war and peace

1 of the Best Books :- War and Peace (Summary)

War and Peace (Summary)

By Leo Tolstoy

Summary of Book 1

Anna Pávlovna Schérer was maid of honor and favorite of the Empress Márya Fëdorovna. Prince Vasíli Buonaparte accused her of “infamies and horrors perpetrated by that Antichrist”. She said he was “Antichrist, and you are no longer my friend”. Anna Pávlovna Schérer overflowed with animation and impulsiveness. Prince Vasíli always spoke languidly, like an actor repeating a stale part.

To be an enthusiast had become her social vocation and, sometimes even when she did not feel like it, she became enthusiastic to not disappoint the expectations of those who knew her. They have decided that Buonaparte has burnt his boats, and I believe that we are ready to burn ours.” Prince Buonaparte Novosíltsev: Oh, don’t speak to me of Austria. Austria never has wished, and does not wish, for war. She is betraying us. Russia alone must avenge the blood of the just one He adds: 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 émigrés, the good ones. Anna Pávlovna. As she named the Empress, Anna Pálvovna’s face suddenly assumed an expression of profound and sincere devotion and respect mingled with sadness. Prince Vasíli wished to obtain this post for his son, but others were trying through the Dowager Empress Márya Fëdorovna to secure it for the baron. Anna Pávlovna’s conversation with Prince Vasíli: Do you know I am dissatisfied with your younger son? Anatole is an active fool, but he was mentioned at Her Majesty’s and you were pitied. He said no more, but expressed his resignation to cruel fate by making a gesture of resignation. Prince Vasíli Bolkónski took Anna Pávlovna’s hand and said: Arrange that affair for me and I shall always be your most devoted slave-slafe with an f, as a village elder of mine writes in his reports. She is rich and of good family and that’s all I want, he said as he kissed the maid of honor’s hand. The prince’s daughter, the beautiful Hélène, came to take her father to the ambassador’s entertainment; she wore a ball dress and her badge as Maid of honor. To each new arrival Anna Pávlovna said, “You have not yet seen my aunt,” or “You do not know my aunt?”   Anna Pávovna wore a lace-trimmed, dainty gray dress, girdled with a broad ribbon just below the breast. She addressed all those present in French: “I hope you have not played a wicked trick on me”. “What a delightful woman this little princess is!” said Prince Vasíli to Anna Pávlovna. Anna Pávlovna’s alarm was justified, for Pierre turned away from the aunt without waiting to hear her speech about Her Majesty’s health. She kept an anxious watch on him when he approached the group round Mortemart to listen to what was being said there, and again when he passed to another group whose center was the abbé. Anna Pávlovna. Prince Vasíli vicomte Buonaparte Pierre had been educated abroad, and this reception 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. As a clever maître d’hôtel serves up as a specially choice delicacy a piece of meat that no one who had seen it in the kitchen would have cared to eat, she served up to her guests, first the Vicomte and then the abbé, as peculiarly choice morsels. Anna Pávlovna arranged a group round the vicomte, inviting everyone to listen to his tale of the Duke of Viognier. The princess Hélène was so lovely she did not show any trace of coquetry as she passed between the men who made way for her, smiling on all, as if graciously allowing each the privilege of admiring her beautiful figure and shapely shoulders, back, and bosom. because I hate ghost stories? From time to time she smoothed the folds of her dress, and whenever the story produced an effect she glanced at Anna Pávlovna, at once adopted just the expression she saw on the maid of honor’s face, and again relapsed into her radiant smile. “Now I am all right,” she said, and asking the vicomte to begin, she took up her work. The story was very pretty and interesting, especially at the point when the rivals suddenly recognized one another; and the ladies looked agitated. “Charming!” said Anna Pávlovna with an inquiring glance at the little princess. The vicomte told his tale very neatly.   At that moment Anna Pávlovna came up and, looking severely at Pierre, asked the Italian how he stood Russian climate.

CHAPTER IV

  “You are off to the war, Prince?” said Anna Pávlovna. He wished to say something more, but at that moment Prince Vasíli and his daughter got up to go and the two young men rose to let them pass. May I?” he added in a low voice so as not to disturb the vicomte who was continuing his story. “You must excuse me, dear Vicomte,” said Prince Vasíli to the Frenchman, holding him down by the sleeve in a friendly way to prevent his rising.  Anna Pávlovna. Prince Andrew said he was “very sorry to leave your enchanting party”. She knew his father to be a connection of Prince Vasíli’s.  Anna Pávlovna. Influence in society is a capital which must be economized if it is to last. Prince Vasíli knew this, and having once realized that if he asked on behalf of all who begged of him, he would soon be unable to ask for himself, he became chary of using his influence.  “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.  Anna Pávlovna. My dear benefactor! This is what I expected from you—I knew your kindness! she cried as he left. Prince Vasíli smiled. 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.  “And what do you think of this latest comedy, the coronation at Milan?” asked Anna Pávlovna, “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?

Anna Pávlovna vicomte Buonaparte: “The sovereigns will not be able to endure this man who is a menace to everything”. Prince Hippolyte: What have they done for Louis XVII, for the Queen, or for Madame Elizabeth? Pierre: “And believe me, they are reaping the reward of their betrayal of the Bourbon cause!”. “Bonaparte has said so,” remarked Prince Andrew with a sarcastic smile. The vicomte replied: “After the murder of the duc even the most partial ceased to regard him as a hero”.

He went on: “If to some people he ever was a hero, there was one martyr more in heaven and one hero less on earth”. Anna Pálvovna’s terrified whisper: “Do you consider that assassination shows greatness of soul?”. “Dieu! Mon Dieu!” muttered Anna Pávlovna in a terrified whisper. Anna Pávlovna vicomte Buonaparte: “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”. Pierre de Grasseau: “I am not speaking of regicide, I am speaking about ideas of robbery, murder, and regicide,” again interjected Monsieur Pierre, betraying by this desperate and provocative proposition his extreme youth and his wish to express all that was in his mind.

Anna Pávlovna, despite her social experience, was horror-struck at Pierre’s outburst. But when she saw that Pierre’s sacrilegious words had not exasperated the vicomte, she rallied her forces and joined with him in a vigorous attack on the orator. Prince Andrew kept looking with an amused smile from Pierre to the Vicomte and from the royal couple to their hostess. He said he had to tell it in Russian or the point of the story would be lost, and burst out laughing long before his audience. After the anecdote the conversation broke up into insignificant small talk about the last and next balls, and who would meet whom and where.

Several persons, among them the elderly lady and Anna Pávlovna, did however smile. Excuse me, Vicomte—I must tell it in Russian or the point will be lost….”  The prince was absent-mindedly holding the general’s three-cornered hat instead of his own, till the general asked him to restore it. Anna Pávovna said: “I hope to see you again, but I also hope you will change your opinions, Monsieur Pierre”. “I rely on you, my dear,” said Anna Pávlovna, also in a low tone.  The vicomte said he was “pitying the poor husband, that little officer who gives himself the airs of a monarch”. Prince Andrew’s eyes were closed, so weary and sleepy did he seem. Pierre turned his whole body, making the sofa creak, and waved his hand to Prince Andrew. What have you done to her? She will be quite ill now, said the Duke of York. Prince Andrew: Here is a letter to Prince Vasíli Austria, and here is money. Write to me all about it, and I will help you in everything. Pierre: “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.”

The other day at the Apráksins’ I heard a lady asking, ‘Is that the famous Prince Andrew?’  What an argumentative fellow you are, Monsieur Pierre!” What is it you are afraid of? I don’t understand, said Prince Andrew in a tone of frigid politeness. Pierre looked over his spectacles with naïve surprise, now at him and now at her, moved as if about to rise too, but changed his mind. “Lise!” was all Prince Andrew said.   “No, wait, Pierre!  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.

Prince Andrew was less than ever like Bolkónski who had lolled in Anna Pávlovna’s easy chairs and with half-closed eyes had uttered French phrases between his teeth. 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. 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!

Prince Andrew went on: These are the enchanted circle I cannot escape from. I am very amiable and have a caustic wit, and at Anna Pávlovna’s they listen to me! “How can he talk like that?” thought Pierre.  What am I? An illegitimate son?

Prince Andrew replied: Women, my dear fellow; women. I don’t understand it! That smile was immediately reflected on Pierre’s face. Pierre was staying at Prince Vasíli Kurágin’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. It was past one o’clock when Pierre left his friend.

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 drank one glass after another, looking from under his brows at the tipsy guests who were crowding anxiously round an open window, and listening to their chatter. The host shouted: “At one draught, or he loses!” before giving Pierre the last glass. “I bet on Dólokhov!” cried a third.  “No, I won’t,” said Pierre, pushing Anatole aside, and he went up to the window. Pierre Dólokhov was a man of small means and no connections, but he lived with Anatole Kurágin and Anatole’s friend Anatole respected him more than they did Anatole.

Pierre Dólokhov challenged Anatole Anatole to a wager: I will drink a whole bottle of rum without taking it from my mouth, sitting outside the window on this spot, and without holding on to anything. If anyone else does the same, I will pay him a hundred imperials. Anatole’s opponent was an hussar of the Life Guards, who had been losing that evening; he jumped awkwardly back into the room and tripped over his spurs. “If anyone comes meddling again, I will throw him down there!” he said as he threw the bottle to the Englishman. The Englishman took out his purse and began counting out the money.

Pierre took his hands from his eyes.  Dólokhov jumped down.  Anatole stood erect with staring eyes.  He was so strong that everyone who touched him was sent flying and he had to be carried out of the window by his arms. Even without a bet, there!

Tell them to bring me a bottle. Have you gone mad? No one would let you! “Come on then,” cried Pierre.  “Let him do it, let him do it,” said Dólokhov, smiling.

“No, you’ll never manage him that way,” said Anatole.  It was St. Natalia’s day and the name day of two of the Rostóvs, the mother and youngest daughter of Countess Rostóva. Princess Anna Mikháylovna Drubetskáya helped to receive and entertain the visitors. The countess was a woman of about forty-five, with a thin Oriental type of face, evidently worn out with childbearing. 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.

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. I’m quite worn out by these callers, however, I’ll see her and no more. She is so affected. Ask her in, she says to the footman in a sad voice, as if saying: Very well, finish me off. The conversation was on the chief topic of the day: the illness of the wealthy and celebrated beau of Catherine’s day, Count Bezúkhov, and about his illegitimate son Pierre.

“He is in such bad health, and now this vexation about his son is enough to kill him,” she adds. “They are regular brigands, especially Dólokhov,” replied the visitor.  Anatole Kurágin’s father managed somehow to get his son’s affair hushed up, but even he was ordered out of Petersburg.”

Princess Anna Mikháylovna. The countess added: “I should think he has a score of them”. He has lost count of his children, but this Pierre was his favorite.” “Prince Vasíli arrived in Moscow yesterday.  Count’s wife Ilyá: “Do you know, my dear, that was a capital joke?”. The princess: “Yes, but between ourselves, that is a pretext”.

Anna Mikháylovna Natásha was at that charming age when a girl is no longer a child, though the child is not yet a young woman. She ran to hide her flushed face in the lace of her mother’s mantilla and laughed as she tried to explain about a doll which she produced from the folds of her frock. Countess Apr: “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.  Having said this he glanced at Natásha.  Nicholas declared he was leaving his family to join the army “for friendship’s sake” and turning away as if from a shameful aspersion.

She evidently considered it proper to show an interest in the general conversation by smiling, but in spite of herself her eyes under their thick long lashes watched her cousin who was going to join the army, with such passionate girlish adoration that her smile could not for a single instant impose upon anyone, and it was clear that the kitten had settled down only to spring up with more energy and again play with her cousin as soon as they too could, like Natásha and Borís, escape from the drawing room. Anna Mikháylovna: “How plainly all these young people wear their hearts on their sleeves!”. Julie Karágina turned to young Rostóv: “What a pity you weren’t at the Arkhárovs’ on Thursday,” she said. Count Schubert, the colonel of the Pávlograd Hussars, is dining with us; he has been here on leave and is taking Nicholas back with him. 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, remarked the countess.  At this Natásha dashed swiftly among the flower tubs and hid there. Véra was good-looking, not at all stupid, quick at learning, was well brought up, and had a pleasant voice; what she said was true and appropriate, yet, strange to say, everyone—the visitors and countess alike—turned to look at her as if wondering why she had said it, and they all felt awkward.

Natásha, very still, peered out from her ambush, waiting to see what Borís would do. He stood a little while before the glass, smiled, and walked toward the other door. Natásha was about to call him but changed her mind. Hardly had Borís gone than Sónya came in, flushed, in tears, and muttering angrily. She jumped up onto a tub to be higher than he and embraced him, kissing him full on the lips and throwing down the doll.

Anna Mikháylovna, with her tear-worn but pleasant face, drew her chair nearer to that of the countess. Natásha considered. “Véra,” she said to her eldest daughter who was evidently not a favorite, “how is it you have so little tact?   “Now, Véra, what does it matter to you?” said Natásha in defense, speaking very gently. She said to them: “You’ll never understand it, because you’ve never loved anyone!”. You are such a diplomat that it is really tiresome,” said Natásha in a mortified voice that trembled slightly.

The handsome Véra, who produced such an irritating and unpleasant effect on everyone, smiled and, evidently unmoved by what had been said to her, went to the looking glass and arranged her hair and scarf.  Anna Mikháylovna, Countess of Bóry: 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. How did you get things settled? I couldn’t possibly do it? Countess: “God grant you never know what it is to be left a widow without means and with a son you love to distraction,” she adds with a certain pride.

“To Prince Vasíli.  The countess cried as she described her plight: “My affairs are in such a bad way that my position is now a terrible one”. “He is just the same as ever,” replied Anna Mikháylovna, “overflowing with amiability.  “Surely he will leave something to Borís,” said the countess. And like a practical Petersburg lady who knows how to make the most of time, Anna Mikháylovna sent someone to call her son, and went into the anteroom with him.  “Are you going to Count Cyril Vladímirovich, 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.  Borís said no more, but looked inquiringly at his mother without taking off his cloak. 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. Anna Mikháylovna. My friend, I am a relation. I shall not disturb him, my friend, she said in gentle tones. They entered a large hall, from which one of the doors led to the prince’s apartments, and were about to ask their way when an elderly footman sprung up as they entered. I only need see Prince Vasíli Sergéevich: he is staying here, is he not?  Prince Vasíli stared at her and at Borís questioningly and perplexed.  Anna Mikháylovna. Oh, how awful! He is his godson,” she added, her tone suggesting that this fact ought to give Prince Vasíli much satisfaction. This is my son,” she added, indicating Borís.  Anna Mikháylovna. She asked him: Has he performed his final duty, Prince? How priceless are those last moments! It can make things no worse if he is so ill! Prince Vasíli turned to her. “Borís,” she said to her son with a smile, “I shall go in to see the count, my uncle; but you, my dear, had better go to Pierre meanwhile and don’t forget to give him the Rostóvs’ invitation.

He was received as if he were a corpse or a leper by the ladies of the count’s household. Pierre was received as if he were a corpse or a leper.  It was the eldest who was reading—the one who had met Anna Mikháylovna.  “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….  Pierre’s sister Olga tried to console him: “Go and see whether Uncle’s beef tea is ready, it is almost time,” she said. Next day Prince Vasíli had arrived and settled in the count’s house.  He had left Moscow when Borís was a boy of fourteen, and had quite forgotten him, but in his usual impulsive and hearty way he took Borís by the hand with a friendly smile. Baron Borís asked Pierre about the Boulogne expedition: “If only Villeneuve doesn’t make a mess of things, I think the expedition is quite feasible”. “I am Borís, son of Princess Anna Mikháylovna Drubetskáya.  Pierre jumped up from the sofa, grabbed Borís under the elbow, and began to speak with a feeling of mingled shame and vexation.

Pierre began 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. Prince Vasíli saw the princess off.  I hope we’ll get better acquainted,” and he pressed Borís’ hand.  “I don’t understand, Mamma—what is his attitude to Pierre?” asked the son.  After Anna Mikháylovna had driven off with her son to visit Count Cyril Vladímirovich Bezúkhov, Countess Rostóva sat for a long time all alone applying her handkerchief to her eyes.   When Anna Mikháylovna returned from Count Bezúkhov’s the money, all in clean notes, was lying ready under a handkerchief on the countess’ little table, and Anna Mikháylovna noticed that something was agitating her. “This is for Borís from me, for his outfit.”

Márya Dmítrievna Akhrosímova was known as le terrible dragon, a lady distinguished not for wealth or rank, but for common sense and frank plainness of speech. Countess Rostóva took the gentlemen into his study and showed them his choice collection of Turkish pipes. The count’s room was full of tobacco smoke; they talked of the war that had been announced in a manifesto, and about the recruiting. The other was Lieutenant Alphonse Berg, an officer in the Semënov regiment with whom Borís was to travel to join the army. “Well, then, old chap, mon très honorable Alphonse Kárlovich,” said Shinshín, laughing ironically and mixing the most ordinary Russian expressions with the choicest French phrases—which was a peculiarity of his speech.

Count Berg, oblivious of irony or indifference, continued to explain how by exchanging into the Guards he had already gained a step ahead of his old comrades. “A German knows how to skin a flint, as the proverb says,” remarked Shinshahn, winking at the count. Pierre Anna Mikháylovna. “Márya Dmítrievna?” came her voice from there. Márya Dmítrievna always spoke in Russian.

She went on: 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. She turned away at once and addressed herself to Pierre, the count who was kissing her hand: “How’s my Cossack?”.

“Well, I suppose it is time we were at table?” said Márya Dmítrievna.  Pierre spoke little but examined the new faces, and ate a great deal.  At one end of the table sat the countess with Márya Dmítrievna on her right and Anna Mikháylovna on her left, the other lady visitors were farther down.  Borís was telling his new friend Pierre who the guests were and exchanging glances with Natásha, who was sitting opposite.

The jovial old gentleman, who stood beside his tall and stout partner, beat time, straightened his shoulders, turned out his toes and tapped gently with his foot, prepared the onlookers for what was to follow. And indeed everybody in the room looked with a smile of pleasure at the jovial old gentleman, who standing beside his tall and stout partner, Márya Dmítrievna, curved his arms, beat time, straightened his shoulders, turned out his toes, tapped gently with his foot, and, by a smile that broadened his round face more and more, prepared the onlookers for what was to follow.  Márya Dmítrievna charmed the spectators by the unexpectedness of his adroit maneuvers and the agility with which he capered about on his light feet. Natásha kept pulling everyone by sleeve or dress, urging them to “look at Papa!” though as it was they never took their eyes off the couple. Márya Dmítrievna Rostóvs’ ballroom:.

Count Bezúkhov had a sixth stroke, the doctors pronounced recovery impossible. Prince Vasíli escorted him to the door, repeating something to him several times in low tones. The Military Governor of Moscow bid farewell to the grandee of Catherine’s court. The German doctor asked, “Do you think he can last till morning?” in French which he pronounced badly. Meanwhile Prince Vasíli had opened the door into the princess’ room.

“Well, my dear?” said Prince Vasíli, taking her hand and bending it downwards as was his habit.  Do you know I have sent for Pierre?  Prince Vasíli looked questioningly at the princess, but could not make out whether she was considering what he had just said or whether she was simply looking at him. “Pierre will get everything as the legitimate son,” he says, “and you won’t get anything”. The princess smiles ironically, as if anything might happen, only not that.

She adds: “An illegitimate son cannot inherit… un bâtard!”. “I can tell you more,” continued Prince Vasíli, seizing her hand, “that letter was written, though it was not sent, and the Emperor knew of it.  “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!”. Prince VasíLI said. The princess replied angrily: “I don’t want anything, Prince”.  “It’s that protégé of yours, that sweet Princess Drubetskáya, that Anna Mikháylovna whom I would not take for a housemaid… the infamous, vile woman!”  “Perhaps the count did not ask for me,” said Pierre when he reached the landing.  “Is this the way to the princesses’ apartments?” asked Anna Mikháylovna of one of them. Anna Mikháylovna. Prince Vasíli’s guide. Pierre did not understand a word, but the conviction that all this had to be grew stronger as he meekly followed her. Ah, my dear friend! Forget the wrongs that may have been done you. Think that he is your father. Trust yourself to me, Pierre. I shall not forget your interests, she said. Anna Mikháylovna’s face expressed a consciousness that the decisive moment had arrived. She felt that as she brought with her the person the dying man wished to see, her own admission was assured. 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. Anna Mikháylovna said to Pierre, “Trust in His mercy!” and pointed out a small sofa for him to sit and wait for her. As soon as she had disappeared he noticed that the eyes of all in the room turned to him with something more than curiosity and sympathy. A deference such as he had never before received was shown him. Prince Vasíli then entered the room, wearing his long coat with three stars on his breast, and bowed majestically. She said: 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 he?” and hesitated, not knowing whether to call him “the count”. Through that door was heard a noise of things being moved about, and at last Anna Mikháylovna, still with the same expression, pale but resolute in the discharge of duty, ran out and touching Pierre lightly on the arm said:”The divine mercy is inexhaustible!  Prince Vasíli said something to Lorrain in passing and went through the door on tiptoe.

Anna Mikháylovna. 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 Bezúkhov, with that gray mane of hair above his broad forehead which reminded one of a lion, and the deep characteristically noble wrinkles of his handsome, ruddy face.  Prince Vasíli in front of the door, near the invalid chair, a wax taper in his left hand, was leaning his left arm on the carved back of a velvet chair he had turned round for the purpose, and was crossing himself with his right hand, turning his eyes upward each time he touched his forehead.  Anna Mikháylovna, with an air of importance that showed that she felt she quite knew what she was about, went across the room to where Pierre was standing and gave him a taper. Sophie, the rosy-loving, youngest princess with the mole, watched him, 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.

He did not go up to the sick 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. Pierre paid no more attention to this occurrence than to the rest of what went on, having made up his mind once for all that what he saw happening around him that evening was in some way essential. During this interval Pierre noticed that Prince Vasíli left the chair on which he had been leaning, and—with an air which intimated that he knew what he was about and if others did not understand him it was so much the worse for them—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.  The dying man lay as lifeless and immovable as before. Around him everyone began to stir: steps were audible and whispers, among which Anna Mikháylovna’s was the most distinct.

Pierre heard her say:”Certainly he must be moved onto the bed; here it will be impossible”. Anna Mikháylovna. When Pierre came up the count was gazing straight at him with a look the significance of which could not be understood by mortal man. Pierre, carefully stretching his neck so as not to touch the green silk quilt, followed her suggestion and pressed his lips to the large boned, fleshy hand. Anna Mikháylovna 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 Vasíli in an inquiring whisper, then pointed to the quilt.

Princess Mary looked with particular hopelessness at her reflection in a mirror which reflected a weak, ungraceful figure and thin face. “She flatters me,” thought the princess, turning away and continuing to read. She went on reading: All Moscow talks of nothing but war. God grant that the Corsican monster who is destroying the peace of Europe may be overthrown! Monsieur Pierre Bezúkhov inherited all the property and has been recognized as legitimate.

Prince Vasíli was rumored to have played a very despicable part in this affair. Anna Mikháylovna told me of a plan of marriage for you, but I have no desire for the post. The princess was so moved that her luminous eyes lit up so that her face was entirely transformed. She wrote: I embrace you as I love you. Give my respects to monsieur your father and my compliments to Mademoiselle Bourienne.

Prince Vasíli: I cannot agree with you about Pierre, whom I knew as a child, and that is the quality I value most in people. As to his inheritance and the part played by Prince Vasíli, it is very sad for both. So young, and burdened with such riches—to what temptations he will be exposed! My father has not spoken to me of a suitor, but has only told me that he has received a letter and is expecting a visit from Prince Vasíli.  “I look on marriage as a divine institution to which we must conform,” she wrote to her daughter-in-law. I have written to my poor mother,” said the smiling Mademoiselle Bourienne rapidly, in her pleasant mellow tones and with guttural r’s.   Prince Andrew made a grimace, as if expecting something unpleasant. Mademoiselle Bourienne also began to cry.  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. The old prince always dressed in old-fashioned style, wearing an antique coat and powdered hair, and with the contemptuous look and manner he wore in drawing rooms. “Only fools and rakes fall ill, my boy,” he said to Prince Andrew. 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 Tíkhon. “God has nothing to do with it!” cried the old man, shaking his pigtail and pacing up and down the room. “Give me time to collect my wits, Father,” said Prince Andrew, with a smile that showed that his father’s foibles did not prevent his son from loving and honoring him. The old prince then began to explain the plan of operation for the coming campaign.  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 butler was scanning the table, making signs to the footmen and anxiously glancing from the clock to the door by which the prince was to enter.

Michael Ivánovich. The old man laughed in his usual dry, cold, unpleasant way, with his lips only and not with his eyes. Prince Andrew” (he always spoke thus of his son) “has been telling me what forces are being collected against him!  Prince Andrew was amused by his father’s ridicule of the German generals and statesmen of the day. He asked: “Didn’t Suvórov himself fall into a trap Moreau set him, and from which he did not know how to escape?”.

His father replied: “When you get there you’ll find out what those Hofs-kriegs-wurst-rath are!”. “Michael Ivánovich!” cried the old prince to the architect who, busy with his roast meat, hoped he had been forgotten:   Mademoiselle Bourienne, here’s another admirer of that powder-monkey emperor of yours,” he exclaimed in excellent French. Besides he began by attacking Germans.  Prince Andrew’s face looked very thoughtful and tender as he paced with his hands behind his back. “I don’t like your Mademoiselle Bourienne at all,” Prince Andrew says of his sister. What a treasure of a wife you have, Princess Beatrice says as she sits down on the sofa in her brother’s room. Prince Andrew: 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. She and Michael Ivánovich are the two people to whom he is always gentle and kind, because he has been a benefactor to them both. Princess Mary: “How can one judge Father?”. When Prince Andrew asked his sister Andrúsha what she was holding in her reticule, she said: “Andrew, I bless you with this icon of the Saviour and you must promise me you will never take it off!”. He replied: “If it does not weigh a hundredweight and won’t break my neck, to please you!”. But immediately, noticing the pained expression his joke had brought to his sister’s face, he repented. Princess Mary: “Don’t judge Lise harshly, and her position now is a very hard one”. Prince Andrew: I do not think I have complained of my wife to you, Másha, or blamed her. Why do you say all this to me? Her brother: If you want to know whether I am happy? Prince Andrew met Mademoiselle Bourienne in a passage which connected one wing with the other. He said nothing to her but looked at her with contempt 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. Prince Andrew looked sternly at her and an expression of anger suddenly came over his face. The members of the household were all gathered in the reception hall: Michael Ivánovich, Mademoiselle Bourienne, Princess Mary, and the little princess.  When Prince Andrew entered the study of his father, the old man sat at the table writing so that his quill spluttered and squeaked. If you have anything to say, say it. These two things can be done together, said Prince Andrew. The old man continued to fold and seal his letter, with his accustomed rapidity. Nicholas Bolkónski’s son need not serve under anyone if he is in disfavor, writes Kutúzov. “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.” The little princess lay in the armchair, chafing her temples, and was comforted by her sister-in-law. The little princess lay in the armchair, Mademoiselle Bourienne chafing her temples.  Prince Andrew sighed and made no reply.

Summary of Book 2

In 1805, a Russian army was occupying the villages and towns of the Archduchy of Austria. Braunau was the headquarters of the commander in chief, Kutúzov. Despite the un-Russian appearance of the surroundings, the regiment had just the appearance of any Russian regiment preparing for an inspection anywhere in the heart of Russia. The commander of the regiment was an elderly, choleric, stout, and grizzled general with grizzled eyebrows and whiskers. He had on a brand-new uniform showing the creases where it had been folded and gold epaulettes which seemed to stand rather than lie down on his shoulders.

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 in chief wanted to see the regiment just in the state in which it had been on the march: in their greatcoats, and packs, and without any preparation whatever. On hearing this the regimental commander hung his head, silently shrugged his shoulders, and made a choleric gesture. A member of the Hofkriegsrath from Vienna had come to Kutúzov the day before with proposals and demands for him to join up with the army of the Archduke Ferdinand and Mack, and Kutúzov, not considering this junction advisable, meant, among other arguments in support of his view, to show the Austrian general the wretched state in which the troops arrived from Russia.  A regimental commander shouts: “Commander of the third company wanted by the general!” and orders all the soldiers to change into their greatcoats.

On all sides soldiers are 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. The regimental commander snapped at an officer for an unpolished badge, at another because his line was not straight, he reached the third company. The general became silent, angrily pulling down his tight scarf, as he said: “I am not bound to endure insults”. “Not bound to endure insults,” Dólokhov concluded in loud, ringing tones. The regiment roared, “Health to your ex-ex-len… len… lency!” and again all became silent when the word of command was heard.

Beside Kutúzov sat an Austrian general, in a white uniform that looked strange among the Russian black ones.  Austrian general Kutúzov walked through the ranks, sometimes stopping to say a few friendly words to officers he had known in the Turkish war. The regimental commander ran forward on each such occasion, fearing to miss a single word of the commander in chief’s regarding the regiment. Prince Bolkónski shook his head sadly and pointed 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. Prince Andrew Kutúzov Dólokhov mimicked his expression and pose with such exactitude that Nesvítski could not help laughing.

The regimental commander was afraid he might be blamed for this and did not answer. Prince Andrew stepped forward from among the suite and said in French: “You told me to remind you of the officer Dólfokhov, reduced to the ranks in this regiment”. Kutúzov Dólokhov turned away with a grimace as if to say that everything he could say had long been known to him and that he was weary of it. 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. Russian subaltern: “They said Kutúzov was blind of one eye?”.

Russian commander: “No, friend, he is sharper-eyed than you are!”. Austrian general: When they’ve been put down, the war with Buonaparte will begin. Shows you’re a fool. 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 sight of the dancing soldier and the gay and smartly marching men. Kutúzov and his suite were returning to the town.

It was Dólokhov marching with particular grace and boldness in time to the song and looking at those driving past as if he pitied all who were not at that moment marching with the company.  Their conversation would probably have been different but for the effect of that song, which made them seem like old friends. “Is it true that Austrians have been beaten?” asked Dólokhov. But now that Kutúzov had spoken to the gentleman ranker, he addressed him with the cordiality of an old friend.

Prince Andrew Bolkónski came into the room with the required papers.  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. Kutúzov bowed with the same smile. Russian general Kutúzov: “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”.

Prince Andrew: “But you know the wise maxim your excellency, advising one to expect the worst,” said the Austrian general. “Excuse me, General,” interrupted Kutúzov, also turning to Prince Andrew.   But among these people Prince Andrew knew how to take his stand so that they respected and even feared him. 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.” 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, entered quickly, slamming the door. Prince Andrew shrugged his shoulders: “If it were true that he has been beaten, news would have come.” “Probably,” said Prince Andrew. The general with the bandaged head bent forward as though running away from some danger, and, making long, quick strides with his thin legs, went up to Kutúzov. 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, and vividly imagined what awaited it and the part he would have to play. 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. Within half an hour adjutants had been sent in various directions with orders which showed that the Russians would also soon have to meet the enemy. Austrian general Strauch, an Austrian general who was on Kutúzov’s staff in charge of the provisioning of the army, came toward them from the other end of the corridor. Prince Andrew was so humiliated by the Russian general’s jest that he scraped with one foot and then with the other, awkwardly, like a child at a dancing lesson. He bowed his head and said: “Gott, wie naiv!”. – “Good God, what simplicity!”. Prince Andrew exclaimed: “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?”. Cadet Rostov replied: “Only a hobbledehoy could amuse himself in this way”. (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 Zherkóv could still hear him.

Cadet Rostóv, ever since he had overtaken the regiment in Poland, had lived with the squadron commander. “Walk him up and down, my dear fellow!” said the cadet, throwing the reins of the bridle over the horse’s head. * (2) “Hurrah for the Austrians!  Hurrah for the Russians!  Denísov was a small man with a red face, sparkling black eyes, and black tousled mustache and hair. He came up to the porch gloomily, hanging his head, and shouted angrily at Lavrúshka: “I lost yesterday like a damned fool, bwother!”. Rostóv replied: “If he stays out till morning it means he’s lost and will come back in a rage, will you bring some coffee?”. Denísov: “If at least we had some women here, but there’s nothing foh one to do but dwink!”. Rostóv: “Wetched!” he muttered, throwing down a purse with some gold in it. Lieutenant Telyánin: Well, young cavalryman, how is my Rook? He’s begun to go a little lame on the left foreleg! That’s nothing. I’ll teach you what kind of rivet to use! There was a bottle of vodka and a sausage on the table and Lavrúshka was waiting for him. “Well there certainly are disgusting people,” thought Rostóv as he entered. Denísov: “If you won’t accept money from me like a comrade, you will offend me”. Rostóv: “Don’t like bowwowing from my own fellows, I don’t,” growled Denísov. Lavrúshka: “You’re always like that; you thwow a thing down anywhere and forget it.”  “Denísov, let him alone, I know who has taken it,” said Rostóv, going toward the door without raising his eyes.

There were two Germans and a Russian officer in the room.  Rostóv went to Telyánin’s quarters. “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  Rostóv as he took hold of the purse. Staff captain Kírsten, who had twice been reduced to the ranks for affairs of honor, said Rostóv should apologize to the colonel. The colonel replied: “If you need it, take the money!”.

Staff captain Denísov said: “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!”. Rostóv, growing red and pale alternately, looked first at one officer and then at the other. Austrian Count Rostóv: For me, for the honor of the regiment I’d… Ah well, never mind, it’s true I’m to blame, to blame all round. Well, what else do you want?…

Bogdánich is vindictive and you’ll pay for your obstinacy. Captain Denísov: “Illness or not, he’d better not cwoss my path, I’d kill him!”.  “Yes, the Austrian prince who built that castle was no fool.  Nesvítski was saying. Look there in the meadow behind the village, three of them are dragging something. They’ll ransack that castle, he remarked with evident approval. “No, but what I should like to slip in over there,” he said, pointing with a smile to a turreted nunnery, and his eyes narrowed and gleamed, “that would be fine, gentlemen.” He called the Cossack with his horse and swung his heavy person easily into the saddle. Number one shot rang out with a deafening metallic roar and a 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. 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. Prince Nesvítski saw the rapid, noisy little waves of the Enns, which rippled and eddied round the piles of the bridge. The soldiers, crowded together shoulder to shoulder, their bayonets interlocking, moved over the bridge in a dense mass. “It’s as if a dam had burst,” said the Cossack hopelessly. How they scurry. He just sends a ball and they think they’ll all be killed, a sergeant was saying angrily and reproachfully. “Yes, the ham was just delicious…” answered another with a loud laugh. Nesvítski did not learn who had been struck on the teeth, or what the ham had to do with it. Váska Denísov, red and shaggy, with his cap on the back of his black head and a cloak hanging jauntily over his shoulder. Nesvítski looked down at the waters of the Enns under the bridge, and suddenly heard a sound new to him, of something swiftly approaching… something big, that splashed into the water. He saw, some fifteen paces away and separated by the living mass of moving infantry, Váska Denísov. Váska Denísov: What is this? They’re like sheep. Just like sheep! Out of the way!… Let us pass! Nesvítski and his Cossack managed to squeeze through to the farther side of the bridge and stopped the infantry.

Suddenly on the road at the top of the high ground, artillery and troops in blue uniform were seen. The enemy ceased firing and that stern, threatening, inaccessible, and intangible line which separates two hostile armies was all the more clearly felt. At the foot of the hill lay wasteland over which a few groups of our Cossack scouts were moving.  Hussar squadron commander: “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”. Every face of the squadron showed one common expression of conflict, irritation, and excitement, around chin and mouth.

Cadet Mirónov ducked every time a ball flew past, rose in the stirrups and sank back again. The quartermaster frowned, looking at the soldiers as if threatening to punish them.  “Well, what about it?” said he to Denísov.  Lead the squadron back.”  After him the stout Nesvítski came galloping up on a Cossack horse that could scarcely carry his weight. “How’s this, Colonel?”. he shouted as he stopped the regiment and turned to the colonel. The colonel looked silently at the officer of the suite, at the stout staff officer and at Zherkóv, and he frowned. Captain Váska Denísov: Why run risks, Captain? You should dismount! “He shouldn’t have taken so many men,” said one of them; “two smart fellows could have done the job just as well,” said another. Nesvítski could not see what was happening on the bridge, 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. 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. So you’ve smelt powdah! shouted Váska  Denísov just above his ear. The hussars ran back to the men who held their horses; their voices grew louder and calmer. “Was that grapeshot?” he asked Denísov. Austrian troops that had escaped capture at Ulm were separated from the Russian army and left with only their own forces. The defense of Vienna was no longer to be thought of. Prince Andrew was sent with the news of this victory to the Austrian court, now no longer at Vienna (which was threatened by the French) but at Brünn. Prince Andrew had been in attendance on the Austrian General Schmidt, who was killed in the action. 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.  Prince Andrew recalled all the details of the victory and his own calm courage during the battle, and then dozed off. At one of the post stations he overtook a convoy of Russian wounded.  He vividly recalled the details of the battle, no longer dim, but definite and in the concise form in which he imagined describing them to the emperor. 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.  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 entered the room of the Minister of War with a feeling 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. He felt offended, and without his noticing it the feeling of offense immediately turned into one of disdain. Prince Andrew felt that either the actions of Kutúzov’s army interested him less than any of the other matters he was concerned with, or he wanted to give the Russian special messenger that impression.

Prince Andrew felt that all the interest and happiness the victory had afforded him had been lost. 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. Bilíbin was a man of thirty-five, a bachelor, and of the same circle as Prince Andrew. 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. Bilíbin’s witticisms were hawked about in the Viennese drawing rooms and often had an influence on matters considered important.

Both the foreign minister and our ambassador in Vienna knew him and valued him. His services were valued not only for what he wrote, but for his skill in dealing with those in the highest spheres.  “But seriously,” said Prince Andrew, “we can at any rate say without boasting that it was a little better than at Ulm…” “But my dear fellow, with all my respect for the Orthodox Russian army, I must say that your victory was not particularly victorious.” Bolkónski: “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”. He looked straight at Prince Andrew and suddenly unwrinkled his forehead. It seems done on purpose to vex us.

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 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. How is it Vienna was taken? What of the bridge and its celebrated bridgehead?

Austria’s hand will be forced if Prussia joins the Allies, Prince Andrew said. “What an extraordinary genius!”. Prince Andrew exclaimed, clenching his small hand and striking the table with it, “and what luck the man has!”. He continued: I shall certainly adopt an innovation and call him ‘Bonaparte’ – we must let him off the u’. 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.

These gentlemen received Prince Andrew as one of themselves, an honor they did not extend to many.  “You, Bolkónski, don’t know,” said Bilíbin turning to Prince Andrew, “that all the atrocities of the French army (I nearly said of the Russian army) are nothing compared to what this man has been doing among the women!” “La femme est la compagne de l’homme,” * announced Prince Hippolyte, and began looking through a lorgnette at his elevated legs. Prince Andrew and the rest of “ours” burst out laughing in Prince Andrew’s presence. Prince Andrew saw that Hippolyte, of whom he had almost been jealous on his wife’s account, was the butt of this set. Bilíbin: “Kurágin is exquisite when he discusses politics—you should see his gravity”.

Prince Andrew was struck by the fact that the Emperor seemed confused and blushed as if not knowing what to say. Prince Andrew had gone to a bookshop to buy some books for the campaign and came back to find Franz, Bilíbin’s man, dragging a portmanteau out of the front door. Then the Russian ambassador took him by the shoulder, led him to the window, and began to talk to him. If the bridge is crossed it means that the army too is lost? “Stop jesting,” said Prince Andrew sadly and seriously.

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!  Turkish poet Bilíbin: 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. They spin him a thousand gasconades, saying that the war is over, that the Emperor Francis is arranging a meeting with Bonaparte. The French battalion rushes to the bridgehead, spikes the guns, and the bridge is taken, he says.

