 LIBRARY OF THE FUTURE (R) First Edition Ver. 4.02 
 War and Peace                                                    Tolstoy Leo           

                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                      1869                                  
                                                                            
                                 WAR AND PEACE                              
                                                                            
                                 by Leo Tolstoy                             
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
 Electronically Enhanced Text (c) Copyright 1991, World Library, Inc.       
                                                                            
BK1                                                                         
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                 BOOK ONE: 1805                             
                                                                            
BK1|CH1                                                                     
  CHAPTER I                                                                 
-                                                                           
  "Well, Prince, so Genoa and Lucca are now just family estates of the      
Buonapartes. But I warn you, if you don't tell me that this means war,      
if you still try to defend the infamies and horrors perpetrated by          
that Antichrist- I really believe he is Antichrist- I will have             
nothing more to do with you and you are no longer my friend, no longer      
my 'faithful slave,' as you call yourself! But how do you do? I see         
I have frightened you- sit down and tell me all the news."                  
  It was in July, 1805, and the speaker was the well-known Anna             
Pavlovna Scherer, maid of honor and favorite of the Empress Marya           
Fedorovna. With these words she greeted Prince Vasili Kuragin, a man        
of high rank and importance, who was the first to arrive at her             
reception. Anna Pavlovna had had a cough for some days. She was, as         
she said, suffering from la grippe; grippe being then a new word in         
St. Petersburg, used only by the elite.                                     
  All her invitations without exception, written in French, and             
delivered by a scarlet-liveried footman that morning, ran as follows:       
  "If you have nothing better to do, Count [or Prince], and if the          
prospect of spending an evening with a poor invalid is not too              
terrible, I shall be very charmed to see you tonight between 7 and 10-      
Annette Scherer."                                                           
  "Heavens! what a virulent attack!" replied the prince, not in the         
least disconcerted by this reception. He had just entered, wearing          
an embroidered court uniform, knee breeches, and shoes, and had             
stars on his breast and a serene expression on his flat face. He spoke      
in that refined French in which our grandfathers not only spoke but         
thought, and with the gentle, patronizing intonation natural to a           
man of importance who had grown old in society and at court. He went        
up to Anna Pavlovna, kissed her hand, presenting to her his bald,           
scented, and shining head, and complacently seated himself on the           
sofa.                                                                       
                                                      {BK1|CH1 ^paragraph 5}
  "First of all, dear friend, tell me how you are. Set your friend's        
mind at rest," said he without altering his tone, beneath the               
politeness and affected sympathy of which indifference and even             
irony could be discerned.                                                   
  "Can one be well while suffering morally? Can one be calm in times        
like these if one has any feeling?" said Anna Pavlovna. "You are            
staying the whole evening, I hope?"                                         
  "And the fete at the English ambassador's? Today is Wednesday. I          
must put in an appearance there," said the prince. "My daughter is          
coming for me to take me there."                                            
  "I thought today's fete had been canceled. I confess all these            
festivities and fireworks are becoming wearisome."                          
  "If they had known that you wished it, the entertainment would            
have been put off," said the prince, who, like a wound-up clock, by         
force of habit said things he did not even wish to be believed.             
                                                     {BK1|CH1 ^paragraph 10}
  "Don't tease! Well, and what has been decided about Novosiltsev's         
dispatch? You know everything."                                             
  "What can one say about it?" replied the prince in a cold,                
listless tone. "What has been decided? They have decided that               
Buonaparte has burnt his boats, and I believe that we are ready to          
burn ours."                                                                 
  Prince Vasili always spoke languidly, like an actor repeating a           
stale part. Anna Pavlovna Scherer on the contrary, despite her forty        
years, overflowed with animation and impulsiveness. To be an                
enthusiast had become her social vocation and, sometimes even when she      
did not feel like it, she became enthusiastic in order not to               
disappoint the expectations of those who knew her. The subdued smile        
which, though it did not suit her faded features, always played             
round her lips expressed, as in a spoiled child, a continual                
consciousness of her charming defect, which she neither wished, nor         
could, nor considered it necessary, to correct.                             
  In the midst of a conversation on political matters Anna Pavlovna         
burst out:                                                                  
  "Oh, don't speak to me of Austria. Perhaps I don't understand             
things, but Austria never has wished, and does not wish, for war.           
She is betraying us! Russia alone must save Europe. Our gracious            
sovereign recognizes his high vocation and will be true to it. That is      
the one thing I have faith in! Our good and wonderful sovereign has to      
perform the noblest role on earth, and he is so virtuous and noble          
that God will not forsake him. He will fulfill his vocation and             
crush the hydra of revolution, which has become more terrible than          
ever in the person of this murderer and villain! We alone must              
avenge the blood of the just one.... Whom, I ask you, can we rely           
on?... England with her commercial spirit will not and cannot               
understand the Emperor Alexander's loftiness of soul. She has               
refused to evacuate Malta. She wanted to find, and still seeks, some        
secret motive in our actions. What answer did Novosiltsev get? None.        
The English have not understood and cannot understand the                   
self-abnegation of our Emperor who wants nothing for himself, but only      
desires the good of mankind. And what have they promised? Nothing! And      
what little they have promised they will not perform! Prussia has           
always declared that Buonaparte is invincible, and that all Europe          
is powerless before him.... And I don't believe a word that Hardenburg      
says, or Haugwitz either. This famous Prussian neutrality is just a         
trap. I have faith only in God and the lofty destiny of our adored          
monarch. He will save Europe!"                                              
                                                     {BK1|CH1 ^paragraph 15}
  She suddenly paused, smiling at her own impetuosity.                      
  "I think," said the prince with a smile, "that if you had been            
sent instead of our dear Wintzingerode you would have captured the          
King of Prussia's consent by assault. You are so eloquent. Will you         
give me a cup of tea?"                                                      
  "In a moment. A propos," she added, becoming calm again, "I am            
expecting two very interesting men tonight, le Vicomte de Mortemart,        
who is connected with the Montmorencys through the Rohans, one of           
the best French families. He is one of the genuine emigres, the good        
ones. And also the Abbe Morio. Do you know that profound thinker? He        
has been received by the Emperor. Had you heard?"                           
  "I shall be delighted to meet them," said the prince. "But tell me,"      
he added with studied carelessness as if it had only just occurred          
to him, though the question he was about to ask was the chief motive        
of his visit, "is it true that the Dowager Empress wants Baron Funke        
to be appointed first secretary at Vienna? The baron by all accounts        
is a poor creature."                                                        
  Prince Vasili wished to obtain this post for his son, but others          
were trying through the Dowager Empress Marya Fedorovna to secure it        
for the baron.                                                              
                                                     {BK1|CH1 ^paragraph 20}
  Anna Pavlovna almost closed her eyes to indicate that neither she         
nor anyone else had a right to criticize what the Empress desired or        
was pleased with.                                                           
  "Baron Funke has been recommended to the Dowager Empress by her           
sister," was all she said, in a dry and mournful tone.                      
  As she named the Empress, Anna Pavlovna's face suddenly assumed an        
expression of profound and sincere devotion and respect mingled with        
sadness, and this occurred every time she mentioned her illustrious         
patroness. She added that Her Majesty had deigned to show Baron             
Funke beaucoup d'estime, and again her face clouded over with sadness.      
  The prince was silent and looked indifferent. But, with the               
womanly and courtierlike quickness and tact habitual to her, Anna           
Pavlovna wished both to rebuke him (for daring to speak he had done of      
a man recommended to the Empress) and at the same time to console him,      
so she said:                                                                
  "Now about your family. Do you know that since your daughter came         
out everyone has been enraptured by her? They say she is amazingly          
beautiful."                                                                 
                                                     {BK1|CH1 ^paragraph 25}
  The prince bowed to signify his respect and gratitude.                    
  "I often think," she continued after a short pause, drawing nearer        
to the prince and smiling amiably at him as if to show that                 
political and social topics were ended and the time had come for            
intimate conversation- "I often think how unfairly sometimes the            
joys of life are distributed. Why has fate given you two such splendid      
children? I don't speak of Anatole, your youngest. I don't like             
him," she added in a tone admitting of no rejoinder and raising her         
eyebrows. "Two such charming children. And really you appreciate            
them less than anyone, and so you don't deserve to have them."              
  And she smiled her ecstatic smile.                                        
  "I can't help it," said the prince. "Lavater would have said I            
lack the bump of paternity."                                                
  "Don't joke; I mean to have a serious talk with you. Do you know I        
am dissatisfied with your younger son? Between ourselves" (and her          
face assumed its melancholy expression), "he was mentioned at Her           
Majesty's and you were pitied...."                                          
                                                     {BK1|CH1 ^paragraph 30}
  The prince answered nothing, but she looked at him significantly,         
awaiting a reply. He frowned.                                               
  "What would you have me do?" he said at last. "You know I did all         
a father could for their education, and they have both turned out           
fools. Hippolyte is at least a quiet fool, but Anatole is an active         
one. That is the only difference between them." He said this smiling        
in a way more natural and animated than usual, so that the wrinkles         
round his mouth very clearly revealed something unexpectedly coarse         
and unpleasant.                                                             
  "And why are children born to such men as you? If you were not a          
father there would be nothing I could reproach you with," said Anna         
Pavlovna, looking up pensively.                                             
  "I am your faithful slave and to you alone I can confess that my          
children are the bane of my life. It is the cross I have to bear. That      
is how I explain it to myself. It can't be helped!"                         
  He said no more, but expressed his resignation to cruel fate by a         
gesture. Anna Pavlovna meditated.                                           
                                                     {BK1|CH1 ^paragraph 35}
  "Have you never thought of marrying your prodigal son Anatole?"           
she asked. "They say old maids have a mania for matchmaking, and            
though I don't feel that weakness in myself as yet,I know a little          
person who is very unhappy with her father. She is a relation of            
yours, Princess Mary Bolkonskaya."                                          
  Prince Vasili did not reply, though, with the quickness of memory         
and perception befitting a man of the world, he indicated by a              
movement of the head that he was considering this information.              
  "Do you know," he said at last, evidently unable to check the sad         
current of his thoughts, "that Anatole is costing me forty thousand         
rubles a year? And," he went on after a pause, "what will it be in          
five years, if he goes on like this?" Presently he added: "That's what      
we fathers have to put up with.... Is this princess of yours rich?"         
  "Her father is very rich and stingy. He lives in the country. He          
is the well-known Prince Bolkonski who had to retire from the army          
under the late Emperor, and was nicknamed 'the King of Prussia.' He is      
very clever but eccentric, and a bore. The poor girl is very                
unhappy. She has a brother; I think you know him, he married Lise           
Meinen lately. He is an aide-de-camp of Kutuzov's and will be here          
tonight."                                                                   
  "Listen, dear Annette," said the prince, suddenly taking Anna             
Pavlovna's hand and for some reason drawing it downwards. "Arrange          
that affair for me and I shall always be your most devoted slave-           
slafe wigh an f, as a village elder of mine writes in his reports. She      
is rich and of good family and that's all I want."                          
                                                     {BK1|CH1 ^paragraph 40}
  And with the familiarity and easy grace peculiar to him, he raised        
the maid of honor's hand to his lips, kissed it, and swung it to and        
fro as he lay back in his armchair, looking in another direction.           
  "Attendez," said Anna Pavlovna, reflecting, "I'll speak to Lise,          
young Bolkonski's wife, this very evening, and perhaps the thing can        
be arranged. It shall be on your family's behalf that I'll start my         
apprenticeship as old maid."                                                
                                                                            
BK1|CH2                                                                     
  CHAPTER II                                                                
-                                                                           
  Anna Pavlovna'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 Vasili's daughter, the beautiful Helene, came to take her            
father to the ambassador's entertainment; she wore a ball dress and         
her badge as maid of honor. The youthful little Princess                    
Bolkonskaya, known as la femme la plus seduisante de Petersbourg,* was      
also there. She had been married during the previous winter, and being      
pregnant did not go to any large gatherings, but only to small              
receptions. Prince Vasili's son, Hippolyte, had come with Mortemart,        
whom he introduced. The Abbe Morio and many others had also come.           
-                                                                           
  *The most fascinating woman in Petersburg.                                
-                                                                           
  To each new arrival Anna Pavlovna said, "You have not yet seen my         
aunt," or "You do not know my aunt?" and very gravely conducted him or      
her to a little old lady, wearing large bows of ribbon in her cap, who      
had come sailing in from another room as soon as the guests began to        
arrive; and slowly turning her eyes from the visitor to her aunt, Anna      
Pavlovna mentioned each one's name and then left them.                      
                                                      {BK1|CH2 ^paragraph 5}
  Each visitor performed the ceremony of greeting this old aunt whom        
not one of them knew, not one of them wanted to know, and not one of        
them cared about; Anna Pavlovna observed these greetings with mournful      
and solemn interest and silent approval. The aunt spoke to each of          
them in the same words, about their health and her own, and the health      
of Her Majesty, "who, thank God, was better today." And each                
visitor, though politeness prevented his showing impatience, left           
the old woman with a sense of relief at having performed a vexatious        
duty and did not return to her the whole evening.                           
  The young Princess Bolkonskaya had brought some work in a                 
gold-embroidered velvet bag. Her pretty little upper lip, on which a        
delicate dark down was just perceptible, was too short for her              
teeth, but it lifted all the more sweetly, and was especially charming      
when she occasionally drew it down to meet the lower lip. As is always      
the case with a thoroughly attractive woman, her defect- the shortness      
of her upper lip and her half-open mouth- seemed to be her own special      
and peculiar form of beauty. Everyone brightened at the sight of            
this pretty young woman, so soon to become a mother, so full of life        
and health, and carrying her burden so lightly. Old men and dull            
dispirited young ones who looked at her, after being in her company         
and talking to her a little while, felt as if they too were                 
becoming, like her, full of life and health. All who talked to her,         
and at each word saw her bright smile and the constant gleam of her         
white teeth, thought that they were in a specially amiable mood that        
day.                                                                        
  The little princess went round the table with quick, short,               
swaying steps, her workbag on her arm, and gaily spreading out her          
dress sat down on a sofa near the silver samovar, as if all she was         
doing was a pleasure to herself and to all around her. "I have brought      
my work," said she in French, displaying her bag and addressing all         
present. "Mind, Annette, I hope you have not played a wicked trick          
on me," she added, turning to her hostess. "You wrote that it was to        
be quite a small reception, and just see how badly I am dressed."           
And she spread out her arms to show her short-waisted, lace-trimmed,        
dainty gray dress, girdled with a broad ribbon just below the breast.       
  "Soyez tranquille, Lise, you will always be prettier than anyone          
else," replied Anna Pavlovna.                                               
  "You know," said the princess in the same tone of voice and still in      
French, turning to a general, "my husband is deserting me? He is going      
to get himself killed. Tell me what this wretched war is for?" she          
added, addressing Prince Vasili, and without waiting for an answer she      
turned to speak to his daughter, the beautiful Helene.                      
                                                     {BK1|CH2 ^paragraph 10}
  "What a delightful woman this little princess is!" said Prince            
Vasili to Anna Pavlovna.                                                    
  One of the next arrivals was a stout, heavily built young man with        
close-cropped hair, spectacles, the light-colored breeches fashionable      
at that time, a very high ruffle, and a brown dress coat. This stout        
young man was an illegitimate son of Count Bezukhov, a well-known           
grandee of Catherine's time who now lay dying in Moscow. The young man      
had not yet entered either the military or civil service, as he had         
only just returned from abroad where he had been educated, and this         
was his first appearance in society. Anna Pavlovna greeted him with         
the nod she accorded to the lowest hierarchy in her drawing room.           
But in spite of this lowest-grade greeting, a look of anxiety and           
fear, as at the sight of something too large and unsuited to the            
place, came over her face when she saw Pierre enter. Though he was          
certainly rather bigger than the other men in the room, her anxiety         
could only have reference to the clever though shy, but observant           
and natural, expression which distinguished him from everyone else          
in that drawing room.                                                       
  "It is very good of you, Monsieur Pierre, to come and visit a poor        
invalid," said Anna Pavlovna, exchanging an alarmed glance with her         
aunt as she conducted him to her.                                           
  Pierre murmured something unintelligible, and continued to look           
round as if in search of something. On his way to the aunt he bowed to      
the little princess with a pleased smile, as to an intimate                 
acquaintance.                                                               
  Anna Pavlovna's alarm was justified, for Pierre turned away from the      
aunt without waiting to hear her speech about Her Majesty's health.         
Anna Pavlovna in dismay detained him with the words: "Do you know           
the Abbe Morio? He is a most interesting man."                              
                                                     {BK1|CH2 ^paragraph 15}
  "Yes, I have heard of his scheme for perpetual peace, and it is very      
interesting but hardly feasible."                                           
  "You think so?" rejoined Anna Pavlovna in order to say something and      
get away to attend to her duties as hostess. But Pierre now                 
committed a reverse act of impoliteness. First he had left a lady           
before she had finished speaking to him, and now he continued to speak      
to another who wished to get away. With his head bent, and his big          
feet spread apart, he began explaining his reasons for thinking the         
abbe's plan chimerical.                                                     
  "We will talk of it later," said Anna Pavlovna with a smile.              
  And having got rid of this young man who did not know how to behave,      
she resumed her duties as hostess and continued to listen and watch,        
ready to help at any point where the 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            
Pavlovna moved about her drawing room, approaching now a silent, now a      
too-noisy group, and by a word or slight rearrangement kept the             
conversational machine in steady, proper, and regular motion. But amid      
these cares her anxiety about Pierre was evident. She kept an               
anxious watch on him when he approached the group round Mortemart to        
listen to what was being said there, and again when he passed to            
another group whose center was the abbe.                                    
  Pierre had been educated abroad, and this reception at Anna               
Pavlovna's was the first he had attended in Russia. He knew that all        
the intellectual lights of Petersburg were gathered there and, like         
a child in a toyshop, did not know which way to look, afraid of             
missing any clever conversation that was to be heard. Seeing the            
self-confident and refined 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.                                                   
                                                                            
BK1|CH3                                                                     
  CHAPTER III                                                               
-                                                                           
  Anna Pavlovna'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 abbe. Another, of young people, was grouped round the             
beautiful Princess Helene, Prince Vasili's daughter, and the little         
Princess Bolkonskaya, very pretty and rosy, though rather too plump         
for her age. The third group was gathered round Mortemart and Anna          
Pavlovna.                                                                   
  The vicomte was a nice-looking young man with soft 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 Pavlovna was obviously serving him up          
as a treat to her guests. As a clever maitre d'hotel serves up as a         
specially choice delicacy a piece of meat that no one who had seen          
it in the kitchen would have cared to eat, so Anna Pavlovna served          
up to her guests, first the vicomte and then the abbe, as peculiarly        
choice morsels. The group about Mortemart immediately began discussing      
the murder of the Duc d'Enghien. The vicomte said that the Duc              
d'Enghien had perished by his own magnanimity, and that there were          
particular reasons for Buonaparte's hatred of him.                          
  "Ah, yes! Do tell us all about it, Vicomte," said Anna Pavlovna,          
with a pleasant feeling that there was something a la Louis XV in           
the sound of that sentence: "Contez nous cela, Vicomte."                    
  The vicomte bowed and smiled courteously in token of his willingness      
to comply. Anna Pavlovna arranged a group round him, inviting everyone      
to listen to his tale.                                                      
  "The vicomte knew the duc personally," whispered Anna Pavlovna to of      
the guests. "The vicomte is a wonderful raconteur," said she to             
another. "How evidently he belongs to the best society," said she to a      
third; and the vicomte was served up to the company in the choicest         
and most advantageous style, like a well-garnished joint of roast beef      
on a hot dish.                                                              
                                                      {BK1|CH3 ^paragraph 5}
  The vicomte wished to begin his story and gave a subtle smile.            
  "Come over here, Helene, dear," said Anna Pavlovna to the                 
beautiful young princess who was sitting some way off, the center of        
another group.                                                              
  The princess smiled. She rose with the same unchanging smile with         
which she had first entered the room- the smile of a perfectly              
beautiful woman. With a slight rustle of her white dress trimmed            
with moss and ivy, with a gleam of white shoulders, glossy hair, and        
sparkling diamonds, she passed between the men who made way for her,        
not looking at any of them but smiling on all, as if graciously             
allowing each the privilege of admiring her beautiful figure and            
shapely shoulders, back, and bosom- which in the fashion of those days      
were very much exposed- and she seemed to bring the glamour of a            
ballroom with her as she moved toward Anna Pavlovna. Helene was so          
lovely that not only did she not show any trace of coquetry, but on         
the contrary she even appeared shy of her unquestionable and all too        
victorious beauty. She seemed to wish, but to be unable, to diminish        
its effect.                                                                 
  "How lovely!" said everyone who saw her; and the vicomte lifted           
his shoulders and dropped his eyes as if startled by something              
extraordinary when she took her seat opposite and beamed upon him also      
with her unchanging smile.                                                  
  "Madame, I doubt my ability before such an audience," said he,            
smilingly inclining his head.                                               
                                                     {BK1|CH3 ^paragraph 10}
  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 Pavlovna, at      
once adopted just the expression she saw on the maid of honor's             
face, and again relapsed into her radiant smile.                            
  The little princess had also left the tea table and followed Helene.      
  "Wait a moment, I'll get my work.... Now then, what are you thinking      
of?" she went on, turning to Prince Hippolyte. "Fetch me my workbag."       
  There was a general movement as the princess, smiling and talking         
merrily to everyone at once, sat down and gaily arranged herself in         
her seat.                                                                   
  "Now I am all right," she said, and asking the vicomte to begin, she      
took up her work.                                                           
                                                     {BK1|CH3 ^paragraph 15}
  Prince Hippolyte, having brought the workbag, joined the circle           
and moving a chair close to hers seated himself beside her.                 
  Le charmant Hippolyte was surprising by his extraordinary                 
resemblance to his beautiful sister, but yet more by the fact that          
in spite of this resemblance he was exceedingly ugly. His features          
were like his sister's, but while in her case everything was lit up by      
a joyous, self-satisfied, youthful, and constant smile of animation,        
and by the wonderful classic beauty of her figure, his face on the          
contrary was dulled by imbecility and a constant expression of              
sullen self-confidence, while his body was thin and weak. His eyes,         
nose, and mouth all seemed puckered into a vacant, wearied grimace,         
and his arms and legs always fell into unnatural positions.                 
  "It's not going to be a ghost story?" said he, sitting down beside        
the princess and hastily adjusting his lorgnette, as if without this        
instrument he could not begin to speak.                                     
  "Why no, my dear fellow," said the astonished narrator, shrugging         
his shoulders.                                                              
  "Because I hate ghost stories," said Prince Hippolyte in a tone           
which showed that he only understood the meaning of his words after he      
had uttered them.                                                           
                                                     {BK1|CH3 ^paragraph 20}
  He spoke with such self-confidence that his hearers could not be          
sure whether what he said was very witty or very stupid. He was             
dressed in a dark-green dress coat, knee breeches of the color of           
cuisse de nymphe effrayee, as he called it, shoes, and silk stockings.      
  The vicomte told his tale very neatly. It was an anecdote, then           
current, to the effect that the Duc d'Enghien had gone secretly to          
Paris to visit Mademoiselle George; that at her house he came upon          
Bonaparte, who also enjoyed the famous actress' favors, and that in         
his presence Napoleon happened to fall into one of the fainting fits        
to which he was subject, and was thus at the duc's mercy. The latter        
spared him, and this magnanimity Bonaparte subsequently repaid by           
death.                                                                      
  The story was very pretty and interesting, especially at the point        
where the rivals suddenly recognized one another; and the ladies            
looked agitated.                                                            
  "Charming!" said Anna Pavlovna with an inquiring glance at the            
little princess.                                                            
  "Charming!" whispered the little princess, sticking the needle            
into her work as if to testify that the interest and fascination of         
the story prevented her from going on with it.                              
                                                     {BK1|CH3 ^paragraph 25}
  The vicomte appreciated this silent praise and smiling gratefully         
prepared to continue, but just then Anna Pavlovna, who had kept a           
watchful eye on the young man who so alarmed her, noticed that he           
was talking too loudly and vehemently with the abbe, so she hurried to      
the rescue. Pierre had managed to start a conversation with the abbe        
about the balance of power, and the latter, evidently interested by         
the young man's simple-minded eagerness, was explaining his pet             
theory. Both were talking and listening too eagerly and too naturally,      
which was why Anna Pavlovna disapproved.                                    
  "The means are... the balance of power in Europe and the rights of        
the people," the abbe was saying. "It is only necessary for one             
powerful nation like Russia- barbaric as she is said to be- to place        
herself disinterestedly at the head of an alliance having for its           
object the maintenance of the balance of power of Europe, and it would      
save the world!"                                                            
  "But how are you to get that balance?" Pierre was beginning.              
  At that moment Anna Pavlovna came up and, looking severely at             
Pierre, asked the Italian how he stood Russian climate. The                 
Italian's face instantly changed and assumed an offensively                 
affected, sugary expression, evidently habitual to him when conversing      
with women.                                                                 
  "I am so enchanted by the brilliancy of the wit and culture of the        
society, more especially of the feminine society, in which I have           
had the honor of being received, that I have not yet had time to think      
of the climate," said he.                                                   
                                                     {BK1|CH3 ^paragraph 30}
  Not letting the abbe and Pierre escape, Anna Pavlovna, the more           
conveniently to keep them under observation, brought them into the          
larger circle.                                                              
                                                                            
BK1|CH4                                                                     
  CHAPTER IV                                                                
-                                                                           
  Just them another visitor entered the drawing room: Prince Andrew         
Bolkonski, the little princess' husband. He was a very handsome             
young man, of medium height, with firm, clearcut features.                  
Everything about him, from his weary, bored 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 Pavlovna's hand, and screwing up his eyes scanned         
the whole company.                                                          
  "You are off to the war, Prince?" said Anna Pavlovna.                     
  "General Kutuzov," said Bolkonski, speaking French and stressing the      
last syllable of the general's name like a Frenchman, "has been             
pleased to take me as an aide-de-camp...."                                  
  "And Lise, your wife?"                                                    
  "She will go to the country."                                             
                                                      {BK1|CH4 ^paragraph 5}
  "Are you not ashamed to deprive us of your charming wife?"                
  "Andre," said his wife, addressing her husband in the same                
coquettish manner in which she spoke to other men, "the vicomte has         
been telling us such a tale about Mademoiselle George and Buonaparte!"      
  Prince Andrew screwed up his eyes and turned away. Pierre, who            
from the moment Prince Andrew entered the room had watched him with         
glad, affectionate eyes, now came up and took his arm. Before he            
looked round Prince Andrew frowned again, expressing his annoyance          
with whoever was touching his arm, but when he saw Pierre's beaming         
face he gave him an unexpectedly kind and pleasant smile.                   
  "There now!... So you, too, are in the great world?" said he to           
Pierre.                                                                     
  "I knew you would be here," replied Pierre. "I will come to supper        
with you. May I?" he added in a low voice so as not to disturb the          
vicomte who was continuing his story.                                       
                                                     {BK1|CH4 ^paragraph 10}
  "No, impossible!" said Prince Andrew, laughing and pressing Pierre's      
hand to show that there was no need to ask the question. He wished          
to say something more, but at that moment Prince Vasili and his             
daughter got up to go and the two young men rose to let them pass.          
  "You must excuse me, dear Vicomte," said Prince Vasili to the             
Frenchman, holding him down by the sleeve in a friendly way to prevent      
his rising. "This unfortunate fete at the ambassador's deprives me          
of a pleasure, and obliges me to interrupt you. I am very sorry to          
leave your enchanting party," said he, turning to Anna Pavlovna.            
  His daughter, Princess Helene, passed between the chairs, lightly         
holding up the folds of her dress, and the smile shone still more           
radiantly on her beautiful face. Pierre gazed at her with rapturous,        
almost frightened, eyes as she passed him.                                  
  "Very lovely," said Prince Andrew.                                        
  "Very," said Pierre.                                                      
                                                     {BK1|CH4 ^paragraph 15}
  In passing Prince Vasili seized Pierre's hand and said to Anna            
Pavlovna: "Educate this bear for me! He has been staying with me a          
whole month and this is the first time I have seen him in society.          
Nothing is so necessary for a young man as the society of clever            
women."                                                                     
-                                                                           
  Anna Pavlovna smiled and promised to take Pierre in hand. She knew        
his father to be a connection of Prince Vasili's. The elderly lady who      
had been sitting with the old aunt rose hurriedly and overtook              
Prince Vasili in the anteroom. All the affectation of interest she had      
assumed had left her kindly and tearworn face and it now expressed          
only anxiety and fear.                                                      
  "How about my son Boris, Prince?" said she, hurrying after him            
into the anteroom. "I can't remain any longer in Petersburg. Tell me        
what news I may take back to my poor boy."                                  
  Although Prince Vasili 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.                                                                
                                                     {BK1|CH4 ^paragraph 20}
  "What would it cost you to say a word to the Emperor, and then he         
would be transferred to the Guards at once?" said she.                      
  "Believe me, Princess, I am ready to do all I can," answered              
Prince Vasili, "but it is difficult for me to ask the Emperor. I            
should advise you to appeal to Rumyantsev through Prince Golitsyn.          
That would be the best way."                                                
  The elderly lady was a Princess Drubetskaya, belonging to one of the      
best families in Russia, but she was poor, and 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 Vasili that she had        
obtained an invitation to Anna Pavlovna's reception and had sat             
listening to the vicomte's story. Prince Vasili's words frightened          
her, an embittered look clouded her once handsome face, but only for a      
moment; then she smiled again and dutched Prince Vasili's arm more          
tightly.                                                                    
  "Listen to me, Prince," said she. "I have never yet asked you for         
anything and I never will again, nor have I ever reminded you of my         
father's friendship for you; but now I entreat you for God's sake to        
do this for my son- and I shall always regard you as a benefactor,"         
she added hurriedly. "No, don't be angry, but promise! I have asked         
Golitsyn and he has refused. Be the kindhearted man you always              
were," she said, trying to smile though tears were in her eyes.             
  "Papa, we shall be late," said Princess Helene, turning her               
beautiful head and looking over her classically molded shoulder as she      
stood waiting by the door.                                                  
                                                     {BK1|CH4 ^paragraph 25}
  Influence in society, however, is a capital which has to be               
economized if it is to last. Prince Vasili knew this, and having            
once realized that if he asked on behalf of all who begged of him,          
he would soon be unable to ask for himself, he became chary of using        
his influence. But in Princess Drubetskaya's case he felt, after her        
second appeal, something like qualms of conscience. She had reminded        
him of what was quite true; he had been indebted to her father for the      
first steps in his career. Moreover, he could see by her manners            
that she was one of those women- mostly mothers- who, having once made      
up their minds, will not rest until they have gained their end, and         
are prepared if necessary to go on insisting day after day and hour         
after hour, and even to make scenes. This last consideration moved          
him.                                                                        
  "My dear Anna Mikhaylovna," said he with his usual familiarity and        
weariness of tone, "it is almost impossible for me to do what you ask;      
but to prove my devotion to you and how I respect your father's             
memory, I will do the impossible- your son shall be transferred to the      
Guards. Here is my hand on it. Are you satisfied?"                          
  "My dear benefactor! This is what I expected from you- I knew your        
kindness!" He turned to go.                                                 
  "Wait- just a word! When he has been transferred to the Guards..."        
she faltered. "You are on good terms with Michael Ilarionovich              
Kutuzov... recommend Boris to him as adjutant! Then I shall be at           
rest, and then..."                                                          
  Prince Vasili smiled.                                                     
                                                     {BK1|CH4 ^paragraph 30}
  "No, I won't promise that. You don't know how Kutuzov is pestered         
since his appointment as Commander in Chief. He told me himself that        
all the Moscow ladies have conspired to give him all their sons as          
adjutants."                                                                 
  "No, but do promise! I won't let you go! My dear benefactor..."           
  "Papa," said his beautiful daughter in the same tone as before,           
"we shall be late."                                                         
  "Well, au revoir! Good-by! You hear her?"                                 
  "Then tomorrow you will speak to the Emperor?"                            
                                                     {BK1|CH4 ^paragraph 35}
  "Certainly; but about Kutuzov, I don't promise."                          
  "Do promise, do promise, Vasili!" cried Anna Mikhaylovna as he went,      
with the smile of a coquettish girl, which at one time probably came        
naturally to her, but was now very ill-suited to her careworn face.         
  Apparently she had forgotten her age and by force of habit                
employed all the old feminine arts. But as soon as the prince had gone      
her face resumed its former cold, artificial 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.                                                      
                                                                            
BK1|CH5                                                                     
  CHAPTER V                                                                 
-                                                                           
  "And what do you think of this latest comedy, the coronation at           
Milan?" asked Anna Pavlovna, "and of the comedy of the people of Genoa      
and Lucca laying their petitions before Monsieur Buonaparte, and            
Monsieur Buonaparte sitting on a throne and granting the petitions          
of the nations? Adorable! It is enough to make one's head whirl! It is      
as if the whole world had gone crazy."                                      
  Prince Andrew looked Anna Pavlovna straight in the face with a            
sarcastic smile.                                                            
  "'Dieu me la donne, gare a qui la touche!'* They say he was very          
fine when he said that," he remarked, repeating the words in                
Italian: "'Dio mi l'ha dato. Guai a chi la tocchi!'"                        
-                                                                           
  *God has given it to me, let him who touches it beware!                   
                                                      {BK1|CH5 ^paragraph 5}
-                                                                           
  "I hope this will prove the last drop that will make the glass run        
over," Anna Pavlovna continued. "The sovereigns will not be able to         
endure this man who is a menace to everything."                             
  "The sovereigns? I do not speak of Russia," said the vicomte, polite      
but hopeless: "The sovereigns, madame... What have they done for Louis      
XVII, for the Queen, or for Madame 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 Conde      
coat of arms on the table. He explained this to her with as much            
gravity as if she had asked him to do it.                                   
                                                     {BK1|CH5 ^paragraph 10}
  "Baton de gueules, engrele de gueules d' azur- maison Conde," said        
he.                                                                         
  The princess listened, smiling.                                           
  "If Buonaparte remains on the throne of France a year longer," the        
vicomte continued, with the air of a man who, in a matter with which        
he is better acquainted than anyone else, does not listen to others         
but follows the current of his own thoughts, "things will have gone         
too far. By intrigues, violence, exile, and executions, French              
society- I mean good French society- will have been forever destroyed,      
and then..."                                                                
  He shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands. Pierre wished to      
make a remark, for the conversation interested him, but Anna Pavlovna,      
who had him under observation, interrupted:                                 
  "The Emperor Alexander," said she, with the melancholy which              
always accompanied any reference of hers to the Imperial family,            
"has declared that he will leave it to the French people themselves to      
choose their own form of government; and I believe that once free from      
the usurper, the whole nation will certainly throw itself into the          
arms of its rightful king," she concluded, trying to be amiable to the      
royalist emigrant.                                                          
                                                     {BK1|CH5 ^paragraph 15}
  "That is doubtful," said Prince Andrew. "Monsieur le Vicomte quite        
rightly supposes that matters have already gone too far. I think it         
will be difficult to return to the old regime."                             
  "From what I have heard," said Pierre, blushing and breaking into         
the conversation, "almost all the aristocracy has already gone over to      
Bonaparte's side."                                                          
  "It is the Buonapartists who say that," replied the vicomte               
without looking at Pierre. "At the present time it is difficult to          
know the real state of French public opinion.                               
  "Bonaparte has said so," remarked Prince Andrew with a sarcastic          
smile.                                                                      
  It was evident that he did not like the vicomte and was aiming his        
remarks at him, though without looking at him.                              
                                                     {BK1|CH5 ^paragraph 20}
  "'I showed them the path to glory, but they did not follow it,'"          
Prince Andrew continued after a short silence, again quoting                
Napoleon's words. "'I opened my antechambers and they crowded in.' I        
do not know how far he was justified in saying so."                         
  "Not in the least," replied the vicomte. "After the murder of the         
duc even the most partial ceased to regard him as a hero. If to some        
people," he went on, turning to Anna Pavlovna, "he ever was a hero,         
after the murder of the duc there was one martyr more in heaven and         
one hero less on earth."                                                    
  Before Anna Pavlovna and the others had time to smile their               
appreciation of the vicomte's epigram, Pierre again broke into the          
conversation, and though Anna Pavlovna felt sure he would say               
something inappropriate, she was unable to stop him.                        
  "The execution of the Duc d'Enghien," declared Monsieur Pierre, "was      
a political necessity, and it seems to me that Napoleon showed              
greatness of soul by not fearing to take on himself the whole               
responsibility of that deed."                                               
  "Dieu! Mon Dieu!" muttered Anna Pavlovna in a terrified whisper.          
                                                     {BK1|CH5 ^paragraph 25}
  "What, Monsieur Pierre... Do you consider that assassination shows        
greatness of soul?" said the little princess, smiling and drawing           
her work nearer to her.                                                     
  "Oh! Oh!" exclaimed several voices.                                       
  "Capital!" said Prince Hippolyte in English, and began slapping           
his knee with the palm of his hand.                                         
  The vicomte merely shrugged his shoulders. Pierre looked solemnly at      
his audience over his spectacles and continued.                             
  "I say so," he continued desperately, "because the Bourbons fled          
from the Revolution leaving the people to anarchy, and Napoleon             
alone understood the Revolution and quelled it, and so for the general      
good, he could not stop short for the sake of one man's life."              
                                                     {BK1|CH5 ^paragraph 30}
  "Won't you come over to the other table?" suggested Anna Pavlovna.        
  But Pierre continued his speech without heeding her.                      
  "No," cried he, becoming more and more eager, "Napoleon is great          
because he rose superior to the Revolution, suppressed its abuses,          
preserved all that was good in it- equality of citizenship and freedom      
of speech and of the press- and only for that reason did he obtain          
power."                                                                     
  "Yes, if having obtained power, without availing himself of it to         
commit murder he had restored it to the rightful king, I should have        
called him a great man," remarked the vicomte.                              
  "He could not do that. The people only gave him power that he             
might rid them of the Bourbons and because they saw that he was a           
great man. The Revolution was a grand thing!" continued Monsieur            
Pierre, betraying by this desperate and provocative proposition his         
extreme youth and his wish to express all that was in his mind.             
                                                     {BK1|CH5 ^paragraph 35}
  "What? Revolution and regicide a grand thing?... Well, after that...      
But won't you come to this other table?" repeated Anna Pavlovna.            
  "Rousseau's Contrat social," said the vicomte with a tolerant smile.      
  "I am not speaking of regicide, I am speaking about ideas."               
  "Yes: ideas of robbery, murder, and regicide," again interjected          
an ironical voice.                                                          
  "Those were extremes, no doubt, but they are not what is most             
important. What is important are the rights of man, emancipation            
from prejudices, and equality of citizenship, and all these ideas           
Napoleon has retained in full force."                                       
                                                     {BK1|CH5 ^paragraph 40}
  "Liberty and equality," said the vicomte contemptuously, as if at         
last deciding seriously to prove to this youth how foolish his words        
were, "high-sounding words which have long been discredited. Who            
does not love liberty and equality? Even our Saviour preached               
liberty and equality. Have people since the Revolution become happier?      
On the contrary. We wanted liberty, but Buonaparte has destroyed it."       
  Prince Andrew kept looking with an amused smile from Pierre to the        
vicomte and from the vicomte to their hostess. In the first moment          
of Pierre's outburst Anna Pavlovna, despite her social experience, was      
horror-struck. But when she saw that Pierre's sacrilegious words had        
not exasperated the vicomte, and had convinced herself that it was          
impossible to stop him, she rallied her forces and joined the               
vicomte in a vigorous attack on the orator.                                 
  "But, my dear Monsieur Pierre," said she, "how do you explain the         
fact of a great man executing a duc- or even an ordinary man who- is        
innocent and untried?"                                                      
  "I should like," said the vicomte, "to ask how monsieur explains the      
18th Brumaire; was not that an imposture? It was a swindle, and not at      
all like the conduct of a great man!"                                       
  "And the prisoners he killed in Africa? That was horrible!" said the      
little princess, shrugging her shoulders.                                   
                                                     {BK1|CH5 ^paragraph 45}
  "He's a low fellow, say what you will," remarked Prince Hippolyte.        
  Pierre, not knowing whom to answer, looked at them all and smiled.        
His smile was unlike the half-smile of other people. When he smiled,        
his grave, even rather gloomy, look was instantaneously replaced by         
another- a childlike, kindly, even rather silly look, which seemed          
to ask forgiveness.                                                         
  The vicomte who was meeting him for the first time saw clearly            
that this young Jacobin was not so terrible as his words suggested.         
All were silent.                                                            
  "How do you expect him to answer you all at once?" said Prince            
Andrew. "Besides, in the actions of a statesman one has to distinguish      
between his acts as a private person, as a general, and as an emperor.      
So it seems to me."                                                         
  "Yes, yes, of course!" Pierre chimed in, pleased at the arrival of        
this reinforcement.                                                         
                                                     {BK1|CH5 ^paragraph 50}
  "One must admit," continued Prince Andrew, "that Napoleon as a man        
was great on the bridge of Arcola, and in the hospital at Jaffa             
where he gave his hand to the plague-stricken; but... but there are         
other acts which it is difficult to justify."                               
  Prince Andrew, who had evidently wished to tone down the awkwardness      
of Pierre's remarks, rose and made a sign to his wife that it was time      
to go.                                                                      
-                                                                           
  Suddenly Prince Hippolyte started up making signs to everyone to          
attend, and asking them all to be seated began:                             
  "I was told a charming Moscow story today and must treat you to           
it. Excuse me, Vicomte- I must tell it in Russian or the point will be      
lost...." And Prince Hippolyte began to tell his story in such Russian      
as a Frenchman would speak after spending about a year in Russia.           
Everyone waited, so emphatically and eagerly did he demand their            
attention to his story.                                                     
                                                     {BK1|CH5 ^paragraph 55}
  "There is in Moscow a lady, une dame, and she is very stingy. She         
must have two footmen behind her carriage, and very big ones. That was      
her taste. And she had a lady's maid, also big. She said..."                
  Here Prince Hippolyte paused, evidently collecting his ideas with         
difficulty.                                                                 
  "She said... Oh yes! She said, 'Girl,' to the maid, 'put on a             
livery, get up behind the carriage, and come with me while I make some      
calls.'"                                                                    
  Here Prince Hippolyte spluttered and burst out laughing long              
before his audience, which produced an effect unfavorable to the            
narrator. Several persons, among them the elderly lady and Anna             
Pavlovna, did however smile.                                                
  "She went. Suddenly there was a great wind. The girl lost her hat         
and her long hair came down...." Here he could contain himself no           
longer and went on, between gasps of laughter: "And the whole world         
knew...."                                                                   
                                                     {BK1|CH5 ^paragraph 60}
  And so the anecdote ended. Though it was unintelligible why he had        
told it, or why it had to be told in Russian, still Anna Pavlovna           
and the others appreciated Prince Hippolyte's social tact in so             
agreeably ending Pierre's unpleasant and 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.                                                         
                                                                            
BK1|CH6                                                                     
  CHAPTER VI                                                                
-                                                                           
  Having thanked Anna Pavlovna for her charming soiree, the guests          
began to take their leave.                                                  
  Pierre was ungainly. Stout, about the average height, broad, with         
huge red hands; he did not know, as the saying is, to enter a               
drawing room and still less how to leave one; that is, how to say           
something particularly agreeable before going away. Besides this he         
was absent-minded. When he rose to go, he took up instead of his            
own, the general's three-cornered hat, and held it, pulling at the          
plume, till the general asked him to restore it. All his                    
absent-mindedness and inability to enter a room and converse in it          
was, however, redeemed by his kindly, simple, and modest expression.        
Anna Pavlovna turned toward him and, with a Christian mildness that         
expressed forgiveness of his indiscretion, nodded and said: "I hope to      
see you again, but I also hope you will change your opinions, my            
dear Monsieur Pierre."                                                      
  When she said this, he did not reply and only bowed, but again            
everybody saw his smile, which said nothing, unless perhaps, "Opinions      
are opinions, but you see what a capital, good-natured fellow I am."        
And everyone, including Anna Pavlovna, felt this.                           
  Prince Andrew had gone out into the hall, and, turning his shoulders      
to the footman who was helping him on with his cloak, listened              
indifferently to his wife's chatter with Prince Hippolyte who had also      
come into the hall. Prince Hippolyte stood close to the pretty,             
pregnant princess, and stared fixedly at her through his eyeglass.          
  "Go in, Annette, or you will catch cold," said the little                 
princess, taking leave of Anna Pavlovna. "It is settled," she added in      
a low voice.                                                                
                                                      {BK1|CH6 ^paragraph 5}
  Anna Pavlovna had already managed to speak to Lise about the match        
she contemplated between Anatole and the little princess'                   
sister-in-law.                                                              
  "I rely on you, my dear," said Anna Pavlovna, also in a low tone.         
"Write to her and let me know how her father looks at the matter. Au        
revoir!"- and she left the hall.                                            
  Prince Hippolyte approached the little princess and, bending his          
face close to her, began to whisper something.                              
  Two footmen, the princess' and his own, stood holding a shawl and         
a cloak, waiting for the conversation to finish. They listened to           
the French sentences which to them were meaningless, with an air of         
understanding but not wishing to appear to do so. The princess as           
usual spoke smilingly and listened with a laugh.                            
  "I am very glad I did not go to the ambassador's," said Prince            
Hippolyte "-so dull-. It has been a delightful evening, has it not?         
Delightful!"                                                                
                                                     {BK1|CH6 ^paragraph 10}
  "They say the ball will be very good," replied the princess, drawing      
up her downy little lip. "All the pretty women in society will be           
there."                                                                     
  "Not all, for you will not be there; not all," said Prince Hippolyte      
smiling joyfully; and snatching the shawl from the footman, whom he         
even pushed aside, he began wrapping it round the princess. Either          
from awkwardness or intentionally (no one could have said which) after      
the shawl had been adjusted he kept his arm around her for a long           
time, as though embracing her.                                              
  Still smiling, she gracefully moved away, turning and glancing at         
her husband. Prince Andrew's eyes were closed, so weary and sleepy did      
he seem.                                                                    
  "Are you ready?" he asked his wife, looking past her.                     
  Prince Hippolyte hurriedly put on his cloak, which in the latest          
fashion reached to his very heels, and, stumbling in it, ran out            
into the porch following the princess, whom a footman was helping into      
the carriage.                                                               
                                                     {BK1|CH6 ^paragraph 15}
  "Princesse, au revoir," cried he, stumbling with his tongue as            
well as with his feet.                                                      
  The princess, picking up her dress, was taking her seat in the            
dark carriage, her husband was adjusting his saber; Prince                  
Hippolyte, under pretense of helping, was in everyone's way.                
  "Allow me, sir," said Prince Andrew in Russian in a cold,                 
disagreeable tone to Prince Hippolyte who was blocking his path.            
  "I am expecting you, Pierre," said the same voice, but gently and         
affectionately.                                                             
  The postilion started, the carriage wheels rattled. Prince Hippolyte      
laughed spasmodically as he stood in the porch waiting for the vicomte      
whom he had promised to take home.                                          
                                                     {BK1|CH6 ^paragraph 20}
  "Well, mon cher," said the vicomte, having seated himself beside          
Hippolyte in the carriage, "your little princess is very nice, very         
nice indeed, quite French," and he kissed the tips of his fingers.          
Hippolyte burst out laughing.                                               
  "Do you know, you are a terrible chap for all your innocent airs,"        
continued the vicomte. "I pity the poor husband, that little officer        
who gives himself the airs of a monarch."                                   
  Hippolyte spluttered again, and amid his laughter said, "And you          
were saying that the Russian ladies are not equal to the French? One        
has to know how to deal with them."                                         
-                                                                           
  Pierre reaching the house first went into Prince Andrew's study like      
one quite at home, and from habit immediately lay down on the sofa,         
took from the shelf the first book that came to his hand (it was            
Caesar's Commentaries), and resting on his elbow, began reading it          
in the middle.                                                              
                                                     {BK1|CH6 ^paragraph 25}
  "What have you done to Mlle Scherer? She will be quite ill now,"          
said Prince Andrew, as he entered the study, rubbing his small white        
hands.                                                                      
  Pierre turned his whole body, making the sofa creak. He lifted his        
eager face to Prince Andrew, smiled, and waved his hand.                    
  "That abbe is very interesting but he does not see the thing in           
the right light.... In my opinion perpetual peace is possible but- I        
do not know how to express it... not by a balance of political              
power...."                                                                  
  It was evident that Prince Andrew was not interested in such              
abstract conversation.                                                      
  "One can't everywhere say all one thinks, mon cher. Well, have you        
at last decided on anything? Are you going to be a guardsman or a           
diplomatist?" asked Prince Andrew after a momentary silence.                
                                                     {BK1|CH6 ^paragraph 30}
  Pierre sat up on the sofa, with his legs tucked under him.                
  "Really, I don't yet know. I don't like either the one or the             
other."                                                                     
  "But you must decide on something! Your father expects it."               
  Pierre at the age of ten had been sent abroad with an abbe as tutor,      
and had remained away till he was twenty. When he returned to Moscow        
his father dismissed the abbe and said to the young man, "Now go to         
Petersburg, look round, and choose your profession. I will agree to         
anything. Here is a letter to Prince Vasili, and here is money.             
Write to me all about it, and I will help you in everything." Pierre        
had already been choosing a career for three months, and had not            
decided on anything. It was about this choice that Prince Andrew was        
speaking. Pierre rubbed his forehead.                                       
  "But he must be a Freemason," said he, referring to the abbe whom he      
had met that evening.                                                       
                                                     {BK1|CH6 ^paragraph 35}
  "That is all nonsense." Prince Andrew again interrupted him, "let us      
talk business. Have you been to the Horse Guards?"                          
  "No, I have not; but this is what I have been thinking and wanted to      
tell you. There is a war now against Napoleon. If it were a war for         
freedom I could understand it and should be the first to enter the          
army; but to help England and Austria against the greatest man in           
the world is not right."                                                    
  Prince Andrew only shrugged his shoulders at Pierre's childish            
words. He put on the air of one who finds it impossible to reply to         
such nonsense, but it would in fact have been difficult to give any         
other answer than the one Prince Andrew gave to this naive question.        
  "If no one fought except on his own conviction, there would be no         
wars," he said.                                                             
  "And that would be splendid," said Pierre.                                
                                                     {BK1|CH6 ^paragraph 40}
  Prince Andrew smiled ironically.                                          
  "Very likely it would be splendid, but it will never come about..."       
  "Well, why are you going to the war?" asked Pierre.                       
  "What for? I don't know. I must. Besides that I am going..." He           
paused. "I am going because the life I am leading here does not suit        
me!"                                                                        
                                                                            
BK1|CH7                                                                     
  CHAPTER VII                                                               
-                                                                           
  The rustle of a woman's dress was heard in the next room. Prince          
Andrew shook himself as if waking up, and his face assumed the look it      
had had in Anna Pavlovna's drawing room. Pierre removed his feet            
from the sofa. The princess came in. She had changed her gown for a         
house dress as fresh and elegant as the other. Prince Andrew rose           
and politely placed a chair for her.                                        
  "How is it," she began, as usual in French, settling down briskly         
and fussily in the easy chair, "how is it Annette never got married?        
How stupid you men all are not to have married her! Excuse me for           
saying so, but you have no sense about women. What an argumentative         
fellow you are, Monsieur Pierre!"                                           
  "And I am still arguing with your husband. I can't understand why he      
wants to go to the war," replied Pierre, addressing the princess            
with none of the embarrassment so commonly shown by young men in their      
intercourse with young women.                                               
  The princess started. Evidently Pierre's words touched her to the         
quick.                                                                      
  "Ah, that is just what I tell him!" said she. "I don't understand         
it; I don't in the least understand why men can't live without wars.        
How is it that we women don't want anything of the kind, don't need         
it? Now you shall judge between us. I always tell him: Here he is           
Uncle's aide-de-camp, a most brilliant position. He is so well              
known, so much appreciated by everyone. The other day at the                
Apraksins' I heard a lady asking, 'Is that the famous Prince                
Andrew?' I did indeed." She laughed. "He is so well received                
everywhere. He might easily become aide-de-camp to the Emperor. You         
know the Emperor spoke to him most graciously. Annette and I were           
speaking of how to arrange it. What do you think?"                          
                                                      {BK1|CH7 ^paragraph 5}
  Pierre looked at his friend and, noticing that he did not like the        
conversation, gave no reply.                                                
  "When are you starting?" he asked.                                        
  "Oh, don't speak of his going, don't! I won't hear it spoken of,"         
said the princess in the same petulantly playful tone in which she had      
spoken to Hippolyte in the drawing room and which was so plainly            
ill-suited to the family circle of which Pierre was almost a member.        
"Today when I remembered that all these delightful associations must        
be broken off... and then you know, Andre..." (she looked                   
significantly at her husband) "I'm afraid, I'm afraid!" she whispered,      
and a shudder ran down her back.                                            
  Her husband looked at her as if surprised to notice that someone          
besides Pierre and himself was in the room, and addressed her in a          
tone of frigid politeness.                                                  
  "What is it you are afraid of, Lise? I don't understand," said he.        
                                                     {BK1|CH7 ^paragraph 10}
  "There, what egotists men all are: all, all egotists! Just for a          
whim of his own, goodness only knows why, he leaves me and locks me up      
alone in the country."                                                      
  "With my father and sister, remember," said Prince Andrew gently.         
  "Alone all the same, without my friends.... And he expects me not to      
be afraid."                                                                 
  Her tone was now querulous and her lip drawn up, giving her not a         
joyful, but an animal, squirrel-like expression. She paused as if           
she felt it indecorous to speak of her pregnancy before Pierre, though      
the gist of the matter lay in that.                                         
  "I still can't understand what you are afraid of," said Prince            
Andrew slowly, not taking his eyes off his wife.                            
                                                     {BK1|CH7 ^paragraph 15}
  The princess blushed, and raised her arms with a gesture of despair.      
  "No, Andrew, I must say you have changed. Oh, how you have..."            
  "Your doctor tells you to go to bed earlier," said Prince Andrew.         
"You had better go."                                                        
  The princess said nothing, but suddenly her short downy lip               
quivered. Prince Andrew rose, shrugged his shoulders, and walked about      
the room.                                                                   
  Pierre looked over his spectacles with naive surprise, now at him         
and now at her, moved as if about to rise too, but changed his mind.        
                                                     {BK1|CH7 ^paragraph 20}
  "Why should I mind Monsieur Pierre being here?" exclaimed the little      
princess suddenly, her pretty face all at once distorted by a               
tearful grimace. "I have long wanted to ask you, Andrew, why you            
have changed so to me? What have I done to you? You are going to the        
war and have no pity for me. Why is it?"                                    
  "Lise!" was all Prince Andrew said. But that one word expressed an        
entreaty, a threat, and above all conviction that she would herself         
regret her words. But she went on hurriedly:                                
  "You treat me like an invalid or a child. I see it all! Did you           
behave like that six months ago?"                                           
  "Lise, I beg you to desist," said Prince Andrew still more                
emphatically.                                                               
  Pierre, who had been growing more and more agitated as he listened        
to all this, rose and approached the princess. He seemed unable to          
bear the sight of tears and was ready to cry himself.                       
                                                     {BK1|CH7 ^paragraph 25}
  "Calm yourself, Princess! It seems so to you because... I assure you      
I myself have experienced... and so... because... No, excuse me! An         
outsider is out of place here... No, don't distress yourself...             
Good-by!"                                                                   
  Prince Andrew caught him by the hand.                                     
  "No, wait, Pierre! The princess is too kind to wish to deprive me of      
the pleasure of spending the evening with you."                             
  "No, he thinks only of himself," muttered the princess without            
restraining her angry tears.                                                
  "Lise!" said Prince Andrew dryly, raising his voice to the pitch          
which indicates that patience is exhausted.                                 
                                                     {BK1|CH7 ^paragraph 30}
  Suddenly the angry, squirrel-like expression of the princess' pretty      
face changed into a winning and piteous look of fear. Her beautiful         
eyes glanced askance at her husband's face, and her own assumed the         
timid, deprecating expression of a dog when it rapidly but feebly wags      
its drooping tail.                                                          
  "Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" she muttered, and lifting her dress with one        
hand she went up to her husband and kissed him on the forehead.             
  "Good night, Lise," said he, rising and courteously kissing her hand      
as he would have done to a stranger.                                        
                                                                            
