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名著:战争与和平WAR AND PEACE(01)

[日期:2014-04-23] 来源:  作者: [字体: ]

                                    WAR AND PEACE
                                    by Leo Tolstoy
                                    BOOK ONE: 1805
      "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
      "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.
      "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!"
      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.
      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
      The prince bowed to signify his respect and gratitude.
      "I often think," she continued after a short pause, drawing nearer
    to the prince and smiling amiably at him as if to show that
    political and social topics were ended and the time had come for
    intimate conversation- "I often think how unfairly sometimes the
    joys of life are distributed. Why has fate given you two such splendid
    children? I don't speak of Anatole, your youngest. I don't like
    him," she added in a tone admitting of no rejoinder and raising her
    eyebrows. "Two such charming children. And really you appreciate
    them less than anyone, and so you don't deserve to have them."
      And she smiled her ecstatic smile.
      "I can't help it," said the prince. "Lavater would have said I
    lack the bump of paternity."
      "Don't joke; I mean to have a serious talk with you. Do you know I
    am dissatisfied with your younger son? Between ourselves" (and her
    face assumed its melancholy expression), "he was mentioned at Her
    Majesty's and you were pitied...."
      The prince answered nothing, but she looked at him 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.
      "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
      "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."
      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."
      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.
      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
      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.
      "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
      Anna Pavlovna's alarm was justified, for Pierre turned away from the
    aunt without waiting to hear her speech about Her Majesty's health.
    Anna Pavlovna in dismay detained him with the words: "Do you know
    the Abbe Morio? He is a most interesting man."
      "Yes, I have heard of his scheme for perpetual peace, and it is very
    interesting but hardly feasible."
      "You think so?" rejoined Anna Pavlovna in order to say something and
    get away to attend to her duties as hostess. But Pierre now
    committed a reverse act of impoliteness. First he had left a lady
    before she had finished speaking to him, and now he continued to speak
    to another who wished to get away. With his head bent, and his big
    feet spread apart, he began explaining his reasons for thinking the
    abbe's plan chimerical.
      "We will talk of it later," said Anna Pavlovna with a smile.
      And having got rid of this young man who did not know how to behave,
    she resumed her duties as hostess and continued to listen and watch,
    ready to help at any point where the 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.
      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
      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.
      The vicomte wished to begin his story and gave a subtle smile.
      "Come over here, Helene, dear," said Anna Pavlovna to the
    beautiful young princess who was sitting some way off, the center of
    another group.
      The princess smiled. She rose with the same unchanging smile with
    which she had first entered the room- the smile of a perfectly
    beautiful woman. With a slight rustle of her white dress trimmed
    with moss and ivy, with a gleam of white shoulders, glossy hair, and
    sparkling diamonds, she passed between the men who made way for her,
    not looking at any of them but smiling on all, as if graciously
    allowing each the privilege of admiring her beautiful figure and
    shapely shoulders, back, and bosom- which in the fashion of those days
    were very much exposed- and she seemed to bring the glamour of a
    ballroom with her as she moved toward Anna Pavlovna. Helene was so
    lovely that not only did she not show any trace of coquetry, but on
    the contrary she even appeared shy of her unquestionable and all too
    victorious beauty. She seemed to wish, but to be unable, to diminish
    its effect.
      "How lovely!" said everyone who saw her; and the vicomte lifted
    his shoulders and dropped his eyes as if startled by something
    extraordinary when she took her seat opposite and beamed upon him also
    with her unchanging smile.
      "Madame, I doubt my ability before such an audience," said he,
    smilingly inclining his head.
      The princess rested her bare round arm on a little table and
    considered a reply unnecessary. She smilingly waited. All the time the
    story was being told she sat upright, glancing now at her beautiful
    round arm, altered in shape by its pressure on the table, now at her
    still more beautiful bosom, on which she readjusted a diamond
    necklace. From time to time she smoothed the folds of her dress, and
    whenever the story 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.
      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.
      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
      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.
      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.
      Not letting the abbe and Pierre escape, Anna Pavlovna, the more
    conveniently to keep them under observation, brought them into the
    larger circle.
      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."
      "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
      "I knew you would be here," replied Pierre. "I will come to supper
    with you. May I?" he added in a low voice so as not to disturb the
    vicomte who was continuing his story.
      "No, impossible!" said Prince Andrew, laughing and 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.
      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
      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.
      "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
      "Listen to me, Prince," said she. "I have never yet asked you for
    anything and I never will again, nor have I ever reminded you of my
    father's friendship for you; but now I entreat you for God's sake to
    do this for my son- and I shall always regard you as a benefactor,"
    she added hurriedly. "No, don't be angry, but promise! I have asked
    Golitsyn and he has refused. Be the kindhearted man you always
    were," she said, trying to smile though tears were in her eyes.
      "Papa, we shall be late," said Princess Helene, turning her
    beautiful head and looking over her classically molded shoulder as she
    stood waiting by the door.
      Influence in society, however, is a capital which has to be
    economized if it is to last. Prince Vasili knew this, and having
    once realized that if he asked on behalf of all who begged of him,
    he would soon be unable to ask for himself, he became chary of using
    his influence. But in Princess Drubetskaya's case he felt, after her
    second appeal, something like qualms of conscience. She had reminded
    him of what was quite true; he had been indebted to her father for the
    first steps in his 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
      "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.
      "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
      "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?"
      "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.
      "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!
      "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.
      "Baton de gueules, engrele de gueules d' azur- maison Conde," said
      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.
      "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
      It was evident that he did not like the vicomte and was aiming his
    remarks at him, though without looking at him.
      "'I showed them the path to glory, but they did not follow it,'"
    Prince Andrew continued after a short silence, again 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.
      "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."
      "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
      "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.
      "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."
      "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.
      "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.
      "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.
      "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
      "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
      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
      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.
      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.
      Anna Pavlovna had already managed to speak to Lise about the match
    she contemplated between Anatole and the little princess'
      "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?
      "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
      "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.
      "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
      The postilion started, the carriage wheels rattled. Prince Hippolyte
    laughed spasmodically as he stood in the porch waiting for the vicomte
    whom he had promised to take home.
      "Well, mon cher," said the vicomte, having seated himself beside
    Hippolyte in the carriage, "your little princess is very nice, very
    nice indeed, quite French," and he kissed the tips of his fingers.
    Hippolyte burst out laughing.
      "Do you know, you are a terrible chap for all your innocent airs,"
    continued the vicomte. "I pity the poor husband, that little officer
    who gives himself the airs of a monarch."
      Hippolyte spluttered again, and amid his laughter said, "And you
    were saying that the Russian ladies are not equal to the French? One
    has to know how to deal with them."
      Pierre reaching the house first went into Prince Andrew's study like
    one quite at home, and from habit immediately lay down on the sofa,
    took from the shelf the first book that came to his hand (it was
    Caesar's Commentaries), and resting on his elbow, began reading it
    in the middle.
      "What have you done to Mlle Scherer? She will be quite ill now,"
    said Prince Andrew, as he entered the study, rubbing his small white
      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
      It was evident that Prince Andrew was not interested in such
    abstract conversation.
      "One can't everywhere say all one thinks, mon cher. Well, have you
    at last decided on anything? Are you going to be a guardsman or a
    diplomatist?" asked Prince Andrew after a momentary silence.
      Pierre sat up on the sofa, with his legs tucked under him.
      "Really, I don't yet know. I don't like either the one or the
      "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.
      "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.
      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
      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
      "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?"
      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.
      "There, what egotists men all are: all, all egotists! Just for a
    whim of his own, goodness only knows why, he leaves me and locks me up
    alone in the country."
      "With my father and sister, remember," said Prince Andrew gently.
      "Alone all the same, without my friends.... And he expects me not to
    be afraid."
      Her tone was now querulous and her lip drawn up, giving her not a
    joyful, but an animal, squirrel-like expression. She paused as if
    she felt it indecorous to speak of her pregnancy before Pierre, though
    the gist of the matter lay in that.
      "I still can't understand what you are afraid of," said Prince
    Andrew slowly, not taking his eyes off his wife.
      The princess blushed, and raised her arms with a gesture of despair.
      "No, Andrew, I must say you have changed. Oh, how you have..."
      "Your doctor tells you to go to bed earlier," said Prince Andrew.
    "You had better go."
      The princess said nothing, but suddenly her short downy lip
    quivered. Prince Andrew rose, shrugged his shoulders, and walked about
    the room.
      Pierre looked over his spectacles with naive surprise, now at him
    and now at her, moved as if about to rise too, but changed his mind.
      "Why should I mind Monsieur Pierre being here?" 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
      Pierre, who had been growing more and more agitated as he listened
    to all this, rose and approached the princess. He seemed unable to
    bear the sight of tears and was ready to cry himself.
      "Calm yourself, Princess! It seems so to you because... I assure you
    I myself have experienced... and so... because... No, excuse me! An
    outsider is out of place here... No, don't distress yourself...
      Prince Andrew caught him by the hand.
      "No, wait, Pierre! The princess is too kind to wish to deprive me of
    the pleasure of spending the evening with you."
      "No, he thinks only of himself," muttered the princess without
    restraining her angry tears.
      "Lise!" said Prince Andrew dryly, raising his voice to the pitch
    which indicates that patience is exhausted.
      Suddenly the angry, squirrel-like expression of the princess' pretty
    face changed into a winning and piteous look of fear. Her beautiful
    eyes glanced askance at her husband's face, and her own assumed the
    timid, deprecating expression of a dog when it rapidly but feebly wags
    its drooping tail.
      "Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" she muttered, and lifting her dress with one
    hand she went up to her husband and kissed him on the forehead.
      "Good night, Lise," said he, rising and courteously kissing her hand
    as he would have done to a stranger.
      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
      "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.
      "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.
      "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."
      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.
      "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!"
      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
      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.
      "I bet a hundred on Stevens!" shouted one.
      "Mind, no holding on!" cried another.
      "I bet on Dolokhov!" cried a third. "Kuragin, you part our hands."
      "There, leave Bruin alone; here's a bet on."
      "At one draught, or he loses!" shouted a fourth.
      "Jacob, bring a bottle!" shouted the host, a tall, handsome fellow
    who stood in the midst of the group, without a coat, and with his fine
    linen shirt unfastened in front. "Wait a bit, you fellows.... Here
    is Petya! Good man!" cried he, addressing Pierre.
      Another voice, from a man of medium height with clear blue eyes,
    particularly striking among all these drunken voices by its sober
    ring, cried from the window: "Come here; part the bets!" This was
    Dolokhov, an officer of the Semenov regiment, a notorious gambler
    and duelist, who was living with Anatole. Pierre smiled, looking about
    him merrily.
      "I don't understand. What's it all about?"
      "Wait a bit, he is not drunk yet! A bottle here," said Anatole,
    taking a glass from the table he went up to Pierre.
      "First of all you must drink!"
      Pierre drank one glass after another, looking from under his brows
    at the tipsy guests who were again crowding round the window, and
    listening to their chatter. Anatole kept on 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.
      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.
      "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.
      "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.
      "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
      Anatole stopped him.
      "Don't touch him! You'll startle him and then he'll be killed.
    Eh?... What then?... Eh?"
      Dolokhov turned round and, again holding on with both hands,
    arranged himself on his seat.
      "If anyone comes meddling again," said he, emitting the words
    separately through his thin compressed lips, "I will throw him down
    there. Now then!"
      Saying this he again turned round, dropped his hands, took the
    bottle and lifted it to his lips, threw back his head, and raised
    his free hand to balance himself. One of the footmen who had stooped
    to pick up some broken glass remained in that position without
    taking his eyes from the window and from Dolokhov's back. Anatole
    stood erect with staring eyes. The Englishman looked on sideways,
    pursing up his lips. The man who had wished to stop the affair ran
    to a corner of the room and threw himself on a sofa with his face to
    the wall. 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."
      He threw the bottle to the Englishman, who caught it neatly.
    Dolokhov jumped down. He smelt strongly of rum.
      "Well done!... Fine fellow!... There's a bet for you!... Devil
    take you!" came from different sides.
      The Englishman took out his purse and began counting out the
    money. Dolokhov stood frowning and did not speak. Pierre jumped upon
    the window sill.
      "Gentlemen, who wishes to bet with me? I'll do the same thing!" he
    suddenly cried. "Even without a bet, there! Tell them to bring me a
    bottle. I'll do it.... Bring a bottle!"
      "Let him do it, let him do it," said Dolokhov, smiling.
      "What next? Have you gone mad?... No one would let you!... Why,
    you go giddy even on a staircase," exclaimed several voices.
      "I'll drink it! Let's have a bottle of rum!" shouted Pierre, banging
    the table with a determined and drunken gesture and preparing to climb
    out of the window.
      They seized him by his arms; but he was so strong that everyone
    who touched him was sent flying.
      "No, you'll never manage him that way," said Anatole. "Wait a bit
    and I'll get round him.... Listen! I'll take your bet tomorrow, but
    now we are all going to -'s."
      "Come on then," cried Pierre. "Come on!... And we'll take Bruin with
      And he caught the bear, took it in his arms, lifted it from the
    ground, and began dancing round the room with it.
      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.
      "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
      "What is that?" asked the countess as if she did not know what the
    visitor alluded to, though she had already heard about the cause of
    Count Bezukhov's distress some fifteen times.
      "That's what comes of a modern education," exclaimed the visitor.
    "It seems that while he was abroad this young man was allowed to do as
    he liked, now in Petersburg I hear he has been doing such terrible
    things that he has been expelled by the police."
      "You don't say so!" replied the countess.
      "He chose his friends badly," interposed Anna Mikhaylovna. "Prince
    Vasili's son, he, and a certain Dolokhov have, it is said, been up
    to heaven only knows what! And they have had to suffer for it.
    Dolokhov has been degraded to the ranks and Bezukhov's son sent back
    to Moscow. Anatole Kuragin's 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!"
      "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."
      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."
      "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.
      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
      "How do you do, my dear? I wish you many happy returns of your
    name day," said the visitor. "What a charming child," she added,
    addressing the mother.
      This black-eyed, wide-mouthed girl, not pretty but full of life-
    with childish bare shoulders which after her run heaved and shook
    her bodice, with black curls tossed backward, thin bare arms, little
    legs in lace-frilled drawers, and feet in low slippers- was just at
    that charming age when a girl is no longer a child, though the child
    is not yet a young woman. 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.
      "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.
      "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
      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
      The visitor, not knowing what to say, shook her head.
      "It's not at all from friendship," declared Nicholas, flaring up and
    turning away as if from a shameful aspersion. "It is not from
    friendship at all; I simply feel that the army is my vocation."
      He glanced at his cousin and the young lady visitor; and they were
    both regarding him with a smile of approbation.
      "Schubert, the colonel of the Pavlograd Hussars, is dining with us
    today. He has been here on leave and is taking 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
      The little kitten, feasting her eyes on him, seemed ready at any
    moment to start her gambols again and display her kittenish nature.
      "All right, all right!" said the old count. "He always flares up!
    This Buonaparte has turned all their heads; they all think of how he
    rose from an ensign and became Emperor. Well, well, God grant it,"
    he added, not noticing his visitor's 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
      "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.
      *Cousinhood is a dangerous neighborhood.
      "Yes," said the countess when the brightness these young people
    had brought into the room had vanished; and as if answering a question
    no one had put but which was always in her mind, "and how much
    suffering, how much anxiety one has had to go through that we might
    rejoice in them now! And yet really the anxiety is greater now than
    the joy. One is always, always anxious! Especially just at this age,
    so dangerous both for girls and boys."
      "It all depends on the bringing up," remarked the visitor.
      "Yes, you're quite right," continued the countess. "Till now I
    have always, thank God, been my children's friend and had their full
    confidence," said she, repeating the mistake of so many parents who
    imagine that their children have no secrets from them. "I know I shall
    always be my daughters' first confidante, and that if Nicholas, with
    his impulsive nature, does get into mischief (a boy can't help it), he
    will all the same never be like those Petersburg young men."
      "Yes, they are splendid, splendid youngsters," chimed in the
    count, who always solved questions that seemed to him perplexing by
    deciding that everything was splendid. "Just fancy: wants to be an
    hussar. What's one to do, my dear?"
      "What a charming creature your younger girl is," said the visitor;
    "a little volcano!"
      "Yes, a regular volcano," said the count. "Takes after me! And
    what a voice she has; though she's my daughter, I tell the truth
    when I say she'll be a singer, a second Salomoni! We have engaged an
    Italian to give her lessons."
      "Isn't she too young? I have heard that it harms the voice to
    train it at that age."
      "Oh no, not at all too young!" replied the count. "Why, our
    mothers used to be married at twelve or thirteen."
      "And she's in love with 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.
      "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
      "What manners! I thought they would never go," said the countess,
    when she had seen her guests out.
      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."
      "Well, if you do, so much the better, and you can go back to her!"
      "So-o-onya! Look here! How can you torture me and yourself like
    that, for a mere fancy?" said Nicholas taking her hand.
      Sonya did not pull it away, and left off crying. Natasha, not
    stirring and scarcely breathing, watched from her ambush with
    sparkling eyes. "What will happen now?" thought she.
      "Sonya! What is anyone in the world to me? You alone are
    everything!" said Nicholas. "And I will prove it to you."
      "I don't like you to talk like that."
      "Well, then, I won't; only forgive me, Sonya!" He drew her to him
    and kissed her.
      "Oh, how nice," thought Natasha; and when Sonya and Nicholas had
    gone out of the conservatory she followed and called Boris to her.
      "Boris, come here," said she with a sly and significant look. "I
    have something to tell you. Here, here!" and she led him into the
    conservatory to the place among the tubs where she had been hiding.
      Boris followed her, smiling.
      "What is the something?" asked he.
      She grew confused, glanced round, and, seeing the doll she had
    thrown down on one of the tubs, picked it up.
      "Kiss the doll," said she.
      Boris looked attentively and kindly at her eager face, but did not
      "Don't you want to? Well, then, come here," said she, and went
    further in among the plants and threw down the doll. "Closer, closer!"
    she whispered.
      She caught the young officer by his cuffs, and a look of solemnity
    and fear appeared on her flushed face.
      "And me? Would you like to kiss me?" she whispered almost inaudibly,
    glancing up at him from under her brows, smiling, and almost crying
    from excitement.
      Boris blushed.
      "How funny you are!" he said, bending down to her and blushing still
    more, but he waited and did nothing.
      Suddenly she jumped up onto a tub to be higher than he, embraced him
    so that both her slender bare arms clasped him above his neck, and,
    tossing back her hair, kissed him full on the lips.
      Then she slipped down among the flowerpots on the other side of
    the tubs and stood, hanging her head.
      "Natasha," he said, "you know that I love you, but..."
      "You are in love with me?" Natasha broke in.
      "Yes, I am, but please don't let us do like that.... In another four
    years... then I will ask for your hand."
      Natasha considered.
      "Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen," she counted on her slender
    little fingers. "All right! Then it's settled?"
      A smile of joy and satisfaction lit up her eager face.
      "Settled!" replied Boris.
      "Forever?" said the little girl. "Till death itself?"
      She took his arm and with a happy face went with him into the
    adjoining sitting room.
      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
      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
      "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.
      "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
      "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.
      "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
      All four, like a flock of scared birds, got up and left the room.
      "The unpleasant things were said to me," remarked Vera, "I said none
    to anyone."
      "Madame de Genlis! Madame de Genlis!" shouted laughing voices
    through the door.
      The handsome Vera, who produced such an irritating and unpleasant
    effect on everyone, smiled and, evidently unmoved by what had been
    said to her, went to the looking glass and arranged her hair and
    scarf. Looking at her own handsome face she seemed to become still
    colder and calmer.
      In the drawing room the conversation was still going on.
      "Ah, my dear," said the countess, "my life is not all roses
    either. Don't I know that at the rate we are living our means won't
    last long? It's all the Club and his easygoing nature. Even in the
    country do we get any rest? Theatricals, hunting, and heaven knows
    what besides! But don't let's talk about me; tell me how you managed
    everything. I often wonder at you, Annette- how at your age you can
    rush off alone in a carriage to Moscow, to Petersburg, to those
    ministers and great people, and know how to deal with them all! It's
    quite astonishing. How did you get things settled? I couldn't possibly
    do it."
      "Ah, my love," answered Anna Mikhaylovna, "God grant you never
    know what it is to be left a widow without means and with a son you
    love to distraction! One learns many things then," she added with a
    certain pride. "That lawsuit taught me much. When I want to see one of
    those big people I write a note: 'Princess So-and-So desires an
    interview with So and-So,' and then I take a cab and go myself two,
    three, or four times- till I get what I want. I don't mind what they
    think of me."
      "Well, and to whom did you apply about Bory?" asked the countess.
    "You see yours is already an officer in the Guards, while my
    Nicholas is going as a cadet. There's no one to 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.
      "I often think, though, perhaps it's a sin," said the princess,
    "that here lives Count Cyril Vladimirovich Bezukhov so rich, all
    alone... that tremendous fortune... and what is his life worth? It's a
    burden to him, and Bory's life is only just beginning...."
      "Surely he will leave something to Boris," said the countess.
      "Heaven only knows, my dear! These rich grandees are so selfish.
    Still, I will take Boris and go to see him at once, and I shall
    speak to him straight out. Let people think what they will of me, it's
    really all the same to me when my son's fate is at stake." The
    princess rose. "It's now two o'clock and you dine at four. There
    will just be time."
      And like a practical Petersburg lady who knows how to make the
    most of time, Anna Mikhaylovna sent someone to call her son, and
    went into the anteroom with him.
      "Good-by, my dear," said she to the countess who saw her to the
    door, and added in a whisper so that her son should not hear, "Wish me
    good luck."
      "Are you going to Count Cyril Vladimirovich, my dear?" said the
    count coming out from the dining hall into the anteroom, and he added:
    "If he is better, ask Pierre to dine with us. He has been to the
    house, you know, and danced with the 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!"
      "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.
      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.
      "My dear," she said to her son, once more stimulating him by a
    touch, "you promised me!"
      The son, lowering his eyes, followed her quietly.
      They entered the large hall, from which one of the doors led to
    the apartments assigned to Prince Vasili.
      Just as the mother and son, having reached the middle of the hall,
    were about to ask their way of an elderly footman who had sprung up as
    they entered, the bronze handle of one of the doors turned and
    Prince Vasili came out- wearing a velvet coat with a single star on
    his breast, as was his custom when at home- taking leave of a
    good-looking, dark-haired man. This was the celebrated Petersburg
    doctor, Lorrain.
      "Then it is certain?" said the prince.
      "Prince, humanum est errare,* 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..."
      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
      "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.
      "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?"
      "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.
      "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."
      "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
      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.
      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
      "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.
      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
      "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."
      "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."
      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
      "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
      "Yes, it seems he is ill. People are always disturbing him,"
    answered Pierre, trying to remember who this young man was.
      Boris felt that Pierre did not recognize him but did not 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
      "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.
      "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..."
      "Yes, it is all very horrid," interrupted Pierre, "very horrid."
      Pierre was still afraid that this officer might inadvertently say
    something disconcerting to himself.
      "And it must seem to you," said Boris flushing slightly, but not
    changing his tone or attitude, "it must seem to you that everyone is
    trying to get something out of the rich man?"
      "So it does," thought Pierre.
      "But I just wish to say, to avoid misunderstandings, that you are
    quite mistaken if you reckon me or my mother among such people. We are
    very poor, but for my own part at any rate, for the very reason that
    your father is rich, I don't regard myself as a relation of his, and
    neither I nor my mother would ever ask or take anything from him."
      For a long time Pierre could not understand, but when he did, he
    jumped up from the sofa, seized Boris under the elbow in his quick,
    clumsy way, and, blushing far more than Boris, began to speak with a
    feeling of mingled shame and vexation.
      "Well, this is strange! Do you suppose I... who could think?... I
    know very well..."
      But Boris again interrupted him.
      "I am glad I have spoken out fully. Perhaps you did not like it? You
    must excuse me," said he, putting Pierre at ease 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.
      "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.
      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.
      "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.
      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."
      The count came waddling in to see his wife with a rather guilty look
    as usual.
      "Well, little countess? What a saute of game au madere we are to
    have, my dear! I tasted it. The thousand rubles I paid for Taras
    were not ill-spent. He is worth it!"
      He sat down by his wife, his elbows on his knees and his hands
    ruffling his gray hair.
      "What are your commands, little countess?"
      "You see, my dear... What's that mess?" she said, pointing to his
    waistcoat. "It's, the saute, most likely," she added with a smile.
    "Well, you see, Count, I want some money."
      Her face became sad.
      "Oh, little countess!"... and the count began bustling to get out
    his pocketbook.
      "I want a great deal, Count! I want five hundred rubles," and taking
    out her cambric handkerchief she began wiping her husband's waistcoat.
      "Yes, immediately, immediately! Hey, who's there?" he called out
    in a tone only used by persons who are certain that those they call
    will rush to obey the summons. "Send Dmitri to me!"
      Dmitri, a man of good family who had been brought up in the
    count's house and now managed all his affairs, stepped softly into the
      "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
      "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."
      "Ah, money, Count, money! How much sorrow it causes in the world,"
    said the countess. "But I am in great need of this sum."
      "You, my little countess, are a notorious spendthrift," said the
    count, and having kissed his wife's hand he went back to his study.
      When Anna Mikhaylovna returned from Count Bezukhov's the money,
    all in clean notes, was lying ready under a handkerchief on the
    countess' little table, and Anna Mikhaylovna noticed that something
    was agitating her.
      "Well, my dear?" asked the countess.
      "Oh, what a terrible state he is in! One would not know him, he is
    so ill! I was only there a few moments and hardly said a word..."
      "Annette, for heaven's sake don't refuse me," the countess began,
    with a blush that looked very strange on her thin, 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.
      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?"
      *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.
      "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.
      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.
      *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
      "You have only lately arrived?" the countess asked him.
      "Oui, madame," replied he, looking around him.
      "You have not yet seen my husband?"
      "Non, madame." He smiled quite inappropriately.
      "You have been in Paris recently, I believe? I suppose it's very
      "Very interesting."
      The countess exchanged glances with Anna Mikhaylovna. The latter
    understood that she was being asked to entertain this young man, and
    sitting down beside him she began to speak about his father; but he
    answered her, as he had the countess, only in monosyllables. The other
    guests were all conversing with one another. "The Razumovskis... It
    was charming... You are very kind... Countess Apraksina..." was
    heard on all sides. The countess rose and went into the ballroom.
      "Marya Dmitrievna?" came her voice from there.
      "Herself," came the answer in a rough voice, and Marya Dmitrievna
    entered the room.
      All the unmarried ladies and even the married ones except the very
    oldest rose. Marya Dmitrievna paused at the door. Tall and stout,
    holding high her fifty-year-old head with its gray curls, she stood
    surveying the guests, and leisurely 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...."
      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."
      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
      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
      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.
      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
      "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
      "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:
      ... 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?
      *[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.
      "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.
      "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.
      "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:
      "Mamma!" rang out the clear contralto notes of her childish voice,
    audible the whole length of the table.
      "What is it?" asked the countess, startled; but seeing by her
    daughter's face that it was only mischief, she shook a finger at her
    sternly with a threatening and forbidding movement of her head.
      The conversation was hushed.
      "Mamma! What sweets are we going to have?" and Natasha's voice
    sounded still more firm and resolute.
      The countess tried to frown, but could not. Marya Dmitrievna shook
    her fat finger.
      "Cossack!" she said threateningly.
      Most of the guests, uncertain how to regard this sally, looked at
    the elders.
      "You had better take care!" said the countess.
      "Mamma! What sweets are we going to have?" Natasha again cried
    boldly, with saucy gaiety, confident that her prank would be taken
    in good part.
      Sonya and fat little Petya doubled up with laughter.
      "You see! I have asked," whispered Natasha to her little brother and
    to Pierre, glancing at him again.
      "Ice pudding, but you won't get any," said Marya Dmitrievna.
      Natasha saw there was nothing to be afraid of and so she braved even
    Marya Dmitrievna.
      "Marya Dmitrievna! What kind of ice pudding? I don't like ice
      "Carrot ices."
      "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.
      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?"
      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.
      "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.
      "Sonya, don't believe her, darling! Don't believe her! Do you
    remember how we and Nicholas, all three of us, talked in the sitting
    room after supper? Why, we settled how everything was to be. I don't
    quite remember how, but don't you remember that it could all be
    arranged and how nice it all was? There's Uncle Shinshin's brother has
    married his first cousin. And we are only second cousins, you know.
    And Boris says it is quite possible. You know I have told him all
    about it. And he is so clever and so good!" said Natasha. "Don't you
    cry, Sonya, dear love, darling Sonya!" and she kissed her and laughed.
    "Vera's spiteful; never mind her! And all will come right and she
    won't say anything to Mamma. Nicholas will tell her himself, and he
    doesn't care at all for Julie."
      Natasha kissed her on the hair.
      Sonya sat up. The little kitten brightened, its eyes shone, and it
    seemed ready to lift its tail, jump down on its soft paws, and begin
    playing with the ball of worsted as a kitten should.
      "Do you think so?... Really? Truly?" she said, quickly smoothing her
    frock and hair.
      "Really, truly!" answered Natasha, pushing in a crisp lock that
    had strayed from under her friend's plaits.
      Both laughed.
      "Well, let's go and sing 'The Brook.'"
      "Come along!"
      "Do you know, that fat Pierre who sat opposite me is so funny!" said
    Natasha, stopping suddenly. "I feel so happy!"
      And she set off at a run along the passage.
      Sonya, shaking off some down which clung to her and 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
          Who still is thinking but of thee!
        That while her fingers touch the harp
          Wafting sweet music music the lea,
        It is for thee thus swells her heart,
          Sighing its message out to thee...
        A day or two, then bliss unspoilt,
          But oh! till then I cannot live!...
      He had not finished the last verse before the young people began
    to get ready to dance in the large hall, and the sound of the feet and
    the coughing of the musicians were heard from the gallery.
      Pierre was sitting in the drawing-room where Shinshin had engaged
    him, as a man recently returned from abroad, in a political
    conversation in which several others joined but which bored Pierre.
    When the music began Natasha came in and walking straight up to Pierre
    said, laughing and blushing:
      "Mamma told me to ask you to join the dancers."
      "I am afraid of mixing the figures," Pierre replied; "but if you
    will be my teacher..." And lowering his big arm he offered it to the
    slender little girl.
      While the couples were arranging themselves and the 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?"
      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
      "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
      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.
      "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.
      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.
      "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."
      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
      "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?"
      The doctor glanced at his watch.
      "Take a glass of boiled water and put a pinch of cream of tartar,"
    and he indicated with his delicate fingers what he meant by a pinch.
      "Dere has neffer been a gase," a German doctor was saying to an
    aide-de-camp, "dat one liffs after de sird stroke."
      "And what a well-preserved man he was!" remarked the aide-de-camp.
    "And who will inherit his wealth?" he added in a whisper.
      "It von't go begging," replied the German with a smile.
      Everyone again looked toward the door, which creaked as the second
    princess went in with the drink she had prepared according to
    Lorrain's instructions. The German doctor went up to Lorrain.
      "Do you think he can last till morning?" asked the German,
    addressing Lorrain in French which he pronounced badly.
      Lorrain, pursing up his lips, waved a severely negative 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.
      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
      "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.
      "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."
      "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
      "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.
      "And then of course my family has also to be considered," Prince
    Vasili went on, testily pushing away a little table without looking at
    her. "You know, Catiche, that we- you three sisters, Mamontov, and
    my wife- are the count's only direct heirs. I know, I know how hard it
    is for you to talk or think of such matters. It is no easier for me;
    but, my dear, I am getting on for sixty and must be prepared for
    anything. Do you know I have sent for Pierre? The count," pointing
    to his portrait, "definitely demanded that he should be called."
      Prince Vasili looked questioningly at the princess, but could not
    make out whether she was considering what he had just said or
    whether she was simply looking at him.
      "There is one thing I constantly pray God to grant, mon cousin," she
    replied, "and it is that He would be merciful to him and would allow
    his noble soul peacefully to leave this..."
      "Yes, yes, of course," interrupted Prince Vasili impatiently,
    rubbing his bald head and angrily pulling back toward him the little
    table that he had pushed away. "But... in short, the fact is... you
    know yourself that last winter the count made a will by which he
    left all his property, not to us his direct heirs, but to Pierre."
      "He has made wills enough!" quietly remarked the princess. "But he
    cannot leave the estate to Pierre. Pierre is illegitimate."
      "But, my dear," said Prince Vasili suddenly, clutching the little
    table and becoming more animated and talking more rapidly: "what if
    a letter has been written to the Emperor in which the count asks for
    Pierre's legitimation? Do you 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,
      "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."
      *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."
      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.
      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.
      "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."
      "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
      "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!"
      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.
      "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.
      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
      "God be thanked that you are in time," said she to one of the
    priests; "all we relatives have been in such anxiety. This young man
    is the count's son," she added more softly. "What a terrible moment!"
      Having said this she went up to the doctor.
      "Dear doctor," said she, "this young man is the count's son. Is
    there any hope?"