Prince Andrew was inspired by Bonaparte’s words: “If there be nothing left but to die, 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).” “Here is our dear Orthodox Russian army,” thought Bolkónski, recalling Bilíbin’s words. 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.  Kindly let this cart pass. Don’t you see it’s a woman?

said Prince Andrew riding up to the officer. “I’ll flatten you into a pancake,” cried the officer with tipsy rage. Prince Andrew saw that the officer was in that state of senseless rage when a man does not know what he is saying, but his instinct urged him on.  “It’s nothing,” replied Prince Andrew. Prince Andrew felt that something important and disastrous was about to happen.

He moved toward the door from whence voices were heard, but as he was going to open it, the door opened and the commander in chief appeared in the doorway. “If a tenth part of his detachment returns I shall thank God,” he said. Five minutes later, gently swaying on the soft springs of the carriage, he turned to Prince Andrew.  Napoleon’s army of one hundred and fifty thousand men was closing in on the position of Mack at Ulm when Kutúzov made his choice. He sent Bagratión’s vanguard, four thousand strong, to the right across the hills from the Krems-Znaim to the line of his retreat.

If he reached Znaim before the French, there was great hope of saving the army. The spy reported that the French, after crossing the bridge at Vienna, were advancing in immense force upon Kutúzov’s line of communication with the troops that were arriving from Russia.  Bagratión came out on the Vienna-Znaim road at Hollabrünn a few hours ahead of the French. Kutúzov with his transport had still to march for some days before he could reach Znaim. 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.

Murat declared that negotiations for peace were already proceeding, and that he therefore offered a truce to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. Another emissary rode to the Russian line to announce the peace negotiations and to offer the Russian army the three days’ truce.   March on, destroy the Russian army….  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. Bagratión’s four thousand men 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. Prince Andrew 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. “There now, Prince!    Prince Andrew stopped and began examining the position. The greatest disorder had been in the baggage train he passed through on the Znaim road. 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.

A sergeant major was pacing up and down the line, shouting: “Go on, go on!”. Prince Andrew, having reached the front line, rode along it.  “We’ll make you dance as we did under Suvórov on vous fera danser,” said one of the soldiers. Prince Andrew recognized him and stopped to listen to what he was saying.  The Frenchman, confusing the Austrians with the Russians, was trying to prove that the Russians had surrendered and had fled all the way from Ulm, while Dólokhov maintained that the Russians had not surrendered but had beaten the French.

“Only take care you and your Cossacks are not all captured!” said the French grenadier. He said: “Kari, mala, tafa, safi, muter, Kaská” – “Ah, that’s the way to talk French!”. CHAPTER XVIHaving 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.  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.   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.

The commander of the regiment turned to Prince Bagratión, entreating him to go back as it was too dangerous to remain where they were.   All eyes fastened involuntarily on this French column advancing against them and winding down over the uneven ground.  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. Prince Bagratión 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. “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.

Andrew felt that an invisible power was leading him forward, and experienced great happiness. Prince Andrew could clearly distinguish their bandoliers, red epaulets, and even their faces. Prince Bagratión gave no further orders and silently continued to walk on in front of the ranks.  The French were already near.   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.

Russian general: I am a Russian general and if you are not aware of the fact. I am not considering my own pleasure and I won’t allow it to be said. Colonel: 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? The French had attacked the men collecting wood in the copse.

Colonel Denísov: “At a twot fo’ward, with God, lads!”. The squadron in which Rostóv was serving had scarcely time to mount before it was halted facing the enemy. As at the Enns bridge, there was nothing between the squadron and the enemy, and again that terrible dividing line of uncertainty and fear lay between them. Rostóv felt as in a dream that he continued to be carried forward with unnatural speed but yet stayed on the same spot. Where our men were, and where the French, he did not know.

From behind him Bondarchúk, an hussar he knew, jolted against him and looked angrily at him. He looked at the approaching Frenchmen and wondered: Can they be French? To kill me? One of them said something strange, not in Russian.  He ran with all his might, like a hare fleeing from the hounds, across the field.

Behind these were some Russian sharpshooters. 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.   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.   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.  Túshin’s battery had been forgotten and only at the very end of the action did Prince Bagratión, still hearing the cannonade in the center, send his orderly staff officer, and later Prince Andrew also, to order the battery to retire as quickly as possible.

Russian Prince Bagratión Túshin’s battery was 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. The action of that battery led the French to suppose that here—in the center—the main Russian forces were concentrated, and they tried to attack this point twice but were driven back by grapeshot from the four isolated guns on the hillock. 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.

Túshin was in a state akin to feverish delirium or drunkenness when he first saw the enemy and fired the first shot. From the deafening sounds of his own guns around him, the whistle and thud of the enemy’s cannon balls, he became more and more elated. The French swarming round their guns seemed to him like ants. “Come along, our Matvévna!” he said to himself. He saw a horse with a broken leg that lay screaming piteously beside the harnessed horses and blood gushing from its leg as if from a spring.

It was Prince Andrew.  He imagined himself as an enormously tall, powerful man who was throwing cannon balls at the French with both hands.

Prince Andrew rode up to artilleryman Túshin and said, Well, till we meet again. Good-by, my dear fellow! and for some unknown reason tears suddenly filled his eyes. The cannonade was dying down, but the rattle of musketry behind and on the right sounded oftener and nearer. At the foot of the hill, a pale hussar cadet asked for a seat.

“Give him a seat,” said Túshin.  The officer was placed on “Matvévna,” the gun from which they had removed the dead officer, but he had died. The French had been repulsed for the last time.  The captain, 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. 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. Túshin’s large, kind, intelligent eyes were fixed with sympathy and commiseration on Rostóv, who saw that Túshin with his whole heart wished to help him but could not.

It was no longer a dark, unseen river flowing through the gloom, but a dark sea swelling and gradually subsiding after a storm. An infantryman came to the fire, squatted on his heels, held his hands to the blaze, and turned away his face, and said: I’ve lost my company, your honor. I don’t know where… such bad luck. And four soldiers carrying something heavy on a cloak, and passed by the fire; one of them stumbled, and another swore: “Who put the logs on the road?”.

Túshin asked Rostóv in a whisper.  Prince Bagratión was thanking the individual commanders and inquiring into details of the action and our losses.  In a corner of the hut stood a standard captured from the French, and the accountant with the naïve face was feeling its texture, shaking his head in perplexity—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.  Prince Bagratión Túshin: “How was it a gun was abandoned in the center?”. Prince Andrew: “Of course, we only just missed one another,” said the staff officer, with a smile to Bolkónski.

Captain Zherkóv: “I saw the Pávlograd hussars attack there, your excellency”. Prince Andrew broke the silence with his abrupt voice, and without awaiting a reply, Prince Andrew rose and left the table. Prince Bagratión, apparently not wishing to be severe, found nothing to say; the others did not venture to intervene. Captain Túshin was afraid of getting some other officer into trouble, and silently fixed his eyes on Prince Andrew as a schoolboy who has blundered looks at an examiner.  He groaned involuntarily as he opened his eyes and saw snowflakes fluttering above the glow of the charcoal fire.

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.  Next day the French army did not renew their attack, and the remnant of Bagratión’s detachment was reunited to Kutúzov’s army. Túshin had not returned, the doctor had not come.

Summary of Book 3

Prince Vasíli was not a man who deliberately thought out his plans. He was merely a man of the world who had got on and to whom getting on had become a habit. Of these plans he had not merely one or two in his head but dozens, some only beginning to form themselves, and some in course of disintegration. When Count Bezúkhov became a rich man, he had to sign papers, to present himself at government offices, 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 if he chose not to see them. Even people who had formerly been spiteful toward him and evidently unfriendly now became gentle and affectionate.

The eldest princess knit a striped scarf for him; Prince Vasíli gave him a deed to sign for the princess’ benefit. The prince had no time to ask himself whether these people were sincere or not. In Petersburg, as in Moscow, he found the same atmosphere of gentleness and affection. Anna Pávlovna Schérer showed Pierre the change of attitude toward him that had taken place in society. The Guards had gone to the front; Dólokhov had been reduced to the ranks; Anatole was in the army somewhere in the provinces; Prince Andrew was abroad.

Pierre felt for the first time that some link which other people recognized had grown up between himself and Hélène. Anna Pávlovna’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 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. Her melancholy was just like the august melancholy she showed at the mention of her most august Majesty the Empress Márya Fëdorovna. She received Pierre with a shade of melancholy, evidently relating to the young man’s recent loss by the death of Count Bezúkhov.  The aunt coughed, swallowed, and said in French that she was very pleased to see Hélène, then she turned to Pierre with the same words of welcome and the same look.

On leaving them, Anna Pávlovna again touched Pierre’s sleeve, saying: “I hope you won’t say that it is dull in my house again,” and she glanced at Hélène. She was wearing a dress such as was then fashionable, cut very low at front and back, and her bust seemed like marble to him. Anna Pávlovna: “Well, I will leave you in your little corner,” she says. Pierre dropped his eyes, lifted them again, and wished once more to see Hélène 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 after he has once recognized it to be a tree.

She already had power over him, and between them there was no longer any barrier except the barrier of his own will. He recalled her former words and looks when she spoke to him about his house, and was seized by terror. He recalled Anna Pávlovna’s words and looks when she spoke to him about his house, recalled thousands of such hints from Prince Vasíli and others, and was seized by terror lest he had already, in some way, bound himself to do something that was evidently wrong and that he ought not to do.  In 1805, Prince Vasíli had to settle matters with Hélène’s father-in-law Pierre before he left for a tour of inspection in four different provinces. well, God be with him, but it must be brought to a head, said the Prince.

The day after tomorrow will be Lëlya’s name day, and if he does not understand what he ought to do then it will be my affair—yes, my affair. I am her father. After Anna Pávlovna’s “At Home” Prince Vasíli felt he could not break away from Hélène. He might perhaps have been able to free himself, but now hardly let a day go by without having an evening party at which Pierre had to be present unless he wished to spoil everyone’s expectation. Anna Pávlovna Schérer’s fate was decided on Hélène’s name day.

Prince Vasíli was one of those who became overcome by a feeling of guilt while stooping over the snuffbox. Prince Vasíli was not having any supper: he went round the table in a merry mood, sitting down now by one, now by another, of the guests. At the other end sat the younger and less important guests, and there too sat the members of the family, and Pierre and Hélène, side by side. Sergéy Kuzmích Vyazmítinov, the new military governor general of Petersburg, had received and read the then famous rescript of the Emperor Alexander from the army – “From all sides reports reach me,” etc. Prince Vasíli’s rescript of Sergéy Kuzmích: From all sides.

From all sides, from all sides and then tears was smothered in sobs and he could get no farther. Anna Pávlovna: “Don’t be unkind, our dear Vyazmítinov!”. Prince Vasíli mimicked the sobbing of Sergéy Kuzmích and at the same time his eyes glanced toward his daughter, and while he laughed the expression on his face clearly said: “Yes. it’s getting on, it will all be settled today.” Anna Pávlovna threatened him on behalf of “our dear Vyazmítinov”. But much as all the rest laughed, talked, and joked, and enjoyed their Rhine wine, sauté, 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 was all a pretense. Pierre felt that he was the center of it all, and this both pleased and embarrassed him.

Jests fell flat, news was not interesting, and the animation was evidently forced. Not only the guests but even the footmen seemed to feel this, and they forgot their duties as they looked at Hélène and Pierre.

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. I traveled from Moscow with Prince Vasíli.  Anna Pávlovna: “That Princess Hélène will be beautiful still when she’s fifty”. Prince Vasíli: “Oh, the old fool,” he thought.

Pierre: “This happiness is for those who have not in them what there is in you”. The diplomatist preserved a mournful silence as he left the drawing room. Pierre smiled, but his smile showed that he knew it was not the story at all that interested him. “Sergéy Kuzmích—From all sides—” he said, unbuttoning the top button of his waistcoat. Prince Vasíli frowned, twisting his mouth, his cheeks quivered and his face assumed the coarse, unpleasant expression peculiar to him.

“Thank God!” said Prince Vasíli.    Old Bolkónski had always had a poor opinion of Prince Vasíli’s character, but more so recently, since in the new reigns of Paul and Alexander Prince Vasíli had risen to high position and honors.  … I’ll teach you to think! The prince went through the conservatories, the serfs’ quarters, and the outbuildings, frowning and silent.

However, at nine o’clock the prince went out for his usual walk. Princess Mary and Mademoiselle Bourienne dined with Prince Vasíli when he was in a bad humor. He snorted: Fool, or dummy! 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. Prince Vasíli arrived that evening, met in the avenue by coachmen and footmen, who dragged his sleighs up to one of the lodges over the road purposely laden with snow.

Perhaps Princess Elizabeth and Princess Mary know.  He shaved and scented himself with the care and elegance which had become habitual to him. His father looked around with much animation and cheerfully nodded to his son as he entered. Princess Mary was sitting alone in her room, vainly trying to master her agitation. The little princess and Mademoiselle Bourienne went into Princess Mary’s room to find out what happened.

Prince Vasíli’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.” Mademoiselle Bourienne and her maid Lise devised a plan of how Princess Mary should be dressed. Princess Mary’s self-esteem was wounded by the arrival of a suitor, and more so by 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. Princess Mary was so distraught that her eyes were full of tears and her mouth quivering, ready to burst into sobs. When the maid Katie brought the required dress, Princess Mary said: “No, it will not do; I prefer you in your gray everyday dress”.

Mademoiselle Bourienne and the little princess had to own to themselves that Princess Mary in this guise looked very plain, worse than usual. She was looking at them with an expression they both knew, an expression thoughtful and sad. Princess Mary did not comply with Lise’s request, she not only left her hair as it was, but did not even look in her glass. 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?”.

Prince Vasíli approached first, and she kissed the bold forehead that bent over her hand and answered his question by saying that, on the contrary, she remembered him quite well.  Princess Mary saw them all and saw them in detail.  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.  Anna Pávlovna. The conversation was general and animated, thanks to Princess Lise’s voice and little downy lip that lifted over her white teeth.

It was as if he said to them: Why should I bother about you? You’d be only too glad, of course? “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 Vasíli.  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. Not at all bad! he thought, examining her, not at all good, that little companion! I hope she will bring her along with her when we’re married, la petite est gentille. The prince never directly asked himself whether he could ever bring himself to part from his daughter and give her to a husband. “What are Prince Vasíli and that son of his to me?  And who would marry Marie for love?

That is what we shall see! He went over to Prince Anatole and said: “Here is my second son; please love and befriend him”. He went straight up to Prince Vasíli. “On the contrary, that coiffure suits the princess very well,” said Prince Vasíli. 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.

Ha, ha, ha! “And so you’ve had him educated abroad, Prince Vasíli, haven’t you?” said the old prince to Prince Vasíli. Princess Mary grew quite unconscious of her face and coiffure at the sight of Anatole Bolkónski. “Poor girl, she’s devilish ugly!” thought Anatole. Princess Mary tried, but could not manage, to be cordial to her new guest.

Princess Mary Mademoiselle Bourienne was delighted to meet Prince Anatole Bolkónski, but she did not intend to devote her life to serving him and being friends with Princess Mary. She had long been waiting for a prince who would fall in love with her and carry her off; and here at last was a Russian prince. The little princess, like an old war horse that hears the trumpet, prepared for the familiar gallop of coquetry. Princess Mary’s favorite sonata bore her into a most intimately poetic world – and the look she felt upon her made that world even more poetic. 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. She thought: “How happy I may be with such a friend and such a husband!”. Mademoiselle Bourienne walked up and down the conservatory for a long time that evening, vainly expecting someone, now smiling at someone, working herself up to tears with the imaginary words of her pauvre mère rebuking her for her fall. Princess Mary grumbled to her maid that her bed was badly made. 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, he said angrily. He guessed that the question referred to Prince Vasíli and his son. When Princess Mary went to her father’s room at the usual hour, Mademoiselle Bourienne and Anatole met in the conservatory. The old prince was very affectionate and careful in his treatment of his daughter that morning.

“Prince Vasíli finds you to his taste as a daughter-in-law and makes a proposal to you on his pupil’s behalf.  Princess Mary well knew this painstaking expression of her father’s.  Princess Anatole shouts at his daughter: “Remember this, Princess, I hold to the principle that a maiden has a full right to choose!”. He adds: He will take you with your dowry and take Mademoirie Bouriennes into the bargain. Never mind me. I’m only joking! She lowers her head and was ready to burst into tears. 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. Mademoiselle Bourienne: “Princess, I have lost your affection forever!”. Princess Vasíli: “You who are so pure can never understand being so carried away by passion.” Prince Bolkónski: “My desire is never to leave you, Father, never to separate my life from yours”. Prince Vasíli rose. “I quite understand,” answered Princess Mary, with a sad smile.  “My vocation is to be happy with another kind of happiness, the happiness of love and self-sacrifice,” she says. Princess Mary: Oh God, how passionately she must love him if she could so far forget herself! Perhaps I might have done the same! “Very, very glad to have seen you,” repeated he, embracing Prince Vasíli.

Anna Mikháylovna, though her circumstances had improved, was still living with the Rostóvs. Natásha, of the whole family, was the most gifted with a capacity to feel any shades of intonation, look, and expression, pricked up her ears from the beginning of the meal and was certain that there was some secret between her father and Anna Mikháylovna. She flung herself on her neck as soon as she overtook her in the sitting room and said: “Auntie, darling, do tell me what it is, my dear.” “No, dearest, sweet one, honey, I won’t give up—I know you know something”. Natásha 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 headlong after Anna Mikhályovna and, dashing at her, flung herself onto Sónya’s lap.

“Nikólenka. wounded… a letter from Nicholas! she announced in gleeful triumph. “If I’d been in Nikólenka’s place I would have killed even more of those Frenchmen,” Borís said.

Count Bezúkhov replied: “And you won’t feel ashamed to write to him?”. It’s awkward and would make me ashamed. Anna Mikháylovna opened the door.  “And I should be ashamed to write to Borís.  When she saw the count, she stretched out her arms to him, embraced his bald head, over which she again looked at the letter and the portrait, and in order to press them again to her lips, she slightly pushed away the bald head. Véra, Natásha, Sónya, and Pétya now entered the room, and the reading of the letter began. After a brief description of the campaign and the two battles in which he had taken part, and his promotion, Nicholas said that he kissed his father’s and mother’s hands. The universal experience of ages, showing that children do grow imperceptibly from the cradle to manhood, did not exist for the countess. What a style! How charmingly he describes! said she, reading part of the letter. The Russian Guards, Abroad, was quite a definite address, and if a letter reached the Grand Duke in command of the Guards there was no reason why it should not reach the Pávlograd regiment, which was presumably somewhere in the same neighborhood. Anna Mikháylovna, practical woman that she was, had even managed by favor with army authorities to secure advantageous means of communication for herself and her son.  And so it was decided to send the letters and money by the Grand Duke’s courier to Borís and Borís was to forward them to Nicholas.  The Rostóvs 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 Pávlograd regiment, which was presumably somewhere in the same neighborhood.  Nicholas Rostóv was sent a letter from Borís, the commander of the Ismáylov Guards, telling him that he had a letter and money for him. The Pávlograds were stationed near Olmütz and the camp swarmed with well-provisioned sutlers and Austrian Jews offering all sorts of tempting wares to soldiers and their comrades. On receiving Borís’ letter he rode with a fellow officer to the Guards’ camp, dined there and then set off alone to find his old playmate.  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.  Borís, during the campaign, had made the acquaintance of many persons who might prove useful to him, and by a letter of recommendation he had brought from Pierre had become acquainted with Prince Andrew Bolkónski, through whom he hoped to obtain a post on the commander in chief’s staff.  “Here he is at last!” shouted Rostóv.  Borís rose to meet Rostóv, but in doing so did not omit to steady and replace some chessmen that were falling.  Borís was about to embrace his friend, but Nicholas wanted to pinch him or push him or do anything but kiss him. Both had changed greatly since they last met and both were eager to show the changes that had taken place in them. “Oh, what a pig I am, not to have written and to have given,” he said as he opened a letter from the Emperor’s brother-in-law and sent for wine. Borís made a grimace. “Oh, you Guards!” said Rostóv.  In the letter from his parents was enclosed a letter of recommendation to Bagratión which the old countess at Anna Mikháylovna’s advice had obtained through an acquaintance and sent to her son, asking him to take it to its destination and make use of it. Much I need it! His friend asked: “Why ‘What the devil do I want it for?”. “Why not?” inquired Borís. “Oh, that’s it!” said Rostóv, evidently thinking of something else. Borís Rostóv looked intently into Borís Borís’ eyes and sighed. The Guardsmen told 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. Berg, as usual, kept silent when the subject did not relate to himself. But Borís noticed that he was preparing to make fun of Berg, and skillfully changed the subject.  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, and his saber tasted flesh and he had fallen exhausted, and so on. He began his story meaning to tell everything as it happened, but imperceptibly, involuntarily, and inevitably he lapsed into falsehood. This pleased Rostóv and he began talking about it, and as he went on became more and more animated.

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 Borís was expecting, entered the room.   In spite of Prince Andrew’s disagreeable, ironical tone, in spite of the contempt with which Rostóv, from his fighting army point of view, regarded all these little adjutants on the staff of whom the newcomer was evidently one, Rostóv felt confused, blushed, and became silent.  “Of whom you imagine me to be one?” asked Prince Andrew. “Yes, stories!” repeated Rostóv loudly, looking with eyes suddenly grown furious, now at Borís, now at Bolkónski.  Only when Prince Andrew was gone did Rostóv think of what he ought to have said.

He ordered his horse at once and, coldly taking leave of Borís, rode home.  The day after Rostóv had been to see Borís, a review was held of the Austrian and Russian troops, both those freshly arrived from Russia and those who had been campaigning under Kutúzov.  Thousands of feet and bayonets, hoofsounds and the jingling of showy cavalry in blue, red, and green braided uniforms, spread out with the clatter of artillery. Not only the generals in full parade uniforms, but every soldier with his weapons clean and polished to the utmost, and every horse groomed till its coat shone like satin, felt that no small matter was happening.  Rostóv, standing in the front lines of Kutúzov’s army which the Tsar approached first, experienced the same feeling as every other man in that army: a feeling of self-forgetfulness, a proud consciousness of might, and a passionate attraction to him who was the cause of this triumph.

The three parts of that army were sharply distinguished: Kutúzov’s fighting army (with the Pávlograds on the right flank of the front); those recently arrived from Russia, both Guards and regiments of the line; and the Austrian troops.  Rostóv felt his whole body tremble and his heart stand still at the imminence of that word. The Tsar called the colonel of the regiment and said a few words to him. Stopping in front of the Pávlograds, the Tsar said something in French to the Austrian Emperor and smiled. The Tsar addressed Rostóv: “You have earned the St. George’s standards and will be worthy of them”.

The soldiers, straining their lungs, shouted “Hurrah!” with all their might, and Rostov too, feeling that he would like to injure himself by that shout, if only to express his rapture fully. When the Emperor had passed nearly all the regiments, the troops began a ceremonial march past Rostóv on Bedouin, at the rear of his squadron. Borís Rostóv rode past the Emperor Alexander with a frowning but blissful face “like a vewy devil,” as Denísov expressed it. The Austro-Hungarian officer spurred Bedouin twice and successfully put him to the showy trot in which the animal went when excited. The day after the review, Borís, in his best uniform and with his comrade Berg’s best wishes for success, rode to see Bolkónski.

When the review was over, the newly arrived officers, and also Kutúzov’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. He did not find Prince Andrew in Olmütz that day, but the appearance of the town where the headquarters and the diplomatic corps were stationed and the two Emperors were living with their suites, households, and courts only strengthened his desire to belong to that higher world.  The one who was writing and whom Borís addressed turned round crossly and told him Bolkónski was on duty and that he should go through the door on the left into the reception room if he wished to see him.  At that moment Borís realized what he had before surmised: that in the army, besides the subordination and discipline prescribed in the military code, there was another, more important, subordination. More than ever was Borís resolved to serve in future not according to the written code, but under this unwritten law.

He felt now that by having been recommended to Prince Andrew he had already risen above the general who at the front had the power to annihilate him. It’s no use your going to the commander in chief. While Prince Andrew went to report about the purple-faced general, that gentleman—evidently not sharing Borís’ 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 Borís felt uncomfortable.  So we will go to Dolgorúkov; I have to go there anyhow and I have already spoken to him about you.  Prince Andrew accompanied by Borís arrived at the palace to find Prince Dolgorúkov.

The Austrian general had just returned from a council of war in which it was decided to advance immediately and give battle to Bonaparte. Prince Andrew introduced his protégé, but he said nothing to Borís and addressed Prince Andrew in French. Russian commander Dolgorúkov: “This combination of Austrian precision with Russian valor—what more could be wished for?”. Bolkónski: What exactitude, what minuteness, what foresight for every eventuality, every possibility even to the smallest detail. No conditions better than our present ones could have been devised, he said.  Dolgorúkov, turning now to Borís, now to Prince Andrew, told how Bonaparte wishing to test Markóv, our ambassador, purposely dropped a handkerchief in front of him and stood looking at Markóv, probably expecting Markóv to pick it up for him, and how Markóv immediately dropped his own beside it and picked it up without touching Bonaparte’s.

Borís was excited by the thought of being so close to the higher powers as he felt himself to be at that moment. The next day, the army began its campaign, and up to the very battle of Austerlitz, Borís remained for a while with the Ismáylov regiment. “He is one of the most remarkable, but to me most unpleasant of men—the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Prince Adam Czartorýski….  They followed Prince Dolgorúkov out into the corridor and met—coming out of the door of the Emperor’s room by which Dolgorúkov 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.   “Come here, Wostóv.  The Cossacks sold the horse for two gold pieces, and Rostóv, being the richest of the officers now that he had received his money, bought it. 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. Rostóv did not know how he ran to his place and mounted. He was filled with happiness at his nearness to the Emperor as he felt that this nearness by itself made up for the day he had lost. Alexander’s face was even more beautiful than it had been three days before at the review. The Emperor drew level with Rostóv and halted.

In Wischau itself, a petty German town, Rostóv saw the Emperor again.  The Emperor’s gratitude was announced to the vanguard of the Hussars at Wischau. The campfires crackled and the soldiers’ songs resounded even more merrily than on the previous night. Denísov celebrated his promotion to the rank of major and Rostóv, who had already drunk enough, proposed the Emperor’s health. Rostóv Dolgorúkov: 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.

And Rostóv got up and went wandering among the campfires, dreaming of what happiness it would be to die before his eyes. At midday he was admitted to the Emperor, and an hour later he rode off with Prince Dolgorúkov to the advanced post of the French army. The movement that followed was like the first movement of the main wheel of a large tower clock. Just as in a clock, an impulse once given leads to the final result; and just as indifferently quiescent are the parts of the mechanism which the impulse has not yet reached. How did he impress you?

The Tsar replied: He is afraid, afraid of a general engagement! Mark my words! “Yes, you have seen him?” said Prince Andrew.  “We mustn’t forget Suvórov and his rule,” said Prince Andrew. And Prince Dolgorúkov rapidly but indistinctly explained Weyrother’s plan of a flanking movement.

“However, I think General Kutúzov has come out,” said Prince Andrew.  Weyrother, who was in full control of a movement that had already become unrestrainable, was like a horse running downhill harnessed to a heavy cart, 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 Kutúzov’s. Prince Bagratión’s orderly informed the commander in chief that the prince could not attend the council of war because he was ill. Kutúzov, with his uniform unbuttoned so that his fat neck bulged over his collar as if escaping, was sitting almost asleep in a low chair.

Prince Andrew came in to inform him of this and, availing himself of permission previously given him to be present, he remained in the room. The dispositions for the impending battle were very complicated and difficult.  He remained stubbornly silent, gazing at Weyrother’s face, and only turned away his eyes when the Austrian chief of staff finished reading.  Count Langeron, 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. 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!”.

Przebyszéwski, with respectful but dignified politeness, held his hand to his ear toward Weyrother, with the air of a man absorbed in attention. Milorádovich looked round significantly at the other generals, but one could not tell from that significant look whether he agreed or disagreed with the arrangements. Weyrother met all objections with a firm and contemptuous smile, evidently prepared to meet all objections be they what they might. Kutúzov opened his eye as if remarking, “So you are still at that silly business!”. Langeron argued that Bonaparte might easily attack instead of being attacked, and so render the whole of this plan perfectly worthless.

Prince Andrew: “Ma foi!” said he, “tomorrow we shall see all that on the battlefield”. Weyrother: “But even if he also took up a position in the Thuerassa, he merely saves us a great deal of trouble”.

Prince Andrew had a vague and uneasy impression at the council of war. He did not know whether Dolgorúkov and Weyrother, or Kutúzov, Langeron, and the others who did not approve of the plan of attack, were right. The generals bowed and retired. Prince Andrew went out in a nervously emotional and softened mood. His fancy pictured the battle, its loss, the concentration of fighting at one point, and the hesitation of all the commanders.

He firmly and clearly expresses his opinion to Kutúzov, to Weyrother, and to the Emperors. All are struck by the justness of his views, but no one undertakes to carry them out. Prince Andrew takes a regiment, a division and gains the victory alone.

” 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 Germans.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.  Kutúzov and his fellow-Russians were unable to see anything in front or around them in the thick fog. They fought lazily and advanced and again halted, receiving no timely orders from the officers or adjutants who wandered about in the fog. The fourth column, with which Kutúzov was, stood on the Pratzen Heights. Napoleon 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 into the mist. Part of the Russian force had already descended into the valley toward the ponds and lakes and part were leaving these Pratzens Heights which he intended to attack and regarded as the key to the position. But still he did not begin the engagement. 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.  The Pratzen Heights were being denuded by Russian troops moving down the valley to their left. The French king sat motionless, looking at the heights 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. He drew the glove from his shapely white hand, made a sign with it to the marshals, and ordered the action to begin. Prince Andrew was in a state of suppressed excitement and irritation, though controlledly calm as a man is at the approach of a long-awaited moment. At eight o’clock Kutúzov rode to Pratzen at the head of the fourth column, Milorádovich’s, which was to take the place of Przebyszéwski’s and Langeron’s columns which had already gone down into the valley. Prince Andrew was behind, among the immense number forming the commander in chief’s suite. Prince Andrew whispered to his companion: “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 Kutúzov and asked in the Emperor’s name had the fourth column advanced into action. The colonel at the head of the regiment was much surprised at the order to throw out skirmishers. “What are they doing?” he murmured to himself, still not answering to Prince Andrew. What are they doing?” he murmured to himself, still not replying to the Austrian.  These were the two Emperors followed by their suites.  The Emperor Francis, a rosy-faced young man, sat very erect on his handsome black horse, looking about him in a leisurely and preoccupied manner.

In the Emperors’ suite were the picked young orderly officers of the Guard and line regiments, Russian and Austrian.  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 Brünn.  “That is just why I do not begin, sire, because we are not on parade and not on the Empress’ Field,” said he clearly and distinctly. Milorádovich wheeled his horse sharply and positioned himself a little behind the Emperor. The Ápsheron battalion passed in step before the Emperors and their suites at a bold, brisk pace.

The Emperor’s horse pricked its ears at the sound of shots being fired, not understanding the significance of the firing, nor of the nearness of the Emperor Francis’ black cob, or of all that was being said, thought, and felt that day by its rider Prince Andrew. Austrian Prince Andrew rode up to Kutúzov and saw below them to the right, not more than five hundred paces from where he was standing, a dense French column coming up to meet the Ápsherons. Prince Andrew shouted, Brothers! at this as if at a command, and everyone began to run back to where they had come from. Prince Andrew forced his way to him.

But at that instant, as if to punish him for those words, bullets flew across the regiment and across their suite like a flock of little birds. 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. 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 witnessed the struggle of the Frenchmen with the gunners as they struggled for the mop. He thought: Why doesn’t the Frenchman stab him? He will not get away before the Frenchman remembers his bayonet and stabs him. The fate of the red-haired gunner was about to be decided, but Prince Andrew did not see how it ended. Above him there was now nothing but the lofty sky above him.

The distance between the two flanks of the battle was more than six miles, and even if the messenger were not killed, he would not be able to get back before evening. Rostóv 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. These sights and sounds had no depressing or intimidating effect on him; on the contrary, they stimulated his energy and determination. After passing some Austrian troops he noticed that the next part of the line (the Guards) was already in action, and galloped on. They were our Horse Guards, advancing to attack the French cavalry that was coming to meet them.

He could see nothing more, for immediately afterwards cannon began firing from somewhere and smoke enveloped everything. Why should I envy them? My chance is not lost, and maybe I shall see the Emperor immediately! thought the commander-in-chief as he galloped on. “Rostóv!”  “Zum Henker diese Russen!” * muttered a German.*  “Hang these Russians!” He found a mass of Russian and Austrian soldiers of all arms, some wounded and some not, droning and jostling in confusion under the dismal influence of cannon balls flying from the French batteries.

“Where is the Emperor?  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. Russian officer Rostóv rode on at a footpace not knowing why or to whom he was now going. The Emperor was wounded, the battle lost. 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. Russian soldier Rostóv recalls his mother’s last letter: “What would she feel if she saw me here now on this field with the cannon aimed at me?”. The French cannon did not reach there and the musketry fire sounded far away. 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  One had a white plume in his hat, the other had a beautiful chestnut horse which he fancied he had seen before. Emperor Tsar Alexander Rostóv made a gesture of refusal and by that gesture he instantly recognized his lamented and adored monarch. One officer told Rostóv that he had seen someone from headquarters behind the village to the left, and thither Rostóv rode, not hoping to find anyone but merely to ease his conscience.  The Emperor was pale, his cheeks sunken and his eyes hollow, but the charm, the mildness of his features, was all the greater. It is as if I were glad of a chance to take advantage of his being alone and despondent! Captain Rostóv 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!” he thought. His despair was all the greater from feeling that his own weakness was the cause of his grief. He turned back and galloped back to the place where he had seen the Emperor but there was no one beyond the ditch. Przebyszéwski and his corps had laid down their arms at the Pratzen Heights. Other columns after losing half their men were retreating in disorderly confused masses. Langeron’s and Dokhtúrov’s mingled forces were crowding around the dams and banks of the ponds near the village of Augesd. Dólokhov: “Move on a hundred yards and we are certainly saved, remain here another two minutes and it is certain death”. 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. Crowds of soldiers from the dam began running onto the frozen pond, and one leg slipped into the water. On the Pratzen Heights, where he had fallen with the flagstaff in his hand, lay Prince Andrew Bolkónski bleeding profusely and unconsciously uttering a gentle, piteous, and childlike moan. He did not know how long his unconsciousness lasted. Still the cannon balls continued 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. “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. Prince Andrew heard the words as he might have heard the buzzing of a fly. His head was burning, he felt himself bleeding to death, and he saw above him the remote, lofty, everlasting sky. 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.

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.  “There are so many prisoners today, nearly the whole Russian army, that he is probably tired of them,” said another officer. 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. “A splendid reply!” said Napoleon.  The Emperor without waiting for an answer turned away and said: “Au revoir, Prince Repnín!” and galloped off. 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. 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. “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.

He thought: 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! 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.

Summary of Book 4

That’s our house,” said Rostóv.  Denísov, Denísov!  When Count Rostóv Denísov’s sleigh drew up at the entrance of his home, he saw overhead the old familiar cornice with a bit of plaster broken off, the porch, and the post by the side of the pavement. The house stood cold and silent, as if quite regardless of who had come to see it, there was no one in the hall. Is everyone all right? he thought, stopping for a moment with a sinking heart, then immediately starting to run along the hall and up the warped steps of the familiar staircase. Anna Mikháylovna Rostóv Denísov ran on tiptoe through the large dark ballroom, but someone had already seen him. He could not distinguish which was Papa, which Natásha, and which Pétya. Everyone shouted, talked, and kissed him at the same time; only his mother was not there.  “Wostóv, get up!” Here is Denísov!” Natásha laughed at every word he said or that she said herself. Rostóv felt that, under the influence of the warm rays of love, that childlike smile which had not once appeared on his face since he left home now for the first time after eighteen months again brightened his soul and his face. “Or is it yours?” he said, addressing the black-mustached Denísov with servile deference. Are you the same as us?

Rostóv became thoughtful. So that’s what I’m up to! I’ll never marry anyone, but will be a dance dancer, only don’t tell anyone, she said, laughing. “Dear me!” said Rostóv. Is he very terrible, Denísov?” When Nicholas Rostóv met Sónya in the drawing room, he did not know how to behave with her. Natásha rose and went out of the room on tiptoe, like a ballet dancer, but smiling as only happy girls of fifteen can smile. Véra’s remark was correct, as her remarks always were, but, like most of her observations, it made everyone feel uncomfortable,  including Rostóv, Nicholas and Natásha. The old countess, who was dreading this love affair which might hinder Nicholas from making a brilliant match, blushed like a girl. Nicholas Denísov appeared in the drawing room with pomaded hair, perfumed, and in a new uniform, and he was more amiable to the ladies and gentlemen than they had ever expected to see him. The Rostóvs knew everybody 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.” He led the mazurka at the Arkhárovs’ ball, talked about the war with Field Marshal Kámenski, visited the English Club, and was on intimate terms with a colonel of forty to whom Denísov had introduced him. The count went to balls and into ladies’ society with an affectation of doing so against his will. He ordered asparagus, fresh cucumbers, strawberries, veal, and fish for the occasion. At the beginning of March, old Count Ilyá Rostóv was very busy arranging a dinner in honor of Prince Bagratión at the English Club. The races, the English Club, sprees with Denísov, and visits to a certain house—that was another matter and quite the thing for a dashing young hussar! Count Feoktíst’s father began giving orders: “We can’t have less—yes, three…

the mayonnaise, that’s one,” said he, bending down a finger; “Then am I to order those large sterlets?”. I was forgetting. We must have another entrée! Anna Mikháylovna entered the hall to find Count Ilyá seizing his son by both hands, and exclaiming: Now I’ve got you, so take the sleigh and pair at once, and go to Bezúkhov’s, and tell him ‘Count Ilyá has sent you to ask for strawberries and fresh pineapples’. He’s not there himself, so you’ll have to go in and ask the princesses; and from there go on to the coachman Ipátka knows, and look up the gypsy Ilyúshka, the one who danced at Count Orlóv’s, you remember, in a white Cossack coat, and bring him along to me. “And am I to bring the Gypsy girls along with him?”. asked Nicholas, laughing. “I pity him from my heart, and shall try to give him what consolation I can,” she said. Anna Mikháylovna sighed deeply. “Wh-what is the matter?” asked both the young and old Rostóv.

Ilyá Rostóv, Count Rostopchín, Prince Yúri Dolgorúkov, Count Valúev, Count Markóv and Prince Vyázemski. The men who set the tone in conversation did not show themselves at the club, but met in private houses in intimate circles. After a while, the bigwigs who guided the club’s opinion reappeared and everybody began speaking clearly and definitely. Reasons were found for the incredible, unheard-of, and impossible event of a Russian defeat, everything became clear. At that time, the Russians were so used to victories that on receiving news of the defeat some would simply not believe it, while others sought some extraordinary explanation of so strange an event.

The club’s rooms were filled with a hum of conversation, like the hum of bees swarming in springtime. Most of those present were elderly, respected men with broad, self-confident faces, fat fingers, and resolute gestures and voices. Valúev was confidentially telling that Uvárov had been sent from Petersburg to ascertain what Moscow was thinking about Austerlitz. A minority of those present were casual guests—chiefly young men, among whom were Denísov, Rostóv, and Dólokhov—who was now again an officer in the Semënov regiment.  Rostopchín was describing how the Russians had been overwhelmed by flying Austrians and had had to force their way through them with bayonets.

Count Ilyá Rostóv, hurried and preoccupied, went about in his soft boots between the dining and drawing rooms, hastily greeting the important and unimportant, all of whom he knew, as if they were all equals, while his eyes occasionally sought out his fine well-set-up young son, resting on him and winking joyfully at him. But before he had finished his greeting there was a general stir, and a footman who had run in announced: “He’s arrived!”. The Russian general had recently had his hair and whiskers trimmed, which changed his appearance for the worse. Count Ilyá Rostóv, laughing and repeating the words, “Make way, dear boy!