BK1|CH8                                                                     
  CHAPTER VIII                                                              
-                                                                           
  The friends were silent. Neither cared to begin talking. Pierre           
continually glanced at Prince Andrew; Prince Andrew rubbed his              
forehead with his small hand.                                               
  "Let us go and have supper," he said with a sigh, going to the door.      
  They entered the elegant, newly decorated, and luxurious dining           
room. Everything from the table napkins to the silver, china, and           
glass bore that imprint of newness found in the households of the           
newly married. Halfway through supper Prince Andrew leaned his              
elbows on the table and, with a look of nervous agitation such as           
Pierre had never before seen on his face, began to talk- as one who         
has long had something on his mind and suddenly determines to speak         
out.                                                                        
  "Never, never marry, my dear fellow! That's my advice: never marry        
till you can say to yourself that you have done all you are capable         
of, and until you have ceased to love the woman of your choice and          
have seen her plainly as she is, or else you will make a cruel and          
irrevocable mistake. Marry when you are old and good for nothing- or        
all that is good and noble in you will be lost. It will all be              
wasted on trifles. Yes! Yes! Yes! Don't look at me with such surprise.      
If you marry expecting anything from yourself in the future, you            
will feel at every step that for you all is ended, all is closed            
except the drawing room, where you will be ranged side by side with         
a court lackey and an idiot!... But what's the good?..." and he             
waved his arm.                                                              
  Pierre took off his spectacles, which made his face seem different        
and the good-natured expression still more apparent, and gazed at           
his friend in amazement.                                                    
                                                      {BK1|CH8 ^paragraph 5}
  "My wife," continued Prince Andrew, "is an excellent woman, one of        
those rare women with whom a man's honor is safe; but, O God, what          
would I not give now to be unmarried! You are the first and only one        
to whom I mention this, because I like you."                                
  As he said this Prince Andrew was less than ever like that Bolkonski      
who had lolled in Anna Pavlovna's easy chairs and with half-closed          
eyes had uttered French phrases between his teeth. Every muscle of his      
thin face was now quivering with nervous excitement; his eyes, in           
which the fire of life had seemed extinguished, now flashed with            
brilliant light. It was evident that the more lifeless he seemed at         
ordinary times, the more impassioned he became in these moments of          
almost morbid irritation.                                                   
  "You don't understand why I say this," he continued, "but it is           
the whole story of life. You talk of Bonaparte and his career," said        
he (though Pierre had not mentioned Bonaparte), "but Bonaparte when he      
worked went step by step toward his goal. He was free, he had               
nothing but his aim to consider, and he reached it. But tie yourself        
up with a woman and, like a chained convict, you lose all freedom! And      
all you have of hope and strength merely weighs you down and                
torments you with regret. Drawing rooms, gossip, balls, vanity, and         
triviality- these are the enchanted circle I cannot escape from. I          
am now going to the war, the greatest war there ever was, and I know        
nothing and am fit for nothing. I am very amiable and have a caustic        
wit," continued Prince Andrew, "and at Anna Pavlovna's they listen          
to me. And that stupid set without whom my wife cannot exist, and           
those women... If you only knew what those society women are, and           
women in general! My father is right. Selfish, vain, stupid, trivial        
in everything- that's what women are when you see them in their true        
colors! When you meet them in society it seems as if there were             
something in them, but there's nothing, nothing, nothing! No, don't         
marry, my dear fellow; don't marry!" concluded Prince Andrew.               
  "It seems funny to me," said Pierre, "that you, you should                
consider yourself incapable and your life a spoiled life. You have          
everything before you, everything. And you..."                              
  He did not finish his sentence, but his tone showed how highly he         
thought of his friend and how much he expected of him in the future.        
                                                     {BK1|CH8 ^paragraph 10}
  "How can he talk like that?" thought Pierre. He considered his            
friend a model of perfection because Prince Andrew possessed in the         
highest degree just the very qualities Pierre lacked, and which             
might be best described as strength of will. Pierre was always              
astonished at Prince Andrew's calm manner of treating everybody, his        
extraordinary memory, his extensive reading (he had read everything,        
knew everything, and had an opinion about everything), but above all        
at his capacity for work and study. And if Pierre was often struck          
by Andrew's lack of capacity for philosophical meditation (to which he      
himself was particularly addicted), he regarded even this not as a          
defect but as a sign of strength.                                           
  Even in the best, most friendly and simplest relations of life,           
praise and commendation are essential, just as grease is necessary          
to wheels that they may run smoothly.                                       
  "My part is played out," said Prince Andrew. "What's the use of           
talking about me? Let us talk about you," he added after a silence,         
smiling at his reassuring thoughts.                                         
  That smile was immediately reflected on Pierre's face.                    
  "But what is there to say about me?" said Pierre, his face                
relaxing into a careless, merry smile. "What am I? An illegitimate          
son!" He suddenly blushed crimson, and it was plain that he had made a      
great effort to say this. "Without a name and without means... And          
it really..." But he did not say what "it really" was. "For the             
present I am free and am all right. Only I haven't the least idea what      
I am to do; I wanted to consult you seriously."                             
                                                     {BK1|CH8 ^paragraph 15}
  Prince Andrew looked kindly at him, yet his glance- friendly and          
affectionate as it was- expressed a sense of his own superiority.           
  "I am fond of you, especially as you are the one live man among           
our whole set. Yes, you're all right! Choose what you will; it's all        
the same. You'll be all right anywhere. But look here: give up              
visiting those Kuragins and leading that sort of life. It suits you so      
badly- all this debauchery, dissipation, and the rest of it!"               
  "What would you have, my dear fellow?" answered Pierre, shrugging         
his shoulders. "Women, my dear fellow; women!"                              
  "I don't understand it," replied Prince Andrew. "Women who are comme      
il faut, that's a different matter; but the Kuragins' set of women,         
'women and wine' I don't understand!"                                       
  Pierre was staying at Prince Vasili Kuragin's and sharing the             
dissipated life of his son Anatole, the son whom they were planning to      
reform by marrying him to Prince Andrew's sister.                           
                                                     {BK1|CH8 ^paragraph 20}
  "Do you know?" said Pierre, as if suddenly struck by a happy              
thought, "seriously, I have long been thinking of it.... Leading            
such a life I can't decide or think properly about anything. One's          
head aches, and one spends all one's money. He asked me for tonight,        
but I won't go."                                                            
  "You give me your word of honor not to go?"                               
  "On my honor!"                                                            
                                                                            
BK1|CH9                                                                     
  CHAPTER IX                                                                
-                                                                           
  It was past one o'clock when Pierre left his friend. It was a             
cloudless, northern, summer night. Pierre took an open cab intending        
to drive straight home. But the nearer he drew to the house the more        
he felt the impossibility of going to sleep on such a night. It was         
light enough to see a long way in the deserted street and it seemed         
more like morning or evening than night. On the way Pierre                  
remembered that Anatole Kuragin was expecting the usual set for             
cards that evening, after which there was generally a drinking bout,        
finishing with visits of a kind Pierre was very fond of.                    
  "I should like to go to Kuragin's," thought he.                           
  But he immediately recalled his promise to Prince Andrew not to go        
there. Then, as happens to people of weak character, he desired so          
passionately once more to enjoy that dissipation he was so                  
accustomed to that he decided to go. The thought immediately                
occurred to him that his promise to Prince Andrew was of no account,        
because before he gave it he had already promised Prince Anatole to         
come to his gathering; "besides," thought he, "all such 'words of           
honor' are conventional things with no definite meaning, especially if      
one considers that by tomorrow one may be dead, or something so             
extraordinary may happen to one that honor and dishonor will be all         
the same!" Pierre often indulged in reflections of this sort,               
nullifying all his decisions and intentions. He went to Kuragin's.          
  Reaching the large house near the Horse Guards' barracks, in which        
Anatole lived, Pierre entered the lighted porch, ascended the               
stairs, and went in at the open door. There was no one in the               
anteroom; empty bottles, cloaks, and overshoes were lying about; there      
was a smell of alcohol, and sounds of voices and shouting in the            
distance.                                                                   
  Cards and supper were over, but the visitors had not yet                  
dispersed. Pierre threw off his cloak and entered the first room, in        
which were the remains of supper. A footman, thinking no one saw            
him, was drinking on the sly what was left in the glasses. From the         
third room came sounds of laughter, the shouting of familiar voices,        
the growling of a bear, and general commotion. Some eight or nine           
young men were crowding anxiously round an open window. Three others        
were romping with a young bear, one pulling him by the chain and            
trying to set him at the others.                                            
                                                      {BK1|CH9 ^paragraph 5}
  "I bet a hundred on Stevens!" shouted one.                                
  "Mind, no holding on!" cried another.                                     
  "I bet on Dolokhov!" cried a third. "Kuragin, you part our hands."        
  "There, leave Bruin alone; here's a bet on."                              
  "At one draught, or he loses!" shouted a fourth.                          
                                                     {BK1|CH9 ^paragraph 10}
  "Jacob, bring a bottle!" shouted the host, a tall, handsome fellow        
who stood in the midst of the group, without a coat, and with his fine      
linen shirt unfastened in front. "Wait a bit, you fellows.... Here          
is Petya! Good man!" cried he, addressing Pierre.                           
  Another voice, from a man of medium height with clear blue eyes,          
particularly striking among all these drunken voices by its sober           
ring, cried from the window: "Come here; part the bets!" This was           
Dolokhov, an officer of the Semenov regiment, a notorious gambler           
and duelist, who was living with Anatole. Pierre smiled, looking about      
him merrily.                                                                
  "I don't understand. What's it all about?"                                
  "Wait a bit, he is not drunk yet! A bottle here," said Anatole,           
taking a glass from the table he went up to Pierre.                         
  "First of all you must drink!"                                            
                                                     {BK1|CH9 ^paragraph 15}
  Pierre drank one glass after another, looking from under his brows        
at the tipsy guests who were again crowding round the window, and           
listening to their chatter. Anatole kept on refilling Pierre's glass        
while explaining that Dolokhov was betting with Stevens, an English         
naval officer, that he would drink a bottle of rum sitting on the           
outer ledge of the third floor window with his legs hanging out.            
  "Go on, you must drink it all," said Anatole, giving Pierre the last      
glass, "or I won't let you go!"                                             
  "No, I won't," said Pierre, pushing Anatole aside, and he went up to      
the window.                                                                 
  Dolokhov was holding the Englishman's hand and clearly and                
distinctly repeating the terms of the bet, addressing himself               
particularly to Anatole and Pierre.                                         
  Dolokhov was of medium height, with curly hair and light-blue             
eyes. He was about twenty-five. Like all infantry officers he wore          
no mustache, so that his mouth, the most striking feature of his face,      
was clearly seen. The lines of that mouth were remarkably finely            
curved. The middle of the upper lip formed a sharp wedge and closed         
firmly on the firm lower one, and something like two distinct smiles        
played continually round the two corners of the mouth; this,                
together with the resolute, insolent intelligence of his eyes,              
produced an effect which made it impossible not to notice his face.         
Dolokhov was a man of small means and no connections. Yet, though           
Anatole spent tens of thousands of rubles, Dolokhov lived with him and      
had placed himself on such a footing that all who knew them, including      
Anatole himself, respected him more than they did Anatole. Dolokhov         
could play all games and nearly always won. However much he drank,          
he never lost his clearheadedness. Both Kuragin and Dolokhov were at        
that time notorious among the rakes and scapegraces of Petersburg.          
                                                     {BK1|CH9 ^paragraph 20}
  The bottle of rum was brought. The window frame which prevented           
anyone from sitting on the outer sill was being forced out by two           
footmen, who were evidently flurried and intimidated by the directions      
and shouts of the gentlemen around.                                         
  Anatole with his swaggering air strode up to the window. He wanted        
to smash something. Pushing away the footmen he tugged at the frame,        
but could not move it. He smashed a pane.                                   
  "You have a try, Hercules," said he, turning to Pierre.                   
  Pierre seized the crossbeam, tugged, and wrenched the oak frame           
out with a crash.                                                           
  "Take it right out, or they'll think I'm holding on," said Dolokhov.      
                                                     {BK1|CH9 ^paragraph 25}
  "Is the Englishman bragging?... Eh? Is it all right?" said Anatole.       
  "First-rate," said Pierre, looking at Dolokhov, who with a bottle of      
rum in his hand was approaching the window, from which the light of         
the sky, the dawn merging with the afterglow of sunset, was visible.        
  Dolokhov, the bottle of rum still in his hand, jumped onto the            
window sill. "Listen!" cried he, standing there and addressing those        
in the room. All were silent.                                               
  "I bet fifty imperials"- he spoke French that the Englishman might        
understand him, but he did, not speak it very well- "I bet fifty            
imperials... or do you wish to make it a hundred?" added he,                
addressing the Englishman.                                                  
  "No, fifty," replied the latter.                                          
                                                     {BK1|CH9 ^paragraph 30}
  "All right. Fifty imperials... that I will drink a whole bottle of        
rum without taking it from my mouth, sitting outside the window on          
this spot" (he stooped and pointed to the sloping ledge outside the         
window) "and without holding on to anything. Is that right?"                
  "Quite right," said the Englishman.                                       
  Anatole turned to the Englishman and taking him by one of the             
buttons of his coat and looking down at him- the Englishman was short-      
began repeating the terms of the wager to him in English.                   
  "Wait!" cried Dolokhov, hammering with the bottle on the window sill      
to attract attention. "Wait a bit, Kuragin. Listen! If anyone else          
does the same, I will pay him a hundred imperials. Do you understand?"      
  The Englishman nodded, but gave no indication whether he intended to      
accept this challenge or not. Anatole did not release him, and              
though he kept nodding to show that he understood, Anatole went on          
translating Dolokhov's words into English. A thin young lad, an hussar      
of the Life Guards, who had been losing that evening, climbed on the        
window sill, leaned over, and looked down.                                  
                                                     {BK1|CH9 ^paragraph 35}
  "Oh! Oh! Oh!" he muttered, looking down from the window at the            
stones of the pavement.                                                     
  "Shut up!" cried Dolokhov, pushing him away from the window. The lad      
jumped awkwardly back into the room, tripping over his spurs.               
  Placing the bottle on the window sill where he could reach it             
easily, Dolokhov climbed carefully and slowly through the window and        
lowered his legs. Pressing against both sides of the window, he             
adjusted himself on his seat, lowered his hands, moved a little to the      
right and then to the left, and took up the bottle. Anatole brought         
two candles and placed them on the window sill, though it was               
already quite light. Dolokhov's back in his white shirt, and his curly      
head, were lit up from both sides. Everyone crowded to the window, the      
Englishman in front. Pierre stood smiling but silent. One man, older        
than the others present, suddenly pushed forward with a scared and          
angry look and wanted to seize hold of Dolokhov's shirt.                    
  "I say, this is folly! He'll be killed," said this more sensible          
man.                                                                        
  Anatole stopped him.                                                      
                                                     {BK1|CH9 ^paragraph 40}
  "Don't touch him! You'll startle him and then he'll be killed.            
Eh?... What then?... Eh?"                                                   
  Dolokhov turned round and, again holding on with both hands,              
arranged himself on his seat.                                               
  "If anyone comes meddling again," said he, emitting the words             
separately through his thin compressed lips, "I will throw him down         
there. Now then!"                                                           
  Saying this he again turned round, dropped his hands, took the            
bottle and lifted it to his lips, threw back his head, and raised           
his free hand to balance himself. One of the footmen who had stooped        
to pick up some broken glass remained in that position without              
taking his eyes from the window and from Dolokhov's back. Anatole           
stood erect with staring eyes. The Englishman looked on sideways,           
pursing up his lips. The man who had wished to stop the affair ran          
to a corner of the room and threw himself on a sofa with his face to        
the wall. 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. Dolokhov still sat in the same         
position, only his head was thrown further back till his curly hair         
touched his shirt collar, and the hand holding the bottle was lifted        
higher and higher and trembled with the effort. The bottle was              
emptying perceptibly and rising still higher and his head tilting           
yet further back. "Why is it so long?" thought Pierre. It seemed to         
him that more than half an hour had elapsed. Suddenly Dolokhov made         
a backward movement with his spine, and his arm trembled nervously;         
this was sufficient to cause his whole body to slip as he sat on the        
sloping ledge. As he began slipping down, his head and arm wavered          
still more with the strain. One hand moved as if to clutch the              
window sill, but refrained from touching it. Pierre again covered           
his eyes and thought he would never never them again. Suddenly he           
was aware of a stir all around. He looked up: Dolokhov was standing on      
the window sill, with a pale but radiant face.                              
  "It's empty."                                                             
                                                     {BK1|CH9 ^paragraph 45}
  He threw the bottle to the Englishman, who caught it neatly.              
Dolokhov jumped down. He smelt strongly of rum.                             
  "Well done!... Fine fellow!... There's a bet for you!... Devil            
take you!" came from different sides.                                       
  The Englishman took out his purse and began counting out the              
money. Dolokhov stood frowning and did not speak. Pierre jumped upon        
the window sill.                                                            
  "Gentlemen, who wishes to bet with me? I'll do the same thing!" he        
suddenly cried. "Even without a bet, there! Tell them to bring me a         
bottle. I'll do it.... Bring a bottle!"                                     
  "Let him do it, let him do it," said Dolokhov, smiling.                   
                                                     {BK1|CH9 ^paragraph 50}
  "What next? Have you gone mad?... No one would let you!... Why,           
you go giddy even on a staircase," exclaimed several voices.                
  "I'll drink it! Let's have a bottle of rum!" shouted Pierre, banging      
the table with a determined and drunken gesture and preparing to climb      
out of the window.                                                          
  They seized him by his arms; but he was so strong that everyone           
who touched him was sent flying.                                            
  "No, you'll never manage him that way," said Anatole. "Wait a bit         
and I'll get round him.... Listen! I'll take your bet tomorrow, but         
now we are all going to -'s."                                               
  "Come on then," cried Pierre. "Come on!... And we'll take Bruin with      
us."                                                                        
                                                     {BK1|CH9 ^paragraph 55}
  And he caught the bear, took it in his arms, lifted it from the           
ground, and began dancing round the room with it.                           
                                                                            
BK1|CH10                                                                    
  CHAPTER X                                                                 
-                                                                           
  Prince Vasili kept the promise he had given to Princess                   
Drubetskaya who had spoken to him on behalf of her only son Boris on        
the evening of Anna Pavlovna's soiree. The matter was mentioned to the      
Emperor, an exception made, and Boris transferred into the regiment of      
Semenov Guards with the rank of cornet. He received, however, no            
appointment to Kutuzov's staff despite all Anna Mikhaylovna's               
endeavors and entreaties. Soon after Anna Pavlovna's reception Anna         
Mikhaylovna returned to Moscow and went straight to her rich                
relations, the Rostovs, with whom she stayed when in the town and           
where and where her darling Bory, who had only just entered a regiment      
of the line and was being at once transferred to the Guards as a            
cornet, had been educated from childhood and lived for years at a           
time. The Guards had already left 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 Radzivilov.                                            
  It was St. Natalia's day and the name day of two of the Rostovs- the      
mother and the youngest daughter- both named Nataly. Ever since the         
morning, carriages with six horses had been coming and going                
continually, bringing visitors to the Countess Rostova's big house          
on the Povarskaya, so well known to all Moscow. The countess herself        
and her handsome eldest daughter were in the drawing-room with the          
visitors who came to congratulate, and who constantly succeeded one         
another in relays.                                                          
  The countess was a woman of about forty-five, with a thin Oriental        
type of face, evidently worn out with childbearing- she had had             
twelve. A languor of motion and speech, resulting from weakness,            
gave her a distinguished air which inspired respect. Princess Anna          
Mikhaylovna Drubetskaya, who as a member of the household was also          
seated in the drawing room, helped to receive and entertain the             
visitors. The young people were in one of the inner rooms, not              
considering it necessary to take part in receiving the visitors. The        
count met the guests and saw them off, inviting them all to dinner.         
  "I am very, very grateful to you, mon cher," or "ma chere"- he            
called everyone without exception and without the slightest                 
variation in his tone, "my dear," whether they were above or below him      
in rank- "I thank you for myself and for our two dear ones whose            
name day we are keeping. But mind you come to dinner or I shall be          
offended, ma chere! On behalf of the whole family I beg you to come,        
mon cher!" These words he repeated to everyone without exception or         
variation, and with the same expression on his full, cheerful,              
clean-shaven face, the same firm pressure of the hand and the same          
quick, repeated bows. As soon as he had seen a visitor off he 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 Dmitri Vasilevich, a man of good family and the manager of all         
his affairs, and while looking with pleasure at the enormous table          
would say: "Well, Dmitri, you'll see that things are all as they            
should be? That's right! The great thing is the serving, that's it."        
And with a complacent sigh he would return to the drawing room.             
  "Marya Lvovna Karagina and her daughter!" announced the countess'         
gigantic footman in his bass voice, entering the drawing room. The          
countess reflected a moment and took a pinch from a gold snuffbox with      
her husband's portrait on it.                                               
                                                     {BK1|CH10 ^paragraph 5}
  "I'm quite worn out by these callers. However, I'll see her and no        
more. She is so affected. Ask her in," she said to the footman in a         
sad voice, as if saying: "Very well, finish me off."                        
  A tall, stout, and proud-looking woman, with a round-faced smiling        
daughter, entered the drawing room, their dresses rustling.                 
  "Dear Countess, what an age... She has been laid up, poor child...        
at the Razumovski's ball... and Countess Apraksina... I was so              
delighted..." came the sounds of animated feminine voices,                  
interrupting one another and mingling with the rustling of dresses and      
the scraping of chairs. Then one of those conversations began which         
last out until, at the first pause, the guests rise with a rustle of        
dresses and say, "I am so delighted... Mamma's health... and                
Countess Apraksina... and then, again rustling, pass into the               
anteroom, put on cloaks or mantles, and drive away. The conversation        
was on the chief topic of the day: the illness of the wealthy and           
celebrated beau of Catherine's day, Count Bezukhov, and about his           
illegitimate son Pierre, the one who had behaved so improperly at Anna      
Pavlovna's reception.                                                       
  "I am so sorry for the poor count," said the visitor. "He is in such      
bad health, and now this vexation about his son is enough to kill           
him!"                                                                       
  "What is that?" asked the countess as if she did not know what the        
visitor alluded to, though she had already heard about the cause of         
Count Bezukhov's distress some fifteen times.                               
                                                    {BK1|CH10 ^paragraph 10}
  "That's what comes of a modern education," exclaimed the visitor.         
"It seems that while he was abroad this young man was allowed to do as      
he liked, now in Petersburg I hear he has been doing such terrible          
things that he has been expelled by the police."                            
  "You don't say so!" replied the countess.                                 
  "He chose his friends badly," interposed Anna Mikhaylovna. "Prince        
Vasili's son, he, and a certain Dolokhov have, it is said, been up          
to heaven only knows what! And they have had to suffer for it.              
Dolokhov has been degraded to the ranks and Bezukhov's son sent back        
to Moscow. Anatole Kuragin's father managed somehow to get his son's        
affair hushed up, but even he was ordered out of Petersburg."               
  "But what have they been up to?" asked the countess.                      
  "They are regular brigands, especially Dolokhov," replied the             
visitor. "He is a son of Marya Ivanovna Dolokhova, such a worthy            
woman, but there, just fancy! Those three got hold of a bear                
somewhere, put it in a carriage, and set off with it to 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!"                                                     
                                                    {BK1|CH10 ^paragraph 15}
  "What a nice figure the policeman must have cut, my dear!" shouted        
the count, dying with laughter.                                             
  "Oh, how dreadful! How can you laugh at it, Count?"                       
  Yet the ladies themselves could not help laughing.                        
  "It was all they could do to rescue the poor man," continued the          
visitor. "And to think it is Cyril Vladimirovich Bezukhov's son who         
amuses himself in this sensible manner! And he was said to be so            
well educated and clever. This is all that his foreign education has        
done for him! I hope that here in Moscow no one will receive him, in        
spite of his money. They wanted to introduce him to me, but I quite         
declined: I have my daughters to consider."                                 
  "Why do you say this young man is so rich?" asked the countess,           
turning away from the girls, who at once assumed an air of                  
inattention. "His children are all illegitimate. I think Pierre also        
is illegitimate."                                                           
                                                    {BK1|CH10 ^paragraph 20}
  The visitor made a gesture with her hand.                                 
  "I should think he has a score of them."                                  
  Princess Anna Mikhaylovna intervened in the conversation,                 
evidently wishing to show her connections and knowledge of what went        
on in society.                                                              
  "The fact of the matter is," said she significantly, and also in a        
half whisper, "everyone knows Count Cyril's reputation.... He has lost      
count of his children, but this Pierre was his favorite."                   
  "How handsome the old man still was only a year ago!" remarked the        
countess. "I have never seen a handsomer man."                              
                                                    {BK1|CH10 ^paragraph 25}
  "He is very much altered now," said Anna Mikhaylovna. "Well, as I         
was saying, Prince Vasili is the next heir through his wife, but the        
count is very fond of Pierre, looked after his education, and wrote to      
the Emperor about him; so that in the case of his death- and he is          
so ill that he may die at any moment, and Dr. Lorrain has come from         
Petersburg- no one knows who will inherit his immense fortune,              
Pierre or Prince Vasili. Forty thousand serfs and millions of               
rubles! I know it all very well for Prince Vasili told me himself.          
Besides, Cyril Vladimirovich is my mother's second cousin. He's also        
my Bory's godfather," she added, as if she attached no importance at        
all to the fact.                                                            
  "Prince Vasili arrived in Moscow yesterday. I hear he has come on         
some inspection business," remarked the visitor.                            
  "Yes, but between ourselves," said the princess, that is a                
pretext. The fact is he has come to see Count Cyril Vladimirovich,          
hearing how ill he is."                                                     
  "But do you know, my dear, that was a capital joke," said the count;      
and seeing that the elder visitor was not listening, he turned to           
the young ladies. "I can just imagine what a funny figure that              
policeman cut!"                                                             
  And as he waved his arms to impersonate the policeman, his portly         
form again shook with a deep ringing laugh, the laugh of one who            
always eats well and, in particular, drinks well. "So do come and dine      
with us!" he said.                                                          
                                                                            
BK1|CH11                                                                    
  CHAPTER XI                                                                
-                                                                           
  Silence ensued. The countess looked at her callers, smiling affably,      
but not concealing the fact that she would not be distressed if they        
now rose and took their leave. The visitor's daughter was already           
smoothing down her dress with an inquiring look at her mother, when         
suddenly from the next room were heard the footsteps of boys and girls      
running to the door and the noise of a chair falling over, and a            
girl of thirteen, hiding something in the folds of her short muslin         
frock, darted in and stopped short in the middle of the room. It was        
evident that she had not intended her flight to bring her so far.           
Behind her in the doorway appeared a student with a crimson coat            
collar, an officer of the Guards, a girl of fifteen, and a plump            
rosy-faced boy in a short jacket.                                           
  The count jumped up and, swaying from side to side, spread his            
arms wide and threw them round the little girl who had run in.              
  "Ah, here she is!" he exclaimed laughing. "My pet, whose name day it      
is. My dear pet!"                                                           
  "Ma chere, there is a time for everything," said the countess with        
feigned severity. "You spoil her, Ilya," she added, turning to her          
husband.                                                                    
  "How do you do, my dear? I wish you many happy returns of your            
name day," said the visitor. "What a charming child," she added,            
addressing the mother.                                                      
                                                     {BK1|CH11 ^paragraph 5}
  This black-eyed, wide-mouthed girl, not pretty but full of life-          
with childish bare shoulders which after her run heaved and shook           
her bodice, with black curls tossed backward, thin bare arms, little        
legs in lace-frilled drawers, and feet in low slippers- was just at         
that charming age when a girl is no longer a child, though the child        
is not yet a young woman. Escaping from her father she ran to hide her      
flushed face in the lace of her mother's mantilla- not paying the           
least attention to her severe remark- and began to laugh. She laughed,      
and in fragmentary sentences tried to explain about a doll which she        
produced from the folds of her frock.                                       
  "Do you see?... My doll... Mimi... You see..." was all Natasha            
managed to utter (to her everything seemed funny). She leaned               
against her mother and burst into such a loud, ringing fit of laughter      
that even the prim visitor could not help joining in.                       
  "Now then, go away and take your monstrosity with you," said the          
mother, pushing away her daughter with pretended sternness, and             
turning to the visitor she added: "She is my youngest girl."                
  Natasha, raising her face for a moment from her mother's mantilla,        
glanced up at her through tears of laughter, and again hid her face.        
  The visitor, compelled to look on at this family scene, thought it        
necessary to take some part in it.                                          
                                                    {BK1|CH11 ^paragraph 10}
  "Tell me, my dear," said she to Natasha, "is Mimi a relation of           
yours? A daughter, I suppose?"                                              
  Natasha did not like the visitor's tone of condescension to childish      
things. She did not reply, but looked at her seriously.                     
  Meanwhile the younger generation: Boris, the officer, Anna                
Mikhaylovna's son; Nicholas, the undergraduate, the count's eldest          
son; Sonya, the count's fifteen-year-old niece, and little Petya,           
his youngest boy, had all settled down in the drawing room and were         
obviously trying to restrain within the bounds of decorum the               
excitement and mirth that shone in all their faces. Evidently in the        
back rooms, from which they had dashed out so impetuously, the              
conversation had been more amusing than the drawing-room talk of            
society scandals, the weather, and Countess Apraksina. Now and then         
they glanced at one another, hardly able to suppress their laughter.        
  The two young men, the student and the officer, friends from              
childhood, were of the same age and both handsome fellows, though           
not alike. Boris was tall and fair, and his calm and handsome face had      
regular, delicate features. Nicholas was short with curly hair and          
an open expression. Dark hairs were already showing on his upper            
lip, and his whole face expressed impetuosity and enthusiasm. Nicholas      
blushed when he entered the drawing room. He evidently tried to find        
something to say, but failed. Boris on the contrary at once found           
his footing, and related quietly and humorously how he had know that        
doll Mimi when she was still quite a young lady, before her nose was        
broken; how she had aged during the five years he had known her, and        
how her head had cracked right across the skull. Having said this he        
glanced at Natasha. She turned away from him and glanced at her             
younger brother, who was screwing up his eyes and shaking with              
suppressed laughter, and unable to control herself any longer, she          
jumped up and rushed from the room as fast as her nimble little feet        
would carry her. Boris did not laugh.                                       
  "You were meaning to go out, weren't you, Mamma? Do you want the          
carriage?" he asked his mother with a smile.                                
                                                    {BK1|CH11 ^paragraph 15}
  "Yes, yes, go and tell them to get it ready," she answered,               
returning his smile.                                                        
  Boris quietly left the room and went in search of Natasha. The plump      
boy ran after them angrily, as if vexed that their program had been         
disturbed.                                                                  
                                                                            
BK1|CH12                                                                    
  CHAPTER XII                                                               
-                                                                           
  The only young people remaining in the drawing room, not counting         
the young lady visitor and the countess' eldest daughter (who was four      
years older than her sister and behaved already like a grown-up             
person), were Nicholas and Sonya, the niece. Sonya was a slender            
little brunette with a tender look in her eyes which were veiled by         
long lashes, thick black plaits coiling twice round her head, and a         
tawny tint in her complexion and especially in the color of her             
slender but graceful and muscular arms and neck. By the grace of her        
movements, by the softness and flexibility of her small limbs, and          
by a certain coyness and reserve of manner, she reminded one of a           
pretty, half-grown kitten which promises to become a beautiful              
little cat. She evidently considered it proper to show an interest          
in the general conversation by smiling, but in spite of herself her         
eyes under their thick long lashes watched her cousin who was going to      
join the army, with such passionate girlish adoration that her smile        
could not for a single instant impose upon anyone, and it was clear         
that the kitten had settled down only to spring up with more energy         
and again play with her cousin as soon as they too could, like Natasha      
and Boris, escape from the drawing room.                                    
  "Ah yes, my dear," said the count, addressing the visitor and             
pointing to Nicholas, "his friend Boris has become an officer, and          
so for friendship's sake he is leaving the university and me, his           
old father, and entering the military service, my dear. And there           
was a place and everything waiting for him in the Archives Department!      
Isn't that friendship?" remarked the count in an inquiring tone.            
  "But they say that war has been declared," replied the visitor.           
  "They've been saying so a long while," said the count, "and               
they'll say so again and again, and that will be the end of it. My          
dear, there's friendship for you," he repeated. "He's joining the           
hussars."                                                                   
  The visitor, not knowing what to say, shook her head.                     
                                                     {BK1|CH12 ^paragraph 5}
  "It's not at all from friendship," declared Nicholas, flaring up and      
turning away as if from a shameful aspersion. "It is not from               
friendship at all; I simply feel that the army is my vocation."             
  He glanced at his cousin and the young lady visitor; and they were        
both regarding him with a smile of approbation.                             
  "Schubert, the colonel of the Pavlograd Hussars, is dining with us        
today. He has been here on leave and is taking Nicholas back with him.      
It can't be helped!" said the count, shrugging his shoulders and            
speaking playfully of a matter that evidently distressed him.               
  "I have already told you, Papa," said his son, "that if you don't         
wish to let me go, I'll stay. But I know I am no use anywhere except        
in the army; I am not a diplomat or a government clerk.- I don't            
know how to hide what I feel." As he spoke he kept glancing with the        
flirtatiousness of a handsome youth at Sonya and the young lady             
visitor.                                                                    
  The little kitten, feasting her eyes on him, seemed ready at any          
moment to start her gambols again and display her kittenish nature.         
                                                    {BK1|CH12 ^paragraph 10}
  "All right, all right!" said the old count. "He always flares up!         
This Buonaparte has turned all their heads; they all think of how he        
rose from an ensign and became Emperor. Well, well, God grant it,"          
he added, not noticing his visitor's sarcastic smile.                       
  The elders began talking about Bonaparte. Julie Karagina turned to        
young Rostov.                                                               
  "What a pity you weren't at the Arkharovs' on Thursday. It was so         
dull without you," said she, giving him a tender smile.                     
  The young man, flattered, sat down nearer to her with a coquettish        
smile, and engaged the smiling Julie in a confidential conversation         
without at all noticing that his involuntary smile had stabbed the          
heart of Sonya, who blushed and smiled unnaturally. In the midst of         
his talk he glanced round at her. She gave him a passionately angry         
glance, and hardly able to restrain her tears and maintain the              
artificial smile on her lips, she got up and left the room. All             
Nicholas' animation vanished. He waited for the first pause in the          
conversation, and then with a distressed face left the room to find         
Sonya.                                                                      
  "How plainly all these young people wear their hearts on their            
sleeves!" said Anna Mikhaylovna, pointing to Nicholas as he went            
out. "Cousinage- dangereux voisinage;"* she added.                          
                                                    {BK1|CH12 ^paragraph 15}
-                                                                           
  *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.                
                                                    {BK1|CH12 ^paragraph 20}
  "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."                                                      
                                                    {BK1|CH12 ^paragraph 25}
  "Oh no, not at all too young!" replied the count. "Why, our               
mothers used to be married at twelve or thirteen."                          
  "And she's in love with Boris already. Just fancy!" said the              
countess with a gentle smile, looking at Boris' and went on, evidently      
concerned with a thought that always occupied her: "Now you see if I        
were to be severe with her and to forbid it... goodness knows what          
they might be up to on the sly" (she meant that they would be               
kissing), "but as it is, I know every word she utters. She will come        
running to me of her own 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 Vera, with a smile.                                
  But the smile did not enhance Vera's beauty as smiles generally           
do; on the contrary it gave her an unnatural, and therefore                 
unpleasant, expression. Vera was good-looking, not at all stupid,           
quick at learning, was well brought up, and had a pleasant voice; what      
she said was true and appropriate, yet, strange to say, everyone-           
the visitors and countess alike- turned to look at her as if wondering      
why she had said it, and they all felt awkward.                             
  "People are always too clever with their eldest children and try          
to make something exceptional of them," said the visitor.                   
                                                    {BK1|CH12 ^paragraph 30}
  "What's the good of denying it, my dear? Our dear countess was too        
clever with Vera," said the count. "Well, what of that? She's turned        
out splendidly all the same," he added, winking at Vera.                    
  The guests got up and took their leave, promising to return to            
dinner.                                                                     
  "What manners! I thought they would never go," said the countess,         
when she had seen her guests out.                                           
                                                                            
BK1|CH13                                                                    
  CHAPTER XIII                                                              
-                                                                           
  When Natasha 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 Boris to come out. She was already         
growing impatient, and stamped her foot, ready to cry at his not            
coming at once, when she heard the young man's discreet steps               
approaching neither quickly nor slowly. At this Natasha dashed swiftly      
among the flower tubs and hid there.                                        
  Boris paused in the middle of the room, looked round, brushed a           
little dust from the sleeve of his uniform, and going up to a mirror        
examined his handsome face. Natasha, very still, peered out from her        
ambush, waiting to see what he would do. He stood a little while            
before the glass, smiled, and walked toward the other door. Natasha         
was about to call him but changed her mind. "Let him look for me,"          
thought she. Hardly had Boris gone than Sonya, flushed, in tears,           
and muttering angrily, came in at the other door. Natasha checked           
her first impulse to run out to her, and remained in her hiding place,      
watching- as under an invisible cap- to see what went on in the world.      
She was experiencing a new and peculiar pleasure. Sonya, muttering          
to herself, kept looking round toward the drawing-room door. It opened      
and Nicholas came in.                                                       
  "Sonya, what is the matter with you? How can you?" said he,               
running up to her.                                                          
  "It's nothing, nothing; leave me alone!" sobbed Sonya.                    
  "Ah, I know what it is."                                                  
                                                     {BK1|CH13 ^paragraph 5}
  "Well, if you do, so much the better, and you can go back to her!"        
  "So-o-onya! Look here! How can you torture me and yourself like           
that, for a mere fancy?" said Nicholas taking her hand.                     
  Sonya did not pull it away, and left off crying. Natasha, not             
stirring and scarcely breathing, watched from her ambush with               
sparkling eyes. "What will happen now?" thought she.                        
  "Sonya! What is anyone in the world to me? You alone are                  
everything!" said Nicholas. "And I will prove it to you."                   
  "I don't like you to talk like that."                                     
                                                    {BK1|CH13 ^paragraph 10}
  "Well, then, I won't; only forgive me, Sonya!" He drew her to him         
and kissed her.                                                             
  "Oh, how nice," thought Natasha; and when Sonya and Nicholas had          
gone out of the conservatory she followed and called Boris to her.          
  "Boris, come here," said she with a sly and significant look. "I          
have something to tell you. Here, here!" and she led him into the           
conservatory to the place among the tubs where she had been hiding.         
  Boris followed her, smiling.                                              
  "What is the something?" asked he.                                        
                                                    {BK1|CH13 ^paragraph 15}
  She grew confused, glanced round, and, seeing the doll she had            
thrown down on one of the tubs, picked it up.                               
  "Kiss the doll," said she.                                                
  Boris looked attentively and kindly at her eager face, but did not        
reply.                                                                      
  "Don't you want to? Well, then, come here," said she, and went            
further in among the plants and threw down the doll. "Closer, closer!"      
she whispered.                                                              
  She caught the young officer by his cuffs, and a look of solemnity        
and fear appeared on her flushed face.                                      
                                                    {BK1|CH13 ^paragraph 20}
  "And me? Would you like to kiss me?" she whispered almost inaudibly,      
glancing up at him from under her brows, smiling, and almost crying         
from excitement.                                                            
  Boris blushed.                                                            
  "How funny you are!" he said, bending down to her and blushing still      
more, but he waited and did nothing.                                        
  Suddenly she jumped up onto a tub to be higher than he, embraced him      
so that both her slender bare arms clasped him above his neck, and,         
tossing back her hair, kissed him full on the lips.                         
  Then she slipped down among the flowerpots on the other side of           
the tubs and stood, hanging her head.                                       
                                                    {BK1|CH13 ^paragraph 25}
  "Natasha," he said, "you know that I love you, but..."                    
  "You are in love with me?" Natasha broke in.                              
  "Yes, I am, but please don't let us do like that.... In another four      
years... then I will ask for your hand."                                    
  Natasha considered.                                                       
  "Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen," she counted on her slender        
little fingers. "All right! Then it's settled?"                             
                                                    {BK1|CH13 ^paragraph 30}
  A smile of joy and satisfaction lit up her eager face.                    
  "Settled!" replied Boris.                                                 
  "Forever?" said the little girl. "Till death itself?"                     
  She took his arm and with a happy face went with him into the             
adjoining sitting room.                                                     
                                                                            
BK1|CH14                                                                    
  CHAPTER XIV                                                               
-                                                                           
  After receiving her visitors, the countess was so tired that she          
gave orders to admit no more, but the porter was told to be sure to         
invite to dinner all who came "to congratulate." The countess wished        
to have a tete-a-tete talk with the friend of her childhood,                
Princess Anna Mikhaylovna, whom she had not seen properly since she         
returned from Petersburg. Anna Mikhaylovna, with her tear-worn but          
pleasant face, drew her chair nearer to that of the countess.               
  "With you I will be quite frank," said Anna Mikhaylovna. "There           
are not many left of us old friends! That's why I so value your             
friendship."                                                                
  Anna Mikhaylovna looked at Vera and paused. The countess pressed her      
friend's hand.                                                              
  "Vera," she said to her eldest daughter who was evidently not a           
favorite, "how is it you have so little tact? Don't you see you are         
not wanted here? Go to the other girls, or..."                              
  The handsome Vera smiled contemptuously but did not seem at all           
hurt.                                                                       
                                                     {BK1|CH14 ^paragraph 5}
  "If you had told me sooner, Mamma, I would have gone," she replied        
as she rose to go to her own room.                                          
  But as she passed the sitting room she noticed two couples                
sitting, one pair at each window. She stopped and smiled scornfully.        
Sonya was sitting close to Nicholas who was copying out some verses         
for her, the first he had ever written. Boris and Natasha were at           
the other window and ceased talking when Vera entered. Sonya and            
Natasha looked at Vera with guilty, happy faces.                            
  It was pleasant and touching to see these little girls in love;           
but apparently the sight of them roused no pleasant feeling in Vera.        
  "How often have I asked you not to take my things?" she said. "You        
have a room of your own," and she took the inkstand from Nicholas.          
  "In a minute, in a minute," he said, dipping his pen.                     
                                                    {BK1|CH14 ^paragraph 10}
  "You always manage to do things at the wrong time," continued             
Vera. "You came rushing into the drawing room so that everyone felt         
ashamed of you."                                                            
  Though what she said was quite just, perhaps for that very reason no      
one replied, and the four simply looked at one another. She lingered        
in the room with the inkstand in her hand.                                  
  "And at your age what secrets can there be between Natasha and            
Boris, or between you two? It's all nonsense!"                              
  "Now, Vera, what does it matter to you?" said Natasha in defense,         
speaking very gently.                                                       
  She seemed that day to be more than ever kind and affectionate to         
everyone.                                                                   
                                                    {BK1|CH14 ^paragraph 15}
  "Very silly," said Vera. "I am ashamed of you. Secrets indeed!"           
  "All have secrets of their own," answered Natasha, getting warmer.        
"We don't interfere with you and Berg."                                     
  "I should think not," said Vera, "because there can never be              
anything wrong in my behavior. But I'll just tell Mamma how you are         
behaving with Boris."                                                       
  "Natalya Ilynichna behaves very well to me," remarked Boris. "I have      
nothing to complain of."                                                    
  "Don't, Boris! You are such a diplomat that it is really                  
tiresome," said Natasha in a mortified voice that trembled slightly.        
(She used the word "diplomat," which was just then much in vogue among      
the children, in the special sense they attached to it.) "Why does she      
bother me?" And she added, turning to Vera, "You'll never understand        
it, because you've never loved anyone. You have no heart! You are a         
Madame de Genlis and nothing more" (this nickname, bestowed on Vera by      
Nicholas, was considered very stinging), "and your greatest pleasure        
is to be unpleasant to people! Go and flirt with Berg as much as you        
please," she finished quickly.                                              
                                                    {BK1|CH14 ^paragraph 20}
  "I shall at any rate not run after a young man before visitors..."        
  "Well, now you've done what you wanted," put in Nicholas- "said           
unpleasant things to everyone and upset them. Let's go to the               
nursery."                                                                   
  All four, like a flock of scared birds, got up and left the room.         
  "The unpleasant things were said to me," remarked Vera, "I said none      
to anyone."                                                                 
  "Madame de Genlis! Madame de Genlis!" shouted laughing voices             
through the door.                                                           
                                                    {BK1|CH14 ^paragraph 25}
  The handsome Vera, who produced such an irritating and unpleasant         
effect on everyone, smiled and, evidently unmoved by what had been          
said to her, went to the looking glass and arranged her hair and            
scarf. Looking at her own handsome face she seemed to become still          
colder and calmer.                                                          
-                                                                           
  In the drawing room the conversation was still going on.                  
  "Ah, my dear," said the countess, "my life is not all roses               
either. Don't I know that at the rate we are living our means won't         
last long? It's all the Club and his easygoing nature. Even in the          
country do we get any rest? Theatricals, hunting, and heaven knows          
what besides! But don't let's talk about me; tell me how you managed        
everything. I often wonder at you, Annette- how at your age you can         
rush off alone in a carriage to Moscow, to Petersburg, to those             
ministers and great people, and know how to deal with them all! It's        
quite astonishing. How did you get things settled? I couldn't possibly      
do it."                                                                     
  "Ah, my love," answered Anna Mikhaylovna, "God grant you never            
know what it is to be left a widow without means and with a son you         
love to distraction! One learns many things then," she added with a         
certain pride. "That lawsuit taught me much. When I want to see one of      
those big people I write a note: 'Princess So-and-So desires an             
interview with So and-So,' and then I take a cab and go myself two,         
three, or four times- till I get what I want. I don't mind what they        
think of me."                                                               
                                                    {BK1|CH14 ^paragraph 30}
  "Well, and to whom did you apply about Bory?" asked the countess.         
"You see yours is already an officer in the Guards, while my                
Nicholas is going as a cadet. There's no one to interest himself for        
him. To whom did you apply?"                                                
  "To Prince Vasili. He was so kind. He at once agreed to                   
everything, and put the matter before the Emperor," said Princess Anna      
Mikhaylovna enthusiastically, quite forgetting all the humiliation she      
had endured to gain her end.                                                
  "Has Prince Vasili aged much?" asked the countess. "I have not            
seen him since we acted together at the Rumyantsovs' theatricals. I         
expect he has forgotten me. He paid me attentions in those days," said      
the countess, with a smile.                                                 
  "He is just the same as ever," replied Anna Mikhaylovna,                  
"overflowing with amiability. His position has not turned his head          
at all. He said to me, 'I am sorry I can do so little for you, dear         
Princess. I am at your command.' Yes, he is a fine fellow and a very        
kind relation. But, Nataly, you know my love for my son: I would do         
anything for his happiness! And my affairs are in such a bad way            
that my position is now a terrible one," continued Anna Mikhaylovna,        
sadly, dropping her voice. "My wretched lawsuit takes all I have and        
makes no progress. Would you believe it, I have literally not a             
penny and don't know how to equip Boris." She took out her                  
handkerchief and began to cry. "I need five hundred rubles, and have        
only one twenty-five-ruble note. I am in such a state.... My only hope      
now is in Count Cyril Vladimirovich Bezukhov. If he will not assist         
his godson- you know he is Bory's godfather- and allow him something        
for his maintenance, all my trouble will have been thrown away.... I        
shall not be able to equip him."                                            
  The countess' eyes filled with tears and she pondered in silence.         
                                                    {BK1|CH14 ^paragraph 35}
  "I often think, though, perhaps it's a sin," said the princess,           
"that here lives Count Cyril Vladimirovich Bezukhov so rich, all            
alone... that tremendous fortune... and what is his life worth? It's a      
burden to him, and Bory's life is only just beginning...."                  
  "Surely he will leave something to Boris," said the countess.             
  "Heaven only knows, my dear! These rich grandees are so selfish.          
Still, I will take Boris and go to see him at once, and I shall             
speak to him straight out. Let people think what they will of me, it's      
really all the same to me when my son's fate is at stake." The              
princess rose. "It's now two o'clock and you dine at four. There            
will just be time."                                                         
  And like a practical Petersburg lady who knows how to make the            
most of time, Anna Mikhaylovna sent someone to call her son, and            
went into the anteroom with him.                                            
  "Good-by, my dear," said she to the countess who saw her to the           
door, and added in a whisper so that her son should not hear, "Wish me      
good luck."                                                                 
                                                    {BK1|CH14 ^paragraph 40}
  "Are you going to Count Cyril Vladimirovich, my dear?" said the           
count coming out from the dining hall into the anteroom, and he added:      
"If he is better, ask Pierre to dine with us. He has been to the            
house, you know, and danced with the children. Be sure to invite            
him, my dear. We will see how Taras distinguishes himself today. He         
says Count Orlov never gave such a dinner as ours will be!"                 
                                                                            
BK1|CH15                                                                    
  CHAPTER XV                                                                
-                                                                           
  "My dear Boris," said Princess Anna Mikhaylovna to her son as             
Countess Rostova's carriage in which they were seated drove over the        
straw covered street and turned into the wide courtyard of Count Cyril      
Vladimirovich Bezukhov's house. "My dear Boris," said the mother,           
drawing her hand from beneath her old mantle and laying it timidly and      
tenderly on her son's arm, "be affectionate and attentive to him.           
Count Cyril Vladimirovich is your godfather after all, your future          
depends on him. Remember that, my dear, and be nice to him, as you          
so well know how to be."                                                    
  "If only I knew that anything besides humiliation would come of           
it..." answered her son coldly. "But I have promised and will do it         
for your sake."                                                             
  Although the hall porter saw someone's carriage standing at the           
entrance, after scrutinizing the mother and son (who without asking to      
be announced had passed straight through the glass porch between the        
rows of statues in niches) and looking significantly at the lady's old      
cloak, he asked whether they wanted the count or the princesses,            
and, hearing that they wished to see the count, said his excellency         
was worse today, and that his excellency was not receiving anyone.          
  "We may as well go back," said the son in French.                         
  "My dear!" exclaimed his mother imploringly, again laying her hand        
on his arm as if that touch might soothe or rouse him.                      
                                                     {BK1|CH15 ^paragraph 5}
  Boris said no more, but looked inquiringly at his mother without          
taking off his cloak.                                                       
  "My friend," said Anna Mikhaylovna in gentle tones, addressing the        
hall porter, I know Count Cyril Vladimirovich is very ill... that's         
why I have come... I am a relation. I shall not disturb him, my             
friend... I only need see Prince Vasili Sergeevich: he is staying           
here, is he not? Please announce me."                                       
  The hall porter sullenly pulled a bell that rang upstairs, and            
turned away.                                                                
  "Princess Drubetskaya to see Prince Vasili Sergeevich," he called to      
a footman dressed in knee breeches, shoes, and a swallow-tail coat,         
who ran downstairs and looked over from the halfway landing.                
  The mother smoothed the folds of her dyed silk dress before a             
large Venetian mirror in the wall, and in her trodden-down shoes            
briskly ascended the carpeted stairs.                                       
                                                    {BK1|CH15 ^paragraph 10}
  "My dear," she said to her son, once more stimulating him by a            
touch, "you promised me!"                                                   
  The son, lowering his eyes, followed her quietly.                         
  They entered the large hall, from which one of the doors led to           
the apartments assigned to Prince Vasili.                                   
  Just as the mother and son, having reached the middle of the hall,        
were about to ask their way of an elderly footman who had sprung up as      
they entered, the bronze handle of one of the doors turned and              
Prince Vasili came out- wearing a velvet coat with a single star on         
his breast, as was his custom when at home- taking leave of a               
good-looking, dark-haired man. This was the celebrated Petersburg           
doctor, Lorrain.                                                            
  "Then it is certain?" said the prince.                                    
                                                    {BK1|CH15 ^paragraph 15}
  "Prince, humanum est errare,* but..." replied the doctor, swallowing      
his r's, and pronouncing the Latin words with a French accent.              
-                                                                           
  *To err is human.                                                         
-                                                                           
  "Very well, very well..."                                                 
                                                    {BK1|CH15 ^paragraph 20}
  Seeing Anna Mikhaylovna and her son, Prince Vasili 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 Vasili stared at her and at Boris questioningly and                
perplexed. Boris bowed politely. Prince Vasili without acknowledging        
the bow turned to Anna Mikhaylovna, answering her query by a                
movement of the head and lips indicating very little hope for the           
patient.                                                                    
  "Is it possible?" exclaimed Anna Mikhaylovna. "Oh, how awful! It          
is terrible to think.... This is my son," she added, indicating Boris.      
"He wanted to thank you himself."                                           
  Boris bowed again politely.                                               
                                                    {BK1|CH15 ^paragraph 25}
  "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                   
Mikhaylovna," said Prince Vasili, arranging his lace frill, and in          
tone and manner, here in Moscow to Anna Mikhaylovna whom he had placed      
under an obligation, assuming an air of much greater importance than        
he had done in Petersburg at Anna Scherer's reception.                      
  "Try to serve well and show yourself worthy," added he, addressing        
Boris with severity. "I am glad.... Are you here on leave?" he went on      
in his usual tone of indifference.                                          
  "I am awaiting orders to join my new regiment, your excellency,"          
replied Boris, 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?"                                        
                                                    {BK1|CH15 ^paragraph 30}
  "I am living at Countess Rostova's," replied Boris, again adding,         
"your excellency."                                                          
  "That is, with Ilya Rostov who married Nataly Shinshina," said            
Anna Mikhaylovna.                                                           
  "I know, I know," answered Prince Vasili in his monotonous voice. "I      
never could understand how Nataly made up her mind to marry that            
unlicked bear! A perfectly absurd and stupid fellow, and a gambler          
too, I am told."                                                            
  "But a very kind man, Prince," said Anna Mikhaylovna with a pathetic      
smile, as though she too knew that Count Rostov deserved this censure,      
but asked him not to be too hard on the poor old man. "What do the          
doctors say?" asked the princess after a pause, her worn face again         
expressing deep sorrow.                                                     
  "They give little hope," replied the prince.                              
                                                    {BK1|CH15 ^paragraph 35}
  "And I should so like to thank Uncle once for all his kindness to me      
and Boris. He is his godson," she added, her tone suggesting that this      
fact ought to give Prince Vasili much satisfaction.                         
  Prince Vasili became thoughtful and frowned. Anna Mikhaylovna saw         
that he was afraid of finding in her a rival for Count Bezukhov's           
fortune, and hastened to reassure him.                                      
  "If it were not for my sincere affection and devotion to Uncle,"          
said she, uttering the word with peculiar assurance and unconcern,          
"I know his character: noble, upright... but you see he has no one          
with him except the young princesses.... They are still young...." She      
bent her head and continued in a whisper: "Has he performed his             
final duty, Prince? How 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 Pavlovna's, that it would be difficult to get rid          
of Anna Mikhaylovna.                                                        
  "Would not such a meeting be too trying for him, dear Anna                
Mikhaylovna?" said he. "Let us wait until evening. The doctors are          
expecting a crisis."                                                        
                                                    {BK1|CH15 ^paragraph 40}
  "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         
Vasili turned to her.                                                       
  "Well, how is he?"                                                        
  "Still the same; but what can you expect, this noise..." said the         
princess, looking at Anna Mikhaylovna as at a stranger.                     
  "Ah, my dear, I hardly knew you," said Anna Mikhaylovna with a happy      
smile, ambling lightly up to the count's niece. "I have come, and am        
at your service to help you nurse my uncle. I imagine what you have         
gone through," and she sympathetically turned up her eyes.                  
                                                    {BK1|CH15 ^paragraph 45}
  The princess gave no reply and did not even smile, but left the room      
at Anna Mikhaylovna took off her gloves and, occupying the position         
she had conquered, settled down in an armchair, inviting Prince Vasili      
to take a seat beside her.                                                  
  "Boris," she said to her son with a smile, "I shall go in to see the      
count, my uncle; but you, my dear, had better go to Pierre meanwhile        
and don't forget to give him the Rostovs' 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 Boris down one flight      
of stairs and up another, to Pierre's rooms.                                
                                                                            
