War and Peace (103 page)

“No, madame, we must part, we must part, I tell you! I can put up with no more,” he said, and went out of the room. And as though afraid she might find some comfort, he turned back and trying to assume an air of calmness, he added: “And don’t imagine that I have said this in a moment of temper; no, I’m quite calm and I have thought it well over, and it shall be so—you shall go away, and find some place for yourself!…” But he could not restrain himself, and with the vindictive fury which can only exist where a man loves, obviously in anguish, he shook his fists and screamed at her: “Ah! if some fool would marry her!” He slammed the door, sent for Mademoiselle Bourienne, and subsided into his study.

At two o’clock the six persons he had selected arrived to dinner. Those guests—the celebrated Count Rastoptchin, Prince Lopuhin and his nephew, General Tchatrov, an old comrade of the prince’s in the field, and of the younger generation Pierre and Boris Drubetskoy were awaiting him in the drawing-room. Boris, who had come on leave to Moscow shortly before, had been anxious to be presented to Prince Nikolay Andreitch, and had succeeded in so far ingratiating himself in his favour, that the old prince made in his case an exception from his usual rule of excluding all young unmarried men from his house.

The prince did not receive what is called “society,” but his house was the centre of a little circle into which—though it was not talked of much in the town—it was more flattering to be admitted than anywhere
else. Boris had grasped that fact a week previously, when he heard Rastoptchin tell the commander-in-chief of Moscow, who had invited him to dine on St. Nikolay’s day, that he could not accept his invitation.

“On that day I always go to pay my devotions to the relics of Prince Nikolay Andreitch.”

“Oh yes, yes …” assented the commander-in-chief. “How is he?…”

The little party assembled before dinner in the old-fashioned, lofty drawing-room, with its old furniture, was like the solemn meeting of some legal council board.

All sat silent, or if they spoke, spoke in subdued tones. Prince Nikolay Andreitch came in, serious and taciturn. Princess Marya seemed meeker and more timid than usual. The guests showed no inclination to address their conversation to her, for they saw that she had no thought for what they were saying. Count Rastoptchin maintained the conversation alone, relating the latest news of the town and the political world. Lopuhin and the old general took part in the conversation at rare intervals. Prince Nikolay Andreitch listened like a presiding judge receiving a report submitted to him, only testifying by his silence, or from time to time by a brief word, that he was taking cognizance of the facts laid before him.

The tone of the conversation was based on the assumption that no one approved of what was being done in the political world. Incidents were related obviously confirming the view that everything was going from bad to worse. But in every story that was told, and in every criticism that was offered, what was striking was the way that the speaker checked himself, or was checked, every time the line was reached where a criticism might have reference to the person of the Tsar himself.

At dinner the conversation turned on the last political news, Napoleon’s seizure of the possessions of the Duke of Oldenburg, and the Russian note, hostile to Napoleon, which had been despatched to all the European courts.

“Bonaparte treats all Europe as a pirate does a captured vessel,” said Rastoptchin, repeating a phrase he had uttered several times before. “One only marvels at the long-suffering or the blindness of the ruling sovereigns. Now it’s the Pope’s turn, and Bonaparte doesn’t scruple to try and depose the head of the Catholic Church, and no one says a word. Our Emperor alone has protested against the seizure of the possessions of the Duke of Oldenburg. And even …” Count Rastoptchin broke off,
feeling that he was on the very border line beyond which criticism was impossible.

“Other domains have been offered him instead of the duchy of Oldenburg,” said the old prince. “He shifts the dukes about, as I might move my serfs from Bleak Hills to Bogutcharovo and the Ryazan estates.”

“The Duke of Oldenburg supports his misfortune with admirable force of character and resignation,” said Boris putting in his word respectfully. He said this because on his journey from Petersburg he had had the honour of being presented to the duke. The old prince looked at the young man as though he would have liked to say something in reply, but changed his mind, considering him too young.

“I have read our protest about the Oldenburg affair, and I was surprised at how badly composed the note was,” said Count Rastoptchin in the casual tone of a man criticising something with which he is very familiar.