Rostóv ran toward him and said something. Denísov first went to the barrier and announced: “As the adve’sawies have wefused a weconciliation, please pwoceed.   “Who?” asked Rostóv. “Cover yourself!” even Denísov cried to his adversary. Rostóv went on ahead to do what was asked, and to his great surprise learned that Dólokhov the brawler, Dólokhov the bully, lived in Moscow with an old mother and a hunchback sister, and was the most affectionate of sons and brothers.  The night after the duel he lay down on the sofa and tried to fall asleep, but could not do so. He had of late rarely seen his wife alone; their house was always full of visitors. Anatole used to borrow money from her and let herself be kissed by her husband Pierre. Her father in jest tried to rouse her jealousy, and she replied with a calm smile that she was not so stupid as to be jealous of him. “I’m not such a fool, Just you try it on,” she used to say. It is all, all her fault, he said to himself. He felt the blood rush to his heart and had to get up and move about and break and tear whatever came to his hand. Why did I say ‘Je vous aime’ * to her, which was a lie, and worse than a lie? I am guilty and must endure. A slur on my name? A misfortune for life? Oh, that’s nonsense, he thought.  Pierre was suffering physically at that moment, there was a weight on his chest and he could not breathe. What will be the result? I shall be the laughingstock of all Moscow, that everyone will say that you, drunk and not knowing what you were about, challenged a man you are jealous of without cause, she said in French. Pierre Kutúzov broke a slab of marble in his wife Hélène’s room and shouted, “Get out!” in such a terrible voice that the whole house heard it with horror. A week later Pierre gave his wife full control of all his estates in Great Russia, which formed the larger part of his property, and left for Petersburg alone. The old prince understood from the official report of the battle of Austerlitz that the Russians had to retreat and had made their withdrawal in perfect order.  The princess did not fall down or faint.  The princess sank helplessly into an armchair beside her father and wept. Did he believe? Had he repented of his unbelief? she thought. Go, Princess Mary.  Princess Mary began to cry as she prepared her sister-in-law’s breakfast on the morning of the nineteenth March. The old prince became weaker and walked less, ate less, slept less, and became weaker every day. He made up his mind that Prince Andrew had been killed and sent an official to Austria to search for traces of him. Princess Mary ran out of the room to fetch the midwife, who was sent for by one of the maids. (Mary Bogdánovna was a midwife from the neighboring town, who had been at Bald Hills for the last fortnight.)

Princess Mary felt that something great and mysterious was being accomplished at that moment. Everyone in the house was dominated by the same feeling that Princess Mary experienced as she waited for her daughter’s birth. “Inform the prince that labor has begun,” said Mary Bogdánovna, giving the messenger a significant look. Princess Mary had long since put aside her book and was listening to her nurse tell how she gave birth to Princess Mary in Kishenëv, with only a Moldavian peasant woman helping instead of a midwife. Oh, my God!

thank God!” said Princess Mary.  “It’s Andrew!” thought Princess Mary.  She did not know that he had come; she did not realize the significance of his appearance before her now. His coming had nothing to do with her sufferings or with their relief. “Go, dear,” said Princess Mary. Prince Andrew got up, went to the door, and tried to open it.  “What have they taken a baby in there for?” thought Prince Andrew in the first second.  Two hours later he went into his father’s room and began sobbing like a child. In a corner of the room something red and tiny gave a grunt and squealed in Mary Bogdánovna’s trembling white hands. Rostóv’s part in Dólokhov’s duel with Bezúkhov was hushed up by the efforts of the old count, and instead of being degraded to the ranks as he expected he was appointed an adjutant to the governor general of Moscow. His grandfather, who was his godfather, trembling and afraid of dropping him, carried the infant round the battered tin font and handed him over to the godmother, Princess Mary.  Prince Andrew sat in another room, faint with fear lest the baby should be drowned in the font, and awaited the termination of the ceremony.  Dólokhov himself spoke to Rostóv during his convalescence in a way no one would have expected of him. He said: There were not many such gallant sons of the fatherland out there as he. And now—this duel! Have these people no feeling, or honor?  In the autumn the Rostóvs returned to Moscow.  Early in the winter Denísov also came back and stayed with them.  Nicholas said that even Denísov was nothing compared to him; but Natásha insisted: “With this one everything is calculated, and I don’t like that.” Dólokhov often dined at the Rostóvs’, never missed a performance at which they were present, and went to Iogel’s balls for young people which the Rostóvs always attended.   For the Rostóv family the whole interest of these preparations for war lay in the fact that Nicholas would not hear of remaining in Moscow, and only awaited the termination of Denísov’s furlough after Christmas to return with him to their regiment.  “Where would I not go at the countess’ command!” said Denísov, who at the Rostóvs’ had jocularly assumed the role of Natásha’s knight.  

Iogel’s balls were the most enjoyable balls in Moscow. There were many pretty girls and the Rostóv girls were among the prettiest.  Nicholas and Denísov were walking up and down, looking with kindly patronage at the dancers. That evening, proud of Dólokhov’s proposal, her refusal, and her explanation with Nicholas, Sónya twirled about before she left home so that the maid could hardly get her hair plaited, and she was transparently radiant with impulsive joy.

 Natásha no less proud of her first long dress and of being at a real ball was even happier.   Rostóv smiled. “They coax me as if I were Váska the cat!” said Denísov jokingly. “Please, Vasíli Dmítrich,” Natásha was saying, “do come!” “Now then, Váska,” said Nicholas. “I’ll sing for you a whole evening,” said Natásha.

He came out from behind the chairs, clinking his spurs and advanced his foot, waiting for the beat. At the right beat of the music he looked sideways at his partner with a merry and triumphant air, suddenly stamped with one foot, bounded from the floor like a ball, and flew round the room, taking his partner along with him. Oh, the faiwy! She can do anything with me! said Denísov, and he unhooked his saber.

Rostóv asked himself. About ten o’clock Rostóv went to the English Hotel straight from the theater, where he had been with his family and Denísov.  Dólokhov made no reply. Nicholas put a small stake on a card and lost, staked again, and again lost. Rostóv sat down by his side and at first did not play.

“Gentlemen,” said Dólokhov after he had dealt for some time.  Rostóv Denísov Dólokhov laid down a seven of hearts with a broken bit of chalk he had written “800 rubles” in clear upright figures. Much depended on Rostóv’s winning or losing on that seven, which he well remembered that seven afterwards. He emptied the glass of warm champagne that was handed him, waiting for a seven to turn up, and with a sinking heart, gazed at Dolokhov’s hands which held the pack. Nicholas had given his word of honor not to take anything more till the spring.

At that moment his home life, jokes with Pétya, talks with Sónya, duets with Natásha, piquet with his father, and even his comfortable bed in the house on the Povarskáya rose before him with such vividness, clearness, and charm that it seemed as if it were all a lost and unappreciated bliss, long past.   The whole interest was concentrated on Rostóv.  “Still, don’t ruin yourself!” said Dólokhov with a side glance at Rostóv as he continued to deal.  Nicholas thought: Six hundred rubles, ace, a corner, a nine… winning it back’s impossible!

It can’t be! Rostóv pondered.  Sometimes he staked a large sum, but Dólokhov refused to accept it and fixed the stake himself.  Rostóv Dólokhov’s score against Nicholas reached the fateful sum of forty-three thousand. Rostóv had just prepared a card, by bending the corner of which he meant to double the three thousand just put down to his score.

Nicholas understood that it was all over; but he said in an indifferent tone: Well, won’t you go on? I had a splendid card all ready. Nicholas was enfolded in a poetic atmosphere of love which pervaded the Rostov household that winter. “Tomorrow,” replied Rostóv and left the room.  Denísov, with sparkling eyes and ruffled hair, sat at the clavichord striking chords with his short fingers, his legs thrown back and his eyes rolling as he sang, with his small, husky, but true voice, some verses called “Enchantress,” which he had composed, and to which he was trying to fit music: “Your cousin…” Dólokhov started to say, but Nicholas interrupted him.

Excellent!” exclaimed Natásha.   Denísov was looking at her with enraptured eyes. Natásha was preparing to sing.  “Nicholas, have you come?  He paced the room, looking gloomily at her and the girls and avoiding their eyes as they sang. “Yes, that’s me!” she seemed to say, answering the rapt gaze with which Denísov followed her. Natásha too, with her quick instinct, had instantly noticed her brother’s condition.  “And what is she so pleased about?” thought Nicholas, looking at his sister.

Natásha Nicholas sang: “Oh, this senseless life of ours, it’s all nonsense, but this is real”. Natásha took the first note, her throat swelled, her chest rose, her eyes became serious. She no longer sang as a child, there was no longer in her singing that comical, childish, painstaking effect that had been in it before. Natásha, that winter, had for the first time begun to sing seriously, mainly because Denísov so delighted in her singing.  “All this misery, and money, and Dólokhov, and anger, and honor—it’s all nonsense… but this is real….  And this something was apart from everything else in the. world and above everything in the world! t was long since Rostóv had felt such enjoyment from music as he did that day.  “What were losses, and Dólokhov, and words of honor?

But no sooner had Natásha finished her barcarolle than reality again presented itself.  Nicholas, hearing him drive up, went to meet him.  Denísov had proposed.  To this chit of a girl, Natásha, who not so long ago was playing with dolls and who was still having lessons. Nicholas had been prepared for resistance, but had not at all expected this.

Nataly, he said, decide my fate. It is in your hands. “Countess…” said Denísov, with downcast eyes and a guilty face.  I shall speak to him myself,” said the countess, indignant that they should have dared to treat this little Natásha as grown up. Sónya was more tender and devoted to him than ever, as if she wanted to show him that his losses had made her love him all the more. Next day Rostóv saw Denísov off.  He filled the girls’ albums with verses and music, and having at last sent Dólokhov the whole forty-three thousand rubles and received his receipt, he left at the end of November, without taking leave of any of his acquaintances, to overtake his regiment which was already in Poland. Natásha could not remain calm, seeing him in such a plight.  It was as if she wanted to show him that his losses were an achievement that made her love him all the more, but Nicholas now considered himself unworthy of her.

Summary of Book 5

CHAPTER I

After his interview with his wife Pierre left for Petersburg.  At the Torzhók post station he lay down on a sofa, put his big feet in their overboots on the table, and began to reflect. Pierre was obliged to wait.  Pierre d’Orreal: I shot Dólokhov because I considered myself injured, and Louis XVI was executed because they considered him a criminal, and a year later they executed those who executed him. What is bad?

What should one love and what should one live for? And what am I? What is life, and what is death? What power governs all? Pierre’s servant handed him a half-cut novel by Madame de Souza.

Pierre Bezúkhov: Everything within and around him seemed confused, senseless, and repellent. Yet in this very repugnance to all his circumstances Pierre found a kind of tantalizing satisfaction. The stranger sat without stirring, either resting or, as it seemed to Pierre, sunk in profound and calm meditation. When everything was ready, the stranger opened his eyes, moved to the table, and filled a tumbler with tea for himself and one for the beardless old man to whom he passed it. “I regret it very much, my dear sir, that what happened to you in Moscow was a misfortune,” said Count Bezúkhov.

Pierre felt confused and wished to avoid that look, but the bright old eyes attracted him irresistibly. The stranger’s face was not genial, it was cold and severe, but in spite of this, both the face and words of his new acquaintance were irresistibly attractive to Pierre. “Forgive me, my dear sir, but if I had not known it I should not have addressed you,” said the Mason. Pierre replied: Oh no, not at all! On the contrary, I am very glad to make your acquaintance.

The Mason looked intently at Pierre and smiled as a rich man might smile at a poor fellow who told him that he, poor man, had not the five rubles that would make him happy. “You know Him not, my dear sir, and so you are very unhappy,” said the Mason to Pierre Mason. Pierre Mason replied: “Yes, yes, I am unhappy, but what am I to do?”. The Mason went on: Of what, of whom, are we speaking? Whom hast thou denied?

Pierre d’Orme: “How can I, an insignificant mortal, show His omnipotence, His infinity, and all His mercy to one who is blind?”. The Mason replied: And thou art more foolish and unreasonable than a little child, who, playing with the parts of a skillfully made watch, dares to say that he does not believe in the master who made it. To know Him is hard. Pierre longed with his whole soul to believe and he did believe, and felt a joyful sense of comfort, regeneration, and return to life. Pierre Faurisson: Can I receive that pure liquid into an impure vessel and judge of its purity?

Only by the inner purification of myself can I retain in some degree of purity the liquid I receive. Pierre: The highest wisdom is not founded on reason alone, not on those worldly sciences of physics, history, chemistry, and the like, into which intellectual knowledge is divided. The highest wisdom has but one science—the science of the whole. Pierre Mason: Look at your life, my dear sir, how have you spent it? In riotous orgies and debauchery, receiving everything from society and giving nothing in return?

The Mason, as if tired by his long discourse, again leaned his arms on the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. Pierre looked at that aged, stern, motionless face and moved his lips without uttering a sound.

Pierre Bezúkhov: “I have led a contemptible and profligate life, though I did not like it and did not want to,” thought the Mason. Pierre wished to say this to the Mason, but did not dare to. The Mason’s advice: “When you reach the capital, first of all devote some time to solitude and self-examination and do not resume your former way of life”. Count Willarski: “And now I wish you a good journey, my dear sir, and success!”. You are going to Petersburg.

A week after his arrival, the young Polish count, Willarski, whom Pierre had known slightly in Petersburg society, came into his room one evening in the official and ceremonious manner in which Dólokhov’s second had called on him, and, having closed the door behind him and satisfied himself that there was nobody else in the room, addressed Pierre. Do you wish to enter the Brotherhood of Freemasons under my sponsorship?” “One more question, Count,” he said, “which I beg you to answer in all sincerity—not as a future Mason but as an honest man: have you renounced your former convictions—do you believe in God?”  Pierre considered. He was not at all surprised by what he saw: a skull, a coffin full of bones, a book containing the Gospel and a large open box filled with something. Loud knocks were heard at the door and someone came in. By the dim light, to which Pierre had already become accustomed, he saw a rather short man.  Pierre felt awe and veneration such as he had experienced in his boyhood at confession; he felt himself in the presence of one socially a complete stranger, yet nearer to him through the brotherhood of man. “I imagine that Freemasonry is the fraternity and equality of men who have virtuous aims,” said Pierre, feeling ashamed of the inadequacy of his words, as he spoke. “Good!” said the Rhetor quickly, apparently satisfied with this answer.  Pierre Rhetor: “You are seeking for truth in order to follow its laws in your life, and if this aim coincides with yours, you may enter our Brotherhood with profit,” he says. The chief aim of our Order is the preservation and handing on to posterity of a certain important mystery. Among them were: Discretion, the keeping of the secrets of the Order, and purifying and regenerating himself. Pierre repeated, and a mental image of his future activity in this direction rose in his mind.  Half an hour later, the Rhetor returned to inform the seeker of the seven virtues, corresponding to the seven steps of Solomon’s temple, which every Freemason should cultivate in himself.  He did so, but could not get the wedding ring off his fat finger. “But I have nothing here,” replied Pierre, supposing that he was asked to give up all he possessed. The Mason drew the shirt back from Pierre’s left breast, and stooping down pulled up the left leg of his trousers to above the knee.  When that had been done, the Rhetor said:”In token of obedience, I ask you to undress.” The Mason did not move and for a long time said nothing after this answer. Pierre paused, seeking a reply. Gluttony?  He was told allegories of the toils of his pilgrimage, of holy friendship, of the Eternal Architect of the universe, and of the courage with which he should endure toils and dangers. During these wanderings, Pierre noticed that he was spoken of as the “Seeker,” the “Sufferer,” and the “Postulant”. The candles were extinguished and some spirit lighted, and he was told that he would see the lesser light. After that they took his right hand, placed it on something, and told him to hold a pair of compasses to his left breast with the other hand and to repeat after someone who read aloud an oath of fidelity to the laws of the Order.   Some of them Pierre had met in Petersburg society.

Where am I? What am I doing? Shan’t I be ashamed to remember this? Pierre was aghast at his hesitation and prostrated himself before the Gates of the Temple. And really, the feeling of devotion returned to him even more strongly than before.

The Grand Master said: “Fly to a brother’s aid whoever he may be, exhort him who goeth astray”. He finished and, getting up, embraced and kissed Pierre, who, with tears of joy in his eyes, looked round him, not knowing how to answer the congratulations and greetings from acquaintances that met him on all sides.  He accused Pierre of being a “man who values his honor, perhaps too hastily, but we won’t go into that”. On the previous evening at the Lodge, he had heard that a rumor of his duel had reached the Emperor and that it would be wiser for him to leave Petersburg.  Prince Vasíli gave Pierre a significant look.

Pierre tried several times to speak, but Prince Vasíli did not let him and, on the other hand, Pierre himself feared to begin to speak in the tone of decided refusal and disagreement in which he had firmly resolved to answer his father-in-law. He blinked, went red, got up and sat down again, struggling with himself to do what was for him the most difficult thing in life—to say an unpleasant thing to a man’s face, to say what the other, whoever he might be, did not expect. The words of the Masonic statutes, “be kindly and courteous,” recurred to him. A week later, Pierre, having taken leave of his new friends, the Masons, and leaving large sums of money with them for alms, went away to his estates. She says she was “against this marriage even then and foretold all that has happened”.

Pierre who had been regarded with patronizing condescension when he was an illegitimate son, and petted and extolled when he was the best match in Russia, had sunk greatly in the esteem of society after his marriage—when the marriageable daughters and their mothers had nothing to hope from him—especially as he did not know how, and did not wish, to court society’s favor.  And when after Pierre’s departure Hélène returned to Petersburg, she was received by all her acquaintances not only cordially, but even with a shade of deference due to her misfortune.  “I said from the first,” declared Anna Pávlovna referring to Pierre, “I said at the time and before anyone else” (she insisted on her priority) “that that senseless young man was spoiled by the depraved ideas of these days.  Prince Vasíli expressed his opinion more openly.  Anna Pávlovna’s soirees were attended by “the cream of really good society, the bloom of the intellectual essence of Petersburg,” as she herself put it. Her receptions were distinguished by the fact that she always presented some new and interesting person to the visitors. The “cream of really good society” consisted of the fascinating Hélène, forsaken by her husband, Mortemart, the delightful Prince Hippolyte who had just returned from Vienna, two diplomatists, the old aunt, a young man referred to in that drawing room as “a man of great merit” (un homme de beaucoup de mérite), a newly appointed maid of honor and her mother, and several other less noteworthy persons. Anna Pávlovna. Prince Hippolyte Kurágin was sent on a very important mission to Prussia, and had just returned from there as a special messenger. He became fluent in that unwritten code with which an ensign might rank higher than a general. “Prince Hippolyte Kurágin—charming young fellow; M. Kronq,—chargé d’affaires from Copenhagen—a profound intellect,” and simply, “Mr. Shítov—a man of great merit”—this of the man usually so described. He liked Petersburg and despised Moscow. To be in Anna Pávlovna’s drawing room he considered an important step up in the service, and he at once understood his role, letting his hostess make use of whatever interest he had to offer.  Anna Pávlovna: “Vienna considers the bases of the proposed treaty so unattainable that not even a continuity of most brilliant successes would secure them”. Hélène Mortemart: “The Emperor of Austria can never have thought of such a thing, it is only the cabinet that says it,” said the Danish chargé d’affaires. Borís: L’Urope ne sera jamais alliée sincère. Europe will never be our sincere ally.  “You know her husband, of course?” said Anna Pávlovna, closing her eyes and indicating Hélène with a sorrowful gesture.  Oh, that wicked Prince Hippolyte!” she said.

During that stay in Petersburg, Borís became an intimate in the countess’ house. “It is of great importance to me,” she said, turning with a smile toward Anna Pávlovna, and Anna Pávlovna, with the same sad smile with which she spoke of her exalted patroness, supported Hélène’s wish.

The old prince was made one of the eight commanders in chief of all enrollment decrees throughout Russia. He was pedantic in the fulfillment of his duties, severe to cruel with his subordinates, and went into everything down to the minutest details himself. The life of old Prince Bolkónski, Prince Andrew, and Princess Mary had greatly changed since 1805.

 Prince Andrew wrote to his sister: “Ah, why have you done this to me?”. The angel’s upper lip was slightly raised as though about to smile, and once on coming out of the chapel Prince Andrew and Princess Mary admitted to one another that the angel’s face reminded them strangely of the little princess.  “Oh, leave off, you always talk nonsense and keep putting things off—and this is what comes of it!” he said crossly to his sister. Prince Andrew went out. “As you please… really… I think so… but as you please,” said Princess Mary, evidently intimidated and confused that her opinion had prevailed.

Prince Andrew went up to the child and felt him.  “Andrew, don’t!” said Princess Mary, but he scowled at her angrily with suffering in his eyes, and stooped glass in hand over the infant. In Petersburg everyone is rejoicing, and the rewards sent to the army are innumerable.  The letter was written in French and described the whole campaign with a fearless self-censure and self-derision genuinely Russian. Prince Andrew thought: “Yes, we have gained a victory over Bonaparte, just when I’m not serving!”.

‘The enemy of the human race,’ as you know, attacks the Prussians.  Austerlitz: “We have everything in perfect order, only one little thing is lacking, namely, a commander in chief”. He writes: All our octogenarians were reviewed, and of Prozoróvski and Kámenski the latter was preferred. The general comes to us, Suvórov-like, in a kibítka, and is received with acclamations of joy and triumph. On the 4th, the first courier arrives from Petersburg; the mails are taken to the field marshal’s room.

Count Buxhöwden sent his whole staff and all that belongs to the army to move farther into the interior of Prussia because of a lack of bread. The field marshal is angry with the Emperor and he punishes us all, isn’t it logical? There are thousands such as I in Russia! This is the first act. After the field marshal’s departure it appears that we are within sight of the enemy and must give battle. General Bennigsen, hoping to receive from Petersburg the post of commander in chief as a reward for his victory, does not give up the command of the army to General Buxhöwden.

Instead of the new life he had hoped to lead he still lived the old life, only in new surroundings. In Petersburg he visited all his estates and saw how far his orders had been carried out and in what state they were cared for. Temptations to Pierre’s greatest weakness—the one to which he had confessed when admitted to the Lodge—were so strong that he could not resist them.  The peasants presented him with gifts of bread and salt and an icon of Saint Peter and Saint Paul. Everywhere were receptions, which though they embarrassed Pierre awakened a joyful feeling in the depth of his heart.

When Count Pierre d’Arc de Triomph visited the peasants of Saint Petersburg, he did not know that nine tenths of the peasants in that villages were in a state of the greatest poverty. He didn’t know that the priest who met him with the cross oppressed the peasants by his exactions, and that the pupils’ parents wept at having to let him take their children and secured their release by heavy payments. Prince Andrew’s homestead of Boguchárovo lay in a flat uninteresting part of the country among fields and forests of fir and birch, which were partly cut down. It was at the end of a village that stretched along the highroad in the midst of a young copse in which were a few fir trees. Some domestic serfs Pierre met, in reply to inquiries as to where the prince lived, pointed out a small newly built lodge close to the pond.

Pierre was struck by the modesty of the small though clean house after the brilliant surroundings in which he had last met his friend in Petersburg. Prince Andrew had grown thinner, paler, and more manly-looking, but what amazed and estranged Pierre till he got used to it were his inertia and a wrinkle on his brow indicating prolonged concentration. Pierre d’Arc de Triomph: I can’t tell you how much I have lived through since then. I hardly know myself again. He checked himself, fearing to seem naïve, yet he felt an irresistible desire to show his friend as soon as possible that he was now a quite different, and better, Pierre than he had been in Petersburg.

“Plans!” repeated Prince Andrew ironically.  Pierre felt uncomfortable and even depressed in his friend’s company and at last became silent. “To kill a vicious dog is a very good thing really, but to kill a man is bad—wrong,” he said. “Why is it wrong?” urged Prince Andrew.  Prince Andrew: I only know two very real evils in life: remorse and illness.

To live for myself avoiding those two evils is my whole philosophy now. Pierre: No, I can’t agree with you! To live only so as not to do evil and not to have to repent is not enough. Prince Andrew looked at Pierre with a mocking, challenging expression; he evidently wished to draw him on. When you see my sister, Princess Mary, you’ll get on with her, he said.

“What evil can there be in it if unfortunate people, our serfs, people like ourselves, are instructed in a comforting belief in future life, retribution, recompense, and consolation?” asked Prince Andrew. “And is it not a palpable, unquestionable good if I give a peasant, or a woman with a baby, has no rest and leisure?” replied Pierre. Prince Andrew argued that Pierre was depriving him of “animal happiness is the only happiness possible, and that is just what you want to deprive him of”. He went on: “As I see it, physical labor is as essential to him, as much a condition of his existence, as mental activity is to you or me”. Prince Andrew: With such ideas what motive have you for living?

One would sit without moving, undertaking nothing. Pierre: I had such moments myself not long ago, in Moscow and when traveling, but at such times I collapsed so that I don’t live at all—everything seems hateful to me. And how is it with you? Prince Andrew: “I am serving because I alone have any influence with my father, and now and then can save him from actions which would torment him afterwards”. Prince Andrew’s eyes glittered feverishly as he tried to prove to Pierre that in his actions there was no desire to do good to his neighbor.

The Duke of York: “Yes, but it is not as you imagine,”. Prince Andrew continued.  I shall never agree with you,” said Pierre. Prince Andrew spoke so earnestly that Pierre could not help thinking that these thoughts had been suggested to Prince Andrew by his father’s case. In Siberia they lead the same animal life, and the stripes on their bodies heal, and they are happy as before.

Why do you think so? You should not think so? asked Prince Andrew. Pierre suddenly began, lowering his head and looking like a bull about to charge, “why do you think so?   Pierre asked.  Prince Andrew repeated, but Pierre, giving him no time to reply, took the repetition for a denial, the more readily as he knew Prince Andrew’s former atheistic convictions. Prince Andrew: Don’t I feel in my soul that I am part of this vast harmonious whole? Don’t I form one link, one step, between the lower and higher beings? Pierre: “There is no truth, all is false and evil; but in the universe there is a kingdom of truth, and we who are now the children of earth are—eternally—children of the whole universe”. The Duke of York: “Life and death are what convince me of the necessity of a future life”. Pierre said: “If there is a God and future life, there is truth and good, and man’s highest happiness consists in striving to attain them”. Prince Andrew replied: “Yes, if it only were so!”. His meeting with Pierre formed an epoch in Prince Andrew’s life, and he began a new life. “If there is a God and future life, there is truth and good, and man’s highest happiness consists in striving to attain them.

“They have mistaken us for my father,” said Prince Andrew as they drove up to the house. “What are ‘God’s folk’?” asked Pierre. “Those are Mary’s ‘God’s folk,'” said Prince Andrew.  Princess Mary Andrew said to Prince Andrew: “I like you very much, but please don’t laugh at my people”. “But, my dear, you ought on the contrary to be grateful to me for explaining to Pierre your intimacy with this young man.” The pilgrim told them of a “wonder-working icon of the Holy Mother of God” Prince Andrew asked: “Did you see it yourselves?”.

Princess Mary replied: “Oh, yes, master, I was found worthy.” “Let me ask her,” said Pierre.  Pierre Pelagéya: Oh, don’t speak so, master! There was a general who did not believe, and said, ‘The monks cheat,’ and as soon as he’d said it he went blind. And he dreamed that the Holy Virgin Mother of the Kiev catacombs came to him and said: ‘Believe in me and I will make you whole’. Prince Andrew: I saw it myself, master, the star is fixed into the icon.

Well, and what do you think? He received his sight! Pierre: “It was all my fault, and Andrew was only joking”. …” she asked, turning to Princess Mary.  I am very anxious about him. His health was better in the winter, but last spring his wound reopened and the doctor said he ought to go away for a cure. And I am also very much afraid for him spiritually, she said. “Who’s that?” asked the old prince, noticing Pierre as he got out of the carriage. Princess Mary looked at him silently and smiled affectionately. “How do you find Andrew?” she added hurriedly, not giving him time to reply to her affectionate words.  The old prince was in a good temper and very gracious to Pierre. He said: Drain the blood from men’s veins and put in water instead, then there will be no more war! Old women’s nonsense! The old prince went up to him and began to talk business. With the stern old prince and the gentle, timid Princess Mary, though he had scarcely known them, Pierre at once felt like an old friend.  Old women’s nonsense—old women’s nonsense!” he repeated, but still he patted Pierre affectionately on the shoulder, and then went up to the table where Prince Andrew, evidently not wishing to join in the conversation, was looking over the papers his father had brought from town.

The regiment was also a home, and as unalterably dear and precious as his parents’ house in Moscow. On approaching it, Rostov experienced the same feeling as when his mother, father and sister had embraced him, and tears of joy choked him so that he could not speak. When Pierre had gone and the members of the household met together, they began to express their opinions of him as people always do after a new acquaintance has left, but as seldom happens, no one said anything but what was good of him.  When Dólokhov felt himself deprived of liberty and bound in one narrow, unchanging frame, he experienced the same sense of peace as he had felt under the parental roof. But here was none of all that turmoil of the world at large, where he did not know his right place and took mistaken decisions.

Here, in the regiment, all was clear and simple. In the regiment, Rostóv felt the joy and relief a tired man feels on lying down to rest. The canteenkeeper gave one credit, one’s pay came every four months, there was nothing to think out or decide, you had only to do nothing that was considered bad in the Pávlograd regiment.

Plátov’s division was acting independently of the main army. Our army, after repeated retreats and advances and battles at Pultúsk and Preussisch-Eylau, was concentrated near Bartenstein.  Several times parts of the Pávlograd regiment had exchanged shots with the enemy, had taken prisoners, and once had even captured Marshal Oudinot’s carriages.  Despite this destitution, the soldiers and officers of Denísov’s squadron fed chiefly on “Máshka’s sweet root”. It was very bitter, but they dug it out with their sabers and ate it, though they were ordered not to do so, as it was a noxious plant.

Despite their pale swollen faces and tattered uniforms, the hussars formed line for roll call, groomed their horses, polished their arms and brought straw from the thatched roofs in place of fodder. The officers, as usual, lived in twos and threes in the roofless, half-ruined houses.  The general trend of the campaign was rarely spoken of, partly because there was a vague feeling that in the main it was going badly. When the officer had gone away, Denísov, who did not himself know what Rostóv’s relations with the Polish girl might be, began to upbraid him for his quickness of temper, and Rostóv replied:”Say what you like….  Rostóv Denísov and Rostóv Pávlograds officers were living in an earth hut, dug out for them by the soldiers and roofed with branches and turf. “Ah, what a mad bweed you Wostóvs are!” he muttered at one point.  “Where are they off to now?” thought Rostóv. Denísov was shouting.   Rostóv went to meet them. Denísov had not yet returned.  “So they are!” said the officers.   In the evening he came back to his dugout in a state such as Rostóv had never yet seen him in.  Denísov could not speak and gasped for breath.  Major Rostóv Denísov hit the table with the fist of his newly bled arm so violently that the table nearly broke down and the tumblers on it jumped about. “I’d have killed him if they hadn’t taken him away,” he said, gleeful and yet angry, his white teeth showing under his black mustache. The adjutant of the regiment told them that a court-martial had been appointed in view of the severity of the incident. He was ordered to hand the squadron over to the next in seniority and appear before the staff of his division to explain his disgraceful outbursts. Rostóv, who felt his friend’s absence very much, having no news of him since he left and feeling very anxious about his wound and the progress of his affairs, took advantage of the armistice to get leave to visit Denísov in hospital. CHAPTER XVIIIn June the battle of Friedland was fought, in which the Pávlograds did not take part, and after that an armistice was proclaimed.  The doctor asked: Do you want to try typhus? This is a pesthouse, sir? He wanted to see Major Denísov of the hussars, who was wounded. “How so?” asked Rostóv.  Rostóv described Denísov’s appearance. “But if you’ll step into the officers’ wards you’ll see for yourself,” he added, turning to Rostóv. His face was purple, his eyes were rolled back so that only the whites were seen, and his bare legs and arms which were still red looked out like cords. A commissariat soldier came in from the next room and rolled his eyes at him, apparently mistaking him for one of the hospital staff. Rostov: “Get him to his place and give him some water!”. Rostóv listened and made out the word.  When Rostóv was sent out of the room, he became aware of an intense look fixed on him on his right, and he turned. Close to the corner, on an overcoat, sat an old, unshaven, gray-bearded soldier as thin as a skeleton, with a stern sallow face and eyes intently fixed on Rostóv. He drew nearer and saw that the old man had only one leg bent under him, the other had been amputated above the knee. His neighbor on the other side lay motionless some distance from him with his head thrown back, was a young soldier with a snub nose; his pale waxen face was still freckled and his eyes were rolled back. “And how we’ve been begging, your honor,” said the old soldier, his jaw quivering. He’s been dead since morning. After all we’re men, not dogs. I’ll send someone at once. He shall be taken away—taken away at once, replied the assistant.

The officers’ ward was full of decomposing flesh, and Rostóv thought: “How can they laugh or even live at all here?”. “Looking for Vasíli Dmítrich Denísov?  His hospital companions, who had gathered around him, began to disperse as soon as he began reading his answer. “It’s certainly well written,” said Túshin, “but that’s not the point, Vasíli Dmítrich,” and he also turned to Rostóv.  “Well, let it be bad,” said Denísov. I’ve served the Tsar and my countwy honowably and have not stolen!  “But what I say is,” he said, turning to Rostóv, “it would be best simply to petition the Emperor for pardon.   No doubt he” (indicating Rostóv) “has connections on the staff.  Denísov interrupted him, went on reading his paper. Rostóv had not the courage to persuade Denísov, though he instinctively felt that the way advised by Túshin and the other officers was the safest, and though he would have been glad to be of service to Denísov.

“I am speaking, Prince, of the Emperor Napoleon,” he replied.  Borís was one of the few present at the Niemen on the day the two Emperors met. He saw Napoleon pass before the French Guards on the farther bank of the river. He asked the names of those who had come with Napoleon and about the uniforms they wore, and listened attentively to words spoken by important personages. At the moment the Emperors went into the pavilion he looked at his watch, and did not forget to look at it again when Alexander came out.

At the time of the meeting at Tilsit he asked the names of those who had come with Napoleon and about the uniforms they wore, and listened attentively to words spoken by important personages.  Count Rostóv, profiting by the darkness to avoid being recognized in civilian dress, went to the lodging. The guest of honor was an aide-de-camp of Napoleon’s, and several French officers of the Guard, and a page of an old aristocratic French family.  So it seemed to Rostóv. One of the Frenchmen, with the politeness characteristic of his countrymen, addressed the obstinately taciturn Rostóv, saying that the latter had probably come to Tilsit to see the Emperor.

On June 27, the preliminaries of peace were signed, and the Emperors exchanged decorations. Borís, with one leg crossed over the other and stroking his left hand with the slender fingers of his right, listened to Rostóv as a general listens to the report of a subordinate, now looking aside and now gazing straight into Rostóv’s eyes with the same veiled look.  Rostóv, without sitting down, began at once, irritably (as if Borís were to blame in some way) telling him about Denísov’s affair, asking him whether, through his general, he could and would intercede with the Emperor on Denísov’s behalf and get Denísov’s petition handed in.  The Emperors exchanged decorations: Alexander received the Cross of the Legion of Honor and Napoleon the Order of St. Andrew of the First Degree, and a dinner had been arranged for the evening, given by a battalion of the French Guards to the Preobrazhénsk battalion.   “I may see him at any moment,” thought Rostóv.

“All is over between us, but I won’t leave here without having done all I can for Denísov and certainly not without getting his letter to the Emperor.  When Rostóv Denísov was given the chance of meeting the Emperor at Austerlitz, he thought: I will fall at his feet and beseech him. He will lift me up, will listen, and will even thank me. Rostóv went back into the hall and noticed that in the porch there were many officers and generals in full parade uniform, whom he had to pass. Rostóv’s heart sank at the thought of coming face-to-face with the Emperor and being put to shame and arrested in his presence. Rostóv, in dismay, began justifying himself, but seeing the kindly, jocular face of the general, he took him aside and in an excited voice told him the whole affair, asking him to intercede for Denísov, whom the general knew.  The feeling of enthusiasm and love for his sovereign rose again in his soul in all its old force. Beside himself with enthusiasm, Rostóv ran after him with the crowd.  The Emperor said a few words to him and took a step toward his horse.  CHAPTER XXIThe Emperor rode to the square where, facing one another, a battalion of the Preobrazhénsk regiment stood on the right and a battalion of the French Guards in their bearskin caps on the left. As the Tsar rode up to one flank of the battalions, which presented arms, another group of horsemen galloped up to the opposite flank, and at the head of them was no one else. Napoleon said something to Alexander and both Emperors dismounted and took each other’s hands. The crowd unexpectedly found itself so close to the Emperors that Rostóv, standing in the front row, was afraid he might be recognized. Colonel Kozlóvski scanned the ranks resolutely and included Rostóv in his scrutiny. Napoleon, without looking, pressed two fingers together and the badge was between them. The Emperor then laid the cross on Lázarev’s breast and dropped his hand as though sure that the cross would adhere there. Officious hands, Russian and French, immediately seized the cross and fastened it to the uniform.   “Yes, but what luck for Lázarev!  Two officers with flushed faces, looking cheerful and happy, passed by Rostóv. The Emperors remounted and rode away.

“Rostóv!  Then again he thought of Lázarev rewarded and Denísov punished and unpardoned.  One day our Emperor gives it and next day Napoleon.  Tomorrow our Emperor will send a St. George’s Cross to the bravest of the French Guards.  He went to a hotel where he found so many people in civilian clothes that he had difficulty getting a bite to eat. But Rostóv did not listen to him. Two officers of his own division joined him.  “How can you judge the Emperor’s actions?  In 1808 the Emperor Alexander went to Erfurt for an interview with the Emperor Napoleon, and in the upper circles of Petersburg there was much talk of the grandeur of this important meeting. The attention of Russian society was at that time keenly directed on the internal changes that were being undertaken in all the departments of government. Our business is to do our duty, to fight and not to think! That’s all, said one of the officers.

Summary of Book 6

He had in the highest degree a practical tenacity which Pierre lacked, and without fuss he set things going. Besides being occupied with his estates and reading a great variety of books, Prince Andrew was at this time busy with a critical survey of our last two unfortunate campaigns, and with drawing up a proposal for a reform of the army rules and regulations. Despite the indifference to the affairs of the world he had expressed to Pierre, he diligently followed all that went on, received many books, and to his surprise noticed that when he or his father had visitors from Petersburg, the very vortex of life, these people lagged behind himself—who never left the country—in knowledge of what was happening in home and foreign affairs. They crossed the ferry where he had talked with Pierre the year before.   “What is he talking about?” thought Prince Andrew.

Prince Andrew visited Count Ilyá Rostóv, the Marshal of the Nobility for the affairs of the Ryazán estate of which he was trustee, in the middle of May. Look at those cramped dead firs, ever the same, and at me too, sticking out my broken and barked fingers! In 1809 Count Ilyá Rostóv entertained almost the whole province with hunts, theatricals, dinners, and music. Prince Andrew drove up the avenue in the Rostóvs’ house at Otrádnoe. He heard merry girlish cries behind some trees on the right and saw a group of girls running to cross the path of his calèche.

As soon as he opened the shutters, the moonlight burst into the room. The night was fresh, bright, and very still. Prince Andrew leaned his elbows on the window ledge and his eyes rested on that sky. “For her I might as well not exist!” thought Prince Andrew while he listened to her voice, for some reason expecting yet fearing that she might say something about him. In the forest the harness bells sounded yet more muffled than they had done six weeks before.

Everything was in blossom, the nightingales trilled, and their voices reverberated far away. Prince Andrew: “It is not enough for me to know what I have in me—everyone must know it”. “It is not enough for me to know what I have in me—everyone must know it: Pierre, and that young girl who wanted to fly away into the sky, everyone must know me, so that my life may not be lived for myself alone while others live so apart from it, but so that it may be reflected in them all, and they and I may live in harmony!” When Prince Andrew returned from his trip to Ryazán, he found the country dull and his former pursuits no longer interested him. Prince Andrew could not understand how he could ever have doubted the necessity of taking an active part in life. And Prince Andrew, crossing his arms behind him, long paced the room, now frowning, now smiling, as he reflected on those irrational, inexpressible thoughts, secret as a crime, which altered his whole life and were connected with Pierre, with fame, with the girl at the window, the oak, and woman’s beauty and love.