      The doctor cast a rapid glance upwards and silently shrugged his
    shoulders. Anna Mikhaylovna with just the same movement raised her
    shoulders and eyes, almost closing the latter, sighed, and moved
    away from the doctor to Pierre. To him, in a particularly respectful
    and tenderly sad voice, she said:
      "Trust in His mercy!" and pointing out a small sofa for him to sit
    and wait for her, she went silently toward the door that everyone
    was watching and it creaked very slightly as she disappeared behind
      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.
      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
      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:
      "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.
      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
      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:
      "Certainly he must be moved onto the bed; here it will be
      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.
      "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.
      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.
      "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...."
      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
      But Anna Mikhaylovna went forward a step or two to keep her hold
    on the portfolio, and changed her grip.
      Prince Vasili rose. "Oh!" said he with reproach and surprise,
    "this is absurd! Come, let go I tell you."
      The princess let go.
      "And you too!"
      But Anna Mikhaylovna did not obey him.
      "Let go, I tell you! I will take the responsibility. I myself will
    go and ask him, I!... does that satisfy you?"
      "But, Prince," said Anna Mikhaylovna, "after such a solemn
    sacrament, allow him a moment's peace! Here, Pierre, tell them your
    opinion," said she, turning to the young man who, having come quite
    close, was gazing with astonishment at the angry face of the
    princess which had lost all dignity, and at the twitching cheeks of
    Prince Vasili.
      "Remember that you will answer for the consequences," said Prince
    Vasili severely. "You don't know what you are doing."
      "Vile woman!" shouted the princess, darting unexpectedly at Anna
    Mikhaylovna and snatching the portfolio from her.
      Prince Vasili bent his head and spread out his hands.
      At this moment that terrible door, which Pierre had watched so
    long and which had always opened so quietly, burst noisily open and
    banged against the wall, and the second of the three sisters rushed
    out wringing her hands.
      "What are you doing!" she cried vehemently. "He is dying and you
    leave me alone with him!"
      Her sister dropped the portfolio. Anna Mikhaylovna, 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.
      "Ah, my friend!" said he, taking Pierre by the elbow; and there
    was in his voice a sincerity and weakness Pierre had never observed in
    it before. "How often we sin, how much we deceive, and all for what? I
    am near sixty, dear friend... I too... All will end in death, all!
    Death is awful..." and he burst into tears.
      Anna Mikhaylovna came out last. She approached Pierre with slow,
    quiet steps.
      "Pierre!" she said.
      Pierre gave her an inquiring look. She kissed the young man on his
    forehead, wetting him with her tears. Then after a pause she said:
      "He is no more...."
      Pierre looked at her over his spectacles.
      "Come, I will go with you. Try to weep, nothing gives such relief as
      She led him into the dark drawing room and Pierre was glad no one
    could see his face. Anna Mikhaylovna left him, and when she returned
    he was fast asleep with his head on his arm.
      In the morning Anna Mikhaylovna said to Pierre:
      "Yes, my dear, this is a great loss for us all, not to speak of you.
    But God will support you: you are young, and are now, I hope, in
    command of an immense fortune. The will has not yet been opened. I
    know you well enough to be sure that this will not turn your head, but
    it imposes duties on you, and you must be a man."
      Pierre was silent.
      "Perhaps later on I may tell you, my dear boy, that if I had not
    been there, God only knows what would have happened! You know, Uncle
    promised me only the day before yesterday not to forget Boris. But
    he had no time. I hope, my dear friend, you will carry out your
    father's wish?"
      Pierre understood nothing of all this and coloring shyly looked in
    silence at Princess Anna Mikhaylovna. After her talk with Pierre, Anna
    Mikhaylovna returned to the Rostovs' and went to bed. On waking in the
    morning she told the Rostovs and all her acquaintances the details
    of Count Bezukhov's death. She said the count had died as she would
    herself wish to die, that his end was not only touching but
    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.
      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:
      "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.
      "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
      "Read this if you like, Father," said the princess, blushing still
    more and holding out the letter.
      "The third, I said the third!" cried the prince abruptly, pushing
    the letter away, and leaning his elbows on the table he drew toward
    him the exercise book containing geometrical figures.
      "Well, madam," he began, stooping over the book close to his
    daughter and placing an arm on the back of the chair on which she sat,
    so that she felt herself surrounded on all sides by the acrid scent of
    old age and tobacco, which she had known so long. "Now, madam, these
    triangles are equal; please note that the angle ABC..."
      The princess looked in a scared way at her father's eyes
    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.
      "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.
      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:
      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.
      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.
      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!
      "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."
      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.
      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.
      "Is that Mary practicing? Let's go quietly and take her by
      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."
      "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.
      "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.
      "Yes, and even tomorrow," replied her brother.
      "He is leaving me here, God knows why, when he might have had
      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
      "Is it certain?" she said.
      The face of the little princess changed. She sighed and said:
    "Yes, quite certain. Ah! it is very dreadful..."
      Her lip descended. She brought her face close to her sister-in-law's
    and unexpectedly again began to cry.
      "She needs rest," said Prince Andrew with a frown. "Don't you, Lise?
    Take her to your room and I'll go to Father. How is he? Just the
      "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.
      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?"
      "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
      "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."*
      *"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."
      "Well, you've told me nothing new," and the old man repeated,
    meditatively and rapidly:
      "Dieu sait quand reviendra. Go to the dining room."
      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!"
      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.
      "You must walk, walk as much as possible, as much as possible," he
      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
      "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
      "Well, Michael Ivanovich, our Bonaparte will be having a bad time of
    it. Prince Andrew" (he always spoke thus of his son) "has been telling
    me what forces are being collected against him! While you and I
    never thought much of him."
      Michael Ivanovich did not at all know when "you and I" had said such
    things about Bonaparte, but understanding that he was wanted as a
    peg on which to hang the prince's favorite topic, he looked
    inquiringly at the young prince, wondering what would follow.
      "He is a great tactician!" said the prince to his son, pointing to
    the architect.
      And the conversation again turned on the war, on 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!..."
      "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
      "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."
      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!"
      "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.
      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
      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
      "And where is Lise?" he asked, answering her question only by a
      "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.
      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
      "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
      "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
      "To be quite frank, Mary, I expect Father's character sometimes
    makes things trying for you, doesn't it?" Prince Andrew asked
      Princess Mary was first surprised and then aghast at this question.
      "For me? For me?... Trying for me!..." said she.
      "He always was rather harsh; and now I should think he's getting
    very trying," said Prince Andrew, apparently speaking lightly of their
    father in order to puzzle or test his sister.
      "You are good in every way, Andrew, but you have a kind of
    intellectual pride," said the princess, following the train of her own
    thoughts rather than the trend of the conversation- "and that's a
    great sin. How can one judge Father? But even if one might, what
    feeling except veneration could such a man as my father evoke? And I
    am so contented and happy with him. I only wish you were all as
    happy as I am."
      Her brother shook his head incredulously.
      "The only thing that is hard for me... I will tell you the truth,
    Andrew... is Father's way of treating religious subjects. I don't
    understand how a man of his immense intellect can fail to see what
    is as clear as day, and can go so far astray. That is the only thing
    that makes me unhappy. But even in this I can see lately a shade of
    improvement. His satire has been less bitter of late, and there was
    a monk he received and had a long talk with."
      "Ah! my dear, I am afraid you and your monk are wasting your
    powder," said Prince Andrew banteringly yet tenderly.
      "Ah! mon ami, I only pray, and hope that God will hear me.
    Andrew..." she said timidly after a moment's silence, "I have a
    great favor to ask of you."
      "What is it, dear?"
      "No- promise that you will not refuse! It will give you no trouble
    and is nothing unworthy of you, but it will comfort me. Promise,
    Andrusha!..." said she, putting her hand in her reticule but not yet
    taking out what she was holding inside it, as if what she held were
    the subject of her request and must not be shown before the request
    was granted.
      She looked timidly at her brother.
      "Even if it were a great deal of trouble..." answered Prince Andrew,
    as if guessing what it was about.
      "Think what you please! I know you are just like Father. Think as
    you please, but do this for my sake! Please do! Father's father, our
    grandfather, wore it in all his wars." (She still did not take out
    what she was holding in her reticule.) "So you promise?"
      "Of course. What is it?"
      "Andrew, I bless you with this icon and you must promise me you will
    never take it off. Do you promise?"
      "If it does not weigh a hundredweight and won't break my neck...
    To please you..." said Prince Andrew. But immediately, noticing the
    pained expression his joke had brought to his sister's face, he
    repented and added: "I am glad; really, dear, I am very glad."
      "Against your will He will save and have mercy on you and bring
    you to Himself, for in Him alone is truth and peace," said she in a
    voice trembling with emotion, solemnly holding up in both hands before
    her brother a small, oval, antique, dark-faced icon of the Saviour
    in a gold setting, on a finely wrought silver chain.
      She crossed herself, kissed the icon, and handed it to Andrew.
      "Please, Andrew, for my sake!..."
      Rays of gentle light shone from her large, timid eyes. Those eyes
    lit up the whole of her thin, sickly face and made it beautiful. Her
    brother would have taken the icon, but she stopped him. Andrew
    understood, crossed himself and kissed the icon. There was a look of
    tenderness, for he was touched, but also a gleam of irony on his face.
      "Thank you, my dear." She kissed him on the forehead and sat down
    again on the sofa. They were silent for a while.
      "As I was saying to you, Andrew, be kind and generous as you
    always used to be. Don't judge Lise harshly," she began. "She is so
    sweet, so good-natured, and her position now is a very hard one."
      "I do not think I have complained of my wife to you, Masha, or
    blamed her. Why do you say all this to me?"
      Red patches appeared on Princess Mary's face and she was silent as
    if she felt guilty.
      "I have said nothing to you, but you have already been talked to.
    And I am sorry for that," he went on.
      The patches grew deeper on her forehead, neck, and cheeks. She tried
    to say something but could not. Her brother had guessed right: the
    little princess had been crying after dinner and had spoken of her
    forebodings about her confinement, and how she dreaded it, and had
    complained of her fate, her father-in-law, and her husband. After
    crying she had fallen asleep. Prince Andrew felt sorry for his sister.
      "Know this, Masha: I can't reproach, have not reproached, and
    never shall reproach my wife with anything, and I cannot reproach
    myself with anything in regard to her; and that always will be so in
    whatever circumstances I may be placed. But if you want to know the
    truth... if you want to know whether I am happy? No! Is she happy? No!
    But why this is so I don't know..."
      As he said this he rose, went to his sister, and, stooping, kissed
    her forehead. His fine eyes lit up with a thoughtful, kindly, and
    unaccustomed brightness, but he was looking not at his sister but over
    her head toward the darkness of the open doorway.
      "Let us go to her, I must say good-by. Or- go and wake and I'll come
    in a moment. 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
      On the way to his sister's room, in the passage which connected
    one wing with the other, Prince Andrew met Mademoiselle Bourienne
    smiling sweetly. It was the third time that day that, with an ecstatic
    and artless smile, she had met him in secluded passages.
      "Oh! I thought you were in your room," she said, for some reason
    blushing and dropping her eyes.
      Prince Andrew looked sternly at her and an expression of anger
    suddenly came over his face. He said nothing to her but looked at
    her forehead and hair, without looking at her eyes, with such contempt
    that the Frenchwoman blushed and went away without a word. When he
    reached his sister's room his wife was already awake and her merry
    voice, hurrying one word after another, came through the open door.
    She was speaking as usual in French, and as if after long
    self-restraint she wished to make up for lost time.
      "No, but imagine the old Countess 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.
      "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
      "About my wife... I am ashamed as it is to leave her on your
      "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."
      "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
      "It's a bad business, eh?"
      "What is bad, Father?"
      "The wife!" said the old prince, briefly and significantly.
      "I don't understand!" said Prince Andrew.
      "No, it can't be helped, lad," said the prince. "They're all like
    that; one can't unmarry. Don't be afraid; I won't tell anyone, but you
    know it yourself."
      He seized his son by the hand with small bony fingers, shook it,
    looked straight into his son's face with keen eyes which seemed to see
    through him, and again laughed his frigid laugh.
      The son sighed, thus admitting that his father had understood him.
    The old man continued to fold and seal his letter, snatching up and
    throwing down the wax, the seal, and the paper, with his accustomed
      "What's to be done? She's pretty! I will do everything. Make your
    mind easy," said he in abrupt sentences while sealing his letter.
      Andrew did not speak; he was both pleased and displeased that his
    father understood him. The old man got up and gave the letter to his
      "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."
      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!"
      "You need not have said that to me, Father," said the son with a
      The old man was silent.
      "I also wanted to ask you," continued Prince Andrew, "if I'm
    killed and if I have a son, do not let him be taken away from you-
    as I said yesterday... let him grow up with you.... Please."
      "Not let the wife have him?" said the old man, and laughed.
      They stood silent, facing one another. The old man's sharp eyes were
    fixed straight on his son's. Something twitched in the lower part of
    the old prince's face.
      "We've said good-by. Go!" he suddenly shouted in a loud, angry
    voice, opening his door.
      "What is it? What?" asked both princesses when they saw for a moment
    at the door Prince Andrew and the figure of the old man in a white
    dressing gown, spectacled and wigless, shouting in an angry voice.
      Prince Andrew sighed and made no reply.
      "Well!" he said, turning to his wife.
      And this "Well!" sounded coldly ironic, as if he were saying,:
    "Now go through your performance."
      "Andrew, already!" said the little princess, turning pale and
    looking with dismay at her husband.
      He embraced her. She screamed and fell unconscious on his shoulder.
      He cautiously released the shoulder she leaned on, looked into her
    face, and carefully placed her in an easy chair.
      "Adieu, Mary," said he gently to his sister, taking her by the
    hand and kissing her, and then he left the room with rapid steps.
      The little princess lay in the armchair, Mademoiselle Bourienne
    chafing her temples. Princess Mary, supporting her sister-in-law,
    still looked with her beautiful eyes full of tears at the door through
    which Prince Andrew had gone and made the sign of the cross in his
    direction. From the study, like pistol shots, came the frequent
    sound of the old man angrily blowing his nose. Hardly had Prince
    Andrew gone when the study door opened quickly and the stern figure of
    the old man in the white dressing gown looked out.
      "Gone? That's all right!" said he; and looking angrily at the
    unconscious little princess, he shook his head reprovingly and slammed
    the door.
                                    BOOK TWO: 1805
      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?"
      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
      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?"
      "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
      "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
      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....
      The commander of the company, with his eyes fixed on his superior,
    pressed two fingers more and more rigidly to his cap, as if in this
    pressure lay his only hope of salvation.
      "Well, why don't you speak? Whom have you got there dressed up as
    a Hungarian?" said the commander with an austere gibe.
      "Your excellency..."
      "Well, your excellency, what? Your excellency! But what about your
    excellency?... nobody knows."
      "Your excellency, it's the officer Dolokhov, who has been 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
      "Your excellency, you gave him leave yourself, on the march."
      "Gave him leave? Leave? That's just like you young men," said the
    regimental commander cooling down a little. "Leave indeed.... One says
    a word to you and you... What?" he added with renewed irritation, "I
    beg you to dress your men decently."
      And the commander, turning to look at the adjutant, 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
      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.
      "No talking in the ranks!... No talking, no talking!"
      "Not bound to endure insults," Dolokhov concluded in loud, ringing
      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.
      "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.
      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.
      "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
      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:
      "You told me to remind you of the officer Dolokhov, reduced to the
    ranks in this regiment."
      "Where is Dolokhov?" asked Kutuzov.
      Dolokhov, who had already changed into a soldier's gray greatcoat,
    did not wait to be called. The shapely figure of the fair-haired
    soldier, with his clear blue eyes, stepped forward from the ranks,
    went up to the commander in chief, and presented arms.
      "Have you a complaint to make?" Kutuzov asked with a slight frown.
      "This is Dolokhov," said Prince Andrew.
      "Ah!" said Kutuzov. "I hope this will be a lesson to you. Do your
    duty. The Emperor is gracious, and I shan't forget you if you
    deserve well."
      The clear blue eyes looked at the commander in chief just as
    boldly as they had looked at the regimental commander, seeming by
    their expression to tear open the veil of convention that separates
    a commander in chief so widely from a private.
      "One thing I ask of your excellency," Dolokhov said in his firm,
    ringing, deliberate voice. "I ask an opportunity to atone for my fault
    and prove my devotion to His Majesty the 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.
      "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.
      "It's different on different days," answered the captain. "One day
    he is sensible, well educated, and good-natured, and the next he's a
    wild beast.... In Poland, if you please, he nearly killed a Jew."
      "Oh, well, well!" remarked the regimental commander. "Still, one
    must have pity on a young man in misfortune. You know he has important
    connections... Well, then, you just..."
      "I will, your excellency," said Timokhin, showing by his smile
    that he understood his commander's wish.
      "Well, of course, of course!"
      The regimental commander sought out Dolokhov in the ranks and,
    reining in his horse, said to him:
      "After the next affair... epaulettes."
      Dolokhov looked round but did not say anything, nor did the
    mocking smile on his lips change.
      "Well, that's all right," continued the regimental 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).
      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..."
      "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!"
      "And did you give me tobacco yesterday? That's just it, friend!
    Ah, well, never mind, here you are."
      "They might call a halt here or we'll have to do another four
    miles without eating."
      "Wasn't it fine when those Germans gave us lifts! You just sit still
    and are drawn along."
      "And here, friend, the people are quite beggarly. There they all
    seemed to be Poles- all under the Russian crown- but here they're
    all regular Germans."
      "Singers to the front " came the captain's order.
      And from the different ranks some twenty men ran to the front. A
    drummer, their leader, turned round facing the 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.
      "My dear fellow, how are you?" said he through the singing, making
    his horse keep pace with the company.
      "How am I?" Dolokhov answered coldly. "I am as you see."
      The lively song gave a special flavor to the tone of free and easy
    gaiety with which Zherkov spoke, and to the intentional coldness of
    Dolokhov's reply.
      "And how do you get on with the officers?" inquired Zherkov.
      "All right. They are good fellows. And how have you wriggled onto
    the staff?"
      "I was attached; I'm on duty."
      Both were silent.
      "She let the hawk fly upward from her wide right sleeve," went the
    song, arousing an involuntary sensation of courage and cheerfulness.
    Their conversation would probably have been different but for the
    effect of that song.
      "Is it true that Austrians have been beaten?" asked Dolokhov.
      "The devil only knows! They say so."
      "I'm glad," answered Dolokhov briefly and clearly, as the song
      "I say, come round some evening and we'll have a game of faro!" said
      "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
      "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
      Dolokhov smiled. "Don't trouble. If I want anything, I won't beg-
    I'll take it!"
      "Well, never mind; I only..."
      "And I only..."
      "Good health..."
              "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.
      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
      "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,
      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
      The Austrian general looked dissatisfied, but had no option but to
    reply in the same tone.
      "On the contrary," he said, in a querulous and angry tone that
    contrasted with his flattering words, "on the contrary, your
    excellency's participation in the common action is highly valued by
    His Majesty; but we think the present delay is 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:
      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.
      "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.
      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.
      "I am ordered to write a memorandum explaining why we are not
      "And why is it?"
      Prince Andrew shrugged his shoulders.
      "Any news from Mack?"
      "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?"
      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.
      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.
      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
      He bowed his head and scraped first with one foot and then with
    the other, awkwardly, like a child at a dancing lesson.
      The member of the Hofkriegsrath looked at him severely but, seeing
    the seriousness of his stupid smile, could not but give him a moment's
    attention. He screwed up his eyes 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.
      *"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.
      "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
      "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.
      *"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.
      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
      "Mind, walk him up and down well!"
      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!"
      "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!"
      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!"
      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.
      "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!"
      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.
      "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
      Rostov took the money and, mechanically arranging the old and new
    coins in separate piles, began counting them.
      "Ah! Telyanin! How d'ye do? They plucked me last night," came
    Denisov's voice from the next room.
      "Where? At Bykov's, at the rat's... I knew it," replied a 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.
      "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
      "The hoof's cracked! That's nothing. I'll teach you what to do and
    show you what kind of rivet to use."
      "Yes, please do," said Rostov.
      "I'll show you, I'll show you! It's not a secret. And it's a horse
    you'll thank me for."
      "Then I'll have it brought round," said Rostov wishing to avoid
    Telyanin, and he went out to give the order.
      In the passage Denisov, with a pipe, was squatting on the
    threshold facing the quartermaster who was reporting to him. On seeing
    Rostov, Denisov screwed up his face and pointing over his shoulder
    with his thumb to the room where Telyanin was sitting, he frowned
    and gave a shudder of disgust.
      "Ugh! I don't like that fellow"' he said, regardless of the
    quartermaster's presence.
      Rostov shrugged his shoulders as much as to say: "Nor do I, but
    what's one to do?" and, having given his order, he returned to
      Telyanin was sitting in the same indolent pose in which Rostov had
    left him, rubbing his small white hands.
      "Well there certainly are disgusting people," thought Rostov as he
      "Have you told them to bring the horse?" asked Telyanin, getting
    up and looking carelessly about him.
      "I have."
      "Let us go ourselves. I only came round to ask Denisov about
    yesterday's order. Have you got it, Denisov?"
      "Not yet. But where are you off to?"
      "I want to teach this young man how to shoe a horse," said Telyanin.
      They went through the porch and into the stable. The 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.
      "Who should it be? You yourself told him to come. It's the
    quartermaster for the money."
      Denisov frowned and was about to shout some reply but stopped.
      "Wetched business," he muttered to himself. "How much is left in the
    puhse?" he asked, turning to Rostov.
      "Seven new and three old imperials."
      "Oh, it's wetched! Well, what are you standing there for, you
    sca'cwow? Call the quahtehmasteh," he shouted to Lavrushka.
      "Please, Denisov, let me lend you some: I have some, you know," said
    Rostov, blushing.
      "Don't like bowwowing from my own fellows, I don't," growled
      "But if you won't accept money from me like a comrade, you will
    offend me. Really I have some," Rostov repeated.
      "No, I tell you."
      And Denisov went to the bed to get the purse from under the pillow.
      "Where have you put it, Wostov?"
      "Under the lower pillow."
      "It's not there."
      Denisov threw both pillows on the floor. The purse was not there.
      "That's a miwacle."
      "Wait, haven't you dropped it?" said Rostov, picking up the
    pillows one at a time and shaking them.
      He pulled off the quilt and shook it. The purse was not there.
      "Dear me, can I have forgotten? No, I remember thinking that you
    kept it under your head like a treasure," said Rostov. "I put it
    just here. Where is it?" he asked, turning to Lavrushka.
      "I haven't been in the room. It must be where you put it."
      "But it isn't?..."
      "You're always like that; you thwow a thing down anywhere and forget
    it. Feel in your pockets."
      "No, if I hadn't thought of it being a treasure," said Rostov,
    "but I remember putting it there."
      Lavrushka turned all the bedding over, looked under the bed and
    under the table, searched everywhere, and stood still in the middle of
    the room. Denisov silently watched Lavrushka's movements, and when the
    latter threw up his arms in surprise saying it was nowhere to be found
    Denisov glanced at Rostov.
      "Wostov, you've not been playing schoolboy twicks..."
      Rostov felt Denisov's gaze fixed on him, raised his eyes, and
    instantly dropped them again. All the blood which had seemed congested
    somewhere below his throat rushed to his face and eyes. He could not
    draw breath.
      "And there hasn't been anyone in the room except the 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.
      "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
      "Do you understand what you're saying?" he said in a trembling
    voice. "There was no one else in the room except myself. So that if it
    is not so, then..."
      He could not finish, and ran out of the room.
      "Ah, may the devil take you and evewybody," were the last words
    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."
      "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.
      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.
      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.
      "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.
      "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.
      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
      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.
      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
      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..."
      "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."
      "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!"
      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.
      "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.
      "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.
      Just then Zherkov entered the room.
      "What brings you here?" cried the officers turning to the newcomer.
      "We're to go into action, gentlemen! Mack has surrendered with his
    whole army."
      "It's not true!"
      "I've seen him myself!"
      "What? Saw the real Mack? With hands and feet?"
      "Into action! Into action! Bring him a bottle for such news! But how
    did you come here?"
      "I've been sent back to the regiment all on account of that devil,
    Mack. An Austrian general complained of me. I 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.
      "We're going into action, gentlemen!"
      "Well, thank God! We've been sitting here too long!"
      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
      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!"
      "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
      "So they will," said Nesvitski. "No, but what I should like,"
    added he, munching a pie in his moist-lipped handsome mouth, "would be
    to slip in over there."
      He pointed with a smile to a turreted nunnery, and his eyes narrowed
    and gleamed.
      "That would be fine, gentlemen!"
      The officers laughed.
      "Just to flutter the nuns a bit. They say there are Italian girls
    among them. On my word I'd give five years of my life for it!"
      "They must be feeling dull, too," said one of the bolder officers,
      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
      Nesvitski rose, puffing, and went up to the general, smiling.
      "Would not your excellency like a little refreshment?" he said.
      "It's a bad business," said the general without answering him,
    "our men have been wasting time."
      "Hadn't I better ride over, your excellency?" asked Nesvitski.
      "Yes, please do," answered the general, and he repeated the order
    that had already once been given in detail: "and tell the hussars that
    they are to cross last and to fire the bridge as I ordered; and the
    inflammable material on the bridge must be reinspected."
      "Very good," answered Nesvitski.
      He called the Cossack with his horse, told him to put away the
    knapsack and flask, and swung his heavy person easily 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
      "Now then, let's see how far it will carry, Captain. Just try!" said
    the general, turning to an artillery officer. "Have a little fun to
    pass the time."
      "Crew, to your guns!" commanded the officer.
      In a moment the men came running gaily from their 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.
      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.
      "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
      "Where the devil have the leg bands been shoved to?" said an
    orderly, running behind the cart and fumbling in the back of it.
      And he also passed on with the wagon. Then came some merry
    soldiers who had evidently been drinking.
      "And then, old fellow, he gives him one in the teeth with the butt
    end of his gun..." a soldier whose greatcoat was well tucked up said
    gaily, with a wide swing of his arm.
      "Yes, the ham was just delicious..." answered another with a loud
    laugh. And they, too, passed on, so that Nesvitski did not learn who
    had been struck on the teeth, or what the ham had to do with it.
      "Bah! How they scurry. He just sends a ball and they think they'll
    all be killed," a sergeant was saying angrily and reproachfully.
      "As it flies past me, Daddy, the ball I mean," said a young
    soldier with an enormous mouth, hardly refraining from laughing, "I
    felt like dying of fright. I did, 'pon my word, I got that
    frightened!" said he, as if bragging of having been frightened.
      That one also passed. Then followed a cart unlike any that had
    gone before. It was a German cart with a pair of horses led by a
    German, and seemed loaded with a whole houseful of effects. A fine
    brindled cow with a large udder was attached to the cart behind. A
    woman with an unweaned baby, an old 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!"
      "Sell me the missis," said another soldier, addressing the German,
    who, angry and frightened, strode energetically along with downcast
      "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.
      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
      Looking down at the waters of the Enns under the bridge, Nesvitski
    suddenly heard a sound new to him, of something swiftly approaching...
    something big, that splashed into the water.
      "Just see where it carries to!" a soldier near by said sternly,
    looking round at the sound.
      "Encouraging us to get along quicker," said another uneasily.
      The crowd moved on again. Nesvitski realized that it was a cannon
      "Hey, Cossack, my horse!" he said. "Now, then, you there! get out of
    the way! Make way!"
      With great difficulty he managed to get to his horse, and shouting
    continually he moved on. The soldiers squeezed themselves to make
    way for him, but again pressed on him so that they jammed his leg, and
    those nearest him were not to blame for they were themselves pressed
    still harder from behind.
      "Nesvitski, Nesvitski! you numskull!" came a hoarse voice from
    behind him.
      Nesvitski looked round and saw, some fifteen paces away but
    separated by the living mass of moving infantry, Vaska Denisov, red
    and shaggy, with his cap on the back of his black head and a cloak
    hanging jauntily over his shoulder.
      "Tell these devils, these fiends, to let me pass!" shouted Denisov
    evidently in a fit of rage, his coal-black eyes with their bloodshot
    whites glittering and rolling as he waved his sheathed saber in a
    small bare hand as red as his face.
      "Ah, Vaska!" joyfully replied Nesvitski. "What's up with you?"
      "The squadwon can't pass," shouted Vaska Denisov, 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
      The soldiers crowded against one another with terrified faces, and
    Denisov joined Nesvitski.
      "How's it you're not drunk today?" said Nesvitski when the other had
    ridden up to him.
      "They don't even give one time to dwink!" answered Vaska Denisov.
    "They keep dwagging the wegiment to and fwo all day. If they mean to
    fight, let's fight. But the devil knows what this is."
      "What a dandy you are today!" said Nesvitski, looking at Denisov's
    new cloak and saddlecloth.
      Denisov smiled, took out of his sabretache a handkerchief that
    diffused a smell of perfume, and put it to Nesvitski's nose.
      "Of course. I'm going into action! I've shaved, bwushed my teeth,
    and scented myself."
      The imposing figure of Nesvitski followed by his Cossack, and the
    determination of Denisov who flourished his sword and shouted
    frantically, had such an effect that they managed to squeeze through
    to the farther side of the bridge and stopped the infantry. Beside the
    bridge Nesvitski found the colonel to whom he had to deliver the
    order, and having done this he rode back.
      Having cleared the way Denisov stopped at the end of the bridge.
    Carelessly holding in his stallion that was neighing and pawing the
    ground, eager to rejoin its fellows, he watched his squadron draw
    nearer. Then the clang of hoofs, as of 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.
      "What good are they? They're led about just for show!" remarked
      "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.
      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
      "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."
      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.
      "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
      "You spoke to me of inflammable material," said he, "but you said
    nothing about firing it."
      "But, my dear sir," said Nesvitski as he drew up, taking off his cap
    and smoothing his hair wet with perspiration with his plump hand,
    "wasn't I telling you to fire the bridge, when 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.
      "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.
      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.
      "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.
      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
      "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
      "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.
      "Oh! Oh!" groaned Nesvitski as if in fierce pain, seizing the
    officer of the suite by the arm. "Look! A man has fallen! Fallen,
      "Two, I think."
      "If I were Tsar I would never go to war," said Nesvitski, turning
      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.
      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.
      The hussars ran back to the men who held their horses; their
    voices sounded louder and calmer, the stretchers disappeared from
      "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."
      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?"
      "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
      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.
      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
      "Good news!... Go on!" he shouted to the driver, and they galloped
      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.
      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
      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.
      "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,
      "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.
      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.
      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.
      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."
      He went on talking in this way in French, uttering only those
    words in Russian on which he wished to put a contemptuous emphasis.
      "Come now! You with all your forces fall on the unfortunate
    Mortier and his one division, and even then Mortier slips through your
    fingers! Where's the victory?"
      "But seriously," said Prince Andrew, "we can at any rate say without
    boasting that it was a little better than at Ulm..."
      "Why didn't you capture one, just one, marshal for us?"
      "Because not everything happens as one expects or with the
    smoothness of a parade. We had expected, as I told you, to get at
    their rear by seven in the morning but had not reached it by five in
    the afternoon."
      "And why didn't you do it at seven in the morning? You ought to have
    been there at seven in the morning," returned 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
      "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."
      "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."
      "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!"
      "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?"
      "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."
      "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.
      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
      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.
      "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.
      "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."
      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
      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
      "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
      "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
      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.
      "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.
      "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."
      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.
      "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?"
      "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?"
      "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.
      "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
      "There now! Confess that this is delightful," said he. "This
    affair of the Thabor Bridge, at Vienna.... They have crossed without
    striking a blow!"
      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
      "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
      "What? Here? But why did they not blow up the bridge, if it was
      "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.
      "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.
      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
      *[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.
      "I am going away."
      "Where to?"
      "To the army."
      "But you meant to stay another two days?"
      "But now I am off at once."
      And Prince Andrew after giving directions about his departure went
    to his room.
      "Do you know, 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!"
      "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
      "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.
      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)."
      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
      "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..."
      "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
      "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.
      "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
      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
      "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
      "I was going to ask you. I know nothing except that it was all I
    could do to get here."
      "And we, my dear boy! It's terrible! I was wrong to laugh at Mack,
    we're getting it still worse," said 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
      "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.
      "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.
      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
      "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.
      "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.
      "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
      "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.
      "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!"
      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.
      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.
      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
      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
      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.
      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.
      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
      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
      "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
      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.
      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
      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
      *"This is a pleasure one gets in camp, Prince."
      They rode up the opposite hill. From there the French could
    already be seen. Prince Andrew stopped and began examining the
      "That's our battery," said the staff officer indicating the
    highest point. "It's in charge of the queer fellow we saw without
    his boots. You can see everything from there; let's go there, Prince."
      "Thank you very much, I will go on alone," said Prince Andrew,
    wishing to rid himself of this staff officer's company, "please
    don't trouble yourself further."
      The staff officer remained behind and Prince Andrew rode on alone.
