emperors were to be present at that
  banquet.
<br />
  Rostóv felt so ill at ease and uncomfortable with Borís that, when the
  latter looked in after supper, he pretended to be asleep, and early next
  morning went away, avoiding Borís. In his civilian clothes and a round
  hat, he wandered about the town, staring at the French and their uniforms
  and at the streets and houses where the Russian and French Emperors were
  staying. In a square he saw tables being set up and preparations made for
  the dinner; he saw the Russian and French colors draped from side to side
  of the streets, with huge monograms  and . In the windows of the
  houses also flags and bunting were displayed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Borís doesn&rsquo;t want to help me and I don&rsquo;t want to ask him. That&rsquo;s
  settled,&rdquo; thought Nicholas. &ldquo;All is over between us, but I won&rsquo;t leave
  here without having done all I can for Denísov and certainly not without
  getting his letter to the Emperor. The Emperor!... He is here!&rdquo; thought
  Rostóv, who had unconsciously returned to the house where Alexander
  lodged.
<br />
  Saddled horses were standing before the house and the suite were
  assembling, evidently preparing for the Emperor to come out.
<br />
  &ldquo;I may see him at any moment,&rdquo; thought Rostóv. &ldquo;If only I were to hand the
  letter direct to him and tell him all... could they really arrest me for
  my civilian clothes? Surely not! He would understand on whose side justice
  lies. He understands everything, knows everything. Who can be more just,
  more magnanimous than he? And even if they did arrest me for being here,
  what would it matter?&rdquo; thought he, looking at an officer who was entering
  the house the Emperor occupied. &ldquo;After all, people do go in.... It&rsquo;s all
  nonsense! I&rsquo;ll go in and hand the letter to the Emperor myself so much the
  worse for Drubetskóy who drives me to it!&rdquo; And suddenly with a
  determination he himself did not expect, Rostóv felt for the letter in his
  pocket and went straight to the house.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, I won&rsquo;t miss my opportunity now, as I did after Austerlitz,&rdquo; he
  thought, expecting every moment to meet the monarch, and conscious of the
  blood that rushed to his heart at the thought. &ldquo;I will fall at his feet
  and beseech him. He will lift me up, will listen, and will even thank me.
  &lsquo;I am happy when I can do good, but to remedy injustice is the greatest
  happiness,&rsquo;&rdquo; Rostóv fancied the sovereign saying. And passing people who
  looked after him with curiosity, he entered the porch of the Emperor&rsquo;s
  house.
<br />
  A broad staircase led straight up from the entry, and to the right he saw
  a closed door. Below, under the staircase, was a door leading to the lower
  floor.
<br />
  &ldquo;Whom do you want?&rdquo; someone inquired.
<br />
  &ldquo;To hand in a letter, a petition, to His Majesty,&rdquo; said Nicholas, with a
  tremor in his voice.
<br />
  &ldquo;A petition? This way, to the officer on duty&rdquo; (he was shown the door
  leading downstairs), &ldquo;only it won&rsquo;t be accepted.&rdquo;
 <br />
  On hearing this indifferent voice, Rostóv grew frightened at what he was
  doing; the thought of meeting the Emperor at any moment was so fascinating
  and consequently so alarming that he was ready to run away, but the
  official who had questioned him opened the door, and Rostóv entered.
<br />
  A short stout man of about thirty, in white breeches and high boots and a
  batiste shirt that he had evidently only just put on, standing in that
  room, and his valet was buttoning on to the back of his breeches a new
  pair of handsome silk-embroidered braces that, for some reason, attracted
  Rostóv&rsquo;s attention. This man was speaking to someone in the adjoining
  room.
<br />
  &ldquo;A good figure and in her first bloom,&rdquo; he was saying, but on seeing
  Rostóv, he stopped short and frowned.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is it? A petition?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; asked the person in the other room.
<br />
  &ldquo;Another petitioner,&rdquo; answered the man with the braces.
<br />
  &ldquo;Tell him to come later. He&rsquo;ll be coming out directly, we must go.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Later... later! Tomorrow. It&rsquo;s too late...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Rostóv turned and was about to go, but the man in the braces stopped him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Whom have you come from? Who are you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I come from Major Denísov,&rdquo; answered Rostóv.
<br />
  &ldquo;Are you an officer?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Lieutenant Count Rostóv.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What audacity! Hand it in through your commander. And go along with
  you... go,&rdquo; and he continued to put on the uniform the valet handed him.
<br />
  Rostóv went back into the hall and noticed that in the porch there were
  many officers and generals in full parade uniform, whom he had to pass.
<br />
  Cursing his temerity, his heart sinking at the thought of finding himself
  at any moment face to face with the Emperor and being put to shame and
  arrested in his presence, fully alive now to the impropriety of his
  conduct and repenting of it, Rostóv, with downcast eyes, was making his
  way out of the house through the brilliant suite when a familiar voice
  called him and a hand detained him.
<br />
  &ldquo;What are you doing here, sir, in civilian dress?&rdquo; asked a deep voice.
<br />
  It was a cavalry general who had obtained the Emperor&rsquo;s special favor
  during this campaign, and who had formerly commanded the division in which
  Rostóv was serving.
<br />
  Rostóv, in dismay, began justifying himself, but seeing the kindly,
  jocular face of the general, he took him aside and in an excited voice
  told him the whole affair, asking him to intercede for Denísov, whom the
  general knew. Having heard Rostóv to the end, the general shook his head
  gravely.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sorry, sorry for that fine fellow. Give me the letter.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Hardly had Rostóv handed him the letter and finished explaining Denísov&rsquo;s
  case, when hasty steps and the jingling of spurs were heard on the stairs,
  and the general, leaving him, went to the porch. The gentlemen of the
  Emperor&rsquo;s suite ran down the stairs and went to their horses. Hayne, the
  same groom who had been at Austerlitz, led up the Emperor&rsquo;s horse, and the
  faint creak of a footstep Rostóv knew at once was heard on the stairs.
  Forgetting the danger of being recognized, Rostóv went close to the porch,
  together with some inquisitive civilians, and again, after two years, saw
  those features he adored: that same face and same look and step, and the
  same union of majesty and mildness.... And the feeling of enthusiasm and
  love for his sovereign rose again in Rostóv&rsquo;s soul in all its old force.
  In the uniform of the Preobrazhénsk regiment&mdash;white chamois-leather
  breeches and high boots&mdash;and wearing a star Rostóv did not know (it
  was that of the ), the monarch came out into the porch,
  putting on his gloves and carrying his hat under his arm. He stopped and
  looked about him, brightening everything around by his glance. He spoke a
  few words to some of the generals, and, recognizing the former commander
  of Rostóv&rsquo;s division, smiled and beckoned to him.
<br />
  All the suite drew back and Rostóv saw the general talking for some time
  to the Emperor.
<br />
  The Emperor said a few words to him and took a step toward his horse.
  Again the crowd of members of the suite and street gazers (among whom was
  Rostóv) moved nearer to the Emperor. Stopping beside his horse, with his
  hand on the saddle, the Emperor turned to the cavalry general and said in
  a loud voice, evidently wishing to be heard by all:
<br />
  &ldquo;I cannot do it, General. I cannot, because the law is stronger than I,&rdquo;
   and he raised his foot to the stirrup.
<br />
  The general bowed his head respectfully, and the monarch mounted and rode
  down the street at a gallop. Beside himself with enthusiasm, Rostóv ran
  after him with the crowd.

  CHAPTER XXI


  The Emperor rode to the square where, facing one another, a battalion of
  the Preobrazhénsk regiment stood on the right and a battalion of the
  French Guards in their bearskin caps on the left.
<br />
  As the Tsar rode up to one flank of the battalions, which presented arms,
  another group of horsemen galloped up to the opposite flank, and at the
  head of them Rostóv recognized Napoleon. It could be no one else. He came
  at a gallop, wearing a small hat, a blue uniform open over a white vest,
  and the St. Andrew ribbon over his shoulder. He was riding a very fine
  thoroughbred gray Arab horse with a crimson gold-embroidered saddlecloth.
  On approaching Alexander he raised his hat, and as he did so, Rostóv, with
  his cavalryman&rsquo;s eye, could not help noticing that Napoleon did not sit
  well or firmly in the saddle. The battalions shouted &ldquo;Hurrah!&rdquo; and  Napoleon said something to Alexander, and both Emperors
  dismounted and took each other&rsquo;s hands. Napoleon&rsquo;s face wore an unpleasant
  and artificial smile. Alexander was saying something affable to him.
<br />
  In spite of the trampling of the French gendarmes&rsquo; horses, which were
  pushing back the crowd, Rostóv kept his eyes on every movement of
  Alexander and Bonaparte. It struck him as a surprise that Alexander
  treated Bonaparte as an equal and that the latter was quite at ease with
  the Tsar, as if such relations with an Emperor were an everyday matter to
  him.
<br />
  Alexander and Napoleon, with the long train of their suites, approached
  the right flank of the Preobrazhénsk battalion and came straight up to the
  crowd standing there. The crowd unexpectedly found itself so close to the
  Emperors that Rostóv, standing in the front row, was afraid he might be
  recognized.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sire, I ask your permission to present the Legion of Honor to the bravest
  of your soldiers,&rdquo; said a sharp, precise voice, articulating every letter.
<br />
  This was said by the undersized Napoleon, looking up straight into
  Alexander&rsquo;s eyes. Alexander listened attentively to what was said to him
  and, bending his head, smiled pleasantly.
<br />
  &ldquo;To him who has borne himself most bravely in this last war,&rdquo; added
  Napoleon, accentuating each syllable, as with a composure and assurance
  exasperating to Rostóv, he ran his eyes over the Russian ranks drawn up
  before him, who all presented arms with their eyes fixed on their Emperor.
<br />
  &ldquo;Will Your Majesty allow me to consult the colonel?&rdquo; said Alexander and
  took a few hasty steps toward Prince Kozlóvski, the commander of the
  battalion.
<br />
  Bonaparte meanwhile began taking the glove off his small white hand, tore
  it in doing so, and threw it away. An aide-de-camp behind him rushed
  forward and picked it up.
<br />
  &ldquo;To whom shall it be given?&rdquo; the Emperor Alexander asked Kozlóvski, in
  Russian in a low voice.
<br />
  &ldquo;To whomever Your Majesty commands.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The Emperor knit his brows with dissatisfaction and, glancing back,
  remarked:
<br />
  &ldquo;But we must give him an answer.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Kozlóvski scanned the ranks resolutely and included Rostóv in his
  scrutiny.
<br />
  &ldquo;Can it be me?&rdquo; thought Rostóv.
<br />
  &ldquo;Lázarev!&rdquo; the colonel called, with a frown, and Lázarev, the first
  soldier in the rank, stepped briskly forward.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where are you off to? Stop here!&rdquo; voices whispered to Lázarev who did not
  know where to go. Lázarev stopped, casting a sidelong look at his colonel
  in alarm. His face twitched, as often happens to soldiers called before
  the ranks.
<br />
  Napoleon slightly turned his head, and put his plump little hand out
  behind him as if to take something. The members of his suite, guessing at
  once what he wanted, moved about and whispered as they passed something
  from one to another, and a page&mdash;the same one Rostóv had seen the
  previous evening at Borís&rsquo;&mdash;ran forward and, bowing respectfully over
  the outstretched hand and not keeping it waiting a moment, laid in it an
  Order on a red ribbon. Napoleon, without looking, pressed two fingers
  together and the badge was between them. Then he approached Lázarev (who
  rolled his eyes and persistently gazed at his own monarch), looked round
  at the Emperor Alexander to imply that what he was now doing was done for
  the sake of his ally, and the small white hand holding the Order touched
  one of Lázarev&rsquo;s buttons. It was as if Napoleon knew that it was only
  necessary for his hand to deign to touch that soldier&rsquo;s breast for the
  soldier to be forever happy, rewarded, and distinguished from everyone
  else in the world. Napoleon merely laid the cross on Lázarev&rsquo;s breast and,
  dropping his hand, turned toward Alexander as though sure that the cross
  would adhere there. And it really did.
<br />
  Officious hands, Russian and French, immediately seized the cross and
  fastened it to the uniform. Lázarev glanced morosely at the little man
  with white hands who was doing something to him and, still standing
  motionless presenting arms, looked again straight into Alexander&rsquo;s eyes,
  as if asking whether he should stand there, or go away, or do something
  else. But receiving no orders, he remained for some time in that rigid
  position.
<br />
  The Emperors remounted and rode away. The Preobrazhénsk battalion,
  breaking rank, mingled with the French Guards and sat down at the tables
  prepared for them.
<br />
  Lázarev sat in the place of honor. Russian and French officers embraced
  him, congratulated him, and pressed his hands. Crowds of officers and
  civilians drew near merely to see him. A rumble of Russian and French
  voices and laughter filled the air round the tables in the square. Two
  officers with flushed faces, looking cheerful and happy, passed by Rostóv.
<br />
  &ldquo;What d&rsquo;you think of the treat? All on silver plate,&rdquo; one of them was
  saying. &ldquo;Have you seen Lázarev?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I have.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Tomorrow, I hear, the Preobrazhénskis will give them a dinner.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, but what luck for Lázarev! Twelve hundred francs&rsquo; pension for life.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Here&rsquo;s a cap, lads!&rdquo; shouted a Preobrazhénsk soldier, donning a shaggy
  French cap.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a fine thing! First-rate!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Have you heard the password?&rdquo; asked one Guards&rsquo; officer of another. &ldquo;The
  day before yesterday it was ; yesterday,
   One day our Emperor gives it and next day
  Napoleon. Tomorrow our Emperor will send a St. George&rsquo;s Cross to the
  bravest of the French Guards. It has to be done. He must respond in kind.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Borís, too, with his friend Zhilínski, came to see the Preobrazhénsk
  banquet. On his way back, he noticed Rostóv standing by the corner of a
  house.
<br />
  &ldquo;Rostóv! How d&rsquo;you do? We missed one another,&rdquo; he said, and could not
  refrain from asking what was the matter, so strangely dismal and troubled
  was Rostóv&rsquo;s face.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nothing, nothing,&rdquo; replied Rostóv.
<br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll call round?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I will.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Rostóv stood at that corner for a long time, watching the feast from a
  distance. In his mind, a painful process was going on which he could not
  bring to a conclusion. Terrible doubts rose in his soul. Now he remembered
  Denísov with his changed expression, his submission, and the whole
  hospital, with arms and legs torn off and its dirt and disease. So vividly
  did he recall that hospital stench of dead flesh that he looked round to
  see where the smell came from. Next he thought of that self-satisfied
  Bonaparte, with his small white hand, who was now an Emperor, liked and
  respected by Alexander. Then why those severed arms and legs and those
  dead men?... Then again he thought of Lázarev rewarded and Denísov
  punished and unpardoned. He caught himself harboring such strange thoughts
  that he was frightened.
<br />
  The smell of the food the Preobrazhénskis were eating and a sense of
  hunger recalled him from these reflections; he had to get something to eat
  before going away. He went to a hotel he had noticed that morning. There
  he found so many people, among them officers who, like himself, had come
  in civilian clothes, that he had difficulty in getting a dinner. Two
  officers of his own division joined him. The conversation naturally turned
  on the peace. The officers, his comrades, like most of the army, were
  dissatisfied with the peace concluded after the battle of Friedland. They
  said that had we held out a little longer Napoleon would have been done
  for, as his troops had neither provisions nor ammunition. Nicholas ate and
  drank (chiefly the latter) in silence. He finished a couple of bottles of
  wine by himself. The process in his mind went on tormenting him without
  reaching a conclusion. He feared to give way to his thoughts, yet could
  not get rid of them. Suddenly, on one of the officers&rsquo; saying that it was
  humiliating to look at the French, Rostóv began shouting with uncalled-for
  wrath, and therefore much to the surprise of the officers:
<br />
  &ldquo;How can you judge what&rsquo;s best?&rdquo; he cried, the blood suddenly rushing to
  his face. &ldquo;How can you judge the Emperor&rsquo;s actions? What right have we to
  argue? We cannot comprehend either the Emperor&rsquo;s aims or his actions!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But I never said a word about the Emperor!&rdquo; said the officer, justifying
  himself, and unable to understand Rostóv&rsquo;s outburst, except on the
  supposition that he was drunk.
<br />
  But Rostóv did not listen to him.
<br />
  &ldquo;We are not diplomatic officials, we are soldiers and nothing more,&rdquo; he
  went on. &ldquo;If we are ordered to die, we must die. If we&rsquo;re punished, it
  means that we have deserved it, it&rsquo;s not for us to judge. If the Emperor
  pleases to recognize Bonaparte as Emperor and to conclude an alliance with
  him, it means that that is the right thing to do. If once we begin judging
  and arguing about everything, nothing sacred will be left! That way we
  shall be saying there is no God&mdash;nothing!&rdquo; shouted Nicholas, banging
  the table&mdash;very little to the point as it seemed to his listeners,
  but quite relevantly to the course of his own thoughts.
<br />
  &ldquo;Our business is to do our duty, to fight and not to think! That&rsquo;s
  all....&rdquo; said he.
<br />
  &ldquo;And to drink,&rdquo; said one of the officers, not wishing to quarrel.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, and to drink,&rdquo; assented Nicholas. &ldquo;Hullo there! Another bottle!&rdquo; he
  shouted.
<br />
  In 1808 the Emperor Alexander went to Erfurt for a fresh interview with
  the Emperor Napoleon, and in the upper circles of Petersburg there was
  much talk of the grandeur of this important meeting.

  CHAPTER XXII


  In 1809 the intimacy between &ldquo;the world&rsquo;s two arbiters,&rdquo; as Napoleon and
  Alexander were called, was such that when Napoleon declared war on Austria
  a Russian corps crossed the frontier to co-operate with our old enemy
  Bonaparte against our old ally the Emperor of Austria, and in court
  circles the possibility of marriage between Napoleon and one of
  Alexander&rsquo;s sisters was spoken of. But besides considerations of foreign
  policy, the attention of Russian society was at that time keenly directed
  on the internal changes that were being undertaken in all the departments
  of government.
<br />
  Life meanwhile&mdash;real life, with its essential interests of health and
  sickness, toil and rest, and its intellectual interests in thought,
  science, poetry, music, love, friendship, hatred, and passions&mdash;went
  on as usual, independently of and apart from political friendship or
  enmity with Napoleon Bonaparte and from all the schemes of reconstruction.

  BOOK SIX: 1808 - 10

  CHAPTER I


  Prince Andrew had spent two years continuously in the country.
<br />
  All the plans Pierre had attempted on his estates&mdash;and constantly
  changing from one thing to another had never accomplished&mdash;were
  carried out by Prince Andrew without display and without perceptible
  difficulty.
<br />
  He had in the highest degree a practical tenacity which Pierre lacked, and
  without fuss or strain on his part this set things going.
<br />
  On one of his estates the three hundred serfs were liberated and became
  free agricultural laborers&mdash;this being one of the first examples of
  the kind in Russia. On other estates the serfs&rsquo; compulsory labor was
  commuted for a quitrent. A trained midwife was engaged for Boguchárovo at
  his expense, and a priest was paid to teach reading and writing to the
  children of the peasants and household serfs.
<br />
  Prince Andrew spent half his time at Bald Hills with his father and his
  son, who was still in the care of nurses. The other half he spent in
  &ldquo;Boguchárovo Cloister,&rdquo; as his father called Prince Andrew&rsquo;s estate.
  Despite the indifference to the affairs of the world he had expressed to
  Pierre, he diligently followed all that went on, received many books, and
  to his surprise noticed that when he or his father had visitors from
  Petersburg, the very vortex of life, these people lagged behind himself&mdash;who
  never left the country&mdash;in knowledge of what was happening in home
  and foreign affairs.
<br />
  Besides being occupied with his estates and reading a great variety of
  books, Prince Andrew was at this time busy with a critical survey of our
  last two unfortunate campaigns, and with drawing up a proposal for a
  reform of the army rules and regulations.
<br />
  In the spring of 1809 he went to visit the Ryazán estates which had been
  inherited by his son, whose guardian he was.
<br />
  Warmed by the spring sunshine he sat in the  looking at the new
  grass, the first leaves on the birches, and the first puffs of white
  spring clouds floating across the clear blue sky. He was not thinking of
  anything, but looked absent-mindedly and cheerfully from side to side.
<br />
  They crossed the ferry where he had talked with Pierre the year before.
  They went through the muddy village, past threshing floors and green
  fields of winter rye, downhill where snow still lodged near the bridge,
  uphill where the clay had been liquefied by the rain, past strips of
  stubble land and bushes touched with green here and there, and into a
  birch forest growing on both sides of the road. In the forest it was
  almost hot, no wind could be felt. The birches with their sticky green
  leaves were motionless, and lilac-colored flowers and the first blades of
  green grass were pushing up and lifting last year&rsquo;s leaves. The coarse
  evergreen color of the small fir trees scattered here and there among the
  birches was an unpleasant reminder of winter. On entering the forest the
  horses began to snort and sweated visibly.
<br />
  Peter the footman made some remark to the coachman; the latter assented.
  But apparently the coachman&rsquo;s sympathy was not enough for Peter, and he
  turned on the box toward his master.
<br />
  &ldquo;How pleasant it is, your excellency!&rdquo; he said with a respectful smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;What?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s pleasant, your excellency!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What is he talking about?&rdquo; thought Prince Andrew. &ldquo;Oh, the spring,
  I suppose,&rdquo; he thought as he turned round. &ldquo;Yes, really everything is
  green already.... How early! The birches and cherry and alders too are
  coming out.... But the oaks show no sign yet. Ah, here is one oak!&rdquo;
 <br />
  At the edge of the road stood an oak. Probably ten times the age of
  the birches that formed the forest, it was ten times as thick and twice
  as tall as they. It was an enormous tree, its girth twice as great as a
  man could embrace, and evidently long ago some of its branches had been
  broken off and its bark scarred. With its huge ungainly limbs sprawling
  unsymmetrically, and its gnarled hands and fingers, it stood an aged,
  stern, and scornful monster among the smiling birch trees. Only the
  dead-looking evergreen firs dotted about in the forest, and this oak, refused
  to yield to the charm of spring or notice either the spring or the sunshine.
 <br />
  &ldquo;Spring, love, happiness!&rdquo; this oak seemed to say. &ldquo;Are you not weary of
  that stupid, meaningless, constantly repeated fraud? Always the same and
  always a fraud? There is no spring, no sun, no happiness! Look at those
  cramped dead firs, ever the same, and at me too, sticking out my broken
  and barked fingers just where they have grown, whether from my back or my
  sides: as they have grown so I stand, and I do not believe in your hopes
  and your lies.&rdquo;
 <br />
  As he passed through the forest Prince Andrew turned several times to look
  at that oak, as if expecting something from it. Under the oak, too, were
  flowers and grass, but it stood among them scowling, rigid, misshapen, and
  grim as ever.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, the oak is right, a thousand times right,&rdquo; thought Prince Andrew.
  &ldquo;Let others&mdash;the young&mdash;yield afresh to that fraud, but we know
  life, our life is finished!&rdquo;
 <br />
  A whole sequence of new thoughts, hopeless but mournfully pleasant, rose
  in his soul in connection with that tree. During this journey he, as it
  were, considered his life afresh and arrived at his old conclusion,
  restful in its hopelessness: that it was not for him to begin anything
  anew&mdash;but that he must live out his life, content to do no harm, and
  not disturbing himself or desiring anything.

  CHAPTER II


  Prince Andrew had to see the Marshal of the Nobility for the district in
  connection with the affairs of the Ryazán estate of which he was trustee.
  This Marshal was Count Ilyá Rostóv, and in the middle of May Prince Andrew
  went to visit him.
<br />
  It was now hot spring weather. The whole forest was already clothed in
  green. It was dusty and so hot that on passing near water one longed to
  bathe.
<br />
  Prince Andrew, depressed and preoccupied with the business about which he
  had to speak to the Marshal, was driving up the avenue in the grounds of
  the Rostóvs&rsquo; house at Otrádnoe. He heard merry girlish cries behind some
  trees on the right and saw a group of girls running to cross the path of
  his . Ahead of the rest and nearer to him ran a dark-haired,
  remarkably slim, pretty girl in a yellow chintz dress, with a white
  handkerchief on her head from under which loose locks of hair escaped. The
  girl was shouting something but, seeing that he was a stranger, ran back
  laughing without looking at him.
<br />
  Suddenly, he did not know why, he felt a pang. The day was so beautiful,
  the sun so bright, everything around so gay, but that slim pretty girl did
  not know, or wish to know, of his existence and was contented and cheerful
  in her own separate&mdash;probably foolish&mdash;but bright and happy
  life. &ldquo;What is she so glad about? What is she thinking of? Not of the
  military regulations or of the arrangement of the Ryazán serfs&rsquo; quitrents.
  Of what is she thinking? Why is she so happy?&rdquo; Prince Andrew asked himself
  with instinctive curiosity.
<br />
  In 1809 Count Ilyá Rostóv was living at Otrádnoe just as he had done in
  former years, that is, entertaining almost the whole province with hunts,
  theatricals, dinners, and music. He was glad to see Prince Andrew, as he
  was to see any new visitor, and insisted on his staying the night.
<br />
  During the dull day, in the course of which he was entertained by his
  elderly hosts and by the more important of the visitors (the old count&rsquo;s
  house was crowded on account of an approaching name day), Prince Andrew
  repeatedly glanced at Natásha, gay and laughing among the younger members
  of the company, and asked himself each time, &ldquo;What is she thinking about?
  Why is she so glad?&rdquo;
 <br />
  That night, alone in new surroundings, he was long unable to sleep. He
  read awhile and then put out his candle, but relit it. It was hot in the
  room, the inside shutters of which were closed. He was cross with the
  stupid old man (as he called Rostóv), who had made him stay by assuring
  him that some necessary documents had not yet arrived from town, and he
  was vexed with himself for having stayed.
<br />
  He got up and went to the window to open it. As soon as he opened the
  shutters the moonlight, as if it had long been watching for this, burst
  into the room. He opened the casement. The night was fresh, bright, and
  very still. Just before the window was a row of pollard trees, looking
  black on one side and with a silvery light on the other. Beneath the trees
  grew some kind of lush, wet, bushy vegetation with silver-lit leaves and
  stems here and there. Farther back beyond the dark trees a roof glittered
  with dew, to the right was a leafy tree with brilliantly white trunk and
  branches, and above it shone the moon, nearly at its full, in a pale,
  almost starless, spring sky. Prince Andrew leaned his elbows on the window
  ledge and his eyes rested on that sky.
<br />
  His room was on the first floor. Those in the rooms above were also awake.
  He heard female voices overhead.
<br />
  &ldquo;Just once more,&rdquo; said a girlish voice above him which Prince Andrew
  recognized at once.
<br />
  &ldquo;But when are you coming to bed?&rdquo; replied another voice.
<br />
  &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t, I can&rsquo;t sleep, what&rsquo;s the use? Come now for the last time.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Two girlish voices sang a musical passage&mdash;the end of some song.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, how lovely! Now go to sleep, and there&rsquo;s an end of it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You go to sleep, but I can&rsquo;t,&rdquo; said the first voice, coming nearer to the
  window. She was evidently leaning right out, for the rustle of her dress
  and even her breathing could be heard. Everything was stone-still, like
  the moon and its light and the shadows. Prince Andrew, too, dared not
  stir, for fear of betraying his unintentional presence.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sónya! Sónya!&rdquo; he again heard the first speaker. &ldquo;Oh, how can you sleep?
  Only look how glorious it is! Ah, how glorious! Do wake up, Sónya!&rdquo; she
  said almost with tears in her voice. &ldquo;There never, never was such a lovely
  night before!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sónya made some reluctant reply.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do just come and see what a moon!... Oh, how lovely! Come here....
  Darling, sweetheart, come here! There, you see? I feel like sitting down
  on my heels, putting my arms round my knees like this, straining tight, as
  tight as possible, and flying away! Like this....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Take care, you&rsquo;ll fall out.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He heard the sound of a scuffle and Sónya&rsquo;s disapproving voice: &ldquo;It&rsquo;s past
  one o&rsquo;clock.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, you only spoil things for me. All right, go, go!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Again all was silent, but Prince Andrew knew she was still sitting there.
  From time to time he heard a soft rustle and at times a sigh.
<br />
  &ldquo;O God, O God! What does it mean?&rdquo; she suddenly exclaimed. &ldquo;To bed then,
  if it must be!&rdquo; and she slammed the casement.
<br />
  &ldquo;For her I might as well not exist!&rdquo; thought Prince Andrew while he
  listened to her voice, for some reason expecting yet fearing that she
  might say something about him. &ldquo;There she is again! As if it were on
  purpose,&rdquo; thought he.
<br />
  In his soul there suddenly arose such an unexpected turmoil of youthful
  thoughts and hopes, contrary to the whole tenor of his life, that unable
  to explain his condition to himself he lay down and fell asleep at once.

  CHAPTER III


  Next morning, having taken leave of no one but the count, and not waiting
  for the ladies to appear, Prince Andrew set off for home.
<br />
  It was already the beginning of June when on his return journey he drove
  into the birch forest where the gnarled old oak had made so strange and
  memorable an impression on him. In the forest the harness bells sounded
  yet more muffled than they had done six weeks before, for now all was
  thick, shady, and dense, and the young firs dotted about in the forest did
  not jar on the general beauty but, lending themselves to the mood around,
  were delicately green with fluffy young shoots.
<br />
  The whole day had been hot. Somewhere a storm was gathering, but only a
  small cloud had scattered some raindrops lightly, sprinkling the road and
  the sappy leaves. The left side of the forest was dark in the shade, the
  right side glittered in the sunlight, wet and shiny and scarcely swayed by
  the breeze. Everything was in blossom, the nightingales trilled, and their
  voices reverberated now near, now far away.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, here in this forest was that oak with which I agreed,&rdquo; thought
  Prince Andrew. &ldquo;But where is it?&rdquo; he again wondered, gazing at the left
  side of the road, and without recognizing it he looked with admiration at
  the very oak he sought. The old oak, quite transfigured, spreading out a
  canopy of sappy dark-green foliage, stood rapt and slightly trembling in
  the rays of the evening sun. Neither gnarled fingers nor old scars nor old
  doubts and sorrows were any of them in evidence now. Through the hard
  century-old bark, even where there were no twigs, leaves had sprouted such
  as one could hardly believe the old veteran could have produced.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, it is the same oak,&rdquo; thought Prince Andrew, and all at once he was
  seized by an unreasoning springtime feeling of joy and renewal. All the
  best moments of his life suddenly rose to his memory. Austerlitz with the
  lofty heavens, his wife&rsquo;s dead reproachful face, Pierre at the ferry, that
  girl thrilled by the beauty of the night, and that night itself and the
  moon, and... all this rushed suddenly to his mind.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, life is not over at thirty-one!&rdquo; Prince Andrew suddenly decided
  finally and decisively. &ldquo;It is not enough for me to know what I have in me&mdash;everyone
  must know it: Pierre, and that young girl who wanted to fly away into the
  sky, everyone must know me, so that my life may not be lived for myself
  alone while others live so apart from it, but so that it may be reflected
  in them all, and they and I may live in harmony!&rdquo;
 <br />
  <br />
<br />
  On reaching home Prince Andrew decided to go to Petersburg that autumn and
  found all sorts of reasons for this decision. A whole series of sensible
  and logical considerations showing it to be essential for him to go to
  Petersburg, and even to re-enter the service, kept springing up in his
  mind. He could not now understand how he could ever even have doubted the
  necessity of taking an active share in life, just as a month before he had
  not understood how the idea of leaving the quiet country could ever enter
  his head. It now seemed clear to him that all his experience of life must
  be senselessly wasted unless he applied it to some kind of work and again
  played an active part in life. He did not even remember how formerly, on
  the strength of similar wretched logical arguments, it had seemed obvious
  that he would be degrading himself if he now, after the lessons he had had
  in life, allowed himself to believe in the possibility of being useful and
  in the possibility of happiness or love. Now reason suggested quite the
  opposite. After that journey to Ryazán he found the country dull; his
  former pursuits no longer interested him, and often when sitting alone in
  his study he got up, went to the mirror, and gazed a long time at his own
  face. Then he would turn away to the portrait of his dead Lise, who with
  hair curled  looked tenderly and gaily at him out of the gilt
  frame. She did not now say those former terrible words to him, but looked
  simply, merrily, and inquisitively at him. And Prince Andrew, crossing his
  arms behind him, long paced the room, now frowning, now smiling, as he
  reflected on those irrational, inexpressible thoughts, secret as a crime,
  which altered his whole life and were connected with Pierre, with fame,
  with the girl at the window, the oak, and woman&rsquo;s beauty and love. And if
  anyone came into his room at such moments he was particularly cold, stern,
  and above all unpleasantly logical.
<br />
  &ldquo;My dear,&rdquo; Princess Mary entering at such a moment would say, &ldquo;little
  Nicholas can&rsquo;t go out today, it&rsquo;s very cold.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;If it were hot,&rdquo; Prince Andrew would reply at such times very dryly to
  his sister, &ldquo;he could go out in his smock, but as it is cold he must wear
  warm clothes, which were designed for that purpose. That is what follows
  from the fact that it is cold; and not that a child who needs fresh air
  should remain at home,&rdquo; he would add with extreme logic, as if punishing
  someone for those secret illogical emotions that stirred within him.
<br />
  At such moments Princess Mary would think how intellectual work dries men
  up.

  CHAPTER IV


  Prince Andrew arrived in Petersburg in August, 1809. It was the time when
  the youthful Speránski was at the zenith of his fame and his reforms were
  being pushed forward with the greatest energy. That same August the
  Emperor was thrown from his , injured his leg, and remained three
  weeks at Peterhof, receiving Speránski every day and no one else. At that
  time the two famous decrees were being prepared that so agitated society&mdash;abolishing
  court ranks and introducing examinations to qualify for the grades of
  Collegiate Assessor and State Councilor&mdash;and not merely these but a
  whole state constitution, intended to change the existing order of
  government in Russia: legal, administrative, and financial, from the
  Council of State down to the district tribunals. Now those vague liberal
  dreams with which the Emperor Alexander had ascended the throne, and which
  he had tried to put into effect with the aid of his associates,
  Czartorýski, Novosíltsev, Kochubéy, and Strógonov&mdash;whom he himself in
  jest had called his &mdash;were taking shape and
  being realized.
<br />
  Now all these men were replaced by Speránski on the civil side, and
  Arakchéev on the military. Soon after his arrival Prince Andrew, as a
  gentleman of the chamber, presented himself at court and at a levee. The
  Emperor, though he met him twice, did not favor him with a single word. It
  had always seemed to Prince Andrew before that he was antipathetic to the
  Emperor and that the latter disliked his face and personality generally,
  and in the cold, repellent glance the Emperor gave him, he now found
  further confirmation of this surmise. The courtiers explained the
  Emperor&rsquo;s neglect of him by His Majesty&rsquo;s displeasure at Bolkónski&rsquo;s not
  having served since 1805.
<br />
  &ldquo;I know myself that one cannot help one&rsquo;s sympathies and antipathies,&rdquo;
   thought Prince Andrew, &ldquo;so it will not do to present my proposal for the
  reform of the army regulations to the Emperor personally, but the project
  will speak for itself.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He mentioned what he had written to an old field marshal, a friend of his
  father&rsquo;s. The field marshal made an appointment to see him, received him
  graciously, and promised to inform the Emperor. A few days later Prince
  Andrew received notice that he was to go to see the Minister of War, Count
  Arakchéev.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  On the appointed day Prince Andrew entered Count Arakchéev&rsquo;s waiting room
  at nine in the morning.
<br />
  He did not know Arakchéev personally, had never seen him, and all he had
  heard of him inspired him with but little respect for the man.
<br />
  &ldquo;He is Minister of War, a man trusted by the Emperor, and I need not
  concern myself about his personal qualities: he has been commissioned to
  consider my project, so he alone can get it adopted,&rdquo; thought Prince
  Andrew as he waited among a number of important and unimportant people in
  Count Arakchéev&rsquo;s waiting room.
<br />
  During his service, chiefly as an adjutant, Prince Andrew had seen the
  anterooms of many important men, and the different types of such rooms
  were well known to him. Count Arakchéev&rsquo;s anteroom had quite a special
  character. The faces of the unimportant people awaiting their turn for an
  audience showed embarrassment and servility; the faces of those of higher
  rank expressed a common feeling of awkwardness, covered by a mask of
  unconcern and ridicule of themselves, their situation, and the person for
  whom they were waiting. Some walked thoughtfully up and down, others
  whispered and laughed. Prince Andrew heard the nickname &ldquo;Síla Andréevich&rdquo;
   and the words, &ldquo; will give it to us hot,&rdquo; in reference to Count
  Arakchéev. One general (an important personage), evidently feeling
  offended at having to wait so long, sat crossing and uncrossing his legs
  and smiling contemptuously to himself.
<br />
  But the moment the door opened one feeling alone appeared on all faces&mdash;that
  of fear. Prince Andrew for the second time asked the adjutant on duty to
  take in his name, but received an ironical look and was told that his turn
  would come in due course. After some others had been shown in and out of
  the minister&rsquo;s room by the adjutant on duty, an officer who struck Prince
  Andrew by his humiliated and frightened air was admitted at that terrible
  door. This officer&rsquo;s audience lasted a long time. Then suddenly the
  grating sound of a harsh voice was heard from the other side of the door,
  and the officer&mdash;with pale face and trembling lips&mdash;came out and
  passed through the waiting room, clutching his head.
<br />
  After this Prince Andrew was conducted to the door and the officer on duty
  said in a whisper, &ldquo;To the right, at the window.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Andrew entered a plain tidy room and saw at the table a man of
  forty with a long waist, a long closely cropped head, deep wrinkles,
  scowling brows above dull greenish-hazel eyes and an overhanging red nose.
  Arakchéev turned his head toward him without looking at him.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is your petition?&rdquo; asked Arakchéev.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am not petitioning, your excellency,&rdquo; returned Prince Andrew quietly.
<br />
  Arakchéev&rsquo;s eyes turned toward him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sit down,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Prince Bolkónski?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am not petitioning about anything. His Majesty the Emperor has deigned
  to send your excellency a project submitted by me...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You see, my dear sir, I have read your project,&rdquo; interrupted Arakchéev,
  uttering only the first words amiably and then&mdash;again without looking
  at Prince Andrew&mdash;relapsing gradually into a tone of grumbling
  contempt. &ldquo;You are proposing new military laws? There are many laws but no
  one to carry out the old ones. Nowadays everybody designs laws, it is
  easier writing than doing.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I came at His Majesty the Emperor&rsquo;s wish to learn from your excellency
  how you propose to deal with the memorandum I have presented,&rdquo; said Prince
  Andrew politely.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have endorsed a resolution on your memorandum and sent it to the
  committee. I do not approve of it,&rdquo; said Arakchéev, rising and taking a
  paper from his writing table. &ldquo;Here!&rdquo; and he handed it to Prince Andrew.
<br />
  Across the paper was scrawled in pencil, without capital letters,
  misspelled, and without punctuation: &ldquo;Unsoundly constructed because
  resembles an imitation of the French military code and from the Articles
  of War needlessly deviating.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;To what committee has the memorandum been referred?&rdquo; inquired Prince
  Andrew.
<br />
  &ldquo;To the Committee on Army Regulations, and I have recommended that your
  honor should be appointed a member, but without a salary.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Andrew smiled.
<br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want one.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A member without salary,&rdquo; repeated Arakchéev. &ldquo;I have the honor... Eh!
  Call the next one! Who else is there?&rdquo; he shouted, bowing to Prince
  Andrew.

  CHAPTER V


  While waiting for the announcement of his appointment to the committee
  Prince Andrew looked up his former acquaintances, particularly those he
  knew to be in power and whose aid he might need. In Petersburg he now
  experienced the same feeling he had had on the eve of a battle, when
  troubled by anxious curiosity and irresistibly attracted to the ruling
  circles where the future, on which the fate of millions depended, was
  being shaped. From the irritation of the older men, the curiosity of the
  uninitiated, the reserve of the initiated, the hurry and preoccupation of
  everyone, and the innumerable committees and commissions of whose
  existence he learned every day, he felt that now, in 1809, here in
  Petersburg a vast civil conflict was in preparation, the commander in
  chief of which was a mysterious person he did not know, but who was
  supposed to be a man of genius&mdash;Speránski. And this movement of
  reconstruction of which Prince Andrew had a vague idea, and Speránski its
  chief promoter, began to interest him so keenly that the question of the
  army regulations quickly receded to a secondary place in his
  consciousness.
<br />
  Prince Andrew was most favorably placed to secure good reception in the
  highest and most diverse Petersburg circles of the day. The reforming
  party cordially welcomed and courted him, in the first place because he
  was reputed to be clever and very well read, and secondly because by
  liberating his serfs he had obtained the reputation of being a liberal.
  The party of the old and dissatisfied, who censured the innovations,
  turned to him expecting his sympathy in their disapproval of the reforms,
  simply because he was the son of his father. The feminine society world
  welcomed him gladly, because he was rich, distinguished, a good match, and
  almost a newcomer, with a halo of romance on account of his supposed death
  and the tragic loss of his wife. Besides this the general opinion of all
  who had known him previously was that he had greatly improved during these
  last five years, having softened and grown more manly, lost his former
  affectation, pride, and contemptuous irony, and acquired the serenity that
  comes with years. People talked about him, were interested in him, and
  wanted to meet him.
<br />
  The day after his interview with Count Arakchéev, Prince Andrew spent the
  evening at Count Kochubéy&rsquo;s. He told the count of his interview with  (Kochubéy spoke of Arakchéev by that nickname with the same
  vague irony Prince Andrew had noticed in the Minister of War&rsquo;s anteroom).
<br />
  &ldquo;, even in this case you can&rsquo;t do without Michael Mikháylovich
  Speránski. He manages everything. I&rsquo;ll speak to him. He has promised to
  come this evening.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What has Speránski to do with the army regulations?&rdquo; asked Prince Andrew.
<br />
  Kochubéy shook his head smilingly, as if surprised at Bolkónski&rsquo;s
  simplicity.
<br />
  &ldquo;We were talking to him about you a few days ago,&rdquo; Kochubéy continued,
  &ldquo;and about your freed plowmen.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, is it you, Prince, who have freed your serfs?&rdquo; said an old man of
  Catherine&rsquo;s day, turning contemptuously toward Bolkónski.
<br />
  &ldquo;It was a small estate that brought in no profit,&rdquo; replied Prince Andrew,
  trying to extenuate his action so as not to irritate the old man
  uselessly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Afraid of being late...&rdquo; said the old man, looking at Kochubéy.
<br />
  &ldquo;There&rsquo;s one thing I don&rsquo;t understand,&rdquo; he continued. &ldquo;Who will plow the
  land if they are set free? It is easy to write laws, but difficult to
  rule.... Just the same as now&mdash;I ask you, Count&mdash;who will be
  heads of the departments when everybody has to pass examinations?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Those who pass the examinations, I suppose,&rdquo; replied Kochubéy, crossing
  his legs and glancing round.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, I have Pryánichnikov serving under me, a splendid man, a priceless
  man, but he&rsquo;s sixty. Is he to go up for examination?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, that&rsquo;s a difficulty, as education is not at all general, but...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Count Kochubéy did not finish. He rose, took Prince Andrew by the arm, and
  went to meet a tall, bald, fair man of about forty with a large open
  forehead and a long face of unusual and peculiar whiteness, who was just
  entering. The newcomer wore a blue swallow-tail coat with a cross
  suspended from his neck and a star on his left breast. It was Speránski.
  Prince Andrew recognized him at once, and felt a throb within him, as
  happens at critical moments of life. Whether it was from respect, envy, or
  anticipation, he did not know. Speránski&rsquo;s whole figure was of a peculiar
  type that made him easily recognizable. In the society in which Prince
  Andrew lived he had never seen anyone who together with awkward and clumsy
  gestures possessed such calmness and self-assurance; he had never seen so
  resolute yet gentle an expression as that in those half-closed, rather
  humid eyes, or so firm a smile that expressed nothing; nor had he heard
  such a refined, smooth, soft voice; above all he had never seen such
  delicate whiteness of face or hands&mdash;hands which were broad, but very
  plump, soft, and white. Such whiteness and softness Prince Andrew had only
  seen on the faces of soldiers who had been long in hospital. This was
  Speránski, Secretary of State, reporter to the Emperor and his companion
  at Erfurt, where he had more than once met and talked with Napoleon.
<br />
  Speránski did not shift his eyes from one face to another as people
  involuntarily do on entering a large company and was in no hurry to speak.
  He spoke slowly, with assurance that he would be listened to, and he
  looked only at the person with whom he was conversing.
<br />
  Prince Andrew followed Speránski&rsquo;s every word and movement with particular
  attention. As happens to some people, especially to men who judge those
  near to them severely, he always on meeting anyone new&mdash;especially
  anyone whom, like Speránski, he knew by reputation&mdash;expected to
  discover in him the perfection of human qualities.
<br />
  Speránski told Kochubéy he was sorry he had been unable to come sooner as
  he had been detained at the palace. He did not say that the Emperor had
  kept him, and Prince Andrew noticed this affectation of modesty. When
  Kochubéy introduced Prince Andrew, Speránski slowly turned his eyes to
  Bolkónski with his customary smile and looked at him in silence.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am very glad to make your acquaintance. I had heard of you, as everyone
  has,&rdquo; he said after a pause.
<br />
  Kochubéy said a few words about the reception Arakchéev had given
  Bolkónski. Speránski smiled more markedly.
<br />
  &ldquo;The chairman of the Committee on Army Regulations is my good friend
  Monsieur Magnítski,&rdquo; he said, fully articulating every word and syllable,
  &ldquo;and if you like I can put you in touch with him.&rdquo; He paused at the full
  stop. &ldquo;I hope you will find him sympathetic and ready to co-operate in
  promoting all that is reasonable.&rdquo;
 <br />
  A circle soon formed round Speránski, and the old man who had talked about
  his subordinate Pryánichnikov addressed a question to him.
<br />
  Prince Andrew without joining in the conversation watched every movement
  of Speránski&rsquo;s: this man, not long since an insignificant divinity
  student, who now, Bolkónski thought, held in his hands&mdash;those plump
  white hands&mdash;the fate of Russia. Prince Andrew was struck by the
  extraordinarily disdainful composure with which Speránski answered the old
  man. He appeared to address condescending words to him from an
  immeasurable height. When the old man began to speak too loud, Speránski
  smiled and said he could not judge of the advantage or disadvantage of
  what pleased the sovereign.
<br />
  Having talked for a little while in the general circle, Speránski rose and
  coming up to Prince Andrew took him along to the other end of the room. It
  was clear that he thought it necessary to interest himself in Bolkónski.
<br />
  &ldquo;I had no chance to talk with you, Prince, during the animated
  conversation in which that venerable gentleman involved me,&rdquo; he said with
  a mildly contemptuous smile, as if intimating by that smile that he and
  Prince Andrew understood the insignificance of the people with whom he had
  just been talking. This flattered Prince Andrew. &ldquo;I have known of you for
  a long time: first from your action with regard to your serfs, a first
  example, of which it is very desirable that there should be more
  imitators; and secondly because you are one of those gentlemen of the
  chamber who have not considered themselves offended by the new decree
  concerning the ranks allotted to courtiers, which is causing so much
  gossip and tittle-tattle.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew, &ldquo;my father did not wish me to take advantage of
  the privilege. I began the service from the lower grade.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Your father, a man of the last century, evidently stands above our
  contemporaries who so condemn this measure which merely re-establishes
  natural justice.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I think, however, that these condemnations have some ground,&rdquo; returned
  Prince Andrew, trying to resist Speránski&rsquo;s influence, of which he began
  to be conscious. He did not like to agree with him in everything and felt
  a wish to contradict. Though he usually spoke easily and well, he felt a
  difficulty in expressing himself now while talking with Speránski. He was
  too much absorbed in observing the famous man&rsquo;s personality.
<br />
  &ldquo;Grounds of personal ambition maybe,&rdquo; Speránski put in quietly.
<br />
  &ldquo;And of state interest to some extent,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew.
<br />
  &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo; asked Speránski quietly, lowering his eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am an admirer of Montesquieu,&rdquo; replied Prince Andrew, &ldquo;and his idea
  that &rdquo; *
<br />
 * &ldquo;The principle of monarchies is honor seems to me
 incontestable. Certain rights and privileges for the
 aristocracy appear to me a means of maintaining that
 sentiment.&rdquo;

The smile vanished from Speránski’s white face, which was much improved by the change. Probably Prince Andrew’s thought interested him.

   * he began,
  pronouncing French with evident difficulty, and speaking even slower than
  in Russian but quite calmly.
<br />
* &ldquo;If you regard the question from that point of view.&rdquo;

Speránski went on to say that honor, , cannot be upheld by privileges harmful to the service; that honor, , is either a negative concept of not doing what is blameworthy or it is a source of emulation in pursuit of commendation and rewards, which recognize it. His arguments were concise, simple, and clear.
“An institution upholding honor, the source of emulation, is one similar to the of the great Emperor Napoleon, not harmful but helpful to the success of the service, but not a class or court privilege.”
“I do not dispute that, but it cannot be denied that court privileges have attained the same end,” returned Prince Andrew. “Every courtier considers himself bound to maintain his position worthily.”
“Yet you do not care to avail yourself of the privilege, Prince,” said Speránski, indicating by a smile that he wished to finish amiably an argument which was embarrassing for his companion. “If you will do me the honor of calling on me on Wednesday,” he added, “I will, after talking with Magnítski, let you know what may interest you, and shall also have the pleasure of a more detailed chat with you.”
Closing his eyes, he bowed , without taking leave, and trying to attract as little attention as possible, he left the room.

  CHAPTER VI


  During the first weeks of his stay in Petersburg Prince Andrew felt the
  whole trend of thought he had formed during his life of seclusion quite
  overshadowed by the trifling cares that engrossed him in that city.
<br />
  On returning home in the evening he would jot down in his notebook four or
  five necessary calls or appointments for certain hours. The mechanism of
  life, the arrangement of the day so as to be in time everywhere, absorbed
  the greater part of his vital energy. He did nothing, did not even think
  or find time to think, but only talked, and talked successfully, of what
  he had thought while in the country.
<br />
  He sometimes noticed with dissatisfaction that he repeated the same remark
  on the same day in different circles. But he was so busy for whole days
  together that he had no time to notice that he was thinking of nothing.
<br />
  As he had done on their first meeting at Kochubéy&rsquo;s, Speránski produced a
  strong impression on Prince Andrew on the Wednesday, when he received him
  tête-à-tête at his own house and talked to him long and confidentially.
<br />
  To Bolkónski so many people appeared contemptible and insignificant
  creatures, and he so longed to find in someone the living ideal of that
  perfection toward which he strove, that he readily believed that in
  Speránski he had found this ideal of a perfectly rational and virtuous
  man. Had Speránski sprung from the same class as himself and possessed the
  same breeding and traditions, Bolkónski would soon have discovered his
  weak, human, unheroic sides; but as it was, Speránski&rsquo;s strange and
  logical turn of mind inspired him with respect all the more because he did
  not quite understand him. Moreover, Speránski, either because he
  appreciated the other&rsquo;s capacity or because he considered it necessary to
  win him to his side, showed off his dispassionate calm reasonableness
  before Prince Andrew and flattered him with that subtle flattery which
  goes hand in hand with self-assurance and consists in a tacit assumption
  that one&rsquo;s companion is the only man besides oneself capable of
  understanding the folly of the rest of mankind and the reasonableness and
  profundity of one&rsquo;s own ideas.
<br />
  During their long conversation on Wednesday evening, Speránski more than
  once remarked: &ldquo;We regard everything that is above the common level of
  rooted custom...&rdquo; or, with a smile: &ldquo;But  want the wolves to
  be fed and the sheep to be safe...&rdquo; or: &ldquo; cannot understand
  this...&rdquo; and all in a way that seemed to say: &ldquo;, you and I,
  understand what  are and who  are.&rdquo;
 <br />
  This first long conversation with Speránski only strengthened in Prince
  Andrew the feeling he had experienced toward him at their first meeting.
  He saw in him a remarkable, clear-thinking man of vast intellect who by
  his energy and persistence had attained power, which he was using solely
  for the welfare of Russia. In Prince Andrew&rsquo;s eyes Speránski was the man
  he would himself have wished to be&mdash;one who explained all the facts
  of life reasonably, considered important only what was rational, and was
  capable of applying the standard of reason to everything. Everything
  seemed so simple and clear in Speránski&rsquo;s exposition that Prince Andrew
  involuntarily agreed with him about everything. If he replied and argued,
  it was only because he wished to maintain his independence and not submit
  to Speránski&rsquo;s opinions entirely. Everything was right and everything was
  as it should be: only one thing disconcerted Prince Andrew. This was
  Speránski&rsquo;s cold, mirrorlike look, which did not allow one to penetrate to
  his soul, and his delicate white hands, which Prince Andrew involuntarily
  watched as one does watch the hands of those who possess power. This
  mirrorlike gaze and those delicate hands irritated Prince Andrew, he knew
  not why. He was unpleasantly struck, too, by the excessive contempt for
  others that he observed in Speránski, and by the diversity of lines of
  argument he used to support his opinions. He made use of every kind of
  mental device, except analogy, and passed too boldly, it seemed to Prince
  Andrew, from one to another. Now he would take up the position of a
  practical man and condemn dreamers; now that of a satirist, and laugh
  ironically at his opponents; now grow severely logical, or suddenly rise
  to the realm of metaphysics. (This last resource was one he very
  frequently employed.) He would transfer a question to metaphysical
  heights, pass on to definitions of space, time, and thought, and, having
  deduced the refutation he needed, would again descend to the level of the
  original discussion.
<br />
  In general the trait of Speránski&rsquo;s mentality which struck Prince Andrew
  most was his absolute and unshakable belief in the power and authority of
  reason. It was evident that the thought could never occur to him which to
  Prince Andrew seemed so natural, namely, that it is after all impossible
  to express all one thinks; and that he had never felt the doubt, &ldquo;Is not
  all I think and believe nonsense?&rdquo; And it was just this peculiarity of
  Speránski&rsquo;s mind that particularly attracted Prince Andrew.
<br />
  During the first period of their acquaintance Bolkónski felt a passionate
  admiration for him similar to that which he had once felt for Bonaparte.
  The fact that Speránski was the son of a village priest, and that stupid
  people might meanly despise him on account of his humble origin (as in
  fact many did), caused Prince Andrew to cherish his sentiment for him the
  more, and unconsciously to strengthen it.
<br />
  On that first evening Bolkónski spent with him, having mentioned the
  Commission for the Revision of the Code of Laws, Speránski told him
  sarcastically that the Commission had existed for a hundred and fifty
  years, had cost millions, and had done nothing except that Rosenkampf had
  stuck labels on the corresponding paragraphs of the different codes.
<br />
  &ldquo;And that is all the state has for the millions it has spent,&rdquo; said he.
  &ldquo;We want to give the Senate new juridical powers, but we have no laws.
  That is why it is a sin for men like you, Prince, not to serve in these
  times!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Andrew said that for that work an education in jurisprudence was
  needed which he did not possess.
<br />
  &ldquo;But nobody possesses it, so what would you have? It is a vicious circle
  from which we must break a way out.&rdquo;
 <br />
  A week later Prince Andrew was a member of the Committee on Army
  Regulations and&mdash;what he had not at all expected&mdash;was chairman
  of a section of the committee for the revision of the laws. At Speránski&rsquo;s
  request he took the first part of the Civil Code that was being drawn up
  and, with the aid of the  and the Institutes of Justinian, he
  worked at formulating the section on Personal Rights.

  CHAPTER VII


  Nearly two years before this, in 1808, Pierre on returning to Petersburg
  after visiting his estates had involuntarily found himself in a leading
  position among the Petersburg Freemasons. He arranged dining and funeral
  lodge meetings, enrolled new members, and busied himself uniting various
  lodges and acquiring authentic charters. He gave money for the erection of
  temples and supplemented as far as he could the collection of alms, in
  regard to which the majority of members were stingy and irregular. He
  supported almost singlehanded a poorhouse the order had founded in
  Petersburg.
<br />
  His life meanwhile continued as before, with the same infatuations and
  dissipations. He liked to dine and drink well, and though he considered it
  immoral and humiliating could not resist the temptations of the bachelor
  circles in which he moved.
<br />
  Amid the turmoil of his activities and distractions, however, Pierre at
  the end of a year began to feel that the more firmly he tried to rest upon
  it, the more Masonic ground on which he stood gave way under him. At the
  same time he felt that the deeper the ground sank under him the closer
  bound he involuntarily became to the order. When he had joined the
  Freemasons he had experienced the feeling of one who confidently steps
  onto the smooth surface of a bog. When he put his foot down it sank in. To
  make quite sure of the firmness of the ground, he put his other foot down
  and sank deeper still, became stuck in it, and involuntarily waded
  knee-deep in the bog.
<br />
  Joseph Alexéevich was not in Petersburg&mdash;he had of late stood aside
  from the affairs of the Petersburg lodges, and lived almost entirely in
  Moscow. All the members of the lodges were men Pierre knew in ordinary
  life, and it was difficult for him to regard them merely as Brothers in
  Freemasonry and not as Prince B. or Iván Vasílevich D., whom he knew in
  society mostly as weak and insignificant men. Under the Masonic aprons and
  insignia he saw the uniforms and decorations at which they aimed in
  ordinary life. Often after collecting alms, and reckoning up twenty to
  thirty rubles received for the most part in promises from a dozen members,
  of whom half were as well able to pay as himself, Pierre remembered the
  Masonic vow in which each Brother promised to devote all his belongings to
  his neighbor, and doubts on which he tried not to dwell arose in his soul.
<br />
  He divided the Brothers he knew into four categories. In the first he put
  those who did not take an active part in the affairs of the lodges or in
  human affairs, but were exclusively occupied with the mystical science of
  the order: with questions of the threefold designation of God, the three
  primordial elements&mdash;sulphur, mercury, and salt&mdash;or the meaning
  of the square and all the various figures of the temple of Solomon. Pierre
  respected this class of Brothers to which the elder ones chiefly belonged,
  including, Pierre thought, Joseph Alexéevich himself, but he did not share
  their interests. His heart was not in the mystical aspect of Freemasonry.
<br />
  In the second category Pierre reckoned himself and others like him,
  seeking and vacillating, who had not yet found in Freemasonry a straight
  and comprehensible path, but hoped to do so.
<br />
  In the third category he included those Brothers (the majority) who saw
  nothing in Freemasonry but the external forms and ceremonies, and prized
  the strict performance of these forms without troubling about their
  purport or significance. Such were Willarski and even the Grand Master of
  the principal lodge.
<br />
  Finally, to the fourth category also a great many Brothers belonged,
  particularly those who had lately joined. These according to Pierre&rsquo;s
  observations were men who had no belief in anything, nor desire for
  anything, but joined the Freemasons merely to associate with the wealthy
  young Brothers who were influential through their connections or rank, and
  of whom there were very many in the lodge.
<br />
  Pierre began to feel dissatisfied with what he was doing. Freemasonry, at
  any rate as he saw it here, sometimes seemed to him based merely on
  externals. He did not think of doubting Freemasonry itself, but suspected
  that Russian Masonry had taken a wrong path and deviated from its original
  principles. And so toward the end of the year he went abroad to be
  initiated into the higher secrets of the order.
<br />
  In the summer of 1809 Pierre returned to Petersburg. Our Freemasons knew
  from correspondence with those abroad that Bezúkhov had obtained the
  confidence of many highly placed persons, had been initiated into many
  mysteries, had been raised to a higher grade, and was bringing back with
  him much that might conduce to the advantage of the Masonic cause in
  Russia. The Petersburg Freemasons all came to see him, tried to ingratiate
  themselves with him, and it seemed to them all that he was preparing
  something for them and concealing it.
<br />
  A solemn meeting of the lodge of the second degree was convened, at which
  Pierre promised to communicate to the Petersburg Brothers what he had to
  deliver to them from the highest leaders of their order. The meeting was a
  full one. After the usual ceremonies Pierre rose and began his address.
<br />
  &ldquo;Dear Brothers,&rdquo; he began, blushing and stammering, with a written speech
  in his hand, &ldquo;it is not sufficient to observe our mysteries in the
  seclusion of our lodge&mdash;we must act&mdash;act! We are drowsing, but
  we must act.&rdquo; Pierre raised his notebook and began to read.
<br />
  &ldquo;For the dissemination of pure truth and to secure the triumph of virtue,&rdquo;
   he read, &ldquo;we must cleanse men from prejudice, diffuse principles in
  harmony with the spirit of the times, undertake the education of the
  young, unite ourselves in indissoluble bonds with the wisest men, boldly
  yet prudently overcome superstitions, infidelity, and folly, and form of
  those devoted to us a body linked together by unity of purpose and
  possessed of authority and power.
<br />
  &ldquo;To attain this end we must secure a preponderance of virtue over vice and
  must endeavor to secure that the honest man may, even in this world,
  receive a lasting reward for his virtue. But in these great endeavors we
  are gravely hampered by the political institutions of today. What is to be
  done in these circumstances? To favor revolutions, overthrow everything,
  repel force by force?... No! We are very far from that. Every violent
  reform deserves censure, for it quite fails to remedy evil while men
  remain what they are, and also because wisdom needs no violence.
<br />
  &ldquo;The whole plan of our order should be based on the idea of preparing men
  of firmness and virtue bound together by unity of conviction&mdash;aiming
  at the punishment of vice and folly, and patronizing talent and virtue:
  raising worthy men from the dust and attaching them to our Brotherhood.
  Only then will our order have the power unobtrusively to bind the hands of
  the protectors of disorder and to control them without their being aware
  of it. In a word, we must found a form of government holding universal
  sway, which should be diffused over the whole world without destroying the
  bonds of citizenship, and beside which all other governments can continue
  in their customary course and do everything except what impedes the great
  aim of our order, which is to obtain for virtue the victory over vice.
  This aim was that of Christianity itself. It taught men to be wise and
  good and for their own benefit to follow the example and instruction of
  the best and wisest men.
<br />
  &ldquo;At that time, when everything was plunged in darkness, preaching alone
  was of course sufficient. The novelty of Truth endowed her with special
  strength, but now we need much more powerful methods. It is now necessary
  that man, governed by his senses, should find in virtue a charm palpable
  to those senses. It is impossible to eradicate the passions; but we must
  strive to direct them to a noble aim, and it is therefore necessary that
  everyone should be able to satisfy his passions within the limits of
  virtue. Our order should provide means to that end.
<br />
  &ldquo;As soon as we have a certain number of worthy men in every state, each of
  them again training two others and all being closely united, everything
  will be possible for our order, which has already in secret accomplished
  much for the welfare of mankind.&rdquo;
 <br />
  This speech not only made a strong impression, but created excitement in
  the lodge. The majority of the Brothers, seeing in it dangerous designs of
  Illuminism, * met it with a coldness that surprised Pierre. The Grand
  Master began answering him, and Pierre began developing his views with
  more and more warmth. It was long since there had been so stormy a
  meeting. Parties were formed, some accusing Pierre of Illuminism, others
  supporting him. At that meeting he was struck for the first time by the
  endless variety of men&rsquo;s minds, which prevents a truth from ever
  presenting itself identically to two persons. Even those members who
  seemed to be on his side understood him in their own way with limitations
  and alterations he could not agree to, as what he always wanted most was
  to convey his thought to others just as he himself understood it.
<br />
 * The Illuminati sought to substitute republican for
 monarchical institutions.

At the end of the meeting the Grand Master with irony and ill-will reproved Bezúkhov for his vehemence and said it was not love of virtue alone, but also a love of strife that had moved him in the dispute. Pierre did not answer him and asked briefly whether his proposal would be accepted. He was told that it would not, and without waiting for the usual formalities he left the lodge and went home.

  CHAPTER VIII


  Again Pierre was overtaken by the depression he so dreaded. For three days
  after the delivery of his speech at the lodge he lay on a sofa at home
  receiving no one and going nowhere.
<br />
  It was just then that he received a letter from his wife, who implored him
  to see her, telling him how grieved she was about him and how she wished
  to devote her whole life to him.
<br />
  At the end of the letter she informed him that in a few days she would
  return to Petersburg from abroad.
<br />
  Following this letter one of the Masonic Brothers whom Pierre respected
  less than the others forced his way in to see him and, turning the
  conversation upon Pierre&rsquo;s matrimonial affairs, by way of fraternal advice
  expressed the opinion that his severity to his wife was wrong and that he
  was neglecting one of the first rules of Freemasonry by not forgiving the
  penitent.
<br />
  At the same time his mother-in-law, Prince Vasíli&rsquo;s wife, sent to him
  imploring him to come if only for a few minutes to discuss a most
  important matter. Pierre saw that there was a conspiracy against him and
  that they wanted to reunite him with his wife, and in the mood he then
  was, this was not even unpleasant to him. Nothing mattered to him. Nothing
  in life seemed to him of much importance, and under the influence of the
  depression that possessed him he valued neither his liberty nor his
  resolution to punish his wife.
<br />
  &ldquo;No one is right and no one is to blame; so she too is not to blame,&rdquo; he
  thought.
<br />
  If he did not at once give his consent to a reunion with his wife, it was
  only because in his state of depression he did not feel able to take any
  step. Had his wife come to him, he would not have turned her away.
  Compared to what preoccupied him, was it not a matter of indifference
  whether he lived with his wife or not?
<br />
  Without replying either to his wife or his mother-in-law, Pierre late one
  night prepared for a journey and started for Moscow to see Joseph
  Alexéevich. This is what he noted in his diary:
<br />

<br />
  I have just returned from my benefactor, and hasten to write down what I
  have experienced. Joseph Alexéevich is living poorly and has for three
  years been suffering from a painful disease of the bladder. No one has
  ever heard him utter a groan or a word of complaint. From morning till
  late at night, except when he eats his very plain food, he is working at
  science. He received me graciously and made me sit down on the bed on
  which he lay. I made the sign of the Knights of the East and of Jerusalem,
  and he responded in the same manner, asking me with a mild smile what I
  had learned and gained in the Prussian and Scottish lodges. I told him
  everything as best I could, and told him what I had proposed to our
  Petersburg lodge, of the bad reception I had encountered, and of my
  rupture with the Brothers. Joseph Alexéevich, having remained silent and
  thoughtful for a good while, told me his view of the matter, which at once
  lit up for me my whole past and the future path I should follow. He
  surprised me by asking whether I remembered the threefold aim of the
  order: (1) The preservation and study of the mystery. (2) The purification
  and reformation of oneself for its reception, and (3) The improvement of
  the human race by striving for such purification. Which is the principal
   of these three? Certainly self-reformation and self-purification. Only
  to this aim can we always strive independently of circumstances. But at
  the same time just this aim demands the greatest efforts of us; and so,
  led astray by pride, losing sight of this aim, we occupy ourselves either
  with the mystery which in our impurity we are unworthy to receive, or seek
  the reformation of the human race while ourselves setting an example of
  baseness and profligacy. Illuminism is not a pure doctrine, just because
  it is attracted by social activity and puffed up by pride. On this ground
  Joseph Alexéevich condemned my speech and my whole activity, and in the
  depth of my soul I agreed with him. Talking of my family affairs he said
  to me, &ldquo;the chief duty of a true Mason, as I have told you, lies in
  perfecting himself. We often think that by removing all the difficulties
  of our life we shall more quickly reach our aim, but on the contrary, my
  dear sir, it is only in the midst of worldly cares that we can attain our
  three chief aims: (1) Self-knowledge&mdash;for man can only know himself
  by comparison, (2) Self-perfecting, which can only be attained by
  conflict, and (3) The attainment of the chief virtue&mdash;love of death.
  Only the vicissitudes of life can show us its vanity and develop our
  innate love of death or of rebirth to a new life.&rdquo; These words are all the
  more remarkable because, in spite of his great physical sufferings, Joseph
  Alexéevich is never weary of life though he loves death, for which&mdash;in
  spite of the purity and loftiness of his inner man&mdash;he does not yet
  feel himself sufficiently prepared. My benefactor then explained to me
  fully the meaning of the Great Square of creation and pointed out to me
  that the numbers three and seven are the basis of everything. He advised
  me not to avoid intercourse with the Petersburg Brothers, but to take up
  only second-grade posts in the lodge, to try, while diverting the Brothers
  from pride, to turn them toward the true path self-knowledge and
  self-perfecting. Besides this he advised me for myself personally above
  all to keep a watch over myself, and to that end he gave me a notebook,
  the one I am now writing in and in which I will in future note down all my
  actions.
<br />

<br />
  I am again living with my wife. My mother-in-law came to me in tears and
  said that Hélène was here and that she implored me to hear her; that she
  was innocent and unhappy at my desertion, and much more. I knew that if I
  once let myself see her I should not have strength to go on refusing what
  she wanted. In my perplexity I did not know whose aid and advice to seek.
  Had my benefactor been here he would have told me what to do. I went to my
  room and reread Joseph Alexéevich&rsquo;s letters and recalled my conversations
  with him, and deduced from it all that I ought not to refuse a supplicant,
  and ought to reach a helping hand to everyone&mdash;especially to one so
  closely bound to me&mdash;and that I must bear my cross. But if I forgive
  her for the sake of doing right, then let union with her have only a
  spiritual aim. That is what I decided, and what I wrote to Joseph
  Alexéevich. I told my wife that I begged her to forget the past, to
  forgive me whatever wrong I may have done her, and that I had nothing to
  forgive. It gave me joy to tell her this. She need not know how hard it
  was for me to see her again. I have settled on the upper floor of this big
  house and am experiencing a happy feeling of regeneration.

  CHAPTER IX


  At that time, as always happens, the highest society that met at court and
  at the grand balls was divided into several circles, each with its own
  particular tone. The largest of these was the French circle of the
  Napoleonic alliance, the circle of Count Rumyántsev and Caulaincourt. In
  this group Hélène, as soon as she had settled in Petersburg with her
  husband, took a very prominent place. She was visited by the members of
  the French embassy and by many belonging to that circle and noted for
  their intellect and polished manners.
<br />
  Hélène had been at Erfurt during the famous meeting of the Emperors and
  had brought from there these connections with the Napoleonic notabilities.
  At Erfurt her success had been brilliant. Napoleon himself had noticed her
  in the theater and said of her:  *
  Her success as a beautiful and elegant woman did not surprise Pierre, for she had
  become even handsomer than before. What did surprise him was that during
  these last two years his wife had succeeded in gaining the reputation  *(2) The distinguished
  Prince de Ligne wrote her eight-page letters. Bilíbin saved up his
  epigrams to produce them in Countess Bezúkhova&rsquo;s presence. To be received
  in the Countess Bezúkhova&rsquo;s salon was regarded as a diploma of intellect.
  Young men read books before attending Hélène&rsquo;s evenings, to have something
  to say in her salon, and secretaries of the embassy, and even ambassadors,
  confided diplomatic secrets to her, so that in a way Hélène was a power.
  Pierre, who knew she was very stupid, sometimes attended, with a strange
  feeling of perplexity and fear, her evenings and dinner parties, where
  politics, poetry, and philosophy were discussed. At these parties his
  feelings were like those of a conjuror who always expects his trick to be
  found out at any moment. But whether because stupidity was just what was
  needed to run such a salon, or because those who were deceived found
  pleasure in the deception, at any rate it remained unexposed and Hélène
  Bezúkhova&rsquo;s reputation as a lovely and clever woman became so firmly
  established that she could say the emptiest and stupidest things and
  everybody would go into raptures over every word of hers and look for a
  profound meaning in it of which she herself had no conception.
<br />
 * &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a superb animal.&rdquo;
<br />
 * (2) &ldquo;Of a charming woman, as witty as she is lovely.&rdquo;

Pierre was just the husband needed for a brilliant society woman. He was that absent-minded crank, a husband who was in no one’s way, and far from spoiling the high tone and general impression of the drawing room, he served, by the contrast he presented to her, as an advantageous background to his elegant and tactful wife. Pierre during the last two years, as a result of his continual absorption in abstract interests and his sincere contempt for all else, had acquired in his wife’s circle, which did not interest him, that air of unconcern, indifference, and benevolence toward all, which cannot be acquired artificially and therefore inspires involuntary respect. He entered his wife’s drawing room as one enters a theater, was acquainted with everybody, equally pleased to see everyone, and equally indifferent to them all. Sometimes he joined in a conversation which interested him and, regardless of whether any “gentlemen of the embassy” were present or not, lispingly expressed his views, which were sometimes not at all in accord with the accepted tone of the moment. But the general opinion concerning the queer husband of “the most distinguished woman in Petersburg” was so well established that no one took his freaks seriously.
Among the many young men who frequented her house every day, Borís Drubetskóy, who had already achieved great success in the service, was the most intimate friend of the Bezúkhov household since Hélène’s return from Erfurt. Hélène spoke of him as and treated him like a child. Her smile for him was the same as for everybody, but sometimes that smile made Pierre uncomfortable. Toward him Borís behaved with a particularly dignified and sad deference. This shade of deference also disturbed Pierre. He had suffered so painfully three years before from the mortification to which his wife had subjected him that he now protected himself from the danger of its repetition, first by not being a husband to his wife, and secondly by not allowing himself to suspect.
“No, now that she has become a bluestocking she has finally renounced her former infatuations,” he told himself. “There has never been an instance of a bluestocking being carried away by affairs of the heart”—a statement which, though gathered from an unknown source, he believed implicitly. Yet strange to say Borís’ presence in his wife’s drawing room (and he was almost always there) had a physical effect upon Pierre; it constricted his limbs and destroyed the unconsciousness and freedom of his movements.
“What a strange antipathy,” thought Pierre, “yet I used to like him very much.”
In the eyes of the world Pierre was a great gentleman, the rather blind and absurd husband of a distinguished wife, a clever crank who did nothing but harmed nobody and was a first-rate, good-natured fellow. But a complex and difficult process of internal development was taking place all this time in Pierre’s soul, revealing much to him and causing him many spiritual doubts and joys.

  CHAPTER X


  Pierre went on with his diary, and this is what he wrote in it during that
  time:
<br />
  <br />
<br />

<br />
  Got up at eight, read the Scriptures, then went to my duties. (By Joseph
  Alexéevich&rsquo;s advice Pierre had entered the service of the state and served
  on one of the committees.) Returned home for dinner and dined alone&mdash;the
  countess had many visitors I do not like. I ate and drank moderately and
  after dinner copied out some passages for the Brothers. In the evening I
  went down to the countess and told a funny story about B., and only
  remembered that I ought not to have done so when everybody laughed loudly
  at it.
<br />
  I am going to bed with a happy and tranquil mind. Great God, help me to
  walk in Thy paths, (1) to conquer anger by calmness and deliberation, (2)
  to vanquish lust by self-restraint and repulsion, (3) to withdraw from
  worldliness, but not avoid (a) the service of the state, (b) family
  duties, (c) relations with my friends, and the management of my affairs.
<br />
  <br />
<br />

<br />
  I got up late. On waking I lay long in bed yielding to sloth. O God, help
  and strengthen me that I may walk in Thy ways! Read the Scriptures, but
  without proper feeling. Brother Urúsov came and we talked about worldly
  vanities. He told me of the Emperor&rsquo;s new projects. I began to criticize
  them, but remembered my rules and my benefactor&rsquo;s words&mdash;that a true
  Freemason should be a zealous worker for the state when his aid is
  required and a quiet onlooker when not called on to assist. My tongue is
  my enemy. Brothers G. V. and O. visited me and we had a preliminary talk
  about the reception of a new Brother. They laid on me the duty of Rhetor.
  I feel myself weak and unworthy. Then our talk turned to the
  interpretation of the seven pillars and steps of the Temple, the seven
  sciences, the seven virtues, the seven vices, and the seven gifts of the
  Holy Spirit. Brother O. was very eloquent. In the evening the admission
  took place. The new decoration of the Premises contributed much to the
  magnificence of the spectacle. It was Borís Drubetskóy who was admitted. I
  nominated him and was the Rhetor. A strange feeling agitated me all the
  time I was alone with him in the dark chamber. I caught myself harboring a
  feeling of hatred toward him which I vainly tried to overcome. That is why
  I should really like to save him from evil and lead him into the path of
  truth, but evil thoughts of him did not leave me. It seemed to me that his
  object in entering the Brotherhood was merely to be intimate and in favor
  with members of our lodge. Apart from the fact that he had asked me
  several times whether N. and S. were members of our lodge (a question to
  which I could not reply) and that according to my observation he is
  incapable of feeling respect for our holy order and is too preoccupied and
  satisfied with the outer man to desire spiritual improvement, I had no
  cause to doubt him, but he seemed to me insincere, and all the time I
  stood alone with him in the dark temple it seemed to me that he was
  smiling contemptuously at my words, and I wished really to stab his bare
  breast with the sword I held to it. I could not be eloquent, nor could I
  frankly mention my doubts to the Brothers and to the Grand Master. Great
  Architect of Nature, help me to find the true path out of the labyrinth of
  lies!
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  After this, three pages were left blank in the diary, and then
  the following was written:
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  I have had a long and instructive talk alone with Brother V., who advised
  me to hold fast by Brother A. Though I am unworthy, much was revealed to
  me. Adonai is the name of the creator of the world. Elohim is the name of
  the ruler of all. The third name is the name unutterable which means the
  . Talks with Brother V. strengthen, refresh, and support me in the path
  of virtue. In his presence doubt has no place. The distinction between the
  poor teachings of mundane science and our sacred all-embracing teaching is
  clear to me. Human sciences dissect everything to comprehend it, and kill
  everything to examine it. In the holy science of our order all is one, all
  is known in its entirety and life. The Trinity&mdash;the three elements of
  matter&mdash;are sulphur, mercury, and salt. Sulphur is of an oily and
  fiery nature; in combination with salt by its fiery nature it arouses a
  desire in the latter by means of which it attracts mercury, seizes it,
  holds it, and in combination produces other bodies. Mercury is a fluid,
  volatile, spiritual essence. Christ, the Holy Spirit, Him!...
<br />
  <br />
<br />

<br />
  Awoke late, read the Scriptures but was apathetic. Afterwards went and
  paced up and down the large hall. I wished to meditate, but instead my
  imagination pictured an occurrence of four years ago, when Dólokhov,
  meeting me in Moscow after our duel, said he hoped I was enjoying perfect
  peace of mind in spite of my wife&rsquo;s absence. At the time I gave him no
  answer. Now I recalled every detail of that meeting and in my mind gave
  him the most malevolent and bitter replies. I recollected myself and drove
  away that thought only when I found myself glowing with anger, but I did
  not sufficiently repent. Afterwards Borís Drubetskóy came and began
  relating various adventures. His coming vexed me from the first, and I
  said something disagreeable to him. He replied. I flared up and said much
  that was unpleasant and even rude to him. He became silent, and I
  recollected myself only when it was too late. My God, I cannot get on with
  him at all. The cause of this is my egotism. I set myself above him and so
  become much worse than he, for he is lenient to my rudeness while I on the
  contrary nourish contempt for him. O God, grant that in his presence I may
  rather see my own vileness, and behave so that he too may benefit. After
  dinner I fell asleep and as I was drowsing off I clearly heard a voice
  saying in my left ear, &ldquo;Thy day!&rdquo;
 <br />
  I dreamed that I was walking in the dark and was suddenly surrounded by
  dogs, but I went on undismayed. Suddenly a smallish dog seized my left
  thigh with its teeth and would not let go. I began to throttle it with my
  hands. Scarcely had I torn it off before another, a bigger one, began
  biting me. I lifted it up, but the higher I lifted it the bigger and
  heavier it grew. And suddenly Brother A. came and, taking my arm, led me
  to a building to enter which we had to pass along a narrow plank. I
  stepped on it, but it bent and gave way and I began to clamber up a fence
  which I could scarcely reach with my hands. After much effort I dragged
  myself up, so that my leg hung down on one side and my body on the other.
  I looked round and saw Brother A. standing on the fence and pointing me to
  a broad avenue and garden, and in the garden was a large and beautiful
  building. I woke up. O Lord, great Architect of Nature, help me to tear
  from myself these dogs&mdash;my passions especially the last, which unites
  in itself the strength of all the former ones, and aid me to enter that
  temple of virtue to a vision of which I attained in my dream.
<br />
  <br />
<br />

<br />
  I dreamed that Joseph Alexéevich was sitting in my house, and that I was
  very glad and wished to entertain him. It seemed as if I chattered
  incessantly with other people and suddenly remembered that this could not
  please him, and I wished to come close to him and embrace him. But as soon
  as I drew near I saw that his face had changed and grown young, and he was
  quietly telling me something about the teaching of our order, but so
  softly that I could not hear it. Then it seemed that we all left the room
  and something strange happened. We were sitting or lying on the floor. He
  was telling me something, and I wished to show him my sensibility, and not
  listening to what he was saying I began picturing to myself the condition
  of my inner man and the grace of God sanctifying me. And tears came into
  my eyes, and I was glad he noticed this. But he looked at me with vexation
  and jumped up, breaking off his remarks. I felt abashed and asked whether
  what he had been saying did not concern me; but he did not reply, gave me
  a kind look, and then we suddenly found ourselves in my bedroom where
  there is a double bed. He lay down on the edge of it and I burned with
  longing to caress him and lie down too. And he said, &ldquo;Tell me frankly what
  is your chief temptation? Do you know it? I think you know it already.&rdquo;
   Abashed by this question, I replied that sloth was my chief temptation. He
  shook his head incredulously; and even more abashed, I said that though I
  was living with my wife as he advised, I was not living with her as her
  husband. To this he replied that one should not deprive a wife of one&rsquo;s
  embraces and gave me to understand that that was my duty. But I replied
  that I should be ashamed to do it, and suddenly everything vanished. And I
  awoke and found in my mind the text from the Gospel: &ldquo;The life was the
  light of men. And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness
  comprehended it not.&rdquo; Joseph Alexéevich&rsquo;s face had looked young and
  bright. That day I received a letter from my benefactor in which he wrote
  about &ldquo;conjugal duties.&rdquo;
 <br />
  <br />
<br />

<br />
  I had a dream from which I awoke with a throbbing heart. I saw that I was
  in Moscow in my house, in the big sitting room, and Joseph Alexéevich came
  in from the drawing room. I seemed to know at once that the process of
  regeneration had already taken place in him, and I rushed to meet him. I
  embraced him and kissed his hands, and he said, &ldquo;Hast thou noticed that my
  face is different?&rdquo; I looked at him, still holding him in my arms, and saw
  that his face was young, but that he had no hair on his head and his
  features were quite changed. And I said, &ldquo;I should have known you had I
  met you by chance,&rdquo; and I thought to myself, &ldquo;Am I telling the truth?&rdquo; And
  suddenly I saw him lying like a dead body; then he gradually recovered and
  went with me into my study carrying a large book of sheets of drawing
  paper; I said, &ldquo;I drew that,&rdquo; and he answered by bowing his head. I opened
  the book, and on all the pages there were excellent drawings. And in my
  dream I knew that these drawings represented the love adventures of the
  soul with its beloved. And on its pages I saw a beautiful representation
  of a maiden in transparent garments and with a transparent body, flying up
  to the clouds. And I seemed to know that this maiden was nothing else than
  a representation of the Song of Songs. And looking at those drawings I
  dreamed I felt that I was doing wrong, but could not tear myself away from
  them. Lord, help me! My God, if Thy forsaking me is Thy doing, Thy will be
  done; but if I am myself the cause, teach me what I should do! I shall
  perish of my debauchery if Thou utterly desertest me!

  CHAPTER XI


  The Rostóvs&rsquo; monetary affairs had not improved during the two years they
  had spent in the country.
<br />
  Though Nicholas Rostóv had kept firmly to his resolution and was still
  serving modestly in an obscure regiment, spending comparatively little,
  the way of life at Otrádnoe&mdash;Mítenka&rsquo;s management of affairs, in
  particular&mdash;was such that the debts inevitably increased every year.
  The only resource obviously presenting itself to the old count was to
  apply for an official post, so he had come to Petersburg to look for one
  and also, as he said, to let the lassies enjoy themselves for the last
  time.
<br />
  Soon after their arrival in Petersburg Berg proposed to Véra and was
  accepted.
<br />
  Though in Moscow the Rostóvs belonged to the best society without
  themselves giving it a thought, yet in Petersburg their circle of
  acquaintances was a mixed and indefinite one. In Petersburg they were
  provincials, and the very people they had entertained in Moscow without
  inquiring to what set they belonged, here looked down on them.
<br />
  The Rostóvs lived in the same hospitable way in Petersburg as in Moscow,
  and the most diverse people met at their suppers. Country neighbors from
  Otrádnoe, impoverished old squires and their daughters, Perónskaya a maid
  of honor, Pierre Bezúkhov, and the son of their district postmaster who
  had obtained a post in Petersburg. Among the men who very soon became
  frequent visitors at the Rostóvs&rsquo; house in Petersburg were Borís, Pierre
  whom the count had met in the street and dragged home with him, and Berg
  who spent whole days at the Rostóvs&rsquo; and paid the eldest daughter,
  Countess Véra, the attentions a young man pays when he intends to propose.
<br />
  Not in vain had Berg shown everybody his right hand wounded at Austerlitz
  and held a perfectly unnecessary sword in his left. He narrated that
  episode so persistently and with so important an air that everyone
  believed in the merit and usefulness of his deed, and he had obtained two
  decorations for Austerlitz.
<br />
  In the Finnish war he also managed to distinguish himself. He had picked
  up the scrap of a grenade that had killed an aide-de-camp standing near
  the commander in chief and had taken it to his commander. Just as he had
  done after Austerlitz, he related this occurrence at such length and so
  insistently that everyone again believed it had been necessary to do this,
  and he received two decorations for the Finnish war also. In 1809 he was a
  captain in the Guards, wore medals, and held some special lucrative posts
  in Petersburg.
<br />
  Though some skeptics smiled when told of Berg&rsquo;s merits, it could not be
  denied that he was a painstaking and brave officer, on excellent terms
  with his superiors, and a moral young man with a brilliant career before
  him and an assured position in society.
<br />
  Four years before, meeting a German comrade in the stalls of a Moscow
  theater, Berg had pointed out Véra Rostóva to him and had said in German,
   * and from that moment had made up his mind
  to marry her. Now in Petersburg, having considered the Rostóvs&rsquo; position
  and his own, he decided that the time had come to propose.
<br />
* &ldquo;That girl shall be my wife.&rdquo;

Berg’s proposal was at first received with a perplexity that was not flattering to him. At first it seemed strange that the son of an obscure Livonian gentleman should propose marriage to a Countess Rostóva; but Berg’s chief characteristic was such a naïve and good natured egotism that the Rostóvs involuntarily came to think it would be a good thing, since he himself was so firmly convinced that it was good, indeed excellent. Moreover, the Rostóvs’ affairs were seriously embarrassed, as the suitor could not but know; and above all, Véra was twenty-four, had been taken out everywhere, and though she was certainly good-looking and sensible, no one up to now had proposed to her. So they gave their consent.
“You see,” said Berg to his comrade, whom he called “friend” only because he knew that everyone has friends, “you see, I have considered it all, and should not marry if I had not thought it all out or if it were in any way unsuitable. But on the contrary, my papa and mamma are now provided for—I have arranged that rent for them in the Baltic Provinces—and I can live in Petersburg on my pay, and with her fortune and my good management we can get along nicely. I am not marrying for money—I consider that dishonorable—but a wife should bring her share and a husband his. I have my position in the service, she has connections and some means. In our times that is worth something, isn’t it? But above all, she is a handsome, estimable girl, and she loves me….”
Berg blushed and smiled.
“And I love her, because her character is sensible and very good. Now the other sister, though they are the same family, is quite different—an unpleasant character and has not the same intelligence. She is so… you know?… Unpleasant… But my fiancée!… Well, you will be coming,” he was going to say, “to dine,” but changed his mind and said “to take tea with us,” and quickly doubling up his tongue he blew a small round ring of tobacco smoke, perfectly embodying his dream of happiness.
After the first feeling of perplexity aroused in the parents by Berg’s proposal, the holiday tone of joyousness usual at such times took possession of the family, but the rejoicing was external and insincere. In the family’s feeling toward this wedding a certain awkwardness and constraint was evident, as if they were ashamed of not having loved Véra sufficiently and of being so ready to get her off their hands. The old count felt this most. He would probably have been unable to state the cause of his embarrassment, but it resulted from the state of his affairs. He did not know at all how much he had, what his debts amounted to, or what dowry he could give Véra. When his daughters were born he had assigned to each of them, for her dowry, an estate with three hundred serfs; but one of these estates had already been sold, and the other was mortgaged and the interest so much in arrears that it would have to be sold, so that it was impossible to give it to Véra. Nor had he any money.
Berg had already been engaged a month, and only a week remained before the wedding, but the count had not yet decided in his own mind the question of the dowry, nor spoken to his wife about it. At one time the count thought of giving her the Ryazán estate or of selling a forest, at another time of borrowing money on a note of hand. A few days before the wedding Berg entered the count’s study early one morning and, with a pleasant smile, respectfully asked his future father-in-law to let him know what Véra’s dowry would be. The count was so disconcerted by this long-foreseen inquiry that without consideration he gave the first reply that came into his head. “I like your being businesslike about it…. I like it. You shall be satisfied….”
And patting Berg on the shoulder he got up, wishing to end the conversation. But Berg, smiling pleasantly, explained that if he did not know for certain how much Véra would have and did not receive at least part of the dowry in advance, he would have to break matters off.
“Because, consider, Count—if I allowed myself to marry now without having definite means to maintain my wife, I should be acting badly….”
The conversation ended by the count, who wished to be generous and to avoid further importunity, saying that he would give a note of hand for eighty thousand rubles. Berg smiled meekly, kissed the count on the shoulder, and said that he was very grateful, but that it was impossible for him to arrange his new life without receiving thirty thousand in ready money. “Or at least twenty thousand, Count,” he added, “and then a note of hand for only sixty thousand.”
“Yes, yes, all right!” said the count hurriedly. “Only excuse me, my dear fellow, I’ll give you twenty thousand and a note of hand for eighty thousand as well. Yes, yes! Kiss me.”

  CHAPTER XII


  Natásha was sixteen and it was the year 1809, the very year to which she
  had counted on her fingers with Borís after they had kissed four years
  ago. Since then she had not seen him. Before Sónya and her mother, if
  Borís happened to be mentioned, she spoke quite freely of that episode as
  of some childish, long-forgotten matter that was not worth mentioning. But
  in the secret depths of her soul the question whether her engagement to
  Borís was a jest or an important, binding promise tormented her.
<br />
  Since Borís left Moscow in 1805 to join the army he had not seen the
  Rostóvs. He had been in Moscow several times, and had passed near
  Otrádnoe, but had never been to see them.
<br />
  Sometimes it occurred to Natásha that he did not wish to see her, and this
  conjecture was confirmed by the sad tone in which her elders spoke of him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nowadays old friends are not remembered,&rdquo; the countess would say when
  Borís was mentioned.
<br />
  Anna Mikháylovna also had of late visited them less frequently, seemed to
  hold herself with particular dignity, and always spoke rapturously and
  gratefully of the merits of her son and the brilliant career on which he
  had entered. When the Rostóvs came to Petersburg Borís called on them.
<br />
  He drove to their house in some agitation. The memory of Natásha was his
  most poetic recollection. But he went with the firm intention of letting
  her and her parents feel that the childish relations between himself and
  Natásha could not be binding either on her or on him. He had a brilliant
  position in society thanks to his intimacy with Countess Bezúkhova, a
  brilliant position in the service thanks to the patronage of an important
  personage whose complete confidence he enjoyed, and he was beginning to
  make plans for marrying one of the richest heiresses in Petersburg, plans
  which might very easily be realized. When he entered the Rostóvs&rsquo; drawing
  room Natásha was in her own room. When she heard of his arrival she almost
  ran into the drawing room, flushed and beaming with a more than cordial
  smile.
<br />
  Borís remembered Natásha in a short dress, with dark eyes shining from
  under her curls and boisterous, childish laughter, as he had known her
  four years before; and so he was taken aback when quite a different
  Natásha entered, and his face expressed rapturous astonishment. This
  expression on his face pleased Natásha.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, do you recognize your little madcap playmate?&rdquo; asked the countess.
<br />
  Borís kissed Natásha&rsquo;s hand and said that he was astonished at the change
  in her.
<br />
  &ldquo;How handsome you have grown!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I should think so!&rdquo; replied Natásha&rsquo;s laughing eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;And is Papa older?&rdquo; she asked.
<br />
  Natásha sat down and, without joining in Borís&rsquo; conversation with the
  countess, silently and minutely studied her childhood&rsquo;s suitor. He felt
  the weight of that resolute and affectionate scrutiny and glanced at her
  occasionally.
<br />
  Borís&rsquo; uniform, spurs, tie, and the way his hair was brushed were all
   and in the latest fashion. This Natásha noticed at once. He
  sat rather sideways in the armchair next to the countess, arranging with
  his right hand the cleanest of gloves that fitted his left hand like a
  skin, and he spoke with a particularly refined compression of his lips
  about the amusements of the highest Petersburg society, recalling with
  mild irony old times in Moscow and Moscow acquaintances. It was not
  accidentally, Natásha felt, that he alluded, when speaking of the highest
  aristocracy, to an ambassador&rsquo;s ball he had attended, and to invitations
  he had received from N.N. and S.S.
<br />
  All this time Natásha sat silent, glancing up at him from under her brows.
  This gaze disturbed and confused Borís more and more. He looked round more
  frequently toward her, and broke off in what he was saying. He did not
  stay more than ten minutes, then rose and took his leave. The same
  inquisitive, challenging, and rather mocking eyes still looked at him.
  After his first visit Borís said to himself that Natásha attracted him
  just as much as ever, but that he must not yield to that feeling, because
  to marry her, a girl almost without fortune, would mean ruin to his
  career, while to renew their former relations without intending to marry
  her would be dishonorable. Borís made up his mind to avoid meeting
  Natásha, but despite that resolution he called again a few days later and
  began calling often and spending whole days at the Rostóvs&rsquo;. It seemed to
  him that he ought to have an explanation with Natásha and tell her that
  the old times must be forgotten, that in spite of everything... she could
  not be his wife, that he had no means, and they would never let her marry
  him. But he failed to do so and felt awkward about entering on such an
  explanation. From day to day he became more and more entangled. It seemed
  to her mother and Sónya that Natásha was in love with Borís as of old. She
  sang him his favorite songs, showed him her album, making him write in it,
  did not allow him to allude to the past, letting it be understood how
  delightful was the present; and every day he went away in a fog, without
  having said what he meant to, and not knowing what he was doing or why he
  came, or how it would all end. He left off visiting Hélène and received
  reproachful notes from her every day, and yet he continued to spend whole
  days with the Rostóvs.

  CHAPTER XIII


  One night when the old countess, in nightcap and dressing jacket, without
  her false curls, and with her poor little knob of hair showing under her
  white cotton cap, knelt sighing and groaning on a rug and bowing to the
  ground in prayer, her door creaked and Natásha, also in a dressing jacket
  with slippers on her bare feet and her hair in curlpapers, ran in. The
  countess&mdash;her prayerful mood dispelled&mdash;looked round and
  frowned. She was finishing her last prayer: &ldquo;Can it be that this couch
  will be my grave?&rdquo; Natásha, flushed and eager, seeing her mother in
  prayer, suddenly checked her rush, half sat down, and unconsciously put
  out her tongue as if chiding herself. Seeing that her mother was still
  praying she ran on tiptoe to the bed and, rapidly slipping one little foot
  against the other, pushed off her slippers and jumped onto the bed the
  countess had feared might become her grave. This couch was high, with a
  feather bed and five pillows each smaller than the one below. Natásha
  jumped on it, sank into the feather bed, rolled over to the wall, and
  began snuggling up the bedclothes as she settled down, raising her knees
  to her chin, kicking out and laughing almost inaudibly, now covering
  herself up head and all, and now peeping at her mother. The countess
  finished her prayers and came to the bed with a stern face, but seeing
  that Natásha&rsquo;s head was covered, she smiled in her kind, weak way.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now then, now then!&rdquo; said she.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mamma, can we have a talk? Yes?&rdquo; said Natásha. &ldquo;Now, just one on your
  throat and another... that&rsquo;ll do!&rdquo; And seizing her mother round the neck,
  she kissed her on the throat. In her behavior to her mother Natásha seemed
  rough, but she was so sensitive and tactful that however she clasped her
  mother she always managed to do it without hurting her or making her feel
  uncomfortable or displeased.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, what is it tonight?&rdquo; said the mother, having arranged her pillows
  and waited until Natásha, after turning over a couple of times, had
  settled down beside her under the quilt, spread out her arms, and assumed
  a serious expression.
<br />
  These visits of Natásha&rsquo;s at night before the count returned from his club
  were one of the greatest pleasures of both mother, and daughter.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is it tonight?&mdash;But I have to tell you...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha put her hand on her mother&rsquo;s mouth.
<br />
  &ldquo;About Borís... I know,&rdquo; she said seriously; &ldquo;that&rsquo;s what I have come
  about. Don&rsquo;t say it&mdash;I know. No, do tell me!&rdquo; and she removed her
  hand. &ldquo;Tell me, Mamma! He&rsquo;s nice?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Natásha, you are sixteen. At your age I was married. You say Borís is
  nice. He is very nice, and I love him like a son. But what then?... What
  are you thinking about? You have quite turned his head, I can see
  that....&rdquo;
 <br />
  As she said this the countess looked round at her daughter. Natásha was
  lying looking steadily straight before her at one of the mahogany sphinxes
  carved on the corners of the bedstead, so that the countess only saw her
  daughter&rsquo;s face in profile. That face struck her by its peculiarly serious
  and concentrated expression.
<br />
  Natásha was listening and considering.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, what then?&rdquo; said she.
<br />
  &ldquo;You have quite turned his head, and why? What do you want of him? You
  know you can&rsquo;t marry him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo; said Natásha, without changing her position.
<br />
  &ldquo;Because he is young, because he is poor, because he is a relation... and
  because you yourself don&rsquo;t love him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How do you know?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I know. It is not right, darling!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But if I want to...&rdquo; said Natásha.
 <br />
  &ldquo;Leave off talking nonsense,&rdquo; said the countess.
<br />
  &ldquo;But if I want to...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Natásha, I am in earnest...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha did not let her finish. She drew the countess&rsquo; large hand to her,
  kissed it on the back and then on the palm, then again turned it over and
  began kissing first one knuckle, then the space between the knuckles, then
  the next knuckle, whispering, &ldquo;January, February, March, April, May.
  Speak, Mamma, why don&rsquo;t you say anything? Speak!&rdquo; said she, turning to her
  mother, who was tenderly gazing at her daughter and in that contemplation
  seemed to have forgotten all she had wished to say.
<br />
  &ldquo;It won&rsquo;t do, my love! Not everyone will understand this friendship dating
  from your childish days, and to see him so intimate with you may injure
  you in the eyes of other young men who visit us, and above all it torments
  him for nothing. He may already have found a suitable and wealthy match,
  and now he&rsquo;s half crazy.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Crazy?&rdquo; repeated Natásha.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll tell you some things about myself. I had a cousin...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I know! Cyril Matvéich... but he is old.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He was not always old. But this is what I&rsquo;ll do, Natásha, I&rsquo;ll have a
  talk with Borís. He need not come so often....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why not, if he likes to?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Because I know it will end in nothing....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How can you know? No, Mamma, don&rsquo;t speak to him! What nonsense!&rdquo; said
  Natásha in the tone of one being deprived of her property. &ldquo;Well, I won&rsquo;t
  marry, but let him come if he enjoys it and I enjoy it.&rdquo; Natásha smiled
  and looked at her mother. &ldquo;Not to marry, but just so,&rdquo; she added.
<br />
  &ldquo;How , my pet?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Just . There&rsquo;s no need for me to marry him. But...
  just .&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Just so, just so,&rdquo; repeated the countess, and shaking all over, she went
  off into a good humored, unexpected, elderly laugh.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t laugh, stop!&rdquo; cried Natásha. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re shaking the whole bed! You&rsquo;re
  awfully like me, just such another giggler.... Wait...&rdquo; and she seized the
  countess&rsquo; hands and kissed a knuckle of the little finger, saying, &ldquo;June,&rdquo;
   and continued, kissing, &ldquo;July, August,&rdquo; on the other hand. &ldquo;But, Mamma, is
  he very much in love? What do you think? Was anybody ever so much in love
  with you? And he&rsquo;s very nice, very, very nice. Only not quite my taste&mdash;he
  is so narrow, like the dining-room clock.... Don&rsquo;t you understand? Narrow,
  you know&mdash;gray, light gray...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What rubbish you&rsquo;re talking!&rdquo; said the countess.
<br />
  Natásha continued: &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you really understand? Nicholas would
  understand.... Bezúkhov, now, is blue, dark-blue and red, and he is
  square.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You flirt with him too,&rdquo; said the countess, laughing.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, he is a Freemason, I have found out. He is fine, dark-blue and
  red.... How can I explain it to you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Little countess!&rdquo; the count&rsquo;s voice called from behind the door. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re
  not asleep?&rdquo; Natásha jumped up, snatched up her slippers, and ran barefoot
  to her own room.
<br />
  It was a long time before she could sleep. She kept thinking that no one
  could understand all that she understood and all there was in her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sónya?&rdquo; she thought, glancing at that curled-up, sleeping little kitten
  with her enormous plait of hair. &ldquo;No, how could she? She&rsquo;s virtuous. She
  fell in love with Nicholas and does not wish to know anything more. Even
  Mamma does not understand. It is wonderful how clever I am and how...
  charming she is,&rdquo; she went on, speaking of herself in the third person,
  and imagining it was some very wise man&mdash;the wisest and best of men&mdash;who
  was saying it of her. &ldquo;There is everything, everything in her,&rdquo; continued
  this man. &ldquo;She is unusually intelligent, charming... and then she 
  pretty, uncommonly pretty, and agile&mdash;she swims and rides
  splendidly... and her voice! One can really say it&rsquo;s a wonderful voice!&rdquo;
 <br />
  She hummed a scrap from her favorite opera by Cherubini, threw herself on
  her bed, laughed at the pleasant thought that she would immediately fall
  asleep, called Dunyásha the maid to put out the candle, and before
  Dunyásha had left the room had already passed into yet another happier
  world of dreams, where everything was as light and beautiful as in
  reality, and even more so because it was different.
<br />
  Next day the countess called Borís aside and had a talk with him, after
  which he ceased coming to the Rostóvs&rsquo;.

  CHAPTER XIV


  On the thirty-first of December, New Year&rsquo;s Eve, 1809 - 10 an old grandee
  of Catherine&rsquo;s day was giving a ball and midnight supper. The diplomatic
  corps and the Emperor himself were to be present.
<br />
  The grandee&rsquo;s well-known mansion on the English Quay glittered with
  innumerable lights. Police were stationed at the brightly lit entrance
  which was carpeted with red baize, and not only gendarmes but dozens of
  police officers and even the police master himself stood at the porch.
  Carriages kept driving away and fresh ones arriving, with red-liveried
  footmen and footmen in plumed hats. From the carriages emerged men wearing
  uniforms, stars, and ribbons, while ladies in satin and ermine cautiously
  descended the carriage steps which were let down for them with a clatter,
  and then walked hurriedly and noiselessly over the baize at the entrance.
<br />
  Almost every time a new carriage drove up a whisper ran through the crowd
  and caps were doffed.
<br />
  &ldquo;The Emperor?... No, a minister... prince... ambassador. Don&rsquo;t you see
  the plumes?...&rdquo; was whispered among the crowd.
<br />
  One person, better dressed than the rest, seemed to know everyone and
  mentioned by name the greatest dignitaries of the day.
<br />
  A third of the visitors had already arrived, but the Rostóvs, who were to
  be present, were still hurrying to get dressed.
<br />
  There had been many discussions and preparations for this ball in the
  Rostóv family, many fears that the invitation would not arrive, that the
  dresses would not be ready, or that something would not be arranged as it
  should be.
<br />
  Márya Ignátevna Perónskaya, a thin and shallow maid of honor at the court
  of the Dowager Empress, who was a friend and relation of the countess and
  piloted the provincial Rostóvs in Petersburg high society, was to
  accompany them to the ball.
<br />
  They were to call for her at her house in the Taurida Gardens at ten
  o&rsquo;clock, but it was already five minutes to ten, and the girls were not
  yet dressed.
<br />
  Natásha was going to her first grand ball. She had got up at eight that
  morning and had been in a fever of excitement and activity all day. All
  her powers since morning had been concentrated on ensuring that they all&mdash;she
  herself, Mamma, and Sónya&mdash;should be as well dressed as possible.
  Sónya and her mother put themselves entirely in her hands. The countess
  was to wear a claret-colored velvet dress, and the two girls white gauze
  over pink silk slips, with roses on their bodices and their hair dressed 
<br />
  Everything essential had already been done; feet, hands, necks, and ears
  washed, perfumed, and powdered, as befits a ball; the openwork silk
  stockings and white satin shoes with ribbons were already on; the
  hairdressing was almost done. Sónya was finishing dressing and so was the
  countess, but Natásha, who had bustled about helping them all, was
  behindhand. She was still sitting before a looking-glass with a dressing
  jacket thrown over her slender shoulders. Sónya stood ready dressed in the
  middle of the room and, pressing the head of a pin till it hurt her dainty
  finger, was fixing on a last ribbon that squeaked as the pin went through
  it.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s not the way, that&rsquo;s not the way, Sónya!&rdquo; cried Natásha turning her
  head and clutching with both hands at her hair which the maid who was
  dressing it had not time to release. &ldquo;That bow is not right. Come here!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sónya sat down and Natásha pinned the ribbon on differently.
<br />
  &ldquo;Allow me, Miss! I can&rsquo;t do it like that,&rdquo; said the maid who was holding
  Natásha&rsquo;s hair.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, dear! Well then, wait. That&rsquo;s right, Sónya.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Aren&rsquo;t you ready? It is nearly ten,&rdquo; came the countess&rsquo; voice.
<br />
  &ldquo;Directly! Directly! And you, Mamma?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I have only my cap to pin on.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t do it without me!&rdquo; called Natásha. &ldquo;You won&rsquo;t do it right.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But it&rsquo;s already ten.&rdquo;
 <br />
  They had decided to be at the ball by half-past ten, and Natásha had still
  to get dressed and they had to call at the Taurida Gardens.
<br />
  When her hair was done, Natásha, in her short petticoat from under which
  her dancing shoes showed, and in her mother&rsquo;s dressing jacket, ran up to
  Sónya, scrutinized her, and then ran to her mother. Turning her mother&rsquo;s
  head this way and that, she fastened on the cap and, hurriedly kissing her
  gray hair, ran back to the maids who were turning up the hem of her skirt.
<br />
  The cause of the delay was Natásha&rsquo;s skirt, which was too long. Two maids
  were turning up the hem and hurriedly biting off the ends of thread. A
  third with pins in her mouth was running about between the countess and
  Sónya, and a fourth held the whole of the gossamer garment up high on one
  uplifted hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mávra, quicker, darling!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Give me my thimble, Miss, from there...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Whenever will you be ready?&rdquo; asked the count coming to the door. &ldquo;Here is
  some scent. Perónskaya must be tired of waiting.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s ready, Miss,&rdquo; said the maid, holding up the shortened gauze dress
  with two fingers, and blowing and shaking something off it, as if by this
  to express a consciousness of the airiness and purity of what she held.
<br />
  Natásha began putting on the dress.
<br />
  &ldquo;In a minute! In a minute! Don&rsquo;t come in, Papa!&rdquo; she cried to her father
  as he opened the door&mdash;speaking from under the filmy skirt which
  still covered her whole face.
<br />
  Sónya slammed the door to. A minute later they let the count in. He was
  wearing a blue swallow-tail coat, shoes and stockings, and was perfumed
  and his hair pomaded.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, Papa! how nice you look! Charming!&rdquo; cried Natásha, as she stood in
  the middle of the room smoothing out the folds of the gauze.
<br />
  &ldquo;If you please, Miss! allow me,&rdquo; said the maid, who on her knees was
  pulling the skirt straight and shifting the pins from one side of her
  mouth to the other with her tongue.
<br />
  &ldquo;Say what you like,&rdquo; exclaimed Sónya, in a despairing voice as she looked
  at Natásha, &ldquo;say what you like, it&rsquo;s still too long.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha stepped back to look at herself in the pier glass. The dress 
  too long.
<br />
  &ldquo;Really, madam, it is not at all too long,&rdquo; said Mávra, crawling on her
  knees after her young lady.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, if it&rsquo;s too long we&rsquo;ll tack it up... we&rsquo;ll tack it up in one
  minute,&rdquo; said the resolute Dunyásha taking a needle that was stuck on the
  front of her little shawl and, still kneeling on the floor, set to work
  once more.
<br />
  At that moment, with soft steps, the countess came in shyly, in her cap
  and velvet gown.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oo-oo, my beauty!&rdquo; exclaimed the count, &ldquo;she looks better than any of
  you!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He would have embraced her but, blushing, she stepped aside fearing to be
  rumpled.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mamma, your cap, more to this side,&rdquo; said Natásha. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll arrange it,&rdquo; and
  she rushed forward so that the maids who were tacking up her skirt could
  not move fast enough and a piece of gauze was torn off.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh goodness! What has happened? Really it was not my fault!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Never mind, I&rsquo;ll run it up, it won&rsquo;t show,&rdquo; said Dunyásha.
<br />
  &ldquo;What a beauty&mdash;a very queen!&rdquo; said the nurse as she came to the
  door. &ldquo;And Sónya! They are lovely!&rdquo;
 <br />
  At a quarter past ten they at last got into their carriages and started.
  But they had still to call at the Taurida Gardens.
<br />
  Perónskaya was quite ready. In spite of her age and plainness she had gone
  through the same process as the Rostóvs, but with less flurry&mdash;for to
  her it was a matter of routine. Her ugly old body was washed, perfumed,
  and powdered in just the same way. She had washed behind her ears just as
  carefully, and when she entered her drawing room in her yellow dress,
  wearing her badge as maid of honor, her old lady&rsquo;s maid was as full of
  rapturous admiration as the Rostóvs&rsquo; servants had been.
<br />
  She praised the Rostóvs&rsquo; toilets. They praised her taste and toilet, and
  at eleven o&rsquo;clock, careful of their coiffures and dresses, they settled
  themselves in their carriages and drove off.

  CHAPTER XV


  Natásha had not had a moment free since early morning and had not once had
  time to think of what lay before her.
<br />
  In the damp chill air and crowded closeness of the swaying carriage, she
  for the first time vividly imagined what was in store for her there at the
  ball, in those brightly lighted rooms&mdash;with music, flowers, dances,
  the Emperor, and all the brilliant young people of Petersburg. The
  prospect was so splendid that she hardly believed it would come true, so
  out of keeping was it with the chill darkness and closeness of the
  carriage. She understood all that awaited her only when, after stepping
  over the red baize at the entrance, she entered the hall, took off her fur
  cloak, and, beside Sónya and in front of her mother, mounted the brightly
  illuminated stairs between the flowers. Only then did she remember how she
  must behave at a ball, and tried to assume the majestic air she considered
  indispensable for a girl on such an occasion. But, fortunately for her,
  she felt her eyes growing misty, she saw nothing clearly, her pulse beat a
  hundred to the minute, and the blood throbbed at her heart. She could not
  assume that pose, which would have made her ridiculous, and she moved on
  almost fainting from excitement and trying with all her might to conceal
  it. And this was the very attitude that became her best. Before and behind
  them other visitors were entering, also talking in low tones and wearing
  ball dresses. The mirrors on the landing reflected ladies in white,
  pale-blue, and pink dresses, with diamonds and pearls on their bare necks
  and arms.
<br />
  Natásha looked in the mirrors and could not distinguish her reflection
  from the others. All was blended into one brilliant procession. On
  entering the ballroom the regular hum of voices, footsteps, and greetings
  deafened Natásha, and the light and glitter dazzled her still more. The
  host and hostess, who had already been standing at the door for half an
  hour repeating the same words to the various arrivals,  * greeted the Rostóvs and Perónskaya in the same manner.
<br />
* &ldquo;Delighted to see you.&rdquo;

The two girls in their white dresses, each with a rose in her black hair, both curtsied in the same way, but the hostess’ eye involuntarily rested longer on the slim Natásha. She looked at her and gave her alone a special smile in addition to her usual smile as hostess. Looking at her she may have recalled the golden, irrecoverable days of her own girlhood and her own first ball. The host also followed Natásha with his eyes and asked the count which was his daughter.
“Charming!” said he, kissing the tips of his fingers.
In the ballroom guests stood crowding at the entrance doors awaiting the Emperor. The countess took up a position in one of the front rows of that crowd. Natásha heard and felt that several people were asking about her and looking at her. She realized that those noticing her liked her, and this observation helped to calm her.
“There are some like ourselves and some worse,” she thought.
Perónskaya was pointing out to the countess the most important people at the ball.
“That is the Dutch ambassador, do you see? That gray-haired man,” she said, indicating an old man with a profusion of silver-gray curly hair, who was surrounded by ladies laughing at something he said.
“Ah, here she is, the Queen of Petersburg, Countess Bezúkhova,” said Perónskaya, indicating Hélène who had just entered. “How lovely! She is quite equal to Márya Antónovna. See how the men, young and old, pay court to her. Beautiful and clever… they say Prince —— is quite mad about her. But see, those two, though not good-looking, are even more run after.”
She pointed to a lady who was crossing the room followed by a very plain daughter.
“She is a splendid match, a millionairess,” said Perónskaya. “And look, here come her suitors.”
“That is Bezúkhova’s brother, Anatole Kurágin,” she said, indicating a handsome officer of the Horse Guards who passed by them with head erect, looking at something over the heads of the ladies. “He’s handsome, isn’t he? I hear they will marry him to that rich girl. But your cousin, Drubetskóy, is also very attentive to her. They say she has millions. Oh yes, that’s the French ambassador himself!” she replied to the countess’ inquiry about Caulaincourt. “Looks as if he were a king! All the same, the French are charming, very charming. No one more charming in society. Ah, here she is! Yes, she is still the most beautiful of them all, our Márya Antónovna! And how simply she is dressed! Lovely! And that stout one in spectacles is the universal Freemason,” she went on, indicating Pierre. “Put him beside his wife and he looks a regular buffoon!”
Pierre, swaying his stout body, advanced, making way through the crowd and nodding to right and left as casually and good-naturedly as if he were passing through a crowd at a fair. He pushed through, evidently looking for someone.
Natásha looked joyfully at the familiar face of Pierre, “the buffoon,” as Perónskaya had called him, and knew he was looking for them, and for her in particular. He had promised to be at the ball and introduce partners to her.
But before he reached them Pierre stopped beside a very handsome, dark man of middle height, and in a white uniform, who stood by a window talking to a tall man wearing stars and a ribbon. Natásha at once recognized the shorter and younger man in the white uniform: it was Bolkónski, who seemed to her to have grown much younger, happier, and better-looking.
“There’s someone else we know—Bolkónski, do you see, Mamma?” said Natásha, pointing out Prince Andrew. “You remember, he stayed a night with us at Otrádnoe.”
“Oh, you know him?” said Perónskaya. “I can’t bear him.

   * He&rsquo;s too proud for
  anything. Takes after his father. And he&rsquo;s hand in glove with Speránski,
  writing some project or other. Just look how he treats the ladies! There&rsquo;s
  one talking to him and he has turned away,&rdquo; she said, pointing at him.
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;d give it to him if he treated me as he does those ladies.&rdquo;
 <br />
* &ldquo;He is all the rage just now.&rdquo;

  CHAPTER XVI


  Suddenly everybody stirred, began talking, and pressed forward and then
  back, and between the two rows, which separated, the Emperor entered to
  the sounds of music that had immediately struck up. Behind him walked his
  host and hostess. He walked in rapidly, bowing to right and left as if
  anxious to get the first moments of the reception over. The band played
  the polonaise in vogue at that time on account of the words that had been
  set to it, beginning: &ldquo;Alexander, Elisaveta, all our hearts you ravish
  quite...&rdquo; The Emperor passed on to the drawing room, the crowd made a rush
  for the doors, and several persons with excited faces hurried there and
  back again. Then the crowd hastily retired from the drawing room door, at
  which the Emperor reappeared talking to the hostess. A young man, looking
  distraught, pounced down on the ladies, asking them to move aside. Some
  ladies, with faces betraying complete forgetfulness of all the rules of
  decorum, pushed forward to the detriment of their toilets. The men began
  to choose partners and take their places for the polonaise.
<br />
  Everyone moved back, and the Emperor came smiling out of the drawing room
  leading his hostess by the hand but not keeping time to the music. The
  host followed with Márya Antónovna Narýshkina; then came ambassadors,
  ministers, and various generals, whom Perónskaya diligently named. More
  than half the ladies already had partners and were taking up, or preparing
  to take up, their positions for the polonaise. Natásha felt that she would
  be left with her mother and Sónya among a minority of women who crowded
  near the wall, not having been invited to dance. She stood with her
  slender arms hanging down, her scarcely defined bosom rising and falling
  regularly, and with bated breath and glittering, frightened eyes gazed
  straight before her, evidently prepared for the height of joy or misery.
  She was not concerned about the Emperor or any of those great people whom
  Perónskaya was pointing out&mdash;she had but one thought: &ldquo;Is it possible
  no one will ask me, that I shall not be among the first to dance? Is it
  possible that not one of all these men will notice me? They do not even
  seem to see me, or if they do they look as if they were saying, &lsquo;Ah, she&rsquo;s
  not the one I&rsquo;m after, so it&rsquo;s not worth looking at her!&rsquo; No, it&rsquo;s
  impossible,&rdquo; she thought. &ldquo;They must know how I long to dance, how
  splendidly I dance, and how they would enjoy dancing with me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The strains of the polonaise, which had continued for a considerable time,
  had begun to sound like a sad reminiscence to Natásha&rsquo;s ears. She wanted
  to cry. Perónskaya had left them. The count was at the other end of the
  room. She and the countess and Sónya were standing by themselves as in the
  depths of a forest amid that crowd of strangers, with no one interested in
  them and not wanted by anyone. Prince Andrew with a lady passed by,
  evidently not recognizing them. The handsome Anatole was smilingly talking
  to a partner on his arm and looked at Natásha as one looks at a wall.
  Borís passed them twice and each time turned away. Berg and his wife, who
  were not dancing, came up to them.
<br />
  This family gathering seemed humiliating to Natásha&mdash;as if there were
  nowhere else for the family to talk but here at the ball. She did not
  listen to or look at Véra, who was telling her something about her own
  green dress.
<br />
  At last the Emperor stopped beside his last partner (he had danced with
  three) and the music ceased. A worried aide-de-camp ran up to the Rostóvs
  requesting them to stand farther back, though as it was they were already
  close to the wall, and from the gallery resounded the distinct, precise,
  enticingly rhythmical strains of a waltz. The Emperor looked smilingly
  down the room. A minute passed but no one had yet begun dancing. An
  aide-de-camp, the Master of Ceremonies, went up to Countess Bezúkhova and
  asked her to dance. She smilingly raised her hand and laid it on his
  shoulder without looking at him. The aide-de-camp, an adept in his art,
  grasping his partner firmly round her waist, with confident deliberation
  started smoothly, gliding first round the edge of the circle, then at the
  corner of the room he caught Hélène&rsquo;s left hand and turned her, the only
  sound audible, apart from the ever-quickening music, being the rhythmic
  click of the spurs on his rapid, agile feet, while at every third beat his
  partner&rsquo;s velvet dress spread out and seemed to flash as she whirled
  round. Natásha gazed at them and was ready to cry because it was not she
  who was dancing that first turn of the waltz.
<br />
  Prince Andrew, in the white uniform of a cavalry colonel, wearing
  stockings and dancing shoes, stood looking animated and bright in the
  front row of the circle not far from the Rostóvs. Baron Firhoff was
  talking to him about the first sitting of the Council of State to be held
  next day. Prince Andrew, as one closely connected with Speránski and
  participating in the work of the legislative commission, could give
  reliable information about that sitting, concerning which various rumors
  were current. But not listening to what Firhoff was saying, he was gazing
  now at the sovereign and now at the men intending to dance who had not yet
  gathered courage to enter the circle.
<br />
  Prince Andrew was watching these men abashed by the Emperor&rsquo;s presence,
  and the women who were breathlessly longing to be asked to dance.
<br />
  Pierre came up to him and caught him by the arm.
<br />
  &ldquo;You always dance. I have a protégée, the young Rostóva, here. Ask her,&rdquo;
   he said.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where is she?&rdquo; asked Bolkónski. &ldquo;Excuse me!&rdquo; he added, turning to the
  baron, &ldquo;we will finish this conversation elsewhere&mdash;at a ball one
  must dance.&rdquo; He stepped forward in the direction Pierre indicated. The
  despairing, dejected expression of Natásha&rsquo;s face caught his eye. He
  recognized her, guessed her feelings, saw that it was her début,
  remembered her conversation at the window, and with an expression of
  pleasure on his face approached Countess Rostóva.
<br />
  &ldquo;Allow me to introduce you to my daughter,&rdquo; said the countess, with
  heightened color.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have the pleasure of being already acquainted, if the countess
  remembers me,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew with a low and courteous bow quite
  belying Perónskaya&rsquo;s remarks about his rudeness, and approaching Natásha
  he held out his arm to grasp her waist before he had completed his
  invitation. He asked her to waltz. That tremulous expression on Natásha&rsquo;s
  face, prepared either for despair or rapture, suddenly brightened into a
  happy, grateful, childlike smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have long been waiting for you,&rdquo; that frightened happy little girl
  seemed to say by the smile that replaced the threatened tears, as she
  raised her hand to Prince Andrew&rsquo;s shoulder. They were the second couple
  to enter the circle. Prince Andrew was one of the best dancers of his day
  and Natásha danced exquisitely. Her little feet in their white satin
  dancing shoes did their work swiftly, lightly, and independently of
  herself, while her face beamed with ecstatic happiness. Her slender bare
  arms and neck were not beautiful&mdash;compared to Hélène&rsquo;s her shoulders
  looked thin and her bosom undeveloped. But Hélène seemed, as it were,
  hardened by a varnish left by the thousands of looks that had scanned her
  person, while Natásha was like a girl exposed for the first time, who
  would have felt very much ashamed had she not been assured that this was
  absolutely necessary.
<br />
  Prince Andrew liked dancing, and wishing to escape as quickly as possible
  from the political and clever talk which everyone addressed to him,
  wishing also to break up the circle of restraint he disliked, caused by
  the Emperor&rsquo;s presence, he danced, and had chosen Natásha because Pierre
  pointed her out to him and because she was the first pretty girl who
  caught his eye; but scarcely had he embraced that slender supple figure
  and felt her stirring so close to him and smiling so near him than the
  wine of her charm rose to his head, and he felt himself revived and
  rejuvenated when after leaving her he stood breathing deeply and watching
  the other dancers.

  CHAPTER XVII


  After Prince Andrew, Borís came up to ask Natásha for a dance, and then
  the aide-de-camp who had opened the ball, and several other young men, so
  that, flushed and happy, and passing on her superfluous partners to Sónya,
  she did not cease dancing all the evening. She noticed and saw nothing of
  what occupied everyone else. Not only did she fail to notice that the
  Emperor talked a long time with the French ambassador, and how
  particularly gracious he was to a certain lady, or that Prince So-and-so
  and So-and-so did and said this and that, and that Hélène had great
  success and was honored by the special attention of So-and-so, but she did
  not even see the Emperor, and only noticed that he had gone because the
  ball became livelier after his departure. For one of the merry cotillions
  before supper Prince Andrew was again her partner. He reminded her of
  their first encounter in the Otrádnoe avenue, and how she had been unable
  to sleep that moonlight night, and told her how he had involuntarily
  overheard her. Natásha blushed at that recollection and tried to excuse
  herself, as if there had been something to be ashamed of in what Prince
  Andrew had overheard.
<br />
  Like all men who have grown up in society, Prince Andrew liked meeting
  someone there not of the conventional society stamp. And such was Natásha,
  with her surprise, her delight, her shyness, and even her mistakes in
  speaking French. With her he behaved with special care and tenderness,
  sitting beside her and talking of the simplest and most unimportant
  matters; he admired her shy grace. In the middle of the cotillion, having
  completed one of the figures, Natásha, still out of breath, was returning
  to her seat when another dancer chose her. She was tired and panting and
  evidently thought of declining, but immediately put her hand gaily on the
  man&rsquo;s shoulder, smiling at Prince Andrew.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;d be glad to sit beside you and rest: I&rsquo;m tired; but you see how they
  keep asking me, and I&rsquo;m glad of it, I&rsquo;m happy and I love everybody, and
  you and I understand it all,&rdquo; and much, much more was said in her smile.
  When her partner left her Natásha ran across the room to choose two ladies
  for the figure.
<br />
  &ldquo;If she goes to her cousin first and then to another lady, she will be my
  wife,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew to himself quite to his own surprise, as he
  watched her. She did go first to her cousin.
<br />
  &ldquo;What rubbish sometimes enters one&rsquo;s head!&rdquo; thought Prince Andrew, &ldquo;but
  what is certain is that that girl is so charming, so original, that she
  won&rsquo;t be dancing here a month before she will be married.... Such as she
  are rare here,&rdquo; he thought, as Natásha, readjusting a rose that was
  slipping on her bodice, settled herself beside him.
<br />
  When the cotillion was over the old count in his blue coat came up to the
  dancers. He invited Prince Andrew to come and see them, and asked his
  daughter whether she was enjoying herself. Natásha did not answer at once
  but only looked up with a smile that said reproachfully: &ldquo;How can you ask
  such a question?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I have never enjoyed myself so much before!&rdquo; she said, and Prince Andrew
  noticed how her thin arms rose quickly as if to embrace her father and
  instantly dropped again. Natásha was happier than she had ever been in her
  life. She was at that height of bliss when one becomes completely kind and
  good and does not believe in the possibility of evil, unhappiness, or
  sorrow.
<br />
  At that ball Pierre for the first time felt humiliated by the position his
  wife occupied in court circles. He was gloomy and absent-minded. A deep
  furrow ran across his forehead, and standing by a window he stared over
  his spectacles seeing no one.
<br />
  On her way to supper Natásha passed him.
<br />
  Pierre&rsquo;s gloomy, unhappy look struck her. She stopped in front of him. She
  wished to help him, to bestow on him the superabundance of her own
  happiness.
<br />
  &ldquo;How delightful it is, Count!&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre smiled absent-mindedly, evidently not grasping what she said.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I am very glad,&rdquo; he said.
<br />
  &ldquo;How can people be dissatisfied with anything?&rdquo; thought Natásha.
  &ldquo;Especially such a capital fellow as Bezúkhov!&rdquo; In Natásha&rsquo;s eyes all the
  people at the ball alike were good, kind, and splendid people, loving one
  another; none of them capable of injuring another&mdash;and so they ought
  all to be happy.

  CHAPTER XVIII


  Next day Prince Andrew thought of the ball, but his mind did not dwell on
  it long. &ldquo;Yes, it was a very brilliant ball,&rdquo; and then... &ldquo;Yes, that
  little Rostóva is very charming. There&rsquo;s something fresh, original,
  un-Petersburg-like about her that distinguishes her.&rdquo; That was all he
  thought about yesterday&rsquo;s ball, and after his morning tea he set to work.
<br />
  But either from fatigue or want of sleep he was ill-disposed for work and
  could get nothing done. He kept criticizing his own work, as he often did,
  and was glad when he heard someone coming.
<br />
  The visitor was Bítski, who served on various committees, frequented all
  the societies in Petersburg, and was a passionate devotee of the new ideas and
  of Speránski, and a diligent Petersburg newsmonger&mdash;one of those men
  who choose their opinions like their clothes according to the fashion, but
  who for that very reason appear to be the warmest partisans. Hardly had he
  got rid of his hat before he ran into Prince Andrew&rsquo;s room with a
  preoccupied air and at once began talking. He had just heard particulars
  of that morning&rsquo;s sitting of the Council of State opened by the Emperor,
  and he spoke of it enthusiastically. The Emperor&rsquo;s speech had been
  extraordinary. It had been a speech such as only constitutional monarchs
  deliver. &ldquo;The Sovereign plainly said that the Council and Senate are
   of the realm, he said that the government must rest not on
  authority but on secure bases. The Emperor said that the fiscal system
  must be reorganized and the accounts published,&rdquo; recounted Bítski,
  emphasizing certain words and opening his eyes significantly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, yes! Today&rsquo;s events mark an epoch, the greatest epoch in our
  history,&rdquo; he concluded.
<br />
  Prince Andrew listened to the account of the opening of the Council of
  State, which he had so impatiently awaited and to which he had attached
  such importance, and was surprised that this event, now that it had taken
  place, did not affect him, and even seemed quite insignificant. He
  listened with quiet irony to Bítski&rsquo;s enthusiastic account of it. A very
  simple thought occurred to him: &ldquo;What does it matter to me or to Bítski
  what the Emperor was pleased to say at the Council? Can all that make me
  any happier or better?&rdquo;
 <br />
  And this simple reflection suddenly destroyed all the interest Prince
  Andrew had felt in the impending reforms. He was going to dine that
  evening at Speránski&rsquo;s, &ldquo;with only a few friends,&rdquo; as the host had said
  when inviting him. The prospect of that dinner in the intimate home circle
  of the man he so admired had greatly interested Prince Andrew, especially
  as he had not yet seen Speránski in his domestic surroundings, but now he
  felt disinclined to go to it.
<br />
  At the appointed hour, however, he entered the modest house Speránski
  owned in the Taurida Gardens. In the parqueted dining room of this small
  house, remarkable for its extreme cleanliness (suggesting that of a
  monastery), Prince Andrew, who was rather late, found the friendly
  gathering of Speránski&rsquo;s intimate acquaintances already assembled at five
  o&rsquo;clock. There were no ladies present except Speránski&rsquo;s little daughter
  (long-faced like her father) and her governess. The other guests were
  Gervais, Magnítski, and Stolýpin. While still in the anteroom Prince
  Andrew heard loud voices and a ringing staccato laugh&mdash;a laugh such
  as one hears on the stage. Someone&mdash;it sounded like Speránski&mdash;was
  distinctly ejaculating . Prince Andrew had never before heard
  Speránski&rsquo;s famous laugh, and this ringing, high-pitched laughter from a
  statesman made a strange impression on him.
<br />
  He entered the dining room. The whole company were standing between two
  windows at a small table laid with hors-d&rsquo;oeuvres. Speránski, wearing a
  gray swallow-tail coat with a star on the breast, and evidently still the
  same waistcoat and high white stock he had worn at the meeting of the
  Council of State, stood at the table with a beaming countenance. His
  guests surrounded him. Magnítski, addressing himself to Speránski, was
  relating an anecdote, and Speránski was laughing in advance at what
  Magnítski was going to say. When Prince Andrew entered the room
  Magnítski&rsquo;s words were again crowned by laughter. Stolýpin gave a deep
  bass guffaw as he munched a piece of bread and cheese. Gervais laughed
  softly with a hissing chuckle, and Speránski in a high-pitched staccato
  manner.
<br />
  Still laughing, Speránski held out his soft white hand to Prince Andrew.
<br />
  &ldquo;Very pleased to see you, Prince,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;One moment...&rdquo; he went on,
  turning to Magnítski and interrupting his story. &ldquo;We have agreed that this
  is a dinner for recreation, with not a word about business!&rdquo; and turning
  again to the narrator he began to laugh afresh.
<br />
  Prince Andrew looked at the laughing Speránski with astonishment, regret,
  and disillusionment. It seemed to him that this was not Speránski but
  someone else. Everything that had formerly appeared mysterious and
  fascinating in Speránski suddenly became plain and unattractive.
<br />
  At dinner the conversation did not cease for a moment and seemed to
  consist of the contents of a book of funny anecdotes. Before Magnítski had
  finished his story someone else was anxious to relate something still
  funnier. Most of the anecdotes, if not relating to the state service,
  related to people in the service. It seemed that in this company the
  insignificance of those people was so definitely accepted that the only
  possible attitude toward them was one of good humored ridicule. Speránski
  related how at the Council that morning a deaf dignitary, when asked his
  opinion, replied that he thought so too. Gervais gave a long account of an
  official revision, remarkable for the stupidity of everybody concerned.
  Stolýpin, stuttering, broke into the conversation and began excitedly
  talking of the abuses that existed under the former order of things&mdash;threatening
  to give a serious turn to the conversation. Magnítski starting quizzing
  Stolýpin about his vehemence. Gervais intervened with a joke, and the talk
  reverted to its former lively tone.
<br />
  Evidently Speránski liked to rest after his labors and find amusement in a
  circle of friends, and his guests, understanding his wish, tried to
  enliven him and amuse themselves. But their gaiety seemed to Prince Andrew
  mirthless and tiresome. Speránski&rsquo;s high-pitched voice struck him
  unpleasantly, and the incessant laughter grated on him like a false note.
  Prince Andrew did not laugh and feared that he would be a damper on the
  spirits of the company, but no one took any notice of his being out of
  harmony with the general mood. They all seemed very gay.
<br />
  He tried several times to join in the conversation, but his remarks were
  tossed aside each time like a cork thrown out of the water, and he could
  not jest with them.
<br />
  There was nothing wrong or unseemly in what they said, it was witty and
  might have been funny, but it lacked just that something which is the salt
  of mirth, and they were not even aware that such a thing existed.
<br />
  After dinner Speránski&rsquo;s daughter and her governess rose. He patted the
  little girl with his white hand and kissed her. And that gesture, too,
  seemed unnatural to Prince Andrew.
<br />
  The men remained at table over their port&mdash;English fashion. In the
  midst of a conversation that was started about Napoleon&rsquo;s Spanish affairs,
  which they all agreed in approving, Prince Andrew began to express a
  contrary opinion. Speránski smiled and, with an evident wish to prevent
  the conversation from taking an unpleasant course, told a story that had
  no connection with the previous conversation. For a few moments all were
  silent.
<br />
  Having sat some time at table, Speránski corked a bottle of wine and,
  remarking, &ldquo;Nowadays good wine rides in a carriage and pair,&rdquo; passed it to
  the servant and got up. All rose and continuing to talk loudly went into
  the drawing room. Two letters brought by a courier were handed to
  Speránski and he took them to his study. As soon as he had left the room
  the general merriment stopped and the guests began to converse sensibly
  and quietly with one another.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now for the recitation!&rdquo; said Speránski on returning from his study. &ldquo;A
  wonderful talent!&rdquo; he said to Prince Andrew, and Magnítski immediately
  assumed a pose and began reciting some humorous verses in French which he
  had composed about various well-known Petersburg people. He was
  interrupted several times by applause. When the verses were finished
  Prince Andrew went up to Speránski and took his leave.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where are you off to so early?&rdquo; asked Speránski.
<br />
  &ldquo;I promised to go to a reception.&rdquo;
 <br />
  They said no more. Prince Andrew looked closely into those mirrorlike,
  impenetrable eyes, and felt that it had been ridiculous of him to have
  expected anything from Speránski and from any of his own activities
  connected with him, or ever to have attributed importance to what
  Speránski was doing. That precise, mirthless laughter rang in Prince
  Andrew&rsquo;s ears long after he had left the house.
<br />
  When he reached home Prince Andrew began thinking of his life in
  Petersburg during those last four months as if it were something new. He
  recalled his exertions and solicitations, and the history of his project
  of army reform, which had been accepted for consideration and which they
  were trying to pass over in silence simply because another, a very poor
  one, had already been prepared and submitted to the Emperor. He thought of
  the meetings of a committee of which Berg was a member. He remembered how
  carefully and at what length everything relating to form and procedure was
  discussed at those meetings, and how sedulously and promptly all that
  related to the gist of the business was evaded. He recalled his labors on
  the Legal Code, and how painstakingly he had translated the articles of
  the Roman and French codes into Russian, and he felt ashamed of himself.
  Then he vividly pictured to himself Boguchárovo, his occupations in the
  country, his journey to Ryazán; he remembered the peasants and Dron the
  village elder, and mentally applying to them the Personal Rights he had
  divided into paragraphs, he felt astonished that he could have spent so
  much time on such useless work.

  CHAPTER XIX


  Next day Prince Andrew called at a few houses he had not visited before,
  and among them at the Rostóvs&rsquo; with whom he had renewed acquaintance at
  the ball. Apart from considerations of politeness which demanded the call,
  he wanted to see that original, eager girl who had left such a pleasant
  impression on his mind, in her own home.
<br />
  Natásha was one of the first to meet him. She was wearing a dark-blue
  house dress in which Prince Andrew thought her even prettier than in her
  ball dress. She and all the Rostóv family welcomed him as an old friend,
  simply and cordially. The whole family, whom he had formerly judged
  severely, now seemed to him to consist of excellent, simple, and kindly
  people. The old count&rsquo;s hospitality and good nature, which struck one
  especially in Petersburg as a pleasant surprise, were such that Prince
  Andrew could not refuse to stay to dinner. &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;they are
  capital people, who of course have not the slightest idea what a treasure
  they possess in Natásha; but they are kindly folk and form the best
  possible setting for this strikingly poetic, charming girl, overflowing
  with life!&rdquo;
 <br />
  In Natásha Prince Andrew was conscious of a strange world completely alien
  to him and brimful of joys unknown to him, a different world, that in the
  Otrádnoe avenue and at the window that moonlight night had already begun
  to disconcert him. Now this world disconcerted him no longer and was no
  longer alien to him, but he himself having entered it found in it a new
  enjoyment.
<br />
  After dinner Natásha, at Prince Andrew&rsquo;s request, went to the clavichord
  and began singing. Prince Andrew stood by a window talking to the ladies
  and listened to her. In the midst of a phrase he ceased speaking and
  suddenly felt tears choking him, a thing he had thought impossible for
  him. He looked at Natásha as she sang, and something new and joyful
  stirred in his soul. He felt happy and at the same time sad. He had
  absolutely nothing to weep about yet he was ready to weep. What about? His
  former love? The little princess? His disillusionments?... His hopes for
  the future?... Yes and no. The chief reason was a sudden, vivid sense of
  the terrible contrast between something infinitely great and illimitable
  within him and that limited and material something that he, and even she,
  was. This contrast weighed on and yet cheered him while she sang.
<br />
  As soon as Natásha had finished she went up to him and asked how he liked
  her voice. She asked this and then became confused, feeling that she ought
  not to have asked it. He smiled, looking at her, and said he liked her
  singing as he liked everything she did.
<br />
  Prince Andrew left the Rostóvs&rsquo; late in the evening. He went to bed from
  habit, but soon realized that he could not sleep. Having lit his candle he
  sat up in bed, then got up, then lay down again not at all troubled by his
  sleeplessness: his soul was as fresh and joyful as if he had stepped out
  of a stuffy room into God&rsquo;s own fresh air. It did not enter his head that
  he was in love with Natásha; he was not thinking about her, but only
  picturing her to himself, and in consequence all life appeared in a new
  light. &ldquo;Why do I strive, why do I toil in this narrow, confined frame,
  when life, all life with all its joys, is open to me?&rdquo; said he to himself.
  And for the first time for a very long while he began making happy plans
  for the future. He decided that he must attend to his son&rsquo;s education by
  finding a tutor and putting the boy in his charge, then he ought to retire
  from the service and go abroad, and see England, Switzerland and Italy. &ldquo;I
  must use my freedom while I feel so much strength and youth in me,&rdquo; he
  said to himself. &ldquo;Pierre was right when he said one must believe in the
  possibility of happiness in order to be happy, and now I do believe in it.
  Let the dead bury their dead, but while one has life one must live and be
  happy!&rdquo; thought he.

  CHAPTER XX


  One morning Colonel Berg, whom Pierre knew as he knew everybody in Moscow
  and Petersburg, came to see him. Berg arrived in an immaculate brand-new
  uniform, with his hair pomaded and brushed forward over his temples as the
  Emperor Alexander wore his hair.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have just been to see the countess, your wife. Unfortunately she could
  not grant my request, but I hope, Count, I shall be more fortunate with
  you,&rdquo; he said with a smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is it you wish, Colonel? I am at your service.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I have now quite settled in my new rooms, Count&rdquo; (Berg said this with
  perfect conviction that this information could not but be agreeable), &ldquo;and
  so I wish to arrange just a small party for my own and my wife&rsquo;s friends.&rdquo;
   (He smiled still more pleasantly.) &ldquo;I wished to ask the countess and you
  to do me the honor of coming to tea and to supper.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Only Countess Hélène, considering the society of such people as the Bergs
  beneath her, could be cruel enough to refuse such an invitation. Berg
  explained so clearly why he wanted to collect at his house a small but
  select company, and why this would give him pleasure, and why though he
  grudged spending money on cards or anything harmful, he was prepared to
  run into some expense for the sake of good society&mdash;that Pierre could
  not refuse, and promised to come.
<br />
  &ldquo;But don&rsquo;t be late, Count, if I may venture to ask; about ten minutes to
  eight, please. We shall make up a rubber. Our general is coming. He is
  very good to me. We shall have supper, Count. So you will do me the
  favor.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Contrary to his habit of being late, Pierre on that day arrived at the
  Bergs&rsquo; house, not at ten but at fifteen minutes to eight.
<br />
  Having prepared everything necessary for the party, the Bergs were ready
  for their guests&rsquo; arrival.
<br />
  In their new, clean, and light study with its small busts and pictures and
  new furniture sat Berg and his wife. Berg, closely buttoned up in his new
  uniform, sat beside his wife explaining to her that one always could and
  should be acquainted with people above one, because only then does one get
  satisfaction from acquaintances.
<br />
  &ldquo;You can get to know something, you can ask for something. See how I
  managed from my first promotion.&rdquo; (Berg measured his life not by years but
  by promotions.) &ldquo;My comrades are still nobodies, while I am only waiting
  for a vacancy to command a regiment, and have the happiness to be your
  husband.&rdquo; (He rose and kissed Véra&rsquo;s hand, and on the way to her
  straightened out a turned-up corner of the carpet.) &ldquo;And how have I
  obtained all this? Chiefly by knowing how to choose my aquaintances. It
  goes without saying that one must be conscientious and methodical.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Berg smiled with a sense of his superiority over a weak woman, and paused,
  reflecting that this dear wife of his was after all but a weak woman who
  could not understand all that constitutes a man&rsquo;s dignity, what it was  * Véra at the same time smiling with a sense of superiority
  over her good, conscientious husband, who all the same understood life
  wrongly, as according to Véra all men did. Berg, judging by his wife,
  thought all women weak and foolish. Véra, judging only by her husband and
  generalizing from that observation, supposed that all men, though they
  understand nothing and are conceited and selfish, ascribe common sense to
  themselves alone.
<br />
* To be a man.

Berg rose and embraced his wife carefully, so as not to crush her lace fichu for which he had paid a good price, kissing her straight on the lips.
“The only thing is, we mustn’t have children too soon,” he continued, following an unconscious sequence of ideas.
“Yes,” answered Véra, “I don’t at all want that. We must live for society.”
“Princess Yusúpova wore one exactly like this,” said Berg, pointing to the fichu with a happy and kindly smile.
Just then Count Bezúkhov was announced. Husband and wife glanced at one another, both smiling with self-satisfaction, and each mentally claiming the honor of this visit.
“This is what comes of knowing how to make acquaintances,” thought Berg. “This is what comes of knowing how to conduct oneself.”
“But please don’t interrupt me when I am entertaining the guests,” said Véra, “because I know what interests each of them and what to say to different people.”
Berg smiled again.
“It can’t be helped: men must sometimes have masculine conversation,” said he.
They received Pierre in their small, new drawing room, where it was impossible to sit down anywhere without disturbing its symmetry, neatness, and order; so it was quite comprehensible and not strange that Berg, having generously offered to disturb the symmetry of an armchair or of the sofa for his dear guest, but being apparently painfully undecided on the matter himself, eventually left the visitor to settle the question of selection. Pierre disturbed the symmetry by moving a chair for himself, and Berg and Véra immediately began their evening party, interrupting each other in their efforts to entertain their guest.
Véra, having decided in her own mind that Pierre ought to be entertained with conversation about the French embassy, at once began accordingly. Berg, having decided that masculine conversation was required, interrupted his wife’s remarks and touched on the question of the war with Austria, and unconsciously jumped from the general subject to personal considerations as to the proposals made him to take part in the Austrian campaign and the reasons why he had declined them. Though the conversation was very incoherent and Véra was angry at the intrusion of the masculine element, both husband and wife felt with satisfaction that, even if only one guest was present, their evening had begun very well and was as like as two peas to every other evening party with its talk, tea, and lighted candles.
Before long Borís, Berg’s old comrade, arrived. There was a shade of condescension and patronage in his treatment of Berg and Véra. After Borís came a lady with the colonel, then the general himself, then the Rostóvs, and the party became unquestionably exactly like all other evening parties. Berg and Véra could not repress their smiles of satisfaction at the sight of all this movement in their drawing room, at the sound of the disconnected talk, the rustling of dresses, and the bowing and scraping. Everything was just as everybody always has it, especially so the general, who admired the apartment, patted Berg on the shoulder, and with parental authority superintended the setting out of the table for boston. The general sat down by Count Ilyá Rostóv, who was next to himself the most important guest. The old people sat with the old, the young with the young, and the hostess at the tea table, on which stood exactly the same kind of cakes in a silver cake basket as the Panins had at their party. Everything was just as it was everywhere else.

  CHAPTER XXI


  Pierre, as one of the principal guests, had to sit down to boston with
  Count Rostóv, the general, and the colonel. At the card table he happened
  to be directly facing Natásha, and was struck by a curious change that had
  come over her since the ball. She was silent, and not only less pretty
  than at the ball, but only redeemed from plainness by her look of gentle
  indifference to everything around.
<br />
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter with her?&rdquo; thought Pierre, glancing at her. She was
  sitting by her sister at the tea table, and reluctantly, without looking
  at him, made some reply to Borís who sat down beside her. After playing
  out a whole suit and to his partner&rsquo;s delight taking five tricks, Pierre,
  hearing greetings and the steps of someone who had entered the room while
  he was picking up his tricks, glanced again at Natásha.
<br />
  &ldquo;What has happened to her?&rdquo; he asked himself with still greater surprise.
<br />
  Prince Andrew was standing before her, saying something to her with a look
  of tender solicitude. She, having raised her head, was looking up at him,
  flushed and evidently trying to master her rapid breathing. And the bright
  glow of some inner fire that had been suppressed was again alight in her.
  She was completely transformed and from a plain girl had again become what
  she had been at the ball.
<br />
  Prince Andrew went up to Pierre, and the latter noticed a new and youthful
  expression in his friend&rsquo;s face.
<br />
  Pierre changed places several times during the game, sitting now with his
  back to Natásha and now facing her, but during the whole of the six
  rubbers he watched her and his friend.
<br />
  &ldquo;Something very important is happening between them,&rdquo; thought Pierre, and
  a feeling that was both joyful and painful agitated him and made him
  neglect the game.
<br />
  After six rubbers the general got up, saying that it was no use playing
  like that, and Pierre was released. Natásha on one side was talking with
  Sónya and Borís, and Véra with a subtle smile was saying something to
  Prince Andrew. Pierre went up to his friend and, asking whether they were
  talking secrets, sat down beside them. Véra, having noticed Prince
  Andrew&rsquo;s attentions to Natásha, decided that at a party, a real evening
  party, subtle allusions to the tender passion were absolutely necessary
  and, seizing a moment when Prince Andrew was alone, began a conversation
  with him about feelings in general and about her sister. With so
  intellectual a guest as she considered Prince Andrew to be, she felt that
  she had to employ her diplomatic tact.
<br />
  When Pierre went up to them he noticed that Véra was being carried away by
  her self-satisfied talk, but that Prince Andrew seemed embarrassed, a
  thing that rarely happened with him.
<br />
  &ldquo;What do you think?&rdquo; Véra was saying with an arch smile. &ldquo;You are so
  discerning, Prince, and understand people&rsquo;s characters so well at a
  glance. What do you think of Natalie? Could she be constant in her
  attachments? Could she, like other women&rdquo; (Véra meant herself), &ldquo;love a
  man once for all and remain true to him forever? That is what I consider
  true love. What do you think, Prince?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I know your sister too little,&rdquo; replied Prince Andrew, with a sarcastic
  smile under which he wished to hide his embarrassment, &ldquo;to be able to
  solve so delicate a question, and then I have noticed that the less
  attractive a woman is the more constant she is likely to be,&rdquo; he added,
  and looked up at Pierre who was just approaching them.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, that is true, Prince. In our days,&rdquo; continued Véra&mdash;mentioning
  &ldquo;our days&rdquo; as people of limited intelligence are fond of doing, imagining
  that they have discovered and appraised the peculiarities of &ldquo;our days&rdquo;
   and that human characteristics change with the times&mdash;&ldquo;in our days a
  girl has so much freedom that the pleasure of being courted often stifles
  real feeling in her. And it must be confessed that Natalie is very
  susceptible.&rdquo; This return to the subject of Natalie caused Prince Andrew
  to knit his brows with discomfort: he was about to rise, but Véra
  continued with a still more subtle smile:
<br />
  &ldquo;I think no one has been more courted than she,&rdquo; she went on, &ldquo;but till
  quite lately she never cared seriously for anyone. Now you know, Count,&rdquo;
   she said to Pierre, &ldquo;even our dear cousin Borís, who, between ourselves,
  was very far gone in the land of tenderness...&rdquo; (alluding to a map of love
  much in vogue at that time).
<br />
  Prince Andrew frowned and remained silent.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are friendly with Borís, aren&rsquo;t you?&rdquo; asked Véra.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I know him....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I expect he has told you of his childish love for Natásha?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, there was childish love?&rdquo; suddenly asked Prince Andrew, blushing
  unexpectedly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, you know between cousins intimacy often leads to love.  * Don&rsquo;t you think so?&rdquo;
 <br />
* &ldquo;Cousinhood is a dangerous neighborhood.&rdquo;

“Oh, undoubtedly!” said Prince Andrew, and with sudden and unnatural liveliness he began chaffing Pierre about the need to be very careful with his fifty-year-old Moscow cousins, and in the midst of these jesting remarks he rose, taking Pierre by the arm, and drew him aside.
“Well?” asked Pierre, seeing his friend’s strange animation with surprise, and noticing the glance he turned on Natásha as he rose.
“I must… I must have a talk with you,” said Prince Andrew. “You know that pair of women’s gloves?” (He referred to the Masonic gloves given to a newly initiated Brother to present to the woman he loved.) “I… but no, I will talk to you later on,” and with a strange light in his eyes and restlessness in his movements, Prince Andrew approached Natásha and sat down beside her. Pierre saw how Prince Andrew asked her something and how she flushed as she replied.
But at that moment Berg came to Pierre and began insisting that he should take part in an argument between the general and the colonel on the affairs in Spain.
Berg was satisfied and happy. The smile of pleasure never left his face. The party was very successful and quite like other parties he had seen. Everything was similar: the ladies’ subtle talk, the cards, the general raising his voice at the card table, and the samovar and the tea cakes; only one thing was lacking that he had always seen at the evening parties he wished to imitate. They had not yet had a loud conversation among the men and a dispute about something important and clever. Now the general had begun such a discussion and so Berg drew Pierre to it.

  CHAPTER XXII


  Next day, having been invited by the count, Prince Andrew dined with the
  Rostóvs and spent the rest of the day there.
<br />
  Everyone in the house realized for whose sake Prince Andrew came, and
  without concealing it he tried to be with Natásha all day. Not only in the
  soul of the frightened yet happy and enraptured Natásha, but in the whole
  house, there was a feeling of awe at something important that was bound to
  happen. The countess looked with sad and sternly serious eyes at Prince
  Andrew when he talked to Natásha and timidly started some artificial
  conversation about trifles as soon as he looked her way. Sónya was afraid
  to leave Natásha and afraid of being in the way when she was with them.
  Natásha grew pale, in a panic of expectation, when she remained alone with
  him for a moment. Prince Andrew surprised her by his timidity. She felt
  that he wanted to say something to her but could not bring himself to do
  so.
<br />
  In the evening, when Prince Andrew had left, the countess went up to
  Natásha and whispered: &ldquo;Well, what?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Mamma! For heaven&rsquo;s sake don&rsquo;t ask me anything now! One can&rsquo;t talk about
  that,&rdquo; said Natásha.
<br />
  But all the same that night Natásha, now agitated and now frightened, lay
  a long time in her mother&rsquo;s bed gazing straight before her. She told her
  how he had complimented her, how he told her he was going abroad, asked
  her where they were going to spend the summer, and then how he had asked
  her about Borís.
<br />
  &ldquo;But such a... such a... never happened to me before!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Only I
  feel afraid in his presence. I am always afraid when I&rsquo;m with him. What
  does that mean? Does it mean that it&rsquo;s the real thing? Yes? Mamma, are you
  asleep?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, my love; I am frightened myself,&rdquo; answered her mother. &ldquo;Now go!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;All the same I shan&rsquo;t sleep. What silliness, to sleep! Mummy! Mummy! such
  a thing never happened to me before,&rdquo; she said, surprised and alarmed at
  the feeling she was aware of in herself. &ldquo;And could we ever have
  thought!...&rdquo;
 <br />
  It seemed to Natásha that even at the time she first saw Prince Andrew at
  Otrádnoe she had fallen in love with him. It was as if she feared this
  strange, unexpected happiness of meeting again the very man she had then
  chosen (she was firmly convinced she had done so) and of finding him, as
  it seemed, not indifferent to her.
<br />
  &ldquo;And it had to happen that he should come specially to Petersburg while we
  are here. And it had to happen that we should meet at that ball. It is
  fate. Clearly it is fate that everything led up to this! Already ,
  directly I saw him I felt something peculiar.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What else did he say to you? What are those verses? Read them...&rdquo; said
  her mother, thoughtfully, referring to some verses Prince Andrew had
  written in Natásha&rsquo;s album.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mamma, one need not be ashamed of his being a widower?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t, Natásha! Pray to God. &lsquo;Marriages are made in heaven,&rsquo;&rdquo; said her
  mother.
<br />
  &ldquo;Darling Mummy, how I love you! How happy I am!&rdquo; cried Natásha, shedding
  tears of joy and excitement and embracing her mother.
<br />
  At that very time Prince Andrew was sitting with Pierre and telling him of
  his love for Natásha and his firm resolve to make her his wife.
<br />
  That day Countess Hélène had a reception at her house. The French
  ambassador was there, and a foreign prince of the blood who had of late
  become a frequent visitor of hers, and many brilliant ladies and
  gentlemen. Pierre, who had come downstairs, walked through the rooms and
  struck everyone by his preoccupied, absent-minded, and morose air.
<br />
  Since the ball he had felt the approach of a fit of nervous depression and
  had made desperate efforts to combat it. Since the intimacy of his wife
  with the royal prince, Pierre had unexpectedly been made a gentleman of
  the bedchamber, and from that time he had begun to feel oppressed and
  ashamed in court society, and dark thoughts of the vanity of all things
  human came to him oftener than before. At the same time the feeling he had
  noticed between his protégée Natásha and Prince Andrew accentuated his
  gloom by the contrast between his own position and his friend&rsquo;s. He tried
  equally to avoid thinking about his wife, and about Natásha and Prince
  Andrew; and again everything seemed to him insignificant in comparison
  with eternity; again the question: for what? presented itself; and he
  forced himself to work day and night at Masonic labors, hoping to drive
  away the evil spirit that threatened him. Toward midnight, after he had
  left the countess&rsquo; apartments, he was sitting upstairs in a shabby
  dressing gown, copying out the original transaction of the Scottish lodge
  of Freemasons at a table in his low room cloudy with tobacco smoke, when
  someone came in. It was Prince Andrew.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, it&rsquo;s you!&rdquo; said Pierre with a preoccupied, dissatisfied air. &ldquo;And I,
  you see, am hard at it.&rdquo; He pointed to his manuscript book with that air
  of escaping from the ills of life with which unhappy people look at their
  work.
<br />
  Prince Andrew, with a beaming, ecstatic expression of renewed life on his
  face, paused in front of Pierre and, not noticing his sad look, smiled at
  him with the egotism of joy.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, dear heart,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I wanted to tell you about it yesterday and
  I have come to do so today. I never experienced anything like it before. I
  am in love, my friend!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Suddenly Pierre heaved a deep sigh and dumped his heavy person down on the
  sofa beside Prince Andrew.
<br />
  &ldquo;With Natásha Rostóva, yes?&rdquo; said he.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes! Who else should it be? I should never have believed it, but the
  feeling is stronger than I. Yesterday I tormented myself and suffered, but
  I would not exchange even that torment for anything in the world, I have
  not lived till now. At last I live, but I can&rsquo;t live without her! But can
  she love me?... I am too old for her.... Why don&rsquo;t you speak?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I? I? What did I tell you?&rdquo; said Pierre suddenly, rising and beginning to
  pace up and down the room. &ldquo;I always thought it.... That girl is such a
  treasure... she is a rare girl.... My dear friend, I entreat you, don&rsquo;t
  philosophize, don&rsquo;t doubt, marry, marry, marry.... And I am sure there
  will not be a happier man than you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But what of her?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;She loves you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t talk rubbish...&rdquo; said Prince Andrew, smiling and looking into
  Pierre&rsquo;s eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;She does, I know,&rdquo; Pierre cried fiercely.
<br />
  &ldquo;But do listen,&rdquo; returned Prince Andrew, holding him by the arm. &ldquo;Do you
  know the condition I am in? I must talk about it to someone.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, go on, go on. I am very glad,&rdquo; said Pierre, and his face really
  changed, his brow became smooth, and he listened gladly to Prince Andrew.
  Prince Andrew seemed, and really was, quite a different, quite a new man.
  Where was his spleen, his contempt for life, his disillusionment? Pierre
  was the only person to whom he made up his mind to speak openly; and to
  him he told all that was in his soul. Now he boldly and lightly made plans
  for an extended future, said he could not sacrifice his own happiness to
  his father&rsquo;s caprice, and spoke of how he would either make his father
  consent to this marriage and love her, or would do without his consent;
  then he marveled at the feeling that had mastered him as at something
  strange, apart from and independent of himself.
<br />
  &ldquo;I should not have believed anyone who told me that I was capable of such
  love,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew. &ldquo;It is not at all the same feeling that I knew
  in the past. The whole world is now for me divided into two halves: one
  half is she, and there all is joy, hope, light: the other half is
  everything where she is not, and there is all gloom and darkness....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Darkness and gloom,&rdquo; reiterated Pierre: &ldquo;yes, yes, I understand that.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I cannot help loving the light, it is not my fault. And I am very happy!
  You understand me? I know you are glad for my sake.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; Pierre assented, looking at his friend with a touched and sad
  expression in his eyes. The brighter Prince Andrew&rsquo;s lot appeared to him,
  the gloomier seemed his own.

  CHAPTER XXIII


  Prince Andrew needed his father&rsquo;s consent to his marriage, and to obtain
  this he started for the country next day.
<br />
  His father received his son&rsquo;s communication with external composure, but
  inward wrath. He could not comprehend how anyone could wish to alter his
  life or introduce anything new into it, when his own life was already
  ending. &ldquo;If only they would let me end my days as I want to,&rdquo; thought the
  old man, &ldquo;then they might do as they please.&rdquo; With his son, however, he
  employed the diplomacy he reserved for important occasions and, adopting a
  quiet tone, discussed the whole matter.
<br />
  In the first place the marriage was not a brilliant one as regards birth,
  wealth, or rank. Secondly, Prince Andrew was no longer as young as he had
  been and his health was poor (the old man laid special stress on this),
  while she was very young. Thirdly, he had a son whom it would be a pity to
  entrust to a chit of a girl. &ldquo;Fourthly and finally,&rdquo; the father said,
  looking ironically at his son, &ldquo;I beg you to put it off for a year: go
  abroad, take a cure, look out as you wanted to for a German tutor for
  Prince Nicholas. Then if your love or passion or obstinacy&mdash;as you
  please&mdash;is still as great, marry! And that&rsquo;s my last word on it.
  Mind, the last...&rdquo; concluded the prince, in a tone which showed that
  nothing would make him alter his decision.
<br />
  Prince Andrew saw clearly that the old man hoped that his feelings, or his
  fiancée&rsquo;s, would not stand a year&rsquo;s test, or that he (the old prince
  himself) would die before then, and he decided to conform to his father&rsquo;s
  wish&mdash;to propose, and postpone the wedding for a year.
<br />
  Three weeks after the last evening he had spent with the Rostóvs, Prince
  Andrew returned to Petersburg.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  Next day after her talk with her mother Natásha expected Bolkónski all
  day, but he did not come. On the second and third day it was the same.
  Pierre did not come either and Natásha, not knowing that Prince Andrew had
  gone to see his father, could not explain his absence to herself.
<br />
  Three weeks passed in this way. Natásha had no desire to go out anywhere
  and wandered from room to room like a shadow, idle and listless; she wept
  secretly at night and did not go to her mother in the evenings. She
  blushed continually and was irritable. It seemed to her that everybody
  knew about her disappointment and was laughing at her and pitying her.
  Strong as was her inward grief, this wound to her vanity intensified her
  misery.
<br />
  Once she came to her mother, tried to say something, and suddenly began to
  cry. Her tears were those of an offended child who does not know why it is
  being punished.
<br />
  The countess began to soothe Natásha, who after first listening to her
  mother&rsquo;s words, suddenly interrupted her:
<br />
  &ldquo;Leave off, Mamma! I don&rsquo;t think, and don&rsquo;t want to think about it! He
  just came and then left off, left off....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Her voice trembled, and she again nearly cried, but recovered and went on
  quietly:
<br />
  &ldquo;And I don&rsquo;t at all want to get married. And I am afraid of him; I have
  now become quite calm, quite calm.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The day after this conversation Natásha put on the old dress which she
  knew had the peculiar property of conducing to cheerfulness in the
  mornings, and that day she returned to the old way of life which she had
  abandoned since the ball. Having finished her morning tea she went to the
  ballroom, which she particularly liked for its loud resonance, and began
  singing her solfeggio. When she had finished her first exercise she stood
  still in the middle of the room and sang a musical phrase that
  particularly pleased her. She listened joyfully (as though she had not
  expected it) to the charm of the notes reverberating, filling the whole
  empty ballroom, and slowly dying away; and all at once she felt cheerful.
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the good of making so much of it? Things are nice as it is,&rdquo; she
  said to herself, and she began walking up and down the room, not stepping
  simply on the resounding parquet but treading with each step from the heel
  to the toe (she had on a new and favorite pair of shoes) and listening to
  the regular tap of the heel and creak of the toe as gladly as she had to
  the sounds of her own voice. Passing a mirror she glanced into it. &ldquo;There,
  that&rsquo;s me!&rdquo; the expression of her face seemed to say as she caught sight
  of herself. &ldquo;Well, and very nice too! I need nobody.&rdquo;
 <br />
  A footman wanted to come in to clear away something in the room but she
  would not let him, and having closed the door behind him continued her
  walk. That morning she had returned to her favorite mood&mdash;love of,
  and delight in, herself. &ldquo;How charming that Natásha is!&rdquo; she said again,
  speaking as some third, collective, male person. &ldquo;Pretty, a good voice,
  young, and in nobody&rsquo;s way if only they leave her in peace.&rdquo; But however
  much they left her in peace she could not now be at peace, and immediately
  felt this.
<br />
  In the hall the porch door opened, and someone asked, &ldquo;At home?&rdquo; and then
  footsteps were heard. Natásha was looking at the mirror, but did not see
  herself. She listened to the sounds in the hall. When she saw herself, her
  face was pale. It was . She knew this for certain, though she hardly
  heard his voice through the closed doors.
<br />
  Pale and agitated, Natásha ran into the drawing room.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mamma! Bolkónski has come!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Mamma, it is awful, it is
  unbearable! I don&rsquo;t want... to be tormented? What am I to do?...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Before the countess could answer, Prince Andrew entered the room with an
  agitated and serious face. As soon as he saw Natásha his face brightened.
  He kissed the countess&rsquo; hand and Natásha&rsquo;s, and sat down beside the sofa.
<br />
  &ldquo;It is long since we had the pleasure...&rdquo; began the countess, but Prince
  Andrew interrupted her by answering her intended question, obviously in
  haste to say what he had to.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have not been to see you all this time because I have been at my
  father&rsquo;s. I had to talk over a very important matter with him. I only got
  back last night,&rdquo; he said glancing at Natásha; &ldquo;I want to have a talk with
  you, Countess,&rdquo; he added after a moment&rsquo;s pause.
<br />
  The countess lowered her eyes, sighing deeply.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am at your disposal,&rdquo; she murmured.
<br />
  Natásha knew that she ought to go away, but was unable to do so: something
  gripped her throat, and regardless of manners she stared straight at
  Prince Andrew with wide-open eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;At once? This instant!... No, it can&rsquo;t be!&rdquo; she thought.
<br />
  Again he glanced at her, and that glance convinced her that she was not
  mistaken. Yes, at once, that very instant, her fate would be decided.
<br />
  &ldquo;Go, Natásha! I will call you,&rdquo; said the countess in a whisper.
<br />
  Natásha glanced with frightened imploring eyes at Prince Andrew and at her
  mother and went out.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have come, Countess, to ask for your daughter&rsquo;s hand,&rdquo; said Prince
  Andrew.
<br />
  The countess&rsquo; face flushed hotly, but she said nothing.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your offer...&rdquo; she began at last sedately. He remained silent, looking
  into her eyes. &ldquo;Your offer...&rdquo; (she grew confused) &ldquo;is agreeable to us,
  and I accept your offer. I am glad. And my husband... I hope... but it
  will depend on her....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I will speak to her when I have your consent.... Do you give it to me?&rdquo;
   said Prince Andrew.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied the countess. She held out her hand to him, and with a
  mixed feeling of estrangement and tenderness pressed her lips to his
  forehead as he stooped to kiss her hand. She wished to love him as a son,
  but felt that to her he was a stranger and a terrifying man. &ldquo;I am sure my
  husband will consent,&rdquo; said the countess, &ldquo;but your father...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;My father, to whom I have told my plans, has made it an express condition
  of his consent that the wedding is not to take place for a year. And I
  wished to tell you of that,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew.
<br />
  &ldquo;It is true that Natásha is still young, but&mdash;so long as that?...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It is unavoidable,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew with a sigh.
<br />
  &ldquo;I will send her to you,&rdquo; said the countess, and left the room.
<br />
  &ldquo;Lord have mercy upon us!&rdquo; she repeated while seeking her daughter.
<br />
  Sónya said that Natásha was in her bedroom. Natásha was sitting on the
  bed, pale and dry-eyed, and was gazing at the icons and whispering
  something as she rapidly crossed herself. Seeing her mother she jumped up
  and flew to her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, Mamma?... Well?...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Go, go to him. He is asking for your hand,&rdquo; said the countess, coldly it
  seemed to Natásha. &ldquo;Go... go,&rdquo; said the mother, sadly and reproachfully,
  with a deep sigh, as her daughter ran away.
<br />
  Natásha never remembered how she entered the drawing room. When she came
  in and saw him she paused. &ldquo;Is it possible that this stranger has now
  become  to me?&rdquo; she asked herself, and immediately answered,
  &ldquo;Yes, everything! He alone is now dearer to me than everything in the
  world.&rdquo; Prince Andrew came up to her with downcast eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have loved you from the very first moment I saw you. May I hope?&rdquo;
 <br />
  He looked at her and was struck by the serious impassioned expression of
  her face. Her face said: &ldquo;Why ask? Why doubt what you cannot but know? Why
  speak, when words cannot express what one feels?&rdquo;
 <br />
  She drew near to him and stopped. He took her hand and kissed it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you love me?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes!&rdquo; Natásha murmured as if in vexation. Then she sighed loudly
  and, catching her breath more and more quickly, began to sob.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is it? What&rsquo;s the matter?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, I am so happy!&rdquo; she replied, smiled through her tears, bent over
  closer to him, paused for an instant as if asking herself whether she
  might, and then kissed him.
<br />
  Prince Andrew held her hands, looked into her eyes, and did not find in
  his heart his former love for her. Something in him had suddenly changed;
  there was no longer the former poetic and mystic charm of desire, but
  there was pity for her feminine and childish weakness, fear at her
  devotion and trustfulness, and an oppressive yet joyful sense of the duty
  that now bound him to her forever. The present feeling, though not so
  bright and poetic as the former, was stronger and more serious.
<br />
  &ldquo;Did your mother tell you that it cannot be for a year?&rdquo; asked Prince
  Andrew, still looking into her eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is it possible that I&mdash;the &lsquo;chit of a girl,&rsquo; as everybody
  called me,&rdquo; thought Natásha&mdash;&ldquo;is it possible that I am now to be
  the  and the equal of this strange, dear, clever man whom even my father
  looks up to? Can it be true? Can it be true that there can be no more playing
  with life, that now I am grown up, that on me now lies a responsibility
  for my every word and deed? Yes, but what did he ask me?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No,&rdquo; she replied, but she had not understood his question.
<br />
  &ldquo;Forgive me!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;But you are so young, and I have already been
  through so much in life. I am afraid for you, you do not yet know
  yourself.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha listened with concentrated attention, trying but failing to take
  in the meaning of his words.
<br />
  &ldquo;Hard as this year which delays my happiness will be,&rdquo; continued Prince
  Andrew, &ldquo;it will give you time to be sure of yourself. I ask you to make
  me happy in a year, but you are free: our engagement shall remain a
  secret, and should you find that you do not love me, or should you come to
  love...&rdquo; said Prince Andrew with an unnatural smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why do you say that?&rdquo; Natásha interrupted him. &ldquo;You know that from the
  very day you first came to Otrádnoe I have loved you,&rdquo; she cried, quite
  convinced that she spoke the truth.
<br />
  &ldquo;In a year you will learn to know yourself....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A whole year!&rdquo; Natásha repeated suddenly, only now realizing that the
  marriage was to be postponed for a year. &ldquo;But why a year? Why a year?...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Andrew began to explain to her the reasons for this delay. Natásha
  did not hear him.
<br />
  &ldquo;And can&rsquo;t it be helped?&rdquo; she asked. Prince Andrew did not reply, but his
  face expressed the impossibility of altering that decision.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s awful! Oh, it&rsquo;s awful! awful!&rdquo; Natásha suddenly cried, and again
  burst into sobs. &ldquo;I shall die, waiting a year: it&rsquo;s impossible, it&rsquo;s
  awful!&rdquo; She looked into her lover&rsquo;s face and saw in it a look of
  commiseration and perplexity.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, no! I&rsquo;ll do anything!&rdquo; she said, suddenly checking her tears. &ldquo;I am
  so happy.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The father and mother came into the room and gave the betrothed couple
  their blessing.
<br />
  From that day Prince Andrew began to frequent the Rostóvs&rsquo; as Natásha&rsquo;s
  affianced lover.

  CHAPTER XXIV


  No betrothal ceremony took place and Natásha&rsquo;s engagement to Bolkónski was
  not announced; Prince Andrew insisted on that. He said that as he was
  responsible for the delay he ought to bear the whole burden of it; that he
  had given his word and bound himself forever, but that he did not wish to
  bind Natásha and gave her perfect freedom. If after six months she felt
  that she did not love him she would have full right to reject him.
  Naturally neither Natásha nor her parents wished to hear of this, but
  Prince Andrew was firm. He came every day to the Rostóvs&rsquo;, but did not
  behave to Natásha as an affianced lover: he did not use the familiar ,
  but said  to her, and kissed only her hand. After their engagement,
  quite different, intimate, and natural relations sprang up between them.
  It was as if they had not known each other till now. Both liked to recall
  how they had regarded each other when as yet they were  to one
  another; they felt themselves now quite different beings: then they were
  artificial, now natural and sincere. At first the family felt some
  constraint in intercourse with Prince Andrew; he seemed a man from another
  world, and for a long time Natásha trained the family to get used to him,
  proudly assuring them all that he only appeared to be different, but was
  really just like all of them, and that she was not afraid of him and no
  one else ought to be. After a few days they grew accustomed to him, and
  without restraint in his presence pursued their usual way of life, in
  which he took his part. He could talk about rural economy with the count,
  fashions with the countess and Natásha, and about albums and fancywork
  with Sónya. Sometimes the household both among themselves and in his
  presence expressed their wonder at how it had all happened, and at the
  evident omens there had been of it: Prince Andrew&rsquo;s coming to Otrádnoe and
  their coming to Petersburg, and the likeness between Natásha and Prince
  Andrew which her nurse had noticed on his first visit, and Andrew&rsquo;s
  encounter with Nicholas in 1805, and many other incidents betokening that
  it had to be.
<br />
  In the house that poetic dullness and quiet reigned which always
  accompanies the presence of a betrothed couple. Often when all sitting
  together everyone kept silent. Sometimes the others would get up and go
  away and the couple, left alone, still remained silent. They rarely spoke
  of their future life. Prince Andrew was afraid and ashamed to speak of it.
  Natásha shared this as she did all his feelings, which she constantly
  divined. Once she began questioning him about his son. Prince Andrew
  blushed, as he often did now&mdash;Natásha particularly liked it in him&mdash;and
  said that his son would not live with them.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo; asked Natásha in a frightened tone.
<br />
  &ldquo;I cannot take him away from his grandfather, and besides...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How I should have loved him!&rdquo; said Natásha, immediately guessing his
  thought; &ldquo;but I know you wish to avoid any pretext for finding fault with
  us.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sometimes the old count would come up, kiss Prince Andrew, and ask his
  advice about Pétya&rsquo;s education or Nicholas&rsquo; service. The old countess
  sighed as she looked at them; Sónya was always getting frightened lest she
  should be in the way and tried to find excuses for leaving them alone,
  even when they did not wish it. When Prince Andrew spoke (he could tell a
  story very well), Natásha listened to him with pride; when she spoke she
  noticed with fear and joy that he gazed attentively and scrutinizingly at
  her. She asked herself in perplexity: &ldquo;What does he look for in me? He is
  trying to discover something by looking at me! What if what he seeks in me
  is not there?&rdquo; Sometimes she fell into one of the mad, merry moods
  characteristic of her, and then she particularly loved to hear and see how
  Prince Andrew laughed. He seldom laughed, but when he did he abandoned
  himself entirely to his laughter, and after such a laugh she always felt
  nearer to him. Natásha would have been completely happy if the thought of
  the separation awaiting her and drawing near had not terrified her, just
  as the mere thought of it made him turn pale and cold.
<br />
  On the eve of his departure from Petersburg Prince Andrew brought with him
  Pierre, who had not been to the Rostóvs&rsquo; once since the ball. Pierre
  seemed disconcerted and embarrassed. He was talking to the countess, and
  Natásha sat down beside a little chess table with Sónya, thereby inviting
  Prince Andrew to come too. He did so.
<br />
  &ldquo;You have known Bezúkhov a long time?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;Do you like him?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, he&rsquo;s a dear, but very absurd.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And as usual when speaking of Pierre, she began to tell anecdotes of his
  absent-mindedness, some of which had even been invented about him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you know I have entrusted him with our secret? I have known him from
  childhood. He has a heart of gold. I beg you, Natalie,&rdquo; Prince Andrew said
  with sudden seriousness&mdash;&ldquo;I am going away and heaven knows what may
  happen. You may cease to... all right, I know I am not to say that. Only
  this, then: whatever may happen to you when I am not here...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What can happen?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Whatever trouble may come,&rdquo; Prince Andrew continued, &ldquo;I beg you,
  Mademoiselle Sophie, whatever may happen, to turn to him alone for advice
  and help! He is a most absent-minded and absurd fellow, but he has a heart
  of gold.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Neither her father, nor her mother, nor Sónya, nor Prince Andrew himself
  could have foreseen how the separation from her lover would act on
  Natásha. Flushed and agitated she went about the house all that day,
  dry-eyed, occupied with most trivial matters as if not understanding what
  awaited her. She did not even cry when, on taking leave, he kissed her
  hand for the last time. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t go!&rdquo; she said in a tone that made him
  wonder whether he really ought not to stay and which he remembered long
  afterwards. Nor did she cry when he was gone; but for several days she sat
  in her room dry-eyed, taking no interest in anything and only saying now
  and then, &ldquo;Oh, why did he go away?&rdquo;
 <br />
  But a fortnight after his departure, to the surprise of those around her,
  she recovered from her mental sickness just as suddenly and became her old
  self again, but with a change in her moral physiognomy, as a child gets up
  after a long illness with a changed expression of face.

  CHAPTER XXV


  During that year after his son&rsquo;s departure, Prince Nicholas Bolkónski&rsquo;s
  health and temper became much worse. He grew still more irritable, and it
  was Princess Mary who generally bore the brunt of his frequent fits of
  unprovoked anger. He seemed carefully to seek out her tender spots so as
  to torture her mentally as harshly as possible. Princess Mary had two
  passions and consequently two joys&mdash;her nephew, little Nicholas, and
  religion&mdash;and these were the favorite subjects of the prince&rsquo;s
  attacks and ridicule. Whatever was spoken of he would bring round to the
  superstitiousness of old maids, or the petting and spoiling of children.
  &ldquo;You want to make him&rdquo;&mdash;little Nicholas&mdash;&ldquo;into an old maid like
  yourself! A pity! Prince Andrew wants a son and not an old maid,&rdquo; he would
  say. Or, turning to Mademoiselle Bourienne, he would ask her in Princess
  Mary&rsquo;s presence how she liked our village priests and icons and would joke
  about them.
<br />
  He continually hurt Princess Mary&rsquo;s feelings and tormented her, but it
  cost her no effort to forgive him. Could he be to blame toward her, or
  could her father, whom she knew loved her in spite of it all, be unjust?
  And what is justice? The princess never thought of that proud word
  &ldquo;justice.&rdquo; All the complex laws of man centered for her in one clear and
  simple law&mdash;the law of love and self-sacrifice taught us by Him who
  lovingly suffered for mankind though He Himself was God. What had she to
  do with the justice or injustice of other people? She had to endure and
  love, and that she did.
<br />
  During the winter Prince Andrew had come to Bald Hills and had been gay,
  gentle, and more affectionate than Princess Mary had known him for a long
  time past. She felt that something had happened to him, but he said
  nothing to her about his love. Before he left he had a long talk with his
  father about something, and Princess Mary noticed that before his
  departure they were dissatisfied with one another.
<br />
  Soon after Prince Andrew had gone, Princess Mary wrote to her friend Julie
  Karágina in Petersburg, whom she had dreamed (as all girls dream) of
  marrying to her brother, and who was at that time in mourning for her own
  brother, killed in Turkey.
<br />
  Sorrow, it seems, is our common lot, my dear, tender friend Julie.
<br />
  Your loss is so terrible that I can only explain it to myself as a special
  providence of God who, loving you, wishes to try you and your excellent
  mother. Oh, my friend! Religion, and religion alone, can&mdash;I will not
  say comfort us&mdash;but save us from despair. Religion alone can explain
  to us what without its help man cannot comprehend: why, for what cause,
  kind and noble beings able to find happiness in life&mdash;not merely
  harming no one but necessary to the happiness of others&mdash;are called
  away to God, while cruel, useless, harmful persons, or such as are a
  burden to themselves and to others, are left living. The first death I
  saw, and one I shall never forget&mdash;that of my dear sister-in-law&mdash;left
  that impression on me. Just as you ask destiny why your splendid brother
  had to die, so I asked why that angel Lise, who not only never wronged
  anyone, but in whose soul there were never any unkind thoughts, had to
  die. And what do you think, dear friend? Five years have passed since
  then, and already I, with my petty understanding, begin to see clearly why
  she had to die, and in what way that death was but an expression of the
  infinite goodness of the Creator, whose every action, though generally
  incomprehensible to us, is but a manifestation of His infinite love for
  His creatures. Perhaps, I often think, she was too angelically innocent to
  have the strength to perform all a mother&rsquo;s duties. As a young wife she
  was irreproachable; perhaps she could not have been so as a mother. As it
  is, not only has she left us, and particularly Prince Andrew, with the
  purest regrets and memories, but probably she will  receive a place I
  dare not hope for myself. But not to speak of her alone, that early and
  terrible death has had the most beneficent influence on me and on my
  brother in spite of all our grief. Then, at the moment of our loss, these
  thoughts could not occur to me; I should then have dismissed them with
  horror, but now they are very clear and certain. I write all this to you,
  dear friend, only to convince you of the Gospel truth which has become for
  me a principle of life: not a single hair of our heads will fall without
  His will. And His will is governed only by infinite love for us, and so
  whatever befalls us is for our good.
<br />
  You ask whether we shall spend next winter in Moscow. In spite of my wish
  to see you, I do not think so and do not want to do so. You will be
  surprised to hear that the reason for this is Buonaparte! The case is
  this: my father&rsquo;s health is growing noticeably worse, he cannot stand any
  contradiction and is becoming irritable. This irritability is, as you
  know, chiefly directed to political questions. He cannot endure the notion
  that Buonaparte is negotiating on equal terms with all the sovereigns of
  Europe and particularly with our own, the grandson of the Great Catherine!
  As you know, I am quite indifferent to politics, but from my father&rsquo;s
  remarks and his talks with Michael Ivánovich I know all that goes on in
  the world and especially about the honors conferred on Buonaparte, who
  only at Bald Hills in the whole world, it seems, is not accepted as a
  great man, still less as Emperor of France. And my father cannot stand
  this. It seems to me that it is chiefly because of his political views
  that my father is reluctant to speak of going to Moscow; for he foresees
  the encounters that would result from his way of expressing his views
  regardless of anybody. All the benefit he might derive from a course of
  treatment he would lose as a result of the disputes about Buonaparte which
  would be inevitable. In any case it will be decided very shortly.
<br />
  Our family life goes on in the old way except for my brother Andrew&rsquo;s
  absence. He, as I wrote you before, has changed very much of late. After
  his sorrow he only this year quite recovered his spirits. He has again
  become as I used to know him when a child: kind, affectionate, with that
  heart of gold to which I know no equal. He has realized, it seems to me,
  that life is not over for him. But together with this mental change he has
  grown physically much weaker. He has become thinner and more nervous. I am
  anxious about him and glad he is taking this trip abroad which the doctors
  recommended long ago. I hope it will cure him. You write that in
  Petersburg he is spoken of as one of the most active, cultivated, and
  capable of the young men. Forgive my vanity as a relation, but I never
  doubted it. The good he has done to everybody here, from his peasants up
  to the gentry, is incalculable. On his arrival in Petersburg he received
  only his due. I always wonder at the way rumors fly from Petersburg to
  Moscow, especially such false ones as that you write about&mdash;I mean
  the report of my brother&rsquo;s betrothal to the little Rostóva. I do not think
  my brother will ever marry again, and certainly not her; and this is why:
  first, I know that though he rarely speaks about the wife he has lost, the
  grief of that loss has gone too deep in his heart for him ever to decide
  to give her a successor and our little angel a stepmother. Secondly
  because, as far as I know, that girl is not the kind of girl who could
  please Prince Andrew. I do not think he would choose her for a wife, and
  frankly I do not wish it. But I am running on too long and am at the end
  of my second sheet. Good-by, my dear friend. May God keep you in His holy
  and mighty care. My dear friend, Mademoiselle Bourienne, sends you kisses.
<br />
  MARY

  CHAPTER XXVI


  In the middle of the summer Princess Mary received an unexpected letter
  from Prince Andrew in Switzerland in which he gave her strange and
  surprising news. He informed her of his engagement to Natásha Rostóva. The
  whole letter breathed loving rapture for his betrothed and tender and
  confiding affection for his sister. He wrote that he had never loved as he
  did now and that only now did he understand and know what life was. He
  asked his sister to forgive him for not having told her of his resolve
  when he had last visited Bald Hills, though he had spoken of it to his
  father. He had not done so for fear Princess Mary should ask her father to
  give his consent, irritating him and having to bear the brunt of his
  displeasure without attaining her object. &ldquo;Besides,&rdquo; he wrote, &ldquo;the matter
  was not then so definitely settled as it is now. My father then insisted
  on a delay of a year and now already , half of that period, have
  passed, and my resolution is firmer than ever. If the doctors did not keep
  me here at the spas I should be back in Russia, but as it is I have to
  postpone my return for three months. You know me and my relations with
  Father. I want nothing from him. I have been and always shall be
  independent; but to go against his will and arouse his anger, now that he
  may perhaps remain with us such a short time, would destroy half my
  happiness. I am now writing to him about the same question, and beg you to
  choose a good moment to hand him the letter and to let me know how he
  looks at the whole matter and whether there is hope that he may consent to
  reduce the term by four months.&rdquo;
 <br />
  After long hesitations, doubts, and prayers, Princess Mary gave the letter
  to her father. The next day the old prince said to her quietly:
<br />
  &ldquo;Write and tell your brother to wait till I am dead.... It won&rsquo;t be long&mdash;I
  shall soon set him free.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The princess was about to reply, but her father would not let her speak
  and, raising his voice more and more, cried:
<br />
  &ldquo;Marry, marry, my boy!... A good family!... Clever people, eh? Rich, eh?
  Yes, a nice stepmother little Nicholas will have! Write and tell him that
  he may marry tomorrow if he likes. She will be little Nicholas&rsquo; stepmother
  and I&rsquo;ll marry Bourienne!... Ha, ha, ha! He mustn&rsquo;t be without a
  stepmother either! Only one thing, no more women are wanted in my house&mdash;let
  him marry and live by himself. Perhaps you will go and live with him too?&rdquo;
   he added, turning to Princess Mary. &ldquo;Go in heaven&rsquo;s name! Go out into the
  frost... the frost... the frost!&rdquo;
 <br />
  After this outburst the prince did not speak any more about the matter.
  But repressed vexation at his son&rsquo;s poor-spirited behavior found
  expression in his treatment of his daughter. To his former pretexts for
  irony a fresh one was now added&mdash;allusions to stepmothers and
  amiabilities to Mademoiselle Bourienne.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why shouldn&rsquo;t I marry her?&rdquo; he asked his daughter. &ldquo;She&rsquo;ll make a
  splendid princess!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And latterly, to her surprise and bewilderment, Princess Mary noticed that
  her father was really associating more and more with the Frenchwoman. She
  wrote to Prince Andrew about the reception of his letter, but comforted
  him with hopes of reconciling their father to the idea.
<br />
  Little Nicholas and his education, her brother Andrew, and religion were
  Princess Mary&rsquo;s joys and consolations; but besides that, since everyone
  must have personal hopes, Princess Mary in the profoundest depths of her
  heart had a hidden dream and hope that supplied the chief consolation of
  her life. This comforting dream and hope were given her by &mdash;the
  half-witted and other pilgrims who visited her without the prince&rsquo;s
  knowledge. The longer she lived, the more experience and observation she
  had of life, the greater was her wonder at the short-sightedness of men
  who seek enjoyment and happiness here on earth: toiling, suffering,
  struggling, and harming one another, to obtain that impossible, visionary,
  sinful happiness. Prince Andrew had loved his wife, she died, but that was
  not enough: he wanted to bind his happiness to another woman. Her father
  objected to this because he wanted a more distinguished and wealthier
  match for Andrew. And they all struggled and suffered and tormented one
  another and injured their souls, their eternal souls, for the attainment
  of benefits which endure but for an instant. Not only do we know this
  ourselves, but Christ, the Son of God, came down to earth and told us that
  this life is but for a moment and is a probation; yet we cling to it and
  think to find happiness in it. &ldquo;How is it that no one realizes this?&rdquo;
   thought Princess Mary. &ldquo;No one except these despised  who,
  wallet on back, come to me by the back door, afraid of being seen by the
  prince, not for fear of ill-usage by him but for fear of causing him to
  sin. To leave family, home, and all the cares of worldly welfare, in order
  without clinging to anything to wander in hempen rags from place to place
  under an assumed name, doing no one any harm but praying for all&mdash;for
  those who drive one away as well as for those who protect one: higher than
  that life and truth there is no life or truth!&rdquo;
 <br />
  There was one pilgrim, a quiet pockmarked little woman of fifty called
  Theodosia, who for over thirty years had gone about barefoot and worn
  heavy chains. Princess Mary was particularly fond of her. Once, when in a
  room with a lamp dimly lit before the icon Theodosia was talking of her
  life, the thought that Theodosia alone had found the true path of life
  suddenly came to Princess Mary with such force that she resolved to become
  a pilgrim herself. When Theodosia had gone to sleep Princess Mary thought
  about this for a long time, and at last made up her mind that, strange as
  it might seem, she must go on a pilgrimage. She disclosed this thought to
  no one but to her confessor, Father Akínfi, the monk, and he approved of
  her intention. Under guise of a present for the pilgrims, Princess Mary
  prepared a pilgrim&rsquo;s complete costume for herself: a coarse smock, bast
  shoes, a rough coat, and a black kerchief. Often, approaching the chest of
  drawers containing this secret treasure, Princess Mary paused, uncertain
  whether the time had not already come to put her project into execution.
<br />
  Often, listening to the pilgrims&rsquo; tales, she was so stimulated by their
  simple speech, mechanical to them but to her so full of deep meaning, that
  several times she was on the point of abandoning everything and running
  away from home. In imagination she already pictured herself by Theodosia&rsquo;s
  side, dressed in coarse rags, walking with a staff, a wallet on her back,
  along the dusty road, directing her wanderings from one saint&rsquo;s shrine to
  another, free from envy, earthly love, or desire, and reaching at last the
  place where there is no more sorrow or sighing, but eternal joy and bliss.
<br />
  &ldquo;I shall come to a place and pray there, and before having time to get
  used to it or getting to love it, I shall go farther. I will go on till my
  legs fail, and I&rsquo;ll lie down and die somewhere, and shall at last reach
  that eternal, quiet haven, where there is neither sorrow nor sighing...&rdquo;
   thought Princess Mary.
<br />
  But afterwards, when she saw her father and especially little Koko
  (Nicholas), her resolve weakened. She wept quietly, and felt that she was
  a sinner who loved her father and little nephew more than God.

  BOOK SEVEN: 1810 - 11

  CHAPTER I


  The Bible legend tells us that the absence of labor&mdash;idleness&mdash;was
  a condition of the first man&rsquo;s blessedness before the Fall. Fallen man has
  retained a love of idleness, but the curse weighs on the race not only
  because we have to seek our bread in the sweat of our brows, but because
  our moral nature is such that we cannot be both idle and at ease. An inner
  voice tells us we are in the wrong if we are idle. If man could find a
  state in which he felt that though idle he was fulfilling his duty, he
  would have found one of the conditions of man&rsquo;s primitive blessedness. And
  such a state of obligatory and irreproachable idleness is the lot of a
  whole class&mdash;the military. The chief attraction of military service
  has consisted and will consist in this compulsory and irreproachable
  idleness.
<br />
  Nicholas Rostóv experienced this blissful condition to the full when,
  after 1807, he continued to serve in the Pávlograd regiment, in which he
  already commanded the squadron he had taken over from Denísov.
<br />
  Rostóv had become a bluff, good-natured fellow, whom his Moscow
  acquaintances would have considered rather bad form, but who was liked and
  respected by his comrades, subordinates, and superiors, and was well
  contented with his life. Of late, in 1809, he found in letters from home
  more frequent complaints from his mother that their affairs were falling
  into greater and greater disorder, and that it was time for him to come
  back to gladden and comfort his old parents.
<br />
  Reading these letters, Nicholas felt a dread of their wanting to take him
  away from surroundings in which, protected from all the entanglements of
  life, he was living so calmly and quietly. He felt that sooner or later he
  would have to re-enter that whirlpool of life, with its embarrassments and
  affairs to be straightened out, its accounts with stewards, quarrels, and
  intrigues, its ties, society, and with Sónya&rsquo;s love and his promise to
  her. It was all dreadfully difficult and complicated; and he replied to
  his mother in cold, formal letters in French, beginning: &ldquo;My dear Mamma,&rdquo;
   and ending: &ldquo;Your obedient son,&rdquo; which said nothing of when he would
  return. In 1810 he received letters from his parents, in which they told
  him of Natásha&rsquo;s engagement to Bolkónski, and that the wedding would be in
  a year&rsquo;s time because the old prince made difficulties. This letter
  grieved and mortified Nicholas. In the first place he was sorry that
  Natásha, for whom he cared more than for anyone else in the family, should
  be lost to the home; and secondly, from his hussar point of view, he
  regretted not to have been there to show that fellow Bolkónski that
  connection with him was no such great honor after all, and that if he
  loved Natásha he might dispense with permission from his dotard father.
  For a moment he hesitated whether he should not apply for leave in order
  to see Natásha before she was married, but then came the maneuvers, and
  considerations about Sónya and about the confusion of their affairs, and
  Nicholas again put it off. But in the spring of that year, he received a
  letter from his mother, written without his father&rsquo;s knowledge, and that
  letter persuaded him to return. She wrote that if he did not come and take
  matters in hand, their whole property would be sold by auction and they
  would all have to go begging. The count was so weak, and trusted Mítenka
  so much, and was so good-natured, that everybody took advantage of him and
  things were going from bad to worse. &ldquo;For God&rsquo;s sake, I implore you, come
  at once if you do not wish to make me and the whole family wretched,&rdquo;
   wrote the countess.
<br />
  This letter touched Nicholas. He had that common sense of a matter-of-fact
  man which showed him what he ought to do.
<br />
  The right thing now was, if not to retire from the service, at any rate to
  go home on leave. Why he had to go he did not know; but after his
  after-dinner nap he gave orders to saddle Mars, an extremely vicious gray
  stallion that had not been ridden for a long time, and when he returned
  with the horse all in a lather, he informed Lavrúshka (Denísov&rsquo;s servant
  who had remained with him) and his comrades who turned up in the evening
  that he was applying for leave and was going home. Difficult and strange
  as it was for him to reflect that he would go away without having heard
  from the staff&mdash;and this interested him extremely&mdash;whether he
  was promoted to a captaincy or would receive the Order of St. Anne for the
  last maneuvers; strange as it was to think that he would go away without
  having sold his three roans to the Polish Count Golukhovski, who was
  bargaining for the horses Rostóv had betted he would sell for two thousand
  rubles; incomprehensible as it seemed that the ball the hussars were
  giving in honor of the Polish Mademoiselle Przazdziecka (out of rivalry to
  the Uhlans who had given one in honor of their Polish Mademoiselle
  Borzozowska) would take place without him&mdash;he knew he must go away
  from this good, bright world to somewhere where everything was stupid and
  confused. A week later he obtained his leave. His hussar comrades&mdash;not
  only those of his own regiment, but the whole brigade&mdash;gave Rostóv a
  dinner to which the subscription was fifteen rubles a head, and at which
  there were two bands and two choirs of singers. Rostóv danced the Trepák
  with Major Básov; the tipsy officers tossed, embraced, and dropped Rostóv;
  the soldiers of the third squadron tossed him too, and shouted &ldquo;hurrah!&rdquo;
   and then they put him in his sleigh and escorted him as far as the first
  post station.
<br />
  During the first half of the journey&mdash;from Kremenchúg to Kiev&mdash;all
  Rostóv&rsquo;s thoughts, as is usual in such cases, were behind him, with the
  squadron; but when he had gone more than halfway he began to forget his
  three roans and Dozhoyvéyko, his quartermaster, and to wonder anxiously
  how things would be at Otrádnoe and what he would find there. Thoughts of
  home grew stronger the nearer he approached it&mdash;far stronger, as
  though this feeling of his was subject to the law by which the force of
  attraction is in inverse proportion to the square of the distance. At the
  last post station before Otrádnoe he gave the driver a three-ruble tip,
  and on arriving he ran breathlessly, like a boy, up the steps of his home.
<br />
  After the rapture of meeting, and after that odd feeling of unsatisfied
  expectation&mdash;the feeling that &ldquo;everything is just the same, so why
  did I hurry?&rdquo;&mdash;Nicholas began to settle down in his old home world.
  His father and mother were much the same, only a little older. What was
  new in them was a certain uneasiness and occasional discord, which there
  used not to be, and which, as Nicholas soon found out, was due to the bad
  state of their affairs. Sónya was nearly twenty; she had stopped growing
  prettier and promised nothing more than she was already, but that was
  enough. She exhaled happiness and love from the time Nicholas returned,
  and the faithful, unalterable love of this girl had a gladdening effect on
  him. Pétya and Natásha surprised Nicholas most. Pétya was a big handsome
  boy of thirteen, merry, witty, and mischievous, with a voice that was
  already breaking. As for Natásha, for a long while Nicholas wondered and
  laughed whenever he looked at her.
<br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;re not the same at all,&rdquo; he said.
<br />
  &ldquo;How? Am I uglier?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;On the contrary, but what dignity? A princess!&rdquo; he whispered to her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes, yes!&rdquo; cried Natásha, joyfully.
<br />
  She told him about her romance with Prince Andrew and of his visit to
  Otrádnoe and showed him his last letter.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, are you glad?&rdquo; Natásha asked. &ldquo;I am so tranquil and happy now.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Very glad,&rdquo; answered Nicholas. &ldquo;He is an excellent fellow.... And are you
  very much in love?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How shall I put it?&rdquo; replied Natásha. &ldquo;I was in love with Borís, with my
  teacher, and with Denísov, but this is quite different. I feel at peace
  and settled. I know that no better man than he exists, and I am calm and
  contented now. Not at all as before.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Nicholas expressed his disapproval of the postponement of the marriage for
  a year; but Natásha attacked her brother with exasperation, proving to him
  that it could not be otherwise, and that it would be a bad thing to enter
  a family against the father&rsquo;s will, and that she herself wished it so.
<br />
  &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t at all understand,&rdquo; she said.
<br />
  Nicholas was silent and agreed with her.
<br />
  Her brother often wondered as he looked at her. She did not seem at all
  like a girl in love and parted from her affianced husband. She was
  even-tempered and calm and quite as cheerful as of old. This amazed
  Nicholas and even made him regard Bolkónski&rsquo;s courtship skeptically. He
  could not believe that her fate was sealed, especially as he had not seen
  her with Prince Andrew. It always seemed to him that there was something
  not quite right about this intended marriage.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why this delay? Why no betrothal?&rdquo; he thought. Once, when he had touched
  on this topic with his mother, he discovered, to his surprise and somewhat
  to his satisfaction, that in the depth of her soul she too had doubts
  about this marriage.
<br />
  &ldquo;You see he writes,&rdquo; said she, showing her son a letter of Prince
  Andrew&rsquo;s, with that latent grudge a mother always has in regard to a
  daughter&rsquo;s future married happiness, &ldquo;he writes that he won&rsquo;t come before
  December. What can be keeping him? Illness, probably! His health is very
  delicate. Don&rsquo;t tell Natásha. And don&rsquo;t attach importance to her being so
  bright: that&rsquo;s because she&rsquo;s living through the last days of her girlhood,
  but I know what she is like every time we receive a letter from him!
  However, God grant that everything turns out well!&rdquo; (She always ended with
  these words.) &ldquo;He is an excellent man!&rdquo;

  CHAPTER II


  After reaching home Nicholas was at first serious and even dull. He was
  worried by the impending necessity of interfering in the stupid business
  matters for which his mother had called him home. To throw off this burden
  as quickly as possible, on the third day after his arrival he went, angry
  and scowling and without answering questions as to where he was going, to
  Mítenka&rsquo;s lodge and demanded an . But what an
   might be Nicholas knew even less than the frightened
  and bewildered Mítenka. The conversation and the examination of the accounts
  with Mítenka did not last long. The village elder, a peasant delegate, and
  the village clerk, who were waiting in the passage, heard with fear and
  delight first the young count&rsquo;s voice roaring and snapping and rising
  louder and louder, and then words of abuse, dreadful words, ejaculated one
  after the other.
<br />
  &ldquo;Robber!... Ungrateful wretch!... I&rsquo;ll hack the dog to pieces! I&rsquo;m not my
  father!... Robbing us!...&rdquo; and so on.
<br />
  Then with no less fear and delight they saw how the young count, red in
  the face and with bloodshot eyes, dragged Mítenka out by the scruff of the
  neck and applied his foot and knee to his behind with great agility at
  convenient moments between the words, shouting, &ldquo;Be off! Never let me see
  your face here again, you villain!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Mítenka flew headlong down the six steps and ran away into the shrubbery.
  (This shrubbery was a well-known haven of refuge for culprits at Otrádnoe.
  Mítenka himself, returning tipsy from the town, used to hide there, and
  many of the residents at Otrádnoe, hiding from Mítenka, knew of its
  protective qualities.)
<br />
  Mítenka&rsquo;s wife and sisters-in-law thrust their heads and frightened faces
  out of the door of a room where a bright samovar was boiling and where the
  steward&rsquo;s high bedstead stood with its patchwork quilt.
<br />
  The young count paid no heed to them, but, breathing hard, passed by with
  resolute strides and went into the house.
<br />
  The countess, who heard at once from the maids what had happened at the
  lodge, was calmed by the thought that now their affairs would certainly
  improve, but on the other hand felt anxious as to the effect this
  excitement might have on her son. She went several times to his door on
  tiptoe and listened, as he lighted one pipe after another.
<br />
  Next day the old count called his son aside and, with an embarrassed
  smile, said to him:
<br />
  &ldquo;But you know, my dear boy, it&rsquo;s a pity you got excited! Mítenka has told
  me all about it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I knew,&rdquo; thought Nicholas, &ldquo;that I should never understand anything in
  this crazy world.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You were angry that he had not entered those 700 rubles. But they were
  carried forward&mdash;and you did not look at the other page.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Papa, he is a blackguard and a thief! I know he is! And what I have done,
  I have done; but, if you like, I won&rsquo;t speak to him again.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, my dear boy&rdquo; (the count, too, felt embarrassed. He knew he had
  mismanaged his wife&rsquo;s property and was to blame toward his children, but
  he did not know how to remedy it). &ldquo;No, I beg you to attend to the
  business. I am old. I...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, Papa. Forgive me if I have caused you unpleasantness. I understand it
  all less than you do.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Devil take all these peasants, and money matters, and carryings forward
  from page to page,&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;I used to understand what a &lsquo;corner&rsquo; and
  the stakes at cards meant, but carrying forward to another page I don&rsquo;t
  understand at all,&rdquo; said he to himself, and after that he did not meddle
  in business affairs. But once the countess called her son and informed him
  that she had a promissory note from Anna Mikháylovna for two thousand
  rubles, and asked him what he thought of doing with it.
<br />
  &ldquo;This,&rdquo; answered Nicholas. &ldquo;You say it rests with me. Well, I don&rsquo;t like
  Anna Mikháylovna and I don&rsquo;t like Borís, but they were our friends and
  poor. Well then, this!&rdquo; and he tore up the note, and by so doing caused
  the old countess to weep tears of joy. After that, young Rostóv took no
  further part in any business affairs, but devoted himself with passionate
  enthusiasm to what was to him a new pursuit&mdash;the chase&mdash;for
  which his father kept a large establishment.

  CHAPTER III


  The weather was already growing wintry and morning frosts congealed an
  earth saturated by autumn rains. The verdure had thickened and its bright
  green stood out sharply against the brownish strips of winter rye trodden
  down by the cattle, and against the pale-yellow stubble of the spring
  buckwheat. The wooded ravines and the copses, which at the end of August
  had still been green islands amid black fields and stubble, had become
  golden and bright-red islands amid the green winter rye. The hares had
  already half changed their summer coats, the fox cubs were beginning to
  scatter, and the young wolves were bigger than dogs. It was the best time
  of the year for the chase. The hounds of that ardent young sportsman
  Rostóv had not merely reached hard winter condition, but were so jaded
  that at a meeting of the huntsmen it was decided to give them a three
  days&rsquo; rest and then, on the sixteenth of September, to go on a distant
  expedition, starting from the oak grove where there was an undisturbed
  litter of wolf cubs.
<br />
  All that day the hounds remained at home. It was frosty and the air was
  sharp, but toward evening the sky became overcast and it began to thaw. On
  the fifteenth, when young Rostóv, in his dressing gown, looked out of the
  window, he saw it was an unsurpassable morning for hunting: it was as if
  the sky were melting and sinking to the earth without any wind. The only
  motion in the air was that of the dripping, microscopic particles of
  drizzling mist. The bare twigs in the garden were hung with transparent
  drops which fell on the freshly fallen leaves. The earth in the kitchen
  garden looked wet and black and glistened like poppy seed and at a short
  distance merged into the dull, moist veil of mist. Nicholas went out into
  the wet and muddy porch. There was a smell of decaying leaves and of dog.
  Mílka, a black-spotted, broad-haunched bitch with prominent black eyes,
  got up on seeing her master, stretched her hind legs, lay down like a
  hare, and then suddenly jumped up and licked him right on his nose and
  mustache. Another borzoi, a dog, catching sight of his master from the
  garden path, arched his back and, rushing headlong toward the porch with
  lifted tail, began rubbing himself against his legs.
<br />
  &ldquo;O-hoy!&rdquo; came at that moment, that inimitable huntsman&rsquo;s call which unites
  the deepest bass with the shrillest tenor, and round the corner came
  Daniel the head huntsman and head kennelman, a gray, wrinkled old man with
  hair cut straight over his forehead, Ukrainian fashion, a long bent whip
  in his hand, and that look of independence and scorn of everything that is
  only seen in huntsmen. He doffed his Circassian cap to his master and
  looked at him scornfully. This scorn was not offensive to his master.
  Nicholas knew that this Daniel, disdainful of everybody and who considered
  himself above them, was all the same his serf and huntsman.
<br />
  &ldquo;Daniel!&rdquo; Nicholas said timidly, conscious at the sight of the weather,
  the hounds, and the huntsman that he was being carried away by that
  irresistible passion for sport which makes a man forget all his previous
  resolutions, as a lover forgets in the presence of his mistress.
<br />
  &ldquo;What orders, your excellency?&rdquo; said the huntsman in his deep bass, deep
  as a proto-deacon&rsquo;s and hoarse with hallooing&mdash;and two flashing black
  eyes gazed from under his brows at his master, who was silent. &ldquo;Can you
  resist it?&rdquo; those eyes seemed to be asking.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a good day, eh? For a hunt and a gallop, eh?&rdquo; asked Nicholas,
  scratching Mílka behind the ears.
<br />
  Daniel did not answer, but winked instead.
<br />
  &ldquo;I sent Uvárka at dawn to listen,&rdquo; his bass boomed out after a minute&rsquo;s
  pause. &ldquo;He says  into the Otrádnoe enclosure.
  They were howling there.&rdquo; (This meant that the she-wolf, about whom they both
  knew, had moved with her cubs to the Otrádnoe copse, a small place a mile and a
  half from the house.)
<br />
  &ldquo;We ought to go, don&rsquo;t you think so?&rdquo; said Nicholas. &ldquo;Come to me with
  Uvárka.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;As you please.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Then put off feeding them.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, sir.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Five minutes later Daniel and Uvárka were standing in Nicholas&rsquo; big study.
  Though Daniel was not a big man, to see him in a room was like seeing a
  horse or a bear on the floor among the furniture and surroundings of human
  life. Daniel himself felt this, and as usual stood just inside the door,
  trying to speak softly and not move, for fear of breaking something in the
  master&rsquo;s apartment, and he hastened to say all that was necessary so as to
  get from under that ceiling, out into the open under the sky once more.
<br />
  Having finished his inquiries and extorted from Daniel an opinion that the
  hounds were fit (Daniel himself wished to go hunting), Nicholas ordered
  the horses to be saddled. But just as Daniel was about to go Natásha came
  in with rapid steps, not having done up her hair or finished dressing and
  with her old nurse&rsquo;s big shawl wrapped round her. Pétya ran in at the same
  time.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are going?&rdquo; asked Natásha. &ldquo;I knew you would! Sónya said you wouldn&rsquo;t
  go, but I knew that today is the sort of day when you couldn&rsquo;t help
  going.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, we are going,&rdquo; replied Nicholas reluctantly, for today, as he
  intended to hunt seriously, he did not want to take Natásha and Pétya. &ldquo;We
  are going, but only wolf hunting: it would be dull for you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You know it is my greatest pleasure,&rdquo; said Natásha. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not fair; you
  are going by yourself, are having the horses saddled and said nothing to
  us about it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;&lsquo;No barrier bars a Russian&rsquo;s path&rsquo;&mdash;we&rsquo;ll go!&rdquo; shouted Pétya.
<br />
  &ldquo;But you can&rsquo;t. Mamma said you mustn&rsquo;t,&rdquo; said Nicholas to Natásha.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I&rsquo;ll go. I shall certainly go,&rdquo; said Natásha decisively. &ldquo;Daniel,
  tell them to saddle for us, and Michael must come with my dogs,&rdquo; she added
  to the huntsman.
<br />
  It seemed to Daniel irksome and improper to be in a room at all, but to
  have anything to do with a young lady seemed to him impossible. He cast
  down his eyes and hurried out as if it were none of his business, careful
  as he went not to inflict any accidental injury on the young lady.

  CHAPTER IV


  The old count, who had always kept up an enormous hunting establishment
  but had now handed it all completely over to his son&rsquo;s care, being in very
  good spirits on this fifteenth of September, prepared to go out with the
  others.
<br />
  In an hour&rsquo;s time the whole hunting party was at the porch. Nicholas, with
  a stern and serious air which showed that now was no time for attending to
  trifles, went past Natásha and Pétya who were trying to tell him
  something. He had a look at all the details of the hunt, sent a pack of
  hounds and huntsmen on ahead to find the quarry, mounted his chestnut
  Donéts, and whistling to his own leash of borzois, set off across the
  threshing ground to a field leading to the Otrádnoe wood. The old count&rsquo;s
  horse, a sorrel gelding called Viflyánka, was led by the groom in
  attendance on him, while the count himself was to drive in a small trap
  straight to a spot reserved for him.
<br />
  They were taking fifty-four hounds, with six hunt attendants and
  whippers-in. Besides the family, there were eight borzoi kennelmen and
  more than forty borzois, so that, with the borzois on the leash belonging
  to members of the family, there were about a hundred and thirty dogs and
  twenty horsemen.
<br />
  Each dog knew its master and its call. Each man in the hunt knew his
  business, his place, what he had to do. As soon as they had passed the
  fence they all spread out evenly and quietly, without noise or talk, along
  the road and field leading to the Otrádnoe covert.
<br />
  The horses stepped over the field as over a thick carpet, now and then
  splashing into puddles as they crossed a road. The misty sky still seemed
  to descend evenly and imperceptibly toward the earth, the air was still,
  warm, and silent. Occasionally the whistle of a huntsman, the snort of a
  horse, the crack of a whip, or the whine of a straggling hound could be
  heard.
<br />
  When they had gone a little less than a mile, five more riders with dogs
  appeared out of the mist, approaching the Rostóvs. In front rode a
  fresh-looking, handsome old man with a large gray mustache.
<br />
  &ldquo;Good morning, Uncle!&rdquo; said Nicholas, when the old man drew near.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s it. Come on!... I was sure of it,&rdquo; began &ldquo;Uncle.&rdquo; (He was a
  distant relative of the Rostóvs&rsquo;, a man of small means, and their
  neighbor.) &ldquo;I knew you wouldn&rsquo;t be able to resist it and it&rsquo;s a good thing
  you&rsquo;re going. That&rsquo;s it! Come on!&rdquo; (This was &ldquo;Uncle&rsquo;s&rdquo; favorite
  expression.) &ldquo;Take the covert at once, for my Gírchik says the Ilágins are
  at Kornikí with their hounds. That&rsquo;s it. Come on!... They&rsquo;ll take the cubs
  from under your very nose.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s where I&rsquo;m going. Shall we join up our packs?&rdquo; asked Nicholas.
<br />
  The hounds were joined into one pack, and &ldquo;Uncle&rdquo; and Nicholas rode on
  side by side. Natásha, muffled up in shawls which did not hide her eager
  face and shining eyes, galloped up to them. She was followed by Pétya who
  always kept close to her, by Michael, a huntsman, and by a groom appointed
  to look after her. Pétya, who was laughing, whipped and pulled at his
  horse. Natásha sat easily and confidently on her black Arábchik and reined
  him in without effort with a firm hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;Uncle&rdquo; looked round disapprovingly at Pétya and Natásha. He did not like
  to combine frivolity with the serious business of hunting.
<br />
  &ldquo;Good morning, Uncle! We are going too!&rdquo; shouted Pétya.
<br />
  &ldquo;Good morning, good morning! But don&rsquo;t go overriding the hounds,&rdquo; said
  &ldquo;Uncle&rdquo; sternly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nicholas, what a fine dog Truníla is! He knew me,&rdquo; said Natásha,
  referring to her favorite hound.
<br />
  &ldquo;In the first place, Truníla is not a &lsquo;dog,&rsquo; but a harrier,&rdquo; thought
  Nicholas, and looked sternly at his sister, trying to make her feel the
  distance that ought to separate them at that moment. Natásha understood
  it.
<br />
  &ldquo;You mustn&rsquo;t think we&rsquo;ll be in anyone&rsquo;s way, Uncle,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;We&rsquo;ll go
  to our places and won&rsquo;t budge.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A good thing too, little countess,&rdquo; said &ldquo;Uncle,&rdquo; &ldquo;only mind you don&rsquo;t
  fall off your horse,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;because&mdash;that&rsquo;s it, come on!&mdash;you&rsquo;ve
  nothing to hold on to.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The oasis of the Otrádnoe covert came in sight a few hundred yards off,
  the huntsmen were already nearing it. Rostóv, having finally settled with
  &ldquo;Uncle&rdquo; where they should set on the hounds, and having shown Natásha
  where she was to stand&mdash;a spot where nothing could possibly run out&mdash;went
  round above the ravine.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, nephew, you&rsquo;re going for a big wolf,&rdquo; said &ldquo;Uncle.&rdquo; &ldquo;Mind and don&rsquo;t
  let her slip!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s as may happen,&rdquo; answered Rostóv. &ldquo;Karáy, here!&rdquo; he shouted,
  answering &ldquo;Uncle&rsquo;s&rdquo; remark by this call to his borzoi. Karáy was a shaggy
  old dog with a hanging jowl, famous for having tackled a big wolf unaided.
  They all took up their places.
<br />
  The old count, knowing his son&rsquo;s ardor in the hunt, hurried so as not to
  be late, and the huntsmen had not yet reached their places when Count Ilyá
  Rostóv, cheerful, flushed, and with quivering cheeks, drove up with his
  black horses over the winter rye to the place reserved for him, where a
  wolf might come out. Having straightened his coat and fastened on his
  hunting knives and horn, he mounted his good, sleek, well-fed, and
  comfortable horse, Viflyánka, which was turning gray, like himself. His
  horses and trap were sent home. Count Ilyá Rostóv, though not at heart a
  keen sportsman, knew the rules of the hunt well, and rode to the bushy
  edge of the road where he was to stand, arranged his reins, settled
  himself in the saddle, and, feeling that he was ready, looked about with a
  smile.
<br />
  Beside him was Simon Chekmár, his personal attendant, an old horseman now
  somewhat stiff in the saddle. Chekmár held in leash three formidable
  wolfhounds, who had, however, grown fat like their master and his horse.
  Two wise old dogs lay down unleashed. Some hundred paces farther along the
  edge of the wood stood Mítka, the count&rsquo;s other groom, a daring horseman
  and keen rider to hounds. Before the hunt, by old custom, the count had
  drunk a silver cupful of mulled brandy, taken a snack, and washed it down
  with half a bottle of his favorite Bordeaux.
<br />
  He was somewhat flushed with the wine and the drive. His eyes were rather
  moist and glittered more than usual, and as he sat in his saddle, wrapped
  up in his fur coat, he looked like a child taken out for an outing.
<br />
  The thin, hollow-cheeked Chekmár, having got everything ready, kept
  glancing at his master with whom he had lived on the best of terms for
  thirty years, and understanding the mood he was in expected a pleasant
  chat. A third person rode up circumspectly through the wood (it was plain
  that he had had a lesson) and stopped behind the count. This person was a
  gray-bearded old man in a woman&rsquo;s cloak, with a tall peaked cap on his
  head. He was the buffoon, who went by a woman&rsquo;s name, Nastásya Ivánovna.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, Nastásya Ivánovna!&rdquo; whispered the count, winking at him. &ldquo;If you
  scare away the beast, Daniel&rsquo;ll give it you!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I know a thing or two myself!&rdquo; said Nastásya Ivánovna.
<br />
  &ldquo;Hush!&rdquo; whispered the count and turned to Simon. &ldquo;Have you seen the young
  countess?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;Where is she?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;With young Count Peter, by the Zhárov rank grass,&rdquo; answered Simon,
  smiling. &ldquo;Though she&rsquo;s a lady, she&rsquo;s very fond of hunting.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And you&rsquo;re surprised at the way she rides, Simon, eh?&rdquo; said the count.
  &ldquo;She&rsquo;s as good as many a man!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Of course! It&rsquo;s marvelous. So bold, so easy!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And Nicholas? Where is he? By the Lyádov upland, isn&rsquo;t he?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, sir. He knows where to stand. He understands the matter so well that
  Daniel and I are often quite astounded,&rdquo; said Simon, well knowing what
  would please his master.
<br />
  &ldquo;Rides well, eh? And how well he looks on his horse, eh?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A perfect picture! How he chased a fox out of the rank grass by the
  Zavárzinsk thicket the other day! Leaped a fearful place; what a sight
  when they rushed from the covert... the horse worth a thousand rubles and
  the rider beyond all price! Yes, one would have to search far to find
  another as smart.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;To search far...&rdquo; repeated the count, evidently sorry Simon had not said
  more. &ldquo;To search far,&rdquo; he said, turning back the skirt of his coat to get
  at his snuffbox.
<br />
  &ldquo;The other day when he came out from Mass in full uniform, Michael
  Sidórych...&rdquo; Simon did not finish, for on the still air he had distinctly
  caught the music of the hunt with only two or three hounds giving tongue.
  He bent down his head and listened, shaking a warning finger at his
  master. &ldquo;They are on the scent of the cubs...&rdquo; he whispered, &ldquo;straight to
  the Lyádov uplands.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The count, forgetting to smooth out the smile on his face, looked into the
  distance straight before him, down the narrow open space, holding the
  snuffbox in his hand but not taking any. After the cry of the hounds came
  the deep tones of the wolf call from Daniel&rsquo;s hunting horn; the pack
  joined the first three hounds and they could be heard in full cry, with
  that peculiar lift in the note that indicates that they are after a wolf.
  The whippers-in no longer set on the hounds, but changed to the cry of
  , and above the others rose Daniel&rsquo;s voice, now a deep bass, now
  piercingly shrill. His voice seemed to fill the whole wood and carried far
  beyond out into the open field.
<br />
  After listening a few moments in silence, the count and his attendant
  convinced themselves that the hounds had separated into two packs: the
  sound of the larger pack, eagerly giving tongue, began to die away in the
  distance, the other pack rushed by the wood past the count, and it was
  with this that Daniel&rsquo;s voice was heard calling . The sounds of
  both packs mingled and broke apart again, but both were becoming more
  distant.
<br />
  Simon sighed and stooped to straighten the leash a young borzoi had
  entangled; the count too sighed and, noticing the snuffbox in his hand,
  opened it and took a pinch. &ldquo;Back!&rdquo; cried Simon to a borzoi that was
  pushing forward out of the wood. The count started and dropped the
  snuffbox. Nastásya Ivánovna dismounted to pick it up. The count and Simon
  were looking at him.
<br />
  Then, unexpectedly, as often happens, the sound of the hunt suddenly
  approached, as if the hounds in full cry and Daniel  were just
  in front of them.
<br />
  The count turned and saw on his right Mítka staring at him with eyes
  starting out of his head, raising his cap and pointing before him to the
  other side.
<br />
  &ldquo;Look out!&rdquo; he shouted, in a voice plainly showing that he had long
  fretted to utter that word, and letting the borzois slip he galloped
  toward the count.
<br />
  The count and Simon galloped out of the wood and saw on their left a wolf
  which, softly swaying from side to side, was coming at a quiet lope
  farther to the left to the very place where they were standing. The angry
  borzois whined and getting free of the leash rushed past the horses&rsquo; feet
  at the wolf.
<br />
  The wolf paused, turned its heavy forehead toward the dogs awkwardly, like
  a man suffering from the quinsy, and, still slightly swaying from side to
  side, gave a couple of leaps and with a swish of its tail disappeared into
  the skirt of the wood. At the same instant, with a cry like a wail, first
  one hound, then another, and then another, sprang helter-skelter from the
  wood opposite and the whole pack rushed across the field toward the very
  spot where the wolf had disappeared. The hazel bushes parted behind the
  hounds and Daniel&rsquo;s chestnut horse appeared, dark with sweat. On its long
  back sat Daniel, hunched forward, capless, his disheveled gray hair
  hanging over his flushed, perspiring face.
<br />
   he cried. When he caught sight of the count his
  eyes flashed lightning.
<br />
  &ldquo;Blast you!&rdquo; he shouted, holding up his whip threateningly at the count.
<br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve let the wolf go!... What sportsmen!&rdquo; and as if scorning to say
  more to the frightened and shamefaced count, he lashed the heaving flanks
  of his sweating chestnut gelding with all the anger the count had aroused
  and flew off after the hounds. The count, like a punished schoolboy,
  looked round, trying by a smile to win Simon&rsquo;s sympathy for his plight.
  But Simon was no longer there. He was galloping round by the bushes while
  the field was coming up on both sides, all trying to head the wolf, but it
  vanished into the wood before they could do so.

  CHAPTER V


  Nicholas Rostóv meanwhile remained at his post, waiting for the wolf. By
  the way the hunt approached and receded, by the cries of the dogs whose
  notes were familiar to him, by the way the voices of the huntsmen
  approached, receded, and rose, he realized what was happening at the
  copse. He knew that young and old wolves were there, that the hounds had
  separated into two packs, that somewhere a wolf was being chased, and that
  something had gone wrong. He expected the wolf to come his way any moment.
  He made thousands of different conjectures as to where and from what side
  the beast would come and how he would set upon it. Hope alternated with
  despair. Several times he addressed a prayer to God that the wolf should
  come his way. He prayed with that passionate and shamefaced feeling with
  which men pray at moments of great excitement arising from trivial causes.
  &ldquo;What would it be to Thee to do this for me?&rdquo; he said to God. &ldquo;I know Thou
  art great, and that it is a sin to ask this of Thee, but for God&rsquo;s sake do
  let the old wolf come my way and let Karáy spring at it&mdash;in sight of
  &lsquo;Uncle&rsquo; who is watching from over there&mdash;and seize it by the throat
  in a death grip!&rdquo; A thousand times during that half-hour Rostóv cast eager
  and restless glances over the edge of the wood, with the two scraggy oaks
  rising above the aspen undergrowth and the gully with its water-worn side
  and &ldquo;Uncle&rsquo;s&rdquo; cap just visible above the bush on his right.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, I shan&rsquo;t have such luck,&rdquo; thought Rostóv, &ldquo;yet what wouldn&rsquo;t it be
  worth! It is not to be! Everywhere, at cards and in war, I am always
  unlucky.&rdquo; Memories of Austerlitz and of Dólokhov flashed rapidly and
  clearly through his mind. &ldquo;Only once in my life to get an old wolf, I want
  only that!&rdquo; thought he, straining eyes and ears and looking to the left
  and then to the right and listening to the slightest variation of note in
  the cries of the dogs.
<br />
  Again he looked to the right and saw something running toward him across
  the deserted field. &ldquo;No, it can&rsquo;t be!&rdquo; thought Rostóv, taking a deep
  breath, as a man does at the coming of something long hoped for. The
  height of happiness was reached&mdash;and so simply, without warning, or
  noise, or display, that Rostóv could not believe his eyes and remained in
  doubt for over a second. The wolf ran forward and jumped heavily over a
  gully that lay in her path. She was an old animal with a gray back and big
  reddish belly. She ran without hurry, evidently feeling sure that no one
  saw her. Rostóv, holding his breath, looked round at the borzois. They
  stood or lay not seeing the wolf or understanding the situation. Old Karáy
  had turned his head and was angrily searching for fleas, baring his yellow
  teeth and snapping at his hind legs.
<br />
   whispered Rostóv, pouting his lips. The borzois jumped up,
  jerking the rings of the leashes and pricking their ears. Karáy finished
  scratching his hindquarters and, cocking his ears, got up with quivering
  tail from which tufts of matted hair hung down.
<br />
  &ldquo;Shall I loose them or not?&rdquo; Nicholas asked himself as the wolf approached
  him coming from the copse. Suddenly the wolf&rsquo;s whole physiognomy changed:
  she shuddered, seeing what she had probably never seen before&mdash;human
  eyes fixed upon her&mdash;and turning her head a little toward Rostóv, she
  paused.
<br />
  &ldquo;Back or forward? Eh, no matter, forward...&rdquo; the wolf seemed to say to
  herself, and she moved forward without again looking round and with a
  quiet, long, easy yet resolute lope.
<br />
   cried Nicholas, in a voice not his own, and of its own accord
  his good horse darted headlong downhill, leaping over gullies to head off
  the wolf, and the borzois passed it, running faster still. Nicholas did
  not hear his own cry nor feel that he was galloping, nor see the borzois,
  nor the ground over which he went: he saw only the wolf, who, increasing
  her speed, bounded on in the same direction along the hollow. The first to
  come into view was Mílka, with her black markings and powerful quarters,
  gaining upon the wolf. Nearer and nearer... now she was ahead of it; but
  the wolf turned its head to face her, and instead of putting on speed as
  she usually did Mílka suddenly raised her tail and stiffened her forelegs.
<br />
   shouted Nicholas.
<br />
  The reddish Lyubím rushed forward from behind Mílka, sprang impetuously at
  the wolf, and seized it by its hindquarters, but immediately jumped aside
  in terror. The wolf crouched, gnashed her teeth, and again rose and
  bounded forward, followed at the distance of a couple of feet by all the
  borzois, who did not get any closer to her.
<br />
  &ldquo;She&rsquo;ll get away! No, it&rsquo;s impossible!&rdquo; thought Nicholas,
  still shouting with a hoarse voice.
<br />
  &ldquo;Karáy, ...&rdquo; he shouted, looking round for the old borzoi
  who was now his only hope. Karáy, with all the strength age had left him,
  stretched himself to the utmost and, watching the wolf, galloped heavily
  aside to intercept it. But the quickness of the wolf&rsquo;s lope and the
  borzoi&rsquo;s slower pace made it plain that Karáy had miscalculated. Nicholas
  could already see not far in front of him the wood where the wolf would
  certainly escape should she reach it. But, coming toward him, he saw
  hounds and a huntsman galloping almost straight at the wolf. There was
  still hope. A long, yellowish young borzoi, one Nicholas did not know,
  from another leash, rushed impetuously at the wolf from in front and
  almost knocked her over. But the wolf jumped up more quickly than anyone
  could have expected and, gnashing her teeth, flew at the yellowish borzoi,
  which, with a piercing yelp, fell with its head on the ground, bleeding
  from a gash in its side.
<br />
  &ldquo;Karáy? Old fellow!...&rdquo; wailed Nicholas.
<br />
  Thanks to the delay caused by this crossing of the wolf&rsquo;s path, the old
  dog with its felted hair hanging from its thigh was within five paces of
  it. As if aware of her danger, the wolf turned her eyes on Karáy, tucked
  her tail yet further between her legs, and increased her speed. But here
  Nicholas only saw that something happened to Karáy&mdash;the borzoi was
  suddenly on the wolf, and they rolled together down into a gully just in
  front of them.
<br />
  That instant, when Nicholas saw the wolf struggling in the gully with the
  dogs, while from under them could be seen her gray hair and outstretched
  hind leg and her frightened choking head, with her ears laid back (Karáy
  was pinning her by the throat), was the happiest moment of his life. With
  his hand on his saddlebow, he was ready to dismount and stab the wolf,
  when she suddenly thrust her head up from among that mass of dogs, and
  then her forepaws were on the edge of the gully. She clicked her teeth
  (Karáy no longer had her by the throat), leaped with a movement of her
  hind legs out of the gully, and having disengaged herself from the dogs,
  with tail tucked in again, went forward. Karáy, his hair bristling, and
  probably bruised or wounded, climbed with difficulty out of the gully.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh my God! Why?&rdquo; Nicholas cried in despair.
<br />
  &ldquo;Uncle&rsquo;s&rdquo; huntsman was galloping from the other side across the wolf&rsquo;s
  path and his borzois once more stopped the animal&rsquo;s advance. She was again
  hemmed in.
<br />
  Nicholas and his attendant, with &ldquo;Uncle&rdquo; and his huntsman, were all riding
  round the wolf, crying  shouting and preparing to dismount each
  moment that the wolf crouched back, and starting forward again every time
  she shook herself and moved toward the wood where she would be safe.
<br />
  Already, at the beginning of this chase, Daniel, hearing the ulyulyuing,
  had rushed out from the wood. He saw Karáy seize the wolf, and checked his
  horse, supposing the affair to be over. But when he saw that the horsemen
  did not dismount and that the wolf shook herself and ran for safety,
  Daniel set his chestnut galloping, not at the wolf but straight toward the
  wood, just as Karáy had run to cut the animal off. As a result of this, he
  galloped up to the wolf just when she had been stopped a second time by
  &ldquo;Uncle&rsquo;s&rdquo; borzois.
<br />
  Daniel galloped up silently, holding a naked dagger in his left hand and
  thrashing the laboring sides of his chestnut horse with his whip as if it
  were a flail.
<br />
  Nicholas neither saw nor heard Daniel until the chestnut, breathing
  heavily, panted past him, and he heard the fall of a body and saw Daniel
  lying on the wolf&rsquo;s back among the dogs, trying to seize her by the ears.
  It was evident to the dogs, the hunters, and to the wolf herself that all
  was now over. The terrified wolf pressed back her ears and tried to rise,
  but the borzois stuck to her. Daniel rose a little, took a step, and with
  his whole weight, as if lying down to rest, fell on the wolf, seizing her
  by the ears. Nicholas was about to stab her, but Daniel whispered, &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t!
  We&rsquo;ll gag her!&rdquo; and, changing his position, set his foot on the wolf&rsquo;s
  neck. A stick was thrust between her jaws and she was fastened with a
  leash, as if bridled, her legs were bound together, and Daniel rolled her
  over once or twice from side to side.
<br />
  With happy, exhausted faces, they laid the old wolf, alive, on a shying
  and snorting horse and, accompanied by the dogs yelping at her, took her
  to the place where they were all to meet. The hounds had killed two of the
  cubs and the borzois three. The huntsmen assembled with their booty and
  their stories, and all came to look at the wolf, which, with her
  broad-browed head hanging down and the bitten stick between her jaws,
  gazed with great glassy eyes at this crowd of dogs and men surrounding
  her. When she was touched, she jerked her bound legs and looked wildly yet
  simply at everybody. Old Count Rostóv also rode up and touched the wolf.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, what a formidable one!&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;A formidable one, eh?&rdquo; he asked
  Daniel, who was standing near.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, your excellency,&rdquo; answered Daniel, quickly doffing his cap.
<br />
  The count remembered the wolf he had let slip and his encounter with
  Daniel.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, but you are a crusty fellow, friend!&rdquo; said the count.
<br />
  For sole reply Daniel gave him a shy, childlike, meek, and amiable smile.

  CHAPTER VI


  The old count went home, and Natásha and Pétya promised to return very
  soon, but as it was still early the hunt went farther. At midday they put
  the hounds into a ravine thickly overgrown with young trees. Nicholas
  standing in a fallow field could see all his whips.
<br />
  Facing him lay a field of winter rye, there his own huntsman stood alone
  in a hollow behind a hazel bush. The hounds had scarcely been loosed
  before Nicholas heard one he knew, Voltórn, giving tongue at intervals;
  other hounds joined in, now pausing and now again giving tongue. A moment
  later he heard a cry from the wooded ravine that a fox had been found, and
  the whole pack, joining together, rushed along the ravine toward the
  ryefield and away from Nicholas.
<br />
  He saw the whips in their red caps galloping along the edge of the ravine,
  he even saw the hounds, and was expecting a fox to show itself at any
  moment on the ryefield opposite.
<br />
  The huntsman standing in the hollow moved and loosed his borzois, and
  Nicholas saw a queer, short-legged red fox with a fine brush going hard
  across the field. The borzois bore down on it.... Now they drew close to
  the fox which began to dodge between the field in sharper and sharper
  curves, trailing its brush, when suddenly a strange white borzoi dashed in
  followed by a black one, and everything was in confusion; the borzois
  formed a star-shaped figure, scarcely swaying their bodies and with tails
  turned away from the center of the group. Two huntsmen galloped up to the
  dogs; one in a red cap, the other, a stranger, in a green coat.
<br />
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s this?&rdquo; thought Nicholas. &ldquo;Where&rsquo;s that huntsman from? He is not
  &lsquo;Uncle&rsquo;s&rsquo; man.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The huntsmen got the fox, but stayed there a long time without strapping
  it to the saddle. Their horses, bridled and with high saddles, stood near
  them and there too the dogs were lying. The huntsmen waved their arms and
  did something to the fox. Then from that spot came the sound of a horn,
  with the signal agreed on in case of a fight.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s Ilágin&rsquo;s huntsman having a row with our Iván,&rdquo; said Nicholas&rsquo;
  groom.
<br />
  Nicholas sent the man to call Natásha and Pétya to him, and rode at a
  footpace to the place where the whips were getting the hounds together.
  Several of the field galloped to the spot where the fight was going on.
<br />
  Nicholas dismounted, and with Natásha and Pétya, who had ridden up,
  stopped near the hounds, waiting to see how the matter would end. Out of
  the bushes came the huntsman who had been fighting and rode toward his
  young master, with the fox tied to his crupper. While still at a distance
  he took off his cap and tried to speak respectfully, but he was pale and
  breathless and his face was angry. One of his eyes was black, but he
  probably was not even aware of it.
<br />
  &ldquo;What has happened?&rdquo; asked Nicholas.
<br />
  &ldquo;A likely thing, killing a fox our dogs had hunted! And it was my gray
  bitch that caught it! Go to law, indeed!... He snatches at the fox! I gave
  him one with the fox. Here it is on my saddle! Do you want a taste of
  this?...&rdquo; said the huntsman, pointing to his dagger and probably imagining
  himself still speaking to his foe.
<br />
  Nicholas, not stopping to talk to the man, asked his sister and Pétya to
  wait for him and rode to the spot where the enemy&rsquo;s, Ilágin&rsquo;s, hunting
  party was.
<br />
  The victorious huntsman rode off to join the field, and there, surrounded
  by inquiring sympathizers, recounted his exploits.
<br />
  The facts were that Ilágin, with whom the Rostóvs had a quarrel and were
  at law, hunted over places that belonged by custom to the Rostóvs, and had
  now, as if purposely, sent his men to the very woods the Rostóvs were
  hunting and let his man snatch a fox their dogs had chased.
<br />
  Nicholas, though he had never seen Ilágin, with his usual absence of
  moderation in judgment, hated him cordially from reports of his
  arbitrariness and violence, and regarded him as his bitterest foe. He rode
  in angry agitation toward him, firmly grasping his whip and fully prepared
  to take the most resolute and desperate steps to punish his enemy.
<br />
  Hardly had he passed an angle of the wood before a stout gentleman in a
  beaver cap came riding toward him on a handsome raven-black horse,
  accompanied by two hunt servants.
<br />
  Instead of an enemy, Nicholas found in Ilágin a stately and courteous
  gentleman who was particularly anxious to make the young count&rsquo;s
  acquaintance. Having ridden up to Nicholas, Ilágin raised his beaver cap
  and said he much regretted what had occurred and would have the man
  punished who had allowed himself to seize a fox hunted by someone else&rsquo;s
  borzois. He hoped to become better acquainted with the count and invited
  him to draw his covert.
<br />
  Natásha, afraid that her brother would do something dreadful, had followed
  him in some excitement. Seeing the enemies exchanging friendly greetings,
  she rode up to them. Ilágin lifted his beaver cap still higher to Natásha
  and said, with a pleasant smile, that the young countess resembled Diana
  in her passion for the chase as well as in her beauty, of which he had
  heard much.
<br />
  To expiate his huntsman&rsquo;s offense, Ilágin pressed the Rostóvs to come to
  an upland of his about a mile away which he usually kept for himself and
  which, he said, swarmed with hares. Nicholas agreed, and the hunt, now
  doubled, moved on.
<br />
  The way to Iligin&rsquo;s upland was across the fields. The hunt servants fell
  into line. The masters rode together. &ldquo;Uncle,&rdquo; Rostóv, and Ilágin kept
  stealthily glancing at one another&rsquo;s dogs, trying not to be observed by
  their companions and searching uneasily for rivals to their own borzois.
<br />
  Rostóv was particularly struck by the beauty of a small, pure-bred,
  red-spotted bitch on Ilágin&rsquo;s leash, slender but with muscles like steel,
  a delicate muzzle, and prominent black eyes. He had heard of the swiftness
  of Ilágin&rsquo;s borzois, and in that beautiful bitch saw a rival to his own
  Mílka.
<br />
  In the middle of a sober conversation begun by Ilágin about the year&rsquo;s
  harvest, Nicholas pointed to the red-spotted bitch.
<br />
  &ldquo;A fine little bitch, that!&rdquo; said he in a careless tone. &ldquo;Is she swift?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That one? Yes, she&rsquo;s a good dog, gets what she&rsquo;s after,&rdquo; answered Ilágin
  indifferently, of the red-spotted bitch Erzá, for which, a year before, he
  had given a neighbor three families of house serfs. &ldquo;So in your parts,
  too, the harvest is nothing to boast of, Count?&rdquo; he went on, continuing
  the conversation they had begun. And considering it polite to return the
  young count&rsquo;s compliment, Ilágin looked at his borzois and picked out
  Mílka who attracted his attention by her breadth. &ldquo;That black-spotted one
  of yours is fine&mdash;well shaped!&rdquo; said he.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, she&rsquo;s fast enough,&rdquo; replied Nicholas, and thought: &ldquo;If only a
  full-grown hare would cross the field now I&rsquo;d show you what sort of borzoi
  she is,&rdquo; and turning to his groom, he said he would give a ruble to anyone
  who found a hare.
<br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand,&rdquo; continued Ilágin, &ldquo;how some sportsmen can be so
  jealous about game and dogs. For myself, I can tell you, Count, I enjoy
  riding in company such as this... what could be better?&rdquo; (he again raised
  his cap to Natásha) &ldquo;but as for counting skins and what one takes, I don&rsquo;t
  care about that.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Of course not!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Or being upset because someone else&rsquo;s borzoi and not mine catches
  something. All I care about is to enjoy seeing the chase, is it not so,
  Count? For I consider that...&rdquo;
 <br />
   came the long-drawn cry of one of the borzoi whippers-in, who had
  halted. He stood on a knoll in the stubble, holding his whip aloft, and
  again repeated his long-drawn cry,  (This call and the uplifted
  whip meant that he saw a sitting hare.)
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, he has found one, I think,&rdquo; said Ilágin carelessly. &ldquo;Yes, we must
  ride up.... Shall we both course it?&rdquo; answered Nicholas, seeing in Erzá
  and &ldquo;Uncle&rsquo;s&rdquo; red Rugáy two rivals he had never yet had a chance of
  pitting against his own borzois. &ldquo;And suppose they outdo my Mílka at
  once!&rdquo; he thought as he rode with &ldquo;Uncle&rdquo; and Ilágin toward the hare.
<br />
  &ldquo;A full-grown one?&rdquo; asked Ilágin as he approached the whip who had sighted
  the hare&mdash;and not without agitation he looked round and whistled to
  Erzá.
<br />
  &ldquo;And you, Michael Nikanórovich?&rdquo; he said, addressing &ldquo;Uncle.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The latter was riding with a sullen expression on his face.
<br />
  &ldquo;How can I join in? Why, you&rsquo;ve given a village for each of your borzois!
  That&rsquo;s it, come on! Yours are worth thousands. Try yours against one
  another, you two, and I&rsquo;ll look on!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Rugáy, hey, hey!&rdquo; he shouted. &ldquo;Rugáyushka!&rdquo; he added, involuntarily by
  this diminutive expressing his affection and the hopes he placed on this
  red borzoi. Natásha saw and felt the agitation the two elderly men and her
  brother were trying to conceal, and was herself excited by it.
<br />
  The huntsman stood halfway up the knoll holding up his whip and the
  gentlefolk rode up to him at a footpace; the hounds that were far off on
  the horizon turned away from the hare, and the whips, but not the
  gentlefolk, also moved away. All were moving slowly and sedately.
<br />
  &ldquo;How is it pointing?&rdquo; asked Nicholas, riding a hundred paces toward the
  whip who had sighted the hare.
<br />
  But before the whip could reply, the hare, scenting the frost coming next
  morning, was unable to rest and leaped up. The pack on leash rushed
  downhill in full cry after the hare, and from all sides the borzois that
  were not on leash darted after the hounds and the hare. All the hunt, who
  had been moving slowly, shouted, &ldquo;Stop!&rdquo; calling in the hounds, while the
  borzoi whips, with a cry of  galloped across the field setting the
  borzois on the hare. The tranquil Ilágin, Nicholas, Natásha, and &ldquo;Uncle&rdquo;
   flew, reckless of where and how they went, seeing only the borzois and the
  hare and fearing only to lose sight even for an instant of the chase. The
  hare they had started was a strong and swift one. When he jumped up he did
  not run at once, but pricked his ears listening to the shouting and
  trampling that resounded from all sides at once. He took a dozen bounds,
  not very quickly, letting the borzois gain on him, and, finally having
  chosen his direction and realized his danger, laid back his ears and
  rushed off headlong. He had been lying in the stubble, but in front of him
  was the autumn sowing where the ground was soft. The two borzois of the
  huntsman who had sighted him, having been the nearest, were the first to
  see and pursue him, but they had not gone far before Ilágin&rsquo;s red-spotted
  Erzá passed them, got within a length, flew at the hare with terrible
  swiftness aiming at his scut, and, thinking she had seized him, rolled
  over like a ball. The hare arched his back and bounded off yet more
  swiftly. From behind Erzá rushed the broad-haunched, black-spotted Mílka
  and began rapidly gaining on the hare.
<br />
  &ldquo;Miláshka, dear!&rdquo; rose Nicholas&rsquo; triumphant cry. It looked as if Mílka
  would immediately pounce on the hare, but she overtook him and flew past.
  The hare had squatted. Again the beautiful Erzá reached him, but when
  close to the hare&rsquo;s scut paused as if measuring the distance, so as not to
  make a mistake this time but seize his hind leg.
<br />
  &ldquo;Erzá, darling!&rdquo; Ilágin wailed in a voice unlike his own. Erzá did not
  hearken to his appeal. At the very moment when she would have seized her
  prey, the hare moved and darted along the balk between the winter rye and
  the stubble. Again Erzá and Mílka were abreast, running like a pair of
  carriage horses, and began to overtake the hare, but it was easier for the
  hare to run on the balk and the borzois did not overtake him so quickly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Rugáy, Rugáyushka! That&rsquo;s it, come on!&rdquo; came a third voice just then, and
  &ldquo;Uncle&rsquo;s&rdquo; red borzoi, straining and curving its back, caught up with the
  two foremost borzois, pushed ahead of them regardless of the terrible
  strain, put on speed close to the hare, knocked it off the balk onto the
  ryefield, again put on speed still more viciously, sinking to his knees in
  the muddy field, and all one could see was how, muddying his back, he
  rolled over with the hare. A ring of borzois surrounded him. A moment
  later everyone had drawn up round the crowd of dogs. Only the delighted
  &ldquo;Uncle&rdquo; dismounted, and cut off a pad, shaking the hare for the blood to
  drip off, and anxiously glancing round with restless eyes while his arms
  and legs twitched. He spoke without himself knowing whom to or what about.
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s it, come on! That&rsquo;s a dog!... There, it has beaten them all, the
  thousand-ruble as well as the one-ruble borzois. That&rsquo;s it, come on!&rdquo; said
  he, panting and looking wrathfully around as if he were abusing someone,
  as if they were all his enemies and had insulted him, and only now had he
  at last succeeded in justifying himself. &ldquo;There are your thousand-ruble
  ones.... That&rsquo;s it, come on!...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Rugáy, here&rsquo;s a pad for you!&rdquo; he said, throwing down the hare&rsquo;s muddy
  pad. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve deserved it, that&rsquo;s it, come on!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;She&rsquo;d tired herself out, she&rsquo;d run it down three times by herself,&rdquo; said
  Nicholas, also not listening to anyone and regardless of whether he were
  heard or not.
<br />
  &ldquo;But what is there in running across it like that?&rdquo; said Ilágin&rsquo;s groom.
<br />
  &ldquo;Once she had missed it and turned it away, any mongrel could take it,&rdquo;
   Ilágin was saying at the same time, breathless from his gallop and his
  excitement. At the same moment Natásha, without drawing breath, screamed
  joyously, ecstatically, and so piercingly that it set everyone&rsquo;s ear
  tingling. By that shriek she expressed what the others expressed by all
  talking at once, and it was so strange that she must herself have been
  ashamed of so wild a cry and everyone else would have been amazed at it at
  any other time. &ldquo;Uncle&rdquo; himself twisted up the hare, threw it neatly and
  smartly across his horse&rsquo;s back as if by that gesture he meant to rebuke
  everybody, and, with an air of not wishing to speak to anyone, mounted his
  bay and rode off. The others all followed, dispirited and shamefaced, and
  only much later were they able to regain their former affectation of
  indifference. For a long time they continued to look at red Rugáy who, his
  arched back spattered with mud and clanking the ring of his leash, walked
  along just behind &ldquo;Uncle&rsquo;s&rdquo; horse with the serene air of a conqueror.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, I am like any other dog as long as it&rsquo;s not a question of coursing.
  But when it is, then look out!&rdquo; his appearance seemed to Nicholas to be
  saying.
<br />
  When, much later, &ldquo;Uncle&rdquo; rode up to Nicholas and began talking to him, he
  felt flattered that, after what had happened, &ldquo;Uncle&rdquo; deigned to speak to
  him.