BK1|CH16                                                                    
  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 Rostov's was true.        
Pierre had taken part in tying a policeman to a bear. He had now            
been for some days in Moscow and was staying as usual at his                
father's house. Though he expected that the story of his escapade           
would be already known in Moscow and that the ladies about his father-      
who were never favorably disposed toward him- would have used it to         
turn the count against him, he nevertheless on the day of his               
arrival went to his father's part of the house. Entering the drawing        
room, where the princesses spent most of their time, he greeted the         
ladies, two of whom were sitting at embroidery frames while a third         
read aloud. It was the eldest who was reading- the one who had met          
Anna Mikhaylovna. The two younger ones were embroidering: both were         
rosy and pretty and they differed only in that one had a little mole        
on her lip which made her much prettier. Pierre was received as if          
he were a corpse or a leper. The eldest princess paused in her reading      
and silently stared at him with frightened eyes; the second assumed         
precisely the same expression; while the youngest, the one with the         
mole, who was of a cheerful and lively disposition, bent over her           
frame to hide a smile probably evoked by the amusing scene she              
foresaw. She drew her wool down through the canvas and, scarcely            
able to refrain from laughing, stooped as if trying to make out the         
pattern.                                                                    
  "How do you do, cousin?" said Pierre. "You don't recognize me?"           
  "I recognize you only too well, too well."                                
  "How is the count? Can I see him?" asked Pierre, awkwardly as usual,      
but unabashed.                                                              
  "The count is suffering physically and mentally, and apparently           
you have done your best to increase his mental sufferings."                 
                                                     {BK1|CH16 ^paragraph 5}
  "Can I see the count?" Pierre again asked.                                
  "Hm.... If you wish to kill him, to kill him outright, you can see        
him... Olga, go and see whether Uncle's beef tea is ready- it is            
almost time," she added, giving Pierre to understand that they were         
busy, and busy making his father comfortable, while evidently he,           
Pierre, was only busy causing him annoyance.                                
  Olga went out. Pierre stood looking at the sisters; then he bowed         
and said: "Then I will go to my rooms. You will let me know when I can      
see him."                                                                   
  And he left the room, followed by the low but ringing laughter of         
the sister with the mole.                                                   
  Next day Prince Vasili had arrived and settled in the count's house.      
He sent for Pierre and said to him: "My dear fellow, if you are             
going to behave here as you did in Petersburg, you will end very            
badly; that is all I have to say to you. The count is very, very            
ill, and you must not see him at all."                                      
                                                    {BK1|CH16 ^paragraph 10}
  Since then Pierre had not been disturbed and had spent the whole          
time in his rooms upstairs.                                                 
  When Boris appeared at his door Pierre was pacing up and down his         
room, stopping occasionally at a corner to make menacing gestures at        
the wall, as if running a sword through an invisible foe, and               
glaring savagely over his spectacles, and then again resuming his           
walk, muttering indistinct words, shrugging his shoulders and               
gesticulating.                                                              
  "England is done for," said he, scowling and pointing his finger          
at someone unseen. "Mr. Pitt, as a traitor to the nation and to the         
rights of man, is sentenced to..." But before Pierre- who at that           
moment imagined himself to be Napoleon in person and to have just           
effected the dangerous crossing of the Straits of Dover and captured        
London- could pronounce Pitt's sentence, he saw a well-built and            
handsome young officer entering his room. Pierre paused. He had left        
Moscow when Boris was a boy of fourteen, and had quite forgotten            
him, but in his usual impulsive and hearty way he took Boris by the         
hand with a friendly smile.                                                 
  "Do you remember me?" asked Boris quietly with a pleasant smile.          
"I have come with my mother to see the count, but it seems he is not        
well."                                                                      
  "Yes, it seems he is ill. People are always disturbing him,"              
answered Pierre, trying to remember who this young man was.                 
                                                    {BK1|CH16 ^paragraph 15}
  Boris felt that Pierre did not recognize him but did not consider it      
necessary to introduce himself, and without experiencing the least          
embarrassment looked Pierre straight in the face.                           
  "Count Rostov asks you to come to dinner today," said he, after a         
considerable pause which made Pierre feel uncomfortable.                    
  "Ah, Count Rostov!" exclaimed Pierre joyfully. "Then you are his          
son, Ilya? Only fancy, I didn't know you at first. Do you remember how      
we went to the Sparrow Hills with Madame Jacquot?... It's such an           
age..."                                                                     
  "You are mistaken," said Boris deliberately, with a bold and              
slightly sarcastic smile. "I am Boris, son of Princess Anna                 
Mikhaylovna Drubetskaya. Rostov, the father, is Ilya, and his son is        
Nicholas. I never knew any Madame Jacquot."                                 
  Pierre shook his head and arms as if attacked by mosquitoes or bees.      
                                                    {BK1|CH16 ^paragraph 20}
  "Oh dear, what am I thinking about? I've mixed everything up. One         
has so many relatives in Moscow! So you are Boris? Of course. Well,         
now we know where we are. And what do you think of the Boulogne             
expedition? The English will come off badly, you know, if Napoleon          
gets across the Channel. I think the expedition is quite feasible.          
If only Villeneuve doesn't make a mess of things!                           
  Boris knew nothing about the Boulogne expedition; he did not read         
the papers and it was the first time he had heard Villeneuve's name.        
  "We here in Moscow are more occupied with dinner parties and scandal      
than with politics," said he in his quiet ironical tone. "I know            
nothing about it and have not thought about it. Moscow is chiefly busy      
with gossip," he continued. "Just now they are talking about you and        
your father."                                                               
  Pierre smiled in his good-natured way as if afraid for his                
companion's sake that the latter might say something he would               
afterwards regret. But Boris spoke distinctly, clearly, and dryly,          
looking straight into Pierre's eyes.                                        
  "Moscow has nothing else to do but gossip," Boris went on.                
"Everybody is wondering to whom the count will leave his fortune,           
though he may perhaps outlive us all, as I sincerely hope he will..."       
                                                    {BK1|CH16 ^paragraph 25}
  "Yes, it is all very horrid," interrupted Pierre, "very horrid."          
  Pierre was still afraid that this officer might inadvertently say         
something disconcerting to himself.                                         
  "And it must seem to you," said Boris flushing slightly, but not          
changing his tone or attitude, "it must seem to you that everyone is        
trying to get something out of the rich man?"                               
  "So it does," thought Pierre.                                             
  "But I just wish to say, to avoid misunderstandings, that you are         
quite mistaken if you reckon me or my mother among such people. We are      
very poor, but for my own part at any rate, for the very reason that        
your father is rich, I don't regard myself as a relation of his, and        
neither I nor my mother would ever ask or take anything from him."          
                                                    {BK1|CH16 ^paragraph 30}
  For a long time Pierre could not understand, but when he did, he          
jumped up from the sofa, seized Boris under the elbow in his quick,         
clumsy way, and, blushing far more than Boris, began to speak with a        
feeling of mingled shame and vexation.                                      
  "Well, this is strange! Do you suppose I... who could think?... I         
know very well..."                                                          
  But Boris again interrupted him.                                          
  "I am glad I have spoken out fully. Perhaps you did not like it? You      
must excuse me," said he, putting Pierre at ease instead of being           
put at ease by him, "but I hope I have not offended you. I always make      
it a rule to speak out... Well, what answer am I to take? Will you          
come to dinner at the Rostovs'?"                                            
  And Boris, having apparently relieved himself of an onerous duty and      
extricated himself from an awkward situation and placed another in it,      
became quite pleasant again.                                                
                                                    {BK1|CH16 ^paragraph 35}
  "No, but I say," said Pierre, calming down, "you are a wonderful          
fellow! What you have just said is good, very good. Of course you           
don't know me. We have not met for such a long time... not since we         
were children. You might think that I... I understand, quite                
understand. I could not have done it myself, I should not have had the      
courage, but it's splendid. I am very glad to have made your                
acquaintance. It's queer," he added after a pause, "that you should         
have suspected me!" He began to laugh. "Well, what of it! I hope we'll      
get better acquainted," and he pressed Boris' hand. "Do you know, I         
have not once been in to see the count. He has not sent for me.... I        
am sorry for him as a man, but what can one do?"                            
  "And so you think Napoleon will manage to get an army across?" asked      
Boris with a smile.                                                         
  Pierre saw that Boris wished to change the subject, and being of the      
same mind he began explaining the advantages and disadvantages of           
the Boulogne expedition.                                                    
  A footman came in to summon Boris- the princess was going. Pierre,        
in order to make Boris' better acquaintance, promised to come to            
dinner, and warmly pressing his hand looked affectionately over his         
spectacles into Boris' eyes. After he had gone Pierre continued pacing      
up and down the room for a long time, no longer piercing an                 
imaginary foe with his imaginary sword, but smiling at the remembrance      
of that pleasant, intelligent, and resolute young man.                      
  As often happens in early youth, especially to one who leads a            
lonely life, he felt an unaccountable tenderness for this young man         
and made up his mind that they would be friends.                            
                                                    {BK1|CH16 ^paragraph 40}
  Prince Vasili saw the princess off. She held a handkerchief to her        
eyes and her face was tearful.                                              
  "It is dreadful, dreadful!" she was saying, "but cost me what it may      
I shall do my duty. I will come and spend the night. He must not be         
left like this. Every moment is precious. I can't think why his nieces      
put it off. Perhaps God will help me to find a way to prepare               
him!... Adieu, Prince! May God support you..."                              
  "Adieu, ma bonne," answered Prince Vasili turning away from her.          
  "Oh, he is in a dreadful state," said the mother to her son when          
they were in the carriage. "He hardly recognizes anybody."                  
  "I don't understand, Mamma- what is his attitude to Pierre?" asked        
the son.                                                                    
                                                    {BK1|CH16 ^paragraph 45}
  "The will will show that, my dear; our fate also depends on it."          
  "But why do you expect that he will leave us anything?"                   
  "Ah, my dear! He is so rich, and we are so poor!"                         
  "Well, that is hardly a sufficient reason, Mamma..."                      
  "Oh, Heaven! How ill he is!" exclaimed the mother.                        
                                                                            
BK1|CH17                                                                    
  CHAPTER XVII                                                              
-                                                                           
  After Anna Mikhaylovna had driven off with her son to visit Count         
Cyril Vladimirovich Bezukhov, Countess Rostova sat for a long time all      
alone applying her handkerchief to her eyes. At last she rang.              
  "What is the matter with you, my dear?" she said crossly to the maid      
who kept her waiting some minutes. "Don't you wish to serve me? Then        
I'll find you another place."                                               
  The countess was upset by her friend's sorrow and humiliating             
poverty, and was therefore out of sorts, a state of mind which with         
her always found expression in calling her maid "my dear" and speaking      
to her with exaggerated politeness.                                         
  "I am very sorry, ma'am," answered the maid.                              
  "Ask the count to come to me."                                            
                                                     {BK1|CH17 ^paragraph 5}
  The count came waddling in to see his wife with a rather guilty look      
as usual.                                                                   
  "Well, little countess? What a saute of game au madere we are to          
have, my dear! I tasted it. The thousand rubles I paid for Taras            
were not ill-spent. He is worth it!"                                        
  He sat down by his wife, his elbows on his knees and his hands            
ruffling his gray hair.                                                     
  "What are your commands, little countess?"                                
  "You see, my dear... What's that mess?" she said, pointing to his         
waistcoat. "It's, the saute, most likely," she added with a smile.          
"Well, you see, Count, I want some money."                                  
                                                    {BK1|CH17 ^paragraph 10}
  Her face became sad.                                                      
  "Oh, little countess!"... and the count began bustling to get out         
his pocketbook.                                                             
  "I want a great deal, Count! I want five hundred rubles," and taking      
out her cambric handkerchief she began wiping her husband's waistcoat.      
  "Yes, immediately, immediately! Hey, who's there?" he called out          
in a tone only used by persons who are certain that those they call         
will rush to obey the summons. "Send Dmitri to me!"                         
  Dmitri, a man of good family who had been brought up in the               
count's house and now managed all his affairs, stepped softly into the      
room.                                                                       
                                                    {BK1|CH17 ^paragraph 15}
  "This is what I want, my dear fellow," said the count to the              
deferential young man who had entered. "Bring me..." he reflected a         
moment, "yes, bring me seven hundred rubles, yes! But mind, don't           
bring me such tattered and dirty notes as last time, but nice clean         
ones for the countess."                                                     
  "Yes, Dmitri, clean ones, please," said the countess, sighing             
deeply.                                                                     
  "When would you like them, your excellency?" asked Dmitri. "Allow me      
to inform you... But, don't be uneasy," he added, noticing that the         
count was beginning to breathe heavily and quickly which was always         
a sign of approaching anger. "I was forgetting... Do you wish it            
brought at once?"                                                           
  "Yes, yes; just so! Bring it. Give it to the countess."                   
  "What a treasure that Dmitri is," added the count with a smile            
when the young man had departed. "There is never any 'impossible' with      
him. That's a thing I hate! Everything is possible."                        
                                                    {BK1|CH17 ^paragraph 20}
  "Ah, money, Count, money! How much sorrow it causes in the world,"        
said the countess. "But I am in great need of this sum."                    
  "You, my little countess, are a notorious spendthrift," said the          
count, and having kissed his wife's hand he went back to his study.         
  When Anna Mikhaylovna returned from Count Bezukhov's the money,           
all in clean notes, was lying ready under a handkerchief on the             
countess' little table, and Anna Mikhaylovna noticed that something         
was agitating her.                                                          
  "Well, my dear?" asked the countess.                                      
  "Oh, what a terrible state he is in! One would not know him, he is        
so ill! I was only there a few moments and hardly said a word..."           
                                                    {BK1|CH17 ^paragraph 25}
  "Annette, for heaven's sake don't refuse me," the countess began,         
with a blush that looked very strange on her thin, dignified,               
elderly face, and she took the money from under the handkerchief.           
  Anna Mikhaylovna instantly guessed her intention and stooped to be        
ready to embrace the countess at the appropriate moment.                    
  "This is for Boris from me, for his outfit."                              
  Anna Mikhaylovna was already embracing her and weeping. The countess      
wept too. They wept because they were friends, and because they were        
kindhearted, and because they- friends from childhood- had to think         
about such a base thing as money, and because their youth was over....      
But those tears were pleasant to them both.                                 
                                                                            
BK1|CH18                                                                    
  CHAPTER XVIII                                                             
-                                                                           
  Countess Rostova, with her daughters and a large number of guests,        
was already seated in the drawing room. The count took the gentlemen        
into his study and showed them his choice collection of Turkish pipes.      
From time to time he went out to ask: "Hasn't she come yet?" They were      
expecting Marya Dmitrievna Akhrosimova, known in society as le              
terrible dragon, a lady distinguished not for wealth or rank, but           
for common sense and frank plainness of speech. Marya Dmitrievna was        
known to the Imperial family as well as to all Moscow and                   
Petersburg, and both cities wondered at her, laughed privately at           
her rudenesses, and told good stories about her, while none the less        
all without exception respected and feared her.                             
  In the count's room, which was full of tobacco smoke, they talked of      
war that had been announced in a manifesto, and about the                   
recruiting. None of them had yet seen the manifesto, but they all knew      
it had appeared. The count sat on the sofa between two guests who were      
smoking and talking. He neither smoked nor talked, but bending his          
head first to one side and then to the other watched the smokers            
with evident pleasure and listened to the conversation of his two           
neighbors, whom he egged on against each other.                             
  One of them was a sallow, clean-shaven civilian with a thin and           
wrinkled face, already growing old, though he was dressed like a            
most fashionable young man. He sat with his legs up on the sofa as          
if quite at home and, having stuck an amber mouthpiece far into his         
mouth, was inhaling the smoke spasmodically and screwing up his             
eyes. This was an old bachelor, Shinshin, a cousin of the countess', a      
man with "a sharp tongue" as they said in Moscow society. He seemed to      
be condescending to his companion. The latter, a fresh, rosy officer        
of the Guards, irreproachably washed, brushed, and buttoned, held           
his pipe in the middle of his mouth and with red lips gently inhaled        
the smoke, letting it escape from his handsome mouth in rings. This         
was Lieutenant Berg, an officer in the Semenov regiment with whom           
Boris was to travel to join the army, and about whom Natasha had,           
teased her elder sister Vera, speaking of Berg as her "intended."           
The count sat between them and listened attentively. His favorite           
occupation when not playing boston, a card game he was very fond of,        
was that of listener, especially when he succeeded in setting two           
loquacious talkers at one another.                                          
  "Well, then, old chap, mon tres honorable Alphonse Karlovich,"            
said Shinshin, laughing ironically and mixing the most ordinary             
Russian expressions with the choicest French phrases- which was a           
peculiarity of his speech. "Vous comptez vous faire des rentes sur          
l'etat;* you want to make something out of your company?"                   
-                                                                           
                                                     {BK1|CH18 ^paragraph 5}
  *You expect to make an income out of the government.                      
-                                                                           
  "No, Peter Nikolaevich; 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 Nikolaevich..."                                         
  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 Nikolaevich. 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 Shinshin and the count with a joyful,          
pleasant smile, as if it were obvious to him that his success must          
always be the chief desire of everyone else.                                
                                                    {BK1|CH18 ^paragraph 10}
  "Besides that, Peter Nikolaevich, by exchanging into the Guards I         
shall be in a more prominent position," continued Berg, "and vacancies      
occur much more frequently in the Foot Guards. Then just think what         
can be done with two hundred and thirty rubles! I even manage to put a      
little aside and to send something to my father," he went on, emitting      
a smoke ring.                                                               
  "La balance y est...* A German knows how to skin a flint, as the          
proverb says," remarked Shinshin, moving his pipe to the other side of      
his mouth and winking at the count.                                         
-                                                                           
  *So that squares matters.                                                 
-                                                                           
                                                    {BK1|CH18 ^paragraph 15}
  The count burst out laughing. The other guests seeing that                
Shinshin was talking came up to listen. Berg, oblivious of irony or         
indifference, continued to explain how by exchanging into the Guards        
he had already gained a step on his old 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 naivete of his              
youthful egotism was so obvious, that he disarmed his hearers.              
  "Well, my boy, you'll get along wherever you go- foot or horse- that      
I'll warrant," said Shinshin, patting him on the shoulder and taking        
his feet off the sofa.                                                      
  Berg smiled joyously. The count, by his guests, went into the             
drawing room.                                                               
-                                                                           
  It was just the moment before a big dinner when the assembled             
guests, expecting the summons to zakuska,* 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.                                   
                                                    {BK1|CH18 ^paragraph 20}
-                                                                           
  *Hors d'oeuvres.                                                          
-                                                                           
  Pierre had come just at dinnertime and was sitting awkwardly in           
the middle of the drawing room on the first chair he had come               
across, blocking the way for everyone. The countess tried to make           
him talk, but he went on naively looking around through his spectacles      
as if in search of somebody and answered all her questions in               
monosyllables. He was in the way and was the only one who did not           
notice the fact. Most of the guests, knowing of the affair with the         
bear, looked with curiosity at this big, stout, quiet man, wondering        
how such a clumsy, modest fellow could have played such a prank on a        
policeman.                                                                  
  "You have only lately arrived?" the countess asked him.                   
                                                    {BK1|CH18 ^paragraph 25}
  "Oui, madame," replied he, looking around him.                            
  "You have not yet seen my husband?"                                       
  "Non, madame." He smiled quite inappropriately.                           
  "You have been in Paris recently, I believe? I suppose it's very          
interesting."                                                               
  "Very interesting."                                                       
                                                    {BK1|CH18 ^paragraph 30}
  The countess exchanged glances with Anna Mikhaylovna. The latter          
understood that she was being asked to entertain this young man, and        
sitting down beside him she began to speak about his father; but he         
answered her, as he had the countess, only in monosyllables. The other      
guests were all conversing with one another. "The Razumovskis... It         
was charming... You are very kind... Countess Apraksina..." was             
heard on all sides. The countess rose and went into the ballroom.           
  "Marya Dmitrievna?" came her voice from there.                            
  "Herself," came the answer in a rough voice, and Marya Dmitrievna         
entered the room.                                                           
  All the unmarried ladies and even the married ones except the very        
oldest rose. Marya Dmitrievna paused at the door. Tall and stout,           
holding high her fifty-year-old head with its gray curls, she stood         
surveying the guests, and leisurely arranged her wide sleeves as if         
rolling them up. Marya Dmitrievna 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...."                                                                 
                                                    {BK1|CH18 ^paragraph 35}
  Well," said she, "how's my Cossack?" (Marya Dmitrievna always called      
Natasha a Cossack) and she stroked the child's arm as she came up           
fearless and gay to kiss her hand. "I know she's a scamp of a girl,         
but I like her."                                                            
  She took a pair of pear-shaped ruby earrings from her huge                
reticule and, having given them to the rosy Natasha, who beamed with        
the pleasure of her saint's-day fete, turned away at once and               
addressed herself to Pierre.                                                
  "Eh, eh, friend! Come here a bit," said she, assuming a soft high         
tone of voice. "Come here, my friend..." and she ominously tucked up        
her sleeves still higher. Pierre 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 dearly only a prelude.                                 
  "A fine lad! My word! A fine lad!... His father lies on his deathbed      
and he amuses himself setting a policeman astride a bear! For shame,        
sir, for shame! It would be better if you went to the war."                 
                                                    {BK1|CH18 ^paragraph 40}
  She turned away and gave her hand to the count, who could hardly          
keep from laughing.                                                         
  "Well, I suppose it is time we were at table?" said Marya                 
Dmitrievna.                                                                 
  The count went in first with Marya Dmitrievna, the 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         
Mikhaylovna with Shinshin. Berg gave his arm to Vera. The smiling           
Julie Karagina went in with Nicholas. After them other couples              
followed, filling the whole dining hall, and last of all the children,      
tutors, and 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 Marya Dmitrievna on her right and Anna      
Mikhaylovna on her left, the other lady visitors were farther down. At      
the other end sat the count, with the hussar colonel on his left and        
Shinshin and the other male visitors on his right. Midway down the          
long table on one side sat the grownup young people: Vera beside Berg,      
and Pierre beside Boris; 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 Vera that love is not an earthly but a          
heavenly feeling. Boris was telling his new friend Pierre who the           
guests were and exchanging glances with Natasha, who was sitting            
opposite. Pierre spoke little but examined the new faces, and ate a         
great deal. Of the two soups he chose turtle with savory patties and        
went on to the game without omitting a single dish or one of the            
wines. These latter the butler thrust mysteriously forward, wrapped in      
a napkin, from behind the next man's shoulders and whispered: "Dry          
Madeira"... "Hungarian"... or "Rhine wine" as the case might be. Of         
the four crystal glasses engraved with the count's monogram that stood      
before his plate, Pierre held out one at random and drank with              
enjoyment, gazing with ever-increasing amiability at the other guests.      
Natasha, who sat opposite, was looking at Boris as girls of thirteen        
look at the boy they are in love with and have just kissed for the          
first time. Sometimes that same look fell on Pierre, and that funny         
lively little girl's look made him inclined to laugh without knowing        
why.                                                                        
  Nicholas sat at some distance from Sonya, beside Julie Karagina,          
to whom he was again talking with the same involuntary smile. Sonya         
wore a company smile but was evidently tormented by jealousy; now           
she turned pale, now blushed and strained every nerve to overhear what      
Nicholas and Julie were saying to one another. The governess kept           
looking round uneasily as if preparing to resent any slight that might      
be put upon the children. The German tutor was trying to remember           
all the dishes, wines, and kinds of dessert, in order to send a full        
description of the dinner to his people in Germany; and he felt             
greatly offended when the butler with a bottle wrapped in a napkin          
passed him by. He frowned, trying to appear as if he did not want           
any of that wine, but was mortified because no one would understand         
that it was not to quench his thirst or from greediness that he wanted      
it, but simply from a conscientious desire for knowledge.                   
                                                                            
BK1|CH19                                                                    
  CHAPTER XIX                                                               
-                                                                           
  At the men's end of the table the talk grew more and more                 
animated. The colonel told them that the declaration of war had             
already appeared in Petersburg and that a copy, which he had himself        
seen, had that day been forwarded by courier to the commander in            
chief.                                                                      
  "And why the deuce are we going to fight Bonaparte?" remarked             
Shinshin. "He has stopped Austria's cackle and I fear it will be our        
turn next."                                                                 
  The colonel was a stout, tall, plethoric German, evidently devoted        
to the service and patriotically Russian. He resented Shinshin's            
remark.                                                                     
  "It is for the reasson, my goot sir," said he, speaking with a            
German accent, "for the reasson zat ze Emperor knows zat. He                
declares in ze manifessto zat he cannot fiew wiz indifference ze            
danger vreatening Russia and zat ze safety and dignity of ze Empire as      
vell as ze sanctity of its alliances..." he spoke this last word            
with particular emphasis as if in it lay the gist of the matter.            
  Then with the unerring official memory that characterized him he          
repeated from the opening words of the manifesto:                           
                                                     {BK1|CH19 ^paragraph 5}
  ... and the wish, which constitutes the Emperor's sole and                
absolute aim- to establish peace in Europe on firm foundations- has         
now decided him to despatch part of the army abroad and to create a         
new condition for the attainment of that purpose.                           
  "Zat, my dear sir, is vy..." he concluded, drinking a tumbler of          
wine with dignity and looking to the count for approval.                    
  "Connaissez-vous le Proverbe:* 'Jerome, Jerome, do not roam, but          
turn spindles at home!'?" said Shinshin, puckering his brows and            
smiling. "Cela nous convient a merveille.*[2] Suvorov now- he knew          
what he was about; yet they beat him a plate couture,*[3] and where         
are we to find Suvorovs now? Je vous demande un peu,"*[4] said he,          
continually changing from French to Russian.                                
-                                                                           
  *Do you know the proverb?                                                 
                                                    {BK1|CH19 ^paragraph 10}
  *[2] That suits us down to the ground.                                    
  *[3] Hollow.                                                              
  *[4] I just ask you that.                                                 
-                                                                           
  "Ve must vight to the last tr-r-op of our plood!" said the                
colonel, thumping the table; "and ve must tie for our Emperor, and zen      
all vill pe vell. And ve must discuss it as little as po-o-ossible"...      
he dwelt particularly on the word possible... "as po-o-ossible," he         
ended, again turning to the count. "Zat is how ve old hussars look          
at it, and zere's an end of it! And how do you, a young man and a           
young hussar, how do you judge of it?" he added, addressing                 
Nicholas, who when he heard that the war was being discussed had            
turned from his partner with eyes and ears intent on the colonel.           
                                                    {BK1|CH19 ^paragraph 15}
  "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.            
  Sonya trembled all over and blushed to her ears and behind them           
and down to her neck and shoulders while Nicholas was speaking.             
  Pierre listened to the colonel's speech and nodded approvingly.           
  "That's fine," said he.                                                   
                                                    {BK1|CH19 ^paragraph 20}
  "The young man's a real hussar!" shouted the colonel, again thumping      
the table.                                                                  
  "What are you making such a noise about over there?" Marya                
Dmitrievna's deep voice suddenly inquired from the other end of the         
table. "What are you thumping the table for?" she demanded of the           
hussar, "and why are you exciting 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, Marya Dmitrievna? My son is going."                    
  "I have four sons in the army but still I don't fret. It is all in        
God's hands. You may die in your bed or God may spare you in a              
battle," replied Marya Dmitrievna's deep voice, which easily carried        
the whole length of the table.                                              
                                                    {BK1|CH19 ^paragraph 25}
  "That's true!"                                                            
  Once more the conversations concentrated, the ladies' at the one end      
and the men's at the other.                                                 
  "You won't ask," Natasha's little brother was saying; "I know you         
won't ask!"                                                                 
  "I will," replied Natasha.                                                
  Her face suddenly flushed with reckless and joyous resolution. She        
half rose, by a glance inviting Pierre, who sat opposite, to listen to      
what was coming, and turning to her mother:                                 
                                                    {BK1|CH19 ^paragraph 30}
  "Mamma!" rang out the clear contralto notes of her childish voice,        
audible the whole length of the table.                                      
  "What is it?" asked the countess, startled; but seeing by her             
daughter's face that it was only mischief, she shook a finger at her        
sternly with a threatening and forbidding movement of her head.             
  The conversation was hushed.                                              
  "Mamma! What sweets are we going to have?" and Natasha's voice            
sounded still more firm and resolute.                                       
  The countess tried to frown, but could not. Marya Dmitrievna shook        
her fat finger.                                                             
                                                    {BK1|CH19 ^paragraph 35}
  "Cossack!" she said threateningly.                                        
  Most of the guests, uncertain how to regard this sally, looked at         
the elders.                                                                 
  "You had better take care!" said the countess.                            
  "Mamma! What sweets are we going to have?" Natasha again cried            
boldly, with saucy gaiety, confident that her prank would be taken          
in good part.                                                               
  Sonya and fat little Petya doubled up with laughter.                      
                                                    {BK1|CH19 ^paragraph 40}
  "You see! I have asked," whispered Natasha to her little brother and      
to Pierre, glancing at him again.                                           
  "Ice pudding, but you won't get any," said Marya Dmitrievna.              
  Natasha saw there was nothing to be afraid of and so she braved even      
Marya Dmitrievna.                                                           
  "Marya Dmitrievna! What kind of ice pudding? I don't like ice             
cream."                                                                     
  "Carrot ices."                                                            
                                                    {BK1|CH19 ^paragraph 45}
  "No! What kind, Marya Dmitrievna? What kind?" she almost screamed;        
"I want to know!"                                                           
  Marya Dmitrievna and the countess burst out laughing, and all the         
guests joined in. Everyone laughed, not at Marya Dmitrievna's answer        
but at the incredible boldness and smartness of this little girl who        
had dared to treat Marya Dmitrievna in this fashion.                        
  Natasha only desisted when she had been told that there would be          
pineapple ice. Before the ices, champagne was served round. The band        
again struck up, the count and 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.                                                              
                                                                            
BK1|CH20                                                                    
  CHAPTER XX                                                                
-                                                                           
  The card tables were drawn out, sets made up for boston, and the          
count's visitors settled themselves, some in the two drawing rooms,         
some in the sitting room, some in the library.                              
  The count, holding his cards fanwise, kept himself with difficulty        
from dropping into his usual after-dinner nap, and laughed at               
everything. The young people, at the countess' instigation, gathered        
round the clavichord and harp. Julie by general request played              
first. After she had played a little air with variations on the             
harp, she joined the other young ladies in begging Natasha and              
Nicholas, who were noted for their musical talent, to sing                  
something. Natasha, who was treated as though she were grown up, was        
evidently very proud of this but at the same time felt shy.                 
  "What shall we sing?" she said.                                           
  "'The Brook,'" suggested Nicholas.                                        
  "Well, then,let's be quick. Boris, come here," said Natasha. "But         
where is Sonya?"                                                            
                                                     {BK1|CH20 ^paragraph 5}
  She looked round and seeing that her friend was not in the room           
ran to look for her.                                                        
  Running into Sonya's room and not finding her there, Natasha ran          
to the nursery, but Sonya was not there either. Natasha 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          
Rostov household. And there in fact was Sonya lying face downward on        
Nurse's dirty feather bed on the top of the chest, crumpling her gauzy      
pink dress under her, hiding her face with her slender fingers, and         
sobbing so convulsively that her bare little shoulders shook.               
Natasha's face, which had been so radiantly happy all that saint's          
day, suddenly changed: her eyes became fixed, and then a shiver passed      
down her broad neck and the corners of her mouth drooped.                   
  "Sonya! What is it? What is the matter?... Oo... Oo... Oo...!" And        
Natasha's large mouth widened, making her look quite ugly, and she          
began to wail like a baby without knowing why, except that Sonya was        
crying. Sonya tried to lift her head to answer but could not, and           
hid her face still deeper in the bed. Natasha wept, sitting on the          
blue-striped feather bed and hugging her friend. With an effort             
Sonya sat up and began wiping her eyes and explaining.                      
  "Nicholas is going away in a week's time, his... papers... have           
come... he told me himself... but still I should not cry," and she          
showed a paper she held in her hand- with the verses Nicholas had           
written, "still, I should not cry, but you can't... no one can              
understand... what a soul he has!"                                          
  And she began to cry again because he had such a noble soul.              
                                                    {BK1|CH20 ^paragraph 10}
  "It's all very well for you... I am not envious... I love you and         
Boris also," she went on, gaining a little strength; "he is nice...         
there are no difficulties in your way.... But Nicholas is my cousin...      
one would have to... the Metropolitan himself... and even then it           
can't be done. And besides, if she tells Mamma" (Sonya looked upon the      
countess as her mother and called her so) "that I am spoiling               
Nicholas' career and am heartless and ungrateful, while truly... God        
is my witness," and she made the sign of the cross, "I love her so          
much, and all of you, only Vera... And what for? What have I done to        
her? I am so grateful to you that I would willingly sacrifice               
everything, only I have nothing...."                                        
  Sonya could not continue, and again hid her face in her hands and in      
the feather bed. Natasha began consoling her, but her face showed that      
she understood all the gravity of her friend's trouble.                     
  "Sonya," she suddenly exclaimed, as if she had guessed the true           
reason of her friend's sorrow, "I'm sure Vera has said something to         
you since dinner? Hasn't she?"                                              
  "Yes, these verses Nicholas wrote himself and I copied some               
others, and she found them on my table and said she'd show them to          
Mamma, and that I was ungrateful, and that Mamma would never allow him      
to marry me, but that he'll marry Julie. You see how he's been with         
her all day... Natasha, what have I done to deserve it?..."                 
  And again she began to sob, more bitterly than before. Natasha            
lifted her up, hugged her, and, smiling through her tears, began            
comforting her.                                                             
                                                    {BK1|CH20 ^paragraph 15}
  "Sonya, don't believe her, darling! Don't believe her! Do you             
remember how we and Nicholas, all three of us, talked in the sitting        
room after supper? Why, we settled how everything was to be. I don't        
quite remember how, but don't you remember that it could all be             
arranged and how nice it all was? There's Uncle Shinshin's brother has      
married his first cousin. And we are only second cousins, you know.         
And Boris says it is quite possible. You know I have told him all           
about it. And he is so clever and so good!" said Natasha. "Don't you        
cry, Sonya, dear love, darling Sonya!" and she kissed her and laughed.      
"Vera's spiteful; never mind her! And all will come right and she           
won't say anything to Mamma. Nicholas will tell her himself, and he         
doesn't care at all for Julie."                                             
  Natasha kissed her on the hair.                                           
  Sonya sat up. The little kitten brightened, its eyes shone, and it        
seemed ready to lift its tail, jump down on its soft paws, and begin        
playing with the ball of worsted as a kitten should.                        
  "Do you think so?... Really? Truly?" she said, quickly smoothing her      
frock and hair.                                                             
  "Really, truly!" answered Natasha, pushing in a crisp lock that           
had strayed from under her friend's plaits.                                 
                                                    {BK1|CH20 ^paragraph 20}
  Both laughed.                                                             
  "Well, let's go and sing 'The Brook.'"                                    
  "Come along!"                                                             
  "Do you know, that fat Pierre who sat opposite me is so funny!" said      
Natasha, stopping suddenly. "I feel so happy!"                              
  And she set off at a run along the passage.                               
                                                    {BK1|CH20 ^paragraph 25}
  Sonya, 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 Natasha down the passage into the sitting room with flushed face      
and light, joyous steps. At the visitors' request the young people          
sang the quartette, "The Brook," with which everyone was delighted.         
Then Nicholas sang a song he had just learned:                              
-                                                                           
     At nighttime in the moon's fair glow                                   
       How sweet, as fancies wander free,                                   
     To feel that in this world there's one                                 
                                                    {BK1|CH20 ^paragraph 30}
       Who still is thinking but of thee!                                   
-                                                                           
     That while her fingers touch the harp                                  
       Wafting sweet music music the lea,                                   
     It is for thee thus swells her heart,                                  
                                                    {BK1|CH20 ^paragraph 35}
       Sighing its message out to thee...                                   
-                                                                           
     A day or two, then bliss unspoilt,                                     
       But oh! till then I cannot live!...                                  
-                                                                           
                                                    {BK1|CH20 ^paragraph 40}
  He had not finished the last verse before the young people began          
to get ready to dance in the large hall, and the sound of the feet and      
the coughing of the musicians were heard from the gallery.                  
-                                                                           
  Pierre was sitting in the drawing-room where Shinshin had engaged         
him, as a man recently returned from abroad, in a political                 
conversation in which several others joined but which bored Pierre.         
When the music began Natasha came in and walking straight up to Pierre      
said, laughing and blushing:                                                
  "Mamma told me to ask you to join the dancers."                           
  "I am afraid of mixing the figures," Pierre replied; "but if you          
will be my teacher..." And lowering his big arm he offered it to the        
slender little girl.                                                        
                                                    {BK1|CH20 ^paragraph 45}
  While the couples were arranging themselves and the musicians tuning      
up, Pierre sat down with his little partner. Natasha was perfectly          
happy; she was dancing with a grown-up man, who had been abroad. She        
was sitting in a conspicuous place and talking to him like a                
grown-up lady. She had a fan in her hand that one of the ladies had         
given her to hold. Assuming quite the pose of a society woman               
(heaven knows when and where she had learned it) she talked with her        
partner, fanning herself and smiling over the fan.                          
  "Dear, dear! Just look at her!" exclaimed the countess as she             
crossed the ballroom, pointing to Natasha.                                  
  Natasha blushed and laughed.                                              
  "Well, really, Mamma! Why should you? What is there to be                 
surprised at?"                                                              
-                                                                           
                                                    {BK1|CH20 ^paragraph 50}
  In the midst of the third ecossaise there was a clatter of chairs         
being pushed back in the sitting room where the count and Marya             
Dmitrievna had been playing cards with the 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 Marya Dmitrievna and the count,            
both with merry countenances. The count, with playful ceremony              
somewhat in ballet style, offered his bent arm to Marya Dmitrievna. He      
drew himself up, a smile of debonair gallantry lit up his face and          
as soon as the last figure of the ecossaise was ended, he clapped           
his hands to the musicians and shouted up to their gallery, addressing      
the first violin:                                                           
  "Semen! Do you know the Daniel Cooper?"                                   
  This was the count's favorite dance, which he had danced in his           
youth. (Strictly speaking, Daniel Cooper was one figure of the              
anglaise.)                                                                  
  "Look at Papa!" shouted Natasha to the whole company, and quite           
forgetting that she was dancing with a grown-up partner she bent her        
curly head to her knees and made the whole room ring with her               
laughter.                                                                   
  And indeed everybody in the room looked with a smile of pleasure          
at the jovial old gentleman, who standing beside his tall and stout         
partner, Marya Dmitrievna, curved his arms, beat time, straightened         
his shoulders, turned out his toes, tapped gently with his foot,            
and, by a smile that broadened his round face more and more,                
prepared the onlookers for what was to follow. As soon as the               
provocatively gay strains of Daniel Cooper (somewhat resembling             
those of a merry 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.                                           
                                                    {BK1|CH20 ^paragraph 55}
  "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      
Marya Dmitrievna 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, Marya Dmitrievna produced no less impression by slight      
exertions- the least effort to move her shoulders or bend her arms          
when turning, or stamp her foot- which everyone appreciated in view of      
her size and 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 Marya Dmitrievna. Natasha kept pulling everyone      
by sleeve or dress, urging them to "look at Papa!" though as it was         
they never took their eyes off the couple. In the intervals of the          
dance the count, breathing deeply, waved and shouted to the                 
musicians to play faster. Faster, faster, and faster; lightly, more         
lightly, and yet more lightly whirled the count, flying round Marya         
Dmitrievna, now on his toes, now on his heels; until, turning his           
partner round to her seat, he executed the final pas, raising his soft      
foot backwards, bowing his perspiring head, smiling and making a            
wide sweep with his arm, amid a thunder of applause and laughter led        
by Natasha. Both partners stood still, breathing heavily and wiping         
their faces with their cambric handkerchiefs.                               
  "That's how we used to dance in our time, ma chere," said the count.      
  "That was a Daniel Cooper!" exclaimed Marya Dmitrievna, tucking up        
her sleeves and puffing heavily.                                            
                                                                            
BK1|CH21                                                                    
  CHAPTER XXI                                                               
-                                                                           
  While in the Rostovs' ballroom the sixth anglaise was being               
danced, to a tune in which the weary musicians blundered, and while         
tired footmen and cooks were getting the supper, Count Bezukhov had         
a sixth stroke. The doctors pronounced recovery impossible. After a         
mute confession, communion was administered to the dying man,               
preparations made for the sacrament of unction, and in his house there      
was the bustle and thrill of suspense usual at such moments. Outside        
the house, beyond the gates, a group of undertakers, who hid                
whenever a carriage drove up, waited in expectation of an important         
order for an expensive funeral. The Military Governor of Moscow, who        
had been assiduous in sending aides-de-camp to inquire after the            
count's health, came himself that evening to bid a last farewell to         
the celebrated grandee of Catherine's court, Count Bezukhov.                
  The magnificent reception room was crowded. Everyone stood up             
respectfully when the Military Governor, having stayed about half an        
hour alone with the dying man, passed out, slightly acknowledging           
their bows and trying to escape as quickly as from the glances fixed        
on him by the doctors, clergy, and relatives of the family. Prince          
Vasili, who had grown thinner and paler during the last few days,           
escorted him to the door, repeating something to him several times          
in low tones.                                                               
  When the Military Governor had gone, Prince Vasili sat down all           
alone on a chair in the ballroom, crossing one leg high over the            
other, leaning his elbow on his knee and covering his face with his         
hand. After sitting so for a while he rose, and, looking about him          
with frightened eyes, went with unusually hurried steps down the            
long corridor leading to the back of the house, to the room of the          
eldest princess.                                                            
  Those who were in the dimly lit reception room spoke in nervous           
whispers, and, whenever anyone went into or came from the dying             
man's room, grew silent and gazed with eyes full of curiosity or            
expectancy at his door, which creaked slightly when opened.                 
  "The limits of human life... are fixed and may not be o'erpassed,"        
said an old priest to a lady who had taken a seat beside him and was        
listening naively to his words.                                             
                                                     {BK1|CH21 ^paragraph 5}
  "I wonder, is it not too late to administer unction?" asked the           
lady, adding the priest's clerical title, as if she had no opinion          
of her own on the subject.                                                  
  "Ah, madam, it is a great sacrament, "replied the priest, passing         
his hand over the thin grizzled strands of hair combed back across his      
bald head.                                                                  
  "Who was that? The Military Governor himself?" was being asked at         
the other side of the room. "How young-looking he is!"                      
  "Yes, and he is over sixty. I hear the count no longer recognizes         
anyone. They wished to administer the sacrament of unction."                
  "I knew someone who received that sacrament seven times."                 
                                                    {BK1|CH21 ^paragraph 10}
  The second princess had just come from the sickroom with her eyes         
red from weeping and sat down beside Dr. Lorrain, who was sitting in a      
graceful pose under a portrait of Catherine, leaning his elbow on a         
table.                                                                      
  "Beautiful," said the doctor in answer to a remark about the              
weather. "The weather is beautiful, Princess; and besides, in Moscow        
one feels as if one were in the country."                                   
  "Yes, indeed," replied the princess with a sigh. "So he may have          
something to drink?"                                                        
  Lorrain considered.                                                       
  "Has he taken his medicine?"                                              
                                                    {BK1|CH21 ^paragraph 15}
  "Yes."                                                                    
  The doctor glanced at his watch.                                          
  "Take a glass of boiled water and put a pinch of cream of tartar,"        
and he indicated with his delicate fingers what he meant by a pinch.        
  "Dere has neffer been a gase," a German doctor was saying to an           
aide-de-camp, "dat one liffs after de sird stroke."                         
  "And what a well-preserved man he was!" remarked the aide-de-camp.        
"And who will inherit his wealth?" he added in a whisper.                   
                                                    {BK1|CH21 ^paragraph 20}
  "It von't go begging," replied the German with a smile.                   
  Everyone again looked toward the door, which creaked as the second        
princess went in with the drink she had prepared according to               
Lorrain's instructions. The German doctor went up to Lorrain.               
  "Do you think he can last till morning?" asked the German,                
addressing Lorrain in French which he pronounced badly.                     
  Lorrain, pursing up his lips, waved a severely negative finger            
before his nose.                                                            
  "Tonight, not later," said he in a low voice, and he moved away with      
a decorous smile of self-satisfaction at being able clearly to              
understand and state the patient's condition.                               
                                                    {BK1|CH21 ^paragraph 25}
-                                                                           
  Meanwhile Prince Vasili had opened the door into the princess' room.      
  In this room it was almost dark; only two tiny lamps were burning         
before the icons and there was a pleasant scent of flowers and burnt        
pastilles. The room was crowded with small pieces of furniture,             
whatnots, cupboards, and little tables. The quilt of a high, white          
feather bed was just visible behind a screen. A small dog began to          
bark.                                                                       
  "Ah, is it you, cousin?"                                                  
  She rose and smoothed her hair, which was as usual so extremely           
smooth that it seemed to be made of one piece with her head and             
covered with varnish.                                                       
                                                    {BK1|CH21 ^paragraph 30}
  "Has anything happened?" she asked. "I am so terrified."                  
  "No, there is no change. I only came to have a talk about                 
business, Catiche,"* muttered the prince, seating himself wearily on        
the chair she had just vacated. "You have made the place warm, I            
must say," he remarked. "Well, sit down: let's have a talk."                
-                                                                           
  *Catherine.                                                               
-                                                                           
                                                    {BK1|CH21 ^paragraph 35}
  "I thought perhaps something had happened," she said with her             
unchanging stonily severe expression; and, sitting down opposite the        
prince, she prepared to listen.                                             
  "I wished to get a nap, mon cousin, but I can't."                         
  "Well, my dear?" said Prince Vasili, taking her hand and bending          
it downwards as was his habit.                                              
  It was plain that this "well?" referred to much that they both            
understood without naming.                                                  
  The princess, who had a straight, rigid body, abnormally long for         
her legs, looked directly at Prince Vasili with no sign of emotion          
in her prominent gray eyes. Then she shook her head and glanced up          
at the icons with a sigh. This might have been taken as an                  
expression of sorrow and devotion, or of weariness and hope of resting      
before long. Prince Vasili understood it as an expression of                
weariness.                                                                  
                                                    {BK1|CH21 ^paragraph 40}
  "And I?" he said; "do you think it is easier for me? I am as worn         
out as a post horse, but still I must have a talk with you, Catiche, a      
very serious talk."                                                         
  Prince Vasili said no more and his cheeks began to twitch nervously,      
now on one side, now on the other, giving his face an unpleasant            
expression which was never to be seen on it in a drawing room. His          
eyes too seemed strange; at one moment they looked impudently sly           
and at the next glanced round in alarm.                                     
  The princess, holding her little dog on her lap with her thin bony        
hands, looked attentively into Prince Vasili's eyes 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 Semenovna,"        
continued Prince Vasili, returning to his theme, apparently not             
without an inner struggle; "at such a moment as this one must think of      
everything. One must think of the future, of all of you... I love           
you all, like children of my own, as you know."                             
  The princess continued to look at him without moving, and with the        
same dull expression.                                                       
                                                    {BK1|CH21 ^paragraph 45}
  "And then of course my family has also to be considered," Prince          
Vasili went on, testily pushing away a little table without looking at      
her. "You know, Catiche, that we- you three sisters, Mamontov, and          
my wife- are the count's only direct heirs. I know, I know how hard it      
is for you to talk or think of such matters. It is no easier for me;        
but, my dear, I am getting on for sixty and must be prepared for            
anything. Do you know I have sent for Pierre? The count," pointing          
to his portrait, "definitely demanded that he should be called."            
  Prince Vasili looked questioningly at the princess, but could not         
make out whether she was considering what he had just said or               
whether she was simply looking at him.                                      
  "There is one thing I constantly pray God to grant, mon cousin," she      
replied, "and it is that He would be merciful to him and would allow        
his noble soul peacefully to leave this..."                                 
  "Yes, yes, of course," interrupted Prince Vasili impatiently,             
rubbing his bald head and angrily pulling back toward him the little        
table that he had pushed away. "But... in short, the fact is... you         
know yourself that last winter the count made a will by which he            
left all his property, not to us his direct heirs, but to Pierre."          
  "He has made wills enough!" quietly remarked the princess. "But he        
cannot leave the estate to Pierre. Pierre is illegitimate."                 
                                                    {BK1|CH21 ^paragraph 50}
  "But, my dear," said Prince Vasili suddenly, clutching the little         
table and becoming more animated and talking more rapidly: "what if         
a letter has been written to the Emperor in which the count asks for        
Pierre's legitimation? Do you 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 Vasili, seizing her hand,         
"that letter was written, though it was not sent, and the Emperor knew      
of it. The only question is, has it been destroyed or not? If not,          
then as soon as all is over," and Prince Vasili sighed to intimate          
what he meant by the words all is over, "and the count's papers are         
opened, the will and letter will be delivered to the Emperor, and           
the petition will 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..."                                                                 
                                                    {BK1|CH21 ^paragraph 55}
  "What next?" the princess interrupted, smiling sardonically and           
not changing the expression of her eyes. "I am a woman, and you             
think we are all stupid; but I know this: an illegitimate son cannot        
inherit... un batard!"* she added, as if supposing that this                
translation of the word would effectively prove to Prince Vasili 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             
Bezukhov, and will then inherit everything under the will? And if           
the will and letter are not destroyed, then you will have nothing           
but the consolation of having been dutiful et tout ce qui s'ensuit!*        
That's certain."                                                            
                                                    {BK1|CH21 ^paragraph 60}
-                                                                           
  *And all that follows therefrom.                                          
-                                                                           
  "I know the will was made, but I also know that it is invalid; and        
you, mon cousin, seem to consider me a perfect fool," said the              
princess with the expression women assume when they suppose they are        
saying something witty and stinging.                                        
  "My dear Princess Catherine Semenovna," began Prince Vasili               
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 Dmitri Onufrich"        
(the family solicitor) "and he says the same."                              
                                                    {BK1|CH21 ^paragraph 65}
  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 Vasili.                                                      
                                                    {BK1|CH21 ^paragraph 70}
  But the princess did not listen to him.                                   
  "Yes, I knew it long ago but had forgotten. I knew that I could           
expect nothing but meanness, deceit, envy, intrigue, and                    
ingratitude- the blackest ingratitude- in this house..."                    
  "Do you or do you not know where that will is?" insisted Prince           
Vasili, his cheeks twitching more than ever.                                
  "Yes, I was a fool! I still believed in people, loved them, and           
sacrificed myself. But only the base, the vile succeed! I know who has      
been intriguing!"                                                           
  The princees 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.                         
                                                    {BK1|CH21 ^paragraph 75}
  "There is still time, my dear. You must remember, Catiche, that it        
was all done casually in a moment of anger, of illness, and was             
afterwards forgotten. Our duty, my dear, is to rectify his mistake, to      
ease his last moments by not letting him commit this injustice, and         
not to let him die feeling that he is rendering unhappy those who..."       
  "Who sacrificed everything for him," chimed in the princess, who          
would again have risen had not the prince still held her fast, "though      
he never could appreciate it. No, mon cousin," she added with a             
sigh, "I shall always remember that in this world one must expect no        
reward, that in this world there is neither honor nor justice. In this      
world one has to be cunning and cruel."                                     
  "Now come, come! Be reasonable. I know your excellent heart."             
  "No, I have a wicked heart."                                              
  "I know your heart," repeated the prince. "I value your friendship        
and wish you to have as good an opinion of me. Don't upset yourself,        
and let us talk sensibly while there is still time, be it a day or          
be it but an hour.... Tell me all you know about the will, and above        
all where it is. You must know. We will take it at once and show it to      
the count. He has, no doubt, forgotten it and will wish to destroy it.      
You understand that my sole desire is conscientiously to carry out his      
wishes; that is my only reason for being here. I came simply to help        
him and you."                                                               
                                                    {BK1|CH21 ^paragraph 80}
  "Now I see it all! I know who has been intriguing- I know!" cried         
the princess.                                                               
  "That's not the point, my dear."                                          
  "It's that protege of yours, that sweet Princess Drubetskaya, that        
Anna Mikhaylovna whom I would not take for a housemaid... the               
infamous, vile woman!"                                                      
  "Do not let us lose any time..."                                          
  "Ah, don't talk to me! Last winter she wheedled herself in here           
and told the count such vile, disgraceful things about us,                  
especially about Sophie- I can't repeat them- that it made the count        
quite ill and he would not see us for a whole fortnight. I know it was      
then he wrote this vile, infamous paper, but I thought the thing was        
invalid."                                                                   
                                                    {BK1|CH21 ^paragraph 85}
  "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!"                                                        
                                                                            
BK1|CH22                                                                    
  CHAPTER XXII                                                              
-                                                                           
  While these conversations were going on in the reception room and         
the princess' room, a carriage containing Pierre (who had been sent         
for) and Anna Mikhaylovna (who found it necessary to accompany him)         
was driving into the court of Count Bezukhov's house. As the wheels         
rolled softly over the straw beneath the windows, Anna Mikhaylovna,         
having turned with words of comfort to her companion, realized that he      
was asleep in his corner and woke him up. Rousing himself, Pierre           
followed Anna Mikhaylovna out of the carriage, and only then began          
to think of the interview with his dying father which awaited him.          
He noticed that they had not come to the front entrance but to the          
back door. While he was 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 Mikhaylovna nor the footman nor the         
coachman, who could not help seeing these people, took any notice of        
them. "It seems to be all right," Pierre concluded, and followed            
Anna Mikhaylovna. 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 Mikhaylovna's air of assurance and haste, Pierre            
concluded that it was all absolutely necessary. Halfway up the              
stairs they were almost knocked over by some men who, carrying              
pails, came running downstairs, their boots clattering. These men           
pressed close to the wall to let Pierre and Anna Mikhaylovna pass           
and did not evince the least surprise at seeing them there.                 
  "Is this the way to the princesses' apartments?" asked Anna               
Mikhaylovna of one of them.                                                 
  "Yes," replied a footman in a bold loud voice, as if anything were        
now permissible; "the door to the left, ma'am."                             
  "Perhaps the count did not ask for me," said Pierre when he               
reached the landing. "I'd better go to my own room."                        
  Anna Mikhaylovna paused and waited for him to come up.                    
                                                     {BK1|CH22 ^paragraph 5}
  "Ah, my friend!" she said, touching his arm as she had done her           
son's when speaking to him that afternoon, "believe me I suffer no          
less than you do, but be a man!"                                            
  "But really, hadn't I better go away?" he asked, looking kindly at        
her over his spectacles.                                                    
  "Ah, my dear friend! Forget the wrongs that may have been done            
you. Think that he is your father... perhaps in the agony of death."        
She sighed. "I have loved you like a son from the first. Trust              
yourself to me, Pierre. I shall not forget your interests."                 
  Pierre did not understand a word, but the conviction that all this        
had to be grew stronger, and he meekly followed Anna Mikhaylovna who        
was already opening a door.                                                 
  This door led into a back anteroom. An old man, a servant of the          
princesses, sat in a corner knitting a stocking. Pierre had never been      
in this part of the house and did not even know of the existence of         
these rooms. Anna Mikhaylovna, addressing a maid who was hurrying past      
with a decanter on a tray as "my dear" and "my sweet," asked about the      
princess' health and then led Pierre along a stone passage. The             
first door on the left led into the princesses' apartments. The maid        
with the decanter in her haste had not closed the door (everything          
in the house was done in haste at that time), and Pierre and Anna           
Mikhaylovna in passing instinctively glanced into the room, where           
Prince Vasili and the eldest princess were sitting close together           
talking. Seeing them pass, Prince Vasili drew back with obvious             
impatience, while the princess jumped up and with a gesture of              
desperation slammed the door with all her might.                            
                                                    {BK1|CH22 ^paragraph 10}
  This action was so unlike her usual composure and the fear                
depicted on Prince Vasili's face so out of keeping with his dignity         
that Pierre stopped and glanced inquiringly over his spectacles at his      
guide. Anna Mikhaylovna evinced no surprise, she only smiled faintly        
and sighed, as if to say that this was no more than she had expected.       
  "Be a man, my friend. I will look after your interests," said she in      
reply to his look, and went still faster along the passage.                 
  Pierre could not make out what it was all about, and still less what      
"watching over his interests" meant, but he decided that all these          
things had to be. From the passage they went into a large, dimly lit        
room adjoining the count's reception room. It was one of those              
sumptuous but cold apartments known to Pierre only from the front           
approach, but even in this room there now stood an empty bath, and          
water had been spilled on the carpet. They were met by a deacon with a      
censer and by a servant who passed out on tiptoe without heeding them.      
They went into the reception room familiar to Pierre, with two Italian      
windows opening into the conservatory, with its large bust and full         
length portrait of Catherine the Great. The same people were still          
sitting here in almost the same positions as before, whispering to one      
another. All became silent and turned to look at the pale tear-worn         
Anna Mikhaylovna as she entered, and at the big stout figure of Pierre      
who, hanging his head, meekly followed her.                                 
  Anna Mikhaylovna's face expressed a consciousness that the                
decisive moment had arrived. With the air of a practical Petersburg         
lady she now, keeping Pierre close beside her, entered the room even        
more boldly than that afternoon. She felt that as she brought with her      
the person the dying man wished to see, her own admission was assured.      
Casting a rapid glance at all those in the room and noticing the            
count's confessor there, she glided up to him with a sort of amble,         
not exactly bowing yet seeming to grow suddenly smaller, and                
respectfully received the blessing first of one and then of another         
priest.                                                                     
  "God be thanked that you are in time," said she to one of the             
priests; "all we relatives have been in such anxiety. This young man        
is the count's son," she added more softly. "What a terrible moment!"       
                                                    {BK1|CH22 ^paragraph 15}
  Having said this she went up to the doctor.                               
  "Dear doctor," said she, "this young man is the count's son. Is           
there any hope?"                                                            
  The doctor cast a rapid glance upwards and silently shrugged his          
shoulders. Anna Mikhaylovna with just the same movement raised her          
shoulders and eyes, almost closing the latter, sighed, and moved            
away from the doctor to Pierre. To him, in a particularly respectful        
and tenderly sad voice, she said:                                           
  "Trust in His mercy!" and pointing out a small sofa for him to sit        
and wait for her, she went silently toward the door that everyone           
was watching and it creaked very slightly as she disappeared behind         
it.                                                                         
  Pierre, having made up his mind to obey his monitress implicitly,         
moved toward the sofa she had indicated. As soon as Anna Mikhaylovna        
had disappeared he noticed that the eyes of all in the room turned          
to him with something more than curiosity and sympathy. He noticed          
that they whispered to one another, casting significant looks at him        
with a kind of awe and even servility. A deference such as he had           
never before received was shown him. A strange lady, the one who had        
been talking to the priests, rose and offered him her seat; an              
aide-de-camp picked up and returned a glove Pierre had dropped; the         
doctors became respectfully silent as he passed by, and moved to            
make way for him. At first Pierre wished to take another seat so as         
not to trouble the lady, and also to pick up the glove himself and          
to pass round the doctors who were not even in his way; but all at          
once he felt that this would not do, and that tonight he was a              
person obliged to perform some sort of awful rite which everyone            
expected of him, and that he was therefore bound to accept their            
services. He took the glove in silence from the aide-de-camp, and           
sat down in the lady's chair, placing his huge hands symmetrically          
on his knees in the naive 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.                                         
                                                    {BK1|CH22 ^paragraph 20}
  Not two minutes had passed before Prince Vasili with head erect           
majestically entered the room. He was wearing his long coat with three      
stars on his breast. He seemed to have grown thinner since the              
morning; his eyes seemed larger than usual when he glanced round and        
noticed Pierre. He went up to him, took his hand (a thing he never          
used to do), and drew it downwards as if wishing to ascertain               
whether it was firmly fixed on.                                             
  "Courage, courage, my friend! He has asked to see you. That is            
well!" and he turned to go.                                                 
  But Pierre thought it necessary to ask: "How is..." and hesitated,        
not knowing whether it would be proper to call the dying man "the           
count," yet ashamed to call him "father."                                   
  "He had another stroke about half an hour ago. Courage, my                
friend..."                                                                  
  Pierre's mind was in such a confused state that the word "stroke"         
suggested to him a blow from something. He looked at Prince Vasili          
in perplexity, and only later grasped that a stroke was an attack of        
illness. Prince Vasili said something to Lorrain in passing and went        
through the door on tiptoe. He could not walk well on tiptoe and his        
whole body jerked at each step. The eldest princess followed him,           
and the priests and deacons and some servants also went in at the           
door. Through that door was heard a noise of things being moved about,      
and at last Anna Mikhaylovna, still with the same expression, pale but      
resolute in the discharge of duty, ran out and touching Pierre lightly      
on the arm said:                                                            
                                                    {BK1|CH22 ^paragraph 25}
  "The divine mercy is inexhaustible! Unction is about to be                
administered. Come."                                                        
  Pierre went in at the door, stepping on the soft carpet, and noticed      
that the strange lady, the aide-de-camp, and some of the servants, all      
followed him in, as if there were now no further need for permission        
to enter that room.                                                         
                                                                            