      The farther forward and nearer the enemy he went, the more orderly
    and cheerful were the troops. The greatest disorder and depression had
    been in the baggage train he had passed that morning on the Znaim road
    seven miles away from the French. At Grunth also some apprehension and
    alarm could be felt, but the nearer Prince Andrew came to the French
    lines the more confident was the appearance of our troops. The
    soldiers in their greatcoats were ranged in lines, the sergeants major
    and company officers were counting the men, poking the last man in
    each section in the ribs and telling him to hold his hand up. Soldiers
    scattered over the whole place were dragging logs and brushwood and
    were building shelters with merry chatter and laughter; around the
    fires sat others, dressed and undressed, drying their shirts and leg
    bands or mending boots or overcoats and crowding round the boilers and
    porridge cookers. In one company dinner was ready, and the soldiers
    were gazing eagerly at the steaming boiler, waiting till the sample,
    which a quartermaster sergeant was carrying in a wooden bowl to an
    officer who sat on a log before his shelter, had been tasted.
      Another company, a lucky one for not all the companies had vodka,
    crowded round a 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.
      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.
      "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.
      "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.
      *"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
      "Bonaparte..." began Dolokhov, but the Frenchman interrupted him.
      "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!"
      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.
      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
      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
      And the owner of the manly voice, evidently an infantry officer,
      "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.
      "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.
      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.
      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
      "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
      "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.
      "What's that that has fallen?" asked the accountant with a naive
      "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.
      "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.
      "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.
      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
      "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...
      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.
      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.
      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!"
      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!"
      "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.
      "Fo'ward, with God, lads!" rang out Denisov's voice. "At a twot
      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.
      "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
      "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.
      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
      "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.
      "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
      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
      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.
      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
      "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.
      "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.
      *Daughter of Matthew.
      "Ah! Breathing again, breathing!" he muttered to himself.
      He imagined himself as an enormously tall, powerful man who was
    throwing cannon balls at the French with both hands.
      "Now then, 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
      "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
      "I... don't..." he muttered, holding up two fingers to his cap.
      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!"
      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
      "Good-by, my dear fellow," said Tushin. "Dear soul! Good-by, my dear
    fellow!" and for some unknown reason tears suddenly filled his eyes.
      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?"
      "He has been set down. He died," replied someone.
      "Help him up. Sit down, dear fellow, sit down! Spread out the cloak,
      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."
      "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.
      "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
      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
      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.
      "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.
      "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.
      "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
      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
      "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:
      "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,
      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
      "Of course, we only just missed one another," said the staff
    officer, with a smile to Bolkonski.
      "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
      "You might have taken some from the covering troops."
      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.
      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
      "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.
      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
      "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.
      Next day the French army did not renew their attack, and the remnant
    of Bagration's detachment was reunited to Kutuzov's army.
                                    BOOK THREE: 1805
      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.
      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."
      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.
      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.
      "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
      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.
      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
      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."
      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.
      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.
      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
      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.
      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
      "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...."
      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.
      "I am asking you when you last heard from Bolkonski," repeated
    Prince Vasili a third time. "How absent-minded you are, my dear
      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
      "How can one talk or think of such trifles?" thought Pierre.
      "Yes, from Olmutz," he answered, with a sigh.
      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.
      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
      "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.
      "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
      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.
      "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
      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
      *"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.
      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
      "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!"
      "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,
      "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.
      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
      "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
      "I am afraid for the baby," she said to Mademoiselle Bourienne:
    "Heaven knows what a fright might do."
      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
      "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.
      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."
      "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.
      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
    a rich and ugly heiress in the same way. All this might, he thought,
    turn out very well and amusingly. "And why not marry her if she really
    has so much money? That never does any harm," thought Anatole.
      He shaved and scented himself with the care and elegance which had
    become habitual to him and, his handsome head held high, entered his
    father's room with the good-humored and victorious air natural to him.
    Prince Vasili's two valets were busy dressing him, and he looked round
    with much animation and cheerfully nodded to his son as the latter
    entered, as if to say: "Yes, that's how I want you to look."
      "I say, Father, joking apart, is she very hideous?" Anatole asked,
    as if continuing a conversation the subject of which had often been
    mentioned during the journey.
      "Enough! What nonsense! Above all, try to be respectful and cautious
    with the old prince."
      "If he starts a row I'll go away," said Prince Anatole. "I can't
    bear those old men! Eh?"
      "Remember, for you everything depends on this."
      In the meantime, not only was it known in the maidservants' rooms
    that the minister and his son had arrived, but the appearance of
    both had been minutely described. Princess Mary was sitting alone in
    her room, vainly trying to master her agitation.
      "Why did they write, why did Lise tell me about it? It can never
    happen!" she said, looking at herself in the glass. "How shall I enter
    the drawing room? Even if I like him I can't now be myself with
    him." The mere thought of her father's look filled her with terror.
    The little princess and Mademoiselle Bourienne had already received
    from Masha, the lady's maid, the necessary report of how handsome
    the minister's son was, with his rosy cheeks and dark eyebrows, and
    with what difficulty the father had dragged his legs upstairs while
    the son had followed him like an eagle, three steps at a time.
    Having received this information, the little princess and Mademoiselle
    Bourienne, whose chattering voices had reached her from the
    corridor, went into Princess Mary's room.
      "You know they've come, Marie?" said the little princess, waddling
    in, and sinking heavily into an armchair.
      She was no longer in the loose gown she generally wore in the
    morning, but had on one of her best dresses. Her hair was carefully
    done and her face was animated, which, however, did not conceal its
    sunken and faded outlines. Dressed as she used to be in Petersburg
    society, it was still more noticeable how much plainer she had become.
    Some unobtrusive touch had been added to Mademoiselle Bourienne's
    toilet which rendered her fresh and prettyface yet more attractive.
      "What! Are you going to remain as you are, dear princess?" she
    began. "They'll be announcing that the gentlemen are in the drawing
    room and we shall have to go down, and you have not smartened yourself
    up at all!"
      The little princess got up, rang for the maid, and hurriedly and
    merrily began to devise and carry out a plan of how Princess Mary
    should be dressed. Princess Mary's self-esteem was wounded by the fact
    that the arrival of a suitor agitated her, and still more so by both
    her companions' not having the least conception that it could be
    otherwise. To tell them that she felt ashamed for herself and for them
    would be to betray her agitation, while to decline their offers to
    dress her would prolong their banter and insistence. She flushed,
    her beautiful eyes grew dim, red blotches came on her face, and it
    took on the unattractive martyrlike expression it so often wore, as
    she submitted herself to Mademoiselle Bourienne and Lise. Both these
    women quite sincerely tried to make her look pretty. She was so
    plain that neither of them could think of her as a rival, so they
    began dressing her with perfect sincerity, and with the naive and firm
    conviction women have that dress can make a face pretty.
      "No really, my dear, this dress is not pretty," said Lise, looking
    sideways at Princess Mary from a little distance. "You have a maroon
    dress, have it fetched. Really! You know the fate of your whole life
    may be at stake. But this one is too light, it's not becoming!"
      It was not the dress, but the face and whole figure of Princess Mary
    that was not pretty, but neither Mademoiselle Bourienne nor the little
    princess felt this; they still thought that if a blue ribbon were
    placed in the hair, the hair combed up, and the blue scarf arranged
    lower on the best maroon dress, and so on, all would be well. They
    forgot that the frightened face and the figure could not be altered,
    and that however they might change the setting and adornment of that
    face, it would still remain piteous and plain. After two or three
    changes to which Princess Mary meekly submitted, just as her hair
    had been arranged on the top of her head (a style that quite altered
    and spoiled her looks) and she had put on a maroon dress with a
    pale-blue scarf, the little princess walked twice round her, now
    adjusting a fold of the dress with her little hand, now arranging
    the scarf and looking at her with her head bent first on one side
    and then on the other.
      "No, it will not do," she said decidedly, clasping her hands. "No,
    Mary, really this dress does not suit you. I prefer you in your little
    gray everyday dress. Now please, do it for my sake. Katie," she said
    to the maid, "bring the princess her gray dress, and you'll see,
    Mademoiselle Bourienne, how I shall arrange it," she added, smiling
    with a foretaste of artistic pleasure.
      But when Katie brought the required dress, Princess Mary remained
    sitting motionless before the glass, looking at her face, and saw in
    the mirror her eyes full of tears and her mouth quivering, ready to
    burst into sobs.
      "Come, dear princess," said Mademoiselle Bourienne, "just one more
    little effort."
      The little princess, taking the dress from the maid, came up to
    Princess Mary.
      "Well, now we'll arrange something quite simple and becoming," she
      The three voices, hers, Mademoiselle Bourienne's, and Katie's, who
    was laughing at something, mingled in a merry sound, like the chirping
    of birds.
      "No, leave me alone," said Princess Mary.
      Her voice sounded so serious and so sad that the chirping of the
    birds was silenced at once. They looked at the beautiful, large,
    thoughtful eyes full of tears and of thoughts, gazing shiningly and
    imploringly at them, and understood that it was useless and even cruel
    to insist.
      "At least, change your coiffure," said the little princess.
    "Didn't I tell you," she went on, turning reproachfully to
    Mademoiselle Bourienne, "Mary's is a face which such a coiffure does
    not suit in the least. Not in the least! Please change it."
      "Leave me alone, please leave me alone! It is all quite the same
    to me," answered a voice struggling with tears.
      Mademoiselle Bourienne and the little princess had to own to
    themselves that Princess Mary in this guise looked very plain, worse
    than usual, but it was too late. She was looking at them with an
    expression they both knew, an expression thoughtful and sad. This
    expression in Princess Mary did not frighten them (she never
    inspired fear in anyone), but they knew that when it appeared on her
    face, she became mute and was not to be shaken in her determination.
      "You will change it, won't you?" said Lise. And as Princess Mary
    gave no answer, she left the room.
      Princess Mary was left alone. She did not comply with Lise's
    request, she not only left her hair as it was, but did not even look
    in her glass. Letting her arms fall helplessly, she sat with
    downcast eyes and pondered. A husband, a man, a strong dominant and
    strangely attractive being rose in her imagination, and carried her
    into a totally different happy world of his own. She fancied a
    child, her own- such as she had seen the day before in the arms of her
    nurse's daughter- at her own breast, the husband standing by and
    gazing tenderly at her and the child. "But no, it is impossible, I
    am too ugly," she thought.
      "Please come to tea. The prince will be out in a moment," came the
    maid's voice at the door.
      She roused herself, and felt appalled at what she had been thinking,
    and before going down she went into the room where the icons hung and,
    her eyes fixed on the dark face of a large icon of the Saviour lit
    by a lamp, she stood before it with folded hands for a few moments.
    A painful doubt filled her soul. Could the joy of love, of earthly
    love for a man, be for her? In her thoughts of marriage Princess
    Mary dreamed of happiness and of children, but her strongest, most
    deeply hidden longing was for earthly love. The more she tried to hide
    this feeling from others and even from herself, the stronger it
    grew. "O God," she said, "how am I to stifle in my heart these
    temptations of the devil? How am I to renounce forever these vile
    fancies, so as peacefully to fulfill Thy will?" And scarcely had she
    put that question than God gave her the answer in her own heart.
    "Desire nothing for thyself, seek nothing, be not anxious or
    envious. Man's future and thy own fate must remain hidden from thee,
    but live so that thou mayest be ready for anything. If it be God's
    will to prove thee in the duties of marriage, be ready to fulfill
    His will." With this consoling thought (but yet with a hope for the
    fulfillment of her forbidden earthly longing) Princess Mary sighed,
    and having crossed herself went down, thinking neither of her gown and
    coiffure nor of how she would go in nor of what she would say. What
    could all that matter in comparison with the will of God, without
    Whose care not a hair of man's head can fall?
      When Princess Mary came down, Prince Vasili and his son were already
    in the drawing room, talking to the little princess and Mademoiselle
    Bourienne. When she entered with her heavy step, treading on her
    heels, the gentlemen and Mademoiselle Bourienne rose and the little
    princess, indicating her to the gentlemen, said: "Voila Marie!"
    Princess Mary saw them all and saw them in detail. She saw Prince
    Vasili's face, serious for an instant at the sight of her, but
    immediately smiling again, and the little princess curiously noting
    the impression "Marie" produced on the visitors. And she saw
    Mademoiselle Bourienne, with her ribbon and pretty face, and her
    unusually animated look which was fixed on him, but him she could
    not see, she only saw something large, brilliant, and handsome
    moving toward her as she entered the room. Prince Vasili approached
    first, and she kissed the bold forehead that bent over her hand and
    answered his question by saying that, on the contrary, she
    remembered him quite well. Then Anatole came up to her. She still
    could not see him. She only felt a soft hand taking hers firmly, and
    she touched with her lips a white forehead, over which was beautiful
    light-brown hair smelling of pomade. When she looked up at him she was
    struck by his beauty. Anatole stood with his right thumb under a
    button of his uniform, his chest expanded and his back drawn in,
    slightly swinging one foot, and, with his head a little bent, looked
    with beaming face at the princess without speaking and evidently not
    thinking about her at all. Anatole was not quick-witted, nor ready
    or eloquent in conversation, but he had the faculty, so invaluable
    in society, of composure and imperturbable self-possession. If a man
    lacking in self-confidence remains dumb on a first introduction and
    betrays a consciousness of the impropriety of such silence and an
    anxiety to find something to say, the effect is bad. But Anatole was
    dumb, swung his foot, and smilingly examined the princess' hair. It
    was evident that he could be silent in this way for a very long
    time. "If anyone finds this silence inconvenient, let him talk, but
    I don't want to"' he seemed to say. Besides this, in his behavior to
    women Anatole had a manner which particularly inspires in them
    curiosity, awe, and even love- a supercilious consciousness of his own
    superiority. It was was as if he said to them: "I know you, I know
    you, but why should I bother about you? You'd be only too glad, of
    course." Perhaps he did not really think this when he met women-
    even probably he did not, for in general he thought very little- but
    his looks and manner gave that impression. The princess felt this, and
    as if wishing to show him that she did not even dare expect to
    interest him, she turned to his father. The conversation was general
    and animated, thanks to Princess Lise's voice and little downy lip
    that lifted over her white teeth. She met Prince Vasili with that
    playful manner often employed by lively chatty people, and
    consisting in the assumption that between the person they so address
    and themselves there are some semi-private, long-established jokes and
    amusing reminiscences, though no such reminiscences really exist- just
    as none existed in this case. Prince Vasili readily adopted her tone
    and the little princess also drew Anatole, whom she hardly knew,
    into these amusing recollections of things that had never occurred.
    Mademoiselle Bourienne also shared them and even Princess Mary felt
    herself pleasantly made to share in these merry reminiscences.
      "Here at least we shall have the benefit of your company all to
    ourselves, dear prince," said the little princess (of course, in
    French) to Prince Vasili. "It's not as at Annette's* receptions
    where you always ran away; you remember cette chere Annette!"
      *Anna Pavlovna.
      "Ah, but you won't talk politics to me like Annette!"
      "And our little tea table?"
      "Oh, yes!"
      "Why is it you were never at Annette's?" the little princess asked
    Anatole. "Ah, I know, I know," she said with a sly glance, "your
    brother Hippolyte told me about your goings on. Oh!" and she shook her
    finger at him, "I have even heard of your doings in Paris!"
      "And didn't Hippolyte tell you?" asked Prince Vasili, turning to his
    son and seizing the little princess' arm as if she would have run away
    and he had just managed to catch her, "didn't he tell you how he
    himself was pining for the dear princess, and how she showed him the
    door? Oh, she is a pearl among women, Princess," he added, turning
    to Princess Mary.
      When Paris was mentioned, Mademoiselle Bourienne for her part seized
    the opportunity of joining in the general current of recollections.
      She took the liberty of inquiring whether it was long since
    Anatole had left Paris and how he had liked that city. Anatole
    answered the Frenchwoman very readily and, looking at her with a
    smile, talked to her about her native land. When he saw the pretty
    little Bourienne, Anatole came to the conclusion that he would not
    find Bald Hills dull either. "Not at all bad!" he thought, examining
    her, "not at all bad, that little companion! I hope she will bring her
    along with her when we're married, la petite est gentille."*
      *The little one is charming.
      The old prince dressed leisurely in his study, frowning and
    considering what he was to do. The coming of these visitors annoyed
    him. "What are Prince Vasili and that son of his to me? Prince
    Vasili is a shallow braggart and his son, no doubt, is a fine
    specimen," he grumbled to himself. What angered him was that the
    coming of these visitors revived in his mind an unsettled question
    he always tried to stifle, one about which he always deceived himself.
    The question was whether he could ever bring himself to part from
    his daughter and give her to a husband. The prince never directly
    asked himself that question, knowing beforehand that he would have
    to answer it justly, and justice clashed not only with his feelings
    but with the very possibility of life. Life without Princess Mary,
    little as he seemed to value her, was unthinkable to him. "And why
    should she marry?" he thought. "To be unhappy for certain. There's
    Lise, married to Andrew- a better husband one would think could hardly
    be found nowadays- but is she contented with her lot? And who would
    marry Marie for love? Plain and awkward! They'll take her for her
    connections and wealth. Are there no women living unmarried, and
    even the happier for it?" So thought Prince Bolkonski while
    dressing, and yet the question he was always putting off demanded an
    immediate answer. Prince Vasili had brought his son with the evident
    intention of proposing, and today or tomorrow he would probably ask
    for an answer. His birth and position in society were not bad.
    "Well, I've nothing against it," the prince said to himself, "but he
    must be worthy of her. And that is what we shall see."
      "That is what we shall see! That is what we shall see!" he added
      He entered the drawing room with his usual alert step, glancing
    rapidly round the company. He noticed the change in the little
    princess' dress, Mademoiselle Bourienne's ribbon, Princess Mary's
    unbecoming coiffure, Mademoiselle Bourienne's and Anatole's smiles,
    and the loneliness of his daughter amid the general conversation. "Got
    herself up like a fool!" he thought, looking irritably at her. "She is
    shameless, and he ignores her!"
      He went straight up to Prince Vasili.
      "Well! How d'ye do? How d'ye do? Glad to see you!"
      "Friendship laughs at distance," began Prince Vasili in his usual
    rapid, self-confident, familiar tone. "Here is my second son; please
    love and befriend him."
      Prince Bolkonski surveyed Anatole.
      "Fine young fellow! Fine young fellow!" he said. "Well, come and
    kiss me," and he offered his cheek.
      Anatole kissed the old man, and looked at him with curiosity and
    perfect composure, waiting for a display of the eccentricities his
    father had told him to expect.
      Prince Bolkonski sat down in his usual place in the corner of the
    sofa and, drawing up an armchair for Prince Vasili, pointed to it
    and began questioning him about political affairs and news. He
    seemed to listen attentively to what Prince Vasili said, but kept
    glancing at Princess Mary.
      "And so they are writing from Potsdam already?" he said, repeating
    Prince Vasili's last words. Then rising, he suddenly went up to his
      "Is it for visitors you've got yourself up like that, eh?" said
    he. "Fine, very fine! You have done up your hair in this new way for
    the visitors, and before the visitors I tell you that in future you
    are never to dare to change your way of dress without my consent."
      "It was my fault, mon pere," interceded the little princess, with
    a blush.
      "You must do as you please," said Prince Bolkonski, bowing to his
    daughter-in-law, "but she need not make a fool of herself, she's plain
    enough as it is."
      And he sat down again, paying no more attention to his daughter, who
    was reduced to tears.
      "On the contrary, that coiffure suits the princess very well,"
    said Prince Vasili.
      "Now you, young prince, what's your name?" said Prince Bolkonski,
    turning to Anatole, "come here, let us talk and get acquainted."
      "Now the fun begins," thought Anatole, sitting down with a smile
    beside the old prince.
      "Well, my dear boy, I hear you've been educated abroad, not taught
    to read and write by the deacon, like your father and me. Now tell me,
    my dear boy, are you serving in the Horse Guards?" asked the old
    man, scrutinizing Anatole closely and intently.
      "No, I have been transferred to the line," said Anatole, hardly able
    to restrain his laughter.
      "Ah! That's a good thing. So, my dear boy, you wish to serve the
    Tsar and the country? It is wartime. Such a fine fellow must serve.
    Well, are you off to the front?"
      "No, Prince, our regiment has gone to the front, but I am
    attached... what is it I am attached to, Papa?" said Anatole,
    turning to his father with a laugh.
      "A splendid soldier, splendid! 'What am I attached to!' Ha, ha, ha!"
    laughed Prince Bolkonski, and Anatole laughed still louder. Suddenly
    Prince Bolkonski frowned.
      "You may go," he said to Anatole.
      Anatole returned smiling to the ladies.
      "And so you've had him educated abroad, Prince Vasili, haven't you?"
    said the old prince to Prince Vasili.
      "I have done my best for him, and I can assure you the education
    there is much better than ours."
      "Yes, everything is different nowadays, everything is changed. The
    lad's a fine fellow, a fine fellow! Well, come with me now." He took
    Prince Vasili's arm and led him to his study. As soon as they were
    alone together, Prince Vasili announced his hopes and wishes to the
    old prince.
      "Well, do you think I shall prevent her, that I can't part from
    her?" said the old prince angrily. "What an idea! I'm ready for it
    tomorrow! Only let me tell you, I want to know my son-in-law better.
    You know my principles- everything aboveboard? I will ask her tomorrow
    in your presence; if she is willing, then he can stay on. He can
    stay and I'll see." The old prince snorted. "Let her marry, it's all
    the same to me!" he screamed in the same piercing tone as when parting
    from his son.
      "I will tell you frankly," said Prince Vasili in the tone of a
    crafty man convinced of the futility of being cunning with so
    keen-sighted companion. "You know, you see right through people.
    Anatole is no genius, but he is an honest, goodhearted lad; an
    excellent son or kinsman."
      "All right, all right, we'll see!"
      As always happens when women lead lonely lives for any length of
    time without male society, on Anatole's appearance all the three women
    of Prince Bolkonski's household felt that their life had not been real
    till then. Their powers of reasoning, feeling, and observing
    immediately increased tenfold, and their life, which seemed to have
    been passed in darkness, was suddenly lit up by a new brightness, full
    of significance.
      Princess Mary grew quite unconscious of her face and coiffure. The
    handsome open face of the man who might perhaps be her husband
    absorbed all her attention. He seemed to her kind, brave,
    determined, manly, and magnanimous. She felt convinced of that.
    Thousands of dreams of a future family life continually rose in her
    imagination. She drove them away and tried to conceal them.
      "But am I not too cold with him?" thought the princess. "I try to be
    reserved because in the depth of my soul I feel too near to him
    already, but then he cannot know what I think of him and may imagine
    that I do not like him."
      And Princess Mary tried, but could not manage, to be cordial to
    her new guest. "Poor girl, she's devilish ugly!" thought Anatole.
      Mademoiselle Bourienne, also roused to great excitement by Anatole's
    arrival, thought in another way. Of course, she, a handsome young
    woman without any definite position, without relations or even a
    country, did not intend to devote her life to serving Prince
    Bolkonski, to reading aloud to him and being friends with Princess
    Mary. Mademoiselle Bourienne had long been waiting for a Russian
    prince who, able to appreciate at a glance her superiority to the
    plain, badly dressed, ungainly Russian princesses, would fall in
    love with her and carry her off; and here at last was a Russian
    prince. Mademoiselle Bourienne knew a story, heard from her aunt but
    finished in her own way, which she liked to repeat to herself. It
    was the story of a girl who had been seduced, and to whom her poor
    mother (sa pauvre mere) appeared, and reproached her for yielding to a
    man without being married. Mademoiselle Bourienne was often touched to
    tears as in imagination she told this story to him, her seducer. And
    now he, a real Russian prince, had appeared. He would carry her away
    and then sa pauvre mere would appear and he would marry her. So her
    future shaped itself in Mademoiselle Bourienne's head at the very time
    she was talking to Anatole about Paris. It was not calculation that
    guided her (she did not even for a moment consider what she should
    do), but all this had long been familiar to her, and now that
    Anatole had appeared it just grouped itself around him and she
    wished and tried to please him as much as possible.
      The little princess, like an old war horse that hears the trumpet,
    unconsciously and quite forgetting her condition, prepared for the
    familiar gallop of coquetry, without any ulterior motive or any
    struggle, but with naive and lighthearted gaiety.
      Although in female society Anatole usually assumed the role of a man
    tired of being run after by women, his vanity was flattered by the
    spectacle of his power over these three women. Besides that, he was
    beginning to feel for the pretty and provocative Mademoiselle
    Bourienne that passionate animal feeling which was apt to master him
    with great suddenness and prompt him to the coarsest and most reckless
      After tea, the company went into the sitting room and Princess
    Mary was asked to play on the clavichord. Anatole, laughing and in
    high spirits, came and leaned on his elbows, facing her and beside
    Mademoiselle Bourienne. Princess Mary felt his look with a painfully
    joyous emotion. Her favorite sonata bore her into a most intimately
    poetic world and the look she felt upon her made that world still more
    poetic. But Anatole's expression, though his eyes were fixed on her,
    referred not to her but to the movements of Mademoiselle Bourienne's
    little foot, which he was then touching with his own under the
    clavichord. Mademoiselle Bourienne was also looking at Princess
    Mary, and in her lovely eyes there was a look of fearful joy and
    hope that was also new to the princess.
      "How she loves me!" thought Princess Mary. "How happy I am now,
    and how happy I may be with such a friend and such a husband! Husband?
    Can it be possible?" she thought, not daring to look at his face,
    but still feeling his eyes gazing at her.
      In the evening, after supper, when all were about to retire, Anatole
    kissed Princess Mary's hand. She did not know how she found the
    courage, but she looked straight into his handsome face as it came
    near to her shortsighted eyes. Turning from Princess Mary he went up
    and kissed Mademoiselle Bourienne's hand. (This was not etiquette, but
    then he did everything so simply and with such assurance!)
    Mademoiselle Bourienne flushed, and gave the princess a frightened
      "What delicacy! " thought the princess. "Is it possible that Amelie"
    (Mademoiselle Bourienne) "thinks I could be jealous of her, and not
    value her pure affection and devotion to me?" She went up to her and
    kissed her warmly. Anatole went up to kiss the little princess' hand.
      "No! No! No! When your father writes to tell me that you are
    behaving well I will give you my hand to kiss. Not till then!" she
    said. And smilingly raising a finger at him, she left the room.
      They all separated, but, except Anatole who fell asleep as soon as
    he got into bed, all kept awake a long time that night.
      "Is he really to be my husband, this stranger who is so kind- yes,
    kind, that is the chief thing," thought Princess Mary; and fear, which
    she had seldom experienced, came upon her. She feared to look round,
    it seemed to her that someone was there standing behind the screen
    in the dark corner. And this someone was he- the devil- and he was
    also this man with the white forehead, black eyebrows, and red lips.
      She rang for her maid and asked her to sleep in her room.
      Mademoiselle Bourienne walked up and down the conservatory for a
    long time that evening, vainly expecting someone, now smiling at
    someone, now working herself up to tears with the imaginary words of
    her pauvre mere rebuking her for her fall.
      The little princess grumbled to her maid that her bed was badly
    made. She could not lie either on her face or on her side. Every
    position was awkward and uncomfortable, and her burden oppressed her
    now more than ever because Anatole's presence had vividly recalled
    to her the time when she was not like that and when everything was
    light and gay. She sat in an armchair in her dressing jacket and
    nightcap and Katie, sleepy and disheveled, beat and turned the heavy
    feather bed for the third time, muttering to herself.
      "I told you it was all lumps and holes!" the little princess
    repeated. "I should be glad enough to fall asleep, so it's not my
    fault!" and her voice quivered like that of a child about to cry.
      The old prince did not sleep either. Tikhon, half asleep, heard
    him pacing angrily about and snorting. The old prince felt as though
    he had been insulted through his daughter. The insult was the more
    pointed because it concerned not himself but another, his daughter,
    whom he loved more than himself. He kept telling himself that he would
    consider the whole matter and decide what was right and how he
    should act, but instead of that he only excited himself more and more.
      "The first man that turns up- she forgets her father and
    everything else, runs upstairs and does up her hair and wags her
    tail and is unlike herself! Glad to throw her father over! And she
    knew I should notice it. Fr... fr... fr! And don't I see that that
    idiot had eyes only for Bourienne- I shall have to get rid of her. And
    how is it she has not pride enough to see it? If she has no pride
    for herself she might at least have some for my sake! She must be
    shown that the blockhead thinks nothing of her and looks only at
    Bourienne. No, she has no pride... but I'll let her see...."
      The old prince knew that if he told his daughter she was making a
    mistake and that Anatole meant to flirt with Mademoiselle Bourienne,
    Princess Mary's self-esteem would be wounded and his point (not to
    be parted from her) would be gained, so pacifying himself with this
    thought, he called Tikhon and began to undress.
      "What devil brought them here?" thought he, while Tikhon was putting
    the nightshirt over his dried-up old body and gray-haired chest. "I
    never invited them. They came to disturb my life- and there is not
    much of it left."
      "Devil take 'em!" he muttered, while his head was still covered by
    the shirt.
      Tikhon knew his master's habit of sometimes thinking aloud, and
    therefore met with unaltered looks the angrily inquisitive
    expression of the face that emerged from the shirt.
      "Gone to bed?" asked the prince.
      Tikhon, like all good valets, instinctively knew the direction of
    his master's thoughts. He guessed that the question referred to Prince
    Vasili and his son.
      "They have gone to bed and put out their lights, your excellency."
      "No good... no good..." said the prince rapidly, and thrusting his
    feet into his slippers and his arms into the sleeves of his dressing
    gown, he went to the couch on which he slept.
      Though no words had passed between Anatole and Mademoiselle
    Bourienne, they quite understood one another as to the first part of
    their romance, up to the appearance of the pauvre mere; they
    understood that they had much to say to one another in private and
    so they had been seeking an opportunity since morning to meet one
    another alone. When Princess Mary went to her father's room at the
    usual hour, Mademoiselle Bourienne and Anatole met in the
      Princess Mary went to the door of the study with special
    trepidation. It seemed to her that not only did everybody know that
    her fate would be decided that day, but that they also knew what she
    thought about it. She read this in Tikhon's face and in that of Prince
    Vasili's valet, who made her a low bow when she met him in the
    corridor carrying hot water.
      The old prince was very affectionate and careful in his treatment of
    his daughter that morning. Princess Mary well knew this painstaking
    expression of her father's. His face wore that expression when his dry
    hands clenched with vexation at her not understanding a sum in
    arithmetic, when rising from his chair he would walk away from her,
    repeating in a low voice the same words several times over.
      He came to the point at once, treating her ceremoniously.
      "I have had a proposition made me concerning you," he said with an
    unnatural smile. "I expect you have guessed that Prince Vasili has not
    come and brought his pupil with him" (for some reason Prince Bolkonski
    referred to Anatole as a "pupil") "for the sake of my beautiful
    eyes. Last night a proposition was made me on your account and, as you
    know my principles, I refer it to you."
      "How am I to understand you, mon pere?" said the princess, growing
    pale and then blushing.
      "How understand me!" cried her father angrily. "Prince Vasili
    finds you to his taste as a daughter-in-law and makes a proposal to
    you on his pupil's behalf. That's how it's to be understood! 'How
    understand it'!... And I ask you!"
      "I do not know what you think, Father," whispered the princess.
      "I? I? What of me? Leave me out of the question. I'm not going to
    get married. What about you? That's what I want to know."
      The princess saw that her father regarded the matter with
    disapproval, but at that moment the thought occurred to her that her
    fate would be decided now or never. She lowered her eyes so as not
    to see the gaze under which she felt that she could not think, but
    would only be able to submit from habit, and she said: "I wish only to
    do your will, but if I had to express my own desire..." She had no
    time to finish. The old prince interrupted her.
      "That's admirable!" he shouted. "He will take you with your dowry
    and take Mademoiselle Bourienne into the bargain. She'll be the
    wife, while you..."
      The prince stopped. He saw the effect these words had produced on
    his daughter. She lowered her head and was ready to burst into tears.
      "Now then, now then, I'm only joking!" he said. "Remember this,
    Princess, I hold to the principle that a maiden has a full right to
    choose. I give you freedom. Only remember that your life's happiness
    depends on your decision. Never mind me!"
      "But I do not know, Father!"
      "There's no need to talk! He receives his orders and will marry
    you or anybody; but you are free to choose.... Go to your room,
    think it over, and come back in an hour and tell me in his presence:
    yes or no. I know you will pray over it. Well, pray if you like, but
    you had better think it over. Go! Yes or no, yes or no, yes or no!" he
    still shouted when the princess, as if lost in a fog, had already
    staggered out of the study.
      Her fate was decided and happily decided. But what her father had
    said about Mademoiselle Bourienne was dreadful. It was untrue to be
    sure, but still it was terrible, and she could not help thinking of
    it. She was going straight on through the conservatory, neither seeing
    nor hearing anything, when suddenly the well-known whispering of
    Mademoiselle Bourienne aroused her. She raised her eyes, and two steps
    away saw Anatole embracing the Frenchwoman and whispering something to
    her. With a horrified expression on his handsome face, Anatole
    looked at Princess Mary, but did not at once take his arm from the
    waist of Mademoiselle Bourienne who had not yet seen her.
      "Who's that? Why? Wait a moment!" Anatole's face seemed to say.
    Princess Mary looked at them in silence. She could not understand
    it. At last Mademoiselle Bourienne gave a scream and ran away. Anatole
    bowed to Princess Mary with a gay smile, as if inviting her to join in
    a laugh at this strange incident, and then shrugging his shoulders
    went to the door that led to his own apartments.