  CHAPTER VII


  Toward evening Ilágin took leave of Nicholas, who found that they were so
  far from home that he accepted &ldquo;Uncle&rsquo;s&rdquo; offer that the hunting party
  should spend the night in his little village of Mikháylovna.
<br />
  &ldquo;And if you put up at my house that will be better still. That&rsquo;s it, come
  on!&rdquo; said &ldquo;Uncle.&rdquo; &ldquo;You see it&rsquo;s damp weather, and you could rest, and the
  little countess could be driven home in a trap.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Uncle&rsquo;s&rdquo; offer was accepted. A huntsman was sent to Otrádnoe for a trap,
  while Nicholas rode with Natásha and Pétya to &ldquo;Uncle&rsquo;s&rdquo; house.
<br />
  Some five male domestic serfs, big and little, rushed out to the front
  porch to meet their master. A score of women serfs, old and young, as well
  as children, popped out from the back entrance to have a look at the
  hunters who were arriving. The presence of Natásha&mdash;a woman, a lady,
  and on horseback&mdash;raised the curiosity of the serfs to such a degree
  that many of them came up to her, stared her in the face, and unabashed by
  her presence made remarks about her as though she were some prodigy on
  show and not a human being able to hear or understand what was said about
  her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Arínka! Look, she sits sideways! There she sits and her skirt dangles....
  See, she&rsquo;s got a little hunting horn!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Goodness gracious! See her knife?...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t she a Tartar!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How is it you didn&rsquo;t go head over heels?&rdquo; asked the boldest of all,
  addressing Natásha directly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Uncle&rdquo; dismounted at the porch of his little wooden house which stood in
  the midst of an overgrown garden and, after a glance at his retainers,
  shouted authoritatively that the superfluous ones should take themselves
  off and that all necessary preparations should be made to receive the
  guests and the visitors.
<br />
  The serfs all dispersed. &ldquo;Uncle&rdquo; lifted Natásha off her horse and taking
  her hand led her up the rickety wooden steps of the porch. The house, with
  its bare, unplastered log walls, was not overclean&mdash;it did not seem
  that those living in it aimed at keeping it spotless&mdash;but neither was
  it noticeably neglected. In the entry there was a smell of fresh apples,
  and wolf and fox skins hung about.
<br />
  &ldquo;Uncle&rdquo; led the visitors through the anteroom into a small hall with a
  folding table and red chairs, then into the drawing room with a round
  birchwood table and a sofa, and finally into his private room where there
  was a tattered sofa, a worn carpet, and portraits of Suvórov, of the
  host&rsquo;s father and mother, and of himself in military uniform. The study
  smelt strongly of tobacco and dogs. &ldquo;Uncle&rdquo; asked his visitors to sit down
  and make themselves at home, and then went out of the room. Rugáy, his
  back still muddy, came into the room and lay down on the sofa, cleaning
  himself with his tongue and teeth. Leading from the study was a passage in
  which a partition with ragged curtains could be seen. From behind this
  came women&rsquo;s laughter and whispers. Natásha, Nicholas, and Pétya took off
  their wraps and sat down on the sofa. Pétya, leaning on his elbow, fell
  asleep at once. Natásha and Nicholas were silent. Their faces glowed, they
  were hungry and very cheerful. They looked at one another (now that the
  hunt was over and they were in the house, Nicholas no longer considered it
  necessary to show his manly superiority over his sister), Natásha gave him
  a wink, and neither refrained long from bursting into a peal of ringing
  laughter even before they had a pretext ready to account for it.
<br />
  After a while &ldquo;Uncle&rdquo; came in, in a Cossack coat, blue trousers, and small
  top boots. And Natásha felt that this costume, the very one she had
  regarded with surprise and amusement at Otrádnoe, was just the right thing
  and not at all worse than a swallow-tail or frock coat. &ldquo;Uncle&rdquo; too was in
  high spirits and far from being offended by the brother&rsquo;s and sister&rsquo;s
  laughter (it could never enter his head that they might be laughing at his
  way of life) he himself joined in the merriment.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s right, young countess, that&rsquo;s it, come on! I never saw anyone like
  her!&rdquo; said he, offering Nicholas a pipe with a long stem and, with a
  practiced motion of three fingers, taking down another that had been cut
  short. &ldquo;She&rsquo;s ridden all day like a man, and is as fresh as ever!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Soon after &ldquo;Uncle&rsquo;s&rdquo; reappearance the door was opened, evidently from the
  sound by a barefooted girl, and a stout, rosy, good-looking woman of about
  forty, with a double chin and full red lips, entered carrying a large
  loaded tray. With hospitable dignity and cordiality in her glance and in
  every motion, she looked at the visitors and, with a pleasant smile, bowed
  respectfully. In spite of her exceptional stoutness, which caused her to
  protrude her chest and stomach and throw back her head, this woman (who
  was &ldquo;Uncle&rsquo;s&rdquo; housekeeper) trod very lightly. She went to the table, set
  down the tray, and with her plump white hands deftly took from it the
  bottles and various hors d&rsquo;oeuvres and dishes and arranged them on the
  table. When she had finished, she stepped aside and stopped at the door
  with a smile on her face. &ldquo;Here I am. I am she! Now do you understand
  &lsquo;Uncle&rsquo;?&rdquo; her expression said to Rostóv. How could one help understanding?
  Not only Nicholas, but even Natásha understood the meaning of his puckered
  brow and the happy complacent smile that slightly puckered his lips when
  Anísya Fëdorovna entered. On the tray was a bottle of herb wine, different
  kinds of vodka, pickled mushrooms, rye cakes made with buttermilk, honey
  in the comb, still mead and sparkling mead, apples, nuts (raw and
  roasted), and nut-and-honey sweets. Afterwards she brought a freshly
  roasted chicken, ham, preserves made with honey, and preserves made with
  sugar.
<br />
  All this was the fruit of Anísya Fëdorovna&rsquo;s housekeeping, gathered and
  prepared by her. The smell and taste of it all had a smack of Anísya
  Fëdorovna herself: a savor of juiciness, cleanliness, whiteness, and
  pleasant smiles.
<br />
  &ldquo;Take this, little Lady-Countess!&rdquo; she kept saying, as she offered Natásha
  first one thing and then another.
<br />
  Natásha ate of everything and thought she had never seen or eaten such
  buttermilk cakes, such aromatic jam, such honey-and-nut sweets, or such a
  chicken anywhere. Anísya Fëdorovna left the room.
<br />
  After supper, over their cherry brandy, Rostóv and &ldquo;Uncle&rdquo; talked of past
  and future hunts, of Rugáy and Ilágin&rsquo;s dogs, while Natásha sat upright on
  the sofa and listened with sparkling eyes. She tried several times to wake
  Pétya that he might eat something, but he only muttered incoherent words
  without waking up. Natásha felt so lighthearted and happy in these novel
  surroundings that she only feared the trap would come for her too soon.
  After a casual pause, such as often occurs when receiving friends for the
  first time in one&rsquo;s own house, &ldquo;Uncle,&rdquo; answering a thought that was in
  his visitors&rsquo; minds, said:
<br />
  &ldquo;This, you see, is how I am finishing my days... Death will come. That&rsquo;s
  it, come on! Nothing will remain. Then why harm anyone?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Uncle&rsquo;s&rdquo; face was very significant and even handsome as he said this.
  Involuntarily Rostóv recalled all the good he had heard about him from his
  father and the neighbors. Throughout the whole province &ldquo;Uncle&rdquo; had the
  reputation of being the most honorable and disinterested of cranks. They
  called him in to decide family disputes, chose him as executor, confided
  secrets to him, elected him to be a justice and to other posts; but he
  always persistently refused public appointments, passing the autumn and
  spring in the fields on his bay gelding, sitting at home in winter, and
  lying in his overgrown garden in summer.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you enter the service, Uncle?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I did once, but gave it up. I am not fit for it. That&rsquo;s it, come on! I
  can&rsquo;t make head or tail of it. That&rsquo;s for you&mdash;I haven&rsquo;t brains
  enough. Now, hunting is another matter&mdash;that&rsquo;s it, come on! Open the
  door, there!&rdquo; he shouted. &ldquo;Why have you shut it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  The door at the end of the passage led to the huntsmen&rsquo;s room, as they
  called the room for the hunt servants.
<br />
  There was a rapid patter of bare feet, and an unseen hand opened the door
  into the huntsmen&rsquo;s room, from which came the clear sounds of a balaláyka
  on which someone, who was evidently a master of the art, was playing.
  Natásha had been listening to those strains for some time and now went out
  into the passage to hear better.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s Mítka, my coachman.... I have got him a good balaláyka. I&rsquo;m fond
  of it,&rdquo; said &ldquo;Uncle.&rdquo;
 <br />
  It was the custom for Mítka to play the balaláyka in the huntsmen&rsquo;s room
  when &ldquo;Uncle&rdquo; returned from the chase. &ldquo;Uncle&rdquo; was fond of such music.
<br />
  &ldquo;How good! Really very good!&rdquo; said Nicholas with some unintentional
  superciliousness, as if ashamed to confess that the sounds pleased him
  very much.
<br />
  &ldquo;Very good?&rdquo; said Natásha reproachfully, noticing her brother&rsquo;s tone. &ldquo;Not
  &lsquo;very good&rsquo;&mdash;it&rsquo;s simply delicious!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Just as &ldquo;Uncle&rsquo;s&rdquo; pickled mushrooms, honey, and cherry brandy had seemed
  to her the best in the world, so also that song, at that moment, seemed to
  her the acme of musical delight.
<br />
  &ldquo;More, please, more!&rdquo; cried Natásha at the door as soon as the balaláyka
  ceased. Mítka tuned up afresh, and recommenced thrumming the balaláyka to
  the air of , with trills and variations. &ldquo;Uncle&rdquo; sat listening,
  slightly smiling, with his head on one side. The air was repeated a
  hundred times. The balaláyka was retuned several times and the same notes
  were thrummed again, but the listeners did not grow weary of it and wished
  to hear it again and again. Anísya Fëdorovna came in and leaned her portly
  person against the doorpost.
<br />
  &ldquo;You like listening?&rdquo; she said to Natásha, with a smile extremely like
  &ldquo;Uncle&rsquo;s.&rdquo; &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a good player of ours,&rdquo; she added.
<br />
  &ldquo;He doesn&rsquo;t play that part right!&rdquo; said &ldquo;Uncle&rdquo; suddenly, with an
  energetic gesture. &ldquo;Here he ought to burst out&mdash;that&rsquo;s it, come on!&mdash;ought
  to burst out.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Do you play then?&rdquo; asked Natásha.
<br />
  &ldquo;Uncle&rdquo; did not answer, but smiled.
<br />
  &ldquo;Anísya, go and see if the strings of my guitar are all right. I haven&rsquo;t
  touched it for a long time. That&rsquo;s it&mdash;come on! I&rsquo;ve given it up.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Anísya Fëdorovna, with her light step, willingly went to fulfill her
  errand and brought back the guitar.
<br />
  Without looking at anyone, &ldquo;Uncle&rdquo; blew the dust off it and, tapping the
  case with his bony fingers, tuned the guitar and settled himself in his
  armchair. He took the guitar a little above the fingerboard, arching his
  left elbow with a somewhat theatrical gesture, and, with a wink at Anísya
  Fëdorovna, struck a single chord, pure and sonorous, and then quietly,
  smoothly, and confidently began playing in very slow time, not ,
  but the well-known song: . The tune, played
  with precision and in exact time, began to thrill in the hearts of
  Nicholas and Natásha, arousing in them the same kind of sober mirth as
  radiated from Anísya Fëdorovna&rsquo;s whole being. Anísya Fëdorovna flushed,
  and drawing her kerchief over her face went laughing out of the room.
  &ldquo;Uncle&rdquo; continued to play correctly, carefully, with energetic firmness,
  looking with a changed and inspired expression at the spot where Anísya
  Fëdorovna had just stood. Something seemed to be laughing a little on one
  side of his face under his gray mustaches, especially as the song grew
  brisker and the time quicker and when, here and there, as he ran his
  fingers over the strings, something seemed to snap.
<br />
  &ldquo;Lovely, lovely! Go on, Uncle, go on!&rdquo; shouted Natásha as soon as he had
  finished. She jumped up and hugged and kissed him. &ldquo;Nicholas, Nicholas!&rdquo;
   she said, turning to her brother, as if asking him: &ldquo;What is it moves me
  so?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Nicholas too was greatly pleased by &ldquo;Uncle&rsquo;s&rdquo; playing, and &ldquo;Uncle&rdquo; played
  the piece over again. Anísya Fëdorovna&rsquo;s smiling face reappeared in the
  doorway and behind hers other faces...
<br />
<br />&mdash;

played “Uncle” once more, running his fingers skillfully over the strings, and then he stopped short and jerked his shoulders.
“Go on, Uncle dear,” Natásha wailed in an imploring tone as if her life depended on it.
“Uncle” rose, and it was as if there were two men in him: one of them smiled seriously at the merry fellow, while the merry fellow struck a naïve and precise attitude preparatory to a folk dance.
“Now then, niece!” he exclaimed, waving to Natásha the hand that had just struck a chord.
Natásha threw off the shawl from her shoulders, ran forward to face “Uncle,” and setting her arms akimbo also made a motion with her shoulders and struck an attitude.
Where, how, and when had this young countess, educated by an French governess, imbibed from the Russian air she breathed that spirit and obtained that manner which the * would, one would have supposed, long ago have effaced? But the spirit and the movements were those inimitable and unteachable Russian ones that “Uncle” had expected of her. As soon as she had struck her pose, and smiled triumphantly, proudly, and with sly merriment, the fear that had at first seized Nicholas and the others that she might not do the right thing was at an end, and they were already admiring her.

* The French shawl dance.

She did the right thing with such precision, such complete precision, that Anísya Fëdorovna, who had at once handed her the handkerchief she needed for the dance, had tears in her eyes, though she laughed as she watched this slim, graceful countess, reared in silks and velvets and so different from herself, who yet was able to understand all that was in Anísya and in Anísya’s father and mother and aunt, and in every Russian man and woman.
“Well, little countess; that’s it—come on!” cried “Uncle,” with a joyous laugh, having finished the dance. “Well done, niece! Now a fine young fellow must be found as husband for you. That’s it—come on!”
“He’s chosen already,” said Nicholas smiling.
“Oh?” said “Uncle” in surprise, looking inquiringly at Natásha, who nodded her head with a happy smile.
“And such a one!” she said. But as soon as she had said it a new train of thoughts and feelings arose in her. “What did Nicholas’ smile mean when he said ‘chosen already’? Is he glad of it or not? It is as if he thought my Bolkónski would not approve of or understand our gaiety. But he would understand it all. Where is he now?” she thought, and her face suddenly became serious. But this lasted only a second. “Don’t dare to think about it,” she said to herself, and sat down again smilingly beside “Uncle,” begging him to play something more.
“Uncle” played another song and a valse; then after a pause he cleared his throat and sang his favorite hunting song:

“Uncle” sang as peasants sing, with full and naïve conviction that the whole meaning of a song lies in the words and that the tune comes of itself, and that apart from the words there is no tune, which exists only to give measure to the words. As a result of this the unconsidered tune, like the song of a bird, was extraordinarily good. Natásha was in ecstasies over “Uncle’s” singing. She resolved to give up learning the harp and to play only the guitar. She asked “Uncle” for his guitar and at once found the chords of the song.
After nine o’clock two traps and three mounted men, who had been sent to look for them, arrived to fetch Natásha and Pétya. The count and countess did not know where they were and were very anxious, said one of the men.
Pétya was carried out like a log and laid in the larger of the two traps. Natásha and Nicholas got into the other. “Uncle” wrapped Natásha up warmly and took leave of her with quite a new tenderness. He accompanied them on foot as far as the bridge that could not be crossed, so that they had to go round by the ford, and he sent huntsmen to ride in front with lanterns.
“Good-by, dear niece,” his voice called out of the darkness—not the voice Natásha had known previously, but the one that had sung
In the village through which they passed there were red lights and a cheerful smell of smoke.
“What a darling Uncle is!” said Natásha, when they had come out onto the highroad.
“Yes,” returned Nicholas. “You’re not cold?”
“No. I’m quite, quite all right. I feel so comfortable!” answered Natásha, almost perplexed by her feelings. They remained silent a long while. The night was dark and damp. They could not see the horses, but only heard them splashing through the unseen mud.
What was passing in that receptive childlike soul that so eagerly caught and assimilated all the diverse impressions of life? How did they all find place in her? But she was very happy. As they were nearing home she suddenly struck up the air of —the tune of which she had all the way been trying to get and had at last caught.
“Got it?” said Nicholas.
“What were you thinking about just now, Nicholas?” inquired Natásha.
They were fond of asking one another that question.
“I?” said Nicholas, trying to remember. “Well, you see, first I thought that Rugáy, the red hound, was like Uncle, and that if he were a man he would always keep Uncle near him, if not for his riding, then for his manner. What a good fellow Uncle is! Don’t you think so?… Well, and you?”
“I? Wait a bit, wait…. Yes, first I thought that we are driving along and imagining that we are going home, but that heaven knows where we are really going in the darkness, and that we shall arrive and suddenly find that we are not in Otrádnoe, but in Fairyland. And then I thought… No, nothing else.”
“I know, I expect you thought of him,” said Nicholas, smiling as Natásha knew by the sound of his voice.
“No,” said Natásha, though she had in reality been thinking about Prince Andrew at the same time as of the rest, and of how he would have liked “Uncle.” “And then I was saying to myself all the way, ‘How well Anísya carried herself, how well!’” And Nicholas heard her spontaneous, happy, ringing laughter. “And do you know,” she suddenly said, “I know that I shall never again be as happy and tranquil as I am now.”
“Rubbish, nonsense, humbug!” exclaimed Nicholas, and he thought: “How charming this Natásha of mine is! I have no other friend like her and never shall have. Why should she marry? We might always drive about together!”
“What a darling this Nicholas of mine is!” thought Natásha.
“Ah, there are still lights in the drawing room!” she said, pointing to the windows of the house that gleamed invitingly in the moist velvety darkness of the night.

  CHAPTER VIII


  Count Ilyá Rostóv had resigned the position of Marshal of the Nobility
  because it involved him in too much expense, but still his affairs did not
  improve. Natásha and Nicholas often noticed their parents conferring
  together anxiously and privately and heard suggestions of selling the fine
  ancestral Rostóv house and estate near Moscow. It was not necessary to
  entertain so freely as when the count had been Marshal, and life at
  Otrádnoe was quieter than in former years, but still the enormous house
  and its lodges were full of people and more than twenty sat down to table
  every day. These were all their own people who had settled down in the
  house almost as members of the family, or persons who were, it seemed,
  obliged to live in the count&rsquo;s house. Such were Dimmler the musician and
  his wife, Vogel the dancing master and his family, Belóva, an old maiden
  lady, an inmate of the house, and many others such as Pétya&rsquo;s tutors, the
  girls&rsquo; former governess, and other people who simply found it preferable
  and more advantageous to live in the count&rsquo;s house than at home. They had
  not as many visitors as before, but the old habits of life without which
  the count and countess could not conceive of existence remained unchanged.
  There was still the hunting establishment which Nicholas had even
  enlarged, the same fifty horses and fifteen grooms in the stables, the
  same expensive presents and dinner parties to the whole district on name
  days; there were still the count&rsquo;s games of whist and boston, at which&mdash;spreading
  out his cards so that everybody could see them&mdash;he let himself be
  plundered of hundreds of rubles every day by his neighbors, who looked
  upon an opportunity to play a rubber with Count Rostóv as a most
  profitable source of income.
<br />
  The count moved in his affairs as in a huge net, trying not to believe
  that he was entangled but becoming more and more so at every step, and
  feeling too feeble to break the meshes or to set to work carefully and
  patiently to disentangle them. The countess, with her loving heart, felt
  that her children were being ruined, that it was not the count&rsquo;s fault for
  he could not help being what he was&mdash;that (though he tried to hide
  it) he himself suffered from the consciousness of his own and his
  children&rsquo;s ruin, and she tried to find means of remedying the position.
  From her feminine point of view she could see only one solution, namely,
  for Nicholas to marry a rich heiress. She felt this to be their last hope
  and that if Nicholas refused the match she had found for him, she would
  have to abandon the hope of ever getting matters right. This match was
  with Julie Karágina, the daughter of excellent and virtuous parents, a
  girl the Rostóvs had known from childhood, and who had now become a
  wealthy heiress through the death of the last of her brothers.
<br />
  The countess had written direct to Julie&rsquo;s mother in Moscow suggesting a
  marriage between their children and had received a favorable answer from
  her. Karágina had replied that for her part she was agreeable, and
  everything depend on her daughter&rsquo;s inclination. She invited Nicholas to
  come to Moscow.
<br />
  Several times the countess, with tears in her eyes, told her son that now
  both her daughters were settled, her only wish was to see him married. She
  said she could lie down in her grave peacefully if that were accomplished.
  Then she told him that she knew of a splendid girl and tried to discover
  what he thought about marriage.
<br />
  At other times she praised Julie to him and advised him to go to Moscow
  during the holidays to amuse himself. Nicholas guessed what his mother&rsquo;s
  remarks were leading to and during one of these conversations induced her
  to speak quite frankly. She told him that her only hope of getting their
  affairs disentangled now lay in his marrying Julie Karágina.
<br />
  &ldquo;But, Mamma, suppose I loved a girl who has no fortune, would you expect
  me to sacrifice my feelings and my honor for the sake of money?&rdquo; he asked
  his mother, not realizing the cruelty of his question and only wishing to
  show his noble-mindedness.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, you have not understood me,&rdquo; said his mother, not knowing how to
  justify herself. &ldquo;You have not understood me, Nikólenka. It is your
  happiness I wish for,&rdquo; she added, feeling that she was telling an untruth
  and was becoming entangled. She began to cry.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mamma, don&rsquo;t cry! Only tell me that you wish it, and you know I will give
  my life, anything, to put you at ease,&rdquo; said Nicholas. &ldquo;I would sacrifice
  anything for you&mdash;even my feelings.&rdquo;
 <br />
  But the countess did not want the question put like that: she did not want
  a sacrifice from her son, she herself wished to make a sacrifice for him.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, you have not understood me, don&rsquo;t let us talk about it,&rdquo; she replied,
  wiping away her tears.
<br />
  &ldquo;Maybe I do love a poor girl,&rdquo; said Nicholas to himself. &ldquo;Am I to
  sacrifice my feelings and my honor for money? I wonder how Mamma could
  speak so to me. Because Sónya is poor I must not love her,&rdquo; he thought,
  &ldquo;must not respond to her faithful, devoted love? Yet I should certainly be
  happier with her than with some doll-like Julie. I can always sacrifice my
  feelings for my family&rsquo;s welfare,&rdquo; he said to himself, &ldquo;but I can&rsquo;t coerce
  my feelings. If I love Sónya, that feeling is for me stronger and higher
  than all else.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Nicholas did not go to Moscow, and the countess did not renew the
  conversation with him about marriage. She saw with sorrow, and sometimes
  with exasperation, symptoms of a growing attachment between her son and
  the portionless Sónya. Though she blamed herself for it, she could not
  refrain from grumbling at and worrying Sónya, often pulling her up without
  reason, addressing her stiffly as &ldquo;my dear,&rdquo; and using the formal &ldquo;you&rdquo;
   instead of the intimate &ldquo;thou&rdquo; in speaking to her. The kindhearted
  countess was the more vexed with Sónya because that poor, dark-eyed niece
  of hers was so meek, so kind, so devotedly grateful to her benefactors,
  and so faithfully, unchangingly, and unselfishly in love with Nicholas,
  that there were no grounds for finding fault with her.
<br />
  Nicholas was spending the last of his leave at home. A fourth letter had
  come from Prince Andrew, from Rome, in which he wrote that he would have
  been on his way back to Russia long ago had not his wound unexpectedly
  reopened in the warm climate, which obliged him to defer his return till
  the beginning of the new year. Natásha was still as much in love with her
  betrothed, found the same comfort in that love, and was still as ready to
  throw herself into all the pleasures of life as before; but at the end of
  the fourth month of their separation she began to have fits of depression
  which she could not master. She felt sorry for herself: sorry that she was
  being wasted all this time and of no use to anyone&mdash;while she felt
  herself so capable of loving and being loved.
<br />
  Things were not cheerful in the Rostóvs&rsquo; home.

  CHAPTER IX


  Christmas came and except for the ceremonial Mass, the solemn and
  wearisome Christmas congratulations from neighbors and servants, and the
  new dresses everyone put on, there were no special festivities, though the
  calm frost of twenty degrees Réaumur, the dazzling sunshine by day, and
  the starlight of the winter nights seemed to call for some special
  celebration of the season.
<br />
  On the third day of Christmas week, after the midday dinner, all the
  inmates of the house dispersed to various rooms. It was the dullest time
  of the day. Nicholas, who had been visiting some neighbors that morning,
  was asleep on the sitting-room sofa. The old count was resting in his
  study. Sónya sat in the drawing room at the round table, copying a design
  for embroidery. The countess was playing patience. Nastásya Ivánovna the
  buffoon sat with a sad face at the window with two old ladies. Natásha
  came into the room, went up to Sónya, glanced at what she was doing, and
  then went up to her mother and stood without speaking.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why are you wandering about like an outcast?&rdquo; asked her mother. &ldquo;What do
  you want?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;... I want him... now, this minute! I want &rdquo;
  said Natásha, with glittering eyes and no sign of a smile.
<br />
  The countess lifted her head and looked attentively at her daughter.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t look at me, Mamma! Don&rsquo;t look; I shall cry directly.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Sit down with me a little,&rdquo; said the countess.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mamma, I want . Why should I be wasted like this, Mamma?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Her voice broke, tears gushed from her eyes, and she turned quickly to
  hide them and left the room.
<br />
  She passed into the sitting room, stood there thinking awhile, and then
  went into the maids&rsquo; room. There an old maidservant was grumbling at a
  young girl who stood panting, having just run in through the cold from the
  serfs&rsquo; quarters.
<br />
  &ldquo;Stop playing&mdash;there&rsquo;s a time for everything,&rdquo; said the old woman.
<br />
  &ldquo;Let her alone, Kondrátevna,&rdquo; said Natásha. &ldquo;Go, Mavrúshka, go.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Having released Mavrúshka, Natásha crossed the dancing hall and went to
  the vestibule. There an old footman and two young ones were playing cards.
  They broke off and rose as she entered.
<br />
  &ldquo;What can I do with them?&rdquo; thought Natásha.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, Nikíta, please go... where can I send him?... Yes, go to the yard and
  fetch a fowl, please, a cock, and you, Misha, bring me some oats.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Just a few oats?&rdquo; said Misha, cheerfully and readily.
<br />
  &ldquo;Go, go quickly,&rdquo; the old man urged him.
<br />
  &ldquo;And you, Theodore, get me a piece of chalk.&rdquo;
 <br />
  On her way past the butler&rsquo;s pantry she told them to set a samovar, though
  it was not at all the time for tea.
<br />
  Fóka, the butler, was the most ill-tempered person in the house. Natásha
  liked to test her power over him. He distrusted the order and asked
  whether the samovar was really wanted.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh dear, what a young lady!&rdquo; said Fóka, pretending to frown at Natásha.
<br />
  No one in the house sent people about or gave them as much trouble as
  Natásha did. She could not see people unconcernedly, but had to send them
  on some errand. She seemed to be trying whether any of them would get
  angry or sulky with her; but the serfs fulfilled no one&rsquo;s orders so
  readily as they did hers. &ldquo;What can I do, where can I go?&rdquo; thought she, as
  she went slowly along the passage.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nastásya Ivánovna, what sort of children shall I have?&rdquo; she asked the
  buffoon, who was coming toward her in a woman&rsquo;s jacket.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, fleas, crickets, grasshoppers,&rdquo; answered the buffoon.
<br />
  &ldquo;O Lord, O Lord, it&rsquo;s always the same! Oh, where am I to go? What am I to
  do with myself?&rdquo; And tapping with her heels, she ran quickly upstairs to
  see Vogel and his wife who lived on the upper story.
<br />
  Two governesses were sitting with the Vogels at a table, on which were
  plates of raisins, walnuts, and almonds. The governesses were discussing
  whether it was cheaper to live in Moscow or Odessa. Natásha sat down,
  listened to their talk with a serious and thoughtful air, and then got up
  again.
<br />
  &ldquo;The island of Madagascar,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;Ma-da-gas-car,&rdquo; she repeated,
  articulating each syllable distinctly, and, not replying to Madame Schoss
  who asked her what she was saying, she went out of the room.
<br />
  Her brother Pétya was upstairs too; with the man in attendance on him he
  was preparing fireworks to let off that night.
<br />
  &ldquo;Pétya! Pétya!&rdquo; she called to him. &ldquo;Carry me downstairs.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pétya ran up and offered her his back. She jumped on it, putting her arms
  round his neck, and he pranced along with her.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, don&rsquo;t... the island of Madagascar!&rdquo; she said, and jumping off his
  back she went downstairs.
<br />
  Having as it were reviewed her kingdom, tested her power, and made sure
  that everyone was submissive, but that all the same it was dull, Natásha
  betook herself to the ballroom, picked up her guitar, sat down in a dark
  corner behind a bookcase, and began to run her fingers over the strings in
  the bass, picking out a passage she recalled from an opera she had heard
  in Petersburg with Prince Andrew. What she drew from the guitar would have
  had no meaning for other listeners, but in her imagination a whole series
  of reminiscences arose from those sounds. She sat behind the bookcase with
  her eyes fixed on a streak of light escaping from the pantry door and
  listened to herself and pondered. She was in a mood for brooding on the
  past.
<br />
  Sónya passed to the pantry with a glass in her hand. Natásha glanced at
  her and at the crack in the pantry door, and it seemed to her that she
  remembered the light falling through that crack once before and Sónya
  passing with a glass in her hand. &ldquo;Yes it was exactly the same,&rdquo; thought
  Natásha.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sónya, what is this?&rdquo; she cried, twanging a thick string.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, you are there!&rdquo; said Sónya with a start, and came near and listened.
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know. A storm?&rdquo; she ventured timidly, afraid of being wrong.
<br />
  &ldquo;There! That&rsquo;s just how she started and just how she came up smiling
  timidly when all this happened before,&rdquo; thought Natásha, &ldquo;and in just the
  same way I thought there was something lacking in her.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, it&rsquo;s the chorus from , listen!&rdquo;
  and Natásha sang the air of the chorus so that Sónya should catch it. &ldquo;Where
  were you going?&rdquo; she asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;To change the water in this glass. I am just finishing the design.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You always find something to do, but I can&rsquo;t,&rdquo; said Natásha. &ldquo;And where&rsquo;s
  Nicholas?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Asleep, I think.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Sónya, go and wake him,&rdquo; said Natásha. &ldquo;Tell him I want him to come and
  sing.&rdquo;
 <br />
  She sat awhile, wondering what the meaning of it all having happened
  before could be, and without solving this problem, or at all regretting
  not having done so, she again passed in fancy to the time when she was
  with  and he was looking at her with a lover&rsquo;s eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, if only he would come quicker! I am so afraid it will never be! And,
  worst of all, I am growing old&mdash;that&rsquo;s the thing! There won&rsquo;t then be
  in me what there is now. But perhaps he&rsquo;ll come today, will come
  immediately. Perhaps he has come and is sitting in the drawing room.
  Perhaps he came yesterday and I have forgotten it.&rdquo; She rose, put down the
  guitar, and went to the drawing room.
<br />
  All the domestic circle, tutors, governesses, and guests, were already at
  the tea table. The servants stood round the table&mdash;but Prince Andrew
  was not there and life was going on as before.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, here she is!&rdquo; said the old count, when he saw Natásha enter. &ldquo;Well,
  sit down by me.&rdquo; But Natásha stayed by her mother and glanced round as if
  looking for something.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mamma!&rdquo; she muttered, &ldquo;give him to me, give him, Mamma, quickly,
  quickly!&rdquo; and she again had difficulty in repressing her sobs.
<br />
  She sat down at the table and listened to the conversation between the
  elders and Nicholas, who had also come to the table. &ldquo;My God, my God! The
  same faces, the same talk, Papa holding his cup and blowing in the same
  way!&rdquo; thought Natásha, feeling with horror a sense of repulsion rising up
  in her for the whole household, because they were always the same.
<br />
  After tea, Nicholas, Sónya, and Natásha went to the sitting room, to their
  favorite corner where their most intimate talks always began.

  CHAPTER X


  &ldquo;Does it ever happen to you,&rdquo; said Natásha to her brother, when they
  settled down in the sitting room, &ldquo;does it ever happen to you to feel as
  if there were nothing more to come&mdash;nothing; that everything good is
  past? And to feel not exactly dull, but sad?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I should think so!&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;I have felt like that when everything
  was all right and everyone was cheerful. The thought has come into my mind
  that I was already tired of it all, and that we must all die. Once in the
  regiment I had not gone to some merrymaking where there was music... and
  suddenly I felt so depressed...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh yes, I know, I know, I know!&rdquo; Natásha interrupted him. &ldquo;When I was
  quite little that used to be so with me. Do you remember when I was
  punished once about some plums? You were all dancing, and I sat sobbing in
  the schoolroom? I shall never forget it: I felt sad and sorry for
  everyone, for myself, and for everyone. And I was innocent&mdash;that was
  the chief thing,&rdquo; said Natásha. &ldquo;Do you remember?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I remember,&rdquo; answered Nicholas. &ldquo;I remember that I came to you afterwards
  and wanted to comfort you, but do you know, I felt ashamed to. We were
  terribly absurd. I had a funny doll then and wanted to give it to you. Do
  you remember?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And do you remember,&rdquo; Natásha asked with a pensive smile, &ldquo;how once,
  long, long ago, when we were quite little, Uncle called us into the study&mdash;that
  was in the old house&mdash;and it was dark&mdash;we went in and suddenly
  there stood...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A Negro,&rdquo; chimed in Nicholas with a smile of delight. &ldquo;Of course I
  remember. Even now I don&rsquo;t know whether there really was a Negro, or if we
  only dreamed it or were told about him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He was gray, you remember, and had white teeth, and stood and looked at
  us....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Sónya, do  remember?&rdquo; asked Nicholas.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes, I do remember something too,&rdquo; Sónya answered timidly.
<br />
  &ldquo;You know I have asked Papa and Mamma about that Negro,&rdquo; said Natásha,
  &ldquo;and they say there was no Negro at all. But you see, you remember!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Of course I do, I remember his teeth as if I had just seen them.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How strange it is! It&rsquo;s as if it were a dream! I like that.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And do you remember how we rolled hard-boiled eggs in the ballroom, and
  suddenly two old women began spinning round on the carpet? Was that real
  or not? Do you remember what fun it was?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, and you remember how Papa in his blue overcoat fired a gun in the
  porch?&rdquo;
 <br />
  So they went through their memories, smiling with pleasure: not the sad
  memories of old age, but poetic, youthful ones&mdash;those impressions of
  one&rsquo;s most distant past in which dreams and realities blend&mdash;and they
  laughed with quiet enjoyment.
<br />
  Sónya, as always, did not quite keep pace with them, though they shared
  the same reminiscences.
<br />
  Much that they remembered had slipped from her mind, and what she recalled
  did not arouse the same poetic feeling as they experienced. She simply
  enjoyed their pleasure and tried to fit in with it.
<br />
  She only really took part when they recalled Sónya&rsquo;s first arrival. She
  told them how afraid she had been of Nicholas because he had on a corded
  jacket and her nurse had told her that she, too, would be sewn up with
  cords.
<br />
  &ldquo;And I remember their telling me that you had been born under a cabbage,&rdquo;
   said Natásha, &ldquo;and I remember that I dared not disbelieve it then, but
  knew that it was not true, and I felt so uncomfortable.&rdquo;
 <br />
  While they were talking a maid thrust her head in at the other door of the
  sitting room.
<br />
  &ldquo;They have brought the cock, Miss,&rdquo; she said in a whisper.
<br />
  &ldquo;It isn&rsquo;t wanted, Pólya. Tell them to take it away,&rdquo; replied Natásha.
<br />
  In the middle of their talk in the sitting room, Dimmler came in and went
  up to the harp that stood there in a corner. He took off its cloth
  covering, and the harp gave out a jarring sound.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mr. Dimmler, please play my favorite nocturne by Field,&rdquo; came the old
  countess&rsquo; voice from the drawing room.
<br />
  Dimmler struck a chord and, turning to Natásha, Nicholas, and Sónya,
  remarked: &ldquo;How quiet you young people are!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, we&rsquo;re philosophizing,&rdquo; said Natásha, glancing round for a moment and
  then continuing the conversation. They were now discussing dreams.
<br />
  Dimmler began to play; Natásha went on tiptoe noiselessly to the table,
  took up a candle, carried it out, and returned, seating herself quietly in
  her former place. It was dark in the room especially where they were
  sitting on the sofa, but through the big windows the silvery light of the
  full moon fell on the floor. Dimmler had finished the piece but still sat
  softly running his fingers over the strings, evidently uncertain whether
  to stop or to play something else.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you know,&rdquo; said Natásha in a whisper, moving closer to Nicholas and
  Sónya, &ldquo;that when one goes on and on recalling memories, one at last
  begins to remember what happened before one was in the world....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That is metempsychosis,&rdquo; said Sónya, who had always learned well, and
  remembered everything. &ldquo;The Egyptians believed that our souls have lived
  in animals, and will go back into animals again.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, I don&rsquo;t believe we ever were in animals,&rdquo; said Natásha, still in a
  whisper though the music had ceased. &ldquo;But I am certain that we were angels
  somewhere , and have been here, and that is why we remember....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;May I join you?&rdquo; said Dimmler who had come up quietly, and he sat down by
  them.
<br />
  &ldquo;If we have been angels, why have we fallen lower?&rdquo; said Nicholas. &ldquo;No,
  that can&rsquo;t be!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Not lower, who said we were lower?... How do I know what I was before?&rdquo;
   Natásha rejoined with conviction. &ldquo;The soul is immortal&mdash;well then,
  if I shall always live I must have lived before, lived for a whole
  eternity.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, but it is hard for us to imagine eternity,&rdquo; remarked Dimmler, who
  had joined the young folk with a mildly condescending smile but now spoke
  as quietly and seriously as they.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why is it hard to imagine eternity?&rdquo; said Natásha. &ldquo;It is now today, and
  it will be tomorrow, and always; and there was yesterday, and the day
  before....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Natásha! Now it&rsquo;s your turn. Sing me something,&rdquo; they heard the countess
  say. &ldquo;Why are you sitting there like conspirators?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Mamma, I don&rsquo;t at all want to,&rdquo; replied Natásha, but all the same she
  rose.
<br />
  None of them, not even the middle-aged Dimmler, wanted to break off their
  conversation and quit that corner in the sitting room, but Natásha got up
  and Nicholas sat down at the clavichord. Standing as usual in the middle
  of the hall and choosing the place where the resonance was best, Natásha
  began to sing her mother&rsquo;s favorite song.
<br />
  She had said she did not want to sing, but it was long since she had sung,
  and long before she again sang, as she did that evening. The count, from
  his study where he was talking to Mítenka, heard her and, like a schoolboy
  in a hurry to run out to play, blundered in his talk while giving orders
  to the steward, and at last stopped, while Mítenka stood in front of him
  also listening and smiling. Nicholas did not take his eyes off his sister
  and drew breath in time with her. Sónya, as she listened, thought of the
  immense difference there was between herself and her friend, and how
  impossible it was for her to be anything like as bewitching as her cousin.
  The old countess sat with a blissful yet sad smile and with tears in her
  eyes, occasionally shaking her head. She thought of Natásha and of her own
  youth, and of how there was something unnatural and dreadful in this
  impending marriage of Natásha and Prince Andrew.
<br />
  Dimmler, who had seated himself beside the countess, listened with closed
  eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, Countess,&rdquo; he said at last, &ldquo;that&rsquo;s a European talent, she has
  nothing to learn&mdash;what softness, tenderness, and strength....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah, how afraid I am for her, how afraid I am!&rdquo; said the countess, not
  realizing to whom she was speaking. Her maternal instinct told her that
  Natásha had too much of something, and that because of this she would not
  be happy. Before Natásha had finished singing, fourteen-year-old Pétya
  rushed in delightedly, to say that some mummers had arrived.
<br />
  Natásha stopped abruptly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Idiot!&rdquo; she screamed at her brother and, running to a chair, threw
  herself on it, sobbing so violently that she could not stop for a long
  time.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s nothing, Mamma, really it&rsquo;s nothing; only Pétya startled me,&rdquo; she
  said, trying to smile, but her tears still flowed and sobs still choked
  her.
<br />
  The mummers (some of the house serfs) dressed up as bears, Turks,
  innkeepers, and ladies&mdash;frightening and funny&mdash;bringing in with
  them the cold from outside and a feeling of gaiety, crowded, at first
  timidly, into the anteroom, then hiding behind one another they pushed
  into the ballroom where, shyly at first and then more and more merrily and
  heartily, they started singing, dancing, and playing Christmas games. The
  countess, when she had identified them and laughed at their costumes, went
  into the drawing room. The count sat in the ballroom, smiling radiantly
  and applauding the players. The young people had disappeared.
<br />
  Half an hour later there appeared among the other mummers in the ballroom
  an old lady in a hooped skirt&mdash;this was Nicholas. A Turkish girl was
  Pétya. A clown was Dimmler. An hussar was Natásha, and a Circassian was
  Sónya with burnt-cork mustache and eyebrows.
<br />
  After the condescending surprise, nonrecognition, and praise, from those
  who were not themselves dressed up, the young people decided that their
  costumes were so good that they ought to be shown elsewhere.
<br />
  Nicholas, who, as the roads were in splendid condition, wanted to take
  them all for a drive in his troyka, proposed to take with them about a
  dozen of the serf mummers and drive to &ldquo;Uncle&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, why disturb the old fellow?&rdquo; said the countess. &ldquo;Besides, you
  wouldn&rsquo;t have room to turn round there. If you must go, go to the
  Melyukóvs&rsquo;.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Melyukóva was a widow, who, with her family and their tutors and
  governesses, lived three miles from the Rostóvs.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s right, my dear,&rdquo; chimed in the old count, thoroughly aroused.
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll dress up at once and go with them. I&rsquo;ll make Pashette open her
  eyes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  But the countess would not agree to his going; he had had a bad leg all
  these last days. It was decided that the count must not go, but that if
  Louisa Ivánovna (Madame Schoss) would go with them, the young ladies might
  go to the Melyukóvs&rsquo;, Sónya, generally so timid and shy, more urgently
  than anyone begging Louisa Ivánovna not to refuse.
<br />
  Sónya&rsquo;s costume was the best of all. Her mustache and eyebrows were
  extraordinarily becoming. Everyone told her she looked very handsome, and
  she was in a spirited and energetic mood unusual with her. Some inner
  voice told her that now or never her fate would be decided, and in her
  male attire she seemed quite a different person. Louisa Ivánovna consented
  to go, and in half an hour four troyka sleighs with large and small bells,
  their runners squeaking and whistling over the frozen snow, drove up to
  the porch.
<br />
  Natásha was foremost in setting a merry holiday tone, which, passing from
  one to another, grew stronger and reached its climax when they all came
  out into the frost and got into the sleighs, talking, calling to one
  another, laughing, and shouting.
<br />
  Two of the troykas were the usual household sleighs, the third was the old
  count&rsquo;s with a trotter from the Orlóv stud as shaft horse, the fourth was
  Nicholas&rsquo; own with a short shaggy black shaft horse. Nicholas, in his old
  lady&rsquo;s dress over which he had belted his hussar overcoat, stood in the
  middle of the sleigh, reins in hand.
<br />
  It was so light that he could see the moonlight reflected from the metal
  harness disks and from the eyes of the horses, who looked round in alarm
  at the noisy party under the shadow of the porch roof.
<br />
  Natásha, Sónya, Madame Schoss, and two maids got into Nicholas&rsquo; sleigh;
  Dimmler, his wife, and Pétya, into the old count&rsquo;s, and the rest of the
  mummers seated themselves in the other two sleighs.
<br />
  &ldquo;You go ahead, Zakhár!&rdquo; shouted Nicholas to his father&rsquo;s coachman, wishing
  for a chance to race past him.
<br />
  The old count&rsquo;s troyka, with Dimmler and his party, started forward,
  squeaking on its runners as though freezing to the snow, its deep-toned
  bell clanging. The side horses, pressing against the shafts of the middle
  horse, sank in the snow, which was dry and glittered like sugar, and threw
  it up.
<br />
  Nicholas set off, following the first sleigh; behind him the others moved
  noisily, their runners squeaking. At first they drove at a steady trot
  along the narrow road. While they drove past the garden the shadows of the
  bare trees often fell across the road and hid the brilliant moonlight, but
  as soon as they were past the fence, the snowy plain bathed in moonlight
  and motionless spread out before them glittering like diamonds and dappled
  with bluish shadows.  went the first sleigh over a cradle hole
  in the snow of the road, and each of the other sleighs jolted in the same
  way, and rudely breaking the frost-bound stillness, the troykas began to
  speed along the road, one after the other.
<br />
  &ldquo;A hare&rsquo;s track, a lot of tracks!&rdquo; rang out Natásha&rsquo;s voice through the
  frost-bound air.
<br />
  &ldquo;How light it is, Nicholas!&rdquo; came Sónya&rsquo;s voice.
<br />
  Nicholas glanced round at Sónya, and bent down to see her face closer.
  Quite a new, sweet face with black eyebrows and mustaches peeped up at him
  from her sable furs&mdash;so close and yet so distant&mdash;in the
  moonlight.
<br />
  &ldquo;That used to be Sónya,&rdquo; thought he, and looked at her closer and smiled.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is it, Nicholas?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; said he and turned again to the horses.
<br />
  When they came out onto the beaten highroad&mdash;polished by sleigh
  runners and cut up by rough-shod hoofs, the marks of which were visible in
  the moonlight&mdash;the horses began to tug at the reins of their own
  accord and increased their pace. The near side horse, arching his head and
  breaking into a short canter, tugged at his traces. The shaft horse swayed
  from side to side, moving his ears as if asking: &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t it time to begin
  now?&rdquo; In front, already far ahead the deep bell of the sleigh ringing
  farther and farther off, the black horses driven by Zakhár could be
  clearly seen against the white snow. From that sleigh one could hear the
  shouts, laughter, and voices of the mummers.
<br />
  &ldquo;Gee up, my darlings!&rdquo; shouted Nicholas, pulling the reins to one side and
  flourishing the whip.
<br />
  It was only by the keener wind that met them and the jerks given by the
  side horses who pulled harder&mdash;ever increasing their gallop&mdash;that
  one noticed how fast the troyka was flying. Nicholas looked back. With
  screams, squeals, and waving of whips that caused even the shaft horses to
  gallop&mdash;the other sleighs followed. The shaft horse swung steadily
  beneath the bow over its head, with no thought of slackening pace and
  ready to put on speed when required.
<br />
  Nicholas overtook the first sleigh. They were driving downhill and coming
  out upon a broad trodden track across a meadow, near a river.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where are we?&rdquo; thought he. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the Kosóy meadow, I
  suppose. But no&mdash;this is something new I&rsquo;ve never seen before. This
  isn&rsquo;t the Kosóy meadow nor the Dëmkin hill, and heaven only knows what it is!
  It is something new and enchanted. Well, whatever it may be...&rdquo; And shouting
  to his horses, he began to pass the first sleigh.
<br />
  Zakhár held back his horses and turned his face, which was already covered
  with hoarfrost to his eyebrows.
<br />
  Nicholas gave the horses the rein, and Zakhár, stretching out his arms,
  clucked his tongue and let his horses go.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now, look out, master!&rdquo; he cried.
<br />
  Faster still the two troykas flew side by side, and faster moved the feet
  of the galloping side horses. Nicholas began to draw ahead. Zakhár, while
  still keeping his arms extended, raised one hand with the reins.
<br />
  &ldquo;No you won&rsquo;t, master!&rdquo; he shouted.
<br />
  Nicholas put all his horses to a gallop and passed Zakhár. The horses
  showered the fine dry snow on the faces of those in the sleigh&mdash;beside
  them sounded quick ringing bells and they caught confused glimpses of
  swiftly moving legs and the shadows of the troyka they were passing. The
  whistling sound of the runners on the snow and the voices of girls
  shrieking were heard from different sides.
<br />
  Again checking his horses, Nicholas looked around him. They were still
  surrounded by the magic plain bathed in moonlight and spangled with stars.
<br />
  &ldquo;Zakhár is shouting that I should turn to the left, but why to the left?&rdquo;
   thought Nicholas. &ldquo;Are we getting to the Melyukóvs&rsquo;? Is this Melyukóvka?
  Heaven only knows where we are going, and heaven knows what is happening
  to us&mdash;but it is very strange and pleasant whatever it is.&rdquo; And he
  looked round in the sleigh.
<br />
  &ldquo;Look, his mustache and eyelashes are all white!&rdquo; said one of the strange,
  pretty, unfamiliar people&mdash;the one with fine eyebrows and mustache.
<br />
  &ldquo;I think this used to be Natásha,&rdquo; thought Nicholas, &ldquo;and that was Madame
  Schoss, but perhaps it&rsquo;s not, and this Circassian with the mustache I
  don&rsquo;t know, but I love her.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Aren&rsquo;t you cold?&rdquo; he asked.
<br />
  They did not answer but began to laugh. Dimmler from the sleigh behind
  shouted something&mdash;probably something funny&mdash;but they could not
  make out what he said.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes!&rdquo; some voices answered, laughing.
<br />
  &ldquo;But here was a fairy forest with black moving shadows, and a glitter of
  diamonds and a flight of marble steps and the silver roofs of fairy
  buildings and the shrill yells of some animals. And if this is really
  Melyukóvka, it is still stranger that we drove heaven knows where and have
  come to Melyukóvka,&rdquo; thought Nicholas.
<br />
  It really was Melyukóvka, and maids and footmen with merry faces came
  running, out to the porch carrying candles.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who is it?&rdquo; asked someone in the porch.
<br />
  &ldquo;The mummers from the count&rsquo;s. I know by the horses,&rdquo; replied some voices.

  CHAPTER XI


  Pelagéya Danílovna Melyukóva, a broadly built, energetic woman wearing
  spectacles, sat in the drawing room in a loose dress, surrounded by her
  daughters whom she was trying to keep from feeling dull. They were quietly
  dropping melted wax into snow and looking at the shadows the wax figures
  would throw on the wall, when they heard the steps and voices of new
  arrivals in the vestibule.
<br />
  Hussars, ladies, witches, clowns, and bears, after clearing their throats
  and wiping the hoarfrost from their faces in the vestibule, came into the
  ballroom where candles were hurriedly lighted. The clown&mdash;Dimmler&mdash;and
  the lady&mdash;Nicholas&mdash;started a dance. Surrounded by the screaming
  children the mummers, covering their faces and disguising their voices,
  bowed to their hostess and arranged themselves about the room.
<br />
  &ldquo;Dear me! there&rsquo;s no recognizing them! And Natásha! See whom she looks
  like! She really reminds me of somebody. But Herr Dimmler&mdash;isn&rsquo;t he
  good! I didn&rsquo;t know him! And how he dances. Dear me, there&rsquo;s a Circassian.
  Really, how becoming it is to dear Sónya. And who is that? Well, you have
  cheered us up! Nikíta and Vanya&mdash;clear away the tables! And we were
  sitting so quietly. Ha, ha, ha!... The hussar, the hussar! Just like a
  boy! And the legs!... I can&rsquo;t look at him...&rdquo; different voices were
  saying.
<br />
  Natásha, the young Melyukóvs&rsquo; favorite, disappeared with them into the
  back rooms where a cork and various dressing gowns and male garments were
  called for and received from the footman by bare girlish arms from behind
  the door. Ten minutes later, all the young Melyukóvs joined the mummers.
<br />
  Pelagéya Danílovna, having given orders to clear the rooms for the
  visitors and arranged about refreshments for the gentry and the serfs,
  went about among the mummers without removing her spectacles, peering into
  their faces with a suppressed smile and failing to recognize any of them.
  It was not merely Dimmler and the Rostóvs she failed to recognize, she did
  not even recognize her own daughters, or her late husband&rsquo;s, dressing
  gowns and uniforms, which they had put on.
<br />
  &ldquo;And who is this?&rdquo; she asked her governess, peering into the face of her
  own daughter dressed up as a Kazán-Tartar. &ldquo;I suppose it is one of the
  Rostóvs! Well, Mr. Hussar, and what regiment do you serve in?&rdquo; she asked
  Natásha. &ldquo;Here, hand some fruit jelly to the Turk!&rdquo; she ordered the butler
  who was handing things round. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s not forbidden by his law.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sometimes, as she looked at the strange but amusing capers cut by the
  dancers, who&mdash;having decided once for all that being disguised, no
  one would recognize them&mdash;were not at all shy, Pelagéya Danílovna hid
  her face in her handkerchief, and her whole stout body shook with
  irrepressible, kindly, elderly laughter.
<br />
  &ldquo;My little Sásha! Look at Sásha!&rdquo; she said.
<br />
  After Russian country dances and chorus dances, Pelagéya Danílovna made
  the serfs and gentry join in one large circle: a ring, a string, and a
  silver ruble were fetched and they all played games together.
<br />
  In an hour, all the costumes were crumpled and disordered. The corked
  eyebrows and mustaches were smeared over the perspiring, flushed, and
  merry faces. Pelagéya Danílovna began to recognize the mummers, admired
  their cleverly contrived costumes, and particularly how they suited the
  young ladies, and she thanked them all for having entertained her so well.
  The visitors were invited to supper in the drawing room, and the serfs had
  something served to them in the ballroom.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now to tell one&rsquo;s fortune in the empty bathhouse is frightening!&rdquo; said an
  old maid who lived with the Melyukóvs, during supper.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why?&rdquo; said the eldest Melyukóv girl.
<br />
  &ldquo;You wouldn&rsquo;t go, it takes courage....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll go,&rdquo; said Sónya.
<br />
  &ldquo;Tell what happened to the young lady!&rdquo; said the second Melyukóv girl.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; began the old maid, &ldquo;a young lady once went out, took a cock, laid
  the table for two, all properly, and sat down. After sitting a while, she
  suddenly hears someone coming... a sleigh drives up with harness bells;
  she hears him coming! He comes in, just in the shape of a man, like an
  officer&mdash;comes in and sits down to table with her.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah! ah!&rdquo; screamed Natásha, rolling her eyes with horror.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes? And how... did he speak?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, like a man. Everything quite all right, and he began persuading her;
  and she should have kept him talking till cockcrow, but she got
  frightened, just got frightened and hid her face in her hands. Then he
  caught her up. It was lucky the maids ran in just then....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Now, why frighten them?&rdquo; said Pelagéya Danílovna.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mamma, you used to try your fate yourself...&rdquo; said her daughter.
<br />
  &ldquo;And how does one do it in a barn?&rdquo; inquired Sónya.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, say you went to the barn now, and listened. It depends on what you
  hear; hammering and knocking&mdash;that&rsquo;s bad; but a sound of shifting
  grain is good and one sometimes hears that, too.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Mamma, tell us what happened to you in the barn.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pelagéya Danílovna smiled.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, I&rsquo;ve forgotten...&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;But none of you would go?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I will; Pelagéya Danílovna, let me! I&rsquo;ll go,&rdquo; said Sónya.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, why not, if you&rsquo;re not afraid?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Louisa Ivánovna, may I?&rdquo; asked Sónya.
<br />
  Whether they were playing the ring and string game or the ruble game or
  talking as now, Nicholas did not leave Sónya&rsquo;s side, and gazed at her with
  quite new eyes. It seemed to him that it was only today, thanks to that
  burnt-cork mustache, that he had fully learned to know her. And really,
  that evening, Sónya was brighter, more animated, and prettier than
  Nicholas had ever seen her before.
<br />
  &ldquo;So that&rsquo;s what she is like; what a fool I have been!&rdquo; he thought gazing
  at her sparkling eyes, and under the mustache a happy rapturous smile
  dimpled her cheeks, a smile he had never seen before.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not afraid of anything,&rdquo; said Sónya. &ldquo;May I go at once?&rdquo; She got up.
<br />
  They told her where the barn was and how she should stand and listen, and
  they handed her a fur cloak. She threw this over her head and shoulders
  and glanced at Nicholas.
<br />
  &ldquo;What a darling that girl is!&rdquo; thought he. &ldquo;And what have I been thinking
  of till now?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sónya went out into the passage to go to the barn. Nicholas went hastily
  to the front porch, saying he felt too hot. The crowd of people really had
  made the house stuffy.
<br />
  Outside, there was the same cold stillness and the same moon, but even
  brighter than before. The light was so strong and the snow sparkled with
  so many stars that one did not wish to look up at the sky and the real
  stars were unnoticed. The sky was black and dreary, while the earth was
  gay.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am a fool, a fool! what have I been waiting for?&rdquo; thought Nicholas, and
  running out from the porch he went round the corner of the house and along
  the path that led to the back porch. He knew Sónya would pass that way.
  Halfway lay some snow-covered piles of firewood and across and along them
  a network of shadows from the bare old lime trees fell on the snow and on
  the path. This path led to the barn. The log walls of the barn and its
  snow-covered roof, that looked as if hewn out of some precious stone,
  sparkled in the moonlight. A tree in the garden snapped with the frost,
  and then all was again perfectly silent. His bosom seemed to inhale not
  air but the strength of eternal youth and gladness.
<br />
  From the back porch came the sound of feet descending the steps, the
  bottom step upon which snow had fallen gave a ringing creak and he heard
  the voice of an old maidservant saying, &ldquo;Straight, straight, along the
  path, Miss. Only, don&rsquo;t look back.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am not afraid,&rdquo; answered Sónya&rsquo;s voice, and along the path toward
  Nicholas came the crunching, whistling sound of Sónya&rsquo;s feet in her thin
  shoes.
<br />
  Sónya came along, wrapped in her cloak. She was only a couple of paces
  away when she saw him, and to her too he was not the Nicholas she had
  known and always slightly feared. He was in a woman&rsquo;s dress, with tousled
  hair and a happy smile new to Sónya. She ran rapidly toward him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Quite different and yet the same,&rdquo; thought Nicholas, looking at her face
  all lit up by the moonlight. He slipped his arms under the cloak that
  covered her head, embraced her, pressed her to him, and kissed her on the
  lips that wore a mustache and had a smell of burnt cork. Sónya kissed him
  full on the lips, and disengaging her little hands pressed them to his
  cheeks.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sónya!... Nicholas!&rdquo;... was all they said. They ran to the barn and then
  back again, re-entering, he by the front and she by the back porch.

  CHAPTER XII


  When they all drove back from Pelagéya Danílovna&rsquo;s, Natásha, who always
  saw and noticed everything, arranged that she and Madame Schoss should go
  back in the sleigh with Dimmler, and Sónya with Nicholas and the maids.
<br />
  On the way back Nicholas drove at a steady pace instead of racing and kept
  peering by that fantastic all-transforming light into Sónya&rsquo;s face and
  searching beneath the eyebrows and mustache for his former and his present
  Sónya from whom he had resolved never to be parted again. He looked and
  recognizing in her both the old and the new Sónya, and being reminded by
  the smell of burnt cork of the sensation of her kiss, inhaled the frosty
  air with a full breast and, looking at the ground flying beneath him and
  at the sparkling sky, felt himself again in fairyland.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sónya, is it well with &rdquo; he asked from time to time.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes!&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;And with &rdquo;
 <br />
  When halfway home Nicholas handed the reins to the coachman and ran for a
  moment to Natásha&rsquo;s sleigh and stood on its wing.
<br />
  &ldquo;Natásha!&rdquo; he whispered in French, &ldquo;do you know I have made up my mind
  about Sónya?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Have you told her?&rdquo; asked Natásha, suddenly beaming all over with joy.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, how strange you are with that mustache and those eyebrows!... Natásha&mdash;are
  you glad?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am so glad, so glad! I was beginning to be vexed with you. I did not
  tell you, but you have been treating her badly. What a heart she has,
  Nicholas! I am horrid sometimes, but I was ashamed to be happy while Sónya
  was not,&rdquo; continued Natásha. &ldquo;Now I am so glad! Well, run back to her.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, wait a bit.... Oh, how funny you look!&rdquo; cried Nicholas, peering into
  her face and finding in his sister too something new, unusual, and
  bewitchingly tender that he had not seen in her before. &ldquo;Natásha, it&rsquo;s
  magical, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;You have done splendidly.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Had I seen her before as she is now,&rdquo; thought Nicholas, &ldquo;I should long
  ago have asked her what to do and have done whatever she told me, and all
  would have been well.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;So you are glad and I have done right?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, quite right! I had a quarrel with Mamma some time ago about it. Mamma
  said she was angling for you. How could she say such a thing! I nearly
  stormed at Mamma. I will never let anyone say anything bad of Sónya, for
  there is nothing but good in her.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Then it&rsquo;s all right?&rdquo; said Nicholas, again scrutinizing the expression of
  his sister&rsquo;s face to see if she was in earnest. Then he jumped down and,
  his boots scrunching the snow, ran back to his sleigh. The same happy,
  smiling Circassian, with mustache and beaming eyes looking up from under a
  sable hood, was still sitting there, and that Circassian was Sónya, and
  that Sónya was certainly his future happy and loving wife.
<br />
  When they reached home and had told their mother how they had spent the
  evening at the Melyukóvs&rsquo;, the girls went to their bedroom. When they had
  undressed, but without washing off the cork mustaches, they sat a long
  time talking of their happiness. They talked of how they would live when
  they were married, how their husbands would be friends, and how happy they
  would be. On Natásha&rsquo;s table stood two looking glasses which Dunyásha had
  prepared beforehand.
<br />
  &ldquo;Only when will all that be? I am afraid never.... It would be too good!&rdquo;
   said Natásha, rising and going to the looking glasses.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sit down, Natásha; perhaps you&rsquo;ll see him,&rdquo; said Sónya.
<br />
  Natásha lit the candles, one on each side of one of the looking glasses,
  and sat down.
<br />
  &ldquo;I see someone with a mustache,&rdquo; said Natásha, seeing her own face.
<br />
  &ldquo;You mustn&rsquo;t laugh, Miss,&rdquo; said Dunyásha.
<br />
  With Sónya&rsquo;s help and the maid&rsquo;s, Natásha got the glass she held into the
  right position opposite the other; her face assumed a serious expression
  and she sat silent. She sat a long time looking at the receding line of
  candles reflected in the glasses and expecting (from tales she had heard)
  to see a coffin, or , Prince Andrew, in that last dim, indistinctly
  outlined square. But ready as she was to take the smallest speck for the
  image of a man or of a coffin, she saw nothing. She began blinking rapidly
  and moved away from the looking glasses.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why is it others see things and I don&rsquo;t?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;You sit down now,
  Sónya. You absolutely must, tonight! Do it for me.... Today I feel so
  frightened!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sónya sat down before the glasses, got the right position, and began
  looking.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now, Miss Sónya is sure to see something,&rdquo; whispered Dunyásha; &ldquo;while you
  do nothing but laugh.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sónya heard this and Natásha&rsquo;s whisper:
<br />
  &ldquo;I know she will. She saw something last year.&rdquo;
 <br />
  For about three minutes all were silent.
<br />
  &ldquo;Of course she will!&rdquo; whispered Natásha, but did not finish... suddenly
  Sónya pushed away the glass she was holding and covered her eyes with her
  hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, Natásha!&rdquo; she cried.
<br />
  &ldquo;Did you see? Did you? What was it?&rdquo; exclaimed Natásha, holding up the
  looking glass.
<br />
  Sónya had not seen anything, she was just wanting to blink and to get up
  when she heard Natásha say, &ldquo;Of course she will!&rdquo; She did not wish to
  disappoint either Dunyásha or Natásha, but it was hard to sit still. She
  did not herself know how or why the exclamation escaped her when she
  covered her eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;You saw him?&rdquo; urged Natásha, seizing her hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes. Wait a bit... I... saw him,&rdquo; Sónya could not help saying, not yet
  knowing whom Natásha meant by , Nicholas or Prince Andrew.
<br />
  &ldquo;But why shouldn&rsquo;t I say I saw something? Others do see! Besides who can
  tell whether I saw anything or not?&rdquo; flashed through Sónya&rsquo;s mind.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I saw him,&rdquo; she said.
<br />
  &ldquo;How? Standing or lying?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, I saw... At first there was nothing, then I saw him lying down.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Andrew lying? Is he ill?&rdquo; asked Natásha, her frightened eyes fixed on her
  friend.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, on the contrary, on the contrary! His face was cheerful, and he
  turned to me.&rdquo; And when saying this she herself fancied she had really
  seen what she described.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, and then, Sónya?...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;After that, I could not make out what there was; something blue and
  red....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Sónya! When will he come back? When shall I see him! O, God, how afraid I
  am for him and for myself and about everything!...&rdquo; Natásha began, and
  without replying to Sónya&rsquo;s words of comfort she got into bed, and long
  after her candle was out lay open-eyed and motionless, gazing at the
  moonlight through the frosty windowpanes.

  CHAPTER XIII


  Soon after the Christmas holidays Nicholas told his mother of his love for
  Sónya and of his firm resolve to marry her. The countess, who had long
  noticed what was going on between them and was expecting this declaration,
  listened to him in silence and then told her son that he might marry whom
  he pleased, but that neither she nor his father would give their blessing
  to such a marriage. Nicholas, for the first time, felt that his mother was
  displeased with him and that, despite her love for him, she would not give
  way. Coldly, without looking at her son, she sent for her husband and,
  when he came, tried briefly and coldly to inform him of the facts, in her
  son&rsquo;s presence, but unable to restrain herself she burst into tears of
  vexation and left the room. The old count began irresolutely to admonish
  Nicholas and beg him to abandon his purpose. Nicholas replied that he
  could not go back on his word, and his father, sighing and evidently
  disconcerted, very soon became silent and went in to the countess. In all
  his encounters with his son, the count was always conscious of his own
  guilt toward him for having wasted the family fortune, and so he could not
  be angry with him for refusing to marry an heiress and choosing the
  dowerless Sónya. On this occasion, he was only more vividly conscious of
  the fact that if his affairs had not been in disorder, no better wife for
  Nicholas than Sónya could have been wished for, and that no one but
  himself with his Mítenka and his uncomfortable habits was to blame for the
  condition of the family finances.
<br />
  The father and mother did not speak of the matter to their son again, but
  a few days later the countess sent for Sónya and, with a cruelty neither
  of them expected, reproached her niece for trying to catch Nicholas and
  for ingratitude. Sónya listened silently with downcast eyes to the
  countess&rsquo; cruel words, without understanding what was required of her. She
  was ready to sacrifice everything for her benefactors. Self-sacrifice was
  her most cherished idea but in this case she could not see what she ought
  to sacrifice, or for whom. She could not help loving the countess and the
  whole Rostóv family, but neither could she help loving Nicholas and
  knowing that his happiness depended on that love. She was silent and sad
  and did not reply. Nicholas felt the situation to be intolerable and went
  to have an explanation with his mother. He first implored her to forgive
  him and Sónya and consent to their marriage, then he threatened that if
  she molested Sónya he would at once marry her secretly.
<br />
  The countess, with a coldness her son had never seen in her before,
  replied that he was of age, that Prince Andrew was marrying without his
  father&rsquo;s consent, and he could do the same, but that she would never
  receive that  as her daughter.
<br />
  Exploding at the word , Nicholas, raising his voice, told his
  mother he had never expected her to try to force him to sell his feelings,
  but if that were so, he would say for the last time.... But he had no time
  to utter the decisive word which the expression of his face caused his
  mother to await with terror, and which would perhaps have forever remained
  a cruel memory to them both. He had not time to say it, for Natásha, with
  a pale and set face, entered the room from the door at which she had been
  listening.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nicholas, you are talking nonsense! Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet, I tell
  you!...&rdquo; she almost screamed, so as to drown his voice.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mamma darling, it&rsquo;s not at all so... my poor, sweet darling,&rdquo; she said to
  her mother, who conscious that they had been on the brink of a rupture
  gazed at her son with terror, but in the obstinacy and excitement of the
  conflict could not and would not give way.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nicholas, I&rsquo;ll explain to you. Go away! Listen, Mamma darling,&rdquo; said
  Natásha.
<br />
  Her words were incoherent, but they attained the purpose at which she was
  aiming.
<br />
  The countess, sobbing heavily, hid her face on her daughter&rsquo;s breast,
  while Nicholas rose, clutching his head, and left the room.
<br />
  Natásha set to work to effect a reconciliation, and so far succeeded that
  Nicholas received a promise from his mother that Sónya should not be
  troubled, while he on his side promised not to undertake anything without
  his parents&rsquo; knowledge.
<br />
  Firmly resolved, after putting his affairs in order in the regiment, to
  retire from the army and return and marry Sónya, Nicholas, serious,
  sorrowful, and at variance with his parents, but, as it seemed to him,
  passionately in love, left at the beginning of January to rejoin his
  regiment.
<br />
  After Nicholas had gone things in the Rostóv household were more
  depressing than ever, and the countess fell ill from mental agitation.
<br />
  Sónya was unhappy at the separation from Nicholas and still more so on
  account of the hostile tone the countess could not help adopting toward
  her. The count was more perturbed than ever by the condition of his
  affairs, which called for some decisive action. Their town house and
  estate near Moscow had inevitably to be sold, and for this they had to go
  to Moscow. But the countess&rsquo; health obliged them to delay their departure
  from day to day.
<br />
  Natásha, who had borne the first period of separation from her betrothed
  lightly and even cheerfully, now grew more agitated and impatient every
  day. The thought that her best days, which she would have employed in
  loving him, were being vainly wasted, with no advantage to anyone,
  tormented her incessantly. His letters for the most part irritated her. It
  hurt her to think that while she lived only in the thought of him, he was
  living a real life, seeing new places and new people that interested him.
  The more interesting his letters were the more vexed she felt. Her letters
  to him, far from giving her any comfort, seemed to her a wearisome and
  artificial obligation. She could not write, because she could not conceive
  the possibility of expressing sincerely in a letter even a thousandth part
  of what she expressed by voice, smile, and glance. She wrote to him
  formal, monotonous, and dry letters, to which she attached no importance
  herself, and in the rough copies of which the countess corrected her
  mistakes in spelling.
<br />
  There was still no improvement in the countess&rsquo; health, but it was
  impossible to defer the journey to Moscow any longer. Natásha&rsquo;s trousseau
  had to be ordered and the house sold. Moreover, Prince Andrew was expected
  in Moscow, where old Prince Bolkónski was spending the winter, and Natásha
  felt sure he had already arrived.
<br />
  So the countess remained in the country, and the count, taking Sónya and
  Natásha with him, went to Moscow at the end of January.

  BOOK EIGHT: 1811 - 12

  CHAPTER I


  After Prince Andrew&rsquo;s engagement to Natásha, Pierre without any apparent
  cause suddenly felt it impossible to go on living as before. Firmly
  convinced as he was of the truths revealed to him by his benefactor, and
  happy as he had been in perfecting his inner man, to which he had devoted
  himself with such ardor&mdash;all the zest of such a life vanished after
  the engagement of Andrew and Natásha and the death of Joseph Alexéevich,
  the news of which reached him almost at the same time. Only the skeleton
  of life remained: his house, a brilliant wife who now enjoyed the favors
  of a very important personage, acquaintance with all Petersburg, and his
  court service with its dull formalities. And this life suddenly seemed to
  Pierre unexpectedly loathsome. He ceased keeping a diary, avoided the
  company of the Brothers, began going to the club again, drank a great
  deal, and came once more in touch with the bachelor sets, leading such a
  life that the Countess Hélène thought it necessary to speak severely to
  him about it. Pierre felt that she was right, and to avoid compromising
  her went away to Moscow.
<br />
  In Moscow as soon as he entered his huge house in which the faded and
  fading princesses still lived, with its enormous retinue; as soon as,
  driving through the town, he saw the Iberian shrine with innumerable
  tapers burning before the golden covers of the icons, the Krémlin Square
  with its snow undisturbed by vehicles, the sleigh drivers and hovels of
  the Sívtsev Vrazhók, those old Moscovites who desired nothing, hurried
  nowhere, and were ending their days leisurely; when he saw those old
  Moscow ladies, the Moscow balls, and the English Club, he felt himself at
  home in a quiet haven. In Moscow he felt at peace, at home, warm and dirty
  as in an old dressing gown.
<br />
  Moscow society, from the old women down to the children, received Pierre
  like a long-expected guest whose place was always ready awaiting him. For
  Moscow society Pierre was the nicest, kindest, most intellectual,
  merriest, and most magnanimous of cranks, a heedless, genial nobleman of
  the old Russian type. His purse was always empty because it was open to
  everyone.
<br />
  Benefit performances, poor pictures, statues, benevolent societies, gypsy
  choirs, schools, subscription dinners, sprees, Freemasons, churches, and
  books&mdash;no one and nothing met with a refusal from him, and had it not
  been for two friends who had borrowed large sums from him and taken him
  under their protection, he would have given everything away. There was
  never a dinner or soiree at the club without him. As soon as he sank into
  his place on the sofa after two bottles of Margaux he was surrounded, and
  talking, disputing, and joking began. When there were quarrels, his kindly
  smile and well-timed jests reconciled the antagonists. The Masonic dinners
  were dull and dreary when he was not there.
<br />
  When after a bachelor supper he rose with his amiable and kindly smile,
  yielding to the entreaties of the festive company to drive off somewhere
  with them, shouts of delight and triumph arose among the young men. At
  balls he danced if a partner was needed. Young ladies, married and
  unmarried, liked him because without making love to any of them, he was
  equally amiable to all, especially after supper.  * they said of him.
<br />
* &ldquo;He is charming; he has no sex.&rdquo;

Pierre was one of those retired gentlemen-in-waiting of whom there were hundreds good-humoredly ending their days in Moscow.
How horrified he would have been seven years before, when he first arrived from abroad, had he been told that there was no need for him to seek or plan anything, that his rut had long been shaped, eternally predetermined, and that wriggle as he might, he would be what all in his position were. He could not have believed it! Had he not at one time longed with all his heart to establish a republic in Russia; then himself to be a Napoleon; then to be a philosopher; and then a strategist and the conqueror of Napoleon? Had he not seen the possibility of, and passionately desired, the regeneration of the sinful human race, and his own progress to the highest degree of perfection? Had he not established schools and hospitals and liberated his serfs?
But instead of all that—here he was, the wealthy husband of an unfaithful wife, a retired gentleman-in-waiting, fond of eating and drinking and, as he unbuttoned his waistcoat, of abusing the government a bit, a member of the Moscow English Club, and a universal favorite in Moscow society. For a long time he could not reconcile himself to the idea that he was one of those same retired Moscow gentlemen-in-waiting he had so despised seven years before.
Sometimes he consoled himself with the thought that he was only living this life temporarily; but then he was shocked by the thought of how many, like himself, had entered that life and that club temporarily, with all their teeth and hair, and had only left it when not a single tooth or hair remained.
In moments of pride, when he thought of his position it seemed to him that he was quite different and distinct from those other retired gentlemen-in-waiting he had formerly despised: they were empty, stupid, contented fellows, satisfied with their position, “while I am still discontented and want to do something for mankind. But perhaps all these comrades of mine struggled just like me and sought something new, a path in life of their own, and like me were brought by force of circumstances, society, and race—by that elemental force against which man is powerless—to the condition I am in,” said he to himself in moments of humility; and after living some time in Moscow he no longer despised, but began to grow fond of, to respect, and to pity his comrades in destiny, as he pitied himself.
Pierre no longer suffered moments of despair, hypochondria, and disgust with life, but the malady that had formerly found expression in such acute attacks was driven inwards and never left him for a moment. “What for? Why? What is going on in the world?” he would ask himself in perplexity several times a day, involuntarily beginning to reflect anew on the meaning of the phenomena of life; but knowing by experience that there were no answers to these questions he made haste to turn away from them, and took up a book, or hurried off to the club or to Apollón Nikoláevich’s, to exchange the gossip of the town.
“Hélène, who has never cared for anything but her own body and is one of the stupidest women in the world,” thought Pierre, “is regarded by people as the acme of intelligence and refinement, and they pay homage to her. Napoleon Bonaparte was despised by all as long as he was great, but now that he has become a wretched comedian the Emperor Francis wants to offer him his daughter in an illegal marriage. The Spaniards, through the Catholic clergy, offer praise to God for their victory over the French on the fourteenth of June, and the French, also through the Catholic clergy, offer praise because on that same fourteenth of June they defeated the Spaniards. My brother Masons swear by the blood that they are ready to sacrifice everything for their neighbor, but they do not give a ruble each to the collections for the poor, and they intrigue, the Astraea Lodge against the Manna Seekers, and fuss about an authentic Scotch carpet and a charter that nobody needs, and the meaning of which the very man who wrote it does not understand. We all profess the Christian law of forgiveness of injuries and love of our neighbors, the law in honor of which we have built in Moscow forty times forty churches—but yesterday a deserter was knouted to death and a minister of that same law of love and forgiveness, a priest, gave the soldier a cross to kiss before his execution.” So thought Pierre, and the whole of this general deception which everyone accepts, accustomed as he was to it, astonished him each time as if it were something new. “I understand the deception and confusion,” he thought, “but how am I to tell them all that I see? I have tried, and have always found that they too in the depths of their souls understand it as I do, and only try not to see it. So it appears that it must be so! But I—what is to become of me?” thought he. He had the unfortunate capacity many men, especially Russians, have of seeing and believing in the possibility of goodness and truth, but of seeing the evil and falsehood of life too clearly to be able to take a serious part in it. Every sphere of work was connected, in his eyes, with evil and deception. Whatever he tried to be, whatever he engaged in, the evil and falsehood of it repulsed him and blocked every path of activity. Yet he had to live and to find occupation. It was too dreadful to be under the burden of these insoluble problems, so he abandoned himself to any distraction in order to forget them. He frequented every kind of society, drank much, bought pictures, engaged in building, and above all—read.
He read, and read everything that came to hand. On coming home, while his valets were still taking off his things, he picked up a book and began to read. From reading he passed to sleeping, from sleeping to gossip in drawing rooms of the club, from gossip to carousals and women; from carousals back to gossip, reading, and wine. Drinking became more and more a physical and also a moral necessity. Though the doctors warned him that with his corpulence wine was dangerous for him, he drank a great deal. He was only quite at ease when having poured several glasses of wine mechanically into his large mouth he felt a pleasant warmth in his body, an amiability toward all his fellows, and a readiness to respond superficially to every idea without probing it deeply. Only after emptying a bottle or two did he feel dimly that the terribly tangled skein of life which previously had terrified him was not as dreadful as he had thought. He was always conscious of some aspect of that skein, as with a buzzing in his head after dinner or supper he chatted or listened to conversation or read. But under the influence of wine he said to himself: “It doesn’t matter. I’ll get it unraveled. I have a solution ready, but have no time now—I’ll think it all out later on!” But the never came.
In the morning, on an empty stomach, all the old questions appeared as insoluble and terrible as ever, and Pierre hastily picked up a book, and if anyone came to see him he was glad.
Sometimes he remembered how he had heard that soldiers in war when entrenched under the enemy’s fire, if they have nothing to do, try hard to find some occupation the more easily to bear the danger. To Pierre all men seemed like those soldiers, seeking refuge from life: some in ambition, some in cards, some in framing laws, some in women, some in toys, some in horses, some in politics, some in sport, some in wine, and some in governmental affairs. “Nothing is trivial, and nothing is important, it’s all the same—only to save oneself from it as best one can,” thought Pierre. “Only not to see , that dreadful ”

  CHAPTER II


  At the beginning of winter Prince Nicholas Bolkónski and his daughter
  moved to Moscow. At that time enthusiasm for the Emperor Alexander&rsquo;s
  regime had weakened and a patriotic and anti-French tendency prevailed
  there, and this, together with his past and his intellect and his
  originality, at once made Prince Nicholas Bolkónski an object of
  particular respect to the Moscovites and the center of the Moscow
  opposition to the government.
<br />
  The prince had aged very much that year. He showed marked signs of
  senility by a tendency to fall asleep, forgetfulness of quite recent
  events, remembrance of remote ones, and the childish vanity with which he
  accepted the role of head of the Moscow opposition. In spite of this the
  old man inspired in all his visitors alike a feeling of respectful
  veneration&mdash;especially of an evening when he came in to tea in his
  old-fashioned coat and powdered wig and, aroused by anyone, told his
  abrupt stories of the past, or uttered yet more abrupt and scathing
  criticisms of the present. For them all, that old-fashioned house with its
  gigantic mirrors, pre-Revolution furniture, powdered footmen, and the
  stern shrewd old man (himself a relic of the past century) with his gentle
  daughter and the pretty Frenchwoman who were reverently devoted to him
  presented a majestic and agreeable spectacle. But the visitors did not
  reflect that besides the couple of hours during which they saw their host,
  there were also twenty-two hours in the day during which the private and
  intimate life of the house continued.
<br />
  Latterly that private life had become very trying for Princess Mary. There
  in Moscow she was deprived of her greatest pleasures&mdash;talks with the
  pilgrims and the solitude which refreshed her at Bald Hills&mdash;and she
  had none of the advantages and pleasures of city life. She did not go out
  into society; everyone knew that her father would not let her go anywhere
  without him, and his failing health prevented his going out himself, so
  that she was not invited to dinners and evening parties. She had quite
  abandoned the hope of getting married. She saw the coldness and
  malevolence with which the old prince received and dismissed the young
  men, possible suitors, who sometimes appeared at their house. She had no
  friends: during this visit to Moscow she had been disappointed in the two
  who had been nearest to her. Mademoiselle Bourienne, with whom she had
  never been able to be quite frank, had now become unpleasant to her, and
  for various reasons Princess Mary avoided her. Julie, with whom she had
  corresponded for the last five years, was in Moscow, but proved to be
  quite alien to her when they met. Just then Julie, who by the death of her
  brothers had become one of the richest heiresses in Moscow, was in the
  full whirl of society pleasures. She was surrounded by young men who, she
  fancied, had suddenly learned to appreciate her worth. Julie was at that
  stage in the life of a society woman when she feels that her last chance
  of marrying has come and that her fate must be decided now or never. On
  Thursdays Princess Mary remembered with a mournful smile that she now had
  no one to write to, since Julie&mdash;whose presence gave her no pleasure
  was here and they met every week. Like the old  who declined to
  marry the lady with whom he had spent his evenings for years, she
  regretted Julie&rsquo;s presence and having no one to write to. In Moscow
  Princess Mary had no one to talk to, no one to whom to confide her sorrow,
  and much sorrow fell to her lot just then. The time for Prince Andrew&rsquo;s
  return and marriage was approaching, but his request to her to prepare his
  father for it had not been carried out; in fact, it seemed as if matters
  were quite hopeless, for at every mention of the young Countess Rostóva
  the old prince (who apart from that was usually in a bad temper) lost
  control of himself. Another lately added sorrow arose from the lessons she
  gave her six year-old nephew. To her consternation she detected in herself
  in relation to little Nicholas some symptoms of her father&rsquo;s irritability.
  However often she told herself that she must not get irritable when
  teaching her nephew, almost every time that, pointer in hand, she sat down
  to show him the French alphabet, she so longed to pour her own knowledge
  quickly and easily into the child&mdash;who was already afraid that Auntie
  might at any moment get angry&mdash;that at his slightest inattention she
  trembled, became flustered and heated, raised her voice, and sometimes
  pulled him by the arm and put him in the corner. Having put him in the
  corner she would herself begin to cry over her cruel, evil nature, and
  little Nicholas, following her example, would sob, and without permission
  would leave his corner, come to her, pull her wet hands from her face, and
  comfort her. But what distressed the princess most of all was her father&rsquo;s
  irritability, which was always directed against her and had of late
  amounted to cruelty. Had he forced her to prostrate herself to the ground
  all night, had he beaten her or made her fetch wood or water, it would
  never have entered her mind to think her position hard; but this loving
  despot&mdash;the more cruel because he loved her and for that reason
  tormented himself and her&mdash;knew how not merely to hurt and humiliate
  her deliberately, but to show her that she was always to blame for
  everything. Of late he had exhibited a new trait that tormented Princess
  Mary more than anything else; this was his ever-increasing intimacy with
  Mademoiselle Bourienne. The idea that at the first moment of receiving the
  news of his son&rsquo;s intentions had occurred to him in jest&mdash;that if
  Andrew got married he himself would marry Bourienne&mdash;had evidently
  pleased him, and latterly he had persistently, and as it seemed to
  Princess Mary merely to offend her, shown special endearments to the
  companion and expressed his dissatisfaction with his daughter by
  demonstrations of love of Bourienne.
<br />
  One day in Moscow in Princess Mary&rsquo;s presence (she thought her father did
  it purposely when she was there) the old prince kissed Mademoiselle
  Bourienne&rsquo;s hand and, drawing her to him, embraced her affectionately.
  Princess Mary flushed and ran out of the room. A few minutes later
  Mademoiselle Bourienne came into Princess Mary&rsquo;s room smiling and making
  cheerful remarks in her agreeable voice. Princess Mary hastily wiped away
  her tears, went resolutely up to Mademoiselle Bourienne, and evidently
  unconscious of what she was doing began shouting in angry haste at the
  Frenchwoman, her voice breaking: &ldquo;It&rsquo;s horrible, vile, inhuman, to take
  advantage of the weakness...&rdquo; She did not finish. &ldquo;Leave my room,&rdquo; she
  exclaimed, and burst into sobs.
<br />
  Next day the prince did not say a word to his daughter, but she noticed
  that at dinner he gave orders that Mademoiselle Bourienne should be served
  first. After dinner, when the footman handed coffee and from habit began
  with the princess, the prince suddenly grew furious, threw his stick at
  Philip, and instantly gave instructions to have him conscripted for the
  army.
<br />
  &ldquo;He doesn&rsquo;t obey... I said it twice... and he doesn&rsquo;t obey! She is the
  first person in this house; she&rsquo;s my best friend,&rdquo; cried the prince. &ldquo;And
  if you allow yourself,&rdquo; he screamed in a fury, addressing Princess Mary
  for the first time, &ldquo;to forget yourself again before her as you dared to
  do yesterday, I will show you who is master in this house. Go! Don&rsquo;t let
  me set eyes on you; beg her pardon!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Princess Mary asked Mademoiselle Bourienne&rsquo;s pardon, and also her father&rsquo;s
  pardon for herself and for Philip the footman, who had begged for her
  intervention.
<br />
  At such moments something like a pride of sacrifice gathered in her soul.
  And suddenly that father whom she had judged would look for his spectacles
  in her presence, fumbling near them and not seeing them, or would forget
  something that had just occurred, or take a false step with his failing
  legs and turn to see if anyone had noticed his feebleness, or, worst of
  all, at dinner when there were no visitors to excite him would suddenly
  fall asleep, letting his napkin drop and his shaking head sink over his
  plate. &ldquo;He is old and feeble, and I dare to condemn him!&rdquo; she thought at
  such moments, with a feeling of revulsion against herself.

  CHAPTER III


  In 1811 there was living in Moscow a French doctor&mdash;Métivier&mdash;who
  had rapidly become the fashion. He was enormously tall, handsome, amiable
  as Frenchmen are, and was, as all Moscow said, an extraordinarily clever
  doctor. He was received in the best houses not merely as a doctor, but as
  an equal.
<br />
  Prince Nicholas had always ridiculed medicine, but latterly on
  Mademoiselle Bourienne&rsquo;s advice had allowed this doctor to visit him and
  had grown accustomed to him. Métivier came to see the prince about twice a
  week.
<br />
  On December 6&mdash;St. Nicholas&rsquo; Day and the prince&rsquo;s name day&mdash;all
  Moscow came to the prince&rsquo;s front door but he gave orders to admit no one
  and to invite to dinner only a small number, a list of whom he gave to
  Princess Mary.
<br />
  Métivier, who came in the morning with his felicitations, considered it
  proper in his quality of doctor , * as he told
  Princess Mary, and went in to see the prince. It happened that on that
  morning of his name day the prince was in one of his worst moods. He had
  been going about the house all the morning finding fault with everyone and
  pretending not to understand what was said to him and not to be understood
  himself. Princess Mary well knew this mood of quiet absorbed
  querulousness, which generally culminated in a burst of rage, and she went
  about all that morning as though facing a cocked and loaded gun and
  awaited the inevitable explosion. Until the doctor&rsquo;s arrival the morning
  had passed off safely. After admitting the doctor, Princess Mary sat down
  with a book in the drawing room near the door through which she could hear
  all that passed in the study.
<br />
* To force the guard.

At first she heard only Métivier’s voice, then her father’s, then both voices began speaking at the same time, the door was flung open, and on the threshold appeared the handsome figure of the terrified Métivier with his shock of black hair, and the prince in his dressing gown and fez, his face distorted with fury and the pupils of his eyes rolled downwards.
“You don’t understand?” shouted the prince, “but I do! French spy, slave of Buonaparte, spy, get out of my house! Be off, I tell you…” and he slammed the door.
Métivier, shrugging his shoulders, went up to Mademoiselle Bourienne who at the sound of shouting had run in from an adjoining room.
“The prince is not very well: bile and rush of blood to the head. Keep calm, I will call again tomorrow,” said Métivier; and putting his fingers to his lips he hastened away.
Through the study door came the sound of slippered feet and the cry: “Spies, traitors, traitors everywhere! Not a moment’s peace in my own house!”
After Métivier’s departure the old prince called his daughter in, and the whole weight of his wrath fell on her. She was to blame that a spy had been admitted. Had he not told her, yes, told her to make a list, and not to admit anyone who was not on that list? Then why was that scoundrel admitted? She was the cause of it all. With her, he said, he could not have a moment’s peace and could not die quietly.
“No, ma’am! We must part, we must part! Understand that, understand it! I cannot endure any more,” he said, and left the room. Then, as if afraid she might find some means of consolation, he returned and trying to appear calm added: “And don’t imagine I have said this in a moment of anger. I am calm. I have thought it over, and it will be carried out—we must part; so find some place for yourself….” But he could not restrain himself and with the virulence of which only one who loves is capable, evidently suffering himself, he shook his fists at her and screamed:
“If only some fool would marry her!” Then he slammed the door, sent for Mademoiselle Bourienne, and subsided into his study.
At two o’clock the six chosen guests assembled for dinner.
These guests—the famous Count Rostopchín, Prince Lopukhín with his nephew, General Chatróv an old war comrade of the prince’s, and of the younger generation Pierre and Borís Drubetskóy—awaited the prince in the drawing room.
Borís, who had come to Moscow on leave a few days before, had been anxious to be presented to Prince Nicholas Bolkónski, and had contrived to ingratiate himself so well that the old prince in his case made an exception to the rule of not receiving bachelors in his house.
The prince’s house did not belong to what is known as , but his little circle—though not much talked about in town—was one it was more flattering to be received in than any other. Borís had realized this the week before when the commander in chief in his presence invited Rostopchín to dinner on St. Nicholas’ Day, and Rostopchín had replied that he could not come:
“On that day I always go to pay my devotions to the relics of Prince Nicholas Bolkónski.”
“Oh, yes, yes!” replied the commander in chief. “How is he?…”
The small group that assembled before dinner in the lofty old-fashioned drawing room with its old furniture resembled the solemn gathering of a court of justice. All were silent or talked in low tones. Prince Nicholas came in serious and taciturn. Princess Mary seemed even quieter and more diffident than usual. The guests were reluctant to address her, feeling that she was in no mood for their conversation. Count Rostopchín alone kept the conversation going, now relating the latest town news, and now the latest political gossip.
Lopukhín and the old general occasionally took part in the conversation. Prince Bolkónski listened as a presiding judge receives a report, only now and then, silently or by a brief word, showing that he took heed of what was being reported to him. The tone of the conversation was such as indicated that no one approved of what was being done in the political world. Incidents were related evidently confirming the opinion that everything was going from bad to worse, but whether telling a story or giving an opinion the speaker always stopped, or was stopped, at the point beyond which his criticism might touch the sovereign himself.
At dinner the talk turned on the latest political news: Napoleon’s seizure of the Duke of Oldenburg’s territory, and the Russian Note, hostile to Napoleon, which had been sent to all the European courts.
“Bonaparte treats Europe as a pirate does a captured vessel,” said Count Rostopchín, repeating a phrase he had uttered several times before. “One only wonders at the long-suffering or blindness of the crowned heads. Now the Pope’s turn has come and Bonaparte doesn’t scruple to depose the head of the Catholic Church—yet all keep silent! Our sovereign alone has protested against the seizure of the Duke of Oldenburg’s territory, and even…” Count Rostopchín paused, feeling that he had reached the limit beyond which censure was impossible.
“Other territories have been offered in exchange for the Duchy of Oldenburg,” said Prince Bolkónski. “He shifts the Dukes about as I might move my serfs from Bald Hills to Boguchárovo or my Ryazán estates.”
“The Duke of Oldenburg bears his misfortunes with admirable strength of character and resignation,” remarked Borís, joining in respectfully.
He said this because on his journey from Petersburg he had had the honor of being presented to the Duke. Prince Bolkónski glanced at the young man as if about to say something in reply, but changed his mind, evidently considering him too young.
“I have read our protests about the Oldenburg affair and was surprised how badly the Note was worded,” remarked Count Rostopchín in the casual tone of a man dealing with a subject quite familiar to him.
Pierre looked at Rostopchín with naïve astonishment, not understanding why he should be disturbed by the bad composition of the Note.
“Does it matter, Count, how the Note is worded,” he asked, “so long as its substance is forcible?”
“My dear fellow, with our five hundred thousand troops it should be easy to have a good style,” returned Count Rostopchín.
Pierre now understood the count’s dissatisfaction with the wording of the Note.
“One would have thought quill drivers enough had sprung up,” remarked the old prince. “There in Petersburg they are always writing—not notes only but even new laws. My Andrew there has written a whole volume of laws for Russia. Nowadays they are always writing!” and he laughed unnaturally.
There was a momentary pause in the conversation; the old general cleared his throat to draw attention.
“Did you hear of the last event at the review in Petersburg? The figure cut by the new French ambassador.”
“Eh? Yes, I heard something: he said something awkward in His Majesty’s presence.”
“His Majesty drew attention to the Grenadier division and to the march past,” continued the general, “and it seems the ambassador took no notice and allowed himself to reply that: ‘We in France pay no attention to such trifles!’ The Emperor did not condescend to reply. At the next review, they say, the Emperor did not once deign to address him.”
All were silent. On this fact relating to the Emperor personally, it was impossible to pass any judgment.
“Impudent fellows!” said the prince. “You know Métivier? I turned him out of my house this morning. He was here; they admitted him in spite of my request that they should let no one in,” he went on, glancing angrily at his daughter.
And he narrated his whole conversation with the French doctor and the reasons that convinced him that Métivier was a spy. Though these reasons were very insufficient and obscure, no one made any rejoinder.
After the roast, champagne was served. The guests rose to congratulate the old prince. Princess Mary, too, went round to him.
He gave her a cold, angry look and offered her his wrinkled, clean-shaven cheek to kiss. The whole expression of his face told her that he had not forgotten the morning’s talk, that his decision remained in force, and only the presence of visitors hindered his speaking of it to her now.
When they went into the drawing room where coffee was served, the old men sat together.
Prince Nicholas grew more animated and expressed his views on the impending war.
He said that our wars with Bonaparte would be disastrous so long as we sought alliances with the Germans and thrust ourselves into European affairs, into which we had been drawn by the Peace of Tilsit. “We ought not to fight either for or against Austria. Our political interests are all in the East, and in regard to Bonaparte the only thing is to have an armed frontier and a firm policy, and he will never dare to cross the Russian frontier, as was the case in 1807!”
“How can we fight the French, Prince?” said Count Rostopchín. “Can we arm ourselves against our teachers and divinities? Look at our youths, look at our ladies! The French are our Gods: Paris is our Kingdom of Heaven.”
He began speaking louder, evidently to be heard by everyone.
“French dresses, French ideas, French feelings! There now, you turned Métivier out by the scruff of his neck because he is a Frenchman and a scoundrel, but our ladies crawl after him on their knees. I went to a party last night, and there out of five ladies three were Roman Catholics and had the Pope’s indulgence for doing woolwork on Sundays. And they themselves sit there nearly naked, like the signboards at our Public Baths if I may say so. Ah, when one looks at our young people, Prince, one would like to take Peter the Great’s old cudgel out of the museum and belabor them in the Russian way till all the nonsense jumps out of them.”
All were silent. The old prince looked at Rostopchín with a smile and wagged his head approvingly.
“Well, good-by, your excellency, keep well!” said Rostopchín, getting up with characteristic briskness and holding out his hand to the prince.
“Good-by, my dear fellow…. His words are music, I never tire of hearing him!” said the old prince, keeping hold of the hand and offering his cheek to be kissed.
Following Rostopchín’s example the others also rose.

  CHAPTER IV


  Princess Mary as she sat listening to the old men&rsquo;s talk and faultfinding,
  understood nothing of what she heard; she only wondered whether the guests
  had all observed her father&rsquo;s hostile attitude toward her. She did not
  even notice the special attentions and amiabilities shown her during
  dinner by Borís Drubetskóy, who was visiting them for the third time
  already.
<br />
  Princess Mary turned with absent-minded questioning look to Pierre, who
  hat in hand and with a smile on his face was the last of the guests to
  approach her after the old prince had gone out and they were left alone in
  the drawing room.
<br />
  &ldquo;May I stay a little longer?&rdquo; he said, letting his stout body sink into an
  armchair beside her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh yes,&rdquo; she answered. &ldquo;You noticed nothing?&rdquo; her look asked.
<br />
  Pierre was in an agreeable after-dinner mood. He looked straight before
  him and smiled quietly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Have you known that young man long, Princess?&rdquo; he asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Drubetskóy.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, not long....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Do you like him?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, he is an agreeable young man.... Why do you ask me that?&rdquo; said
  Princess Mary, still thinking of that morning&rsquo;s conversation with her
  father.
<br />
  &ldquo;Because I have noticed that when a young man comes on leave from
  Petersburg to Moscow it is usually with the object of marrying an
  heiress.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You have observed that?&rdquo; said Princess Mary.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; returned Pierre with a smile, &ldquo;and this young man now manages
  matters so that where there is a wealthy heiress there he is too. I can
  read him like a book. At present he is hesitating whom to lay siege to&mdash;you
  or Mademoiselle Julie Karágina. He is very attentive to her.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He visits them?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, very often. And do you know the new way of courting?&rdquo; said Pierre
  with an amused smile, evidently in that cheerful mood of good humored
  raillery for which he so often reproached himself in his diary.
<br />
  &ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied Princess Mary.
<br />
  &ldquo;To please Moscow girls nowadays one has to be melancholy. He is very
  melancholy with Mademoiselle Karágina,&rdquo; said Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;Really?&rdquo; asked Princess Mary, looking into Pierre&rsquo;s kindly face and still
  thinking of her own sorrow. &ldquo;It would be a relief,&rdquo; thought she, &ldquo;if I
  ventured to confide what I am feeling to someone. I should like to tell
  everything to Pierre. He is kind and generous. It would be a relief. He
  would give me advice.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Would you marry him?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, my God, Count, there are moments when I would marry anybody!&rdquo; she
  cried suddenly to her own surprise and with tears in her voice. &ldquo;Ah, how
  bitter it is to love someone near to you and to feel that...&rdquo; she went on
  in a trembling voice, &ldquo;that you can do nothing for him but grieve him, and
  to know that you cannot alter this. Then there is only one thing left&mdash;to
  go away, but where could I go?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What is wrong? What is it, Princess?&rdquo;
 <br />
  But without finishing what she was saying, Princess Mary burst into tears.
<br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know what is the matter with me today. Don&rsquo;t take any notice&mdash;forget
  what I have said!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre&rsquo;s gaiety vanished completely. He anxiously questioned the princess,
  asked her to speak out fully and confide her grief to him; but she only
  repeated that she begged him to forget what she had said, that she did not
  remember what she had said, and that she had no trouble except the one he
  knew of&mdash;that Prince Andrew&rsquo;s marriage threatened to cause a rupture
  between father and son.
<br />
  &ldquo;Have you any news of the Rostóvs?&rdquo; she asked, to change the subject. &ldquo;I
  was told they are coming soon. I am also expecting Andrew any day. I
  should like them to meet here.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And how does he now regard the matter?&rdquo; asked Pierre, referring to the
  old prince.
<br />
  Princess Mary shook her head.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is to be done? In a few months the year will be up. The thing is
  impossible. I only wish I could spare my brother the first moments. I wish
  they would come sooner. I hope to be friends with her. You have known them
  a long time,&rdquo; said Princess Mary. &ldquo;Tell me honestly the whole truth: what
  sort of girl is she, and what do you think of her?&mdash;The real truth,
  because you know Andrew is risking so much doing this against his father&rsquo;s
  will that I should like to know....&rdquo;
 <br />
  An undefined instinct told Pierre that these explanations, and repeated
  requests to be told the , expressed ill-will on the princess&rsquo;
  part toward her future sister-in-law and a wish that he should disapprove
  of Andrew&rsquo;s choice; but in reply he said what he felt rather than what he
  thought.
<br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know how to answer your question,&rdquo; he said, blushing without
  knowing why. &ldquo;I really don&rsquo;t know what sort of girl she is; I can&rsquo;t
  analyze her at all. She is enchanting, but what makes her so I don&rsquo;t know.
  That is all one can say about her.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Princess Mary sighed, and the expression on her face said: &ldquo;Yes, that&rsquo;s
  what I expected and feared.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Is she clever?&rdquo; she asked.
<br />
  Pierre considered.
<br />
  &ldquo;I think not,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and yet&mdash;yes. She does not deign to be
  clever.... Oh no, she is simply enchanting, and that is all.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Princess Mary again shook her head disapprovingly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, I so long to like her! Tell her so if you see her before I do.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I hear they are expected very soon,&rdquo; said Pierre.
<br />
  Princess Mary told Pierre of her plan to become intimate with her future
  sister-in-law as soon as the Rostóvs arrived and to try to accustom the
  old prince to her.

  CHAPTER V


  Borís had not succeeded in making a wealthy match in Petersburg, so with
  the same object in view he came to Moscow. There he wavered between the
  two richest heiresses, Julie and Princess Mary. Though Princess Mary
  despite her plainness seemed to him more attractive than Julie, he,
  without knowing why, felt awkward about paying court to her. When they had
  last met on the old prince&rsquo;s name day, she had answered at random all his
  attempts to talk sentimentally, evidently not listening to what he was
  saying.
<br />
  Julie on the contrary accepted his attentions readily, though in a manner
  peculiar to herself.
<br />
  She was twenty-seven. After the death of her brothers she had become very
  wealthy. She was by now decidedly plain, but thought herself not merely as
  good-looking as before but even far more attractive. She was confirmed in
  this delusion by the fact that she had become a very wealthy heiress and
  also by the fact that the older she grew the less dangerous she became to
  men, and the more freely they could associate with her and avail
  themselves of her suppers, soirees, and the animated company that
  assembled at her house, without incurring any obligation. A man who would
  have been afraid ten years before of going every day to the house when
  there was a girl of seventeen there, for fear of compromising her and
  committing himself, would now go boldly every day and treat her not as a
  marriageable girl but as a sexless acquaintance.
<br />
  That winter the Karágins&rsquo; house was the most agreeable and hospitable in
  Moscow. In addition to the formal evening and dinner parties, a large
  company, chiefly of men, gathered there every day, supping at midnight and
  staying till three in the morning. Julie never missed a ball, a promenade,
  or a play. Her dresses were always of the latest fashion. But in spite of
  that she seemed to be disillusioned about everything and told everyone
  that she did not believe either in friendship or in love, or any of the
  joys of life, and expected peace only &ldquo;yonder.&rdquo; She adopted the tone of
  one who has suffered a great disappointment, like a girl who has either
  lost the man she loved or been cruelly deceived by him. Though nothing of
  the kind had happened to her she was regarded in that light, and had even
  herself come to believe that she had suffered much in life. This
  melancholy, which did not prevent her amusing herself, did not hinder the
  young people who came to her house from passing the time pleasantly. Every
  visitor who came to the house paid his tribute to the melancholy mood of
  the hostess, and then amused himself with society gossip, dancing,
  intellectual games, and , which were in vogue at the Karágins&rsquo;.
  Only a few of these young men, among them Borís, entered more deeply into
  Julie&rsquo;s melancholy, and with these she had prolonged conversations in
  private on the vanity of all worldly things, and to them she showed her
  albums filled with mournful sketches, maxims, and verses.
<br />
  To Borís, Julie was particularly gracious: she regretted his early
  disillusionment with life, offered him such consolation of friendship as
  she who had herself suffered so much could render, and showed him her
  album. Borís sketched two trees in the album and wrote: &ldquo;Rustic trees,
  your dark branches shed gloom and melancholy upon me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  On another page he drew a tomb, and wrote:
<br />
<br /> *

* Death gives relief and death is peaceful.<br />
  Ah! from suffering there is no other refuge.
<br />
  Julie said this was charming
<br />
  &ldquo;There is something so enchanting in the smile of melancholy,&rdquo; she said to
  Borís, repeating word for word a passage she had copied from a book. &ldquo;It
  is a ray of light in the darkness, a shade between sadness and despair,
  showing the possibility of consolation.&rdquo;
 <br />
  In reply Borís wrote these lines:
<br />

Poisonous nourishment of a too sensitive soul,
Thou, without whom happiness would for me be impossible,
Tender melancholy, ah, come to console me,
Come to calm the torments of my gloomy retreat,
And mingle a secret sweetness
With these tears that I feel to be flowing.
For Borís, Julie played most doleful nocturnes on her harp. Borís read aloud to her, and more than once interrupted the reading because of the emotions that choked him. Meeting at large gatherings Julie and Borís looked on one another as the only souls who understood one another in a world of indifferent people.
Anna Mikháylovna, who often visited the Karágins, while playing cards with the mother made careful inquiries as to Julie’s dowry (she was to have two estates in Pénza and the Nizhegórod forests). Anna Mikháylovna regarded the refined sadness that united her son to the wealthy Julie with emotion, and resignation to the Divine will.
“You are always charming and melancholy, my dear Julie,” she said to the daughter. “Borís says his soul finds repose at your house. He has suffered so many disappointments and is so sensitive,” said she to the mother. “Ah, my dear, I can’t tell you how fond I have grown of Julie latterly,” she said to her son. “But who could help loving her? She is an angelic being! Ah, Borís, Borís!”—she paused. “And how I pity her mother,” she went on; “today she showed me her accounts and letters from Pénza (they have enormous estates there), and she, poor thing, has no one to help her, and they do cheat her so!”
Borís smiled almost imperceptibly while listening to his mother. He laughed blandly at her naïve diplomacy but listened to what she had to say, and sometimes questioned her carefully about the Pénza and Nizhegórod estates.
Julie had long been expecting a proposal from her melancholy adorer and was ready to accept it; but some secret feeling of repulsion for her, for her passionate desire to get married, for her artificiality, and a feeling of horror at renouncing the possibility of real love still restrained Borís. His leave was expiring. He spent every day and whole days at the Karágins’, and every day on thinking the matter over told himself that he would propose tomorrow. But in Julie’s presence, looking at her red face and chin (nearly always powdered), her moist eyes, and her expression of continual readiness to pass at once from melancholy to an unnatural rapture of married bliss, Borís could not utter the decisive words, though in imagination he had long regarded himself as the possessor of those Pénza and Nizhegórod estates and had apportioned the use of the income from them. Julie saw Borís’ indecision, and sometimes the thought occurred to her that she was repulsive to him, but her feminine self-deception immediately supplied her with consolation, and she told herself that he was only shy from love. Her melancholy, however, began to turn to irritability, and not long before Borís’ departure she formed a definite plan of action. Just as Borís’ leave of absence was expiring, Anatole Kurágin made his appearance in Moscow, and of course in the Karágins’ drawing room, and Julie, suddenly abandoning her melancholy, became cheerful and very attentive to Kurágin.
“My dear,” said Anna Mikháylovna to her son, “I know from a reliable source that Prince Vasíli has sent his son to Moscow to get him married to Julie. I am so fond of Julie that I should be sorry for her. What do you think of it, my dear?”
The idea of being made a fool of and of having thrown away that whole month of arduous melancholy service to Julie, and of seeing all the revenue from the Pénza estates which he had already mentally apportioned and put to proper use fall into the hands of another, and especially into the hands of that idiot Anatole, pained Borís. He drove to the Karágins’ with the firm intention of proposing. Julie met him in a gay, careless manner, spoke casually of how she had enjoyed yesterday’s ball, and asked when he was leaving. Though Borís had come intentionally to speak of his love and therefore meant to be tender, he began speaking irritably of feminine inconstancy, of how easily women can turn from sadness to joy, and how their moods depend solely on who happens to be paying court to them. Julie was offended and replied that it was true that a woman needs variety, and the same thing over and over again would weary anyone.
“Then I should advise you…” Borís began, wishing to sting her; but at that instant the galling thought occurred to him that he might have to leave Moscow without having accomplished his aim, and have vainly wasted his efforts—which was a thing he never allowed to happen.
He checked himself in the middle of the sentence, lowered his eyes to avoid seeing her unpleasantly irritated and irresolute face, and said:
“I did not come here at all to quarrel with you. On the contrary…”
He glanced at her to make sure that he might go on. Her irritability had suddenly quite vanished, and her anxious, imploring eyes were fixed on him with greedy expectation. “I can always arrange so as not to see her often,” thought Borís. “The affair has been begun and must be finished!” He blushed hotly, raised his eyes to hers, and said:
“You know my feelings for you!”
There was no need to say more: Julie’s face shone with triumph and self-satisfaction; but she forced Borís to say all that is said on such occasions—that he loved her and had never loved any other woman more than her. She knew that for the Pénza estates and Nizhegórod forests she could demand this, and she received what she demanded.
The affianced couple, no longer alluding to trees that shed gloom and melancholy upon them, planned the arrangements of a splendid house in Petersburg, paid calls, and prepared everything for a brilliant wedding.

  CHAPTER VI


  At the end of January old Count Rostóv went to Moscow with Natásha and
  Sónya. The countess was still unwell and unable to travel but it was
  impossible to wait for her recovery. Prince Andrew was expected in Moscow
  any day, the trousseau had to be ordered and the estate near Moscow had to
  be sold, besides which the opportunity of presenting his future
  daughter-in-law to old Prince Bolkónski while he was in Moscow could not
  be missed. The Rostóvs&rsquo; Moscow house had not been heated that winter and,
  as they had come only for a short time and the countess was not with them,
  the count decided to stay with Márya Dmítrievna Akhrosímova, who had long
  been pressing her hospitality on them.
<br />
  Late one evening the Rostóvs&rsquo; four sleighs drove into Márya Dmítrievna&rsquo;s
  courtyard in the old Konyúsheny street. Márya Dmítrievna lived alone. She
  had already married off her daughter, and her sons were all in the
  service.
<br />
  She held herself as erect, told everyone her opinion as candidly, loudly,
  and bluntly as ever, and her whole bearing seemed a reproach to others for
  any weakness, passion, or temptation&mdash;the possibility of which she
  did not admit. From early in the morning, wearing a dressing jacket, she
  attended to her household affairs, and then she drove out: on holy days to
  church and after the service to jails and prisons on affairs of which she
  never spoke to anyone. On ordinary days, after dressing, she received
  petitioners of various classes, of whom there were always some. Then she
  had dinner, a substantial and appetizing meal at which there were always
  three or four guests; after dinner she played a game of boston, and at
  night she had the newspapers or a new book read to her while she knitted.
  She rarely made an exception and went out to pay visits, and then only to
  the most important persons in the town.
<br />
  She had not yet gone to bed when the Rostóvs arrived and the pulley of the
  hall door squeaked from the cold as it let in the Rostóvs and their
  servants. Márya Dmítrievna, with her spectacles hanging down on her nose
  and her head flung back, stood in the hall doorway looking with a stern,
  grim face at the new arrivals. One might have thought she was angry with
  the travelers and would immediately turn them out, had she not at the same
  time been giving careful instructions to the servants for the
  accommodation of the visitors and their belongings.
<br />
  &ldquo;The count&rsquo;s things? Bring them here,&rdquo; she said, pointing to the
  portmanteaus and not greeting anyone. &ldquo;The young ladies&rsquo;? There to the
  left. Now what are you dawdling for?&rdquo; she cried to the maids. &ldquo;Get the
  samovar ready!... You&rsquo;ve grown plumper and prettier,&rdquo; she remarked,
  drawing Natásha (whose cheeks were glowing from the cold) to her by the
  hood. &ldquo;Foo! You  cold! Now take off your things, quick!&rdquo; she shouted to
  the count who was going to kiss her hand. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re half frozen, I&rsquo;m sure!
  Bring some rum for tea!... , Sónya dear!&rdquo; she added, turning to
  Sónya and indicating by this French greeting her slightly contemptuous
  though affectionate attitude toward her.
<br />
  When they came in to tea, having taken off their outdoor things and tidied
  themselves up after their journey, Márya Dmítrievna kissed them all in due
  order.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;m heartily glad you have come and are staying with me. It was high
  time,&rdquo; she said, giving Natásha a significant look. &ldquo;The old man is here
  and his son&rsquo;s expected any day. You&rsquo;ll have to make his acquaintance. But
  we&rsquo;ll speak of that later on,&rdquo; she added, glancing at Sónya with a look
  that showed she did not want to speak of it in her presence. &ldquo;Now listen,&rdquo;
   she said to the count. &ldquo;What do you want tomorrow? Whom will you send for?
  Shinshín?&rdquo; she crooked one of her fingers. &ldquo;The sniveling Anna
  Mikháylovna? That&rsquo;s two. She&rsquo;s here with her son. The son is getting
  married! Then Bezúkhov, eh? He is here too, with his wife. He ran away
  from her and she came galloping after him. He dined with me on Wednesday.
  As for them&rdquo;&mdash;and she pointed to the girls&mdash;&ldquo;tomorrow I&rsquo;ll take
  them first to the Iberian shrine of the Mother of God, and then we&rsquo;ll
  drive to the Super-Rogue&rsquo;s. I suppose you&rsquo;ll have everything new. Don&rsquo;t
  judge by me: sleeves nowadays are this size! The other day young Princess
  Irína Vasílevna came to see me; she was an awful sight&mdash;looked as if
  she had put two barrels on her arms. You know not a day passes now without
  some new fashion.... And what have you to do yourself?&rdquo; she asked the
  count sternly.
<br />
  &ldquo;One thing has come on top of another: her rags to buy, and now a
  purchaser has turned up for the Moscow estate and for the house. If you
  will be so kind, I&rsquo;ll fix a time and go down to the estate just for a day,
  and leave my lassies with you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;All right. All right. They&rsquo;ll be safe with me, as safe as in Chancery!
  I&rsquo;ll take them where they must go, scold them a bit, and pet them a bit,&rdquo;
   said Márya Dmítrievna, touching her goddaughter and favorite, Natásha, on
  the cheek with her large hand.
<br />
  Next morning Márya Dmítrievna took the young ladies to the Iberian shrine
  of the Mother of God and to Madame Suppert-Roguet, who was so afraid of
  Márya Dmítrievna that she always let her have costumes at a loss merely to
  get rid of her. Márya Dmítrievna ordered almost the whole trousseau. When
  they got home she turned everybody out of the room except Natásha, and
  then called her pet to her armchair.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, now we&rsquo;ll talk. I congratulate you on your betrothed. You&rsquo;ve hooked
  a fine fellow! I am glad for your sake and I&rsquo;ve known him since he was so
  high.&rdquo; She held her hand a couple of feet from the ground. Natásha blushed
  happily. &ldquo;I like him and all his family. Now listen! You know that old
  Prince Nicholas much dislikes his son&rsquo;s marrying. The old fellow&rsquo;s
  crotchety! Of course Prince Andrew is not a child and can shift without
  him, but it&rsquo;s not nice to enter a family against a father&rsquo;s will. One
  wants to do it peacefully and lovingly. You&rsquo;re a clever girl and you&rsquo;ll
  know how to manage. Be kind, and use your wits. Then all will be well.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha remained silent, from shyness Márya Dmítrievna supposed, but
  really because she disliked anyone interfering in what touched her love of
  Prince Andrew, which seemed to her so apart from all human affairs that no
  one could understand it. She loved and knew Prince Andrew, he loved her
  only, and was to come one of these days and take her. She wanted nothing
  more.
<br />
  &ldquo;You see I have known him a long time and am also fond of Mary, your
  future sister-in-law. &lsquo;Husbands&rsquo; sisters bring up blisters,&rsquo; but this one
  wouldn&rsquo;t hurt a fly. She has asked me to bring you two together. Tomorrow
  you&rsquo;ll go with your father to see her. Be very nice and affectionate to
  her: you&rsquo;re younger than she. When  comes, he&rsquo;ll find you already know
  his sister and father and are liked by them. Am I right or not? Won&rsquo;t that
  be best?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, it will,&rdquo; Natásha answered reluctantly.

  CHAPTER VII


  Next day, by Márya Dmítrievna&rsquo;s advice, Count Rostóv took Natásha to call
  on Prince Nicholas Bolkónski. The count did not set out cheerfully on this
  visit, at heart he felt afraid. He well remembered the last interview he
  had had with the old prince at the time of the enrollment, when in reply
  to an invitation to dinner he had had to listen to an angry reprimand for
  not having provided his full quota of men. Natásha, on the other hand,
  having put on her best gown, was in the highest spirits. &ldquo;They can&rsquo;t help
  liking me,&rdquo; she thought. &ldquo;Everybody always has liked me, and I am so
  willing to do anything they wish, so ready to be fond of him&mdash;for
  being  father&mdash;and of her&mdash;for being  sister&mdash;that
  there is no reason for them not to like me....&rdquo;
 <br />
  They drove up to the gloomy old house on the Vozdvízhenka and entered the
  vestibule.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, the Lord have mercy on us!&rdquo; said the count, half in jest, half in
  earnest; but Natásha noticed that her father was flurried on entering the
  anteroom and inquired timidly and softly whether the prince and princess
  were at home.
<br />
  When they had been announced a perturbation was noticeable among the
  servants. The footman who had gone to announce them was stopped by another
  in the large hall and they whispered to one another. Then a maidservant
  ran into the hall and hurriedly said something, mentioning the princess.
  At last an old, cross looking footman came and announced to the Rostóvs
  that the prince was not receiving, but that the princess begged them to
  walk up. The first person who came to meet the visitors was Mademoiselle
  Bourienne. She greeted the father and daughter with special politeness and
  showed them to the princess&rsquo; room. The princess, looking excited and
  nervous, her face flushed in patches, ran in to meet the visitors,
  treading heavily, and vainly trying to appear cordial and at ease. From
  the first glance Princess Mary did not like Natásha. She thought her too
  fashionably dressed, frivolously gay and vain. She did not at all realize
  that before having seen her future sister-in-law she was prejudiced
  against her by involuntary envy of her beauty, youth, and happiness, as
  well as by jealousy of her brother&rsquo;s love for her. Apart from this
  insuperable antipathy to her, Princess Mary was agitated just then because
  on the Rostóvs&rsquo; being announced, the old prince had shouted that he did
  not wish to see them, that Princess Mary might do so if she chose, but
  they were not to be admitted to him. She had decided to receive them, but
  feared lest the prince might at any moment indulge in some freak, as he
  seemed much upset by the Rostóvs&rsquo; visit.
<br />
  &ldquo;There, my dear princess, I&rsquo;ve brought you my songstress,&rdquo; said the count,
  bowing and looking round uneasily as if afraid the old prince might
  appear. &ldquo;I am so glad you should get to know one another... very sorry the
  prince is still ailing,&rdquo; and after a few more commonplace remarks he rose.
  &ldquo;If you&rsquo;ll allow me to leave my Natásha in your hands for a quarter of an
  hour, Princess, I&rsquo;ll drive round to see Anna Semënovna, it&rsquo;s quite near in
  the Dogs&rsquo; Square, and then I&rsquo;ll come back for her.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The count had devised this diplomatic ruse (as he afterwards told his
  daughter) to give the future sisters-in-law an opportunity to talk to one
  another freely, but another motive was to avoid the danger of encountering
  the old prince, of whom he was afraid. He did not mention this to his
  daughter, but Natásha noticed her father&rsquo;s nervousness and anxiety and
  felt mortified by it. She blushed for him, grew still angrier at having
  blushed, and looked at the princess with a bold and defiant expression
  which said that she was not afraid of anybody. The princess told the count
  that she would be delighted, and only begged him to stay longer at Anna
  Semënovna&rsquo;s, and he departed.
<br />
  Despite the uneasy glances thrown at her by Princess Mary&mdash;who wished
  to have a tête-à-tête with Natásha&mdash;Mademoiselle Bourienne remained
  in the room and persistently talked about Moscow amusements and theaters.
  Natásha felt offended by the hesitation she had noticed in the anteroom,
  by her father&rsquo;s nervousness, and by the unnatural manner of the princess
  who&mdash;she thought&mdash;was making a favor of receiving her, and so
  everything displeased her. She did not like Princess Mary, whom she
  thought very plain, affected, and dry. Natásha suddenly shrank into
  herself and involuntarily assumed an offhand air which alienated Princess
  Mary still more. After five minutes of irksome, constrained conversation,
  they heard the sound of slippered feet rapidly approaching. Princess Mary
  looked frightened.
<br />
  The door opened and the old prince, in a dressing gown and a white
  nightcap, came in.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, madam!&rdquo; he began. &ldquo;Madam, Countess... Countess Rostóva,
  if I am not mistaken... I beg you to excuse me, to excuse me... I did not know,
  madam. God is my witness, I did not know you had honored us with a visit, and I
  came in such a costume only to see my daughter. I beg you to excuse me...
  God is my witness, I didn&rsquo;t know&mdash;&rdquo; he repeated, stressing the
  word &ldquo;God&rdquo; so unnaturally and so unpleasantly that Princess Mary
  stood with downcast eyes not daring to look either at her father or at Natásha.
<br />
  Nor did the latter, having risen and curtsied, know what to do.
  Mademoiselle Bourienne alone smiled agreeably.
<br />
  &ldquo;I beg you to excuse me, excuse me! God is my witness, I did not know,&rdquo;
   muttered the old man, and after looking Natásha over from head to foot he
  went out.
<br />
  Mademoiselle Bourienne was the first to recover herself after this
  apparition and began speaking about the prince&rsquo;s indisposition. Natásha
  and Princess Mary looked at one another in silence, and the longer they
  did so without saying what they wanted to say, the greater grew their
  antipathy to one another.
<br />
  When the count returned, Natásha was impolitely pleased and hastened to
  get away: at that moment she hated the stiff, elderly princess, who could
  place her in such an embarrassing position and had spent half an hour with
  her without once mentioning Prince Andrew. &ldquo;I couldn&rsquo;t begin talking about
  him in the presence of that Frenchwoman,&rdquo; thought Natásha. The same
  thought was meanwhile tormenting Princess Mary. She knew what she ought to
  have said to Natásha, but she had been unable to say it because
  Mademoiselle Bourienne was in the way, and because, without knowing why,
  she felt it very difficult to speak of the marriage. When the count was
  already leaving the room, Princess Mary went up hurriedly to Natásha, took
  her by the hand, and said with a deep sigh:
<br />
  &ldquo;Wait, I must...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha glanced at her ironically without knowing why.
<br />
  &ldquo;Dear Natalie,&rdquo; said Princess Mary, &ldquo;I want you to know that I am glad my
  brother has found happiness....&rdquo;
 <br />
  She paused, feeling that she was not telling the truth. Natásha noticed
  this and guessed its reason.
<br />
  &ldquo;I think, Princess, it is not convenient to speak of that now,&rdquo; she said
  with external dignity and coldness, though she felt the tears choking her.
<br />
  &ldquo;What have I said and what have I done?&rdquo; thought she, as soon as she was
  out of the room.
<br />
  They waited a long time for Natásha to come to dinner that day. She sat in
  her room crying like a child, blowing her nose and sobbing. Sónya stood
  beside her, kissing her hair.
<br />
  &ldquo;Natásha, what is it about?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;What do they matter to you? It
  will all pass, Natásha.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But if you only knew how offensive it was... as if I...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t talk about it, Natásha. It wasn&rsquo;t your fault so why should you
  mind? Kiss me,&rdquo; said Sónya.
<br />
  Natásha raised her head and, kissing her friend on the lips, pressed her
  wet face against her.
<br />
  &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t tell you, I don&rsquo;t know. No one&rsquo;s to blame,&rdquo; said Natásha&mdash;&ldquo;It&rsquo;s
  my fault. But it all hurts terribly. Oh, why doesn&rsquo;t he come?...&rdquo;
 <br />
  She came in to dinner with red eyes. Márya Dmítrievna, who knew how the
  prince had received the Rostóvs, pretended not to notice how upset Natásha
  was and jested resolutely and loudly at table with the count and the other
  guests.

  CHAPTER VIII


  That evening the Rostóvs went to the Opera, for which Márya Dmítrievna had
  taken a box.
<br />
  Natásha did not want to go, but could not refuse Márya Dmítrievna&rsquo;s kind
  offer which was intended expressly for her. When she came ready dressed
  into the ballroom to await her father, and looking in the large mirror
  there saw that she was pretty, very pretty, she felt even more sad, but it
  was a sweet, tender sadness.
<br />
  &ldquo;O God, if he were here now I would not behave as I did then, but
  differently. I would not be silly and afraid of things, I would simply
  embrace him, cling to him, and make him look at me with those searching
  inquiring eyes with which he has so often looked at me, and then I would
  make him laugh as he used to laugh. And his eyes&mdash;how I see those
  eyes!&rdquo; thought Natásha. &ldquo;And what do his father and sister matter to me? I
  love him alone, him, him, with that face and those eyes, with his smile,
  manly and yet childlike.... No, I had better not think of him; not think
  of him but forget him, quite forget him for the present. I can&rsquo;t bear this
  waiting and I shall cry in a minute!&rdquo; and she turned away from the glass,
  making an effort not to cry. &ldquo;And how can Sónya love Nicholas so calmly
  and quietly and wait so long and so patiently?&rdquo; thought she, looking at
  Sónya, who also came in quite ready, with a fan in her hand. &ldquo;No, she&rsquo;s
  altogether different. I can&rsquo;t!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha at that moment felt so softened and tender that it was not enough
  for her to love and know she was beloved, she wanted now, at once, to
  embrace the man she loved, to speak and hear from him words of love such
  as filled her heart. While she sat in the carriage beside her father,
  pensively watching the lights of the street lamps flickering on the frozen
  window, she felt still sadder and more in love, and forgot where she was
  going and with whom. Having fallen into the line of carriages, the
  Rostóvs&rsquo; carriage drove up to the theater, its wheels squeaking over the
  snow. Natásha and Sónya, holding up their dresses, jumped out quickly. The
  count got out helped by the footmen, and, passing among men and women who
  were entering and the program sellers, they all three went along the
  corridor to the first row of boxes. Through the closed doors the music was
  already audible.
<br />
  &ldquo;Natásha, your hair!...&rdquo; whispered Sónya.
<br />
  An attendant deferentially and quickly slipped before the ladies and
  opened the door of their box. The music sounded louder and through the
  door rows of brightly lit boxes in which ladies sat with bare arms and
  shoulders, and noisy stalls brilliant with uniforms, glittered before
  their eyes. A lady entering the next box shot a glance of feminine envy at
  Natásha. The curtain had not yet risen and the overture was being played.
  Natásha, smoothing her gown, went in with Sónya and sat down, scanning the
  brilliant tiers of boxes opposite. A sensation she had not experienced for
  a long time&mdash;that of hundreds of eyes looking at her bare arms and
  neck&mdash;suddenly affected her both agreeably and disagreeably and
  called up a whole crowd of memories, desires and emotions associated with
  that feeling.
<br />
  The two remarkably pretty girls, Natásha and Sónya, with Count Rostóv who
  had not been seen in Moscow for a long time, attracted general attention.
  Moreover, everybody knew vaguely of Natásha&rsquo;s engagement to Prince Andrew,
  and knew that the Rostóvs had lived in the country ever since, and all
  looked with curiosity at a fiancée who was making one of the best matches
  in Russia.
<br />
  Natásha&rsquo;s looks, as everyone told her, had improved in the country, and
  that evening thanks to her agitation she was particularly pretty. She
  struck those who saw her by her fullness of life and beauty, combined with
  her indifference to everything about her. Her black eyes looked at the
  crowd without seeking anyone, and her delicate arm, bare to above the
  elbow, lay on the velvet edge of the box, while, evidently unconsciously,
  she opened and closed her hand in time to the music, crumpling her
  program. &ldquo;Look, there&rsquo;s Alénina,&rdquo; said Sónya, &ldquo;with her
  mother, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Dear me, Michael Kirílovich has grown still stouter!&rdquo; remarked the count.
<br />
  &ldquo;Look at our Anna Mikháylovna&mdash;what a headdress she has on!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The Karágins, Julie&mdash;and Borís with them. One can see at once that
  they&rsquo;re engaged....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Drubetskóy has proposed?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh yes, I heard it today,&rdquo; said Shinshín, coming into the Rostóvs&rsquo; box.
<br />
  Natásha looked in the direction in which her father&rsquo;s eyes were turned and
  saw Julie sitting beside her mother with a happy look on her face and a
  string of pearls round her thick red neck&mdash;which Natásha knew was
  covered with powder. Behind them, wearing a smile and leaning over with an
  ear to Julie&rsquo;s mouth, was Borís&rsquo; handsome smoothly brushed head. He looked
  at the Rostóvs from under his brows and said something, smiling, to his
  betrothed.
<br />
  &ldquo;They are talking about us, about me and him!&rdquo; thought Natásha. &ldquo;And he no
  doubt is calming her jealousy of me. They needn&rsquo;t trouble themselves! If
  only they knew how little I am concerned about any of them.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Behind them sat Anna Mikháylovna wearing a green headdress and with a
  happy look of resignation to the will of God on her face. Their box was
  pervaded by that atmosphere of an affianced couple which Natásha knew so
  well and liked so much. She turned away and suddenly remembered all that
  had been so humiliating in her morning&rsquo;s visit.
<br />
  &ldquo;What right has he not to wish to receive me into his family? Oh, better
  not think of it&mdash;not till he comes back!&rdquo; she told herself, and began
  looking at the faces, some strange and some familiar, in the stalls. In
  the front, in the very center, leaning back against the orchestra rail,
  stood Dólokhov in a Persian dress, his curly hair brushed up into a huge
  shock. He stood in full view of the audience, well aware that he was
  attracting everyone&rsquo;s attention, yet as much at ease as though he were in
  his own room. Around him thronged Moscow&rsquo;s most brilliant young men, whom
  he evidently dominated.
<br />
  The count, laughing, nudged the blushing Sónya and pointed to her former
  adorer.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you recognize him?&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;And where has he sprung from?&rdquo; he asked,
  turning to Shinshín. &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t he vanish somewhere?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He did,&rdquo; replied Shinshín. &ldquo;He was in the Caucasus and ran away from
  there. They say he has been acting as minister to some ruling prince in
  Persia, where he killed the Shah&rsquo;s brother. Now all the Moscow ladies are
  mad about him! It&rsquo;s &lsquo;Dólokhov the Persian&rsquo; that does it! We never hear a
  word but Dólokhov is mentioned. They swear by him, they offer him to you
  as they would a dish of choice sterlet. Dólokhov and Anatole Kurágin have
  turned all our ladies&rsquo; heads.&rdquo;
 <br />
  A tall, beautiful woman with a mass of plaited hair and much exposed plump
  white shoulders and neck, round which she wore a double string of large
  pearls, entered the adjoining box rustling her heavy silk dress and took a
  long time settling into her place.
<br />
  Natásha involuntarily gazed at that neck, those shoulders, and pearls and
  coiffure, and admired the beauty of the shoulders and the pearls. While
  Natásha was fixing her gaze on her for the second time the lady looked
  round and, meeting the count&rsquo;s eyes, nodded to him and smiled. She was the
  Countess Bezúkhova, Pierre&rsquo;s wife, and the count, who knew everyone in
  society, leaned over and spoke to her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Have you been here long, Countess?&rdquo; he inquired. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll call, I&rsquo;ll call to
  kiss your hand. I&rsquo;m here on business and have brought my girls with me.
  They say Semënova acts marvelously. Count Pierre never used to forget us.
  Is he here?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, he meant to look in,&rdquo; answered Hélène, and glanced attentively at
  Natásha.
<br />
  Count Rostóv resumed his seat.
<br />
  &ldquo;Handsome, isn&rsquo;t she?&rdquo; he whispered to Natásha.
<br />
  &ldquo;Wonderful!&rdquo; answered Natásha. &ldquo;She&rsquo;s a woman one could easily fall in
  love with.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Just then the last chords of the overture were heard and the conductor
  tapped with his stick. Some latecomers took their seats in the stalls, and
  the curtain rose.
<br />
  As soon as it rose everyone in the boxes and stalls became silent, and all
  the men, old and young, in uniform and evening dress, and all the women
  with gems on their bare flesh, turned their whole attention with eager
  curiosity to the stage. Natásha too began to look at it.

  CHAPTER IX


  The floor of the stage consisted of smooth boards, at the sides was some
  painted cardboard representing trees, and at the back was a cloth
  stretched over boards. In the center of the stage sat some girls in red
  bodices and white skirts. One very fat girl in a white silk dress sat
  apart on a low bench, to the back of which a piece of green cardboard was
  glued. They all sang something. When they had finished their song the girl
  in white went up to the prompter&rsquo;s box and a man with tight silk trousers
  over his stout legs, and holding a plume and a dagger, went up to her and
  began singing, waving his arms about.
<br />
  First the man in the tight trousers sang alone, then she sang, then they
  both paused while the orchestra played and the man fingered the hand of
  the girl in white, obviously awaiting the beat to start singing with her.
  They sang together and everyone in the theater began clapping and
  shouting, while the man and woman on the stage&mdash;who represented
  lovers&mdash;began smiling, spreading out their arms, and bowing.
<br />
  After her life in the country, and in her present serious mood, all this
  seemed grotesque and amazing to Natásha. She could not follow the opera
  nor even listen to the music; she saw only the painted cardboard and the
  queerly dressed men and women who moved, spoke, and sang so strangely in
  that brilliant light. She knew what it was all meant to represent, but it
  was so pretentiously false and unnatural that she first felt ashamed for
  the actors and then amused at them. She looked at the faces of the
  audience, seeking in them the same sense of ridicule and perplexity she
  herself experienced, but they all seemed attentive to what was happening
  on the stage, and expressed delight which to Natásha seemed feigned. &ldquo;I
  suppose it has to be like this!&rdquo; she thought. She kept looking round in
  turn at the rows of pomaded heads in the stalls and then at the seminude
  women in the boxes, especially at Hélène in the next box, who&mdash;apparently
  quite unclothed&mdash;sat with a quiet tranquil smile, not taking her eyes
  off the stage. And feeling the bright light that flooded the whole place
  and the warm air heated by the crowd, Natásha little by little began to
  pass into a state of intoxication she had not experienced for a long
  while. She did not realize who and where she was, nor what was going on
  before her. As she looked and thought, the strangest fancies unexpectedly
  and disconnectedly passed through her mind: the idea occurred to her of
  jumping onto the edge of the box and singing the aria the actress was
  singing, then she wished to touch with her fan an old gentleman sitting
  not far from her, then to lean over to Hélène and tickle her.
<br />
  At a moment when all was quiet before the commencement of a song, a door
  leading to the stalls on the side nearest the Rostóvs&rsquo; box creaked, and
  the steps of a belated arrival were heard. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s Kurágin!&rdquo; whispered
  Shinshín. Countess Bezúkhova turned smiling to the newcomer, and Natásha,
  following the direction of that look, saw an exceptionally handsome
  adjutant approaching their box with a self-assured yet courteous bearing.
  This was Anatole Kurágin whom she had seen and noticed long ago at the
  ball in Petersburg. He was now in an adjutant&rsquo;s uniform with one epaulet
  and a shoulder knot. He moved with a restrained swagger which would have
  been ridiculous had he not been so good-looking and had his handsome face
  not worn such an expression of good-humored complacency and gaiety. Though
  the performance was proceeding, he walked deliberately down the carpeted
  gangway, his sword and spurs slightly jingling and his handsome perfumed
  head held high. Having looked at Natásha he approached his sister, laid
  his well gloved hand on the edge of her box, nodded to her, and leaning
  forward asked a question, with a motion toward Natásha.
<br />
   said he, evidently referring to Natásha, who
  did not exactly hear his words but understood them from the movement of his lips.
  Then he took his place in the first row of the stalls and sat down beside
  Dólokhov, nudging with his elbow in a friendly and offhand way that
  Dólokhov whom others treated so fawningly. He winked at him gaily, smiled,
  and rested his foot against the orchestra screen.
<br />
  &ldquo;How like the brother is to the sister,&rdquo; remarked the count. &ldquo;And how
  handsome they both are!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Shinshín, lowering his voice, began to tell the count of some intrigue of
  Kurágin&rsquo;s in Moscow, and Natásha tried to overhear it just because he had
  said she was 
 <br />
  The first act was over. In the stalls everyone began moving about, going
  out and coming in.
<br />
  Borís came to the Rostóvs&rsquo; box, received their congratulations very
  simply, and raising his eyebrows with an absent-minded smile conveyed to
  Natásha and Sónya his fiancée&rsquo;s invitation to her wedding, and went away.
  Natásha with a gay, coquettish smile talked to him, and congratulated on
  his approaching wedding that same Borís with whom she had formerly been in
  love. In the state of intoxication she was in, everything seemed simple
  and natural.
<br />
  The scantily clad Hélène smiled at everyone in the same way, and Natásha
  gave Borís a similar smile.
<br />
  Hélène&rsquo;s box was filled and surrounded from the stalls by the most
  distinguished and intellectual men, who seemed to vie with one another in
  their wish to let everyone see that they knew her.
<br />
  During the whole of that entr&rsquo;acte Kurágin stood with Dólokhov in front of
  the orchestra partition, looking at the Rostóvs&rsquo; box. Natásha knew he was
  talking about her and this afforded her pleasure. She even turned so that
  he should see her profile in what she thought was its most becoming
  aspect. Before the beginning of the second act Pierre appeared in the
  stalls. The Rostóvs had not seen him since their arrival. His face looked
  sad, and he had grown still stouter since Natásha last saw him. He passed
  up to the front rows, not noticing anyone. Anatole went up to him and
  began speaking to him, looking at and indicating the Rostóvs&rsquo; box. On
  seeing Natásha Pierre grew animated and, hastily passing between the rows,
  came toward their box. When he got there he leaned on his elbows and,
  smiling, talked to her for a long time. While conversing with Pierre,
  Natásha heard a man&rsquo;s voice in Countess Bezúkhova&rsquo;s box and something told
  her it was Kurágin. She turned and their eyes met. Almost smiling, he
  gazed straight into her eyes with such an enraptured caressing look that
  it seemed strange to be so near him, to look at him like that, to be so
  sure he admired her, and not to be acquainted with him.
<br />
  In the second act there was scenery representing tombstones, there was a
  round hole in the canvas to represent the moon, shades were raised over
  the footlights, and from horns and contrabass came deep notes while many
  people appeared from right and left wearing black cloaks and holding
  things like daggers in their hands. They began waving their arms. Then
  some other people ran in and began dragging away the maiden who had been
  in white and was now in light blue. They did not drag her away at once,
  but sang with her for a long time and then at last dragged her off, and
  behind the scenes something metallic was struck three times and everyone
  knelt down and sang a prayer. All these things were repeatedly interrupted
  by the enthusiastic shouts of the audience.
<br />
  During this act every time Natásha looked toward the stalls she saw
  Anatole Kurágin with an arm thrown across the back of his chair, staring
  at her. She was pleased to see that he was captivated by her and it did
  not occur to her that there was anything wrong in it.
<br />
  When the second act was over Countess Bezúkhova rose, turned to the
  Rostóvs&rsquo; box&mdash;her whole bosom completely exposed&mdash;beckoned the
  old count with a gloved finger, and paying no attention to those who had
  entered her box began talking to him with an amiable smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do make me acquainted with your charming daughters,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;The whole
  town is singing their praises and I don&rsquo;t even know them!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha rose and curtsied to the splendid countess. She was so pleased by
  praise from this brilliant beauty that she blushed with pleasure.
<br />
  &ldquo;I want to become a Moscovite too, now,&rdquo; said Hélène. &ldquo;How is it you&rsquo;re
  not ashamed to bury such pearls in the country?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Countess Bezúkhova quite deserved her reputation of being a fascinating
  woman. She could say what she did not think&mdash;especially what was
  flattering&mdash;quite simply and naturally.
<br />
  &ldquo;Dear count, you must let me look after your daughters! Though I am not
  staying here long this time&mdash;nor are you&mdash;I will try to amuse
  them. I have already heard much of you in Petersburg and wanted to get to
  know you,&rdquo; said she to Natásha with her stereotyped and lovely smile. &ldquo;I
  had heard about you from my page, Drubetskóy. Have you heard he is getting
  married? And also from my husband&rsquo;s friend Bolkónski, Prince Andrew
  Bolkónski,&rdquo; she went on with special emphasis, implying that she knew of
  his relation to Natásha. To get better acquainted she asked that one of
  the young ladies should come into her box for the rest of the performance,
  and Natásha moved over to it.
<br />
  The scene of the third act represented a palace in which many candles were
  burning and pictures of knights with short beards hung on the walls. In
  the middle stood what were probably a king and a queen. The king waved his
  right arm and, evidently nervous, sang something badly and sat down on a
  crimson throne. The maiden who had been first in white and then in light
  blue, now wore only a smock, and stood beside the throne with her hair
  down. She sang something mournfully, addressing the queen, but the king
  waved his arm severely, and men and women with bare legs came in from both
  sides and began dancing all together. Then the violins played very shrilly
  and merrily and one of the women with thick bare legs and thin arms,
  separating from the others, went behind the wings, adjusted her bodice,
  returned to the middle of the stage, and began jumping and striking one
  foot rapidly against the other. In the stalls everyone clapped and shouted
  &ldquo;bravo!&rdquo; Then one of the men went into a corner of the stage. The cymbals
  and horns in the orchestra struck up more loudly, and this man with bare
  legs jumped very high and waved his feet about very rapidly. (He was
  Duport, who received sixty thousand rubles a year for this art.) Everybody
  in the stalls, boxes, and galleries began clapping and shouting with all
  their might, and the man stopped and began smiling and bowing to all
  sides. Then other men and women danced with bare legs. Then the king again
  shouted to the sound of music, and they all began singing. But suddenly a
  storm came on, chromatic scales and diminished sevenths were heard in the
  orchestra, everyone ran off, again dragging one of their number away, and
  the curtain dropped. Once more there was a terrible noise and clatter
  among the audience, and with rapturous faces everyone began shouting:
  &ldquo;Duport! Duport! Duport!&rdquo; Natásha no longer thought this strange. She
  looked about with pleasure, smiling joyfully.
<br />
  &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t Duport delightful?&rdquo; Hélène asked her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, yes,&rdquo; replied Natásha.

  CHAPTER X


  During the entr&rsquo;acte a whiff of cold air came into Hélène&rsquo;s box, the door
  opened, and Anatole entered, stooping and trying not to brush against
  anyone.
<br />
  &ldquo;Let me introduce my brother to you,&rdquo; said Hélène, her eyes shifting
  uneasily from Natásha to Anatole.
<br />
  Natásha turned her pretty little head toward the elegant young officer and
  smiled at him over her bare shoulder. Anatole, who was as handsome at
  close quarters as at a distance, sat down beside her and told her he had
  long wished to have this happiness&mdash;ever since the Narýshkins&rsquo; ball
  in fact, at which he had had the well-remembered pleasure of seeing her.
  Kurágin was much more sensible and simple with women than among men. He
  talked boldly and naturally, and Natásha was strangely and agreeably
  struck by the fact that there was nothing formidable in this man about
  whom there was so much talk, but that on the contrary his smile was most
  naïve, cheerful, and good-natured.
<br />
  Kurágin asked her opinion of the performance and told her how at a
  previous performance Semënova had fallen down on the stage.
<br />
  &ldquo;And do you know, Countess,&rdquo; he said, suddenly addressing her as an old,
  familiar acquaintance, &ldquo;we are getting up a costume tournament; you ought
  to take part in it! It will be great fun. We shall all meet at the
  Karágins&rsquo;! Please come! No! Really, eh?&rdquo; said he.
<br />
  While saying this he never removed his smiling eyes from her face, her
  neck, and her bare arms. Natásha knew for certain that he was enraptured
  by her. This pleased her, yet his presence made her feel constrained and
  oppressed. When she was not looking at him she felt that he was looking at
  her shoulders, and she involuntarily caught his eye so that he should look
  into hers rather than this. But looking into his eyes she was frightened,
  realizing that there was not that barrier of modesty she had always felt
  between herself and other men. She did not know how it was that within
  five minutes she had come to feel herself terribly near to this man. When
  she turned away she feared he might seize her from behind by her bare arm
  and kiss her on the neck. They spoke of most ordinary things, yet she felt
  that they were closer to one another than she had ever been to any man.
  Natásha kept turning to Hélène and to her father, as if asking what it all
  meant, but Hélène was engaged in conversation with a general and did not
  answer her look, and her father&rsquo;s eyes said nothing but what they always
  said: &ldquo;Having a good time? Well, I&rsquo;m glad of it!&rdquo;
 <br />
  During one of these moments of awkward silence when Anatole&rsquo;s prominent
  eyes were gazing calmly and fixedly at her, Natásha, to break the silence,
  asked him how he liked Moscow. She asked the question and blushed. She
  felt all the time that by talking to him she was doing something improper.
  Anatole smiled as though to encourage her.
<br />
  &ldquo;At first I did not like it much, because what makes a town pleasant , * isn&rsquo;t that so? But now I like it very much
  indeed,&rdquo; he said, looking at her significantly. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll come to the
  costume tournament, Countess? Do come!&rdquo; and putting out his hand to her
  bouquet and dropping his voice, he added, &ldquo;You will be the prettiest
  there. Do come, dear countess, and give me this flower as a pledge!&rdquo;
 <br />
* Are the pretty women.

Natásha did not understand what he was saying any more than he did himself, but she felt that his incomprehensible words had an improper intention. She did not know what to say and turned away as if she had not heard his remark. But as soon as she had turned away she felt that he was there, behind, so close behind her.
“How is he now? Confused? Angry? Ought I to put it right?” she asked herself, and she could not refrain from turning round. She looked straight into his eyes, and his nearness, self-assurance, and the good-natured tenderness of his smile vanquished her. She smiled just as he was doing, gazing straight into his eyes. And again she felt with horror that no barrier lay between him and her.
The curtain rose again. Anatole left the box, serene and gay. Natásha went back to her father in the other box, now quite submissive to the world she found herself in. All that was going on before her now seemed quite natural, but on the other hand all her previous thoughts of her betrothed, of Princess Mary, or of life in the country did not once recur to her mind and were as if belonging to a remote past.
In the fourth act there was some sort of devil who sang waving his arm about, till the boards were withdrawn from under him and he disappeared down below. That was the only part of the fourth act that Natásha saw. She felt agitated and tormented, and the cause of this was Kurágin whom she could not help watching. As they were leaving the theater Anatole came up to them, called their carriage, and helped them in. As he was putting Natásha in he pressed her arm above the elbow. Agitated and flushed she turned round. He was looking at her with glittering eyes, smiling tenderly.

Only after she had reached home was Natásha able clearly to think over what had happened to her, and suddenly remembering Prince Andrew she was horrified, and at tea to which all had sat down after the opera, she gave a loud exclamation, flushed, and ran out of the room.
“O God! I am lost!” she said to herself. “How could I let him?” She sat for a long time hiding her flushed face in her hands trying to realize what had happened to her, but was unable either to understand what had happened or what she felt. Everything seemed dark, obscure, and terrible. There in that enormous, illuminated theater where the bare-legged Duport, in a tinsel-decorated jacket, jumped about to the music on wet boards, and young girls and old men, and the nearly naked Hélène with her proud, calm smile, rapturously cried “bravo!”—there in the presence of that Hélène it had all seemed clear and simple; but now, alone by herself, it was incomprehensible. “What is it? What was that terror I felt of him? What is this gnawing of conscience I am feeling now?” she thought.
Only to the old countess at night in bed could Natásha have told all she was feeling. She knew that Sónya with her severe and simple views would either not understand it at all or would be horrified at such a confession. So Natásha tried to solve what was torturing her by herself.
“Am I spoiled for Andrew’s love or not?” she asked herself, and with soothing irony replied: “What a fool I am to ask that! What did happen to me? Nothing! I have done nothing, I didn’t lead him on at all. Nobody will know and I shall never see him again,” she told herself. “So it is plain that nothing has happened and there is nothing to repent of, and Andrew can love me still. But why ‘still?’ O God, why isn’t he here?” Natásha quieted herself for a moment, but again some instinct told her that though all this was true, and though nothing had happened, yet the former purity of her love for Prince Andrew had perished. And again in imagination she went over her whole conversation with Kurágin, and again saw the face, gestures, and tender smile of that bold handsome man when he pressed her arm.

  CHAPTER XI


  Anatole Kurágin was staying in Moscow because his father had sent him away
  from Petersburg, where he had been spending twenty thousand rubles a year
  in cash, besides running up debts for as much more, which his creditors
  demanded from his father.
<br />
  His father announced to him that he would now pay half his debts for the
  last time, but only on condition that he went to Moscow as adjutant to the
  commander in chief&mdash;a post his father had procured for him&mdash;and
  would at last try to make a good match there. He indicated to him Princess
  Mary and Julie Karágina.
<br />
  Anatole consented and went to Moscow, where he put up at Pierre&rsquo;s house.
  Pierre received him unwillingly at first, but got used to him after a
  while, sometimes even accompanied him on his carousals, and gave him money
  under the guise of loans.
<br />
  As Shinshín had remarked, from the time of his arrival Anatole had turned
  the heads of the Moscow ladies, especially by the fact that he slighted
  them and plainly preferred the gypsy girls and French actresses&mdash;with
  the chief of whom, Mademoiselle George, he was said to be on intimate
  relations. He had never missed a carousal at Danílov&rsquo;s or other Moscow
  revelers&rsquo;, drank whole nights through, outvying everyone else, and was at
  all the balls and parties of the best society. There was talk of his
  intrigues with some of the ladies, and he flirted with a few of them at
  the balls. But he did not run after the unmarried girls, especially the
  rich heiresses who were most of them plain. There was a special reason for
  this, as he had got married two years before&mdash;a fact known only to
  his most intimate friends. At that time while with his regiment in Poland,
  a Polish landowner of small means had forced him to marry his daughter.
  Anatole had very soon abandoned his wife and, for a payment which he
  agreed to send to his father-in-law, had arranged to be free to pass
  himself off as a bachelor.
<br />
  Anatole was always content with his position, with himself, and with
  others. He was instinctively and thoroughly convinced that it was
  impossible for him to live otherwise than as he did and that he had never
  in his life done anything base. He was incapable of considering how his
  actions might affect others or what the consequences of this or that
  action of his might be. He was convinced that, as a duck is so made that
  it must live in water, so God had made him such that he must spend thirty
  thousand rubles a year and always occupy a prominent position in society.
  He believed this so firmly that others, looking at him, were persuaded of
  it too and did not refuse him either a leading place in society or money,
  which he borrowed from anyone and everyone and evidently would not repay.
<br />
  He was not a gambler, at any rate he did not care about winning. He was
  not vain. He did not mind what people thought of him. Still less could he
  be accused of ambition. More than once he had vexed his father by spoiling
  his own career, and he laughed at distinctions of all kinds. He was not
  mean, and did not refuse anyone who asked of him. All he cared about was
  gaiety and women, and as according to his ideas there was nothing
  dishonorable in these tastes, and he was incapable of considering what the
  gratification of his tastes entailed for others, he honestly considered
  himself irreproachable, sincerely despised rogues and bad people, and with
  a tranquil conscience carried his head high.
<br />
  Rakes, those male Magdalenes, have a secret feeling of innocence similar
  to that which female Magdalenes have, based on the same hope of
  forgiveness. &ldquo;All will be forgiven her, for she loved much; and all will
  be forgiven him, for he enjoyed much.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dólokhov, who had reappeared that year in Moscow after his exile and his
  Persian adventures, and was leading a life of luxury, gambling, and
  dissipation, associated with his old Petersburg comrade Kurágin and made
  use of him for his own ends.
<br />
  Anatole was sincerely fond of Dólokhov for his cleverness and audacity.
  Dólokhov, who needed Anatole Kurágin&rsquo;s name, position, and connections as
  a bait to draw rich young men into his gambling set, made use of him and
  amused himself at his expense without letting the other feel it. Apart
  from the advantage he derived from Anatole, the very process of dominating
  another&rsquo;s will was in itself a pleasure, a habit, and a necessity to
  Dólokhov.
<br />
  Natásha had made a strong impression on Kurágin. At supper after the opera
  he described to Dólokhov with the air of a connoisseur the attractions of
  her arms, shoulders, feet, and hair and expressed his intention of making
  love to her. Anatole had no notion and was incapable of considering what
  might come of such love-making, as he never had any notion of the outcome
  of any of his actions.
<br />
  &ldquo;She&rsquo;s first-rate, my dear fellow, but not for us,&rdquo; replied Dólokhov.
<br />
  &ldquo;I will tell my sister to ask her to dinner,&rdquo; said Anatole. &ldquo;Eh?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;d better wait till she&rsquo;s married....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You know, I adore little girls, they lose their heads at once,&rdquo; pursued
  Anatole.
<br />
  &ldquo;You have been caught once already by a &lsquo;little girl,&rsquo;&rdquo; said Dólokhov who
  knew of Kurágin&rsquo;s marriage. &ldquo;Take care!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, that can&rsquo;t happen twice! Eh?&rdquo; said Anatole, with a good-humored
  laugh.

  CHAPTER XII


  The day after the opera the Rostóvs went nowhere and nobody came to see
  them. Márya Dmítrievna talked to the count about something which they
  concealed from Natásha. Natásha guessed they were talking about the old
  prince and planning something, and this disquieted and offended her. She
  was expecting Prince Andrew any moment and twice that day sent a
  manservant to the Vozdvízhenka to ascertain whether he had come. He had
  not arrived. She suffered more now than during her first days in Moscow.
  To her impatience and pining for him were now added the unpleasant
  recollection of her interview with Princess Mary and the old prince, and a
  fear and anxiety of which she did not understand the cause. She
  continually fancied that either he would never come or that something
  would happen to her before he came. She could no longer think of him by
  herself calmly and continuously as she had done before. As soon as she
  began to think of him, the recollection of the old prince, of Princess
  Mary, of the theater, and of Kurágin mingled with her thoughts. The
  question again presented itself whether she was not guilty, whether she
  had not already broken faith with Prince Andrew, and again she found
  herself recalling to the minutest detail every word, every gesture, and
  every shade in the play of expression on the face of the man who had been
  able to arouse in her such an incomprehensible and terrifying feeling. To
  the family Natásha seemed livelier than usual, but she was far less
  tranquil and happy than before.
<br />
  On Sunday morning Márya Dmítrievna invited her visitors to Mass at her
  parish church&mdash;the Church of the Assumption built over the graves of
  victims of the plague.
<br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t like those fashionable churches,&rdquo; she said, evidently priding
  herself on her independence of thought. &ldquo;God is the same everywhere. We
  have an excellent priest, he conducts the service decently and with
  dignity, and the deacon is the same. What holiness is there in giving
  concerts in the choir? I don&rsquo;t like it, it&rsquo;s just self-indulgence!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Márya Dmítrievna liked Sundays and knew how to keep them. Her whole house
  was scrubbed and cleaned on Saturdays; neither she nor the servants
  worked, and they all wore holiday dress and went to church. At her table
  there were extra dishes at dinner, and the servants had vodka and roast
  goose or suckling pig. But in nothing in the house was the holiday so
  noticeable as in Márya Dmítrievna&rsquo;s broad, stern face, which on that day
  wore an invariable look of solemn festivity.
<br />
  After Mass, when they had finished their coffee in the dining room where
  the loose covers had been removed from the furniture, a servant announced
  that the carriage was ready, and Márya Dmítrievna rose with a stern air.
  She wore her holiday shawl, in which she paid calls, and announced that
  she was going to see Prince Nicholas Bolkónski to have an explanation with
  him about Natásha.
<br />
  After she had gone, a dressmaker from Madame Suppert-Roguet waited on the
  Rostóvs, and Natásha, very glad of this diversion, having shut herself
  into a room adjoining the drawing room, occupied herself trying on the new
  dresses. Just as she had put on a bodice without sleeves and only tacked
  together, and was turning her head to see in the glass how the back
  fitted, she heard in the drawing room the animated sounds of her father&rsquo;s
  voice and another&rsquo;s&mdash;a woman&rsquo;s&mdash;that made her flush. It was
  Hélène. Natásha had not time to take off the bodice before the door opened
  and Countess Bezúkhova, dressed in a purple velvet gown with a high
  collar, came into the room beaming with good-humored amiable smiles.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, my enchantress!&rdquo; she cried to the blushing Natásha. &ldquo;Charming! No,
  this is really beyond anything, my dear count,&rdquo; said she to Count Rostóv
  who had followed her in. &ldquo;How can you live in Moscow and go nowhere? No, I
  won&rsquo;t let you off! Mademoiselle George will recite at my house tonight and
  there&rsquo;ll be some people, and if you don&rsquo;t bring your lovely girls&mdash;who
  are prettier than Mademoiselle George&mdash;I won&rsquo;t know you! My husband
  is away in Tver or I would send him to fetch you. You must come. You
  positively must! Between eight and nine.&rdquo;
 <br />
  She nodded to the dressmaker, whom she knew and who had curtsied
  respectfully to her, and seated herself in an armchair beside the looking
  glass, draping the folds of her velvet dress picturesquely. She did not
  cease chattering good-naturedly and gaily, continually praising Natásha&rsquo;s
  beauty. She looked at Natásha&rsquo;s dresses and praised them, as well as a new
  dress of her own made of &ldquo;metallic gauze,&rdquo; which she had received from
  Paris, and advised Natásha to have one like it.
<br />
  &ldquo;But anything suits you, my charmer!&rdquo; she remarked.
<br />
  A smile of pleasure never left Natásha&rsquo;s face. She felt happy and as if
  she were blossoming under the praise of this dear Countess Bezúkhova who
  had formerly seemed to her so unapproachable and important and was now so
  kind to her. Natásha brightened up and felt almost in love with this
  woman, who was so beautiful and so kind. Hélène for her part was sincerely
  delighted with Natásha and wished to give her a good time. Anatole had
  asked her to bring him and Natásha together, and she was calling on the
  Rostóvs for that purpose. The idea of throwing her brother and Natásha
  together amused her.
<br />
  Though at one time, in Petersburg, she had been annoyed with Natásha for
  drawing Borís away, she did not think of that now, and in her own way
  heartily wished Natásha well. As she was leaving the Rostóvs she called
  her protégée aside.
<br />
  &ldquo;My brother dined with me yesterday&mdash;we nearly died of laughter&mdash;he
  ate nothing and kept sighing for you, my charmer! He is madly, quite
  madly, in love with you, my dear.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha blushed scarlet when she heard this.
<br />
  &ldquo;How she blushes, how she blushes, my pretty!&rdquo; said Hélène. &ldquo;You must
  certainly come. If you love somebody, my charmer, that is not a reason to
  shut yourself up. Even if you are engaged, I am sure your fiancé would
  wish you to go into society rather than be bored to death.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;So she knows I am engaged, and she and her husband Pierre&mdash;that good
  Pierre&mdash;have talked and laughed about this. So it&rsquo;s all right.&rdquo; And
  again, under Hélène&rsquo;s influence, what had seemed terrible now seemed
  simple and natural. &ldquo;And she is such a , so kind, and
  evidently likes me so much. And why not enjoy myself?&rdquo; thought Natásha,
  gazing at Hélène with wide-open, wondering eyes.
<br />
  Márya Dmítrievna came back to dinner taciturn and serious, having
  evidently suffered a defeat at the old prince&rsquo;s. She was still too
  agitated by the encounter to be able to talk of the affair calmly. In
  answer to the count&rsquo;s inquiries she replied that things were all right and
  that she would tell about it next day. On hearing of Countess Bezúkhova&rsquo;s
  visit and the invitation for that evening, Márya Dmítrievna remarked:
<br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t care to have anything to do with Bezúkhova and don&rsquo;t advise you
  to; however, if you&rsquo;ve promised&mdash;go. It will divert your thoughts,&rdquo;
   she added, addressing Natásha.

  CHAPTER XIII


  Count Rostóv took the girls to Countess Bezúkhova&rsquo;s. There were a good
  many people there, but nearly all strangers to Natásha. Count Rostóv was
  displeased to see that the company consisted almost entirely of men and
  women known for the freedom of their conduct. Mademoiselle George was
  standing in a corner of the drawing room surrounded by young men. There
  were several Frenchmen present, among them Métivier who from the time
  Hélène reached Moscow had been an intimate in her house. The count decided
  not to sit down to cards or let his girls out of his sight and to get away
  as soon as Mademoiselle George&rsquo;s performance was over.
<br />
  Anatole was at the door, evidently on the lookout for the Rostóvs.
  Immediately after greeting the count he went up to Natásha and followed
  her. As soon as she saw him she was seized by the same feeling she had had
  at the opera&mdash;gratified vanity at his admiration of her and fear at
  the absence of a moral barrier between them.
<br />
  Hélène welcomed Natásha delightedly and was loud in admiration of her
  beauty and her dress. Soon after their arrival Mademoiselle George went
  out of the room to change her costume. In the drawing room people began
  arranging the chairs and taking their seats. Anatole moved a chair for
  Natásha and was about to sit down beside her, but the count, who never
  lost sight of her, took the seat himself. Anatole sat down behind her.
<br />
  Mademoiselle George, with her bare, fat, dimpled arms, and a red shawl
  draped over one shoulder, came into the space left vacant for her, and
  assumed an unnatural pose. Enthusiastic whispering was audible.
<br />
  Mademoiselle George looked sternly and gloomily at the audience and began
  reciting some French verses describing her guilty love for her son. In
  some places she raised her voice, in others she whispered, lifting her
  head triumphantly; sometimes she paused and uttered hoarse sounds, rolling
  her eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;Adorable! divine! delicious!&rdquo; was heard from every side.
<br />
  Natásha looked at the fat actress, but neither saw nor heard nor
  understood anything of what went on before her. She only felt herself
  again completely borne away into this strange senseless world&mdash;so
  remote from her old world&mdash;a world in which it was impossible to know
  what was good or bad, reasonable or senseless. Behind her sat Anatole, and
  conscious of his proximity she experienced a frightened sense of
  expectancy.
<br />
  After the first monologue the whole company rose and surrounded
  Mademoiselle George, expressing their enthusiasm.
<br />
  &ldquo;How beautiful she is!&rdquo; Natásha remarked to her father who had also risen
  and was moving through the crowd toward the actress.
<br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think so when I look at you!&rdquo; said Anatole, following Natásha. He
  said this at a moment when she alone could hear him. &ldquo;You are
  enchanting... from the moment I saw you I have never ceased...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Come, come, Natásha!&rdquo; said the count, as he turned back for his daughter.
  &ldquo;How beautiful she is!&rdquo; Natásha without saying anything stepped up to her
  father and looked at him with surprised inquiring eyes.
<br />
  After giving several recitations, Mademoiselle George left, and Countess
  Bezúkhova asked her visitors into the ballroom.
<br />
  The count wished to go home, but Hélène entreated him not to spoil her
  improvised ball, and the Rostóvs stayed on. Anatole asked Natásha for a
  valse and as they danced he pressed her waist and hand and told her she
  was bewitching and that he loved her. During the , which she also
  danced with him, Anatole said nothing when they happened to be by
  themselves, but merely gazed at her. Natásha lifted her frightened eyes to
  him, but there was such confident tenderness in his affectionate look and
  smile that she could not, whilst looking at him, say what she had to say.
  She lowered her eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t say such things to me. I am betrothed and love another,&rdquo; she said
  rapidly.... She glanced at him.
<br />
  Anatole was not upset or pained by what she had said.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t speak to me of that! What can I do?&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;I tell you I am
  madly, madly, in love with you! Is it my fault that you are enchanting?...
  It&rsquo;s our turn to begin.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha, animated and excited, looked about her with wide-open frightened
  eyes and seemed merrier than usual. She understood hardly anything that
  went on that evening. They danced the  and the 
  Her father asked her to come home, but she begged to remain. Wherever she went
  and whomever she was speaking to, she felt  eyes upon her. Later on she
  recalled how she had asked her father to let her go to the dressing room
  to rearrange her dress, that Hélène had followed her and spoken laughingly
  of her brother&rsquo;s love, and that she again met Anatole in the little
  sitting room. Hélène had disappeared leaving them alone, and Anatole had
  taken her hand and said in a tender voice:
<br />
  &ldquo;I cannot come to visit you but is it possible that I shall never see you?
  I love you madly. Can I never...?&rdquo; and, blocking her path, he brought his
  face close to hers.
<br />
  His large, glittering, masculine eyes were so close to hers that she saw
  nothing but them.
<br />
  &ldquo;Natalie?&rdquo; he whispered inquiringly while she felt her hands being
  painfully pressed. &ldquo;Natalie?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand. I have nothing to say,&rdquo; her eyes replied.
<br />
  Burning lips were pressed to hers, and at the same instant she felt
  herself released, and Hélène&rsquo;s footsteps and the rustle of her dress were
  heard in the room. Natásha looked round at her, and then, red and
  trembling, threw a frightened look of inquiry at Anatole and moved toward
  the door.
<br />
  &ldquo;One word, just one, for God&rsquo;s sake!&rdquo; cried Anatole.
<br />
  She paused. She so wanted a word from him that would explain to her what
  had happened and to which she could find no answer.
<br />
  &ldquo;Natalie, just a word, only one!&rdquo; he kept repeating, evidently not knowing
  what to say and he repeated it till Hélène came up to them.
<br />
  Hélène returned with Natásha to the drawing room. The Rostóvs went away
  without staying for supper.
<br />
  After reaching home Natásha did not sleep all night. She was tormented by
  the insoluble question whether she loved Anatole or Prince Andrew. She
  loved Prince Andrew&mdash;she remembered distinctly how deeply she loved
  him. But she also loved Anatole, of that there was no doubt. &ldquo;Else how
  could all this have happened?&rdquo; thought she. &ldquo;If, after that, I could
  return his smile when saying good-by, if I was able to let it come to
  that, it means that I loved him from the first. It means that he is kind,
  noble, and splendid, and I could not help loving him. What am I to do if I
  love him and the other one too?&rdquo; she asked herself, unable to find an
  answer to these terrible questions.

  CHAPTER XIV


  Morning came with its cares and bustle. Everyone got up and began to move
  about and talk, dressmakers came again. Márya Dmítrievna appeared, and
  they were called to breakfast. Natásha kept looking uneasily at everybody
  with wide-open eyes, as if wishing to intercept every glance directed
  toward her, and tried to appear the same as usual.
<br />
  After breakfast, which was her best time, Márya Dmítrievna sat down in her
  armchair and called Natásha and the count to her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, friends, I have now thought the whole matter over and this is my
  advice,&rdquo; she began. &ldquo;Yesterday, as you know, I went to see Prince
  Bolkónski. Well, I had a talk with him.... He took it into his head to
  begin shouting, but I am not one to be shouted down. I said what I had to
  say!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, and he?&rdquo; asked the count.
<br />
  &ldquo;He? He&rsquo;s crazy... he did not want to listen. But what&rsquo;s the use of
  talking? As it is we have worn the poor girl out,&rdquo; said Márya Dmítrievna.
  &ldquo;My advice to you is finish your business and go back home to Otrádnoe...
  and wait there.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, no!&rdquo; exclaimed Natásha.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, go back,&rdquo; said Márya Dmítrievna, &ldquo;and wait there. If your betrothed
  comes here now&mdash;there will be no avoiding a quarrel; but alone with
  the old man he will talk things over and then come on to you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Count Rostóv approved of this suggestion, appreciating its reasonableness.
  If the old man came round it would be all the better to visit him in
  Moscow or at Bald Hills later on; and if not, the wedding, against his
  wishes, could only be arranged at Otrádnoe.
<br />
  &ldquo;That is perfectly true. And I am sorry I went to see him and took her,&rdquo;
   said the old count.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, why be sorry? Being here, you had to pay your respects. But if he
  won&rsquo;t&mdash;that&rsquo;s his affair,&rdquo; said Márya Dmítrievna, looking for
  something in her reticule. &ldquo;Besides, the trousseau is ready, so there is
  nothing to wait for; and what is not ready I&rsquo;ll send after you. Though I
  don&rsquo;t like letting you go, it is the best way. So go, with God&rsquo;s
  blessing!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Having found what she was looking for in the reticule she handed it to
  Natásha. It was a letter from Princess Mary.
<br />
  &ldquo;She has written to you. How she torments herself, poor thing! She&rsquo;s
  afraid you might think that she does not like you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But she doesn&rsquo;t like me,&rdquo; said Natásha.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t talk nonsense!&rdquo; cried Márya Dmítrievna.
<br />
  &ldquo;I shan&rsquo;t believe anyone, I know she doesn&rsquo;t like me,&rdquo; replied Natásha
  boldly as she took the letter, and her face expressed a cold and angry
  resolution that caused Márya Dmítrievna to look at her more intently and
  to frown.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t answer like that, my good girl!&rdquo; she said.
  &ldquo;What I say is true! Write an answer!&rdquo;
<br />
  Natásha did not reply and went to her own room to read Princess Mary&rsquo;s letter.
<br />
  Princess Mary wrote that she was in despair at the misunderstanding that
  had occurred between them. Whatever her father&rsquo;s feelings might be, she
  begged Natásha to believe that she could not help loving her as the one
  chosen by her brother, for whose happiness she was ready to sacrifice
  everything.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do not think, however,&rdquo; she wrote, &ldquo;that my father is ill-disposed toward
  you. He is an invalid and an old man who must be forgiven; but he is good
  and magnanimous and will love her who makes his son happy.&rdquo; Princess Mary
  went on to ask Natásha to fix a time when she could see her again.
<br />
  After reading the letter Natásha sat down at the writing table to answer
  it. &ldquo;Dear Princess,&rdquo; she wrote in French quickly and mechanically, and
  then paused. What more could she write after all that had happened the
  evening before? &ldquo;Yes, yes! All that has happened, and now all is changed,&rdquo;
   she thought as she sat with the letter she had begun before her. &ldquo;Must I
  break off with him? Must I really? That&rsquo;s awful...&rdquo; and to escape from
  these dreadful thoughts she went to Sónya and began sorting patterns with
  her.
<br />
  After dinner Natásha went to her room and again took up Princess Mary&rsquo;s
  letter. &ldquo;Can it be that it is all over?&rdquo; she thought. &ldquo;Can it be that all
  this has happened so quickly and has destroyed all that went before?&rdquo; She
  recalled her love for Prince Andrew in all its former strength, and at the
  same time felt that she loved Kurágin. She vividly pictured herself as
  Prince Andrew&rsquo;s wife, and the scenes of happiness with him she had so
  often repeated in her imagination, and at the same time, aglow with
  excitement, recalled every detail of yesterday&rsquo;s interview with Anatole.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why could that not be as well?&rdquo; she sometimes asked herself in complete
  bewilderment. &ldquo;Only so could I be completely happy; but now I have to
  choose, and I can&rsquo;t be happy without either of them. Only,&rdquo; she thought,
  &ldquo;to tell Prince Andrew what has happened or to hide it from him are both
  equally impossible. But with  nothing is spoiled. But am I really
  to abandon forever the joy of Prince Andrew&rsquo;s love, in which I have lived
  so long?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Please, Miss!&rdquo; whispered a maid entering the room with a mysterious air.
  &ldquo;A man told me to give you this&mdash;&rdquo; and she handed Natásha a letter.
<br />
  &ldquo;Only, for Christ&rsquo;s sake...&rdquo; the girl went on, as Natásha, without
  thinking, mechanically broke the seal and read a love letter from Anatole,
  of which, without taking in a word, she understood only that it was a
  letter from him&mdash;from the man she loved. Yes, she loved him, or else
  how could that have happened which had happened? And how could she have a
  love letter from him in her hand?
<br />
  With trembling hands Natásha held that passionate love letter which
  Dólokhov had composed for Anatole, and as she read it she found in it an
  echo of all that she herself imagined she was feeling.
<br />
  &ldquo;Since yesterday evening my fate has been sealed; to be loved by you or to
  die. There is no other way for me,&rdquo; the letter began. Then he went on to
  say that he knew her parents would not give her to him&mdash;for this
  there were secret reasons he could reveal only to her&mdash;but that if
  she loved him she need only say the word , and no human power could
  hinder their bliss. Love would conquer all. He would steal her away and
  carry her off to the ends of the earth.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes! I love him!&rdquo; thought Natásha, reading the letter for the
  twentieth time and finding some peculiarly deep meaning in each word of
  it.
<br />
  That evening Márya Dmítrievna was going to the Akhárovs&rsquo; and proposed to
  take the girls with her. Natásha, pleading a headache, remained at home.

  CHAPTER XV


  On returning late in the evening Sónya went to Natásha&rsquo;s room, and to her
  surprise found her still dressed and asleep on the sofa. Open on the
  table, beside her lay Anatole&rsquo;s letter. Sónya picked it up and read it.
<br />
  As she read she glanced at the sleeping Natásha, trying to find in her
  face an explanation of what she was reading, but did not find it. Her face
  was calm, gentle, and happy. Clutching her breast to keep herself from
  choking, Sónya, pale and trembling with fear and agitation, sat down in an
  armchair and burst into tears.
<br />
  &ldquo;How was it I noticed nothing? How could it go so far? Can she have left
  off loving Prince Andrew? And how could she let Kurágin go to such
  lengths? He is a deceiver and a villain, that&rsquo;s plain! What will Nicholas,
  dear noble Nicholas, do when he hears of it? So this is the meaning of her
  excited, resolute, unnatural look the day before yesterday, yesterday, and
  today,&rdquo; thought Sónya. &ldquo;But it can&rsquo;t be that she loves him! She probably
  opened the letter without knowing who it was from. Probably she is
  offended by it. She could not do such a thing!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sónya wiped away her tears and went up to Natásha, again scanning her
  face.
<br />
  &ldquo;Natásha!&rdquo; she said, just audibly.
<br />
  Natásha awoke and saw Sónya.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, you&rsquo;re back?&rdquo;
 <br />
  And with the decision and tenderness that often come at the moment of
  awakening, she embraced her friend, but noticing Sónya&rsquo;s look of
  embarrassment, her own face expressed confusion and suspicion.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sónya, you&rsquo;ve read that letter?&rdquo; she demanded.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; answered Sónya softly.
<br />
  Natásha smiled rapturously.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, Sónya, I can&rsquo;t any longer!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t hide it from you any
  longer. You know, we love one another! Sónya, darling, he writes...
  Sónya...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sónya stared open-eyed at Natásha, unable to believe her ears.
<br />
  &ldquo;And Bolkónski?&rdquo; she asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, Sónya, if you only knew how happy I am!&rdquo; cried Natásha. &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t
  know what love is....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But, Natásha, can  be all over?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha looked at Sónya with wide-open eyes as if she could not grasp the
  question.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, then, are you refusing Prince Andrew?&rdquo; said Sónya.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, you don&rsquo;t understand anything! Don&rsquo;t talk nonsense, just listen!&rdquo;
   said Natásha, with momentary vexation.
<br />
  &ldquo;But I can&rsquo;t believe it,&rdquo; insisted Sónya. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand. How is it
  you have loved a man for a whole year and suddenly... Why, you have only
  seen him three times! Natásha, I don&rsquo;t believe you, you&rsquo;re joking! In
  three days to forget everything and so...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Three days?&rdquo; said Natásha. &ldquo;It seems to me I&rsquo;ve loved him a hundred
  years. It seems to me that I have never loved anyone before. You can&rsquo;t
  understand it.... Sónya, wait a bit, sit here,&rdquo; and Natásha embraced and
  kissed her.
<br />
  &ldquo;I had heard that it happens like this, and you must have heard it too,
  but it&rsquo;s only now that I feel such love. It&rsquo;s not the same as before. As
  soon as I saw him I felt he was my master and I his slave, and that I
  could not help loving him. Yes, his slave! Whatever he orders I shall do.
  You don&rsquo;t understand that. What can I do? What can I do, Sónya?&rdquo; cried
  Natásha with a happy yet frightened expression.
<br />
  &ldquo;But think what you are doing,&rdquo; cried Sónya. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t leave it like this.
  This secret correspondence... How could you let him go so far?&rdquo; she went
  on, with a horror and disgust she could hardly conceal.
<br />
  &ldquo;I told you that I have no will,&rdquo; Natásha replied. &ldquo;Why can&rsquo;t you
  understand? I love him!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Then I won&rsquo;t let it come to that... I shall tell!&rdquo; cried Sónya, bursting
  into tears.
<br />
  &ldquo;What do you mean? For God&rsquo;s sake... If you tell, you are my enemy!&rdquo;
   declared Natásha. &ldquo;You want me to be miserable, you want us to be
  separated....&rdquo;
 <br />
  When she saw Natásha&rsquo;s fright, Sónya shed tears of shame and pity for her
  friend.
<br />
  &ldquo;But what has happened between you?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;What has he said to you?
  Why doesn&rsquo;t he come to the house?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha did not answer her questions.
<br />
  &ldquo;For God&rsquo;s sake, Sónya, don&rsquo;t tell anyone, don&rsquo;t torture me,&rdquo; Natásha
  entreated. &ldquo;Remember no one ought to interfere in such matters! I have
  confided in you....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But why this secrecy? Why doesn&rsquo;t he come to the house?&rdquo; asked Sónya.
  &ldquo;Why doesn&rsquo;t he openly ask for your hand? You know Prince Andrew gave you
  complete freedom&mdash;if it is really so; but I don&rsquo;t believe it!
  Natásha, have you considered what these  can be?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha looked at Sónya with astonishment. Evidently this question
  presented itself to her mind for the first time and she did not know how
  to answer it.
<br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know what the reasons are. But there must be reasons!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sónya sighed and shook her head incredulously.
<br />
  &ldquo;If there were reasons...&rdquo; she began.
<br />
  But Natásha, guessing her doubts, interrupted her in alarm.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sónya, one can&rsquo;t doubt him! One can&rsquo;t, one can&rsquo;t! Don&rsquo;t you understand?&rdquo;
   she cried.
<br />
  &ldquo;Does he love you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Does he love me?&rdquo; Natásha repeated with a smile of pity at her friend&rsquo;s
  lack of comprehension. &ldquo;Why, you have read his letter and you have seen
  him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But if he is dishonorable?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo; dishonorable? If you only knew!&rdquo; exclaimed Natásha.
<br />
  &ldquo;If he is an honorable man he should either declare his intentions or
  cease seeing you; and if you won&rsquo;t do this, I will. I will write to him,
  and I will tell Papa!&rdquo; said Sónya resolutely.
<br />
  &ldquo;But I can&rsquo;t live without him!&rdquo; cried Natásha.
<br />
  &ldquo;Natásha, I don&rsquo;t understand you. And what are you saying! Think of your
  father and of Nicholas.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want anyone, I don&rsquo;t love anyone but him. How dare you say he is
  dishonorable? Don&rsquo;t you know that I love him?&rdquo; screamed Natásha. &ldquo;Go away,
  Sónya! I don&rsquo;t want to quarrel with you, but go, for God&rsquo;s sake go! You
  see how I am suffering!&rdquo; Natásha cried angrily, in a voice of despair and
  repressed irritation. Sónya burst into sobs and ran from the room.
<br />
  Natásha went to the table and without a moment&rsquo;s reflection wrote that
  answer to Princess Mary which she had been unable to write all the
  morning. In this letter she said briefly that all their misunderstandings
  were at an end; that availing herself of the magnanimity of Prince Andrew
  who when he went abroad had given her her freedom, she begged Princess
  Mary to forget everything and forgive her if she had been to blame toward
  her, but that she could not be his wife. At that moment this all seemed
  quite easy, simple, and clear to Natásha.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  On Friday the Rostóvs were to return to the country, but on Wednesday the
  count went with the prospective purchaser to his estate near Moscow.
<br />
  On the day the count left, Sónya and Natásha were invited to a big dinner
  party at the Karágins&rsquo;, and Márya Dmítrievna took them there. At that
  party Natásha again met Anatole, and Sónya noticed that she spoke to him,
  trying not to be overheard, and that all through dinner she was more
  agitated than ever. When they got home Natásha was the first to begin the
  explanation Sónya expected.
<br />
  &ldquo;There, Sónya, you were talking all sorts of nonsense about him,&rdquo; Natásha
  began in a mild voice such as children use when they wish to be praised.
  &ldquo;We have had an explanation today.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, what happened? What did he say? Natásha, how glad I am you&rsquo;re not
  angry with me! Tell me everything&mdash;the whole truth. What did he say?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha became thoughtful.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, Sónya, if you knew him as I do! He said... He asked me what I had
  promised Bolkónski. He was glad I was free to refuse him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sónya sighed sorrowfully.
<br />
  &ldquo;But you haven&rsquo;t refused Bolkónski?&rdquo; said she.
<br />
  &ldquo;Perhaps I have. Perhaps all is over between me and Bolkónski. Why do you
  think so badly of me?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think anything, only I don&rsquo;t understand this...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Wait a bit, Sónya, you&rsquo;ll understand everything. You&rsquo;ll see what a man he
  is! Now don&rsquo;t think badly of me or of him. I don&rsquo;t think badly of anyone:
  I love and pity everybody. But what am I to do?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sónya did not succumb to the tender tone Natásha used toward her. The more
  emotional and ingratiating the expression of Natásha&rsquo;s face became, the
  more serious and stern grew Sónya&rsquo;s.
<br />
  &ldquo;Natásha,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;you asked me not to speak to you, and I haven&rsquo;t
  spoken, but now you yourself have begun. I don&rsquo;t trust him, Natásha. Why
  this secrecy?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Again, again!&rdquo; interrupted Natásha.
<br />
  &ldquo;Natásha, I am afraid for you!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Afraid of what?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am afraid you&rsquo;re going to your ruin,&rdquo; said Sónya resolutely, and was
  herself horrified at what she had said.
<br />
  Anger again showed in Natásha&rsquo;s face.
<br />
  &ldquo;And I&rsquo;ll go to my ruin, I will, as soon as possible! It&rsquo;s not your
  business! It won&rsquo;t be you, but I, who&rsquo;ll suffer. Leave me alone, leave me
  alone! I hate you!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Natásha!&rdquo; moaned Sónya, aghast.
<br />
  &ldquo;I hate you, I hate you! You&rsquo;re my enemy forever!&rdquo; And Natásha ran out of
  the room.
<br />
  Natásha did not speak to Sónya again and avoided her. With the same
  expression of agitated surprise and guilt she went about the house, taking
  up now one occupation, now another, and at once abandoning them.
<br />
  Hard as it was for Sónya, she watched her friend and did not let her out
  of her sight.
<br />
  The day before the count was to return, Sónya noticed that Natásha sat by
  the drawing room window all the morning as if expecting something and that
  she made a sign to an officer who drove past, whom Sónya took to be
  Anatole.
<br />
  Sónya began watching her friend still more attentively and noticed that at
  dinner and all that evening Natásha was in a strange and unnatural state.
  She answered questions at random, began sentences she did not finish, and
  laughed at everything.
<br />
  After tea Sónya noticed a housemaid at Natásha&rsquo;s door timidly waiting to
  let her pass. She let the girl go in, and then listening at the door
  learned that another letter had been delivered.
<br />
  Then suddenly it became clear to Sónya that Natásha had some dreadful plan
  for that evening. Sónya knocked at her door. Natásha did not let her in.
<br />
  &ldquo;She will run away with him!&rdquo; thought Sónya. &ldquo;She is capable of anything.
  There was something particularly pathetic and resolute in her face today.
  She cried as she said good-by to Uncle,&rdquo; Sónya remembered. &ldquo;Yes, that&rsquo;s
  it, she means to elope with him, but what am I to do?&rdquo; thought she,
  recalling all the signs that clearly indicated that Natásha had some
  terrible intention. &ldquo;The count is away. What am I to do? Write to Kurágin
  demanding an explanation? But what is there to oblige him to reply? Write
  to Pierre, as Prince Andrew asked me to in case of some misfortune?... But
  perhaps she really has already refused Bolkónski&mdash;she sent a letter
  to Princess Mary yesterday. And Uncle is away....&rdquo; To tell Márya
  Dmítrievna who had such faith in Natásha seemed to Sónya terrible. &ldquo;Well,
  anyway,&rdquo; thought Sónya as she stood in the dark passage, &ldquo;now or never I
  must prove that I remember the family&rsquo;s goodness to me and that I love
  Nicholas. Yes! If I don&rsquo;t sleep for three nights I&rsquo;ll not leave this
  passage and will hold her back by force and will and not let the family be
  disgraced,&rdquo; thought she.

  CHAPTER XVI


  Anatole had lately moved to Dólokhov&rsquo;s. The plan for Natalie Rostóva&rsquo;s
  abduction had been arranged and the preparations made by Dólokhov a few
  days before, and on the day that Sónya, after listening at Natásha&rsquo;s door,
  resolved to safeguard her, it was to have been put into execution. Natásha
  had promised to come out to Kurágin at the back porch at ten that evening.
  Kurágin was to put her into a troyka he would have ready and to drive her
  forty miles to the village of Kámenka, where an unfrocked priest was in
  readiness to perform a marriage ceremony over them. At Kámenka a relay of
  horses was to wait which would take them to the Warsaw highroad, and from
  there they would hasten abroad with post horses.
<br />
  Anatole had a passport, an order for post horses, ten thousand rubles he
  had taken from his sister and another ten thousand borrowed with
  Dólokhov&rsquo;s help.
<br />
  Two witnesses for the mock marriage&mdash;Khvóstikov, a retired petty
  official whom Dólokhov made use of in his gambling transactions, and
  Makárin, a retired hussar, a kindly, weak fellow who had an unbounded
  affection for Kurágin&mdash;were sitting at tea in Dólokhov&rsquo;s front room.
<br />
  In his large study, the walls of which were hung to the ceiling with
  Persian rugs, bearskins, and weapons, sat Dólokhov in a traveling cloak
  and high boots, at an open desk on which lay an abacus and some bundles of
  paper money. Anatole, with uniform unbuttoned, walked to and fro from the
  room where the witnesses were sitting, through the study to the room
  behind, where his French valet and others were packing the last of his
  things. Dólokhov was counting the money and noting something down.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;Khvóstikov must have two thousand.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Give it to him, then,&rdquo; said Anatole.
<br />
  &ldquo;Makárka&rdquo; (their name for Makárin) &ldquo;will go through fire and water for you
  for nothing. So here are our accounts all settled,&rdquo; said Dólokhov, showing
  him the memorandum. &ldquo;Is that right?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, of course,&rdquo; returned Anatole, evidently not listening to Dólokhov
  and looking straight before him with a smile that did not leave his face.
<br />
  Dólokhov banged down the lid of his desk and turned to Anatole with an
  ironic smile:
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you know? You&rsquo;d really better drop it all. There&rsquo;s still time!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Fool,&rdquo; retorted Anatole. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t talk nonsense! If you only knew... it&rsquo;s
  the devil knows what!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, really, give it up!&rdquo; said Dólokhov. &ldquo;I am speaking seriously. It&rsquo;s no
  joke, this plot you&rsquo;ve hatched.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What, teasing again? Go to the devil! Eh?&rdquo; said Anatole, making a
  grimace. &ldquo;Really it&rsquo;s no time for your stupid jokes,&rdquo; and he left the
  room.
<br />
  Dólokhov smiled contemptuously and condescendingly when Anatole had gone
  out.
<br />
  &ldquo;You wait a bit,&rdquo; he called after him. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not joking, I&rsquo;m talking sense.
  Come here, come here!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Anatole returned and looked at Dólokhov, trying to give him his attention
  and evidently submitting to him involuntarily.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now listen to me. I&rsquo;m telling you this for the last time. Why should I
  joke about it? Did I hinder you? Who arranged everything for you? Who
  found the priest and got the passport? Who raised the money? I did it
  all.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, thank you for it. Do you think I am not grateful?&rdquo; And Anatole
  sighed and embraced Dólokhov.
<br />
  &ldquo;I helped you, but all the same I must tell you the truth; it is a
  dangerous business, and if you think about it&mdash;a stupid business.
  Well, you&rsquo;ll carry her off&mdash;all right! Will they let it stop at that?
  It will come out that you&rsquo;re already married. Why, they&rsquo;ll have you in the
  criminal court....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, nonsense, nonsense!&rdquo; Anatole ejaculated and again made a grimace.
  &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t I explain to you? What?&rdquo; And Anatole, with the partiality
  dull-witted people have for any conclusion they have reached by their own
  reasoning, repeated the argument he had already put to Dólokhov a hundred
  times. &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t I explain to you that I have come to this conclusion: if
  this marriage is invalid,&rdquo; he went on, crooking one finger, &ldquo;then I have
  nothing to answer for; but if it is valid, no matter! Abroad no one will
  know anything about it. Isn&rsquo;t that so? And don&rsquo;t talk to me, don&rsquo;t,
  don&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Seriously, you&rsquo;d better drop it! You&rsquo;ll only get yourself into a mess!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Go to the devil!&rdquo; cried Anatole and, clutching his hair, left the room,
  but returned at once and dropped into an armchair in front of Dólokhov
  with his feet turned under him. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the very devil! What? Feel how it
  beats!&rdquo; He took Dólokhov&rsquo;s hand and put it on his heart. &ldquo;What a foot, my
  dear fellow! What a glance! A goddess!&rdquo; he added in French. &ldquo;What?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dólokhov with a cold smile and a gleam in his handsome insolent eyes
  looked at him&mdash;evidently wishing to get some more amusement out of
  him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well and when the money&rsquo;s gone, what then?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What then? Eh?&rdquo; repeated Anatole, sincerely perplexed by a thought of the
  future. &ldquo;What then?... Then, I don&rsquo;t know.... But why talk nonsense!&rdquo; He
  glanced at his watch. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s time!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Anatole went into the back room.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now then! Nearly ready? You&rsquo;re dawdling!&rdquo; he shouted to the servants.
<br />
  Dólokhov put away the money, called a footman whom he ordered to bring
  something for them to eat and drink before the journey, and went into the
  room where Khvóstikov and Makárin were sitting.
<br />
  Anatole lay on the sofa in the study leaning on his elbow and smiling
  pensively, while his handsome lips muttered tenderly to himself.
<br />
  &ldquo;Come and eat something. Have a drink!&rdquo; Dólokhov shouted to him from the
  other room.
<br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want to,&rdquo; answered Anatole continuing to smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;Come! Balagá is here.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Anatole rose and went into the dining room. Balagá was a famous troyka
  driver who had known Dólokhov and Anatole some six years and had given
  them good service with his troykas. More than once when Anatole&rsquo;s regiment
  was stationed at Tver he had taken him from Tver in the evening, brought
  him to Moscow by daybreak, and driven him back again the next night. More
  than once he had enabled Dólokhov to escape when pursued. More than once
  he had driven them through the town with gypsies and &ldquo;ladykins&rdquo; as he
  called the cocottes. More than once in their service he had run over
  pedestrians and upset vehicles in the streets of Moscow and had always
  been protected from the consequences by &ldquo;my gentlemen&rdquo; as he called them.
  He had ruined more than one horse in their service. More than once they
  had beaten him, and more than once they had made him drunk on champagne
  and Madeira, which he loved; and he knew more than one thing about each of
  them which would long ago have sent an ordinary man to Siberia. They often
  called Balagá into their orgies and made him drink and dance at the
  gypsies&rsquo;, and more than one thousand rubles of their money had passed
  through his hands. In their service he risked his skin and his life twenty
  times a year, and in their service had lost more horses than the money he
  had from them would buy. But he liked them; liked that mad driving at
  twelve miles an hour, liked upsetting a driver or running down a
  pedestrian, and flying at full gallop through the Moscow streets. He liked
  to hear those wild, tipsy shouts behind him: &ldquo;Get on! Get on!&rdquo; when it was
  impossible to go any faster. He liked giving a painful lash on the neck to
  some peasant who, more dead than alive, was already hurrying out of his
  way. &ldquo;Real gentlemen!&rdquo; he considered them.
<br />
  Anatole and Dólokhov liked Balagá too for his masterly driving and because
  he liked the things they liked. With others Balagá bargained, charging
  twenty-five rubles for a two hours&rsquo; drive, and rarely drove himself,
  generally letting his young men do so. But with &ldquo;his gentlemen&rdquo; he always
  drove himself and never demanded anything for his work. Only a couple of
  times a year&mdash;when he knew from their valets that they had money in
  hand&mdash;he would turn up of a morning quite sober and with a deep bow
  would ask them to help him. The gentlemen always made him sit down.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do help me out, Theodore Iványch, sir,&rdquo; or &ldquo;your excellency,&rdquo; he would
  say. &ldquo;I am quite out of horses. Let me have what you can to go to the
  fair.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And Anatole and Dólokhov, when they had money, would give him a thousand
  or a couple of thousand rubles.
<br />
  Balagá was a fair-haired, short, and snub-nosed peasant of about
  twenty-seven; red-faced, with a particularly red thick neck, glittering
  little eyes, and a small beard. He wore a fine, dark-blue, silk-lined
  cloth coat over a sheepskin.
<br />
  On entering the room now he crossed himself, turning toward the front
  corner of the room, and went up to Dólokhov, holding out a small, black
  hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;Theodore Iványch!&rdquo; he said, bowing.
<br />
  &ldquo;How d&rsquo;you do, friend? Well, here he is!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Good day, your excellency!&rdquo; he said, again holding out his hand to
  Anatole who had just come in.
<br />
  &ldquo;I say, Balagá,&rdquo; said Anatole, putting his hands on the man&rsquo;s shoulders,
  &ldquo;do you care for me or not? Eh? Now, do me a service.... What horses have
  you come with? Eh?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;As your messenger ordered, your special beasts,&rdquo; replied Balagá.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, listen, Balagá! Drive all three to death but get me there in three
  hours. Eh?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;When they are dead, what shall I drive?&rdquo; said Balagá with a wink.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mind, I&rsquo;ll smash your face in! Don&rsquo;t make jokes!&rdquo; cried Anatole, suddenly
  rolling his eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why joke?&rdquo; said the driver, laughing. &ldquo;As if I&rsquo;d grudge my gentlemen
  anything! As fast as ever the horses can gallop, so fast we&rsquo;ll go!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; said Anatole. &ldquo;Well, sit down.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, sit down!&rdquo; said Dólokhov.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll stand, Theodore Iványch.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Sit down; nonsense! Have a drink!&rdquo; said Anatole, and filled a large glass
  of Madeira for him.
<br />
  The driver&rsquo;s eyes sparkled at the sight of the wine. After refusing it for
  manners&rsquo; sake, he drank it and wiped his mouth with a red silk
  handkerchief he took out of his cap.
<br />
  &ldquo;And when are we to start, your excellency?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well...&rdquo; Anatole looked at his watch. &ldquo;We&rsquo;ll start at once. Mind, Balagá!
  You&rsquo;ll get there in time? Eh?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That depends on our luck in starting, else why shouldn&rsquo;t we be there in
  time?&rdquo; replied Balagá. &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t we get you to Tver in seven hours? I think
  you remember that, your excellency?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Do you know, one Christmas I drove from Tver,&rdquo; said Anatole, smilingly at
  the recollection and turning to Makárin who gazed rapturously at him with
  wide-open eyes. &ldquo;Will you believe it, Makárka, it took one&rsquo;s breath away,
  the rate we flew. We came across a train of loaded sleighs and drove right
  over two of them. Eh?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Those were horses!&rdquo; Balagá continued the tale. &ldquo;That time I&rsquo;d harnessed
  two young side horses with the bay in the shafts,&rdquo; he went on, turning to
  Dólokhov. &ldquo;Will you believe it, Theodore Iványch, those animals flew forty
  miles? I couldn&rsquo;t hold them in, my hands grew numb in the sharp frost so
  that I threw down the reins&mdash;&lsquo;Catch hold yourself, your excellency!&rsquo;
  says I, and I just tumbled on the bottom of the sleigh and sprawled there.
  It wasn&rsquo;t a case of urging them on, there was no holding them in till we
  reached the place. The devils took us there in three hours! Only the near
  one died of it.&rdquo;

  CHAPTER XVII


  Anatole went out of the room and returned a few minutes later wearing a
  fur coat girt with a silver belt, and a sable cap jauntily set on one side
  and very becoming to his handsome face. Having looked in a mirror, and
  standing before Dólokhov in the same pose he had assumed before it, he
  lifted a glass of wine.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, good-by, Theodore. Thank you for everything and farewell!&rdquo; said
  Anatole. &ldquo;Well, comrades and friends...&rdquo; he considered for a
  moment &ldquo;... of my youth, farewell!&rdquo; he said, turning to Makárin and the others.
<br />
  Though they were all going with him, Anatole evidently wished to make
  something touching and solemn out of this address to his comrades. He
  spoke slowly in a loud voice and throwing out his chest slightly swayed
  one leg.
<br />
  &ldquo;All take glasses; you too, Balagá. Well, comrades and friends of my
  youth, we&rsquo;ve had our fling and lived and reveled. Eh? And now, when shall
  we meet again? I am going abroad. We have had a good time&mdash;now
  farewell, lads! To our health! Hurrah!...&rdquo; he cried, and emptying his
  glass flung it on the floor.
<br />
  &ldquo;To your health!&rdquo; said Balagá who also emptied his glass, and wiped his
  mouth with his handkerchief.
<br />
  Makárin embraced Anatole with tears in his eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, Prince, how sorry I am to part from you!
<br />
  &ldquo;Let&rsquo;s go. Let&rsquo;s go!&rdquo; cried Anatole.
<br />
  Balagá was about to leave the room.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, stop!&rdquo; said Anatole. &ldquo;Shut the door; we have first to sit down.
  That&rsquo;s the way.&rdquo;
 <br />
  They shut the door and all sat down.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now, quick march, lads!&rdquo; said Anatole, rising.
<br />
  Joseph, his valet, handed him his sabretache and saber, and they all went
  out into the vestibule.
<br />
  &ldquo;And where&rsquo;s the fur cloak?&rdquo; asked Dólokhov. &ldquo;Hey, Ignátka! Go to Matrëna
  Matrévna and ask her for the sable cloak. I have heard what elopements are
  like,&rdquo; continued Dólokhov with a wink. &ldquo;Why, she&rsquo;ll rush out more dead
  than alive just in the things she is wearing; if you delay at all there&rsquo;ll
  be tears and &lsquo;Papa&rsquo; and &lsquo;Mamma,&rsquo; and she&rsquo;s frozen in a minute and must go
  back&mdash;but you wrap the fur cloak round her first thing and carry her
  to the sleigh.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The valet brought a woman&rsquo;s fox-lined cloak.
<br />
  &ldquo;Fool, I told you the sable one! Hey, Matrëna, the sable!&rdquo; he shouted so
  that his voice rang far through the rooms.
<br />
  A handsome, slim, and pale-faced gypsy girl with glittering black eyes and
  curly blue-black hair, wearing a red shawl, ran out with a sable mantle on
  her arm.
<br />
  &ldquo;Here, I don&rsquo;t grudge it&mdash;take it!&rdquo; she said, evidently afraid of her
  master and yet regretful of her cloak.
<br />
  Dólokhov, without answering, took the cloak, threw it over Matrëna, and
  wrapped her up in it.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s the way,&rdquo; said Dólokhov, &ldquo;and then so!&rdquo; and he turned the collar
  up round her head, leaving only a little of the face uncovered. &ldquo;And then
  so, do you see?&rdquo; and he pushed Anatole&rsquo;s head forward to meet the gap left
  by the collar, through which Matrëna&rsquo;s brilliant smile was seen.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, good-by, Matrëna,&rdquo; said Anatole, kissing her. &ldquo;Ah, my revels here
  are over. Remember me to Stëshka. There, good-by! Good-by, Matrëna, wish
  me luck!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, Prince, may God give you great luck!&rdquo; said Matrëna in her gypsy
  accent.
<br />
  Two troykas were standing before the porch and two young drivers were
  holding the horses. Balagá took his seat in the front one and holding his
  elbows high arranged the reins deliberately. Anatole and Dólokhov got in
  with him. Makárin, Khvóstikov, and a valet seated themselves in the other
  sleigh.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, are you ready?&rdquo; asked Balagá.
<br />
  &ldquo;Go!&rdquo; he cried, twisting the reins round his hands, and the troyka tore
  down the Nikítski Boulevard.
<br />
  &ldquo;Tproo! Get out of the way! Hi!... Tproo!...&rdquo; The shouting of Balagá and
  of the sturdy young fellow seated on the box was all that could be heard.
  On the Arbát Square the troyka caught against a carriage; something
  cracked, shouts were heard, and the troyka flew along the Arbát Street.
<br />
  After taking a turn along the Podnovínski Boulevard, Balagá began to rein
  in, and turning back drew up at the crossing of the old Konyúsheny Street.
<br />
  The young fellow on the box jumped down to hold the horses and Anatole and
  Dólokhov went along the pavement. When they reached the gate Dólokhov
  whistled. The whistle was answered, and a maidservant ran out.
<br />
  &ldquo;Come into the courtyard or you&rsquo;ll be seen; she&rsquo;ll come out directly,&rdquo;
   said she.
<br />
  Dólokhov stayed by the gate. Anatole followed the maid into the courtyard,
  turned the corner, and ran up into the porch.
<br />
  He was met by Gabriel, Márya Dmítrievna&rsquo;s gigantic footman.
<br />
  &ldquo;Come to the mistress, please,&rdquo; said the footman in his deep bass,
  intercepting any retreat.
<br />
  &ldquo;To what Mistress? Who are you?&rdquo; asked Anatole in a breathless whisper.
<br />
  &ldquo;Kindly step in, my orders are to bring you in.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Kurágin! Come back!&rdquo; shouted Dólokhov. &ldquo;Betrayed! Back!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dólokhov, after Anatole entered, had remained at the wicket gate and was
  struggling with the yard porter who was trying to lock it. With a last
  desperate effort Dólokhov pushed the porter aside, and when Anatole ran
  back seized him by the arm, pulled him through the wicket, and ran back
  with him to the troyka.

  CHAPTER XVIII


  Márya Dmítrievna, having found Sónya weeping in the corridor, made her
  confess everything, and intercepting the note to Natásha she read it and
  went into Natásha&rsquo;s room with it in her hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;You shameless good-for-nothing!&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t hear a word.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pushing back Natásha who looked at her with astonished but tearless eyes,
  she locked her in; and having given orders to the yard porter to admit the
  persons who would be coming that evening, but not to let them out again,
  and having told the footman to bring them up to her, she seated herself in
  the drawing room to await the abductors.
<br />
  When Gabriel came to inform her that the men who had come had run away
  again, she rose frowning, and clasping her hands behind her paced through
  the rooms a long time considering what she should do. Toward midnight she
  went to Natásha&rsquo;s room fingering the key in her pocket. Sónya was sitting
  sobbing in the corridor. &ldquo;Márya Dmítrievna, for God&rsquo;s sake let me in to
  her!&rdquo; she pleaded, but Márya Dmítrievna unlocked the door and went in
  without giving her an answer.... &ldquo;Disgusting, abominable... In my house...
  horrid girl, hussy! I&rsquo;m only sorry for her father!&rdquo; thought she, trying to
  restrain her wrath. &ldquo;Hard as it may be, I&rsquo;ll tell them all to hold their
  tongues and will hide it from the count.&rdquo; She entered the room with
  resolute steps. Natásha lying on the sofa, her head hidden in her hands,
  and she did not stir. She was in just the same position in which Márya
  Dmítrievna had left her.
<br />
  &ldquo;A nice girl! Very nice!&rdquo; said Márya Dmítrievna. &ldquo;Arranging meetings with
  lovers in my house! It&rsquo;s no use pretending: you listen when I speak to
  you!&rdquo; And Márya Dmítrievna touched her arm. &ldquo;Listen when I speak! You&rsquo;ve
  disgraced yourself like the lowest of hussies. I&rsquo;d treat you differently,
  but I&rsquo;m sorry for your father, so I will conceal it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha did not change her position, but her whole body heaved with
  noiseless, convulsive sobs which choked her. Márya Dmítrievna glanced
  round at Sónya and seated herself on the sofa beside Natásha.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s lucky for him that he escaped me; but I&rsquo;ll find him!&rdquo; she said in
  her rough voice. &ldquo;Do you hear what I am saying or not?&rdquo; she added.
<br />
  She put her large hand under Natásha&rsquo;s face and turned it toward her. Both
  Márya Dmítrievna and Sónya were amazed when they saw how Natásha looked.
  Her eyes were dry and glistening, her lips compressed, her cheeks sunken.
<br />
  &ldquo;Let me be!... What is it to me?... I shall die!&rdquo; she muttered, wrenching
  herself from Márya Dmítrievna&rsquo;s hands with a vicious effort and sinking
  down again into her former position.
<br />
  &ldquo;Natalie!&rdquo; said Márya Dmítrievna. &ldquo;I wish for your good. Lie still, stay
  like that then, I won&rsquo;t touch you. But listen. I won&rsquo;t tell you how guilty
  you are. You know that yourself. But when your father comes back tomorrow
  what am I to tell him? Eh?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Again Natásha&rsquo;s body shook with sobs.
<br />
  &ldquo;Suppose he finds out, and your brother, and your betrothed?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I have no betrothed: I have refused him!&rdquo; cried Natásha.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all the same,&rdquo; continued Márya Dmítrievna. &ldquo;If they hear of this,
  will they let it pass? He, your father, I know him... if he challenges him
  to a duel will that be all right? Eh?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, let me be! Why have you interfered at all? Why? Why? Who asked you
  to?&rdquo; shouted Natásha, raising herself on the sofa and looking malignantly
  at Márya Dmítrievna.
<br />
  &ldquo;But what did you want?&rdquo; cried Márya Dmítrievna, growing angry again.
  &ldquo;Were you kept under lock and key? Who hindered his coming to the house?
  Why carry you off as if you were some gypsy singing girl?... Well, if he
  had carried you off... do you think they wouldn&rsquo;t have found him? Your
  father, or brother, or your betrothed? And he&rsquo;s a scoundrel, a wretch&mdash;that&rsquo;s
  a fact!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He is better than any of you!&rdquo; exclaimed Natásha getting up. &ldquo;If you
  hadn&rsquo;t interfered... Oh, my God! What is it all? What is it? Sónya,
  why?... Go away!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And she burst into sobs with the despairing vehemence with which people
  bewail disasters they feel they have themselves occasioned. Márya
  Dmítrievna was to speak again but Natásha cried out:
<br />
  &ldquo;Go away! Go away! You all hate and despise me!&rdquo; and she threw herself
  back on the sofa.
<br />
  Márya Dmítrievna went on admonishing her for some time, enjoining on her
  that it must all be kept from her father and assuring her that nobody
  would know anything about it if only Natásha herself would undertake to
  forget it all and not let anyone see that something had happened. Natásha
  did not reply, nor did she sob any longer, but she grew cold and had a
  shivering fit. Márya Dmítrievna put a pillow under her head, covered her
  with two quilts, and herself brought her some lime-flower water, but
  Natásha did not respond to her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, let her sleep,&rdquo; said Márya Dmítrievna as she went out of the room
  supposing Natásha to be asleep.
<br />
  But Natásha was not asleep; with pale face and fixed wide-open eyes she
  looked straight before her. All that night she did not sleep or weep and
  did not speak to Sónya who got up and went to her several times.
<br />
  Next day Count Rostóv returned from his estate near Moscow in time for
  lunch as he had promised. He was in very good spirits; the affair with the
  purchaser was going on satisfactorily, and there was nothing to keep him
  any longer in Moscow, away from the countess whom he missed. Márya
  Dmítrievna met him and told him that Natásha had been very unwell the day
  before and that they had sent for the doctor, but that she was better now.
  Natásha had not left her room that morning. With compressed and parched
  lips and dry fixed eyes, she sat at the window, uneasily watching the
  people who drove past and hurriedly glancing round at anyone who entered
  the room. She was evidently expecting news of him and that he would come
  or would write to her.
<br />
  When the count came to see her she turned anxiously round at the sound of
  a man&rsquo;s footstep, and then her face resumed its cold and malevolent
  expression. She did not even get up to greet him. &ldquo;What is the matter with
  you, my angel? Are you ill?&rdquo; asked the count.
<br />
  After a moment&rsquo;s silence Natásha answered: &ldquo;Yes, ill.&rdquo;
 <br />
  In reply to the count&rsquo;s anxious inquiries as to why she was so dejected
  and whether anything had happened to her betrothed, she assured him that
  nothing had happened and asked him not to worry. Márya Dmítrievna
  confirmed Natásha&rsquo;s assurances that nothing had happened. From the
  pretense of illness, from his daughter&rsquo;s distress, and by the embarrassed
  faces of Sónya and Márya Dmítrievna, the count saw clearly that something
  had gone wrong during his absence, but it was so terrible for him to think
  that anything disgraceful had happened to his beloved daughter, and he so
  prized his own cheerful tranquillity, that he avoided inquiries and tried
  to assure himself that nothing particularly had happened; and he was only
  dissatisfied that her indisposition delayed their return to the country.

  CHAPTER XIX


  From the day his wife arrived in Moscow Pierre had been intending to go
  away somewhere, so as not to be near her. Soon after the Rostóvs came to
  Moscow the effect Natásha had on him made him hasten to carry out his
  intention. He went to Tver to see Joseph Alexéevich&rsquo;s widow, who had long
  since promised to hand over to him some papers of her deceased husband&rsquo;s.
<br />
  When he returned to Moscow Pierre was handed a letter from Márya
  Dmítrievna asking him to come and see her on a matter of great importance
  relating to Andrew Bolkónski and his betrothed. Pierre had been avoiding
  Natásha because it seemed to him that his feeling for her was stronger
  than a married man&rsquo;s should be for his friend&rsquo;s fiancée. Yet some fate
  constantly threw them together.
<br />
  &ldquo;What can have happened? And what can they want with me?&rdquo; thought he as he
  dressed to go to Márya Dmítrievna&rsquo;s. &ldquo;If only Prince Andrew would hurry up
  and come and marry her!&rdquo; thought he on his way to the house.
<br />
  On the Tverskóy Boulevard a familiar voice called to him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Pierre! Been back long?&rdquo; someone shouted. Pierre raised his head. In a
  sleigh drawn by two gray trotting-horses that were bespattering the
  dashboard with snow, Anatole and his constant companion Makárin dashed
  past. Anatole was sitting upright in the classic pose of military dandies,
  the lower part of his face hidden by his beaver collar and his head
  slightly bent. His face was fresh and rosy, his white-plumed hat, tilted
  to one side, disclosed his curled and pomaded hair besprinkled with
  powdery snow.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, indeed, that&rsquo;s a true sage,&rdquo; thought Pierre. &ldquo;He sees nothing beyond
  the pleasure of the moment, nothing troubles him and so he is always
  cheerful, satisfied, and serene. What wouldn&rsquo;t I give to be like him!&rdquo; he
  thought enviously.
<br />
  In Márya Dmítrievna&rsquo;s anteroom the footman who helped him off with his fur
  coat said that the mistress asked him to come to her bedroom.
<br />
  When he opened the ballroom door Pierre saw Natásha sitting at the window,
  with a thin, pale, and spiteful face. She glanced round at him, frowned,
  and left the room with an expression of cold dignity.
<br />
  &ldquo;What has happened?&rdquo; asked Pierre, entering Márya Dmítrievna&rsquo;s room.
<br />
  &ldquo;Fine doings!&rdquo; answered Dmítrievna. &ldquo;For fifty-eight years have I lived in
  this world and never known anything so disgraceful!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And having put him on his honor not to repeat anything she told him, Márya
  Dmítrievna informed him that Natásha had refused Prince Andrew without her
  parents&rsquo; knowledge and that the cause of this was Anatole Kurágin into
  whose society Pierre&rsquo;s wife had thrown her and with whom Natásha had tried
  to elope during her father&rsquo;s absence, in order to be married secretly.
<br />
  Pierre raised his shoulders and listened open-mouthed to what was told
  him, scarcely able to believe his own ears. That Prince Andrew&rsquo;s deeply
  loved affianced wife&mdash;the same Natásha Rostóva who used to be so
  charming&mdash;should give up Bolkónski for that fool Anatole who was
  already secretly married (as Pierre knew), and should be so in love with
  him as to agree to run away with him, was something Pierre could not
  conceive and could not imagine.
<br />
  He could not reconcile the charming impression he had of Natásha, whom he
  had known from a child, with this new conception of her baseness, folly,
  and cruelty. He thought of his wife. &ldquo;They are all alike!&rdquo; he said to
  himself, reflecting that he was not the only man unfortunate enough to be
  tied to a bad woman. But still he pitied Prince Andrew to the point of
  tears and sympathized with his wounded pride, and the more he pitied his
  friend the more did he think with contempt and even with disgust of that
  Natásha who had just passed him in the ballroom with such a look of cold
  dignity. He did not know that Natásha&rsquo;s soul was overflowing with despair,
  shame, and humiliation, and that it was not her fault that her face
  happened to assume an expression of calm dignity and severity.
<br />
  &ldquo;But how get married?&rdquo; said Pierre, in answer to Márya Dmítrievna. &ldquo;He
  could not marry&mdash;he is married!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Things get worse from hour to hour!&rdquo; ejaculated Márya Dmítrievna. &ldquo;A nice
  youth! What a scoundrel! And she&rsquo;s expecting him&mdash;expecting him since
  yesterday. She must be told! Then at least she won&rsquo;t go on expecting him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  After hearing the details of Anatole&rsquo;s marriage from Pierre, and giving
  vent to her anger against Anatole in words of abuse, Márya Dmítrievna told
  Pierre why she had sent for him. She was afraid that the count or
  Bolkónski, who might arrive at any moment, if they knew of this affair
  (which she hoped to hide from them) might challenge Anatole to a duel, and
  she therefore asked Pierre to tell his brother-in-law in her name to leave
  Moscow and not dare to let her set eyes on him again. Pierre&mdash;only
  now realizing the danger to the old count, Nicholas, and Prince Andrew&mdash;promised
  to do as she wished. Having briefly and exactly explained her wishes to
  him, she let him go to the drawing room.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mind, the count knows nothing. Behave as if you know nothing either,&rdquo; she
  said. &ldquo;And I will go and tell her it is no use expecting him! And stay to
  dinner if you care to!&rdquo; she called after Pierre.
<br />
  Pierre met the old count, who seemed nervous and upset. That morning
  Natásha had told him that she had rejected Bolkónski.
<br />
  &ldquo;Troubles, troubles, my dear fellow!&rdquo; he said to Pierre. &ldquo;What troubles
  one has with these girls without their mother! I do so regret having come
  here.... I will be frank with you. Have you heard she has broken off her
  engagement without consulting anybody? It&rsquo;s true this engagement never was
  much to my liking. Of course he is an excellent man, but still, with his
  father&rsquo;s disapproval they wouldn&rsquo;t have been happy, and Natásha won&rsquo;t lack
  suitors. Still, it has been going on so long, and to take such a step
  without father&rsquo;s or mother&rsquo;s consent! And now she&rsquo;s ill, and God knows
  what! It&rsquo;s hard, Count, hard to manage daughters in their mother&rsquo;s
  absence....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre saw that the count was much upset and tried to change the subject,
  but the count returned to his troubles.
<br />
  Sónya entered the room with an agitated face.
<br />
  &ldquo;Natásha is not quite well; she&rsquo;s in her room and would like to see you.
  Márya Dmítrievna is with her and she too asks you to come.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, you are a great friend of Bolkónski&rsquo;s, no doubt she wants to send
  him a message,&rdquo; said the count. &ldquo;Oh dear! Oh dear! How happy it all was!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And clutching the spare gray locks on his temples the count left the room.
<br />
  When Márya Dmítrievna told Natásha that Anatole was married, Natásha did
  not wish to believe it and insisted on having it confirmed by Pierre
  himself. Sónya told Pierre this as she led him along the corridor to
  Natásha&rsquo;s room.
<br />
  Natásha, pale and stern, was sitting beside Márya Dmítrievna, and her
  eyes, glittering feverishly, met Pierre with a questioning look the moment
  he entered. She did not smile or nod, but only gazed fixedly at him, and
  her look asked only one thing: was he a friend, or like the others an
  enemy in regard to Anatole? As for Pierre, he evidently did not exist for
  her.
<br />
  &ldquo;He knows all about it,&rdquo; said Márya Dmítrievna pointing to Pierre and
  addressing Natásha. &ldquo;Let him tell you whether I have told the truth.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha looked from one to the other as a hunted and wounded animal looks
  at the approaching dogs and sportsmen.
<br />
  &ldquo;Natálya Ilyníchna,&rdquo; Pierre began, dropping his eyes with a feeling of
  pity for her and loathing for the thing he had to do, &ldquo;whether it is true
  or not should make no difference to you, because...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Then it is not true that he&rsquo;s married!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, it is true.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Has he been married long?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;On your honor?...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre gave his word of honor.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is he still here?&rdquo; she asked, quickly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I have just seen him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  She was evidently unable to speak and made a sign with her hands that they
  should leave her alone.

  CHAPTER XX


  Pierre did not stay for dinner, but left the room and went away at once.
  He drove through the town seeking Anatole Kurágin, at the thought of whom
  now the blood rushed to his heart and he felt a difficulty in breathing.
  He was not at the ice hills, nor at the gypsies&rsquo;, nor at Komoneno&rsquo;s.
  Pierre drove to the Club. In the Club all was going on as usual. The
  members who were assembling for dinner were sitting about in groups; they
  greeted Pierre and spoke of the town news. The footman having greeted him,
  knowing his habits and his acquaintances, told him there was a place left
  for him in the small dining room and that Prince Michael Zakhárych was in
  the library, but Paul Timoféevich had not yet arrived. One of Pierre&rsquo;s
  acquaintances, while they were talking about the weather, asked if he had
  heard of Kurágin&rsquo;s abduction of Rostóva which was talked of in the town,
  and was it true? Pierre laughed and said it was nonsense for he had just
  come from the Rostóvs&rsquo;. He asked everyone about Anatole. One man told him
  he had not come yet, and another that he was coming to dinner. Pierre felt
  it strange to see this calm, indifferent crowd of people unaware of what
  was going on in his soul. He paced through the ballroom, waited till
  everyone had come, and as Anatole had not turned up did not stay for
  dinner but drove home.
<br />
  Anatole, for whom Pierre was looking, dined that day with Dólokhov,
  consulting him as to how to remedy this unfortunate affair. It seemed to
  him essential to see Natásha. In the evening he drove to his sister&rsquo;s to
  discuss with her how to arrange a meeting. When Pierre returned home after
  vainly hunting all over Moscow, his valet informed him that Prince Anatole
  was with the countess. The countess&rsquo; drawing room was full of guests.
<br />
  Pierre without greeting his wife whom he had not seen since his return&mdash;at
  that moment she was more repulsive to him than ever&mdash;entered the
  drawing room and seeing Anatole went up to him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, Pierre,&rdquo; said the countess going up to her husband. &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t know
  what a plight our Anatole...&rdquo;
 <br />
  She stopped, seeing in the forward thrust of her husband&rsquo;s head, in his
  glowing eyes and his resolute gait, the terrible indications of that rage
  and strength which she knew and had herself experienced after his duel
  with Dólokhov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where you are, there is vice and evil!&rdquo; said Pierre to his wife.
  &ldquo;Anatole, come with me! I must speak to you,&rdquo; he added in French.
<br />
  Anatole glanced round at his sister and rose submissively, ready to follow
  Pierre. Pierre, taking him by the arm, pulled him toward himself and was
  leading him from the room.
<br />
  &ldquo;If you allow yourself in my drawing room...&rdquo; whispered Hélène, but Pierre
  did not reply and went out of the room.
<br />
  Anatole followed him with his usual jaunty step but his face betrayed
  anxiety.
<br />
  Having entered his study Pierre closed the door and addressed Anatole
  without looking at him.
<br />
  &ldquo;You promised Countess Rostóva to marry her and were about to elope with
  her, is that so?&rdquo;
 <br />
   answered Anatole (their whole conversation was in French), &ldquo;I
  don&rsquo;t consider myself bound to answer questions put to me in that tone.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre&rsquo;s face, already pale, became distorted by fury. He seized Anatole
  by the collar of his uniform with his big hand and shook him from side to
  side till Anatole&rsquo;s face showed a sufficient degree of terror.
<br />
  &ldquo;When I tell you that I must talk to you!...&rdquo; repeated Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;Come now, this is stupid. What?&rdquo; said Anatole, fingering a button of his
  collar that had been wrenched loose with a bit of the cloth.
<br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;re a scoundrel and a blackguard, and I don&rsquo;t know what deprives me
  from the pleasure of smashing your head with this!&rdquo; said Pierre,
  expressing himself so artificially because he was talking French.
<br />
  He took a heavy paperweight and lifted it threateningly, but at once put
  it back in its place.
<br />
  &ldquo;Did you promise to marry her?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I... I didn&rsquo;t think of it. I never promised, because...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre interrupted him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Have you any letters of hers? Any letters?&rdquo; he said, moving toward
  Anatole.
<br />
  Anatole glanced at him and immediately thrust his hand into his pocket and
  drew out his pocketbook.
<br />
  Pierre took the letter Anatole handed him and, pushing aside a table that
  stood in his way, threw himself on the sofa.
<br />
  &ldquo;I shan&rsquo;t be violent, don&rsquo;t be afraid!&rdquo; said Pierre in answer to a
  frightened gesture of Anatole&rsquo;s. &ldquo;First, the letters,&rdquo; said he, as if
  repeating a lesson to himself. &ldquo;Secondly,&rdquo; he continued after a short
  pause, again rising and again pacing the room, &ldquo;tomorrow you must get out
  of Moscow.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But how can I?...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Thirdly,&rdquo; Pierre continued without listening to him, &ldquo;you must never
  breathe a word of what has passed between you and Countess Rostóva. I know
  I can&rsquo;t prevent your doing so, but if you have a spark of conscience...&rdquo;
   Pierre paced the room several times in silence.
<br />
  Anatole sat at a table frowning and biting his lips.
<br />
  &ldquo;After all, you must understand that besides your pleasure there is such a
  thing as other people&rsquo;s happiness and peace, and that you are ruining a
  whole life for the sake of amusing yourself! Amuse yourself with women
  like my wife&mdash;with them you are within your rights, for they know
  what you want of them. They are armed against you by the same experience
  of debauchery; but to promise a  to marry her... to deceive, to
  kidnap.... Don&rsquo;t you understand that it is as mean as beating an old man
  or a child?...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre paused and looked at Anatole no longer with an angry but with a
  questioning look.
<br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know about that, eh?&rdquo; said Anatole, growing more confident as
  Pierre mastered his wrath. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know that and don&rsquo;t want to,&rdquo; he said,
  not looking at Pierre and with a slight tremor of his lower jaw, &ldquo;but you
  have used such words to me&mdash;&lsquo;mean&rsquo; and so on&mdash;which as a man of
  honor I can&rsquo;t allow anyone to use.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre glanced at him with amazement, unable to understand what he wanted.
<br />
  &ldquo;Though it was tête-à-tête,&rdquo; Anatole continued, &ldquo;still I can&rsquo;t...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Is it satisfaction you want?&rdquo; said Pierre ironically.
<br />
  &ldquo;You could at least take back your words. What? If you want me to do as
  you wish, eh?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I take them back, I take them back!&rdquo; said Pierre, &ldquo;and I ask you to
  forgive me.&rdquo; Pierre involuntarily glanced at the loose button. &ldquo;And if you
  require money for your journey...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Anatole smiled. The expression of that base and cringing smile, which
  Pierre knew so well in his wife, revolted him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, vile and heartless brood!&rdquo; he exclaimed, and left the room.
<br />
  Next day Anatole left for Petersburg.

  CHAPTER XXI


  Pierre drove to Márya Dmítrievna&rsquo;s to tell her of the fulfillment of her
  wish that Kurágin should be banished from Moscow. The whole house was in a
  state of alarm and commotion. Natásha was very ill, having, as Márya
  Dmítrievna told him in secret, poisoned herself the night after she had
  been told that Anatole was married, with some arsenic she had stealthily
  procured. After swallowing a little she had been so frightened that she
  woke Sónya and told her what she had done. The necessary antidotes had
  been administered in time and she was now out of danger, though still so
  weak that it was out of the question to move her to the country, and so
  the countess had been sent for. Pierre saw the distracted count, and
  Sónya, who had a tear-stained face, but he could not see Natásha.
<br />
  Pierre dined at the club that day and heard on all sides gossip about the
  attempted abduction of Rostóva. He resolutely denied these rumors,
  assuring everyone that nothing had happened except that his brother-in-law
  had proposed to her and been refused. It seemed to Pierre that it was his
  duty to conceal the whole affair and re-establish Natásha&rsquo;s reputation.
<br />
  He was awaiting Prince Andrew&rsquo;s return with dread and went every day to
  the old prince&rsquo;s for news of him.
<br />
  Old Prince Bolkónski heard all the rumors current in the town from
  Mademoiselle Bourienne and had read the note to Princess Mary in which
  Natásha had broken off her engagement. He seemed in better spirits than
  usual and awaited his son with great impatience.
<br />
  Some days after Anatole&rsquo;s departure Pierre received a note from Prince
  Andrew, informing him of his arrival and asking him to come to see him.
<br />
  As soon as he reached Moscow, Prince Andrew had received from his father
  Natásha&rsquo;s note to Princess Mary breaking off her engagement (Mademoiselle
  Bourienne had purloined it from Princess Mary and given it to the old
  prince), and he heard from him the story of Natásha&rsquo;s elopement, with
  additions.
<br />
  Prince Andrew had arrived in the evening and Pierre came to see him next
  morning. Pierre expected to find Prince Andrew in almost the same state as
  Natásha and was therefore surprised on entering the drawing room to hear
  him in the study talking in a loud animated voice about some intrigue
  going on in Petersburg. The old prince&rsquo;s voice and another now and then
  interrupted him. Princess Mary came out to meet Pierre. She sighed,
  looking toward the door of the room where Prince Andrew was, evidently
  intending to express her sympathy with his sorrow, but Pierre saw by her
  face that she was glad both at what had happened and at the way her
  brother had taken the news of Natásha&rsquo;s faithlessness.
<br />
  &ldquo;He says he expected it,&rdquo; she remarked. &ldquo;I know his pride will not let him
  express his feelings, but still he has taken it better, far better, than I
  expected. Evidently it had to be....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But is it possible that all is really ended?&rdquo; asked Pierre.
<br />
  Princess Mary looked at him with astonishment. She did not understand how
  he could ask such a question. Pierre went into the study. Prince Andrew,
  greatly changed and plainly in better health, but with a fresh horizontal
  wrinkle between his brows, stood in civilian dress facing his father and
  Prince Meshchérski, warmly disputing and vigorously gesticulating. The
  conversation was about Speránski&mdash;the news of whose sudden exile and
  alleged treachery had just reached Moscow.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now he is censured and accused by all who were enthusiastic about him a
  month ago,&rdquo; Prince Andrew was saying, &ldquo;and by those who were unable to
  understand his aims. To judge a man who is in disfavor and to throw on him
  all the blame of other men&rsquo;s mistakes is very easy, but I maintain that if
  anything good has been accomplished in this reign it was done by him, by
  him alone.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He paused at the sight of Pierre. His face quivered and immediately
  assumed a vindictive expression.
<br />
  &ldquo;Posterity will do him justice,&rdquo; he concluded, and at once turned to
  Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, how are you? Still getting stouter?&rdquo; he said with animation, but
  the new wrinkle on his forehead deepened. &ldquo;Yes, I am well,&rdquo; he said in
  answer to Pierre&rsquo;s question, and smiled.
<br />
  To Pierre that smile said plainly: &ldquo;I am well, but my health is now of no
  use to anyone.&rdquo;
 <br />
  After a few words to Pierre about the awful roads from the Polish
  frontier, about people he had met in Switzerland who knew Pierre, and
  about M. Dessalles, whom he had brought from abroad to be his son&rsquo;s tutor,
  Prince Andrew again joined warmly in the conversation about Speránski
  which was still going on between the two old men.
<br />
  &ldquo;If there were treason, or proofs of secret relations with Napoleon, they
  would have been made public,&rdquo; he said with warmth and haste. &ldquo;I do not,
  and never did, like Speránski personally, but I like justice!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre now recognized in his friend a need with which he was only too
  familiar, to get excited and to have arguments about extraneous matters in
  order to stifle thoughts that were too oppressive and too intimate. When
  Prince Meshchérski had left, Prince Andrew took Pierre&rsquo;s arm and asked him
  into the room that had been assigned him. A bed had been made up there,
  and some open portmanteaus and trunks stood about. Prince Andrew went to
  one and took out a small casket, from which he drew a packet wrapped in
  paper. He did it all silently and very quickly. He stood up and coughed.
  His face was gloomy and his lips compressed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Forgive me for troubling you....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre saw that Prince Andrew was going to speak of Natásha, and his broad
  face expressed pity and sympathy. This expression irritated Prince Andrew,
  and in a determined, ringing, and unpleasant tone he continued:
<br />
  &ldquo;I have received a refusal from Countess Rostóva and have heard reports of
  your brother-in-law having sought her hand, or something of that kind. Is
  that true?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Both true and untrue,&rdquo; Pierre began; but Prince Andrew interrupted him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Here are her letters and her portrait,&rdquo; said he.
<br />
  He took the packet from the table and handed it to Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;Give this to the countess... if you see her.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;She is very ill,&rdquo; said Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then she is here still?&rdquo; said Prince Andrew. &ldquo;And Prince Kurágin?&rdquo; he
  added quickly.
<br />
  &ldquo;He left long ago. She has been at death&rsquo;s door.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I much regret her illness,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew; and he smiled like his
  father, coldly, maliciously, and unpleasantly.
<br />
  &ldquo;So Monsieur Kurágin has not honored Countess Rostóva with his hand?&rdquo; said
  Prince Andrew, and he snorted several times.
<br />
  &ldquo;He could not marry, for he was married already,&rdquo; said Pierre.
<br />
  Prince Andrew laughed disagreeably, again reminding one of his father.
<br />
  &ldquo;And where is your brother-in-law now, if I may ask?&rdquo; he said.
<br />
  &ldquo;He has gone to Peters... But I don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; said Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, it doesn&rsquo;t matter,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew. &ldquo;Tell Countess Rostóva that
  she was and is perfectly free and that I wish her all that is good.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre took the packet. Prince Andrew, as if trying to remember whether he
  had something more to say, or waiting to see if Pierre would say anything,
  looked fixedly at him.
<br />
  &ldquo;I say, do you remember our discussion in Petersburg?&rdquo; asked Pierre,
  &ldquo;about...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; returned Prince Andrew hastily. &ldquo;I said that a fallen woman should
  be forgiven, but I didn&rsquo;t say I could forgive her. I can&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But can this be compared...?&rdquo; said Pierre.
<br />
  Prince Andrew interrupted him and cried sharply: &ldquo;Yes, ask her hand again,
  be magnanimous, and so on?... Yes, that would be very noble, but I am
  unable to follow in that gentleman&rsquo;s footsteps. If you wish to be my
  friend never speak to me of that... of all that! Well, good-by. So you&rsquo;ll
  give her the packet?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre left the room and went to the old prince and Princess Mary.
<br />
  The old man seemed livelier than usual. Princess Mary was the same as
  always, but beneath her sympathy for her brother, Pierre noticed her
  satisfaction that the engagement had been broken off. Looking at them
  Pierre realized what contempt and animosity they all felt for the Rostóvs,
  and that it was impossible in their presence even to mention the name of
  her who could give up Prince Andrew for anyone else.
<br />
  At dinner the talk turned on the war, the approach of which was becoming
  evident. Prince Andrew talked incessantly, arguing now with his father,
  now with the Swiss tutor Dessalles, and showing an unnatural animation,
  the cause of which Pierre so well understood.

  CHAPTER XXII


  That same evening Pierre went to the Rostóvs&rsquo; to fulfill the commission
  entrusted to him. Natásha was in bed, the count at the club, and Pierre,
  after giving the letters to Sónya, went to Márya Dmítrievna who was
  interested to know how Prince Andrew had taken the news. Ten minutes later
  Sónya came to Márya Dmítrievna.
<br />
  &ldquo;Natásha insists on seeing Count Peter Kirílovich,&rdquo; said she.
<br />
  &ldquo;But how? Are we to take him up to her? The room there has not been tidied
  up.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, she has dressed and gone into the drawing room,&rdquo; said Sónya.
<br />
  Márya Dmítrievna only shrugged her shoulders.
<br />
  &ldquo;When will her mother come? She has worried me to death! Now mind, don&rsquo;t
  tell her everything!&rdquo; said she to Pierre. &ldquo;One hasn&rsquo;t the heart to scold
  her, she is so much to be pitied, so much to be pitied.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha was standing in the middle of the drawing room, emaciated, with a
  pale set face, but not at all shamefaced as Pierre expected to find her.
  When he appeared at the door she grew flurried, evidently undecided
  whether to go to meet him or to wait till he came up.
<br />
  Pierre hastened to her. He thought she would give him her hand as usual;
  but she, stepping up to him, stopped, breathing heavily, her arms hanging
  lifelessly just in the pose she used to stand in when she went to the
  middle of the ballroom to sing, but with quite a different expression of
  face.
<br />
  &ldquo;Peter Kirílovich,&rdquo; she began rapidly, &ldquo;Prince Bolkónski was your friend&mdash;is
  your friend,&rdquo; she corrected herself. (It seemed to her that everything
  that had once been must now be different.) &ldquo;He told me once to apply to
  you...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre sniffed as he looked at her, but did not speak. Till then he had
  reproached her in his heart and tried to despise her, but he now felt so
  sorry for her that there was no room in his soul for reproach.
<br />
  &ldquo;He is here now: tell him... to for... forgive me!&rdquo; She stopped and
  breathed still more quickly, but did not shed tears.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes... I will tell him,&rdquo; answered Pierre; &ldquo;but...&rdquo;
 <br />
  He did not know what to say.
<br />
  Natásha was evidently dismayed at the thought of what he might think she
  had meant.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, I know all is over,&rdquo; she said hurriedly. &ldquo;No, that can never be. I&rsquo;m
  only tormented by the wrong I have done him. Tell him only that I beg him
  to forgive, forgive, forgive me for everything....&rdquo;
 <br />
  She trembled all over and sat down on a chair.
<br />
  A sense of pity he had never before known overflowed Pierre&rsquo;s heart.
<br />
  &ldquo;I will tell him, I will tell him everything once more,&rdquo; said Pierre.
  &ldquo;But... I should like to know one thing....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Know what?&rdquo; Natásha&rsquo;s eyes asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;I should like to know, did you love...&rdquo; Pierre did not know how to refer
  to Anatole and flushed at the thought of him&mdash;&ldquo;did you love that bad
  man?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t call him bad!&rdquo; said Natásha. &ldquo;But I don&rsquo;t know, don&rsquo;t know at
  all....&rdquo;
 <br />
  She began to cry and a still greater sense of pity, tenderness, and love
  welled up in Pierre. He felt the tears trickle under his spectacles and
  hoped they would not be noticed.
<br />
  &ldquo;We won&rsquo;t speak of it any more, my dear,&rdquo; said Pierre, and his gentle,
  cordial tone suddenly seemed very strange to Natásha.
<br />
  &ldquo;We won&rsquo;t speak of it, my dear&mdash;I&rsquo;ll tell him everything; but one
  thing I beg of you, consider me your friend and if you want help, advice,
  or simply to open your heart to someone&mdash;not now, but when your mind
  is clearer&mdash;think of me!&rdquo; He took her hand and kissed it. &ldquo;I shall be happy
  if it&rsquo;s in my power...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre grew confused.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t speak to me like that. I am not worth it!&rdquo; exclaimed Natásha and
  turned to leave the room, but Pierre held her hand.
<br />
  He knew he had something more to say to her. But when he said it he was
  amazed at his own words.
<br />
  &ldquo;Stop, stop! You have your whole life before you,&rdquo; said he to her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Before me? No! All is over for me,&rdquo; she replied with shame and
  self-abasement.
<br />
  &ldquo;All over?&rdquo; he repeated. &ldquo;If I were not myself, but the
  handsomest, cleverest, and best man in the world, and were free, I would this
  moment ask on my knees for your hand and your love!&rdquo;
<br />
  For the first time for many days Natásha wept tears of gratitude and
  tenderness, and glancing at Pierre she went out of the room.
<br />
  Pierre too when she had gone almost ran into the anteroom, restraining
  tears of tenderness and joy that choked him, and without finding the
  sleeves of his fur cloak threw it on and got into his sleigh.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where to now, your excellency?&rdquo; asked the coachman.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where to?&rdquo; Pierre asked himself. &ldquo;Where can I go now? Surely
  not to the Club or to pay calls?&rdquo; All men seemed so pitiful, so poor,
  in comparison with this feeling of tenderness and love he experienced: in
  comparison with that softened, grateful, last look she had given him through
  her tears.
<br />
  &ldquo;Home!&rdquo; said Pierre, and despite twenty-two degrees of frost Fahrenheit he
  threw open the bearskin cloak from his broad chest and inhaled the air
  with joy.
<br />
  It was clear and frosty. Above the dirty, ill-lit streets, above the black
  roofs, stretched the dark starry sky. Only looking up at the sky did
  Pierre cease to feel how sordid and humiliating were all mundane things
  compared with the heights to which his soul had just been raised. At the
  entrance to the Arbát Square an immense expanse of dark starry sky
  presented itself to his eyes. Almost in the center of it, above the
  Prechístenka Boulevard, surrounded and sprinkled on all sides by stars but
  distinguished from them all by its nearness to the earth, its white light,
  and its long uplifted tail, shone the enormous and brilliant comet of 1812&mdash;the
  comet which was said to portend all kinds of woes and the end of the
  world. In Pierre, however, that comet with its long luminous tail aroused
  no feeling of fear. On the contrary he gazed joyfully, his eyes moist with
  tears, at this bright comet which, having traveled in its orbit with
  inconceivable velocity through immeasurable space, seemed suddenly&mdash;like
  an arrow piercing the earth&mdash;to remain fixed in a chosen spot,
  vigorously holding its tail erect, shining and displaying its white light
  amid countless other scintillating stars. It seemed to Pierre that this
  comet fully responded to what was passing in his own softened and uplifted
  soul, now blossoming into a new life.

  BOOK NINE: 1812

  CHAPTER I


  From the close of the year 1811 an intensified arming and concentrating of
  the forces of Western Europe began, and in 1812 these forces&mdash;millions
  of men, reckoning those transporting and feeding the army&mdash;moved from
  the west eastwards to the Russian frontier, toward which since 1811
  Russian forces had been similarly drawn. On the twelfth of June, 1812, the
  forces of Western Europe crossed the Russian frontier and war began, that
  is, an event took place opposed to human reason and to human nature.
  Millions of men perpetrated against one another such innumerable crimes,
  frauds, treacheries, thefts, forgeries, issues of false money, burglaries,
  incendiarisms, and murders as in whole centuries are not recorded in the
  annals of all the law courts of the world, but which those who committed
  them did not at the time regard as being crimes.
<br />
  What produced this extraordinary occurrence? What were its causes? The
  historians tell us with naïve assurance that its causes were the wrongs
  inflicted on the Duke of Oldenburg, the nonobservance of the Continental
  System, the ambition of Napoleon, the firmness of Alexander, the mistakes
  of the diplomatists, and so on.
<br />
  Consequently, it would only have been necessary for Metternich,
  Rumyántsev, or Talleyrand, between a levee and an evening party, to have
  taken proper pains and written a more adroit note, or for Napoleon to have
  written to Alexander: &ldquo;My respected Brother, I consent to restore the
  duchy to the Duke of Oldenburg&rdquo;&mdash;and there would have been no war.
<br />
  We can understand that the matter seemed like that to contemporaries. It
  naturally seemed to Napoleon that the war was caused by England&rsquo;s
  intrigues (as in fact he said on the island of St. Helena). It naturally
  seemed to members of the English Parliament that the cause of the war was
  Napoleon&rsquo;s ambition; to the Duke of Oldenburg, that the cause of the war
  was the violence done to him; to businessmen that the cause of the war was
  the Continental System which was ruining Europe; to the generals and old
  soldiers that the chief reason for the war was the necessity of giving
  them employment; to the legitimists of that day that it was the need of
  re-establishing , and to the diplomatists of that time
  that it all resulted from the fact that the alliance between Russia and
  Austria in 1809 had not been sufficiently well concealed from Napoleon,
  and from the awkward wording of Memorandum No. 178. It is natural that
  these and a countless and infinite quantity of other reasons, the number
  depending on the endless diversity of points of view, presented themselves
  to the men of that day; but to us, to posterity who view the thing that
  happened in all its magnitude and perceive its plain and terrible meaning,
  these causes seem insufficient. To us it is incomprehensible that millions
  of Christian men killed and tortured each other either because Napoleon
  was ambitious or Alexander was firm, or because England&rsquo;s policy was
  astute or the Duke of Oldenburg wronged. We cannot grasp what connection
  such circumstances have with the actual fact of slaughter and violence:
  why because the Duke was wronged, thousands of men from the other side of
  Europe killed and ruined the people of Smolénsk and Moscow and were killed
  by them.
<br />
  To us, their descendants, who are not historians and are not carried away
  by the process of research and can therefore regard the event with
  unclouded common sense, an incalculable number of causes present
  themselves. The deeper we delve in search of these causes the more of them
  we find; and each separate cause or whole series of causes appears to us
  equally valid in itself and equally false by its insignificance compared
  to the magnitude of the events, and by its impotence&mdash;apart from the
  cooperation of all the other coincident causes&mdash;to occasion the
  event. To us, the wish or objection of this or that French corporal to
  serve a second term appears as much a cause as Napoleon&rsquo;s refusal to
  withdraw his troops beyond the Vistula and to restore the duchy of
  Oldenburg; for had he not wished to serve, and had a second, a third, and
  a thousandth corporal and private also refused, there would have been so
  many less men in Napoleon&rsquo;s army and the war could not have occurred.
<br />
  Had Napoleon not taken offense at the demand that he should withdraw
  beyond the Vistula, and not ordered his troops to advance, there would
  have been no war; but had all his sergeants objected to serving a second
  term then also there could have been no war. Nor could there have been a
  war had there been no English intrigues and no Duke of Oldenburg, and had
  Alexander not felt insulted, and had there not been an autocratic
  government in Russia, or a Revolution in France and a subsequent
  dictatorship and Empire, or all the things that produced the French
  Revolution, and so on. Without each of these causes nothing could have
  happened. So all these causes&mdash;myriads of causes&mdash;coincided to
  bring it about. And so there was no one cause for that occurrence, but it
  had to occur because it had to. Millions of men, renouncing their human
  feelings and reason, had to go from west to east to slay their fellows,
  just as some centuries previously hordes of men had come from the east to
  the west, slaying their fellows.
<br />
  The actions of Napoleon and Alexander, on whose words the event seemed to
  hang, were as little voluntary as the actions of any soldier who was drawn
  into the campaign by lot or by conscription. This could not be otherwise,
  for in order that the will of Napoleon and Alexander (on whom the event
  seemed to depend) should be carried out, the concurrence of innumerable
  circumstances was needed without any one of which the event could not have
  taken place. It was necessary that millions of men in whose hands lay the
  real power&mdash;the soldiers who fired, or transported provisions and
  guns&mdash;should consent to carry out the will of these weak individuals,
  and should have been induced to do so by an infinite number of diverse and
  complex causes.
<br />
  We are forced to fall back on fatalism as an explanation of irrational
  events (that is to say, events the reasonableness of which we do not
  understand). The more we try to explain such events in history reasonably,
  the more unreasonable and incomprehensible do they become to us.
<br />
  Each man lives for himself, using his freedom to attain his personal aims,
  and feels with his whole being that he can now do or abstain from doing
  this or that action; but as soon as he has done it, that action performed
  at a certain moment in time becomes irrevocable and belongs to history, in
  which it has not a free but a predestined significance.
<br />
  There are two sides to the life of every man, his individual life, which
  is the more free the more abstract its interests, and his elemental hive
  life in which he inevitably obeys laws laid down for him.
<br />
  Man lives consciously for himself, but is an unconscious instrument in the
  attainment of the historic, universal, aims of humanity. A deed done is
  irrevocable, and its result coinciding in time with the actions of
  millions of other men assumes an historic significance. The higher a man
  stands on the social ladder, the more people he is connected with and the
  more power he has over others, the more evident is the predestination and
  inevitability of his every action.
<br />
  &ldquo;The king&rsquo;s heart is in the hands of the Lord.&rdquo;
 <br />
  A king is history&rsquo;s slave.
<br />
  History, that is, the unconscious, general, hive life of mankind, uses
  every moment of the life of kings as a tool for its own purposes.
<br />
  Though Napoleon at that time, in 1812, was more convinced than ever that
  it depended on him,  *&mdash;as
  Alexander expressed it in the last letter he wrote him&mdash;he had never
  been so much in the grip of inevitable laws, which compelled him, while
  thinking that he was acting on his own volition, to perform for the hive
  life&mdash;that is to say, for history&mdash;whatever had to be performed.
<br />
* &ldquo;To shed (or not to shed) the blood of his peoples.&rdquo;

The people of the west moved eastwards to slay their fellow men, and by the law of coincidence thousands of minute causes fitted in and co-ordinated to produce that movement and war: reproaches for the nonobservance of the Continental System, the Duke of Oldenburg’s wrongs, the movement of troops into Prussia—undertaken (as it seemed to Napoleon) only for the purpose of securing an armed peace, the French Emperor’s love and habit of war coinciding with his people’s inclinations, allurement by the grandeur of the preparations, and the expenditure on those preparations and the need of obtaining advantages to compensate for that expenditure, the intoxicating honors he received in Dresden, the diplomatic negotiations which, in the opinion of contemporaries, were carried on with a sincere desire to attain peace, but which only wounded the self-love of both sides, and millions of other causes that adapted themselves to the event that was happening or coincided with it.
When an apple has ripened and falls, why does it fall? Because of its attraction to the earth, because its stalk withers, because it is dried by the sun, because it grows heavier, because the wind shakes it, or because the boy standing below wants to eat it?
Nothing is the cause. All this is only the coincidence of conditions in which all vital organic and elemental events occur. And the botanist who finds that the apple falls because the cellular tissue decays and so forth is equally right with the child who stands under the tree and says the apple fell because he wanted to eat it and prayed for it. Equally right or wrong is he who says that Napoleon went to Moscow because he wanted to, and perished because Alexander desired his destruction, and he who says that an undermined hill weighing a million tons fell because the last navvy struck it for the last time with his mattock. In historic events the so-called great men are labels giving names to events, and like labels they have but the smallest connection with the event itself.
Every act of theirs, which appears to them an act of their own will, is in an historical sense involuntary and is related to the whole course of history and predestined from eternity.