A whole series of sensible and logical considerations showing it to be essential for him to go to Petersburg, and even to re-enter the service, kept springing up in his mind.  Prince Andrew became antipathetic to the Emperor and disliked his face and personality generally. The courtiers explained the Emperor’s neglect of him by His Majesty’s displeasure at the courtiers’ displeasure at His Majesty’s displeasure. Prince Andrew arrived in Petersburg in August, 1809.  He did not know the Minister of War personally, but all he had heard of him inspired him with but little respect for the man.

Prince Andrew wrote to an old field marshal, a friend of his father’s, and told him to inform the Emperor. Prince Andrew was shown in and out of the minister’s room by the adjutant on duty. But the moment the door opened one feeling alone appeared on all faces—that of fear. The grating sound of a harsh voice was heard from the other side of the door. Prince Andrew was then conducted to the door and the officer on duty said in a whisper, “To the right, at the window”. His Majesty the Emperor has deigned to send your excellency a project submitted by me…”

Speránski was the commander in chief of a mysterious person Prince Andrew did not know, who was supposed to be a man of genius. In Petersburg he now experienced the same feeling he had had on the eve of a battle, when troubled by anxious curiosity and irresistibly attracted to the ruling circles where the future, on which the fate of millions depended, was being shaped.  Prince Andrew was most favorably placed to secure good reception in the highest and most diverse Petersburg circles of the day. The reforming party cordially courted him because he was reputed to be clever and very well read, and because by liberating his serfs he had obtained the reputation of being a liberal. The party of the old and dissatisfied, who censured the innovations, turned to him expecting his sympathy in their disapproval of the reforms.

“What has Speránski to do with the army regulations?” asked Prince Andrew. Count Kochubéy: Who will plow the land if they are set free? It is easy to write laws, but difficult to rule. Just the same as now—I ask you, Count—who will be heads of the departments when everybody has to pass examinations? Prince Andrew Speránski: “Yes, that’s a difficulty, as education is not at all general.” This was Speránski, Secretary of State, reporter to the Emperor and his companion at Erfurt, where he had more than once met and talked with Napoleon.

Prince Andrew without joining in the conversation watched every movement of Speránski’s: this man, not long since an insignificant divinity student, who now, Bolkónski thought, held in his hands—those plump white hands—the fate of Russia.   This flattered Prince Andrew.  “Grounds of personal ambition maybe,” Speránski put in quietly. Prince Andrew’s argument with Emperor Speránski: “Every courtier considers himself bound to maintain his position worthily”. Prince Andrew: “I do not dispute that, but it cannot be denied that court privileges have attained the same end”.

CHAPTER VIDuring the first weeks of his stay in Petersburg Prince Andrew felt the whole trend of thought he had formed during his life of seclusion quite overshadowed by the trifling cares that engrossed him in that city. As he had done on their first meeting at Kochubéy’s, Speránnski impressed Prince Andrew with his dispassionate calm reasonableness. Had Speránski sprung from the same class as himself and possessed the same breeding and traditions, Bolkónski would soon have discovered his weak, human, unheroic sides; but as it was, Speránski’s strange and logical turn of mind inspired him with respect all the more because he did not quite understand him.  He was unpleasantly struck by the excessive contempt for others that he observed in Speránnski. The Russian philosopher passed too boldly, it seemed to Prince Andrew, from one to another.

This was Speránski’s cold, mirrorlike look, which did not allow one to penetrate to his soul, and his delicate white hands, which Prince Andrew involuntarily watched as one does watch the hands of those who possess power.  Prince Andrew became a member of the Committee on Army Regulations and was chairman of a section of the committee for the revision of the laws. He worked out the first part of the Civil Code that was being drawn up with the aid of the Institutes of Justinian. The fact that Speránski was the son of a village priest, and that stupid people might meanly despise him on account of his humble origin (as in fact many did), caused Prince Andrew to cherish his sentiment for him the more, and unconsciously to strengthen it. Nearly two years before this, in 1808, Pierre on returning to Petersburg after visiting his estates had involuntarily found himself in a leading position among the Petersburg Freemasons.

Amid the turmoil of his activities and distractions, however, Pierre at the end of a year began to feel that the more firmly he tried to rest upon it, the more Masonic ground on which he stood gave way under him.  Joseph Alexéevich was not in Petersburg—he had of late stood aside from the affairs of the Petersburg lodges, and lived almost entirely in Moscow.  He regarded them as men he knew in ordinary life, not as Prince B. or Iván Vasílevich D., whom he saw as weak and insignificant men. Pierre respected this class of Brothers to which the elder ones chiefly belonged, including, Pierre thought, Joseph Alexéevich himself, but he did not share their interests.

In the second category Pierre reckoned himself and others like him, seeking and vacillating, who had not yet found in Freemasonry a straight and comprehensible path, but hoped to do so.

 The Petersburg Brothers were divided into four categories: those who saw nothing in Freemasonry but the external forms and ceremonies, others who prized the strict performance of these forms without regard to their purport or significance. To attain this end we must secure a preponderance of virtue over vice and must endeavor to secure that the honest man may, even in this world, receive a lasting reward for his virtue. The whole plan of our order should be based on the idea of preparing men of firmness and virtue bound together by unity of conviction. Pierre Bezúkhov: “As soon as we have a certain number of worthy men in every state, each of them again training two others and all being closely united, everything will be possible for our order, which has already in secret accomplished much for the welfare of mankind”. The majority of the Brothers, seeing in it dangerous designs of Illuminism, met it with a coldness that surprised Pierre.

It was long since there had been so stormy a meeting. Following the delivery of his speech at the lodge he lay on a sofa at home receiving no one and going nowhere. One of the Masonic Brothers whom Pierre respected less than the others forced his way in to see him and, turning the conversation upon Pierre’s matrimonial affairs, by way of fraternal advice expressed the opinion that he was neglecting one of the first rules of Freemasonry by not forgiving the penitent. Pierre saw that there was a conspiracy against him and that they wanted to reunite him with his wife, and in the mood he was, this was not even unpleasant to him. Moscow, 17th November He received me graciously and made me sit down on the bed on which he lay.

I told him everything as best I could, and told him what I had proposed to our Petersburg lodge, of the bad reception I had encountered, and of my rupture with the Brothers. He surprised me by asking whether I remembered the threefold aim of the order: “Self-reformation, self-purification and improvement of the human race”. He advised me not to avoid intercourse with the Petersburg Brothers, but to take up only second-grade posts in the lodge, to try, while diverting the Brothers from pride, to turn them toward the true path self-knowledge and self-perfecting.

Among the men who very soon became frequent visitors at the Rostóvs’ house in Petersburg were Borís, Pierre whom the count had met in the street and dragged home with him, and Berg who spent whole days at the Rostóvs’ and paid the eldest daughter, Countess Véra, the attentions a young man pays when he intends to propose. Berg was a captain in the Guards, wore medals, and held some lucrative posts in Petersburg. He was a painstaking and brave officer, on excellent terms with his superiors, and a moral young man with a brilliant career before him. Now in Petersburg, having considered the Rostóvs’ position and his own, he decided that the time had come to propose. Berg: I am not marrying for money—I consider that dishonorable.

But a wife should bring her share and a husband his. In our times that is worth something, isn’t it? And above all, she is a handsome, estimable girl, and she loves me. Berg: And I love her, because her character is sensible and very good. Now the other sister, though they are the same family, is quite different—an unpleasant character and has not the same intelligence.

But my fiancée! She is so… you know? But on the contrary, my papa and mamma are now provided for—I have arranged that rent for them in the Baltic Provinces—and I can live in Petersburg on my pay, and with her fortune and my good management we can get along nicely.  The old count did not know how much he had, what his debts amounted to, or what dowry he could give her.

Berg had already been engaged a month before the wedding, but the count had not yet decided on the dowry.  When the Rostóvs came to Petersburg Borís called on them. Sometimes it occurred to Natásha that he did not wish to see her, and this conjecture was confirmed by the sad tone in which her elders spoke of him.  He had a brilliant position in society thanks to his intimacy with Countess Bezúkhova, a brilliant position in the service thanks to the patronage of an important personage whose complete confidence he enjoyed, and he was beginning to make plans for marrying one of the richest heiresses in Petersburg, plans which might very easily be realized.  This Natásha noticed at once.

When he entered the Rostóvs’ drawing room Natásha was in her own room.  Borís kissed Natásha’s hand and said that he was astonished at the change in her. After his first visit Borís said to himself that Natásha attracted him just as much as ever, but that he must not yield to that feeling, because to marry her, a girl almost without fortune, would mean ruin to his career. But despite that resolution he called often and spent whole days at the Rostovs’ home. Borís made up his mind to avoid meeting Natásha, but despite that resolution he called again a few days later and began calling often and spending whole days at the Rostóvs’.

The countess looked at her with a stern face and said: “Can it be that this couch will be my grave?”. Yes?” said Natásha.  You have quite turned his head, I can see that. The countess replied: Borís is nice, and I love him like a son, but what then? What do you want of him? “Natásha, you are sixteen.  How can you know? No, Mamma, don’t speak to him!

What nonsense! said the countess. Natásha smiled and looked at her mother: “Not to marry, but just so,” she added. But this is what I’ll do, Natásha, I’ll have a talk with Borís.  Next day the countess called Borís aside and had a talk with him, after which he ceased coming to the Rostóvs’ mansion.

Natásha Rostóvs was maid of honor at the court of the Dowager Empress in St. Petersburg. Natásha had been in a fever of excitement and activity all day preparing for the event. Natáha, in her short petticoat from under which her dancing shoes showed, ran up to her mother and scrutinized her, and then ran back to the maids to fasten her mother’s cap. “Don’t do it without me!” called Natásha.

“Mamma, your cap, more to this side,” said Natásha.  She praised the Rostóvs’ toilets.  The prospect was so splendid that she hardly believed it would come true, so out of keeping was it with the chill darkness of the carriage. In the damp chill air and crowded closeness of the swaying carriage, she for the first time vividly imagined what was in store for her there at the ball, in those brightly lighted rooms—with music, flowers, dances, the Emperor, and all the brilliant young people of Petersburg.  On entering the ballroom the regular hum of voices, footsteps, and greetings deafened Natásha, and the light and glitter dazzled her still more.

The host and hostess, who had already been standing at the door for half an hour repeating the same words to the various arrivals, “Charmé de vous voir,” * greeted the Rostóvs and Perónskaya in the same manner.  “Ah, here she is, the Queen of Petersburg, Countess Bezúkhova,” said Perónskaya, indicating Hélène who had just entered.  Natásha heard and felt that several people were asking about her and looking at her.   Pierre, swaying his stout body, advanced, making way through the crowd and nodding to right and left as casually and good-naturedly as if he were passing through a crowd at a fair.  Natásha looked joyfully at the familiar face of Pierre, “the buffoon,” as Perónskaya had called him, and knew he was looking for them, and for her in particular.

The band played the polonaise in vogue at that time on account of the words “Alexander, Elisaveta, all our hearts you ravish quite”. Natásha felt that she would be left with her mother and Sónya among a minority of women who crowded near the wall, not having been invited to dance. She stood with her slender arms hanging down, her scarcely defined bosom rising and falling regularly, and with bated breath and glittering, frightened eyes gazed straight before her. Borís passed them twice and each time turned away, as did Prince Andrew and Anatole Borís. The Emperor stopped beside his last partner (he danced with three) and the music ceased.

Natásha gazed at them and was ready to cry because it was not she who was dancing that first turn of the waltz. A worried aide-de-camp ran up to the Rostóvs requesting them to stand farther back, though as it was they were already close to the wall, and from the gallery resounded the distinct, precise, enticingly rhythmical strains of a waltz.   Pierre came up to him and caught him by the arm. That tremulous expression on Natásha’s face, prepared either for despair or rapture, suddenly brightened into a happy, grateful, childlike smile. I have a protégée, the young Rostóva, here.

Prince Andrew liked dancing, and wishing to escape as quickly as possible from the political and clever talk which everyone addressed to him, wishing also to break up the circle of restraint he disliked, caused by the Emperor’s presence, he danced, and had chosen Natásha because Pierre pointed her out to him and because she was the first pretty girl who caught his eye; but scarcely had he embraced that slender supple figure and felt her stirring so close to him and smiling so near him than the wine of her charm rose to his head, and he felt himself revived and rejuvenated when after leaving her he stood breathing deeply and watching the other dancers.  After Prince Andrew, Borís came up to ask Natásha for a dance, and then the aide-de-camp who had opened the ball, and several other young men, so that, flushed and happy, and passing on her superfluous partners to Sónya, she did not cease dancing all the evening.  She did not even notice that the Emperor talked a long time with the French ambassador. With her he behaved with special care and tenderness, sitting beside her and talking of the simplest and most unimportant matters; he admired her shy grace. When her partner left her Natásha ran across the room to choose two ladies for the figure.

Natásha was happier than she had ever been in her life as she danced with her father and brother-in-law. “How can people be dissatisfied with anything?” she asked her husband. Pierre’s gloomy, unhappy look struck her.

He kept criticizing his own work, as he often did, and was glad when he heard someone coming to his room: it was Bítski, a passionate devotee of the new ideas of Speránski and a diligent Petersburg newsmonger. Prince Andrew heard loud voices and a ringing staccato laugh as he entered the anteroom. At dinner the conversation did not cease for a moment and seemed to consist of the contents of a book of funny anecdotes. Speránski related how at the Council that morning a deaf dignitary, when asked his opinion, replied that he thought so too. Gervais gave a long account of an official revision, remarkable for the stupidity of everybody concerned.

After dinner Speránski’s daughter and her governess rose. He patted the little girl with his white hand and kissed her; that gesture, too, seemed unnatural to Prince Andrew. In the midst of a conversation that was started about Napoleon’s Spanish affairs, Prince Andrew began to express a contrary opinion. The men remained at table over their port—English fashion. “A wonderful talent!” he said to Prince Andrew, and Magnítski immediately assumed a pose and began reciting some humorous verses in French which he had composed about various well-known Petersburg people.

When he reached home Prince Andrew began thinking of his life in Petersburg during those last four months as if it were something new.  Prince Andrew felt ashamed of his labors on the Legal Code and felt astonished that he could have spent so much time on such useless work. Natásha was one of the first to meet him.  She and all the Rostóv family welcomed him as an old friend, simply and cordially.  After dinner Natásha, at Prince Andrew’s request, went to the clavichord and began singing.

He looked at her as she sang, and something new and joyful stirred in his soul. The chief reason was a sudden, vivid sense of the contrast between something infinitely great and illimitable within him and that limited and material something he, and even she, was. Prince Andrew left the Rostóvs’ late in the evening.  Prince Andrew’s soul was as fresh and joyful as if he had stepped out of a stuffy room into God’s own fresh air. “Why do I strive, when life, all life with all its joys, is open to me?” he said to himself. “Pierre was right when he said one must believe in the possibility of happiness in order to be happy, and now I do believe in it.  CHAPTER XXOne morning Colonel Berg, whom Pierre knew as he knew everybody in Moscow and Petersburg, came to see him.  It did not enter his head that he was in love with Natásha; he was not thinking about her, but only picturing her to himself, and in consequence all life appeared in a new light.  The Bergs were so generous with their hospitality that Pierre could not refuse, and promised to come. Husband and wife Berg and Véra met Count Bezúkhov in their new drawing room, where it was impossible to sit down anywhere without disturbing its symmetry, neatness, and order; so it was quite comprehensible and not strange that Berg disturbed the symmetry of an armchair or of the sofa for his dear guest, but being apparently painfully undecided on the matter himself, eventually left the question of selection up to the Count’s choice of Pierre. Véra, having decided in her own mind that Pierre ought to be entertained with conversation about the French embassy, at once began accordingly.  The general, who admired the apartment, patted Berg on the shoulder, and superintended the setting out of the table for boston. After Borís came a lady with the colonel, then the general himself, and the party became unquestionably exactly like all other evening parties. The general sat down by Count Ilyá Rostóv, who was next to himself the most important guest.

Count Rostóv, the general and the colonel were also present. “What’s the matter with her?” thought Pierre, glancing at her.  At the card table he happened to be directly facing Natásha, and was struck by a curious change that had come over her since the ball.  She was sitting by her sister at the tea table, and reluctantly, without looking at him, made some reply to Borís who sat down beside her.  After six rubbers the general got up, saying that it was no use playing like that, and Pierre was released.

After six rubbers the general got up, saying that it was no use playing like that. What do you think of Natalie?  Natásha on one side was talking with Sónya and Borís, and Véra with a subtle smile was saying something to Prince Andrew.  “I expect he has told you of his childish love for Natásha?” asks Prince Andrew with sudden and unnatural liveliness. “Cousinhood is a dangerous neighborhood,” says Prince Andrew.

“Oh, undoubtedly!” said Prince Andrew, and with sudden and unnatural liveliness he began chaffing Pierre about the need to be very careful with his fifty-year-old Moscow cousins, and in the midst of these jesting remarks he rose, taking Pierre by the arm, and drew him aside. “You are friendly with Borís, aren’t you?” asked Véra. The countess Sónya looked with sad and sternly serious eyes at Prince Andrew when he made an artificial conversation about trifles as soon as he looked her way. She was afraid to leave her daughter alone with him, for fear of being in the way when she was with them. Now the general had begun such a discussion and so Berg drew Pierre to it.

Not only in the soul of the frightened yet happy and enraptured Natásha, but in the whole house, there was a feeling of awe at something important that was bound to happen.  Next day, having been invited by the count, Prince Andrew dined with the Rostóvs and spent the rest of the day there. She told her how he had complimented her, how he told her he was going abroad, asked her where they were going to spend the summer, and then how he had asked her about Borís.  At that very time Prince Andrew was sitting with Pierre and telling him of his love for Natásha and his firm resolve to make her his wife. “And it had to happen that he should come specially to Petersburg while we are here.  He felt oppressed and ashamed in court society, and dark thoughts of the vanity of all things human came to him oftener than before. He tried equally to avoid thinking about his wife and about Prince Andrew as he worked on his manuscript book. Suddenly Pierre heaved a deep sigh and dumped his heavy person down on the sofa beside Prince Andrew. “With Natásha Rostóva, yes?” said he. Prince Andrew: “I should never have believed anyone who told me that I was capable of such love”. Pierre: At last I live, but I can’t live without her! But can she love me? … I am too old for her! The Duke of York: Do you know the condition I am in? I must talk about it to someone. Pierre Rostóvs: I cannot help loving the light, it is not my fault. And I am very happy! You understand me? I know you are glad for my sake. “Yes, yes,” Prince Andrew assented, looking at his friend with a touched and sad expression in his eyes. Three weeks after the last evening he had spent with the Rostovs, Prince Andrew returned to Petersburg. For three weeks she wandered from room to room like a shadow, idle and listless; she wept secretly at night and did not go to her mother in the evenings. Pierre did not come either and Natásha, not knowing that Prince Andrew had gone to see his father, could not explain his absence to herself. “How charming that Natásha is!” she said, speaking as some third, collective, male person. “Pretty, a good voice, young, and in nobody’s way if only they leave her in peace,” she went on. I don’t want… to be tormented? What am I to do? Prince Andrew entered the room with an agitated and serious face. He kissed the countess’ hand and Natásha’s, and sat down beside the sofa. The countess lowered her eyes, sighing deeply; she murmured, “I am at your disposal!”. Sónya said that Natásha was in her bedroom, gazing at the icons and whispering as she rapidly crossed herself. She asked herself: “Is it possible that this stranger has now become everything to me?”. He looked at her and said: Why ask? Why doubt what you cannot but know? Why speak when words cannot express what one feels? He held her hands and said: Forgive me, but you are so young, and I have already been through so much in life. I am afraid for you. Natásha listened with concentrated attention, trying but failing to take in the meaning of his words.  Natásha interrupted him.  From that day Prince Andrew began to frequent the Rostóvs’ as Natásha’s affianced lover.

He did not behave to her as an affianced lover: he did not use the familiar thou, but said you to her and kissed only her hand. Sometimes the household both among themselves and in his presence expressed their wonder at how it had all happened, and at the evident omens there had been of it: Prince Andrew’s coming to Otrádnoe and their coming to Petersburg, and the likeness between Natásha and Prince Andrew which her nurse had noticed on his first visit, and Andrew’s encounter with Nicholas in 1805, and many other incidents betokening that it had to be.

 When the countess asked him about his future, he blushed and said that his son would not live with them. On the eve of his departure from Petersburg, Prince Andrew brought with him Pierre, who had not been there once since the ball. “Why not?” asked Natásha in a frightened tone. He told her of his love for Pierre Bezúkhov: “He is a most absent-minded and absurd fellow, but he has a heart of gold!”. For several days she sat in her room, taking no interest in anything and saying, “Oh, why did he go away?”.

Neither her father, nor her mother, nor Sónya, nor Prince Andrew himself could have foreseen how the separation from her lover would act on Natásha.  You want to make him (little Nicholas) into an old maid like yourself! A pity!  Soon after Prince Andrew had gone, Princess Mary wrote to her friend Julie Karágina in Petersburg, whom she had dreamed (as all girls dream) of marrying to her brother, and who was at that time in mourning for her own brother, killed in Turkey. Prince Andrew writes to his brother-in-law: Your loss is so terrible that I can only explain it to myself as a special providence of God who, loving you, wishes to try you and your excellent mother.

Oh, my friend! Religion alone can explain to us what without its help man cannot comprehend: why, for what cause, kind and noble beings able to find happiness in life are called away to God?

Princess Mary received a letter from Prince Andrew in which he informed her of his engagement to Natásha Rostóva. He wrote that he had never loved as he did now and that only now did he understand and know what life was. He asked his sister to forgive him for not having told her when he had last visited Bald Hills, though he had spoken of it to his father. “No more women are wanted in my house—let him marry and live by himself,” Prince Andrew replied. And latterly, to her surprise and bewilderment, Princess Mary noticed that her father was really associating more and more with the Frenchwoman.

Princess Mary had a hidden dream and hope that supplied the chief consolation of her life. The longer she lived, the greater was her wonder at the short-sightedness of men who seek enjoyment and happiness here on earth: toiling, suffering, struggling, and harming one another, to obtain that impossible, visionary, sinful happiness. Prince Andrew had loved his wife, she died, but that was not enough; he wanted to bind his happiness to another woman. Under guise of a present for the pilgrims, Princess Mary made a Pilgrim’s costume for herself. But afterwards she wept quietly, and felt that she was a sinner who loved her father and nephew more than God.

Summary of Book 7

If man could find a state in which he felt that though idle he was fulfilling his duty, he would have found one of the conditions of man’s primitive blessedness.  Rostóv had become a bluff, good-natured fellow, whom his Moscow acquaintances would have considered rather bad form, but who was liked and respected by his comrades, subordinates, and superiors, and was well contented with his life.  Nicholas felt a dread of their wanting to take him away from surroundings in which, protected from all the entanglements of life, he was living so calmly and quietly. He felt that sooner or later he would have to re-enter that whirlpool of affairs and embarrassments and affairs to be straightened out. In the first place he was sorry that Natásha, for whom he cared more than for anyone else in the family, should be lost to the home; and secondly, from his hussar point of view, he regretted not to have been there to show that fellow Bolkónski that connection with him was no such great honor after all, and that if he loved Natásha he might dispense with permission from his dotard father.

Rostóv had to saddle Mars, an extremely vicious gray stallion that had not been ridden for a long time, and when he returned with the horse all in a lather, he informed Lavrúshka (Denísov’s servant who had remained with him) and his comrades that he was applying for leave and was going home. His hussar comrades—not only those of his own regiment, but the whole brigade—gave Rostóv a dinner to which the subscription was fifteen rubles a head, and at which there were two bands and two choirs of singers. A week later he obtained his leave. Nicholas Rostóv’s thoughts of home grew stronger as he made his journey from Kremenchúg to Otrádnoe. His father and mother were much the same, only with a certain uneasiness and discord, which he soon found out was due to the bad state of their affairs.

She told him about her romance with Prince Andrew and of his visit to Otrádnoe and showed him his last letter. Natásha asked.  Nicholas expressed his disapproval of the postponement of the marriage for a year; but Natásha attacked her brother with exasperation. “I was in love with Borís, with my teacher, and with Denísov, but this is quite different,” she said. Nicholas was silent and agreed with her that it would be a bad thing to enter a family against the father’s will.

He could not believe that her fate was sealed, especially as he had not seen her with Prince Andrew. She was even-tempered and calm and quite as cheerful as of old. He demanded an account of everything that had happened at the lodge of his stewardess, but Nicholas knew even less than the frightened and bewildered countess. The village elder, a peasant delegate and the village clerk who were waiting in the passage, heard with fear and delight first the young count’s voice roaring and snapping and rising louder and louder, and then words of abuse. The old count called him a “blackguard and a thief” and told him he should never understand anything in this crazy world again.

“This,” answered Nicholas.  After that, young Rostóv took no further part in any business affairs, but devoted himself with passionate enthusiasm to what was to him a new pursuit—the chase—for which his father kept a large establishment.  The hares had already changed their summer coats and fox cubs were scattering and the young wolves were bigger than dogs. Nicholas went out into the wet and muddy porch and found it was an unsurpassable day for hunting. On the fifteenth, when young Rostóv, in his dressing gown, looked out of the window, he saw it was an unsurpassable morning for hunting: it was as if the sky were melting and sinking to the earth without any wind.

Daniel the huntsman and head kennelman was all the same his serf and huntsman. Nicholas knew that this Daniel was disdainful of everybody and who considered himself above them. The she-wolf, about whom they both knew, had moved with her cubs to a small place a mile and a half from the house. Having finished his inquiries and extorted from Daniel an opinion that the hounds were fit (Daniel himself wished to go hunting), Nicholas ordered the horses to be saddled.   “You are going?” asked Natásha.

Nicholas, with a stern and serious air which showed that now was no time for attending to trifles, went out to find the quarry. He sent a pack of hounds and huntsmen on ahead, mounted his chestnut Donéts, and whistling to his own leash of borzois, set off across the threshing ground. Nicholas, with a stern and serious air which showed that now was no time for attending to trifles, went past Natásha and Pétya who were trying to tell him something.  When they had gone a little less than a mile, five more riders with dogs appeared out of the mist, approaching the Rostóvs.   Shall we join up our packs?” asked Nicholas. Natásha, muffled up in shawls which did not hide her eager face and shining eyes, galloped up to them.  (He was a distant relative of the Rostóvs’, a man of small means, and their neighbor.)  Nicholas, what a fine dog Truníla is! He knew me, said Natásha, referring to her favorite hound. “That’s as may happen,” answered Rostóv.

“If you scare away the beast, Daniel’ll give it you!” Count Ilyá Rostóv, though not at heart a keen sportsman, knew the rules of the hunt well, and rode to the bushy edge of the road where he was to stand, arranged his reins, settled himself in the saddle, and, feeling that he was ready, looked about with a smile.

 Where is he? By the Lyádov upland, isn’t he? He knows where to stand. And how he chased a fox out of the rank grass by the Zavárzinsk thicket the other day! “And Nicholas?  He understands the matter so well that Daniel and I are often quite astounded,” said Simon, well knowing what would please his master.

The sounds of both packs mingled and broke apart again, but becoming more distant. The count and Simon were looking at him. Daniel’s chestnut horse appears, dark with sweat, on its back, hunched forward, capless. At one point he prayed: “What would it be to Thee to do this for me?”. “What would it be to Thee to do this for me?” he said to God.

“No, I shan’t have such luck,” thought Rostóv, “yet what wouldn’t it be worth!  He thought: “No, it can’t be!”. and held his breath, as a man does at the coming of something long hoped for. The wolf ran forward and jumped heavily over a gully that lay in her path; she was an old animal with a gray back and big reddish belly. Nicholas asked himself as the wolf approached him coming from the copse.  Rostóv, holding his breath, looked round at the borzois.  “Ulyulyu!” cried Nicholas, in a voice not his own, and of its own accord his good horse darted headlong downhill, leaping over gullies to head off the wolf. Nicholas did not hear his own cry nor feel that he was galloping, nor the ground over which he went: he saw only the wolf, who, increasing her speed, bounded on in the same direction along the hollow. The wolf crouched, gnashed her teeth, and again rose and bounded forward, followed by all the borzois, who did not get any closer to her. When Nicholas saw the wolf struggling in the gully with the dogs, while from under them could be seen her gray hair and outstretched hind leg and her frightened choking head, was the happiest moment of his life. But here Nicholas only saw that something happened to Karáy. The borzoi was suddenly on the wolf, and they rolled together down into a gully just in front of them. Oh my God! Nicholas cried in despair. When the wolf shook herself and ran for safety, Daniel set his chestnut galloping straight toward the wood as Karáy had run to cut the animal off. Nicholas was about to stab her, but Daniel whispered, Don’t! We’ll gag her! and grabbed her by the ears. The huntsmen assembled with their booty and their stories, and all came to look at the wolf, which, with her broad-browed head hanging down and the bitten stick between her jaws, gazed with great glassy eyes at this crowd of dogs and men surrounding her. When she was touched, she jerked her bound legs and looked wildly yet simply at everybody. “A formidable one, eh?” he asked Daniel, who was standing near. CHAPTER VIThe old count went home, and Natásha and Pétya promised to return very soon, but as it was still early the hunt went farther.  Rostóv also rode up and touched the wolf. They got the fox, but stayed there a long time without strapping it to the saddle. “What’s this?” thought Nicholas.  Nicholas dismounted, and with Natásha and Pétya, who had ridden up, stopped near the hounds, waiting to see how the matter would end.  The huntsman,  Ilágin, sent his men to the very woods the Rostovs were hunting and let his man snatch a fox their dogs had chased. Nicholas, with his usual absence of moderation in judgment, hated him cordially and regarded him as his foe. Natásha, afraid that her brother would do something dreadful, had followed him in some excitement.  The facts were that Ilágin, with whom the Rostóvs had a quarrel and were at law, hunted over places that belonged by custom to the Rostóvs, and had now, as if purposely, sent his men to the very woods the Rostóvs were hunting and let his man snatch a fox their dogs had chased. Nicholas was struck by the beauty of a small, pure-bred, red-spotted bitch on  Ilágin’s leash. “Uncle” and “uncle” kept glancing at one another’s dogs, trying not to be observed by their companions. “Is she swift?” “Uncle,” Rostóv, and Ilágin kept stealthily glancing at one another’s dogs, trying not to be observed by their companions and searching uneasily for rivals to their own borzois.  “How is it pointing?” asked Nicholas, riding a hundred paces toward the whip who had sighted the hare. Natásha saw and felt the agitation the two elderly men and her brother were trying to conceal, and was herself excited by it.

“Miláshka, dear!” rose Nicholas’ triumphant cry.  “Erzá, darling!”  Ilágin’s borzoi pushed ahead of Erzá and Mílka, knocked the hare off the balk onto the ryefield, again put on speed still more viciously, sinking to his knees in the muddy field, and all one could see was how, muddying his back, he rolled over. That’s it, come on! That’s a dog! said Uncle Nicholas, panting and looking wrathfully around as if he were abusing someone, as if they were all his enemies and had insulted him, and only now had he at last succeeded in justifying himself.

Natásha, without drawing breath, screamed joyously, ecstatically, and so piercingly that it set everyone’s ear tingling. “Uncle” himself twisted up the hare and threw it neatly and smartly across his horse’s back as if by that gesture he meant to rebuke everybody, and, with an air of not wishing to speak to anyone, mounted his bay and rode off. The others all followed, dispirited and shamefaced, and only much later were they able to regain their former affectation of indifference. But when it is, then look out!” his appearance seemed to Nicholas to be saying. “Uncle” dismounted at the porch of his little wooden house which stood in the midst of an overgrown garden. Natásha, a woman, a lady, and on horseback, raised the curiosity of the serfs to such a degree that many of them came up to her, stared her in the face, and unabashed by her presence made remarks about her as though she were some prodigy on show. “Uncle” led the visitors through the anteroom into a small hall with a folding table and red chairs, then into the drawing room with a round birchwood table and a sofa, and finally into his private room where there was a tattered sofa, a worn carpet, and portraits of Suvórov, of the host’s father and mother, and of himself in military uniform.   I never saw anyone like her!” said he, offering Nicholas a pipe with a long stem and, with a practiced motion of three fingers, taking down another that had been cut short.

And Natásha felt that this costume, the very one she had regarded with surprise and amusement at Otrádnoe, was just the right thing and not at all worse than a swallow-tail or frock coat.   Not only Nicholas, but even Natásha understood the meaning of his puckered brow and the happy complacent smile that slightly puckered his lips when Anísya Fëdorovna entered.  Now do you understand ‘Uncle’?” her expression said to Rostóv.  Natásha felt so lighthearted and happy in these novel surroundings that she only feared the trap would come for her too soon. The door at the end of the passage led to the room of the hunt servants; there was a rapid patter of bare feet and sounds of a balaláyka. Involuntarily Rostóv recalled all the good he had heard about him from his father and the neighbors.  I’m fond of it,” said “Uncle.” Really very good! said Nicholas with some unintentional superciliousness, as if ashamed to confessing that the sounds pleased him very much.

Mítka tuned up afresh, and recommenced thrumming the balaláyka to the air of My Lady, with trills and variations. “Uncle” was fond of such music. “Do you play then?” asked Natásha. Anísya Fëdorovna came in and leaned her portly person against the doorpost. Nicholas and Natásha Anísya Fëdorovna watched as “Uncle” took the guitar out of its case and began to play in very slow time, not My Lady, but the well-known song:.

Came a maiden down the street. The tune, played with precision and in exact time, began to thrill in the hearts of Nicholas and Natásha, arousing in them the same kind of sober mirth as radiated from Anísía’s whole being. “Nicholas, Nicholas!” she said, turning to her brother, as if asking him: “What is it moves you so much?”.

She did the dance with such precision, such complete precision, that she moved her arms akimbo and struck an attitude. “He’s chosen already,” said Nicholas smiling. “Oh?” said “Uncle” in surprise, looking inquiringly at Natásha, who nodded her head with a happy smile. She did the right thing with such precision, such complete precision, that Anísya Fëdorovna, who had at once handed her the handkerchief she needed for the dance, had tears in her eyes, though she laughed as she watched this slim, graceful countess, reared in silks and velvets and so different from herself, who yet was able to understand all that was in Anísya and in Anísya’s father and mother and aunt, and in every Russian man and woman. “Uncle” sang as peasants sing, with full and naïve conviction that the whole meaning of a song lies in the words and that the tune comes of itself, and that apart from the words there is no tune, which exists only to give measure to the words.

Natásha was in ecstasies over Uncle’s singing; she said to herself: What did Nicholas’ smile mean when he said ‘chosen already’? Is he glad of it or not? It is as if he thought my Bolkónski would not approve of or understand our gaiety? “I know that I shall never again be as happy and tranquil as I am now,” she replied. “Got it?” said Nicholas.

“What were you thinking about just now, Nicholas?” inquired Natásha. What a good fellow Uncle is!  “No,” said Natásha, though she had in reality been thinking about Prince Andrew at the same time as of the rest, and of how he would have liked “Uncle.”  Count Ilyá Rostov had resigned the post of Marshal of the Nobility because it involved him in too much expense, but his affairs did not improve. Natásha and Nicholas often noticed their parents conferring together anxiously and privately and heard suggestions of selling the fine ancestral Rostov-on-Don estate. Countess Rostóvs had found a match for her son Nicholas with Julie Karágina, the daughter of excellent and virtuous parents.

But the countess did not want a sacrifice from her son, she herself wished to make a sacrifice for him. “Maybe I do love a poor girl,” said Nicholas to himself.  She felt sorry for herself: sorry that she was being wasted all this time and of no use to anyone—while she felt herself so capable of loving and being loved. Nicholas was spending the last of his leave at home; Sónya was making embroidery; Nastásya Ivánovna sat with a sad face at the window with two old ladies. said Natásha, with glittering eyes and no sign of a smile.

A fourth letter had come from Prince Andrew, from Rome, in which he wrote that he would have been on his way back to Russia long ago had not his wound unexpectedly reopened in the warm climate, which obliged him to defer his return till the beginning of the new year.  Why should I be wasted like this, Mamma? She went into the drawing room and found an old maidservant grumbling at a young girl who had just run in through the cold from the serfs’ quarters. She ordered the butler to set a samovar in the pantry, though it was not at all the time for tea. “What can I do with them?” thought Natásha.

She picked out a passage from an opera she had heard in Petersburg with Prince Andrew that made her think of the island of Madagascar. “Ma-da-gas-car,” she said to herself, articulating each syllable distinctly. “Yes it was exactly the same,” thought Natásha. “And where’s Nicholas?” she asked. “Asleep, I think.” Prince Andrew was not there and life was going on as before. Natásha thought of the time when she was with him and he was looking at her with a lover’s eyes.

“Of course I remember,” chimed in Nicholas with a smile of delight. Natásha interrupted him.  “Of course I do, I remember his teeth as if I had just seen them.” Much that they remembered had slipped from her mind, and what she recalled did not arouse the same poetic feeling as they experienced. She told them how afraid she had been of Nicholas because he had on a corded jacket and her nurse had told her that she, too, would be sewn up with cords. Tell them to take it away,” replied Natásha.  ” said Nicholas.

” said Natásha.   Nicholas did not take his eyes off his sister and drew breath in time with her.  She thought of Natásha and of her own youth, and of how there was something unnatural and dreadful in this impending marriage of Natásha and Prince Andrew. A Turkish girl was Pétya, a clown was Dimmler, an hussar was Natásha, and a Circassian was Sónya. Nicholas, who, as the roads were in splendid condition, wanted to take them all for a drive in his troyka, proposed to take with them about a dozen of the serf mummers and drive to “Uncle’s.” A Turkish girl was Pétya.  Natásha was foremost in setting a merry holiday tone, which, passing from one to another, grew stronger. Louisa Ivánovna consented to go, and in half an hour four troyka sleighs drove up to the porch. Natásha, Sónya, Madame Schoss, and two maids got into Nicholas’ sleigh; Dimmler, his wife, and Pétya into the old count’s. Natásha’s voice called out: A hare’s track, a lot of tracks! “What is it, Nicholas?” With screams, squeals, and waving of whips that caused even the shaft horses to gallop—the other sleighs followed. Nicholas began to draw ahead.   “I think this used to be Natásha,” thought Nicholas, “and that was Madame Schoss, but perhaps it’s not, and this Circassian with the mustache I don’t know, but I love her.” See whom she looks like!  She also failed to recognize the Rostóvs, Dimmler and the Melyukóvs; she did not even recognize her daughters or her late husband’s dressing gowns and uniforms, which they had put on. Well, Mr. Hussar, and what regiment do you serve in?” she asked Natásha.  Pelagéya Danílovna, having given orders to clear the rooms for the visitors and arranged about refreshments for the gentry and the serfs, went about among the mummers without removing her spectacles, peering into their faces with a suppressed smile and failing to recognize any of them.  Ah! ah!

screamed Natásha, rolling her eyes with horror: A sleigh drives up with harness bells; she hears him coming! He comes in, just in the shape of a man, like an officer—comes in and sits down to table with her. And how… did he speak? Yes, like a man.

Everything quite all right, and he began persuading her; and she should have kept him talking till cockcrow. She threw this over her head and shoulders and glanced at Nicholas. Pelagéya Danílovna smiled. Nicholas thought he was a “fool, a fool! what have I been waiting for?”. He ran out of the house and along the path that led to the back porch.

The sky was black and dreary, while the earth was gay, but all was again perfectly silent. “Quite different and yet the same,” thought Nicholas, looking at her face all lit up by the moonlight.  Natásha sees and notices everything, so she and Madame Schoss go back in the sleigh with Dimmler and the maids. CHAPTER XIIWhen they all drove back from Pelagéya Danílovna’s, Natásha, who always saw and noticed everything, arranged that she and Madame Schoss should go back in the sleigh with Dimmler, and Sónya with Nicholas and the maids. What a heart she has, Nicholas!

I am horrid sometimes, but I was ashamed to be happy while Sonynya was not, said Natáha. … Natásha—are you glad?”