BK1|CH23                                                                    
  CHAPTER XXIII                                                             
-                                                                           
  Pierre well knew this large room divided by columns and an arch, its      
walls hung round with Persian carpets. The part of the room behind the      
columns, with a high silk-curtained mahogany bedstead on one side           
and on the other an immense case containing icons, was brightly             
illuminated with red light like a Russian church during evening             
service. Under the gleaming icons stood a long invalid chair, and in        
that chair on snowy-white smooth pillows, evidently freshly changed,        
Pierre saw- covered to the waist by a bright green quilt- the               
familiar, majestic figure of his father, Count Bezukhov, with that          
gray mane of hair above his broad forehead which reminded one of a          
lion, and the deep characteristically noble wrinkles of his                 
handsome, ruddy face. He lay just under the icons; his large thick          
hands outside the quilt. Into the right hand, which was lying palm          
downwards, a wax taper had been thrust between forefinger and thumb,        
and an old servant, bending over from behind the chair, held it in          
position. By the chair stood the priests, their long hair falling over      
their magnificent glittering vestments, with lighted tapers in their        
hands, slowly and solemnly conducting the service. A little behind          
them stood the two younger princesses holding handkerchiefs to their        
eyes, and just in front of them their eldest sister, Catiche, with a        
vicious and determined look steadily fixed on the icons, as though          
declaring to all that she could not answer for herself should she           
glance round. Anna Mikhaylovna, with a meek, sorrowful, and                 
all-forgiving expression on her face, stood by the door near the            
strange lady. Prince Vasili in front of the door, near the invalid          
chair, a wax taper in his left hand, was leaning his left arm on the        
carved back of a velvet chair he had turned round for the purpose, and      
was crossing himself with his right hand, turning his eyes upward each      
time he touched his forehead. His face wore a calm look of piety and        
resignation to the will of God. "If you do not understand these             
sentiments," he seemed to be saying, "so much the worse for you!"           
  Behind him stood the aide-de-camp, the doctors, and the menservants;      
the men and women had separated as in church. All were silently             
crossing themselves, and the reading of the church service, the             
subdued chanting of deep bass voices, and in the intervals sighs and        
the shuffling of feet were the only sounds that could be heard. Anna        
Mikhaylovna, with an air of importance that showed that she felt she        
quite knew what she was about, went across the room to where Pierre         
was standing and gave him a taper. He lit it and, distracted by             
observing those around him, began crossing himself with the hand            
that held the taper.                                                        
  Sophie, the rosy, laughter-loving, youngest princess with the             
mole, watched him. She smiled, hid her face in her handkerchief, and        
remained with it hidden for awhile; then looking up and seeing              
Pierre she again began to laugh. She evidently felt unable to look          
at him without laughing, but could not resist looking at him: so to be      
out of temptation she slipped quietly behind one of the columns. In         
the midst of the service the voices of the priests suddenly ceased,         
they whispered to one another, and the old servant who was holding the      
count's hand got up and said something to the ladies. Anna Mikhaylovna      
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 Vasili left the chair on which he had            
been leaning, and- with air which intimated that he knew what he was        
about and if others did not understand him it was so much the worse         
for them- did not go up to the dying man, but passed by him, joined         
the eldest princess, and moved with her to the side of the room             
where stood the high bedstead with its silken hangings. On leaving the      
bed both Prince Vasili and the princess passed out by a back door, but      
returned to their places one after the other before the service was         
concluded. Pierre paid no more attention to this occurrence than to         
the rest of what went on, having made up his mind once for all that         
what he saw happening around him that evening was in some way               
essential.                                                                  
  The chanting of the service ceased, and the voice of the priest           
was heard respectfully congratulating the dying man on having received      
the sacrament. The dying man lay as lifeless and immovable as               
before. Around him everyone began to stir: steps were audible and           
whispers, among which Anna Mikhaylovna's was the most distinct.             
  Pierre heard her say:                                                     
                                                     {BK1|CH23 ^paragraph 5}
  "Certainly he must be moved onto the bed; here it will be                 
impossible..."                                                              
  The sick man was so surrounded by doctors, princesses, and                
servants that Pierre could no longer see the reddish-yellow face            
with its gray mane- which, though he saw other faces as well, he had        
not lost sight of for a single moment during the whole service. He          
judged by the cautious movements of those who crowded round the             
invalid chair that they had lifted the dying man and were moving him.       
  "Catch hold of my arm or you'll drop him!" he heard one of the            
servants say in a frightened whisper. "Catch hold from underneath.          
Here!" exclaimed different voices; and the heavy breathing of the           
bearers and the shuffling of their feet grew more hurried, as if the        
weight they were carrying were too much for them.                           
  As the bearers, among whom was Anna Mikhaylovna, passed the young         
man he caught a momentary glimpse between their heads and backs of the      
dying man's high, stout, uncovered chest and powerful shoulders,            
raised by those who were holding him under the armpits, and of his          
gray, curly, leonine head. This head, with its remarkably broad brow        
and cheekbones, its handsome, sensual mouth, and its cold, majestic         
expression, was not disfigured by the approach of death. It was the         
same as Pierre remembered it three months before, when the count had        
sent him to Petersburg. But now this head was swaying helplessly            
with the uneven movements of the bearers, and the cold listless gaze        
fixed itself upon nothing.                                                  
  After a few minutes' bustle beside the high bedstead, those who           
had carried the sick man dispersed. Anna Mikhaylovna touched                
Pierre's hand and said, "Come." Pierre went with her to the bed on          
which the sick man had been laid in a stately pose in keeping with the      
ceremony just completed. He lay with his head propped high on the           
pillows. His hands were symmetrically placed on the green silk              
quilt, the palms 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 Mikhaylovna made a hurried sign with         
her eyes, glancing at the sick man's hand and moving her lips as if to      
send it a kiss. Pierre, carefully stretching his neck so as not to          
touch the quilt, followed her suggestion and pressed his lips to the        
large boned, fleshy hand. Neither the hand nor a single muscle of           
the count's face stirred. Once more Pierre looked questioningly at          
Anna Mikhaylovna to see what he was to do next. Anna Mikhaylovna            
with her eyes indicated a chair that stood beside the bed. Pierre           
obediently sat down, his eyes asking if he were doing right. Anna           
Mikhaylovna nodded approvingly. Again Pierre fell into the naively          
symmetrical pose of an Egyptian statue, evidently distressed that           
his stout and clumsy body took up so much room and doing his utmost to      
look as small as possible. He looked at the count, who still gazed          
at the spot where Pierre's face had been before he sat down. Anna           
Mikhaylovna indicated by her attitude her consciousness of the              
pathetic importance of these last moments of meeting between the            
father and son. This lasted about two minutes, which to Pierre              
seemed an hour. Suddenly the broad muscles and lines of the count's         
face began to twitch. The twitching 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 Mikhaylovna looked attentively at the sick man's         
eyes, trying to guess what he wanted; she pointed first to Pierre,          
then to some drink, then named Prince Vasili in an inquiring                
whisper, then pointed to the quilt. The eyes and face of the sick           
man showed impatience. He made an effort to look at the servant who         
stood constantly at the head of the bed.                                    
                                                    {BK1|CH23 ^paragraph 10}
  "Wants to turn on the other side," whispered the servant, and got up      
to turn the count's heavy body toward the wall.                             
  Pierre rose to help him.                                                  
  While the count was being turned over, one of his arms fell back          
helplessly and he made a fruitless effort to pull it forward.               
Whether he noticed the look of terror with which Pierre regarded            
that lifeless arm, or whether some other thought flitted across his         
dying brain, at any rate he glanced at the refractory arm, at Pierre's      
terror-stricken face, and again at the arm, and on his face a               
feeble, piteous smile appeared, quite out of keeping with his               
features, that seemed to deride his own helplessness. At sight of this      
smile Pierre felt an unexpected quivering in his breast and a tickling      
in his nose, and tears dimmed his eyes. The sick man was turned on          
to his side with his face to the wall. He sighed.                           
  "He is dozing," said Anna Mikhaylovna, observing that one of the          
princesses was coming to take her turn at watching. "Let us go."            
  Pierre went out.                                                          
                                                                            
BK1|CH24                                                                    
  CHAPTER XXIV                                                              
-                                                                           
  There was now no one in the reception room except Prince Vasili           
and the eldest princess, who were sitting under the portrait of             
Catherine the Great and talking eagerly. As soon as they saw Pierre         
and his companion they became silent, and Pierre thought he saw the         
princess hide something as she whispered:                                   
  "I can't bear the sight of that woman."                                   
  "Catiche has had tea served in the small drawing room," said              
Prince Vasili to Anna Mikhaylovna. "Go and take something, my poor          
Anna Mikhaylovna, or you will not hold out."                                
  To Pierre he said nothing, merely giving his arm a sympathetic            
squeeze below the shoulder. Pierre went with Anna Mikhaylovna into the      
small drawing room.                                                         
  "There is nothing so refreshing after a sleepless night as a cup          
of this delicious Russian tea," Lorrain was saying with an air of           
restrained animation as he stood sipping tea from a 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          
Bezukhov's house that night had gathered to fortify themselves. Pierre      
well remembered this small circular drawing room with its mirrors           
and little tables. During balls given at the house Pierre, who did not      
know how to dance, had liked sitting in this room to watch the              
ladies who, as they passed through in their ball dresses with 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 Vasili and the eldest             
princess. Pierre concluded that this also was essential, and after a        
short interval followed her. Anna Mikhaylovna was standing beside           
the princess, and they were both speaking in excited whispers.              
                                                     {BK1|CH24 ^paragraph 5}
  "Permit me, Princess, to know what is necessary and what is not           
necessary," said the younger of the two speakers, evidently in the          
same state of excitement as when she had slammed the door of her room.      
  "But, my dear princess," answered Anna Mikhaylovna blandly but            
impressively, blocking the way to the bedroom and preventing the other      
from passing, "won't this be too much for poor Uncle at a moment            
when he needs repose? Worldly conversation at a moment when his soul        
is already prepared..."                                                     
  Prince Vasili was seated in an easy chair in his familiar                 
attitude, with one leg crossed high above the other. His cheeks, which      
were so flabby that they looked heavier below, were twitching               
violently; but he wore the air of a man little concerned in what the        
two ladies were saying.                                                     
  "Come, my dear Anna Mikhaylovna, let Catiche do as she pleases.           
You know how fond the count is of her."                                     
  "I don't even know what is in this paper," said the younger of the        
two ladies, addressing Prince Vasili and pointing to an inlaid              
portfolio she held in her hand. "All I know is that his real will is        
in his writing table, and this is a paper he has forgotten...."             
                                                    {BK1|CH24 ^paragraph 10}
  She tried to pass Anna Mikhaylovna, but the latter sprang so as to        
bar her path.                                                               
  "I know, my dear, kind princess," said Anna Mikhaylovna, seizing the      
portfolio so firmly that it was plain she would not let go easily.          
"Dear princess, I beg and implore you, have some pity on him! Je            
vous en conjure..."                                                         
  The princess did not reply. Their efforts in the struggle for the         
portfolio were the only sounds audible, but it was evident that if the      
princess did speak, her words would not be flattering to Anna               
Mikhaylovna. Though the latter held on tenaciously, her voice lost          
none of its honeyed firmness and softness.                                  
  "Pierre, my dear, come here. I think he will not be out of place          
in a family consultation; is it not so, Prince?"                            
  "Why don't you speak, cousin?" suddenly shrieked the princess so          
loud that those in the drawing room heard her and were startled.            
"Why do you remain silent when heaven knows who permits herself to          
interfere, making a scene on the very threshold of a dying man's room?      
Intriguer!" she hissed viciously, and tugged with all her might at the      
portfolio.                                                                  
                                                    {BK1|CH24 ^paragraph 15}
  But Anna Mikhaylovna went forward a step or two to keep her hold          
on the portfolio, and changed her grip.                                     
  Prince Vasili rose. "Oh!" said he with reproach and surprise,             
"this is absurd! Come, let go I tell you."                                  
  The princess let go.                                                      
  "And you too!"                                                            
  But Anna Mikhaylovna did not obey him.                                    
                                                    {BK1|CH24 ^paragraph 20}
  "Let go, I tell you! I will take the responsibility. I myself will        
go and ask him, I!... does that satisfy you?"                               
  "But, Prince," said Anna Mikhaylovna, "after such a solemn                
sacrament, allow him a moment's peace! Here, Pierre, tell them your         
opinion," said she, turning to the young man who, having come quite         
close, was gazing with astonishment at the angry face of the                
princess which had lost all dignity, and at the twitching cheeks of         
Prince Vasili.                                                              
  "Remember that you will answer for the consequences," said Prince         
Vasili severely. "You don't know what you are doing."                       
  "Vile woman!" shouted the princess, darting unexpectedly at Anna          
Mikhaylovna and snatching the portfolio from her.                           
  Prince Vasili bent his head and spread out his hands.                     
                                                    {BK1|CH24 ^paragraph 25}
  At this moment that terrible door, which Pierre had watched so            
long and which had always opened so quietly, burst noisily open and         
banged against the wall, and the second of the three sisters rushed         
out wringing her hands.                                                     
  "What are you doing!" she cried vehemently. "He is dying and you          
leave me alone with him!"                                                   
  Her sister dropped the portfolio. Anna Mikhaylovna, stooping,             
quickly caught up the object of contention and ran into the bedroom.        
The eldest princess and Prince Vasili, recovering themselves, followed      
her. A few minutes later the eldest sister came out with a pale hard        
face, again biting her underlip. At sight of Pierre her expression          
showed an irrepressible hatred.                                             
  "Yes, now you may be glad!" said she; "this is what you have been         
waiting for." And bursting into tears she hid her face in her               
handkerchief and rushed from the room.                                      
  Prince Vasili came next. He staggered to the sofa on which Pierre         
was sitting and dropped onto it, covering his face with his hand.           
Pierre noticed that he was pale and that his jaw quivered and shook as      
if in an ague.                                                              
                                                    {BK1|CH24 ^paragraph 30}
  "Ah, my friend!" said he, taking Pierre by the elbow; and there           
was in his voice a sincerity and weakness Pierre had never observed in      
it before. "How often we sin, how much we deceive, and all for what? I      
am near sixty, dear friend... I too... All will end in death, all!          
Death is awful..." and he burst into tears.                                 
  Anna Mikhaylovna came out last. She approached Pierre with slow,          
quiet steps.                                                                
  "Pierre!" she said.                                                       
  Pierre gave her an inquiring look. She kissed the young man on his        
forehead, wetting him with her tears. Then after a pause she said:          
  "He is no more...."                                                       
                                                    {BK1|CH24 ^paragraph 35}
  Pierre looked at her over his spectacles.                                 
  "Come, I will go with you. Try to weep, nothing gives such relief as      
tears."                                                                     
  She led him into the dark drawing room and Pierre was glad no one         
could see his face. Anna Mikhaylovna left him, and when she returned        
he was fast asleep with his head on his arm.                                
  In the morning Anna Mikhaylovna said to Pierre:                           
  "Yes, my dear, this is a great loss for us all, not to speak of you.      
But God will support you: you are young, and are now, I hope, in            
command of an immense fortune. The will has not yet been opened. I          
know you well enough to be sure that this will not turn your head, but      
it imposes duties on you, and you must be a man."                           
                                                    {BK1|CH24 ^paragraph 40}
  Pierre was silent.                                                        
  "Perhaps later on I may tell you, my dear boy, that if I had not          
been there, God only knows what would have happened! You know, Uncle        
promised me only the day before yesterday not to forget Boris. But          
he had no time. I hope, my dear friend, you will carry out your             
father's wish?"                                                             
  Pierre understood nothing of all this and coloring shyly looked in        
silence at Princess Anna Mikhaylovna. After her talk with Pierre, Anna      
Mikhaylovna returned to the Rostovs' and went to bed. On waking in the      
morning she told the Rostovs and all her acquaintances the details          
of Count Bezukhov's death. She said the count had died as she would         
herself wish to die, that his end was not only touching but                 
edifying. As to the last meeting between father and son, it was so          
touching that she could not think of it without tears, and did not          
know which had behaved better during those awful moments- the father        
who so remembered everything and everybody at last and last and had         
spoken such pathetic words to the son, or Pierre, whom it had been          
pitiful to see, so stricken was he with grief, though he tried hard to      
hide it in order not to sadden his dying father. "It is painful, but        
it does one good. It uplifts the soul to see such men as the old count      
and his worthy son," said she. Of the behavior of the eldest                
princess and Prince Vasili she spoke disapprovingly, but in whispers        
and as a great secret.                                                      
                                                                            
BK1|CH25                                                                    
  CHAPTER XXV                                                               
-                                                                           
  At Bald Hills, Prince Nicholas Andreevich Bolkonski's estate, the         
arrival of young Prince Andrew and his wife was daily expected, but         
this expectation did not upset the regular routine of life in the           
old prince's household. General in Chief Prince Nicholas Andreevich         
(nicknamed in society, "the King of Prussia") ever since the Emperor        
Paul had exiled him to his country estate had lived there continuously      
with his daughter, Princess Mary, and her companion, Mademoiselle           
Bourienne. Though in the new reign he was free to return to the             
capitals, he still continued to live in the country, remarking that         
anyone who wanted to see him could come the hundred miles from              
Moscow to Bald Hills, while he himself needed no one and nothing. He        
used to say that there are only two sources of human vice- idleness         
and superstition, and only two virtues- activity and intelligence.          
He himself undertook his daughter's education, and to develop these         
two cardinal virtues in her gave her lessons in algebra and geometry        
till she was twenty, and arranged her life so that her whole time           
was occupied. He was himself always occupied: writing his memoirs,          
solving problems in higher mathematics, turning snuffboxes on a lathe,      
working in the garden, or superintending the building that was              
always going on at his estate. As regularity is a prime condition           
facilitating activity, regularity in his household was carried to           
the highest point of exactitude. He always came to table under              
precisely the same conditions, and not only at the same hour but at         
the same minute. With those about him, from his daughter to his serfs,      
the prince was sharp and invariably exacting, so that without being         
a hardhearted man he inspired such fear and respect as few hardhearted      
men would have aroused. Although he was in retirement and had now no        
influence in political affairs, every high official appointed to the        
province in which the prince's estate lay considered it his duty to         
visit him and waited in the lofty antechamber ante chamber just as the      
architect, gardener, or Princess Mary did, till the prince appeared         
punctually to the appointed hour. Everyone sitting in this antechamber      
experienced the same feeling of respect and even fear when the              
enormously high study door opened and showed the figure of a rather         
small old man, with powdered wig, small withered hands, and bushy gray      
eyebrows which, when he frowned, sometimes hid the gleam of his             
shrewd, youthfully glittering eyes.                                         
  On the morning of the day that the young couple were to arrive,           
Princess Mary entered the antechamber as usual at the time appointed        
for the morning greeting, crossing herself with trepidation and             
repeating a silent prayer. Every morning she came in like that, and         
every morning prayed that the daily interview might pass off well.          
  An old powdered manservant who was sitting in the antechamber rose        
quietly and said in a whisper: "Please walk in."                            
  Through the door came the regular hum of a lathe. The princess            
timidly opened the door which moved noiselessly and easily. She paused      
at the entrance. The prince was working at the lathe and after              
glancing round continued his work.                                          
  The enormous study was full of things evidently in constant use. The      
large table covered with books and plans, the tall glass-fronted            
bookcases with keys in the locks, the high desk for writing while           
standing up, on which lay an open exercise book, and the lathe with         
tools laid ready to hand and shavings scattered around- all                 
indicated continuous, varied, and orderly activity. The motion of           
the small foot shod in a Tartar boot embroidered with silver, and           
the firm pressure of the lean sinewy hand, showed that the prince           
still possessed the tenacious endurance and vigor of hardy old age.         
After a few more turns of the lathe he removed his foot from the            
pedal, wiped his chisel, dropped it into a leather pouch attached to        
the lathe, and, approaching the table, summoned his daughter. He never      
gave his children a blessing, so he simply held out his bristly             
cheek (as yet unshaven) and, regarding her tenderly and attentively,        
said severely:                                                              
                                                     {BK1|CH25 ^paragraph 5}
  "Quite well? All right then, sit down." He took the exercise book         
containing lessons in geometry written by himself and drew up a             
chair with his foot.                                                        
  "For tomorrow!" said he, quickly finding the page and making a            
scratch from one paragraph to another with his hard nail.                   
  The princess bent over the exercise book on the table.                    
  "Wait a bit, here's a letter for you," said the old man suddenly,         
taking a letter addressed in a woman's hand from a bag hanging above        
the table, onto which he threw it.                                          
  At the sight of the letter red patches showed themselves on the           
princess' face. She took it quickly and bent her head over it.              
                                                    {BK1|CH25 ^paragraph 10}
  "From Heloise?" asked the prince with a cold smile that showed his        
still sound, yellowish teeth.                                               
  "Yes, it's from Julie," replied the princess with a timid glance and      
a timid smile.                                                              
  "I'll let two more letters pass, but the third I'll read," said           
the prince sternly; "I'm afraid you write much nonsense. I'll read the      
third!"                                                                     
  "Read this if you like, Father," said the princess, blushing still        
more and holding out the letter.                                            
  "The third, I said the third!" cried the prince abruptly, pushing         
the letter away, and leaning his elbows on the table he drew toward         
him the exercise book containing geometrical figures.                       
                                                    {BK1|CH25 ^paragraph 15}
  "Well, madam," he began, stooping over the book close to his              
daughter and placing an arm on the back of the chair on which she sat,      
so that she felt herself surrounded on all sides by the acrid scent of      
old age and tobacco, which she had known so long. "Now, madam, these        
triangles are equal; please note that the angle ABC..."                     
  The princess looked in a scared way at her father's eyes                  
glittering close to her; the red patches on her face came and went,         
and it was plain that she understood nothing and was so frightened          
that her fear would prevent her understanding any of her father's           
further explanations, however clear they might be. Whether it was           
the teacher's fault or the pupil's, this same thing happened every          
day: the princess' eyes grew dim, she could not see and could not hear      
anything, but was only conscious of her stern father's withered face        
close to her, of his breath and the smell of him, and could think only      
of how to get away quickly to her own room to make out the problem          
in peace. The old man was beside himself: moved the chair on which          
he was sitting noisily backward and forward, made efforts to control        
himself and not become vehement, but almost always did become               
vehement, scolded, and sometimes flung the exercise book away.              
  The princess gave a wrong answer.                                         
  "Well now, isn't she a fool!" shouted the prince, pushing the book        
aside and turning sharply away; but rising immediately, he paced up         
and down, lightly touched his daughter's hair and sat down again.           
  He drew up his chair. and continued to explain.                           
                                                    {BK1|CH25 ^paragraph 20}
  "This won't do, Princess; it won't do," said he, when Princess Mary,      
having taken and closed the exercise book with the next day's               
lesson, was about to leave: "Mathematics are most important, madam!         
I don't want to have you like our silly ladies. Get used to it and          
you'll like it," and he patted her cheek. "It will drive all the            
nonsense out of your head."                                                 
  She turned to go, but he stopped her with a gesture and took an           
uncut book from the high desk.                                              
  "Here is some sort of Key to the Mysteries that your Heloise has          
sent you. Religious! I don't interfere with anyone's belief... I            
have looked at it. Take it. Well, now go. Go."                              
  He patted her on the shoulder and himself closed the door after her.      
  Princess Mary went back to her room with the sad, scared                  
expression that rarely left her and which made her plain, sickly            
face yet plainer. She sat down at her writing table, on which stood         
miniature portraits and which was littered with books and papers.           
The princess was as untidy as her father was tidy. She put down the         
geometry book and eagerly broke the seal of her letter. It was from         
her most intimate friend from childhood; that same Julie Karagina           
who had been at the Rostovs' name-day party.                                
                                                    {BK1|CH25 ^paragraph 25}
  Julie wrote in French:                                                    
-                                                                           
  Dear and precious Friend, How terrible and frightful a thing is           
separation! Though I tell myself that half my life and half my              
happiness are wrapped up in you, and that in spite of the distance          
separating us our hearts are united by indissoluble bonds, my heart         
rebels against fate and in spite of the pleasures and distractions          
around me I cannot overcome a certain secret sorrow that has been in        
my heart ever since we parted. Why are we not together as we were last      
summer, in your big study, on the blue sofa, the confidential sofa?         
Why cannot I now, as three months ago, draw fresh moral strength            
from your look, so gentle, calm, and penetrating, a look I loved so         
well and seem to see before me as I write?                                  
-                                                                           
  Having read thus far, Princess Mary sighed and glanced into the           
mirror which stood on her right. It reflected a weak, ungraceful            
figure and thin face. Her eyes, always sad, now looked with particular      
hopelessness at her reflection in the glass. "She flatters me,"             
thought the princess, turning away and continuing to read. But Julie        
did not flatter her friend, the princess' eyes- large, deep and             
luminous (it seemed as if at times there radiated from them shafts          
of warm light)- were so beautiful that very often in spite of the           
plainness of her face they gave her an attraction more powerful than        
that of beauty. But the princess never saw the beautiful expression of      
her own eyes- the look they had when she was not thinking of                
herself. As with everyone, her face assumed a forced unnatural              
expression as soon as she looked in a glass. She went on reading:           
                                                    {BK1|CH25 ^paragraph 30}
-                                                                           
  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 Rostov, who with his                
enthusiasm could not bear to remain inactive and has left the               
university to join the army. I will confess to you, dear Mary, that in      
spite of his extreme youth his departure for the army was a great           
grief to me. This young man, of whom I spoke to you last summer, is so      
noble-minded and full of that real youthfulness which one seldom finds      
nowadays among our old men of twenty and, particularly, he is so frank      
and has so much heart. He is so pure and poetic that my relations with      
him, transient as they were, have been one of the sweetest comforts to      
my poor heart, which has already suffered so much. Someday I will tell      
you about our parting and all that was said then. That is still too         
fresh. Ah, dear friend, you are happy not to know these poignant            
joys and 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 Bezukhov, and his inheritance. Fancy! The three princesses            
have received very little, Prince Vasili 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 Bezukhov and              
possessor of the finest fortune in Russia. It is rumored that Prince        
Vasili played a very despicable part in this affair and that he             
returned to Petersburg quite crestfallen.                                   
  I confess I understand very little about all these matters of             
wills and inheritance; but I do know that since this young man, whom        
we all used to know as plain Monsieur Pierre, has become Count              
Bezukhov and the owner of one of the largest fortunes in Russia, I          
am much amused to watch the change in the tone and manners of the           
mammas burdened by marriageable daughters, and of the young ladies          
themselves, toward him, though, between you and me, he always seemed        
to me a poor sort of fellow. As for the past two years people have          
amused themselves by finding husbands for me (most of whom I don't          
even know), the matchmaking chronicles of Moscow now speak of me as         
the future Countess Bezukhova. But you will understand that I have          
no desire for the post. A propos of marriages: do you know that a           
while ago that universal auntie Anna Mikhaylovna told me, under the         
seal of strict secrecy, of a plan of marriage for you. It is neither        
more nor less than with Prince Vasili's son Anatole, whom they wish to      
reform by marrying him to someone rich and distinguee, and it is on         
you that his relations' choice has fallen. I don't know what you            
will think of it, but I consider it my duty to let you know of it.          
He is said to be very handsome and a terrible scapegrace. That is           
all I have been able to find out about him.                                 
  But enough of gossip. I am at the end of my second sheet of paper,        
and Mamma has sent for me to go and dine at the Apraksins'. Read the        
mystical book I am sending you; it has an enormous success here.            
Though there are things in it difficult for the feeble human mind to        
grasp, it is an admirable book which calms and elevates the soul.           
Adieu! Give my respects to monsieur your father and my compliments          
to Mademoiselle Bourienne. I embrace you as I love you.                     
                                                   JULIE                    
                                                    {BK1|CH25 ^paragraph 35}
  P.S. Let me have news of your brother and his charming little wife.       
-                                                                           
  The princess pondered awhile with a thoughtful smile and her              
luminous eyes lit up so that her face was entirely transformed. Then        
she suddenly rose and with her heavy tread went up to the table. She        
took a sheet of paper and her hand moved rapidly over it. This is           
the reply she wrote, also in French:                                        
-                                                                           
  Dear and precious Friend, Your letter of the 13th has given me great      
delight. So you still love me, my romantic Julie? Separation, of which      
you say so much that is bad, does not seem to have had its usual            
effect on you. You complain of our separation. What then should I say,      
if I dared complain, I who am deprived of all who are dear to me?           
Ah, if we had not religion to console us life would be very sad. Why        
do you suppose that I should look severely on your affection for            
that young man? On such matters I am only severe with myself. I             
understand such feelings in others, and if never having felt them I         
cannot approve of them, neither do I condemn them. Only it seems to me      
that Christian love, love of one's neighbor, love of one's enemy, is        
worthier, sweeter, and better than the feelings which the beautiful         
eyes of a young man can inspire in a romantic and loving young girl         
like yourself.                                                              
                                                    {BK1|CH25 ^paragraph 40}
  The news of Count Bezukhov's death reached us before your letter and      
my father was much affected by it. He says the count was the last           
representative but one of the great century, and that it is his own         
turn now, but that he will do all he can to let his turn come as            
late as possible. God preserve us from that terrible misfortune!            
  I cannot agree with you about Pierre, whom I knew as a child. He          
always seemed to me to have an excellent heart, and that is the             
quality I value most in people. As to his inheritance and the part          
played by Prince Vasili, it is very sad for both. Ah, my dear               
friend, our divine Saviour's words, that it is easier for a camel to        
go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the             
Kingdom of God, are terribly true. I pity Prince Vasili but am still        
more sorry for Pierre. So young, and burdened with such riches- to          
what temptations he will be exposed! If I were asked what I desire          
most on earth, it would be to be poorer than the poorest beggar. A          
thousand thanks, dear friend, for the volume you have sent me and           
which has such success in Moscow. Yet since you tell me that among          
some good things it contains others which our weak human understanding      
cannot grasp, it seems to me rather useless to spend time in reading        
what is unintelligible and can therefore bear no fruit. I never             
could understand the fondness some people have for confusing their          
minds by dwelling on mystical books that merely awaken their doubts         
and excite their imagination, giving them a bent for exaggeration           
quite contrary to Christian simplicity. Let us rather read the              
Epistles and Gospels. Let us not seek to penetrate what mysteries they      
contain; for how can we, miserable sinners that we are, know the            
terrible and holy secrets of Providence while we remain in this             
flesh which forms an impenetrable veil between us and the Eternal? Let      
us rather confine ourselves to studying those sublime rules which           
our divine Saviour has left for our guidance here below. Let us try to      
conform to them and follow them, and let us be persuaded that the less      
we let our feeble human minds roam, the better we shall please God,         
who rejects all knowledge that does not come from Him; and the less we      
seek to fathom what He has been pleased to conceal from us, the sooner      
will He vouchsafe its revelation to us through His divine Spirit.           
  My father has not spoken to me of a suitor, but has only told me          
that he has received a letter and is expecting a visit from Prince          
Vasili. In regard to this project of marriage for me, I will tell you,      
dear sweet friend, that I look on marriage as a divine institution          
to which we must conform. However painful it may be to me, should           
the Almighty lay the duties of wife and wife and mother upon me I           
shall try to perform them as faithfully as I can, without                   
disquieting myself by examining my feelings toward him whom He may          
give me for husband.                                                        
  I have had a letter from my brother, who announces his speedy             
arrival at Bald Hills with his wife. This pleasure will be but a brief      
one, however, for he will leave, us again to take part in this unhappy      
war into which we have been drawn, God knows how or why. Not only           
where you are- at the heart of affairs and of the world- is the talk        
all of war, even here amid fieldwork and the calm of nature- which          
townsfolk consider characteristic of the country- rumors of war are         
heard and painfully felt. My father talks of nothing but marches and        
countermarches, things of which I understand nothing; and the day           
before yesterday during my daily walk through the village I                 
witnessed a heartrending scene.... It was a convoy of conscripts            
enrolled from our people and starting to join the army. You should          
have seen the state of the mothers, wives, and children of the men who      
were going and should have heard the sobs. It seems as though               
mankind has forgotten the laws of its divine Saviour, Who preached          
love and forgiveness of injuries- and that men attribute the                
greatest merit to skill in killing one another.                             
  Adieu, dear and kind friend; may our divine Saviour and His most          
Holy Mother keep you in their holy and all-powerful care!                   
                                                    {BK1|CH25 ^paragraph 45}
                                                      MARY                  
-                                                                           
  "Ah, you are sending off a letter, Princess? I have already               
dispatched mine. I have written to my poor mother," said the smiling        
Mademoiselle Bourienne rapidly, in her pleasant mellow tones and            
with guttural r's. She brought into Princess Mary's strenuous,              
mournful, and gloomy world a quite different atmosphere, careless,          
lighthearted, and self-satisfied.                                           
  "Princess, I must warn you," she added, lowering her voice and            
evidently listening to herself with pleasure, and speaking with             
exaggerated grasseyement, "the prince has been scolding Michael             
Ivanovich. He is in a very bad humor, very morose. Be prepared."            
  "Ah, dear friend," replied Princess Mary, "I have asked you never to      
warn me of the humor my father is in. I do not allow myself to judge        
him and would not have others do so."                                       
                                                    {BK1|CH25 ^paragraph 50}
  The princess glanced at her watch and, seeing that she was five           
minutes late in starting her practice on the clavichord, went into the      
sitting room with a look of alarm. Between twelve and two o'clock,          
as the day was mapped out, the prince rested and the princess played        
the clavichord.                                                             
                                                                            
BK1|CH26                                                                    
  CHAPTER XXVI                                                              
-                                                                           
  The gray-haired valet was sitting drowsily listening to the               
snoring of the prince, who was in his large study. From the far side        
of the house through the closed doors came the sound of difficult           
passages- twenty times repeated- of a sonata by Dussek.                     
  Just then a closed carriage and another with a hood drove up to           
the porch. Prince Andrew got out of the carriage, helped his little         
wife to alight, and let her pass into the house before him. Old             
Tikhon, wearing a wig, put his head out of the door of the                  
antechamber, reported in a whisper that the prince was sleeping, and        
hastily closed the door. Tikhon knew that neither the son's arrival         
nor any other unusual event must be allowed to disturb the appointed        
order of the day. Prince Andrew apparently knew this as well as             
Tikhon; he looked at his watch as if to ascertain whether his father's      
habits had changed since he was at home last, and, having assured           
himself that they had not, he turned to his wife.                           
  "He will get up in twenty minutes. Let us go across to Mary's room,"      
he said.                                                                    
  The little princess had grown stouter during this time, but her eyes      
and her short, downy, smiling lip lifted when she began to speak            
just as merrily and prettily as ever.                                       
  "Why, this is a palace!" she said to her husband, looking around          
with the expression with which people compliment their host at a ball.      
"Let's come, quick, quick!" And with a glance round, she smiled at          
Tikhon, at her husband, and at the footman who accompanied them.            
                                                     {BK1|CH26 ^paragraph 5}
  "Is that Mary practicing? Let's go quietly and take her by                
surprise."                                                                  
  Prince Andrew followed her with a courteous but sad expression.           
  "You've grown older, Tikhon," he said in passing to the old man, who      
kissed his hand.                                                            
  Before they reached the room from which the sounds of the clavichord      
came, the pretty, fair haired Frenchwoman, Mademoiselle Bourienne,          
rushed out apparently beside herself with delight.                          
  "Ah! what joy for the princess!" exclaimed she: "At last! I must let      
her know."                                                                  
                                                    {BK1|CH26 ^paragraph 10}
  "No, no, please not... You are Mademoiselle Bourienne," said the          
little princess, kissing her. "I know you already through my                
sister-in-law's friendship for you. She was not expecting us?"              
  They went up to the door of the sitting room from which came the          
sound of the oft-repeated passage of the sonata. Prince Andrew stopped      
and made a grimace, as if expecting something unpleasant.                   
  The little princess entered the room. The passage broke off in the        
middle, a cry was heard, then Princess Mary's heavy tread and the           
sound of kissing. When Prince Andrew went in the two princesses, who        
had only met once before for a short time at his wedding, were in each      
other's arms warmly pressing their lips to whatever place they              
happened to touch. Mademoiselle Bourienne stood near them pressing her      
hand to her heart, with a beatific smile and obviously equally ready        
to cry or to laugh. Prince Andrew shrugged his shoulders and                
frowned, as lovers of music do when they hear a false note. The two         
women let go of one another, and then, as if afraid of being too late,      
seized each other's hands, kissing them and pulling them away, and          
again began kissing each other on the face, and then to Prince              
Andrew's surprise both began to cry and kissed again. Mademoiselle          
Bourienne also began to cry. Prince Andrew evidently felt ill at ease,      
but to the two women it seemed quite natural that they should cry, and      
apparently it never entered their heads that it could have been             
otherwise at this meeting.                                                  
  "Ah! my dear!... Ah! Mary!" they suddenly exclaimed, and then             
laughed. "I dreamed last night..."- "You were not expecting us?..."-        
"Ah! Mary, you have got thinner?..." "And you have grown stouter!..."       
  "I knew the princess at once," put in Mademoiselle Bourienne.             
                                                    {BK1|CH26 ^paragraph 15}
  "And I had no idea!..." exclaimed Princess Mary. "Ah, Andrew, I           
did not see you."                                                           
  Prince Andrew and his sister, hand in hand, kissed one another,           
and he told her she was still the same crybaby as ever. Princess            
Mary had turned toward her brother, and through her tears the               
loving, warm, gentle look of her large luminous eyes, very beautiful        
at that moment, rested on Prince Andrew's face.                             
  The little princess talked incessantly, her short, downy upper lip        
continually and rapidly touching her rosy nether lip when necessary         
and drawing up again next moment when her face broke into a smile of        
glittering teeth and sparkling eyes. She told of an accident they           
had had on the Spasski Hill which might have been serious for her in        
her condition, and immediately after that informed them that she had        
left all her clothes in Petersburg and that heaven knew what she would      
have to dress in here; and that Andrew had quite changed, and that          
Kitty Odyntsova had married an old man, and that there was a suitor         
for Mary, a real one, but that they would talk of that later. Princess      
Mary was still looking silently at her brother and her beautiful            
eyes were full of love and sadness. It was plain that she was               
following a train of thought independent of her sister-in-law's words.      
In the midst of a description of the last Petersburg fete she               
addressed her brother:                                                      
  "So you are really going to the war, Andrew?" she said sighing.           
  Lise sighed too.                                                          
                                                    {BK1|CH26 ^paragraph 20}
  "Yes, and even tomorrow," replied her brother.                            
  "He is leaving me here, God knows why, when he might have had             
promotion..."                                                               
  Princess Mary did not listen to the end, but continuing her train of      
thought turned to her sister-in-law with a tender glance at her             
figure.                                                                     
  "Is it certain?" she said.                                                
  The face of the little princess changed. She sighed and said:             
"Yes, quite certain. Ah! it is very dreadful..."                            
                                                    {BK1|CH26 ^paragraph 25}
  Her lip descended. She brought her face close to her sister-in-law's      
and unexpectedly again began to cry.                                        
  "She needs rest," said Prince Andrew with a frown. "Don't you, Lise?      
Take her to your room and I'll go to Father. How is he? Just the            
same?"                                                                      
  "Yes, just the same. Though I don't know what your opinion will be,"      
answered the princess joyfully.                                             
  "And are the hours the same? And the walks in the avenues? And the        
lathe?" asked Prince Andrew with a scarcely perceptible smile which         
showed that, in spite of all his love and respect for his father, he        
was aware of his weaknesses.                                                
  "The hours are the same, and the lathe, and also the mathematics and      
my geometry lessons," said Princess Mary gleefully, as if her               
lessons in geometry were among the greatest delights of her life.           
                                                    {BK1|CH26 ^paragraph 30}
  When the twenty minutes had elapsed and the time had come for the         
old prince to get up, Tikhon came to call the young prince to his           
father. The old man made a departure from his usual routine in honor        
of his son's arrival: he gave orders to admit him to his apartments         
while he dressed for dinner. The old prince always dressed in               
old-fashioned style, wearing an antique coat and powdered hair; and         
when Prince Andrew entered his father's dressing room (not with the         
contemptuous look and manner he wore in drawing rooms, but with the         
animated face with which he talked to Pierre), the old man was sitting      
on a large leather-covered chair, wrapped in a powdering mantle,            
entrusting his head to Tikhon.                                              
  "Ah! here's the warrior! Wants to vanquish Buonaparte?" said the old      
man, shaking his powdered head as much as the tail, which Tikhon was        
holding fast to plait, would allow.                                         
  "You at least must tackle him properly, or else if he goes on like        
this he'll soon have us, too, for his subjects! How are you?" And he        
held out his cheek.                                                         
  The old man was in a good temper after his nap before dinner. (He         
used to say that a nap "after dinner was silver- before dinner,             
golden.") He cast happy, sidelong glances at his son from under his         
thick, bushy eyebrows. Prince Andrew went up and kissed his father          
on the spot indicated to him. He made no reply on his father's              
favorite topic- making fun of the military men of the day, and more         
particularly of Bonaparte.                                                  
  "Yes, Father, I have come come to you and brought my wife who is          
pregnant," said Prince Andrew, following every movement of his              
father's face with an eager and respectful look. "How is your health?"      
                                                    {BK1|CH26 ^paragraph 35}
  "Only fools and rakes fall ill, my boy. You know me: I am busy            
from morning till night and abstemious, so of course I am well."            
  "Thank God," said his son smiling.                                        
  "God has nothing to do with it! Well, go on," he continued,               
returning to his hobby; "tell me how the Germans have taught you to         
fight Bonaparte by this new science you call 'strategy.'"                   
  Prince Andrew smiled.                                                     
  "Give me time to collect my wits, Father," said he, with a smile          
that showed that his father's foibles did not prevent his son from          
loving and honoring him. "Why, I have not yet had time to settle            
down!"                                                                      
                                                    {BK1|CH26 ^paragraph 40}
  "Nonsense, nonsense!" cried the old man, shaking his pigtail to           
see whether it was firmly plaited, and grasping his by the hand.            
"The house for your wife is ready. Princess Mary will take her there        
and show her over, and they'll talk nineteen to the dozen. That's           
their woman's way! I am glad to have her. Sit down and talk. About          
Mikhelson's army I understand- Tolstoy's too... a simultaneous              
expedition.... But what's the southern army to do? Prussia is               
neutral... I know that. What about Austria?" said he, rising from           
his chair and pacing up and down the room followed by Tikhon, who           
ran after him, handing him different articles of clothing. "What of         
Sweden? How will they cross Pomerania?"                                     
  Prince Andrew, seeing that his father insisted, began- at first           
reluctantly, but gradually with more and more animation, and from           
habit changing unconsciously from Russian to French as he went on-          
to explain the plan of operation for the coming campaign. He explained      
how an army, ninety thousand strong, was to threaten Prussia so as          
to bring her out of her neutrality and draw her into the war; how part      
of that army was to join some Swedish forces at Stralsund; how two          
hundred and twenty thousand Austrians, with a hundred thousand              
Russians, were to operate in Italy and on the Rhine; how fifty              
thousand Russians and as many English were to land at Naples, and           
how a total force of five hundred thousand men was to attack the            
French from different sides. The old prince did not evince the least        
interest during this explanation, but as if he were not listening to        
it continued to dress while walking about, and three times                  
unexpectedly interrupted. Once he stopped it by shouting: "The white        
one, the white one!"                                                        
  This meant that Tikhon was not handing him the waistcoat he               
wanted. Another time he interrupted, saying:                                
  "And will she soon be confined?" and shaking his head                     
reproachfully said: "That's bad! Go on, go on."                             
  The third interruption came when Prince Andrew was finishing his          
description. The old man began to sing, in the cracked voice of old         
age: "Malbrook s'en va-t-en guerre. Dieu sait quand reviendra."*            
                                                    {BK1|CH26 ^paragraph 45}
-                                                                           
  *"Marlborough is going to the wars; God knows when he'll return."         
-                                                                           
  His son only smiled.                                                      
  "I don't say it's a plan I approve of," said the son; "I am only          
telling you what it is. Napoleon has also formed his plan by now,           
not worse than this one."                                                   
                                                    {BK1|CH26 ^paragraph 50}
  "Well, you've told me nothing new," and the old man repeated,             
meditatively and rapidly:                                                   
  "Dieu sait quand reviendra. Go to the dining room."                       
                                                                            
BK1|CH27                                                                    
  CHAPTER XXVII                                                             
-                                                                           
  At the appointed hour the prince, powdered and shaven, entered the        
dining room where his daughter-in-law, Princess Mary, and Mademoiselle      
Bourienne were already awaiting him together with his architect, who        
by a strange caprice of his employer's was admitted to table though         
the position of that insignificant individual was such as could             
certainly not have caused him to expect that honor. The prince, who         
generally kept very strictly to social distinctions and rarely              
admitted even important government officials to his table, had              
unexpectedly selected Michael Ivanovich (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 Ivanovich was "not a whit worse than you or           
I." At dinner the prince usually spoke to the taciturn Michael              
Ivanovich more often than to anyone else.                                   
  In the dining room, which like all the rooms in the house was             
exceedingly lofty, the members of the household and the footmen- one        
behind each chair- stood waiting for the prince to enter. The head          
butler, napkin on arm, was scanning the setting of the table, making        
signs to the footmen, and anxiously glancing from the clock to the          
door by which the prince was to enter. Prince Andrew was looking at         
a large gilt frame, new to him, containing the genealogical tree of         
the Princes Bolkonski, opposite which hung another such frame with a        
badly painted portrait (evidently by the hand of the artist                 
belonging to the estate) of a ruling prince, in a crown- an alleged         
descendant of Rurik and ancestor of the Bolkonskis. Prince Andrew,          
looking again at that genealogical tree, shook his head, laughing as a      
man laughs who looks at a portrait so characteristic of the original        
as to be amusing.                                                           
  "How thoroughly like him that is!" he said to Princess Mary, who had      
come up to him.                                                             
  Princess Mary looked at her brother in surprise. She did not              
understand what he was laughing at. Everything her father did inspired      
her with reverence and was beyond question.                                 
  "Everyone has his Achilles' heel," continued Prince Andrew.               
"Fancy, with his powerful mind, indulging in such nonsense!"                
                                                     {BK1|CH27 ^paragraph 5}
  Princess Mary could not understand the boldness of her brother's          
criticism and was about to reply, when the expected footsteps were          
heard coming from the study. The prince walked in quickly and jauntily      
as was his wont, as if intentionally contrasting the briskness of           
his manners with the strict formality of his house. At that moment the      
great clock struck two and another with a shrill tone joined in from        
the drawing room. The prince stood still; his lively glittering eyes        
from under their thick, bushy eyebrows sternly scanned all present and      
rested on the little princess. She felt, as courtiers do when the Tsar      
enters, the sensation of fear and respect which the old man inspired        
in all around him. He stroked her hair and then patted her awkwardly        
on the back of her neck.                                                    
  "I'm glad, glad, to see you," he said, looking attentively into           
her eyes, and then quickly went to his place and sat down. "Sit             
down, sit down! Sit down, Michael Ianovich!"                                
  He indicated a place beside him to his daughter-in-law. A footman         
moved the chair for her.                                                    
  "Ho, ho!" said the old man, casting his eyes on her rounded               
figure. "You've been in a hurry. That's bad!"                               
  He laughed in his usual dry, cold, unpleasant way, with his lips          
only and not with his eyes.                                                 
                                                    {BK1|CH27 ^paragraph 10}
  "You must walk, walk as much as possible, as much as possible," he        
said.                                                                       
  The little princess did not, or did not wish to, hear his words. She      
was silent and seemed confused. The prince asked her about her father,      
and she began to smile and talk. He asked about mutual                      
acquaintances, and she became still more animated and chattered away        
giving him greetings from various people and retailing the town             
gossip.                                                                     
  "Countess Apraksina, poor thing, has lost her husband and she has         
cried her eyes out," she said, growing more and more lively.                
  As she became animated the prince looked at her more and more             
sternly, and suddenly, as if he had studied her sufficiently and had        
formed a definite idea of her, he turned away and addressed Michael         
Ivanovich.                                                                  
  "Well, Michael Ivanovich, our Bonaparte will be having a bad time of      
it. Prince Andrew" (he always spoke thus of his son) "has been telling      
me what forces are being collected against him! While you and I             
never thought much of him."                                                 
                                                    {BK1|CH27 ^paragraph 15}
  Michael Ivanovich did not at all know when "you and I" had said such      
things about Bonaparte, but understanding that he was wanted as a           
peg on which to hang the prince's favorite topic, he looked                 
inquiringly at the young prince, wondering what would follow.               
  "He is a great tactician!" said the prince to his son, pointing to        
the architect.                                                              
  And the conversation again turned on the war, on 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 Potemkins or Suvorovs left to oppose him; but he was also        
convinced that there were no political difficulties in Europe and no        
real war, but only a sort of puppet show at which the men of the day        
were playing, pretending to do something real. Prince Andrew gaily          
bore with his father's ridicule of the new men, and drew him on and         
listened to him with evident pleasure.                                      
  "The past always seems good," said he, "but did not Suvorov               
himself fall into a trap Moreau set him, and from which he did not          
know how to escape?"                                                        
  "Who told you that? Who?" cried the prince. "Suvorov!" And he jerked      
away his plate, which Tikhon briskly caught. "Suvorov!... Consider,         
Prince Andrew. Two... Frederick and Suvorov; Moreau!... Moreau would        
have been a prisoner if Suvorov had had a free hand; but he had the         
Hofs-kriegs-wurst-schnapps-Rath on his hands. It would have puzzled         
the devil himself! When you get there you'll find out what those            
Hofs-kriegs-wurst-Raths are! Suvorov couldn't manage them so what           
chance has Michael Kutuzov? No, my dear boy," he continued, "you and        
your generals won't get on against Buonaparte; you'll have to call          
in the French, so that birds of a feather may fight together. The           
German, Pahlen, has been sent to New York in America, to fetch the          
Frenchman, Moreau," he said, alluding to the invitation made that year      
to Moreau to enter the Russian service.... "Wonderful!... Were the          
Potemkins, Suvorovs, and Orlovs Germans? No, lad, either you fellows        
have all lost your wits, or I have outlived mine. May God help you,         
but we'll see what will happen. Buonaparte has become a great               
commander among them! Hm!..."                                               
                                                    {BK1|CH27 ^paragraph 20}
  "I don't at all say that all the plans are good," said Prince             
Andrew, "I am only surprised at your opinion of Bonaparte. You may          
laugh as much as you like, but all the same Bonaparte is a great            
generall"                                                                   
  "Michael Ivanovich!" cried the old prince to the architect who, busy      
with his roast meat, hoped he had been forgotten: "Didn't I tell you        
Buonaparte was a great tactician? Here, he says same thing."                
  "To be sure, your excellency." replied the architect.                     
  The prince again laughed his frigid laugh.                                
  "Buonaparte was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He has got         
splendid soldiers. Besides he began by attacking Germans. And only          
idlers have failed to beat the Germans. Since the world began               
everybody has beaten the Germans. They beat no one- except one              
another. He made his reputation fighting them."                             
                                                    {BK1|CH27 ^paragraph 25}
  And the prince began explaining all the blunders which, according to      
him, Bonaparte had made in his campaigns and even in politics. His son      
made no rejoinder, but it was evident that whatever arguments were          
presented he was as little able as his father to change his opinion.        
He listened, refraining from a reply, and involuntarily wondered how        
this old man, living alone in the country for so many years, could          
know and discuss so minutely and acutely all the recent European            
military and political events.                                              
  "You think I'm an old man and don't understand the present state          
of affairs?" concluded his father. "But it troubles me. I don't             
sleep at night. Come now, where has this great commander of yours           
shown his skill?" he concluded.                                             
  "That would take too long to tell," answered the son.                     
  "Well, then go to your Buonaparte! Mademoiselle Bourienne, here's         
another admirer of that powder-monkey emperor of yours," he                 
exclaimed in excellent French.                                              
  "You know, Prince, I am not a Bonapartist!"                               
                                                    {BK1|CH27 ^paragraph 30}
  "Dieu sait quand reviendra"... hummed the prince out of tune and,         
with a laugh still more so, he quitted the table.                           
  The little princess during the whole discussion and the rest of           
the dinner sat silent, glancing with a frightened look now at her           
father-in-law and now at Princess Mary. When they left the table she        
took her sister-in-law's arm and drew her into another room.                
  "What a clever man your father is," said she; "perhaps that is why I      
am afraid of him."                                                          
  "Oh, he is so kind!" answered Princess Mary.                              
                                                                            
BK1|CH28                                                                    
  CHAPTER XXVIII                                                            
-                                                                           
  Prince Andrew was to leave next evening. The old prince, not              
altering his routine, retired as usual after dinner. The little             
princess was in her sister-in-law's room. Prince Andrew in a traveling      
coat without epaulettes had been packing with his valet in the rooms        
assigned to him. After inspecting the carriage himself and seeing           
the trunks put in, he ordered the horses to be harnessed. Only those        
things he always kept with him remained in his room; a small box, a         
large canteen fitted with silver plate, two Turkish pistols and a           
saber- a present from his father who had brought it from the siege          
of Ochakov. All these traveling effects of Prince Andrew's were in          
very good order: new, clean, and in cloth covers carefully tied with        
tapes.                                                                      
  When starting on a journey or changing their mode of life, men            
capable of reflection are generally in a serious frame of mind. At          
such moments one reviews the past and plans for the future. Prince          
Andrew's face looked very thoughtful and tender. With his hands behind      
him he paced briskly from corner to corner of the room, looking             
straight before him and thoughtfully shaking his head. Did he fear          
going to the war, or was he sad at leaving his wife?- perhaps both,         
but evidently he did not wish to be seen in that mood, for hearing          
footsteps in the passage he hurriedly unclasped his hands, stopped          
at a table as if tying the cover of the small box, and assumed his          
usual tranquil and impenetrable expression. It was the heavy tread          
of Princess Mary that he heard.                                             
  "I hear you have given orders to harness," she cried, panting (she        
had apparently been running), "and I did so wish to have another            
talk with you alone! God knows how long we may again be parted. You         
are not angry with me for coming? You have changed so, Andrusha,"           
she added, as if to explain such a question.                                
  She smiled as she uttered his pet name, "Andrusha." It was obviously      
strange to her to think that this stern handsome man should be              
Andrusha- the slender mischievous boy who had been her playfellow in        
childhood.                                                                  
  "And where is Lise?" he asked, answering her question only by a           
smile.                                                                      
                                                     {BK1|CH28 ^paragraph 5}
  "She was so tired that she has fallen asleep on the sofa in my room.      
Oh, Andrew! What a treasure of a wife you have," said she, sitting          
down on the sofa, facing her brother. "She is quite a child: such a         
dear, merry child. I have grown so fond of her."                            
  Prince Andrew was silent, but the princess noticed the ironical           
and contemptuous look that showed itself on his face.                       
  "One must be indulgent to little weaknesses; who is free from             
them, Andrew? Don't forget that she has grown up and been educated          
in society, and so her position now is not a rosy one. We should enter      
into everyone's situation. Tout comprendre, c'est tout pardonner.*          
Think it must be for her, poor thing, after what she has been used to,      
to be parted from her husband and be left alone the country, in her         
condition! It's very hard."                                                 
-                                                                           
  *To understand all is to forgive all.                                     
                                                    {BK1|CH28 ^paragraph 10}
-                                                                           
  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.                                                                     
                                                    {BK1|CH28 ^paragraph 15}
  "No? She is very nice and kind and, above all, she's much to be           
pitied. She has no one, no one. To tell the truth, I don't need her,        
and she's even in my way. You know I always was a savage, and now am        
even more so. I like being alone.... Father likes her very much. She        
and Michael Ivanovich are the two people to whom he is always gentle        
and kind, because he has been a benefactor to them both. As Sterne          
says: 'We don't love people so much for the good they have done us, as      
for the good we have done them.' Father took her when she was homeless      
after losing her own father. She is very good-natured, and my 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.                               
                                                    {BK1|CH28 ^paragraph 20}
  "You are good in every way, Andrew, but you have a kind of                
intellectual pride," said the princess, following the train of her own      
thoughts rather than the trend of the conversation- "and that's a           
great sin. How can one judge Father? But even if one might, what            
feeling except veneration could such a man as my father evoke? And I        
am so contented and happy with him. I only wish you were all as             
happy as I am."                                                             
  Her brother shook his head incredulously.                                 
  "The only thing that is hard for me... I will tell you the truth,         
Andrew... is Father's way of treating religious subjects. I don't           
understand how a man of his immense intellect can fail to see what          
is as clear as day, and can go so far astray. That is the only thing        
that makes me unhappy. But even in this I can see lately a shade of         
improvement. His satire has been less bitter of late, and there was         
a monk he received and had a long talk with."                               
  "Ah! my dear, I am afraid you and your monk are wasting your              
powder," said Prince Andrew banteringly yet tenderly.                       
  "Ah! mon ami, I only pray, and hope that God will hear me.                
Andrew..." she said timidly after a moment's silence, "I have a             
great favor to ask of you."                                                 
                                                    {BK1|CH28 ^paragraph 25}
  "What is it, dear?"                                                       
  "No- promise that you will not refuse! It will give you no trouble        
and is nothing unworthy of you, but it will comfort me. Promise,            
Andrusha!..." said she, putting her hand in her 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?"                    
                                                    {BK1|CH28 ^paragraph 30}
  "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.            
                                                    {BK1|CH28 ^paragraph 35}
  "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, Masha, or            
blamed her. Why do you say all this to me?"                                 
                                                    {BK1|CH28 ^paragraph 40}
  Red patches appeared on Princess Mary's face and she was silent as        
if she felt guilty.                                                         
  "I have said nothing to you, but you have already been talked to.         
And I am sorry for that," he went on.                                       
  The patches grew deeper on her forehead, neck, and cheeks. She tried      
to say something but could not. Her brother had guessed right: the          
little princess had been crying after dinner and had spoken of her          
forebodings about her confinement, and how she dreaded it, and had          
complained of her fate, her father-in-law, and her husband. After           
crying she had fallen asleep. Prince Andrew felt sorry for his sister.      
  "Know this, Masha: I can't reproach, have not reproached, and             
never shall reproach my wife with anything, and I cannot reproach           
myself with anything in regard to her; and that 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.                           
                                                    {BK1|CH28 ^paragraph 45}
  "Let us go to her, I must say good-by. Or- go and wake and I'll come      
in a moment. Petrushka!" he called to his valet: "Come here, take           
these away. Put this on the seat and this to the right."                    
  Princess Mary rose and moved to the door, then stopped and said:          
"Andrew, if you had faith you would have turned to God and asked Him        
to give you the love you do not feel, and your prayer would have            
been answered."                                                             
  "Well, may be!" said Prince Andrew. "Go, Masha; I'll come                 
immediately."                                                               
  On the way to his sister's room, in the passage which 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.                                             
                                                    {BK1|CH28 ^paragraph 50}
  Prince Andrew looked sternly at her and an expression of anger            
suddenly came over his face. He said nothing to her but looked at           
her forehead and hair, without looking at her eyes, with such contempt      
that the Frenchwoman blushed and went away without a word. When he          
reached his sister's room his wife was already awake and her merry          
voice, hurrying one word after another, came through the open door.         
She was speaking as usual in French, and as if after long                   
self-restraint she wished to make up for lost time.                         
  "No, but imagine the old Countess Zubova, with false curls and her        
mouth full of false teeth, as if she were trying to cheat old               
age.... Ha, ha, ha! Mary!"                                                  
  This very sentence about Countess Zubova and this same laugh              
Prince Andrew had already heard from his wife in the presence of            
others some five times. He entered the room softly. The little              
princess, plump and rosy, was sitting in an easy chair with her work        
in her hands, talking incessantly, 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 Ivanovich, 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.                        
                                                    {BK1|CH28 ^paragraph 55}
  "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.                                                                      
                                                    {BK1|CH28 ^paragraph 60}
  "About my wife... I am ashamed as it is to leave her on your              
hands..."                                                                   
  "Why talk nonsense? Say what you want."                                   
  "When her confinement is due, send to Moscow for an accoucheur....        
Let him be here...."                                                        
  The old prince stopped writing and, as if not understanding, fixed        
his stern eyes on his son.                                                  
  "I know that no one can help if nature does not do her work," said        
Prince Andrew, evidently confused. "I know that out of a million cases      
only one goes wrong, but it is her fancy and mine. They have been           
telling her things. She has had a dream and is frightened."                 
                                                    {BK1|CH28 ^paragraph 65}
  "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.               
                                                    {BK1|CH28 ^paragraph 70}
  "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.           
                                                    {BK1|CH28 ^paragraph 75}
  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 Ilarionovich.* 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 Bolkonski's son need not serve under anyone      
if he is in disfavor. Now come here."                                       
-                                                                           
  *Kutuzov.                                                                 
-                                                                           
                                                    {BK1|CH28 ^paragraph 80}
  He spoke so rapidly that he did not finish half his words, but his        
son was accustomed to understand him. He led him to the desk, raised        
the lid, drew out a drawer, and took out an exercise book filled            
with his bold, tall, close handwriting.                                     
  "I shall probably die before you. So remember, these are my memoirs;      
hand them to the Emperor after my death. Now here is a Lombard bond         
and a letter; it is a premium for the man who writes a history of           
Suvorov's wars. Send it to the Academy. Here are some jottings for you      
to read when I am gone. You will find them useful."                         
  Andrew did not tell his father that he would no doubt live a long         
time yet. He felt that he must not say it.                                  
  "I will do it all, Father," he said.                                      
  "Well, now, good-by!" He gave his son his hand to kiss, and embraced      
him. "Remember this, Prince Andrew, if they kill you it will hurt           
me, your old father..." he paused unexpectedly, and then in a               
querulous voice suddenly shrieked: "but if I hear that you have not         
behaved like a son of Nicholas Bolkonski, I shall be ashamed!"              
                                                    {BK1|CH28 ^paragraph 85}
  "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.                                                      
                                                    {BK1|CH28 ^paragraph 90}
  "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."                                          
                                                    {BK1|CH28 ^paragraph 95}
  "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.                          
                                                   {BK1|CH28 ^paragraph 100}
  "Gone? That's all right!" said he; and looking angrily at the             
unconscious little princess, he shook his head reprovingly and slammed      
the door.                                                                   
                                                                            