  CHAPTER II


  On the twenty-ninth of May Napoleon left Dresden, where he had spent three
  weeks surrounded by a court that included princes, dukes, kings, and even
  an emperor. Before leaving, Napoleon showed favor to the emperor, kings,
  and princes who had deserved it, reprimanded the kings and princes with
  whom he was dissatisfied, presented pearls and diamonds of his own&mdash;that
  is, which he had taken from other kings&mdash;to the Empress of Austria,
  and having, as his historian tells us, tenderly embraced the Empress Marie
  Louise&mdash;who regarded him as her husband, though he had left another
  wife in Paris&mdash;left her grieved by the parting which she seemed
  hardly able to bear. Though the diplomatists still firmly believed in the
  possibility of peace and worked zealously to that end, and though the
  Emperor Napoleon himself wrote a letter to Alexander, calling him , and sincerely assured him that he did not want war and would
  always love and honor him&mdash;yet he set off to join his army, and at
  every station gave fresh orders to accelerate the movement of his troops
  from west to east. He went in a traveling coach with six horses,
  surrounded by pages, aides-de-camp, and an escort, along the road to
  Posen, Thorn, Danzig, and Königsberg. At each of these towns thousands of
  people met him with excitement and enthusiasm.
<br />
  The army was moving from west to east, and relays of six horses carried
  him in the same direction. On the tenth of June, * coming up with the
  army, he spent the night in apartments prepared for him on the estate of a
  Polish count in the Vilkavisski forest.
<br />
* Old style.

Next day, overtaking the army, he went in a carriage to the Niemen, and, changing into a Polish uniform, he drove to the riverbank in order to select a place for the crossing.
Seeing, on the other side, some Cossacks and the wide-spreading steppes in the midst of which lay the holy city of Moscow , the capital of a realm such as the Scythia into which Alexander the Great had marched—Napoleon unexpectedly, and contrary alike to strategic and diplomatic considerations, ordered an advance, and the next day his army began to cross the Niemen.
Early in the morning of the twelfth of June he came out of his tent, which was pitched that day on the steep left bank of the Niemen, and looked through a spyglass at the streams of his troops pouring out of the Vilkavisski forest and flowing over the three bridges thrown across the river. The troops, knowing of the Emperor’s presence, were on the lookout for him, and when they caught sight of a figure in an overcoat and a cocked hat standing apart from his suite in front of his tent on the hill, they threw up their caps and shouted: and one after another poured in a ceaseless stream out of the vast forest that had concealed them and, separating, flowed on and on by the three bridges to the other side.
“Now we’ll go into action. Oh, when he takes it in hand himself, things get hot… by heaven!… There he is!… So these are the steppes of Asia! It’s a nasty country all the same. , Beauché; I’ll keep the best palace in Moscow for you! . Good luck!… Did you see the Emperor? —If they make me Governor of India, Gérard, I’ll make you Minister of Kashmir—that’s settled. Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! The Cossacks—those rascals—see how they run! There he is, do you see him? I’ve seen him twice, as I see you now. The little corporal… I saw him give the cross to one of the veterans…. ” came the voices of men, old and young, of most diverse characters and social positions. On the faces of all was one common expression of joy at the commencement of the long-expected campaign and of rapture and devotion to the man in the gray coat who was standing on the hill.
On the thirteenth of June a rather small, thoroughbred Arab horse was brought to Napoleon. He mounted it and rode at a gallop to one of the bridges over the Niemen, deafened continually by incessant and rapturous acclamations which he evidently endured only because it was impossible to forbid the soldiers to express their love of him by such shouting, but the shouting which accompanied him everywhere disturbed him and distracted him from the military cares that had occupied him from the time he joined the army. He rode across one of the swaying pontoon bridges to the farther side, turned sharply to the left, and galloped in the direction of Kóvno, preceded by enraptured, mounted chasseurs of the Guard who, breathless with delight, galloped ahead to clear a path for him through the troops. On reaching the broad river Víliya, he stopped near a regiment of Polish Uhlans stationed by the river.
shouted the Poles, ecstatically, breaking their ranks and pressing against one another to see him.
Napoleon looked up and down the river, dismounted, and sat down on a log that lay on the bank. At a mute sign from him, a telescope was handed him which he rested on the back of a happy page who had run up to him, and he gazed at the opposite bank. Then he became absorbed in a map laid out on the logs. Without lifting his head he said something, and two of his aides-de-camp galloped off to the Polish Uhlans.
“What? What did he say?” was heard in the ranks of the Polish Uhlans when one of the aides-de-camp rode up to them.
The order was to find a ford and to cross the river. The colonel of the Polish Uhlans, a handsome old man, flushed and, fumbling in his speech from excitement, asked the aide-de-camp whether he would be permitted to swim the river with his Uhlans instead of seeking a ford. In evident fear of refusal, like a boy asking for permission to get on a horse, he begged to be allowed to swim across the river before the Emperor’s eyes. The aide-de-camp replied that probably the Emperor would not be displeased at this excess of zeal.
As soon as the aide-de-camp had said this, the old mustached officer, with happy face and sparkling eyes, raised his saber, shouted and, commanding the Uhlans to follow him, spurred his horse and galloped into the river. He gave an angry thrust to his horse, which had grown restive under him, and plunged into the water, heading for the deepest part where the current was swift. Hundreds of Uhlans galloped in after him. It was cold and uncanny in the rapid current in the middle of the stream, and the Uhlans caught hold of one another as they fell off their horses. Some of the horses were drowned and some of the men; the others tried to swim on, some in the saddle and some clinging to their horses’ manes. They tried to make their way forward to the opposite bank and, though there was a ford one third of a mile away, were proud that they were swimming and drowning in this river under the eyes of the man who sat on the log and was not even looking at what they were doing. When the aide-de-camp, having returned and choosing an opportune moment, ventured to draw the Emperor’s attention to the devotion of the Poles to his person, the little man in the gray overcoat got up and, having summoned Berthier, began pacing up and down the bank with him, giving him instructions and occasionally glancing disapprovingly at the drowning Uhlans who distracted his attention.
For him it was no new conviction that his presence in any part of the world, from Africa to the steppes of Muscovy alike, was enough to dumfound people and impel them to insane self-oblivion. He called for his horse and rode to his quarters.
Some forty Uhlans were drowned in the river, though boats were sent to their assistance. The majority struggled back to the bank from which they had started. The colonel and some of his men got across and with difficulty clambered out on the further bank. And as soon as they had got out, in their soaked and streaming clothes, they shouted and looked ecstatically at the spot where Napoleon had been but where he no longer was and at that moment considered themselves happy.
That evening, between issuing one order that the forged Russian paper money prepared for use in Russia should be delivered as quickly as possible and another that a Saxon should be shot, on whom a letter containing information about the orders to the French army had been found, Napoleon also gave instructions that the Polish colonel who had needlessly plunged into the river should be enrolled in the of which Napoleon was himself the head.
*

* Those whom (God) wishes to destroy he drives mad.

  CHAPTER III


  The Emperor of Russia had, meanwhile, been in Vílna for more than a month,
  reviewing troops and holding maneuvers. Nothing was ready for the war that
  everyone expected and to prepare for which the Emperor had come from
  Petersburg. There was no general plan of action. The vacillation between
  the various plans that were proposed had even increased after the Emperor
  had been at headquarters for a month. Each of the three armies had its own
  commander in chief, but there was no supreme commander of all the forces,
  and the Emperor did not assume that responsibility himself.
<br />
  The longer the Emperor remained in Vílna the less did everybody&mdash;tired
  of waiting&mdash;prepare for the war. All the efforts of those who
  surrounded the sovereign seemed directed merely to making him spend his
  time pleasantly and forget that war was impending.
<br />
  In June, after many balls and fetes given by the Polish magnates, by the
  courtiers, and by the Emperor himself, it occurred to one of the Polish
  aides-de-camp in attendance that a dinner and ball should be given for the
  Emperor by his aides-de-camp. This idea was eagerly received. The Emperor
  gave his consent. The aides-de-camp collected money by subscription. The
  lady who was thought to be most pleasing to the Emperor was invited to act
  as hostess. Count Bennigsen, being a landowner in the Vílna province,
  offered his country house for the fete, and the thirteenth of June was
  fixed for a ball, dinner, regatta, and fireworks at Zakret, Count
  Bennigsen&rsquo;s country seat.
<br />
  The very day that Napoleon issued the order to cross the Niemen, and his
  vanguard, driving off the Cossacks, crossed the Russian frontier,
  Alexander spent the evening at the entertainment given by his
  aides-de-camp at Bennigsen&rsquo;s country house.
<br />
  It was a gay and brilliant fete. Connoisseurs of such matters declared
  that rarely had so many beautiful women been assembled in one place.
  Countess Bezúkhova was present among other Russian ladies who had followed
  the sovereign from Petersburg to Vílna and eclipsed the refined Polish
  ladies by her massive, so-called Russian type of beauty. The Emperor
  noticed her and honored her with a dance.
<br />
  Borís Drubetskóy, having left his wife in Moscow and being for the present
   (as he phrased it), was also there and, though not an
  aide-de-camp, had subscribed a large sum toward the expenses. Borís was
  now a rich man who had risen to high honors and no longer sought patronage
  but stood on an equal footing with the highest of those of his own age. He
  was meeting Hélène in Vílna after not having seen her for a long time and
  did not recall the past, but as Hélène was enjoying the favors of a very
  important personage and Borís had only recently married, they met as good
  friends of long standing.
<br />
  At midnight dancing was still going on. Hélène, not having a suitable
  partner, herself offered to dance the mazurka with Borís. They were the
  third couple. Borís, coolly looking at Hélène&rsquo;s dazzling bare shoulders
  which emerged from a dark, gold-embroidered, gauze gown, talked to her of
  old acquaintances and at the same time, unaware of it himself and
  unnoticed by others, never for an instant ceased to observe the Emperor
  who was in the same room. The Emperor was not dancing, he stood in the
  doorway, stopping now one pair and now another with gracious words which
  he alone knew how to utter.
<br />
  As the mazurka began, Borís saw that Adjutant General Balashëv, one of
  those in closest attendance on the Emperor, went up to him and contrary to
  court etiquette stood near him while he was talking to a Polish lady.
  Having finished speaking to her, the Emperor looked inquiringly at
  Balashëv and, evidently understanding that he only acted thus because
  there were important reasons for so doing, nodded slightly to the lady and
  turned to him. Hardly had Balashëv begun to speak before a look of
  amazement appeared on the Emperor&rsquo;s face. He took Balashëv by the arm and
  crossed the room with him, unconsciously clearing a path seven yards wide
  as the people on both sides made way for him. Borís noticed Arakchéev&rsquo;s
  excited face when the sovereign went out with Balashëv. Arakchéev looked
  at the Emperor from under his brow and, sniffing with his red nose,
  stepped forward from the crowd as if expecting the Emperor to address him.
  (Borís understood that Arakchéev envied Balashëv and was displeased that
  evidently important news had reached the Emperor otherwise than through
  himself.)
<br />
  But the Emperor and Balashëv passed out into the illuminated garden
  without noticing Arakchéev who, holding his sword and glancing wrathfully
  around, followed some twenty paces behind them.
<br />
  All the time Borís was going through the figures of the mazurka, he was
  worried by the question of what news Balashëv had brought and how he could
  find it out before others. In the figure in which he had to choose two
  ladies, he whispered to Hélène that he meant to choose Countess Potocka
  who, he thought, had gone out onto the veranda, and glided over the
  parquet to the door opening into the garden, where, seeing Balashëv and
  the Emperor returning to the veranda, he stood still. They were moving
  toward the door. Borís, fluttering as if he had not had time to withdraw,
  respectfully pressed close to the doorpost with bowed head.
<br />
  The Emperor, with the agitation of one who has been personally affronted,
  was finishing with these words:
<br />
  &ldquo;To enter Russia without declaring war! I will not make peace as long as a
  single armed enemy remains in my country!&rdquo; It seemed to Borís that it gave
  the Emperor pleasure to utter these words. He was satisfied with the form
  in which he had expressed his thoughts, but displeased that Borís had
  overheard it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Let no one know of it!&rdquo; the Emperor added with a frown.
<br />
  Borís understood that this was meant for him and, closing his eyes,
  slightly bowed his head. The Emperor re-entered the ballroom and remained
  there about another half-hour.
<br />
  Borís was thus the first to learn the news that the French army had
  crossed the Niemen and, thanks to this, was able to show certain important
  personages that much that was concealed from others was usually known to
  him, and by this means he rose higher in their estimation.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  The unexpected news of the French having crossed the Niemen was
  particularly startling after a month of unfulfilled expectations, and at a
  ball. On first receiving the news, under the influence of indignation and
  resentment the Emperor had found a phrase that pleased him, fully
  expressed his feelings, and has since become famous. On returning home at
  two o&rsquo;clock that night he sent for his secretary, Shishkóv, and told him
  to write an order to the troops and a rescript to Field Marshal Prince
  Saltykóv, in which he insisted on the words being inserted that he would
  not make peace so long as a single armed Frenchman remained on Russian
  soil.
<br />
  Next day the following letter was sent to Napoleon:
<br />

<br />
  Yesterday I learned that, despite the loyalty with which I have kept my
  engagements with Your Majesty, your troops have crossed the Russian
  frontier, and I have this moment received from Petersburg a note, in which
  Count Lauriston informs me, as a reason for this aggression, that Your
  Majesty has considered yourself to be in a state of war with me from the
  time Prince Kurákin asked for his passports. The reasons on which the Duc
  de Bassano based his refusal to deliver them to him would never have led
  me to suppose that that could serve as a pretext for aggression. In fact,
  the ambassador, as he himself has declared, was never authorized to make
  that demand, and as soon as I was informed of it I let him know how much I
  disapproved of it and ordered him to remain at his post. If Your Majesty
  does not intend to shed the blood of our peoples for such a
  misunderstanding, and consents to withdraw your troops from Russian
  territory, I will regard what has passed as not having occurred and an
  understanding between us will be possible. In the contrary case, Your
  Majesty, I shall see myself forced to repel an attack that nothing on my
  part has provoked. It still depends on Your Majesty to preserve humanity
  from the calamity of another war.
<br />
  I am, etc.,
<br />
  (signed) Alexander

  CHAPTER IV


  At two in the morning of the fourteenth of June, the Emperor, having sent
  for Balashëv and read him his letter to Napoleon, ordered him to take it
  and hand it personally to the French Emperor. When dispatching Balashëv,
  the Emperor repeated to him the words that he would not make peace so long
  as a single armed enemy remained on Russian soil and told him to transmit
  those words to Napoleon. Alexander did not insert them in his letter to
  Napoleon, because with his characteristic tact he felt it would be
  injudicious to use them at a moment when a last attempt at reconciliation
  was being made, but he definitely instructed Balashëv to repeat them
  personally to Napoleon.
<br />
  Having set off in the small hours of the fourteenth, accompanied by a
  bugler and two Cossacks, Balashëv reached the French outposts at the
  village of Rykónty, on the Russian side of the Niemen, by dawn. There he
  was stopped by French cavalry sentinels.
<br />
  A French noncommissioned officer of hussars, in crimson uniform and a
  shaggy cap, shouted to the approaching Balashëv to halt. Balashëv did not
  do so at once, but continued to advance along the road at a walking pace.
<br />
  The noncommissioned officer frowned and, muttering words of abuse,
  advanced his horse&rsquo;s chest against Balashëv, put his hand to his saber,
  and shouted rudely at the Russian general, asking: was he deaf that he did
  not do as he was told? Balashëv mentioned who he was. The noncommissioned
  officer began talking with his comrades about regimental matters without
  looking at the Russian general.
<br />
  After living at the seat of the highest authority and power, after
  conversing with the Emperor less than three hours before, and in general
  being accustomed to the respect due to his rank in the service, Balashëv
  found it very strange here on Russian soil to encounter this hostile, and
  still more this disrespectful, application of brute force to himself.
<br />
  The sun was only just appearing from behind the clouds, the air was fresh
  and dewy. A herd of cattle was being driven along the road from the
  village, and over the fields the larks rose trilling, one after another,
  like bubbles rising in water.
<br />
  Balashëv looked around him, awaiting the arrival of an officer from the
  village. The Russian Cossacks and bugler and the French hussars looked
  silently at one another from time to time.
<br />
  A French colonel of hussars, who had evidently just left his bed, came
  riding from the village on a handsome sleek gray horse, accompanied by two
  hussars. The officer, the soldiers, and their horses all looked smart and
  well kept.
<br />
  It was that first period of a campaign when troops are still in full trim,
  almost like that of peacetime maneuvers, but with a shade of martial
  swagger in their clothes, and a touch of the gaiety and spirit of
  enterprise which always accompany the opening of a campaign.
<br />
  The French colonel with difficulty repressed a yawn, but was polite and
  evidently understood Balashëv&rsquo;s importance. He led him past his soldiers
  and behind the outposts and told him that his wish to be presented to the
  Emperor would most likely be satisfied immediately, as the Emperor&rsquo;s
  quarters were, he believed, not far off.
<br />
  They rode through the village of Rykónty, past tethered French hussar
  horses, past sentinels and men who saluted their colonel and stared with
  curiosity at a Russian uniform, and came out at the other end of the
  village. The colonel said that the commander of the division was a mile
  and a quarter away and would receive Balashëv and conduct him to his
  destination.
<br />
  The sun had by now risen and shone gaily on the bright verdure.
<br />
  They had hardly ridden up a hill, past a tavern, before they saw a group
  of horsemen coming toward them. In front of the group, on a black horse
  with trappings that glittered in the sun, rode a tall man with plumes in
  his hat and black hair curling down to his shoulders. He wore a red
  mantle, and stretched his long legs forward in French fashion. This man
  rode toward Balashëv at a gallop, his plumes flowing and his gems and gold
  lace glittering in the bright June sunshine.
<br />
  Balashëv was only two horses&rsquo; length from the equestrian with the
  bracelets, plumes, necklaces, and gold embroidery, who was galloping
  toward him with a theatrically solemn countenance, when Julner, the French
  colonel, whispered respectfully: &ldquo;The King of Naples!&rdquo; It was, in fact,
  Murat, now called &ldquo;King of Naples.&rdquo; Though it was quite incomprehensible
  why he should be King of Naples, he was called so, and was himself
  convinced that he was so, and therefore assumed a more solemn and
  important air than formerly. He was so sure that he really was the King of
  Naples that when, on the eve of his departure from that city, while
  walking through the streets with his wife, some Italians called out to
  him:  * he turned to his wife with a pensive smile and said:
  &ldquo;Poor fellows, they don&rsquo;t know that I am leaving them tomorrow!&rdquo;
 <br />
* &ldquo;Long live the king.&rdquo;

But though he firmly believed himself to be King of Naples and pitied the grief felt by the subjects he was abandoning, latterly, after he had been ordered to return to military service—and especially since his last interview with Napoleon in Danzig, when his august brother-in-law had told him: “I made you King that you should reign in my way, but not in yours!”—he had cheerfully taken up his familiar business, and—like a well-fed but not overfat horse that feels himself in harness and grows skittish between the shafts—he dressed up in clothes as variegated and expensive as possible, and gaily and contentedly galloped along the roads of Poland, without himself knowing why or whither.
On seeing the Russian general he threw back his head, with its long hair curling to his shoulders, in a majestically royal manner, and looked inquiringly at the French colonel. The colonel respectfully informed His Majesty of Balashëv’s mission, whose name he could not pronounce.
“De Bal-machève!” said the King (overcoming by his assurance the difficulty that had presented itself to the colonel). “Charmed to make your acquaintance, General!” he added, with a gesture of kingly condescension.
As soon as the King began to speak loud and fast his royal dignity instantly forsook him, and without noticing it he passed into his natural tone of good-natured familiarity. He laid his hand on the withers of Balashëv’s horse and said:
“Well, General, it all looks like war,” as if regretting a circumstance of which he was unable to judge.
“Your Majesty,” replied Balashëv, “my master, the Emperor, does not desire war and as Your Majesty sees…” said Balashëv, using the words at every opportunity, with the affectation unavoidable in frequently addressing one to whom the title was still a novelty.
Murat’s face beamed with stupid satisfaction as he listened to “Monsieur de Bal-machève.” But * and he felt it incumbent on him, as a king and an ally, to confer on state affairs with Alexander’s envoy. He dismounted, took Balashëv’s arm, and moving a few steps away from his suite, which waited respectfully, began to pace up and down with him, trying to speak significantly. He referred to the fact that the Emperor Napoleon had resented the demand that he should withdraw his troops from Prussia, especially when that demand became generally known and the dignity of France was thereby offended.

* &ldquo;Royalty has its obligations.&rdquo;

Balashëv replied that there was “nothing offensive in the demand, because…” but Murat interrupted him.
“Then you don’t consider the Emperor Alexander the aggressor?” he asked unexpectedly, with a kindly and foolish smile.
Balashëv told him why he considered Napoleon to be the originator of the war.
“Oh, my dear general!” Murat again interrupted him, “with all my heart I wish the Emperors may arrange the affair between them, and that the war begun by no wish of mine may finish as quickly as possible!” said he, in the tone of a servant who wants to remain good friends with another despite a quarrel between their masters.
And he went on to inquiries about the Grand Duke and the state of his health, and to reminiscences of the gay and amusing times he had spent with him in Naples. Then suddenly, as if remembering his royal dignity, Murat solemnly drew himself up, assumed the pose in which he had stood at his coronation, and, waving his right arm, said:
“I won’t detain you longer, General. I wish success to your mission,” and with his embroidered red mantle, his flowing feathers, and his glittering ornaments, he rejoined his suite who were respectfully awaiting him.
Balashëv rode on, supposing from Murat’s words that he would very soon be brought before Napoleon himself. But instead of that, at the next village the sentinels of Davout’s infantry corps detained him as the pickets of the vanguard had done, and an adjutant of the corps commander, who was fetched, conducted him into the village to Marshal Davout.

  CHAPTER V


  Davout was to Napoleon what Arakchéev was to Alexander&mdash;though not a
  coward like Arakchéev, he was as precise, as cruel, and as unable to
  express his devotion to his monarch except by cruelty.
<br />
  In the organism of states such men are necessary, as wolves are necessary
  in the organism of nature, and they always exist, always appear and hold
  their own, however incongruous their presence and their proximity to the
  head of the government may be. This inevitability alone can explain how
  the cruel Arakchéev, who tore out a grenadier&rsquo;s mustache with his own
  hands, whose weak nerves rendered him unable to face danger, and who was
  neither an educated man nor a courtier, was able to maintain his powerful
  position with Alexander, whose own character was chivalrous, noble, and
  gentle.
<br />
  Balashëv found Davout seated on a barrel in the shed of a peasant&rsquo;s hut,
  writing&mdash;he was auditing accounts. Better quarters could have been
  found him, but Marshal Davout was one of those men who purposely put
  themselves in most depressing conditions to have a justification for being
  gloomy. For the same reason they are always hard at work and in a hurry.
  &ldquo;How can I think of the bright side of life when, as you see, I am sitting
  on a barrel and working in a dirty shed?&rdquo; the expression of his face
  seemed to say. The chief pleasure and necessity of such men, when they
  encounter anyone who shows animation, is to flaunt their own dreary,
  persistent activity. Davout allowed himself that pleasure when Balashëv
  was brought in. He became still more absorbed in his task when the Russian
  general entered, and after glancing over his spectacles at Balashëv&rsquo;s
  face, which was animated by the beauty of the morning and by his talk with
  Murat, he did not rise or even stir, but scowled still more and sneered
  malevolently.
<br />
  When he noticed in Balashëv&rsquo;s face the disagreeable impression this
  reception produced, Davout raised his head and coldly asked what he
  wanted.
<br />
  Thinking he could have been received in such a manner only because Davout
  did not know that he was adjutant general to the Emperor Alexander and
  even his envoy to Napoleon, Balashëv hastened to inform him of his rank
  and mission. Contrary to his expectation, Davout, after hearing him,
  became still surlier and ruder.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where is your dispatch?&rdquo; he inquired. &ldquo;Give it to me. I will send it to
  the Emperor.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Balashëv replied that he had been ordered to hand it personally to the
  Emperor.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your Emperor&rsquo;s orders are obeyed in your army, but here,&rdquo; said Davout,
  &ldquo;you must do as you&rsquo;re told.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And, as if to make the Russian general still more conscious of his
  dependence on brute force, Davout sent an adjutant to call the officer on
  duty.
<br />
  Balashëv took out the packet containing the Emperor&rsquo;s letter and laid it
  on the table (made of a door with its hinges still hanging on it, laid
  across two barrels). Davout took the packet and read the inscription.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are perfectly at liberty to treat me with respect or not,&rdquo; protested
  Balashëv, &ldquo;but permit me to observe that I have the honor to be adjutant
  general to His Majesty....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Davout glanced at him silently and plainly derived pleasure from the signs
  of agitation and confusion which appeared on Balashëv&rsquo;s face.
<br />
  &ldquo;You will be treated as is fitting,&rdquo; said he and, putting the packet in
  his pocket, left the shed.
<br />
  A minute later the marshal&rsquo;s adjutant, de Castrès, came in and conducted
  Balashëv to the quarters assigned him.
<br />
  That day he dined with the marshal, at the same board on the barrels.
<br />
  Next day Davout rode out early and, after asking Balashëv to come to him,
  peremptorily requested him to remain there, to move on with the baggage
  train should orders come for it to move, and to talk to no one except
  Monsieur de Castrès.
<br />
  After four days of solitude, ennui, and consciousness of his impotence and
  insignificance&mdash;particularly acute by contrast with the sphere of
  power in which he had so lately moved&mdash;and after several marches with
  the marshal&rsquo;s baggage and the French army, which occupied the whole
  district, Balashëv was brought to Vílna&mdash;now occupied by the French&mdash;through
  the very gate by which he had left it four days previously.
<br />
  Next day the imperial gentleman-in-waiting, the Comte de Turenne, came to
  Balashëv and informed him of the Emperor Napoleon&rsquo;s wish to honor him with
  an audience.
<br />
  Four days before, sentinels of the Preobrazhénsk regiment had stood in
  front of the house to which Balashëv was conducted, and now two French
  grenadiers stood there in blue uniforms unfastened in front and with
  shaggy caps on their heads, and an escort of hussars and Uhlans and a
  brilliant suite of aides-de-camp, pages, and generals, who were waiting
  for Napoleon to come out, were standing at the porch, round his saddle
  horse and his Mameluke, Rustan. Napoleon received Balashëv in the very
  house in Vílna from which Alexander had dispatched him on his mission.

  CHAPTER VI


  Though Balashëv was used to imperial pomp, he was amazed at the luxury and
  magnificence of Napoleon&rsquo;s court.
<br />
  The Comte de Turenne showed him into a big reception room where many
  generals, gentlemen-in-waiting, and Polish magnates&mdash;several of whom
  Balashëv had seen at the court of the Emperor of Russia&mdash;were
  waiting. Duroc said that Napoleon would receive the Russian general before
  going for his ride.
<br />
  After some minutes, the gentleman-in-waiting who was on duty came into the
  great reception room and, bowing politely, asked Balashëv to follow him.
<br />
  Balashëv went into a small reception room, one door of which led into a
  study, the very one from which the Russian Emperor had dispatched him on
  his mission. He stood a minute or two, waiting. He heard hurried footsteps
  beyond the door, both halves of it were opened rapidly; all was silent and
  then from the study the sound was heard of other steps, firm and resolute&mdash;they
  were those of Napoleon. He had just finished dressing for his ride, and
  wore a blue uniform, opening in front over a white waistcoat so long that
  it covered his rotund stomach, white leather breeches tightly fitting the
  fat thighs of his short legs, and Hessian boots. His short hair had
  evidently just been brushed, but one lock hung down in the middle of his
  broad forehead. His plump white neck stood out sharply above the black
  collar of his uniform, and he smelled of Eau de Cologne. His full face,
  rather young-looking, with its prominent chin, wore a gracious and
  majestic expression of imperial welcome.
<br />
  He entered briskly, with a jerk at every step and his head slightly thrown
  back. His whole short corpulent figure with broad thick shoulders, and
  chest and stomach involuntarily protruding, had that imposing and stately
  appearance one sees in men of forty who live in comfort. It was evident,
  too, that he was in the best of spirits that day.
<br />
  He nodded in answer to Balashëv&rsquo;s low and respectful bow, and coming up to
  him at once began speaking like a man who values every moment of his time
  and does not condescend to prepare what he has to say but is sure he will
  always say the right thing and say it well.
<br />
  &ldquo;Good day, General!&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;I have received the letter you brought from
  the Emperor Alexander and am very glad to see you.&rdquo; He glanced with his
  large eyes into Balashëv&rsquo;s face and immediately looked past him.
<br />
  It was plain that Balashëv&rsquo;s personality did not interest him at all.
  Evidently only what took place within  mind interested him. Nothing
  outside himself had any significance for him, because everything in the
  world, it seemed to him, depended entirely on his will.
<br />
  &ldquo;I do not, and did not, desire war,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;but it has
  been forced on me. Even &rdquo; (he emphasized the word) &ldquo;I am
  ready to receive any explanations you can give me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And he began clearly and concisely to explain his reasons for
  dissatisfaction with the Russian government. Judging by the calmly
  moderate and amicable tone in which the French Emperor spoke, Balashëv was
  firmly persuaded that he wished for peace and intended to enter into
  negotiations.
<br />
  When Napoleon, having finished speaking, looked inquiringly at the Russian
  envoy, Balashëv began a speech he had prepared long before: &ldquo;Sire! The
  Emperor, my master...&rdquo; but the sight of the Emperor&rsquo;s eyes bent on him
  confused him. &ldquo;You are flurried&mdash;compose yourself!&rdquo; Napoleon seemed
  to say, as with a scarcely perceptible smile he looked at Balashëv&rsquo;s
  uniform and sword.
<br />
  Balashëv recovered himself and began to speak. He said that the Emperor
  Alexander did not consider Kurákin&rsquo;s demand for his passports a sufficient
  cause for war; that Kurákin had acted on his own initiative and without
  his sovereign&rsquo;s assent, that the Emperor Alexander did not desire war, and
  had no relations with England.
<br />
  &ldquo;Not &rdquo; interposed Napoleon, and, as if fearing to give vent to his
  feelings, he frowned and nodded slightly as a sign that Balashëv might
  proceed.
<br />
  After saying all he had been instructed to say, Balashëv added that the
  Emperor Alexander wished for peace, but would not enter into negotiations
  except on condition that... Here Balashëv hesitated: he remembered the
  words the Emperor Alexander had not written in his letter, but had
  specially inserted in the rescript to Saltykóv and had told Balashëv to
  repeat to Napoleon. Balashëv remembered these words, &ldquo;So long as a single
  armed foe remains on Russian soil,&rdquo; but some complex feeling restrained
  him. He could not utter them, though he wished to do so. He grew confused
  and said: &ldquo;On condition that the French army retires beyond the Niemen.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Napoleon noticed Balashëv&rsquo;s embarrassment when uttering these last words;
  his face twitched and the calf of his left leg began to quiver
  rhythmically. Without moving from where he stood he began speaking in a
  louder tone and more hurriedly than before. During the speech that
  followed, Balashëv, who more than once lowered his eyes, involuntarily
  noticed the quivering of Napoleon&rsquo;s left leg which increased the more
  Napoleon raised his voice.
<br />
  &ldquo;I desire peace, no less than the Emperor Alexander,&rdquo; he began. &ldquo;Have I
  not for eighteen months been doing everything to obtain it? I have waited
  eighteen months for explanations. But in order to begin negotiations, what
  is demanded of me?&rdquo; he said, frowning and making an energetic gesture of
  inquiry with his small white plump hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;The withdrawal of your army beyond the Niemen, sire,&rdquo; replied Balashëv.
<br />
  &ldquo;The Niemen?&rdquo; repeated Napoleon. &ldquo;So now you want me to retire beyond the
  Niemen&mdash;only the Niemen?&rdquo; repeated Napoleon, looking straight at
  Balashëv.
<br />
  The latter bowed his head respectfully.
<br />
  Instead of the demand of four months earlier to withdraw from Pomerania,
  only a withdrawal beyond the Niemen was now demanded. Napoleon turned
  quickly and began to pace the room.
<br />
  &ldquo;You say the demand now is that I am to withdraw beyond the Niemen before
  commencing negotiations, but in just the same way two months ago the
  demand was that I should withdraw beyond the Vistula and the Oder, and yet
  you are willing to negotiate.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He went in silence from one corner of the room to the other and again
  stopped in front of Balashëv. Balashëv noticed that his left leg was
  quivering faster than before and his face seemed petrified in its stern
  expression. This quivering of his left leg was a thing Napoleon was
  conscious of. &ldquo;The vibration of my left calf is a great sign with me,&rdquo; he
  remarked at a later date.
<br />
  &ldquo;Such demands as to retreat beyond the Vistula and Oder may be made to a
  Prince of Baden, but not to me!&rdquo; Napoleon almost screamed, quite to his
  own surprise. &ldquo;If you gave me Petersburg and Moscow I could not accept
  such conditions. You say I have begun this war! But who first joined his
  army? The Emperor Alexander, not I! And you offer me negotiations when I
  have expended millions, when you are in alliance with England, and when
  your position is a bad one. You offer me negotiations! But what is the aim
  of your alliance with England? What has she given you?&rdquo; he continued
  hurriedly, evidently no longer trying to show the advantages of peace and
  discuss its possibility, but only to prove his own rectitude and power and
  Alexander&rsquo;s errors and duplicity.
<br />
  The commencement of his speech had obviously been made with the intention
  of demonstrating the advantages of his position and showing that he was
  nevertheless willing to negotiate. But he had begun talking, and the more
  he talked the less could he control his words.
<br />
  The whole purport of his remarks now was evidently to exalt himself and
  insult Alexander&mdash;just what he had least desired at the commencement
  of the interview.
<br />
  &ldquo;I hear you have made peace with Turkey?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Balashëv bowed his head affirmatively.
<br />
  &ldquo;Peace has been concluded...&rdquo; he began.
<br />
  But Napoleon did not let him speak. He evidently wanted to do all the
  talking himself, and continued to talk with the sort of eloquence and
  unrestrained irritability to which spoiled people are so prone.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I know you have made peace with the Turks without obtaining Moldavia
  and Wallachia; I would have given your sovereign those provinces as I gave
  him Finland. Yes,&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;I promised and would have given the
  Emperor Alexander Moldavia and Wallachia, and now he won&rsquo;t have those
  splendid provinces. Yet he might have united them to his empire and in a
  single reign would have extended Russia from the Gulf of Bothnia to the
  mouths of the Danube. Catherine the Great could not have done more,&rdquo; said
  Napoleon, growing more and more excited as he paced up and down the room,
  repeating to Balashëv almost the very words he had used to Alexander
  himself at Tilsit. &ldquo;All that, he would have owed to my friendship. Oh,
  what a splendid reign!&rdquo; he repeated several times, then paused, drew from
  his pocket a gold snuffbox, lifted it to his nose, and greedily sniffed at
  it.
<br />
  &ldquo;What a splendid reign the Emperor Alexander&rsquo;s &rdquo;
 <br />
  He looked compassionately at Balashëv, and as soon as the latter tried to
  make some rejoinder hastily interrupted him.
<br />
  &ldquo;What could he wish or look for that he would not have obtained through my
  friendship?&rdquo; demanded Napoleon, shrugging his shoulders in perplexity.
  &ldquo;But no, he has preferred to surround himself with my enemies, and with
  whom? With Steins, Armfeldts, Bennigsens, and Wintzingerodes! Stein, a
  traitor expelled from his own country; Armfeldt, a rake and an intriguer;
  Wintzingerode, a fugitive French subject; Bennigsen, rather more of a
  soldier than the others, but all the same an incompetent who was unable to
  do anything in 1807 and who should awaken terrible memories in the Emperor
  Alexander&rsquo;s mind.... Granted that were they competent they might be made
  use of,&rdquo; continued Napoleon&mdash;hardly able to keep pace in words with
  the rush of thoughts that incessantly sprang up, proving how right and
  strong he was (in his perception the two were one and the same)&mdash;&ldquo;but
  they are not even that! They are neither fit for war nor peace! Barclay is
  said to be the most capable of them all, but I cannot say so, judging by
  his first movements. And what are they doing, all these courtiers? Pfuel
  proposes, Armfeldt disputes, Bennigsen considers, and Barclay, called on
  to act, does not know what to decide on, and time passes bringing no
  result. Bagratión alone is a military man. He&rsquo;s stupid, but he has
  experience, a quick eye, and resolution.... And what role is your young
  monarch playing in that monstrous crowd? They compromise him and throw on
  him the responsibility for all that happens. A sovereign should not be
  with the army unless he is a general!&rdquo; said Napoleon, evidently uttering
  these words as a direct challenge to the Emperor. He knew how Alexander
  desired to be a military commander.
<br />
  &ldquo;The campaign began only a week ago, and you haven&rsquo;t even been able to
  defend Vílna. You are cut in two and have been driven out of the Polish
  provinces. Your army is grumbling.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;On the contrary, Your Majesty,&rdquo; said Balashëv, hardly able to remember
  what had been said to him and following these verbal fireworks with
  difficulty, &ldquo;the troops are burning with eagerness...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I know everything!&rdquo; Napoleon interrupted him. &ldquo;I know everything. I know
  the number of your battalions as exactly as I know my own. You have not
  two hundred thousand men, and I have three times that number. I give you
  my word of honor,&rdquo; said Napoleon, forgetting that his word of honor could
  carry no weight&mdash;&ldquo;I give you my word of honor that I have five
  hundred and thirty thousand men this side of the Vistula. The Turks will
  be of no use to you; they are worth nothing and have shown it by making
  peace with you. As for the Swedes&mdash;it is their fate to be governed by
  mad kings. Their king was insane and they changed him for another&mdash;Bernadotte,
  who promptly went mad&mdash;for no Swede would ally himself with Russia
  unless he were mad.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Napoleon grinned maliciously and again raised his snuffbox to his nose.
<br />
  Balashëv knew how to reply to each of Napoleon&rsquo;s remarks, and would have
  done so; he continually made the gesture of a man wishing to say
  something, but Napoleon always interrupted him. To the alleged insanity of
  the Swedes, Balashëv wished to reply that when Russia is on her side
  Sweden is practically an island: but Napoleon gave an angry exclamation to
  drown his voice. Napoleon was in that state of irritability in which a man
  has to talk, talk, and talk, merely to convince himself that he is in the
  right. Balashëv began to feel uncomfortable: as envoy he feared to demean
  his dignity and felt the necessity of replying; but, as a man, he shrank
  before the transport of groundless wrath that had evidently seized
  Napoleon. He knew that none of the words now uttered by Napoleon had any
  significance, and that Napoleon himself would be ashamed of them when he
  came to his senses. Balashëv stood with downcast eyes, looking at the
  movements of Napoleon&rsquo;s stout legs and trying to avoid meeting his eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;But what do I care about your allies?&rdquo; said Napoleon. &ldquo;I have allies&mdash;the
  Poles. There are eighty thousand of them and they fight like lions. And
  there will be two hundred thousand of them.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And probably still more perturbed by the fact that he had uttered this
  obvious falsehood, and that Balashëv still stood silently before him in
  the same attitude of submission to fate, Napoleon abruptly turned round,
  drew close to Balashëv&rsquo;s face, and, gesticulating rapidly and
  energetically with his white hands, almost shouted:
<br />
  &ldquo;Know that if you stir up Prussia against me, I&rsquo;ll wipe it off the map of
  Europe!&rdquo; he declared, his face pale and distorted by anger, and he struck
  one of his small hands energetically with the other. &ldquo;Yes, I will throw
  you back beyond the Dvína and beyond the Dnieper, and will re-erect
  against you that barrier which it was criminal and blind of Europe to
  allow to be destroyed. Yes, that is what will happen to you. That is what
  you have gained by alienating me!&rdquo; And he walked silently several times up
  and down the room, his fat shoulders twitching.
<br />
  He put his snuffbox into his waistcoat pocket, took it out again, lifted
  it several times to his nose, and stopped in front of Balashëv. He paused,
  looked ironically straight into Balashëv&rsquo;s eyes, and said in a quiet
  voice:
<br />
  &ldquo;And yet what a splendid reign your master &rdquo;
 <br />
  Balashëv, feeling it incumbent on him to reply, said that from the Russian
  side things did not appear in so gloomy a light. Napoleon was silent,
  still looking derisively at him and evidently not listening to him.
  Balashëv said that in Russia the best results were expected from the war.
  Napoleon nodded condescendingly, as if to say, &ldquo;I know it&rsquo;s your duty to
  say that, but you don&rsquo;t believe it yourself. I have convinced you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  When Balashëv had ended, Napoleon again took out his snuffbox, sniffed at
  it, and stamped his foot twice on the floor as a signal. The door opened,
  a gentleman-in-waiting, bending respectfully, handed the Emperor his hat
  and gloves; another brought him a pocket handkerchief. Napoleon, without
  giving them a glance, turned to Balashëv:
<br />
  &ldquo;Assure the Emperor Alexander from me,&rdquo; said he, taking his hat, &ldquo;that I
  am as devoted to him as before: I know him thoroughly and very highly
  esteem his lofty qualities. I will detain you no longer, General; you
  shall receive my letter to the Emperor.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And Napoleon went quickly to the door. Everyone in the reception room
  rushed forward and descended the staircase.

  CHAPTER VII


  After all that Napoleon had said to him&mdash;those bursts of anger and
  the last dryly spoken words: &ldquo;I will detain you no longer, General; you
  shall receive my letter,&rdquo; Balashëv felt convinced that Napoleon would not
  wish to see him, and would even avoid another meeting with him&mdash;an
  insulted envoy&mdash;especially as he had witnessed his unseemly anger.
  But, to his surprise, Balashëv received, through Duroc, an invitation to
  dine with the Emperor that day.
<br />
  Bessières, Caulaincourt, and Berthier were present at that dinner.
<br />
  Napoleon met Balashëv cheerfully and amiably. He not only showed no sign
  of constraint or self-reproach on account of his outburst that morning,
  but, on the contrary, tried to reassure Balashëv. It was evident that he
  had long been convinced that it was impossible for him to make a mistake,
  and that in his perception whatever he did was right, not because it
  harmonized with any idea of right and wrong, but because  did it.
<br />
  The Emperor was in very good spirits after his ride through Vílna, where
  crowds of people had rapturously greeted and followed him. From all the
  windows of the streets through which he rode, rugs, flags, and his
  monogram were displayed, and the Polish ladies, welcoming him, waved their
  handkerchiefs to him.
<br />
  At dinner, having placed Balashëv beside him, Napoleon not only treated
  him amiably but behaved as if Balashëv were one of his own courtiers, one
  of those who sympathized with his plans and ought to rejoice at his
  success. In the course of conversation he mentioned Moscow and questioned
  Balashëv about the Russian capital, not merely as an interested traveler
  asks about a new city he intends to visit, but as if convinced that
  Balashëv, as a Russian, must be flattered by his curiosity.
<br />
  &ldquo;How many inhabitants are there in Moscow? How many houses? Is it true
  that Moscow is called &lsquo;Holy Moscow&rsquo;? How many churches are there in
  Moscow?&rdquo; he asked.
<br />
  And receiving the reply that there were more than two hundred churches, he
  remarked:
<br />
  &ldquo;Why such a quantity of churches?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The Russians are very devout,&rdquo; replied Balashëv.
<br />
  &ldquo;But a large number of monasteries and churches is always a sign of the
  backwardness of a people,&rdquo; said Napoleon, turning to Caulaincourt for
  appreciation of this remark.
<br />
  Balashëv respectfully ventured to disagree with the French Emperor.
<br />
  &ldquo;Every country has its own character,&rdquo; said he.
<br />
  &ldquo;But nowhere in Europe is there anything like that,&rdquo; said Napoleon.
<br />
  &ldquo;I beg your Majesty&rsquo;s pardon,&rdquo; returned Balashëv, &ldquo;besides Russia there is
  Spain, where there are also many churches and monasteries.&rdquo;
 <br />
  This reply of Balashëv&rsquo;s, which hinted at the recent defeats of the French
  in Spain, was much appreciated when he related it at Alexander&rsquo;s court,
  but it was not much appreciated at Napoleon&rsquo;s dinner, where it passed
  unnoticed.
<br />
  The uninterested and perplexed faces of the marshals showed that they were
  puzzled as to what Balashëv&rsquo;s tone suggested. &ldquo;If there is a point we
  don&rsquo;t see it, or it is not at all witty,&rdquo; their expressions seemed to say.
  So little was his rejoinder appreciated that Napoleon did not notice it at
  all and naïvely asked Balashëv through what towns the direct road from
  there to Moscow passed. Balashëv, who was on the alert all through the
  dinner, replied that just as &ldquo;all roads lead to Rome,&rdquo; so all roads lead
  to Moscow: there were many roads, and &ldquo;among them the road through
  , which Charles XII chose.&rdquo; Balashëv involuntarily flushed with
  pleasure at the aptitude of this reply, but hardly had he uttered the word
   before Caulaincourt began speaking of the badness of the road from
  Petersburg to Moscow and of his Petersburg reminiscences.
<br />
  After dinner they went to drink coffee in Napoleon&rsquo;s study, which four
  days previously had been that of the Emperor Alexander. Napoleon sat down,
  toying with his Sèvres coffee cup, and motioned Balashëv to a chair beside
  him.
<br />
  Napoleon was in that well-known after-dinner mood which, more than any
  reasoned cause, makes a man contented with himself and disposed to
  consider everyone his friend. It seemed to him that he was surrounded by
  men who adored him: and he felt convinced that, after his dinner, Balashëv
  too was his friend and worshiper. Napoleon turned to him with a pleasant,
  though slightly ironic, smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;They tell me this is the room the Emperor Alexander occupied? Strange,
  isn&rsquo;t it, General?&rdquo; he said, evidently not doubting that this remark would
  be agreeable to his hearer since it went to prove his, Napoleon&rsquo;s,
  superiority to Alexander.
<br />
  Balashëv made no reply and bowed his head in silence.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes. Four days ago in this room, Wintzingerode and Stein were
  deliberating,&rdquo; continued Napoleon with the same derisive and
  self-confident smile. &ldquo;What I can&rsquo;t understand,&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;is that the
  Emperor Alexander has surrounded himself with my personal enemies. That I
  do not... understand. Has he not thought that I may do the same?&rdquo; and he
  turned inquiringly to Balashëv, and evidently this thought turned him back
  on to the track of his morning&rsquo;s anger, which was still fresh in him.
<br />
  &ldquo;And let him know that I will do so!&rdquo; said Napoleon, rising and pushing
  his cup away with his hand. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll drive all his Württemberg, Baden, and
  Weimar relations out of Germany.... Yes. I&rsquo;ll drive them out. Let him
  prepare an asylum for them in Russia!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Balashëv bowed his head with an air indicating that he would like to make
  his bow and leave, and only listened because he could not help hearing
  what was said to him. Napoleon did not notice this expression; he treated
  Balashëv not as an envoy from his enemy, but as a man now fully devoted to
  him and who must rejoice at his former master&rsquo;s humiliation.
<br />
  &ldquo;And why has the Emperor Alexander taken command of the armies? What is
  the good of that? War is my profession, but his business is to reign and
  not to command armies! Why has he taken on himself such a responsibility?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Again Napoleon brought out his snuffbox, paced several times up and down
  the room in silence, and then, suddenly and unexpectedly, went up to
  Balashëv and with a slight smile, as confidently, quickly, and simply as
  if he were doing something not merely important but pleasing to Balashëv,
  he raised his hand to the forty-year-old Russian general&rsquo;s face and,
  taking him by the ear, pulled it gently, smiling with his lips only.
<br />
  To have one&rsquo;s ear pulled by the Emperor was considered the greatest honor
  and mark of favor at the French court.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, adorer and courtier of the Emperor Alexander, why don&rsquo;t you say
  anything?&rdquo; said he, as if it was ridiculous, in his presence, to be the
  adorer and courtier of anyone but himself, Napoleon. &ldquo;Are the horses ready
  for the general?&rdquo; he added, with a slight inclination of his head in reply
  to Balashëv&rsquo;s bow. &ldquo;Let him have mine, he has a &rdquo;
 <br />
  The letter taken by Balashëv was the last Napoleon sent to Alexander.
  Every detail of the interview was communicated to the Russian monarch, and
  the war began....

  CHAPTER VIII


  After his interview with Pierre in Moscow, Prince Andrew went to
  Petersburg, on business as he told his family, but really to meet Anatole
  Kurágin whom he felt it necessary to encounter. On reaching Petersburg he
  inquired for Kurágin but the latter had already left the city. Pierre had
  warned his brother-in-law that Prince Andrew was on his track. Anatole
  Kurágin promptly obtained an appointment from the Minister of War and went
  to join the army in Moldavia. While in Petersburg Prince Andrew met
  Kutúzov, his former commander who was always well disposed toward him, and
  Kutúzov suggested that he should accompany him to the army in Moldavia, to
  which the old general had been appointed commander in chief. So Prince
  Andrew, having received an appointment on the headquarters staff, left for
  Turkey.
<br />
  Prince Andrew did not think it proper to write and challenge Kurágin. He
  thought that if he challenged him without some fresh cause it might
  compromise the young Countess Rostóva and so he wanted to meet Kurágin
  personally in order to find a fresh pretext for a duel. But he again
  failed to meet Kurágin in Turkey, for soon after Prince Andrew arrived,
  the latter returned to Russia. In a new country, amid new conditions,
  Prince Andrew found life easier to bear. After his betrothed had broken
  faith with him&mdash;which he felt the more acutely the more he tried to
  conceal its effects&mdash;the surroundings in which he had been happy
  became trying to him, and the freedom and independence he had once prized
  so highly were still more so. Not only could he no longer think the
  thoughts that had first come to him as he lay gazing at the sky on the
  field of Austerlitz and had later enlarged upon with Pierre, and which had
  filled his solitude at Boguchárovo and then in Switzerland and Rome, but
  he even dreaded to recall them and the bright and boundless horizons they
  had revealed. He was now concerned only with the nearest practical matters
  unrelated to his past interests, and he seized on these the more eagerly
  the more those past interests were closed to him. It was as if that lofty,
  infinite canopy of heaven that had once towered above him had suddenly
  turned into a low, solid vault that weighed him down, in which all was
  clear, but nothing eternal or mysterious.
<br />
  Of the activities that presented themselves to him, army service was the
  simplest and most familiar. As a general on duty on Kutúzov&rsquo;s staff, he
  applied himself to business with zeal and perseverance and surprised
  Kutúzov by his willingness and accuracy in work. Not having found Kurágin
  in Turkey, Prince Andrew did not think it necessary to rush back to Russia
  after him, but all the same he knew that however long it might be before
  he met Kurágin, despite his contempt for him and despite all the proofs he
  deduced to convince himself that it was not worth stooping to a conflict
  with him&mdash;he knew that when he did meet him he would not be able to
  resist calling him out, any more than a ravenous man can help snatching at
  food. And the consciousness that the insult was not yet avenged, that his
  rancor was still unspent, weighed on his heart and poisoned the artificial
  tranquillity which he managed to obtain in Turkey by means of restless,
  plodding, and rather vainglorious and ambitious activity.
<br />
  In the year 1812, when news of the war with Napoleon reached Bucharest&mdash;where
  Kutúzov had been living for two months, passing his days and nights with a
  Wallachian woman&mdash;Prince Andrew asked Kutúzov to transfer him to the
  Western Army. Kutúzov, who was already weary of Bolkónski&rsquo;s activity which
  seemed to reproach his own idleness, very readily let him go and gave him
  a mission to Barclay de Tolly.
<br />
  Before joining the Western Army which was then, in May, encamped at
  Drissa, Prince Andrew visited Bald Hills which was directly on his way,
  being only two miles off the Smolénsk highroad. During the last three
  years there had been so many changes in his life, he had thought, felt,
  and seen so much (having traveled both in the east and the west), that on
  reaching Bald Hills it struck him as strange and unexpected to find the
  way of life there unchanged and still the same in every detail. He entered
  through the gates with their stone pillars and drove up the avenue leading
  to the house as if he were entering an enchanted, sleeping castle. The
  same old stateliness, the same cleanliness, the same stillness reigned
  there, and inside there was the same furniture, the same walls, sounds,
  and smell, and the same timid faces, only somewhat older. Princess Mary
  was still the same timid, plain maiden getting on in years, uselessly and
  joylessly passing the best years of her life in fear and constant
  suffering. Mademoiselle Bourienne was the same coquettish, self-satisfied
  girl, enjoying every moment of her existence and full of joyous hopes for
  the future. She had merely become more self-confident, Prince Andrew
  thought. Dessalles, the tutor he had brought from Switzerland, was wearing
  a coat of Russian cut and talking broken Russian to the servants, but was
  still the same narrowly intelligent, conscientious, and pedantic
  preceptor. The old prince had changed in appearance only by the loss of a
  tooth, which left a noticeable gap on one side of his mouth; in character
  he was the same as ever, only showing still more irritability and
  skepticism as to what was happening in the world. Little Nicholas alone
  had changed. He had grown, become rosier, had curly dark hair, and, when
  merry and laughing, quite unconsciously lifted the upper lip of his pretty
  little mouth just as the little princess used to do. He alone did not obey
  the law of immutability in the enchanted, sleeping castle. But though
  externally all remained as of old, the inner relations of all these people
  had changed since Prince Andrew had seen them last. The household was
  divided into two alien and hostile camps, who changed their habits for his
  sake and only met because he was there. To the one camp belonged the old
  prince, Mademoiselle Bourienne, and the architect; to the other Princess
  Mary, Dessalles, little Nicholas, and all the old nurses and maids.
<br />
  During his stay at Bald Hills all the family dined together, but they were
  ill at ease and Prince Andrew felt that he was a visitor for whose sake an
  exception was being made and that his presence made them all feel awkward.
  Involuntarily feeling this at dinner on the first day, he was taciturn,
  and the old prince noticing this also became morosely dumb and retired to
  his apartments directly after dinner. In the evening, when Prince Andrew
  went to him and, trying to rouse him, began to tell him of the young Count
  Kámensky&rsquo;s campaign, the old prince began unexpectedly to talk about
  Princess Mary, blaming her for her superstitions and her dislike of
  Mademoiselle Bourienne, who, he said, was the only person really attached
  to him.
<br />
  The old prince said that if he was ill it was only because of Princess
  Mary: that she purposely worried and irritated him, and that by indulgence
  and silly talk she was spoiling little Prince Nicholas. The old prince
  knew very well that he tormented his daughter and that her life was very
  hard, but he also knew that he could not help tormenting her and that she
  deserved it. &ldquo;Why does Prince Andrew, who sees this, say nothing to me
  about his sister? Does he think me a scoundrel, or an old fool who,
  without any reason, keeps his own daughter at a distance and attaches this
  Frenchwoman to himself? He doesn&rsquo;t understand, so I must explain it, and
  he must hear me out,&rdquo; thought the old prince. And he began explaining why
  he could not put up with his daughter&rsquo;s unreasonable character.
<br />
  &ldquo;If you ask me,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew, without looking up (he was censuring
  his father for the first time in his life), &ldquo;I did not wish to speak about
  it, but as you ask me I will give you my frank opinion. If there is any
  misunderstanding and discord between you and Mary, I can&rsquo;t blame her for
  it at all. I know how she loves and respects you. Since you ask me,&rdquo;
   continued Prince Andrew, becoming irritable&mdash;as he was always liable
  to do of late&mdash;&ldquo;I can only say that if there are any
  misunderstandings they are caused by that worthless woman, who is not fit
  to be my sister&rsquo;s companion.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The old man at first stared fixedly at his son, and an unnatural smile
  disclosed the fresh gap between his teeth to which Prince Andrew could not
  get accustomed.
<br />
  &ldquo;What companion, my dear boy? Eh? You&rsquo;ve already been talking it over!
  Eh?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Father, I did not want to judge,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew, in a hard and
  bitter tone, &ldquo;but you challenged me, and I have said, and always shall
  say, that Mary is not to blame, but those to blame&mdash;the one to blame&mdash;is
  that Frenchwoman.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah, he has passed judgment... passed judgement!&rdquo; said the old man in a
  low voice and, as it seemed to Prince Andrew, with some embarrassment, but
  then he suddenly jumped up and cried: &ldquo;Be off, be off! Let not a trace of
  you remain here!...&rdquo;
 <br />
  <br />
<br />
  Prince Andrew wished to leave at once, but Princess Mary persuaded him to
  stay another day. That day he did not see his father, who did not leave
  his room and admitted no one but Mademoiselle Bourienne and Tíkhon, but
  asked several times whether his son had gone. Next day, before leaving,
  Prince Andrew went to his son&rsquo;s rooms. The boy, curly-headed like his
  mother and glowing with health, sat on his knee, and Prince Andrew began
  telling him the story of Bluebeard, but fell into a reverie without
  finishing the story. He thought not of this pretty child, his son whom he
  held on his knee, but of himself. He sought in himself either remorse for
  having angered his father or regret at leaving home for the first time in
  his life on bad terms with him, and was horrified to find neither. What
  meant still more to him was that he sought and did not find in himself the
  former tenderness for his son which he had hoped to reawaken by caressing
  the boy and taking him on his knee.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, go on!&rdquo; said his son.
<br />
  Prince Andrew, without replying, put him down from his knee and went out
  of the room.
<br />
  As soon as Prince Andrew had given up his daily occupations, and
  especially on returning to the old conditions of life amid which he had
  been happy, weariness of life overcame him with its former intensity, and
  he hastened to escape from these memories and to find some work as soon as
  possible.
<br />
  &ldquo;So you&rsquo;ve decided to go, Andrew?&rdquo; asked his sister.
<br />
  &ldquo;Thank God that I can,&rdquo; replied Prince Andrew. &ldquo;I am very sorry you
  can&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why do you say that?&rdquo; replied Princess Mary. &ldquo;Why do you say that, when
  you are going to this terrible war, and he is so old? Mademoiselle
  Bourienne says he has been asking about you....&rdquo;
 <br />
  As soon as she began to speak of that, her lips trembled and her tears
  began to fall. Prince Andrew turned away and began pacing the room.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, my God! my God! When one thinks who and what&mdash;what trash&mdash;can
  cause people misery!&rdquo; he said with a malignity that alarmed Princess Mary.
<br />
  She understood that when speaking of &ldquo;trash&rdquo; he referred not only to
  Mademoiselle Bourienne, the cause of her misery, but also to the man who
  had ruined his own happiness.
<br />
  &ldquo;Andrew! One thing I beg, I entreat of you!&rdquo; she said, touching his elbow
  and looking at him with eyes that shone through her tears. &ldquo;I understand
  you&rdquo; (she looked down). &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t imagine that sorrow is the work of . Men
  are His tools.&rdquo; She looked a little above Prince Andrew&rsquo;s head with the
  confident, accustomed look with which one looks at the place where a
  familiar portrait hangs. &ldquo;Sorrow is sent by , not by men. Men are His
  instruments, they are not to blame. If you think someone has wronged you,
  forget it and forgive! We have no right to punish. And then you will know
  the happiness of forgiving.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;If I were a woman I would do so, Mary. That is a woman&rsquo;s virtue. But a
  man should not and cannot forgive and forget,&rdquo; he replied, and though till
  that moment he had not been thinking of Kurágin, all his unexpended anger
  suddenly swelled up in his heart.
<br />
  &ldquo;If Mary is already persuading me to forgive, it means that I ought long
  ago to have punished him,&rdquo; he thought. And giving her no further reply, he
  began thinking of the glad vindictive moment when he would meet Kurágin
  who he knew was now in the army.
<br />
  Princess Mary begged him to stay one day more, saying that she knew how
  unhappy her father would be if Andrew left without being reconciled to
  him, but Prince Andrew replied that he would probably soon be back again
  from the army and would certainly write to his father, but that the longer
  he stayed now the more embittered their differences would become.
<br />
  &ldquo;Good-by, Andrew! Remember that misfortunes come from God, and men are
  never to blame,&rdquo; were the last words he heard from his sister when he took
  leave of her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then it must be so!&rdquo; thought Prince Andrew as he drove out of the avenue
  from the house at Bald Hills. &ldquo;She, poor innocent creature, is left to be
  victimized by an old man who has outlived his wits. The old man feels he
  is guilty, but cannot change himself. My boy is growing up and rejoices in
  life, in which like everybody else he will deceive or be deceived. And I
  am off to the army. Why? I myself don&rsquo;t know. I want to meet that man whom
  I despise, so as to give him a chance to kill and laugh at me!&rdquo;
 <br />
  These conditions of life had been the same before, but then they were all
  connected, while now they had all tumbled to pieces. Only senseless
  things, lacking coherence, presented themselves one after another to
  Prince Andrew&rsquo;s mind.

  CHAPTER IX


  Prince Andrew reached the general headquarters of the army at the end of
  June. The first army, with which was the Emperor, occupied the fortified
  camp at Drissa; the second army was retreating, trying to effect a
  junction with the first one from which it was said to be cut off by large
  French forces. Everyone was dissatisfied with the general course of
  affairs in the Russian army, but no one anticipated any danger of invasion
  of the Russian provinces, and no one thought the war would extend farther
  than the western, the Polish, provinces.
<br />
  Prince Andrew found Barclay de Tolly, to whom he had been assigned, on the
  bank of the Drissa. As there was not a single town or large village in the
  vicinity of the camp, the immense number of generals and courtiers
  accompanying the army were living in the best houses of the villages on
  both sides of the river, over a radius of six miles. Barclay de Tolly was
  quartered nearly three miles from the Emperor. He received Bolkónski
  stiffly and coldly and told him in his foreign accent that he would
  mention him to the Emperor for a decision as to his employment, but asked
  him meanwhile to remain on his staff. Anatole Kurágin, whom Prince Andrew
  had hoped to find with the army, was not there. He had gone to Petersburg,
  but Prince Andrew was glad to hear this. His mind was occupied by the
  interests of the center that was conducting a gigantic war, and he was
  glad to be free for a while from the distraction caused by the thought of
  Kurágin. During the first four days, while no duties were required of him,
  Prince Andrew rode round the whole fortified camp and, by the aid of his
  own knowledge and by talks with experts, tried to form a definite opinion
  about it. But the question whether the camp was advantageous or
  disadvantageous remained for him undecided. Already from his military
  experience and what he had seen in the Austrian campaign, he had come to
  the conclusion that in war the most deeply considered plans have no
  significance and that all depends on the way unexpected movements of the
  enemy&mdash;that cannot be foreseen&mdash;are met, and on how and by whom
  the whole matter is handled. To clear up this last point for himself,
  Prince Andrew, utilizing his position and acquaintances, tried to fathom
  the character of the control of the army and of the men and parties
  engaged in it, and he deduced for himself the following of the state of
  affairs.
<br />
  While the Emperor had still been at Vílna, the forces had been divided
  into three armies. First, the army under Barclay de Tolly, secondly, the
  army under Bagratión, and thirdly, the one commanded by Tormásov. The
  Emperor was with the first army, but not as commander in chief. In the
  orders issued it was stated, not that the Emperor would take command, but
  only that he would be with the army. The Emperor, moreover, had with him
  not a commander in chief&rsquo;s staff but the imperial headquarters staff. In
  attendance on him was the head of the imperial staff, Quartermaster
  General Prince Volkónski, as well as generals, imperial aides-de-camp,
  diplomatic officials, and a large number of foreigners, but not the army
  staff. Besides these, there were in attendance on the Emperor without any
  definite appointments: Arakchéev, the ex-Minister of War; Count Bennigsen,
  the senior general in rank; the Grand Duke Tsarévich Constantine
  Pávlovich; Count Rumyántsev, the Chancellor; Stein, a former Prussian
  minister; Armfeldt, a Swedish general; Pfuel, the chief author of the plan
  of campaign; Paulucci, an adjutant general and Sardinian ; Wolzogen&mdash;and
  many others. Though these men had no military appointment in the army,
  their position gave them influence, and often a corps commander, or even
  the commander in chief, did not know in what capacity he was questioned by
  Bennigsen, the Grand Duke, Arakchéev, or Prince Volkónski, or was given
  this or that advice and did not know whether a certain order received in
  the form of advice emanated from the man who gave it or from the Emperor
  and whether it had to be executed or not. But this was only the external
  condition; the essential significance of the presence of the Emperor and
  of all these people, from a courtier&rsquo;s point of view (and in an Emperor&rsquo;s
  vicinity all became courtiers), was clear to everyone. It was this: the
  Emperor did not assume the title of commander in chief, but disposed of
  all the armies; the men around him were his assistants. Arakchéev was a
  faithful custodian to enforce order and acted as the sovereign&rsquo;s
  bodyguard. Bennigsen was a landlord in the Vílna province who appeared to
  be doing the honors of the district, but was in reality a good general,
  useful as an adviser and ready at hand to replace Barclay. The Grand Duke
  was there because it suited him to be. The ex-Minister Stein was there
  because his advice was useful and the Emperor Alexander held him in high
  esteem personally. Armfeldt virulently hated Napoleon and was a general
  full of self-confidence, a quality that always influenced Alexander.
  Paulucci was there because he was bold and decided in speech. The
  adjutants general were there because they always accompanied the Emperor,
  and lastly and chiefly Pfuel was there because he had drawn up the plan of
  campaign against Napoleon and, having induced Alexander to believe in the
  efficacy of that plan, was directing the whole business of the war. With
  Pfuel was Wolzogen, who expressed Pfuel&rsquo;s thoughts in a more
  comprehensible way than Pfuel himself (who was a harsh, bookish theorist,
  self-confident to the point of despising everyone else) was able to do.
<br />
  Besides these Russians and foreigners who propounded new and unexpected
  ideas every day&mdash;especially the foreigners, who did so with a
  boldness characteristic of people employed in a country not their own&mdash;there
  were many secondary personages accompanying the army because their
  principals were there.
<br />
  Among the opinions and voices in this immense, restless, brilliant, and
  proud sphere, Prince Andrew noticed the following sharply defined
  subdivisions of tendencies and parties:
<br />
  The first party consisted of Pfuel and his adherents&mdash;military
  theorists who believed in a science of war with immutable laws&mdash;laws
  of oblique movements, outflankings, and so forth. Pfuel and his adherents
  demanded a retirement into the depths of the country in accordance with
  precise laws defined by a pseudo-theory of war, and they saw only
  barbarism, ignorance, or evil intention in every deviation from that
  theory. To this party belonged the foreign nobles, Wolzogen,
  Wintzingerode, and others, chiefly Germans.
<br />
  The second party was directly opposed to the first; one extreme, as always
  happens, was met by representatives of the other. The members of this
  party were those who had demanded an advance from Vílna into Poland and
  freedom from all prearranged plans. Besides being advocates of bold
  action, this section also represented nationalism, which made them still
  more one-sided in the dispute. They were Russians: Bagratión, Ermólov (who
  was beginning to come to the front), and others. At that time a famous
  joke of Ermólov&rsquo;s was being circulated, that as a great favor he had
  petitioned the Emperor to make him a German. The men of that party,
  remembering Suvórov, said that what one had to do was not to reason, or
  stick pins into maps, but to fight, beat the enemy, keep him out of
  Russia, and not let the army get discouraged.
<br />
  To the third party&mdash;in which the Emperor had most confidence&mdash;belonged
  the courtiers who tried to arrange compromises between the other two. The
  members of this party, chiefly civilians and to whom Arakchéev belonged,
  thought and said what men who have no convictions but wish to seem to have
  some generally say. They said that undoubtedly war, particularly against
  such a genius as Bonaparte (they called him Bonaparte now), needs most
  deeply devised plans and profound scientific knowledge and in that respect
  Pfuel was a genius, but at the same time it had to be acknowledged that
  the theorists are often one-sided, and therefore one should not trust them
  absolutely, but should also listen to what Pfuel&rsquo;s opponents and practical
  men of experience in warfare had to say, and then choose a middle course.
  They insisted on the retention of the camp at Drissa, according to Pfuel&rsquo;s
  plan, but on changing the movements of the other armies. Though, by this
  course, neither one aim nor the other could be attained, yet it seemed
  best to the adherents of this third party.
<br />
  Of a fourth opinion the most conspicuous representative was the Tsarévich,
  who could not forget his disillusionment at Austerlitz, where he had
  ridden out at the head of the Guards, in his casque and cavalry uniform as
  to a review, expecting to crush the French gallantly; but unexpectedly
  finding himself in the front line had narrowly escaped amid the general
  confusion. The men of this party had both the quality and the defect of
  frankness in their opinions. They feared Napoleon, recognized his strength
  and their own weakness, and frankly said so. They said: &ldquo;Nothing but
  sorrow, shame, and ruin will come of all this! We have abandoned Vílna and
  Vítebsk and shall abandon Drissa. The only reasonable thing left to do is
  to conclude peace as soon as possible, before we are turned out of
  Petersburg.&rdquo;
 <br />
  This view was very general in the upper army circles and found support
  also in Petersburg and from the chancellor, Rumyántsev, who, for other
  reasons of state, was in favor of peace.
<br />
  The fifth party consisted of those who were adherents of Barclay de Tolly,
  not so much as a man but as minister of war and commander in chief. &ldquo;Be he
  what he may&rdquo; (they always began like that), &ldquo;he is an honest, practical
  man and we have nobody better. Give him real power, for war cannot be
  conducted successfully without unity of command, and he will show what he
  can do, as he did in Finland. If our army is well organized and strong and
  has withdrawn to Drissa without suffering any defeats, we owe this
  entirely to Barclay. If Barclay is now to be superseded by Bennigsen all
  will be lost, for Bennigsen showed his incapacity already in 1807.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The sixth party, the Bennigsenites, said, on the contrary, that at any
  rate there was no one more active and experienced than Bennigsen: &ldquo;and
  twist about as you may, you will have to come to Bennigsen eventually. Let
  the others make mistakes now!&rdquo; said they, arguing that our retirement to
  Drissa was a most shameful reverse and an unbroken series of blunders.
  &ldquo;The more mistakes that are made the better. It will at any rate be
  understood all the sooner that things cannot go on like this. What is
  wanted is not some Barclay or other, but a man like Bennigsen, who made
  his mark in 1807, and to whom Napoleon himself did justice&mdash;a man
  whose authority would be willingly recognized, and Bennigsen is the only
  such man.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The seventh party consisted of the sort of people who are always to be
  found, especially around young sovereigns, and of whom there were
  particularly many round Alexander&mdash;generals and imperial
  aides-de-camp passionately devoted to the Emperor, not merely as a monarch
  but as a man, adoring him sincerely and disinterestedly, as Rostóv had
  done in 1805, and who saw in him not only all the virtues but all human
  capabilities as well. These men, though enchanted with the sovereign for
  refusing the command of the army, yet blamed him for such excessive
  modesty, and only desired and insisted that their adored sovereign should
  abandon his diffidence and openly announce that he would place himself at
  the head of the army, gather round him a commander in chief&rsquo;s staff, and,
  consulting experienced theoreticians and practical men where necessary,
  would himself lead the troops, whose spirits would thereby be raised to
  the highest pitch.
<br />
  The eighth and largest group, which in its enormous numbers was to the
  others as ninety-nine to one, consisted of men who desired neither peace
  nor war, neither an advance nor a defensive camp at the Drissa or anywhere
  else, neither Barclay nor the Emperor, neither Pfuel nor Bennigsen, but
  only the one most essential thing&mdash;as much advantage and pleasure for
  themselves as possible. In the troubled waters of conflicting and
  intersecting intrigues that eddied about the Emperor&rsquo;s headquarters, it
  was possible to succeed in many ways unthinkable at other times. A man who
  simply wished to retain his lucrative post would today agree with Pfuel,
  tomorrow with his opponent, and the day after, merely to avoid
  responsibility or to please the Emperor, would declare that he had no
  opinion at all on the matter. Another who wished to gain some advantage
  would attract the Emperor&rsquo;s attention by loudly advocating the very thing
  the Emperor had hinted at the day before, and would dispute and shout at
  the council, beating his breast and challenging those who did not agree
  with him to duels, thereby proving that he was prepared to sacrifice
  himself for the common good. A third, in the absence of opponents, between
  two councils would simply solicit a special gratuity for his faithful
  services, well knowing that at that moment people would be too busy to
  refuse him. A fourth while seemingly overwhelmed with work would often
  come accidentally under the Emperor&rsquo;s eye. A fifth, to achieve his
  long-cherished aim of dining with the Emperor, would stubbornly insist on
  the correctness or falsity of some newly emerging opinion and for this
  object would produce arguments more or less forcible and correct.
<br />
  All the men of this party were fishing for rubles, decorations, and
  promotions, and in this pursuit watched only the weathercock of imperial
  favor, and directly they noticed it turning in any direction, this whole
  drone population of the army began blowing hard that way, so that it was
  all the harder for the Emperor to turn it elsewhere. Amid the
  uncertainties of the position, with the menace of serious danger giving a
  peculiarly threatening character to everything, amid this vortex of
  intrigue, egotism, conflict of views and feelings, and the diversity of
  race among these people&mdash;this eighth and largest party of those
  preoccupied with personal interests imparted great confusion and obscurity
  to the common task. Whatever question arose, a swarm of these drones,
  without having finished their buzzing on a previous theme, flew over to
  the new one and by their hum drowned and obscured the voices of those who
  were disputing honestly.
<br />
  From among all these parties, just at the time Prince Andrew reached the
  army, another, a ninth party, was being formed and was beginning to raise
  its voice. This was the party of the elders, reasonable men experienced
  and capable in state affairs, who, without sharing any of those
  conflicting opinions, were able to take a detached view of what was going
  on at the staff at headquarters and to consider means of escape from this
  muddle, indecision, intricacy, and weakness.
<br />
  The men of this party said and thought that what was wrong resulted
  chiefly from the Emperor&rsquo;s presence in the army with his military court
  and from the consequent presence there of an indefinite, conditional, and
  unsteady fluctuation of relations, which is in place at court but harmful
  in an army; that a sovereign should reign but not command the army, and
  that the only way out of the position would be for the Emperor and his
  court to leave the army; that the mere presence of the Emperor paralyzed
  the action of fifty thousand men required to secure his personal safety,
  and that the worst commander in chief, if independent, would be better
  than the very best one trammeled by the presence and authority of the
  monarch.
<br />
  Just at the time Prince Andrew was living unoccupied at Drissa, Shishkóv,
  the Secretary of State and one of the chief representatives of this party,
  wrote a letter to the Emperor which Arakchéev and Balashëv agreed to sign.
  In this letter, availing himself of permission given him by the Emperor to
  discuss the general course of affairs, he respectfully suggested&mdash;on
  the plea that it was necessary for the sovereign to arouse a warlike
  spirit in the people of the capital&mdash;that the Emperor should leave
  the army.
<br />
  That arousing of the people by their sovereign and his call to them to
  defend their country&mdash;the very incitement which was the chief cause
  of Russia&rsquo;s triumph in so far as it was produced by the Tsar&rsquo;s personal
  presence in Moscow&mdash;was suggested to the Emperor, and accepted by
  him, as a pretext for quitting the army.

  CHAPTER X


  This letter had not yet been presented to the Emperor when Barclay, one
  day at dinner, informed Bolkónski that the sovereign wished to see him
  personally, to question him about Turkey, and that Prince Andrew was to
  present himself at Bennigsen&rsquo;s quarters at six that evening.
<br />
  News was received at the Emperor&rsquo;s quarters that very day of a fresh
  movement by Napoleon which might endanger the army&mdash;news subsequently
  found to be false. And that morning Colonel Michaud had ridden round the
  Drissa fortifications with the Emperor and had pointed out to him that
  this fortified camp constructed by Pfuel, and till then considered a
  chef-d&rsquo;oeuvre of tactical science which would ensure Napoleon&rsquo;s
  destruction, was an absurdity, threatening the destruction of the Russian
  army.
<br />
  Prince Andrew arrived at Bennigsen&rsquo;s quarters&mdash;a country gentleman&rsquo;s
  house of moderate size, situated on the very banks of the river. Neither
  Bennigsen nor the Emperor was there, but Chernýshev, the Emperor&rsquo;s
  aide-de-camp, received Bolkónski and informed him that the Emperor,
  accompanied by General Bennigsen and Marquis Paulucci, had gone a second
  time that day to inspect the fortifications of the Drissa camp, of the
  suitability of which serious doubts were beginning to be felt.
<br />
  Chernýshev was sitting at a window in the first room with a French novel
  in his hand. This room had probably been a music room; there was still an
  organ in it on which some rugs were piled, and in one corner stood the
  folding bedstead of Bennigsen&rsquo;s adjutant. This adjutant was also there and
  sat dozing on the rolled-up bedding, evidently exhausted by work or by
  feasting. Two doors led from the room, one straight on into what had been
  the drawing room, and another, on the right, to the study. Through the
  first door came the sound of voices conversing in German and occasionally
  in French. In that drawing room were gathered, by the Emperor&rsquo;s wish, not
  a military council (the Emperor preferred indefiniteness), but certain
  persons whose opinions he wished to know in view of the impending
  difficulties. It was not a council of war, but, as it were, a council to
  elucidate certain questions for the Emperor personally. To this
  semicouncil had been invited the Swedish General Armfeldt, Adjutant
  General Wolzogen, Wintzingerode (whom Napoleon had referred to as a
  renegade French subject), Michaud, Toll, Count Stein who was not a
  military man at all, and Pfuel himself, who, as Prince Andrew had heard,
  was the mainspring of the whole affair. Prince Andrew had an opportunity
  of getting a good look at him, for Pfuel arrived soon after himself and,
  in passing through to the drawing room, stopped a minute to speak to
  Chernýshev.
<br />
  At first sight, Pfuel, in his ill-made uniform of a Russian general, which
  fitted him badly like a fancy costume, seemed familiar to Prince Andrew,
  though he saw him now for the first time. There was about him something of
  Weyrother, Mack, and Schmidt, and many other German theorist-generals whom
  Prince Andrew had seen in 1805, but he was more typical than any of them.
  Prince Andrew had never yet seen a German theorist in whom all the
  characteristics of those others were united to such an extent.
<br />
  Pfuel was short and very thin but broad-boned, of coarse, robust build,
  broad in the hips, and with prominent shoulder blades. His face was much
  wrinkled and his eyes deep set. His hair had evidently been hastily
  brushed smooth in front of the temples, but stuck up behind in quaint
  little tufts. He entered the room, looking restlessly and angrily around,
  as if afraid of everything in that large apartment. Awkwardly holding up
  his sword, he addressed Chernýshev and asked in German where the Emperor
  was. One could see that he wished to pass through the rooms as quickly as
  possible, finish with the bows and greetings, and sit down to business in
  front of a map, where he would feel at home. He nodded hurriedly in reply
  to Chernýshev, and smiled ironically on hearing that the sovereign was
  inspecting the fortifications that he, Pfuel, had planned in accord with
  his theory. He muttered something to himself abruptly and in a bass voice,
  as self-assured Germans do&mdash;it might have been &ldquo;stupid fellow&rdquo;... or
  &ldquo;the whole affair will be ruined,&rdquo; or &ldquo;something absurd will come of
  it.&rdquo;... Prince Andrew did not catch what he said and would have passed on,
  but Chernýshev introduced him to Pfuel, remarking that Prince Andrew was
  just back from Turkey where the war had terminated so fortunately. Pfuel
  barely glanced&mdash;not so much at Prince Andrew as past him&mdash;and
  said, with a laugh: &ldquo;That must have been a fine tactical war&rdquo;; and,
  laughing contemptuously, went on into the room from which the sound of
  voices was heard.
<br />
  Pfuel, always inclined to be irritably sarcastic, was particularly
  disturbed that day, evidently by the fact that they had dared to inspect
  and criticize his camp in his absence. From this short interview with
  Pfuel, Prince Andrew, thanks to his Austerlitz experiences, was able to
  form a clear conception of the man. Pfuel was one of those hopelessly and
  immutably self-confident men, self-confident to the point of martyrdom as
  only Germans are, because only Germans are self-confident on the basis of
  an abstract notion&mdash;science, that is, the supposed knowledge of
  absolute truth. A Frenchman is self-assured because he regards himself
  personally, both in mind and body, as irresistibly attractive to men and
  women. An Englishman is self-assured, as being a citizen of the
  best-organized state in the world, and therefore as an Englishman always
  knows what he should do and knows that all he does as an Englishman is
  undoubtedly correct. An Italian is self-assured because he is excitable
  and easily forgets himself and other people. A Russian is self-assured
  just because he knows nothing and does not want to know anything, since he
  does not believe that anything can be known. The German&rsquo;s self-assurance
  is worst of all, stronger and more repulsive than any other, because he
  imagines that he knows the truth&mdash;science&mdash;which he himself has
  invented but which is for him the absolute truth.
<br />
  Pfuel was evidently of that sort. He had a science&mdash;the theory of
  oblique movements deduced by him from the history of Frederick the Great&rsquo;s
  wars, and all he came across in the history of more recent warfare seemed
  to him absurd and barbarous&mdash;monstrous collisions in which so many
  blunders were committed by both sides that these wars could not be called
  wars, they did not accord with the theory, and therefore could not serve
  as material for science.
<br />
  In 1806 Pfuel had been one of those responsible, for the plan of campaign
  that ended in Jena and Auerstädt, but he did not see the least proof of
  the fallibility of his theory in the disasters of that war. On the
  contrary, the deviations made from his theory were, in his opinion, the
  sole cause of the whole disaster, and with characteristically gleeful
  sarcasm he would remark, &ldquo;There, I said the whole affair would go to the
  devil!&rdquo; Pfuel was one of those theoreticians who so love their theory that
  they lose sight of the theory&rsquo;s object&mdash;its practical application.
  His love of theory made him hate everything practical, and he would not
  listen to it. He was even pleased by failures, for failures resulting from
  deviations in practice from the theory only proved to him the accuracy of
  his theory.
<br />
  He said a few words to Prince Andrew and Chernýshev about the present war,
  with the air of a man who knows beforehand that all will go wrong, and who
  is not displeased that it should be so. The unbrushed tufts of hair
  sticking up behind and the hastily brushed hair on his temples expressed
  this most eloquently.
<br />
  He passed into the next room, and the deep, querulous sounds of his voice
  were at once heard from there.

  CHAPTER XI


  Prince Andrew&rsquo;s eyes were still following Pfuel out of the room when Count
  Bennigsen entered hurriedly, and nodding to Bolkónski, but not pausing,
  went into the study, giving instructions to his adjutant as he went. The
  Emperor was following him, and Bennigsen had hastened on to make some
  preparations and to be ready to receive the sovereign. Chernýshev and
  Prince Andrew went out into the porch, where the Emperor, who looked
  fatigued, was dismounting. Marquis Paulucci was talking to him with
  particular warmth and the Emperor, with his head bent to the left, was
  listening with a dissatisfied air. The Emperor moved forward evidently
  wishing to end the conversation, but the flushed and excited Italian,
  oblivious of decorum, followed him and continued to speak.
<br />
  &ldquo;And as for the man who advised forming this camp&mdash;the Drissa camp,&rdquo;
   said Paulucci, as the Emperor mounted the steps and noticing Prince Andrew
  scanned his unfamiliar face, &ldquo;as to that person, sire...&rdquo; continued
  Paulucci, desperately, apparently unable to restrain himself, &ldquo;the man who
  advised the Drissa camp&mdash;I see no alternative but the lunatic asylum
  or the gallows!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Without heeding the end of the Italian&rsquo;s remarks, and as though not
  hearing them, the Emperor, recognizing Bolkónski, addressed him
  graciously.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am very glad to see you! Go in there where they are meeting, and wait
  for me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The Emperor went into the study. He was followed by Prince Peter
  Mikháylovich Volkónski and Baron Stein, and the door closed behind them.
  Prince Andrew, taking advantage of the Emperor&rsquo;s permission, accompanied
  Paulucci, whom he had known in Turkey, into the drawing room where the
  council was assembled.
<br />
  Prince Peter Mikháylovich Volkónski occupied the position, as it were, of
  chief of the Emperor&rsquo;s staff. He came out of the study into the drawing
  room with some maps which he spread on a table, and put questions on which
  he wished to hear the opinion of the gentlemen present. What had happened
  was that news (which afterwards proved to be false) had been received
  during the night of a movement by the French to outflank the Drissa camp.
<br />
  The first to speak was General Armfeldt who, to meet the difficulty that
  presented itself, unexpectedly proposed a perfectly new position away from
  the Petersburg and Moscow roads. The reason for this was inexplicable
  (unless he wished to show that he, too, could have an opinion), but he
  urged that at this point the army should unite and there await the enemy.
  It was plain that Armfeldt had thought out that plan long ago and now
  expounded it not so much to answer the questions put&mdash;which, in fact,
  his plan did not answer&mdash;as to avail himself of the opportunity to
  air it. It was one of the millions of proposals, one as good as another,
  that could be made as long as it was quite unknown what character the war
  would take. Some disputed his arguments, others defended them. Young Count
  Toll objected to the Swedish general&rsquo;s views more warmly than anyone else,
  and in the course of the dispute drew from his side pocket a well-filled
  notebook, which he asked permission to read to them. In these voluminous
  notes Toll suggested another scheme, totally different from Armfeldt&rsquo;s or
  Pfuel&rsquo;s plan of campaign. In answer to Toll, Paulucci suggested an advance
  and an attack, which, he urged, could alone extricate us from the present
  uncertainty and from the trap (as he called the Drissa camp) in which we
  were situated.
<br />
  During all these discussions Pfuel and his interpreter, Wolzogen (his
  &ldquo;bridge&rdquo; in court relations), were silent. Pfuel only snorted
  contemptuously and turned away, to show that he would never demean himself
  by replying to such nonsense as he was now hearing. So when Prince
  Volkónski, who was in the chair, called on him to give his opinion, he
  merely said:
<br />
  &ldquo;Why ask me? General Armfeldt has proposed a splendid position with an
  exposed rear, or why not this Italian gentleman&rsquo;s attack&mdash;very fine,
  or a retreat, also good! Why ask me?&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Why, you yourselves know
  everything better than I do.&rdquo;
 <br />
  But when Volkónski said, with a frown, that it was in the Emperor&rsquo;s name
  that he asked his opinion, Pfuel rose and, suddenly growing animated,
  began to speak:
<br />
  &ldquo;Everything has been spoiled, everything muddled, everybody thought they
  knew better than I did, and now you come to me! How mend matters? There is
  nothing to mend! The principles laid down by me must be strictly adhered
  to,&rdquo; said he, drumming on the table with his bony fingers. &ldquo;What is the
  difficulty? Nonsense, childishness!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He went up to the map and speaking rapidly began proving that no
  eventuality could alter the efficiency of the Drissa camp, that everything
  had been foreseen, and that if the enemy were really going to outflank it,
  the enemy would inevitably be destroyed.
<br />
  Paulucci, who did not know German, began questioning him in French.
  Wolzogen came to the assistance of his chief, who spoke French badly, and
  began translating for him, hardly able to keep pace with Pfuel, who was
  rapidly demonstrating that not only all that had happened, but all that
  could happen, had been foreseen in his scheme, and that if there were now
  any difficulties the whole fault lay in the fact that his plan had not
  been precisely executed. He kept laughing sarcastically, he demonstrated,
  and at last contemptuously ceased to demonstrate, like a mathematician who
  ceases to prove in various ways the accuracy of a problem that has already
  been proved. Wolzogen took his place and continued to explain his views in
  French, every now and then turning to Pfuel and saying, &ldquo;Is it not so,
  your excellency?&rdquo; But Pfuel, like a man heated in a fight who strikes
  those on his own side, shouted angrily at his own supporter, Wolzogen:
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, of course, what more is there to explain?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Paulucci and Michaud both attacked Wolzogen simultaneously in French.
  Armfeldt addressed Pfuel in German. Toll explained to Volkónski in
  Russian. Prince Andrew listened and observed in silence.
<br />
  Of all these men Prince Andrew sympathized most with Pfuel, angry,
  determined, and absurdly self-confident as he was. Of all those present,
  evidently he alone was not seeking anything for himself, nursed no hatred
  against anyone, and only desired that the plan, formed on a theory arrived
  at by years of toil, should be carried out. He was ridiculous, and
  unpleasantly sarcastic, but yet he inspired involuntary respect by his
  boundless devotion to an idea. Besides this, the remarks of all except
  Pfuel had one common trait that had not been noticeable at the council of
  war in 1805: there was now a panic fear of Napoleon&rsquo;s genius, which,
  though concealed, was noticeable in every rejoinder. Everything was
  assumed to be possible for Napoleon, they expected him from every side,
  and invoked his terrible name to shatter each other&rsquo;s proposals. Pfuel
  alone seemed to consider Napoleon a barbarian like everyone else who
  opposed his theory. But besides this feeling of respect, Pfuel evoked pity
  in Prince Andrew. From the tone in which the courtiers addressed him and
  the way Paulucci had allowed himself to speak of him to the Emperor, but
  above all from a certain desperation in Pfuel&rsquo;s own expressions, it was
  clear that the others knew, and Pfuel himself felt, that his fall was at
  hand. And despite his self-confidence and grumpy German sarcasm he was
  pitiable, with his hair smoothly brushed on the temples and sticking up in
  tufts behind. Though he concealed the fact under a show of irritation and
  contempt, he was evidently in despair that the sole remaining chance of
  verifying his theory by a huge experiment and proving its soundness to the
  whole world was slipping away from him.
<br />
  The discussions continued a long time, and the longer they lasted the more
  heated became the disputes, culminating in shouts and personalities, and
  the less was it possible to arrive at any general conclusion from all that
  had been said. Prince Andrew, listening to this polyglot talk and to these
  surmises, plans, refutations, and shouts, felt nothing but amazement at
  what they were saying. A thought that had long since and often occurred to
  him during his military activities&mdash;the idea that there is not and
  cannot be any science of war, and that therefore there can be no such
  thing as a military genius&mdash;now appeared to him an obvious truth.
  &ldquo;What theory and science is possible about a matter the conditions and
  circumstances of which are unknown and cannot be defined, especially when
  the strength of the acting forces cannot be ascertained? No one was or is
  able to foresee in what condition our or the enemy&rsquo;s armies will be in a
  day&rsquo;s time, and no one can gauge the force of this or that detachment.
  Sometimes&mdash;when there is not a coward at the front to shout, &lsquo;We are
  cut off!&rsquo; and start running, but a brave and jolly lad who shouts,
  &lsquo;Hurrah!&rsquo;&mdash;a detachment of five thousand is worth thirty thousand, as
  at Schön Grabern, while at times fifty thousand run from eight thousand,
  as at Austerlitz. What science can there be in a matter in which, as in
  all practical matters, nothing can be defined and everything depends on
  innumerable conditions, the significance of which is determined at a
  particular moment which arrives no one knows when? Armfeldt says our army
  is cut in half, and Paulucci says we have got the French army between two
  fires; Michaud says that the worthlessness of the Drissa camp lies in
  having the river behind it, and Pfuel says that is what constitutes its
  strength; Toll proposes one plan, Armfeldt another, and they are all good
  and all bad, and the advantages of any suggestions can be seen only at the
  moment of trial. And why do they all speak of a &lsquo;military genius&rsquo;? Is a
  man a genius who can order bread to be brought up at the right time and
  say who is to go to the right and who to the left? It is only because
  military men are invested with pomp and power and crowds of sychophants
  flatter power, attributing to it qualities of genius it does not possess.
  The best generals I have known were, on the contrary, stupid or
  absent-minded men. Bagratión was the best, Napoleon himself admitted that.
  And of Bonaparte himself! I remember his limited, self-satisfied face on
  the field of Austerlitz. Not only does a good army commander not need any
  special qualities, on the contrary he needs the absence of the highest and
  best human attributes&mdash;love, poetry, tenderness, and philosophic
  inquiring doubt. He should be limited, firmly convinced that what he is
  doing is very important (otherwise he will not have sufficient patience),
  and only then will he be a brave leader. God forbid that he should be
  humane, should love, or pity, or think of what is just and unjust. It is
  understandable that a theory of their &lsquo;genius&rsquo; was invented for them long
  ago because they have power! The success of a military action depends not
  on them, but on the man in the ranks who shouts, &lsquo;We are lost!&rsquo; or who
  shouts, &lsquo;Hurrah!&rsquo; And only in the ranks can one serve with assurance of
  being useful.&rdquo;
 <br />
  So thought Prince Andrew as he listened to the talking, and he roused
  himself only when Paulucci called him and everyone was leaving.
<br />
  At the review next day the Emperor asked Prince Andrew where he would like
  to serve, and Prince Andrew lost his standing in court circles forever by
  not asking to remain attached to the sovereign&rsquo;s person, but for
  permission to serve in the army.

  CHAPTER XII


  Before the beginning of the campaign, Rostóv had received a letter from
  his parents in which they told him briefly of Natásha&rsquo;s illness and the
  breaking off of her engagement to Prince Andrew (which they explained by
  Natásha&rsquo;s having rejected him) and again asked Nicholas to retire from the
  army and return home. On receiving this letter, Nicholas did not even make
  any attempt to get leave of absence or to retire from the army, but wrote
  to his parents that he was sorry Natásha was ill and her engagement broken
  off, and that he would do all he could to meet their wishes. To Sónya he
  wrote separately.
<br />
  &ldquo;Adored friend of my soul!&rdquo; he wrote. &ldquo;Nothing but honor could keep me
  from returning to the country. But now, at the commencement of the
  campaign, I should feel dishonored, not only in my comrades&rsquo; eyes but in
  my own, if I preferred my own happiness to my love and duty to the
  Fatherland. But this shall be our last separation. Believe me, directly
  the war is over, if I am still alive and still loved by you, I will throw
  up everything and fly to you, to press you forever to my ardent breast.&rdquo;
 <br />
  It was, in fact, only the commencement of the campaign that prevented
  Rostóv from returning home as he had promised and marrying Sónya. The
  autumn in Otrádnoe with the hunting, and the winter with the Christmas
  holidays and Sónya&rsquo;s love, had opened out to him a vista of tranquil rural
  joys and peace such as he had never known before, and which now allured
  him. &ldquo;A splendid wife, children, a good pack of hounds, a dozen leashes of
  smart borzois, agriculture, neighbors, service by election...&rdquo; thought he.
  But now the campaign was beginning, and he had to remain with his
  regiment. And since it had to be so, Nicholas Rostóv, as was natural to
  him, felt contented with the life he led in the regiment and was able to
  find pleasure in that life.
<br />
  On his return from his furlough Nicholas, having been joyfully welcomed by
  his comrades, was sent to obtain remounts and brought back from the
  Ukraine excellent horses which pleased him and earned him commendation
  from his commanders. During his absence he had been promoted captain, and
  when the regiment was put on war footing with an increase in numbers, he
  was again allotted his old squadron.
<br />
  The campaign began, the regiment was moved into Poland on double pay, new
  officers arrived, new men and horses, and above all everybody was infected
  with the merrily excited mood that goes with the commencement of a war,
  and Rostóv, conscious of his advantageous position in the regiment,
  devoted himself entirely to the pleasures and interests of military
  service, though he knew that sooner or later he would have to relinquish
  them.
<br />
  The troops retired from Vílna for various complicated reasons of state,
  political and strategic. Each step of the retreat was accompanied by a
  complicated interplay of interests, arguments, and passions at
  headquarters. For the Pávlograd hussars, however, the whole of this
  retreat during the finest period of summer and with sufficient supplies
  was a very simple and agreeable business.
<br />
  It was only at headquarters that there was depression, uneasiness, and
  intriguing; in the body of the army they did not ask themselves where they
  were going or why. If they regretted having to retreat, it was only
  because they had to leave billets they had grown accustomed to, or some
  pretty young Polish lady. If the thought that things looked bad chanced to
  enter anyone&rsquo;s head, he tried to be as cheerful as befits a good soldier
  and not to think of the general trend of affairs, but only of the task
  nearest to hand. First they camped gaily before Vílna, making acquaintance
  with the Polish landowners, preparing for reviews and being reviewed by
  the Emperor and other high commanders. Then came an order to retreat to
  Sventsyáni and destroy any provisions they could not carry away with them.
  Sventsyáni was remembered by the hussars only as the , a name
  the whole army gave to their encampment there, and because many complaints
  were made against the troops, who, taking advantage of the order to
  collect provisions, took also horses, carriages, and carpets from the
  Polish proprietors. Rostóv remembered Sventsyáni, because on the first day
  of their arrival at that small town he changed his sergeant major and was
  unable to manage all the drunken men of his squadron who, unknown to him,
  had appropriated five barrels of old beer. From Sventsyáni they retired
  farther and farther to Drissa, and thence again beyond Drissa, drawing
  near to the frontier of Russia proper.
<br />
  On the thirteenth of July the Pávlograds took part in a serious action for
  the first time.
<br />
  On the twelfth of July, on the eve of that action, there was a heavy storm
  of rain and hail. In general, the summer of 1812 was remarkable for its
  storms.
<br />
  The two Pávlograd squadrons were bivouacking on a field of rye, which was
  already in ear but had been completely trodden down by cattle and horses.
  The rain was descending in torrents, and Rostóv, with a young officer
  named Ilyín, his protégé, was sitting in a hastily constructed shelter. An
  officer of their regiment, with long mustaches extending onto his cheeks,
  who after riding to the staff had been overtaken by the rain, entered
  Rostóv&rsquo;s shelter.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have come from the staff, Count. Have you heard of Raévski&rsquo;s exploit?&rdquo;
 <br />
  And the officer gave them details of the Saltánov battle, which he had
  heard at the staff.
<br />
  Rostóv, smoking his pipe and turning his head about as the water trickled
  down his neck, listened inattentively, with an occasional glance at Ilyín,
  who was pressing close to him. This officer, a lad of sixteen who had
  recently joined the regiment, was now in the same relation to Nicholas
  that Nicholas had been to Denísov seven years before. Ilyín tried to
  imitate Rostóv in everything and adored him as a girl might have done.
<br />
  Zdrzhinski, the officer with the long mustache, spoke grandiloquently of
  the Saltánov dam being &ldquo;a Russian Thermopylae,&rdquo; and of how a deed worthy
  of antiquity had been performed by General Raévski. He recounted how
  Raévski had led his two sons onto the dam under terrific fire and had
  charged with them beside him. Rostóv heard the story and not only said
  nothing to encourage Zdrzhinski&rsquo;s enthusiasm but, on the contrary, looked
  like a man ashamed of what he was hearing, though with no intention of
  contradicting it. Since the campaigns of Austerlitz and of 1807 Rostóv
  knew by experience that men always lie when describing military exploits,
  as he himself had done when recounting them; besides that, he had
  experience enough to know that nothing happens in war at all as we can
  imagine or relate it. And so he did not like Zdrzhinski&rsquo;s tale, nor did he
  like Zdrzhinski himself who, with his mustaches extending over his cheeks,
  bent low over the face of his hearer, as was his habit, and crowded Rostóv
  in the narrow shanty. Rostóv looked at him in silence. &ldquo;In the first
  place, there must have been such a confusion and crowding on the dam that
  was being attacked that if Raévski did lead his sons there, it could have
  had no effect except perhaps on some dozen men nearest to him,&rdquo; thought
  he, &ldquo;the rest could not have seen how or with whom Raévski came onto the
  dam. And even those who did see it would not have been much stimulated by
  it, for what had they to do with Raévski&rsquo;s tender paternal feelings when
  their own skins were in danger? And besides, the fate of the Fatherland
  did not depend on whether they took the Saltánov dam or not, as we are
  told was the case at Thermopylae. So why should he have made such a
  sacrifice? And why expose his own children in the battle? I would not have
  taken my brother Pétya there, or even Ilyín, who&rsquo;s a stranger to me but a
  nice lad, but would have tried to put them somewhere under cover,&rdquo;
   Nicholas continued to think, as he listened to Zdrzhinski. But he did not
  express his thoughts, for in such matters, too, he had gained experience.
  He knew that this tale redounded to the glory of our arms and so one had
  to pretend not to doubt it. And he acted accordingly.
<br />
  &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t stand this any more,&rdquo; said Ilyín, noticing that Rostóv did not
  relish Zdrzhinski&rsquo;s conversation. &ldquo;My stockings and shirt... and the water
  is running on my seat! I&rsquo;ll go and look for shelter. The rain seems less
  heavy.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Ilyín went out and Zdrzhinski rode away.
<br />
  Five minutes later Ilyín, splashing through the mud, came running back to
  the shanty.
<br />
  &ldquo;Hurrah! Rostóv, come quick! I&rsquo;ve found it! About two hundred yards away
  there&rsquo;s a tavern where  have already gathered. We can at least get dry
  there, and Mary Hendríkhovna&rsquo;s there.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Mary Hendríkhovna was the wife of the regimental doctor, a pretty young
  German woman he had married in Poland. The doctor, whether from lack of
  means or because he did not like to part from his young wife in the early
  days of their marriage, took her about with him wherever the hussar
  regiment went and his jealousy had become a standing joke among the hussar
  officers.
<br />
  Rostóv threw his cloak over his shoulders, shouted to Lavrúshka to follow
  with the things, and&mdash;now slipping in the mud, now splashing right
  through it&mdash;set off with Ilyín in the lessening rain and the darkness
  that was occasionally rent by distant lightning.
<br />
  &ldquo;Rostóv, where are you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Here. What lightning!&rdquo; they called to one another.

  CHAPTER XIII


  In the tavern, before which stood the doctor&rsquo;s covered cart, there were
  already some five officers. Mary Hendríkhovna, a plump little blonde
  German, in a dressing jacket and nightcap, was sitting on a broad bench in
  the front corner. Her husband, the doctor, lay asleep behind her. Rostóv
  and Ilyín, on entering the room, were welcomed with merry shouts and
  laughter.
<br />
  &ldquo;Dear me, how jolly we are!&rdquo; said Rostóv laughing.
<br />
  &ldquo;And why do you stand there gaping?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What swells they are! Why, the water streams from them! Don&rsquo;t make our
  drawing room so wet.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t mess Mary Hendríkhovna&rsquo;s dress!&rdquo; cried other voices.
<br />
  Rostóv and Ilyín hastened to find a corner where they could change into
  dry clothes without offending Mary Hendríkhovna&rsquo;s modesty. They were going
  into a tiny recess behind a partition to change, but found it completely
  filled by three officers who sat playing cards by the light of a solitary
  candle on an empty box, and these officers would on no account yield their
  position. Mary Hendríkhovna obliged them with the loan of a petticoat to
  be used as a curtain, and behind that screen Rostóv and Ilyín, helped by
  Lavrúshka who had brought their kits, changed their wet things for dry
  ones.
<br />
  A fire was made up in the dilapidated brick stove. A board was found,
  fixed on two saddles and covered with a horsecloth, a small samovar was
  produced and a cellaret and half a bottle of rum, and having asked Mary
  Hendríkhovna to preside, they all crowded round her. One offered her a
  clean handkerchief to wipe her charming hands, another spread a jacket
  under her little feet to keep them from the damp, another hung his coat
  over the window to keep out the draft, and yet another waved the flies off
  her husband&rsquo;s face, lest he should wake up.
<br />
  &ldquo;Leave him alone,&rdquo; said Mary Hendríkhovna, smiling timidly and happily.
  &ldquo;He is sleeping well as it is, after a sleepless night.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, no, Mary Hendríkhovna,&rdquo; replied the officer, &ldquo;one must look after the
  doctor. Perhaps he&rsquo;ll take pity on me someday, when it comes to cutting
  off a leg or an arm for me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  There were only three tumblers, the water was so muddy that one could not
  make out whether the tea was strong or weak, and the samovar held only six
  tumblers of water, but this made it all the pleasanter to take turns in
  order of seniority to receive one&rsquo;s tumbler from Mary Hendríkhovna&rsquo;s plump
  little hands with their short and not overclean nails. All the officers
  appeared to be, and really were, in love with her that evening. Even those
  playing cards behind the partition soon left their game and came over to
  the samovar, yielding to the general mood of courting Mary Hendríkhovna.
  She, seeing herself surrounded by such brilliant and polite young men,
  beamed with satisfaction, try as she might to hide it, and perturbed as
  she evidently was each time her husband moved in his sleep behind her.
<br />
  There was only one spoon, sugar was more plentiful than anything else, but
  it took too long to dissolve, so it was decided that Mary Hendríkhovna
  should stir the sugar for everyone in turn. Rostóv received his tumbler,
  and adding some rum to it asked Mary Hendríkhovna to stir it.
<br />
  &ldquo;But you take it without sugar?&rdquo; she said, smiling all the time, as if
  everything she said and everything the others said was very amusing and
  had a double meaning.
<br />
  &ldquo;It is not the sugar I want, but only that your little hand should stir my
  tea.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Mary Hendríkhovna assented and began looking for the spoon which someone
  meanwhile had pounced on.
<br />
  &ldquo;Use your finger, Mary Hendríkhovna, it will be still nicer,&rdquo; said Rostóv.
<br />
  &ldquo;Too hot!&rdquo; she replied, blushing with pleasure.
<br />
  Ilyín put a few drops of rum into the bucket of water and brought it to
  Mary Hendríkhovna, asking her to stir it with her finger.
<br />
  &ldquo;This is my cup,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Only dip your finger in it and I&rsquo;ll drink it
  all up.&rdquo;
 <br />
  When they had emptied the samovar, Rostóv took a pack of cards and
  proposed that they should play &ldquo;Kings&rdquo; with Mary Hendríkhovna. They drew
  lots to settle who should make up her set. At Rostóv&rsquo;s suggestion it was
  agreed that whoever became &ldquo;King&rdquo; should have the right to kiss Mary
  Hendríkhovna&rsquo;s hand, and that the &ldquo;Booby&rdquo; should go to refill and reheat
  the samovar for the doctor when the latter awoke.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, but supposing Mary Hendríkhovna is &lsquo;King&rsquo;?&rdquo; asked Ilyín.
<br />
  &ldquo;As it is, she is Queen, and her word is law!&rdquo;
 <br />
  They had hardly begun to play before the doctor&rsquo;s disheveled head suddenly
  appeared from behind Mary Hendríkhovna. He had been awake for some time,
  listening to what was being said, and evidently found nothing entertaining
  or amusing in what was going on. His face was sad and depressed. Without
  greeting the officers, he scratched himself and asked to be allowed to
  pass as they were blocking the way. As soon as he had left the room all
  the officers burst into loud laughter and Mary Hendríkhovna blushed till
  her eyes filled with tears and thereby became still more attractive to
  them. Returning from the yard, the doctor told his wife (who had ceased to
  smile so happily, and looked at him in alarm, awaiting her sentence) that
  the rain had ceased and they must go to sleep in their covered cart, or
  everything in it would be stolen.
<br />
  &ldquo;But I&rsquo;ll send an orderly.... Two of them!&rdquo; said Rostóv. &ldquo;What an idea,
  doctor!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll stand guard on it myself!&rdquo; said Ilyín.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, gentlemen, you have had your sleep, but I have not slept for two
  nights,&rdquo; replied the doctor, and he sat down morosely beside his wife,
  waiting for the game to end.
<br />
  Seeing his gloomy face as he frowned at his wife, the officers grew still
  merrier, and some of them could not refrain from laughter, for which they
  hurriedly sought plausible pretexts. When he had gone, taking his wife
  with him, and had settled down with her in their covered cart, the
  officers lay down in the tavern, covering themselves with their wet
  cloaks, but they did not sleep for a long time; now they exchanged
  remarks, recalling the doctor&rsquo;s uneasiness and his wife&rsquo;s delight, now
  they ran out into the porch and reported what was taking place in the
  covered trap. Several times Rostóv, covering his head, tried to go to
  sleep, but some remark would arouse him and conversation would be resumed,
  to the accompaniment of unreasoning, merry, childlike laughter.

  CHAPTER XIV


  It was nearly three o&rsquo;clock but no one was yet asleep, when the
  quartermaster appeared with an order to move on to the little town of
  Ostróvna. Still laughing and talking, the officers began hurriedly getting
  ready and again boiled some muddy water in the samovar. But Rostóv went
  off to his squadron without waiting for tea. Day was breaking, the rain
  had ceased, and the clouds were dispersing. It felt damp and cold,
  especially in clothes that were still moist. As they left the tavern in
  the twilight of the dawn, Rostóv and Ilyín both glanced under the wet and
  glistening leather hood of the doctor&rsquo;s cart, from under the apron of
  which his feet were sticking out, and in the middle of which his wife&rsquo;s
  nightcap was visible and her sleepy breathing audible.
<br />
  &ldquo;She really is a dear little thing,&rdquo; said Rostóv to Ilyín, who was
  following him.
<br />
  &ldquo;A charming woman!&rdquo; said Ilyín, with all the gravity of a boy of sixteen.
<br />
  Half an hour later the squadron was lined up on the road. The command was
  heard to &ldquo;mount&rdquo; and the soldiers crossed themselves and mounted. Rostóv
  riding in front gave the order &ldquo;Forward!&rdquo; and the hussars, with clanking
  sabers and subdued talk, their horses&rsquo; hoofs splashing in the mud, defiled
  in fours and moved along the broad road planted with birch trees on each
  side, following the infantry and a battery that had gone on in front.
<br />
  Tattered, blue-purple clouds, reddening in the east, were scudding before
  the wind. It was growing lighter and lighter. That curly grass which
  always grows by country roadsides became clearly visible, still wet with
  the night&rsquo;s rain; the drooping branches of the birches, also wet, swayed
  in the wind and flung down bright drops of water to one side. The
  soldiers&rsquo; faces were more and more clearly visible. Rostóv, always closely
  followed by Ilyín, rode along the side of the road between two rows of
  birch trees.
<br />
  When campaigning, Rostóv allowed himself the indulgence of riding not a
  regimental but a Cossack horse. A judge of horses and a sportsman, he had
  lately procured himself a large, fine, mettlesome, Donéts horse,
  dun-colored, with light mane and tail, and when he rode it no one could
  outgallop him. To ride this horse was a pleasure to him, and he thought of
  the horse, of the morning, of the doctor&rsquo;s wife, but not once of the
  impending danger.
<br />
  Formerly, when going into action, Rostóv had felt afraid; now he had not
  the least feeling of fear. He was fearless, not because he had grown used
  to being under fire (one cannot grow used to danger), but because he had
  learned how to manage his thoughts when in danger. He had grown accustomed
  when going into action to think about anything but what would seem most
  likely to interest him&mdash;the impending danger. During the first period
  of his service, hard as he tried and much as he reproached himself with
  cowardice, he had not been able to do this, but with time it had come of
  itself. Now he rode beside Ilyín under the birch trees, occasionally
  plucking leaves from a branch that met his hand, sometimes touching his
  horse&rsquo;s side with his foot, or, without turning round, handing a pipe he
  had finished to an hussar riding behind him, with as calm and careless an
  air as though he were merely out for a ride. He glanced with pity at the
  excited face of Ilyín, who talked much and in great agitation. He knew
  from experience the tormenting expectation of terror and death the cornet
  was suffering and knew that only time could help him.
<br />
  As soon as the sun appeared in a clear strip of sky beneath the clouds,
  the wind fell, as if it dared not spoil the beauty of the summer morning
  after the storm; drops still continued to fall, but vertically now, and
  all was still. The whole sun appeared on the horizon and disappeared
  behind a long narrow cloud that hung above it. A few minutes later it
  reappeared brighter still from behind the top of the cloud, tearing its
  edge. Everything grew bright and glittered. And with that light, and as if
  in reply to it, came the sound of guns ahead of them.
<br />
  Before Rostóv had had time to consider and determine the distance of that
  firing, Count Ostermann-Tolstóy&rsquo;s adjutant came galloping from Vítebsk
  with orders to advance at a trot along the road.
<br />
  The squadron overtook and passed the infantry and the battery&mdash;which
  had also quickened their pace&mdash;rode down a hill, and passing through
  an empty and deserted village again ascended. The horses began to lather
  and the men to flush.
<br />
  &ldquo;Halt! Dress your ranks!&rdquo; the order of the regimental commander was heard
  ahead. &ldquo;Forward by the left. Walk, march!&rdquo; came the order from in front.
<br />
  And the hussars, passing along the line of troops on the left flank of our
  position, halted behind our Uhlans who were in the front line. To the
  right stood our infantry in a dense column: they were the reserve. Higher
  up the hill, on the very horizon, our guns were visible through the
  wonderfully clear air, brightly illuminated by slanting morning sunbeams.
  In front, beyond a hollow dale, could be seen the enemy&rsquo;s columns and
  guns. Our advanced line, already in action, could be heard briskly
  exchanging shots with the enemy in the dale.
<br />
  At these sounds, long unheard, Rostóv&rsquo;s spirits rose, as at the strains of
  the merriest music.  cracked the shots, now together, now
  several quickly one after another. Again all was silent and then again it
  sounded as if someone were walking on detonators and exploding them.
<br />
  The hussars remained in the same place for about an hour. A cannonade
  began. Count Ostermann with his suite rode up behind the squadron, halted,
  spoke to the commander of the regiment, and rode up the hill to the guns.
<br />
  After Ostermann had gone, a command rang out to the Uhlans.
<br />
  &ldquo;Form column! Prepare to charge!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The infantry in front of them parted into platoons to allow the cavalry to
  pass. The Uhlans started, the streamers on their spears fluttering, and
  trotted downhill toward the French cavalry which was seen below to the
  left.
<br />
  As soon as the Uhlans descended the hill, the hussars were ordered up the
  hill to support the battery. As they took the places vacated by the
  Uhlans, bullets came from the front, whining and whistling, but fell spent
  without taking effect.
<br />
  The sounds, which he had not heard for so long, had an even more
  pleasurable and exhilarating effect on Rostóv than the previous sounds of
  firing. Drawing himself up, he viewed the field of battle opening out
  before him from the hill, and with his whole soul followed the movement of
  the Uhlans. They swooped down close to the French dragoons, something
  confused happened there amid the smoke, and five minutes later our Uhlans
  were galloping back, not to the place they had occupied but more to the
  left, and among the orange-colored Uhlans on chestnut horses and behind
  them, in a large group, blue French dragoons on gray horses could be seen.

  CHAPTER XV


  Rostóv, with his keen sportsman&rsquo;s eye, was one of the first to catch sight
  of these blue French dragoons pursuing our Uhlans. Nearer and nearer in
  disorderly crowds came the Uhlans and the French dragoons pursuing them.
  He could already see how these men, who looked so small at the foot of the
  hill, jostled and overtook one another, waving their arms and their sabers
  in the air.
<br />
  Rostóv gazed at what was happening before him as at a hunt. He felt
  instinctively that if the hussars struck at the French dragoons now, the
  latter could not withstand them, but if a charge was to be made it must be
  done now, at that very moment, or it would be too late. He looked around.
  A captain, standing beside him, was gazing like himself with eyes fixed on
  the cavalry below them.
<br />
  &ldquo;Andrew Sevastyánych!&rdquo; said Rostóv. &ldquo;You know, we could crush them....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A fine thing too!&rdquo; replied the captain, &ldquo;and really...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Rostóv, without waiting to hear him out, touched his horse, galloped to
  the front of his squadron, and before he had time to finish giving the
  word of command, the whole squadron, sharing his feeling, was following
  him. Rostóv himself did not know how or why he did it. He acted as he did
  when hunting, without reflecting or considering. He saw the dragoons near
  and that they were galloping in disorder; he knew they could not withstand
  an attack&mdash;knew there was only that moment and that if he let it slip
  it would not return. The bullets were whining and whistling so
  stimulatingly around him and his horse was so eager to go that he could
  not restrain himself. He touched his horse, gave the word of command, and
  immediately, hearing behind him the tramp of the horses of his deployed
  squadron, rode at full trot downhill toward the dragoons. Hardly had they
  reached the bottom of the hill before their pace instinctively changed to
  a gallop, which grew faster and faster as they drew nearer to our Uhlans
  and the French dragoons who galloped after them. The dragoons were now
  close at hand. On seeing the hussars, the foremost began to turn, while
  those behind began to halt. With the same feeling with which he had
  galloped across the path of a wolf, Rostóv gave rein to his Donéts horse
  and galloped to intersect the path of the dragoons&rsquo; disordered lines. One
  Uhlan stopped, another who was on foot flung himself to the ground to
  avoid being knocked over, and a riderless horse fell in among the hussars.
  Nearly all the French dragoons were galloping back. Rostóv, picking out
  one on a gray horse, dashed after him. On the way he came upon a bush, his
  gallant horse cleared it, and almost before he had righted himself in his
  saddle he saw that he would immediately overtake the enemy he had
  selected. That Frenchman, by his uniform an officer, was going at a
  gallop, crouching on his gray horse and urging it on with his saber. In
  another moment Rostóv&rsquo;s horse dashed its breast against the hindquarters
  of the officer&rsquo;s horse, almost knocking it over, and at the same instant
  Rostóv, without knowing why, raised his saber and struck the Frenchman
  with it.
<br />
  The instant he had done this, all Rostóv&rsquo;s animation vanished. The officer
  fell, not so much from the blow&mdash;which had but slightly cut his arm
  above the elbow&mdash;as from the shock to his horse and from fright.
  Rostóv reined in his horse, and his eyes sought his foe to see whom he had
  vanquished. The French dragoon officer was hopping with one foot on the
  ground, the other being caught in the stirrup. His eyes, screwed up with
  fear as if he every moment expected another blow, gazed up at Rostóv with
  shrinking terror. His pale and mud-stained face&mdash;fair and young, with
  a dimple in the chin and light-blue eyes&mdash;was not an enemy&rsquo;s face at
  all suited to a battlefield, but a most ordinary, homelike face. Before
  Rostóv had decided what to do with him, the officer cried, &ldquo;I surrender!&rdquo;
   He hurriedly but vainly tried to get his foot out of the stirrup and did
  not remove his frightened blue eyes from Rostóv&rsquo;s face. Some hussars who
  galloped up disengaged his foot and helped him into the saddle. On all
  sides, the hussars were busy with the dragoons; one was wounded, but
  though his face was bleeding, he would not give up his horse; another was
  perched up behind an hussar with his arms round him; a third was being
  helped by an hussar to mount his horse. In front, the French infantry were
  firing as they ran. The hussars galloped hastily back with their
  prisoners. Rostóv galloped back with the rest, aware of an unpleasant
  feeling of depression in his heart. Something vague and confused, which he
  could not at all account for, had come over him with the capture of that
  officer and the blow he had dealt him.
<br />
  Count Ostermann-Tolstóy met the returning hussars, sent for Rostóv,
  thanked him, and said he would report his gallant deed to the Emperor and
  would recommend him for a St. George&rsquo;s Cross. When sent for by Count
  Ostermann, Rostóv, remembering that he had charged without orders, felt
  sure his commander was sending for him to punish him for breach of
  discipline. Ostermann&rsquo;s flattering words and promise of a reward should
  therefore have struck him all the more pleasantly, but he still felt that
  same vaguely disagreeable feeling of moral nausea. &ldquo;But what on earth is
  worrying me?&rdquo; he asked himself as he rode back from the general. &ldquo;Ilyín?
  No, he&rsquo;s safe. Have I disgraced myself in any way? No, that&rsquo;s not it.&rdquo;
   Something else, resembling remorse, tormented him. &ldquo;Yes, oh yes, that
  French officer with the dimple. And I remember how my arm paused when I
  raised it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Rostóv saw the prisoners being led away and galloped after them to have a
  look at his Frenchman with the dimple on his chin. He was sitting in his
  foreign uniform on an hussar packhorse and looked anxiously about him. The
  sword cut on his arm could scarcely be called a wound. He glanced at
  Rostóv with a feigned smile and waved his hand in greeting. Rostóv still
  had the same indefinite feeling, as of shame.
<br />
  All that day and the next his friends and comrades noticed that Rostóv,
  without being dull or angry, was silent, thoughtful, and preoccupied. He
  drank reluctantly, tried to remain alone, and kept turning something over
  in his mind.
<br />
  Rostóv was always thinking about that brilliant exploit of his, which to
  his amazement had gained him the St. George&rsquo;s Cross and even given him a
  reputation for bravery, and there was something he could not at all
  understand. &ldquo;So others are even more afraid than I am!&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;So
  that&rsquo;s all there is in what is called heroism! And did I do it for my
  country&rsquo;s sake? And how was he to blame, with his dimple and blue eyes?
  And how frightened he was! He thought that I should kill him. Why should I
  kill him? My hand trembled. And they have given me a St. George&rsquo;s
  Cross.... I can&rsquo;t make it out at all.&rdquo;
 <br />
  But while Nicholas was considering these questions and still could reach
  no clear solution of what puzzled him so, the wheel of fortune in the
  service, as often happens, turned in his favor. After the affair at
  Ostróvna he was brought into notice, received command of an hussar
  battalion, and when a brave officer was needed he was chosen.

  CHAPTER XVI


  On receiving news of Natásha&rsquo;s illness, the countess, though not quite
  well yet and still weak, went to Moscow with Pétya and the rest of the
  household, and the whole family moved from Márya Dmítrievna&rsquo;s house to
  their own and settled down in town.
<br />
  Natásha&rsquo;s illness was so serious that, fortunately for her and for her
  parents, the consideration of all that had caused the illness, her conduct
  and the breaking off of her engagement, receded into the background. She
  was so ill that it was impossible for them to consider in how far she was
  to blame for what had happened. She could not eat or sleep, grew visibly
  thinner, coughed, and, as the doctors made them feel, was in danger. They
  could not think of anything but how to help her. Doctors came to see her
  singly and in consultation, talked much in French, German, and Latin,
  blamed one another, and prescribed a great variety of medicines for all
  the diseases known to them, but the simple idea never occurred to any of
  them that they could not know the disease Natásha was suffering from, as
  no disease suffered by a live man can be known, for every living person
  has his own peculiarities and always has his own peculiar, personal,
  novel, complicated disease, unknown to medicine&mdash;not a disease of the
  lungs, liver, skin, heart, nerves, and so on mentioned in medical books,
  but a disease consisting of one of the innumerable combinations of the
  maladies of those organs. This simple thought could not occur to the
  doctors (as it cannot occur to a wizard that he is unable to work his
  charms) because the business of their lives was to cure, and they received
  money for it and had spent the best years of their lives on that business.
  But, above all, that thought was kept out of their minds by the fact that
  they saw they were really useful, as in fact they were to the whole Rostóv
  family. Their usefulness did not depend on making the patient swallow
  substances for the most part harmful (the harm was scarcely perceptible,
  as they were given in small doses), but they were useful, necessary, and
  indispensable because they satisfied a mental need of the invalid and of
  those who loved her&mdash;and that is why there are, and always will be,
  pseudo-healers, wise women, homeopaths, and allopaths. They satisfied that
  eternal human need for hope of relief, for sympathy, and that something
  should be done, which is felt by those who are suffering. They satisfied
  the need seen in its most elementary form in a child, when it wants to
  have a place rubbed that has been hurt. A child knocks itself and runs at
  once to the arms of its mother or nurse to have the aching spot rubbed or
  kissed, and it feels better when this is done. The child cannot believe
  that the strongest and wisest of its people have no remedy for its pain,
  and the hope of relief and the expression of its mother&rsquo;s sympathy while
  she rubs the bump comforts it. The doctors were of use to Natásha because
  they kissed and rubbed her bump, assuring her that it would soon pass if
  only the coachman went to the chemist&rsquo;s in the Arbát and got a powder and
  some pills in a pretty box for a ruble and seventy kopeks, and if she took
  those powders in boiled water at intervals of precisely two hours, neither
  more nor less.
<br />
  What would Sónya and the count and countess have done, how would they have
  looked, if nothing had been done, if there had not been those pills to
  give by the clock, the warm drinks, the chicken cutlets, and all the other
  details of life ordered by the doctors, the carrying out of which supplied
  an occupation and consolation to the family circle? How would the count
  have borne his dearly loved daughter&rsquo;s illness had he not known that it
  was costing him a thousand rubles, and that he would not grudge thousands
  more to benefit her, or had he not known that if her illness continued he
  would not grudge yet other thousands and would take her abroad for
  consultations there, and had he not been able to explain the details of
  how Métivier and Feller had not understood the symptoms, but Frise had,
  and Múdrov had diagnosed them even better? What would the countess have
  done had she not been able sometimes to scold the invalid for not strictly
  obeying the doctor&rsquo;s orders?
<br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll never get well like that,&rdquo; she would say, forgetting her
  grief in her vexation, &ldquo;if you won&rsquo;t obey the doctor and take your
  medicine at the right time! You mustn&rsquo;t trifle with it, you know, or it may
  turn to ,&rdquo; she would go on, deriving much comfort from the
  utterance of that foreign word, incomprehensible to others as well as to herself.
<br />
  What would Sónya have done without the glad consciousness that she had not
  undressed during the first three nights, in order to be ready to carry out
  all the doctor&rsquo;s injunctions with precision, and that she still kept awake
  at night so as not to miss the proper time when the slightly harmful pills
  in the little gilt box had to be administered? Even to Natásha herself it
  was pleasant to see that so many sacrifices were being made for her sake,
  and to know that she had to take medicine at certain hours, though she
  declared that no medicine would cure her and that it was all nonsense. And
  it was even pleasant to be able to show, by disregarding the orders, that
  she did not believe in medical treatment and did not value her life.
<br />
  The doctor came every day, felt her pulse, looked at her tongue, and
  regardless of her grief-stricken face joked with her. But when he had gone
  into another room, to which the countess hurriedly followed him, he
  assumed a grave air and thoughtfully shaking his head said that though
  there was danger, he had hopes of the effect of this last medicine and one
  must wait and see, that the malady was chiefly mental, but... And the
  countess, trying to conceal the action from herself and from him, slipped
  a gold coin into his hand and always returned to the patient with a more
  tranquil mind.
<br />
  The symptoms of Natásha&rsquo;s illness were that she ate little, slept little,
  coughed, and was always low-spirited. The doctors said that she could not
  get on without medical treatment, so they kept her in the stifling
  atmosphere of the town, and the Rostóvs did not move to the country that
  summer of 1812.
<br />
  In spite of the many pills she swallowed and the drops and powders out of
  the little bottles and boxes of which Madame Schoss who was fond of such
  things made a large collection, and in spite of being deprived of the
  country life to which she was accustomed, youth prevailed. Natásha&rsquo;s grief
  began to be overlaid by the impressions of daily life, it ceased to press
  so painfully on her heart, it gradually faded into the past, and she began
  to recover physically.

  CHAPTER XVII


  Natásha was calmer but no happier. She not merely avoided all external
  forms of pleasure&mdash;balls, promenades, concerts, and theaters&mdash;but
  she never laughed without a sound of tears in her laughter. She could not
  sing. As soon as she began to laugh, or tried to sing by herself, tears
  choked her: tears of remorse, tears at the recollection of those pure
  times which could never return, tears of vexation that she should so
  uselessly have ruined her young life which might have been so happy.
  Laughter and singing in particular seemed to her like a blasphemy, in face
  of her sorrow. Without any need of self-restraint, no wish to coquet ever
  entered her head. She said and felt at that time that no man was more to
  her than Nastásya Ivánovna, the buffoon. Something stood sentinel within
  her and forbade her every joy. Besides, she had lost all the old interests
  of her carefree girlish life that had been so full of hope. The previous
  autumn, the hunting, &ldquo;Uncle,&rdquo; and the Christmas holidays spent with
  Nicholas at Otrádnoe were what she recalled oftenest and most painfully.
  What would she not have given to bring back even a single day of that
  time! But it was gone forever. Her presentiment at the time had not
  deceived her&mdash;that that state of freedom and readiness for any
  enjoyment would not return again. Yet it was necessary to live on.
<br />
  It comforted her to reflect that she was not better as she had formerly
  imagined, but worse, much worse, than anybody else in the world. But this
  was not enough. She knew that, and asked herself, &ldquo;What next?&rdquo; But there
  was nothing to come. There was no joy in life, yet life was passing.
  Natásha apparently tried not to be a burden or a hindrance to anyone, but
  wanted nothing for herself. She kept away from everyone in the house and
  felt at ease only with her brother Pétya. She liked to be with him better
  than with the others, and when alone with him she sometimes laughed. She
  hardly ever left the house and of those who came to see them was glad to
  see only one person, Pierre. It would have been impossible to treat her
  with more delicacy, greater care, and at the same time more seriously than
  did Count Bezúkhov. Natásha unconsciously felt this delicacy and so found
  great pleasure in his society. But she was not even grateful to him for
  it; nothing good on Pierre&rsquo;s part seemed to her to be an effort, it seemed
  so natural for him to be kind to everyone that there was no merit in his
  kindness. Sometimes Natásha noticed embarrassment and awkwardness on his
  part in her presence, especially when he wanted to do something to please
  her, or feared that something they spoke of would awaken memories
  distressing to her. She noticed this and attributed it to his general
  kindness and shyness, which she imagined must be the same toward everyone
  as it was to her. After those involuntary words&mdash;that if he were free
  he would have asked on his knees for her hand and her love&mdash;uttered
  at a moment when she was so strongly agitated, Pierre never spoke to
  Natásha of his feelings; and it seemed plain to her that those words,
  which had then so comforted her, were spoken as all sorts of meaningless
  words are spoken to comfort a crying child. It was not because Pierre was
  a married man, but because Natásha felt very strongly with him that moral
  barrier the absence of which she had experienced with Kurágin that it
  never entered her head that the relations between him and herself could
  lead to love on her part, still less on his, or even to the kind of
  tender, self-conscious, romantic friendship between a man and a woman of
  which she had known several instances.
<br />
  Before the end of the fast of St. Peter, Agraféna Ivánovna Belóva, a
  country neighbor of the Rostóvs, came to Moscow to pay her devotions at
  the shrines of the Moscow saints. She suggested that Natásha should fast
  and prepare for Holy Communion, and Natásha gladly welcomed the idea.
  Despite the doctor&rsquo;s orders that she should not go out early in the
  morning, Natásha insisted on fasting and preparing for the sacrament, not
  as they generally prepared for it in the Rostóv family by attending three
  services in their own house, but as Agraféna Ivánovna did, by going to
  church every day for a week and not once missing Vespers, Matins, or Mass.
<br />
  The countess was pleased with Natásha&rsquo;s zeal; after the poor results of
  the medical treatment, in the depths of her heart she hoped that prayer
  might help her daughter more than medicines and, though not without fear
  and concealing it from the doctor, she agreed to Natásha&rsquo;s wish and
  entrusted her to Belóva. Agraféna Ivánovna used to come to wake Natásha at
  three in the morning, but generally found her already awake. She was
  afraid of being late for Matins. Hastily washing, and meekly putting on
  her shabbiest dress and an old mantilla, Natásha, shivering in the fresh
  air, went out into the deserted streets lit by the clear light of dawn. By
  Agraféna Ivánovna&rsquo;s advice Natásha prepared herself not in their own
  parish, but at a church where, according to the devout Agraféna Ivánovna,
  the priest was a man of very severe and lofty life. There were never many
  people in the church; Natásha always stood beside Belóva in the customary
  place before an icon of the Blessed Virgin, let into the screen before the
  choir on the left side, and a feeling, new to her, of humility before
  something great and incomprehensible, seized her when at that unusual
  morning hour, gazing at the dark face of the Virgin illuminated by the
  candles burning before it and by the morning light falling from the
  window, she listened to the words of the service which she tried to follow
  with understanding. When she understood them her personal feeling became
  interwoven in the prayers with shades of its own. When she did not
  understand, it was sweeter still to think that the wish to understand
  everything is pride, that it is impossible to understand all, that it is
  only necessary to believe and to commit oneself to God, whom she felt
  guiding her soul at those moments. She crossed herself, bowed low, and
  when she did not understand, in horror at her own vileness, simply asked
  God to forgive her everything, everything, to have mercy upon her. The
  prayers to which she surrendered herself most of all were those of
  repentance. On her way home at an early hour when she met no one but
  bricklayers going to work or men sweeping the street, and everybody within
  the houses was still asleep, Natásha experienced a feeling new to her, a
  sense of the possibility of correcting her faults, the possibility of a
  new, clean life, and of happiness.
<br />
  During the whole week she spent in this way, that feeling grew every day.
  And the happiness of taking communion, or &ldquo;communing&rdquo; as Agraféna
  Ivánovna, joyously playing with the word, called it, seemed to Natásha so
  great that she felt she should never live till that blessed Sunday.
<br />
  But the happy day came, and on that memorable Sunday, when, dressed in
  white muslin, she returned home after communion, for the first time for
  many months she felt calm and not oppressed by the thought of the life
  that lay before her.
<br />
  The doctor who came to see her that day ordered her to continue the
  powders he had prescribed a fortnight previously.
<br />
  &ldquo;She must certainly go on taking them morning and evening,&rdquo; said he,
  evidently sincerely satisfied with his success. &ldquo;Only, please be
  particular about it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Be quite easy,&rdquo; he continued playfully, as he adroitly took the gold coin
  in his palm. &ldquo;She will soon be singing and frolicking about. The last
  medicine has done her a very great deal of good. She has freshened up very
  much.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The countess, with a cheerful expression on her face, looked down at her
  nails and spat a little for luck as she returned to the drawing room.

  CHAPTER XVIII


  At the beginning of July more and more disquieting reports about the war
  began to spread in Moscow; people spoke of an appeal by the Emperor to the
  people, and of his coming himself from the army to Moscow. And as up to
  the eleventh of July no manifesto or appeal had been received, exaggerated
  reports became current about them and about the position of Russia. It was
  said that the Emperor was leaving the army because it was in danger, it
  was said that Smolénsk had surrendered, that Napoleon had an army of a
  million and only a miracle could save Russia.
<br />
  On the eleventh of July, which was Saturday, the manifesto was received
  but was not yet in print, and Pierre, who was at the Rostóvs&rsquo;, promised to
  come to dinner next day, Sunday, and bring a copy of the manifesto and
  appeal, which he would obtain from Count Rostopchín.
<br />
  That Sunday, the Rostóvs went to Mass at the Razumóvskis&rsquo; private chapel
  as usual. It was a hot July day. Even at ten o&rsquo;clock, when the Rostóvs got
  out of their carriage at the chapel, the sultry air, the shouts of
  hawkers, the light and gay summer clothes of the crowd, the dusty leaves
  of the trees on the boulevard, the sounds of the band and the white
  trousers of a battalion marching to parade, the rattling of wheels on the
  cobblestones, and the brilliant, hot sunshine were all full of that summer
  languor, that content and discontent with the present, which is most
  strongly felt on a bright, hot day in town. All the Moscow notabilities,
  all the Rostóvs&rsquo; acquaintances, were at the Razumóvskis&rsquo; chapel, for, as
  if expecting something to happen, many wealthy families who usually left
  town for their country estates had not gone away that summer. As Natásha,
  at her mother&rsquo;s side, passed through the crowd behind a liveried footman
  who cleared the way for them, she heard a young man speaking about her in
  too loud a whisper.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s Rostóva, the one who...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;She&rsquo;s much thinner, but all the same she&rsquo;s pretty!&rdquo;
 <br />
  She heard, or thought she heard, the names of Kurágin and Bolkónski. But
  she was always imagining that. It always seemed to her that everyone who
  looked at her was thinking only of what had happened to her. With a
  sinking heart, wretched as she always was now when she found herself in a
  crowd, Natásha in her lilac silk dress trimmed with black lace walked&mdash;as
  women can walk&mdash;with the more repose and stateliness the greater the
  pain and shame in her soul. She knew for certain that she was pretty, but
  this no longer gave her satisfaction as it used to. On the contrary it
  tormented her more than anything else of late, and particularly so on this
  bright, hot summer day in town. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s Sunday again&mdash;another week
  past,&rdquo; she thought, recalling that she had been here the Sunday before,
  &ldquo;and always the same life that is no life, and the same surroundings in
  which it used to be so easy to live. I&rsquo;m pretty, I&rsquo;m young, and I know
  that now I am good. I used to be bad, but now I know I am good,&rdquo; she
  thought, &ldquo;but yet my best years are slipping by and are no good to
  anyone.&rdquo; She stood by her mother&rsquo;s side and exchanged nods with
  acquaintances near her. From habit she scrutinized the ladies&rsquo; dresses,
  condemned the bearing of a lady standing close by who was not crossing
  herself properly but in a cramped manner, and again she thought with
  vexation that she was herself being judged and was judging others, and
  suddenly, at the sound of the service, she felt horrified at her own
  vileness, horrified that the former purity of her soul was again lost to
  her.
<br />
  A comely, fresh-looking old man was conducting the service with that mild
  solemnity which has so elevating and soothing an effect on the souls of
  the worshipers. The gates of the sanctuary screen were closed, the curtain
  was slowly drawn, and from behind it a soft mysterious voice pronounced
  some words. Tears, the cause of which she herself did not understand, made
  Natásha&rsquo;s breast heave, and a joyous but oppressive feeling agitated her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Teach me what I should do, how to live my life, how I may grow good
  forever, forever!&rdquo; she pleaded.
<br />
  The deacon came out onto the raised space before the altar screen and,
  holding his thumb extended, drew his long hair from under his dalmatic
  and, making the sign of the cross on his breast, began in a loud and
  solemn voice to recite the words of the prayer....
<br />
  &ldquo;In peace let us pray unto the Lord.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;As one community, without distinction of class, without enmity, united by
  brotherly love&mdash;let us pray!&rdquo; thought Natásha.
<br />
  &ldquo;For the peace that is from above, and for the salvation of our souls.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;For the world of angels and all the spirits who dwell above us,&rdquo; prayed
  Natásha.
<br />
  When they prayed for the warriors, she thought of her brother and Denísov.
  When they prayed for all traveling by land and sea, she remembered Prince
  Andrew, prayed for him, and asked God to forgive her all the wrongs she
  had done him. When they prayed for those who love us, she prayed for the
  members of her own family, her father and mother and Sónya, realizing for
  the first time how wrongly she had acted toward them, and feeling all the
  strength of her love for them. When they prayed for those who hate us, she
  tried to think of her enemies and people who hated her, in order to pray
  for them. She included among her enemies the creditors and all who had
  business dealings with her father, and always at the thought of enemies
  and those who hated her she remembered Anatole who had done her so much
  harm&mdash;and though he did not hate her she gladly prayed for him as for
  an enemy. Only at prayer did she feel able to think clearly and calmly of
  Prince Andrew and Anatole, as men for whom her feelings were as nothing
  compared with her awe and devotion to God. When they prayed for the
  Imperial family and the Synod, she bowed very low and made the sign of the
  cross, saying to herself that even if she did not understand, still she
  could not doubt, and at any rate loved the governing Synod and prayed for
  it.
<br />
  When he had finished the Litany the deacon crossed the stole over his
  breast and said, &ldquo;Let us commit ourselves and our whole lives to Christ
  the Lord!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Commit ourselves to God,&rdquo; Natásha inwardly repeated. &ldquo;Lord God, I submit
  myself to Thy will!&rdquo; she thought. &ldquo;I want nothing, wish for nothing; teach
  me what to do and how to use my will! Take me, take me!&rdquo; prayed Natásha,
  with impatient emotion in her heart, not crossing herself but letting her
  slender arms hang down as if expecting some invisible power at any moment
  to take her and deliver her from herself, from her regrets, desires,
  remorse, hopes, and sins.
<br />
  The countess looked round several times at her daughter&rsquo;s softened face
  and shining eyes and prayed God to help her.
<br />
  Unexpectedly, in the middle of the service, and not in the usual order
  Natásha knew so well, the deacon brought out a small stool, the one he
  knelt on when praying on Trinity Sunday, and placed it before the doors of
  the sanctuary screen. The priest came out with his purple velvet biretta
  on his head, adjusted his hair, and knelt down with an effort. Everybody
  followed his example and they looked at one another in surprise. Then came
  the prayer just received from the Synod&mdash;a prayer for the deliverance
  of Russia from hostile invasion.
<br />
  &ldquo;Lord God of might, God of our salvation!&rdquo; began the priest in that voice,
  clear, not grandiloquent but mild, in which only the Slav clergy read and
  which acts so irresistibly on a Russian heart.
<br />
  &ldquo;Lord God of might, God of our salvation! Look this day in mercy and
  blessing on Thy humble people, and graciously hear us, spare us, and have
  mercy upon us! This foe confounding Thy land, desiring to lay waste the
  whole world, rises against us; these lawless men are gathered together to
  overthrow Thy kingdom, to destroy Thy dear Jerusalem, Thy beloved Russia;
  to defile Thy temples, to overthrow Thine altars, and to desecrate our
  holy shrines. How long, O Lord, how long shall the wicked triumph? How
  long shall they wield unlawful power?
<br />
  &ldquo;Lord God! Hear us when we pray to Thee; strengthen with Thy might our
  most gracious sovereign lord, the Emperor Alexander Pávlovich; be mindful
  of his uprightness and meekness, reward him according to his
  righteousness, and let it preserve us, Thy chosen Israel! Bless his
  counsels, his undertakings, and his work; strengthen his kingdom by Thine
  almighty hand, and give him victory over his enemy, even as Thou gavest
  Moses the victory over Amalek, Gideon over Midian, and David over Goliath.
  Preserve his army, put a bow of brass in the hands of those who have armed
  themselves in Thy Name, and gird their loins with strength for the fight.
  Take up the spear and shield and arise to help us; confound and put to
  shame those who have devised evil against us, may they be before the faces
  of Thy faithful warriors as dust before the wind, and may Thy mighty Angel
  confound them and put them to flight; may they be ensnared when they know
  it not, and may the plots they have laid in secret be turned against them;
  let them fall before Thy servants&rsquo; feet and be laid low by our hosts!
  Lord, Thou art able to save both great and small; Thou art God, and man
  cannot prevail against Thee!
<br />
  &ldquo;God of our fathers! Remember Thy bounteous mercy and loving-kindness
  which are from of old; turn not Thy face from us, but be gracious to our
  unworthiness, and in Thy great goodness and Thy many mercies regard not
  our transgressions and iniquities! Create in us a clean heart and renew a
  right spirit within us, strengthen us all in Thy faith, fortify our hope,
  inspire us with true love one for another, arm us with unity of spirit in
  the righteous defense of the heritage Thou gavest to us and to our
  fathers, and let not the scepter of the wicked be exalted against the
  destiny of those Thou hast sanctified.
<br />
  &ldquo;O Lord our God, in whom we believe and in whom we put our trust, let us
  not be confounded in our hope of Thy mercy, and give us a token of Thy
  blessing, that those who hate us and our Orthodox faith may see it and be
  put to shame and perish, and may all the nations know that Thou art the
  Lord and we are Thy people. Show Thy mercy upon us this day, O Lord, and
  grant us Thy salvation; make the hearts of Thy servants to rejoice in Thy
  mercy; smite down our enemies and destroy them swiftly beneath the feet of
  Thy faithful servants! For Thou art the defense, the succor, and the
  victory of them that put their trust in Thee, and to Thee be all glory, to
  Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, now and forever, world without end. Amen.&rdquo;
 <br />
  In Natásha&rsquo;s receptive condition of soul this prayer affected her
  strongly. She listened to every word about the victory of Moses over
  Amalek, of Gideon over Midian, and of David over Goliath, and about the
  destruction of &ldquo;Thy Jerusalem,&rdquo; and she prayed to God with the tenderness
  and emotion with which her heart was overflowing, but without fully
  understanding what she was asking of God in that prayer. She shared with
  all her heart in the prayer for the spirit of righteousness, for the
  strengthening of the heart by faith and hope, and its animation by love.
  But she could not pray that her enemies might be trampled under foot when
  but a few minutes before she had been wishing she had more of them that
  she might pray for them. But neither could she doubt the righteousness of
  the prayer that was being read on bended knees. She felt in her heart a
  devout and tremulous awe at the thought of the punishment that overtakes
  men for their sins, and especially of her own sins, and she prayed to God
  to forgive them all, and her too, and to give them all, and her too, peace
  and happiness. And it seemed to her that God heard her prayer.

  CHAPTER XIX


  From the day when Pierre, after leaving the Rostóvs&rsquo; with Natásha&rsquo;s
  grateful look fresh in his mind, had gazed at the comet that seemed to be
  fixed in the sky and felt that something new was appearing on his own
  horizon&mdash;from that day the problem of the vanity and uselessness of
  all earthly things, that had incessantly tormented him, no longer
  presented itself. That terrible question &ldquo;Why?&rdquo; &ldquo;Wherefore?&rdquo; which had
  come to him amid every occupation, was now replaced, not by another
  question or by a reply to the former question, but by  image. When he
  listened to, or himself took part in, trivial conversations, when he read
  or heard of human baseness or folly, he was not horrified as formerly, and
  did not ask himself why men struggled so about these things when all is so
  transient and incomprehensible&mdash;but he remembered her as he had last
  seen her, and all his doubts vanished&mdash;not because she had answered
  the questions that had haunted him, but because his conception of her
  transferred him instantly to another, a brighter, realm of spiritual
  activity in which no one could be justified or guilty&mdash;a realm of
  beauty and love which it was worth living for. Whatever worldly baseness
  presented itself to him, he said to himself:
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, supposing N. N. has swindled the country and the Tsar, and the
  country and the Tsar confer honors upon him, what does that matter? She
  smiled at me yesterday and asked me to come again, and I love her, and no
  one will ever know it.&rdquo; And his soul felt calm and peaceful.
<br />
  Pierre still went into society, drank as much and led the same idle and
  dissipated life, because besides the hours he spent at the Rostóvs&rsquo; there
  were other hours he had to spend somehow, and the habits and acquaintances
  he had made in Moscow formed a current that bore him along irresistibly.
  But latterly, when more and more disquieting reports came from the seat of
  war and Natásha&rsquo;s health began to improve and she no longer aroused in him
  the former feeling of careful pity, an ever-increasing restlessness, which
  he could not explain, took possession of him. He felt that the condition
  he was in could not continue long, that a catastrophe was coming which
  would change his whole life, and he impatiently sought everywhere for
  signs of that approaching catastrophe. One of his brother Masons had
  revealed to Pierre the following prophecy concerning Napoleon, drawn from
  the Revelation of St. John.
<br />
  In chapter 13, verse 18, of the Apocalypse, it is said:
<br />
  Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the
  beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred
  threescore and six.
<br />
  And in the fifth verse of the same chapter:
<br />
  And there was given unto him a mouth speaking great things and
  blasphemies; and power was given unto him to continue forty and two
  months.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  The French alphabet, written out with the same numerical values as the
  Hebrew, in which the first nine letters denote units and the others tens,
  will have the following significance:


  a   b   c   d   e   f   g   h   i   k
  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9   10
   l    m    n    o    p    q    r    s
  20   30   40   50   60   70   80   90
         t    u    v    w    x    y
        100  110  120  130  140  150
                    z
                   160

  Writing the words  in numbers, it appears that the
  sum of them is 666, and that Napoleon was therefore the beast foretold in the
  Apocalypse. Moreover, by applying the same system to the words
  , * which was the term allowed to the beast that &ldquo;spoke
  great things and blasphemies,&rdquo; the same number 666 was obtained; from which it
  followed that the limit fixed for Napoleon&rsquo;s power had come in the year
  1812 when the French emperor was forty-two. This prophecy pleased Pierre
  very much and he often asked himself what would put an end to the power of
  the beast, that is, of Napoleon, and tried by the same system of using
  letters as numbers and adding them up, to find an answer to the question
  that engrossed him. He wrote the words  and added up their numbers, but the sums were either more or less
  than 666. Once when making such calculations he wrote down his own name in
  French, Comte Pierre Besouhoff, but the sum of the numbers did not come
  right. Then he changed the spelling, substituting a  for the  and
  adding  and the article , still without obtaining the desired
  result. Then it occurred to him: if the answer to the question were contained in
  his name, his nationality would also be given in the answer. So he wrote  and adding up the numbers got 671. This was only five too much,
  and five was represented by , the very letter elided from the article
   before the word . By omitting the , though
  incorrectly, Pierre got the answer he sought.  made
  666. This discovery excited him. How, or by what means, he was connected with the
  great event foretold in the Apocalypse he did not know, but he did not doubt that
  connection for a moment. His love for Natásha, Antichrist, Napoleon, the invasion,
  the comet, 666, , and &mdash;all this had to mature and culminate, to lift him out of that
  spellbound, petty sphere of Moscow habits in which he felt himself held captive and
  lead him to a great achievement and great happiness.
<br />
* Forty-two.

On the eve of the Sunday when the special prayer was read, Pierre had promised the Rostóvs to bring them, from Count Rostopchín whom he knew well, both the appeal to the people and the news from the army. In the morning, when he went to call at Rostopchín’s he met there a courier fresh from the army, an acquaintance of his own, who often danced at Moscow balls.
“Do, please, for heaven’s sake, relieve me of something!” said the courier. “I have a sackful of letters to parents.”
Among these letters was one from Nicholas Rostóv to his father. Pierre took that letter, and Rostopchín also gave him the Emperor’s appeal to Moscow, which had just been printed, the last army orders, and his own most recent bulletin. Glancing through the army orders, Pierre found in one of them, in the lists of killed, wounded, and rewarded, the name of Nicholas Rostóv, awarded a St. George’s Cross of the Fourth Class for courage shown in the Ostróvna affair, and in the same order the name of Prince Andrew Bolkónski, appointed to the command of a regiment of Chasseurs. Though he did not want to remind the Rostóvs of Bolkónski, Pierre could not refrain from making them happy by the news of their son’s having received a decoration, so he sent that printed army order and Nicholas’ letter to the Rostóvs, keeping the appeal, the bulletin, and the other orders to take with him when he went to dinner.
His conversation with Count Rostopchín and the latter’s tone of anxious hurry, the meeting with the courier who talked casually of how badly things were going in the army, the rumors of the discovery of spies in Moscow and of a leaflet in circulation stating that Napoleon promised to be in both the Russian capitals by the autumn, and the talk of the Emperor’s being expected to arrive next day—all aroused with fresh force that feeling of agitation and expectation in Pierre which he had been conscious of ever since the appearance of the comet, and especially since the beginning of the war.
He had long been thinking of entering the army and would have done so had he not been hindered, first, by his membership of the Society of Freemasons to which he was bound by oath and which preached perpetual peace and the abolition of war, and secondly, by the fact that when he saw the great mass of Muscovites who had donned uniform and were talking patriotism, he somehow felt ashamed to take the step. But the chief reason for not carrying out his intention to enter the army lay in the vague idea that he was who had the number of the beast, 666; that his part in the great affair of setting a limit to the power of the beast that spoke great and blasphemous things had been predestined from eternity, and that therefore he ought not to undertake anything, but wait for what was bound to come to pass.

  CHAPTER XX


  A few intimate friends were dining with the Rostóvs that day, as usual on
  Sundays.
<br />
  Pierre came early so as to find them alone.
<br />
  He had grown so stout this year that he would have been abnormal had he
  not been so tall, so broad of limb, and so strong that he carried his bulk
  with evident ease.
<br />
  He went up the stairs, puffing and muttering something. His coachman did
  not even ask whether he was to wait. He knew that when his master was at
  the Rostóvs&rsquo; he stayed till midnight. The Rostóvs&rsquo; footman rushed eagerly
  forward to help him off with his cloak and take his hat and stick. Pierre,
  from club habit, always left both hat and stick in the anteroom.
<br />
  The first person he saw in the house was Natásha. Even before he saw her,
  while taking off his cloak, he heard her. She was practicing solfa
  exercises in the music room. He knew that she had not sung since her
  illness, and so the sound of her voice surprised and delighted him. He
  opened the door softly and saw her, in the lilac dress she had worn at
  church, walking about the room singing. She had her back to him when he
  opened the door, but when, turning quickly, she saw his broad, surprised
  face, she blushed and came rapidly up to him.
<br />
  &ldquo;I want to try to sing again,&rdquo; she said, adding as if by way of excuse,
  &ldquo;it is, at least, something to do.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s capital!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How glad I am you&rsquo;ve come! I am so happy today,&rdquo; she said, with the old
  animation Pierre had not seen in her for a long time. &ldquo;You know Nicholas
  has received a St. George&rsquo;s Cross? I am so proud of him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh yes, I sent that announcement. But I don&rsquo;t want to interrupt you,&rdquo; he
  added, and was about to go to the drawing room.
<br />
  Natásha stopped him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Count, is it wrong of me to sing?&rdquo; she said blushing, and fixing her eyes
  inquiringly on him.
<br />
  &ldquo;No... Why should it be? On the contrary... But why do you ask me?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know myself,&rdquo; Natásha answered quickly, &ldquo;but I should not like to
  do anything you disapproved of. I believe in you completely. You don&rsquo;t
  know how important you are to me, how much you&rsquo;ve done for me....&rdquo; She
  spoke rapidly and did not notice how Pierre flushed at her words. &ldquo;I saw
  in that same army order that , Bolkónski&rdquo; (she whispered the name
  hastily), &ldquo;is in Russia, and in the army again. What do you think?&rdquo;&mdash;she
  was speaking hurriedly, evidently afraid her strength might fail her&mdash;&ldquo;Will
  he ever forgive me? Will he not always have a bitter feeling toward me?
  What do you think? What do you think?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I think...&rdquo; Pierre replied, &ldquo;that he has nothing to forgive.... If I were
  in his place...&rdquo;
 <br />
  By association of ideas, Pierre was at once carried back to the day when,
  trying to comfort her, he had said that if he were not himself but the
  best man in the world and free, he would ask on his knees for her hand;
  and the same feeling of pity, tenderness, and love took possession of him
  and the same words rose to his lips. But she did not give him time to say
  them.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, you... you...&rdquo; she said, uttering the word 
  rapturously&mdash;&ldquo;that&rsquo;s a different thing. I know no one kinder, more
  generous, or better than you; nobody could be! Had you not been there then, and now
  too, I don&rsquo;t know what would have become of me, because...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Tears suddenly rose in her eyes, she turned away, lifted her music before
  her eyes, began singing again, and again began walking up and down the
  room.
<br />
  Just then Pétya came running in from the drawing room.
<br />
  Pétya was now a handsome rosy lad of fifteen with full red lips and
  resembled Natásha. He was preparing to enter the university, but he and
  his friend Obolénski had lately, in secret, agreed to join the hussars.
<br />
  Pétya had come rushing out to talk to his namesake about this affair. He
  had asked Pierre to find out whether he would be accepted in the hussars.
<br />
  Pierre walked up and down the drawing room, not listening to what Pétya
  was saying.
<br />
  Pétya pulled him by the arm to attract his attention.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, what about my plan? Peter Kirílych, for heaven&rsquo;s sake! You are my
  only hope,&rdquo; said Pétya.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh yes, your plan. To join the hussars? I&rsquo;ll mention it, I&rsquo;ll bring it
  all up today.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, , have you got the manifesto?&rdquo; asked the old count. &ldquo;The
  countess has been to Mass at the Razumóvskis&rsquo; and heard the new prayer.
  She says it&rsquo;s very fine.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I&rsquo;ve got it,&rdquo; said Pierre. &ldquo;The Emperor is to be here tomorrow...
  there&rsquo;s to be an Extraordinary Meeting of the nobility, and they are
  talking of a levy of ten men per thousand. Oh yes, let me congratulate
  you!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes, thank God! Well, and what news from the army?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;We are again retreating. They say we&rsquo;re already near Smolénsk,&rdquo; replied
  Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;O Lord, O Lord!&rdquo; exclaimed the count. &ldquo;Where is the manifesto?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The Emperor&rsquo;s appeal? Oh yes!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre began feeling in his pockets for the papers, but could not find
  them. Still slapping his pockets, he kissed the hand of the countess who
  entered the room and glanced uneasily around, evidently expecting Natásha,
  who had left off singing but had not yet come into the drawing room.
<br />
  &ldquo;On my word, I don&rsquo;t know what I&rsquo;ve done with it,&rdquo; he said.
<br />
  &ldquo;There he is, always losing everything!&rdquo; remarked the countess.
<br />
  Natásha entered with a softened and agitated expression of face and sat
  down looking silently at Pierre. As soon as she entered, Pierre&rsquo;s
  features, which had been gloomy, suddenly lighted up, and while still
  searching for the papers he glanced at her several times.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, really! I&rsquo;ll drive home, I must have left them there. I&rsquo;ll
  certainly...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But you&rsquo;ll be late for dinner.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh! And my coachman has gone.&rdquo;
 <br />
  But Sónya, who had gone to look for the papers in the anteroom, had found
  them in Pierre&rsquo;s hat, where he had carefully tucked them under the lining.
  Pierre was about to begin reading.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, after dinner,&rdquo; said the old count, evidently expecting much enjoyment
  from that reading.
<br />
  At dinner, at which champagne was drunk to the health of the new chevalier
  of St. George, Shinshín told them the town news, of the illness of the old
  Georgian princess, of Métivier&rsquo;s disappearance from Moscow, and of how
  some German fellow had been brought to Rostopchín and accused of being a
  French &ldquo;spyer&rdquo; (so Count Rostopchín had told the story), and how
  Rostopchín let him go and assured the people that he was &ldquo;not a spire at
  all, but only an old German ruin.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;People are being arrested...&rdquo; said the count. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve told the countess she
  should not speak French so much. It&rsquo;s not the time for it now.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And have you heard?&rdquo; Shinshín asked. &ldquo;Prince Golítsyn has engaged a
  master to teach him Russian. It is becoming dangerous to speak French in
  the streets.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And how about you, Count Peter Kirílych? If they call up the militia, you
  too will have to mount a horse,&rdquo; remarked the old count, addressing
  Pierre.
<br />
  Pierre had been silent and preoccupied all through dinner, seeming not to
  grasp what was said. He looked at the count.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh yes, the war,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;No! What sort of warrior should I make? And
  yet everything is so strange, so strange! I can&rsquo;t make it out. I don&rsquo;t
  know, I am very far from having military tastes, but in these times no one
  can answer for himself.&rdquo;
 <br />
  After dinner the count settled himself comfortably in an easy chair and
  with a serious face asked Sónya, who was considered an excellent reader,
  to read the appeal.
<br />
  &ldquo;To Moscow, our ancient Capital!
<br />
  &ldquo;The enemy has entered the borders of Russia with immense forces. He comes
  to despoil our beloved country.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sónya read painstakingly in her high-pitched voice. The count listened
  with closed eyes, heaving abrupt sighs at certain passages.
<br />
  Natásha sat erect, gazing with a searching look now at her father and now
  at Pierre.
<br />
  Pierre felt her eyes on him and tried not to look round. The countess
  shook her head disapprovingly and angrily at every solemn expression in
  the manifesto. In all these words she saw only that the danger threatening
  her son would not soon be over. Shinshín, with a sarcastic smile on his
  lips, was evidently preparing to make fun of anything that gave him the
  opportunity: Sónya&rsquo;s reading, any remark of the count&rsquo;s, or even the
  manifesto itself should no better pretext present itself.
<br />
  After reading about the dangers that threatened Russia, the hopes the
  Emperor placed on Moscow and especially on its illustrious nobility,
  Sónya, with a quiver in her voice due chiefly to the attention that was
  being paid to her, read the last words:
<br />
  &ldquo;We ourselves will not delay to appear among our people in that Capital
  and in other parts of our realm for consultation, and for the direction of
  all our levies, both those now barring the enemy&rsquo;s path and those freshly
  formed to defeat him wherever he may appear. May the ruin he hopes to
  bring upon us recoil on his own head, and may Europe delivered from
  bondage glorify the name of Russia!&rdquo;
 <br />
  <br />
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, that&rsquo;s it!&rdquo; cried the count, opening his moist eyes and sniffing
  repeatedly, as if a strong vinaigrette had been held to his nose; and he
  added, &ldquo;Let the Emperor but say the word and we&rsquo;ll sacrifice everything
  and begrudge nothing.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Before Shinshín had time to utter the joke he was ready to make on the
  count&rsquo;s patriotism, Natásha jumped up from her place and ran to her
  father.
<br />
  &ldquo;What a darling our Papa is!&rdquo; she cried, kissing him, and she again looked
  at Pierre with the unconscious coquetry that had returned to her with her
  better spirits.
<br />
  &ldquo;There! Here&rsquo;s a patriot for you!&rdquo; said Shinshín.
<br />
  &ldquo;Not a patriot at all, but simply...&rdquo; Natásha replied in an injured tone.
  &ldquo;Everything seems funny to you, but this isn&rsquo;t at all a joke....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A joke indeed!&rdquo; put in the count. &ldquo;Let him but say the word and we&rsquo;ll all
  go.... We&rsquo;re not Germans!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But did you notice, it says, &lsquo;for consultation&rsquo;?&rdquo; said Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;Never mind what it&rsquo;s for....&rdquo;
 <br />
  At this moment, Pétya, to whom nobody was paying any attention, came up to
  his father with a very flushed face and said in his breaking voice that
  was now deep and now shrill:
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, Papa, I tell you definitely, and Mamma too, it&rsquo;s as you please, but
  I say definitely that you must let me enter the army, because I can&rsquo;t...
  that&rsquo;s all....&rdquo;
 <br />
  The countess, in dismay, looked up to heaven, clasped her hands, and
  turned angrily to her husband.
<br />
  &ldquo;That comes of your talking!&rdquo; said she.
<br />
  But the count had already recovered from his excitement.
<br />
  &ldquo;Come, come!&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Here&rsquo;s a fine warrior! No! Nonsense! You must
  study.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not nonsense, Papa. Fédya Obolénski is younger than I, and he&rsquo;s
  going too. Besides, all the same I can&rsquo;t study now when...&rdquo; Pétya stopped
  short, flushed till he perspired, but still got out the words, &ldquo;when our
  Fatherland is in danger.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;ll do, that&rsquo;ll do&mdash;nonsense....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But you said yourself that we would sacrifice everything.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Pétya! Be quiet, I tell you!&rdquo; cried the count, with a glance at his wife,
  who had turned pale and was staring fixedly at her son.
<br />
  &ldquo;And I tell you&mdash;Peter Kirílych here will also tell you...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Nonsense, I tell you. Your mother&rsquo;s milk has hardly dried on your lips
  and you want to go into the army! There, there, I tell you,&rdquo; and the count
  moved to go out of the room, taking the papers, probably to reread them in
  his study before having a nap.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, Peter Kirílych, let&rsquo;s go and have a smoke,&rdquo; he said.
<br />
  Pierre was agitated and undecided. Natásha&rsquo;s unwontedly brilliant eyes,
  continually glancing at him with a more than cordial look, had reduced him
  to this condition.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, I think I&rsquo;ll go home.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Home? Why, you meant to spend the evening with us.... You don&rsquo;t often
  come nowadays as it is, and this girl of mine,&rdquo; said the count
  good-naturedly, pointing to Natásha, &ldquo;only brightens up when you&rsquo;re here.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I had forgotten... I really must go home... business...&rdquo; said Pierre
  hurriedly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, then, &rdquo; said the count, and went out of the room.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why are you going? Why are you upset?&rdquo; asked Natásha, and she looked
  challengingly into Pierre&rsquo;s eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;Because I love you!&rdquo; was what he wanted to say, but he did not say it,
  and only blushed till the tears came, and lowered his eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;Because it is better for me to come less often... because... No, simply I
  have business....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why? No, tell me!&rdquo; Natásha began resolutely and suddenly stopped.
<br />
  They looked at each other with dismayed and embarrassed faces. He tried to
  smile but could not: his smile expressed suffering, and he silently kissed
  her hand and went out.
<br />
  Pierre made up his mind not to go to the Rostóvs&rsquo; any more.

  CHAPTER XXI


  After the definite refusal he had received, Pétya went to his room and
  there locked himself in and wept bitterly. When he came in to tea, silent,
  morose, and with tear-stained face, everybody pretended not to notice
  anything.
<br />
  Next day the Emperor arrived in Moscow, and several of the Rostóvs&rsquo;
  domestic serfs begged permission to go to have a look at him. That morning
  Pétya was a long time dressing and arranging his hair and collar to look
  like a grown-up man. He frowned before his looking glass, gesticulated,
  shrugged his shoulders, and finally, without saying a word to anyone, took
  his cap and left the house by the back door, trying to avoid notice. Pétya
  decided to go straight to where the Emperor was and to explain frankly to
  some gentleman-in-waiting (he imagined the Emperor to be always surrounded
  by gentlemen-in-waiting) that he, Count Rostóv, in spite of his youth
  wished to serve his country; that youth could be no hindrance to loyalty,
  and that he was ready to... While dressing, Pétya had prepared many fine
  things he meant to say to the gentleman-in-waiting.
<br />
  It was on the very fact of being so young that Pétya counted for success
  in reaching the Emperor&mdash;he even thought how surprised everyone would
  be at his youthfulness&mdash;and yet in the arrangement of his collar and
  hair and by his sedate deliberate walk he wished to appear a grown-up man.
  But the farther he went and the more his attention was diverted by the
  ever-increasing crowds moving toward the Krémlin, the less he remembered
  to walk with the sedateness and deliberation of a man. As he approached
  the Krémlin he even began to avoid being crushed and resolutely stuck out
  his elbows in a menacing way. But within the Trinity Gateway he was so
  pressed to the wall by people who probably were unaware of the patriotic
  intentions with which he had come that in spite of all his determination
  he had to give in, and stop while carriages passed in, rumbling beneath
  the archway. Beside Pétya stood a peasant woman, a footman, two tradesmen,
  and a discharged soldier. After standing some time in the gateway, Pétya
  tried to move forward in front of the others without waiting for all the
  carriages to pass, and he began resolutely working his way with his
  elbows, but the woman just in front of him, who was the first against whom
  he directed his efforts, angrily shouted at him:
<br />
  &ldquo;What are you shoving for, young lordling? Don&rsquo;t you see we&rsquo;re all
  standing still? Then why push?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Anybody can shove,&rdquo; said the footman, and also began working his elbows
  to such effect that he pushed Pétya into a very filthy corner of the
  gateway.
<br />
  Pétya wiped his perspiring face with his hands and pulled up the damp
  collar which he had arranged so well at home to seem like a man&rsquo;s.
<br />
  He felt that he no longer looked presentable, and feared that if he were
  now to approach the gentlemen-in-waiting in that plight he would not be
  admitted to the Emperor. But it was impossible to smarten oneself up or
  move to another place, because of the crowd. One of the generals who drove
  past was an acquaintance of the Rostóvs&rsquo;, and Pétya thought of asking his
  help, but came to the conclusion that that would not be a manly thing to
  do. When the carriages had all passed in, the crowd, carrying Pétya with
  it, streamed forward into the Krémlin Square which was already full of
  people. There were people not only in the square, but everywhere&mdash;on
  the slopes and on the roofs. As soon as Pétya found himself in the square
  he clearly heard the sound of bells and the joyous voices of the crowd
  that filled the whole Krémlin.
<br />
  For a while the crowd was less dense, but suddenly all heads were bared,
  and everyone rushed forward in one direction. Pétya was being pressed so
  that he could scarcely breathe, and everybody shouted, &ldquo;Hurrah! hurrah!
  hurrah!&rdquo; Pétya stood on tiptoe and pushed and pinched, but could see
  nothing except the people about him.
<br />
  All the faces bore the same expression of excitement and enthusiasm. A
  tradesman&rsquo;s wife standing beside Pétya sobbed, and the tears ran down her
  cheeks.
<br />
  &ldquo;Father! Angel! Dear one!&rdquo; she kept repeating, wiping away her tears with
  her fingers.
<br />
  &ldquo;Hurrah!&rdquo; was heard on all sides.
<br />
  For a moment the crowd stood still, but then it made another rush forward.
<br />
  Quite beside himself, Pétya, clinching his teeth and rolling his eyes
  ferociously, pushed forward, elbowing his way and shouting &ldquo;hurrah!&rdquo; as if
  he were prepared that instant to kill himself and everyone else, but on
  both sides of him other people with similarly ferocious faces pushed
  forward and everybody shouted &ldquo;hurrah!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;So this is what the Emperor is!&rdquo; thought Pétya. &ldquo;No, I can&rsquo;t petition him
  myself&mdash;that would be too bold.&rdquo; But in spite of this he continued to
  struggle desperately forward, and from between the backs of those in front
  he caught glimpses of an open space with a strip of red cloth spread out
  on it; but just then the crowd swayed back&mdash;the police in front were
  pushing back those who had pressed too close to the procession: the
  Emperor was passing from the palace to the Cathedral of the Assumption&mdash;and
  Pétya unexpectedly received such a blow on his side and ribs and was
  squeezed so hard that suddenly everything grew dim before his eyes and he
  lost consciousness. When he came to himself, a man of clerical appearance
  with a tuft of gray hair at the back of his head and wearing a shabby blue
  cassock&mdash;probably a church clerk and chanter&mdash;was holding him
  under the arm with one hand while warding off the pressure of the crowd
  with the other.
<br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve crushed the young gentleman!&rdquo; said the clerk. &ldquo;What are you up to?
  Gently!... They&rsquo;ve crushed him, crushed him!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The Emperor entered the Cathedral of the Assumption. The crowd spread out
  again more evenly, and the clerk led Pétya&mdash;pale and breathless&mdash;to
  the Tsar-cannon. Several people were sorry for Pétya, and suddenly a crowd
  turned toward him and pressed round him. Those who stood nearest him
  attended to him, unbuttoned his coat, seated him on the raised platform of
  the cannon, and reproached those others (whoever they might be) who had
  crushed him.
<br />
  &ldquo;One might easily get killed that way! What do they mean by it? Killing
  people! Poor dear, he&rsquo;s as white as a sheet!&rdquo;&mdash;various voices were
  heard saying.
<br />
  Pétya soon came to himself, the color returned to his face, the pain had
  passed, and at the cost of that temporary unpleasantness he had obtained a
  place by the cannon from where he hoped to see the Emperor who would be
  returning that way. Pétya no longer thought of presenting his petition. If
  he could only see the Emperor he would be happy!
<br />
  While the service was proceeding in the Cathedral of the Assumption&mdash;it
  was a combined service of prayer on the occasion of the Emperor&rsquo;s arrival
  and of thanksgiving for the conclusion of peace with the Turks&mdash;the
  crowd outside spread out and hawkers appeared, selling kvass, gingerbread,
  and poppyseed sweets (of which Pétya was particularly fond), and ordinary
  conversation could again be heard. A tradesman&rsquo;s wife was showing a rent
  in her shawl and telling how much the shawl had cost; another was saying
  that all silk goods had now got dear. The clerk who had rescued Pétya was
  talking to a functionary about the priests who were officiating that day
  with the bishop. The clerk several times used the word &ldquo;plenary&rdquo; (of the
  service), a word Pétya did not understand. Two young citizens were joking
  with some serf girls who were cracking nuts. All these conversations,
  especially the joking with the girls, were such as might have had a
  particular charm for Pétya at his age, but they did not interest him now.
  He sat on his elevation&mdash;the pedestal of the cannon&mdash;still
  agitated as before by the thought of the Emperor and by his love for him.
  The feeling of pain and fear he had experienced when he was being crushed,
  together with that of rapture, still further intensified his sense of the
  importance of the occasion.
<br />
  Suddenly the sound of a firing of cannon was heard from the embankment, to
  celebrate the signing of peace with the Turks, and the crowd rushed
  impetuously toward the embankment to watch the firing. Pétya too would
  have run there, but the clerk who had taken the young gentleman under his
  protection stopped him. The firing was still proceeding when officers,
  generals, and gentlemen-in-waiting came running out of the cathedral, and
  after them others in a more leisurely manner: caps were again raised, and
  those who had run to look at the cannon ran back again. At last four men
  in uniforms and sashes emerged from the cathedral doors. &ldquo;Hurrah! hurrah!&rdquo;
   shouted the crowd again.
<br />
  &ldquo;Which is he? Which?&rdquo; asked Pétya in a tearful voice, of those around him,
  but no one answered him, everybody was too excited; and Pétya, fixing on
  one of those four men, whom he could not clearly see for the tears of joy
  that filled his eyes, concentrated all his enthusiasm on him&mdash;though
  it happened not to be the Emperor&mdash;frantically shouted &ldquo;Hurrah!&rdquo; and
  resolved that tomorrow, come what might, he would join the army.
<br />
  The crowd ran after the Emperor, followed him to the palace, and began to
  disperse. It was already late, and Pétya had not eaten anything and was
  drenched with perspiration, yet he did not go home but stood with that
  diminishing, but still considerable, crowd before the palace while the
  Emperor dined&mdash;looking in at the palace windows, expecting he knew
  not what, and envying alike the notables he saw arriving at the entrance
  to dine with the Emperor and the court footmen who served at table,
  glimpses of whom could be seen through the windows.
<br />
  While the Emperor was dining, Valúev, looking out of the window, said:
<br />
  &ldquo;The people are still hoping to see Your Majesty again.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The dinner was nearly over, and the Emperor, munching a biscuit, rose and
  went out onto the balcony. The people, with Pétya among them, rushed
  toward the balcony.
<br />
  &ldquo;Angel! Dear one! Hurrah! Father!...&rdquo; cried the crowd, and Pétya with it,
  and again the women and men of weaker mold, Pétya among them, wept with
  joy.
<br />
  A largish piece of the biscuit the Emperor was holding in his hand broke
  off, fell on the balcony parapet, and then to the ground. A coachman in a
  jerkin, who stood nearest, sprang forward and snatched it up. Several
  people in the crowd rushed at the coachman. Seeing this the Emperor had a
  plateful of biscuits brought him and began throwing them down from the
  balcony. Pétya&rsquo;s eyes grew bloodshot, and still more excited by the danger
  of being crushed, he rushed at the biscuits. He did not know why, but he
  had to have a biscuit from the Tsar&rsquo;s hand and he felt that he must not
  give way. He sprang forward and upset an old woman who was catching at a
  biscuit; the old woman did not consider herself defeated though she was
  lying on the ground&mdash;she grabbed at some biscuits but her hand did
  not reach them. Pétya pushed her hand away with his knee, seized a
  biscuit, and as if fearing to be too late, again shouted &ldquo;Hurrah!&rdquo; with a
  voice already hoarse.
<br />
  The Emperor went in, and after that the greater part of the crowd began to
  disperse.
<br />
  &ldquo;There! I said if only we waited&mdash;and so it was!&rdquo; was being joyfully
  said by various people.
<br />
  Happy as Pétya was, he felt sad at having to go home knowing that all the
  enjoyment of that day was over. He did not go straight home from the
  Krémlin, but called on his friend Obolénski, who was fifteen and was also
  entering the regiment. On returning home Pétya announced resolutely and
  firmly that if he was not allowed to enter the service he would run away.
  And next day, Count Ilyá Rostóv&mdash;though he had not yet quite yielded&mdash;went
  to inquire how he could arrange for Pétya to serve where there would be
  least danger.

[

    ]()
  CHAPTER XXII


  Two days later, on the fifteenth of July, an immense number of carriages
  were standing outside the Slobóda Palace.
<br />
  The great halls were full. In the first were the nobility and gentry in
  their uniforms, in the second bearded merchants in full-skirted coats of
  blue cloth and wearing medals. In the noblemen&rsquo;s hall there was an
  incessant movement and buzz of voices. The chief magnates sat on
  high-backed chairs at a large table under the portrait of the Emperor, but
  most of the gentry were strolling about the room.
<br />
  All these nobles, whom Pierre met every day at the Club or in their own
  houses, were in uniform&mdash;some in that of Catherine&rsquo;s day, others in
  that of Emperor Paul, others again in the new uniforms of Alexander&rsquo;s time
  or the ordinary uniform of the nobility, and the general characteristic of
  being in uniform imparted something strange and fantastic to these diverse
  and familiar personalities, both old and young. The old men, dim-eyed,
  toothless, bald, sallow, and bloated, or gaunt and wrinkled, were
  especially striking. For the most part they sat quietly in their places
  and were silent, or, if they walked about and talked, attached themselves
  to someone younger. On all these faces, as on the faces of the crowd Pétya
  had seen in the Square, there was a striking contradiction: the general
  expectation of a solemn event, and at the same time the everyday interests
  in a boston card party, Peter the cook, Zinaída Dmítrievna&rsquo;s health, and
  so on.
<br />
  Pierre was there too, buttoned up since early morning in a nobleman&rsquo;s
  uniform that had become too tight for him. He was agitated; this
  extraordinary gathering not only of nobles but also of the merchant-class&mdash; (States-General)&mdash;evoked in him a whole series of
  ideas he had long laid aside but which were deeply graven in his soul:
  thoughts of the  and the French Revolution. The words that
  had struck him in the Emperor&rsquo;s appeal&mdash;that the sovereign was coming
  to the capital for consultation with his people&mdash;strengthened this
  idea. And imagining that in this direction something important which he
  had long awaited was drawing near, he strolled about watching and
  listening to conversations, but nowhere finding any confirmation of the
  ideas that occupied him.
<br />
  The Emperor&rsquo;s manifesto was read, evoking enthusiasm, and then all moved
  about discussing it. Besides the ordinary topics of conversation, Pierre
  heard questions of where the marshals of the nobility were to stand when
  the Emperor entered, when a ball should be given in the Emperor&rsquo;s honor,
  whether they should group themselves by districts or by whole provinces...
  and so on; but as soon as the war was touched on, or what the nobility had
  been convened for, the talk became undecided and indefinite. Then all
  preferred listening to speaking.
<br />
  A middle-aged man, handsome and virile, in the uniform of a retired naval
  officer, was speaking in one of the rooms, and a small crowd was pressing
  round him. Pierre went up to the circle that had formed round the speaker
  and listened. Count Ilyá Rostóv, in a military uniform of Catherine&rsquo;s
  time, was sauntering with a pleasant smile among the crowd, with all of
  whom he was acquainted. He too approached that group and listened with a
  kindly smile and nods of approval, as he always did, to what the speaker
  was saying. The retired naval man was speaking very boldly, as was evident
  from the expression on the faces of the listeners and from the fact that
  some people Pierre knew as the meekest and quietest of men walked away
  disapprovingly or expressed disagreement with him. Pierre pushed his way
  into the middle of the group, listened, and convinced himself that the man
  was indeed a liberal, but of views quite different from his own. The naval
  officer spoke in a particularly sonorous, musical, and aristocratic
  baritone voice, pleasantly swallowing his &rsquo;s and generally slurring his
  consonants: the voice of a man calling out to his servant, &ldquo;Heah! Bwing me
  my pipe!&rdquo; It was indicative of dissipation and the exercise of authority.
<br />
  &ldquo;What if the Smolénsk people have offahd to waise militia for the Empewah?
  Ah we to take Smolénsk as our patte&rsquo;n? If the noble awistocwacy of the
  pwovince of Moscow thinks fit, it can show its loyalty to our sov&rsquo;weign
  the Empewah in other ways. Have we fo&rsquo;gotten the waising of the militia in
  the yeah &lsquo;seven? All that did was to enwich the pwiests&rsquo; sons and thieves
  and wobbahs....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Count Ilyá Rostóv smiled blandly and nodded approval.
<br />
  &ldquo;And was our militia of any use to the Empia? Not at all! It only wuined
  our farming! Bettah have another conscwiption... o&rsquo; ou&rsquo; men will wetu&rsquo;n
  neithah soldiers no&rsquo; peasants, and we&rsquo;ll get only depwavity fwom them. The
  nobility don&rsquo;t gwudge theah lives&mdash;evewy one of us will go and bwing
  in more wecwuits, and the sov&rsquo;weign&rdquo; (that was the way he referred to the
  Emperor) &ldquo;need only say the word and we&rsquo;ll all die fo&rsquo; him!&rdquo; added the
  orator with animation.
<br />
  Count Rostóv&rsquo;s mouth watered with pleasure and he nudged Pierre, but
  Pierre wanted to speak himself. He pushed forward, feeling stirred, but
  not yet sure what stirred him or what he would say. Scarcely had he opened
  his mouth when one of the senators, a man without a tooth in his head,
  with a shrewd though angry expression, standing near the first speaker,
  interrupted him. Evidently accustomed to managing debates and to
  maintaining an argument, he began in low but distinct tones:
<br />
  &ldquo;I imagine, sir,&rdquo; said he, mumbling with his toothless mouth, &ldquo;that we
  have been summoned here not to discuss whether it&rsquo;s best for the empire at
  the present moment to adopt conscription or to call out the militia. We
  have been summoned to reply to the appeal with which our sovereign the
  Emperor has honored us. But to judge what is best&mdash;conscription or
  the militia&mdash;we can leave to the supreme authority....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre suddenly saw an outlet for his excitement. He hardened his heart
  against the senator who was introducing this set and narrow attitude into
  the deliberations of the nobility. Pierre stepped forward and interrupted
  him. He himself did not yet know what he would say, but he began to speak
  eagerly, occasionally lapsing into French or expressing himself in bookish
  Russian.
<br />
  &ldquo;Excuse me, your excellency,&rdquo; he began. (He was well acquainted with the
  senator, but thought it necessary on this occasion to address him
  formally.) &ldquo;Though I don&rsquo;t agree with the gentleman...&rdquo; (he hesitated: he
  wished to say, &mdash;&ldquo;My very honorable
  opponent&rdquo;) &ldquo;with the gentleman... whom I have not the honor of knowing, I
  suppose that the nobility have been summoned not merely to express their
  sympathy and enthusiasm but also to consider the means by which we can
  assist our Fatherland! I imagine,&rdquo; he went on, warming to his subject,
  &ldquo;that the Emperor himself would not be satisfied to find in us merely
  owners of serfs whom we are willing to devote to his service, and  * we are ready to make of ourselves&mdash;and not to obtain from us
  any co-co-counsel.&rdquo;
 <br />
* &ldquo;Food for cannon.&rdquo;

Many persons withdrew from the circle, noticing the senator’s sarcastic smile and the freedom of Pierre’s remarks. Only Count Rostóv was pleased with them as he had been pleased with those of the naval officer, the senator, and in general with whatever speech he had last heard.
“I think that before discussing these questions,” Pierre continued, “we should ask the Emperor—most respectfully ask His Majesty—to let us know the number of our troops and the position in which our army and our forces now are, and then…”
But scarcely had Pierre uttered these words before he was attacked from three sides. The most vigorous attack came from an old acquaintance, a boston player who had always been well disposed toward him, Stepán Stepánovich Adráksin. Adráksin was in uniform, and whether as a result of the uniform or from some other cause Pierre saw before him quite a different man. With a sudden expression of malevolence on his aged face, Adráksin shouted at Pierre:
“In the first place, I tell you we have no right to question the Emperor about that, and secondly, if the Russian nobility had that right, the Emperor could not answer such a question. The troops are moved according to the enemy’s movements and the number of men increases and decreases….”
Another voice, that of a nobleman of medium height and about forty years of age, whom Pierre had formerly met at the gypsies’ and knew as a bad cardplayer, and who, also transformed by his uniform, came up to Pierre, interrupted Adráksin.
“Yes, and this is not a time for discussing,” he continued, “but for acting: there is war in Russia! The enemy is advancing to destroy Russia, to desecrate the tombs of our fathers, to carry off our wives and children.” The nobleman smote his breast. “We will all arise, everyone of us will go, for our father the Tsar!” he shouted, rolling his bloodshot eyes. Several approving voices were heard in the crowd. “We are Russians and will not grudge our blood in defense of our faith, the throne, and the Fatherland! We must cease raving if we are sons of our Fatherland! We will show Europe how Russia rises to the defense of Russia!”
Pierre wished to reply, but could not get in a word. He felt that his words, apart from what meaning they conveyed, were less audible than the sound of his opponent’s voice.
Count Rostóv at the back of the crowd was expressing approval; several persons, briskly turning a shoulder to the orator at the end of a phrase, said:
“That’s right, quite right! Just so!”
Pierre wished to say that he was ready to sacrifice his money, his serfs, or himself, only one ought to know the state of affairs in order to be able to improve it, but he was unable to speak. Many voices shouted and talked at the same time, so that Count Rostóv had not time to signify his approval of them all, and the group increased, dispersed, re-formed, and then moved with a hum of talk into the largest hall and to the big table. Not only was Pierre’s attempt to speak unsuccessful, but he was rudely interrupted, pushed aside, and people turned away from him as from a common enemy. This happened not because they were displeased by the substance of his speech, which had even been forgotten after the many subsequent speeches, but to animate it the crowd needed a tangible object to love and a tangible object to hate. Pierre became the latter. Many other orators spoke after the excited nobleman, and all in the same tone. Many spoke eloquently and with originality.
Glínka, the editor of the , who was recognized (cries of “author! author!” were heard in the crowd), said that “hell must be repulsed by hell,” and that he had seen a child smiling at lightning flashes and thunderclaps, but “we will not be that child.”
“Yes, yes, at thunderclaps!” was repeated approvingly in the back rows of the crowd.
The crowd drew up to the large table, at which sat gray-haired or bald seventy-year-old magnates, uniformed and besashed, almost all of whom Pierre had seen in their own homes with their buffoons, or playing boston at the clubs. With an incessant hum of voices the crowd advanced to the table. Pressed by the throng against the high backs of the chairs, the orators spoke one after another and sometimes two together. Those standing behind noticed what a speaker omitted to say and hastened to supply it. Others in that heat and crush racked their brains to find some thought and hastened to utter it. The old magnates, whom Pierre knew, sat and turned to look first at one and then at another, and their faces for the most part only expressed the fact that they found it very hot. Pierre, however, felt excited, and the general desire to show that they were ready to go to all lengths—which found expression in the tones and looks more than in the substance of the speeches—infected him too. He did not renounce his opinions, but felt himself in some way to blame and wished to justify himself.
“I only said that it would be more to the purpose to make sacrifices when we know what is needed!” said he, trying to be heard above the other voices.
One of the old men nearest to him looked round, but his attention was immediately diverted by an exclamation at the other side of the table.
“Yes, Moscow will be surrendered! She will be our expiation!” shouted one man.
“He is the enemy of mankind!” cried another. “Allow me to speak….” “Gentlemen, you are crushing me!…”

  CHAPTER XXIII


  At that moment Count Rostopchín with his protruding chin and alert eyes,
  wearing the uniform of a general with sash over his shoulder, entered the
  room, stepping briskly to the front of the crowd of gentry.
<br />
  &ldquo;Our sovereign the Emperor will be here in a moment,&rdquo; said Rostopchín. &ldquo;I
  am straight from the palace. Seeing the position we are in, I think there
  is little need for discussion. The Emperor has deigned to summon us and
  the merchants. Millions will pour forth from there&rdquo;&mdash;he pointed to
  the merchants&rsquo; hall&mdash;&ldquo;but our business is to supply men and not spare
  ourselves.... That is the least we can do!&rdquo;
 <br />
  A conference took place confined to the magnates sitting at the table. The
  whole consultation passed more than quietly. After all the preceding noise
  the sound of their old voices saying one after another, &ldquo;I agree,&rdquo; or for
  variety, &ldquo;I too am of that opinion,&rdquo; and so on had even a mournful effect.
<br />
  The secretary was told to write down the resolution of the Moscow nobility
  and gentry, that they would furnish ten men, fully equipped, out of every
  thousand serfs, as the Smolénsk gentry had done. Their chairs made a
  scraping noise as the gentlemen who had conferred rose with apparent
  relief, and began walking up and down, arm in arm, to stretch their legs
  and converse in couples.
<br />
  &ldquo;The Emperor! The Emperor!&rdquo; a sudden cry resounded through the halls and
  the whole throng hurried to the entrance.
<br />
  The Emperor entered the hall through a broad path between two lines of
  nobles. Every face expressed respectful, awe-struck curiosity. Pierre
  stood rather far off and could not hear all that the Emperor said. From
  what he did hear he understood that the Emperor spoke of the danger
  threatening the empire and of the hopes he placed on the Moscow nobility.
  He was answered by a voice which informed him of the resolution just
  arrived at.
<br />
  &ldquo;Gentlemen!&rdquo; said the Emperor with a quivering voice.
<br />
  There was a rustling among the crowd and it again subsided, so that Pierre
  distinctly heard the pleasantly human voice of the Emperor saying with
  emotion:
<br />
  &ldquo;I never doubted the devotion of the Russian nobles, but today it has
  surpassed my expectations. I thank you in the name of the Fatherland!
  Gentlemen, let us act! Time is most precious....&rdquo;
 <br />
  The Emperor ceased speaking, the crowd began pressing round him, and
  rapturous exclamations were heard from all sides.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, most precious... a royal word,&rdquo; said Count Rostóv, with a sob. He
  stood at the back, and, though he had heard hardly anything, understood
  everything in his own way.
<br />
  From the hall of the nobility the Emperor went to that of the merchants.
  There he remained about ten minutes. Pierre was among those who saw him
  come out from the merchants&rsquo; hall with tears of emotion in his eyes. As
  became known later, he had scarcely begun to address the merchants before
  tears gushed from his eyes and he concluded in a trembling voice. When
  Pierre saw the Emperor he was coming out accompanied by two merchants, one
  of whom Pierre knew, a fat . The other was the mayor, a man
  with a thin sallow face and narrow beard. Both were weeping. Tears filled
  the thin man&rsquo;s eyes, and the fat  sobbed outright like a
  child and kept repeating:
<br />
  &ldquo;Our lives and property&mdash;take them, Your Majesty!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre&rsquo;s one feeling at the moment was a desire to show that he was ready
  to go all lengths and was prepared to sacrifice everything. He now felt
  ashamed of his speech with its constitutional tendency and sought an
  opportunity of effacing it. Having heard that Count Mamónov was furnishing
  a regiment, Bezúkhov at once informed Rostopchín that he would give a
  thousand men and their maintenance.
<br />
  Old Rostóv could not tell his wife of what had passed without tears, and
  at once consented to Pétya&rsquo;s request and went himself to enter his name.
<br />
  Next day the Emperor left Moscow. The assembled nobles all took off their
  uniforms and settled down again in their homes and clubs, and not without
  some groans gave orders to their stewards about the enrollment, feeling
  amazed themselves at what they had done.

  BOOK TEN: 1812

  CHAPTER I


  Napoleon began the war with Russia because he could not resist going to
  Dresden, could not help having his head turned by the homage he received,
  could not help donning a Polish uniform and yielding to the stimulating
  influence of a June morning, and could not refrain from bursts of anger in
  the presence of Kurákin and then of Balashëv.
<br />
  Alexander refused negotiations because he felt himself to be personally
  insulted. Barclay de Tolly tried to command the army in the best way,
  because he wished to fulfill his duty and earn fame as a great commander.
  Rostóv charged the French because he could not restrain his wish for a
  gallop across a level field; and in the same way the innumerable people
  who took part in the war acted in accord with their personal
  characteristics, habits, circumstances, and aims. They were moved by fear
  or vanity, rejoiced or were indignant, reasoned, imagining that they knew
  what they were doing and did it of their own free will, but they all were
  involuntary tools of history, carrying on a work concealed from them but
  comprehensible to us. Such is the inevitable fate of men of action, and
  the higher they stand in the social hierarchy the less are they free.
<br />
  The actors of 1812 have long since left the stage, their personal
  interests have vanished leaving no trace, and nothing remains of that time
  but its historic results.
<br />
  Providence compelled all these men, striving to attain personal aims, to
  further the accomplishment of a stupendous result no one of them at all
  expected&mdash;neither Napoleon, nor Alexander, nor still less any of
  those who did the actual fighting.
<br />
  The cause of the destruction of the French army in 1812 is clear to us
  now. No one will deny that that cause was, on the one hand, its advance
  into the heart of Russia late in the season without any preparation for a
  winter campaign and, on the other, the character given to the war by the
  burning of Russian towns and the hatred of the foe this aroused among the
  Russian people. But no one at the time foresaw (what now seems so evident)
  that this was the only way an army of eight hundred thousand men&mdash;the
  best in the world and led by the best general&mdash;could be destroyed in
  conflict with a raw army of half its numerical strength, and led by
  inexperienced commanders as the Russian army was. , but  every effort was made to hinder the only
  thing that could save Russia, while , despite Napoleon&rsquo;s
  experience and so-called military genius, every effort was directed to
  pushing on to Moscow at the end of the summer, that is, to doing the very
  thing that was bound to lead to destruction.
<br />
  In historical works on the year 1812 French writers are very fond of
  saying that Napoleon felt the danger of extending his line, that he sought
  a battle and that his marshals advised him to stop at Smolénsk, and of
  making similar statements to show that the danger of the campaign was even
  then understood. Russian authors are still fonder of telling us that from
  the commencement of the campaign a Scythian war plan was adopted to lure
  Napoleon into the depths of Russia, and this plan some of them attribute
  to Pfuel, others to a certain Frenchman, others to Toll, and others again
  to Alexander himself&mdash;pointing to notes, projects, and letters which
  contain hints of such a line of action. But all these hints at what
  happened, both from the French side and the Russian, are advanced only
  because they fit in with the event. Had that event not occurred these
  hints would have been forgotten, as we have forgotten the thousands and
  millions of hints and expectations to the contrary which were current then
  but have now been forgotten because the event falsified them. There are
  always so many conjectures as to the issue of any event that however it
  may end there will always be people to say: &ldquo;I said then that it would be
  so,&rdquo; quite forgetting that amid their innumerable conjectures many were to
  quite the contrary effect.
<br />
  Conjectures as to Napoleon&rsquo;s awareness of the danger of extending his
  line, and (on the Russian side) as to luring the enemy into the depths of
  Russia, are evidently of that kind, and only by much straining can
  historians attribute such conceptions to Napoleon and his marshals, or
  such plans to the Russian commanders. All the facts are in flat
  contradiction to such conjectures. During the whole period of the war not
  only was there no wish on the Russian side to draw the French into the
  heart of the country, but from their first entry into Russia everything
  was done to stop them. And not only was Napoleon not afraid to extend his
  line, but he welcomed every step forward as a triumph and did not seek
  battle as eagerly as in former campaigns, but very lazily.
<br />
  At the very beginning of the war our armies were divided, and our sole aim
  was to unite them, though uniting the armies was no advantage if we meant
  to retire and lure the enemy into the depths of the country. Our Emperor
  joined the army to encourage it to defend every inch of Russian soil and
  not to retreat. The enormous Drissa camp was formed on Pfuel&rsquo;s plan, and
  there was no intention of retiring farther. The Emperor reproached the
  commanders in chief for every step they retired. He could not bear the
  idea of letting the enemy even reach Smolénsk, still less could he
  contemplate the burning of Moscow, and when our armies did unite he was
  displeased that Smolénsk was abandoned and burned without a general
  engagement having been fought under its walls.
<br />
  So thought the Emperor, and the Russian commanders and people were still
  more provoked at the thought that our forces were retreating into the
  depths of the country.
<br />
  Napoleon having cut our armies apart advanced far into the country and
  missed several chances of forcing an engagement. In August he was at
  Smolénsk and thought only of how to advance farther, though as we now see
  that advance was evidently ruinous to him.
<br />
  The facts clearly show that Napoleon did not foresee the danger of the
  advance on Moscow, nor did Alexander and the Russian commanders then think
  of luring Napoleon on, but quite the contrary. The luring of Napoleon into
  the depths of the country was not the result of any plan, for no one
  believed it to be possible; it resulted from a most complex interplay of
  intrigues, aims, and wishes among those who took part in the war and had
  no perception whatever of the inevitable, or of the one way of saving
  Russia. Everything came about fortuitously. The armies were divided at the
  commencement of the campaign. We tried to unite them, with the evident
  intention of giving battle and checking the enemy&rsquo;s advance, and by this
  effort to unite them while avoiding battle with a much stronger enemy, and
  necessarily withdrawing the armies at an acute angle&mdash;we led the
  French on to Smolénsk. But we withdrew at an acute angle not only because
  the French advanced between our two armies; the angle became still more
  acute and we withdrew still farther, because Barclay de Tolly was an
  unpopular foreigner disliked by Bagratión (who would come under his
  command), and Bagratión&mdash;being in command of the second army&mdash;tried
  to postpone joining up and coming under Barclay&rsquo;s command as long as he
  could. Bagratión was slow in effecting the junction&mdash;though that was
  the chief aim of all at headquarters&mdash;because, as he alleged, he
  exposed his army to danger on this march, and it was best for him to
  retire more to the left and more to the south, worrying the enemy from
  flank and rear and securing from the Ukraine recruits for his army; and it
  looks as if he planned this in order not to come under the command of the
  detested foreigner Barclay, whose rank was inferior to his own.
<br />
  The Emperor was with the army to encourage it, but his presence and
  ignorance of what steps to take, and the enormous number of advisers and
  plans, destroyed the first army&rsquo;s energy and it retired.
<br />
  The intention was to make a stand at the Drissa camp, but Paulucci, aiming
  at becoming commander in chief, unexpectedly employed his energy to
  influence Alexander, and Pfuel&rsquo;s whole plan was abandoned and the command
  entrusted to Barclay. But as Barclay did not inspire confidence his power
  was limited. The armies were divided, there was no unity of command, and
  Barclay was unpopular; but from this confusion, division, and the
  unpopularity of the foreign commander in chief, there resulted on the one
  hand indecision and the avoidance of a battle (which we could not have
  refrained from had the armies been united and had someone else, instead of
  Barclay, been in command) and on the other an ever-increasing indignation
  against the foreigners and an increase in patriotic zeal.
<br />
  At last the Emperor left the army, and as the most convenient and indeed
  the only pretext for his departure it was decided that it was necessary
  for him to inspire the people in the capitals and arouse the nation in
  general to a patriotic war. And by this visit of the Emperor to Moscow the
  strength of the Russian army was trebled.
<br />
  He left in order not to obstruct the commander in chief&rsquo;s undivided
  control of the army, and hoping that more decisive action would then be
  taken, but the command of the armies became still more confused and
  enfeebled. Bennigsen, the Tsarévich, and a swarm of adjutants general
  remained with the army to keep the commander in chief under observation
  and arouse his energy, and Barclay, feeling less free than ever under the
  observation of all these &ldquo;eyes of the Emperor,&rdquo; became still more cautious
  of undertaking any decisive action and avoided giving battle.
<br />
  Barclay stood for caution. The Tsarévich hinted at treachery and demanded
  a general engagement. Lubomírski, Bronnítski, Wlocki, and the others of
  that group stirred up so much trouble that Barclay, under pretext of
  sending papers to the Emperor, dispatched these Polish adjutants general
  to Petersburg and plunged into an open struggle with Bennigsen and the
  Tsarévich.
<br />
  At Smolénsk the armies at last reunited, much as Bagratión disliked it.
<br />
  Bagratión drove up in a carriage to the house occupied by Barclay. Barclay
  donned his sash and came out to meet and report to his senior officer
  Bagratión.
<br />
  Despite his seniority in rank Bagratión, in this contest of magnanimity,
  took his orders from Barclay, but, having submitted, agreed with him less
  than ever. By the Emperor&rsquo;s orders Bagratión reported direct to him. He
  wrote to Arakchéev, the Emperor&rsquo;s confidant: &ldquo;It must be as my sovereign
  pleases, but I cannot work with the  (meaning Barclay). For God&rsquo;s
  sake send me somewhere else if only in command of a regiment. I cannot
  stand it here. Headquarters are so full of Germans that a Russian cannot
  exist and there is no sense in anything. I thought I was really serving my
  sovereign and the Fatherland, but it turns out that I am serving Barclay.
  I confess I do not want to.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The swarm of Bronnítskis and Wintzingerodes and their like still further
  embittered the relations between the commanders in chief, and even less
  unity resulted. Preparations were made to fight the French before
  Smolénsk. A general was sent to survey the position. This general, hating
  Barclay, rode to visit a friend of his own, a corps commander, and, having
  spent the day with him, returned to Barclay and condemned, as unsuitable
  from every point of view, the battleground he had not seen.
<br />
  While disputes and intrigues were going on about the future field of
  battle, and while we were looking for the French&mdash;having lost touch
  with them&mdash;the French stumbled upon Nevérovski&rsquo;s division and reached
  the walls of Smolénsk.
<br />
  It was necessary to fight an unexpected battle at Smolénsk to save our
  lines of communication. The battle was fought and thousands were killed on
  both sides.
<br />
  Smolénsk was abandoned contrary to the wishes of the Emperor and of the
  whole people. But Smolénsk was burned by its own inhabitants who had been
  misled by their governor. And these ruined inhabitants, setting an example
  to other Russians, went to Moscow thinking only of their own losses but
  kindling hatred of the foe. Napoleon advanced farther and we retired, thus
  arriving at the very result which caused his destruction.

  CHAPTER II


  The day after his son had left, Prince Nicholas sent for Princess Mary to
  come to his study.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well? Are you satisfied now?&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve made me quarrel with my
  son! Satisfied, are you? That&rsquo;s all you wanted! Satisfied?... It hurts me,
  it hurts. I&rsquo;m old and weak and this is what you wanted. Well then, gloat
  over it! Gloat over it!&rdquo;
 <br />
  After that Princess Mary did not see her father for a whole week. He was
  ill and did not leave his study.
<br />
  Princess Mary noticed to her surprise that during this illness the old
  prince not only excluded her from his room, but did not admit Mademoiselle
  Bourienne either. Tíkhon alone attended him.
<br />
  At the end of the week the prince reappeared and resumed his former way of
  life, devoting himself with special activity to building operations and
  the arrangement of the gardens and completely breaking off his relations
  with Mademoiselle Bourienne. His looks and cold tone to his daughter
  seemed to say: &ldquo;There, you see? You plotted against me, you lied to Prince
  Andrew about my relations with that Frenchwoman and made me quarrel with
  him, but you see I need neither her nor you!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Princess Mary spent half of every day with little Nicholas, watching his
  lessons, teaching him Russian and music herself, and talking to Dessalles;
  the rest of the day she spent over her books, with her old nurse, or with
  &ldquo;God&rsquo;s folk&rdquo; who sometimes came by the back door to see her.
<br />
  Of the war Princess Mary thought as women do think about wars. She feared
  for her brother who was in it, was horrified by and amazed at the strange
  cruelty that impels men to kill one another, but she did not understand
  the significance of this war, which seemed to her like all previous wars.
  She did not realize the significance of this war, though Dessalles with
  whom she constantly conversed was passionately interested in its progress
  and tried to explain his own conception of it to her, and though the
  &ldquo;God&rsquo;s folk&rdquo; who came to see her reported, in their own way, the rumors
  current among the people of an invasion by Antichrist, and though Julie
  (now Princess Drubetskáya), who had resumed correspondence with her, wrote
  patriotic letters from Moscow.
<br />
  &ldquo;I write you in Russian, my good friend,&rdquo; wrote Julie in her Frenchified
  Russian, &ldquo;because I have a detestation for all the French, and the same
  for their language which I cannot support to hear spoken.... We in Moscow
  are elated by enthusiasm for our adored Emperor.
<br />
  &ldquo;My poor husband is enduring pains and hunger in Jewish taverns, but the
  news which I have inspires me yet more.
<br />
  &ldquo;You heard probably of the heroic exploit of Raévski, embracing his two
  sons and saying: &lsquo;I will perish with them but we will not be shaken!&rsquo; And
  truly though the enemy was twice stronger than we, we were unshakable. We
  pass the time as we can, but in war as in war! The princesses Aline and
  Sophie sit whole days with me, and we, unhappy widows of live men, make
  beautiful conversations over our , only you, my friend, are
  missing...&rdquo; and so on.
<br />
  The chief reason Princess Mary did not realize the full significance of
  this war was that the old prince never spoke of it, did not recognize it,
  and laughed at Dessalles when he mentioned it at dinner. The prince&rsquo;s tone
  was so calm and confident that Princess Mary unhesitatingly believed him.
<br />
  All that July the old prince was exceedingly active and even animated. He
  planned another garden and began a new building for the domestic serfs.
  The only thing that made Princess Mary anxious about him was that he slept
  very little and, instead of sleeping in his study as usual, changed his
  sleeping place every day. One day he would order his camp bed to be set up
  in the glass gallery, another day he remained on the couch or on the
  lounge chair in the drawing room and dozed there without undressing, while&mdash;instead
  of Mademoiselle Bourienne&mdash;a serf boy read to him. Then again he
  would spend a night in the dining room.
<br />
  On August 1, a second letter was received from Prince Andrew. In his first
  letter which came soon after he had left home, Prince Andrew had dutifully
  asked his father&rsquo;s forgiveness for what he had allowed himself to say and
  begged to be restored to his favor. To this letter the old prince had
  replied affectionately, and from that time had kept the Frenchwoman at a
  distance. Prince Andrew&rsquo;s second letter, written near Vítebsk after the
  French had occupied that town, gave a brief account of the whole campaign,
  enclosed for them a plan he had drawn and forecasts as to the further
  progress of the war. In this letter Prince Andrew pointed out to his
  father the danger of staying at Bald Hills, so near the theater of war and
  on the army&rsquo;s direct line of march, and advised him to move to Moscow.
<br />
  At dinner that day, on Dessalles&rsquo; mentioning that the French were said to
  have already entered Vítebsk, the old prince remembered his son&rsquo;s letter.
<br />
  &ldquo;There was a letter from Prince Andrew today,&rdquo; he said to Princess Mary&mdash;&ldquo;Haven&rsquo;t
  you read it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, Father,&rdquo; she replied in a frightened voice.
<br />
  She could not have read the letter as she did not even know it had
  arrived.
<br />
  &ldquo;He writes about this war,&rdquo; said the prince, with the ironic smile that
  had become habitual to him in speaking of the present war.
<br />
  &ldquo;That must be very interesting,&rdquo; said Dessalles. &ldquo;Prince Andrew is in a
  position to know...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, very interesting!&rdquo; said Mademoiselle Bourienne.
<br />
  &ldquo;Go and get it for me,&rdquo; said the old prince to Mademoiselle Bourienne.
  &ldquo;You know&mdash;under the paperweight on the little table.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Mademoiselle Bourienne jumped up eagerly.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, don&rsquo;t!&rdquo; he exclaimed with a frown. &ldquo;You go, Michael Ivánovich.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Michael Ivánovich rose and went to the study. But as soon as he had left
  the room the old prince, looking uneasily round, threw down his napkin and
  went himself.
<br />
  &ldquo;They can&rsquo;t do anything... always make some muddle,&rdquo; he muttered.
<br />
  While he was away Princess Mary, Dessalles, Mademoiselle Bourienne, and
  even little Nicholas exchanged looks in silence. The old prince returned
  with quick steps, accompanied by Michael Ivánovich, bringing the letter
  and a plan. These he put down beside him&mdash;not letting anyone read
  them at dinner.
<br />
  On moving to the drawing room he handed the letter to Princess Mary and,
  spreading out before him the plan of the new building and fixing his eyes
  upon it, told her to read the letter aloud. When she had done so Princess
  Mary looked inquiringly at her father. He was examining the plan,
  evidently engrossed in his own ideas.
<br />
  &ldquo;What do you think of it, Prince?&rdquo; Dessalles ventured to ask.
<br />
  &ldquo;I? I?...&rdquo; said the prince as if unpleasantly awakened, and not taking his
  eyes from the plan of the building.
<br />
  &ldquo;Very possibly the theater of war will move so near to us that...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ha ha ha! The theater of war!&rdquo; said the prince. &ldquo;I have said and still
  say that the theater of war is Poland and the enemy will never get beyond
  the Niemen.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dessalles looked in amazement at the prince, who was talking of the Niemen
  when the enemy was already at the Dnieper, but Princess Mary, forgetting
  the geographical position of the Niemen, thought that what her father was
  saying was correct.
<br />
  &ldquo;When the snow melts they&rsquo;ll sink in the Polish swamps. Only they could
  fail to see it,&rdquo; the prince continued, evidently thinking of the campaign
  of 1807 which seemed to him so recent. &ldquo;Bennigsen should have advanced
  into Prussia sooner, then things would have taken a different turn...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But, Prince,&rdquo; Dessalles began timidly, &ldquo;the letter mentions Vítebsk....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah, the letter? Yes...&rdquo; replied the prince peevishly. &ldquo;Yes... yes...&rdquo; His
  face suddenly took on a morose expression. He paused. &ldquo;Yes, he writes that
  the French were beaten at... at... what river is it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dessalles dropped his eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;The prince says nothing about that,&rdquo; he remarked gently.
<br />
  &ldquo;Doesn&rsquo;t he? But I didn&rsquo;t invent it myself.&rdquo;
 <br />
  No one spoke for a long time.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes... yes... Well, Michael Ivánovich,&rdquo; he suddenly went on, raising his
  head and pointing to the plan of the building, &ldquo;tell me how you mean to
  alter it....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Michael Ivánovich went up to the plan, and the prince after speaking to
  him about the building looked angrily at Princess Mary and Dessalles and
  went to his own room.
<br />
  Princess Mary saw Dessalles&rsquo; embarrassed and astonished look fixed on her
  father, noticed his silence, and was struck by the fact that her father
  had forgotten his son&rsquo;s letter on the drawing room table; but she was not
  only afraid to speak of it and ask Dessalles the reason of his confusion
  and silence, but was afraid even to think about it.
<br />
  In the evening Michael Ivánovich, sent by the prince, came to Princess
  Mary for Prince Andrew&rsquo;s letter which had been forgotten in the drawing
  room. She gave it to him and, unpleasant as it was to her to do so,
  ventured to ask him what her father was doing.
<br />
  &ldquo;Always busy,&rdquo; replied Michael Ivánovich with a respectfully ironic smile
  which caused Princess Mary to turn pale. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s worrying very much about
  the new building. He has been reading a little, but now&rdquo;&mdash;Michael
  Ivánovich went on, lowering his voice&mdash;&ldquo;now he&rsquo;s at his desk, busy
  with his will, I expect.&rdquo; (One of the prince&rsquo;s favorite occupations of
  late had been the preparation of some papers he meant to leave at his
  death and which he called his &ldquo;will.&rdquo;)
<br />
  &ldquo;And Alpátych is being sent to Smolénsk?&rdquo; asked Princess Mary.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, yes, he has been waiting to start for some time.&rdquo;

  CHAPTER III


  When Michael Ivánovich returned to the study with the letter, the old
  prince, with spectacles on and a shade over his eyes, was sitting at his
  open bureau with screened candles, holding a paper in his outstretched
  hand, and in a somewhat dramatic attitude was reading his manuscript&mdash;his
  &ldquo;Remarks&rdquo; as he termed it&mdash;which was to be transmitted to the Emperor
  after his death.
<br />
  When Michael Ivánovich went in there were tears in the prince&rsquo;s eyes
  evoked by the memory of the time when the paper he was now reading had
  been written. He took the letter from Michael Ivánovich&rsquo;s hand, put it in
  his pocket, folded up his papers, and called in Alpátych who had long been
  waiting.
<br />
  The prince had a list of things to be bought in Smolénsk and, walking up
  and down the room past Alpátych who stood by the door, he gave his
  instructions.
<br />
  &ldquo;First, notepaper&mdash;do you hear? Eight quires, like this sample,
  gilt-edged... it must be exactly like the sample. Varnish, sealing wax, as
  in Michael Ivánovich&rsquo;s list.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He paced up and down for a while and glanced at his notes.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then hand to the governor in person a letter about the deed.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Next, bolts for the doors of the new building were wanted and had to be of
  a special shape the prince had himself designed, and a leather case had to
  be ordered to keep the &ldquo;will&rdquo; in.
<br />
  The instructions to Alpátych took over two hours and still the prince did
  not let him go. He sat down, sank into thought, closed his eyes, and dozed
  off. Alpátych made a slight movement.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, go, go! If anything more is wanted I&rsquo;ll send after you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Alpátych went out. The prince again went to his bureau, glanced into it,
  fingered his papers, closed the bureau again, and sat down at the table to
  write to the governor.
<br />
  It was already late when he rose after sealing the letter. He wished to
  sleep, but he knew he would not be able to and that most depressing
  thoughts came to him in bed. So he called Tíkhon and went through the
  rooms with him to show him where to set up the bed for that night.
<br />
  He went about looking at every corner. Every place seemed unsatisfactory,
  but worst of all was his customary couch in the study. That couch was
  dreadful to him, probably because of the oppressive thoughts he had had
  when lying there. It was unsatisfactory everywhere, but the corner behind
  the piano in the sitting room was better than other places: he had never
  slept there yet.
<br />
  With the help of a footman Tíkhon brought in the bedstead and began
  putting it up.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s not right! That&rsquo;s not right!&rdquo; cried the prince, and himself pushed
  it a few inches from the corner and then closer in again.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, at last I&rsquo;ve finished, now I&rsquo;ll rest,&rdquo; thought the prince, and let
  Tíkhon undress him.
<br />
  Frowning with vexation at the effort necessary to divest himself of his
  coat and trousers, the prince undressed, sat down heavily on the bed, and
  appeared to be meditating as he looked contemptuously at his withered
  yellow legs. He was not meditating, but only deferring the moment of
  making the effort to lift those legs up and turn over on the bed. &ldquo;Ugh,
  how hard it is! Oh, that this toil might end and  would release me!&rdquo;
   thought he. Pressing his lips together he made that effort for the
  twenty-thousandth time and lay down. But hardly had he done so before he
  felt the bed rocking backwards and forwards beneath him as if it were
  breathing heavily and jolting. This happened to him almost every night. He
  opened his eyes as they were closing.
<br />
  &ldquo;No peace, damn them!&rdquo; he muttered, angry he knew not with
  whom. &ldquo;Ah yes, there was something else important, very important,
  that I was keeping till I should be in bed. The bolts? No, I told him
  about them. No, it was something, something in the drawing room. Princess
  Mary talked some nonsense. Dessalles, that fool, said something. Something
  in my pocket&mdash;can&rsquo;t remember....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Tíkhon, what did we talk about at dinner?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;About Prince Michael...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Be quiet, quiet!&rdquo; The prince slapped his hand on the table. &ldquo;Yes, I know,
  Prince Andrew&rsquo;s letter! Princess Mary read it. Dessalles said something
  about Vítebsk. Now I&rsquo;ll read it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He had the letter taken from his pocket and the table&mdash;on which stood
  a glass of lemonade and a spiral wax candle&mdash;moved close to the bed,
  and putting on his spectacles he began reading. Only now in the stillness
  of the night, reading it by the faint light under the green shade, did he
  grasp its meaning for a moment.
<br />
  &ldquo;The French at Vítebsk, in four days&rsquo; march they may be at Smolénsk;
  perhaps are already there! Tíkhon!&rdquo; Tíkhon jumped up. &ldquo;No, no, I don&rsquo;t
  want anything!&rdquo; he shouted.
<br />
  He put the letter under the candlestick and closed his eyes. And there
  rose before him the Danube at bright noonday: reeds, the Russian camp, and
  himself a young general without a wrinkle on his ruddy face, vigorous and
  alert, entering Potëmkin&rsquo;s gaily colored tent, and a burning sense of
  jealousy of &ldquo;the favorite&rdquo; agitated him now as strongly as it had done
  then. He recalled all the words spoken at that first meeting with
  Potëmkin. And he saw before him a plump, rather sallow-faced, short, stout
  woman, the Empress Mother, with her smile and her words at her first
  gracious reception of him, and then that same face on the catafalque, and
  the encounter he had with Zúbov over her coffin about his right to kiss
  her hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, quicker, quicker! To get back to that time and have done with all the
  present! Quicker, quicker&mdash;and that they should leave me in peace!&rdquo;

  CHAPTER IV


  Bald Hills, Prince Nicholas Bolkónski&rsquo;s estate, lay forty miles east from
  Smolénsk and two miles from the main road to Moscow.
<br />
  The same evening that the prince gave his instructions to Alpátych,
  Dessalles, having asked to see Princess Mary, told her that, as the prince
  was not very well and was taking no steps to secure his safety, though
  from Prince Andrew&rsquo;s letter it was evident that to remain at Bald Hills
  might be dangerous, he respectfully advised her to send a letter by
  Alpátych to the Provincial Governor at Smolénsk, asking him to let her
  know the state of affairs and the extent of the danger to which Bald Hills
  was exposed. Dessalles wrote this letter to the Governor for Princess
  Mary, she signed it, and it was given to Alpátych with instructions to
  hand it to the Governor and to come back as quickly as possible if there
  was danger.
<br />
  Having received all his orders Alpátych, wearing a white beaver hat&mdash;a
  present from the prince&mdash;and carrying a stick as the prince did, went
  out accompanied by his family. Three well-fed roans stood ready harnessed
  to a small conveyance with a leather hood.
<br />
  The larger bell was muffled and the little bells on the harness stuffed
  with paper. The prince allowed no one at Bald Hills to drive with ringing
  bells; but on a long journey Alpátych liked to have them. His satellites&mdash;the
  senior clerk, a countinghouse clerk, a scullery maid, a cook, two old
  women, a little pageboy, the coachman, and various domestic serfs&mdash;were
  seeing him off.
<br />
  His daughter placed chintz-covered down cushions for him to sit on and
  behind his back. His old sister-in-law popped in a small bundle, and one
  of the coachmen helped him into the vehicle.
<br />
  &ldquo;There! There! Women&rsquo;s fuss! Women, women!&rdquo; said Alpátych, puffing and
  speaking rapidly just as the prince did, and he climbed into the trap.
<br />
  After giving the clerk orders about the work to be done, Alpátych, not
  trying to imitate the prince now, lifted the hat from his bald head and
  crossed himself three times.
<br />
  &ldquo;If there is anything... come back, Yákov Alpátych! For Christ&rsquo;s sake
  think of us!&rdquo; cried his wife, referring to the rumors of war and the
  enemy.
<br />
  &ldquo;Women, women! Women&rsquo;s fuss!&rdquo; muttered Alpátych to himself and started on
  his journey, looking round at the fields of yellow rye and the
  still-green, thickly growing oats, and at other quite black fields just
  being plowed a second time.
<br />
  As he went along he looked with pleasure at the year&rsquo;s splendid crop of
  corn, scrutinized the strips of ryefield which here and there were already
  being reaped, made his calculations as to the sowing and the harvest, and
  asked himself whether he had not forgotten any of the prince&rsquo;s orders.
<br />
  Having baited the horses twice on the way, he arrived at the town toward
  evening on the fourth of August.
<br />
  Alpátych kept meeting and overtaking baggage trains and troops on the
  road. As he approached Smolénsk he heard the sounds of distant firing, but
  these did not impress him. What struck him most was the sight of a
  splendid field of oats in which a camp had been pitched and which was
  being mown down by the soldiers, evidently for fodder. This fact impressed
  Alpátych, but in thinking about his own business he soon forgot it.
<br />
  All the interests of his life for more than thirty years had been bounded
  by the will of the prince, and he never went beyond that limit. Everything
  not connected with the execution of the prince&rsquo;s orders did not interest
  and did not even exist for Alpátych.
<br />
  On reaching Smolénsk on the evening of the fourth of August he put up in
  the Gáchina suburb across the Dnieper, at the inn kept by Ferapóntov,
  where he had been in the habit of putting up for the last thirty years.
  Some thirty years ago Ferapóntov, by Alpátych&rsquo;s advice, had bought a wood
  from the prince, had begun to trade, and now had a house, an inn, and a
  corn dealer&rsquo;s shop in that province. He was a stout, dark, red-faced
  peasant in the forties, with thick lips, a broad knob of a nose, similar
  knobs over his black frowning brows, and a round belly.
<br />
  Wearing a waistcoat over his cotton shirt, Ferapóntov was standing before
  his shop which opened onto the street. On seeing Alpátych he went up to
  him.
<br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;re welcome, Yákov Alpátych. Folks are leaving the town, but you have
  come to it,&rdquo; said he.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why are they leaving the town?&rdquo; asked Alpátych.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s what I say. Folks are foolish! Always afraid of the French.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Women&rsquo;s fuss, women&rsquo;s fuss!&rdquo; said Alpátych.
<br />
  &ldquo;Just what I think, Yákov Alpátych. What I say is: orders have been given
  not to let them in, so that must be right. And the peasants are asking
  three rubles for carting&mdash;it isn&rsquo;t Christian!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Yákov Alpátych heard without heeding. He asked for a samovar and for hay
  for his horses, and when he had had his tea he went to bed.
<br />
  All night long troops were moving past the inn. Next morning Alpátych
  donned a jacket he wore only in town and went out on business. It was a
  sunny morning and by eight o&rsquo;clock it was already hot. &ldquo;A good day for
  harvesting,&rdquo; thought Alpátych.
<br />
  From beyond the town firing had been heard since early morning. At eight
  o&rsquo;clock the booming of cannon was added to the sound of musketry. Many
  people were hurrying through the streets and there were many soldiers, but
  cabs were still driving about, tradesmen stood at their shops, and service
  was being held in the churches as usual. Alpátych went to the shops, to
  government offices, to the post office, and to the Governor&rsquo;s. In the
  offices and shops and at the post office everyone was talking about the
  army and about the enemy who was already attacking the town, everybody was
  asking what should be done, and all were trying to calm one another.
<br />
  In front of the Governor&rsquo;s house Alpátych found a large number of people,
  Cossacks, and a traveling carriage of the Governor&rsquo;s. At the porch he met
  two of the landed gentry, one of whom he knew. This man, an ex-captain of
  police, was saying angrily:
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s no joke, you know! It&rsquo;s all very well if you&rsquo;re single. &lsquo;One man
  though undone is but one,&rsquo; as the proverb says, but with thirteen in your
  family and all the property... They&rsquo;ve brought us to utter ruin! What sort
  of governors are they to do that? They ought to be hanged&mdash;the
  brigands!...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh come, that&rsquo;s enough!&rdquo; said the other.
<br />
  &ldquo;What do I care? Let him hear! We&rsquo;re not dogs,&rdquo; said the ex-captain of
  police, and looking round he noticed Alpátych.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, Yákov Alpátych! What have you come for?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;To see the Governor by his excellency&rsquo;s order,&rdquo; answered Alpátych,
  lifting his head and proudly thrusting his hand into the bosom of his coat
  as he always did when he mentioned the prince.... &ldquo;He has ordered me to
  inquire into the position of affairs,&rdquo; he added.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, go and find out!&rdquo; shouted the angry gentleman. &ldquo;They&rsquo;ve brought
  things to such a pass that there are no carts or anything!... There it is
  again, do you hear?&rdquo; said he, pointing in the direction whence came the
  sounds of firing.
<br />
  &ldquo;They&rsquo;ve brought us all to ruin... the brigands!&rdquo; he repeated, and
  descended the porch steps.
<br />
  Alpátych swayed his head and went upstairs. In the waiting room were
  tradesmen, women, and officials, looking silently at one another. The door
  of the Governor&rsquo;s room opened and they all rose and moved forward. An
  official ran out, said some words to a merchant, called a stout official
  with a cross hanging on his neck to follow him, and vanished again,
  evidently wishing to avoid the inquiring looks and questions addressed to
  him. Alpátych moved forward and next time the official came out addressed
  him, one hand placed in the breast of his buttoned coat, and handed him
  two letters.
<br />
  &ldquo;To his Honor Baron Asch, from General-in-Chief Prince Bolkónski,&rdquo; he
  announced with such solemnity and significance that the official turned to
  him and took the letters.
<br />
  A few minutes later the Governor received Alpátych and hurriedly said to
  him:
<br />
  &ldquo;Inform the prince and princess that I knew nothing: I acted on the
  highest instructions&mdash;here...&rdquo; and he handed a paper to Alpátych.
  &ldquo;Still, as the prince is unwell my advice is that they should go to
  Moscow. I am just starting myself. Inform them...&rdquo;
 <br />
  But the Governor did not finish: a dusty perspiring officer ran into the
  room and began to say something in French. The Governor&rsquo;s face expressed
  terror.
<br />
  &ldquo;Go,&rdquo; he said, nodding his head to Alpátych, and began questioning the
  officer.
<br />
  Eager, frightened, helpless glances were turned on Alpátych when he came
  out of the Governor&rsquo;s room. Involuntarily listening now to the firing,
  which had drawn nearer and was increasing in strength, Alpátych hurried to
  his inn. The paper handed to him by the Governor said this:
<br />
  &ldquo;I assure you that the town of Smolénsk is not in the slightest danger as
  yet and it is unlikely that it will be threatened with any. I from the one
  side and Prince Bagratión from the other are marching to unite our forces
  before Smolénsk, which junction will be effected on the 22nd instant, and
  both armies with their united forces will defend our compatriots of the
  province entrusted to your care till our efforts shall have beaten back
  the enemies of our Fatherland, or till the last warrior in our valiant
  ranks has perished. From this you will see that you have a perfect right
  to reassure the inhabitants of Smolénsk, for those defended by two such
  brave armies may feel assured of victory.&rdquo; (Instructions from Barclay de
  Tolly to Baron Asch, the civil governor of Smolénsk, 1812.)
<br />
  People were anxiously roaming about the streets.
<br />
  Carts piled high with household utensils, chairs, and cupboards kept
  emerging from the gates of the yards and moving along the streets. Loaded
  carts stood at the house next to Ferapóntov&rsquo;s and women were wailing and
  lamenting as they said good-by. A small watchdog ran round barking in
  front of the harnessed horses.
<br />
  Alpátych entered the innyard at a quicker pace than usual and went
  straight to the shed where his horses and trap were. The coachman was
  asleep. He woke him up, told him to harness, and went into the passage.
  From the host&rsquo;s room came the sounds of a child crying, the despairing
  sobs of a woman, and the hoarse angry shouting of Ferapóntov. The cook
  began running hither and thither in the passage like a frightened hen,
  just as Alpátych entered.
<br />
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;s done her to death. Killed the mistress!... Beat her... dragged her
  about so!...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What for?&rdquo; asked Alpátych.
<br />
  &ldquo;She kept begging to go away. She&rsquo;s a woman! &lsquo;Take me away,&rsquo; says she,
  &lsquo;don&rsquo;t let me perish with my little children! Folks,&rsquo; she says, &lsquo;are all
  gone, so why,&rsquo; she says, &lsquo;don&rsquo;t we go?&rsquo; And he began beating and pulling
  her about so!&rdquo;
 <br />
  At these words Alpátych nodded as if in approval, and not wishing to hear
  more went to the door of the room opposite the innkeeper&rsquo;s, where he had
  left his purchases.
<br />
  &ldquo;You brute, you murderer!&rdquo; screamed a thin, pale woman who, with a baby in
  her arms and her kerchief torn from her head, burst through the door at
  that moment and down the steps into the yard.
<br />
  Ferapóntov came out after her, but on seeing Alpátych adjusted his
  waistcoat, smoothed his hair, yawned, and followed Alpátych into the
  opposite room.
<br />
  &ldquo;Going already?&rdquo; said he.
<br />
  Alpátych, without answering or looking at his host, sorted his packages
  and asked how much he owed.
<br />
  &ldquo;We&rsquo;ll reckon up! Well, have you been to the Governor&rsquo;s?&rdquo; asked
  Ferapóntov. &ldquo;What has been decided?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Alpátych replied that the Governor had not told him anything definite.
<br />
  &ldquo;With our business, how can we get away?&rdquo; said Ferapóntov. &ldquo;We&rsquo;d have to
  pay seven rubles a cartload to Dorogobúzh and I tell them they&rsquo;re not
  Christians to ask it! Selivánov, now, did a good stroke last Thursday&mdash;sold
  flour to the army at nine rubles a sack. Will you have some tea?&rdquo; he
  added.
<br />
  While the horses were being harnessed Alpátych and Ferapóntov over their
  tea talked of the price of corn, the crops, and the good weather for
  harvesting.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, it seems to be getting quieter,&rdquo; remarked Ferapóntov, finishing his
  third cup of tea and getting up. &ldquo;Ours must have got the best of it. The
  orders were not to let them in. So we&rsquo;re in force, it seems.... They say
  the other day Matthew Iványch Plátov drove them into the river Márina and
  drowned some eighteen thousand in one day.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Alpátych collected his parcels, handed them to the coachman who had come
  in, and settled up with the innkeeper. The noise of wheels, hoofs, and
  bells was heard from the gateway as a little trap passed out.
<br />
  It was by now late in the afternoon. Half the street was in shadow, the
  other half brightly lit by the sun. Alpátych looked out of the window and
  went to the door. Suddenly the strange sound of a far-off whistling and
  thud was heard, followed by a boom of cannon blending into a dull roar
  that set the windows rattling.
<br />
  He went out into the street: two men were running past toward the bridge.
  From different sides came whistling sounds and the thud of cannon balls
  and bursting shells falling on the town. But these sounds were hardly
  heard in comparison with the noise of the firing outside the town and
  attracted little attention from the inhabitants. The town was being
  bombarded by a hundred and thirty guns which Napoleon had ordered up after
  four o&rsquo;clock. The people did not at once realize the meaning of this
  bombardment.
<br />
  At first the noise of the falling bombs and shells only aroused curiosity.
  Ferapóntov&rsquo;s wife, who till then had not ceased wailing under the shed,
  became quiet and with the baby in her arms went to the gate, listening to
  the sounds and looking in silence at the people.
<br />
  The cook and a shop assistant came to the gate. With lively curiosity
  everyone tried to get a glimpse of the projectiles as they flew over their
  heads. Several people came round the corner talking eagerly.
<br />
  &ldquo;What force!&rdquo; remarked one. &ldquo;Knocked the roof and ceiling all to
  splinters!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Routed up the earth like a pig,&rdquo; said another.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s grand, it bucks one up!&rdquo; laughed the first. &ldquo;Lucky you jumped
  aside, or it would have wiped you out!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Others joined those men and stopped and told how cannon balls had fallen
  on a house close to them. Meanwhile still more projectiles, now with the
  swift sinister whistle of a cannon ball, now with the agreeable
  intermittent whistle of a shell, flew over people&rsquo;s heads incessantly, but
  not one fell close by, they all flew over. Alpátych was getting into his
  trap. The innkeeper stood at the gate.
<br />
  &ldquo;What are you staring at?&rdquo; he shouted to the cook, who in her red skirt,
  with sleeves rolled up, swinging her bare elbows, had stepped to the
  corner to listen to what was being said.
<br />
  &ldquo;What marvels!&rdquo; she exclaimed, but hearing her master&rsquo;s voice she turned
  back, pulling down her tucked-up skirt.
<br />
  Once more something whistled, but this time quite close, swooping
  downwards like a little bird; a flame flashed in the middle of the street,
  something exploded, and the street was shrouded in smoke.
<br />
  &ldquo;Scoundrel, what are you doing?&rdquo; shouted the innkeeper, rushing to the
  cook.
<br />
  At that moment the pitiful wailing of women was heard from different
  sides, the frightened baby began to cry, and people crowded silently with
  pale faces round the cook. The loudest sound in that crowd was her
  wailing.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh-h-h! Dear souls, dear kind souls! Don&rsquo;t let me die! My good souls!...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Five minutes later no one remained in the street. The cook, with her thigh
  broken by a shell splinter, had been carried into the kitchen. Alpátych,
  his coachman, Ferapóntov&rsquo;s wife and children and the house porter were all
  sitting in the cellar, listening. The roar of guns, the whistling of
  projectiles, and the piteous moaning of the cook, which rose above the
  other sounds, did not cease for a moment. The mistress rocked and hushed
  her baby and when anyone came into the cellar asked in a pathetic whisper
  what had become of her husband who had remained in the street. A shopman
  who entered told her that her husband had gone with others to the
  cathedral, whence they were fetching the wonder-working icon of Smolénsk.
<br />
  Toward dusk the cannonade began to subside. Alpátych left the cellar and
  stopped in the doorway. The evening sky that had been so clear was clouded
  with smoke, through which, high up, the sickle of the new moon shone
  strangely. Now that the terrible din of the guns had ceased a hush seemed
  to reign over the town, broken only by the rustle of footsteps, the
  moaning, the distant cries, and the crackle of fires which seemed
  widespread everywhere. The cook&rsquo;s moans had now subsided. On two sides
  black curling clouds of smoke rose and spread from the fires. Through the
  streets soldiers in various uniforms walked or ran confusedly in different
  directions like ants from a ruined ant-hill. Several of them ran into
  Ferapóntov&rsquo;s yard before Alpátych&rsquo;s eyes. Alpátych went out to the gate. A
  retreating regiment, thronging and hurrying, blocked the street.
<br />
  Noticing him, an officer said: &ldquo;The town is being abandoned. Get away, get
  away!&rdquo; and then, turning to the soldiers, shouted:
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll teach you to run into the yards!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Alpátych went back to the house, called the coachman, and told him to set
  off. Ferapóntov&rsquo;s whole household came out too, following Alpátych and the
  coachman. The women, who had been silent till then, suddenly began to wail
  as they looked at the fires&mdash;the smoke and even the flames of which
  could be seen in the failing twilight&mdash;and as if in reply the same
  kind of lamentation was heard from other parts of the street. Inside the
  shed Alpátych and the coachman arranged the tangled reins and traces of
  their horses with trembling hands.
<br />
  As Alpátych was driving out of the gate he saw some ten soldiers in
  Ferapóntov&rsquo;s open shop, talking loudly and filling their bags and
  knapsacks with flour and sunflower seeds. Just then Ferapóntov returned
  and entered his shop. On seeing the soldiers he was about to shout at
  them, but suddenly stopped and, clutching at his hair, burst into sobs and
  laughter:
<br />
  &ldquo;Loot everything, lads! Don&rsquo;t let those devils get it!&rdquo; he cried, taking
  some bags of flour himself and throwing them into the street.
<br />
  Some of the soldiers were frightened and ran away, others went on filling
  their bags. On seeing Alpátych, Ferapóntov turned to him:
<br />
  &ldquo;Russia is done for!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;Alpátych, I&rsquo;ll set the place on fire
  myself. We&rsquo;re done for!...&rdquo; and Ferapóntov ran into the yard.
<br />
  Soldiers were passing in a constant stream along the street blocking it
  completely, so that Alpátych could not pass out and had to wait.
  Ferapóntov&rsquo;s wife and children were also sitting in a cart waiting till it
  was possible to drive out.
<br />
  Night had come. There were stars in the sky and the new moon shone out
  amid the smoke that screened it. On the sloping descent to the Dnieper
  Alpátych&rsquo;s cart and that of the innkeeper&rsquo;s wife, which were slowly moving
  amid the rows of soldiers and of other vehicles, had to stop. In a side
  street near the crossroads where the vehicles had stopped, a house and
  some shops were on fire. This fire was already burning itself out. The
  flames now died down and were lost in the black smoke, now suddenly flared
  up again brightly, lighting up with strange distinctness the faces of the
  people crowding at the crossroads. Black figures flitted about before the
  fire, and through the incessant crackling of the flames talking and
  shouting could be heard. Seeing that his trap would not be able to move on
  for some time, Alpátych got down and turned into the side street to look
  at the fire. Soldiers were continually rushing backwards and forwards near
  it, and he saw two of them and a man in a frieze coat dragging burning
  beams into another yard across the street, while others carried bundles of
  hay.
<br />
  Alpátych went up to a large crowd standing before a high barn which was
  blazing briskly. The walls were all on fire and the back wall had fallen
  in, the wooden roof was collapsing, and the rafters were alight. The crowd
  was evidently watching for the roof to fall in, and Alpátych watched for
  it too.
<br />
  &ldquo;Alpátych!&rdquo; a familiar voice suddenly hailed the old man.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mercy on us! Your excellency!&rdquo; answered Alpátych, immediately recognizing
  the voice of his young prince.
<br />
  Prince Andrew in his riding cloak, mounted on a black horse, was looking
  at Alpátych from the back of the crowd.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why are you here?&rdquo; he asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your... your excellency,&rdquo; stammered Alpátych and broke into sobs. &ldquo;Are we
  really lost? Master!...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why are you here?&rdquo; Prince Andrew repeated.
<br />
  At that moment the flames flared up and showed his young master&rsquo;s pale
  worn face. Alpátych told how he had been sent there and how difficult it
  was to get away.
<br />
  &ldquo;Are we really quite lost, your excellency?&rdquo; he asked again.
<br />
  Prince Andrew without replying took out a notebook and raising his knee
  began writing in pencil on a page he tore out. He wrote to his sister:
<br />
  &ldquo;Smolénsk is being abandoned. Bald Hills will be occupied by the enemy
  within a week. Set off immediately for Moscow. Let me know at once when
  you will start. Send by special messenger to Usvyázh.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Having written this and given the paper to Alpátych, he told him how to
  arrange for departure of the prince, the princess, his son, and the boy&rsquo;s
  tutor, and how and where to let him know immediately. Before he had had
  time to finish giving these instructions, a chief of staff followed by a
  suite galloped up to him.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are a colonel?&rdquo; shouted the chief of staff with a German accent, in a
  voice familiar to Prince Andrew. &ldquo;Houses are set on fire in your presence
  and you stand by! What does this mean? You will answer for it!&rdquo; shouted
  Berg, who was now assistant to the chief of staff of the commander of the
  left flank of the infantry of the first army, a place, as Berg said, &ldquo;very
  agreeable and well .&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Andrew looked at him and without replying went on speaking to
  Alpátych.
<br />
  &ldquo;So tell them that I shall await a reply till the tenth, and if by the
  tenth I don&rsquo;t receive news that they have all got away I shall have to
  throw up everything and come myself to Bald Hills.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Prince,&rdquo; said Berg, recognizing Prince Andrew, &ldquo;I only spoke because I
  have to obey orders, because I always do obey exactly.... You must please
  excuse me,&rdquo; he went on apologetically.
<br />
  Something cracked in the flames. The fire died down for a moment and
  wreaths of black smoke rolled from under the roof. There was another
  terrible crash and something huge collapsed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ou-rou-rou!&rdquo; yelled the crowd, echoing the crash of the collapsing roof
  of the barn, the burning grain in which diffused a cakelike aroma all
  around. The flames flared up again, lighting the animated, delighted,
  exhausted faces of the spectators.
<br />
  The man in the frieze coat raised his arms and shouted:
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s fine, lads! Now it&rsquo;s raging... It&rsquo;s fine!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s the owner himself,&rdquo; cried several voices.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well then,&rdquo; continued Prince Andrew to Alpátych, &ldquo;report to them as I
  have told you&rdquo;; and not replying a word to Berg who was now mute beside
  him, he touched his horse and rode down the side street.