      An hour later, Tikhon came to call Princess Mary to the old
    prince; he added that Prince Vasili was also there. When Tikhon came
    to her Princess Mary was sitting on the sofa in her room, holding
    the weeping Mademoiselle Bourienne in her arms and gently stroking her
    hair. The princess' beautiful eyes with all their former calm radiance
    were looking with tender affection and pity at Mademoiselle
    Bourienne's pretty face.
      "No, Princess, I have lost your affection forever!" said
    Mademoiselle Bourienne.
      "Why? I love you more than ever," said Princess Mary, "and I will
    try to do all I can for your happiness."
      "But you despise me. You who are so pure can never understand
    being so carried away by passion. Oh, only my poor mother..."
      "I quite understand," answered Princess Mary, with a sad smile.
    "Calm yourself, my dear. I will go to my father," she said, and went
      Prince Vasili, with one leg thrown high over the other and a
    snuffbox in his hand, was sitting there with a smile of deep emotion
    on his face, as if stirred to his heart's core and himself
    regretting and laughing at his own sensibility, when Princess Mary
    entered. He hurriedly took a pinch of snuff.
      "Ah, my dear, my dear!" he began, rising and taking her by both
    hands. Then, sighing, he added: "My son's fate is in your hands.
    Decide, my dear, good, gentle Marie, whom I have always loved as a
      He drew back and a real tear appeared in his eye.
      "Fr... fr..." snorted Prince Bolkonski. "The prince is making a
    proposition to you in his pupil's- I mean, his son's- name. Do you
    wish or not to be Prince Anatole Kuragin's wife? Reply: yes or no," he
    shouted, "and then I shall reserve the right to state my opinion also.
    Yes, my opinion, and only my opinion," added Prince Bolkonski, turning
    to Prince Vasili and answering his imploring look. "Yes, or no?"
      "My desire is never to leave you, Father, never to separate my
    life from yours. I don't wish to marry," she answered positively,
    glancing at Prince Vasili and at her father with her beautiful eyes.
      "Humbug! Nonsense! Humbug, humbug, humbug!" cried Prince
    Bolkonski, frowning and taking his daughter's hand; he did not kiss
    her, but only bending his forehead to hers just touched it, and
    pressed her hand so that she winced and uttered a cry.
      Prince Vasili rose.
      "My dear, I must tell you that this is a moment I shall never, never
    forget. But, my dear, will you not give us a little hope of touching
    this heart, so kind and generous? Say 'perhaps'... The future is so
    long. Say 'perhaps.'"
      "Prince, what I have said is all there is in my heart. I thank you
    for the honor, but I shall never be your son's wife."
      "Well, so that's finished, my dear fellow! I am very glad to have
    seen you. Very glad! Go back to your rooms, Princess. Go!" said the
    old prince. "Very, very glad to glad to have seen you," repeated he,
    embracing Prince Vasili.
      "My vocation is a different one," thought Princess Mary. "My
    vocation is to be happy with another kind of happiness, the
    happiness of love and self-sacrifice. And cost what it may, I will
    arrange poor Amelie's happiness, she loves him so passionately, and so
    passionately repents. I will do all I can to arrange the match between
    them. If he is not rich I will give her the means; I will ask my
    father and Andrew. I shall be so happy when she is his wife. She is so
    unfortunate, a stranger, alone, helpless! And, oh God, how
    passionately she must love him if she could so far forget herself!
    Perhaps I might have done the same!..." thought Princess Mary.
      It was long since the Rostovs had news of Nicholas. Not till
    midwinter was the count at last handed a letter addressed in his son's
    handwriting. On receiving it, he ran on tiptoe to his study in alarm
    and haste, trying to escape notice, closed the door, and began to read
    the letter.
      Anna Mikhaylovna, who always knew everything that passed in the
    house, on hearing of the arrival of the letter went softly into the
    room and found the count with it in his hand, sobbing and laughing
    at the same time.
      Anna Mikhaylovna, though her circumstances had improved, was still
    living with the Rostovs.
      "My dear friend?" said she, in a tone of pathetic inquiry,
    prepared to sympathize in any way.
      The count sobbed yet more.
      "Nikolenka... a letter... wa... a... s... wounded... my darling
    boy... the countess... promoted to be an officer... thank God... How
    tell the little countess!"
      Anna Mikhaylovna sat down beside him, with her own handkerchief
    wiped the tears from his eyes and from the letter, then having dried
    her own eyes she comforted the count, and decided that at dinner and
    till teatime she would prepare the countess, and after tea, with God's
    help, would inform her.
      At dinner Anna Mikhaylovna talked the whole time about the war
    news and about Nikolenka, twice asked when the last letter had been
    received from him, though she knew that already, and remarked that
    they might very likely be getting a letter from him that day. Each
    time that these hints began to make the countess anxious and she
    glanced uneasily at the count and at Anna Mikhaylovna, the latter very
    adroitly turned the conversation to insignificant matters. Natasha,
    who, of the whole family, was the most gifted with a capacity to
    feel any shades of intonation, look, and expression, pricked up her
    ears from the beginning of the meal and was certain that there was
    some secret between her father and Anna Mikhaylovna, that it had
    something to do with her brother, and that Anna Mikhaylovna was
    preparing them for it. Bold as she was, Natasha, who knew how
    sensitive her mother was to anything relating to Nikolenka, did not
    venture to ask any questions at dinner, but she was too excited to eat
    anything and kept wriggling about on her chair regardless of her
    governess' remarks. After dinner, she rushed head long after Anna
    Mikhaylovna and, dashing at her, flung herself on her neck as soon
    as she overtook her in the sitting room.
      "Auntie, darling, do tell me what it is!"
      "Nothing, my dear."
      "No, dearest, sweet one, honey, I won't give up- I know you know
      Anna Mikhaylovna shook her head.
      "You are a little slyboots," she said.
      "A letter from Nikolenka! I'm sure of it!" exclaimed Natasha,
    reading confirmation in Anna Mikhaylovna's face.
      "But for God's sake, be careful, you know how it may affect your
      "I will, I will, only tell me! You won't? Then I will go and tell at
      Anna Mikhaylovna, in a few words, told her the contents of the
    letter, on condition that she should tell no one.
      "No, on my true word of honor," said Natasha,crossing herself, "I
    won't tell anyone!" and she ran off at once to Sonya.
      "Nikolenka... wounded... a letter," she announced in gleeful
      "Nicholas!" was all Sonya said, instantly turning white.
      Natasha, seeing the impression the of her brother's wound produced
    on Sonya, felt for the first time the sorrowful side of the news.
      She rushed to Sonya, hugged her, and began to cry.
      "A little wound, but he has been made an officer; he is well now, he
    wrote himself," said she through her tears.
      "There now! It's true that all you women are crybabies," remarked
    Petya, pacing the room with large, resolute strides. "Now I'm very
    glad, very glad indeed, that my brother has distinguished himself
    so. You are all blubberers and understand nothing."
      Natasha smiled through her tears.
      "You haven't read the letter?" asked Sonya.
      "No, but she said that it was all over and that he's now an
      "Thank God!" said Sonya, crossing herself. "But perhaps she deceived
    you. Let us go to Mamma."
      Petya paced the room in silence for a time.
      "If I'd been in Nikolenka's place I would have killed even more of
    those Frenchmen," he said. "What nasty brutes they are! I'd have
    killed so many that there'd have been a heap of them."
      "Hold your tongue, Petya, what a goose you are!"
      "I'm not a goose, but they are who cry about trifles," said Petya.
      "Do you remember him?" Natasha suddenly asked, after a moment's
      Sonya smiled.
      "Do I remember Nicholas?"
      "No, Sonya, but do you remember so that you remember him
    perfectly, remember everything?" said Natasha, with an expressive
    gesture, evidently wishing to give her words a very definite
    meaning. "I remember Nikolenka too, I remember him well," she said.
    "But I don't remember Boris. I don't remember him a bit."
      "What! You don't remember Boris?" asked Sonya in surprise.
      "It's not that I don't remember- I know what he is like, but not
    as I remember Nikolenka. Him- I just shut my eyes and remember, but
    Boris... No!" (She shut her eyes.)"No! there's nothing at all."
      "Oh, Natasha!" said Sonya, looking ecstatically and earnestly at her
    friend as if she did not consider her worthy to hear what she meant to
    say and as if she were saying it to someone else, with whom joking was
    out of the question, "I am in love with your brother once for all and,
    whatever may happen to him or to me, shall never cease to love him
    as long as I live."
      Natasha looked at Sonya with wondering and inquisitive eyes, and
    said nothing. She felt that Sonya was speaking the truth, that there
    was such love as Sonya was speaking of. But Natasha had not yet felt
    anything like it. She believed it could be, but did not understand it.
      "Shall you write to him?" she asked.
      Sonya became thoughtful. The question of how to write to Nicholas,
    and whether she ought to write, tormented her. Now that he was already
    an officer and a wounded hero, would it be right to remind him of
    herself and, as it might seem, of the obligations to her he had
    taken on himself?
      "I don't know. I think if he writes, I will write too," she said,
      "And you won't feel ashamed to write to him?"
      Sonya smiled.
      "And I should be ashamed to write to Boris. I'm not going to."
      "Why should you be ashamed?"
      "Well, I don't know. It's awkward and would make me ashamed."
      "And I know why she'd be ashamed," said Petya, offended by Natasha's
    previous remark. "It's because she was in love with that fat one in
    spectacles" (that was how Petya described his namesake, the new
    Count Bezukhov) "and now she's in love with that singer" (he meant
    Natasha's Italian singing master), "that's why she's ashamed!"
      "Petya, you're a stupid!" said Natasha.
      "Not more stupid than you, madam," said the nine-year-old Petya,
    with the air of an old brigadier.
      The countess had been prepared by Anna Mikhaylovna's hints at
    dinner. On retiring to her own room, she sat in an armchair, her
    eyes fixed on a miniature portrait of her son on the lid of a
    snuffbox, while the tears kept coming into her eyes. Anna Mikhaylovna,
    with the letter, came on tiptoe to the countess' door and paused.
      "Don't come in," she said to the old count who was following her.
    "Come later." And she went in, closing the door behind her.
      The count put his ear to the keyhole and listened.
      At first he heard the sound of indifferent voices, then Anna
    Mikhaylovna's voice alone in a long speech, then a cry, then
    silence, then both voices together with glad intonations, and then
    footsteps. Anna Mikhaylovna opened the door. Her face wore the proud
    expression of a surgeon who has just performed a difficult operation
    and admits the public to appreciate his skill.
      "It is done!" she said to the count, pointing triumphantly to the
    countess, who sat holding in one hand the snuffbox with its portrait
    and in the other the letter, and pressing them alternately to her
      When she saw the count, she stretched out her arms to him,
    embraced his bald head, over which she again looked at the letter
    and the portrait, and in order to press them again to her lips, she
    slightly pushed away the bald head. Vera, Natasha, Sonya, and Petya
    now entered the room, and the reading of the letter began. After a
    brief description of the campaign and the two battles in which he
    had taken part, and his promotion, Nicholas said that he kissed his
    father's and mother's hands asking for their blessing, and that he
    kissed Vera, Natasha, and Petya. Besides that, he sent greetings to
    Monsieur Schelling, Madame Schoss, and his old nurse, and asked them
    to kiss for him "dear Sonya, whom he loved and thought of just the
    same as ever." When she heard this Sonya blushed so that tears came
    into her eyes and, unable to bear the looks turned upon her, ran
    away into the dancing hall, whirled round it at full speed with her
    dress puffed out like a balloon, and, flushed and smiling, plumped
    down on the floor. The countess was crying.
      "Why are you crying, Mamma?" asked Vera. "From all he says one
    should be glad and not cry."
      This was quite true, but the count, the countess, and Natasha looked
    at her reproachfully. "And who is it she takes after?" thought the
      Nicholas' letter was read over hundreds of times, and those who were
    considered worthy to hear it had to come to the countess, for she
    did not let it out of her hands. The tutors came, and the nurses,
    and Dmitri, and several acquaintances, and the countess reread the
    letter each time with fresh pleasure and each time discovered in it
    fresh proofs of Nikolenka's virtues. How strange, how extraordinary,
    how joyful it seemed, that her son, the scarcely perceptible motion of
    whose tiny limbs she had felt twenty years ago within her, that son
    about whom she used to have quarrels with the too indulgent count,
    that son who had first learned to say "pear" and then "granny," that
    this son should now be away in a foreign land amid strange
    surroundings, a manly warrior doing some kind of man's work of his
    own, without help or guidance. The universal experience of ages,
    showing that children do grow imperceptibly from the cradle to
    manhood, did not exist for the countess. Her son's growth toward
    manhood, at each of its stages, had seemed as extraordinary to her
    as if there had never existed the millions of human beings who grew up
    in the same way. As twenty years before, it seemed impossible that the
    little creature who lived somewhere under her heart would ever cry,
    suck her breast, and begin to speak, so now she could not believe that
    that little creature could be this strong, brave man, this model son
    and officer that, judging by this letter, he now was.
      "What a style! How charmingly he describes!" said she, reading the
    descriptive part of the letter. "And what a soul! Not a word about
    himself.... Not a word! About some Denisov or other, though he
    himself, I dare say, is braver than any of them. He says nothing about
    his sufferings. What a heart! How like him it is! And how he has
    remembered everybody! Not forgetting anyone. I always said when he was
    only so high- I always said...."
      For more than a week preparations were being made, rough drafts of
    letters to Nicholas from all the household were written and copied
    out, while under the supervision of the countess and the solicitude of
    the count, money and all things necessary for the uniform and
    equipment of the newly commissioned officer were collected. Anna
    Mikhaylovna, practical woman that she was, had even managed by favor
    with army authorities to secure advantageous means of communication
    for herself and her son. She had opportunities of sending her
    letters to the Grand Duke Constantine Pavlovich, who commanded the
    Guards. The Rostovs supposed that The Russian Guards, Abroad, was
    quite a definite address, and that if a letter reached the Grand
    Duke in command of the Guards there was no reason why it should not
    reach the Pavlograd regiment, which was presumably somewhere in the
    same neighborhood. And so it was decided to send the letters and money
    by the Grand Duke's courier to Boris and Boris was to forward them
    to Nicholas. The letters were from the old count, the countess, Petya,
    Vera, Natasha, and Sonya, and finally there were six thousand rubles
    for his outfit and various other things the old count sent to his son.
      On the twelfth of November, Kutuzov's active army, in camp before
    Olmutz, was preparing to be reviewed next day by the two Emperors- the
    Russian and the Austrian. The Guards, just arrived from Russia,
    spent the night ten miles from Olmutz and next morning were to come
    straight to the review, reaching the field at Olmutz by ten o'clock.
      That day Nicholas Rostov received a letter from Boris, telling him
    that the Ismaylov regiment was quartered for the night ten miles
    from Olmutz and that he wanted to see him as he had a letter and money
    for him. Rostov was particularly in need of money now that the troops,
    after their active service, were stationed near Olmutz and the camp
    swarmed with well-provisioned sutlers and Austrian Jews offering all
    sorts of tempting wares. The Pavlograds held feast after feast,
    celebrating awards they had received for the campaign, and made
    expeditions to Olmutz to visit a certain Caroline the Hungarian, who
    had recently opened a restaurant there with girls as waitresses.
    Rostov, who had just celebrated his promotion to a cornetcy and bought
    Denisov's horse, Bedouin, was in debt all round, to his comrades and
    the sutlers. On receiving Boris' letter he rode with a fellow
    officer to Olmutz, dined there, drank a bottle of wine, and then set
    off alone to the Guards' camp to find his old playmate. Rostov had not
    yet had time to get his uniform. He had on a shabby cadet jacket,
    decorated with a soldier's cross, equally shabby cadet's riding
    breeches lined with worn leather, and an officer's saber with a
    sword knot. The Don horse he was riding was one he had bought from a
    Cossack during the campaign, and he wore a crumpled hussar cap stuck
    jauntily back on one side of his head. As he rode up to the camp he
    thought how he would impress Boris and all his comrades of the
    Guards by his appearance- that of a fighting hussar who had been under
      The Guards had made their whole march as if on a pleasure trip,
    parading their cleanliness and discipline. They had come by easy
    stages, their knapsacks conveyed on carts, and the Austrian
    authorities had provided excellent dinners for the officers at every
    halting place. The regiments had entered and left the town with
    their bands playing, and by the Grand Duke's orders the men had
    marched all the way in step (a practice on which the Guards prided
    themselves), the officers on foot and at their proper posts. Boris had
    been quartered, and had marched all the way, with Berg who was already
    in command of a company. Berg, who had obtained his captaincy during
    the campaign, had gained the confidence of his superiors by his
    promptitude and accuracy and had arranged his money matters very
    satisfactorily. Boris, during the campaign, had made the
    acquaintance of many persons who might prove useful to him, and by a
    letter of recommendation he had brought from Pierre had become
    acquainted with Prince Andrew Bolkonski, through whom he hoped to
    obtain a post on the commander in chief's staff. Berg and Boris,
    having rested after yesterday's march, were sitting, clean and
    neatly dressed, at a round table in the clean quarters allotted to
    them, playing chess. Berg held a smoking pipe between his knees.
    Boris, in the accurate way characteristic of him, was building a
    little pyramid of chessmen with his delicate white fingers while
    awaiting Berg's move, and watched his opponent's face, evidently
    thinking about the game as he always thought only of whatever he was
    engaged on.
      "Well, how are you going to get out of that?" he remarked.
      "We'll try to," replied Berg, touching a pawn and then removing
    his hand.
      At that moment the door opened.
      "Here he is at last!" shouted Rostov. "And Berg too! Oh, you
    petisenfans, allay cushay dormir!" he exclaimed, imitating his Russian
    nurse's French, at which he and Boris used to laugh long ago.
      "Dear me, how you have changed!"
      Boris rose to meet Rostov, but in doing so did not omit to steady
    and replace some chessmen that were falling. He was about to embrace
    his friend, but Nicholas avoided him. With that peculiar feeling of
    youth, that dread of beaten tracks, and wish to express itself in a
    manner different from that of its elders which is often insincere,
    Nicholas wished to do something special on meeting his friend. He
    wanted to pinch him, push him, do anything but kiss him- a thing
    everybody did. But notwithstanding this, Boris embraced him in a
    quiet, friendly way and kissed him three times.
      They had not met for nearly half a year and, being at the age when
    young men take their first steps on life's road, each saw immense
    changes in the other, quite a new reflection of the society in which
    they had taken those first steps. Both had changed greatly since
    they last met and both were in a hurry to show the changes that had
    taken place in them.
      "Oh, you damned dandies! Clean and fresh as if you'd been to a fete,
    not like us sinners of the line," cried Rostov, with martial swagger
    and with baritone notes in his voice, new to Boris, pointing to his
    own mud-bespattered breeches. The German landlady, hearing Rostov's
    loud voice, popped her head in at the door.
      "Eh, is she pretty?" he asked with a wink.
      "Why do you shout so? You'll frighten them!" said Boris. "I did
    not expect you today," he added. "I only sent you the note yesterday
    by Bolkonski- an adjutant of Kutuzov's, who's a friend of mine. I
    did not think he would get it to you so quickly.... Well, how are you?
    Been under fire already?" asked Boris.
      Without answering, Rostov shook the soldier's Cross of St. George
    fastened to the cording of his uniform and, indicating a bandaged arm,
    glanced at Berg with a smile.
      "As you see," he said.
      "Indeed? Yes, yes!" said Boris, with a smile. "And we too have had a
    splendid march. You know, of course, that His Imperial Highness rode
    with our regiment all the time, so that we had every comfort and every
    advantage. What receptions we had in Poland! What dinners and balls! I
    can't tell you. And the Tsarevich was very gracious to all our
      And the two friends told each other of their doings, the one of
    his hussar revels and life in the fighting line, the other of the
    pleasures and advantages of service under members of the Imperial
      "Oh, you Guards!" said Rostov. "I say, send for some wine."
      Boris made a grimace.
      "If you really want it," said he.
      He went to his bed, drew a purse from under the clean pillow, and
    sent for wine.
      "Yes, and I have some money and a letter to give you," he added.
      Rostov took the letter and, throwing the money on the sofa, put both
    arms on the table and began to read. After reading a few lines, he
    glanced angrily at Berg, then, meeting his eyes, hid his face behind
    the letter.
      "Well, they've sent you a tidy sum," said Berg, eying the heavy
    purse that sank into the sofa. "As for us, Count, we get along on
    our pay. I can tell you for myself..."
      "I say, Berg, my dear fellow," said Rostov, "when you get a letter
    from home and meet one of your own people whom you want to talk
    everything over with, and I happen to be there, I'll go at once, to be
    out of your way! Do go somewhere, anywhere... to the devil!" he
    exclaimed, and immediately seizing him by the shoulder and looking
    amiably into his face, evidently wishing to soften the rudeness of his
    words, he added, "Don't be hurt, my dear fellow; you know I speak from
    my heart as to an old acquaintance."
      "Oh, don't mention it, Count! I quite understand," said Berg,
    getting up and speaking in a muffled and guttural voice.
      "Go across to our hosts: they invited you," added Boris.
      Berg put on the cleanest of coats, without a spot or speck of
    dust, stood before a looking glass and brushed the hair on his temples
    upwards, in the way affected by the Emperor Alexander, and, having
    assured himself from the way Rostov looked at it that his coat had
    been noticed, left the room with a pleasant smile.
      "Oh dear, what a beast I am!" muttered Rostov, as he read the
      "Oh, what a pig I am, not to have written and to have given them
    such a fright! Oh, what a pig I am!" he repeated, flushing suddenly.
    "Well, have you sent Gabriel for some wine? All right let's have
      In the letter from his parents was enclosed a letter of
    recommendation to Bagration which the old countess at Anna
    Mikhaylovna's advice had obtained through an acquaintance and sent
    to her son, asking him to take it to its destination and make use of
      "What nonsense! Much I need it!" said Rostov, throwing the letter
    under the table.
      "Why have you thrown that away?" asked Boris.
      "It is some letter of recommendation... what the devil do I want
    it for!"
      "Why 'What the devil'?" said Boris, picking it up and reading the
    address. "This letter would be of great use to you."
      "I want nothing, and I won't be anyone's adjutant."
      "Why not?" inquired Boris.
      "It's a lackey's job!"
      "You are still the same dreamer, I see," remarked Boris, shaking his
      "And you're still the same diplomatist! But that's not the
    point... Come, how are you?" asked Rostov.
      "Well, as you see. So far everything's all right, but I confess I
    should much like to be an adjutant and not remain at the front."
      "Because when once a man starts on military service, he should try
    to make as successful a career of it as possible."
      "Oh, that's it!" said Rostov, evidently thinking of something else.
      He looked intently and inquiringly into his friend's eyes, evidently
    trying in vain to find the answer to some question.
      Old Gabriel brought in the wine.
      "Shouldn't we now send for Berg?" asked Boris. "He would drink
    with you. I can't."
      "Well, send for him... and how do you get on with that German?"
    asked Rostov, with a contemptuous smile.
      "He is a very, very nice, honest, and pleasant fellow," answered
      Again Rostov looked intently into Boris' eyes and sighed. Berg
    returned, and over the bottle of wine conversation between the three
    officers became animated. The Guardsmen told Rostov of their march and
    how they had been made much of in Russia, Poland, and abroad. They
    spoke of the sayings and doings of their commander, the Grand Duke,
    and told stories of his kindness and irascibility. Berg, as usual,
    kept silent when the subject did not relate to himself, but in
    connection with the stories of the Grand Duke's quick temper he
    related with gusto how in Galicia he had managed to deal with the
    Grand Duke when the latter made a tour of the regiments and was
    annoyed at the irregularity of a movement. With a pleasant smile
    Berg related how the Grand Duke had ridden up to him in a violent
    passion, shouting: "Arnauts!" ("Arnauts" was the Tsarevich's
    favorite expression when he was in a rage) and called for the
    company commander.
      "Would you believe it, Count, I was not at all alarmed, because I
    knew I was right. Without boasting, you know, I may say that I know
    the Army Orders by heart and know the Regulations as well as I do
    the Lord's Prayer. So, Count, there never is any negligence in my
    company, and so my conscience was at ease. I came forward...." (Berg
    stood up and showed how he presented himself, with his hand to his
    cap, and really it would have been difficult for a face to express
    greater respect and self-complacency than his did.) "Well, he
    stormed at me, as the saying is, stormed and stormed and stormed! It
    was not a matter of life but rather of death, as the saying is.
    'Albanians!' and 'devils!' and 'To Siberia!'" said Berg with a
    sagacious smile. "I knew I was in the right so I kept silent; was
    not that best, Count?... 'Hey, are you dumb?' he shouted. Still I
    remained silent. And what do you think, Count? The next day it was not
    even mentioned in the Orders of the Day. That's what keeping one's
    head means. That's the way, Count," said Berg, lighting his pipe and
    emitting rings of smoke.
      "Yes, that was fine," said Rostov, smiling.
      But Boris noticed that he was preparing to make fun of Berg, and
    skillfully changed the subject. He asked him to tell them how and
    where he got his wound. This pleased Rostov and he began talking about
    it, and as he went on became more and more animated. He told them of
    his Schon Grabern affair, just as those who have taken part in a
    battle generally do describe it, that is, as they would like it to
    have been, as they have heard it described by others, and as sounds
    well, but not at all as it really was. Rostov was a truthful young man
    and would on no account have told a deliberate lie. He began his story
    meaning to tell everything just as it happened, but imperceptibly,
    involuntarily, and inevitably he lapsed into falsehood. If he had told
    the truth to his hearers- who like himself had often heard stories
    of attacks and had formed a definite idea of what an attack was and
    were expecting to hear just such a story- they would either not have
    believed him or, still worse, would have thought that Rostov was
    himself to blame since what generally happens to the narrators of
    cavalry attacks had not happened to him. He could not tell them simply
    that everyone went at a trot and that he fell off his horse and
    sprained his arm and then ran as hard as he could from a Frenchman
    into the wood. Besides, to tell everything as it really happened, it
    would have been necessary to make an effort of will to tell only
    what happened. It is very difficult to tell the truth, and young
    people are rarely capable of it. His hearers expected a story of how
    beside himself and all aflame with excitement, he had flown like a
    storm at the square, cut his way in, slashed right and left, how his
    saber had tasted flesh and he had fallen exhausted, and so on. And
    so he told them all that.
      In the middle of his story, just as he was saying: "You cannot
    imagine what a strange frenzy one experiences during an attack,"
    Prince Andrew, whom Boris was expecting, entered the room. Prince
    Andrew, who liked to help young men, was flattered by being asked
    for his assistance and being well disposed toward Boris, who had
    managed to please him the day before, he wished to do what the young
    man wanted. Having been sent with papers from Kutuzov to the
    Tsarevich, he looked in on Boris, hoping to find him alone. When he
    came in and saw an hussar of the line recounting his military exploits
    (Prince Andrew could not endure that sort of man), he gave Boris a
    pleasant smile, frowned as with half-closed eyes he looked at
    Rostov, bowed slightly and wearily, and sat down languidly on the
    sofa: he felt it unpleasant to have dropped in on bad company.
    Rostov flushed up on noticing this, but he did not care, this was a
    mere stranger. Glancing, however, at Boris, he saw that he too
    seemed ashamed of the hussar of the line.
      In spite of Prince Andrew's disagreeable, ironical tone, in spite of
    the contempt with which Rostov, from his fighting army point of
    view, regarded all these little adjutants on the staff of whom the
    newcomer was evidently one, Rostov felt confused, blushed, and
    became silent. Boris inquired what news there might be on the staff,
    and what, without indiscretion, one might ask about our plans.
      "We shall probably advance," replied Bolkonski, evidently
    reluctant to say more in the presence of a stranger.
      Berg took the opportunity to ask, with great politeness, whether, as
    was rumored, the allowance of forage money to captains of companies
    would be doubled. To this Prince Andrew answered with a smile that
    he could give no opinion on such an important government order, and
    Berg laughed gaily.
      "As to your business," Prince Andrew continued, addressing Boris,
    "we will talk of it later" (and he looked round at Rostov). "Come to
    me after the review and we will do what is possible."
      And, having glanced round the room, Prince Andrew turned to
    Rostov, whose state of unconquerable childish embarrassment now
    changing to anger he did not condescend to notice, and said: "I
    think you were talking of the Schon Grabern affair? Were you there?"
      "I was there," said Rostov angrily, as if intending to insult the
      Bolkonski noticed the hussar's state of mind, and it amused him.
    With a slightly contemptuous smile, he said: "Yes, there are many
    stories now told about that affair!"
      "Yes, stories!" repeated Rostov loudly, looking with eyes suddenly
    grown furious, now at Boris, now at Bolkonski. "Yes, many stories! But
    our stories are the stories of men who have been under the enemy's
    fire! Our stories have some weight, not like the stories of those
    fellows on the staff who get rewards without doing anything!"
      "Of whom you imagine me to be one?" said Prince Andrew, with a quiet
    and particularly amiable smile.
      A strange feeling of exasperation and yet of respect for this
    man's self-possession mingled at that moment in Rostov's soul.
      "I am not talking about you," he said, "I don't know you and,
    frankly, I don't want to. I am speaking of the staff in general."
      "And I will tell you this," Prince Andrew interrupted in a tone of
    quiet authority, "you wish to insult me, and I am ready to agree
    with you that it would be very easy to do so if you haven't sufficient
    self-respect, but admit that the time and place are very badly chosen.
    In a day or two we shall all have to take part in a greater and more
    serious duel, and besides, Drubetskoy, who says he is an old friend of
    yours, is not at all to blame that my face has the misfortune to
    displease you. However," he added rising, "you know my name and
    where to find me, but don't forget that I do not regard either
    myself or you as having been at all insulted, and as a man older
    than you, my advice is to let the matter drop. Well then, on Friday
    after the review I shall expect you, Drubetskoy. Au revoir!" exclaimed
    Prince Andrew, and with a bow to them both he went out.
      Only when Prince Andrew was gone did Rostov think of what he ought
    to have said. And he was still more angry at having omitted to say it.
    He ordered his horse at once and, coldly taking leave of Boris, rode
    home. Should he go to headquarters next day and challenge that
    affected adjutant, or really let the matter drop, was the question
    that worried him all the way. He thought angrily of the pleasure he
    would have at seeing the fright of that small and frail but proud
    man when covered by his pistol, and then he felt with surprise that of
    all the men he knew there was none he would so much like to have for a
    friend as that very adjutant whom he so hated.
      The day after Rostov had been to see Boris, a review was held of the
    Austrian and Russian troops, both those freshly arrived from Russia
    and those who had been campaigning under Kutuzov. The two Emperors,
    the Russian with his heir the Tsarevich, and the Austrian with the
    Archduke, inspected the allied army of eighty thousand men.
      From early morning the smart clean troops were on the move,
    forming up on the field before the fortress. Now thousands of feet and
    bayonets moved and halted at the officers' command, turned with
    banners flying, formed up at intervals, and wheeled round other
    similar masses of infantry in different uniforms; now was heard the
    rhythmic beat of hoofs and the jingling of showy cavalry in blue, red,
    and green braided uniforms, with smartly dressed bandsmen in front
    mounted on black, roan, or gray horses; then again, spreading out with
    the brazen clatter of the polished shining cannon that quivered on the
    gun carriages and with the smell of linstocks, came the artillery
    which crawled between the infantry and cavalry and took up its
    appointed position. Not only the generals in full parade uniforms,
    with their thin or thick waists drawn in to the utmost, their red
    necks squeezed into their stiff collars, and wearing scarves and all
    their decorations, not only the elegant, pomaded officers, but every
    soldier with his freshly washed and shaven face and his weapons
    clean and polished to the utmost, and every horse groomed till its
    coat shone like satin and every hair of its wetted mane lay smooth-
    felt that no small matter was happening, but an important and solemn
    affair. Every general and every soldier was conscious of his own
    insignificance, aware of being but a drop in that ocean of men, and
    yet at the same time was conscious of his strength as a part of that
    enormous whole.
      From early morning strenuous activities and efforts had begun and by
    ten o'clock all had been brought into due order. The ranks were
    drown up on the vast field. The whole army was extended in three
    lines: the cavalry in front, behind it the artillery, and behind
    that again the infantry.
      A space like a street was left between each two lines of troops. The
    three parts of that army were sharply distinguished: Kutuzov's
    fighting army (with the Pavlograds on the right flank of the front);
    those recently arrived from Russia, both Guards and regiments of the
    line; and the Austrian troops. But they all stood in the same lines,
    under one command, and in a like order.
      Like wind over leaves ran an excited whisper: "They're coming!
    They're coming!" Alarmed voices were heard, and a stir of final
    preparation swept over all the troops.
      From the direction of Olmutz in front of them, a group was seen
    approaching. And at that moment, though the day was still, a light
    gust of wind blowing over the army slightly stirred the streamers on
    the lances and the unfolded standards fluttered against their
    staffs. It looked as if by that slight motion the army itself was
    expressing its joy at the approach of the Emperors. One voice was
    heard shouting: "Eyes front!" Then, like the crowing of cocks at
    sunrise, this was repeated by others from various sides and all became
      In the deathlike stillness only the tramp of horses was heard.