BK2                                                                         
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                 BOOK TWO: 1805                             
                                                                            
BK2|CH1                                                                     
  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, Kutuzov.                            
  On October 11, 1805, one of the infantry regiments that had just          
reached Braunau had halted half a mile from the town, waiting to be         
inspected by the commander in chief. Despite the un-Russian appearance      
of the locality and surroundings- fruit gardens, stone fences, tiled        
roofs, and hills in the distance- and despite the fact that the             
inhabitants (who gazed with curiosity at the soldiers) were not             
Russians, the regiment had just the appearance of any Russian regiment      
preparing for an inspection anywhere in the heart of Russia.                
  On the evening of the last day's march an order had been received         
that the commander in chief would inspect the regiment on the march.        
Though the words of the order were not clear to the regimental              
commander, and the question arose whether the troops were to be in          
marching order or not, it was decided at a consultation between the         
battalion commanders to present the regiment in parade order, on the        
principle that it is always better to "bow too low than not bow low         
enough." So the soldiers, after a twenty-mile march, were kept mending      
and cleaning all night long without closing their eyes, while the           
adjutants and company commanders calculated and reckoned, and by            
morning the regiment- instead of the straggling, disorderly crowd it        
had been on its last march the day before- presented a well-ordered         
array of two thousand men each of whom knew his place and his duty,         
had every button and every strap in place, and shone with cleanliness.      
And not only externally was all in order, but had it pleased the            
commander in chief to look under the uniforms he would have found on        
every man a clean shirt, and in every knapsack the appointed number of      
articles, "awl, soap, and all," as the soldiers say. There was only         
one circumstance concerning which no one could be at ease. It was           
the state of the soldiers' boots. More than half the men's boots            
were in holes. But this defect was not due to any fault of the              
regimental commander, for in spite of repeated demands boots had not        
been issued by the Austrian commissariat, and the regiment had marched      
some seven hundred miles.                                                   
  The commander of the regiment was an elderly, choleric, stout, and        
thick-set general with grizzled eyebrows and whiskers, and wider            
from chest to back than across the shoulders. He had on a brand-new         
uniform showing the creases where it had been folded and thick gold         
epaulettes which seemed to stand rather than lie down on his massive        
shoulders. He had the air of a man happily performing one of the            
most solemn duties of his life. He walked about in front of the line        
and at every step pulled himself up, slightly arching his back. It was      
plain that the commander admired his regiment, rejoiced in it, and          
that his whole mind was engrossed by it, yet his strut seemed to            
indicate that, besides military matters, social interests and the fair      
sex occupied no small part of his thoughts.                                 
  "Well, Michael Mitrich, sir?" he said, addressing one of the              
battalion commanders who smilingly pressed forward (it was plain            
that they both felt happy). "We had our hands full last night.              
However, I think the regiment is not a bad one, eh?"                        
                                                      {BK2|CH1 ^paragraph 5}
  The battalion commander perceived the jovial irony and laughed.           
  "It would not be turned off the field even on the Tsaritsin Meadow."      
  "What?" asked the commander.                                              
  At that moment, on the road from the town on which signalers had          
been posted, two men appeared on horse back. They were an                   
aide-decamp followed by a Cossack.                                          
  The aide-de-camp was sent to confirm the order which had not been         
clearly worded the day before, namely, that the commander in chief          
wished to see the regiment just in the state in which it had been on        
the march: in their greatcoats, and packs, and without any preparation      
whatever.                                                                   
                                                     {BK2|CH1 ^paragraph 10}
  A member of the Hofkriegsrath from Vienna had come to Kutuzov the         
day before with proposals and demands for him to join up with the army      
of the Archduke Ferdinand and Mack, and Kutuzov, not considering            
this junction advisable, meant, among other arguments in support of         
his view, to show the Austrian general the wretched state in which the      
troops arrived from Russia. With this object he intended to meet the        
regiment; so the worse the condition it was in, the better pleased the      
commander in chief would be. Though the aide-de-camp did not know           
these circumstances, he nevertheless delivered the definite order that      
the men should be in their greatcoats and in marching order, and            
that the commander in chief would otherwise be dissatisfied. On             
hearing this the regimental commander hung his head, silently shrugged      
his shoulders, and spread out his arms with a choleric gesture.             
  "A fine mess we've made of it!" he remarked.                              
  "There now! Didn't I tell you, Michael Mitrich, that if it was            
said 'on the march' it meant in greatcoats?" said he reproachfully          
to the battalion commander. "Oh, my God!" he added, stepping                
resolutely forward. "Company commanders!" he shouted in a voice             
accustomed to command. "Sergeants major!... How soon will he be here?"      
he asked the aide-de-camp with a respectful politeness evidently            
relating to the personage he was referring to.                              
  "In an hour's time, I should say."                                        
  "Shall we have time to change clothes?"                                   
                                                     {BK2|CH1 ^paragraph 15}
  "I don't know, General...."                                               
  The regimental commander, going up to the line himself, ordered           
the soldiers to change into their greatcoats. The company commanders        
ran off to their companies, the sergeants major began bustling (the         
greatcoats were not in very good condition), and instantly the squares      
that had up to then been in regular order and silent began to sway and      
stretch and hum with voices. On all sides soldiers were running to and      
fro, throwing up their knapsacks with a jerk of their shoulders and         
pulling the straps over their heads, unstrapping their overcoats and        
drawing the sleeves on with upraised arms.                                  
  In half an hour all was again in order, only the squares had              
become gray instead of black. The regimental commander walked with his      
jerky steps to the front of the regiment and examined it from a             
distance.                                                                   
  "Whatever is this? This!" he shouted and stood still. "Commander          
of the third company!"                                                      
  "Commander of the third company wanted by the general!...                 
commander to the general... third company to the commander." The words      
passed along the lines and an adjutant ran to look for the missing          
officer.                                                                    
                                                     {BK2|CH1 ^paragraph 20}
  When the eager but misrepeated words had reached their destination        
in a cry of: "The general to the third company," the missing officer        
appeared from behind his company and, though he was a middle-aged           
man and not in the habit of running, trotted awkwardly stumbling on         
his toes toward the general. The captain's face showed the                  
uneasiness of a schoolboy who is told to repeat a lesson he has not         
learned. Spots appeared on his nose, the redness of which was               
evidently due to intemperance, and his mouth twitched nervously. The        
general looked the captain up and down as he came up panting,               
slackening his pace as he approached.                                       
  "You will soon be dressing your men in petticoats! What is this?"         
shouted the regimental commander, thrusting forward his jaw and             
pointing at a soldier in the ranks of the third company in a greatcoat      
of bluish cloth, which contrasted with the others. "What have you been      
after? The commander in chief is expected and you leave your place?         
Eh? I'll teach you to dress the men in fancy coats for a parade....         
Eh...?"                                                                     
  The commander of the company, with his eyes fixed on his superior,        
pressed two fingers more and more rigidly to his cap, as if in this         
pressure lay his only hope of salvation.                                    
  "Well, why don't you speak? Whom have you got there dressed up as         
a Hungarian?" said the commander with an austere gibe.                      
  "Your excellency..."                                                      
                                                     {BK2|CH1 ^paragraph 25}
  "Well, your excellency, what? Your excellency! But what about your        
excellency?... nobody knows."                                               
  "Your excellency, it's the officer Dolokhov, who has been reduced to      
the ranks," said the captain softly.                                        
  "Well? Has he been degraded into a field marshal, or into a soldier?      
If a soldier, he should be dressed in regulation uniform like the           
others."                                                                    
  "Your excellency, you gave him leave yourself, on the march."             
  "Gave him leave? Leave? That's just like you young men," said the         
regimental commander cooling down a little. "Leave indeed.... One says      
a word to you and you... What?" he added with renewed irritation, "I        
beg you to dress your men decently."                                        
                                                     {BK2|CH1 ^paragraph 30}
  And the commander, turning to look at the adjutant, directed his          
jerky steps down the line. He was evidently pleased at his own display      
of anger and walking up to the regiment wished to find a further            
excuse for wrath. Having snapped at an officer for an unpolished            
badge, at another because his line was not straight, he reached the         
third company.                                                              
  "H-o-o-w are you standing? Where's your leg? Your leg?" shouted           
the commander with a tone of suffering in his voice, while there            
were still five men between him and Dolokhov with his bluish-gray           
uniform.                                                                    
  Dolokhov slowly straightened his bent knee, looking straight with         
his clear, insolent eyes in the general's face.                             
  "Why a blue coat? Off with it... Sergeant major! Change his               
coat... the ras..." he did not finish.                                      
  "General, I must obey orders, but I am not bound to endure..."            
Dolokhov hurriedly interrupted.                                             
                                                     {BK2|CH1 ^paragraph 35}
  "No talking in the ranks!... No talking, no talking!"                     
  "Not bound to endure insults," Dolokhov concluded in loud, ringing        
tones.                                                                      
  The eyes of the general and the soldier met. The general became           
silent, angrily pulling down his tight scarf.                               
  "I request you to have the goodness to change your coat," he said as      
he turned away.                                                             
                                                                            
BK2|CH2                                                                     
  CHAPTER II                                                                
-                                                                           
  "He's coming!" shouted the signaler at that moment.                       
  The regimental commander, flushing, ran to his horse, seized the          
stirrup with trembling hands, threw his body across the saddle,             
righted himself, drew his saber, and with a happy and resolute              
countenance, opening his mouth awry, prepared to shout. The regiment        
fluttered like a bird preening its plumage and became motionless.           
  "Att-ention!" shouted the regimental commander in a soul-shaking          
voice which expressed joy for himself, severity for the regiment,           
and welcome for the approaching chief.                                      
  Along the broad country road, edged on both sides by trees, came a        
high, light blue Viennese caleche, slightly creaking on its springs         
and drawn by six horses at a smart trot. Behind the caleche galloped        
the suite and a convoy of Croats. Beside Kutuzov sat an Austrian            
general, in a white uniform that looked strange among the Russian           
black ones. The caleche stopped in front of the regiment. Kutuzov           
and the Austrian general were talking in low voices and Kutuzov smiled      
slightly as treading heavily he stepped down from the carriage just as      
if those two thousand men breathlessly gazing at him and the                
regimental commander did not exist.                                         
  The word of command rang out, and again the regiment quivered, as         
with a jingling sound it presented arms. Then amidst a dead silence         
the feeble voice of the commander in chief was heard. The regiment          
roared, "Health to your ex... len... len... lency!" and again all           
became silent. At first Kutuzov stood still while the regiment              
moved; then he and the general in white, accompanied by the suite,          
walked between the ranks.                                                   
                                                      {BK2|CH2 ^paragraph 5}
  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.                  
  Kutuzov walked through the ranks, sometimes stopping to say a few         
friendly words to officers he had known in the Turkish war,                 
sometimes also to the soldiers. Looking at their boots he several           
times shook his head sadly, pointing them out to the Austrian               
general with an expression which seemed to say that he was not blaming      
anyone, but could not help noticing what a bad state of things it was.      
The regimental commander ran forward on each such occasion, fearing to      
miss a single word of the commander in chief's regarding the regiment.      
Behind Kutuzov, at a distance that allowed every softly spoken word to      
be heard, followed some twenty men of his suite. These gentlemen            
talked among themselves and sometimes laughed. Nearest of all to the        
commander in chief walked a handsome adjutant. This was Prince              
Bolkonski. Beside him was his comrade Nesvitski, a tall staff officer,      
extremely stout, with a kindly, smiling, handsome face and moist eyes.      
Nesvitski could hardly keep from laughter provoked by a swarthy hussar      
officer who walked beside him. This hussar, with a grave face and           
without a smile or a change in the expression of his fixed eyes,            
watched the regimental commander's back and mimicked his every              
movement. Each time the commander started and bent forward, the hussar      
started and bent forward in exactly the same manner. Nesvitski laughed      
and nudged the others to make them look at the wag.                         
  Kutuzov walked slowly and languidly past thousands of eyes which          
were starting from their sockets to watch their chief. On reaching the      
third company he suddenly stopped. His suite, not having expected           
this, involuntarily came closer to him.                                     
  "Ah, Timokhin!" said he, recognizing the red-nosed captain who had        
been reprimanded on account of the blue greatcoat.                          
  One would have thought it impossible for a man to stretch himself         
more than Timokhin had done when he was 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 Kutuzov, who evidently understood his case and wished him            
nothing but good, quickly turned away, a scarcely perceptible smile         
flitting over his scarred and puffy face.                                   
                                                     {BK2|CH2 ^paragraph 10}
  "Another Ismail comrade," said he. "A brave officer! Are you              
satisfied with him?" he asked the regimental commander.                     
  And the latter- unconscious that he was being reflected in the            
hussar officer as in a looking glass- started, moved forward, and           
answered: "Highly satisfied, your excellency!"                              
  "We all have our weaknesses," said Kutuzov smiling and walking            
away from him. "He used to have a predilection for Bacchus."                
  The regimental commander was afraid he might be blamed for this           
and did not answer. The hussar at that moment noticed the face of           
the red-nosed captain and his drawn-in stomach, and mimicked his            
expression and pose with such exactitude that Nesvitski could not help      
laughing. Kutuzov turned round. The officer evidently had complete          
control of his face, and while Kutuzov was turning managed to make a        
grimace and then assume a most serious, deferential, and innocent           
expression.                                                                 
  The third company was the last, and Kutuzov pondered, apparently          
trying to recollect something. Prince Andrew stepped forward from           
among the suite and said in French:                                         
                                                     {BK2|CH2 ^paragraph 15}
  "You told me to remind you of the officer Dolokhov, reduced to the        
ranks in this regiment."                                                    
  "Where is Dolokhov?" asked Kutuzov.                                       
  Dolokhov, who had already changed into a soldier's gray greatcoat,        
did not wait to be called. The shapely figure of the fair-haired            
soldier, with his clear blue eyes, stepped forward from the ranks,          
went up to the commander in chief, and presented arms.                      
  "Have you a complaint to make?" Kutuzov asked with a slight frown.        
  "This is Dolokhov," said Prince Andrew.                                   
                                                     {BK2|CH2 ^paragraph 20}
  "Ah!" said Kutuzov. "I hope this will be a lesson to you. Do your         
duty. The Emperor is gracious, and I shan't forget you if you               
deserve well."                                                              
  The clear blue eyes looked at the commander in chief just as              
boldly as they had looked at the regimental commander, seeming by           
their expression to tear open the veil of convention that separates         
a commander in chief so widely from a private.                              
  "One thing I ask of your excellency," Dolokhov said in his firm,          
ringing, deliberate voice. "I ask an opportunity to atone for my fault      
and prove my devotion to His Majesty the Emperor and to Russia!"            
  Kutuzov turned away. The same smile of the eyes with which he had         
turned from Captain Timokhin again flitted over his face. He turned         
away with a grimace as if to say that everything Dolokhov had said          
to him and everything he could say had long been known to him, that he      
was weary of it and it was not at all what he wanted. He turned away        
and went to the carriage.                                                   
  The regiment broke up into companies, which went to their                 
appointed quarters near Braunau, where they hoped to receive boots and      
clothes and to rest after their hard marches.                               
                                                     {BK2|CH2 ^paragraph 25}
  "You won't bear me a grudge, Prokhor Ignatych?" said the                  
regimental commander, overtaking the third company on its way to its        
quarters and riding up to Captain Timokhin who was walking in front.        
(The regimental commander's face now that the inspection was happily        
over beamed with irrepressible delight.) "It's in the Emperor's             
service... it can't be helped... one is sometimes a bit hasty on            
parade... I am the first to apologize, you know me!... He was very          
pleased!" And he held out his hand to the captain.                          
  "Don't mention it, General, as if I'd be so bold!" replied the            
captain, his nose growing redder as he gave a smile which showed where      
two front teeth were missing that had been knocked out by the butt end      
of a gun at Ismail.                                                         
  "And tell Mr. Dolokhov that I won't forget him- he may be quite           
easy. And tell me, please- I've been meaning to ask- how is to ask-         
how is he behaving himself, and in general..."                              
  "As far as the service goes he is quite punctilious, your                 
excellency; but his character..." said Timokhin.                            
  "And what about his character?" asked the regimental commander.           
                                                     {BK2|CH2 ^paragraph 30}
  "It's different on different days," answered the captain. "One day        
he is sensible, well educated, and good-natured, and the next he's a        
wild beast.... In Poland, if you please, he nearly killed a Jew."           
  "Oh, well, well!" remarked the regimental commander. "Still, one          
must have pity on a young man in misfortune. You know he has important      
connections... Well, then, you just..."                                     
  "I will, your excellency," said Timokhin, showing by his smile            
that he understood his commander's wish.                                    
  "Well, of course, of course!"                                             
  The regimental commander sought out Dolokhov in the ranks and,            
reining in his horse, said to him:                                          
                                                     {BK2|CH2 ^paragraph 35}
  "After the next affair... epaulettes."                                    
  Dolokhov looked round but did not say anything, nor did the               
mocking smile on his lips change.                                           
  "Well, that's all right," continued the regimental commander. "A cup      
of vodka for the men from me," he added so that the soldiers could          
hear. "I thank you all! God be praised!" and he rode past that company      
and overtook the next one.                                                  
  "Well, he's really a good fellow, one can serve under him," said          
Timokhin to the subaltern beside him.                                       
  "In a word, a hearty one..." said the subaltern, laughing (the            
regimental commander was nicknamed King of Hearts).                         
                                                     {BK2|CH2 ^paragraph 40}
  The cheerful mood of their officers after the inspection infected         
the soldiers. The company marched on gaily. The soldiers' voices could      
be heard on every side.                                                     
  "And they said Kutuzov was blind of one eye?"                             
  "And so he is! Quite blind!"                                              
  "No, friend, he is sharper-eyed than you are. Boots and leg bands...      
he noticed everything..."                                                   
  "When he looked at my feet, friend... well, thinks I..."                  
                                                     {BK2|CH2 ^paragraph 45}
  "And that other one with him, the Austrian, looked as if he were          
smeared with chalk- as white as flour! I suppose they polish him up as      
they do the guns."                                                          
  "I say, Fedeshon!... Did he say when the battles are to begin? You        
were near him. Everybody said that Buonaparte himself was at Braunau."      
  "Buonaparte himself!... Just listen to the fool, what he doesn't          
know! The Prussians are up in arms now. The Austrians, you see, are         
putting them down. When they've been put down, the war with Buonaparte      
will begin. And he says Buonaparte is in Braunau! Shows you're a fool.      
You'd better listen more carefully!"                                        
  "What devils these quartermasters are! See, the fifth company is          
turning into the village already... they will have their buckwheat          
cooked before we reach our quarters."                                       
  "Give me a biscuit, you devil!"                                           
                                                     {BK2|CH2 ^paragraph 50}
  "And did you give me tobacco yesterday? That's just it, friend!           
Ah, well, never mind, here you are."                                        
  "They might call a halt here or we'll have to do another four             
miles without eating."                                                      
  "Wasn't it fine when those Germans gave us lifts! You just sit still      
and are drawn along."                                                       
  "And here, friend, the people are quite beggarly. There they all          
seemed to be Poles- all under the Russian crown- but here they're           
all regular Germans."                                                       
  "Singers to the front " came the captain's order.                         
                                                     {BK2|CH2 ^paragraph 55}
  And from the different ranks some twenty men ran to the front. A          
drummer, their leader, turned round facing the singers, and                 
flourishing his arm, began a long-drawn-out soldiers' song, commencing      
with the words: "Morning dawned, the sun was rising," and                   
concluding: "On then, brothers, on to glory, led by Father                  
Kamenski." This song had been composed in the Turkish campaign and now      
being sung in Austria, the only change being that the words "Father         
Kamenski" were replaced by "Father Kutuzov."                                
  Having jerked out these last words as soldiers do and waved his arms      
as if flinging something to the ground, the drummer- a lean,                
handsome soldier of forty- looked sternly at the singers and screwed        
up his eyes. Then having satisfied himself that all eyes were fixed on      
him, he raised both arms as if carefully lifting some invisible but         
precious object above his head and, holding it there for some seconds,      
suddenly flung it down and began:                                           
  "Oh, my bower, oh, my bower...!"                                          
  "Oh, my bower new...!" chimed in twenty voices, and the castanet          
player, in spite of the burden of his equipment, rushed out to the          
front and, walking backwards before the company, jerked his                 
shoulders and flourished his castanets as if threatening someone.           
The soldiers, swinging their arms and keeping time spontaneously,           
marched with long steps. Behind the company the sound of wheels, the        
creaking of springs, and the tramp of horses' hoofs were heard.             
Kutuzov and his suite were returning to the town. The commander in          
chief made a sign that the men should continue to march at ease, and        
he and all his suite showed pleasure at the sound of the singing and        
the sight of the dancing soldier and the gay and smartly marching men.      
In the second file from the right flank, beside which the carriage          
passed the company, a blue-eyed soldier involuntarily attracted             
notice. It was Dolokhov marching with particular grace and boldness in      
time to the song and looking at those driving past as if he pitied all      
who were not at that moment marching with the company. The hussar           
cornet of Kutuzov's suite who had mimicked the regimental commander,        
fell back from the carriage and rode up to Dolokhov.                        
  Hussar cornet Zherkov had at one time, in Petersburg, belonged to         
the wild set led by Dolokhov. Zherkov had met Dolokhov abroad as a          
private and had not seen fit to recognize him. But now that Kutuzov         
had spoken to the gentleman ranker, he addressed him with the               
cordiality of an old friend.                                                
                                                     {BK2|CH2 ^paragraph 60}
  "My dear fellow, how are you?" said he through the singing, making        
his horse keep pace with the company.                                       
  "How am I?" Dolokhov answered coldly. "I am as you see."                  
  The lively song gave a special flavor to the tone of free and easy        
gaiety with which Zherkov spoke, and to the intentional coldness of         
Dolokhov's reply.                                                           
  "And how do you get on with the officers?" inquired Zherkov.              
  "All right. They are good fellows. And how have you wriggled onto         
the staff?"                                                                 
                                                     {BK2|CH2 ^paragraph 65}
  "I was attached; I'm on duty."                                            
  Both were silent.                                                         
  "She let the hawk fly upward from her wide right sleeve," went the        
song, arousing an involuntary sensation of courage and cheerfulness.        
Their conversation would probably have been different but for the           
effect of that song.                                                        
  "Is it true that Austrians have been beaten?" asked Dolokhov.             
  "The devil only knows! They say so."                                      
                                                     {BK2|CH2 ^paragraph 70}
  "I'm glad," answered Dolokhov briefly and clearly, as the song            
demanded.                                                                   
  "I say, come round some evening and we'll have a game of faro!" said      
Zherkov.                                                                    
  "Why, have you too much money?"                                           
  "Do come."                                                                
  "I can't. I've sworn not to. I won't drink and won't play till I get      
reinstated."                                                                
                                                     {BK2|CH2 ^paragraph 75}
  "Well, that's only till the first engagement."                            
  "We shall see."                                                           
  They were again silent.                                                   
  "Come if you need anything. One can at least be of use on the             
staff..."                                                                   
  Dolokhov smiled. "Don't trouble. If I want anything, I won't beg-         
I'll take it!"                                                              
                                                     {BK2|CH2 ^paragraph 80}
  "Well, never mind; I only..."                                             
  "And I only..."                                                           
  "Good-by."                                                                
  "Good health..."                                                          
-                                                                           
                                                     {BK2|CH2 ^paragraph 85}
          "It's a long, long way.                                           
          To my native land..."                                             
-                                                                           
  Zherkov 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.                                                           
                                                                            
BK2|CH3                                                                     
  CHAPTER III                                                               
-                                                                           
  On returning from the review, Kutuzov took the Austrian general into      
his private room and, calling his adjutant, asked for some papers           
relating to the condition of the troops on their arrival, and the           
letters that had come from the Archduke Ferdinand, who was in               
command of the advanced army. Prince Andrew Bolkonski came into the         
room with the required papers. Kutuzov and the Austrian member of           
the Hofkriegsrath were sitting at the table on which a plan was spread      
out.                                                                        
  "Ah!..." said Kutuzov glancing at Bolkonski as if by this                 
exclamation he was asking the adjutant to wait, and he went on with         
the conversation in French.                                                 
  "All I can say, General," said he with a pleasant elegance of             
expression and intonation that obliged one to listen to each                
deliberately spoken word. It was evident that Kutuzov himself listened      
with pleasure to his own voice. "All I can say, General, is that if         
the matter depended on my personal wishes, the will of His Majesty the      
Emperor Francis would have been fulfilled long ago. I should long           
ago have joined the archduke. And believe me on my honour that to me        
personally it would be a pleasure to hand over the supreme command          
of the army into the hands of a better informed and more skillful           
general- of whom Austria has so many- and to lay down all this heavy        
responsibility. But circumstances are sometimes too strong for us,          
General."                                                                   
  And Kutuzov smiled in a way that seemed to say, "You are quite at         
liberty not to believe me and I don't even care whether you do or not,      
but you have no grounds for telling me so. And that is the whole            
point."                                                                     
  The Austrian general looked dissatisfied, but had no option but to        
reply in the same tone.                                                     
                                                      {BK2|CH3 ^paragraph 5}
  "On the contrary," he said, in a querulous and angry tone that            
contrasted with his flattering words, "on the contrary, your                
excellency's participation in the common action is highly valued by         
His Majesty; but we think the present delay is depriving the                
splendid Russian troops and their commander of the laurels they have        
been accustomed to win in their battles," he concluded his evidently        
prearranged sentence.                                                       
  Kutuzov bowed with the same smile.                                        
  "But that is my conviction, and judging by the last letter with           
which His Highness the Archduke Ferdinand has honored me, I imagine         
that the Austrian troops, under the direction of so skillful a              
leader as General Mack, have by now already gained a decisive               
victory and no longer need our aid," said Kutuzov.                          
  The general frowned. Though there was no definite news of an              
Austrian defeat, there were many circumstances confirming the               
unfavorable rumors that were afloat, and so Kutuzov's suggestion of an      
Austrian victory sounded much like irony. But Kutuzov went on               
blandly smiling with the same expression, which seemed to say that          
he had a right to suppose so. And, in fact, the last letter he had          
received from Mack's army informed him of a victory and stated              
strategically the position of the army was very favorable.                  
  "Give me that letter," said Kutuzov turning to Prince Andrew.             
"Please have a look at it"- and Kutuzov with an ironical smile about        
the corners of his mouth read to the Austrian general the following         
passage, in German, from the Archduke Ferdinand's letter:                   
                                                     {BK2|CH3 ^paragraph 10}
-                                                                           
  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.                                                           
-                                                                           
  Kutuzov sighed deeply on finishing this paragraph and looked at           
the member of the Hofkriegsrath mildly and attentively.                     
  "But you know the wise maxim your excellency, advising one to expect      
the worst," said the Austrian general, evidently wishing to have            
done with jests and to come to business. He involuntarily looked round      
at the aide-de-camp.                                                        
                                                     {BK2|CH3 ^paragraph 15}
  "Excuse me, General," interrupted Kutuzov, also turning to Prince         
Andrew. "Look here, my dear fellow, get from Kozlovski all the reports      
from our scouts. Here are two letters from Count Nostitz and here is        
one from His Highness the Archduke Ferdinand and here are these," he        
said, handing him several papers, "make a neat memorandum in French         
out of all this, showing all the news we have had of the movements          
of the Austrian army, and then give it to his excellency."                  
  Prince Andrew bowed his head in token of having understood from           
the first not only what had been said but also what Kutuzov would have      
liked to tell him. He gathered up the papers and with a bow to both,        
stepped softly over the carpet and went out into the waiting room.          
  Though not much time had passed since Prince Andrew had left Russia,      
he had changed greatly during that period. In the expression of his         
face, in his movements, in his walk, scarcely a trace was left of           
his former affected languor and indolence. He now looked like a man         
who has time to think of the impression he makes on others, but is          
occupied with agreeable and interesting work. His face expressed            
more satisfaction with himself and those around him, his smile and          
glance were brighter and more attractive.                                   
  Kutuzov, whom he had overtaken in Poland, had received him very           
kindly, promised not to forget him, distinguished him above the             
other adjutants, and had taken him to Vienna and given him the more         
serious commissions. From Vienna Kutuzov wrote to his old comrade,          
Prince Andrew's father.                                                     
-                                                                           
                                                     {BK2|CH3 ^paragraph 20}
  Your son bids fair to become an officer distinguished by his              
industry, firmness, and expedition. I consider myself fortunate to          
have such a subordinate by me.                                              
-                                                                           
  On Kutuzov's staff, among his fellow officers and in the army             
generally, Prince Andrew had, as he had had in Petersburg society, two      
quite opposite reputations. Some, a minority, acknowledged him to be        
different from themselves and from everyone else, expected great            
things of him, listened to him, admired, and imitated him, and with         
them Prince Andrew was natural and pleasant. Others, the majority,          
disliked him and considered him conceited, cold, and disagreeable. But      
among these people Prince Andrew knew how to take his stand so that         
they respected and even feared him.                                         
  Coming out of Kutuzov'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, Kozlovski, who was sitting at the window with a book.              
  "Well, Prince?" asked Kozlovski.                                          
                                                     {BK2|CH3 ^paragraph 25}
  "I am ordered to write a memorandum explaining why we are not             
advancing."                                                                 
  "And why is it?"                                                          
  Prince Andrew shrugged his shoulders.                                     
  "Any news from Mack?"                                                     
  "No."                                                                     
                                                     {BK2|CH3 ^paragraph 30}
  "If it were true that he has been beaten, news would have come."          
  "Probably," said Prince Andrew moving toward the outer door.              
  But at that instant a tall Austrian general in a greatcoat, with the      
order of Maria Theresa on his neck and a black bandage round his head,      
who had evidently just arrived, entered quickly, slamming the door.         
Prince Andrew stopped short.                                                
  "Commander in Chief Kutuzov?" said the newly arrived general              
speaking quickly with a harsh German accent, looking to both sides and      
advancing straight toward the inner door.                                   
  "The commander in chief is engaged," said Kozlovski, going hurriedly      
up to the unknown general and blocking his way to the door. "Whom           
shall I announce?"                                                          
                                                     {BK2|CH3 ^paragraph 35}
  The unknown general looked disdainfully down at Kozlovski, who was        
rather short, as if surprised that anyone should not know him.              
  "The commander in chief is engaged," repeated Kozlovski calmly.           
  The general's face clouded, his lips quivered and trembled. He            
took out a notebook, hurriedly scribbled something in pencil, tore out      
the leaf, gave it to Kozlovski, stepped quickly to the window, and          
threw himself into a chair, gazing at those in the room as if               
asking, "Why do they look at me?" Then he 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 Kutuzov 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 Kutuzov.                 
  "Vous voyez le malheureux Mack," he uttered in a broken voice.            
  Kutuzov's face as he stood in the open doorway remained perfectly         
immobile for a few moments. Then wrinkles ran over his face like a          
wave and his forehead became smooth again, he bowed his head                
respectfully, closed his eyes, silently let Mack enter his room before      
him, and closed the door himself behind him.                                
                                                     {BK2|CH3 ^paragraph 40}
  The report which had been circulated that the Austrians had been          
beaten and that the whole army had surrendered at Ulm proved to be          
correct. Within half an hour adjutants had been sent in various             
directions with orders which showed that the Russian troops, who had        
hitherto been inactive, would also soon have to meet the enemy.             
  Prince Andrew was one of those rare staff officers whose chief            
interest lay in the general progress of the war. When he saw Mack           
and heard the details of his disaster he understood that half the           
campaign was lost, understood all the difficulties of the Russian           
army's position, and vividly imagined what awaited it and the part          
he would have to play. Involuntarily he felt a joyful agitation at the      
thought of the humiliation of arrogant Austria and that in a week's         
time he might, perhaps, see and take part in the first Russian              
encounter with the French since Suvorov met them. He feared that            
Bonaparte's genius might outweigh all the courage of the Russian            
troops, and at the same time could not admit the idea of his hero           
being disgraced.                                                            
  Excited and irritated by these thoughts Prince Andrew went toward         
his room to write to his father, to whom he wrote every day. In the         
corridor he met Nesvitski, with whom he shared a room, and the wag          
Zherkov; they were as usual laughing.                                       
  "Why are you so glum?" asked Nesvitski noticing Prince Andrew's pale      
face and glittering eyes.                                                   
  "There's nothing to be gay about," answered Bolkonski.                    
                                                     {BK2|CH3 ^paragraph 45}
  Just as Prince Andrew met Nesvitski and Zherkov, there came toward        
them from the other end of the corridor, Strauch, an Austrian               
general who on Kutuzov's staff in charge of the provisioning of the         
Russian army, and the member of the Hofkriegsrath who had arrived           
the previous evening. There was room enough in the wide corridor for        
the generals to pass the three officers quite easily, but Zherkov,          
pushing Nesvitski aside with his arm, said in a breathless voice,           
  "They're coming!... they're coming!... Stand aside, make way, please      
make way!"                                                                  
  The generals were passing by, looking as if they wished to avoid          
embarrassing attentions. On the face of the wag Zherkov there suddenly      
appeared a stupid smile of glee which he seemed unable to suppress.         
  "Your excellency," said he in German, stepping forward and                
addressing the Austrian general, "I have the honor to congratulate          
you."                                                                       
  He bowed his head and scraped first with one foot and then with           
the other, awkwardly, like a child at a dancing lesson.                     
                                                     {BK2|CH3 ^paragraph 50}
  The member of the Hofkriegsrath looked at him severely but, seeing        
the seriousness of his stupid smile, could not but give him a moment's      
attention. He screwed up his eyes showing that he was listening.            
  "I have the honor to congratulate you. General Mack has arrived,          
quite well, only a little bruised just here," he added, pointing            
with a beaming smile to his head.                                           
  The general frowned, turned away, and went on.                            
  "Gott, wie naiv!"* said he angrily, after he had gone a few steps.        
-                                                                           
                                                     {BK2|CH3 ^paragraph 55}
  *"Good God, what simplicity!"                                             
-                                                                           
  Nesvitski with a laugh threw his arms round Prince Andrew, but            
Bolkonski, turning still paler, pushed him away with an angry look and      
turned to Zherkov. The nervous 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 Zherkov's untimely jest.                
  "If you, sir, choose to make a buffoon of yourself," he said              
sharply, with a slight trembling of the lower jaw, "I can't prevent         
your doing so; but I warn you that if you dare to play the fool in          
my presence, I will teach you to behave yourself."                          
  Nesvitski and Zherkov were so surprised by this outburst that they        
gazed at Bolkonski silently with wide-open eyes.                            
                                                     {BK2|CH3 ^paragraph 60}
  "What's the matter? I only congratulated them," said Zherkov.             
  "I am not jesting with you; please be silent!" cried Bolkonski,           
and taking Nesvitski's arm he left Zherkov, who did not know what to        
say.                                                                        
  "Come, what's the matter, old fellow?" said Nesvitski trying to           
soothe him.                                                                 
  "What's the matter?" exclaimed Prince Andrew standing still in his        
excitement. "Don't you understand that either we are officers               
serving our Tsar and our country, rejoicing in the successes and            
grieving at the misfortunes of our common cause, or we are merely           
lackeys who care nothing for their master's business. Quarante mille        
hommes massacres et l'armee de nos allies detruite, et vous trouvez la      
le mot pour rire,"* he said, as if strengthening his views by this          
French sentence. "C' est bien pour un garcon de rein comme cet              
individu dont vous avez fait un ami, mais pas pour vous, pas pour           
vous.*[2] Only a hobbledehoy could amuse himself in this way," he           
added in Russian- but pronouncing the word with a French accent-            
having noticed that Zherkov could still hear him.                           
-                                                                           
                                                     {BK2|CH3 ^paragraph 65}
  *"Forty thousand men massacred and the army of our allies destroyed,      
and you find that a cause for jesting!"                                     
  *[2] "It is all very well for that good-for-nothing fellow of whom        
you have made a friend, but not for you, not for you."                      
-                                                                           
  He waited a moment to see whether the cornet would answer, but he         
turned and went out of the corridor.                                        
                                                                            
BK2|CH4                                                                     
  CHAPTER IV                                                                
-                                                                           
  The Pavlograd Hussars were stationed two miles from Braunau. The          
squadron in which Nicholas Rostov served as a cadet was quartered in        
the German village of Salzeneck. The best quarters in the village were      
assigned to cavalry-captain Denisov, the squadron commander, known          
throughout the whole cavalry division as Vaska Denisov. Cadet               
Rostov, ever since he had overtaken the regiment in Poland, had             
lived with the squadron commander.                                          
  On October 11, the day when all was astir at headquarters over the        
news of Mack's defeat, the camp life of the officers of this                
squadron was proceeding as usual. Denisov, who had been losing at           
cards all night, had not yet come home when Rostov rode back early          
in the morning from a foraging expedition. Rostov in his cadet              
uniform, with a jerk to his horse, rode up to the porch, swung his leg      
over the saddle with a supple youthful movement, stood for a moment in      
the stirrup as if loathe to part from his horse, and at last sprang         
down and called to his orderly.                                             
  "Ah, Bondarenko, dear friend!" said he to the hussar who rushed up        
headlong to the horse. "Walk him up and down, my dear fellow," he           
continued, with that gay brotherly cordiality which goodhearted             
young people show to everyone when they are happy.                          
  "Yes, your excellency," answered the Ukrainian gaily, tossing his         
head.                                                                       
  "Mind, walk him up and down well!"                                        
                                                      {BK2|CH4 ^paragraph 5}
  Another hussar also rushed toward the horse, but Bondarenko had           
already thrown the reins of the snaffle bridle over the horse's             
head. It was evident that the cadet was liberal with his tips and that      
it paid to serve him. Rostov patted the horse's neck and then his           
flank, and lingered for a moment.                                           
  "Splendid! What a horse he will be!" he thought with a smile, and         
holding up his saber, his spurs jingling, he ran up the steps of the        
porch. His landlord, who in a waistcoat and a pointed cap, pitchfork        
in hand, was clearing manure from the cowhouse, looked out, and his         
face immediately brightened on seeing Rostov. "Schon gut Morgen! Schon      
gut Morgen!"* he said winking with a merry smile, evidently pleased to      
greet the young man.                                                        
-                                                                           
  *"A very good morning! A very good morning!"                              
-                                                                           
                                                     {BK2|CH4 ^paragraph 10}
  "Schon fleissig?"* said Rostov with the same gay brotherly smile          
which did not leave his eager face. "Hoch Oestreicher! Hoch Russen!         
Kaiser Alexander hoch!"*[2] said he, quoting words often repeated by        
the German landlord.                                                        
-                                                                           
  *"Busy already?"                                                          
  *[2] "Hurrah for the Austrians! Hurrah for the Russians! Hurrah           
for Emperor Alexander!"                                                     
-                                                                           
                                                     {BK2|CH4 ^paragraph 15}
  The German laughed, came out of the cowshed, pulled off his cap, and      
waving it above his head cried:                                             
  "Und die ganze Welt hoch!"*                                               
-                                                                           
  *"And hurrah for the whole world!"                                        
-                                                                           
                                                     {BK2|CH4 ^paragraph 20}
  Rostov waved his cap above his head like the German and ctied             
laughing, "Und vivat die ganze Welt!" Though neither the German             
cleaning his cowshed nor Rostov back with his platoon from foraging         
for hay had any reason for rejoicing, they looked at each other with        
joyful delight and brotherly love, wagged their heads in token of           
their mutual affection, and parted smiling, the German returning to         
his cowshed and Rostov going to the cottage he occupied with Denisov.       
  "What about your master?" he asked Lavrushka, Denisov's orderly,          
whom all the regiment knew for a rogue.                                     
  "Hasn't been in since the evening. Must have been losing,"                
answered Lavrushka. "I know by now, if he wins he comes back early          
to brag about it, but if he stays out till morning it means he's            
lost and will come back in a rage. Will you have coffee?"                   
  "Yes, bring some."                                                        
  Ten minutes later Lavrushka brought the coffee. "He's coming!"            
said he. "Now for trouble!" Rostov looked out of the window and saw         
Denisov coming home. Denisov 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.                                                 
                                                     {BK2|CH4 ^paragraph 25}
  "Lavwuska!" he shouted loudly and angrily, "take it off, blockhead!"      
  "Well, I am taking it off," replied Lavrushka's voice.                    
  "Ah, you're up already," said Denisov, entering the room.                 
  "Long ago," answered Rostov, "I have already been for the hay, and        
have seen Fraulein Mathilde."                                               
  "Weally! And I've been losing, bwother. I lost yesterday like a           
damned fool!" cried Denisov, not pronouncing his r's. "Such ill             
luck! Such ill luck. As soon as you left, it began and went on.             
Hullo there! Tea!"                                                          
                                                     {BK2|CH4 ^paragraph 30}
  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 Rostov.                       
                                                     {BK2|CH4 ^paragraph 35}
  "If at least we had some women here; but there's nothing foh one          
to do but dwink. If we could only get to fighting soon. Hullo, who's        
there?" he said, turning to the door as he heard a tread of heavy           
boots and the clinking of spurs that came to a stop, and a                  
respectful cough.                                                           
  "The squadron quartermaster!" said Lavrushka.                             
  Denisov's face puckered still more.                                       
  "Wetched!" he muttered, throwing down a purse with some gold in           
it. "Wostov, deah fellow, just see how much there is left and shove         
the purse undah the pillow," he said, and went out to the                   
quartermaster.                                                              
  Rostov took the money and, mechanically arranging the old and new         
coins in separate piles, began counting them.                               
                                                     {BK2|CH4 ^paragraph 40}
  "Ah! Telyanin! How d'ye do? They plucked me last night," came             
Denisov's voice from the next room.                                         
  "Where? At Bykov's, at the rat's... I knew it," replied a piping          
voice, and Lieutenant Telyanin, a small officer of the same                 
squadron, entered the room.                                                 
  Rostov thrust the purse under the pillow and shook the damp little        
hand which was offered him. Telyanin for some reason had been               
transferred from the Guards just before this campaign. He behaved very      
well in the regiment but was not liked; Rostov especially detested him      
and was unable to overcome or conceal his groundless antipathy to           
the man.                                                                    
  "Well, young cavalryman, how is my Rook behaving?" he asked. (Rook        
was a young horse Telyanin had sold to Rostov.)                             
  The lieutenant never looked the man he was speaking to straight in        
the face; his eyes continually wandered from one object to another.         
                                                     {BK2|CH4 ^paragraph 45}
  "I saw you riding this morning..." he added.                              
  "Oh, he's all right, a good horse," answered Rostov, though the           
horse for which he had paid seven hundred rubbles was not worth half        
that sum. "He's begun to go a little lame on the left foreleg," he          
added.                                                                      
  "The hoof's cracked! That's nothing. I'll teach you what to do and        
show you what kind of rivet to use."                                        
  "Yes, please do," said Rostov.                                            
  "I'll show you, I'll show you! It's not a secret. And it's a horse        
you'll thank me for."                                                       
                                                     {BK2|CH4 ^paragraph 50}
  "Then I'll have it brought round," said Rostov wishing to avoid           
Telyanin, and he went out to give the order.                                
  In the passage Denisov, with a pipe, was squatting on the                 
threshold facing the quartermaster who was reporting to him. On seeing      
Rostov, Denisov screwed up his face and pointing over his shoulder          
with his thumb to the room where Telyanin was sitting, he frowned           
and gave a shudder of disgust.                                              
  "Ugh! I don't like that fellow"' he said, regardless of the               
quartermaster's presence.                                                   
  Rostov shrugged his shoulders as much as to say: "Nor do I, but           
what's one to do?" and, having given his order, he returned to              
Telyanin.                                                                   
  Telyanin was sitting in the same indolent pose in which Rostov had        
left him, rubbing his small white hands.                                    
                                                     {BK2|CH4 ^paragraph 55}
  "Well there certainly are disgusting people," thought Rostov as he        
entered.                                                                    
  "Have you told them to bring the horse?" asked Telyanin, getting          
up and looking carelessly about him.                                        
  "I have."                                                                 
  "Let us go ourselves. I only came round to ask Denisov about              
yesterday's order. Have you got it, Denisov?"                               
  "Not yet. But where are you off to?"                                      
                                                     {BK2|CH4 ^paragraph 60}
  "I want to teach this young man how to shoe a horse," said Telyanin.      
  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 Rostov went back there was a bottle of vodka and a sausage on        
the table. Denisov was sitting there scratching with his pen on a           
sheet of paper. He looked gloomily in Rostov's face and said: "I am         
witing to her."                                                             
  He leaned his elbows on the table with his pen in his hand and,           
evidently glad of a chance to say quicker in words what he wanted to        
write, told Rostov the contents of his letter.                              
  "You see, my fwiend," he said, "we sleep when we don't love. We           
are childwen of the dust... but one falls in love and one is a God,         
one is pua' as on the first day of cweation... Who's that now? Send         
him to the devil, I'm busy!" he shouted to Lavrushka, who went up to        
him not in the least abashed.                                               
                                                     {BK2|CH4 ^paragraph 65}
  "Who should it be? You yourself told him to come. It's the                
quartermaster for the money."                                               
  Denisov frowned and was about to shout some reply but stopped.            
  "Wetched business," he muttered to himself. "How much is left in the      
puhse?" he asked, turning to Rostov.                                        
  "Seven new and three old imperials."                                      
  "Oh, it's wetched! Well, what are you standing there for, you             
sca'cwow? Call the quahtehmasteh," he shouted to Lavrushka.                 
                                                     {BK2|CH4 ^paragraph 70}
  "Please, Denisov, let me lend you some: I have some, you know," said      
Rostov, blushing.                                                           
  "Don't like bowwowing from my own fellows, I don't," growled              
Denisov.                                                                    
  "But if you won't accept money from me like a comrade, you will           
offend me. Really I have some," Rostov repeated.                            
  "No, I tell you."                                                         
  And Denisov went to the bed to get the purse from under the pillow.       
                                                     {BK2|CH4 ^paragraph 75}
  "Where have you put it, Wostov?"                                          
  "Under the lower pillow."                                                 
  "It's not there."                                                         
  Denisov threw both pillows on the floor. The purse was not there.         
  "That's a miwacle."                                                       
                                                     {BK2|CH4 ^paragraph 80}
  "Wait, haven't you dropped it?" said Rostov, picking up the               
pillows one at a time and shaking them.                                     
  He pulled off the quilt and shook it. The purse was not there.            
  "Dear me, can I have forgotten? No, I remember thinking that you          
kept it under your head like a treasure," said Rostov. "I put it            
just here. Where is it?" he asked, turning to Lavrushka.                    
  "I haven't been in the room. It must be where you put it."                
  "But it isn't?..."                                                        
                                                     {BK2|CH4 ^paragraph 85}
  "You're always like that; you thwow a thing down anywhere and forget      
it. Feel in your pockets."                                                  
  "No, if I hadn't thought of it being a treasure," said Rostov,            
"but I remember putting it there."                                          
  Lavrushka turned all the bedding over, looked under the bed and           
under the table, searched everywhere, and stood still in the middle of      
the room. Denisov silently watched Lavrushka's movements, and when the      
latter threw up his arms in surprise saying it was nowhere to be found      
Denisov glanced at Rostov.                                                  
  "Wostov, you've not been playing schoolboy twicks..."                     
  Rostov felt Denisov's gaze fixed on him, raised his eyes, and             
instantly dropped them again. All the blood which had seemed congested      
somewhere below his throat rushed to his face and eyes. He could not        
draw breath.                                                                
                                                     {BK2|CH4 ^paragraph 90}
  "And there hasn't been anyone in the room except the lieutenant           
and yourselves. It must be here somewhere," said Lavrushka.                 
  "Now then, you devil's puppet, look alive and hunt for it!"               
shouted Denisov, suddenly, turning purple and rushing at the man            
with a threatening gesture. "If the purse isn't found I'll flog you,        
I'll flog you all."                                                         
  Rostov, his eyes avoiding Denisov, began buttoning his coat, buckled      
on his saber, and put on his cap.                                           
  "I must have that purse, I tell you," shouted Denisov, shaking his        
orderly by the shoulders and knocking him against the wall.                 
  "Denisov, let him alone, I know who has taken it," said Rostov,           
going toward the door without raising his eyes. Denisov paused,             
thought a moment, and, evidently understanding what Rostov hinted           
at, seized his arm.                                                         
                                                     {BK2|CH4 ^paragraph 95}
  "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 Rostov in an unsteady voice, and      
went to the door.                                                           
  "And I tell you, don't you dahe to do it!" shouted Denisov,               
rushing at the cadet to restrain him.                                       
  But Rostov pulled away his arm and, with as much anger as though          
Denisov were his worst enemy, firmly fixed his eyes directly on his         
face.                                                                       
  "Do you understand what you're saying?" he said in a trembling            
voice. "There was no one else in the room except myself. So that if it      
is not so, then..."                                                         
                                                    {BK2|CH4 ^paragraph 100}
  He could not finish, and ran out of the room.                             
  "Ah, may the devil take you and evewybody," were the last words           
Rostov heard.                                                               
  Rostov went to Telyanin's quarters.                                       
  "The master is not in, he's gone to headquarters," said Telyanin's        
orderly. "Has something happened?" he added, surprised at the               
cadet's troubled face.                                                      
  "No, nothing."                                                            
                                                    {BK2|CH4 ^paragraph 105}
  "You've only just missed him," said the orderly.                          
  The headquarters were situated two miles away from Salzeneck, and         
Rostov, without returning home, took a horse and rode there. There was      
an inn in the village which the officers frequented. Rostov rode up to      
it and saw Telyanin's horse at the porch.                                   
  In the second room of the inn the lieutenant was sitting over a dish      
of sausages and a bottle of wine.                                           
  "Ah, you've come here too, young man!" he said, smiling and               
raising his eyebrows.                                                       
  "Yes," said Rostov as if it cost him a great deal to utter the word;      
and he sat down at the nearest table.                                       
                                                    {BK2|CH4 ^paragraph 110}
  Both were silent. There were two Germans and a Russian officer in         
the room. No one spoke and the only sounds heard were the clatter of        
knives and the munching of the lieutenant.                                  
  When Telyanin had finished his lunch he took out of his pocket a          
double purse and, drawing its rings aside with his small, white,            
turned-up fingers, drew out a gold imperial, and lifting his                
eyebrows gave it to the waiter.                                             
  "Please be quick," he said.                                               
  The coin was a new one. Rostov rose and went up to Telyanin.              
  "Allow me to look at your purse," he said in a low, almost                
inaudible, voice.                                                           
                                                    {BK2|CH4 ^paragraph 115}
  With shifting eyes but eyebrows still raised, Telyanin handed him         
the purse.                                                                  
  "Yes, it's a nice purse. Yes, yes," he said, growing suddenly             
pale, and added, "Look at it, young man."                                   
  Rostov took the purse in his hand, examined it and the money in           
it, and looked at Telyanin. The lieutenant was 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."                                      
  Rostov did not speak.                                                     
                                                    {BK2|CH4 ^paragraph 120}
  "And you? Are you going to have lunch too? They feed you quite            
decently here," continued Telyanin. "Now then, let me have it."             
  He stretched out his hand to take hold of the purse. Rostov let go        
of it. Telyanin took the purse and began carelessly slipping it into        
the pocket of his riding breeches, with his 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 else's business."               
  "Well, young man?" he said with a sigh, and from under his lifted         
brows he glanced into Rostov's eyes.                                        
  Some flash as of an electric spark shot from Telyanin's eyes to           
Rostov's and back, and back again and again in an instant.                  
  "Come here," said Rostov, catching hold of Telyanin's arm and almost      
dragging him to the window. "That money is Denisov's; you took              
it..." he whispered just above Telyanin's ear.                              
                                                    {BK2|CH4 ^paragraph 125}
  "What? What? How dare you? What?" said Telyanin.                          
  But these words came like a piteous, despairing cry and an                
entreaty for pardon. As soon as Rostov heard them, an 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            
Telyanin, taking up his cap and moving toward a small empty room.           
"We must have an explanation..."                                            
  "I know it and shall prove it," said Rostov.                              
  "I..."                                                                    
                                                    {BK2|CH4 ^paragraph 130}
  Every muscle of Telyanin's pale, terrified face began to quiver, his      
eyes still shifted from side to side but with a downward look not           
rising to Rostov's face, and his sobs were audible.                         
  "Count!... Don't ruin a young fellow... here is this wretched money,      
take it..." He threw it on the table. "I have an old father and             
mother!..."                                                                 
  Rostov took the money, avoiding Telyanin's eyes, and went out of the      
room without a word. But at the door he stopped and then retraced           
his steps. "O God," he said with tears in his eyes, "how could you          
do it?"                                                                     
  "Count..." said Telyanin drawing nearer to him.                           
  "Don't touch me," said Rostov, drawing back. "If you need it, take        
the money," and he threw the purse to him and ran out of the inn.           
                                                                            