  CHAPTER V


  From Smolénsk the troops continued to retreat, followed by the enemy. On
  the tenth of August the regiment Prince Andrew commanded was marching
  along the highroad past the avenue leading to Bald Hills. Heat and drought
  had continued for more than three weeks. Each day fleecy clouds floated
  across the sky and occasionally veiled the sun, but toward evening the sky
  cleared again and the sun set in reddish-brown mist. Heavy night dews
  alone refreshed the earth. The unreaped corn was scorched and shed its
  grain. The marshes dried up. The cattle lowed from hunger, finding no food
  on the sun-parched meadows. Only at night and in the forests while the dew
  lasted was there any freshness. But on the road, the highroad along which
  the troops marched, there was no such freshness even at night or when the
  road passed through the forest; the dew was imperceptible on the sandy
  dust churned up more than six inches deep. As soon as day dawned the march
  began. The artillery and baggage wagons moved noiselessly through the deep
  dust that rose to the very hubs of the wheels, and the infantry sank
  ankle-deep in that soft, choking, hot dust that never cooled even at
  night. Some of this dust was kneaded by the feet and wheels, while the
  rest rose and hung like a cloud over the troops, settling in eyes, ears,
  hair, and nostrils, and worst of all in the lungs of the men and beasts as
  they moved along that road. The higher the sun rose the higher rose that
  cloud of dust, and through the screen of its hot fine particles one could
  look with naked eye at the sun, which showed like a huge crimson ball in
  the unclouded sky. There was no wind, and the men choked in that
  motionless atmosphere. They marched with handkerchiefs tied over their
  noses and mouths. When they passed through a village they all rushed to
  the wells and fought for the water and drank it down to the mud.
<br />
  Prince Andrew was in command of a regiment, and the management of that
  regiment, the welfare of the men and the necessity of receiving and giving
  orders, engrossed him. The burning of Smolénsk and its abandonment made an
  epoch in his life. A novel feeling of anger against the foe made him
  forget his own sorrow. He was entirely devoted to the affairs of his
  regiment and was considerate and kind to his men and officers. In the
  regiment they called him &ldquo;our prince,&rdquo; were proud of him and loved him.
  But he was kind and gentle only to those of his regiment, to Timókhin and
  the like&mdash;people quite new to him, belonging to a different world and
  who could not know and understand his past. As soon as he came across a
  former acquaintance or anyone from the staff, he bristled up immediately
  and grew spiteful, ironical, and contemptuous. Everything that reminded
  him of his past was repugnant to him, and so in his relations with that
  former circle he confined himself to trying to do his duty and not to be
  unfair.
<br />
  In truth everything presented itself in a dark and gloomy light to Prince
  Andrew, especially after the abandonment of Smolénsk on the sixth of
  August (he considered that it could and should have been defended) and
  after his sick father had had to flee to Moscow, abandoning to pillage his
  dearly beloved Bald Hills which he had built and peopled. But despite
  this, thanks to his regiment, Prince Andrew had something to think about
  entirely apart from general questions. Two days previously he had received
  news that his father, son, and sister had left for Moscow; and though
  there was nothing for him to do at Bald Hills, Prince Andrew with a
  characteristic desire to foment his own grief decided that he must ride
  there.
<br />
  He ordered his horse to be saddled and, leaving his regiment on the march,
  rode to his father&rsquo;s estate where he had been born and spent his
  childhood. Riding past the pond where there used always to be dozens of
  women chattering as they rinsed their linen or beat it with wooden
  beetles, Prince Andrew noticed that there was not a soul about and that
  the little washing wharf, torn from its place and half submerged, was
  floating on its side in the middle of the pond. He rode to the keeper&rsquo;s
  lodge. No one was at the stone entrance gates of the drive and the door stood
  open. Grass had already begun to grow on the garden paths, and horses and
  calves were straying in the English park. Prince Andrew rode up to the
  hothouse; some of the glass panes were broken, and of the trees in tubs
  some were overturned and others dried up. He called for Tarás the
  gardener, but no one replied. Having gone round the corner of the hothouse
  to the ornamental garden, he saw that the carved garden fence was broken
  and branches of the plum trees had been torn off with the fruit. An old
  peasant whom Prince Andrew in his childhood had often seen at the gate was
  sitting on a green garden seat, plaiting a bast shoe.
<br />
  He was deaf and did not hear Prince Andrew ride up. He was sitting on the
  seat the old prince used to like to sit on, and beside him strips of bast
  were hanging on the broken and withered branch of a magnolia.
<br />
  Prince Andrew rode up to the house. Several limes in the old garden had
  been cut down and a piebald mare and her foal were wandering in front of
  the house among the rosebushes. The shutters were all closed, except at
  one window which was open. A little serf boy, seeing Prince Andrew, ran
  into the house. Alpátych, having sent his family away, was alone at Bald
  Hills and was sitting indoors reading the . On hearing
  that Prince Andrew had come, he went out with his spectacles on his nose,
  buttoning his coat, and, hastily stepping up, without a word began weeping
  and kissing Prince Andrew&rsquo;s knee.
<br />
  Then, vexed at his own weakness, he turned away and began to report on the
  position of affairs. Everything precious and valuable had been removed to
  Boguchárovo. Seventy quarters of grain had also been carted away. The hay
  and the spring corn, of which Alpátych said there had been a remarkable
  crop that year, had been commandeered by the troops and mown down while
  still green. The peasants were ruined; some of them too had gone to
  Boguchárovo, only a few remained.
<br />
  Without waiting to hear him out, Prince Andrew asked:
<br />
  &ldquo;When did my father and sister leave?&rdquo; meaning when did they leave for
  Moscow.
<br />
  Alpátych, understanding the question to refer to their departure for
  Boguchárovo, replied that they had left on the seventh and again went into
  details concerning the estate management, asking for instructions.
<br />
  &ldquo;Am I to let the troops have the oats, and to take a receipt for them? We
  have still six hundred quarters left,&rdquo; he inquired.
<br />
  &ldquo;What am I to say to him?&rdquo; thought Prince Andrew, looking down on the old
  man&rsquo;s bald head shining in the sun and seeing by the expression on his
  face that the old man himself understood how untimely such questions were
  and only asked them to allay his grief.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, let them have it,&rdquo; replied Prince Andrew.
<br />
  &ldquo;If you noticed some disorder in the garden,&rdquo; said Alpátych, &ldquo;it was
  impossible to prevent it. Three regiments have been here and spent the
  night, dragoons mostly. I took down the name and rank of their commanding
  officer, to hand in a complaint about it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, and what are you going to do? Will you stay here if the enemy
  occupies the place?&rdquo; asked Prince Andrew.
<br />
  Alpátych turned his face to Prince Andrew, looked at him, and suddenly
  with a solemn gesture raised his arm.
<br />
  &ldquo;He is my refuge! His will be done!&rdquo; he exclaimed.
<br />
  A group of bareheaded peasants was approaching across the meadow toward
  the prince.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, good-by!&rdquo; said Prince Andrew, bending over to Alpátych. &ldquo;You must
  go away too, take away what you can and tell the serfs to go to the Ryazán
  estate or to the one near Moscow.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Alpátych clung to Prince Andrew&rsquo;s leg and burst into sobs. Gently
  disengaging himself, the prince spurred his horse and rode down the avenue
  at a gallop.
<br />
  The old man was still sitting in the ornamental garden, like a fly
  impassive on the face of a loved one who is dead, tapping the last on
  which he was making the bast shoe, and two little girls, running out from
  the hot house carrying in their skirts plums they had plucked from the
  trees there, came upon Prince Andrew. On seeing the young master, the
  elder one with frightened look clutched her younger companion by the hand
  and hid with her behind a birch tree, not stopping to pick up some green
  plums they had dropped.
<br />
  Prince Andrew turned away with startled haste, unwilling to let them see
  that they had been observed. He was sorry for the pretty frightened little
  girl, was afraid of looking at her, and yet felt an irresistible desire to
  do so. A new sensation of comfort and relief came over him when, seeing
  these girls, he realized the existence of other human interests entirely
  aloof from his own and just as legitimate as those that occupied him.
  Evidently these girls passionately desired one thing&mdash;to carry away
  and eat those green plums without being caught&mdash;and Prince Andrew
  shared their wish for the success of their enterprise. He could not resist
  looking at them once more. Believing their danger past, they sprang from
  their ambush and, chirruping something in their shrill little voices and
  holding up their skirts, their bare little sunburned feet scampered
  merrily and quickly across the meadow grass.
<br />
  Prince Andrew was somewhat refreshed by having ridden off the dusty
  highroad along which the troops were moving. But not far from Bald Hills
  he again came out on the road and overtook his regiment at its halting
  place by the dam of a small pond. It was past one o&rsquo;clock. The sun, a red
  ball through the dust, burned and scorched his back intolerably through
  his black coat. The dust always hung motionless above the buzz of talk
  that came from the resting troops. There was no wind. As he crossed the
  dam Prince Andrew smelled the ooze and freshness of the pond. He longed to
  get into that water, however dirty it might be, and he glanced round at
  the pool from whence came sounds of shrieks and laughter. The small,
  muddy, green pond had risen visibly more than a foot, flooding the dam,
  because it was full of the naked white bodies of soldiers with brick-red
  hands, necks, and faces, who were splashing about in it. All this naked
  white human flesh, laughing and shrieking, floundered about in that dirty
  pool like carp stuffed into a watering can, and the suggestion of
  merriment in that floundering mass rendered it specially pathetic.
<br />
  One fair-haired young soldier of the third company, whom Prince Andrew
  knew and who had a strap round the calf of one leg, crossed himself,
  stepped back to get a good run, and plunged into the water; another, a
  dark noncommissioned officer who was always shaggy, stood up to his waist
  in the water joyfully wriggling his muscular figure and snorted with
  satisfaction as he poured the water over his head with hands blackened to
  the wrists. There were sounds of men slapping one another, yelling, and
  puffing.
<br />
  Everywhere on the bank, on the dam, and in the pond, there was healthy,
  white, muscular flesh. The officer, Timókhin, with his red little nose,
  standing on the dam wiping himself with a towel, felt confused at seeing
  the prince, but made up his mind to address him nevertheless.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s very nice, your excellency! Wouldn&rsquo;t you like to?&rdquo; said he.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s dirty,&rdquo; replied Prince Andrew, making a grimace.
<br />
  &ldquo;We&rsquo;ll clear it out for you in a minute,&rdquo; said Timókhin, and, still
  undressed, ran off to clear the men out of the pond.
<br />
  &ldquo;The prince wants to bathe.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What prince? Ours?&rdquo; said many voices, and the men were in such haste to
  clear out that the prince could hardly stop them. He decided that he would
  rather wash himself with water in the barn.
<br />
  &ldquo;Flesh, bodies, cannon fodder!&rdquo; he thought, and he looked at his own naked
  body and shuddered, not from cold but from a sense of disgust and horror
  he did not himself understand, aroused by the sight of that immense number
  of bodies splashing about in the dirty pond.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  On the seventh of August Prince Bagratión wrote as follows from his
  quarters at Mikháylovna on the Smolénsk road:
<br />
  Dear Count Aléxis Andréevich&mdash;(He was writing to Arakchéev but knew
  that his letter would be read by the Emperor, and therefore weighed every
  word in it to the best of his ability.)
<br />
  I expect the Minister (Barclay de Tolly) has already reported the
  abandonment of Smolénsk to the enemy. It is pitiable and sad, and the
  whole army is in despair that this most important place has been wantonly
  abandoned. I, for my part, begged him personally most urgently and finally
  wrote him, but nothing would induce him to consent. I swear to you on my
  honor that Napoleon was in such a fix as never before and might have lost
  half his army but could not have taken Smolénsk. Our troops fought, and
  are fighting, as never before. With fifteen thousand men I held the enemy
  at bay for thirty-five hours and beat him; but  would not hold out even
  for fourteen hours. It is disgraceful, a stain on our army, and as for
  him, he ought, it seems to me, not to live. If he reports that our losses
  were great, it is not true; perhaps about four thousand, not more, and not
  even that; but even were they ten thousand, that&rsquo;s war! But the enemy has
  lost masses....
<br />
  What would it have cost him to hold out for another two days? They would
  have had to retire of their own accord, for they had no water for men or
  horses. He gave me his word he would not retreat, but suddenly sent
  instructions that he was retiring that night. We cannot fight in this way,
  or we may soon bring the enemy to Moscow....
<br />
  There is a rumor that you are thinking of peace. God forbid that you
  should make peace after all our sacrifices and such insane retreats! You
  would set all Russia against you and everyone of us would feel ashamed to
  wear the uniform. If it has come to this&mdash;we must fight as long as
  Russia can and as long as there are men able to stand....
<br />
  One man ought to be in command, and not two. Your Minister may perhaps be
  good as a Minister, but as a general he is not merely bad but execrable,
  yet to him is entrusted the fate of our whole country.... I am really
  frantic with vexation; forgive my writing boldly. It is clear that the man
  who advocates the conclusion of a peace, and that the Minister should
  command the army, does not love our sovereign and desires the ruin of us
  all. So I write you frankly: call out the militia. For the Minister is
  leading these visitors after him to Moscow in a most masterly way. The
  whole army feels great suspicion of the Imperial aide-de-camp Wolzogen. He
  is said to be more Napoleon&rsquo;s man than ours, and he is always advising the
  Minister. I am not merely civil to him but obey him like a corporal,
  though I am his senior. This is painful, but, loving my benefactor and
  sovereign, I submit. Only I am sorry for the Emperor that he entrusts our
  fine army to such as he. Consider that on our retreat we have lost by
  fatigue and left in the hospital more than fifteen thousand men, and had
  we attacked this would not have happened. Tell me, for God&rsquo;s sake, what
  will Russia, our mother Russia, say to our being so frightened, and why
  are we abandoning our good and gallant Fatherland to such rabble and
  implanting feelings of hatred and shame in all our subjects? What are we
  scared at and of whom are we afraid? I am not to blame that the Minister
  is vacillating, a coward, dense, dilatory, and has all bad qualities. The
  whole army bewails it and calls down curses upon him....

  CHAPTER VI


  Among the innumerable categories applicable to the phenomena of human life
  one may discriminate between those in which substance prevails and those
  in which form prevails. To the latter&mdash;as distinguished from village,
  country, provincial, or even Moscow life&mdash;we may allot Petersburg
  life, and especially the life of its salons. That life of the salons is
  unchanging. Since the year 1805 we had made peace and had again quarreled
  with Bonaparte and had made constitutions and unmade them again, but the
  salons of Anna Pávlovna and Hélène remained just as they had been&mdash;the
  one seven and the other five years before. At Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s they talked
  with perplexity of Bonaparte&rsquo;s successes just as before and saw in them
  and in the subservience shown to him by the European sovereigns a
  malicious conspiracy, the sole object of which was to cause unpleasantness
  and anxiety to the court circle of which Anna Pávlovna was the
  representative. And in Hélène&rsquo;s salon, which Rumyántsev himself honored
  with his visits, regarding Hélène as a remarkably intelligent woman, they
  talked with the same ecstasy in 1812 as in 1808 of the &ldquo;great nation&rdquo; and
  the &ldquo;great man,&rdquo; and regretted our rupture with France, a rupture which,
  according to them, ought to be promptly terminated by peace.
<br />
  Of late, since the Emperor&rsquo;s return from the army, there had been some
  excitement in these conflicting salon circles and some demonstrations of
  hostility to one another, but each camp retained its own tendency. In Anna
  Pávlovna&rsquo;s circle only those Frenchmen were admitted who were deep-rooted
  legitimists, and patriotic views were expressed to the effect that one
  ought not to go to the French theater and that to maintain the French
  troupe was costing the government as much as a whole army corps. The
  progress of the war was eagerly followed, and only the reports most
  flattering to our army were circulated. In the French circle of Hélène and
  Rumyántsev the reports of the cruelty of the enemy and of the war were
  contradicted and all Napoleon&rsquo;s attempts at conciliation were discussed.
  In that circle they discountenanced those who advised hurried preparations
  for a removal to Kazán of the court and the girls&rsquo; educational
  establishments under the patronage of the Dowager Empress. In Hélène&rsquo;s
  circle the war in general was regarded as a series of formal
  demonstrations which would very soon end in peace, and the view prevailed
  expressed by Bilíbin&mdash;who now in Petersburg was quite at home in
  Hélène&rsquo;s house, which every clever man was obliged to visit&mdash;that not
  by gunpowder but by those who invented it would matters be settled. In
  that circle the Moscow enthusiasm&mdash;news of which had reached
  Petersburg simultaneously with the Emperor&rsquo;s return&mdash;was ridiculed
  sarcastically and very cleverly, though with much caution.
<br />
  Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s circle on the contrary was enraptured by this enthusiasm
  and spoke of it as Plutarch speaks of the deeds of the ancients. Prince
  Vasíli, who still occupied his former important posts, formed a connecting
  link between these two circles. He visited his &ldquo;good friend Anna Pávlovna&rdquo;
   as well as his daughter&rsquo;s &ldquo;diplomatic salon,&rdquo; and often in his constant
  comings and goings between the two camps became confused and said at
  Hélène&rsquo;s what he should have said at Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s and vice versa.
<br />
  Soon after the Emperor&rsquo;s return Prince Vasíli in a conversation about the
  war at Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s severely condemned Barclay de Tolly, but was
  undecided as to who ought to be appointed commander in chief. One of the
  visitors, usually spoken of as &ldquo;a man of great merit,&rdquo; having described
  how he had that day seen Kutúzov, the newly chosen chief of the Petersburg
  militia, presiding over the enrollment of recruits at the Treasury,
  cautiously ventured to suggest that Kutúzov would be the man to satisfy
  all requirements.
<br />
  Anna Pávlovna remarked with a melancholy smile that Kutúzov had done
  nothing but cause the Emperor annoyance.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have talked and talked at the Assembly of the Nobility,&rdquo; Prince Vasíli
  interrupted, &ldquo;but they did not listen to me. I told them his election as
  chief of the militia would not please the Emperor. They did not listen to
  me.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all this mania for opposition,&rdquo; he went on. &ldquo;And who for? It is all
  because we want to ape the foolish enthusiasm of those Muscovites,&rdquo; Prince
  Vasíli continued, forgetting for a moment that though at Hélène&rsquo;s one had
  to ridicule the Moscow enthusiasm, at Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s one had to be
  ecstatic about it. But he retrieved his mistake at once. &ldquo;Now, is it
  suitable that Count Kutúzov, the oldest general in Russia, should preside
  at that tribunal? He will get nothing for his pains! How could they make a
  man commander in chief who cannot mount a horse, who drops asleep at a
  council, and has the very worst morals! A good reputation he made for
  himself at Bucharest! I don&rsquo;t speak of his capacity as a general, but at a
  time like this how they appoint a decrepit, blind old man, positively
  blind? A fine idea to have a blind general! He can&rsquo;t see anything. To play
  blindman&rsquo;s buff? He can&rsquo;t see at all!&rdquo;
 <br />
  No one replied to his remarks.
<br />
  This was quite correct on the twenty-fourth of July. But on the
  twenty-ninth of July Kutúzov received the title of Prince. This might
  indicate a wish to get rid of him, and therefore Prince Vasíli&rsquo;s opinion
  continued to be correct though he was not now in any hurry to express it.
  But on the eighth of August a committee, consisting of Field Marshal
  Saltykóv, Arakchéev, Vyazmítinov, Lopukhín, and Kochubéy met to consider
  the progress of the war. This committee came to the conclusion that our
  failures were due to a want of unity in the command and though the members
  of the committee were aware of the Emperor&rsquo;s dislike of Kutúzov, after a
  short deliberation they agreed to advise his appointment as commander in
  chief. That same day Kutúzov was appointed commander in chief with full
  powers over the armies and over the whole region occupied by them.
<br />
  On the ninth of August Prince Vasíli at Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s again met the &ldquo;man
  of great merit.&rdquo; The latter was very attentive to Anna Pávlovna because he
  wanted to be appointed director of one of the educational establishments
  for young ladies. Prince Vasíli entered the room with the air of a happy
  conqueror who has attained the object of his desires.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, have you heard the great news? Prince Kutúzov is field marshal! All
  dissensions are at an end! I am so glad, so delighted! At last we have a
  man!&rdquo; said he, glancing sternly and significantly round at everyone in the
  drawing room.
<br />
  The &ldquo;man of great merit,&rdquo; despite his desire to obtain the post of
  director, could not refrain from reminding Prince Vasíli of his former
  opinion. Though this was impolite to Prince Vasíli in Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s
  drawing room, and also to Anna Pávlovna herself who had received the news
  with delight, he could not resist the temptation.
<br />
  &ldquo;But, Prince, they say he is blind!&rdquo; said he, reminding Prince Vasíli of
  his own words.
<br />
  &ldquo;Eh? Nonsense! He sees well enough,&rdquo; said Prince Vasíli rapidly, in a deep
  voice and with a slight cough&mdash;the voice and cough with which he was
  wont to dispose of all difficulties.
<br />
  &ldquo;He sees well enough,&rdquo; he added. &ldquo;And what I am so pleased about,&rdquo; he went
  on, &ldquo;is that our sovereign has given him full powers over all the armies
  and the whole region&mdash;powers no commander in chief ever had before.
  He is a second autocrat,&rdquo; he concluded with a victorious smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;God grant it! God grant it!&rdquo; said Anna Pávlovna.
<br />
  The &ldquo;man of great merit,&rdquo; who was still a novice in court circles,
  wishing to flatter Anna Pávlovna by defending her former position on this
  question, observed:
<br />
  &ldquo;It is said that the Emperor was reluctant to give Kutúzov those powers.
  They say he blushed like a girl to whom  is read, when he said to
  Kutúzov: &lsquo;Your Emperor and the Fatherland award you this honor.&rsquo;&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Perhaps the heart took no part in that speech,&rdquo; said Anna Pávlovna.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, no, no!&rdquo; warmly rejoined Prince Vasíli, who would not now yield
  Kutúzov to anyone; in his opinion Kutúzov was not only admirable himself,
  but was adored by everybody. &ldquo;No, that&rsquo;s impossible,&rdquo; said he,
  &ldquo;for our sovereign appreciated him so highly before.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;God grant only that Prince Kutúzov assumes real power and does not allow
   to put a spoke in his wheel,&rdquo; observed Anna Pávlovna.
<br />
  Understanding at once to whom she alluded, Prince Vasíli said in a
  whisper:
<br />
  &ldquo;I know for a fact that Kutúzov made it an absolute condition that the
  Tsarévich should not be with the army. Do you know what he said to the
  Emperor?&rdquo;
 <br />
  And Prince Vasíli repeated the words supposed to have been spoken by
  Kutúzov to the Emperor. &ldquo;I can neither punish him if he does wrong nor
  reward him if he does right.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, a very wise man is Prince Kutúzov! I have known him a long time!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;They even say,&rdquo; remarked the &ldquo;man of great merit&rdquo; who did not yet possess
  courtly tact, &ldquo;that his excellency made it an express condition that the
  sovereign himself should not be with the army.&rdquo;
 <br />
  As soon as he said this both Prince Vasíli and Anna Pávlovna turned away
  from him and glanced sadly at one another with a sigh at his naïveté.

  CHAPTER VII


  While this was taking place in Petersburg the French had already passed
  Smolénsk and were drawing nearer and nearer to Moscow. Napoleon&rsquo;s
  historian Thiers, like other of his historians, trying to justify his hero
  says that he was drawn to the walls of Moscow against his will. He is as
  right as other historians who look for the explanation of historic events
  in the will of one man; he is as right as the Russian historians who
  maintain that Napoleon was drawn to Moscow by the skill of the Russian
  commanders. Here besides the law of retrospection, which regards all the
  past as a preparation for events that subsequently occur, the law of
  reciprocity comes in, confusing the whole matter. A good chessplayer
  having lost a game is sincerely convinced that his loss resulted from a
  mistake he made and looks for that mistake in the opening, but forgets
  that at each stage of the game there were similar mistakes and that none
  of his moves were perfect. He only notices the mistake to which he pays
  attention, because his opponent took advantage of it. How much more
  complex than this is the game of war, which occurs under certain limits of
  time, and where it is not one will that manipulates lifeless objects, but
  everything results from innumerable conflicts of various wills!
<br />
  After Smolénsk Napoleon sought a battle beyond Dorogobúzh at Vyázma, and
  then at Tsárevo-Zaymíshche, but it happened that owing to a conjunction of
  innumerable circumstances the Russians could not give battle till they
  reached Borodinó, seventy miles from Moscow. From Vyázma Napoleon ordered
  a direct advance on Moscow.
<br />
  , * this Moscow gave Napoleon&rsquo;s imagination no rest. On
  the march from Vyázma to Tsárevo-Zaymíshche he rode his light bay
  bobtailed ambler accompanied by his Guards, his bodyguard, his pages, and
  aides-de-camp. Berthier, his chief of staff, dropped behind to question a
  Russian prisoner captured by the cavalry. Followed by Lelorgne d&rsquo;Ideville,
  an interpreter, he overtook Napoleon at a gallop and reined in his horse
  with an amused expression.
<br />
 * &ldquo;Moscow, the Asiatic capital of this great empire, the
 sacred city of Alexander&rsquo;s people, Moscow with its
 innumerable churches shaped like Chinese pagodas.&rdquo;

“Well?” asked Napoleon.
“One of Plátov’s Cossacks says that Plátov’s corps is joining up with the main army and that Kutúzov has been appointed commander in chief. He is a very shrewd and garrulous fellow.”
Napoleon smiled and told them to give the Cossack a horse and bring the man to him. He wished to talk to him himself. Several adjutants galloped off, and an hour later, Lavrúshka, the serf Denísov had handed over to Rostóv, rode up to Napoleon in an orderly’s jacket and on a French cavalry saddle, with a merry, and tipsy face. Napoleon told him to ride by his side and began questioning him.
“You are a Cossack?”
“Yes, a Cossack, your Honor.”
“The Cossack, not knowing in what company he was, for Napoleon’s plain appearance had nothing about it that would reveal to an Oriental mind the presence of a monarch, talked with extreme familiarity of the incidents of the war,” says Thiers, narrating this episode. In reality Lavrúshka, having got drunk the day before and left his master dinnerless, had been whipped and sent to the village in quest of chickens, where he engaged in looting till the French took him prisoner. Lavrúshka was one of those coarse, bare-faced lackeys who have seen all sorts of things, consider it necessary to do everything in a mean and cunning way, are ready to render any sort of service to their master, and are keen at guessing their master’s baser impulses, especially those prompted by vanity and pettiness.
Finding himself in the company of Napoleon, whose identity he had easily and surely recognized, Lavrúshka was not in the least abashed but merely did his utmost to gain his new master’s favor.
He knew very well that this was Napoleon, but Napoleon’s presence could no more intimidate him than Rostóv’s, or a sergeant major’s with the rods, would have done, for he had nothing that either the sergeant major or Napoleon could deprive him of.
So he rattled on, telling all the gossip he had heard among the orderlies. Much of it true. But when Napoleon asked him whether the Russians thought they would beat Bonaparte or not, Lavrúshka screwed up his eyes and considered.
In this question he saw subtle cunning, as men of his type see cunning in everything, so he frowned and did not answer immediately.
“It’s like this,” he said thoughtfully, “if there’s a battle soon, yours will win. That’s right. But if three days pass, then after that, well, then that same battle will not soon be over.”
Lelorgne d’Ideville smilingly interpreted this speech to Napoleon thus: “If a battle takes place within the next three days the French will win, but if later, God knows what will happen.” Napoleon did not smile, though he was evidently in high good humor, and he ordered these words to be repeated.
Lavrúshka noticed this and to entertain him further, pretending not to know who Napoleon was, added:
“We know that you have Bonaparte and that he has beaten everybody in the world, but we are a different matter…”—without knowing why or how this bit of boastful patriotism slipped out at the end.
The interpreter translated these words without the last phrase, and Bonaparte smiled. “The young Cossack made his mighty interlocutor smile,” says Thiers. After riding a few paces in silence, Napoleon turned to Berthier and said he wished to see how the news that he was talking to the Emperor himself, to that very Emperor who had written his immortally victorious name on the Pyramids, would affect this . *

* &ldquo;Child of the Don.&rdquo;

The fact was accordingly conveyed to Lavrúshka.
Lavrúshka, understanding that this was done to perplex him and that Napoleon expected him to be frightened, to gratify his new masters promptly pretended to be astonished and awe-struck, opened his eyes wide, and assumed the expression he usually put on when taken to be whipped. “As soon as Napoleon’s interpreter had spoken,” says Thiers, “the Cossack, seized by amazement, did not utter another word, but rode on, his eyes fixed on the conqueror whose fame had reached him across the steppes of the East. All his loquacity was suddenly arrested and replaced by a naïve and silent feeling of admiration. Napoleon, after making the Cossack a present, had him set free like a bird restored to its native fields.”
Napoleon rode on, dreaming of the Moscow that so appealed to his imagination, and “the bird restored to its native fields” galloped to our outposts, inventing on the way all that had not taken place but that he meant to relate to his comrades. What had really taken place he did not wish to relate because it seemed to him not worth telling. He found the Cossacks, inquired for the regiment operating with Plátov’s detachment and by evening found his master, Nicholas Rostóv, quartered at Yankóvo. Rostóv was just mounting to go for a ride round the neighboring villages with Ilyín; he let Lavrúshka have another horse and took him along with him.

  CHAPTER VIII


  Princess Mary was not in Moscow and out of danger as Prince Andrew
  supposed.
<br />
  After the return of Alpátych from Smolénsk the old prince suddenly seemed
  to awake as from a dream. He ordered the militiamen to be called up from
  the villages and armed, and wrote a letter to the commander in chief
  informing him that he had resolved to remain at Bald Hills to the last
  extremity and to defend it, leaving to the commander in chief&rsquo;s discretion
  to take measures or not for the defense of Bald Hills, where one of
  Russia&rsquo;s oldest generals would be captured or killed, and he announced to
  his household that he would remain at Bald Hills.
<br />
  But while himself remaining, he gave instructions for the departure of the
  princess and Dessalles with the little prince to Boguchárovo and thence to
  Moscow. Princess Mary, alarmed by her father&rsquo;s feverish and sleepless
  activity after his previous apathy, could not bring herself to leave him
  alone and for the first time in her life ventured to disobey him. She
  refused to go away and her father&rsquo;s fury broke over her in a terrible
  storm. He repeated every injustice he had ever inflicted on her. Trying to
  convict her, he told her she had worn him out, had caused his quarrel with
  his son, had harbored nasty suspicions of him, making it the object of her
  life to poison his existence, and he drove her from his study telling her
  that if she did not go away it was all the same to him. He declared that
  he did not wish to remember her existence and warned her not to dare to
  let him see her. The fact that he did not, as she had feared, order her to
  be carried away by force but only told her not to let him see her cheered
  Princess Mary. She knew it was a proof that in the depth of his soul he
  was glad she was remaining at home and had not gone away.
<br />
  The morning after little Nicholas had left, the old prince donned his full
  uniform and prepared to visit the commander in chief. His  was
  already at the door. Princess Mary saw him walk out of the house in his
  uniform wearing all his orders and go down the garden to review his armed
  peasants and domestic serfs. She sat by the window listening to his voice
  which reached her from the garden. Suddenly several men came running up
  the avenue with frightened faces.
<br />
  Princess Mary ran out to the porch, down the flower-bordered path, and
  into the avenue. A large crowd of militiamen and domestics were moving
  toward her, and in their midst several men were supporting by the armpits
  and dragging along a little old man in a uniform and decorations. She ran
  up to him and, in the play of the sunlight that fell in small round spots
  through the shade of the lime-tree avenue, could not be sure what change
  there was in his face. All she could see was that his former stern and
  determined expression had altered to one of timidity and submission. On
  seeing his daughter he moved his helpless lips and made a hoarse sound. It
  was impossible to make out what he wanted. He was lifted up, carried to
  his study, and laid on the very couch he had so feared of late.
<br />
  The doctor, who was fetched that same night, bled him and said that the
  prince had had a seizure paralyzing his right side.
<br />
  It was becoming more and more dangerous to remain at Bald Hills, and next
  day they moved the prince to Boguchárovo, the doctor accompanying him.
<br />
  By the time they reached Boguchárovo, Dessalles and the little prince had
  already left for Moscow.
<br />
  For three weeks the old prince lay stricken by paralysis in the new house
  Prince Andrew had built at Boguchárovo, ever in the same state, getting
  neither better nor worse. He was unconscious and lay like a distorted
  corpse. He muttered unceasingly, his eyebrows and lips twitching, and it
  was impossible to tell whether he understood what was going on around him
  or not. One thing was certain&mdash;that he was suffering and wished to
  say something. But what it was, no one could tell: it might be some
  caprice of a sick and half-crazy man, or it might relate to public
  affairs, or possibly to family concerns.
<br />
  The doctor said this restlessness did not mean anything and was due to
  physical causes; but Princess Mary thought he wished to tell her
  something, and the fact that her presence always increased his
  restlessness confirmed her opinion.
<br />
  He was evidently suffering both physically and mentally. There was no hope
  of recovery. It was impossible for him to travel, it would not do to let
  him die on the road. &ldquo;Would it not be better if the end did come, the very
  end?&rdquo; Princess Mary sometimes thought. Night and day, hardly sleeping at
  all, she watched him and, terrible to say, often watched him not with hope
  of finding signs of improvement but wishing to find symptoms of the
  approach of the end.
<br />
  Strange as it was to her to acknowledge this feeling in herself, yet there
  it was. And what seemed still more terrible to her was that since her
  father&rsquo;s illness began (perhaps even sooner, when she stayed with him
  expecting something to happen), all the personal desires and hopes that
  had been forgotten or sleeping within her had awakened. Thoughts that had
  not entered her mind for years&mdash;thoughts of a life free from the fear
  of her father, and even the possibility of love and of family happiness&mdash;floated
  continually in her imagination like temptations of the devil. Thrust them
  aside as she would, questions continually recurred to her as to how she
  would order her life now, after . These were temptations of the devil
  and Princess Mary knew it. She knew that the sole weapon against  was
  prayer, and she tried to pray. She assumed an attitude of prayer, looked
  at the icons, repeated the words of a prayer, but she could not pray. She
  felt that a different world had now taken possession of her&mdash;the life
  of a world of strenuous and free activity, quite opposed to the spiritual
  world in which till now she had been confined and in which her greatest
  comfort had been prayer. She could not pray, could not weep, and worldly
  cares took possession of her.
<br />
  It was becoming dangerous to remain in Boguchárovo. News of the approach
  of the French came from all sides, and in one village, ten miles from
  Boguchárovo, a homestead had been looted by French marauders.
<br />
  The doctor insisted on the necessity of moving the prince; the provincial
  Marshal of the Nobility sent an official to Princess Mary to persuade her
  to get away as quickly as possible, and the head of the rural police
  having come to Boguchárovo urged the same thing, saying that the French
  were only some twenty-five miles away, that French proclamations were
  circulating in the villages, and that if the princess did not take her
  father away before the fifteenth, he could not answer for the
  consequences.
<br />
  The princess decided to leave on the fifteenth. The cares of preparation
  and giving orders, for which everyone came to her, occupied her all day.
  She spent the night of the fourteenth as usual, without undressing, in the
  room next to the one where the prince lay. Several times, waking up, she
  heard his groans and muttering, the creak of his bed, and the steps of
  Tíkhon and the doctor when they turned him over. Several times she
  listened at the door, and it seemed to her that his mutterings were louder
  than usual and that they turned him over oftener. She could not sleep and
  several times went to the door and listened, wishing to enter but not
  deciding to do so. Though he did not speak, Princess Mary saw and knew how
  unpleasant every sign of anxiety on his account was to him. She had
  noticed with what dissatisfaction he turned from the look she sometimes
  involuntarily fixed on him. She knew that her going in during the night at
  an unusual hour would irritate him.
<br />
  But never had she felt so grieved for him or so much afraid of losing him.
  She recalled all her life with him and in every word and act of his found
  an expression of his love of her. Occasionally amid these memories
  temptations of the devil would surge into her imagination: thoughts of how
  things would be after his death, and how her new, liberated life would be
  ordered. But she drove these thoughts away with disgust. Toward morning he
  became quiet and she fell asleep.
<br />
  She woke late. That sincerity which often comes with waking showed her
  clearly what chiefly concerned her about her father&rsquo;s illness. On waking
  she listened to what was going on behind the door and, hearing him groan,
  said to herself with a sigh that things were still the same.
<br />
  &ldquo;But what could have happened? What did I want? I want his death!&rdquo; she
  cried with a feeling of loathing for herself.
<br />
  She washed, dressed, said her prayers, and went out to the porch. In front
  of it stood carriages without horses and things were being packed into the
  vehicles.
<br />
  It was a warm, gray morning. Princess Mary stopped at the porch, still
  horrified by her spiritual baseness and trying to arrange her thoughts
  before going to her father. The doctor came downstairs and went out to
  her.
<br />
  &ldquo;He is a little better today,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;I was looking for
  you. One can make out something of what he is saying. His head is clearer.
  Come in, he is asking for you....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Princess Mary&rsquo;s heart beat so violently at this news that she grew pale
  and leaned against the wall to keep from falling. To see him, talk to him,
  feel his eyes on her now that her whole soul was overflowing with those
  dreadful, wicked temptations, was a torment of joy and terror.
<br />
  &ldquo;Come,&rdquo; said the doctor.
<br />
  Princess Mary entered her father&rsquo;s room and went up to his bed. He was
  lying on his back propped up high, and his small bony hands with their
  knotted purple veins were lying on the quilt; his left eye gazed straight
  before him, his right eye was awry, and his brows and lips motionless. He
  seemed altogether so thin, small, and pathetic. His face seemed to have
  shriveled or melted; his features had grown smaller. Princess Mary went up
  and kissed his hand. His left hand pressed hers so that she understood
  that he had long been waiting for her to come. He twitched her hand, and
  his brows and lips quivered angrily.
<br />
  She looked at him in dismay trying to guess what he wanted of her. When
  she changed her position so that his left eye could see her face he calmed
  down, not taking his eyes off her for some seconds. Then his lips and
  tongue moved, sounds came, and he began to speak, gazing timidly and
  imploringly at her, evidently afraid that she might not understand.
<br />
  Straining all her faculties Princess Mary looked at him. The comic efforts
  with which he moved his tongue made her drop her eyes and with difficulty
  repress the sobs that rose to her throat. He said something, repeating the
  same words several times. She could not understand them, but tried to
  guess what he was saying and inquiringly repeated the words he uttered.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mmm...ar...ate...ate...&rdquo; he repeated several times.
<br />
  It was quite impossible to understand these sounds. The doctor thought he
  had guessed them, and inquiringly repeated:  The prince shook his head, again repeated the same sounds.
<br />
   questioned Princess Mary.
<br />
  He made a mumbling sound in confirmation of this, took her hand, and began
  pressing it to different parts of his breast as if trying to find the
  right place for it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Always thoughts... about you... thoughts...&rdquo; he then uttered much more
  clearly than he had done before, now that he was sure of being understood.
<br />
  Princess Mary pressed her head against his hand, trying to hide her sobs
  and tears.
<br />
  He moved his hand over her hair.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have been calling you all night...&rdquo; he brought out.
<br />
  &ldquo;If only I had known...&rdquo; she said through her tears. &ldquo;I was afraid to come
  in.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He pressed her hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;Weren&rsquo;t you asleep?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, I did not sleep,&rdquo; said Princess Mary, shaking her head.
<br />
  Unconsciously imitating her father, she now tried to express herself as he
  did, as much as possible by signs, and her tongue too seemed to move with
  difficulty.
<br />
  &ldquo;Dear one... Dearest...&rdquo; Princess Mary could not quite make out what he
  had said, but from his look it was clear that he had uttered a tender
  caressing word such as he had never used to her before. &ldquo;Why didn&rsquo;t you
  come in?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And I was wishing for his death!&rdquo; thought Princess Mary.
<br />
  He was silent awhile.
<br />
  &ldquo;Thank you... daughter dear!... for all, for all... forgive!... thank
  you!... forgive!... thank you!...&rdquo; and tears began to flow from his eyes.
  &ldquo;Call Andrew!&rdquo; he said suddenly, and a childish, timid expression of doubt
  showed itself on his face as he spoke.
<br />
  He himself seemed aware that his demand was meaningless. So at least it
  seemed to Princess Mary.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have a letter from him,&rdquo; she replied.
<br />
  He glanced at her with timid surprise.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where is he?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;s with the army, Father, at Smolénsk.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He closed his eyes and remained silent a long time. Then as if in answer
  to his doubts and to confirm the fact that now he understood and
  remembered everything, he nodded his head and reopened his eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said, softly and distinctly. &ldquo;Russia has perished. They&rsquo;ve
  destroyed her.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And he began to sob, and again tears flowed from his eyes. Princess Mary
  could no longer restrain herself and wept while she gazed at his face.
<br />
  Again he closed his eyes. His sobs ceased, he pointed to his eyes, and
  Tíkhon, understanding him, wiped away the tears.
<br />
  Then he again opened his eyes and said something none of them could
  understand for a long time, till at last Tíkhon understood and repeated
  it. Princess Mary had sought the meaning of his words in the mood in which
  he had just been speaking. She thought he was speaking of Russia, or
  Prince Andrew, of herself, of his grandson, or of his own death, and so
  she could not guess his words.
<br />
  &ldquo;Put on your white dress. I like it,&rdquo; was what he said.
<br />
  Having understood this Princess Mary sobbed still louder, and the doctor
  taking her arm led her out to the veranda, soothing her and trying to
  persuade her to prepare for her journey. When she had left the room the
  prince again began speaking about his son, about the war, and about the
  Emperor, angrily twitching his brows and raising his hoarse voice, and
  then he had a second and final stroke.
<br />
  Princess Mary stayed on the veranda. The day had cleared, it was hot and
  sunny. She could understand nothing, think of nothing and feel nothing,
  except passionate love for her father, love such as she thought she had
  never felt till that moment. She ran out sobbing into the garden and as
  far as the pond, along the avenues of young lime trees Prince Andrew had
  planted.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes... I... I... I wished for his death! Yes, I wanted it to end
  quicker.... I wished to be at peace.... And what will become of me? What
  use will peace be when he is no longer here?&rdquo; Princess Mary murmured,
  pacing the garden with hurried steps and pressing her hands to her bosom
  which heaved with convulsive sobs.
<br />
  When she had completed the tour of the garden, which brought her again to
  the house, she saw Mademoiselle Bourienne&mdash;who had remained at
  Boguchárovo and did not wish to leave it&mdash;coming toward her with a
  stranger. This was the Marshal of the Nobility of the district, who had
  come personally to point out to the princess the necessity for her prompt
  departure. Princess Mary listened without understanding him; she led him
  to the house, offered him lunch, and sat down with him. Then, excusing
  herself, she went to the door of the old prince&rsquo;s room. The doctor came
  out with an agitated face and said she could not enter.
<br />
  &ldquo;Go away, Princess! Go away... go away!&rdquo;
 <br />
  She returned to the garden and sat down on the grass at the foot of the
  slope by the pond, where no one could see her. She did not know how long
  she had been there when she was aroused by the sound of a woman&rsquo;s
  footsteps running along the path. She rose and saw Dunyásha her maid, who
  was evidently looking for her, and who stopped suddenly as if in alarm on
  seeing her mistress.
<br />
  &ldquo;Please come, Princess... The Prince,&rdquo; said Dunyásha in a breaking voice.
<br />
  &ldquo;Immediately, I&rsquo;m coming, I&rsquo;m coming!&rdquo; replied the princess hurriedly, not
  giving Dunyásha time to finish what she was saying, and trying to avoid
  seeing the girl she ran toward the house.
<br />
  &ldquo;Princess, it&rsquo;s God&rsquo;s will! You must be prepared for everything,&rdquo; said the
  Marshal, meeting her at the house door.
<br />
  &ldquo;Let me alone; it&rsquo;s not true!&rdquo; she cried angrily to him.
<br />
  The doctor tried to stop her. She pushed him aside and ran to her father&rsquo;s
  door. &ldquo;Why are these people with frightened faces stopping me? I don&rsquo;t
  want any of them! And what are they doing here?&rdquo; she thought. She opened
  the door and the bright daylight in that previously darkened room startled
  her. In the room were her nurse and other women. They all drew back from
  the bed, making way for her. He was still lying on the bed as before, but
  the stern expression of his quiet face made Princess Mary stop short on
  the threshold.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, he&rsquo;s not dead&mdash;it&rsquo;s impossible!&rdquo; she told herself and approached
  him, and repressing the terror that seized her, she pressed her lips to
  his cheek. But she stepped back immediately. All the force of the
  tenderness she had been feeling for him vanished instantly and was
  replaced by a feeling of horror at what lay there before her. &ldquo;No, he is
  no more! He is not, but here where he was is something unfamiliar and
  hostile, some dreadful, terrifying, and repellent mystery!&rdquo; And hiding her
  face in her hands, Princess Mary sank into the arms of the doctor, who
  held her up.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  In the presence of Tíkhon and the doctor the women washed what had been
  the prince, tied his head up with a handkerchief that the mouth should not
  stiffen while open, and with another handkerchief tied together the legs
  that were already spreading apart. Then they dressed him in uniform with
  his decorations and placed his shriveled little body on a table. Heaven
  only knows who arranged all this and when, but it all got done as if of
  its own accord. Toward night candles were burning round his coffin, a pall
  was spread over it, the floor was strewn with sprays of juniper, a printed
  band was tucked in under his shriveled head, and in a corner of the room
  sat a chanter reading the psalms.
<br />
  Just as horses shy and snort and gather about a dead horse, so the inmates
  of the house and strangers crowded into the drawing room round the coffin&mdash;the
  Marshal, the village Elder, peasant women&mdash;and all with fixed and
  frightened eyes, crossing themselves, bowed and kissed the old prince&rsquo;s
  cold and stiffened hand.

  CHAPTER IX


  Until Prince Andrew settled in Boguchárovo its owners had always been
  absentees, and its peasants were of quite a different character from those
  of Bald Hills. They differed from them in speech, dress, and disposition.
  They were called steppe peasants. The old prince used to approve of them
  for their endurance at work when they came to Bald Hills to help with the
  harvest. or to dig ponds and ditches, but he disliked them for their
  boorishness.
<br />
  Prince Andrew&rsquo;s last stay at Boguchárovo, when he introduced hospitals and
  schools and reduced the quitrent the peasants had to pay, had not softened
  their disposition but had on the contrary strengthened in them the traits
  of character the old prince called boorishness. Various obscure rumors
  were always current among them: at one time a rumor that they would all be
  enrolled as Cossacks; at another of a new religion to which they were all
  to be converted; then of some proclamation of the Tsar&rsquo;s and of an oath to
  the Tsar Paul in 1797 (in connection with which it was rumored that
  freedom had been granted them but the landowners had stopped it), then of
  Peter Fëdorovich&rsquo;s return to the throne in seven years&rsquo; time, when
  everything would be made free and so &ldquo;simple&rdquo; that there would be no
  restrictions. Rumors of the war with Bonaparte and his invasion were
  connected in their minds with the same sort of vague notions of
  Antichrist, the end of the world, and &ldquo;pure freedom.&rdquo;
 <br />
  In the vicinity of Boguchárovo were large villages belonging to the crown
  or to owners whose serfs paid quitrent and could work where they pleased.
  There were very few resident landlords in the neighborhood and also very
  few domestic or literate serfs, and in the lives of the peasantry of those
  parts the mysterious undercurrents in the life of the Russian people, the
  causes and meaning of which are so baffling to contemporaries, were more
  clearly and strongly noticeable than among others. One instance, which had
  occurred some twenty years before, was a movement among the peasants to
  emigrate to some unknown &ldquo;warm rivers.&rdquo; Hundreds of peasants, among them
  the Boguchárovo folk, suddenly began selling their cattle and moving in
  whole families toward the southeast. As birds migrate to somewhere beyond
  the sea, so these men with their wives and children streamed to the
  southeast, to parts where none of them had ever been. They set off in
  caravans, bought their freedom one by one or ran away, and drove or walked
  toward the &ldquo;warm rivers.&rdquo; Many of them were punished, some sent to
  Siberia, many died of cold and hunger on the road, many returned of their
  own accord, and the movement died down of itself just as it had sprung up,
  without apparent reason. But such undercurrents still existed among the
  people and gathered new forces ready to manifest themselves just as
  strangely, unexpectedly, and at the same time simply, naturally, and
  forcibly. Now in 1812, to anyone living in close touch with these people
  it was apparent that these undercurrents were acting strongly and nearing
  an eruption.
<br />
  Alpátych, who had reached Boguchárovo shortly before the old prince&rsquo;s
  death, noticed an agitation among the peasants, and that contrary to what
  was happening in the Bald Hills district, where over a radius of forty
  miles all the peasants were moving away and leaving their villages to be
  devastated by the Cossacks, the peasants in the steppe region round
  Boguchárovo were, it was rumored, in touch with the French, received
  leaflets from them that passed from hand to hand, and did not migrate. He
  learned from domestic serfs loyal to him that the peasant Karp, who
  possessed great influence in the village commune and had recently been
  away driving a government transport, had returned with news that the
  Cossacks were destroying deserted villages, but that the French did not
  harm them. Alpátych also knew that on the previous day another peasant had
  even brought from the village of Visloúkhovo, which was occupied by the
  French, a proclamation by a French general that no harm would be done to
  the inhabitants, and if they remained they would be paid for anything
  taken from them. As proof of this the peasant had brought from Visloúkhovo
  a hundred rubles in notes (he did not know that they were false) paid to
  him in advance for hay.
<br />
  More important still, Alpátych learned that on the morning of the very day
  he gave the village Elder orders to collect carts to move the princess&rsquo;
  luggage from Boguchárovo, there had been a village meeting at which it had
  been decided not to move but to wait. Yet there was no time to waste. On
  the fifteenth, the day of the old prince&rsquo;s death, the Marshal had insisted
  on Princess Mary&rsquo;s leaving at once, as it was becoming dangerous. He had
  told her that after the sixteenth he could not be responsible for what
  might happen. On the evening of the day the old prince died the Marshal
  went away, promising to return next day for the funeral. But this he was
  unable to do, for he received tidings that the French had unexpectedly
  advanced, and had barely time to remove his own family and valuables from
  his estate.
<br />
  For some thirty years Boguchárovo had been managed by the village Elder,
  Dron, whom the old prince called by the diminutive &ldquo;Drónushka.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dron was one of those physically and mentally vigorous peasants who grow
  big beards as soon as they are of age and go on unchanged till they are
  sixty or seventy, without a gray hair or the loss of a tooth, as straight
  and strong at sixty as at thirty.
<br />
  Soon after the migration to the &ldquo;warm rivers,&rdquo; in which he had taken part
  like the rest, Dron was made village Elder and overseer of Boguchárovo,
  and had since filled that post irreproachably for twenty-three years. The
  peasants feared him more than they did their master. The masters, both the
  old prince and the young, and the steward respected him and jestingly
  called him &ldquo;the Minister.&rdquo; During the whole time of his service Dron had
  never been drunk or ill, never after sleepless nights or the hardest tasks
  had he shown the least fatigue, and though he could not read he had never
  forgotten a single money account or the number of quarters of flour in any
  of the endless cartloads he sold for the prince, nor a single shock of the
  whole corn crop on any single acre of the Boguchárovo fields.
<br />
  Alpátych, arriving from the devastated Bald Hills estate, sent for his
  Dron on the day of the prince&rsquo;s funeral and told him to have twelve horses
  got ready for the princess&rsquo; carriages and eighteen carts for the things to
  be removed from Boguchárovo. Though the peasants paid quitrent, Alpátych
  thought no difficulty would be made about complying with this order, for
  there were two hundred and thirty households at work in Boguchárovo and
  the peasants were well to do. But on hearing the order Dron lowered his
  eyes and remained silent. Alpátych named certain peasants he knew, from
  whom he told him to take the carts.
<br />
  Dron replied that the horses of these peasants were away carting. Alpátych
  named others, but they too, according to Dron, had no horses available:
  some horses were carting for the government, others were too weak, and
  others had died for want of fodder. It seemed that no horses could be had
  even for the carriages, much less for the carting.
<br />
  Alpátych looked intently at Dron and frowned. Just as Dron was a model
  village Elder, so Alpátych had not managed the prince&rsquo;s estates for twenty
  years in vain. He was a model steward, possessing in the highest degree
  the faculty of divining the needs and instincts of those he dealt with.
  Having glanced at Dron he at once understood that his answers did not
  express his personal views but the general mood of the Boguchárovo
  commune, by which the Elder had already been carried away. But he also
  knew that Dron, who had acquired property and was hated by the commune,
  must be hesitating between the two camps: the masters&rsquo; and the serfs&rsquo;. He
  noticed this hesitation in Dron&rsquo;s look and therefore frowned and moved
  closer up to him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now just listen, Drónushka,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t talk nonsense to me. His
  excellency Prince Andrew himself gave me orders to move all the people
  away and not leave them with the enemy, and there is an order from the
  Tsar about it too. Anyone who stays is a traitor to the Tsar. Do you
  hear?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I hear,&rdquo; Dron answered without lifting his eyes.
<br />
  Alpátych was not satisfied with this reply.
<br />
  &ldquo;Eh, Dron, it will turn out badly!&rdquo; he said, shaking his head.
<br />
  &ldquo;The power is in your hands,&rdquo; Dron rejoined sadly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Eh, Dron, drop it!&rdquo; Alpátych repeated, withdrawing his hand from his
  bosom and solemnly pointing to the floor at Dron&rsquo;s feet. &ldquo;I can see
  through you and three yards into the ground under you,&rdquo; he continued,
  gazing at the floor in front of Dron.
<br />
  Dron was disconcerted, glanced furtively at Alpátych and again lowered his
  eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;You drop this nonsense and tell the people to get ready to leave their
  homes and go to Moscow and to get carts ready for tomorrow morning for the
  princess&rsquo; things. And don&rsquo;t go to any meeting yourself, do you hear?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dron suddenly fell on his knees.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yákov Alpátych, discharge me! Take the keys from me and discharge me, for
  Christ&rsquo;s sake!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Stop that!&rdquo; cried Alpátych sternly. &ldquo;I see through you and three yards
  under you,&rdquo; he repeated, knowing that his skill in beekeeping, his
  knowledge of the right time to sow the oats, and the fact that he had been
  able to retain the old prince&rsquo;s favor for twenty years had long since
  gained him the reputation of being a wizard, and that the power of seeing
  three yards under a man is considered an attribute of wizards.
<br />
  Dron got up and was about to say something, but Alpátych interrupted him.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is it you have got into your heads, eh?... What are you thinking of,
  eh?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What am I to do with the people?&rdquo; said Dron. &ldquo;They&rsquo;re quite beside
  themselves; I have already told them...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;&lsquo;Told them,&rsquo; I dare say!&rdquo; said Alpátych. &ldquo;Are they drinking?&rdquo; he asked
  abruptly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Quite beside themselves, Yákov Alpátych; they&rsquo;ve fetched another barrel.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, then, listen! I&rsquo;ll go to the police officer, and you tell them so,
  and that they must stop this and the carts must be got ready.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I understand.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Alpátych did not insist further. He had managed people for a long time and
  knew that the chief way to make them obey is to show no suspicion that
  they can possibly disobey. Having wrung a submissive &ldquo;I understand&rdquo; from
  Dron, Alpátych contented himself with that, though he not only doubted but
  felt almost certain that without the help of troops the carts would not be
  forthcoming.
<br />
  And so it was, for when evening came no carts had been provided. In the
  village, outside the drink shop, another meeting was being held, which
  decided that the horses should be driven out into the woods and the carts
  should not be provided. Without saying anything of this to the princess,
  Alpátych had his own belongings taken out of the carts which had arrived
  from Bald Hills and had those horses got ready for the princess&rsquo;
  carriages. Meanwhile he went himself to the police authorities.

  CHAPTER X


  After her father&rsquo;s funeral Princess Mary shut herself up in her room and
  did not admit anyone. A maid came to the door to say that Alpátych was
  asking for orders about their departure. (This was before his talk with
  Dron.) Princess Mary raised herself on the sofa on which she had been
  lying and replied through the closed door that she did not mean to go away
  and begged to be left in peace.
<br />
  The windows of the room in which she was lying looked westward. She lay on
  the sofa with her face to the wall, fingering the buttons of the leather
  cushion and seeing nothing but that cushion, and her confused thoughts
  were centered on one subject&mdash;the irrevocability of death and her own
  spiritual baseness, which she had not suspected, but which had shown
  itself during her father&rsquo;s illness. She wished to pray but did not dare
  to, dared not in her present state of mind address herself to God. She lay
  for a long time in that position.
<br />
  The sun had reached the other side of the house, and its slanting rays
  shone into the open window, lighting up the room and part of the morocco
  cushion at which Princess Mary was looking. The flow of her thoughts
  suddenly stopped. Unconsciously she sat up, smoothed her hair, got up, and
  went to the window, involuntarily inhaling the freshness of the clear but
  windy evening.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, you can well enjoy the evening now! He is gone and no one will
  hinder you,&rdquo; she said to herself, and sinking into a chair she let her
  head fall on the window sill.
<br />
  Someone spoke her name in a soft and tender voice from the garden and
  kissed her head. She looked up. It was Mademoiselle Bourienne in a black
  dress and weepers. She softly approached Princess Mary, sighed, kissed
  her, and immediately began to cry. The princess looked up at her. All
  their former disharmony and her own jealousy recurred to her mind. But she
  remembered too how  had changed of late toward Mademoiselle Bourienne
  and could not bear to see her, thereby showing how unjust were the
  reproaches Princess Mary had mentally addressed to her. &ldquo;Besides, is it
  for me, for me who desired his death, to condemn anyone?&rdquo; she thought.
<br />
  Princess Mary vividly pictured to herself the position of Mademoiselle
  Bourienne, whom she had of late kept at a distance, but who yet was
  dependent on her and living in her house. She felt sorry for her and held
  out her hand with a glance of gentle inquiry. Mademoiselle Bourienne at
  once began crying again and kissed that hand, speaking of the princess&rsquo;
  sorrow and making herself a partner in it. She said her only consolation
  was the fact that the princess allowed her to share her sorrow, that all
  the old misunderstandings should sink into nothing but this great grief;
  that she felt herself blameless in regard to everyone, and that , from
  above, saw her affection and gratitude. The princess heard her, not
  heeding her words but occasionally looking up at her and listening to the
  sound of her voice.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your position is doubly terrible, dear princess,&rdquo; said Mademoiselle
  Bourienne after a pause. &ldquo;I understand that you could not, and cannot,
  think of yourself, but with my love for you I must do so.... Has Alpátych
  been to you? Has he spoken to you of going away?&rdquo; she asked.
<br />
  Princess Mary did not answer. She did not understand who was to go or
  where to. &ldquo;Is it possible to plan or think of anything now? Is it not all
  the same?&rdquo; she thought, and did not reply.
<br />
  &ldquo;You know, ,&rdquo; said Mademoiselle Bourienne, &ldquo;that
  we are in danger&mdash;are surrounded by the French. It would be dangerous to move
  now. If we go we are almost sure to be taken prisoners, and God knows...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Princess Mary looked at her companion without understanding what she was
  talking about.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, if anyone knew how little anything matters to me now,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Of
  course I would on no account wish to go away from him.... Alpátych did say
  something about going.... Speak to him; I can do nothing, nothing, and
  don&rsquo;t want to....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve spoken to him. He hopes we should be in time to get away tomorrow,
  but I think it would now be better to stay here,&rdquo; said Mademoiselle
  Bourienne. &ldquo;Because, you will agree, , to fall into the
  hands of the soldiers or of riotous peasants would be terrible.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Mademoiselle Bourienne took from her reticule a proclamation (not printed
  on ordinary Russian paper) of General Rameau&rsquo;s, telling people not to
  leave their homes and that the French authorities would afford them proper
  protection. She handed this to the princess.
<br />
  &ldquo;I think it would be best to appeal to that general,&rdquo; she continued, &ldquo;and
  I am sure that all due respect would be shown you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Princess Mary read the paper, and her face began to quiver with stifled
  sobs.
<br />
  &ldquo;From whom did you get this?&rdquo; she asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;They probably recognized that I am French, by my name,&rdquo; replied
  Mademoiselle Bourienne blushing.
<br />
  Princess Mary, with the paper in her hand, rose from the window and with a
  pale face went out of the room and into what had been Prince Andrew&rsquo;s
  study.
<br />
  &ldquo;Dunyásha, send Alpátych, or Drónushka, or somebody to me!&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and
  tell Mademoiselle Bourienne not to come to me,&rdquo; she added, hearing
  Mademoiselle Bourienne&rsquo;s voice. &ldquo;We must go at once, at once!&rdquo; she said,
  appalled at the thought of being left in the hands of the French.
<br />
  &ldquo;If Prince Andrew heard that I was in the power of the French! That I, the
  daughter of Prince Nicholas Bolkónski, asked General Rameau for protection
  and accepted his favor!&rdquo; This idea horrified her, made her shudder, blush,
  and feel such a rush of anger and pride as she had never experienced
  before. All that was distressing, and especially all that was humiliating,
  in her position rose vividly to her mind. &ldquo;They, the French, would settle
  in this house: M. le Général Rameau would occupy Prince Andrew&rsquo;s study and
  amuse himself by looking through and reading his letters and papers.
  Mademoiselle Bourienne would do the honors of Boguchárovo for him. I
  should be given a small room as a favor, the soldiers would violate my
  father&rsquo;s newly dug grave to steal his crosses and stars, they would tell
  me of their victories over the Russians, and would pretend to sympathize
  with my sorrow...&rdquo; thought Princess Mary, not thinking her own thoughts
  but feeling bound to think like her father and her brother. For herself
  she did not care where she remained or what happened to her, but she felt
  herself the representative of her dead father and of Prince Andrew.
  Involuntarily she thought their thoughts and felt their feelings. What
  they would have said and what they would have done she felt bound to say
  and do. She went into Prince Andrew&rsquo;s study, trying to enter completely
  into his ideas, and considered her position.
<br />
  The demands of life, which had seemed to her annihilated by her father&rsquo;s
  death, all at once rose before her with a new, previously unknown force
  and took possession of her.
<br />
  Agitated and flushed she paced the room, sending now for Michael Ivánovich
  and now for Tíkhon or Dron. Dunyásha, the nurse, and the other maids could
  not say in how far Mademoiselle Bourienne&rsquo;s statement was correct.
  Alpátych was not at home, he had gone to the police. Neither could the
  architect Michael Ivánovich, who on being sent for came in with sleepy
  eyes, tell Princess Mary anything. With just the same smile of agreement
  with which for fifteen years he had been accustomed to answer the old
  prince without expressing views of his own, he now replied to Princess
  Mary, so that nothing definite could be got from his answers. The old
  valet Tíkhon, with sunken, emaciated face that bore the stamp of
  inconsolable grief, replied: &ldquo;Yes, Princess&rdquo; to all Princess Mary&rsquo;s
  questions and hardly refrained from sobbing as he looked at her.
<br />
  At length Dron, the village Elder, entered the room and with a deep bow to
  Princess Mary came to a halt by the doorpost.
<br />
  Princess Mary walked up and down the room and stopped in front of him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Drónushka,&rdquo; she said, regarding as a sure friend this Drónushka who
  always used to bring a special kind of gingerbread from his visit to the
  fair at Vyázma every year and smilingly offer it to her, &ldquo;Drónushka, now
  since our misfortune...&rdquo; she began, but could not go on.
<br />
  &ldquo;We are all in God&rsquo;s hands,&rdquo; said he, with a sigh.
<br />
  They were silent for a while.
<br />
  &ldquo;Drónushka, Alpátych has gone off somewhere and I have no one to turn to.
  Is it true, as they tell me, that I can&rsquo;t even go away?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why shouldn&rsquo;t you go away, your excellency? You can go,&rdquo; said Dron.
<br />
  &ldquo;I was told it would be dangerous because of the enemy. Dear friend, I can
  do nothing. I understand nothing. I have nobody! I want to go away tonight
  or early tomorrow morning.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dron paused. He looked askance at Princess Mary and said: &ldquo;There are no
  horses; I told Yákov Alpátych so.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why are there none?&rdquo; asked the princess.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all God&rsquo;s scourge,&rdquo; said Dron. &ldquo;What horses we had have been taken
  for the army or have died&mdash;this is such a year! It&rsquo;s not a case of
  feeding horses&mdash;we may die of hunger ourselves! As it is, some go
  three days without eating. We&rsquo;ve nothing, we&rsquo;ve been ruined.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Princess Mary listened attentively to what he told her.
<br />
  &ldquo;The peasants are ruined? They have no bread?&rdquo; she asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;They&rsquo;re dying of hunger,&rdquo; said Dron. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not a case of carting.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But why didn&rsquo;t you tell me, Drónushka? Isn&rsquo;t it possible to help them?
  I&rsquo;ll do all I can....&rdquo;
 <br />
  To Princess Mary it was strange that now, at a moment when such sorrow was
  filling her soul, there could be rich people and poor, and the rich could
  refrain from helping the poor. She had heard vaguely that there was such a
  thing as &ldquo;landlord&rsquo;s corn&rdquo; which was sometimes given to the peasants. She
  also knew that neither her father nor her brother would refuse to help the
  peasants in need, she only feared to make some mistake in speaking about
  the distribution of the grain she wished to give. She was glad such cares
  presented themselves, enabling her without scruple to forget her own
  grief. She began asking Dron about the peasants&rsquo; needs and what there was
  in Boguchárovo that belonged to the landlord.
<br />
  &ldquo;But we have grain belonging to my brother?&rdquo; she said.
<br />
  &ldquo;The landlord&rsquo;s grain is all safe,&rdquo; replied Dron proudly. &ldquo;Our prince did
  not order it to be sold.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Give it to the peasants, let them have all they need; I give you leave in
  my brother&rsquo;s name,&rdquo; said she.
<br />
  Dron made no answer but sighed deeply.
<br />
  &ldquo;Give them that corn if there is enough of it. Distribute it all. I give
  this order in my brother&rsquo;s name; and tell them that what is ours is
  theirs. We do not grudge them anything. Tell them so.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dron looked intently at the princess while she was speaking.
<br />
  &ldquo;Discharge me, little mother, for God&rsquo;s sake! Order the keys to be taken
  from me,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;I have served twenty-three years and have done no
  wrong. Discharge me, for God&rsquo;s sake!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Princess Mary did not understand what he wanted of her or why he was
  asking to be discharged. She replied that she had never doubted his
  devotion and that she was ready to do anything for him and for the
  peasants.

  CHAPTER XI


  An hour later Dunyásha came to tell the princess that Dron had come, and
  all the peasants had assembled at the barn by the princess&rsquo; order and
  wished to have word with their mistress.
<br />
  &ldquo;But I never told them to come,&rdquo; said Princess Mary. &ldquo;I only told Dron to
  let them have the grain.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Only, for God&rsquo;s sake, Princess dear, have them sent away and don&rsquo;t go out
  to them. It&rsquo;s all a trick,&rdquo; said Dunyásha, &ldquo;and when Yákov Alpátych
  returns let us get away... and please don&rsquo;t...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What is a trick?&rdquo; asked Princess Mary in surprise.
<br />
  &ldquo;I know it is, only listen to me for God&rsquo;s sake! Ask nurse too. They say
  they don&rsquo;t agree to leave Boguchárovo as you ordered.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;re making some mistake. I never ordered them to go away,&rdquo; said
  Princess Mary. &ldquo;Call Drónushka.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dron came and confirmed Dunyásha&rsquo;s words; the peasants had come by the
  princess&rsquo; order.
<br />
  &ldquo;But I never sent for them,&rdquo; declared the princess. &ldquo;You must have given
  my message wrong. I only said that you were to give them the grain.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dron only sighed in reply.
<br />
  &ldquo;If you order it they will go away,&rdquo; said he.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, no. I&rsquo;ll go out to them,&rdquo; said Princess Mary, and in spite of the
  nurse&rsquo;s and Dunyásha&rsquo;s protests she went out into the porch; Dron,
  Dunyásha, the nurse, and Michael Ivánovich following her.
<br />
  &ldquo;They probably think I am offering them the grain to bribe them to remain
  here, while I myself go away leaving them to the mercy of the French,&rdquo;
   thought Princess Mary. &ldquo;I will offer them monthly rations and housing at
  our Moscow estate. I am sure Andrew would do even more in my place,&rdquo; she
  thought as she went out in the twilight toward the crowd standing on the
  pasture by the barn.
<br />
  The men crowded closer together, stirred, and rapidly took off their hats.
  Princess Mary lowered her eyes and, tripping over her skirt, came close up
  to them. So many different eyes, old and young, were fixed on her, and
  there were so many different faces, that she could not distinguish any of
  them and, feeling that she must speak to them all at once, did not know
  how to do it. But again the sense that she represented her father and her
  brother gave her courage, and she boldly began her speech.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am very glad you have come,&rdquo; she said without raising her eyes, and
  feeling her heart beating quickly and violently. &ldquo;Drónushka tells me that
  the war has ruined you. That is our common misfortune, and I shall grudge
  nothing to help you. I am myself going away because it is dangerous
  here... the enemy is near... because... I am giving you everything, my
  friends, and I beg you to take everything, all our grain, so that you may
  not suffer want! And if you have been told that I am giving you the grain
  to keep you here&mdash;that is not true. On the contrary, I ask you to go
  with all your belongings to our estate near Moscow, and I promise you I
  will see to it that there you shall want for nothing. You shall be given
  food and lodging.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The princess stopped. Sighs were the only sound heard in the crowd.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am not doing this on my own account,&rdquo; she continued, &ldquo;I do it in the
  name of my dead father, who was a good master to you, and of my brother
  and his son.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Again she paused. No one broke the silence.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ours is a common misfortune and we will share it together. All that is
  mine is yours,&rdquo; she concluded, scanning the faces before her.
<br />
  All eyes were gazing at her with one and the same expression. She could
  not fathom whether it was curiosity, devotion, gratitude, or apprehension
  and distrust&mdash;but the expression on all the faces was identical.
<br />
  &ldquo;We are all very thankful for your bounty, but it won&rsquo;t do for us to take
  the landlord&rsquo;s grain,&rdquo; said a voice at the back of the crowd.
<br />
  &ldquo;But why not?&rdquo; asked the princess.
<br />
  No one replied and Princess Mary, looking round at the crowd, found that
  every eye she met now was immediately dropped.
<br />
  &ldquo;But why don&rsquo;t you want to take it?&rdquo; she asked again.
<br />
  No one answered.
<br />
  The silence began to oppress the princess and she tried to catch someone&rsquo;s
  eye.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you speak?&rdquo; she inquired of a very old man who stood just in
  front of her leaning on his stick. &ldquo;If you think something more is wanted,
  tell me! I will do anything,&rdquo; said she, catching his eye.
<br />
  But as if this angered him, he bent his head quite low and muttered:
<br />
  &ldquo;Why should we agree? We don&rsquo;t want the grain.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why should we give up everything? We don&rsquo;t agree. Don&rsquo;t agree.... We are
  sorry for you, but we&rsquo;re not willing. Go away yourself, alone...&rdquo; came
  from various sides of the crowd.
<br />
  And again all the faces in that crowd bore an identical expression, though
  now it was certainly not an expression of curiosity or gratitude, but of
  angry resolve.
<br />
  &ldquo;But you can&rsquo;t have understood me,&rdquo; said Princess Mary with a
  sad smile. &ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you want to go? I promise to house and feed
  you, while here the enemy would ruin you....&rdquo;
 <br />
  But her voice was drowned by the voices of the crowd.
<br />
  &ldquo;We&rsquo;re not willing. Let them ruin us! We won&rsquo;t take your grain. We don&rsquo;t
  agree.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Again Princess Mary tried to catch someone&rsquo;s eye, but not a single eye in
  the crowd was turned to her; evidently they were all trying to avoid her
  look. She felt strange and awkward.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh yes, an artful tale! Follow her into slavery! Pull down your houses
  and go into bondage! I dare say! &lsquo;I&rsquo;ll give you grain, indeed!&rsquo; she says,&rdquo;
   voices in the crowd were heard saying.
<br />
  With drooping head Princess Mary left the crowd and went back to the
  house. Having repeated her order to Dron to have horses ready for her
  departure next morning, she went to her room and remained alone with her
  own thoughts.

  CHAPTER XII


  For a long time that night Princess Mary sat by the open window of her
  room hearing the sound of the peasants&rsquo; voices that reached her from the
  village, but it was not of them she was thinking. She felt that she could
  not understand them however much she might think about them. She thought
  only of one thing, her sorrow, which, after the break caused by cares for
  the present, seemed already to belong to the past. Now she could remember
  it and weep or pray.
<br />
  After sunset the wind had dropped. The night was calm and fresh. Toward
  midnight the voices began to subside, a cock crowed, the full moon began
  to show from behind the lime trees, a fresh white dewy mist began to rise,
  and stillness reigned over the village and the house.
<br />
  Pictures of the near past&mdash;her father&rsquo;s illness and last moments&mdash;rose
  one after another to her memory. With mournful pleasure she now lingered
  over these images, repelling with horror only the last one, the picture of
  his death, which she felt she could not contemplate even in imagination at
  this still and mystic hour of night. And these pictures presented
  themselves to her so clearly and in such detail that they seemed now
  present, now past, and now future.
<br />
  She vividly recalled the moment when he had his first stroke and was being
  dragged along by his armpits through the garden at Bald Hills, muttering
  something with his helpless tongue, twitching his gray eyebrows and
  looking uneasily and timidly at her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Even then he wanted to tell me what he told me the day he died,&rdquo; she
  thought. &ldquo;He had always thought what he said then.&rdquo; And she recalled in
  all its detail the night at Bald Hills before he had the last stroke, when
  with a foreboding of disaster she had remained at home against his will.
  She had not slept and had stolen downstairs on tiptoe, and going to the
  door of the conservatory where he slept that night had listened at the
  door. In a suffering and weary voice he was saying something to Tíkhon,
  speaking of the Crimea and its warm nights and of the Empress. Evidently
  he had wanted to talk. &ldquo;And why didn&rsquo;t he call me? Why didn&rsquo;t he let me be
  there instead of Tíkhon?&rdquo; Princess Mary had thought and thought again now.
  &ldquo;Now he will never tell anyone what he had in his soul. Never will that
  moment return for him or for me when he might have said all he longed to
  say, and not Tíkhon but I might have heard and understood him. Why didn&rsquo;t
  I enter the room?&rdquo; she thought. &ldquo;Perhaps he would then have said to me
  what he said the day he died. While talking to Tíkhon he asked about me
  twice. He wanted to see me, and I was standing close by, outside the door.
  It was sad and painful for him to talk to Tíkhon who did not understand
  him. I remember how he began speaking to him about Lise as if she were
  alive&mdash;he had forgotten she was dead&mdash;and Tíkhon reminded him
  that she was no more, and he shouted, &lsquo;Fool!&rsquo; He was greatly depressed.
  From behind the door I heard how he lay down on his bed groaning and
  loudly exclaimed, &lsquo;My God!&rsquo; Why didn&rsquo;t I go in then? What could he have
  done to me? What could I have lost? And perhaps he would then have been
  comforted and would have said that word to me.&rdquo; And Princess Mary uttered
  aloud the caressing word he had said to her on the day of his death.
  &ldquo;Dear-est!&rdquo; she repeated, and began sobbing, with tears that relieved her
  soul. She now saw his face before her. And not the face she had known ever
  since she could remember and had always seen at a distance, but the timid,
  feeble face she had seen for the first time quite closely, with all its
  wrinkles and details, when she stooped near to his mouth to catch what he
  said.
<br />
  &ldquo;Dear-est!&rdquo; she repeated again.
<br />
  &ldquo;What was he thinking when he uttered that word? What is he thinking now?&rdquo;
   This question suddenly presented itself to her, and in answer she saw him
  before her with the expression that was on his face as he lay in his
  coffin with his chin bound up with a white handkerchief. And the horror
  that had seized her when she touched him and convinced herself that 
  was not , but something mysterious and horrible, seized her again. She
  tried to think of something else and to pray, but could do neither. With
  wide-open eyes she gazed at the moonlight and the shadows, expecting every
  moment to see his dead face, and she felt that the silence brooding over
  the house and within it held her fast.
<br />
  &ldquo;Dunyásha,&rdquo; she whispered. &ldquo;Dunyásha!&rdquo; she screamed wildly, and tearing
  herself out of this silence she ran to the servants&rsquo; quarters to meet her
  old nurse and the maidservants who came running toward her.

  CHAPTER XIII


  On the seventeenth of August Rostóv and Ilyín, accompanied by Lavrúshka
  who had just returned from captivity and by an hussar orderly, left their
  quarters at Yankóvo, ten miles from Boguchárovo, and went for a ride&mdash;to
  try a new horse Ilyín had bought and to find out whether there was any hay
  to be had in the villages.
<br />
  For the last three days Boguchárovo had lain between the two hostile
  armies, so that it was as easy for the Russian rearguard to get to it as
  for the French vanguard; Rostóv, as a careful squadron commander, wished
  to take such provisions as remained at Boguchárovo before the French could
  get them.
<br />
  Rostóv and Ilyín were in the merriest of moods. On the way to Boguchárovo,
  a princely estate with a dwelling house and farm where they hoped to find
  many domestic serfs and pretty girls, they questioned Lavrúshka about
  Napoleon and laughed at his stories, and raced one another to try Ilyín&rsquo;s
  horse.
<br />
  Rostóv had no idea that the village he was entering was the property of
  that very Bolkónski who had been engaged to his sister.
<br />
  Rostóv and Ilyín gave rein to their horses for a last race along the
  incline before reaching Boguchárovo, and Rostóv, outstripping Ilyín, was
  the first to gallop into the village street.
<br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;re first!&rdquo; cried Ilyín, flushed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, always first both on the grassland and here,&rdquo; answered Rostóv,
  stroking his heated Donéts horse.
<br />
  &ldquo;And I&rsquo;d have won on my Frenchy, your excellency,&rdquo; said Lavrúshka from
  behind, alluding to his shabby cart horse, &ldquo;only I didn&rsquo;t wish to mortify
  you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  They rode at a footpace to the barn, where a large crowd of peasants was
  standing.
<br />
  Some of the men bared their heads, others stared at the new arrivals
  without doffing their caps. Two tall old peasants with wrinkled faces and
  scanty beards emerged from the tavern, smiling, staggering, and singing
  some incoherent song, and approached the officers.
<br />
  &ldquo;Fine fellows!&rdquo; said Rostóv laughing. &ldquo;Is there any hay here?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And how like one another,&rdquo; said Ilyín.
<br />
  &ldquo;A mo-o-st me-r-r-y co-o-m-pa...!&rdquo; sang one of the peasants with a
  blissful smile.
<br />
  One of the men came out of the crowd and went up to Rostóv.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who do you belong to?&rdquo; he asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;The French,&rdquo; replied Ilyín jestingly, &ldquo;and here is Napoleon himself&rdquo;&mdash;and
  he pointed to Lavrúshka.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then you are Russians?&rdquo; the peasant asked again.
<br />
  &ldquo;And is there a large force of you here?&rdquo; said another, a short man,
  coming up.
<br />
  &ldquo;Very large,&rdquo; answered Rostóv. &ldquo;But why have you collected here?&rdquo; he
  added. &ldquo;Is it a holiday?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The old men have met to talk over the business of the commune,&rdquo; replied
  the peasant, moving away.
<br />
  At that moment, on the road leading from the big house, two women and a
  man in a white hat were seen coming toward the officers.
<br />
  &ldquo;The one in pink is mine, so keep off!&rdquo; said Ilyín on seeing Dunyásha
  running resolutely toward him.
<br />
  &ldquo;She&rsquo;ll be ours!&rdquo; said Lavrúshka to Ilyín, winking.
<br />
  &ldquo;What do you want, my pretty?&rdquo; said Ilyín with a smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;The princess ordered me to ask your regiment and your name.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;This is Count Rostóv, squadron commander, and I am your humble servant.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Co-o-om-pa-ny!&rdquo; roared the tipsy peasant with a beatific smile as he
  looked at Ilyín talking to the girl. Following Dunyásha, Alpátych advanced
  to Rostóv, having bared his head while still at a distance.
<br />
  &ldquo;May I make bold to trouble your honor?&rdquo; said he respectfully, but with a
  shade of contempt for the youthfulness of this officer and with a hand
  thrust into his bosom. &ldquo;My mistress, daughter of General in Chief Prince
  Nicholas Bolkónski who died on the fifteenth of this month, finding
  herself in difficulties owing to the boorishness of these people&rdquo;&mdash;he
  pointed to the peasants&mdash;&ldquo;asks you to come up to the house.... Won&rsquo;t
  you, please, ride on a little farther,&rdquo; said Alpátych with a melancholy
  smile, &ldquo;as it is not convenient in the presence of...?&rdquo; He pointed to the
  two peasants who kept as close to him as horseflies to a horse.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah!... Alpátych... Ah, Yákov Alpátych... Grand! Forgive us for Christ&rsquo;s
  sake, eh?&rdquo; said the peasants, smiling joyfully at him.
<br />
  Rostóv looked at the tipsy peasants and smiled.
<br />
  &ldquo;Or perhaps they amuse your honor?&rdquo; remarked Alpátych with a staid air, as
  he pointed at the old men with his free hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, there&rsquo;s not much to be amused at here,&rdquo; said Rostóv, and rode on a
  little way. &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter?&rdquo; he asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;I make bold to inform your honor that the rude peasants here don&rsquo;t wish
  to let the mistress leave the estate, and threaten to unharness her
  horses, so that though everything has been packed up since morning, her
  excellency cannot get away.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Impossible!&rdquo; exclaimed Rostóv.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have the honor to report to you the actual truth,&rdquo; said Alpátych.
<br />
  Rostóv dismounted, gave his horse to the orderly, and followed Alpátych to
  the house, questioning him as to the state of affairs. It appeared that
  the princess&rsquo; offer of corn to the peasants the previous day, and her talk
  with Dron and at the meeting, had actually had so bad an effect that Dron
  had finally given up the keys and joined the peasants and had not appeared
  when Alpátych sent for him; and that in the morning when the princess gave
  orders to harness for her journey, the peasants had come in a large crowd
  to the barn and sent word that they would not let her leave the village:
  that there was an order not to move, and that they would unharness the
  horses. Alpátych had gone out to admonish them, but was told (it was
  chiefly Karp who did the talking, Dron not showing himself in the crowd)
  that they could not let the princess go, that there was an order to the
  contrary, but that if she stayed they would serve her as before and obey
  her in everything.
<br />
  At the moment when Rostóv and Ilyín were galloping along the road,
  Princess Mary, despite the dissuasions of Alpátych, her nurse, and the
  maids, had given orders to harness and intended to start, but when the
  cavalrymen were espied they were taken for Frenchmen, the coachman ran
  away, and the women in the house began to wail.
<br />
  &ldquo;Father! Benefactor! God has sent you!&rdquo; exclaimed deeply moved voices as
  Rostóv passed through the anteroom.
<br />
  Princess Mary was sitting helpless and bewildered in the large sitting
  room, when Rostóv was shown in. She could not grasp who he was and why he
  had come, or what was happening to her. When she saw his Russian face, and
  by his walk and the first words he uttered recognized him as a man of her
  own class, she glanced at him with her deep radiant look and began
  speaking in a voice that faltered and trembled with emotion. This meeting
  immediately struck Rostóv as a romantic event. &ldquo;A helpless girl
  overwhelmed with grief, left to the mercy of coarse, rioting peasants! And
  what a strange fate sent me here! What gentleness and nobility there are
  in her features and expression!&rdquo; thought he as he looked at her and
  listened to her timid story.
<br />
  When she began to tell him that all this had happened the day after her
  father&rsquo;s funeral, her voice trembled. She turned away, and then, as if
  fearing he might take her words as meant to move him to pity, looked at
  him with an apprehensive glance of inquiry. There were tears in Rostóv&rsquo;s
  eyes. Princess Mary noticed this and glanced gratefully at him with that
  radiant look which caused the plainness of her face to be forgotten.
<br />
  &ldquo;I cannot express, Princess, how glad I am that I happened to ride here
  and am able to show my readiness to serve you,&rdquo; said Rostóv, rising. &ldquo;Go
  when you please, and I give you my word of honor that no one shall dare to
  cause you annoyance if only you will allow me to act as your escort.&rdquo; And
  bowing respectfully, as if to a lady of royal blood, he moved toward the
  door.
<br />
  Rostóv&rsquo;s deferential tone seemed to indicate that though he would consider
  himself happy to be acquainted with her, he did not wish to take advantage
  of her misfortunes to intrude upon her.
<br />
  Princess Mary understood this and appreciated his delicacy.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am very, very grateful to you,&rdquo; she said in French, &ldquo;but I hope it was
  all a misunderstanding and that no one is to blame for it.&rdquo; She suddenly
  began to cry.
<br />
  &ldquo;Excuse me!&rdquo; she said.
<br />
  Rostóv, knitting his brows, left the room with another low bow.

  CHAPTER XIV


  &ldquo;Well, is she pretty? Ah, friend&mdash;my pink one is delicious; her name
  is Dunyásha....&rdquo;
 <br />
  But on glancing at Rostóv&rsquo;s face Ilyín stopped short. He saw that his hero
  and commander was following quite a different train of thought.
<br />
  Rostóv glanced angrily at Ilyín and without replying strode off with rapid
  steps to the village.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll show them; I&rsquo;ll give it to them, the brigands!&rdquo; said he to himself.
<br />
  Alpátych at a gliding trot, only just managing not to run, kept up with
  him with difficulty.
<br />
  &ldquo;What decision have you been pleased to come to?&rdquo; said he.
<br />
  Rostóv stopped and, clenching his fists, suddenly and sternly turned on
  Alpátych.
<br />
  &ldquo;Decision? What decision? Old dotard!...&rdquo; cried he. &ldquo;What have you been
  about? Eh? The peasants are rioting, and you can&rsquo;t manage them? You&rsquo;re a
  traitor yourself! I know you. I&rsquo;ll flay you all alive!...&rdquo; And as if
  afraid of wasting his store of anger, he left Alpátych and went rapidly
  forward. Alpátych, mastering his offended feelings, kept pace with Rostóv
  at a gliding gait and continued to impart his views. He said the peasants
  were obdurate and that at the present moment it would be imprudent to
  &ldquo;overresist&rdquo; them without an armed force, and would it not be better first
  to send for the military?
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll give them armed force... I&rsquo;ll &lsquo;overresist&rsquo; them!&rdquo; uttered Rostóv
  meaninglessly, breathless with irrational animal fury and the need to vent
  it.
<br />
  Without considering what he would do he moved unconciously with quick,
  resolute steps toward the crowd. And the nearer he drew to it the more
  Alpátych felt that this unreasonable action might produce good results.
  The peasants in the crowd were similarly impressed when they saw Rostóv&rsquo;s
  rapid, firm steps and resolute, frowning face.
<br />
  After the hussars had come to the village and Rostóv had gone to see the
  princess, a certain confusion and dissension had arisen among the crowd.
  Some of the peasants said that these new arrivals were Russians and might
  take it amiss that the mistress was being detained. Dron was of this
  opinion, but as soon as he expressed it Karp and others attacked their
  ex-Elder.
<br />
  &ldquo;How many years have you been fattening on the commune?&rdquo; Karp shouted at
  him. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all one to you! You&rsquo;ll dig up your pot of money and take it
  away with you.... What does it matter to you whether our homes are ruined
  or not?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;We&rsquo;ve been told to keep order, and that no one is to leave their homes or
  take away a single grain, and that&rsquo;s all about it!&rdquo; cried another.
<br />
  &ldquo;It was your son&rsquo;s turn to be conscripted, but no fear! You begrudged your
  lump of a son,&rdquo; a little old man suddenly began attacking Dron&mdash;&ldquo;and
  so they took my Vánka to be shaved for a soldier! But we all have to die.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;To be sure, we all have to die. I&rsquo;m not against the commune,&rdquo; said Dron.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s it&mdash;not against it! You&rsquo;ve filled your belly....&rdquo;
 <br />
  The two tall peasants had their say. As soon as Rostóv, followed by Ilyín,
  Lavrúshka, and Alpátych, came up to the crowd, Karp, thrusting his fingers
  into his belt and smiling a little, walked to the front. Dron on the
  contrary retired to the rear and the crowd drew closer together.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who is your Elder here? Hey?&rdquo; shouted Rostóv, coming up to the crowd with
  quick steps.
<br />
  &ldquo;The Elder? What do you want with him?...&rdquo; asked Karp.
<br />
  But before the words were well out of his mouth, his cap flew off and a
  fierce blow jerked his head to one side.
<br />
  &ldquo;Caps off, traitors!&rdquo; shouted Rostóv in a wrathful voice. &ldquo;Where&rsquo;s the
  Elder?&rdquo; he cried furiously.
<br />
  &ldquo;The Elder.... He wants the Elder!... Dron Zakhárych, you!&rdquo; meek and
  flustered voices here and there were heard calling and caps began to come
  off their heads.
<br />
  &ldquo;We don&rsquo;t riot, we&rsquo;re following the orders,&rdquo; declared Karp, and at that
  moment several voices began speaking together.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s as the old men have decided&mdash;there&rsquo;s too many of you giving
  orders.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Arguing? Mutiny!... Brigands! Traitors!&rdquo; cried Rostóv unmeaningly in a
  voice not his own, gripping Karp by the collar. &ldquo;Bind him, bind him!&rdquo; he
  shouted, though there was no one to bind him but Lavrúshka and Alpátych.
<br />
  Lavrúshka, however, ran up to Karp and seized him by the arms from behind.
<br />
  &ldquo;Shall I call up our men from beyond the hill?&rdquo; he called out.
<br />
  Alpátych turned to the peasants and ordered two of them by name to come
  and bind Karp. The men obediently came out of the crowd and began taking
  off their belts.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where&rsquo;s the Elder?&rdquo; demanded Rostóv in a loud voice.
<br />
  With a pale and frowning face Dron stepped out of the crowd.
<br />
  &ldquo;Are you the Elder? Bind him, Lavrúshka!&rdquo; shouted Rostóv, as if that
  order, too, could not possibly meet with any opposition.
<br />
  And in fact two more peasants began binding Dron, who took off his own
  belt and handed it to them, as if to aid them.
<br />
  &ldquo;And you all listen to me!&rdquo; said Rostóv to the peasants. &ldquo;Be off to your
  houses at once, and don&rsquo;t let one of your voices be heard!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, we&rsquo;ve not done any harm! We did it just out of foolishness.
  It&rsquo;s all nonsense.... I said then that it was not in order,&rdquo; voices
  were heard bickering with one another.
<br />
  &ldquo;There! What did I say?&rdquo; said Alpátych, coming into his own
  again. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s wrong, lads!&rdquo;
<br />
  &ldquo;All our stupidity, Yákov Alpátych,&rdquo; came the answers, and the
  crowd began at once to disperse through the village.
<br />
  The two bound men were led off to the master&rsquo;s house. The two drunken
  peasants followed them.
<br />
  &ldquo;Aye, when I look at you!...&rdquo; said one of them to Karp.
<br />
  &ldquo;How can one talk to the masters like that? What were you thinking of, you
  fool?&rdquo; added the other&mdash;&ldquo;A real fool!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Two hours later the carts were standing in the courtyard of the
  Boguchárovo house. The peasants were briskly carrying out the proprietor&rsquo;s
  goods and packing them on the carts, and Dron, liberated at Princess
  Mary&rsquo;s wish from the cupboard where he had been confined, was standing in
  the yard directing the men.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t put it in so carelessly,&rdquo; said one of the peasants, a man with a
  round smiling face, taking a casket from a housemaid. &ldquo;You know it has
  cost money! How can you chuck it in like that or shove it under the cord
  where it&rsquo;ll get rubbed? I don&rsquo;t like that way of doing things. Let it all
  be done properly, according to rule. Look here, put it under the bast
  matting and cover it with hay&mdash;that&rsquo;s the way!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Eh, books, books!&rdquo; said another peasant, bringing out Prince Andrew&rsquo;s
  library cupboards. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t catch up against it! It&rsquo;s heavy, lads&mdash;solid
  books.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, they worked all day and didn&rsquo;t play!&rdquo; remarked the tall,
  round-faced peasant gravely, pointing with a significant wink at the
  dictionaries that were on the top.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  Unwilling to obtrude himself on the princess, Rostóv did not go back to
  the house but remained in the village awaiting her departure. When her
  carriage drove out of the house, he mounted and accompanied her eight
  miles from Boguchárovo to where the road was occupied by our troops. At
  the inn at Yankóvo he respectfully took leave of her, for the first time
  permitting himself to kiss her hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;How can you speak so!&rdquo; he blushingly replied to Princess Mary&rsquo;s
  expressions of gratitude for her deliverance, as she termed what had
  occurred. &ldquo;Any police officer would have done as much! If we had had only
  peasants to fight, we should not have let the enemy come so far,&rdquo; said he
  with a sense of shame and wishing to change the subject. &ldquo;I am only happy
  to have had the opportunity of making your acquaintance. Good-by,
  Princess. I wish you happiness and consolation and hope to meet you again
  in happier circumstances. If you don&rsquo;t want to make me blush, please don&rsquo;t
  thank me!&rdquo;
 <br />
  But the princess, if she did not again thank him in words, thanked him
  with the whole expression of her face, radiant with gratitude and
  tenderness. She could not believe that there was nothing to thank him for.
  On the contrary, it seemed to her certain that had he not been there she
  would have perished at the hands of the mutineers and of the French, and
  that he had exposed himself to terrible and obvious danger to save her,
  and even more certain was it that he was a man of lofty and noble soul,
  able to understand her position and her sorrow. His kind, honest eyes,
  with the tears rising in them when she herself had begun to cry as she
  spoke of her loss, did not leave her memory.
<br />
  When she had taken leave of him and remained alone she suddenly felt her
  eyes filling with tears, and then not for the first time the strange
  question presented itself to her: did she love him?
<br />
  On the rest of the way to Moscow, though the princess&rsquo; position was not a
  cheerful one, Dunyásha, who went with her in the carriage, more than once
  noticed that her mistress leaned out of the window and smiled at something
  with an expression of mingled joy and sorrow.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, supposing I do love him?&rdquo; thought Princess Mary.
<br />
  Ashamed as she was of acknowledging to herself that she had fallen in love
  with a man who would perhaps never love her, she comforted herself with
  the thought that no one would ever know it and that she would not be to
  blame if, without ever speaking of it to anyone, she continued to the end
  of her life to love the man with whom she had fallen in love for the first
  and last time in her life.
<br />
  Sometimes when she recalled his looks, his sympathy, and his words,
  happiness did not appear impossible to her. It was at those moments that
  Dunyásha noticed her smiling as she looked out of the carriage window.
<br />
  &ldquo;Was it not fate that brought him to Boguchárovo, and at that very
  moment?&rdquo; thought Princess Mary. &ldquo;And that caused his sister to refuse my
  brother?&rdquo; And in all this Princess Mary saw the hand of Providence.
<br />
  The impression the princess made on Rostóv was a very agreeable one. To
  remember her gave him pleasure, and when his comrades, hearing of his
  adventure at Boguchárovo, rallied him on having gone to look for hay and
  having picked up one of the wealthiest heiresses in Russia, he grew angry.
  It made him angry just because the idea of marrying the gentle Princess
  Mary, who was attractive to him and had an enormous fortune, had against
  his will more than once entered his head. For himself personally Nicholas
  could not wish for a better wife: by marrying her he would make the
  countess his mother happy, would be able to put his father&rsquo;s affairs in
  order, and would even&mdash;he felt it&mdash;ensure Princess Mary&rsquo;s
  happiness.
<br />
  But Sónya? And his plighted word? That was why Rostóv grew angry when he
  was rallied about Princess Bolkónskaya.

  CHAPTER XV


  On receiving command of the armies Kutúzov remembered Prince Andrew and
  sent an order for him to report at headquarters.
<br />
  Prince Andrew arrived at Tsárevo-Zaymíshche on the very day and at the
  very hour that Kutúzov was reviewing the troops for the first time. He
  stopped in the village at the priest&rsquo;s house in front of which stood the
  commander in chief&rsquo;s carriage, and he sat down on the bench at the gate
  awaiting his Serene Highness, as everyone now called Kutúzov. From the
  field beyond the village came now sounds of regimental music and now the
  roar of many voices shouting &ldquo;Hurrah!&rdquo; to the new commander in chief. Two
  orderlies, a courier and a major-domo, stood near by, some ten paces from
  Prince Andrew, availing themselves of Kutúzov&rsquo;s absence and of the fine
  weather. A short, swarthy lieutenant colonel of hussars with thick
  mustaches and whiskers rode up to the gate and, glancing at Prince Andrew,
  inquired whether his Serene Highness was putting up there and whether he
  would soon be back.
<br />
  Prince Andrew replied that he was not on his Serene Highness&rsquo; staff but
  was himself a new arrival. The lieutenant colonel turned to a smart
  orderly, who, with the peculiar contempt with which a commander in chief&rsquo;s
  orderly speaks to officers, replied:
<br />
  &ldquo;What? His Serene Highness? I expect he&rsquo;ll be here soon. What do you
  want?&rdquo;
 <br />
  The lieutenant colonel of hussars smiled beneath his mustache at the
  orderly&rsquo;s tone, dismounted, gave his horse to a dispatch runner, and
  approached Bolkónski with a slight bow. Bolkónski made room for him on the
  bench and the lieutenant colonel sat down beside him.
<br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;re also waiting for the commander in chief?&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;They say he
  weceives evewyone, thank God!... It&rsquo;s awful with those sausage eaters!
  Ermólov had weason to ask to be pwomoted to be a German! Now p&rsquo;waps
  Wussians will get a look in. As it was, devil only knows what was
  happening. We kept wetweating and wetweating. Did you take part in the
  campaign?&rdquo; he asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;I had the pleasure,&rdquo; replied Prince Andrew, &ldquo;not only of taking part in
  the retreat but of losing in that retreat all I held dear&mdash;not to
  mention the estate and home of my birth&mdash;my father, who died of
  grief. I belong to the province of Smolénsk.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah? You&rsquo;re Pwince Bolkónski? Vewy glad to make your acquaintance! I&rsquo;m
  Lieutenant Colonel Denísov, better known as &lsquo;Váska,&rsquo;&rdquo; said Denísov,
  pressing Prince Andrew&rsquo;s hand and looking into his face with a
  particularly kindly attention. &ldquo;Yes, I heard,&rdquo; said he sympathetically,
  and after a short pause added: &ldquo;Yes, it&rsquo;s Scythian warfare. It&rsquo;s all vewy
  well&mdash;only not for those who get it in the neck. So you are Pwince
  Andwew Bolkónski?&rdquo; He swayed his head. &ldquo;Vewy pleased, Pwince, to make your
  acquaintance!&rdquo; he repeated again, smiling sadly, and he again pressed
  Prince Andrew&rsquo;s hand.
<br />
  Prince Andrew knew Denísov from what Natásha had told him of her first
  suitor. This memory carried him sadly and sweetly back to those painful
  feelings of which he had not thought lately, but which still found place
  in his soul. Of late he had received so many new and very serious
  impressions&mdash;such as the retreat from Smolénsk, his visit to Bald
  Hills, and the recent news of his father&rsquo;s death&mdash;and had experienced
  so many emotions, that for a long time past those memories had not entered
  his mind, and now that they did, they did not act on him with nearly their
  former strength. For Denísov, too, the memories awakened by the name of
  Bolkónski belonged to a distant, romantic past, when after supper and
  after Natásha&rsquo;s singing he had proposed to a little girl of fifteen
  without realizing what he was doing. He smiled at the recollection of that
  time and of his love for Natásha, and passed at once to what now
  interested him passionately and exclusively. This was a plan of campaign
  he had devised while serving at the outposts during the retreat. He had
  proposed that plan to Barclay de Tolly and now wished to propose it to
  Kutúzov. The plan was based on the fact that the French line of operation
  was too extended, and it proposed that instead of, or concurrently with,
  action on the front to bar the advance of the French, we should attack
  their line of communication. He began explaining his plan to Prince
  Andrew.
<br />
  &ldquo;They can&rsquo;t hold all that line. It&rsquo;s impossible. I will undertake to bweak
  thwough. Give me five hundwed men and I will bweak the line, that&rsquo;s
  certain! There&rsquo;s only one way&mdash;guewilla warfare!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Denísov rose and began gesticulating as he explained his plan to
  Bolkónski. In the midst of his explanation shouts were heard from the
  army, growing more incoherent and more diffused, mingling with music and
  songs and coming from the field where the review was held. Sounds of hoofs
  and shouts were nearing the village.
<br />
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;s coming! He&rsquo;s coming!&rdquo; shouted a Cossack standing at the gate.
<br />
  Bolkónski and Denísov moved to the gate, at which a knot of soldiers (a
  guard of honor) was standing, and they saw Kutúzov coming down the street
  mounted on a rather small sorrel horse. A huge suite of generals rode
  behind him. Barclay was riding almost beside him, and a crowd of officers
  ran after and around them shouting, &ldquo;Hurrah!&rdquo;
 <br />
  His adjutants galloped into the yard before him. Kutúzov was impatiently
  urging on his horse, which ambled smoothly under his weight, and he raised
  his hand to his white Horse Guard&rsquo;s cap with a red band and no peak,
  nodding his head continually. When he came up to the guard of honor, a
  fine set of Grenadiers mostly wearing decorations, who were giving him the
  salute, he looked at them silently and attentively for nearly a minute
  with the steady gaze of a commander and then turned to the crowd of
  generals and officers surrounding him. Suddenly his face assumed a subtle
  expression, he shrugged his shoulders with an air of perplexity.
<br />
  &ldquo;And with such fine fellows to retreat and retreat! Well, good-by,
  General,&rdquo; he added, and rode into the yard past Prince Andrew and Denísov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!&rdquo; shouted those behind him.
<br />
  Since Prince Andrew had last seen him Kutúzov had grown still more
  corpulent, flaccid, and fat. But the bleached eyeball, the scar, and the
  familiar weariness of his expression were still the same. He was wearing
  the white Horse Guard&rsquo;s cap and a military overcoat with a whip hanging
  over his shoulder by a thin strap. He sat heavily and swayed limply on his
  brisk little horse.
<br />
  &ldquo;Whew... whew... whew!&rdquo; he whistled just audibly as he rode into the yard.
  His face expressed the relief of relaxed strain felt by a man who means to
  rest after a ceremony. He drew his left foot out of the stirrup and,
  lurching with his whole body and puckering his face with the effort,
  raised it with difficulty onto the saddle, leaned on his knee, groaned,
  and slipped down into the arms of the Cossacks and adjutants who stood
  ready to assist him.
<br />
  He pulled himself together, looked round, screwing up his eyes, glanced at
  Prince Andrew, and, evidently not recognizing him, moved with his waddling
  gait to the porch. &ldquo;Whew... whew... whew!&rdquo; he whistled, and again glanced
  at Prince Andrew. As often occurs with old men, it was only after some
  seconds that the impression produced by Prince Andrew&rsquo;s face linked itself
  up with Kutúzov&rsquo;s remembrance of his personality.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, how do you do, my dear prince? How do you do, my dear boy? Come
  along...&rdquo; said he, glancing wearily round, and he stepped onto the porch
  which creaked under his weight.
<br />
  He unbuttoned his coat and sat down on a bench in the porch.
<br />
  &ldquo;And how&rsquo;s your father?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I received news of his death, yesterday,&rdquo; replied Prince Andrew abruptly.
<br />
  Kutúzov looked at him with eyes wide open with dismay and then took off
  his cap and crossed himself:
<br />
  &ldquo;May the kingdom of Heaven be his! God&rsquo;s will be done to us all!&rdquo; He
  sighed deeply, his whole chest heaving, and was silent for a while. &ldquo;I
  loved him and respected him, and sympathize with you with all my heart.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He embraced Prince Andrew, pressing him to his fat breast, and for some
  time did not let him go. When he released him Prince Andrew saw that
  Kutúzov&rsquo;s flabby lips were trembling and that tears were in his eyes. He
  sighed and pressed on the bench with both hands to raise himself.
<br />
  &ldquo;Come! Come with me, we&rsquo;ll have a talk,&rdquo; said he.
<br />
  But at that moment Denísov, no more intimidated by his superiors than by
  the enemy, came with jingling spurs up the steps of the porch, despite the
  angry whispers of the adjutants who tried to stop him. Kutúzov, his hands
  still pressed on the seat, glanced at him glumly. Denísov, having given
  his name, announced that he had to communicate to his Serene Highness a
  matter of great importance for their country&rsquo;s welfare. Kutúzov looked
  wearily at him and, lifting his hands with a gesture of annoyance, folded
  them across his stomach, repeating the words: &ldquo;For our country&rsquo;s welfare?
  Well, what is it? Speak!&rdquo; Denísov blushed like a girl (it was strange to
  see the color rise in that shaggy, bibulous, time-worn face) and boldly
  began to expound his plan of cutting the enemy&rsquo;s lines of communication
  between Smolénsk and Vyázma. Denísov came from those parts and knew the
  country well. His plan seemed decidedly a good one, especially from the
  strength of conviction with which he spoke. Kutúzov looked down at his own
  legs, occasionally glancing at the door of the adjoining hut as if
  expecting something unpleasant to emerge from it. And from that hut, while
  Denísov was speaking, a general with a portfolio under his arm really did
  appear.
<br />
  &ldquo;What?&rdquo; said Kutúzov, in the midst of Denísov&rsquo;s explanations, &ldquo;are you
  ready so soon?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ready, your Serene Highness,&rdquo; replied the general.
<br />
  Kutúzov swayed his head, as much as to say: &ldquo;How is one man to deal with
  it all?&rdquo; and again listened to Denísov.
<br />
  &ldquo;I give my word of honor as a Wussian officer,&rdquo; said Denísov, &ldquo;that I can
  bweak Napoleon&rsquo;s line of communication!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What relation are you to Intendant General Kiríl Andréevich Denísov?&rdquo;
   asked Kutúzov, interrupting him.
<br />
  &ldquo;He is my uncle, your Sewene Highness.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah, we were friends,&rdquo; said Kutúzov cheerfully. &ldquo;All right, all right,
  friend, stay here at the staff and tomorrow we&rsquo;ll have a talk.&rdquo;
 <br />
  With a nod to Denísov he turned away and put out his hand for the papers
  Konovnítsyn had brought him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Would not your Serene Highness like to come inside?&rdquo; said the general
  on duty in a discontented voice, &ldquo;the plans must be examined and several
  papers have to be signed.&rdquo;
 <br />
  An adjutant came out and announced that everything was in readiness
  within. But Kutúzov evidently did not wish to enter that room till he was
  disengaged. He made a grimace....
<br />
  &ldquo;No, tell them to bring a small table out here, my dear boy. I&rsquo;ll look
  at them here,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t go away,&rdquo; he added, turning
  to Prince Andrew, who remained in the porch and listened to the general&rsquo;s report.
<br />
  While this was being given, Prince Andrew heard the whisper of a woman&rsquo;s
  voice and the rustle of a silk dress behind the door. Several times on
  glancing that way he noticed behind that door a plump, rosy, handsome
  woman in a pink dress with a lilac silk kerchief on her head, holding a
  dish and evidently awaiting the entrance of the commander in chief.
  Kutúzov&rsquo;s adjutant whispered to Prince Andrew that this was the wife of
  the priest whose home it was, and that she intended to offer his Serene
  Highness bread and salt. &ldquo;Her husband has welcomed his Serene Highness
  with the cross at the church, and she intends to welcome him in the
  house.... She&rsquo;s very pretty,&rdquo; added the adjutant with a smile. At those
  words Kutúzov looked round. He was listening to the general&rsquo;s report&mdash;which
  consisted chiefly of a criticism of the position at Tsárevo-Zaymíshche&mdash;as
  he had listened to Denísov, and seven years previously had listened to the
  discussion at the Austerlitz council of war. He evidently listened only
  because he had ears which, though there was a piece of tow in one of them,
  could not help hearing; but it was evident that nothing the general could
  say would surprise or even interest him, that he knew all that would be
  said beforehand, and heard it all only because he had to, as one has to
  listen to the chanting of a service of prayer. All that Denísov had said
  was clever and to the point. What the general was saying was even more
  clever and to the point, but it was evident that Kutúzov despised
  knowledge and cleverness, and knew of something else that would decide the
  matter&mdash;something independent of cleverness and knowledge. Prince
  Andrew watched the commander in chief&rsquo;s face attentively, and the only
  expression he could see there was one of boredom, curiosity as to the
  meaning of the feminine whispering behind the door, and a desire to
  observe propriety. It was evident that Kutúzov despised cleverness and
  learning and even the patriotic feeling shown by Denísov, but despised
  them not because of his own intellect, feelings, or knowledge&mdash;he did
  not try to display any of these&mdash;but because of something else. He
  despised them because of his old age and experience of life. The only
  instruction Kutúzov gave of his own accord during that report referred to
  looting by the Russian troops. At the end of the report the general put
  before him for signature a paper relating to the recovery of payment from
  army commanders for green oats mown down by the soldiers, when landowners
  lodged petitions for compensation.
<br />
  After hearing the matter, Kutúzov smacked his lips together and shook his
  head.
<br />
  &ldquo;Into the stove... into the fire with it! I tell you once for all, my dear
  fellow,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;into the fire with all such things! Let them cut the
  crops and burn wood to their hearts&rsquo; content. I don&rsquo;t order it or allow
  it, but I don&rsquo;t exact compensation either. One can&rsquo;t get on without it.
  &lsquo;When wood is chopped the chips will fly.&rsquo;&rdquo; He looked at the paper again.
  &ldquo;Oh, this German precision!&rdquo; he muttered, shaking his head.

  CHAPTER XVI


  &ldquo;Well, that&rsquo;s all!&rdquo; said Kutúzov as he signed the last of the documents,
  and rising heavily and smoothing out the folds in his fat white neck he
  moved toward the door with a more cheerful expression.
<br />
  The priest&rsquo;s wife, flushing rosy red, caught up the dish she had after all
  not managed to present at the right moment, though she had so long been
  preparing for it, and with a low bow offered it to Kutúzov.
<br />
  He screwed up his eyes, smiled, lifted her chin with his hand, and said:
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, what a beauty! Thank you, sweetheart!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He took some gold pieces from his trouser pocket and put them on the dish
  for her. &ldquo;Well, my dear, and how are we getting on?&rdquo; he asked, moving to
  the door of the room assigned to him. The priest&rsquo;s wife smiled, and with
  dimples in her rosy cheeks followed him into the room. The adjutant came
  out to the porch and asked Prince Andrew to lunch with him. Half an hour
  later Prince Andrew was again called to Kutúzov. He found him reclining in
  an armchair, still in the same unbuttoned overcoat. He had in his hand a
  French book which he closed as Prince Andrew entered, marking the place
  with a knife. Prince Andrew saw by the cover that it was  by Madame de Genlis.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, sit down, sit down here. Let&rsquo;s have a talk,&rdquo; said Kutúzov. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s
  sad, very sad. But remember, my dear fellow, that I am a father to you, a
  second father....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Andrew told Kutúzov all he knew of his father&rsquo;s death, and what he
  had seen at Bald Hills when he passed through it.
<br />
  &ldquo;What... what they have brought us to!&rdquo; Kutúzov suddenly cried in an
  agitated voice, evidently picturing vividly to himself from Prince
  Andrew&rsquo;s story the condition Russia was in. &ldquo;But give me time, give me
  time!&rdquo; he said with a grim look, evidently not wishing to continue this
  agitating conversation, and added: &ldquo;I sent for you to keep you with me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I thank your Serene Highness, but I fear I am no longer fit for the
  staff,&rdquo; replied Prince Andrew with a smile which Kutúzov noticed.
<br />
  Kutúzov glanced inquiringly at him.
<br />
  &ldquo;But above all,&rdquo; added Prince Andrew, &ldquo;I have grown used to my regiment,
  am fond of the officers, and I fancy the men also like me. I should be
  sorry to leave the regiment. If I decline the honor of being with you,
  believe me...&rdquo;
 <br />
  A shrewd, kindly, yet subtly derisive expression lit up Kutúzov&rsquo;s podgy
  face. He cut Bolkónski short.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am sorry, for I need you. But you&rsquo;re right, you&rsquo;re right! It&rsquo;s not here
  that men are needed. Advisers are always plentiful, but men are not. The
  regiments would not be what they are if the would-be advisers served there
  as you do. I remember you at Austerlitz.... I remember, yes, I remember
  you with the standard!&rdquo; said Kutúzov, and a flush of pleasure suffused
  Prince Andrew&rsquo;s face at this recollection.
<br />
  Taking his hand and drawing him downwards, Kutúzov offered his cheek to be
  kissed, and again Prince Andrew noticed tears in the old man&rsquo;s eyes.
  Though Prince Andrew knew that Kutúzov&rsquo;s tears came easily, and that he
  was particularly tender to and considerate of him from a wish to show
  sympathy with his loss, yet this reminder of Austerlitz was both pleasant
  and flattering to him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Go your way and God be with you. I know your path is the path of honor!&rdquo;
   He paused. &ldquo;I missed you at Bucharest, but I needed someone to send.&rdquo; And
  changing the subject, Kutúzov began to speak of the Turkish war and the
  peace that had been concluded. &ldquo;Yes, I have been much blamed,&rdquo; he said,
  &ldquo;both for that war and the peace... but everything came at the right time.
   * And there were as many
  advisers there as here...&rdquo; he went on, returning to the subject of
  &ldquo;advisers&rdquo; which evidently occupied him. &ldquo;Ah, those advisers!&rdquo; said he.
  &ldquo;If we had listened to them all we should not have made peace with Turkey
  and should not have been through with that war. Everything in haste, but
  more haste, less speed. Kámenski would have been lost if he had not died.
  He stormed fortresses with thirty thousand men. It is not difficult to
  capture a fortress but it is difficult to win a campaign. For that, not
  storming and attacking but  are wanted. Kámenski sent
  soldiers to Rustchuk, but I only employed these two things and took more
  fortresses than Kámenski and made them Turks eat horseflesh!&rdquo; He swayed
  his head. &ldquo;And the French shall too, believe me,&rdquo; he went on, growing
  warmer and beating his chest, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll make them eat horseflesh!&rdquo;
  And tears again dimmed his eyes.
<br />
* &ldquo;Everything comes in time to him who knows how to wait.&rdquo;

“But shan’t we have to accept battle?” remarked Prince Andrew.
“We shall if everybody wants it; it can’t be helped…. But believe me, my dear boy, there is nothing stronger than those two: , they will do it all. But the advisers Some want a thing—others don’t. What’s one to do?” he asked, evidently expecting an answer. “Well, what do you want us to do?” he repeated and his eye shone with a deep, shrewd look. “I’ll tell you what to do,” he continued, as Prince Andrew still did not reply: “I will tell you what to do, and what I do. ,” he paused, (2)—he articulated the French proverb deliberately.

 * &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t see it that way, that&rsquo;s the trouble.&rdquo;
<br />
 * (2) &ldquo;When in doubt, my dear fellow, do nothing.&rdquo;

“Well, good-by, my dear fellow; remember that with all my heart I share your sorrow, and that for you I am not a Serene Highness, nor a prince, nor a commander in chief, but a father! If you want anything come straight to me. Good-by, my dear boy.”
Again he embraced and kissed Prince Andrew, but before the latter had left the room Kutúzov gave a sigh of relief and went on with his unfinished novel, by Madame de Genlis.
Prince Andrew could not have explained how or why it was, but after that interview with Kutúzov he went back to his regiment reassured as to the general course of affairs and as to the man to whom it had been entrusted. The more he realized the absence of all personal motive in that old man—in whom there seemed to remain only the habit of passions, and in place of an intellect (grouping events and drawing conclusions) only the capacity calmly to contemplate the course of events—the more reassured he was that everything would be as it should. “He will not bring in any plan of his own. He will not devise or undertake anything,” thought Prince Andrew, “but he will hear everything, remember everything, and put everything in its place. He will not hinder anything useful nor allow anything harmful. He understands that there is something stronger and more important than his own will—the inevitable course of events, and he can see them and grasp their significance, and seeing that significance can refrain from meddling and renounce his personal wish directed to something else. And above all,” thought Prince Andrew, “one believes in him because he’s Russian, despite the novel by Genlis and the French proverbs, and because his voice shook when he said: ‘What they have brought us to!’ and had a sob in it when he said he would ‘make them eat horseflesh!’”
On such feelings, more or less dimly shared by all, the unanimity and general approval were founded with which, despite court influences, the popular choice of Kutúzov as commander in chief was received.

  CHAPTER XVII


  After the Emperor had left Moscow, life flowed on there in its usual
  course, and its course was so very usual that it was difficult to remember
  the recent days of patriotic elation and ardor, hard to believe that
  Russia was really in danger and that the members of the English Club were
  also sons of the Fatherland ready to sacrifice everything for it. The one
  thing that recalled the patriotic fervor everyone had displayed during the
  Emperor&rsquo;s stay was the call for contributions of men and money, a
  necessity that as soon as the promises had been made assumed a legal,
  official form and became unavoidable.
<br />
  With the enemy&rsquo;s approach to Moscow, the Moscovites&rsquo; view of their
  situation did not grow more serious but on the contrary became even more
  frivolous, as always happens with people who see a great danger
  approaching. At the approach of danger there are always two voices that
  speak with equal power in the human soul: one very reasonably tells a man
  to consider the nature of the danger and the means of escaping it; the
  other, still more reasonably, says that it is too depressing and painful
  to think of the danger, since it is not in man&rsquo;s power to foresee
  everything and avert the general course of events, and it is therefore
  better to disregard what is painful till it comes, and to think about what
  is pleasant. In solitude a man generally listens to the first voice, but
  in society to the second. So it was now with the inhabitants of Moscow. It
  was long since people had been as gay in Moscow as that year.
<br />
  Rostopchín&rsquo;s broadsheets, headed by woodcuts of a drink shop, a potman,
  and a Moscow burgher called Karpúshka Chigírin,  were read and discussed,
  together with the latest of Vasíli Lvóvich Púshkin&rsquo;s .
<br />
  In the corner room at the Club, members gathered to read these
  broadsheets, and some liked the way Karpúshka jeered at the French,
  saying:  Others did not
  like that tone and said it was stupid and vulgar. It was said that
  Rostopchín had expelled all Frenchmen and even all foreigners from Moscow,
  and that there had been some spies and agents of Napoleon among them; but
  this was told chiefly to introduce Rostopchín&rsquo;s witty remark on that
  occasion. The foreigners were deported to Nízhni by boat, and Rostopchín
  had said to them in French:  * There was talk of all
  the government offices having been already removed from Moscow, and to this
  Shinshín&rsquo;s witticism was added&mdash;that for that alone Moscow ought to
  be grateful to Napoleon. It was said that Mamónov&rsquo;s regiment would cost
  him eight hundred thousand rubles, and that Bezúkhov had spent even more
  on his, but that the best thing about Bezúkhov&rsquo;s action was that he
  himself was going to don a uniform and ride at the head of his regiment
  without charging anything for the show.
<br />
 * &ldquo;Think it over; get into the barque, and take care not to
 make it a barque of Charon.&rdquo;

“You don’t spare anyone,” said Julie Drubetskáya as she collected and pressed together a bunch of raveled lint with her thin, beringed fingers.
Julie was preparing to leave Moscow next day and was giving a farewell soiree.
“, but he is so kind and good-natured. What pleasure is there to be so ”
“A forfeit!” cried a young man in militia uniform whom Julie called and who was going with her to Nízhni.
In Julie’s set, as in many other circles in Moscow, it had been agreed that they would speak nothing but Russian and that those who made a slip and spoke French should pay fines to the Committee of Voluntary Contributions.
“Another forfeit for a Gallicism,” said a Russian writer who was present. “‘What pleasure is there to be’ is not Russian!”
“You spare no one,” continued Julie to the young man without heeding the author’s remark.
“For —I am guilty and will pay, and I am prepared to pay again for the pleasure of telling you the truth. For Gallicisms I won’t be responsible,” she remarked, turning to the author: “I have neither the money nor the time, like Prince Galítsyn, to engage a master to teach me Russian!”
“Ah, here he is!” she added. “… No, no,” she said to the militia officer, “you won’t catch me. Speak of the sun and you see its rays!” and she smiled amiably at Pierre. “We were just talking of you,” she said with the facility in lying natural to a society woman. “We were saying that your regiment would be sure to be better than Mamónov’s.”
“Oh, don’t talk to me of my regiment,” replied Pierre, kissing his hostess’ hand and taking a seat beside her. “I am so sick of it.”
“You will, of course, command it yourself?” said Julie, directing a sly, sarcastic glance toward the militia officer.
The latter in Pierre’s presence had ceased to be caustic, and his face expressed perplexity as to what Julie’s smile might mean. In spite of his absent-mindedness and good nature, Pierre’s personality immediately checked any attempt to ridicule him to his face.
“No,” said Pierre, with a laughing glance at his big, stout body. “I should make too good a target for the French, besides I am afraid I should hardly be able to climb onto a horse.”
Among those whom Julie’s guests happened to choose to gossip about were the Rostóvs.
“I hear that their affairs are in a very bad way,” said Julie. “And he is so unreasonable, the count himself I mean. The Razumóvskis wanted to buy his house and his estate near Moscow, but it drags on and on. He asks too much.”
“No, I think the sale will come off in a few days,” said someone. “Though it is madness to buy anything in Moscow now.”
“Why?” asked Julie. “You don’t think Moscow is in danger?”
“Then why are you leaving?”
“I? What a question! I am going because… well, because everyone is going: and besides—I am not Joan of Arc or an Amazon.”
“Well, of course, of course! Let me have some more strips of linen.”
“If he manages the business properly he will be able to pay off all his debts,” said the militia officer, speaking of Rostóv.
“A kindly old man but not up to much. And why do they stay on so long in Moscow? They meant to leave for the country long ago. Natalie is quite well again now, isn’t she?” Julie asked Pierre with a knowing smile.
“They are waiting for their younger son,” Pierre replied. “He joined Obolénski’s Cossacks and went to Bélaya Tsérkov where the regiment is being formed. But now they have had him transferred to my regiment and are expecting him every day. The count wanted to leave long ago, but the countess won’t on any account leave Moscow till her son returns.”
“I met them the day before yesterday at the Arkhárovs’. Natalie has recovered her looks and is brighter. She sang a song. How easily some people get over everything!”
“Get over what?” inquired Pierre, looking displeased.
Julie smiled.
“You know, Count, such knights as you are only found in Madame de Souza’s novels.”
“What knights? What do you mean?” demanded Pierre, blushing.
“Oh, come, my dear count! *

* &ldquo;It is the talk of all Moscow. My word, I admire you!&rdquo;

“Forfeit, forfeit!” cried the militia officer.
“All right, one can’t talk—how tiresome!”
“What is ‘the talk of all Moscow’?” Pierre asked angrily, rising to his feet.
“Come now, Count, you know!”
“I don’t know anything about it,” said Pierre.
“I know you were friendly with Natalie, and so… but I was always more friendly with Véra—that dear Véra.”
“No, madame!” Pierre continued in a tone of displeasure, “I have not taken on myself the role of Natalie Rostóva’s knight at all, and have not been to their house for nearly a month. But I cannot understand the cruelty…”

   * said Julie, smiling and waving the lint
  triumphantly, and to have the last word she promptly changed the subject.
  &ldquo;Do you know what I heard today? Poor Mary Bolkónskaya arrived in Moscow
  yesterday. Do you know that she has lost her father?&rdquo;
 <br />
* &ldquo;Who excuses himself, accuses himself.&rdquo;

“Really? Where is she? I should like very much to see her,” said Pierre.
“I spent the evening with her yesterday. She is going to their estate near Moscow either today or tomorrow morning, with her nephew.”
“Well, and how is she?” asked Pierre.
“She is well, but sad. But do you know who rescued her? It is quite a romance. Nicholas Rostóv! She was surrounded, and they wanted to kill her and had wounded some of her people. He rushed in and saved her….”
“Another romance,” said the militia officer. “Really, this general flight has been arranged to get all the old maids married off. Catiche is one and Princess Bolkónskaya another.”
“Do you know, I really believe she is ” *

* &ldquo;A little bit in love with the young man.&rdquo;

“Forfeit, forfeit, forfeit!”
“But how could one say that in Russian?”

  CHAPTER XVIII


  When Pierre returned home he was handed two of Rostopchín&rsquo;s broadsheets
  that had been brought that day.
<br />
  The first declared that the report that Count Rostopchín had forbidden
  people to leave Moscow was false; on the contrary he was glad that ladies
  and tradesmen&rsquo;s wives were leaving the city. &ldquo;There will be less panic and
  less gossip,&rdquo; ran the broadsheet &ldquo;but I will stake my life on it that
  that scoundrel will not enter Moscow.&rdquo; These words showed Pierre clearly for
  the first time that the French would enter Moscow. The second broadsheet
  stated that our headquarters were at Vyázma, that Count Wittgenstein had
  defeated the French, but that as many of the inhabitants of Moscow wished
  to be armed, weapons were ready for them at the arsenal: sabers, pistols,
  and muskets which could be had at a low price. The tone of the
  proclamation was not as jocose as in the former Chigírin talks. Pierre
  pondered over these broadsheets. Evidently the terrible stormcloud he had
  desired with the whole strength of his soul but which yet aroused
  involuntary horror in him was drawing near.
<br />
  &ldquo;Shall I join the army and enter the service, or wait?&rdquo; he asked himself
  for the hundredth time. He took a pack of cards that lay on the table and
  began to lay them out for a game of patience.
<br />
  &ldquo;If this patience comes out,&rdquo; he said to himself after shuffling the
  cards, holding them in his hand, and lifting his head, &ldquo;if it comes out,
  it means... what does it mean?&rdquo;
 <br />
  He had not decided what it should mean when he heard the voice of the
  eldest princess at the door asking whether she might come in.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then it will mean that I must go to the army,&rdquo; said Pierre to himself.
  &ldquo;Come in, come in!&rdquo; he added to the princess.
<br />
  Only the eldest princess, the one with the stony face and long waist, was
  still living in Pierre&rsquo;s house. The two younger ones had both married.
<br />
  &ldquo;Excuse my coming to you, cousin,&rdquo; she said in a reproachful and agitated
  voice. &ldquo;You know some decision must be come to. What is going to happen?
  Everyone has left Moscow and the people are rioting. How is it that we are
  staying on?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;On the contrary, things seem satisfactory, ,&rdquo; said
  Pierre in the bantering tone he habitually adopted toward her, always feeling
  uncomfortable in the role of her benefactor.
<br />
  &ldquo;Satisfactory, indeed! Very satisfactory! Barbara Ivánovna told me today
  how our troops are distinguishing themselves. It certainly does them
  credit! And the people too are quite mutinous&mdash;they no longer obey,
  even my maid has taken to being rude. At this rate they will soon begin
  beating us. One can&rsquo;t walk in the streets. But, above all, the French will
  be here any day now, so what are we waiting for? I ask just one thing of
  you, cousin,&rdquo; she went on, &ldquo;arrange for me to be taken to Petersburg.
  Whatever I may be, I can&rsquo;t live under Bonaparte&rsquo;s rule.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, come,  Where do you get your information from? On the
  contrary...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t submit to your Napoleon! Others may if they please.... If you
  don&rsquo;t want to do this...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But I will, I&rsquo;ll give the order at once.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The princess was apparently vexed at not having anyone to be angry with.
  Muttering to herself, she sat down on a chair.
<br />
  &ldquo;But you have been misinformed,&rdquo; said Pierre. &ldquo;Everything is quiet in the
  city and there is not the slightest danger. See! I&rsquo;ve just been
  reading...&rdquo; He showed her the broadsheet. &ldquo;Count Rostopchín writes that he
  will stake his life on it that the enemy will not enter Moscow.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, that count of yours!&rdquo; said the princess malevolently. &ldquo;He is a
  hypocrite, a rascal who has himself roused the people to riot. Didn&rsquo;t he
  write in those idiotic broadsheets that anyone, &lsquo;whoever it might be,
  should be dragged to the lockup by his hair&rsquo;? (How silly!) &lsquo;And honor and
  glory to whoever captures him,&rsquo; he says. This is what his cajolery has
  brought us to! Barbara Ivánovna told me the mob near killed her because
  she said something in French.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, but it&rsquo;s so... You take everything so to heart,&rdquo; said Pierre, and
  began laying out his cards for patience.
<br />
  Although that patience did come out, Pierre did not join the army, but
  remained in deserted Moscow ever in the same state of agitation,
  irresolution, and alarm, yet at the same time joyfully expecting something
  terrible.
<br />
  Next day toward evening the princess set off, and Pierre&rsquo;s head steward
  came to inform him that the money needed for the equipment of his regiment
  could not be found without selling one of the estates. In general the head
  steward made out to Pierre that his project of raising a regiment would
  ruin him. Pierre listened to him, scarcely able to repress a smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well then, sell it,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;What&rsquo;s to be done? I can&rsquo;t draw back now!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The worse everything became, especially his own affairs, the better was
  Pierre pleased and the more evident was it that the catastrophe he
  expected was approaching. Hardly anyone he knew was left in town. Julie
  had gone, and so had Princess Mary. Of his intimate friends only the
  Rostóvs remained, but he did not go to see them.
<br />
  To distract his thoughts he drove that day to the village of Vorontsóvo to
  see the great balloon Leppich was constructing to destroy the foe, and a
  trial balloon that was to go up next day. The balloon was not yet ready,
  but Pierre learned that it was being constructed by the Emperor&rsquo;s desire.
  The Emperor had written to Count Rostopchín as follows:
<br />
  As soon as Leppich is ready, get together a crew of reliable and
  intelligent men for his car and send a courier to General Kutúzov to let
  him know. I have informed him of the matter.
<br />
  Please impress upon Leppich to be very careful where he descends for the
  first time, that he may not make a mistake and fall into the enemy&rsquo;s
  hands. It is essential for him to combine his movements with those of the
  commander in chief.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  On his way home from Vorontsóvo, as he was passing the Bolótnoe Place
  Pierre, seeing a large crowd round the Lóbnoe Place, stopped and got out
  of his trap. A French cook accused of being a spy was being flogged. The
  flogging was only just over, and the executioner was releasing from the
  flogging bench a stout man with red whiskers, in blue stockings and a
  green jacket, who was moaning piteously. Another criminal, thin and pale,
  stood near. Judging by their faces they were both Frenchmen. With a
  frightened and suffering look resembling that on the thin Frenchman&rsquo;s
  face, Pierre pushed his way in through the crowd.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is it? Who is it? What is it for?&rdquo; he kept asking.
<br />
  But the attention of the crowd&mdash;officials, burghers, shopkeepers,
  peasants, and women in cloaks and in pelisses&mdash;was so eagerly
  centered on what was passing in Lóbnoe Place that no one answered him. The
  stout man rose, frowned, shrugged his shoulders, and evidently trying to
  appear firm began to pull on his jacket without looking about him, but
  suddenly his lips trembled and he began to cry, in the way full-blooded
  grown-up men cry, though angry with himself for doing so. In the crowd
  people began talking loudly, to stifle their feelings of pity as it seemed
  to Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;s cook to some prince.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Eh, mounseer, Russian sauce seems to be sour to a Frenchman... sets his
  teeth on edge!&rdquo; said a wrinkled clerk who was standing behind Pierre, when
  the Frenchman began to cry.
<br />
  The clerk glanced round, evidently hoping that his joke would be
  appreciated. Some people began to laugh, others continued to watch in
  dismay the executioner who was undressing the other man.
<br />
  Pierre choked, his face puckered, and he turned hastily away, went back to
  his trap muttering something to himself as he went, and took his seat. As
  they drove along he shuddered and exclaimed several times so audibly that
  the coachman asked him:
<br />
  &ldquo;What is your pleasure?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Where are you going?&rdquo; shouted Pierre to the man, who was driving to
  Lubyánka Street.
<br />
  &ldquo;To the Governor&rsquo;s, as you ordered,&rdquo; answered the coachman.
<br />
  &ldquo;Fool! Idiot!&rdquo; shouted Pierre, abusing his coachman&mdash;a thing he
  rarely did. &ldquo;Home, I told you! And drive faster, blockhead!&rdquo; &ldquo;I must get
  away this very day,&rdquo; he murmured to himself.
<br />
  At the sight of the tortured Frenchman and the crowd surrounding the
  Lóbnoe Place, Pierre had so definitely made up his mind that he could no
  longer remain in Moscow and would leave for the army that very day that it
  seemed to him that either he had told the coachman this or that the man
  ought to have known it for himself.
<br />
  On reaching home Pierre gave orders to Evstáfey&mdash;his head coachman
  who knew everything, could do anything, and was known to all Moscow&mdash;that
  he would leave that night for the army at Mozháysk, and that his saddle
  horses should be sent there. This could not all be arranged that day, so
  on Evstáfey&rsquo;s representation Pierre had to put off his departure till next
  day to allow time for the relay horses to be sent on in advance.
<br />
  On the twenty-fourth the weather cleared up after a spell of rain, and
  after dinner Pierre left Moscow. When changing horses that night in
  Perkhúshkovo, he learned that there had been a great battle that evening.
  (This was the battle of Shevárdino.) He was told that there in
  Perkhúshkovo the earth trembled from the firing, but nobody could answer
  his questions as to who had won. At dawn next day Pierre was approaching
  Mozháysk.
<br />
  Every house in Mozháysk had soldiers quartered in it, and at the hostel
  where Pierre was met by his groom and coachman there was no room to be
  had. It was full of officers.
<br />
  Everywhere in Mozháysk and beyond it, troops were stationed or on the
  march. Cossacks, foot and horse soldiers, wagons, caissons, and cannon
  were everywhere. Pierre pushed forward as fast as he could, and the
  farther he left Moscow behind and the deeper he plunged into that sea of
  troops the more was he overcome by restless agitation and a new and joyful
  feeling he had not experienced before. It was a feeling akin to what he
  had felt at the Slobóda Palace during the Emperor&rsquo;s visit&mdash;a sense of
  the necessity of undertaking something and sacrificing something. He now
  experienced a glad consciousness that everything that constitutes men&rsquo;s
  happiness&mdash;the comforts of life, wealth, even life itself&mdash;is
  rubbish it is pleasant to throw away, compared with something... With
  what? Pierre could not say, and he did not try to determine for whom and
  for what he felt such particular delight in sacrificing everything. He was
  not occupied with the question of what to sacrifice for; the fact of
  sacrificing in itself afforded him a new and joyous sensation.

  CHAPTER XIX


  On the twenty-fourth of August the battle of the Shevárdino Redoubt was
  fought, on the twenty-fifth not a shot was fired by either side, and on
  the twenty-sixth the battle of Borodinó itself took place.
<br />
  Why and how were the battles of Shevárdino and Borodinó given and
  accepted? Why was the battle of Borodinó fought? There was not the least
  sense in it for either the French or the Russians. Its immediate result
  for the Russians was, and was bound to be, that we were brought nearer to
  the destruction of Moscow&mdash;which we feared more than anything in the
  world; and for the French its immediate result was that they were brought
  nearer to the destruction of their whole army&mdash;which they feared more
  than anything in the world. What the result must be was quite obvious, and
  yet Napoleon offered and Kutúzov accepted that battle.
<br />
  If the commanders had been guided by reason, it would seem that it must
  have been obvious to Napoleon that by advancing thirteen hundred miles and
  giving battle with a probability of losing a quarter of his army, he was
  advancing to certain destruction, and it must have been equally clear to
  Kutúzov that by accepting battle and risking the loss of a quarter of his
  army he would certainly lose Moscow. For Kutúzov this was mathematically
  clear, as it is that if when playing draughts I have one man less and go
  on exchanging, I shall certainly lose, and therefore should not exchange.
  When my opponent has sixteen men and I have fourteen, I am only one eighth
  weaker than he, but when I have exchanged thirteen more men he will be
  three times as strong as I am.
<br />
  Before the battle of Borodinó our strength in proportion to the French was
  about as five to six, but after that battle it was little more than one to
  two: previously we had a hundred thousand against a hundred and twenty
  thousand; afterwards little more than fifty thousand against a hundred
  thousand. Yet the shrewd and experienced Kutúzov accepted the battle,
  while Napoleon, who was said to be a commander of genius, gave it, losing
  a quarter of his army and lengthening his lines of communication still
  more. If it is said that he expected to end the campaign by occupying
  Moscow as he had ended a previous campaign by occupying Vienna, there is
  much evidence to the contrary. Napoleon&rsquo;s historians themselves tell us
  that from Smolénsk onwards he wished to stop, knew the danger of his
  extended position, and knew that the occupation of Moscow would not be the
  end of the campaign, for he had seen at Smolénsk the state in which
  Russian towns were left to him, and had not received a single reply to his
  repeated announcements of his wish to negotiate.
<br />
  In giving and accepting battle at Borodinó, Kutúzov acted involuntarily
  and irrationally. But later on, to fit what had occurred, the historians
  provided cunningly devised evidence of the foresight and genius of the
  generals who, of all the blind tools of history were the most enslaved and
  involuntary.
<br />
  The ancients have left us model heroic poems in which the heroes furnish
  the whole interest of the story, and we are still unable to accustom
  ourselves to the fact that for our epoch histories of that kind are
  meaningless.
<br />
  On the other question, how the battle of Borodinó and the preceding battle
  of Shevárdino were fought, there also exists a definite and well-known,
  but quite false, conception. All the historians describe the affair as
  follows:
<br />
   they say, 
<br />
   they say, 
<br />
   they say,  we are told,

<br />
  So the histories say, and it is all quite wrong, as anyone who cares to
  look into the matter can easily convince himself.
<br />
  The Russians did not seek out the best position but, on the contrary,
  during the retreat passed many positions better than Borodinó. They did
  not stop at any one of these positions because Kutúzov did not wish to
  occupy a position he had not himself chosen, because the popular demand
  for a battle had not yet expressed itself strongly enough, and because
  Milorádovich had not yet arrived with the militia, and for many other
  reasons. The fact is that other positions they had passed were stronger,
  and that the position at Borodinó (the one where the battle was fought),
  far from being strong, was no more a  than any other spot one
  might find in the Russian Empire by sticking a pin into the map at hazard.
<br />
  Not only did the Russians not fortify the position on the field of
  Borodinó to the left of, and at a right angle to, the highroad (that is,
  the position on which the battle took place), but never till the
  twenty-fifth of August, 1812, did they think that a battle might be fought
  there. This was shown first by the fact that there were no entrenchments
  there by the twenty fifth and that those begun on the twenty-fifth and
  twenty-sixth were not completed, and secondly, by the position of the
  Shevárdino Redoubt. That redoubt was quite senseless in front of the
  position where the battle was accepted. Why was it more strongly fortified
  than any other post? And why were all efforts exhausted and six thousand
  men sacrificed to defend it till late at night on the twenty-fourth? A
  Cossack patrol would have sufficed to observe the enemy. Thirdly, as proof
  that the position on which the battle was fought had not been foreseen and
  that the Shevárdino Redoubt was not an advanced post of that position, we
  have the fact that up to the twenty-fifth, Barclay de Tolly and Bagratión
  were convinced that the Shevárdino Redoubt was the  of the
  position, and that Kutúzov himself in his report, written in hot haste
  after the battle, speaks of the Shevárdino Redoubt as the  of
  the position. It was much later, when reports on the battle of Borodinó
  were written at leisure, that the incorrect and extraordinary statement
  was invented (probably to justify the mistakes of a commander in chief who
  had to be represented as infallible) that the Shevárdino Redoubt was an
   post&mdash;whereas in reality it was simply a fortified point on
  the left flank&mdash;and that the battle of Borodinó was fought by us on
  an entrenched position previously selected, whereas it was fought on a
  quite unexpected spot which was almost unentrenched.
<br />
  The case was evidently this: a position was selected along the river
  Kolochá&mdash;which crosses the highroad not at a right angle but at an
  acute angle&mdash;so that the left flank was at Shevárdino, the right
  flank near the village of Nóvoe, and the center at Borodinó at the
  confluence of the rivers Kolochá and Vóyna.
<br />
  To anyone who looks at the field of Borodinó without thinking of how the
  battle was actually fought, this position, protected by the river Kolochá,
  presents itself as obvious for an army whose object was to prevent an
  enemy from advancing along the Smolénsk road to Moscow.
<br />
  Napoleon, riding to Valúevo on the twenty-fourth, did not see (as the
  history books say he did) the position of the Russians from Utítsa to
  Borodinó (he could not have seen that position because it did not exist),
  nor did he see an advanced post of the Russian army, but while pursuing
  the Russian rearguard he came upon the left flank of the Russian position&mdash;at
  the Shevárdino Redoubt&mdash;and unexpectedly for the Russians moved his
  army across the Kolochá. And the Russians, not having time to begin a
  general engagement, withdrew their left wing from the position they had
  intended to occupy and took up a new position which had not been foreseen
  and was not fortified. By crossing to the other side of the Kolochá to the
  left of the highroad, Napoleon shifted the whole forthcoming battle from
  right to left (looking from the Russian side) and transferred it to the
  plain between Utítsa, Semënovsk, and Borodinó&mdash;a plain no more
  advantageous as a position than any other plain in Russia&mdash;and there
  the whole battle of the twenty-sixth of August took place.
<br />
  Had Napoleon not ridden out on the evening of the twenty-fourth to the
  Kolochá, and had he not then ordered an immediate attack on the redoubt
  but had begun the attack next morning, no one would have doubted that the
  Shevárdino Redoubt was the left flank of our position, and the battle
  would have taken place where we expected it. In that case we should
  probably have defended the Shevárdino Redoubt&mdash;our left flank&mdash;still
  more obstinately. We should have attacked Napoleon in the center or on the
  right, and the engagement would have taken place on the twenty-fifth, in
  the position we intended and had fortified. But as the attack on our left
  flank took place in the evening after the retreat of our rear guard (that
  is, immediately after the fight at Gridnëva), and as the Russian
  commanders did not wish, or were not in time, to begin a general
  engagement then on the evening of the twenty-fourth, the first and chief
  action of the battle of Borodinó was already lost on the twenty-fourth,
  and obviously led to the loss of the one fought on the twenty-sixth.
<br />
  After the loss of the Shevárdino Redoubt, we found ourselves on the
  morning of the twenty-fifth without a position for our left flank, and
  were forced to bend it back and hastily entrench it where it chanced to
  be.
<br />
  Not only was the Russian army on the twenty-sixth defended by weak,
  unfinished entrenchments, but the disadvantage of that position was
  increased by the fact that the Russian commanders&mdash;not having fully
  realized what had happened, namely the loss of our position on the left
  flank and the shifting of the whole field of the forthcoming battle from
  right to left&mdash;maintained their extended position from the village of
  Nóvoe to Utítsa, and consequently had to move their forces from right to
  left during the battle. So it happened that throughout the whole battle
  the Russians opposed the entire French army launched against our left
  flank with but half as many men. (Poniatowski&rsquo;s action against Utítsa, and
  Uvárov&rsquo;s on the right flank against the French, were actions distinct from
  the main course of the battle.) So the battle of Borodinó did not take
  place at all as (in an effort to conceal our commanders&rsquo; mistakes even at
  the cost of diminishing the glory due to the Russian army and people) it
  has been described. The battle of Borodinó was not fought on a chosen and
  entrenched position with forces only slightly weaker than those of the
  enemy, but, as a result of the loss of the Shevárdino Redoubt, the
  Russians fought the battle of Borodinó on an open and almost unentrenched
  position, with forces only half as numerous as the French; that is to say,
  under conditions in which it was not merely unthinkable to fight for ten
  hours and secure an indecisive result, but unthinkable to keep an army
  even from complete disintegration and flight.

  CHAPTER XX


  On the morning of the twenty-fifth Pierre was leaving Mozháysk. At the
  descent of the high steep hill, down which a winding road led out of the
  town past the cathedral on the right, where a service was being held and
  the bells were ringing, Pierre got out of his vehicle and proceeded on
  foot. Behind him a cavalry regiment was coming down the hill preceded by
  its singers. Coming up toward him was a train of carts carrying men who
  had been wounded in the engagement the day before. The peasant drivers,
  shouting and lashing their horses, kept crossing from side to side. The
  carts, in each of which three or four wounded soldiers were lying or
  sitting, jolted over the stones that had been thrown on the steep incline
  to make it something like a road. The wounded, bandaged with rags, with
  pale cheeks, compressed lips, and knitted brows, held on to the sides of
  the carts as they were jolted against one another. Almost all of them
  stared with naïve, childlike curiosity at Pierre&rsquo;s white hat and green
  swallow-tail coat.
<br />
  Pierre&rsquo;s coachman shouted angrily at the convoy of wounded to keep to one
  side of the road. The cavalry regiment, as it descended the hill with its
  singers, surrounded Pierre&rsquo;s carriage and blocked the road. Pierre
  stopped, being pressed against the side of the cutting in which the road
  ran. The sunshine from behind the hill did not penetrate into the cutting
  and there it was cold and damp, but above Pierre&rsquo;s head was the bright
  August sunshine and the bells sounded merrily. One of the carts with
  wounded stopped by the side of the road close to Pierre. The driver in his
  bast shoes ran panting up to it, placed a stone under one of its tireless
  hind wheels, and began arranging the breech-band on his little horse.
<br />
  One of the wounded, an old soldier with a bandaged arm who was following
  the cart on foot, caught hold of it with his sound hand and turned to look
  at Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;I say, fellow countryman! Will they set us down here or take us on to
  Moscow?&rdquo; he asked.
<br />
  Pierre was so deep in thought that he did not hear the question. He was
  looking now at the cavalry regiment that had met the convoy of wounded,
  now at the cart by which he was standing, in which two wounded men were
  sitting and one was lying. One of those sitting up in the cart had
  probably been wounded in the cheek. His whole head was wrapped in rags and
  one cheek was swollen to the size of a baby&rsquo;s head. His nose and mouth
  were twisted to one side. This soldier was looking at the cathedral and
  crossing himself. Another, a young lad, a fair-haired recruit as white as
  though there was no blood in his thin face, looked at Pierre kindly, with
  a fixed smile. The third lay prone so that his face was not visible. The
  cavalry singers were passing close by:
<br />

they sang their soldiers’ dance song.
As if responding to them but with a different sort of merriment, the metallic sound of the bells reverberated high above and the hot rays of the sun bathed the top of the opposite slope with yet another sort of merriment. But beneath the slope, by the cart with the wounded near the panting little nag where Pierre stood, it was damp, somber, and sad.
The soldier with the swollen cheek looked angrily at the cavalry singers.
“Oh, the coxcombs!” he muttered reproachfully.
“It’s not the soldiers only, but I’ve seen peasants today, too…. The peasants—even they have to go,” said the soldier behind the cart, addressing Pierre with a sad smile. “No distinctions made nowadays…. They want the whole nation to fall on them—in a word, it’s Moscow! They want to make an end of it.”
In spite of the obscurity of the soldier’s words Pierre understood what he wanted to say and nodded approval.
The road was clear again; Pierre descended the hill and drove on.
He kept looking to either side of the road for familiar faces, but only saw everywhere the unfamiliar faces of various military men of different branches of the service, who all looked with astonishment at his white hat and green tail coat.
Having gone nearly three miles he at last met an acquaintance and eagerly addressed him. This was one of the head army doctors. He was driving toward Pierre in a covered gig, sitting beside a young surgeon, and on recognizing Pierre he told the Cossack who occupied the driver’s seat to pull up.
“Count! Your excellency, how come you to be here?” asked the doctor.
“Well, you know, I wanted to see…”
“Yes, yes, there will be something to see….”
Pierre got out and talked to the doctor, explaining his intention of taking part in a battle.
The doctor advised him to apply direct to Kutúzov.
“Why should you be God knows where out of sight, during the battle?” he said, exchanging glances with his young companion. “Anyhow his Serene Highness knows you and will receive you graciously. That’s what you must do.”
The doctor seemed tired and in a hurry.
“You think so?… Ah, I also wanted to ask you where our position is exactly?” said Pierre.
“The position?” repeated the doctor. “Well, that’s not my line. Drive past Tatárinova, a lot of digging is going on there. Go up the hillock and you’ll see.”
“Can one see from there?… If you would…”
But the doctor interrupted him and moved toward his gig.
“I would go with you but on my honor I’m up to here”—and he pointed to his throat. “I’m galloping to the commander of the corps. How do matters stand?… You know, Count, there’ll be a battle tomorrow. Out of an army of a hundred thousand we must expect at least twenty thousand wounded, and we haven’t stretchers, or bunks, or dressers, or doctors enough for six thousand. We have ten thousand carts, but we need other things as well—we must manage as best we can!”
The strange thought that of the thousands of men, young and old, who had stared with merry surprise at his hat (perhaps the very men he had noticed), twenty thousand were inevitably doomed to wounds and death amazed Pierre.
“They may die tomorrow; why are they thinking of anything but death?” And by some latent sequence of thought the descent of the Mozháysk hill, the carts with the wounded, the ringing bells, the slanting rays of the sun, and the songs of the cavalrymen vividly recurred to his mind.
“The cavalry ride to battle and meet the wounded and do not for a moment think of what awaits them, but pass by, winking at the wounded. Yet from among these men twenty thousand are doomed to die, and they wonder at my hat! Strange!” thought Pierre, continuing his way to Tatárinova.
In front of a landowner’s house to the left of the road stood carriages, wagons, and crowds of orderlies and sentinels. The commander in chief was putting up there, but just when Pierre arrived he was not in and hardly any of the staff were there—they had gone to the church service. Pierre drove on toward Górki.
When he had ascended the hill and reached the little village street, he saw for the first time peasant militiamen in their white shirts and with crosses on their caps, who, talking and laughing loudly, animated and perspiring, were at work on a huge knoll overgrown with grass to the right of the road.
Some of them were digging, others were wheeling barrowloads of earth along planks, while others stood about doing nothing.
Two officers were standing on the knoll, directing the men. On seeing these peasants, who were evidently still amused by the novelty of their position as soldiers, Pierre once more thought of the wounded men at Mozháysk and understood what the soldier had meant when he said: “They want the whole nation to fall on them.” The sight of these bearded peasants at work on the battlefield, with their queer, clumsy boots and perspiring necks, and their shirts opening from the left toward the middle, unfastened, exposing their sunburned collarbones, impressed Pierre more strongly with the solemnity and importance of the moment than anything he had yet seen or heard.

  CHAPTER XXI


  Pierre stepped out of his carriage and, passing the toiling militiamen,
  ascended the knoll from which, according to the doctor, the battlefield
  could be seen.
<br />
  It was about eleven o&rsquo;clock. The sun shone somewhat to the left and behind
  him and brightly lit up the enormous panorama which, rising like an
  amphitheater, extended before him in the clear rarefied atmosphere.
<br />
  From above on the left, bisecting that amphitheater, wound the Smolénsk
  highroad, passing through a village with a white church some five hundred
  paces in front of the knoll and below it. This was Borodinó. Below the
  village the road crossed the river by a bridge and, winding down and up,
  rose higher and higher to the village of Valúevo visible about four miles
  away, where Napoleon was then stationed. Beyond Valúevo the road
  disappeared into a yellowing forest on the horizon. Far in the distance in
  that birch and fir forest to the right of the road, the cross and belfry
  of the Kolochá Monastery gleamed in the sun. Here and there over the whole
  of that blue expanse, to right and left of the forest and the road,
  smoking campfires could be seen and indefinite masses of troops&mdash;ours
  and the enemy&rsquo;s. The ground to the right&mdash;along the course of the
  Kolochá and Moskvá rivers&mdash;was broken and hilly. Between the hollows
  the villages of Bezúbova and Zakhárino showed in the distance. On the left
  the ground was more level; there were fields of grain, and the smoking
  ruins of Semënovsk, which had been burned down, could be seen.
<br />
  All that Pierre saw was so indefinite that neither the left nor the right
  side of the field fully satisfied his expectations. Nowhere could he see
  the battlefield he had expected to find, but only fields, meadows, troops,
  woods, the smoke of campfires, villages, mounds, and streams; and try as
  he would he could descry no military &ldquo;position&rdquo; in this place which teemed
  with life, nor could he even distinguish our troops from the enemy&rsquo;s.
<br />
  &ldquo;I must ask someone who knows,&rdquo; he thought, and addressed an officer who
  was looking with curiosity at his huge unmilitary figure.
<br />
  &ldquo;May I ask you,&rdquo; said Pierre, &ldquo;what village that is in front?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Búrdino, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo; said the officer, turning to his companion.
<br />
  &ldquo;Borodinó,&rdquo; the other corrected him.
<br />
  The officer, evidently glad of an opportunity for a talk, moved up to
  Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;Are those our men there?&rdquo; Pierre inquired.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, and there, further on, are the French,&rdquo; said the officer. &ldquo;There
  they are, there... you can see them.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Where? Where?&rdquo; asked Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;One can see them with the naked eye... Why, there!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The officer pointed with his hand to the smoke visible on the left beyond
  the river, and the same stern and serious expression that Pierre had
  noticed on many of the faces he had met came into his face.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, those are the French! And over there?...&rdquo; Pierre pointed to a knoll
  on the left, near which some troops could be seen.
<br />
  &ldquo;Those are ours.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah, ours! And there?...&rdquo; Pierre pointed to another knoll in the distance
  with a big tree on it, near a village that lay in a hollow where also some
  campfires were smoking and something black was visible.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s  again,&rdquo; said the officer. (It was the Shevárdino Redoubt.) &ldquo;It
  was ours yesterday, but now it is .&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Then how about our position?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Our position?&rdquo; replied the officer with a smile of satisfaction. &ldquo;I can
  tell you quite clearly, because I constructed nearly all our
  entrenchments. There, you see? There&rsquo;s our center, at Borodinó, just
  there,&rdquo; and he pointed to the village in front of them with the white
  church. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s where one crosses the Kolochá. You see down there where
  the rows of hay are lying in the hollow, there&rsquo;s the bridge. That&rsquo;s our
  center. Our right flank is over there&rdquo;&mdash;he pointed sharply to the
  right, far away in the broken ground&mdash;&ldquo;That&rsquo;s where the Moskvá River
  is, and we have thrown up three redoubts there, very strong ones. The left
  flank...&rdquo; here the officer paused. &ldquo;Well, you see, that&rsquo;s difficult to
  explain.... Yesterday our left flank was there at Shevárdino, you see,
  where the oak is, but now we have withdrawn our left wing&mdash;now it is
  over there, do you see that village and the smoke? That&rsquo;s Semënovsk, yes,
  there,&rdquo; he pointed to Raévski&rsquo;s knoll. &ldquo;But the battle will hardly be
  there.  having moved his troops there is only a ruse;  will probably
  pass round to the right of the Moskvá. But wherever it may be, many a man
  will be missing tomorrow!&rdquo; he remarked.
<br />
  An elderly sergeant who had approached the officer while he was giving
  these explanations had waited in silence for him to finish speaking, but
  at this point, evidently not liking the officer&rsquo;s remark, interrupted him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Gabions must be sent for,&rdquo; said he sternly.
<br />
  The officer appeared abashed, as though he understood that one might think
  of how many men would be missing tomorrow but ought not to speak of it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, send number three company again,&rdquo; the officer replied hurriedly.
<br />
  &ldquo;And you, are you one of the doctors?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, I&rsquo;ve come on my own,&rdquo; answered Pierre, and he went down the hill
  again, passing the militiamen.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, those damned fellows!&rdquo; muttered the officer who followed him, holding
  his nose as he ran past the men at work.
<br />
  &ldquo;There they are... bringing her, coming... There they are... They&rsquo;ll be
  here in a minute...&rdquo; voices were suddenly heard saying; and officers,
  soldiers, and militiamen began running forward along the road.
<br />
  A church procession was coming up the hill from Borodinó. First along the
  dusty road came the infantry in ranks, bareheaded and with arms reversed.
  From behind them came the sound of church singing.
<br />
  Soldiers and militiamen ran bareheaded past Pierre toward the procession.
<br />
  &ldquo;They are bringing her, our Protectress!... The Iberian Mother of God!&rdquo;
   someone cried.
<br />
  &ldquo;The Smolénsk Mother of God,&rdquo; another corrected him.
<br />
  The militiamen, both those who had been in the village and those who had
  been at work on the battery, threw down their spades and ran to meet the
  church procession. Following the battalion that marched along the dusty
  road came priests in their vestments&mdash;one little old man in a hood
  with attendants and singers. Behind them soldiers and officers bore a
  large, dark-faced icon with an embossed metal cover. This was the icon
  that had been brought from Smolénsk and had since accompanied the army.
  Behind, before, and on both sides, crowds of militiamen with bared heads
  walked, ran, and bowed to the ground.
<br />
  At the summit of the hill they stopped with the icon; the men who had been
  holding it up by the linen bands attached to it were relieved by others,
  the chanters relit their censers, and service began. The hot rays of the
  sun beat down vertically and a fresh soft wind played with the hair of the
  bared heads and with the ribbons decorating the icon. The singing did not
  sound loud under the open sky. An immense crowd of bareheaded officers,
  soldiers, and militiamen surrounded the icon. Behind the priest and a
  chanter stood the notabilities on a spot reserved for them. A bald general
  with a St. George&rsquo;s Cross on his neck stood just behind the priest&rsquo;s back,
  and without crossing himself (he was evidently a German) patiently awaited
  the end of the service, which he considered it necessary to hear to the
  end, probably to arouse the patriotism of the Russian people. Another
  general stood in a martial pose, crossing himself by shaking his hand in
  front of his chest while looking about him. Standing among the crowd of
  peasants, Pierre recognized several acquaintances among these notables,
  but did not look at them&mdash;his whole attention was absorbed in
  watching the serious expression on the faces of the crowd of soldiers and
  militiamen who were all gazing eagerly at the icon. As soon as the tired
  chanters, who were singing the service for the twentieth time that day,
  began lazily and mechanically to sing: &ldquo;Save from calamity Thy servants, O
  Mother of God,&rdquo; and the priest and deacon chimed in: &ldquo;For to Thee under
  God we all flee as to an inviolable bulwark and protection,&rdquo; there again
  kindled in all those faces the same expression of consciousness of the
  solemnity of the impending moment that Pierre had seen on the faces at the
  foot of the hill at Mozháysk and momentarily on many and many faces he had
  met that morning; and heads were bowed more frequently and hair tossed
  back, and sighs and the sound men made as they crossed themselves were
  heard.
<br />
  The crowd round the icon suddenly parted and pressed against Pierre.
  Someone, a very important personage judging by the haste with which way
  was made for him, was approaching the icon.
<br />
  It was Kutúzov, who had been riding round the position and on his way back
  to Tatárinova had stopped where the service was being held. Pierre
  recognized him at once by his peculiar figure, which distinguished him
  from everybody else.
<br />
  With a long overcoat on his exceedingly stout, round-shouldered body, with
  uncovered white head and puffy face showing the white ball of the eye he
  had lost, Kutúzov walked with plunging, swaying gait into the crowd and
  stopped behind the priest. He crossed himself with an accustomed movement,
  bent till he touched the ground with his hand, and bowed his white head
  with a deep sigh. Behind Kutúzov was Bennigsen and the suite. Despite the
  presence of the commander in chief, who attracted the attention of all the
  superior officers, the militiamen and soldiers continued their prayers
  without looking at him.
<br />
  When the service was over, Kutúzov stepped up to the icon, sank heavily to
  his knees, bowed to the ground, and for a long time tried vainly to rise,
  but could not do so on account of his weakness and weight. His white head
  twitched with the effort. At last he rose, kissed the icon as a child does
  with naïvely pouting lips, and again bowed till he touched the ground with
  his hand. The other generals followed his example, then the officers, and
  after them with excited faces, pressing on one another, crowding, panting,
  and pushing, scrambled the soldiers and militiamen.

  CHAPTER XXII


  Staggering amid the crush, Pierre looked about him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Count Peter Kirílovich! How did you get here?&rdquo; said a voice.
<br />
  Pierre looked round. Borís Drubetskóy, brushing his knees with his hand
  (he had probably soiled them when he, too, had knelt before the icon),
  came up to him smiling. Borís was elegantly dressed, with a slightly
  martial touch appropriate to a campaign. He wore a long coat and like
  Kutúzov had a whip slung across his shoulder.
<br />
  Meanwhile Kutúzov had reached the village and seated himself in the shade
  of the nearest house, on a bench which one Cossack had run to fetch and
  another had hastily covered with a rug. An immense and brilliant suite
  surrounded him.
<br />
  The icon was carried further, accompanied by the throng. Pierre stopped
  some thirty paces from Kutúzov, talking to Borís.
<br />
  He explained his wish to be present at the battle and to see the position.
<br />
  &ldquo;This is what you must do,&rdquo; said Borís. &ldquo;I will do the honors of the camp
  to you. You will see everything best from where Count Bennigsen will be. I
  am in attendance on him, you know; I&rsquo;ll mention it to him. But if you want
  to ride round the position, come along with us. We are just going to the
  left flank. Then when we get back, do spend the night with me and we&rsquo;ll
  arrange a game of cards. Of course you know Dmítri Sergéevich? Those are
  his quarters,&rdquo; and he pointed to the third house in the village of Górki.
<br />
  &ldquo;But I should like to see the right flank. They say it&rsquo;s very strong,&rdquo;
   said Pierre. &ldquo;I should like to start from the Moskvá River and ride round
  the whole position.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, you can do that later, but the chief thing is the left flank.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes. But where is Prince Bolkónski&rsquo;s regiment? Can you point it out
  to me?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Prince Andrew&rsquo;s? We shall pass it and I&rsquo;ll take you to him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What about the left flank?&rdquo; asked Pierre
<br />
  &ldquo;To tell you the truth, between ourselves, God only knows what state our
  left flank is in,&rdquo; said Borís confidentially lowering his voice. &ldquo;It is
  not at all what Count Bennigsen intended. He meant to fortify that knoll
  quite differently, but...&rdquo; Borís shrugged his shoulders, &ldquo;his Serene
  Highness would not have it, or someone persuaded him. You see...&rdquo; but
  Borís did not finish, for at that moment Kaysárov, Kutúzov&rsquo;s adjutant,
  came up to Pierre. &ldquo;Ah, Kaysárov!&rdquo; said Borís, addressing him with an
  unembarrassed smile, &ldquo;I was just trying to explain our position to the
  count. It is amazing how his Serene Highness could so foresee the
  intentions of the French!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You mean the left flank?&rdquo; asked Kaysárov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, exactly; the left flank is now extremely strong.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Though Kutúzov had dismissed all unnecessary men from the staff, Borís had
  contrived to remain at headquarters after the changes. He had established
  himself with Count Bennigsen, who, like all on whom Borís had been in
  attendance, considered young Prince Drubetskóy an invaluable man.
<br />
  In the higher command there were two sharply defined parties: Kutúzov&rsquo;s
  party and that of Bennigsen, the chief of staff. Borís belonged to the
  latter and no one else, while showing servile respect to Kutúzov, could so
  create an impression that the old fellow was not much good and that
  Bennigsen managed everything. Now the decisive moment of battle had come
  when Kutúzov would be destroyed and the power pass to Bennigsen, or even
  if Kutúzov won the battle it would be felt that everything was done by
  Bennigsen. In any case many great rewards would have to be given for
  tomorrow&rsquo;s action, and new men would come to the front. So Borís was full
  of nervous vivacity all day.
<br />
  After Kaysárov, others whom Pierre knew came up to him, and he had not
  time to reply to all the questions about Moscow that were showered upon
  him, or to listen to all that was told him. The faces all expressed
  animation and apprehension, but it seemed to Pierre that the cause of the
  excitement shown in some of these faces lay chiefly in questions of
  personal success; his mind, however, was occupied by the different
  expression he saw on other faces&mdash;an expression that spoke not of
  personal matters but of the universal questions of life and death. Kutúzov
  noticed Pierre&rsquo;s figure and the group gathered round him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Call him to me,&rdquo; said Kutúzov.
<br />
  An adjutant told Pierre of his Serene Highness&rsquo; wish, and Pierre went
  toward Kutúzov&rsquo;s bench. But a militiaman got there before him. It was
  Dólokhov.
<br />
  &ldquo;How did that fellow get here?&rdquo; asked Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a creature that wriggles in anywhere!&rdquo; was the answer. &ldquo;He has been
  degraded, you know. Now he wants to bob up again. He&rsquo;s been proposing some
  scheme or other and has crawled into the enemy&rsquo;s picket line at night....
  He&rsquo;s a brave fellow.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre took off his hat and bowed respectfully to Kutúzov.
<br />
  &ldquo;I concluded that if I reported to your Serene Highness you might send me
  away or say that you knew what I was reporting, but then I shouldn&rsquo;t lose
  anything...&rdquo; Dólokhov was saying.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But if I were right, I should be rendering a service to my Fatherland for
  which I am ready to die.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And should your Serene Highness require a man who will not spare his
  skin, please think of me.... Perhaps I may prove useful to your Serene
  Highness.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes... Yes...&rdquo; Kutúzov repeated, his laughing eye narrowing more and more
  as he looked at Pierre.
<br />
  Just then Borís, with his courtierlike adroitness, stepped up to Pierre&rsquo;s
  side near Kutúzov and in a most natural manner, without raising his voice,
  said to Pierre, as though continuing an interrupted conversation:
<br />
  &ldquo;The militia have put on clean white shirts to be ready to die. What
  heroism, Count!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Borís evidently said this to Pierre in order to be overheard by his Serene
  Highness. He knew Kutúzov&rsquo;s attention would be caught by those words, and
  so it was.
<br />
  &ldquo;What are you saying about the militia?&rdquo; he asked Borís.
<br />
  &ldquo;Preparing for tomorrow, your Serene Highness&mdash;for death&mdash;they
  have put on clean shirts.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah... a wonderful, a matchless people!&rdquo; said Kutúzov; and he closed his
  eyes and swayed his head. &ldquo;A matchless people!&rdquo; he repeated with a sigh.
<br />
  &ldquo;So you want to smell gunpowder?&rdquo; he said to Pierre. &ldquo;Yes, it&rsquo;s a pleasant
  smell. I have the honor to be one of your wife&rsquo;s adorers. Is she well? My
  quarters are at your service.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And as often happens with old people, Kutúzov began looking about
  absent-mindedly as if forgetting all he wanted to say or do.
<br />
  Then, evidently remembering what he wanted, he beckoned to Andrew
  Kaysárov, his adjutant&rsquo;s brother.
<br />
  &ldquo;Those verses... those verses of Márin&rsquo;s... how do they go, eh? Those he
  wrote about Gerákov: &lsquo;Lectures for the corps inditing&rsquo;... Recite them,
  recite them!&rdquo; said he, evidently preparing to laugh.
<br />
  Kaysárov recited.... Kutúzov smilingly nodded his head to the rhythm of
  the verses.
<br />
  When Pierre had left Kutúzov, Dólokhov came up to him and took his hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am very glad to meet you here, Count,&rdquo; he said aloud, regardless of the
  presence of strangers and in a particularly resolute and solemn tone. &ldquo;On
  the eve of a day when God alone knows who of us is fated to survive, I am
  glad of this opportunity to tell you that I regret the misunderstandings
  that occurred between us and should wish you not to have any ill feeling
  for me. I beg you to forgive me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre looked at Dólokhov with a smile, not knowing what to say to him.
  With tears in his eyes Dólokhov embraced Pierre and kissed him.
<br />
  Borís said a few words to his general, and Count Bennigsen turned to
  Pierre and proposed that he should ride with him along the line.
<br />
  &ldquo;It will interest you,&rdquo; said he.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, very much,&rdquo; replied Pierre.
<br />
  Half an hour later Kutúzov left for Tatárinova, and Bennigsen and his
  suite, with Pierre among them, set out on their ride along the line.

  CHAPTER XXIII


  From Górki, Bennigsen descended the highroad to the bridge which, when
  they had looked at it from the hill, the officer had pointed out as being
  the center of our position and where rows of fragrant new-mown hay lay by
  the riverside. They rode across that bridge into the village of Borodinó
  and thence turned to the left, passing an enormous number of troops and
  guns, and came to a high knoll where militiamen were digging. This was the
  redoubt, as yet unnamed, which afterwards became known as the Raévski
  Redoubt, or the Knoll Battery, but Pierre paid no special attention to it.
  He did not know that it would become more memorable to him than any other
  spot on the plain of Borodinó.
<br />
  They then crossed the hollow to Semënovsk, where the soldiers were
  dragging away the last logs from the huts and barns. Then they rode
  downhill and uphill, across a ryefield trodden and beaten down as if by
  hail, following a track freshly made by the artillery over the furrows of
  the plowed land, and reached some  * which were still being dug.
<br />
* A kind of entrenchment.

At the Bennigsen stopped and began looking at the Shevárdino Redoubt opposite, which had been ours the day before and where several horsemen could be descried. The officers said that either Napoleon or Murat was there, and they all gazed eagerly at this little group of horsemen. Pierre also looked at them, trying to guess which of the scarcely discernible figures was Napoleon. At last those mounted men rode away from the mound and disappeared.
Bennigsen spoke to a general who approached him, and began explaining the whole position of our troops. Pierre listened to him, straining each faculty to understand the essential points of the impending battle, but was mortified to feel that his mental capacity was inadequate for the task. He could make nothing of it. Bennigsen stopped speaking and, noticing that Pierre was listening, suddenly said to him:
“I don’t think this interests you?”
“On the contrary it’s very interesting!” replied Pierre not quite truthfully.
From the they rode still farther to the left, along a road winding through a thick, low-growing birch wood. In the middle of the wood a brown hare with white feet sprang out and, scared by the tramp of the many horses, grew so confused that it leaped along the road in front of them for some time, arousing general attention and laughter, and only when several voices shouted at it did it dart to one side and disappear in the thicket. After going through the wood for about a mile and a half they came out on a glade where troops of Túchkov’s corps were stationed to defend the left flank.
Here, at the extreme left flank, Bennigsen talked a great deal and with much heat, and, as it seemed to Pierre, gave orders of great military importance. In front of Túchkov’s troops was some high ground not occupied by troops. Bennigsen loudly criticized this mistake, saying that it was madness to leave a height which commanded the country around unoccupied and to place troops below it. Some of the generals expressed the same opinion. One in particular declared with martial heat that they were put there to be slaughtered. Bennigsen on his own authority ordered the troops to occupy the high ground. This disposition on the left flank increased Pierre’s doubt of his own capacity to understand military matters. Listening to Bennigsen and the generals criticizing the position of the troops behind the hill, he quite understood them and shared their opinion, but for that very reason he could not understand how the man who put them there behind the hill could have made so gross and palpable a blunder.
Pierre did not know that these troops were not, as Bennigsen supposed, put there to defend the position, but were in a concealed position as an ambush, that they should not be seen and might be able to strike an approaching enemy unexpectedly. Bennigsen did not know this and moved the troops forward according to his own ideas without mentioning the matter to the commander in chief.

  CHAPTER XXIV


  On that bright evening of August 25, Prince Andrew lay leaning on his
  elbow in a broken-down shed in the village of Knyazkóvo at the further end
  of his regiment&rsquo;s encampment. Through a gap in the broken wall he could
  see, beside the wooden fence, a row of thirty-year-old birches with their
  lower branches lopped off, a field on which shocks of oats were standing,
  and some bushes near which rose the smoke of campfires&mdash;the soldiers&rsquo;
  kitchens.
<br />
  Narrow and burdensome and useless to anyone as his life now seemed to him,
  Prince Andrew on the eve of battle felt agitated and irritable as he had
  done seven years before at Austerlitz.
<br />
  He had received and given the orders for next day&rsquo;s battle and had nothing
  more to do. But his thoughts&mdash;the simplest, clearest, and therefore
  most terrible thoughts&mdash;would give him no peace. He knew that
  tomorrow&rsquo;s battle would be the most terrible of all he had taken part in,
  and for the first time in his life the possibility of death presented
  itself to him&mdash;not in relation to any worldly matter or with
  reference to its effect on others, but simply in relation to himself, to
  his own soul&mdash;vividly, plainly, terribly, and almost as a certainty.
  And from the height of this perception all that had previously tormented
  and preoccupied him suddenly became illumined by a cold white light
  without shadows, without perspective, without distinction of outline. All
  life appeared to him like magic-lantern pictures at which he had long been
  gazing by artificial light through a glass. Now he suddenly saw those
  badly daubed pictures in clear daylight and without a glass. &ldquo;Yes, yes!
  There they are, those false images that agitated, enraptured, and
  tormented me,&rdquo; said he to himself, passing in review the principal
  pictures of the magic lantern of life and regarding them now in the cold
  white daylight of his clear perception of death. &ldquo;There they are, those
  rudely painted figures that once seemed splendid and mysterious. Glory,
  the good of society, love of a woman, the Fatherland itself&mdash;how
  important these pictures appeared to me, with what profound meaning they
  seemed to be filled! And it is all so simple, pale, and crude in the cold
  white light of this morning which I feel is dawning for me.&rdquo; The three
  great sorrows of his life held his attention in particular: his love for a
  woman, his father&rsquo;s death, and the French invasion which had overrun half
  Russia. &ldquo;Love... that little girl who seemed to me brimming over with
  mystic forces! Yes, indeed, I loved her. I made romantic plans of love and
  happiness with her! Oh, what a boy I was!&rdquo; he said aloud bitterly. &ldquo;Ah me!
  I believed in some ideal love which was to keep her faithful to me for the
  whole year of my absence! Like the gentle dove in the fable she was to
  pine apart from me.... But it was much simpler really.... It was all very
  simple and horrible.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;When my father built Bald Hills he thought the place was his: his land,
  his air, his peasants. But Napoleon came and swept him aside, unconscious
  of his existence, as he might brush a chip from his path, and his Bald
  Hills and his whole life fell to pieces. Princess Mary says it is a trial
  sent from above. What is the trial for, when he is not here and will never
  return? He is not here! For whom then is the trial intended? The
  Fatherland, the destruction of Moscow! And tomorrow I shall be killed,
  perhaps not even by a Frenchman but by one of our own men, by a soldier
  discharging a musket close to my ear as one of them did yesterday, and the
  French will come and take me by head and heels and fling me into a hole
  that I may not stink under their noses, and new conditions of life will
  arise, which will seem quite ordinary to others and about which I shall
  know nothing. I shall not exist....&rdquo;
 <br />
  He looked at the row of birches shining in the sunshine, with their
  motionless green and yellow foliage and white bark. &ldquo;To die... to be
  killed tomorrow... That I should not exist... That all this should still
  be, but no me....&rdquo;
 <br />
  And the birches with their light and shade, the curly clouds, the smoke of
  the campfires, and all that was around him changed and seemed terrible and
  menacing. A cold shiver ran down his spine. He rose quickly, went out of
  the shed, and began to walk about.
<br />
  After he had returned, voices were heard outside the shed. &ldquo;Who&rsquo;s that?&rdquo;
   he cried.
<br />
  The red-nosed Captain Timókhin, formerly Dólokhov&rsquo;s squadron commander,
  but now from lack of officers a battalion commander, shyly entered the
  shed followed by an adjutant and the regimental paymaster.
<br />
  Prince Andrew rose hastily, listened to the business they had come about,
  gave them some further instructions, and was about to dismiss them when he
  heard a familiar, lisping, voice behind the shed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Devil take it!&rdquo; said the voice of a man stumbling over something.
<br />
  Prince Andrew looked out of the shed and saw Pierre, who had tripped over
  a pole on the ground and had nearly fallen, coming his way. It was
  unpleasant to Prince Andrew to meet people of his own set in general, and
  Pierre especially, for he reminded him of all the painful moments of his
  last visit to Moscow.
<br />
  &ldquo;You? What a surprise!&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;What brings you here? This is
  unexpected!&rdquo;
 <br />
  As he said this his eyes and face expressed more than coldness&mdash;they
  expressed hostility, which Pierre noticed at once. He had approached the
  shed full of animation, but on seeing Prince Andrew&rsquo;s face he felt
  constrained and ill at ease.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have come... simply... you know... come... it interests me,&rdquo; said
  Pierre, who had so often that day senselessly repeated that word
  &ldquo;interesting.&rdquo; &ldquo;I wish to see the battle.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh yes, and what do the Masonic brothers say about war? How would they
  stop it?&rdquo; said Prince Andrew sarcastically. &ldquo;Well, and how&rsquo;s Moscow? And
  my people? Have they reached Moscow at last?&rdquo; he asked seriously.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, they have. Julie Drubetskáya told me so. I went to see them, but
  missed them. They have gone to your estate near Moscow.&rdquo;

  CHAPTER XXV


  The officers were about to take leave, but Prince Andrew, apparently
  reluctant to be left alone with his friend, asked them to stay and have
  tea. Seats were brought in and so was the tea. The officers gazed with
  surprise at Pierre&rsquo;s huge stout figure and listened to his talk of Moscow
  and the position of our army, round which he had ridden. Prince Andrew
  remained silent, and his expression was so forbidding that Pierre
  addressed his remarks chiefly to the good-natured battalion commander.
<br />
  &ldquo;So you understand the whole position of our troops?&rdquo; Prince Andrew
  interrupted him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes&mdash;that is, how do you mean?&rdquo; said Pierre. &ldquo;Not being a military
  man I can&rsquo;t say I have understood it fully, but I understand the general
  position.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, then, you know more than anyone else, be it who it may,&rdquo; said
  Prince Andrew.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; said Pierre, looking over his spectacles in perplexity at Prince
  Andrew. &ldquo;Well, and what do you think of Kutúzov&rsquo;s appointment?&rdquo; he asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;I was very glad of his appointment, that&rsquo;s all I know,&rdquo; replied Prince
  Andrew.
<br />
  &ldquo;And tell me your opinion of Barclay de Tolly. In Moscow they are saying
  heaven knows what about him.... What do you think of him?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ask them,&rdquo; replied Prince Andrew, indicating the officers.
<br />
  Pierre looked at Timókhin with the condescendingly interrogative smile
  with which everybody involuntarily addressed that officer.
<br />
  &ldquo;We see light again, since his Serenity has been appointed, your
  excellency,&rdquo; said Timókhin timidly, and continually turning to glance at
  his colonel.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why so?&rdquo; asked Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, to mention only firewood and fodder, let me inform you. Why, when
  we were retreating from Sventsyáni we dare not touch a stick or a wisp of
  hay or anything. You see, we were going away, so  would get it all;
  wasn&rsquo;t it so, your excellency?&rdquo; and again Timókhin turned to the prince.
  &ldquo;But we daren&rsquo;t. In our regiment two officers were court-martialed for
  that kind of thing. But when his Serenity took command everything became
  straightforward. Now we see light....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Then why was it forbidden?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Timókhin looked about in confusion, not knowing what or how to answer such
  a question. Pierre put the same question to Prince Andrew.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, so as not to lay waste the country we were abandoning to the enemy,&rdquo;
   said Prince Andrew with venomous irony. &ldquo;It is very sound: one can&rsquo;t
  permit the land to be pillaged and accustom the troops to marauding. At
  Smolénsk too he judged correctly that the French might outflank us, as
  they had larger forces. But he could not understand this,&rdquo; cried Prince
  Andrew in a shrill voice that seemed to escape him involuntarily: &ldquo;he
  could not understand that there, for the first time, we were fighting for
  Russian soil, and that there was a spirit in the men such as I had never
  seen before, that we had held the French for two days, and that that
  success had increased our strength tenfold. He ordered us to retreat, and
  all our efforts and losses went for nothing. He had no thought of
  betraying us, he tried to do the best he could, he thought out everything,
  and that is why he is unsuitable. He is unsuitable now, just because he
  plans out everything very thoroughly and accurately as every German has
  to. How can I explain?... Well, say your father has a German valet, and he
  is a splendid valet and satisfies your father&rsquo;s requirements better than
  you could, then it&rsquo;s all right to let him serve. But if your father is
  mortally sick you&rsquo;ll send the valet away and attend to your father with
  your own unpracticed, awkward hands, and will soothe him better than a
  skilled man who is a stranger could. So it has been with Barclay. While
  Russia was well, a foreigner could serve her and be a splendid minister;
  but as soon as she is in danger she needs one of her own kin. But in your
  Club they have been making him out a traitor! They slander him as a
  traitor, and the only result will be that afterwards, ashamed of their
  false accusations, they will make him out a hero or a genius instead of a
  traitor, and that will be still more unjust. He is an honest and very
  punctilious German.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And they say he&rsquo;s a skillful commander,&rdquo; rejoined Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand what is meant by &lsquo;a skillful commander,&rsquo;&rdquo; replied
  Prince Andrew ironically.
<br />
  &ldquo;A skillful commander?&rdquo; replied Pierre. &ldquo;Why, one who foresees all
  contingencies... and foresees the adversary&rsquo;s intentions.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But that&rsquo;s impossible,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew as if it were a matter settled
  long ago.
<br />
  Pierre looked at him in surprise.
<br />
  &ldquo;And yet they say that war is like a game of chess?&rdquo; he remarked.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Prince Andrew, &ldquo;but with this little difference, that in
  chess you may think over each move as long as you please and are not
  limited for time, and with this difference too, that a knight is always
  stronger than a pawn, and two pawns are always stronger than one, while in
  war a battalion is sometimes stronger than a division and sometimes weaker
  than a company. The relative strength of bodies of troops can never be
  known to anyone. Believe me,&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;if things depended on
  arrangements made by the staff, I should be there making arrangements, but
  instead of that I have the honor to serve here in the regiment with these
  gentlemen, and I consider that on us tomorrow&rsquo;s battle will depend and not
  on those others.... Success never depends, and never will depend, on
  position, or equipment, or even on numbers, and least of all on position.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But on what then?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;On the feeling that is in me and in him,&rdquo; he pointed to Timókhin, &ldquo;and in
  each soldier.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Andrew glanced at Timókhin, who looked at his commander in alarm
  and bewilderment. In contrast to his former reticent taciturnity Prince
  Andrew now seemed excited. He could apparently not refrain from expressing
  the thoughts that had suddenly occurred to him.
<br />
  &ldquo;A battle is won by those who firmly resolve to win it! Why did we lose
  the battle at Austerlitz? The French losses were almost equal to ours, but
  very early we said to ourselves that we were losing the battle, and we did
  lose it. And we said so because we had nothing to fight for there, we
  wanted to get away from the battlefield as soon as we could. &lsquo;We&rsquo;ve lost,
  so let us run,&rsquo; and we ran. If we had not said that till the evening,
  heaven knows what might not have happened. But tomorrow we shan&rsquo;t say it!
  You talk about our position, the left flank weak and the right flank too
  extended,&rdquo; he went on. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all nonsense, there&rsquo;s nothing of the kind.
  But what awaits us tomorrow? A hundred million most diverse chances which
  will be decided on the instant by the fact that our men or theirs run or
  do not run, and that this man or that man is killed, but all that is being
  done at present is only play. The fact is that those men with whom you
  have ridden round the position not only do not help matters, but hinder.
  They are only concerned with their own petty interests.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;At such a moment?&rdquo; said Pierre reproachfully.
<br />
   Prince Andrew repeated. &ldquo;To them it is only a moment
  affording opportunities to undermine a rival and obtain an extra cross or
  ribbon. For me tomorrow means this: a Russian army of a hundred thousand
  and a French army of a hundred thousand have met to fight, and the thing
  is that these two hundred thousand men  fight and the side that fights
  more fiercely and spares itself least will win. And if you like I will
  tell you that whatever happens and whatever muddles those at the top may
  make, we shall win tomorrow&rsquo;s battle. Tomorrow, happen what may, we shall
  win!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;There now, your excellency! That&rsquo;s the truth, the real truth,&rdquo; said
  Timókhin. &ldquo;Who would spare himself now? The soldiers in my battalion,
  believe me, wouldn&rsquo;t drink their vodka! &lsquo;It&rsquo;s not the day for that!&rsquo; they
  say.&rdquo;
 <br />
  All were silent. The officers rose. Prince Andrew went out of the shed
  with them, giving final orders to the adjutant. After they had gone Pierre
  approached Prince Andrew and was about to start a conversation when they
  heard the clatter of three horses&rsquo; hoofs on the road not far from the
  shed, and looking in that direction Prince Andrew recognized Wolzogen and
  Clausewitz accompanied by a Cossack. They rode close by continuing to
  converse, and Prince Andrew involuntarily heard these words:
<br />
   * said one of them.
<br />
 * &ldquo;The war must be extended widely. I cannot sufficiently
 commend that view.&rdquo;

said the other, *

 * &ldquo;Oh, yes, the only aim is to weaken the enemy, so of
 course one cannot take into account the loss of private
 individuals.&rdquo;

“Oh, no,” agreed the other.
“Extend widely!” said Prince Andrew with an angry snort, when they had ridden past. “In that ‘extend’ were my father, son, and sister, at Bald Hills. That’s all the same to him! That’s what I was saying to you—those German gentlemen won’t win the battle tomorrow but will only make all the mess they can, because they have nothing in their German heads but theories not worth an empty eggshell and haven’t in their hearts the one thing needed tomorrow—that which Timókhin has. They have yielded up all Europe to , and have now come to teach us. Fine teachers!” and again his voice grew shrill.
“So you think we shall win tomorrow’s battle?” asked Pierre.
“Yes, yes,” answered Prince Andrew absently. “One thing I would do if I had the power,” he began again, “I would not take prisoners. Why take prisoners? It’s chivalry! The French have destroyed my home and are on their way to destroy Moscow, they have outraged and are outraging me every moment. They are my enemies. In my opinion they are all criminals. And so thinks Timókhin and the whole army. They should be executed! Since they are my foes they cannot be my friends, whatever may have been said at Tilsit.”
“Yes, yes,” muttered Pierre, looking with shining eyes at Prince Andrew. “I quite agree with you!”
The question that had perturbed Pierre on the Mozháysk hill and all that day now seemed to him quite clear and completely solved. He now understood the whole meaning and importance of this war and of the impending battle. All he had seen that day, all the significant and stern expressions on the faces he had seen in passing, were lit up for him by a new light. He understood that latent heat (as they say in physics) of patriotism which was present in all these men he had seen, and this explained to him why they all prepared for death calmly, and as it were lightheartedly.
“Not take prisoners,” Prince Andrew continued: “That by itself would quite change the whole war and make it less cruel. As it is we have played at war—that’s what’s vile! We play at magnanimity and all that stuff. Such magnanimity and sensibility are like the magnanimity and sensibility of a lady who faints when she sees a calf being killed: she is so kindhearted that she can’t look at blood, but enjoys eating the calf served up with sauce. They talk to us of the rules of war, of chivalry, of flags of truce, of mercy to the unfortunate and so on. It’s all rubbish! I saw chivalry and flags of truce in 1805; they humbugged us and we humbugged them. They plunder other people’s houses, issue false paper money, and worst of all they kill my children and my father, and then talk of rules of war and magnanimity to foes! Take no prisoners, but kill and be killed! He who has come to this as I have through the same sufferings…”
Prince Andrew, who had thought it was all the same to him whether or not Moscow was taken as Smolénsk had been, was suddenly checked in his speech by an unexpected cramp in his throat. He paced up and down a few times in silence, but his eyes glittered feverishly and his lips quivered as he began speaking.
“If there was none of this magnanimity in war, we should go to war only when it was worth while going to certain death, as now. Then there would not be war because Paul Ivánovich had offended Michael Ivánovich. And when there was a war, like this one, it would be war! And then the determination of the troops would be quite different. Then all these Westphalians and Hessians whom Napoleon is leading would not follow him into Russia, and we should not go to fight in Austria and Prussia without knowing why. War is not courtesy but the most horrible thing in life; and we ought to understand that and not play at war. We ought to accept this terrible necessity sternly and seriously. It all lies in that: get rid of falsehood and let war be war and not a game. As it is now, war is the favorite pastime of the idle and frivolous. The military calling is the most highly honored.
“But what is war? What is needed for success in warfare? What are the habits of the military? The aim of war is murder; the methods of war are spying, treachery, and their encouragement, the ruin of a country’s inhabitants, robbing them or stealing to provision the army, and fraud and falsehood termed military craft. The habits of the military class are the absence of freedom, that is, discipline, idleness, ignorance, cruelty, debauchery, and drunkenness. And in spite of all this it is the highest class, respected by everyone. All the kings, except the Chinese, wear military uniforms, and he who kills most people receives the highest rewards.
“They meet, as we shall meet tomorrow, to murder one another; they kill and maim tens of thousands, and then have thanksgiving services for having killed so many people (they even exaggerate the number), and they announce a victory, supposing that the more people they have killed the greater their achievement. How does God above look at them and hear them?” exclaimed Prince Andrew in a shrill, piercing voice. “Ah, my friend, it has of late become hard for me to live. I see that I have begun to understand too much. And it doesn’t do for man to taste of the tree of knowledge of good and evil…. Ah, well, it’s not for long!” he added.
“However, you’re sleepy, and it’s time for me to sleep. Go back to Górki!” said Prince Andrew suddenly.
“Oh no!” Pierre replied, looking at Prince Andrew with frightened, compassionate eyes.
“Go, go! Before a battle one must have one’s sleep out,” repeated Prince Andrew.
He came quickly up to Pierre and embraced and kissed him. “Good-by, be off!” he shouted. “Whether we meet again or not…” and turning away hurriedly he entered the shed.
It was already dark, and Pierre could not make out whether the expression of Prince Andrew’s face was angry or tender.
For some time he stood in silence considering whether he should follow him or go away. “No, he does not want it!” Pierre concluded. “And I know that this is our last meeting!” He sighed deeply and rode back to Górki.
On re-entering the shed Prince Andrew lay down on a rug, but he could not sleep.
He closed his eyes. One picture succeeded another in his imagination. On one of them he dwelt long and joyfully. He vividly recalled an evening in Petersburg. Natásha with animated and excited face was telling him how she had gone to look for mushrooms the previous summer and had lost her way in the big forest. She incoherently described the depths of the forest, her feelings, and a talk with a beekeeper she met, and constantly interrupted her story to say: “No, I can’t! I’m not telling it right; no, you don’t understand,” though he encouraged her by saying that he did understand, and he really had understood all she wanted to say. But Natásha was not satisfied with her own words: she felt that they did not convey the passionately poetic feeling she had experienced that day and wished to convey. “He was such a delightful old man, and it was so dark in the forest… and he had such kind… No, I can’t describe it,” she had said, flushed and excited. Prince Andrew smiled now the same happy smile as then when he had looked into her eyes. “I understood her,” he thought. “I not only understood her, but it was just that inner, spiritual force, that sincerity, that frankness of soul—that very soul of hers which seemed to be fettered by her body—it was that soul I loved in her… loved so strongly and happily…” and suddenly he remembered how his love had ended. “ did not need anything of that kind. neither saw nor understood anything of the sort. He only saw in her a pretty and young girl, with whom he did not deign to unite his fate. And I?… and he is still alive and gay!”
Prince Andrew jumped up as if someone had burned him, and again began pacing up and down in front of the shed.

  CHAPTER XXVI


  On August 25, the eve of the battle of Borodinó, M. de Beausset, prefect
  of the French Emperor&rsquo;s palace, arrived at Napoleon&rsquo;s quarters at Valúevo
  with Colonel Fabvier, the former from Paris and the latter from Madrid.
<br />
  Donning his court uniform, M. de Beausset ordered a box he had brought for
  the Emperor to be carried before him and entered the first compartment of
  Napoleon&rsquo;s tent, where he began opening the box while conversing with
  Napoleon&rsquo;s aides-de-camp who surrounded him.
<br />
  Fabvier, not entering the tent, remained at the entrance talking to some
  generals of his acquaintance.
<br />
  The Emperor Napoleon had not yet left his bedroom and was finishing his
  toilet. Slightly snorting and grunting, he presented now his back and now
  his plump hairy chest to the brush with which his valet was rubbing him
  down. Another valet, with his finger over the mouth of a bottle, was
  sprinkling Eau de Cologne on the Emperor&rsquo;s pampered body with an
  expression which seemed to say that he alone knew where and how much Eau
  de Cologne should be sprinkled. Napoleon&rsquo;s short hair was wet and matted
  on the forehead, but his face, though puffy and yellow, expressed physical
  satisfaction. &ldquo;Go on, harder, go on!&rdquo; he muttered to the valet who was
  rubbing him, slightly twitching and grunting. An aide-de-camp, who had
  entered the bedroom to report to the Emperor the number of prisoners taken
  in yesterday&rsquo;s action, was standing by the door after delivering his
  message, awaiting permission to withdraw. Napoleon, frowning, looked at
  him from under his brows.
<br />
  &ldquo;No prisoners!&rdquo; said he, repeating the aide-de-camp&rsquo;s words. &ldquo;They are
  forcing us to exterminate them. So much the worse for the Russian army....
  Go on... harder, harder!&rdquo; he muttered, hunching his back and presenting
  his fat shoulders.
<br />
  &ldquo;All right. Let Monsieur de Beausset enter, and Fabvier too,&rdquo; he said,
  nodding to the aide-de-camp.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, sire,&rdquo; and the aide-de-camp disappeared through the door of the
  tent.
<br />
  Two valets rapidly dressed His Majesty, and wearing the blue uniform of
  the Guards he went with firm quick steps to the reception room.
<br />
  De Beausset&rsquo;s hands meanwhile were busily engaged arranging the present he
  had brought from the Empress, on two chairs directly in front of the
  entrance. But Napoleon had dressed and come out with such unexpected
  rapidity that he had not time to finish arranging the surprise.
<br />
  Napoleon noticed at once what they were about and guessed that they were
  not ready. He did not wish to deprive them of the pleasure of giving him a
  surprise, so he pretended not to see de Beausset and called Fabvier to
  him, listening silently and with a stern frown to what Fabvier told him of
  the heroism and devotion of his troops fighting at Salamanca, at the other
  end of Europe, with but one thought&mdash;to be worthy of their Emperor&mdash;and
  but one fear&mdash;to fail to please him. The result of that battle had
  been deplorable. Napoleon made ironic remarks during Fabvier&rsquo;s account, as
  if he had not expected that matters could go otherwise in his absence.
<br />
  &ldquo;I must make up for that in Moscow,&rdquo; said Napoleon. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll see you later,&rdquo;
   he added, and summoned de Beausset, who by that time had prepared the
  surprise, having placed something on the chairs and covered it with a
  cloth.
<br />
  De Beausset bowed low, with that courtly French bow which only the old
  retainers of the Bourbons knew how to make, and approached him, presenting
  an envelope.
<br />
  Napoleon turned to him gaily and pulled his ear.
<br />
  &ldquo;You have hurried here. I am very glad. Well, what is Paris saying?&rdquo; he
  asked, suddenly changing his former stern expression for a most cordial
  tone.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sire, all Paris regrets your absence,&rdquo; replied de Beausset as was proper.
<br />
  But though Napoleon knew that de Beausset had to say something of this
  kind, and though in his lucid moments he knew it was untrue, he was
  pleased to hear it from him. Again he honored him by touching his ear.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am very sorry to have made you travel so far,&rdquo; said he.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sire, I expected nothing less than to find you at the gates of Moscow,&rdquo;
   replied de Beausset.
<br />
  Napoleon smiled and, lifting his head absent-mindedly, glanced to the
  right. An aide-de-camp approached with gliding steps and offered him a
  gold snuffbox, which he took.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, it has happened luckily for you,&rdquo; he said, raising the open snuffbox
  to his nose. &ldquo;You are fond of travel, and in three days you will see
  Moscow. You surely did not expect to see that Asiatic capital. You will
  have a pleasant journey.&rdquo;
 <br />
  De Beausset bowed gratefully at this regard for his taste for travel (of
  which he had not till then been aware).
<br />
  &ldquo;Ha, what&rsquo;s this?&rdquo; asked Napoleon, noticing that all the courtiers were
  looking at something concealed under a cloth.
<br />
  With courtly adroitness de Beausset half turned and without turning his
  back to the Emperor retired two steps, twitching off the cloth at the same
  time, and said:
<br />
  &ldquo;A present to Your Majesty from the Empress.&rdquo;
 <br />
  It was a portrait, painted in bright colors by Gérard, of the son borne to
  Napoleon by the daughter of the Emperor of Austria, the boy whom for some
  reason everyone called &ldquo;The King of Rome.&rdquo;
 <br />
  A very pretty curly-headed boy with a look of the Christ in the Sistine
  Madonna was depicted playing at stick and ball. The ball represented the
  terrestrial globe and the stick in his other hand a scepter.
<br />
  Though it was not clear what the artist meant to express by depicting the
  so-called King of Rome spiking the earth with a stick, the allegory
  apparently seemed to Napoleon, as it had done to all who had seen it in
  Paris, quite clear and very pleasing.
<br />
  &ldquo;The King of Rome!&rdquo; he said, pointing to the portrait with a graceful
  gesture. &ldquo;Admirable!&rdquo;
 <br />
  With the natural capacity of an Italian for changing the expression of his
  face at will, he drew nearer to the portrait and assumed a look of pensive
  tenderness. He felt that what he now said and did would be historical, and
  it seemed to him that it would now be best for him&mdash;whose grandeur
  enabled his son to play stick and ball with the terrestrial globe&mdash;to
  show, in contrast to that grandeur, the simplest paternal tenderness. His
  eyes grew dim, he moved forward, glanced round at a chair (which seemed to
  place itself under him), and sat down on it before the portrait. At a
  single gesture from him everyone went out on tiptoe, leaving the great man
  to himself and his emotion.
<br />
  Having sat still for a while he touched&mdash;himself not knowing why&mdash;the
  thick spot of paint representing the highest light in the portrait, rose,
  and recalled de Beausset and the officer on duty. He ordered the portrait
  to be carried outside his tent, that the Old Guard, stationed round it,
  might not be deprived of the pleasure of seeing the King of Rome, the son
  and heir of their adored monarch.
<br />
  And while he was doing M. de Beausset the honor of breakfasting with him,
  they heard, as Napoleon had anticipated, the rapturous cries of the
  officers and men of the Old Guard who had run up to see the portrait.
<br />

  came those ecstatic cries.
<br />
  After breakfast Napoleon in de Beausset&rsquo;s presence dictated his order of
  the day to the army.
<br />
  &ldquo;Short and energetic!&rdquo; he remarked when he had read over the proclamation
  which he had dictated straight off without corrections. It ran:
<br />
  Soldiers! This is the battle you have so longed for. Victory depends on
  you. It is essential for us; it will give us all we need: comfortable
  quarters and a speedy return to our country. Behave as you did at
  Austerlitz, Friedland, Vítebsk, and Smolénsk. Let our remotest posterity
  recall your achievements this day with pride. Let it be said of each of
  you: &ldquo;He was in the great battle before Moscow!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Before Moscow!&rdquo; repeated Napoleon, and inviting M. de Beausset, who was
  so fond of travel, to accompany him on his ride, he went out of the tent
  to where the horses stood saddled.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your Majesty is too kind!&rdquo; replied de Beausset to the invitation to
  accompany the Emperor; he wanted to sleep, did not know how to ride and
  was afraid of doing so.
<br />
  But Napoleon nodded to the traveler, and de Beausset had to mount. When
  Napoleon came out of the tent the shouting of the Guards before his son&rsquo;s
  portrait grew still louder. Napoleon frowned.
<br />
  &ldquo;Take him away!&rdquo; he said, pointing with a gracefully majestic gesture to
  the portrait. &ldquo;It is too soon for him to see a field of battle.&rdquo;
 <br />
  De Beausset closed his eyes, bowed his head, and sighed deeply, to
  indicate how profoundly he valued and comprehended the Emperor&rsquo;s words.

  CHAPTER XXVII


  On the twenty-fifth of August, so his historians tell us, Napoleon spent
  the whole day on horseback inspecting the locality, considering plans
  submitted to him by his marshals, and personally giving commands to his
  generals.
<br />
  The original line of the Russian forces along the river Kolochá had been
  dislocated by the capture of the Shevárdino Redoubt on the twenty-fourth,
  and part of the line&mdash;the left flank&mdash;had been drawn back. That
  part of the line was not entrenched and in front of it the ground was more
  open and level than elsewhere. It was evident to anyone, military or not,
  that it was here the French should attack. It would seem that not much
  consideration was needed to reach this conclusion, nor any particular care
  or trouble on the part of the Emperor and his marshals, nor was there any
  need of that special and supreme quality called genius that people are so
  apt to ascribe to Napoleon; yet the historians who described the event
  later and the men who then surrounded Napoleon, and he himself, thought
  otherwise.
<br />
  Napoleon rode over the plain and surveyed the locality with a profound air
  and in silence, nodded with approval or shook his head dubiously, and
  without communicating to the generals around him the profound course of
  ideas which guided his decisions merely gave them his final conclusions in
  the form of commands. Having listened to a suggestion from Davout, who was
  now called Prince d&rsquo;Eckmühl, to turn the Russian left wing, Napoleon said
  it should not be done, without explaining why not. To a proposal made by
  General Campan (who was to attack the ) to lead his division
  through the woods, Napoleon agreed, though the so-called Duke of Elchingen
  (Ney) ventured to remark that a movement through the woods was dangerous
  and might disorder the division.
<br />
  Having inspected the country opposite the Shevárdino Redoubt, Napoleon
  pondered a little in silence and then indicated the spots where two
  batteries should be set up by the morrow to act against the Russian
  entrenchments, and the places where, in line with them, the field
  artillery should be placed.
<br />
  After giving these and other commands he returned to his tent, and the
  dispositions for the battle were written down from his dictation.
<br />
  These dispositions, of which the French historians write with enthusiasm
  and other historians with profound respect, were as follows:
<br />
  At dawn the two new batteries established during the night on the plain
  occupied by the Prince d&rsquo;Eckmühl will open fire on the opposing batteries
  of the enemy.
<br />
  At the same time the commander of the artillery of the 1st Corps, General
  Pernetti, with thirty cannon of Campan&rsquo;s division and all the howitzers of
  Dessaix&rsquo;s and Friant&rsquo;s divisions, will move forward, open fire, and
  overwhelm with shellfire the enemy&rsquo;s battery, against which will operate:


    24 guns of the artillery of the Guards
    30 guns of Campan&rsquo;s division

and 8 guns of Friant’s and Dessaix’s divisions —

in all 62 guns.

  The commander of the artillery of the 3rd Corps, General Fouché, will
  place the howitzers of the 3rd and 8th Corps, sixteen in all, on the
  flanks of the battery that is to bombard the entrenchment on the left,
  which will have forty guns in all directed against it.
<br />
  General Sorbier must be ready at the first order to advance with all the
  howitzers of the Guard&rsquo;s artillery against either one or other of the
  entrenchments.
<br />
  During the cannonade Prince Poniatowski is to advance through the wood on
  the village and turn the enemy&rsquo;s position.
<br />
  General Campan will move through the wood to seize the first
  fortification.
<br />
  After the advance has begun in this manner, orders will be given in
  accordance with the enemy&rsquo;s movements.
<br />
  The cannonade on the left flank will begin as soon as the guns of the
  right wing are heard. The sharpshooters of Morand&rsquo;s division and of the
  vice-King&rsquo;s division will open a heavy fire on seeing the attack commence
  on the right wing.
<br />
  The vice-King will occupy the village and cross by its three bridges,
  advancing to the same heights as Morand&rsquo;s and Gibrard&rsquo;s divisions, which
  under his leadership will be directed against the redoubt and come into
  line with the rest of the forces.
<br />
  All this must be done in good order () as far as possible retaining troops in reserve.
<br />
  The Imperial Camp near Mozháysk,
<br />
  September, 6, 1812.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  These dispositions, which are very obscure and confused if one allows
  oneself to regard the arrangements without religious awe of his genius,
  related to Napoleon&rsquo;s orders to deal with four points&mdash;four different
  orders. Not one of these was, or could be, carried out.
<br />
  In the disposition it is said first  flèches  This could not be done, as
  from the spots selected by Napoleon the projectiles did not carry to the
  Russian works, and those 102 guns shot into the air until the nearest
  commander, contrary to Napoleon&rsquo;s instructions, moved them forward.
<br />
  The second order was that  This could not be done and was
  not done, because Poniatowski, advancing on the village through the wood,
  met Túchkov there barring his way, and could not and did not turn the
  Russian position.
<br />
  The third order was: . General Campan&rsquo;s division did not seize the
  first fortification but was driven back, for on emerging from the wood it had
  to reform under grapeshot, of which Napoleon was unaware.
<br />
  The fourth order was:  (Borodinó)  (for whose movements no directions are given), 
<br />
  As far as one can make out, not so much from this unintelligible sentence
  as from the attempts the vice-King made to execute the orders given him,
  he was to advance from the left through Borodinó to the redoubt while the
  divisions of Morand and Gérard were to advance simultaneously from the
  front.
<br />
  All this, like the other parts of the disposition, was not and could not
  be executed. After passing through Borodinó the vice-King was driven back
  to the Kolochá and could get no farther; while the divisions of Morand and
  Gérard did not take the redoubt but were driven back, and the redoubt was
  only taken at the end of the battle by the cavalry (a thing probably
  unforeseen and not heard of by Napoleon). So not one of the orders in the
  disposition was, or could be, executed. But in the disposition it is said
  that, , and so it might be supposed that
  all necessary arrangements would be made by Napoleon during the battle.
  But this was not and could not be done, for during the whole battle
  Napoleon was so far away that, as appeared later, he could not know the
  course of the battle and not one of his orders during the fight could be
  executed.

  CHAPTER XXVIII


  Many historians say that the French did not win the battle of Borodinó
  because Napoleon had a cold, and that if he had not had a cold the orders
  he gave before and during the battle would have been still more full of
  genius and Russia would have been lost and the face of the world have been
  changed. To historians who believe that Russia was shaped by the will of
  one man&mdash;Peter the Great&mdash;and that France from a republic became
  an empire and French armies went to Russia at the will of one man&mdash;Napoleon&mdash;to
  say that Russia remained a power because Napoleon had a bad cold on the
  twenty-fourth of August may seem logical and convincing.
<br />
  If it had depended on Napoleon&rsquo;s will to fight or not to fight the battle
  of Borodinó, and if this or that other arrangement depended on his will,
  then evidently a cold affecting the manifestation of his will might have
  saved Russia, and consequently the valet who omitted to bring Napoleon his
  waterproof boots on the twenty-fourth would have been the savior of
  Russia. Along that line of thought such a deduction is indubitable, as
  indubitable as the deduction Voltaire made in jest (without knowing what
  he was jesting at) when he saw that the Massacre of St. Bartholomew was
  due to Charles IX&rsquo;s stomach being deranged. But to men who do not admit
  that Russia was formed by the will of one man, Peter I, or that the French
  Empire was formed and the war with Russia begun by the will of one man,
  Napoleon, that argument seems not merely untrue and irrational, but
  contrary to all human reality. To the question of what causes historic
  events another answer presents itself, namely, that the course of human
  events is predetermined from on high&mdash;depends on the coincidence of
  the wills of all who take part in the events, and that a Napoleon&rsquo;s
  influence on the course of these events is purely external and fictitious.
<br />
  Strange as at first glance it may seem to suppose that the Massacre of St.
  Bartholomew was not due to Charles IX&rsquo;s will, though he gave the order for
  it and thought it was done as a result of that order; and strange as it
  may seem to suppose that the slaughter of eighty thousand men at Borodinó
  was not due to Napoleon&rsquo;s will, though he ordered the commencement and
  conduct of the battle and thought it was done because he ordered it;
  strange as these suppositions appear, yet human dignity&mdash;which tells
  me that each of us is, if not more at least not less a man than the great
  Napoleon&mdash;demands the acceptance of that solution of the question,
  and historic investigation abundantly confirms it.
<br />
  At the battle of Borodinó Napoleon shot at no one and killed no one. That
  was all done by the soldiers. Therefore it was not he who killed people.
<br />
  The French soldiers went to kill and be killed at the battle of Borodinó
  not because of Napoleon&rsquo;s orders but by their own volition. The whole army&mdash;French,
  Italian, German, Polish, and Dutch&mdash;hungry, ragged, and weary of the
  campaign, felt at the sight of an army blocking their road to Moscow that
  the wine was drawn and must be drunk. Had Napoleon then forbidden them to
  fight the Russians, they would have killed him and have proceeded to fight
  the Russians because it was inevitable.
<br />
  When they heard Napoleon&rsquo;s proclamation offering them, as compensation for
  mutilation and death, the words of posterity about their having been in
  the battle before Moscow, they cried 
  just as they had cried  at the sight of
  the portrait of the boy piercing the terrestrial globe with a toy stick, and just
  as they would have cried  at any
  nonsense that might be told them. There was nothing left for them to do but cry
   and go to fight, in order to get food
  and rest as conquerors in Moscow. So it was not because of Napoleon&rsquo;s
  commands that they killed their fellow men.
<br />
  And it was not Napoleon who directed the course of the battle, for none of
  his orders were executed and during the battle he did not know what was
  going on before him. So the way in which these people killed one another
  was not decided by Napoleon&rsquo;s will but occurred independently of him, in
  accord with the will of hundreds of thousands of people who took part in
  the common action. It  to Napoleon that it all took place by
  his will. And so the question whether he had or had not a cold has no more
  historic interest than the cold of the least of the transport soldiers.
<br />
  Moreover, the assertion made by various writers that his cold was the
  cause of his dispositions not being as well-planned as on former
  occasions, and of his orders during the battle not being as good as
  previously, is quite baseless, which again shows that Napoleon&rsquo;s cold on
  the twenty-sixth of August was unimportant.
<br />
  The dispositions cited above are not at all worse, but are even better,
  than previous dispositions by which he had won victories. His
  pseudo-orders during the battle were also no worse than formerly, but much
  the same as usual. These dispositions and orders only seem worse than
  previous ones because the battle of Borodinó was the first Napoleon did
  not win. The profoundest and most excellent dispositions and orders seem
  very bad, and every learned militarist criticizes them with looks of
  importance, when they relate to a battle that has been lost, and the very
  worst dispositions and orders seem very good, and serious people fill
  whole volumes to demonstrate their merits, when they relate to a battle
  that has been won.
<br />
  The dispositions drawn up by Weyrother for the battle of Austerlitz were a
  model of perfection for that kind of composition, but still they were
  criticized&mdash;criticized for their very perfection, for their excessive
  minuteness.
<br />
  Napoleon at the battle of Borodinó fulfilled his office as representative
  of authority as well as, and even better than, at other battles. He did
  nothing harmful to the progress of the battle; he inclined to the most
  reasonable opinions, he made no confusion, did not contradict himself, did
  not get frightened or run away from the field of battle, but with his
  great tact and military experience carried out his role of appearing to
  command, calmly and with dignity.

  CHAPTER XXIX


  On returning from a second inspection of the lines, Napoleon remarked:
<br />
  &ldquo;The chessmen are set up, the game will begin tomorrow!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Having ordered punch and summoned de Beausset, he began to talk to him
  about Paris and about some changes he meant to make in the Empress&rsquo;
  household, surprising the prefect by his memory of minute details relating
  to the court.
<br />
  He showed an interest in trifles, joked about de Beausset&rsquo;s love of
  travel, and chatted carelessly, as a famous, self-confident surgeon who
  knows his job does when turning up his sleeves and putting on his apron
  while a patient is being strapped to the operating table. &ldquo;The matter is
  in my hands and is clear and definite in my head. When the time comes to
  set to work I shall do it as no one else could, but now I can jest, and
  the more I jest and the calmer I am the more tranquil and confident you
  ought to be, and the more amazed at my genius.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Having finished his second glass of punch, Napoleon went to rest before
  the serious business which, he considered, awaited him next day. He was so
  much interested in that task that he was unable to sleep, and in spite of
  his cold which had grown worse from the dampness of the evening, he went
  into the large division of the tent at three o&rsquo;clock in the morning,
  loudly blowing his nose. He asked whether the Russians had not withdrawn,
  and was told that the enemy&rsquo;s fires were still in the same places. He
  nodded approval.
<br />
  The adjutant in attendance came into the tent.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, Rapp, do you think we shall do good business today?&rdquo; Napoleon asked
  him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Without doubt, sire,&rdquo; replied Rapp.
<br />
  Napoleon looked at him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you remember, sire, what you did me the honor to say at Smolénsk?&rdquo;
   continued Rapp. &ldquo;The wine is drawn and must be drunk.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Napoleon frowned and sat silent for a long time leaning his head on his
  hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;This poor army!&rdquo; he suddenly remarked. &ldquo;It has diminished greatly since
  Smolénsk. Fortune is frankly a courtesan, Rapp. I have always said so and
  I am beginning to experience it. But the Guards, Rapp, the Guards are
  intact?&rdquo; he remarked interrogatively.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, sire,&rdquo; replied Rapp.
<br />
  Napoleon took a lozenge, put it in his mouth, and glanced at his watch. He
  was not sleepy and it was still not nearly morning. It was impossible to
  give further orders for the sake of killing time, for the orders had all
  been given and were now being executed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Have the biscuits and rice been served out to the regiments of the
  Guards?&rdquo; asked Napoleon sternly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, sire.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The rice too?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Rapp replied that he had given the Emperor&rsquo;s order about the rice, but
  Napoleon shook his head in dissatisfaction as if not believing that his
  order had been executed. An attendant came in with punch. Napoleon ordered
  another glass to be brought for Rapp, and silently sipped his own.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have neither taste nor smell,&rdquo; he remarked, sniffing at his glass.
  &ldquo;This cold is tiresome. They talk about medicine&mdash;what is the good of
  medicine when it can&rsquo;t cure a cold! Corvisart gave me these lozenges but
  they don&rsquo;t help at all. What can doctors cure? One can&rsquo;t cure anything.
  Our body is a machine for living. It is organized for that, it is its
  nature. Let life go on in it unhindered and let it defend itself, it will
  do more than if you paralyze it by encumbering it with remedies. Our body
  is like a perfect watch that should go for a certain time; the watchmaker
  cannot open it, he can only adjust it by fumbling, and that blindfold....
  Yes, our body is just a machine for living, that is all.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And having entered on the path of definition, of which he was fond,
  Napoleon suddenly and unexpectedly gave a new one.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you know, Rapp, what military art is?&rdquo; asked he. &ldquo;It is the art of
  being stronger than the enemy at a given moment. That&rsquo;s all.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Rapp made no reply.
<br />
  &ldquo;Tomorrow we shall have to deal with Kutúzov!&rdquo; said Napoleon. &ldquo;We shall
  see! Do you remember at Braunau he commanded an army for three weeks and
  did not once mount a horse to inspect his entrenchments.... We shall see!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He looked at his watch. It was still only four o&rsquo;clock. He did not feel
  sleepy. The punch was finished and there was still nothing to do. He rose,
  walked to and fro, put on a warm overcoat and a hat, and went out of the
  tent. The night was dark and damp, a scarcely perceptible moisture was
  descending from above. Near by, the campfires were dimly burning among the
  French Guards, and in the distance those of the Russian line shone through
  the smoke. The weather was calm, and the rustle and tramp of the French
  troops already beginning to move to take up their positions were clearly
  audible.
<br />
  Napoleon walked about in front of his tent, looked at the fires and
  listened to these sounds, and as he was passing a tall guardsman in a
  shaggy cap, who was standing sentinel before his tent and had drawn
  himself up like a black pillar at sight of the Emperor, Napoleon stopped
  in front of him.
<br />
  &ldquo;What year did you enter the service?&rdquo; he asked with that affectation of
  military bluntness and geniality with which he always addressed the
  soldiers.
<br />
  The man answered the question.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah! One of the old ones! Has your regiment had its rice?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It has, Your Majesty.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Napoleon nodded and walked away.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  At half-past five Napoleon rode to the village of Shevárdino.
<br />
  It was growing light, the sky was clearing, only a single cloud lay in the
  east. The abandoned campfires were burning themselves out in the faint
  morning light.
<br />
  On the right a single deep report of a cannon resounded and died away in
  the prevailing silence. Some minutes passed. A second and a third report
  shook the air, then a fourth and a fifth boomed solemnly near by on the
  right.
<br />
  The first shots had not yet ceased to reverberate before others rang out
  and yet more were heard mingling with and overtaking one another.
<br />
  Napoleon with his suite rode up to the Shevárdino Redoubt where he
  dismounted. The game had begun.

  CHAPTER XXX


  On returning to Górki after having seen Prince Andrew, Pierre ordered his
  groom to get the horses ready and to call him early in the morning, and
  then immediately fell asleep behind a partition in a corner Borís had
  given up to him.
<br />
  Before he was thoroughly awake next morning everybody had already left the
  hut. The panes were rattling in the little windows and his groom was
  shaking him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your excellency! Your excellency! Your excellency!&rdquo; he kept repeating
  pertinaciously while he shook Pierre by the shoulder without looking at
  him, having apparently lost hope of getting him to wake up.
<br />
  &ldquo;What? Has it begun? Is it time?&rdquo; Pierre asked, waking up.
<br />
  &ldquo;Hear the firing,&rdquo; said the groom, a discharged soldier. &ldquo;All the
  gentlemen have gone out, and his Serene Highness himself rode past long
  ago.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre dressed hastily and ran out to the porch. Outside all was bright,
  fresh, dewy, and cheerful. The sun, just bursting forth from behind a
  cloud that had concealed it, was shining, with rays still half broken by
  the clouds, over the roofs of the street opposite, on the dew-besprinkled
  dust of the road, on the walls of the houses, on the windows, the fence,
  and on Pierre&rsquo;s horses standing before the hut. The roar of guns sounded
  more distinct outside. An adjutant accompanied by a Cossack passed by at a
  sharp trot.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s time, Count; it&rsquo;s time!&rdquo; cried the adjutant.
<br />
  Telling the groom to follow him with the horses, Pierre went down the
  street to the knoll from which he had looked at the field of battle the
  day before. A crowd of military men was assembled there, members of the
  staff could be heard conversing in French, and Kutúzov&rsquo;s gray head in a
  white cap with a red band was visible, his gray nape sunk between his
  shoulders. He was looking through a field glass down the highroad before
  him.
<br />
  Mounting the steps to the knoll Pierre looked at the scene before him,
  spellbound by beauty. It was the same panorama he had admired from that
  spot the day before, but now the whole place was full of troops and
  covered by smoke clouds from the guns, and the slanting rays of the bright
  sun, rising slightly to the left behind Pierre, cast upon it through the
  clear morning air penetrating streaks of rosy, golden-tinted light and
  long dark shadows. The forest at the farthest extremity of the panorama
  seemed carved in some precious stone of a yellowish-green color; its
  undulating outline was silhouetted against the horizon and was pierced
  beyond Valúevo by the Smolénsk highroad crowded with troops. Nearer at
  hand glittered golden cornfields interspersed with copses. There were
  troops to be seen everywhere, in front and to the right and left. All this
  was vivid, majestic, and unexpected; but what impressed Pierre most of all
  was the view of the battlefield itself, of Borodinó and the hollows on
  both sides of the Kolochá.
<br />
  Above the Kolochá, in Borodinó and on both sides of it, especially to the
  left where the Vóyna flowing between its marshy banks falls into the
  Kolochá, a mist had spread which seemed to melt, to dissolve, and to
  become translucent when the brilliant sun appeared and magically colored
  and outlined everything. The smoke of the guns mingled with this mist, and
  over the whole expanse and through that mist the rays of the morning sun
  were reflected, flashing back like lightning from the water, from the dew,
  and from the bayonets of the troops crowded together by the riverbanks and
  in Borodinó. A white church could be seen through the mist, and here and
  there the roofs of huts in Borodinó as well as dense masses of soldiers,
  or green ammunition chests and ordnance. And all this moved, or seemed to
  move, as the smoke and mist spread out over the whole space. Just as in
  the mist-enveloped hollow near Borodinó, so along the entire line outside
  and above it and especially in the woods and fields to the left, in the
  valleys and on the summits of the high ground, clouds of powder smoke
  seemed continually to spring up out of nothing, now singly, now several at
  a time, some translucent, others dense, which, swelling, growing, rolling,
  and blending, extended over the whole expanse.
<br />
  These puffs of smoke and (strange to say) the sound of the firing produced
  the chief beauty of the spectacle.
<br />
  &mdash;suddenly a round compact cloud of smoke was seen
  merging from violet into gray and milky white, and  came
  the report a second later.
<br />
  &mdash;and two clouds arose pushing one another
  and blending together; and  came the sounds
  confirming what the eye had seen.
<br />
  Pierre glanced round at the first cloud, which he had seen as a round
  compact ball, and in its place already were balloons of smoke floating to
  one side, and&mdash; (with a pause)&mdash; three and then four more appeared and then from each, with the
  same interval&mdash; came the fine, firm,
  precise sounds in reply. It seemed as if those smoke clouds sometimes ran and
  sometimes stood still while woods, fields, and glittering bayonets ran past them.
  From the left, over fields and bushes, those large balls of smoke were continually
  appearing followed by their solemn reports, while nearer still, in the hollows and
  woods, there burst from the muskets small cloudlets that had no time to become balls,
  but had their little echoes in just the same way. 
  came the frequent crackle of musketry, but it was irregular and feeble in
  comparison with the reports of the cannon.
<br />
  Pierre wished to be there with that smoke, those shining bayonets, that
  movement, and those sounds. He turned to look at Kutúzov and his suite, to
  compare his impressions with those of others. They were all looking at the
  field of battle as he was, and, as it seemed to him, with the same
  feelings. All their faces were now shining with that latent warmth of
  feeling Pierre had noticed the day before and had fully understood after
  his talk with Prince Andrew.
<br />
  &ldquo;Go, my dear fellow, go... and Christ be with you!&rdquo; Kutúzov was saying to
  a general who stood beside him, not taking his eye from the battlefield.
<br />
  Having received this order the general passed by Pierre on his way down
  the knoll.
<br />
  &ldquo;To the crossing!&rdquo; said the general coldly and sternly in reply to one of
  the staff who asked where he was going.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll go there too, I too!&rdquo; thought Pierre, and followed the general.
<br />
  The general mounted a horse a Cossack had brought him. Pierre went to his
  groom who was holding his horses and, asking which was the quietest,
  clambered onto it, seized it by the mane, and turning out his toes pressed
  his heels against its sides and, feeling that his spectacles were slipping
  off but unable to let go of the mane and reins, he galloped after the
  general, causing the staff officers to smile as they watched him from the
  knoll.

  CHAPTER XXXI


  Having descended the hill the general after whom Pierre was galloping
  turned sharply to the left, and Pierre, losing sight of him, galloped in
  among some ranks of infantry marching ahead of him. He tried to pass
  either in front of them or to the right or left, but there were soldiers
  everywhere, all with the same preoccupied expression and busy with some
  unseen but evidently important task. They all gazed with the same
  dissatisfied and inquiring expression at this stout man in a white hat,
  who for some unknown reason threatened to trample them under his horse&rsquo;s
  hoofs.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why ride into the middle of the battalion?&rdquo; one of them shouted at him.
<br />
  Another prodded his horse with the butt end of a musket, and Pierre,
  bending over his saddlebow and hardly able to control his shying horse,
  galloped ahead of the soldiers where there was a free space.
<br />
  There was a bridge ahead of him, where other soldiers stood firing. Pierre
  rode up to them. Without being aware of it he had come to the bridge
  across the Kolochá between Górki and Borodinó, which the French (having
  occupied Borodinó) were attacking in the first phase of the battle. Pierre
  saw that there was a bridge in front of him and that soldiers were doing
  something on both sides of it and in the meadow, among the rows of
  new-mown hay which he had taken no notice of amid the smoke of the
  campfires the day before; but despite the incessant firing going on there
  he had no idea that this was the field of battle. He did not notice the
  sound of the bullets whistling from every side, or the projectiles that
  flew over him, did not see the enemy on the other side of the river, and
  for a long time did not notice the killed and wounded, though many fell
  near him. He looked about him with a smile which did not leave his face.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why&rsquo;s that fellow in front of the line?&rdquo; shouted somebody at him again.
<br />
  &ldquo;To the left!... Keep to the right!&rdquo; the men shouted to him.
<br />
  Pierre went to the right, and unexpectedly encountered one of Raévski&rsquo;s
  adjutants whom he knew. The adjutant looked angrily at him, evidently also
  intending to shout at him, but on recognizing him he nodded.
<br />
  &ldquo;How have you got here?&rdquo; he said, and galloped on.
<br />
  Pierre, feeling out of place there, having nothing to do, and afraid of
  getting in someone&rsquo;s way again, galloped after the adjutant.
<br />
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s happening here? May I come with you?&rdquo; he asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;One moment, one moment!&rdquo; replied the adjutant, and riding up to a stout
  colonel who was standing in the meadow, he gave him some message and then
  addressed Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why have you come here, Count?&rdquo; he asked with a smile. &ldquo;Still
  inquisitive?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; assented Pierre.
<br />
  But the adjutant turned his horse about and rode on.
<br />
  &ldquo;Here it&rsquo;s tolerable,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;but with Bagratión on the left flank
  they&rsquo;re getting it frightfully hot.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Really?&rdquo; said Pierre. &ldquo;Where is that?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Come along with me to our knoll. We can get a view from there and in our
  battery it is still bearable,&rdquo; said the adjutant. &ldquo;Will you come?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I&rsquo;ll come with you,&rdquo; replied Pierre, looking round for his groom.
<br />
  It was only now that he noticed wounded men staggering along or being
  carried on stretchers. On that very meadow he had ridden over the day
  before, a soldier was lying athwart the rows of scented hay, with his head
  thrown awkwardly back and his shako off.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why haven&rsquo;t they carried him away?&rdquo; Pierre was about to ask, but seeing
  the stern expression of the adjutant who was also looking that way, he
  checked himself.
<br />
  Pierre did not find his groom and rode along the hollow with the adjutant
  to Raévski&rsquo;s Redoubt. His horse lagged behind the adjutant&rsquo;s and jolted
  him at every step.
<br />
  &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t seem to be used to riding, Count?&rdquo; remarked the adjutant.
<br />
  &ldquo;No it&rsquo;s not that, but her action seems so jerky,&rdquo; said Pierre in a
  puzzled tone.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why... she&rsquo;s wounded!&rdquo; said the adjutant. &ldquo;In the off foreleg above the
  knee. A bullet, no doubt. I congratulate you, Count, on your baptism of
  fire!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Having ridden in the smoke past the Sixth Corps, behind the artillery
  which had been moved forward and was in action, deafening them with the
  noise of firing, they came to a small wood. There it was cool and quiet,
  with a scent of autumn. Pierre and the adjutant dismounted and walked up
  the hill on foot.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is the general here?&rdquo; asked the adjutant on reaching the knoll.
<br />
  &ldquo;He was here a minute ago but has just gone that way,&rdquo; someone told him,
  pointing to the right.
<br />
  The adjutant looked at Pierre as if puzzled what to do with him now.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t trouble about me,&rdquo; said Pierre. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll go up onto the knoll if I
  may?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, do. You&rsquo;ll see everything from there and it&rsquo;s less dangerous, and
  I&rsquo;ll come for you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre went to the battery and the adjutant rode on. They did not meet
  again, and only much later did Pierre learn that he lost an arm that day.
<br />
  The knoll to which Pierre ascended was that famous one afterwards known to
  the Russians as the Knoll Battery or Raévski&rsquo;s Redoubt, and to the French
  as , around
  which tens of thousands fell, and which the French regarded as the key to
  the whole position.
<br />
  This redoubt consisted of a knoll, on three sides of which trenches had
  been dug. Within the entrenchment stood ten guns that were being fired
  through openings in the earthwork.
<br />
  In line with the knoll on both sides stood other guns which also fired
  incessantly. A little behind the guns stood infantry. When ascending that
  knoll Pierre had no notion that this spot, on which small trenches had
  been dug and from which a few guns were firing, was the most important
  point of the battle.
<br />
  On the contrary, just because he happened to be there he thought it one of
  the least significant parts of the field.
<br />
  Having reached the knoll, Pierre sat down at one end of a trench
  surrounding the battery and gazed at what was going on around him with an
  unconsciously happy smile. Occasionally he rose and walked about the
  battery still with that same smile, trying not to obstruct the soldiers
  who were loading, hauling the guns, and continually running past him with
  bags and charges. The guns of that battery were being fired continually
  one after another with a deafening roar, enveloping the whole neighborhood
  in powder smoke.
<br />
  In contrast with the dread felt by the infantrymen placed in support, here
  in the battery where a small number of men busy at their work were
  separated from the rest by a trench, everyone experienced a common and as
  it were family feeling of animation.
<br />
  The intrusion of Pierre&rsquo;s nonmilitary figure in a white hat made an
  unpleasant impression at first. The soldiers looked askance at him with
  surprise and even alarm as they went past him. The senior artillery
  officer, a tall, long-legged, pockmarked man, moved over to Pierre as if
  to see the action of the farthest gun and looked at him with curiosity.
<br />
  A young round-faced officer, quite a boy still and evidently only just out
  of the Cadet College, who was zealously commanding the two guns entrusted
  to him, addressed Pierre sternly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;permit me to ask you to stand aside. You must not be
  here.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The soldiers shook their heads disapprovingly as they looked at Pierre.
  But when they had convinced themselves that this man in the white hat was
  doing no harm, but either sat quietly on the slope of the trench with a
  shy smile or, politely making way for the soldiers, paced up and down the
  battery under fire as calmly as if he were on a boulevard, their feeling
  of hostile distrust gradually began to change into a kindly and bantering
  sympathy, such as soldiers feel for their dogs, cocks, goats, and in
  general for the animals that live with the regiment. The men soon accepted
  Pierre into their family, adopted him, gave him a nickname (&ldquo;our
  gentleman&rdquo;), and made kindly fun of him among themselves.
<br />
  A shell tore up the earth two paces from Pierre and he looked around with
  a smile as he brushed from his clothes some earth it had thrown up.
<br />
  &ldquo;And how&rsquo;s it you&rsquo;re not afraid, sir, really now?&rdquo; a red-faced,
  broad-shouldered soldier asked Pierre, with a grin that disclosed a set of
  sound, white teeth.
<br />
  &ldquo;Are you afraid, then?&rdquo; said Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;What else do you expect?&rdquo; answered the soldier. &ldquo;She has no mercy, you
  know! When she comes spluttering down, out go your innards. One can&rsquo;t help
  being afraid,&rdquo; he said laughing.
<br />
  Several of the men, with bright kindly faces, stopped beside Pierre. They
  seemed not to have expected him to talk like anybody else, and the
  discovery that he did so delighted them.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the business of us soldiers. But in a gentleman it&rsquo;s wonderful!
  There&rsquo;s a gentleman for you!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;To your places!&rdquo; cried the young officer to the men gathered round
  Pierre.
<br />
  The young officer was evidently exercising his duties for the first or
  second time and therefore treated both his superiors and the men with
  great precision and formality.
<br />
  The booming cannonade and the fusillade of musketry were growing more
  intense over the whole field, especially to the left where Bagratión&rsquo;s
   were, but where Pierre was the smoke of the firing made it almost
  impossible to distinguish anything. Moreover, his whole attention was
  engrossed by watching the family circle&mdash;separated from all else&mdash;formed
  by the men in the battery. His first unconscious feeling of joyful
  animation produced by the sights and sounds of the battlefield was now
  replaced by another, especially since he had seen that soldier lying alone
  in the hayfield. Now, seated on the slope of the trench, he observed the
  faces of those around him.
<br />
  By ten o&rsquo;clock some twenty men had already been carried away from the
  battery; two guns were smashed and cannon balls fell more and more
  frequently on the battery and spent bullets buzzed and whistled around.
  But the men in the battery seemed not to notice this, and merry voices and
  jokes were heard on all sides.
<br />
  &ldquo;A live one!&rdquo; shouted a man as a whistling shell approached.
<br />
  &ldquo;Not this way! To the infantry!&rdquo; added another with loud laughter, seeing
  the shell fly past and fall into the ranks of the supports.
<br />
  &ldquo;Are you bowing to a friend, eh?&rdquo; remarked another, chaffing a peasant who
  ducked low as a cannon ball flew over.
<br />
  Several soldiers gathered by the wall of the trench, looking out to see
  what was happening in front.
<br />
  &ldquo;They&rsquo;ve withdrawn the front line, it has retired,&rdquo; said they, pointing
  over the earthwork.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mind your own business,&rdquo; an old sergeant shouted at them. &ldquo;If they&rsquo;ve
  retired it&rsquo;s because there&rsquo;s work for them to do farther back.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And the sergeant, taking one of the men by the shoulders, gave him a shove
  with his knee. This was followed by a burst of laughter.
<br />
  &ldquo;To the fifth gun, wheel it up!&rdquo; came shouts from one side.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now then, all together, like bargees!&rdquo; rose the merry voices of those who
  were moving the gun.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, she nearly knocked our gentleman&rsquo;s hat off!&rdquo; cried the red-faced
  humorist, showing his teeth chaffing Pierre. &ldquo;Awkward baggage!&rdquo; he added
  reproachfully to a cannon ball that struck a cannon wheel and a man&rsquo;s leg.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now then, you foxes!&rdquo; said another, laughing at some militiamen who,
  stooping low, entered the battery to carry away the wounded man.
<br />
  &ldquo;So this gruel isn&rsquo;t to your taste? Oh, you crows! You&rsquo;re scared!&rdquo; they
  shouted at the militiamen who stood hesitating before the man whose leg
  had been torn off.
<br />
  &ldquo;There, lads... oh, oh!&rdquo; they mimicked the peasants, &ldquo;they don&rsquo;t like it
  at all!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre noticed that after every ball that hit the redoubt, and after every
  loss, the liveliness increased more and more.
<br />
  As the flames of the fire hidden within come more and more vividly and
  rapidly from an approaching thundercloud, so, as if in opposition to what
  was taking place, the lightning of hidden fire growing more and more
  intense glowed in the faces of these men.
<br />
  Pierre did not look out at the battlefield and was not concerned to know
  what was happening there; he was entirely absorbed in watching this fire
  which burned ever more brightly and which he felt was flaming up in the
  same way in his own soul.
<br />
  At ten o&rsquo;clock the infantry that had been among the bushes in front of the
  battery and along the Kámenka streamlet retreated. From the battery they
  could be seen running back past it carrying their wounded on their
  muskets. A general with his suite came to the battery, and after speaking
  to the colonel gave Pierre an angry look and went away again having
  ordered the infantry supports behind the battery to lie down, so as to be
  less exposed to fire. After this from amid the ranks of infantry to the
  right of the battery came the sound of a drum and shouts of command, and
  from the battery one saw how those ranks of infantry moved forward.
<br />
  Pierre looked over the wall of the trench and was particularly struck by a
  pale young officer who, letting his sword hang down, was walking backwards
  and kept glancing uneasily around.
<br />
  The ranks of the infantry disappeared amid the smoke but their long-drawn
  shout and rapid musketry firing could still be heard. A few minutes later
  crowds of wounded men and stretcher-bearers came back from that direction.
  Projectiles began to fall still more frequently in the battery. Several
  men were lying about who had not been removed. Around the cannon the men
  moved still more briskly and busily. No one any longer took notice of
  Pierre. Once or twice he was shouted at for being in the way. The senior
  officer moved with big, rapid strides from one gun to another with a
  frowning face. The young officer, with his face still more flushed,
  commanded the men more scrupulously than ever. The soldiers handed up the
  charges, turned, loaded, and did their business with strained smartness.
  They gave little jumps as they walked, as though they were on springs.
<br />
  The stormcloud had come upon them, and in every face the fire which Pierre
  had watched kindle burned up brightly. Pierre standing beside the
  commanding officer. The young officer, his hand to his shako, ran up to
  his superior.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have the honor to report, sir, that only eight rounds are left. Are we
  to continue firing?&rdquo; he asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;Grapeshot!&rdquo; the senior shouted, without answering the question, looking
  over the wall of the trench.
<br />
  Suddenly something happened: the young officer gave a gasp and bending
  double sat down on the ground like a bird shot on the wing. Everything
  became strange, confused, and misty in Pierre&rsquo;s eyes.
<br />
  One cannon ball after another whistled by and struck the earthwork, a
  soldier, or a gun. Pierre, who had not noticed these sounds before, now
  heard nothing else. On the right of the battery soldiers shouting
  &ldquo;Hurrah!&rdquo; were running not forwards but backwards, it seemed to Pierre.
<br />
  A cannon ball struck the very end of the earth work by which he was
  standing, crumbling down the earth; a black ball flashed before his eyes
  and at the same instant plumped into something. Some militiamen who were
  entering the battery ran back.
<br />
  &ldquo;All with grapeshot!&rdquo; shouted the officer.
<br />
  The sergeant ran up to the officer and in a frightened whisper informed
  him (as a butler at dinner informs his master that there is no more of
  some wine asked for) that there were no more charges.
<br />
  &ldquo;The scoundrels! What are they doing?&rdquo; shouted the officer, turning to
  Pierre.
<br />
  The officer&rsquo;s face was red and perspiring and his eyes glittered under his
  frowning brow.
<br />
  &ldquo;Run to the reserves and bring up the ammunition boxes!&rdquo; he yelled,
  angrily avoiding Pierre with his eyes and speaking to his men.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll go,&rdquo; said Pierre.
<br />
  The officer, without answering him, strode across to the opposite side.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t fire.... Wait!&rdquo; he shouted.
<br />
  The man who had been ordered to go for ammunition stumbled against Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;Eh, sir, this is no place for you,&rdquo; said he, and ran down the slope.
<br />
  Pierre ran after him, avoiding the spot where the young officer was
  sitting.
<br />
  One cannon ball, another, and a third flew over him, falling in front,
  beside, and behind him. Pierre ran down the slope. &ldquo;Where am I going?&rdquo; he
  suddenly asked himself when he was already near the green ammunition
  wagons. He halted irresolutely, not knowing whether to return or go on.
  Suddenly a terrible concussion threw him backwards to the ground. At the
  same instant he was dazzled by a great flash of flame, and immediately a
  deafening roar, crackling, and whistling made his ears tingle.
<br />
  When he came to himself he was sitting on the ground leaning on his hands;
  the ammunition wagons he had been approaching no longer existed, only
  charred green boards and rags littered the scorched grass, and a horse,
  dangling fragments of its shaft behind it, galloped past, while another
  horse lay, like Pierre, on the ground, uttering prolonged and piercing
  cries.

  CHAPTER XXXII


  Beside himself with terror Pierre jumped up and ran back to the battery,
  as to the only refuge from the horrors that surrounded him.
<br />
  On entering the earthwork he noticed that there were men doing something
  there but that no shots were being fired from the battery. He had no time
  to realize who these men were. He saw the senior officer lying on the
  earth wall with his back turned as if he were examining something down
  below and that one of the soldiers he had noticed before was struggling
  forward shouting &ldquo;Brothers!&rdquo; and trying to free himself from some men who
  were holding him by the arm. He also saw something else that was strange.
<br />
  But he had not time to realize that the colonel had been killed, that the
  soldier shouting &ldquo;Brothers!&rdquo; was a prisoner, and that another man had been
  bayoneted in the back before his eyes, for hardly had he run into the
  redoubt before a thin, sallow-faced, perspiring man in a blue uniform
  rushed on him sword in hand, shouting something. Instinctively guarding
  against the shock&mdash;for they had been running together at full speed
  before they saw one another&mdash;Pierre put out his hands and seized the
  man (a French officer) by the shoulder with one hand and by the throat
  with the other. The officer, dropping his sword, seized Pierre by his
  collar.
<br />
  For some seconds they gazed with frightened eyes at one another&rsquo;s
  unfamiliar faces and both were perplexed at what they had done and what
  they were to do next. &ldquo;Am I taken prisoner or have I taken him prisoner?&rdquo;
   each was thinking. But the French officer was evidently more inclined to
  think he had been taken prisoner because Pierre&rsquo;s strong hand, impelled by
  instinctive fear, squeezed his throat ever tighter and tighter. The
  Frenchman was about to say something, when just above their heads,
  terrible and low, a cannon ball whistled, and it seemed to Pierre that the
  French officer&rsquo;s head had been torn off, so swiftly had he ducked it.
<br />
  Pierre too bent his head and let his hands fall. Without further thought
  as to who had taken whom prisoner, the Frenchman ran back to the battery
  and Pierre ran down the slope stumbling over the dead and wounded who, it
  seemed to him, caught at his feet. But before he reached the foot of the
  knoll he was met by a dense crowd of Russian soldiers who, stumbling,
  tripping up, and shouting, ran merrily and wildly toward the battery.
  (This was the attack for which Ermólov claimed the credit, declaring that
  only his courage and good luck made such a feat possible: it was the
  attack in which he was said to have thrown some St. George&rsquo;s Crosses he had
  in his pocket into the battery for the first soldiers to take who got
  there.)
<br />
  The French who had occupied the battery fled, and our troops shouting
  &ldquo;Hurrah!&rdquo; pursued them so far beyond the battery that it was difficult to
  call them back.
<br />
  The prisoners were brought down from the battery and among them was a
  wounded French general, whom the officers surrounded. Crowds of wounded&mdash;some
  known to Pierre and some unknown&mdash;Russians and French, with faces
  distorted by suffering, walked, crawled, and were carried on stretchers
  from the battery. Pierre again went up onto the knoll where he had spent
  over an hour, and of that family circle which had received him as a member
  he did not find a single one. There were many dead whom he did not know,
  but some he recognized. The young officer still sat in the same way, bent
  double, in a pool of blood at the edge of the earth wall. The red-faced
  man was still twitching, but they did not carry him away.
<br />
  Pierre ran down the slope once more.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now they will stop it, now they will be horrified at what they have
  done!&rdquo; he thought, aimlessly going toward a crowd of stretcher bearers
  moving from the battlefield.
<br />
  But behind the veil of smoke the sun was still high, and in front and
  especially to the left, near Semënovsk, something seemed to be seething in
  the smoke, and the roar of cannon and musketry did not diminish, but even
  increased to desperation like a man who, straining himself, shrieks with
  all his remaining strength.

  CHAPTER XXXIII


  The chief action of the battle of Borodinó was fought within the seven
  thousand feet between Borodinó and Bagratión&rsquo;s . Beyond that
  space there was, on the one side, a demonstration made by the Russians with
  Uvárov&rsquo;s cavalry at midday, and on the other side, beyond Utítsa,
  Poniatowski&rsquo;s collision with Túchkov; but these two were detached and
  feeble actions in comparison with what took place in the center of the
  battlefield. On the field between Borodinó and the , beside the
  wood, the chief action of the day took place on an open space visible from
  both sides and was fought in the simplest and most artless way.
<br />
  The battle began on both sides with a cannonade from several hundred guns.
<br />
  Then when the whole field was covered with smoke, two divisions, Campan&rsquo;s
  and Dessaix&rsquo;s, advanced from the French right, while Murat&rsquo;s troops
  advanced on Borodinó from their left.
<br />
  From the Shevárdino Redoubt where Napoleon was standing the  were
  two thirds of a mile away, and it was more than a mile as the crow flies
  to Borodinó, so that Napoleon could not see what was happening there,
  especially as the smoke mingling with the mist hid the whole locality. The
  soldiers of Dessaix&rsquo;s division advancing against the  could
  only be seen till they had entered the hollow that lay between them and the
  . As soon as they had descended into that hollow, the smoke of the
  guns and musketry on the  grew so dense that it covered the whole
  approach on that side of it. Through the smoke glimpses could be caught of
  something black&mdash;probably men&mdash;and at times the glint of
  bayonets. But whether they were moving or stationary, whether they were
  French or Russian, could not be discovered from the Shevárdino Redoubt.
<br />
  The sun had risen brightly and its slanting rays struck straight into
  Napoleon&rsquo;s face as, shading his eyes with his hand, he looked at the
  . The smoke spread out before them, and at times it looked as if
  the smoke were moving, at times as if the troops moved. Sometimes shouts
  were heard through the firing, but it was impossible to tell what was
  being done there.
<br />
  Napoleon, standing on the knoll, looked through a field glass, and in its
  small circlet saw smoke and men, sometimes his own and sometimes Russians,
  but when he looked again with the naked eye, he could not tell where what
  he had seen was.
<br />
  He descended the knoll and began walking up and down before it.
<br />
  Occasionally he stopped, listened to the firing, and gazed intently at the
  battlefield.
<br />
  But not only was it impossible to make out what was happening from where
  he was standing down below, or from the knoll above on which some of his
  generals had taken their stand, but even from the  themselves&mdash;in
  which by this time there were now Russian and now French soldiers,
  alternately or together, dead, wounded, alive, frightened, or maddened&mdash;even
  at those  themselves it was impossible to make out what was taking
  place. There for several hours amid incessant cannon and musketry fire,
  now Russians were seen alone, now Frenchmen alone, now infantry, and now
  cavalry: they appeared, fired, fell, collided, not knowing what to do with
  one another, screamed, and ran back again.
<br />
  From the battlefield adjutants he had sent out, and orderlies from his
  marshals, kept galloping up to Napoleon with reports of the progress of
  the action, but all these reports were false, both because it was
  impossible in the heat of battle to say what was happening at any given
  moment and because many of the adjutants did not go to the actual place of
  conflict but reported what they had heard from others; and also because
  while an adjutant was riding more than a mile to Napoleon circumstances
  changed and the news he brought was already becoming false. Thus an
  adjutant galloped up from Murat with tidings that Borodinó had been
  occupied and the bridge over the Kolochá was in the hands of the French.
  The adjutant asked whether Napoleon wished the troops to cross it?
  Napoleon gave orders that the troops should form up on the farther side
  and wait. But before that order was given&mdash;almost as soon in fact as
  the adjutant had left Borodinó&mdash;the bridge had been retaken by the
  Russians and burned, in the very skirmish at which Pierre had been present
  at the beginning of the battle.
<br />
  An adjutant galloped up from the  with a pale and frightened face
  and reported to Napoleon that their attack had been repulsed, Campan
  wounded, and Davout killed; yet at the very time the adjutant had been
  told that the French had been repulsed, the  had in fact been
  recaptured by other French troops, and Davout was alive and only slightly
  bruised. On the basis of these necessarily untrustworthy reports Napoleon
  gave his orders, which had either been executed before he gave them or
  could not be and were not executed.
<br />
  The marshals and generals, who were nearer to the field of battle but,
  like Napoleon, did not take part in the actual fighting and only
  occasionally went within musket range, made their own arrangements without
  asking Napoleon and issued orders where and in what direction to fire and
  where cavalry should gallop and infantry should run. But even their
  orders, like Napoleon&rsquo;s, were seldom carried out, and then but partially.
  For the most part things happened contrary to their orders. Soldiers
  ordered to advance ran back on meeting grapeshot; soldiers ordered to
  remain where they were, suddenly, seeing Russians unexpectedly before
  them, sometimes rushed back and sometimes forward, and the cavalry dashed
  without orders in pursuit of the flying Russians. In this way two cavalry
  regiments galloped through the Semënovsk hollow and as soon as they
  reached the top of the incline turned round and galloped full speed back
  again. The infantry moved in the same way, sometimes running to quite
  other places than those they were ordered to go to. All orders as to where
  and when to move the guns, when to send infantry to shoot or horsemen to
  ride down the Russian infantry&mdash;all such orders were given by the
  officers on the spot nearest to the units concerned, without asking either
  Ney, Davout, or Murat, much less Napoleon. They did not fear getting into
  trouble for not fulfilling orders or for acting on their own initiative,
  for in battle what is at stake is what is dearest to man&mdash;his own
  life&mdash;and it sometimes seems that safety lies in running back,
  sometimes in running forward; and these men who were right in the heat of
  the battle acted according to the mood of the moment. In reality, however,
  all these movements forward and backward did not improve or alter the
  position of the troops. All their rushing and galloping at one another did
  little harm, the harm of disablement and death was caused by the balls and
  bullets that flew over the fields on which these men were floundering
  about. As soon as they left the place where the balls and bullets were
  flying about, their superiors, located in the background, re-formed them
  and brought them under discipline and under the influence of that
  discipline led them back to the zone of fire, where under the influence of
  fear of death they lost their discipline and rushed about according to the
  chance promptings of the throng.