Pierre looked at Rastoptchin in naïve wonder, unable to understand why he should be troubled by the defective composition of the note.

“Does it matter how the note is worded, count,” he said, “if the meaning is forcible?”

“My dear fellow, with our five hundred thousand troops, it should be easy to have a good style,” said Count Rastoptchin.

Pierre perceived the point of Count Rastoptchin’s dissatisfaction with the wording of the note.

“I should have thought there were scribblers enough to write it,” said the old prince. “Up in Petersburg they do nothing but write—not notes only, but new laws they keep writing. My Andryusha up there has written a whole volume of new laws for Russia. Nowadays they’re always at it!” And he laughed an unnatural laugh.

The conversation paused for a moment; the old general cleared his throat to draw attention.

“Did you hear of the last incident at the review in Petersburg? Didn’t the new French ambassadors expose themselves!”

“Eh? Yes, I did hear something; he said something awkward in the presence of his majesty.”

“His majesty drew his attention to the grenadier division and the parade march,” pursued the general; “and it seems the ambassador took no notice and had the insolence to say ‘We in France,’ says he, ‘don’t pay attention to such trivial matters.’ The emperor did not vouchsafe him a
reply. At the review that followed the emperor, they say, did not once deign to address him.”

Every one was silent; upon this fact which related to the Tsar personally, no criticism could be offered.

“Impudent rogues!” said the old prince. “Do you know Metivier? I turned him out of the house to-day. He was here, he was allowed to come in, in spite of my begging no one should be admitted,” said the old prince, glancing angrily at his daughter. And he told them his whole conversation with the French doctor and his reasons for believing Metivier to be a spy. Though his reasons were very insufficient and obscure, no one raised an objection.

After the meat, champagne was handed round. The guests rose from their places to congratulate the old prince. Princess Marya too went up to him. He glanced at her with a cold, spiteful glance, and offered her his shaven, wrinkled cheek. The whole expression of his face told her that their morning’s conversation was not forgotten, that his resolution still held good, and that it was only owing to the presence of their visitors that he did not tell her so now.

When they went into the drawing-room to coffee, the old men sat together.

Prince Nikolay Andreitch grew more animated, and began to express his views on the impending war. He said that our wars with Bonaparte would be unsuccessful so long as we sought alliances with the Germans and went meddling in European affairs, into which we had been drawn by the Peace of Tilsit. We had no business to fight for Austria or against Austria. Our political interests all lay in the East, and as regards Bonaparte, the one thing was an armed force on the frontier, and a firm policy, and he would never again dare to cross the Russian frontier, as he had done in 1807.

“And how should we, prince, fight against the French!” said Count Rastoptchin. “Can we arm ourselves against our teachers and divinities? Look at our young men, look at our ladies. Our gods are the French, and Paris—our Paradise.”

He began talking more loudly, obviously with the intention of being heard by every one.

“Our fashions are French, our ideas are French, our feelings are French! You have sent Metivier about his business because he’s a Frenchman and a scoundrel, but our ladies are crawling on their hands and knees after him. Yesterday I was at an evening party, and out of five
ladies three were Catholics and had a papal indulgence for embroidering on Sundays. And they sitting all but naked, like the sign-boards of some public bath-house, if you’ll excuse my saying so. Ah, when one looks at our young people, prince, one would like to take Peter the Great’s old cudgel out of the museum and break a few ribs in the good old Russian style, to knock the nonsense out of them!”

All were silent. The old prince looked at Rastoptchin with a smile on his face and shook his head approvingly.

“Well, good-bye, your excellency; don’t you be ill,” said Rastoptchin, getting up with the brisk movements characteristic of him, and holding out his hand to the old prince.

“Good-bye, my dear fellow. Your talk is a music I’m always glad to listen to!” said the old prince, keeping hold of his hand and offering him his cheek for a kiss. The others, too, got up when Rastoptchin did.

Princess Marya, sitting in the drawing-room, and hearing the old men’s talk and criticisms, did not understand a word of what she was hearing. She thought of nothing but whether all their guests were noticing her father’s hostile attitude to her. She did not even notice the marked attention and amiability shown her during the whole of dinner by Drubetskoy, who was that day paying them his third visit.