BK2|CH5                                                                     
  CHAPTER V                                                                 
-                                                                           
  That same evening there was an animated discussion among the              
squadron's officers in Denisov's quarters.                                  
  "And I tell you, Rostov, that you must apologize to the colonel!"         
said a tall, grizzly-haired staff captain, with enormous mustaches and      
many wrinkles on his large features, to Rostov who was crimson with         
excitement.                                                                 
  The staff captain, Kirsten, had twice been reduced to the ranks           
for affairs of honor and had twice regained his commission.                 
  "I will allow no one to call me a liar!" cried Rostov. "He told me I      
lied, and I told him he lied. And there it rests. He may keep me on         
duty every day, or may place me under arrest, but no one can make me        
apologize, because if he, as commander of this regiment, thinks it          
beneath his dignity to give me satisfaction, then..."                       
  "You just wait a moment, my dear fellow, and listen," interrupted         
the staff captain in his deep bass, calmly stroking his long mustache.      
"You tell the colonel in the presence of other officers that an             
officer has stolen..."                                                      
                                                      {BK2|CH5 ^paragraph 5}
  "I'm not to blame that the conversation began in the presence of          
other officers. Perhaps I ought not to have spoken before them, but         
I am not a diplomatist. That's why I joined the hussars, thinking that      
here one would not need finesse; and he tells me that I am lying- so        
let him give me satisfaction..."                                            
  "That's all right. No one thinks you a coward, but that's not the         
point. Ask Denisov whether it is not out of the question for a cadet        
to demand satisfaction of his regimental commander?"                        
  Denisov sat gloomily biting his mustache and listening to the             
conversation, evidently with no wish to take part in it. He answered        
the staff captain's question by a disapproving shake of his head.           
  "You speak to the colonel about this nasty business before other          
officers," continued the staff captain, "and Bogdanich" (the colonel        
was called Bogdanich) "shuts you up."                                       
  "He did not shut me up, he said I was telling an untruth."                
                                                     {BK2|CH5 ^paragraph 10}
  "Well, have it so, and you talked a lot of nonsense to him and            
must apologize."                                                            
  "Not on any account!" exclaimed Rostov.                                   
  "I did not expect this of you," said the staff captain seriously and      
severely. "You don't wish to apologize, but, man, it's not only to him      
but to the whole regiment- all of us- you're to blame all round. The        
case is this: you ought to have thought the matter over and taken           
advice; but no, you go and blurt it all straight out before the             
officers. Now what was the colonel to do? Have the officer tried and        
disgrace the whole regiment? Disgrace the whole regiment because of         
one scoundrel? Is that how you look at it? We don't see it like             
that. And Bogdanich was a brick: he told you you were saying what           
was not true. It's not pleasant, but what's to be done, my dear             
fellow? You landed yourself in it. And now, when one wants to smooth        
the thing over, some conceit prevents your apologizing, and you wish        
to make the whole affair public. You are offended at being put on duty      
a bit, but why not apologize to an old and honorable officer? Whatever      
Bogdanich may be, anyway he is an honorable and brave old colonel!          
You're quick at taking offense, but you don't mind disgracing the           
whole regiment!" The staff captain's voice began to tremble. "You have      
been in the regiment next to no time, my lad, you're here today and         
tomorrow you'll be appointed adjutant somewhere and can snap your           
fingers when it is said 'There are thieves among the Pavlograd              
officers!' But it's not all the same to us! Am I not right, Denisov?        
It's not the same!"                                                         
  Denisov remained silent and did not move, but occasionally looked         
with his glittering black eyes at Rostov.                                   
  "You value your own pride and don't wish to apologize," continued         
the staff captain, "but we old fellows, who have grown up in and,           
God willing, are going to die in the regiment, we prize the honor of        
the regiment, and Bogdanich knows it. Oh, we do prize it, old               
fellow! And all this is not right, it's not right! You may take             
offense or not but I always stick to mother truth. It's not right!"         
                                                     {BK2|CH5 ^paragraph 15}
  And the staff captain rose and turned away from Rostov.                   
  "That's twue, devil take it" shouted Denisov, jumping up. "Now then,      
Wostov, now then!"                                                          
   Rostov, growing red and pale alternately, looked first at one            
officer and then at the other.                                              
  "No, gentlemen, no... you mustn't think... I quite understand.            
You're wrong to think that of me... I... for me... for the honor of         
the regiment I'd... Ah well, I'll show that in action, and for me           
the honor of the flag... Well, never mind, it's true I'm to blame,          
to blame all round. Well, what else do you want?..."                        
  "Come, that's right, Count!" cried the staff captain, turning             
round and clapping Rostov on the shoulder with his big hand.                
                                                     {BK2|CH5 ^paragraph 20}
  "I tell you," shouted Denisov, "he's a fine fellow."                      
  "That's better, Count," said the staff captain, beginning to address      
Rostov by his title, as if in recognition of his confession. "Go and        
apologize, your excellency. Yes, go!"                                       
  "Gentlemen, I'll do anything. No one shall hear a word from me,"          
said Rostov in an imploring voice, "but I can't apologize, by God I         
can't, do what you will! How can I go and apologize like a little           
boy asking forgiveness?"                                                    
  Denisov began to laugh.                                                   
  "It'll be worse for you. Bogdanich is vindictive and you'll pay           
for your obstinacy," said Kirsten.                                          
                                                     {BK2|CH5 ^paragraph 25}
  "No, on my word it's not obstinacy! I can't describe the feeling.         
I can't..."                                                                 
  "Well, it's as you like," said the staff captain. "And what has           
become of that scoundrel?" he asked Denisov.                                
  "He has weported himself sick, he's to be stwuck off the list             
tomowwow," muttered Denisov.                                                
  "It is an illness, there's no other way of explaining it," said           
the staff captain.                                                          
  "Illness or not, he'd better not cwoss my path. I'd kill him!"            
shouted Denisov in a bloodthirsty tone.                                     
                                                     {BK2|CH5 ^paragraph 30}
  Just then Zherkov entered the room.                                       
  "What brings you here?" cried the officers turning to the newcomer.       
  "We're to go into action, gentlemen! Mack has surrendered with his        
whole army."                                                                
  "It's not true!"                                                          
  "I've seen him myself!"                                                   
                                                     {BK2|CH5 ^paragraph 35}
  "What? Saw the real Mack? With hands and feet?"                           
  "Into action! Into action! Bring him a bottle for such news! But how      
did you come here?"                                                         
  "I've been sent back to the regiment all on account of that devil,        
Mack. An Austrian general complained of me. I congratulated him on          
Mack's arrival... What's the matter, Rostov? You look as if you'd just      
come out of a hot bath."                                                    
  "Oh, my dear fellow, we're in such a stew here these last two days."      
  The regimental adjutant came in and confirmed the news brought by         
Zherkov. They were under orders to advance next day.                        
                                                     {BK2|CH5 ^paragraph 40}
  "We're going into action, gentlemen!"                                     
  "Well, thank God! We've been sitting here too long!"                      
                                                                            
BK2|CH6                                                                     
  CHAPTER VI                                                                
-                                                                           
  Kutuzov fell back toward Vienna, destroying behind him the bridges        
over the rivers Inn (at Braunau) and Traun (near Linz). On October          
23 the Russian troops were crossing the river Enns. At midday the           
Russian baggage train, the artillery, and columns of troops were            
defiling through the town of Enns on both sides of the bridge.              
  It was a warm, rainy, autumnal day. The wide expanse that opened out      
before the heights on which the Russian batteries stood guarding the        
bridge was at times veiled by a diaphanous curtain of slanting rain,        
and then, suddenly spread out in the sunlight, far-distant objects          
could be clearly seen glittering as though freshly varnished. Down          
below, the little town could be seen with its white, red-roofed             
houses, its cathedral, and its bridge, on both sides of which streamed      
jostling masses of Russian troops. At the bend of the Danube, vessels,      
an island, and a castle with a park surrounded by the waters of the         
confluence of the Enns and the Danube became visible, and the rocky         
left bank of the Danube covered with pine forests, with a mystic            
background of green treetops and bluish gorges. The turrets of a            
convent stood out beyond a wild virgin pine forest, and far away on         
the other side of the Enns the enemy's horse patrols could be               
discerned.                                                                  
  Among the field guns on the brow of the hill the general in               
command of the rearguard stood with a staff officer, scanning the           
country through his fieldglass. A little behind them Nesvitski, who         
had been sent to the rearguard by the commander in chief, was               
sitting on the trail of a gun carriage. A Cossack who accompanied           
him had handed him a knapsack and a flask, and Nesvitski was                
treating some officers to pies and real doppelkummel. The officers          
gladly gathered round him, some on their knees, some squatting Turkish      
fashion on the wet grass.                                                   
  "Yes, the Austrian prince who built that castle was no fool. It's         
a fine place! Why are you not eating anything, gentlemen?" Nesvitski        
was saying.                                                                 
  "Thank you very much, Prince," answered one of the officers, pleased      
to be talking to a staff officer of such importance. "It's a lovely         
place! We passed close to the park and saw two deer... and what a           
splendid house!"                                                            
                                                      {BK2|CH6 ^paragraph 5}
  "Look, Prince," said another, who would have dearly liked to take         
another pie but felt shy, and therefore pretended to be examining           
the countryside- "See, our infantrymen have already got there. Look         
there in the meadow behind the village, three of them are dragging          
something. They'll ransack that castle," he remarked with evident           
approval.                                                                   
  "So they will," said Nesvitski. "No, but what I should like,"             
added he, munching a pie in his moist-lipped handsome mouth, "would be      
to slip in over there."                                                     
  He pointed with a smile to a turreted nunnery, and his eyes narrowed      
and gleamed.                                                                
  "That would be fine, gentlemen!"                                          
  The officers laughed.                                                     
                                                     {BK2|CH6 ^paragraph 10}
  "Just to flutter the nuns a bit. They say there are Italian girls         
among them. On my word I'd give five years of my life for it!"              
  "They must be feeling dull, too," said one of the bolder officers,        
laughing.                                                                   
  Meanwhile the staff officer standing in front pointed out                 
something to the general, who looked through his field glass.               
  "Yes, so it is, so it is," said the general angrily, lowering the         
field glass and shrugging his shoulders, "so it is! They'll be fired        
on at the crossing. And why are they dawdling there?"                       
  On the opposite side the enemy could be seen by the naked eye, and        
from their battery a milk-white cloud arose. Then came the distant          
report of a shot, and our troops could be seen hurrying to the              
crossing.                                                                   
                                                     {BK2|CH6 ^paragraph 15}
  Nesvitski rose, puffing, and went up to the general, smiling.             
  "Would not your excellency like a little refreshment?" he said.           
  "It's a bad business," said the general without answering him,            
"our men have been wasting time."                                           
  "Hadn't I better ride over, your excellency?" asked Nesvitski.            
  "Yes, please do," answered the general, and he repeated the order         
that had already once been given in detail: "and tell the hussars that      
they are to cross last and to fire the bridge as I ordered; and the         
inflammable material on the bridge must be reinspected."                    
                                                     {BK2|CH6 ^paragraph 20}
  "Very good," answered Nesvitski.                                          
  He called the Cossack with his horse, told him to put away the            
knapsack and flask, and swung his heavy person easily into the saddle.      
  "I'll really call in on the nuns," he said to the officers who            
watched him smilingly, and he rode off by the winding path down the         
hill.                                                                       
  "Now then, let's see how far it will carry, Captain. Just try!" said      
the general, turning to an artillery officer. "Have a little fun to         
pass the time."                                                             
  "Crew, to your guns!" commanded the officer.                              
                                                     {BK2|CH6 ^paragraph 25}
  In a moment the men came running gaily from their campfires and           
began loading.                                                              
  "One!" came the command.                                                  
  Number one jumped briskly aside. The gun rang out with a deafening        
metallic roar, and a whistling grenade flew above the heads of our          
troops below the hill and fell far short of the enemy, a little             
smoke showing the spot where it burst.                                      
  The faces of officers and men brightened up at the sound. Everyone        
got up and began watching the movements of our troops below, as             
plainly visible as if but a stone's throw away, and the movements of        
the approaching enemy farther off. At the same instant the sun came         
fully out from behind the clouds, and the clear sound of the                
solitary shot and the brilliance of the bright sunshine merged in a         
single joyous and spirited impression.                                      
                                                                            
BK2|CH7                                                                     
  CHAPTER VII                                                               
-                                                                           
  Two of the enemy's shots had already flown across the bridge,             
where there was a crush. Halfway across stood Prince Nesvitski, who         
had alighted from his horse and whose big body was 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 Nesvitski tried to move on, soldiers and carts pushed           
him back again and pressed him against the railings, and all he             
could do was to smile.                                                      
  "What a fine fellow you are, friend!" said the Cossack to a convoy        
soldier with a wagon, who was pressing onto the infantrymen who were        
crowded together close to his wheels and his horses. "What a fellow!        
You can't wait a moment! Don't you see the general wants to pass?"          
  But the convoyman took no notice of the word "general" and shouted        
at the soldiers who were blocking his way. "Hi there, boys! Keep to         
the left! Wait a bit." But the soldiers, crowded together shoulder          
to shoulder, their bayonets interlocking, moved over the bridge in a        
dense mass. Looking down over the rails Prince Nesvitski saw the            
rapid, noisy little waves of the Enns, which rippling and eddying           
round the piles of the bridge chased each other along. Looking on           
the bridge he saw equally uniform living waves of soldiers, shoulder        
straps, covered shakos, knapsacks, bayonets, long muskets, and,             
under the shakos, faces with broad cheekbones, sunken cheeks, and           
listless tired expressions, and feet that moved through the sticky mud      
that covered the planks of the bridge. Sometimes through the                
monotonous waves of men, like a fleck of white foam on the waves of         
the Enns, an officer, in a cloak and with a type of face different          
from that of the men, squeezed his way along; sometimes like a chip of      
wood whirling in the river, an hussar on foot, an orderly, or a             
townsman was carried through the waves of infantry; and sometimes like      
a log floating down the river, an officers' or company's baggage            
wagon, piled high, leather covered, and hemmed in on all sides,             
moved across the bridge.                                                    
  "It's as if a dam had burst," said the Cossack hopelessly. "Are           
there many more of you to come?"                                            
  "A million all but one!" replied a waggish soldier in a torn coat,        
with a wink, and passed on followed by another, an old man.                 
                                                      {BK2|CH7 ^paragraph 5}
  "If he" (he meant the enemy) "begins popping at the bridge now,"          
said the old soldier dismally to a comrade, "you'll forget to               
scratch yourself."                                                          
  That soldier passed on, and after him came another sitting on a           
cart.                                                                       
  "Where the devil have the leg bands been shoved to?" said an              
orderly, running behind the cart and fumbling in the back of it.            
  And he also passed on with the wagon. Then came some merry                
soldiers who had evidently been drinking.                                   
  "And then, old fellow, he gives him one in the teeth with the butt        
end of his gun..." a soldier whose greatcoat was well tucked up said        
gaily, with a wide swing of his arm.                                        
                                                     {BK2|CH7 ^paragraph 10}
  "Yes, the ham was just delicious..." answered another with a loud         
laugh. And they, too, passed on, so that Nesvitski did not learn who        
had been struck on the teeth, or what the ham had to do with it.            
  "Bah! How they scurry. He just sends a ball and they think they'll        
all be killed," a sergeant was saying angrily and reproachfully.            
  "As it flies past me, Daddy, the ball I mean," said a young               
soldier with an enormous mouth, hardly refraining from laughing, "I         
felt like dying of fright. I did, 'pon my word, I got that                  
frightened!" said he, as if bragging of having been frightened.             
  That one also passed. Then followed a cart unlike any that had            
gone before. It was a German cart with a pair of horses led by a            
German, and seemed loaded with a whole houseful of effects. A fine          
brindled cow with a large udder was attached to the cart behind. A          
woman with an unweaned baby, an old woman, and a healthy German girl        
with bright red cheeks were sitting on some feather beds. Evidently         
these fugitives were allowed to pass by special permission. The eyes        
of all the soldiers turned toward the women, and while the vehicle was      
passing at foot pace all the soldiers' remarks related to the two           
young ones. Every face bore almost the same smile, expressing unseemly      
thoughts about the women.                                                   
  "Just see, the German sausage is making tracks, too!"                     
                                                     {BK2|CH7 ^paragraph 15}
  "Sell me the missis," said another soldier, addressing the German,        
who, angry and frightened, strode energetically along with downcast         
eyes.                                                                       
  "See how smart she's made herself! Oh, the devils!"                       
  "There, Fedotov, you should be quartered on them!"                        
  "I have seen as much before now, mate!"                                   
  "Where are you going?" asked an infantry officer who was eating an        
apple, also half smiling as he looked at the handsome girl.                 
                                                     {BK2|CH7 ^paragraph 20}
  The German closed his eyes, signifying that he did not understand.        
  "Take it if you like," said the officer, giving the girl an apple.        
  The girl smiled and took it. Nesvitski like the rest of the men on        
the bridge did not take his eyes off the women till they had passed.        
When they had gone by, the same stream of soldiers followed, with           
the same kind of talk, and at last all stopped. As often happens,           
the horses of a convoy wagon became restive at the end of the               
bridge, and the whole crowd had to wait.                                    
  "And why are they stopping? There's no proper order!" said the            
soldiers. "Where are you shoving to? Devil take you! Can't you wait?        
It'll be worse if he fires the bridge. See, here's an officer jammed        
in too"- different voices were saying in the crowd, as the men              
looked at one another, and all pressed toward the exit from the             
bridge.                                                                     
  Looking down at the waters of the Enns under the bridge, Nesvitski        
suddenly heard a sound new to him, of something swiftly approaching...      
something big, that splashed into the water.                                
                                                     {BK2|CH7 ^paragraph 25}
  "Just see where it carries to!" a soldier near by said sternly,           
looking round at the sound.                                                 
  "Encouraging us to get along quicker," said another uneasily.             
  The crowd moved on again. Nesvitski realized that it was a cannon         
ball.                                                                       
  "Hey, Cossack, my horse!" he said. "Now, then, you there! get out of      
the way! Make way!"                                                         
  With great difficulty he managed to get to his horse, and shouting        
continually he moved on. The soldiers squeezed themselves to make           
way for him, but again pressed on him so that they jammed his leg, and      
those nearest him were not to blame for they were themselves pressed        
still harder from behind.                                                   
                                                     {BK2|CH7 ^paragraph 30}
  "Nesvitski, Nesvitski! you numskull!" came a hoarse voice from            
behind him.                                                                 
  Nesvitski looked round and saw, some fifteen paces away but               
separated by the living mass of moving infantry, Vaska Denisov, red         
and shaggy, with his cap on the back of his black head and a cloak          
hanging jauntily over his shoulder.                                         
  "Tell these devils, these fiends, to let me pass!" shouted Denisov        
evidently in a fit of rage, his coal-black eyes with their bloodshot        
whites glittering and rolling as he waved his sheathed saber in a           
small bare hand as red as his face.                                         
  "Ah, Vaska!" joyfully replied Nesvitski. "What's up with you?"            
  "The squadwon can't pass," shouted Vaska Denisov, showing his             
white teeth fiercely and spurring his black thoroughbred Arab, which        
twitched its ears as the bayonets touched it, and snorted, spurting         
white foam from his bit, tramping the planks of the bridge with his         
hoofs, and apparently ready to jump over the railings had his rider         
let him. "What is this? They're like sheep! Just like sheep! Out of         
the way!... Let us pass!... Stop there, you devil with the cart!            
I'll hack you with my saber!" he shouted, actually drawing his saber        
from its scabbard and flourishing it                                        
                                                     {BK2|CH7 ^paragraph 35}
  The soldiers crowded against one another with terrified faces, and        
Denisov joined Nesvitski.                                                   
  "How's it you're not drunk today?" said Nesvitski when the other had      
ridden up to him.                                                           
  "They don't even give one time to dwink!" answered Vaska Denisov.         
"They keep dwagging the wegiment to and fwo all day. If they mean to        
fight, let's fight. But the devil knows what this is."                      
  "What a dandy you are today!" said Nesvitski, looking at Denisov's        
new cloak and saddlecloth.                                                  
  Denisov smiled, took out of his sabretache a handkerchief that            
diffused a smell of perfume, and put it to Nesvitski's nose.                
                                                     {BK2|CH7 ^paragraph 40}
  "Of course. I'm going into action! I've shaved, bwushed my teeth,         
and scented myself."                                                        
  The imposing figure of Nesvitski followed by his Cossack, and the         
determination of Denisov who flourished his sword and shouted               
frantically, had such an effect that they managed to squeeze through        
to the farther side of the bridge and stopped the infantry. Beside the      
bridge Nesvitski found the colonel to whom he had to deliver the            
order, and having done this he rode back.                                   
  Having cleared the way Denisov stopped at the end of the bridge.          
Carelessly holding in his stallion that was neighing and pawing the         
ground, eager to rejoin its fellows, he watched his squadron draw           
nearer. Then the clang of hoofs, as of several horses galloping,            
resounded on the planks of the bridge, and the squadron, officers in        
front and men four abreast, spread across the bridge and began to           
emerge on his side of it.                                                   
  The infantry who had been stopped crowded near the bridge in the          
trampled mud and gazed with that particular feeling of ill-will,            
estrangement, and ridicule with which troops of different arms usually      
encounter one another at the clean, smart hussars who moved past            
them in regular order.                                                      
  "Smart lads! Only fit for a fair!" said one.                              
                                                     {BK2|CH7 ^paragraph 45}
  "What good are they? They're led about just for show!" remarked           
another.                                                                    
  "Don't kick up the dust, you infantry!" jested an hussar whose            
prancing horse had splashed mud over some foot soldiers.                    
  "I'd like to put you on a two days' march with a knapsack! Your fine      
cords would soon get a bit rubbed," said an infantryman, wiping the         
mud off his face with his sleeve. "Perched up there, you're more            
like a bird than a man."                                                    
  "There now, Zikin, they ought to put you on a horse. You'd look           
fine," said a corporal, chaffing a thin little soldier who bent             
under the weight of his knapsack.                                           
  "Take a stick between your legs, that'll suit you for a horse!"           
the hussar shouted back.                                                    
                                                                            
BK2|CH8                                                                     
  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 Denisov's squadron of hussars          
remained on the farther side of the bridge facing the enemy, who could      
be seen from the hill on the opposite bank but was not yet visible          
from the bridge, for the horizon as seen from the valley through which      
the river flowed was formed by the rising ground only half a mile           
away. At the foot of the hill lay wasteland over which a few groups of      
our Cossack scouts were moving. 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 Denisov's squadron, though they         
tried to talk of other things and to look in other directions, thought      
only of what was there on the hilltop, and kept constantly looking          
at the patches appearing on the skyline, which they knew to be the          
enemy's troops. The weather had cleared again since noon and the sun        
was descending brightly upon the Danube and the dark hills around           
it. It was calm, and at intervals the bugle calls and the shouts of         
the enemy could be heard from the hill. There was no one now between        
the squadron and the enemy except a few scattered skirmishers. An           
empty space of some seven hundred yards was all that separated them.        
The enemy ceased firing, and that stern, threatening, inaccessible,         
and intangible line which separates two hostile armies was all the          
more clearly felt.                                                          
  "One step beyond that boundary line which resembles the line              
dividing the living from the dead lies uncertainty, suffering, and          
death. And what is there? Who is there?- there beyond that field, that      
tree, that roof lit up by the sun? No one knows, but one wants to           
know. You fear and yet long to cross that line, and know that sooner        
or later it must be crossed and you will have to find out what is           
there, just as you will inevitably have to learn what lies the other        
side of death. But you are strong, healthy, cheerful, and excited, and      
are surrounded by other such excitedly animated and healthy men." So        
thinks, or at any rate feels, anyone who comes in sight of the              
enemy, and that feeling gives a particular glamour and glad keenness        
of impression to everything that takes place at such moments.               
  On the high ground where the enemy was, the smoke of a cannon             
rose, and a ball flew whistling over the heads of the hussar squadron.      
The officers who had been standing together rode off to their               
places. The hussars began carefully aligning their horses. Silence          
fell on the whole squadron. All were looking at the enemy in front and      
at the squadron commander, awaiting the word of command. A second           
and a third cannon ball flew past. Evidently they were firing at the        
hussars, but the balls with rapid rhythmic whistle flew over the heads      
of the horsemen and fell somewhere beyond them. The hussars did not         
look round, but at the sound of each shot, as at the word of                
command, the whole squadron with its rows of faces so alike yet so          
different, holding its breath while the ball flew past, rose in the         
stirrups and sank back again. The soldiers without turning their heads      
glanced at one another, curious to see their comrades' impression.          
Every face, from Denisov's to that of the bugler, showed one common         
expression of conflict, irritation, and excitement, around chin and         
mouth. The quartermaster frowned, looking at the soldiers as if             
threatening to punish them. Cadet Mironov ducked every time a ball          
flew past. Rostov on the left flank, mounted on his Rook- a handsome        
horse despite its game leg- had the happy air of a schoolboy called up      
before a large audience for an examination in which he feels sure he        
will distinguish himself. He was glancing at everyone with a clear,         
bright expression, as if asking them to notice how calmly he sat under      
fire. But despite himself, on his face too that same indication of          
something new and stern showed round the mouth.                             
  "Who's that curtseying there? Cadet Miwonov! That's not wight!            
Look at me," cried Denisov who, unable to keep still on one spot, kept      
turning his horse in front of the squadron.                                 
  The black, hairy, snub-nosed face of Vaska Denisov, and his whole         
short sturdy figure with the sinewy hairy hand and stumpy fingers in        
which he held the hilt of his naked saber, looked just as it usually        
did, especially toward evening when he had emptied his second               
bottle; he was only redder than usual. With his shaggy head thrown          
back like birds when they drink, pressing his spurs mercilessly into        
the sides of his good horse, Bedouin, and sitting as though falling         
backwards in the saddle, he galloped to the other flank of the              
squadron and shouted in a hoarse voice to the men to look to their          
pistols. He rode up to Kirsten. The staff captain on his broad-backed,      
steady mare came at a walk to meet him. His face with its long              
mustache was serious as always, only his eyes were brighter than            
usual.                                                                      
                                                      {BK2|CH8 ^paragraph 5}
  "Well, what about it?" said he to Denisov. "It won't come to a            
fight. You'll see- we shall retire."                                        
  "The devil only knows what they're about!" muttered Denisov. "Ah,         
Wostov," he cried noticing the cadet's bright face, "you've got it          
at last."                                                                   
  And he smiled approvingly, evidently pleased with the cadet.              
Rostov felt perfectly happy. Just then the commander appeared on the        
bridge. Denisov galloped up to him.                                         
  "Your excellency! Let us attack them! I'll dwive them off."               
  "Attack indeed!" said the colonel in a bored voice, puckering up his      
face as if driving off a troublesome fly. "And why are you stopping         
here? Don't you see the skirmishers are retreating? Lead the                
squadron back."                                                             
                                                     {BK2|CH8 ^paragraph 10}
  The squadron crossed the bridge and drew out of range of fire             
without having lost a single man. The second squadron that had been in      
the front line followed them across and the last Cossacks quitted           
the farther side of the river.                                              
  The two Pavlograd squadrons, having crossed the bridge, retired up        
the hill one after the other. Their colonel, Karl Bogdanich                 
Schubert, came up to Denisov's squadron and rode at a footpace not far      
from Rostov, without taking any notice of him although they were now        
meeting for the first time since their encounter concerning                 
Telyanin. Rostov, feeling that he was at the front and in the power of      
a man toward whom he now admitted that he had been to blame, did not        
lift his eyes from the colonel's athletic back, his nape covered            
with light hair, and his red neck. It seemed to Rostov that                 
Bogdanich was only pretending not to notice him, and that his whole         
aim now was to test the cadet's courage, so he drew himself up and          
looked around him merrily; then it seemed to him that Bogdanich 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- Rostov. Then he imagined how, after the attack, Bogdanich would        
come up to him as he lay wounded and would magnanimously extend the         
hand of reconciliation.                                                     
  The high-shouldered figure of Zherkov, familiar to the Pavlograds as      
he had but recently left their regiment, rode up to the colonel. After      
his dismissal from headquarters Zherkov had not remained in the             
regiment, saying he was not such a fool as to slave at the front            
when he could get more rewards by doing nothing on the staff, and           
had succeeded in attaching himself as an orderly officer to Prince          
Bagration. He now came to his former chief with an order from the           
commander of the rear guard.                                                
  "Colonel," he said, addressing Rostov's enemy with an air of              
gloomy gravity and glancing round at his comrades, "there is an             
order to stop and fire the bridge."                                         
  "An order to who?" asked the colonel morosely.                            
                                                     {BK2|CH8 ^paragraph 15}
  "I don't myself know 'to who,'" replied the cornet in a serious           
tone, "but the prince told me to 'go and tell the colonel that the          
hussars must return quickly and fire the bridge.'"                          
  Zherkov was followed by an officer of the suite who rode up to the        
colonel of hussars with the same order. After him the stout                 
Nesvitski came galloping up on a Cossack horse that could scarcely          
carry his weight.                                                           
  "How's this, Colonel?" he shouted as he approached. "I told you to        
fire the bridge, and now someone has gone and blundered; they are           
all beside themselves over there and one can't make anything out."          
  The colonel deliberately stopped the regiment and turned to               
Nesvitski.                                                                  
  "You spoke to me of inflammable material," said he, "but you said         
nothing about firing it."                                                   
                                                     {BK2|CH8 ^paragraph 20}
  "But, my dear sir," said Nesvitski as he drew up, taking off his cap      
and smoothing his hair wet with perspiration with his plump hand,           
"wasn't I telling you to fire the bridge, when inflammable material         
had been put in position?"                                                  
  "I am not your 'dear sir,' Mr. Staff Officer, and you did not tell        
me to burn the bridge! I know the service, and it is my habit orders        
strictly to obey. You said the bridge would be burned, but who would        
it burn, I could not know by the holy spirit!"                              
  "Ah, that's always the way!" said Nesvitski with a wave of the hand.      
"How did you get here?" said he, turning to Zherkov.                        
  "On the same business. But you are damp! Let me wring you out!"           
  "You were saying, Mr. Staff Officer..." continued the colonel in          
an offended tone.                                                           
                                                     {BK2|CH8 ^paragraph 25}
  "Colonel," interrupted the officer of the suite, "You must be             
quick or the enemy will bring up his guns to use grapeshot."                
  The colonel looked silently at the officer of the suite, at the           
stout staff officer, and at Zherkov, and he frowned.                        
  "I will the bridge fire," he said in a solemn tone as if to announce      
that in spite of all the unpleasantness he had to endure he would           
still do the right thing.                                                   
  Striking his horse with his long muscular legs as if it were to           
blame for everything, the colonel moved forward and ordered the second      
squadron, that in which Rostov was serving under Denisov, to return to      
the bridge.                                                                 
  "There, it's just as I thought," said Rostov to himself. "He              
wishes to test me!" His heart contracted and the blood rushed to his        
face. "Let him see whether I am a coward!" he thought.                      
                                                     {BK2|CH8 ^paragraph 30}
  Again on all the bright faces of the squadron the serious expression      
appeared that they had worn when under fire. Rostov watched his enemy,      
the colonel, closely- to find in his face confirmation of his own           
conjecture, but the colonel did not once glance at Rostov, and              
looked as he always did when at the front, solemn and stern. Then came      
the word of command.                                                        
  "Look sharp! Look sharp!" several voices repeated around him.             
  Their sabers catching in the bridles and their spurs jingling, the        
hussars hastily dismounted, not knowing what they were to do. The           
men were crossing themselves. Rostov no longer looked at the                
colonel, he had no time. He was afraid of falling behind the                
hussars, so much afraid that his heart stood still. His hand                
trembled as he gave his horse into an orderly's charge, and he felt         
the blood rush to his heart with a thud. Denisov rode past him,             
leaning back and shouting something. Rostov saw nothing but the             
hussars running all around him, their spurs catching and their              
sabers clattering.                                                          
  "Stretchers!" shouted someone behind him.                                 
  Rostov did not think what this call for stretchers meant; he ran on,      
trying only to be ahead of the others; but just at the bridge, not          
looking at the ground, he came on some sticky, trodden mud,                 
stumbled, and fell on his hands. The others outstripped him.                
                                                     {BK2|CH8 ^paragraph 35}
  "At boss zides, Captain," he heard the voice of the colonel, who,         
having ridden ahead, had pulled up his horse near the bridge, with a        
triumphant, cheerful face.                                                  
  Rostov 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 Bogdanich, without looking at or recognizing          
Rostov, shouted to him:                                                     
  "Who's that running on the middle of the bridge? To the right!            
Come back, Cadet!" he cried angrily; and turning to Denisov, who,           
showing off his courage, had ridden on to the planks of the bridge:         
  "Why run risks, Captain? You should dismount," he said.                   
  "Oh, every bullet has its billet," answered Vaska Denisov, turning        
in his saddle.                                                              
                                                     {BK2|CH8 ^paragraph 40}
-                                                                           
  Meanwhile Nesvitski, Zherkov, and the officer of the suite were           
standing together out of range of the shots, watching, now the small        
group of men with yellow shakos, dark-green jackets braided with cord,      
and blue riding breeches, who were swarming near the bridge, and            
then at what was approaching in the distance from the opposite side-        
the blue uniforms and groups with horses, easily recognizable as            
artillery.                                                                  
  "Will they burn the bridge or not? Who'll get there first? Will they      
get there and fire the bridge or will the French get within                 
grapeshot range and wipe them out?" These were the questions each           
man of the troops on the high ground above the bridge involuntarily         
asked himself with a sinking heart- watching the bridge and the             
hussars in the bright evening light and the blue tunics advancing from      
the other side with their bayonets and guns.                                
  "Ugh. The hussars will get it hot!" said Nesvitski; "they are within      
grapeshot range now."                                                       
  "He shouldn't have taken so many men," said the officer of the            
suite.                                                                      
                                                     {BK2|CH8 ^paragraph 45}
  "True enough," answered Nesvitski; "two smart fellows could have          
done the job just as well."                                                 
  "Ah, your excellency," put in Zherkov, his eyes fixed on the              
hussars, but still with that naive air that made it impossible to know      
whether he was speaking in jest or in earnest. "Ah, your excellency!        
How you look at things! Send two men? And who then would give us the        
Vladimir 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 Bogdanich knows how things are done."                                   
  "There now!" said the officer of the suite, "that's grapeshot."           
  He pointed to the French guns, the limbers of which were being            
detached and hurriedly removed.                                             
  On the French side, amid the groups with cannon, a cloud of smoke         
appeared, then a second and a third almost simultaneously, and at           
the moment when the first report was heard a fourth was seen. Then two      
reports one after another, and a third.                                     
                                                     {BK2|CH8 ^paragraph 50}
  "Oh! Oh!" groaned Nesvitski as if in fierce pain, seizing the             
officer of the suite by the arm. "Look! A man has fallen! Fallen,           
fallen!"                                                                    
  "Two, I think."                                                           
  "If I were Tsar I would never go to war," said Nesvitski, turning         
away.                                                                       
  The French guns were hastily reloaded. The infantry in their blue         
uniforms advanced toward the bridge at a run. Smoke appeared again but      
at irregular intervals, and grapeshot cracked and rattled onto the          
bridge. But this time Nesvitski could not see what was happening            
there, as a dense cloud of smoke arose from it. The hussars had             
succeeded in setting it on fire and the French batteries were now           
firing at them, no longer to hinder them but because the guns were          
trained and there was someone to fire at.                                   
  The French had time to fire three rounds of grapeshot before the          
hussars got back to their horses. Two were misdirected and the shot         
went too high, but the last round fell in the midst of a group of           
hussars and knocked three of them over.                                     
                                                     {BK2|CH8 ^paragraph 55}
  Rostov, absorbed by his relations with Bogdanich, 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. Rostov ran up to        
him with the others. Again someone shouted, "Stretchers!" Four men          
seized the hussar and began lifting him.                                    
  "Oooh! For Christ's sake let me alone!" cried the wounded man, but        
still he was lifted and laid on the stretcher.                              
  Nicholas Rostov turned away and, as if searching for something,           
gazed into the distance, at the waters of the Danube, at the sky,           
and at the sun. How beautiful the sky looked; how blue, how calm,           
and how deep! How bright and glorious was the setting sun! With what        
soft glitter the waters of the distant Danube shone. And fairer             
still were the faraway blue mountains beyond the river, the nunnery,        
the mysterious gorges, and the pine forests veiled in the mist of           
their summits... There was peace and happiness... "I should wishing         
for nothing else, nothing, if only I were there," thought Rostov.           
"In myself alone and in that sunshine there is so much happiness;           
but here... groans, suffering, fear, and this uncertainty and hurry...      
There- they are shouting again, and again are all running back              
somewhere, and I shall run with them, and it, death, is here above          
me and around... Another instant and I shall never again see the            
sun, this water, that gorge!..."                                            
  At that instant the sun began to hide behind the clouds, and other        
stretchers came into view before Rostov. And the fear of death and          
of the stretchers, and love of the sun and of life, all merged into         
one feeling of sickening agitation.                                         
  "O Lord God! Thou who art in that heaven, save, forgive, and protect      
me!" Rostov whispered.                                                      
                                                     {BK2|CH8 ^paragraph 60}
  The hussars ran back to the men who held their horses; their              
voices sounded louder and calmer, the stretchers disappeared from           
sight.                                                                      
  "Well, fwiend? So you've smelt powdah!" shouted Vaska Denisov just        
above his ear.                                                              
  "It's all over; but I am a coward- yes, a coward!" thought Rostov,        
and sighing deeply he took Rook, his horse, which stood resting one         
foot, from the orderly and began to mount.                                  
  "Was that grapeshot?" he asked Denisov.                                   
  "Yes and no mistake!" cried Denisov. "You worked like wegular bwicks      
and it's nasty work! An attack's pleasant work! Hacking away at the         
dogs! But this sort of thing is the very devil, with them shooting          
at you like a target."                                                      
                                                     {BK2|CH8 ^paragraph 65}
  And Denisov rode up to a group that had stopped near Rostov,              
composed of the colonel, Nesvitski, Zherkov, and the officer from           
the suite.                                                                  
  "Well, it seems that no one has noticed," thought Rostov. And this        
was true. No one had taken any notice, for everyone knew the sensation      
which the cadet under fire for the first time had experienced.              
  "Here's something for you to report," said Zherkov. "See if I             
don't get promoted to a sublieutenancy."                                    
  "Inform the prince that I the bridge fired!" said the colonel             
triumphantly and gaily.                                                     
  "And if he asks about the losses?"                                        
                                                     {BK2|CH8 ^paragraph 70}
  "A trifle," said the colonel in his bass voice: "two hussars              
wounded, and one knocked out," he added, unable to restrain a happy         
smile, and pronouncing the phrase "knocked out" with ringing                
distinctness.                                                               
                                                                            
BK2|CH9                                                                     
  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 Kutuzov was hurriedly retreating along the Danube,             
stopping where overtaken by the enemy and fighting rearguard actions        
only as far as necessary to enable it to retreat without losing its         
heavy equipment. There had been actions at Lambach, Amstetten, and          
Melk; but despite the courage and endurance- acknowledged even by           
the enemy- with which the Russians fought, the only consequence of          
these actions was a yet more rapid retreat. Austrian troops that had        
escaped capture at Ulm and had joined Kutuzov at Braunau now separated      
from the Russian army, and Kutuzov 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         
Kutuzov when he was in Vienna by the Austrian Hofkriegsrath, the            
sole and almost unattainable aim remaining for him was to effect a          
junction with the forces that were advancing from Russia, without           
losing his army as Mack had done at Ulm.                                    
  On the twenty-eighth of October Kutuzov with his army crossed to the      
left bank of the Danube and took up a position for the first time with      
the river between himself and the main body of the French. On the           
thirtieth he attacked Mortier's division, which was on the left             
bank, and broke it up. In this action for the first time trophies were      
taken: banners, cannon, and two enemy generals. For the first time,         
after a fortnight's retreat, the Russian troops had halted and after a      
fight had not only held the field but had repulsed the French.              
Though the troops were ill-clad, exhausted, and had lost a third of         
their number in killed, wounded, sick, and stragglers; though a number      
of sick and wounded had been abandoned on the other side of the Danube      
with a letter in which Kutuzov entrusted them to the humanity of the        
enemy; and though the big hospitals and the houses in Krems                 
converted into military hospitals could no longer accommodate all           
the sick and wounded, yet the stand made at Krems and the victory over      
Mortier raised the spirits of the army considerably. Throughout the         
whole army and at headquarters most joyful though erroneous rumors          
were rife of the imaginary approach of columns from Russia, of some         
victory gained by the Austrians, and of the retreat of the                  
frightened Bonaparte.                                                       
  Prince Andrew during the battle had been in attendance on the             
Austrian General Schmidt, who was killed in the action. His horse           
had been wounded under him and his own arm slightly grazed by a             
bullet. As a mark of the commander in chief's special favor he was          
sent with the news of this victory to the Austrian court, now no            
longer at Vienna (which was threatened by the French) but at Brunn.         
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 Dokhturov to Kutuzov, he was sent immediately          
with a special dispatch to Brunn. To be so sent meant not only a            
reward but an important step toward promotion.                              
  The night was dark but starry, the road showed black in the snow          
that had fallen the previous day- the day of the battle. Reviewing his      
impressions of the recent battle, picturing pleasantly to himself           
the impression his news of a victory would create, or recalling the         
send-off given him by the commander in chief and his fellow                 
officers, Prince Andrew was galloping along in a post chaise                
enjoying the feelings of a man who has at length begun to attain a          
long-desired happiness. As soon as he closed his eyes his ears              
seemed filled with the rattle of the wheels and the sensation of            
victory. Then he began to imagine that the Russians were running            
away and that he himself was killed, but he quickly roused himself          
with a feeling of joy, as if learning afresh that this was not so           
but that on the contrary the French had run away. He again recalled         
all the details of the victory and his own calm courage during the          
battle, and feeling reassured he dozed off.... The dark starry night        
was followed by a bright cheerful morning. The snow was thawing in the      
sunshine, the horses galloped quickly, and on both sides of the road        
were forests of different kinds, fields, and villages.                      
  At one of the post stations he overtook a convoy of Russian wounded.      
The Russian officer in charge of the transport lolled back in the           
front cart, shouting and scolding a soldier with coarse abuse. In each      
of the long German carts six or more pale, dirty, bandaged men were         
being jolted over the stony road. Some of them were talking (he             
heard Russian words), others were eating bread; the more severely           
wounded looked silently, with the languid interest of sick children,        
at the envoy hurrying past them.                                            
                                                      {BK2|CH9 ^paragraph 5}
  Prince Andrew told his driver to stop, and asked a soldier in what        
action they had been wounded. "Day before yesterday, on the Danube,"        
answered the soldier. Prince Andrew took out his purse and gave the         
soldier three gold pieces.                                                  
  "That's for them all," he said to the officer who came up.                
  "Get well soon, lads!" he continued, turning to the soldiers.             
"There's plenty to do still."                                               
  "What news, sir?" asked the officer, evidently anxious to start a         
conversation.                                                               
  "Good news!... Go on!" he shouted to the driver, and they galloped        
on.                                                                         
                                                     {BK2|CH9 ^paragraph 10}
  It was already quite dark when Prince Andrew rattled over the             
paved streets of Brunn 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 concise form in which he imagined himself stating them to      
the Emperor Francis. He vividly imagined the casual questions that          
might be put to him and the answers he would give. He expected to be        
at once presented to the Emperor. At the chief entrance to the palace,      
however, an official came running out to meet him, and learning that        
he was a special messenger led him to another entrance.                     
  "To the right from the corridor, Euer Hochgeboren! There you will         
find the adjutant on duty," said the official. "He will conduct you to      
the Minister of War."                                                       
  The adjutant on duty, meeting Prince Andrew, asked him to wait,           
and went in to the Minister of War. Five minutes later he returned and      
bowing with particular courtesy ushered Prince Andrew before him along      
a corridor to the cabinet where the Minister of War was at work. The        
adjutant by his elaborate courtesy appeared to wish to ward off any         
attempt at familiarity on the part of the Russian messenger.                
  Prince Andrew's joyous feeling was considerably weakened as he            
approached the door of the minister's room. He felt offended, and           
without his noticing it the feeling of offense immediately turned into      
one of disdain which was quite uncalled for. His fertile mind               
instantly suggested to him a point of view which gave him a right to        
despise the adjutant and the minister. "Away from the smell of powder,      
they probably think it easy to gain victories!" he thought. His eyes        
narrowed disdainfully, he entered the room of the Minister of War with      
peculiarly deliberate steps. This feeling of disdain was heightened         
when he saw the minister seated at a large table reading some papers        
and making pencil notes on them, and for the first two or three             
minutes taking no notice of his arrival. A wax candle stood at each         
side of the minister's bent bald head with its gray temples. He went        
on reading to the end, without raising his eyes at the opening of           
the door and the sound of footsteps.                                        
  "Take this and deliver it," said he to his adjutant, handing him the      
papers and still taking no notice of the special messenger.                 
                                                     {BK2|CH9 ^paragraph 15}
  Prince Andrew felt that either the actions of Kutuzov's army              
interested the Minister of War less than any of the other matters he        
was concerned with, or he wanted to give the Russian special messenger      
that impression. "But that is a matter of perfect indifference to me,"      
he thought. The minister drew the remaining papers together,                
arranged them evenly, and then raised his head. He had an intellectual      
and distinctive head, but the instant he turned to Prince Andrew the        
firm, intelligent expression on his face changed in a way evidently         
deliberate and habitual to him. His face took on the stupid artificial      
smile (which does not even attempt to hide its artificiality) of a man      
who is continually receiving many petitioners one after another.            
  "From General Field Marshal Kutuzov?" he asked. "I hope it is good        
news? There has been an encounter with Mortier? A victory? It was high      
time!"                                                                      
  He took the dispatch which was addressed to him and began to read it      
with a mournful expression.                                                 
  "Oh, my God! My God! Schmidt!" he exclaimed in German. "What a            
calamity! What a calamity!"                                                 
  Having glanced through the dispatch he laid it on the table and           
looked at Prince Andrew, evidently considering something.                   
                                                     {BK2|CH9 ^paragraph 20}
  "Ah what a calamity! You say the affair was decisive? But Mortier is      
not captured." Again he pondered. "I am very glad you have brought          
good news, though Schmidt's death is a heavy price to pay for the           
victory. His Majesty will no doubt wish to see you, but not today. I        
thank you! You must have a rest. Be at the levee tomorrow after the         
parade. However, I will let you know."                                      
  The stupid smile, which had left his face while he was speaking,          
reappeared.                                                                 
  "Au revoir! Thank you very much. His Majesty will probably desire to      
see you," he added, bowing his head.                                        
  When Prince Andrew left the palace he felt that all the interest and      
happiness the victory had afforded him had been now left in the             
indifferent hands of the Minister of War and the polite adjutant.           
The whole tenor of his thoughts instantaneously changed; the battle         
seemed the memory of a remote event long past.                              
                                                                            
BK2|CH10                                                                    
  CHAPTER X                                                                 
-                                                                           
  Prince Andrew stayed at Brunn with Bilibin, a Russian acquaintance        
of his in the diplomatic service.                                           
  "Ah, my dear prince! I could not have a more welcome visitor,"            
said Bilibin as he came out to meet Prince Andrew. "Franz, put the          
prince's things in my bedroom," said he to the servant who was              
ushering Bolkonski in. "So you're a messenger of victory, eh?               
Splendid! And I am sitting here ill, as you see."                           
  After washing and dressing, Prince Andrew came into the diplomat's        
luxurious study and sat down to the dinner prepared for him. Bilibin        
settled down comfortably beside the fire.                                   
  After his journey and the campaign during which he had been deprived      
of all the comforts of cleanliness and all the refinements of life,         
Prince Andrew felt a pleasant sense of repose among luxurious               
surroundings such as he had been accustomed to from childhood. Besides      
it was pleasant, after his reception by the Austrians, to speak if not      
in Russian (for they were speaking French) at least with a Russian who      
would, he supposed, share the general Russian antipathy to the              
Austrians which was then particularly strong.                               
  Bilibin 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 Kutuzov. Just as Prince Andrew was a young man who gave         
promise of rising high in the military profession, so to an even            
greater extent Bilibin gave promise of rising in his diplomatic             
career. He still a young man but no longer a young diplomat, as he had      
entered the service at the age of sixteen, had been in Paris and            
Copenhagen, and now held a rather important post in Vienna. Both the        
foreign minister and our ambassador in Vienna knew him and valued him.      
He was not one of those many diplomats who are esteemed because they        
have certain negative qualities, avoid doing certain things, and speak      
French. He was one of those, who, liking work, knew how to do it,           
and despite his indolence would sometimes spend a whole night at his        
writing table. He worked well whatever the import of his work. It           
was not the question "What for?" but the question "How?" that               
interested him. What the diplomatic matter might be he did not care,        
but it gave him great pleasure to prepare a circular, memorandum, or        
report, skillfully, pointedly, and elegantly. Bilibin'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.                   
                                                     {BK2|CH10 ^paragraph 5}
  Bilibin 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, Bilibin's witticisms were hawked about in the Viennese drawing        
rooms and often had an influence on matters considered important.           
  His thin, worn, sallow face was covered with deep wrinkles, which         
always looked as clean and well washed as the tips of one's fingers         
after a Russian bath. The movement of these wrinkles formed the             
principal play of expression on his face. Now his forehead would            
pucker into deep folds and his eyebrows were lifted, then his eyebrows      
would descend and deep wrinkles would crease his cheeks. His small,         
deep-set eyes always twinkled and looked out straight.                      
  "Well, now tell me about your exploits," said he.                         
  Bolkonski, very modestly without once mentioning himself,                 
described the engagement and his reception by the Minister of War.          
  "They received me and my news as one receives a dog in a game of          
skittles," said he in conclusion.                                           
                                                    {BK2|CH10 ^paragraph 10}
  Bilibin smiled and the wrinkles on his face disappeared.                  
  "Cependant, mon cher," he remarked, examining his nails from a            
distance and puckering the skin above his left eye, "malgre la haute        
estime que je professe pour the Orthodox Russian army, j'avoue que          
votre victoire n'est pas des plus victorieuses."*                           
-                                                                           
  *"But my dear fellow, with all my respect for the Orthodox Russian        
army, I must say that your victory was not particularly victorious."        
-                                                                           
                                                    {BK2|CH10 ^paragraph 15}
  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."                                                             
                                                    {BK2|CH10 ^paragraph 20}
  "And why didn't you do it at seven in the morning? You ought to have      
been there at seven in the morning," returned Bilibin 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 Bilibin, "you're thinking it's very easy to         
take marshals, sitting on a sofa by the fire! That is true, but             
still why didn't you capture him? So don't be surprised if not only         
the Minister of War but also his Most August Majesty the Emperor and        
King Francis is not much delighted by your victory. Even I, a poor          
secretary of the Russian Embassy, do not feel any need in token of          
my joy to give my Franz a thaler, or let him go with his Liebchen to        
the Prater... True, we have no Prater here..."                              
  He looked straight at Prince Andrew and suddenly unwrinkled his           
forehead.                                                                   
  "It is now my turn to ask you 'why?' mon cher," said Bolkonski. "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. Kutuzov 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."                                                               
                                                    {BK2|CH10 ^paragraph 25}
  "That's just it, my dear fellow. You see it's hurrah for the Tsar,        
for Russia, for the Orthodox Greek faith! All that is beautiful, but        
what do we, I mean the Austrian court, care for your victories?             
Bring us nice news of a victory by the Archduke Karl or Ferdinand (one      
archduke's as good as another, as you know) and even if it is only          
over a fire brigade of Bonaparte's, that will be another story and          
we'll fire off some cannon! But this sort of thing seems done on            
purpose to vex us. The Archduke Karl does nothing, the Archduke             
Ferdinand disgraces himself. You abandon Vienna, give up its                
defense- as much as to say: 'Heaven is with us, but heaven help you         
and your capital!' The one general whom we all loved, Schmidt, you          
expose to a bullet, and then you congratulate us on the victory! Admit      
that more irritating news than yours could not have been conceived.         
It's as if it had been done on purpose, on purpose. Besides, suppose        
you did gain a brilliant victory, if even the Archduke Karl gained a        
victory, what effect would that have on the general course of               
events? It's too late now when Vienna is occupied by the French army!"      
  "What? Occupied? Vienna occupied?"                                        
  "Not only occupied, but Bonaparte is at Schonbrunn, 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, Bolkonski felt that he could not         
take in the full significance of the words he heard.                        
  "Count Lichtenfels was here this morning," Bilibin continued, "and        
showed me a letter in which the parade of the French in Vienna was          
fully described: Prince Murat et tout le tremblement... You see that        
your victory is not a matter for great rejoicing and that you can't be      
received as a savior."                                                      
                                                    {BK2|CH10 ^paragraph 30}
  "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 Durrenstein, or gunpowder at all, that      
will decide the matter, but those who devised it," said Bilibin             
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!"                                                          
                                                    {BK2|CH10 ^paragraph 35}
  "Buonaparte?" said Bilibin inquiringly, puckering up his forehead to      
indicate that he was about to say something witty. "Buonaparte?" he         
repeated, accentuating the u: "I think, however, now that he lays down      
laws for Austria at Schonbrunn, il faut lui faire grace de l'u!* I          
shall certainly adopt an innovation and call him simply Bonaparte!"         
-                                                                           
  *"We must let him off the u!"                                             
-                                                                           
  "But joking apart," said Prince Andrew, "do you really think the          
campaign is over?"                                                          
                                                    {BK2|CH10 ^paragraph 40}
  "This is what I think. Austria has been made a fool of, and she is        
not used to it. She will retaliate. And she has been fooled in the          
first place because her provinces have been pillaged- they say the          
Holy Russian army loots terribly- her army is destroyed, her capital        
taken, and all this for the beaux yeux* of His Sardinian Majesty.           
And therefore- this is between ourselves- I instinctively feel that we      
are being deceived, my instinct tells me of negotiations with France        
and projects for peace, a secret peace concluded separately."               
-                                                                           
  *Fine eyes.                                                               
-                                                                           
  "Impossible!" cried Prince Andrew. "That would be too base."              
                                                    {BK2|CH10 ^paragraph 45}
  "If we live we shall see," replied Bilibin, 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.                        
                                                                            
BK2|CH11                                                                    
  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, Bilibin, and last night's                     
conversation. Having dressed for his attendance at court in full            
parade uniform, which he had not worn for a long time, he went into         
Bilibin's study fresh, animated, and handsome, with his hand bandaged.      
In the study were four gentlemen of the diplomatic corps. With              
Prince Hippolyte Kuragin, who was a secretary to the embassy,               
Bolkonski was already acquainted. Bilibin introduced him to the             
others.                                                                     
  The gentlemen assembled at Bilibin's were young, wealthy, gay             
society men, who here, as in Vienna, formed a special set which             
Bilibin, their leader, called les notres.* This set, consisting almost      
exclusively of diplomats, evidently had its own interests which had         
nothing to do with war or politics but related to high society, to          
certain women, and to the official side of the service. These               
gentlemen received Prince Andrew as one of themselves, an honor they        
did not extend to many. From politeness and to start conversation,          
they asked him a few questions about the army and the battle, and then      
the talk went off into merry jests and gossip.                              
-                                                                           
  *Ours.                                                                    
-                                                                           
                                                     {BK2|CH11 ^paragraph 5}
  "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 Kuragin 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.                    
                                                    {BK2|CH11 ^paragraph 10}
  "You, Bolkonski, don't know," said Bilibin turning to Prince Andrew,      
"that all the atrocities of the French army (I nearly said of the           
Russian army) are nothing compared to what this man has been doing          
among the women!"                                                           
  "La femme est la compagne de l'homme,"* announced Prince                  
Hippolyte, and began looking through a lorgnette at his elevated legs.      
-                                                                           
  *"Woman is man's companion."                                              
-                                                                           
                                                    {BK2|CH11 ^paragraph 15}
  Bilibin 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," Bilibin whispered to Bolkonski.            
"Kuragin 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 Bolkonski's arm to indicate that he had now quite           
finished.                                                                   
                                                    {BK2|CH11 ^paragraph 20}
  "Demosthenes, I know thee by the pebble thou secretest in thy golden      
mouth!" said Bilibin, 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 Bilibin, "Bolkonski is my guest in            
this house and in Brunn 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. Brunn'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 Bilibin.                                                   
                                                    {BK2|CH11 ^paragraph 25}
  "I shall scarcely be able to avail myself of your hospitality,            
gentlemen, it is already time for me to go," replied Prince Andrew          
looking at his watch.                                                       
  "Where to?"                                                               
  "To the Emperor."                                                         
  "Oh! Oh! Oh!" Well, au revoir, Bolkonski! Au revoir, Prince! Come         
back early to dinner," cried several voices. "We'll take you in hand."      
  "When speaking to the Emperor, try as far as you can to praise the        
way that provisions are supplied and the routes indicated," said            
Bilibin, accompanying him to the hall.                                      
                                                    {BK2|CH11 ^paragraph 30}
  "I should like to speak well of them, but as far as I the facts, I        
can't," replied Bolkonski, 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."                                                       
                                                                            