“Then it’s all right?” said Nicholas, scrutinizing the expression of his sister’s face to see if she was in earnest. “I see someone with a mustache,” said Natásha, seeing her own face. “You sit down now, Sónya.  “You mustn’t laugh, Miss,” said Dunyásha.  Wait a bit… I… saw him,” Sónya could not help saying, not yet knowing whom Natásha meant by him, Nicholas or Prince Andrew. “Sónya!  Soon after the Christmas holidays Nicholas told his mother of his love for Sónya and of his firm resolve to marry her.   Nicholas felt the situation to be intolerable and went to have an explanation with his mother. He had not time to say it, for Natásha, with a pale and set face, entered the room from the door at which she had been listening. He first implored her to forgive him and Sónya and consent to their marriage, then he threatened that if she molested Sónya he would at once marry her secretly. Nicholas, I’ll explain to you. The countess hid her face on her daughter’s breast, while Nicholas rose, clutching his head, and left the room. Their house and estate near Moscow had inevitably to be sold, and for this they had to go to Moscow. Listen, Mamma darling,” said Natásha. Natásha, who had borne the first period of separation from her betrothed lightly and even cheerfully, now grew more agitated and impatient every day.

Prince Andrew was expected in Moscow at the end of January, but it was too late to delay the journey. So the countess remained in the country, and the count, taking Sónya and Natásha with him, went to Moscow at the end of January.

Summary of Book 8

After Prince Andrew’s engagement to Natásha, Pierre felt it impossible to go on living as before. The Countess Hélène spoke to him about it and he went away to Moscow. For Moscow society Pierre was the nicest, kindest, most intellectual, merriest, and most magnanimous of cranks. Pierre de Grasseur was one of those retired gentlemen-in-waiting of whom there were hundreds good-humoredly ending their days in Moscow. There was never a dinner or soiree at the club without him.

“Il est charmant; il n’a pas de sexe,” * they said of him, “he has no sex”. For a long time Pierre could not reconcile himself to the idea that he was one of those same retired Moscow gentlemen-in-waiting he had so despised seven years before. “Perhaps all these comrades of mine struggled just like me and sought something new, a path in life of their own, and like me were brought by force of circumstances, society, and race”. Napoleon Bonaparte was despised by all as long as he was great, but now that he has become a wretched comedian the Emperor Francis wants to offer him his daughter in an illegal marriage. I understand the deception and confusion, but how am I to tell them all that I see?

I have tried, and have always found that they too in the depths of their souls understand it as I do, and only try not to see it. He had the unfortunate capacity many men, especially Russians, have of seeing and believing in the possibility of goodness and truth, but of seeing the evil and falsehood of life too clearly to be able to take a serious part in it.

Pierre was annoyed by the poor wording of the Russian Note, which had been sent to all the European courts. “Our sovereign alone has protested against the seizure of the Duke of Oldenburg’s territory, and even the Pope, yet all keep silent,” he said. The old prince replied that Napoleon treats Europe as a pirate does a captured vessel. “Did you hear of the last event at the review in Petersburg?  “My dear fellow, with our five hundred thousand troops it should be easy to have a good style,” returned Count Rostopchín. Count Rostopchín: His Majesty drew attention to the Grenadier division and to the march past, and it seems the ambassador took no notice and allowed himself to reply: ‘We in France pay no attention to such trifles’. The Emperor did not condescend to reply. On this fact relating to the Emperor personally, it was impossible to pass any judgment. Princess Mary: “He gave her a cold, angry look and offered her his wrinkled, clean-shaven cheek to kiss”. Prince Rostopchín: French dresses, French ideas, French feelings! There now, you turned Métivier out by the scruff of his neck because he is a Frenchman and a scoundrel, but our ladies crawl after him on their knees! Prince Pierre: “When one looks at our young people, Prince, one would like to take Peter the Great’s old cudgel out of the museum and belabor them in the Russian way”. “Because I have noticed that when a young man comes on leave from Petersburg to Moscow it is usually with the object of marrying an heiress.” Why do you ask me that?” said Princess Mary, still thinking of that morning’s conversation with her father. Princess Mary burst into tears and begged him to forget what she had said, but he did not listen. “To please Moscow girls nowadays one has to be melancholy.  I should like to tell everything to Pierre.   Princess Mary shook her head. Pierre considered. Borís had not succeeded in making a wealthy match in Petersburg, so with the same object in view he came to Moscow.   There he wavered between the two richest heiresses, Julie and Princess Mary.  That winter the Karágins’ house was the most agreeable and hospitable in Moscow.  This melancholy, which did not prevent her amusing herself, did not hinder the young people who came to her house.

Anna Mikháylovna, who often visited the Karágins, while playing cards with the mother made careful inquiries as to Julie’s dowry (she was to have two estates in Pénza and the Nizhegórod forests).  “Borís says his soul finds repose at your house; he has suffered so many disappointments and is so sensitive,” she said to her daughter. He laughed blandly at her naïve diplomacy but listened to what she had to say, and sometimes questioned her carefully about the Pénza and Nizhegórod estates. “My dear,” said Anna Mikháylovna to her son, “I know from a reliable source that Prince Vasíli has sent his son to Moscow to get him married to Julie.  The idea of being made a fool of and wasting his efforts pained Borís. “I am so fond of Julie that I should be sorry for her,” said Borís as he drove to see her. Borís began, wishing to sting her; but at that instant the galling thought occurred to him that he might have to leave Moscow without having accomplished his aim, and have vainly wasted his efforts—which was a thing he never allowed to happen. Julie Rostóv forced Count Borís to tell her that he loved her and had never loved any other woman more than her. Prince Andrew was expected in Moscow, the trousseau had to be ordered and the estate near Moscow must be sold, plus the opportunity of presenting his future daughter-in-law to old Prince Bolkónski while he was in Moscow could not be missed. The couple planned a splendid house in Petersburg, paid calls, and prepared everything for a brilliant wedding. From early in the morning, wearing a dressing jacket, she attended to her household affairs, and then she drove out: on holy days to church and after the service to jails and prisons on affairs of which she never spoke to anyone. She held herself as erect, told everyone her opinion as candidly, loudly, and bluntly as ever, and her whole bearing seemed a reproach to others for any weakness, passion, or temptation.  “One thing has come on top of another: her rags to buy, and now a purchaser has turned up for the Moscow estate and for the house.  “The sniveling Anna Mikháylovna?  I like him and all his family. Now listen, you know that Prince Nicholas much dislikes his son’s marrying. The old fellow’s crotchety! Of course Prince Andrew is not a child and can shift without him, but it’s not nice to marry against a father’s will! The count did not set out cheerfully on this visit, at heart he felt afraid. “Everybody always has liked me, and I am so willing to do anything they wish,” she thought. Princess Mary did not like Natásha Rostóv – she thought her too fashionably dressed, frivolously gay and vain. She was prejudiced against her by involuntary envy of her sister-in-law’s beauty, youth and happiness, as well as jealousy of her brother’s love for her. Princess Mary was agitated just then because on the Rostóvs’ being announced, the prince had shouted that he did not wish to see them, that Princess Mary might do so if she chose, but they were not to be admitted to him.

Natásha felt offended by the hesitation she had noticed in the anteroom, by the unnatural manner of the princess who—she thought was making a favor of receiving her, and so everything displeased her. She did not like Princess Mary, whom she thought very plain, affected, and dry, and alienated Princess Mary even more. Despite the uneasy glances thrown at her by Princess Mary—who wished to have a tête-à-tête with Natásha—Mademoiselle Bourienne remained in the room and persistently talked about Moscow amusements and theaters.   The same thought was meanwhile tormenting Princess Mary.    Moreover, everybody knew vaguely of Natásha’s engagement to Prince Andrew, and knew that the Rostóvs had lived in the country ever since, and all looked with curiosity at a fiancée who was making one of the best matches in Russia.

Anna Mikháylovna Rostóvs, Natásha’s sister-in-law, crumbled her program when she opened and closed her hand in time to the music, crumpling her program. “Drubetskóy has proposed!” exclaimed count. Sónya Kirílovich; Natásha looked at the crowd without seeking anyone, and her delicate arm lay on the velvet edge of the box. She was struck by her fullness of life and beauty, combined with her indifference to everything about her. Their box was pervaded by that atmosphere of an affianced couple which Natáha knew so well and liked so much.

Didn’t he vanish somewhere? Now all the Moscow ladies are mad about him!   After her life in the country, and in her present serious mood, Natásha could not follow the opera nor even listen to the music. She saw only the painted cardboard and the queerly dressed men and women who moved, spoke, and sang so strangely in that brilliant light. She knew what it was all meant to represent, but it was so pretentiously false and unnatural that she first felt ashamed for the actors and then amused at them.

Natásha Rostóvs saw an exceptionally handsome adjutant approaching their box with a self-assured yet courteous bearing. This was Anatole Kurágin whom she had seen and noticed long ago at the ball in Petersburg. Countess Bezúkhova turned smiling to the newcomer, and Natásha followed the direction of that look. Shinshín, lowering his voice, began to tell the count of some intrigue of Kurágin’s in Moscow, and Natásha tried to overhear it just because he had said she was “charmante.” Hélène’s box was filled and surrounded from the stalls by the most distinguished and intellectual men, who seemed to vie with one another in their wish to let everyone see that they knew her. During the whole of that entr’acte Kurágin stood with Dólokhov in front of the orchestra partition, looking at the Rostóv’s box.

Natásha knew he was talking about her and this afforded her pleasure. Natásha was so pleased by her beauty that she blushed with pleasure. Anatole Kurágin was captivated by her and it did not occur to her that there was anything wrong in it. The scene of the third act represented a palace in which many candles were burning and pictures of knights with short beards hung on the walls. I have already heard much of you in Petersburg and wanted to get to know you,” said she to Natásha with her stereotyped and lovely smile.  She sang something mournfully, addressing the queen, but the king waved his arm severely, and they all danced together. Then a storm came on, chromatic scales and diminished sevenths were heard in the orchestra, everyone ran off, again dragging one of their number away. Natásha was struck by the fact that there was nothing formidable in this man about whom there was so much talk, but that his smile was most naïve, cheerful, and good-natured. Natásha felt herself terribly near to Anatole as he looked at her, and feared he might seize her from behind by her bare arm and kiss her on the neck. They spoke of most ordinary things, yet she felt that they were closer to one another than she had ever been to any man. Natásha kept turning to Hélène and to her father, as if asking what it all meant, but they did not respond. When she asked Anatole how he liked Moscow, he said: “At first I did not like it much, because what makes a town pleasant ce sont les jolies femmes, * isn’t that so?”. Natásha did not understand what Anatole was saying, but she felt that his words had an improper intention. She smiled just as he was doing, gazing straight into his eyes, and again she felt with horror that no barrier lay between him and her. All her previous thoughts of her betrothed, of Princess Mary, or of life in the country did not once recur to her mind and were as if belonging to a remote past. Natásha felt agitated and tormented, and the cause of this was Kurágin whom she could not help watching. As they were leaving the theater Anatole came up to them, called their carriage, and helped them in. Only after she had reached home was Natásha able clearly to think over what had happened to her.

I didn’t lead him on at all. Nobody will know and I shall never see him again, she told herself. Natásha tried to solve what was torturing her by herself, and with soothing irony replied: There is nothing to repent of, and Andrew can love me still. But why ‘still?’.

O God, why isn’t he here? Anatole went to Moscow and met Princess Mary and Julie Karágina. CHAPTER XIAnatole Kurágin was staying in Moscow because his father had sent him away from Petersburg, where he had been spending twenty thousand rubles a year in cash, besides running up debts for as much more, which his creditors demanded from his father. As Shinshín had remarked, from the time of his arrival Anatole had turned the heads of the Moscow ladies, especially by the fact that he slighted them and plainly preferred the gypsy girls and French actresses—with the chief of whom, Mademoiselle George, he was said to be on intimate relations.  Mademoiselle George was said to be on intimate relations with Anatole.

Anatole was always content with his position, with himself, and with others. He drank whole nights through, outvied everyone else, and was at all the balls and parties of the best society.  Dólokhov, who had reappeared that year in Moscow after his exile and his Persian adventures, and was leading a life of luxury, gambling, and dissipation, associated with his old Petersburg comrade Kurágin and made use of him for his own ends.  She suffered more now than during her first days in Moscow.  As soon as she began to think of him, the recollection of the old prince, of Princess Mary, of the theater, and of Kurágin mingled with her thoughts.   “How can you live in Moscow and go nowhere?  Mademoiselle George will recite at my house tonight and there’ll be some people, and if you don’t bring your lovely girls—who are prettier than Mademoiselle George—I won’t know you!   As she was leaving the Rostóvs she called her protégée aside. Márya Dmítrievna was too agitated by the encounter to be able to talk of the affair calmly. There were several Frenchmen present, among them Métivier who from the time Hélène reached Moscow had been an intimate in her house.  Mademoiselle George, with her bare, fat, dimpled arms, and a red shawl draped over one shoulder, came into the space left vacant for her, and assumed an unnatural pose.  Mademoiselle George began reciting some French verses describing her guilty love for her son. Natásha looked at the fat actress, but neither saw nor heard nor understood anything of what went on before her. Behind her sat Anatole, and conscious of his proximity she experienced a frightened sense of expectancy. The count wished to go home, but Hélène entreated him not to spoil her improvised ball, and the Rostóvs stayed on. Don’t speak to me of that! What can I do? said Anatole. Natásha looked about her with wide-open frightened eyes and seemed merrier than usual. Her father asked her to come home, but she begged to remain. Later on she recalled how she had asked her father to let her go to the dressing room to rearrange her dress, that Hélène had followed her and spoken laughingly of her brother’s love, and that she met Anatole in the sitting room.  If the old man came round it would be all the better to visit him in Moscow or at Bald Hills later on; and if not, the wedding, against his wishes, could only be arranged at Otrádnoe.  It was a letter from Princess Mary. After reading the letter she went to Sónya and spent the evening sorting patterns with her older sister. After dinner Natásha went to her room and again took up Princess Mary’s letter.  Natásha, without thinking, mechanically broke the seal and read a love letter from Anatole Dólokhov. As she read it she found in it an echo of all that she herself imagined she was feeling. “To tell Prince Andrew what has happened or to hide it from him are both equally impossible”.

Anatole told Natásha that he would steal her away and carry her off to the ends of the earth if she said she loved him. Sónya picked it up and read it. I can’t hide it from you any longer! Sónya, darling, he writes… Sónya…” “But, Natásha, can that be all over?”  “Go away, Sónya!

If you only knew!” exclaimed Natásha.  On Friday the Rostóvs were to return to the country, but on Wednesday the count went with the prospective purchaser to his estate near Moscow. In this letter she said briefly that all their misunderstandings were at an end; that availing herself of the magnanimity of Prince Andrew who when he went abroad had given her her freedom, she begged Princess Mary to forget everything and forgive her if she had been to blame toward her, but that she could not be his wife.  “Oh, Sónya, if you knew him as I do!  Natásha became thoughtful. At that party Natásha again met Anatole, and Sónya noticed that she spoke to him, trying not to be overheard, and that all through dinner she was more agitated than ever.  You’re my enemy forever!

Sónya knocked at her door.  “Natásha, I am afraid for you!” The day before the count was to return, Sónya noticed that Natásha sat by the drawing room window all the morning as if expecting something and that she made a sign to an officer who drove past, whom Sónya took to be Anatole. “She will run away with him!” thought Sónya.  Princess Anatole had a passport, an order for post horses, ten thousand rubles he had taken from his sister, and another ten thousand borrowed with Dól Dmítrievna. “What am I to do?” thought Princess Mary as she stood in the dark passage, recalling all the signs that clearly indicated that Natáha had some terrible intention.

… But perhaps she really has already refused Bolkónski—she sent a letter to Princess Mary yesterday.  “Yes, that’s it, she means to elope with him, but what am I to do?” thought she, recalling all the signs that clearly indicated that Natásha had some terrible intention.  Anatole, with uniform unbuttoned, walked to and fro from the room where the witnesses were sitting, through the study to the room behind, where his valet and others were packing the last of his things. “Makárka” (their name for Makárin) “will go through fire and water for you for nothing,” Anatole said.

Oh, nonsense, nonsense! Anatole ejaculated and again made a grimace. And Anatole, with the partiality dull-witted people have for any conclusion they have reached by their own reasoning, repeated the argument he had already put to Dónalokhov a hundred times. Anatole: Didn’t I explain to you? More than once he had driven them through the town with gypsies and “ladykins” as he called the cocottes.

In their service he had run over pedestrians and upset vehicles in the streets of Moscow and had always been protected from the consequences. More than once when Anatole’s regiment was stationed at Tver he had taken him from Tver in the evening, brought him to Moscow by daybreak, and driven him back again the next night.  With others Balagá bargained, charging twenty-five rubles for a two-hour drive, and rarely drove himself, generally letting his young men do so. But with “his gentlemen” he always drove himself and never demanded anything for his work. Anatole and Dólokhov would give him a thousand or a couple of thousand rubles.

“Ah!” said Anatole.  Anatole went out of the room and returned wearing a fur coat girt with a silver belt, and a sable cap jauntily set on one side. “Here, I don’t grudge it!” she said, evidently afraid of her master. Who are you?” asked Anatole in a breathless whisper. He was met by Gabriel, Márya Dmítrievna’s gigantic footman. Márya Dmítrievna, having found Sónya weeping in the corridor, made her confess. She read the note and went into Natásha’s room with it in her hand. I won’t hear a word. Come back! shouted Dólokhov. With a last desperate effort Dólokhov pushed the porter aside, and when Anatole ran back seized him by the arm, pulled him through the wicket, and ran back with him to the troyka.  Natásha Márya Dmítrievna and her friend Sónya were stunned when they saw how Natásha looked. Her eyes were dry and glistening, her lips compressed, her cheeks sunken, her body shook with noiseless, convulsive sobs. Márya Dmítrievna went on admonishing her for some time, enjoining on her that it must all be kept from her father and assuring her that nobody would know anything about it if only Natásha herself would undertake to forget it all and not let anyone see that something had happened.  Natáha did not reply, nor did she sob any longer, but she grew cold and had a shivering fit. All that night she did not sleep or weep and did not speak to Sónya who got up and went to her several times. The count returned from his estate near Moscow in time for lunch and was in very good spirits. After a moment’s silence Natásha answered: “Yes, ill.” In reply to the count’s anxious inquiries as to why she was so dejected and whether anything had happened to her betrothed, she assured him that nothing had happened and asked him not to worry.  He went to see Joseph Alexéevich’s widow, who had promised to give him some papers of her husband’s. Soon after the Rostóvs came to Moscow the effect Natásha had on him made him hasten to carry out his intention.  Anatole was sitting upright in the classic pose of military dandies, the lower part of his face hidden by his beaver collar and his head slightly bent.  And what can they want with me?” thought he as he dressed to go to Márya Dmítrievna’s.

Natásha Rostóva refused Prince Andrew without her parents’ knowledge. “For fifty-eight years have I lived in this world and never known anything so disgraceful!” she said. Natásha had tried to elope during her father’s absence to marry secretly. That Prince Andrew’s deeply loved affianced wife—the same Natásha Rostóva who used to be so charming—should give up Bolkónski for that fool Anatole who was already secretly married (as Pierre knew), and should be so in love with him as to agree to run away with him, was something Pierre could not conceive and could not imagine. “What has happened?” asked Pierre, entering Márya Dmítrievna’s room.

“But how get married?” said Pierre, in answer to Márya Dmítrievna.  He did not know that Natásha’s soul was overflowing with despair, shame, and humiliation, and that it was not her fault that her face happened to assume an expression of calm dignity and severity. After hearing the details of Anatole’s marriage from Pierre, and giving vent to her anger against Anatole in words of abuse, Márya Dmítrievna told Pierre why she had sent for him.   Sónya entered the room with an agitated face. “Natásha is not quite well; she’s in her room and would like to see you.  She did not smile or nod, but only gazed fixedly at him, and her look asked only one thing: was he a friend, or like the others an enemy in regard to Anatole?  Márya Dmítrievna is with her and she too asks you to come.” He was not at the ice hills, nor at the gypsies’, nor at Komoneno’s, but at the Club in the Club.

Pierre laughed and said it was nonsense for he had just come from the Rostóvs’.  It seemed to him essential to see Natásha.  He asked everyone about Anatole.   “Anatole, come with me!   “Secondly,” he continued after a short pause, again rising and again pacing the room, “tomorrow you must get out of Moscow.” “I shan’t be violent, don’t be afraid!” said Pierre in answer to a frightened gesture of Anatole’s.

She poisoned herself with some arsenic she had stealthily procured in Moscow. After swallowing a little she had been so frightened that she woke Sónya and told her what she had done.  Pierre saw the distracted count, and Sónya, who had a tear-stained face, but he could not see Natásha. Anatole smiled.  CHAPTER XXIPierre drove to Márya Dmítrievna’s to tell her of the fulfillment of her wish that Kurágin should be banished from Moscow.

The conversation was about Speránski—the news of whose sudden exile and alleged treachery had just reached Moscow. As soon as he reached Moscow, Prince Andrew had received from his father Natásha’s note to Princess Mary breaking off her engagement (Mademoiselle Bourienne had purloined it from Princess Mary and given it to the old prince), and he heard from him the story of Natásha’s elopement, with additions. Some days after Anatole’s departure Pierre received a note from Prince Andrew, informing him of his arrival and asking him to come to see him. “If there were proof of treason, or proofs of secret relations with Napoleon, they would have been made public,” Prince Andrew said. Pierre saw that Prince Andrew was going to speak of Natásha, and his broad face expressed pity and sympathy.

She is very ill. She has been at death’s door, said Prince Andrew; and he smiled like his father, coldly, maliciously, and unpleasantly. Later that evening Pierre went to the Rostóvs’ to fulfill the commission entrusted to him. When he arrived at the door of the drawing room he found his wife standing there, emaciated, with her arms hanging lifelessly just in the pose she used to hold in the middle of the ballroom to sing. “No, she has dressed and gone into the drawing room,” said Sónya.

“Natásha insists on seeing Count Peter Kirílovich,” said she. Ten minutes later Sónya came to Márya Dmítrievna. She asked him, “Did you love that bad man?” and he replied, “Don’t call him bad!”. Natásha’s eyes asked. Pierre did not know how to refer to Anatole and flushed at the thought of him—”did you love that bad man?” Pierre too ran into the anteroom, restraining tears that choked him, and without finding the sleeves of his fur cloak threw it on and got into his sleigh. Above the dirty, ill-lit streets, above the black roofs, stretched the dark starry sky.

Summary of Book 9

When Napoleon crossed the Russian frontier on June 12, 1812, an event took place opposed to human reason and to human nature. Millions of men committed crimes, frauds, treacheries, thefts, forgeries, issues of false money, burglaries and murders as in whole centuries are not recorded in the annals of all the law courts of the world, but which those who committed them did not at the time regard as crimes. We cannot grasp what connection such circumstances have with the actual fact of slaughter and violence. To us it is incomprehensible that millions of Christian men killed and tortured each other either because Napoleon was ambitious or Alexander was firm, or because England’s policy was astute or the Duke of Oldenburg wronged. Why because the Duke was wronged, thousands of men from the other side of Europe killed and ruined the people of Smolénsk and Moscow and were killed by them?

To us, their descendants, who are not historians and can regard the event with unclouded common sense, an incalculable number of causes present themselves. The deeper we delve in search of these causes the more of them we find; and each separate cause or whole series of causes appears to us equally valid in itself and equally false by its insignificance compared to the magnitude of the events. Had Napoleon not taken offense at the demand that he should withdraw beyond the Vistula, and not ordered his troops to advance, there would have been no war. The actions of Napoleon and Alexander were as little voluntary as the actions of any soldier who was drawn into the campaign by lot or by conscription. We are forced to fall back on fatalism as an explanation of irrational events that we do not understand.

Though Napoleon at that time, in 1812, was more convinced than ever that it depended on him, verser (ou ne pas verser) le sang de ses peuples *—as Alexander expressed it in the last letter he wrote him—he had never been so much in the grip of inevitable laws, which compelled him, while thinking that he was acting on his own volition, to perform for the hive life—that is to say, for history—whatever had to be performed.*  The people of the west moved eastwards to slay their fellow men, and by the law of coincidence thousands of minute causes fitted in and co-ordinated to produce that movement and war. All this is only the coincidence of conditions in which all vital organic and elemental events occur. He went to Moscow because he wanted to, and perished because Alexander desired his destruction. The great men are labels giving names to events, and like labels have but the smallest connection with the event itself. Before leaving, Napoleon showed favor to the emperor, kings, and princes who had deserved it, reprimanded the kings and princes with whom he was dissatisfied, presented pearls and diamonds of his own—that is, which he had taken from other kings—to the Empress of Austria, and having, as his historian tells us, tenderly embraced the Empress Marie Louise—who regarded him as her husband, though he had left another wife in Paris—left her grieved by the parting which she seemed hardly able to bear.

The Emperor unexpectedly, and contrary to strategic and diplomatic considerations, ordered an advance across the river. Seeing, on the other side, some Cossacks (les Cosaques) and the wide-spreading steppes in the midst of which lay the holy city of Moscow (Moscou, la ville sainte), the capital of a realm such as the Scythia into which Alexander the Great had marched—Napoleon unexpectedly, and contrary alike to strategic and diplomatic considerations, ordered an advance, and the next day his army began to cross the Niemen. On reaching the broad river Víliya, he stopped near a regiment of Polish Uhlans. “Vivat!” shouted the Poles, ecstatically, breaking their ranks and pressing against one another to see him. Beauché: “If they make me Governor of India, Gérard, I’ll make you Minister of Kashmir—that’s settled”.

Au revoir, Beauché; I’ll keep the best palace in Moscow for you!  On the thirteenth of June a rather small, thoroughbred Arab horse was brought to Napoleon.  Napoleon rode over to the Polish Uhlans and sat down on a log that lay on the bank of the River Don. He became absorbed in a map laid out on the logs, and two of his aides-de-camp galloped off to help him cross the river. What did he say?

was heard in the ranks of the Uhlans when one of the aides- de-camp rode up to them.  And as soon as they had got out, in their soaked and streaming clothes, they shouted “Vivat!” and looked ecstatically at the spot where Napoleon had been but where he no longer was and at that moment considered themselves happy. Napoleon ordered that a Saxon should be shot and the Polish colonel who plunged into the river should be enrolled in the Légion d’honneur of which he was head. Borís was a rich man who no longer sought patronage but stood on equal footing with the highest of those of his own age. The Emperor was not dancing, he stood in the doorway, stopping couples and saying gracious words.

Countess Bezúkhova was present among other Russian ladies who had followed the sovereign from Petersburg to Vílna and eclipsed the refined Polish ladies by her massive, so-called Russian type of beauty.  As the mazurka began, Borís saw that Adjutant General Balashëv, one of those in closest attendance on the Emperor, went up to him and stood near him while he was talking to a Polish lady. The Emperor looked inquiringly at her and, evidently understanding that he only acted so because there were important reasons for so doing, nodded slightly to the lady and turned to him. He took Balashév by the arm and crossed the room with him, unconsciously clearing a path seven yards wide as the people on both sides made way for him. Borís noticed Arakchéev’s excited face when the sovereign went out into the illuminated garden with Balashât  and followed some twenty paces behind them.

Borís was the first to learn that the French army had crossed the Niemen and, thanks to this, was able to show certain important personages that much that was concealed from others was usually known to him. The Emperor re-entered the ballroom and remained there about another half-hour. On first receiving the news, under the influence of indignation and resentment the Emperor had found a phrase that pleased him, fully expressed his feelings, and has since become famous. Napoleon said: “Let no one know of it!”. The Emperor replied to the ambassador, telling him he would not make peace so long as a single armed enemy remained on Russian soil and told him to transmit those words to Napoleon.

He did not include them in the letter, because he felt it would be injudicious to use them at a moment when a last attempt at reconciliation was being made. When dispatching Balashëv, the Emperor repeated to him the words that he would not make peace so long as a single armed enemy remained on Russian soil and told him to transmit those words to Napoleon.  Russian general Balashëv found it very strange to encounter this hostile, and still more disrespectful, application of brute force to himself. The officer advanced his horse’s chest against the Russian general, asking: Is he deaf that he did not do as he was told?  after living at the seat of the Emperor less than three hours before?

It was Murat, now called “King of Naples”, who became convinced that he was really King of Naples, and assumed a more solemn and important air than formerly. Balashëv was only two horses’ length from the equestrian with the bracelets, plumes, necklaces, and gold embroidery, who was galloping toward him with a theatrically solemn countenance, when Julner, the French colonel, whispered respectfully: “The King of Naples!”  The French Emperor’s brother-in-law had once told him: “I made you King that you should reign in my way, but not in yours”. He wore fancy clothes as variegated and expensive as possible, and galloped along the roads of Poland, without himself knowing why or whither he was going. He referred to the fact that the Emperor Napoleon had resented the demand that he should withdraw his troops from Prussia, especially when that demand became generally known and the dignity of France was thereby offended.*  The colonel respectfully informed His Majesty of Balashëv’s mission, whose name he could not pronounce. Balashëv asked Murat why he considered Napoleon to be the originator of the war.

But instead of that, the sentinels of Davout’s infantry corps detained him as the pickets of the vanguard had done, and took him to Marshal Davout. Murat again interrupted him, “with all my heart I wish the Emperors may arrange the affair between them, and that the war begun by no wish of mine may finish as quickly as possible!” said he, in the tone of a servant who wants to remain good friends with another despite a quarrel between their masters. “Then you don’t consider the Emperor Alexander the aggressor?” he asked unexpectedly, with a kindly and foolish smile. Marshal Davout was one of those men who purposely put themselves in most depressing conditions to have a justification for being gloomy. Napoleon wrote to Davout: “You are perfectly at liberty to treat me with respect or not,”.

Davout allowed himself that pleasure when Balashëv was brought in.  Thinking he could have been received in such a manner only because Davout did not know that he was adjutant general to the Emperor Alexander and even his envoy to Napoleon, Balashëv hastened to inform him of his rank and mission.  Davout glanced at him silently and plainly derived pleasure from the signs of agitation and confusion which appeared on Balashëv’s face.”You will be treated as is fitting,” said he and, putting the packet in his pocket, left the shed.A minute later the marshal’s adjutant, de Castrès, came in and conducted Balashëv to the quarters assigned him.That day he dined with the marshal, at the same board on the barrels.Next day Davout rode out early and, after asking Balashëv to come to him, peremptorily requested him to remain there, to move on with the baggage train should orders come for it to move, and to talk to no one except Monsieur de Castrès.After four days of solitude, ennui, and consciousness of his impotence and insignificance—particularly acute by contrast with the sphere of power in which he had so lately moved—and after several marches with the marshal’s baggage and the French army, which occupied the whole district, Balashëv was brought to Vílna—now occupied by the French—through the very gate by which he had left it four days previously.Next day the imperial gentleman-in-waiting, the Comte de Turenne, came to Balashëv and informed him of the Emperor Napoleon’s wish to honor him with an audience.Four days before, sentinels of the Preobrazhénsk regiment had stood in front of the house to which Balashëv was conducted, and now two French grenadiers stood there in blue uniforms unfastened in front and with shaggy caps on their heads, and an escort of hussars and Uhlans and a brilliant suite of aides-de-camp, pages, and generals, who were waiting for Napoleon to come out, were standing at the porch, round his saddle horse and his Mameluke, Rustan.  After four days of solitude, ennui, and consciousness of his impotence and insignificance, he was taken to Napoleon’s court by the Comte de Turenne.  He heard hurried footsteps beyond the door, both halves of it were opened rapidly; all was silent and then from the study the sound was heard of other steps, firm and resolute—they were those of Napoleon.

He glanced with his large eyes into Balashëv’s face and immediately looked past him. “I have received the letter you brought from the Emperor Alexander and am very glad to see you.”  Russian envoy Balashëv: Sire! The Emperor, my master… He said that the Emperor Alexander did not consider Kurákin’s demand for his passports a sufficient cause for war. Napoleon seemed to say, as with a scarcely perceptible smile he looked at Balashëv’s uniform and sword.

“If you gave me Petersburg and Moscow I could not accept such conditions”. “The Niemen?” repeated Napoleon.  “The withdrawal of your army beyond the Niemen, sire,” replied Balashëv. The Emperor Alexander, not I!  Napoleon’s interview with Balashëv: “I hear you have made peace with Turkey?”.

Napoleon: “Yes, I would have given your sovereign those provinces as I gave him Finland”. He went on: “Oh, what a splendid reign the Emperor Alexander’s might have been!”. “What could he wish or look for that he would not have obtained through my friendship?” demanded Napoleon, shrugging his shoulders in perplexity.  He went on: With Steins, Armfeldts, Bennigsens, and Wintzingerodes! Stein, a traitor expelled from his own country; Armfeldt, a rake and an intriguer; Wintzzingerode, a fugitive French subject; Bennigsen, rather more of a soldier than the others, but all the same an incompetent.

Barclay is said to be the most capable of them all, but I cannot say so, judging by his first movements. And what are they doing, all these courtiers? “On the contrary, Your Majesty,” said Balashëv, hardly able to remember what had been said to him and following these verbal fireworks with difficulty, “the troops are burning with eagerness…” He knew how Alexander desired to be a military commander. Balashëv: I give you my word of honor that I have five hundred and thirty thousand men this side of the Vistula. The Turks will be of no use to you; they are worth nothing and have shown it by making peace with you.

Napoleon: As for the Swedes, it is their fate to be governed by mad kings. Their king was insane and they changed him for another—Bernadotte, who promptly went mad. No Swede would ally himself with Russia unless he were mad. Napoleon then took out his snuffbox, sniffed at it, and stamped his foot on the floor as a signal. The door opened, a gentleman-in-waiting handed the Emperor his hat and gloves; another brought him a pocket handkerchief. He paused, looked ironically straight into Balashëv’s eyes, and said in a quiet voice:”And yet what a splendid reign your master might have had!” Napoleon, without giving them a glance, turned to Balashëv:”Assure the Emperor Alexander from me,” said he, taking his hat, “that I am as devoted to him as before: I know him thoroughly and very highly esteem his lofty qualities.  After all that Napoleon had said to him—those bursts of anger and the last dryly spoken words: “I will detain you no longer, General; you shall receive my letter,” Balashëv felt convinced that Napoleon would not wish to see him, and would even avoid another meeting with him—an insulted envoy—especially as he had witnessed his unseemly anger.  The Emperor was in good spirits after his ride through Vílna. He asked: How many inhabitants are there in Moscow? How many houses? Is it true that Moscow is called ‘Holy Moscow’? How many churches? And receiving the reply that there were more than two hundred churches, he remarked:”Why such a quantity of churches?”. “But nowhere in Europe is there anything like that,” said Napoleon. “The Russians are very devout,” replied Balashëv.

Napoleon did not notice it, and naïvely asked what towns the direct road from there to Moscow passed through. After dinner they went to drink coffee in Napoleon’s study, which four days before had been the home of Alexander the Great. Balashëv involuntarily flushed with pleasure at the aptitude of this reply, but hardly had he uttered the word Poltáva before Caulaincourt began speaking of the badness of the road from Petersburg to Moscow and of his Petersburg reminiscences.

 “They tell me this is the room the Emperor Alexander occupied?  Napoleon: I’ll drive all his Württemberg, Baden, and Weimar relations out of Germany. I’ll drive them out. Let him prepare an asylum for them in Russia! Balashëv: And why has the Emperor Alexander taken command of the armies? What is the good of that? The letter taken by Balashëv was the last Napoleon sent to Alexander.   Every detail of the interview was communicated to the Russian monarch, and the war began….  Anatole Kurágin promptly obtained an appointment from the Minister of War and went to join the army in Moldavia.  After his betrothed had broken faith with him, Prince Andrew found it increasingly difficult to think of the freedom and independence he had once prized so highly. But he again failed to meet Kurágin in Turkey, for soon after Prince Andrew arrived, the latter returned to Russia. He was now concerned only with the nearest practical matters unrelated to his past interests.  In the year 1812, when news of the war with Napoleon reached Bucharest—where Kutúzov had been living for two months, passing his days and nights with a Wallachian woman—Prince Andrew asked Kutúzov to transfer him to the Western Army.  Prince Andrew visited Bald Hills before joining the Western Army which was then encamped at Drissa. He entered through the gates and drove up the avenue leading to the house as if he were entering an enchanted, sleeping castle. Inside there was the same furniture, the same walls, sounds, and smell, and the same timid faces, only somewhat older.

The Tsar’s presence in Moscow was the chief cause of Russia’s triumph in so far as it was produced by his personal presence in the capital. Prince Andrew was to present himself at Bennigsen’s quarters at six that evening. Arakchéev and Balashëv wrote a letter to the Emperor urging him to quit the army. Shishkóv, the Secretary of State, urged the Emperor to do so. Prince Andrew arrived at Bennigsen’s, a country gentleman’s house of moderate size, situated on the very banks of the River Drissa.

Napoleon had gone to inspect the fortifications of the Drissa army camp, of the suitability of which serious doubts were beginning to be felt. The Swedish General Armfeldt, Adjutant General Wolzogen, Wintzingerode, Michaud, Toll, Count Stein, Pfuel and Pfuel were all present. Baron Andrew heard the sound of voices in German and occasionally in French. Prince Andrew had never yet seen a German theorist in whom all the characteristics of Weyrother, Mack, and Schmidt were united to such an extent as Pfuel. He entered the room, looking restlessly and angrily around, as if afraid of everything in that large apartment.

Awkwardly holding up his sword, he addressed Chernýshev and asked in German where the Emperor was. His face was much wrinkled and his eyes deep set, his hair stuck up behind his temples. Pfuel was one of those hopelessly and immutably self-confident men, as only Germans are. He imagines that he knows the truth, which he himself has invented but which is for him the absolute truth. He was even pleased by failures, for failures resulting from deviations in practice from the theory only proved to him the accuracy of his theory.

“There, I said the whole affair would go to the devil,” he said, with characteristically gleeful sarcasm. Count Bennigsen entered hurriedly, and nodding to Bolkónski, gave instructions to his adjutant as he went. Prince Andrew, taking advantage of the Emperor’s permission, accompanied Baron Paulucci into the drawing room where the council was assembled. The first to speak was General Armfeldt who, to meet the difficulty that presented itself, unexpectedly proposed a perfectly new position away from the Petersburg and Moscow roads.  The reason for this was inexplicable (unless he wished to show that he, too, could have an opinion), but he urged that at this point the army should unite and there await the enemy.

He went up to the map and began demonstrating that all that had happened, and all that could happen, had been foreseen in his scheme. Paulucci, who did not know German, began questioning him in French.  They expected him from every side, and invoked his terrible name to shatter each other’s proposals. Pfuel alone seemed to consider Napoleon a barbarian like everyone else who opposed his theory. And despite his self-confidence and grumpy German sarcasm he was pitiable.

And of Bonaparte himself!  Armfeldt says our army is cut in half, and Paulucci says we have got the French army between two fires; Michaud says that the worthlessness of the Drissa camp lies in having the river behind it, and Pfuel says that is what constitutes its strength; Toll proposes one plan, Armfeldt another, and they are all good and all bad, and the advantages of any suggestions can be seen only at the moment of trial.

Mary Hendríkhovna, a plump little blonde German, in a dressing jacket and nightcap, was sitting on a broad bench in the front corner.  Rostóv, come quick!  Ilyín went out and Zdrzhinski rode away.

 Rostóv and Ilyín hastened to find a corner where they could change into dry clothes without offending Mary Hendríkhovna’s modesty.  Mary Hendríkhovna. The officers took turns in order of seniority to receive one’s tumbler from her charming little hands.  “Well, but supposing Mary Hendríkhovna is ‘King’?” asked Ilyín. When they had emptied the samovar, Rostóv took a pack of cards and proposed that they should play “Kings” with Mary Hendríkhovna.

They had hardly begun to play before the doctor’s disheveled head suddenly appeared from behind Mary Hendríkhovna.  The doctor complained that he had not slept for two nights, and asked to be allowed to pass as they were blocking the way. When he left the room all the officers burst into loud laughter. “But I’ll send an orderly…. Two of them!” said Rostóv.  “I’ll stand guard on it myself!” said Ilyín.