    This was the Emperors' suites. The Emperors rode up to the flank,
    and the trumpets of the first cavalry regiment played the general
    march. It seemed as though not the trumpeters were playing, but as
    if the army itself, rejoicing at the Emperors' approach, had naturally
    burst into music. Amid these sounds, only the youthful kindly voice of
    the Emperor Alexander was clearly heard. He gave the words of
    greeting, and the first regiment roared "Hurrah!" so deafeningly,
    continuously, and joyfully that the men themselves were awed by
    their multitude and the immensity of the power they constituted.
      Rostov, standing in the front lines of Kutuzov's army which the Tsar
    approached first, experienced the same feeling as every other man in
    that army: a feeling of self-forgetfulness, a proud consciousness of
    might, and a passionate attraction to him who was the cause of this
      He felt that at a single word from that man all this vast mass
    (and he himself an insignificant atom in it) would go through fire and
    water, commit crime, die, or perform deeds of highest heroism, and
    so he could not but tremble and his heart stand still at the imminence
    of that word.
      "Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!" thundered from all sides, one regiment
    after another greeting the Tsar with the strains of the march, and
    then "Hurrah!"... Then the general march, and again "Hurrah!
    Hurrah!" growing ever stronger and fuller and merging into a deafening
      Till the Tsar reached it, each regiment in its silence and
    immobility seemed like a lifeless body, but as soon as he came up it
    became alive, its thunder joining the roar of the whole line along
    which he had already passed. Through the terrible and deafening roar
    of those voices, amid the square masses of troops standing
    motionless as if turned to stone, hundreds of riders composing the
    suites moved carelessly but symmetrically and above all freely, and in
    front of them two men- the Emperors. Upon them the undivided,
    tensely passionate attention of that whole mass of men was
      The handsome young Emperor Alexander, in the uniform of the Horse
    Guards, wearing a cocked hat with its peaks front and back, with his
    pleasant face and resonant though not loud voice, attracted everyone's
      Rostov was not far from the trumpeters, and with his keen sight
    had recognized the Tsar and watched his approach. When he was within
    twenty paces, and Nicholas could clearly distinguish every detail of
    his handsome, happy young face, he experienced a feeling tenderness
    and ecstasy such as he had never before known. Every trait and every
    movement of the Tsar's seemed to him enchanting.
      Stopping in front of the Pavlograds, the Tsar said something in
    French to the Austrian Emperor and smiled.
      Seeing that smile, Rostov involuntarily smiled himself and felt a
    still stronger flow of love for his sovereign. He longed to show
    that love in some way and knowing that this was impossible was ready
    to cry. The Tsar called the colonel of the regiment and said a few
    words to him.
      "Oh God, what would happen to me if the Emperor spoke to me?"
    thought Rostov. "I should die of happiness!"
      The Tsar addressed the officers also: "I thank you all, gentlemen, I
    thank you with my whole heart." To Rostov every word sounded like a
    voice from heaven. How gladly would he have died at once for his Tsar!
      "You have earned the St. George's standards and will be worthy of
      "Oh, to die, to die for him " thought Rostov.
      The Tsar said something more which Rostov did not hear, and the
    soldiers, straining their lungs, shouted "Hurrah!"
      Rostov too, bending over his saddle, shouted "Hurrah!" with all
    his might, feeling that he would like to injure himself by that shout,
    if only to express his rapture fully.
      The Tsar stopped a few minutes in front of the hussars as if
      "How can the Emperor be undecided?" thought Rostov, but then even
    this indecision appeared to him majestic and enchanting, like
    everything else the Tsar did.
      That hesitation lasted only an instant. The Tsar's foot, in the
    narrow pointed boot then fashionable, touched the groin of the
    bobtailed bay mare he rode, his hand in a white glove gathered up
    the reins, and he moved off accompanied by an irregularly swaying
    sea of aides-de-camp. Farther and farther he rode away, stopping at
    other regiments, till at last only his white plumes were visible to
    Rostov from amid the suites that surrounded the Emperors.
      Among the gentlemen of the suite, Rostov noticed Bolkonski,
    sitting his horse indolently and carelessly. Rostov recalled their
    quarrel of yesterday and the question presented itself whether he
    ought or ought not to challenge Bolkonski. "Of course not!" he now
    thought. "Is it worth thinking or speaking of it at such a moment?
    At a time of such love, such rapture, and such self-sacrifice, what do
    any of our quarrels and affronts matter? I love and forgive
    everybody now."
      When the Emperor had passed nearly all the regiments, the troops
    began a ceremonial march past him, and Rostov on Bedouin, recently
    purchased from Denisov, rode past too, at the rear of his squadron-
    that is, alone and in full view of the Emperor.
      Before he reached him, Rostov, who was a splendid horseman,
    spurred Bedouin twice and successfully put him to the showy trot in
    which the animal went when excited. Bending his foaming muzzle to
    his chest, his tail extended, Bedouin, as if also conscious of the
    Emperor's eye upon him, passed splendidly, lifting his feet with a
    high and graceful action, as if flying through the air without
    touching the ground.
      Rostov himself, his legs well back and his stomach drawn in and
    feeling himself one with his horse, rode past the Emperor with a
    frowning but blissful face "like a vewy devil," as Denisov expressed
      "Fine fellows, the Pavlograds!" remarked the Emperor.
      "My God, how happy I should be if he ordered me to leap into the
    fire this instant!" thought Rostov.
      When the review was over, the newly arrived officers, and also
    Kutuzov's, collected in groups and began to talk about the awards,
    about the Austrians and their uniforms, about their lines, about
    Bonaparte, and how badly the latter would fare now, especially if
    the Essen corps arrived and Prussia took our side.
      But the talk in every group was chiefly about the Emperor Alexander.
    His every word and movement was described with ecstasy.
      They all had but one wish: to advance as soon as possible against
    the enemy under the Emperor's command. Commanded by the Emperor
    himself they could not fail to vanquish anyone, be it whom it might:
    so thought Rostov and most of the officers after the review.
      All were then more confident of victory than the winning of two
    battles would have made them.
      The day after the review, Boris, in his best uniform and with his
    comrade Berg's best wishes for success, rode to Olmutz to see
    Bolkonski, wishing to profit by his friendliness and obtain for
    himself the best post he could- preferably that of adjutant to some
    important personage, a position in the army which seemed to him most
    attractive. "It is all very well for Rostov, whose father sends him
    ten thousand rubles at a time, to talk about not wishing to cringe
    to anybody and not be anyone's lackey, but I who have nothing but my
    brains have to make a career and must not miss opportunities, but must
    avail myself of them!" he reflected.
      He did not find Prince Andrew in Olmutz that day, but the appearance
    of the town where the headquarters and the diplomatic corps were
    stationed and the two Emperors were living with their suites,
    households, and courts only strengthened his desire to belong to
    that higher world.
      He knew no one, and despite his smart Guardsman's uniform, all these
    exalted personages passing in the streets in their elegant carriages
    with their plumes, ribbons, and medals, both courtiers and military
    men, seemed so immeasurably above him, an insignificant officer of the
    Guards, that they not only did not wish to, but simply could not, be
    aware of his existence. At the quarters of the commander in chief,
    Kutuzov, where he inquired for Bolkonski, all the adjutants and even
    the orderlies looked at him as if they wished to impress on him that a
    great many officers like him were always coming there and that
    everybody was heartily sick of them. In spite of this, or rather
    because of it, next day, November 15, after dinner he again went to
    Olmutz and, entering the house occupied by Kutuzov, asked for
    Bolkonski. Prince Andrew was in and Boris was shown into a large
    hall probably formerly used for dancing, but in which five beds now
    stood, and furniture of various kinds: a table, chairs, and a
    clavichord. One adjutant, nearest the door, was sitting at the table
    in a Persian dressing gown, writing. Another, the red, stout
    Nesvitski, lay on a bed with his arms under his head, laughing with an
    officer who had sat down beside him. A third was playing a Viennese
    waltz on the clavichord, while a fourth, lying on the clavichord, sang
    the tune. Bolkonski was not there. None of these gentlemen changed his
    position on seeing Boris. The one who was writing and whom Boris
    addressed turned round crossly and told him Bolkonski was on duty
    and that he should go through the door on the left into the
    reception room if he wished to see him. Boris thanked him and went
    to the reception room, where he found some ten officers and generals.
      When he entered, Prince Andrew, his eyes drooping contemptuously
    (with that peculiar expression of polite weariness which plainly says,
    "If it were not my duty I would not talk to you for a moment"), was
    listening to an old Russian general with decorations, who stood very
    erect, almost on tiptoe, with a soldier's obsequious expression on his
    purple face, reporting something.
      "Very well, then, be so good as to wait," said Prince Andrew to
    the general, in Russian, speaking with the French intonation he
    affected when he wished to speak contemptuously, and noticing Boris,
    Prince Andrew, paying no more heed to the general who ran after him
    imploring him to hear something more, nodded and turned to him with
    a cheerful smile.
      At that moment Boris clearly realized what he had before surmised,
    that in the army, besides the subordination and discipline
    prescribed in the military code, which he and the others knew in the
    regiment, there was another, more important, subordination, which made
    this tight-laced, purple-faced general wait respectfully while Captain
    Prince Andrew, for his own pleasure, chose to chat with Lieutenant
    Drubetskoy. More than ever was Boris resolved to serve in future not
    according to the written code, but under this unwritten law. He felt
    now that merely by having been recommended to Prince Andrew he had
    already risen above the general who at the front had the power to
    annihilate him, a lieutenant of the Guards. Prince Andrew came up to
    him and took his hand.
      "I am very sorry you did not find me in yesterday. I was fussing
    about with Germans all day. We went with Weyrother to survey the
    dispositions. When Germans start being accurate, there's no end to
      Boris smiled, as if he understood what Prince Andrew was alluding to
    as something generally known. But it the first time he had heard
    Weyrother's name, or even the term "dispositions."
      "Well, my dear fellow, so you still want to be an adjutant? I have
    been thinking about you."
      "Yes, I was thinking"- for some reason Boris could not help
    blushing- "of asking the commander in chief. He has had a letter
    from Prince Kuragin about me. I only wanted to ask because I fear
    the Guards won't be in action," he added as if in apology.
      "All right, all right. We'll talk it over," replied Prince Andrew.
    "Only let me report this gentleman's business, and I shall be at
    your disposal."
      While Prince Andrew went to report about the purple-faced general,
    that gentleman- evidently not sharing Boris' conception of the
    advantages of the unwritten code of subordination- looked so fixedly
    at the presumptuous lieutenant who had prevented his finishing what he
    had to say to the adjutant that Boris felt uncomfortable. He turned
    away and waited impatiently for Prince Andrew's return from the
    commander in chief's room.
      "You see, my dear fellow, I have been thinking about you," said
    Prince Andrew when they had gone into the large room where the
    clavichord was. "It's no use your going to the commander in chief.
    He would say a lot of pleasant things, ask you to dinner" ("That would
    not be bad as regards the unwritten code," thought Boris), "but
    nothing more would come of it. There will soon be a battalion of us
    aides-de-camp and adjutants! But this is what we'll do: I have a
    good friend, an adjutant general and an excellent fellow, Prince
    Dolgorukov; and though you may not know it, the fact is that now
    Kutuzov with his staff and all of us count for nothing. Everything
    is now centered round the Emperor. So we will go to Dolgorukov; I have
    to go there anyhow and I have already spoken to him about you. We
    shall see whether he cannot attach you to himself or find a place
    for you somewhere nearer the sun."
      Prince Andrew always became specially keen when he had to guide a
    young man and help him to worldly success. Under cover of obtaining
    help of this kind for another, which from pride he would never
    accept for himself, he kept in touch with the circle which confers
    success and which attracted him. He very readily took up Boris'
    cause and went with him to Dolgorukov.
      It was late in the evening when they entered the palace at Olmutz
    occupied by the Emperors and their retinues.
      That same day a council of war had been held in which all the
    members of the Hofkriegsrath and both Emperors took part. At that
    council, contrary to the views of the old generals Kutuzov and
    Prince Schwartzenberg, it had been decided to advance immediately
    and give battle to Bonaparte. The council of war was just over when
    Prince Andrew accompanied by Boris arrived at the palace to find
    Dolgorukov. Everyone at headquarters was still under the spell of
    the day's council, at which the party of the young had triumphed.
    The voices of those who counseled delay and advised waiting for
    something else before advancing had been so completely silenced and
    their arguments confuted by such conclusive evidence of the advantages
    of attacking that what had been discussed at the council- the coming
    battle and the victory that would certainly result from it- no
    longer seemed to be in the future but in the past. All the
    advantages were on our side. Our enormous forces, undoubtedly superior
    to Napoleon's, were concentrated in one place, the troops inspired
    by the Emperors' presence were eager for action. The strategic
    position where the operations would take place was familiar in all its
    details to the Austrian General Weyrother: a lucky accident had
    ordained that the Austrian army should maneuver the previous year on
    the very fields where the French had now to be fought; the adjacent
    locality was known and shown in every detail on the maps, and
    Bonaparte, evidently weakened, was undertaking nothing.
      Dolgorukov, one of the warmest advocates of an attack, had just
    returned from the council, tired and exhausted but eager and proud
    of the victory that had been gained. Prince Andrew introduced his
    protege, but Prince Dolgorukov politely and firmly pressing his hand
    said nothing to Boris and, evidently unable to suppress the thoughts
    which were uppermost in his mind at that moment, addressed Prince
    Andrew in French.
      "Ah, my dear fellow, what a battle we have gained! God grant that
    the one that will result from it will be as victorious! However,
    dear fellow," he said abruptly and eagerly, "I must confess to
    having been unjust to the Austrians and especially to Weyrother.
    What exactitude, what minuteness, what knowledge of the locality, what
    foresight for every eventuality, every possibility even to the
    smallest detail! No, my dear fellow, no conditions better than our
    present ones could have been devised. This combination of Austrian
    precision with Russian valor- what more could be wished for?"
      "So the attack is definitely resolved on?" asked Bolkonski.
      "And do you know, my dear fellow, it seems to me that Bonaparte
    has decidedly lost bearings, you know that a letter was received
    from him today for the Emperor." Dolgorukov smiled significantly.
      "Is that so? And what did he say?" inquired Bolkonski.
      "What can he say? Tra-di-ri-di-ra and so on... merely to gain
    time. I tell you he is in our hands, that's certain! But what was most
    amusing," he continued, with a sudden, good-natured laugh, "was that
    we could not think how to address the reply! If not as 'Consul' and of
    course not as 'Emperor,' it seemed to me it should be to 'General
      "But between not recognizing him as Emperor and calling him
    General Bonaparte, there is a difference," remarked Bolkonski.
      "That's just it," interrupted Dolgorukov quickly, laughing. "You
    know Bilibin- he's a very clever fellow. He suggested addressing him
    as 'Usurper and Enemy of Mankind.'"
      Dolgorukov laughed merrily.
      "Only that?" said Bolkonski.
      "All the same, it was Bilibin who found a suitable form for the
    address. He is a wise and clever fellow."
      "What was it?"
      "To the Head of the French Government... Au chef du gouvernement
    francais," said Dolgorukov, with grave satisfaction. "Good, wasn't
      "Yes, but he will dislike it extremely," said Bolkonski.
      "Oh yes, very much! My brother knows him, he's dined with him- the
    present Emperor- more than once in Paris, and tells me he never met
    a more cunning or subtle diplomatist- you know, a combination of
    French adroitness and Italian play-acting! Do you know the tale
    about him and Count Markov? Count Markov was the only man who knew how
    to handle him. You know the story of the handkerchief? It is
      And the talkative Dolgorukov, turning now to Boris, now to Prince
    Andrew, told how Bonaparte wishing to test Markov, our ambassador,
    purposely dropped a handkerchief in front of him and stood looking
    at Markov, probably expecting Markov to pick it up for him, and how
    Markov immediately dropped his own beside it and picked it up
    without touching Bonaparte's.
      "Delightful!" said Bolkonski. "But I have come to you, Prince, as
    a petitioner on behalf of this young man. You see..." but before
    Prince Andrew could finish, an aide-de-camp came in to summon
    Dolgorukov to the Emperor.
      "Oh, what a nuisance," said Dolgorukov, getting up hurriedly and
    pressing the hands of Prince Andrew and Boris. "You know I should be
    very glad to do all in my power both for you and for this dear young
    man." Again he pressed the hand of the latter with an expression of
    good-natured, sincere, and animated levity. "But you see... another
      Boris was excited by the thought of being so close to the higher
    powers as he felt himself to be at that moment. He was conscious
    that here he was in contact with the springs that set in motion the
    enormous movements of the mass of which in his regiment he felt
    himself a tiny, obedient, and insignificant atom. They followed Prince
    Dolgorukov out into the corridor and met- coming out of the door of
    the Emperor's room by which Dolgorukov had entered- a short man in
    civilian clothes with a clever face and sharply projecting jaw
    which, without spoiling his face, gave him a peculiar vivacity and
    shiftiness of expression. This short man nodded to Dolgorukov as to an
    intimate friend and stared at Prince Andrew with cool intensity,
    walking straight toward him and evidently expecting him to bow or to
    step out of his way. Prince Andrew did neither: a look of animosity
    appeared on his face and the other turned away and went down the
    side of the corridor.
      "Who was that?" asked Boris.
      "He is one of the most remarkable, but to me most unpleasant of men-
    the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Prince Adam Czartoryski.... It is
    such men as he who decide the fate of nations," added Bolkonski with a
    sigh he could not suppress, as they passed out of the palace.
      Next day, the army began its campaign, and up to the very battle
    of Austerlitz, Boris was unable to see either Prince Andrew or
    Dolgorukov again and remained for a while with the Ismaylov regiment.
      At dawn on the sixteenth of November, Denisov's squadron, in which
    Nicholas Rostov served and which was in Prince Bagration's detachment,
    moved from the place where it had spent the night, advancing into
    action as arranged, and after going behind other columns for about two
    thirds of a mile was stopped on the highroad. Rostov saw the
    Cossacks and then the first and second squadrons of hussars and
    infantry battalions and artillery pass by and go forward and then
    Generals Bagration and Dolgorukov ride past with their adjutants.
    All the fear before action which he had experienced as previously, all
    the inner struggle to conquer that fear, all his dreams of
    distinguishing himself as a true hussar in this battle, had been
    wasted. Their squadron remained in reserve and Nicholas Rostov spent
    that day in a dull and wretched mood. At nine in the morning, he heard
    firing in front and shouts of hurrah, and saw wounded being brought
    back (there were not many of them), and at last he saw how a whole
    detachment of French cavalry was brought in, convoyed by a sontnya
    of Cossacks. Evidently the affair was over and, though not big, had
    been a successful engagement. The men and officers returning spoke
    of a brilliant victory, of the occupation of the town of Wischau and
    the capture of a whole French squadron. The day was bright and sunny
    after a sharp night frost, and the cheerful glitter of that autumn day
    was in keeping with the news of victory which was conveyed, not only
    by the tales of those who had taken part in it, but also by the joyful
    expression on the faces of soldiers, officers, generals, and
    adjutants, as they passed Rostov going or coming. And Nicholas, who
    had vainly suffered all the dread that precedes a battle and had spent
    that happy day in inactivity, was all the more depressed.
      "Come here, Wostov. Let's dwink to dwown our gwief!" shouted
    Denisov, who had settled down by the roadside with a flask and some
      The officers gathered round Denisov's canteen, eating and talking.
      "There! They are bringing another!" cried one of the officers,
    indicating a captive French dragoon who was being brought in on foot
    by two Cossacks.
      One of them was leading by the bridle a fine large French horse he
    had taken from the prisoner.
      "Sell us that horse!" Denisov called out to the Cossacks.
      "If you like, your honor!"
      The officers got up and stood round the Cossacks and their prisoner.
    The French dragoon was a young Alsatian who spoke French with a German
    accent. He was breathless with agitation, his face was red, and when
    he heard some French spoken he at once began speaking to the officers,
    addressing first one, then another. He said he would not have been
    taken, it was not his fault but the corporal's who had sent him to
    seize some horsecloths, though he had told him the Russians were
    there. And at every word he added: "But don't hurt my little horse!"
    and stroked the animal. It was plain that he did not quite grasp where
    he was. Now he excused himself for having been taken prisoner and now,
    imagining himself before his own officers, insisted on his soldierly
    discipline and zeal in the service. He brought with him into our
    rearguard all the freshness of atmosphere of the French army, which
    was so alien to us.
      The Cossacks sold the horse for two gold pieces, and Rostov, being
    the richest of the officers now that he had received his money, bought
      "But don't hurt my little horse!" said the Alsatian good-naturedly
    to Rostov when the animal was handed over to the hussar.
      Rostov smilingly reassured the dragoon and gave him money.
      "Alley! Alley!" said the Cossack, touching the prisoner's arm to
    make him go on.
      "The Emperor! The Emperor!" was suddenly heard among the hussars.
      All began to run and bustle, and Rostov saw coming up the road
    behind him several riders with white plumes in their hats. In a moment
    everyone was in his place, waiting.
      Rostov did not know or remember how he ran to his place and mounted.
    Instantly his regret at not having been in action and his dejected
    mood amid people of whom he was weary had gone, instantly every
    thought of himself had vanished. He was filled with happiness at his
    nearness to the Emperor. He felt that this nearness by itself made
    up to him for the day he had lost. He was happy as a lover when the
    longed-for moment of meeting arrives. Not daring to look round and
    without looking round, he was ecstatically conscious of his
    approach. He felt it not only from the sound of the hoofs of the
    approaching cavalcade, but because as he drew near everything grew
    brighter, more joyful, more significant, and more festive around
    him. Nearer and nearer to Rostov came that sun shedding beams of
    mild and majestic light around, and already he felt himself
    enveloped in those beams, he heard his voice, that kindly, calm, and
    majestic voice that was yet so simple! And as if in accord with
    Rostov's feeling, there was a deathly stillness amid which was heard
    the Emperor's voice.
      "The Pavlograd hussars?" he inquired.
      "The reserves, sire!" replied a voice, a very human one compared
    to that which had said: "The Pavlograd hussars?"
      The Emperor drew level with Rostov and halted. Alexander's face
    was even more beautiful than it had been three days before at the
    review. It shone with such gaiety and youth, such innocent youth, that
    it suggested the liveliness of a fourteen-year-old boy, and yet it was
    the face of the majestic Emperor. Casually, while surveying the
    squadron, the Emperor's eyes met Rostov's and rested on them for not
    more than two seconds. Whether or no the Emperor understood what was
    going on in Rostov's soul (it seemed to Rostov that he understood
    everything), at any rate his light-blue eyes gazed for about two
    seconds into Rostov's face. A gentle, mild light poured from them.
    Then all at once he raised his eyebrows, abruptly touched his horse
    with his left foot, and galloped on.
      The younger Emperor could not restrain his wish to be present at the
    battle and, in spite of the remonstrances of his courtiers, at
    twelve o'clock left the third column with which he had been and
    galloped toward the vanguard. Before he came up with the hussars,
    several adjutants met him with news of the successful result of the
      This battle, which consisted in the capture of a French squadron,
    was represented as a brilliant victory over the French, and so the
    Emperor and the whole army, especially while the smoke hung over the
    battlefield, believed that the French had been defeated and were
    retreating against their will. A few minutes after the Emperor had
    passed, the Pavlograd division was ordered to advance. In Wischau
    itself, a petty German town, Rostov saw the Emperor again. In the
    market place, where there had been some rather heavy firing before the
    Emperor's arrival, lay several killed and wounded soldiers whom
    there had not been time to move. The Emperor, surrounded by his
    suite of officers and courtiers, was riding a bobtailed chestnut mare,
    a different one from that which he had ridden at the review, and
    bending to one side he gracefully held a gold lorgnette to his eyes
    and looked at a soldier who lay prone, with blood on his uncovered
    head. The wounded soldier was so dirty, coarse, and revolting that his
    proximity to the Emperor shocked Rostov. Rostov saw how the
    Emperor's rather round shoulders shuddered as if a cold shiver had run
    down them, how his left foot began convulsively tapping the horse's
    side with the spur, and how the well-trained horse looked round
    unconcerned and did not stir. An adjutant, dismounting, lifted the
    soldier under the arms to place him on a stretcher that had been
    brought. The soldier groaned.
      "Gently, gently! Can't you do it more gently?" said the Emperor
    apparently suffering more than the dying soldier, and he rode away.
      Rostov saw tears filling the Emperor's eyes and heard him, as he was
    riding away, say to Czartoryski: "What a terrible thing war is: what a
    terrible thing! Quelle terrible chose que la guerre!"
      The troops of the vanguard were stationed before Wischau, within
    sight of the enemy's lines, which all day long had yielded ground to
    us at the least firing. The Emperor's gratitude was announced to the
    vanguard, rewards were promised, and the men received a double
    ration of vodka. The campfires crackled and the soldiers' songs
    resounded even more merrily than on the previous night. Denisov
    celebrated his promotion to the rank of major, and Rostov, who had
    already drunk enough, at the end of the feast proposed the Emperor's
    health. "Not 'our Sovereign, the Emperor,' as they say at official
    dinners," said he, "but the health of our Sovereign, that good,
    enchanting, and great man! Let us drink to his health and to the
    certain defeat of the French!"
      "If we fought before," he said, "not letting the French pass, as
    at Schon Grabern, what shall we not do now when he is at the front? We
    will all die for him gladly! Is it not so, gentlemen? Perhaps I am not
    saying it right, I have drunk a good deal- but that is how I feel, and
    so do you too! To the health of Alexander the First! Hurrah!"
      "Hurrah!" rang the enthusiastic voices of the officers.
      And the old cavalry captain, Kirsten, shouted enthusiastically and
    no less sincerely than the twenty-year-old Rostov.
      When the officers had emptied and smashed their glasses, Kirsten
    filled others and, in shirt sleeves and breeches, went glass in hand
    to the soldiers' bonfires and with his long gray mustache, his white
    chest showing under his open shirt, he stood in a majestic pose in the
    light of the campfire, waving his uplifted arm.
      "Lads! here's to our Sovereign, the Emperor, and victory over our
    enemies! Hurrah!" he exclaimed in his dashing, old, hussar's baritone.
      The hussars crowded round and responded heartily with loud shouts.
      Late that night, when all had separated, Denisov with his short hand
    patted his favorite, Rostov, on the shoulder.
      "As there's no one to fall in love with on campaign, he's fallen
    in love with the Tsar," he said.
      "Denisov, don't make fun of it!" cried Rostov. "It is such a
    lofty, beautiful feeling, such a..."
      "I believe it, I believe it, fwiend, and I share and appwove..."
      "No, you don't understand!"
      And Rostov got up and went wandering among the campfires, dreaming
    of what happiness it would be to die- not in saving the Emperor's life
    (he did not even dare to dream of that), but simply to die before
    his eyes. He really was in love with the Tsar and the glory of the
    Russian arms and the hope of future triumph. And he was not the only
    man to experience that feeling during those memorable days preceding
    the battle of Austerlitz: nine tenths of the men in the Russian army
    were then in love, though less ecstatically, with their Tsar and the
    glory of the Russian arms.
      The next day the Emperor stopped at Wischau, and Villier, his
    physician, was repeatedly summoned to see him. At headquarters and
    among the troops near by the news spread that the Emperor was
    unwell. He ate nothing and had slept badly that night, those around
    him reported. The cause of this indisposition was the strong
    impression made on his sensitive mind by the sight of the killed and
      At daybreak on the seventeenth, a French officer who had come with a
    flag of truce, demanding an audience with the Russian Emperor, was
    brought into Wischau from our outposts. This officer was Savary. The
    Emperor had only just fallen asleep and so Savary had to wait. At
    midday he was admitted to the Emperor, and an hour later he rode off
    with Prince Dolgorukov to the advanced post of the French army.
      It was rumored that Savary had been sent to propose to Alexander a
    meeting with Napoleon. To the joy and pride of the whole army, a
    personal interview was refused, and instead of the Sovereign, Prince
    Dolgorukov, the victor at Wischau, was sent with Savary to negotiate
    with Napoleon if, contrary to expectations, these negotiations were
    actuated by a real desire for peace.
      Toward evening Dolgorukov came back, went straight to the Tsar,
    and remained alone with him for a long time.
      On the eighteenth and nineteenth of November, the army advanced
    two days' march and the enemy's outposts after a brief interchange
    of shots retreated. In the highest army circles from midday on the
    nineteenth, a great, excitedly bustling activity began which lasted
    till the morning of the twentieth, when the memorable battle of
    Austerlitz was fought.
      Till midday on the nineteenth, the activity- the eager talk, running
    to and fro, and dispatching of adjutants- was confined to the
    Emperor's headquarters. But on the afternoon of that day, this
    activity reached Kutiizov's headquarters and the staffs of the
    commanders of columns. By evening, the adjutants had spread it to
    all ends and parts of the army, and in the night from the nineteenth
    to the twentieth, the whole eighty thousand allied troops rose from
    their bivouacs to the hum of voices, and the army swayed and started
    in one enormous mass six miles long.
      The concentrated activity which had begun at the Emperor's
    headquarters in the morning and had started the whole movement that
    followed was like the first movement of the main wheel of a large
    tower clock. One wheel slowly moved, another was set in motion, and
    a third, and wheels began to revolve faster and faster, levers and
    cogwheels to work, chimes to play, figures to pop out, and the hands
    to advance with regular motion as a result of all that activity.
      Just as in the mechanism of a clock, so in the mechanism of the
    military machine, an impulse once given leads to the final result; and
    just as indifferently quiescent till the moment when motion is
    transmitted to them are the parts of the mechanism which the impulse
    has not yet reached. Wheels creak on their axles as the cogs engage
    one another and the revolving pulleys whirr with the rapidity of their
    movement, but a neighboring wheel is as quiet and motionless as though
    it were prepared to remain so for a hundred years; but the moment
    comes when the lever catches it and obeying the impulse that wheel
    begins to creak and joins in the common motion the result and aim of
    which are beyond its ken.
      Just as in a clock, the result of the complicated motion of
    innumerable wheels and pulleys is merely a slow and regular movement
    of the hands which show the time, so the result of all the complicated
    human activities of 160,000 Russians and French- all their passions,
    desires, remorse, humiliations, sufferings, outbursts of pride,
    fear, and enthusiasm- was only the loss of the battle of Austerlitz,
    the so-called battle of the three Emperors- that is to say, a slow
    movement of the hand on the dial of human history.
      Prince Andrew was on duty that day and in constant attendance on the
    commander in chief.
      At six in the evening, Kutuzov went to the Emperor's headquarters
    and after staying but a short time with the Tsar went to see the grand
    marshal of the court, Count Tolstoy.
      Bolkonski took the opportunity to go in to get some details of the
    coming action from Dolgorukov. He felt that Kutuzov was upset and
    dissatisfied about something and that at headquarters they were
    dissatisfied with him, and also that at the Emperor's headquarters
    everyone adopted toward him the tone of men who know something
    others do not know: he therefore wished to speak to Dolgorukov.
      "Well, how d'you do, my dear fellow?" said Dolgorukov, who was
    sitting at tea with Bilibin. "The fete is for tomorrow. How is your
    old fellow? Out of sorts?"
      "I won't say he is out of sorts, but I fancy he would like to be
      "But they heard him at the council of war and will hear him when
    he talks sense, but to temporize and wait for something now when
    Bonaparte fears nothing so much as a general battle is impossible."
      "Yes, you have seen him?" said Prince Andrew. "Well, what is
    Bonaparte like? How did he impress you?"
      "Yes, I saw him, and am convinced that he fears nothing so much as a
    general engagement," repeated Dolgorukov, evidently prizing this
    general conclusion which he had arrived at from his interview with
    Napoleon. "If he weren't afraid of a battle why did he ask for that
    interview? Why negotiate, and above all why retreat, when to retreat
    is so contrary to his method of conducting war? Believe me, he is
    afraid, afraid of a general battle. His hour has come! Mark my words!"
      "But tell me, what is he like, eh?" said Prince Andrew again.
      "He is a man in a gray overcoat, very anxious that I should call him
    'Your Majesty,' but who, to his chagrin, got no title from me!
    That's the sort of man he is, and nothing more," replied Dolgorukov,
    looking round at Bilibin with a smile.
      "Despite my great respect for old Kutuzov," he continued, "we should
    be a nice set of fellows if we were to wait about and so give him a
    chance to escape, or to trick us, now that we certainly have him in
    our hands! No, we mustn't forget Suvorov and his rule- not to put
    yourself in a position to be attacked, but yourself to attack. Believe
    me in war the energy of young men often shows the way better than
    all the experience of old Cunctators."
      "But in what position are we going to attack him? I have been at the
    outposts today and it is impossible to say where his chief forces
    are situated," said Prince Andrew.
      He wished to explain to Dolgorukov a plan of attack he had himself
      "Oh, that is all the same," Dolgorukov said quickly, and getting
    up he spread a map on the table. "All eventualities have been
    foreseen. If he is standing before Brunn..."
      And Prince Dolgorukov rapidly but indistinctly explained Weyrother's
    plan of a flanking movement.
      Prince Andrew began to reply and to state his own plan, which
    might have been as good as Weyrother's, but for the disadvantage
    that Weyrother's had already been approved. As soon as Prince Andrew
    began to demonstrate the defects of the latter and the merits of his
    own plan, Prince Dolgorukov ceased to listen to him and gazed
    absent-mindedly not at the map, but at Prince Andrew's face.
      "There will be a council of war at Kutuzov's tonight, though; you
    can say all this there," remarked Dolgorukov.