BK2|CH12                                                                    
  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 to him with his long head. But         
after it was over, the adjutant he had seen the previous day                
ceremoniously informed Bolkonski that the Emperor desired to give           
him an audience. The Emperor Francis received him standing in the           
middle of the room. Before the conversation began Prince Andrew was         
struck by the fact that the Emperor seemed confused and blushed as          
if not knowing what to say.                                                 
  "Tell me, when did the battle begin?" he asked hurriedly.                 
  Prince Andrew replied. Then followed other questions just as simple:      
"Was Kutuzov well? When had he left Krems?" and so on. The Emperor          
spoke as if his sole aim were to put a given number of questions-           
the answers to these questions, as was only too evident, did not            
interest him.                                                               
  "At what o'clock did the battle begin?" asked the Emperor.                
  "I cannot inform Your Majesty at what o'clock the battle began at         
the front, but at Durrenstein, where I was, our attack began after          
five in the afternoon," replied Bolkonski 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.                                         
                                                     {BK2|CH12 ^paragraph 5}
  "How many miles?"                                                         
  "From where to where, Your Majesty?"                                      
  "From Durrenstein to Krems."                                              
  "Three and a half miles, Your Majesty."                                   
  "The French have abandoned the left bank?"                                
                                                    {BK2|CH12 ^paragraph 10}
  "According to the scouts the last of them crossed on rafts during         
the night."                                                                 
  "Is there sufficient forage in Krems?"                                    
  "Forage has not been supplied to the extent..."                           
  The Emperor interrupted him.                                              
  "At what o'clock was General Schmidt killed?"                             
                                                    {BK2|CH12 ^paragraph 15}
  "At seven o'clock, I believe."                                            
  "At seven o'clock? It's very sad, very sad!"                              
  The Emperor thanked Prince Andrew and bowed. Prince Andrew                
withdrew and was immediately surrounded by courtiers on all sides.          
Everywhere he saw friendly looks and heard friendly words. Yesterday's      
adjutant reproached him for not having stayed at the palace, and            
offered him his own house. The Minister of War came up and                  
congratulated him on the Maria Theresa Order of the third grade, which      
the Emperor was conferring on him. The Empress' chamberlain invited         
him to see Her Majesty. The archduchess also wished to see him. He did      
not know whom to answer, and for a few seconds collected his thoughts.      
Then the Russian ambassador took him by the shoulder, led him to the        
window, and began to talk to him.                                           
  Contrary to Bilibin's forecast the news he had brought was                
joyfully received. A thanksgiving service was arranged, Kutuzov was         
awarded the Grand Cross of Maria Theresa, and the whole army                
received rewards. Bolkonski 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 Bilibin's house thinking out a letter to his            
father about the battle and his visit to Brunn. At the door he found a      
vehicle half full of luggage. Franz, Bilibin's man, was dragging a          
portmanteau with some difficulty out of the front door.                     
  Before returning to Bilibin's Prince Andrew had gone to bookshop          
to provide himself with some books for the campaign, and had spent          
some time in the shop.                                                      
                                                    {BK2|CH12 ^paragraph 20}
  "What is it?" he asked.                                                   
  "Oh, your excellency!" said Franz, with difficulty rolling the            
portmanteau into the vehicle, "we are to move on still farther. The         
scoundrel is again at our heels!"                                           
  "Eh? What?" asked Prince Andrew.                                          
  Bilibin came out to meet him. His usually calm face showed                
excitement.                                                                 
  "There now! Confess that this is delightful," said he. "This              
affair of the Thabor Bridge, at Vienna.... They have crossed without        
striking a blow!"                                                           
                                                    {BK2|CH12 ^paragraph 25}
  Prince Andrew could not understand.                                       
  "But where do you come from not to know what every coachman in the        
town knows?"                                                                
  "I come from the archduchess'. I heard nothing there."                    
  "And you didn't see that everybody is packing up?"                        
  "I did not... What is it all about?" inquired Prince Andrew               
impatiently.                                                                
                                                    {BK2|CH12 ^paragraph 30}
  "What's it all about? Why, the French have crossed the bridge that        
Auersperg was defending, and the bridge was not blown up: so Murat          
is now rushing along the road to Brunn and will be here in a day or         
two."                                                                       
  "What? Here? But why did they not blow up the bridge, if it was           
mined?"                                                                     
  "That is what I ask you. No one, not even Bonaparte, knows why."          
  Bolkonski shrugged his shoulders.                                         
  "But if the bridge is crossed it means that the army too is lost? It      
will be cut off," said he.                                                  
                                                    {BK2|CH12 ^paragraph 35}
  "That's just it," answered Bilibin. "Listen! The French entered           
Vienna as I told you. Very well. Next day, which was yesterday,             
those gentlemen, messieurs les marechaux,* Murat, Lannes,and Belliard,      
mount and ride to bridge. (Observe that all three are Gascons.)             
'Gentlemen,' says one of them, 'you know the Thabor Bridge is mined         
and doubly mined and that there are menacing fortifications at its          
head and an army of fifteen thousand men has been ordered to blow up        
the bridge and not let us cross? But it will please our sovereign           
the Emperor Napoleon if we take this bridge, so let us three go and         
take it!' 'Yes, let's!' say the others. And off they go and take the        
bridge, cross it, and now with their whole army are on this side of         
the Danube, marching on us, you, and your lines of communication."          
-                                                                           
  *The marshalls.                                                           
-                                                                           
  "Stop jesting," said Prince Andrew sadly and seriously. This news         
grieved him and yet he was pleased.                                         
                                                    {BK2|CH12 ^paragraph 40}
  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 Bilibin 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," Bilibin 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 tete-de-pont.* They spin him a thousand gasconades,          
saying that the war is over, that the Emperor Francis is arranging a        
meeting with Bonaparte, that they desire to see Prince Auersperg,           
and so on. The officer sends for Auersperg; these gentlemen embrace         
the officers, crack jokes, sit on the cannon, and meanwhile a French        
battalion gets to the bridge unobserved, flings the bags of incendiary      
material into the water, and approaches the tete-de-pont. At length         
appears the lieutenant general, our dear Prince Auersperg von               
Mautern himself. 'Dearest foe! Flower of the Austrian army, hero of         
the Turkish wars Hostilities are ended, we can shake one another's          
hand.... The Emperor Napoleon burns with impatience to make Prince          
Auersperg's acquaintance.' In a word, those gentlemen, Gascons indeed,      
so bewildered him with fine words, and he is so flattered by his            
rapidly established intimacy with the French marshals, and so               
dazzled by the sight of Murat's mantle and ostrich plumes, qu'il n'y        
voit que du feu, et oublie celui qu'il devait faire faire sur               
l'ennemi!"*[2] In spite of the animation of his speech, Bilibin 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.                                                              
                                                    {BK2|CH12 ^paragraph 45}
  *[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        
Bilibin."It's not treachery nor rascality nor stupidity: it is just as      
at Ulm... it is..."- he seemed to be trying to find the right               
expression. "C'est... c'est du Mack. Nous sommes mackes [It is... it        
is a bit of Mack. We are Macked]," he concluded, feeling that he had        
produced a good epigram, a fresh one that would be repeated. His            
hitherto puckered brow became smooth as a sign of pleasure, and with a      
slight smile he began to examine his nails.                                 
  "Where are you off to?" he said suddenly to Prince Andrew who had         
risen and was going toward his room.                                        
                                                    {BK2|CH12 ^paragraph 50}
  "I am going away."                                                        
  "Where to?"                                                               
  "To the army."                                                            
  "But you meant to stay another two days?"                                 
  "But now I am off at once."                                               
                                                    {BK2|CH12 ^paragraph 55}
  And Prince Andrew after giving directions about his departure went        
to his room.                                                                
  "Do you know, mon cher," said Bilibin following him, "I have been         
thinking about you. Why are you going?"                                     
  And in proof of the conclusiveness of his opinion all the wrinkles        
vanished from his face.                                                     
  Prince Andrew looked inquiringly at him and gave no reply.                
  "Why are you going? I know you think it your duty to gallop back          
to the army now that it is in danger. I understand that. Mon cher,          
it is heroism!"                                                             
                                                    {BK2|CH12 ^paragraph 60}
  "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         
Olmutz, and Olmutz is a very decent town. You and I will travel             
comfortably in my caleche."                                                 
  "Do stop joking, Bilibin," cried Bolkonski.                               
  "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 Kutuzov's whole army."                       
  And Bilibin unwrinkled his temple, feeling that the dilemma was           
insoluble.                                                                  
                                                    {BK2|CH12 ^paragraph 65}
  "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 Bilibin.                           
                                                                            
BK2|CH13                                                                    
  CHAPTER XIII                                                              
-                                                                           
  That same night, having taken leave of the Minister of War,               
Bolkonski set off to rejoin the army, not knowing where he would            
find it and fearing to be captured by the French on the way to Krems.       
  In Brunn everybody attached to the court was packing up, and the          
heavy baggage was already being dispatched to Olmutz. Near Hetzelsdorf      
Prince Andrew struck the high road along which the Russian army was         
moving with great haste and in the greatest disorder. The road was          
so obstructed with carts that it was impossible to get by in a              
carriage. Prince Andrew took a horse and a Cossack from a Cossack           
commander, and hungry and weary, making his way past the baggage            
wagons, rode in search of the commander in chief and of his own             
luggage. Very sinister reports of the position of the army reached him      
as he went along, and the appearance of the troops in their disorderly      
flight confirmed these rumors.                                              
  "Cette armee russe que l'or de l'Angleterre a transportee des             
extremites de l'univers, nous allons lui faire eprouver le meme             
sort- (le sort de l'armee d'Ulm)."* He remembered these words in            
Bonaparte's address to his army at the beginning of the campaign,           
and they awoke in him astonishment at the genius of his hero, a             
feeling of wounded pride, and a hope of glory. "And should there be         
nothing left but to die?" he thought. "Well, if need be, I shall do it      
no worse than others."                                                      
-                                                                           
  *"That Russian army which has been brought from the ends of the           
earth by English gold, we shall cause to share the same fate- (the          
fate of the army at Ulm)."                                                  
                                                     {BK2|CH13 ^paragraph 5}
-                                                                           
  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 Bolkonski,              
recalling Bilibin'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 caleche. 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..."                                                              
                                                    {BK2|CH13 ^paragraph 10}
  "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.                                                                       
                                                    {BK2|CH13 ^paragraph 15}
  "And who are you?" cried the officer, turning on him with tipsy           
rage, "who are you? Are you in command here? Eh? I am commander             
here, not you! Go back or I'll flatten you into a pancake," repeated        
he. This expression evidently pleased him.                                  
  "That was a nice snub for the little aide-de-camp," came a voice          
from behind.                                                                
  Prince Andrew saw that the officer was in that state of senseless,        
tipsy rage when a man does not know what he is saying. He saw that his      
championship of the doctor's wife in her queer trap might expose him        
to what he dreaded more than anything in the world- to ridicule; but        
his instinct urged him on. Before the officer finished his sentence         
Prince Andrew, his face distorted with fury, rode up to him and raised      
his riding whip.                                                            
  "Kind...ly let- them- pass!"                                              
  The officer flourished his arm and hastily rode away.                     
                                                    {BK2|CH13 ^paragraph 20}
  "It's all the fault of these fellows on the staff that there's            
this disorder," he muttered. "Do as you like."                              
  Prince Andrew without lifting his eyes rode hastily away from the         
doctor's wife, who was calling him her deliverer, and recalling with a      
sense of disgust the minutest details of this humiliating scene he          
galloped on to the village where he was told that the commander in          
chief was.                                                                  
  On reaching the village he dismounted and went to the nearest house,      
intending to rest if but for a moment, eat something, and try to            
sort out the stinging and tormenting thoughts that confused his             
mind. "This is a mob of scoundrels and not an army," he was thinking        
as he went up to the window of the first house, when a familiar             
voice called him by name.                                                   
  He turned round. Nesvitski's handsome face looked out of the              
little window. Nesvitski, moving his moist lips as he chewed                
something, and flourishing his arm, called him to enter.                    
  "Bolkonski! Bolkonski!... Don't you hear? Eh? Come quick..." he           
shouted.                                                                    
                                                    {BK2|CH13 ^paragraph 25}
  Entering the house, Prince Andrew saw Nesvitski 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 Nesvitski's usually laughing            
countenance.                                                                
  "Where is the commander in chief?" asked Bolkonski.                       
  "Here, in that house," answered the adjutant.                             
  "Well, is it true that it's peace and capitulation?" asked                
Nesvitski.                                                                  
  "I was going to ask you. I know nothing except that it was all I          
could do to get here."                                                      
                                                    {BK2|CH13 ^paragraph 30}
  "And we, my dear boy! It's terrible! I was wrong to laugh at Mack,        
we're getting it still worse," said Nesvitski. "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             
Nesvitski. "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.                 
                                                    {BK2|CH13 ^paragraph 35}
  "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 Nesvitski.                                
  "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.                              
                                                    {BK2|CH13 ^paragraph 40}
  Passing by Kutuzov's carriage and the exhausted saddle horses of his      
suite, with their Cossacks who were talking loudly together, Prince         
Andrew entered the passage. Kutuzov himself, he was told, was in the        
house with Prince Bagration and Weyrother. Weyrother was the                
Austrian general who had succeeded Schmidt. In the passage little           
Kozlovski 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. Kozlovski'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 Kozlovski.                                   
  Through the door came the sounds of Kutuzov's voice, excited and          
dissatisfied, interrupted by another, an unfamiliar voice. From the         
sound of these voices, the inattentive way Kozlovski looked at him,         
the disrespectful manner of the exhausted clerk, the fact that the          
clerk and Kozlovski 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 Kozlovski with urgent questions.                             
                                                    {BK2|CH13 ^paragraph 45}
  "Immediately, Prince," said Kozlovski. "Dispositions for Bagration."      
  "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 Kutuzov with his eagle nose and puffy face appeared in the              
doorway. Prince Andrew stood right in front of Kutuzov 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 Kozlovski.                          
                                                    {BK2|CH13 ^paragraph 50}
  "One moment, your excellency."                                            
  Bagration, 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 Kutuzov an envelope.                                 
  Ah, from Vienna? Very good. Later, later!"                                
  Kutuzov went out into the porch with Bagration.                           
                                                    {BK2|CH13 ^paragraph 55}
  "Well, good-by, Prince," said he to Bagration. "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 Bagration 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 Bagration         
kissed him on the neck instead.                                             
  "Christ be with you!" Kutuzov repeated and went toward his carriage.      
"Get in with me," said he to Bolkonski.                                     
  "Your excellency, I should like to be of use here. Allow me to            
remain with Prince Bagration's detachment."                                 
  "Get in," said Kutuzov, and noticing that Bolkonski still delayed,        
he added: "I need good officers myself, need them myself!"                  
                                                    {BK2|CH13 ^paragraph 60}
  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 Bolkonski'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 Kutuzov'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 Bolkonski.                                            
  "That is why I beg to be sent to that detachment," he said.               
  Kutuzov 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.          
                                                                            
BK2|CH14                                                                    
  CHAPTER XIV                                                               
-                                                                           
  On November 1 Kutuzov 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 Kutuzov's line of communication with the              
troops that were arriving from Russia. If Kutuzov decided to remain at      
Krems, Napoleon's army of one hundred and fifty thousand men would cut      
him off completely and surround his exhausted army of forty                 
thousand, and he would find himself in the position of Mack at Ulm. If      
Kutuzov 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              
Buxhowden. If Kutuzov decided to retreat along the road from Krems          
to Olmutz, 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.                                
  Kutuzov chose this latter course.                                         
  The French, the spy reported, having crossed the Vienna bridge, were      
advancing by forced marches toward Znaim, which lay sixty-six miles         
off on the line of Kutuzov's retreat. If he reached Znaim before the        
French, there would be great hope of saving the army; to let the            
French forestall him at Znaim meant the exposure of his whole army          
to a disgrace such as that of Ulm, or to utter destruction. But to          
forestall the French with his whole army was impossible. The road           
for the French from Vienna to Znaim was shorter and better than the         
road for the Russians from Krems to Znaim.                                  
  The night he received the news, Kutuzov sent Bagration's vanguard,        
four thousand strong, to the right across the hills from the                
Krems-Znaim to the Vienna-Znaim road. Bagration 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. Kutuzov himself with all his transport took the road      
to Znaim.                                                                   
  Marching thirty miles that stormy night across roadless hills,            
with his hungry, ill-shod soldiers, and losing a third of his men as        
stragglers by the way, Bagration came out on the Vienna-Znaim road          
at Hollabrunn a few hours ahead of the French who were approaching          
Hollabrunn from Vienna. Kutuzov with his transport had still to             
march for some days before he could reach Znaim. Hence Bagration            
with his four thousand hungry, exhausted men would have to detain           
for days the whole enemy army that came upon him at Hollabrunn,             
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 Kutuzov in a similar way. Meeting Bagration's weak        
detachment on the Znaim road he supposed it to be Kutuzov's whole           
army. To be able to crush it absolutely he awaited the arrival of           
the rest of the troops who were on their way from Vienna, and with          
this object offered a three days' truce on condition that both              
armies should remain in position without moving. Murat declared that        
negotiations for peace were already proceeding, and that he                 
therefore offered this truce to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. Count          
Nostitz, the Austrian general occupying the advanced posts, believed        
Murat's emissary and retired, leaving Bagration's division exposed.         
Another emissary rode to the Russian line to announce the peace             
negotiations and to offer the Russian army the three days' truce.           
Bagration replied that he was not authorized either to accept or            
refuse a truce and sent his adjutant to Kutuzov to report the offer he      
had received.                                                               
                                                     {BK2|CH14 ^paragraph 5}
  A truce was Kutuzov's sole chance of gaining time, giving                 
Bagration'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 Kutuzov sent his adjutants back        
to hasten to the utmost the movements of the baggage trains of the          
entire army along the Krems-Znaim road. Bagration'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.                                   
  Kutuzov's expectations that the proposals of capitulation (which          
were in no way binding) might give time for part of the transport to        
pass, and also that Murat's mistake would very soon be discovered,          
proved correct. As soon as Bonaparte (who was at Schonbrunn, sixteen        
miles from Hollabrunn) received Murat's dispatch with the proposal          
of a truce and a capitulation, he detected a ruse and wrote the             
following letter to Murat:                                                  
-                                                                           
                                 Schonbrunn, 25th Brumaire, 1805,           
                                  at eight o'clock in the morning           
                                                    {BK2|CH14 ^paragraph 10}
  To PRINCE MURAT,                                                          
  I cannot find words to express to you my displeasure. You command         
only my advance guard, and have no right to arrange an armistice            
without my order. You are causing me to lose the fruits of a campaign.      
Break the armistice immediately and march on the enemy. Inform him          
that the general who signed that capitulation had no right to do so,        
and that no one but the Emperor of Russia has that right.                   
  If, however, the Emperor of Russia ratifies that convention, I            
will ratify it; but it is only a trick. March on, destroy the               
Russian army.... You are in a position to seize its baggage and             
artillery.                                                                  
  The Russian Emperor's aide-de-camp is an impostor. Officers are           
nothing when they have no powers; this one had none.... The                 
Austrians let themselves be tricked at the crossing of the Vienna           
bridge, you are letting yourself be tricked by an aide-de-camp of           
the Emperor.                                                                
                                                         NAPOLEON           
                                                    {BK2|CH14 ^paragraph 15}
-                                                                           
  Bonaparte's adjutant rode full gallop with this menacing letter to        
Murat. Bonaparte himself, not trusting to his generals, moved with all      
the Guards to the field of battle, afraid of letting a ready victim         
escape, and Bagration'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.                                                           
                                                                            
BK2|CH15                                                                    
  CHAPTER XV                                                                
-                                                                           
  Between three and four o'clock in the afternoon Prince Andrew, who        
had persisted in his request to Kutuzov, arrived at Grunth and              
reported himself to Bagration. Bonaparte's adjutant had not yet             
reached Murat's detachment and the battle had not yet begun. In             
Bagration'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. Bagration, knowing Bolkonski to be a             
favorite and trusted adjutant, received him with distinction and            
special marks of favor, explaining to him that there would probably be      
an engagement that day or the next, and giving him full liberty to          
remain with him during the battle or to join the rearguard and have an      
eye on the order of retreat, "which is also very important."                
  "However, there will hardly be an engagement today," said                 
Bagration as if to reassure Prince Andrew.                                  
  "If he is one of the ordinary little staff dandies sent to earn a         
medal he can get his reward just as well in the rearguard, but if he        
wishes to stay with me, let him... he'll be of use here if he's a           
brave officer," thought Bagration. Prince Andrew, without replying,         
asked the prince's permission to ride round the position to see the         
disposition of the forces, so as to know his bearings should he be          
sent to execute an order. The officer on duty, a handsome, elegantly        
dressed man with a diamond ring on his forefinger, who was fond of          
speaking French though he spoke it badly, offered to conduct Prince         
Andrew.                                                                     
  On all sides they saw rain-soaked officers with dejected faces who        
seemed to be seeking something, and soldiers dragging doors,                
benches, and fencing from the village.                                      
  "There now, Prince! We can't stop those fellows," said the staff          
officer pointing to the soldiers. "The officers don't keep them in          
hand. And there," he pointed to a sutler's tent, "they crowd in and         
sit. This morning I turned them all out and now look, it's full again.      
I must go there, Prince, and scare them a bit. It won't take a              
moment."                                                                    
                                                     {BK2|CH15 ^paragraph 5}
  "Yes, let's go in and I will get myself a roll and some cheese,"          
said Prince Andrew who had not yet had time to eat anything.                
  "Why didn't you mention it, Prince? I would have offered you              
something."                                                                 
  They dismounted and entered the tent. Several officers, with flushed      
and weary faces, were sitting at the table eating and drinking.             
  "Now what does this mean, gentlemen?" said the staff officer, in the      
reproachful tone of a man who has repeated the same thing more than         
once. "You know it won't do to leave your posts like this. The              
prince gave orders that no one should leave his post. Now you,              
Captain," and he turned to a thin, dirty little artillery officer           
who without his boots (he had given them to the canteen keeper to           
dry), in only his stockings, rose when they entered, smiling not            
altogether comfortably.                                                     
  "Well, aren't you ashamed of yourself, Captain Tushin?" he                
continued. "One would think that as an artillery officer you would set      
a good example, yet here you are without your boots! The alarm will be      
sounded and you'll be in a pretty position without your boots!" (The        
staff officer smiled.) "Kindly return to your posts, gentlemen, all of      
you, all!" he added in a tone of command.                                   
                                                    {BK2|CH15 ^paragraph 10}
  Prince Andrew smiled involuntarily as he looked at the artillery          
officer Tushin, who silent and smiling, shifting from one stockinged        
foot to the other, glanced inquiringly with his large, intelligent,         
kindly eyes from Prince Andrew to the staff officer.                        
  "The soldiers say it feels easier without boots," said Captain            
Tushin smiling shyly in his uncomfortable position, evidently               
wishing to adopt a jocular tone. But before he had finished he felt         
that his jest was unacceptable and had not come off. He grew confused.      
  "Kindly return to your posts," said the staff officer trying to           
preserve his gravity.                                                       
  Prince Andrew glanced again at the artillery officer's small figure.      
There was something peculiar about it, quite unsoldierly, rather            
comic, but extremely attractive.                                            
  The staff officer and Prince Andrew mounted their horses and rode         
on.                                                                         
                                                    {BK2|CH15 ^paragraph 15}
  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.                                               
  "Voila l'agrement des camps, monsieur le Prince,"* said the staff         
officer.                                                                    
-                                                                           
  *"This is a pleasure one gets in camp, Prince."                           
-                                                                           
                                                    {BK2|CH15 ^paragraph 20}
  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.               
                                                    {BK2|CH15 ^paragraph 25}
  Another company, a lucky one for not all the companies had vodka,         
crowded round a pock-marked, 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.                                                     
                                                    {BK2|CH15 ^paragraph 30}
  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, Sidorov!"                                      
  "Wait a bit and listen. It's fine!" answered Sidorov, who was             
considered an adept at French.                                              
  The soldier to whom the laughers referred was Dolokhov. Prince            
Andrew recognized him and stopped to listen to what he was saying.          
Dolokhov had come from the left flank where their regiment was              
stationed, with his captain.                                                
                                                    {BK2|CH15 ^paragraph 35}
  "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?"                             
  Dolokhov 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 Dolokhov 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 Dolokhov.                                                        
  "Only take care you and your Cossacks are not all captured!" said         
the French grenadier.                                                       
  The French onlookers and listeners laughed.                               
                                                    {BK2|CH15 ^paragraph 40}
  "We'll make you dance as we did under Suvorov...,"* said Dolokhov.        
-                                                                           
  *"On vous fera danser."                                                   
-                                                                           
  "Qu' est-ce qu'il chante?"* asked a Frenchman.                            
                                                    {BK2|CH15 ^paragraph 45}
-                                                                           
  *"What's he singing about?"                                               
-                                                                           
  "It's ancient history," said another, guessing that it referred to a      
former war. "The Emperor will teach your Suvara as he has taught the        
others..."                                                                  
  "Bonaparte..." began Dolokhov, but the Frenchman interrupted him.         
                                                    {BK2|CH15 ^paragraph 50}
  "Not Bonaparte. He is the Emperor! Sacre nom...!" cried he angrily.       
  "The devil skin your Emperor."                                            
  And Dolokhov swore at him in coarse soldier's Russian and                 
shouldering his musket walked away.                                         
  "Let us go, Ivan Lukich," he said to the captain.                         
  "Ah, that's the way to talk French," said the picket soldiers. "Now,      
Sidorov, you have a try!"                                                   
                                                    {BK2|CH15 ^paragraph 55}
  Sidorov, turning to the French, winked, and began to jabber               
meaningless sounds very fast: "Kari, mala, tafa, safi, muter,               
Kaska," 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, 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.                                           
                                                                            
BK2|CH16                                                                    
  CHAPTER XVI                                                               
-                                                                           
  Having ridden round the whole line from right flank to left,              
Prince Andrew made his way up to the battery from which the staff           
officer had told him the whole field could be seen. Here he                 
dismounted, and stopped beside the farthest of the four unlimbered          
cannon. Before the guns an artillery sentry was pacing up and down; he      
stood at attention when the officer arrived, but at a sign resumed his      
measured, monotonous pacing. Behind the guns were their limbers and         
still farther back picket ropes and artillerymen's bonfires. To the         
left, not far from the farthest cannon, was a small, newly constructed      
wattle shed from which came the sound of officers' voices in eager          
conversation.                                                               
  It was true that a view over nearly the whole Russian position and        
the greater part of the enemy's opened out from this battery. Just          
facing it, on the crest of the opposite hill, the village of Schon          
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 Tushin'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 Schon 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 Bagration. His idea was, first,        
to concentrate all the artillery in the center, and secondly, to            
withdraw the cavalry to the other side of the dip. Prince Andrew,           
being always near the commander in chief, closely following the mass        
movements and general orders, and constantly studying historical            
accounts of battles, involuntarily pictured to himself the course of        
events in the forthcoming action in broad outline. He imagined only         
important possibilities: "If the enemy attacks the right flank," he         
said to himself, "the Kiev grenadiers and the Podolsk chasseurs must        
hold their position till reserves from the center come up. In that          
case the dragoons could successfully make a flank counterattack. If         
they attack our center we, having the center battery on this high           
ground, shall withdraw the left flank under its cover, and retreat          
to the dip by echelons." So he reasoned.... All the time he had been        
beside the gun, he had heard the voices of the officers distinctly,         
but as often happens had not understood a word of what they were            
saying. Suddenly, however, he was struck by a voice coming from the         
shed, and its tone was so sincere that he could not but listen.             
  "No, friend," said a pleasant and, as it seemed to Prince Andrew,         
a familiar voice, "what I say is that if it were possible to know what      
is beyond death, none of us would be afraid of it. That's so, friend."      
  Another, a younger voice, interrupted him: "Afraid or not, you can't      
escape it anyhow."                                                          
  "All the same, one is afraid! Oh, you clever people," said a third        
manly voice interrupting them both. "Of course you artillery men are        
very wise, because you can take everything along with you- vodka and        
snacks."                                                                    
                                                     {BK2|CH16 ^paragraph 5}
  And the owner of the manly voice, evidently an infantry officer,          
laughed.                                                                    
  "Yes, one is afraid," continued the first speaker, he of the              
familiar voice. "One is afraid of the unknown, that's what it is.           
Whatever we may say about the soul going to the sky... we know there        
is no sky but only an atmosphere."                                          
  The manly voice again interrupted the artillery officer.                  
  "Well, stand us some of your herb vodka, Tushin," it said.                
  "Why," thought Prince Andrew, "that's the captain who stood up in         
the sutler's hut without his boots." He recognized the agreeable,           
philosophizing voice with pleasure.                                         
                                                    {BK2|CH16 ^paragraph 10}
  "Some herb vodka? Certainly!" said Tushin. "But still, to conceive a      
future life..."                                                             
  He did not finish. Just then there was a whistle in the air;              
nearer and nearer, faster and louder, louder and faster, a cannon           
ball, as if it had not finished saying what was necessary, thudded          
into the ground near the shed with super human force, throwing up a         
mass of earth. The ground seemed to groan at the terrible impact.           
  And immediately Tushin, 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.            
                                                                            
BK2|CH17                                                                    
  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 Bagration. He heard the              
cannonade behind him growing louder and more frequent. Evidently our        
guns had begun to reply. From the bottom of the slope, where the            
parleys had taken place, came the report of musketry.                       
  Lemarrois had just arrived at a gallop with Bonaparte's stern             
letter, and Murat, humiliated and anxious to expiate his fault, had at      
once moved his forces to attack the center and outflank both the            
Russian wings, hoping before evening and before the arrival of the          
Emperor to crush the contemptible detachment that stood before him.         
  "It has begun. Here it is!" thought Prince Andrew, feeling the blood      
rush to his heart. "But where and how will my Toulon present itself?"       
  Passing between the companies that had been eating porridge and           
drinking vodka a quarter of an hour before, he saw everywhere the same      
rapid movement of soldiers forming ranks and getting their muskets          
ready, and on all their faces he recognized the same eagerness that         
filled his heart. "It has begun! Here it is, dreadful but                   
enjoyable!" was what the face of each soldier and each officer              
seemed to say.                                                              
  Before he had reached the embankments that were being thrown up,          
he saw, in the light of the dull autumn evening, mounted men coming         
toward him. The foremost, wearing a Cossack cloak and lambskin cap and      
riding a white horse, was Prince Bagration. Prince Andrew stopped,          
waiting for him to come up; Prince Bagration reined in his horse and        
recognizing Prince Andrew nodded to him. He still looked ahead while        
Prince Andrew told him what he had seen.                                    
                                                     {BK2|CH17 ^paragraph 5}
  The feeling, "It has begun! Here it is!" was seen even on Prince          
Bagration's hard brown face with its half-closed, dull, sleepy eyes.        
Prince Andrew gazed with anxious curiosity at that impassive face           
and wished he could tell what, if anything, this man was thinking           
and feeling at that moment. "Is there anything at all behind that           
impassive face?" Prince Andrew asked himself as he looked. Prince           
Bagration bent his head in sign of agreement with what Prince Andrew        
told him, and said, "Very good!" in a tone that seemed to imply that        
everything that took place and was reported to him was exactly what he      
had foreseen. Prince Andrew, out of breath with his rapid ride,             
spoke quickly. Prince Bagration, 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 Tushin's battery. Prince Andrew followed with the              
suite. Behind Prince Bagration rode an officer of the suite, the            
prince's personal adjutant, Zherkov, an orderly officer, the staff          
officer on duty, riding a fine bobtailed horse, and a civilian- an          
accountant who had asked permission to be present at the battle out of      
curiosity. The accountant, a stout, full-faced man, looked around           
him with a naive smile of satisfaction and presented a strange              
appearance among the hussars, Cossacks, and adjutants, in his camlet        
coat, as he jolted on his horse with a convoy officer's saddle.             
  "He wants to see a battle," said Zherkov to Bolkonski, pointing to        
the accountant, "but he feels a pain in the pit of his stomach              
already."                                                                   
  "Oh, leave off!" said the accountant with a beaming but rather            
cunning smile, as if flattered at being made the subject of                 
Zherkov's joke, and purposely trying to appear stupider than he really      
was.                                                                        
  "It is very strange, mon Monsieur Prince," said the staff officer.        
(He remembered that in French there is some peculiar way of addressing      
a prince, but could not get it quite right.)                                
  By this time they were all approaching Tushin's battery, and a            
ball struck the ground in front of them.                                    
                                                    {BK2|CH17 ^paragraph 10}
  "What's that that has fallen?" asked the accountant with a naive          
smile.                                                                      
  "A French pancake," answered Zherkov.                                     
  "So that's what they hit with?" asked the accountant. "How awful!"        
  He seemed to swell with satisfaction. He had hardly finished              
speaking when they again heard an unexpectedly violent whistling which      
suddenly ended with a thud into something soft... f-f-flop! and a           
Cossack, riding a little to their right and behind the accountant,          
crashed to earth with his horse. Zherkov and the staff officer bent         
over their saddles and turned their horses away. The accountant             
stopped, facing the Cossack, and examined him with attentive                
curiosity. The Cossack was dead, but the horse still struggled.             
  Prince Bagration screwed up his eyes, looked round, and, seeing           
the cause of the confusion, turned away with indifference, as if to         
say, "Is it worth while noticing trifles?" He reined in his horse with      
the case 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 Suvorov giving his saber to Bagration 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.                                                            
                                                    {BK2|CH17 ^paragraph 15}
  "Whose company?" asked Prince Bagration of an artilleryman                
standing by the ammunition wagon.                                           
  He asked, "Whose company?" but he really meant, "Are you                  
frightened here?" and the artilleryman understood him.                      
  "Captain Tushin's, your excellency!" shouted the red-haired,              
freckled gunner in a merry voice, standing to attention.                    
  "Yes, yes," muttered Bagration as if considering something, and he        
rode past the limbers to the farthest cannon.                               
  As he approached, a ringing shot issued from it deafening him and         
his suite, and in the smoke that suddenly surrounded the gun they           
could see the gunners who had seized it straining to roll it quickly        
back to its former position. A huge, broad-shouldered gunner, Number        
One, holding a mop, his legs far apart, sprang to the wheel; while          
Number Two with a trembling hand placed a charge in the cannon's            
mouth. The short, round-shouldered Captain Tushin, stumbling over           
the tail of the gun carriage, moved forward and, not noticing the           
general, looked out shading his eyes with his small hand.                   
                                                    {BK2|CH17 ^paragraph 20}
  "Lift it two lines more and it will be just right," cried he in a         
feeble voice to which he tried to impart a dashing note, ill suited to      
his weak figure. "Number Two!" he squeaked. "Fire, Medvedev!"               
  Bagration called to him, and Tushin, raising three fingers to his         
cap with a bashful and awkward gesture not at all like a military           
salute but like a priest's benediction, approached the general. Though      
Tushin's guns had been intended to cannonade the valley, he was firing      
incendiary balls at the village of Schon Grabern visible just               
opposite, in front of which large masses of French were advancing.          
  No one had given Tushin orders where and at what to fire, but             
after consulting his sergeant major, Zakharchenko, for whom he had          
great respect, he had decided that it would be a good thing to set          
fire to the village. "Very good!" said Bagration in reply to the            
officer's report, and began deliberately to examine the whole               
battlefield extended before him. The French had advanced nearest on         
our right. Below the height on which the Kiev regiment was                  
stationed, in the hollow where the rivulet flowed, the soul-stirring        
rolling and crackling of musketry was heard, and much farther to the        
right beyond the dragoons, the officer of the suite pointed out to          
Bagration a French column that was outflanking us. To the left the          
horizon bounded by the adjacent wood. Prince Bagration 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 Bagration turned to the officer and with his dull eyes looked        
at him in silence. It seemed to Prince Andrew that the officer's            
remark was just and that really no answer could be made to it. But          
at that moment an adjutant galloped up with a message from the              
commander of the regiment in the hollow and news that immense masses        
of the French were coming down upon them and that his regiment was          
in disorder and was retreating upon the Kiev grenadiers. Prince             
Bagration bowed his head in sign of assent and approval. He rode off        
at a walk to the right and sent an adjutant to the dragoons with            
orders to attack the French. But this adjutant returned half an hour        
later with the news that the commander of the dragoons had already          
retreated beyond the dip in the ground, as a heavy fire had been            
opened on him and he was losing men uselessly, and so had hastened          
to throw some sharpshooters into the wood.                                  
  "Very good!" said Bagration.                                              
  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 Bagration sent Zherkov to tell the general in         
command (the one who had paraded his regiment before Kutuzov at             
Braunau) that he must retreat as quickly as possible behind the hollow      
in the rear, as the right flank would probably not be able to               
withstand the enemy's attack very long. About Tushin and the battalion      
that had been in support of his battery all was forgotten. Prince           
Andrew listened attentively to Bagration'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           
Bagration tried to make it appear that everything done by necessity,        
by accident, or by the will of subordinate commanders was done, if not      
by his direct command, at least in accord with his intentions.              
Prince Andrew noticed, however, that though what happened was due to        
chance and was independent of the commander's will, owing to the            
tact Bagration 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.                 
                                                                            
BK2|CH18                                                                    
  CHAPTER XVIII                                                             
-                                                                           
  Prince Bagration, having reached the highest point of our right           
flank, began riding downhill to where the roll of musketry was heard        
but where on account of the smoke nothing could be seen. The nearer         
they got to the hollow the less they could see but the more they            
felt the nearness of the actual battlefield. They began to meet             
wounded men. One with a bleeding head and no cap was being dragged          
along by two soldiers who supported him under the arms. There was a         
gurgle in his throat and he was spitting blood. A bullet had evidently      
hit him in the throat or mouth. Another was walking sturdily by             
himself but without his musket, groaning aloud and swinging his arm         
which had just been hurt, while blood from it was streaming over his        
greatcoat as from a bottle. He had that moment been wounded and his         
face showed fear rather than suffering. Crossing a road they descended      
a steep incline and saw several men lying on the ground; they also met      
a crowd of soldiers some of whom were unwounded. The soldiers were          
ascending the hill breathing heavily, and despite the general's             
presence were talking loudly and gesticulating. In front of them            
rows of gray cloaks were already visible through the smoke, and an          
officer catching sight of Bagration rushed shouting after the crowd of      
retreating soldiers, ordering them back. Bagration rode up to the           
ranks along which shots crackled now here and now there, drowning           
the sound of voices and the shouts of command. The whole air reeked         
with smoke. The excited faces of the soldiers were blackened with           
it. Some were using their ramrods, others putting powder on the             
touchpans or taking charges from their pouches, while others were           
firing, though who they were firing at could not be seen for the smoke      
which there was no wind to carry away. A pleasant humming and               
whistling of bullets were often heard. "What is this?" thought              
Prince Andrew approaching the crowd of soldiers. "It can't be an            
attack, for they are not moving; it can't be a square- for they are         
not drawn up for that."                                                     
  The commander of the regiment, a thin, feeble-looking old man with a      
pleasant smile- his eyelids drooping more than half over his old eyes,      
giving him a mild expression, rode up to Bagration and welcomed him as      
a host welcomes an honored guest. He reported that his regiment had         
been attacked by French cavalry and that, though the attack had been        
repulsed, he had lost more than half his men. He said the attack had        
been repulsed, employing this military term to describe what had            
occurred to his regiment, but in reality he did not himself know            
what had happened during that half-hour to the troops entrusted to          
him, and could not say with certainty whether the attack had been           
repulsed or his regiment had been broken up. All he knew was that at        
the commencement of the action balls and shells began flying all            
over his regiment and hitting men and that afterwards someone had           
shouted "Cavalry!" and our men had begun firing. They were still            
firing, not at the cavalry which had disappeared, but at French             
infantry who had come into the hollow and were firing at our men.           
Prince Bagration 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 Bagration's face at this moment. It expressed the                    
concentrated and happy resolution you see on the face of a man who          
on a hot day takes a final run before plunging into the water. The          
dull, sleepy expression was no longer there, nor the affectation of         
profound thought. The round, steady, hawk's eyes looked before him          
eagerly and rather disdainfully, not resting on anything although           
his movements were still slow and measured.                                 
  The commander of the regiment turned to Prince Bagration, entreating      
him to go back as it was too dangerous to remain where they were.           
"Please, your excellency, for God's sake!" he kept saying, glancing         
for support at an officer of the suite who turned away from him.            
"There, you see!" and he drew attention to the bullets whistling,           
singing, and hissing continually around them. He spoke in the tone          
of entreaty and reproach that a carpenter uses to a gentleman who           
has picked up an ax: "We are used to it, but you, sir, will blister         
your hands." He spoke as if those bullets could not kill him, and           
his half-closed eyes gave still more persuasiveness to his words.           
The staff officer joined in the colonel's appeals, but Bagration did        
not reply; he only gave an order to cease firing and re-form, so as to      
give room for the two approaching battalions. While he was speaking,        
the curtain of smoke that had concealed the hollow, driven by a rising      
wind, began to move from right to left as if drawn by an invisible          
hand, and the hill opposite, with the French moving about on it,            
opened out before them. All eyes fastened involuntarily on this French      
column advancing against them and winding down over the uneven ground.      
One could already see the soldiers' shaggy caps, distinguish the            
officers from the men, and see the standard flapping against its            
staff.                                                                      
  "They march splendidly," remarked someone in Bagration's suite.           
  The head of the column had already descended into the hollow. The         
clash would take place on this side of it...                                
                                                     {BK2|CH18 ^paragraph 5}
  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 Bagration, the weighty tread of the mass of         
men marching in step could be heard. On their left flank, nearest to        
Bagration, marched a company commander, a fine round-faced man, with a      
stupid and happy expression- the same man who had rushed out of the         
wattle shed. At that moment he was clearly thinking of nothing but how      
dashing a fellow he would appear as he passed the commander.                
  With the self-satisfaction of a man on parade, he stepped lightly         
with his muscular legs as if sailing along, stretching himself to           
his full height without the smallest effort, his ease contrasting with      
the heavy tread of the soldiers who were keeping step with him. He          
carried close to his leg a narrow unsheathed sword (small, curved, and      
not like a real weapon) and looked now at the superior officers and         
now back at the men without losing step, his whole powerful body            
turning flexibly. It was as if all the powers of his soul were              
concentrated on passing the commander in the best possible manner, and      
feeling that he was doing it well he was happy. "Left... left...            
left..." he seemed to repeat to himself at each alternate step; and in      
time to this, with stern but varied faces, the wall of soldiers             
burdened with knapsacks and muskets marched in step, and each one of        
these hundreds of soldiers seemed to be repeating to himself at each        
alternate step, "Left... left... left..." A fat major skirted a             
bush, puffing and falling out of step; a soldier who had fallen             
behind, his face showing alarm at his defection, ran at a trot,             
panting to catch up with his company. A cannon ball, cleaving the air,      
flew over the heads of Bagration and his suite, and fell into the           
column to the measure of "Left... left!" "Close up!" came the               
company commander's voice in jaunty tones. The soldiers passed in a         
semicircle round something where the ball had fallen, and an old            
trooper on the flank, a noncommissioned officer who had stopped beside      
the dead men, ran to catch up his line and, falling into step with a        
hop, looked back angrily, and through the ominous silence and the           
regular tramp of feet beating the ground in unison, one seemed to hear      
left... left... left.                                                       
  "Well done, lads!" said Prince Bagration.                                 
  "Glad to do our best, your ex'len-lency!" came a confused shout from      
the ranks. A morose soldier marching on the left turned his eyes on         
Bagration as he shouted, with an expression that seemed to say: "We         
know that ourselves!" Another, without looking round, as though             
fearing to relax, shouted with his mouth wide open and passed on.           
  The order was given to halt and down knapsacks.                           
                                                    {BK2|CH18 ^paragraph 10}
  Bagration rode round the ranks that had marched past him and              
dismounted. He gave the reins to a Cossack, took off and handed over        
his felt coat, stretched his legs, and set his cap straight. The            
head of the French column, with its officers leading, appeared from         
below the hill.                                                             
  "Forward, with God!" said Bagration, in a resolute, sonorous              
voice, turning for a moment to the front line, and slightly swinging        
his arms, he went forward uneasily over the rough field with the            
awkward gait of a cavalryman. Prince Andrew felt that an invisible          
power was leading him forward, and experienced great happiness.             
  The French were already near. Prince Andrew, walking beside               
Bagration, 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 Bagration 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,                 
Bagration looked round and shouted, "Hurrah!"                               
  "Hurrah- ah!- ah!" rang a long-drawn shout from our ranks, and            
passing Bagration and racing one another they rushed in an irregular        
but joyous and eager crowd down the hill at their disordered foe.           
                                                                            
BK2|CH19                                                                    
  CHAPTER XIX                                                               
-                                                                           
  The attack of the Sixth Chasseurs secured the retreat of our right        
flank. In the center Tushin's forgotten battery, which had managed          
to set fire to the Schon Grabern village, delayed the French                
advance. The French were putting out the fire which the wind was            
spreading, and thus gave us time to retreat. The retirement of the          
center to the other side of the dip in the ground at the rear was           
hurried and noisy, but the different companies did not get mixed.           
But our left- which consisted of the Azov and Podolsk infantry and the      
Pavlograd hussars- was simultaneously attacked and outflanked by            
superior French forces under Lannes and was thrown into confusion.          
Bagration had sent Zherkov to the general commanding that left flank        
with orders to retreat immediately.                                         
  Zherkov, not removing his hand from his cap, turned his horse             
about and galloped off. But no sooner had he left Bagration than his        
courage failed him. He was seized by panic and could not go where it        
was dangerous.                                                              
  Having reached the left flank, instead of going to the front where        
the firing was, he began to look for the general and his staff where        
they could not possibly be, and so did not deliver the order.               
  The command of the left flank belonged by seniority to the commander      
of the regiment Kutuzov had reviewed at Braunau and in which                
Dolokhov was serving as a private. But the command of the extreme left      
flank had been assigned to the commander of the Pavlograd regiment          
in which Rostov was serving, and a misunderstanding arose. The two          
commanders were much exasperated with one another and, long after           
the action had begun on the right flank and the French were already         
advancing, were engaged in discussion with the sole object of               
offending one another. But the regiments, both cavalry and infantry,        
were by no means ready for the impending action. From privates to           
general they were not expecting a battle and were engaged in                
peaceful occupations, the cavalry feeding the horses and the                
infantry collecting wood.                                                   
  "He higher iss dan I in rank," said the German colonel of the             
hussars, flushing and addressing an adjutant who had ridden up, "so         
let him do what he vill, but I cannot sacrifice my hussars...               
Bugler, sount ze retreat!"                                                  
                                                     {BK2|CH19 ^paragraph 5}
  But haste was becoming imperative. Cannon and musketry, mingling          
together, thundered on the right and in the center, while the               
capotes of Lannes' sharpshooters were already seen crossing the             
milldam and forming up within twice the range of a musket shot. The         
general in command of the infantry went toward his horse with jerky         
steps, and having mounted drew himself up very straight and tall and        
rode to the Pavlograd commander. The commanders met with polite bows        
but with secret malevolence in their hearts.                                
  "Once again, Colonel," said the general, "I can't leave half my           
men in the wood. I beg of you, I beg of you," he repeated, "to              
occupy the position and prepare for an attack."                             
  "I peg of you yourself not to mix in vot is not your business!"           
suddenly replied the irate colonel. "If you vere in the cavalry..."         
  "I am not in the cavalry, Colonel, but I am a Russian general and if      
you are not aware of the fact..."                                           
  "Quite avare, your excellency," suddenly shouted the colonel,             
touching his horse and turning purple in the face. "Vill you be so          
goot to come to ze front and see dat zis position iss no goot? I don't      
vish to destroy my men for your pleasure!"                                  
                                                    {BK2|CH19 ^paragraph 10}
  "You forget yourself, Colonel. I am not considering my own                
pleasure and I won't allow it to be said!"                                  
  Taking the colonel's outburst as a challenge to his courage, the          
general expanded his chest and rode, frowning, beside him to the front      
line, as if their differences would be settled there amongst the            
bullets. They reached the front, several bullets sped over them, and        
they halted in silence. There was nothing fresh to be seen from the         
line, for from where they had been before it had been evident that          
it was impossible for cavalry to act among the bushes and broken            
ground, as well as that the French were outflanking our left. The           
general and colonel looked sternly and significantly at one another         
like two fighting cocks preparing for battle, each vainly trying to         
detect signs of cowardice in the other. Both passed the examination         
successfully. As there was nothing to said, and neither wished to give      
occasion for it to be alleged that he had been the first to leave           
the range of fire, they would have remained there for a long time           
testing each other's courage had it not been that just then they heard      
the rattle of musketry and a muffled shout almost behind them in the        
wood. The French had attacked the men collecting wood in the copse. It      
was no longer possible for the hussars to retreat with the infantry.        
They were cut off from the line of retreat on the left by the               
French. However inconvenient the position, it was now necessary to          
attack in order to cut away through for themselves.                         
  The squadron in which Rostov was serving had scarcely time to             
mount before it was halted facing the enemy. Again, as at the Enns          
bridge, there was nothing between the squadron and the enemy, and           
again that terrible dividing line of uncertainty and fear-                  
resembling the line separating the living from the dead- lay between        
them. All were conscious of this unseen line, and the question whether      
they would they would cross it or not, and how they would cross it,         
agitated them all.                                                          
  The colonel rode to the front, angrily gave some reply to                 
questions put to him by the officers, and, like a man desperately           
insisting on having his own way, gave an order. No one said anything        
definite, but the rumor of an attack spread through the squadron.           
The command to form up rang out and the sabers whizzed as they were         
drawn from their scabbards. Still no one moved. The troops of the left      
flank, infantry and hussars alike, felt that the commander did not          
himself know what to do, and this irresolution communicated itself          
to the men.                                                                 
  "If only they would be quick!" thought Rostov, 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.                              
                                                    {BK2|CH19 ^paragraph 15}
  "Fo'ward, with God, lads!" rang out Denisov's voice. "At a twot           
fo'ward!"                                                                   
  The horses' croups began to sway in the front line. Rook pulled at        
the reins and started of his own accord.                                    
  Before him, on the right, Rostov saw the front lines of his               
hussars and still farther ahead a dark line which he could not see          
distinctly but took to be the enemy. Shots could be heard, but some         
way off.                                                                    
  "Faster!" came the word of command, and Rostov felt Rook's flanks         
drooping as he broke into a gallop.                                         
  Rostov anticipated his horse's movements and became more and more         
elated. He had noticed a solitary tree ahead of him. This tree had          
been in the middle of the line that had seemed so terrible- and now he      
had crossed that line and not only was there nothing terrible, but          
everything was becoming more and more happy and animated. "Oh, how I        
will slash at him!" thought Rostov, gripping the hilt of his saber.         
                                                    {BK2|CH19 ^paragraph 20}
  "Hur-a-a-a-ah!" came a roar of voices. "Let anyone come my way now,"      
thought Rostov 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. Rostov raised his saber, ready to strike, but at         
that instant the trooper Nikitenko, who was galloping ahead, shot away      
from him, and Rostov 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 Bondarchuk, an hussar he knew, jolted against         
him and looked angrily at him. Bondarchuk's horse swerved and galloped      
past.                                                                       
  "How is it I am not moving? I have fallen, I am killed!" Rostov           
asked and answered at the same instant. He was alone in the middle          
of a field. Instead of the moving horses and hussars' backs, he saw         
nothing before him but the motionless earth and the stubble around          
him. There was warm blood under his arm. "No, I am wounded and the          
horse is killed." Rook tried to rise on his forelegs but fell back,         
pinning his rider's leg. Blood was flowing from his head; he struggled      
but could not rise. Rostov also tried to rise but fell back, his            
sabretache having become entangled in the saddle. Where our men             
were, and where the French, he did not know. There was no one near.         
  Having disentangled his leg, he rose. "Where, on which side, was now      
the line that had so sharply divided the two armies?" he asked himself      
and could not answer. "Can something bad have happened to me?" he           
wondered as he got up: and at that moment he felt that something            
superfluous was hanging on his benumbed left arm. The wrist felt as if      
it were not his. He examined his hand carefully, vainly trying to find      
blood on it. "Ah, here are people coming," he thought joyfully, seeing      
some men running toward him. "They will help me!" In front came a           
man wearing a strange shako and a blue cloak, swarthy, sunburned,           
and with a hooked nose. Then came two more, and many more running           
behind. One of them said something strange, not in Russian. In among        
the hindmost of these men wearing similar shakos was a Russian hussar.      
He was being held by the arms and his horse was being led behind him.       
  "It must be one of ours, a prisoner. Yes. Can it be that they will        
take me too? Who are these men?" thought Rostov, scarcely believing         
his eyes. "Can they be French?" He looked at the approaching                
Frenchmen, and though but a moment before he had been galloping to get      
at them and hack them to pieces, their proximity now seemed so awful        
that he could not believe his eyes. "Who are they? Why are they             
running? Can they be coming at me? And why? To kill me? Me whom             
everyone is so fond of?" He remembered his mother's love for him,           
and his family's, and his friends', and the enemy's intention to            
kill him seemed impossible. "But perhaps they may do it!" For more          
than ten seconds he stood not moving from the spot or realizing the         
situation. The foremost Frenchman, the one with the hooked nose, was        
already so close that the expression of his face could be seen. And         
the excited, alien face of that man, his bayonet hanging down, holding      
his breath, and running so lightly, frightened Rostov. He seized his        
pistol and, instead of firing it, flung it at the Frenchman and ran         
with all his might toward the bushes. He did not now run with the           
feeling of doubt and conflict with which he had trodden the Enns            
bridge, but with the feeling of a hare fleeing from the hounds. One         
single sentiment, that of fear for his young and happy life, possessed      
his whole being. Rapidly leaping the furrows, he fled across the field      
with the impetuosity he used to show at catchplay, now and then             
turning his good-natured, pale, young face to look back. A shudder          
of terror went through him: "No, better not look," he thought, but          
having reached the bushes he glanced round once more. The French had        
fallen behind, and just as he looked round the first man changed his        
run to a walk and, turning, shouted something loudly to a comrade           
farther back. Rostov paused. "No, there's some mistake," thought he.        
"They can't have wanted to kill me." But at the same time, his left         
arm felt as heavy as if a seventy-pound weight were tied to it. He          
could run no more. The Frenchman also stopped and took aim. Rostov          
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.                                                 
                                                                            