Day was breaking, the rain had ceased, and the clouds were dispersing; it felt damp and cold, especially in clothes that were still moist. Half an hour later the squadron was lined up on the road and the command was heard to “mount”. But Rostóv went off to his squadron without waiting for tea.  “She really is a dear little thing,” said Rostóv to Ilyín, who was following him. Rostóv Ilyín and Rostóv were riding with a large, fine, mettlesome, Donéts horse, dun-colored, with light mane and tail, and when he rode it no one could outgallop him.

He was fearless, not because he had grown used to being under fire (one cannot grow used to danger) but because he learned how to manage his thoughts when in danger. Before Rostóv had had time to consider and determine the distance of that firing, Count Ostermann-Tolstóy’s adjutant came galloping from Vítebsk with orders to advance at a trot along the road. The hussars overtook and passed the infantry and the battery, which had also quickened their pace. After Ostermann had gone, a command rang out to the Uhlans.  “Andrew Sevastyánych!” said Rostóv.

Nearer and nearer in disorderly crowds came the Uhlans and the French dragoons pursuing them.  His horse was so eager to go that he could not restrain himself and galloped at full trot toward the enemy. He did not know how or why he did it; he acted as he did when hunting, without reflecting or considering. Rostóv himself did not know how or why he did it.  Hardly had they reached the bottom of the hill before their pace instinctively changed to a gallop, which grew faster and faster as they drew nearer to our Uhlans and the French dragoons who galloped after them.

The officer cried, “I surrender!” and tried to get his foot out of the stirrup. His pale and mud-stained face was not an enemy’s face at all suited to a battlefield, but a most ordinary, homelike face. Rostóv galloped back with the rest of the hussars, aware of an unpleasant feeling of depression in his heart. The general was so impressed that he said he would recommend him for a St. George’s Cross. What on earth is worrying you?

No, he’s safe. And I remember how my arm paused when I raised it. He glanced at Rostóv with a feigned smile and waved his hand in greeting.  “Ilyín?  He drank reluctantly, tried to remain alone, and kept turning something over in his mind. All that day and the next his friends and comrades noticed that Rostóv, without being dull or angry, was silent, thoughtful, and preoccupied.

Natásha Rostóv’s illness was so serious that doctors could not think of anything but how to help her. Doctors came to see her singly and in consultation, talked much in French, German, and Latin, blamed one another, and prescribed a great variety of medicines for all the diseases known to them. The simple idea never occurred to any of them that they could not know the disease Natásha was suffering from, as no disease suffered by a live man can be known, for every living person has his own peculiar, personal, novel, complicated disease. Natásha Métivier, Frise Frise and Múdrov were of use to Natásha because they kissed and rubbed her bump. They satisfied the need seen in its most elementary form in a child, when it wants to have a place rubbed that has been hurt.

You’ll never get well like that, if you won’t obey the doctor and take your medicine at the right time! You mustn’t trifle with it, you know, or it may turn to pneumonia, she would say. The doctors said that she could not get on without medical treatment, so they kept her in the stifling atmosphere of the town, and the Rostóvs did not move to the country that summer of 1812. Even to Natásha herself it was pleasant to see that so many sacrifices were being made for her sake, and to know that she had to take medicine at certain hours, though she declared that no medicine would cure her and that it was all nonsense.  She avoided all external forms of pleasure, and never laughed without a sound of tears in her laughter.

Natásha’s presentiment at the time had not deceived her that that state of freedom and readiness for any enjoyment would not return. Natásha Bezúkhov: Natásha wanted nothing for herself. She kept away from everyone in the house and felt at ease only with her brother Pétya. She liked to be with him better than with the others, and of those who came to see them was glad to see only one person, Pierre. But she was not even grateful to him for his kindness; it seemed so natural for him to be kind to everyone that there was no merit in his kindness.

The Emperor’s appeal to Moscow had just been printed, as had the last army orders. Among these letters was one from Nicholas Rostóv to his father.  Though he did not want to remind the Rostóvs of Bolkónski, Pierre could not refrain from making them happy by the news of their son’s having received a decoration, so he sent that printed army order and Nicholas’ letter to the Rostóvs, keeping the appeal, the bulletin, and the other orders to take with him when he went to dinner.

 Pierre Rostóvs was a member of the Society of Freemasons, which preached perpetual peace and the abolition of war. When he saw the great mass of Muscovites who had donned uniform and were talking patriotism, he somehow felt ashamed to take the step. The first person he saw in the house was Natásha; she was practicing solfa exercises in the music room.  Natásha stopped him. Just then Pétya came running in from the drawing room.

By association of ideas, Pierre was at once carried back to the day when, trying to comfort her, he had said that if he were not himself but the best man in the world and free, he would ask on his knees for her hand; and the same feeling of pity, tenderness, and love took possession of him and the same words rose to his lips.  “The Emperor is to be here tomorrow… there’s to be an Extraordinary Meeting of the nobility, and they are talking of a levy of ten men per thousand,” said Natásha. You are my only hope,” said Pétya. “Yes, I’ve got it,” said Pierre.  The old count told them of the illness of the old Georgian princess, of Métivier’s disappearance from Moscow, and of how a German fellow had been accused of being a French “spyer” and let go when he was found to be “only an old German ruin”. Count Pierre asked: What sort of warrior should I make? I can’t make it out? Natásha sat erect, gazing with a searching look now at her father and now at Pierre. The countess shook her head disapprovingly and angrily at every solemn expression in the manifesto. Natásha jumped up from her place and ran to her father and exclaimed: “What a darling our Papa is!”. We’re not Germans!” At this moment, Pétya, to whom nobody was paying any attention, came up to his father with a very flushed face and said in his breaking voice that was now deep and now shrill: “But did you notice, it says, ‘for consultation’?” said Pierre.  Why are you upset?” asked Natásha, and she looked challengingly into Pierre’s eyes. “Pétya!

They looked at each other with dismay and embarrassed faces, and he silently kissed her hand and went out. Next day the Emperor arrived in Moscow, and several of the Rostovs’ domestic serfs begged to see him. While dressing, Pétya had prepared many fine things he meant to say to the gentleman-in-waiting. Pierre made up his mind not to go to the Rostóvs’ any more.  It was on the very fact of being so young that Pétya counted for success in reaching the Emperor.

The farther he went and the more his attention was diverted by the ever-increasing crowds, the less he remembered to walk with the sedateness and deliberation of a man. As he approached the Krémlin he even began to avoid being crushed and resolutely stuck out his elbows in a menacing way. When the carriages had all passed in, the crowd, carrying him with it, streamed forward into the square. Quite beside himself, Pétya, clinching his teeth and rolling his eyes ferociously, pushed forward, elbowing his way and shouting “hurrah!” as if he were prepared that instant to kill himself and everyone else, but on both sides of him other people with similarly ferocious faces pushed forward and everybody shouted “hurrah!” “So this is what the Emperor is!” thought Pétya.  When he came to himself he saw glimpses of an open space with a strip of red cloth spread out on it; but just then the crowd swayed back.

The police in front were pushing back those who had pressed too close to the procession of the Emperor. The clerk who had rescued him was talking to a functionary about the priests officiating that day with the bishop. “Hurrah! hurrah!” shouted the crowd again when officers, generals, and gentlemen-in-waiting came running out of the cathedral. At last four men in uniforms and sashes emerged from the cathedral doors. The clerk several times used the word “plenary” (of the service), a word Pétya did not understand.

He resolved that tomorrow, come what might, he would join the army. It was already late and he was drenched with perspiration, yet he did not go home. Which?” asked Pétya in a tearful voice, of those around him, but no one answered him, everybody was too excited; and Pétya, fixing on one of those four men, whom he could not clearly see for the tears of joy that filled his eyes, concentrated all his enthusiasm on him—though it happened not to be the Emperor—frantically shouted “Hurrah!” and resolved that tomorrow, come what might, he would join the army.  Pétya’s eyes grew bloodshot, and still more excited by the danger of being crushed, he rushed at the biscuits.

On all these faces, as on the faces of the crowd Pétya had seen in the Square, there was a striking contradiction: the general expectation of a solemn event, and at the same time the everyday interests in a boston card party, Peter the cook, Zinaída Dmítrievna’s health, and so on. Pierre was there too, buttoned up since early morning in a nobleman’s uniform that had become too tight for him.  The words that had struck him in the Emperor’s appeal—that the sovereign was coming to the capital for consultation with his people—strengthened this idea.  But as soon as the war was mentioned the talk became undecided and indefinite. Pierre went up to the circle that had formed round the speaker and listened.

Besides the ordinary topics of conversation, Pierre heard questions of where the marshals of the nobility were to stand when the Emperor entered, when a ball should be given in the Emperor’s honor, whether they should group themselves by districts or by whole provinces… and so on; but as soon as the war was touched on, or what the nobility had been convened for, the talk became undecided and indefinite.  Count Rostóv’s mouth watered with pleasure and he nudged Pierre, but Pierre wanted to speak himself. He pushed forward, feeling stirred, but not yet sure what stirred him or what he would say. Russian senator: And was our militia of any use to the Empia?

Not at all! It only wuined our farming! The nobility don’t gwudge theah lives—evewy one of us will go and bwing in more wecwuits, and the sov’weign” (that was the way he referred to the Emperor) “need only say the word and we’ll all die fo’ him!” added the orator with animation. Pierre Rodin: I imagine the Emperor himself would not be satisfied to find in us merely owners of serfs whom we are willing to devote to his service, and chair à canon * we are ready to make of ourselves—and not to obtain from us any co-co-counsel. I suppose that the nobility have been summoned not merely to express their sympathy and enthusiasm but also to consider the means by which we can assist our Fatherland. Count Rostóv: “Food for cannon!”. Stepán Stepánovich Adráksin: The Emperor could not answer such a question. The troops are moved according to the enemy’s movements and the number of men increases and decreases…. With a sudden expression of malevolence on his aged face, Adráksin shouted at Pierre:”In the first place, I tell you we have no right to question the Emperor about that, and secondly, if the Russian nobility had that right, the Emperor could not answer such a question.

Pierre Alexandrovitch: “We will all arise, everyone of us will go, for our father the Tsar!”. Count Rostóv at the back of the crowd was expressing approval. We are Russians and will not grudge our blood in defense of our faith, the throne, and the Fatherland! We must cease raving if we are sons of our Fatherland! Pierre Rostopchín: “Yes, yes, at thunderclaps!” was repeated approvingly in the back rows of the crowd.

Pierre felt excited, and the general desire to show that they were ready to go to all lengths—which found expression in the tones and looks more than in the substance of the speeches infected him too. Count Rostopschin: “Our sovereign the Emperor will be here in a moment,” he said. The Emperor has deigned to summon us and the merchants. Count Rostóv: I thank you in the name of the Fatherland! Gentlemen, let us act!

Time is most precious. Pierre d’Arc de Triomph: “The Emperor! The Emperor!” a sudden cry resounded through the halls and the throng hurried to the entrance. There was a rustling among the crowd and it again subsided, so that Pierre distinctly heard the pleasantly human voice of the Emperor saying with emotion:”I never doubted the devotion of the Russian nobles, but today it has surpassed my expectations.  Pétya Pierre was among those who saw the Emperor with tears of emotion in his eyes when he entered the hall of the merchants’ hall. The Emperor was accompanied by two merchants, one of whom was a fat otkupshchík; the other was the mayor and both were weeping. Old Rostóv could not tell his wife of what had passed without tears, and at once consented to Pétyi’s request and went himself to enter his name.

Summary of Book 10

Napoleon’s French army was destroyed in 1812 by the burning of Russian towns and the hatred of the foe this aroused among the Russian people. No one at the time foresaw that this was the only way an army of eight hundred thousand men, led by the best general, could be destroyed in conflict with a raw army of half its numerical strength. Russian authors are still fonder of telling us that from the commencement of the campaign a Scythian war plan was adopted to lure Napoleon into the depths of Russia. Had that event not occurred these hints would have been forgotten, as we have forgotten the thousands and millions of hints and expectations to the contrary which were current then but have now been forgotten because the event falsified them. All the facts are in flat contradiction to such conjectures.

Napoleon’s Drissa camp was formed on Pfuel’s plan, and there was no intention of retiring farther. Our Emperor joined the army to encourage it to defend every inch of Russian soil and not to retreat. He could not bear the idea of letting the enemy even reach Smolénsk, still less could he contemplate the burning of Moscow. Russian Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte was lured into the depths of Russia by a most complex interplay of intrigues, aims, and wishes among those who took part in the war and had no perception whatever of the inevitable, or of the one way of saving Russia. The armies were divided at the commencement of the campaign, with the evident intention of giving battle and checking the enemy’s advance.

The armies were divided, there was no unity of command, and Barclay was unpopular. At Smolénsk the armies at last reunited, much as Bagratión disliked it. And when the Emperor left the army it was decided that he needed to inspire the nation in general to a patriotic war. And by this visit of the Emperor to Moscow the strength of the Russian army was trebled. Bagratión wrote to Arakchéev, the Emperor’s confidant: I thought I was really serving my sovereign and the Fatherland, but it turns out that I am serving Barclay.

I confess I do not want to work with the Minister (meaning Barclay). Smolénsk was abandoned contrary to the wishes of the Emperor and of the whole people, and was burned by its own inhabitants who had been misled by their governor. And these ruined inhabitants, setting an example to other Russians, went to Moscow thinking only of their own losses but kindling hatred of the foe.  Princess Mary spent half of every day with little Nicholas, watching his lessons, teaching him Russian and music herself, and talking to Dessalles. At the end of the week the prince reappeared and resumed his former way of life, devoting himself with special activity to building operations and the arrangement of the gardens and completely breaking off his relations with Mademoiselle Bourienne.

“We in Moscow are elated by enthusiasm for our adored Emperor,” wrote Princess Drubetskáya in her French-ified Russian. Princess Mary did not realize the significance of this war because Prince Andrew never spoke of it, did not recognize it, and laughed at Dessalles when he mentioned it at dinner. The prince’s tone was so calm and confident that Princess Mary unhesitatingly believed him. All that July the old prince was exceedingly active and even animated; he planned another garden and began a new building for the domestic serfs.  “You go, Michael Ivánovich.” “When the snow melts they’ll sink in the Polish swamps, only they could fail to see it,” the prince continued, apparently thinking of the campaign of 1807. He has been reading a little, but now”—Michael Ivánovich went on, lowering his voice—”now he’s at his desk, busy with his will, I expect.”  When Michael Ivánovich returned to the study with the letter, the old prince, with spectacles on and a shade over his eyes, was sitting at his open bureau with screened candles, holding a paper in his outstretched hand, and in a somewhat dramatic attitude was reading his manuscript—his “Remarks” as he termed it—which was to be transmitted to the Emperor after his death. The prince’s “Remarks” were to be transmitted to the Emperor after his death.

He felt the bed rocking backwards and forwards beneath him as if it were breathing heavily and jolting. “Yes, I know, Prince Andrew’s letter!  Prince Andrew then closed his eyes and recalled all the words spoken at that first meeting with Potëmkin: Oh, quicker, quicker! To get back to that time and have done with all the present! And there rose before him the Danube at bright noonday: reeds, the Russian camp, and himself a young general without a wrinkle on his ruddy face, vigorous and alert, entering Potëmkin’s gaily colored tent, and a burning sense of jealousy of “the favorite” agitated him now as strongly as it had done then.  Bald Hills, Prince Nicholas Bolkónski’s estate, lay forty miles east from Smolénsk and two miles from the main road to Moscow. The prince allowed no one at Bald Hills to drive with ringing bells, but he liked to have them. “If there is anything… come back, Yákov Alpátych!  He stayed in an inn owned by Ferapóntov, who had been given a wood from the prince, and now had a house, an inn, and a corn dealer’s shop in that province. “Just what I think, Yákov Alpátych.  He found a large number of people, Cossacks, and a traveling carriage of the Governor’s. They were hurrying through the streets and there were many soldiers, but cabs were still driving about. “Oh, Yákov Alpátych!

The Governor told him: As the prince is unwell my advice is that they should go to Moscow. I am just starting myself! Ferapóntov: “I from the one side and Prince Bagratión from the other are marching to unite our forces before Smolénsk, which junction will be effected on the 22nd instant, and both armies with their united forces will defend our compatriots of the province entrusted to your care till our efforts shall have beaten back the enemies of our Fatherland, or till the last warrior in our valiant ranks has perished”. “You brute, you murderer!” screamed a thin, pale woman who burst through the door at that moment and down the steps into the yard. The noise of wheels, hoofs, and bells was heard from the gateway as a little trap passed out.

Alpátych Ferapóntov’s wife became quiet and with the baby in her arms went to the gate, listening to the sounds and looking in silence at the people. The town was being bombarded by a hundred and thirty guns which Napoleon had ordered up after four o’clock. With lively curiosity everyone tried to get a glimpse of the projectiles as they flew over their heads. Dear souls, dear kind souls! Don’t let me die!

My good souls! The women, who had been silent till then, suddenly began to wail as they looked at the smoke and flames of the fires which could be seen in the failing twilight. Prince Andrew rode up to the Dnieper Alpátych’s cart and that of the innkeeper’s wife, which were slowly moving amid the rows of soldiers and of other vehicles, but had to stop when they came across a fire. Are we really quite lost?  “Well then,” continued Prince Andrew to Alpátych, “report to them as I have told you”; and not replying a word to Berg who was now mute beside him, he touched his horse and rode down the side street.

Bald Hills will be occupied by the enemy within a week.  Heat and drought had continued for more than three weeks. Heavy night dews alone refreshed the earth, but there was no freshness even at night or when the road passed through the forest. On the tenth of August the regiment Prince Andrew commanded was marching along the highroad past the avenue leading to Bald Hills.  Prince Andrew was in command of a regiment, and the management of that regiment, the welfare of the men and the necessity of receiving and giving orders, engrossed him.

The burning of Smolénsk and its abandonment made an epoch in his life; a novel feeling of anger against the foe made him forget his own sorrow. Everything that reminded him of his past was repugnant to him, and so in relations with that former circle he confined himself to trying to do his duty and not to be unfair. But despite this, thanks to his regiment he had something to think about entirely apart from general questions. In truth everything presented itself in a dark and gloomy light to Prince Andrew, especially after the abandonment of Smolénsk on the sixth of August (he considered that it could and should have been defended) and after his sick father had had to flee to Moscow, abandoning to pillage his dearly beloved Bald Hills which he had built and peopled.

Prince Andrew rode up to the keeper’s lodge and called for the gardener, but no-one was about. Alpátych, having sent his family away, was alone at Bald Hills and was sitting indoors reading the Lives of the Saints.  The peasants were ruined; some of them had gone to Boguchárovo, only a few remained. Prince Andrew asked: “When did my father and sister leave?”  meaning when did they leave for Moscow. Prince Andrew saw two little girls running out of the hot house carrying in their skirts plums they had plucked from the trees there.

Prince Andrew turned away with startled haste, unwilling to let them see that they had been observed. He was sorry for the pretty frightened little girl, was afraid of looking at her, and yet felt an irresistible desire to do so. He overtook his regiment at its halting place by the dam of a small pond. As he crossed the dam Prince Andrew smelled the ooze and freshness of the water, however dirty it might be. But not far from Bald Hills he again came out on the road and overtook his regiment at its halting place by the dam of a small pond.

The emperor’s aide-de-camp wrote back: “I swear to you on my honor that Napoleon was in such a fix as never before”. Wolzogen: There is a rumor that you are thinking of peace. God forbid that you should make peace after all our sacrifices and such insane retreats! You would set all Russia against you and everyone of us would feel ashamed to wear the uniform! The Minister may perhaps be good as a Minister, but as a general he is not merely bad but execrable, writes Wolzogen.

Rumyántsev: “The salons of Anna Pávlovna and Hélène remained just as they had been—the one seven and the other five years before”. He continues: “They talked with perplexity of Bonaparte’s successes just as before and saw in them and in the subservience shown to him by the European sovereigns a malicious conspiracy, the sole object of which was to cause unpleasantness and anxiety”. Anna Pávlovna’s circle of Hélène and Rumyántsev was enraptured by the enthusiasm of Plutarch’s praise of the deeds of the ancients. Prince Vasíli, who still occupied his former posts, formed a connecting link between these two circles. In that circle Napoleon’s attempts at conciliation were ridiculed sarcastically and very cleverly.

When Prince Kutúzov was appointed commander in chief of the Hungarian army, Prince Vasíli said: All dissensions are at an end! I am so glad, so delighted, at last we have a man! But on the twenty-fourth of July he was corrected by Field Marshal Saltykóv: Prince, they say he is blind. He sees well enough. Prince Kutúzov made it an absolute condition that the Tsarévich should not be with the army, says Prince Vasíli.

Anna Pávlovna: He sees well enough to see that our sovereign has given him full powers over all the armies and the whole region—powers no commander in chief ever had before. He is a second autocrat! Napoleon’s historian Thiers, like other of his historians, trying to justify his hero says that he was drawn to the walls of Moscow against his will. While this was taking place in Petersburg the French had already passed Smolénsk and were drawing nearer to Moscow. But owing to a conjunction of innumerable circumstances the Russians could not give battle till they reached Borodinó, seventy miles from Moscow.

The law of reciprocity comes in, confusing the whole matter. The Cossack Lavrúshka, the serf Denísov, rode up to Napoleon in an orderly’s jacket and on a French cavalry saddle, with a merry, and tipsy face. He was one of those coarse, bare-faced lackeys who have seen all sorts of things, consider it necessary to do everything in a mean and cunning way, are ready to render any sort of service to their master, and are keen at guessing their master’s baser impulses, especially those prompted by vanity and pettiness. Napoleon told him to ride by his side and began questioning him: “Yes, a Cossacks?”. But when Napoleon asked him whether the Russians thought they would beat Bonaparte or not, Lavrúshka screwed up his eyes and considered.

When Cossack Berthier met Napoleon Bonaparte at the Pyramids of Egypt in 1804, he heard him say to the Emperor: “If a battle takes place within the next three days the French will win, but if later, God knows what will happen”. Lelorgne d’Ideville translated these words without the last phrase. Napoleon did not smile, though he was evidently in good humor. Napoleon made him a present and had him set free “like a bird restored to its native fields” Thiers says. “As soon as Napoleon’s interpreter had spoken,” says Thiers, “the Cossack, seized by amazement, did not utter another word, but rode on, his eyes fixed on the conqueror whose fame had reached him across the steppes of the East.

He said he would remain at Bald Hills, where one of Russia’s oldest generals would be captured or killed, and that he would defend it to the last extremity. Princess Andrew then sent the princess and Dessalles with the little prince to Boguchárovo and back to Moscow. Princess Mary was not in Moscow and out of danger as Prince Andrew supposed.

 The morning after little Nicholas had left, the old prince donned his full uniform and prepared to visit the commander in chief.   It was becoming more and more dangerous to remain at Bald Hills, and next day they moved the prince to Boguchárovo, the doctor accompanying him. Princess Mary ran out to the porch, down the flower-bordered path, and into the avenue.  The doctor said it was due to physical causes, but Princess Mary thought he was trying to tell her something. Princess Mary felt a different world had now taken possession of her, a world of strenuous and free activity, quite opposed to the spiritual world in which she had been confined.

She could not pray, could not weep, and worldly cares came over her. Princess Mary spent the night of the fourteenth as usual, without undressing, in the room next to the one where the prince lay. She heard his groans and muttering, the creak of his bed, and the steps of Tíkhon and the doctor when they turned him over. Princess Mary saw and knew how unpleasant every sign of anxiety on his account was to him. What could have happened?

What did I want? I want his death! she cried with a feeling of loathing for herself. Princess Mary went out to the porch and saw carriages without horses and things being packed into the vehicles. Her father was lying on his back propped up high, with his small bony hands with their knotted purple veins lying on the quilt; his eye was awry and his brows and lips motionless.

She could not understand him, but tried to guess what he was saying. He said something, repeating the same words several times and making a series of mumbling sounds. So at least it seemed to Princess Mary. He closed his eyes and said: Russia has perished. They’ve destroyed her.

She could understand nothing, think of nothing and feel nothing, except passionate love for her father. When she had left the room he began speaking about his son, about the war, and about the Emperor. She thought he was speaking of Russia, or Prince Andrew, of herself, of his grandson, or of his own death, and so she could not guess his words. Princess Mary could no longer restrain herself and wept while she gazed at his face. Princess Mary returned to the garden and sat down on the grass at the foot of the slope by the pond, where no one could see her.

She was aroused by the sound of a woman’s footsteps running along the path; she rose and saw Dunyásha her maid, who was looking for her, and who stopped suddenly as if in alarm on seeing her mistress.  The old prince used to approve of them for their endurance at work when they came to Bald Hills to help with the harvest.  And hiding her face in her hands, Princess Mary sank into the arms of the doctor, who held her up. Prince Andrew’s last stay at Boguchárovo, when he introduced hospitals and schools and reduced the quitrent the peasants had to pay, had not softened their disposition but had on the contrary strengthened in them the traits of character the old prince called boorishness.  Rumors of war with Bonaparte and his invasion were connected in their minds with the end of the world and “pure freedom”.

There were very few resident landlords in the neighborhood and also very few domestic or literate serfs, and in the lives of the peasantry of those parts the mysterious undercurrents in the life of the Russian people, the causes and meaning of which are so baffling to contemporaries, were more clearly and strongly noticeable than among others.   Alpátych, who had reached Boguchárovo shortly before the old prince’s death, noticed an agitation among the peasants, and that contrary to what was happening in the Bald Hills district, where over a radius of forty miles all the peasants were moving away and leaving their villages to be devastated by the Cossacks, the peasants in the steppe region round Boguchárovo were, it was rumored, in touch with the French, received leaflets from them that passed from hand to hand, and did not migrate.   On the fifteenth, the day of the old prince’s death, the Marshal had insisted on Princess Mary’s leaving at once, as it was becoming dangerous.  Dron was one of those physically and mentally vigorous peasants who grow big beards as soon as they are of age and go on unchanged till they are sixty or seventy, without a gray hair or the loss of a tooth, as straight and strong at sixty as at thirty. Alpátych, arriving from the devastated Bald Hills estate, sent for his Dron on the day of the prince’s funeral.

Dron was made village Elder and overseer of Boguchárovo, and had since filled that post irreproachably for twenty-three years. The peasants feared him more than their master. Prince Andrew had ordered him to move all the people away and not leave them with the enemy, because they were a “traitor to the Tsar”. “The power is in your hands,” Dron rejoined sadly.  Without saying anything of this to the princess, Alpátych had his own belongings taken out of the carts which had arrived from Bald Hills and had those horses got ready for the princess’ carriages.  “What am I to do with the people?” said Dron.

Princess Mary lay on the sofa with her face to the wall, fingering the buttons of the leather cushion and seeing nothing but that cushion. Her confused thoughts were centered on the irrevocability of death and her own spiritual baseness, which she had not suspected, but which showed itself during her husband’s illness. (This was before his talk with Dron.)  It was Mademoiselle Bourienne in a black dress and weepers.   Princess Mary did not answer.  “You know, chère Marie,” said Mademoiselle Bourienne, “that we are in danger—are surrounded by the French.   “They probably recognized that I am French, by my name,” replied Mademoiselle Bourienne blushing. She handed this to the princess.  I should be given a small room as a favor, the soldiers would violate my father’s newly dug grave to steal his crosses and stars, they would tell me of their victories over the Russians, and would pretend to sympathize with my sorrow…” thought Princess Mary, not thinking her own thoughts but feeling bound to think like her father and her brother.

Mademoiselle Bourienne would do the honors of Boguchárovo for him.  Mademoiselle Bourienne’s statement that Alpátych was not at home, he had gone to the police took hold of Princess Mary. The demands of life, which had seemed to her annihilated by her father’s death, all at once rose before her with a new, previously unknown force and took possession of her. She paced the room, sending now for Michael Ivánovich and now for Tíkhon or Dron. “It’s all God’s scourge,” said Dron.

“It’s all God’s scourge,” he said. Princess Mary listened attentively to what he told her. “They probably think I am offering them the grain to bribe them to remain here, while I myself go away leaving them to the mercy of the French,” she thought. “What is a trick?” asked Princess Mary in surprise. Dron only sighed in reply.

The princess stopped.  Princess Mary tried to catch someone’s eye, but not a single eye in the crowd was turned to her. Why should we give up everything? We don’t agree. Don’t agree, said Princess Mary with a sad smile.

Having repeated her order to Dron to have horses ready for her departure next morning, she went to her room and remained alone with her own thoughts.  Princess Mary recalls the moment her father had his first stroke and was dragged along by his armpits through the garden at Bald Hills. She also recalls the night before he had the last stroke, when with a foreboding of disaster she had remained at home against his will. Princess Mary: “Even then he wanted to tell me what he told me the day he died,” she thought. “He had always thought what he said then”.

Princess Mary: I remember how he began talking to Tíkhon about Lise as if she were alive, and he shouted, ‘Fool!’. He was greatly depressed. Why didn’t I go in then? What could I have lost?

And Princess Mary uttered aloud the caressing word he said to her on the day of his death: “Dear-est!”. She tried to think of something else and to pray, but could do neither. The Russian rearguard commander was determined to get provisions to Boguchárovo before the French could get them. This question suddenly presented itself to her, and in answer she saw him before her with the expression that was on his face as he lay in his coffin with his chin bound up with a white handkerchief.   “Then you are Russians?” the peasant asked again.

“And is there a large force of you here?” said another, a short man, coming up. “Or perhaps they amuse your honor?” he said as he pointed at the old men with his free hand and gestured for them to leave.

When she saw his Russian face, and by his walk and the first words he uttered recognized him as a man of her own class, she glanced at him with her deep radiant look and began speaking in a voice that faltered and trembled with emotion.  Princess Mary was sitting helpless and bewildered in the large sitting room, when Rostóv was shown in.  It appeared that the princess’ offer of corn to the peasants the previous day, and her talk with Dron and at the meeting, had actually had so bad an effect that Dron had finally given up the keys and joined the peasants and had not appeared when Alpátych sent for him; and that in the morning when the princess gave orders to harness for her journey, the peasants had come in a large crowd to the barn and sent word that they would not let her leave the village: that there was an order not to move, and that they would unharness the horses.  Alpátych made up his mind: “I’ll show them; I’ll give it to them, the brigands!”. Princess Mary understood this and appreciated his delicacy.

Dron Alpátych, master of his offended feelings, kept pace with Rostóv at a gliding gait and said the peasants were obdurate and that it would be imprudent to “over-resist” them without an armed force. The peasants in the crowd were similarly impressed when they saw Rostov’s rapid, firm steps and resolute face. Some of the peasants said that these new arrivals were Russians and might take it amiss that the mistress was being detained.   Dron on the contrary retired to the rear and the crowd drew closer together. How can one talk to the masters like that?

What were you thinking of, you fool? said one of them to Princess Mary’s captors. “How can one talk to the masters like that?  “Eh, books, books!” said another peasant, bringing out Prince Andrew’s library cupboards.  Princess Mary thanked him with the whole expression of her face, radiant with gratitude and tenderness. “How can you speak so!” he blushingly replied to Princess Mary’s expressions of gratitude for her deliverance, as she termed what had occurred. His kind, honest eyes, with the tears rising in them when she herself had begun to cry as she spoke of her loss, did not leave her memory. Prince Andrew’s brother Rostóv became angry when he was rallied about Princess Bolkónskaya. Princess Mary saw the hand of Providence, Princess Mary thought as she looked out of the carriage window. Prince Andrew arrived at Tsárevo-Zaymíshche on the very day and at the very hour that Kutúzov was reviewing the troops for the first time. Two orderlies, a courier and a major-domo stood near by, some ten paces from Prince Andrew, as he sat down on the bench at the gate of the priest’s house. From the field beyond the village came now sounds of regimental music and the roar of many voices shouting “Hurrah” to the new commander in chief. The lieutenant colonel of hussars said: They say he weceives evewyone, thank God! … It’s awful with those sausage eaters!  Of late he had received so many new and very serious impressions—such as the retreat from Smolénsk, his visit to Bald Hills, and the recent news of his father’s death—and had experienced so many emotions, that for a long time past those memories had not entered his mind, and now that they did, they did not act on him with nearly their former strength.  He began explaining his plan to Prince Andrew. Well, good-by, General! Well, good-by, General,” he added, and rode into the yard past Prince Andrew and Denísov.

He drew his left foot out of the stirrup and, lurching with his whole body and puckering his face with the effort, raised it with difficulty onto the saddle, leaned on his knee, groaned, and slipped down into the arms of the Cossack soldiers. “I received news of his death, yesterday,” replied Prince Andrew abruptly. Well, what is it? A moment later a general with a portfolio under his arm really did appear, and it was Gen. Kiril Andréevich Denísov.  “Don’t go away,” he added, turning to Prince Andrew, who remained in the porch and listened to the general’s report.

Prince Andrew listened only because he had to, as one has to listen to the chanting of a service of prayer. All that Denísov said was clever and to the point. Prince Andrew watched the commander in chief’s face attentively. The only instruction Kutúzov gave of his own accord referred to looting by the Russian troops.

Prince Andrew told Kutúzov all he knew of his father’s death, and what he had seen at Bald Hills when he passed through it. I should be sorry to leave the regiment. If I decline the honor of being with you, believe me! replied Prince Andrew. Kutúzov glanced inquiringly at him.

I know your path is the path of honor. “I’ll tell you what to do,” he continued, as Prince Andrew still did not reply: “I will tell you what to do, and what I do.  And changing the subject, Kutúzov began to speak of the Turkish war and the peace that had been concluded.  Good-by, my dear boy! Prince Andrew went back to his regiment reassured as to the general course of affairs and the man it had been entrusted to him. And above all,” thought Prince Andrew, “one believes in him because he’s Russian, despite the novel by Genlis and the French proverbs, and because his voice shook when he said: ‘What they have brought us to!’ and had a sob in it when he said he would ‘make them eat horseflesh!'” On such feelings, more or less dimly shared by all, the unanimity and general approval were founded with which, despite court influences, the popular choice of Kutúzov as commander in chief was received.  After the Emperor had left Moscow, life flowed on there in its usual course. With the enemy’s approach to Moscow, the Moscovites’ view of their situation became even more frivolous. The one thing that recalled the patriotic fervor everyone had displayed during the Emperor’s stay was the call for contributions of men and money.

“‘What pleasure is there to be’ is not Russian!” “Another forfeit for a Gallicism,” said a Russian writer who was present.  “For Gallicism I won’t be responsible, like Prince Galítsyn, to engage a master to teach me Russian,” says Julie. “For caustique—I am guilty and will pay, and I am prepared to pay again for the pleasure of telling you the truth,” she says to the militia officer. Among those whom Julie’s guests happened to choose to gossip about were the Rostóvs, whose affairs were in a very bad way.

“I am going because. because everyone is going: and besides, I am not Joan of Arc or an Amazon,” said Countess Julie to her husband Pierre. “You don’t think Moscow is in danger?” asked the countess. “No, I don’t know anything about it,” replied Pierre, angrily. Julie Bolkónskaya: “Do you know that she has lost her father?”. Pierre: “Who excuses himself, accuses himself?”.

Do you know who rescued her? It is quite a romance. “”But how could one say that in Russian?  “”On the contrary, things seem satisfactory, ma cousine,” said Pierre in the bantering tone he habitually adopted toward her, always feeling uncomfortable in the role of her benefactor.”Satisfactory, indeed!  “But you have been misinformed,” said Pierre.

Russian General Kutúzov: “Please impress upon Leppich to be very careful where he descends for the first time, that he may not make a mistake and fall into the enemy’s hands”. Pierre: On his way home from Vorontsóvo, as he was passing the Bolótnoe Place Pierre, seeing a large crowd round the Lóbnoe Place, stopped and got out of his trap. A French cook accused of being a spy was being flogged. Judging by their faces they were both Frenchmen. As they drove along he shuddered and exclaimed several times so audibly that the coachman asked him:”What is your pleasure?”.

Pierre choked, his face puckered, and he turned hastily away, muttering something to himself as he went, and took his seat. On reaching home Pierre gave orders to Evstáfey, his head coachman, that he would leave that night for the army at Mozháysk.  There was not the least sense in it for either the French or the Russians.  What the result must be was quite obvious, and yet Napoleon offered and Kutúzov accepted that battle. Why and how were the battles of Shevárdino and Borodinó given and accepted?

Pierre could not say, and he did not try to determine for whom and for what he felt such particular delight in sacrificing everything.  For Kutúzov this was mathematically clear, as it is that if when playing draughts I have one man less and go on exchanging, I shall certainly lose, and therefore should not exchange. Napoleon’s historians tell us that from Smolénsk onwards he wished to stop, knew the danger of his extended position, and knew that the occupation of Moscow would not be the end of the campaign, and had not received a single reply to his repeated announcements of his wish to negotiate. In giving and accepting battle at Borodinó, Kutuzov acted involuntarily and irrationally, but later on, to fit what had occurred, the historians provided cunningly devised evidence of the foresight and genius of the generals. Napoleon’s historians themselves tell us that from Smolénsk onwards he wished to stop, knew the danger of his extended position, and knew that the occupation of Moscow would not be the end of the campaign, for he had seen at Smolénsk the state in which Russian towns were left to him, and had not received a single reply to his repeated announcements of his wish to negotiate.

All the historians describe the affair as follows:. The Russian army, they say, sought out for itself the best position for a general engagement and found such a position at Borodino. But it is all quite wrong, as anyone who cares to look into the matter can easily convince himself. The Russians did not stop at any one of these positions – for many reasons, among them being the popular demand for a battle had not yet expressed itself strongly enough, and for many other reasons – and passed many other positions better-placed. They did not stop at any one of these positions because Kutúzov did not wish to occupy a position he had not himself chosen, because the popular demand for a battle had not yet expressed itself strongly enough, and because Milorádovich had not yet arrived with the militia, and for many other reasons.

Not only did the Russians not fortify the position on the field of Borodinó to the left of, and at a right angle to, the highroad (that is, the position on which the battle took place), but never till the twenty-fifth of August, 1812, did they think that a battle might be fought there.  Redoubt was not an advanced post of the position where the battle of Borodinó was fought. There were no entrenchments there by the twenty fifth and that those begun on the twenty-fifth and twenty-sixth were not completed, and that redoubt was quite senseless in front of the highroad – why was it more strongly fortified than any other post? Thirdly, as proof that the position on which the battle was fought had not been foreseen and that the Shevárdino Redoubt was not an advanced post of that position, we have the fact that up to the twenty-fifth, Barclay de Tolly and Bagratión were convinced that the Shevárdino Redoubt was the left flank of the position, and that Kutúzov himself in his report, written in hot haste after the battle, speaks of the Shevárdino Redoubt as the left flank of the position.

The battle of the twenty-sixth of August took place on a plain between Utítsa, Semënovsk, and Borodinó. Napoleon, riding to Valúevo on the twenty-fourth, did not see (as the history books say he did) the position of the Russians from Utítsa to Borodinó (he could not have seen that position because it did not exist), nor did he see an advanced post of the Russian army, but while pursuing the Russian rearguard he came upon the left flank of the Russian position—at the Shevárdino Redoubt—and unexpectedly for the Russians moved his army across the Kolochá.  If Napoleon hadn’t ridden out on the evening of the 20-fourth to the Kolochá, and had he not then ordered an immediate attack on the Shevárdino Redoubt, the engagement would have taken place on the twenty-fifth, in the position we intended and had fortified. But as the attack on our left flank took place in the evening after the retreat of our rear guard, and as the Russian commanders did not wish, or were not in time, to begin a general engagement then, the first and chief action of the battle of Borodinó was already lost. The Russians lost their position on the left flank and were forced to move their forces from right to left during the battle.

This caused them to oppose the entire French army launched against their left flank with but half as many men. The battle of Borodinó was not fought on a chosen and entrenched position with forces only slightly weaker than those of the enemy, but, as a result of the loss of the Shevárdino Redoubt, the Russians fought the battle of Borodinó on an open and almost unentrenched position, with forces only half as numerous as the French; that is to say, under conditions in which it was not merely unthinkable to fight for ten hours and secure an indecisive result, but unthinkable to keep an army even from complete disintegration and flight.   Almost all of them stared with naïve, childlike curiosity at Pierre’s white hat and green swallow-tail coat. Pierre was so deep in thought that he did not hear the question. He was looking at the cavalry regiment that had met the convoy of wounded, now at the cart by which he was standing, in which two wounded men were sitting and one was lying.