  CHAPTER XXXIV


  Napoleon&rsquo;s generals&mdash;Davout, Ney, and Murat, who were near that
  region of fire and sometimes even entered it&mdash;repeatedly led into it
  huge masses of well-ordered troops. But contrary to what had always
  happened in their former battles, instead of the news they expected of the
  enemy&rsquo;s flight, these orderly masses returned thence as disorganized and
  terrified mobs. The generals re-formed them, but their numbers constantly
  decreased. In the middle of the day Murat sent his adjutant to Napoleon to
  demand reinforcements.
<br />
  Napoleon sat at the foot of the knoll, drinking punch, when Murat&rsquo;s
  adjutant galloped up with an assurance that the Russians would be routed
  if His Majesty would let him have another division.
<br />
  &ldquo;Reinforcements?&rdquo; said Napoleon in a tone of stern surprise, looking at
  the adjutant&mdash;a handsome lad with long black curls arranged like
  Murat&rsquo;s own&mdash;as though he did not understand his words.
<br />
  &ldquo;Reinforcements!&rdquo; thought Napoleon to himself. &ldquo;How can they need
  reinforcements when they already have half the army directed against a
  weak, unentrenched Russian wing?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Tell the King of Naples,&rdquo; said he sternly, &ldquo;that it is not noon yet, and
  I don&rsquo;t yet see my chessboard clearly. Go!...&rdquo;
 <br />
  The handsome boy adjutant with the long hair sighed deeply without
  removing his hand from his hat and galloped back to where men were being
  slaughtered.
<br />
  Napoleon rose and having summoned Caulaincourt and Berthier began talking
  to them about matters unconnected with the battle.
<br />
  In the midst of this conversation, which was beginning to interest
  Napoleon, Berthier&rsquo;s eyes turned to look at a general with a suite, who
  was galloping toward the knoll on a lathering horse. It was Belliard.
  Having dismounted he went up to the Emperor with rapid strides and in a
  loud voice began boldly demonstrating the necessity of sending
  reinforcements. He swore on his honor that the Russians were lost if the
  Emperor would give another division.
<br />
  Napoleon shrugged his shoulders and continued to pace up and down without
  replying. Belliard began talking loudly and eagerly to the generals of the
  suite around him.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are very fiery, Belliard,&rdquo; said Napoleon, when he again came up to
  the general. &ldquo;In the heat of a battle it is easy to make a mistake. Go and
  have another look and then come back to me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Before Belliard was out of sight, a messenger from another part of the
  battlefield galloped up.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now then, what do you want?&rdquo; asked Napoleon in the tone of a man
  irritated at being continually disturbed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sire, the prince...&rdquo; began the adjutant.
<br />
  &ldquo;Asks for reinforcements?&rdquo; said Napoleon with an angry gesture.
<br />
  The adjutant bent his head affirmatively and began to report, but the
  Emperor turned from him, took a couple of steps, stopped, came back, and
  called Berthier.
<br />
  &ldquo;We must give reserves,&rdquo; he said, moving his arms slightly apart. &ldquo;Who do
  you think should be sent there?&rdquo; he asked of Berthier (whom he
  subsequently termed &ldquo;that gosling I have made an eagle&rdquo;).
<br />
  &ldquo;Send Claparède&rsquo;s division, sire,&rdquo; replied Berthier, who knew all the
  division&rsquo;s regiments, and battalions by heart.
<br />
  Napoleon nodded assent.
<br />
  The adjutant galloped to Claparède&rsquo;s division and a few minutes later the
  Young Guards stationed behind the knoll moved forward. Napoleon gazed
  silently in that direction.
<br />
  &ldquo;No!&rdquo; he suddenly said to Berthier. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t send Claparède. Send Friant&rsquo;s
  division.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Though there was no advantage in sending Friant&rsquo;s division instead of
  Claparède&rsquo;s, and even an obvious inconvenience and delay in stopping
  Claparède and sending Friant now, the order was carried out exactly.
  Napoleon did not notice that in regard to his army he was playing the part
  of a doctor who hinders by his medicines&mdash;a role he so justly
  understood and condemned.
<br />
  Friant&rsquo;s division disappeared as the others had done into the smoke of the
  battlefield. From all sides adjutants continued to arrive at a gallop and
  as if by agreement all said the same thing. They all asked for
  reinforcements and all said that the Russians were holding their positions
  and maintaining a hellish fire under which the French army was melting
  away.
<br />
  Napoleon sat on a campstool, wrapped in thought.
<br />
  M. de Beausset, the man so fond of travel, having fasted since morning,
  came up to the Emperor and ventured respectfully to suggest lunch to His
  Majesty.
<br />
  &ldquo;I hope I may now congratulate Your Majesty on a victory?&rdquo; said he.
<br />
  Napoleon silently shook his head in negation. Assuming the negation to
  refer only to the victory and not to the lunch, M. de Beausset ventured
  with respectful jocularity to remark that there is no reason for not
  having lunch when one can get it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Go away...&rdquo; exclaimed Napoleon suddenly and morosely, and turned aside.
<br />
  A beatific smile of regret, repentance, and ecstasy beamed on M. de
  Beausset&rsquo;s face and he glided away to the other generals.
<br />
  Napoleon was experiencing a feeling of depression like that of an
  ever-lucky gambler who, after recklessly flinging money about and always
  winning, suddenly just when he has calculated all the chances of the game,
  finds that the more he considers his play the more surely he loses.
<br />
  His troops were the same, his generals the same, the same preparations had
  been made, the same dispositions, and the same proclamation , he himself was still the same: he knew that and knew that he
  was now even more experienced and skillful than before. Even the enemy was
  the same as at Austerlitz and Friedland&mdash;yet the terrible stroke of
  his arm had supernaturally become impotent.
<br />
  All the old methods that had been unfailingly crowned with success: the
  concentration of batteries on one point, an attack by reserves to break
  the enemy&rsquo;s line, and a cavalry attack by &ldquo;the men of iron,&rdquo; all these
  methods had already been employed, yet not only was there no victory, but
  from all sides came the same news of generals killed and wounded, of
  reinforcements needed, of the impossibility of driving back the Russians,
  and of disorganization among his own troops.
<br />
  Formerly, after he had given two or three orders and uttered a few
  phrases, marshals and adjutants had come galloping up with congratulations
  and happy faces, announcing the trophies taken, the corps of prisoners,
  bundles of enemy eagles and standards, cannon and stores, and Murat had
  only begged leave to loose the cavalry to gather in the baggage wagons. So
  it had been at Lodi, Marengo, Arcola, Jena, Austerlitz, Wagram, and so on.
  But now something strange was happening to his troops.
<br />
  Despite news of the capture of the , Napoleon saw that this was not
  the same, not at all the same, as what had happened in his former battles.
  He saw that what he was feeling was felt by all the men about him
  experienced in the art of war. All their faces looked dejected, and they
  all shunned one another&rsquo;s eyes&mdash;only a de Beausset could fail to
  grasp the meaning of what was happening.
<br />
  But Napoleon with his long experience of war well knew the meaning of a
  battle not gained by the attacking side in eight hours, after all efforts
  had been expended. He knew that it was a lost battle and that the least
  accident might now&mdash;with the fight balanced on such a strained center&mdash;destroy
  him and his army.
<br />
  When he ran his mind over the whole of this strange Russian campaign in
  which not one battle had been won, and in which not a flag, or cannon, or
  army corps had been captured in two months, when he looked at the
  concealed depression on the faces around him and heard reports of the
  Russians still holding their ground&mdash;a terrible feeling like a
  nightmare took possession of him, and all the unlucky accidents that might
  destroy him occurred to his mind. The Russians might fall on his left
  wing, might break through his center, he himself might be killed by a
  stray cannon ball. All this was possible. In former battles he had only
  considered the possibilities of success, but now innumerable unlucky
  chances presented themselves, and he expected them all. Yes, it was like a
  dream in which a man fancies that a ruffian is coming to attack him, and
  raises his arm to strike that ruffian a terrible blow which he knows
  should annihilate him, but then feels that his arm drops powerless and
  limp like a rag, and the horror of unavoidable destruction seizes him in
  his helplessness.
<br />
  The news that the Russians were attacking the left flank of the French
  army aroused that horror in Napoleon. He sat silently on a campstool below
  the knoll, with head bowed and elbows on his knees. Berthier approached
  and suggested that they should ride along the line to ascertain the
  position of affairs.
<br />
  &ldquo;What? What do you say?&rdquo; asked Napoleon. &ldquo;Yes, tell them to bring me my
  horse.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He mounted and rode toward Semënovsk.
<br />
  Amid the powder smoke, slowly dispersing over the whole space through
  which Napoleon rode, horses and men were lying in pools of blood, singly
  or in heaps. Neither Napoleon nor any of his generals had ever before seen
  such horrors or so many slain in such a small area. The roar of guns, that
  had not ceased for ten hours, wearied the ear and gave a peculiar
  significance to the spectacle, as music does to . Napoleon
  rode up the high ground at Semënovsk, and through the smoke saw ranks of
  men in uniforms of a color unfamiliar to him. They were Russians.
<br />
  The Russians stood in serried ranks behind Semënovsk village and its
  knoll, and their guns boomed incessantly along their line and sent forth
  clouds of smoke. It was no longer a battle: it was a continuous slaughter
  which could be of no avail either to the French or the Russians. Napoleon
  stopped his horse and again fell into the reverie from which Berthier had
  aroused him. He could not stop what was going on before him and around him
  and was supposed to be directed by him and to depend on him, and from its
  lack of success this affair, for the first time, seemed to him unnecessary
  and horrible.
<br />
  One of the generals rode up to Napoleon and ventured to offer to lead the
  Old Guard into action. Ney and Berthier, standing near Napoleon, exchanged
  looks and smiled contemptuously at this general&rsquo;s senseless offer.
<br />
  Napoleon bowed his head and remained silent a long time.
<br />
  &ldquo;At eight hundred leagues from France, I will not have my Guard
  destroyed!&rdquo; he said, and turning his horse rode back to Shevárdino.

  CHAPTER XXXV


  On the rug-covered bench where Pierre had seen him in the morning sat
  Kutúzov, his gray head hanging, his heavy body relaxed. He gave no orders,
  but only assented to or dissented from what others suggested.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes, do that,&rdquo; he replied to various proposals. &ldquo;Yes, yes: go, dear
  boy, and have a look,&rdquo; he would say to one or another of those about him;
  or, &ldquo;No, don&rsquo;t, we&rsquo;d better wait!&rdquo; He listened to the reports that were
  brought him and gave directions when his subordinates demanded that of
  him; but when listening to the reports it seemed as if he were not
  interested in the import of the words spoken, but rather in something else&mdash;in
  the expression of face and tone of voice of those who were reporting. By
  long years of military experience he knew, and with the wisdom of age
  understood, that it is impossible for one man to direct hundreds of
  thousands of others struggling with death, and he knew that the result of
  a battle is decided not by the orders of a commander in chief, nor the
  place where the troops are stationed, nor by the number of cannon or of
  slaughtered men, but by that intangible force called the spirit of the
  army, and he watched this force and guided it in as far as that was in his
  power.
<br />
  Kutúzov&rsquo;s general expression was one of concentrated quiet attention, and
  his face wore a strained look as if he found it difficult to master the
  fatigue of his old and feeble body.
<br />
  At eleven o&rsquo;clock they brought him news that the  captured by
  the French had been retaken, but that Prince Bagratión was wounded. Kutúzov
  groaned and swayed his head.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ride over to Prince Peter Ivánovich and find out about it exactly,&rdquo; he
  said to one of his adjutants, and then turned to the Duke of Württemberg
  who was standing behind him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Will Your Highness please take command of the first army?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Soon after the duke&rsquo;s departure&mdash;before he could possibly have
  reached Semënovsk&mdash;his adjutant came back from him and told Kutúzov
  that the duke asked for more troops.
<br />
  Kutúzov made a grimace and sent an order to Dokhtúrov to take over the
  command of the first army, and a request to the duke&mdash;whom he said he
  could not spare at such an important moment&mdash;to return to him. When
  they brought him news that Murat had been taken prisoner, and the staff
  officers congratulated him, Kutúzov smiled.
<br />
  &ldquo;Wait a little, gentlemen,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;The battle is won, and there is
  nothing extraordinary in the capture of Murat. Still, it is better to wait
  before we rejoice.&rdquo;
 <br />
  But he sent an adjutant to take the news round the army.
<br />
  When Scherbínin came galloping from the left flank with news that the
  French had captured the  and the village of Semënovsk, Kutúzov,
  guessing by the sounds of the battle and by Scherbínin&rsquo;s looks that the
  news was bad, rose as if to stretch his legs and, taking Scherbínin&rsquo;s arm,
  led him aside.
<br />
  &ldquo;Go, my dear fellow,&rdquo; he said to Ermólov, &ldquo;and see whether something can&rsquo;t
  be done.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Kutúzov was in Górki, near the center of the Russian position. The attack
  directed by Napoleon against our left flank had been several times
  repulsed. In the center the French had not got beyond Borodinó, and on
  their left flank Uvárov&rsquo;s cavalry had put the French to flight.
<br />
  Toward three o&rsquo;clock the French attacks ceased. On the faces of all who
  came from the field of battle, and of those who stood around him, Kutúzov
  noticed an expression of extreme tension. He was satisfied with the day&rsquo;s
  success&mdash;a success exceeding his expectations, but the old man&rsquo;s
  strength was failing him. Several times his head dropped low as if it were
  falling and he dozed off. Dinner was brought him.
<br />
  Adjutant General Wolzogen, the man who when riding past Prince Andrew had
  said, &ldquo;the war should be extended widely,&rdquo; and whom Bagratión so detested,
  rode up while Kutúzov was at dinner. Wolzogen had come from Barclay de
  Tolly to report on the progress of affairs on the left flank. The
  sagacious Barclay de Tolly, seeing crowds of wounded men running back and
  the disordered rear of the army, weighed all the circumstances, concluded
  that the battle was lost, and sent his favorite officer to the commander
  in chief with that news.
<br />
  Kutúzov was chewing a piece of roast chicken with difficulty and glanced
  at Wolzogen with eyes that brightened under their puckering lids.
<br />
  Wolzogen, nonchalantly stretching his legs, approached Kutúzov with a
  half-contemptuous smile on his lips, scarcely touching the peak of his
  cap.
<br />
  He treated his Serene Highness with a somewhat affected nonchalance
  intended to show that, as a highly trained military man, he left it to
  Russians to make an idol of this useless old man, but that he knew whom he
  was dealing with.  (as in their own set the
  Germans called Kutúzov) &ldquo;is making himself very comfortable,&rdquo; thought
  Wolzogen, and looking severely at the dishes in front of Kutúzov he began to report
  to &ldquo;the old gentleman&rdquo; the position of affairs on the left flank as
  Barclay had ordered him to and as he himself had seen and understood it.
<br />
  &ldquo;All the points of our position are in the enemy&rsquo;s hands and we cannot
  dislodge them for lack of troops, the men are running away and it is
  impossible to stop them,&rdquo; he reported.
<br />
  Kutúzov ceased chewing and fixed an astonished gaze on Wolzogen, as if not
  understanding what was said to him. Wolzogen, noticing &ldquo;the old
  gentleman&rsquo;s&rdquo; agitation, said with a smile:
<br />
  &ldquo;I have not considered it right to conceal from your Serene Highness what
  I have seen. The troops are in complete disorder....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You have seen? You have seen?...&rdquo; Kutúzov shouted. Frowning and rising
  quickly, he went up to Wolzogen.
<br />
  &ldquo;How... how dare you!...&rdquo; he shouted, choking and making a threatening
  gesture with his trembling arms: &ldquo;How dare you, sir, say that to 
  You know nothing about it. Tell General Barclay from me that his information
  is incorrect and that the real course of the battle is better known to me,
  the commander in chief, than to him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Wolzogen was about to make a rejoinder, but Kutúzov interrupted him.
<br />
  &ldquo;The enemy has been repulsed on the left and defeated on the right flank.
  If you have seen amiss, sir, do not allow yourself to say what you don&rsquo;t
  know! Be so good as to ride to General Barclay and inform him of my firm
  intention to attack the enemy tomorrow,&rdquo; said Kutúzov sternly.
<br />
  All were silent, and the only sound audible was the heavy breathing of the
  panting old general.
<br />
  &ldquo;They are repulsed everywhere, for which I thank God and our brave army!
  The enemy is beaten, and tomorrow we shall drive him from the sacred soil
  of Russia,&rdquo; said Kutúzov crossing himself, and he suddenly sobbed as his
  eyes filled with tears.
<br />
  Wolzogen, shrugging his shoulders and curling his lips, stepped silently
  aside, marveling at &ldquo;the old gentleman&rsquo;s&rdquo; conceited stupidity.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, here he is, my hero!&rdquo; said Kutúzov to a portly, handsome, dark-haired
  general who was just ascending the knoll.
<br />
  This was Raévski, who had spent the whole day at the most important part
  of the field of Borodinó.
<br />
  Raévski reported that the troops were firmly holding their ground and that
  the French no longer ventured to attack.
<br />
  After hearing him, Kutúzov said in French:
<br />
  &ldquo;Then you do not think, , that we must retreat?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;On the contrary, your Highness, in indecisive actions it is always the
  most stubborn who remain victors,&rdquo; replied Raévski, &ldquo;and in my opinion...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Kaysárov!&rdquo; Kutúzov called to his adjutant. &ldquo;Sit down and write out the
  order of the day for tomorrow. And you,&rdquo; he continued, addressing another,
  &ldquo;ride along the line and announce that tomorrow we attack.&rdquo;
 <br />
  While Kutúzov was talking to Raévski and dictating the order of the day,
  Wolzogen returned from Barclay and said that General Barclay wished to
  have written confirmation of the order the field marshal had given.
<br />
  Kutúzov, without looking at Wolzogen, gave directions for the order to be
  written out which the former commander in chief, to avoid personal
  responsibility, very judiciously wished to receive.
<br />
  And by means of that mysterious indefinable bond which maintains
  throughout an army one and the same temper, known as &ldquo;the spirit of the
  army,&rdquo; and which constitutes the sinew of war, Kutúzov&rsquo;s words, his order
  for a battle next day, immediately became known from one end of the army
  to the other.
<br />
  It was far from being the same words or the same order that reached the
  farthest links of that chain. The tales passing from mouth to mouth at
  different ends of the army did not even resemble what Kutúzov had said,
  but the sense of his words spread everywhere because what he said was not
  the outcome of cunning calculations, but of a feeling that lay in the
  commander in chief&rsquo;s soul as in that of every Russian.
<br />
  And on learning that tomorrow they were to attack the enemy, and hearing
  from the highest quarters a confirmation of what they wanted to believe,
  the exhausted, wavering men felt comforted and inspirited.

  CHAPTER XXXVI


  Prince Andrew&rsquo;s regiment was among the reserves which till after one
  o&rsquo;clock were stationed inactive behind Semënovsk, under heavy artillery
  fire. Toward two o&rsquo;clock the regiment, having already lost more than two
  hundred men, was moved forward into a trampled oatfield in the gap between
  Semënovsk and the Knoll Battery, where thousands of men perished that day
  and on which an intense, concentrated fire from several hundred enemy guns
  was directed between one and two o&rsquo;clock.
<br />
  Without moving from that spot or firing a single shot the regiment here
  lost another third of its men. From in front and especially from the
  right, in the unlifting smoke the guns boomed, and out of the mysterious
  domain of smoke that overlay the whole space in front, quick hissing
  cannon balls and slow whistling shells flew unceasingly. At times, as if
  to allow them a respite, a quarter of an hour passed during which the
  cannon balls and shells all flew overhead, but sometimes several men were
  torn from the regiment in a minute and the slain were continually being
  dragged away and the wounded carried off.
<br />
  With each fresh blow less and less chance of life remained for those not
  yet killed. The regiment stood in columns of battalion, three hundred
  paces apart, but nevertheless the men were always in one and the same
  mood. All alike were taciturn and morose. Talk was rarely heard in the
  ranks, and it ceased altogether every time the thud of a successful shot
  and the cry of &ldquo;stretchers!&rdquo; was heard. Most of the time, by their
  officers&rsquo; order, the men sat on the ground. One, having taken off his
  shako, carefully loosened the gathers of its lining and drew them tight
  again; another, rubbing some dry clay between his palms, polished his
  bayonet; another fingered the strap and pulled the buckle of his
  bandolier, while another smoothed and refolded his leg bands and put his
  boots on again. Some built little houses of the tufts in the plowed
  ground, or plaited baskets from the straw in the cornfield. All seemed
  fully absorbed in these pursuits. When men were killed or wounded, when
  rows of stretchers went past, when some troops retreated, and when great
  masses of the enemy came into view through the smoke, no one paid any
  attention to these things. But when our artillery or cavalry advanced or
  some of our infantry were seen to move forward, words of approval were
  heard on all sides. But the liveliest attention was attracted by
  occurrences quite apart from, and unconnected with, the battle. It was as
  if the minds of these morally exhausted men found relief in everyday,
  commonplace occurrences. A battery of artillery was passing in front of
  the regiment. The horse of an ammunition cart put its leg over a trace.
  &ldquo;Hey, look at the trace horse!... Get her leg out! She&rsquo;ll fall.... Ah,
  they don&rsquo;t see it!&rdquo; came identical shouts from the ranks all along the
  regiment. Another time, general attention was attracted by a small brown
  dog, coming heaven knows whence, which trotted in a preoccupied manner in
  front of the ranks with tail stiffly erect till suddenly a shell fell
  close by, when it yelped, tucked its tail between its legs, and darted
  aside. Yells and shrieks of laughter rose from the whole regiment. But
  such distractions lasted only a moment, and for eight hours the men had
  been inactive, without food, in constant fear of death, and their pale and
  gloomy faces grew ever paler and gloomier.
<br />
  Prince Andrew, pale and gloomy like everyone in the regiment, paced up and
  down from the border of one patch to another, at the edge of the meadow
  beside an oatfield, with head bowed and arms behind his back. There was
  nothing for him to do and no orders to be given. Everything went on of
  itself. The killed were dragged from the front, the wounded carried away,
  and the ranks closed up. If any soldiers ran to the rear they returned
  immediately and hastily. At first Prince Andrew, considering it his duty
  to rouse the courage of the men and to set them an example, walked about
  among the ranks, but he soon became convinced that this was unnecessary
  and that there was nothing he could teach them. All the powers of his
  soul, as of every soldier there, were unconsciously bent on avoiding the
  contemplation of the horrors of their situation. He walked along the
  meadow, dragging his feet, rustling the grass, and gazing at the dust that
  covered his boots; now he took big strides trying to keep to the
  footprints left on the meadow by the mowers, then he counted his steps,
  calculating how often he must walk from one strip to another to walk a
  mile, then he stripped the flowers from the wormwood that grew along a
  boundary rut, rubbed them in his palms, and smelled their pungent, sweetly
  bitter scent. Nothing remained of the previous day&rsquo;s thoughts. He thought
  of nothing. He listened with weary ears to the ever-recurring sounds,
  distinguishing the whistle of flying projectiles from the booming of the
  reports, glanced at the tiresomely familiar faces of the men of the first
  battalion, and waited. &ldquo;Here it comes... this one is coming our way
  again!&rdquo; he thought, listening to an approaching whistle in the hidden
  region of smoke. &ldquo;One, another! Again! It has hit....&rdquo; He stopped and
  looked at the ranks. &ldquo;No, it has gone over. But this one has hit!&rdquo; And
  again he started trying to reach the boundary strip in sixteen paces. A
  whizz and a thud! Five paces from him, a cannon ball tore up the dry earth
  and disappeared. A chill ran down his back. Again he glanced at the ranks.
  Probably many had been hit&mdash;a large crowd had gathered near the
  second battalion.
<br />
  &ldquo;Adjutant!&rdquo; he shouted. &ldquo;Order them not to crowd together.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The adjutant, having obeyed this instruction, approached Prince Andrew.
  From the other side a battalion commander rode up.
<br />
  &ldquo;Look out!&rdquo; came a frightened cry from a soldier and, like a bird whirring
  in rapid flight and alighting on the ground, a shell dropped with little
  noise within two steps of Prince Andrew and close to the battalion
  commander&rsquo;s horse. The horse first, regardless of whether it was right or
  wrong to show fear, snorted, reared almost throwing the major, and
  galloped aside. The horse&rsquo;s terror infected the men.
<br />
  &ldquo;Lie down!&rdquo; cried the adjutant, throwing himself flat on the ground.
<br />
  Prince Andrew hesitated. The smoking shell spun like a top between him and
  the prostrate adjutant, near a wormwood plant between the field and the
  meadow.
<br />
  &ldquo;Can this be death?&rdquo; thought Prince Andrew, looking with a quite new,
  envious glance at the grass, the wormwood, and the streamlet of smoke that
  curled up from the rotating black ball. &ldquo;I cannot, I do not wish to die. I
  love life&mdash;I love this grass, this earth, this air....&rdquo; He thought
  this, and at the same time remembered that people were looking at him.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s shameful, sir!&rdquo; he said to the adjutant. &ldquo;What...&rdquo;
 <br />
  He did not finish speaking. At one and the same moment came the sound of
  an explosion, a whistle of splinters as from a breaking window frame, a
  suffocating smell of powder, and Prince Andrew started to one side,
  raising his arm, and fell on his chest. Several officers ran up to him.
  From the right side of his abdomen, blood was welling out making a large
  stain on the grass.
<br />
  The militiamen with stretchers who were called up stood behind the
  officers. Prince Andrew lay on his chest with his face in the grass,
  breathing heavily and noisily.
<br />
  &ldquo;What are you waiting for? Come along!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The peasants went up and took him by his shoulders and legs, but he moaned
  piteously and, exchanging looks, they set him down again.
<br />
  &ldquo;Pick him up, lift him, it&rsquo;s all the same!&rdquo; cried someone.
<br />
  They again took him by the shoulders and laid him on the stretcher.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, God! My God! What is it? The stomach? That means death! My God!&rdquo;&mdash;voices
  among the officers were heard saying.
<br />
  &ldquo;It flew a hair&rsquo;s breadth past my ear,&rdquo; said the adjutant.
<br />
  The peasants, adjusting the stretcher to their shoulders, started
  hurriedly along the path they had trodden down, to the dressing station.
<br />
  &ldquo;Keep in step! Ah... those peasants!&rdquo; shouted an officer, seizing by their
  shoulders and checking the peasants, who were walking unevenly and jolting
  the stretcher.
<br />
  &ldquo;Get into step, Fëdor... I say, Fëdor!&rdquo; said the foremost peasant.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now that&rsquo;s right!&rdquo; said the one behind joyfully, when he had got into
  step.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your excellency! Eh, Prince!&rdquo; said the trembling voice of Timókhin, who
  had run up and was looking down on the stretcher.
<br />
  Prince Andrew opened his eyes and looked up at the speaker from the
  stretcher into which his head had sunk deep and again his eyelids drooped.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  The militiamen carried Prince Andrew to the dressing station by the wood,
  where wagons were stationed. The dressing station consisted of three tents
  with flaps turned back, pitched at the edge of a birch wood. In the wood,
  wagons and horses were standing. The horses were eating oats from their
  movable troughs and sparrows flew down and pecked the grains that fell.
  Some crows, scenting blood, flew among the birch trees cawing impatiently.
  Around the tents, over more than five acres, bloodstained men in various
  garbs stood, sat, or lay. Around the wounded stood crowds of soldier
  stretcher-bearers with dismal and attentive faces, whom the officers
  keeping order tried in vain to drive from the spot. Disregarding the
  officers&rsquo; orders, the soldiers stood leaning against their stretchers and
  gazing intently, as if trying to comprehend the difficult problem of what
  was taking place before them. From the tents came now loud angry cries and
  now plaintive groans. Occasionally dressers ran out to fetch water, or to
  point out those who were to be brought in next. The wounded men awaiting
  their turn outside the tents groaned, sighed, wept, screamed, swore, or
  asked for vodka. Some were delirious. Prince Andrew&rsquo;s bearers, stepping
  over the wounded who had not yet been bandaged, took him, as a regimental
  commander, close up to one of the tents and there stopped, awaiting
  instructions. Prince Andrew opened his eyes and for a long time could not
  make out what was going on around him. He remembered the meadow, the
  wormwood, the field, the whirling black ball, and his sudden rush of
  passionate love of life. Two steps from him, leaning against a branch and
  talking loudly and attracting general attention, stood a tall, handsome,
  black-haired noncommissioned officer with a bandaged head. He had been
  wounded in the head and leg by bullets. Around him, eagerly listening to
  his talk, a crowd of wounded and stretcher-bearers was gathered.
<br />
  &ldquo;We kicked  out from there so that he chucked everything, we grabbed
  the King himself!&rdquo; cried he, looking around him with eyes that glittered
  with fever. &ldquo;If only reserves had come up just then, lads, there wouldn&rsquo;t
  have been nothing left of him! I tell you surely....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Like all the others near the speaker, Prince Andrew looked at him with
  shining eyes and experienced a sense of comfort. &ldquo;But isn&rsquo;t it all the
  same now?&rdquo; thought he. &ldquo;And what will be there, and what has there been
  here? Why was I so reluctant to part with life? There was something in
  this life I did not and do not understand.&rdquo;

  CHAPTER XXXVII


  One of the doctors came out of the tent in a bloodstained apron, holding a
  cigar between the thumb and little finger of one of his small bloodstained
  hands, so as not to smear it. He raised his head and looked about him, but
  above the level of the wounded men. He evidently wanted a little respite.
  After turning his head from right to left for some time, he sighed and
  looked down.
<br />
  &ldquo;All right, immediately,&rdquo; he replied to a dresser who pointed Prince
  Andrew out to him, and he told them to carry him into the tent.
<br />
  Murmurs arose among the wounded who were waiting.
<br />
  &ldquo;It seems that even in the next world only the gentry are to have a
  chance!&rdquo; remarked one.
<br />
  Prince Andrew was carried in and laid on a table that had only just been
  cleared and which a dresser was washing down. Prince Andrew could not make
  out distinctly what was in that tent. The pitiful groans from all sides
  and the torturing pain in his thigh, stomach, and back distracted him. All
  he saw about him merged into a general impression of naked, bleeding human
  bodies that seemed to fill the whole of the low tent, as a few weeks
  previously, on that hot August day, such bodies had filled the dirty pond
  beside the Smolénsk road. Yes, it was the same flesh, the same , the sight of which had even then filled him with horror, as by a
  presentiment.
<br />
  There were three operating tables in the tent. Two were occupied, and on
  the third they placed Prince Andrew. For a little while he was left alone
  and involuntarily witnessed what was taking place on the other two tables.
  On the nearest one sat a Tartar, probably a Cossack, judging by the
  uniform thrown down beside him. Four soldiers were holding him, and a
  spectacled doctor was cutting into his muscular brown back.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ooh, ooh, ooh!&rdquo; grunted the Tartar, and suddenly lifting up his swarthy
  snub-nosed face with its high cheekbones, and baring his white teeth, he
  began to wriggle and twitch his body and utter piercing, ringing, and
  prolonged yells. On the other table, round which many people were
  crowding, a tall well-fed man lay on his back with his head thrown back.
  His curly hair, its color, and the shape of his head seemed strangely
  familiar to Prince Andrew. Several dressers were pressing on his chest to
  hold him down. One large, white, plump leg twitched rapidly all the time
  with a feverish tremor. The man was sobbing and choking convulsively. Two
  doctors&mdash;one of whom was pale and trembling&mdash;were silently doing
  something to this man&rsquo;s other, gory leg. When he had finished with the
  Tartar, whom they covered with an overcoat, the spectacled doctor came up
  to Prince Andrew, wiping his hands.
<br />
  He glanced at Prince Andrew&rsquo;s face and quickly turned away.
<br />
  &ldquo;Undress him! What are you waiting for?&rdquo; he cried angrily to the dressers.
<br />
  His very first, remotest recollections of childhood came back to Prince
  Andrew&rsquo;s mind when the dresser with sleeves rolled up began hastily to
  undo the buttons of his clothes and undressed him. The doctor bent down
  over the wound, felt it, and sighed deeply. Then he made a sign to
  someone, and the torturing pain in his abdomen caused Prince Andrew to
  lose consciousness. When he came to himself the splintered portions of his
  thighbone had been extracted, the torn flesh cut away, and the wound
  bandaged. Water was being sprinkled on his face. As soon as Prince Andrew
  opened his eyes, the doctor bent over, kissed him silently on the lips,
  and hurried away.
<br />
  After the sufferings he had been enduring, Prince Andrew enjoyed a
  blissful feeling such as he had not experienced for a long time. All the
  best and happiest moments of his life&mdash;especially his earliest
  childhood, when he used to be undressed and put to bed, and when leaning
  over him his nurse sang him to sleep and he, burying his head in the
  pillow, felt happy in the mere consciousness of life&mdash;returned to his
  memory, not merely as something past but as something present.
<br />
  The doctors were busily engaged with the wounded man the shape of whose
  head seemed familiar to Prince Andrew: they were lifting him up and trying
  to quiet him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Show it to me.... Oh, ooh... Oh! Oh, ooh!&rdquo; his frightened moans could be
  heard, subdued by suffering and broken by sobs.
<br />
  Hearing those moans Prince Andrew wanted to weep. Whether because he was
  dying without glory, or because he was sorry to part with life, or because
  of those memories of a childhood that could not return, or because he was
  suffering and others were suffering and that man near him was groaning so
  piteously&mdash;he felt like weeping childlike, kindly, and almost happy
  tears.
<br />
  The wounded man was shown his amputated leg stained with clotted blood and
  with the boot still on.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh! Oh, ooh!&rdquo; he sobbed, like a woman.
<br />
  The doctor who had been standing beside him, preventing Prince Andrew from
  seeing his face, moved away.
<br />
  &ldquo;My God! What is this? Why is he here?&rdquo; said Prince Andrew to himself.
<br />
  In the miserable, sobbing, enfeebled man whose leg had just been
  amputated, he recognized Anatole Kurágin. Men were supporting him in their
  arms and offering him a glass of water, but his trembling, swollen lips
  could not grasp its rim. Anatole was sobbing painfully. &ldquo;Yes, it is he!
  Yes, that man is somehow closely and painfully connected with me,&rdquo; thought
  Prince Andrew, not yet clearly grasping what he saw before him. &ldquo;What is
  the connection of that man with my childhood and life?&rdquo; he asked himself
  without finding an answer. And suddenly a new unexpected memory from that
  realm of pure and loving childhood presented itself to him. He remembered
  Natásha as he had seen her for the first time at the ball in 1810, with
  her slender neck and arms and with a frightened happy face ready for
  rapture, and love and tenderness for her, stronger and more vivid than
  ever, awoke in his soul. He now remembered the connection that existed
  between himself and this man who was dimly gazing at him through tears
  that filled his swollen eyes. He remembered everything, and ecstatic pity
  and love for that man overflowed his happy heart.
<br />
  Prince Andrew could no longer restrain himself and wept tender loving
  tears for his fellow men, for himself, and for his own and their errors.
<br />
  &ldquo;Compassion, love of our brothers, for those who love us and for those who
  hate us, love of our enemies; yes, that love which God preached on earth
  and which Princess Mary taught me and I did not understand&mdash;that is
  what made me sorry to part with life, that is what remained for me had I
  lived. But now it is too late. I know it!&rdquo;

  CHAPTER XXXVIII


  The terrible spectacle of the battlefield covered with dead and wounded,
  together with the heaviness of his head and the news that some twenty
  generals he knew personally had been killed or wounded, and the
  consciousness of the impotence of his once mighty arm, produced an
  unexpected impression on Napoleon who usually liked to look at the killed
  and wounded, thereby, he considered, testing his strength of mind. This
  day the horrible appearance of the battlefield overcame that strength of
  mind which he thought constituted his merit and his greatness. He rode
  hurriedly from the battlefield and returned to the Shevárdino knoll, where
  he sat on his campstool, his sallow face swollen and heavy, his eyes dim,
  his nose red, and his voice hoarse, involuntarily listening, with downcast
  eyes, to the sounds of firing. With painful dejection he awaited the end
  of this action, in which he regarded himself as a participant and which he
  was unable to arrest. A personal, human feeling for a brief moment got the
  better of the artificial phantasm of life he had served so long. He felt
  in his own person the sufferings and death he had witnessed on the
  battlefield. The heaviness of his head and chest reminded him of the
  possibility of suffering and death for himself. At that moment he did not
  desire Moscow, or victory, or glory (what need had he for any more
  glory?). The one thing he wished for was rest, tranquillity, and freedom.
  But when he had been on the Semënovsk heights the artillery commander had
  proposed to him to bring several batteries of artillery up to those
  heights to strengthen the fire on the Russian troops crowded in front of
  Knyazkóvo. Napoleon had assented and had given orders that news should be
  brought to him of the effect those batteries produced.
<br />
  An adjutant came now to inform him that the fire of two hundred guns had
  been concentrated on the Russians, as he had ordered, but that they still
  held their ground.
<br />
  &ldquo;Our fire is mowing them down by rows, but still they hold on,&rdquo; said the
  adjutant.
<br />
  &ldquo;They want more!...&rdquo; said Napoleon in a hoarse voice.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sire?&rdquo; asked the adjutant who had not heard the remark.
<br />
  &ldquo;They want more!&rdquo; croaked Napoleon frowning. &ldquo;Let them have it!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Even before he gave that order the thing he did not desire, and for which
  he gave the order only because he thought it was expected of him, was
  being done. And he fell back into that artificial realm of imaginary
  greatness, and again&mdash;as a horse walking a treadmill thinks it is
  doing something for itself&mdash;he submissively fulfilled the cruel, sad,
  gloomy, and inhuman role predestined for him.
<br />
  And not for that day and hour alone were the mind and conscience darkened
  of this man on whom the responsibility for what was happening lay more
  than on all the others who took part in it. Never to the end of his life
  could he understand goodness, beauty, or truth, or the significance of his
  actions which were too contrary to goodness and truth, too remote from
  everything human, for him ever to be able to grasp their meaning. He could
  not disavow his actions, belauded as they were by half the world, and so
  he had to repudiate truth, goodness, and all humanity.
<br />
  Not only on that day, as he rode over the battlefield strewn with men
  killed and maimed (by his will as he believed), did he reckon as he looked
  at them how many Russians there were for each Frenchman and, deceiving
  himself, find reason for rejoicing in the calculation that there were five
  Russians for every Frenchman. Not on that day alone did he write in a
  letter to Paris that &ldquo;the battle field was superb,&rdquo; because fifty thousand
  corpses lay there, but even on the island of St. Helena in the peaceful
  solitude where he said he intended to devote his leisure to an account of
  the great deeds he had done, he wrote:
<br />
  The Russian war should have been the most popular war of modern times: it
  was a war of good sense, for real interests, for the tranquillity and
  security of all; it was purely pacific and conservative.
<br />
  It was a war for a great cause, the end of uncertainties and the beginning
  of security. A new horizon and new labors were opening out, full of
  well-being and prosperity for all. The European system was already
  founded; all that remained was to organize it.
<br />
  Satisfied on these great points and with tranquility everywhere, I too
  should have had my  and my . Those ideas were
  stolen from me. In that reunion of great sovereigns we should have discussed our
  interests like one family, and have rendered account to the peoples as
  clerk to master.
<br />
  Europe would in this way soon have been, in fact, but one people, and
  anyone who traveled anywhere would have found himself always in the common
  fatherland. I should have demanded the freedom of all navigable rivers for
  everybody, that the seas should be common to all, and that the great
  standing armies should be reduced henceforth to mere guards for the
  sovereigns.
<br />
  On returning to France, to the bosom of the great, strong, magnificent,
  peaceful, and glorious fatherland, I should have proclaimed her frontiers
  immutable; all future wars purely , all aggrandizement
  . I should have associated my son in the Empire; my
   would have been finished, and his constitutional reign would
  have begun.
<br />
  Paris would have been the capital of the world, and the French the envy of
  the nations!
<br />
  My leisure then, and my old age, would have been devoted, in company with
  the Empress and during the royal apprenticeship of my son, to leisurely
  visiting, with our own horses and like a true country couple, every corner
  of the Empire, receiving complaints, redressing wrongs, and scattering
  public buildings and benefactions on all sides and everywhere.
<br />
  Napoleon, predestined by Providence for the gloomy role of executioner of
  the peoples, assured himself that the aim of his actions had been the
  peoples&rsquo; welfare and that he could control the fate of millions and by the
  employment of power confer benefactions.
<br />
  &ldquo;Of four hundred thousand who crossed the Vistula,&rdquo; he wrote further of
  the Russian war, &ldquo;half were Austrians, Prussians, Saxons, Poles,
  Bavarians, Württembergers, Mecklenburgers, Spaniards, Italians, and
  Neapolitans. The Imperial army, strictly speaking, was one third composed
  of Dutch, Belgians, men from the borders of the Rhine, Piedmontese, Swiss,
  Genevese, Tuscans, Romans, inhabitants of the Thirty-second Military
  Division, of Bremen, of Hamburg, and so on: it included scarcely a hundred
  and forty thousand who spoke French. The Russian expedition actually cost
  France less than fifty thousand men; the Russian army in its retreat from
  Vílna to Moscow lost in the various battles four times more men than the
  French army; the burning of Moscow cost the lives of a hundred thousand
  Russians who died of cold and want in the woods; finally, in its march
  from Moscow to the Oder the Russian army also suffered from the severity
  of the season; so that by the time it reached Vílna it numbered only fifty
  thousand, and at Kálisch less than eighteen thousand.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He imagined that the war with Russia came about by his will, and the
  horrors that occurred did not stagger his soul. He boldly took the whole
  responsibility for what happened, and his darkened mind found
  justification in the belief that among the hundreds of thousands who
  perished there were fewer Frenchmen than Hessians and Bavarians.

  CHAPTER XXXIX


  Several tens of thousands of the slain lay in diverse postures and various
  uniforms on the fields and meadows belonging to the Davýdov family and to
  the crown serfs&mdash;those fields and meadows where for hundreds of years
  the peasants of Borodinó, Górki, Shevárdino, and Semënovsk had reaped
  their harvests and pastured their cattle. At the dressing stations the
  grass and earth were soaked with blood for a space of some three acres
  around. Crowds of men of various arms, wounded and unwounded, with
  frightened faces, dragged themselves back to Mozháysk from the one army
  and back to Valúevo from the other. Other crowds, exhausted and hungry,
  went forward led by their officers. Others held their ground and continued
  to fire.
<br />
  Over the whole field, previously so gaily beautiful with the glitter of
  bayonets and cloudlets of smoke in the morning sun, there now spread a
  mist of damp and smoke and a strange acid smell of saltpeter and blood.
  Clouds gathered and drops of rain began to fall on the dead and wounded,
  on the frightened, exhausted, and hesitating men, as if to say: &ldquo;Enough,
  men! Enough! Cease... bethink yourselves! What are you doing?&rdquo;
 <br />
  To the men of both sides alike, worn out by want of food and rest, it
  began equally to appear doubtful whether they should continue to slaughter
  one another; all the faces expressed hesitation, and the question arose in
  every soul: &ldquo;For what, for whom, must I kill and be killed?... You may go
  and kill whom you please, but I don&rsquo;t want to do so any more!&rdquo; By
  evening this thought had ripened in every soul. At any moment these men might
  have been seized with horror at what they were doing and might have thrown
  up everything and run away anywhere.
<br />
  But though toward the end of the battle the men felt all the horror of
  what they were doing, though they would have been glad to leave off, some
  incomprehensible, mysterious power continued to control them, and they
  still brought up the charges, loaded, aimed, and applied the match, though
  only one artilleryman survived out of every three, and though they
  stumbled and panted with fatigue, perspiring and stained with blood and
  powder. The cannon balls flew just as swiftly and cruelly from both sides,
  crushing human bodies, and that terrible work which was not done by the
  will of a man but at the will of Him who governs men and worlds continued.
<br />
  Anyone looking at the disorganized rear of the Russian army would have
  said that, if only the French made one more slight effort, it would
  disappear; and anyone looking at the rear of the French army would have
  said that the Russians need only make one more slight effort and the
  French would be destroyed. But neither the French nor the Russians made
  that effort, and the flame of battle burned slowly out.
<br />
  The Russians did not make that effort because they were not attacking the
  French. At the beginning of the battle they stood blocking the way to
  Moscow and they still did so at the end of the battle as at the beginning.
  But even had the aim of the Russians been to drive the French from their
  positions, they could not have made this last effort, for all the Russian
  troops had been broken up, there was no part of the Russian army that had
  not suffered in the battle, and though still holding their positions they
  had lost ONE HALF of their army.
<br />
  The French, with the memory of all their former victories during fifteen
  years, with the assurance of Napoleon&rsquo;s invincibility, with the
  consciousness that they had captured part of the battlefield and had lost
  only a quarter of their men and still had their Guards intact, twenty
  thousand strong, might easily have made that effort. The French who had
  attacked the Russian army in order to drive it from its position ought to
  have made that effort, for as long as the Russians continued to block the
  road to Moscow as before, the aim of the French had not been attained and
  all their efforts and losses were in vain. But the French did not make
  that effort. Some historians say that Napoleon need only have used his Old
  Guards, who were intact, and the battle would have been won. To speak of
  what would have happened had Napoleon sent his Guards is like talking of
  what would happen if autumn became spring. It could not be. Napoleon did
  not give his Guards, not because he did not want to, but because it could
  not be done. All the generals, officers, and soldiers of the French army
  knew it could not be done, because the flagging spirit of the troops would
  not permit it.
<br />
  It was not Napoleon alone who had experienced that nightmare feeling of
  the mighty arm being stricken powerless, but all the generals and soldiers
  of his army whether they had taken part in the battle or not, after all
  their experience of previous battles&mdash;when after one tenth of such
  efforts the enemy had fled&mdash;experienced a similar feeling of terror
  before an enemy who, after losing HALF his men, stood as threateningly at
  the end as at the beginning of the battle. The moral force of the
  attacking French army was exhausted. Not that sort of victory which is
  defined by the capture of pieces of material fastened to sticks, called
  standards, and of the ground on which the troops had stood and were
  standing, but a moral victory that convinces the enemy of the moral
  superiority of his opponent and of his own impotence was gained by the
  Russians at Borodinó. The French invaders, like an infuriated animal that
  has in its onslaught received a mortal wound, felt that they were
  perishing, but could not stop, any more than the Russian army, weaker by
  one half, could help swerving. By impetus gained, the French army was
  still able to roll forward to Moscow, but there, without further effort on
  the part of the Russians, it had to perish, bleeding from the mortal wound
  it had received at Borodinó. The direct consequence of the battle of
  Borodinó was Napoleon&rsquo;s senseless flight from Moscow, his retreat along
  the old Smolénsk road, the destruction of the invading army of five
  hundred thousand men, and the downfall of Napoleonic France, on which at
  Borodinó for the first time the hand of an opponent of stronger spirit had
  been laid.

  BOOK ELEVEN: 1812

  CHAPTER I


  Absolute continuity of motion is not comprehensible to the human mind.
  Laws of motion of any kind become comprehensible to man only when he
  examines arbitrarily selected elements of that motion; but at the same
  time, a large proportion of human error comes from the arbitrary division
  of continuous motion into discontinuous elements. There is a well-known,
  so-called sophism of the ancients consisting in this, that Achilles could
  never catch up with a tortoise he was following, in spite of the fact that
  he traveled ten times as fast as the tortoise. By the time Achilles has
  covered the distance that separated him from the tortoise, the tortoise
  has covered one tenth of that distance ahead of him: when Achilles has
  covered that tenth, the tortoise has covered another one hundredth, and so
  on forever. This problem seemed to the ancients insoluble. The absurd
  answer (that Achilles could never overtake the tortoise) resulted from
  this: that motion was arbitrarily divided into discontinuous elements,
  whereas the motion both of Achilles and of the tortoise was continuous.
<br />
  By adopting smaller and smaller elements of motion we only approach a
  solution of the problem, but never reach it. Only when we have admitted
  the conception of the infinitely small, and the resulting geometrical
  progression with a common ratio of one tenth, and have found the sum of
  this progression to infinity, do we reach a solution of the problem.
<br />
  A modern branch of mathematics having achieved the art of dealing with the
  infinitely small can now yield solutions in other more complex problems of
  motion which used to appear insoluble.
<br />
  This modern branch of mathematics, unknown to the ancients, when dealing
  with problems of motion admits the conception of the infinitely small, and
  so conforms to the chief condition of motion (absolute continuity) and
  thereby corrects the inevitable error which the human mind cannot avoid
  when it deals with separate elements of motion instead of examining
  continuous motion.
<br />
  In seeking the laws of historical movement just the same thing happens.
  The movement of humanity, arising as it does from innumerable arbitrary
  human wills, is continuous.
<br />
  To understand the laws of this continuous movement is the aim of history.
  But to arrive at these laws, resulting from the sum of all those human
  wills, man&rsquo;s mind postulates arbitrary and disconnected units. The first
  method of history is to take an arbitrarily selected series of continuous
  events and examine it apart from others, though there is and can be no
   to any event, for one event always flows uninterruptedly from
  another.
<br />
  The second method is to consider the actions of some one man&mdash;a king
  or a commander&mdash;as equivalent to the sum of many individual wills;
  whereas the sum of individual wills is never expressed by the activity of
  a single historic personage.
<br />
  Historical science in its endeavor to draw nearer to truth continually
  takes smaller and smaller units for examination. But however small the
  units it takes, we feel that to take any unit disconnected from others, or
  to assume a  of any phenomenon, or to say that the will of many
  men is expressed by the actions of any one historic personage, is in
  itself false.
<br />
  It needs no critical exertion to reduce utterly to dust any deductions
  drawn from history. It is merely necessary to select some larger or
  smaller unit as the subject of observation&mdash;as criticism has every
  right to do, seeing that whatever unit history observes must always be
  arbitrarily selected.
<br />
  Only by taking infinitesimally small units for observation (the
  differential of history, that is, the individual tendencies of men) and
  attaining to the art of integrating them (that is, finding the sum of
  these infinitesimals) can we hope to arrive at the laws of history.
<br />
  The first fifteen years of the nineteenth century in Europe present an
  extraordinary movement of millions of people. Men leave their customary
  pursuits, hasten from one side of Europe to the other, plunder and
  slaughter one another, triumph and are plunged in despair, and for some
  years the whole course of life is altered and presents an intensive
  movement which first increases and then slackens. What was the cause of
  this movement, by what laws was it governed? asks the mind of man.
<br />
  The historians, replying to this question, lay before us the sayings and
  doings of a few dozen men in a building in the city of Paris, calling
  these sayings and doings &ldquo;the Revolution&rdquo;; then they give a detailed
  biography of Napoleon and of certain people favorable or hostile to him;
  tell of the influence some of these people had on others, and say: that is
  why this movement took place and those are its laws.
<br />
  But the mind of man not only refuses to believe this explanation, but
  plainly says that this method of explanation is fallacious, because in it
  a weaker phenomenon is taken as the cause of a stronger. The sum of human
  wills produced the Revolution and Napoleon, and only the sum of those
  wills first tolerated and then destroyed them.
<br />
  &ldquo;But every time there have been conquests there have been conquerors;
  every time there has been a revolution in any state there have been great
  men,&rdquo; says history. And, indeed, human reason replies: every time
  conquerors appear there have been wars, but this does not prove that the
  conquerors caused the wars and that it is possible to find the laws of a
  war in the personal activity of a single man. Whenever I look at my watch
  and its hands point to ten, I hear the bells of the neighboring church;
  but because the bells begin to ring when the hands of the clock reach ten,
  I have no right to assume that the movement of the bells is caused by the
  position of the hands of the watch.
<br />
  Whenever I see the movement of a locomotive I hear the whistle and see the
  valves opening and wheels turning; but I have no right to conclude that
  the whistling and the turning of wheels are the cause of the movement of
  the engine.
<br />
  The peasants say that a cold wind blows in late spring because the oaks
  are budding, and really every spring cold winds do blow when the oak is
  budding. But though I do not know what causes the cold winds to blow when
  the oak buds unfold, I cannot agree with the peasants that the unfolding
  of the oak buds is the cause of the cold wind, for the force of the wind
  is beyond the influence of the buds. I see only a coincidence of
  occurrences such as happens with all the phenomena of life, and I see that
  however much and however carefully I observe the hands of the watch, and
  the valves and wheels of the engine, and the oak, I shall not discover the
  cause of the bells ringing, the engine moving, or of the winds of spring.
  To that I must entirely change my point of view and study the laws of the
  movement of steam, of the bells, and of the wind. History must do the
  same. And attempts in this direction have already been made.
<br />
  To study the laws of history we must completely change the subject of our
  observation, must leave aside kings, ministers, and generals, and study
  the common, infinitesimally small elements by which the masses are moved.
  No one can say in how far it is possible for man to advance in this way
  toward an understanding of the laws of history; but it is evident that
  only along that path does the possibility of discovering the laws of
  history lie, and that as yet not a millionth part as much mental effort
  has been applied in this direction by historians as has been devoted to
  describing the actions of various kings, commanders, and ministers and
  propounding the historians&rsquo; own reflections concerning these actions.

  CHAPTER II


  The forces of a dozen European nations burst into Russia. The Russian army
  and people avoided a collision till Smolénsk was reached, and again from
  Smolénsk to Borodinó. The French army pushed on to Moscow, its goal, its
  impetus ever increasing as it neared its aim, just as the velocity of a
  falling body increases as it approaches the earth. Behind it were seven
  hundred miles of hunger-stricken, hostile country; ahead were a few dozen
  miles separating it from its goal. Every soldier in Napoleon&rsquo;s army felt
  this and the invasion moved on by its own momentum.
<br />
  The more the Russian army retreated the more fiercely a spirit of hatred
  of the enemy flared up, and while it retreated the army increased and
  consolidated. At Borodinó a collision took place. Neither army was broken
  up, but the Russian army retreated immediately after the collision as
  inevitably as a ball recoils after colliding with another having a greater
  momentum, and with equal inevitability the ball of invasion that had
  advanced with such momentum rolled on for some distance, though the
  collision had deprived it of all its force.
<br />
  The Russians retreated eighty miles&mdash;to beyond Moscow&mdash;and the
  French reached Moscow and there came to a standstill. For five weeks after
  that there was not a single battle. The French did not move. As a
  bleeding, mortally wounded animal licks its wounds, they remained inert in
  Moscow for five weeks, and then suddenly, with no fresh reason, fled back:
  they made a dash for the Kalúga road, and (after a victory&mdash;for at
  Málo-Yaroslávets the field of conflict again remained theirs) without
  undertaking a single serious battle, they fled still more rapidly back to
  Smolénsk, beyond Smolénsk, beyond the Berëzina, beyond Vílna, and farther
  still.
<br />
  On the evening of the twenty-sixth of August, Kutúzov and the whole
  Russian army were convinced that the battle of Borodinó was a victory.
  Kutúzov reported so to the Emperor. He gave orders to prepare for a fresh
  conflict to finish the enemy and did this not to deceive anyone, but
  because he knew that the enemy was beaten, as everyone who had taken part
  in the battle knew it.
<br />
  But all that evening and next day reports came in one after another of
  unheard-of losses, of the loss of half the army, and a fresh battle proved
  physically impossible.
<br />
   to give battle before information had been collected,
  the wounded gathered in, the supplies of ammunition replenished, the slain
  reckoned up, new officers appointed to replace those who had been killed,
  and before the men had had food and sleep. And meanwhile, the very next
  morning after the battle, the French army advanced of itself upon the
  Russians, carried forward by the force of its own momentum now seemingly
  increased in inverse proportion to the square of the distance from its
  aim. Kutúzov&rsquo;s wish was to attack next day, and the whole army desired to
  do so. But to make an attack the wish to do so is not sufficient, there
  must also be a possibility of doing it, and that possibility did not
  exist. It was impossible not to retreat a day&rsquo;s march, and then in the
  same way it was impossible not to retreat another and a third day&rsquo;s march,
  and at last, on the first of September when the army drew near Moscow&mdash;despite
  the strength of the feeling that had arisen in all ranks&mdash;the force
  of circumstances compelled it to retire beyond Moscow. And the troops
  retired one more, last, day&rsquo;s march, and abandoned Moscow to the enemy.
<br />
  For people accustomed to think that plans of campaign and battles are made
  by generals&mdash;as anyone of us sitting over a map in his study may
  imagine how he would have arranged things in this or that battle&mdash;the
  questions present themselves: Why did Kutúzov during the retreat not do
  this or that? Why did he not take up a position before reaching Filí? Why
  did he not retire at once by the Kalúga road, abandoning Moscow? and so
  on. People accustomed to think in that way forget, or do not know, the
  inevitable conditions which always limit the activities of any commander
  in chief. The activity of a commander in chief does not at all resemble
  the activity we imagine to ourselves when we sit at ease in our studies
  examining some campaign on the map, with a certain number of troops on
  this and that side in a certain known locality, and begin our plans from
  some given moment. A commander in chief is never dealing with the
   of any event&mdash;the position from which we always contemplate
  it. The commander in chief is always in the midst of a series of shifting
  events and so he never can at any moment consider the whole import of an
  event that is occurring. Moment by moment the event is imperceptibly
  shaping itself, and at every moment of this continuous, uninterrupted
  shaping of events the commander in chief is in the midst of a most complex
  play of intrigues, worries, contingencies, authorities, projects,
  counsels, threats, and deceptions and is continually obliged to reply to
  innumerable questions addressed to him, which constantly conflict with one
  another.
<br />
  Learned military authorities quite seriously tell us that Kutúzov should
  have moved his army to the Kalúga road long before reaching Filí, and that
  somebody actually submitted such a proposal to him. But a commander in
  chief, especially at a difficult moment, has always before him not one
  proposal but dozens simultaneously. And all these proposals, based on
  strategics and tactics, contradict each other.
<br />
  A commander in chief&rsquo;s business, it would seem, is simply to choose one of
  these projects. But even that he cannot do. Events and time do not wait.
  For instance, on the twenty-eighth it is suggested to him to cross to the
  Kalúga road, but just then an adjutant gallops up from Milorádovich asking
  whether he is to engage the French or retire. An order must be given him
  at once, that instant. And the order to retreat carries us past the turn
  to the Kalúga road. And after the adjutant comes the commissary general
  asking where the stores are to be taken, and the chief of the hospitals
  asks where the wounded are to go, and a courier from Petersburg brings a
  letter from the sovereign which does not admit of the possibility of
  abandoning Moscow, and the commander in chief&rsquo;s rival, the man who is
  undermining him (and there are always not merely one but several such),
  presents a new project diametrically opposed to that of turning to the
  Kalúga road, and the commander in chief himself needs sleep and
  refreshment to maintain his energy and a respectable general who has been
  overlooked in the distribution of rewards comes to complain, and the
  inhabitants of the district pray to be defended, and an officer sent to
  inspect the locality comes in and gives a report quite contrary to what
  was said by the officer previously sent; and a spy, a prisoner, and a
  general who has been on reconnaissance, all describe the position of the
  enemy&rsquo;s army differently. People accustomed to misunderstand or to forget
  these inevitable conditions of a commander in chief&rsquo;s actions describe to
  us, for instance, the position of the army at Filí and assume that the
  commander in chief could, on the first of September, quite freely decide
  whether to abandon Moscow or defend it; whereas, with the Russian army
  less than four miles from Moscow, no such question existed. When had that
  question been settled? At Drissa and at Smolénsk and most palpably of all
  on the twenty-fourth of August at Shevárdino and on the twenty-sixth at
  Borodinó, and each day and hour and minute of the retreat from Borodinó to
  Filí.

  CHAPTER III


  When Ermólov, having been sent by Kutúzov to inspect the position, told
  the field marshal that it was impossible to fight there before Moscow and
  that they must retreat, Kutúzov looked at him in silence.
<br />
  &ldquo;Give me your hand,&rdquo; said he and, turning it over so as to feel the pulse,
  added: &ldquo;You are not well, my dear fellow. Think what you are saying!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Kutúzov could not yet admit the possibility of retreating beyond Moscow
  without a battle.
<br />
  On the Poklónny Hill, four miles from the Dorogomílov gate of Moscow,
  Kutúzov got out of his carriage and sat down on a bench by the roadside. A
  great crowd of generals gathered round him, and Count Rostopchín, who had
  come out from Moscow, joined them. This brilliant company separated into
  several groups who all discussed the advantages and disadvantages of the
  position, the state of the army, the plans suggested, the situation of
  Moscow, and military questions generally. Though they had not been
  summoned for the purpose, and though it was not so called, they all felt
  that this was really a council of war. The conversations all dealt with
  public questions. If anyone gave or asked for personal news, it was done
  in a whisper and they immediately reverted to general matters. No jokes,
  or laughter, or smiles even, were seen among all these men. They evidently
  all made an effort to hold themselves at the height the situation
  demanded. And all these groups, while talking among themselves, tried to
  keep near the commander in chief (whose bench formed the center of the
  gathering) and to speak so that he might overhear them. The commander in
  chief listened to what was being said and sometimes asked them to repeat
  their remarks, but did not himself take part in the conversations or
  express any opinion. After hearing what was being said by one or other of
  these groups he generally turned away with an air of disappointment, as
  though they were not speaking of anything he wished to hear. Some
  discussed the position that had been chosen, criticizing not the position
  itself so much as the mental capacity of those who had chosen it. Others
  argued that a mistake had been made earlier and that a battle should have
  been fought two days before. Others again spoke of the battle of
  Salamanca, which was described by Crosart, a newly arrived Frenchman in a
  Spanish uniform. (This Frenchman and one of the German princes serving
  with the Russian army were discussing the siege of Saragossa and
  considering the possibility of defending Moscow in a similar manner.)
  Count Rostopchín was telling a fourth group that he was prepared to die
  with the city train bands under the walls of the capital, but that he
  still could not help regretting having been left in ignorance of what was
  happening, and that had he known it sooner things would have been
  different.... A fifth group, displaying the profundity of their strategic
  perceptions, discussed the direction the troops would now have to take. A
  sixth group was talking absolute nonsense. Kutúzov&rsquo;s expression grew more
  and more preoccupied and gloomy. From all this talk he saw only one thing:
  that to defend Moscow was a  in the full meaning of
  those words, that is to say, so utterly impossible that if any senseless
  commander were to give orders to fight, confusion would result but the
  battle would still not take place. It would not take place because the
  commanders not merely all recognized the position to be impossible, but in
  their conversations were only discussing what would happen after its
  inevitable abandonment. How could the commanders lead their troops to a
  field of battle they considered impossible to hold? The lower-grade
  officers and even the soldiers (who too reason) also considered the
  position impossible and therefore could not go to fight, fully convinced
  as they were of defeat. If Bennigsen insisted on the position being
  defended and others still discussed it, the question was no longer
  important in itself but only as a pretext for disputes and intrigue. This
  Kutúzov knew well.
<br />
  Bennigsen, who had chosen the position, warmly displayed his Russian
  patriotism (Kutúzov could not listen to this without wincing) by insisting
  that Moscow must be defended. His aim was as clear as daylight to Kutúzov:
  if the defense failed, to throw the blame on Kutúzov who had brought the
  army as far as the Sparrow Hills without giving battle; if it succeeded,
  to claim the success as his own; or if battle were not given, to clear
  himself of the crime of abandoning Moscow. But this intrigue did not now
  occupy the old man&rsquo;s mind. One terrible question absorbed him and to that
  question he heard no reply from anyone. The question for him now was:
  &ldquo;Have I really allowed Napoleon to reach Moscow, and when did I do so?
  When was it decided? Can it have been yesterday when I ordered Plátov to
  retreat, or was it the evening before, when I had a nap and told Bennigsen
  to issue orders? Or was it earlier still?... When, when was this terrible
  affair decided? Moscow must be abandoned. The army must retreat and the
  order to do so must be given.&rdquo; To give that terrible order seemed to him
  equivalent to resigning the command of the army. And not only did he love
  power to which he was accustomed (the honours awarded to Prince
  Prozoróvski, under whom he had served in Turkey, galled him), but he was
  convinced that he was destined to save Russia and that that was why,
  against the Emperor&rsquo;s wish and by the will of the people, he had been
  chosen commander in chief. He was convinced that he alone could maintain
  command of the army in these difficult circumstances, and that in all the
  world he alone could encounter the invincible Napoleon without fear, and
  he was horrified at the thought of the order he had to issue. But
  something had to be decided, and these conversations around him which were
  assuming too free a character must be stopped.
<br />
  He called the most important generals to him.
<br />
  &ldquo;My head, be it good or bad, must depend on itself,&rdquo; said he, rising from
  the bench, and he rode to Filí where his carriages were waiting.

  CHAPTER IV


  The Council of War began to assemble at two in the afternoon in the better
  and roomier part of Andrew Savostyánov&rsquo;s hut. The men, women, and children
  of the large peasant family crowded into the back room across the passage.
  Only Malásha, Andrew&rsquo;s six-year-old granddaughter whom his Serene Highness
  had petted and to whom he had given a lump of sugar while drinking his
  tea, remained on the top of the brick oven in the larger room. Malásha
  looked down from the oven with shy delight at the faces, uniforms, and
  decorations of the generals, who one after another came into the room and
  sat down on the broad benches in the corner under the icons. &ldquo;Granddad&rdquo;
   himself, as Malásha in her own mind called Kutúzov, sat apart in a dark
  corner behind the oven. He sat, sunk deep in a folding armchair, and
  continually cleared his throat and pulled at the collar of his coat which,
  though it was unbuttoned, still seemed to pinch his neck. Those who
  entered went up one by one to the field marshal; he pressed the hands of
  some and nodded to others. His adjutant Kaysárov was about to draw back
  the curtain of the window facing Kutúzov, but the latter moved his hand
  angrily and Kaysárov understood that his Serene Highness did not wish his
  face to be seen.
<br />
  Round the peasant&rsquo;s deal table, on which lay maps, plans, pencils, and
  papers, so many people gathered that the orderlies brought in another
  bench and put it beside the table. Ermólov, Kaysárov, and Toll, who had
  just arrived, sat down on this bench. In the foremost place, immediately
  under the icons, sat Barclay de Tolly, his high forehead merging into his
  bald crown. He had a St. George&rsquo;s Cross round his neck and looked pale and
  ill. He had been feverish for two days and was now shivering and in pain.
  Beside him sat Uvárov, who with rapid gesticulations was giving him some
  information, speaking in low tones as they all did. Chubby little
  Dokhtúrov was listening attentively with eyebrows raised and arms folded
  on his stomach. On the other side sat Count Ostermann-Tolstóy, seemingly
  absorbed in his own thoughts. His broad head with its bold features and
  glittering eyes was resting on his hand. Raévski, twitching forward the
  black hair on his temples as was his habit, glanced now at Kutúzov and now
  at the door with a look of impatience. Konovnítsyn&rsquo;s firm, handsome, and
  kindly face was lit up by a tender, sly smile. His glance met Malásha&rsquo;s,
  and the expression of his eyes caused the little girl to smile.
<br />
  They were all waiting for Bennigsen, who on the pretext of inspecting the
  position was finishing his savory dinner. They waited for him from four
  till six o&rsquo;clock and did not begin their deliberations all that time but
  talked in low tones of other matters.
<br />
  Only when Bennigsen had entered the hut did Kutúzov leave his corner and
  draw toward the table, but not near enough for the candles that had been
  placed there to light up his face.
<br />
  Bennigsen opened the council with the question: &ldquo;Are we to abandon
  Russia&rsquo;s ancient and sacred capital without a struggle, or are we to
  defend it?&rdquo; A prolonged and general silence followed. There was a frown on
  every face and only Kutúzov&rsquo;s angry grunts and occasional cough broke the
  silence. All eyes were gazing at him. Malásha too looked at &ldquo;Granddad.&rdquo;
   She was nearest to him and saw how his face puckered; he seemed about to
  cry, but this did not last long.
<br />
   he suddenly said,
  repeating Bennigsen&rsquo;s words in an angry voice and thereby drawing attention
  to the false note in them. &ldquo;Allow me to tell you, your excellency, that that
  question has no meaning for a Russian.&rdquo; (He lurched his heavy body
  forward.) &ldquo;Such a question cannot be put; it is senseless! The question I
  have asked these gentlemen to meet to discuss is a military one. The
  question is that of saving Russia. Is it better to give up Moscow without
  a battle, or by accepting battle to risk losing the army as well as
  Moscow? That is the question on which I want your opinion,&rdquo; and he sank
  back in his chair.
<br />
  The discussion began. Bennigsen did not yet consider his game lost.
  Admitting the view of Barclay and others that a defensive battle at Filí
  was impossible, but imbued with Russian patriotism and the love of Moscow,
  he proposed to move troops from the right to the left flank during the
  night and attack the French right flank the following day. Opinions were
  divided, and arguments were advanced for and against that project.
  Ermólov, Dokhtúrov, and Raévski agreed with Bennigsen. Whether feeling it
  necessary to make a sacrifice before abandoning the capital or guided by
  other, personal considerations, these generals seemed not to understand
  that this council could not alter the inevitable course of events and that
  Moscow was in effect already abandoned. The other generals, however,
  understood it and, leaving aside the question of Moscow, spoke of the
  direction the army should take in its retreat. Malásha, who kept her eyes
  fixed on what was going on before her, understood the meaning of the
  council differently. It seemed to her that it was only a personal struggle
  between &ldquo;Granddad&rdquo; and &ldquo;Long-coat&rdquo; as she termed Bennigsen. She saw that
  they grew spiteful when they spoke to one another, and in her heart she
  sided with &ldquo;Granddad.&rdquo; In the midst of the conversation she noticed
  &ldquo;Granddad&rdquo; give Bennigsen a quick, subtle glance, and then to her joys she
  saw that &ldquo;Granddad&rdquo; said something to &ldquo;Long-coat&rdquo; which settled him.
  Bennigsen suddenly reddened and paced angrily up and down the room. What
  so affected him was Kutúzov&rsquo;s calm and quiet comment on the advantage or
  disadvantage of Bennigsen&rsquo;s proposal to move troops by night from the
  right to the left flank to attack the French right wing.
<br />
  &ldquo;Gentlemen,&rdquo; said Kutúzov, &ldquo;I cannot approve of the count&rsquo;s plan. Moving
  troops in close proximity to an enemy is always dangerous, and military
  history supports that view. For instance...&rdquo; Kutúzov seemed to reflect,
  searching for an example, then with a clear, naïve look at Bennigsen he
  added: &ldquo;Oh yes; take the battle of Friedland, which I think the count well
  remembers, and which was... not fully successful, only because our troops
  were rearranged too near the enemy....&rdquo;
 <br />
  There followed a momentary pause, which seemed very long to them all.
<br />
  The discussion recommenced, but pauses frequently occurred and they all
  felt that there was no more to be said.
<br />
  During one of these pauses Kutúzov heaved a deep sigh as if preparing to
  speak. They all looked at him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, gentlemen, I see that it is I who will have to pay for the broken
  crockery,&rdquo; said he, and rising slowly he moved to the table. &ldquo;Gentlemen, I
  have heard your views. Some of you will not agree with me. But I,&rdquo; he
  paused, &ldquo;by the authority entrusted to me by my Sovereign and country,
  order a retreat.&rdquo;
 <br />
  After that the generals began to disperse with the solemnity and
  circumspect silence of people who are leaving, after a funeral.
<br />
  Some of the generals, in low tones and in a strain very different from the
  way they had spoken during the council, communicated something to their
  commander in chief.
<br />
  Malásha, who had long been expected for supper, climbed carefully
  backwards down from the oven, her bare little feet catching at its
  projections, and slipping between the legs of the generals she darted out
  of the room.
<br />
  When he had dismissed the generals Kutúzov sat a long time with his elbows
  on the table, thinking always of the same terrible question: &ldquo;When, when
  did the abandonment of Moscow become inevitable? When was that done which
  settled the matter? And who was to blame for it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I did not expect this,&rdquo; said he to his adjutant Schneider when the latter
  came in late that night. &ldquo;I did not expect this! I did not think this
  would happen.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You should take some rest, your Serene Highness,&rdquo; replied Schneider.
<br />
  &ldquo;But no! They shall eat horseflesh yet, like the Turks!&rdquo; exclaimed Kutúzov
  without replying, striking the table with his podgy fist. &ldquo;They shall too,
  if only...&rdquo;

  CHAPTER V


  At that very time, in circumstances even more important than retreating
  without a battle, namely the evacuation and burning of Moscow, Rostopchín,
  who is usually represented as being the instigator of that event, acted in
  an altogether different manner from Kutúzov.
<br />
  After the battle of Borodinó the abandonment and burning of Moscow was as
  inevitable as the retreat of the army beyond Moscow without fighting.
<br />
  Every Russian might have predicted it, not by reasoning but by the feeling
  implanted in each of us and in our fathers.
<br />
  The same thing that took place in Moscow had happened in all the towns and
  villages on Russian soil beginning with Smolénsk, without the
  participation of Count Rostopchín and his broadsheets. The people awaited
  the enemy unconcernedly, did not riot or become excited or tear anyone to
  pieces, but faced its fate, feeling within it the strength to find what it
  should do at that most difficult moment. And as soon as the enemy drew
  near the wealthy classes went away abandoning their property, while the
  poorer remained and burned and destroyed what was left.
<br />
  The consciousness that this would be so and would always be so was and is
  present in the heart of every Russian. And a consciousness of this, and a
  foreboding that Moscow would be taken, was present in Russian Moscow
  society in 1812. Those who had quitted Moscow already in July and at the
  beginning of August showed that they expected this. Those who went away,
  taking what they could and abandoning their houses and half their
  belongings, did so from the latent patriotism which expresses itself not
  by phrases or by giving one&rsquo;s children to save the fatherland and similar
  unnatural exploits, but unobtrusively, simply, organically, and therefore
  in the way that always produces the most powerful results.
<br />
  &ldquo;It is disgraceful to run away from danger; only cowards are running away
  from Moscow,&rdquo; they were told. In his broadsheets Rostopchín impressed on
  them that to leave Moscow was shameful. They were ashamed to be called
  cowards, ashamed to leave, but still they left, knowing it had to be done.
  Why did they go? It is impossible to suppose that Rostopchín had scared
  them by his accounts of horrors Napoleon had committed in conquered
  countries. The first people to go away were the rich educated people who
  knew quite well that Vienna and Berlin had remained intact and that during
  Napoleon&rsquo;s occupation the inhabitants had spent their time pleasantly in
  the company of the charming Frenchmen whom the Russians, and especially
  the Russian ladies, then liked so much.
<br />
  They went away because for Russians there could be no question as to
  whether things would go well or ill under French rule in Moscow. It was
  out of the question to be under French rule, it would be the worst thing
  that could happen. They went away even before the battle of Borodinó and
  still more rapidly after it, despite Rostopchín&rsquo;s calls to defend Moscow
  or the announcement of his intention to take the wonder-working icon of
  the Iberian Mother of God and go to fight, or of the balloons that were to
  destroy the French, and despite all the nonsense Rostopchín wrote in his
  broadsheets. They knew that it was for the army to fight, and that if it
  could not succeed it would not do to take young ladies and house serfs to
  the Three Hills quarter of Moscow to fight Napoleon, and that they must go
  away, sorry as they were to abandon their property to destruction. They
  went away without thinking of the tremendous significance of that immense
  and wealthy city being given over to destruction, for a great city with
  wooden buildings was certain when abandoned by its inhabitants to be
  burned. They went away each on his own account, and yet it was only in
  consequence of their going away that the momentous event was accomplished
  that will always remain the greatest glory of the Russian people. The lady
  who, afraid of being stopped by Count Rostopchín&rsquo;s orders, had already in
  June moved with her Negroes and her women jesters from Moscow to her
  Sarátov estate, with a vague consciousness that she was not Bonaparte&rsquo;s
  servant, was really, simply, and truly carrying out the great work which
  saved Russia. But Count Rostopchín, who now taunted those who left Moscow
  and now had the government offices removed; now distributed quite useless
  weapons to the drunken rabble; now had processions displaying the icons,
  and now forbade Father Augustin to remove icons or the relics of saints;
  now seized all the private carts in Moscow and on one hundred and
  thirty-six of them removed the balloon that was being constructed by
  Leppich; now hinted that he would burn Moscow and related how he had set
  fire to his own house; now wrote a proclamation to the French solemnly
  upbraiding them for having destroyed his Orphanage; now claimed the glory
  of having hinted that he would burn Moscow and now repudiated the deed;
  now ordered the people to catch all spies and bring them to him, and now
  reproached them for doing so; now expelled all the French residents from
  Moscow, and now allowed Madame Aubert-Chalmé (the center of the whole
  French colony in Moscow) to remain, but ordered the venerable old
  postmaster Klyucharëv to be arrested and exiled for no particular offense;
  now assembled the people at the Three Hills to fight the French and now,
  to get rid of them, handed over to them a man to be killed and himself
  drove away by a back gate; now declared that he would not survive the fall
  of Moscow, and now wrote French verses in albums concerning his share in
  the affair&mdash;this man did not understand the meaning of what was
  happening but merely wanted to do something himself that would astonish
  people, to perform some patriotically heroic feat; and like a child he
  made sport of the momentous, and unavoidable event&mdash;the abandonment
  and burning of Moscow&mdash;and tried with his puny hand now to speed and
  now to stay the enormous, popular tide that bore him along with it.

  CHAPTER VI


  Hélène, having returned with the court from Vílna to Petersburg, found
  herself in a difficult position.
<br />
  In Petersburg she had enjoyed the special protection of a grandee who
  occupied one of the highest posts in the Empire. In Vílna she had formed
  an intimacy with a young foreign prince. When she returned to Petersburg
  both the magnate and the prince were there, and both claimed their rights.
  Hélène was faced by a new problem&mdash;how to preserve her intimacy with
  both without offending either.
<br />
  What would have seemed difficult or even impossible to another woman did
  not cause the least embarrassment to Countess Bezúkhova, who evidently
  deserved her reputation of being a very clever woman. Had she attempted
  concealment, or tried to extricate herself from her awkward position by
  cunning, she would have spoiled her case by acknowledging herself guilty.
  But Hélène, like a really great man who can do whatever he pleases, at once
  assumed her own position to be correct, as she sincerely believed it to
  be, and that everyone else was to blame.
<br />
  The first time the young foreigner allowed himself to reproach her, she
  lifted her beautiful head and, half turning to him, said firmly: &ldquo;That&rsquo;s
  just like a man&mdash;selfish and cruel! I expected nothing else. A woman
  sacrifices herself for you, she suffers, and this is her reward! What
  right have you, monseigneur, to demand an account of my attachments and
  friendships? He is a man who has been more than a father to me!&rdquo; The
  prince was about to say something, but Hélène interrupted him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, yes,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;it may be that he has other sentiments for me than
  those of a father, but that is not a reason for me to shut my door on him.
  I am not a man, that I should repay kindness with ingratitude! Know,
  monseigneur, that in all that relates to my intimate feelings I render
  account only to God and to my conscience,&rdquo; she concluded, laying her hand
  on her beautiful, fully expanded bosom and looking up to heaven.
<br />
  &ldquo;But for heaven&rsquo;s sake listen to me!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Marry me, and I will be your slave!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But that&rsquo;s impossible.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You won&rsquo;t deign to demean yourself by marrying me, you...&rdquo; said Hélène,
  beginning to cry.
<br />
  The prince tried to comfort her, but Hélène, as if quite distraught, said
  through her tears that there was nothing to prevent her marrying, that
  there were precedents (there were up to that time very few, but she
  mentioned Napoleon and some other exalted personages), that she had never
  been her husband&rsquo;s wife, and that she had been sacrificed.
<br />
  &ldquo;But the law, religion...&rdquo; said the prince, already yielding.
<br />
  &ldquo;The law, religion... What have they been invented for if they can&rsquo;t
  arrange that?&rdquo; said Hélène.
<br />
  The prince was surprised that so simple an idea had not occurred to him,
  and he applied for advice to the holy brethren of the Society of Jesus,
  with whom he was on intimate terms.
<br />
  A few days later at one of those enchanting fetes which Hélène gave at her
  country house on the Stone Island, the charming Monsieur de Jobert, a man
  no longer young, with snow white hair and brilliant black eyes, a Jesuit  * was presented to her, and in the garden by the light of the
  illuminations and to the sound of music talked to her for a long time of
  the love of God, of Christ, of the Sacred Heart, and of the consolations
  the one true Catholic religion affords in this world and the next. Hélène
  was touched, and more than once tears rose to her eyes and to those of
  Monsieur de Jobert and their voices trembled. A dance, for which her
  partner came to seek her, put an end to her discourse with her future
  , but the next evening Monsieur de Jobert came to
  see Hélène when she was alone, and after that often came again.
<br />
* Lay member of the Society of Jesus.

One day he took the countess to a Roman Catholic church, where she knelt down before the altar to which she was led. The enchanting, middle-aged Frenchman laid his hands on her head and, as she herself afterward described it, she felt something like a fresh breeze wafted into her soul. It was explained to her that this was .
After that a long-frocked abbé was brought to her. She confessed to him, and he absolved her from her sins. Next day she received a box containing the Sacred Host, which was left at her house for her to partake of. A few days later Hélène learned with pleasure that she had now been admitted to the true Catholic Church and that in a few days the Pope himself would hear of her and would send her a certain document.
All that was done around her and to her at this time, all the attention devoted to her by so many clever men and expressed in such pleasant, refined ways, and the state of dove-like purity she was now in (she wore only white dresses and white ribbons all that time) gave her pleasure, but her pleasure did not cause her for a moment to forget her aim. And as it always happens in contests of cunning that a stupid person gets the better of cleverer ones, Hélène—having realized that the main object of all these words and all this trouble was, after converting her to Catholicism, to obtain money from her for Jesuit institutions (as to which she received indications)—before parting with her money insisted that the various operations necessary to free her from her husband should be performed. In her view the aim of every religion was merely to preserve certain proprieties while affording satisfaction to human desires. And with this aim, in one of her talks with her Father Confessor, she insisted on an answer to the question, in how far was she bound by her marriage?
They were sitting in the twilight by a window in the drawing room. The scent of flowers came in at the window. Hélène was wearing a white dress, transparent over her shoulders and bosom. The abbé, a well-fed man with a plump, clean-shaven chin, a pleasant firm mouth, and white hands meekly folded on his knees, sat close to Hélène and, with a subtle smile on his lips and a peaceful look of delight at her beauty, occasionally glanced at her face as he explained his opinion on the subject. Hélène with an uneasy smile looked at his curly hair and his plump, clean-shaven, blackish cheeks and every moment expected the conversation to take a fresh turn. But the abbé, though he evidently enjoyed the beauty of his companion, was absorbed in his mastery of the matter.
The course of the Father Confessor’s arguments ran as follows: “Ignorant of the import of what you were undertaking, you made a vow of conjugal fidelity to a man who on his part, by entering the married state without faith in the religious significance of marriage, committed an act of sacrilege. That marriage lacked the dual significance it should have had. Yet in spite of this your vow was binding. You swerved from it. What did you commit by so acting? A venial, or a mortal, sin? A venial sin, for you acted without evil intention. If now you married again with the object of bearing children, your sin might be forgiven. But the question is again a twofold one: firstly…”
But suddenly Hélène, who was getting bored, said with one of her bewitching smiles: “But I think that having espoused the true religion I cannot be bound by what a false religion laid upon me.”
The director of her conscience was astounded at having the case presented to him thus with the simplicity of Columbus’ egg. He was delighted at the unexpected rapidity of his pupil’s progress, but could not abandon the edifice of argument he had laboriously constructed.
“Let us understand one another, Countess,” said he with a smile, and began refuting his spiritual daughter’s arguments.

  CHAPTER VII


  Hélène understood that the question was very simple and easy from the
  ecclesiastical point of view, and that her directors were making
  difficulties only because they were apprehensive as to how the matter
  would be regarded by the secular authorities.
<br />
  So she decided that it was necessary to prepare the opinion of society.
  She provoked the jealousy of the elderly magnate and told him what she had
  told her other suitor; that is, she put the matter so that the only way
  for him to obtain a right over her was to marry her. The elderly magnate
  was at first as much taken aback by this suggestion of marriage with a
  woman whose husband was alive, as the younger man had been, but Hélène&rsquo;s
  imperturbable conviction that it was as simple and natural as marrying a
  maiden had its effect on him too. Had Hélène herself shown the least sign
  of hesitation, shame, or secrecy, her cause would certainly have been
  lost; but not only did she show no signs of secrecy or shame, on the
  contrary, with good-natured naïveté she told her intimate friends (and
  these were all Petersburg) that both the prince and the magnate had
  proposed to her and that she loved both and was afraid of grieving either.
<br />
  A rumor immediately spread in Petersburg, not that Hélène wanted to be
  divorced from her husband (had such a report spread many would have
  opposed so illegal an intention) but simply that the unfortunate and
  interesting Hélène was in doubt which of the two men she should marry. The
  question was no longer whether this was possible, but only which was the
  better match and how the matter would be regarded at court. There were, it
  is true, some rigid individuals unable to rise to the height of such a
  question, who saw in the project a desecration of the sacrament of
  marriage, but there were not many such and they remained silent, while the
  majority were interested in Hélène&rsquo;s good fortune and in the question
  which match would be the more advantageous. Whether it was right or wrong
  to remarry while one had a husband living they did not discuss, for that
  question had evidently been settled by people &ldquo;wiser than you or me,&rdquo; as
  they said, and to doubt the correctness of that decision would be to risk
  exposing one&rsquo;s stupidity and incapacity to live in society.
<br />
  Only Márya Dmítrievna Akhrosímova, who had come to Petersburg that summer
  to see one of her sons, allowed herself plainly to express an opinion
  contrary to the general one. Meeting Hélène at a ball she stopped her in
  the middle of the room and, amid general silence, said in her gruff voice:
  &ldquo;So wives of living men have started marrying again! Perhaps you think you
  have invented a novelty? You have been forestalled, my dear! It was
  thought of long ago. It is done in all the brothels,&rdquo; and with these words
  Márya Dmítrievna, turning up her wide sleeves with her usual threatening
  gesture and glancing sternly round, moved across the room.
<br />
  Though people were afraid of Márya Dmítrievna she was regarded in
  Petersburg as a buffoon, and so of what she had said they only noticed,
  and repeated in a whisper, the one coarse word she had used, supposing the
  whole sting of her remark to lie in that word.
<br />
  Prince Vasíli, who of late very often forgot what he had said and repeated
  one and the same thing a hundred times, remarked to his daughter whenever
  he chanced to see her:
<br />
  &ldquo;Hélène, I have a word to say to you,&rdquo; and he would lead her aside,
  drawing her hand downward. &ldquo;I have heard of certain projects concerning...
  you know. Well my dear child, you know how your father&rsquo;s heart rejoices to
  know that you... You have suffered so much.... But, my dear child, consult
  only your own heart. That is all I have to say,&rdquo; and concealing his
  unvarying emotion he would press his cheek against his daughter&rsquo;s and move
  away.
<br />
  Bilíbin, who had not lost his reputation of an exceedingly clever man, and
  who was one of the disinterested friends so brilliant a woman as Hélène
  always has&mdash;men friends who can never change into lovers&mdash;once
  gave her his view of the matter at a small and intimate gathering.
<br />
  &ldquo;Listen, Bilíbin,&rdquo; said Hélène (she always called friends of that sort by
  their surnames), and she touched his coat sleeve with her white, beringed
  fingers. &ldquo;Tell me, as you would a sister, what I ought to do. Which of the
  two?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Bilíbin wrinkled up the skin over his eyebrows and pondered, with a smile
  on his lips.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are not taking me unawares, you know,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;As a true friend, I
  have thought and thought again about your affair. You see, if you marry
  the prince&rdquo;&mdash;he meant the younger man&mdash;and he crooked one
  finger, &ldquo;you forever lose the chance of marrying the other, and you will
  displease the court besides. (You know there is some kind of connection.)
  But if you marry the old count you will make his last days happy, and as
  widow of the Grand... the prince would no longer be making a 
  by marrying you,&rdquo; and Bilíbin smoothed out his forehead.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a true friend!&rdquo; said Hélène beaming, and again touching Bilíbin&rsquo;s
  sleeve. &ldquo;But I love them, you know, and don&rsquo;t want to distress either of
  them. I would give my life for the happiness of them both.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Bilíbin shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say that not even he could
  help in that difficulty.
<br />
   * That&rsquo;s what is called putting things squarely. She
  would like to be married to all three at the same time,&rdquo; thought he.
<br />
* A masterly woman.

“But tell me, how will your husband look at the matter?” Bilíbin asked, his reputation being so well established that he did not fear to ask so naïve a question. “Will he agree?”
“Oh, he loves me so!” said Hélène, who for some reason imagined that Pierre too loved her. “He will do anything for me.”
Bilíbin puckered his skin in preparation for something witty.
“Even divorce you?” said he.
Hélène laughed.
Among those who ventured to doubt the justifiability of the proposed marriage was Hélène’s mother, Princess Kurágina. She was continually tormented by jealousy of her daughter, and now that jealousy concerned a subject near to her own heart, she could not reconcile herself to the idea. She consulted a Russian priest as to the possibility of divorce and remarriage during a husband’s lifetime, and the priest told her that it was impossible, and to her delight showed her a text in the Gospel which (as it seemed to him) plainly forbids remarriage while the husband is alive.
Armed with these arguments, which appeared to her unanswerable, she drove to her daughter’s early one morning so as to find her alone.
Having listened to her mother’s objections, Hélène smiled blandly and ironically.
“But it says plainly: ‘Whosoever shall marry her that is divorced…’” said the old princess.

   * said Hélène changing from Russian, in which
  language she always felt that her case did not sound quite clear, into
  French which suited it better.
<br />
 * &ldquo;Oh, Mamma, don&rsquo;t talk nonsense! You don&rsquo;t understand
 anything. In my position I have obligations.&rdquo;

“But, my dear….”
“Oh, Mamma, how is it you don’t understand that the Holy Father, who has the right to grant dispensations…”
Just then the lady companion who lived with Hélène came in to announce that His Highness was in the ballroom and wished to see her.
*

 * &ldquo;No, tell him I don&rsquo;t wish to see him, I am furious with
 him for not keeping his word to me.&rdquo;

   * said a fair-haired young
  man with a long face and nose, as he entered the room.
<br />
* &ldquo;Countess, there is mercy for every sin.&rdquo;

The old princess rose respectfully and curtsied. The young man who had entered took no notice of her. The princess nodded to her daughter and sidled out of the room.
“Yes, she is right,” thought the old princess, all her convictions dissipated by the appearance of His Highness. “She is right, but how is it that we in our irrecoverable youth did not know it? Yet it is so simple,” she thought as she got into her carriage.

By the beginning of August Hélène’s affairs were clearly defined and she wrote a letter to her husband—who, as she imagined, loved her very much—informing him of her intention to marry N.N. and of her having embraced the one true faith, and asking him to carry out all the formalities necessary for a divorce, which would be explained to him by the bearer of the letter.
And so I pray God to have you, my friend, in His holy and powerful keeping—Your friend Hélène.
This letter was brought to Pierre’s house when he was on the field of Borodinó.

  CHAPTER VIII


  Toward the end of the battle of Borodinó, Pierre, having run down from
  Raévski&rsquo;s battery a second time, made his way through a gully to Knyazkóvo
  with a crowd of soldiers, reached the dressing station, and seeing blood
  and hearing cries and groans hurried on, still entangled in the crowds of
  soldiers.
<br />
  The one thing he now desired with his whole soul was to get away quickly
  from the terrible sensations amid which he had lived that day and return
  to ordinary conditions of life and sleep quietly in a room in his own bed.
  He felt that only in the ordinary conditions of life would he be able to
  understand himself and all he had seen and felt. But such ordinary
  conditions of life were nowhere to be found.
<br />
  Though shells and bullets did not whistle over the road along which he was
  going, still on all sides there was what there had been on the field of
  battle. There were still the same suffering, exhausted, and sometimes
  strangely indifferent faces, the same blood, the same soldiers&rsquo; overcoats,
  the same sounds of firing which, though distant now, still aroused terror,
  and besides this there were the foul air and the dust.
<br />
  Having gone a couple of miles along the Mozháysk road, Pierre sat down by
  the roadside.
<br />
  Dusk had fallen, and the roar of guns died away. Pierre lay leaning on his
  elbow for a long time, gazing at the shadows that moved past him in the
  darkness. He was continually imagining that a cannon ball was flying
  toward him with a terrific whizz, and then he shuddered and sat up. He had
  no idea how long he had been there. In the middle of the night three
  soldiers, having brought some firewood, settled down near him and began
  lighting a fire.
<br />
  The soldiers, who threw sidelong glances at Pierre, got the fire to burn
  and placed an iron pot on it into which they broke some dried bread and
  put a little dripping. The pleasant odor of greasy viands mingled with the
  smell of smoke. Pierre sat up and sighed. The three soldiers were eating
  and talking among themselves, taking no notice of him.
<br />
  &ldquo;And who may you be?&rdquo; one of them suddenly asked Pierre, evidently meaning
  what Pierre himself had in mind, namely: &ldquo;If you want to eat we&rsquo;ll give
  you some food, only let us know whether you are an honest man.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I, I...&rdquo; said Pierre, feeling it necessary to minimize his social
  position as much as possible so as to be nearer to the soldiers and better
  understood by them. &ldquo;By rights I am a militia officer, but my men are not
  here. I came to the battle and have lost them.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;There now!&rdquo; said one of the soldiers.
<br />
  Another shook his head.
<br />
  &ldquo;Would you like a little mash?&rdquo; the first soldier asked, and handed Pierre
  a wooden spoon after licking it clean.
<br />
  Pierre sat down by the fire and began eating the mash, as they called the
  food in the cauldron, and he thought it more delicious than any food he
  had ever tasted. As he sat bending greedily over it, helping himself to
  large spoonfuls and chewing one after another, his face was lit up by the
  fire and the soldiers looked at him in silence.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where have you to go to? Tell us!&rdquo; said one of them.
<br />
  &ldquo;To Mozháysk.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;re a gentleman, aren&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And what&rsquo;s your name?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Peter Kirílych.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well then, Peter Kirílych, come along with us, we&rsquo;ll take you there.&rdquo;
 <br />
  In the total darkness the soldiers walked with Pierre to Mozháysk.
<br />
  By the time they got near Mozháysk and began ascending the steep hill into
  the town, the cocks were already crowing. Pierre went on with the
  soldiers, quite forgetting that his inn was at the bottom of the hill and
  that he had already passed it. He would not soon have remembered this,
  such was his state of forgetfulness, had he not halfway up the hill
  stumbled upon his groom, who had been to look for him in the town and was
  returning to the inn. The groom recognized Pierre in the darkness by his
  white hat.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your excellency!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Why, we were beginning to despair! How is it
  you are on foot? And where are you going, please?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, yes!&rdquo; said Pierre.
<br />
  The soldiers stopped.
<br />
  &ldquo;So you&rsquo;ve found your folk?&rdquo; said one of them. &ldquo;Well, good-by, Peter
  Kirílych&mdash;isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Good-by, Peter Kirílych!&rdquo; Pierre heard the other voices repeat.
<br />
  &ldquo;Good-by!&rdquo; he said and turned with his groom toward the inn.
<br />
  &ldquo;I ought to give them something!&rdquo; he thought, and felt in his pocket. &ldquo;No,
  better not!&rdquo; said another, inner voice.
<br />
  There was not a room to be had at the inn, they were all occupied. Pierre
  went out into the yard and, covering himself up head and all, lay down in
  his carriage.

  CHAPTER IX


  Scarcely had Pierre laid his head on the pillow before he felt himself
  falling asleep, but suddenly, almost with the distinctness of reality, he
  heard the  of firing, the thud of projectiles, groans and
  cries, and smelled blood and powder, and a feeling of horror and dread of
  death seized him. Filled with fright he opened his eyes and lifted his
  head from under his cloak. All was tranquil in the yard. Only someone&rsquo;s
  orderly passed through the gateway, splashing through the mud, and talked
  to the innkeeper. Above Pierre&rsquo;s head some pigeons, disturbed by the
  movement he had made in sitting up, fluttered under the dark roof of the
  penthouse. The whole courtyard was permeated by a strong peaceful smell of
  stable yards, delightful to Pierre at that moment. He could see the clear
  starry sky between the dark roofs of two penthouses.
<br />
  &ldquo;Thank God, there is no more of that!&rdquo; he thought, covering up his head
  again. &ldquo;Oh, what a terrible thing is fear, and how shamefully I yielded to
  it! But they...  were steady and calm all the time, to the end...&rdquo;
   thought he.
<br />
  , in Pierre&rsquo;s mind, were the soldiers, those who had been at the
  battery, those who had given him food, and those who had prayed before the
  icon. , those strange men he had not previously known, stood out
  clearly and sharply from everyone else.
<br />
  &ldquo;To be a soldier, just a soldier!&rdquo; thought Pierre as he fell asleep, &ldquo;to
  enter communal life completely, to be imbued by what makes them what they
  are. But how to cast off all the superfluous, devilish burden of my outer
  man? There was a time when I could have done it. I could have run away
  from my father, as I wanted to. Or I might have been sent to serve as a
  soldier after the duel with Dólokhov.&rdquo; And the memory of the dinner at the
  English Club when he had challenged Dólokhov flashed through Pierre&rsquo;s
  mind, and then he remembered his benefactor at Torzhók. And now a picture
  of a solemn meeting of the lodge presented itself to his mind. It was
  taking place at the English Club and someone near and dear to him sat at
  the end of the table. &ldquo;Yes, that is he! It is my benefactor. But he died!&rdquo;
  thought Pierre. &ldquo;Yes, he died, and I did not know he was alive. How sorry
  I am that he died, and how glad I am that he is alive again!&rdquo; On one side
  of the table sat Anatole, Dólokhov, Nesvítski, Denísov, and others like
  them (in his dream the category to which these men belonged was as clearly
  defined in his mind as the category of those he termed ), and he heard
  those people, Anatole and Dólokhov, shouting and singing loudly; yet
  through their shouting the voice of his benefactor was heard speaking all
  the time and the sound of his words was as weighty and uninterrupted as
  the booming on the battlefield, but pleasant and comforting. Pierre did
  not understand what his benefactor was saying, but he knew (the categories
  of thoughts were also quite distinct in his dream) that he was talking of
  goodness and the possibility of being what  were. And  with their
  simple, kind, firm faces surrounded his benefactor on all sides. But
  though they were kindly they did not look at Pierre and did not know him.
  Wishing to speak and to attract their attention, he got up, but at that
  moment his legs grew cold and bare.
<br />
  He felt ashamed, and with one arm covered his legs from which his cloak
  had in fact slipped. For a moment as he was rearranging his cloak Pierre
  opened his eyes and saw the same penthouse roofs, posts, and yard, but now
  they were all bluish, lit up, and glittering with frost or dew.
<br />
  &ldquo;It is dawn,&rdquo; thought Pierre. &ldquo;But that&rsquo;s not what I want. I want to hear
  and understand my benefactor&rsquo;s words.&rdquo; Again he covered himself up with
  his cloak, but now neither the lodge nor his benefactor was there. There
  were only thoughts clearly expressed in words, thoughts that someone was
  uttering or that he himself was formulating.
<br />
  Afterwards when he recalled those thoughts Pierre was convinced that
  someone outside himself had spoken them, though the impressions of that
  day had evoked them. He had never, it seemed to him, been able to think
  and express his thoughts like that when awake.
<br />
  &ldquo;To endure war is the most difficult subordination of man&rsquo;s freedom to the
  law of God,&rdquo; the voice had said. &ldquo;Simplicity is submission to the will of
  God; you cannot escape from Him. And  are simple.  do not talk,
  but act. The spoken word is silver but the unspoken is golden. Man can be
  master of nothing while he fears death, but he who does not fear it
  possesses all. If there were no suffering, man would not know his
  limitations, would not know himself. The hardest thing (Pierre went on
  thinking, or hearing, in his dream) is to be able in your soul to unite
  the meaning of all. To unite all?&rdquo; he asked himself. &ldquo;No, not to unite.
  Thoughts cannot be united, but to  all these thoughts together is
  what we need! Yes, one  them,  them!&rdquo;
  he repeated to himself with inward rapture, feeling that these words and they alone
  expressed what he wanted to say and solved the question that tormented
  him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, one must harness, it is time to harness.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Time to harness, time to harness, your excellency! Your excellency!&rdquo; some
  voice was repeating. &ldquo;We must harness, it is time to harness....&rdquo;
 <br />
  It was the voice of the groom, trying to wake him. The sun shone straight
  into Pierre&rsquo;s face. He glanced at the dirty innyard in the middle of which
  soldiers were watering their lean horses at the pump while carts were
  passing out of the gate. Pierre turned away with repugnance, and closing
  his eyes quickly fell back on the carriage seat. &ldquo;No, I don&rsquo;t want that, I
  don&rsquo;t want to see and understand that. I want to understand what was
  revealing itself to me in my dream. One second more and I should have
  understood it all! But what am I to do? Harness, but how can I harness
  everything?&rdquo; and Pierre felt with horror that the meaning of all he had
  seen and thought in the dream had been destroyed.
<br />
  The groom, the coachman, and the innkeeper told Pierre that an officer had
  come with news that the French were already near Mozháysk and that our men
  were leaving it.
<br />
  Pierre got up and, having told them to harness and overtake him, went on
  foot through the town.
<br />
  The troops were moving on, leaving about ten thousand wounded behind them.
  There were wounded in the yards, at the windows of the houses, and the
  streets were crowded with them. In the streets, around carts that were to
  take some of the wounded away, shouts, curses, and blows could be heard.
  Pierre offered the use of his carriage, which had overtaken him, to a
  wounded general he knew, and drove with him to Moscow. On the way Pierre
  was told of the death of his brother-in-law Anatole and of that of Prince
  Andrew.

  CHAPTER X


  On the thirtieth of August Pierre reached Moscow. Close to the gates of
  the city he was met by Count Rostopchín&rsquo;s adjutant.
<br />
  &ldquo;We have been looking for you everywhere,&rdquo; said the adjutant. &ldquo;The count
  wants to see you particularly. He asks you to come to him at once on a
  very important matter.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Without going home, Pierre took a cab and drove to see the Moscow
  commander in chief.
<br />
  Count Rostopchín had only that morning returned to town from his summer
  villa at Sokólniki. The anteroom and reception room of his house were full
  of officials who had been summoned or had come for orders. Vasílchikov and
  Plátov had already seen the count and explained to him that it was
  impossible to defend Moscow and that it would have to be surrendered.
  Though this news was being concealed from the inhabitants, the officials&mdash;the
  heads of the various government departments&mdash;knew that Moscow would
  soon be in the enemy&rsquo;s hands, just as Count Rostopchín himself knew it,
  and to escape personal responsibility they had all come to the governor to
  ask how they were to deal with their various departments.
<br />
  As Pierre was entering the reception room a courier from the army came out
  of Rostopchín&rsquo;s private room.
<br />
  In answer to questions with which he was greeted, the courier made a
  despairing gesture with his hand and passed through the room.
<br />
  While waiting in the reception room Pierre with weary eyes watched the
  various officials, old and young, military and civilian, who were there.
  They all seemed dissatisfied and uneasy. Pierre went up to a group of men,
  one of whom he knew. After greeting Pierre they continued their
  conversation.
<br />
  &ldquo;If they&rsquo;re sent out and brought back again later on it will do no harm,
  but as things are now one can&rsquo;t answer for anything.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But you see what he writes...&rdquo; said another, pointing to a printed sheet
  he held in his hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s another matter. That&rsquo;s necessary for the people,&rdquo; said the first.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; asked Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, it&rsquo;s a fresh broadsheet.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre took it and began reading.
<br />
  His Serene Highness has passed through Mozháysk in order to join up with
  the troops moving toward him and has taken up a strong position where the
  enemy will not soon attack him. Forty-eight guns with ammunition have been
  sent him from here, and his Serene Highness says he will defend Moscow to
  the last drop of blood and is even ready to fight in the streets. Do not
  be upset, brothers, that the law courts are closed; things have to be put
  in order, and we will deal with villains in our own way! When the time
  comes I shall want both town and peasant lads and will raise the cry a day
  or two beforehand, but they are not wanted yet so I hold my peace. An ax
  will be useful, a hunting spear not bad, but a three-pronged fork will be
  best of all: a Frenchman is no heavier than a sheaf of rye. Tomorrow after
  dinner I shall take the Iberian icon of the Mother of God to the wounded
  in the Catherine Hospital where we will have some water blessed. That will
  help them to get well quicker. I, too, am well now: one of my eyes was
  sore but now I am on the lookout with both.
<br />
  &ldquo;But military men have told me that it is impossible to fight in the
  town,&rdquo; said Pierre, &ldquo;and that the position...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, of course! That&rsquo;s what we were saying,&rdquo; replied the first speaker.
<br />
  &ldquo;And what does he mean by &lsquo;One of my eyes was sore but now I am on the
  lookout with both&rsquo;?&rdquo; asked Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;The count had a sty,&rdquo; replied the adjutant smiling, &ldquo;and was very much
  upset when I told him people had come to ask what was the matter with him.
  By the by, Count,&rdquo; he added suddenly, addressing Pierre with a smile, &ldquo;we
  heard that you have family troubles and that the countess, your wife...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I have heard nothing,&rdquo; Pierre replied unconcernedly. &ldquo;But what have you
  heard?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, well, you know people often invent things. I only say what I heard.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But what did you hear?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, they say,&rdquo; continued the adjutant with the same smile, &ldquo;that the
  countess, your wife, is preparing to go abroad. I expect it&rsquo;s
  nonsense....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Possibly,&rdquo; remarked Pierre, looking about him absent-mindedly. &ldquo;And who
  is that?&rdquo; he asked, indicating a short old man in a clean blue peasant
  overcoat, with a big snow-white beard and eyebrows and a ruddy face.
<br />
  &ldquo;He? That&rsquo;s a tradesman, that is to say, he&rsquo;s the restaurant keeper,
  Vereshchágin. Perhaps you have heard of that affair with the
  proclamation.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, so that is Vereshchágin!&rdquo; said Pierre, looking at the firm, calm face
  of the old man and seeking any indication of his being a traitor.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s not he himself, that&rsquo;s the father of the fellow who wrote the
  proclamation,&rdquo; said the adjutant. &ldquo;The young man is in prison and I expect
  it will go hard with him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  An old gentleman wearing a star and another official, a German wearing a
  cross round his neck, approached the speaker.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a complicated story, you know,&rdquo; said the adjutant.
  &ldquo;That proclamation appeared about two months ago. The count was informed of
  it. He gave orders to investigate the matter. Gabriel Ivánovich
  here made the inquiries. The proclamation had passed through exactly
  sixty-three hands. He asked one, &lsquo;From whom did you get it?&rsquo; &lsquo;From
  so-and-so.&rsquo; He went to the next one. &lsquo;From whom did you get it?&rsquo;
  and so on till he reached Vereshchágin, a half educated tradesman, you know,
  &lsquo;a pet of a trader,&rsquo;&rdquo; said the adjutant smiling. &ldquo;They
  asked him, &lsquo;Who gave it you?&rsquo; And the point is that we knew whom he had
  it from. He could only have had it from the Postmaster. But evidently they had come
  to some understanding. He replied: &lsquo;From no one; I made it up myself.&rsquo;
  They threatened and questioned him, but he stuck to that: &lsquo;I made it
  up myself.&rsquo; And so it was reported to the count, who sent for the man.
  ‘From whom did you get the proclamation?&rsquo; &lsquo;I wrote it myself.&rsquo;
  Well, you know the count,&rdquo; said the adjutant cheerfully, with a smile of
  pride, &ldquo;he flared up dreadfully&mdash;and just think of the fellow&rsquo;s
  audacity, lying, and obstinacy!&rdquo;
<br />
  &ldquo;And the count wanted him to say it was from Klyucharëv? I
  understand!&rdquo; said Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;Not at all,&rdquo; rejoined the adjutant in dismay. &ldquo;Klyucharëv had
  his own sins to answer for without that and that is why he has been banished. But
  the point is that the count was much annoyed. &lsquo;How could you have written
  it yourself?&rsquo; said he, and he took up the Hamburg  that was
  lying on the table. &lsquo;Here it is! You did not write it yourself but translated
  it, and translated it abominably, because you don&rsquo;t even know French, you
  fool.&rsquo; And what do you think? &lsquo;No,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;I have not
  read any papers, I made it up myself.&rsquo; &lsquo;If that&rsquo;s so, you&rsquo;re
  a traitor and I&rsquo;ll have you tried, and you&rsquo;ll be hanged! Say from whom
  you had it.&rsquo; &lsquo;I have seen no papers, I made it up myself.&rsquo; And
  that was the end of it. The count had the father fetched, but the fellow stuck to
  it. He was sent for trial and condemned to hard labor, I believe. Now the father
  has come to intercede for him. But he&rsquo;s a good-for-nothing lad! You know that
  sort of tradesman&rsquo;s son, a dandy and lady-killer. He attended some lectures
  somewhere and imagines that the devil is no match for him. That&rsquo;s the sort
  of fellow he is. His father keeps a cookshop here by the Stone Bridge, and
  you know there was a large icon of God Almighty painted with a scepter in
  one hand and an orb in the other. Well, he took that icon home with him
  for a few days and what did he do? He found some scoundrel of a
  painter...&rdquo;

  CHAPTER XI


  In the middle of this fresh tale Pierre was summoned to the commander in
  chief.
<br />
  When he entered the private room Count Rostopchín, puckering his face, was
  rubbing his forehead and eyes with his hand. A short man was saying
  something, but when Pierre entered he stopped speaking and went out.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, how do you do, great warrior?&rdquo; said Rostopchín as soon as the short
  man had left the room. &ldquo;We have heard of your prowess. But that&rsquo;s not the
  point. Between ourselves, , do you belong to the Masons?&rdquo;
  he went on severely, as though there were something wrong about it which he
  nevertheless intended to pardon. Pierre remained silent. &ldquo;I am well
  informed, my friend, but I am aware that there are Masons and I hope that
  you are not one of those who on pretense of saving mankind wish to ruin
  Russia.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I am a Mason,&rdquo; Pierre replied.
<br />
  &ldquo;There, you see,  I expect you know that Messrs. Speránski and
  Magnítski have been deported to their proper place. Mr. Klyucharëv has
  been treated in the same way, and so have others who on the plea of
  building up the temple of Solomon have tried to destroy the temple of
  their fatherland. You can understand that there are reasons for this and
  that I could not have exiled the Postmaster had he not been a harmful
  person. It has now come to my knowledge that you lent him your carriage
  for his removal from town, and that you have even accepted papers from him
  for safe custody. I like you and don&rsquo;t wish you any harm and&mdash;as you
  are only half my age&mdash;I advise you, as a father would, to cease all
  communication with men of that stamp and to leave here as soon as
  possible.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But what did Klyucharëv do wrong, Count?&rdquo; asked Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;That is for me to know, but not for you to ask,&rdquo; shouted Rostopchín.
<br />
  &ldquo;If he is accused of circulating Napoleon&rsquo;s proclamation it is not proved
  that he did so,&rdquo; said Pierre without looking at Rostopchín, &ldquo;and
  Vereshchágin...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;There we are!&rdquo; Rostopchín shouted at Pierre louder than before, frowning
  suddenly. &ldquo;Vereshchágin is a renegade and a traitor who will be punished
  as he deserves,&rdquo; said he with the vindictive heat with which people speak
  when recalling an insult. &ldquo;But I did not summon you to discuss my actions,
  but to give you advice&mdash;or an order if you prefer it. I beg you to
  leave the town and break off all communication with such men as
  Klyucharëv. And I will knock the nonsense out of anybody&rdquo;&mdash;but
  probably realizing that he was shouting at Bezúkhov who so far was not
  guilty of anything, he added, taking Pierre&rsquo;s hand in a friendly manner,
  &ldquo;We are on the eve of a public disaster and I haven&rsquo;t time to be polite to
  everybody who has business with me. My head is sometimes in a whirl. Well,
  , what are you doing personally?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, nothing,&rdquo; answered Pierre without raising his eyes or changing the
  thoughtful expression of his face.
<br />
  The count frowned.
<br />
  &ldquo;A word of friendly advice, . Be off as soon as you can, that&rsquo;s
  all I have to tell you. Happy he who has ears to hear. Good-by, my dear
  fellow. Oh, by the by!&rdquo; he shouted through the doorway after Pierre, &ldquo;is
  it true that the countess has fallen into the clutches of the holy fathers
  of the Society of Jesus?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre did not answer and left Rostopchín&rsquo;s room more sullen and angry
  than he had ever before shown himself.
<br />
  When he reached home it was already getting dark. Some eight people had
  come to see him that evening: the secretary of a committee, the colonel of
  his battalion, his steward, his major-domo, and various petitioners. They
  all had business with Pierre and wanted decisions from him. Pierre did not
  understand and was not interested in any of these questions and only
  answered them in order to get rid of these people. When left alone at last
  he opened and read his wife&rsquo;s letter.
<br />
  &ldquo;, the soldiers at the battery, Prince Andrew killed... that old
  man... Simplicity is submission to God. Suffering is necessary... the
  meaning of all... one must harness... my wife is getting married... One
  must forget and understand...&rdquo; And going to his bed he threw himself on it
  without undressing and immediately fell asleep.
<br />
  When he awoke next morning the major-domo came to inform him that a
  special messenger, a police officer, had come from Count Rostopchín to
  know whether Count Bezúkhov had left or was leaving the town.
<br />
  A dozen persons who had business with Pierre were awaiting him in the
  drawing room. Pierre dressed hurriedly and, instead of going to see them,
  went to the back porch and out through the gate.
<br />
  From that time till the end of the destruction of Moscow no one of
  Bezúkhov&rsquo;s household, despite all the search they made, saw Pierre again
  or knew where he was.

  CHAPTER XII


  The Rostóvs remained in Moscow till the first of September, that is, till
  the eve of the enemy&rsquo;s entry into the city.
<br />
  After Pétya had joined Obolénski&rsquo;s regiment of Cossacks and left for
  Bélaya Tsérkov where that regiment was forming, the countess was seized
  with terror. The thought that both her sons were at the war, had both gone
  from under her wing, that today or tomorrow either or both of them might
  be killed like the three sons of one of her acquaintances, struck her that
  summer for the first time with cruel clearness. She tried to get Nicholas
  back and wished to go herself to join Pétya, or to get him an appointment
  somewhere in Petersburg, but neither of these proved possible. Pétya could
  not return unless his regiment did so or unless he was transferred to
  another regiment on active service. Nicholas was somewhere with the army
  and had not sent a word since his last letter, in which he had given a
  detailed account of his meeting with Princess Mary. The countess did not
  sleep at night, or when she did fall asleep dreamed that she saw her sons
  lying dead. After many consultations and conversations, the count at last
  devised means to tranquillize her. He got Pétya transferred from
  Obolénski&rsquo;s regiment to Bezúkhov&rsquo;s, which was in training near Moscow.
  Though Pétya would remain in the service, this transfer would give the
  countess the consolation of seeing at least one of her sons under her
  wing, and she hoped to arrange matters for her Pétya so as not to let him
  go again, but always get him appointed to places where he could not
  possibly take part in a battle. As long as Nicholas alone was in danger
  the countess imagined that she loved her first-born more than all her
  other children and even reproached herself for it; but when her youngest:
  the scapegrace who had been bad at lessons, was always breaking things in
  the house and making himself a nuisance to everybody, that snub-nosed
  Pétya with his merry black eyes and fresh rosy cheeks where soft down was
  just beginning to show&mdash;when he was thrown amid those big, dreadful,
  cruel men who were fighting somewhere about something and apparently
  finding pleasure in it&mdash;then his mother thought she loved him more,
  much more, than all her other children. The nearer the time came for Pétya
  to return, the more uneasy grew the countess. She began to think she would
  never live to see such happiness. The presence of Sónya, of her beloved
  Natásha, or even of her husband irritated her. &ldquo;What do I want with them?
  I want no one but Pétya,&rdquo; she thought.
<br />
  At the end of August the Rostóvs received another letter from Nicholas. He
  wrote from the province of Vorónezh where he had been sent to procure
  remounts, but that letter did not set the countess at ease. Knowing that
  one son was out of danger she became the more anxious about Pétya.
<br />
  Though by the twentieth of August nearly all the Rostóvs&rsquo; acquaintances
  had left Moscow, and though everybody tried to persuade the countess to
  get away as quickly as possible, she would not hear of leaving before her
  treasure, her adored Pétya, returned. On the twenty-eighth of August he
  arrived. The passionate tenderness with which his mother received him did
  not please the sixteen-year-old officer. Though she concealed from him her
  intention of keeping him under her wing, Pétya guessed her designs, and
  instinctively fearing that he might give way to emotion when with her&mdash;might
  &ldquo;become womanish&rdquo; as he termed it to himself&mdash;he treated her coldly,
  avoided her, and during his stay in Moscow attached himself exclusively to
  Natásha for whom he had always had a particularly brotherly tenderness,
  almost lover-like.
<br />
  Owing to the count&rsquo;s customary carelessness nothing was ready for their
  departure by the twenty-eighth of August and the carts that were to come
  from their Ryazán and Moscow estates to remove their household belongings
  did not arrive till the thirtieth.
<br />
  From the twenty-eighth till the thirty-first all Moscow was in a bustle
  and commotion. Every day thousands of men wounded at Borodinó were brought
  in by the Dorogomílov gate and taken to various parts of Moscow, and
  thousands of carts conveyed the inhabitants and their possessions out by
  the other gates. In spite of Rostopchín&rsquo;s broadsheets, or because of them
  or independently of them, the strangest and most contradictory rumors were
  current in the town. Some said that no one was to be allowed to leave the
  city, others on the contrary said that all the icons had been taken out of
  the churches and everybody was to be ordered to leave. Some said there had
  been another battle after Borodinó at which the French had been routed,
  while others on the contrary reported that the Russian army had been
  destroyed. Some talked about the Moscow militia which, preceded by the
  clergy, would go to the Three Hills; others whispered that Augustin had
  been forbidden to leave, that traitors had been seized, that the peasants
  were rioting and robbing people on their way from Moscow, and so on. But
  all this was only talk; in reality (though the Council of Filí, at which
  it was decided to abandon Moscow, had not yet been held) both those who
  went away and those who remained behind felt, though they did not show it,
  that Moscow would certainly be abandoned, and that they ought to get away
  as quickly as possible and save their belongings. It was felt that
  everything would suddenly break up and change, but up to the first of
  September nothing had done so. As a criminal who is being led to execution
  knows that he must die immediately, but yet looks about him and
  straightens the cap that is awry on his head, so Moscow involuntarily
  continued its wonted life, though it knew that the time of its destruction
  was near when the conditions of life to which its people were accustomed
  to submit would be completely upset.
<br />
  During the three days preceding the occupation of Moscow the whole Rostóv
  family was absorbed in various activities. The head of the family, Count
  Ilyá Rostóv, continually drove about the city collecting the current
  rumors from all sides and gave superficial and hasty orders at home about
  the preparations for their departure.
<br />
  The countess watched the things being packed, was dissatisfied with
  everything, was constantly in pursuit of Pétya who was always running away
  from her, and was jealous of Natásha with whom he spent all his time.
  Sónya alone directed the practical side of matters by getting things
  packed. But of late Sónya had been particularly sad and silent. Nicholas&rsquo;
  letter in which he mentioned Princess Mary had elicited, in her presence,
  joyous comments from the countess, who saw an intervention of Providence
  in this meeting of the princess and Nicholas.
<br />
  &ldquo;I was never pleased at Bolkónski&rsquo;s engagement to Natásha,&rdquo; said the
  countess, &ldquo;but I always wanted Nicholas to marry the princess, and had a
  presentiment that it would happen. What a good thing it would be!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sónya felt that this was true: that the only possibility of retrieving the
  Rostóvs&rsquo; affairs was by Nicholas marrying a rich woman, and that the
  princess was a good match. It was very bitter for her. But despite her
  grief, or perhaps just because of it, she took on herself all the
  difficult work of directing the storing and packing of their things and
  was busy for whole days. The count and countess turned to her when they
  had any orders to give. Pétya and Natásha on the contrary, far from
  helping their parents, were generally a nuisance and a hindrance to
  everyone. Almost all day long the house resounded with their running feet,
  their cries, and their spontaneous laughter. They laughed and were gay not
  because there was any reason to laugh, but because gaiety and mirth were
  in their hearts and so everything that happened was a cause for gaiety and
  laughter to them. Pétya was in high spirits because having left home a boy
  he had returned (as everybody told him) a fine young man, because he was
  at home, because he had left Bélaya Tsérkov where there was no hope of
  soon taking part in a battle and had come to Moscow where there was to be
  fighting in a few days, and chiefly because Natásha, whose lead he always
  followed, was in high spirits. Natásha was gay because she had been sad
  too long and now nothing reminded her of the cause of her sadness, and
  because she was feeling well. She was also happy because she had someone
  to adore her: the adoration of others was a lubricant the wheels of her
  machine needed to make them run freely&mdash;and Pétya adored her. Above
  all, they were gay because there was a war near Moscow, there would be
  fighting at the town gates, arms were being given out, everybody was
  escaping&mdash;going away somewhere, and in general something
  extraordinary was happening, and that is always exciting, especially to
  the young.

  CHAPTER XIII


  On Saturday, the thirty-first of August, everything in the Rostóvs&rsquo; house
  seemed topsy-turvy. All the doors were open, all the furniture was being
  carried out or moved about, and the mirrors and pictures had been taken
  down. There were trunks in the rooms, and hay, wrapping paper, and ropes
  were scattered about. The peasants and house serfs carrying out the things
  were treading heavily on the parquet floors. The yard was crowded with
  peasant carts, some loaded high and already corded up, others still empty.
<br />
  The voices and footsteps of the many servants and of the peasants who had
  come with the carts resounded as they shouted to one another in the yard
  and in the house. The count had been out since morning. The countess had a
  headache brought on by all the noise and turmoil and was lying down in the
  new sitting room with a vinegar compress on her head. Pétya was not at
  home, he had gone to visit a friend with whom he meant to obtain a
  transfer from the militia to the active army. Sónya was in the ballroom
  looking after the packing of the glass and china. Natásha was sitting on
  the floor of her dismantled room with dresses, ribbons, and scarves strewn
  all about her, gazing fixedly at the floor and holding in her hands the
  old ball dress (already out of fashion) which she had worn at her first
  Petersburg ball.
<br />
  Natásha was ashamed of doing nothing when everyone else was so busy, and
  several times that morning had tried to set to work, but her heart was not
  in it, and she could not and did not know how to do anything except with
  all her heart and all her might. For a while she had stood beside Sónya
  while the china was being packed and tried to help, but soon gave it up
  and went to her room to pack her own things. At first she found it amusing
  to give away dresses and ribbons to the maids, but when that was done and
  what was left had still to be packed, she found it dull.
<br />
  &ldquo;Dunyásha, you pack! You will, won&rsquo;t you, dear?&rdquo; And when Dunyásha
  willingly promised to do it all for her, Natásha sat down on the floor,
  took her old ball dress, and fell into a reverie quite unrelated to what
  ought to have occupied her thoughts now. She was roused from her reverie
  by the talk of the maids in the next room (which was theirs) and by the
  sound of their hurried footsteps going to the back porch. Natásha got up
  and looked out of the window. An enormously long row of carts full of
  wounded men had stopped in the street.
<br />
  The housekeeper, the old nurse, the cooks, coachmen, maids, footmen,
  postilions, and scullions stood at the gate, staring at the wounded.
<br />
  Natásha, throwing a clean pocket handkerchief over her hair and holding an
  end of it in each hand, went out into the street.
<br />
  The former housekeeper, old Mávra Kuzmínichna, had stepped out of the
  crowd by the gate, gone up to a cart with a hood constructed of bast mats,
  and was speaking to a pale young officer who lay inside. Natásha moved a
  few steps forward and stopped shyly, still holding her handkerchief, and
  listened to what the housekeeper was saying.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then you have nobody in Moscow?&rdquo; she was saying. &ldquo;You would be more
  comfortable somewhere in a house... in ours, for instance... the family
  are leaving.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know if it would be allowed,&rdquo; replied the officer in a weak
  voice. &ldquo;Here is our commanding officer... ask him,&rdquo; and he pointed to a
  stout major who was walking back along the street past the row of carts.
<br />
  Natásha glanced with frightened eyes at the face of the wounded officer
  and at once went to meet the major.
<br />
  &ldquo;May the wounded men stay in our house?&rdquo; she asked.
<br />
  The major raised his hand to his cap with a smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;Which one do you want, Ma&rsquo;am&rsquo;selle?&rdquo; said he, screwing up his eyes and
  smiling.
<br />
  Natásha quietly repeated her question, and her face and whole manner were
  so serious, though she was still holding the ends of her handkerchief,
  that the major ceased smiling and after some reflection&mdash;as if
  considering in how far the thing was possible&mdash;replied in the
  affirmative.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh yes, why not? They may,&rdquo; he said.
<br />
  With a slight inclination of her head, Natásha stepped back quickly to
  Mávra Kuzmínichna, who stood talking compassionately to the officer.
<br />
  &ldquo;They may. He says they may!&rdquo; whispered Natásha.
<br />
  The cart in which the officer lay was turned into the Rostóvs&rsquo; yard, and
  dozens of carts with wounded men began at the invitation of the townsfolk
  to turn into the yards and to draw up at the entrances of the houses in
  Povarskáya Street. Natásha was evidently pleased to be dealing with new
  people outside the ordinary routine of her life. She and Mávra Kuzmínichna
  tried to get as many of the wounded as possible into their yard.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your Papa must be told, though,&rdquo; said Mávra Kuzmínichna.
<br />
  &ldquo;Never mind, never mind, what does it matter? For one day we can move into
  the drawing room. They can have all our half of the house.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;There now, young lady, you do take things into your head! Even if we put
  them into the wing, the men&rsquo;s room, or the nurse&rsquo;s room, we must ask
  permission.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, I&rsquo;ll ask.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha ran into the house and went on tiptoe through the half-open door
  into the sitting room, where there was a smell of vinegar and Hoffman&rsquo;s
  drops.
<br />
  &ldquo;Are you asleep, Mamma?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, what sleep&mdash;?&rdquo; said the countess, waking up just as
  she was dropping into a doze.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mamma darling!&rdquo; said Natásha, kneeling by her mother and bringing her
  face close to her mother&rsquo;s, &ldquo;I am sorry, forgive me, I&rsquo;ll never do it
  again; I woke you up! Mávra Kuzmínichna has sent me: they have brought
  some wounded here&mdash;officers. Will you let them come? They have
  nowhere to go. I knew you&rsquo;d let them come!&rdquo; she said quickly all in one
  breath.
<br />
  &ldquo;What officers? Whom have they brought? I don&rsquo;t understand anything about
  it,&rdquo; said the countess.
<br />
  Natásha laughed, and the countess too smiled slightly.
<br />
  &ldquo;I knew you&rsquo;d give permission... so I&rsquo;ll tell them,&rdquo; and, having kissed
  her mother, Natásha got up and went to the door.
<br />
  In the hall she met her father, who had returned with bad news.
<br />
  &ldquo;We&rsquo;ve stayed too long!&rdquo; said the count with involuntary
  vexation. &ldquo;The Club is closed and the police are leaving.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Papa, is it all right&mdash;I&rsquo;ve invited some of the wounded into the
  house?&rdquo; said Natásha.
<br />
  &ldquo;Of course it is,&rdquo; he answered absently. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s not the point. I beg you
  not to indulge in trifles now, but to help to pack, and tomorrow we must
  go, go, go!...&rdquo;
 <br />
  And the count gave a similar order to the major-domo and the servants.
<br />
  At dinner Pétya having returned home told them the news he had heard. He
  said the people had been getting arms in the Krémlin, and that though
  Rostopchín&rsquo;s broadsheet had said that he would sound a call two or three
  days in advance, the order had certainly already been given for everyone
  to go armed to the Three Hills tomorrow, and that there would be a big
  battle there.
<br />
  The countess looked with timid horror at her son&rsquo;s eager, excited face as
  he said this. She realized that if she said a word about his not going to
  the battle (she knew he enjoyed the thought of the impending engagement)
  he would say something about men, honor, and the fatherland&mdash;something
  senseless, masculine, and obstinate which there would be no contradicting,
  and her plans would be spoiled; and so, hoping to arrange to leave before
  then and take Pétya with her as their protector and defender, she did not
  answer him, but after dinner called the count aside and implored him with
  tears to take her away quickly, that very night if possible. With a
  woman&rsquo;s involuntary loving cunning she, who till then had not shown any
  alarm, said that she would die of fright if they did not leave that very
  night. Without any pretense she was now afraid of everything.

  CHAPTER XIV


  Madame Schoss, who had been out to visit her daughter, increased the
  countess&rsquo; fears still more by telling what she had seen at a spirit
  dealer&rsquo;s in Myasnítski Street. When returning by that street she had been
  unable to pass because of a drunken crowd rioting in front of the shop.
  She had taken a cab and driven home by a side street and the cabman had
  told her that the people were breaking open the barrels at the drink
  store, having received orders to do so.
<br />
  After dinner the whole Rostóv household set to work with enthusiastic
  haste packing their belongings and preparing for their departure. The old
  count, suddenly setting to work, kept passing from the yard to the house
  and back again, shouting confused instructions to the hurrying people, and
  flurrying them still more. Pétya directed things in the yard. Sónya, owing
  to the count&rsquo;s contradictory orders, lost her head and did not know what
  to do. The servants ran noisily about the house and yard, shouting and
  disputing. Natásha, with the ardor characteristic of all she did suddenly
  set to work too. At first her intervention in the business of packing was
  received skeptically. Everybody expected some prank from her and did not
  wish to obey her; but she resolutely and passionately demanded obedience,
  grew angry and nearly cried because they did not heed her, and at last
  succeeded in making them believe her. Her first exploit, which cost her
  immense effort and established her authority, was the packing of the
  carpets. The count had valuable Gobelin tapestries and Persian carpets in
  the house. When Natásha set to work two cases were standing open in the
  ballroom, one almost full up with crockery, the other with carpets. There
  was also much china standing on the tables, and still more was being
  brought in from the storeroom. A third case was needed and servants had
  gone to fetch it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sónya, wait a bit&mdash;we&rsquo;ll pack everything into these,&rdquo; said Natásha.
<br />
  &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t, Miss, we have tried to,&rdquo; said the butler&rsquo;s assistant.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, wait a minute, please.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And Natásha began rapidly taking out of the case dishes and plates wrapped
  in paper.
<br />
  &ldquo;The dishes must go in here among the carpets,&rdquo; said she.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, it&rsquo;s a mercy if we can get the carpets alone into three cases,&rdquo; said
  the butler&rsquo;s assistant.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, wait, please!&rdquo; And Natásha began rapidly and deftly sorting out the
  things. &ldquo;These aren&rsquo;t needed,&rdquo; said she, putting aside some plates of Kiev
  ware. &ldquo;These&mdash;yes, these must go among the carpets,&rdquo; she said,
  referring to the Saxony china dishes.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t, Natásha! Leave it alone! We&rsquo;ll get it all packed,&rdquo; urged Sónya
  reproachfully.
<br />
  &ldquo;What a young lady she is!&rdquo; remarked the major-domo.
<br />
  But Natásha would not give in. She turned everything out and began quickly
  repacking, deciding that the inferior Russian carpets and unnecessary
  crockery should not be taken at all. When everything had been taken out of
  the cases, they recommenced packing, and it turned out that when the
  cheaper things not worth taking had nearly all been rejected, the valuable
  ones really did all go into the two cases. Only the lid of the case
  containing the carpets would not shut down. A few more things might have
  been taken out, but Natásha insisted on having her own way. She packed,
  repacked, pressed, made the butler&rsquo;s assistant and Pétya&mdash;whom she
  had drawn into the business of packing&mdash;press on the lid, and made
  desperate efforts herself.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s enough, Natásha,&rdquo; said Sónya. &ldquo;I see you were right, but just take
  out the top one.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t!&rdquo; cried Natásha, with one hand holding back the hair that hung
  over her perspiring face, while with the other she pressed down the
  carpets. &ldquo;Now press, Pétya! Press, Vasílich, press hard!&rdquo; she cried.
<br />
  The carpets yielded and the lid closed; Natásha, clapping her hands,
  screamed with delight and tears fell from her eyes. But this only lasted a
  moment. She at once set to work afresh and they now trusted her
  completely. The count was not angry even when they told him that Natásha
  had countermanded an order of his, and the servants now came to her to ask
  whether a cart was sufficiently loaded, and whether it might be corded up.
  Thanks to Natásha&rsquo;s directions the work now went on expeditiously,
  unnecessary things were left, and the most valuable packed as compactly as
  possible.
<br />
  But hard as they all worked till quite late that night, they could not get
  everything packed. The countess had fallen asleep and the count, having
  put off their departure till next morning, went to bed.
<br />
  Sónya and Natásha slept in the sitting room without undressing.
<br />
  That night another wounded man was driven down the Povarskáya, and Mávra
  Kuzmínichna, who was standing at the gate, had him brought into the
  Rostóvs&rsquo; yard. Mávra Kuzmínichna concluded that he was a very important
  man. He was being conveyed in a  with a raised hood, and was quite
  covered by an apron. On the box beside the driver sat a venerable old
  attendant. A doctor and two soldiers followed the carriage in a cart.
<br />
  &ldquo;Please come in here. The masters are going away and the whole house will
  be empty,&rdquo; said the old woman to the old attendant.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, perhaps,&rdquo; said he with a sigh. &ldquo;We don&rsquo;t expect to get him home
  alive! We have a house of our own in Moscow, but it&rsquo;s a long way from
  here, and there&rsquo;s nobody living in it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Do us the honor to come in, there&rsquo;s plenty of everything in the master&rsquo;s
  house. Come in,&rdquo; said Mávra Kuzmínichna. &ldquo;Is he very ill?&rdquo; she asked.
<br />
  The attendant made a hopeless gesture.
<br />
  &ldquo;We don&rsquo;t expect to get him home! We must ask the doctor.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And the old servant got down from the box and went up to the cart.
<br />
  &ldquo;All right!&rdquo; said the doctor.
<br />
  The old servant returned to the , looked into it, shook his head
  disconsolately, told the driver to turn into the yard, and stopped beside
  Mávra Kuzmínichna.
<br />
  &ldquo;O, Lord Jesus Christ!&rdquo; she murmured.
<br />
  She invited them to take the wounded man into the house.
<br />
  &ldquo;The masters won&rsquo;t object...&rdquo; she said.
<br />
  But they had to avoid carrying the man upstairs, and so they took him into
  the wing and put him in the room that had been Madame Schoss&rsquo;.
<br />
  This wounded man was Prince Andrew Bolkónski.

  CHAPTER XV


  Moscow&rsquo;s last day had come. It was a clear bright autumn day, a Sunday.
  The church bells everywhere were ringing for service, just as usual on
  Sundays. Nobody seemed yet to realize what awaited the city.
<br />
  Only two things indicated the social condition of Moscow&mdash;the rabble,
  that is the poor people, and the price of commodities. An enormous crowd
  of factory hands, house serfs, and peasants, with whom some officials,
  seminarists, and gentry were mingled, had gone early that morning to the
  Three Hills. Having waited there for Rostopchín who did not turn up, they
  became convinced that Moscow would be surrendered, and then dispersed all
  about the town to the public houses and cookshops. Prices too that day
  indicated the state of affairs. The price of weapons, of gold, of carts
  and horses, kept rising, but the value of paper money and city articles
  kept falling, so that by midday there were instances of carters removing
  valuable goods, such as cloth, and receiving in payment a half of what
  they carted, while peasant horses were fetching five hundred rubles each,
  and furniture, mirrors, and bronzes were being given away for nothing.
<br />
  In the Rostóvs&rsquo; staid old-fashioned house the dissolution of former
  conditions of life was but little noticeable. As to the serfs the only
  indication was that three out of their huge retinue disappeared during the
  night, but nothing was stolen; and as to the value of their possessions,
  the thirty peasant carts that had come in from their estates and which
  many people envied proved to be extremely valuable and they were offered
  enormous sums of money for them. Not only were huge sums offered for the
  horses and carts, but on the previous evening and early in the morning of
  the first of September, orderlies and servants sent by wounded officers
  came to the Rostóvs&rsquo; and wounded men dragged themselves there from the
  Rostóvs&rsquo; and from neighboring houses where they were accommodated,
  entreating the servants to try to get them a lift out of Moscow. The
  major-domo to whom these entreaties were addressed, though he was sorry
  for the wounded, resolutely refused, saying that he dare not even mention
  the matter to the count. Pity these wounded men as one might, it was
  evident that if they were given one cart there would be no reason to
  refuse another, or all the carts and one&rsquo;s own carriages as well. Thirty
  carts could not save all the wounded and in the general catastrophe one
  could not disregard oneself and one&rsquo;s own family. So thought the
  major-domo on his master&rsquo;s behalf.
<br />
  On waking up that morning Count Ilyá Rostóv left his bedroom softly, so as
  not to wake the countess who had fallen asleep only toward morning, and
  came out to the porch in his lilac silk dressing gown. In the yard stood
  the carts ready corded. The carriages were at the front porch. The
  major-domo stood at the porch talking to an elderly orderly and to a pale
  young officer with a bandaged arm. On seeing the count the major-domo made
  a significant and stern gesture to them both to go away.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, Vasílich, is everything ready?&rdquo; asked the count, and stroking his
  bald head he looked good-naturedly at the officer and the orderly and
  nodded to them. (He liked to see new faces.)
<br />
  &ldquo;We can harness at once, your excellency.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, that&rsquo;s right. As soon as the countess wakes we&rsquo;ll be off, God
  willing! What is it, gentlemen?&rdquo; he added, turning to the officer. &ldquo;Are
  you staying in my house?&rdquo;
 <br />
  The officer came nearer and suddenly his face flushed crimson.
<br />
  &ldquo;Count, be so good as to allow me... for God&rsquo;s sake, to get into some
  corner of one of your carts! I have nothing here with me.... I shall be
  all right on a loaded cart....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Before the officer had finished speaking the orderly made the same request
  on behalf of his master.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, yes, yes, yes!&rdquo; said the count hastily. &ldquo;I shall be very pleased,
  very pleased. Vasílich, you&rsquo;ll see to it. Just unload one or two carts.
  Well, what of it... do what&rsquo;s necessary...&rdquo; said the count, muttering some
  indefinite order.
<br />
  But at the same moment an expression of warm gratitude on the officer&rsquo;s
  face had already sealed the order. The count looked around him. In the
  yard, at the gates, at the window of the wings, wounded officers and their
  orderlies were to be seen. They were all looking at the count and moving
  toward the porch.
<br />
  &ldquo;Please step into the gallery, your excellency,&rdquo; said the major-domo.
  &ldquo;What are your orders about the pictures?&rdquo;
 <br />
  The count went into the house with him, repeating his order not to refuse
  the wounded who asked for a lift.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, never mind, some of the things can be unloaded,&rdquo; he added in a
  soft, confidential voice, as though afraid of being overheard.
<br />
  At nine o&rsquo;clock the countess woke up, and Matrëna Timoféevna, who had been
  her lady&rsquo;s maid before her marriage and now performed a sort of chief
  gendarme&rsquo;s duty for her, came to say that Madame Schoss was much offended
  and the young ladies&rsquo; summer dresses could not be left behind. On inquiry,
  the countess learned that Madame Schoss was offended because her trunk had
  been taken down from its cart, and all the loads were being uncorded and
  the luggage taken out of the carts to make room for wounded men whom the
  count in the simplicity of his heart had ordered that they should take
  with them. The countess sent for her husband.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is this, my dear? I hear that the luggage is being unloaded.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You know, love, I wanted to tell you... Countess dear... an officer came
  to me to ask for a few carts for the wounded. After all, ours are things
  that can be bought but think what being left behind means to them!...
  Really now, in our own yard&mdash;we asked them in ourselves and there are
  officers among them.... You know, I think, my dear... let them be taken...
  where&rsquo;s the hurry?&rdquo;
 <br />
  The count spoke timidly, as he always did when talking of money matters.
  The countess was accustomed to this tone as a precursor of news of
  something detrimental to the children&rsquo;s interests, such as the building of
  a new gallery or conservatory, the inauguration of a private theater or an
  orchestra. She was accustomed always to oppose anything announced in that
  timid tone and considered it her duty to do so.
<br />
  She assumed her dolefully submissive manner and said to her husband:
  &ldquo;Listen to me, Count, you have managed matters so that we are getting
  nothing for the house, and now you wish to throw away all our&mdash;all
   property! You said yourself that we have a hundred thousand
  rubles&rsquo; worth of things in the house. I don&rsquo;t consent, my dear, I don&rsquo;t!
  Do as you please! It&rsquo;s the government&rsquo;s business to look after the
  wounded; they know that. Look at the Lopukhíns opposite, they cleared out
  everything two days ago. That&rsquo;s what other people do. It&rsquo;s only we who are
  such fools. If you have no pity on me, have some for the children.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Flourishing his arms in despair the count left the room without replying.
<br />
  &ldquo;Papa, what are you doing that for?&rdquo; asked Natásha, who had followed him
  into her mother&rsquo;s room.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nothing! What business is it of yours?&rdquo; muttered the count angrily.
<br />
  &ldquo;But I heard,&rdquo; said Natásha. &ldquo;Why does Mamma object?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What business is it of yours?&rdquo; cried the count.
<br />
  Natásha stepped up to the window and pondered.
<br />
  &ldquo;Papa! Here&rsquo;s Berg coming to see us,&rdquo; said she, looking out of the window.

  CHAPTER XVI


  Berg, the Rostóvs&rsquo; son-in-law, was already a colonel wearing the orders of
  Vladímir and Anna, and he still filled the quiet and agreeable post of
  assistant to the head of the staff of the assistant commander of the first
  division of the Second Army.
<br />
  On the first of September he had come to Moscow from the army.
<br />
  He had nothing to do in Moscow, but he had noticed that everyone in the
  army was asking for leave to visit Moscow and had something to do there.
  So he considered it necessary to ask for leave of absence for family and
  domestic reasons.
<br />
  Berg drove up to his father-in-law&rsquo;s house in his spruce little trap with
  a pair of sleek roans, exactly like those of a certain prince. He looked
  attentively at the carts in the yard and while going up to the porch took
  out a clean pocket handkerchief and tied a knot in it.
<br />
  From the anteroom Berg ran with smooth though impatient steps into the
  drawing room, where he embraced the count, kissed the hands of Natásha and
  Sónya, and hastened to inquire after &ldquo;Mamma&rsquo;s&rdquo; health.
<br />
  &ldquo;Health, at a time like this?&rdquo; said the count. &ldquo;Come, tell us the news! Is
  the army retreating or will there be another battle?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;God Almighty alone can decide the fate of our fatherland, Papa,&rdquo; said
  Berg. &ldquo;The army is burning with a spirit of heroism and the leaders, so to
  say, have now assembled in council. No one knows what is coming. But in
  general I can tell you, Papa, that such a heroic spirit, the truly antique
  valor of the Russian army, which they&mdash;which it&rdquo; (he corrected
  himself) &ldquo;has shown or displayed in the battle of the twenty-sixth&mdash;there
  are no words worthy to do it justice! I tell you, Papa&rdquo; (he smote himself
  on the breast as a general he had heard speaking had done, but Berg did it
  a trifle late for he should have struck his breast at the words &ldquo;Russian
  army&rdquo;), &ldquo;I tell you frankly that we, the commanders, far from having to
  urge the men on or anything of that kind, could hardly restrain those...
  those... yes, those exploits of antique valor,&rdquo; he went on rapidly.
  &ldquo;General Barclay de Tolly risked his life everywhere at the head of the
  troops, I can assure you. Our corps was stationed on a hillside. You can
  imagine!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And Berg related all that he remembered of the various tales he had heard
  those days. Natásha watched him with an intent gaze that confused him, as
  if she were trying to find in his face the answer to some question.
<br />
  &ldquo;Altogether such heroism as was displayed by the Russian warriors cannot
  be imagined or adequately praised!&rdquo; said Berg, glancing round at Natásha,
  and as if anxious to conciliate her, replying to her intent look with a
  smile. &ldquo;&lsquo;Russia is not in Moscow, she lives in the hearts of her sons!&rsquo;
  Isn&rsquo;t it so, Papa?&rdquo; said he.
<br />
  Just then the countess came in from the sitting room with a weary and
  dissatisfied expression. Berg hurriedly jumped up, kissed her hand, asked
  about her health, and, swaying his head from side to side to express
  sympathy, remained standing beside her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, Mamma, I tell you sincerely that these are hard and sad times for
  every Russian. But why are you so anxious? You have still time to get
  away....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t think what the servants are about,&rdquo; said the countess, turning to
  her husband. &ldquo;I have just been told that nothing is ready yet. Somebody
  after all must see to things. One misses Mítenka at such times. There
  won&rsquo;t be any end to it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The count was about to say something, but evidently restrained himself. He
  got up from his chair and went to the door.
<br />
  At that moment Berg drew out his handkerchief as if to blow his nose and,
  seeing the knot in it, pondered, shaking his head sadly and significantly.
<br />
  &ldquo;And I have a great favor to ask of you, Papa,&rdquo; said he.
<br />
  &ldquo;Hm...&rdquo; said the count, and stopped.
<br />
  &ldquo;I was driving past Yusúpov&rsquo;s house just now,&rdquo; said Berg with a laugh,
  &ldquo;when the steward, a man I know, ran out and asked me whether I wouldn&rsquo;t
  buy something. I went in out of curiosity, you know, and there is a small
  chiffonier and a dressing table. You know how dear Véra wanted a
  chiffonier like that and how we had a dispute about it.&rdquo; (At the mention
  of the chiffonier and dressing table Berg involuntarily changed his tone
  to one of pleasure at his admirable domestic arrangements.) &ldquo;And it&rsquo;s such
  a beauty! It pulls out and has a secret English drawer, you know! And dear
  Véra has long wanted one. I wish to give her a surprise, you see. I saw so
  many of those peasant carts in your yard. Please let me have one, I will
  pay the man well, and...&rdquo;
 <br />
  The count frowned and coughed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ask the countess, I don&rsquo;t give orders.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;If it&rsquo;s inconvenient, please don&rsquo;t,&rdquo; said Berg. &ldquo;Only I so wanted it, for
  dear Véra&rsquo;s sake.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, go to the devil, all of you! To the devil, the devil, the devil...&rdquo;
   cried the old count. &ldquo;My head&rsquo;s in a whirl!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And he left the room. The countess began to cry.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, Mamma! Yes, these are very hard times!&rdquo; said Berg.
<br />
  Natásha left the room with her father and, as if finding it difficult to
  reach some decision, first followed him and then ran downstairs.
<br />
  Pétya was in the porch, engaged in giving out weapons to the servants who
  were to leave Moscow. The loaded carts were still standing in the yard.
  Two of them had been uncorded and a wounded officer was climbing into one
  of them helped by an orderly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you know what it&rsquo;s about?&rdquo; Pétya asked Natásha.
<br />
  She understood that he meant what were their parents quarreling about. She
  did not answer.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s because Papa wanted to give up all the carts to the wounded,&rdquo; said
  Pétya. &ldquo;Vasílich told me. I consider...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I consider,&rdquo; Natásha suddenly almost shouted, turning her angry face to
  Pétya, &ldquo;I consider it so horrid, so abominable, so... I don&rsquo;t know what.
  Are we despicable Germans?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Her throat quivered with convulsive sobs and, afraid of weakening and
  letting the force of her anger run to waste, she turned and rushed
  headlong up the stairs.
<br />
  Berg was sitting beside the countess consoling her with the respectful
  attention of a relative. The count, pipe in hand, was pacing up and down
  the room, when Natásha, her face distorted by anger, burst in like a
  tempest and approached her mother with rapid steps.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s horrid! It&rsquo;s abominable!&rdquo; she screamed. &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t possibly have
  ordered it!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Berg and the countess looked at her, perplexed and frightened. The count
  stood still at the window and listened.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mamma, it&rsquo;s impossible: see what is going on in the yard!&rdquo; she cried.
  &ldquo;They will be left!...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter with you? Who are &lsquo;they&rsquo;? What do you want?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, the wounded! It&rsquo;s impossible, Mamma. It&rsquo;s monstrous!... No, Mamma
  darling, it&rsquo;s not the thing. Please forgive me, darling.... Mamma, what
  does it matter what we take away? Only look what is going on in the
  yard... Mamma!... It&rsquo;s impossible!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The count stood by the window and listened without turning round. Suddenly
  he sniffed and put his face closer to the window.
<br />
  The countess glanced at her daughter, saw her face full of shame for her
  mother, saw her agitation, and understood why her husband did not turn to
  look at her now, and she glanced round quite disconcerted.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, do as you like! Am I hindering anyone?&rdquo; she said, not surrendering at
  once.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mamma, darling, forgive me!&rdquo;
 <br />
  But the countess pushed her daughter away and went up to her husband.
<br />
  &ldquo;My dear, you order what is right.... You know I don&rsquo;t understand about
  it,&rdquo; said she, dropping her eyes shamefacedly.
<br />
  &ldquo;The eggs... the eggs are teaching the hen,&rdquo; muttered the count through
  tears of joy, and he embraced his wife who was glad to hide her look of
  shame on his breast.
<br />
  &ldquo;Papa! Mamma! May I see to it? May I?...&rdquo; asked Natásha. &ldquo;We will still
  take all the most necessary things.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The count nodded affirmatively, and Natásha, at the rapid pace at which
  she used to run when playing at tag, ran through the ballroom to the
  anteroom and downstairs into the yard.
<br />
  The servants gathered round Natásha, but could not believe the strange
  order she brought them until the count himself, in his wife&rsquo;s name,
  confirmed the order to give up all the carts to the wounded and take the
  trunks to the storerooms. When they understood that order the servants set
  to work at this new task with pleasure and zeal. It no longer seemed
  strange to them but on the contrary it seemed the only thing that could be
  done, just as a quarter of an hour before it had not seemed strange to
  anyone that the wounded should be left behind and the goods carted away
  but that had seemed the only thing to do.
<br />
  The whole household, as if to atone for not having done it sooner, set
  eagerly to work at the new task of placing the wounded in the carts. The
  wounded dragged themselves out of their rooms and stood with pale but
  happy faces round the carts. The news that carts were to be had spread to
  the neighboring houses, from which wounded men began to come into the
  Rostóvs&rsquo; yard. Many of the wounded asked them not to unload the carts but
  only to let them sit on the top of the things. But the work of unloading,
  once started, could not be arrested. It seemed not to matter whether all
  or only half the things were left behind. Cases full of china, bronzes,
  pictures, and mirrors that had been so carefully packed the night before
  now lay about the yard, and still they went on searching for and finding
  possibilities of unloading this or that and letting the wounded have
  another and yet another cart.
<br />
  &ldquo;We can take four more men,&rdquo; said the steward. &ldquo;They can have my trap, or
  else what is to become of them?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Let them have my wardrobe cart,&rdquo; said the countess. &ldquo;Dunyásha can go with
  me in the carriage.&rdquo;
 <br />
  They unloaded the wardrobe cart and sent it to take wounded men from a
  house two doors off. The whole household, servants included, was bright
  and animated. Natásha was in a state of rapturous excitement such as she
  had not known for a long time.
<br />
  &ldquo;What could we fasten this onto?&rdquo; asked the servants, trying to fix a
  trunk on the narrow footboard behind a carriage. &ldquo;We must keep at least
  one cart.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s in it?&rdquo; asked Natásha.
<br />
  &ldquo;The count&rsquo;s books.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Leave it, Vasílich will put it away. It&rsquo;s not wanted.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The phaeton was full of people and there was a doubt as to where Count
  Peter could sit.
<br />
  &ldquo;On the box. You&rsquo;ll sit on the box, won&rsquo;t you, Pétya?&rdquo; cried Natásha.
<br />
  Sónya too was busy all this time, but the aim of her efforts was quite
  different from Natásha&rsquo;s. She was putting away the things that had to be
  left behind and making a list of them as the countess wished, and she
  tried to get as much taken away with them as possible.

  CHAPTER XVII


  Before two o&rsquo;clock in the afternoon the Rostóvs&rsquo; four carriages, packed
  full and with the horses harnessed, stood at the front door. One by one
  the carts with the wounded had moved out of the yard.
<br />
  The  in which Prince Andrew was being taken attracted Sónya&rsquo;s
  attention as it passed the front porch. With the help of a maid she was
  arranging a seat for the countess in the huge high coach that stood at the
  entrance.
<br />
  &ldquo;Whose  is that?&rdquo; she inquired, leaning out of the carriage window.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, didn&rsquo;t you know, Miss?&rdquo; replied the maid. &ldquo;The wounded prince: he
  spent the night in our house and is going with us.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But who is it? What&rsquo;s his name?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s our intended that was&mdash;Prince Bolkónski himself! They say he is
  dying,&rdquo; replied the maid with a sigh.
<br />
  Sónya jumped out of the coach and ran to the countess. The countess, tired
  out and already dressed in shawl and bonnet for her journey, was pacing up
  and down the drawing room, waiting for the household to assemble for the
  usual silent prayer with closed doors before starting. Natásha was not in
  the room.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mamma,&rdquo; said Sónya, &ldquo;Prince Andrew is here, mortally wounded. He is going
  with us.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The countess opened her eyes in dismay and, seizing Sónya&rsquo;s arm, glanced
  around.
<br />
  &ldquo;Natásha?&rdquo; she murmured.
<br />
  At that moment this news had only one significance for both of them. They
  knew their Natásha, and alarm as to what would happen if she heard this
  news stifled all sympathy for the man they both liked.
<br />
  &ldquo;Natásha does not know yet, but he is going with us,&rdquo; said Sónya.
<br />
  &ldquo;You say he is dying?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sónya nodded.
<br />
  The countess put her arms around Sónya and began to cry.
<br />
  &ldquo;The ways of God are past finding out!&rdquo; she thought, feeling that the
  Almighty Hand, hitherto unseen, was becoming manifest in all that was now
  taking place.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, Mamma? Everything is ready. What&rsquo;s the matter?&rdquo; asked Natásha, as
  with animated face she ran into the room.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; answered the countess. &ldquo;If everything is ready let us start.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And the countess bent over her reticule to hide her agitated face. Sónya
  embraced Natásha and kissed her.
<br />
  Natásha looked at her inquiringly.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is it? What has happened?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Nothing... No...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Is it something very bad for me? What is it?&rdquo; persisted Natásha with her
  quick intuition.
<br />
  Sónya sighed and made no reply. The count, Pétya, Madame Schoss, Mávra
  Kuzmínichna, and Vasílich came into the drawing room and, having closed
  the doors, they all sat down and remained for some moments silently seated
  without looking at one another.
<br />
  The count was the first to rise, and with a loud sigh crossed himself
  before the icon. All the others did the same. Then the count embraced
  Mávra Kuzmínichna and Vasílich, who were to remain in Moscow, and while
  they caught at his hand and kissed his shoulder he patted their backs
  lightly with some vaguely affectionate and comforting words. The countess
  went into the oratory and there Sónya found her on her knees before the
  icons that had been left here and there hanging on the wall. (The most
  precious ones, with which some family tradition was connected, were being
  taken with them.)
<br />
  In the porch and in the yard the men whom Pétya had armed with swords and
  daggers, with trousers tucked inside their high boots and with belts and
  girdles tightened, were taking leave of those remaining behind.
<br />
  As is always the case at a departure, much had been forgotten or put in
  the wrong place, and for a long time two menservants stood one on each
  side of the open door and the carriage steps waiting to help the countess
  in, while maids rushed with cushions and bundles from the house to the
  carriages, the , the phaeton, and back again.
<br />
  &ldquo;They always will forget everything!&rdquo; said the countess. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you know I
  can&rsquo;t sit like that?&rdquo;
 <br />
  And Dunyásha, with clenched teeth, without replying but with an aggrieved
  look on her face, hastily got into the coach to rearrange the seat.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, those servants!&rdquo; said the count, swaying his head.
<br />
  Efím, the old coachman, who was the only one the countess trusted to drive
  her, sat perched up high on the box and did not so much as glance round at
  what was going on behind him. From thirty years&rsquo; experience he knew it
  would be some time yet before the order, &ldquo;Be off, in God&rsquo;s name!&rdquo; would be
  given him: and he knew that even when it was said he would be stopped once
  or twice more while they sent back to fetch something that had been
  forgotten, and even after that he would again be stopped and the countess
  herself would lean out of the window and beg him for the love of heaven to
  drive carefully down the hill. He knew all this and therefore waited
  calmly for what would happen, with more patience than the horses,
  especially the near one, the chestnut Falcon, who was pawing the ground
  and champing his bit. At last all were seated, the carriage steps were
  folded and pulled up, the door was shut, somebody was sent for a traveling
  case, and the countess leaned out and said what she had to say. Then Efím
  deliberately doffed his hat and began crossing himself. The postilion and
  all the other servants did the same. &ldquo;Off, in God&rsquo;s name!&rdquo; said Efím,
  putting on his hat. &ldquo;Start!&rdquo; The postilion started the horses, the off
  pole horse tugged at his collar, the high springs creaked, and the body of
  the coach swayed. The footman sprang onto the box of the moving coach
  which jolted as it passed out of the yard onto the uneven roadway; the
  other vehicles jolted in their turn, and the procession of carriages moved
  up the street. In the carriages, the , and the phaeton, all crossed
  themselves as they passed the church opposite the house. Those who were to
  remain in Moscow walked on either side of the vehicles seeing the
  travelers off.
<br />
  Rarely had Natásha experienced so joyful a feeling as now, sitting in the
  carriage beside the countess and gazing at the slowly receding walls of
  forsaken, agitated Moscow. Occasionally she leaned out of the carriage
  window and looked back and then forward at the long train of wounded in
  front of them. Almost at the head of the line she could see the raised
  hood of Prince Andrew&rsquo;s . She did not know who was in it,
  but each time she looked at the procession her eyes sought that .
  She knew it was right in front.
<br />
  In Kúdrino, from the Nikítski, Présnya, and Podnovínsk Streets came
  several other trains of vehicles similar to the Rostóvs&rsquo;, and as they
  passed along the Sadóvaya Street the carriages and carts formed two rows
  abreast.
<br />
  As they were going round the Súkharev water tower Natásha, who was
  inquisitively and alertly scrutinizing the people driving or walking past,
  suddenly cried out in joyful surprise:
<br />
  &ldquo;Dear me! Mamma, Sónya, look, it&rsquo;s he!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Who? Who?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Look! Yes, on my word, it&rsquo;s Bezúkhov!&rdquo; said Natásha, putting her head out
  of the carriage and staring at a tall, stout man in a coachman&rsquo;s long
  coat, who from his manner of walking and moving was evidently a gentleman
  in disguise, and who was passing under the arch of the Súkharev tower
  accompanied by a small, sallow-faced, beardless old man in a frieze coat.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, it really is Bezúkhov in a coachman&rsquo;s coat, with a queer-looking old
  boy. Really,&rdquo; said Natásha, &ldquo;look, look!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, it&rsquo;s not he. How can you talk such nonsense?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Mamma,&rdquo; screamed Natásha, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll stake my head it&rsquo;s he! I assure you!
  Stop, stop!&rdquo; she cried to the coachman.
<br />
  But the coachman could not stop, for from the Meshchánski Street came more
  carts and carriages, and the Rostóvs were being shouted at to move on and
  not block the way.
<br />
  In fact, however, though now much farther off than before, the Rostóvs all
  saw Pierre&mdash;or someone extraordinarily like him&mdash;in a coachman&rsquo;s
  coat, going down the street with head bent and a serious face beside a
  small, beardless old man who looked like a footman. That old man noticed a
  face thrust out of the carriage window gazing at them, and respectfully
  touching Pierre&rsquo;s elbow said something to him and pointed to the carriage.
  Pierre, evidently engrossed in thought, could not at first understand him.
  At length when he had understood and looked in the direction the old man
  indicated, he recognized Natásha, and following his first impulse stepped
  instantly and rapidly toward the coach. But having taken a dozen steps he
  seemed to remember something and stopped.
<br />
  Natásha&rsquo;s face, leaning out of the window, beamed with quizzical
  kindliness.
<br />
  &ldquo;Peter Kirílovich, come here! We have recognized you! This is wonderful!&rdquo;
   she cried, holding out her hand to him. &ldquo;What are you doing? Why are you
  like this?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre took her outstretched hand and kissed it awkwardly as he walked
  along beside her while the coach still moved on.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is the matter, Count?&rdquo; asked the countess in a surprised and
  commiserating tone.
<br />
  &ldquo;What? What? Why? Don&rsquo;t ask me,&rdquo; said Pierre, and looked round at Natásha
  whose radiant, happy expression&mdash;of which he was conscious without
  looking at her&mdash;filled him with enchantment.
<br />
  &ldquo;Are you remaining in Moscow, then?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre hesitated.
<br />
  &ldquo;In Moscow?&rdquo; he said in a questioning tone. &ldquo;Yes, in Moscow. Good-by!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah, if only I were a man! I&rsquo;d certainly stay with you. How splendid!&rdquo;
   said Natásha. &ldquo;Mamma, if you&rsquo;ll let me, I&rsquo;ll stay!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre glanced absently at Natásha and was about to say something, but the
  countess interrupted him.
<br />
  &ldquo;You were at the battle, we heard.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I was,&rdquo; Pierre answered. &ldquo;There will be another battle tomorrow...&rdquo;
   he began, but Natásha interrupted him.
<br />
  &ldquo;But what is the matter with you, Count? You are not like yourself....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, don&rsquo;t ask me, don&rsquo;t ask me! I don&rsquo;t know myself. Tomorrow... But no!
  Good-by, good-by!&rdquo; he muttered. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s an awful time!&rdquo; and dropping behind
  the carriage he stepped onto the pavement.
<br />
  Natásha continued to lean out of the window for a long time, beaming at
  him with her kindly, slightly quizzical, happy smile.

  CHAPTER XVIII


  For the last two days, ever since leaving home, Pierre had been living in
  the empty house of his deceased benefactor, Bazdéev. This is how it
  happened.
<br />
  When he woke up on the morning after his return to Moscow and his
  interview with Count Rostopchín, he could not for some time make out where
  he was and what was expected of him. When he was informed that among
  others awaiting him in his reception room there was a Frenchman who had
  brought a letter from his wife, the Countess Hélène, he felt suddenly
  overcome by that sense of confusion and hopelessness to which he was apt
  to succumb. He felt that everything was now at an end, all was in
  confusion and crumbling to pieces, that nobody was right or wrong, the
  future held nothing, and there was no escape from this position. Smiling
  unnaturally and muttering to himself, he first sat down on the sofa in an
  attitude of despair, then rose, went to the door of the reception room and
  peeped through the crack, returned flourishing his arms, and took up a
  book. His major-domo came in a second time to say that the Frenchman who
  had brought the letter from the countess was very anxious to see him if
  only for a minute, and that someone from Bazdéev&rsquo;s widow had called to ask
  Pierre to take charge of her husband&rsquo;s books, as she herself was leaving
  for the country.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, yes, in a minute; wait... or no! No, of course... go and say I will
  come directly,&rdquo; Pierre replied to the major-domo.
<br />
  But as soon as the man had left the room Pierre took up his hat which was
  lying on the table and went out of his study by the other door. There was
  no one in the passage. He went along the whole length of this passage to
  the stairs and, frowning and rubbing his forehead with both hands, went
  down as far as the first landing. The hall porter was standing at the
  front door. From the landing where Pierre stood there was a second
  staircase leading to the back entrance. He went down that staircase and
  out into the yard. No one had seen him. But there were some carriages
  waiting, and as soon as Pierre stepped out of the gate the coachmen and
  the yard porter noticed him and raised their caps to him. When he felt he
  was being looked at he behaved like an ostrich which hides its head in a
  bush in order not to be seen: he hung his head and quickening his pace
  went down the street.
<br />
  Of all the affairs awaiting Pierre that day the sorting of Joseph
  Bazdéev&rsquo;s books and papers appeared to him the most necessary.
<br />
  He hired the first cab he met and told the driver to go to the Patriarch&rsquo;s
  Ponds, where the widow Bazdéev&rsquo;s house was.
<br />
  Continually turning round to look at the rows of loaded carts that were
  making their way from all sides out of Moscow, and balancing his bulky
  body so as not to slip out of the ramshackle old vehicle, Pierre,
  experiencing the joyful feeling of a boy escaping from school, began to
  talk to his driver.
<br />
  The man told him that arms were being distributed today at the Krémlin and
  that tomorrow everyone would be sent out beyond the Three Hills gates and
  a great battle would be fought there.
<br />
  Having reached the Patriarch&rsquo;s Ponds Pierre found the Bazdéevs&rsquo; house,
  where he had not been for a long time past. He went up to the gate.
  Gerásim, that sallow beardless old man Pierre had seen at Torzhók five
  years before with Joseph Bazdéev, came out in answer to his knock.
<br />
  &ldquo;At home?&rdquo; asked Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;Owing to the present state of things Sophia Danílovna has gone to the
  Torzhók estate with the children, your excellency.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I will come in all the same, I have to look through the books,&rdquo; said
  Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;Be so good as to step in. Makár Alexéevich, the brother of my late master&mdash;may
  the kingdom of heaven be his&mdash;has remained here, but he is in a weak
  state as you know,&rdquo; said the old servant.
<br />
  Pierre knew that Makár Alexéevich was Joseph Bazdéev&rsquo;s half-insane brother
  and a hard drinker.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes, I know. Let us go in...&rdquo; said Pierre and entered the house.
<br />
  A tall, bald-headed old man with a red nose, wearing a dressing gown and
  with galoshes on his bare feet, stood in the anteroom. On seeing Pierre he
  muttered something angrily and went away along the passage.
<br />
  &ldquo;He was a very clever man but has now grown quite feeble, as your honor
  sees,&rdquo; said Gerásim. &ldquo;Will you step into the study?&rdquo; Pierre nodded. &ldquo;As it
  was sealed up so it has remained, but Sophia Danílovna gave orders that if
  anyone should come from you they were to have the books.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre went into that gloomy study which he had entered with such
  trepidation in his benefactor&rsquo;s lifetime. The room, dusty and untouched
  since the death of Joseph Bazdéev was now even gloomier.
<br />
  Gerásim opened one of the shutters and left the room on tiptoe. Pierre
  went round the study, approached the cupboard in which the manuscripts
  were kept, and took out what had once been one of the most important, the
  holy of holies of the order. This was the authentic Scotch Acts with
  Bazdéev&rsquo;s notes and explanations. He sat down at the dusty writing table,
  and, having laid the manuscripts before him, opened them out, closed them,
  finally pushed them away, and resting his head on his hand sank into
  meditation.
<br />
  Gerásim looked cautiously into the study several times and saw Pierre
  always sitting in the same attitude.
<br />
  More than two hours passed and Gerásim took the liberty of making a slight
  noise at the door to attract his attention, but Pierre did not hear him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is the cabman to be discharged, your honor?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh yes!&rdquo; said Pierre, rousing himself and rising hurriedly. &ldquo;Look here,&rdquo;
   he added, taking Gerásim by a button of his coat and looking down at the
  old man with moist, shining, and ecstatic eyes, &ldquo;I say, do you know that
  there is going to be a battle tomorrow?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;We heard so,&rdquo; replied the man.
<br />
  &ldquo;I beg you not to tell anyone who I am, and to do what I ask you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, your excellency,&rdquo; replied Gerásim. &ldquo;Will you have something to eat?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, but I want something else. I want peasant clothes and a pistol,&rdquo; said
  Pierre, unexpectedly blushing.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, your excellency,&rdquo; said Gerásim after thinking for a moment.
<br />
  All the rest of that day Pierre spent alone in his benefactor&rsquo;s study, and
  Gerásim heard him pacing restlessly from one corner to another and talking
  to himself. And he spent the night on a bed made up for him there.
<br />
  Gerásim, being a servant who in his time had seen many strange things,
  accepted Pierre&rsquo;s taking up his residence in the house without surprise,
  and seemed pleased to have someone to wait on. That same evening&mdash;without
  even asking himself what they were wanted for&mdash;he procured a
  coachman&rsquo;s coat and cap for Pierre, and promised to get him the pistol
  next day. Makár Alexéevich came twice that evening shuffling along in his
  galoshes as far as the door and stopped and looked ingratiatingly at
  Pierre. But as soon as Pierre turned toward him he wrapped his dressing
  gown around him with a shamefaced and angry look and hurried away. It was
  when Pierre (wearing the coachman&rsquo;s coat which Gerásim had procured for
  him and had disinfected by steam) was on his way with the old man to buy
  the pistol at the Súkharev market that he met the Rostóvs.

  CHAPTER XIX


  Kutúzov&rsquo;s order to retreat through Moscow to the Ryazán road was issued at
  night on the first of September.
<br />
  The first troops started at once, and during the night they marched slowly
  and steadily without hurry. At daybreak, however, those nearing the town
  at the Dorogomílov bridge saw ahead of them masses of soldiers crowding
  and hurrying across the bridge, ascending on the opposite side and
  blocking the streets and alleys, while endless masses of troops were
  bearing down on them from behind, and an unreasoning hurry and alarm
  overcame them. They all rushed forward to the bridge, onto it, and to the
  fords and the boats. Kutúzov himself had driven round by side streets to
  the other side of Moscow.
<br />
  By ten o&rsquo;clock in the morning of the second of September, only the rear
  guard remained in the Dorogomílov suburb, where they had ample room. The
  main army was on the other side of Moscow or beyond it.
<br />
  At that very time, at ten in the morning of the second of September,
  Napoleon was standing among his troops on the Poklónny Hill looking at the
  panorama spread out before him. From the twenty-sixth of August to the
  second of September, that is from the battle of Borodinó to the entry of
  the French into Moscow, during the whole of that agitating, memorable
  week, there had been the extraordinary autumn weather that always comes as
  a surprise, when the sun hangs low and gives more heat than in spring,
  when everything shines so brightly in the rare clear atmosphere that the
  eyes smart, when the lungs are strengthened and refreshed by inhaling the
  aromatic autumn air, when even the nights are warm, and when in those dark
  warm nights, golden stars startle and delight us continually by falling
  from the sky.
<br />
  At ten in the morning of the second of September this weather still held.
<br />
  The brightness of the morning was magical. Moscow seen from the Poklónny
  Hill lay spaciously spread out with her river, her gardens, and her
  churches, and she seemed to be living her usual life, her cupolas
  glittering like stars in the sunlight.
<br />
  The view of the strange city with its peculiar architecture, such as he
  had never seen before, filled Napoleon with the rather envious and uneasy
  curiosity men feel when they see an alien form of life that has no
  knowledge of them. This city was evidently living with the full force of
  its own life. By the indefinite signs which, even at a distance,
  distinguish a living body from a dead one, Napoleon from the Poklónny Hill
  perceived the throb of life in the town and felt, as it were, the
  breathing of that great and beautiful body.
<br />
  Every Russian looking at Moscow feels her to be a mother; every foreigner
  who sees her, even if ignorant of her significance as the mother city,
  must feel her feminine character, and Napoleon felt it.
<br />
   * said he, and
  dismounting he ordered a plan of Moscow to be spread out before him, and
  summoned Lelorgne d&rsquo;Ideville, the interpreter.
<br />
 * &ldquo;That Asiatic city of the innumerable churches, holy
 Moscow! Here it is then at last, that famous city. It was
 high time.&rdquo;

“A town captured by the enemy is like a maid who has lost her honor,” thought he (he had said so to Túchkov at Smolénsk). From that point of view he gazed at the Oriental beauty he had not seen before. It seemed strange to him that his long-felt wish, which had seemed unattainable, had at last been realized. In the clear morning light he gazed now at the city and now at the plan, considering its details, and the assurance of possessing it agitated and awed him.
“But could it be otherwise?” he thought. “Here is this capital at my feet. Where is Alexander now, and of what is he thinking? A strange, beautiful, and majestic city; and a strange and majestic moment! In what light must I appear to them!” thought he, thinking of his troops. “Here she is, the reward for all those fainthearted men,” he reflected, glancing at those near him and at the troops who were approaching and forming up. “One word from me, one movement of my hand, and that ancient capital of the Tsars would perish. But my clemency is always ready to descend upon the vanquished. I must be magnanimous and truly great. But no, it can’t be true that I am in Moscow,” he suddenly thought. “Yet here she is lying at my feet, with her golden domes and crosses scintillating and twinkling in the sunshine. But I shall spare her. On the ancient monuments of barbarism and despotism I will inscribe great words of justice and mercy…. It is just this which Alexander will feel most painfully, I know him.” (It seemed to Napoleon that the chief import of what was taking place lay in the personal struggle between himself and Alexander.) “From the height of the Krémlin—yes, there is the Krémlin, yes—I will give them just laws; I will teach them the meaning of true civilization, I will make generations of boyars remember their conqueror with love. I will tell the deputation that I did not, and do not, desire war, that I have waged war only against the false policy of their court; that I love and respect Alexander and that in Moscow I will accept terms of peace worthy of myself and of my people. I do not wish to utilize the fortunes of war to humiliate an honored monarch. ‘Boyars,’ I will say to them, ‘I do not desire war, I desire the peace and welfare of all my subjects.’ However, I know their presence will inspire me, and I shall speak to them as I always do: clearly, impressively, and majestically. But can it be true that I am in Moscow? Yes, there she lies.”

   * said he to his suite.
<br />
* &ldquo;Bring the boyars to me.&rdquo;

A general with a brilliant suite galloped off at once to fetch the boyars.
Two hours passed. Napoleon had lunched and was again standing in the same place on the Poklónny Hill awaiting the deputation. His speech to the boyars had already taken definite shape in his imagination. That speech was full of dignity and greatness as Napoleon understood it.
He was himself carried away by the tone of magnanimity he intended to adopt toward Moscow. In his imagination he appointed days for assemblies at the palace of the Tsars, at which Russian notables and his own would mingle. He mentally appointed a governor, one who would win the hearts of the people. Having learned that there were many charitable institutions in Moscow he mentally decided that he would shower favors on them all. He thought that, as in Africa he had to put on a burnoose and sit in a mosque, so in Moscow he must be beneficent like the Tsars. And in order finally to touch the hearts of the Russians—and being like all Frenchmen unable to imagine anything sentimental without a reference to —he decided that he would place an inscription on all these establishments in large letters: “This establishment is dedicated to my dear mother.” Or no, it should be simply: , (2) he concluded. “But am I really in Moscow? Yes, here it lies before me, but why is the deputation from the city so long in appearing?” he wondered.

 * &ldquo;My dear, my tender, my poor mother.&rdquo;
<br />
 * (2) &ldquo;House of my Mother.&rdquo;

Meanwhile an agitated consultation was being carried on in whispers among his generals and marshals at the rear of his suite. Those sent to fetch the deputation had returned with the news that Moscow was empty, that everyone had left it. The faces of those who were not conferring together were pale and perturbed. They were not alarmed by the fact that Moscow had been abandoned by its inhabitants (grave as that fact seemed), but by the question how to tell the Emperor—without putting him in the terrible position of appearing ridiculous—that he had been awaiting the boyars so long in vain: that there were drunken mobs left in Moscow but no one else. Some said that a deputation of some sort must be scraped together, others disputed that opinion and maintained that the Emperor should first be carefully and skillfully prepared, and then told the truth.
“He will have to be told, all the same,” said some gentlemen of the suite. “But, gentlemen…”
The position was the more awkward because the Emperor, meditating upon his magnanimous plans, was pacing patiently up and down before the outspread map, occasionally glancing along the road to Moscow from under his lifted hand with a bright and proud smile.
“But it’s impossible…” declared the gentlemen of the suite, shrugging their shoulders but not venturing to utter the implied word—….
At last the Emperor, tired of futile expectation, his actor’s instinct suggesting to him that the sublime moment having been too long drawn out was beginning to lose its sublimity, gave a sign with his hand. A single report of a signaling gun followed, and the troops, who were already spread out on different sides of Moscow, moved into the city through the Tver, Kalúga, and Dorogomílov gates. Faster and faster, vying with one another, they moved at the double or at a trot, vanishing amid the clouds of dust they raised and making the air ring with a deafening roar of mingling shouts.
Drawn on by the movement of his troops Napoleon rode with them as far as the Dorogomílov gate, but there again stopped and, dismounting from his horse, paced for a long time by the Kámmer-Kollézski rampart, awaiting the deputation.

  CHAPTER XX


  Meanwhile Moscow was empty. There were still people in it, perhaps a
  fiftieth part of its former inhabitants had remained, but it was empty. It
  was empty in the sense that a dying queenless hive is empty.
<br />
  In a queenless hive no life is left though to a superficial glance it
  seems as much alive as other hives.
<br />
  The bees circle round a queenless hive in the hot beams of the midday sun
  as gaily as around the living hives; from a distance it smells of honey
  like the others, and bees fly in and out in the same way. But one has only
  to observe that hive to realize that there is no longer any life in it.
  The bees do not fly in the same way, the smell and the sound that meet the
  beekeeper are not the same. To the beekeeper&rsquo;s tap on the wall of the sick
  hive, instead of the former instant unanimous humming of tens of thousands
  of bees with their abdomens threateningly compressed, and producing by the
  rapid vibration of their wings an aerial living sound, the only reply is a
  disconnected buzzing from different parts of the deserted hive. From the
  alighting board, instead of the former spirituous fragrant smell of honey
  and venom, and the warm whiffs of crowded life, comes an odor of emptiness
  and decay mingling with the smell of honey. There are no longer sentinels
  sounding the alarm with their abdomens raised, and ready to die in defense
  of the hive. There is no longer the measured quiet sound of throbbing
  activity, like the sound of boiling water, but diverse discordant sounds
  of disorder. In and out of the hive long black robber bees smeared with
  honey fly timidly and shiftily. They do not sting, but crawl away from
  danger. Formerly only bees laden with honey flew into the hive, and they
  flew out empty; now they fly out laden. The beekeeper opens the lower part
  of the hive and peers in. Instead of black, glossy bees&mdash;tamed by
  toil, clinging to one another&rsquo;s legs and drawing out the wax, with a
  ceaseless hum of labor&mdash;that used to hang in long clusters down to
  the floor of the hive, drowsy shriveled bees crawl about separately in
  various directions on the floor and walls of the hive. Instead of a neatly
  glued floor, swept by the bees with the fanning of their wings, there is a
  floor littered with bits of wax, excrement, dying bees scarcely moving
  their legs, and dead ones that have not been cleared away.
<br />
  The beekeeper opens the upper part of the hive and examines the super.
  Instead of serried rows of bees sealing up every gap in the combs and
  keeping the brood warm, he sees the skillful complex structures of the
  combs, but no longer in their former state of purity. All is neglected and
  foul. Black robber bees are swiftly and stealthily prowling about the
  combs, and the short home bees, shriveled and listless as if they were
  old, creep slowly about without trying to hinder the robbers, having lost
  all motive and all sense of life. Drones, bumblebees, wasps, and
  butterflies knock awkwardly against the walls of the hive in their flight.
  Here and there among the cells containing dead brood and honey an angry
  buzzing can sometimes be heard. Here and there a couple of bees, by force
  of habit and custom cleaning out the brood cells, with efforts beyond
  their strength laboriously drag away a dead bee or bumblebee without
  knowing why they do it. In another corner two old bees are languidly
  fighting, or cleaning themselves, or feeding one another, without
  themselves knowing whether they do it with friendly or hostile intent. In
  a third place a crowd of bees, crushing one another, attack some victim
  and fight and smother it, and the victim, enfeebled or killed, drops from
  above slowly and lightly as a feather, among the heap of corpses. The
  keeper opens the two center partitions to examine the brood cells. In
  place of the former close dark circles formed by thousands of bees sitting
  back to back and guarding the high mystery of generation, he sees hundreds
  of dull, listless, and sleepy shells of bees. They have almost all died
  unawares, sitting in the sanctuary they had guarded and which is now no
  more. They reek of decay and death. Only a few of them still move, rise,
  and feebly fly to settle on the enemy&rsquo;s hand, lacking the spirit to die
  stinging him; the rest are dead and fall as lightly as fish scales. The
  beekeeper closes the hive, chalks a mark on it, and when he has time tears
  out its contents and burns it clean.
<br />
  So in the same way Moscow was empty when Napoleon, weary, uneasy, and
  morose, paced up and down in front of the Kámmer-Kollézski rampart,
  awaiting what to his mind was a necessary, if but formal, observance of
  the proprieties&mdash;a deputation.
<br />
  In various corners of Moscow there still remained a few people aimlessly
  moving about, following their old habits and hardly aware of what they
  were doing.
<br />
  When with due circumspection Napoleon was informed that Moscow was empty,
  he looked angrily at his informant, turned away, and silently continued to
  walk to and fro.
<br />
  &ldquo;My carriage!&rdquo; he said.
<br />
  He took his seat beside the aide-de-camp on duty and drove into the
  suburb. &ldquo;Moscow deserted!&rdquo; he said to himself. &ldquo;What an incredible event!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He did not drive into the town, but put up at an inn in the Dorogomílov
  suburb.
<br />
  The  had not come off.

  CHAPTER XXI


  The Russian troops were passing through Moscow from two o&rsquo;clock at night
  till two in the afternoon and bore away with them the wounded and the last
  of the inhabitants who were leaving.
<br />
  The greatest crush during the movement of the troops took place at the
  Stone, Moskvá, and Yaúza bridges.
<br />
  While the troops, dividing into two parts when passing around the Krémlin,
  were thronging the Moskvá and the Stone bridges, a great many soldiers,
  taking advantage of the stoppage and congestion, turned back from the
  bridges and slipped stealthily and silently past the church of Vasíli the
  Beatified and under the Borovítski gate, back up the hill to the Red
  Square where some instinct told them they could easily take things not
  belonging to them. Crowds of the kind seen at cheap sales filled all the
  passages and alleys of the Bazaar. But there were no dealers with voices
  of ingratiating affability inviting customers to enter; there were no
  hawkers, nor the usual motley crowd of female purchasers&mdash;but only
  soldiers, in uniforms and overcoats though without muskets, entering the
  Bazaar empty-handed and silently making their way out through its passages
  with bundles. Tradesmen and their assistants (of whom there were but few)
  moved about among the soldiers quite bewildered. They unlocked their shops
  and locked them up again, and themselves carried goods away with the help
  of their assistants. On the square in front of the Bazaar were drummers
  beating the muster call. But the roll of the drums did not make the
  looting soldiers run in the direction of the drum as formerly, but made
  them, on the contrary, run farther away. Among the soldiers in the shops
  and passages some men were to be seen in gray coats, with closely shaven
  heads. Two officers, one with a scarf over his uniform and mounted on a
  lean, dark-gray horse, the other in an overcoat and on foot, stood at the
  corner of Ilyínka Street, talking. A third officer galloped up to them.
<br />
  &ldquo;The general orders them all to be driven out at once, without fail. This
  is outrageous! Half the men have dispersed.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Where are you off to?... Where?...&rdquo; he shouted to three infantrymen
  without muskets who, holding up the skirts of their overcoats, were
  slipping past him into the Bazaar passage. &ldquo;Stop, you rascals!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But how are you going to stop them?&rdquo; replied another officer. &ldquo;There is
  no getting them together. The army should push on before the rest bolt,
  that&rsquo;s all!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How can one push on? They are stuck there, wedged on the bridge, and
  don&rsquo;t move. Shouldn&rsquo;t we put a cordon round to prevent the rest from
  running away?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Come, go in there and drive them out!&rdquo; shouted the senior officer.
<br />
  The officer in the scarf dismounted, called up a drummer, and went with
  him into the arcade. Some soldiers started running away in a group. A
  shopkeeper with red pimples on his cheeks near the nose, and a calm,
  persistent, calculating expression on his plump face, hurriedly and
  ostentatiously approached the officer, swinging his arms.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your honor!&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Be so good as to protect us! We won&rsquo;t grudge
  trifles, you are welcome to anything&mdash;we shall be delighted! Pray!...
  I&rsquo;ll fetch a piece of cloth at once for such an honorable gentleman, or
  even two pieces with pleasure. For we feel how it is; but what&rsquo;s all this&mdash;sheer
  robbery! If you please, could not guards be placed if only to let us close
  the shop....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Several shopkeepers crowded round the officer.
<br />
  &ldquo;Eh, what twaddle!&rdquo; said one of them, a thin, stern-looking man. &ldquo;When
  one&rsquo;s head is gone one doesn&rsquo;t weep for one&rsquo;s hair! Take what any of you
  like!&rdquo; And flourishing his arm energetically he turned sideways to the
  officer.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all very well for you, Iván Sidórych, to talk,&rdquo; said the first
  tradesman angrily. &ldquo;Please step inside, your honor!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Talk indeed!&rdquo; cried the thin one. &ldquo;In my three shops here I have a
  hundred thousand rubles&rsquo; worth of goods. Can they be saved when the army
  has gone? Eh, what people! &lsquo;Against God&rsquo;s might our hands can&rsquo;t fight.&rsquo;&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Come inside, your honor!&rdquo; repeated the tradesman, bowing.
<br />
  The officer stood perplexed and his face showed indecision.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not my business!&rdquo; he exclaimed, and strode on quickly down one of
  the passages.
<br />
  From one open shop came the sound of blows and vituperation, and just as
  the officer came up to it a man in a gray coat with a shaven head was
  flung out violently.
<br />
  This man, bent double, rushed past the tradesman and the officer. The
  officer pounced on the soldiers who were in the shops, but at that moment
  fearful screams reached them from the huge crowd on the Moskvá bridge and
  the officer ran out into the square.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is it? What is it?&rdquo; he asked, but his comrade was already galloping
  off past Vasíli the Beatified in the direction from which the screams
  came.
<br />
  The officer mounted his horse and rode after him. When he reached the
  bridge he saw two unlimbered guns, the infantry crossing the bridge,
  several overturned carts, and frightened and laughing faces among the
  troops. Beside the cannon a cart was standing to which two horses were
  harnessed. Four borzois with collars were pressing close to the wheels.
  The cart was loaded high, and at the very top, beside a child&rsquo;s chair with
  its legs in the air, sat a peasant woman uttering piercing and desperate
  shrieks. He was told by his fellow officers that the screams of the crowd
  and the shrieks of the woman were due to the fact that General Ermólov,
  coming up to the crowd and learning that soldiers were dispersing among
  the shops while crowds of civilians blocked the bridge, had ordered two
  guns to be unlimbered and made a show of firing at the bridge. The crowd,
  crushing one another, upsetting carts, and shouting and squeezing
  desperately, had cleared off the bridge and the troops were now moving
  forward.

  CHAPTER XXII


  Meanwhile, the city itself was deserted. There was hardly anyone in the
  streets. The gates and shops were all closed, only here and there round
  the taverns solitary shouts or drunken songs could be heard. Nobody drove
  through the streets and footsteps were rarely heard. The Povarskáya was
  quite still and deserted. The huge courtyard of the Rostóvs&rsquo; house was
  littered with wisps of hay and with dung from the horses, and not a soul
  was to be seen there. In the great drawing room of the house, which had
  been left with all it contained, were two people. They were the yard
  porter Ignát, and the page boy Míshka, Vasílich&rsquo;s grandson who had stayed
  in Moscow with his grandfather. Míshka had opened the clavichord and was
  strumming on it with one finger. The yard porter, his arms akimbo, stood
  smiling with satisfaction before the large mirror.
<br />
  &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t it fine, eh, Uncle Ignát?&rdquo; said the boy, suddenly beginning to
  strike the keyboard with both hands.
<br />
  &ldquo;Only fancy!&rdquo; answered Ignát, surprised at the broadening grin on his face
  in the mirror.
<br />
  &ldquo;Impudence! Impudence!&rdquo; they heard behind them the voice of Mávra
  Kuzmínichna who had entered silently. &ldquo;How he&rsquo;s grinning, the fat mug! Is
  that what you&rsquo;re here for? Nothing&rsquo;s cleared away down there and Vasílich
  is worn out. Just you wait a bit!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Ignát left off smiling, adjusted his belt, and went out of the room with
  meekly downcast eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;Aunt, I did it gently,&rdquo; said the boy.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll give you something gently, you monkey you!&rdquo; cried Mávra Kuzmínichna,
  raising her arm threateningly. &ldquo;Go and get the samovar to boil for your
  grandfather.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Mávra Kuzmínichna flicked the dust off the clavichord and closed it, and
  with a deep sigh left the drawing room and locked its main door.
<br />
  Going out into the yard she paused to consider where she should go next&mdash;to
  drink tea in the servants&rsquo; wing with Vasílich, or into the storeroom to
  put away what still lay about.
<br />
  She heard the sound of quick footsteps in the quiet street. Someone
  stopped at the gate, and the latch rattled as someone tried to open it.
  Mávra Kuzmínichna went to the gate.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who do you want?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The count&mdash;Count Ilyá Andréevich Rostóv.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And who are you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;An officer, I have to see him,&rdquo; came the reply in a pleasant, well-bred
  Russian voice.
<br />
  Mávra Kuzmínichna opened the gate and an officer of eighteen, with the
  round face of a Rostóv, entered the yard.
<br />
  &ldquo;They have gone away, sir. Went away yesterday at vespertime,&rdquo; said Mávra
  Kuzmínichna cordially.
<br />
  The young officer standing in the gateway, as if hesitating whether to
  enter or not, clicked his tongue.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, how annoying!&rdquo; he muttered. &ldquo;I should have come yesterday.... Ah,
  what a pity.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Meanwhile, Mávra Kuzmínichna was attentively and sympathetically examining
  the familiar Rostóv features of the young man&rsquo;s face, his tattered coat
  and trodden-down boots.
<br />
  &ldquo;What did you want to see the count for?&rdquo; she asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh well... it can&rsquo;t be helped!&rdquo; said he in a tone of vexation and placed
  his hand on the gate as if to leave.
<br />
  He again paused in indecision.
<br />
  &ldquo;You see,&rdquo; he suddenly said, &ldquo;I am a kinsman of the count&rsquo;s and he has
  been very kind to me. As you see&rdquo; (he glanced with an amused air and
  good-natured smile at his coat and boots) &ldquo;my things are worn out and I
  have no money, so I was going to ask the count...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Mávra Kuzmínichna did not let him finish.
<br />
  &ldquo;Just wait a minute, sir. One little moment,&rdquo; said she.
<br />
  And as soon as the officer let go of the gate handle she turned and,
  hurrying away on her old legs, went through the back yard to the servants&rsquo;
  quarters.
<br />
  While Mávra Kuzmínichna was running to her room the officer walked about
  the yard gazing at his worn-out boots with lowered head and a faint smile
  on his lips. &ldquo;What a pity I&rsquo;ve missed Uncle! What a nice old woman! Where
  has she run off to? And how am I to find the nearest way to overtake my
  regiment, which must by now be getting near the Rogózhski gate?&rdquo; thought
  he. Just then Mávra Kuzmínichna appeared from behind the corner of the
  house with a frightened yet resolute look, carrying a rolled-up check
  kerchief in her hand. While still a few steps from the officer she
  unfolded the kerchief and took out of it a white twenty-five-ruble
  assignat and hastily handed it to him.
<br />
  &ldquo;If his excellency had been at home, as a kinsman he would of course...
  but as it is...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Mávra Kuzmínichna grew abashed and confused. The officer did not decline,
  but took the note quietly and thanked her.
<br />
  &ldquo;If the count had been at home...&rdquo; Mávra Kuzmínichna went on
  apologetically. &ldquo;Christ be with you, sir! May God preserve you!&rdquo; said she,
  bowing as she saw him out.
<br />
  Swaying his head and smiling as if amused at himself, the officer ran
  almost at a trot through the deserted streets toward the Yaúza bridge to
  overtake his regiment.
<br />
  But Mávra Kuzmínichna stood at the closed gate for some time with moist
  eyes, pensively swaying her head and feeling an unexpected flow of
  motherly tenderness and pity for the unknown young officer.

  CHAPTER XXIII


  From an unfinished house on the Varvárka, the ground floor of which was a
  dramshop, came drunken shouts and songs. On benches round the tables in a
  dirty little room sat some ten factory hands. Tipsy and perspiring, with
  dim eyes and wide-open mouths, they were all laboriously singing some song
  or other. They were singing discordantly, arduously, and with great
  effort, evidently not because they wished to sing, but because they wanted
  to show they were drunk and on a spree. One, a tall, fair-haired lad in a
  clean blue coat, was standing over the others. His face with its fine
  straight nose would have been handsome had it not been for his thin,
  compressed, twitching lips and dull, gloomy, fixed eyes. Evidently
  possessed by some idea, he stood over those who were singing, and solemnly
  and jerkily flourished above their heads his white arm with the sleeve
  turned up to the elbow, trying unnaturally to spread out his dirty
  fingers. The sleeve of his coat kept slipping down and he always carefully
  rolled it up again with his left hand, as if it were most important that
  the sinewy white arm he was flourishing should be bare. In the midst of
  the song cries were heard, and fighting and blows in the passage and
  porch. The tall lad waved his arm.
<br />
  &ldquo;Stop it!&rdquo; he exclaimed peremptorily. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s a fight, lads!&rdquo; And, still
  rolling up his sleeve, he went out to the porch.
<br />
  The factory hands followed him. These men, who under the leadership of the
  tall lad were drinking in the dramshop that morning, had brought the
  publican some skins from the factory and for this had had drink served
  them. The blacksmiths from a neighboring smithy, hearing the sounds of
  revelry in the tavern and supposing it to have been broken into, wished to
  force their way in too and a fight in the porch had resulted.
<br />
  The publican was fighting one of the smiths at the door, and when the
  workmen came out the smith, wrenching himself free from the tavern keeper,
  fell face downward on the pavement.
<br />
  Another smith tried to enter the doorway, pressing against the publican
  with his chest.
<br />
  The lad with the turned-up sleeve gave the smith a blow in the face and
  cried wildly: &ldquo;They&rsquo;re fighting us, lads!&rdquo;
 <br />
  At that moment the first smith got up and, scratching his bruised face to
  make it bleed, shouted in a tearful voice: &ldquo;Police! Murder!... They&rsquo;ve
  killed a man, lads!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, gracious me, a man beaten to death&mdash;killed!...&rdquo; screamed a woman
  coming out of a gate close by.
<br />
  A crowd gathered round the bloodstained smith.
<br />
  &ldquo;Haven&rsquo;t you robbed people enough&mdash;taking their last shirts?&rdquo; said a
  voice addressing the publican. &ldquo;What have you killed a man for, you
  thief?&rdquo;
 <br />
  The tall lad, standing in the porch, turned his bleared eyes from the
  publican to the smith and back again as if considering whom he ought to
  fight now.
<br />
  &ldquo;Murderer!&rdquo; he shouted suddenly to the publican. &ldquo;Bind him, lads!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I daresay you would like to bind me!&rdquo; shouted the publican, pushing away
  the men advancing on him, and snatching his cap from his head he flung it
  on the ground.
<br />
  As if this action had some mysterious and menacing significance, the
  workmen surrounding the publican paused in indecision.
<br />
  &ldquo;I know the law very well, mates! I&rsquo;ll take the matter to the captain of
  police. You think I won&rsquo;t get to him? Robbery is not permitted to anybody
  nowadays!&rdquo; shouted the publican, picking up his cap.
<br />
  &ldquo;Come along then! Come along then!&rdquo; the publican and the tall young fellow
  repeated one after the other, and they moved up the street together.
<br />
  The bloodstained smith went beside them. The factory hands and others
  followed behind, talking and shouting.
<br />
  At the corner of the Moroséyka, opposite a large house with closed
  shutters and bearing a bootmaker&rsquo;s signboard, stood a score of thin,
  worn-out, gloomy-faced bootmakers, wearing overalls and long tattered
  coats.
<br />
  &ldquo;He should pay folks off properly,&rdquo; a thin workingman, with frowning brows
  and a straggly beard, was saying.
<br />
  &ldquo;But he&rsquo;s sucked our blood and now he thinks he&rsquo;s quit of us. He&rsquo;s been
  misleading us all the week and now that he&rsquo;s brought us to this pass he&rsquo;s
  made off.&rdquo;
 <br />
  On seeing the crowd and the bloodstained man the workman ceased speaking,
  and with eager curiosity all the bootmakers joined the moving crowd.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where are all the folks going?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, to the police, of course!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I say, is it true that we have been beaten?&rdquo; &ldquo;And what did you think?
  Look what folks are saying.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Questions and answers were heard. The publican, taking advantage of the
  increased crowd, dropped behind and returned to his tavern.
<br />
  The tall youth, not noticing the disappearance of his foe, waved his bare
  arm and went on talking incessantly, attracting general attention to
  himself. It was around him that the people chiefly crowded, expecting
  answers from him to the questions that occupied all their minds.
<br />
  &ldquo;He must keep order, keep the law, that&rsquo;s what the government is there
  for. Am I not right, good Christians?&rdquo; said the tall youth, with a
  scarcely perceptible smile. &ldquo;He thinks there&rsquo;s no government! How can one
  do without government? Or else there would be plenty who&rsquo;d rob us.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why talk nonsense?&rdquo; rejoined voices in the crowd. &ldquo;Will they give up
  Moscow like this? They told you that for fun, and you believed it! Aren&rsquo;t
  there plenty of troops on the march? Let  in, indeed! That&rsquo;s what the
  government is for. You&rsquo;d better listen to what people are saying,&rdquo; said
  some of the mob pointing to the tall youth.
<br />
  By the wall of China-Town a smaller group of people were gathered round a
  man in a frieze coat who held a paper in his hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;An ukáse, they are reading an ukáse! Reading an ukáse!&rdquo; cried voices in
  the crowd, and the people rushed toward the reader.
<br />
  The man in the frieze coat was reading the broadsheet of August 31. When
  the crowd collected round him he seemed confused, but at the demand of the
  tall lad who had pushed his way up to him, he began in a rather tremulous
  voice to read the sheet from the beginning.
<br />
  &ldquo;Early tomorrow I shall go to his Serene Highness,&rdquo; he read ( said the tall fellow with a triumphant smile on his lips and a
  frown on his brow), &ldquo;to consult with him to act, and to aid the army to
  exterminate these scoundrels. We too will take part...&rdquo; the reader went
  on, and then paused (&ldquo;Do you see,&rdquo; shouted the youth victoriously, &ldquo;he&rsquo;s
  going to clear up the whole affair for you....&rdquo;), &ldquo;in destroying them, and
  will send these visitors to the devil. I will come back to dinner, and
  we&rsquo;ll set to work. We will do, completely do, and undo these scoundrels.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The last words were read out in the midst of complete silence. The tall
  lad hung his head gloomily. It was evident that no one had understood the
  last part. In particular, the words &ldquo;I will come back to dinner,&rdquo;
   evidently displeased both reader and audience. The people&rsquo;s minds were
  tuned to a high pitch and this was too simple and needlessly
  comprehensible&mdash;it was what any one of them might have said and
  therefore was what an ukáse emanating from the highest authority should
  not say.
<br />
  They all stood despondent and silent. The tall youth moved his lips and
  swayed from side to side.
<br />
  &ldquo;We should ask him... that&rsquo;s he himself?&rdquo;... &ldquo;Yes, ask him indeed!... Why
  not? He&rsquo;ll explain&rdquo;... voices in the rear of the crowd were suddenly heard
  saying, and the general attention turned to the police superintendent&rsquo;s
  trap which drove into the square attended by two mounted dragoons.
<br />
  The superintendent of police, who had gone that morning by Count
  Rostopchín&rsquo;s orders to burn the barges and had in connection with that
  matter acquired a large sum of money which was at that moment in his
  pocket, on seeing a crowd bearing down upon him told his coachman to stop.
<br />
  &ldquo;What people are these?&rdquo; he shouted to the men, who were moving singly and
  timidly in the direction of his trap.
<br />
  &ldquo;What people are these?&rdquo; he shouted again, receiving no answer.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your honor...&rdquo; replied the shopman in the frieze coat, &ldquo;your honor, in
  accord with the proclamation of his highest excellency the count, they
  desire to serve, not sparing their lives, and it is not any kind of riot,
  but as his highest excellence said...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The count has not left, he is here, and an order will be issued
  concerning you,&rdquo; said the superintendent of police. &ldquo;Go on!&rdquo; he ordered
  his coachman.
<br />
  The crowd halted, pressing around those who had heard what the
  superintendent had said, and looking at the departing trap.
<br />
  The superintendent of police turned round at that moment with a scared
  look, said something to his coachman, and his horses increased their
  speed.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a fraud, lads! Lead the way to him, himself!&rdquo; shouted the tall
  youth. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t let him go, lads! Let him answer us! Keep him!&rdquo; shouted
  different people and the people dashed in pursuit of the trap.
<br />
  Following the superintendent of police and talking loudly the crowd went
  in the direction of the Lubyánka Street.
<br />
  &ldquo;There now, the gentry and merchants have gone away and left us to perish.
  Do they think we&rsquo;re dogs?&rdquo; voices in the crowd were heard saying more and
  more frequently.

  CHAPTER XXIV


  On the evening of the first of September, after his interview with
  Kutúzov, Count Rostopchín had returned to Moscow mortified and offended
  because he had not been invited to attend the council of war, and because
  Kutúzov had paid no attention to his offer to take part in the defense of
  the city; amazed also at the novel outlook revealed to him at the camp,
  which treated the tranquillity of the capital and its patriotic fervor as
  not merely secondary but quite irrelevant and unimportant matters.
  Distressed, offended, and surprised by all this, Rostopchín had returned
  to Moscow. After supper he lay down on a sofa without undressing, and was
  awakened soon after midnight by a courier bringing him a letter from
  Kutúzov. This letter requested the count to send police officers to guide
  the troops through the town, as the army was retreating to the Ryazán road
  beyond Moscow. This was not news to Rostopchín. He had known that Moscow
  would be abandoned not merely since his interview the previous day with
  Kutúzov on the Poklónny Hill but ever since the battle of Borodinó, for
  all the generals who came to Moscow after that battle had said unanimously
  that it was impossible to fight another battle, and since then the
  government property had been removed every night, and half the inhabitants
  had left the city with Rostopchín&rsquo;s own permission. Yet all the same this
  information astonished and irritated the count, coming as it did in the
  form of a simple note with an order from Kutúzov, and received at night,
  breaking in on his beauty sleep.
<br />
  When later on in his memoirs Count Rostopchín explained his actions at
  this time, he repeatedly says that he was then actuated by two important
  considerations: to maintain tranquillity in Moscow and expedite the
  departure of the inhabitants. If one accepts this twofold aim all
  Rostopchín&rsquo;s actions appear irreproachable. &ldquo;Why were the holy relics, the
  arms, ammunition, gunpowder, and stores of corn not removed? Why were
  thousands of inhabitants deceived into believing that Moscow would not be
  given up&mdash;and thereby ruined?&rdquo; &ldquo;To preserve the tranquillity of the
  city,&rdquo; explains Count Rostopchín. &ldquo;Why were bundles of useless papers from
  the government offices, and Leppich&rsquo;s balloon and other articles removed?&rdquo;
   &ldquo;To leave the town empty,&rdquo; explains Count Rostopchín. One need only admit
  that public tranquillity is in danger and any action finds a
  justification.
<br />
  All the horrors of the reign of terror were based only on solicitude for
  public tranquillity.
<br />
  On what, then, was Count Rostopchín&rsquo;s fear for the tranquillity of Moscow
  based in 1812? What reason was there for assuming any probability of an
  uprising in the city? The inhabitants were leaving it and the retreating
  troops were filling it. Why should that cause the masses to riot?
<br />
  Neither in Moscow nor anywhere in Russia did anything resembling an
  insurrection ever occur when the enemy entered a town. More than ten
  thousand people were still in Moscow on the first and second of September,
  and except for a mob in the governor&rsquo;s courtyard, assembled there at his
  bidding, nothing happened. It is obvious that there would have been even
  less reason to expect a disturbance among the people if after the battle
  of Borodinó, when the surrender of Moscow became certain or at least
  probable, Rostopchín instead of exciting the people by distributing arms
  and broadsheets had taken steps to remove all the holy relics, the
  gunpowder, munitions, and money, and had told the population plainly that
  the town would be abandoned.
<br />
  Rostopchín, though he had patriotic sentiments, was a sanguine and
  impulsive man who had always moved in the highest administrative circles
  and had no understanding at all of the people he supposed himself to be
  guiding. Ever since the enemy&rsquo;s entry into Smolénsk he had in imagination
  been playing the role of director of the popular feeling of &ldquo;the heart of
  Russia.&rdquo; Not only did it seem to him (as to all administrators) that he
  controlled the external actions of Moscow&rsquo;s inhabitants, but he also
  thought he controlled their mental attitude by means of his broadsheets
  and posters, written in a coarse tone which the people despise in their
  own class and do not understand from those in authority. Rostopchín was so
  pleased with the fine role of leader of popular feeling, and had grown so
  used to it, that the necessity of relinquishing that role and abandoning
  Moscow without any heroic display took him unawares and he suddenly felt
  the ground slip away from under his feet, so that he positively did not
  know what to do. Though he knew it was coming, he did not till the last
  moment wholeheartedly believe that Moscow would be abandoned, and did not
  prepare for it. The inhabitants left against his wishes. If the government
  offices were removed, this was only done on the demand of officials to
  whom the count yielded reluctantly. He was absorbed in the role he had
  created for himself. As is often the case with those gifted with an ardent
  imagination, though he had long known that Moscow would be abandoned he
  knew it only with his intellect, he did not believe it in his heart and
  did not adapt himself mentally to this new position of affairs.
<br />
  All his painstaking and energetic activity (in how far it was useful and
  had any effect on the people is another question) had been simply directed
  toward arousing in the masses his own feeling of patriotic hatred of the
  French.
<br />
  But when events assumed their true historical character, when expressing
  hatred for the French in words proved insufficient, when it was not even
  possible to express that hatred by fighting a battle, when self-confidence
  was of no avail in relation to the one question before Moscow, when the
  whole population streamed out of Moscow as one man, abandoning their
  belongings and proving by that negative action all the depth of their
  national feeling, then the role chosen by Rostopchín suddenly appeared
  senseless. He unexpectedly felt himself ridiculous, weak, and alone, with
  no ground to stand on.
<br />
  When, awakened from his sleep, he received that cold, peremptory note from
  Kutúzov, he felt the more irritated the more he felt himself to blame. All
  that he had been specially put in charge of, the state property which he
  should have removed, was still in Moscow and it was no longer possible to
  take the whole of it away.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who is to blame for it? Who has let things come to such a pass?&rdquo; he
  ruminated. &ldquo;Not I, of course. I had everything ready. I had Moscow firmly
  in hand. And this is what they have let it come to! Villains! Traitors!&rdquo;
   he thought, without clearly defining who the villains and traitors were,
  but feeling it necessary to hate those traitors whoever they might be who
  were to blame for the false and ridiculous position in which he found
  himself.
<br />
  All that night Count Rostopchín issued orders, for which people came to
  him from all parts of Moscow. Those about him had never seen the count so
  morose and irritable.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your excellency, the Director of the Registrar&rsquo;s Department has sent
  for instructions.... From the Consistory, from the Senate, from the University,
  from the Foundling Hospital, the Suffragan has sent... asking for
  information.... What are your orders about the Fire Brigade? From the
  governor of the prison... from the superintendent of the lunatic
  asylum...&rdquo; All night long such announcements were continually being
  received by the count.
<br />
  To all these inquiries he gave brief and angry replies indicating that
  orders from him were not now needed, that the whole affair, carefully
  prepared by him, had now been ruined by somebody, and that that somebody
  would have to bear the whole responsibility for all that might happen.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, tell that blockhead,&rdquo; he said in reply to the question from the
  Registrar&rsquo;s Department, &ldquo;that he should remain to guard his documents.
  Now why are you asking silly questions about the Fire Brigade? They have
  horses, let them be off to Vladímir, and not leave them to the French.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Your excellency, the superintendent of the lunatic asylum has come: what
  are your commands?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;My commands? Let them go away, that&rsquo;s all.... And let the lunatics out
  into the town. When lunatics command our armies God evidently means these
  other madmen to be free.&rdquo;
 <br />
  In reply to an inquiry about the convicts in the prison, Count Rostopchín
  shouted angrily at the governor:
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you expect me to give you two battalions&mdash;which we have not got&mdash;for
  a convoy? Release them, that&rsquo;s all about it!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Your excellency, there are some political prisoners, Meshkóv,
  Vereshchágin...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Vereshchágin! Hasn&rsquo;t he been hanged yet?&rdquo; shouted Rostopchín. &ldquo;Bring him
  to me!&rdquo;

  CHAPTER XXV


  Toward nine o&rsquo;clock in the morning, when the troops were already moving
  through Moscow, nobody came to the count any more for instructions. Those
  who were able to get away were going of their own accord, those who
  remained behind decided for themselves what they must do.
<br />
  The count ordered his carriage that he might drive to Sokólniki, and sat
  in his study with folded hands, morose, sallow, and taciturn.
<br />
  In quiet and untroubled times it seems to every administrator that it is
  only by his efforts that the whole population under his rule is kept
  going, and in this consciousness of being indispensable every
  administrator finds the chief reward of his labor and efforts. While the
  sea of history remains calm the ruler-administrator in his frail bark,
  holding on with a boat hook to the ship of the people and himself moving,
  naturally imagines that his efforts move the ship he is holding on to. But
  as soon as a storm arises and the sea begins to heave and the ship to
  move, such a delusion is no longer possible. The ship moves independently
  with its own enormous motion, the boat hook no longer reaches the moving
  vessel, and suddenly the administrator, instead of appearing a ruler and a
  source of power, becomes an insignificant, useless, feeble man.
<br />
  Rostopchín felt this, and it was this which exasperated him.
<br />
  The superintendent of police, whom the crowd had stopped, went in to see
  him at the same time as an adjutant who informed the count that the horses
  were harnessed. They were both pale, and the superintendent of police,
  after reporting that he had executed the instructions he had received,
  informed the count that an immense crowd had collected in the courtyard
  and wished to see him.
<br />
  Without saying a word Rostopchín rose and walked hastily to his light,
  luxurious drawing room, went to the balcony door, took hold of the handle,
  let it go again, and went to the window from which he had a better view of
  the whole crowd. The tall lad was standing in front, flourishing his arm
  and saying something with a stern look. The blood-stained smith stood
  beside him with a gloomy face. A drone of voices was audible through the
  closed window.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is my carriage ready?&rdquo; asked Rostopchín, stepping back from the window.
<br />
  &ldquo;It is, your excellency,&rdquo; replied the adjutant.
<br />
  Rostopchín went again to the balcony door.
<br />
  &ldquo;But what do they want?&rdquo; he asked the superintendent of police.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your excellency, they say they have got ready, according to your orders,
  to go against the French, and they shouted something about treachery. But
  it is a turbulent crowd, your excellency&mdash;I hardly managed to get
  away from it. Your excellency, I venture to suggest...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You may go. I don&rsquo;t need you to tell me what to do!&rdquo; exclaimed Rostopchín
  angrily.
<br />
  He stood by the balcony door looking at the crowd.
<br />
  &ldquo;This is what they have done with Russia! This is what they have done with
  me!&rdquo; thought he, full of an irrepressible fury that welled up within him
  against the someone to whom what was happening might be attributed. As
  often happens with passionate people, he was mastered by anger but was
  still seeking an object on which to vent it. &ldquo;Here is that mob, the dregs
  of the people,&rdquo; he thought as he gazed at the crowd: &ldquo;this rabble they
  have roused by their folly! They want a victim,&rdquo; he thought as he looked
  at the tall lad flourishing his arm. And this thought occurred to him just
  because he himself desired a victim, something on which to vent his rage.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is the carriage ready?&rdquo; he asked again.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, your excellency. What are your orders about Vereshchágin? He is
  waiting at the porch,&rdquo; said the adjutant.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; exclaimed Rostopchín, as if struck by an unexpected recollection.
<br />
  And rapidly opening the door he went resolutely out onto the balcony. The
  talking instantly ceased, hats and caps were doffed, and all eyes were
  raised to the count.
<br />
  &ldquo;Good morning, lads!&rdquo; said the count briskly and loudly. &ldquo;Thank you for
  coming. I&rsquo;ll come out to you in a moment, but we must first settle with
  the villain. We must punish the villain who has caused the ruin of Moscow.
  Wait for me!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And the count stepped as briskly back into the room and slammed the door
  behind him.
<br />
  A murmur of approbation and satisfaction ran through the crowd. &ldquo;He&rsquo;ll
  settle with all the villains, you&rsquo;ll see! And you said the French... He&rsquo;ll
  show you what law is!&rdquo; the mob were saying as if reproving one another for
  their lack of confidence.
<br />
  A few minutes later an officer came hurriedly out of the front door, gave
  an order, and the dragoons formed up in line. The crowd moved eagerly from
  the balcony toward the porch. Rostopchín, coming out there with quick
  angry steps, looked hastily around as if seeking someone.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where is he?&rdquo; he inquired. And as he spoke he saw a young man coming
  round the corner of the house between two dragoons. He had a long thin
  neck, and his head, that had been half shaved, was again covered by short
  hair. This young man was dressed in a threadbare blue cloth coat lined
  with fox fur, that had once been smart, and dirty hempen convict trousers,
  over which were pulled his thin, dirty, trodden-down boots. On his thin,
  weak legs were heavy chains which hampered his irresolute movements.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; said Rostopchín, hurriedly turning away his eyes from the young man
  in the fur-lined coat and pointing to the bottom step of the porch. &ldquo;Put
  him there.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The young man in his clattering chains stepped clumsily to the spot
  indicated, holding away with one finger the coat collar which chafed his
  neck, turned his long neck twice this way and that, sighed, and
  submissively folded before him his thin hands, unused to work.
<br />
  For several seconds while the young man was taking his place on the step
  the silence continued. Only among the back rows of the people, who were
  all pressing toward the one spot, could sighs, groans, and the shuffling
  of feet be heard.
<br />
  While waiting for the young man to take his place on the step Rostopchín
  stood frowning and rubbing his face with his hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;Lads!&rdquo; said he, with a metallic ring in his voice. &ldquo;This man,
  Vereshchágin, is the scoundrel by whose doing Moscow is perishing.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The young man in the fur-lined coat, stooping a little, stood in a
  submissive attitude, his fingers clasped before him. His emaciated young
  face, disfigured by the half-shaven head, hung down hopelessly. At the
  count&rsquo;s first words he raised it slowly and looked up at him as if wishing
  to say something or at least to meet his eye. But Rostopchín did not look
  at him. A vein in the young man&rsquo;s long thin neck swelled like a cord and
  went blue behind the ear, and suddenly his face flushed.
<br />
  All eyes were fixed on him. He looked at the crowd, and rendered more
  hopeful by the expression he read on the faces there, he smiled sadly and
  timidly, and lowering his head shifted his feet on the step.
<br />
  &ldquo;He has betrayed his Tsar and his country, he has gone over to Bonaparte.
  He alone of all the Russians has disgraced the Russian name, he has caused
  Moscow to perish,&rdquo; said Rostopchín in a sharp, even voice, but suddenly he
  glanced down at Vereshchágin who continued to stand in the same submissive
  attitude. As if inflamed by the sight, he raised his arm and addressed the
  people, almost shouting:
<br />
  &ldquo;Deal with him as you think fit! I hand him over to you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The crowd remained silent and only pressed closer and closer to one
  another. To keep one another back, to breathe in that stifling atmosphere,
  to be unable to stir, and to await something unknown, uncomprehended, and
  terrible, was becoming unbearable. Those standing in front, who had seen
  and heard what had taken place before them, all stood with wide-open eyes
  and mouths, straining with all their strength, and held back the crowd
  that was pushing behind them.
<br />
  &ldquo;Beat him!... Let the traitor perish and not disgrace the Russian name!&rdquo;
   shouted Rostopchín. &ldquo;Cut him down. I command it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Hearing not so much the words as the angry tone of Rostopchín&rsquo;s voice, the
  crowd moaned and heaved forward, but again paused.
<br />
  &ldquo;Count!&rdquo; exclaimed the timid yet theatrical voice of Vereshchágin in the
  midst of the momentary silence that ensued, &ldquo;Count! One God is above us
  both....&rdquo; He lifted his head and again the thick vein in his thin neck
  filled with blood and the color rapidly came and went in his face.
<br />
  He did not finish what he wished to say.
<br />
  &ldquo;Cut him down! I command it...&rdquo; shouted Rostopchín, suddenly growing pale
  like Vereshchágin.
<br />
  &ldquo;Draw sabers!&rdquo; cried the dragoon officer, drawing his own.
<br />
  Another still stronger wave flowed through the crowd and reaching the
  front ranks carried it swaying to the very steps of the porch. The tall
  youth, with a stony look on his face, and rigid and uplifted arm, stood
  beside Vereshchágin.
<br />
  &ldquo;Saber him!&rdquo; the dragoon officer almost whispered.
<br />
  And one of the soldiers, his face all at once distorted with fury, struck
  Vereshchágin on the head with the blunt side of his saber.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; cried Vereshchágin in meek surprise, looking round with a frightened
  glance as if not understanding why this was done to him. A similar moan of
  surprise and horror ran through the crowd. &ldquo;O Lord!&rdquo; exclaimed a sorrowful
  voice.
<br />
  But after the exclamation of surprise that had escaped from Vereshchágin
  he uttered a plaintive cry of pain, and that cry was fatal. The barrier of
  human feeling, strained to the utmost, that had held the crowd in check
  suddenly broke. The crime had begun and must now be completed. The
  plaintive moan of reproach was drowned by the threatening and angry roar
  of the crowd. Like the seventh and last wave that shatters a ship, that
  last irresistible wave burst from the rear and reached the front ranks,
  carrying them off their feet and engulfing them all. The dragoon was about
  to repeat his blow. Vereshchágin with a cry of horror, covering his head
  with his hands, rushed toward the crowd. The tall youth, against whom he
  stumbled, seized his thin neck with his hands and, yelling wildly, fell
  with him under the feet of the pressing, struggling crowd.
<br />
  Some beat and tore at Vereshchágin, others at the tall youth. And the
  screams of those that were being trampled on and of those who tried to
  rescue the tall lad only increased the fury of the crowd. It was a long
  time before the dragoons could extricate the bleeding youth, beaten almost
  to death. And for a long time, despite the feverish haste with which the
  mob tried to end the work that had been begun, those who were hitting,
  throttling, and tearing at Vereshchágin were unable to kill him, for the
  crowd pressed from all sides, swaying as one mass with them in the center
  and rendering it impossible for them either to kill him or let him go.
<br />
  &ldquo;Hit him with an ax, eh!... Crushed?... Traitor, he sold Christ.... Still
  alive... tenacious... serves him right! Torture serves a thief right. Use
  the hatchet!... What&mdash;still alive?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Only when the victim ceased to struggle and his cries changed to a
  long-drawn, measured death rattle did the crowd around his prostrate,
  bleeding corpse begin rapidly to change places. Each one came up, glanced
  at what had been done, and with horror, reproach, and astonishment pushed
  back again.
<br />
  &ldquo;O Lord! The people are like wild beasts! How could he be alive?&rdquo; voices
  in the crowd could be heard saying. &ldquo;Quite a young fellow too... must have
  been a merchant&rsquo;s son. What men!... and they say he&rsquo;s not the right
  one.... How not the right one?... O Lord! And there&rsquo;s another has been
  beaten too&mdash;they say he&rsquo;s nearly done for.... Oh, the people...
  Aren&rsquo;t they afraid of sinning?...&rdquo; said the same mob now, looking with
  pained distress at the dead body with its long, thin, half-severed neck
  and its livid face stained with blood and dust.
<br />
  A painstaking police officer, considering the presence of a corpse in his
  excellency&rsquo;s courtyard unseemly, told the dragoons to take it away. Two
  dragoons took it by its distorted legs and dragged it along the ground.
  The gory, dust-stained, half-shaven head with its long neck trailed
  twisting along the ground. The crowd shrank back from it.
<br />
  At the moment when Vereshchágin fell and the crowd closed in with savage
  yells and swayed about him, Rostopchín suddenly turned pale and, instead
  of going to the back entrance where his carriage awaited him, went with
  hurried steps and bent head, not knowing where and why, along the passage
  leading to the rooms on the ground floor. The count&rsquo;s face was white and
  he could not control the feverish twitching of his lower jaw.
<br />
  &ldquo;This way, your excellency... Where are you going?... This way, please...&rdquo;
   said a trembling, frightened voice behind him.
<br />
  Count Rostopchín was unable to reply and, turning obediently, went in the
  direction indicated. At the back entrance stood his . The distant
  roar of the yelling crowd was audible even there. He hastily took his seat
  and told the coachman to drive him to his country house in Sokólniki.
<br />
  When they reached the Myasnítski Street and could no longer hear the
  shouts of the mob, the count began to repent. He remembered with
  dissatisfaction the agitation and fear he had betrayed before his
  subordinates. &ldquo;The mob is terrible&mdash;disgusting,&rdquo; he said to himself
  in French. &ldquo;They are like wolves whom nothing but flesh can appease.&rdquo;
   &ldquo;Count! One God is above us both!&rdquo;&mdash;Vereshchágin&rsquo;s words suddenly
  recurred to him, and a disagreeable shiver ran down his back. But this was
  only a momentary feeling and Count Rostopchín smiled disdainfully at
  himself. &ldquo;I had other duties,&rdquo; thought he. &ldquo;The people had to be appeased.
  Many other victims have perished and are perishing for the public good&rdquo;&mdash;and
  he began thinking of his social duties to his family and to the city
  entrusted to him, and of himself&mdash;not himself as Theodore Vasílyevich
  Rostopchín (he fancied that Theodore Vasílyevich Rostopchín was
  sacrificing himself for the public good) but himself as governor, the
  representative of authority and of the Tsar. &ldquo;Had I been simply Theodore
  Vasílyevich my course of action would have been quite different, but it
  was my duty to safeguard my life and dignity as commander in chief.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Lightly swaying on the flexible springs of his carriage and no longer
  hearing the terrible sounds of the crowd, Rostopchín grew physically calm
  and, as always happens, as soon as he became physically tranquil his mind
  devised reasons why he should be mentally tranquil too. The thought which
  tranquillized Rostopchín was not a new one. Since the world began and men
  have killed one another no one has ever committed such a crime against his
  fellow man without comforting himself with this same idea. This idea is , the hypothetical welfare of other people.
<br />
  To a man not swayed by passion that welfare is never certain, but he who
  commits such a crime always knows just where that welfare lies. And
  Rostopchín now knew it.
<br />
  Not only did his reason not reproach him for what he had done, but he even
  found cause for self-satisfaction in having so successfully contrived to
  avail himself of a convenient opportunity to punish a criminal and at the
  same time pacify the mob.
<br />
  &ldquo;Vereshchágin was tried and condemned to death,&rdquo; thought Rostopchín
  (though the Senate had only condemned Vereshchágin to hard labor), &ldquo;he was
  a traitor and a spy. I could not let him go unpunished and so I have
  killed two birds with one stone: to appease the mob I gave them a victim
  and at the same time punished a miscreant.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Having reached his country house and begun to give orders about domestic
  arrangements, the count grew quite tranquil.
<br />
  Half an hour later he was driving with his fast horses across the
  Sokólniki field, no longer thinking of what had occurred but considering
  what was to come. He was driving to the Yaúza bridge where he had heard
  that Kutúzov was. Count Rostopchín was mentally preparing the angry and
  stinging reproaches he meant to address to Kutúzov for his deception. He
  would make that foxy old courtier feel that the responsibility for all the
  calamities that would follow the abandonment of the city and the ruin of
  Russia (as Rostopchín regarded it) would fall upon his doting old head.
  Planning beforehand what he would say to Kutúzov, Rostopchín turned
  angrily in his  and gazed sternly from side to side.
<br />
  The Sokólniki field was deserted. Only at the end of it, in front of the
  almshouse and the lunatic asylum, could be seen some people in white and
  others like them walking singly across the field shouting and
  gesticulating.
<br />
  One of these was running to cross the path of Count Rostopchín&rsquo;s carriage,
  and the count himself, his coachman, and his dragoons looked with vague
  horror and curiosity at these released lunatics and especially at the one
  running toward them.
<br />
  Swaying from side to side on his long, thin legs in his fluttering
  dressing gown, this lunatic was running impetuously, his gaze fixed on
  Rostopchín, shouting something in a hoarse voice and making signs to him
  to stop. The lunatic&rsquo;s solemn, gloomy face was thin and yellow, with its
  beard growing in uneven tufts. His black, agate pupils with saffron-yellow
  whites moved restlessly near the lower eyelids.
<br />
  &ldquo;Stop! Pull up, I tell you!&rdquo; he cried in a piercing voice, and again
  shouted something breathlessly with emphatic intonations and gestures.
<br />
  Coming abreast of the  he ran beside it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Thrice have they slain me, thrice have I risen from the dead. They stoned
  me, crucified me... I shall rise... shall rise... shall rise. They have
  torn my body. The kingdom of God will be overthrown... Thrice will I
  overthrow it and thrice re-establish it!&rdquo; he cried, raising his voice
  higher and higher.
<br />
  Count Rostopchín suddenly grew pale as he had done when the crowd closed
  in on Vereshchágin. He turned away. &ldquo;Go fas... faster!&rdquo; he cried in a
  trembling voice to his coachman. The  flew over the ground as fast
  as the horses could draw it, but for a long time Count Rostopchín still
  heard the insane despairing screams growing fainter in the distance, while
  his eyes saw nothing but the astonished, frightened, bloodstained face of
  &ldquo;the traitor&rdquo; in the fur-lined coat.
<br />
  Recent as that mental picture was, Rostopchín already felt that it had cut
  deep into his heart and drawn blood. Even now he felt clearly that the
  gory trace of that recollection would not pass with time, but that the
  terrible memory would, on the contrary, dwell in his heart ever more
  cruelly and painfully to the end of his life. He seemed still to hear the
  sound of his own words: &ldquo;Cut him down! I command it....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why did I utter those words? It was by some accident I said them.... I
  need not have said them,&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;And then nothing would have
  happened.&rdquo; He saw the frightened and then infuriated face of the dragoon
  who dealt the blow, the look of silent, timid reproach that boy in the
  fur-lined coat had turned upon him. &ldquo;But I did not do it for my own sake.
  I was bound to act that way.... The mob, the traitor... the public
  welfare,&rdquo; thought he.
<br />
  Troops were still crowding at the Yaúza bridge. It was hot. Kutúzov,
  dejected and frowning, sat on a bench by the bridge toying with his whip
  in the sand when a  dashed up noisily. A man in a general&rsquo;s uniform
  with plumes in his hat went up to Kutúzov and said something in French. It
  was Count Rostopchín. He told Kutúzov that he had come because Moscow, the
  capital, was no more and only the army remained.
<br />
  &ldquo;Things would have been different if your Serene Highness had not told me
  that you would not abandon Moscow without another battle; all this would
  not have happened,&rdquo; he said.
<br />
  Kutúzov looked at Rostopchín as if, not grasping what was said to him, he
  was trying to read something peculiar written at that moment on the face
  of the man addressing him. Rostopchín grew confused and became silent.
  Kutúzov slightly shook his head and not taking his penetrating gaze from
  Rostopchín&rsquo;s face muttered softly:
<br />
  &ldquo;No! I shall not give up Moscow without a battle!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Whether Kutúzov was thinking of something entirely different when he spoke
  those words, or uttered them purposely, knowing them to be meaningless, at
  any rate Rostopchín made no reply and hastily left him. And strange to
  say, the Governor of Moscow, the proud Count Rostopchín, took up a Cossack
  whip and went to the bridge where he began with shouts to drive on the
  carts that blocked the way.

  CHAPTER XXVI


  Toward four o&rsquo;clock in the afternoon Murat&rsquo;s troops were entering Moscow.
  In front rode a detachment of Württemberg hussars and behind them rode the
  King of Naples himself accompanied by a numerous suite.
<br />
  About the middle of the Arbát Street, near the Church of the Miraculous
  Icon of St. Nicholas, Murat halted to await news from the advanced
  detachment as to the condition in which they had found the citadel, .
<br />
  Around Murat gathered a group of those who had remained in Moscow. They
  all stared in timid bewilderment at the strange, long-haired commander
  dressed up in feathers and gold.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is that their Tsar himself? He&rsquo;s not bad!&rdquo; low voices could be heard
  saying.
<br />
  An interpreter rode up to the group.
<br />
  &ldquo;Take off your cap... your caps!&rdquo; These words went from one to another in
  the crowd. The interpreter addressed an old porter and asked if it was far
  to the Krémlin. The porter, listening in perplexity to the unfamiliar
  Polish accent and not realizing that the interpreter was speaking Russian,
  did not understand what was being said to him and slipped behind the
  others.
<br />
  Murat approached the interpreter and told him to ask where the Russian
  army was. One of the Russians understood what was asked and several voices
  at once began answering the interpreter. A French officer, returning from
  the advanced detachment, rode up to Murat and reported that the gates of
  the citadel had been barricaded and that there was probably an ambuscade
  there.
<br />
  &ldquo;Good!&rdquo; said Murat and, turning to one of the gentlemen in his suite,
  ordered four light guns to be moved forward to fire at the gates.
<br />
  The guns emerged at a trot from the column following Murat and advanced up
  the Arbát. When they reached the end of the Vozdvízhenka Street they
  halted and drew in the Square. Several French officers superintended the
  placing of the guns and looked at the Krémlin through field glasses.
<br />
  The bells in the Krémlin were ringing for vespers, and this sound troubled
  the French. They imagined it to be a call to arms. A few infantrymen ran
  to the Kutáfyev Gate. Beams and wooden screens had been put there, and two
  musket shots rang out from under the gate as soon as an officer and men
  began to run toward it. A general who was standing by the guns shouted
  some words of command to the officer, and the latter ran back again with
  his men.
<br />
  The sound of three more shots came from the gate.
<br />
  One shot struck a French soldier&rsquo;s foot, and from behind the screens came
  the strange sound of a few voices shouting. Instantly as at a word of
  command the expression of cheerful serenity on the faces of the French
  general, officers, and men changed to one of determined concentrated
  readiness for strife and suffering. To all of them from the marshal to the
  least soldier, that place was not the Vozdvízhenka, Mokhaváya, or Kutáfyev
  Street, nor the Tróitsa Gate (places familiar in Moscow), but a new
  battlefield which would probably prove sanguinary. And all made ready for
  that battle. The cries from the gates ceased. The guns were advanced, the
  artillerymen blew the ash off their linstocks, and an officer gave the
  word &ldquo;Fire!&rdquo; This was followed by two whistling sounds of canister shot,
  one after another. The shot rattled against the stone of the gate and upon
  the wooden beams and screens, and two wavering clouds of smoke rose over
  the Square.
<br />
  A few instants after the echo of the reports resounding over the
  stone-built Krémlin had died away the French heard a strange sound above
  their head. Thousands of crows rose above the walls and circled in the
  air, cawing and noisily flapping their wings. Together with that sound
  came a solitary human cry from the gateway and amid the smoke appeared the
  figure of a bareheaded man in a peasant&rsquo;s coat. He grasped a musket and
  took aim at the French. &ldquo;Fire!&rdquo; repeated the officer once more, and the
  reports of a musket and of two cannon shots were heard simultaneously. The
  gate was again hidden by smoke.
<br />
  Nothing more stirred behind the screens and the French infantry soldiers
  and officers advanced to the gate. In the gateway lay three wounded and
  four dead. Two men in peasant coats ran away at the foot of the wall,
  toward the Známenka.
<br />
  &ldquo;Clear that away!&rdquo; said the officer, pointing to the beams and the
  corpses, and the French soldiers, after dispatching the wounded, threw the
  corpses over the parapet.
<br />
  Who these men were nobody knew. &ldquo;Clear that away!&rdquo; was all that was said
  of them, and they were thrown over the parapet and removed later on that
  they might not stink. Thiers alone dedicates a few eloquent lines to their
  memory: &ldquo;These wretches had occupied the sacred citadel, having supplied
  themselves with guns from the arsenal, and fired&rdquo; (the wretches) &ldquo;at the
  French. Some of them were sabered and the Krémlin was purged of their
  presence.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Murat was informed that the way had been cleared. The French entered the
  gates and began pitching their camp in the Senate Square. Out of the
  windows of the Senate House the soldiers threw chairs into the Square for
  fuel and kindled fires there.
<br />
  Other detachments passed through the Krémlin and encamped along the
  Moroséyka, the Lubyánka, and Pokróvka Streets. Others quartered themselves
  along the Vozdvízhenka, the Nikólski, and the Tverskóy Streets. No masters
  of the houses being found anywhere, the French were not billeted on the
  inhabitants as is usual in towns but lived in it as in a camp.
<br />
  Though tattered, hungry, worn out, and reduced to a third of their
  original number, the French entered Moscow in good marching order. It was
  a weary and famished, but still a fighting and menacing army. But it
  remained an army only until its soldiers had dispersed into their
  different lodgings. As soon as the men of the various regiments began to
  disperse among the wealthy and deserted houses, the army was lost forever
  and there came into being something nondescript, neither citizens nor
  soldiers but what are known as marauders. When five weeks later these same
  men left Moscow, they no longer formed an army. They were a mob of
  marauders, each carrying a quantity of articles which seemed to him
  valuable or useful. The aim of each man when he left Moscow was no longer,
  as it had been, to conquer, but merely to keep what he had acquired. Like
  a monkey which puts its paw into the narrow neck of a jug, and having
  seized a handful of nuts will not open its fist for fear of losing what it
  holds, and therefore perishes, the French when they left Moscow had
  inevitably to perish because they carried their loot with them, yet to
  abandon what they had stolen was as impossible for them as it is for the
  monkey to open its paw and let go of its nuts. Ten minutes after each
  regiment had entered a Moscow district, not a soldier or officer was left.
  Men in military uniforms and Hessian boots could be seen through the
  windows, laughing and walking through the rooms. In cellars and storerooms
  similar men were busy among the provisions, and in the yards unlocking or
  breaking open coach house and stable doors, lighting fires in kitchens and
  kneading and baking bread with rolled-up sleeves, and cooking; or
  frightening, amusing, or caressing women and children. There were many
  such men both in the shops and houses&mdash;but there was no army.
<br />
  Order after order was issued by the French commanders that day forbidding
  the men to disperse about the town, sternly forbidding any violence to the
  inhabitants or any looting, and announcing a roll call for that very
  evening. But despite all these measures the men, who had till then
  constituted an army, flowed all over the wealthy, deserted city with its
  comforts and plentiful supplies. As a hungry herd of cattle keeps well
  together when crossing a barren field, but gets out of hand and at once
  disperses uncontrollably as soon as it reaches rich pastures, so did the
  army disperse all over the wealthy city.
<br />
  No residents were left in Moscow, and the soldiers&mdash;like water
  percolating through sand&mdash;spread irresistibly through the city in all
  directions from the Krémlin into which they had first marched. The
  cavalry, on entering a merchant&rsquo;s house that had been abandoned and
  finding there stabling more than sufficient for their horses, went on, all
  the same, to the next house which seemed to them better. Many of them
  appropriated several houses, chalked their names on them, and quarreled
  and even fought with other companies for them. Before they had had time to
  secure quarters the soldiers ran out into the streets to see the city and,
  hearing that everything had been abandoned, rushed to places where
  valuables were to be had for the taking. The officers followed to check
  the soldiers and were involuntarily drawn into doing the same. In Carriage
  Row carriages had been left in the shops, and generals flocked there to
  select  and coaches for themselves. The few inhabitants who had
  remained invited commanding officers to their houses, hoping thereby to
  secure themselves from being plundered. There were masses of wealth and
  there seemed no end to it. All around the quarters occupied by the French
  were other regions still unexplored and unoccupied where, they thought,
  yet greater riches might be found. And Moscow engulfed the army ever
  deeper and deeper. When water is spilled on dry ground both the dry ground
  and the water disappear and mud results; and in the same way the entry of
  the famished army into the rich and deserted city resulted in fires and
  looting and the destruction of both the army and the wealthy city.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  The French attributed the Fire of Moscow , * the Russians to the barbarity of the French. In reality,
  however, it was not, and could not be, possible to explain the burning of
  Moscow by making any individual, or any group of people, responsible for
  it. Moscow was burned because it found itself in a position in which any
  town built of wood was bound to burn, quite apart from whether it had, or
  had not, a hundred and thirty inferior fire engines. Deserted Moscow had
  to burn as inevitably as a heap of shavings has to burn on which sparks
  continually fall for several days. A town built of wood, where scarcely a
  day passes without conflagrations when the house owners are in residence
  and a police force is present, cannot help burning when its inhabitants
  have left it and it is occupied by soldiers who smoke pipes, make
  campfires of the Senate chairs in the Senate Square, and cook themselves
  meals twice a day. In peacetime it is only necessary to billet troops in
  the villages of any district and the number of fires in that district
  immediately increases. How much then must the probability of fire be
  increased in an abandoned, wooden town where foreign troops are quartered.
   and the barbarity of the
  French were not to blame in the matter. Moscow was set on fire by the
  soldiers&rsquo; pipes, kitchens, and campfires, and by the carelessness of enemy
  soldiers occupying houses they did not own. Even if there was any arson (which is
  very doubtful, for no one had any reason to burn the houses&mdash;in any
  case a troublesome and dangerous thing to do), arson cannot be regarded as
  the cause, for the same thing would have happened without any
  incendiarism.
<br />
* To Rostopchín&rsquo;s ferocious patriotism.

However tempting it might be for the French to blame Rostopchín’s ferocity and for Russians to blame the scoundrel Bonaparte, or later on to place an heroic torch in the hands of their own people, it is impossible not to see that there could be no such direct cause of the fire, for Moscow had to burn as every village, factory, or house must burn which is left by its owners and in which strangers are allowed to live and cook their porridge. Moscow was burned by its inhabitants, it is true, but by those who had abandoned it and not by those who remained in it. Moscow when occupied by the enemy did not remain intact like Berlin, Vienna, and other towns, simply because its inhabitants abandoned it and did not welcome the French with bread and salt, nor bring them the keys of the city.

  CHAPTER XXVII


  The absorption of the French by Moscow, radiating starwise as it did, only
  reached the quarter where Pierre was staying by the evening of the second
  of September.
<br />
  After the last two days spent in solitude and unusual circumstances,
  Pierre was in a state bordering on insanity. He was completely obsessed by
  one persistent thought. He did not know how or when this thought had taken
  such possession of him, but he remembered nothing of the past, understood
  nothing of the present, and all he saw and heard appeared to him like a
  dream.
<br />
  He had left home only to escape the intricate tangle of life&rsquo;s demands
  that enmeshed him, and which in his present condition he was unable to
  unravel. He had gone to Joseph Alexéevich&rsquo;s house, on the plea of sorting
  the deceased&rsquo;s books and papers, only in search of rest from life&rsquo;s
  turmoil, for in his mind the memory of Joseph Alexéevich was connected
  with a world of eternal, solemn, and calm thoughts, quite contrary to the
  restless confusion into which he felt himself being drawn. He sought a
  quiet refuge, and in Joseph Alexéevich&rsquo;s study he really found it. When he
  sat with his elbows on the dusty writing table in the deathlike stillness
  of the study, calm and significant memories of the last few days rose one
  after another in his imagination, particularly of the battle of Borodinó
  and of that vague sense of his own insignificance and insincerity compared
  with the truth, simplicity, and strength of the class of men he mentally
  classed as . When Gerásim roused him from his reverie the idea
  occurred to him of taking part in the popular defense of Moscow which he
  knew was projected. And with that object he had asked Gerásim to get him a
  peasant&rsquo;s coat and a pistol, confiding to him his intentions of remaining
  in Joseph Alexéevich&rsquo;s house and keeping his name secret. Then during the
  first day spent in inaction and solitude (he tried several times to fix
  his attention on the Masonic manuscripts, but was unable to do so) the
  idea that had previously occurred to him of the cabalistic significance of
  his name in connection with Bonaparte&rsquo;s more than once vaguely presented
  itself. But the idea that he, , was destined to set a limit
  to the power of the  was as yet only one of the fancies that often
  passed through his mind and left no trace behind.
<br />
  When, having bought the coat merely with the object of taking part among
  the people in the defense of Moscow, Pierre had met the Rostóvs and
  Natásha had said to him: &ldquo;Are you remaining in Moscow?... How splendid!&rdquo;
   the thought flashed into his mind that it really would be a good thing,
  even if Moscow were taken, for him to remain there and do what he was
  predestined to do.
<br />
  Next day, with the sole idea of not sparing himself and not lagging in any
  way behind , Pierre went to the Three Hills gate. But when he returned
  to the house convinced that Moscow would not be defended, he suddenly felt
  that what before had seemed to him merely a possibility had now become
  absolutely necessary and inevitable. He must remain in Moscow, concealing
  his name, and must meet Napoleon and kill him, and either perish or put an
  end to the misery of all Europe&mdash;which it seemed to him was solely
  due to Napoleon.
<br />
  Pierre knew all the details of the attempt on Bonaparte&rsquo;s life in 1809 by
  a German student in Vienna, and knew that the student had been shot. And
  the risk to which he would expose his life by carrying out his design
  excited him still more.
<br />
  Two equally strong feelings drew Pierre irresistibly to this purpose. The
  first was a feeling of the necessity of sacrifice and suffering in view of
  the common calamity, the same feeling that had caused him to go to
  Mozháysk on the twenty-fifth and to make his way to the very thick of the
  battle and had now caused him to run away from his home and, in place of
  the luxury and comfort to which he was accustomed, to sleep on a hard sofa
  without undressing and eat the same food as Gerásim. The other was that
  vague and quite Russian feeling of contempt for everything conventional,
  artificial, and human&mdash;for everything the majority of men regard as
  the greatest good in the world. Pierre had first experienced this strange
  and fascinating feeling at the Slobóda Palace, when he had suddenly felt
  that wealth, power, and life&mdash;all that men so painstakingly acquire
  and guard&mdash;if it has any worth has so only by reason of the joy with
  which it can all be renounced.
<br />
  It was the feeling that induces a volunteer recruit to spend his last
  penny on drink, and a drunken man to smash mirrors or glasses for no
  apparent reason and knowing that it will cost him all the money he
  possesses: the feeling which causes a man to perform actions which from an
  ordinary point of view are insane, to test, as it were, his personal power
  and strength, affirming the existence of a higher, nonhuman criterion of
  life.
<br />
  From the very day Pierre had experienced this feeling for the first time
  at the Slobóda Palace he had been continuously under its influence, but
  only now found full satisfaction for it. Moreover, at this moment Pierre
  was supported in his design and prevented from renouncing it by what he
  had already done in that direction. If he were now to leave Moscow like
  everyone else, his flight from home, the peasant coat, the pistol, and his
  announcement to the Rostóvs that he would remain in Moscow would all
  become not merely meaningless but contemptible and ridiculous, and to this
  Pierre was very sensitive.
<br />
  Pierre&rsquo;s physical condition, as is always the case, corresponded to his
  mental state. The unaccustomed coarse food, the vodka he drank during
  those days, the absence of wine and cigars, his dirty unchanged linen, two
  almost sleepless nights passed on a short sofa without bedding&mdash;all
  this kept him in a state of excitement bordering on insanity.
<br />
  It was two o&rsquo;clock in the afternoon. The French had already entered
  Moscow. Pierre knew this, but instead of acting he only thought about his
  undertaking, going over its minutest details in his mind. In his fancy he
  did not clearly picture to himself either the striking of the blow or the
  death of Napoleon, but with extraordinary vividness and melancholy
  enjoyment imagined his own destruction and heroic endurance.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, alone, for the sake of all, I must do it or perish!&rdquo; he thought.
  &ldquo;Yes, I will approach... and then suddenly... with pistol or dagger? But
  that is all the same! &lsquo;It is not I but the hand of Providence that
  punishes thee,&rsquo; I shall say,&rdquo; thought he, imagining what he would say when
  killing Napoleon. &ldquo;Well then, take me and execute me!&rdquo; he went on,
  speaking to himself and bowing his head with a sad but firm expression.
<br />
  While Pierre, standing in the middle of the room, was talking to himself
  in this way, the study door opened and on the threshold appeared the
  figure of Makár Alexéevich, always so timid before but now quite
  transformed.
<br />
  His dressing gown was unfastened, his face red and distorted. He was
  obviously drunk. On seeing Pierre he grew confused at first, but noticing
  embarrassment on Pierre&rsquo;s face immediately grew bold and, staggering on
  his thin legs, advanced into the middle of the room.
<br />
  &ldquo;They&rsquo;re frightened,&rdquo; he said confidentially in a hoarse voice. &ldquo;I say I
  won&rsquo;t surrender, I say... Am I not right, sir?&rdquo;
 <br />
  He paused and then suddenly seeing the pistol on the table seized it with
  unexpected rapidity and ran out into the corridor.
<br />
  Gerásim and the porter, who had followed Makár Alexéevich, stopped him in
  the vestibule and tried to take the pistol from him. Pierre, coming out
  into the corridor, looked with pity and repulsion at the half-crazy old
  man. Makár Alexéevich, frowning with exertion, held on to the pistol and
  screamed hoarsely, evidently with some heroic fancy in his head.
<br />
  &ldquo;To arms! Board them! No, you shan&rsquo;t get it,&rdquo; he yelled.
<br />
  &ldquo;That will do, please, that will do. Have the goodness&mdash;please, sir,
  to let go! Please, sir...&rdquo; pleaded Gerásim, trying carefully to steer
  Makár Alexéevich by the elbows back to the door.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who are you? Bonaparte!...&rdquo; shouted Makár Alexéevich.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s not right, sir. Come to your room, please, and rest. Allow me to
  have the pistol.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Be off, thou base slave! Touch me not! See this?&rdquo; shouted Makár
  Alexéevich, brandishing the pistol. &ldquo;Board them!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Catch hold!&rdquo; whispered Gerásim to the porter.
<br />
  They seized Makár Alexéevich by the arms and dragged him to the door.
<br />
  The vestibule was filled with the discordant sounds of a struggle and of a
  tipsy, hoarse voice.
<br />
  Suddenly a fresh sound, a piercing feminine scream, reverberated from the
  porch and the cook came running into the vestibule.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s them! Gracious heavens! O Lord, four of them, horsemen!&rdquo; she cried.
<br />
  Gerásim and the porter let Makár Alexéevich go, and in the now silent
  corridor the sound of several hands knocking at the front door could be
  heard.

  CHAPTER XXVIII


  Pierre, having decided that until he had carried out his design he would
  disclose neither his identity nor his knowledge of French, stood at the
  half-open door of the corridor, intending to conceal himself as soon as
  the French entered. But the French entered and still Pierre did not retire&mdash;an
  irresistible curiosity kept him there.
<br />
  There were two of them. One was an officer&mdash;a tall, soldierly,
  handsome man&mdash;the other evidently a private or an orderly, sunburned,
  short, and thin, with sunken cheeks and a dull expression. The officer
  walked in front, leaning on a stick and slightly limping. When he had
  advanced a few steps he stopped, having apparently decided that these were
  good quarters, turned round to the soldiers standing at the entrance, and
  in a loud voice of command ordered them to put up the horses. Having done
  that, the officer, lifting his elbow with a smart gesture, stroked his
  mustache and lightly touched his hat.
<br />
   * said he gaily, smiling and looking about him.
<br />
* &ldquo;Good day, everybody!&rdquo;

No one gave any reply.

   * the officer asked Gerásim.
<br />
* &ldquo;Are you the master here?&rdquo;

Gerásim gazed at the officer with an alarmed and inquiring look.
said the officer, looking down at the little man with a condescending and good-natured smile. * added he, clapping the scared and silent Gerásim on the shoulder. “Well, does no one speak French in this establishment?” he asked again in French, looking around and meeting Pierre’s eyes. Pierre moved away from the door.

 * &ldquo;Quarters, quarters, lodgings! The French are good
 fellows. What the devil! There, don&rsquo;t let us be cross, old
 fellow!&rdquo;

Again the officer turned to Gerásim and asked him to show him the rooms in the house.
“Master, not here—don’t understand… me, you…” said Gerásim, trying to render his words more comprehensible by contorting them.
Still smiling, the French officer spread out his hands before Gerásim’s nose, intimating that he did not understand him either, and moved, limping, to the door at which Pierre was standing. Pierre wished to go away and conceal himself, but at that moment he saw Makár Alexéevich appearing at the open kitchen door with the pistol in his hand. With a madman’s cunning, Makár Alexéevich eyed the Frenchman, raised his pistol, and took aim.
“Board them!” yelled the tipsy man, trying to press the trigger. Hearing the yell the officer turned round, and at the same moment Pierre threw himself on the drunkard. Just when Pierre snatched at and struck up the pistol Makár Alexéevich at last got his fingers on the trigger, there was a deafening report, and all were enveloped in a cloud of smoke. The Frenchman turned pale and rushed to the door.
Forgetting his intention of concealing his knowledge of French, Pierre, snatching away the pistol and throwing it down, ran up to the officer and addressed him in French.
“You are not wounded?” he asked.
“I think not,” answered the Frenchman, feeling himself over. “But I have had a lucky escape this time,” he added, pointing to the damaged plaster of the wall. “Who is that man?” said he, looking sternly at Pierre.
“Oh, I am really in despair at what has occurred,” said Pierre rapidly, quite forgetting the part he had intended to play. “He is an unfortunate madman who did not know what he was doing.”
The officer went up to Makár Alexéevich and took him by the collar.
Makár Alexéevich was standing with parted lips, swaying, as if about to fall asleep, as he leaned against the wall.
“Brigand! You shall pay for this,” said the Frenchman, letting go of him. “We French are merciful after victory, but we do not pardon traitors,” he added, with a look of gloomy dignity and a fine energetic gesture.
Pierre continued, in French, to persuade the officer not to hold that drunken imbecile to account. The Frenchman listened in silence with the same gloomy expression, but suddenly turned to Pierre with a smile. For a few seconds he looked at him in silence. His handsome face assumed a melodramatically gentle expression and he held out his hand.
“You have saved my life. You are French,” said he.
For a Frenchman that deduction was indubitable. Only a Frenchman could perform a great deed, and to save his life—the life of M. Ramballe, captain of the 13th Light Regiment—was undoubtedly a very great deed.
But however indubitable that conclusion and the officer’s conviction based upon it, Pierre felt it necessary to disillusion him.
“I am Russian,” he said quickly.
“Tut, tut, tut! Tell that to others,” said the officer, waving his finger before his nose and smiling. “You shall tell me all about that presently. I am delighted to meet a compatriot. Well, and what are we to do with this man?” he added, addressing himself to Pierre as to a brother.
Even if Pierre were not a Frenchman, having once received that loftiest of human appellations he could not renounce it, said the officer’s look and tone. In reply to his last question Pierre again explained who Makár Alexéevich was and how just before their arrival that drunken imbecile had seized the loaded pistol which they had not had time to recover from him, and begged the officer to let the deed go unpunished.
The Frenchman expanded his chest and made a majestic gesture with his arm.
“You have saved my life! You are French. You ask his pardon? I grant it you. Lead that man away!” said he quickly and energetically, and taking the arm of Pierre whom he had promoted to be a Frenchman for saving his life, he went with him into the room.
The soldiers in the yard, hearing the shot, came into the passage asking what had happened, and expressed their readiness to punish the culprits, but the officer sternly checked them.
“You will be called in when you are wanted,” he said.
The soldiers went out again, and the orderly, who had meanwhile had time to visit the kitchen, came up to his officer.
“Captain, there is soup and a leg of mutton in the kitchen,” said he. “Shall I serve them up?”
“Yes, and some wine,” answered the captain.