BK2|CH20                                                                    
  CHAPTER XX                                                                
-                                                                           
  The infantry regiments that had been caught unawares in the               
outskirts of the wood ran out of it, the different companies getting        
mixed, and retreated as a disorderly crowd. One soldier, in his             
fear, uttered the senseless cry, "Cut off!" that is so terrible in          
battle, and that word infected the whole crowd with a feeling of            
panic.                                                                      
  "Surrounded! Cut off? We're lost!" shouted the fugitives.                 
  The moment he heard the firing and the cry from behind, the               
general realized that something dreadful had happened to his regiment,      
and the thought that he, an exemplary officer of many years' service        
who had never been to blame, might be held responsible at headquarters      
for negligence or inefficiency so staggered him that, forgetting the        
recalcitrant cavalry colonel, his own dignity as a general, and             
above all quite forgetting the danger and all regard for                    
self-preservation, he clutched the crupper of his saddle and, spurring      
his horse, galloped to the regiment under a hail of bullets which fell      
around, but fortunately missed him. His one desire was to know what         
was happening and at any cost correct, or remedy, the mistake if he         
had made one, so that he, an exemplary officer of twenty-two years'         
service, who had never been censured, should not be held to blame.          
  Having galloped safely through the French, he reached a field behind      
the copse across which our men, regardless of orders, were running and      
descending the valley. That moment of moral hesitation which decides        
the fate of battles had arrived. Would this disorderly crowd of             
soldiers attend to the voice of their commander, or would they,             
disregarding him, continue their flight? Despite his desperate              
shouts that used to seem so terrible to the soldiers, despite his           
furious purple countenance distorted out of all likeness to his former      
self, and the flourishing of his saber, the soldiers all continued          
to run, talking, firing into the air, and disobeying orders. The moral      
hesitation which decided the fate of battles was evidently culminating      
in a panic.                                                                 
  The general had a fit of coughing as a result of shouting and of the      
powder smoke and stopped in despair. Everything seemed lost. But at         
that moment the French who were attacking, suddenly and without any         
apparent reason, ran back and disappeared from the outskirts, and           
Russian sharpshooters showed themselves in the copse. It was                
Timokhin's company, which alone had maintained its order in the wood        
and, having lain in ambush in a ditch, now attacked the French              
unexpectedly. Timokhin, 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. Dolokhov, running beside Timokhin, 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         
Ekonomov had stopped beside a bridge, letting the retreating companies      
pass by them, when a soldier came up and took hold of the                   
commander's stirrup, almost leaning against him. The man was wearing a      
bluish coat of broadcloth, he had no knapsack or cap, his head was          
bandaged, and over his shoulder a French munition pouch was slung.          
He had an officer's sword in his hand. The soldier was pale, his            
blue eyes looked impudently into the commander's face, and his lips         
were smiling. Though the commander was occupied in giving instructions      
to Major Ekonomov, he could not help taking notice of the soldier.          
                                                     {BK2|CH20 ^paragraph 5}
  "Your excellency, here are two trophies," said Dolokhov, pointing to      
the French sword and pouch. "I have taken an officer prisoner. I            
stopped the company." Dolokhov breathed heavily from weariness and          
spoke in abrupt sentences. "The whole company can bear witness. I           
beg you will remember this, your excellency!"                               
  "All right, all right," replied the commander, and turned to Major        
Ekonomov.                                                                   
  But Dolokhov did not go away; he untied the handkerchief around           
his head, pulled it off, and showed the blood congealed on his hair.        
  "A bayonet wound. I remained at the front. Remember, your                 
excellency!"                                                                
-                                                                           
                                                    {BK2|CH20 ^paragraph 10}
  Tushin's battery had been forgotten and only at the very end of           
the action did Prince Bagration, 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 Tushin's battery had been moved away in the        
middle of the action by someone's order, the battery had continued          
firing and was only not captured by the French because the enemy could      
not surmise that anyone could have the effrontery to continue firing        
from four quite undefended guns. On the contrary, the energetic action      
of that battery led the French to suppose that here- in the center-         
the main Russian forces were concentrated. Twice they had attempted to      
attack this point, but on each occasion had been driven back by             
grapeshot from the four isolated guns on the hillock.                       
  Soon after Prince Bagration had left him, Tushin had succeeded in         
setting fire to Schon Grabern.                                              
  "Look at them scurrying! It's burning! Just see the smoke! Fine!          
Grand! Look at the smoke, the smoke!" exclaimed the artillerymen,           
brightening up.                                                             
  All the guns, without waiting for orders, were being fired in the         
direction of the conflagration. As if urging each other on, the             
soldiers cried at each shot: "Fine! That's good! Look at it... Grand!"      
The fire, fanned by the breeze, was rapidly spreading. The French           
columns that had advanced beyond the village went back; but as              
though in revenge for this failure, the enemy placed ten guns to the        
right of the village and began firing them at Tushin's battery.             
  In their childlike glee, aroused by the fire and their luck in            
successfully cannonading the French, our artillerymen only noticed          
this battery when two balls, and then four more, fell among our             
guns, one knocking over two horses and another tearing off a                
munition-wagon driver's leg. Their spirits once roused were,                
however, not diminished, but only changed character. The horses were        
replaced by others from a reserve gun carriage, the wounded were            
carried away, and the four guns were turned against the ten-gun             
battery. Tushin's companion officer had been killed at the beginning        
of the engagement and within an hour seventeen of the forty men of the      
guns' crews had been disabled, but the artillerymen were still as           
merry and lively as ever. Twice they noticed the French appearing           
below them, and then they fired grapeshot at them.                          
                                                    {BK2|CH20 ^paragraph 15}
  Little Tushin, moving feebly and awkwardly, kept telling his orderly      
to "refill my pipe for that one!" and then, scattering sparks from it,      
ran forward shading his eyes with his small hand to look at the             
French.                                                                     
  "Smack at 'em, lads!" he kept saying, seizing the guns by the wheels      
and working the screws himself.                                             
  Amid the smoke, deafened by the incessant reports which always            
made him jump, Tushin not taking his pipe from his mouth ran from           
gun to gun, now aiming, now counting the charges, now giving orders         
about replacing dead or wounded horses and harnessing fresh ones,           
and shouting in his feeble voice, so high pitched and irresolute.           
His face grew more and more animated. Only when a man was killed or         
wounded did he frown and turn away from the sight, shouting angrily at      
the men who, as is always the case, hesitated about lifting the             
injured or dead. The soldiers, for the most part handsome fellows and,      
as is always the case in an artillery company, a head and shoulders         
taller and twice as broad as their officer- all looked at their             
commander like children in an embarrassing situation, and the               
expression on his face was invariably reflected on theirs.                  
  Owing to the terrible uproar and the necessity for concentration and      
activity, Tushin did not experience the slightest unpleasant sense          
of fear, and the thought that he might be killed or badly wounded           
never occurred to him. On the contrary, he became more and more             
elated. It seemed to him that it was a very long time ago, almost a         
day, since he had first seen the enemy and fired the first shot, and        
that the corner of the field he stood on was well-known and familiar        
ground. Though he thought of everything, considered everything, and         
did everything the best of officers could do in his position, he was        
in a state akin to feverish delirium or drunkenness.                        
  From the deafening sounds of his own guns around him, the whistle         
and thud of the enemy's cannon balls, from the flushed and                  
perspiring faces of the crew bustling round the guns, from the sight        
of the blood of men and horses, from the little puffs of smoke on           
the enemy's side (always followed by a ball flying past and striking        
the earth, a man, a gun, a horse), from the sight of all these              
things a fantastic world of his own had taken possession of his             
brain and at that moment afforded him pleasure. The enemy's guns            
were in his fancy not guns but pipes from which occasional puffs            
were blown by an invisible smoker.                                          
                                                    {BK2|CH20 ^paragraph 20}
  "There... he's puffing again," muttered Tushin to himself, as a           
small cloud rose from the hill and was borne in a streak to the left        
by the wind.                                                                
  "Now look out for the ball... we'll throw it back."                       
  "What do you want, your honor?" asked an artilleryman, standing           
close by, who heard him muttering.                                          
  "Nothing... only a shell..." he answered.                                 
  "Come along, our Matvevna!" he said to himself. "Matvevna"* was           
the name his fancy gave to the farthest gun of the battery, which           
was large and of an old pattern. The French swarming round their            
guns seemed to him like ants. In that world, the handsome drunkard          
Number One of the second gun's crew was "uncle"; Tushin looked at           
him more often than at anyone else and took delight in his every            
movement. The sound of musketry at the foot of the hill, now                
diminishing, now increasing, seemed like someone's breathing. He            
listened intently to the ebb and flow of these sounds.                      
                                                    {BK2|CH20 ^paragraph 25}
-                                                                           
  *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.                        
                                                    {BK2|CH20 ^paragraph 30}
  "Now then, Matvevna, 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 Tushin! Captain!"                           
  Tushin 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 Tushin, looking in alarm at his        
superior.                                                                   
  "I... don't..." he muttered, holding up two fingers to his cap.           
"I..."                                                                      
                                                    {BK2|CH20 ^paragraph 35}
  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 Tushin'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 Tushin, 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!"                       
                                                    {BK2|CH20 ^paragraph 40}
  Prince Andrew said nothing to Tushin. 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 Tushin.                                            
  "Well, till we meet again..." he said, holding out his hand to            
Tushin.                                                                     
  "Good-by, my dear fellow," said Tushin. "Dear soul! Good-by, my dear      
fellow!" and for some unknown reason tears suddenly filled his eyes.        
                                                                            
BK2|CH21                                                                    
  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 Tushin 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 Zherkov, who had been twice         
sent to Tushin'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. Tushin gave no orders, and,      
silently- fearing to speak because at every word he felt ready to weep      
without knowing why- rode behind on his artillery nag. Though the           
orders were to abandon the wounded, many of them dragged themselves         
after troops and begged for seats on the gun carriages. The jaunty          
infantry officer who just before the battle had rushed out of Tushin's      
wattle shed was laid, with a bullet in his stomach, on "Matvevna's"         
carriage. At the foot of the hill, a pale hussar cadet, supporting one      
hand with the other, came up to Tushin and asked for a seat.                
  "Captain, for God's sake! I've hurt my arm," he said timidly. "For        
God's sake... I can't walk. For God's sake!"                                
  It was plain that this cadet had already repeatedly asked for a lift      
and been refused. He asked in a hesitating, piteous voice.                  
  "Tell them to give me a seat, for God's sake!"                            
  "Give him a seat," said Tushin. "Lay a cloak for him to sit on,           
lad," he said, addressing his favorite soldier. "And where is the           
wounded officer?"                                                           
                                                     {BK2|CH21 ^paragraph 5}
  "He has been set down. He died," replied someone.                         
  "Help him up. Sit down, dear fellow, sit down! Spread out the cloak,      
Antonov."                                                                   
  The cadet was Rostov. With one hand he supported the other; he was        
pale and his jaw trembled, shivering feverishly. He was placed on           
"Matvevna," the gun from which they had removed the dead officer.           
The cloak they spread under him was wet with blood which stained his        
breeches and arm.                                                           
  "What, are you wounded, my lad?" said Tushin, approaching the gun on      
which Rostov sat.                                                           
  "No, it's a sprain."                                                      
                                                    {BK2|CH21 ^paragraph 10}
  "Then what is this blood on the gun carriage?" inquired Tushin.           
  "It was the officer, your honor, stained it," answered the                
artilleryman, wiping away the blood with his coat sleeve, as if             
apologizing for the state of his gun.                                       
  It was all that they could do to get the guns up the rise aided by        
the infantry, and having reached the village of Gruntersdorf they           
halted. It had grown so dark that one could not distinguish the             
uniforms ten paces off, and the firing had begun to subside. Suddenly,      
near by on the right, shouting and firing were again heard. Flashes of      
shot gleamed in the darkness. This was the last French attack and           
was met by soldiers who had sheltered in the village houses. They           
all rushed out of the village again, but Tushin's guns could not move,      
and the artillerymen, Tushin, and the cadet exchanged silent glances        
as they awaited their fate. The firing died down and soldiers, talking      
eagerly, streamed out of a side street.                                     
  "Not hurt, Petrov?" asked one.                                            
  "We've given it 'em hot, mate! They won't make another push now,"         
said another.                                                               
                                                    {BK2|CH21 ^paragraph 15}
  "You couldn't see a thing. How they shot at their own fellows!            
Nothing could be seen. Pitch-dark, brother! Isn't there something to        
drink?"                                                                     
  The French had been repulsed for the last time. And again and             
again in the complete darkness Tushin's guns moved forward, surrounded      
by the humming infantry as by a frame.                                      
  In the darkness, it seemed as though a gloomy unseen river was            
flowing always in one direction, humming with whispers and talk and         
the sound of hoofs and wheels. Amid the general rumble, the groans and      
voices of the wounded were more distinctly heard than any other             
sound in the darkness of the night. The gloom that enveloped the            
army was filled with their groans, which seemed to melt into one            
with the darkness of the night. After a while the moving mass became        
agitated, someone rode past on a white horse followed by his suite,         
and said something in passing: "What did he say? Where to, now?             
Halt, is it? Did he thank us?" came eager questions from all sides.         
The whole moving mass began pressing closer together and a report           
spread that they were ordered to halt: evidently those in front had         
halted. All remained where they were in the middle of the muddy road.       
  Fires were lighted and the talk became more audible. Captain Tushin,      
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. Rostov, 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 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 Tushin who was sitting        
cross-legged like a Turk beside him. Tushin's large, kind, intelligent      
eyes were fixed with sympathy and commiseration on Rostov, who saw          
that Tushin with his whole heart wished to help him but could not.          
  From all sides were heard the footsteps and talk of the infantry,         
who were walking, driving past, and settling down all around. The           
sound of voices, the tramping feet, the horses' hoofs moving in mud,        
the crackling of wood fires near and afar, merged into one tremulous        
rumble.                                                                     
                                                    {BK2|CH21 ^paragraph 20}
  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. Rostov looked at and listened listlessly to what passed              
before and around him. An infantryman came to the fire, squatted on         
his heels, held his hands to the blaze, and turned away his face.           
  "You don't mind your honor?" he asked Tushin. "I've lost my company,      
your honor. I don't know where... such bad luck!"                           
  With the soldier, an infantry officer with a bandaged cheek came          
up to the bonfire, and addressing Tushin asked him to have the guns         
moved a trifle to let a wagon go past. After he had gone, two soldiers      
rushed to the campfire. They were quarreling and fighting desperately,      
each trying to snatch from the other a boot they were both holding          
on to.                                                                      
  "You picked it up?... I dare say! You're very smart!" one of them         
shouted hoarsely.                                                           
  Then a thin, pale soldier, his neck bandaged with a bloodstained leg      
band, came up and in angry tones asked the artillerymen for water.          
                                                    {BK2|CH21 ^paragraph 25}
  "Must one die like a dog?" said he.                                       
  Tushin told them to give the man some water. Then a cheerful soldier      
ran up, begging a little fire for the infantry.                             
  "A nice little hot torch for the infantry! Good luck to you,              
fellow countrymen. Thanks for the fire- we'll return it with                
interest," said he, carrying away into the darkness a glowing stick.        
  Next came four soldiers, carrying something heavy on a cloak, and         
passed by the fire. One of them stumbled.                                   
  "Who the devil has put the logs on the road?" snarled he.                 
                                                    {BK2|CH21 ^paragraph 30}
  "He's dead- why carry him?" said another.                                 
  "Shut up!"                                                                
  And they disappeared into the darkness with with their load.              
  "Still aching?" Tushin asked Rostov in a whisper.                         
  "Yes."                                                                    
                                                    {BK2|CH21 ^paragraph 35}
  "Your honor, you're wanted by the general. He is in the hut here,"        
said a gunner, coming up to Tushin.                                         
  "Coming, friend."                                                         
  Tushin rose and, buttoning his greatcoat and pulling it straight,         
walked away from the fire.                                                  
  Not far from the artillery campfire, in a hut that had been prepared      
for him, Prince Bagration 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 Zherkov, uneasily glancing at them all, and            
Prince Andrew, pale, with compressed lips and feverishly glittering         
eyes.                                                                       
  In a corner of the hut stood a standard captured from the French,         
and the accountant with the naive face was feeling its texture,             
shaking his head in perplexity- perhaps because the banner really           
interested him, perhaps because it was hard for him, hungry as he was,      
to look on at a dinner where there was no place for him. In the next        
hut there was a French colonel who had been taken prisoner by our           
dragoons. Our officers were flocking in to look at him. Prince              
Bagration 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.                                                                     
                                                    {BK2|CH21 ^paragraph 40}
  "When I saw, your excellency, that their first battalion was              
disorganized, I stopped in the road and thought: 'I'll let them come        
on and will meet them with the fire of the whole battalion'- and            
that's what I did."                                                         
  The general had so wished to do this and was so sorry he had not          
managed to do it that it seemed to him as if it had really happened.        
Perhaps it might really have been so? Could one possibly make out amid      
all that confusion what did or did not happen?                              
  "By the way, your excellency, I should inform you," he continued-         
remembering Dolokhov's conversation with Kutuzov and his last               
interview with the gentleman-ranker- "that Private Dolokhov, who was        
reduced to the ranks, took a French officer prisoner in my presence         
and particularly distinguished himself."                                    
  "I saw the Pavlograd hussars attack there, your excellency,"              
chimed in Zherkov, looking uneasily around. He had not seen the             
hussars all that day, but had heard about them from an infantry             
officer. "They broke up two squares, your excellency."                      
  Several of those present smiled at Zherkov's words, expecting one of      
his usual jokes, but noticing that what he was saying redounded to the      
glory of our arms and of the day's work, they assumed a serious             
expression, though many of them knew that what he was saying was a lie      
devoid of any foundation. Prince Bagration turned to the old colonel:       
                                                    {BK2|CH21 ^paragraph 45}
  "Gentlemen, I thank you all; all arms have behaved heroically:            
infantry, cavalry, and artillery. How was it that two guns were             
abandoned in the center?" he inquired, searching with his eyes for          
someone. (Prince Bagration did not ask about the guns on the left           
flank; he knew that all the guns there had been abandoned at the            
very beginning of the action.) "I think I sent you?" he added, turning      
to the staff officer on duty.                                               
  "One was damaged," answered the staff officer, "and the other I           
can't understand. I was there all the time giving orders and had            
only just left.... It is true that it was hot there," he added,             
modestly.                                                                   
  Someone mentioned that Captain Tushin was bivouacking close to the        
village and had already been sent for.                                      
  "Oh, but you were there?" said Prince Bagration, addressing Prince        
Andrew.                                                                     
  "Of course, we only just missed one another," said the staff              
officer, with a smile to Bolkonski.                                         
                                                    {BK2|CH21 ^paragraph 50}
  "I had not the pleasure of seeing you," said Prince Andrew, coldly        
and abruptly.                                                               
  All were silent. Tushin appeared at the threshold and made his way        
timidly from behind the backs of the generals. As he stepped past           
the generals in the crowded hut, feeling embarrassed as he always           
was by the sight of his superiors, he did not notice the staff of           
the banner and stumbled over it. Several of those present laughed.          
  "How was it a gun was abandoned?" asked Bagration, frowning, not          
so much at the captain as at those who were laughing, among whom            
Zherkov laughed loudest.                                                    
  Only now, when he was confronted by the stern authorities, did his        
guilt and the disgrace of having lost two guns and yet remaining alive      
present themselves to Tushin in all their horror. He had been so            
excited that he had not thought about it until that moment. The             
officers' laughter confused him still more. He stood before                 
Bagration with his lower jaw trembling and was hardly able to               
mutter: "I don't know... your excellency... I had no men... your            
excellency."                                                                
  "You might have taken some from the covering troops."                     
                                                    {BK2|CH21 ^paragraph 55}
  Tushin 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 Bagration as a schoolboy who        
has blundered looks at an examiner.                                         
  The silence lasted some time. Prince Bagration, apparently not            
wishing to be severe, found nothing to say; the others did not venture      
to intervene. Prince Andrew looked at Tushin from under his brows           
and his fingers twitched nervously.                                         
  "Your excellency!" Prince Andrew broke the silence with his abrupt        
voice," you were pleased to send me to Captain Tushin's battery. I          
went there and found two thirds of the men and horses knocked out, two      
guns smashed, and no supports at all."                                      
  Prince Bagration and Tushin looked with equal intentness at               
Bolkonski, who spoke with suppressed agitation.                             
  "And, if your excellency will allow me to express my opinion," he         
continued, "we owe today's success chiefly to the action of that            
battery and the heroic endurance of Captain Tushin and his company,"        
and without awaiting a reply, Prince Andrew rose and left the table.        
                                                    {BK2|CH21 ^paragraph 60}
  Prince Bagration looked at Tushin, evidently reluctant to show            
distrust in Bolkonski's emphatic opinion yet not feeling able fully to      
credit it, bent his head, and told Tushin that he could go. Prince          
Andrew went out with him.                                                   
  "Thank you; you saved me, my dear fellow!" said Tushin.                   
  Prince Andrew gave him a look, but said nothing and went away. He         
felt sad and depressed. It was all so strange, so unlike what he had        
hoped.                                                                      
-                                                                           
  "Who are they? Why are they here? What do they want? And when will        
all this end?" thought Rostov, looking at the changing shadows              
before him. The pain in his arm became more and more intense.               
Irresistible drowsiness overpowered him, red rings danced before his        
eyes, and the impression of those voices and faces and a sense of           
loneliness merged with the physical pain. It was they, these soldiers-      
wounded and unwounded- it was they who were crushing, weighing down,        
and twisting the sinews and scorching the flesh of his sprained arm         
and shoulder. To rid himself of them he closed his eyes.                    
                                                    {BK2|CH21 ^paragraph 65}
  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,            
Sonya's thin little shoulders, Natasha's eyes and laughter, Denisov         
with his voice and mustache, and Telyanin and all that affair with          
Telyanin and Bogdanich. That affair was the same thing as this soldier      
with the harsh voice, and it was that affair and this soldier that          
were so agonizingly, incessantly pulling and pressing his arm and           
always dragging it in one direction. He tried to get away from them,        
but they would not for an instant let his shoulder move a hair's            
breadth. It would not ache- it would be well- if only they did not          
pull it, but it was immpossible to get rid of them.                         
  He opened his eyes and looked up. The black canopy of night hung          
less than a yard above the glow of the charcoal. Flakes of falling          
snow were fluttering in that light. Tushin had not returned, the            
doctor had not come. He was alone now, except for a soldier who was         
sitting naked at the other side of the fire, warming his thin yellow        
body.                                                                       
  "Nobody wants me!" thought Rostov. "There is no one to help me or         
pity me. Yet I was once at home, strong, happy, and loved." He              
sighed and, doing so, groaned involuntarily.                                
  "Eh, is anything hurting you?" asked the soldier, shaking his             
shirt out over the fire, and not waiting for an answer he gave a grunt      
and added: "What a lot of men have been crippled today- frightful!"         
  Rostov did not listen to the soldier. He looked at the snowflakes         
fluttering above the fire and remembered a Russian winter at his warm,      
bright home, his fluffy fur coat, his quickly gliding sleigh, his           
healthy body, and all the affection and care of his family. "And why        
did I come here?" he wondered.                                              
                                                    {BK2|CH21 ^paragraph 70}
  Next day the French army did not renew their attack, and the remnant      
of Bagration's detachment was reunited to Kutuzov's army.                   
                                                                            
BK3                                                                         
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                BOOK THREE: 1805                            
                                                                            
BK3|CH1                                                                     
  CHAPTER I                                                                 
-                                                                           
  Prince Vasili was not a man who deliberately thought out his              
plans. Still less did he think of injuring anyone for his own               
advantage. He was merely a man of the world who had got on and to whom      
getting on had become a habit. Schemes and devices for which he             
never rightly accounted to himself, but which formed the whole              
interest of his life, were constantly shaping themselves in his             
mind, arising from the circumstances and persons he met. Of these           
plans he had not merely one or two in his head but dozens, some only        
beginning to form themselves, some approaching achievement, and some        
in course of disintegration. He did not, for instance, say to himself:      
"This man now has influence, I must gain his confidence and friendship      
and through him obtain a special grant." Nor did he say to himself:         
"Pierre is a rich man, I must entice him to marry my daughter and lend      
me the forty thousand rubles I need." But when he came across came          
across a man of position his instinct immediately told him that this        
man could be useful, and without any premeditation Prince Vasili            
took the first opportunity to gain his confidence, flatter him, become      
intimate with him, and finally make his request.                            
  He had Pierre at hand in Moscow and procured for him an                   
appointment as Gentleman of the Bedchamber, which at that time              
conferred the status of Councilor of State, and insisted on the             
young man accompanying him to Petersburg and staying at his house.          
With apparent absent-mindedness, yet with unhesitating assurance            
that he was doing the right thing, Prince Vasili did everything to get      
Pierre to marry his daughter. Had he thought out his plans                  
beforehand he could not have been so natural and shown such unaffected      
familiarity in intercourse with everybody both above and below him          
in social standing. Something always drew him toward those richer           
and more powerful than himself and he had rare skill in seizing the         
most opportune moment for making use of people.                             
  Pierre, on unexpectedly becoming Count Bezukhov and a rich man, felt      
himself after his recent loneliness and freedom from cares so beset         
and preoccupied that only in bed was he able to be by himself. He           
had to sign papers, to present himself at government offices, the           
purpose of which was not clear to him, to question his chief                
steward, to visit his estate near Moscow, and to receive many people        
who formerly did not even wish to know of his existence but would           
now have been offended and grieved had he chosen not to see them.           
These different people- businessmen, relations, and acquaintances           
alike- were all disposed to treat the young heir in the most                
friendly and flattering manner: they were all evidently firmly              
convinced of Pierre's noble qualities. He was always hearing such           
words as: "With your remarkable kindness," or, "With your excellent         
heart," "You are yourself so honorable Count," or, "Were he as              
clever as you," and so on, till he began sincerely to believe in his        
own exceptional kindness and extraordinary intelligence, the more so        
as in the depth of his heart it had always seemed to him that he            
really was very kind and intelligent. Even people who had formerly          
been spiteful toward him and evidently unfriendly now became gentle         
and affectionate. The angry eldest princess, with the long waist and        
hair plastered down like a doll's, had come into Pierre's room after        
the funeral. With drooping eyes and frequent blushes she told him           
she was very sorry about their past misunderstandings and did not           
now feel she had a right to ask him for anything, except only for           
permission, after the blow she had received, to remain for a few weeks      
longer in the house she so loved and where she had sacrificed so much.      
She could not refrain from weeping at these words. Touched that this        
statuesque princess could so change, Pierre took her hand and begged        
her forgiveness, without knowing what for. From that day the eldest         
princess quite changed toward Pierre and began knitting a striped           
scarf for him.                                                              
  "Do this for my sake, mon cher; after all, she had to put up with         
a great deal from the deceased," said Prince Vasili to him, handing         
him a deed to sign for the princess' benefit.                               
  Prince Vasili had come to the conclusion that it was necessary to         
throw this bone- a bill for thirty thousand rubles- to the poor             
princess that it might not occur to her to speak of his share in the        
affair of the inlaid portfolio. Pierre signed the deed and after            
that the princess grew still kinder. The younger sisters also became        
affectionate to him, especially the youngest, the pretty one with           
the mole, who often made him feel confused by her smiles and her own        
confusion when meeting him.                                                 
                                                      {BK3|CH1 ^paragraph 5}
  It seemed so natural to Pierre that everyone should like him, and it      
would have seemed so unnatural had anyone disliked him, that he             
could not but believe in the sincerity of those around him. Besides,        
he had no time to ask himself whether these people were sincere or          
not. He was always busy and always felt in a state of mild and              
cheerful intoxication. He felt as though he were the center of some         
important and general movement; that something was constantly expected      
of him, that if he did not do it he would grieve and disappoint many        
people, but if he did this and that, all would be well; and he did          
what was demanded of him, but still that happy result always                
remained in the future.                                                     
  More than anyone else, Prince Vasili took possession of Pierre's          
affairs and of Pierre himself in those early days. From the death of        
Count Bezukhov he did not let go his hold of the lad. He had the air        
of a man oppressed by business, weary and suffering, who yet would          
not, for pity's sake, leave this helpless youth who, after all, was         
the son of his old friend and the possessor of such enormous wealth,        
to the caprice of fate and the designs of rogues. During the few            
days he spent in Moscow after the death of Count Bezukhov, he would         
call Pierre, or go to him himself, and tell him what ought to be            
done in a tone of weariness and assurance, as if he were adding             
every time: "You know I am overwhelmed with business and it is              
purely out of charity that I trouble myself about you, and you also         
know quite well that what I propose is the only thing possible."            
  "Well, my dear fellow, tomorrow we are off at last," said Prince          
Vasili one day, closing his eyes and fingering Pierre's elbow,              
speaking as if he were saying something which had long since been           
agreed upon and could not now be altered. "We start tomorrow and I'm        
giving you a place in my carriage. I am very glad. All our important        
business here is now settled, and I ought to have been off long ago.        
Here is something I have received from the chancellor. I asked him for      
you, and you have been entered in the diplomatic corps and made a           
Gentleman of the Bedchamber. The diplomatic career now lies open            
before you."                                                                
  Notwithstanding the tone of wearied assurance with which these words      
were pronounced, Pierre, who had so long been considering his               
career, wished to make some suggestion. But Prince Vasili                   
interrupted him in the special deep cooing tone, precluding the             
possibility of interrupting his speech, which he used in extreme cases      
when special persuasion was needed.                                         
  "Mais, mon cher, I did this for my own sake, to satisfy my                
conscience, and there is nothing to thank me for. No one has ever           
complained yet of being too much loved; and besides, you are free, you      
could throw it up tomorrow. But you will see everything for yourself        
when you get to Petersburg. It is high time for you to get away from        
these terrible recollections." Prince Vasili sighed. "Yes, yes, my          
boy. And my valet can go in your carriage. Ah! I was nearly                 
forgetting," he added. "You know, mon cher, your father and I had some      
accounts to settle, so I have received what was due from the Ryazan         
estate and will keep it; you won't require it. We'll go into the            
accounts later."                                                            
                                                     {BK3|CH1 ^paragraph 10}
  By "what was due from the Ryazan estate" Prince Vasili meant several      
thousand rubles quitrent received from Pierre's peasants, which the         
prince had retained for himself.                                            
  In Petersburg, as in Moscow, Pierre found the same atmosphere of          
gentleness and affection. He could not refuse the post, or rather           
the rank (for he did nothing), that Prince Vasili had procured for          
him, and acquaintances, invitations, and social occupations were so         
numerous that, even more than in Moscow, he felt a sense of                 
bewilderment, bustle, and continual expectation of some good, always        
in front of him but never attained.                                         
  Of his former bachelor acquaintances many were no longer in               
Petersburg. The Guards had gone to the front; Dolokhov 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 Vasili's house in the company of the stout      
princess, his wife, and his beautiful daughter Helene.                      
  Like the others, Anna Pavlovna Scherer showed Pierre the change of        
attitude toward him that had taken place in society.                        
  Formerly in Anna Pavlovna's presence, Pierre had always felt that         
what he was saying was out of place, tactless and unsuitable, that          
remarks which seemed to him clever while they formed in his mind            
became foolish as soon as he uttered them, while on the contrary            
Hippolyte's stupidest remarks came out clever and apt. Now                  
everything Pierre said was charmant. Even if Anna Pavlovna did not say      
so, he could see that she wished to and only refrained out of regard        
for his modesty.                                                            
                                                     {BK3|CH1 ^paragraph 15}
  In the beginning of the winter of 1805-6 Pierre received one of Anna      
Pavlovna's usual pink notes with an invitation to which was added:          
"You will find the beautiful Helene here, whom it is always delightful      
to see."                                                                    
  When he read that sentence, Pierre felt for the first time that some      
link which other people recognized had grown up between himself and         
Helene, and that thought both alarmed him, as if some obligation            
were being imposed on him which he could not fulfill, and pleased           
him as an entertaining supposition.                                         
  Anna Pavlovna's "At Home" was like the former one, only the               
novelty she offered her guests this time was not Mortemart, but a           
diplomatist fresh from Berlin with the very latest details of the           
Emperor Alexander's visit to Potsdam, and of how the two august             
friends had pledged themselves in an indissoluble alliance to uphold        
the cause of justice against the enemy of the human race. Anna              
Pavlovna received Pierre with a shade of melancholy, evidently              
relating to the young man's recent loss by the death of Count Bezukhov      
(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 Marya Fedorovna. Pierre      
felt flattered by this. Anna Pavlovna arranged the different groups in      
her drawing room with her habitual skill. The large group, in which         
were Prince Vasili and the generals, had the benefit of the                 
diplomat. Another group was at the tea table. Pierre wished to join         
the former, but Anna Pavlovna- who was in the excited condition of a        
commander on a battlefield to whom thousands of new and brilliant           
ideas occur which there is hardly time to put in action- seeing             
Pierre, touched his sleeve with her finger, saying:                         
  "Wait a bit, I have something in view for you this evening." (She         
glanced at Helene and smiled at her.) "My dear Helene, be charitable        
to my poor aunt who adores you. Go and keep her company for ten             
minutes. And that it will not be too dull, here is the dear count           
who will not refuse to accompany you."                                      
  The beauty went to the aunt, but Anna Pavlovna detained Pierre,           
looking as if she had to give some final necessary instructions.            
                                                     {BK3|CH1 ^paragraph 20}
  "Isn't she exquisite?" she said to Pierre, pointing to the stately        
beauty as she glided away. "And how she carries herself! For so             
young a girl, such tact, such masterly perfection of manner! It             
comes from her heart. Happy the man who wins her! With her the least        
worldly of men would occupy a most brilliant position in society.           
Don't you think so? I only wanted to know your opinion," and Anna           
Pavlovna let Pierre go.                                                     
  Pierre, in reply, sincerely agreed with her as to Helene's                
perfection of manner. If he ever thought of Helene, it was just of her      
beauty and her remarkable skill in appearing silently dignified in          
society.                                                                    
  The old aunt received the two young people in her corner, but seemed      
desirous of hiding her adoration for Helene and inclined rather to          
show her fear of Anna Pavlovna. She looked at her niece, as if              
inquiring what she was to do with these people. On leaving them,            
Anna Pavlovna again touched Pierre's sleeve, saying: "I hope you won't      
say that it is dull in my house again," and she glanced at Helene.          
  Helene 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 Helene, then she turned to Pierre with the same words of welcome        
and the same look. In the middle of a dull and halting conversation,        
Helene turned to Pierre with the beautiful bright smile that she            
gave to everyone. Pierre was so used to that smile, and it had so           
little meaning for him, that he paid no attention to it. The aunt           
was just speaking of a collection of snuffboxes that had belonged to        
Pierre's father, Count Bezukhov, and showed them her own box. Princess      
Helene asked to see the portrait of the aunt's husband on the box lid.      
  "That is probably the work of Vinesse," said Pierre, mentioning a         
celebrated miniaturist, and he leaned over the table to take the            
snuffbox while trying to hear what was being said at the other table.       
                                                     {BK3|CH1 ^paragraph 25}
  He half rose, meaning to go round, but the aunt handed him the            
snuffbox, passing it across Helene's back. Helene 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 it, just as we cannot renew an           
illusion we have once seen through.                                         
  "So you have never noticed before how beautiful I am?" Helene seemed      
to say. "You had not noticed that I am a woman? Yes, I am a woman           
who may belong to anyone- to you too," said her glance. And at that         
moment Pierre felt that Helene not only could, but must, be his             
wife, and that it could not be otherwise.                                   
  He knew this at that moment as surely as if he had been standing          
at the altar with her. How and when this would be he did not know,          
he did not even know if it would be a good thing (he even felt, he          
knew not why, that it would be a bad thing), but he knew it would           
happen.                                                                     
  Pierre dropped his eyes, lifted them again, and wished once more          
to see her as a distant beauty far removed from him, as he had seen         
her every day until then, but he could no longer do it. He could            
not, any more than a man who has been looking at a tuft of steppe           
grass through the mist and taking it for a tree can again take it           
for a tree after he has once recognized it to be a tuft of grass.           
She was terribly close to him. She already had power over him, and          
between them there was no longer any barrier except the barrier of his      
own will.                                                                   
  "Well, I will leave you in your little corner," came Anna Pavlovna's      
voice, "I see you are all right there."                                     
                                                     {BK3|CH1 ^paragraph 30}
  And Pierre, anxiously trying to remember whether he had done              
anything reprehensible, looked round with a blush. It seemed to him         
that everyone knew what had happened to him as he knew it himself.          
  A little later when he went up to the large circle, Anna Pavlovna         
said to him: "I hear you are refitting your Petersburg house?"              
  This was true. The architect had told him that it was necessary, and      
Pierre, without knowing why, was having his enormous Petersburg             
house done up.                                                              
  "That's a good thing, but don't move from Prince Vasili's. It is          
good to have a friend like the prince," she said, smiling at Prince         
Vasili. "I know something about that. Don't I? And you are still so         
young. You need advice. Don't be angry with me for exercising an old        
woman's privilege."                                                         
  She paused, as women always do, expecting something after they            
have mentioned their age. "If you marry it will be a different thing,"      
she continued, uniting them both in one glance. Pierre did not look at      
Helene nor she at him. But she was just as terribly close to him. He        
muttered something and colored.                                             
                                                     {BK3|CH1 ^paragraph 35}
  When he got home he could not sleep for a long time for thinking          
of what had happened. What had happened? Nothing. He had merely             
understood that the woman he had known as a child, of whom when her         
beauty was mentioned he had said absent-mindedly: "Yes, she's good          
looking," he had understood that this woman might belong to him.            
  "But she's stupid. I have myself said she is stupid," he thought.         
"There is something nasty, something wrong, in the feeling she excites      
in me. I have been told that her brother Anatole was in love with           
her and she with him, that there was quite a scandal and that that's        
why he was sent away. Hippolyte is her brother... Prince Vasili is her      
father... It's bad...." he reflected, but while he was thinking this        
(the reflection was still incomplete), he caught himself smiling and        
was conscious that another line of thought had sprung up, and while         
thinking of her worthlessness he was also dreaming of how she would be      
his wife, how she would love him become quite different, and how all        
he had thought and heard of her might be false. And he again saw her        
not as the daughter of Prince Vasili, but visualized her whole body         
only veiled by its gray dress. "But no! Why did this thought never          
occur to me before?" and again he told himself that it was impossible,      
that there would be something unnatural, and as it seemed to him            
dishonorable, in this marriage. He recalled her former words and looks      
and the words and looks of those who had seen them together. He             
recalled Anna Pavlovna's words and looks when she spoke to him about        
his house, recalled thousands of such hints from Prince Vasili 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.                                                     
                                                                            
BK3|CH2                                                                     
  CHAPTER II                                                                
-                                                                           
  In November, 1805, Prince Vasili 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 Bolkonski 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 Vasili had to settle matters with Pierre,         
who, it is true, had latterly spent whole days at home, that is, in         
Prince Vasili's house where he was staying, and had been absurd,            
excited, and foolish in Helene's presence (as a lover should be),           
but had not yet proposed to her.                                            
  "This is all very fine, but things must be settled," said Prince          
Vasili to himself, with a sorrowful sigh, one morning, feeling that         
Pierre who was under such obligations to him ("But never mind that")        
was not behaving very well in this matter. "Youth, frivolity...             
well, God be with him," thought he, relishing his own goodness of           
heart, "but it must be brought to a head. The day after tomorrow            
will be Lelya's name day. I will invite two or three people, and if he      
does not understand what he ought to do then it will be my affair-          
yes, my affair. I am her father."                                           
  Six weeks after Anna Pavlovna's "At Home" and after the sleepless         
night when he had decided that to marry Helene would be a calamity and      
that he ought to avoid her and go away, Pierre, despite that decision,      
had not left Prince Vasili's and felt with terror that in people's          
eyes he was every day more and more connected with her, that it was         
impossible for him to return to his former conception of her, that          
he could not break away from her, and that though it would be a             
terrible thing he would have to unite his fate with hers. He might          
perhaps have been able to free himself but that Prince Vasili (who had      
rarely before given receptions) now hardly let a day go by without          
having an evening party at which Pierre had to be present unless he         
wished to spoil the general pleasure and disappoint everyone's              
expectation. Prince Vasili, in the rare moments when he was at home,        
would take Pierre's hand in passing and draw it downwards, or               
absent-mindedly hold out his wrinkled, clean-shaven cheek for Pierre        
to kiss and would say: "Till tomorrow," or, "Be in to dinner or I           
shall not see you," or, "I am staying in for your sake," and so on.         
And though Prince Vasili, when he stayed in (as he said) for                
Pierre's sake, hardly exchanged a couple of words with him, Pierre          
felt unable to disappoint him. Every day he said to himself one and         
the same thing: "It is time I understood her and made up my mind            
what she really is. Was I mistaken before, or am I mistaken now? No,        
she is not stupid, she is an excellent girl," he sometimes said to          
himself "she never makes a mistake, never says anything stupid. She         
says little, but what she does say is always clear and simple, so           
she is not stupid. She never was abashed and is not abashed now, so         
she cannot be a bad woman!" He had often begun to make reflections          
or think aloud in her company, and she had always answered him              
either by a brief but appropriate remark- showing that it did not           
interest her- or by a silent look and smile which more palpably than        
anything else showed Pierre her superiority. She was right in               
regarding all arguments as nonsense in comparison with that smile.          
  She always addressed him with a radiantly confiding smile meant           
for him alone, in which there was something more significant than in        
the general smile that usually brightened her face. Pierre knew that        
everyone was waiting for him to say a word and cross a certain line,        
and he knew that sooner or later he would step across it, but an            
incomprehensible terror seized him at the thought of that dreadful          
step. A thousand times during that month and a half while he felt           
himself drawn nearer and nearer to that dreadful abyss, Pierre said to      
himself: "What am I doing? I need resolution. Can it be that I have         
none?"                                                                      
  He wished to take a decision, but felt with dismay that in this           
matter he lacked that strength of will which he had known in himself        
and really possessed. Pierre was one of those who are only strong when      
they feel themselves quite innocent, and since that day when he was         
overpowered by a feeling of desire while stooping over the snuffbox at      
Anna Pavlovna's, an unacknowledged sense of the guilt of that desire        
paralyzed his will.                                                         
                                                      {BK3|CH2 ^paragraph 5}
  On Helene's name day, a small party of just their own people- as his      
wife said- met for supper at Prince Vasili'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 Kuragina, a portly imposing woman who had once been handsome,      
was sitting at the head of the table. On either side of her sat the         
more important guests- an old general and his wife, and Anna                
Pavlovna Scherer. At the other end sat the younger and less                 
important guests, and there too sat the members of the family, and          
Pierre and Helene, side by side. Prince Vasili 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 Helene, whose            
presence he seemed not to notice. He enlivened the whole party. The         
wax candles burned brightly, the silver and crystal gleamed, so did         
the ladies' toilets and the gold and silver of the men's epaulets;          
servants in scarlet liveries moved round the table, the clatter of          
plates, knives, and glasses mingled with the animated hum of several        
conversations. At one end of the table, the old chamberlain was             
heard assuring an old baroness that he loved her passionately, at           
which she laughed; at the other could be heard the story of the             
misfortunes of some Mary Viktorovna or other. At the center of the          
table, Prince Vasili attracted everybody's attention. With a facetious      
smile on his face, he was telling the ladies about last Wednesday's         
meeting of the Imperial Council, at which Sergey Kuzmich                    
Vyazmitinov, the new military governor general of Petersburg, had           
received and read the then famous rescript of the Emperor Alexander         
from the army to Sergey Kuzmich, in which the Emperor said that he was      
receiving from all sides declarations of the people's loyalty, that         
the declaration from Petersburg gave him particular pleasure, and that      
he was proud to be at the head of such a nation and would endeavor          
to be worthy of it. This rescript began with the words: "Sergey             
Kuzmich, From all sides reports reach me," etc.                             
  "Well, and so he never got farther than: 'Sergey Kuzmich'?" asked         
one of the ladies.                                                          
  "Exactly, not a hair's breadth farther," answered Prince Vasili,          
laughing, "'Sergey Kuzmich... From all sides... From all sides...           
Sergey Kuzmich...' Poor Vyazmitinov could not get any farther! He           
began the rescript again and again, but as soon as he uttered 'Sergey'      
he sobbed, 'Kuz-mi-ch,' tears, and 'From all sides' was smothered in        
sobs and he could get no farther. And again his handkerchief, and           
again: 'Sergey Kuzmich, From all sides,'... and tears, till at last         
somebody else was asked to read it."                                        
  "Kuzmich... From all sides... and then tears," someone repeated           
laughing.                                                                   
  "Don't be unkind," cried Anna Pavlovna from her end of the table          
holding up a threatening finger. "He is such a worthy and excellent         
man, our dear Vyazmitinov...."                                              
                                                     {BK3|CH2 ^paragraph 10}
  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 Helene 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 Sergey Kuzmich- 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, saute, 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 Sergey Kuzmich, the laughter, and the        
food were all a pretense, and that the whole attention of that company      
was directed to- Pierre and Helene. Prince Vasili mimicked the sobbing      
of Sergey Kuzmich and at the same time his eyes glanced toward his          
daughter, and while he laughed the expression on his face clearly           
said: "Yes... it's getting on, it will all be settled today." Anna          
Pavlovna threatened him on behalf of "our dear Vyazmitinov," and in         
her eyes, which, for an instant, glanced at Pierre, Prince Vasili read      
a congratulation on his future son-in-law and on his daughter's             
happiness. The old princess sighed sadly as she offered some wine to        
the old lady next to her and glanced angrily at her daughter, and           
her sigh seemed to say: "Yes, there's nothing left for you and me           
but to sip sweet wine, my dear, now that the time has come for these        
young ones to be thus boldly, provocatively happy." "And what nonsense      
all this is that I am saying!" thought a diplomatist, glancing at           
the happy faces of the lovers. "That's happiness!"                          
  Into the insignificant, trifling, and artificial interests uniting        
that society had entered the simple feeling of the attraction of a          
healthy and handsome young man and woman for one another. And this          
human feeling dominated everything else and soared above all their          
affected chatter. Jests fell flat, news was not interesting, and the        
animation was evidently forced. Not only the guests but even the            
footmen waiting at table seemed to feel this, and they forgot their         
duties as they looked at the beautiful Helene with her radiant face         
and at the red, broad, and happy though uneasy face of Pierre. It           
seemed as if the very light of the candles was focused on those two         
happy faces alone.                                                          
  Pierre felt that he the center of it all, and this both pleased           
and embarrassed him. He was like a man entirely absorbed in some            
occupation. He did not see, hear, or understand anything clearly. Only      
now and then detached ideas and impressions from the world of               
reality shot unexpectedly through his mind.                                 
  "So it is all finished!" he thought. "And how has it all happened?        
How quickly! Now I know that not because of her alone, nor of myself        
alone, but because of everyone, it must inevitably come about. They         
are all expecting it, they are so sure that it will happen that I           
cannot, I cannot, disappoint them. But how will it be? I do not             
know, but it will certainly happen!" thought Pierre, glancing at those      
dazzling shoulders close to his eyes.                                       
  Or he would suddenly feel ashamed of he knew not what. He felt it         
awkward to attract everyone's attention and to be considered a lucky        
man and, with his plain face, to be looked on as a sort of Paris            
possessed of a Helen. "But no doubt it always is and must be so!" he        
consoled himself. "And besides, what have I done to bring it about?         
How did it begin? I traveled from Moscow with Prince Vasili. Then           
there was nothing. So why should I not stay at his house? Then I            
played cards with her and picked up her reticule and drove out with         
her. How did it begin, when did it all come about?" And here he was         
sitting by her side as her betrothed, seeing, hearing, feeling her          
nearness, her breathing, her movements, her beauty. Then it would           
suddenly seem to him that it was not she but he was so unusually            
beautiful, and that that was why they all looked so at him, and             
flattered by this general admiration he would expand his chest,             
raise his head, and rejoice at his good fortune. Suddenly he heard a        
familiar voice repeating something to him a second time. But Pierre         
was so absorbed that he did not understand what was said.                   
                                                     {BK3|CH2 ^paragraph 15}
  "I am asking you when you last heard from Bolkonski," repeated            
Prince Vasili a third time. "How absent-minded you are, my dear             
fellow."                                                                    
  Prince Vasili smiled, and Pierre noticed that everyone was smiling        
at him and Helene. "Well, what of it, if you all know it?" thought          
Pierre. "What of it? It's the truth!" and he himself smiled his gentle      
childlike smile, and Helene smiled too.                                     
  "When did you get the letter? Was it from Olmutz?" repeated Prince        
Vasili, who pretended to want to know this in order to settle a             
dispute.                                                                    
  "How can one talk or think of such trifles?" thought Pierre.              
  "Yes, from Olmutz," he answered, with a sigh.                             
                                                     {BK3|CH2 ^paragraph 20}
  After supper Pierre with his partner followed the others into the         
drawing room. The guests began to disperse, some without taking             
leave of Helene. Some, as if unwilling to distract her from an              
important occupation, came up to her for a moment and made haste to go      
away, refusing to let her see them off. The diplomatist preserved a         
mournful silence as he left the drawing room. He pictured the vanity        
of his diplomatic career in comparison with Pierre's happiness. The         
old general grumbled at his wife when she asked how his leg was.            
"Oh, the old fool," he thought. "That Princess Helene will be               
beautiful still when she's fifty."                                          
  "I think I may congratulate you," whispered Anna Pavlovna to the old      
princess, kissing her soundly. "If I hadn't this headache I'd have          
stayed longer."                                                             
  The old princess did not reply, she was tormented by jealousy of her      
daughter's happiness.                                                       
  While the guests were taking their leave Pierre remained for a            
long time alone with Helene in the little drawing room where they were      
sitting. He had often before, during the last six weeks, remained           
alone with her, but had never spoken to her of love. Now he felt            
that it was inevitable, but he could not make up his mind to take           
the final step. He felt ashamed; he felt that he was occupying someone      
else's place here beside Helene. "This happiness is not for you," some      
inner voice whispered to him. "This happiness is for those who have         
not in them what there is in you."                                          
  But, as he had to say something, he began by asking her whether           
she was satisfied with the party. She replied in her usual simple           
manner that this name day of hers had been one of the pleasantest           
she had ever had.                                                           
                                                     {BK3|CH2 ^paragraph 25}
  Some of the nearest relatives had not yet left. They were sitting in      
the large drawing room. Prince Vasili came up to Pierre with languid        
footsteps. Pierre rose and said it was getting late. Prince Vasili          
gave him a look of stern inquiry, as though what Pierre had just            
said was so strange that one could not take it in. But then the             
expression of severity changed, and he drew Pierre's hand downwards,        
made him sit down, and smiled affectionately.                               
  "Well, Lelya?" 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 Vasili had only acquired by imitating other parents.                 
  And he again turned to Pierre.                                            
  "Sergey Kuzmich- From all sides-" he said, unbuttoning the top            
button of his waistcoat.                                                    
  Pierre smiled, but his smile showed that he knew it was not the           
story about Sergey Kuzmich that interested Prince Vasili just then,         
and Prince Vasili 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 Helene and she too seemed                
disconcerted, and her look seemed to say: "Well, it is your own             
fault."                                                                     
                                                     {BK3|CH2 ^paragraph 30}
  "The step must be taken but I cannot, I cannot!" thought Pierre, and      
he again began speaking about indifferent matters, about Sergey             
Kuzmich, asking what the point of the story was as he had not heard it      
properly. Helene answered with a smile that she too had missed it.          
  When Prince Vasili returned to the drawing room, the princess, his        
wife, was talking in low tones to the elderly lady about Pierre.            
  "Of course, it is a very brilliant match, but happiness, my dear..."      
  "Marriages are made in heaven," replied the elderly lady.                 
  Prince Vasili 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.      
                                                     {BK3|CH2 ^paragraph 35}
  "Aline," he said to his wife, "go and see what they are about."           
  The princess went up to the door, passed by it with a dignified           
and indifferent air, and glanced into the little drawing room.              
Pierre and Helene still sat talking just as before.                         
  "Still the same," she said to her husband.                                
  Prince Vasili frowned, twisting his mouth, his cheeks quivered and        
his face assumed the coarse, unpleasant expression peculiar to him.         
Shaking himself, he rose, threw back his head, and with resolute steps      
went past the ladies into the little drawing room. With quick steps he      
went joyfully up to Pierre. His face was so unusually triumphant            
that Pierre rose in alarm on seeing it.                                     
  "Thank God!" said Prince Vasili. "My wife has told me everything!-        
(He put one arm around Pierre and the other around his daughter.)- "My      
dear boy... Lelya... I am very pleased." (His voice trembled.) "I           
loved your father... and she will make you a good wife... God bless         
you!..."                                                                    
                                                     {BK3|CH2 ^paragraph 40}
  He embraced his daughter, and then again Pierre, and kissed him with      
his malodorous mouth. Tears actually moistened his cheeks.                  
  "Princess, come here!" he shouted.                                        
  The old princess came in and also wept. The elderly lady was using        
her handkerchief too. Pierre was kissed, and he kissed the beautiful        
Helene's hand several times. After a while they were left alone again.      
  "All this had to be and could not be otherwise," thought Pierre, "so      
it is useless to ask whether it is good or bad. It is good because          
it's definite and one is rid of the old tormenting doubt." Pierre held      
the hand of his betrothed in silence, looking at her beautiful bosom        
as it rose and fell.                                                        
  "Helene!" he said aloud and paused.                                       
                                                     {BK3|CH2 ^paragraph 45}
  "Something special is always said in such cases," he thought, but         
could not remember what it was that people say. He looked at her face.      
She drew nearer to him. Her face flushed.                                   
  "Oh, take those off... those..." she said, pointing to his                
spectacles.                                                                 
  Pierre took them off, and his eyes, besides the strange look eyes         
have from which spectacles have just been removed, had also a               
frightened and inquiring look. He was about to stoop over her hand and      
kiss it, but with a rapid, almost brutal movement of her head, she          
intercepted his lips and met them with her own. Her face struck             
Pierre, by its altered, unpleasantly excited expression.                    
  "It is too late now, it's done; besides I love her," thought Pierre.      
  "Je vous aime!"* he said, remembering what has to be said at such         
moments: but his words sounded so weak that he felt ashamed of              
himself.                                                                    
                                                     {BK3|CH2 ^paragraph 50}
-                                                                           
  *"I love you."                                                            
-                                                                           
  Six weeks later he was married, and settled in Count Bezukhov'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.                                                                   
                                                                            
BK3|CH3                                                                     
  CHAPTER III                                                               
-                                                                           
  Old Prince Nicholas Bolkonski received a letter from Prince Vasili        
in November, 1805, announcing that he and his son would be paying           
him a visit. "I am starting on a journey of inspection, and of              
course I shall think nothing of an extra seventy miles to come and see      
you at the same time, my honored benefactor," wrote Prince Vasili. "My      
son Anatole is accompanying me on his way to the army, so I hope you        
will allow him personally to express the deep respect that,                 
emulating his father, he feels for you."                                    
  "It seems that there will be no need to bring Mary out, suitors           
are coming to us of their own accord," incautiously remarked the            
little princess on hearing the news.                                        
  Prince Nicholas frowned, but said nothing.                                
  A fortnight after the letter Prince Vasili's servants came one            
evening in advance of him, and he and his son arrived next day.             
  Old Bolkonski had always had a poor opinion of Prince Vasili's            
character, but more so recently, since in the new reigns of Paul and        
Alexander Prince Vasili 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 Vasili's arrival, Prince             
Bolkonski was particularly discontented and out of temper. Whether          
he was in a bad temper because Prince Vasili was coming, or whether         
his being in a bad temper made him specially annoyed at Prince              
Vasili's visit, he was in a bad temper, and in the morning Tikhon           
had already advised the architect not to go the prince with his             
report.                                                                     
                                                      {BK3|CH3 ^paragraph 5}
  "Do you hear how he's walking?" said Tikhon, drawing the architect's      
attention to the sound of the prince's footsteps. "Stepping flat on         
his heels- we know what that means...."                                     
  However, at nine o'clock the prince, in his velvet coat with a sable      
collar and cap, went out for his usual walk. It had snowed the day          
before and the path to the hothouse, along which the prince was in the      
habit of walking, had been swept: the marks of the broom were still         
visible in the snow and a shovel had been left sticking in one of           
the soft snowbanks that bordered both sides of the path. The prince         
went through the conservatories, the serfs' quarters, and the               
outbuildings, frowning and silent.                                          
  "Can a sleigh pass?" he asked his overseer, a venerable man,              
resembling his master in manners and looks, who was accompanying him        
back to the house.                                                          
  "The snow is deep. I am having the avenue swept, your honor."             
  The prince bowed his head and went up to the porch. "God be               
thanked," thought the overseer, "the storm has blown over!"                 
                                                     {BK3|CH3 ^paragraph 10}
  "It would have been hard to drive up, your honor," he added. "I           
heard, your honor, that a minister is coming to visit your honor."          
  The prince turned round to the overseer and fixed his eyes on him,        
frowning.                                                                   
  "What? A minister? What minister? Who gave orders?" he said in his        
shrill, harsh voice. "The road is not swept for the princess my             
daughter, but for a minister! For me, there are no ministers!"              
  "Your honor, I thought..."                                                
  "You thought!" shouted the prince, his words coming more and more         
rapidly and indistinctly. "You thought!... Rascals! Blackgaurds!...         
I'll teach you to think!" and lifting his stick he swung it and             
would have hit Alpatych, the overseer, had not the latter                   
instinctively avoided the blow. "Thought... Blackguards..." shouted         
the prince rapidly.                                                         
                                                     {BK3|CH3 ^paragraph 15}
  But although Alpatych, 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: "Blackgaurds!... Throw the snow back on the road!"      
did not lift his stick again but hurried into the house.                    
  Before dinner, Princess Mary and Mademoiselle Bourienne, who knew         
that the prince was in a bad humor, stood awaiting him; Mademoiselle        
Bourienne with a radiant face that said: "I know nothing, I am the          
same as usual," and Princess Mary pale, frightened, and with                
downcast eyes. What she found hardest to bear was to know that on such      
occasions she ought to behave like Mademoiselle Bourienne, but could        
not. She thought: "If I seem not to notice he will think that I do not      
sympathize with him; if I seem sad and out of spirits myself, he            
will say (as he has done before) that I'm in the dumps."                    
  The prince looked at his daughter's frightened face and snorted.          
  "Fool... or dummy!" he muttered.                                          
  "And the other one is not here. They've been telling tales," he           
thought- referring to the little princess who was not in the dining         
room.                                                                       
                                                     {BK3|CH3 ^paragraph 20}
  "Where is the princess?" he asked. "Hiding?"                              
  "She is not very well," answered Mademoiselle Bourienne with a            
bright smile, "so she won't come down. It is natural in her state."         
  "Hm! Hm!" muttered the prince, sitting down.                              
  His plate seemed to him not quite clean, and pointing to a spot he        
flung it away. Tikhon caught it and handed it to a footman. The little      
princess was not unwell, but had such an overpowering fear of the           
prince that, hearing he was in a bad humor, she had decided not to          
appear.                                                                     
  "I am afraid for the baby," she said to Mademoiselle Bourienne:           
"Heaven knows what a fright might do."                                      
                                                     {BK3|CH3 ^paragraph 25}
  In general at Bald Hills the little princess lived in constant fear,      
and with a sense of antipathy to the old prince which she did not           
realize because the fear was so much the stronger feeling. The              
prince reciprocated this antipathy, but it was overpowered by his           
contempt for her. When the little princess had grown accustomed to          
life at Bald Hills, she took a special fancy to Mademoiselle                
Bourienne, spent whole days with her, asked her to sleep in her             
room, and often talked with her about the old prince and criticized         
him.                                                                        
  "So we are to have visitors, mon prince?" remarked Mademoiselle           
Bourienne, unfolding her white napkin with her rosy fingers. "His           
Excellency Prince Vasili Kuragin and his son, I understand?" she            
said inquiringly.                                                           
  "Hm!- his excellency is a puppy.... I got him his appointment in the      
service," said the prince disdainfully. "Why his son is coming I don't      
understand. Perhaps Princess Elizabeth and Princess Mary know. I don't      
want him." (He looked at his blushing daughter.) "Are you unwell            
today? Eh? Afraid of the 'minister' as that idiot Alpatych called           
him this morning?"                                                          
  "No, mon pere."                                                           
  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.                               
                                                     {BK3|CH3 ^paragraph 30}
  After dinner, he went to see his daughter-in-law. The little              
princess was sitting at a small table, chattering with Masha, her           
maid. She grew pale on seeing her father-in-law.                            
  She was much altered. She was now plain rather than pretty. Her           
cheeks had sunk, her lip was drawn up, and her eyes drawn down.             
  "Yes, I feel a kind of oppression," she said in reply to the              
prince's question as to how she felt.                                       
  "Do you want anything?"                                                   
  "No, merci, mon pere."                                                    
                                                     {BK3|CH3 ^paragraph 35}
  "Well, all right, all right."                                             
  He left the room and went to the waiting room where Alpatych stood        
with bowed head.                                                            
  "Has the snow been shoveled back?"                                        
  "Yes, your excellency. Forgive me for heaven's sake... It was only        
my stupidity."                                                              
  "All right, all right," interrupted the prince, and laughing his          
unnatural way, he stretched out his hand for Alpatych to kiss, and          
then proceeded to his study.                                                
                                                     {BK3|CH3 ^paragraph 40}
  Prince Vasili arrived that evening. He was met in the avenue by           
coachmen and footmen, who, with loud shouts, dragged his sleighs up to      
one of the lodges over the road purposely laden with snow.                  
  Prince Vasili and Anatole had separate rooms assigned to them.            
  Anatole, having taken off his overcoat, sat with arms akimbo              
before a table on a corner of which he smilingly and absent-mindedly        
fixed his large and handsome eyes. He regarded his whole life as a          
continual round of amusement which someone for some reason had to           
provide for him. And he looked on this visit to a churlish old man and      