The cavalry singers were passing close by:Ah lost, quite lost, is my head so keen, Living in a foreign land. The doctor advised him to apply directly to the commander of the corps: “Why should you be God knows where out of sight, during the battle?”. Pierre replied: “On my honor I’m up to here!”. The doctor advised him to apply direct to Kutúzov. “They want the whole nation to fall on them,” said one of the soldiers at Mozháysk.

Pierre was struck by the solemnity and importance of the moment. Nowhere could he find what he had expected, but only fields, meadows, troops, woods, villages, mounds, and streams; and try as he would he could descry no military “position,” nor could he even distinguish our troops from the enemy’s. Where?” asked Pierre. And over there? Pierre pointed to a knoll on the left, near which some troops could be seen. Those are ours. (It was the Shevárdino Redoubt.)  “Oh, those damned fellows!” muttered the officer who followed Pierre as he ran past the men at work on the battery. The church procession was coming up the hill from Borodinó to meet the army. One general waited until the end of the service to arouse the patriotism of the Russian people. Standing among the crowd of peasants, Pierre recognized several acquaintances among these notables, but did not look at them—his whole attention was absorbed in watching the serious expression on the faces of the crowd of soldiers and militiamen who were all gazing eagerly at the icon.  Pierre could hear heads bowed and sighs and the sound men made as they crossed themselves being heard. It was Kutúzov, who had been riding round the position and on his way back to Tatárinova had stopped where the service was being held.

Behind Kutúzov was Bennigsen and the suite.  Pierre looked round.   You see…” but Borís did not finish, for at that moment Kaysárov, Kutúzov’s adjutant, came up to Pierre.  “Prince Andrew’s?  “It is not at all what Count Bennigsen intended.  Pierre Borís was full of nervous vivacity all day as he waited for Kutúzov to be destroyed and the power pass to Bennigsen. He had not time to answer all the questions about Moscow that were showered upon him, or to listen to all that was told him. The faces all expressed animation and apprehension, but it seemed to Pierre that the cause of the excitement lay chiefly in questions of personal success. What heroism, Count. When Pierre had left Kutúzov, Dólokhov came up to him and took his hand. Borís said a few words to his general, and Count Bennigsen turned to Pierre and proposed that he should ride with him along the line. Half an hour later Kutúzov left for Tatárinova, and Bennigsen and his suite, with Pierre among them, set out on their ride along the line.  They came to a redoubt, as yet unnamed, which afterwards became known as the Raévski Redoubt, or the Knoll Battery, but he paid no special attention to it. He did not know that it would become more memorable to him than any other spot on the plain of Borodi. At the flèches Bennigsen stopped and began looking at the Shevárdino Redoubt opposite, which had been ours the day before and where several horsemen could be descried.   This disposition on the left flank increased Pierre’s doubt of his own capacity to understand military matters.  Here, at the extreme left flank, Bennigsen talked a great deal and with much heat, and, as it seemed to Pierre, gave orders of great military importance.  On the eve of battle, Prince Andrew lay leaning on his elbow in a broken-down shed. He could see a row of birches with their lower branches lopped off, a field on which shocks of oats were standing, and some bushes near which rose the smoke of campfires. Prince Andrew knew that tomorrow’s battle would be the most terrible of all he had taken part in.  Princess Mary: “Tomorrow I shall be killed, perhaps not even by a Frenchman but by one of our own men, by a soldier discharging a musket close to my ear as one of them did yesterday, and the French will come and take me by head and heels and fling me into a hole that I may not stink under their noses”. He was about to dismiss them when he heard a lisping voice behind the shed: “Devil take it!”. Prince Andrew looked out of the shed and saw Pierre, who had tripped over a pole on the ground and had nearly fallen, coming his way.

“Why so?” asked Pierre. Prince Andrew interrupted him. In Moscow they are saying heaven knows what about him….  Timókhin looked about in confusion, not knowing what or how to answer such a question.  “Why, so as not to lay waste the country we were abandoning to the enemy,” said Prince Andrew with venomous irony.

“And they say he’s a skillful commander,” rejoined Pierre. Prince Andrew: “If things depended on arrangements made by the staff, I should be there making arrangements, but instead of that I have the honor to serve here in the regiment with these gentlemen, and I consider that on us tomorrow’s battle will depend and not on those others”. Pierre looked at him in surprise. “On the feeling that is in me and in him,” he pointed to Timókhin, “and in each soldier.” Prince Andrew: Why did we lose the battle at Austerlitz? The French losses were almost equal to ours, but very early we said to ourselves that we were losing the battle, and we did lose it.

Prince Andrew continued: We wanted to get away from the battlefield as soon as we could. If we had not said that till the evening, heaven knows what might not have happened. But tomorrow we shan’t say it! Russian general: Tomorrow, happen what may, we shall win! That’s the truth, the real truth!

“At such a moment?” said Pierre reproachfully. That’s the truth, the real truth,” said Timókhin.  Prince Andrew snorted: “The French have destroyed my home and are on their way to destroy Moscow, they have outraged and are outraging me every moment!”. Pierre was about to start a conversation when they heard the clatter of three horses’ hoofs on the road. And so thinks Timókhin and the whole army.  The question that had perturbed Pierre on the Mozháysk hill and all that day now seemed to him quite clear and completely solved.  Prince Andrew said: As it is we have played at war—that’s what’s vile! We play at magnanimity and all that stuff. Prince Andrew, who had thought it was all the same to him whether or not Moscow was taken as Smolénsk had been, was suddenly checked in his speech by an unexpected cramp in his throat.  Prince Andrew: If there was none of this magnanimity in war, we should go to war only when it was worth while going to certain death, as now. And when there was a war, like this one, it would be war! And then the determination of the troops would be quite different! He went on: As it is now, war is the favorite pastime of the idle and frivolous. The military calling is the most highly honored. All the kings, except the Chinese, wear military uniforms, and he who kills most people receives the highest rewards. How does God above look at them and hear them? Then all these Westphalians and Hessians whom Napoleon is leading would not follow him into Russia, and we should not go to fight in Austria and Prussia without knowing why.  Before a battle one must have one’s sleep out, said Prince Andrew. Pierre concluded.  He interrupted her story to say: No, I can’t! I’m not telling it right; no, you don’t understand, though he really had understood all she wanted to say. She incoherently described the depths of the forest, her feelings, and a talk with a beekeeper she met, and he encouraged her by saying he did understand. Prince Andrew smiled now the same happy smile as then when he had looked into her eyes.  M. de Beausset, prefect of the French Emperor’s palace, arrived at Napoleon’s quarters at Valúevo with Colonel Fabvier. Prince Andrew jumped up as if someone had burned him, and again began pacing up and down in front of the shed. Another valet was sprinkling Eau de Cologne on the Emperor’s pampered body. Napoleon was dressed and came out with such unexpected rapidity that he had not time to finish arranging the surprise. He did not want to deprive them of the pleasure of giving him a surprise, so he called Fabvier to him, listening silently and with a stern frown to his account of the heroism and devotion of his troops fighting at Salamanca. “Sire, I expected nothing less than to find you at the gates of Moscow,” replied de Beausset. Ha, what’s this? asked the Emperor, noticing that all the courtiers were looking at something concealed under a cloth. It was a portrait of the son borne to Napoleon by the daughter of the Emperor of Austria, the boy whom everyone called “The King of Rome”. “You are fond of travel, and in three days you will see Moscow.  After breakfast Napoleon in de Beausset’s presence dictated his order of the day to the army: “Let our remotest posterity recall your achievements this day with pride, for he was in the great battle before Moscow!”. When Napoleon came out of the tent the shouting of the Guards before his son’s portrait grew still louder.

On the twenty-fifth of August, so his historians tell us, Napoleon spent the whole day on horseback inspecting the locality, considering plans submitted to him by his marshals, and personally giving commands to his generals. His dispositions for the battle were as follows: It was evident to anyone, military or not, that it was here the French should attack. At dawn the two new batteries established during the night on the plain occupied by the Prince d’Eckmühl will open fire on the opposing batteries of the enemy. General Sorbier must be ready at the first order to advance with all the howitzers of the Guard’s artillery against either one or other of the entrenchments. During the cannonade Prince Poniatowski is to advance through the wood and turn the enemy’s position.

They relate to Napoleon’s orders to deal with four points – not one of them could be carried out. Morand’s and Gibrard’s divisions will be directed against the redoubt and come into line with the rest of the forces. The vice-King’s division will occupy the village and cross by its three bridges.

Among them were: General Campan will move through the wood to seize the first fortification but was driven back, for on emerging from the wood it had to reform under grapeshot, of which Napoleon was unaware. The vice-King will occupy the village and cross by its three bridges, advancing to the same heights as Morand and Gérard’s divisions (for whose movements no directions are given) and coming into line with the rest of the forces. Napoleon had a bad cold on the eve of the battle of Borodinó. Historians say that if he had not had a cold, Russia would have been lost and the face of the world have been changed. Napoleon’s will to fight or not to fight was determined by all the wills of all those who took part in the events, and his influence on the course of these events is purely external and fictitious.

At the battle of Borodinó Napoleon shot at no one and killed no one. The massacre of St. Bartholomew was not due to Napoleon’s will, though he gave the order for it and thought it was done as a result of that order. Had Napoleon then forbidden them to fight the Russians, they would have killed him because it was inevitable. When they heard Napoleon’s proclamation offering them, as compensation for mutilation and death, the words of posterity about their battle before Moscow, they cried “Vive l’Empereur!”. Napoleon’s cold was not the cause of his dispositions and orders during the battle of Borodinó being as well-planned as on other occasions, it is true.

Napoleon did not direct the course of the battle, for none of his orders were executed and he did not know what was going on before him. The question whether he had or had not a cold has no more historic interest than the cold of the least of the transport soldiers. He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he was unable to sleep and awoke at three o’clock in the morning, loudly blowing his nose. Napoleon asked him. Napoleon gave orders for biscuits and rice to be served out to the regiments of the Guards, but Napoleon shook his head in dissatisfaction as if not believing that his order had been executed.

Napoleon ordered another glass to be brought for Rapp, and silently sipped his own. “Tomorrow we shall have to deal with Kutúzov!” he said.  On returning to Górki after having seen Prince Andrew, Pierre ordered his groom to get the horses ready and to call him early in the morning, and then immediately fell asleep behind a partition in a corner Borís had given up to him. Napoleon walked about in front of his tent, looked at the fires and listened to these sounds, and as he was passing a tall guardsman in a shaggy cap, who was standing sentinel before his tent and had drawn himself up like a black pillar at sight of the Emperor, Napoleon stopped in front of him. “Your excellency!” he kept shouting as he shook Pierre by the shoulder without looking at him.

Mounting the steps to the knoll Pierre looked at the scene before him, spellbound by beauty.   The smoke of the guns mingled with the rays of the morning sun reflected back like lightning from the water, from the dew, and from the bayonets of the troops. Pierre glanced round at the first cloud, which he had seen as a round compact ball, and in its place already were balloons of smoke floating to one side, and—”puff” (with a pause)—”puff, puff!”   “I’ll go there too, I too!” thought Pierre, and followed the general. All their faces were now shining with that latent warmth of feeling Pierre had noticed the day before and had fully understood after his talk with Prince Andrew. Despite the incessant firing going on there he had no idea that this was the field of battle.

Pierre saw that there was a bridge in front of him and that soldiers were doing something on both sides of it and in the meadow, among the rows of new-mown hay which he had taken no notice of amid the smoke of the campfires the day before. He did not notice the sound of the bullets whistling from every side, or the projectiles that flew over him, did not see the enemy on the other side of the river, and for a long time didn’t notice the killed and wounded, though many fell near him.  Pierre was about to ask, but seeing the stern expression of the adjutant who was also looking that way, he checked himself. It was known to the Russians as the Knoll Battery, and to the French as la grande redoute, la fatale redoute. “Don’t trouble about me,” said Pierre.

In fact, he found it one of the least significant parts of the field. Having reached the knoll, Pierre sat down at one end of a trench surrounding the battery and gazed at what was going on around him with an unconsciously happy smile.  But when they had convinced themselves that this man in the white hat was doing no harm, but either sat quietly on the slope of the trench with a shy smile or, politely making way for the soldiers, paced up and down the battery under fire as calmly as if he were on a boulevard, their feeling of hostile distrust gradually began to change into a kindly and bantering sympathy, such as soldiers feel for their dogs, cocks, goats, and in general for the animals that live with the regiment.   “Are you afraid, then?” said Pierre. “It’s the business of us soldiers.  Several soldiers gathered by the wall of the trench, looking out to see what was happening in front. He was entirely absorbed in watching this fire which he felt was flaming up in his own soul. “Oh, she nearly knocked our gentleman’s hat off!” cried the red-faced humorist, showing his teeth chaffing Pierre.  The ranks of the infantry disappeared amid the smoke but their long-drawn shout and rapid musketry firing could still be heard. No one any longer took notice of Pierre.  The soldiers handed up the charges, turned, loaded, and did their business with strained smartness.  On the right of the battery soldiers shouting “Hurrah!” were running not forwards but backwards. Pierre, who had not noticed these sounds before, now heard nothing else. A cannon ball struck the very end of the earthwork by which he was standing, crumbling down the earth. At the same instant he was dazzled by a great flash of flame and immediately a deafening roar, crackling, and whistling made his ears tingle. On entering the earthwork he noticed that there were men doing something but that no shots were being fired from the battery. He saw the senior officer lying on the earth wall with his back turned as if he were examining something down below and that one of the soldiers he had noticed before was struggling forward shouting “Brothers!”. Pierre put out his hands and seized the man (a French officer) by the shoulder with one hand and by the throat with the other. They gazed with frightened eyes at one another’s unfamiliar faces and both were perplexed at what they had done and what they were to do next. He was met by a dense crowd of Russian soldiers who, stumbling, tripping up, and shouting, ran merrily and wildly toward the battery. The French who had occupied the battery fled, and our troops shouting “Hurrah!” pursued them so far beyond the battery that it was difficult to call them back. Pierre again went up onto the knoll where he had spent over an hour, and of that family circle he did not find a single one.

The battle of Borodinó was fought on an open space visible from both sides and was fought in the simplest and most artless way. Beyond that space there was, on the one side, a demonstration made by the Russians with Uvárov’s cavalry at midday, and on the other side, beyond Utítsa, Poniatowski’s collision with Túchkov; but these two were detached and feeble actions in comparison with what took place in the center of the battlefield. From the Shevárdino Redoubt where Napoleon was standing the flèches were two thirds of a mile away, so that Napoleon could not see what was happening there. He saw smoke and men, sometimes his own and sometimes Russians, but when he looked again with the naked eye, he could not tell where what he had seen was. From the battlefield adjutants he had sent out, and orderlies from his marshals, kept galloping up to Napoleon with reports of the progress of the action, but all these reports were false.

The bridge over the Kolochá had been retaken by the Russians and burned before Pierre had been present. He descended the knoll and began walking up and down before it. The marshals and generals made their own arrangements without asking Napoleon and issued orders where and in what direction to fire and where cavalry should gallop and infantry should run. Soldiers ordered to advance ran back on meeting grapeshot; soldiers ordered to remain where they were, suddenly, seeing Russians unexpectedly before them, sometimes rushed back and sometimes forward, and the cavalry dashed without orders in pursuit of the flying Russians.  In the heat of the Battle of Waterloo, all orders were given by officers on the spot nearest to the units concerned, without asking either Ney, Davout, or Murat, much less Napoleon.

The infantry moved in the same way, sometimes running to quite other places than those they were ordered to go to. All their rushing and galloping at one another did little harm, the harm of disablement and death was caused by the balls and bullets that flew over the fields. Napoleon sat at the foot of the knoll, drinking punch, when Murat’s adjutant galloped up with an assurance that the Russians would be routed if His Majesty would let him have another division. Napoleon shrugged his shoulders and continued to pace up and down without replying. In the midst of this conversation, which was beginning to interest Napoleon, Berthier’s eyes turned to look at a general with a suite; it was Belliard.

“Now then, what do you want?” asked Napoleon in the tone of a man irritated at being continually disturbed. The Emperor was angry that the Russians were holding their position and maintaining a hellish fire under which the French army was melting away. The adjutant galloped to Claparède’s division and a few minutes later the Young Guards stationed behind the knoll moved forward.  Despite news of the capture of the flèches, Napoleon saw that this was not the same as what had happened in his former battles with the Russians. He was experiencing a feeling of depression like that of an ever-lucky gambler who finds that the more he considers his play the more surely he loses.

Napoleon sat silently on a campstool below the knoll, with head bowed and elbows on his knees. The Russians might fall on his left wing, might break through his center, he himself might be killed by a stray cannon ball. Berthier approached and suggested that they should ride along the line to ascertain the position of affairs. The Russians stood in serried ranks behind Semënovsk village and its knoll, and their guns boomed incessantly along their line. It was no longer a battle: it was a continuous slaughter which could be of no avail either to the French or the Russians.

On the rug-covered bench where Pierre had seen him in the morning sat Kutúzov, his gray head hanging, his heavy body relaxed. One of the generals rode up to Napoleon and ventured to offer to lead the Old Guard into action.  Kutúzov’s general expression was one of concentrated quiet attention, and his face wore a strained look as if he found it difficult to master the fatigue of his old and feeble body. “Yes, yes: go, dear boy, and have a look,” he would say to one or another of those about him; or, “No, don’t, we’d better wait”. He listened to the reports that were brought him and gave directions when his subordinates demanded that of him.

Still, it is better to wait before we rejoice. The attack directed by Napoleon against our left flank had been several times repulsed.  Kutúzov was in Górki, near the center of the Russian position.  “Der alte Herr” (as in their own set the Germans called Kutúzov) “is making himself very comfortable,” thought Wolzogen. He left it to Russians to make an idol of this useless old man, but that he knew whom he was dealing with.

As a high-trained military man, he left it up to “the old gentleman” to report the position of affairs on the left flank as Barclay had ordered him to and as he himself had seen and understood it. When Kutúzov arrived on the knoll of Borodinó, he was met by Raévski, who had spent the whole day at the most important part of the field. “Ah, here he is, my hero!” he said in French to a portly, handsome, dark-haired general. He then ordered his adjutant to write out the order of the day and announce that tomorrow we attack.

Prince Andrew’s regiment was among the reserves which till after one o’clock were stationed inactive behind Semënovsk, under heavy artillery fire. On learning that tomorrow they were to attack the enemy, and hearing from the highest quarters a confirmation of what they wanted to believe, the men felt comforted and inspirited. With each blow less and less chance of life remained for those not yet killed. The regiment stood in columns of battalion, three hundred paces apart, but nevertheless the men were always in one and the same mood. Talk was rarely heard in the ranks, and it ceased altogether every time the thud of a successful shot and the cry of “stretchers!” was heard.

Several tens of thousands of the slain lay in diverse postures and various uniforms on the fields and meadows belonging to the Davýdov family and to the crown serfs—those fields and meadows where for hundreds of years the peasants of Borodinó, Górki, Shevárdino, and Semënovsk had reaped their harvests and pastured their cattle.  At the beginning of the battle they stood blocking the way to Moscow and they still did so as much as at the beginning. The Russians did not make an effort to drive the French from their positions because they were not attacking the French. Some historians say that Napoleon need only have used his Old Guards, who were intact, and the battle would have been won. Napoleon did not give his Guards, not because he did not want to, but because it could not be done.

The French should have attacked the Russian army in order to drive it from its position, for as long as the Russians continued to block the road to Moscow as before, their efforts and losses were in vain. The moral force of the attacking French army was exhausted. Without further effort on the part of the Russians, it had to perish, bleeding from the mortal wound it had received in the battle. The direct consequence of this was Napoleon’s flight from Moscow and his retreat along the old Smolénsk road.

Summary of Book 11

Aristotle: Absolute continuity of motion is not comprehensible to man only when he examines arbitrarily selected elements of that motion. Aristotle: By adopting smaller and smaller elements of motion we only approach a solution of the problem, but never reach it. Only when we have admitted the conception of the infinitely small, and the resulting geometrical progression with a common ratio of one tenth, and have found the sum of this progression to infinity. To understand the laws of history, man’s mind postulates arbitrary and disconnected units. The first method of history is to take an arbitrarily selected series of continuous events and examine it apart from others.

The second method is to consider the actions of some one man as equivalent to the sum of many individual wills. The historians, replying to this question, lay before us the sayings and doings of a few dozen men in a building in the city of Paris, calling these sayings and doings “the Revolution”; then they give a detailed biography of Napoleon and of certain people favorable or hostile to him; tell of the influence some of these people had on others, and say: that is why this movement took place and those are its laws. The mind of man refuses to believe this explanation, because in it a weaker phenomenon is taken as the cause of a stronger one. Every time there has been a revolution there have been conquerors, says history. To study the laws of history we must completely change the subject of our observation, and study the common, infinitesimally small elements by which the masses are moved.

The peasants say that a cold wind blows in late spring because the oaks are budding, and really every spring cold winds do blow when the oak is budding. I cannot agree with the peasants that the unfolding of the oak buds is the cause of the cold wind, for the force of the wind is beyond the influence of the buds. The French army pushed on to Moscow, its impetus increasing as it neared its aim, just as the velocity of a falling body increases as it approaches the earth. At Borodinó a collision took place, but the Russian army retreated immediately after the collision. Napoleon’s army reached Moscow and there was not a single battle for five weeks after that.

The Russians fled back to Smolénsk, beyond the Berëzina, beyond Vílna, and farther still. They made a dash for the Kalúga road, and (after a victory)  the field of conflict again remained theirs. It was impossible to give battle before information had been collected and the wounded gathered in. The French army advanced of itself upon the Russians, carried forward by the force of its own momentum. Kutúzov’s wish was to attack next day, and the whole army desired to do so.

But to make an attack the wish is not sufficient, there must also be a possibility of doing it, and that possibility did not exist. And the troops retired one more, last, day’s march, and abandoned Moscow to the enemy. When the French army drew near Moscow, the force of circumstances compelled it to retire beyond Moscow. Kutúzov should have moved his army to the Kalúga road long before reaching Filí, and that somebody actually submitted such a proposal to him. The commander in chief is never dealing with the beginning of any event—the position from which we always contemplate it.

He never can at any moment consider the whole import of an event that is occurring. Moment by moment the event is imperceptibly shaping itself, and at every moment he is in the midst of a most complex play of intrigues, worries and contingencies. Why did he not retire at once by the Kalúga road, abandoning Moscow?  The commander in chief’s business is to choose one of these projects and events and time do not wait. On the twenty-eighth it is suggested to him to cross to the Kalúga road, but just then an adjutant gallops up from Milorádovich asking whether he is to engage the French or retire.

An order must be given him at once, that instant. When had that question been settled? At Drissa and at Smolénsk and most palpably of all on the 20-fourth of August at Filí. People accustomed to misunderstand or to forget these inevitable conditions of a commander in chief’s actions describe to us, for instance, the position of the army at Filí and assume that the commander in chief could, on the first of September, quite freely decide whether to abandon Moscow or defend it; whereas, with the Russian army less than four miles from Moscow, no such question existed.  On the Poklónny Hill, four miles from the Dorogomílov gate of Moscow, Kutúzov got out of his carriage and sat down on a bench by the roadside.

A great crowd of generals gathered around him, and Count Rostopchín, who had come out from Moscow, joined them. They discussed the advantages and disadvantages of the position, the state of the army, the plans suggested, the situation of Moscow and military questions generally. Russian commander Kutúzov saw that to defend Moscow was a physical impossibility in the full meaning of the words so utterly impossible. French general Crosart described the battle of Salamanca as being described by Crosart, a newly-arrived Frenchman in a Spanish uniform. Bennigsen, who had chosen the position, showed his Russian patriotism by insisting that Moscow must be defended. The question for him now was: “Have I really allowed Napoleon to reach Moscow, and when did I do so?  His granddaughter Malásha looked down from the oven with shy delight at the faces of the generals and their insignias. “Granddad” Kutúzov sat apart in a dark corner behind the oven as they gathered for the meeting. They waited for him from four till six o’clock and did not begin their deliberations until he was out of the house. Bennigsen: Is it better to give up Moscow without a battle, or by accepting battle to risk losing the army as well as Moscow? That is the question on which I want your opinion, and he sank back in his chair. Ermólov, Dokhtúrov, and Raévski agreed with Bennigsen that a defensive battle at Filí was impossible, but imbued with Russian patriotism and the love of Moscow, he proposed to move troops from the right to the left flank and attack the French right flank the following day. Malásha, who kept her eyes fixed on what was going on before her, understood the meaning of the council differently. She saw that they grew spiteful when they spoke to one another, and in her heart she sided with “Granddad”. The other generals, leaving aside the question of Moscow, spoke of the direction the army should take in its retreat. What so affected him was Kutúzov’s calm and quiet comment on the advantage or disadvantage of Bennigsen’s proposal to move troops by night from the right to the left flank to attack the French right wing.

Malásha, who had long been expected for supper, climbed carefully backwards down from the oven, and slipped between the legs of the generals she darted out of the room. After the battle of Borodinó the abandonment and burning of Moscow was as inevitable as the retreat of the army beyond Moscow without fighting. Every Russian might have predicted it, not by reasoning but by the feeling implanted in each of us and in our fathers. Count Rostopchín: The consciousness that this would be so and would always be so was and is present in the heart of every Russian. The people awaited the enemy unconcernedly, did not riot or become excited or tear anyone to pieces, but faced its fate, feeling within it the strength to find what it should do at that most difficult moment.

And as soon as the enemy drew near the wealthy classes went away abandoning their property, while the poorer remained and burned and destroyed what was left. He continued: It is impossible to suppose that Napoleon had scared them by his accounts of horrors Napoleon had committed in conquered countries. The first people to go away were the rich educated people who knew quite well that Vienna and Berlin had remained intact and that during Napoleon’s occupation the inhabitants had spent their time pleasantly in the company of the charming Frenchmen whom the Russians, and especially the Russian ladies, then liked so much. Why did they go? Because they left, knowing it had to be done?

And a consciousness of this, and a foreboding that Moscow would be taken, was present in Russian Moscow society in 1812.  They went away without thinking of the tremendous significance of that immense and wealthy city being given over to destruction, for a great city with wooden buildings was certain when abandoned by its inhabitants to be burned. For Russians there could be no question as to whether things would go well or ill under French rule in Moscow. It was out of the question to be under French control, it would be the worst thing that could happen. They knew that it was for the army to fight, and that if it could not succeed it would not do to take young ladies and house serfs to the Three Hills quarter of Moscow to fight Napoleon, and that they must go away, sorry as they were to abandon their property to destruction.

Peter Kirílych. Pierre thought the mash was more delicious than any food he had ever tasted. He nearly forgot his inn was at the bottom of the hill and that he had passed it. Scarcely had Pierre laid his head on the pillow before he felt himself falling asleep, but suddenly, almost with the distinctness of reality, he heard the boom, boom, boom of firing, the thud of projectiles, groans and cries, and smelled blood and powder, and a feeling of horror and dread of death seized him.  Filled with fright he opened his eyes and lifted his head from under his cloak.

“Oh, what a terrible thing is fear, and how shamefully I yielded to it!” he thought as he felt himself falling asleep. How to cast off all the superfluous, devilish burden of my outer man? There was a time when I could have run away from my father, as I wanted to. Or I might have been sent as a soldier after the duel with Dólokhov! thought Pierre as he fell asleep, to be imbued by what makes them what they are.

When Pierre thought of his benefactor’s words: “Simplicity is submission to the will of God; you cannot escape from Him”. He had never, it seemed to him, been able to think and express his thoughts like that when awake. Afterwards when he recalled those thoughts Pierre was convinced that someone outside himself had spoken them, though the impressions of that day had evoked them. Pierre felt with horror that the meaning of all he had seen and thought in the dream had been destroyed. The groom, the coachman, and the innkeeper told Pierre that an officer had come with news that the French were already near Mozháysk and that our men were leaving it.

CHAPTER XOn the thirtieth of August Pierre reached Moscow.  As he entered the reception room a courier from the army came out of the count’s private room. The courier made a despairing gesture and passed through the room. Though this news was being concealed from the inhabitants, the officials—the heads of the various government departments—knew that Moscow would soon be in the enemy’s hands, just as Count Rostopchín himself knew it, and to escape personal responsibility they had all come to the governor to ask how they were to deal with their various departments. “What is it?” asked Pierre.

His Serene Highness says he will defend Moscow to the last drop of blood. “Do not be upset, brothers, that the law courts are closed; things have to be put in order, and we will deal with villains in our own way,” says Pierre. An ax will be useful, a hunting spear not bad, but a three-pronged fork will be best of all: a Frenchman is no heavier than a sheaf of rye.  “One of my eyes was sore but now I am on the lookout with both,” said the adjutant of the Countess of Vereshchágin to her husband Pierre. “And what does he mean by that?” asked Pierre, incredulous. The count had a sty and was very much upset when people came to ask what was the matter with him, he replied.

They asked him, ‘Who gave it you?’. And the point is that we knew whom he had it from. But evidently they had come to some understanding, when he replied: ‘From no one; I made it up myself’ – and so it was reported to the count, who sent for the man. Pierre: How could you have written it yourself?

You don’t even know French! Count Rostopchín: I am well informed, my friend, but I am aware that there are Masons and I hope that you are not one of those who on pretense of saving mankind wish to ruin Russia. Between ourselves, mon cher, do you belong to the Masons? he goes on severely, as though there were something wrong about it which he nevertheless intended to pardon. Pierre: “Yes, I am a Mason,” he says.

The commander in chief: “There are reasons for this and that I could not have exiled the Postmaster had he not been a harmful person”. If he is accused of circulating Napoleon’s proclamation it is not proved that he did so, said Pierre without looking at Rostopchín, and Vereshchágin. I beg you to leave the town and break off all communication with such men as Klyucharëv. And I will knock the nonsense out of anybody—and I will be punished as he was shouting at Bezúkhov. When he reached home it was already getting dark.

Some eight people had come to see him that evening: the secretary of a committee, the colonel of his battalion, his steward, his major-domo, and various petitioners. Pierre did not understand and was not interested in any of these questions and only answered them in order to get rid of these people. The countess has fallen into the clutches of the holy fathers of the Society of Jesus, thought Pierre. Simplicity is submission to God. One must forget and understand.

The Rostóvs remained in Moscow till the first of September, that is, till the eve of the enemy’s entry into the city. Count Pétya joined Obolénski’s regiment of Cossacks and left for Bélaya Tsérkov where that regiment was forming. A dozen persons who had business with Pierre were awaiting him in the drawing room.  One must forget and understand…”   He got Pétya transferred from Obolénski’s regiment to Bezúkhov’s, which was in training near Moscow.  As long as Nicholas alone was in danger the countess imagined that she loved her first-born more than all her other children and even reproached herself for it; but when her youngest: the scapegrace who had been bad at lessons, was always breaking things in the house and making himself a nuisance to everybody, that snub-nosed Pétya with his merry black eyes and fresh rosy cheeks where soft down was just beginning to show—when he was thrown amid those big, dreadful, cruel men who were fighting somewhere about something and apparently finding pleasure in it—then his mother thought she loved him more, much more, than all her other children.  At the end of August the Rostóvs received another letter from Nicholas.   From the twenty-eighth till the thirty-first all Moscow was in a bustle and commotion. Every day thousands of men wounded at Borodinó were brought in by the Dorogomílov gate and taken to various parts of Moscow, and thousands of carts conveyed the inhabitants and their possessions out by the other gates. In spite of Rostopchín’s broadsheets, or because of them or independently of them, the strangest and most contradictory rumors were current in the town. Some said there had been another battle after Borodino at which the French had been routed, while others on the contrary reported that the Russian army had been destroyed. It was felt that everything would suddenly break up and change, but up to the first of September nothing had done so. The countess was jealous of Pétya who was always running away from her, and of Natásha, with whom he spent all his time. Despite her grief, or just because of it, she took on herself all the difficult work of directing the storing and packing of their things. They were gay, not because there was any reason to laugh, but because gaiety and mirth were in their hearts. Natásha was gay because she had been sad too long and now nothing reminded her of the cause of her sadness and because she was feeling well. Above all, they were gay because there was a war near Moscow, there would be fighting at the town gates, arms were being given out, everybody was escaping—going away somewhere, and in general something extraordinary was happening, and that is always exciting, especially to the young. The Countess of Rostóv had a headache brought on by all the noise and turmoil and was lying down with a vinegar compress on her head. Pétya was not at home, he had gone to visit a friend with whom he intended to obtain a transfer from the militia to the active army. Sónya was in the ballroom looking after the packing of the glass and china. Natásha got up and looked out of the window to see an enormously long row of carts full of wounded men stopped in the street. The housekeeper, the old nurse, the cooks, coachmen, maids, footmen, postilions, and scullions stood at the gate, staring at the wounded. “I don’t know if it would be allowed,” replied the officer in a weak voice. “Here is our commanding officer, ask him,” said the major. “Then you have nobody in Moscow?” she was saying.  “You would be more comfortable somewhere in a house…

in ours, for instance… the family are leaving.” Natásha Rostóvs and Mávra Kuzmínichna tried to get as many of the wounded into their yard. Natásha ran into the house and went on tiptoe through the half-open door into the sitting room, where there was a smell of vinegar and Hoffman’s drops. Her father returned with bad news: “The Club is closed and the police are leaving”. At dinner Pétya having returned home told them the news he had heard.  The countess was so frightened that she implored him with tears to take her away, that very night if possible. At first her intervention in the business of packing was received skeptically; but she resolutely and passionately demanded obedience, grew angry and nearly cried because they did not heed her. Natásha insisted on having her own way; she packed, repacked, pressed, made them both press on the lid of the case containing the top one, and managed to get it closed.  We have a house of our own in Moscow, but it’s a long way from here, and there’s nobody living in it.”

Moscow’s last day had come.  Serfs thought to have lost three out of their retinue during the night, but nothing was stolen; and as to the value of their possessions, the thirty peasant carts that had come in from their estates proved to be extremely valuable and they were offered enormous sums of money for them. Not only were huge sums offered for the horses and carts, but on the previous evening and early in the morning of the first of September, orderlies and servants sent by wounded officers came to the Rostóvs’ and wounded men dragged themselves there from the Rostóvs’ and from neighboring houses where they were accommodated, entreating the servants to try to get them a lift out of Moscow.  On waking up that morning Count Ilyá Rostóv left his bedroom softly, so as not to wake the countess who had fallen asleep only toward morning, and came out to the porch in his lilac silk dressing gown. On seeing the count the major-domo made a significant and stern gesture to them both to go away.

In the yard at the gates, at the window of the wings, wounded officers and their orderlies were to be seen. The count went into the house with him, repeating his order not to refuse the wounded who asked for a lift. The countess Matrëna Timoféevna was woken by a maid and learned that Madame Schoss had been taken out of the carts to make room for wounded men whom the count in the simplicity of his heart had ordered that they should take with them. The countess sent for her husband and said: Count, you have managed matters so that we are getting nothing for the house, and now you wish to throw away all our—all the children’s property? Where’s the hurry?

He had nothing to do in Moscow, but he had noticed that everyone in the army was asking for leave to visit Moscow and had something to do there.  “But I heard,” said Natásha.  Russia is not in Moscow, she lives in the hearts of her sons, says Countess Natásha Berg to her husband Berg. “Russia is burning with a spirit of heroism and the leaders of the Russian army have assembled in council,” Berg says. The countess’s husband replies: “There are no words worthy to do it justice, Papa!”.

Pétya was in the porch, engaged in giving out weapons to the servants who were to leave Moscow.  Pétya asked Natásha. “Ask the countess, I don’t give orders.” The count stood by the window and listened without turning round; the count sniffed and put his face closer to the window. …” asked Natásha.  But the countess pushed her daughter away and went up to her husband. When they understood that order the servants set eagerly to work at the new task of placing the wounded in the carts. “What’s in it?” asked Natásha. “Let them have my wardrobe cart,” said the countess.   “The ways of God are past finding out!” she thought, feeling that the Almighty Hand, hitherto unseen, was becoming manifest in all that was now taking place. “Natásha?” she murmured. With the help of a maid she was arranging a seat for the countess in the huge high coach that stood at the entrance. What has happened? If everything is ready let us start. Then the count embraced Mávra Kuzmínichna and Vasílich, who were to remain in Moscow, and while they caught at his hand and kissed his shoulder he patted their backs lightly with some vaguely affectionate and comforting words.  Natásha looked at her inquiringly. And the countess bent over her reticule to hide her agitated face.  Efím, the coachman of the countess of Moscow, knew it would be some time yet before the order, “Be off, in God’s name!” would be given to him. He waited calmly for what would happen, with more patience than the horses, especially the near one, the chestnut Falcon, who was pawing the ground and champing his bit. At last all were seated, the carriage steps were folded and pulled up, the door was shut, somebody was sent for a traveling case, and the countess leaned out and said what she had to say. Then Efíma deliberately doffed his hat and began crossing himself. The postilion and all the other servants did the same. Rarely had Natásha experienced so joyful a feeling as now, sitting in the carriage beside the countess and gazing at the slowly receding walls of forsaken, agitated Moscow.  Suddenly she cried out in joyful surprise: Look! It’s Bezúkhov! What is the matter with you, Count? You are not like yourself, she asked. “Yes, in Moscow.

Pierre hesitated. “What?  How splendid!” said Natásha.  “What is the matter, Count?” asked the countess in a surprised and commiserating tone.

He felt that everything was now at an end, all was in confusion and crumbling to pieces, that nobody was right or wrong, the future held nothing, and there was no escape from this position. Pierre Bazdéev’s widow asked him to take charge of her husband’s books, as she herself was leaving for the country. When he woke up on the morning after his return to Moscow and his interview with Count Rostopchín, he could not for some time make out where he was and what was expected of him.   The man told him that arms were being distributed today at the Krémlin and that tomorrow everyone would be sent out beyond the Three Hills gates and a great battle would be fought there. “At home?” asked Pierre.

Gerásim, that sallow beardless old man Pierre had seen at Torzhók five years before with Joseph Bazdéev, came out in answer to his knock. Pierre knew that Makár Alexéevich was Joseph Bazdéev’s half-insane brother and a hard drinker. Be so good as to step in. Let us go in, said Gerásim. Pierre went into that gloomy study which he had entered with such trepidation in his benefactor’s lifetime.

He took out one of the most important, the holy of holies of the order.  The main army was on the other side of Moscow or beyond it. That same evening—without even asking himself what they were wanted for—he procured a coachman’s coat and cap for Pierre, and promised to get him the pistol next day.  At ten in the morning of the second of September Napoleon saw Moscow from the Poklónny Hill. Every Russian looking at Moscow feels her to be a mother; every foreigner who sees her, even if ignorant of her significance as the mother city, must feel her feminine character, and Napoleon felt it.