Princess Marya turned with an absent-minded, questioning glance to Pierre, who, with a smile on his face, came up to her, hat in hand, the last of the guests, after the prince had gone out, and they were left alone together in the drawing-room.

“Can I stay a little longer?” he said, dropping his bulky person into a low chair beside Princess Marya.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “You noticed nothing?” her eyes asked.

Pierre was in an agreeable, after-dinner mood. He looked straight before him and smiled softly. “Have you known that young man long, princess?” he said.

“Which one?”

“Drubetskoy.”

“No, not long …”

“Well, do you like him?”

“Yes; he’s a very agreeable young man. Why do you ask me?” said
Princess Marya, still thinking of her conversation in the morning with her father.

“Because I have observed, that when a young man comes from Petersburg to Moscow on leave, it is invariably with the object of marrying an heiress.”

“Have you observed that?” said Princess Marya.

“Yes,” Pierre went on with a smile, “and that young man now manages matters so that wherever there are wealthy heiresses—there he is to be found. I can read him like a book. He is hesitating now which to attack, you or Mademoiselle Julie Karagin. He is very attentive to her.”

“Does he visit them?”

“Yes, very often. And do you know the new-fashioned method of courting?” said Pierre, smiling good-humouredly, and obviously feeling in that light-hearted mood of good-natured irony, for which he had so often reproached himself in his diary.

“No,” said Princess Marya.

“To please the Moscow girls nowadays one has to be melancholy. He is very melancholy with Mademoiselle Karagin,” said Pierre.

“Really!” said Princess Marya, looking at the kindly face of Pierre, and thinking all the time of her own trouble. “It would ease my heart,” she was thinking, “if I could make up my mind to confide all I am feeling to some one. And it is just Pierre I should like to tell it all to. He is so kind and generous. It would ease my heart. He would give me advice.”

“Would you marry him?” asked Pierre.

“O my God, count! there are moments when I would marry any one”—to her own surprise Princess Marya said, with tears in her voice. “Ah! how bitter it is to love some one near to one and to feel,” she went on in a shaking voice, “that you can do nothing for him, but cause him sorrow, and when you know you cannot alter it. There’s only one thing—to go away, and where am I to go?”

“What is wrong? what is the matter with you, princess?”

But Princess Marya, without explaining further, burst into tears.

“I don’t know what is the matter with me to-day. Don’t take any notice of me, forget what I said to you.”

All Pierre’s gaiety had vanished. He questioned the princess anxiously, begged her to speak out, to confide her trouble to him. But she would only repeat that she begged him to forget what she had said, that she did not remember what she had said, and that she had no trouble
except the one he knew—her anxiety lest Prince Andrey’s marriage should cause a breach between him and his father.

“Have you heard anything of the Rostovs?” she asked to change the subject. “I was told they would soon be here. I expect Andrey, too, every day. I should have liked them to see each other here.”

“And how does he look at the matter now?” said Pierre, meaning by
he
the old prince. Princess Marya shook her head.

“But it can’t be helped. There are only a few months left now before the year is over. And it can’t go on like this. I should only have liked to spare my brother the first minutes. I could have wished they were coming sooner. I hope to get to know her well.… You have known them a long while,” said Princess Marya. “Tell me the whole truth, speaking quite seriously. What sort of a girl is she, and how do you like her? But the whole truth, because, you see, Andrey is risking so much in doing this against our father’s will, that I should like to know …”

A vague instinct told Pierre that these pleas and repeated requests to him to tell her the
whole truth
betrayed Princess Marya’s ill-will towards her future sister-in-law, that she wanted Pierre not to approve of Prince Andrey’s choice; but Pierre said what he felt rather than what he thought. “I don’t know how to answer your question,” said he, blushing though he could not have said why himself. “I really don’t know what kind of girl she is. I can’t analyse her. She’s fascinating; and why she is, I don’t know; that’s all that one can say about her.”