  CHAPTER XXIX


  When the French officer went into the room with Pierre the latter again
  thought it his duty to assure him that he was not French and wished to go
  away, but the officer would not hear of it. He was so very polite,
  amiable, good-natured, and genuinely grateful to Pierre for saving his
  life that Pierre had not the heart to refuse, and sat down with him in the
  parlor&mdash;the first room they entered. To Pierre&rsquo;s assurances that he
  was not a Frenchman, the captain, evidently not understanding how anyone
  could decline so flattering an appellation, shrugged his shoulders and
  said that if Pierre absolutely insisted on passing for a Russian let it be
  so, but for all that he would be forever bound to Pierre by gratitude for
  saving his life.
<br />
  Had this man been endowed with the slightest capacity for perceiving the
  feelings of others, and had he at all understood what Pierre&rsquo;s feelings
  were, the latter would probably have left him, but the man&rsquo;s animated
  obtuseness to everything other than himself disarmed Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;A Frenchman or a Russian prince incognito,&rdquo; said the officer, looking at
  Pierre&rsquo;s fine though dirty linen and at the ring on his finger. &ldquo;I owe my
  life to you and offer you my friendship. A Frenchman never forgets either
  an insult or a service. I offer you my friendship. That is all I can say.&rdquo;
 <br />
  There was so much good nature and nobility (in the French sense of the
  word) in the officer&rsquo;s voice, in the expression of his face and in his
  gestures, that Pierre, unconsciously smiling in response to the
  Frenchman&rsquo;s smile, pressed the hand held out to him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Captain Ramballe, of the 13th Light Regiment, Chevalier of the Legion of
  Honor for the affair on the seventh of September,&rdquo; he introduced himself,
  a self-satisfied irrepressible smile puckering his lips under his
  mustache. &ldquo;Will you now be so good as to tell me with whom I have the
  honor of conversing so pleasantly, instead of being in the ambulance with
  that maniac&rsquo;s bullet in my body?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre replied that he could not tell him his name and, blushing, began to
  try to invent a name and to say something about his reason for concealing
  it, but the Frenchman hastily interrupted him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, please!&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;I understand your reasons. You are an officer... a
  superior officer perhaps. You have borne arms against us. That&rsquo;s not my
  business. I owe you my life. That is enough for me. I am quite at your
  service. You belong to the gentry?&rdquo; he concluded with a shade of inquiry
  in his tone. Pierre bent his head. &ldquo;Your baptismal name, if you please.
  That is all I ask. Monsieur Pierre, you say.... That&rsquo;s all I want to
  know.&rdquo;
 <br />
  When the mutton and an omelet had been served and a samovar and vodka
  brought, with some wine which the French had taken from a Russian cellar
  and brought with them, Ramballe invited Pierre to share his dinner, and
  himself began to eat greedily and quickly like a healthy and hungry man,
  munching his food rapidly with his strong teeth, continually smacking his
  lips, and repeating&mdash;&ldquo;Excellent! Delicious!&rdquo; His face grew red and
  was covered with perspiration. Pierre was hungry and shared the dinner
  with pleasure. Morel, the orderly, brought some hot water in a saucepan
  and placed a bottle of claret in it. He also brought a bottle of kvass,
  taken from the kitchen for them to try. That beverage was already known to
  the French and had been given a special name. They called it  (pig&rsquo;s lemonade), and Morel spoke well of the  he had found in the kitchen. But as the captain had the wine they had
  taken while passing through Moscow, he left the kvass to Morel and applied
  himself to the bottle of Bordeaux. He wrapped the bottle up to its neck in
  a table napkin and poured out wine for himself and for Pierre. The
  satisfaction of his hunger and the wine rendered the captain still more
  lively and he chatted incessantly all through dinner.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, my dear Monsieur Pierre, I owe you a fine votive candle for saving
  me from that maniac.... You see, I have bullets enough in my body already.
  Here is one I got at Wagram&rdquo; (he touched his side) &ldquo;and a second at
  Smolénsk&rdquo;&mdash;he showed a scar on his cheek&mdash;&ldquo;and this leg which as
  you see does not want to march, I got that on the seventh at the great
  battle of la Moskowa.  It was splendid! That deluge of fire was
  worth seeing. It was a tough job you set us there, my word! You may be
  proud of it! And on my honor, in spite of the cough I caught there, I
  should be ready to begin again. I pity those who did not see it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I was there,&rdquo; said Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;Bah, really? So much the better! You are certainly brave foes. The great
  redoubt held out well, by my pipe!&rdquo; continued the Frenchman. &ldquo;And you made
  us pay dear for it. I was at it three times&mdash;sure as I sit here.
  Three times we reached the guns and three times we were thrown back like
  cardboard figures. Oh, it was beautiful, Monsieur Pierre! Your grenadiers
  were splendid, by heaven! I saw them close up their ranks six times in
  succession and march as if on parade. Fine fellows! Our King of Naples,
  who knows what&rsquo;s what, cried &lsquo;Bravo!&rsquo; Ha, ha! So you are one of us
  soldiers!&rdquo; he added, smiling, after a momentary pause. &ldquo;So much the
  better, so much the better, Monsieur Pierre! Terrible in battle...
  gallant... with the fair&rdquo; (he winked and smiled), &ldquo;that&rsquo;s what the French
  are, Monsieur Pierre, aren&rsquo;t they?&rdquo;
 <br />
  The captain was so naïvely and good-humoredly gay, so real, and so pleased
  with himself that Pierre almost winked back as he looked merrily at him.
  Probably the word &ldquo;gallant&rdquo; turned the captain&rsquo;s thoughts to the state of
  Moscow.
<br />
  &ldquo;Apropos, tell me please, is it true that the women have all left Moscow?
  What a queer idea! What had they to be afraid of?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Would not the French ladies leave Paris if the Russians entered it?&rdquo;
   asked Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ha, ha, ha!&rdquo; The Frenchman emitted a merry, sanguine chuckle, patting
  Pierre on the shoulder. &ldquo;What a thing to say!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;Paris?...
  But Paris, Paris...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Paris&mdash;the capital of the world,&rdquo; Pierre finished his remark for
  him.
<br />
  The captain looked at Pierre. He had a habit of stopping short in the
  middle of his talk and gazing intently with his laughing, kindly eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, if you hadn&rsquo;t told me you were Russian, I should have wagered that
  you were Parisian! You have that... I don&rsquo;t know what, that...&rdquo; and having
  uttered this compliment, he again gazed at him in silence.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have been in Paris. I spent years there,&rdquo; said Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh yes, one sees that plainly. Paris!... A man who doesn&rsquo;t know Paris is
  a savage. You can tell a Parisian two leagues off. Paris is Talma, la
  Duchénois, Potier, the Sorbonne, the boulevards,&rdquo; and noticing that his
  conclusion was weaker than what had gone before, he added quickly: &ldquo;There
  is only one Paris in the world. You have been to Paris and have remained
  Russian. Well, I don&rsquo;t esteem you the less for it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Under the influence of the wine he had drunk, and after the days he had
  spent alone with his depressing thoughts, Pierre involuntarily enjoyed
  talking with this cheerful and good-natured man.
<br />
  &ldquo;To return to your ladies&mdash;I hear they are lovely. What a wretched
  idea to go and bury themselves in the steppes when the French army is in
  Moscow. What a chance those girls have missed! Your peasants, now&mdash;that&rsquo;s
  another thing; but you civilized people, you ought to know us better than
  that. We took Vienna, Berlin, Madrid, Naples, Rome, Warsaw, all the
  world&rsquo;s capitals.... We are feared, but we are loved. We are nice to know.
  And then the Emperor...&rdquo; he began, but Pierre interrupted him.
<br />
  &ldquo;The Emperor,&rdquo; Pierre repeated, and his face suddenly became sad and
  embarrassed, &ldquo;is the Emperor...?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The Emperor? He is generosity, mercy, justice, order, genius&mdash;that&rsquo;s
  what the Emperor is! It is I, Ramballe, who tell you so.... I assure you I
  was his enemy eight years ago. My father was an emigrant count.... But
  that man has vanquished me. He has taken hold of me. I could not resist
  the sight of the grandeur and glory with which he has covered France. When
  I understood what he wanted&mdash;when I saw that he was preparing a bed
  of laurels for us, you know, I said to myself: &lsquo;That is a monarch,&rsquo; and I
  devoted myself to him! So there! Oh yes, , he is the greatest man
  of the ages past or future.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Is he in Moscow?&rdquo; Pierre stammered with a guilty look.
<br />
  The Frenchman looked at his guilty face and smiled.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, he will make his entry tomorrow,&rdquo; he replied, and continued his talk.
<br />
  Their conversation was interrupted by the cries of several voices at the
  gate and by Morel, who came to say that some Württemberg hussars had come
  and wanted to put up their horses in the yard where the captain&rsquo;s horses
  were. This difficulty had arisen chiefly because the hussars did not
  understand what was said to them in French.
<br />
  The captain had their senior sergeant called in, and in a stern voice
  asked him to what regiment he belonged, who was his commanding officer,
  and by what right he allowed himself to claim quarters that were already
  occupied. The German who knew little French, answered the two first
  questions by giving the names of his regiment and of his commanding
  officer, but in reply to the third question which he did not understand
  said, introducing broken French into his own German, that he was the
  quartermaster of the regiment and his commander had ordered him to occupy
  all the houses one after another. Pierre, who knew German, translated what
  the German said to the captain and gave the captain&rsquo;s reply to the
  Württemberg hussar in German. When he had understood what was said to him,
  the German submitted and took his men elsewhere. The captain went out into
  the porch and gave some orders in a loud voice.
<br />
  When he returned to the room Pierre was sitting in the same place as
  before, with his head in his hands. His face expressed suffering. He
  really was suffering at that moment. When the captain went out and he was
  left alone, suddenly he came to himself and realized the position he was
  in. It was not that Moscow had been taken or that the happy conquerors
  were masters in it and were patronizing him. Painful as that was it was
  not that which tormented Pierre at the moment. He was tormented by the
  consciousness of his own weakness. The few glasses of wine he had drunk
  and the conversation with this good-natured man had destroyed the mood of
  concentrated gloom in which he had spent the last few days and which was
  essential for the execution of his design. The pistol, dagger, and peasant
  coat were ready. Napoleon was to enter the town next day. Pierre still
  considered that it would be a useful and worthy action to slay the
  evildoer, but now he felt that he would not do it. He did not know why,
  but he felt a foreboding that he would not carry out his intention. He
  struggled against the confession of his weakness but dimly felt that he
  could not overcome it and that his former gloomy frame of mind, concerning
  vengeance, killing, and self-sacrifice, had been dispersed like dust by
  contact with the first man he met.
<br />
  The captain returned to the room, limping slightly and whistling a tune.
<br />
  The Frenchman&rsquo;s chatter which had previously amused Pierre now repelled
  him. The tune he was whistling, his gait, and the gesture with which he
  twirled his mustache, all now seemed offensive. &ldquo;I will go away
  immediately. I won&rsquo;t say another word to him,&rdquo; thought Pierre. He thought
  this, but still sat in the same place. A strange feeling of weakness tied
  him to the spot; he wished to get up and go away, but could not do so.
<br />
  The captain, on the other hand, seemed very cheerful. He paced up and down
  the room twice. His eyes shone and his mustache twitched as if he were
  smiling to himself at some amusing thought.
<br />
  &ldquo;The colonel of those Württembergers is delightful,&rdquo; he suddenly said.
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a German, but a nice fellow all the same.... But he&rsquo;s a German.&rdquo; He
  sat down facing Pierre. &ldquo;By the way, you know German, then?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre looked at him in silence.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is the German for &lsquo;shelter&rsquo;?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Shelter?&rdquo; Pierre repeated. &ldquo;The German for shelter is .&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How do you say it?&rdquo; the captain asked quickly and doubtfully.
<br />
   Pierre repeated.
<br />
  &ldquo;Onterkoff,&rdquo; said the captain and looked at Pierre for some seconds with
  laughing eyes. &ldquo;These Germans are first-rate fools, don&rsquo;t you think so,
  Monsieur Pierre?&rdquo; he concluded.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, let&rsquo;s have another bottle of this Moscow Bordeaux, shall we? Morel
  will warm us up another little bottle. Morel!&rdquo; he called out gaily.
<br />
  Morel brought candles and a bottle of wine. The captain looked at Pierre
  by the candlelight and was evidently struck by the troubled expression on
  his companion&rsquo;s face. Ramballe, with genuine distress and sympathy in his
  face, went up to Pierre and bent over him.
<br />
  &ldquo;There now, we&rsquo;re sad,&rdquo; said he, touching Pierre&rsquo;s hand. &ldquo;Have I upset
  you? No, really, have you anything against me?&rdquo; he asked Pierre. &ldquo;Perhaps
  it&rsquo;s the state of affairs?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre did not answer, but looked cordially into the Frenchman&rsquo;s eyes
  whose expression of sympathy was pleasing to him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Honestly, without speaking of what I owe you, I feel friendship for you.
  Can I do anything for you? Dispose of me. It is for life and death. I say
  it with my hand on my heart!&rdquo; said he, striking his chest.
<br />
  &ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; said Pierre.
<br />
  The captain gazed intently at him as he had done when he learned that
  &ldquo;shelter&rdquo; was  in German, and his face suddenly brightened.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, in that case, I drink to our friendship!&rdquo; he cried gaily, filling
  two glasses with wine.
<br />
  Pierre took one of the glasses and emptied it. Ramballe emptied his too,
  again pressed Pierre&rsquo;s hand, and leaned his elbows on the table in a
  pensive attitude.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, my dear friend,&rdquo; he began, &ldquo;such is fortune&rsquo;s caprice. Who would
  have said that I should be a soldier and a captain of dragoons in the
  service of Bonaparte, as we used to call him? Yet here I am in Moscow with
  him. I must tell you, ,&rdquo; he continued in the sad and measured
  tones of a man who intends to tell a long story, &ldquo;that our name is one of
  the most ancient in France.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And with a Frenchman&rsquo;s easy and naïve frankness the captain told Pierre
  the story of his ancestors, his childhood, youth, and manhood, and all
  about his relations and his financial and family affairs, 
   playing of course an important part in the story.
<br />
  &ldquo;But all that is only life&rsquo;s setting, the real thing is love&mdash;love!
  Am I not right, Monsieur Pierre?&rdquo; said he, growing animated. &ldquo;Another
  glass?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre again emptied his glass and poured himself out a third.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, women, women!&rdquo; and the captain, looking with glistening eyes at
  Pierre, began talking of love and of his love affairs.
<br />
  There were very many of these, as one could easily believe, looking at the
  officer&rsquo;s handsome, self-satisfied face, and noting the eager enthusiasm
  with which he spoke of women. Though all Ramballe&rsquo;s love stories had the
  sensual character which Frenchmen regard as the special charm and poetry
  of love, yet he told his story with such sincere conviction that he alone
  had experienced and known all the charm of love and he described women so
  alluringly that Pierre listened to him with curiosity.
<br />
  It was plain that  which the Frenchman was so fond of was not
  that low and simple kind that Pierre had once felt for his wife, nor was it the
  romantic love stimulated by himself that he experienced for Natásha.
  (Ramballe despised both these kinds of love equally: the one he considered
  the &ldquo;love of clodhoppers&rdquo; and the other the &ldquo;love of
  simpletons.&rdquo;)  which the Frenchman worshiped consisted
  principally in the unnaturalness of his relation to the woman and in a combination
  of incongruities giving the chief charm to the feeling.
<br />
  Thus the captain touchingly recounted the story of his love for a
  fascinating marquise of thirty-five and at the same time for a charming,
  innocent child of seventeen, daughter of the bewitching marquise. The
  conflict of magnanimity between the mother and the daughter, ending in the
  mother&rsquo;s sacrificing herself and offering her daughter in marriage to her
  lover, even now agitated the captain, though it was the memory of a
  distant past. Then he recounted an episode in which the husband played the
  part of the lover, and he&mdash;the lover&mdash;assumed the role of the
  husband, as well as several droll incidents from his recollections of
  Germany, where &ldquo;shelter&rdquo; is called  and where the
  husbands eat sauerkraut and the young girls are &ldquo;too blonde.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Finally, the latest episode in Poland still fresh in the captain&rsquo;s memory,
  and which he narrated with rapid gestures and glowing face, was of how he
  had saved the life of a Pole (in general, the saving of life continually
  occurred in the captain&rsquo;s stories) and the Pole had entrusted to him his
  enchanting wife () while himself entering the French
  service. The captain was happy, the enchanting Polish lady wished to elope
  with him, but, prompted by magnanimity, the captain restored the wife to
  the husband, saying as he did so: &ldquo;I have saved your life, and I save your
  honor!&rdquo; Having repeated these words the captain wiped his eyes and gave
  himself a shake, as if driving away the weakness which assailed him at
  this touching recollection.
<br />
  Listening to the captain&rsquo;s tales, Pierre&mdash;as often happens late in
  the evening and under the influence of wine&mdash;followed all that was
  told him, understood it all, and at the same time followed a train of
  personal memories which, he knew not why, suddenly arose in his mind.
  While listening to these love stories his own love for Natásha
  unexpectedly rose to his mind, and going over the pictures of that love in
  his imagination he mentally compared them with Ramballe&rsquo;s tales. Listening
  to the story of the struggle between love and duty, Pierre saw before his
  eyes every minutest detail of his last meeting with the object of his love
  at the Súkharev water tower. At the time of that meeting it had not
  produced an effect upon him&mdash;he had not even once recalled it. But
  now it seemed to him that that meeting had had in it something very
  important and poetic.
<br />
  &ldquo;Peter Kirílovich, come here! We have recognized you,&rdquo; he now seemed to
  hear the words she had uttered and to see before him her eyes, her smile,
  her traveling hood, and a stray lock of her hair... and there seemed to
  him something pathetic and touching in all this.
<br />
  Having finished his tale about the enchanting Polish lady, the captain
  asked Pierre if he had ever experienced a similar impulse to sacrifice
  himself for love and a feeling of envy of the legitimate husband.
<br />
  Challenged by this question Pierre raised his head and felt a need to
  express the thoughts that filled his mind. He began to explain that he
  understood love for a woman somewhat differently. He said that in all his
  life he had loved and still loved only one woman, and that she could never
  be his.
<br />
   said the captain.
<br />
  Pierre then explained that he had loved this woman from his earliest
  years, but that he had not dared to think of her because she was too
  young, and because he had been an illegitimate son without a name.
  Afterwards when he had received a name and wealth he dared not think of
  her because he loved her too well, placing her far above everything in the
  world, and especially therefore above himself.
<br />
  When he had reached this point, Pierre asked the captain whether he
  understood that.
<br />
  The captain made a gesture signifying that even if he did not understand
  it he begged Pierre to continue.
<br />
  &ldquo;Platónic love, clouds...&rdquo; he muttered.
<br />
  Whether it was the wine he had drunk, or an impulse of frankness, or the
  thought that this man did not, and never would, know any of those who
  played a part in his story, or whether it was all these things together,
  something loosened Pierre&rsquo;s tongue. Speaking thickly and with a faraway
  look in his shining eyes, he told the whole story of his life: his
  marriage, Natásha&rsquo;s love for his best friend, her betrayal of him, and all
  his own simple relations with her. Urged on by Ramballe&rsquo;s questions he
  also told what he had at first concealed&mdash;his own position and even
  his name.
<br />
  More than anything else in Pierre&rsquo;s story the captain was impressed by the
  fact that Pierre was very rich, had two mansions in Moscow, and that he
  had abandoned everything and not left the city, but remained there
  concealing his name and station.
<br />
  When it was late at night they went out together into the street. The
  night was warm and light. To the left of the house on the Pokróvka a fire
  glowed&mdash;the first of those that were beginning in Moscow. To the
  right and high up in the sky was the sickle of the waning moon and
  opposite to it hung that bright comet which was connected in Pierre&rsquo;s
  heart with his love. At the gate stood Gerásim, the cook, and two
  Frenchmen. Their laughter and their mutually incomprehensible remarks in
  two languages could be heard. They were looking at the glow seen in the
  town.
<br />
  There was nothing terrible in the one small, distant fire in the immense
  city.
<br />
  Gazing at the high starry sky, at the moon, at the comet, and at the glow
  from the fire, Pierre experienced a joyful emotion. &ldquo;There now, how good
  it is, what more does one need?&rdquo; thought he. And suddenly remembering his
  intention he grew dizzy and felt so faint that he leaned against the fence
  to save himself from falling.
<br />
  Without taking leave of his new friend, Pierre left the gate with unsteady
  steps and returning to his room lay down on the sofa and immediately fell
  asleep.

  CHAPTER XXX


  The glow of the first fire that began on the second of September was
  watched from the various roads by the fugitive Muscovites and by the
  retreating troops, with many different feelings.
<br />
  The Rostóv party spent the night at Mytíshchi, fourteen miles from Moscow.
  They had started so late on the first of September, the road had been so
  blocked by vehicles and troops, so many things had been forgotten for
  which servants were sent back, that they had decided to spend that night
  at a place three miles out of Moscow. The next morning they woke late and
  were again delayed so often that they only got as far as Great Mytíshchi.
  At ten o&rsquo;clock that evening the Rostóv family and the wounded traveling
  with them were all distributed in the yards and huts of that large
  village. The Rostóvs&rsquo; servants and coachmen and the orderlies of the
  wounded officers, after attending to their masters, had supper, fed the
  horses, and came out into the porches.
<br />
  In a neighboring hut lay Raévski&rsquo;s adjutant with a fractured wrist. The
  awful pain he suffered made him moan incessantly and piteously, and his
  moaning sounded terrible in the darkness of the autumn night. He had spent
  the first night in the same yard as the Rostóvs. The countess said she had
  been unable to close her eyes on account of his moaning, and at Mytíshchi
  she moved into a worse hut simply to be farther away from the wounded man.
<br />
  In the darkness of the night one of the servants noticed, above the high
  body of a coach standing before the porch, the small glow of another fire.
  One glow had long been visible and everybody knew that it was Little
  Mytíshchi burning&mdash;set on fire by Mamónov&rsquo;s Cossacks.
<br />
  &ldquo;But look here, brothers, there&rsquo;s another fire!&rdquo; remarked an orderly.
<br />
  All turned their attention to the glow.
<br />
  &ldquo;But they told us Little Mytíshchi had been set on fire by Mamónov&rsquo;s
  Cossacks.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But that&rsquo;s not Mytíshchi, it&rsquo;s farther away.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Look, it must be in Moscow!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Two of the gazers went round to the other side of the coach and sat down
  on its steps.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s more to the left, why, Little Mytíshchi is over there, and this is
  right on the other side.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Several men joined the first two.
<br />
  &ldquo;See how it&rsquo;s flaring,&rdquo; said one. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a fire in
  Moscow: either in the Sushchévski or the Rogózhski quarter.&rdquo;
 <br />
  No one replied to this remark and for some time they all gazed silently at
  the spreading flames of the second fire in the distance.
<br />
  Old Daniel Teréntich, the count&rsquo;s valet (as he was called), came up to the
  group and shouted at Míshka.
<br />
  &ldquo;What are you staring at, you good-for-nothing?... The count will be
  calling and there&rsquo;s nobody there; go and gather the clothes together.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I only ran out to get some water,&rdquo; said Míshka.
<br />
  &ldquo;But what do you think, Daniel Teréntich? Doesn&rsquo;t it look as if that glow
  were in Moscow?&rdquo; remarked one of the footmen.
<br />
  Daniel Teréntich made no reply, and again for a long time they were all
  silent. The glow spread, rising and falling, farther and farther still.
<br />
  &ldquo;God have mercy.... It&rsquo;s windy and dry...&rdquo; said another voice.
<br />
  &ldquo;Just look! See what it&rsquo;s doing now. O Lord! You can even see the crows
  flying. Lord have mercy on us sinners!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;They&rsquo;ll put it out, no fear!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Who&rsquo;s to put it out?&rdquo; Daniel Teréntich, who had hitherto been silent, was
  heard to say. His voice was calm and deliberate. &ldquo;Moscow it is, brothers,&rdquo;
   said he. &ldquo;Mother Moscow, the white...&rdquo; his voice faltered, and he gave way
  to an old man&rsquo;s sob.
<br />
  And it was as if they had all only waited for this to realize the
  significance for them of the glow they were watching. Sighs were heard,
  words of prayer, and the sobbing of the count&rsquo;s old valet.

  CHAPTER XXXI


  The valet, returning to the cottage, informed the count that Moscow was
  burning. The count donned his dressing gown and went out to look. Sónya
  and Madame Schoss, who had not yet undressed, went out with him. Only
  Natásha and the countess remained in the room. Pétya was no longer with
  the family, he had gone on with his regiment which was making for Tróitsa.
<br />
  The countess, on hearing that Moscow was on fire, began to cry. Natásha,
  pale, with a fixed look, was sitting on the bench under the icons just
  where she had sat down on arriving and paid no attention to her father&rsquo;s
  words. She was listening to the ceaseless moaning of the adjutant, three
  houses off.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, how terrible,&rdquo; said Sónya returning from the yard chilled and
  frightened. &ldquo;I believe the whole of Moscow will burn, there&rsquo;s an awful
  glow! Natásha, do look! You can see it from the window,&rdquo; she said to her
  cousin, evidently wishing to distract her mind.
<br />
  But Natásha looked at her as if not understanding what was said to her and
  again fixed her eyes on the corner of the stove. She had been in this
  condition of stupor since the morning, when Sónya, to the surprise and
  annoyance of the countess, had for some unaccountable reason found it
  necessary to tell Natásha of Prince Andrew&rsquo;s wound and of his being with
  their party. The countess had seldom been so angry with anyone as she was
  with Sónya. Sónya had cried and begged to be forgiven and now, as if
  trying to atone for her fault, paid unceasing attention to her cousin.
<br />
  &ldquo;Look, Natásha, how dreadfully it is burning!&rdquo; said she.
<br />
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s burning?&rdquo; asked Natásha. &ldquo;Oh, yes, Moscow.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And as if in order not to offend Sónya and to get rid of her, she turned
  her face to the window, looked out in such a way that it was evident that
  she could not see anything, and again settled down in her former attitude.
<br />
  &ldquo;But you didn&rsquo;t see it!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, really I did,&rdquo; Natásha replied in a voice that pleaded to be left in
  peace.
<br />
  Both the countess and Sónya understood that, naturally, neither Moscow nor
  the burning of Moscow nor anything else could seem of importance to
  Natásha.
<br />
  The count returned and lay down behind the partition. The countess went up
  to her daughter and touched her head with the back of her hand as she was
  wont to do when Natásha was ill, then touched her forehead with her lips
  as if to feel whether she was feverish, and finally kissed her.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are cold. You are trembling all over. You&rsquo;d better lie down,&rdquo; said
  the countess.
<br />
  &ldquo;Lie down? All right, I will. I&rsquo;ll lie down at once,&rdquo; said Natásha.
<br />
  When Natásha had been told that morning that Prince Andrew was seriously
  wounded and was traveling with their party, she had at first asked many
  questions: Where was he going? How was he wounded? Was it serious? And
  could she see him? But after she had been told that she could not see him,
  that he was seriously wounded but that his life was not in danger, she
  ceased to ask questions or to speak at all, evidently disbelieving what
  they told her, and convinced that say what she might she would still be
  told the same. All the way she had sat motionless in a corner of the coach
  with wide open eyes, and the expression in them which the countess knew so
  well and feared so much, and now she sat in the same way on the bench
  where she had seated herself on arriving. She was planning something and
  either deciding or had already decided something in her mind. The countess
  knew this, but what it might be she did not know, and this alarmed and
  tormented her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Natásha, undress, darling; lie down on my bed.&rdquo;
 <br />
  A bed had been made on a bedstead for the countess only. Madame Schoss and
  the two girls were to sleep on some hay on the floor.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, Mamma, I will lie down here on the floor,&rdquo; Natásha replied irritably
  and she went to the window and opened it. Through the open window the
  moans of the adjutant could be heard more distinctly. She put her head out
  into the damp night air, and the countess saw her slim neck shaking with
  sobs and throbbing against the window frame. Natásha knew it was not
  Prince Andrew who was moaning. She knew Prince Andrew was in the same yard
  as themselves and in a part of the hut across the passage; but this
  dreadful incessant moaning made her sob. The countess exchanged a look
  with Sónya.
<br />
  &ldquo;Lie down, darling; lie down, my pet,&rdquo; said the countess, softly touching
  Natásha&rsquo;s shoulders. &ldquo;Come, lie down.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, yes... I&rsquo;ll lie down at once,&rdquo; said Natásha, and began hurriedly
  undressing, tugging at the tapes of her petticoat.
<br />
  When she had thrown off her dress and put on a dressing jacket, she sat
  down with her foot under her on the bed that had been made up on the
  floor, jerked her thin and rather short plait of hair to the front, and
  began replaiting it. Her long, thin, practiced fingers rapidly unplaited,
  replaited, and tied up her plait. Her head moved from side to side from
  habit, but her eyes, feverishly wide, looked fixedly before her. When her
  toilet for the night was finished she sank gently onto the sheet spread
  over the hay on the side nearest the door.
<br />
  &ldquo;Natásha, you&rsquo;d better lie in the middle,&rdquo; said Sónya.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll stay here,&rdquo; muttered Natásha. &ldquo;Do lie down,&rdquo; she added crossly, and
  buried her face in the pillow.
<br />
  The countess, Madame Schoss, and Sónya undressed hastily and lay down. The
  small lamp in front of the icons was the only light left in the room. But
  in the yard there was a light from the fire at Little Mytíshchi a mile and
  a half away, and through the night came the noise of people shouting at a
  tavern Mamónov&rsquo;s Cossacks had set up across the street, and the adjutant&rsquo;s
  unceasing moans could still be heard.
<br />
  For a long time Natásha listened attentively to the sounds that reached
  her from inside and outside the room and did not move. First she heard her
  mother praying and sighing and the creaking of her bed under her, then
  Madame Schoss&rsquo; familiar whistling snore and Sónya&rsquo;s gentle breathing. Then
  the countess called to Natásha. Natásha did not answer.
<br />
  &ldquo;I think she&rsquo;s asleep, Mamma,&rdquo; said Sónya softly.
<br />
  After a short silence the countess spoke again but this time no one
  replied.
<br />
  Soon after that Natásha heard her mother&rsquo;s even breathing. Natásha did not
  move, though her little bare foot, thrust out from under the quilt, was
  growing cold on the bare floor.
<br />
  As if to celebrate a victory over everybody, a cricket chirped in a crack
  in the wall. A cock crowed far off and another replied near by. The
  shouting in the tavern had died down; only the moaning of the adjutant was
  heard. Natásha sat up.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sónya, are you asleep? Mamma?&rdquo; she whispered.
<br />
  No one replied. Natásha rose slowly and carefully, crossed herself, and
  stepped cautiously on the cold and dirty floor with her slim, supple, bare
  feet. The boards of the floor creaked. Stepping cautiously from one foot
  to the other she ran like a kitten the few steps to the door and grasped
  the cold door handle.
<br />
  It seemed to her that something heavy was beating rhythmically against all
  the walls of the room: it was her own heart, sinking with alarm and terror
  and overflowing with love.
<br />
  She opened the door and stepped across the threshold and onto the cold,
  damp earthen floor of the passage. The cold she felt refreshed her. With
  her bare feet she touched a sleeping man, stepped over him, and opened the
  door into the part of the hut where Prince Andrew lay. It was dark in
  there. In the farthest corner, on a bench beside a bed on which something
  was lying, stood a tallow candle with a long, thick, and smoldering wick.
<br />
  From the moment she had been told that morning of Prince Andrew&rsquo;s wound
  and his presence there, Natásha had resolved to see him. She did not know
  why she had to, she knew the meeting would be painful, but felt the more
  convinced that it was necessary.
<br />
  All day she had lived only in hope of seeing him that night. But now that
  the moment had come she was filled with dread of what she might see. How
  was he maimed? What was left of him? Was he like that incessant moaning of
  the adjutant&rsquo;s? Yes, he was altogether like that. In her imagination he
  was that terrible moaning personified. When she saw an indistinct shape in
  the corner, and mistook his knees raised under the quilt for his
  shoulders, she imagined a horrible body there, and stood still in terror.
  But an irresistible impulse drew her forward. She cautiously took one step
  and then another, and found herself in the middle of a small room
  containing baggage. Another man&mdash;Timókhin&mdash;was lying in a corner
  on the benches beneath the icons, and two others&mdash;the doctor and a
  valet&mdash;lay on the floor.
<br />
  The valet sat up and whispered something. Timókhin, kept awake by the pain
  in his wounded leg, gazed with wide-open eyes at this strange apparition
  of a girl in a white chemise, dressing jacket, and nightcap. The valet&rsquo;s
  sleepy, frightened exclamation, &ldquo;What do you want? What&rsquo;s the matter?&rdquo;
   made Natásha approach more swiftly to what was lying in the corner.
  Horribly unlike a man as that body looked, she must see him. She passed
  the valet, the snuff fell from the candle wick, and she saw Prince Andrew
  clearly with his arms outside the quilt, and such as she had always seen
  him.
<br />
  He was the same as ever, but the feverish color of his face, his
  glittering eyes rapturously turned toward her, and especially his neck,
  delicate as a child&rsquo;s, revealed by the turn-down collar of his shirt, gave
  him a peculiarly innocent, childlike look, such as she had never seen on
  him before. She went up to him and with a swift, flexible, youthful
  movement dropped on her knees.
<br />
  He smiled and held out his hand to her.

  CHAPTER XXXII


  Seven days had passed since Prince Andrew found himself in the ambulance
  station on the field of Borodinó. His feverish state and the inflammation
  of his bowels, which were injured, were in the doctor&rsquo;s opinion sure to
  carry him off. But on the seventh day he ate with pleasure a piece of
  bread with some tea, and the doctor noticed that his temperature was
  lower. He had regained consciousness that morning. The first night after
  they left Moscow had been fairly warm and he had remained in the ,
  but at Mytíshchi the wounded man himself asked to be taken out and given
  some tea. The pain caused by his removal into the hut had made him groan
  aloud and again lose consciousness. When he had been placed on his camp
  bed he lay for a long time motionless with closed eyes. Then he opened
  them and whispered softly: &ldquo;And the tea?&rdquo; His remembering such a small
  detail of everyday life astonished the doctor. He felt Prince Andrew&rsquo;s
  pulse, and to his surprise and dissatisfaction found it had improved. He
  was dissatisfied because he knew by experience that if his patient did not
  die now, he would do so a little later with greater suffering. Timókhin,
  the red-nosed major of Prince Andrew&rsquo;s regiment, had joined him in Moscow
  and was being taken along with him, having been wounded in the leg at the
  battle of Borodinó. They were accompanied by a doctor, Prince Andrew&rsquo;s
  valet, his coachman, and two orderlies.
<br />
  They gave Prince Andrew some tea. He drank it eagerly, looking with
  feverish eyes at the door in front of him as if trying to understand and
  remember something.
<br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want any more. Is Timókhin here?&rdquo; he asked.
<br />
  Timókhin crept along the bench to him.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am here, your excellency.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How&rsquo;s your wound?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Mine, sir? All right. But how about you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Andrew again pondered as if trying to remember something.
<br />
  &ldquo;Couldn&rsquo;t one get a book?&rdquo; he asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;What book?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The Gospels. I haven&rsquo;t one.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The doctor promised to procure it for him and began to ask how he was
  feeling. Prince Andrew answered all his questions reluctantly but
  reasonably, and then said he wanted a bolster placed under him as he was
  uncomfortable and in great pain. The doctor and valet lifted the cloak
  with which he was covered and, making wry faces at the noisome smell of
  mortifying flesh that came from the wound, began examining that dreadful
  place. The doctor was very much displeased about something and made a
  change in the dressings, turning the wounded man over so that he groaned
  again and grew unconscious and delirious from the agony. He kept asking
  them to get him the book and put it under him.
<br />
  &ldquo;What trouble would it be to you?&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I have not got one. Please
  get it for me and put it under for a moment,&rdquo; he pleaded in a piteous
  voice.
<br />
  The doctor went into the passage to wash his hands.
<br />
  &ldquo;You fellows have no conscience,&rdquo; said he to the valet who was pouring
  water over his hands. &ldquo;For just one moment I didn&rsquo;t look after you... It&rsquo;s
  such pain, you know, that I wonder how he can bear it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;By the Lord Jesus Christ, I thought we had put something under him!&rdquo; said
  the valet.
<br />
  The first time Prince Andrew understood where he was and what was the
  matter with him and remembered being wounded and how was when he asked to
  be carried into the hut after his  had stopped at Mytíshchi. After
  growing confused from pain while being carried into the hut he again
  regained consciousness, and while drinking tea once more recalled all that
  had happened to him, and above all vividly remembered the moment at the
  ambulance station when, at the sight of the sufferings of a man he
  disliked, those new thoughts had come to him which promised him happiness.
  And those thoughts, though now vague and indefinite, again possessed his
  soul. He remembered that he had now a new source of happiness and that
  this happiness had something to do with the Gospels. That was why he asked
  for a copy of them. The uncomfortable position in which they had put him
  and turned him over again confused his thoughts, and when he came to
  himself a third time it was in the complete stillness of the night.
  Everybody near him was sleeping. A cricket chirped from across the
  passage; someone was shouting and singing in the street; cockroaches
  rustled on the table, on the icons, and on the walls, and a big fly
  flopped at the head of the bed and around the candle beside him, the wick
  of which was charred and had shaped itself like a mushroom.
<br />
  His mind was not in a normal state. A healthy man usually thinks of,
  feels, and remembers innumerable things simultaneously, but has the power
  and will to select one sequence of thoughts or events on which to fix his
  whole attention. A healthy man can tear himself away from the deepest
  reflections to say a civil word to someone who comes in and can then
  return again to his own thoughts. But Prince Andrew&rsquo;s mind was not in a
  normal state in that respect. All the powers of his mind were more active
  and clearer than ever, but they acted apart from his will. Most diverse
  thoughts and images occupied him simultaneously. At times his brain
  suddenly began to work with a vigor, clearness, and depth it had never
  reached when he was in health, but suddenly in the midst of its work it
  would turn to some unexpected idea and he had not the strength to turn it
  back again.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, a new happiness was revealed to me of which man cannot be deprived,&rdquo;
   he thought as he lay in the semidarkness of the quiet hut, gazing fixedly
  before him with feverish wide open eyes. &ldquo;A happiness lying beyond
  material forces, outside the material influences that act on man&mdash;a
  happiness of the soul alone, the happiness of loving. Every man can
  understand it, but to conceive it and enjoin it was possible only for God.
  But how did God enjoin that law? And why was the Son...?&rdquo;
 <br />
  And suddenly the sequence of these thoughts broke off, and Prince Andrew
  heard (without knowing whether it was a delusion or reality) a soft
  whispering voice incessantly and rhythmically repeating &ldquo;piti-piti-piti,&rdquo;
   and then &ldquo;titi,&rdquo; and then again &ldquo;piti-piti-piti,&rdquo; and &ldquo;ti-ti&rdquo; once more.
  At the same time he felt that above his face, above the very middle of it,
  some strange airy structure was being erected out of slender needles or
  splinters, to the sound of this whispered music. He felt that he had to
  balance carefully (though it was difficult) so that this airy structure
  should not collapse; but nevertheless it kept collapsing and again slowly
  rising to the sound of whispered rhythmic music&mdash;&ldquo;it stretches,
  stretches, spreading out and stretching,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew to himself.
  While listening to this whispering and feeling the sensation of this
  drawing out and the construction of this edifice of needles, he also saw
  by glimpses a red halo round the candle, and heard the rustle of the
  cockroaches and the buzzing of the fly that flopped against his pillow and
  his face. Each time the fly touched his face it gave him a burning
  sensation and yet to his surprise it did not destroy the structure, though
  it knocked against the very region of his face where it was rising. But
  besides this there was something else of importance. It was something
  white by the door&mdash;the statue of a sphinx, which also oppressed him.
<br />
  &ldquo;But perhaps that&rsquo;s my shirt on the table,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;and that&rsquo;s my
  legs, and that is the door, but why is it always stretching and drawing
  itself out, and &lsquo;piti-piti-piti&rsquo; and &lsquo;ti-ti&rsquo; and &lsquo;piti-piti-piti&rsquo;...?
  That&rsquo;s enough, please leave off!&rdquo; Prince Andrew painfully entreated
  someone. And suddenly thoughts and feelings again swam to the surface of
  his mind with peculiar clearness and force.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes&mdash;love,&rdquo; he thought again quite clearly. &ldquo;But not love which
  loves for something, for some quality, for some purpose, or for some
  reason, but the love which I&mdash;while dying&mdash;first experienced
  when I saw my enemy and yet loved him. I experienced that feeling of love
  which is the very essence of the soul and does not require an object. Now
  again I feel that bliss. To love one&rsquo;s neighbors, to love one&rsquo;s enemies,
  to love everything, to love God in all His manifestations. It is possible
  to love someone dear to you with human love, but an enemy can only be
  loved by divine love. That is why I experienced such joy when I felt that
  I loved that man. What has become of him? Is he alive?...
<br />
  &ldquo;When loving with human love one may pass from love to hatred, but divine
  love cannot change. No, neither death nor anything else can destroy it. It
  is the very essence of the soul. Yet how many people have I hated in my
  life? And of them all, I loved and hated none as I did her.&rdquo; And he
  vividly pictured to himself Natásha, not as he had done in the past with
  nothing but her charms which gave him delight, but for the first time
  picturing to himself her soul. And he understood her feelings, her
  sufferings, shame, and remorse. He now understood for the first time all
  the cruelty of his rejection of her, the cruelty of his rupture with her.
  &ldquo;If only it were possible for me to see her once more! Just once, looking
  into those eyes to say...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Piti-piti-piti and ti-ti and piti-piti-piti boom!&rdquo; flopped the
  fly.... And his attention was suddenly carried into another world, a world
  of reality and delirium in which something particular was happening. In that
  world some structure was still being erected and did not fall, something was
  still stretching out, and the candle with its red halo was still burning,
  and the same shirtlike sphinx lay near the door; but besides all this
  something creaked, there was a whiff of fresh air, and a new white sphinx
  appeared, standing at the door. And that sphinx had the pale face and
  shining eyes of the very Natásha of whom he had just been thinking.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, how oppressive this continual delirium is,&rdquo; thought Prince Andrew,
  trying to drive that face from his imagination. But the face remained
  before him with the force of reality and drew nearer. Prince Andrew wished
  to return to that former world of pure thought, but he could not, and
  delirium drew him back into its domain. The soft whispering voice
  continued its rhythmic murmur, something oppressed him and stretched out,
  and the strange face was before him. Prince Andrew collected all his
  strength in an effort to recover his senses, he moved a little, and
  suddenly there was a ringing in his ears, a dimness in his eyes, and like
  a man plunged into water he lost consciousness. When he came to himself,
  Natásha, that same living Natásha whom of all people he most longed to
  love with this new pure divine love that had been revealed to him, was
  kneeling before him. He realized that it was the real living Natásha, and
  he was not surprised but quietly happy. Natásha, motionless on her knees
  (she was unable to stir), with frightened eyes riveted on him, was
  restraining her sobs. Her face was pale and rigid. Only in the lower part
  of it something quivered.
<br />
  Prince Andrew sighed with relief, smiled, and held out his hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;You?&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;How fortunate!&rdquo;
 <br />
  With a rapid but careful movement Natásha drew nearer to him on her knees
  and, taking his hand carefully, bent her face over it and began kissing
  it, just touching it lightly with her lips.
<br />
  &ldquo;Forgive me!&rdquo; she whispered, raising her head and glancing at him.
  &ldquo;Forgive me!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I love you,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew.
<br />
  &ldquo;Forgive...!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Forgive what?&rdquo; he asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;Forgive me for what I ha-ve do-ne!&rdquo; faltered Natásha in a scarcely
  audible, broken whisper, and began kissing his hand more rapidly, just
  touching it with her lips.
<br />
  &ldquo;I love you more, better than before,&rdquo; said Prince Andrew, lifting her
  face with his hand so as to look into her eyes.
<br />
  Those eyes, filled with happy tears, gazed at him timidly,
  compassionately, and with joyous love. Natásha&rsquo;s thin pale face, with its
  swollen lips, was more than plain&mdash;it was dreadful. But Prince Andrew
  did not see that, he saw her shining eyes which were beautiful. They heard
  the sound of voices behind them.
<br />
  Peter the valet, who was now wide awake, had roused the doctor. Timókhin,
  who had not slept at all because of the pain in his leg, had long been
  watching all that was going on, carefully covering his bare body with the
  sheet as he huddled up on his bench.
<br />
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s this?&rdquo; said the doctor, rising from his bed. &ldquo;Please go away,
  madam!&rdquo;
 <br />
  At that moment a maid sent by the countess, who had noticed her daughter&rsquo;s
  absence, knocked at the door.
<br />
  Like a somnambulist aroused from her sleep Natásha went out of the room
  and, returning to her hut, fell sobbing on her bed.
<br />
  From that time, during all the rest of the Rostóvs&rsquo; journey, at every
  halting place and wherever they spent a night, Natásha never left the
  wounded Bolkónski, and the doctor had to admit that he had not expected
  from a young girl either such firmness or such skill in nursing a wounded
  man.
<br />
  Dreadful as the countess imagined it would be should Prince Andrew die in
  her daughter&rsquo;s arms during the journey&mdash;as, judging by what the
  doctor said, it seemed might easily happen&mdash;she could not oppose
  Natásha. Though with the intimacy now established between the wounded man
  and Natásha the thought occurred that should he recover their former
  engagement would be renewed, no one&mdash;least of all Natásha and Prince
  Andrew&mdash;spoke of this: the unsettled question of life and death,
  which hung not only over Bolkónski but over all Russia, shut out all other
  considerations.

  CHAPTER XXXIII


  On the third of September Pierre awoke late. His head was aching, the
  clothes in which he had slept without undressing felt uncomfortable on his
  body, and his mind had a dim consciousness of something shameful he had
  done the day before. That something shameful was his yesterday&rsquo;s
  conversation with Captain Ramballe.
<br />
  It was eleven by the clock, but it seemed peculiarly dark out of doors.
  Pierre rose, rubbed his eyes, and seeing the pistol with an engraved stock
  which Gerásim had replaced on the writing table, he remembered where he
  was and what lay before him that very day.
<br />
  &ldquo;Am I not too late?&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;No, probably 
  won&rsquo;t make his entry into Moscow before noon.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre did not allow himself to reflect on what lay before him, but
  hastened to act.
<br />
  After arranging his clothes, he took the pistol and was about to go out.
  But it then occurred to him for the first time that he certainly could not
  carry the weapon in his hand through the streets. It was difficult to hide
  such a big pistol even under his wide coat. He could not carry it
  unnoticed in his belt or under his arm. Besides, it had been discharged,
  and he had not had time to reload it. &ldquo;No matter, the dagger will
  do,&rdquo; he said to himself, though when planning his design he had more than
  once come to the conclusion that the chief mistake made by the student in 1809
  had been to try to kill Napoleon with a dagger. But as his chief aim consisted
  not in carrying out his design, but in proving to himself that he would not
  abandon his intention and was doing all he could to achieve it, Pierre
  hastily took the blunt jagged dagger in a green sheath which he had bought
  at the Súkharev market with the pistol, and hid it under his waistcoat.
<br />
  Having tied a girdle over his coat and pulled his cap low on his head,
  Pierre went down the corridor, trying to avoid making a noise or meeting
  the captain, and passed out into the street.
<br />
  The conflagration, at which he had looked with so much indifference the
  evening before, had greatly increased during the night. Moscow was on fire
  in several places. The buildings in Carriage Row, across the river, in the
  Bazaar and the Povarskóy, as well as the barges on the Moskvá River and
  the timber yards by the Dorogomílov Bridge, were all ablaze.
<br />
  Pierre&rsquo;s way led through side streets to the Povarskóy and from there to
  the church of St. Nicholas on the Arbát, where he had long before decided
  that the deed should be done. The gates of most of the houses were locked
  and the shutters up. The streets and lanes were deserted. The air was full
  of smoke and the smell of burning. Now and then he met Russians with
  anxious and timid faces, and Frenchmen with an air not of the city but of
  the camp, walking in the middle of the streets. Both the Russians and the
  French looked at Pierre with surprise. Besides his height and stoutness,
  and the strange morose look of suffering in his face and whole figure, the
  Russians stared at Pierre because they could not make out to what class he
  could belong. The French followed him with astonishment in their eyes
  chiefly because Pierre, unlike all the other Russians who gazed at the
  French with fear and curiosity, paid no attention to them. At the gate of
  one house three Frenchmen, who were explaining something to some Russians
  who did not understand them, stopped Pierre asking if he did not know
  French.
<br />
  Pierre shook his head and went on. In another side street a sentinel
  standing beside a green caisson shouted at him, but only when the shout
  was threateningly repeated and he heard the click of the man&rsquo;s musket as
  he raised it did Pierre understand that he had to pass on the other side
  of the street. He heard nothing and saw nothing of what went on around
  him. He carried his resolution within himself in terror and haste, like
  something dreadful and alien to him, for, after the previous night&rsquo;s
  experience, he was afraid of losing it. But he was not destined to bring
  his mood safely to his destination. And even had he not been hindered by
  anything on the way, his intention could not now have been carried out,
  for Napoleon had passed the Arbát more than four hours previously on his
  way from the Dorogomílov suburb to the Krémlin, and was now sitting in a
  very gloomy frame of mind in a royal study in the Krémlin, giving detailed
  and exact orders as to measures to be taken immediately to extinguish the
  fire, to prevent looting, and to reassure the inhabitants. But Pierre did
  not know this; he was entirely absorbed in what lay before him, and was
  tortured&mdash;as those are who obstinately undertake a task that is
  impossible for them not because of its difficulty but because of its
  incompatibility with their natures&mdash;by the fear of weakening at the
  decisive moment and so losing his self-esteem.
<br />
  Though he heard and saw nothing around him he found his way by instinct
  and did not go wrong in the side streets that led to the Povarskóy.
<br />
  As Pierre approached that street the smoke became denser and denser&mdash;he
  even felt the heat of the fire. Occasionally curly tongues of flame rose
  from under the roofs of the houses. He met more people in the streets and
  they were more excited. But Pierre, though he felt that something unusual
  was happening around him, did not realize that he was approaching the
  fire. As he was going along a footpath across a wide-open space adjoining
  the Povarskóy on one side and the gardens of Prince Gruzínski&rsquo;s house on
  the other, Pierre suddenly heard the desperate weeping of a woman close to
  him. He stopped as if awakening from a dream and lifted his head.
<br />
  By the side of the path, on the dusty dry grass, all sorts of household
  goods lay in a heap: featherbeds, a samovar, icons, and trunks. On the
  ground, beside the trunks, sat a thin woman no longer young, with long,
  prominent upper teeth, and wearing a black cloak and cap. This woman,
  swaying to and fro and muttering something, was choking with sobs. Two
  girls of about ten and twelve, dressed in dirty short frocks and cloaks,
  were staring at their mother with a look of stupefaction on their pale
  frightened faces. The youngest child, a boy of about seven, who wore an
  overcoat and an immense cap evidently not his own, was crying in his old
  nurse&rsquo;s arms. A dirty, barefooted maid was sitting on a trunk, and, having
  undone her pale-colored plait, was pulling it straight and sniffing at her
  singed hair. The woman&rsquo;s husband, a short, round-shouldered man in the
  undress uniform of a civilian official, with sausage-shaped whiskers and
  showing under his square-set cap the hair smoothly brushed forward over
  his temples, with expressionless face was moving the trunks, which were
  placed one on another, and was dragging some garments from under them.
<br />
  As soon as she saw Pierre, the woman almost threw herself at his feet.
<br />
  &ldquo;Dear people, good Christians, save me, help me, dear friends... help us,
  somebody,&rdquo; she muttered between her sobs. &ldquo;My girl... My daughter! My
  youngest daughter is left behind. She&rsquo;s burned! Ooh! Was it for this I
  nursed you.... Ooh!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t, Mary Nikoláevna!&rdquo; said her husband to her in a low voice,
  evidently only to justify himself before the stranger. &ldquo;Sister must have
  taken her, or else where can she be?&rdquo; he added.
<br />
  &ldquo;Monster! Villain!&rdquo; shouted the woman angrily, suddenly ceasing to weep.
  &ldquo;You have no heart, you don&rsquo;t feel for your own child! Another man would
  have rescued her from the fire. But this is a monster and neither a man
  nor a father! You, honored sir, are a noble man,&rdquo; she went on, addressing
  Pierre rapidly between her sobs. &ldquo;The fire broke out alongside, and blew
  our way, the maid called out &lsquo;Fire!&rsquo; and we rushed to collect our things.
  We ran out just as we were.... This is what we have brought away.... The
  icons, and my dowry bed, all the rest is lost. We seized the children. But
  not Katie! Ooh! O Lord!...&rdquo; and again she began to sob. &ldquo;My child, my dear
  one! Burned, burned!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But where was she left?&rdquo; asked Pierre.
<br />
  From the expression of his animated face the woman saw that this man might
  help her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, dear sir!&rdquo; she cried, seizing him by the legs. &ldquo;My benefactor, set my
  heart at ease.... Aníska, go, you horrid girl, show him the way!&rdquo; she
  cried to the maid, angrily opening her mouth and still farther exposing
  her long teeth.
<br />
  &ldquo;Show me the way, show me, I... I&rsquo;ll do it,&rdquo; gasped Pierre rapidly.
<br />
  The dirty maidservant stepped from behind the trunk, put up her plait,
  sighed, and went on her short, bare feet along the path. Pierre felt as if
  he had come back to life after a heavy swoon. He held his head higher, his
  eyes shone with the light of life, and with swift steps he followed the
  maid, overtook her, and came out on the Povarskóy. The whole street was
  full of clouds of black smoke. Tongues of flame here and there broke
  through that cloud. A great number of people crowded in front of the
  conflagration. In the middle of the street stood a French general saying
  something to those around him. Pierre, accompanied by the maid, was
  advancing to the spot where the general stood, but the French soldiers
  stopped him.
<br />
   * cried a voice.
<br />
* &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t pass!&rdquo;

“This way, uncle,” cried the girl. “We’ll pass through the side street, by the Nikúlins’!”
Pierre turned back, giving a spring now and then to keep up with her. She ran across the street, turned down a side street to the left, and, passing three houses, turned into a yard on the right.
“It’s here, close by,” said she and, running across the yard, opened a gate in a wooden fence and, stopping, pointed out to him a small wooden wing of the house, which was burning brightly and fiercely. One of its sides had fallen in, another was on fire, and bright flames issued from the openings of the windows and from under the roof.
As Pierre passed through the fence gate, he was enveloped by hot air and involuntarily stopped.
“Which is it? Which is your house?” he asked.
“Ooh!” wailed the girl, pointing to the wing. “That’s it, that was our lodging. You’ve burned to death, our treasure, Katie, my precious little missy! Ooh!” lamented Aníska, who at the sight of the fire felt that she too must give expression to her feelings.
Pierre rushed to the wing, but the heat was so great that he involuntarily passed round in a curve and came upon the large house that was as yet burning only at one end, just below the roof, and around which swarmed a crowd of Frenchmen. At first Pierre did not realize what these men, who were dragging something out, were about; but seeing before him a Frenchman hitting a peasant with a blunt saber and trying to take from him a fox-fur coat, he vaguely understood that looting was going on there, but he had no time to dwell on that idea.
The sounds of crackling and the din of falling walls and ceilings, the whistle and hiss of the flames, the excited shouts of the people, and the sight of the swaying smoke, now gathering into thick black clouds and now soaring up with glittering sparks, with here and there dense sheaves of flame (now red and now like golden fish scales creeping along the walls), and the heat and smoke and rapidity of motion, produced on Pierre the usual animating effects of a conflagration. It had a peculiarly strong effect on him because at the sight of the fire he felt himself suddenly freed from the ideas that had weighed him down. He felt young, bright, adroit, and resolute. He ran round to the other side of the lodge and was about to dash into that part of it which was still standing, when just above his head he heard several voices shouting and then a cracking sound and the ring of something heavy falling close beside him.
Pierre looked up and saw at a window of the large house some Frenchmen who had just thrown out the drawer of a chest, filled with metal articles. Other French soldiers standing below went up to the drawer.
“What does this fellow want?” shouted one of them referring to Pierre.
“There’s a child in that house. Haven’t you seen a child?” cried Pierre.
“What’s he talking about? Get along!” said several voices, and one of the soldiers, evidently afraid that Pierre might want to take from them some of the plate and bronzes that were in the drawer, moved threateningly toward him.
“A child?” shouted a Frenchman from above. “I did hear something squealing in the garden. Perhaps it’s his brat that the fellow is looking for. After all, one must be human, you know….”
“Where is it? Where?” said Pierre.
“There! There!” shouted the Frenchman at the window, pointing to the garden at the back of the house. “Wait a bit—I’m coming down.”
And a minute or two later the Frenchman, a black-eyed fellow with a spot on his cheek, in shirt sleeves, really did jump out of a window on the ground floor, and clapping Pierre on the shoulder ran with him into the garden.
“Hurry up, you others!” he called out to his comrades. “It’s getting hot.”
When they reached a gravel path behind the house the Frenchman pulled Pierre by the arm and pointed to a round, graveled space where a three-year-old girl in a pink dress was lying under a seat.
“There is your child! Oh, a girl, so much the better!” said the Frenchman. “Good-by, Fatty. We must be human, we are all mortal you know!” and the Frenchman with the spot on his cheek ran back to his comrades.
Breathless with joy, Pierre ran to the little girl and was going to take her in his arms. But seeing a stranger the sickly, scrofulous-looking child, unattractively like her mother, began to yell and run away. Pierre, however, seized her and lifted her in his arms. She screamed desperately and angrily and tried with her little hands to pull Pierre’s hands away and to bite them with her slobbering mouth. Pierre was seized by a sense of horror and repulsion such as he had experienced when touching some nasty little animal. But he made an effort not to throw the child down and ran with her to the large house. It was now, however, impossible to get back the way he had come; the maid, Aníska, was no longer there, and Pierre with a feeling of pity and disgust pressed the wet, painfully sobbing child to himself as tenderly as he could and ran with her through the garden seeking another way out.

  CHAPTER XXXIV


  Having run through different yards and side streets, Pierre got back with
  his little burden to the Gruzínski garden at the corner of the Povarskóy.
  He did not at first recognize the place from which he had set out to look
  for the child, so crowded was it now with people and goods that had been
  dragged out of the houses. Besides Russian families who had taken refuge
  here from the fire with their belongings, there were several French
  soldiers in a variety of clothing. Pierre took no notice of them. He
  hurried to find the family of that civil servant in order to restore the
  daughter to her mother and go to save someone else. Pierre felt that he
  had still much to do and to do quickly. Glowing with the heat and from
  running, he felt at that moment more strongly than ever the sense of
  youth, animation, and determination that had come on him when he ran to
  save the child. She had now become quiet and, clinging with her little
  hands to Pierre&rsquo;s coat, sat on his arm gazing about her like some little
  wild animal. He glanced at her occasionally with a slight smile. He
  fancied he saw something pathetically innocent in that frightened, sickly
  little face.
<br />
  He did not find the civil servant or his wife where he had left them. He
  walked among the crowd with rapid steps, scanning the various faces he
  met. Involuntarily he noticed a Georgian or Armenian family consisting of
  a very handsome old man of Oriental type, wearing a new, cloth-covered,
  sheepskin coat and new boots, an old woman of similar type, and a young
  woman. That very young woman seemed to Pierre the perfection of Oriental
  beauty, with her sharply outlined, arched, black eyebrows and the
  extraordinarily soft, bright color of her long, beautiful, expressionless
  face. Amid the scattered property and the crowd on the open space, she, in
  her rich satin cloak with a bright lilac shawl on her head, suggested a
  delicate exotic plant thrown out onto the snow. She was sitting on some
  bundles a little behind the old woman, and looked from under her long
  lashes with motionless, large, almond-shaped eyes at the ground before
  her. Evidently she was aware of her beauty and fearful because of it. Her
  face struck Pierre and, hurrying along by the fence, he turned several
  times to look at her. When he had reached the fence, still without finding
  those he sought, he stopped and looked about him.
<br />
  With the child in his arms his figure was now more conspicuous than
  before, and a group of Russians, both men and women, gathered about him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Have you lost anyone, my dear fellow? You&rsquo;re of the gentry yourself,
  aren&rsquo;t you? Whose child is it?&rdquo; they asked him.
<br />
  Pierre replied that the child belonged to a woman in a black coat who had
  been sitting there with her other children, and he asked whether anyone
  knew where she had gone.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, that must be the Anférovs,&rdquo; said an old deacon, addressing a
  pockmarked peasant woman. &ldquo;Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy!&rdquo; he added in
  his customary bass.
<br />
  &ldquo;The Anférovs? No,&rdquo; said the woman. &ldquo;They left in the morning. That must
  be either Mary Nikoláevna&rsquo;s or the Ivánovs&rsquo;!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He says &lsquo;a woman,&rsquo; and Mary Nikoláevna is a lady,&rdquo; remarked a house serf.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you know her? She&rsquo;s thin, with long teeth,&rdquo; said Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s Mary Nikoláevna! They went inside the garden when these wolves
  swooped down,&rdquo; said the woman, pointing to the French soldiers.
<br />
  &ldquo;O Lord, have mercy!&rdquo; added the deacon.
<br />
  &ldquo;Go over that way, they&rsquo;re there. It&rsquo;s she! She kept on lamenting and
  crying,&rdquo; continued the woman. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s she. Here, this way!&rdquo;
 <br />
  But Pierre was not listening to the woman. He had for some seconds been
  intently watching what was going on a few steps away. He was looking at
  the Armenian family and at two French soldiers who had gone up to them.
  One of these, a nimble little man, was wearing a blue coat tied round the
  waist with a rope. He had a nightcap on his head and his feet were bare.
  The other, whose appearance particularly struck Pierre, was a long, lank,
  round-shouldered, fair-haired man, slow in his movements and with an
  idiotic expression of face. He wore a woman&rsquo;s loose gown of frieze, blue
  trousers, and large torn Hessian boots. The little barefooted Frenchman in
  the blue coat went up to the Armenians and, saying something, immediately
  seized the old man by his legs and the old man at once began pulling off
  his boots. The other in the frieze gown stopped in front of the beautiful
  Armenian girl and with his hands in his pockets stood staring at her,
  motionless and silent.
<br />
  &ldquo;Here, take the child!&rdquo; said Pierre peremptorily and hurriedly to the
  woman, handing the little girl to her. &ldquo;Give her back to them, give her
  back!&rdquo; he almost shouted, putting the child, who began screaming, on the
  ground, and again looking at the Frenchman and the Armenian family.
<br />
  The old man was already sitting barefoot. The little Frenchman had secured
  his second boot and was slapping one boot against the other. The old man
  was saying something in a voice broken by sobs, but Pierre caught but a
  glimpse of this, his whole attention was directed to the Frenchman in the
  frieze gown who meanwhile, swaying slowly from side to side, had drawn
  nearer to the young woman and taking his hands from his pockets had seized
  her by the neck.
<br />
  The beautiful Armenian still sat motionless and in the same attitude, with
  her long lashes drooping as if she did not see or feel what the soldier
  was doing to her.
<br />
  While Pierre was running the few steps that separated him from the
  Frenchman, the tall marauder in the frieze gown was already tearing from
  her neck the necklace the young Armenian was wearing, and the young woman,
  clutching at her neck, screamed piercingly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Let that woman alone!&rdquo; exclaimed Pierre hoarsely in a furious voice,
  seizing the soldier by his round shoulders and throwing him aside.
<br />
  The soldier fell, got up, and ran away. But his comrade, throwing down the
  boots and drawing his sword, moved threateningly toward Pierre.
<br />
   * he cried.
<br />
* &ldquo;Look here, no nonsense!&rdquo;

Pierre was in such a transport of rage that he remembered nothing and his strength increased tenfold. He rushed at the barefooted Frenchman and, before the latter had time to draw his sword, knocked him off his feet and hammered him with his fists. Shouts of approval were heard from the crowd around, and at the same moment a mounted patrol of French Uhlans appeared from round the corner. The Uhlans came up at a trot to Pierre and the Frenchman and surrounded them. Pierre remembered nothing of what happened after that. He only remembered beating someone and being beaten and finally feeling that his hands were bound and that a crowd of French soldiers stood around him and were searching him.
“Lieutenant, he has a dagger,” were the first words Pierre understood.
“Ah, a weapon?” said the officer and turned to the barefooted soldier who had been arrested with Pierre. “All right, you can tell all about it at the court-martial.” Then he turned to Pierre. “Do you speak French?”
Pierre looked around him with bloodshot eyes and did not reply. His face probably looked very terrible, for the officer said something in a whisper and four more Uhlans left the ranks and placed themselves on both sides of Pierre.
“Do you speak French?” the officer asked again, keeping at a distance from Pierre. “Call the interpreter.”
A little man in Russian civilian clothes rode out from the ranks, and by his clothes and manner of speaking Pierre at once knew him to be a French salesman from one of the Moscow shops.
“He does not look like a common man,” said the interpreter, after a searching look at Pierre.
“Ah, he looks very much like an incendiary,” remarked the officer. “And ask him who he is,” he added.
“Who are you?” asked the interpreter in poor Russian. “You must answer the chief.”
“I will not tell you who I am. I am your prisoner—take me!” Pierre suddenly replied in French.
“Ah, ah!” muttered the officer with a frown. “Well then, march!”
A crowd had collected round the Uhlans. Nearest to Pierre stood the pockmarked peasant woman with the little girl, and when the patrol started she moved forward.
“Where are they taking you to, you poor dear?” said she. “And the little girl, the little girl, what am I to do with her if she’s not theirs?” said the woman.
“What does that woman want?” asked the officer.
Pierre was as if intoxicated. His elation increased at the sight of the little girl he had saved.
“What does she want?” he murmured. “She is bringing me my daughter whom I have just saved from the flames,” said he. “Good-by!” And without knowing how this aimless lie had escaped him, he went along with resolute and triumphant steps between the French soldiers.
The French patrol was one of those sent out through the various streets of Moscow by Durosnel’s order to put a stop to the pillage, and especially to catch the incendiaries who, according to the general opinion which had that day originated among the higher French officers, were the cause of the conflagrations. After marching through a number of streets the patrol arrested five more Russian suspects: a small shopkeeper, two seminary students, a peasant, and a house serf, besides several looters. But of all these various suspected characters, Pierre was considered to be the most suspicious of all. When they had all been brought for the night to a large house on the Zúbov Rampart that was being used as a guardhouse, Pierre was placed apart under strict guard.

  BOOK TWELVE: 1812

  CHAPTER I


  In Petersburg at that time a complicated struggle was being carried on
  with greater heat than ever in the highest circles, between the parties of
  Rumyántsev, the French, Márya Fëdorovna, the Tsarévich, and others,
  drowned as usual by the buzzing of the court drones. But the calm,
  luxurious life of Petersburg, concerned only about phantoms and
  reflections of real life, went on in its old way and made it hard, except
  by a great effort, to realize the danger and the difficult position of the
  Russian people. There were the same receptions and balls, the same French
  theater, the same court interests and service interests and intrigues as
  usual. Only in the very highest circles were attempts made to keep in mind
  the difficulties of the actual position. Stories were whispered of how
  differently the two Empresses behaved in these difficult circumstances.
  The Empress Márya, concerned for the welfare of the charitable and
  educational institutions under her patronage, had given directions that
  they should all be removed to Kazán, and the things belonging to these
  institutions had already been packed up. The Empress Elisabeth, however,
  when asked what instructions she would be pleased to give&mdash;with her
  characteristic Russian patriotism had replied that she could give no
  directions about state institutions for that was the affair of the
  sovereign, but as far as she personally was concerned she would be the
  last to quit Petersburg.
<br />
  At Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s on the twenty-sixth of August, the very day of the
  battle of Borodinó, there was a soiree, the chief feature of which was to
  be the reading of a letter from His Lordship the Bishop when sending the
  Emperor an icon of the Venerable Sergius. It was regarded as a model of
  ecclesiastical, patriotic eloquence. Prince Vasíli himself, famed for his
  elocution, was to read it. (He used to read at the Empress&rsquo;.) The art of
  his reading was supposed to lie in rolling out the words, quite
  independently of their meaning, in a loud and singsong voice alternating
  between a despairing wail and a tender murmur, so that the wail fell quite
  at random on one word and the murmur on another. This reading, as was
  always the case at Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s soirees, had a political significance.
  That evening she expected several important personages who had to be made
  ashamed of their visits to the French theater and aroused to a patriotic
  temper. A good many people had already arrived, but Anna Pávlovna, not yet
  seeing all those whom she wanted in her drawing room, did not let the
  reading begin but wound up the springs of a general conversation.
<br />
  The news of the day in Petersburg was the illness of Countess Bezúkhova.
  She had fallen ill unexpectedly a few days previously, had missed several
  gatherings of which she was usually the ornament, and was said to be receiving
  no one, and instead of the celebrated Petersburg doctors who usually
  attended her had entrusted herself to some Italian doctor who was treating
  her in some new and unusual way.
<br />
  They all knew very well that the enchanting countess&rsquo; illness arose from
  an inconvenience resulting from marrying two husbands at the same time,
  and that the Italian&rsquo;s cure consisted in removing such inconvenience; but
  in Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s presence no one dared to think of this or even appear
  to know it.
<br />
  &ldquo;They say the poor countess is very ill. The doctor says it is angina
  pectoris.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Angina? Oh, that&rsquo;s a terrible illness!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;They say that the rivals are reconciled, thanks to the angina...&rdquo; and
  the word  was repeated with great satisfaction.
<br />
  &ldquo;The count is pathetic, they say. He cried like a child when the doctor
  told him the case was dangerous.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, it would be a terrible loss, she is an enchanting woman.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You are speaking of the poor countess?&rdquo; said Anna Pávlovna, coming up
  just then. &ldquo;I sent to ask for news, and hear that she is a little better.
  Oh, she is certainly the most charming woman in the world,&rdquo; she went on,
  with a smile at her own enthusiasm. &ldquo;We belong to different camps, but
  that does not prevent my esteeming her as she deserves. She is very
  unfortunate!&rdquo; added Anna Pávlovna.
<br />
  Supposing that by these words Anna Pávlovna was somewhat lifting the veil
  from the secret of the countess&rsquo; malady, an unwary young man ventured to
  express surprise that well-known doctors had not been called in and that
  the countess was being attended by a charlatan who might employ dangerous
  remedies.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your information may be better than mine,&rdquo; Anna Pávlovna suddenly and
  venomously retorted on the inexperienced young man, &ldquo;but I know on good
  authority that this doctor is a very learned and able man. He is private
  physician to the Queen of Spain.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And having thus demolished the young man, Anna Pávlovna turned to another
  group where Bilíbin was talking about the Austrians: having wrinkled up
  his face he was evidently preparing to smooth it out again and utter one
  of his mots.
<br />
  &ldquo;I think it is delightful,&rdquo; he said, referring to a diplomatic note that
  had been sent to Vienna with some Austrian banners captured from the
  French by Wittgenstein, &ldquo;the hero of Petropol&rdquo; as he was then called in
  Petersburg.
<br />
  &ldquo;What? What&rsquo;s that?&rdquo; asked Anna Pávlovna, securing silence for the mot,
  which she had heard before.
<br />
  And Bilíbin repeated the actual words of the diplomatic dispatch, which he
  had himself composed.
<br />
  &ldquo;The Emperor returns these Austrian banners,&rdquo; said Bilíbin, &ldquo;friendly
  banners gone astray and found on a wrong path,&rdquo; and his brow became smooth
  again.
<br />
  &ldquo;Charming, charming!&rdquo; observed Prince Vasíli.
<br />
  &ldquo;The path to Warsaw, perhaps,&rdquo; Prince Hippolyte remarked loudly and
  unexpectedly. Everybody looked at him, understanding what he meant. Prince
  Hippolyte himself glanced around with amused surprise. He knew no more
  than the others what his words meant. During his diplomatic career he had
  more than once noticed that such utterances were received as very witty,
  and at every opportunity he uttered in that way the first words that
  entered his head. &ldquo;It may turn out very well,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;but if not,
  they&rsquo;ll know how to arrange matters.&rdquo; And really, during the awkward
  silence that ensued, that insufficiently patriotic person entered whom
  Anna Pávlovna had been waiting for and wished to convert, and she, smiling
  and shaking a finger at Hippolyte, invited Prince Vasíli to the table and
  bringing him two candles and the manuscript begged him to begin. Everyone
  became silent.
<br />
  &ldquo;Most Gracious Sovereign and Emperor!&rdquo; Prince Vasíli sternly declaimed,
  looking round at his audience as if to inquire whether anyone had anything
  to say to the contrary. But no one said anything. &ldquo;Moscow, our ancient
  capital, the New Jerusalem, receives  Christ&rdquo;&mdash;he placed a sudden
  emphasis on the word &mdash;&ldquo;as a mother receives her zealous sons into
  her arms, and through the gathering mists, foreseeing the brilliant glory
  of thy rule, sings in exultation, &lsquo;Hosanna, blessed is he that cometh!&rsquo;&rdquo;
 <br />
  Prince Vasíli pronounced these last words in a tearful voice.
<br />
  Bilíbin attentively examined his nails, and many of those present appeared
  intimidated, as if asking in what they were to blame. Anna Pávlovna
  whispered the next words in advance, like an old woman muttering the
  prayer at Communion: &ldquo;Let the bold and insolent Goliath...&rdquo; she whispered.
<br />
  Prince Vasíli continued.
<br />
  &ldquo;Let the bold and insolent Goliath from the borders of France encompass
  the realms of Russia with death-bearing terrors; humble Faith, the sling
  of the Russian David, shall suddenly smite his head in his bloodthirsty
  pride. This icon of the Venerable Sergius, the servant of God and zealous
  champion of old of our country&rsquo;s weal, is offered to Your Imperial
  Majesty. I grieve that my waning strength prevents rejoicing in the sight
  of your most gracious presence. I raise fervent prayers to Heaven that the
  Almighty may exalt the race of the just, and mercifully fulfill the
  desires of Your Majesty.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What force! What a style!&rdquo; was uttered in approval both of reader and of
  author.
<br />
  Animated by that address Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s guests talked for a long time of
  the state of the fatherland and offered various conjectures as to the
  result of the battle to be fought in a few days.
<br />
  &ldquo;You will see,&rdquo; said Anna Pávlovna, &ldquo;that tomorrow, on the Emperor&rsquo;s
  birthday, we shall receive news. I have a favorable presentiment!&rdquo;

  CHAPTER II


  Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s presentiment was in fact fulfilled. Next day during the
  service at the palace church in honor of the Emperor&rsquo;s birthday, Prince
  Volkónski was called out of the church and received a dispatch from Prince
  Kutúzov. It was Kutúzov&rsquo;s report, written from Tatárinova on the day of
  the battle. Kutúzov wrote that the Russians had not retreated a step, that
  the French losses were much heavier than ours, and that he was writing in
  haste from the field of battle before collecting full information. It
  followed that there must have been a victory. And at once, without leaving
  the church, thanks were rendered to the Creator for His help and for the
  victory.
<br />
  Anna Pávlovna&rsquo;s presentiment was justified, and all that morning a
  joyously festive mood reigned in the city. Everyone believed the victory
  to have been complete, and some even spoke of Napoleon&rsquo;s having been
  captured, of his deposition, and of the choice of a new ruler for France.
<br />
  It is very difficult for events to be reflected in their real strength and
  completeness amid the conditions of court life and far from the scene of
  action. General events involuntarily group themselves around some
  particular incident. So now the courtiers&rsquo; pleasure was based as much on
  the fact that the news had arrived on the Emperor&rsquo;s birthday as on the
  fact of the victory itself. It was like a successfully arranged surprise.
  Mention was made in Kutúzov&rsquo;s report of the Russian losses, among which
  figured the names of Túchkov, Bagratión, and Kutáysov. In the Petersburg
  world this sad side of the affair again involuntarily centered round a
  single incident: Kutáysov&rsquo;s death. Everybody knew him, the Emperor liked
  him, and he was young and interesting. That day everyone met with the
  words:
<br />
  &ldquo;What a wonderful coincidence! Just during the service. But what a loss
  Kutáysov is! How sorry I am!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What did I tell about Kutúzov?&rdquo; Prince Vasíli now said with a prophet&rsquo;s
  pride. &ldquo;I always said he was the only man capable of defeating Napoleon.&rdquo;
 <br />
  But next day no news arrived from the army and the public mood grew
  anxious. The courtiers suffered because of the suffering the suspense
  occasioned the Emperor.
<br />
  &ldquo;Fancy the Emperor&rsquo;s position!&rdquo; said they, and instead of extolling
  Kutúzov as they had done the day before, they condemned him as the cause
  of the Emperor&rsquo;s anxiety. That day Prince Vasíli no longer boasted of his
  protégé Kutúzov, but remained silent when the commander in chief was
  mentioned. Moreover, toward evening, as if everything conspired to make
  Petersburg society anxious and uneasy, a terrible piece of news was added.
  Countess Hélène Bezúkhova had suddenly died of that terrible malady it had
  been so agreeable to mention. Officially, at large gatherings, everyone
  said that Countess Bezúkhova had died of a terrible attack of angina
  pectoris, but in intimate circles details were mentioned of how the
  private physician of the Queen of Spain had prescribed small doses of a
  certain drug to produce a certain effect; but Hélène, tortured by the fact
  that the old count suspected her and that her husband to whom she had
  written (that wretched, profligate Pierre) had not replied, had suddenly
  taken a very large dose of the drug, and had died in agony before
  assistance could be rendered her. It was said that Prince Vasíli and the
  old count had turned upon the Italian, but the latter had produced such
  letters from the unfortunate deceased that they had immediately let the
  matter drop.
<br />
  Talk in general centered round three melancholy facts: the Emperor&rsquo;s lack
  of news, the loss of Kutáysov, and the death of Hélène.
<br />
  On the third day after Kutúzov&rsquo;s report a country gentleman arrived from
  Moscow, and news of the surrender of Moscow to the French spread through
  the whole town. This was terrible! What a position for the Emperor to be
  in! Kutúzov was a traitor, and Prince Vasíli during the visits of
  condolence paid to him on the occasion of his daughter&rsquo;s death said of
  Kutúzov, whom he had formerly praised (it was excusable for him in his
  grief to forget what he had said), that it was impossible to expect
  anything else from a blind and depraved old man.
<br />
  &ldquo;I only wonder that the fate of Russia could have been entrusted to such a
  man.&rdquo;
 <br />
  As long as this news remained unofficial it was possible to doubt it, but
  the next day the following communication was received from Count
  Rostopchín:
<br />
  Prince Kutúzov&rsquo;s adjutant has brought me a letter in which he demands
  police officers to guide the army to the Ryazán road. He writes that he is
  regretfully abandoning Moscow. Sire! Kutúzov&rsquo;s action decides the fate of
  the capital and of your empire! Russia will shudder to learn of the
  abandonment of the city in which her greatness is centered and in which
  lie the ashes of your ancestors! I shall follow the army. I have had
  everything removed, and it only remains for me to weep over the fate of my
  fatherland.
<br />
  On receiving this dispatch the Emperor sent Prince Volkónski to Kutúzov
  with the following rescript:
<br />
  Prince Michael Ilariónovich! Since the twenty-ninth of August I have
  received no communication from you, yet on the first of September I
  received from the commander in chief of Moscow, via Yaroslávl, the sad
  news that you, with the army, have decided to abandon Moscow. You can
  yourself imagine the effect this news has had on me, and your silence
  increases my astonishment. I am sending this by Adjutant-General Prince
  Volkónski, to hear from you the situation of the army and the reasons that
  have induced you to take this melancholy decision.

  CHAPTER III


  Nine days after the abandonment of Moscow, a messenger from Kutúzov
  reached Petersburg with the official announcement of that event. This
  messenger was Michaud, a Frenchman who did not know Russian, but who was
   * as he said of himself.
<br />
* Though a foreigner, Russian in heart and soul.

The Emperor at once received this messenger in his study at the palace on Stone Island. Michaud, who had never seen Moscow before the campaign and who did not know Russian, yet felt deeply moved (as he wrote) when he appeared before with the news of the burning of Moscow, . (2)

 * Our most gracious sovereign.
<br />
 * (2) Whose flames illumined his route.

Though the source of M. Michaud’s chagrin must have been different from that which caused Russians to grieve, he had such a sad face when shown into the Emperor’s study that the latter at once asked:
“Have you brought me sad news, Colonel?”
“Very sad, sire,” replied Michaud, lowering his eyes with a sigh. “The abandonment of Moscow.”
“Have they surrendered my ancient capital without a battle?” asked the Emperor quickly, his face suddenly flushing.
Michaud respectfully delivered the message Kutúzov had entrusted to him, which was that it had been impossible to fight before Moscow, and that as the only remaining choice was between losing the army as well as Moscow, or losing Moscow alone, the field marshal had to choose the latter.
The Emperor listened in silence, not looking at Michaud.
“Has the enemy entered the city?” he asked.
“Yes, sire, and Moscow is now in ashes. I left it all in flames,” replied Michaud in a decided tone, but glancing at the Emperor he was frightened by what he had done.
The Emperor began to breathe heavily and rapidly, his lower lip trembled, and tears instantly appeared in his fine blue eyes.
But this lasted only a moment. He suddenly frowned, as if blaming himself for his weakness, and raising his head addressed Michaud in a firm voice:
“I see, Colonel, from all that is happening, that Providence requires great sacrifices of us… I am ready to submit myself in all things to His will; but tell me, Michaud, how did you leave the army when it saw my ancient capital abandoned without a battle? Did you not notice discouragement?…”
Seeing that his most gracious ruler was calm once more, Michaud also grew calm, but was not immediately ready to reply to the Emperor’s direct and relevant question which required a direct answer.
“Sire, will you allow me to speak frankly as befits a loyal soldier?” he asked to gain time.
“Colonel, I always require it,” replied the Emperor. “Conceal nothing from me, I wish to know absolutely how things are.”
“Sire!” said Michaud with a subtle, scarcely perceptible smile on his lips, having now prepared a well-phrased reply, “sire, I left the whole army, from its chiefs to the lowest soldier, without exception in desperate and agonized terror…”
“How is that?” the Emperor interrupted him, frowning sternly. “Would misfortune make my Russians lose heart?… Never!”
Michaud had only waited for this to bring out the phrase he had prepared.
“Sire,” he said, with respectful playfulness, “they are only afraid lest Your Majesty, in the goodness of your heart, should allow yourself to be persuaded to make peace. They are burning for the combat,” declared this representative of the Russian nation, “and to prove to Your Majesty by the sacrifice of their lives how devoted they are….”
“Ah!” said the Emperor reassured, and with a kindly gleam in his eyes, he patted Michaud on the shoulder. “You set me at ease, Colonel.”
He bent his head and was silent for some time.
“Well, then, go back to the army,” he said, drawing himself up to his full height and addressing Michaud with a gracious and majestic gesture, “and tell our brave men and all my good subjects wherever you go that when I have not a soldier left I shall put myself at the head of my beloved nobility and my good peasants and so use the last resources of my empire. It still offers me more than my enemies suppose,” said the Emperor growing more and more animated; “but should it ever be ordained by Divine Providence,” he continued, raising to heaven his fine eyes shining with emotion, “that my dynasty should cease to reign on the throne of my ancestors, then after exhausting all the means at my command, I shall let my beard grow to here” (he pointed halfway down his chest) “and go and eat potatoes with the meanest of my peasants, rather than sign the disgrace of my country and of my beloved people whose sacrifices I know how to appreciate.”
Having uttered these words in an agitated voice the Emperor suddenly turned away as if to hide from Michaud the tears that rose to his eyes, and went to the further end of his study. Having stood there a few moments, he strode back to Michaud and pressed his arm below the elbow with a vigorous movement. The Emperor’s mild and handsome face was flushed and his eyes gleamed with resolution and anger.
“Colonel Michaud, do not forget what I say to you here, perhaps we may recall it with pleasure someday… Napoleon or I,” said the Emperor, touching his breast. “We can no longer both reign together. I have learned to know him, and he will not deceive me any more….”
And the Emperor paused, with a frown.
When he heard these words and saw the expression of firm resolution in the Emperor’s eyes, Michaud——at that solemn moment felt himself enraptured by all that he had heard (as he used afterwards to say), and gave expression to his own feelings and those of the Russian people whose representative he considered himself to be, in the following words:
“Sire!” said he, “Your Majesty is at this moment signing the glory of the nation and the salvation of Europe!”
With an inclination of the head the Emperor dismissed him.

  CHAPTER IV


  It is natural for us who were not living in those days to imagine that
  when half Russia had been conquered and the inhabitants were fleeing to
  distant provinces, and one levy after another was being raised for the
  defense of the fatherland, all Russians from the greatest to the least
  were solely engaged in sacrificing themselves, saving their fatherland, or
  weeping over its downfall. The tales and descriptions of that time without
  exception speak only of the self-sacrifice, patriotic devotion, despair,
  grief, and the heroism of the Russians. But it was not really so. It
  appears so to us because we see only the general historic interest of that
  time and do not see all the personal human interests that people had. Yet
  in reality those personal interests of the moment so much transcend the
  general interests that they always prevent the public interest from being
  felt or even noticed. Most of the people at that time paid no attention to
  the general progress of events but were guided only by their private
  interests, and they were the very people whose activities at that period
  were most useful.
<br />
  Those who tried to understand the general course of events and to take
  part in it by self-sacrifice and heroism were the most useless members of
  society, they saw everything upside down, and all they did for the common
  good turned out to be useless and foolish&mdash;like Pierre&rsquo;s and
  Mamónov&rsquo;s regiments which looted Russian villages, and the lint the young
  ladies prepared and that never reached the wounded, and so on. Even those,
  fond of intellectual talk and of expressing their feelings, who discussed
  Russia&rsquo;s position at the time involuntarily introduced into their
  conversation either a shade of pretense and falsehood or useless
  condemnation and anger directed against people accused of actions no one
  could possibly be guilty of. In historic events the rule forbidding us to
  eat of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge is specially applicable. Only
  unconscious action bears fruit, and he who plays a part in an historic
  event never understands its significance. If he tries to realize it his
  efforts are fruitless.
<br />
  The more closely a man was engaged in the events then taking place in
  Russia the less did he realize their significance. In Petersburg and in
  the provinces at a distance from Moscow, ladies, and gentlemen in militia
  uniforms, wept for Russia and its ancient capital and talked of
  self-sacrifice and so on; but in the army which retired beyond Moscow
  there was little talk or thought of Moscow, and when they caught sight of
  its burned ruins no one swore to be avenged on the French, but they
  thought about their next pay, their next quarters, of Matrëshka the
  vivandière, and like matters.
<br />
  As the war had caught him in the service, Nicholas Rostóv took a close and
  prolonged part in the defense of his country, but did so casually, without
  any aim at self-sacrifice, and he therefore looked at what was going on in
  Russia without despair and without dismally racking his brains over it.
  Had he been asked what he thought of the state of Russia, he would have
  said that it was not his business to think about it, that Kutúzov and
  others were there for that purpose, but that he had heard that the
  regiments were to be made up to their full strength, that fighting would
  probably go on for a long time yet, and that things being so it was quite
  likely he might be in command of a regiment in a couple of years&rsquo; time.
<br />
  As he looked at the matter in this way, he learned that he was being sent
  to Vorónezh to buy remounts for his division, not only without regret at
  being prevented from taking part in the coming battle, but with the
  greatest pleasure&mdash;which he did not conceal and which his comrades
  fully understood.
<br />
  A few days before the battle of Borodinó, Nicholas received the necessary
  money and warrants, and having sent some hussars on in advance, he set out
  with post horses for Vorónezh.
<br />
  Only a man who has experienced it&mdash;that is, has passed some months
  continuously in an atmosphere of campaigning and war&mdash;can understand
  the delight Nicholas felt when he escaped from the region covered by the
  army&rsquo;s foraging operations, provision trains, and hospitals. When&mdash;free
  from soldiers, wagons, and the filthy traces of a camp&mdash;he saw
  villages with peasants and peasant women, gentlemen&rsquo;s country houses,
  fields where cattle were grazing, posthouses with stationmasters asleep in
  them, he rejoiced as though seeing all this for the first time. What for a
  long while specially surprised and delighted him were the women, young and
  healthy, without a dozen officers making up to each of them; women, too,
  who were pleased and flattered that a passing officer should joke with
  them.
<br />
  In the highest spirits Nicholas arrived at night at a hotel in Vorónezh,
  ordered things he had long been deprived of in camp, and next day, very
  clean-shaven and in a full-dress uniform he had not worn for a long time,
  went to present himself to the authorities.
<br />
  The commander of the militia was a civilian general, an old man who was
  evidently pleased with his military designation and rank. He received
  Nicholas brusquely (imagining this to be characteristically military) and
  questioned him with an important air, as if considering the general
  progress of affairs and approving and disapproving with full right to do
  so. Nicholas was in such good spirits that this merely amused him.
<br />
  From the commander of the militia he drove to the governor. The governor
  was a brisk little man, very simple and affable. He indicated the stud
  farms at which Nicholas might procure horses, recommended to him a horse
  dealer in the town and a landowner fourteen miles out of town who had the
  best horses, and promised to assist him in every way.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are Count Ilyá Rostóv&rsquo;s son? My wife was a great friend of your
  mother&rsquo;s. We are at home on Thursdays&mdash;today is Thursday, so please
  come and see us quite informally,&rdquo; said the governor, taking leave of him.
<br />
  Immediately on leaving the governor&rsquo;s, Nicholas hired post horses and,
  taking his squadron quartermaster with him, drove at a gallop to the
  landowner, fourteen miles away, who had the stud. Everything seemed to him
  pleasant and easy during that first part of his stay in Vorónezh and, as
  usually happens when a man is in a pleasant state of mind, everything went
  well and easily.
<br />
  The landowner to whom Nicholas went was a bachelor, an old cavalryman, a
  horse fancier, a sportsman, the possessor of some century-old brandy and
  some old Hungarian wine, who had a snuggery where he smoked, and who owned
  some splendid horses.
<br />
  In very few words Nicholas bought seventeen picked stallions for six
  thousand rubles&mdash;to serve, as he said, as samples of his remounts.
  After dining and taking rather too much of the Hungarian wine, Nicholas&mdash;having
  exchanged kisses with the landowner, with whom he was already on the
  friendliest terms&mdash;galloped back over abominable roads, in the
  brightest frame of mind, continually urging on the driver so as to be in
  time for the governor&rsquo;s party.
<br />
  When he had changed, poured water over his head, and scented himself,
  Nicholas arrived at the governor&rsquo;s rather late, but with the phrase
  &ldquo;better late than never&rdquo; on his lips.
<br />
  It was not a ball, nor had dancing been announced, but everyone knew that
  Catherine Petróvna would play valses and the  on the clavichord
  and that there would be dancing, and so everyone had come as to a ball.
<br />
  Provincial life in 1812 went on very much as usual, but with this
  difference, that it was livelier in the towns in consequence of the
  arrival of many wealthy families from Moscow, and as in everything that
  went on in Russia at that time a special recklessness was noticeable, an
  &ldquo;in for a penny, in for a pound&mdash;who cares?&rdquo; spirit, and the
  inevitable small talk, instead of turning on the weather and mutual
  acquaintances, now turned on Moscow, the army, and Napoleon.
<br />
  The society gathered together at the governor&rsquo;s was the best in Vorónezh.
<br />
  There were a great many ladies and some of Nicholas&rsquo; Moscow acquaintances,
  but there were no men who could at all vie with the cavalier of St.
  George, the hussar remount officer, the good-natured and well-bred Count
  Rostóv. Among the men was an Italian prisoner, an officer of the French
  army; and Nicholas felt that the presence of that prisoner enhanced his
  own importance as a Russian hero. The Italian was, as it were, a war
  trophy. Nicholas felt this, it seemed to him that everyone regarded the
  Italian in the same light, and he treated him cordially though with
  dignity and restraint.
<br />
  As soon as Nicholas entered in his hussar uniform, diffusing around him a
  fragrance of perfume and wine, and had uttered the words &ldquo;better late than
  never&rdquo; and heard them repeated several times by others, people clustered
  around him; all eyes turned on him, and he felt at once that he had
  entered into his proper position in the province&mdash;that of a universal
  favorite: a very pleasant position, and intoxicatingly so after his long
  privations. At posting stations, at inns, and in the landowner&rsquo;s snuggery,
  maidservants had been flattered by his notice, and here too at the
  governor&rsquo;s party there were (as it seemed to Nicholas) an inexhaustible
  number of pretty young women, married and unmarried, impatiently awaiting
  his notice. The women and girls flirted with him and, from the first day,
  the people concerned themselves to get this fine young daredevil of an
  hussar married and settled down. Among these was the governor&rsquo;s wife
  herself, who welcomed Rostóv as a near relative and called him &ldquo;Nicholas.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Catherine Petróvna did actually play valses and the , and dancing
  began in which Nicholas still further captivated the provincial society by
  his agility. His particularly free manner of dancing even surprised them
  all. Nicholas was himself rather surprised at the way he danced that
  evening. He had never danced like that in Moscow and would even have
  considered such a very free and easy manner improper and in bad form, but
  here he felt it incumbent on him to astonish them all by something
  unusual, something they would have to accept as the regular thing in the
  capital though new to them in the provinces.
<br />
  All the evening Nicholas paid attention to a blue-eyed, plump and pleasing
  little blonde, the wife of one of the provincial officials. With the naïve
  conviction of young men in a merry mood that other men&rsquo;s wives were
  created for them, Rostóv did not leave the lady&rsquo;s side and treated her
  husband in a friendly and conspiratorial style, as if, without speaking of
  it, they knew how capitally Nicholas and the lady would get on together.
  The husband, however, did not seem to share that conviction and tried to
  behave morosely with Rostóv. But the latter&rsquo;s good-natured naïveté was so
  boundless that sometimes even he involuntarily yielded to Nicholas&rsquo; good
  humor. Toward the end of the evening, however, as the wife&rsquo;s face grew
  more flushed and animated, the husband&rsquo;s became more and more melancholy
  and solemn, as though there were but a given amount of animation between
  them and as the wife&rsquo;s share increased the husband&rsquo;s diminished.

  CHAPTER V


  Nicholas sat leaning slightly forward in an armchair, bending closely over
  the blonde lady and paying her mythological compliments with a smile that
  never left his face. Jauntily shifting the position of his legs in their
  tight riding breeches, diffusing an odor of perfume, and admiring his
  partner, himself, and the fine outlines of his legs in their well-fitting
  Hessian boots, Nicholas told the blonde lady that he wished to run away
  with a certain lady here in Vorónezh.
<br />
  &ldquo;Which lady?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A charming lady, a divine one. Her eyes&rdquo; (Nicholas looked at his partner)
  &ldquo;are blue, her mouth coral and ivory; her figure&rdquo; (he glanced at her
  shoulders) &ldquo;like Diana&rsquo;s....&rdquo;
 <br />
  The husband came up and sullenly asked his wife what she was talking
  about.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, Nikíta Iványch!&rdquo; cried Nicholas, rising politely, and as if wishing
  Nikíta Iványch to share his joke, he began to tell him of his intention to
  elope with a blonde lady.
<br />
  The husband smiled gloomily, the wife gaily. The governor&rsquo;s good-natured
  wife came up with a look of disapproval.
<br />
  &ldquo;Anna Ignátyevna wants to see you, Nicholas,&rdquo; said she, pronouncing the
  name so that Nicholas at once understood that Anna Ignátyevna was a very
  important person. &ldquo;Come, Nicholas! You know you let me call you so?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, yes, Aunt. Who is she?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Anna Ignátyevna Malvíntseva. She has heard from her niece how you rescued
  her.... Can you guess?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I rescued such a lot of them!&rdquo; said Nicholas.
<br />
  &ldquo;Her niece, Princess Bolkónskaya. She is here in Vorónezh with her aunt.
  Oho! How you blush. Why, are...?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Not a bit! Please don&rsquo;t, Aunt!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Very well, very well!... Oh, what a fellow you are!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The governor&rsquo;s wife led him up to a tall and very stout old lady with a
  blue headdress, who had just finished her game of cards with the most
  important personages of the town. This was Malvíntseva, Princess Mary&rsquo;s
  aunt on her mother&rsquo;s side, a rich, childless widow who always lived in
  Vorónezh. When Rostóv approached her she was standing settling up for the
  game. She looked at him and, screwing up her eyes sternly, continued to
  upbraid the general who had won from her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Very pleased, ,&rdquo; she then said, holding out her
  hand to Nicholas. &ldquo;Pray come and see me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  After a few words about Princess Mary and her late father, whom
  Malvíntseva had evidently not liked, and having asked what Nicholas knew
  of Prince Andrew, who also was evidently no favorite of hers, the
  important old lady dismissed Nicholas after repeating her invitation to
  come to see her.
<br />
  Nicholas promised to come and blushed again as he bowed. At the mention of
  Princess Mary he experienced a feeling of shyness and even of fear, which
  he himself did not understand.
<br />
  When he had parted from Malvíntseva Nicholas wished to return to the
  dancing, but the governor&rsquo;s little wife placed her plump hand on his
  sleeve and, saying that she wanted to have a talk with him, led him to her
  sitting room, from which those who were there immediately withdrew so as
  not to be in her way.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you know, dear boy,&rdquo; began the governor&rsquo;s wife with a serious
  expression on her kind little face, &ldquo;that really would be the match for
  you: would you like me to arrange it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Whom do you mean, Aunt?&rdquo; asked Nicholas.
<br />
  &ldquo;I will make a match for you with the princess. Catherine Petróvna speaks
  of Lily, but I say, no&mdash;the princess! Do you want me to do it? I am
  sure your mother will be grateful to me. What a charming girl she is,
  really! And she is not at all so plain, either.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Not at all,&rdquo; replied Nicholas as if offended at the idea. &ldquo;As befits a
  soldier, Aunt, I don&rsquo;t force myself on anyone or refuse anything,&rdquo; he said
  before he had time to consider what he was saying.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well then, remember, this is not a joke!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Of course not!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; the governor&rsquo;s wife said as if talking to herself. &ldquo;But, my
  dear boy, among other things you are too attentive to the other, the
  blonde. One is sorry for the husband, really....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh no, we are good friends with him,&rdquo; said Nicholas in the simplicity of
  his heart; it did not enter his head that a pastime so pleasant to himself
  might not be pleasant to someone else.
<br />
  &ldquo;But what nonsense I have been saying to the governor&rsquo;s wife!&rdquo; thought
  Nicholas suddenly at supper. &ldquo;She will really begin to arrange a match...
  and Sónya...?&rdquo; And on taking leave of the governor&rsquo;s wife, when she again
  smilingly said to him, &ldquo;Well then, remember!&rdquo; he drew her aside.
<br />
  &ldquo;But see here, to tell the truth, Aunt...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What is it, my dear? Come, let&rsquo;s sit down here,&rdquo; said she.
<br />
  Nicholas suddenly felt a desire and need to tell his most intimate
  thoughts (which he would not have told to his mother, his sister, or his
  friend) to this woman who was almost a stranger. When he afterwards
  recalled that impulse to unsolicited and inexplicable frankness which had
  very important results for him, it seemed to him&mdash;as it seems to
  everyone in such cases&mdash;that it was merely some silly whim that
  seized him: yet that burst of frankness, together with other trifling
  events, had immense consequences for him and for all his family.
<br />
  &ldquo;You see, Aunt, Mamma has long wanted me to marry an heiress, but the very
  idea of marrying for money is repugnant to me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh yes, I understand,&rdquo; said the governor&rsquo;s wife.
<br />
  &ldquo;But Princess Bolkónskaya&mdash;that&rsquo;s another matter. I will tell you the
  truth. In the first place I like her very much, I feel drawn to her; and
  then, after I met her under such circumstances&mdash;so strangely, the
  idea often occurred to me: &lsquo;This is fate.&rsquo; Especially if you remember that
  Mamma had long been thinking of it; but I had never happened to meet her
  before, somehow it had always happened that we did not meet. And as long
  as my sister Natásha was engaged to her brother it was of course out of
  the question for me to think of marrying her. And it must needs happen
  that I should meet her just when Natásha&rsquo;s engagement had been broken
  off... and then everything... So you see... I never told this to anyone
  and never will, only to you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The governor&rsquo;s wife pressed his elbow gratefully.
<br />
  &ldquo;You know Sónya, my cousin? I love her, and promised to marry her, and
  will do so.... So you see there can be no question about&mdash;&rdquo; said
  Nicholas incoherently and blushing.
<br />
  &ldquo;My dear boy, what a way to look at it! You know Sónya has nothing and you
  yourself say your Papa&rsquo;s affairs are in a very bad way. And what about
  your mother? It would kill her, that&rsquo;s one thing. And what sort of life
  would it be for Sónya&mdash;if she&rsquo;s a girl with a heart? Your mother in
  despair, and you all ruined.... No, my dear, you and Sónya ought to
  understand that.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Nicholas remained silent. It comforted him to hear these arguments.
<br />
  &ldquo;All the same, Aunt, it is impossible,&rdquo; he rejoined with a sigh, after a
  short pause. &ldquo;Besides, would the princess have me? And besides, she is now
  in mourning. How can one think of it!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But you don&rsquo;t suppose I&rsquo;m going to get you married at once? There is
  always a right way of doing things,&rdquo; replied the governor&rsquo;s wife.
<br />
  &ldquo;What a matchmaker you are, Aunt...&rdquo; said Nicholas, kissing her plump
  little hand.

  CHAPTER VI


  On reaching Moscow after her meeting with Rostóv, Princess Mary had found
  her nephew there with his tutor, and a letter from Prince Andrew giving
  her instructions how to get to her Aunt Malvíntseva at Vorónezh. That
  feeling akin to temptation which had tormented her during her father&rsquo;s
  illness, since his death, and especially since her meeting with Rostóv was
  smothered by arrangements for the journey, anxiety about her brother,
  settling in a new house, meeting new people, and attending to her nephew&rsquo;s
  education. She was sad. Now, after a month passed in quiet surroundings,
  she felt more and more deeply the loss of her father which was associated
  in her mind with the ruin of Russia. She was agitated and incessantly
  tortured by the thought of the dangers to which her brother, the only
  intimate person now remaining to her, was exposed. She was worried too
  about her nephew&rsquo;s education for which she had always felt herself
  incompetent, but in the depths of her soul she felt at peace&mdash;a peace
  arising from consciousness of having stifled those personal dreams and
  hopes that had been on the point of awakening within her and were related
  to her meeting with Rostóv.
<br />
  The day after her party the governor&rsquo;s wife came to see Malvíntseva and,
  after discussing her plan with the aunt, remarked that though under
  present circumstances a formal betrothal was, of course, not to be thought
  of, all the same the young people might be brought together and could get
  to know one another. Malvíntseva expressed approval, and the governor&rsquo;s
  wife began to speak of Rostóv in Mary&rsquo;s presence, praising him and telling
  how he had blushed when Princess Mary&rsquo;s name was mentioned. But Princess
  Mary experienced a painful rather than a joyful feeling&mdash;her mental
  tranquillity was destroyed, and desires, doubts, self-reproach, and hopes
  reawoke.
<br />
  During the two days that elapsed before Rostóv called, Princess Mary
  continually thought of how she ought to behave to him. First she decided
  not to come to the drawing room when he called to see her aunt&mdash;that
  it would not be proper for her, in her deep mourning, to receive visitors;
  then she thought this would be rude after what he had done for her; then
  it occurred to her that her aunt and the governor&rsquo;s wife had intentions
  concerning herself and Rostóv&mdash;their looks and words at times seemed
  to confirm this supposition&mdash;then she told herself that only she,
  with her sinful nature, could think this of them: they could not forget
  that situated as she was, while still wearing deep mourning, such
  matchmaking would be an insult to her and to her father&rsquo;s memory. Assuming
  that she did go down to see him, Princess Mary imagined the words he would
  say to her and what she would say to him, and these words sometimes seemed
  undeservedly cold and then to mean too much. More than anything she feared
  lest the confusion she felt might overwhelm her and betray her as soon as
  she saw him.
<br />
  But when on Sunday after church the footman announced in the drawing room
  that Count Rostóv had called, the princess showed no confusion, only a
  slight blush suffused her cheeks and her eyes lit up with a new and
  radiant light.
<br />
  &ldquo;You have met him, Aunt?&rdquo; said she in a calm voice, unable herself to
  understand that she could be outwardly so calm and natural.
<br />
  When Rostóv entered the room, the princess dropped her eyes for an
  instant, as if to give the visitor time to greet her aunt, and then just
  as Nicholas turned to her she raised her head and met his look with
  shining eyes. With a movement full of dignity and grace she half rose with
  a smile of pleasure, held out her slender, delicate hand to him, and began
  to speak in a voice in which for the first time new deep womanly notes
  vibrated. Mademoiselle Bourienne, who was in the drawing room, looked at
  Princess Mary in bewildered surprise. Herself a consummate coquette, she
  could not have maneuvered better on meeting a man she wished to attract.
<br />
  &ldquo;Either black is particularly becoming to her or she really has greatly
  improved without my having noticed it. And above all, what tact and
  grace!&rdquo; thought Mademoiselle Bourienne.
<br />
  Had Princess Mary been capable of reflection at that moment, she would
  have been more surprised than Mademoiselle Bourienne at the change that
  had taken place in herself. From the moment she recognized that dear,
  loved face, a new life force took possession of her and compelled her to
  speak and act apart from her own will. From the time Rostóv entered, her
  face became suddenly transformed. It was as if a light had been kindled in
  a carved and painted lantern and the intricate, skillful, artistic work on
  its sides, that previously seemed dark, coarse, and meaningless, was
  suddenly shown up in unexpected and striking beauty. For the first time
  all that pure, spiritual, inward travail through which she had lived
  appeared on the surface. All her inward labor, her dissatisfaction with
  herself, her sufferings, her strivings after goodness, her meekness, love,
  and self-sacrifice&mdash;all this now shone in those radiant eyes, in her
  delicate smile, and in every trait of her gentle face.
<br />
  Rostóv saw all this as clearly as if he had known her whole life. He felt
  that the being before him was quite different from, and better than,
  anyone he had met before, and above all better than himself.
<br />
  Their conversation was very simple and unimportant. They spoke of the war,
  and like everyone else unconsciously exaggerated their sorrow about it;
  they spoke of their last meeting&mdash;Nicholas trying to change the
  subject&mdash;they talked of the governor&rsquo;s kind wife, of Nicholas&rsquo;
  relations, and of Princess Mary&rsquo;s.
<br />
  She did not talk about her brother, diverting the conversation as soon as
  her aunt mentioned Andrew. Evidently she could speak of Russia&rsquo;s
  misfortunes with a certain artificiality, but her brother was too near her
  heart and she neither could nor would speak lightly of him. Nicholas
  noticed this, as he noticed every shade of Princess Mary&rsquo;s character with
  an observation unusual to him, and everything confirmed his conviction
  that she was a quite unusual and extraordinary being. Nicholas blushed and
  was confused when people spoke to him about the princess (as she did when
  he was mentioned) and even when he thought of her, but in her presence he
  felt quite at ease, and said not at all what he had prepared, but what,
  quite appropriately, occurred to him at the moment.
<br />
  When a pause occurred during his short visit, Nicholas, as is usual when
  there are children, turned to Prince Andrew&rsquo;s little son, caressing him
  and asking whether he would like to be an hussar. He took the boy on his
  knee, played with him, and looked round at Princess Mary. With a softened,
  happy, timid look she watched the boy she loved in the arms of the man she
  loved. Nicholas also noticed that look and, as if understanding it,
  flushed with pleasure and began to kiss the boy with good natured
  playfulness.
<br />
  As she was in mourning Princess Mary did not go out into society, and
  Nicholas did not think it the proper thing to visit her again; but all the
  same the governor&rsquo;s wife went on with her matchmaking, passing on to
  Nicholas the flattering things Princess Mary said of him and vice versa,
  and insisting on his declaring himself to Princess Mary. For this purpose
  she arranged a meeting between the young people at the bishop&rsquo;s house
  before Mass.
<br />
  Though Rostóv told the governor&rsquo;s wife that he would not make any
  declaration to Princess Mary, he promised to go.
<br />
  As at Tilsit Rostóv had not allowed himself to doubt that what everybody
  considered right was right, so now, after a short but sincere struggle
  between his effort to arrange his life by his own sense of justice, and in
  obedient submission to circumstances, he chose the latter and yielded to
  the power he felt irresistibly carrying him he knew not where. He knew
  that after his promise to Sónya it would be what he deemed base to declare
  his feelings to Princess Mary. And he knew that he would never act basely.
  But he also knew (or rather felt at the bottom of his heart) that by
  resigning himself now to the force of circumstances and to those who were
  guiding him, he was not only doing nothing wrong, but was doing something
  very important&mdash;more important than anything he had ever done in his
  life.
<br />
  After meeting Princess Mary, though the course of his life went on
  externally as before, all his former amusements lost their charm for him
  and he often thought about her. But he never thought about her as he had
  thought of all the young ladies without exception whom he had met in
  society, nor as he had for a long time, and at one time rapturously,
  thought about Sónya. He had pictured each of those young ladies as almost
  all honest-hearted young men do, that is, as a possible wife, adapting her
  in his imagination to all the conditions of married life: a white dressing
  gown, his wife at the tea table, his wife&rsquo;s carriage, little ones, Mamma
  and Papa, their relations to her, and so on&mdash;and these pictures of
  the future had given him pleasure. But with Princess Mary, to whom they
  were trying to get him engaged, he could never picture anything of future
  married life. If he tried, his pictures seemed incongruous and false. It
  made him afraid.

  CHAPTER VII


  The dreadful news of the battle of Borodinó, of our losses in killed and
  wounded, and the still more terrible news of the loss of Moscow reached
  Vorónezh in the middle of September. Princess Mary, having learned of her
  brother&rsquo;s wound only from the  and having no definite news of
  him, prepared (so Nicholas heard, he had not seen her again himself) to set off
  in search of Prince Andrew.
<br />
  When he received the news of the battle of Borodinó and the abandonment of
  Moscow, Rostóv was not seized with despair, anger, the desire for
  vengeance, or any feeling of that kind, but everything in Vorónezh
  suddenly seemed to him dull and tiresome, and he experienced an indefinite
  feeling of shame and awkwardness. The conversations he heard seemed to him
  insincere; he did not know how to judge all these affairs and felt that
  only in the regiment would everything again become clear to him. He made
  haste to finish buying the horses, and often became unreasonably angry
  with his servant and squadron quartermaster.
<br />
  A few days before his departure a special thanksgiving, at which Nicholas
  was present, was held in the cathedral for the Russian victory. He stood a
  little behind the governor and held himself with military decorum through
  the service, meditating on a great variety of subjects. When the service
  was over the governor&rsquo;s wife beckoned him to her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Have you seen the princess?&rdquo; she asked, indicating with a movement of her
  head a lady standing on the opposite side, beyond the choir.
<br />
  Nicholas immediately recognized Princess Mary not so much by the profile
  he saw under her bonnet as by the feeling of solicitude, timidity, and
  pity that immediately overcame him. Princess Mary, evidently engrossed by
  her thoughts, was crossing herself for the last time before leaving the
  church.
<br />
  Nicholas looked at her face with surprise. It was the same face he had
  seen before, there was the same general expression of refined, inner,
  spiritual labor, but now it was quite differently lit up. There was a
  pathetic expression of sorrow, prayer, and hope in it. As had occurred
  before when she was present, Nicholas went up to her without waiting to be
  prompted by the governor&rsquo;s wife and not asking himself whether or not it
  was right and proper to address her here in church, and told her he had
  heard of her trouble and sympathized with his whole soul. As soon as she
  heard his voice a vivid glow kindled in her face, lighting up both her
  sorrow and her joy.
<br />
  &ldquo;There is one thing I wanted to tell you, Princess,&rdquo; said Rostóv. &ldquo;It is
  that if your brother, Prince Andrew Nikoláevich, were not living, it would
  have been at once announced in the , as he is a colonel.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The princess looked at him, not grasping what he was saying, but cheered
  by the expression of regretful sympathy on his face.
<br />
  &ldquo;And I have known so many cases of a splinter wound&rdquo; (the  said it
  was a shell) &ldquo;either proving fatal at once or being very slight,&rdquo;
   continued Nicholas. &ldquo;We must hope for the best, and I am sure...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Princess Mary interrupted him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, that would be so dread...&rdquo; she began and, prevented by agitation from
  finishing, she bent her head with a movement as graceful as everything she
  did in his presence and, looking up at him gratefully, went out, following
  her aunt.
<br />
  That evening Nicholas did not go out, but stayed at home to settle some
  accounts with the horse dealers. When he had finished that business it was
  already too late to go anywhere but still too early to go to bed, and for
  a long time he paced up and down the room, reflecting on his life, a thing
  he rarely did.
<br />
  Princess Mary had made an agreeable impression on him when he had met her
  in Smolénsk province. His having encountered her in such exceptional
  circumstances, and his mother having at one time mentioned her to him as a
  good match, had drawn his particular attention to her. When he met her
  again in Vorónezh the impression she made on him was not merely pleasing
  but powerful. Nicholas had been struck by the peculiar moral beauty he
  observed in her at this time. He was, however, preparing to go away and it
  had not entered his head to regret that he was thus depriving himself of
  chances of meeting her. But that day&rsquo;s encounter in church had, he felt,
  sunk deeper than was desirable for his peace of mind. That pale, sad,
  refined face, that radiant look, those gentle graceful gestures, and
  especially the deep and tender sorrow expressed in all her features
  agitated him and evoked his sympathy. In men Rostóv could not bear to see
  the expression of a higher spiritual life (that was why he did not like
  Prince Andrew) and he referred to it contemptuously as philosophy and
  dreaminess, but in Princess Mary that very sorrow which revealed the depth
  of a whole spiritual world foreign to him was an irresistible attraction.
<br />
  &ldquo;She must be a wonderful woman. A real angel!&rdquo; he said to himself. &ldquo;Why am
  I not free? Why was I in such a hurry with Sónya?&rdquo; And he involuntarily
  compared the two: the lack of spirituality in the one and the abundance of
  it in the other&mdash;a spirituality he himself lacked and therefore
  valued most highly. He tried to picture what would happen were he free.
  How he would propose to her and how she would become his wife. But no, he
  could not imagine that. He felt awed, and no clear picture presented
  itself to his mind. He had long ago pictured to himself a future with
  Sónya, and that was all clear and simple just because it had all been
  thought out and he knew all there was in Sónya, but it was impossible to
  picture a future with Princess Mary, because he did not understand her but
  simply loved her.
<br />
  Reveries about Sónya had had something merry and playful in them, but to
  dream of Princess Mary was always difficult and a little frightening.
<br />
  &ldquo;How she prayed!&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;It was plain that her whole soul was in her
  prayer. Yes, that was the prayer that moves mountains, and I am sure her
  prayer will be answered. Why don&rsquo;t I pray for what I want?&rdquo; he suddenly
  thought. &ldquo;What do I want? To be free, released from Sónya... She was
  right,&rdquo; he thought, remembering what the governor&rsquo;s wife had said:
  &ldquo;Nothing but misfortune can come of marrying Sónya. Muddles, grief for
  Mamma... business difficulties... muddles, terrible muddles! Besides, I
  don&rsquo;t love her&mdash;not as I should. O, God! release me from this
  dreadful, inextricable position!&rdquo; he suddenly began to pray. &ldquo;Yes, prayer
  can move mountains, but one must have faith and not pray as Natásha and I
  used to as children, that the snow might turn into sugar&mdash;and then
  run out into the yard to see whether it had done so. No, but I am not
  praying for trifles now,&rdquo; he thought as he put his pipe down in a corner,
  and folding his hands placed himself before the icon. Softened by memories
  of Princess Mary he began to pray as he had not done for a long time.
  Tears were in his eyes and in his throat when the door opened and
  Lavrúshka came in with some papers.
<br />
  &ldquo;Blockhead! Why do you come in without being called?&rdquo; cried Nicholas,
  quickly changing his attitude.
<br />
  &ldquo;From the governor,&rdquo; said Lavrúshka in a sleepy voice. &ldquo;A courier has
  arrived and there&rsquo;s a letter for you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, all right, thanks. You can go!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Nicholas took the two letters, one of which was from his mother and the
  other from Sónya. He recognized them by the handwriting and opened Sónya&rsquo;s
  first. He had read only a few lines when he turned pale and his eyes
  opened wide with fear and joy.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, it&rsquo;s not possible!&rdquo; he cried aloud.
<br />
  Unable to sit still he paced up and down the room holding the letter and
  reading it. He glanced through it, then read it again, and then again, and
  standing still in the middle of the room he raised his shoulders,
  stretching out his hands, with his mouth wide open and his eyes fixed.
  What he had just been praying for with confidence that God would hear him
  had come to pass; but Nicholas was as much astonished as if it were
  something extraordinary and unexpected, and as if the very fact that it
  had happened so quickly proved that it had not come from God to whom he
  had prayed, but by some ordinary coincidence.
<br />
  This unexpected and, as it seemed to Nicholas, quite voluntary letter from
  Sónya freed him from the knot that fettered him and from which there had
  seemed no escape. She wrote that the last unfortunate events&mdash;the
  loss of almost the whole of the Rostóvs&rsquo; Moscow property&mdash;and the
  countess&rsquo; repeatedly expressed wish that Nicholas should marry Princess
  Bolkónskaya, together with his silence and coldness of late, had all
  combined to make her decide to release him from his promise and set him
  completely free.
<br />
  It would be too painful to me to think that I might be a cause of sorrow
  or discord in the family that has been so good to me (she wrote), and my
  love has no aim but the happiness of those I love; so, Nicholas, I beg you
  to consider yourself free, and to be assured that, in spite of everything,
  no one can love you more than does
<br />
  Your Sónya
<br />
  Both letters were written from Tróitsa. The other, from the countess,
  described their last days in Moscow, their departure, the fire, and the
  destruction of all their property. In this letter the countess also
  mentioned that Prince Andrew was among the wounded traveling with them;
  his state was very critical, but the doctor said there was now more hope.
  Sónya and Natásha were nursing him.
<br />
  Next day Nicholas took his mother&rsquo;s letter and went to see Princess Mary.
  Neither he nor she said a word about what &ldquo;Natásha nursing him&rdquo; might
  mean, but thanks to this letter Nicholas suddenly became almost as
  intimate with the princess as if they were relations.
<br />
  The following day he saw Princess Mary off on her journey to Yaroslávl,
  and a few days later left to rejoin his regiment.

  CHAPTER VIII


  Sónya&rsquo;s letter written from Tróitsa, which had come as an answer to
  Nicholas&rsquo; prayer, was prompted by this: the thought of getting Nicholas
  married to an heiress occupied the old countess&rsquo; mind more and more. She
  knew that Sónya was the chief obstacle to this happening, and Sónya&rsquo;s life
  in the countess&rsquo; house had grown harder and harder, especially after they
  had received a letter from Nicholas telling of his meeting with Princess
  Mary in Boguchárovo. The countess let no occasion slip of making
  humiliating or cruel allusions to Sónya.
<br />
  But a few days before they left Moscow, moved and excited by all that was
  going on, she called Sónya to her and, instead of reproaching and making
  demands on her, tearfully implored her to sacrifice herself and repay all
  that the family had done for her by breaking off her engagement with
  Nicholas.
<br />
  &ldquo;I shall not be at peace till you promise me this.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sónya burst into hysterical tears and replied through her sobs that she
  would do anything and was prepared for anything, but gave no actual
  promise and could not bring herself to decide to do what was demanded of
  her. She must sacrifice herself for the family that had reared and brought
  her up. To sacrifice herself for others was Sónya&rsquo;s habit. Her position in
  the house was such that only by sacrifice could she show her worth, and
  she was accustomed to this and loved doing it. But in all her former acts
  of self-sacrifice she had been happily conscious that they raised her in
  her own esteem and in that of others, and so made her more worthy of
  Nicholas whom she loved more than anything in the world. But now they
  wanted her to sacrifice the very thing that constituted the whole reward
  for her self-sacrifice and the whole meaning of her life. And for the
  first time she felt bitterness against those who had been her benefactors
  only to torture her the more painfully; she felt jealous of Natásha who
  had never experienced anything of this sort, had never needed to sacrifice
  herself, but made others sacrifice themselves for her and yet was beloved
  by everybody. And for the first time Sónya felt that out of her pure,
  quiet love for Nicholas a passionate feeling was beginning to grow up
  which was stronger than principle, virtue, or religion. Under the
  influence of this feeling Sónya, whose life of dependence had taught her
  involuntarily to be secretive, having answered the countess in vague
  general terms, avoided talking with her and resolved to wait till she
  should see Nicholas, not in order to set him free but on the contrary at
  that meeting to bind him to her forever.
<br />
  The bustle and terror of the Rostóvs&rsquo; last days in Moscow stifled the
  gloomy thoughts that oppressed Sónya. She was glad to find escape from
  them in practical activity. But when she heard of Prince Andrew&rsquo;s presence
  in their house, despite her sincere pity for him and for Natásha, she was
  seized by a joyful and superstitious feeling that God did not intend her
  to be separated from Nicholas. She knew that Natásha loved no one but
  Prince Andrew and had never ceased to love him. She knew that being thrown
  together again under such terrible circumstances they would again fall in
  love with one another, and that Nicholas would then not be able to marry
  Princess Mary as they would be within the prohibited degrees of affinity.
  Despite all the terror of what had happened during those last days and
  during the first days of their journey, this feeling that Providence was
  intervening in her personal affairs cheered Sónya.
<br />
  At the Tróitsa monastery the Rostóvs first broke their journey for a whole
  day.
<br />
  Three large rooms were assigned to them in the monastery hostelry, one of
  which was occupied by Prince Andrew. The wounded man was much better that
  day and Natásha was sitting with him. In the next room sat the count and
  countess respectfully conversing with the prior, who was calling on them
  as old acquaintances and benefactors of the monastery. Sónya was there
  too, tormented by curiosity as to what Prince Andrew and Natásha were
  talking about. She heard the sound of their voices through the door. That
  door opened and Natásha came out, looking excited. Not noticing the monk,
  who had risen to greet her and was drawing back the wide sleeve on his
  right arm, she went up to Sónya and took her hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;Natásha, what are you about? Come here!&rdquo; said the countess.
<br />
  Natásha went up to the monk for his blessing, and he advised her to pray
  for aid to God and His saint.
<br />
  As soon as the prior withdrew, Natásha took her friend by the hand and
  went with her into the unoccupied room.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sónya, will he live?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;Sónya, how happy I am, and how
  unhappy!... Sónya, dovey, everything is as it used to be. If only he
  lives! He cannot... because... because... of...&rdquo; and Natásha burst into
  tears.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes! I knew it! Thank God!&rdquo; murmured Sónya. &ldquo;He will live.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sónya was not less agitated than her friend by the latter&rsquo;s fear and grief
  and by her own personal feelings which she shared with no one. Sobbing,
  she kissed and comforted Natásha. &ldquo;If only he lives!&rdquo; she thought. Having
  wept, talked, and wiped away their tears, the two friends went together to
  Prince Andrew&rsquo;s door. Natásha opened it cautiously and glanced into the
  room, Sónya standing beside her at the half-open door.
<br />
  Prince Andrew was lying raised high on three pillows. His pale face was
  calm, his eyes closed, and they could see his regular breathing.
<br />
  &ldquo;O, Natásha!&rdquo; Sónya suddenly almost screamed, catching her companion&rsquo;s arm
  and stepping back from the door.
<br />
  &ldquo;What? What is it?&rdquo; asked Natásha.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s that, that...&rdquo; said Sónya, with a white face and trembling lips.
<br />
  Natásha softly closed the door and went with Sónya to the window, not yet
  understanding what the latter was telling her.
<br />
  &ldquo;You remember,&rdquo; said Sónya with a solemn and frightened expression. &ldquo;You
  remember when I looked in the mirror for you... at Otrádnoe at Christmas?
  Do you remember what I saw?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes!&rdquo; cried Natásha opening her eyes wide, and vaguely recalling
  that Sónya had told her something about Prince Andrew whom she had seen
  lying down.
<br />
  &ldquo;You remember?&rdquo; Sónya went on. &ldquo;I saw it then and told everybody, you and
  Dunyásha. I saw him lying on a bed,&rdquo; said she, making a gesture with her
  hand and a lifted finger at each detail, &ldquo;and that he had his eyes closed
  and was covered just with a pink quilt, and that his hands were folded,&rdquo;
   she concluded, convincing herself that the details she had just seen were
  exactly what she had seen in the mirror.
<br />
  She had in fact seen nothing then but had mentioned the first thing that
  came into her head, but what she had invented then seemed to her now as
  real as any other recollection. She not only remembered what she had then
  said&mdash;that he turned to look at her and smiled and was covered with
  something red&mdash;but was firmly convinced that she had then seen and
  said that he was covered with a pink quilt and that his eyes were closed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes, it really was pink!&rdquo; cried Natásha, who now thought she too
  remembered the word pink being used, and saw in this the most
  extraordinary and mysterious part of the prediction.
<br />
  &ldquo;But what does it mean?&rdquo; she added meditatively.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, I don&rsquo;t know, it is all so strange,&rdquo; replied Sónya, clutching at her
  head.
<br />
  A few minutes later Prince Andrew rang and Natásha went to him, but Sónya,
  feeling unusually excited and touched, remained at the window thinking
  about the strangeness of what had occurred.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  They had an opportunity that day to send letters to the army, and the
  countess was writing to her son.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sónya!&rdquo; said the countess, raising her eyes from her letter as her niece
  passed, &ldquo;Sónya, won&rsquo;t you write to Nicholas?&rdquo; She spoke in a soft,
  tremulous voice, and in the weary eyes that looked over her spectacles
  Sónya read all that the countess meant to convey with these words. Those
  eyes expressed entreaty, shame at having to ask, fear of a refusal, and
  readiness for relentless hatred in case of such refusal.
<br />
  Sónya went up to the countess and, kneeling down, kissed her hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, Mamma, I will write,&rdquo; said she.
<br />
  Sónya was softened, excited, and touched by all that had occurred that
  day, especially by the mysterious fulfillment she had just seen of her
  vision. Now that she knew that the renewal of Natásha&rsquo;s relations with
  Prince Andrew would prevent Nicholas from marrying Princess Mary, she was
  joyfully conscious of a return of that self-sacrificing spirit in which
  she was accustomed to live and loved to live. So with a joyful
  consciousness of performing a magnanimous deed&mdash;interrupted several
  times by the tears that dimmed her velvety black eyes&mdash;she wrote that
  touching letter the arrival of which had so amazed Nicholas.

  CHAPTER IX


  The officer and soldiers who had arrested Pierre treated him with
  hostility but yet with respect, in the guardhouse to which he was taken.
  In their attitude toward him could still be felt both uncertainty as to
  who he might be&mdash;perhaps a very important person&mdash;and hostility
  as a result of their recent personal conflict with him.
<br />
  But when the guard was relieved next morning, Pierre felt that for the new
  guard&mdash;both officers and men&mdash;he was not as interesting as he
  had been to his captors; and in fact the guard of the second day did not
  recognize in this big, stout man in a peasant coat the vigorous person who
  had fought so desperately with the marauder and the convoy and had uttered
  those solemn words about saving a child; they saw in him only No. 17 of
  the captured Russians, arrested and detained for some reason by order of
  the Higher Command. If they noticed anything remarkable about Pierre, it
  was only his unabashed, meditative concentration and thoughtfulness, and
  the way he spoke French, which struck them as surprisingly good. In spite
  of this he was placed that day with the other arrested suspects, as the
  separate room he had occupied was required by an officer.
<br />
  All the Russians confined with Pierre were men of the lowest class and,
  recognizing him as a gentleman, they all avoided him, more especially as
  he spoke French. Pierre felt sad at hearing them making fun of him.
<br />
  That evening he learned that all these prisoners (he, probably, among
  them) were to be tried for incendiarism. On the third day he was taken
  with the others to a house where a French general with a white mustache
  sat with two colonels and other Frenchmen with scarves on their arms. With
  the precision and definiteness customary in addressing prisoners, and
  which is supposed to preclude human frailty, Pierre like the others was
  questioned as to who he was, where he had been, with what object, and so
  on.
<br />
  These questions, like questions put at trials generally, left the essence
  of the matter aside, shut out the possibility of that essence&rsquo;s being
  revealed, and were designed only to form a channel through which the
  judges wished the answers of the accused to flow so as to lead to the
  desired result, namely a conviction. As soon as Pierre began to say
  anything that did not fit in with that aim, the channel was removed and
  the water could flow to waste. Pierre felt, moreover, what the accused
  always feel at their trial, perplexity as to why these questions were put
  to him. He had a feeling that it was only out of condescension or a kind
  of civility that this device of placing a channel was employed. He knew he
  was in these men&rsquo;s power, that only by force had they brought him there,
  that force alone gave them the right to demand answers to their questions,
  and that the sole object of that assembly was to inculpate him. And so, as
  they had the power and wish to inculpate him, this expedient of an inquiry
  and trial seemed unnecessary. It was evident that any answer would lead to
  conviction. When asked what he was doing when he was arrested, Pierre
  replied in a rather tragic manner that he was restoring to its parents a
  child he had saved from the flames. Why had he fought the marauder? Pierre
  answered that he &ldquo;was protecting a woman,&rdquo; and that &ldquo;to protect a woman
  who was being insulted was the duty of every man; that...&rdquo; They
  interrupted him, for this was not to the point. Why was he in the yard of
  a burning house where witnesses had seen him? He replied that he had gone
  out to see what was happening in Moscow. Again they interrupted him: they
  had not asked where he was going, but why he was found near the fire? Who
  was he? they asked, repeating their first question, which he had declined
  to answer. Again he replied that he could not answer it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Put that down, that&rsquo;s bad... very bad,&rdquo; sternly remarked the general with
  the white mustache and red flushed face.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  On the fourth day fires broke out on the Zúbovski rampart.
<br />
  Pierre and thirteen others were moved to the coach house of a merchant&rsquo;s
  house near the Crimean bridge. On his way through the streets Pierre felt
  stifled by the smoke which seemed to hang over the whole city. Fires were
  visible on all sides. He did not then realize the significance of the
  burning of Moscow, and looked at the fires with horror.
<br />
  He passed four days in the coach house near the Crimean bridge and during
  that time learned, from the talk of the French soldiers, that all those
  confined there were awaiting a decision which might come any day from the
  marshal. What marshal this was, Pierre could not learn from the soldiers.
  Evidently for them &ldquo;the marshal&rdquo; represented a very high and rather
  mysterious power.
<br />
  These first days, before the eighth of September when the prisoners were
  had up for a second examination, were the hardest of all for Pierre.

  CHAPTER X


  On the eighth of September an officer&mdash;a very important one judging
  by the respect the guards showed him&mdash;entered the coach house where
  the prisoners were. This officer, probably someone on the staff, was
  holding a paper in his hand, and called over all the Russians there,
  naming Pierre as &ldquo;the man who does not give his name.&rdquo; Glancing indolently
  and indifferently at all the prisoners, he ordered the officer in charge
  to have them decently dressed and tidied up before taking them to the
  marshal. An hour later a squad of soldiers arrived and Pierre with
  thirteen others was led to the Virgin&rsquo;s Field. It was a fine day, sunny
  after rain, and the air was unusually pure. The smoke did not hang low as
  on the day when Pierre had been taken from the guardhouse on the Zúbovski
  rampart, but rose through the pure air in columns. No flames were seen,
  but columns of smoke rose on all sides, and all Moscow as far as Pierre
  could see was one vast charred ruin. On all sides there were waste spaces
  with only stoves and chimney stacks still standing, and here and there the
  blackened walls of some brick houses. Pierre gazed at the ruins and did
  not recognize districts he had known well. Here and there he could see
  churches that had not been burned. The Krémlin, which was not destroyed,
  gleamed white in the distance with its towers and the belfry of Iván the
  Great. The domes of the New Convent of the Virgin glittered brightly and
  its bells were ringing particularly clearly. These bells reminded Pierre
  that it was Sunday and the feast of the Nativity of the Virgin. But there
  seemed to be no one to celebrate this holiday: everywhere were blackened
  ruins, and the few Russians to be seen were tattered and frightened people
  who tried to hide when they saw the French.
<br />
  It was plain that the Russian nest was ruined and destroyed, but in place
  of the Russian order of life that had been destroyed, Pierre unconsciously
  felt that a quite different, firm, French order had been established over
  this ruined nest. He felt this in the looks of the soldiers who, marching
  in regular ranks briskly and gaily, were escorting him and the other
  criminals; he felt it in the looks of an important French official in a
  carriage and pair driven by a soldier, whom they met on the way. He felt
  it in the merry sounds of regimental music he heard from the left side of
  the field, and felt and realized it especially from the list of prisoners
  the French officer had read out when he came that morning. Pierre had been
  taken by one set of soldiers and led first to one and then to another
  place with dozens of other men, and it seemed that they might have
  forgotten him, or confused him with the others. But no: the answers he had
  given when questioned had come back to him in his designation as &ldquo;the man
  who does not give his name,&rdquo; and under that appellation, which to Pierre
  seemed terrible, they were now leading him somewhere with unhesitating
  assurance on their faces that he and all the other prisoners were exactly
  the ones they wanted and that they were being taken to the proper place.
  Pierre felt himself to be an insignificant chip fallen among the wheels of
  a machine whose action he did not understand but which was working well.
<br />
  He and the other prisoners were taken to the right side of the Virgin&rsquo;s
  Field, to a large white house with an immense garden not far from the
  convent. This was Prince Shcherbátov&rsquo;s house, where Pierre had often been
  in other days, and which, as he learned from the talk of the soldiers, was
  now occupied by the marshal, the Duke of Eckmühl (Davout).
<br />
  They were taken to the entrance and led into the house one by one. Pierre
  was the sixth to enter. He was conducted through a glass gallery, an
  anteroom, and a hall, which were familiar to him, into a long low study at
  the door of which stood an adjutant.
<br />
  Davout, spectacles on nose, sat bent over a table at the further end of
  the room. Pierre went close up to him, but Davout, evidently consulting a
  paper that lay before him, did not look up. Without raising his eyes, he
  said in a low voice:
<br />
  &ldquo;Who are you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre was silent because he was incapable of uttering a word. To him
  Davout was not merely a French general, but a man notorious for his
  cruelty. Looking at his cold face, as he sat like a stern schoolmaster who
  was prepared to wait awhile for an answer, Pierre felt that every instant
  of delay might cost him his life; but he did not know what to say. He did
  not venture to repeat what he had said at his first examination, yet to
  disclose his rank and position was dangerous and embarrassing. So he was
  silent. But before he had decided what to do, Davout raised his head,
  pushed his spectacles back on his forehead, screwed up his eyes, and
  looked intently at him.
<br />
  &ldquo;I know that man,&rdquo; he said in a cold, measured tone, evidently calculated
  to frighten Pierre.
<br />
  The chill that had been running down Pierre&rsquo;s back now seized his head as
  in a vise.
<br />
  &ldquo;You cannot know me, General, I have never seen you...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He is a Russian spy,&rdquo; Davout interrupted, addressing another general who
  was present, but whom Pierre had not noticed.
<br />
  Davout turned away. With an unexpected reverberation in his voice Pierre
  rapidly began:
<br />
  &ldquo;No, monseigneur,&rdquo; he said, suddenly remembering that Davout was a duke.
  &ldquo;No, monseigneur, you cannot have known me. I am a militia officer and
  have not quitted Moscow.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Your name?&rdquo; asked Davout.
<br />
  &ldquo;Bezúkhov.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What proof have I that you are not lying?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Monseigneur!&rdquo; exclaimed Pierre, not in an offended but in a pleading
  voice.
<br />
  Davout looked up and gazed intently at him. For some seconds they looked
  at one another, and that look saved Pierre. Apart from conditions of war
  and law, that look established human relations between the two men. At
  that moment an immense number of things passed dimly through both their
  minds, and they realized that they were both children of humanity and were
  brothers.
<br />
  At the first glance, when Davout had only raised his head from the papers
  where human affairs and lives were indicated by numbers, Pierre was merely
  a circumstance, and Davout could have shot him without burdening his
  conscience with an evil deed, but now he saw in him a human being. He
  reflected for a moment.
<br />
  &ldquo;How can you show me that you are telling the truth?&rdquo; said Davout coldly.
<br />
  Pierre remembered Ramballe, and named him and his regiment and the street
  where the house was.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are not what you say,&rdquo; returned Davout.
<br />
  In a trembling, faltering voice Pierre began adducing proofs of the truth
  of his statements.
<br />
  But at that moment an adjutant entered and reported something to Davout.
<br />
  Davout brightened up at the news the adjutant brought, and began buttoning
  up his uniform. It seemed that he had quite forgotten Pierre.
<br />
  When the adjutant reminded him of the prisoner, he jerked his head in
  Pierre&rsquo;s direction with a frown and ordered him to be led away. But where
  they were to take him Pierre did not know: back to the coach house or to
  the place of execution his companions had pointed out to him as they
  crossed the Virgin&rsquo;s Field.
<br />
  He turned his head and saw that the adjutant was putting another question
  to Davout.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, of course!&rdquo; replied Davout, but what this &ldquo;yes&rdquo; meant, Pierre did
  not know.
<br />
  Pierre could not afterwards remember how he went, whether it was far, or
  in which direction. His faculties were quite numbed, he was stupefied, and
  noticing nothing around him went on moving his legs as the others did till
  they all stopped and he stopped too. The only thought in his mind at that
  time was: who was it that had really sentenced him to death? Not the men
  on the commission that had first examined him&mdash;not one of them wished
  to or, evidently, could have done it. It was not Davout, who had looked at
  him in so human a way. In another moment Davout would have realized that
  he was doing wrong, but just then the adjutant had come in and interrupted
  him. The adjutant, also, had evidently had no evil intent though he might
  have refrained from coming in. Then who was executing him, killing him,
  depriving him of life&mdash;him, Pierre, with all his memories,
  aspirations, hopes, and thoughts? Who was doing this? And Pierre felt that
  it was no one.
<br />
  It was a system&mdash;a concurrence of circumstances.
<br />
  A system of some sort was killing him&mdash;Pierre&mdash;depriving him of
  life, of everything, annihilating him.

  CHAPTER XI


  From Prince Shcherbátov&rsquo;s house the prisoners were led straight down the
  Virgin&rsquo;s Field, to the left of the nunnery, as far as a kitchen garden in
  which a post had been set up. Beyond that post a fresh pit had been dug in
  the ground, and near the post and the pit a large crowd stood in a
  semicircle. The crowd consisted of a few Russians and many of Napoleon&rsquo;s
  soldiers who were not on duty&mdash;Germans, Italians, and Frenchmen, in a
  variety of uniforms. To the right and left of the post stood rows of
  French troops in blue uniforms with red epaulets and high boots and
  shakos.
<br />
  The prisoners were placed in a certain order, according to the list
  (Pierre was sixth), and were led to the post. Several drums suddenly began
  to beat on both sides of them, and at that sound Pierre felt as if part of
  his soul had been torn away. He lost the power of thinking or
  understanding. He could only hear and see. And he had only one wish&mdash;that
  the frightful thing that had to happen should happen quickly. Pierre
  looked round at his fellow prisoners and scrutinized them.
<br />
  The two first were convicts with shaven heads. One was tall and thin, the
  other dark, shaggy, and sinewy, with a flat nose. The third was a domestic
  serf, about forty-five years old, with grizzled hair and a plump,
  well-nourished body. The fourth was a peasant, a very handsome man with a
  broad, light-brown beard and black eyes. The fifth was a factory hand, a
  thin, sallow-faced lad of eighteen in a loose coat.
<br />
  Pierre heard the French consulting whether to shoot them separately or two
  at a time. &ldquo;In couples,&rdquo; replied the officer in command in a calm voice.
  There was a stir in the ranks of the soldiers and it was evident that they
  were all hurrying&mdash;not as men hurry to do something they understand,
  but as people hurry to finish a necessary but unpleasant and
  incomprehensible task.
<br />
  A French official wearing a scarf came up to the right of the row of
  prisoners and read out the sentence in Russian and in French.
<br />
  Then two pairs of Frenchmen approached the criminals and at the officer&rsquo;s
  command took the two convicts who stood first in the row. The convicts
  stopped when they reached the post and, while sacks were being brought,
  looked dumbly around as a wounded beast looks at an approaching huntsman.
  One crossed himself continually, the other scratched his back and made a
  movement of the lips resembling a smile. With hurried hands the soldiers
  blindfolded them, drawing the sacks over their heads, and bound them to
  the post.
<br />
  Twelve sharpshooters with muskets stepped out of the ranks with a firm
  regular tread and halted eight paces from the post. Pierre turned away to
  avoid seeing what was going to happen. Suddenly a crackling, rolling noise
  was heard which seemed to him louder than the most terrific thunder, and
  he looked round. There was some smoke, and the Frenchmen were doing
  something near the pit, with pale faces and trembling hands. Two more
  prisoners were led up. In the same way and with similar looks, these two
  glanced vainly at the onlookers with only a silent appeal for protection
  in their eyes, evidently unable to understand or believe what was going to
  happen to them. They could not believe it because they alone knew what
  their life meant to them, and so they neither understood nor believed that
  it could be taken from them.
<br />
  Again Pierre did not wish to look and again turned away; but again the
  sound as of a frightful explosion struck his ear, and at the same moment
  he saw smoke, blood, and the pale, scared faces of the Frenchmen who were
  again doing something by the post, their trembling hands impeding one
  another. Pierre, breathing heavily, looked around as if asking what it
  meant. The same question was expressed in all the looks that met his.
<br />
  On the faces of all the Russians and of the French soldiers and officers
  without exception, he read the same dismay, horror, and conflict that were
  in his own heart. &ldquo;But who, after all, is doing this? They are all
  suffering as I am. Who then is it? Who?&rdquo; flashed for an instant through
  his mind.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sharpshooters of the 86th, forward!&rdquo; shouted someone. The fifth prisoner,
  the one next to Pierre, was led away&mdash;alone. Pierre did not
  understand that he was saved, that he and the rest had been brought there
  only to witness the execution. With ever-growing horror, and no sense of
  joy or relief, he gazed at what was taking place. The fifth man was the
  factory lad in the loose cloak. The moment they laid hands on him he
  sprang aside in terror and clutched at Pierre. (Pierre shuddered and shook
  himself free.) The lad was unable to walk. They dragged him along, holding
  him up under the arms, and he screamed. When they got him to the post he
  grew quiet, as if he suddenly understood something. Whether he understood
  that screaming was useless or whether he thought it incredible that men
  should kill him, at any rate he took his stand at the post, waiting to be
  blindfolded like the others, and like a wounded animal looked around him
  with glittering eyes.
<br />
  Pierre was no longer able to turn away and close his eyes. His curiosity
  and agitation, like that of the whole crowd, reached the highest pitch at
  this fifth murder. Like the others this fifth man seemed calm; he wrapped
  his loose cloak closer and rubbed one bare foot with the other.
<br />
  When they began to blindfold him he himself adjusted the knot which hurt
  the back of his head; then when they propped him against the bloodstained
  post, he leaned back and, not being comfortable in that position,
  straightened himself, adjusted his feet, and leaned back again more
  comfortably. Pierre did not take his eyes from him and did not miss his
  slightest movement.
<br />
  Probably a word of command was given and was followed by the reports of
  eight muskets; but try as he would Pierre could not afterwards remember
  having heard the slightest sound of the shots. He only saw how the workman
  suddenly sank down on the cords that held him, how blood showed itself in
  two places, how the ropes slackened under the weight of the hanging body,
  and how the workman sat down, his head hanging unnaturally and one leg
  bent under him. Pierre ran up to the post. No one hindered him. Pale,
  frightened people were doing something around the workman. The lower jaw
  of an old Frenchman with a thick mustache trembled as he untied the ropes.
  The body collapsed. The soldiers dragged it awkwardly from the post and
  began pushing it into the pit.
<br />
  They all plainly and certainly knew that they were criminals who must hide
  the traces of their guilt as quickly as possible.
<br />
  Pierre glanced into the pit and saw that the factory lad was lying with
  his knees close up to his head and one shoulder higher than the other.
  That shoulder rose and fell rhythmically and convulsively, but spadefuls
  of earth were already being thrown over the whole body. One of the
  soldiers, evidently suffering, shouted gruffly and angrily at Pierre to go
  back. But Pierre did not understand him and remained near the post, and no
  one drove him away.
<br />
  When the pit had been filled up a command was given. Pierre was taken back
  to his place, and the rows of troops on both sides of the post made a half
  turn and went past it at a measured pace. The twenty-four sharpshooters
  with discharged muskets, standing in the center of the circle, ran back to
  their places as the companies passed by.
<br />
  Pierre gazed now with dazed eyes at these sharpshooters who ran in couples
  out of the circle. All but one rejoined their companies. This one, a young
  soldier, his face deadly pale, his shako pushed back, and his musket
  resting on the ground, still stood near the pit at the spot from which he
  had fired. He swayed like a drunken man, taking some steps forward and
  back to save himself from falling. An old, noncommissioned officer ran out
  of the ranks and taking him by the elbow dragged him to his company. The
  crowd of Russians and Frenchmen began to disperse. They all went away
  silently and with drooping heads.
<br />
  &ldquo;That will teach them to start fires,&rdquo; said one of the Frenchmen.
<br />
  Pierre glanced round at the speaker and saw that it was a soldier who was
  trying to find some relief after what had been done, but was not able to
  do so. Without finishing what he had begun to say he made a hopeless
  movement with his arm and went away.

  CHAPTER XII


  After the execution Pierre was separated from the rest of the prisoners
  and placed alone in a small, ruined, and befouled church.
<br />
  Toward evening a noncommissioned officer entered with two soldiers and
  told him that he had been pardoned and would now go to the barracks for
  the prisoners of war. Without understanding what was said to him, Pierre
  got up and went with the soldiers. They took him to the upper end of the
  field, where there were some sheds built of charred planks, beams, and
  battens, and led him into one of them. In the darkness some twenty
  different men surrounded Pierre. He looked at them without understanding
  who they were, why they were there, or what they wanted of him. He heard
  what they said, but did not understand the meaning of the words and made
  no kind of deduction from or application of them. He replied to questions
  they put to him, but did not consider who was listening to his replies,
  nor how they would understand them. He looked at their faces and figures,
  but they all seemed to him equally meaningless.
<br />
  From the moment Pierre had witnessed those terrible murders committed by
  men who did not wish to commit them, it was as if the mainspring of his
  life, on which everything depended and which made everything appear alive,
  had suddenly been wrenched out and everything had collapsed into a heap of
  meaningless rubbish. Though he did not acknowledge it to himself, his
  faith in the right ordering of the universe, in humanity, in his own soul,
  and in God, had been destroyed. He had experienced this before, but never
  so strongly as now. When similar doubts had assailed him before, they had
  been the result of his own wrongdoing, and at the bottom of his heart he
  had felt that relief from his despair and from those doubts was to be
  found within himself. But now he felt that the universe had crumbled
  before his eyes and only meaningless ruins remained, and this not by any
  fault of his own. He felt that it was not in his power to regain faith in
  the meaning of life.
<br />
  Around him in the darkness men were standing and evidently something about
  him interested them greatly. They were telling him something and asking
  him something. Then they led him away somewhere, and at last he found
  himself in a corner of the shed among men who were laughing and talking on
  all sides.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, then, mates... that very prince ...&rdquo; some voice at
  the other end of the shed was saying, with a strong emphasis on the word .
<br />
  Sitting silent and motionless on a heap of straw against the wall, Pierre
  sometimes opened and sometimes closed his eyes. But as soon as he closed
  them he saw before him the dreadful face of the factory lad&mdash;especially
  dreadful because of its simplicity&mdash;and the faces of the murderers,
  even more dreadful because of their disquiet. And he opened his eyes again
  and stared vacantly into the darkness around him.
<br />
  Beside him in a stooping position sat a small man of whose presence he was
  first made aware by a strong smell of perspiration which came from him
  every time he moved. This man was doing something to his legs in the
  darkness, and though Pierre could not see his face he felt that the man
  continually glanced at him. On growing used to the darkness Pierre saw
  that the man was taking off his leg bands, and the way he did it aroused
  Pierre&rsquo;s interest.
<br />
  Having unwound the string that tied the band on one leg, he carefully
  coiled it up and immediately set to work on the other leg, glancing up at
  Pierre. While one hand hung up the first string the other was already
  unwinding the band on the second leg. In this way, having carefully
  removed the leg bands by deft circular motions of his arm following one
  another uninterruptedly, the man hung the leg bands up on some pegs fixed
  above his head. Then he took out a knife, cut something, closed the knife,
  placed it under the head of his bed, and, seating himself comfortably,
  clasped his arms round his lifted knees and fixed his eyes on Pierre. The
  latter was conscious of something pleasant, comforting, and well-rounded
  in these deft movements, in the man&rsquo;s well-ordered arrangements in his
  corner, and even in his very smell, and he looked at the man without
  taking his eyes from him.
<br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve seen a lot of trouble, sir, eh?&rdquo; the little man suddenly said.
<br />
  And there was so much kindliness and simplicity in his singsong voice that
  Pierre tried to reply, but his jaw trembled and he felt tears rising to
  his eyes. The little fellow, giving Pierre no time to betray his
  confusion, instantly continued in the same pleasant tones:
<br />
  &ldquo;Eh, lad, don&rsquo;t fret!&rdquo; said he, in the tender singsong caressing voice old
  Russian peasant women employ. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t fret, friend&mdash;&lsquo;suffer an hour,
  live for an age!&rsquo; that&rsquo;s how it is, my dear fellow. And here we live,
  thank heaven, without offense. Among these folk, too, there are good men
  as well as bad,&rdquo; said he, and still speaking, he turned on his knees with
  a supple movement, got up, coughed, and went off to another part of the
  shed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Eh, you rascal!&rdquo; Pierre heard the same kind voice saying at the other end
  of the shed. &ldquo;So you&rsquo;ve come, you rascal? She remembers... Now, now,
  that&rsquo;ll do!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And the soldier, pushing away a little dog that was jumping up at him,
  returned to his place and sat down. In his hands he had something wrapped
  in a rag.
<br />
  &ldquo;Here, eat a bit, sir,&rdquo; said he, resuming his former respectful tone as he
  unwrapped and offered Pierre some baked potatoes. &ldquo;We had soup for dinner
  and the potatoes are grand!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre had not eaten all day and the smell of the potatoes seemed
  extremely pleasant to him. He thanked the soldier and began to eat.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, are they all right?&rdquo; said the soldier with a smile. &ldquo;You should do
  like this.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He took a potato, drew out his clasp knife, cut the potato into two equal
  halves on the palm of his hand, sprinkled some salt on it from the rag,
  and handed it to Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;The potatoes are grand!&rdquo; he said once more. &ldquo;Eat some like that!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre thought he had never eaten anything that tasted better.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, I&rsquo;m all right,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;but why did they shoot those poor fellows?
  The last one was hardly twenty.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Tss, tt...!&rdquo; said the little man. &ldquo;Ah, what a sin... what a sin!&rdquo; he
  added quickly, and as if his words were always waiting ready in his mouth
  and flew out involuntarily he went on: &ldquo;How was it, sir, that you stayed
  in Moscow?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t think they would come so soon. I stayed accidentally,&rdquo; replied
  Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;And how did they arrest you, dear lad? At your house?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, I went to look at the fire, and they arrested me there, and tried me
  as an incendiary.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Where there&rsquo;s law there&rsquo;s injustice,&rdquo; put in the little man.
<br />
  &ldquo;And have you been here long?&rdquo; Pierre asked as he munched the last of the
  potato.
<br />
  &ldquo;I? It was last Sunday they took me, out of a hospital in Moscow.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, are you a soldier then?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, we are soldiers of the Ápsheron regiment. I was dying of fever. We
  weren&rsquo;t told anything. There were some twenty of us lying there. We had no
  idea, never guessed at all.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And do you feel sad here?&rdquo; Pierre inquired.
<br />
  &ldquo;How can one help it, lad? My name is Platón, and the surname is
  Karatáev,&rdquo; he added, evidently wishing to make it easier for Pierre to
  address him. &ldquo;They call me &lsquo;little falcon&rsquo; in the regiment. How is one to
  help feeling sad? Moscow&mdash;she&rsquo;s the mother of cities. How can one see
  all this and not feel sad? But &lsquo;the maggot gnaws the cabbage, yet dies
  first&rsquo;; that&rsquo;s what the old folks used to tell us,&rdquo; he added rapidly.
<br />
  &ldquo;What? What did you say?&rdquo; asked Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who? I?&rdquo; said Karatáev. &ldquo;I say things happen not as we plan but as God
  judges,&rdquo; he replied, thinking that he was repeating what he had said
  before, and immediately continued:
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, and you, have you a family estate, sir? And a house? So you have
  abundance, then? And a housewife? And your old parents, are they still
  living?&rdquo; he asked.
<br />
  And though it was too dark for Pierre to see, he felt that a suppressed
  smile of kindliness puckered the soldier&rsquo;s lips as he put these questions.
  He seemed grieved that Pierre had no parents, especially that he had no
  mother.
<br />
  &ldquo;A wife for counsel, a mother-in-law for welcome, but there&rsquo;s none as dear
  as one&rsquo;s own mother!&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Well, and have you little ones?&rdquo; he went
  on asking.
<br />
  Again Pierre&rsquo;s negative answer seemed to distress him, and he hastened to
  add:
<br />
  &ldquo;Never mind! You&rsquo;re young folks yet, and please God may still have some.
  The great thing is to live in harmony....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But it&rsquo;s all the same now,&rdquo; Pierre could not help saying.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, my dear fellow!&rdquo; rejoined Karatáev, &ldquo;never decline a prison or a
  beggar&rsquo;s sack!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He seated himself more comfortably and coughed, evidently preparing to
  tell a long story.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, my dear fellow, I was still living at home,&rdquo; he began. &ldquo;We had a
  well-to-do homestead, plenty of land, we peasants lived well and our house
  was one to thank God for. When Father and we went out mowing there were
  seven of us. We lived well. We were real peasants. It so happened...&rdquo;
 <br />
  And Platón Karatáev told a long story of how he had gone into someone&rsquo;s
  copse to take wood, how he had been caught by the keeper, had been tried,
  flogged, and sent to serve as a soldier.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, lad,&rdquo; and a smile changed the tone of his voice, &ldquo;we thought it was
  a misfortune but it turned out a blessing! If it had not been for my sin,
  my brother would have had to go as a soldier. But he, my younger brother,
  had five little ones, while I, you see, only left a wife behind. We had a
  little girl, but God took her before I went as a soldier. I come home on
  leave and I&rsquo;ll tell you how it was, I look and see that they are living
  better than before. The yard full of cattle, the women at home, two
  brothers away earning wages, and only Michael the youngest, at home.
  Father, he says, &lsquo;All my children are the same to me: it hurts the same
  whichever finger gets bitten. But if Platón hadn&rsquo;t been shaved for a
  soldier, Michael would have had to go.&rsquo; called us all to him and, will you
  believe it, placed us in front of the icons. &lsquo;Michael,&rsquo; he says, &lsquo;come
  here and bow down to his feet; and you, young woman, you bow down too; and
  you, grandchildren, also bow down before him! Do you understand?&rsquo; he says.
  That&rsquo;s how it is, dear fellow. Fate looks for a head. But we are always
  judging, &lsquo;that&rsquo;s not well&mdash;that&rsquo;s not right!&rsquo; Our luck is like water
  in a dragnet: you pull at it and it bulges, but when you&rsquo;ve drawn it out
  it&rsquo;s empty! That&rsquo;s how it is.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And Platón shifted his seat on the straw.
<br />
  After a short silence he rose.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, I think you must be sleepy,&rdquo; said he, and began rapidly crossing
  himself and repeating:
<br />
  &ldquo;Lord Jesus Christ, holy Saint Nicholas, Frola and Lavra! Lord Jesus
  Christ, holy Saint Nicholas, Frola and Lavra! Lord Jesus Christ, have
  mercy on us and save us!&rdquo; he concluded, then bowed to the ground, got up,
  sighed, and sat down again on his heap of straw. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s the way. Lay me
  down like a stone, O God, and raise me up like a loaf,&rdquo; he muttered as he
  lay down, pulling his coat over him.
<br />
  &ldquo;What prayer was that you were saying?&rdquo; asked Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;Eh?&rdquo; murmured Platón, who had almost fallen asleep. &ldquo;What was I saying? I
  was praying. Don&rsquo;t you pray?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I do,&rdquo; said Pierre. &ldquo;But what was that you said: Frola and Lavra?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, of course,&rdquo; replied Platón quickly, &ldquo;the horses&rsquo; saints. One must
  pity the animals too. Eh, the rascal! Now you&rsquo;ve curled up and got warm,
  you daughter of a bitch!&rdquo; said Karatáev, touching the dog that lay at his
  feet, and again turning over he fell asleep immediately.
<br />
  Sounds of crying and screaming came from somewhere in the distance
  outside, and flames were visible through the cracks of the shed, but
  inside it was quiet and dark. For a long time Pierre did not sleep, but
  lay with eyes open in the darkness, listening to the regular snoring of
  Platón who lay beside him, and he felt that the world that had been
  shattered was once more stirring in his soul with a new beauty and on new
  and unshakable foundations.

  CHAPTER XIII


  Twenty-three soldiers, three officers, and two officials were confined in
  the shed in which Pierre had been placed and where he remained for four
  weeks.
<br />
  When Pierre remembered them afterwards they all seemed misty figures to
  him except Platón Karatáev, who always remained in his mind a most vivid
  and precious memory and the personification of everything Russian, kindly,
  and round. When Pierre saw his neighbor next morning at dawn the first
  impression of him, as of something round, was fully confirmed: Platón&rsquo;s
  whole figure&mdash;in a French overcoat girdled with a cord, a soldier&rsquo;s
  cap, and bast shoes&mdash;was round. His head was quite round, his back,
  chest, shoulders, and even his arms, which he held as if ever ready to
  embrace something, were rounded, his pleasant smile and his large, gentle
  brown eyes were also round.
<br />
  Platón Karatáev must have been fifty, judging by his stories of campaigns
  he had been in, told as by an old soldier. He did not himself know his age
  and was quite unable to determine it. But his brilliantly white, strong
  teeth which showed in two unbroken semicircles when he laughed&mdash;as he
  often did&mdash;were all sound and good, there was not a gray hair in his
  beard or on his head, and his whole body gave an impression of suppleness
  and especially of firmness and endurance.
<br />
  His face, despite its fine, rounded wrinkles, had an expression of
  innocence and youth, his voice was pleasant and musical. But the chief
  peculiarity of his speech was its directness and appositeness. It was
  evident that he never considered what he had said or was going to say, and
  consequently the rapidity and justice of his intonation had an
  irresistible persuasiveness.
<br />
  His physical strength and agility during the first days of his
  imprisonment were such that he seemed not to know what fatigue and
  sickness meant. Every night before lying down, he said: &ldquo;Lord, lay me down
  as a stone and raise me up as a loaf!&rdquo; and every morning on getting up, he
  said: &ldquo;I lay down and curled up, I get up and shake myself.&rdquo; And indeed he
  only had to lie down, to fall asleep like a stone, and he only had to
  shake himself, to be ready without a moment&rsquo;s delay for some work, just as
  children are ready to play directly they awake. He could do everything,
  not very well but not badly. He baked, cooked, sewed, planed, and mended
  boots. He was always busy, and only at night allowed himself conversation&mdash;of
  which he was fond&mdash;and songs. He did not sing like a trained singer
  who knows he is listened to, but like the birds, evidently giving vent to
  the sounds in the same way that one stretches oneself or walks about to
  get rid of stiffness, and the sounds were always high-pitched, mournful,
  delicate, and almost feminine, and his face at such times was very
  serious.
<br />
  Having been taken prisoner and allowed his beard to grow, he seemed to
  have thrown off all that had been forced upon him&mdash;everything
  military and alien to himself&mdash;and had returned to his former peasant
  habits.
<br />
  &ldquo;A soldier on leave&mdash;a shirt outside breeches,&rdquo; he would say.
<br />
  He did not like talking about his life as a soldier, though he did not
  complain, and often mentioned that he had not been flogged once during the
  whole of his army service. When he related anything it was generally some
  old and evidently precious memory of his &ldquo;Christian&rdquo; life, as he called
  his peasant existence. The proverbs, of which his talk was full, were for
  the most part not the coarse and indecent saws soldiers employ, but those
  folk sayings which taken without a context seem so insignificant, but when
  used appositely suddenly acquire a significance of profound wisdom.
<br />
  He would often say the exact opposite of what he had said on a previous
  occasion, yet both would be right. He liked to talk and he talked well,
  adorning his speech with terms of endearment and with folk sayings which
  Pierre thought he invented himself, but the chief charm of his talk lay in
  the fact that the commonest events&mdash;sometimes just such as Pierre had
  witnessed without taking notice of them&mdash;assumed in Karatáev&rsquo;s a
  character of solemn fitness. He liked to hear the folk tales one of the
  soldiers used to tell of an evening (they were always the same), but most
  of all he liked to hear stories of real life. He would smile joyfully when
  listening to such stories, now and then putting in a word or asking a
  question to make the moral beauty of what he was told clear to himself.
  Karatáev had no attachments, friendships, or love, as Pierre understood
  them, but loved and lived affectionately with everything life brought him
  in contact with, particularly with man&mdash;not any particular man, but
  those with whom he happened to be. He loved his dog, his comrades, the
  French, and Pierre who was his neighbor, but Pierre felt that in spite of
  Karatáev&rsquo;s affectionate tenderness for him (by which he unconsciously gave
  Pierre&rsquo;s spiritual life its due) he would not have grieved for a moment at
  parting from him. And Pierre began to feel in the same way toward
  Karatáev.
<br />
  To all the other prisoners Platón Karatáev seemed a most ordinary soldier.
  They called him &ldquo;little falcon&rdquo; or &ldquo;Platósha,&rdquo; chaffed
  him good-naturedly, and sent him on errands. But to Pierre he always remained
  what he had seemed that first night: an unfathomable, rounded, eternal
  personification of the spirit of simplicity and truth.
<br />
  Platón Karatáev knew nothing by heart except his prayers. When he began to
  speak he seemed not to know how he would conclude.
<br />
  Sometimes Pierre, struck by the meaning of his words, would ask him to
  repeat them, but Platón could never recall what he had said a moment
  before, just as he never could repeat to Pierre the words of his favorite
  song:  and  and  occurred in
  it, but when spoken and not sung, no meaning could be got out of it. He did not,
  and could not, understand the meaning of words apart from their context. Every
  word and action of his was the manifestation of an activity unknown to
  him, which was his life. But his life, as he regarded it, had no meaning
  as a separate thing. It had meaning only as part of a whole of which he
  was always conscious. His words and actions flowed from him as evenly,
  inevitably, and spontaneously as fragrance exhales from a flower. He could
  not understand the value or significance of any word or deed taken
  separately.

  CHAPTER XIV


  When Princess Mary heard from Nicholas that her brother was with the
  Rostóvs at Yaroslávl she at once prepared to go there, in spite of her
  aunt&rsquo;s efforts to dissuade her&mdash;and not merely to go herself but to
  take her nephew with her. Whether it were difficult or easy, possible or
  impossible, she did not ask and did not want to know: it was her duty, not
  only to herself, to be near her brother who was perhaps dying, but to do
  everything possible to take his son to him, and so she prepared to set
  off. That she had not heard from Prince Andrew himself, Princess Mary
  attributed to his being too weak to write or to his considering the long
  journey too hard and too dangerous for her and his son.
<br />
  In a few days Princess Mary was ready to start. Her equipages were the
  huge family coach in which she had traveled to Vorónezh, a semiopen trap,
  and a baggage cart. With her traveled Mademoiselle Bourienne, little
  Nicholas and his tutor, her old nurse, three maids, Tíkhon, and a young
  footman and courier her aunt had sent to accompany her.
<br />
  The usual route through Moscow could not be thought of, and the roundabout
  way Princess Mary was obliged to take through Lípetsk, Ryazán, Vladímir,
  and Shúya was very long and, as post horses were not everywhere
  obtainable, very difficult, and near Ryazán where the French were said to
  have shown themselves was even dangerous.
<br />
  During this difficult journey Mademoiselle Bourienne, Dessalles, and
  Princess Mary&rsquo;s servants were astonished at her energy and firmness of
  spirit. She went to bed later and rose earlier than any of them, and no
  difficulties daunted her. Thanks to her activity and energy, which
  infected her fellow travelers, they approached Yaroslávl by the end of the
  second week.
<br />
  The last days of her stay in Vorónezh had been the happiest of her life.
  Her love for Rostóv no longer tormented or agitated her. It filled her
  whole soul, had become an integral part of herself, and she no longer
  struggled against it. Latterly she had become convinced that she loved and
  was beloved, though she never said this definitely to herself in words.
  She had become convinced of it at her last interview with Nicholas, when
  he had come to tell her that her brother was with the Rostóvs. Not by a
  single word had Nicholas alluded to the fact that Prince Andrew&rsquo;s
  relations with Natásha might, if he recovered, be renewed, but Princess
  Mary saw by his face that he knew and thought of this.
<br />
  Yet in spite of that, his relation to her&mdash;considerate, delicate, and
  loving&mdash;not only remained unchanged, but it sometimes seemed to
  Princess Mary that he was even glad that the family connection between
  them allowed him to express his friendship more freely. She knew that she
  loved for the first and only time in her life and felt that she was
  beloved, and was happy in regard to it.
<br />
  But this happiness on one side of her spiritual nature did not prevent her
  feeling grief for her brother with full force; on the contrary, that
  spiritual tranquility on the one side made it the more possible for her to
  give full play to her feeling for her brother. That feeling was so strong
  at the moment of leaving Vorónezh that those who saw her off, as they
  looked at her careworn, despairing face, felt sure she would fall ill on
  the journey. But the very difficulties and preoccupations of the journey,
  which she took so actively in hand, saved her for a while from her grief
  and gave her strength.
<br />
  As always happens when traveling, Princess Mary thought only of the
  journey itself, forgetting its object. But as she approached Yaroslávl the
  thought of what might await her there&mdash;not after many days, but that
  very evening&mdash;again presented itself to her and her agitation
  increased to its utmost limit.
<br />
  The courier who had been sent on in advance to find out where the Rostóvs
  were staying in Yaroslávl, and in what condition Prince Andrew was, when
  he met the big coach just entering the town gates was appalled by the
  terrible pallor of the princess&rsquo; face that looked out at him from the
  window.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have found out everything, your excellency: the Rostóvs are staying at
  the merchant Brónnikov&rsquo;s house, in the Square not far from here, right
  above the Vólga,&rdquo; said the courier.
<br />
  Princess Mary looked at him with frightened inquiry, not understanding why
  he did not reply to what she chiefly wanted to know: how was her brother?
  Mademoiselle Bourienne put that question for her.
<br />
  &ldquo;How is the prince?&rdquo; she asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;His excellency is staying in the same house with them.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Then he is alive,&rdquo; thought Princess Mary, and asked in a low voice: &ldquo;How
  is he?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The servants say he is still the same.&rdquo;
 <br />
  What &ldquo;still the same&rdquo; might mean Princess Mary did not ask, but with an
  unnoticed glance at little seven-year-old Nicholas, who was sitting in
  front of her looking with pleasure at the town, she bowed her head and did
  not raise it again till the heavy coach, rumbling, shaking and swaying,
  came to a stop. The carriage steps clattered as they were let down.
<br />
  The carriage door was opened. On the left there was water&mdash;a great
  river&mdash;and on the right a porch. There were people at the entrance:
  servants, and a rosy girl with a large plait of black hair, smiling as it
  seemed to Princess Mary in an unpleasantly affected way. (This was Sónya.)
  Princess Mary ran up the steps. &ldquo;This way, this way!&rdquo; said the girl, with
  the same artificial smile, and the princess found herself in the hall
  facing an elderly woman of Oriental type, who came rapidly to meet her
  with a look of emotion. This was the countess. She embraced Princess Mary
  and kissed her.
<br />
   she muttered,  *
<br />
* &ldquo;My child! I love you and have known you a long time.&rdquo;

Despite her excitement, Princess Mary realized that this was the countess and that it was necessary to say something to her. Hardly knowing how she did it, she contrived to utter a few polite phrases in French in the same tone as those that had been addressed to her, and asked: “How is he?”
“The doctor says that he is not in danger,” said the countess, but as she spoke she raised her eyes with a sigh, and her gesture conveyed a contradiction of her words.
“Where is he? Can I see him—can I?” asked the princess.
“One moment, Princess, one moment, my dear! Is this his son?” said the countess, turning to little Nicholas who was coming in with Dessalles. “There will be room for everybody, this is a big house. Oh, what a lovely boy!”
The countess took Princess Mary into the drawing room, where Sónya was talking to Mademoiselle Bourienne. The countess caressed the boy, and the old count came in and welcomed the princess. He had changed very much since Princess Mary had last seen him. Then he had been a brisk, cheerful, self-assured old man; now he seemed a pitiful, bewildered person. While talking to Princess Mary he continually looked round as if asking everyone whether he was doing the right thing. After the destruction of Moscow and of his property, thrown out of his accustomed groove he seemed to have lost the sense of his own significance and to feel that there was no longer a place for him in life.
In spite of her one desire to see her brother as soon as possible, and her vexation that at the moment when all she wanted was to see him they should be trying to entertain her and pretending to admire her nephew, the princess noticed all that was going on around her and felt the necessity of submitting, for a time, to this new order of things which she had entered. She knew it to be necessary, and though it was hard for her she was not vexed with these people.
“This is my niece,” said the count, introducing Sónya—“You don’t know her, Princess?”
Princess Mary turned to Sónya and, trying to stifle the hostile feeling that arose in her toward the girl, she kissed her. But she felt oppressed by the fact that the mood of everyone around her was so far from what was in her own heart.
“Where is he?” she asked again, addressing them all.
“He is downstairs. Natásha is with him,” answered Sónya, flushing. “We have sent to ask. I think you must be tired, Princess.”
Tears of vexation showed themselves in Princess Mary’s eyes. She turned away and was about to ask the countess again how to go to him, when light, impetuous, and seemingly buoyant steps were heard at the door. The princess looked round and saw Natásha coming in, almost running—that Natásha whom she had liked so little at their meeting in Moscow long since.
But hardly had the princess looked at Natásha’s face before she realized that here was a real comrade in her grief, and consequently a friend. She ran to meet her, embraced her, and began to cry on her shoulder.
As soon as Natásha, sitting at the head of Prince Andrew’s bed, heard of Princess Mary’s arrival, she softly left his room and hastened to her with those swift steps that had sounded buoyant to Princess Mary.
There was only one expression on her agitated face when she ran into the drawing room—that of love—boundless love for him, for her, and for all that was near to the man she loved; and of pity, suffering for others, and passionate desire to give herself entirely to helping them. It was plain that at that moment there was in Natásha’s heart no thought of herself or of her own relations with Prince Andrew.
Princess Mary, with her acute sensibility, understood all this at the first glance at Natásha’s face, and wept on her shoulder with sorrowful pleasure.
“Come, come to him, Mary,” said Natásha, leading her into the other room.
Princess Mary raised her head, dried her eyes, and turned to Natásha. She felt that from her she would be able to understand and learn everything.
“How…” she began her question but stopped short.
She felt that it was impossible to ask, or to answer, in words. Natásha’s face and eyes would have to tell her all more clearly and profoundly.
Natásha was gazing at her, but seemed afraid and in doubt whether to say all she knew or not; she seemed to feel that before those luminous eyes which penetrated into the very depths of her heart, it was impossible not to tell the whole truth which she saw. And suddenly, Natásha’s lips twitched, ugly wrinkles gathered round her mouth, and covering her face with her hands she burst into sobs.
Princess Mary understood.
But she still hoped, and asked, in words she herself did not trust:
“But how is his wound? What is his general condition?”
“You, you… will see,” was all Natásha could say.
They sat a little while downstairs near his room till they had left off crying and were able to go to him with calm faces.
“How has his whole illness gone? Is it long since he grew worse? When did this happen?” Princess Mary inquired.
Natásha told her that at first there had been danger from his feverish condition and the pain he suffered, but at Tróitsa that had passed and the doctor had only been afraid of gangrene. That danger had also passed. When they reached Yaroslávl the wound had begun to fester (Natásha knew all about such things as festering) and the doctor had said that the festering might take a normal course. Then fever set in, but the doctor had said the fever was not very serious.
“But two days ago suddenly happened,” said Natásha, struggling with her sobs. “I don’t know why, but you will see what he is like.”
“Is he weaker? Thinner?” asked the princess.
“No, it’s not that, but worse. You will see. O, Mary, he is too good, he cannot, cannot live, because…”

  CHAPTER XV


  When Natásha opened Prince Andrew&rsquo;s door with a familiar movement and let
  Princess Mary pass into the room before her, the princess felt the sobs in
  her throat. Hard as she had tried to prepare herself, and now tried to
  remain tranquil, she knew that she would be unable to look at him without
  tears.
<br />
  The princess understood what Natásha had meant by the words: &ldquo;two days ago
   suddenly happened.&rdquo; She understood those words to mean that he had
  suddenly softened and that this softening and gentleness were signs of
  approaching death. As she stepped to the door she already saw in
  imagination Andrew&rsquo;s face as she remembered it in childhood, a gentle,
  mild, sympathetic face which he had rarely shown, and which therefore
  affected her very strongly. She was sure he would speak soft, tender words
  to her such as her father had uttered before his death, and that she would
  not be able to bear it and would burst into sobs in his presence. Yet
  sooner or later it had to be, and she went in. The sobs rose higher and
  higher in her throat as she more and more clearly distinguished his form
  and her shortsighted eyes tried to make out his features, and then she saw
  his face and met his gaze.
<br />
  He was lying in a squirrel-fur dressing gown on a divan, surrounded by
  pillows. He was thin and pale. In one thin, translucently white hand he
  held a handkerchief, while with the other he stroked the delicate mustache
  he had grown, moving his fingers slowly. His eyes gazed at them as they
  entered.
<br />
  On seeing his face and meeting his eyes Princess Mary&rsquo;s pace suddenly
  slackened, she felt her tears dry up and her sobs ceased. She suddenly
  felt guilty and grew timid on catching the expression of his face and
  eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;But in what am I to blame?&rdquo; she asked herself. And his cold, stern look
  replied: &ldquo;Because you are alive and thinking of the living, while I...&rdquo;
 <br />
  In the deep gaze that seemed to look not outwards but inwards there was an
  almost hostile expression as he slowly regarded his sister and Natásha.
<br />
  He kissed his sister, holding her hand in his as was their wont.
<br />
  &ldquo;How are you, Mary? How did you manage to get here?&rdquo; said he in a voice as
  calm and aloof as his look.
<br />
  Had he screamed in agony, that scream would not have struck such horror
  into Princess Mary&rsquo;s heart as the tone of his voice.
<br />
  &ldquo;And have you brought little Nicholas?&rdquo; he asked in the same slow, quiet
  manner and with an obvious effort to remember.
<br />
  &ldquo;How are you now?&rdquo; said Princess Mary, herself surprised at what she was
  saying.
<br />
  &ldquo;That, my dear, you must ask the doctor,&rdquo; he replied, and again making an
  evident effort to be affectionate, he said with his lips only (his words
  clearly did not correspond to his thoughts):
<br />
   *
<br />
* &ldquo;Thank you for coming, my dear.&rdquo;

Princess Mary pressed his hand. The pressure made him wince just perceptibly. He was silent, and she did not know what to say. She now understood what had happened to him two days before. In his words, his tone, and especially in that calm, almost antagonistic look could be felt an estrangement from everything belonging to this world, terrible in one who is alive. Evidently only with an effort did he understand anything living; but it was obvious that he failed to understand, not because he lacked the power to do so but because he understood something else—something the living did not and could not understand—and which wholly occupied his mind.
“There, you see how strangely fate has brought us together,” said he, breaking the silence and pointing to Natásha. “She looks after me all the time.”
Princess Mary heard him and did not understand how he could say such a thing. He, the sensitive, tender Prince Andrew, how could he say that, before her whom he loved and who loved him? Had he expected to live he could not have said those words in that offensively cold tone. If he had not known that he was dying, how could he have failed to pity her and how could he speak like that in her presence? The only explanation was that he was indifferent, because something else, much more important, had been revealed to him.
The conversation was cold and disconnected and continually broke off.
“Mary came by way of Ryazán,” said Natásha.
Prince Andrew did not notice that she called his sister , and only after calling her so in his presence did Natásha notice it herself.
“Really?” he asked.
“They told her that all Moscow has been burned down, and that…”
Natásha stopped. It was impossible to talk. It was plain that he was making an effort to listen, but could not do so.
“Yes, they say it’s burned,” he said. “It’s a great pity,” and he gazed straight before him, absently stroking his mustache with his fingers.
“And so you have met Count Nicholas, Mary?” Prince Andrew suddenly said, evidently wishing to speak pleasantly to them. “He wrote here that he took a great liking to you,” he went on simply and calmly, evidently unable to understand all the complex significance his words had for living people. “If you liked him too, it would be a good thing for you to get married,” he added rather more quickly, as if pleased at having found words he had long been seeking.
Princess Mary heard his words but they had no meaning for her, except as a proof of how far away he now was from everything living.
“Why talk of me?” she said quietly and glanced at Natásha.
Natásha, who felt her glance, did not look at her. All three were again silent.
“Andrew, would you like…” Princess Mary suddenly said in a trembling voice, “would you like to see little Nicholas? He is always talking about you!”
Prince Andrew smiled just perceptibly and for the first time, but Princess Mary, who knew his face so well, saw with horror that he did not smile with pleasure or affection for his son, but with quiet, gentle irony because he thought she was trying what she believed to be the last means of arousing him.
“Yes, I shall be very glad to see him. Is he quite well?”
When little Nicholas was brought into Prince Andrew’s room he looked at his father with frightened eyes, but did not cry, because no one else was crying. Prince Andrew kissed him and evidently did not know what to say to him.
When Nicholas had been led away, Princess Mary again went up to her brother, kissed him, and unable to restrain her tears any longer began to cry.
He looked at her attentively.
“Is it about Nicholas?” he asked.
Princess Mary nodded her head, weeping.
“Mary, you know the Gosp…” but he broke off.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. You mustn’t cry here,” he said, looking at her with the same cold expression.

When Princess Mary began to cry, he understood that she was crying at the thought that little Nicholas would be left without a father. With a great effort he tried to return to life and to see things from their point of view.
“Yes, to them it must seem sad!” he thought. “But how simple it is.
“The fowls of the air sow not, neither do they reap, yet your Father feedeth them,” he said to himself and wished to say to Princess Mary; “but no, they will take it their own way, they won’t understand! They can’t understand that all those feelings they prize so—all our feelings, all those ideas that seem so important to us, are . We cannot understand one another,” and he remained silent.

Prince Andrew’s little son was seven. He could scarcely read, and knew nothing. After that day he lived through many things, gaining knowledge, observation, and experience, but had he possessed all the faculties he afterwards acquired, he could not have had a better or more profound understanding of the meaning of the scene he had witnessed between his father, Mary, and Natásha, than he had then. He understood it completely, and, leaving the room without crying, went silently up to Natásha who had come out with him and looked shyly at her with his beautiful, thoughtful eyes, then his uplifted, rosy upper lip trembled and leaning his head against her he began to cry.
After that he avoided Dessalles and the countess who caressed him and either sat alone or came timidly to Princess Mary, or to Natásha of whom he seemed even fonder than of his aunt, and clung to them quietly and shyly.
When Princess Mary had left Prince Andrew she fully understood what Natásha’s face had told her. She did not speak any more to Natásha of hopes of saving his life. She took turns with her beside his sofa, and did not cry any more, but prayed continually, turning in soul to that Eternal and Unfathomable, whose presence above the dying man was now so evident.

  CHAPTER XVI


  Not only did Prince Andrew know he would die, but he felt that he was
  dying and was already half dead. He was conscious of an aloofness from
  everything earthly and a strange and joyous lightness of existence.
  Without haste or agitation he awaited what was coming. That inexorable,
  eternal, distant, and unknown the presence of which he had felt
  continually all his life&mdash;was now near to him and, by the strange
  lightness he experienced, almost comprehensible and palpable....
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  Formerly he had feared the end. He had twice experienced that terribly
  tormenting fear of death&mdash;the end&mdash;but now he no longer understood that
  fear.
<br />
  He had felt it for the first time when the shell spun like a top
  before him, and he looked at the fallow field, the bushes, and the sky,
  and knew that he was face to face with death. When he came to himself
  after being wounded and the flower of eternal, unfettered love had
  instantly unfolded itself in his soul as if freed from the bondage of
  life that had restrained it, he no longer feared death and ceased to
  think about it.
<br />
  During the hours of solitude, suffering, and partial delirium he spent
  after he was wounded, the more deeply he penetrated into the new principle
  of eternal love revealed to him, the more he unconsciously detached
  himself from earthly life. To love everything and everybody and always to
  sacrifice oneself for love meant not to love anyone, not to live this
  earthly life. And the more imbued he became with that principle of love,
  the more he renounced life and the more completely he destroyed that
  dreadful barrier which&mdash;in the absence of such love&mdash;stands
  between life and death. When during those first days he remembered that he
  would have to die, he said to himself: &ldquo;Well, what of it? So much the
  better!&rdquo;
 <br />
  But after the night in Mytíshchi when, half delirious, he had seen her for
  whom he longed appear before him and, having pressed her hand to his lips,
  had shed gentle, happy tears, love for a particular woman again crept
  unobserved into his heart and once more bound him to life. And joyful and
  agitating thoughts began to occupy his mind. Recalling the moment at the
  ambulance station when he had seen Kurágin, he could not now regain the
  feeling he then had, but was tormented by the question whether Kurágin was
  alive. And he dared not inquire.
<br />
  His illness pursued its normal physical course, but what Natásha referred
  to when she said: &ldquo; suddenly happened,&rdquo; had occurred two
  days before Princess Mary arrived. It was the last spiritual struggle between
  life and death, in which death gained the victory. It was the unexpected
  realization of the fact that he still valued life as presented to him in
  the form of his love for Natásha, and a last, though ultimately
  vanquished, attack of terror before the unknown.
<br />
  It was evening. As usual after dinner he was slightly feverish, and his
  thoughts were preternaturally clear. Sónya was sitting by the table. He
  began to doze. Suddenly a feeling of happiness seized him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, she has come!&rdquo; thought he.
<br />
  And so it was: in Sónya&rsquo;s place sat Natásha who had just come in
  noiselessly.
<br />
  Since she had begun looking after him, he had always experienced this
  physical consciousness of her nearness. She was sitting in an armchair
  placed sideways, screening the light of the candle from him, and was
  knitting a stocking. She had learned to knit stockings since Prince Andrew
  had casually mentioned that no one nursed the sick so well as old nurses
  who knit stockings, and that there is something soothing in the knitting
  of stockings. The needles clicked lightly in her slender, rapidly moving
  hands, and he could clearly see the thoughtful profile of her drooping
  face. She moved, and the ball rolled off her knees. She started, glanced
  round at him, and screening the candle with her hand stooped carefully
  with a supple and exact movement, picked up the ball, and regained her
  former position.
<br />
  He looked at her without moving and saw that she wanted to draw a deep
  breath after stooping, but refrained from doing so and breathed
  cautiously.
<br />
  At the Tróitsa monastery they had spoken of the past, and he had told her
  that if he lived he would always thank God for his wound which had brought
  them together again, but after that they never spoke of the future.
<br />
  &ldquo;Can it or can it not be?&rdquo; he now thought as he looked at her and listened
  to the light click of the steel needles. &ldquo;Can fate have brought me to her
  so strangely only for me to die?... Is it possible that the truth of life
  has been revealed to me only to show me that I have spent my life in
  falsity? I love her more than anything in the world! But what am I to do
  if I love her?&rdquo; he thought, and he involuntarily groaned, from a habit
  acquired during his sufferings.
<br />
  On hearing that sound Natásha put down the stocking, leaned nearer to him,
  and suddenly, noticing his shining eyes, stepped lightly up to him and
  bent over him.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are not asleep?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, I have been looking at you a long time. I felt you come in. No one
  else gives me that sense of soft tranquillity that you do... that light. I
  want to weep for joy.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha drew closer to him. Her face shone with rapturous joy.
<br />
  &ldquo;Natásha, I love you too much! More than anything in the world.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And I!&rdquo;&mdash;She turned away for an instant. &ldquo;Why too much?&rdquo; she asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why too much?... Well, what do you, what do you feel in your soul, your
  whole soul&mdash;shall I live? What do you think?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am sure of it, sure!&rdquo; Natásha almost shouted, taking hold of both his
  hands with a passionate movement.
<br />
  He remained silent awhile.
<br />
  &ldquo;How good it would be!&rdquo; and taking her hand he kissed it.
<br />
  Natásha felt happy and agitated, but at once remembered that this would
  not do and that he had to be quiet.
<br />
  &ldquo;But you have not slept,&rdquo; she said, repressing her joy. &ldquo;Try to sleep...
  please!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He pressed her hand and released it, and she went back to the candle and
  sat down again in her former position. Twice she turned and looked at him,
  and her eyes met his beaming at her. She set herself a task on her
  stocking and resolved not to turn round till it was finished.
<br />
  Soon he really shut his eyes and fell asleep. He did not sleep long and
  suddenly awoke with a start and in a cold perspiration.
<br />
  As he fell asleep he had still been thinking of the subject that now
  always occupied his mind&mdash;about life and death, and chiefly about
  death. He felt himself nearer to it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Love? What is love?&rdquo; he thought.
<br />
  &ldquo;Love hinders death. Love is life. All, everything that I understand, I
  understand only because I love. Everything is, everything exists, only
  because I love. Everything is united by it alone. Love is God, and to die
  means that I, a particle of love, shall return to the general and eternal
  source.&rdquo; These thoughts seemed to him comforting. But they were only
  thoughts. Something was lacking in them, they were not clear, they were
  too one-sidedly personal and brain-spun. And there was the former
  agitation and obscurity. He fell asleep.
<br />
  He dreamed that he was lying in the room he really was in, but that he was
  quite well and unwounded. Many various, indifferent, and insignificant
  people appeared before him. He talked to them and discussed something
  trivial. They were preparing to go away somewhere. Prince Andrew dimly
  realized that all this was trivial and that he had more important cares,
  but he continued to speak, surprising them by empty witticisms. Gradually,
  unnoticed, all these persons began to disappear and a single question,
  that of the closed door, superseded all else. He rose and went to the door
  to bolt and lock it. Everything depended on whether he was, or was not, in
  time to lock it. He went, and tried to hurry, but his legs refused to move
  and he knew he would not be in time to lock the door though he painfully
  strained all his powers. He was seized by an agonizing fear. And that fear
  was the fear of death.  stood behind the door. But just when he was
  clumsily creeping toward the door, that dreadful something on the other
  side was already pressing against it and forcing its way in. Something not
  human&mdash;death&mdash;was breaking in through that door, and had to be
  kept out. He seized the door, making a final effort to hold it back&mdash;to
  lock it was no longer possible&mdash;but his efforts were weak and clumsy
  and the door, pushed from behind by that terror, opened and closed again.
<br />
  Once again  pushed from outside. His last superhuman efforts were vain
  and both halves of the door noiselessly opened.  entered, and it was
  , and Prince Andrew died.
<br />
  But at the instant he died, Prince Andrew remembered that he was asleep,
  and at the very instant he died, having made an effort, he awoke.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, it was death! I died&mdash;and woke up. Yes, death is an awakening!&rdquo;
   And all at once it grew light in his soul and the veil that had till then
  concealed the unknown was lifted from his spiritual vision. He felt as if
  powers till then confined within him had been liberated, and that strange
  lightness did not again leave him.
<br />
  When, waking in a cold perspiration, he moved on the divan, Natásha went
  up and asked him what was the matter. He did not answer and looked at her
  strangely, not understanding.
<br />
  That was what had happened to him two days before Princess Mary&rsquo;s arrival.
  From that day, as the doctor expressed it, the wasting fever assumed a
  malignant character, but what the doctor said did not interest Natásha,
  she saw the terrible moral symptoms which to her were more convincing.
<br />
  From that day an awakening from life came to Prince Andrew together with
  his awakening from sleep. And compared to the duration of life it did not
  seem to him slower than an awakening from sleep compared to the duration
  of a dream.
<br />
  There was nothing terrible or violent in this comparatively slow
  awakening.
<br />
  His last days and hours passed in an ordinary and simple way. Both
  Princess Mary and Natásha, who did not leave him, felt this. They did not
  weep or shudder and during these last days they themselves felt that they
  were not attending on him (he was no longer there, he had left them) but
  on what reminded them most closely of him&mdash;his body. Both felt this
  so strongly that the outward and terrible side of death did not affect
  them and they did not feel it necessary to foment their grief. Neither in
  his presence nor out of it did they weep, nor did they ever talk to one
  another about him. They felt that they could not express in words what
  they understood.
<br />
  They both saw that he was sinking slowly and quietly, deeper and deeper,
  away from them, and they both knew that this had to be so and that it was
  right.
<br />
  He confessed, and received communion: everyone came to take leave of him.
  When they brought his son to him, he pressed his lips to the boy&rsquo;s and
  turned away, not because he felt it hard and sad (Princess Mary and
  Natásha understood that) but simply because he thought it was all that was
  required of him, but when they told him to bless the boy, he did what was
  demanded and looked round as if asking whether there was anything else he
  should do.
<br />
  When the last convulsions of the body, which the spirit was leaving,
  occurred, Princess Mary and Natásha were present.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is it over?&rdquo; said Princess Mary when his body had for a few minutes lain
  motionless, growing cold before them. Natásha went up, looked at the dead
  eyes, and hastened to close them. She closed them but did not kiss them,
  but clung to that which reminded her most nearly of him&mdash;his body.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where has he gone? Where is he now?...&rdquo;
 <br />
  When the body, washed and dressed, lay in the coffin on a table, everyone
  came to take leave of him and they all wept.
<br />
  Little Nicholas cried because his heart was rent by painful perplexity.
  The countess and Sónya cried from pity for Natásha and because he was no
  more. The old count cried because he felt that before long, he, too, must
  take the same terrible step.
<br />
  Natásha and Princess Mary also wept now, but not because of their own
  personal grief; they wept with a reverent and softening emotion which had
  taken possession of their souls at the consciousness of the simple and
  solemn mystery of death that had been accomplished in their presence.

  BOOK THIRTEEN: 1812

  CHAPTER I


  Man&rsquo;s mind cannot grasp the causes of events in their completeness, but
  the desire to find those causes is implanted in man&rsquo;s soul. And without
  considering the multiplicity and complexity of the conditions any one of
  which taken separately may seem to be the cause, he snatches at the first
  approximation to a cause that seems to him intelligible and says: &ldquo;This is
  the cause!&rdquo; In historical events (where the actions of men are the subject
  of observation) the first and most primitive approximation to present
  itself was the will of the gods and, after that, the will of those who
  stood in the most prominent position&mdash;the heroes of history. But we
  need only penetrate to the essence of any historic event&mdash;which lies
  in the activity of the general mass of men who take part in it&mdash;to be
  convinced that the will of the historic hero does not control the actions
  of the mass but is itself continually controlled. It may seem to be a
  matter of indifference whether we understand the meaning of historical
  events this way or that; yet there is the same difference between a man
  who says that the people of the West moved on the East because Napoleon
  wished it and a man who says that this happened because it had to happen,
  as there is between those who declared that the earth was stationary and
  that the planets moved round it and those who admitted that they did not
  know what upheld the earth, but knew there were laws directing its
  movement and that of the other planets. There is, and can be, no cause of
  an historical event except the one cause of all causes. But there are laws
  directing events, and some of these laws are known to us while we are
  conscious of others we cannot comprehend. The discovery of these laws is
  only possible when we have quite abandoned the attempt to find the cause
  in the will of some one man, just as the discovery of the laws of the
  motion of the planets was possible only when men abandoned the conception
  of the fixity of the earth.
<br />
  The historians consider that, next to the battle of Borodinó and the
  occupation of Moscow by the enemy and its destruction by fire, the most
  important episode of the war of 1812 was the movement of the Russian army
  from the Ryazána to the Kalúga road and to the Tarútino camp&mdash;the
  so-called flank march across the Krásnaya Pakhrá River. They ascribe the
  glory of that achievement of genius to different men and dispute as to
  whom the honor is due. Even foreign historians, including the French,
  acknowledge the genius of the Russian commanders when they speak of that
  flank march. But it is hard to understand why military writers, and
  following them others, consider this flank march to be the profound
  conception of some one man who saved Russia and destroyed Napoleon. In the
  first place it is hard to understand where the profundity and genius of
  this movement lay, for not much mental effort was needed to see that the
  best position for an army when it is not being attacked is where there are
  most provisions; and even a dull boy of thirteen could have guessed that
  the best position for an army after its retreat from Moscow in 1812 was on
  the Kalúga road. So it is impossible to understand by what reasoning the
  historians reach the conclusion that this maneuver was a profound one. And
  it is even more difficult to understand just why they think that this
  maneuver was calculated to save Russia and destroy the French; for this
  flank march, had it been preceded, accompanied, or followed by other
  circumstances, might have proved ruinous to the Russians and salutary for
  the French. If the position of the Russian army really began to improve
  from the time of that march, it does not at all follow that the march was
  the cause of it.
<br />
  That flank march might not only have failed to give any advantage to the
  Russian army, but might in other circumstances have led to its
  destruction. What would have happened had Moscow not burned down? If Murat
  had not lost sight of the Russians? If Napoleon had not remained inactive?
  If the Russian army at Krásnaya Pakhrá had given battle as Bennigsen and
  Barclay advised? What would have happened had the French attacked the
  Russians while they were marching beyond the Pakhrá? What would have
  happened if on approaching Tarútino, Napoleon had attacked the Russians
  with but a tenth of the energy he had shown when he attacked them at
  Smolénsk? What would have happened had the French moved on Petersburg?...
  In any of these eventualities the flank march that brought salvation might
  have proved disastrous.
<br />
  The third and most incomprehensible thing is that people studying history
  deliberately avoid seeing that this flank march cannot be attributed to
  any one man, that no one ever foresaw it, and that in reality, like the
  retreat from Filí, it did not suggest itself to anyone in its entirety,
  but resulted&mdash;moment by moment, step by step, event by event&mdash;from
  an endless number of most diverse circumstances and was only seen in its
  entirety when it had been accomplished and belonged to the past.
<br />
  At the council at Filí the prevailing thought in the minds of the Russian
  commanders was the one naturally suggesting itself, namely, a direct
  retreat by the Nízhni road. In proof of this there is the fact that the
  majority of the council voted for such a retreat, and above all there is
  the well-known conversation after the council, between the commander in
  chief and Lanskóy, who was in charge of the commissariat department.
  Lanskóy informed the commander in chief that the army supplies were for
  the most part stored along the Oká in the Túla and Ryazán provinces, and
  that if they retreated on Nízhni the army would be separated from its
  supplies by the broad river Oká, which cannot be crossed early in winter.
  This was the first indication of the necessity of deviating from what had
  previously seemed the most natural course&mdash;a direct retreat on
  Nízhni-Nóvgorod. The army turned more to the south, along the Ryazán road
  and nearer to its supplies. Subsequently the inactivity of the French (who
  even lost sight of the Russian army), concern for the safety of the
  arsenal at Túla, and especially the advantages of drawing nearer to its
  supplies caused the army to turn still further south to the Túla road.
  Having crossed over, by a forced march, to the Túla road beyond the
  Pakhrá, the Russian commanders intended to remain at Podólsk and had no
  thought of the Tarútino position; but innumerable circumstances and the
  reappearance of French troops who had for a time lost touch with the
  Russians, and projects of giving battle, and above all the abundance of
  provisions in Kalúga province, obliged our army to turn still more to the
  south and to cross from the Túla to the Kalúga road and go to Tarútino,
  which was between the roads along which those supplies lay. Just as it is
  impossible to say when it was decided to abandon Moscow, so it is
  impossible to say precisely when, or by whom, it was decided to move to
  Tarútino. Only when the army had got there, as the result of innumerable
  and varying forces, did people begin to assure themselves that they had
  desired this movement and long ago foreseen its result.

  CHAPTER II


  The famous flank movement merely consisted in this: after the advance of
  the French had ceased, the Russian army, which had been continually
  retreating straight back from the invaders, deviated from that direct
  course and, not finding itself pursued, was naturally drawn toward the
  district where supplies were abundant.
<br />
  If instead of imagining to ourselves commanders of genius leading the
  Russian army, we picture that army without any leaders, it could not have
  done anything but make a return movement toward Moscow, describing an arc
  in the direction where most provisions were to be found and where the
  country was richest.
<br />
  That movement from the Nízhni to the Ryazán, Túla, and Kalúga roads was so
  natural that even the Russian marauders moved in that direction, and
  demands were sent from Petersburg for Kutúzov to take his army that way.
  At Tarútino Kutúzov received what was almost a reprimand from the Emperor
  for having moved his army along the Ryazán road, and the Emperor&rsquo;s letter
  indicated to him the very position he had already occupied near Kalúga.
<br />
  Having rolled like a ball in the direction of the impetus given by the
  whole campaign and by the battle of Borodinó, the Russian army&mdash;when
  the strength of that impetus was exhausted and no fresh push was received&mdash;assumed
  the position natural to it.
<br />
  Kutúzov&rsquo;s merit lay, not in any strategic maneuver of genius, as it is
  called, but in the fact that he alone understood the significance of what
  had happened. He alone then understood the meaning of the French army&rsquo;s
  inactivity, he alone continued to assert that the battle of Borodinó had
  been a victory, he alone&mdash;who as commander in chief might have been
  expected to be eager to attack&mdash;employed his whole strength to
  restrain the Russian army from useless engagements.
<br />
  The beast wounded at Borodinó was lying where the fleeing hunter had left
  him; but whether he was still alive, whether he was strong and merely
  lying low, the hunter did not know. Suddenly the beast was heard to moan.
<br />
  The moan of that wounded beast (the French army) which betrayed its
  calamitous condition was the sending of Lauriston to Kutúzov&rsquo;s camp with
  overtures for peace.
<br />
  Napoleon, with his usual assurance that whatever entered his head was
  right, wrote to Kutúzov the first words that occurred to him, though they
  were meaningless.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  MONSIEUR LE PRINCE KOUTOUZOV: I am sending one of my adjutants-general to
  discuss several interesting questions with you. I beg your Highness to
  credit what he says to you, 
<br />
  NAPOLEON
<br />
  MOSCOW, OCTOBER 30, 1812
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  Kutúzov replied: &ldquo;I should be cursed by posterity were I looked on as the
  initiator of a settlement of any sort. .&rdquo; But he continued to exert all his powers to restrain his troops
  from attacking.
<br />
  During the month that the French troops were pillaging in Moscow and the
  Russian troops were quietly encamped at Tarútino, a change had taken place
  in the relative strength of the two armies&mdash;both in spirit and in
  number&mdash;as a result of which the superiority had passed to the
  Russian side. Though the condition and numbers of the French army were
  unknown to the Russians, as soon as that change occurred the need of
  attacking at once showed itself by countless signs. These signs were:
  Lauriston&rsquo;s mission; the abundance of provisions at Tarútino; the reports
  coming in from all sides of the inactivity and disorder of the French; the
  flow of recruits to our regiments; the fine weather; the long rest the
  Russian soldiers had enjoyed, and the impatience to do what they had been
  assembled for, which usually shows itself in an army that has been
  resting; curiosity as to what the French army, so long lost sight of, was
  doing; the boldness with which our outposts now scouted close up to the
  French stationed at Tarútino; the news of easy successes gained by
  peasants and guerrilla troops over the French, the envy aroused by this;
  the desire for revenge that lay in the heart of every Russian as long as
  the French were in Moscow, and (above all) a dim consciousness in every
  soldier&rsquo;s mind that the relative strength of the armies had changed and
  that the advantage was now on our side. There was a substantial change in
  the relative strength, and an advance had become inevitable. And at once,
  as a clock begins to strike and chime as soon as the minute hand has
  completed a full circle, this change was shown by an increased activity,
  whirring, and chiming in the higher spheres.

  CHAPTER III


  The Russian army was commanded by Kutúzov and his staff, and also by the
  Emperor from Petersburg. Before the news of the abandonment of Moscow had
  been received in Petersburg, a detailed plan of the whole campaign had
  been drawn up and sent to Kutúzov for his guidance. Though this plan had
  been drawn up on the supposition that Moscow was still in our hands, it
  was approved by the staff and accepted as a basis for action. Kutúzov only
  replied that movements arranged from a distance were always difficult to
  execute. So fresh instructions were sent for the solution of difficulties
  that might be encountered, as well as fresh people who were to watch
  Kutúzov&rsquo;s actions and report upon them.
<br />
  Besides this, the whole staff of the Russian army was now reorganized. The
  posts left vacant by Bagratión, who had been killed, and by Barclay, who
  had gone away in dudgeon, had to be filled. Very serious consideration was
  given to the question whether it would be better to put A in B&rsquo;s place and
  B in D&rsquo;s, or on the contrary to put D in A&rsquo;s place, and so on&mdash;as if
  anything more than A&rsquo;s or B&rsquo;s satisfaction depended on this.
<br />
  As a result of the hostility between Kutúzov and Bennigsen, his Chief of
  Staff, the presence of confidential representatives of the Emperor, and
  these transfers, a more than usually complicated play of parties was going
  on among the staff of the army. A was undermining B, D was undermining C,
  and so on in all possible combinations and permutations. In all these
  plottings the subject of intrigue was generally the conduct of the war,
  which all these men believed they were directing; but this affair of the
  war went on independently of them, as it had to go: that is, never in the
  way people devised, but flowing always from the essential attitude of the
  masses. Only in the highest spheres did all these schemes, crossings, and
  interminglings appear to be a true reflection of what had to happen.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  Prince Michael Ilariónovich! (wrote the Emperor on the second of October
  in a letter that reached Kutúzov after the battle at Tarútino) Since
  September 2 Moscow has been in the hands of the enemy. Your last reports
  were written on the twentieth, and during all this time not only has no
  action been taken against the enemy or for the relief of the ancient
  capital, but according to your last report you have even retreated
  farther. Sérpukhov is already occupied by an enemy detachment and Túla
  with its famous arsenal, so indispensable to the army, is in danger. From
  General Wintzingerode&rsquo;s reports, I see that an enemy corps of ten thousand
  men is moving on the Petersburg road. Another corps of several thousand
  men is moving on Dmítrov. A third has advanced along the Vladímir road,
  and a fourth, rather considerable detachment is stationed between Rúza and
  Mozháysk. Napoleon himself was in Moscow as late as the twenty-fifth. In
  view of all this information, when the enemy has scattered his forces in
  large detachments, and with Napoleon and his Guards in Moscow, is it
  possible that the enemy&rsquo;s forces confronting you are so considerable as
  not to allow of your taking the offensive? On the contrary, he is probably
  pursuing you with detachments, or at most with an army corps much weaker
  than the army entrusted to you. It would seem that, availing yourself of
  these circumstances, you might advantageously attack a weaker one and
  annihilate him, or at least oblige him to retreat, retaining in our hands
  an important part of the provinces now occupied by the enemy, and thereby
  averting danger from Túla and other towns in the interior. You will be
  responsible if the enemy is able to direct a force of any size against
  Petersburg to threaten this capital in which it has not been possible to
  retain many troops; for with the army entrusted to you, and acting with
  resolution and energy, you have ample means to avert this fresh calamity.
  Remember that you have still to answer to our offended country for the
  loss of Moscow. You have experienced my readiness to reward you. That
  readiness will not weaken in me, but I and Russia have a right to expect
  from you all the zeal, firmness, and success which your intellect,
  military talent, and the courage of the troops you command justify us in
  expecting.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  But by the time this letter, which proved that the real relation of the
  forces had already made itself felt in Petersburg, was dispatched, Kutúzov
  had found himself unable any longer to restrain the army he commanded from
  attacking and a battle had taken place.
<br />
  On the second of October a Cossack, Shapoválov, who was out scouting,
  killed one hare and wounded another. Following the wounded hare he made
  his way far into the forest and came upon the left flank of Murat&rsquo;s army,
  encamped there without any precautions. The Cossack laughingly told his
  comrades how he had almost fallen into the hands of the French. A cornet,
  hearing the story, informed his commander.
<br />
  The Cossack was sent for and questioned. The Cossack officers wished to
  take advantage of this chance to capture some horses, but one of the
  superior officers, who was acquainted with the higher authorities,
  reported the incident to a general on the staff. The state of things on
  the staff had of late been exceedingly strained. Ermólov had been to see
  Bennigsen a few days previously and had entreated him to use his influence
  with the commander in chief to induce him to take the offensive.
<br />
  &ldquo;If I did not know you I should think you did not want what you are asking
  for. I need only advise anything and his Highness is sure to do the
  opposite,&rdquo; replied Bennigsen.
<br />
  The Cossack&rsquo;s report, confirmed by horse patrols who were sent out, was
  the final proof that events had matured. The tightly coiled spring was
  released, the clock began to whirr and the chimes to play. Despite all his
  supposed power, his intellect, his experience, and his knowledge of men,
  Kutúzov&mdash;having taken into consideration the Cossack&rsquo;s report, a note
  from Bennigsen who sent personal reports to the Emperor, the wishes he
  supposed the Emperor to hold, and the fact that all the generals expressed
  the same wish&mdash;could no longer check the inevitable movement, and
  gave the order to do what he regarded as useless and harmful&mdash;gave
  his approval, that is, to the accomplished fact.

  CHAPTER IV


  Bennigsen&rsquo;s note and the Cossack&rsquo;s information that the left flank of the
  French was unguarded were merely final indications that it was necessary
  to order an attack, and it was fixed for the fifth of October.
<br />
  On the morning of the fourth of October Kutúzov signed the dispositions.
  Toll read them to Ermólov, asking him to attend to the further
  arrangements.
<br />
  &ldquo;All right&mdash;all right. I haven&rsquo;t time just now,&rdquo; replied Ermólov, and
  left the hut.
<br />
  The dispositions drawn up by Toll were very good. As in the Austerlitz
  dispositions, it was written&mdash;though not in German this time:
<br />
  &ldquo;The First Column will march here and here,&rdquo; &ldquo;the Second Column will march
  there and there,&rdquo; and so on; and on paper, all these columns arrived at
  their places at the appointed time and destroyed the enemy. Everything had
  been admirably thought out as is usual in dispositions, and as is always
  the case, not a single column reached its place at the appointed time.
<br />
  When the necessary number of copies of the dispositions had been prepared,
  an officer was summoned and sent to deliver them to Ermólov to deal with.
  A young officer of the Horse Guards, Kutúzov&rsquo;s orderly, pleased at the
  importance of the mission entrusted to him, went to Ermólov&rsquo;s quarters.
<br />
  &ldquo;Gone away,&rdquo; said Ermólov&rsquo;s orderly.
<br />
  The officer of the Horse Guards went to a general with whom Ermólov was
  often to be found.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, and the general&rsquo;s out too.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The officer, mounting his horse, rode off to someone else.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, he&rsquo;s gone out.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;If only they don&rsquo;t make me responsible for this delay! What a nuisance it
  is!&rdquo; thought the officer, and he rode round the whole camp. One man said
  he had seen Ermólov ride past with some other generals, others said he
  must have returned home. The officer searched till six o&rsquo;clock in the
  evening without even stopping to eat. Ermólov was nowhere to be found and
  no one knew where he was. The officer snatched a little food at a
  comrade&rsquo;s, and rode again to the vanguard to find Milorádovich.
  Milorádovich too was away, but here he was told that he had gone to a ball
  at General Kíkin&rsquo;s and that Ermólov was probably there too.
<br />
  &ldquo;But where is it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, there, over at Échkino,&rdquo; said a Cossack officer, pointing to a
  country house in the far distance.
<br />
  &ldquo;What, outside our line?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;They&rsquo;ve put two regiments as outposts, and they&rsquo;re having such a spree
  there, it&rsquo;s awful! Two bands and three sets of singers!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The officer rode out beyond our lines to Échkino. While still at a
  distance he heard as he rode the merry sounds of a soldier&rsquo;s dance song
  proceeding from the house.
<br />
  &ldquo;In the meadows... in the meadows!&rdquo; he heard, accompanied by whistling and
  the sound of a , drowned every now and then by shouts. These sounds
  made his spirits rise, but at the same time he was afraid that he would be
  blamed for not having executed sooner the important order entrusted to
  him. It was already past eight o&rsquo;clock. He dismounted and went up into the
  porch of a large country house which had remained intact between the
  Russian and French forces. In the refreshment room and the hall, footmen
  were bustling about with wine and viands. Groups of singers stood outside
  the windows. The officer was admitted and immediately saw all the chief
  generals of the army together, and among them Ermólov&rsquo;s big imposing
  figure. They all had their coats unbuttoned and were standing in a
  semicircle with flushed and animated faces, laughing loudly. In the middle
  of the room a short handsome general with a red face was dancing the
   with much spirit and agility.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ha, ha, ha! Bravo, Nicholas Iványch! Ha, ha, ha!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The officer felt that by arriving with important orders at such a moment
  he was doubly to blame, and he would have preferred to wait; but one of
  the generals espied him and, hearing what he had come about, informed
  Ermólov.
<br />
  Ermólov came forward with a frown on his face and, hearing what the
  officer had to say, took the papers from him without a word.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  &ldquo;You think he went off just by chance?&rdquo; said a comrade, who was on the
  staff that evening, to the officer of the Horse Guards, referring to
  Ermólov. &ldquo;It was a trick. It was done on purpose to get Konovnítsyn into
  trouble. You&rsquo;ll see what a mess there&rsquo;ll be tomorrow.&rdquo;

  CHAPTER V


  Next day the decrepit Kutúzov, having given orders to be called early,
  said his prayers, dressed, and, with an unpleasant consciousness of having
  to direct a battle he did not approve of, got into his  and drove
  from Letashóvka (a village three and a half miles from Tarútino) to the
  place where the attacking columns were to meet. He sat in the ,
  dozing and waking up by turns, and listening for any sound of firing on
  the right as an indication that the action had begun. But all was still
  quiet. A damp dull autumn morning was just dawning. On approaching
  Tarútino Kutúzov noticed cavalrymen leading their horses to water across
  the road along which he was driving. Kutúzov looked at them searchingly,
  stopped his carriage, and inquired what regiment they belonged to. They
  belonged to a column that should have been far in front and in ambush long
  before then. &ldquo;It may be a mistake,&rdquo; thought the old commander in chief.
  But a little further on he saw infantry regiments with their arms piled
  and the soldiers, only partly dressed, eating their rye porridge and
  carrying fuel. He sent for an officer. The officer reported that no order
  to advance had been received.
<br />
  &ldquo;How! Not rec...&rdquo; Kutúzov began, but checked himself immediately and sent
  for a senior officer. Getting out of his , he waited with drooping
  head and breathing heavily, pacing silently up and down. When Eýkhen, the
  officer of the general staff whom he had summoned, appeared, Kutúzov went
  purple in the face, not because that officer was to blame for the mistake,
  but because he was an object of sufficient importance for him to vent his
  wrath on. Trembling and panting the old man fell into that state of fury
  in which he sometimes used to roll on the ground, and he fell upon Eýkhen,
  threatening him with his hands, shouting and loading him with gross abuse.
  Another man, Captain Brózin, who happened to turn up and who was not at
  all to blame, suffered the same fate.
<br />
  &ldquo;What sort of another blackguard are you? I&rsquo;ll have you shot! Scoundrels!&rdquo;
   yelled Kutúzov in a hoarse voice, waving his arms and reeling.
<br />
  He was suffering physically. He, the commander in chief, a Serene Highness
  who everybody said possessed powers such as no man had ever had in Russia,
  to be placed in this position&mdash;made the laughingstock of the whole
  army! &ldquo;I needn&rsquo;t have been in such a hurry to pray about today, or have
  kept awake thinking everything over all night,&rdquo; thought he to himself.
  &ldquo;When I was a chit of an officer no one would have dared to mock me so...
  and now!&rdquo; He was in a state of physical suffering as if from corporal
  punishment, and could not avoid expressing it by cries of anger and
  distress. But his strength soon began to fail him, and looking about him,
  conscious of having said much that was amiss, he again got into his
   and drove back in silence.
<br />
  His wrath, once expended, did not return, and blinking feebly he listened
  to excuses and self-justifications (Ermólov did not come to see him till
  the next day) and to the insistence of Bennigsen, Konovnítsyn, and Toll
  that the movement that had miscarried should be executed next day. And
  once more Kutúzov had to consent.

  CHAPTER VI


  Next day the troops assembled in their appointed places in the evening and
  advanced during the night. It was an autumn night with dark purple clouds,
  but no rain. The ground was damp but not muddy, and the troops advanced
  noiselessly, only occasionally a jingling of the artillery could be
  faintly heard. The men were forbidden to talk out loud, to smoke their
  pipes, or to strike a light, and they tried to prevent their horses
  neighing. The secrecy of the undertaking heightened its charm and they
  marched gaily. Some columns, supposing they had reached their destination,
  halted, piled arms, and settled down on the cold ground, but the majority
  marched all night and arrived at places where they evidently should not
  have been.
<br />
  Only Count Orlóv-Denísov with his Cossacks (the least important detachment
  of all) got to his appointed place at the right time. This detachment
  halted at the outskirts of a forest, on the path leading from the village
  of Stromílova to Dmítrovsk.
<br />
  Toward dawn, Count Orlóv-Denísov, who had dozed off, was awakened by a
  deserter from the French army being brought to him. This was a Polish
  sergeant of Poniatowski&rsquo;s corps, who explained in Polish that he had come
  over because he had been slighted in the service: that he ought long ago
  to have been made an officer, that he was braver than any of them, and so
  he had left them and wished to pay them out. He said that Murat was
  spending the night less than a mile from where they were, and that if they
  would let him have a convoy of a hundred men he would capture him alive.
  Count Orlóv-Denísov consulted his fellow officers.
<br />
  The offer was too tempting to be refused. Everyone volunteered to go and
  everybody advised making the attempt. After much disputing and arguing,
  Major-General Grékov with two Cossack regiments decided to go with the
  Polish sergeant.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now, remember,&rdquo; said Count Orlóv-Denísov to the sergeant at parting, &ldquo;if
  you have been lying I&rsquo;ll have you hanged like a dog; but if it&rsquo;s true you
  shall have a hundred gold pieces!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Without replying, the sergeant, with a resolute air, mounted and rode away
  with Grékov whose men had quickly assembled. They disappeared into the
  forest, and Count Orlóv-Denísov, having seen Grékov off, returned,
  shivering from the freshness of the early dawn and excited by what he had
  undertaken on his own responsibility, and began looking at the enemy camp,
  now just visible in the deceptive light of dawn and the dying campfires.
  Our columns ought to have begun to appear on an open declivity to his
  right. He looked in that direction, but though the columns would have been
  visible quite far off, they were not to be seen. It seemed to the count
  that things were beginning to stir in the French camp, and his
  keen-sighted adjutant confirmed this.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, it is really too late,&rdquo; said Count Orlóv, looking at the camp.
<br />
  As often happens when someone we have trusted is no longer before our
  eyes, it suddenly seemed quite clear and obvious to him that the sergeant
  was an impostor, that he had lied, and that the whole Russian attack would
  be ruined by the absence of those two regiments, which he would lead away
  heaven only knew where. How could one capture a commander in chief from
  among such a mass of troops!
<br />
  &ldquo;I am sure that rascal was lying,&rdquo; said the count.
<br />
  &ldquo;They can still be called back,&rdquo; said one of his suite, who like Count
  Orlóv felt distrustful of the adventure when he looked at the enemy&rsquo;s
  camp.
<br />
  &ldquo;Eh? Really... what do you think? Should we let them go on or not?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Will you have them fetched back?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Fetch them back, fetch them back!&rdquo; said Count Orlóv with sudden
  determination, looking at his watch. &ldquo;It will be too late. It is quite
  light.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And the adjutant galloped through the forest after Grékov. When Grékov
  returned, Count Orlóv-Denísov, excited both by the abandoned attempt and
  by vainly awaiting the infantry columns that still did not appear, as well
  as by the proximity of the enemy, resolved to advance. All his men felt
  the same excitement.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mount!&rdquo; he commanded in a whisper. The men took their places and crossed
  themselves.... &ldquo;Forward, with God&rsquo;s aid!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Hurrah-ah-ah!&rdquo; reverberated in the forest, and the Cossack companies,
  trailing their lances and advancing one after another as if poured out of
  a sack, dashed gaily across the brook toward the camp.
<br />
  One desperate, frightened yell from the first French soldier who saw the
  Cossacks, and all who were in the camp, undressed and only just waking up,
  ran off in all directions, abandoning cannons, muskets, and horses.
<br />
  Had the Cossacks pursued the French, without heeding what was behind and
  around them, they would have captured Murat and everything there. That was
  what the officers desired. But it was impossible to make the Cossacks
  budge when once they had got booty and prisoners. None of them listened to
  orders. Fifteen hundred prisoners and thirty-eight guns were taken on the
  spot, besides standards and (what seemed most important to the Cossacks)
  horses, saddles, horsecloths, and the like. All this had to be dealt with,
  the prisoners and guns secured, the booty divided&mdash;not without some
  shouting and even a little fighting among themselves&mdash;and it was on
  this that the Cossacks all busied themselves.
<br />
  The French, not being farther pursued, began to recover themselves: they
  formed into detachments and began firing. Orlóv-Denísov, still waiting for
  the other columns to arrive, advanced no further.
<br />
  Meantime, according to the dispositions which said that &ldquo;the First Column
  will march&rdquo; and so on, the infantry of the belated columns, commanded by
  Bennigsen and directed by Toll, had started in due order and, as always
  happens, had got somewhere, but not to their appointed places. As always
  happens the men, starting cheerfully, began to halt; murmurs were heard,
  there was a sense of confusion, and finally a backward movement. Adjutants
  and generals galloped about, shouted, grew angry, quarreled, said they had
  come quite wrong and were late, gave vent to a little abuse, and at last
  gave it all up and went forward, simply to get somewhere. &ldquo;We shall get
  somewhere or other!&rdquo; And they did indeed get somewhere, though not to
  their right places; a few eventually even got to their right place, but
  too late to be of any use and only in time to be fired at. Toll, who in
  this battle played the part of Weyrother at Austerlitz, galloped
  assiduously from place to place, finding everything upside down
  everywhere. Thus he stumbled on Bagovút&rsquo;s corps in a wood when it was
  already broad daylight, though the corps should long before have joined
  Orlóv-Denísov. Excited and vexed by the failure and supposing that someone
  must be responsible for it, Toll galloped up to the commander of the corps
  and began upbraiding him severely, saying that he ought to be shot.
  General Bagovút, a fighting old soldier of placid temperament, being also
  upset by all the delay, confusion, and cross-purposes, fell into a rage to
  everybody&rsquo;s surprise and quite contrary to his usual character and said
  disagreeable things to Toll.
<br />
  &ldquo;I prefer not to take lessons from anyone, but I can die with my men as
  well as anybody,&rdquo; he said, and advanced with a single division.
<br />
  Coming out onto a field under the enemy&rsquo;s fire, this brave general went
  straight ahead, leading his men under fire, without considering in his
  agitation whether going into action now, with a single division, would be
  of any use or no. Danger, cannon balls, and bullets were just what he
  needed in his angry mood. One of the first bullets killed him, and other
  bullets killed many of his men. And his division remained under fire for
  some time quite uselessly.

  CHAPTER VII


  Meanwhile another column was to have attacked the French from the front,
  but Kutúzov accompanied that column. He well knew that nothing but
  confusion would come of this battle undertaken against his will, and as
  far as was in his power held the troops back. He did not advance.
<br />
  He rode silently on his small gray horse, indolently answering suggestions
  that they should attack.
<br />
  &ldquo;The word  is always on your tongue, but you don&rsquo;t see
  that we are unable to execute complicated maneuvers,&rdquo; said he to
  Milorádovich who asked permission to advance.
<br />
  &ldquo;We couldn&rsquo;t take Murat prisoner this morning or get to the place in time,
  and nothing can be done now!&rdquo; he replied to someone else.
<br />
  When Kutúzov was informed that at the French rear&mdash;where according to
  the reports of the Cossacks there had previously been nobody&mdash;there
  were now two battalions of Poles, he gave a sidelong glance at Ermólov who
  was behind him and to whom he had not spoken since the previous day.
<br />
  &ldquo;You see! They are asking to attack and making plans of all kinds, but as
  soon as one gets to business nothing is ready, and the enemy, forewarned,
  takes measures accordingly.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Ermólov screwed up his eyes and smiled faintly on hearing these words. He
  understood that for him the storm had blown over, and that Kutúzov would
  content himself with that hint.
<br />
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;s having a little fun at my expense,&rdquo; said Ermólov softly, nudging
  with his knee Raévski who was at his side.
<br />
  Soon after this, Ermólov moved up to Kutúzov and respectfully remarked:
<br />
  &ldquo;It is not too late yet, your Highness&mdash;the enemy has not gone away&mdash;if
  you were to order an attack! If not, the Guards will not so much as see a
  little smoke.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Kutúzov did not reply, but when they reported to him that Murat&rsquo;s troops
  were in retreat he ordered an advance, though at every hundred paces he
  halted for three quarters of an hour.
<br />
  The whole battle consisted in what Orlóv-Denísov&rsquo;s Cossacks had done: the
  rest of the army merely lost some hundreds of men uselessly.
<br />
  In consequence of this battle Kutúzov received a diamond decoration, and
  Bennigsen some diamonds and a hundred thousand rubles, others also
  received pleasant recognitions corresponding to their various grades, and
  following the battle fresh changes were made in the staff.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s how everything is done with us, all topsy-turvy!&rdquo; said the Russian
  officers and generals after the Tarútino battle, letting it be understood
  that some fool there is doing things all wrong but that we ourselves
  should not have done so, just as people speak today. But people who talk
  like that either do not know what they are talking about or deliberately
  deceive themselves. No battle&mdash;Tarútino, Borodinó, or Austerlitz&mdash;takes
  place as those who planned it anticipated. That is an essential condition.
<br />
  A countless number of free forces (for nowhere is man freer than during a
  battle, where it is a question of life and death) influence the course
  taken by the fight, and that course never can be known in advance and
  never coincides with the direction of any one force.
<br />
  If many simultaneously and variously directed forces act on a given body,
  the direction of its motion cannot coincide with any one of those forces,
  but will always be a mean&mdash;what in mechanics is represented by the
  diagonal of a parallelogram of forces.
<br />
  If in the descriptions given by historians, especially French ones, we
  find their wars and battles carried out in accordance with previously
  formed plans, the only conclusion to be drawn is that those descriptions
  are false.
<br />
  The battle of Tarútino obviously did not attain the aim Toll had in view&mdash;to
  lead the troops into action in the order prescribed by the dispositions;
  nor that which Count Orlóv-Denísov may have had in view&mdash;to take
  Murat prisoner; nor the result of immediately destroying the whole corps,
  which Bennigsen and others may have had in view; nor the aim of the
  officer who wished to go into action to distinguish himself; nor that of
  the Cossack who wanted more booty than he got, and so on. But if the aim
  of the battle was what actually resulted and what all the Russians of that
  day desired&mdash;to drive the French out of Russia and destroy their army&mdash;it
  is quite clear that the battle of Tarútino, just because of its
  incongruities, was exactly what was wanted at that stage of the campaign.
  It would be difficult and even impossible to imagine any result more
  opportune than the actual outcome of this battle. With a minimum of effort
  and insignificant losses, despite the greatest confusion, the most
  important results of the whole campaign were attained: the transition from
  retreat to advance, an exposure of the weakness of the French, and the
  administration of that shock which Napoleon&rsquo;s army had only awaited to
  begin its flight.

  CHAPTER VIII


  Napoleon enters Moscow after the brilliant victory ; there
  can be no doubt about the victory for the battlefield remains in the hands
  of the French. The Russians retreat and abandon their ancient capital.
  Moscow, abounding in provisions, arms, munitions, and incalculable wealth,
  is in Napoleon&rsquo;s hands. The Russian army, only half the strength of the
  French, does not make a single attempt to attack for a whole month.
  Napoleon&rsquo;s position is most brilliant. He can either fall on the Russian
  army with double its strength and destroy it; negotiate an advantageous
  peace, or in case of a refusal make a menacing move on Petersburg, or
  even, in the case of a reverse, return to Smolénsk or Vílna; or remain in
  Moscow; in short, no special genius would seem to be required to retain
  the brilliant position the French held at that time. For that, only very
  simple and easy steps were necessary: not to allow the troops to loot, to
  prepare winter clothing&mdash;of which there was sufficient in Moscow for
  the whole army&mdash;and methodically to collect the provisions, of which
  (according to the French historians) there were enough in Moscow to supply
  the whole army for six months. Yet Napoleon, that greatest of all
  geniuses, who the historians declare had control of the army, took none of
  these steps.
<br />
  He not merely did nothing of the kind, but on the contrary he used his
  power to select the most foolish and ruinous of all the courses open to
  him. Of all that Napoleon might have done: wintering in Moscow, advancing
  on Petersburg or on Nízhni-Nóvgorod, or retiring by a more northerly or
  more southerly route (say by the road Kutúzov afterwards took), nothing
  more stupid or disastrous can be imagined than what he actually did. He
  remained in Moscow till October, letting the troops plunder the city;
  then, hesitating whether to leave a garrison behind him, he quitted
  Moscow, approached Kutúzov without joining battle, turned to the right and
  reached Málo-Yaroslávets, again without attempting to break through and
  take the road Kutúzov took, but retiring instead to Mozháysk along the
  devastated Smolénsk road. Nothing more stupid than that could have been
  devised, or more disastrous for the army, as the sequel showed. Had
  Napoleon&rsquo;s aim been to destroy his army, the most skillful strategist
  could hardly have devised any series of actions that would so completely
  have accomplished that purpose, independently of anything the Russian army
  might do.
<br />
  Napoleon, the man of genius, did this! But to say that he destroyed his
  army because he wished to, or because he was very stupid, would be as
  unjust as to say that he had brought his troops to Moscow because he
  wished to and because he was very clever and a genius.
<br />
  In both cases his personal activity, having no more force than the
  personal activity of any soldier, merely coincided with the laws that
  guided the event.
<br />
  The historians quite falsely represent Napoleon&rsquo;s faculties as having
  weakened in Moscow, and do so only because the results did not justify his
  actions. He employed all his ability and strength to do the best he could
  for himself and his army, as he had done previously and as he did
  subsequently in 1813. His activity at that time was no less astounding
  than it was in Egypt, in Italy, in Austria, and in Prussia. We do not know
  for certain in how far his genius was genuine in Egypt&mdash;where forty
  centuries looked down upon his grandeur&mdash;for his great exploits there
  are all told us by Frenchmen. We cannot accurately estimate his genius in
  Austria or Prussia, for we have to draw our information from French or
  German sources, and the incomprehensible surrender of whole corps without
  fighting and of fortresses without a siege must incline Germans to
  recognize his genius as the only explanation of the war carried on in
  Germany. But we, thank God, have no need to recognize his genius in order
  to hide our shame. We have paid for the right to look at the matter
  plainly and simply, and we will not abandon that right.
<br />
  His activity in Moscow was as amazing and as full of genius as elsewhere.
  Order after order and plan after plan were issued by him from the time he
  entered Moscow till the time he left it. The absence of citizens and of a
  deputation, and even the burning of Moscow, did not disconcert him. He did
  not lose sight either of the welfare of his army or of the doings of the
  enemy, or of the welfare of the people of Russia, or of the direction of
  affairs in Paris, or of diplomatic considerations concerning the terms of
  the anticipated peace.

  CHAPTER IX


  With regard to military matters, Napoleon immediately on his entry into
  Moscow gave General Sabastiani strict orders to observe the movements of
  the Russian army, sent army corps out along the different roads, and
  charged Murat to find Kutúzov. Then he gave careful directions about the
  fortification of the Krémlin, and drew up a brilliant plan for a future
  campaign over the whole map of Russia.
<br />
  With regard to diplomatic questions, Napoleon summoned Captain Yákovlev,
  who had been robbed and was in rags and did not know how to get out of
  Moscow, minutely explained to him his whole policy and his magnanimity,
  and having written a letter to the Emperor Alexander in which he
  considered it his duty to inform his Friend and Brother that Rostopchín
  had managed affairs badly in Moscow, he dispatched Yákovlev to Petersburg.
<br />
  Having similarly explained his views and his magnanimity to Tutólmin, he
  dispatched that old man also to Petersburg to negotiate.
<br />
  With regard to legal matters, immediately after the fires he gave orders
  to find and execute the incendiaries. And the scoundrel Rostopchín was
  punished by an order to burn down his houses.
<br />
  With regard to administrative matters, Moscow was granted a constitution.
  A municipality was established and the following announcement issued:
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  INHABITANTS OF MOSCOW!
<br />
  Your misfortunes are cruel, but His Majesty the Emperor and King desires
  to arrest their course. Terrible examples have taught you how he punishes
  disobedience and crime. Strict measures have been taken to put an end to
  disorder and to re-establish public security. A paternal administration,
  chosen from among yourselves, will form your municipality or city
  government. It will take care of you, of your needs, and of your welfare.
  Its members will be distinguished by a red ribbon worn across the
  shoulder, and the mayor of the city will wear a white belt as well. But
  when not on duty they will only wear a red ribbon round the left arm.
<br />
  The city police is established on its former footing, and better order
  already prevails in consequence of its activity. The government has
  appointed two commissaries general, or chiefs of police, and twenty
  commissaries or captains of wards have been appointed to the different
  wards of the city. You will recognize them by the white ribbon they will
  wear on the left arm. Several churches of different denominations are
  open, and divine service is performed in them unhindered. Your fellow
  citizens are returning every day to their homes and orders have been given
  that they should find in them the help and protection due to their
  misfortunes. These are the measures the government has adopted to
  re-establish order and relieve your condition. But to achieve this aim it
  is necessary that you should add your efforts and should, if possible,
  forget the misfortunes you have suffered, should entertain the hope of a
  less cruel fate, should be certain that inevitable and ignominious death
  awaits those who make any attempt on your persons or on what remains of
  your property, and finally that you should not doubt that these will be
  safeguarded, since such is the will of the greatest and most just of
  monarchs. Soldiers and citizens, of whatever nation you may be,
  re-establish public confidence, the source of the welfare of a state, live
  like brothers, render mutual aid and protection one to another, unite to
  defeat the intentions of the evil-minded, obey the military and civil
  authorities, and your tears will soon cease to flow!
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  With regard to supplies for the army, Napoleon decreed that all the troops
  in turn should enter Moscow  * to obtain provisions for
  themselves, so that the army might have its future provided for.
<br />
* As looters.

With regard to religion, Napoleon ordered the priests to be brought back and services to be again performed in the churches.
With regard to commerce and to provisioning the army, the following was placarded everywhere:
PROCLAMATION
You, peaceful inhabitants of Moscow, artisans and workmen whom misfortune has driven from the city, and you scattered tillers of the soil, still kept out in the fields by groundless fear, listen! Tranquillity is returning to this capital and order is being restored in it. Your fellow countrymen are emerging boldly from their hiding places on finding that they are respected. Any violence to them or to their property is promptly punished. His Majesty the Emperor and King protects them, and considers no one among you his enemy except those who disobey his orders. He desires to end your misfortunes and restore you to your homes and families. Respond, therefore, to his benevolent intentions and come to us without fear. Inhabitants, return with confidence to your abodes! You will soon find means of satisfying your needs. Craftsmen and industrious artisans, return to your work, your houses, your shops, where the protection of guards awaits you! You shall receive proper pay for your work. And lastly you too, peasants, come from the forests where you are hiding in terror, return to your huts without fear, in full assurance that you will find protection! Markets are established in the city where peasants can bring their surplus supplies and the products of the soil. The government has taken the following steps to ensure freedom of sale for them: (1) From today, peasants, husbandmen, and those living in the neighborhood of Moscow may without any danger bring their supplies of all kinds to two appointed markets, of which one is on the Mokhováya Street and the other at the Provision Market. (2) Such supplies will be bought from them at such prices as seller and buyer may agree on, and if a seller is unable to obtain a fair price he will be free to take his goods back to his village and no one may hinder him under any pretense. (3) Sunday and Wednesday of each week are appointed as the chief market days and to that end a sufficient number of troops will be stationed along the highroads on Tuesdays and Saturdays at such distances from the town as to protect the carts. (4) Similar measures will be taken that peasants with their carts and horses may meet with no hindrance on their return journey. (5) Steps will immediately be taken to re-establish ordinary trading.
Inhabitants of the city and villages, and you, workingmen and artisans, to whatever nation you belong, you are called on to carry out the paternal intentions of His Majesty the Emperor and King and to co-operate with him for the public welfare! Lay your respect and confidence at his feet and do not delay to unite with us!

With the object of raising the spirits of the troops and of the people, reviews were constantly held and rewards distributed. The Emperor rode through the streets to comfort the inhabitants, and, despite his preoccupation with state affairs, himself visited the theaters that were established by his order.
In regard to philanthropy, the greatest virtue of crowned heads, Napoleon also did all in his power. He caused the words to be inscribed on the charitable institutions, thereby combining tender filial affection with the majestic benevolence of a monarch. He visited the Foundling Hospital and, allowing the orphans saved by him to kiss his white hands, graciously conversed with Tutólmin. Then, as Thiers eloquently recounts, he ordered his soldiers to be paid in forged Russian money which he had prepared: “Raising the use of these means by an act worthy of himself and of the French army, he let relief be distributed to those who had been burned out. But as food was too precious to be given to foreigners, who were for the most part enemies, Napoleon preferred to supply them with money with which to purchase food from outside, and had paper rubles distributed to them.”
With reference to army discipline, orders were continually being issued to inflict severe punishment for the nonperformance of military duties and to suppress robbery.

  CHAPTER X


  But strange to say, all these measures, efforts, and plans&mdash;which
  were not at all worse than others issued in similar circumstances&mdash;did
  not affect the essence of the matter but, like the hands of a clock
  detached from the mechanism, swung about in an arbitrary and aimless way
  without engaging the cogwheels.
<br />
  With reference to the military side&mdash;the plan of campaign&mdash;that
  work of genius of which Thiers remarks that, &ldquo;His genius never devised
  anything more profound, more skillful, or more admirable,&rdquo; and enters into
  a polemic with M. Fain to prove that this work of genius must be referred
  not to the fourth but to the fifteenth of October&mdash;that plan never
  was or could be executed, for it was quite out of touch with the facts of
  the case. The fortifying of the Krémlin, for which  (as Napoleon
  termed the church of Basil the Beatified) was to have been razed to the
  ground, proved quite useless. The mining of the Krémlin only helped toward
  fulfilling Napoleon&rsquo;s wish that it should be blown up when he left Moscow&mdash;as
  a child wants the floor on which he has hurt himself to be beaten. The
  pursuit of the Russian army, about which Napoleon was so concerned,
  produced an unheard-of result. The French generals lost touch with the
  Russian army of sixty thousand men, and according to Thiers it was only
  eventually found, like a lost pin, by the skill&mdash;and apparently the
  genius&mdash;of Murat.
<br />
  With reference to diplomacy, all Napoleon&rsquo;s arguments as to his
  magnanimity and justice, both to Tutólmin and to Yákovlev (whose chief
  concern was to obtain a greatcoat and a conveyance), proved useless;
  Alexander did not receive these envoys and did not reply to their
  embassage.
<br />
  With regard to legal matters, after the execution of the supposed
  incendiaries the rest of Moscow burned down.
<br />
  With regard to administrative matters, the establishment of a municipality
  did not stop the robberies and was only of use to certain people who
  formed part of that municipality and under pretext of preserving order
  looted Moscow or saved their own property from being looted.
<br />
  With regard to religion, as to which in Egypt matters had so easily been
  settled by Napoleon&rsquo;s visit to a mosque, no results were achieved. Two or
  three priests who were found in Moscow did try to carry out Napoleon&rsquo;s
  wish, but one of them was slapped in the face by a French soldier while
  conducting service, and a French official reported of another that: &ldquo;The
  priest whom I found and invited to say Mass cleaned and locked up the
  church. That night the doors were again broken open, the padlocks smashed,
  the books mutilated, and other disorders perpetrated.&rdquo;
 <br />
  With reference to commerce, the proclamation to industrious workmen and to
  peasants evoked no response. There were no industrious workmen, and the
  peasants caught the commissaries who ventured too far out of town with the
  proclamation and killed them.
<br />
  As to the theaters for the entertainment of the people and the troops,
  these did not meet with success either. The theaters set up in the Krémlin
  and in Posnyákov&rsquo;s house were closed again at once because the actors and
  actresses were robbed.
<br />
  Even philanthropy did not have the desired effect. The genuine as well as
  the false paper money which flooded Moscow lost its value. The French,
  collecting booty, cared only for gold. Not only was the paper money
  valueless which Napoleon so graciously distributed to the unfortunate, but
  even silver lost its value in relation to gold.
<br />
  But the most amazing example of the ineffectiveness of the orders given by
  the authorities at that time was Napoleon&rsquo;s attempt to stop the looting
  and re-establish discipline.
<br />
  This is what the army authorities were reporting:
<br />
  &ldquo;Looting continues in the city despite the decrees against it. Order is
  not yet restored and not a single merchant is carrying on trade in a
  lawful manner. The sutlers alone venture to trade, and they sell stolen
  goods.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The neighborhood of my ward continues to be pillaged by soldiers of the
  3rd Corps who, not satisfied with taking from the unfortunate inhabitants
  hiding in the cellars the little they have left, even have the ferocity to
  wound them with their sabers, as I have repeatedly witnessed.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Nothing new, except that the soldiers are robbing and pillaging&mdash;October
  9.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Robbery and pillaging continue. There is a band of thieves in our
  district who ought to be arrested by a strong force&mdash;October 11.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The Emperor is extremely displeased that despite the strict orders to
  stop pillage, parties of marauding Guards are continually seen returning
  to the Krémlin. Among the Old Guard disorder and pillage were renewed more
  violently than ever yesterday evening, last night, and today. The Emperor
  sees with regret that the picked soldiers appointed to guard his person,
  who should set an example of discipline, carry disobedience to such a
  point that they break into the cellars and stores containing army
  supplies. Others have disgraced themselves to the extent of disobeying
  sentinels and officers, and have abused and beaten them.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The Grand Marshal of the palace,&rdquo; wrote the governor, &ldquo;complains bitterly
  that in spite of repeated orders, the soldiers continue to commit
  nuisances in all the courtyards and even under the very windows of the
  Emperor.&rdquo;
 <br />
  That army, like a herd of cattle run wild and trampling underfoot the
  provender which might have saved it from starvation, disintegrated and
  perished with each additional day it remained in Moscow. But it did not go
  away.
<br />
  It began to run away only when suddenly seized by a panic caused by the
  capture of transport trains on the Smolénsk road, and by the battle of
  Tarútino. The news of that battle of Tarútino, unexpectedly received by
  Napoleon at a review, evoked in him a desire to punish the Russians
  (Thiers says), and he issued the order for departure which the whole army
  was demanding.
<br />
  Fleeing from Moscow the soldiers took with them everything they had
  stolen. Napoleon, too, carried away his own personal , but on seeing
  the baggage trains that impeded the army, he was (Thiers says)
  horror-struck. And yet with his experience of war he did not order all the
  superfluous vehicles to be burned, as he had done with those of a certain
  marshal when approaching Moscow. He gazed at the  and carriages in
  which soldiers were riding and remarked that it was a very good thing, as
  those vehicles could be used to carry provisions, the sick, and the
  wounded.
<br />
  The plight of the whole army resembled that of a wounded animal which
  feels it is perishing and does not know what it is doing. To study the
  skillful tactics and aims of Napoleon and his army from the time it
  entered Moscow till it was destroyed is like studying the dying leaps and
  shudders of a mortally wounded animal. Very often a wounded animal,
  hearing a rustle, rushes straight at the hunter&rsquo;s gun, runs forward and
  back again, and hastens its own end. Napoleon, under pressure from his
  whole army, did the same thing. The rustle of the battle of Tarútino
  frightened the beast, and it rushed forward onto the hunter&rsquo;s gun, reached
  him, turned back, and finally&mdash;like any wild beast&mdash;ran back
  along the most disadvantageous and dangerous path, where the old scent was
  familiar.
<br />
  During the whole of that period Napoleon, who seems to us to have been the
  leader of all these movements&mdash;as the figurehead of a ship may seem
  to a savage to guide the vessel&mdash;acted like a child who, holding a
  couple of strings inside a carriage, thinks he is driving it.