      "I will do so," said Prince Andrew, moving away from the map.
      "Whatever are you bothering about, gentlemen?" said Bilibin, who,
    till then, had listened with an amused smile to their conversation and
    now was evidently ready with a joke. "Whether tomorrow brings
    victory or defeat, the glory of our Russian arms is secure. Except
    your Kutuzov, there is not a single Russian in command of a column!
    The commanders are: Herr General Wimpfen, le Comte de Langeron, le
    Prince de Lichtenstein, le Prince, de Hohenlohe, and finally
    Prishprish, and so on like all those Polish names."
      "Be quiet, backbiter!" said Dolgorukov. "It is not true; there are
    now two Russians, Miloradovich, and Dokhturov, and there would be a
    third, Count Arakcheev, if his nerves were not too weak."
      "However, I think General Kutuzov has come out," said Prince Andrew.
    "I wish you good luck and success, gentlemen!" he added and went out
    after shaking hands with Dolgorukov and Bilibin.
      On the way home, Prince Andrew could not refrain from asking
    Kutuzov, who was sitting silently beside him, what he thought of
    tomorrow's battle.
      Kutuzov looked sternly at his adjutant and, after a pause,
    replied: "I think the battle will be lost, and so I told Count Tolstoy
    and asked him to tell the Emperor. What do you think he replied? 'But,
    my dear general, I am engaged with rice and cutlets, look after
    military matters yourself!' Yes... That was the answer I got!"
      Shortly after nine o'clock that evening, Weyrother drove with his
    plans to Kutuzov's quarters where the council of war was to be held.
    All the commanders of columns were summoned to the commander in
    chief's and with the exception of Prince Bagration, who declined to
    come, were all there at the appointed time.
      Weyrother, who was in full control of the proposed battle, by his
    eagerness and briskness presented a marked contrast to the
    dissatisfied and drowsy Kutuzov, who reluctantly played the part of
    chairman and president of the council of war. Weyrother evidently felt
    himself to be at the head of a movement that had already become
    unrestrainable. He was like a horse running downhill harnessed to a
    heavy cart. Whether he was pulling it or being pushed by it he did not
    know, but rushed along at headlong speed with no time to consider what
    this movement might lead to. Weyrother had been twice that evening
    to the enemy's picket line to reconnoiter personally, and twice to the
    Emperors, Russian and Austrian, to report and explain, and to his
    headquarters where he had dictated the dispositions in German, and
    now, much exhausted, he arrived at Kutuzov's.
      He was evidently so busy that he even forgot to be polite to the
    commander in chief. He interrupted him, talked rapidly and
    indistinctly, without looking at the man he was addressing, and did
    not reply to questions put to him. He was bespattered with mud and had
    a pitiful, weary, and distracted air, though at the same time he was
    haughty and self-confident.
      Kutuzov was occupying a nobleman's castle of modest dimensions
    near Ostralitz. In the large drawing room which had become the
    commander in chief's office were gathered Kutuzov himself,
    Weyrother, and the members of the council of war. They were drinking
    tea, and only awaited Prince Bagration to begin the council. At last
    Bagration's orderly came with the news that the prince could not
    attend. Prince Andrew came in to inform the commander in chief of this
    and, availing himself of permission previously given him by Kutuzov to
    be present at the council, he remained in the room.
      "Since Prince Bagration is not coming, we may begin," said
    Weyrother, hurriedly rising from his seat and going up to the table on
    which an enormous map of the environs of Brunn was spread out.
      Kutuzov, with his uniform unbuttoned so that his fat neck bulged
    over his collar as if escaping, was sitting almost asleep in a low
    chair, with his podgy old hands resting symmetrically on its arms.
    At the sound of Weyrother's voice, he opened his one eye with an
      "Yes, yes, if you please! It is already late," said he, and
    nodding his head he let it droop and again closed his eye.
      If at first the members of the council thought that Kutuzov was
    pretending to sleep, the sounds his nose emitted during the reading
    that followed proved that the commander in chief at that moment was
    absorbed by a far more serious matter than a desire to show his
    contempt for the dispositions or anything else- he was engaged in
    satisfying the irresistible human need for sleep. He really was
    asleep. Weyrother, with the gesture of a man too busy to lose a
    moment, glanced at Kutuzov and, having convinced himself that he was
    asleep, took up a paper and in a loud, monotonous voice began to
    read out the dispositions for the impending battle, under a heading
    which he also read out:
      "Dispositions for an attack on the enemy position behind Kobelnitz
    and Sokolnitz, November 30, 1805."
      The dispositions were very complicated and difficult. They began
    as follows:
      "As the enemy's left wing rests on wooded hills and his right
    extends along Kobelnitz and Sokolnitz behind the ponds that are there,
    while we, on the other hand, with our left wing by far outflank his
    right, it is advantageous to attack the enemy's latter wing especially
    if we occupy the villages of Sokolnitz and Kobelnitz, whereby we can
    both fall on his flank and pursue him over the plain between
    Schlappanitz and the Thuerassa forest, avoiding the defiles of
    Schlappanitz and Bellowitz which cover the enemy's front. For this
    object it is necessary that... The first column marches... The
    second column marches... The third column marches..." and so on,
    read Weyrother.
      The generals seemed to listen reluctantly to the difficult
    dispositions. The tall, fair-haired General Buxhowden stood, leaning
    his back against the wall, his eyes fixed on a burning candle, and
    seemed not to listen or even to wish to be thought to listen.
    Exactly opposite Weyrother, with his glistening wide-open eyes fixed
    upon him and his mustache twisted upwards, sat the ruddy
    Miloradovich in a military pose, his elbows turned outwards, his hands
    on his knees, and his shoulders raised. He remained stubbornly silent,
    gazing at Weyrother's face, and only turned away his eyes when the
    Austrian chief of staff finished reading. Then Miloradovich looked
    round significantly at the other generals. But one could not tell from
    that significant look whether he agreed or disagreed and was satisfied
    or not with the arrangements. Next to Weyrother sat Count Langeron
    who, with a subtle smile that never left his typically southern French
    face during the whole time of the reading, gazed at his delicate
    fingers which rapidly twirled by its corners a gold snuffbox on
    which was a portrait. In the middle of one of the longest sentences,
    he stopped the rotary motion of the snuffbox, raised his head, and
    with inimical politeness lurking in the corners of his thin lips
    interrupted Weyrother, wishing to say something. But the Austrian
    general, continuing to read, frowned angrily and jerked his elbows, as
    if to say: "You can tell me your views later, but now be so good as to
    look at the map and listen." Langeron lifted his eyes with an
    expression of perplexity, turned round to Miloradovich as if seeking
    an explanation, but meeting the latter's impressive but meaningless
    gaze drooped his eyes sadly and again took to twirling his snuffbox.
      "A geography lesson!" he muttered as if to himself, but loud
    enough to be heard.
      Przebyszewski, with respectful but dignified politeness, held his
    hand to his ear toward Weyrother, with the air of a man absorbed in
    attention. Dohkturov, a little man, sat opposite Weyrother, with an
    assiduous and modest mien, and stooping over the outspread map
    conscientiously studied the dispositions and the unfamiliar
    locality. He asked Weyrother several times to repeat words he had
    not clearly heard and the difficult names of villages. Weyrother
    complied and Dohkturov noted them down.
      When the reading which lasted more than an hour was over, Langeron
    again brought his snuffbox to rest and, without looking at Weyrother
    or at anyone in particular, began to say how difficult it was to carry
    out such a plan in which the enemy's position was assumed to be known,
    whereas it was perhaps not known, since the enemy was in movement.
    Langeron's objections were valid but it was obvious that their chief
    aim was to show General Weyrother- who had read his dispositions
    with as much self-confidence as if he were addressing school children-
    that he had to do, not with fools, but with men who could teach him
    something in military matters.
      When the monotonous sound of Weyrother's voice ceased, Kutuzov
    opened his eye as a miller wakes up when the soporific drone of the
    mill wheel is interrupted. He listened to what Langeron said, as if
    remarking, "So you are still at that silly business!" quickly closed
    his eye again, and let his head sink still lower.
      Langeron, trying as virulently as possible to sting Weyrother's
    vanity as author of the military plan, argued that Bonaparte might
    easily attack instead of being attacked, and so render the whole of
    this plan perfectly worthless. Weyrother met all objections with a
    firm and contemptuous smile, evidently prepared beforehand to meet all
    objections be they what they might.
      "If he could attack us, he would have done so today," said he.
      "So you think he is powerless?" said Langeron.
      "He has forty thousand men at most," replied Weyrother, with the
    smile of a doctor to whom an old wife wishes to explain the
    treatment of a case.
      "In that case he is inviting his doom by awaiting our attack,"
    said Langeron, with a subtly ironical smile, again glancing round
    for support to Miloradovich who was near him.
      But Miloradovich was at that moment evidently thinking of anything
    rather than of what the generals were disputing about.
      "Ma foi!" said he, "tomorrow we shall see all that on the
      Weyrother again gave that smile which seemed to say that to him it
    was strange and ridiculous to meet objections from Russian generals
    and to have to prove to them what he had not merely convinced
    himself of, but had also convinced the sovereign Emperors of.
      "The enemy has quenched his fires and a continual noise is heard
    from his camp," said he. "What does that mean? Either he is
    retreating, which is the only thing we need fear, or he is changing
    his position." (He smiled ironically.) "But even if he also took up
    a position in the Thuerassa, he merely saves us a great deal of
    trouble and all our arrangements to the minutest detail remain the
      "How is that?..." began Prince Andrew, who had for long been waiting
    an opportunity to express his doubts.
      Kutuzov here woke up, coughed heavily, and looked round at the
      "Gentlemen, the dispositions for tomorrow- or rather for today,
    for it is past midnight- cannot now be altered," said he. "You have
    heard them, and we shall all do our duty. But before a battle, there
    is nothing more important..." he paused, "than to have a good sleep."
      He moved as if to rise. The generals bowed and retired. It was
    past midnight. Prince Andrew went out.
      The council of war, at which Prince Andrew had not been able to
    express his opinion as he had hoped to, left on him a vague and uneasy
    impression. Whether Dolgorukov and Weyrother, or Kutuzov, Langeron,
    and the others who did not approve of the plan of attack, were
    right- he did not know. "But was it really not possible for Kutuzov to
    state his views plainly to the Emperor? Is it possible that on account
    of court and personal considerations tens of thousands of lives, and
    my life, my life," he thought, "must be risked?"
      "Yes, it is very likely that I shall be killed tomorrow," he
    thought. And suddenly, at this thought of death, a whole series of
    most distant, most intimate, memories rose in his imagination: he
    remembered his last parting from his father and his wife; he
    remembered the days when he first loved her. He thought of her
    pregnancy and felt sorry for her and for himself, and in a nervously
    emotional and softened mood he went out of the hut in which he was
    billeted with Nesvitski and began to walk up and down before it.
      The night was foggy and through the fog the moonlight gleamed
    mysteriously. "Yes, tomorrow, tomorrow!" he thought. "Tomorrow
    everything may be over for me! All these memories will be no more,
    none of them will have any meaning for me. Tomorrow perhaps, even
    certainly, I have a presentiment that for the first time I shall
    have to show all I can do." And his fancy pictured the battle, its
    loss, the concentration of fighting at one point, and the hesitation
    of all the commanders. And then that happy moment, that Toulon for
    which he had so long waited, presents itself to him at last. He firmly
    and clearly expresses his opinion to Kutuzov, to Weyrother, and to the
    Emperors. All are struck by the justness of his views, but no one
    undertakes to carry them out, so he takes a regiment, a division-
    stipulates that no one is to interfere with his arrangements- leads
    his division to the decisive point, and gains the victory alone.
    "But death and suffering?" suggested another voice. Prince Andrew,
    however, did not answer that voice and went on dreaming of his
    triumphs. The dispositions for the next battle are planned by him
    alone. Nominally he is only an adjutant on Kutuzov's staff, but he
    does everything alone. The next battle is won by him alone. Kutuzov is
    removed and he is appointed... "Well and then?" asked the other voice.
    "If before that you are not ten times wounded, killed, or betrayed,
    well... what then?..." "Well then," Prince Andrew answered himself, "I
    don't know what will happen and don't want to know, and can't, but
    if I want this- want glory, want to be known to men, want to be
    loved by them, it is not my fault that I want it and want nothing
    but that and live only for that. Yes, for that alone! I shall never
    tell anyone, but, oh God! what am I to do if I love nothing but fame
    and men's esteem? Death, wounds, the loss of family- I fear nothing.
    And precious and dear as many persons are to me- father, sister, wife-
    those dearest to me- yet dreadful and unnatural as it seems, I would
    give them all at once for a moment of glory, of triumph over men, of
    love from men I don't know and never shall know, for the love of these
    men here," he thought, as he listened to voices in Kutuzov's
    courtyard. The voices were those of the orderlies who were packing up;
    one voice, probably a coachman's, was teasing Kutuzov's old cook
    whom Prince Andrew knew, and who was called Tit. He was saying,
    "Tit, I say, Tit!"
      "Well?" returned the old man.
      "Go, Tit, thresh a bit!" said the wag.
      "Oh, go to the devil!" called out a voice, drowned by the laughter
    of the orderlies and servants.
      "All the same, I love and value nothing but triumph over them all, I
    value this mystic power and glory that is floating here above me in
    this mist!"
      That same night, Rostov was with a platoon on skirmishing duty in
    front of Bagration's detachment. His hussars were placed along the
    line in couples and he himself rode along the line trying to master
    the sleepiness that kept coming over him. An enormous space, with
    our army's campfires dimly glowing in the fog, could be seen behind
    him; in front of him was misty darkness. Rostov could see nothing,
    peer as he would into that foggy distance: now something gleamed gray,
    now there was something black, now little lights seemed to glimmer
    where the enemy ought to be, now he fancied it was only something in
    his own eyes. His eyes kept closing, and in his fancy appeared- now
    the Emperor, now Denisov, and now Moscow memories- and he again
    hurriedly opened his eyes and saw close before him the head and ears
    of the horse he was riding, and sometimes, when he came within six
    paces of them, the black figures of hussars, but in the distance was
    still the same misty darkness. "Why not?... It might easily happen,"
    thought Rostov, "that the Emperor will meet me and give me an order as
    he would to any other officer; he'll say: 'Go and find out what's
    there.' There are many stories of his getting to know an officer in
    just such a chance way and attaching him to himself! What if he gave
    me a place near him? Oh, how I would guard him, how I would tell him
    the truth, how I would unmask his deceivers!" And in order to
    realize vividly his love devotion to the sovereign, Rostov pictured to
    himself an enemy or a deceitful German, whom he would not only kill
    with pleasure but whom he would slap in the face before the Emperor.
    Suddenly a distant shout aroused him. He started and opened his eyes.
      "Where am I? Oh yes, in the skirmishing line... pass and
    watchword- shaft, Olmutz. What a nuisance that our squadron will be in
    reserve tomorrow," he thought. "I'll ask leave to go to the front,
    this may be my only chance of seeing the Emperor. It won't be long now
    before I am off duty. I'll take another turn and when I get back
    I'll go to the general and ask him." He readjusted himself in the
    saddle and touched up his horse to ride once more round his hussars.
    It seemed to him that it was getting lighter. To the left he saw a
    sloping descent lit up, and facing it a black knoll that seemed as
    steep as a wall. On this knoll there was a white patch that Rostov
    could not at all make out: was it a glade in the wood lit up by the
    moon, or some unmelted snow, or some white houses? He even thought
    something moved on that white spot. "I expect it's snow... that
    spot... a spot- une tache," he thought. "There now... it's not a
    tache... Natasha... sister, black eyes... Na... tasha... (Won't she be
    surprised when I tell her how I've seen the Emperor?) Natasha...
    take my sabretache..."- "Keep to the right, your honor, there are
    bushes here," came the voice of an hussar, past whom Rostov was riding
    in the act of falling asleep. Rostov lifted his head that had sunk
    almost to his horse's mane and pulled up beside the hussar. He was
    succumbing to irresistible, youthful, childish drowsiness. "But what
    was I thinking? I mustn't forget. How shall I speak to the Emperor?
    No, that's not it- that's tomorrow. Oh yes! Natasha... sabretache...
    saber them...Whom? The hussars... Ah, the hussars with mustaches.
    Along the Tverskaya Street rode the hussar with mustaches... I thought
    about him too, just opposite Guryev's house... Old Guryev.... Oh,
    but Denisov's a fine fellow. But that's all nonsense. The chief
    thing is that the Emperor is here. How he looked at me and wished to
    say something, but dared not.... No, it was I who dared not. But
    that's nonsense, the chief thing is not to forget the important
    thing I was thinking of. Yes, Na-tasha, sabretache, oh, yes, yes!
    That's right!" And his head once more sank to his horse's neck. All at
    once it seemed to him that he was being fired at. "What? What?
    What?... Cut them down! What?..." said Rostov, waking up. At the
    moment he opened his eyes his eyes he heard in front of him, where the
    enemy was, the long-drawn shouts of thousands of voices. His horse and
    the horse of the hussar near him pricked their ears at these shouts.
    Over there, where the shouting came from, a fire flared up and went
    out again, then another, and all along the French line on the hill
    fires flared up and the shouting grew louder and louder. Rostov
    could hear the sound of French words but could not distinguish them.
    The din of many voices was too great; all he could hear was: "ahahah!"
    and "rrrr!"
      "What's that? What do you make of it?" said Rostov to the hussar
    beside him. "That must be the enemy's camp!"
      The hussar did not reply.
      "Why, don't you hear it?" Rostov asked again, after waiting for a
      "Who can tell, your honor?" replied the hussar reluctantly.
      "From the direction, it must be the enemy," repeated Rostov.
      "It may be he or it may be nothing," muttered the hussar. "It's
    dark... Steady!" he cried to his fidgeting horse.
      Rostov's horse was also getting restive: it pawed the frozen ground,
    pricking its ears at the noise and looking at the lights. The shouting
    grew still louder and merged into a general roar that only an army
    of several thousand men could produce. The lights spread farther and
    farther, probably along the line of the French camp. Rostov no
    longer wanted to sleep. The gay triumphant shouting of the enemy
    army had a stimulating effect on him. "Vive l'Empereur! L'Empereur!"
    he now heard distinctly.
      "They can't be far off, probably just beyond the stream," he said to
    the hussar beside him.
      The hussar only sighed without replying and coughed angrily. The
    sound of horse's hoofs approaching at a trot along the line of hussars
    was heard, and out of the foggy darkness the figure of a sergeant of
    hussars suddenly appeared, looming huge as an elephant.
      "Your honor, the generals!" said the sergeant, riding up to Rostov.
      Rostov, still looking round toward the fires and the shouts, rode
    with the sergeant to meet some mounted men who were riding along the
    line. One was on a white horse. Prince Bagration and Prince Dolgorukov
    with their adjutants had come to witness the curious phenomenon of the
    lights and shouts in the enemy's camp. Rostov rode up to Bagration,
    reported to him, and then joined the adjutants listening to what the
    generals were saying.
      "Believe me," said Prince Dolgorukov, addressing Bagration, "it is
    nothing but a trick! He has retreated and ordered the rearguard to
    kindle fires and make a noise to deceive us."
      "Hardly," said Bagration. "I saw them this evening on that knoll; if
    they had retreated they would have withdrawn from that too....
    Officer!" said Bagration to Rostov, "are the enemy's skirmishers still
      "They were there this evening, but now I don't know, your
    excellency. Shall I go with some of my hussars to see?" replied
      Bagration stopped and, before replying, tried to see Rostov's face
    in the mist.
      "Well, go and see," he said, after a pause.
      "Yes, sir."
      Rostov spurred his horse, called to Sergeant Fedchenko and two other
    hussars, told them to follow him, and trotted downhill in the
    direction from which the shouting came. He felt both frightened and
    pleased to be riding alone with three hussars into that mysterious and
    dangerous misty distance where no one had been before him. Bagration
    called to him from the hill not to go beyond the stream, but Rostov
    pretended not to hear him and did not stop but rode on and on,
    continually mistaking bushes for trees and gullies for men and
    continually discovering his mistakes. Having descended the hill at a
    trot, he no longer saw either our own or the enemy's fires, but
    heard the shouting of the French more loudly and distinctly. In the
    valley he saw before him something like a river, but when he reached
    it he found it was a road. Having come out onto the road he reined
    in his horse, hesitating whether to ride along it or cross it and ride
    over the black field up the hillside. To keep to the road which
    gleamed white in the mist would have been safer because it would be
    easier to see people coming along it. "Follow me!" said he, crossed
    the road, and began riding up the hill at a gallop toward the point
    where the French pickets had been standing that evening.
      "Your honor, there he is!" cried one of the hussars behind him.
    And before Rostov had time to make out what the black thing was that
    had suddenly appeared in the fog, there was a flash, followed by a
    report, and a bullet whizzing high up in the mist with a plaintive
    sound passed out of hearing. Another musket missed fire but flashed in
    the pan. Rostov turned his horse and galloped back. Four more
    reports followed at intervals, and the bullets passed somewhere in the
    fog singing in different tones. Rostov reined in his horse, whose
    spirits had risen, like his own, at the firing, and went back at a
    footpace. "Well, some more! Some more!" a merry voice was saying in
    his soul. But no more shots came.
      Only when approaching Bagration did Rostov let his horse gallop
    again, and with his hand at the salute rode up to the general.
      Dolgorukov was still insisting that the French had retreated and had
    only lit fires to deceive us.
      "What does that prove?" he was saying as Rostov rode up. "They might
    retreat and leave the pickets."
      "It's plain that they have not all gone yet, Prince," said
    Bagration. "Wait till tomorrow morning, we'll find out everything
      "The picket is still on the hill, your excellency, just where it was
    in the evening," reported Rostov, stooping forward with his hand at
    the salute and unable to repress the smile of delight induced by his
    ride and especially by the sound of the bullets.
      "Very good, very good," said Bagration. "Thank you, officer."
      "Your excellency," said Rostov, "may I ask a favor?"
      "What is it?"
      "Tomorrow our squadron is to be in reserve. May I ask to be attached
    to the first squadron?"
      "What's your name?"
      "Count Rostov."
      "Oh, very well, you may stay in attendance on me."
      "Count Ilya Rostov's son?" asked Dolgorukov.
      But Rostov did not reply.
      "Then I may reckon on it, your excellency?"
      "I will give the order."
      "Tomorrow very likely I may be sent with some message to the
    Emperor," thought Rostov.
      "Thank God!"
      The fires and shouting in the enemy's army were occasioned by the
    fact that while Napoleon's proclamation was being read to the troops
    the Emperor himself rode round his bivouacs. The soldiers, on seeing
    him, lit wisps of straw and ran after him, shouting, "Vive
    l'Empereur!" Napoleon's proclamation was as follows:
      Soldiers! The Russian army is advancing against you to avenge the
    Austrian army of Ulm. They are the same battalions you broke at
    Hollabrunn and have pursued ever since to this place. The position
    we occupy is a strong one, and while they are marching to go round
    me on the right they will expose a flank to me. Soldiers! I will
    myself direct your battalions. I will keep out of fire if you with
    your habitual valor carry disorder and confusion into the enemy's
    ranks, but should victory be in doubt, even for a moment, you will see
    your Emperor exposing himself to the first blows of the enemy, for
    there must be no doubt of victory, especially on this day when what is
    at stake is the honor of the French infantry, so necessary to the
    honor of our nation.
      Do not break your ranks on the plea of removing the wounded! Let
    every man be fully imbued with the thought that we must defeat these
    hirelings of England, inspired by such hatred of our nation! This
    victory will conclude our campaign and we can return to winter
    quarters, where fresh French troops who are being raised in France
    will join us, and the peace I shall conclude will be worthy of my
    people, of you, and of myself.
      At five in the morning it was still quite dark. The troops of the
    center, the reserves, and Bagration's right flank had not yet moved,
    but on the left flank the columns of infantry, cavalry, and artillery,
    which were to be the first to descend the heights to attack the French
    right flank and drive it into the Bohemian mountains according to
    plan, were already up and astir. The smoke of the campfires, into
    which they were throwing everything superfluous, made the eyes
    smart. It was cold and dark. The officers were hurriedly drinking
    tea and breakfasting, the soldiers, munching biscuit and beating a
    tattoo with their feet to warm themselves, gathering round the fires
    throwing into the flames the remains of sheds, chairs, tables, wheels,
    tubs, and everything that they did not want or could not carry away
    with them. Austrian column guides were moving in and out among the
    Russian troops and served as heralds of the advance. As soon as an
    Austrian officer showed himself near a commanding officer's
    quarters, the regiment began to move: the soldiers ran from the fires,
    thrust their pipes into their boots, their bags into the carts, got
    their muskets ready, and formed rank. The officers buttoned up their
    coats, buckled on their swords and pouches, and moved along the
    ranks shouting. The train drivers and orderlies harnessed and packed
    the wagons and tied on the loads. The adjutants and battalion and
    regimental commanders mounted, crossed themselves, gave final
    instructions, orders, and commissions to the baggage men who
    remained behind, and the monotonous tramp of thousands of feet
    resounded. The column moved forward without knowing where and
    unable, from the masses around them, the smoke and the increasing fog,
    to see either the place they were leaving or that to which they were
      A soldier on the march is hemmed in and borne along by his
    regiment as much as a sailor is by his ship. However far he has
    walked, whatever strange, unknown, and dangerous places he reaches,
    just as a sailor is always surrounded by the same decks, masts, and
    rigging of his ship, so the soldier always has around him the same
    comrades, the same ranks, the same sergeant major Ivan Mitrich, the
    same company dog Jack, and the same commanders. The sailor rarely
    cares to know the latitude in which his ship is sailing, but on the
    day of battle- heaven knows how and whence- a stern note of which
    all are conscious sounds in the moral atmosphere of an army,
    announcing the approach of something decisive and solemn, and
    awakening in the men an unusual curiosity. On the day of battle the
    soldiers excitedly try to get beyond the interests of their
    regiment, they listen intently, look about, and eagerly ask concerning
    what is going on around them.
      The fog had grown so dense that though it was growing light they
    could not see ten paces ahead. Bushes looked like gigantic trees and
    level ground like cliffs and slopes. Anywhere, on any side, one
    might encounter an enemy invisible ten paces off. But the columns
    advanced for a long time, always in the same fog, descending and
    ascending hills, avoiding gardens and enclosures, going over new and
    unknown ground, and nowhere encountering the enemy. On the contrary,
    the soldiers became aware that in front, behind, and on all sides,
    other Russian columns were moving in the same direction. Every soldier
    felt glad to know that to the unknown place where he was going, many
    more of our men were going too.
      "There now, the Kurskies have also gone past," was being said in the
      "It's wonderful what a lot of our troops have gathered, lads! Last
    night I looked at the campfires and there was no end of them. A
    regular Moscow!"
      Though none of the column commanders rode up to the ranks or
    talked to the men (the commanders, as we saw at the council of war,
    were out of humor and dissatisfied with the affair, and so did not
    exert themselves to cheer the men but merely carried out the
    orders), yet the troops marched gaily, as they always do when going
    into action, especially to an attack. But when they had marched for
    about an hour in the dense fog, the greater part of the men had to
    halt and an unpleasant consciousness of some dislocation and blunder
    spread through the ranks. How such a consciousness is communicated
    is very difficult to define, but it certainly is communicated very
    surely, and flows rapidly, imperceptibly, and irrepressibly, as
    water does in a creek. Had the Russian army been alone without any
    allies, it might perhaps have been a long time before this
    consciousness of mismanagement became a general conviction, but as
    it was, the disorder was readily and naturally attributed to the
    stupid Germans, and everyone was convinced that a dangerous muddle had
    been occasioned by the sausage eaters.
      "Why have we stopped? Is the way blocked? Or have we already come up
    against the French?"
      "No, one can't hear them. They'd be firing if we had."
      "They were in a hurry enough to start us, and now here we stand in
    the middle of a field without rhyme or reason. It's all those damned
    Germans' muddling! What stupid devils!"
      "Yes, I'd send them on in front, but no fear, they're crowding up
    behind. And now here we stand hungry."
      "I say, shall we soon be clear? They say the cavalry are blocking
    the way," said an officer.
      "Ah, those damned Germans! They don't know their own country!"
    said another.
      "What division are you?" shouted an adjutant, riding up.
      "The Eighteenth."
      "Then why are you here? You should have gone on long ago, now you
    won't get there till evening."
      "What stupid orders! They don't themselves know what they are
    doing!" said the officer and rode off.
      Then a general rode past shouting something angrily, not in Russian.
      "Tafa-lafa! But what he's jabbering no one can make out," said a
    soldier, mimicking the general who had ridden away. "I'd shoot them,
    the scoundrels!"
      "We were ordered to be at the place before nine, but we haven't
    got halfway. Fine orders!" was being repeated on different sides.
      And the feeling of energy with which the troops had started began to
    turn into vexation and anger at the stupid arrangements and at the
      The cause of the confusion was that while the Austrian cavalry was
    moving toward our left flank, the higher command found that our center
    was too far separated from our right flank and the cavalry were all
    ordered to turn back to the right. Several thousand cavalry crossed in
    front of the infantry, who had to wait.
      At the front an altercation occurred between an Austrian guide and a
    Russian general. The general shouted a demand that the cavalry
    should be halted, the Austrian argued that not he, but the higher
    command, was to blame. The troops meanwhile stood growing listless and
    dispirited. After an hour's delay they at last moved on, descending
    the hill. The fog that was dispersing on the hill lay still more
    densely below, where they were descending. In front in the fog a
    shot was heard and then another, at first irregularly at varying
    intervals- trata... tat- and then more and more regularly and rapidly,
    and the action at the Goldbach Stream began.
      Not expecting to come on the enemy down by the stream, and having
    stumbled on him in the fog, hearing no encouraging word from their
    commanders, and with a consciousness of being too late spreading
    through the ranks, and above all being unable to see anything in front
    or around them in the thick fog, the Russians exchanged shots with the
    enemy lazily and advanced and again halted, receiving no timely orders
    from the officers or adjutants who wandered about in the fog in
    those unknown surroundings unable to find their own regiments. In this
    way the action began for the first, second, and third columns, which
    had gone down into the valley. The fourth column, with which Kutuzov
    was, stood on the Pratzen Heights.
      Below, where the fight was beginning, there was still thick fog;
    on the higher ground it was clearing, but nothing could be seen of
    what was going on in front. Whether all the enemy forces were, as we
    supposed, six miles away, or whether they were near by in that sea
    of mist, no one knew till after eight o'clock.
      It was nine o'clock in the morning. The fog lay unbroken like a
    sea down below, but higher up at the village of Schlappanitz where
    Napoleon stood with his marshals around him, it was quite light. Above
    him was a clear blue sky, and the sun's vast orb quivered like a
    huge hollow, crimson float on the surface of that milky sea of mist.
    The whole French army, and even Napoleon himself with his staff,
    were not on the far side of the streams and hollows of Sokolnitz and
    Schlappanitz beyond which we intended to take up our position and
    begin the action, but were on this side, so close to our own forces
    that Napoleon with the naked eye could distinguish a mounted man
    from one on foot. Napoleon, in the blue cloak which he had worn on his
    Italian campaign, sat on his small gray Arab horse a little in front
    of his marshals. He gazed silently at the hills which seemed to rise
    out of the sea of mist and on which the Russian troops were moving
    in the distance, and he listened to the sounds of firing in the
    valley. Not a single muscle of his face- which in those days was still
    thin- moved. His gleaming eyes were fixed intently on one spot. His
    predictions were being justified. Part of the Russian force had
    already descended into the valley toward the ponds and lakes and
    part were leaving these Pratzen Heights which he intended to attack
    and regarded as the key to the position. He saw over the mist that
    in a hollow between two hills near the village of Pratzen, the Russian
    columns, their bayonets glittering, were moving continuously in one
    direction toward the valley and disappearing one after another into
    the mist. From information he had received the evening before, from
    the sound of wheels and footsteps heard by the outposts during the
    night, by the disorderly movement of the Russian columns, and from all
    indications, he saw clearly that the allies believed him to be far
    away in front of them, and that the columns moving near Pratzen
    constituted the center of the Russian army, and that that center was
    already sufficiently weakened to be successfully attacked. But still
    he did not begin the engagement.
      Today was a great day for him- the anniversary of his coronation.
    Before dawn he had slept for a few hours, and refreshed, vigorous, and
    in good spirits, he mounted his horse and rode out into the field in
    that happy mood in which everything seems possible and everything
    succeeds. He sat motionless, looking at the heights visible above
    the mist, and his cold face wore that special look of confident,
    self-complacent happiness that one sees on the face of a boy happily
    in love. The marshals stood behind him not venturing to distract his
    attention. He looked now at the Pratzen Heights, now at the sun
    floating up out of the mist.
      When the sun had entirely emerged from the fog, and fields and
    mist were aglow with dazzling light- as if he had only awaited this to
    begin the action- he drew the glove from his shapely white hand,
    made a sign with it to the marshals, and ordered the action to
    begin. The marshals, accompanied by adjutants, galloped off in
    different directions, and a few minutes later the chief forces of
    the French army moved rapidly toward those Pratzen Heights which
    were being more and more denuded by Russian troops moving down the
    valley to their left.
      At eight o'clock Kutuzov rode to Pratzen at the head of the fourth
    column, Miloradovich's, the one that was to take the place of
    Przebyszewski's and Langeron's columns which had already gone down
    into the valley. He greeted the men of the foremost regiment and
    gave them the order to march, thereby indicating that he intended to
    lead that column himself. When he had reached the village of Pratzen
    he halted. Prince Andrew was behind, among the immense number
    forming the commander in chief's suite. He was in a state of
    suppressed excitement and irritation, though controlledly calm as a
    man is at the approach of a long-awaited moment. He was firmly
    convinced that this was the day of his Toulon, or his bridge of
    Arcola. How it would come about he did not know, but he felt sure it
    would do so. The locality and the position of our troops were known to
    him as far as they could be known to anyone in our army. His own
    strategic plan, which obviously could not now be carried out, was
    forgotten. Now, entering into Weyrother's plan, Prince Andrew
    considered possible contingencies and formed new projects such as
    might call for his rapidity of perception and decision.
      To the left down below in the mist, the musketry fire of unseen
    forces could be heard. It was there Prince Andrew thought the fight
    would concentrate. "There we shall encounter difficulties, and there,"
    thought he, "I shall be sent with a brigade or division, and there,
    standard in hand, I shall go forward and break whatever is in front of
      He could not look calmly at the standards of the passing battalions.
    Seeing them he kept thinking, "That may be the very standard with
    which I shall lead the army."
      In the morning all that was left of the night mist on the heights
    was a hoar frost now turning to dew, but in the valleys it still lay
    like a milk-white sea. Nothing was visible in the valley to the left
    into which our troops had descended and from whence came the sounds of
    firing. Above the heights was the dark clear sky, and to the right the
    vast orb of the sun. In front, far off on the farther shore of that
    sea of mist, some wooded hills were discernible, and it was there
    the enemy probably was, for something could be descried. On the
    right the Guards were entering the misty region with a sound of
    hoofs and wheels and now and then a gleam of bayonets; to the left
    beyond the village similar masses of cavalry came up and disappeared
    in the sea of mist. In front and behind moved infantry. The
    commander in chief was standing at the end of the village letting
    the troops pass by him. That morning Kutuzov seemed worn and
    irritable. The infantry passing before him came to a halt without
    any command being given, apparently obstructed by something in front.
      "Do order them to form into battalion columns and go round the
    village!" he said angrily to a general who had ridden up. "Don't you
    understand, your excellency, my dear sir, that you must not defile
    through narrow village streets when we are marching against the
      "I intended to re-form them beyond the village, your excellency,"
    answered the general.
      Kutuzov laughed bitterly.
      "You'll make a fine thing of it, deploying in sight of the enemy!
    Very fine!"
      "The enemy is still far away, your excellency. According to the
      "The dispositions!" exclaimed Kutuzov bitterly. "Who told you
    that?... Kindly do as you are ordered."
      "Yes, sir."
      "My dear fellow," Nesvitski whispered to Prince Andrew, "the old man
    is as surly as a dog."
      An Austrian officer in a white uniform with green plumes in his
    hat galloped up to Kutuzov and asked in the Emperor's name had the
    fourth column advanced into action.
      Kutuzov turned round without answering and his eye happened to
    fall upon Prince Andrew, who was beside him. Seeing him, Kutuzov's
    malevolent and caustic expression softened, as if admitting that
    what was being done was not his adjutant's fault, and still not
    answering the Austrian adjutant, he addressed Bolkonski.
      "Go, my dear fellow, and see whether the third division has passed
    the village. Tell it to stop and await my orders."
      Hardly had Prince Andrew started than he stopped him.
      "And ask whether sharpshooters have been posted," he added. "What
    are they doing? What are they doing?" he murmured to himself, still
    not replying to the Austrian.
      Prince Andrew galloped off to execute the order.
      Overtaking the battalions that continued to advance, he stopped
    the third division and convinced himself that there really were no
    sharpshooters in front of our columns. The colonel at the head of
    the regiment was much surprised at the commander in chief's order to
    throw out skirmishers. He had felt perfectly sure that there were
    other troops in front of him and that the enemy must be at least six
    miles away. There was really nothing to be seen in front except a
    barren descent hidden by dense mist. Having given orders in the
    commander in chief's name to rectify this omission, Prince Andrew
    galloped back. Kutuzov still in the same place, his stout body resting
    heavily in the saddle with the lassitude of age, sat yawning wearily
    with closed eyes. The troops were no longer moving, but stood with the
    butts of their muskets on the ground.
      "All right, all right!" he said to Prince Andrew, and turned to a
    general who, watch in hand, was saying it was time they started as all
    the left-flank columns had already descended.
      "Plenty of time, your excellency," muttered Kutuzov in the midst
    of a yawn. "Plenty of time," he repeated.
      Just then at a distance behind Kutuzov was heard the sound of
    regiments saluting, and this sound rapidly came nearer along the whole
    extended line of the advancing Russian columns. Evidently the person
    they were greeting was riding quickly. When the soldiers of the
    regiment in front of which Kutuzov was standing began to shout, he
    rode a little to one side and looked round with a frown. Along the
    road from Pratzen galloped what looked like a squadron of horsemen
    in various uniforms. Two of them rode side by side in front, at full
    gallop. One in a black uniform with white plumes in his hat rode a
    bobtailed chestnut horse, the other who was in a white uniform rode
    a black one. These were the two Emperors followed by their suites.
    Kutuzov, affecting the manners of an old soldier at the front, gave
    the command "Attention!" and rode up to the Emperors with a salute.
    His whole appearance and manner were suddenly transformed. He put on
    the air of a subordinate who obeys without reasoning. With an
    affectation of respect which evidently struck Alexander
    unpleasantly, he rode up and saluted.
      This unpleasant impression merely flitted over the young and happy
    face of the Emperor like a cloud of haze across a clear sky and
    vanished. After his illness he looked rather thinner that day than
    on the field of Olmutz where Bolkonski had seen him for the first time
    abroad, but there was still the same bewitching combination of majesty
    and mildness in his fine gray eyes, and on his delicate lips the
    same capacity for varying expression and the same prevalent appearance
    of goodhearted innocent youth.
      At the Olmutz review he had seemed more majestic; here he seemed
    brighter and more energetic. He was slightly flushed after galloping
    two miles, and reining in his horse he sighed restfully and looked
    round at the faces of his suite, young and animated as his own.
    Czartoryski, Novosiltsev, Prince Volkonsky, Strogonov, and the others,
    all richly dressed gay young men on splendid, well-groomed, fresh,
    only slightly heated horses, exchanging remarks and smiling, had
    stopped behind the Emperor. The Emperor Francis, a rosy, long faced
    young man, sat very erect on his handsome black horse, looking about
    him in a leisurely and preoccupied manner. He beckoned to one of his
    white adjutants and asked some question- "Most likely he is asking
    at what o'clock they started," thought Prince Andrew, watching his old
    acquaintance with a smile he could not repress as he recalled his
    reception at Brunn. In the Emperors' suite were the picked young
    orderly officers of the Guard and line regiments, Russian and
    Austrian. Among them were grooms leading the Tsar's beautiful relay
    horses covered with embroidered cloths.
      As when a window is opened a whiff of fresh air from the fields
    enters a stuffy room, so a whiff of youthfulness, energy, and
    confidence of success reached Kutuzov's cheerless staff with the
    galloping advent of all these brilliant young men.
      "Why aren't you beginning, Michael Ilarionovich?" said the Emperor
    Alexander hurriedly to Kutuzov, glancing courteously at the same
    time at the Emperor Francis.
      "I am waiting, Your Majesty," answered Kutuzov, bending forward
      The Emperor, frowning slightly, bent his ear forward as if he had
    not quite heard.
      "Waiting, Your Majesty," repeated Kutuzov. (Prince Andrew noted that
    Kutuzov's upper lip twitched unnaturally as he said the word
    "waiting.") "Not all the columns have formed up yet, Your Majesty."
      The Tsar heard but obviously did not like the reply; he shrugged his
    rather round shoulders and glanced at Novosiltsev who was near him, as
    if complaining of Kutuzov.
      "You know, Michael Ilarionovich, we are not are not on the
    Empress' Field where a parade does not begin till all the troops are
    assembled," said the Tsar with another glance at the Emperor
    Francis, as if inviting him if not to join in at least to listen to
    what he was saying. But the Emperor Francis continued to look about
    him and did not listen.
      "That is just why I do not begin, sire," said Kutuzov in a
    resounding voice, apparently to preclude the possibility of not
    being heard, and again something in his face twitched- "That is just
    why I do not begin, sire, because we are not on parade and not on
    the Empress' Field." said clearly and distinctly.
      In the Emperor's suite all exchanged rapid looks that expressed
    dissatisfaction and reproach. "Old though he may be, he should not, he
    certainly should not, speak like that," their glances seemed to say.
      The Tsar looked intently and observantly into Kutuzov's eye
    waiting to hear whether he would say anything more. But Kutuzov,
    with respectfully bowed head, seemed also to be waiting. The silence
    lasted for about a minute.
      "However, if you command it, Your Majesty," said Kutuzov, lifting
    his head and again assuming his former tone of a dull, unreasoning,
    but submissive general.
      He touched his horse and having called Miloradovich, the commander
    of the column, gave him the order to advance.
      The troops again began to move, and two battalions of the Novgorod
    and one of the Apsheron regiment went forward past the Emperor.
      As this Apsheron battalion marched by, the red-faced Miloradovich,
    without his greatcoat, with his Orders on his breast and an enormous
    tuft of plumes in his cocked hat worn on one side with its corners
    front and back, galloped strenuously forward, and with a dashing
    salute reined in his horse before the Emperor.
      "God be with you, general!" said the Emperor.
      "Ma foi, sire, nous ferons ce qui sera dans notre possibilite,
    sire,"* he answered gaily, raising nevertheless ironic smiles among
    the gentlemen of the Tsar's suite by his poor French.
      *"Indeed, Sire, we shall do everything it is possible to do, Sire."
      Miloradovich wheeled his horse sharply and stationed himself a
    little behind the Emperor. The Apsheron men, excited by the Tsar's
    presence, passed in step before the Emperors and their suites at a
    bold, brisk pace.
      "Lads!" shouted Miloradovich in a loud, self-confident, and cheery
    voice, obviously so elated by the sound of firing, by the prospect
    of battle, and by the sight of the gallant Apsherons, his comrades
    in Suvorov's time, now passing so gallantly before the Emperors,
    that he forgot the sovereigns' presence. "Lads, it's not the first
    village you've had to take," cried he.
      "Glad to do our best!" shouted the soldiers.
      The Emperor's horse started at the sudden cry. This horse that had
    carried the sovereign at reviews in Russia bore him also here on the
    field of Austerlitz, enduring the heedless blows of his left foot
    and pricking its ears at the sound of shots just as it had done on the
    Empress' Field, not understanding the significance of the firing,
    nor of the nearness of the Emperor Francis' black cob, nor of all that
    was being said, thought, and felt that day by its rider.
      The Emperor turned with a smile to one of his followers and made a
    remark to him, pointing to the gallant Apsherons.
      Kutuzov accompanied by his adjutants rode at a walking pace behind
    the carabineers.
      When he had gone less than half a mile in the rear of the column
    he stopped at a solitary, deserted house that had probably once been
    an inn, where two roads parted. Both of them led downhill and troops
    were marching along both.
      The fog had begun to clear and enemy troops were already dimly
    visible about a mile and a half off on the opposite heights. Down
    below, on the left, the firing became more distinct. Kutuzov had
    stopped and was speaking to an Austrian general. Prince Andrew, who
    was a little behind looking at them, turned to an adjutant to ask
    him for a field glass.
      "Look, look!" said this adjutant, looking not at the troops in the
    distance, but down the hill before him. "It's the French!"
      The two generals and the adjutant took hold of the field glass,
    trying to snatch it from one another. The expression on all their
    faces suddenly changed to one of horror. The French were supposed to
    be a mile and a half away, but had suddenly and unexpectedly
    appeared just in front of us.
      "It's the enemy?... No!... Yes, see it is!... for certain.... But
    how is that?" said different voices.
      With the naked eye Prince Andrew saw below them to the right, not
    more than five hundred paces from where Kutuzov was standing, a
    dense French column coming up to meet the Apsherons.
      "Here it is! The decisive moment has arrived. My turn has come,"
    thought Prince Andrew, and striking his horse he rode up to Kutuzov.
      "The Apsherons must be stopped, your excellency," cried he. But at
    that very instant a cloud of smoke spread all round, firing was
    heard quite close at hand, and a voice of naive terror barely two
    steps from Prince Andrew shouted, "Brothers! All's lost!" And at
    this as if at a command, everyone began to run.
      Confused and ever-increasing crowds were running back to where
    five minutes before the troops had passed the Emperors. Not only would
    it have been difficult to stop that crowd, it was even impossible
    not to be carried back with it oneself. Bolkonski only tried not to
    lose touch with it, and looked around bewildered and unable to grasp
    what was happening in front of him. Nesvitski with an angry face,
    red and unlike himself, was shouting to Kutuzov that if he did not
    ride away at once he would certainly be taken prisoner. Kutuzov
    remained in the same place and without answering drew out a
    handkerchief. Blood was flowing from his cheek. Prince Andrew forced
    his way to him.
      "You are wounded?" he asked, hardly able to master the trembling
    of his lower jaw.
      "The wound is not here, it is there!" said Kutuzov, pressing the
    handkerchief to his wounded cheek and pointing to the fleeing
    soldiers. "Stop them!" he shouted, and at the same moment, probably
    realizing that it was impossible to stop them, spurred his horse and
    rode to the right.
      A fresh wave of the flying mob caught him and bore him back with it.
      The troops were running in such a dense mass that once surrounded by
    them it was difficult to get out again. One was shouting, "Get on! Why
    are you hindering us?" Another in the same place turned round and
    fired in the air; a third was striking the horse Kutuzov himself rode.
    Having by a great effort got away to the left from that flood of
    men, Kutuzov, with his suite diminished by more than half, rode toward
    a sound of artillery fire near by. Having forced his way out of the
    crowd of fugitives, Prince Andrew, trying to keep near Kutuzov, saw on
    the slope of the hill amid the smoke a Russian battery that was
    still firing and Frenchmen running toward it. Higher up stood some
    Russian infantry, neither moving forward to protect the battery nor
    backward with the fleeing crowd. A mounted general separated himself
    from the infantry and approached Kutuzov. Of Kutuzov's suite only four
    remained. They were all pale and exchanged looks in silence.
      "Stop those wretches!" gasped Kutuzov to the regimental commander,
    pointing to the flying soldiers; but at that instant, as if to
    punish him for those words, bullets flew hissing across the regiment
    and across Kutuzov's suite like a flock of little birds.
      The French had attacked the battery and, seeing Kutuzov, were firing
    at him. After this volley the regimental commander clutched at his
    leg; several soldiers fell, and a second lieutenant who was holding
    the flag let it fall from his hands. It swayed and fell, but caught on
    the muskets of the nearest soldiers. The soldiers started firing
    without orders.
      "Oh! Oh! Oh!" groaned Kutuzov despairingly and looked around....
    "Bolkonski!" he whispered, his voice trembling from a consciousness of
    the feebleness of age, "Bolkonski!" he whispered, pointing to the
    disordered battalion and at the enemy, "what's that?"
      But before he had finished speaking, Prince Andrew, feeling tears of
    shame and anger choking him, had already leapt from his horse and
    run to the standard.
      "Forward, lads!" he shouted in a voice piercing as a child's.
      "Here it is!" thought he, seizing the staff of the standard and
    hearing with pleasure the whistle of bullets evidently aimed at him.
    Several soldiers fell.
      "Hurrah!" shouted Prince Andrew, and, scarcely able to hold up the
    heavy standard, he ran forward with full confidence that the whole
    battalion would follow him.
      And really he only ran a few steps alone. One soldier moved and then
    another and soon the whole battalion ran forward shouting "Hurrah!"
    and overtook him. A sergeant of the battalion ran up and took the flag
    that was swaying from its weight in Prince Andrew's hands, but he
    was immediately killed. Prince Andrew again seized the standard and,
    dragging it by the staff, ran on with the battalion. In front he saw
    our artillerymen, some of whom were fighting, while others, having
    abandoned their guns, were running toward him. He also saw French
    infantry soldiers who were seizing the artillery horses and turning
    the guns round. Prince Andrew and the battalion were already within
    twenty paces of the cannon. He heard the whistle of bullets above
    him unceasingly and to right and left of him soldiers continually
    groaned and dropped. But he did not look at them: he looked only at
    what was going on in front of him- at the battery. He now saw
    clearly the figure of a red-haired gunner with his shako knocked awry,
    pulling one end of a mop while a French soldier tugged at the other.
    He could distinctly see the distraught yet angry expression on the
    faces of these two men, who evidently did not realize what they were
      "What are they about?" thought Prince Andrew as he gazed at them.
    "Why doesn't the red-haired gunner run away as he is unarmed? Why
    doesn't the Frenchman stab him? He will not get away before the
    Frenchman remembers his bayonet and stabs him...."
      And really another French soldier, trailing his musket, ran up to
    the struggling men, and the fate of the red-haired gunner, who had
    triumphantly secured the mop and still did not realize what awaited
    him, was about to be decided. But Prince Andrew did not see how it
    ended. It seemed to him as though one of the soldiers near him hit him
    on the head with the full swing of a bludgeon. It hurt a little, but
    the worst of it was that the pain distracted him and prevented his
    seeing what he had been looking at.
      "What's this? Am I falling? My legs are giving way," thought he, and
    fell on his back. He opened his eyes, hoping to see how the struggle
    of the Frenchmen with the gunners ended, whether the red-haired gunner
    had been killed or not and whether the cannon had been captured or
    saved. But he saw nothing. Above him there was now nothing but the
    sky- the lofty sky, not clear yet still immeasurably lofty, with
    gray clouds gliding slowly across it. "How quiet, peaceful, and
    solemn; not at all as I ran," thought Prince Andrew- "not as we ran,
    shouting and fighting, not at all as the gunner and the Frenchman with
    frightened and angry faces struggled for the mop: how differently do
    those clouds glide across that lofty infinite sky! How was it I did
    not see that lofty sky before? And how happy I am to have found it
    at last! Yes! All is vanity, all falsehood, except that infinite
    sky. There is nothing, nothing, but that. But even it does not
    exist, there is nothing but quiet and peace. Thank God!..."
      On our right flank commanded by Bagration, at nine o'clock the
    battle had not yet begun. Not wishing to agree to Dolgorukov's
    demand to commence the action, and wishing to avert responsibility
    from himself, Prince Bagration proposed to Dolgorukov to send to
    inquire of the commander in chief. Bagration knew that as the distance
    between the two flanks was more than six miles, even if the
    messenger were not killed (which he very likely would be), and found
    the commander in chief (which would be very difficult), he would not
    be able to get back before evening.
      Bagration cast his large, expressionless, sleepy eyes round his
    suite, and the boyish face Rostov, breathless with excitement and
    hope, was the first to catch his eye. He sent him.
      "And if I should meet His Majesty before I meet the commander in
    chief, your excellency?" said Rostov, with his hand to his cap.
      "You can give the message to His Majesty," said Dolgorukov,
    hurriedly interrupting Bagration.
      On being relieved from picket duty Rostov had managed to get a few
    hours' sleep before morning and felt cheerful, bold, and resolute,
    with elasticity of movement, faith in his good fortune, and
    generally in that state of mind which makes everything seem
    possible, pleasant, and easy.
      All his wishes were being fulfilled that morning: there was to be
    a general engagement in which he was taking part, more than that, he
    was orderly to the bravest general, and still more, he was going
    with a message to Kutuzov, perhaps even to the sovereign himself.
    The morning was bright, he had a good horse under him, and his heart
    was full of joy and happiness. On receiving the order he gave his
    horse the rein and galloped along the line. At first he rode along the
    line of Bagration's troops, which had not yet advanced into action but
    were standing motionless; then he came to the region occupied by
    Uvarov's cavalry and here he noticed a stir and signs of preparation
    for battle; having passed Uvarov's cavalry he clearly heard the
    sound of cannon and musketry ahead of him. The firing grew louder
    and louder.
      In the fresh morning air were now heard, not two or three musket
    shots at irregular intervals as before, followed by one or two
    cannon shots, but a roll of volleys of musketry from the slopes of the
    hill before Pratzen, interrupted by such frequent reports of cannon
    that sometimes several of them were not separated from one another but
    merged into a general roar.
      He could see puffs of musketry smoke that seemed to chase one
    another down the hillsides, and clouds of cannon smoke rolling,
    spreading, and mingling with one another. He could also, by the
    gleam of bayonets visible through the smoke, make out moving masses of
    infantry and narrow lines of artillery with green caissons.
      Rostov stopped his horse for a moment on a hillock to see what was
    going on, but strain his attention as he would he could not understand
    or make out anything of what was happening: there in the smoke men
    of some sort were moving about, in front and behind moved lines of
    troops; but why, whither, and who they were, it was impossible to make
    out. These sights and sounds had no depressing or intimidating
    effect on him; on the contrary, they stimulated his energy and
      "Go on! Go on! Give it them!" he mentally exclaimed at these sounds,
    and again proceeded to gallop along the line, penetrating farther
    and farther into the region where the army was already in action.
      "How it will be there I don't know, but all will be well!" thought
      After passing some Austrian troops he noticed that the next part
    of the line (the Guards) was already in action.
      "So much the better! I shall see it close," he thought.
      He was riding almost along the front line. A handful of men came
    galloping toward him. They were our Uhlans who with disordered ranks
    were returning from the attack. Rostov got out of their way,
    involuntarily noticed that one of them was bleeding, and galloped on.
      "That is no business of mine," he thought. He had not ridden many
    hundred yards after that before he saw to his left, across the whole
    width of the field, an enormous mass of cavalry in brilliant white
    uniforms, mounted on black horses, trotting straight toward him and
    across his path. Rostov put his horse to full gallop to get out of the
    way of these men, and he would have got clear had they continued at
    the same speed, but they kept increasing their pace, so that some of
    the horses were already galloping. Rostov heard the thud of their
    hoofs and the jingle of their weapons and saw their horses, their
    figures, and even their faces, more and more distinctly. They were our
    Horse Guards, advancing to attack the French cavalry that was coming
    to meet them.
      The Horse Guards were galloping, but still holding in their
    horses. Rostov could already see their faces and heard the command:
    "Charge!" shouted by an officer who was urging his thoroughbred to
    full speed. Rostov, fearing to be crushed or swept into the attack
    on the French, galloped along the front as hard as his horse could go,
    but still was not in time to avoid them.
      The last of the Horse Guards, a huge pockmarked fellow, frowned
    angrily on seeing Rostov before him, with whom he would inevitably
    collide. This Guardsman would certainly have bowled Rostov and his
    Bedouin over (Rostov felt himself quite tiny and weak compared to
    these gigantic men and horses) had it not occurred to Rostov to
    flourish his whip before the eyes of the Guardsman's horse. The
    heavy black horse, sixteen hands high, shied, throwing back its
    ears; but the pockmarked Guardsman drove his huge spurs in
    violently, and the horse, flourishing its tail and extending its neck,
    galloped on yet faster. Hardly had the Horse Guards passed Rostov
    before he heard them shout, "Hurrah!" and looking back saw that
    their foremost ranks were mixed up with some foreign cavalry with
    red epaulets, probably French. He could see nothing more, for
    immediately afterwards cannon began firing from somewhere and smoke
    enveloped everything.
      At that moment, as the Horse Guards, having passed him,
    disappeared in the smoke, Rostov hesitated whether to gallop after
    them or to go where he was sent. This was the brilliant charge of
    the Horse Guards that amazed the French themselves. Rostov was
    horrified to hear later that of all that mass of huge and handsome
    men, of all those brilliant, rich youths, officers and cadets, who had
    galloped past him on their thousand-ruble horses, only eighteen were
    left after the charge.
      "Why should I envy them? My chance is not lost, and maybe I shall
    see the Emperor immediately! " thought Rostov and galloped on.
      When he came level with the Foot Guards he noticed that about them
    and around them cannon balls were flying, of which he was aware not so
    much because he heard their sound as because he saw uneasiness on
    the soldiers' faces and unnatural warlike solemnity on those of the
      Passing behind one of the lines of a regiment of Foot Guards he
    heard a voice calling him by name.
      "What?" he answered, not recognizing Boris.
      "I say, we've been in the front line! Our regiment attacked!" said
    Boris with the happy smile seen on the faces of young men who have
    been under fire for the first time.
      Rostov stopped.
      "Have you?" he said. "Well, how did it go?"
      "We drove them back!" said Boris with animation, growing
    talkative. "Can you imagine it?" and he began describing how the
    Guards, having taken up their position and seeing troops before
    them, thought they were Austrians, and all at once discovered from the
    cannon balls discharged by those troops that they were themselves in
    the front line and had unexpectedly to go into action. Rostov
    without hearing Boris to the end spurred his horse.
      "Where are you off to?" asked Boris.
      "With a message to His Majesty."
      "There he is!" said Boris, thinking Rostov had said "His
    Highness," and pointing to the Grand Duke who with his high
    shoulders and frowning brows stood a hundred paces away from them in
    his helmet and Horse Guards' jacket, shouting something to a pale,
    white uniformed Austrian officer.
      "But that's the Grand Duke, and I want the commander in chief or the
    Emperor," said Rostov, and was about to spur his horse.
      "Count! Count!" shouted Berg who ran up from the other side as eager
    as Boris. "Count! I am wounded in my right hand" (and he showed his
    bleeding hand with a handkerchief tied round it) "and I remained at
    the front. I held my sword in my left hand, Count. All our family- the
    von Bergs- have been knights!"
      He said something more, but Rostov did not wait to hear it and
    rode away.
      Having passed the Guards and traversed an empty space, Rostov, to
    avoid again getting in front of the first line as he had done when the
    Horse Guards charged, followed the line of reserves, going far round
    the place where the hottest musket fire and cannonade were heard.
    Suddenly he heard musket fire quite close in front of him and behind
    our troops, where he could never have expected the enemy to be.
      "What can it be?" he thought. "The enemy in the rear of our army?
    Impossible!" And suddenly he was seized by a panic of fear for himself
    and for the issue of the whole battle. "But be that what it may," he
    reflected, "there is no riding round it now. I must look for the
    commander in chief here, and if all is lost it is for me to perish
    with the rest."
      The foreboding of evil that had suddenly come over Rostov was more
    and more confirmed the farther he rode into the region behind the
    village of Pratzen, which was full of troops of all kinds.
      "What does it mean? What is it? Whom are they firing at? Who is
    firing?" Rostov kept asking as he came up to Russian and Austrian
    soldiers running in confused crowds across his path.
      "The devil knows! They've killed everybody! It's all up now!" he was
    told in Russian, German, and Czech by the crowd of fugitives who
    understood what was happening as little as he did.
      "Kill the Germans!" shouted one.
      "May the devil take them- the traitors!"
      "Zum Henker diese Russen!"* muttered a German.
      *"Hang these Russians!"
      Several wounded men passed along the road, and words of abuse,
    screams, and groans mingled in a general hubbub, then the firing
    died down. Rostov learned later that Russian and Austrian soldiers had
    been firing at one another.
      "My God! What does it all mean?" thought he. "And here, where at any
    moment the Emperor may see them.... But no, these must be only a
    handful of scoundrels. It will soon be over, it can't be that, it
    can't be! Only to get past them quicker, quicker!"
      The idea of defeat and flight could not enter Rostov's head.
    Though he saw French cannon and French troops on the Pratzen Heights
    just where he had been ordered to look for the commander in chief,
    he could not, did not wish to, believe that.
      Rostov had been ordered to look for Kutuzov and the Emperor near the
    village of Pratzen. But neither they nor a single commanding officer
    were there, only disorganized crowds of troops of various kinds. He
    urged on his already weary horse to get quickly past these crowds, but
    the farther he went the more disorganized they were. The highroad on
    which he had come out was thronged with caleches, carriages of all
    sorts, and Russian and Austrian soldiers of all arms, some wounded and
    some not. This whole mass droned and jostled in confusion under the
    dismal influence of cannon balls flying from the French batteries
    stationed on the Pratzen Heights.
      "Where is the Emperor? Where is Kutuzov?" Rostov kept asking
    everyone he could stop, but got no answer from anyone.
      At last seizing a soldier by his collar he forced him to answer.
      "Eh, brother! They've all bolted long ago!" said the soldier,
    laughing for some reason and shaking himself free.
      Having left that soldier who was evidently drunk, Rostov stopped the
    horse of a batman or groom of some important personage and began to
    question him. The man announced that the Tsar had been driven in a
    carriage at full speed about an hour before along that very road and
    that he was dangerously wounded.
      "It can't be!" said Rostov. "It must have been someone else."
      "I saw him myself." replied the man with a self-confident smile of
    derision. "I ought to know the Emperor by now, after the times I've
    seen him in Petersburg. I saw him just as I see you.... There he sat
    in the carriage as pale as anything. How they made the four black
    horses fly! Gracious me, they did rattle past! It's time I knew the
    Imperial horses and Ilya Ivanych. I don't think Ilya drives anyone
    except the Tsar!"
      Rostov let go of the horse and was about to ride on, when a
    wounded officer passing by addressed him:
      "Who is it you want?" he asked. "The commander in chief? He was
    killed by a cannon ball- struck in the breast before our regiment."
      "Not killed- wounded!" another officer corrected him.
      "Who? Kutuzov?" asked Rostov.
      "Not Kutuzov, but what's his name- well, never mind... there are not
    many left alive. Go that way, to that village, all the commanders
    are there," said the officer, pointing to the village of Hosjeradek,
    and he walked on.
      Rostov rode on at a footpace not knowing why or to whom he was now
    going. The Emperor was wounded, the battle lost. It was impossible
    to doubt it now. Rostov rode in the direction pointed out to him, in
    which he saw turrets and a church. What need to hurry? What was he now
    to say to the Tsar or to Kutuzov, even if they were alive and
      "Take this road, your honor, that way you will be killed at once!" a
    soldier shouted to him. "They'd kill you there!"
      "Oh, what are you talking about?" said another. "Where is he to
    go? That way is nearer."
      Rostov considered, and then went in the direction where they said he
    would be killed.
      "It's all the same now. If the Emperor is wounded, am I to try to
    save myself?" he thought. He rode on to the region where the
    greatest number of men had perished in fleeing from Pratzen. The
    French had not yet occupied that region, and the Russians- the
    uninjured and slightly wounded- had left it long ago. All about the
    field, like heaps of manure on well-kept plowland, lay from ten to
    fifteen dead and wounded to each couple of acres. The wounded crept
    together in twos and threes and one could hear their distressing
    screams and groans, sometimes feigned- or so it seemed to Rostov. He
    put his horse to a trot to avoid seeing all these suffering men, and
    he felt afraid- afraid not for his life, but for the courage he needed
    and which he knew would not stand the sight of these unfortunates.
      The French, who had ceased firing at this field strewn with dead and
    wounded where there was no one left to fire at, on seeing an
    adjutant riding over it trained a gun on him and fired several
    shots. The sensation of those terrible whistling sounds and of the
    corpses around him merged in Rostov's mind into a single feeling of
    terror and pity for himself. He remembered his mother's last letter.
    "What would she feel," thought he, "if she saw me here now on this
    field with the cannon aimed at me?"
      In the village of Hosjeradek there were Russian troops retiring from
    the field of battle, who though still in some confusion were less
    disordered. The French cannon did not reach there and the musketry
    fire sounded far away. Here everyone clearly saw and said that the
    battle was lost. No one whom Rostov asked could tell him where the
    Emperor or Kutuzov was. Some said the report that the Emperor was
    wounded was correct, others that it was not, and explained the false
    rumor that had spread by the fact that the Emperor's carriage had
    really galloped from the field of battle with the pale and terrified
    Ober-Hofmarschal Count Tolstoy, who had ridden out to the
    battlefield with others in the Emperor's suite. One officer told
    Rostov that he had seen someone from headquarters behind the village
    to the left, and thither Rostov rode, not hoping to find anyone but
    merely to ease his conscience. When he had ridden about two miles
    and had passed the last of the Russian troops, he saw, near a
    kitchen garden with a ditch round it, two men on horseback facing
    the ditch. One with a white plume in his hat seemed familiar to
    Rostov; the other on a beautiful chestnut horse (which Rostov
    fancied he had seen before) rode up to the ditch, struck his horse
    with his spurs, and giving it the rein leaped lightly over. Only a
    little earth crumbled from the bank under the horse's hind hoofs.
    Turning the horse sharply, he again jumped the ditch, and
    deferentially addressed the horseman with the white plumes,
    evidently suggesting that he should do the same. The rider, whose
    figure seemed familiar to Rostov and involuntarily riveted his
    attention, made a gesture of refusal with his head and hand and by
    that gesture Rostov instantly recognized his lamented and adored
      "But it can't be he, alone in the midst of this empty field!"
    thought Rostov. At that moment Alexander turned his head and Rostov
    saw the beloved features that were so deeply engraved on his memory.
    The Emperor was pale, his cheeks sunken and his eyes hollow, but the
    charm, the mildness of his features, was all the greater. Rostov was
    happy in the assurance that the rumors about the Emperor being wounded
    were false. He was happy to be seeing him. He knew that he might and
    even ought to go straight to him and give the message Dolgorukov had
    ordered him to deliver.