  CHAPTER XI


  Early in the morning of the sixth of October Pierre went out of the shed,
  and on returning stopped by the door to play with a little blue-gray dog,
  with a long body and short bandy legs, that jumped about him. This little
  dog lived in their shed, sleeping beside Karatáev at night; it sometimes
  made excursions into the town but always returned again. Probably it had
  never had an owner, and it still belonged to nobody and had no name. The
  French called it Azor; the soldier who told stories called it Femgálka;
  Karatáev and others called it Gray, or sometimes Flabby. Its lack of a
  master, a name, or even of a breed or any definite color did not seem to
  trouble the blue-gray dog in the least. Its furry tail stood up firm and
  round as a plume, its bandy legs served it so well that it would often
  gracefully lift a hind leg and run very easily and quickly on three legs,
  as if disdaining to use all four. Everything pleased it. Now it would roll
  on its back, yelping with delight, now bask in the sun with a thoughtful
  air of importance, and now frolic about playing with a chip of wood or a
  straw.
<br />
  Pierre&rsquo;s attire by now consisted of a dirty torn shirt (the only remnant
  of his former clothing), a pair of soldier&rsquo;s trousers which by Karatáev&rsquo;s
  advice he tied with string round the ankles for warmth, and a peasant coat
  and cap. Physically he had changed much during this time. He no longer
  seemed stout, though he still had the appearance of solidity and strength
  hereditary in his family. A beard and mustache covered the lower part of
  his face, and a tangle of hair, infested with lice, curled round his head
  like a cap. The look of his eyes was resolute, calm, and animatedly alert,
  as never before. The former slackness which had shown itself even in his
  eyes was now replaced by an energetic readiness for action and resistance.
  His feet were bare.
<br />
  Pierre first looked down the field across which vehicles and horsemen were
  passing that morning, then into the distance across the river, then at the
  dog who was pretending to be in earnest about biting him, and then at his
  bare feet which he placed with pleasure in various positions, moving his
  dirty thick big toes. Every time he looked at his bare feet a smile of
  animated self-satisfaction flitted across his face. The sight of them
  reminded him of all he had experienced and learned during these weeks and
  this recollection was pleasant to him.
<br />
  For some days the weather had been calm and clear with slight frosts in
  the mornings&mdash;what is called an &ldquo;old wives&rsquo; summer.&rdquo;
 <br />
  In the sunshine the air was warm, and that warmth was particularly
  pleasant with the invigorating freshness of the morning frost still in the
  air.
<br />
  On everything&mdash;far and near&mdash;lay the magic crystal glitter seen
  only at that time of autumn. The Sparrow Hills were visible in the
  distance, with the village, the church, and the large white house. The
  bare trees, the sand, the bricks and roofs of the houses, the green church
  spire, and the corners of the white house in the distance, all stood out
  in the transparent air in most delicate outline and with unnatural
  clearness. Near by could be seen the familiar ruins of a half-burned
  mansion occupied by the French, with lilac bushes still showing dark green
  beside the fence. And even that ruined and befouled house&mdash;which in
  dull weather was repulsively ugly&mdash;seemed quietly beautiful now, in
  the clear, motionless brilliance.
<br />
  A French corporal, with coat unbuttoned in a homely way, a skullcap on his
  head, and a short pipe in his mouth, came from behind a corner of the shed
  and approached Pierre with a friendly wink.
<br />
  &ldquo;What sunshine, Monsieur Kiril!&rdquo; (Their name for Pierre.) &ldquo;Eh?
  Just like spring!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And the corporal leaned against the door and offered Pierre his pipe,
  though whenever he offered it Pierre always declined it.
<br />
  &ldquo;To be on the march in such weather...&rdquo; he began.
<br />
  Pierre inquired what was being said about leaving, and the corporal told
  him that nearly all the troops were starting and there ought to be an
  order about the prisoners that day. Sokolóv, one of the soldiers in the
  shed with Pierre, was dying, and Pierre told the corporal that something
  should be done about him. The corporal replied that Pierre need not worry
  about that as they had an ambulance and a permanent hospital and
  arrangements would be made for the sick, and that in general everything
  that could happen had been foreseen by the authorities.
<br />
  &ldquo;Besides, Monsieur Kiril, you have only to say a word to the captain, you
  know. He is a man who never forgets anything. Speak to the captain when he
  makes his round, he will do anything for you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  (The captain of whom the corporal spoke often had long chats with Pierre
  and showed him all sorts of favors.)
<br />
  &ldquo;&lsquo;You see, St. Thomas,&rsquo; he said to me the other day. &lsquo;Monsieur Kiril is a
  man of education, who speaks French. He is a Russian seigneur who has had
  misfortunes, but he is a man. He knows what&rsquo;s what.... If he wants
  anything and asks me, he won&rsquo;t get a refusal. When one has studied, you
  see, one likes education and well-bred people.&rsquo; It is for your sake I
  mention it, Monsieur Kiril. The other day if it had not been for you that
  affair would have ended ill.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And after chatting a while longer, the corporal went away. (The affair he
  had alluded to had happened a few days before&mdash;a fight between the
  prisoners and the French soldiers, in which Pierre had succeeded in
  pacifying his comrades.) Some of the prisoners who had heard Pierre
  talking to the corporal immediately asked what the Frenchman had said.
  While Pierre was repeating what he had been told about the army leaving
  Moscow, a thin, sallow, tattered French soldier came up to the door of the
  shed. Rapidly and timidly raising his fingers to his forehead by way of
  greeting, he asked Pierre whether the soldier Platoche to whom he had
  given a shirt to sew was in that shed.
<br />
  A week before the French had had boot leather and linen issued to them,
  which they had given out to the prisoners to make up into boots and shirts
  for them.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ready, ready, dear fellow!&rdquo; said Karatáev, coming out with a neatly
  folded shirt.
<br />
  Karatáev, on account of the warm weather and for convenience at work, was
  wearing only trousers and a tattered shirt as black as soot. His hair was
  bound round, workman fashion, with a wisp of lime-tree bast, and his round
  face seemed rounder and pleasanter than ever.
<br />
  &ldquo;A promise is own brother to performance! I said Friday and here it is,
  ready,&rdquo; said Platón, smiling and unfolding the shirt he had sewn.
<br />
  The Frenchman glanced around uneasily and then, as if overcoming his
  hesitation, rapidly threw off his uniform and put on the shirt. He had a
  long, greasy, flowered silk waistcoat next to his sallow, thin bare body,
  but no shirt. He was evidently afraid the prisoners looking on would laugh
  at him, and thrust his head into the shirt hurriedly. None of the
  prisoners said a word.
<br />
  &ldquo;See, it fits well!&rdquo; Platón kept repeating, pulling the shirt straight.
<br />
  The Frenchman, having pushed his head and hands through, without raising
  his eyes, looked down at the shirt and examined the seams.
<br />
  &ldquo;You see, dear man, this is not a sewing shop, and I had no proper tools;
  and, as they say, one needs a tool even to kill a louse,&rdquo; said Platón with
  one of his round smiles, obviously pleased with his work.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s good, quite good, thank you,&rdquo; said the Frenchman, in French, &ldquo;but
  there must be some linen left over.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It will fit better still when it sets to your body,&rdquo; said Karatáev, still
  admiring his handiwork. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll be nice and comfortable....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Thanks, thanks, old fellow.... But the bits left over?&rdquo; said the
  Frenchman again and smiled. He took out an assignation ruble note and gave
  it to Karatáev. &ldquo;But give me the pieces that are over.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre saw that Platón did not want to understand what the Frenchman was
  saying, and he looked on without interfering. Karatáev thanked the
  Frenchman for the money and went on admiring his own work. The Frenchman
  insisted on having the pieces returned that were left over and asked
  Pierre to translate what he said.
<br />
  &ldquo;What does he want the bits for?&rdquo; said Karatáev. &ldquo;They&rsquo;d make fine leg
  bands for us. Well, never mind.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And Karatáev, with a suddenly changed and saddened expression, took a
  small bundle of scraps from inside his shirt and gave it to the Frenchman
  without looking at him. &ldquo;Oh dear!&rdquo; muttered Karatáev and went away. The
  Frenchman looked at the linen, considered for a moment, then looked
  inquiringly at Pierre and, as if Pierre&rsquo;s look had told him something,
  suddenly blushed and shouted in a squeaky voice:
<br />
  &ldquo;Platoche! Eh, Platoche! Keep them yourself!&rdquo; And handing back the odd
  bits he turned and went out.
<br />
  &ldquo;There, look at that,&rdquo; said Karatáev, swaying his head. &ldquo;People said they
  were not Christians, but they too have souls. It&rsquo;s what the old folk used
  to say: &lsquo;A sweating hand&rsquo;s an open hand, a dry hand&rsquo;s close.&rsquo; He&rsquo;s naked,
  but yet he&rsquo;s given it back.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Karatáev smiled thoughtfully and was silent awhile looking at the pieces.
<br />
  &ldquo;But they&rsquo;ll make grand leg bands, dear friend,&rdquo; he said, and went back
  into the shed.

  CHAPTER XII


  Four weeks had passed since Pierre had been taken prisoner and though the
  French had offered to move him from the men&rsquo;s to the officers&rsquo; shed, he
  had stayed in the shed where he was first put.
<br />
  In burned and devastated Moscow Pierre experienced almost the extreme
  limits of privation a man can endure; but thanks to his physical strength
  and health, of which he had till then been unconscious, and thanks
  especially to the fact that the privations came so gradually that it was
  impossible to say when they began, he endured his position not only
  lightly but joyfully. And just at this time he obtained the tranquillity
  and ease of mind he had formerly striven in vain to reach. He had long
  sought in different ways that tranquillity of mind, that inner harmony
  which had so impressed him in the soldiers at the battle of Borodinó. He
  had sought it in philanthropy, in Freemasonry, in the dissipations of town
  life, in wine, in heroic feats of self-sacrifice, and in romantic love for
  Natásha; he had sought it by reasoning&mdash;and all these quests and
  experiments had failed him. And now without thinking about it he had found
  that peace and inner harmony only through the horror of death, through
  privation, and through what he recognized in Karatáev.
<br />
  Those dreadful moments he had lived through at the executions had as it
  were forever washed away from his imagination and memory the agitating
  thoughts and feelings that had formerly seemed so important. It did not
  now occur to him to think of Russia, or the war, or politics, or Napoleon.
  It was plain to him that all these things were no business of his, and
  that he was not called on to judge concerning them and therefore could not
  do so. &ldquo;Russia and summer weather are not bound together,&rdquo; he thought,
  repeating words of Karatáev&rsquo;s which he found strangely consoling. His
  intention of killing Napoleon and his calculations of the cabalistic
  number of the beast of the Apocalypse now seemed to him meaningless and
  even ridiculous. His anger with his wife and anxiety that his name should
  not be smirched now seemed not merely trivial but even amusing. What
  concern was it of his that somewhere or other that woman was leading the
  life she preferred? What did it matter to anybody, and especially to him,
  whether or not they found out that their prisoner&rsquo;s name was Count
  Bezúkhov?
<br />
  He now often remembered his conversation with Prince Andrew and quite
  agreed with him, though he understood Prince Andrew&rsquo;s thoughts somewhat
  differently. Prince Andrew had thought and said that happiness could only
  be negative, but had said it with a shade of bitterness and irony as
  though he was really saying that all desire for positive happiness is
  implanted in us merely to torment us and never be satisfied. But Pierre
  believed it without any mental reservation. The absence of suffering, the
  satisfaction of one&rsquo;s needs and consequent freedom in the choice of one&rsquo;s
  occupation, that is, of one&rsquo;s way of life, now seemed to Pierre to be
  indubitably man&rsquo;s highest happiness. Here and now for the first time he
  fully appreciated the enjoyment of eating when he wanted to eat, drinking
  when he wanted to drink, sleeping when he wanted to sleep, of warmth when
  he was cold, of talking to a fellow man when he wished to talk and to hear
  a human voice. The satisfaction of one&rsquo;s needs&mdash;good food,
  cleanliness, and freedom&mdash;now that he was deprived of all this,
  seemed to Pierre to constitute perfect happiness; and the choice of
  occupation, that is, of his way of life&mdash;now that that was so
  restricted&mdash;seemed to him such an easy matter that he forgot that a
  superfluity of the comforts of life destroys all joy in satisfying one&rsquo;s
  needs, while great freedom in the choice of occupation&mdash;such freedom
  as his wealth, his education, and his social position had given him in his
  own life&mdash;is just what makes the choice of occupation insolubly
  difficult and destroys the desire and possibility of having an occupation.
<br />
  All Pierre&rsquo;s daydreams now turned on the time when he would be free. Yet
  subsequently, and for the rest of his life, he thought and spoke with
  enthusiasm of that month of captivity, of those irrecoverable, strong,
  joyful sensations, and chiefly of the complete peace of mind and inner
  freedom which he experienced only during those weeks.
<br />
  When on the first day he got up early, went out of the shed at dawn, and
  saw the cupolas and crosses of the New Convent of the Virgin still dark at
  first, the hoarfrost on the dusty grass, the Sparrow Hills, and the wooded
  banks above the winding river vanishing in the purple distance, when he
  felt the contact of the fresh air and heard the noise of the crows flying
  from Moscow across the field, and when afterwards light gleamed from the
  east and the sun&rsquo;s rim appeared solemnly from behind a cloud, and the
  cupolas and crosses, the hoarfrost, the distance and the river, all began
  to sparkle in the glad light&mdash;Pierre felt a new joy and strength in
  life such as he had never before known. And this not only stayed with him
  during the whole of his imprisonment, but even grew in strength as the
  hardships of his position increased.
<br />
  That feeling of alertness and of readiness for anything was still further
  strengthened in him by the high opinion his fellow prisoners formed of him
  soon after his arrival at the shed. With his knowledge of languages, the
  respect shown him by the French, his simplicity, his readiness to give
  anything asked of him (he received the allowance of three rubles a week
  made to officers); with his strength, which he showed to the soldiers by
  pressing nails into the walls of the hut; his gentleness to his
  companions, and his capacity for sitting still and thinking without doing
  anything (which seemed to them incomprehensible), he appeared to them a
  rather mysterious and superior being. The very qualities that had been a
  hindrance, if not actually harmful, to him in the world he had lived in&mdash;his
  strength, his disdain for the comforts of life, his absent-mindedness and
  simplicity&mdash;here among these people gave him almost the status of a
  hero. And Pierre felt that their opinion placed responsibilities upon him.

  CHAPTER XIII


  The French evacuation began on the night between the sixth and seventh of
  October: kitchens and sheds were dismantled, carts loaded, and troops and
  baggage trains started.
<br />
  At seven in the morning a French convoy in marching trim, wearing shakos
  and carrying muskets, knapsacks, and enormous sacks, stood in front of the
  sheds, and animated French talk mingled with curses sounded all along the
  lines.
<br />
  In the shed everyone was ready, dressed, belted, shod, and only awaited
  the order to start. The sick soldier, Sokolóv, pale and thin with dark
  shadows round his eyes, alone sat in his place barefoot and not dressed.
  His eyes, prominent from the emaciation of his face, gazed inquiringly at
  his comrades who were paying no attention to him, and he moaned regularly
  and quietly. It was evidently not so much his sufferings that caused him
  to moan (he had dysentery) as his fear and grief at being left alone.
<br />
  Pierre, girt with a rope round his waist and wearing shoes Karatáev had
  made for him from some leather a French soldier had torn off a tea chest
  and brought to have his boots mended with, went up to the sick man and
  squatted down beside him.
<br />
  &ldquo;You know, Sokolóv, they are not all going away! They have a hospital
  here. You may be better off than we others,&rdquo; said Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;O Lord! Oh, it will be the death of me! O Lord!&rdquo; moaned the man in a
  louder voice.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll go and ask them again directly,&rdquo; said Pierre, rising and going to
  the door of the shed.
<br />
  Just as Pierre reached the door, the corporal who had offered him a pipe
  the day before came up to it with two soldiers. The corporal and soldiers
  were in marching kit with knapsacks and shakos that had metal straps, and
  these changed their familiar faces.
<br />
  The corporal came, according to orders, to shut the door. The prisoners
  had to be counted before being let out.
<br />
  &ldquo;Corporal, what will they do with the sick man?...&rdquo; Pierre began.
<br />
  But even as he spoke he began to doubt whether this was the corporal he
  knew or a stranger, so unlike himself did the corporal seem at that
  moment. Moreover, just as Pierre was speaking a sharp rattle of drums was
  suddenly heard from both sides. The corporal frowned at Pierre&rsquo;s words
  and, uttering some meaningless oaths, slammed the door. The shed became
  semidark, and the sharp rattle of the drums on two sides drowned the sick
  man&rsquo;s groans.
<br />
  &ldquo;There it is!...  again!...&rdquo; said Pierre to himself, and an involuntary
  shudder ran down his spine. In the corporal&rsquo;s changed face, in the sound
  of his voice, in the stirring and deafening noise of the drums, he
  recognized that mysterious, callous force which compelled people against
  their will to kill their fellow men&mdash;that force the effect of which
  he had witnessed during the executions. To fear or to try to escape that
  force, to address entreaties or exhortations to those who served as its
  tools, was useless. Pierre knew this now. One had to wait and endure. He
  did not again go to the sick man, nor turn to look at him, but stood
  frowning by the door of the hut.
<br />
  When that door was opened and the prisoners, crowding against one another
  like a flock of sheep, squeezed into the exit, Pierre pushed his way
  forward and approached that very captain who as the corporal had assured
  him was ready to do anything for him. The captain was also in marching
  kit, and on his cold face appeared that same  which Pierre had
  recognized in the corporal&rsquo;s words and in the roll of the drums.
<br />
  &ldquo;Pass on, pass on!&rdquo; the captain reiterated, frowning sternly, and looking
  at the prisoners who thronged past him.
<br />
  Pierre went up to him, though he knew his attempt would be vain.
<br />
  &ldquo;What now?&rdquo; the officer asked with a cold look as if not recognizing
  Pierre.
<br />
  Pierre told him about the sick man.
<br />
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;ll manage to walk, devil take him!&rdquo; said the captain. &ldquo;Pass on, pass
  on!&rdquo; he continued without looking at Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;But he is dying,&rdquo; Pierre again began.
<br />
  &ldquo;Be so good...&rdquo; shouted the captain, frowning angrily.
<br />
   rattled the drums, and Pierre
  understood that this mysterious force completely controlled these men and that
  it was now useless to say any more.
<br />
  The officer prisoners were separated from the soldiers and told to march
  in front. There were about thirty officers, with Pierre among them, and
  about three hundred men.
<br />
  The officers, who had come from the other sheds, were all strangers to
  Pierre and much better dressed than he. They looked at him and at his
  shoes mistrustfully, as at an alien. Not far from him walked a fat major
  with a sallow, bloated, angry face, who was wearing a Kazán dressing gown
  tied round with a towel, and who evidently enjoyed the respect of his
  fellow prisoners. He kept one hand, in which he clasped his tobacco pouch,
  inside the bosom of his dressing gown and held the stem of his pipe firmly
  with the other. Panting and puffing, the major grumbled and growled at
  everybody because he thought he was being pushed and that they were all
  hurrying when they had nowhere to hurry to and were all surprised at
  something when there was nothing to be surprised at. Another, a thin
  little officer, was speaking to everyone, conjecturing where they were now
  being taken and how far they would get that day. An official in felt boots
  and wearing a commissariat uniform ran round from side to side and gazed
  at the ruins of Moscow, loudly announcing his observations as to what had
  been burned down and what this or that part of the city was that they
  could see. A third officer, who by his accent was a Pole, disputed with
  the commissariat officer, arguing that he was mistaken in his
  identification of the different wards of Moscow.
<br />
  &ldquo;What are you disputing about?&rdquo; said the major angrily. &ldquo;What does it
  matter whether it is St. Nicholas or St. Blasius? You see it&rsquo;s burned
  down, and there&rsquo;s an end of it.... What are you pushing for? Isn&rsquo;t the
  road wide enough?&rdquo; said he, turning to a man behind him who was not
  pushing him at all.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, oh, oh! What have they done?&rdquo; the prisoners on one side and another
  were heard saying as they gazed on the charred ruins. &ldquo;All beyond the
  river, and Zúbova, and in the Krémlin.... Just look! There&rsquo;s not half of
  it left. Yes, I told you&mdash;the whole quarter beyond the river, and so
  it is.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, you know it&rsquo;s burned, so what&rsquo;s the use of talking?&rdquo; said the
  major.
<br />
  As they passed near a church in the Khamóvniki (one of the few unburned
  quarters of Moscow) the whole mass of prisoners suddenly started to one
  side and exclamations of horror and disgust were heard.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, the villains! What heathens! Yes; dead, dead, so he is... And smeared
  with something!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre too drew near the church where the thing was that evoked these
  exclamations, and dimly made out something leaning against the palings
  surrounding the church. From the words of his comrades who saw better than
  he did, he found that this was the body of a man, set upright against the
  palings with its face smeared with soot.
<br />
  &ldquo;Go on! What the devil... Go on! Thirty thousand devils!...&rdquo; the convoy
  guards began cursing and the French soldiers, with fresh virulence, drove
  away with their swords the crowd of prisoners who were gazing at the dead
  man.

  CHAPTER XIV


  Through the cross streets of the Khamóvniki quarter the prisoners marched,
  followed only by their escort and the vehicles and wagons belonging to
  that escort, but when they reached the supply stores they came among a
  huge and closely packed train of artillery mingled with private vehicles.
<br />
  At the bridge they all halted, waiting for those in front to get across.
  From the bridge they had a view of endless lines of moving baggage trains
  before and behind them. To the right, where the Kalúga road turns near
  Neskúchny, endless rows of troops and carts stretched away into the
  distance. These were troops of Beauharnais&rsquo; corps which had started before
  any of the others. Behind, along the riverside and across the Stone
  Bridge, were Ney&rsquo;s troops and transport.
<br />
  Davout&rsquo;s troops, in whose charge were the prisoners, were crossing the
  Crimean bridge and some were already debouching into the Kalúga road. But
  the baggage trains stretched out so that the last of Beauharnais&rsquo; train
  had not yet got out of Moscow and reached the Kalúga road when the
  vanguard of Ney&rsquo;s army was already emerging from the Great Ordýnka Street.
<br />
  When they had crossed the Crimean bridge the prisoners moved a few steps
  forward, halted, and again moved on, and from all sides vehicles and men
  crowded closer and closer together. They advanced the few hundred paces
  that separated the bridge from the Kalúga road, taking more than an hour
  to do so, and came out upon the square where the streets of the
  Transmoskvá ward and the Kalúga road converge, and the prisoners jammed
  close together had to stand for some hours at that crossway. From all
  sides, like the roar of the sea, were heard the rattle of wheels, the
  tramp of feet, and incessant shouts of anger and abuse. Pierre stood
  pressed against the wall of a charred house, listening to that noise which
  mingled in his imagination with the roll of the drums.
<br />
  To get a better view, several officer prisoners climbed onto the wall of
  the half-burned house against which Pierre was leaning.
<br />
  &ldquo;What crowds! Just look at the crowds!... They&rsquo;ve loaded goods even on the
  cannon! Look there, those are furs!&rdquo; they exclaimed. &ldquo;Just see what the
  blackguards have looted.... There! See what that one has behind in the
  cart.... Why, those are settings taken from some icons, by heaven!... Oh,
  the rascals!... See how that fellow has loaded himself up, he can hardly
  walk! Good lord, they&rsquo;ve even grabbed those chaises!... See that fellow
  there sitting on the trunks.... Heavens! They&rsquo;re fighting.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s right, hit him on the snout&mdash;on his snout! Like this, we
  shan&rsquo;t get away before evening. Look, look there.... Why, that must be
  Napoleon&rsquo;s own. See what horses! And the monograms with a crown! It&rsquo;s
  like a portable house.... That fellow&rsquo;s dropped his sack and doesn&rsquo;t
  see it. Fighting again... A woman with a baby, and not bad-looking either! Yes, I
  dare say, that&rsquo;s the way they&rsquo;ll let you pass.... Just look,
  there&rsquo;s no end to it. Russian wenches, by heaven, so they are! In
  carriages&mdash;see how comfortably they&rsquo;ve settled themselves!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Again, as at the church in Khamóvniki, a wave of general curiosity bore
  all the prisoners forward onto the road, and Pierre, thanks to his
  stature, saw over the heads of the others what so attracted their
  curiosity. In three carriages involved among the munition carts, closely
  squeezed together, sat women with rouged faces, dressed in glaring colors,
  who were shouting something in shrill voices.
<br />
  From the moment Pierre had recognized the appearance of the mysterious
  force nothing had seemed to him strange or dreadful: neither the corpse
  smeared with soot for fun nor these women hurrying away nor the burned
  ruins of Moscow. All that he now witnessed scarcely made an impression on
  him&mdash;as if his soul, making ready for a hard struggle, refused to
  receive impressions that might weaken it.
<br />
  The women&rsquo;s vehicles drove by. Behind them came more carts, soldiers,
  wagons, soldiers, gun carriages, carriages, soldiers, ammunition carts,
  more soldiers, and now and then women.
<br />
  Pierre did not see the people as individuals but saw their movement.
<br />
  All these people and horses seemed driven forward by some invisible power.
  During the hour Pierre watched them they all came flowing from the
  different streets with one and the same desire to get on quickly; they all
  jostled one another, began to grow angry and to fight, white teeth
  gleamed, brows frowned, ever the same words of abuse flew from side to
  side, and all the faces bore the same swaggeringly resolute and coldly
  cruel expression that had struck Pierre that morning on the corporal&rsquo;s
  face when the drums were beating.
<br />
  It was not till nearly evening that the officer commanding the escort
  collected his men and with shouts and quarrels forced his way in among the
  baggage trains, and the prisoners, hemmed in on all sides, emerged onto
  the Kalúga road.
<br />
  They marched very quickly, without resting, and halted only when the sun
  began to set. The baggage carts drew up close together and the men began
  to prepare for their night&rsquo;s rest. They all appeared angry and
  dissatisfied. For a long time, oaths, angry shouts, and fighting could be
  heard from all sides. A carriage that followed the escort ran into one of
  the carts and knocked a hole in it with its pole. Several soldiers ran
  toward the cart from different sides: some beat the carriage horses on
  their heads, turning them aside, others fought among themselves, and
  Pierre saw that one German was badly wounded on the head by a sword.
<br />
  It seemed that all these men, now that they had stopped amid fields in the
  chill dusk of the autumn evening, experienced one and the same feeling of
  unpleasant awakening from the hurry and eagerness to push on that had
  seized them at the start. Once at a standstill they all seemed to
  understand that they did not yet know where they were going, and that much
  that was painful and difficult awaited them on this journey.
<br />
  During this halt the escort treated the prisoners even worse than they had
  done at the start. It was here that the prisoners for the first time
  received horseflesh for their meat ration.
<br />
  From the officer down to the lowest soldier they showed what seemed like
  personal spite against each of the prisoners, in unexpected contrast to
  their former friendly relations.
<br />
  This spite increased still more when, on calling over the roll of
  prisoners, it was found that in the bustle of leaving Moscow one Russian
  soldier, who had pretended to suffer from colic, had escaped. Pierre saw a
  Frenchman beat a Russian soldier cruelly for straying too far from the
  road, and heard his friend the captain reprimand and threaten to
  court-martial a noncommissioned officer on account of the escape of the
  Russian. To the noncommissioned officer&rsquo;s excuse that the prisoner was ill
  and could not walk, the officer replied that the order was to shoot those
  who lagged behind. Pierre felt that that fatal force which had crushed him
  during the executions, but which he had not felt during his imprisonment,
  now again controlled his existence. It was terrible, but he felt that in
  proportion to the efforts of that fatal force to crush him, there grew and
  strengthened in his soul a power of life independent of it.
<br />
  He ate his supper of buckwheat soup with horseflesh and chatted with his
  comrades.
<br />
  Neither Pierre nor any of the others spoke of what they had seen in
  Moscow, or of the roughness of their treatment by the French, or of the
  order to shoot them which had been announced to them. As if in reaction
  against the worsening of their position they were all particularly
  animated and gay. They spoke of personal reminiscences, of amusing scenes
  they had witnessed during the campaign, and avoided all talk of their
  present situation.
<br />
  The sun had set long since. Bright stars shone out here and there in the
  sky. A red glow as of a conflagration spread above the horizon from the
  rising full moon, and that vast red ball swayed strangely in the gray
  haze. It grew light. The evening was ending, but the night had not yet
  come. Pierre got up and left his new companions, crossing between the
  campfires to the other side of the road where he had been told the common
  soldier prisoners were stationed. He wanted to talk to them. On the road
  he was stopped by a French sentinel who ordered him back.
<br />
  Pierre turned back, not to his companions by the campfire, but to an
  unharnessed cart where there was nobody. Tucking his legs under him and
  dropping his head he sat down on the cold ground by the wheel of the cart
  and remained motionless a long while sunk in thought. Suddenly he burst
  out into a fit of his broad, good-natured laughter, so loud that men from
  various sides turned with surprise to see what this strange and evidently
  solitary laughter could mean.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ha-ha-ha!&rdquo; laughed Pierre. And he said aloud to himself: &ldquo;The soldier did
  not let me pass. They took me and shut me up. They hold me captive. What,
  me? Me? My immortal soul? Ha-ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha!...&rdquo; and he laughed till
  tears started to his eyes.
<br />
  A man got up and came to see what this queer big fellow was laughing at
  all by himself. Pierre stopped laughing, got up, went farther away from
  the inquisitive man, and looked around him.
<br />
  The huge, endless bivouac that had previously resounded with the crackling
  of campfires and the voices of many men had grown quiet, the red campfires
  were growing paler and dying down. High up in the light sky hung the full
  moon. Forests and fields beyond the camp, unseen before, were now visible
  in the distance. And farther still, beyond those forests and fields, the
  bright, oscillating, limitless distance lured one to itself. Pierre
  glanced up at the sky and the twinkling stars in its faraway depths. &ldquo;And
  all that is me, all that is within me, and it is all I!&rdquo; thought Pierre.
  &ldquo;And they caught all that and put it into a shed boarded up with planks!&rdquo;
   He smiled, and went and lay down to sleep beside his companions.

  CHAPTER XV


  In the early days of October another envoy came to Kutúzov with a letter
  from Napoleon proposing peace and falsely dated from Moscow, though
  Napoleon was already not far from Kutúzov on the old Kalúga road. Kutúzov
  replied to this letter as he had done to the one formerly brought by
  Lauriston, saying that there could be no question of peace.
<br />
  Soon after that a report was received from Dórokhov&rsquo;s guerrilla detachment
  operating to the left of Tarútino that troops of Broussier&rsquo;s division had
  been seen at Formínsk and that being separated from the rest of the French
  army they might easily be destroyed. The soldiers and officers again
  demanded action. Generals on the staff, excited by the memory of the easy
  victory at Tarútino, urged Kutúzov to carry out Dórokhov&rsquo;s suggestion.
  Kutúzov did not consider any offensive necessary. The result was a
  compromise which was inevitable: a small detachment was sent to Formínsk
  to attack Broussier.
<br />
  By a strange coincidence, this task, which turned out to be a most
  difficult and important one, was entrusted to Dokhtúrov&mdash;that same
  modest little Dokhtúrov whom no one had described to us as drawing up
  plans of battles, dashing about in front of regiments, showering crosses
  on batteries, and so on, and who was thought to be and was spoken of as
  undecided and undiscerning&mdash;but whom we find commanding wherever the
  position was most difficult all through the Russo-French wars from
  Austerlitz to the year 1813. At Austerlitz he remained last at the Augezd
  dam, rallying the regiments, saving what was possible when all were flying
  and perishing and not a single general was left in the rear guard. Ill
  with fever he went to Smolénsk with twenty thousand men to defend the town
  against Napoleon&rsquo;s whole army. In Smolénsk, at the Malákhov Gate, he had
  hardly dozed off in a paroxysm of fever before he was awakened by the
  bombardment of the town&mdash;and Smolénsk held out all day long. At the
  battle of Borodinó, when Bagratión was killed and nine tenths of the men
  of our left flank had fallen and the full force of the French artillery
  fire was directed against it, the man sent there was this same irresolute
  and undiscerning Dokhtúrov&mdash;Kutúzov hastening to rectify a mistake he
  had made by sending someone else there first. And the quiet little
  Dokhtúrov rode thither, and Borodinó became the greatest glory of the
  Russian army. Many heroes have been described to us in verse and prose,
  but of Dokhtúrov scarcely a word has been said.
<br />
  It was Dokhtúrov again whom they sent to Formínsk and from there to
  Málo-Yaroslávets, the place where the last battle with the French was
  fought and where the obvious disintegration of the French army began; and
  we are told of many geniuses and heroes of that period of the campaign,
  but of Dokhtúrov nothing or very little is said and that dubiously. And
  this silence about Dokhtúrov is the clearest testimony to his merit.
<br />
  It is natural for a man who does not understand the workings of a machine
  to imagine that a shaving that has fallen into it by chance and is
  interfering with its action and tossing about in it is its most important
  part. The man who does not understand the construction of the machine
  cannot conceive that the small connecting cogwheel which revolves quietly
  is one of the most essential parts of the machine, and not the shaving
  which merely harms and hinders the working.
<br />
  On the tenth of October when Dokhtúrov had gone halfway to Formínsk and
  stopped at the village of Aristóvo, preparing faithfully to execute the
  orders he had received, the whole French army having, in its convulsive
  movement, reached Murat&rsquo;s position apparently in order to give battle&mdash;suddenly
  without any reason turned off to the left onto the new Kalúga road and
  began to enter Formínsk, where only Broussier had been till then. At that
  time Dokhtúrov had under his command, besides Dórokhov&rsquo;s detachment, the
  two small guerrilla detachments of Figner and Seslávin.
<br />
  On the evening of October 11 Seslávin came to the Aristóvo headquarters
  with a French guardsman he had captured. The prisoner said that the troops
  that had entered Formínsk that day were the vanguard of the whole army,
  that Napoleon was there and the whole army had left Moscow four days
  previously. That same evening a house serf who had come from Bórovsk said
  he had seen an immense army entering the town. Some Cossacks of
  Dokhtúrov&rsquo;s detachment reported having sighted the French Guards marching
  along the road to Bórovsk. From all these reports it was evident that
  where they had expected to meet a single division there was now the whole
  French army marching from Moscow in an unexpected direction&mdash;along
  the Kalúga road. Dokhtúrov was unwilling to undertake any action, as it
  was not clear to him now what he ought to do. He had been ordered to
  attack Formínsk. But only Broussier had been there at that time and now
  the whole French army was there. Ermólov wished to act on his own
  judgment, but Dokhtúrov insisted that he must have Kutúzov&rsquo;s instructions.
  So it was decided to send a dispatch to the staff.
<br />
  For this purpose a capable officer, Bolkhovítinov, was chosen, who was to
  explain the whole affair by word of mouth, besides delivering a written
  report. Toward midnight Bolkhovítinov, having received the dispatch and
  verbal instructions, galloped off to the General Staff accompanied by a
  Cossack with spare horses.

  CHAPTER XVI


  It was a warm, dark, autumn night. It had been raining for four days.
  Having changed horses twice and galloped twenty miles in an hour and a
  half over a sticky, muddy road, Bolkhovítinov reached Litashëvka after one
  o&rsquo;clock at night. Dismounting at a cottage on whose wattle fence hung a
  signboard, GENERAL STAFF, and throwing down his reins, he entered a dark
  passage.
<br />
  &ldquo;The general on duty, quick! It&rsquo;s very important!&rdquo; said he to someone who
  had risen and was sniffing in the dark passage.
<br />
  &ldquo;He has been very unwell since the evening and this is the third night he
  has not slept,&rdquo; said the orderly pleadingly in a whisper. &ldquo;You should wake
  the captain first.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But this is very important, from General Dokhtúrov,&rdquo; said Bolkhovítinov,
  entering the open door which he had found by feeling in the dark.
<br />
  The orderly had gone in before him and began waking somebody.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your honor, your honor! A courier.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What? What&rsquo;s that? From whom?&rdquo; came a sleepy voice.
<br />
  &ldquo;From Dokhtúrov and from Alexéy Petróvich. Napoleon is at Formínsk,&rdquo; said
  Bolkhovítinov, unable to see in the dark who was speaking but guessing by
  the voice that it was not Konovnítsyn.
<br />
  The man who had wakened yawned and stretched himself.
<br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t like waking him,&rdquo; he said, fumbling for something. &ldquo;He is very
  ill. Perhaps this is only a rumor.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Here is the dispatch,&rdquo; said Bolkhovítinov. &ldquo;My orders are to give it at
  once to the general on duty.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Wait a moment, I&rsquo;ll light a candle. You damned rascal, where do you
  always hide it?&rdquo; said the voice of the man who was stretching himself, to
  the orderly. (This was Shcherbínin, Konovnítsyn&rsquo;s adjutant.) &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve found
  it, I&rsquo;ve found it!&rdquo; he added.
<br />
  The orderly was striking a light and Shcherbínin was fumbling for
  something on the candlestick.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, the nasty beasts!&rdquo; said he with disgust.
<br />
  By the light of the sparks Bolkhovítinov saw Shcherbínin&rsquo;s youthful face
  as he held the candle, and the face of another man who was still asleep.
  This was Konovnítsyn.
<br />
  When the flame of the sulphur splinters kindled by the tinder burned up,
  first blue and then red, Shcherbínin lit the tallow candle, from the
  candlestick of which the cockroaches that had been gnawing it were running
  away, and looked at the messenger. Bolkhovítinov was bespattered all over
  with mud and had smeared his face by wiping it with his sleeve.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who gave the report?&rdquo; inquired Shcherbínin, taking the envelope.
<br />
  &ldquo;The news is reliable,&rdquo; said Bolkhovítinov. &ldquo;Prisoners, Cossacks,
  and the scouts all say the same thing.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;There&rsquo;s nothing to be done, we&rsquo;ll have to wake him,&rdquo; said Shcherbínin,
  rising and going up to the man in the nightcap who lay covered by a
  greatcoat. &ldquo;Peter Petróvich!&rdquo; said he. (Konovnítsyn did not stir.) &ldquo;To the
  General Staff!&rdquo; he said with a smile, knowing that those words would be
  sure to arouse him.
<br />
  And in fact the head in the nightcap was lifted at once. On Konovnítsyn&rsquo;s
  handsome, resolute face with cheeks flushed by fever, there still remained
  for an instant a faraway dreamy expression remote from present affairs,
  but then he suddenly started and his face assumed its habitual calm and
  firm appearance.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, what is it? From whom?&rdquo; he asked immediately but without hurry,
  blinking at the light.
<br />
  While listening to the officer&rsquo;s report Konovnítsyn broke the seal and
  read the dispatch. Hardly had he done so before he lowered his legs in
  their woolen stockings to the earthen floor and began putting on his
  boots. Then he took off his nightcap, combed his hair over his temples,
  and donned his cap.
<br />
  &ldquo;Did you get here quickly? Let us go to his Highness.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Konovnítsyn had understood at once that the news brought was of great
  importance and that no time must be lost. He did not consider or ask
  himself whether the news was good or bad. That did not interest him. He
  regarded the whole business of the war not with his intelligence or his
  reason but by something else. There was within him a deep unexpressed
  conviction that all would be well, but that one must not trust to this and
  still less speak about it, but must only attend to one&rsquo;s own work. And he
  did his work, giving his whole strength to the task.
<br />
  Peter Petróvich Konovnítsyn, like Dokhtúrov, seems to have been included
  merely for propriety&rsquo;s sake in the list of the so-called heroes of 1812&mdash;the
  Barclays, Raévskis, Ermólovs, Plátovs, and Milorádoviches. Like Dokhtúrov
  he had the reputation of being a man of very limited capacity and
  information, and like Dokhtúrov he never made plans of battle but was
  always found where the situation was most difficult. Since his appointment
  as general on duty he had always slept with his door open, giving orders
  that every messenger should be allowed to wake him up. In battle he was
  always under fire, so that Kutúzov reproved him for it and feared to send
  him to the front, and like Dokhtúrov he was one of those unnoticed
  cogwheels that, without clatter or noise, constitute the most essential
  part of the machine.
<br />
  Coming out of the hut into the damp, dark night Konovnítsyn frowned&mdash;partly
  from an increased pain in his head and partly at the unpleasant thought
  that occurred to him, of how all that nest of influential men on the staff
  would be stirred up by this news, especially Bennigsen, who ever since
  Tarútino had been at daggers drawn with Kutúzov; and how they would make
  suggestions, quarrel, issue orders, and rescind them. And this premonition
  was disagreeable to him though he knew it could not be helped.
<br />
  And in fact Toll, to whom he went to communicate the news, immediately
  began to expound his plans to a general sharing his quarters, until
  Konovnítsyn, who listened in weary silence, reminded him that they must go
  to see his Highness.

  CHAPTER XVII


  Kutúzov like all old people did not sleep much at night. He often fell
  asleep unexpectedly in the daytime, but at night, lying on his bed without
  undressing, he generally remained awake thinking.
<br />
  So he lay now on his bed, supporting his large, heavy, scarred head on his
  plump hand, with his one eye open, meditating and peering into the
  darkness.
<br />
  Since Bennigsen, who corresponded with the Emperor and had more influence
  than anyone else on the staff, had begun to avoid him, Kutúzov was more at
  ease as to the possibility of himself and his troops being obliged to take
  part in useless aggressive movements. The lesson of the Tarútino battle
  and of the day before it, which Kutúzov remembered with pain, must, he
  thought, have some effect on others too.
<br />
  &ldquo;They must understand that we can only lose by taking the offensive.
  Patience and time are my warriors, my champions,&rdquo; thought Kutúzov. He knew
  that an apple should not be plucked while it is green. It will fall of
  itself when ripe, but if picked unripe the apple is spoiled, the tree is
  harmed, and your teeth are set on edge. Like an experienced sportsman he
  knew that the beast was wounded, and wounded as only the whole strength of
  Russia could have wounded it, but whether it was mortally wounded or not
  was still an undecided question. Now by the fact of Lauriston and
  Barthélemi having been sent, and by the reports of the guerrillas, Kutúzov
  was almost sure that the wound was mortal. But he needed further proofs
  and it was necessary to wait.
<br />
  &ldquo;They want to run to see how they have wounded it. Wait and we shall see!
  Continual maneuvers, continual advances!&rdquo; thought he. &ldquo;What for? Only to
  distinguish themselves! As if fighting were fun. They are like children
  from whom one can&rsquo;t get any sensible account of what has happened because
  they all want to show how well they can fight. But that&rsquo;s not what is
  needed now.
<br />
  &ldquo;And what ingenious maneuvers they all propose to me! It seems to them
  that when they have thought of two or three contingencies&rdquo; (he remembered
  the general plan sent him from Petersburg) &ldquo;they have foreseen everything.
  But the contingencies are endless.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The undecided question as to whether the wound inflicted at Borodinó was
  mortal or not had hung over Kutúzov&rsquo;s head for a whole month. On the one
  hand the French had occupied Moscow. On the other Kutúzov felt assured
  with all his being that the terrible blow into which he and all the
  Russians had put their whole strength must have been mortal. But in any
  case proofs were needed; he had waited a whole month for them and grew
  more impatient the longer he waited. Lying on his bed during those
  sleepless nights he did just what he reproached those younger generals for
  doing. He imagined all sorts of possible contingencies, just like the
  younger men, but with this difference, that he saw thousands of
  contingencies instead of two or three and based nothing on them. The
  longer he thought the more contingencies presented themselves. He imagined
  all sorts of movements of the Napoleonic army as a whole or in sections&mdash;against
  Petersburg, or against him, or to outflank him. He thought too of the
  possibility (which he feared most of all) that Napoleon might fight him
  with his own weapon and remain in Moscow awaiting him. Kutúzov even
  imagined that Napoleon&rsquo;s army might turn back through Medýn and Yukhnóv,
  but the one thing he could not foresee was what happened&mdash;the insane,
  convulsive stampede of Napoleon&rsquo;s army during its first eleven days after
  leaving Moscow: a stampede which made possible what Kutúzov had not yet
  even dared to think of&mdash;the complete extermination of the French.
  Dórokhov&rsquo;s report about Broussier&rsquo;s division, the guerrillas&rsquo; reports of
  distress in Napoleon&rsquo;s army, rumors of preparations for leaving Moscow,
  all confirmed the supposition that the French army was beaten and
  preparing for flight. But these were only suppositions, which seemed
  important to the younger men but not to Kutúzov. With his sixty years&rsquo;
  experience he knew what value to attach to rumors, knew how apt people who
  desire anything are to group all news so that it appears to confirm what
  they desire, and he knew how readily in such cases they omit all that
  makes for the contrary. And the more he desired it the less he allowed
  himself to believe it. This question absorbed all his mental powers. All
  else was to him only life&rsquo;s customary routine. To such customary routine
  belonged his conversations with the staff, the letters he wrote from
  Tarútino to Madame de Staël, the reading of novels, the distribution of
  awards, his correspondence with Petersburg, and so on. But the destruction
  of the French, which he alone foresaw, was his heart&rsquo;s one desire.
<br />
  On the night of the eleventh of October he lay leaning on his arm and
  thinking of that.
<br />
  There was a stir in the next room and he heard the steps of Toll,
  Konovnítsyn, and Bolkhovítinov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Eh, who&rsquo;s there? Come in, come in! What news?&rdquo; the field marshal called
  out to them.
<br />
  While a footman was lighting a candle, Toll communicated the substance of
  the news.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who brought it?&rdquo; asked Kutúzov with a look which, when the candle was
  lit, struck Toll by its cold severity.
<br />
  &ldquo;There can be no doubt about it, your Highness.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Call him in, call him here.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Kutúzov sat up with one leg hanging down from the bed and his big paunch
  resting against the other which was doubled under him. He screwed up his
  seeing eye to scrutinize the messenger more carefully, as if wishing to
  read in his face what preoccupied his own mind.
<br />
  &ldquo;Tell me, tell me, friend,&rdquo; said he to Bolkhovítinov in his low, aged
  voice, as he pulled together the shirt which gaped open on his chest,
  &ldquo;come nearer&mdash;nearer. What news have you brought me? Eh? That
  Napoleon has left Moscow? Are you sure? Eh?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Bolkhovítinov gave a detailed account from the beginning of all he had
  been told to report.
<br />
  &ldquo;Speak quicker, quicker! Don&rsquo;t torture me!&rdquo; Kutúzov interrupted him.
<br />
  Bolkhovítinov told him everything and was then silent, awaiting
  instructions. Toll was beginning to say something but Kutúzov checked him.
  He tried to say something, but his face suddenly puckered and wrinkled; he
  waved his arm at Toll and turned to the opposite side of the room, to the
  corner darkened by the icons that hung there.
<br />
  &ldquo;O Lord, my Creator, Thou has heard our prayer...&rdquo; said he in a tremulous
  voice with folded hands. &ldquo;Russia is saved. I thank Thee, O Lord!&rdquo; and he
  wept.

  CHAPTER XVIII


  From the time he received this news to the end of the campaign all
  Kutúzov&rsquo;s activity was directed toward restraining his troops, by
  authority, by guile, and by entreaty, from useless attacks, maneuvers, or
  encounters with the perishing enemy. Dokhtúrov went to Málo-Yaroslávets,
  but Kutúzov lingered with the main army and gave orders for the evacuation
  of Kalúga&mdash;a retreat beyond which town seemed to him quite possible.
<br />
  Everywhere Kutúzov retreated, but the enemy without waiting for his
  retreat fled in the opposite direction.
<br />
  Napoleon&rsquo;s historians describe to us his skilled maneuvers at Tarútino and
  Málo-Yaroslávets, and make conjectures as to what would have happened had
  Napoleon been in time to penetrate into the rich southern provinces.
<br />
  But not to speak of the fact that nothing prevented him from advancing
  into those southern provinces (for the Russian army did not bar his way),
  the historians forget that nothing could have saved his army, for then
  already it bore within itself the germs of inevitable ruin. How could that
  army&mdash;which had found abundant supplies in Moscow and had trampled
  them underfoot instead of keeping them, and on arriving at Smolénsk had
  looted provisions instead of storing them&mdash;how could that army
  recuperate in Kalúga province, which was inhabited by Russians such as
  those who lived in Moscow, and where fire had the same property of
  consuming what was set ablaze?
<br />
  That army could not recover anywhere. Since the battle of Borodinó and the
  pillage of Moscow it had borne within itself, as it were, the chemical
  elements of dissolution.
<br />
  The members of what had once been an army&mdash;Napoleon himself and all
  his soldiers&mdash;fled without knowing whither, each concerned only to
  make his escape as quickly as possible from this position, of the
  hopelessness of which they were all more or less vaguely conscious.
<br />
  So it came about that at the council at Málo-Yaroslávets, when the
  generals pretending to confer together expressed various opinions, all
  mouths were closed by the opinion uttered by the simple-minded soldier
  Mouton who, speaking last, said what they all felt: that the one thing
  needful was to get away as quickly as possible; and no one, not even
  Napoleon, could say anything against that truth which they all recognized.
<br />
  But though they all realized that it was necessary to get away, there
  still remained a feeling of shame at admitting that they must flee. An
  external shock was needed to overcome that shame, and this shock came in
  due time. It was what the French called 
 <br />
  The day after the council at Málo-Yaroslávets Napoleon rode out early in
  the morning amid the lines of his army with his suite of marshals and an
  escort, on the pretext of inspecting the army and the scene of the
  previous and of the impending battle. Some Cossacks on the prowl for booty
  fell in with the Emperor and very nearly captured him. If the Cossacks did
  not capture Napoleon then, what saved him was the very thing that was
  destroying the French army, the booty on which the Cossacks fell. Here as
  at Tarútino they went after plunder, leaving the men. Disregarding
  Napoleon they rushed after the plunder and Napoleon managed to escape.
<br />
  When  might so easily have taken the Emperor himself in
  the midst of his army, it was clear that there was nothing for it but to
  fly as fast as possible along the nearest, familiar road. Napoleon with
  his forty-year-old stomach understood that hint, not feeling his former
  agility and boldness, and under the influence of the fright the Cossacks
  had given him he at once agreed with Mouton and issued orders&mdash;as the
  historians tell us&mdash;to retreat by the Smolénsk road.
<br />
  That Napoleon agreed with Mouton, and that the army retreated, does not
  prove that Napoleon caused it to retreat, but that the forces which
  influenced the whole army and directed it along the Mozháysk (that is, the
  Smolénsk) road acted simultaneously on him also.

  CHAPTER XIX


  A man in motion always devises an aim for that motion. To be able to go a
  thousand miles he must imagine that something good awaits him at the end
  of those thousand miles. One must have the prospect of a promised land to
  have the strength to move.
<br />
  The promised land for the French during their advance had been Moscow,
  during their retreat it was their native land. But that native land was
  too far off, and for a man going a thousand miles it is absolutely
  necessary to set aside his final goal and to say to himself: &ldquo;Today I
  shall get to a place twenty-five miles off where I shall rest and spend
  the night,&rdquo; and during the first day&rsquo;s journey that resting place eclipses
  his ultimate goal and attracts all his hopes and desires. And the impulses
  felt by a single person are always magnified in a crowd.
<br />
  For the French retreating along the old Smolénsk road, the final goal&mdash;their
  native land&mdash;was too remote, and their immediate goal was Smolénsk,
  toward which all their desires and hopes, enormously intensified in the
  mass, urged them on. It was not that they knew that much food and fresh
  troops awaited them in Smolénsk, nor that they were told so (on the
  contrary their superior officers, and Napoleon himself, knew that
  provisions were scarce there), but because this alone could give them
  strength to move on and endure their present privations. So both those who
  knew and those who did not know deceived themselves, and pushed on to
  Smolénsk as to a promised land.
<br />
  Coming out onto the highroad the French fled with surprising energy and
  unheard-of rapidity toward the goal they had fixed on. Besides the common
  impulse which bound the whole crowd of French into one mass and supplied
  them with a certain energy, there was another cause binding them together&mdash;their
  great numbers. As with the physical law of gravity, their enormous mass
  drew the individual human atoms to itself. In their hundreds of thousands
  they moved like a whole nation.
<br />
  Each of them desired nothing more than to give himself up as a prisoner to
  escape from all this horror and misery; but on the one hand the force of
  this common attraction to Smolénsk, their goal, drew each of them in the
  same direction; on the other hand an army corps could not surrender to a
  company, and though the French availed themselves of every convenient
  opportunity to detach themselves and to surrender on the slightest decent
  pretext, such pretexts did not always occur. Their very numbers and their
  crowded and swift movement deprived them of that possibility and rendered
  it not only difficult but impossible for the Russians to stop this
  movement, to which the French were directing all their energies. Beyond a
  certain limit no mechanical disruption of the body could hasten the
  process of decomposition.
<br />
  A lump of snow cannot be melted instantaneously. There is a certain limit
  of time in less than which no amount of heat can melt the snow. On the
  contrary the greater the heat the more solidified the remaining snow
  becomes.
<br />
  Of the Russian commanders Kutúzov alone understood this. When the flight
  of the French army along the Smolénsk road became well defined, what
  Konovnítsyn had foreseen on the night of the eleventh of October began to
  occur. The superior officers all wanted to distinguish themselves, to cut
  off, to seize, to capture, and to overthrow the French, and all clamored
  for action.
<br />
  Kutúzov alone used all his power (and such power is very limited in the
  case of any commander in chief) to prevent an attack.
<br />
  He could not tell them what we say now: &ldquo;Why fight, why block the road,
  losing our own men and inhumanly slaughtering unfortunate wretches? What
  is the use of that, when a third of their army has melted away on the road
  from Moscow to Vyázma without any battle?&rdquo; But drawing from his aged
  wisdom what they could understand, he told them of the golden bridge, and
  they laughed at and slandered him, flinging themselves on, rending and
  exulting over the dying beast.
<br />
  Ermólov, Milorádovich, Plátov, and others in proximity to the French near
  Vyázma could not resist their desire to cut off and break up two French
  corps, and by way of reporting their intention to Kutúzov they sent him a
  blank sheet of paper in an envelope.
<br />
  And try as Kutúzov might to restrain the troops, our men attacked, trying
  to bar the road. Infantry regiments, we are told, advanced to the attack
  with music and with drums beating, and killed and lost thousands of men.
<br />
  But they did not cut off or overthrow anybody and the French army, closing
  up more firmly at the danger, continued, while steadily melting away, to
  pursue its fatal path to Smolénsk.

  BOOK FOURTEEN: 1812

  CHAPTER I


  The Battle of Borodinó, with the occupation of Moscow that followed it and
  the flight of the French without further conflicts, is one of the most
  instructive phenomena in history.
<br />
  All historians agree that the external activity of states and nations in
  their conflicts with one another is expressed in wars, and that as a
  direct result of greater or less success in war the political strength of
  states and nations increases or decreases.
<br />
  Strange as may be the historical account of how some king or emperor,
  having quarreled with another, collects an army, fights his enemy&rsquo;s army,
  gains a victory by killing three, five, or ten thousand men, and
  subjugates a kingdom and an entire nation of several millions, all the
  facts of history (as far as we know it) confirm the truth of the statement
  that the greater or lesser success of one army against another is the
  cause, or at least an essential indication, of an increase or decrease in
  the strength of the nation&mdash;even though it is unintelligible why the
  defeat of an army&mdash;a hundredth part of a nation&mdash;should oblige
  that whole nation to submit. An army gains a victory, and at once the
  rights of the conquering nation have increased to the detriment of the
  defeated. An army has suffered defeat, and at once a people loses its
  rights in proportion to the severity of the reverse, and if its army
  suffers a complete defeat the nation is quite subjugated.
<br />
  So according to history it has been found from the most ancient times, and
  so it is to our own day. All Napoleon&rsquo;s wars serve to confirm this rule.
  In proportion to the defeat of the Austrian army Austria loses its rights,
  and the rights and the strength of France increase. The victories of the
  French at Jena and Auerstädt destroy the independent existence of Prussia.
<br />
  But then, in 1812, the French gain a victory near Moscow. Moscow is taken
  and after that, with no further battles, it is not Russia that ceases to
  exist, but the French army of six hundred thousand, and then Napoleonic
  France itself. To strain the facts to fit the rules of history: to say
  that the field of battle at Borodinó remained in the hands of the
  Russians, or that after Moscow there were other battles that destroyed
  Napoleon&rsquo;s army, is impossible.
<br />
  After the French victory at Borodinó there was no general engagement nor
  any that were at all serious, yet the French army ceased to exist. What
  does this mean? If it were an example taken from the history of China, we
  might say that it was not an historic phenomenon (which is the historians&rsquo;
  usual expedient when anything does not fit their standards); if the matter
  concerned some brief conflict in which only a small number of troops took
  part, we might treat it as an exception; but this event occurred before
  our fathers&rsquo; eyes, and for them it was a question of the life or death of
  their fatherland, and it happened in the greatest of all known wars.
<br />
  The period of the campaign of 1812 from the battle of Borodinó to the
  expulsion of the French proved that the winning of a battle does not
  produce a conquest and is not even an invariable indication of conquest;
  it proved that the force which decides the fate of peoples lies not in the
  conquerors, nor even in armies and battles, but in something else.
<br />
  The French historians, describing the condition of the French army before
  it left Moscow, affirm that all was in order in the Grand Army, except the
  cavalry, the artillery, and the transport&mdash;there was no forage for
  the horses or the cattle. That was a misfortune no one could remedy, for
  the peasants of the district burned their hay rather than let the French
  have it.
<br />
  The victory gained did not bring the usual results because the peasants
  Karp and Vlas (who after the French had evacuated Moscow drove in their
  carts to pillage the town, and in general personally failed to manifest
  any heroic feelings), and the whole innumerable multitude of such
  peasants, did not bring their hay to Moscow for the high price offered
  them, but burned it instead.
<br />
  Let us imagine two men who have come out to fight a duel with rapiers
  according to all the rules of the art of fencing. The fencing has gone on
  for some time; suddenly one of the combatants, feeling himself wounded and
  understanding that the matter is no joke but concerns his life, throws
  down his rapier, and seizing the first cudgel that comes to hand begins to
  brandish it. Then let us imagine that the combatant who so sensibly
  employed the best and simplest means to attain his end was at the same
  time influenced by traditions of chivalry and, desiring to conceal the
  facts of the case, insisted that he had gained his victory with the rapier
  according to all the rules of art. One can imagine what confusion and
  obscurity would result from such an account of the duel.
<br />
  The fencer who demanded a contest according to the rules of fencing was
  the French army; his opponent who threw away the rapier and snatched up
  the cudgel was the Russian people; those who try to explain the matter
  according to the rules of fencing are the historians who have described
  the event.
<br />
  After the burning of Smolénsk a war began which did not follow any
  previous traditions of war. The burning of towns and villages, the
  retreats after battles, the blow dealt at Borodinó and the renewed
  retreat, the burning of Moscow, the capture of marauders, the seizure of
  transports, and the guerrilla war were all departures from the rules.
<br />
  Napoleon felt this, and from the time he took up the correct fencing
  attitude in Moscow and instead of his opponent&rsquo;s rapier saw a cudgel
  raised above his head, he did not cease to complain to Kutúzov and to the
  Emperor Alexander that the war was being carried on contrary to all the
  rules&mdash;as if there were any rules for killing people. In spite of the
  complaints of the French as to the nonobservance of the rules, in spite of
  the fact that to some highly placed Russians it seemed rather disgraceful
  to fight with a cudgel and they wanted to assume a pose  or  according to all the rules, and to make an adroit thrust ,
  and so on&mdash;the cudgel of the people&rsquo;s war was lifted with all its
  menacing and majestic strength, and without consulting anyone&rsquo;s tastes or
  rules and regardless of anything else, it rose and fell with stupid
  simplicity, but consistently, and belabored the French till the whole
  invasion had perished.
<br />
  And it is well for a people who do not&mdash;as the French did in 1813&mdash;salute
  according to all the rules of art, and, presenting the hilt of their
  rapier gracefully and politely, hand it to their magnanimous conqueror,
  but at the moment of trial, without asking what rules others have adopted
  in similar cases, simply and easily pick up the first cudgel that comes to
  hand and strike with it till the feeling of resentment and revenge in
  their soul yields to a feeling of contempt and compassion.

  CHAPTER II


  One of the most obvious and advantageous departures from the so-called
  laws of war is the action of scattered groups against men pressed together
  in a mass. Such action always occurs in wars that take on a national
  character. In such actions, instead of two crowds opposing each other, the
  men disperse, attack singly, run away when attacked by stronger forces,
  but again attack when opportunity offers. This was done by the guerrillas
  in Spain, by the mountain tribes in the Caucasus, and by the Russians in
  1812.
<br />
  People have called this kind of war &ldquo;guerrilla warfare&rdquo; and assume that by
  so calling it they have explained its meaning. But such a war does not fit
  in under any rule and is directly opposed to a well-known rule of tactics
  which is accepted as infallible. That rule says that an attacker should
  concentrate his forces in order to be stronger than his opponent at the
  moment of conflict.
<br />
  Guerrilla war (always successful, as history shows) directly infringes
  that rule.
<br />
  This contradiction arises from the fact that military science assumes the
  strength of an army to be identical with its numbers. Military science
  says that the more troops the greater the strength. . *
<br />
* Large battalions are always victorious.

For military science to say this is like defining momentum in mechanics by reference to the mass only: stating that momenta are equal or unequal to each other simply because the masses involved are equal or unequal.
Momentum (quantity of motion) is the product of mass and velocity.
In military affairs the strength of an army is the product of its mass and some unknown .
Military science, seeing in history innumerable instances of the fact that the size of any army does not coincide with its strength and that small detachments defeat larger ones, obscurely admits the existence of this unknown factor and tries to discover it—now in a geometric formation, now in the equipment employed, now, and most usually, in the genius of the commanders. But the assignment of these various meanings to the factor does not yield results which accord with the historic facts.
Yet it is only necessary to abandon the false view (adopted to gratify the “heroes”) of the efficacy of the directions issued in wartime by commanders, in order to find this unknown quantity.
That unknown quantity is the spirit of the army, that is to say, the greater or lesser readiness to fight and face danger felt by all the men composing an army, quite independently of whether they are, or are not, fighting under the command of a genius, in two—or three-line formation, with cudgels or with rifles that repeat thirty times a minute. Men who want to fight will always put themselves in the most advantageous conditions for fighting.
The spirit of an army is the factor which multiplied by the mass gives the resulting force. To define and express the significance of this unknown factor—the spirit of an army—is a problem for science.
This problem is only solvable if we cease arbitrarily to substitute for the unknown itself the conditions under which that force becomes apparent—such as the commands of the general, the equipment employed, and so on—mistaking these for the real significance of the factor, and if we recognize this unknown quantity in its entirety as being the greater or lesser desire to fight and to face danger. Only then, expressing known historic facts by equations and comparing the relative significance of this factor, can we hope to define the unknown.
Ten men, battalions, or divisions, fighting fifteen men, battalions, or divisions, conquer—that is, kill or take captive—all the others, while themselves losing four, so that on the one side four and on the other fifteen were lost. Consequently the four were equal to the fifteen, and therefore 4 = 15. Consequently = 15/4. This equation does not give us the value of the unknown factor but gives us a ratio between two unknowns. And by bringing variously selected historic units (battles, campaigns, periods of war) into such equations, a series of numbers could be obtained in which certain laws should exist and might be discovered.
The tactical rule that an army should act in masses when attacking, and in smaller groups in retreat, unconsciously confirms the truth that the strength of an army depends on its spirit. To lead men forward under fire more discipline (obtainable only by movement in masses) is needed than is needed to resist attacks. But this rule which leaves out of account the spirit of the army continually proves incorrect and is in particularly striking contrast to the facts when some strong rise or fall in the spirit of the troops occurs, as in all national wars.
The French, retreating in 1812—though according to tactics they should have separated into detachments to defend themselves—congregated into a mass because the spirit of the army had so fallen that only the mass held the army together. The Russians, on the contrary, ought according to tactics to have attacked in mass, but in fact they split up into small units, because their spirit had so risen that separate individuals, without orders, dealt blows at the French without needing any compulsion to induce them to expose themselves to hardships and dangers.

  CHAPTER III


  The so-called partisan war began with the entry of the French into
  Smolénsk.
<br />
  Before partisan warfare had been officially recognized by the government,
  thousands of enemy stragglers, marauders, and foragers had been destroyed
  by the Cossacks and the peasants, who killed them off as instinctively as
  dogs worry a stray mad dog to death. Denís Davýdov, with his Russian
  instinct, was the first to recognize the value of this terrible cudgel
  which regardless of the rules of military science destroyed the French,
  and to him belongs the credit for taking the first step toward
  regularizing this method of warfare.
<br />
  On August 24 Davýdov&rsquo;s first partisan detachment was formed and then
  others were recognized. The further the campaign progressed the more
  numerous these detachments became.
<br />
  The irregulars destroyed the great army piecemeal. They gathered the
  fallen leaves that dropped of themselves from that withered tree&mdash;the
  French army&mdash;and sometimes shook that tree itself. By October, when
  the French were fleeing toward Smolénsk, there were hundreds of such
  companies, of various sizes and characters. There were some that adopted
  all the army methods and had infantry, artillery, staffs, and the comforts
  of life. Others consisted solely of Cossack cavalry. There were also small
  scratch groups of foot and horse, and groups of peasants and landowners
  that remained unknown. A sacristan commanded one party which captured
  several hundred prisoners in the course of a month; and there was
  Vasílisa, the wife of a village elder, who slew hundreds of the French.
<br />
  The partisan warfare flamed up most fiercely in the latter days of
  October. Its first period had passed: when the partisans themselves,
  amazed at their own boldness, feared every minute to be surrounded and
  captured by the French, and hid in the forests without unsaddling, hardly
  daring to dismount and always expecting to be pursued. By the end of
  October this kind of warfare had taken definite shape: it had become clear
  to all what could be ventured against the French and what could not. Now
  only the commanders of detachments with staffs, and moving according to
  rules at a distance from the French, still regarded many things as
  impossible. The small bands that had started their activities long before
  and had already observed the French closely considered things possible
  which the commanders of the big detachments did not dare to contemplate.
  The Cossacks and peasants who crept in among the French now considered
  everything possible.
<br />
  On October 22, Denísov (who was one of the irregulars) was with his group
  at the height of the guerrilla enthusiasm. Since early morning he and his
  party had been on the move. All day long he had been watching from the
  forest that skirted the highroad a large French convoy of cavalry baggage
  and Russian prisoners separated from the rest of the army, which&mdash;as
  was learned from spies and prisoners&mdash;was moving under a strong
  escort to Smolénsk. Besides Denísov and Dólokhov (who also led a small
  party and moved in Denísov&rsquo;s vicinity), the commanders of some large
  divisions with staffs also knew of this convoy and, as Denísov expressed
  it, were sharpening their teeth for it. Two of the commanders of large
  parties&mdash;one a Pole and the other a German&mdash;sent invitations to
  Denísov almost simultaneously, requesting him to join up with their
  divisions to attack the convoy.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, bwother, I have gwown mustaches myself,&rdquo; said Denísov on reading
  these documents, and he wrote to the German that, despite his heartfelt
  desire to serve under so valiant and renowned a general, he had to forgo
  that pleasure because he was already under the command of the Polish
  general. To the Polish general he replied to the same effect, informing
  him that he was already under the command of the German.
<br />
  Having arranged matters thus, Denísov and Dólokhov intended, without
  reporting matters to the higher command, to attack and seize that convoy
  with their own small forces. On October 22 it was moving from the village
  of Mikúlino to that of Shámshevo. To the left of the road between Mikúlino
  and Shámshevo there were large forests, extending in some places up to the
  road itself though in others a mile or more back from it. Through these
  forests Denísov and his party rode all day, sometimes keeping well back in
  them and sometimes coming to the very edge, but never losing sight of the
  moving French. That morning, Cossacks of Denísov&rsquo;s party had seized and
  carried off into the forest two wagons loaded with cavalry saddles, which
  had stuck in the mud not far from Mikúlino where the forest ran close to
  the road. Since then, and until evening, the party had watched the
  movements of the French without attacking. It was necessary to let the
  French reach Shámshevo quietly without alarming them and then, after
  joining Dólokhov who was to come that evening to a consultation at a
  watchman&rsquo;s hut in the forest less than a mile from Shámshevo, to surprise
  the French at dawn, falling like an avalanche on their heads from two
  sides, and rout and capture them all at one blow.
<br />
  In their rear, more than a mile from Mikúlino where the forest came right
  up to the road, six Cossacks were posted to report if any fresh columns of
  French should show themselves.
<br />
  Beyond Shámshevo, Dólokhov was to observe the road in the same way, to
  find out at what distance there were other French troops. They reckoned
  that the convoy had fifteen hundred men. Denísov had two hundred, and
  Dólokhov might have as many more, but the disparity of numbers did not
  deter Denísov. All that he now wanted to know was what troops these were
  and to learn that he had to capture a &ldquo;tongue&rdquo;&mdash;that is, a man from
  the enemy column. That morning&rsquo;s attack on the wagons had been made so
  hastily that the Frenchmen with the wagons had all been killed; only a
  little drummer boy had been taken alive, and as he was a straggler he
  could tell them nothing definite about the troops in that column.
<br />
  Denísov considered it dangerous to make a second attack for fear of
  putting the whole column on the alert, so he sent Tíkhon Shcherbáty, a
  peasant of his party, to Shámshevo to try and seize at least one of the
  French quartermasters who had been sent on in advance.

  CHAPTER IV


  It was a warm rainy autumn day. The sky and the horizon were both the
  color of muddy water. At times a sort of mist descended, and then suddenly
  heavy slanting rain came down.
<br />
  Denísov in a felt cloak and a sheepskin cap from which the rain ran down
  was riding a thin thoroughbred horse with sunken sides. Like his horse,
  which turned its head and laid its ears back, he shrank from the driving
  rain and gazed anxiously before him. His thin face with its short, thick
  black beard looked angry.
<br />
  Beside Denísov rode an , * Denísov&rsquo;s fellow worker, also
  in felt cloak and sheepskin cap, and riding a large sleek Don horse.
<br />
* A captain of Cossacks.

Esaul Lováyski the Third was a tall man as straight as an arrow, pale-faced, fair-haired, with narrow light eyes and with calm self-satisfaction in his face and bearing. Though it was impossible to say in what the peculiarity of the horse and rider lay, yet at first glance at the and Denísov one saw that the latter was wet and uncomfortable and was a man mounted on a horse, while looking at the one saw that he was as comfortable and as much at ease as always and that he was not a man who had mounted a horse, but a man who was one with his horse, a being consequently possessed of twofold strength.
A little ahead of them walked a peasant guide, wet to the skin and wearing a gray peasant coat and a white knitted cap.
A little behind, on a poor, small, lean Kirghíz mount with an enormous tail and mane and a bleeding mouth, rode a young officer in a blue French overcoat.
Beside him rode an hussar, with a boy in a tattered French uniform and blue cap behind him on the crupper of his horse. The boy held on to the hussar with cold, red hands, and raising his eyebrows gazed about him with surprise. This was the French drummer boy captured that morning.
Behind them along the narrow, sodden, cut up forest road came hussars in threes and fours, and then Cossacks: some in felt cloaks, some in French greatcoats, and some with horsecloths over their heads. The horses, being drenched by the rain, all looked black whether chestnut or bay. Their necks, with their wet, close-clinging manes, looked strangely thin. Steam rose from them. Clothes, saddles, reins, were all wet, slippery, and sodden, like the ground and the fallen leaves that strewed the road. The men sat huddled up trying not to stir, so as to warm the water that had trickled to their bodies and not admit the fresh cold water that was leaking in under their seats, their knees, and at the back of their necks. In the midst of the outspread line of Cossacks two wagons, drawn by French horses and by saddled Cossack horses that had been hitched on in front, rumbled over the tree stumps and branches and splashed through the water that lay in the ruts.
Denísov’s horse swerved aside to avoid a pool in the track and bumped his rider’s knee against a tree.
“Oh, the devil!” exclaimed Denísov angrily, and showing his teeth he struck his horse three times with his whip, splashing himself and his comrades with mud.
Denísov was out of sorts both because of the rain and also from hunger (none of them had eaten anything since morning), and yet more because he still had no news from Dólokhov and the man sent to capture a “tongue” had not returned.
“There’ll hardly be another such chance to fall on a transport as today. It’s too risky to attack them by oneself, and if we put it off till another day one of the big guerrilla detachments will snatch the prey from under our noses,” thought Denísov, continually peering forward, hoping to see a messenger from Dólokhov.
On coming to a path in the forest along which he could see far to the right, Denísov stopped.
“There’s someone coming,” said he.
The looked in the direction Denísov indicated.
“There are two, an officer and a Cossack. But it is not that it is the lieutenant colonel himself,” said the , who was fond of using words the Cossacks did not know.
The approaching riders having descended a decline were no longer visible, but they reappeared a few minutes later. In front, at a weary gallop and using his leather whip, rode an officer, disheveled and drenched, whose trousers had worked up to above his knees. Behind him, standing in the stirrups, trotted a Cossack. The officer, a very young lad with a broad rosy face and keen merry eyes, galloped up to Denísov and handed him a sodden envelope.
“From the general,” said the officer. “Please excuse its not being quite dry.”
Denísov, frowning, took the envelope and opened it.
“There, they kept telling us: ‘It’s dangerous, it’s dangerous,’” said the officer, addressing the while Denísov was reading the dispatch. “But Komaróv and I”—he pointed to the Cossack—“were prepared. We have each of us two pistols…. But what’s this?” he asked, noticing the French drummer boy. “A prisoner? You’ve already been in action? May I speak to him?”
“Wostóv! Pétya!” exclaimed Denísov, having run through the dispatch. “Why didn’t you say who you were?” and turning with a smile he held out his hand to the lad.
The officer was Pétya Rostóv.
All the way Pétya had been preparing himself to behave with Denísov as befitted a grown-up man and an officer—without hinting at their previous acquaintance. But as soon as Denísov smiled at him Pétya brightened up, blushed with pleasure, forgot the official manner he had been rehearsing, and began telling him how he had already been in a battle near Vyázma and how a certain hussar had distinguished himself there.
“Well, I am glad to see you,” Denísov interrupted him, and his face again assumed its anxious expression.
“Michael Feoklítych,” said he to the , “this is again fwom that German, you know. He”—he indicated Pétya—“is serving under him.”
And Denísov told the that the dispatch just delivered was a repetition of the German general’s demand that he should join forces with him for an attack on the transport.
“If we don’t take it tomowwow, he’ll snatch it fwom under our noses,” he added.
While Denísov was talking to the , Pétya—abashed by Denísov’s cold tone and supposing that it was due to the condition of his trousers—furtively tried to pull them down under his greatcoat so that no one should notice it, while maintaining as martial an air as possible.
“Will there be any orders, your honor?” he asked Denísov, holding his hand at the salute and resuming the game of adjutant and general for which he had prepared himself, “or shall I remain with your honor?”
“Orders?” Denísov repeated thoughtfully. “But can you stay till tomowwow?”
“Oh, please… May I stay with you?” cried Pétya.
“But, just what did the genewal tell you? To weturn at once?” asked Denísov.
Pétya blushed.
“He gave me no instructions. I think I could?” he returned, inquiringly.
“Well, all wight,” said Denísov.
And turning to his men he directed a party to go on to the halting place arranged near the watchman’s hut in the forest, and told the officer on the Kirghíz horse (who performed the duties of an adjutant) to go and find out where Dólokhov was and whether he would come that evening. Denísov himself intended going with the and Pétya to the edge of the forest where it reached out to Shámshevo, to have a look at the part of the French bivouac they were to attack next day.
“Well, old fellow,” said he to the peasant guide, “lead us to Shámshevo.”
Denísov, Pétya, and the , accompanied by some Cossacks and the hussar who had the prisoner, rode to the left across a ravine to the edge of the forest.

  CHAPTER V


  The rain had stopped, and only the mist was falling and drops from the
  trees. Denísov, the , and Pétya rode silently, following the peasant
  in the knitted cap who, stepping lightly with outturned toes and moving
  noiselessly in his bast shoes over the roots and wet leaves, silently led
  them to the edge of the forest.
<br />
  He ascended an incline, stopped, looked about him, and advanced to where
  the screen of trees was less dense. On reaching a large oak tree that had
  not yet shed its leaves, he stopped and beckoned mysteriously to them with
  his hand.
<br />
  Denísov and Pétya rode up to him. From the spot where the peasant was
  standing they could see the French. Immediately beyond the forest, on a
  downward slope, lay a field of spring rye. To the right, beyond a steep
  ravine, was a small village and a landowner&rsquo;s house with a broken roof. In
  the village, in the house, in the garden, by the well, by the pond, over
  all the rising ground, and all along the road uphill from the bridge
  leading to the village, not more than five hundred yards away, crowds of
  men could be seen through the shimmering mist. Their un-Russian shouting
  at their horses which were straining uphill with the carts, and their
  calls to one another, could be clearly heard.
<br />
  &ldquo;Bwing the prisoner here,&rdquo; said Denísov in a low voice, not taking his
  eyes off the French.
<br />
  A Cossack dismounted, lifted the boy down, and took him to Denísov.
  Pointing to the French troops, Denísov asked him what these and those of
  them were. The boy, thrusting his cold hands into his pockets and lifting
  his eyebrows, looked at Denísov in affright, but in spite of an evident
  desire to say all he knew gave confused answers, merely assenting to
  everything Denísov asked him. Denísov turned away from him frowning and
  addressed the , conveying his own conjectures to him.
<br />
  Pétya, rapidly turning his head, looked now at the drummer boy, now at
  Denísov, now at the , and now at the French in the village and along
  the road, trying not to miss anything of importance.
<br />
  &ldquo;Whether Dólokhov comes or not, we must seize it, eh?&rdquo; said Denísov with a
  merry sparkle in his eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;It is a very suitable spot,&rdquo; said the .
<br />
  &ldquo;We&rsquo;ll send the infantwy down by the swamps,&rdquo; Denísov continued. &ldquo;They&rsquo;ll
  cweep up to the garden; you&rsquo;ll wide up fwom there with the Cossacks&rdquo;&mdash;he
  pointed to a spot in the forest beyond the village&mdash;&ldquo;and I with my
  hussars fwom here. And at the signal shot...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The hollow is impassable&mdash;there&rsquo;s a swamp there,&rdquo; said the .
  &ldquo;The horses would sink. We must ride round more to the left....&rdquo;
 <br />
  While they were talking in undertones the crack of a shot sounded from the
  low ground by the pond, a puff of white smoke appeared, then another, and
  the sound of hundreds of seemingly merry French voices shouting together
  came up from the slope. For a moment Denísov and the  drew back. They
  were so near that they thought they were the cause of the firing and
  shouting. But the firing and shouting did not relate to them. Down below,
  a man wearing something red was running through the marsh. The French were
  evidently firing and shouting at him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, that&rsquo;s our Tíkhon,&rdquo; said the .
<br />
  &ldquo;So it is! It is!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The wascal!&rdquo; said Denísov.
<br />
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;ll get away!&rdquo; said the , screwing up his eyes.
<br />
  The man whom they called Tíkhon, having run to the stream, plunged in so
  that the water splashed in the air, and, having disappeared for an
  instant, scrambled out on all fours, all black with the wet, and ran on.
  The French who had been pursuing him stopped.
<br />
  &ldquo;Smart, that!&rdquo; said the .
<br />
  &ldquo;What a beast!&rdquo; said Denísov with his former look of vexation. &ldquo;What has
  he been doing all this time?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Who is he?&rdquo; asked Pétya.
<br />
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;s our . I sent him to capture a &lsquo;tongue.&rsquo;&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, yes,&rdquo; said Pétya, nodding at the first words Denísov uttered as if he
  understood it all, though he really did not understand anything of it.
<br />
  Tíkhon Shcherbáty was one of the most indispensable men in their band. He
  was a peasant from Pokróvsk, near the river Gzhat. When Denísov had come
  to Pokróvsk at the beginning of his operations and had as usual summoned
  the village elder and asked him what he knew about the French, the elder,
  as though shielding himself, had replied, as all village elders did, that
  he had neither seen nor heard anything of them. But when Denísov explained
  that his purpose was to kill the French, and asked if no French had
  strayed that way, the elder replied that some &ldquo;more-orderers&rdquo; had really
  been at their village, but that Tíkhon Shcherbáty was the only man who
  dealt with such matters. Denísov had Tíkhon called and, having praised him
  for his activity, said a few words in the elder&rsquo;s presence about loyalty
  to the Tsar and the country and the hatred of the French that all sons of
  the fatherland should cherish.
<br />
  &ldquo;We don&rsquo;t do the French any harm,&rdquo; said Tíkhon, evidently frightened by
  Denísov&rsquo;s words. &ldquo;We only fooled about with the lads for fun, you know! We
  killed a score or so of &lsquo;more-orderers,&rsquo; but we did no harm else....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Next day when Denísov had left Pokróvsk, having quite forgotten about this
  peasant, it was reported to him that Tíkhon had attached himself to their
  party and asked to be allowed to remain with it. Denísov gave orders to
  let him do so.
<br />
  Tíkhon, who at first did rough work, laying campfires, fetching water,
  flaying dead horses, and so on, soon showed a great liking and aptitude
  for partisan warfare. At night he would go out for booty and always
  brought back French clothing and weapons, and when told to would bring in
  French captives also. Denísov then relieved him from drudgery and began
  taking him with him when he went out on expeditions and had him enrolled
  among the Cossacks.
<br />
  Tíkhon did not like riding, and always went on foot, never lagging behind
  the cavalry. He was armed with a musketoon (which he carried rather as a
  joke), a pike and an ax, which latter he used as a wolf uses its teeth,
  with equal ease picking fleas out of its fur or crunching thick bones.
  Tíkhon with equal accuracy would split logs with blows at arm&rsquo;s length, or
  holding the head of the ax would cut thin little pegs or carve spoons. In
  Denísov&rsquo;s party he held a peculiar and exceptional position. When anything
  particularly difficult or nasty had to be done&mdash;to push a cart out of
  the mud with one&rsquo;s shoulders, pull a horse out of a swamp by its tail,
  skin it, slink in among the French, or walk more than thirty miles in a
  day&mdash;everybody pointed laughingly at Tíkhon.
<br />
  &ldquo;It won&rsquo;t hurt that devil&mdash;he&rsquo;s as strong as a horse!&rdquo; they said of
  him.
<br />
  Once a Frenchman Tíkhon was trying to capture fired a pistol at him and
  shot him in the fleshy part of the back. That wound (which Tíkhon treated
  only with internal and external applications of vodka) was the subject of
  the liveliest jokes by the whole detachment&mdash;jokes in which Tíkhon
  readily joined.
<br />
  &ldquo;Hallo, mate! Never again? Gave you a twist?&rdquo; the Cossacks would banter
  him. And Tíkhon, purposely writhing and making faces, pretended to be
  angry and swore at the French with the funniest curses. The only effect of
  this incident on Tíkhon was that after being wounded he seldom brought in
  prisoners.
<br />
  He was the bravest and most useful man in the party. No one found more
  opportunities for attacking, no one captured or killed more Frenchmen, and
  consequently he was made the buffoon of all the Cossacks and hussars and
  willingly accepted that role. Now he had been sent by Denísov overnight to
  Shámshevo to capture a &ldquo;tongue.&rdquo; But whether because he had not been
  content to take only one Frenchman or because he had slept through the
  night, he had crept by day into some bushes right among the French and, as
  Denísov had witnessed from above, had been detected by them.

  CHAPTER VI


  After talking for some time with the  about next day&rsquo;s attack, which
  now, seeing how near they were to the French, he seemed to have definitely
  decided on, Denísov turned his horse and rode back.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now, my lad, we&rsquo;ll go and get dwy,&rdquo; he said to Pétya.
<br />
  As they approached the watchhouse Denísov stopped, peering into the
  forest. Among the trees a man with long legs and long, swinging arms,
  wearing a short jacket, bast shoes, and a Kazán hat, was approaching with
  long, light steps. He had a musketoon over his shoulder and an ax stuck in
  his girdle. When he espied Denísov he hastily threw something into the
  bushes, removed his sodden hat by its floppy brim, and approached his
  commander. It was Tíkhon. His wrinkled and pockmarked face and narrow
  little eyes beamed with self-satisfied merriment. He lifted his head high
  and gazed at Denísov as if repressing a laugh.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, where did you disappear to?&rdquo; inquired Denísov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where did I disappear to? I went to get Frenchmen,&rdquo; answered Tíkhon
  boldly and hurriedly, in a husky but melodious bass voice.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why did you push yourself in there by daylight? You ass! Well, why
  haven&rsquo;t you taken one?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, I took one all right,&rdquo; said Tíkhon.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where is he?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You see, I took him first thing at dawn,&rdquo; Tíkhon continued, spreading out
  his flat feet with outturned toes in their bast shoes. &ldquo;I took him into
  the forest. Then I see he&rsquo;s no good and think I&rsquo;ll go and fetch a likelier
  one.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You see?... What a wogue&mdash;it&rsquo;s just as I thought,&rdquo; said Denísov to
  the . &ldquo;Why didn&rsquo;t you bwing that one?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What was the good of bringing him?&rdquo; Tíkhon interrupted hastily and
  angrily&mdash;&ldquo;that one wouldn&rsquo;t have done for you. As if I don&rsquo;t know
  what sort you want!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What a bwute you are!... Well?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I went for another one,&rdquo; Tíkhon continued, &ldquo;and I crept like this through
  the wood and lay down.&rdquo; (He suddenly lay down on his stomach with a supple
  movement to show how he had done it.) &ldquo;One turned up and I grabbed him,
  like this.&rdquo; (He jumped up quickly and lightly.) &ldquo;&lsquo;Come along to the
  colonel,&rsquo; I said. He starts yelling, and suddenly there were four of them.
  They rushed at me with their little swords. So I went for them with my ax,
  this way: &lsquo;What are you up to?&rsquo; says I. &lsquo;Christ be with you!&rsquo;&rdquo; shouted
  Tíkhon, waving his arms with an angry scowl and throwing out his chest.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, we saw from the hill how you took to your heels through the
  puddles!&rdquo; said the , screwing up his glittering eyes.
<br />
  Pétya badly wanted to laugh, but noticed that they all refrained from
  laughing. He turned his eyes rapidly from Tíkhon&rsquo;s face to the
   and Denísov&rsquo;s, unable to make out what it all meant.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t play the fool!&rdquo; said Denísov, coughing angrily. &ldquo;Why didn&rsquo;t you
  bwing the first one?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Tíkhon scratched his back with one hand and his head with the other, then
  suddenly his whole face expanded into a beaming, foolish grin, disclosing
  a gap where he had lost a tooth (that was why he was called Shcherbáty&mdash;the
  gap-toothed). Denísov smiled, and Pétya burst into a peal of merry
  laughter in which Tíkhon himself joined.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, but he was a regular good-for-nothing,&rdquo; said Tíkhon. &ldquo;The clothes on
  him&mdash;poor stuff! How could I bring him? And so rude, your honor! Why,
  he says: &lsquo;I&rsquo;m a general&rsquo;s son myself, I won&rsquo;t go!&rsquo; he says.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You are a bwute!&rdquo; said Denísov. &ldquo;I wanted to question...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But I questioned him,&rdquo; said Tíkhon. &ldquo;He said he didn&rsquo;t know much. &lsquo;There
  are a lot of us,&rsquo; he says, &lsquo;but all poor stuff&mdash;only soldiers in
  name,&rsquo; he says. &lsquo;Shout loud at them,&rsquo; he says, &lsquo;and you&rsquo;ll take them
  all,&rsquo;&rdquo; Tíkhon concluded, looking cheerfully and resolutely into Denísov&rsquo;s
  eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll give you a hundwed sharp lashes&mdash;that&rsquo;ll teach you to play the
  fool!&rdquo; said Denísov severely.
<br />
  &ldquo;But why are you angry?&rdquo; remonstrated Tíkhon, &ldquo;just as if I&rsquo;d never seen
  your Frenchmen! Only wait till it gets dark and I&rsquo;ll fetch you any of them
  you want&mdash;three if you like.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, let&rsquo;s go,&rdquo; said Denísov, and rode all the way to the watchhouse in
  silence and frowning angrily.
<br />
  Tíkhon followed behind and Pétya heard the Cossacks laughing with him and
  at him, about some pair of boots he had thrown into the bushes.
<br />
  When the fit of laughter that had seized him at Tíkhon&rsquo;s words and smile
  had passed and Pétya realized for a moment that this Tíkhon had killed a
  man, he felt uneasy. He looked round at the captive drummer boy and felt a
  pang in his heart. But this uneasiness lasted only a moment. He felt it
  necessary to hold his head higher, to brace himself, and to question the
   with an air of importance about tomorrow&rsquo;s undertaking, that he
  might not be unworthy of the company in which he found himself.
<br />
  The officer who had been sent to inquire met Denísov on the way with the
  news that Dólokhov was soon coming and that all was well with him.
<br />
  Denísov at once cheered up and, calling Pétya to him, said: &ldquo;Well, tell me
  about yourself.&rdquo;

  CHAPTER VII


  Pétya, having left his people after their departure from Moscow, joined
  his regiment and was soon taken as orderly by a general commanding a large
  guerrilla detachment. From the time he received his commission, and
  especially since he had joined the active army and taken part in the
  battle of Vyázma, Pétya had been in a constant state of blissful
  excitement at being grown-up and in a perpetual ecstatic hurry not to miss
  any chance to do something really heroic. He was highly delighted with
  what he saw and experienced in the army, but at the same time it always
  seemed to him that the really heroic exploits were being performed just
  where he did not happen to be. And he was always in a hurry to get where
  he was not.
<br />
  When on the twenty-first of October his general expressed a wish to send
  somebody to Denísov&rsquo;s detachment, Pétya begged so piteously to be sent
  that the general could not refuse. But when dispatching him he recalled
  Pétya&rsquo;s mad action at the battle of Vyázma, where instead of riding by the
  road to the place to which he had been sent, he had galloped to the
  advanced line under the fire of the French and had there twice fired his
  pistol. So now the general explicitly forbade his taking part in any
  action whatever of Denísov&rsquo;s. That was why Pétya had blushed and grown
  confused when Denísov asked him whether he could stay. Before they had
  ridden to the outskirts of the forest Pétya had considered he must carry
  out his instructions strictly and return at once. But when he saw the
  French and saw Tíkhon and learned that there would certainly be an attack
  that night, he decided, with the rapidity with which young people change
  their views, that the general, whom he had greatly respected till then,
  was a rubbishy German, that Denísov was a hero, the  a hero, and
  Tíkhon a hero too, and that it would be shameful for him to leave them at
  a moment of difficulty.
<br />
  It was already growing dusk when Denísov, Pétya, and the  rode up to
  the watchhouse. In the twilight saddled horses could be seen, and Cossacks
  and hussars who had rigged up rough shelters in the glade and were
  kindling glowing fires in a hollow of the forest where the French could
  not see the smoke. In the passage of the small watchhouse a Cossack with
  sleeves rolled up was chopping some mutton. In the room three officers of
  Denísov&rsquo;s band were converting a door into a tabletop. Pétya took off his
  wet clothes, gave them to be dried, and at once began helping the officers
  to fix up the dinner table.
<br />
  In ten minutes the table was ready and a napkin spread on it. On the table
  were vodka, a flask of rum, white bread, roast mutton, and salt.
<br />
  Sitting at table with the officers and tearing the fat savory mutton with
  his hands, down which the grease trickled, Pétya was in an ecstatic
  childish state of love for all men, and consequently of confidence that
  others loved him in the same way.
<br />
  &ldquo;So then what do you think, Vasíli Dmítrich?&rdquo; said he to Denísov. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s
  all right my staying a day with you?&rdquo; And not waiting for a reply he
  answered his own question: &ldquo;You see I was told to find out&mdash;well, I
  am finding out.... Only do let me into the very... into the chief... I
  don&rsquo;t want a reward.... But I want...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pétya clenched his teeth and looked around, throwing back his head and
  flourishing his arms.
<br />
  &ldquo;Into the vewy chief...&rdquo; Denísov repeated with a smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;Only, please let me command something, so that I may really command...&rdquo;
   Pétya went on. &ldquo;What would it be to you?... Oh, you want a knife?&rdquo; he
  said, turning to an officer who wished to cut himself a piece of mutton.
<br />
  And he handed him his clasp knife. The officer admired it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Please keep it. I have several like it,&rdquo; said Pétya, blushing. &ldquo;Heavens!
  I was quite forgetting!&rdquo; he suddenly cried. &ldquo;I have some raisins, fine
  ones; you know, seedless ones. We have a new sutler and he has such
  capital things. I bought ten pounds. I am used to something sweet. Would
  you like some?...&rdquo; and Pétya ran out into the passage to his Cossack and
  brought back some bags which contained about five pounds of raisins. &ldquo;Have
  some, gentlemen, have some!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You want a coffeepot, don&rsquo;t you?&rdquo; he asked the . &ldquo;I bought a capital
  one from our sutler! He has splendid things. And he&rsquo;s very honest, that&rsquo;s
  the chief thing. I&rsquo;ll be sure to send it to you. Or perhaps your flints
  are giving out, or are worn out&mdash;that happens sometimes, you know. I
  have brought some with me, here they are&rdquo;&mdash;and he showed a bag&mdash;&ldquo;a
  hundred flints. I bought them very cheap. Please take as many as you want,
  or all if you like....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Then suddenly, dismayed lest he had said too much, Pétya stopped and
  blushed.
<br />
  He tried to remember whether he had not done anything else that was
  foolish. And running over the events of the day he remembered the French
  drummer boy. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s capital for us here, but what of him? Where have they
  put him? Have they fed him? Haven&rsquo;t they hurt his feelings?&rdquo; he thought.
  But having caught himself saying too much about the flints, he was now
  afraid to speak out.
<br />
  &ldquo;I might ask,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;but they&rsquo;ll say: &lsquo;He&rsquo;s a boy himself and so he
  pities the boy.&rsquo; I&rsquo;ll show them tomorrow whether I&rsquo;m a boy. Will it seem
  odd if I ask?&rdquo; Pétya thought. &ldquo;Well, never mind!&rdquo; and immediately,
  blushing and looking anxiously at the officers to see if they appeared
  ironical, he said:
<br />
  &ldquo;May I call in that boy who was taken prisoner and give him something to
  eat?... Perhaps...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, he&rsquo;s a poor little fellow,&rdquo; said Denísov, who evidently saw nothing
  shameful in this reminder. &ldquo;Call him in. His name is Vincent Bosse. Have
  him fetched.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll call him,&rdquo; said Pétya.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes, call him. A poor little fellow,&rdquo; Denísov repeated.
<br />
  Pétya was standing at the door when Denísov said this. He slipped in
  between the officers, came close to Denísov, and said:
<br />
  &ldquo;Let me kiss you, dear old fellow! Oh, how fine, how splendid!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And having kissed Denísov he ran out of the hut.
<br />
  &ldquo;Bosse! Vincent!&rdquo; Pétya cried, stopping outside the door.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who do you want, sir?&rdquo; asked a voice in the darkness.
<br />
  Pétya replied that he wanted the French lad who had been captured that
  day.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, Vesénny?&rdquo; said a Cossack.
<br />
  Vincent, the boy&rsquo;s name, had already been changed by the Cossacks into
   (vernal) and into  by the peasants and soldiers. In both
  these adaptations the reference to spring () matched the impression
  made by the young lad.
<br />
  &ldquo;He is warming himself there by the bonfire. Ho, Vesénya! Vesénya!&mdash;Vesénny!&rdquo;
   laughing voices were heard calling to one another in the darkness.
<br />
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a smart lad,&rdquo; said an hussar standing near Pétya. &ldquo;We gave him
  something to eat a while ago. He was awfully hungry!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The sound of bare feet splashing through the mud was heard in the
  darkness, and the drummer boy came to the door.
<br />
   said Pétya.  * he added
  shyly and affectionately, touching the boy&rsquo;s hand.  *(2)
<br />
 * &ldquo;Ah, it&rsquo;s you! Do you want something to eat? Don&rsquo;t be
 afraid, they won&rsquo;t hurt you.&rdquo;
<br />
 * (2) &ldquo;Come in, come in.&rdquo;

   * said the drummer boy in a trembling
  almost childish voice, and he began scraping his dirty feet on the threshold.
<br />
* &ldquo;Thank you, sir.&rdquo;

There were many things Pétya wanted to say to the drummer boy, but did not dare to. He stood irresolutely beside him in the passage. Then in the darkness he took the boy’s hand and pressed it.
“Come in, come in!” he repeated in a gentle whisper. “Oh, what can I do for him?” he thought, and opening the door he let the boy pass in first.
When the boy had entered the hut, Pétya sat down at a distance from him, considering it beneath his dignity to pay attention to him. But he fingered the money in his pocket and wondered whether it would seem ridiculous to give some to the drummer boy.

  CHAPTER VIII


  The arrival of Dólokhov diverted Pétya&rsquo;s attention from the drummer boy,
  to whom Denísov had had some mutton and vodka given, and whom he had had
  dressed in a Russian coat so that he might be kept with their band and not
  sent away with the other prisoners. Pétya had heard in the army many
  stories of Dólokhov&rsquo;s extraordinary bravery and of his cruelty to the
  French, so from the moment he entered the hut Pétya did not take his eyes
  from him, but braced himself up more and more and held his head high, that
  he might not be unworthy even of such company.
<br />
  Dólokhov&rsquo;s appearance amazed Pétya by its simplicity.
<br />
  Denísov wore a Cossack coat, had a beard, had an icon of Nicholas the
  Wonder-Worker on his breast, and his way of speaking and everything he did
  indicated his unusual position. But Dólokhov, who in Moscow had worn a
  Persian costume, had now the appearance of a most correct officer of the
  Guards. He was clean-shaven and wore a Guardsman&rsquo;s padded coat with an
  Order of St. George at his buttonhole and a plain forage cap set straight
  on his head. He took off his wet felt cloak in a corner of the room, and
  without greeting anyone went up to Denísov and began questioning him about
  the matter in hand. Denísov told him of the designs the large detachments
  had on the transport, of the message Pétya had brought, and his own
  replies to both generals. Then he told him all he knew of the French
  detachment.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s so. But we must know what troops they are and their numbers,&rdquo; said
  Dólokhov. &ldquo;It will be necessary to go there. We can&rsquo;t start the affair
  without knowing for certain how many there are. I like to work accurately.
  Here now&mdash;wouldn&rsquo;t one of these gentlemen like to ride over to the
  French camp with me? I have brought a spare uniform.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I, I... I&rsquo;ll go with you!&rdquo; cried Pétya.
<br />
  &ldquo;There&rsquo;s no need for you to go at all,&rdquo; said Denísov, addressing Dólokhov,
  &ldquo;and as for him, I won&rsquo;t let him go on any account.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I like that!&rdquo; exclaimed Pétya. &ldquo;Why shouldn&rsquo;t I go?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Because it&rsquo;s useless.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, you must excuse me, because... because... I shall go, and that&rsquo;s
  all. You&rsquo;ll take me, won&rsquo;t you?&rdquo; he said, turning to Dólokhov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo; Dólokhov answered absently, scrutinizing the face of the French
  drummer boy. &ldquo;Have you had that youngster with you long?&rdquo; he asked
  Denísov.
<br />
  &ldquo;He was taken today but he knows nothing. I&rsquo;m keeping him with me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, and where do you put the others?&rdquo; inquired Dólokhov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where? I send them away and take a weceipt for them,&rdquo; shouted Denísov,
  suddenly flushing. &ldquo;And I say boldly that I have not a single man&rsquo;s life
  on my conscience. Would it be difficult for you to send thirty or thwee
  hundwed men to town under escort, instead of staining&mdash;I speak
  bluntly&mdash;staining the honor of a soldier?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That kind of amiable talk would be suitable from this young count of
  sixteen,&rdquo; said Dólokhov with cold irony, &ldquo;but it&rsquo;s time for you to drop
  it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, I&rsquo;ve not said anything! I only say that I&rsquo;ll certainly go with you,&rdquo;
   said Pétya shyly.
<br />
  &ldquo;But for you and me, old fellow, it&rsquo;s time to drop these amenities,&rdquo;
   continued Dólokhov, as if he found particular pleasure in speaking of this
  subject which irritated Denísov. &ldquo;Now, why have you kept this lad?&rdquo; he
  went on, swaying his head. &ldquo;Because you are sorry for him! Don&rsquo;t we know
  those &lsquo;receipts&rsquo; of yours? You send a hundred men away, and thirty get
  there. The rest either starve or get killed. So isn&rsquo;t it all the same not
  to send them?&rdquo;
 <br />
  The , screwing up his light-colored eyes, nodded approvingly.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s not the point. I&rsquo;m not going to discuss the matter. I do not wish
  to take it on my conscience. You say they&rsquo;ll die. All wight. Only not by
  my fault!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dólokhov began laughing.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who has told them not to capture me these twenty times over? But if they
  did catch me they&rsquo;d string me up to an aspen tree, and with all your
  chivalry just the same.&rdquo; He paused. &ldquo;However, we must get to work. Tell
  the Cossack to fetch my kit. I have two French uniforms in it. Well, are
  you coming with me?&rdquo; he asked Pétya.
<br />
  &ldquo;I? Yes, yes, certainly!&rdquo; cried Pétya, blushing almost to tears and
  glancing at Denísov.
<br />
  While Dólokhov had been disputing with Denísov what should be done with
  prisoners, Pétya had once more felt awkward and restless; but again he had
  no time to grasp fully what they were talking about. &ldquo;If grown-up,
  distinguished men think so, it must be necessary and right,&rdquo; thought he.
  &ldquo;But above all Denísov must not dare to imagine that I&rsquo;ll obey him and
  that he can order me about. I will certainly go to the French camp with
  Dólokhov. If he can, so can I!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And to all Denísov&rsquo;s persuasions, Pétya replied that he too was accustomed
  to do everything accurately and not just anyhow, and that he never
  considered personal danger.
<br />
  &ldquo;For you&rsquo;ll admit that if we don&rsquo;t know for sure how many of them there
  are... hundreds of lives may depend on it, while there are only two of us.
  Besides, I want to go very much and certainly will go, so don&rsquo;t hinder
  me,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;It will only make things worse....&rdquo;

  CHAPTER IX


  Having put on French greatcoats and shakos, Pétya and Dólokhov rode to the
  clearing from which Denísov had reconnoitered the French camp, and
  emerging from the forest in pitch darkness they descended into the hollow.
  On reaching the bottom, Dólokhov told the Cossacks accompanying him to
  await him there and rode on at a quick trot along the road to the bridge.
  Pétya, his heart in his mouth with excitement, rode by his side.
<br />
  &ldquo;If we&rsquo;re caught, I won&rsquo;t be taken alive! I have a pistol,&rdquo; whispered he.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t talk Russian,&rdquo; said Dólokhov in a hurried whisper, and at that very
  moment they heard through the darkness the challenge:  * and
  the click of a musket.
<br />
* &ldquo;Who goes there?&rdquo;

The blood rushed to Pétya’s face and he grasped his pistol.

   * replied Dólokhov, neither hastening nor slackening
  his horse&rsquo;s pace.
<br />
* &ldquo;Lancers of the 6th Regiment.&rdquo;

The black figure of a sentinel stood on the bridge.
*

* &ldquo;Password.&rdquo;

Dólokhov reined in his horse and advanced at a walk.

   * he asked.
<br />
* &ldquo;Tell me, is Colonel Gérard here?&rdquo;

repeated the sentinel, barring the way and not replying.
cried Dólokhov suddenly flaring up and riding straight at the sentinel. *

 * &ldquo;When an officer is making his round, sentinels don&rsquo;t ask
 him for the password.... I am asking you if the colonel is
 here.&rdquo;

And without waiting for an answer from the sentinel, who had stepped aside, Dólokhov rode up the incline at a walk.
Noticing the black outline of a man crossing the road, Dólokhov stopped him and inquired where the commander and officers were. The man, a soldier with a sack over his shoulder, stopped, came close up to Dólokhov’s horse, touched it with his hand, and explained simply and in a friendly way that the commander and the officers were higher up the hill to the right in the courtyard of the farm, as he called the landowner’s house.
Having ridden up the road, on both sides of which French talk could be heard around the campfires, Dólokhov turned into the courtyard of the landowner’s house. Having ridden in, he dismounted and approached a big blazing campfire, around which sat several men talking noisily. Something was boiling in a small cauldron at the edge of the fire and a soldier in a peaked cap and blue overcoat, lit up by the fire, was kneeling beside it stirring its contents with a ramrod.
“Oh, he’s a hard nut to crack,” said one of the officers who was sitting in the shadow at the other side of the fire.
“He’ll make them get a move on, those fellows!” said another, laughing.
Both fell silent, peering out through the darkness at the sound of Dólokhov’s and Pétya’s steps as they advanced to the fire leading their horses.

   * said Dólokhov loudly and clearly.
<br />
* &ldquo;Good day, gentlemen.&rdquo;

There was a stir among the officers in the shadow beyond the fire, and one tall, long-necked officer, walking round the fire, came up to Dólokhov.
“Is that you, Clément?” he asked. “Where the devil…?” But, noticing his mistake, he broke off short and, with a frown, greeted Dólokhov as a stranger, asking what he could do for him.
Dólokhov said that he and his companion were trying to overtake their regiment, and addressing the company in general asked whether they knew anything of the 6th Regiment. None of them knew anything, and Pétya thought the officers were beginning to look at him and Dólokhov with hostility and suspicion. For some seconds all were silent.
“If you were counting on the evening soup, you have come too late,” said a voice from behind the fire with a repressed laugh.
Dólokhov replied that they were not hungry and must push on farther that night.
He handed the horses over to the soldier who was stirring the pot and squatted down on his heels by the fire beside the officer with the long neck. That officer did not take his eyes from Dólokhov and again asked to what regiment he belonged. Dólokhov, as if he had not heard the question, did not reply, but lighting a short French pipe which he took from his pocket began asking the officer in how far the road before them was safe from Cossacks.
“Those brigands are everywhere,” replied an officer from behind the fire.
Dólokhov remarked that the Cossacks were a danger only to stragglers such as his companion and himself, “but probably they would not dare to attack large detachments?” he added inquiringly. No one replied.
“Well, now he’ll come away,” Pétya thought every moment as he stood by the campfire listening to the talk.
But Dólokhov restarted the conversation which had dropped and began putting direct questions as to how many men there were in the battalion, how many battalions, and how many prisoners. Asking about the Russian prisoners with that detachment, Dólokhov said:
“A horrid business dragging these corpses about with one! It would be better to shoot such rabble,” and burst into loud laughter, so strange that Pétya thought the French would immediately detect their disguise, and involuntarily took a step back from the campfire.
No one replied a word to Dólokhov’s laughter, and a French officer whom they could not see (he lay wrapped in a greatcoat) rose and whispered something to a companion. Dólokhov got up and called to the soldier who was holding their horses.
“Will they bring our horses or not?” thought Pétya, instinctively drawing nearer to Dólokhov.
The horses were brought.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said Dólokhov.
Pétya wished to say “Good night” but could not utter a word. The officers were whispering together. Dólokhov was a long time mounting his horse which would not stand still, then he rode out of the yard at a footpace. Pétya rode beside him, longing to look round to see whether or not the French were running after them, but not daring to.
Coming out onto the road Dólokhov did not ride back across the open country, but through the village. At one spot he stopped and listened. “Do you hear?” he asked. Pétya recognized the sound of Russian voices and saw the dark figures of Russian prisoners round their campfires. When they had descended to the bridge Pétya and Dólokhov rode past the sentinel, who without saying a word paced morosely up and down it, then they descended into the hollow where the Cossacks awaited them.
“Well now, good-by. Tell Denísov, ‘at the first shot at daybreak,’” said Dólokhov and was about to ride away, but Pétya seized hold of him.
“Really!” he cried, “you are such a hero! Oh, how fine, how splendid! How I love you!”
“All right, all right!” said Dólokhov. But Pétya did not let go of him and Dólokhov saw through the gloom that Pétya was bending toward him and wanted to kiss him. Dólokhov kissed him, laughed, turned his horse, and vanished into the darkness.

  CHAPTER X


  Having returned to the watchman&rsquo;s hut, Pétya found Denísov in the passage.
  He was awaiting Pétya&rsquo;s return in a state of agitation, anxiety, and
  self-reproach for having let him go.
<br />
  &ldquo;Thank God!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;Yes, thank God!&rdquo; he repeated,
  listening to Pétya&rsquo;s rapturous account. &ldquo;But, devil take you, I
  haven&rsquo;t slept because of you! Well, thank God. Now lie down. We can still
  get a nap before morning.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But... no,&rdquo; said Pétya, &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want to sleep yet. Besides I know
  myself, if I fall asleep it&rsquo;s finished. And then I am used to not sleeping
  before a battle.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He sat awhile in the hut joyfully recalling the details of his expedition
  and vividly picturing to himself what would happen next day.
<br />
  Then, noticing that Denísov was asleep, he rose and went out of doors.
<br />
  It was still quite dark outside. The rain was over, but drops were still
  falling from the trees. Near the watchman&rsquo;s hut the black shapes of the
  Cossacks&rsquo; shanties and of horses tethered together could be seen. Behind
  the hut the dark shapes of the two wagons with their horses beside them
  were discernible, and in the hollow the dying campfire gleamed red. Not
  all the Cossacks and hussars were asleep; here and there, amid the sounds
  of falling drops and the munching of the horses near by, could be heard
  low voices which seemed to be whispering.
<br />
  Pétya came out, peered into the darkness, and went up to the wagons.
  Someone was snoring under them, and around them stood saddled horses
  munching their oats. In the dark Pétya recognized his own horse, which he
  called &ldquo;Karabákh&rdquo; though it was of Ukranian breed, and went up to it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, Karabákh! We&rsquo;ll do some service tomorrow,&rdquo; said he, sniffing its
  nostrils and kissing it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why aren&rsquo;t you asleep, sir?&rdquo; said a Cossack who was sitting under a
  wagon.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, ah... Likhachëv&mdash;isn&rsquo;t that your name? Do you know I have only
  just come back! We&rsquo;ve been into the French camp.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And Pétya gave the Cossack a detailed account not only of his ride but
  also of his object, and why he considered it better to risk his life than
  to act &ldquo;just anyhow.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, you should get some sleep now,&rdquo; said the Cossack.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, I am used to this,&rdquo; said Pétya. &ldquo;I say, aren&rsquo;t the flints in your
  pistols worn out? I brought some with me. Don&rsquo;t you want any? You can have
  some.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The Cossack bent forward from under the wagon to get a closer look at
  Pétya.
<br />
  &ldquo;Because I am accustomed to doing everything accurately,&rdquo; said Pétya.
  &ldquo;Some fellows do things just anyhow, without preparation, and then they&rsquo;re
  sorry for it afterwards. I don&rsquo;t like that.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Just so,&rdquo; said the Cossack.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh yes, another thing! Please, my dear fellow, will you sharpen my saber
  for me? It&rsquo;s got bl...&rdquo; (Pétya feared to tell a lie, and the saber never
  had been sharpened.) &ldquo;Can you do it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Of course I can.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Likhachëv got up, rummaged in his pack, and soon Pétya heard the warlike
  sound of steel on whetstone. He climbed onto the wagon and sat on its
  edge. The Cossack was sharpening the saber under the wagon.
<br />
  &ldquo;I say! Are the lads asleep?&rdquo; asked Pétya.
<br />
  &ldquo;Some are, and some aren&rsquo;t&mdash;like us.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, and that boy?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Vesénny? Oh, he&rsquo;s thrown himself down there in the passage. Fast asleep
  after his fright. He was that glad!&rdquo;
 <br />
  After that Pétya remained silent for a long time, listening to the sounds.
  He heard footsteps in the darkness and a black figure appeared.
<br />
  &ldquo;What are you sharpening?&rdquo; asked a man coming up to the wagon.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, this gentleman&rsquo;s saber.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s right,&rdquo; said the man, whom Pétya took to be an
  hussar. &ldquo;Was the cup left here?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;There, by the wheel!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The hussar took the cup.
<br />
  &ldquo;It must be daylight soon,&rdquo; said he, yawning, and went away.
<br />
  Pétya ought to have known that he was in a forest with Denísov&rsquo;s guerrilla
  band, less than a mile from the road, sitting on a wagon captured from the
  French beside which horses were tethered, that under it Likhachëv was
  sitting sharpening a saber for him, that the big dark blotch to the right
  was the watchman&rsquo;s hut, and the red blotch below to the left was the dying
  embers of a campfire, that the man who had come for the cup was an hussar
  who wanted a drink; but he neither knew nor waited to know anything of all
  this. He was in a fairy kingdom where nothing resembled reality. The big
  dark blotch might really be the watchman&rsquo;s hut or it might be a cavern
  leading to the very depths of the earth. Perhaps the red spot was a fire,
  or it might be the eye of an enormous monster. Perhaps he was really
  sitting on a wagon, but it might very well be that he was not sitting on a
  wagon but on a terribly high tower from which, if he fell, he would have
  to fall for a whole day or a whole month, or go on falling and never reach
  the bottom. Perhaps it was just the Cossack, Likhachëv, who was sitting
  under the wagon, but it might be the kindest, bravest, most wonderful,
  most splendid man in the world, whom no one knew of. It might really have
  been that the hussar came for water and went back into the hollow, but
  perhaps he had simply vanished&mdash;disappeared altogether and dissolved
  into nothingness.
<br />
  Nothing Pétya could have seen now would have surprised him. He was in a
  fairy kingdom where everything was possible.
<br />
  He looked up at the sky. And the sky was a fairy realm like the earth. It
  was clearing, and over the tops of the trees clouds were swiftly sailing
  as if unveiling the stars. Sometimes it looked as if the clouds were
  passing, and a clear black sky appeared. Sometimes it seemed as if the
  black spaces were clouds. Sometimes the sky seemed to be rising high, high
  overhead, and then it seemed to sink so low that one could touch it with
  one&rsquo;s hand.
<br />
  Pétya&rsquo;s eyes began to close and he swayed a little.
<br />
  The trees were dripping. Quiet talking was heard. The horses neighed and
  jostled one another. Someone snored.
<br />
   hissed the saber against the whetstone, and
  suddenly Pétya heard an harmonious orchestra playing some unknown, sweetly
  solemn hymn. Pétya was as musical as Natásha and more so than Nicholas,
  but had never learned music or thought about it, and so the melody that
  unexpectedly came to his mind seemed to him particularly fresh and
  attractive. The music became more and more audible. The melody grew and
  passed from one instrument to another. And what was played was a fugue&mdash;though
  Pétya had not the least conception of what a fugue is. Each instrument&mdash;now
  resembling a violin and now a horn, but better and clearer than violin or
  horn&mdash;played its own part, and before it had finished the melody
  merged with another instrument that began almost the same air, and then
  with a third and a fourth; and they all blended into one and again became
  separate and again blended, now into solemn church music, now into
  something dazzlingly brilliant and triumphant.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh&mdash;why, that was in a dream!&rdquo; Pétya said to himself, as he lurched
  forward. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s in my ears. But perhaps it&rsquo;s music of my own. Well, go on,
  my music! Now!...&rdquo;
 <br />
  He closed his eyes, and, from all sides as if from a distance, sounds
  fluttered, grew into harmonies, separated, blended, and again all mingled
  into the same sweet and solemn hymn. &ldquo;Oh, this is delightful! As much as I
  like and as I like!&rdquo; said Pétya to himself. He tried to conduct that
  enormous orchestra.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now softly, softly die away!&rdquo; and the sounds obeyed him. &ldquo;Now fuller,
  more joyful. Still more and more joyful!&rdquo; And from an unknown depth rose
  increasingly triumphant sounds. &ldquo;Now voices join in!&rdquo; ordered Pétya. And
  at first from afar he heard men&rsquo;s voices and then women&rsquo;s. The voices grew
  in harmonious triumphant strength, and Pétya listened to their surpassing
  beauty in awe and joy.
<br />
  With a solemn triumphal march there mingled a song, the drip from the
  trees, and the hissing of the saber, 
  and again the horses jostled one another and neighed, not disturbing the choir
  but joining in it.
<br />
  Pétya did not know how long this lasted: he enjoyed himself all the time,
  wondered at his enjoyment and regretted that there was no one to share it.
  He was awakened by Likhachëv&rsquo;s kindly voice.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s ready, your honor; you can split a Frenchman in half with it!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pétya woke up.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s getting light, it&rsquo;s really getting light!&rdquo; he exclaimed.
<br />
  The horses that had previously been invisible could now be seen to their
  very tails, and a watery light showed itself through the bare branches.
  Pétya shook himself, jumped up, took a ruble from his pocket and gave it
  to Likhachëv; then he flourished the saber, tested it, and sheathed it.
  The Cossacks were untying their horses and tightening their saddle girths.
<br />
  &ldquo;And here&rsquo;s the commander,&rdquo; said Likhachëv.
<br />
  Denísov came out of the watchman&rsquo;s hut and, having called Pétya, gave
  orders to get ready.

  CHAPTER XI


  The men rapidly picked out their horses in the semidarkness, tightened
  their saddle girths, and formed companies. Denísov stood by the watchman&rsquo;s
  hut giving final orders. The infantry of the detachment passed along the
  road and quickly disappeared amid the trees in the mist of early dawn,
  hundreds of feet splashing through the mud. The  gave some orders to
  his men. Pétya held his horse by the bridle, impatiently awaiting the
  order to mount. His face, having been bathed in cold water, was all aglow,
  and his eyes were particularly brilliant. Cold shivers ran down his spine
  and his whole body pulsed rhythmically.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, is ev&rsquo;wything weady?&rdquo; asked Denísov. &ldquo;Bwing the horses.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The horses were brought. Denísov was angry with the Cossack because the
  saddle girths were too slack, reproved him, and mounted. Pétya put his
  foot in the stirrup. His horse by habit made as if to nip his leg, but
  Pétya leaped quickly into the saddle unconscious of his own weight and,
  turning to look at the hussars starting in the darkness behind him, rode
  up to Denísov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Vasíli Dmítrich, entrust me with some commission! Please... for God&rsquo;s
  sake...!&rdquo; said he.
<br />
  Denísov seemed to have forgotten Pétya&rsquo;s very existence. He turned to
  glance at him.
<br />
  &ldquo;I ask one thing of you,&rdquo; he said sternly, &ldquo;to obey me and not shove
  yourself forward anywhere.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He did not say another word to Pétya but rode in silence all the way. When
  they had come to the edge of the forest it was noticeably growing light
  over the field. Denísov talked in whispers with the  and the Cossacks
  rode past Pétya and Denísov. When they had all ridden by, Denísov touched
  his horse and rode down the hill. Slipping onto their haunches and
  sliding, the horses descended with their riders into the ravine. Pétya
  rode beside Denísov, the pulsation of his body constantly increasing. It
  was getting lighter and lighter, but the mist still hid distant objects.
  Having reached the valley, Denísov looked back and nodded to a Cossack
  beside him.
<br />
  &ldquo;The signal!&rdquo; said he.
<br />
  The Cossack raised his arm and a shot rang out. In an instant the tramp of
  horses galloping forward was heard, shouts came from various sides, and
  then more shots.
<br />
  At the first sound of trampling hoofs and shouting, Pétya lashed his horse
  and loosening his rein galloped forward, not heeding Denísov who shouted
  at him. It seemed to Pétya that at the moment the shot was fired it
  suddenly became as bright as noon. He galloped to the bridge. Cossacks
  were galloping along the road in front of him. On the bridge he collided
  with a Cossack who had fallen behind, but he galloped on. In front of him
  soldiers, probably Frenchmen, were running from right to left across the
  road. One of them fell in the mud under his horse&rsquo;s feet.
<br />
  Cossacks were crowding about a hut, busy with something. From the midst of
  that crowd terrible screams arose. Pétya galloped up, and the first thing
  he saw was the pale face and trembling jaw of a Frenchman, clutching the
  handle of a lance that had been aimed at him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Hurrah!... Lads!... ours!&rdquo; shouted Pétya, and giving rein to his excited
  horse he galloped forward along the village street.
<br />
  He could hear shooting ahead of him. Cossacks, hussars, and ragged Russian
  prisoners, who had come running from both sides of the road, were shouting
  something loudly and incoherently. A gallant-looking Frenchman, in a blue
  overcoat, capless, and with a frowning red face, had been defending
  himself against the hussars. When Pétya galloped up the Frenchman had
  already fallen. &ldquo;Too late again!&rdquo; flashed through Pétya&rsquo;s mind and he
  galloped on to the place from which the rapid firing could be heard. The
  shots came from the yard of the landowner&rsquo;s house he had visited the night
  before with Dólokhov. The French were making a stand there behind a wattle
  fence in a garden thickly overgrown with bushes and were firing at the
  Cossacks who crowded at the gateway. Through the smoke, as he approached
  the gate, Pétya saw Dólokhov, whose face was of a pale-greenish tint,
  shouting to his men. &ldquo;Go round! Wait for the infantry!&rdquo; he exclaimed as
  Pétya rode up to him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Wait?... Hurrah-ah-ah!&rdquo; shouted Pétya, and without pausing a moment
  galloped to the place whence came the sounds of firing and where the smoke
  was thickest.
<br />
  A volley was heard, and some bullets whistled past, while others plashed
  against something. The Cossacks and Dólokhov galloped after Pétya into the
  gateway of the courtyard. In the dense wavering smoke some of the French
  threw down their arms and ran out of the bushes to meet the Cossacks,
  while others ran down the hill toward the pond. Pétya was galloping along
  the courtyard, but instead of holding the reins he waved both his arms
  about rapidly and strangely, slipping farther and farther to one side in
  his saddle. His horse, having galloped up to a campfire that was
  smoldering in the morning light, stopped suddenly, and Pétya fell heavily
  on to the wet ground. The Cossacks saw that his arms and legs jerked
  rapidly though his head was quite motionless. A bullet had pierced his
  skull.
<br />
  After speaking to the senior French officer, who came out of the house
  with a white handkerchief tied to his sword and announced that they
  surrendered, Dólokhov dismounted and went up to Pétya, who lay motionless
  with outstretched arms.
<br />
  &ldquo;Done for!&rdquo; he said with a frown, and went to the gate to meet Denísov who
  was riding toward him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Killed?&rdquo; cried Denísov, recognizing from a distance the unmistakably
  lifeless attitude&mdash;very familiar to him&mdash;in which Pétya&rsquo;s body
  was lying.
<br />
  &ldquo;Done for!&rdquo; repeated Dólokhov as if the utterance of these words afforded
  him pleasure, and he went quickly up to the prisoners, who were surrounded
  by Cossacks who had hurried up. &ldquo;We won&rsquo;t take them!&rdquo; he called out to
  Denísov.
<br />
  Denísov did not reply; he rode up to Pétya, dismounted, and with trembling
  hands turned toward himself the bloodstained, mud-bespattered face which
  had already gone white.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am used to something sweet. Raisins, fine ones... take them all!&rdquo; he
  recalled Pétya&rsquo;s words. And the Cossacks looked round in surprise at the
  sound, like the yelp of a dog, with which Denísov turned away, walked to
  the wattle fence, and seized hold of it.
<br />
  Among the Russian prisoners rescued by Denísov and Dólokhov was Pierre
  Bezúkhov.

  CHAPTER XII


  During the whole of their march from Moscow no fresh orders had been
  issued by the French authorities concerning the party of prisoners among
  whom was Pierre. On the twenty-second of October that party was no longer
  with the same troops and baggage trains with which it had left Moscow.
  Half the wagons laden with hardtack that had traveled the first stages
  with them had been captured by Cossacks, the other half had gone on ahead.
  Not one of those dismounted cavalrymen who had marched in front of the
  prisoners was left; they had all disappeared. The artillery the prisoners
  had seen in front of them during the first days was now replaced by
  Marshal Junot&rsquo;s enormous baggage train, convoyed by Westphalians. Behind
  the prisoners came a cavalry baggage train.
<br />
  From Vyázma onwards the French army, which had till then moved in three
  columns, went on as a single group. The symptoms of disorder that Pierre
  had noticed at their first halting place after leaving Moscow had now
  reached the utmost limit.
<br />
  The road along which they moved was bordered on both sides by dead horses;
  ragged men who had fallen behind from various regiments continually
  changed about, now joining the moving column, now again lagging behind it.
<br />
  Several times during the march false alarms had been given and the
  soldiers of the escort had raised their muskets, fired, and run headlong,
  crushing one another, but had afterwards reassembled and abused each other
  for their causeless panic.
<br />
  These three groups traveling together&mdash;the cavalry stores, the convoy
  of prisoners, and Junot&rsquo;s baggage train&mdash;still constituted a separate
  and united whole, though each of the groups was rapidly melting away.
<br />
  Of the artillery baggage train which had consisted of a hundred and twenty
  wagons, not more than sixty now remained; the rest had been captured or
  left behind. Some of Junot&rsquo;s wagons also had been captured or abandoned.
  Three wagons had been raided and robbed by stragglers from Davout&rsquo;s corps.
  From the talk of the Germans Pierre learned that a larger guard had been
  allotted to that baggage train than to the prisoners, and that one of
  their comrades, a German soldier, had been shot by the marshal&rsquo;s own order
  because a silver spoon belonging to the marshal had been found in his
  possession.
<br />
  The group of prisoners had melted away most of all. Of the three hundred
  and thirty men who had set out from Moscow fewer than a hundred now
  remained. The prisoners were more burdensome to the escort than even the
  cavalry saddles or Junot&rsquo;s baggage. They understood that the saddles and
  Junot&rsquo;s spoon might be of some use, but that cold and hungry soldiers
  should have to stand and guard equally cold and hungry Russians who froze
  and lagged behind on the road (in which case the order was to shoot them)
  was not merely incomprehensible but revolting. And the escort, as if
  afraid, in the grievous condition they themselves were in, of giving way
  to the pity they felt for the prisoners and so rendering their own plight
  still worse, treated them with particular moroseness and severity.
<br />
  At Dorogobúzh while the soldiers of the convoy, after locking the
  prisoners in a stable, had gone off to pillage their own stores, several
  of the soldier prisoners tunneled under the wall and ran away, but were
  recaptured by the French and shot.
<br />
  The arrangement adopted when they started, that the officer prisoners
  should be kept separate from the rest, had long since been abandoned. All
  who could walk went together, and after the third stage Pierre had
  rejoined Karatáev and the gray-blue bandy-legged dog that had chosen
  Karatáev for its master.
<br />
  On the third day after leaving Moscow Karatáev again fell ill with the
  fever he had suffered from in the hospital in Moscow, and as he grew
  gradually weaker Pierre kept away from him. Pierre did not know why, but
  since Karatáev had begun to grow weaker it had cost him an effort to go
  near him. When he did so and heard the subdued moaning with which Karatáev
  generally lay down at the halting places, and when he smelled the odor
  emanating from him which was now stronger than before, Pierre moved
  farther away and did not think about him.
<br />
  While imprisoned in the shed Pierre had learned not with his intellect but
  with his whole being, by life itself, that man is created for happiness,
  that happiness is within him, in the satisfaction of simple human needs,
  and that all unhappiness arises not from privation but from superfluity.
  And now during these last three weeks of the march he had learned still
  another new, consolatory truth&mdash;that nothing in this world is
  terrible. He had learned that as there is no condition in which man can be
  happy and entirely free, so there is no condition in which he need be
  unhappy and lack freedom. He learned that suffering and freedom have their
  limits and that those limits are very near together; that the person in a
  bed of roses with one crumpled petal suffered as keenly as he now,
  sleeping on the bare damp earth with one side growing chilled while the
  other was warming; and that when he had put on tight dancing shoes he had
  suffered just as he did now when he walked with bare feet that were
  covered with sores&mdash;his footgear having long since fallen to pieces.
  He discovered that when he had married his wife&mdash;of his own free will
  as it had seemed to him&mdash;he had been no more free than now when they
  locked him up at night in a stable. Of all that he himself subsequently
  termed his sufferings, but which at the time he scarcely felt, the worst
  was the state of his bare, raw, and scab-covered feet. (The horseflesh was
  appetizing and nourishing, the saltpeter flavor of the gunpowder they used
  instead of salt was even pleasant; there was no great cold, it was always
  warm walking in the daytime, and at night there were the campfires; the
  lice that devoured him warmed his body.) The one thing that was at first
  hard to bear was his feet.
<br />
  After the second day&rsquo;s march Pierre, having examined his feet by the
  campfire, thought it would be impossible to walk on them; but when
  everybody got up he went along, limping, and, when he had warmed up,
  walked without feeling the pain, though at night his feet were more
  terrible to look at than before. However, he did not look at them now, but
  thought of other things.
<br />
  Only now did Pierre realize the full strength of life in man and the
  saving power he has of transferring his attention from one thing to
  another, which is like the safety valve of a boiler that allows
  superfluous steam to blow off when the pressure exceeds a certain limit.
<br />
  He did not see and did not hear how they shot the prisoners who lagged
  behind, though more than a hundred perished in that way. He did not think
  of Karatáev who grew weaker every day and evidently would soon have to
  share that fate. Still less did Pierre think about himself. The harder his
  position became and the more terrible the future, the more independent of
  that position in which he found himself were the joyful and comforting
  thoughts, memories, and imaginings that came to him.

  CHAPTER XIII


  At midday on the twenty-second of October Pierre was going uphill along
  the muddy, slippery road, looking at his feet and at the roughness of the
  way. Occasionally he glanced at the familiar crowd around him and then
  again at his feet. The former and the latter were alike familiar and his
  own. The blue-gray bandy legged dog ran merrily along the side of the
  road, sometimes in proof of its agility and self-satisfaction lifting one
  hind leg and hopping along on three, and then again going on all four and
  rushing to bark at the crows that sat on the carrion. The dog was merrier
  and sleeker than it had been in Moscow. All around lay the flesh of
  different animals&mdash;from men to horses&mdash;in various stages of
  decomposition; and as the wolves were kept off by the passing men the dog
  could eat all it wanted.
<br />
  It had been raining since morning and had seemed as if at any moment it
  might cease and the sky clear, but after a short break it began raining
  harder than before. The saturated road no longer absorbed the water, which
  ran along the ruts in streams.
<br />
  Pierre walked along, looking from side to side, counting his steps in
  threes, and reckoning them off on his fingers. Mentally addressing the
  rain, he repeated: &ldquo;Now then, now then, go on! Pelt harder!&rdquo;
 <br />
  It seemed to him that he was thinking of nothing, but far down and deep
  within him his soul was occupied with something important and comforting.
  This something was a most subtle spiritual deduction from a conversation
  with Karatáev the day before.
<br />
  At their yesterday&rsquo;s halting place, feeling chilly by a dying campfire,
  Pierre had got up and gone to the next one, which was burning better.
  There Platón Karatáev was sitting covered up&mdash;head and all&mdash;with
  his greatcoat as if it were a vestment, telling the soldiers in his
  effective and pleasant though now feeble voice a story Pierre knew. It was
  already past midnight, the hour when Karatáev was usually free of his
  fever and particularly lively. When Pierre reached the fire and heard
  Platón&rsquo;s voice enfeebled by illness, and saw his pathetic face brightly
  lit up by the blaze, he felt a painful prick at his heart. His feeling of
  pity for this man frightened him and he wished to go away, but there was
  no other fire, and Pierre sat down, trying not to look at Platón.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, how are you?&rdquo; he asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;How am I? If we grumble at sickness, God won&rsquo;t grant us death,&rdquo; replied
  Platón, and at once resumed the story he had begun.
<br />
  &ldquo;And so, brother,&rdquo; he continued, with a smile on his pale emaciated face
  and a particularly happy light in his eyes, &ldquo;you see, brother...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre had long been familiar with that story. Karatáev had told it to him
  alone some half-dozen times and always with a specially joyful emotion.
  But well as he knew it, Pierre now listened to that tale as to something
  new, and the quiet rapture Karatáev evidently felt as he told it
  communicated itself also to Pierre. The story was of an old merchant who
  lived a good and God-fearing life with his family, and who went once to
  the Nízhni fair with a companion&mdash;a rich merchant.
<br />
  Having put up at an inn they both went to sleep, and next morning his
  companion was found robbed and with his throat cut. A bloodstained knife
  was found under the old merchant&rsquo;s pillow. He was tried, knouted, and his
  nostrils having been torn off, &ldquo;all in due form&rdquo; as Karatáev put it, he
  was sent to hard labor in Siberia.
<br />
  &ldquo;And so, brother&rdquo; (it was at this point that Pierre came up), &ldquo;ten years
  or more passed by. The old man was living as a convict, submitting as he
  should and doing no wrong. Only he prayed to God for death. Well, one
  night the convicts were gathered just as we are, with the old man among
  them. And they began telling what each was suffering for, and how they had
  sinned against God. One told how he had taken a life, another had taken
  two, a third had set a house on fire, while another had simply been a
  vagrant and had done nothing. So they asked the old man: &lsquo;What are you
  being punished for, Daddy?&rsquo;&mdash;&lsquo;I, my dear brothers,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;am
  being punished for my own and other men&rsquo;s sins. But I have not killed
  anyone or taken anything that was not mine, but have only helped my poorer
  brothers. I was a merchant, my dear brothers, and had much property. &lsquo;And
  he went on to tell them all about it in due order. &lsquo;I don&rsquo;t grieve for
  myself,&rsquo; he says, &lsquo;God, it seems, has chastened me. Only I am sorry for my
  old wife and the children,&rsquo; and the old man began to weep. Now it happened
  that in the group was the very man who had killed the other merchant.
  &lsquo;Where did it happen, Daddy?&rsquo; he said. &lsquo;When, and in what month?&rsquo; He asked
  all about it and his heart began to ache. So he comes up to the old man
  like this, and falls down at his feet! &lsquo;You are perishing because of me,
  Daddy,&rsquo; he says. &lsquo;It&rsquo;s quite true, lads, that this man,&rsquo; he says, &lsquo;is
  being tortured innocently and for nothing! I,&rsquo; he says, &lsquo;did that deed,
  and I put the knife under your head while you were asleep. Forgive me,
  Daddy,&rsquo; he says, &lsquo;for Christ&rsquo;s sake!&rsquo;&rdquo;
 <br />
  Karatáev paused, smiling joyously as he gazed into the fire, and he drew
  the logs together.
<br />
  &ldquo;And the old man said, &lsquo;God will forgive you, we are all sinners in His
  sight. I suffer for my own sins,&rsquo; and he wept bitter tears. Well, and what
  do you think, dear friends?&rdquo; Karatáev continued, his face brightening more
  and more with a rapturous smile as if what he now had to tell contained
  the chief charm and the whole meaning of his story: &ldquo;What do you think,
  dear fellows? That murderer confessed to the authorities. &lsquo;I have taken
  six lives,&rsquo; he says (he was a great sinner), &lsquo;but what I am most sorry for
  is this old man. Don&rsquo;t let him suffer because of me.&rsquo; So he confessed and
  it was all written down and the papers sent off in due form. The place was
  a long way off, and while they were judging, what with one thing and
  another, filling in the papers all in due form&mdash;the authorities I
  mean&mdash;time passed. The affair reached the Tsar. After a while the
  Tsar&rsquo;s decree came: to set the merchant free and give him a compensation
  that had been awarded. The paper arrived and they began to look for the
  old man. &lsquo;Where is the old man who has been suffering innocently and in
  vain? A paper has come from the Tsar!&rsquo; so they began looking for him,&rdquo;
   here Karatáev&rsquo;s lower jaw trembled, &ldquo;but God had already forgiven him&mdash;he
  was dead! That&rsquo;s how it was, dear fellows!&rdquo; Karatáev concluded and sat for
  a long time silent, gazing before him with a smile.
<br />
  And Pierre&rsquo;s soul was dimly but joyfully filled not by the story itself
  but by its mysterious significance: by the rapturous joy that lit up
  Karatáev&rsquo;s face as he told it, and the mystic significance of that joy.

  CHAPTER XIV


   * suddenly cried a voice.
<br />
* &ldquo;To your places.&rdquo;

A pleasant feeling of excitement and an expectation of something joyful and solemn was aroused among the soldiers of the convoy and the prisoners. From all sides came shouts of command, and from the left came smartly dressed cavalrymen on good horses, passing the prisoners at a trot. The expression on all faces showed the tension people feel at the approach of those in authority. The prisoners thronged together and were pushed off the road. The convoy formed up.
“The Emperor! The Emperor! The Marshal! The Duke!” and hardly had the sleek cavalry passed, before a carriage drawn by six gray horses rattled by. Pierre caught a glimpse of a man in a three-cornered hat with a tranquil look on his handsome, plump, white face. It was one of the marshals. His eye fell on Pierre’s large and striking figure, and in the expression with which he frowned and looked away Pierre thought he detected sympathy and a desire to conceal that sympathy.
The general in charge of the stores galloped after the carriage with a red and frightened face, whipping up his skinny horse. Several officers formed a group and some soldiers crowded round them. Their faces all looked excited and worried.
“What did he say? What did he say?” Pierre heard them ask.
While the marshal was passing, the prisoners had huddled together in a crowd, and Pierre saw Karatáev whom he had not yet seen that morning. He sat in his short overcoat leaning against a birch tree. On his face, besides the look of joyful emotion it had worn yesterday while telling the tale of the merchant who suffered innocently, there was now an expression of quiet solemnity.
Karatáev looked at Pierre with his kindly round eyes now filled with tears, evidently wishing him to come near that he might say something to him. But Pierre was not sufficiently sure of himself. He made as if he did not notice that look and moved hastily away.
When the prisoners again went forward Pierre looked round. Karatáev was still sitting at the side of the road under the birch tree and two Frenchmen were talking over his head. Pierre did not look round again but went limping up the hill.
From behind, where Karatáev had been sitting, came the sound of a shot. Pierre heard it plainly, but at that moment he remembered that he had not yet finished reckoning up how many stages still remained to Smolénsk—a calculation he had begun before the marshal went by. And he again started reckoning. Two French soldiers ran past Pierre, one of whom carried a lowered and smoking gun. They both looked pale, and in the expression on their faces—one of them glanced timidly at Pierre—there was something resembling what he had seen on the face of the young soldier at the execution. Pierre looked at the soldier and remembered that, two days before, that man had burned his shirt while drying it at the fire and how they had laughed at him.
Behind him, where Karatáev had been sitting, the dog began to howl. “What a stupid beast! Why is it howling?” thought Pierre.
His comrades, the prisoner soldiers walking beside him, avoided looking back at the place where the shot had been fired and the dog was howling, just as Pierre did, but there was a set look on all their faces.

  CHAPTER XV


  The stores, the prisoners, and the marshal&rsquo;s baggage train stopped at the
  village of Shámshevo. The men crowded together round the campfires. Pierre
  went up to the fire, ate some roast horseflesh, lay down with his back to
  the fire, and immediately fell asleep. He again slept as he had done at
  Mozháysk after the battle of Borodinó.
<br />
  Again real events mingled with dreams and again someone, he or another,
  gave expression to his thoughts, and even to the same thoughts that had
  been expressed in his dream at Mozháysk.
<br />
  &ldquo;Life is everything. Life is God. Everything changes and moves and that
  movement is God. And while there is life there is joy in consciousness of
  the divine. To love life is to love God. Harder and more blessed than all
  else is to love this life in one&rsquo;s sufferings, in innocent sufferings.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Karatáev!&rdquo; came to Pierre&rsquo;s mind.
<br />
  And suddenly he saw vividly before him a long-forgotten, kindly old man
  who had given him geography lessons in Switzerland. &ldquo;Wait a bit,&rdquo; said the
  old man, and showed Pierre a globe. This globe was alive&mdash;a vibrating
  ball without fixed dimensions. Its whole surface consisted of drops
  closely pressed together, and all these drops moved and changed places,
  sometimes several of them merging into one, sometimes one dividing into
  many. Each drop tried to spread out and occupy as much space as possible,
  but others striving to do the same compressed it, sometimes destroyed it,
  and sometimes merged with it.
<br />
  &ldquo;That is life,&rdquo; said the old teacher.
<br />
  &ldquo;How simple and clear it is,&rdquo; thought Pierre. &ldquo;How is it I did not know it
  before?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;God is in the midst, and each drop tries to expand so as to reflect Him
  to the greatest extent. And it grows, merges, disappears from the surface,
  sinks to the depths, and again emerges. There now, Karatáev has spread out
  and disappeared. Do you understand, my child?&rdquo; said the teacher.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you understand, damn you?&rdquo; shouted a voice, and Pierre woke up.
<br />
  He lifted himself and sat up. A Frenchman who had just pushed a Russian
  soldier away was squatting by the fire, engaged in roasting a piece of
  meat stuck on a ramrod. His sleeves were rolled up and his sinewy, hairy,
  red hands with their short fingers deftly turned the ramrod. His brown
  morose face with frowning brows was clearly visible by the glow of the
  charcoal.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all the same to him,&rdquo; he muttered, turning quickly to a soldier who
  stood behind him. &ldquo;Brigand! Get away!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And twisting the ramrod he looked gloomily at Pierre, who turned away and
  gazed into the darkness. A prisoner, the Russian soldier the Frenchman had
  pushed away, was sitting near the fire patting something with his hand.
  Looking more closely Pierre recognized the blue-gray dog, sitting beside
  the soldier, wagging its tail.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, he&rsquo;s come?&rdquo; said Pierre. &ldquo;And Plat&mdash;&rdquo; he began, but did not finish.
<br />
  Suddenly and simultaneously a crowd of memories awoke in his fancy&mdash;of
  the look Platón had given him as he sat under the tree, of the shot heard
  from that spot, of the dog&rsquo;s howl, of the guilty faces of the two
  Frenchmen as they ran past him, of the lowered and smoking gun, and of
  Karatáev&rsquo;s absence at this halt&mdash;and he was on the point of realizing
  that Karatáev had been killed, but just at that instant, he knew not why,
  the recollection came to his mind of a summer evening he had spent with a
  beautiful Polish lady on the veranda of his house in Kiev. And without
  linking up the events of the day or drawing a conclusion from them, Pierre
  closed his eyes, seeing a vision of the country in summertime mingled with
  memories of bathing and of the liquid, vibrating globe, and he sank into
  water so that it closed over his head.
<br />
  Before sunrise he was awakened by shouts and loud and rapid firing. French
  soldiers were running past him.
<br />
  &ldquo;The Cossacks!&rdquo; one of them shouted, and a moment later a crowd of
  Russians surrounded Pierre.
<br />
  For a long time he could not understand what was happening to him. All
  around he heard his comrades sobbing with joy.
<br />
  &ldquo;Brothers! Dear fellows! Darlings!&rdquo; old soldiers exclaimed, weeping, as
  they embraced Cossacks and hussars.
<br />
  The hussars and Cossacks crowded round the prisoners; one offered them
  clothes, another boots, and a third bread. Pierre sobbed as he sat among
  them and could not utter a word. He hugged the first soldier who
  approached him, and kissed him, weeping.
<br />
  Dólokhov stood at the gate of the ruined house, letting a crowd of
  disarmed Frenchmen pass by. The French, excited by all that had happened,
  were talking loudly among themselves, but as they passed Dólokhov who
  gently switched his boots with his whip and watched them with cold glassy
  eyes that boded no good, they became silent. On the opposite side stood
  Dólokhov&rsquo;s Cossack, counting the prisoners and marking off each hundred
  with a chalk line on the gate.
<br />
  &ldquo;How many?&rdquo; Dólokhov asked the Cossack.
<br />
  &ldquo;The second hundred,&rdquo; replied the Cossack.
<br />
   * Dólokhov kept saying, having adopted
  this expression from the French, and when his eyes met those of the prisoners
  they flashed with a cruel light.
<br />
* &ldquo;Get along, get along!&rdquo;

Denísov, bareheaded and with a gloomy face, walked behind some Cossacks who were carrying the body of Pétya Rostóv to a hole that had been dug in the garden.

  CHAPTER XVI


  After the twenty-eighth of October when the frosts began, the flight of
  the French assumed a still more tragic character, with men freezing, or
  roasting themselves to death at the campfires, while carriages with people
  dressed in furs continued to drive past, carrying away the property that
  had been stolen by the Emperor, kings, and dukes; but the process of the
  flight and disintegration of the French army went on essentially as
  before.
<br />
  From Moscow to Vyázma the French army of seventy-three thousand men not
  reckoning the Guards (who did nothing during the whole war but pillage)
  was reduced to thirty-six thousand, though not more than five thousand had
  fallen in battle. From this beginning the succeeding terms of the
  progression could be determined mathematically. The French army melted
  away and perished at the same rate from Moscow to Vyázma, from Vyázma to
  Smolénsk, from Smolénsk to the Berëzina, and from the Berëzina to Vílna&mdash;independently
  of the greater or lesser intensity of the cold, the pursuit, the barring
  of the way, or any other particular conditions. Beyond Vyázma the French
  army instead of moving in three columns huddled together into one mass,
  and so went on to the end. Berthier wrote to his Emperor (we know how far
  commanding officers allow themselves to diverge from the truth in
  describing the condition of an army) and this is what he said:
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  I deem it my duty to report to Your Majesty the condition of the various
  corps I have had occasion to observe during different stages of the last
  two or three days&rsquo; march. They are almost disbanded. Scarcely a quarter of
  the soldiers remain with the standards of their regiments, the others go
  off by themselves in different directions hoping to find food and escape
  discipline. In general they regard Smolénsk as the place where they hope
  to recover. During the last few days many of the men have been seen to
  throw away their cartridges and their arms. In such a state of affairs,
  whatever your ultimate plans may be, the interest of Your Majesty&rsquo;s
  service demands that the army should be rallied at Smolénsk and should
  first of all be freed from ineffectives, such as dismounted cavalry,
  unnecessary baggage, and artillery material that is no longer in
  proportion to the present forces. The soldiers, who are worn out with
  hunger and fatigue, need these supplies as well as a few days&rsquo; rest. Many
  have died these last days on the road or at the bivouacs. This state of
  things is continually becoming worse and makes one fear that unless a
  prompt remedy is applied the troops will no longer be under control in
  case of an engagement.
<br />
  November 9: twenty miles from Smolénsk.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  After staggering into Smolénsk which seemed to them a promised land, the
  French, searching for food, killed one another, sacked their own stores,
  and when everything had been plundered fled farther.
<br />
  They all went without knowing whither or why they were going. Still less
  did that genius, Napoleon, know it, for no one issued any orders to him.
  But still he and those about him retained their old habits: wrote
  commands, letters, reports, and orders of the day; called one another
  , and so on. But
  these orders and reports were only on paper, nothing in them was acted upon for
  they could not be carried out, and though they entitled one another
  Majesties, Highnesses, or Cousins, they all felt that they were miserable
  wretches who had done much evil for which they had now to pay. And though
  they pretended to be concerned about the army, each was thinking only of
  himself and of how to get away quickly and save himself.

  CHAPTER XVII


  The movements of the Russian and French armies during the campaign from
  Moscow back to the Niemen were like those in a game of Russian blindman&rsquo;s
  buff, in which two players are blindfolded and one of them occasionally
  rings a little bell to inform the catcher of his whereabouts. First he
  rings his bell fearlessly, but when he gets into a tight place he runs
  away as quietly as he can, and often thinking to escape runs straight into
  his opponent&rsquo;s arms.
<br />
  At first while they were still moving along the Kalúga road, Napoleon&rsquo;s
  armies made their presence known, but later when they reached the Smolénsk
  road they ran holding the clapper of their bell tight&mdash;and often
  thinking they were escaping ran right into the Russians.
<br />
  Owing to the rapidity of the French flight and the Russian pursuit and the
  consequent exhaustion of the horses, the chief means of approximately
  ascertaining the enemy&rsquo;s position&mdash;by cavalry scouting&mdash;was not
  available. Besides, as a result of the frequent and rapid change of
  position by each army, even what information was obtained could not be
  delivered in time. If news was received one day that the enemy had been in
  a certain position the day before, by the third day when something could
  have been done, that army was already two days&rsquo; march farther on and in
  quite another position.
<br />
  One army fled and the other pursued. Beyond Smolénsk there were several
  different roads available for the French, and one would have thought that
  during their stay of four days they might have learned where the enemy
  was, might have arranged some more advantageous plan and undertaken
  something new. But after a four days&rsquo; halt the mob, with no maneuvers or
  plans, again began running along the beaten track, neither to the right
  nor to the left but along the old&mdash;the worst&mdash;road, through
  Krásnoe and Orshá.
<br />
  Expecting the enemy from behind and not in front, the French separated in
  their flight and spread out over a distance of twenty-four hours. In front
  of them all fled the Emperor, then the kings, then the dukes. The Russian
  army, expecting Napoleon to take the road to the right beyond the Dnieper&mdash;which
  was the only reasonable thing for him to do&mdash;themselves turned to the
  right and came out onto the highroad at Krásnoe. And here as in a game of
  blindman&rsquo;s buff the French ran into our vanguard. Seeing their enemy
  unexpectedly the French fell into confusion and stopped short from the
  sudden fright, but then they resumed their flight, abandoning their
  comrades who were farther behind. Then for three days separate portions of
  the French army&mdash;first Murat&rsquo;s (the vice-king&rsquo;s), then Davout&rsquo;s, and
  then Ney&rsquo;s&mdash;ran, as it were, the gauntlet of the Russian army. They
  abandoned one another, abandoned all their heavy baggage, their artillery,
  and half their men, and fled, getting past the Russians by night by making
  semicircles to the right.
<br />
  Ney, who came last, had been busying himself blowing up the walls of
  Smolénsk which were in nobody&rsquo;s way, because despite the unfortunate
  plight of the French or because of it, they wished to punish the floor
  against which they had hurt themselves. Ney, who had had a corps of ten
  thousand men, reached Napoleon at Orshá with only one thousand men left,
  having abandoned all the rest and all his cannon, and having crossed the
  Dnieper at night by stealth at a wooded spot.
<br />
  From Orshá they fled farther along the road to Vílna, still playing at
  blindman&rsquo;s buff with the pursuing army. At the Berëzina they again became
  disorganized, many were drowned and many surrendered, but those who got
  across the river fled farther. Their supreme chief donned a fur coat and,
  having seated himself in a sleigh, galloped on alone, abandoning his
  companions. The others who could do so drove away too, leaving those who
  could not to surrender or die.

  CHAPTER XVIII


  This campaign consisted in a flight of the French during which they did
  all they could to destroy themselves. From the time they turned onto the
  Kalúga road to the day their leader fled from the army, none of the
  movements of the crowd had any sense. So one might have thought that
  regarding this period of the campaign the historians, who attributed the
  actions of the mass to the will of one man, would have found it impossible
  to make the story of the retreat fit their theory. But no! Mountains of
  books have been written by the historians about this campaign, and
  everywhere are described Napoleon&rsquo;s arrangements, the maneuvers, and his
  profound plans which guided the army, as well as the military genius shown
  by his marshals.
<br />
  The retreat from Málo-Yaroslávets when he had a free road into a
  well-supplied district and the parallel road was open to him along which
  Kutúzov afterwards pursued him&mdash;this unnecessary retreat along a
  devastated road&mdash;is explained to us as being due to profound
  considerations. Similarly profound considerations are given for his
  retreat from Smolénsk to Orshá. Then his heroism at Krásnoe is described,
  where he is reported to have been prepared to accept battle and take
  personal command, and to have walked about with a birch stick and said:
<br />
   * but nevertheless immediately ran away again, abandoning
  to its fate the scattered fragments of the army he left behind.
<br />
 * &ldquo;I have acted the Emperor long enough; it is time to act
 the general.&rdquo;

Then we are told of the greatness of soul of the marshals, especially of Ney—a greatness of soul consisting in this: that he made his way by night around through the forest and across the Dnieper and escaped to Orshá, abandoning standards, artillery, and nine tenths of his men.
And lastly, the final departure of the great Emperor from his heroic army is presented to us by the historians as something great and characteristic of genius. Even that final running away, described in ordinary language as the lowest depth of baseness which every child is taught to be ashamed of—even that act finds justification in the historians’ language.
When it is impossible to stretch the very elastic threads of historical ratiocination any farther, when actions are clearly contrary to all that humanity calls right or even just, the historians produce a saving conception of “greatness.” “Greatness,” it seems, excludes the standards of right and wrong. For the “great” man nothing is wrong, there is no atrocity for which a “great” man can be blamed.

   * say the historians, and there no longer
  exists either good or evil but only  and &ldquo;not
   is good, not  is bad.  is the
  characteristic, in their conception, of some special animals called
  &ldquo;heroes.&rdquo; And Napoleon, escaping home in a warm fur coat and leaving to
  perish those who were not merely his comrades but were (in his opinion) men he had
  brought there, feels , *(2) and his soul is tranquil.
<br />
 * &ldquo;It is great.&rdquo;
<br />
 * (2) That it is great.

(he saw something sublime in himself) * said he. And the whole world for fifty years has been repeating:

* &ldquo;From the sublime to the ridiculous is but a step.&rdquo;

And it occurs to no one that to admit a greatness not commensurable with the standard of right and wrong is merely to admit one’s own nothingness and immeasurable meanness.
For us with the standard of good and evil given us by Christ, no human actions are incommensurable. And there is no greatness where simplicity, goodness, and truth are absent.

  CHAPTER XIX


  What Russian, reading the account of the last part of the campaign of
  1812, has not experienced an uncomfortable feeling of regret,
  dissatisfaction, and perplexity? Who has not asked himself how it is that
  the French were not all captured or destroyed when our three armies
  surrounded them in superior numbers, when the disordered French, hungry
  and freezing, surrendered in crowds, and when (as the historians relate)
  the aim of the Russians was to stop the French, to cut them off, and
  capture them all?
<br />
  How was it that the Russian army, which when numerically weaker than the
  French had given battle at Borodinó, did not achieve its purpose when it
  had surrounded the French on three sides and when its aim was to capture
  them? Can the French be so enormously superior to us that when we had
  surrounded them with superior forces we could not beat them? How could
  that happen?
<br />
  History (or what is called by that name) replying to these questions says
  that this occurred because Kutúzov and Tormásov and Chichagóv, and this
  man and that man, did not execute such and such maneuvers....
<br />
  But why did they not execute those maneuvers? And why if they were guilty
  of not carrying out a prearranged plan were they not tried and punished?
  But even if we admitted that Kutúzov, Chichagóv, and others were the cause
  of the Russian failures, it is still incomprehensible why, the position of
  the Russian army being what it was at Krásnoe and at the Berëzina (in both
  cases we had superior forces), the French army with its marshals, kings,
  and Emperor was not captured, if that was what the Russians aimed at.
<br />
  The explanation of this strange fact given by Russian military historians
  (to the effect that Kutúzov hindered an attack) is unfounded, for we know
  that he could not restrain the troops from attacking at Vyázma and
  Tarútino.
<br />
  Why was the Russian army&mdash;which with inferior forces had withstood
  the enemy in full strength at Borodinó&mdash;defeated at Krásnoe and the
  Berëzina by the disorganized crowds of the French when it was numerically
  superior?
<br />
  If the aim of the Russians consisted in cutting off and capturing Napoleon
  and his marshals&mdash;and that aim was not merely frustrated but all
  attempts to attain it were most shamefully baffled&mdash;then this last
  period of the campaign is quite rightly considered by the French to be a
  series of victories, and quite wrongly considered victorious by Russian
  historians.
<br />
  The Russian military historians in so far as they submit to claims of
  logic must admit that conclusion, and in spite of their lyrical rhapsodies
  about valor, devotion, and so forth, must reluctantly admit that the
  French retreat from Moscow was a series of victories for Napoleon and
  defeats for Kutúzov.
<br />
  But putting national vanity entirely aside one feels that such a
  conclusion involves a contradiction, since the series of French victories
  brought the French complete destruction, while the series of Russian
  defeats led to the total destruction of their enemy and the liberation of
  their country.
<br />
  The source of this contradiction lies in the fact that the historians
  studying the events from the letters of the sovereigns and the generals,
  from memoirs, reports, projects, and so forth, have attributed to this
  last period of the war of 1812 an aim that never existed, namely that of
  cutting off and capturing Napoleon with his marshals and his army.
<br />
  There never was or could have been such an aim, for it would have been
  senseless and its attainment quite impossible.
<br />
  It would have been senseless, first because Napoleon&rsquo;s disorganized army
  was flying from Russia with all possible speed, that is to say, was doing
  just what every Russian desired. So what was the use of performing various
  operations on the French who were running away as fast as they possibly
  could?
<br />
  Secondly, it would have been senseless to block the passage of men whose
  whole energy was directed to flight.
<br />
  Thirdly, it would have been senseless to sacrifice one&rsquo;s own troops in
  order to destroy the French army, which without external interference was
  destroying itself at such a rate that, though its path was not blocked, it
  could not carry across the frontier more than it actually did in December,
  namely a hundredth part of the original army.
<br />
  Fourthly, it would have been senseless to wish to take captive the
  Emperor, kings, and dukes&mdash;whose capture would have been in the
  highest degree embarrassing for the Russians, as the most adroit
  diplomatists of the time (Joseph de Maistre and others) recognized. Still
  more senseless would have been the wish to capture army corps of the
  French, when our own army had melted away to half before reaching Krásnoe
  and a whole division would have been needed to convoy the corps of
  prisoners, and when our men were not always getting full rations and the
  prisoners already taken were perishing of hunger.
<br />
  All the profound plans about cutting off and capturing Napoleon and his
  army were like the plan of a market gardener who, when driving out of his
  garden a cow that had trampled down the beds he had planted, should run to
  the gate and hit the cow on the head. The only thing to be said in excuse
  of that gardener would be that he was very angry. But not even that could
  be said for those who drew up this project, for it was not they who had
  suffered from the trampled beds.
<br />
  But besides the fact that cutting off Napoleon with his army would have
  been senseless, it was impossible.
<br />
  It was impossible first because&mdash;as experience shows that a
  three-mile movement of columns on a battlefield never coincides with the
  plans&mdash;the probability of Chichagóv, Kutúzov, and Wittgenstein
  effecting a junction on time at an appointed place was so remote as to be
  tantamount to impossibility, as in fact thought Kutúzov, who when he
  received the plan remarked that diversions planned over great distances do
  not yield the desired results.
<br />
  Secondly it was impossible, because to paralyze the momentum with which
  Napoleon&rsquo;s army was retiring, incomparably greater forces than the
  Russians possessed would have been required.
<br />
  Thirdly it was impossible, because the military term &ldquo;to cut off&rdquo; has no
  meaning. One can cut off a slice of bread, but not an army. To cut off an
  army&mdash;to bar its road&mdash;is quite impossible, for there is always
  plenty of room to avoid capture and there is the night when nothing can be
  seen, as the military scientists might convince themselves by the example
  of Krásnoe and of the Berëzina. It is only possible to capture prisoners
  if they agree to be captured, just as it is only possible to catch a
  swallow if it settles on one&rsquo;s hand. Men can only be taken prisoners if
  they surrender according to the rules of strategy and tactics, as the
  Germans did. But the French troops quite rightly did not consider that
  this suited them, since death by hunger and cold awaited them in flight or
  captivity alike.
<br />
  Fourthly and chiefly it was impossible, because never since the world
  began has a war been fought under such conditions as those that obtained
  in 1812, and the Russian army in its pursuit of the French strained its
  strength to the utmost and could not have done more without destroying
  itself.
<br />
  During the movement of the Russian army from Tarútino to Krásnoe it lost
  fifty thousand sick or stragglers, that is a number equal to the
  population of a large provincial town. Half the men fell out of the army
  without a battle.
<br />
  And it is of this period of the campaign&mdash;when the army lacked boots
  and sheepskin coats, was short of provisions and without vodka, and was
  camping out at night for months in the snow with fifteen degrees of frost,
  when there were only seven or eight hours of daylight and the rest was
  night in which the influence of discipline cannot be maintained, when men
  were taken into that region of death where discipline fails, not for a few
  hours only as in a battle, but for months, where they were every moment
  fighting death from hunger and cold, when half the army perished in a
  single month&mdash;it is of this period of the campaign that the
  historians tell us how Milorádovich should have made a flank march to such
  and such a place, Tormásov to another place, and Chichagóv should have
  crossed (more than knee-deep in snow) to somewhere else, and how so-and-so
  &ldquo;routed&rdquo; and &ldquo;cut off&rdquo; the French and so on and so on.
<br />
  The Russians, half of whom died, did all that could and should have been
  done to attain an end worthy of the nation, and they are not to blame
  because other Russians, sitting in warm rooms, proposed that they should
  do what was impossible.
<br />
  All that strange contradiction now difficult to understand between the
  facts and the historical accounts only arises because the historians
  dealing with the matter have written the history of the beautiful words
  and sentiments of various generals, and not the history of the events.
<br />
  To them the words of Milorádovich seem very interesting, and so do their
  surmises and the rewards this or that general received; but the question
  of those fifty thousand men who were left in hospitals and in graves does
  not even interest them, for it does not come within the range of their
  investigation.
<br />
  Yet one need only discard the study of the reports and general plans and
  consider the movement of those hundreds of thousands of men who took a
  direct part in the events, and all the questions that seemed insoluble
  easily and simply receive an immediate and certain solution.
<br />
  The aim of cutting off Napoleon and his army never existed except in the
  imaginations of a dozen people. It could not exist because it was
  senseless and unattainable.
<br />
  The people had a single aim: to free their land from invasion. That aim
  was attained in the first place of itself, as the French ran away, and so
  it was only necessary not to stop their flight. Secondly it was attained
  by the guerrilla warfare which was destroying the French, and thirdly by
  the fact that a large Russian army was following the French, ready to use
  its strength in case their movement stopped.
<br />
  The Russian army had to act like a whip to a running animal. And the
  experienced driver knew it was better to hold the whip raised as a menace
  than to strike the running animal on the head.

  BOOK FIFTEEN: 1812 - 13

  CHAPTER I


  When seeing a dying animal a man feels a sense of horror: substance
  similar to his own is perishing before his eyes. But when it is a beloved
  and intimate human being that is dying, besides this horror at the
  extinction of life there is a severance, a spiritual wound, which like a
  physical wound is sometimes fatal and sometimes heals, but always aches
  and shrinks at any external irritating touch.
<br />
  After Prince Andrew&rsquo;s death Natásha and Princess Mary alike felt this.
  Drooping in spirit and closing their eyes before the menacing cloud of
  death that overhung them, they dared not look life in the face. They
  carefully guarded their open wounds from any rough and painful contact.
  Everything: a carriage passing rapidly in the street, a summons to dinner,
  the maid&rsquo;s inquiry what dress to prepare, or worse still any word of
  insincere or feeble sympathy, seemed an insult, painfully irritated the
  wound, interrupting that necessary quiet in which they both tried to
  listen to the stern and dreadful choir that still resounded in their
  imagination, and hindered their gazing into those mysterious limitless
  vistas that for an instant had opened out before them.
<br />
  Only when alone together were they free from such outrage and pain. They
  spoke little even to one another, and when they did it was of very
  unimportant matters.
<br />
  Both avoided any allusion to the future. To admit the possibility of a
  future seemed to them to insult his memory. Still more carefully did they
  avoid anything relating to him who was dead. It seemed to them that what
  they had lived through and experienced could not be expressed in words,
  and that any reference to the details of his life infringed the majesty
  and sacredness of the mystery that had been accomplished before their
  eyes.
<br />
  Continued abstention from speech, and constant avoidance of everything
  that might lead up to the subject&mdash;this halting on all sides at the
  boundary of what they might not mention&mdash;brought before their minds
  with still greater purity and clearness what they were both feeling.
<br />
  But pure and complete sorrow is as impossible as pure and complete joy.
  Princess Mary, in her position as absolute and independent arbiter of her
  own fate and guardian and instructor of her nephew, was the first to be
  called back to life from that realm of sorrow in which she had dwelt for
  the first fortnight. She received letters from her relations to which she
  had to reply; the room in which little Nicholas had been put was damp and
  he began to cough; Alpátych came to Yaroslávl with reports on the state of
  their affairs and with advice and suggestions that they should return to
  Moscow to the house on the Vozdvízhenka Street, which had remained
  uninjured and needed only slight repairs. Life did not stand still and it
  was necessary to live. Hard as it was for Princess Mary to emerge from the
  realm of secluded contemplation in which she had lived till then, and
  sorry and almost ashamed as she felt to leave Natásha alone, yet the cares
  of life demanded her attention and she involuntarily yielded to them. She
  went through the accounts with Alpátych, conferred with Dessalles about
  her nephew, and gave orders and made preparations for the journey to
  Moscow.
<br />
  Natásha remained alone and, from the time Princess Mary began making
  preparations for departure, held aloof from her too.
<br />
  Princess Mary asked the countess to let Natásha go with her to Moscow, and
  both parents gladly accepted this offer, for they saw their daughter
  losing strength every day and thought that a change of scene and the
  advice of Moscow doctors would be good for her.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am not going anywhere,&rdquo; Natásha replied when this was proposed to her.
  &ldquo;Do please just leave me alone!&rdquo; And she ran out of the room, with
  difficulty refraining from tears of vexation and irritation rather than of
  sorrow.
<br />
  After she felt herself deserted by Princes Mary and alone in her grief,
  Natásha spent most of the time in her room by herself, sitting huddled up
  feet and all in the corner of the sofa, tearing and twisting something
  with her slender nervous fingers and gazing intently and fixedly at
  whatever her eyes chanced to fall on. This solitude exhausted and
  tormented her but she was in absolute need of it. As soon as anyone
  entered she got up quickly, changed her position and expression, and
  picked up a book or some sewing, evidently waiting impatiently for the
  intruder to go.
<br />
  She felt all the time as if she might at any moment penetrate that on
  which&mdash;with a terrible questioning too great for her strength&mdash;her
  spiritual gaze was fixed.
<br />
  One day toward the end of December Natásha, pale and thin, dressed in a
  black woolen gown, her plaited hair negligently twisted into a knot, was
  crouched feet and all in the corner of her sofa, nervously crumpling and
  smoothing out the end of her sash while she looked at a corner of the
  door.
<br />
  She was gazing in the direction in which he had gone&mdash;to the other
  side of life. And that other side of life, of which she had never before
  thought and which had formerly seemed to her so far away and improbable,
  was now nearer and more akin and more comprehensible than this side of
  life, where everything was either emptiness and desolation or suffering
  and indignity.
<br />
  She was gazing where she knew him to be; but she could not imagine him
  otherwise than as he had been here. She now saw him again as he had been
  at Mytíshchi, at Tróitsa, and at Yaroslávl.
<br />
  She saw his face, heard his voice, repeated his words and her own, and
  sometimes devised other words they might have spoken.
<br />
  There he is lying back in an armchair in his velvet cloak, leaning his
  head on his thin pale hand. His chest is dreadfully hollow and his
  shoulders raised. His lips are firmly closed, his eyes glitter, and a
  wrinkle comes and goes on his pale forehead. One of his legs twitches just
  perceptibly, but rapidly. Natásha knows that he is struggling with
  terrible pain. &ldquo;What is that pain like? Why does he have that pain? What
  does he feel? How does it hurt him?&rdquo; thought Natásha. He noticed her
  watching him, raised his eyes, and began to speak seriously:
<br />
  &ldquo;One thing would be terrible,&rdquo; said he: &ldquo;to bind oneself forever to a
  suffering man. It would be continual torture.&rdquo; And he looked searchingly
  at her. Natásha as usual answered before she had time to think what she
  would say. She said: &ldquo;This can&rsquo;t go on&mdash;it won&rsquo;t. You will get well&mdash;quite
  well.&rdquo;
 <br />
  She now saw him from the commencement of that scene and relived what she
  had then felt. She recalled his long sad and severe look at those words
  and understood the meaning of the rebuke and despair in that protracted
  gaze.
<br />
  &ldquo;I agreed,&rdquo; Natásha now said to herself, &ldquo;that it would be dreadful if he
  always continued to suffer. I said it then only because it would have been
  dreadful for him, but he understood it differently. He thought it would be
  dreadful for me. He then still wished to live and feared death. And I said
  it so awkwardly and stupidly! I did not say what I meant. I thought quite
  differently. Had I said what I thought, I should have said: even if he had
  to go on dying, to die continually before my eyes, I should have been
  happy compared with what I am now. Now there is nothing... nobody. Did he
  know that? No, he did not and never will know it. And now it will never,
  never be possible to put it right.&rdquo; And now he again seemed to be saying
  the same words to her, only in her imagination Natásha this time gave him
  a different answer. She stopped him and said: &ldquo;Terrible for you, but not
  for me! You know that for me there is nothing in life but you, and to
  suffer with you is the greatest happiness for me,&rdquo; and he took her hand
  and pressed it as he had pressed it that terrible evening four days before
  his death. And in her imagination she said other tender and loving words
  which she might have said then but only spoke now: &ldquo;I love thee!... thee!
  I love, love...&rdquo; she said, convulsively pressing her hands and setting her
  teeth with a desperate effort....
<br />
  She was overcome by sweet sorrow and tears were already rising in her
  eyes; then she suddenly asked herself to whom she was saying this. Again
  everything was shrouded in hard, dry perplexity, and again with a strained
  frown she peered toward the world where he was. And now, now it seemed to
  her she was penetrating the mystery.... But at the instant when it seemed
  that the incomprehensible was revealing itself to her a loud rattle of the
  door handle struck painfully on her ears. Dunyásha, her maid, entered the
  room quickly and abruptly with a frightened look on her face and showing
  no concern for her mistress.
<br />
  &ldquo;Come to your Papa at once, please!&rdquo; said she with a strange, excited
  look. &ldquo;A misfortune... about Peter Ilýnich... a letter,&rdquo; she finished with
  a sob.

  CHAPTER II


  Besides a feeling of aloofness from everybody Natásha was feeling a
  special estrangement from the members of her own family. All of them&mdash;her
  father, mother, and Sónya&mdash;were so near to her, so familiar, so
  commonplace, that all their words and feelings seemed an insult to the
  world in which she had been living of late, and she felt not merely
  indifferent to them but regarded them with hostility. She heard Dunyásha&rsquo;s
  words about Peter Ilýnich and a misfortune, but did not grasp them.
<br />
  &ldquo;What misfortune? What misfortune can happen to them? They just live their
  own old, quiet, and commonplace life,&rdquo; thought Natásha.
<br />
  As she entered the ballroom her father was hurriedly coming out of her
  mother&rsquo;s room. His face was puckered up and wet with tears. He had
  evidently run out of that room to give vent to the sobs that were choking
  him. When he saw Natásha he waved his arms despairingly and burst into
  convulsively painful sobs that distorted his soft round face.
<br />
  &ldquo;Pe... Pétya... Go, go, she... is calling...&rdquo; and weeping like a child and
  quickly shuffling on his feeble legs to a chair, he almost fell into it,
  covering his face with his hands.
<br />
  Suddenly an electric shock seemed to run through Natásha&rsquo;s whole being.
  Terrible anguish struck her heart, she felt a dreadful ache as if
  something was being torn inside her and she were dying. But the pain was
  immediately followed by a feeling of release from the oppressive
  constraint that had prevented her taking part in life. The sight of her
  father, the terribly wild cries of her mother that she heard through the
  door, made her immediately forget herself and her own grief.
<br />
  She ran to her father, but he feebly waved his arm, pointing to her
  mother&rsquo;s door. Princess Mary, pale and with quivering chin, came out from
  that room and taking Natásha by the arm said something to her. Natásha
  neither saw nor heard her. She went in with rapid steps, pausing at the
  door for an instant as if struggling with herself, and then ran to her
  mother.
<br />
  The countess was lying in an armchair in a strange and awkward position,
  stretching out and beating her head against the wall. Sónya and the maids
  were holding her arms.
<br />
  &ldquo;Natásha! Natásha!...&rdquo; cried the countess. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not true... it&rsquo;s not
  true... He&rsquo;s lying... Natásha!&rdquo; she shrieked, pushing those around her
  away. &ldquo;Go away, all of you; it&rsquo;s not true! Killed!... ha, ha, ha!... It&rsquo;s
  not true!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha put one knee on the armchair, stooped over her mother, embraced
  her, and with unexpected strength raised her, turned her face toward
  herself, and clung to her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mummy!... darling!... I am here, my dearest Mummy,&rdquo; she kept on
  whispering, not pausing an instant.
<br />
  She did not let go of her mother but struggled tenderly with her, demanded
  a pillow and hot water, and unfastened and tore open her mother&rsquo;s dress.
<br />
  &ldquo;My dearest darling... Mummy, my precious!...&rdquo; she whispered incessantly,
  kissing her head, her hands, her face, and feeling her own irrepressible
  and streaming tears tickling her nose and cheeks.
<br />
  The countess pressed her daughter&rsquo;s hand, closed her eyes, and became
  quiet for a moment. Suddenly she sat up with unaccustomed swiftness,
  glanced vacantly around her, and seeing Natásha began to press her
  daughter&rsquo;s head with all her strength. Then she turned toward her
  daughter&rsquo;s face which was wincing with pain and gazed long at it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Natásha, you love me?&rdquo; she said in a soft trustful whisper. &ldquo;Natásha, you
  would not deceive me? You&rsquo;ll tell me the whole truth?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha looked at her with eyes full of tears and in her look there was
  nothing but love and an entreaty for forgiveness.
<br />
  &ldquo;My darling Mummy!&rdquo; she repeated, straining all the power of her love to
  find some way of taking on herself the excess of grief that crushed her
  mother.
<br />
  And again in a futile struggle with reality her mother, refusing to
  believe that she could live when her beloved boy was killed in the bloom
  of life, escaped from reality into a world of delirium.
<br />
  Natásha did not remember how that day passed nor that night, nor the next
  day and night. She did not sleep and did not leave her mother. Her
  persevering and patient love seemed completely to surround the countess
  every moment, not explaining or consoling, but recalling her to life.
<br />
  During the third night the countess kept very quiet for a few minutes, and
  Natásha rested her head on the arm of her chair and closed her eyes, but
  opened them again on hearing the bedstead creak. The countess was sitting
  up in bed and speaking softly.
<br />
  &ldquo;How glad I am you have come. You are tired. Won&rsquo;t you have some tea?&rdquo;
   Natásha went up to her. &ldquo;You have improved in looks and grown more manly,&rdquo;
   continued the countess, taking her daughter&rsquo;s hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mamma! What are you saying...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Natásha, he is no more, no more!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And embracing her daughter, the countess began to weep for the first time.

  CHAPTER III


  Princess Mary postponed her departure. Sónya and the count tried to
  replace Natásha but could not. They saw that she alone was able to
  restrain her mother from unreasoning despair. For three weeks Natásha
  remained constantly at her mother&rsquo;s side, sleeping on a lounge chair in
  her room, making her eat and drink, and talking to her incessantly because
  the mere sound of her tender, caressing tones soothed her mother.
<br />
  The mother&rsquo;s wounded spirit could not heal. Pétya&rsquo;s death had torn from
  her half her life. When the news of Pétya&rsquo;s death had come she had been a
  fresh and vigorous woman of fifty, but a month later she left her room a
  listless old woman taking no interest in life. But the same blow that
  almost killed the countess, this second blow, restored Natásha to life.
<br />
  A spiritual wound produced by a rending of the spiritual body is like a
  physical wound and, strange as it may seem, just as a deep wound may heal
  and its edges join, physical and spiritual wounds alike can yet heal
  completely only as the result of a vital force from within.
<br />
  Natásha&rsquo;s wound healed in that way. She thought her life was ended, but
  her love for her mother unexpectedly showed her that the essence of life&mdash;love&mdash;was
  still active within her. Love awoke and so did life.
<br />
  Prince Andrew&rsquo;s last days had bound Princess Mary and Natásha together;
  this new sorrow brought them still closer to one another. Princess Mary
  put off her departure, and for three weeks looked after Natásha as if she
  had been a sick child. The last weeks passed in her mother&rsquo;s bedroom had
  strained Natásha&rsquo;s physical strength.
<br />
  One afternoon noticing Natásha shivering with fever, Princess Mary took
  her to her own room and made her lie down on the bed. Natásha lay down,
  but when Princess Mary had drawn the blinds and was going away she called
  her back.
<br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want to sleep, Mary, sit by me a little.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You are tired&mdash;try to sleep.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, no. Why did you bring me away? She will be asking for me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;She is much better. She spoke so well today,&rdquo; said Princess Mary.
<br />
  Natásha lay on the bed and in the semidarkness of the room scanned
  Princess Mary&rsquo;s face.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is she like him?&rdquo; thought Natásha. &ldquo;Yes, like and yet not like. But she
  is quite original, strange, new, and unknown. And she loves me. What is in
  her heart? All that is good. But how? What is her mind like? What does she
  think about me? Yes, she is splendid!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Mary,&rdquo; she said timidly, drawing Princess Mary&rsquo;s hand to herself, &ldquo;Mary,
  you mustn&rsquo;t think me wicked. No? Mary darling, how I love you! Let us be
  quite, quite friends.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And Natásha, embracing her, began kissing her face and hands, making
  Princess Mary feel shy but happy by this demonstration of her feelings.
<br />
  From that day a tender and passionate friendship such as exists only
  between women was established between Princess Mary and Natásha. They were
  continually kissing and saying tender things to one another and spent most
  of their time together. When one went out the other became restless and
  hastened to rejoin her. Together they felt more in harmony with one
  another than either of them felt with herself when alone. A feeling
  stronger than friendship sprang up between them; an exclusive feeling of
  life being possible only in each other&rsquo;s presence.
<br />
  Sometimes they were silent for hours; sometimes after they were already in
  bed they would begin talking and go on till morning. They spoke most of
  what was long past. Princess Mary spoke of her childhood, of her mother,
  her father, and her daydreams; and Natásha, who with a passive lack of
  understanding had formerly turned away from that life of devotion,
  submission, and the poetry of Christian self-sacrifice, now feeling
  herself bound to Princess Mary by affection, learned to love her past too
  and to understand a side of life previously incomprehensible to her. She
  did not think of applying submission and self-abnegation to her own life,
  for she was accustomed to seek other joys, but she understood and loved in
  another those previously incomprehensible virtues. For Princess Mary,
  listening to Natásha&rsquo;s tales of childhood and early youth, there also
  opened out a new and hitherto uncomprehended side of life: belief in life
  and its enjoyment.
<br />
  Just as before, they never mentioned  so as not to lower (as they
  thought) their exalted feelings by words; but this silence about him had
  the effect of making them gradually begin to forget him without being
  conscious of it.
<br />
  Natásha had grown thin and pale and physically so weak that they all
  talked about her health, and this pleased her. But sometimes she was
  suddenly overcome by fear not only of death but of sickness, weakness, and
  loss of good looks, and involuntarily she examined her bare arm carefully,
  surprised at its thinness, and in the morning noticed her drawn and, as it
  seemed to her, piteous face in her glass. It seemed to her that things
  must be so, and yet it was dreadfully sad.
<br />
  One day she went quickly upstairs and found herself out of breath.
  Unconsciously she immediately invented a reason for going down, and then,
  testing her strength, ran upstairs again, observing the result.
<br />
  Another time when she called Dunyásha her voice trembled, so she called
  again&mdash;though she could hear Dunyásha coming&mdash;called her in the
  deep chest tones in which she had been wont to sing, and listened
  attentively to herself.
<br />
  She did not know and would not have believed it, but beneath the layer of
  slime that covered her soul and seemed to her impenetrable, delicate young
  shoots of grass were already sprouting, which taking root would so cover
  with their living verdure the grief that weighed her down that it would
  soon no longer be seen or noticed. The wound had begun to heal from
  within.
<br />
  At the end of January Princess Mary left for Moscow, and the count
  insisted on Natásha&rsquo;s going with her to consult the doctors.

  CHAPTER IV


  After the encounter at Vyázma, where Kutúzov had been unable to hold back
  his troops in their anxiety to overwhelm and cut off the enemy and so on,
  the farther movement of the fleeing French, and of the Russians who
  pursued them, continued as far as Krásnoe without a battle. The flight was
  so rapid that the Russian army pursuing the French could not keep up with
  them; cavalry and artillery horses broke down, and the information
  received of the movements of the French was never reliable.
<br />
  The men in the Russian army were so worn out by this continuous marching
  at the rate of twenty-seven miles a day that they could not go any faster.
<br />
  To realize the degree of exhaustion of the Russian army it is only
  necessary to grasp clearly the meaning of the fact that, while not losing
  more than five thousand killed and wounded after Tarútino and less than a
  hundred prisoners, the Russian army which left that place a hundred
  thousand strong reached Krásnoe with only fifty thousand.
<br />
  The rapidity of the Russian pursuit was just as destructive to our army as
  the flight of the French was to theirs. The only difference was that the
  Russian army moved voluntarily, with no such threat of destruction as hung
  over the French, and that the sick Frenchmen were left behind in enemy
  hands while the sick Russians left behind were among their own people. The
  chief cause of the wastage of Napoleon&rsquo;s army was the rapidity of its
  movement, and a convincing proof of this is the corresponding decrease of
  the Russian army.
<br />
  Kutúzov as far as was in his power, instead of trying to check the
  movement of the French as was desired in Petersburg and by the Russian
  army generals, directed his whole activity here, as he had done at
  Tarútino and Vyázma, to hastening it on while easing the movement of our
  army.
<br />
  But besides this, since the exhaustion and enormous diminution of the army
  caused by the rapidity of the advance had become evident, another reason
  for slackening the pace and delaying presented itself to Kutúzov. The aim
  of the Russian army was to pursue the French. The road the French would
  take was unknown, and so the closer our troops trod on their heels the
  greater distance they had to cover. Only by following at some distance
  could one cut across the zigzag path of the French. All the artful
  maneuvers suggested by our generals meant fresh movements of the army and
  a lengthening of its marches, whereas the only reasonable aim was to
  shorten those marches. To that end Kutúzov&rsquo;s activity was directed during
  the whole campaign from Moscow to Vílna&mdash;not casually or
  intermittently but so consistently that he never once deviated from it.
<br />
  Kutúzov felt and knew&mdash;not by reasoning or science but with the whole
  of his Russian being&mdash;what every Russian soldier felt: that the
  French were beaten, that the enemy was flying and must be driven out; but
  at the same time he like the soldiers realized all the hardship of this
  march, the rapidity of which was unparalleled for such a time of the year.
<br />
  But to the generals, especially the foreign ones in the Russian army, who
  wished to distinguish themselves, to astonish somebody, and for some
  reason to capture a king or a duke&mdash;it seemed that now&mdash;when any
  battle must be horrible and senseless&mdash;was the very time to fight and
  conquer somebody. Kutúzov merely shrugged his shoulders when one after
  another they presented projects of maneuvers to be made with those
  soldiers&mdash;ill-shod, insufficiently clad, and half starved&mdash;who
  within a month and without fighting a battle had dwindled to half their
  number, and who at the best if the flight continued would have to go a
  greater distance than they had already traversed, before they reached the
  frontier.
<br />
  This longing to distinguish themselves, to maneuver, to overthrow, and to
  cut off showed itself particularly whenever the Russians stumbled on the
  French army.
<br />
  So it was at Krásnoe, where they expected to find one of the three French
  columns and stumbled instead on Napoleon himself with sixteen thousand
  men. Despite all Kutúzov&rsquo;s efforts to avoid that ruinous encounter and to
  preserve his troops, the massacre of the broken mob of French soldiers by
  worn-out Russians continued at Krásnoe for three days.
<br />
  Toll wrote a disposition: &ldquo;The first column will march to so and so,&rdquo; etc.
  And as usual nothing happened in accord with the disposition. Prince
  Eugène of Württemberg fired from a hill over the French crowds that were
  running past, and demanded reinforcements which did not arrive. The
  French, avoiding the Russians, dispersed and hid themselves in the forest
  by night, making their way round as best they could, and continued their
  flight.
<br />
  Milorádovich, who said he did not want to know anything about the
  commissariat affairs of his detachment, and could never be found when he
  was wanted&mdash;that  * as he styled
  himself&mdash;who was fond of parleys with the French, sent envoys
  demanding their surrender, wasted time, and did not do what he was ordered
  to do.
<br />
* Knight without fear and without reproach.

“I give you that column, lads,” he said, riding up to the troops and pointing out the French to the cavalry.
And the cavalry, with spurs and sabers urging on horses that could scarcely move, trotted with much effort to the column presented to them—that is to say, to a crowd of Frenchmen stark with cold, frost-bitten, and starving—and the column that had been presented to them threw down its arms and surrendered as it had long been anxious to do.
At Krásnoe they took twenty-six thousand prisoners, several hundred cannon, and a stick called a “marshal’s staff,” and disputed as to who had distinguished himself and were pleased with their achievement—though they much regretted not having taken Napoleon, or at least a marshal or a hero of some sort, and reproached one another and especially Kutúzov for having failed to do so.
These men, carried away by their passions, were but blind tools of the most melancholy law of necessity, but considered themselves heroes and imagined that they were accomplishing a most noble and honorable deed. They blamed Kutúzov and said that from the very beginning of the campaign he had prevented their vanquishing Napoleon, that he thought of nothing but satisfying his passions and would not advance from the Linen Factories because he was comfortable there, that at Krásnoe he checked the advance because on learning that Napoleon was there he had quite lost his head, and that it was probable that he had an understanding with Napoleon and had been bribed by him, and so on, and so on.
Not only did his contemporaries, carried away by their passions, talk in this way, but posterity and history have acclaimed Napoleon as , while Kutúzov is described by foreigners as a crafty, dissolute, weak old courtier, and by Russians as something indefinite—a sort of puppet useful only because he had a Russian name.

  CHAPTER V


  In 1812 and 1813 Kutúzov was openly accused of blundering. The Emperor was
  dissatisfied with him. And in a history recently written by order of the
  Highest Authorities it is said that Kutúzov was a cunning court liar,
  frightened of the name of Napoleon, and that by his blunders at Krásnoe
  and the Berëzina he deprived the Russian army of the glory of complete
  victory over the French. *
<br />
 * , by Bogdánovich.

Such is the fate not of great men () whom the Russian mind does not acknowledge, but of those rare and always solitary individuals who, discerning the will of Providence, submit their personal will to it. The hatred and contempt of the crowd punish such men for discerning the higher laws.
For Russian historians, strange and terrible to say, Napoleon—that most insignificant tool of history who never anywhere, even in exile, showed human dignity—Napoleon is the object of adulation and enthusiasm; he is . But Kutúzov—the man who from the beginning to the end of his activity in 1812, never once swerving by word or deed from Borodinó to Vílna, presented an example exceptional in history of self-sacrifice and a present consciousness of the future importance of what was happening—Kutúzov seems to them something indefinite and pitiful, and when speaking of him and of the year 1812 they always seem a little ashamed.
And yet it is difficult to imagine an historical character whose activity was so unswervingly directed to a single aim; and it would be difficult to imagine any aim more worthy or more consonant with the will of the whole people. Still more difficult would it be to find an instance in history of the aim of an historical personage being so completely accomplished as that to which all Kutúzov’s efforts were directed in 1812.
Kutúzov never talked of “forty centuries looking down from the Pyramids,” of the sacrifices he offered for the fatherland, or of what he intended to accomplish or had accomplished; in general he said nothing about himself, adopted no pose, always appeared to be the simplest and most ordinary of men, and said the simplest and most ordinary things. He wrote letters to his daughters and to Madame de Staël, read novels, liked the society of pretty women, jested with generals, officers, and soldiers, and never contradicted those who tried to prove anything to him. When Count Rostopchín at the Yaúza bridge galloped up to Kutúzov with personal reproaches for having caused the destruction of Moscow, and said: “How was it you promised not to abandon Moscow without a battle?” Kutúzov replied: “And I shall not abandon Moscow without a battle,” though Moscow was then already abandoned. When Arakchéev, coming to him from the Emperor, said that Ermólov ought to be appointed chief of the artillery, Kutúzov replied: “Yes, I was just saying so myself,” though a moment before he had said quite the contrary. What did it matter to him—who then alone amid a senseless crowd understood the whole tremendous significance of what was happening—what did it matter to him whether Rostopchín attributed the calamities of Moscow to him or to himself? Still less could it matter to him who was appointed chief of the artillery.
Not merely in these cases but continually did that old man—who by experience of life had reached the conviction that thoughts and the words serving as their expression are not what move people—use quite meaningless words that happened to enter his head.
But that man, so heedless of his words, did not once during the whole time of his activity utter one word inconsistent with the single aim toward which he moved throughout the whole war. Obviously in spite of himself, in very diverse circumstances, he repeatedly expressed his real thoughts with the bitter conviction that he would not be understood. Beginning with the battle of Borodinó, from which time his disagreement with those about him began, he alone said that , and repeated this both verbally and in his dispatches and reports up to the time of his death. He alone said that . In reply to Lauriston’s proposal of peace, he said: . He alone during the retreat of the French said that ; that ; that and that
And this courtier, as he is described to us, who lies to Arakchéev to please the Emperor, he alone—incurring thereby the Emperor’s displeasure—said in Vílna that
Nor do words alone prove that only he understood the meaning of the events. His actions—without the smallest deviation—were all directed to one and the same threefold end: (1) to brace all his strength for conflict with the French, (2) to defeat them, and (3) to drive them out of Russia, minimizing as far as possible the sufferings of our people and of our army.
This procrastinator Kutúzov, whose motto was “Patience and Time,” this enemy of decisive action, gave battle at Borodinó, investing the preparations for it with unparalleled solemnity. This Kutúzov who before the battle of Austerlitz began said that it would be lost, he alone, in contradiction to everyone else, declared till his death that Borodinó was a victory, despite the assurance of generals that the battle was lost and despite the fact that for an army to have to retire after winning a battle was unprecedented. He alone during the whole retreat insisted that battles, which were useless then, should not be fought, and that a new war should not be begun nor the frontiers of Russia crossed.
It is easy now to understand the significance of these events—if only we abstain from attributing to the activity of the mass aims that existed only in the heads of a dozen individuals—for the events and results now lie before us.
But how did that old man, alone, in opposition to the general opinion, so truly discern the importance of the people’s view of the events that in all his activity he was never once untrue to it?
The source of that extraordinary power of penetrating the meaning of the events then occuring lay in the national feeling which he possessed in full purity and strength.
Only the recognition of the fact that he possessed this feeling caused the people in so strange a manner, contrary to the Tsar’s wish, to select him—an old man in disfavor—to be their representative in the national war. And only that feeling placed him on that highest human pedestal from which he, the commander in chief, devoted all his powers not to slaying and destroying men but to saving and showing pity on them.
That simple, modest, and therefore truly great, figure could not be cast in the false mold of a European hero—the supposed ruler of men—that history has invented.
To a lackey no man can be great, for a lackey has his own conception of greatness.

  CHAPTER VI


  The fifth of November was the first day of what is called the battle of
  Krásnoe. Toward evening&mdash;after much disputing and many mistakes made
  by generals who did not go to their proper places, and after adjutants had
  been sent about with counterorders&mdash;when it had become plain that the
  enemy was everywhere in flight and that there could and would be no
  battle, Kutúzov left Krásnoe and went to Dóbroe whither his headquarters
  had that day been transferred.
<br />
  The day was clear and frosty. Kutúzov rode to Dóbroe on his plump little
  white horse, followed by an enormous suite of discontented generals who
  whispered among themselves behind his back. All along the road groups of
  French prisoners captured that day (there were seven thousand of them)
  were crowding to warm themselves at campfires. Near Dóbroe an immense
  crowd of tattered prisoners, buzzing with talk and wrapped and bandaged in
  anything they had been able to get hold of, were standing in the road
  beside a long row of unharnessed French guns. At the approach of the
  commander in chief the buzz of talk ceased and all eyes were fixed on
  Kutúzov who, wearing a white cap with a red band and a padded overcoat
  that bulged on his round shoulders, moved slowly along the road on his
  white horse. One of the generals was reporting to him where the guns and
  prisoners had been captured.
<br />
  Kutúzov seemed preoccupied and did not listen to what the general was
  saying. He screwed up his eyes with a dissatisfied look as he gazed
  attentively and fixedly at these prisoners, who presented a specially
  wretched appearance. Most of them were disfigured by frost-bitten noses
  and cheeks, and nearly all had red, swollen and festering eyes.
<br />
  One group of the French stood close to the road, and two of them, one of
  whom had his face covered with sores, were tearing a piece of raw flesh
  with their hands. There was something horrible and bestial in the fleeting
  glance they threw at the riders and in the malevolent expression with
  which, after a glance at Kutúzov, the soldier with the sores immediately
  turned away and went on with what he was doing.
<br />
  Kutúzov looked long and intently at these two soldiers. He puckered his
  face, screwed up his eyes, and pensively swayed his head. At another spot
  he noticed a Russian soldier laughingly patting a Frenchman on the
  shoulder, saying something to him in a friendly manner, and Kutúzov with
  the same expression on his face again swayed his head.
<br />
  &ldquo;What were you saying?&rdquo; he asked the general, who continuing his report
  directed the commander in chief&rsquo;s attention to some standards captured
  from the French and standing in front of the Preobrazhénsk regiment.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, the standards!&rdquo; said Kutúzov, evidently detaching himself with
  difficulty from the thoughts that preoccupied him.
<br />
  He looked about him absently. Thousands of eyes were looking at him from
  all sides awaiting a word from him.
<br />
  He stopped in front of the Preobrazhénsk regiment, sighed deeply, and
  closed his eyes. One of his suite beckoned to the soldiers carrying the
  standards to advance and surround the commander in chief with them.
  Kutúzov was silent for a few seconds and then, submitting with evident
  reluctance to the duty imposed by his position, raised his head and began
  to speak. A throng of officers surrounded him. He looked attentively
  around at the circle of officers, recognizing several of them.
<br />
  &ldquo;I thank you all!&rdquo; he said, addressing the soldiers and then again the
  officers. In the stillness around him his slowly uttered words were
  distinctly heard. &ldquo;I thank you all for your hard and faithful service. The
  victory is complete and Russia will not forget you! Honor to you forever.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He paused and looked around.
<br />
  &ldquo;Lower its head, lower it!&rdquo; he said to a soldier who had accidentally
  lowered the French eagle he was holding before the Preobrazhénsk
  standards. &ldquo;Lower, lower, that&rsquo;s it. Hurrah lads!&rdquo; he added, addressing
  the men with a rapid movement of his chin.
<br />
  &ldquo;Hur-r-rah!&rdquo; roared thousands of voices.
<br />
  While the soldiers were shouting Kutúzov leaned forward in his saddle and
  bowed his head, and his eye lit up with a mild and apparently ironic
  gleam.
<br />
  &ldquo;You see, brothers...&rdquo; said he when the shouts had ceased... and all at
  once his voice and the expression of his face changed. It was no longer
  the commander in chief speaking but an ordinary old man who wanted to tell
  his comrades something very important.
<br />
  There was a stir among the throng of officers and in the ranks of the
  soldiers, who moved that they might hear better what he was going to say.
<br />
  &ldquo;You see, brothers, I know it&rsquo;s hard for you, but it can&rsquo;t be helped! Bear
  up; it won&rsquo;t be for long now! We&rsquo;ll see our visitors off and then we&rsquo;ll
  rest. The Tsar won&rsquo;t forget your service. It is hard for you, but still
  you are at home while they&mdash;you see what they have come to,&rdquo; said he,
  pointing to the prisoners. &ldquo;Worse off than our poorest beggars. While they
  were strong we didn&rsquo;t spare ourselves, but now we may even pity them. They
  are human beings too. Isn&rsquo;t it so, lads?&rdquo;
 <br />
  He looked around, and in the direct, respectful, wondering gaze fixed upon
  him he read sympathy with what he had said. His face grew brighter and
  brighter with an old man&rsquo;s mild smile, which drew the corners of his lips
  and eyes into a cluster of wrinkles. He ceased speaking and bowed his head
  as if in perplexity.
<br />
  &ldquo;But after all who asked them here? Serves them right, the bloody
  bastards!&rdquo; he cried, suddenly lifting his head.
<br />
  And flourishing his whip he rode off at a gallop for the first time during
  the whole campaign, and left the broken ranks of the soldiers laughing
  joyfully and shouting &ldquo;Hurrah!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Kutúzov&rsquo;s words were hardly understood by the troops. No one could have
  repeated the field marshal&rsquo;s address, begun solemnly and then changing
  into an old man&rsquo;s simplehearted talk; but the hearty sincerity of that
  speech, the feeling of majestic triumph combined with pity for the foe and
  consciousness of the justice of our cause, exactly expressed by that old
  man&rsquo;s good-natured expletives, was not merely understood but lay in the
  soul of every soldier and found expression in their joyous and
  long-sustained shouts. Afterwards when one of the generals addressed
  Kutúzov asking whether he wished his  to be sent for, Kutúzov in
  answering unexpectedly gave a sob, being evidently greatly moved.

  CHAPTER VII


  When the troops reached their night&rsquo;s halting place on the eighth of
  November, the last day of the Krásnoe battles, it was already growing
  dusk. All day it had been calm and frosty with occasional lightly falling
  snow and toward evening it began to clear. Through the falling snow a
  purple-black and starry sky showed itself and the frost grew keener.
<br />
  An infantry regiment which had left Tarútino three thousand strong but now
  numbered only nine hundred was one of the first to arrive that night at
  its halting place&mdash;a village on the highroad. The quartermasters who
  met the regiment announced that all the huts were full of sick and dead
  Frenchmen, cavalrymen, and members of the staff. There was only one hut
  available for the regimental commander.
<br />
  The commander rode up to his hut. The regiment passed through the village
  and stacked its arms in front of the last huts.
<br />
  Like some huge many-limbed animal, the regiment began to prepare its lair
  and its food. One part of it dispersed and waded knee-deep through the
  snow into a birch forest to the right of the village, and immediately the
  sound of axes and swords, the crashing of branches, and merry voices could
  be heard from there. Another section amid the regimental wagons and horses
  which were standing in a group was busy getting out caldrons and rye
  biscuit, and feeding the horses. A third section scattered through the
  village arranging quarters for the staff officers, carrying out the French
  corpses that were in the huts, and dragging away boards, dry wood, and
  thatch from the roofs, for the campfires, or wattle fences to serve for
  shelter.
<br />
  Some fifteen men with merry shouts were shaking down the high wattle wall
  of a shed, the roof of which had already been removed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now then, all together&mdash;shove!&rdquo; cried the voices, and the huge
  surface of the wall, sprinkled with snow and creaking with frost, was seen
  swaying in the gloom of the night. The lower stakes cracked more and more
  and at last the wall fell, and with it the men who had been pushing it.
  Loud, coarse laughter and joyous shouts ensued.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now then, catch hold in twos! Hand up the lever! That&rsquo;s
  it.... Where are you shoving to?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Now, all together! But wait a moment, boys... With a song!&rdquo;
 <br />
  All stood silent, and a soft, pleasant velvety voice began to sing. At the
  end of the third verse as the last note died away, twenty voices roared
  out at once: &ldquo;Oo-oo-oo-oo! That&rsquo;s it. All together! Heave away, boys!...&rdquo;
   but despite their united efforts the wattle hardly moved, and in the
  silence that followed the heavy breathing of the men was audible.
<br />
  &ldquo;Here, you of the Sixth Company! Devils that you are! Lend a hand... will
  you? You may want us one of these days.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Some twenty men of the Sixth Company who were on their way into the
  village joined the haulers, and the wattle wall, which was about
  thirty-five feet long and seven feet high, moved forward along the village
  street, swaying, pressing upon and cutting the shoulders of the gasping
  men.
<br />
  &ldquo;Get along... Falling? What are you stopping for? There now....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Merry senseless words of abuse flowed freely.
<br />
  &ldquo;What are you up to?&rdquo; suddenly came the authoritative voice of a sergeant
  major who came upon the men who were hauling their burden. &ldquo;There are
  gentry here; the general himself is in that hut, and you foul-mouthed
  devils, you brutes, I&rsquo;ll give it to you!&rdquo; shouted he, hitting the first
  man who came in his way a swinging blow on the back. &ldquo;Can&rsquo;t you make less
  noise?&rdquo;
 <br />
  The men became silent. The soldier who had been struck groaned and wiped
  his face, which had been scratched till it bled by his falling against the
  wattle.
<br />
  &ldquo;There, how that devil hits out! He&rsquo;s made my face all bloody,&rdquo; said he in
  a frightened whisper when the sergeant major had passed on.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you like it?&rdquo; said a laughing voice, and moderating their tones the
  men moved forward.
<br />
  When they were out of the village they began talking again as loud as
  before, interlarding their talk with the same aimless expletives.
<br />
  In the hut which the men had passed, the chief officers had gathered and
  were in animated talk over their tea about the events of the day and the
  maneuvers suggested for tomorrow. It was proposed to make a flank march to
  the left, cut off the Vice-King (Murat) and capture him.
<br />
  By the time the soldiers had dragged the wattle fence to its place the
  campfires were blazing on all sides ready for cooking, the wood crackled,
  the snow was melting, and black shadows of soldiers flitted to and fro all
  over the occupied space where the snow had been trodden down.
<br />
  Axes and choppers were plied all around. Everything was done without any
  orders being given. Stores of wood were brought for the night, shelters
  were rigged up for the officers, caldrons were being boiled, and muskets
  and accouterments put in order.
<br />
  The wattle wall the men had brought was set up in a semicircle by the
  Eighth Company as a shelter from the north, propped up by musket rests,
  and a campfire was built before it. They beat the tattoo, called the roll,
  had supper, and settled down round the fires for the night&mdash;some
  repairing their footgear, some smoking pipes, and some stripping
  themselves naked to steam the lice out of their shirts.

  CHAPTER VIII


  One would have thought that under the almost incredibly wretched
  conditions the Russian soldiers were in at that time&mdash;lacking warm
  boots and sheepskin coats, without a roof over their heads, in the snow
  with eighteen degrees of frost, and without even full rations (the
  commissariat did not always keep up with the troops)&mdash;they would have
  presented a very sad and depressing spectacle.
<br />
  On the contrary, the army had never under the best material conditions
  presented a more cheerful and animated aspect. This was because all who
  began to grow depressed or who lost strength were sifted out of the army
  day by day. All the physically or morally weak had long since been left
  behind and only the flower of the army&mdash;physically and mentally&mdash;remained.
<br />
  More men collected behind the wattle fence of the Eighth Company than
  anywhere else. Two sergeants major were sitting with them and their
  campfire blazed brighter than others. For leave to sit by their wattle
  they demanded contributions of fuel.
<br />
  &ldquo;Eh, Makéev! What has become of you, you son of a bitch? Are you lost or
  have the wolves eaten you? Fetch some more wood!&rdquo; shouted a red-haired and
  red-faced man, screwing up his eyes and blinking because of the smoke but
  not moving back from the fire. &ldquo;And you, Jackdaw, go and fetch some wood!&rdquo;
   said he to another soldier.
<br />
  This red-haired man was neither a sergeant nor a corporal, but being
  robust he ordered about those weaker than himself. The soldier they called
  &ldquo;Jackdaw,&rdquo; a thin little fellow with a sharp nose, rose obediently and was
  about to go but at that instant there came into the light of the fire the
  slender, handsome figure of a young soldier carrying a load of wood.
<br />
  &ldquo;Bring it here&mdash;that&rsquo;s fine!&rdquo;
 <br />
  They split up the wood, pressed it down on the fire, blew at it with their
  mouths, and fanned it with the skirts of their greatcoats, making the
  flames hiss and crackle. The men drew nearer and lit their pipes. The
  handsome young soldier who had brought the wood, setting his arms akimbo,
  began stamping his cold feet rapidly and deftly on the spot where he
  stood.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mother! The dew is cold but clear.... It&rsquo;s well that I&rsquo;m a musketeer...&rdquo;
   he sang, pretending to hiccough after each syllable.
<br />
  &ldquo;Look out, your soles will fly off!&rdquo; shouted the red-haired man, noticing
  that the sole of the dancer&rsquo;s boot was hanging loose. &ldquo;What a fellow you
  are for dancing!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The dancer stopped, pulled off the loose piece of leather, and threw it on
  the fire.
<br />
  &ldquo;Right enough, friend,&rdquo; said he, and, having sat down, took out of his
  knapsack a scrap of blue French cloth, and wrapped it round his foot.
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the steam that spoils them,&rdquo; he added, stretching out his feet
  toward the fire.
<br />
  &ldquo;They&rsquo;ll soon be issuing us new ones. They say that when we&rsquo;ve
  finished hammering , we&rsquo;re to receive double kits!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And that son of a bitch Petróv has lagged behind after all, it seems,&rdquo;
   said one sergeant major.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve had an eye on him this long while,&rdquo; said the other.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, he&rsquo;s a poor sort of soldier....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But in the Third Company they say nine men were missing yesterday.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, it&rsquo;s all very well, but when a man&rsquo;s feet are frozen how can he
  walk?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Eh? Don&rsquo;t talk nonsense!&rdquo; said a sergeant major.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you want to be doing the same?&rdquo; said an old soldier, turning
  reproachfully to the man who had spoken of frozen feet.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, you know,&rdquo; said the sharp-nosed man they called Jackdaw in a
  squeaky and unsteady voice, raising himself at the other side of the fire,
  &ldquo;a plump man gets thin, but for a thin one it&rsquo;s death. Take me, now! I&rsquo;ve
  got no strength left,&rdquo; he added, with sudden resolution turning to the
  sergeant major. &ldquo;Tell them to send me to hospital; I&rsquo;m aching all over;
  anyway I shan&rsquo;t be able to keep up.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;ll do, that&rsquo;ll do!&rdquo; replied the sergeant major quietly.
<br />
  The soldier said no more and the talk went on.
<br />
  &ldquo;What a lot of those Frenchies were taken today, and the fact is that not
  one of them had what you might call real boots on,&rdquo; said a soldier,
  starting a new theme. &ldquo;They were no more than make-believes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The Cossacks have taken their boots. They were clearing the hut for the
  colonel and carried them out. It was pitiful to see them, boys,&rdquo; put in
  the dancer. &ldquo;As they turned them over one seemed still alive and, would
  you believe it, he jabbered something in their lingo.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But they&rsquo;re a clean folk, lads,&rdquo; the first man went on; &ldquo;he was white&mdash;as
  white as birchbark&mdash;and some of them are such fine fellows, you might
  think they were nobles.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, what do you think? They make soldiers of all classes there.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But they don&rsquo;t understand our talk at all,&rdquo; said the dancer with a
  puzzled smile. &ldquo;I asked him whose subject he was, and he jabbered in his
  own way. A queer lot!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But it&rsquo;s strange, friends,&rdquo; continued the man who had wondered at their
  whiteness, &ldquo;the peasants at Mozháysk were saying that when they began
  burying the dead&mdash;where the battle was you know&mdash;well, those
  dead had been lying there for nearly a month, and says the peasant, &lsquo;they
  lie as white as paper, clean, and not as much smell as a puff of powder
  smoke.&rsquo;&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Was it from the cold?&rdquo; asked someone.
<br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;re a clever fellow! From the cold indeed! Why, it was hot. If it had
  been from the cold, ours would not have rotted either. &lsquo;But,&rsquo; he says, &lsquo;go
  up to ours and they are all rotten and maggoty. So,&rsquo; he says, &lsquo;we tie our
  faces up with kerchiefs and turn our heads away as we drag them off: we
  can hardly do it. But theirs,&rsquo; he says, &lsquo;are white as paper and not so
  much smell as a whiff of gunpowder.&rsquo;&rdquo;
 <br />
  All were silent.
<br />
  &ldquo;It must be from their food,&rdquo; said the sergeant major. &ldquo;They used to
  gobble the same food as the gentry.&rdquo;
 <br />
  No one contradicted him.
<br />
  &ldquo;That peasant near Mozháysk where the battle was said the men were all
  called up from ten villages around and they carted for twenty days and
  still didn&rsquo;t finish carting the dead away. And as for the wolves, he
  says...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That was a real battle,&rdquo; said an old soldier. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the only one worth
  remembering; but since that... it&rsquo;s only been tormenting folk.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And do you know, Daddy, the day before yesterday we ran at them and, my
  word, they didn&rsquo;t let us get near before they just threw down their
  muskets and went on their knees. &lsquo;Pardon!&rsquo; they say. That&rsquo;s only one case.
  They say Plátov took &lsquo;Poleon himself twice. But he didn&rsquo;t know the right
  charm. He catches him and catches him&mdash;no good! He turns into a bird
  in his hands and flies away. And there&rsquo;s no way of killing him either.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;re a first-class liar, Kiselëv, when I come to look at you!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Liar, indeed! It&rsquo;s the real truth.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;If he fell into my hands, when I&rsquo;d caught him I&rsquo;d bury him in the ground
  with an aspen stake to fix him down. What a lot of men he&rsquo;s ruined!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, anyhow we&rsquo;re going to end it. He won&rsquo;t come here again,&rdquo; remarked
  the old soldier, yawning.
<br />
  The conversation flagged, and the soldiers began settling down to sleep.
<br />
  &ldquo;Look at the stars. It&rsquo;s wonderful how they shine! You would think the
  women had spread out their linen,&rdquo; said one of the men, gazing with
  admiration at the Milky Way.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a sign of a good harvest next year.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;We shall want some more wood.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You warm your back and your belly gets frozen. That&rsquo;s queer.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;O Lord!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What are you pushing for? Is the fire only for you? Look how he&rsquo;s
  sprawling!&rdquo;
 <br />
  In the silence that ensued, the snoring of those who had fallen asleep
  could be heard. Others turned over and warmed themselves, now and again
  exchanging a few words. From a campfire a hundred paces off came a sound
  of general, merry laughter.
<br />
  &ldquo;Hark at them roaring there in the Fifth Company!&rdquo; said one of the
  soldiers, &ldquo;and what a lot of them there are!&rdquo;
 <br />
  One of the men got up and went over to the Fifth Company.
<br />
  &ldquo;They&rsquo;re having such fun,&rdquo; said he, coming back. &ldquo;Two Frenchies have
  turned up. One&rsquo;s quite frozen and the other&rsquo;s an awful swaggerer. He&rsquo;s
  singing songs....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, I&rsquo;ll go across and have a look....&rdquo;
 <br />
  And several of the men went over to the Fifth Company.

  CHAPTER IX


  The Fifth company was bivouacking at the very edge of the forest. A huge
  campfire was blazing brightly in the midst of the snow, lighting up the
  branches of trees heavy with hoarfrost.
<br />
  About midnight they heard the sound of steps in the snow of the forest,
  and the crackling of dry branches.
<br />
  &ldquo;A bear, lads,&rdquo; said one of the men.
<br />
  They all raised their heads to listen, and out of the forest into the
  bright firelight stepped two strangely clad human figures clinging to one
  another.
<br />
  These were two Frenchmen who had been hiding in the forest. They came up
  to the fire, hoarsely uttering something in a language our soldiers did
  not understand. One was taller than the other; he wore an officer&rsquo;s hat
  and seemed quite exhausted. On approaching the fire he had been going to
  sit down, but fell. The other, a short sturdy soldier with a shawl tied
  round his head, was stronger. He raised his companion and said something,
  pointing to his mouth. The soldiers surrounded the Frenchmen, spread a
  greatcoat on the ground for the sick man, and brought some buckwheat
  porridge and vodka for both of them.
<br />
  The exhausted French officer was Ramballe and the man with his head
  wrapped in the shawl was Morel, his orderly.
<br />
  When Morel had drunk some vodka and finished his bowl of porridge he
  suddenly became unnaturally merry and chattered incessantly to the
  soldiers, who could not understand him. Ramballe refused food and resting
  his head on his elbow lay silent beside the campfire, looking at the
  Russian soldiers with red and vacant eyes. Occasionally he emitted a
  long-drawn groan and then again became silent. Morel, pointing to his
  shoulders, tried to impress on the soldiers the fact that Ramballe was an
  officer and ought to be warmed. A Russian officer who had come up to the
  fire sent to ask his colonel whether he would not take a French officer
  into his hut to warm him, and when the messenger returned and said that
  the colonel wished the officer to be brought to him, Ramballe was told to
  go. He rose and tried to walk, but staggered and would have fallen had not
  a soldier standing by held him up.
<br />
  &ldquo;You won&rsquo;t do it again, eh?&rdquo; said one of the soldiers, winking and turning
  mockingly to Ramballe.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, you fool! Why talk rubbish, lout that you are&mdash;a real peasant!&rdquo;
   came rebukes from all sides addressed to the jesting soldier.
<br />
  They surrounded Ramballe, lifted him on the crossed arms of two soldiers,
  and carried him to the hut. Ramballe put his arms around their necks while
  they carried him and began wailing plaintively:
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, you fine fellows, my kind, kind friends! These are men! Oh, my brave,
  kind friends,&rdquo; and he leaned his head against the shoulder of one of the
  men like a child.
<br />
  Meanwhile Morel was sitting in the best place by the fire, surrounded by
  the soldiers.
<br />
  Morel, a short sturdy Frenchman with inflamed and streaming eyes, was
  wearing a woman&rsquo;s cloak and had a shawl tied woman fashion round his head
  over his cap. He was evidently tipsy, and was singing a French song in a
  hoarse broken voice, with an arm thrown round the nearest soldier. The
  soldiers simply held their sides as they watched him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now then, now then, teach us how it goes! I&rsquo;ll soon pick it up. How is
  it?&rdquo; said the man&mdash;a singer and a wag&mdash;whom Morel was embracing.
<br />
   sang Morel,
  winking.  *
<br />
 * &ldquo;Long live Henry the Fourth, that valiant king! That rowdy
 devil.&rdquo;

“Vivarika! Vif-seruvaru! Sedyablyaka!” repeated the soldier, flourishing his arm and really catching the tune.
“Bravo! Ha, ha, ha!” rose their rough, joyous laughter from all sides.
Morel, wrinkling up his face, laughed too.
“Well, go on, go on!”

  * Who had a triple talent<br />
  For drinking, for fighting,<br />
  And for being a gallant old boy...

“It goes smoothly, too. Well, now, Zaletáev!”
“Ke…” Zaletáev, brought out with effort: “ke-e-e-e,” he drawled, laboriously pursing his lips, “le-trip-ta-la-de-bu-de-ba, e de-tra-va-ga-la” he sang.
“Fine! Just like the Frenchie! Oh, ho ho! Do you want some more to eat?”
“Give him some porridge: it takes a long time to get filled up after starving.”
They gave him some more porridge and Morel with a laugh set to work on his third bowl. All the young soldiers smiled gaily as they watched him. The older men, who thought it undignified to amuse themselves with such nonsense, continued to lie at the opposite side of the fire, but one would occasionally raise himself on an elbow and glance at Morel with a smile.
“They are men too,” said one of them as he wrapped himself up in his coat. “Even wormwood grows on its own root.”
“O Lord, O Lord! How starry it is! Tremendous! That means a hard frost….”
They all grew silent. The stars, as if knowing that no one was looking at them, began to disport themselves in the dark sky: now flaring up, now vanishing, now trembling, they were busy whispering something gladsome and mysterious to one another.

  CHAPTER X


  The French army melted away at the uniform rate of a mathematical
  progression; and that crossing of the Berëzina about which so much has
  been written was only one intermediate stage in its destruction, and not
  at all the decisive episode of the campaign. If so much has been and still
  is written about the Berëzina, on the French side this is only because at
  the broken bridge across that river the calamities their army had been
  previously enduring were suddenly concentrated at one moment into a tragic
  spectacle that remained in every memory, and on the Russian side merely
  because in Petersburg&mdash;far from the seat of war&mdash;a plan (again
  one of Pfuel&rsquo;s) had been devised to catch Napoleon in a strategic trap at
  the Berëzina River. Everyone assured himself that all would happen
  according to plan, and therefore insisted that it was just the crossing of
  the Berëzina that destroyed the French army. In reality the results of the
  crossing were much less disastrous to the French&mdash;in guns and men
  lost&mdash;than Krásnoe had been, as the figures show.
<br />
  The sole importance of the crossing of the Berëzina lies in the fact that
  it plainly and indubitably proved the fallacy of all the plans for cutting
  off the enemy&rsquo;s retreat and the soundness of the only possible line of
  action&mdash;the one Kutúzov and the general mass of the army demanded&mdash;namely,
  simply to follow the enemy up. The French crowd fled at a continually
  increasing speed and all its energy was directed to reaching its goal. It
  fled like a wounded animal and it was impossible to block its path. This
  was shown not so much by the arrangements it made for crossing as by what
  took place at the bridges. When the bridges broke down, unarmed soldiers,
  people from Moscow and women with children who were with the French
  transport, all&mdash;carried on by &mdash;pressed forward into
  boats and into the ice-covered water and did not surrender.
<br />
  That impulse was reasonable. The condition of fugitives and of pursuers
  was equally bad. As long as they remained with their own people each might
  hope for help from his fellows and the definite place he held among them.
  But those who surrendered, while remaining in the same pitiful plight,
  would be on a lower level to claim a share in the necessities of life. The
  French did not need to be informed of the fact that half the prisoners&mdash;with
  whom the Russians did not know what to do&mdash;perished of cold and
  hunger despite their captors&rsquo; desire to save them; they felt that it could
  not be otherwise. The most compassionate Russian commanders, those
  favorable to the French&mdash;and even the Frenchmen in the Russian
  service&mdash;could do nothing for the prisoners. The French perished from
  the conditions to which the Russian army was itself exposed. It was
  impossible to take bread and clothes from our hungry and indispensable
  soldiers to give to the French who, though not harmful, or hated, or
  guilty, were simply unnecessary. Some Russians even did that, but they
  were exceptions.
<br />
  Certain destruction lay behind the French but in front there was hope.
  Their ships had been burned, there was no salvation save in collective
  flight, and on that the whole strength of the French was concentrated.
<br />
  The farther they fled the more wretched became the plight of the remnant,
  especially after the Berëzina, on which (in consequence of the Petersburg
  plan) special hopes had been placed by the Russians, and the keener grew
  the passions of the Russian commanders, who blamed one another and Kutúzov
  most of all. Anticipation that the failure of the Petersburg Berëzina plan
  would be attributed to Kutúzov led to dissatisfaction, contempt, and
  ridicule, more and more strongly expressed. The ridicule and contempt were
  of course expressed in a respectful form, making it impossible for him to
  ask wherein he was to blame. They did not talk seriously to him; when
  reporting to him or asking for his sanction they appeared to be fulfilling
  a regrettable formality, but they winked behind his back and tried to
  mislead him at every turn.
<br />
  Because they could not understand him all these people assumed that it was
  useless to talk to the old man; that he would never grasp the profundity
  of their plans, that he would answer with his phrases (which they thought
  were mere phrases) about a &ldquo;golden bridge,&rdquo; about the impossibility of
  crossing the frontier with a crowd of tatterdemalions, and so forth. They
  had heard all that before. And all he said&mdash;that it was necessary to
  await provisions, or that the men had no boots&mdash;was so simple, while
  what they proposed was so complicated and clever, that it was evident that
  he was old and stupid and that they, though not in power, were commanders
  of genius.
<br />
  After the junction with the army of the brilliant admiral and Petersburg
  hero Wittgenstein, this mood and the gossip of the staff reached their
  maximum. Kutúzov saw this and merely sighed and shrugged his shoulders.
  Only once, after the affair of the Berëzina, did he get angry and write to
  Bennigsen (who reported separately to the Emperor) the following letter:
<br />
  &ldquo;On account of your spells of ill health, will your excellency please be
  so good as to set off for Kalúga on receipt of this, and there await
  further commands and appointments from His Imperial Majesty.&rdquo;
 <br />
  But after Bennigsen&rsquo;s departure, the Grand Duke Tsarévich Constantine
  Pávlovich joined the army. He had taken part in the beginning of the
  campaign but had subsequently been removed from the army by Kutúzov. Now
  having come to the army, he informed Kutúzov of the Emperor&rsquo;s displeasure
  at the poor success of our forces and the slowness of their advance. The
  Emperor intended to join the army personally in a few days&rsquo; time.
<br />
  The old man, experienced in court as well as in military affairs&mdash;this
  same Kutúzov who in August had been chosen commander in chief against the
  sovereign&rsquo;s wishes and who had removed the Grand Duke and heir-apparent
  from the army&mdash;who on his own authority and contrary to the Emperor&rsquo;s
  will had decided on the abandonment of Moscow, now realized at once that
  his day was over, that his part was played, and that the power he was
  supposed to hold was no longer his. And he understood this not merely from
  the attitude of the court. He saw on the one hand that the military
  business in which he had played his part was ended and felt that his
  mission was accomplished; and at the same time he began to be conscious of
  the physical weariness of his aged body and of the necessity of physical
  rest.
<br />
  On the twenty-ninth of November Kutúzov entered Vílna&mdash;his &ldquo;dear
  Vílna&rdquo; as he called it. Twice during his career Kutúzov had been governor
  of Vílna. In that wealthy town, which had not been injured, he found old
  friends and associations, besides the comforts of life of which he had so
  long been deprived. And he suddenly turned from the cares of army and
  state and, as far as the passions that seethed around him allowed,
  immersed himself in the quiet life to which he had formerly been
  accustomed, as if all that was taking place and all that had still to be
  done in the realm of history did not concern him at all.
<br />
  Chichagóv, one of the most zealous &ldquo;cutters-off&rdquo; and &ldquo;breakers-up,&rdquo; who
  had first wanted to effect a diversion in Greece and then in Warsaw but
  never wished to go where he was sent: Chichagóv, noted for the boldness
  with which he spoke to the Emperor, and who considered Kutúzov to be under
  an obligation to him because when he was sent to make peace with Turkey in
  1811 independently of Kutúzov, and found that peace had already been
  concluded, he admitted to the Emperor that the merit of securing that
  peace was really Kutúzov&rsquo;s; this Chichagóv was the first to meet Kutúzov
  at the castle where the latter was to stay. In undress naval uniform, with
  a dirk, and holding his cap under his arm, he handed Kutúzov a garrison
  report and the keys of the town. The contemptuously respectful attitude of
  the younger men to the old man in his dotage was expressed in the highest
  degree by the behavior of Chichagóv, who knew of the accusations that were
  being directed against Kutúzov.
<br />
  When speaking to Chichagóv, Kutúzov incidentally mentioned that the
  vehicles packed with china that had been captured from him at Borísov had
  been recovered and would be restored to him.
<br />
  &ldquo;You mean to imply that I have nothing to eat out of.... On the contrary,
  I can supply you with everything even if you want to give dinner parties,&rdquo;
   warmly replied Chichagóv, who tried by every word he spoke to prove his
  own rectitude and therefore imagined Kutúzov to be animated by the same
  desire.
<br />
  Kutúzov, shrugging his shoulders, replied with his subtle penetrating
  smile: &ldquo;I meant merely to say what I said.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Contrary to the Emperor&rsquo;s wish Kutúzov detained the greater part of the
  army at Vílna. Those about him said that he became extraordinarily slack
  and physically feeble during his stay in that town. He attended to army
  affairs reluctantly, left everything to his generals, and while awaiting
  the Emperor&rsquo;s arrival led a dissipated life.
<br />
  Having left Petersburg on the seventh of December with his suite&mdash;Count
  Tolstóy, Prince Volkónski, Arakchéev, and others&mdash;the Emperor reached
  Vílna on the eleventh, and in his traveling sleigh drove straight to the
  castle. In spite of the severe frost some hundred generals and staff
  officers in full parade uniform stood in front of the castle, as well as a
  guard of honor of the Semënov regiment.
<br />
  A courier who galloped to the castle in advance, in a troyka with three
  foam-flecked horses, shouted &ldquo;Coming!&rdquo; and Konovnítsyn rushed into the
  vestibule to inform Kutúzov, who was waiting in the hall porter&rsquo;s little
  lodge.
<br />
  A minute later the old man&rsquo;s large stout figure in full-dress uniform, his
  chest covered with orders and a scarf drawn round his stomach, waddled out
  into the porch. He put on his hat with its peaks to the sides and, holding
  his gloves in his hand and walking with an effort sideways down the steps
  to the level of the street, took in his hand the report he had prepared
  for the Emperor.
<br />
  There was running to and fro and whispering; another troyka flew furiously
  up, and then all eyes were turned on an approaching sleigh in which the
  figures of the Emperor and Volkónski could already be descried.
<br />
  From the habit of fifty years all this had a physically agitating effect
  on the old general. He carefully and hastily felt himself all over,
  readjusted his hat, and pulling himself together drew himself up and, at
  the very moment when the Emperor, having alighted from the sleigh, lifted
  his eyes to him, handed him the report and began speaking in his smooth,
  ingratiating voice.
<br />
  The Emperor with a rapid glance scanned Kutúzov from head to foot, frowned
  for an instant, but immediately mastering himself went up to the old man,
  extended his arms and embraced him. And this embrace too, owing to a
  long-standing impression related to his innermost feelings, had its usual
  effect on Kutúzov and he gave a sob.
<br />
  The Emperor greeted the officers and the Semënov guard, and again pressing
  the old man&rsquo;s hand went with him into the castle.
<br />
  When alone with the field marshal the Emperor expressed his
  dissatisfaction at the slowness of the pursuit and at the mistakes made at
  Krásnoe and the Berëzina, and informed him of his intentions for a future
  campaign abroad. Kutúzov made no rejoinder or remark. The same submissive,
  expressionless look with which he had listened to the Emperor&rsquo;s commands
  on the field of Austerlitz seven years before settled on his face now.
<br />
  When Kutúzov came out of the study and with lowered head was crossing the
  ballroom with his heavy waddling gait, he was arrested by someone&rsquo;s voice
  saying:
<br />
  &ldquo;Your Serene Highness!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Kutúzov raised his head and looked for a long while into the eyes of Count
  Tolstóy, who stood before him holding a silver salver on which lay a small
  object. Kutúzov seemed not to understand what was expected of him.
<br />
  Suddenly he seemed to remember; a scarcely perceptible smile flashed
  across his puffy face, and bowing low and respectfully he took the object
  that lay on the salver. It was the Order of St. George of the First Class.

  CHAPTER XI


  Next day the field marshal gave a dinner and ball which the Emperor
  honored by his presence. Kutúzov had received the Order of St. George of
  the First Class and the Emperor showed him the highest honors, but
  everyone knew of the imperial dissatisfaction with him. The proprieties
  were observed and the Emperor was the first to set that example, but
  everybody understood that the old man was blameworthy and
  good-for-nothing. When Kutúzov, conforming to a custom of Catherine&rsquo;s day,
  ordered the standards that had been captured to be lowered at the
  Emperor&rsquo;s feet on his entering the ballroom, the Emperor made a wry face
  and muttered something in which some people caught the words, &ldquo;the old
  comedian.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The Emperor&rsquo;s displeasure with Kutúzov was specially increased at Vílna by
  the fact that Kutúzov evidently could not or would not understand the
  importance of the coming campaign.
<br />
  When on the following morning the Emperor said to the officers assembled
  about him: &ldquo;You have not only saved Russia, you have saved Europe!&rdquo; they
  all understood that the war was not ended.
<br />
  Kutúzov alone would not see this and openly expressed his opinion that no
  fresh war could improve the position or add to the glory of Russia, but
  could only spoil and lower the glorious position that Russia had gained.
  He tried to prove to the Emperor the impossibility of levying fresh
  troops, spoke of the hardships already endured by the people, of the
  possibility of failure and so forth.
<br />
  This being the field marshal&rsquo;s frame of mind he was naturally regarded as
  merely a hindrance and obstacle to the impending war.
<br />
  To avoid unpleasant encounters with the old man, the natural method was to
  do what had been done with him at Austerlitz and with Barclay at the
  beginning of the Russian campaign&mdash;to transfer the authority to the
  Emperor himself, thus cutting the ground from under the commander in
  chief&rsquo;s feet without upsetting the old man by informing him of the change.
<br />
  With this object his staff was gradually reconstructed and its real
  strength removed and transferred to the Emperor. Toll, Konovnítsyn, and
  Ermólov received fresh appointments. Everyone spoke loudly of the field
  marshal&rsquo;s great weakness and failing health.
<br />
  His health had to be bad for his place to be taken away and given to
  another. And in fact his health was poor.
<br />
  So naturally, simply, and gradually&mdash;just as he had come from Turkey
  to the Treasury in Petersburg to recruit the militia, and then to the army
  when he was needed there&mdash;now when his part was played out, Kutúzov&rsquo;s
  place was taken by a new and necessary performer.
<br />
  The war of 1812, besides its national significance dear to every Russian
  heart, was now to assume another, a European, significance.
<br />
  The movement of peoples from west to east was to be succeeded by a
  movement of peoples from east to west, and for this fresh war another
  leader was necessary, having qualities and views differing from Kutúzov&rsquo;s
  and animated by different motives.
<br />
  Alexander I was as necessary for the movement of the peoples from east to
  west and for the refixing of national frontiers as Kutúzov had been for
  the salvation and glory of Russia.
<br />
  Kutúzov did not understand what Europe, the balance of power, or Napoleon
  meant. He could not understand it. For the representative of the Russian
  people, after the enemy had been destroyed and Russia had been liberated
  and raised to the summit of her glory, there was nothing left to do as a
  Russian. Nothing remained for the representative of the national war but
  to die, and Kutúzov died.

  CHAPTER XII


  As generally happens, Pierre did not feel the full effects of the physical
  privation and strain he had suffered as prisoner until after they were
  over. After his liberation he reached Orël, and on the third day there,
  when preparing to go to Kiev, he fell ill and was laid up for three
  months. He had what the doctors termed &ldquo;bilious fever.&rdquo; But despite the
  fact that the doctors treated him, bled him, and gave him medicines to
  drink, he recovered.
<br />
  Scarcely any impression was left on Pierre&rsquo;s mind by all that happened to
  him from the time of his rescue till his illness. He remembered only the
  dull gray weather now rainy and now snowy, internal physical distress, and
  pains in his feet and side. He remembered a general impression of the
  misfortunes and sufferings of people and of being worried by the curiosity
  of officers and generals who questioned him, he also remembered his
  difficulty in procuring a conveyance and horses, and above all he
  remembered his incapacity to think and feel all that time. On the day of
  his rescue he had seen the body of Pétya Rostóv. That same day he had
  learned that Prince Andrew, after surviving the battle of Borodinó for
  more than a month had recently died in the Rostóvs&rsquo; house at Yaroslávl,
  and Denísov who told him this news also mentioned Hélène&rsquo;s death,
  supposing that Pierre had heard of it long before. All this at the time
  seemed merely strange to Pierre: he felt he could not grasp its
  significance. Just then he was only anxious to get away as quickly as
  possible from places where people were killing one another, to some
  peaceful refuge where he could recover himself, rest, and think over all
  the strange new facts he had learned; but on reaching Orël he immediately
  fell ill. When he came to himself after his illness he saw in attendance
  on him two of his servants, Terénty and Váska, who had come from Moscow;
  and also his cousin the eldest princess, who had been living on his estate
  at Eléts and hearing of his rescue and illness had come to look after him.
<br />
  It was only gradually during his convalescence that Pierre lost the
  impressions he had become accustomed to during the last few months and got
  used to the idea that no one would oblige him to go anywhere tomorrow,
  that no one would deprive him of his warm bed, and that he would be sure
  to get his dinner, tea, and supper. But for a long time in his dreams he
  still saw himself in the conditions of captivity. In the same way little
  by little he came to understand the news he had been told after his
  rescue, about the death of Prince Andrew, the death of his wife, and the
  destruction of the French.
<br />
  A joyous feeling of freedom&mdash;that complete inalienable freedom
  natural to man which he had first experienced at the first halt outside
  Moscow&mdash;filled Pierre&rsquo;s soul during his convalescence. He was
  surprised to find that this inner freedom, which was independent of
  external conditions, now had as it were an additional setting of external
  liberty. He was alone in a strange town, without acquaintances. No one
  demanded anything of him or sent him anywhere. He had all he wanted: the
  thought of his wife which had been a continual torment to him was no
  longer there, since she was no more.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, how good! How splendid!&rdquo; said he to himself when a cleanly laid table
  was moved up to him with savory beef tea, or when he lay down for the
  night on a soft clean bed, or when he remembered that the French had gone
  and that his wife was no more. &ldquo;Oh, how good, how splendid!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And by old habit he asked himself the question: &ldquo;Well, and what then? What
  am I going to do?&rdquo; And he immediately gave himself the answer: &ldquo;Well, I
  shall live. Ah, how splendid!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The very question that had formerly tormented him, the thing he had
  continually sought to find&mdash;the aim of life&mdash;no longer existed
  for him now. That search for the aim of life had not merely disappeared
  temporarily&mdash;he felt that it no longer existed for him and could not
  present itself again. And this very absence of an aim gave him the
  complete, joyous sense of freedom which constituted his happiness at this
  time.
<br />
  He could not see an aim, for he now had faith&mdash;not faith in any kind
  of rule, or words, or ideas, but faith in an ever-living, ever-manifest
  God. Formerly he had sought Him in aims he set himself. That search for an
  aim had been simply a search for God, and suddenly in his captivity he had
  learned not by words or reasoning but by direct feeling what his nurse had
  told him long ago: that God is here and everywhere. In his captivity he
  had learned that in Karatáev God was greater, more infinite and
  unfathomable than in the Architect of the Universe recognized by the
  Freemasons. He felt like a man who after straining his eyes to see into
  the far distance finds what he sought at his very feet. All his life he
  had looked over the heads of the men around him, when he should have
  merely looked in front of him without straining his eyes.
<br />
  In the past he had never been able to find that great inscrutable infinite
  . He had only felt that it must exist somewhere and had looked
  for it. In everything near and comprehensible he had seen only what was
  limited, petty, commonplace, and senseless. He had equipped himself with a
  mental telescope and looked into remote space, where petty worldliness
  hiding itself in misty distance had seemed to him great and infinite
  merely because it was not clearly seen. And such had European life,
  politics, Freemasonry, philosophy, and philanthropy seemed to him. But
  even then, at moments of weakness as he had accounted them, his mind had
  penetrated to those distances and he had there seen the same pettiness,
  worldliness, and senselessness. Now, however, he had learned to see the
  great, eternal, and infinite in everything, and therefore&mdash;to see it
  and enjoy its contemplation&mdash;he naturally threw away the telescope
  through which he had till now gazed over men&rsquo;s heads, and gladly regarded
  the ever-changing, eternally great, unfathomable, and infinite life around
  him. And the closer he looked the more tranquil and happy he became. That
  dreadful question, &ldquo;What for?&rdquo; which had formerly destroyed all his mental
  edifices, no longer existed for him. To that question, &ldquo;What for?&rdquo; a
  simple answer was now always ready in his soul: &ldquo;Because there is a God,
  that God without whose will not one hair falls from a man&rsquo;s head.&rdquo;

  CHAPTER XIII


  In external ways Pierre had hardly changed at all. In appearance he was
  just what he used to be. As before he was absent-minded and seemed
  occupied not with what was before his eyes but with something special of
  his own. The difference between his former and present self was that
  formerly when he did not grasp what lay before him or was said to him, he
  had puckered his forehead painfully as if vainly seeking to distinguish
  something at a distance. At present he still forgot what was said to him
  and still did not see what was before his eyes, but he now looked with a
  scarcely perceptible and seemingly ironic smile at what was before him and
  listened to what was said, though evidently seeing and hearing something
  quite different. Formerly he had appeared to be a kindhearted but unhappy
  man, and so people had been inclined to avoid him. Now a smile at the joy
  of life always played round his lips, and sympathy for others shone in
  his eyes with a questioning look as to whether they were as contented as
  he was, and people felt pleased by his presence.
<br />
  Previously he had talked a great deal, grew excited when he talked, and
  seldom listened; now he was seldom carried away in conversation and knew
  how to listen so that people readily told him their most intimate secrets.
<br />
  The princess, who had never liked Pierre and had been particularly hostile
  to him since she had felt herself under obligations to him after the old
  count&rsquo;s death, now after staying a short time in Orël&mdash;where she had
  come intending to show Pierre that in spite of his ingratitude she
  considered it her duty to nurse him&mdash;felt to her surprise and
  vexation that she had become fond of him. Pierre did not in any way seek
  her approval, he merely studied her with interest. Formerly she had felt
  that he regarded her with indifference and irony, and so had shrunk into
  herself as she did with others and had shown him only the combative side
  of her nature; but now he seemed to be trying to understand the most
  intimate places of her heart, and, mistrustfully at first but afterwards
  gratefully, she let him see the hidden, kindly sides of her character.
<br />
  The most cunning man could not have crept into her confidence more
  successfully, evoking memories of the best times of her youth and showing
  sympathy with them. Yet Pierre&rsquo;s cunning consisted simply in finding
  pleasure in drawing out the human qualities of the embittered, hard, and
  (in her own way) proud princess.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, he is a very, very kind man when he is not under the influence of
  bad people but of people such as myself,&rdquo; thought she.
<br />
  His servants too&mdash;Terénty and Váska&mdash;in their own way noticed
  the change that had taken place in Pierre. They considered that he had
  become much &ldquo;simpler.&rdquo; Terénty, when he had helped him undress and wished
  him good night, often lingered with his master&rsquo;s boots in his hands and
  clothes over his arm, to see whether he would not start a talk. And
  Pierre, noticing that Terénty wanted a chat, generally kept him there.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, tell me... now, how did you get food?&rdquo; he would ask.
<br />
  And Terénty would begin talking of the destruction of Moscow, and of the
  old count, and would stand for a long time holding the clothes and
  talking, or sometimes listening to Pierre&rsquo;s stories, and then would go out
  into the hall with a pleasant sense of intimacy with his master and
  affection for him.
<br />
  The doctor who attended Pierre and visited him every day, though he
  considered it his duty as a doctor to pose as a man whose every moment was
  of value to suffering humanity, would sit for hours with Pierre telling
  him his favorite anecdotes and his observations on the characters of his
  patients in general, and especially of the ladies.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a pleasure to talk to a man like that; he is not like our
  provincials,&rdquo; he would say.
<br />
  There were several prisoners from the French army in Orël, and the doctor
  brought one of them, a young Italian, to see Pierre.
<br />
  This officer began visiting Pierre, and the princess used to make fun of
  the tenderness the Italian expressed for him.
<br />
  The Italian seemed happy only when he could come to see Pierre, talk with
  him, tell him about his past, his life at home, and his love, and pour out
  to him his indignation against the French and especially against Napoleon.
<br />
  &ldquo;If all Russians are in the least like you, it is sacrilege to fight such
  a nation,&rdquo; he said to Pierre. &ldquo;You, who have suffered so from the French,
  do not even feel animosity toward them.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre had evoked the passionate affection of the Italian merely by
  evoking the best side of his nature and taking a pleasure in so doing.
<br />
  During the last days of Pierre&rsquo;s stay in Orël his old Masonic acquaintance
  Count Willarski, who had introduced him to the lodge in 1807, came to see
  him. Willarski was married to a Russian heiress who had a large estate in
  Orël province, and he occupied a temporary post in the commissariat
  department in that town.
<br />
  Hearing that Bezúkhov was in Orël, Willarski, though they had never been
  intimate, came to him with the professions of friendship and intimacy that
  people who meet in a desert generally express for one another. Willarski
  felt dull in Orël and was pleased to meet a man of his own circle and, as
  he supposed, of similar interests.
<br />
  But to his surprise Willarski soon noticed that Pierre had lagged much
  behind the times, and had sunk, as he expressed it to himself, into apathy
  and egotism.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are letting yourself go, my dear fellow,&rdquo; he said.
<br />
  But for all that Willarski found it pleasanter now than it had been
  formerly to be with Pierre, and came to see him every day. To Pierre as he
  looked at and listened to Willarski, it seemed strange to think that he
  had been like that himself but a short time before.
<br />
  Willarski was a married man with a family, busy with his family affairs,
  his wife&rsquo;s affairs, and his official duties. He regarded all these
  occupations as hindrances to life, and considered that they were all
  contemptible because their aim was the welfare of himself and his family.
  Military, administrative, political, and Masonic interests continually
  absorbed his attention. And Pierre, without trying to change the other&rsquo;s
  views and without condemning him, but with the quiet, joyful, and amused
  smile now habitual to him, was interested in this strange though very
  familiar phenomenon.
<br />
  There was a new feature in Pierre&rsquo;s relations with Willarski, with the
  princess, with the doctor, and with all the people he now met, which
  gained for him the general good will. This was his acknowledgment of the
  impossibility of changing a man&rsquo;s convictions by words, and his
  recognition of the possibility of everyone thinking, feeling, and seeing
  things each from his own point of view. This legitimate peculiarity of
  each individual which used to excite and irritate Pierre now became a
  basis of the sympathy he felt for, and the interest he took in, other
  people. The difference, and sometimes complete contradiction, between
  men&rsquo;s opinions and their lives, and between one man and another, pleased
  him and drew from him an amused and gentle smile.
<br />
  In practical matters Pierre unexpectedly felt within himself a center of
  gravity he had previously lacked. Formerly all pecuniary questions,
  especially requests for money to which, as an extremely wealthy man, he
  was very exposed, produced in him a state of hopeless agitation and
  perplexity. &ldquo;To give or not to give?&rdquo; he had asked himself. &ldquo;I have it and
  he needs it. But someone else needs it still more. Who needs it most? And
  perhaps they are both impostors?&rdquo; In the old days he had been unable to
  find a way out of all these surmises and had given to all who asked as
  long as he had anything to give. Formerly he had been in a similar state
  of perplexity with regard to every question concerning his property, when
  one person advised one thing and another something else.
<br />
  Now to his surprise he found that he no longer felt either doubt or
  perplexity about these questions. There was now within him a judge who by
  some rule unknown to him decided what should or should not be done.
<br />
  He was as indifferent as heretofore to money matters, but now he felt
  certain of what ought and what ought not to be done. The first time he had
  recourse to his new judge was when a French prisoner, a colonel, came to
  him and, after talking a great deal about his exploits, concluded by
  making what amounted to a demand that Pierre should give him four thousand
  francs to send to his wife and children. Pierre refused without the least
  difficulty or effort, and was afterwards surprised how simple and easy had
  been what used to appear so insurmountably difficult. At the same time
  that he refused the colonel&rsquo;s demand he made up his mind that he must have
  recourse to artifice when leaving Orël, to induce the Italian officer to
  accept some money of which he was evidently in need. A further proof to
  Pierre of his own more settled outlook on practical matters was furnished
  by his decision with regard to his wife&rsquo;s debts and to the rebuilding of
  his houses in and near Moscow.
<br />
  His head steward came to him at Orël and Pierre reckoned up with him his
  diminished income. The burning of Moscow had cost him, according to the
  head steward&rsquo;s calculation, about two million rubles.
<br />
  To console Pierre for these losses the head steward gave him an estimate
  showing that despite these losses his income would not be diminished but
  would even be increased if he refused to pay his wife&rsquo;s debts which he was
  under no obligation to meet, and did not rebuild his Moscow house and the
  country house on his Moscow estate, which had cost him eighty thousand
  rubles a year and brought in nothing.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, of course that&rsquo;s true,&rdquo; said Pierre with a cheerful smile. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t
  need all that at all. By being ruined I have become much richer.&rdquo;
 <br />
  But in January Savélich came from Moscow and gave him an account of the
  state of things there, and spoke of the estimate an architect had made of
  the cost of rebuilding the town and country houses, speaking of this as of
  a settled matter. About the same time he received letters from Prince
  Vasíli and other Petersburg acquaintances speaking of his wife&rsquo;s debts.
  And Pierre decided that the steward&rsquo;s proposals which had so pleased him
  were wrong and that he must go to Petersburg and settle his wife&rsquo;s affairs
  and must rebuild in Moscow. Why this was necessary he did not know, but he
  knew for certain that it was necessary. His income would be reduced by
  three fourths, but he felt it must be done.
<br />
  Willarski was going to Moscow and they agreed to travel together.
<br />
  During the whole time of his convalescence in Orël Pierre had experienced
  a feeling of joy, freedom, and life; but when during his journey he found
  himself in the open world and saw hundreds of new faces, that feeling was
  intensified. Throughout his journey he felt like a schoolboy on holiday.
  Everyone&mdash;the stagecoach driver, the post-house overseers, the
  peasants on the roads and in the villages&mdash;had a new significance for
  him. The presence and remarks of Willarski who continually deplored the
  ignorance and poverty of Russia and its backwardness compared with Europe
  only heightened Pierre&rsquo;s pleasure. Where Willarski saw deadness Pierre saw
  an extraordinary strength and vitality&mdash;the strength which in that
  vast space amid the snows maintained the life of this original, peculiar,
  and unique people. He did not contradict Willarski and even seemed to
  agree with him&mdash;an apparent agreement being the simplest way to avoid
  discussions that could lead to nothing&mdash;and he smiled joyfully as he
  listened to him.

  CHAPTER XIV


  It would be difficult to explain why and whither ants whose heap has been
  destroyed are hurrying: some from the heap dragging bits of rubbish,
  larvae, and corpses, others back to the heap, or why they jostle, overtake
  one another, and fight, and it would be equally difficult to explain what
  caused the Russians after the departure of the French to throng to the
  place that had formerly been Moscow. But when we watch the ants round
  their ruined heap, the tenacity, energy, and immense number of the delving
  insects prove that despite the destruction of the heap, something
  indestructible, which though intangible is the real strength of the
  colony, still exists; and similarly, though in Moscow in the month of
  October there was no government and no churches, shrines, riches, or
  houses&mdash;it was still the Moscow it had been in August. All was
  destroyed, except something intangible yet powerful and indestructible.
<br />
  The motives of those who thronged from all sides to Moscow after it had
  been cleared of the enemy were most diverse and personal, and at first for
  the most part savage and brutal. One motive only they all had in common: a
  desire to get to the place that had been called Moscow, to apply their
  activities there.
<br />
  Within a week Moscow already had fifteen thousand inhabitants, in a
  fortnight twenty-five thousand, and so on. By the autumn of 1813 the
  number, ever increasing and increasing, exceeded what it had been in 1812.
<br />
  The first Russians to enter Moscow were the Cossacks of Wintzingerode&rsquo;s
  detachment, peasants from the adjacent villages, and residents who had
  fled from Moscow and had been hiding in its vicinity. The Russians who
  entered Moscow, finding it plundered, plundered it in their turn. They
  continued what the French had begun. Trains of peasant carts came to
  Moscow to carry off to the villages what had been abandoned in the ruined
  houses and the streets. The Cossacks carried off what they could to their
  camps, and the householders seized all they could find in other houses and
  moved it to their own, pretending that it was their property.
<br />
  But the first plunderers were followed by a second and a third contingent,
  and with increasing numbers plundering became more and more difficult and
  assumed more definite forms.
<br />
  The French found Moscow abandoned but with all the organizations of
  regular life, with diverse branches of commerce and craftsmanship, with
  luxury, and governmental and religious institutions. These forms were
  lifeless but still existed. There were bazaars, shops, warehouses, market
  stalls, granaries&mdash;for the most part still stocked with goods&mdash;and
  there were factories and workshops, palaces and wealthy houses filled with
  luxuries, hospitals, prisons, government offices, churches, and
  cathedrals. The longer the French remained the more these forms of town
  life perished, until finally all was merged into one confused, lifeless
  scene of plunder.
<br />
  The more the plundering by the French continued, the more both the wealth
  of Moscow and the strength of its plunderers was destroyed. But plundering
  by the Russians, with which the reoccupation of the city began, had an
  opposite effect: the longer it continued and the greater the number of
  people taking part in it the more rapidly was the wealth of the city and
  its regular life restored.
<br />
  Besides the plunderers, very various people, some drawn by curiosity, some
  by official duties, some by self-interest&mdash;house owners, clergy,
  officials of all kinds, tradesmen, artisans, and peasants&mdash;streamed
  into Moscow as blood flows to the heart.
<br />
  Within a week the peasants who came with empty carts to carry off plunder
  were stopped by the authorities and made to cart the corpses out of the
  town. Other peasants, having heard of their comrades&rsquo; discomfiture, came
  to town bringing rye, oats, and hay, and beat down one another&rsquo;s prices to
  below what they had been in former days. Gangs of carpenters hoping for
  high pay arrived in Moscow every day, and on all sides logs were being
  hewn, new houses built, and old, charred ones repaired. Tradesmen began
  trading in booths. Cookshops and taverns were opened in partially burned
  houses. The clergy resumed the services in many churches that had not been
  burned. Donors contributed Church property that had been stolen.
  Government clerks set up their baize-covered tables and their pigeonholes
  of documents in small rooms. The higher authorities and the police
  organized the distribution of goods left behind by the French. The owners
  of houses in which much property had been left, brought there from other
  houses, complained of the injustice of taking everything to the Faceted
  Palace in the Krémlin; others insisted that as the French had gathered
  things from different houses into this or that house, it would be unfair
  to allow its owner to keep all that was found there. They abused the
  police and bribed them, made out estimates at ten times their value for
  government stores that had perished in the fire, and demanded relief. And
  Count Rostopchín wrote proclamations.

  CHAPTER XV


  At the end of January Pierre went to Moscow and stayed in an annex of his
  house which had not been burned. He called on Count Rostopchín and on some
  acquaintances who were back in Moscow, and he intended to leave for
  Petersburg two days later. Everybody was celebrating the victory,
  everything was bubbling with life in the ruined but reviving city.
  Everyone was pleased to see Pierre, everyone wished to meet him, and
  everyone questioned him about what he had seen. Pierre felt particularly
  well disposed toward them all, but was now instinctively on his guard for
  fear of binding himself in any way. To all questions put to him&mdash;whether
  important or quite trifling&mdash;such as: Where would he live? Was he
  going to rebuild? When was he going to Petersburg and would he mind taking
  a parcel for someone?&mdash;he replied: &ldquo;Yes, perhaps,&rdquo; or, &ldquo;I think so,&rdquo;
   and so on.
<br />
  He had heard that the Rostóvs were at Kostromá but the thought of Natásha
  seldom occurred to him. If it did it was only as a pleasant memory of the
  distant past. He felt himself not only free from social obligations but
  also from that feeling which, it seemed to him, he had aroused in himself.
<br />
  On the third day after his arrival he heard from the Drubetskóys that
  Princess Mary was in Moscow. The death, sufferings, and last days of
  Prince Andrew had often occupied Pierre&rsquo;s thoughts and now recurred to him
  with fresh vividness. Having heard at dinner that Princess Mary was in
  Moscow and living in her house&mdash;which had not been burned&mdash;in
  Vozdvízhenka Street, he drove that same evening to see her.
<br />
  On his way to the house Pierre kept thinking of Prince Andrew, of their
  friendship, of his various meetings with him, and especially of the last
  one at Borodinó.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is it possible that he died in the bitter frame of mind he was then in?
  Is it possible that the meaning of life was not disclosed to him before he
  died?&rdquo; thought Pierre. He recalled Karatáev and his death and
  involuntarily began to compare these two men, so different, and yet so
  similar in that they had both lived and both died and in the love he felt
  for both of them.
<br />
  Pierre drove up to the house of the old prince in a most serious mood. The
  house had escaped the fire; it showed signs of damage but its general
  aspect was unchanged. The old footman, who met Pierre with a stern face as
  if wishing to make the visitor feel that the absence of the old prince had
  not disturbed the order of things in the house, informed him that the
  princess had gone to her own apartments, and that she received on Sundays.
<br />
  &ldquo;Announce me. Perhaps she will see me,&rdquo; said Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, sir,&rdquo; said the man. &ldquo;Please step into the portrait gallery.&rdquo;
 <br />
  A few minutes later the footman returned with Dessalles, who brought word
  from the princess that she would be very glad to see Pierre if he would
  excuse her want of ceremony and come upstairs to her apartment.
<br />
  In a rather low room lit by one candle sat the princess and with her
  another person dressed in black. Pierre remembered that the princess
  always had lady companions, but who they were and what they were like he
  never knew or remembered. &ldquo;This must be one of her companions,&rdquo; he
  thought, glancing at the lady in the black dress.
<br />
  The princess rose quickly to meet him and held out her hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she said, looking at his altered face after he had kissed her hand,
  &ldquo;so this is how we meet again. He spoke of you even at the very last,&rdquo; she
  went on, turning her eyes from Pierre to her companion with a shyness that
  surprised him for an instant.
<br />
  &ldquo;I was so glad to hear of your safety. It was the first piece of good news
  we had received for a long time.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Again the princess glanced round at her companion with even more
  uneasiness in her manner and was about to add something, but Pierre
  interrupted her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Just imagine&mdash;I knew nothing about him!&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;I thought he had
  been killed. All I know I heard at second hand from others. I only know
  that he fell in with the Rostóvs.... What a strange coincidence!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre spoke rapidly and with animation. He glanced once at the
  companion&rsquo;s face, saw her attentive and kindly gaze fixed on him, and, as
  often happens when one is talking, felt somehow that this companion in the
  black dress was a good, kind, excellent creature who would not hinder his
  conversing freely with Princess Mary.
<br />
  But when he mentioned the Rostóvs, Princess Mary&rsquo;s face expressed still
  greater embarrassment. She again glanced rapidly from Pierre&rsquo;s face to
  that of the lady in the black dress and said:
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you really not recognize her?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre looked again at the companion&rsquo;s pale, delicate face with its black
  eyes and peculiar mouth, and something near to him, long forgotten and
  more than sweet, looked at him from those attentive eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;But no, it can&rsquo;t be!&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;This stern, thin, pale face that looks
  so much older! It cannot be she. It merely reminds me of her.&rdquo; But at that
  moment Princess Mary said, &ldquo;Natásha!&rdquo; And with difficulty, effort, and
  stress, like the opening of a door grown rusty on its hinges, a smile
  appeared on the face with the attentive eyes, and from that opening door
  came a breath of fragrance which suffused Pierre with a happiness he had
  long forgotten and of which he had not even been thinking&mdash;especially
  at that moment. It suffused him, seized him, and enveloped him completely.
  When she smiled doubt was no longer possible, it was Natásha and he loved
  her.
<br />
  At that moment Pierre involuntarily betrayed to her, to Princess Mary, and
  above all to himself, a secret of which he himself had been unaware. He
  flushed joyfully yet with painful distress. He tried to hide his
  agitation. But the more he tried to hide it the more clearly&mdash;clearer
  than any words could have done&mdash;did he betray to himself, to her, and
  to Princess Mary that he loved her.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, it&rsquo;s only the unexpectedness of it,&rdquo; thought Pierre. But as soon as
  he tried to continue the conversation he had begun with Princess Mary he
  again glanced at Natásha, and a still-deeper flush suffused his face and a
  still-stronger agitation of mingled joy and fear seized his soul. He
  became confused in his speech and stopped in the middle of what he was
  saying.
<br />
  Pierre had failed to notice Natásha because he did not at all expect to
  see her there, but he had failed to recognize her because the change in
  her since he last saw her was immense. She had grown thin and pale, but
  that was not what made her unrecognizable; she was unrecognizable at the
  moment he entered because on that face whose eyes had always shone with a
  suppressed smile of the joy of life, now when he first entered and glanced
  at her there was not the least shadow of a smile: only her eyes were
  kindly attentive and sadly interrogative.
<br />
  Pierre&rsquo;s confusion was not reflected by any confusion on Natásha&rsquo;s part,
  but only by the pleasure that just perceptibly lit up her whole face.

  CHAPTER XVI


  &ldquo;She has come to stay with me,&rdquo; said Princess Mary. &ldquo;The count and
  countess will be here in a few days. The countess is in a dreadful state;
  but it was necessary for Natásha herself to see a doctor. They insisted on
  her coming with me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, is there a family free from sorrow now?&rdquo; said Pierre, addressing
  Natásha. &ldquo;You know it happened the very day we were rescued. I saw him.
  What a delightful boy he was!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha looked at him, and by way of answer to his words her eyes widened
  and lit up.
<br />
  &ldquo;What can one say or think of as a consolation?&rdquo; said Pierre. &ldquo;Nothing!
  Why had such a splendid boy, so full of life, to die?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, in these days it would be hard to live without faith...&rdquo; remarked
  Princess Mary.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes, that is really true,&rdquo; Pierre hastily interrupted her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why is it true?&rdquo; Natásha asked, looking attentively into Pierre&rsquo;s eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;How can you ask why?&rdquo; said Princess Mary. &ldquo;The thought alone of what
  awaits...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha without waiting for Princess Mary to finish again looked
  inquiringly at Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;And because,&rdquo; Pierre continued, &ldquo;only one who believes that there is a
  God ruling us can bear a loss such as hers and... yours.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha had already opened her mouth to speak but suddenly stopped. Pierre
  hurriedly turned away from her and again addressed Princess Mary, asking
  about his friend&rsquo;s last days.
<br />
  Pierre&rsquo;s confusion had now almost vanished, but at the same time he felt
  that his freedom had also completely gone. He felt that there was now a
  judge of his every word and action whose judgment mattered more to him
  than that of all the rest of the world. As he spoke now he was considering
  what impression his words would make on Natásha. He did not purposely say
  things to please her, but whatever he was saying he regarded from her
  standpoint.
<br />
  Princess Mary&mdash;reluctantly as is usual in such cases&mdash;began
  telling of the condition in which she had found Prince Andrew. But
  Pierre&rsquo;s face quivering with emotion, his questions and his eager restless
  expression, gradually compelled her to go into details which she feared to
  recall for her own sake.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes, and so...?&rdquo; Pierre kept saying as he leaned toward her with his
  whole body and eagerly listened to her story. &ldquo;Yes, yes... so he grew
  tranquil and softened? With all his soul he had always sought one thing&mdash;to
  be perfectly good&mdash;so he could not be afraid of death. The faults he
  had&mdash;if he had any&mdash;were not of his making. So he did soften?...
  What a happy thing that he saw you again,&rdquo; he added, suddenly turning to
  Natásha and looking at her with eyes full of tears.
<br />
  Natásha&rsquo;s face twitched. She frowned and lowered her eyes for a moment.
  She hesitated for an instant whether to speak or not.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, that was happiness,&rdquo; she then said in her quiet voice with its deep
  chest notes. &ldquo;For me it certainly was happiness.&rdquo; She paused. &ldquo;And he...
  he... he said he was wishing for it at the very moment I entered the
  room....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha&rsquo;s voice broke. She blushed, pressed her clasped hands on her
  knees, and then controlling herself with an evident effort lifted her head
  and began to speak rapidly.
<br />
  &ldquo;We knew nothing of it when we started from Moscow. I did not dare to ask
  about him. Then suddenly Sónya told me he was traveling with us. I had no
  idea and could not imagine what state he was in, all I wanted was to see
  him and be with him,&rdquo; she said, trembling, and breathing quickly.
<br />
  And not letting them interrupt her she went on to tell what she had never
  yet mentioned to anyone&mdash;all she had lived through during those three
  weeks of their journey and life at Yaroslávl.
<br />
  Pierre listened to her with lips parted and eyes fixed upon her full of
  tears. As he listened he did not think of Prince Andrew, nor of death, nor
  of what she was telling. He listened to her and felt only pity for her,
  for what she was suffering now while she was speaking.
<br />
  Princess Mary, frowning in her effort to hold back her tears, sat beside
  Natásha, and heard for the first time the story of those last days of her
  brother&rsquo;s and Natásha&rsquo;s love.
<br />
  Evidently Natásha needed to tell that painful yet joyful tale.
<br />
  She spoke, mingling most trifling details with the intimate secrets of her
  soul, and it seemed as if she could never finish. Several times she
  repeated the same thing twice.
<br />
  Dessalles&rsquo; voice was heard outside the door asking whether little Nicholas
  might come in to say good night.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, that&rsquo;s all&mdash;everything,&rdquo; said Natásha.
<br />
  She got up quickly just as Nicholas entered, almost ran to the door which
  was hidden by curtains, struck her head against it, and rushed from the
  room with a moan either of pain or sorrow.
<br />
  Pierre gazed at the door through which she had disappeared and did not
  understand why he suddenly felt all alone in the world.
<br />
  Princess Mary roused him from his abstraction by drawing his attention to
  her nephew who had entered the room.
<br />
  At that moment of emotional tenderness young Nicholas&rsquo; face, which
  resembled his father&rsquo;s, affected Pierre so much that when he had kissed
  the boy he got up quickly, took out his handkerchief, and went to the
  window. He wished to take leave of Princess Mary, but she would not let
  him go.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, Natásha and I sometimes don&rsquo;t go to sleep till after two, so please
  don&rsquo;t go. I will order supper. Go downstairs, we will come immediately.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Before Pierre left the room Princess Mary told him: &ldquo;This is the first
  time she has talked of him like that.&rdquo;

  CHAPTER XVII


  Pierre was shown into the large, brightly lit dining room; a few minutes
  later he heard footsteps and Princess Mary entered with Natásha. Natásha
  was calm, though a severe and grave expression had again settled on her
  face. They all three of them now experienced that feeling of awkwardness
  which usually follows after a serious and heartfelt talk. It is impossible
  to go back to the same conversation, to talk of trifles is awkward, and
  yet the desire to speak is there and silence seems like affectation. They
  went silently to table. The footmen drew back the chairs and pushed them
  up again. Pierre unfolded his cold table napkin and, resolving to break
  the silence, looked at Natásha and at Princess Mary. They had evidently
  both formed the same resolution; the eyes of both shone with satisfaction
  and a confession that besides sorrow life also has joy.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you take vodka, Count?&rdquo; asked Princess Mary, and those words suddenly
  banished the shadows of the past. &ldquo;Now tell us about yourself,&rdquo; said she.
  &ldquo;One hears such improbable wonders about you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Pierre with the smile of mild irony now habitual to him.
  &ldquo;They even tell me wonders I myself never dreamed of! Mary Abrámovna
  invited me to her house and kept telling me what had happened, or ought to
  have happened, to me. Stepán Stepánych also instructed me how I ought to
  tell of my experiences. In general I have noticed that it is very easy to
  be an interesting man (I am an interesting man now); people invite me out
  and tell me all about myself.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha smiled and was on the point of speaking.
<br />
  &ldquo;We have been told,&rdquo; Princess Mary interrupted her, &ldquo;that you lost two
  millions in Moscow. Is that true?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But I am three times as rich as before,&rdquo; returned Pierre.
<br />
  Though the position was now altered by his decision to pay his wife&rsquo;s
  debts and to rebuild his houses, Pierre still maintained that he had
  become three times as rich as before.
<br />
  &ldquo;What I have certainly gained is freedom,&rdquo; he began seriously, but did not
  continue, noticing that this theme was too egotistic.
<br />
  &ldquo;And are you building?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes. Savélich says I must!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Tell me, you did not know of the countess&rsquo; death when you decided to
  remain in Moscow?&rdquo; asked Princess Mary and immediately blushed, noticing
  that her question, following his mention of freedom, ascribed to his words
  a meaning he had perhaps not intended.
<br />
  &ldquo;No,&rdquo; answered Pierre, evidently not considering awkward the meaning
  Princess Mary had given to his words. &ldquo;I heard of it in Orël and you
  cannot imagine how it shocked me. We were not an exemplary couple,&rdquo; he
  added quickly, glancing at Natásha and noticing on her face curiosity as
  to how he would speak of his wife, &ldquo;but her death shocked me terribly.
  When two people quarrel they are always both in fault, and one&rsquo;s own guilt
  suddenly becomes terribly serious when the other is no longer alive. And
  then such a death... without friends and without consolation! I am very,
  very sorry for her,&rdquo; he concluded, and was pleased to notice a look of
  glad approval on Natásha&rsquo;s face.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, and so you are once more an eligible bachelor,&rdquo; said Princess Mary.
<br />
  Pierre suddenly flushed crimson and for a long time tried not to look at
  Natásha. When he ventured to glance her way again her face was cold,
  stern, and he fancied even contemptuous.
<br />
  &ldquo;And did you really see and speak to Napoleon, as we have been told?&rdquo; said
  Princess Mary.
<br />
  Pierre laughed.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, not once! Everybody seems to imagine that being taken prisoner means
  being Napoleon&rsquo;s guest. Not only did I never see him but I heard nothing
  about him&mdash;I was in much lower company!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Supper was over, and Pierre who at first declined to speak about his
  captivity was gradually led on to do so.
<br />
  &ldquo;But it&rsquo;s true that you remained in Moscow to kill Napoleon?&rdquo; Natásha
  asked with a slight smile. &ldquo;I guessed it then when we met at the Súkharev
  tower, do you remember?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre admitted that it was true, and from that was gradually led by
  Princess Mary&rsquo;s questions and especially by Natásha&rsquo;s into giving a
  detailed account of his adventures.
<br />
  At first he spoke with the amused and mild irony now customary with him
  toward everybody and especially toward himself, but when he came to
  describe the horrors and sufferings he had witnessed he was unconsciously
  carried away and began speaking with the suppressed emotion of a man
  re-experiencing in recollection strong impressions he has lived through.
<br />
  Princess Mary with a gentle smile looked now at Pierre and now at Natásha.
  In the whole narrative she saw only Pierre and his goodness. Natásha,
  leaning on her elbow, the expression of her face constantly changing with
  the narrative, watched Pierre with an attention that never wandered&mdash;evidently
  herself experiencing all that he described. Not only her look, but her
  exclamations and the brief questions she put, showed Pierre that she
  understood just what he wished to convey. It was clear that she understood
  not only what he said but also what he wished to, but could not, express
  in words. The account Pierre gave of the incident with the child and the
  woman for protecting whom he was arrested was this: &ldquo;It was an awful sight&mdash;children
  abandoned, some in the flames... One was snatched out before my eyes...
  and there were women who had their things snatched off and their earrings
  torn out...&rdquo; he flushed and grew confused. &ldquo;Then a patrol arrived and all
  the men&mdash;all those who were not looting, that is&mdash;were arrested,
  and I among them.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am sure you&rsquo;re not telling us everything; I am sure you did
  something...&rdquo; said Natásha and pausing added, &ldquo;something fine?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre continued. When he spoke of the execution he wanted to pass over
  the horrible details, but Natásha insisted that he should not omit
  anything.
<br />
  Pierre began to tell about Karatáev, but paused. By this time he had risen
  from the table and was pacing the room, Natásha following him with her
  eyes. Then he added:
<br />
  &ldquo;No, you can&rsquo;t understand what I learned from that illiterate man&mdash;that
  simple fellow.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes, go on!&rdquo; said Natásha. &ldquo;Where is he?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;They killed him almost before my eyes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And Pierre, his voice trembling continually, went on to tell of the last
  days of their retreat, of Karatáev&rsquo;s illness and his death.
<br />
  He told of his adventures as he had never yet recalled them. He now, as it
  were, saw a new meaning in all he had gone through. Now that he was
  telling it all to Natásha he experienced that pleasure which a man has
  when women listen to him&mdash;not clever women who when listening either
  try to remember what they hear to enrich their minds and when opportunity
  offers to retell it, or who wish to adopt it to some thought of their own
  and promptly contribute their own clever comments prepared in their little
  mental workshop&mdash;but the pleasure given by real women gifted with a
  capacity to select and absorb the very best a man shows of himself.
  Natásha without knowing it was all attention: she did not lose a word, no
  single quiver in Pierre&rsquo;s voice, no look, no twitch of a muscle in his
  face, nor a single gesture. She caught the unfinished word in its flight
  and took it straight into her open heart, divining the secret meaning of
  all Pierre&rsquo;s mental travail.
<br />
  Princess Mary understood his story and sympathized with him, but she now
  saw something else that absorbed all her attention. She saw the
  possibility of love and happiness between Natásha and Pierre, and the
  first thought of this filled her heart with gladness.
<br />
  It was three o&rsquo;clock in the morning. The footmen came in with sad and
  stern faces to change the candles, but no one noticed them.
<br />
  Pierre finished his story. Natásha continued to look at him intently with
  bright, attentive, and animated eyes, as if trying to understand something
  more which he had perhaps left untold. Pierre in shamefaced and happy
  confusion glanced occasionally at her, and tried to think what to say next
  to introduce a fresh subject. Princess Mary was silent. It occurred to
  none of them that it was three o&rsquo;clock and time to go to bed.
<br />
  &ldquo;People speak of misfortunes and sufferings,&rdquo; remarked Pierre, &ldquo;but if at
  this moment I were asked: &lsquo;Would you rather be what you were before you
  were taken prisoner, or go through all this again?&rsquo; then for heaven&rsquo;s sake
  let me again have captivity and horseflesh! We imagine that when we are
  thrown out of our usual ruts all is lost, but it is only then that what is
  new and good begins. While there is life there is happiness. There is
  much, much before us. I say this to you,&rdquo; he added, turning to Natásha.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; she said, answering something quite different. &ldquo;I too should
  wish nothing but to relive it all from the beginning.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre looked intently at her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, and nothing more,&rdquo; said Natásha.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not true, not true!&rdquo; cried Pierre. &ldquo;I am not to blame for being
  alive and wishing to live&mdash;nor you either.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Suddenly Natásha bent her head, covered her face with her hands, and began
  to cry.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is it, Natásha?&rdquo; said Princess Mary.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nothing, nothing.&rdquo; She smiled at Pierre through her tears. &ldquo;Good night!
  It is time for bed.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre rose and took his leave.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  Princess Mary and Natásha met as usual in the bedroom. They talked of what
  Pierre had told them. Princess Mary did not express her opinion of Pierre
  nor did Natásha speak of him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, good night, Mary!&rdquo; said Natásha. &ldquo;Do you know, I am often afraid
  that by not speaking of him&rdquo; (she meant Prince Andrew) &ldquo;for fear of not
  doing justice to our feelings, we forget him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Princess Mary sighed deeply and thereby acknowledged the justice of
  Natásha&rsquo;s remark, but she did not express agreement in words.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is it possible to forget?&rdquo; said she.
<br />
  &ldquo;It did me so much good to tell all about it today. It was hard and
  painful, but good, very good!&rdquo; said Natásha. &ldquo;I am sure he really loved
  him. That is why I told him... Was it all right?&rdquo; she added, suddenly
  blushing.
<br />
  &ldquo;To tell Pierre? Oh, yes. What a splendid man he is!&rdquo; said Princess Mary.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you know, Mary...&rdquo; Natásha suddenly said with a mischievous smile such
  as Princess Mary had not seen on her face for a long time, &ldquo;he has somehow
  grown so clean, smooth, and fresh&mdash;as if he had just come out of a
  Russian bath; do you understand? Out of a moral bath. Isn&rsquo;t it true?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Princess Mary. &ldquo;He has greatly improved.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;With a short coat and his hair cropped; just as if, well, just as if he
  had come straight from the bath... Papa used to...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I understand why &rdquo; (Prince Andrew) &ldquo;liked no one so
  much as him,&rdquo; said Princess Mary.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, and yet he is quite different. They say men are friends when they
  are quite different. That must be true. Really he is quite unlike him&mdash;in
  everything.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, but he&rsquo;s wonderful.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, good night,&rdquo; said Natásha.
<br />
  And the same mischievous smile lingered for a long time on her face as if
  it had been forgotten there.

  CHAPTER XVIII


  It was a long time before Pierre could fall asleep that night. He paced up
  and down his room, now turning his thoughts on a difficult problem and
  frowning, now suddenly shrugging his shoulders and wincing, and now
  smiling happily.
<br />
  He was thinking of Prince Andrew, of Natásha, and of their love, at one
  moment jealous of her past, then reproaching himself for that feeling. It
  was already six in the morning and he still paced up and down the room.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, what&rsquo;s to be done if it cannot be avoided? What&rsquo;s to be done?
  Evidently it has to be so,&rdquo; said he to himself, and hastily undressing he
  got into bed, happy and agitated but free from hesitation or indecision.
<br />
  &ldquo;Strange and impossible as such happiness seems, I must do everything that
  she and I may be man and wife,&rdquo; he told himself.
<br />
  A few days previously Pierre had decided to go to Petersburg on the
  Friday. When he awoke on the Thursday, Savélich came to ask him about
  packing for the journey.
<br />
  &ldquo;What, to Petersburg? What is Petersburg? Who is there in Petersburg?&rdquo; he
  asked involuntarily, though only to himself. &ldquo;Oh, yes, long ago before
  this happened I did for some reason mean to go to Petersburg,&rdquo; he
  reflected. &ldquo;Why? But perhaps I shall go. What a good fellow he is and how
  attentive, and how he remembers everything,&rdquo; he thought, looking at
  Savélich&rsquo;s old face, &ldquo;and what a pleasant smile he has!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, Savélich, do you still not wish to accept your freedom?&rdquo; Pierre
  asked him.
<br />
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the good of freedom to me, your excellency? We lived under the
  late count&mdash;the kingdom of heaven be his!&mdash;and we have lived
  under you too, without ever being wronged.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And your children?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The children will live just the same. With such masters one can live.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But what about my heirs?&rdquo; said Pierre. &ldquo;Supposing I suddenly marry... it
  might happen,&rdquo; he added with an involuntary smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;If I may take the liberty, your excellency, it would be a good thing.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How easy he thinks it,&rdquo; thought Pierre. &ldquo;He doesn&rsquo;t know how terrible it
  is and how dangerous. Too soon or too late... it is terrible!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;So what are your orders? Are you starting tomorrow?&rdquo; asked Savélich.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, I&rsquo;ll put it off for a bit. I&rsquo;ll tell you later. You must forgive the
  trouble I have put you to,&rdquo; said Pierre, and seeing Savélich smile, he
  thought: &ldquo;But how strange it is that he should not know that now there is
  no Petersburg for me, and that  must be settled first of all! But
  probably he knows it well enough and is only pretending. Shall I have a
  talk with him and see what he thinks?&rdquo; Pierre reflected. &ldquo;No, another
  time.&rdquo;
 <br />
  At breakfast Pierre told the princess, his cousin, that he had been to see
  Princess Mary the day before and had there met&mdash;&ldquo;Whom do you think?
  Natásha Rostóva!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The princess seemed to see nothing more extraordinary in that than if he
  had seen Anna Semënovna.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you know her?&rdquo; asked Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have seen the princess,&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;I heard that they were arranging
  a match for her with young Rostóv. It would be a very good thing for the
  Rostóvs, they are said to be utterly ruined.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No; I mean do you know Natásha Rostóva?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I heard about that affair of hers at the time. It was a great pity.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, she either doesn&rsquo;t understand or is pretending,&rdquo; thought Pierre.
  &ldquo;Better not say anything to her either.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The princess too had prepared provisions for Pierre&rsquo;s journey.
<br />
  &ldquo;How kind they all are,&rdquo; thought Pierre. &ldquo;What is surprising is that they
  should trouble about these things now when it can no longer be of interest
  to them. And all for me!&rdquo;
 <br />
  On the same day the Chief of Police came to Pierre, inviting him to send a
  representative to the Faceted Palace to recover things that were to be
  returned to their owners that day.
<br />
  &ldquo;And this man too,&rdquo; thought Pierre, looking into the face of the Chief of
  Police. &ldquo;What a fine, good-looking officer and how kind. Fancy bothering
  about such trifles  And they actually say he is not honest and takes
  bribes. What nonsense! Besides, why shouldn&rsquo;t he take bribes? That&rsquo;s the
  way he was brought up, and everybody does it. But what a kind, pleasant
  face and how he smiles as he looks at me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre went to Princess Mary&rsquo;s to dinner.
<br />
  As he drove through the streets past the houses that had been burned down,
  he was surprised by the beauty of those ruins. The picturesqueness of the
  chimney stacks and tumble-down walls of the burned-out quarters of the
  town, stretching out and concealing one another, reminded him of the Rhine
  and the Colosseum. The cabmen he met and their passengers, the carpenters
  cutting the timber for new houses with axes, the women hawkers, and the
  shopkeepers, all looked at him with cheerful beaming eyes that seemed to
  say: &ldquo;Ah, there he is! Let&rsquo;s see what will come of it!&rdquo;
 <br />
  At the entrance to Princess Mary&rsquo;s house Pierre felt doubtful whether he
  had really been there the night before and really seen Natásha and talked
  to her. &ldquo;Perhaps I imagined it; perhaps I shall go in and find no one
  there.&rdquo; But he had hardly entered the room before he felt her presence
  with his whole being by the loss of his sense of freedom. She was in the
  same black dress with soft folds and her hair was done the same way as the
  day before, yet she was quite different. Had she been like this when he
  entered the day before he could not for a moment have failed to recognize
  her.
<br />
  She was as he had known her almost as a child and later on as Prince
  Andrew&rsquo;s fiancée. A bright questioning light shone in her eyes, and on her
  face was a friendly and strangely roguish expression.
<br />
  Pierre dined with them and would have spent the whole evening there, but
  Princess Mary was going to vespers and Pierre left the house with her.
<br />
  Next day he came early, dined, and stayed the whole evening. Though
  Princess Mary and Natásha were evidently glad to see their visitor and
  though all Pierre&rsquo;s interest was now centered in that house, by the
  evening they had talked over everything and the conversation passed from
  one trivial topic to another and repeatedly broke off. He stayed so long
  that Princess Mary and Natásha exchanged glances, evidently wondering when
  he would go. Pierre noticed this but could not go. He felt uneasy and
  embarrassed, but sat on because he simply could not get up and take his
  leave.
<br />
  Princess Mary, foreseeing no end to this, rose first, and complaining of a
  headache began to say good night.
<br />
  &ldquo;So you are going to Petersburg tomorrow?&rdquo; she asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, I am not going,&rdquo; Pierre replied hastily, in a surprised tone and as
  though offended. &ldquo;Yes... no... to Petersburg? Tomorrow&mdash;but I won&rsquo;t
  say good-by yet. I will call round in case you have any commissions for
  me,&rdquo; said he, standing before Princess Mary and turning red, but not
  taking his departure.
<br />
  Natásha gave him her hand and went out. Princess Mary on the other hand
  instead of going away sank into an armchair, and looked sternly and
  intently at him with her deep, radiant eyes. The weariness she had plainly
  shown before had now quite passed off. With a deep and long-drawn sigh she
  seemed to be prepared for a lengthy talk.
<br />
  When Natásha left the room Pierre&rsquo;s confusion and awkwardness immediately
  vanished and were replaced by eager excitement. He quickly moved an
  armchair toward Princess Mary.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I wanted to tell you,&rdquo; said he, answering her look as if she had
  spoken. &ldquo;Princess, help me! What am I to do? Can I hope? Princess, my dear
  friend, listen! I know it all. I know I am not worthy of her, I know it&rsquo;s
  impossible to speak of it now. But I want to be a brother to her. No, not
  that, I don&rsquo;t, I can&rsquo;t...&rdquo;
 <br />
  He paused and rubbed his face and eyes with his hands.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; he went on with an evident effort at self-control and coherence.
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know when I began to love her, but I have loved her and her alone
  all my life, and I love her so that I cannot imagine life without her. I
  cannot propose to her at present, but the thought that perhaps she might
  someday be my wife and that I may be missing that possibility... that
  possibility... is terrible. Tell me, can I hope? Tell me what I am to do,
  dear princess!&rdquo; he added after a pause, and touched her hand as she did
  not reply.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am thinking of what you have told me,&rdquo; answered Princess Mary. &ldquo;This is
  what I will say. You are right that to speak to her of love at present...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Princess Mary stopped. She was going to say that to speak of love was
  impossible, but she stopped because she had seen by the sudden change in
  Natásha two days before that she would not only not be hurt if Pierre
  spoke of his love, but that it was the very thing she wished for.
<br />
  &ldquo;To speak to her now wouldn&rsquo;t do,&rdquo; said the princess all the same.
<br />
  &ldquo;But what am I to do?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Leave it to me,&rdquo; said Princess Mary. &ldquo;I know...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre was looking into Princess Mary&rsquo;s eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well?... Well?...&rdquo; he said.
<br />
  &ldquo;I know that she loves... will love you,&rdquo; Princess Mary corrected herself.
<br />
  Before her words were out, Pierre had sprung up and with a frightened
  expression seized Princess Mary&rsquo;s hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;What makes you think so? You think I may hope? You think...?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I think so,&rdquo; said Princess Mary with a smile. &ldquo;Write to her parents,
  and leave it to me. I will tell her when I can. I wish it to happen and my
  heart tells me it will.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, it cannot be! How happy I am! But it can&rsquo;t be.... How happy I am! No,
  it can&rsquo;t be!&rdquo; Pierre kept saying as he kissed Princess Mary&rsquo;s hands.
<br />
  &ldquo;Go to Petersburg, that will be best. And I will write to you,&rdquo; she said.
<br />
  &ldquo;To Petersburg? Go there? Very well, I&rsquo;ll go. But I may come again
  tomorrow?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Next day Pierre came to say good-by. Natásha was less animated than she
  had been the day before; but that day as he looked at her Pierre sometimes
  felt as if he was vanishing and that neither he nor she existed any
  longer, that nothing existed but happiness. &ldquo;Is it possible? No, it can&rsquo;t
  be,&rdquo; he told himself at every look, gesture, and word that filled his soul
  with joy.
<br />
  When on saying good-by he took her thin, slender hand, he could not help
  holding it a little longer in his own.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is it possible that this hand, that face, those eyes, all this treasure
  of feminine charm so strange to me now, is it possible that it will one
  day be mine forever, as familiar to me as I am to myself?... No, that&rsquo;s
  impossible!...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Good-by, Count,&rdquo; she said aloud. &ldquo;I shall look forward very much to your
  return,&rdquo; she added in a whisper.
<br />
  And these simple words, her look, and the expression on her face which
  accompanied them, formed for two months the subject of inexhaustible
  memories, interpretations, and happy meditations for Pierre. &ldquo;&lsquo;I shall
  look forward very much to your return....&rsquo; Yes, yes, how did she say it?
  Yes, &lsquo;I shall look forward very much to your return.&rsquo; Oh, how happy I am!
  What is happening to me? How happy I am!&rdquo; said Pierre to himself.

  CHAPTER XIX


  There was nothing in Pierre&rsquo;s soul now at all like what had troubled it
  during his courtship of Hélène.
<br />
  He did not repeat to himself with a sickening feeling of shame the words
  he had spoken, or say: &ldquo;Oh, why did I not say that?&rdquo; and,
  &ldquo;Whatever made me say ?&rdquo; On the
  contrary, he now repeated in imagination every word that he or Natásha had spoken
  and pictured every detail of her face and smile, and did not wish to diminish or
  add anything, but only to repeat it again and again. There was now not a shadow of
  doubt in his mind as to whether what he had undertaken was right or wrong. Only
  one terrible doubt sometimes crossed his mind: &ldquo;Wasn&rsquo;t it all a dream?
  Isn&rsquo;t Princess Mary mistaken? Am I not too conceited and self-confident? I
  believe all this&mdash;and suddenly Princess Mary will tell her, and she will be
  sure to smile and say: &lsquo;How strange! He must be deluding himself.
  Doesn&rsquo;t he know that he is a man, just a man, while I...? I am something
  altogether different and higher.&rsquo;&rdquo;
 <br />
  That was the only doubt often troubling Pierre. He did not now make any
  plans. The happiness before him appeared so inconceivable that if only he
  could attain it, it would be the end of all things. Everything ended with
  that.
<br />
  A joyful, unexpected frenzy, of which he had thought himself incapable,
  possessed him. The whole meaning of life&mdash;not for him alone but for
  the whole world&mdash;seemed to him centered in his love and the
  possibility of being loved by her. At times everybody seemed to him to be
  occupied with one thing only&mdash;his future happiness. Sometimes it
  seemed to him that other people were all as pleased as he was himself and
  merely tried to hide that pleasure by pretending to be busy with other
  interests. In every word and gesture he saw allusions to his happiness. He
  often surprised those he met by his significantly happy looks and smiles
  which seemed to express a secret understanding between him and them. And
  when he realized that people might not be aware of his happiness, he
  pitied them with his whole heart and felt a desire somehow to explain to
  them that all that occupied them was a mere frivolous trifle unworthy of
  attention.
<br />
  When it was suggested to him that he should enter the civil service, or
  when the war or any general political affairs were discussed on the
  assumption that everybody&rsquo;s welfare depended on this or that issue of
  events, he would listen with a mild and pitying smile and surprise people
  by his strange comments. But at this time he saw everybody&mdash;both
  those who, as he imagined, understood the real meaning of life (that is,
  what he was feeling) and those unfortunates who evidently did not
  understand it&mdash;in the bright light of the emotion that shone within
  himself, and at once without any effort saw in everyone he met everything
  that was good and worthy of being loved.
<br />
  When dealing with the affairs and papers of his dead wife, her memory
  aroused in him no feeling but pity that she had not known the bliss he now
  knew. Prince Vasíli, who having obtained a new post and some fresh
  decorations was particularly proud at this time, seemed to him a pathetic,
  kindly old man much to be pitied.
<br />
  Often in afterlife Pierre recalled this period of blissful insanity. All
  the views he formed of men and circumstances at this time remained true
  for him always. He not only did not renounce them subsequently, but when
  he was in doubt or inwardly at variance, he referred to the views he had
  held at this time of his madness and they always proved correct.
<br />
  &ldquo;I may have appeared strange and queer then,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;but I was not
  so mad as I seemed. On the contrary I was then wiser and had more insight
  than at any other time, and understood all that is worth understanding in
  life, because... because I was happy.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre&rsquo;s insanity consisted in not waiting, as he used to do, to discover
  personal attributes which he termed &ldquo;good qualities&rdquo; in people before
  loving them; his heart was now overflowing with love, and by loving people
  without cause he discovered indubitable causes for loving them.

  CHAPTER XX


  After Pierre&rsquo;s departure that first evening, when Natásha had said to
  Princess Mary with a gaily mocking smile: &ldquo;He looks just, yes, just as if
  he had come out of a Russian bath&mdash;in a short coat and with his hair
  cropped,&rdquo; something hidden and unknown to herself, but irrepressible,
  awoke in Natásha&rsquo;s soul.
<br />
  Everything: her face, walk, look, and voice, was suddenly altered. To her
  own surprise a power of life and hope of happiness rose to the surface and
  demanded satisfaction. From that evening she seemed to have forgotten all
  that had happened to her. She no longer complained of her position, did
  not say a word about the past, and no longer feared to make happy plans
  for the future. She spoke little of Pierre, but when Princess Mary
  mentioned him a long-extinguished light once more kindled in her eyes and
  her lips curved with a strange smile.
<br />
  The change that took place in Natásha at first surprised Princess Mary;
  but when she understood its meaning it grieved her. &ldquo;Can she have loved
  my brother so little as to be able to forget him so soon?&rdquo; she thought
  when she reflected on the change. But when she was with Natásha she was
  not vexed with her and did not reproach her. The reawakened power
  of life that had seized Natásha was so evidently irrepressible and
  unexpected by her that in her presence Princess Mary felt that she had
  no right to reproach her even in her heart.
<br />
  Natásha gave herself up so fully and frankly to this new feeling
  that she did not try to hide the fact that she was no longer sad, but
  bright and cheerful.
<br />
  When Princess Mary returned to her room after her nocturnal talk with
  Pierre, Natásha met her on the threshold.
<br />
  &ldquo;He has spoken? Yes? He has spoken?&rdquo; she repeated.
<br />
  And a joyful yet pathetic expression which seemed to beg forgiveness for
  her joy settled on Natásha&rsquo;s face.
<br />
  &ldquo;I wanted to listen at the door, but I knew you would tell me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Understandable and touching as the look with which Natásha gazed at her
  seemed to Princess Mary, and sorry as she was to see her agitation, these
  words pained her for a moment. She remembered her brother and his love.
<br />
  &ldquo;But what&rsquo;s to be done? She can&rsquo;t help it,&rdquo; thought the princess.
<br />
  And with a sad and rather stern look she told Natásha all that Pierre had
  said. On hearing that he was going to Petersburg Natásha was astounded.
<br />
  &ldquo;To Petersburg!&rdquo; she repeated as if unable to understand.
<br />
  But noticing the grieved expression on Princess Mary&rsquo;s face she guessed
  the reason of that sadness and suddenly began to cry.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mary,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;tell me what I should do! I am afraid of being bad.
  Whatever you tell me, I will do. Tell me....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You love him?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; whispered Natásha.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then why are you crying? I am happy for your sake,&rdquo; said Princess Mary,
  who because of those tears quite forgave Natásha&rsquo;s joy.
<br />
  &ldquo;It won&rsquo;t be just yet&mdash;someday. Think what fun it will be when I am
  his wife and you marry Nicholas!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Natásha, I have asked you not to speak of that. Let us talk about you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  They were silent awhile.
<br />
  &ldquo;But why go to Petersburg?&rdquo; Natásha suddenly asked, and hastily replied to
  her own question. &ldquo;But no, no, he must... Yes, Mary, He must....&rdquo;

  FIRST EPILOGUE: 1813 - 20

  CHAPTER I


  Seven years had passed. The storm-tossed sea of European history had
  subsided within its shores and seemed to have become calm. But the
  mysterious forces that move humanity (mysterious because the laws of their
  motion are unknown to us) continued to operate.
<br />
  Though the surface of the sea of history seemed motionless, the movement
  of humanity went on as unceasingly as the flow of time. Various groups of
  people formed and dissolved, the coming formation and dissolution of
  kingdoms and displacement of peoples was in course of preparation.
<br />
  The sea of history was not driven spasmodically from shore to shore as
  previously. It was seething in its depths. Historic figures were not borne
  by the waves from one shore to another as before. They now seemed to
  rotate on one spot. The historical figures at the head of armies, who
  formerly reflected the movement of the masses by ordering wars, campaigns,
  and battles, now reflected the restless movement by political and
  diplomatic combinations, laws, and treaties.
<br />
  The historians call this activity of the historical figures &ldquo;the
  reaction.&rdquo;
 <br />
  In dealing with this period they sternly condemn the historical personages
  who, in their opinion, caused what they describe as . All the
  well-known people of that period, from Alexander and Napoleon to Madame de
  Staël, Photius, Schelling, Fichte, Chateaubriand, and the rest, pass
  before their stern judgment seat and are acquitted or condemned according
  to whether they conduced to  or to .
<br />
  According to their accounts a reaction took place at that time in Russia
  also, and the chief culprit was Alexander I, the same man who according to
  them was the chief cause of the liberal movement at the commencement of
  his reign, being the savior of Russia.
<br />
  There is no one in Russian literature now, from schoolboy essayist to
  learned historian, who does not throw his little stone at Alexander for
  things he did wrong at this period of his reign.
<br />
  &ldquo;He ought to have acted in this way and in that way. In this case he did
  well and in that case badly. He behaved admirably at the beginning of his
  reign and during 1812, but acted badly by giving a constitution to Poland,
  forming the Holy Alliance, entrusting power to Arakchéev, favoring
  Golítsyn and mysticism, and afterwards Shishkóv and Photius. He also acted
  badly by concerning himself with the active army and disbanding the
  Semënov regiment.&rdquo;
 <br />
  It would take a dozen pages to enumerate all the reproaches the historians
  address to him, based on their knowledge of what is good for humanity.
<br />
  What do these reproaches mean?
<br />
  Do not the very actions for which the historians praise Alexander I (the
  liberal attempts at the beginning of his reign, his struggle with
  Napoleon, the firmness he displayed in 1812 and the campaign of 1813) flow
  from the same sources&mdash;the circumstances of his birth, education, and
  life&mdash;that made his personality what it was and from which the
  actions for which they blame him (the Holy Alliance, the restoration of
  Poland, and the reaction of 1820 and later) also flowed?
<br />
  In what does the substance of those reproaches lie?
<br />
  It lies in the fact that an historic character like Alexander I, standing
  on the highest possible pinnacle of human power with the blinding light of
  history focused upon him; a character exposed to those strongest of all
  influences: the intrigues, flattery, and self-deception inseparable from
  power; a character who at every moment of his life felt a responsibility
  for all that was happening in Europe; and not a fictitious but a live
  character who like every man had his personal habits, passions, and
  impulses toward goodness, beauty, and truth&mdash;that this character&mdash;though
  not lacking in virtue (the historians do not accuse him of that)&mdash;had
  not the same conception of the welfare of humanity fifty years ago as a
  present-day professor who from his youth upwards has been occupied with
  learning: that is, with books and lectures and with taking notes from
  them.
<br />
  But even if we assume that fifty years ago Alexander I was mistaken in his
  view of what was good for the people, we must inevitably assume that the
  historian who judges Alexander will also after the lapse of some time turn
  out to be mistaken in his view of what is good for humanity. This
  assumption is all the more natural and inevitable because, watching the
  movement of history, we see that every year and with each new writer,
  opinion as to what is good for mankind changes; so that what once seemed
  good, ten years later seems bad, and vice versa. And what is more, we find
  at one and the same time quite contradictory views as to what is bad and
  what is good in history: some people regard giving a constitution to
  Poland and forming the Holy Alliance as praiseworthy in Alexander, while
  others regard it as blameworthy.
<br />
  The activity of Alexander or of Napoleon cannot be called useful or
  harmful, for it is impossible to say for what it was useful or harmful. If
  that activity displeases somebody, this is only because it does not agree
  with his limited understanding of what is good. Whether the preservation
  of my father&rsquo;s house in Moscow, or the glory of the Russian arms, or the
  prosperity of the Petersburg and other universities, or the freedom of
  Poland or the greatness of Russia, or the balance of power in Europe, or a
  certain kind of European culture called &ldquo;progress&rdquo; appear to me to be good
  or bad, I must admit that besides these things the action of every
  historic character has other more general purposes inaccessible to me.
<br />
  But let us assume that what is called science can harmonize all
  contradictions and possesses an unchanging standard of good and bad by
  which to try historic characters and events; let us say that Alexander
  could have done everything differently; let us say that with guidance from
  those who blame him and who profess to know the ultimate aim of the
  movement of humanity, he might have arranged matters according to the
  program his present accusers would have given him&mdash;of nationality,
  freedom, equality, and progress (these, I think, cover the ground). Let us
  assume that this program was possible and had then been formulated, and
  that Alexander had acted on it. What would then have become of the
  activity of all those who opposed the tendency that then prevailed in the
  government&mdash;an activity that in the opinion of the historians was
  good and beneficent? Their activity would not have existed: there would
  have been no life, there would have been nothing.
<br />
  If we admit that human life can be ruled by reason, the possibility of
  life is destroyed.

  CHAPTER II


  If we assume as the historians do that great men lead humanity to the
  attainment of certain ends&mdash;the greatness of Russia or of France, the
  balance of power in Europe, the diffusion of the ideas of the Revolution,
  general progress, or anything else&mdash;then it is impossible to explain
  the facts of history without introducing the conceptions of  and
  .
<br />
  If the aim of the European wars at the beginning of the nineteenth century
  had been the aggrandizement of Russia, that aim might have been
  accomplished without all the preceding wars and without the invasion. If
  the aim was the aggrandizement of France, that might have been attained
  without the Revolution and without the Empire. If the aim was the
  dissemination of ideas, the printing press could have accomplished that
  much better than warfare. If the aim was the progress of civilization, it
  is easy to see that there are other ways of diffusing civilization more
  expedient than by the destruction of wealth and of human lives.
<br />
  Why did it happen in this and not in some other way?
<br />
  Because it happened so! &ldquo; created the situation;
   utilized it,&rdquo; says history.
<br />
  But what is  What is 
<br />
  The words  and  do not denote any really existing thing and
  therefore cannot be defined. Those words only denote a certain stage of
  understanding of phenomena. I do not know why a certain event occurs; I
  think that I cannot know it; so I do not try to know it and I talk about
  . I see a force producing effects beyond the scope of ordinary human
  agencies; I do not understand why this occurs and I talk of .
<br />
  To a herd of rams, the ram the herdsman drives each evening into a special
  enclosure to feed and that becomes twice as fat as the others must seem to
  be a genius. And it must appear an astonishing conjunction of genius with
  a whole series of extraordinary chances that this ram, who instead of
  getting into the general fold every evening goes into a special enclosure
  where there are oats&mdash;that this very ram, swelling with fat, is
  killed for meat.
<br />
  But the rams need only cease to suppose that all that happens to them
  happens solely for the attainment of their sheepish aims; they need only
  admit that what happens to them may also have purposes beyond their ken,
  and they will at once perceive a unity and coherence in what happened to
  the ram that was fattened. Even if they do not know for what purpose they
  are fattened, they will at least know that all that happened to the ram
  did not happen accidentally, and will no longer need the conceptions of
   or .
<br />
  Only by renouncing our claim to discern a purpose immediately intelligible
  to us, and admitting the ultimate purpose to be beyond our ken, may we
  discern the sequence of experiences in the lives of historic characters
  and perceive the cause of the effect they produce (incommensurable with
  ordinary human capabilities), and then the words  and 
  become superfluous.
<br />
  We need only confess that we do not know the purpose of the European
  convulsions and that we know only the facts&mdash;that is, the murders,
  first in France, then in Italy, in Africa, in Prussia, in Austria, in
  Spain, and in Russia&mdash;and that the movements from the west to the
  east and from the east to the west form the essence and purpose of these
  events, and not only shall we have no need to see exceptional ability and
  genius in Napoleon and Alexander, but we shall be unable to consider them
  to be anything but like other men, and we shall not be obliged to have
  recourse to  for an explanation of those small events which made
  these people what they were, but it will be clear that all those small
  events were inevitable.
<br />
  By discarding a claim to knowledge of the ultimate purpose, we shall
  clearly perceive that just as one cannot imagine a blossom or seed for any
  single plant better suited to it than those it produces, so it is
  impossible to imagine any two people more completely adapted down to the
  smallest detail for the purpose they had to fulfill, than Napoleon and
  Alexander with all their antecedents.

  CHAPTER III


  The fundamental and essential significance of the European events of the
  beginning of the nineteenth century lies in the movement of the mass of
  the European peoples from west to east and afterwards from east to west.
  The commencement of that movement was the movement from west to east. For
  the peoples of the west to be able to make their warlike movement to
  Moscow it was necessary: (1) that they should form themselves into a
  military group of a size able to endure a collision with the warlike
  military group of the east, (2) that they should abandon all established
  traditions and customs, and (3) that during their military movement they
  should have at their head a man who could justify to himself and to them
  the deceptions, robberies, and murders which would have to be committed
  during that movement.
<br />
  And beginning with the French Revolution the old inadequately large group
  was destroyed, as well as the old habits and traditions, and step by step
  a group was formed of larger dimensions with new customs and traditions,
  and a man was produced who would stand at the head of the coming movement
  and bear the responsibility for all that had to be done.
<br />
  A man without convictions, without habits, without traditions, without a
  name, and not even a Frenchman, emerges&mdash;by what seem the strangest
  chances&mdash;from among all the seething French parties, and without
  joining any one of them is borne forward to a prominent position.
<br />
  The ignorance of his colleagues, the weakness and insignificance of his
  opponents, the frankness of his falsehoods, and the dazzling and
  self-confident limitations of this man raise him to the head of the army.
  The brilliant qualities of the soldiers of the army sent to Italy, his
  opponents&rsquo; reluctance to fight, and his own childish audacity and
  self-confidence secure him military fame. Innumerable so-called 
  accompany him everywhere. The disfavor into which he falls with the rulers
  of France turns to his advantage. His attempts to avoid his predestined
  path are unsuccessful: he is not received into the Russian service, and
  the appointment he seeks in Turkey comes to nothing. During the war in
  Italy he is several times on the verge of destruction and each time is
  saved in an unexpected manner. Owing to various diplomatic considerations
  the Russian armies&mdash;just those which might have destroyed his
  prestige&mdash;do not appear upon the scene till he is no longer there.
<br />
  On his return from Italy he finds the government in Paris in a process of
  dissolution in which all those who are in it are inevitably wiped out and
  destroyed. And by chance an escape from this dangerous position presents
  itself in the form of an aimless and senseless expedition to Africa. Again
  so-called  accompanies him. Impregnable Malta surrenders without a
  shot; his most reckless schemes are crowned with success. The enemy&rsquo;s
  fleet, which subsequently did not let a single boat pass, allows his
  entire army to elude it. In Africa a whole series of outrages are
  committed against the almost unarmed inhabitants. And the men who commit
  these crimes, especially their leader, assure themselves that this is
  admirable, this is glory&mdash;it resembles Caesar and Alexander the Great
  and is therefore good.
<br />
  This ideal of  and &mdash;which consists not merely in
  considering nothing wrong that one does but in priding oneself on every
  crime one commits, ascribing to it an incomprehensible supernatural
  significance&mdash;that ideal, destined to guide this man and his
  associates, had scope for its development in Africa. Whatever he does
  succeeds. The plague does not touch him. The cruelty of murdering
  prisoners is not imputed to him as a fault. His childishly rash,
  uncalled-for, and ignoble departure from Africa, leaving his comrades in
  distress, is set down to his credit, and again the enemy&rsquo;s fleet twice
  lets him slip past. When, intoxicated by the crimes he has committed so
  successfully, he reaches Paris, the dissolution of the republican
  government, which a year earlier might have ruined him, has reached its
  extreme limit, and his presence there now as a newcomer free from party
  entanglements can only serve to exalt him&mdash;and though he himself has
  no plan, he is quite ready for his new rôle.
<br />
  He had no plan, he was afraid of everything, but the parties snatched at
  him and demanded his participation.
<br />
  He alone&mdash;with his ideal of glory and grandeur developed in Italy and
  Egypt, his insane self-adulation, his boldness in crime and frankness in
  lying&mdash;he alone could justify what had to be done.
<br />
  He is needed for the place that awaits him, and so almost apart from his
  will and despite his indecision, his lack of a plan, and all his mistakes,
  he is drawn into a conspiracy that aims at seizing power and the
  conspiracy is crowned with success.
<br />
  He is pushed into a meeting of the legislature. In alarm he wishes to
  flee, considering himself lost. He pretends to fall into a swoon and says
  senseless things that should have ruined him. But the once proud and
  shrewd rulers of France, feeling that their part is played out, are even
  more bewildered than he, and do not say the words they should have said to
  destroy him and retain their power.
<br />
  , millions of , give him power, and all men as if by
  agreement co-operate to confirm that power.  forms the characters of
  the rulers of France, who submit to him;  forms the character of
  Paul I of Russia who recognizes his government;  contrives a plot
  against him which not only fails to harm him but confirms his power.
   puts the Duc d&rsquo;Enghien in his hands and unexpectedly causes him to
  kill him&mdash;thereby convincing the mob more forcibly than in any other
  way that he had the right, since he had the might.  contrives that
  though he directs all his efforts to prepare an expedition against England
  (which would inevitably have ruined him) he never carries out that
  intention, but unexpectedly falls upon Mack and the Austrians, who
  surrender without a battle.  and  give him the victory at
  Austerlitz; and by  all men, not only the French but all Europe&mdash;except
  England which does not take part in the events about to happen&mdash;despite
  their former horror and detestation of his crimes, now recognize his
  authority, the title he has given himself, and his ideal of grandeur and
  glory, which seems excellent and reasonable to them all.
<br />
  As if measuring themselves and preparing for the coming movement, the
  western forces push toward the east several times in 1805, 1806, 1807, and
  1809, gaining strength and growing. In 1811 the group of people that had
  formed in France unites into one group with the peoples of Central Europe.
  The strength of the justification of the man who stands at the head of the
  movement grows with the increased size of the group. During the ten-year
  preparatory period this man had formed relations with all the crowned
  heads of Europe. The discredited rulers of the world can oppose no
  reasonable ideal to the insensate Napoleonic ideal of  and .
  One after another they hasten to display their insignificance before him.
  The King of Prussia sends his wife to seek the great man&rsquo;s mercy; the
  Emperor of Austria considers it a favor that this man receives a daughter
  of the Caesars into his bed; the Pope, the guardian of all that the
  nations hold sacred, utilizes religion for the aggrandizement of the great
  man. It is not Napoleon who prepares himself for the accomplishment of his
  role, so much as all those round him who prepare him to take on himself
  the whole responsibility for what is happening and has to happen. There is
  no step, no crime or petty fraud he commits, which in the mouths of those
  around him is not at once represented as a great deed. The most suitable
  fête the Germans can devise for him is a celebration of Jena and
  Auerstädt. Not only is he great, but so are his ancestors, his brothers,
  his stepsons, and his brothers-in-law. Everything is done to deprive him
  of the remains of his reason and to prepare him for his terrible part. And
  when he is ready so too are the forces.
<br />
  The invasion pushes eastward and reaches its final goal&mdash;Moscow. That
  city is taken; the Russian army suffers heavier losses than the opposing
  armies had suffered in the former war from Austerlitz to Wagram. But
  suddenly instead of those  and that  which hitherto had so
  consistently led him by an uninterrupted series of successes to the
  predestined goal, an innumerable sequence of inverse  occur&mdash;from
  the cold in his head at Borodinó to the sparks which set Moscow on fire,
  and the frosts&mdash;and instead of , stupidity and immeasurable
  baseness become evident.
<br />
  The invaders flee, turn back, flee again, and all the chances are now not
  for Napoleon but always against him.
<br />
  A countermovement is then accomplished from east to west with a remarkable
  resemblance to the preceding movement from west to east. Attempted drives
  from east to west&mdash;similar to the contrary movements of 1805, 1807,
  and 1809&mdash;precede the great westward movement; there is the same
  coalescence into a group of enormous dimensions; the same adhesion of the
  people of Central Europe to the movement; the same hesitation midway, and
  the same increasing rapidity as the goal is approached.
<br />
  Paris, the ultimate goal, is reached. The Napoleonic government and army
  are destroyed. Napoleon himself is no longer of any account; all his
  actions are evidently pitiful and mean, but again an inexplicable 
  occurs. The allies detest Napoleon whom they regard as the cause of their
  sufferings. Deprived of power and authority, his crimes and his craft
  exposed, he should have appeared to them what he appeared ten years
  previously and one year later&mdash;an outlawed brigand. But by some
  strange chance no one perceives this. His part is not yet ended. The man
  who ten years before and a year later was considered an outlawed brigand
  is sent to an island two days&rsquo; sail from France, which for some reason is
  presented to him as his dominion, and guards are given to him and millions
  of money are paid him.

  CHAPTER IV


  The flood of nations begins to subside into its normal channels. The waves
  of the great movement abate, and on the calm surface eddies are formed in
  which float the diplomatists, who imagine that they have caused the floods
  to abate.
<br />
  But the smooth sea again suddenly becomes disturbed. The diplomatists
  think that their disagreements are the cause of this fresh pressure of
  natural forces; they anticipate war between their sovereigns; the position
  seems to them insoluble. But the wave they feel to be rising does not come
  from the quarter they expect. It rises again from the same point as before&mdash;Paris.
  The last backwash of the movement from the west occurs: a backwash which
  serves to solve the apparently insuperable diplomatic difficulties and
  ends the military movement of that period of history.
<br />
  The man who had devastated France returns to France alone, without any
  conspiracy and without soldiers. Any guard might arrest him, but by
  strange chance no one does so and all rapturously greet the man they
  cursed the day before and will curse again a month later.
<br />
  This man is still needed to justify the final collective act.
<br />
  That act is performed.
<br />
  The last rôle is played. The actor is bidden to disrobe and wash off his
  powder and paint: he will not be wanted any more.
<br />
  And some years pass during which he plays a pitiful comedy to himself in
  solitude on his island, justifying his actions by intrigues and lies when
  the justification is no longer needed, and displaying to the whole world
  what it was that people had mistaken for strength as long as an unseen
  hand directed his actions.
<br />
  The manager having brought the drama to a close and stripped the actor
  shows him to us.
<br />
  &ldquo;See what you believed in! This is he! Do you now see that it was not he
  but I who moved you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  But dazed by the force of the movement, it was long before people
  understood this.
<br />
  Still greater coherence and inevitability is seen in the life of Alexander
  I, the man who stood at the head of the countermovement from east to west.
<br />
  What was needed for him who, overshadowing others, stood at the head of
  that movement from east to west?
<br />
  What was needed was a sense of justice and a sympathy with European
  affairs, but a remote sympathy not dulled by petty interests; a moral
  superiority over those sovereigns of the day who co-operated with him; a
  mild and attractive personality; and a personal grievance against
  Napoleon. And all this was found in Alexander I; all this had been
  prepared by innumerable so-called  in his life: his education, his
  early liberalism, the advisers who surrounded him, and by Austerlitz, and
  Tilsit, and Erfurt.
<br />
  During the national war he was inactive because he was not needed. But as
  soon as the necessity for a general European war presented itself he
  appeared in his place at the given moment and, uniting the nations of
  Europe, led them to the goal.
<br />
  The goal is reached. After the final war of 1815 Alexander possesses all
  possible power. How does he use it?
<br />
  Alexander I&mdash;the pacifier of Europe, the man who from his early years
  had striven only for his people&rsquo;s welfare, the originator of the liberal
  innovations in his fatherland&mdash;now that he seemed to possess the
  utmost power and therefore to have the possibility of bringing about the
  welfare of his peoples&mdash;at the time when Napoleon in exile was
  drawing up childish and mendacious plans of how he would have made mankind
  happy had he retained power&mdash;Alexander I, having fulfilled his
  mission and feeling the hand of God upon him, suddenly recognizes the
  insignificance of that supposed power, turns away from it, and gives it
  into the hands of contemptible men whom he despises, saying only:
<br />
  &ldquo;Not unto us, not unto us, but unto Thy Name!... I too am a man like the
  rest of you. Let me live like a man and think of my soul and of God.&rdquo;
 <br />
  As the sun and each atom of ether is a sphere complete in itself, and yet
  at the same time only a part of a whole too immense for man to comprehend,
  so each individual has within himself his own aims and yet has them to
  serve a general purpose incomprehensible to man.
<br />
  A bee settling on a flower has stung a child. And the child is afraid of
  bees and declares that bees exist to sting people. A poet admires the bee
  sucking from the chalice of a flower and says it exists to suck the
  fragrance of flowers. A beekeeper, seeing the bee collect pollen from
  flowers and carry it to the hive, says that it exists to gather honey.
  Another beekeeper who has studied the life of the hive more closely says
  that the bee gathers pollen dust to feed the young bees and rear a queen,
  and that it exists to perpetuate its race. A botanist notices that the bee
  flying with the pollen of a male flower to a pistil fertilizes the latter,
  and sees in this the purpose of the bee&rsquo;s existence. Another, observing
  the migration of plants, notices that the bee helps in this work, and may
  say that in this lies the purpose of the bee. But the ultimate purpose of
  the bee is not exhausted by the first, the second, or any of the processes
  the human mind can discern. The higher the human intellect rises in the
  discovery of these purposes, the more obvious it becomes, that the
  ultimate purpose is beyond our comprehension.
<br />
  All that is accessible to man is the relation of the life of the bee to
  other manifestations of life. And so it is with the purpose of historic
  characters and nations.

  CHAPTER V


  Natásha&rsquo;s wedding to Bezúkhov, which took place in 1813, was the last
  happy event in the family of the old Rostóvs. Count Ilyá Rostóv died that
  same year and, as always happens, after the father&rsquo;s death the family
  group broke up.
<br />
  The events of the previous year: the burning of Moscow and the flight from
  it, the death of Prince Andrew, Natásha&rsquo;s despair, Pétya&rsquo;s death, and the
  old countess&rsquo; grief fell blow after blow on the old count&rsquo;s head. He
  seemed to be unable to understand the meaning of all these events, and
  bowed his old head in a spiritual sense as if expecting and inviting
  further blows which would finish him. He seemed now frightened and
  distraught and now unnaturally animated and enterprising.
<br />
  The arrangements for Natásha&rsquo;s marriage occupied him for a while. He
  ordered dinners and suppers and obviously tried to appear cheerful, but
  his cheerfulness was not infectious as it used to be: on the contrary it
  evoked the compassion of those who knew and liked him.
<br />
  When Pierre and his wife had left, he grew very quiet and began to
  complain of depression. A few days later he fell ill and took to his bed.
  He realized from the first that he would not get up again, despite the
  doctor&rsquo;s encouragement. The countess passed a fortnight in an armchair by
  his pillow without undressing. Every time she gave him his medicine he
  sobbed and silently kissed her hand. On his last day, sobbing, he asked
  her and his absent son to forgive him for having dissipated their property&mdash;that
  being the chief fault of which he was conscious. After receiving communion
  and unction he quietly died; and next day a throng of acquaintances who
  came to pay their last respects to the deceased filled the house rented by
  the Rostóvs. All these acquaintances, who had so often dined and danced at
  his house and had so often laughed at him, now said, with a common feeling
  of self-reproach and emotion, as if justifying themselves: &ldquo;Well, whatever
  he may have been he was a most worthy man. You don&rsquo;t meet such men
  nowadays.... And which of us has not weaknesses of his own?&rdquo;
 <br />
  It was just when the count&rsquo;s affairs had become so involved that it was
  impossible to say what would happen if he lived another year that he
  unexpectedly died.
<br />
  Nicholas was with the Russian army in Paris when the news of his father&rsquo;s
  death reached him. He at once resigned his commission, and without waiting
  for it to be accepted took leave of absence and went to Moscow. The state
  of the count&rsquo;s affairs became quite obvious a month after his death,
  surprising everyone by the immense total of small debts the existence of
  which no one had suspected. The debts amounted to double the value of the
  property.
<br />
  Friends and relations advised Nicholas to decline the inheritance. But he
  regarded such a refusal as a slur on his father&rsquo;s memory, which he held
  sacred, and therefore would not hear of refusing and accepted the
  inheritance together with the obligation to pay the debts.
<br />
  The creditors who had so long been silent, restrained by a vague but
  powerful influence exerted on them while he lived by the count&rsquo;s careless
  good nature, all proceeded to enforce their claims at once. As always
  happens in such cases rivalry sprang up as to which should get paid first,
  and those who like Mítenka held promissory notes given them as presents
  now became the most exacting of the creditors. Nicholas was allowed no
  respite and no peace, and those who had seemed to pity the old man&mdash;the
  cause of their losses (if they were losses)&mdash;now remorselessly
  pursued the young heir who had voluntarily undertaken the debts and was
  obviously not guilty of contracting them.
<br />
  Not one of the plans Nicholas tried succeeded; the estate was sold by
  auction for half its value, and half the debts still remained unpaid.
  Nicholas accepted thirty thousand rubles offered him by his brother-in-law
  Bezúkhov to pay off debts he regarded as genuinely due for value received.
  And to avoid being imprisoned for the remainder, as the creditors
  threatened, he re-entered the government service.
<br />
  He could not rejoin the army where he would have been made colonel at the
  next vacancy, for his mother now clung to him as her one hold on life; and
  so despite his reluctance to remain in Moscow among people who had known
  him before, and despite his abhorrence of the civil service, he accepted a
  post in Moscow in that service, doffed the uniform of which he was so
  fond, and moved with his mother and Sónya to a small house on the Sívtsev
  Vrazhók.
<br />
  Natásha and Pierre were living in Petersburg at the time and had no clear
  idea of Nicholas&rsquo; circumstances. Having borrowed money from his
  brother-in-law, Nicholas tried to hide his wretched condition from him.
  His position was the more difficult because with his salary of twelve
  hundred rubles he had not only to keep himself, his mother, and Sónya, but
  had to shield his mother from knowledge of their poverty. The countess
  could not conceive of life without the luxurious conditions she had been
  used to from childhood and, unable to realize how hard it was for her son,
  kept demanding now a carriage (which they did not keep) to send for a
  friend, now some expensive article of food for herself, or wine for her
  son, or money to buy a present as a surprise for Natásha or Sónya, or for
  Nicholas himself.
<br />
  Sónya kept house, attended on her aunt, read to her, put up with her whims
  and secret ill-will, and helped Nicholas to conceal their poverty from the
  old countess. Nicholas felt himself irredeemably indebted to Sónya for all
  she was doing for his mother and greatly admired her patience and
  devotion, but tried to keep aloof from her.
<br />
  He seemed in his heart to reproach her for being too perfect, and because
  there was nothing to reproach her with. She had all that people are valued
  for, but little that could have made him love her. He felt that the more
  he valued her the less he loved her. He had taken her at her word when she
  wrote giving him his freedom and now behaved as if all that had passed
  between them had been long forgotten and could never in any case be
  renewed.
<br />
  Nicholas&rsquo; position became worse and worse. The idea of putting something
  aside out of his salary proved a dream. Not only did he not save anything,
  but to comply with his mother&rsquo;s demands he even incurred some small debts.
  He could see no way out of this situation. The idea of marrying some rich
  woman, which was suggested to him by his female relations, was repugnant
  to him. The other way out&mdash;his mother&rsquo;s death&mdash;never entered his
  head. He wished for nothing and hoped for nothing, and deep in his heart
  experienced a gloomy and stern satisfaction in an uncomplaining endurance
  of his position. He tried to avoid his old acquaintances with their
  commiseration and offensive offers of assistance; he avoided all
  distraction and recreation, and even at home did nothing but play cards
  with his mother, pace silently up and down the room, and smoke one pipe
  after another. He seemed carefully to cherish within himself the gloomy
  mood which alone enabled him to endure his position.

  CHAPTER VI


  At the beginning of winter Princess Mary came to Moscow. From reports
  current in town she learned how the Rostóvs were situated, and how &ldquo;the
  son has sacrificed himself for his mother,&rdquo; as people were saying.
<br />
  &ldquo;I never expected anything else of him,&rdquo; said Princess Mary to herself,
  feeling a joyous sense of her love for him. Remembering her friendly
  relations with all the Rostóvs which had made her almost a member of the
  family, she thought it her duty to go to see them. But remembering her
  relations with Nicholas in Vorónezh she was shy about doing so. Making a
  great effort she did however go to call on them a few weeks after her
  arrival in Moscow.
<br />
  Nicholas was the first to meet her, as the countess&rsquo; room could only be
  reached through his. But instead of being greeted with pleasure as she had
  expected, at his first glance at her his face assumed a cold, stiff, proud
  expression she had not seen on it before. He inquired about her health,
  led the way to his mother, and having sat there for five minutes left the
  room.
<br />
  When the princess came out of the countess&rsquo; room Nicholas met her again,
  and with marked solemnity and stiffness accompanied her to the anteroom.
  To her remarks about his mother&rsquo;s health he made no reply. &ldquo;What&rsquo;s that to
  you? Leave me in peace,&rdquo; his looks seemed to say.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why does she come prowling here? What does she want? I can&rsquo;t bear these
  ladies and all these civilities!&rdquo; said he aloud in Sónya&rsquo;s presence,
  evidently unable to repress his vexation, after the princess&rsquo; carriage had
  disappeared.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, Nicholas, how can you talk like that?&rdquo; cried Sónya, hardly able to
  conceal her delight. &ldquo;She is so kind and Mamma is so fond of her!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Nicholas did not reply and tried to avoid speaking of the princess any
  more. But after her visit the old countess spoke of her several times a
  day.
<br />
  She sang her praises, insisted that her son must call on her, expressed a
  wish to see her often, but yet always became ill-humored when she began to
  talk about her.
<br />
  Nicholas tried to keep silence when his mother spoke of the princess, but
  his silence irritated her.
<br />
  &ldquo;She is a very admirable and excellent young woman,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;and you
  must go and call on her. You would at least be seeing somebody, and I
  think it must be dull for you only seeing us.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But I don&rsquo;t in the least want to, Mamma.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You used to want to, and now you don&rsquo;t. Really I don&rsquo;t understand you, my
  dear. One day you are dull, and the next you refuse to see anyone.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But I never said I was dull.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, you said yourself you don&rsquo;t want even to see her. She is a very
  admirable young woman and you always liked her, but now suddenly you have
  got some notion or other in your head. You hide everything from me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Not at all, Mamma.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;If I were asking you to do something disagreeable now&mdash;but I only
  ask you to return a call. One would think mere politeness required it....
  Well, I have asked you, and now I won&rsquo;t interfere any more since you have
  secrets from your mother.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, then, I&rsquo;ll go if you wish it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It doesn&rsquo;t matter to me. I only wish it for your sake.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Nicholas sighed, bit his mustache, and laid out the cards for a patience,
  trying to divert his mother&rsquo;s attention to another topic.
<br />
  The same conversation was repeated next day and the day after, and the day
  after that.
<br />
  After her visit to the Rostóvs and her unexpectedly chilly reception by
  Nicholas, Princess Mary confessed to herself that she had been right in
  not wishing to be the first to call.
<br />
  &ldquo;I expected nothing else,&rdquo; she told herself, calling her pride to her aid.
  &ldquo;I have nothing to do with him and I only wanted to see the old lady, who
  was always kind to me and to whom I am under many obligations.&rdquo;
 <br />
  But she could not pacify herself with these reflections; a feeling akin to
  remorse troubled her when she thought of her visit. Though she had firmly
  resolved not to call on the Rostóvs again and to forget the whole matter,
  she felt herself all the time in an awkward position. And when she asked
  herself what distressed her, she had to admit that it was her relation to
  Rostóv. His cold, polite manner did not express his feeling for her (she
  knew that) but it concealed something, and until she could discover what
  that something was, she felt that she could not be at ease.
<br />
  One day in midwinter when sitting in the schoolroom attending to her
  nephew&rsquo;s lessons, she was informed that Rostóv had called. With a firm
  resolution not to betray herself and not show her agitation, she sent for
  Mademoiselle Bourienne and went with her to the drawing room.
<br />
  Her first glance at Nicholas&rsquo; face told her that he had only come to
  fulfill the demands of politeness, and she firmly resolved to maintain the
  tone in which he addressed her.
<br />
  They spoke of the countess&rsquo; health, of their mutual friends, of the latest
  war news, and when the ten minutes required by propriety had elapsed after
  which a visitor may rise, Nicholas got up to say good-by.
<br />
  With Mademoiselle Bourienne&rsquo;s help the princess had maintained the
  conversation very well, but at the very last moment, just when he rose,
  she was so tired of talking of what did not interest her, and her mind was
  so full of the question why she alone was granted so little happiness in
  life, that in a fit of absent-mindedness she sat still, her luminous eyes
  gazing fixedly before her, not noticing that he had risen.
<br />
  Nicholas glanced at her and, wishing to appear not to notice her
  abstraction, made some remark to Mademoiselle Bourienne and then again
  looked at the princess. She still sat motionless with a look of suffering
  on her gentle face. He suddenly felt sorry for her and was vaguely
  conscious that he might be the cause of the sadness her face expressed. He
  wished to help her and say something pleasant, but could think of nothing
  to say.
<br />
  &ldquo;Good-by, Princess!&rdquo; said he.
<br />
  She started, flushed, and sighed deeply.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, I beg your pardon,&rdquo; she said as if waking up. &ldquo;Are you going already,
  Count? Well then, good-by! Oh, but the cushion for the countess!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Wait a moment, I&rsquo;ll fetch it,&rdquo; said Mademoiselle Bourienne, and she left
  the room.
<br />
  They both sat silent, with an occasional glance at one another.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, Princess,&rdquo; said Nicholas at last with a sad smile, &ldquo;it doesn&rsquo;t seem
  long ago since we first met at Boguchárovo, but how much water has flowed
  since then! In what distress we all seemed to be then, yet I would give
  much to bring back that time... but there&rsquo;s no bringing it back.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Princess Mary gazed intently into his eyes with her own luminous ones as
  he said this. She seemed to be trying to fathom the hidden meaning of his
  words which would explain his feeling for her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;but you have no reason to regret the past, Count.
  As I understand your present life, I think you will always recall it with
  satisfaction, because the self-sacrifice that fills it now...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I cannot accept your praise,&rdquo; he interrupted her hurriedly. &ldquo;On the
  contrary I continually reproach myself.... But this is not at all an
  interesting or cheerful subject.&rdquo;
 <br />
  His face again resumed its former stiff and cold expression. But the
  princess had caught a glimpse of the man she had known and loved, and it
  was to him that she now spoke.
<br />
  &ldquo;I thought you would allow me to tell you this,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I had come so
  near to you... and to all your family that I thought you would not
  consider my sympathy misplaced, but I was mistaken,&rdquo; and suddenly her
  voice trembled. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know why,&rdquo; she continued, recovering herself,
  &ldquo;but you used to be different, and...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;There are a thousand reasons ,&rdquo; laying special emphasis on the .
  &ldquo;Thank you, Princess,&rdquo; he added softly. &ldquo;Sometimes it is hard.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;So that&rsquo;s why! That&rsquo;s why!&rdquo; a voice whispered in Princess Mary&rsquo;s soul.
  &ldquo;No, it was not only that gay, kind, and frank look, not only that
  handsome exterior, that I loved in him. I divined his noble, resolute,
  self-sacrificing spirit too,&rdquo; she said to herself. &ldquo;Yes, he is poor now
  and I am rich.... Yes, that&rsquo;s the only reason.... Yes, were it not for
  that...&rdquo; And remembering his former tenderness, and looking now at his
  kind, sorrowful face, she suddenly understood the cause of his coldness.
<br />
  &ldquo;But why, Count, why?&rdquo; she almost cried, unconsciously moving closer to
  him. &ldquo;Why? Tell me. You must tell me!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He was silent.
<br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand your , Count,&rdquo; she continued,
  &ldquo;but it&rsquo;s hard for me... I confess it. For some reason you wish to
  deprive me of our former friendship. And that hurts me.&rdquo; There were tears
  in her eyes and in her voice. &ldquo;I have had so little happiness in life that
  every loss is hard for me to bear.... Excuse me, good-by!&rdquo; and suddenly she
  began to cry and was hurrying from the room.
<br />
  &ldquo;Princess, for God&rsquo;s sake!&rdquo; he exclaimed, trying to stop her. &ldquo;Princess!&rdquo;
 <br />
  She turned round. For a few seconds they gazed silently into one another&rsquo;s
  eyes&mdash;and what had seemed impossible and remote suddenly became
  possible, inevitable, and very near.

  CHAPTER VII


  In the winter of 1813 Nicholas married Princess Mary and moved to Bald
  Hills with his wife, his mother, and Sónya.
<br />
  Within four years he had paid off all his remaining debts without selling
  any of his wife&rsquo;s property, and having received a small inheritance on the
  death of a cousin he paid his debt to Pierre as well.
<br />
  In another three years, by 1820, he had so managed his affairs that he was
  able to buy a small estate adjoining Bald Hills and was negotiating to buy
  back Otrádnoe&mdash;that being his pet dream.
<br />
  Having started farming from necessity, he soon grew so devoted to it that
  it became his favorite and almost his sole occupation. Nicholas was a
  plain farmer: he did not like innovations, especially the English ones
  then coming into vogue. He laughed at theoretical treatises on estate
  management, disliked factories, the raising of expensive products, and the
  buying of expensive seed corn, and did not make a hobby of any particular
  part of the work on his estate. He always had before his mind&rsquo;s eye  as a whole and not any particular part of it. The chief thing in
  his eyes was not the nitrogen in the soil, nor the oxygen in the air, nor
  manures, nor special plows, but that most important agent by which
  nitrogen, oxygen, manure, and plow were made effective&mdash;the peasant
  laborer. When Nicholas first began farming and began to understand its
  different branches, it was the serf who especially attracted his
  attention. The peasant seemed to him not merely a tool, but also a judge
  of farming and an end in himself. At first he watched the serfs, trying to
  understand their aims and what they considered good and bad, and only
  pretended to direct them and give orders while in reality learning from
  them their methods, their manner of speech, and their judgment of what was
  good and bad. Only when he had understood the peasants&rsquo; tastes and
  aspirations, had learned to talk their language, to grasp the hidden
  meaning of their words, and felt akin to them did he begin boldly to
  manage his serfs, that is, to perform toward them the duties demanded of
  him. And Nicholas&rsquo; management produced very brilliant results.
<br />
  Guided by some gift of insight, on taking up the management of the estates
  he at once unerringly appointed as bailiff, village elder, and delegate,
  the very men the serfs would themselves have chosen had they had the right
  to choose, and these posts never changed hands. Before analyzing the
  properties of manure, before entering into the  and 
  (as he ironically called it), he found out how many cattle the peasants had and
  increased the number by all possible means. He kept the peasant families
  together in the largest groups possible, not allowing the family groups to
  divide into separate households. He was hard alike on the lazy, the
  depraved, and the weak, and tried to get them expelled from the commune.
<br />
  He was as careful of the sowing and reaping of the peasants&rsquo; hay and corn
  as of his own, and few landowners had their crops sown and harvested so
  early and so well, or got so good a return, as did Nicholas.
<br />
  He disliked having anything to do with the domestic serfs&mdash;the
  &ldquo;drones&rdquo; as he called them&mdash;and everyone said he spoiled them by his
  laxity. When a decision had to be taken regarding a domestic serf,
  especially if one had to be punished, he always felt undecided and
  consulted everybody in the house; but when it was possible to have a
  domestic serf conscripted instead of a land worker he did so without the
  least hesitation. He never felt any hesitation in dealing with the
  peasants. He knew that his every decision would be approved by them all
  with very few exceptions.
<br />
  He did not allow himself either to be hard on or punish a man, or to make
  things easy for or reward anyone, merely because he felt inclined to do
  so. He could not have said by what standard he judged what he should or
  should not do, but the standard was quite firm and definite in his own
  mind.
<br />
  Often, speaking with vexation of some failure or irregularity, he would
  say: &ldquo;What can one do with our Russian peasants?&rdquo; and imagined that he
  could not bear them.
<br />
  Yet he loved &ldquo;our Russian peasants&rdquo; and their way of life with his whole
  soul, and for that very reason had understood and assimilated the one way
  and manner of farming which produced good results.
<br />
  Countess Mary was jealous of this passion of her husband&rsquo;s and regretted
  that she could not share it; but she could not understand the joys and
  vexations he derived from that world, to her so remote and alien. She
  could not understand why he was so particularly animated and happy when,
  after getting up at daybreak and spending the whole morning in the fields
  or on the threshing floor, he returned from the sowing or mowing or
  reaping to have tea with her. She did not understand why he spoke with
  such admiration and delight of the farming of the thrifty and well-to-do
  peasant Matthew Ermíshin, who with his family had carted corn all night;
  or of the fact that his (Nicholas&rsquo;) sheaves were already stacked before
  anyone else had his harvest in. She did not understand why he stepped out
  from the window to the veranda and smiled under his mustache and winked so
  joyfully, when warm steady rain began to fall on the dry and thirsty
  shoots of the young oats, or why when the wind carried away a threatening
  cloud during the hay harvest he would return from the barn, flushed,
  sunburned, and perspiring, with a smell of wormwood and gentian in his
  hair and, gleefully rubbing his hands, would say: &ldquo;Well, one more day and
  my grain and the peasants&rsquo; will all be under cover.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Still less did she understand why he, kindhearted and always ready to
  anticipate her wishes, should become almost desperate when she brought him
  a petition from some peasant men or women who had appealed to her to be
  excused some work; why he, that kind Nicholas, should obstinately refuse
  her, angrily asking her not to interfere in what was not her business. She
  felt he had a world apart, which he loved passionately and which had laws
  she had not fathomed.
<br />
  Sometimes when, trying to understand him, she spoke of the good work he
  was doing for his serfs, he would be vexed and reply: &ldquo;Not in the least;
  it never entered my head and I wouldn&rsquo;t do  for their good!
  That&rsquo;s all poetry and old wives&rsquo; talk&mdash;all that doing good to
  one&rsquo;s neighbor! What I want is that our children should not have to go
  begging. I must put our affairs in order while I am alive, that&rsquo;s all.
  And to do that, order and strictness are essential.... That&rsquo;s all about
  it!&rdquo; said he, clenching his vigorous fist. &ldquo;And fairness, of
  course,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;for if the peasant is naked and hungry and has
  only one miserable horse, he can do no good either for himself or for me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And all Nicholas did was fruitful&mdash;probably just because he refused
  to allow himself to think that he was doing good to others for virtue&rsquo;s
  sake. His means increased rapidly; serfs from neighboring estates came to
  beg him to buy them, and long after his death the memory of his
  administration was devoutly preserved among the serfs. &ldquo;He was a master...
  the peasants&rsquo; affairs first and then his own. Of course he was not to be
  trifled with either&mdash;in a word, he was a real master!&rdquo;

  CHAPTER VIII


  One matter connected with his management sometimes worried Nicholas, and
  that was his quick temper together with his old hussar habit of making
  free use of his fists. At first he saw nothing reprehensible in this, but
  in the second year of his marriage his view of that form of punishment
  suddenly changed.
<br />
  Once in summer he had sent for the village elder from Boguchárovo, a man
  who had succeeded to the post when Dron died and who was accused of
  dishonesty and various irregularities. Nicholas went out into the porch to
  question him, and immediately after the elder had given a few replies the
  sound of cries and blows were heard. On returning to lunch Nicholas went
  up to his wife, who sat with her head bent low over her embroidery frame,
  and as usual began to tell her what he had been doing that morning. Among
  other things he spoke of the Boguchárovo elder. Countess Mary turned red
  and then pale, but continued to sit with head bowed and lips compressed
  and gave her husband no reply.
<br />
  &ldquo;Such an insolent scoundrel!&rdquo; he cried, growing hot again at the mere
  recollection of him. &ldquo;If he had told me he was drunk and did not see...
  But what is the matter with you, Mary?&rdquo; he suddenly asked.
<br />
  Countess Mary raised her head and tried to speak, but hastily looked down
  again and her lips puckered.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, whatever is the matter, my dearest?&rdquo;
 <br />
  The looks of the plain Countess Mary always improved when she was in
  tears. She never cried from pain or vexation, but always from sorrow or
  pity, and when she wept her radiant eyes acquired an irresistible charm.
<br />
  The moment Nicholas took her hand she could no longer restrain herself and
  began to cry.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nicholas, I saw it... he was to blame, but why do you... Nicholas!&rdquo; and
  she covered her face with her hands.
<br />
  Nicholas said nothing. He flushed crimson, left her side, and paced up and
  down the room. He understood what she was weeping about, but could not in
  his heart at once agree with her that what he had regarded from childhood
  as quite an everyday event was wrong. &ldquo;Is it just sentimentality, old
  wives&rsquo; tales, or is she right?&rdquo; he asked himself. Before he had solved
  that point he glanced again at her face filled with love and pain, and he
  suddenly realized that she was right and that he had long been sinning
  against himself.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mary,&rdquo; he said softly, going up to her, &ldquo;it will never happen again; I
  give you my word. Never,&rdquo; he repeated in a trembling voice like a boy
  asking for forgiveness.
<br />
  The tears flowed faster still from the countess&rsquo; eyes. She took his hand
  and kissed it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nicholas, when did you break your cameo?&rdquo; she asked to change the
  subject, looking at his finger on which he wore a ring with a cameo of
  Laocoön&rsquo;s head.
<br />
  &ldquo;Today&mdash;it was the same affair. Oh, Mary, don&rsquo;t remind me of it!&rdquo; and
  again he flushed. &ldquo;I give you my word of honor it shan&rsquo;t occur again, and
  let this always be a reminder to me,&rdquo; and he pointed to the broken ring.
<br />
  After that, when in discussions with his village elders or stewards the
  blood rushed to his face and his fists began to clench, Nicholas would
  turn the broken ring on his finger and would drop his eyes before the man
  who was making him angry. But he did forget himself once or twice within a
  twelvemonth, and then he would go and confess to his wife, and would again
  promise that this should really be the very last time.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mary, you must despise me!&rdquo; he would say. &ldquo;I deserve it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You should go, go away at once, if you don&rsquo;t feel strong enough to
  control yourself,&rdquo; she would reply sadly, trying to comfort her husband.
<br />
  Among the gentry of the province Nicholas was respected but not liked. He
  did not concern himself with the interests of his own class, and
  consequently some thought him proud and others thought him stupid. The
  whole summer, from spring sowing to harvest, he was busy with the work on
  his farm. In autumn he gave himself up to hunting with the same
  business-like seriousness&mdash;leaving home for a month, or even two,
  with his hunt. In winter he visited his other villages or spent his time
  reading. The books he read were chiefly historical, and on these he spent
  a certain sum every year. He was collecting, as he said, a serious
  library, and he made it a rule to read through all the books he bought. He
  would sit in his study with a grave air, reading&mdash;a task he first
  imposed upon himself as a duty, but which afterwards became a habit
  affording him a special kind of pleasure and a consciousness of being
  occupied with serious matters. In winter, except for business excursions,
  he spent most of his time at home making himself one with his family and
  entering into all the details of his children&rsquo;s relations with their
  mother. The harmony between him and his wife grew closer and closer and he
  daily discovered fresh spiritual treasures in her.
<br />
  From the time of his marriage Sónya had lived in his house. Before that,
  Nicholas had told his wife all that had passed between himself and Sónya,
  blaming himself and commending her. He had asked Princess Mary to be
  gentle and kind to his cousin. She thoroughly realized the wrong he had
  done Sónya, felt herself to blame toward her, and imagined that her wealth
  had influenced Nicholas&rsquo; choice. She could not find fault with Sónya in
  any way and tried to be fond of her, but often felt ill-will toward her
  which she could not overcome.
<br />
  Once she had a talk with her friend Natásha about Sónya and about her own
  injustice toward her.
<br />
  &ldquo;You know,&rdquo; said Natásha, &ldquo;you have read the Gospels a great deal&mdash;there
  is a passage in them that just fits Sónya.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What?&rdquo; asked Countess Mary, surprised.
<br />
  &ldquo;&lsquo;To him that hath shall be given, and from him that hath not shall be
  taken away.&rsquo; You remember? She is one that hath not; why, I don&rsquo;t know.
  Perhaps she lacks egotism, I don&rsquo;t know, but from her is taken away, and
  everything has been taken away. Sometimes I am dreadfully sorry for her.
  Formerly I very much wanted Nicholas to marry her, but I always had a sort
  of presentiment that it would not come off. She is a , you
  know&mdash;like some strawberry blossoms. Sometimes I am sorry for her,
  and sometimes I think she doesn&rsquo;t feel it as you or I would.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Though Countess Mary told Natásha that those words in the Gospel must be
  understood differently, yet looking at Sónya she agreed with Natásha&rsquo;s
  explanation. It really seemed that Sónya did not feel her position trying,
  and had grown quite reconciled to her lot as a . She seemed
  to be fond not so much of individuals as of the family as a whole. Like a
  cat, she had attached herself not to the people but to the home. She
  waited on the old countess, petted and spoiled the children, was always
  ready to render the small services for which she had a gift, and all this
  was unconsciously accepted from her with insufficient gratitude.
<br />
  The country seat at Bald Hills had been rebuilt, though not on the same
  scale as under the old prince.
<br />
  The buildings, begun under straitened circumstances, were more than
  simple. The immense house on the old stone foundations was of wood,
  plastered only inside. It had bare deal floors and was furnished with very
  simple hard sofas, armchairs, tables, and chairs made by their own serf
  carpenters out of their own birchwood. The house was spacious and had
  rooms for the house serfs and apartments for visitors. Whole families of
  the Rostóvs&rsquo; and Bolkónskis&rsquo; relations sometimes came to Bald Hills with
  sixteen horses and dozens of servants and stayed for months. Besides that,
  four times a year, on the name days and birthdays of the hosts, as many as
  a hundred visitors would gather there for a day or two. The rest of the
  year life pursued its unbroken routine with its ordinary occupations, and
  its breakfasts, lunches, dinners, and suppers, provided out of the produce
  of the estate.

  CHAPTER IX


  It was the eve of St. Nicholas, the fifth of December, 1820. Natásha had
  been staying at her brother&rsquo;s with her husband and children since early
  autumn. Pierre had gone to Petersburg on business of his own for three
  weeks as he said, but had remained there nearly seven weeks and was
  expected back every minute.
<br />
  Besides the Bezúkhov family, Nicholas&rsquo; old friend the retired General
  Vasíli Dmítrich Denísov was staying with the Rostóvs this fifth of
  December.
<br />
  On the sixth, which was his name day when the house would be full of
  visitors, Nicholas knew he would have to exchange his Tartar tunic for a
  tail coat, and put on narrow boots with pointed toes, and drive to the new
  church he had built, and then receive visitors who would come to
  congratulate him, offer them refreshments, and talk about the elections of
  the nobility; but he considered himself entitled to spend the eve of that
  day in his usual way. He examined the bailiff&rsquo;s accounts of the village in
  Ryazán which belonged to his wife&rsquo;s nephew, wrote two business letters,
  and walked over to the granaries, cattle yards and stables before dinner.
  Having taken precautions against the general drunkenness to be expected on
  the morrow because it was a great saint&rsquo;s day, he returned to dinner, and
  without having time for a private talk with his wife sat down at the long
  table laid for twenty persons, at which the whole household had assembled.
  At that table were his mother, his mother&rsquo;s old lady companion Belóva, his
  wife, their three children with their governess and tutor, his wife&rsquo;s
  nephew with his tutor, Sónya, Denísov, Natásha, her three children, their
  governess, and old Michael Ivánovich, the late prince&rsquo;s architect, who was
  living on in retirement at Bald Hills.
<br />
  Countess Mary sat at the other end of the table. When her husband took his
  place she concluded, from the rapid manner in which after taking up his
  table napkin he pushed back the tumbler and wineglass standing before him,
  that he was out of humor, as was sometimes the case when he came in to
  dinner straight from the farm&mdash;especially before the soup. Countess
  Mary well knew that mood of his, and when she herself was in a good frame
  of mind quietly waited till he had had his soup and then began to talk to
  him and make him admit that there was no cause for his ill-humor. But
  today she quite forgot that and was hurt that he should be angry with her
  without any reason, and she felt unhappy. She asked him where he had been.
  He replied. She again inquired whether everything was going well on the
  farm. Her unnatural tone made him wince unpleasantly and he replied
  hastily.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then I&rsquo;m not mistaken,&rdquo; thought Countess Mary. &ldquo;Why is he cross with me?&rdquo;
   She concluded from his tone that he was vexed with her and wished to end
  the conversation. She knew her remarks sounded unnatural, but could not
  refrain from asking some more questions.
<br />
  Thanks to Denísov the conversation at table soon became general and
  lively, and she did not talk to her husband. When they left the table and
  went as usual to thank the old countess, Countess Mary held out her hand
  and kissed her husband, and asked him why he was angry with her.
<br />
  &ldquo;You always have such strange fancies! I didn&rsquo;t even think of being
  angry,&rdquo; he replied.
<br />
  But the word  seemed to her to imply: &ldquo;Yes, I am angry
  but I won&rsquo;t tell you why.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Nicholas and his wife lived together so happily that even Sónya and the
  old countess, who felt jealous and would have liked them to disagree,
  could find nothing to reproach them with; but even they had their moments
  of antagonism. Occasionally, and it was always just after they had been
  happiest together, they suddenly had a feeling of estrangement and
  hostility, which occurred most frequently during Countess Mary&rsquo;s
  pregnancies, and this was such a time.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, ,&rdquo; said Nicholas loudly and with apparent
  cheerfulness (it seemed to Countess Mary that he did it on purpose to vex
  her), &ldquo;I have been on my feet since six this morning. Tomorrow I shall
  have to suffer, so today I&rsquo;ll go and rest.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And without a word to his wife he went to the little sitting room and lay
  down on the sofa.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s always the way,&rdquo; thought Countess Mary. &ldquo;He talks to everyone
  except me. I see... I see that I am repulsive to him, especially when I am
  in this condition.&rdquo; She looked down at her expanded figure and in the
  glass at her pale, sallow, emaciated face in which her eyes now looked
  larger than ever.
<br />
  And everything annoyed her&mdash;Denísov&rsquo;s shouting and laughter,
  Natásha&rsquo;s talk, and especially a quick glance Sónya gave her.
<br />
  Sónya was always the first excuse Countess Mary found for feeling
  irritated.
<br />
  Having sat awhile with her visitors without understanding anything of what
  they were saying, she softly left the room and went to the nursery.
<br />
  The children were playing at &ldquo;going to Moscow&rdquo; in a carriage made of
  chairs and invited her to go with them. She sat down and played with them
  a little, but the thought of her husband and his unreasonable crossness
  worried her. She got up and, walking on tiptoe with difficulty, went to
  the small sitting room.
<br />
  &ldquo;Perhaps he is not asleep; I&rsquo;ll have an explanation with him,&rdquo; she said to
  herself. Little Andrew, her eldest boy, imitating his mother, followed her
  on tiptoe. She did not notice him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mary, dear, I think he is asleep&mdash;he was so tired,&rdquo; said Sónya,
  meeting her in the large sitting room (it seemed to Countess Mary that she
  crossed her path everywhere). &ldquo;Andrew may wake him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Countess Mary looked round, saw little Andrew following her, felt that
  Sónya was right, and for that very reason flushed and with evident
  difficulty refrained from saying something harsh. She made no reply, but
  to avoid obeying Sónya beckoned to Andrew to follow her quietly and went
  to the door. Sónya went away by another door. From the room in which
  Nicholas was sleeping came the sound of his even breathing, every
  slightest tone of which was familiar to his wife. As she listened to it
  she saw before her his smooth handsome forehead, his mustache, and his
  whole face, as she had so often seen it in the stillness of the night when
  he slept. Nicholas suddenly moved and cleared his throat. And at that
  moment little Andrew shouted from outside the door: &ldquo;Papa! Mamma&rsquo;s
  standing here!&rdquo; Countess Mary turned pale with fright and made signs to
  the boy. He grew silent, and quiet ensued for a moment, terrible to
  Countess Mary. She knew how Nicholas disliked being waked. Then through
  the door she heard Nicholas clearing his throat again and stirring, and
  his voice said crossly:
<br />
  &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t get a moment&rsquo;s peace.... Mary, is that you? Why did you bring him
  here?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I only came in to look and did not notice... forgive me....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Nicholas coughed and said no more. Countess Mary moved away from the door
  and took the boy back to the nursery. Five minutes later little black-eyed
  three-year-old Natásha, her father&rsquo;s pet, having learned from her brother
  that Papa was asleep and Mamma was in the sitting room, ran to her father
  unobserved by her mother. The dark-eyed little girl boldly opened the
  creaking door, went up to the sofa with energetic steps of her sturdy
  little legs, and having examined the position of her father, who was
  asleep with his back to her, rose on tiptoe and kissed the hand which lay
  under his head. Nicholas turned with a tender smile on his face.
<br />
  &ldquo;Natásha, Natásha!&rdquo; came Countess Mary&rsquo;s frightened whisper from the door.
  &ldquo;Papa wants to sleep.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, Mamma, he doesn&rsquo;t want to sleep,&rdquo; said little Natásha with
  conviction. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s laughing.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Nicholas lowered his legs, rose, and took his daughter in his arms.
<br />
  &ldquo;Come in, Mary,&rdquo; he said to his wife.
<br />
  She went in and sat down by her husband.
<br />
  &ldquo;I did not notice him following me,&rdquo; she said timidly. &ldquo;I just looked in.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Holding his little girl with one arm, Nicholas glanced at his wife and,
  seeing her guilty expression, put his other arm around her and kissed her
  hair.
<br />
  &ldquo;May I kiss Mamma?&rdquo; he asked Natásha.
<br />
  Natásha smiled bashfully.
<br />
  &ldquo;Again!&rdquo; she commanded, pointing with a peremptory gesture to the spot
  where Nicholas had placed the kiss.
<br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know why you think I am cross,&rdquo; said Nicholas, replying to the
  question he knew was in his wife&rsquo;s mind.
<br />
  &ldquo;You have no idea how unhappy, how lonely, I feel when you are like that.
  It always seems to me...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Mary, don&rsquo;t talk nonsense. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!&rdquo; he said
  gaily.
<br />
  &ldquo;It seems to be that you can&rsquo;t love me, that I am so plain... always...
  and now... in this cond...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, how absurd you are! It is not beauty that endears, it&rsquo;s love that
  makes us see beauty. It is only Malvínas and women of that kind who are
  loved for their beauty. But do I love my wife? I don&rsquo;t love her, but... I
  don&rsquo;t know how to put it. Without you, or when something comes between us
  like this, I seem lost and can&rsquo;t do anything. Now do I love my finger? I
  don&rsquo;t love it, but just try to cut it off!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not like that myself, but I understand. So you&rsquo;re not angry with me?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Awfully angry!&rdquo; he said, smiling and getting up. And smoothing his hair
  he began to pace the room.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you know, Mary, what I&rsquo;ve been thinking?&rdquo; he began, immediately
  thinking aloud in his wife&rsquo;s presence now that they had made it up.
<br />
  He did not ask if she was ready to listen to him. He did not care. A
  thought had occurred to him and so it belonged to her also. And he told
  her of his intention to persuade Pierre to stay with them till spring.
<br />
  Countess Mary listened till he had finished, made some remark, and in her
  turn began thinking aloud. Her thoughts were about the children.
<br />
  &ldquo;You can see the woman in her already,&rdquo; she said in French, pointing to
  little Natásha. &ldquo;You reproach us women with being illogical. Here is our
  logic. I say: &lsquo;Papa wants to sleep!&rsquo; but she says, &lsquo;No, he&rsquo;s laughing.&rsquo;
  And she was right,&rdquo; said Countess Mary with a happy smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes.&rdquo; And Nicholas, taking his little daughter in his strong hand,
  lifted her high, placed her on his shoulder, held her by the legs, and
  paced the room with her. There was an expression of carefree happiness on
  the faces of both father and daughter.
<br />
  &ldquo;But you know you may be unfair. You are too fond of this one,&rdquo; his wife
  whispered in French.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, but what am I to do?... I try not to show...&rdquo;
 <br />
  At that moment they heard the sound of the door pulley and footsteps in
  the hall and anteroom, as if someone had arrived.
<br />
  &ldquo;Somebody has come.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am sure it is Pierre. I will go and see,&rdquo; said Countess Mary and left
  the room.
<br />
  In her absence Nicholas allowed himself to give his little daughter a
  gallop round the room. Out of breath, he took the laughing child quickly
  from his shoulder and pressed her to his heart. His capers reminded him of
  dancing, and looking at the child&rsquo;s round happy little face he thought of
  what she would be like when he was an old man, taking her into society and
  dancing the mazurka with her as his old father had danced 
  with his daughter.
<br />
  &ldquo;It is he, it is he, Nicholas!&rdquo; said Countess Mary, re-entering the room a
  few minutes later. &ldquo;Now our Natásha has come to life. You should have seen
  her ecstasy, and how he caught it for having stayed away so long. Well,
  come along now, quick, quick! It&rsquo;s time you two were parted,&rdquo; she added,
  looking smilingly at the little girl who clung to her father.
<br />
  Nicholas went out holding the child by the hand.
<br />
  Countess Mary remained in the sitting room.
<br />
  &ldquo;I should never, never have believed that one could be so happy,&rdquo; she
  whispered to herself. A smile lit up her face but at the same time she
  sighed, and her deep eyes expressed a quiet sadness as though she felt,
  through her happiness, that there is another sort of happiness
  unattainable in this life and of which she involuntarily thought at that
  instant.

  CHAPTER X


  Natásha had married in the early spring of 1813, and in 1820 already had
  three daughters besides a son for whom she had longed and whom she was now
  nursing. She had grown stouter and broader, so that it was difficult to
  recognize in this robust, motherly woman the slim, lively Natásha of
  former days. Her features were more defined and had a calm, soft, and
  serene expression. In her face there was none of the ever-glowing
  animation that had formerly burned there and constituted its charm. Now
  her face and body were often all that one saw, and her soul was not
  visible at all. All that struck the eye was a strong, handsome, and
  fertile woman. The old fire very rarely kindled in her face now. That
  happened only when, as was the case that day, her husband returned home,
  or a sick child was convalescent, or when she and Countess Mary spoke of
  Prince Andrew (she never mentioned him to her husband, who she imagined
  was jealous of Prince Andrew&rsquo;s memory), or on the rare occasions when
  something happened to induce her to sing, a practice she had quite
  abandoned since her marriage. At the rare moments when the old fire did
  kindle in her handsome, fully developed body she was even more attractive
  than in former days.
<br />
  Since their marriage Natásha and her husband had lived in Moscow, in
  Petersburg, on their estate near Moscow, or with her mother, that is to
  say, in Nicholas&rsquo; house. The young Countess Bezúkhova was not often seen
  in society, and those who met her there were not pleased with her and
  found her neither attractive nor amiable. Not that Natásha liked solitude&mdash;she
  did not know whether she liked it or not, she even thought that she did
  not&mdash;but with her pregnancies, her confinements, the nursing of her
  children, and sharing every moment of her husband&rsquo;s life, she had demands
  on her time which could be satisfied only by renouncing society. All who
  had known Natásha before her marriage wondered at the change in her as at
  something extraordinary. Only the old countess with her maternal instinct
  had realized that all Natásha&rsquo;s outbursts had been due to her need of
  children and a husband&mdash;as she herself had once exclaimed at Otrádnoe
  not so much in fun as in earnest&mdash;and her mother was now surprised at
  the surprise expressed by those who had never understood Natásha, and she
  kept saying that she had always known that Natásha would make an exemplary
  wife and mother.
<br />
  &ldquo;Only she lets her love of her husband and children overflow all bounds,&rdquo;
   said the countess, &ldquo;so that it even becomes absurd.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha did not follow the golden rule advocated by clever folk,
  especially by the French, which says that a girl should not let herself go
  when she marries, should not neglect her accomplishments, should be even
  more careful of her appearance than when she was unmarried, and should
  fascinate her husband as much as she did before he became her husband.
  Natásha on the contrary had at once abandoned all her witchery, of which
  her singing had been an unusually powerful part. She gave it up just
  because it was so powerfully seductive. She took no pains with her manners
  or with delicacy of speech, or with her toilet, or to show herself to her
  husband in her most becoming attitudes, or to avoid inconveniencing him by
  being too exacting. She acted in contradiction to all those rules. She
  felt that the allurements instinct had formerly taught her to use would
  now be merely ridiculous in the eyes of her husband, to whom she had from
  the first moment given herself up entirely&mdash;that is, with her whole
  soul, leaving no corner of it hidden from him. She felt that her unity
  with her husband was not maintained by the poetic feelings that had
  attracted him to her, but by something else&mdash;indefinite but firm as
  the bond between her own body and soul.
<br />
  To fluff out her curls, put on fashionable dresses, and sing romantic
  songs to fascinate her husband would have seemed as strange as to adorn
  herself to attract herself. To adorn herself for others might perhaps have
  been agreeable&mdash;she did not know&mdash;but she had no time at all for
  it. The chief reason for devoting no time either to singing, to dress, or
  to choosing her words was that she really had no time to spare for these
  things.
<br />
  We know that man has the faculty of becoming completely absorbed in a
  subject however trivial it may be, and that there is no subject so trivial
  that it will not grow to infinite proportions if one&rsquo;s entire attention is
  devoted to it.
<br />
  The subject which wholly engrossed Natásha&rsquo;s attention was her family:
  that is, her husband whom she had to keep so that he should belong
  entirely to her and to the home, and the children whom she had to bear,
  bring into the world, nurse, and bring up.
<br />
  And the deeper she penetrated, not with her mind only but with her whole
  soul, her whole being, into the subject that absorbed her, the larger did
  that subject grow and the weaker and more inadequate did her powers
  appear, so that she concentrated them wholly on that one thing and yet was
  unable to accomplish all that she considered necessary.
<br />
  There were then as now conversations and discussions about women&rsquo;s rights,
  the relations of husband and wife and their freedom and rights, though
  these themes were not yet termed  as they are now; but these
  topics were not merely uninteresting to Natásha, she positively did not
  understand them.
<br />
  These questions, then as now, existed only for those who see nothing in
  marriage but the pleasure married people get from one another, that is,
  only the beginnings of marriage and not its whole significance, which lies
  in the family.
<br />
  Discussions and questions of that kind, which are like the question of how
  to get the greatest gratification from one&rsquo;s dinner, did not then and do
  not now exist for those for whom the purpose of a dinner is the
  nourishment it affords; and the purpose of marriage is the family.
<br />
  If the purpose of dinner is to nourish the body, a man who eats two
  dinners at once may perhaps get more enjoyment but will not attain his
  purpose, for his stomach will not digest the two dinners.
<br />
  If the purpose of marriage is the family, the person who wishes to have
  many wives or husbands may perhaps obtain much pleasure, but in that case
  will not have a family.
<br />
  If the purpose of food is nourishment and the purpose of marriage is the
  family, the whole question resolves itself into not eating more than one
  can digest, and not having more wives or husbands than are needed for the
  family&mdash;that is, one wife or one husband. Natásha needed a husband. A
  husband was given her and he gave her a family. And she not only saw no
  need of any other or better husband, but as all the powers of her soul
  were intent on serving that husband and family, she could not imagine and
  saw no interest in imagining how it would be if things were different.
<br />
  Natásha did not care for society in general, but prized the more the
  society of her relatives&mdash;Countess Mary, and her brother, her mother,
  and Sónya. She valued the company of those to whom she could come striding
  disheveled from the nursery in her dressing gown, and with joyful face
  show a yellow instead of a green stain on baby&rsquo;s napkin, and from whom she
  could hear reassuring words to the effect that baby was much better.
<br />
  To such an extent had Natásha let herself go that the way she dressed and
  did her hair, her ill-chosen words, and her jealousy&mdash;she was jealous
  of Sónya, of the governess, and of every woman, pretty or plain&mdash;were
  habitual subjects of jest to those about her. The general opinion was that
  Pierre was under his wife&rsquo;s thumb, which was really true. From the very
  first days of their married life Natásha had announced her demands. Pierre
  was greatly surprised by his wife&rsquo;s view, to him a perfectly novel one,
  that every moment of his life belonged to her and to the family. His
  wife&rsquo;s demands astonished him, but they also flattered him, and he
  submitted to them.
<br />
  Pierre&rsquo;s subjection consisted in the fact that he not only dared not flirt
  with, but dared not even speak smilingly to, any other woman; did not dare
  dine at the Club as a pastime, did not dare spend money on a whim, and did
  not dare absent himself for any length of time, except on business&mdash;in
  which his wife included his intellectual pursuits, which she did not in
  the least understand but to which she attributed great importance. To make
  up for this, at home Pierre had the right to regulate his life and that of
  the whole family exactly as he chose. At home Natásha placed herself in
  the position of a slave to her husband, and the whole household went on
  tiptoe when he was occupied&mdash;that is, was reading or writing in his
  study. Pierre had but to show a partiality for anything to get just what
  he liked done always. He had only to express a wish and Natásha would jump
  up and run to fulfill it.
<br />
  The entire household was governed according to Pierre&rsquo;s supposed orders,
  that is, by his wishes which Natásha tried to guess. Their way of life and
  place of residence, their acquaintances and ties, Natásha&rsquo;s occupations,
  the children&rsquo;s upbringing, were all selected not merely with regard to
  Pierre&rsquo;s expressed wishes, but to what Natásha from the thoughts he
  expressed in conversation supposed his wishes to be. And she deduced the
  essentials of his wishes quite correctly, and having once arrived at them
  clung to them tenaciously. When Pierre himself wanted to change his mind
  she would fight him with his own weapons.
<br />
  Thus in a time of trouble ever memorable to him after the birth of their
  first child who was delicate, when they had to change the wet nurse three
  times and Natásha fell ill from despair, Pierre one day told her of
  Rousseau&rsquo;s view, with which he quite agreed, that to have a wet nurse is
  unnatural and harmful. When her next baby was born, despite the opposition
  of her mother, the doctors, and even of her husband himself&mdash;who were
  all vigorously opposed to her nursing her baby herself, a thing then
  unheard of and considered injurious&mdash;she insisted on having her own
  way, and after that nursed all her babies herself.
<br />
  It very often happened that in a moment of irritation husband and wife
  would have a dispute, but long afterwards Pierre to his surprise and
  delight would find in his wife&rsquo;s ideas and actions the very thought
  against which she had argued, but divested of everything superfluous that
  in the excitement of the dispute he had added when expressing his opinion.
<br />
  After seven years of marriage Pierre had the joyous and firm consciousness
  that he was not a bad man, and he felt this because he saw himself
  reflected in his wife. He felt the good and bad within himself
  inextricably mingled and overlapping. But only what was really good in him
  was reflected in his wife, all that was not quite good was rejected. And
  this was not the result of logical reasoning but was a direct and
  mysterious reflection.

  CHAPTER XI


  Two months previously when Pierre was already staying with the Rostóvs he
  had received a letter from Prince Theodore, asking him to come to
  Petersburg to confer on some important questions that were being discussed
  there by a society of which Pierre was one of the principal founders.
<br />
  On reading that letter (she always read her husband&rsquo;s letters) Natásha
  herself suggested that he should go to Petersburg, though she would feel
  his absence very acutely. She attributed immense importance to all her
  husband&rsquo;s intellectual and abstract interests though she did not
  understand them, and she always dreaded being a hindrance to him in such
  matters. To Pierre&rsquo;s timid look of inquiry after reading the letter she
  replied by asking him to go, but to fix a definite date for his return. He
  was given four weeks&rsquo; leave of absence.
<br />
  Ever since that leave of absence had expired, more than a fortnight
  before, Natásha had been in a constant state of alarm, depression, and
  irritability.
<br />
  Denísov, now a general on the retired list and much dissatisfied with the
  present state of affairs, had arrived during that fortnight. He looked at
  Natásha with sorrow and surprise as at a bad likeness of a person once
  dear. A dull, dejected look, random replies, and talk about the nursery
  was all he saw and heard from his former enchantress.
<br />
  Natásha was sad and irritable all that time, especially when her mother,
  her brother, Sónya, or Countess Mary in their efforts to console her tried
  to excuse Pierre and suggested reasons for his delay in returning.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all nonsense, all rubbish&mdash;those discussions which lead to
  nothing and all those idiotic societies!&rdquo; Natásha declared of the very
  affairs in the immense importance of which she firmly believed.
<br />
  And she would go to the nursery to nurse Pétya, her only boy. No one else
  could tell her anything so comforting or so reasonable as this little
  three-month-old creature when he lay at her breast and she was conscious
  of the movement of his lips and the snuffling of his little nose. That
  creature said: &ldquo;You are angry, you are jealous, you would like to pay him
  out, you are afraid&mdash;but here am I! And I am he...&rdquo; and that was
  unanswerable. It was more than true.
<br />
  During that fortnight of anxiety Natásha resorted to the baby for comfort
  so often, and fussed over him so much, that she overfed him and he fell
  ill. She was terrified by his illness, and yet that was just what she
  needed. While attending to him she bore the anxiety about her husband more
  easily.
<br />
  She was nursing her boy when the sound of Pierre&rsquo;s sleigh was heard at the
  front door, and the old nurse&mdash;knowing how to please her mistress&mdash;entered
  the room inaudibly but hurriedly and with a beaming face.
<br />
  &ldquo;Has he come?&rdquo; Natásha asked quickly in a whisper, afraid to move lest she
  should rouse the dozing baby.
<br />
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;s come, ma&rsquo;am,&rdquo; whispered the nurse.
<br />
  The blood rushed to Natásha&rsquo;s face and her feet involuntarily moved, but
  she could not jump up and run out. The baby again opened his eyes and
  looked at her. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re here?&rdquo; he seemed to be saying, and again lazily
  smacked his lips.
<br />
  Cautiously withdrawing her breast, Natásha rocked him a little, handed him
  to the nurse, and went with rapid steps toward the door. But at the door
  she stopped as if her conscience reproached her for having in her joy left
  the child too soon, and she glanced round. The nurse with raised elbows
  was lifting the infant over the rail of his cot.
<br />
  &ldquo;Go, ma&rsquo;am! Don&rsquo;t worry, go!&rdquo; she whispered, smiling, with the kind of
  familiarity that grows up between a nurse and her mistress.
<br />
  Natásha ran with light footsteps to the anteroom.
<br />
  Denísov, who had come out of the study into the dancing room with his
  pipe, now for the first time recognized the old Natásha. A flood of
  brilliant, joyful light poured from her transfigured face.
<br />
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;s come!&rdquo; she exclaimed as she ran past, and Denísov felt that he too
  was delighted that Pierre, whom he did not much care for, had returned.
<br />
  On reaching the vestibule Natásha saw a tall figure in a fur coat
  unwinding his scarf. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s he! It&rsquo;s really he! He has come!&rdquo; she said to
  herself, and rushing at him embraced him, pressed his head to her breast,
  and then pushed him back and gazed at his ruddy, happy face, covered with
  hoarfrost. &ldquo;Yes, it is he, happy and contented....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Then all at once she remembered the tortures of suspense she had
  experienced for the last fortnight, and the joy that had lit up her face
  vanished; she frowned and overwhelmed Pierre with a torrent of reproaches
  and angry words.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, it&rsquo;s all very well for you. You are pleased, you&rsquo;ve had a good
  time.... But what about me? You might at least have shown consideration
  for the children. I am nursing and my milk was spoiled.... Pétya was at
  death&rsquo;s door. But you were enjoying yourself. Yes, enjoying...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre knew he was not to blame, for he could not have come sooner; he
  knew this outburst was unseemly and would blow over in a minute or two;
  above all he knew that he himself was bright and happy. He wanted to smile
  but dared not even think of doing so. He made a piteous, frightened face
  and bent down.
<br />
  &ldquo;I could not, on my honor. But how is Pétya?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;All right now. Come along! I wonder you&rsquo;re not ashamed! If only you could
  see what I was like without you, how I suffered!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You are well?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Come, come!&rdquo; she said, not letting go of his arm. And they went to their
  rooms.
<br />
  When Nicholas and his wife came to look for Pierre he was in the nursery
  holding his baby son, who was again awake, on his huge right palm and
  dandling him. A blissful bright smile was fixed on the baby&rsquo;s broad face
  with its toothless open mouth. The storm was long since over and there was
  bright, joyous sunshine on Natásha&rsquo;s face as she gazed tenderly at her
  husband and child.
<br />
  &ldquo;And have you talked everything well over with Prince Theodore?&rdquo; she
  asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, capitally.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You see, he holds it up.&rdquo; (She meant the baby&rsquo;s head.) &ldquo;But how he did
  frighten me... You&rsquo;ve seen the princess? Is it true she&rsquo;s in love with
  that...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, just fancy...&rdquo;
 <br />
  At that moment Nicholas and Countess Mary came in. Pierre with the baby on
  his hand stooped, kissed them, and replied to their inquiries. But in
  spite of much that was interesting and had to be discussed, the baby with
  the little cap on its unsteady head evidently absorbed all his attention.
<br />
  &ldquo;How sweet!&rdquo; said Countess Mary, looking at and playing with the baby.
  &ldquo;Now, Nicholas,&rdquo; she added, turning to her husband, &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t understand
  how it is you don&rsquo;t see the charm of these delicious marvels.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t and can&rsquo;t,&rdquo; replied Nicholas, looking coldly at the baby. &ldquo;A lump
  of flesh. Come along, Pierre!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And yet he&rsquo;s such an affectionate father,&rdquo; said Countess Mary,
  vindicating her husband, &ldquo;but only after they are a year old or so...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Now, Pierre nurses them splendidly,&rdquo; said Natásha. &ldquo;He says his hand is
  just made for a baby&rsquo;s seat. Just look!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Only not for this...&rdquo; Pierre suddenly exclaimed with a laugh, and
  shifting the baby he gave him to the nurse.

  CHAPTER XII


  As in every large household, there were at Bald Hills several perfectly
  distinct worlds which merged into one harmonious whole, though each
  retained its own peculiarities and made concessions to the others. Every
  event, joyful or sad, that took place in that house was important to all
  these worlds, but each had its own special reasons to rejoice or grieve
  over that occurrence independently of the others.
<br />
  For instance, Pierre&rsquo;s return was a joyful and important event and they
  all felt it to be so.
<br />
  The servants&mdash;the most reliable judges of their masters because they
  judge not by their conversation or expressions of feeling but by their
  acts and way of life&mdash;were glad of Pierre&rsquo;s return because they knew
  that when he was there Count Nicholas would cease going every day to
  attend to the estate, and would be in better spirits and temper, and also
  because they would all receive handsome presents for the holidays.
<br />
  The children and their governesses were glad of Pierre&rsquo;s return because no
  one else drew them into the social life of the household as he did. He
  alone could play on the clavichord that  (his only piece) to
  which, as he said, all possible dances could be danced, and they felt sure
  he had brought presents for them all.
<br />
  Young Nicholas, now a slim lad of fifteen, delicate and intelligent, with
  curly light-brown hair and beautiful eyes, was delighted because Uncle
  Pierre as he called him was the object of his rapturous and passionate
  affection. No one had instilled into him this love for Pierre whom he saw
  only occasionally. Countess Mary who had brought him up had done her
  utmost to make him love her husband as she loved him, and little Nicholas
  did love his uncle, but loved him with just a shade of contempt. Pierre,
  however, he adored. He did not want to be an hussar or a Knight of St.
  George like his uncle Nicholas; he wanted to be learned, wise, and kind
  like Pierre. In Pierre&rsquo;s presence his face always shone with pleasure and
  he flushed and was breathless when Pierre spoke to him. He did not miss a
  single word he uttered, and would afterwards, with Dessalles or by
  himself, recall and reconsider the meaning of everything Pierre had said.
  Pierre&rsquo;s past life and his unhappiness prior to 1812 (of which young
  Nicholas had formed a vague poetic picture from some words he had
  overheard), his adventures in Moscow, his captivity, Platón Karatáev (of
  whom he had heard from Pierre), his love for Natásha (of whom the lad was
  also particularly fond), and especially Pierre&rsquo;s friendship with the
  father whom Nicholas could not remember&mdash;all this made Pierre in his
  eyes a hero and a saint.
<br />
  From broken remarks about Natásha and his father, from the emotion with
  which Pierre spoke of that dead father, and from the careful, reverent
  tenderness with which Natásha spoke of him, the boy, who was only just
  beginning to guess what love is, derived the notion that his father had
  loved Natásha and when dying had left her to his friend. But the father
  whom the boy did not remember appeared to him a divinity who could not be
  pictured, and of whom he never thought without a swelling heart and tears
  of sadness and rapture. So the boy also was happy that Pierre had arrived.
<br />
  The guests welcomed Pierre because he always helped to enliven and unite
  any company he was in.
<br />
  The grown-up members of the family, not to mention his wife, were pleased
  to have back a friend whose presence made life run more smoothly and
  peacefully.
<br />
  The old ladies were pleased with the presents he brought them, and
  especially that Natásha would now be herself again.
<br />
  Pierre felt the different outlooks of these various worlds and made haste
  to satisfy all their expectations.
<br />
  Though the most absent-minded and forgetful of men, Pierre, with the aid
  of a list his wife drew up, had now bought everything, not forgetting his
  mother&mdash;and brother-in-law&rsquo;s commissions, nor the dress material for
  a present to Belóva, nor toys for his wife&rsquo;s nephews. In the early days of
  his marriage it had seemed strange to him that his wife should expect him
  not to forget to procure all the things he undertook to buy, and he had
  been taken aback by her serious annoyance when on his first trip he forgot
  everything. But in time he grew used to this demand. Knowing that Natásha
  asked nothing for herself, and gave him commissions for others only when
  he himself had offered to undertake them, he now found an unexpected and
  childlike pleasure in this purchase of presents for everyone in the house,
  and never forgot anything. If he now incurred Natásha&rsquo;s censure it was
  only for buying too many and too expensive things. To her other defects
  (as most people thought them, but which to Pierre were qualities) of
  untidiness and neglect of herself, she now added stinginess.
<br />
  From the time that Pierre began life as a family man on a footing
  entailing heavy expenditure, he had noticed to his surprise that he spent
  only half as much as before, and that his affairs&mdash;which had been in
  disorder of late, chiefly because of his first wife&rsquo;s debts&mdash;had
  begun to improve.
<br />
  Life was cheaper because it was circumscribed: that most expensive luxury,
  the kind of life that can be changed at any moment, was no longer his nor
  did he wish for it. He felt that his way of life had now been settled once
  for all till death and that to change it was not in his power, and so that
  way of life proved economical.
<br />
  With a merry, smiling face Pierre was sorting his purchases.
<br />
  &ldquo;What do you think of this?&rdquo; said he, unrolling a piece of stuff like a
  shopman.
<br />
  Natásha, who was sitting opposite to him with her eldest daughter on her
  lap, turned her sparkling eyes swiftly from her husband to the things he
  showed her.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s for Belóva? Excellent!&rdquo; She felt the quality of the material. &ldquo;It
  was a ruble an arshin, I suppose?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre told her the price.
<br />
  &ldquo;Too dear!&rdquo; Natásha remarked. &ldquo;How pleased the children will be and Mamma
  too! Only you need not have bought me this,&rdquo; she added, unable to suppress
  a smile as she gazed admiringly at a gold comb set with pearls, of a kind
  then just coming into fashion.
<br />
  &ldquo;Adèle tempted me: she kept on telling me to buy it,&rdquo; returned Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;When am I to wear it?&rdquo; and Natásha stuck it in her coil of hair. &ldquo;When I
  take little Másha into society? Perhaps they will be fashionable again by
  then. Well, let&rsquo;s go now.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And collecting the presents they went first to the nursery and then to the
  old countess&rsquo; rooms.
<br />
  The countess was sitting with her companion Belóva, playing grand-patience
  as usual, when Pierre and Natásha came into the drawing room with parcels
  under their arms.
<br />
  The countess was now over sixty, was quite gray, and wore a cap with a
  frill that surrounded her face. Her face had shriveled, her upper lip had
  sunk in, and her eyes were dim.
<br />
  After the deaths of her son and husband in such rapid succession, she felt
  herself a being accidentally forgotten in this world and left without aim
  or object for her existence. She ate, drank, slept, or kept awake, but did
  not . Life gave her no new impressions. She wanted nothing from life
  but tranquillity, and that tranquillity only death could give her. But
  until death came she had to go on living, that is, to use her vital
  forces. A peculiarity one sees in very young children and very old people
  was particularly evident in her. Her life had no external aims&mdash;only
  a need to exercise her various functions and inclinations was apparent.
  She had to eat, sleep, think, speak, weep, work, give vent to her anger,
  and so on, merely because she had a stomach, a brain, muscles, nerves, and
  a liver. She did these things not under any external impulse as people in
  the full vigor of life do, when behind the purpose for which they strive
  that of exercising their functions remains unnoticed. She talked only
  because she physically needed to exercise her tongue and lungs. She cried
  as a child does, because her nose had to be cleared, and so on. What for
  people in their full vigor is an aim was for her evidently merely a
  pretext.
<br />
  Thus in the morning&mdash;especially if she had eaten anything rich the
  day before&mdash;she felt a need of being angry and would choose as the
  handiest pretext Belóva&rsquo;s deafness.
<br />
  She would begin to say something to her in a low tone from the other end
  of the room.
<br />
  &ldquo;It seems a little warmer today, my dear,&rdquo; she would murmur.
<br />
  And when Belóva replied: &ldquo;Oh yes, they&rsquo;ve come,&rdquo; she would mutter angrily:
  &ldquo;O Lord! How stupid and deaf she is!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Another pretext would be her snuff, which would seem too dry or too damp
  or not rubbed fine enough. After these fits of irritability her face would
  grow yellow, and her maids knew by infallible symptoms when Belóva would
  again be deaf, the snuff damp, and the countess&rsquo; face yellow. Just as she
  needed to work off her spleen so she had sometimes to exercise her
  still-existing faculty of thinking&mdash;and the pretext for that was a
  game of patience. When she needed to cry, the deceased count would be the
  pretext. When she wanted to be agitated, Nicholas and his health would be
  the pretext, and when she felt a need to speak spitefully, the pretext
  would be Countess Mary. When her vocal organs needed exercise, which was
  usually toward seven o&rsquo;clock when she had had an after-dinner rest in a
  darkened room, the pretext would be the retelling of the same stories over
  and over again to the same audience.
<br />
  The old lady&rsquo;s condition was understood by the whole household though no
  one ever spoke of it, and they all made every possible effort to satisfy
  her needs. Only by a rare glance exchanged with a sad smile between
  Nicholas, Pierre, Natásha, and Countess Mary was the common understanding
  of her condition expressed.
<br />
  But those glances expressed something more: they said that she had played
  her part in life, that what they now saw was not her whole self, that we
  must all become like her, and that they were glad to yield to her, to
  restrain themselves for this once precious being formerly as full of life
  as themselves, but now so much to be pitied. 
  said these glances.
<br />
  Only the really heartless, the stupid ones of that household, and the
  little children failed to understand this and avoided her.

  CHAPTER XIII


  When Pierre and his wife entered the drawing room the countess was in one
  of her customary states in which she needed the mental exertion of playing
  patience, and so&mdash;though by force of habit she greeted him with the
  words she always used when Pierre or her son returned after an absence:
  &ldquo;High time, my dear, high time! We were all weary of waiting for you.
  Well, thank God!&rdquo; and received her presents with another customary remark:
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not the gift that&rsquo;s precious, my dear, but that you give it to me,
  an old woman...&rdquo;&mdash;yet it was evident that she was not pleased by
  Pierre&rsquo;s arrival at that moment when it diverted her attention from the
  unfinished game.
<br />
  She finished her game of patience and only then examined the presents.
  They consisted of a box for cards, of splendid workmanship, a bright-blue
  Sèvres tea cup with shepherdesses depicted on it and with a lid, and a
  gold snuffbox with the count&rsquo;s portrait on the lid which Pierre had had
  done by a miniaturist in Petersburg. The countess had long wished for such
  a box, but as she did not want to cry just then she glanced indifferently
  at the portrait and gave her attention chiefly to the box for cards.
<br />
  &ldquo;Thank you, my dear, you have cheered me up,&rdquo; said she as she always did.
  &ldquo;But best of all you have brought yourself back&mdash;for I never saw
  anything like it, you ought to give your wife a scolding! What are we to
  do with her? She is like a mad woman when you are away. Doesn&rsquo;t see
  anything, doesn&rsquo;t remember anything,&rdquo; she went on, repeating her usual
  phrases. &ldquo;Look, Anna Timoféevna,&rdquo; she added to her companion, &ldquo;see what a
  box for cards my son has brought us!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Belóva admired the presents and was delighted with her dress material.
<br />
  Though Pierre, Natásha, Nicholas, Countess Mary, and Denísov had much to
  talk about that they could not discuss before the old countess&mdash;not
  that anything was hidden from her, but because she had dropped so far
  behindhand in many things that had they begun to converse in her presence
  they would have had to answer inopportune questions and to repeat what
  they had already told her many times: that so-and-so was dead and
  so-and-so was married, which she would again be unable to remember&mdash;yet
  they sat at tea round the samovar in the drawing room from habit, and
  Pierre answered the countess&rsquo; questions as to whether Prince Vasíli had
  aged and whether Countess Mary Alexéevna had sent greetings and still
  thought of them, and other matters that interested no one and to which she
  herself was indifferent.
<br />
  Conversation of this kind, interesting to no one yet unavoidable,
  continued all through teatime. All the grown-up members of the family were
  assembled near the round tea table at which Sónya presided beside the
  samovar. The children with their tutors and governesses had had tea and
  their voices were audible from the next room. At tea all sat in their
  accustomed places: Nicholas beside the stove at a small table where his
  tea was handed to him; Mílka, the old gray borzoi bitch (daughter of the
  first Mílka), with a quite gray face and large black eyes that seemed more
  prominent than ever, lay on the armchair beside him; Denísov, whose curly
  hair, mustache, and whiskers had turned half gray, sat beside countess
  Mary with his general&rsquo;s tunic unbuttoned; Pierre sat between his wife and
  the old countess. He spoke of what he knew might interest the old lady and
  that she could understand. He told her of external social events and of
  the people who had formed the circle of her contemporaries and had once
  been a real, living, and distinct group, but who were now for the most
  part scattered about the world and like herself were garnering the last
  ears of the harvests they had sown in earlier years. But to the old
  countess those contemporaries of hers seemed to be the only serious and
  real society. Natásha saw by Pierre&rsquo;s animation that his visit had been
  interesting and that he had much to tell them but dare not say it before
  the old countess. Denísov, not being a member of the family, did not
  understand Pierre&rsquo;s caution and being, as a malcontent, much interested in
  what was occurring in Petersburg, kept urging Pierre to tell them about
  what had happened in the Semënovsk regiment, then about Arakchéev, and
  then about the Bible Society. Once or twice Pierre was carried away and
  began to speak of these things, but Nicholas and Natásha always brought
  him back to the health of Prince Iván and Countess Mary Alexéevna.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, and all this idiocy&mdash;Gossner and Tatáwinova?&rdquo; Denísov asked.
  &ldquo;Is that weally still going on?&rdquo;
<br />
  &ldquo;Going on?&rdquo; Pierre exclaimed. &ldquo;Why more than ever!
  The Bible Society is the whole government now!&rdquo;
<br />
  &ldquo;What is that, &rdquo; asked the countess, who had
  finished her tea and evidently needed a pretext for being angry
  after her meal. &ldquo;What are you saying about the government? I don&rsquo;t
  understand.&rdquo;
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, you know, ,&rdquo; Nicholas interposed, knowing how to translate
  things into his mother&rsquo;s language, &ldquo;Prince Alexander Golítsyn has founded
  a society and in consequence has great influence, they say.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Arakchéev and Golítsyn,&rdquo; incautiously remarked Pierre, &ldquo;are now the whole
  government! And what a government! They see treason everywhere and are
  afraid of everything.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, and how is Prince Alexander to blame? He is a most estimable man. I
  used to meet him at Mary Antónovna&rsquo;s,&rdquo; said the countess in an offended
  tone; and still more offended that they all remained silent, she went on:
  &ldquo;Nowadays everyone finds fault. A Gospel Society! Well, and what harm is
  there in that?&rdquo; and she rose (everybody else got up too) and with a severe
  expression sailed back to her table in the sitting room.
<br />
  The melancholy silence that followed was broken by the sounds of the
  children&rsquo;s voices and laughter from the next room. Evidently some jolly
  excitement was going on there.
<br />
  &ldquo;Finished, finished!&rdquo; little Natásha&rsquo;s gleeful yell rose above them all.
<br />
  Pierre exchanged glances with Countess Mary and Nicholas (Natásha he never
  lost sight of) and smiled happily.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s delightful music!&rdquo; said he.
<br />
  &ldquo;It means that Anna Makárovna has finished her stocking,&rdquo; said Countess
  Mary.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, I&rsquo;ll go and see,&rdquo; said Pierre, jumping up. &ldquo;You know,&rdquo; he added,
  stopping at the door, &ldquo;why I&rsquo;m especially fond of that music? It is always
  the first thing that tells me all is well. When I was driving here today,
  the nearer I got to the house the more anxious I grew. As I entered the
  anteroom I heard Andrúsha&rsquo;s peals of laughter and that meant that all was
  well.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I know! I know that feeling,&rdquo; said Nicholas. &ldquo;But I mustn&rsquo;t go there&mdash;those
  stockings are to be a surprise for me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre went to the children, and the shouting and laughter grew still
  louder.
<br />
  &ldquo;Come, Anna Makárovna,&rdquo; Pierre&rsquo;s voice was heard saying, &ldquo;come here into
  the middle of the room and at the word of command, &lsquo;One, two,&rsquo; and when I
  say &lsquo;three&rsquo;... You stand here, and you in my arms&mdash;well now! One,
  two!...&rdquo; said Pierre, and a silence followed: &ldquo;three!&rdquo; and a rapturously
  breathless cry of children&rsquo;s voices filled the room. &ldquo;Two, two!&rdquo; they
  shouted.
<br />
  This meant two stockings, which by a secret process known only to herself
  Anna Makárovna used to knit at the same time on the same needles, and
  which, when they were ready, she always triumphantly drew, one out of the
  other, in the children&rsquo;s presence.

  CHAPTER XIV


  Soon after this the children came in to say good night. They kissed
  everyone, the tutors and governesses made their bows, and they went out.
  Only young Nicholas and his tutor remained. Dessalles whispered to the boy
  to come downstairs.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, Monsieur Dessalles, I will ask my aunt to let me stay,&rdquo; replied
  Nicholas Bolkónski also in a whisper.
<br />
  &ldquo;, please let me stay,&rdquo; said he, going up to his aunt.
<br />
  His face expressed entreaty, agitation, and ecstasy. Countess Mary glanced
  at him and turned to Pierre.
<br />
  &ldquo;When you are here he can&rsquo;t tear himself away,&rdquo; she said.
<br />
  &ldquo;I will bring him to you directly, Monsieur Dessalles. Good night!&rdquo; said
  Pierre, giving his hand to the Swiss tutor, and he turned to young
  Nicholas with a smile. &ldquo;You and I haven&rsquo;t seen anything of one another
  yet.... How like he is growing, Mary!&rdquo; he added, addressing Countess Mary.
<br />
  &ldquo;Like my father?&rdquo; asked the boy, flushing crimson and looking up at Pierre
  with bright, ecstatic eyes.
<br />
  Pierre nodded, and went on with what he had been saying when the children
  had interrupted. Countess Mary sat down doing woolwork; Natásha did not
  take her eyes off her husband. Nicholas and Denísov rose, asked for their
  pipes, smoked, went to fetch more tea from Sónya&mdash;who sat weary but
  resolute at the samovar&mdash;and questioned Pierre. The curly-headed,
  delicate boy sat with shining eyes unnoticed in a corner, starting every
  now and then and muttering something to himself, and evidently
  experiencing a new and powerful emotion as he turned his curly head, with
  his thin neck exposed by his turn-down collar, toward the place where
  Pierre sat.
<br />
  The conversation turned on the contemporary gossip about those in power,
  in which most people see the chief interest of home politics. Denísov,
  dissatisfied with the government on account of his own disappointments in
  the service, heard with pleasure of the things done in Petersburg which
  seemed to him stupid, and made forcible and sharp comments on what Pierre
  told them.
<br />
  &ldquo;One used to have to be a German&mdash;now one must dance with Tatáwinova
  and Madame Kwüdener, and wead Ecka&rsquo;tshausen and the bwethwen. Oh, they
  should let that fine fellow Bonaparte loose&mdash;he&rsquo;d knock all this
  nonsense out of them! Fancy giving the command of the Semënov wegiment to
  a fellow like that Schwa&rsquo;tz!&rdquo; he cried.
<br />
  Nicholas, though free from Denísov&rsquo;s readiness to find fault with
  everything, also thought that discussion of the government was a very
  serious and weighty matter, and the fact that  had been appointed
  Minister of This and  Governor General of That, and that the Emperor had
  said so-and-so and this minister so-and-so, seemed to him very important.
  And so he thought it necessary to take an interest in these things and to
  question Pierre. The questions put by these two kept the conversation from
  changing its ordinary character of gossip about the higher government
  circles.
<br />
  But Natásha, knowing all her husband&rsquo;s ways and ideas, saw that he had
  long been wishing but had been unable to divert the conversation to
  another channel and express his own deeply felt idea for the sake of which
  he had gone to Petersburg to consult with his new friend Prince Theodore,
  and she helped him by asking how his affairs with Prince Theodore had
  gone.
<br />
  &ldquo;What was it about?&rdquo; asked Nicholas.
<br />
  &ldquo;Always the same thing,&rdquo; said Pierre, looking round at his listeners.
  &ldquo;Everybody sees that things are going so badly that they cannot be allowed
  to go on so and that it is the duty of all decent men to counteract it as
  far as they can.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What can decent men do?&rdquo; Nicholas inquired, frowning slightly. &ldquo;What can
  be done?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, this...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Come into my study,&rdquo; said Nicholas.
<br />
  Natásha, who had long expected to be fetched to nurse her baby, now heard
  the nurse calling her and went to the nursery. Countess Mary followed her.
  The men went into the study and little Nicholas Bolkónski followed them
  unnoticed by his uncle and sat down at the writing table in a shady corner
  by the window.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, what would you do?&rdquo; asked Denísov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Always some fantastic schemes,&rdquo; said Nicholas.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why this,&rdquo; began Pierre, not sitting down but pacing the room, sometimes
  stopping short, gesticulating, and lisping: &ldquo;the position in Petersburg is
  this: the Emperor does not look into anything. He has abandoned himself
  altogether to this mysticism&rdquo; (Pierre could not tolerate mysticism in
  anyone now). &ldquo;He seeks only for peace, and only these people  * can give it him&mdash;people who recklessly hack at and strangle
  everything&mdash;Magnítski, Arakchéev, and .... You will agree
  that if you did not look after your estates yourself but only wanted a
  quiet life, the harsher your steward was the more readily your object
  might be attained,&rdquo; he said to Nicholas.
<br />
* Without faith or law.

“Well, what does that lead up to?” said Nicholas.
“Well, everything is going to ruin! Robbery in the law courts, in the army nothing but flogging, drilling, and Military Settlements; the people are tortured, enlightenment is suppressed. All that is young and honest is crushed! Everyone sees that this cannot go on. Everything is strained to such a degree that it will certainly break,” said Pierre (as those who examine the actions of any government have always said since governments began). “I told them just one thing in Petersburg.”
“Told whom?”
“Well, you know whom,” said Pierre, with a meaning glance from under his brows. “Prince Theodore and all those. To encourage culture and philanthropy is all very well of course. The aim is excellent but in the present circumstances something else is needed.”
At that moment Nicholas noticed the presence of his nephew. His face darkened and he went up to the boy.
“Why are you here?”
“Why? Let him be,” said Pierre, taking Nicholas by the arm and continuing. “That is not enough, I told them. Something else is needed. When you stand expecting the overstrained string to snap at any moment, when everyone is expecting the inevitable catastrophe, as many as possible must join hands as closely as they can to withstand the general calamity. Everything that is young and strong is being enticed away and depraved. One is lured by women, another by honors, a third by ambition or money, and they go over to that camp. No independent men, such as you or I, are left. What I say is widen the scope of our society, let the be not virtue alone but independence and action as well!”
Nicholas, who had left his nephew, irritably pushed up an armchair, sat down in it, and listened to Pierre, coughing discontentedly and frowning more and more.
“But action with what aim?” he cried. “And what position will you adopt toward the government?”
“Why, the position of assistants. The society need not be secret if the government allows it. Not merely is it not hostile to government, but it is a society of true conservatives—a society of gentlemen in the full meaning of that word. It is only to prevent some Pugachëv or other from killing my children and yours, and Arakchéev from sending me off to some Military Settlement. We join hands only for the public welfare and the general safety.”
“Yes, but it’s a secret society and therefore a hostile and harmful one which can only cause harm.”
“Why? Did the Tugendbund which saved Europe” (they did not then venture to suggest that Russia had saved Europe) “do any harm? The Tugendbund is an alliance of virtue: it is love, mutual help… it is what Christ preached on the Cross.”
Natásha, who had come in during the conversation, looked joyfully at her husband. It was not what he was saying that pleased her—that did not even interest her, for it seemed to her that was all extremely simple and that she had known it a long time (it seemed so to her because she knew that it sprang from Pierre’s whole soul), but it was his animated and enthusiastic appearance that made her glad.
The boy with the thin neck stretching out from the turn-down collar—whom everyone had forgotten—gazed at Pierre with even greater and more rapturous joy. Every word of Pierre’s burned into his heart, and with a nervous movement of his fingers he unconsciously broke the sealing wax and quill pens his hands came upon on his uncle’s table.
“It is not at all what you suppose; but that is what the German Tugendbund was, and what I am proposing.”
“No, my fwiend! The Tugendbund is all vewy well for the sausage eaters, but I don’t understand it and can’t even pwonounce it,” interposed Denísov in a loud and resolute voice. “I agwee that evewything here is wotten and howwible, but the I don’t understand. If we’re not satisfied, let us have a of our own. That’s all wight. *

* &ldquo;I&rsquo;m your man.&rdquo;

Pierre smiled, Natásha began to laugh, but Nicholas knitted his brows still more and began proving to Pierre that there was no prospect of any great change and that all the danger he spoke of existed only in his imagination. Pierre maintained the contrary, and as his mental faculties were greater and more resourceful, Nicholas felt himself cornered. This made him still angrier, for he was fully convinced, not by reasoning but by something within him stronger than reason, of the justice of his opinion.
“I will tell you this,” he said, rising and trying with nervously twitching fingers to prop up his pipe in a corner, but finally abandoning the attempt. “I can’t prove it to you. You say that everything here is rotten and that an overthrow is coming: I don’t see it. But you also say that our oath of allegiance is a conditional matter, and to that I reply: ‘You are my best friend, as you know, but if you formed a secret society and began working against the government—be it what it may—I know it is my duty to obey the government. And if Arakchéev ordered me to lead a squadron against you and cut you down, I should not hesitate an instant, but should do it.’ And you may argue about that as you like!”
An awkward silence followed these words. Natásha was the first to speak, defending her husband and attacking her brother. Her defense was weak and inapt but she attained her object. The conversation was resumed, and no longer in the unpleasantly hostile tone of Nicholas’ last remark.
When they all got up to go in to supper, little Nicholas Bolkónski went up to Pierre, pale and with shining, radiant eyes.
“Uncle Pierre, you… no… If Papa were alive… would he agree with you?” he asked.
And Pierre suddenly realized what a special, independent, complex, and powerful process of thought and feeling must have been going on in this boy during that conversation, and remembering all he had said he regretted that the lad should have heard him. He had, however, to give him an answer.
“Yes, I think so,” he said reluctantly, and left the study.
The lad looked down and seemed now for the first time to notice what he had done to the things on the table. He flushed and went up to Nicholas.
“Uncle, forgive me, I did that… unintentionally,” he said, pointing to the broken sealing wax and pens.
Nicholas started angrily.
“All right, all right,” he said, throwing the bits under the table.
And evidently suppressing his vexation with difficulty, he turned away from the boy.
“You ought not to have been here at all,” he said.

  CHAPTER XV


  The conversation at supper was not about politics or societies, but turned
  on the subject Nicholas liked best&mdash;recollections of 1812. Denísov
  started these and Pierre was particularly agreeable and amusing about
  them. The family separated on the most friendly terms.
<br />
  After supper Nicholas, having undressed in his study and given
  instructions to the steward who had been waiting for him, went to the
  bedroom in his dressing gown, where he found his wife still at her table,
  writing.
<br />
  &ldquo;What are you writing, Mary?&rdquo; Nicholas asked.
<br />
  Countess Mary blushed. She was afraid that what she was writing would not
  be understood or approved by her husband.
<br />
  She had wanted to conceal what she was writing from him, but at the same
  time was glad he had surprised her at it and that she would now have to
  tell him.
<br />
  &ldquo;A diary, Nicholas,&rdquo; she replied, handing him a blue exercise book filled
  with her firm, bold writing.
<br />
  &ldquo;A diary?&rdquo; Nicholas repeated with a shade of irony, and he took up the
  book.
<br />
  It was in French.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  December 4. Today when Andrúsha (her eldest boy) woke up he did not wish
  to dress and Mademoiselle Louise sent for me. He was naughty and
  obstinate. I tried threats, but he only grew angrier. Then I took the
  matter in hand: I left him alone and began with nurse&rsquo;s help to get the
  other children up, telling him that I did not love him. For a long time he
  was silent, as if astonished, then he jumped out of bed, ran to me in his
  shirt, and sobbed so that I could not calm him for a long time. It was
  plain that what troubled him most was that he had grieved me. Afterwards
  in the evening when I gave him his ticket, he again began crying piteously
  and kissing me. One can do anything with him by tenderness.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  &ldquo;What is a &lsquo;ticket&rsquo;?&rdquo; Nicholas inquired.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have begun giving the elder ones marks every evening, showing how they
  have behaved.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Nicholas looked into the radiant eyes that were gazing at him, and
  continued to turn over the pages and read. In the diary was set down
  everything in the children&rsquo;s lives that seemed noteworthy to their mother
  as showing their characters or suggesting general reflections on
  educational methods. They were for the most part quite insignificant
  trifles, but did not seem so to the mother or to the father either, now
  that he read this diary about his children for the first time.
<br />
  Under the date &ldquo;5&rdquo; was entered:
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  Mítya was naughty at table. Papa said he was to have no pudding. He had
  none, but looked so unhappily and greedily at the others while they were
  eating! I think that punishment by depriving children of sweets only
  develops their greediness. Must tell Nicholas this.
<br />
  Nicholas put down the book and looked at his wife. The radiant eyes gazed
  at him questioningly: would he approve or disapprove of her diary? There
  could be no doubt not only of his approval but also of his admiration for
  his wife.
<br />
  Perhaps it need not be done so pedantically, thought Nicholas, or even
  done at all, but this untiring, continual spiritual effort of which the
  sole aim was the children&rsquo;s moral welfare delighted him. Had Nicholas been
  able to analyze his feelings he would have found that his steady, tender,
  and proud love of his wife rested on his feeling of wonder at her
  spirituality and at the lofty moral world, almost beyond his reach, in
  which she had her being.
<br />
  He was proud of her intelligence and goodness, recognized his own
  insignificance beside her in the spiritual world, and rejoiced all the
  more that she with such a soul not only belonged to him but was part of
  himself.
<br />
  &ldquo;I quite, quite approve, my dearest!&rdquo; said he with a significant look, and
  after a short pause he added: &ldquo;And I behaved badly today. You weren&rsquo;t in
  the study. We began disputing&mdash;Pierre and I&mdash;and I lost my
  temper. But he is impossible: such a child! I don&rsquo;t know what would become
  of him if Natásha didn&rsquo;t keep him in hand.... Have you any idea why he
  went to Petersburg? They have formed...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I know,&rdquo; said Countess Mary. &ldquo;Natásha told me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, then, you know,&rdquo; Nicholas went on, growing hot at the mere
  recollection of their discussion, &ldquo;he wanted to convince me that it is
  every honest man&rsquo;s duty to go against the government, and that the oath of
  allegiance and duty... I am sorry you weren&rsquo;t there. They all fell on me&mdash;Denísov
  and Natásha... Natásha is absurd. How she rules over him! And yet there
  need only be a discussion and she has no words of her own but only repeats
  his sayings...&rdquo; added Nicholas, yielding to that irresistible inclination
  which tempts us to judge those nearest and dearest to us. He forgot that
  what he was saying about Natásha could have been applied word for word to
  himself in relation to his wife.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I have noticed that,&rdquo; said Countess Mary.
<br />
  &ldquo;When I told him that duty and the oath were above everything, he started
  proving goodness knows what! A pity you were not there&mdash;what would
  you have said?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;As I see it you were quite right, and I told Natásha so. Pierre says
  everybody is suffering, tortured, and being corrupted, and that it is our
  duty to help our neighbor. Of course he is right there,&rdquo; said Countess
  Mary, &ldquo;but he forgets that we have other duties nearer to us, duties
  indicated to us by God Himself, and that though we might expose ourselves
  to risks we must not risk our children.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, that&rsquo;s it! That&rsquo;s just what I said to him,&rdquo; put in Nicholas, who
  fancied he really had said it. &ldquo;But they insisted on their own view: love
  of one&rsquo;s neighbor and Christianity&mdash;and all this in the presence of
  young Nicholas, who had gone into my study and broke all my things.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah, Nicholas, do you know I am often troubled about little Nicholas,&rdquo;
   said Countess Mary. &ldquo;He is such an exceptional boy. I am afraid I neglect
  him in favor of my own: we all have children and relations while he has no
  one. He is constantly alone with his thoughts.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, I don&rsquo;t think you need reproach yourself on his account. All that
  the fondest mother could do for her son you have done and are doing for
  him, and of course I am glad of it. He is a fine lad, a fine lad! This
  evening he listened to Pierre in a sort of trance, and fancy&mdash;as we
  were going in to supper I looked and he had broken everything on my table
  to bits, and he told me of it himself at once! I never knew him to tell an
  untruth. A fine lad, a fine lad!&rdquo; repeated Nicholas, who at heart was not
  fond of Nicholas Bolkónski but was always anxious to recognize that he was
  a fine lad.
<br />
  &ldquo;Still, I am not the same as his own mother,&rdquo; said Countess Mary. &ldquo;I feel
  I am not the same and it troubles me. A wonderful boy, but I am dreadfully
  afraid for him. It would be good for him to have companions.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well it won&rsquo;t be for long. Next summer I&rsquo;ll take him to Petersburg,&rdquo; said
  Nicholas. &ldquo;Yes, Pierre always was a dreamer and always will be,&rdquo; he
  continued, returning to the talk in the study which had evidently
  disturbed him. &ldquo;Well, what business is it of mine what goes on there&mdash;whether
  Arakchéev is bad, and all that? What business was it of mine when I
  married and was so deep in debt that I was threatened with prison, and had
  a mother who could not see or understand it? And then there are you and
  the children and our affairs. Is it for my own pleasure that I am at the
  farm or in the office from morning to night? No, but I know I must work to
  comfort my mother, to repay you, and not to leave the children such
  beggars as I was.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Countess Mary wanted to tell him that man does not live by bread alone and
  that he attached too much importance to these matters. But she knew she
  must not say this and that it would be useless to do so. She only took his
  hand and kissed it. He took this as a sign of approval and a confirmation
  of his thoughts, and after a few minutes&rsquo; reflection continued to think
  aloud.
<br />
  &ldquo;You know, Mary, today Elias Mitrofánych&rdquo; (this was his overseer)
  &ldquo;came back from the Tambóv estate and told me they are already
  offering eighty thousand rubles for the forest.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And with an eager face Nicholas began to speak of the possibility of
  repurchasing Otrádnoe before long, and added: &ldquo;Another ten years of life
  and I shall leave the children... in an excellent position.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Countess Mary listened to her husband and understood all that he told her.
  She knew that when he thought aloud in this way he would sometimes ask her
  what he had been saying, and be vexed if he noticed that she had been
  thinking about something else. But she had to force herself to attend, for
  what he was saying did not interest her at all. She looked at him and did
  not think, but felt, about something different. She felt a submissive
  tender love for this man who would never understand all that she
  understood, and this seemed to make her love for him still stronger and
  added a touch of passionate tenderness. Besides this feeling which
  absorbed her altogether and hindered her from following the details of her
  husband&rsquo;s plans, thoughts that had no connection with what he was saying
  flitted through her mind. She thought of her nephew. Her husband&rsquo;s account
  of the boy&rsquo;s agitation while Pierre was speaking struck her forcibly, and
  various traits of his gentle, sensitive character recurred to her mind;
  and while thinking of her nephew she thought also of her own children. She
  did not compare them with him, but compared her feeling for them with her
  feeling for him, and felt with regret that there was something lacking in
  her feeling for young Nicholas.
<br />
  Sometimes it seemed to her that this difference arose from the difference
  in their ages, but she felt herself to blame toward him and promised in
  her heart to do better and to accomplish the impossible&mdash;in this life
  to love her husband, her children, little Nicholas, and all her neighbors,
  as Christ loved mankind. Countess Mary&rsquo;s soul always strove toward the
  infinite, the eternal, and the absolute, and could therefore never be at
  peace. A stern expression of the lofty, secret suffering of a soul
  burdened by the body appeared on her face. Nicholas gazed at her. &ldquo;O God!
  What will become of us if she dies, as I always fear when her face is like
  that?&rdquo; thought he, and placing himself before the icon he began to say his
  evening prayers.

  CHAPTER XVI


  Natásha and Pierre, left alone, also began to talk as only a husband and
  wife can talk, that is, with extraordinary clearness and rapidity,
  understanding and expressing each other&rsquo;s thoughts in ways contrary to all
  rules of logic, without premises, deductions, or conclusions, and in a
  quite peculiar way. Natásha was so used to this kind of talk with her
  husband that for her it was the surest sign of something being wrong
  between them if Pierre followed a line of logical reasoning. When he began
  proving anything, or talking argumentatively and calmly and she, led on by
  his example, began to do the same, she knew that they were on the verge of
  a quarrel.
<br />
  From the moment they were alone and Natásha came up to him with wide-open
  happy eyes, and quickly seizing his head pressed it to her bosom, saying:
  &ldquo;Now you are all mine, mine! You won&rsquo;t escape!&rdquo;&mdash;from that moment
  this conversation began, contrary to all the laws of logic and contrary to
  them because quite different subjects were talked about at one and the
  same time. This simultaneous discussion of many topics did not prevent a
  clear understanding but on the contrary was the surest sign that they
  fully understood one another.
<br />
  Just as in a dream when all is uncertain, unreasoning, and contradictory,
  except the feeling that guides the dream, so in this intercourse contrary
  to all laws of reason, the words themselves were not consecutive and clear
  but only the feeling that prompted them.
<br />
  Natásha spoke to Pierre about her brother&rsquo;s life and doings, of how she
  had suffered and lacked life during his own absence, and of how she was
  fonder than ever of Mary, and how Mary was in every way better than
  herself. In saying this Natásha was sincere in acknowledging Mary&rsquo;s
  superiority, but at the same time by saying it she made a demand on Pierre
  that he should, all the same, prefer her to Mary and to all other women,
  and that now, especially after having seen many women in Petersburg, he
  should tell her so afresh.
<br />
  Pierre, answering Natásha&rsquo;s words, told her how intolerable it had been
  for him to meet ladies at dinners and balls in Petersburg.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have quite lost the knack of talking to ladies,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;It was
  simply dull. Besides, I was very busy.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha looked intently at him and went on:
<br />
  &ldquo;Mary is so splendid,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;How she understands children! It is as
  if she saw straight into their souls. Yesterday, for instance, Mítya was
  naughty...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How like his father he is,&rdquo; Pierre interjected.
<br />
  Natásha knew why he mentioned Mítya&rsquo;s likeness to Nicholas: the
  recollection of his dispute with his brother-in-law was unpleasant and he
  wanted to know what Natásha thought of it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nicholas has the weakness of never agreeing with anything not generally
  accepted. But I understand that you value what opens up a fresh line,&rdquo;
   said she, repeating words Pierre had once uttered.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, the chief point is that to Nicholas ideas and discussions are an
  amusement&mdash;almost a pastime,&rdquo; said Pierre. &ldquo;For instance, he is
  collecting a library and has made it a rule not to buy a new book till he
  has read what he had already bought&mdash;Sismondi and Rousseau and
  Montesquieu,&rdquo; he added with a smile. &ldquo;You know how much I...&rdquo; he began to
  soften down what he had said; but Natásha interrupted him to show that
  this was unnecessary.
<br />
  &ldquo;So you say ideas are an amusement to him....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, and for me nothing else is serious. All the time in Petersburg I saw
  everyone as in a dream. When I am taken up by a thought, all else is mere
  amusement.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah, I&rsquo;m so sorry I wasn&rsquo;t there when you met the children,&rdquo; said Natásha.
  &ldquo;Which was most delighted? Lisa, I&rsquo;m sure.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; Pierre replied, and went on with what was in his mind. &ldquo;Nicholas
  says we ought not to think. But I can&rsquo;t help it. Besides, when I was in
  Petersburg I felt (I can say this to you) that the whole affair would go
  to pieces without me&mdash;everyone was pulling his own way. But I
  succeeded in uniting them all; and then my idea is so clear and simple.
  You see, I don&rsquo;t say that we ought to oppose this and that. We may be
  mistaken. What I say is: &lsquo;Join hands, you who love the right, and let
  there be but one banner&mdash;that of active virtue.&rsquo; Prince Sergéy is a
  fine fellow and clever.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Natásha would have had no doubt as to the greatness of Pierre&rsquo;s idea, but
  one thing disconcerted her. &ldquo;Can a man so important and necessary to
  society be also my husband? How did this happen?&rdquo; She wished to express
  this doubt to him. &ldquo;Now who could decide whether he is really cleverer
  than all the others?&rdquo; she asked herself, and passed in review all those
  whom Pierre most respected. Judging by what he had said there was no one
  he had respected so highly as Platón Karatáev.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you know what I am thinking about?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;About Platón Karatáev.
  Would he have approved of you now, do you think?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pierre was not at all surprised at this question. He understood his wife&rsquo;s
  line of thought.
<br />
  &ldquo;Platón Karatáev?&rdquo; he repeated, and pondered, evidently sincerely trying
  to imagine Karatáev&rsquo;s opinion on the subject. &ldquo;He would not have
  understood... yet perhaps he would.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I love you awfully!&rdquo; Natásha suddenly said. &ldquo;Awfully, awfully!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, he would not have approved,&rdquo; said Pierre, after reflection. &ldquo;What he
  would have approved of is our family life. He was always so anxious to
  find seemliness, happiness, and peace in everything, and I should have
  been proud to let him see us. There now&mdash;you talk of my absence, but
  you wouldn&rsquo;t believe what a special feeling I have for you after a
  separation....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I should think...&rdquo; Natásha began.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, it&rsquo;s not that. I never leave off loving you. And one
  couldn&rsquo;t love more, but this is something special.... Yes, of
  course&mdash;&rdquo; he did not finish because their eyes meeting said the rest.
<br />
  &ldquo;What nonsense it is,&rdquo; Natásha suddenly exclaimed, &ldquo;about honeymoons, and
  that the greatest happiness is at first! On the contrary, now is the best
  of all. If only you did not go away! Do you remember how we quarreled? And
  it was always my fault. Always mine. And what we quarreled about&mdash;I
  don&rsquo;t even remember!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Always about the same thing,&rdquo; said Pierre with a smile. &ldquo;Jealo...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t say it! I can&rsquo;t bear it!&rdquo; Natásha cried, and her eyes glittered
  coldly and vindictively. &ldquo;Did you see her?&rdquo; she added, after a pause.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, and if I had I shouldn&rsquo;t have recognized her.&rdquo;
 <br />
  They were silent for a while.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, do you know? While you were talking in the study I was looking at
  you,&rdquo; Natásha began, evidently anxious to disperse the cloud that had come
  over them. &ldquo;You are as like him as two peas&mdash;like the boy.&rdquo; (She
  meant her little son.) &ldquo;Oh, it&rsquo;s time to go to him.... The milk&rsquo;s come....
  But I&rsquo;m sorry to leave you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  They were silent for a few seconds. Then suddenly turning to one another
  at the same time they both began to speak. Pierre began with
  self-satisfaction and enthusiasm, Natásha with a quiet, happy smile.
  Having interrupted one another they both stopped to let the other
  continue.
<br />
  &ldquo;No. What did you say? Go on, go on.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, you go on, I was talking nonsense,&rdquo; said Natásha.
<br />
  Pierre finished what he had begun. It was the sequel to his complacent
  reflections on his success in Petersburg. At that moment it seemed to him
  that he was chosen to give a new direction to the whole of Russian society
  and to the whole world.
<br />
  &ldquo;I only wished to say that ideas that have great results are always simple
  ones. My whole idea is that if vicious people are united and constitute a
  power, then honest folk must do the same. Now that&rsquo;s simple enough.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And what were you going to say?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I? Only nonsense.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But all the same?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh nothing, only a trifle,&rdquo; said Natásha, smiling still more brightly.
  &ldquo;I only wanted to tell you about Pétya: today nurse was coming to take him
  from me, and he laughed, shut his eyes, and clung to me. I&rsquo;m sure he
  thought he was hiding. Awfully sweet! There, now he&rsquo;s crying. Well,
  good-by!&rdquo; and she left the room.
<br />
  <br />
<br />
  Meanwhile downstairs in young Nicholas Bolkónski&rsquo;s bedroom a little lamp
  was burning as usual. (The boy was afraid of the dark and they could not
  cure him of it.) Dessalles slept propped up on four pillows and his Roman
  nose emitted sounds of rhythmic snoring. Little Nicholas, who had just
  waked up in a cold perspiration, sat up in bed and gazed before him with
  wide-open eyes. He had awaked from a terrible dream. He had dreamed that
  he and Uncle Pierre, wearing helmets such as were depicted in his
  Plutarch, were leading a huge army. The army was made up of white slanting
  lines that filled the air like the cobwebs that float about in autumn and
  which Dessalles called . In front was Glory, which
  was similar to those threads but rather thicker. He and Pierre were borne
  along lightly and joyously, nearer and nearer to their goal. Suddenly the
  threads that moved them began to slacken and become entangled and it grew
  difficult to move. And Uncle Nicholas stood before them in a stern and
  threatening attitude.
<br />
  &ldquo;Have you done this?&rdquo; he said, pointing to some broken sealing wax and
  pens. &ldquo;I loved you, but I have orders from Arakchéev and will kill the
  first of you who moves forward.&rdquo; Little Nicholas turned to look at Pierre
  but Pierre was no longer there. In his place was his father&mdash;Prince
  Andrew&mdash;and his father had neither shape nor form, but he existed,
  and when little Nicholas perceived him he grew faint with love: he felt
  himself powerless, limp, and formless. His father caressed and pitied him.
  But Uncle Nicholas came nearer and nearer to them. Terror seized young
  Nicholas and he awoke.
<br />
  &ldquo;My father!&rdquo; he thought. (Though there were two good portraits of Prince
  Andrew in the house, Nicholas never imagined him in human form.) &ldquo;My
  father has been with me and caressed me. He approved of me and of Uncle
  Pierre. Whatever he may tell me, I will do it. Mucius Scaevola burned his
  hand. Why should not the same sort of thing happen to me? I know they want
  me to learn. And I will learn. But someday I shall have finished learning,
  and then I will do something. I only pray God that something may happen to
  me such as happened to Plutarch&rsquo;s men, and I will act as they did. I will
  do better. Everyone shall know me, love me, and be delighted with me!&rdquo; And
  suddenly his bosom heaved with sobs and he began to cry.
<br />
  &ldquo;Are you ill?&rdquo; he heard Dessalles&rsquo; voice asking.
<br />
  &ldquo;No,&rdquo; answered Nicholas, and lay back on his pillow.
<br />
  &ldquo;He is good and kind and I am fond of him!&rdquo; he thought of Dessalles. &ldquo;But
  Uncle Pierre! Oh, what a wonderful man he is! And my father? Oh, Father,
  Father! Yes, I will do something with which even  would be
  satisfied....&rdquo;

  SECOND EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER I


  History is the life of nations and of humanity. To seize and put into
  words, to describe directly the life of humanity or even of a single
  nation, appears impossible.
<br />
  The ancient historians all employed one and the same method to describe
  and seize the apparently elusive&mdash;the life of a people. They
  described the activity of individuals who ruled the people, and regarded
  the activity of those men as representing the activity of the whole
  nation.
<br />
  The question: how did individuals make nations act as they wished and by
  what was the will of these individuals themselves guided? the ancients met
  by recognizing a divinity which subjected the nations to the will of a
  chosen man, and guided the will of that chosen man so as to accomplish
  ends that were predestined.
<br />
  For the ancients these questions were solved by a belief in the direct
  participation of the Deity in human affairs.
<br />
  Modern history, in theory, rejects both these principles.
<br />
  It would seem that having rejected the belief of the ancients in man&rsquo;s
  subjection to the Deity and in a predetermined aim toward which nations
  are led, modern history should study not the manifestations of power but
  the causes that produce it. But modern history has not done this. Having
  in theory rejected the view held by the ancients, it still follows them in
  practice.
<br />
  Instead of men endowed with divine authority and directly guided by the
  will of God, modern history has given us either heroes endowed with
  extraordinary, superhuman capacities, or simply men of very various kinds,
  from monarchs to journalists, who lead the masses. Instead of the former
  divinely appointed aims of the Jewish, Greek, or Roman nations, which
  ancient historians regarded as representing the progress of humanity,
  modern history has postulated its own aims&mdash;the welfare of the
  French, German, or English people, or, in its highest abstraction, the
  welfare and civilization of humanity in general, by which is usually meant
  that of the peoples occupying a small northwesterly portion of a large
  continent.
<br />
  Modern history has rejected the beliefs of the ancients without replacing
  them by a new conception, and the logic of the situation has obliged the
  historians, after they had apparently rejected the divine authority of the
  kings and the &ldquo;fate&rdquo; of the ancients, to reach the same conclusion by
  another road, that is, to recognize (1) nations guided by individual men,
  and (2) the existence of a known aim to which these nations and humanity
  at large are tending.
<br />
  At the basis of the works of all the modern historians from Gibbon to
  Buckle, despite their seeming disagreements and the apparent novelty of
  their outlooks, lie those two old, unavoidable assumptions.
<br />
  In the first place the historian describes the activity of individuals who
  in his opinion have directed humanity (one historian considers only
  monarchs, generals, and ministers as being such men, while another
  includes also orators, learned men, reformers, philosophers, and poets).
  Secondly, it is assumed that the goal toward which humanity is being led
  is known to the historians: to one of them this goal is the greatness of
  the Roman, Spanish, or French realm; to another it is liberty, equality,
  and a certain kind of civilization of a small corner of the world called
  Europe.
<br />
  In 1789 a ferment arises in Paris; it grows, spreads, and is expressed by
  a movement of peoples from west to east. Several times it moves eastward
  and collides with a countermovement from the east westward. In 1812 it
  reaches its extreme limit, Moscow, and then, with remarkable symmetry, a
  countermovement occurs from east to west, attracting to it, as the first
  movement had done, the nations of middle Europe. The counter movement
  reaches the starting point of the first movement in the west&mdash;Paris&mdash;and
  subsides.
<br />
  During that twenty-year period an immense number of fields were left
  untilled, houses were burned, trade changed its direction, millions of men
  migrated, were impoverished, or were enriched, and millions of Christian
  men professing the law of love of their fellows slew one another.
<br />
  What does all this mean? Why did it happen? What made those people burn
  houses and slay their fellow men? What were the causes of these events?
  What force made men act so? These are the instinctive, plain, and most
  legitimate questions humanity asks itself when it encounters the monuments
  and tradition of that period.
<br />
  For a reply to these questions the common sense of mankind turns to the
  science of history, whose aim is to enable nations and humanity to know
  themselves.
<br />
  If history had retained the conception of the ancients it would have said
  that God, to reward or punish his people, gave Napoleon power and directed
  his will to the fulfillment of the divine ends, and that reply would have
  been clear and complete. One might believe or disbelieve in the divine
  significance of Napoleon, but for anyone believing in it there would have
  been nothing unintelligible in the history of that period, nor would there
  have been any contradictions.
<br />
  But modern history cannot give that reply. Science does not admit the
  conception of the ancients as to the direct participation of the Deity in
  human affairs, and therefore history ought to give other answers.
<br />
  Modern history replying to these questions says: you want to know what
  this movement means, what caused it, and what force produced these events?
  Then listen:
<br />
  &ldquo;Louis XIV was a very proud and self-confident man; he had such and such
  mistresses and such and such ministers and he ruled France badly. His
  descendants were weak men and they too ruled France badly. And they had
  such and such favorites and such and such mistresses. Moreover, certain
  men wrote some books at that time. At the end of the eighteenth century
  there were a couple of dozen men in Paris who began to talk about all men
  being free and equal. This caused people all over France to begin to slash
  at and drown one another. They killed the king and many other people. At
  that time there was in France a man of genius&mdash;Napoleon. He conquered
  everybody everywhere&mdash;that is, he killed many people because he was a
  great genius. And for some reason he went to kill Africans, and killed
  them so well and was so cunning and wise that when he returned to France
  he ordered everybody to obey him, and they all obeyed him. Having become
  an Emperor he again went out to kill people in Italy, Austria, and
  Prussia. And there too he killed a great many. In Russia there was an
  Emperor, Alexander, who decided to restore order in Europe and therefore
  fought against Napoleon. In 1807 he suddenly made friends with him, but in
  1811 they again quarreled and again began killing many people. Napoleon
  led six hundred thousand men into Russia and captured Moscow; then he
  suddenly ran away from Moscow, and the Emperor Alexander, helped by the
  advice of Stein and others, united Europe to arm against the disturber of
  its peace. All Napoleon&rsquo;s allies suddenly became his enemies and their
  forces advanced against the fresh forces he raised. The Allies defeated
  Napoleon, entered Paris, forced Napoleon to abdicate, and sent him to the
  island of Elba, not depriving him of the title of Emperor and showing him
  every respect, though five years before and one year later they all
  regarded him as an outlaw and a brigand. Then Louis XVIII, who till then
  had been the laughingstock both of the French and the Allies, began to
  reign. And Napoleon, shedding tears before his Old Guards, renounced the
  throne and went into exile. Then the skillful statesmen and diplomatists
  (especially Talleyrand, who managed to sit down in a particular chair
  before anyone else and thereby extended the frontiers of France) talked in
  Vienna and by these conversations made the nations happy or unhappy.
  Suddenly the diplomatists and monarchs nearly quarreled and were on the
  point of again ordering their armies to kill one another, but just then
  Napoleon arrived in France with a battalion, and the French, who had been
  hating him, immediately all submitted to him. But the Allied monarchs were
  angry at this and went to fight the French once more. And they defeated
  the genius Napoleon and, suddenly recognizing him as a brigand, sent him
  to the island of St. Helena. And the exile, separated from the beloved
  France so dear to his heart, died a lingering death on that rock and
  bequeathed his great deeds to posterity. But in Europe a reaction occurred
  and the sovereigns once again all began to oppress their subjects.&rdquo;
 <br />
  It would be a mistake to think that this is ironic&mdash;a caricature of
  the historical accounts. On the contrary it is a very mild expression of
  the contradictory replies, not meeting the questions, which  the
  historians give, from the compilers of memoirs and the histories of
  separate states to the writers of general histories and the new histories
  of the  of that period.
<br />
  The strangeness and absurdity of these replies arise from the fact that
  modern history, like a deaf man, answers questions no one has asked.
<br />
  If the purpose of history be to give a description of the movement of
  humanity and of the peoples, the first question&mdash;in the absence of a
  reply to which all the rest will be incomprehensible&mdash;is: what is the
  power that moves peoples? To this, modern history laboriously replies
  either that Napoleon was a great genius, or that Louis XIV was very proud,
  or that certain writers wrote certain books.
<br />
  All that may be so and mankind is ready to agree with it, but it is not
  what was asked. All  would be interesting if we recognized a divine
  power based on itself and always consistently directing its nations
  through Napoleons, Louis-es, and writers; but we do not acknowledge such a
  power, and therefore before speaking about Napoleons, Louis-es, and
  authors, we ought to be shown the connection existing between these men
  and the movement of the nations.
<br />
  If instead of a divine power some other force has appeared, it should be
  explained in what this new force consists, for the whole interest of
  history lies precisely in that force.
<br />
  History seems to assume that this force is self-evident and known to
  everyone. But in spite of every desire to regard it as known, anyone
  reading many historical works cannot help doubting whether this new force,
  so variously understood by the historians themselves, is really quite well
  known to everybody.

  CHAPTER II


  What force moves the nations?
<br />
  Biographical historians and historians of separate nations understand this
  force as a power inherent in heroes and rulers. In their narration events
  occur solely by the will of a Napoleon, and Alexander, or in general of
  the persons they describe. The answers given by this kind of historian to
  the question of what force causes events to happen are satisfactory only
  as long as there is but one historian to each event. As soon as historians
  of different nationalities and tendencies begin to describe the same
  event, the replies they give immediately lose all meaning, for this force
  is understood by them all not only differently but often in quite
  contradictory ways. One historian says that an event was produced by
  Napoleon&rsquo;s power, another that it was produced by Alexander&rsquo;s, a third
  that it was due to the power of some other person. Besides this,
  historians of that kind contradict each other even in their statement as
  to the force on which the authority of some particular person was based.
  Thiers, a Bonapartist, says that Napoleon&rsquo;s power was based on his virtue
  and genius. Lanfrey, a Republican, says it was based on his trickery and
  deception of the people. So the historians of this class, by mutually
  destroying one another&rsquo;s positions, destroy the understanding of the force
  which produces events, and furnish no reply to history&rsquo;s essential
  question.
<br />
  Writers of universal history who deal with all the nations seem to
  recognize how erroneous is the specialist historians&rsquo; view of the force
  which produces events. They do not recognize it as a power inherent in
  heroes and rulers, but as the resultant of a multiplicity of variously
  directed forces. In describing a war or the subjugation of a people, a
  general historian looks for the cause of the event not in the power of one
  man, but in the interaction of many persons connected with the event.
<br />
  According to this view the power of historical personages, represented as
  the product of many forces, can no longer, it would seem, be regarded as a
  force that itself produces events. Yet in most cases universal historians
  still employ the conception of power as a force that itself produces
  events, and treat it as their cause. In their exposition, an historic
  character is first the product of his time, and his power only the
  resultant of various forces, and then his power is itself a force
  producing events. Gervinus, Schlosser, and others, for instance, at one
  time prove Napoleon to be a product of the Revolution, of the ideas of
  1789 and so forth, and at another plainly say that the campaign of 1812
  and other things they do not like were simply the product of Napoleon&rsquo;s
  misdirected will, and that the very ideas of 1789 were arrested in their
  development by Napoleon&rsquo;s caprice. The ideas of the Revolution and the
  general temper of the age produced Napoleon&rsquo;s power. But Napoleon&rsquo;s power
  suppressed the ideas of the Revolution and the general temper of the age.
<br />
  This curious contradiction is not accidental. Not only does it occur at
  every step, but the universal historians&rsquo; accounts are all made up of a
  chain of such contradictions. This contradiction occurs because after
  entering the field of analysis the universal historians stop halfway.
<br />
  To find component forces equal to the composite or resultant force, the
  sum of the components must equal the resultant. This condition is never
  observed by the universal historians, and so to explain the resultant
  forces they are obliged to admit, in addition to the insufficient
  components, another unexplained force affecting the resultant action.
<br />
  Specialist historians describing the campaign of 1813 or the restoration
  of the Bourbons plainly assert that these events were produced by the will
  of Alexander. But the universal historian Gervinus, refuting this opinion
  of the specialist historian, tries to prove that the campaign of 1813 and
  the restoration of the Bourbons were due to other things beside
  Alexander&rsquo;s will&mdash;such as the activity of Stein, Metternich, Madame
  de Staël, Talleyrand, Fichte, Chateaubriand, and others. The historian
  evidently decomposes Alexander&rsquo;s power into the components: Talleyrand,
  Chateaubriand, and the rest&mdash;but the sum of the components, that is,
  the interactions of Chateaubriand, Talleyrand, Madame de Staël, and the
  others, evidently does not equal the resultant, namely the phenomenon of
  millions of Frenchmen submitting to the Bourbons. That Chateaubriand,
  Madame de Staël, and others spoke certain words to one another only
  affected their mutual relations but does not account for the submission of
  millions. And therefore to explain how from these relations of theirs the
  submission of millions of people resulted&mdash;that is, how component
  forces equal to one  gave a resultant equal to a thousand times
  &mdash;the historian is again obliged to fall back on power&mdash;the
  force he had denied&mdash;and to recognize it as the resultant of the forces,
  that is, he has to admit an unexplained force acting on the resultant. And
  that is just what the universal historians do, and consequently they not only
  contradict the specialist historians but contradict themselves.
<br />
  Peasants having no clear idea of the cause of rain, say, according to
  whether they want rain or fine weather: &ldquo;The wind has blown the clouds
  away,&rdquo; or, &ldquo;The wind has brought up the clouds.&rdquo; And in the same way the
  universal historians sometimes, when it pleases them and fits in with
  their theory, say that power is the result of events, and sometimes, when
  they want to prove something else, say that power produces events.
<br />
  A third class of historians&mdash;the so-called historians of culture&mdash;following
  the path laid down by the universal historians who sometimes accept
  writers and ladies as forces producing events&mdash;again take that force
  to be something quite different. They see it in what is called culture&mdash;in
  mental activity.
<br />
  The historians of culture are quite consistent in regard to their
  progenitors, the writers of universal histories, for if historical events
  may be explained by the fact that certain persons treated one another in
  such and such ways, why not explain them by the fact that such and such
  people wrote such and such books? Of the immense number of indications
  accompanying every vital phenomenon, these historians select the
  indication of intellectual activity and say that this indication is the
  cause. But despite their endeavors to prove that the cause of events lies
  in intellectual activity, only by a great stretch can one admit that there
  is any connection between intellectual activity and the movement of
  peoples, and in no case can one admit that intellectual activity controls
  people&rsquo;s actions, for that view is not confirmed by such facts as the very
  cruel murders of the French Revolution resulting from the doctrine of the
  equality of man, or the very cruel wars and executions resulting from the
  preaching of love.
<br />
  But even admitting as correct all the cunningly devised arguments with
  which these histories are filled&mdash;admitting that nations are governed
  by some undefined force called an &mdash;history&rsquo;s essential question
  still remains unanswered, and to the former power of monarchs and to the
  influence of advisers and other people introduced by the universal
  historians, another, newer force&mdash;the &mdash;is added, the
  connection of which with the masses needs explanation. It is possible to
  understand that Napoleon had power and so events occurred; with some
  effort one may even conceive that Napoleon together with other influences
  was the cause of an event; but how a book, , had the
  effect of making Frenchmen begin to drown one another cannot be understood
  without an explanation of the causal nexus of this new force with the
  event.
<br />
  Undoubtedly some relation exists between all who live contemporaneously,
  and so it is possible to find some connection between the intellectual
  activity of men and their historical movements, just as such a connection
  may be found between the movements of humanity and commerce, handicraft,
  gardening, or anything else you please. But why intellectual activity is
  considered by the historians of culture to be the cause or expression of
  the whole historical movement is hard to understand. Only the following
  considerations can have led the historians to such a conclusion: (1) that
  history is written by learned men, and so it is natural and agreeable for
  them to think that the activity of their class supplies the basis of the
  movement of all humanity, just as a similar belief is natural and
  agreeable to traders, agriculturists, and soldiers (if they do not express
  it, that is merely because traders and soldiers do not write history), and
  (2) that spiritual activity, enlightenment, civilization, culture, ideas,
  are all indistinct, indefinite conceptions under whose banner it is very
  easy to use words having a still less definite meaning, and which can
  therefore be readily introduced into any theory.
<br />
  But not to speak of the intrinsic quality of histories of this kind (which
  may possibly even be of use to someone for something) the histories of
  culture, to which all general histories tend more and more to approximate,
  are significant from the fact that after seriously and minutely examining
  various religious, philosophic, and political doctrines as causes of
  events, as soon as they have to describe an actual historic event such as
  the campaign of 1812 for instance, they involuntarily describe it as
  resulting from an exercise of power&mdash;and say plainly that that was
  the result of Napoleon&rsquo;s will. Speaking so, the historians of culture
  involuntarily contradict themselves, and show that the new force they have
  devised does not account for what happens in history, and that history can
  only be explained by introducing a power which they apparently do not
  recognize.

  CHAPTER III


  A locomotive is moving. Someone asks: &ldquo;What moves it?&rdquo; A peasant says the
  devil moves it. Another man says the locomotive moves because its wheels
  go round. A third asserts that the cause of its movement lies in the smoke
  which the wind carries away.
<br />
  The peasant is irrefutable. He has devised a complete explanation. To
  refute him someone would have to prove to him that there is no devil, or
  another peasant would have to explain to him that it is not the devil but
  a German, who moves the locomotive. Only then, as a result of the
  contradiction, will they see that they are both wrong. But the man who
  says that the movement of the wheels is the cause refutes himself, for
  having once begun to analyze he ought to go on and explain further why the
  wheels go round; and till he has reached the ultimate cause of the
  movement of the locomotive in the pressure of steam in the boiler, he has
  no right to stop in his search for the cause. The man who explains the
  movement of the locomotive by the smoke that is carried back has noticed
  that the wheels do not supply an explanation and has taken the first sign
  that occurs to him and in his turn has offered that as an explanation.
<br />
  The only conception that can explain the movement of the locomotive is
  that of a force commensurate with the movement observed.
<br />
  The only conception that can explain the movement of the peoples is that
  of some force commensurate with the whole movement of the peoples.
<br />
  Yet to supply this conception various historians take forces of different
  kinds, all of which are incommensurate with the movement observed. Some
  see it as a force directly inherent in heroes, as the peasant sees the
  devil in the locomotive; others as a force resulting from several other
  forces, like the movement of the wheels; others again as an intellectual
  influence, like the smoke that is blown away.
<br />
  So long as histories are written of separate individuals, whether Caesars,
  Alexanders, Luthers, or Voltaires, and not the histories of ,
  absolutely  those who take part in an event, it is quite impossible to
  describe the movement of humanity without the conception of a force
  compelling men to direct their activity toward a certain end. And the only
  such conception known to historians is that of power.
<br />
  This conception is the one handle by means of which the material of
  history, as at present expounded, can be dealt with, and anyone who breaks
  that handle off, as Buckle did, without finding some other method of
  treating historical material, merely deprives himself of the one possible
  way of dealing with it. The necessity of the conception of power as an
  explanation of historical events is best demonstrated by the universal
  historians and historians of culture themselves, for they professedly
  reject that conception but inevitably have recourse to it at every step.
<br />
  In dealing with humanity&rsquo;s inquiry, the science of history up to now is
  like money in circulation&mdash;paper money and coin. The biographies and
  special national histories are like paper money. They can be used and can
  circulate and fulfill their purpose without harm to anyone and even
  advantageously, as long as no one asks what is the security behind them.
  You need only forget to ask how the will of heroes produces events, and
  such histories as Thiers&rsquo; will be interesting and instructive and may
  perhaps even possess a tinge of poetry. But just as doubts of the real
  value of paper money arise either because, being easy to make, too much of
  it gets made or because people try to exchange it for gold, so also doubts
  concerning the real value of such histories arise either because too many
  of them are written or because in his simplicity of heart someone
  inquires: by what force did Napoleon do this?&mdash;that is, wants to
  exchange the current paper money for the real gold of actual
  comprehension.
<br />
  The writers of universal histories and of the history of culture are like
  people who, recognizing the defects of paper money, decide to substitute
  for it money made of metal that has not the specific gravity of gold. It
  may indeed make jingling coin, but will do no more than that. Paper money
  may deceive the ignorant, but nobody is deceived by tokens of base metal
  that have no value but merely jingle. As gold is gold only if it is
  serviceable not merely for exchange but also for use, so universal
  historians will be valuable only when they can reply to history&rsquo;s
  essential question: what is power? The universal historians give
  contradictory replies to that question, while the historians of culture
  evade it and answer something quite different. And as counters of
  imitation gold can be used only among a group of people who agree to
  accept them as gold, or among those who do not know the nature of gold, so
  universal historians and historians of culture, not answering humanity&rsquo;s
  essential question, serve as currency for some purposes of their own, only
  in universities and among the mass of readers who have a taste for what
  they call &ldquo;serious reading.&rdquo;

  CHAPTER IV


  Having abandoned the conception of the ancients as to the divine
  subjection of the will of a nation to some chosen man and the subjection
  of that man&rsquo;s will to the Deity, history cannot without contradictions
  take a single step till it has chosen one of two things: either a return
  to the former belief in the direct intervention of the Deity in human
  affairs or a definite explanation of the meaning of the force producing
  historical events and termed &ldquo;power.&rdquo;
 <br />
  A return to the first is impossible, the belief has been destroyed; and so
  it is essential to explain what is meant by power.
<br />
  Napoleon ordered an army to be raised and go to war. We are so accustomed
  to that idea and have become so used to it that the question: why did six
  hundred thousand men go to fight when Napoleon uttered certain words,
  seems to us senseless. He had the power and so what he ordered was done.
<br />
  This reply is quite satisfactory if we believe that the power was given
  him by God. But as soon as we do not admit that, it becomes essential to
  determine what is this power of one man over others.
<br />
  It cannot be the direct physical power of a strong man over a weak one&mdash;a
  domination based on the application or threat of physical force, like the
  power of Hercules; nor can it be based on the effect of moral force, as in
  their simplicity some historians think who say that the leading figures in
  history are heroes, that is, men gifted with a special strength of soul
  and mind called genius. This power cannot be based on the predominance of
  moral strength, for, not to mention heroes such as Napoleon about whose
  moral qualities opinions differ widely, history shows us that neither a
  Louis XI nor a Metternich, who ruled over millions of people, had any
  particular moral qualities, but on the contrary were generally morally
  weaker than any of the millions they ruled over.
<br />
  If the source of power lies neither in the physical nor in the moral
  qualities of him who possesses it, it must evidently be looked for
  elsewhere&mdash;in the relation to the people of the man who wields the
  power.
<br />
  And that is how power is understood by the science of jurisprudence, that
  exchange bank of history which offers to exchange history&rsquo;s understanding
  of power for true gold.
<br />
  Power is the collective will of the people transferred, by expressed or
  tacit consent, to their chosen rulers.
<br />
  In the domain of jurisprudence, which consists of discussions of how a
  state and power might be arranged were it possible for all that to be
  arranged, it is all very clear; but when applied to history that
  definition of power needs explanation.
<br />
  The science of jurisprudence regards the state and power as the ancients
  regarded fire&mdash;namely, as something existing absolutely. But for
  history, the state and power are merely phenomena, just as for modern
  physics fire is not an element but a phenomenon.
<br />
  From this fundamental difference between the view held by history and that
  held by jurisprudence, it follows that jurisprudence can tell minutely how
  in its opinion power should be constituted and what power&mdash;existing
  immutably outside time&mdash;is, but to history&rsquo;s questions about the
  meaning of the mutations of power  time it can answer nothing.
<br />
  If power be the collective will of the people transferred to their ruler,
  was Pugachëv a representative of the will of the people? If not, then why
  was Napoleon I? Why was Napoleon III a criminal when he was taken prisoner
  at Boulogne, and why, later on, were those criminals whom he arrested?
<br />
  Do palace revolutions&mdash;in which sometimes only two or three people
  take part&mdash;transfer the will of the people to a new ruler? In
  international relations, is the will of the people also transferred to
  their conqueror? Was the will of the Confederation of the Rhine
  transferred to Napoleon in 1806? Was the will of the Russian people
  transferred to Napoleon in 1809, when our army in alliance with the French
  went to fight the Austrians?
<br />
  To these questions three answers are possible:
<br />
  Either to assume (1) that the will of the people is always unconditionally
  transferred to the ruler or rulers they have chosen, and that therefore
  every emergence of a new power, every struggle against the power once
  appointed, should be absolutely regarded as an infringement of the real
  power; or (2) that the will of the people is transferred to the rulers
  conditionally, under definite and known conditions, and to show that all
  limitations, conflicts, and even destructions of power result from a
  nonobservance by the rulers of the conditions under which their power was
  entrusted to them; or (3) that the will of the people is delegated to the
  rulers conditionally, but that the conditions are unknown and indefinite,
  and that the appearance of several authorities, their struggles and their
  falls, result solely from the greater or lesser fulfillment by the rulers
  of these unknown conditions on which the will of the people is transferred
  from some people to others.
<br />
  And these are the three ways in which the historians do explain the
  relation of the people to their rulers.
<br />
  Some historians&mdash;those biographical and specialist historians already
  referred to&mdash;in their simplicity failing to understand the question
  of the meaning of power, seem to consider that the collective will of the
  people is unconditionally transferred to historical persons, and therefore
  when describing some single state they assume that particular power to be
  the one absolute and real power, and that any other force opposing this is
  not a power but a violation of power&mdash;mere violence.
<br />
  Their theory, suitable for primitive and peaceful periods of history, has
  the inconvenience&mdash;in application to complex and stormy periods in
  the life of nations during which various powers arise simultaneously and
  struggle with one another&mdash;that a Legitimist historian will prove
  that the National Convention, the Directory, and Bonaparte were mere
  infringers of the true power, while a Republican and a Bonapartist will
  prove: the one that the Convention and the other that the Empire was the
  real power, and that all the others were violations of power. Evidently
  the explanations furnished by these historians being mutually
  contradictory can only satisfy young children.
<br />
  Recognizing the falsity of this view of history, another set of historians
  say that power rests on a conditional delegation of the will of the people
  to their rulers, and that historical leaders have power only conditionally
  on carrying out the program that the will of the people has by tacit
  agreement prescribed to them. But what this program consists in these
  historians do not say, or if they do they continually contradict one
  another.
<br />
  Each historian, according to his view of what constitutes a nation&rsquo;s
  progress, looks for these conditions in the greatness, wealth, freedom, or
  enlightenment of citizens of France or some other country. But not to
  mention the historians&rsquo; contradictions as to the nature of this program&mdash;or
  even admitting that some one general program of these conditions exists&mdash;the
  facts of history almost always contradict that theory. If the conditions
  under which power is entrusted consist in the wealth, freedom, and
  enlightenment of the people, how is it that Louis XIV and Iván the
  Terrible end their reigns tranquilly, while Louis XVI and Charles I are
  executed by their people? To this question historians reply that Louis
  XIV&rsquo;s activity, contrary to the program, reacted on Louis XVI. But why did
  it not react on Louis XIV or on Louis XV&mdash;why should it react just on
  Louis XVI? And what is the time limit for such reactions? To these
  questions there are and can be no answers. Equally little does this view
  explain why for several centuries the collective will is not withdrawn
  from certain rulers and their heirs, and then suddenly during a period of
  fifty years is transferred to the Convention, to the Directory, to
  Napoleon, to Alexander, to Louis XVIII, to Napoleon again, to Charles X,
  to Louis Philippe, to a Republican government, and to Napoleon III. When
  explaining these rapid transfers of the people&rsquo;s will from one individual
  to another, especially in view of international relations, conquests, and
  alliances, the historians are obliged to admit that some of these
  transfers are not normal delegations of the people&rsquo;s will but are
  accidents dependent on cunning, on mistakes, on craft, or on the weakness
  of a diplomatist, a ruler, or a party leader. So that the greater part of
  the events of history&mdash;civil wars, revolutions, and conquests&mdash;are
  presented by these historians not as the results of free transferences of
  the people&rsquo;s will, but as results of the ill-directed will of one or more
  individuals, that is, once again, as usurpations of power. And so these
  historians also see and admit historical events which are exceptions to
  the theory.
<br />
  These historians resemble a botanist who, having noticed that some plants
  grow from seeds producing two cotyledons, should insist that all that
  grows does so by sprouting into two leaves, and that the palm, the
  mushroom, and even the oak, which blossom into full growth and no longer
  resemble two leaves, are deviations from the theory.
<br />
  Historians of the third class assume that the will of the people is
  transferred to historic personages conditionally, but that the conditions
  are unknown to us. They say that historical personages have power only
  because they fulfill the will of the people which has been delegated to
  them.
<br />
  But in that case, if the force that moves nations lies not in the historic
  leaders but in the nations themselves, what significance have those
  leaders?
<br />
  The leaders, these historians tell us, express the will of the people: the
  activity of the leaders represents the activity of the people.
<br />
  But in that case the question arises whether all the activity of the
  leaders serves as an expression of the people&rsquo;s will or only some part of
  it. If the whole activity of the leaders serves as the expression of the
  people&rsquo;s will, as some historians suppose, then all the details of the
  court scandals contained in the biographies of a Napoleon or a Catherine
  serve to express the life of the nation, which is evident nonsense; but if
  it is only some particular side of the activity of an historical leader
  which serves to express the people&rsquo;s life, as other so-called
  &ldquo;philosophical&rdquo; historians believe, then to determine which side of the
  activity of a leader expresses the nation&rsquo;s life, we have first of all to
  know in what the nation&rsquo;s life consists.
<br />
  Met by this difficulty historians of that class devise some most obscure,
  impalpable, and general abstraction which can cover all conceivable
  occurrences, and declare this abstraction to be the aim of humanity&rsquo;s
  movement. The most usual generalizations adopted by almost all the
  historians are: freedom, equality, enlightenment, progress, civilization,
  and culture. Postulating some generalization as the goal of the movement
  of humanity, the historians study the men of whom the greatest number of
  monuments have remained: kings, ministers, generals, authors, reformers,
  popes, and journalists, to the extent to which in their opinion these
  persons have promoted or hindered that abstraction. But as it is in no way
  proved that the aim of humanity does consist in freedom, equality,
  enlightenment, or civilization, and as the connection of the people with
  the rulers and enlighteners of humanity is only based on the arbitrary
  assumption that the collective will of the people is always transferred to
  the men whom we have noticed, it happens that the activity of the millions
  who migrate, burn houses, abandon agriculture, and destroy one another
  never is expressed in the account of the activity of some dozen people who
  did not burn houses, practice agriculture, or slay their fellow creatures.
<br />
  History proves this at every turn. Is the ferment of the peoples of the
  west at the end of the eighteenth century and their drive eastward
  explained by the activity of Louis XIV, XV, and XVI, their mistresses and
  ministers, and by the lives of Napoleon, Rousseau, Diderot, Beaumarchais,
  and others?
<br />
  Is the movement of the Russian people eastward to Kazán and Siberia
  expressed by details of the morbid character of Iván the Terrible and by
  his correspondence with Kúrbski?
<br />
  Is the movement of the peoples at the time of the Crusades explained by
  the life and activity of the Godfreys and the Louis-es and their ladies?
  For us that movement of the peoples from west to east, without leaders,
  with a crowd of vagrants, and with Peter the Hermit, remains
  incomprehensible. And yet more incomprehensible is the cessation of that
  movement when a rational and sacred aim for the Crusade&mdash;the
  deliverance of Jerusalem&mdash;had been clearly defined by historic
  leaders. Popes, kings, and knights incited the peoples to free the Holy
  Land; but the people did not go, for the unknown cause which had
  previously impelled them to go no longer existed. The history of the
  Godfreys and the Minnesingers can evidently not cover the life of the
  peoples. And the history of the Godfreys and the Minnesingers has remained
  the history of Godfreys and Minnesingers, but the history of the life of
  the peoples and their impulses has remained unknown.
<br />
  Still less does the history of authors and reformers explain to us the
  life of the peoples.
<br />
  The history of culture explains to us the impulses and conditions of life
  and thought of a writer or a reformer. We learn that Luther had a hot
  temper and said such and such things; we learn that Rousseau was
  suspicious and wrote such and such books; but we do not learn why after
  the Reformation the peoples massacred one another, nor why during the
  French Revolution they guillotined one another.
<br />
  If we unite both these kinds of history, as is done by the newest
  historians, we shall have the history of monarchs and writers, but not the
  history of the life of the peoples.

  CHAPTER V


  The life of the nations is not contained in the lives of a few men, for
  the connection between those men and the nations has not been found. The
  theory that this connection is based on the transference of the collective
  will of a people to certain historical personages is an hypothesis
  unconfirmed by the experience of history.
<br />
  The theory of the transference of the collective will of the people to
  historic persons may perhaps explain much in the domain of jurisprudence
  and be essential for its purposes, but in its application to history, as
  soon as revolutions, conquests, or civil wars occur&mdash;that is, as soon
  as history begins&mdash;that theory explains nothing.
<br />
  The theory seems irrefutable just because the act of transference of the
  people&rsquo;s will cannot be verified, for it never occurred.
<br />
  Whatever happens and whoever may stand at the head of affairs, the theory
  can always say that such and such a person took the lead because the
  collective will was transferred to him.
<br />
  The replies this theory gives to historical questions are like the replies
  of a man who, watching the movements of a herd of cattle and paying no
  attention to the varying quality of the pasturage in different parts of
  the field, or to the driving of the herdsman, should attribute the
  direction the herd takes to what animal happens to be at its head.
<br />
  &ldquo;The herd goes in that direction because the animal in front leads it and
  the collective will of all the other animals is vested in that leader.&rdquo;
   This is what historians of the first class say&mdash;those who assume the
  unconditional transference of the people&rsquo;s will.
<br />
  &ldquo;If the animals leading the herd change, this happens because the
  collective will of all the animals is transferred from one leader to
  another, according to whether the animal is or is not leading them in the
  direction selected by the whole herd.&rdquo; Such is the reply historians who
  assume that the collective will of the people is delegated to rulers under
  conditions which they regard as known. (With this method of observation it
  often happens that the observer, influenced by the direction he himself
  prefers, regards those as leaders who, owing to the people&rsquo;s change of
  direction, are no longer in front, but on one side, or even in the rear.)
<br />
  &ldquo;If the animals in front are continually changing and the direction of the
  whole herd is constantly altered, this is because in order to follow a
  given direction the animals transfer their will to the animals that have
  attracted our attention, and to study the movements of the herd we must
  watch the movements of all the prominent animals moving on all sides of
  the herd.&rdquo; So say the third class of historians who regard all historical
  persons, from monarchs to journalists, as the expression of their age.
<br />
  The theory of the transference of the will of the people to historic
  persons is merely a paraphrase&mdash;a restatement of the question in
  other words.
<br />
  What causes historical events? Power. What is power? Power is the
  collective will of the people transferred to one person. Under what
  condition is the will of the people delegated to one person? On condition
  that that person expresses the will of the whole people. That is, power is
  power: in other words, power is a word the meaning of which we do not
  understand.
<br />
  If the realm of human knowledge were confined to abstract reasoning, then
  having subjected to criticism the explanation of &ldquo;power&rdquo; that juridical
  science gives us, humanity would conclude that power is merely a word and
  has no real existence. But to understand phenomena man has, besides
  abstract reasoning, experience by which he verifies his reflections. And
  experience tells us that power is not merely a word but an actually
  existing phenomenon.
<br />
  Not to speak of the fact that no description of the collective activity of
  men can do without the conception of power, the existence of power is
  proved both by history and by observing contemporary events.
<br />
  Whenever an event occurs a man appears or men appear, by whose will the
  event seems to have taken place. Napoleon III issues a decree and the
  French go to Mexico. The King of Prussia and Bismarck issue decrees and an
  army enters Bohemia. Napoleon I issues a decree and an army enters Russia.
  Alexander I gives a command and the French submit to the Bourbons.
  Experience shows us that whatever event occurs it is always related to the
  will of one or of several men who have decreed it.
<br />
  The historians, in accord with the old habit of acknowledging divine
  intervention in human affairs, want to see the cause of events in the
  expression of the will of someone endowed with power, but that supposition
  is not confirmed either by reason or by experience.
<br />
  On the one side reflection shows that the expression of a man&rsquo;s will&mdash;his
  words&mdash;are only part of the general activity expressed in an event,
  as for instance in a war or a revolution, and so without assuming an
  incomprehensible, supernatural force&mdash;a miracle&mdash;one cannot
  admit that words can be the immediate cause of the movements of millions
  of men. On the other hand, even if we admitted that words could be the
  cause of events, history shows that the expression of the will of
  historical personages does not in most cases produce any effect, that is
  to say, their commands are often not executed, and sometimes the very
  opposite of what they order occurs.
<br />
  Without admitting divine intervention in the affairs of humanity we cannot
  regard &ldquo;power&rdquo; as the cause of events.
<br />
  Power, from the standpoint of experience, is merely the relation that
  exists between the expression of someone&rsquo;s will and the execution of that
  will by others.
<br />
  To explain the conditions of that relationship we must first establish a
  conception of the expression of will, referring it to man and not to the
  Deity.
<br />
  If the Deity issues a command, expresses His will, as ancient history
  tells us, the expression of that will is independent of time and is not
  caused by anything, for the Divinity is not controlled by an event. But
  speaking of commands that are the expression of the will of men acting in
  time and in relation to one another, to explain the connection of commands
  with events we must restore: (1) the condition of all that takes place:
  the continuity of movement in time both of the events and of the person
  who commands, and (2) the inevitability of the connection between the
  person commanding and those who execute his command.

  CHAPTER VI


  Only the expression of the will of the Deity, not dependent on time, can
  relate to a whole series of events occurring over a period of years or
  centuries, and only the Deity, independent of everything, can by His sole
  will determine the direction of humanity&rsquo;s movement; but man acts in time
  and himself takes part in what occurs.
<br />
  Reinstating the first condition omitted, that of time, we see that no
  command can be executed without some preceding order having been given
  rendering the execution of the last command possible.
<br />
  No command ever appears spontaneously, or itself covers a whole series of
  occurrences; but each command follows from another, and never refers to a
  whole series of events but always to one moment only of an event.
<br />
  When, for instance, we say that Napoleon ordered armies to go to war, we
  combine in one simultaneous expression a whole series of consecutive
  commands dependent one on another. Napoleon could not have commanded an
  invasion of Russia and never did so. Today he ordered such and such papers
  to be written to Vienna, to Berlin, and to Petersburg; tomorrow such and
  such decrees and orders to the army, the fleet, the commissariat, and so
  on and so on&mdash;millions of commands, which formed a whole series
  corresponding to a series of events which brought the French armies into
  Russia.
<br />
  If throughout his reign Napoleon gave commands concerning an invasion of
  England and expended on no other undertaking so much time and effort, and
  yet during his whole reign never once attempted to execute that design but
  undertook an expedition into Russia, with which country he considered it
  desirable to be in alliance (a conviction he repeatedly expressed)&mdash;this
  came about because his commands did not correspond to the course of events
  in the first case, but did so correspond in the latter.
<br />
  For an order to be certainly executed, it is necessary that a man should
  order what can be executed. But to know what can and what cannot be
  executed is impossible, not only in the case of Napoleon&rsquo;s invasion of
  Russia in which millions participated, but even in the simplest event, for
  in either case millions of obstacles may arise to prevent its execution.
  Every order executed is always one of an immense number unexecuted. All
  the impossible orders inconsistent with the course of events remain
  unexecuted. Only the possible ones get linked up with a consecutive series
  of commands corresponding to a series of events, and are executed.
<br />
  Our false conception that an event is caused by a command which precedes
  it is due to the fact that when the event has taken place and out of
  thousands of others those few commands which were consistent with that
  event have been executed, we forget about the others that were not
  executed because they could not be. Apart from that, the chief source of
  our error in this matter is due to the fact that in the historical
  accounts a whole series of innumerable, diverse, and petty events, such
  for instance as all those which led the French armies to Russia, is
  generalized into one event in accord with the result produced by that
  series of events, and corresponding with this generalization the whole
  series of commands is also generalized into a single expression of will.
<br />
  We say that Napoleon wished to invade Russia and invaded it. In reality in
  all Napoleon&rsquo;s activity we never find anything resembling an expression of
  that wish, but find a series of orders, or expressions of his will, very
  variously and indefinitely directed. Amid a long series of unexecuted
  orders of Napoleon&rsquo;s one series, for the campaign of 1812, was carried out&mdash;not
  because those orders differed in any way from the other, unexecuted orders
  but because they coincided with the course of events that led the French
  army into Russia; just as in stencil work this or that figure comes out
  not because the color was laid on from this side or in that way, but
  because it was laid on from all sides over the figure cut in the stencil.
<br />
  So that examining the relation in time of the commands to the events, we
  find that a command can never be the cause of the event, but that a
  certain definite dependence exists between the two.
<br />
  To understand in what this dependence consists it is necessary to
  reinstate another omitted condition of every command proceeding not from
  the Deity but from a man, which is, that the man who gives the command
  himself takes part in the event.
<br />
  This relation of the commander to those he commands is just what is called
  power. This relation consists in the following:
<br />
  For common action people always unite in certain combinations, in which
  regardless of the difference of the aims set for the common action, the
  relation between those taking part in it is always the same.
<br />
  Men uniting in these combinations always assume such relations toward one
  another that the larger number take a more direct share, and the smaller
  number a less direct share, in the collective action for which they have
  combined.
<br />
  Of all the combinations in which men unite for collective action one of
  the most striking and definite examples is an army.
<br />
  Every army is composed of lower grades of the service&mdash;the rank and
  file&mdash;of whom there are always the greatest number; of the next
  higher military rank&mdash;corporals and noncommissioned officers of whom
  there are fewer, and of still-higher officers of whom there are still
  fewer, and so on to the highest military command which is concentrated in
  one person.
<br />
  A military organization may be quite correctly compared to a cone, of
  which the base with the largest diameter consists of the rank and file;
  the next higher and smaller section of the cone consists of the next
  higher grades of the army, and so on to the apex, the point of which will
  represent the commander in chief.
<br />
  The soldiers, of whom there are the most, form the lower section of the
  cone and its base. The soldier himself does the stabbing, hacking,
  burning, and pillaging, and always receives orders for these actions from
  men above him; he himself never gives an order. The noncommissioned
  officers (of whom there are fewer) perform the action itself less
  frequently than the soldiers, but they already give commands. An officer
  still less often acts directly himself, but commands still more
  frequently. A general does nothing but command the troops, indicates the
  objective, and hardly ever uses a weapon himself. The commander in chief
  never takes direct part in the action itself, but only gives general
  orders concerning the movement of the mass of the troops. A similar
  relation of people to one another is seen in every combination of men for
  common activity&mdash;in agriculture, trade, and every administration.
<br />
  And so without particularly analyzing all the contiguous sections of a
  cone and of the ranks of an army, or the ranks and positions in any
  administrative or public business whatever from the lowest to the highest,
  we see a law by which men, to take associated action, combine in such
  relations that the more directly they participate in performing the action
  the less they can command and the more numerous they are, while the less
  their direct participation in the action itself, the more they command and
  the fewer of them there are; rising in this way from the lowest ranks to
  the man at the top, who takes the least direct share in the action and
  directs his activity chiefly to commanding.
<br />
  This relation of the men who command to those they command is what
  constitutes the essence of the conception called power.
<br />
  Having restored the condition of time under which all events occur, we
  find that a command is executed only when it is related to a corresponding
  series of events. Restoring the essential condition of relation between
  those who command and those who execute, we find that by the very nature
  of the case those who command take the smallest part in the action itself
  and that their activity is exclusively directed to commanding.

  CHAPTER VII


  When an event is taking place people express their opinions and wishes
  about it, and as the event results from the collective activity of many
  people, some one of the opinions or wishes expressed is sure to be
  fulfilled if but approximately. When one of the opinions expressed is
  fulfilled, that opinion gets connected with the event as a command
  preceding it.
<br />
  Men are hauling a log. Each of them expresses his opinion as to how and
  where to haul it. They haul the log away, and it happens that this is done
  as one of them said. He  it. There we have command and power in
  their primary form. The man who worked most with his hands could not think
  so much about what he was doing, or reflect on or command what would
  result from the common activity; while the man who commanded more would
  evidently work less with his hands on account of his greater verbal
  activity.
<br />
  When some larger concourse of men direct their activity to a common aim
  there is a yet sharper division of those who, because their activity is
  given to directing and commanding, take less part in the direct work.
<br />
  When a man works alone he always has a certain set of reflections which as
  it seems to him directed his past activity, justify his present activity,
  and guide him in planning his future actions. Just the same is done by a
  concourse of people, allowing those who do not take a direct part in the
  activity to devise considerations, justifications, and surmises concerning
  their collective activity.
<br />
  For reasons known or unknown to us the French began to drown and kill one
  another. And corresponding to the event its justification appears in
  people&rsquo;s belief that this was necessary for the welfare of France, for
  liberty, and for equality. People ceased to kill one another, and this
  event was accompanied by its justification in the necessity for a
  centralization of power, resistance to Europe, and so on. Men went from
  the west to the east killing their fellow men, and the event was
  accompanied by phrases about the glory of France, the baseness of England,
  and so on. History shows us that these justifications of the events have
  no common sense and are all contradictory, as in the case of killing a man
  as the result of recognizing his rights, and the killing of millions in
  Russia for the humiliation of England. But these justifications have a
  very necessary significance in their own day.
<br />
  These justifications release those who produce the events from moral
  responsibility. These temporary aims are like the broom fixed in front of
  a locomotive to clear the snow from the rails in front: they clear men&rsquo;s
  moral responsibilities from their path.
<br />
  Without such justification there would be no reply to the simplest
  question that presents itself when examining each historical event. How is
  it that millions of men commit collective crimes&mdash;make war, commit
  murder, and so on?
<br />
  With the present complex forms of political and social life in Europe can
  any event that is not prescribed, decreed, or ordered by monarchs,
  ministers, parliaments, or newspapers be imagined? Is there any collective
  action which cannot find its justification in political unity, in
  patriotism, in the balance of power, or in civilization? So that every
  event that occurs inevitably coincides with some expressed wish and,
  receiving a justification, presents itself as the result of the will of
  one man or of several men.
<br />
  In whatever direction a ship moves, the flow of the waves it cuts will
  always be noticeable ahead of it. To those on board the ship the movement
  of those waves will be the only perceptible motion.
<br />
  Only by watching closely moment by moment the movement of that flow and
  comparing it with the movement of the ship do we convince ourselves that
  every bit of it is occasioned by the forward movement of the ship, and
  that we were led into error by the fact that we ourselves were
  imperceptibly moving.
<br />
  We see the same if we watch moment by moment the movement of historical
  characters (that is, re-establish the inevitable condition of all that
  occurs&mdash;the continuity of movement in time) and do not lose sight of
  the essential connection of historical persons with the masses.
<br />
  When the ship moves in one direction there is one and the same wave ahead
  of it, when it turns frequently the wave ahead of it also turns
  frequently. But wherever it may turn there always will be the wave
  anticipating its movement.
<br />
  Whatever happens it always appears that just that event was foreseen and
  decreed. Wherever the ship may go, the rush of water which neither directs
  nor increases its movement foams ahead of it, and at a distance seems to
  us not merely to move of itself but to govern the ship&rsquo;s movement also.
<br />
  Examining only those expressions of the will of historical persons which,
  as commands, were related to events, historians have assumed that the
  events depended on those commands. But examining the events themselves and
  the connection in which the historical persons stood to the people, we
  have found that they and their orders were dependent on events. The
  incontestable proof of this deduction is that, however many commands were
  issued, the event does not take place unless there are other causes for
  it, but as soon as an event occurs&mdash;be it what it may&mdash;then out
  of all the continually expressed wishes of different people some will
  always be found which by their meaning and their time of utterance are
  related as commands to the events.
<br />
  Arriving at this conclusion we can reply directly and positively to these
  two essential questions of history:
<br />
  (1) What is power?
<br />
  (2) What force produces the movement of the nations?
<br />
  (1) Power is the relation of a given person to other individuals, in which
  the more this person expresses opinions, predictions, and justifications
  of the collective action that is performed, the less is his participation
  in that action.
<br />
  (2) The movement of nations is caused not by power, nor by intellectual
  activity, nor even by a combination of the two as historians have
  supposed, but by the activity of  the people who participate in the
  events, and who always combine in such a way that those taking the largest
  direct share in the event take on themselves the least responsibility and
  vice versa.
<br />
  Morally the wielder of power appears to cause the event; physically it is
  those who submit to the power. But as the moral activity is inconceivable
  without the physical, the cause of the event is neither in the one nor in
  the other but in the union of the two.
<br />
  Or in other words, the conception of a cause is inapplicable to the
  phenomena we are examining.
<br />
  In the last analysis we reach the circle of infinity&mdash;that final
  limit to which in every domain of thought man&rsquo;s reason arrives if it is
  not playing with the subject. Electricity produces heat, heat produces
  electricity. Atoms attract each other and atoms repel one another.
<br />
  Speaking of the interaction of heat and electricity and of atoms, we
  cannot say why this occurs, and we say that it is so because it is
  inconceivable otherwise, because it must be so and that it is a law. The
  same applies to historical events. Why war and revolution occur we do not
  know. We only know that to produce the one or the other action, people
  combine in a certain formation in which they all take part, and we say
  that this is so because it is unthinkable otherwise, or in other words
  that it is a law.

  CHAPTER VIII


  If history dealt only with external phenomena, the establishment of this
  simple and obvious law would suffice and we should have finished our
  argument. But the law of history relates to man. A particle of matter
  cannot tell us that it does not feel the law of attraction or repulsion
  and that that law is untrue, but man, who is the subject of history, says
  plainly: I am free and am therefore not subject to the law.
<br />
  The presence of the problem of man&rsquo;s free will, though unexpressed, is
  felt at every step of history.
<br />
  All seriously thinking historians have involuntarily encountered this
  question. All the contradictions and obscurities of history and the false
  path historical science has followed are due solely to the lack of a
  solution of that question.
<br />
  If the will of every man were free, that is, if each man could act as he
  pleased, all history would be a series of disconnected incidents.
<br />
  If in a thousand years even one man in a million could act freely, that
  is, as he chose, it is evident that one single free act of that man&rsquo;s in
  violation of the laws governing human action would destroy the possibility
  of the existence of any laws for the whole of humanity.
<br />
  If there be a single law governing the actions of men, free will cannot
  exist, for then man&rsquo;s will is subject to that law.
<br />
  In this contradiction lies the problem of free will, which from most
  ancient times has occupied the best human minds and from most ancient
  times has been presented in its whole tremendous significance.
<br />
  The problem is that regarding man as a subject of observation from
  whatever point of view&mdash;theological, historical, ethical, or
  philosophic&mdash;we find a general law of necessity to which he (like all
  that exists) is subject. But regarding him from within ourselves as what
  we are conscious of, we feel ourselves to be free.
<br />
  This consciousness is a source of self-cognition quite apart from and
  independent of reason. Through his reason man observes himself, but only
  through consciousness does he know himself.
<br />
  Apart from consciousness of self no observation or application of reason
  is conceivable.
<br />
  To understand, observe, and draw conclusions, man must first of all be
  conscious of himself as living. A man is only conscious of himself as a
  living being by the fact that he wills, that is, is conscious of his
  volition. But his will&mdash;which forms the essence of his life&mdash;man
  recognizes (and can but recognize) as free.
<br />
  If, observing himself, man sees that his will is always directed by one
  and the same law (whether he observes the necessity of taking food, using
  his brain, or anything else) he cannot recognize this never-varying
  direction of his will otherwise than as a limitation of it. Were it not
  free it could not be limited. A man&rsquo;s will seems to him to be limited just
  because he is not conscious of it except as free.
<br />
  You say: I am not free. But I have lifted my hand and let it fall.
  Everyone understands that this illogical reply is an irrefutable
  demonstration of freedom.
<br />
  That reply is the expression of a consciousness that is not subject to
  reason.
<br />
  If the consciousness of freedom were not a separate and independent source
  of self-consciousness it would be subject to reasoning and to experience,
  but in fact such subjection does not exist and is inconceivable.
<br />
  A series of experiments and arguments proves to every man that he, as an
  object of observation, is subject to certain laws, and man submits to them
  and never resists the laws of gravity or impermeability once he has become
  acquainted with them. But the same series of experiments and arguments
  proves to him that the complete freedom of which he is conscious in
  himself is impossible, and that his every action depends on his
  organization, his character, and the motives acting upon him; yet man
  never submits to the deductions of these experiments and arguments. Having
  learned from experiment and argument that a stone falls downwards, a man
  indubitably believes this and always expects the law that he has learned
  to be fulfilled.
<br />
  But learning just as certainly that his will is subject to laws, he does
  not and cannot believe this.
<br />
  However often experiment and reasoning may show a man that under the same
  conditions and with the same character he will do the same thing as
  before, yet when under the same conditions and with the same character he
  approaches for the thousandth time the action that always ends in the same
  way, he feels as certainly convinced as before the experiment that he can
  act as he pleases. Every man, savage or sage, however incontestably reason
  and experiment may prove to him that it is impossible to imagine two
  different courses of action in precisely the same conditions, feels that
  without this irrational conception (which constitutes the essence of
  freedom) he cannot imagine life. He feels that however impossible it may
  be, it is so, for without this conception of freedom not only would he be
  unable to understand life, but he would be unable to live for a single
  moment.
<br />
  He could not live, because all man&rsquo;s efforts, all his impulses to life,
  are only efforts to increase freedom. Wealth and poverty, fame and
  obscurity, power and subordination, strength and weakness, health and
  disease, culture and ignorance, work and leisure, repletion and hunger,
  virtue and vice, are only greater or lesser degrees of freedom.
<br />
  A man having no freedom cannot be conceived of except as deprived of life.
<br />
  If the conception of freedom appears to reason to be a senseless
  contradiction like the possibility of performing two actions at one and
  the same instant of time, or of an effect without a cause, that only
  proves that consciousness is not subject to reason.
<br />
  This unshakable, irrefutable consciousness of freedom, uncontrolled by
  experiment or argument, recognized by all thinkers and felt by everyone
  without exception, this consciousness without which no conception of man
  is possible constitutes the other side of the question.
<br />
  Man is the creation of an all-powerful, all-good, and all-seeing God. What
  is sin, the conception of which arises from the consciousness of man&rsquo;s
  freedom? That is a question for theology.
<br />
  The actions of men are subject to general immutable laws expressed in
  statistics. What is man&rsquo;s responsibility to society, the conception of
  which results from the conception of freedom? That is a question for
  jurisprudence.
<br />
  Man&rsquo;s actions proceed from his innate character and the motives acting
  upon him. What is conscience and the perception of right and wrong in
  actions that follows from the consciousness of freedom? That is a question
  for ethics.
<br />
  Man in connection with the general life of humanity appears subject to
  laws which determine that life. But the same man apart from that
  connection appears to be free. How should the past life of nations and of
  humanity be regarded&mdash;as the result of the free, or as the result of
  the constrained, activity of man? That is a question for history.
<br />
  Only in our self-confident day of the popularization of knowledge&mdash;thanks
  to that most powerful engine of ignorance, the diffusion of printed matter&mdash;has
  the question of the freedom of will been put on a level on which the
  question itself cannot exist. In our time the majority of so-called
  advanced people&mdash;that is, the crowd of ignoramuses&mdash;have taken
  the work of the naturalists who deal with one side of the question for a
  solution of the whole problem.
<br />
  They say and write and print that the soul and freedom do not exist, for
  the life of man is expressed by muscular movements and muscular movements
  are conditioned by the activity of the nerves; the soul and free will do
  not exist because at an unknown period of time we sprang from the apes.
  They say this, not at all suspecting that thousands of years ago that same
  law of necessity which with such ardor they are now trying to prove by
  physiology and comparative zoology was not merely acknowledged by all the
  religions and all the thinkers, but has never been denied. They do not see
  that the role of the natural sciences in this matter is merely to serve as
  an instrument for the illumination of one side of it. For the fact that,
  from the point of view of observation, reason and the will are merely
  secretions of the brain, and that man following the general law may have
  developed from lower animals at some unknown period of time, only explains
  from a fresh side the truth admitted thousands of years ago by all the
  religious and philosophic theories&mdash;that from the point of view of
  reason man is subject to the law of necessity; but it does not advance by
  a hair&rsquo;s breadth the solution of the question, which has another,
  opposite, side, based on the consciousness of freedom.
<br />
  If men descended from the apes at an unknown period of time, that is as
  comprehensible as that they were made from a handful of earth at a certain
  period of time (in the first case the unknown quantity is the time, in the
  second case it is the origin); and the question of how man&rsquo;s consciousness
  of freedom is to be reconciled with the law of necessity to which he is
  subject cannot be solved by comparative physiology and zoology, for in a
  frog, a rabbit, or an ape, we can observe only the muscular nervous
  activity, but in man we observe consciousness as well as the muscular and
  nervous activity.
<br />
  The naturalists and their followers, thinking they can solve this
  question, are like plasterers set to plaster one side of the walls of a
  church who, availing themselves of the absence of the chief superintendent
  of the work, should in an access of zeal plaster over the windows, icons,
  woodwork, and still unbuttressed walls, and should be delighted that from
  their point of view as plasterers, everything is now so smooth and
  regular.

  CHAPTER IX


  For the solution of the question of free will or inevitability, history
  has this advantage over other branches of knowledge in which the question
  is dealt with, that for history this question does not refer to the
  essence of man&rsquo;s free will but its manifestation in the past and under
  certain conditions.
<br />
  In regard to this question, history stands to the other sciences as
  experimental science stands to abstract science.
<br />
  The subject for history is not man&rsquo;s will itself but our presentation of
  it.
<br />
  And so for history, the insoluble mystery presented by the incompatibility
  of free will and inevitability does not exist as it does for theology,
  ethics, and philosophy. History surveys a presentation of man&rsquo;s life in
  which the union of these two contradictions has already taken place.
<br />
  In actual life each historic event, each human action, is very clearly and
  definitely understood without any sense of contradiction, although each
  event presents itself as partly free and partly compulsory.
<br />
  To solve the question of how freedom and necessity are combined and what
  constitutes the essence of these two conceptions, the philosophy of
  history can and should follow a path contrary to that taken by other
  sciences. Instead of first defining the conceptions of freedom and
  inevitability in themselves, and then ranging the phenomena of life under
  those definitions, history should deduce a definition of the conception of
  freedom and inevitability themselves from the immense quantity of
  phenomena of which it is cognizant and that always appear dependent on
  these two elements.
<br />
  Whatever presentation of the activity of many men or of an individual we
  may consider, we always regard it as the result partly of man&rsquo;s free will
  and partly of the law of inevitability.
<br />
  Whether we speak of the migration of the peoples and the incursions of the
  barbarians, or of the decrees of Napoleon III, or of someone&rsquo;s action an
  hour ago in choosing one direction out of several for his walk, we are
  unconscious of any contradiction. The degree of freedom and inevitability
  governing the actions of these people is clearly defined for us.
<br />
  Our conception of the degree of freedom often varies according to
  differences in the point of view from which we regard the event, but every
  human action appears to us as a certain combination of freedom and
  inevitability. In every action we examine we see a certain measure of
  freedom and a certain measure of inevitability. And always the more
  freedom we see in any action the less inevitability do we perceive, and
  the more inevitability the less freedom.
<br />
  The proportion of freedom to inevitability decreases and increases
  according to the point of view from which the action is regarded, but
  their relation is always one of inverse proportion.
<br />
  A sinking man who clutches at another and drowns him; or a hungry mother
  exhausted by feeding her baby, who steals some food; or a man trained to
  discipline who on duty at the word of command kills a defenseless man&mdash;seem
  less guilty, that is, less free and more subject to the law of necessity,
  to one who knows the circumstances in which these people were placed, and
  more free to one who does not know that the man was himself drowning, that
  the mother was hungry, that the soldier was in the ranks, and so on.
  Similarly a man who committed a murder twenty years ago and has since
  lived peaceably and harmlessly in society seems less guilty and his action
  more due to the law of inevitability, to someone who considers his action
  after twenty years have elapsed than to one who examined it the day after
  it was committed. And in the same way every action of an insane,
  intoxicated, or highly excited man appears less free and more inevitable
  to one who knows the mental condition of him who committed the action, and
  seems more free and less inevitable to one who does not know it. In all
  these cases the conception of freedom is increased or diminished and the
  conception of compulsion is correspondingly decreased or increased,
  according to the point of view from which the action is regarded. So that
  the greater the conception of necessity the smaller the conception of
  freedom and vice versa.
<br />
  Religion, the common sense of mankind, the science of jurisprudence, and
  history itself understand alike this relation between necessity and
  freedom.
<br />
  All cases without exception in which our conception of freedom and
  necessity is increased and diminished depend on three considerations:
<br />
  (1) The relation to the external world of the man who commits the deeds.
<br />
  (2) His relation to time.
<br />
  (3) His relation to the causes leading to the action.
<br />
  The first consideration is the clearness of our perception of the man&rsquo;s
  relation to the external world and the greater or lesser clearness of our
  understanding of the definite position occupied by the man in relation to
  everything coexisting with him. This is what makes it evident that a
  drowning man is less free and more subject to necessity than one standing
  on dry ground, and that makes the actions of a man closely connected with
  others in a thickly populated district, or of one bound by family,
  official, or business duties, seem certainly less free and more subject to
  necessity than those of a man living in solitude and seclusion.
<br />
  If we consider a man alone, apart from his relation to everything around
  him, each action of his seems to us free. But if we see his relation to
  anything around him, if we see his connection with anything whatever&mdash;with
  a man who speaks to him, a book he reads, the work on which he is engaged,
  even with the air he breathes or the light that falls on the things about
  him&mdash;we see that each of these circumstances has an influence on him
  and controls at least some side of his activity. And the more we perceive
  of these influences the more our conception of his freedom diminishes and
  the more our conception of the necessity that weighs on him increases.
<br />
  The second consideration is the more or less evident time relation of the
  man to the world and the clearness of our perception of the place the
  man&rsquo;s action occupies in time. That is the ground which makes the fall of
  the first man, resulting in the production of the human race, appear
  evidently less free than a man&rsquo;s entry into marriage today. It is the
  reason why the life and activity of people who lived centuries ago and are
  connected with me in time cannot seem to me as free as the life of a
  contemporary, the consequences of which are still unknown to me.
<br />
  The degree of our conception of freedom or inevitability depends in this
  respect on the greater or lesser lapse of time between the performance of
  the action and our judgment of it.
<br />
  If I examine an act I performed a moment ago in approximately the same
  circumstances as those I am in now, my action appears to me undoubtedly
  free. But if I examine an act performed a month ago, then being in
  different circumstances, I cannot help recognizing that if that act had
  not been committed much that resulted from it&mdash;good, agreeable, and
  even essential&mdash;would not have taken place. If I reflect on an action
  still more remote, ten years ago or more, then the consequences of my
  action are still plainer to me and I find it hard to imagine what would
  have happened had that action not been performed. The farther I go back in
  memory, or what is the same thing the farther I go forward in my judgment,
  the more doubtful becomes my belief in the freedom of my action.
<br />
  In history we find a very similar progress of conviction concerning the
  part played by free will in the general affairs of humanity. A
  contemporary event seems to us to be indubitably the doing of all the
  known participants, but with a more remote event we already see its
  inevitable results which prevent our considering anything else possible.
  And the farther we go back in examining events the less arbitrary do they
  appear.
<br />
  The Austro-Prussian war appears to us undoubtedly the result of the crafty
  conduct of Bismarck, and so on. The Napoleonic wars still seem to us,
  though already questionably, to be the outcome of their heroes&rsquo; will. But
  in the Crusades we already see an event occupying its definite place in
  history and without which we cannot imagine the modern history of Europe,
  though to the chroniclers of the Crusades that event appeared as merely
  due to the will of certain people. In regard to the migration of the
  peoples it does not enter anyone&rsquo;s head today to suppose that the
  renovation of the European world depended on Attila&rsquo;s caprice. The farther
  back in history the object of our observation lies, the more doubtful does
  the free will of those concerned in the event become and the more manifest
  the law of inevitability.
<br />
  The third consideration is the degree to which we apprehend that endless
  chain of causation inevitably demanded by reason, in which each phenomenon
  comprehended, and therefore man&rsquo;s every action, must have its definite
  place as a result of what has gone before and as a cause of what will
  follow.
<br />
  The better we are acquainted with the physiological, psychological, and
  historical laws deduced by observation and by which man is controlled, and
  the more correctly we perceive the physiological, psychological, and
  historical causes of the action, and the simpler the action we are
  observing and the less complex the character and mind of the man in
  question, the more subject to inevitability and the less free do our
  actions and those of others appear.
<br />
  When we do not at all understand the cause of an action, whether a crime,
  a good action, or even one that is simply nonmoral, we ascribe a greater
  amount of freedom to it. In the case of a crime we most urgently demand
  the punishment for such an act; in the case of a virtuous act we rate its
  merit most highly. In an indifferent case we recognize in it more
  individuality, originality, and independence. But if even one of the
  innumerable causes of the act is known to us we recognize a certain
  element of necessity and are less insistent on punishment for the crime,
  or the acknowledgment of the merit of the virtuous act, or the freedom of
  the apparently original action. That a criminal was reared among
  malefactors mitigates his fault in our eyes. The self-sacrifice of a father or
  mother, or self-sacrifice with the possibility of a reward, is more
  comprehensible than gratuitous self-sacrifice, and therefore seems less
  deserving of sympathy and less the result of free will. The founder of a
  sect or party, or an inventor, impresses us less when we know how or by
  what the way was prepared for his activity. If we have a large range of
  examples, if our observation is constantly directed to seeking the
  correlation of cause and effect in people&rsquo;s actions, their actions appear
  to us more under compulsion and less free the more correctly we connect
  the effects with the causes. If we examined simple actions and had a vast
  number of such actions under observation, our conception of their
  inevitability would be still greater. The dishonest conduct of the son of
  a dishonest father, the misconduct of a woman who had fallen into bad
  company, a drunkard&rsquo;s relapse into drunkenness, and so on are actions that
  seem to us less free the better we understand their cause. If the man
  whose actions we are considering is on a very low stage of mental
  development, like a child, a madman, or a simpleton&mdash;then, knowing
  the causes of the act and the simplicity of the character and intelligence
  in question, we see so large an element of necessity and so little free
  will that as soon as we know the cause prompting the action we can
  foretell the result.
<br />
  On these three considerations alone is based the conception of
  irresponsibility for crimes and the extenuating circumstances admitted by
  all legislative codes. The responsibility appears greater or less
  according to our greater or lesser knowledge of the circumstances in which
  the man was placed whose action is being judged, and according to the
  greater or lesser interval of time between the commission of the action
  and its investigation, and according to the greater or lesser
  understanding of the causes that led to the action.

  CHAPTER X


  Thus our conception of free will and inevitability gradually diminishes or
  increases according to the greater or lesser connection with the external
  world, the greater or lesser remoteness of time, and the greater or lesser
  dependence on the causes in relation to which we contemplate a man&rsquo;s life.
<br />
  So that if we examine the case of a man whose connection with the external
  world is well known, where the time between the action and its examination
  is great, and where the causes of the action are most accessible, we get
  the conception of a maximum of inevitability and a minimum of free will.
  If we examine a man little dependent on external conditions, whose action
  was performed very recently, and the causes of whose action are beyond our
  ken, we get the conception of a minimum of inevitability and a maximum of
  freedom.
<br />
  In neither case&mdash;however we may change our point of view, however
  plain we may make to ourselves the connection between the man and the
  external world, however inaccessible it may be to us, however long or
  short the period of time, however intelligible or incomprehensible the
  causes of the action may be&mdash;can we ever conceive either complete
  freedom or complete necessity.
<br />
  (1) To whatever degree we may imagine a man to be exempt from the
  influence of the external world, we never get a conception of freedom in
  space. Every human action is inevitably conditioned by what surrounds him
  and by his own body. I lift my arm and let it fall. My action seems to me
  free; but asking myself whether I could raise my arm in every direction, I
  see that I raised it in the direction in which there was least obstruction
  to that action either from things around me or from the construction of my
  own body. I chose one out of all the possible directions because in it
  there were fewest obstacles. For my action to be free it was necessary
  that it should encounter no obstacles. To conceive of a man being free we
  must imagine him outside space, which is evidently impossible.
<br />
  (2) However much we approximate the time of judgment to the time of the
  deed, we never get a conception of freedom in time. For if I examine an
  action committed a second ago I must still recognize it as not being free,
  for it is irrevocably linked to the moment at which it was committed. Can
  I lift my arm? I lift it, but ask myself: could I have abstained from
  lifting my arm at the moment that has already passed? To convince myself
  of this I do not lift it the next moment. But I am not now abstaining from
  doing so at the first moment when I asked the question. Time has gone by
  which I could not detain, the arm I then lifted is no longer the same as
  the arm I now refrain from lifting, nor is the air in which I lifted it
  the same that now surrounds me. The moment in which the first movement was
  made is irrevocable, and at that moment I could make only one movement,
  and whatever movement I made would be the only one. That I did not lift my
  arm a moment later does not prove that I could have abstained from lifting
  it then. And since I could make only one movement at that single moment of
  time, it could not have been any other. To imagine it as free, it is
  necessary to imagine it in the present, on the boundary between the past
  and the future&mdash;that is, outside time, which is impossible.
<br />
  (3) However much the difficulty of understanding the causes may be
  increased, we never reach a conception of complete freedom, that is, an
  absence of cause. However inaccessible to us may be the cause of the
  expression of will in any action, our own or another&rsquo;s, the first demand
  of reason is the assumption of and search for a cause, for without a cause
  no phenomenon is conceivable. I raise my arm to perform an action
  independently of any cause, but my wish to perform an action without a
  cause is the cause of my action.
<br />
  But even if&mdash;imagining a man quite exempt from all influences,
  examining only his momentary action in the present, unevoked by any cause&mdash;we
  were to admit so infinitely small a remainder of inevitability as equaled
  zero, we should even then not have arrived at the conception of complete
  freedom in man, for a being uninfluenced by the external world, standing
  outside of time and independent of cause, is no longer a man.
<br />
  In the same way we can never imagine the action of a man quite devoid of
  freedom and entirely subject to the law of inevitability.
<br />
  (1) However we may increase our knowledge of the conditions of space in
  which man is situated, that knowledge can never be complete, for the
  number of those conditions is as infinite as the infinity of space. And
  therefore so long as not  the conditions influencing men are defined,
  there is no complete inevitability but a certain measure of freedom
  remains.
<br />
  (2) However we may prolong the period of time between the action we are
  examining and the judgment upon it, that period will be finite, while time
  is infinite, and so in this respect too there can never be absolute
  inevitability.
<br />
  (3) However accessible may be the chain of causation of any action, we
  shall never know the whole chain since it is endless, and so again we
  never reach absolute inevitability.
<br />
  But besides this, even if, admitting the remaining minimum of freedom to
  equal zero, we assumed in some given case&mdash;as for instance in that of
  a dying man, an unborn babe, or an idiot&mdash;complete absence of
  freedom, by so doing we should destroy the very conception of man in the
  case we are examining, for as soon as there is no freedom there is also no
  man. And so the conception of the action of a man subject solely to the
  law of inevitability without any element of freedom is just as impossible
  as the conception of a man&rsquo;s completely free action.
<br />
  And so to imagine the action of a man entirely subject to the law of
  inevitability without any freedom, we must assume the knowledge of an
   number of space relations, an  long
  period of time, and an  series of causes.
<br />
  To imagine a man perfectly free and not subject to the law of
  inevitability, we must imagine him all alone, 
  and 
<br />
  In the first case, if inevitability were possible without freedom we
  should have reached a definition of inevitability by the laws of
  inevitability itself, that is, a mere form without content.
<br />
  In the second case, if freedom were possible without inevitability we
  should have arrived at unconditioned freedom beyond space, time, and
  cause, which by the fact of its being unconditioned and unlimited would be
  nothing, or mere content without form.
<br />
  We should in fact have reached those two fundamentals of which man&rsquo;s whole
  outlook on the universe is constructed&mdash;the incomprehensible essence
  of life, and the laws defining that essence.
<br />
  Reason says: (1) space with all the forms of matter that give it
  visibility is infinite, and cannot be imagined otherwise. (2) Time is
  infinite motion without a moment of rest and is unthinkable otherwise. (3)
  The connection between cause and effect has no beginning and can have no
  end.
<br />
  Consciousness says: (1) I alone am, and all that exists is but me,
  consequently I include space. (2) I measure flowing time by the fixed
  moment of the present in which alone I am conscious of myself as living,
  consequently I am outside time. (3) I am beyond cause, for I feel myself
  to be the cause of every manifestation of my life.
<br />
  Reason gives expression to the laws of inevitability. Consciousness gives
  expression to the essence of freedom.
<br />
  Freedom not limited by anything is the essence of life, in man&rsquo;s
  consciousness. Inevitability without content is man&rsquo;s reason in its three
  forms.
<br />
  Freedom is the thing examined. Inevitability is what examines. Freedom is
  the content. Inevitability is the form.
<br />
  Only by separating the two sources of cognition, related to one another as
  form to content, do we get the mutually exclusive and separately
  incomprehensible conceptions of freedom and inevitability.
<br />
  Only by uniting them do we get a clear conception of man&rsquo;s life.
<br />
  Apart from these two concepts which in their union mutually define one
  another as form and content, no conception of life is possible.
<br />
  All that we know of the life of man is merely a certain relation of free
  will to inevitability, that is, of consciousness to the laws of reason.
<br />
  All that we know of the external world of nature is only a certain
  relation of the forces of nature to inevitability, or of the essence of
  life to the laws of reason.
<br />
  The great natural forces lie outside us and we are not conscious of them;
  we call those forces gravitation, inertia, electricity, animal force, and
  so on, but we are conscious of the force of life in man and we call that
  freedom.
<br />
  But just as the force of gravitation, incomprehensible in itself but felt
  by every man, is understood by us only to the extent to which we know the
  laws of inevitability to which it is subject (from the first knowledge
  that all bodies have weight, up to Newton&rsquo;s law), so too the force of free
  will, incomprehensible in itself but of which everyone is conscious, is
  intelligible to us only in as far as we know the laws of inevitability to
  which it is subject (from the fact that every man dies, up to the
  knowledge of the most complex economic and historic laws).
<br />
  All knowledge is merely a bringing of this essence of life under the laws
  of reason.
<br />
  Man&rsquo;s free will differs from every other force in that man is directly
  conscious of it, but in the eyes of reason it in no way differs from any
  other force. The forces of gravitation, electricity, or chemical affinity
  are only distinguished from one another in that they are differently
  defined by reason. Just so the force of man&rsquo;s free will is distinguished
  by reason from the other forces of nature only by the definition reason
  gives it. Freedom, apart from necessity, that is, apart from the laws of
  reason that define it, differs in no way from gravitation, or heat, or the
  force that makes things grow; for reason, it is only a momentary
  undefinable sensation of life.
<br />
  And as the undefinable essence of the force moving the heavenly bodies,
  the undefinable essence of the forces of heat and electricity, or of
  chemical affinity, or of the vital force, forms the content of astronomy,
  physics, chemistry, botany, zoology, and so on, just in the same way does
  the force of free will form the content of history. But just as the
  subject of every science is the manifestation of this unknown essence of
  life while that essence itself can only be the subject of metaphysics,
  even the manifestation of the force of free will in human beings in space,
  in time, and in dependence on cause forms the subject of history, while
  free will itself is the subject of metaphysics.
<br />
  In the experimental sciences what we know we call the laws of
  inevitability, what is unknown to us we call vital force. Vital force is
  only an expression for the unknown remainder over and above what we know
  of the essence of life.
<br />
  So also in history what is known to us we call laws of inevitability, what
  is unknown we call free will. Free will is for history only an expression
  for the unknown remainder of what we know about the laws of human life.

  CHAPTER XI


  History examines the manifestations of man&rsquo;s free will in connection with
  the external world in time and in dependence on cause, that is, it defines
  this freedom by the laws of reason, and so history is a science only in so
  far as this free will is defined by those laws.
<br />
  The recognition of man&rsquo;s free will as something capable of influencing
  historical events, that is, as not subject to laws, is the same for
  history as the recognition of a free force moving the heavenly bodies
  would be for astronomy.
<br />
  That assumption would destroy the possibility of the existence of laws,
  that is, of any science whatever. If there is even a single body moving
  freely, then the laws of Kepler and Newton are negatived and no conception
  of the movement of the heavenly bodies any longer exists. If any single
  action is due to free will, then not a single historical law can exist,
  nor any conception of historical events.
<br />
  For history, lines exist of the movement of human wills, one end of which
  is hidden in the unknown but at the other end of which a consciousness of
  man&rsquo;s will in the present moves in space, time, and dependence on cause.
<br />
  The more this field of motion spreads out before our eyes, the more
  evident are the laws of that movement. To discover and define those laws
  is the problem of history.
<br />
  From the standpoint from which the science of history now regards its
  subject on the path it now follows, seeking the causes of events in man&rsquo;s
  free will, a scientific enunciation of those laws is impossible, for
  however man&rsquo;s free will may be restricted, as soon as we recognize it as a
  force not subject to law, the existence of law becomes impossible.
<br />
  Only by reducing this element of free will to the infinitesimal, that is,
  by regarding it as an infinitely small quantity, can we convince ourselves
  of the absolute inaccessibility of the causes, and then instead of seeking
  causes, history will take the discovery of laws as its problem.
<br />
  The search for these laws has long been begun and the new methods of
  thought which history must adopt are being worked out simultaneously with
  the self-destruction toward which&mdash;ever dissecting and dissecting the
  causes of phenomena&mdash;the old method of history is moving.
<br />
  All human sciences have traveled along that path. Arriving at
  infinitesimals, mathematics, the most exact of sciences, abandons the
  process of analysis and enters on the new process of the integration of
  unknown, infinitely small, quantities. Abandoning the conception of cause,
  mathematics seeks law, that is, the property common to all unknown,
  infinitely small, elements.
<br />
  In another form but along the same path of reflection the other sciences
  have proceeded. When Newton enunciated the law of gravity he did not say
  that the sun or the earth had a property of attraction; he said that all
  bodies from the largest to the smallest have the property of attracting
  one another, that is, leaving aside the question of the cause of the
  movement of the bodies, he expressed the property common to all bodies
  from the infinitely large to the infinitely small. The same is done by the
  natural sciences: leaving aside the question of cause, they seek for laws.
  History stands on the same path. And if history has for its object the
  study of the movement of the nations and of humanity and not the narration
  of episodes in the lives of individuals, it too, setting aside the
  conception of cause, should seek the laws common to all the inseparably
  interconnected infinitesimal elements of free will.

  CHAPTER XII


  From the time the law of Copernicus was discovered and proved, the mere
  recognition of the fact that it was not the sun but the earth that moves
  sufficed to destroy the whole cosmography of the ancients. By disproving
  that law it might have been possible to retain the old conception of the
  movements of the bodies, but without disproving it, it would seem
  impossible to continue studying the Ptolemaic worlds. But even after the
  discovery of the law of Copernicus the Ptolemaic worlds were still studied
  for a long time.
<br />
  From the time the first person said and proved that the number of births
  or of crimes is subject to mathematical laws, and that this or that mode
  of government is determined by certain geographical and economic
  conditions, and that certain relations of population to soil produce
  migrations of peoples, the foundations on which history had been built
  were destroyed in their essence.
<br />
  By refuting these new laws the former view of history might have been
  retained; but without refuting them it would seem impossible to continue
  studying historic events as the results of man&rsquo;s free will. For if a
  certain mode of government was established or certain migrations of
  peoples took place in consequence of such and such geographic,
  ethnographic, or economic conditions, then the free will of those
  individuals who appear to us to have established that mode of government
  or occasioned the migrations can no longer be regarded as the cause.
<br />
  And yet the former history continues to be studied side by side with the
  laws of statistics, geography, political economy, comparative philology,
  and geology, which directly contradict its assumptions.
<br />
  The struggle between the old views and the new was long and stubbornly
  fought out in physical philosophy. Theology stood on guard for the old
  views and accused the new of violating revelation. But when truth
  conquered, theology established itself just as firmly on the new
  foundation.
<br />
  Just as prolonged and stubborn is the struggle now proceeding between the
  old and the new conception of history, and theology in the same way stands
  on guard for the old view, and accuses the new view of subverting
  revelation.
<br />
  In the one case as in the other, on both sides the struggle provokes
  passion and stifles truth. On the one hand there is fear and regret for
  the loss of the whole edifice constructed through the ages, on the other
  is the passion for destruction.
<br />
  To the men who fought against the rising truths of physical philosophy, it
  seemed that if they admitted that truth it would destroy faith in God, in
  the creation of the firmament, and in the miracle of Joshua the son of
  Nun. To the defenders of the laws of Copernicus and Newton, to Voltaire
  for example, it seemed that the laws of astronomy destroyed religion, and
  he utilized the law of gravitation as a weapon against religion.
<br />
  Just so it now seems as if we have only to admit the law of inevitability,
  to destroy the conception of the soul, of good and evil, and all the
  institutions of state and church that have been built up on those
  conceptions.
<br />
  So too, like Voltaire in his time, uninvited defenders of the law of
  inevitability today use that law as a weapon against religion, though the
  law of inevitability in history, like the law of Copernicus in astronomy,
  far from destroying, even strengthens the foundation on which the
  institutions of state and church are erected.
<br />
  As in the question of astronomy then, so in the question of history now,
  the whole difference of opinion is based on the recognition or
  nonrecognition of something absolute, serving as the measure of visible
  phenomena. In astronomy it was the immovability of the earth, in history
  it is the independence of personality&mdash;free will.
<br />
  As with astronomy the difficulty of recognizing the motion of the earth
  lay in abandoning the immediate sensation of the earth&rsquo;s fixity and of the
  motion of the planets, so in history the difficulty of recognizing the
  subjection of personality to the laws of space, time, and cause lies in
  renouncing the direct feeling of the independence of one&rsquo;s own
  personality. But as in astronomy the new view said: &ldquo;It is true that we do
  not feel the movement of the earth, but by admitting its immobility we
  arrive at absurdity, while by admitting its motion (which we do not feel)
  we arrive at laws,&rdquo; so also in history the new view says: &ldquo;It is true that
  we are not conscious of our dependence, but by admitting our free will we
  arrive at absurdity, while by admitting our dependence on the external
  world, on time, and on cause, we arrive at laws.&rdquo;
 <br />
  In the first case it was necessary to renounce the consciousness of an
  unreal immobility in space and to recognize a motion we did not feel; in
  the present case it is similarly necessary to renounce a freedom that does
  not exist, and to recognize a dependence of which we are not conscious.

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By Leo Tolstoy/Tolstoi

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