      But as a youth in love trembles, is unnerved, and dares not utter
    the thoughts he has dreamed of for nights, but looks around for help
    or a chance of delay and flight when the longed-for moment comes and
    he is alone with her, so Rostov, now that he had attained what he
    had longed for more than anything else in the world, did not know
    how to approach the Emperor, and a thousand reasons occurred to him
    why it would be inconvenient, unseemly, and impossible to do so.
      "What! It is as if I were glad of a chance to take advantage of
    his being alone and despondent! A strange face may seem unpleasant
    or painful to him at this moment of sorrow; besides, what can I say to
    him now, when my heart fails me and my mouth feels dry at the mere
    sight of him?" Not one of the innumerable speeches addressed to the
    Emperor that he had composed in his imagination could he now recall.
    Those speeches were intended for quite other conditions, they were for
    the most part to be spoken at a moment of victory and triumph,
    generally when he was dying of wounds and the sovereign had thanked
    him for heroic deeds, and while dying he expressed the love his
    actions had proved.
      "Besides how can I ask the Emperor for his instructions for the
    right flank now that it is nearly four o'clock and the battle is lost?
    No, certainly I must not approach him, I must not intrude on his
    reflections. Better die a thousand times than risk receiving an unkind
    look or bad opinion from him," Rostov decided; and sorrowfully and
    with a heart full despair he rode away, continually looking back at
    the Tsar, who still remained in the same attitude of indecision.
      While Rostov was thus arguing with himself and riding sadly away,
    Captain von Toll chanced to ride to the same spot, and seeing the
    Emperor at once rode up to him, offered his services, and assisted him
    to cross the ditch on foot. The Emperor, wishing to rest and feeling
    unwell, sat down under an apple tree and von Toll remained beside him.
    Rostov from a distance saw with envy and remorse how von Toll spoke
    long and warmly to the Emperor and how the Emperor, evidently weeping,
    covered his eyes with his hand and pressed von Toll's hand.
      "And I might have been in his place!" thought Rostov, and hardly
    restraining his tears of pity for the Emperor, he rode on in utter
    despair, not knowing where to or why he was now riding.
      His despair was all the greater from feeling that his own weakness
    was the cause his grief.
      He might... not only might but should, have gone up to the
    sovereign. It was a unique chance to show his devotion to the
    Emperor and he had not made use of it.... "What have I done?"
    thought he. And he turned round and galloped back to the place where
    he had seen the Emperor, but there was no one beyond the ditch now.
    Only some carts and carriages were passing by. From one of the drivers
    he learned that Kutuzov's staff were not far off, in the village the
    vehicles were going to. Rostov followed them. In front of him walked
    Kutuzov's groom leading horses in horsecloths. Then came a cart, and
    behind that walked an old, bandy-legged domestic serf in a peaked
    cap and sheepskin coat.
      "Tit! I say, Tit!" said the groom.
      "What?" answered the old man absent-mindedly.
      "Go, Tit! Thresh a bit!"
      "Oh, you fool!" said the old man, spitting angrily. Some time passed
    in silence, and then the same joke was repeated.
      Before five in the evening the battle had been lost at all points.
    More than a hundred cannon were already in the hands of the French.
      Przebyszewski and his corps had laid down their arms. Other
    columns after losing half their men were retreating in disorderly
    confused masses.
      The remains of Langeron's and Dokhturov's mingled forces were
    crowding around the dams and banks of the ponds near the village of
      After five o'clock it was only at the Augesd Dam that a hot
    cannonade (delivered by the French alone) was still to be heard from
    numerous batteries ranged on the slopes of the Pratzen Heights,
    directed at our retreating forces.
      In the rearguard, Dokhturov and others rallying some battalions kept
    up a musketry fire at the French cavalry that was pursuing our troops.
    It was growing dusk. On the narrow Augesd Dam where for so many
    years the old miller had been accustomed to sit in his tasseled cap
    peacefully angling, while his grandson, with shirt sleeves rolled
    up, handled the floundering silvery fish in the watering can, on
    that dam over which for so many years Moravians in shaggy caps and
    blue jackets had peacefully driven their two-horse carts loaded with
    wheat and had returned dusty with flour whitening their carts- on that
    narrow dam amid the wagons and the cannon, under the horses' hoofs and
    between the wagon wheels, men disfigured by fear of death now
    crowded together, crushing one another, dying, stepping over the dying
    and killing one another, only to move on a few steps and be killed
    themselves in the same way.
      Every ten seconds a cannon ball flew compressing the air around,
    or a shell burst in the midst of that dense throng, killing some and
    splashing with blood those near them.
      Dolokhov- now an officer- wounded in the arm, and on foot, with
    the regimental commander on horseback and some ten men of his company,
    represented all that was left of that whole regiment. Impelled by
    the crowd, they had got wedged in at the approach to the dam and,
    jammed in on all sides, had stopped because a horse in front had
    fallen under a cannon and the crowd were dragging it out. A cannon
    ball killed someone behind them, another fell in front and splashed
    Dolokhov with blood. The crowd, pushing forward desperately,
    squeezed together, moved a few steps, and again stopped.
      "Move on a hundred yards and we are certainly saved, remain here
    another two minutes and it is certain death," thought each one.
      Dolokhov who was in the midst of the crowd forced his way to the
    edge of the dam, throwing two soldiers off their feet, and ran onto
    the slippery ice that covered the millpool.
      "Turn this way!" he shouted, jumping over the ice which creaked
    under him; "turn this way!" he shouted to those with the gun. "It
      The ice bore him but it swayed and creaked, and it was plain that it
    would give way not only under a cannon or a crowd, but very soon
    even under his weight alone. The men looked at him and pressed to
    the bank, hesitating to step onto the ice. The general on horseback at
    the entrance to the dam raised his hand and opened his mouth to
    address Dolokhov. Suddenly a cannon ball hissed so low above the crowd
    that everyone ducked. It flopped into something moist, and the general
    fell from his horse in a pool of blood. Nobody gave him a look or
    thought of raising him.
      "Get onto the ice, over the ice! Go on! Turn! Don't you hear? Go
    on!" innumerable voices suddenly shouted after the ball had struck the
    general, the men themselves not knowing what, or why, they were
      One of the hindmost guns that was going onto the dam turned off onto
    the ice. Crowds of soldiers from the dam began running onto the frozen
    pond. The ice gave way under one of the foremost soldiers, and one leg
    slipped into the water. He tried to right himself but fell in up to
    his waist. The nearest soldiers shrank back, the gun driver stopped
    his horse, but from behind still came the shouts: "Onto the ice, why
    do you stop? Go on! Go on!" And cries of horror were heard in the
    crowd. The soldiers near the gun waved their arms and beat the
    horses to make them turn and move on. The horses moved off the bank.
    The ice, that had held under those on foot, collapsed in a great mass,
    and some forty men who were on it dashed, some forward and some
    back, drowning one another.
      Still the cannon balls continued regularly to whistle and flop
    onto the ice and into the water and oftenest of all among the crowd
    that covered the dam, the pond, and the bank.
      On the Pratzen Heights, where he had fallen with the flagstaff in
    his hand, lay Prince Andrew Bolkonski bleeding profusely and
    unconsciously uttering a gentle, piteous, and childlike moan.
      Toward evening he ceased moaning and became quite still. He did
    not know how long his unconsciousness lasted. Suddenly he again felt
    that he was alive and suffering from a burning, lacerating pain in his
      "Where is it, that lofty sky that I did not know till now, but saw
    today?" was his first thought. "And I did not know this suffering
    either," he thought. "Yes, I did not know anything, anything at all
    till now. But where am I?"
      He listened and heard the sound of approaching horses, and voices
    speaking French. He opened his eyes. Above him again was the same
    lofty sky with clouds that had risen and were floating still higher,
    and between them gleamed blue infinity. He did not turn his head and
    did not see those who, judging by the sound of hoofs and voices, had
    ridden up and stopped near him.
      It was Napoleon accompanied by two aides-de-camp. Bonaparte riding
    over the battlefield had given final orders to strengthen the
    batteries firing at the Augesd Dam and was looking at the killed and
    wounded left on the field.
      "Fine men!" remarked Napoleon, looking at a dead Russian
    grenadier, who, with his face buried in the ground and a blackened
    nape, lay on his stomach with an already stiffened arm flung wide.
      "The ammunition for the guns in position is exhausted, Your
    Majesty," said an adjutant who had come from the batteries that were
    firing at Augesd.
      "Have some brought from the reserve," said Napoleon, and having gone
    on a few steps he stopped before Prince Andrew, who lay on his back
    with the flagstaff that had been dropped beside him. (The flag had
    already been taken by the French as a trophy.)
      "That's a fine death!" said Napoleon as he gazed at Bolkonski.
      Prince Andrew understood that this was said of him and that it was
    Napoleon who said it. He heard the speaker addressed as Sire. But he
    heard the words as he might have heard the buzzing of a fly. Not
    only did they not interest him, but he took no notice of them and at
    once forgot them. His head was burning, he felt himself bleeding to
    death, and he saw above him the remote, lofty, and everlasting sky. He
    knew it was Napoleon- his hero- but at that moment Napoleon seemed
    to him such a small, insignificant creature compared with what was
    passing now between himself and that lofty infinite sky with the
    clouds flying over it. At that moment it meant nothing to him who
    might be standing over him, or what was said of him; he was only
    glad that people were standing near him and only wished that they
    would help him and bring him back to life, which seemed to him so
    beautiful now that he had today learned to understand it so
    differently. He collected all his strength, to stir and utter a sound.
    He feebly moved his leg and uttered a weak, sickly groan which aroused
    his own pity.
      "Ah! He is alive," said Napoleon. "Lift this young man up and
    carry him to the dressing station."
      Having said this, Napoleon rode on to meet Marshal Lannes, who,
    hat in hand, rode up smiling to the Emperor to congratulate him on the
      Prince Andrew remembered nothing more: he lost consciousness from
    the terrible pain of being lifted onto the stretcher, the jolting
    while being moved, and the probing of his wound at the dressing
    station. He did not regain consciousness till late in the day, when
    with other wounded and captured Russian officers he was carried to the
    hospital. During this transfer he felt a little stronger and was
    able to look about him and even speak.
      The first words he heard on coming to his senses were those of a
    French convoy officer, who said rapidly: "We must halt here: the
    Emperor will pass here immediately; it will please him to see these
    gentlemen prisoners."
      "There are so many prisoners today, nearly the whole Russian army,
    that he is probably tired of them," said another officer.
      "All the same! They say this one is the commander of all the Emperor
    Alexander's Guards," said the first one, indicating a Russian
    officer in the white uniform of the Horse Guards.
      Bolkonski recognized Prince Repnin whom he had met in Petersburg
    society. Beside him stood a lad of nineteen, also a wounded officer of
    the Horse Guards.
      Bonaparte, having come up at a gallop, stopped his horse.
      "Which is the senior?" he asked, on seeing the prisoners.
      They named the colonel, Prince Repnin.
      "You are the commander of the Emperor Alexander's regiment of
    Horse Guards?" asked Napoleon.
      "I commanded a squadron," replied Repnin.
      "Your regiment fulfilled its duty honorably," said Napoleon.
      "The praise of a great commander is a soldier's highest reward,"
    said Repnin.
      "I bestow it with pleasure," said Napoleon. "And who is that young
    man beside you?"
      Prince Repnin named Lieutenant Sukhtelen.
      After looking at him Napoleon smiled.
      "He's very young to come to meddle with us."
      "Youth is no hindrance to courage," muttered Sukhtelen in a
    failing voice.
      "A splendid reply!" said Napoleon. "Young man, you will go far!"
      Prince Andrew, who had also been brought forward before the
    Emperor's eyes to complete the show of prisoners, could not fail to
    attract his attention. Napoleon apparently remembered seeing him on
    the battlefield and, addressing him, again used the epithet "young
    man" that was connected in his memory with Prince Andrew.
      "Well, and you, young man," said he. "How do you feel, mon brave?"
      Though five minutes before, Prince Andrew had been able to say a few
    words to the soldiers who were carrying him, now with his eyes fixed
    straight on Napoleon, he was silent.... So insignificant at that
    moment seemed to him all the interests that engrossed Napoleon, so
    mean did his hero himself with his paltry vanity and joy in victory
    appear, compared to the lofty, equitable, and kindly sky which he
    had seen and understood, that he could not answer him.
      Everything seemed so futile and insignificant in comparison with the
    stern and solemn train of thought that weakness from loss of blood,
    suffering, and the nearness of death aroused in him. Looking into
    Napoleon's eyes Prince Andrew thought of the insignificance of
    greatness, the unimportance of life which no one could understand, and
    the still greater unimportance of death, the meaning of which no one
    alive could understand or explain.
      The Emperor without waiting for an answer turned away and said to
    one of the officers as he went: "Have these gentlemen attended to
    and taken to my bivouac; let my doctor, Larrey, examine their
    wounds. Au revoir, Prince Repnin!" and he spurred his horse and
    galloped away.
      His face shone with self-satisfaction and pleasure.
      The soldiers who had carried Prince Andrew had noticed and taken the
    little gold icon Princess Mary had hung round her brother's neck,
    but seeing the favor the Emperor showed the prisoners, they now
    hastened to return the holy image.
      Prince Andrew did not see how and by whom it was replaced, but the
    little icon with its thin gold chain suddenly appeared upon his
    chest outside his uniform.
      "It would be good," thought Prince Andrew, glancing at the icon
    his sister had hung round his neck with such emotion and reverence,
    "it would be good if everything were as clear and simple as it seems
    to Mary. How good it would be to know where to seek for help in this
    life, and what to expect after it beyond the grave! How happy and calm
    I should be if I could now say: 'Lord, have mercy on me!'... But to
    whom should I say that? Either to a Power indefinable,
    incomprehensible, which I not only cannot address but which I cannot
    even express in words- the Great All or Nothing-" said he to
    himself, "or to that God who has been sewn into this amulet by Mary!
    There is nothing certain, nothing at all except the unimportance of
    everything I understand, and the greatness of something
    incomprehensible but all-important.
      The stretchers moved on. At every jolt he again felt unendurable
    pain; his feverishness increased and he grew delirious. Visions of his
    father, wife, sister, and future son, and the tenderness he had felt
    the night before the battle, the figure of the insignificant little
    Napoleon, and above all this the lofty sky, formed the chief
    subjects of his delirious fancies.
      The quiet home life and peaceful happiness of Bald Hills presented
    itself to him. He was already enjoying that happiness when that little
    Napoleon had suddenly appeared with his unsympathizing look of
    shortsighted delight at the misery of others, and doubts and
    torments had followed, and only the heavens promised peace. Toward
    morning all these dreams melted and merged into the chaos and darkness
    of unconciousness and oblivion which in the opinion of Napoleon's
    doctor, Larrey, was much more likely to end in death than in
      "He is a nervous, bilious subject," said Larrey, "and will not
      And Prince Andrew, with others fatally wounded, was left to the care
    of the inhabitants of the district.
                                    BOOK FOUR: 1806
      Early in the year 1806 Nicholas Rostov returned home on leave.
    Denisov was going home to Voronezh and Rostov persuaded him to
    travel with him as far as Moscow and to stay with him there. Meeting a
    comrade at the last post station but one before Moscow, Denisov had
    drunk three bottles of wine with him and, despite the jolting ruts
    across the snow-covered road, did not once wake up on the way to
    Moscow, but lay at the bottom of the sleigh beside Rostov, who grew
    more and more impatient the nearer they got to Moscow.
      "How much longer? How much longer? Oh, these insufferable streets,
    shops, bakers' signboards, street lamps, and sleighs!" thought Rostov,
    when their leave permits had been passed at the town gate and they had
    entered Moscow.
      "Denisov! We're here! He's asleep," he added, leaning forward with
    his whole body as if in that position he hoped to hasten the speed
    of the sleigh.
      Denisov gave no answer.
      "There's the corner at the crossroads, where the cabman, Zakhar, has
    his stand, and there's Zakhar himself and still the same horse! And
    here's the little shop where we used to buy gingerbread! Can't you
    hurry up? Now then!"
      "Which house is it?" asked the driver.
      "Why, that one, right at the end, the big one. Don't you see? That's
    our house," said Rostov. "Of course, it's our house! Denisov, Denisov!
    We're almost there!"
      Denisov raised his head, coughed, and made no answer.
      "Dmitri," said Rostov to his valet on the box, "those lights are
    in our house, aren't they?"
      "Yes, sir, and there's a light in your father's study."
      "Then they've not gone to bed yet? What do you think? Mind now,
    don't forget to put out my new coat," added Rostov, fingering his
    new mustache. "Now then, get on," he shouted to the driver. "Do wake
    up, Vaska!" he went on, turning to Denisov, whose head was again
    nodding. "Come, get on! You shall have three rubles for vodka- get
    on!" Rostov shouted, when the sleigh was only three houses from his
    door. It seemed to him the horses were not moving at all. At last
    the sleigh bore to the right, drew up at an entrance, and Rostov saw
    overhead the old familiar cornice with a bit of plaster broken off,
    the porch, and the post by the side of the pavement. He sprang out
    before the sleigh stopped, and ran into the hall. The house stood cold
    and silent, as if quite regardless of who had come to it. There was no
    one in the hall. "Oh God! Is everyone all right?" he thought, stopping
    for a moment with a sinking heart, and then immediately starting to
    run along the hall and up the warped steps of the familiar
    staircase. The well-known old door handle, which always angered the
    countess when it was not properly cleaned, turned as loosely as
    ever. A solitary tallow candle burned in the anteroom.
      Old Michael was asleep on the chest. Prokofy, the footman, who was
    so strong that he could lift the back of the carriage from behind, sat
    plaiting slippers out of cloth selvedges. He looked up at the
    opening door and his expression of sleepy indifference suddenly
    changed to one of delighted amazement.
      "Gracious heavens! The young count!" he cried, recognizing his young
    master. "Can it be? My treasure!" and Prokofy, trembling with
    excitement, rushed toward the drawing-room door, probably in order
    to announce him, but, changing his mind, came back and stooped to kiss
    the young man's shoulder.
      "All well?" asked Rostov, drawing away his arm.
      "Yes, God be thanked! Yes! They've just finished supper. Let me have
    a look at you, your excellency."
      "Is everything quite all right?"
      "The Lord be thanked, yes!"
      Rostov, who had completely forgotten Denisov, not wishing anyone
    to forestall him, threw off his fur coat and ran on tiptoe through the
    large dark ballroom. All was the same: there were the same old card
    tables and the same chandelier with a cover over it; but someone had
    already seen the young master, and, before he had reached the
    drawing room, something flew out from a side door like a tornado and
    began hugging and kissing him. Another and yet another creature of the
    same kind sprang from a second door and a third; more hugging, more
    kissing, more outcries, and tears of joy. He could not distinguish
    which was Papa, which Natasha, and which Petya. Everyone shouted,
    talked, and kissed him at the same time. Only his mother was not
    there, he noticed that.
      "And I did not know... Nicholas... My darling!..."
      "Here he is... our own... Kolya,* dear fellow... How he has
    changed!... Where are the candles?... Tea!..."
      "And me, kiss me!"
      "Dearest... and me!"
      Sonya, Natasha, Petya, Anna Mikhaylovna, Vera, and the old count
    were all hugging him, and the serfs, men and maids, flocked into the
    room, exclaiming and oh-ing and ah-ing.
      Petya, clinging to his legs, kept shouting, "And me too!"
      Natasha, after she had pulled him down toward her and covered his
    face with kisses, holding him tight by the skirt of his coat, sprang
    away and pranced up and down in one place like a goat and shrieked
      All around were loving eyes glistening with tears of joy, and all
    around were lips seeking a kiss.
      Sonya too, all rosy red, clung to his arm and, radiant with bliss,
    looked eagerly toward his eyes, waiting for the look for which she
    longed. Sonya now was sixteen and she was very pretty, especially at
    this moment of happy, rapturous excitement. She gazed at him, not
    taking her eyes off him, and smiling and holding her breath. He gave
    her a grateful look, but was still expectant and looking for
    someone. The old countess had not yet come. But now steps were heard
    at the door, steps so rapid that they could hardly be his mother's.
      Yet it was she, dressed in a new gown which he did not know, made
    since he had left. All the others let him go, and he ran to her.
    When they met, she fell on his breast, sobbing. She could not lift her
    face, but only pressed it to the cold braiding of his hussar's jacket.
    Denisov, who had come into the room unnoticed by anyone, stood there
    and wiped his eyes at the sight.
      "Vasili Denisov, your son's friend," he said, introducing himself to
    the count, who was looking inquiringly at him.
      "You are most welcome! I know, I know," said the count, kissing
    and embracing Denisov. "Nicholas wrote us... Natasha, Vera, look! Here
    is Denisov!"
      The same happy, rapturous faces turned to the shaggy figure of
      "Darling Denisov!" screamed Natasha, beside herself with rapture,
    springing to him, putting her arms round him, and kissing him. This
    escapade made everybody feel confused. Denisov blushed too, but smiled
    and, taking Natasha's hand, kissed it.
      Denisov was shown to the room prepared for him, and the Rostovs
    all gathered round Nicholas in the sitting room.
      The old countess, not letting go of his hand and kissing it every
    moment, sat beside him: the rest, crowding round him, watched every
    movement, word, or look of his, never taking their blissfully
    adoring eyes off him. His brother and sisters struggled for the places
    nearest to him and disputed with one another who should bring him
    his tea, handkerchief, and pipe.
      Rostov was very happy in the love they showed him; but the first
    moment of meeting had been so beatific that his present joy seemed
    insufficient, and he kept expecting something more, more and yet more.
      Next morning, after the fatigues of their journey, the travelers
    slept till ten o'clock.
      In the room next their bedroom there was a confusion of sabers,
    satchels, sabretaches, open portmanteaus, and dirty boots. Two freshly
    cleaned pairs with spurs had just been placed by the wall. The
    servants were bringing in jugs and basins, hot water for shaving,
    and their well-brushed clothes. There was a masculine odor and a smell
    of tobacco.
      "Hallo, Gwiska- my pipe!" came Vasili Denisov's husky voice.
    "Wostov, get up!"
      Rostov, rubbing his eyes that seemed glued together, raised his
    disheveled head from the hot pillow.
      "Why, is it late?"
      "Late! It's nearly ten o'clock," answered Natasha's voice. A
    rustle of starched petticoats and the whispering and laughter of
    girls' voices came from the adjoining room. The door was opened a
    crack and there was a glimpse of something blue, of ribbons, black
    hair, and merry faces. It was Natasha, Sonya, and Petya, who had
    come to see whether they were getting up.
      "Nicholas! Get up!" Natasha's voice was again heard at the door.
      Meanwhile, Petya, having found and seized the sabers in the outer
    room, with the delight boys feel at the sight of a military elder
    brother, and forgetting that it was unbecoming for the girls to see
    men undressed, opened the bedroom door.
      "Is this your saber?" he shouted.
      The girls sprang aside. Denisov hid his hairy legs under the
    blanket, looking with a scared face at his comrade for help. The door,
    having let Petya in, closed again. A sound of laughter came from
    behind it.
      "Nicholas! Come out in your dressing gown!" said Natasha's voice.
      "Is this your saber?" asked Petya. "Or is it yours?" he said,
    addressing the black-mustached Denisov with servile deference.
      Rostov hurriedly put something on his feet, drew on his dressing
    gown, and went out. Natasha had put on one spurred boot and was just
    getting her foot into the other. Sonya, when he came in, was
    twirling round and was about to expand her dresses into a balloon
    and sit down. They were dressed alike, in new pale-blue frocks, and
    were both fresh, rosy, and bright. Sonya ran away, but Natasha, taking
    her brother's arm, led him into the sitting room, where they began
    talking. They hardly gave one another time to ask questions and give
    replies concerning a thousand little matters which could not
    interest anyone but themselves. Natasha laughed at every word he
    said or that she said herself, not because what they were saying was
    amusing, but because she felt happy and was unable to control her
    joy which expressed itself by laughter.
      "Oh, how nice, how splendid!" she said to everything.
      Rostov felt that, under the influence of the warm rays of love, that
    childlike smile which had not once appeared on his face since he
    left home now for the first time after eighteen months again
    brightened his soul and his face.
      "No, but listen," she said, "now you are quite a man, aren't you?
    I'm awfully glad you're my brother." She touched his mustache. "I want
    to know what you men are like. Are you the same as we? No?"
      "Why did Sonya run away?" asked Rostov.
      "Ah, yes! That's a whole long story! How are you going to speak to
    her- thou or you?"
      "As may happen," said Rostov.
      "No, call her you, please! I'll tell you all about it some other
    time. No, I'll tell you now. You know Sonya's my dearest friend.
    Such a friend that I burned my arm for her sake. Look here!"
      She pulled up her muslin sleeve and showed him a red scar on her
    long, slender, delicate arm, high above the elbow on that part that is
    covered even by a ball dress.
      "I burned this to prove my love for her. I just heated a ruler in
    the fire and pressed it there!"
      Sitting on the sofa with the little cushions on its arms, in what
    used to be his old schoolroom, and looking into Natasha's wildly
    bright eyes, Rostov re-entered that world of home and childhood
    which had no meaning for anyone else, but gave him some of the best
    joys of his life; and the burning of an arm with a ruler as a proof of
    love did not seem to him senseless, he understood and was not
    surprised at it.
      "Well, and is that all?" he asked.
      "We are such friends, such friends! All that ruler business was just
    nonsense, but we are friends forever. She, if she loves anyone, does
    it for life, but I don't understand that, I forget quickly."
      "Well, what then?"
      "Well, she loves me and you like that."
      Natasha suddenly flushed.
      "Why, you remember before you went away?... Well, she says you are
    to forget all that.... She says: 'I shall love him always, but let him
    be free.' Isn't that lovely and noble! Yes, very noble? Isn't it?"
    asked Natasha, so seriously and excitedly that it was evident that
    what she was now saying she had talked of before, with tears.
      Rostov became thoughtful.
      "I never go back on my word," he said. "Besides, Sonya is so
    charming that only a fool would renounce such happiness."
      "No, no!" cried Natasha, "she and I have already talked it over.
    We knew you'd say so. But it won't do, because you see, if you say
    that- if you consider yourself bound by your promise- it will seem
    as if she had not meant it seriously. It makes it as if you were
    marrying her because you must, and that wouldn't do at all."
      Rostov saw that it had been well considered by them. Sonya had
    already struck him by her beauty on the preceding day. Today, when
    he had caught a glimpse of her, she seemed still more lovely. She
    was a charming girl of sixteen, evidently passionately in love with
    him (he did not doubt that for an instant). Why should he not love her
    now, and even marry her, Rostov thought, but just now there were so
    many other pleasures and interests before him! "Yes, they have taken a
    wise decision," he thought, "I must remain free."
      "Well then, that's excellent," said he. "We'll talk it over later
    on. Oh, how glad I am to have you!
      "Well, and are you still true to Boris?" he continued.
      "Oh, what nonsense!" cried Natasha, laughing. "I don't think about
    him or anyone else, and I don't want anything of the kind."
      "Dear me! Then what are you up now?"
      "Now?" repeated Natasha, and a happy smile lit up her face. "Have
    you seen Duport?"
      "Not seen Duport- the famous dancer? Well then, you won't
    understand. That's what I'm up to."
      Curving her arms, Natasha held out her skirts as dancers do, ran
    back a few steps, turned, cut a caper, brought her little feet sharply
    together, and made some steps on the very tips of her toes.
      "See, I'm standing! See!" she said, but could not maintain herself
    on her toes any longer. "So that's what I'm up to! I'll never marry
    anyone, but will be a dancer. Only don't tell anyone."
      Rostov laughed so loud and merrily that Denisov, in his bedroom,
    felt envious and Natasha could not help joining in.
      "No, but don't you think it's nice?" she kept repeating.
      "Nice! And so you no longer wish to marry Boris?"
      Natasha flared up. "I don't want to marry anyone. And I'll tell
    him so when I see him!"
      "Dear me!" said Rostov.
      "But that's all rubbish," Natasha chattered on. "And is Denisov
    nice?" she asked.
      "Yes, indeed!"
      "Oh, well then, good-by: go and dress. Is he very terrible,
      "Why terrible?" asked Nicholas. "No, Vaska is a splendid fellow."
      "You call him Vaska? That's funny! And is he very nice?"
      "Well then, be quick. We'll all have breakfast together."
      And Natasha rose and went out of the room on tiptoe, like a ballet
    dancer, but smiling as only happy girls of fifteen can smile. When
    Rostov met Sonya in the drawing room, he reddened. He did not know how
    to behave with her. The evening before, in the first happy moment of
    meeting, they had kissed each other, but today they felt it could
    not be done; he felt that everybody, including his mother and sisters,
    was looking inquiringly at him and watching to see how he would behave
    with her. He kissed her hand and addressed her not as thou but as you-
    Sonya. But their eyes met and said thou, and exchanged tender
    kisses. Her looks asked him to forgive her for having dared, by
    Natasha's intermediacy, to remind him of his promise, and then thanked
    him for his love. His looks thanked her for offering him his freedom
    and told her that one way or another he would never cease to love her,
    for that would be impossible.
      "How strange it is," said Vera, selecting a moment when all were
    silent, "that Sonya and Nicholas now say you to one another and meet
    like strangers."
      Vera's remark was correct, as her remarks always were, but, like
    most of her observations, it made everyone feel uncomfortable, not
    only Sonya, Nicholas, and Natasha, but even the old countess, who-
    dreading this love affair which might hinder Nicholas from making a
    brilliant match- blushed like a girl.
      Denisov, to Rostov's surprise, appeared in the drawing room with
    pomaded hair, perfumed, and in a new uniform, looking just as smart as
    he made himself when going into battle, and he was more amiable to the
    ladies and gentlemen than Rostov had ever expected to see him.
      On his return to Moscow from the army, Nicholas Rostov was
    welcomed by his home circle as the best of sons, a hero, and their
    darling Nikolenka; by his relations as a charming, attractive, and
    polite young man; by his acquaintances as a handsome lieutenant of
    hussars, a good dancer, and one of the best matches in the city.
      The Rostovs knew everybody in Moscow. The old count had money enough
    that year, as all his estates had been remortgaged, and so Nicholas,
    acquiring a trotter of his own, very stylish riding breeches of the
    latest cut, such as no one else yet had in Moscow, and boots of the
    latest fashion, with extremely pointed toes and small silver spurs,
    passed his time very gaily. After a short period of adapting himself
    to the old conditions of life, Nicholas found it very pleasant to be
    at home again. He felt that he had grown up and matured very much. His
    despair at failing in a Scripture examination, his borrowing money
    from Gavril to pay a sleigh driver, his kissing Sonya on the sly- he
    now recalled all this as childishness he had left immeasurably behind.
    Now he was a lieutenant of hussars, in a jacket laced with silver, and
    wearing the Cross of St. George, awarded to soldiers for bravery in
    action, and in the company of well-known, elderly, and respected
    racing men was training a trotter of his own for a race. He knew a
    lady on one of the boulevards whom he visited of an evening. He led
    the mazurka at the Arkharovs' ball, talked about the war with Field
    Marshal Kamenski, visited the English Club, and was on intimate
    terms with a colonel of forty to whom Denisov had introduced
      His passion for the Emperor had cooled somewhat in Moscow. But
    still, as he did not see him and had no opportunity of seeing him,
    he often spoke about him and about his love for him, letting it be
    understood that he had not told all and that there was something in
    his feelings for the Emperor not everyone could understand, and with
    his whole soul he shared the adoration then common in Moscow for the
    Emperor, who was spoken of as the "angel incarnate."
      During Rostov's short stay in Moscow, before rejoining the army,
    he did not draw closer to Sonya, but rather drifted away from her. She
    was very pretty and sweet, and evidently deeply in love with him,
    but he was at the period of youth when there seems so much to do
    that there is no time for that sort of thing and a young man fears
    to bind himself and prizes his freedom which he needs for so many
    other things. When he thought of Sonya, during this stay in Moscow, he
    said to himself, "Ah, there will be, and there are, many more such
    girls somewhere whom I do not yet know. There will be time enough to
    think about love when I want to, but now I have no time." Besides,
    it seemed to him that the society of women was rather derogatory to
    his manhood. He went to balls and into ladies' society with an
    affectation of doing so against his will. The races, the English Club,
    sprees with Denisov, and visits to a certain house- that was another
    matter and quite the thing for a dashing young hussar!
      At the beginning of March, old Count Ilya Rostov was very busy
    arranging a dinner in honor of Prince Bagration at the English Club.
      The count walked up and down the hall in his dressing gown, giving
    orders to the club steward and to the famous Feoktist, the Club's head
    cook, about asparagus, fresh cucumbers, strawberries, veal, and fish
    for this dinner. The count had been a member and on the committee of
    the Club from the day it was founded. To him the Club entrusted the
    arrangement of the festival in honor of Bagration, for few men knew so
    well how to arrange a feast on an open-handed, hospitable scale, and
    still fewer men would be so well able and willing to make up out of
    their own resources what might be needed for the success of the
    fete. The club cook and the steward listened to the count's orders
    with pleased faces, for they knew that under no other management could