“Here she is, the reward for all those fainthearted men,” he reflected, glancing at the ancient capital of the Tsars’ once-beloved capital. But no, it can’t be true that I am in Moscow,” he suddenly thought.  Napoleon: On the ancient monuments of barbarism and despotism I will inscribe great words of justice and mercy. It is just this which Alexander will feel most painfully, I know him. Napoleon: Can it be true that I am in Moscow? Yes, there she lies. In his imagination he appointed days for assemblies at the palace of the Tsars, at which Russian notables and his own would mingle. He thought that as in Africa he had to put on a burnoose and sit in a mosque to become a member of a mosque, so he should do the same in Moscow. His speech was carried away by the magnanimity he intended to adopt toward Moscow. “He will have to be told, all the same,” said some gentlemen of the suite, “but, gentlemen…” They were not alarmed by the fact that Moscow had been abandoned by its inhabitants (grave as that fact seemed), but by the question how to tell the Emperor—without putting him in the terrible position of appearing ridiculous—that he had been awaiting the boyars so long in vain: that there were drunken mobs left in Moscow but no one else.  Meanwhile Moscow was empty. It was empty in the sense that a dying queenless hive is empty. One has only to observe that hive to realize that there is no longer any life in it. The smell and the sound that meet the beekeeper are not the same. In and out of the hive long black robber bees fly timidly and shiftily. They do not sting, but crawl away from danger. Instead of a neatly glued floor, swept by the bees with the fanning of their wings, there is a floor littered with bits of wax, excrement and dying bees scarcely moving their legs. All is neglected and foul. Black robber bees are swiftly and stealthily prowling about the combs, and the short home bees, shriveled and listless as if they were old, creep slowly about without trying to hinder the robbers, having lost all motive and all sense of life. Drones, bumblebees, wasps, and butterflies knock awkwardly against the walls of the hive in their flight. In another corner two old bees are languidly fighting, or cleaning themselves, or feeding one another, without themselves knowing whether they do it with friendly or hostile intent. When Napoleon was informed that Moscow was empty, he looked angrily at his informant, turned away, and silently continued to walk to and fro. In various corners of Moscow there still remained a few people aimlessly moving about, following their old habits and hardly aware of what they were doing. The coup de théâtre had not come off. Soldiers in uniforms and overcoats entered the Bazaar empty-handed and silently made their way out through its passages with bundles. Tradesmen and their assistants moved about among the soldiers quite bewildered. Drummers beat the muster call, but the roll of the drums did not make the soldiers run in the direction of the drum, but made them, on the contrary, run farther away. Where are you off to? … Where?… he shouted to three infantrymen without muskets who, holding up the skirts of their overcoats, were slipping past him into the Bazaar passage. A shopkeeper with red pimples on his cheeks near the nose, and a calm, persistent, calculating expression on his plump face, hurriedly and ostentatiously approached the officer, swinging his arms. “If you please, could not guards be placed if only to let us close the shop?” he said. He saw a cannon, infantry crossing the bridge, overturned carts and a child’s chair with its legs in the air. He also saw a peasant woman uttering piercing and desperate shrieks.

“The count—Count Ilyá Andréevich Rostóv.” Mávra Kuzmínichna went to the gate. Nothing’s cleared away down there and Vasílich is worn out.  What a pity I’ve missed Uncle! What a nice old woman! Where has she run off to?

And how am I to find the nearest way to overtake my regiment, which must by now be getting near the Rogózhski gate? thought he. Mávra Kuzmínichna grew abashed and confused.  Mávra Kuzmínichna watched as the officer ran almost at a trot through the deserted streets of the Varvárka to overtake his regiment. But she felt an unexpected flow of motherly tenderness and pity for the unknown officer.

He must keep order, keep the law, that’s what the government is there for. Am I not right, good Christians? asks the tall youth. Crowd shouts: Will they give up Moscow like this? They told you that for fun, and you believed it!

“We will do, completely do, and undo these scoundrels,” read the ukáse of Count Rostopchín. The people’s minds were tuned to a high pitch and this was too simple and needlessly comprehensible. They all stood despondent and silent as the last words were read out in the midst of complete silence. “Go on!” he ordered his coachman, and his horses increased their speed as they tried to catch the fleeing trap. Let him answer us!

n the evening of the first of September, after his interview with Kutúzov, Count Rostopchín had returned to Moscow mortified and offended because he had not been invited to attend the council of war, and because Kutúzov had paid no attention to his offer to take part in the defense of the city; amazed also at the novel outlook revealed to him at the camp, which treated the tranquillity of the capital and its patriotic fervor as not merely secondary but quite irrelevant and unimportant matters.  Count Rostopchín had known that Moscow would be abandoned after his interview with Kutúzov the previous day on the Poklónny Hill. He had also known that it was impossible to fight another battle, and since then the government property had been removed every night, and half the inhabitants had left the city with his own permission. Neither in Moscow nor anywhere in Russia did anything resembling an insurrection ever occur when the enemy entered a town.  The governor, though he had patriotic sentiments, was a sanguine and impulsive man who had no understanding at all of the people he supposed he was guiding.

Ever since the enemy’s entry into Smolénsk he had in imagination been playing the role of director of the popular feeling of “the heart of Russia.”  Count Rostopchín felt the ground slip away from under his feet and did not know what to do. He was absorbed in the role he had created for himself, though he knew it was coming, he did not believe it in his heart that Moscow would be abandoned. All his efforts had been directed at arousing in the masses his own feeling of patriotic hatred of the French.  I had Moscow firmly in hand.  Who has let things come to such a pass?” he ruminated.  When, awakened from his sleep, he received that cold, peremptory note from Kutúzov, he felt the more irritated the more he felt himself to blame.

Count Rostopchín had never seen the count so morose and irritable in Moscow. He shouted angrily at the governor: Do you expect me to give you two battalions—which we have not got—for a convoy? Release them, that’s all about it! Count Rostopchoin ordered his carriage to drive to Sokólniki, and sat in his study with folded hands, waiting for instructions. Count Rostopchín: In quiet and untroubled times it seems to every administrator that it is only by his efforts that the whole population under his rule is kept going, and in this consciousness of being indispensable every administrator finds the chief reward of his labor and efforts.

But as soon as a storm arises and the sea begins to heave and the ship begins to move, such a delusion is no longer possible. He went again to the balcony door, holding the handle, let it go again, and went to the window from which he had a better view of the whole crowd. The superintendent of police, whom the crowd had stopped, went in to see him at the same time as an adjutant who informed the count that the horses were harnessed. They were both pale, and the governor of police told the count they had executed the instructions he had received. Without saying a word Rostipchín rose and walked hastily to his drawing room.

Count Rostopchín thought: “This is what they have done with Russia!”. As often happens with passionate people, he was mastered by anger but was still seeking an object on which to vent it. An officer came hurriedly out of the front door, gave an order, and the dragoons formed up in line. “This is what they have done with Russia!  Count Rostopchín: “This man, Vereshchágin, is the scoundrel by whose doing Moscow is perishing”. Rostopchín: “He alone of all the Russians has disgraced the Russian name, he has caused Moscow to perish”. One God is above us both. I command it! and one of the soldiers hits him on the head with the blunt side of his saber. Dragoon Vereshchágin with a cry of horror, covering his head with his hands, rushed toward the crowd. The tall youth, against whom he stumbled, fell with him under the feet of the pressing, struggling crowd. Like the seventh and last wave that shatters a ship, that last irresistible wave burst from the rear and reached the front ranks and engulfed them all. Count Rostopchín suddenly turned pale and went with hurried steps and bent head, not knowing where and why, along the passage leading to the rooms on the ground floor of his country house in Sokólniki. The count’s face was white and he could not control the feverish twitching of his lower jaw. Two dragoons took it by its distorted legs and dragged it along the ground. Police officer, considering the presence of a corpse in his excellency’s courtyard unseemly, told police to take it away. Count Rostopchín thought of Vereshchágin’s words: “Count! One God is above us both!”. He thought of his social duties to his family and to the city entrusted to him, and of himself as governor, the representative of authority and of the Tsar. His reason did not reproach him for what he had done, but he found cause for self-satisfaction in having so successfully contrived to punish a criminal and pacify the mob. Count Rostopchín thought he had killed two birds with one stone: to appease the mob I gave them a victim and at the same time punished a miscreant, he thought. Half an hour later he was driving with his fast horses across the Sokólniki field, no longer thinking of what had occurred but considering what was to come. He was driving to the Yaúza bridge where he had heard that Kutúzov was. The lunatic’s solemn, gloomy face was thin and yellow, with its beard growing in uneven tufts; his black, agate pupils with saffron-yellow whites moved restlessly near the lower eyelids. At the end of it, in front of the almshouse and the lunatic asylum, some people in white and others like them were walking singly across the field shouting and gesticulating. Count Rostopchín thought of the moment he said: Thrice have they slain me, thrice have I risen from the dead. The kingdom of God will be overthrown. Thrice will I overthrow it and thrice re-establish it! It was by some accident I said them? He saw the frightened and then infuriated face of the dragoon who dealt the blow, the look of silent, timid reproach that boy in the fur-lined coat had turned upon him. And strange to say, the Governor of Moscow took up a Cossack whip and went to the bridge to drive on carts that blocked the way. It was hot.  Kutúzov looked at Rostopchín as if, not grasping what was said to him, he was trying to read something peculiar written at that moment on the face of the man addressing him.

Murat ordered four guns to be moved forward to fire at the gates of the citadel, le Kremlin, which had been barricaded. Toward four o’clock in the afternoon Murat’s troops were entering Moscow.  One of the Russians understood what was asked and several voices at once began answering the interpreter.   To all of them from the marshal to the least soldier, that place was not the Vozdvízhenka, Mokhaváya, or Kutáfyev Street, nor the Tróitsa Gate (places familiar in Moscow), but a new battlefield which would probably prove sanguinary.   Ten minutes after each regiment had entered a Moscow district, not a soldier or officer was left.

Like a monkey which puts its paw into the narrow neck of a jug, and having seized a handful of nuts will not open its fist for fear of losing what it holds, and therefore perishes, the French when they left Moscow had inevitably to perish. The soldiers spread irresistibly through the city in all directions from the Krémlin into which they had first marched. And Moscow engulfed the army ever deeper and deeper. There were masses of wealth and there seemed no end to it.  The French attributed the Fire of Moscow au patriotisme féroce de Rostopchíne, * the Russians to the barbarity of the French.

Moscow was burned because it found itself in a position in which any town built of wood was bound to burn, quite apart from whether it had, or had not, a hundred and thirty inferior fire engines. “Le patriotisme féroce de Rostopchíne” and the barbarity of the French were not to blame in the matter. Moscow was set on fire by the soldiers’ pipes, kitchens, and campfires, and by the carelessness of enemy soldiers occupying houses they did not own. After two days spent in solitude and unusual circumstances, Pierre was completely obsessed by one persistent thought. He did not know how or when this thought had taken such possession of him, but he remembered nothing of the past, understood no of the present, and all he saw and heard appeared to him like a dream.

The absorption of the French by Moscow, radiating starwise as it did, only reached the quarter where Pierre was staying by the evening of the second of September. However tempting it might be for the French to blame Rostopchín’s ferocity and for Russians to blame the scoundrel Bonaparte, it is impossible not to see that there could be no direct cause of the fire. Moscow had to burn as every village, factory, or house must burn. L’russe Besuhof had gone to Joseph Alexéevich’s house on the plea of sorting the deceased’s books and papers, only in search of rest from life’s turmoil. He thought of the battle of Borodinó and of his insignificance and insincerity compared with the truth, simplicity, and strength of the class of men he mentally classed as they.

When Gerásim roused him from his reverie the idea occurred to him of taking part in the popular defense of Moscow which he knew was projected. The thought of remaining in Moscow would be a good thing, even if Moscow were taken, for him to remain there and do what he was predestined to do.  But when he returned to the house convinced that Moscow would not be defended, he suddenly felt that what before had seemed to him merely a possibility had now become absolutely necessary and inevitable.  The other was that vague and quite Russian feeling of contempt for everything conventional, artificial, and human—for everything the majority of men regard as the greatest good in the world.   The French had already entered Moscow.

“Yes, alone, for the sake of all, I must do it or perish!” he thought.  While Pierre, standing in the middle of the room, was talking to himself in this way, the study door opened and on the threshold appeared the figure of Makár Alexéevich, always so timid before but now quite transformed. Gerásim and the porter, who had followed Makár Alexéevich, stopped him in the vestibule and tried to take the pistol from him. Pierre, coming out into the corridor, looked with pity and repulsion at the half-crazy old man. “They’re frightened, I say… Am I not right, sir?” he said. The officer asked in French: “Well, does no one speak French in this establishment?” with a condescending smile, and gestured that he did not understand him.

What the devil! There, don’t let us be cross, old fellow! With a madman’s cunning, Makár Alexéevich eyed the Frenchman, raised his pistol, and took aim.  “I am Russian,” he said quickly. The officer went up to Makár Alexéevich and took him by the collar.

“Even if Pierre were not a Frenchman, having once received that loftiest of human appellations he could not renounce it,” he said. In reply to his last question Pierre again explained who Makár Alexéevich was and how just before their arrival that drunken imbecile had seized the loaded pistol which they had not had time to recover from him, and begged the officer to let the deed go unpunished.

Captain Ramballe, of the 13th Light Regiment, Chevalier of the Legion of Honor, thought it his duty to convince Pierre that he was not a Frenchman or a Russian prince. When Pierre refused, the captain said he would be forever bound to Pierre by gratitude for saving his life. A Frenchman never forgets either an insult or a service, I offer you my friendship. Captain Ramballe invited Pierre to share his dinner, and himself began to eat greedily and quickly like a healthy and hungry man. Morel, the orderly, brought some hot water in a saucepan and placed a bottle of claret in it.

But as the captain had the wine they had taken while passing through Moscow, he left the kvass to Morel and applied himself to the bottle of Bordeaux.   “Apropos, tell me please, is it true that the women have all left Moscow?  What a queer idea!  Terrible in battle… gallant… with the fair” (he winked and smiled), “that’s what the French are, Monsieur Pierre, aren’t they?” The captain went on: Paris is Talma, la Duchénois, Potier, the Sorbonne, the boulevards. Paris!… A man who doesn’t know Paris is a savage.

You have been to Paris and have remained Russian. Well, I don’t esteem you the less for it! What a wretched idea to go and bury themselves in the steppes when the French army is in Moscow.  “Oh yes, one sees that plainly.  “Is he in Moscow?”  The conversation is interrupted by cries of several voices at the gate and by Morel, who came to say that some Württemberg hussars had come and wanted to put up their horses in the yard where the captain’s horses were. When he had understood what was said to him, the German submitted and took his men elsewhere.  The Frenchman looked at his guilty face and smiled. He felt a foreboding that he would not carry out his intention of killing the evildoer in Moscow. The pistol, dagger, and peasant coat were ready. Napoleon was to enter the town next day. He thought this, but still sat in the same place.  The Frenchman’s chatter which had previously amused Pierre now repelled him.  The captain said: “These Germans are first-rate fools, don’t you think so, Monsieur Pierre?”. He went on: Let’s have another bottle of this Moscow Bordeaux, shall we? Morel will warm us up! Pierre did not answer, but looked cordially into the Frenchman’s eyes whose expression of sympathy was pleasing to him. With a Frenchman’s easy and naïve frankness the captain told Pierre the story of his ancestors, his childhood, and manhood, and all about his relations and his financial and family affairs. There were very many of these, as one could easily believe, looking at the officer’s handsome, self-satisfied face, and noting the eager enthusiasm with which he spoke of women. L’amour which the Frenchman worshiped consisted principally in the unnaturalness of his relation to the woman and in a combination of incongruities giving the chief charm to the feeling. Ramballe despised both these kinds of love equally: the one he considered the “love of clodhoppers” and the other the “the love of simpletons”. Then he recounted an episode in which the husband played the part of the lover, and he—the lover—assumed the role of the husband, as well as several droll incidents from his recollections of Germany, where “shelter” is called Unterkunft and where the husbands eat sauerkraut and the young girls are “too blonde.”  Challenged by this question Pierre raised his head and felt a need to express the thoughts that filled his mind.   More than anything else in Pierre’s story the captain was impressed by the fact that Pierre was very rich, had two mansions in Moscow, and that he had abandoned everything and not left the city, but remained there concealing his name and station. Rostóv party spent the night at Mytíshchi, 14 miles from Moscow. “There was nothing terrible in the one small, distant fire in the immense city of Moscow,” thought Pierre Rostóv as he looked out onto the Pokróvka to see the first of those that were beginning in Moscow. In the darkness of the night one of the servants notices a small glow of another fire above a coach and thinks it must be in Moscow. Natásha was sitting on the bench under the icons just where she had sat down on arriving and paid no attention to her father’s words; she was listening to the moaning of the adjutant, three houses off. “Oh, yes, Moscow.” The countess touched her head with the back of her hand as she was wont to do when Natásha was ill, then kissed her and said: You are cold. You are trembling all over. You’d better lie down at once, said the countess. Neither Moscow nor the burning of Moscow nor anything else could seem of importance to Natáha.

She knew Prince Andrew was in the same yard as themselves and in a part of the hut across the passage; but this dreadful incessant moaning made her sob.  “I’ll stay here,” muttered Natásha.  When she saw him she felt her heart sink with alarm and terror and overflowing with love. From the moment she had been told that morning of Prince Andrew’s wound and his presence there, Natásha had resolved to see him.  When Natásha saw Prince Andrew, she was filled with dread of what she might see.

When she saw an indistinct shape in the corner, and mistook his knees raised under the quilt for his shoulders, she imagined a horrible body there. She cautiously took one step and then another, and found herself in the middle of a small room containing baggage. Prince Andrew was the same as ever, but the feverish color of his face, his glittering eyes rapturously turned toward her, gave him a childlike look. On the seventh day he ate with pleasure a piece of bread with some tea, and the doctor noticed that his temperature was lower. The first night after they left Moscow had been fairly warm and he had remained in the calèche, but at Mytíshchi the wounded man himself asked to be taken out and given some tea.

They gave Prince Andrew some tea.  Timókhin, the red-nosed major of Prince Andrew’s regiment, had joined him in Moscow and was being taken along with him, having been wounded in the leg at the battle of Borodinó.  “By the Lord Jesus Christ, I thought we had put something under him!” said the valet. The doctor and valet lifted the cloak with which he was covered and made wry faces at the noisome smell of mortifying flesh that came from the wound. Prince Andrew answered all his questions reluctantly but reasonably, and then said he wanted a bolster placed under him as he was uncomfortable and in great pain.

The first time Prince Andrew understood where he was and what was the matter with him and remembered being wounded and how was when he asked to be carried into the hut after his calèche had stopped at Mytíshchi.  A cricket chirped from across the passage; cockroaches rustled on the table, on the icons, and on the walls; a big fly flopped at the head of the bed and around the candle beside him, the wick of which was charred and had shaped itself like a mushroom. The uncomfortable position in which they put him and turned him over again confused his thoughts, and when he came to himself a third time it was in the complete stillness of the night. Prince Andrew’s mind was not in a normal state when he thought of, feels, and remembers innumerable things simultaneously. All the powers of his mind were more active and clearer than ever, but they acted apart from his will.

“Yes, a new happiness was revealed to me of which man cannot be deprived,” he thought as he lay in the semidarkness of the quiet hut with feverish wide open eyes. Prince Andrew thought to himself: “Why is it always stretching and drawing itself out, and that’s enough, please leave off?”. He also saw by glimpses a red halo round the candle, and heard the rustle of cockroaches and the buzzing of the fly that flopped against his pillow and his face. “Yes—love,” he thought. “But not love which loves for some quality, for some purpose, or for some reason, but the love which I first experienced when I saw my enemy and yet loved him”.

His attention was carried into another world, a world of reality and delirium in which something particular was happening. In that world some structure was still being erected and did not fall, something was still stretching out, and the candle with its red halo was still burning. And he vividly pictured to himself Natásha, not as he had done in the past with nothing but her charms which gave him delight, but for the first time picturing to himself her soul.  “Oh, how oppressive this continual delirium is,” thought Prince Andrew, trying to drive that face from his imagination. But the face remained before him with the force of reality and drew nearer.

Suddenly there was a ringing in his ears, a dimness in his eyes, and like a man plunged into water he lost consciousness. He came to himself, Natásha, that same living Natáha whom of all people he most longed to love with this new pure divine love that had been revealed to him, was kneeling before him. “I love you more, better than before,” said Prince Andrew. The doctor thought he had not expected from a young girl such firmness or skill in nursing a wounded man. Though with the intimacy now established between the wounded man and Natásha the thought occurred that if he recovered their former engagement would be renewed, no one spoke of this: the question of life and death. Dreadful as the countess imagined it would be should Prince Andrew die in her daughter’s arms during the journey—as, judging by what the doctor said, it seemed might easily happen—she could not oppose Natásha.

He then hid the pistol with a dagger he had bought at the Súkharev market with the pistol, and hid the weapon under his waistcoat. “No, probably he won’t make his entry into Moscow before noon.” Both the Russians and the French looked at him with surprise because they could not make out to what class he could belong. At the gate of one house three Frenchmen asked if he did not speak French. Moscow was on fire in several places.  He carried his resolution within himself in terror and haste, like something dreadful and alien to him, for, after the previous night’s experience, he feared of losing it.

My child, my dear one! This is what we have brought away. The icons, and my dowry bed, all the rest is lost. We seized the children. But not Katie!

O Lord!… and again she began to sob. Pierre felt as if he had come back to life after a heavy swoon, and with swift steps he followed the maid, overtook her, and came out on the street. That’s it, that was our lodging.

You’ve burned to death, our treasure, Katie, my precious little missy! Pierre rushed to the wing, but the heat was so great that he involuntarily passed round in a curve and came upon the large house that was as yet burning only at one end, just below the roof, and around which swarmed a crowd of Frenchmen.   said the Frenchman.  Pierre was seized by a sense of horror and repulsion such as he had experienced when touching some nasty little animal. When he reached the Gruzínski garden he found the maid Aníska was no longer there.

A group of Russians, both men and women, gathered about him as he searched for his family. Involuntarily he noticed a Georgian or Armenian family consisting of a very handsome old man of Oriental type, wearing a new, cloth-covered, sheepskin coat and new boots, an old woman of similar type, and a young woman.   He was looking at the Armenian family and at two French soldiers who had gone up to them.  He knocked the soldier off his feet and hammered him with his fists as he cried “Voyons, pas de bêtises!” * he cried. At the same moment a patrol of French Uhlans came up at a trot to Pierre and the Frenchman and surrounded them.

“Who are you?” asked the interpreter in poor Russian.  The patrol arrested five other suspects, including a peasant and a house-serf, but Pierre was considered the most suspicious of all. The French patrol was one of those sent out through the various streets of Moscow by Durosnel’s order to put a stop to the pillage, and especially to catch the incendiaries who, according to the general opinion which had that day originated among the higher French officers, were the cause of the conflagrations.

Summary of Book 12

But the calm, luxurious life of Petersburg, concerned only about phantoms and reflections of real life, went on in its old way and made it hard, except by a great effort, to realize the danger and the difficult position of the Russian people.  At Anna Pávlovna’s on the day of the battle of Borodinó, there was a soiree. Prince Vasíli was to read a letter from His Lordship the Bishop when sending the Emperor an icon of the Venerable Sergius. The art of his reading was supposed to lie in rolling out the words, quite independently of their meaning, in a loud and singsong voice alternating between a despairing wail and a tender murmur. Anna Pávlovna.

She is very unfortunate! She is very unfortunate! said Anna Pálvovna. “Charming, charming!” observed Prince Vasíli. Anna Pávlovna whispered the next words in advance, like an old woman muttering the prayer at Communion: “Let the bold and insolent Goliath…” she whispered.

“Let the bold and insolent Goliath from the borders of France encompass the realms of Russia with death-bearing terrors; humble Faith, the sling of the Russian David, shall suddenly smite his head in his bloodthirsty pride.  Prince Vasíli continued. Anna Pávlovna’s guests talked for a long time of the state of the fatherland and offered various conjectures as to the result of the battle to be fought in a few days. Prince Kutúzov’s dispatch from Tatárinova, written from the field of battle, confirmed that there must have been a victory. The courtiers’ pleasure was based as much on the fact that the news arrived on the Emperor’s birthday as on the victory itself. Mention was made in Kutúzov’s report of the Russian losses, among which figured the names of Túchkov, Bagratión, and Kutáysov.  Prince Vasíli now said with a prophet’s pride.  Prince Vasíli boasted of his protégé Kutúzov, but remained silent when the commander in chief was mentioned. The next day no news arrived from the army and the public mood grew anxious. Countess Hélène Bezúkhova had suddenly died of that terrible malady it had been so agreeable to mention. A country gentleman arrived from Moscow, and news of the surrender of Moscow to the French spread through the whole town. Prince Kutúzov’s action decides the fate of the capital and of your empire! Russia will shudder to learn of the abandonment of the city in which her greatness is centered and in which lie the ashes of your ancestors! I shall follow the army. The Emperor at once received this messenger in his study at the palace on Stone Island. Though a foreigner, Russian in heart and soul. Michaud, who had never seen Moscow before the campaign and who did not know Russian, yet felt deeply moved (as he wrote) when he appeared before notre très gracieux souverain * with the news of the burning of Moscow, dont les flammes éclairaient sa route. * The Emperor Kutúzov had entrusted Colonel Michaud with a message that it was impossible to fight before Moscow, and that the only remaining choice was losing the army as well as Moscow, or losing Moscow alone. Michaud delivered the message in silence, not looking at the Emperor. The Emperor began to breathe heavily and rapidly, his lower lip trembled, and tears instantly appeared in his fine blue eyes. He suddenly frowned, as if blaming himself for his weakness, and raised his head and addressed Michaud: “Have they surrendered my ancient capital without a battle?”. “The abandonment of Moscow.” “They are burning for the combat,” declared this representative of the Russian nation, “and to prove to Your Majesty by the sacrifice of their lives how devoted they are”. The Emperor’s mild and handsome face was flushed and his eyes gleamed with resolution and anger. He then turned away as if to hide the tears that rose to his eyes, and went to the further end of his study. Michaud felt himself enraptured by all that he had heard, and gave expression to his feelings and those of the Russian people in the following words: “Your Majesty is signing the glory of the nation and the salvation of Europe!”. The Russian poet Antoine de Saint-Truffaut says: Only unconscious action bears fruit, and he who plays a part in an historic event never understands its significance. In Petersburg and in the provinces at a distance from Moscow, ladies, and gentlemen in militia uniforms, wept for Russia and its ancient capital and talked of self-sacrifice and so on; but in the army which retired beyond Moscow there was little talk or thought of Moscow, and when they caught sight of its burned ruins no one swore to be avenged on the French, but they thought about their next pay, their next quarters, of Matrëshka the vivandière, and like matters. He saw villages with peasants and peasant women, gentlemen’s country houses, fields where cattle were grazing, posthouses with stationmasters asleep in them, as though seeing all this for the first time. The governor was a simple little man, very simple and affable. He indicated the stud farms at which Nicholas might procure horses, and recommended to him a landowner who had the best horses.

Russian aristocrat Nicholas Rostóv bought seventeen picked stallions for six thousand rubles, to serve as samples of his remounts. Count Rostov’s society gathered together at the governor’s was the best in Vorónezh. There were a great many ladies and some of Nicholas’ Moscow acquaintances, but there were no men who could vie with the cavalier of St. George, the hussar remount officer, the good-natured and well-bred Count Rostorov. As soon as Nicholas entered in his hussar uniform, diffusing around him a fragrance of perfume and wine, and had uttered the words “better late than never” and heard them repeated several times by others, people clustered around him; all eyes turned on him, and he felt at once that he had entered into his proper position in the province—that of a universal favorite: a very pleasant position, and intoxicatingly so after his long privations.  The governor’s wife Catherine Petróv played valses and the écossaise, and danced with him.

He had never danced like that in Moscow and would even have considered such a very free and easy manner improper and in bad form. Among these was the governor’s wife herself, who welcomed Rostóv as a near relative and called him “Nicholas.”  “Come, Nicholas!  With the naïve conviction of young men in a merry mood that other men’s wives were created for them, Rostóv did not leave the lady’s side and treated her husband in a friendly and conspiratorial style, as if, without speaking of it, they knew how capitally Nicholas and the lady would get on together.  At the mention of Princess Mary he experienced a feeling of shyness and even of fear. “Whom do you mean, Aunt?” asked Nicholas. When Rostóv approached her she was standing settling up for the game.  Nicholas Carlin: What nonsense I have been saying to the governor’s wife. One is sorry for the husband, really. Nicholas recalls that impulse to unsolicited and inexplicable frankness which had very important results for him. It was merely some silly whim that seized him, yet it had immense consequences for him and for all his family. Nicholas Bolkónskaya: I like her very much, I feel drawn to her; and after I met her under such circumstances—so strangely, the idea often occurred to me: ‘This is fate’. And as long as my sister Natásha was engaged to her brother it was of course out of the question for me to think of marrying her. And what about your mother? It would kill her, that’s one thing. And besides, she is now in mourning. How can one think of it? On reaching Moscow after her meeting with Rostóv, Princess Mary had found her nephew there with his tutor, and a letter from Prince Andrew giving her instructions how to get to her Aunt Malvíntseva at Vorónezh.    Mademoiselle Bourienne, who was in the drawing room, looked at Princess Mary in bewildered surprise.  When Rostóv entered the room, the princess dropped her eyes for an instant, as if to give the visitor time to greet her aunt, and then just as Nicholas turned to her she raised her head and met his look with shining eyes.  Princess Mary’s face was transformed as if a light had been kindled in a carved and painted lantern. Her inward labor, her dissatisfaction with herself, her strivings after goodness, her meekness, love, and self-sacrifice all shone out. They spoke of the war, and like everyone else unconsciously exaggerated their sorrow about it; they spoke of their last meeting—Nicholas trying to change the subject—they talked of the governor’s kind wife, of Nicholas’ relations, and of Princess Mary’s. From the time Rostóv entered, her face became suddenly transformed.   As she was in mourning Princess Mary did not go out into society, and Nicholas did not think it the proper thing to visit her again; but all the same the governor’s wife went on with her matchmaking, passing on to Nicholas the flattering things Princess Mary said of him and vice versa, and insisting on his declaring himself to Princess Mary.  Evidently she could speak of Russia’s misfortunes with a certain artificiality, but her brother was too near her heart and she neither could nor would speak lightly of him.  After meeting Princess Mary, Nicholas Rostóv’s amusements lost their charm for him and he often thought about her. He knew that after his promise to Sónya it would be what he deemed base to declare his feelings to Princess Mary. But he also knew (or rather felt at the bottom of his heart) that by resigning himself now to the force of circumstances and to those who were guiding him, he was doing something very important. The news of the loss of Moscow reached Vorónezh in the middle of September. When he received the news of the battle of Borodinó and the abandonment of Moscow, Rostóv was not seized with despair, anger, the desire for vengeance, or any feeling of that kind, but everything in Vorónezh suddenly seemed to him dull and tiresome, and he experienced an indefinite feeling of shame and awkwardness.  He felt that everything in Vorónezh suddenly seemed to him dull and tiresome, and he experienced an indefinite feeling of shame and awkwardness. He made haste to finish buying the horses, and often became unreasonably angry with his servant and squadron quartermaster. A few days before his departure he attended a thanksgiving service at the cathedral for the Russian victory. A few days before his departure a special thanksgiving, at which Nicholas was present, was held in the cathedral for the Russian victory.  “Have you seen the princess?” she asked, indicating with a movement of her head a lady standing on the opposite side, beyond the choir. He told her that he had known “so many cases of a splinter wound” (the Gazette said it was a shell) “either proving fatal at once or being very slight”. Princess Mary interrupted him, saying: “We must hope for the best, and I am sure.” Nicholas had been struck by the peculiar moral beauty he observed in her at this time.  In men Rostóv could not bear to see the expression of a higher spiritual life (that was why he did not like Prince Andrew) and he referred to it contemptuously as philosophy and dreaminess, but in Princess Mary that very sorrow which revealed the depth of a whole spiritual world foreign to him was an irresistible attraction. “She must be a wonderful woman.  He felt awed, and compared the two: the lack of spirituality in the one and the abundance of it in the other.

She wrote that the last unfortunate events—the loss of almost the whole of the Rostóvs’ Moscow property—and the countess’ repeatedly expressed wish that Nicholas should marry Princess Bolkónskaya, together with his silence and coldness of late, had all combined to make her decide to release him from his promise and set him completely free. Letters from Countess Tróitsa and countess Sónya describe their last days in Moscow, their departure, the fire, and the destruction of all their property. In this letter the countess also mentions that Prince Andrew was among the wounded with them; his state was very critical, but the doctor said there was now more hope. Next day Nicholas took his mother’s letter and went to see Princess Mary. He became almost as intimate with the princess as if they were relations.

She felt bitterness against those who had been her benefactors only to torture her the more painfully. And for the first time she felt that out of her pure, quiet love for Nicholas a passionate feeling was growing up which was stronger than principle, virtue, or religion. The bustle and terror of the Rostóvs’ last days in Moscow stifled the gloomy thoughts that oppressed Sónya.  The countess was overcome by a joyful and superstitious feeling that God did not intend her to be separated from Nicholas. She knew that being thrown together again under such circumstances they would again fall in love, and that Nicholas would then not be able to marry Princess Mary as they would be within the prohibited degrees of affinity.

But when she heard of Prince Andrew’s presence in their house, despite her sincere pity for him and for Natásha, she was seized by a joyful and superstitious feeling that God did not intend her to be separated from Nicholas.  The two friends went together to Prince Andrew’s room and looked in through the door.  Now that she knew that the renewal of Natásha’s relations with Prince Andrew would prevent Nicholas from marrying Princess Mary, she was joyfully conscious of a return of that self-sacrificing spirit in which she was accustomed to live and loved to live.  All the Russians confined with Pierre were men of the lowest class and, recognizing him as a gentleman, they all avoided him, more especially as he spoke French. The guard of the second day did not recognize in this big, stout man in a peasant coat the vigorous person who had fought so desperately with the marauder and the convoy and uttered those solemn words about saving a child.

Pierre felt sad at hearing them making fun of him. Pierre Zúbovski was accused of fighting a marauder in the yard of a burning house where witnesses had seen him. When asked what he was doing when he was arrested, Pierre replied that he was restoring to its parents a child he had saved from the flames in Moscow. These questions, like questions put at trials generally, left the essence of the matter aside, shut out the possibility of that essence’s being revealed, and were designed only to form a channel through which the judges wished the answers of the accused to flow.  He did not then realize the significance of the burning of Moscow, and looked at the fires with horror.

This officer, probably someone on the staff, was holding a paper in his hand, and called over all the Russians there, naming Pierre as “the man who does not give his name.”   No flames were seen, but columns of smoke rose on all sides, and all Moscow as far as Pierre could see was one vast charred ruin.  But there seemed to be no one to celebrate this holiday: everywhere were blackened ruins, and the few Russians to be seen were tattered and frightened people who tried to hide when they saw the French. It was plain that the Russian nest was ruined and destroyed, but in place of the Russian order of life that had been destroyed, Pierre unconsciously felt that a quite different, firm, French order had been established over this ruined nest. He felt it in the merry sounds of regimental music he heard from the left side of the field, and felt and realized it especially from the list of prisoners the French officer had read out when he came that morning. Pierre felt himself to be an insignificant chip fallen among the wheels of a machine which was working well.

Pierre Bezúkhov: “I am a militia officer and have not quitted Moscow.” “Monseigneur!” exclaimed Pierre, not in an offended but in a pleading voice. To him Davout was not merely a French general, but a man notorious for his cruelty. At that moment they realized that they were both children of humanity and were brothers. Pierre remembered Ramballe, and named him and his regiment and the street where the house was. Davout said: “How can you show me that you are telling the truth?”.

When the adjutant reminded Davout of the prisoner, he jerked his head in Pierre’s direction with a frown. Pierre felt as if part of his soul had been torn away when he heard the sound of drums beating on both sides of him. The prisoners were placed in a certain order, according to the list (Pierre was sixth) and led to a post where a large crowd of Russians and many of Napoleon’s soldiers stood. To the right and left of the post stood rows of French troops in blue uniforms with red epaulets and high boots and shakos. Twelve sharpshooters with muskets stepped out of the ranks and halted eight paces from the post.

The convicts stopped when they reached the post and, while sacks were being brought, looked dumbly around as a wounded beast looks at an approaching huntsman. Then two pairs of Frenchmen approached the criminals and at the officer’s command took the two convicts who stood first in the row. With hurried hands the soldiers blindfolded them, drew the sacks over their heads, and bound them to the posts.

He looked on with dismay, horror, and conflict that were in his own heart. But who, after all, is doing this? They are all suffering as I am, he thought. On the faces of all the Russians and of the French soldiers and officers without exception, he read the same dismay, horror, and conflict that were in his own heart.  When they began to blindfold him he himself adjusted the knot which hurt the back of his head.

Pierre did not take his eyes from him and did not miss his slightest movement. He only saw how the workman suddenly sank down on the cords that held him, how blood showed itself in two places, how the ropes slackened under the weight of the hanging body. After the execution Pierre was separated from the rest of the prisoners and placed alone in a small, ruined, and befouled church. Without understanding what was said to him, Pierre got up and went with the soldiers. They took him to the upper end of the field, where there were some sheds built of charred planks, beams, and battens, and led him into one of them.

The crowd of Russians and Frenchmen began to disperse. From the moment Pierre had witnessed those terrible murders committed by men who did not wish to commit them, it was as if the mainspring of his life had suddenly been wrenched out. Though he did not acknowledge it to himself, his faith in the right ordering of the universe, in humanity, and in God, had been destroyed. “Don’t fret, friend—’suffer an hour, live for an age!’ that’s how it is, my dear fellow!” said the little fellow in singsong voice. So you’ve come, you rascal?

Now, now, that’ll do, says the voice of the little man at the other end of the shed. Pierre: “How was it, sir, that you stayed in Moscow?” and why did they shoot those poor fellows? The last one was hardly twenty. And how did they arrest you, dear lad? At your house?

How is one to help feeling sad? Moscow—she’s the mother of cities. How can one see all this and not feel sad? But ‘the maggot gnaws the cabbage, yet dies first’; that’s what the old folks used to tell us, he adds rapidly. Platón Karatáev seems grieved that Pierre had no parents, especially that he had no mother.

“If it had not been for my sin, my brother would have had to go as a soldier,” says Platón. Pierre: Well, lad, we thought it was a misfortune but it turned out a blessing Platón: Lord Jesus Christ, holy Saint Nicholas, Frola and Lavra! Lord Jesus Christ has mercy on us and save us! Eh, the rascal! Now you’ve curled up and got warm, you daughter of a bitch!

said Platón Karatáev as he lay beside his neighbor Pierre. “Well, of course,” replied Platón quickly, “one must pity the horses’ saints too!”. He could do everything, not very well but not very badly: he baked, cooked, sewed, planed, and mended boots, and sang like a bird. He did not like talking about his life as a soldier, though he did not complain, and often mentioned that he had not been flogged once during the whole of his army service. He liked to talk and he talked well, adorning his speech with terms of endearment and with folk sayings which Pierre thought he invented himself.

When Princess Mary heard from Prince Andrew’s sister Princess Mary that her brother was with the Rostóvs at Yaroslávl she went to find him. Platón Karatáev could not understand the meaning of words apart from their context, and his life had no meaning as a separate thing but as part of a whole of which he was always conscious. CHAPTER XIVWhen Princess Mary heard from Nicholas that her brother was with the Rostóvs at Yaroslávl she at once prepared to go there, in spite of her aunt’s efforts to dissuade her—and not merely to go herself but to take her nephew with her.  The usual route through Moscow could not be thought of, and the roundabout way Princess Mary was obliged to take through Lípetsk, Ryazán, Vladímir, and Shúya was very long and, as post horses were not everywhere obtainable, very difficult, and near Ryazán where the French were said to have shown themselves was even dangerous. Mademoiselle Bourienne, Dessalles, and Princess Mary’s servants were astonished at her energy and firmness of spirit.

Nicholas never mentioned the possibility that Prince Andrew’s relations with Natásha might be renewed. Princess Mary thought only of the journey itself, forgetting its object. She looked at little seven-year-old Nicholas, who was sitting in front of her looking with pleasure at the town, and bowed her head. “How is the prince?” she asked. I love you and have known you a long time, said the countess. Despite her excitement, Princess Mary realized that this was the countess and that it was necessary to say something to her.

Natásha is with him, says the countess. After the destruction of Moscow and of his property, thrown out of his accustomed groove he seemed to have lost the sense of his own significance and to feel that there was no longer a place for him in life. Princess Mary turned to Sónya and, trying to stifle the hostile feeling that arose in her toward the girl, she kissed her.  Is this his son?” said the countess, turning to little Nicholas who was coming in with Dessalles.   The princess looked round and saw Natásha coming in, almost running—that Natásha whom she had liked so little at their meeting in Moscow long since. Princess Mary understood. As soon as Natásha, sitting at the head of Prince Andrew’s bed, heard of Princess Mary’s arrival, she softly left his room and hastened to her with those swift steps that had sounded buoyant to Princess Mary. The princess felt the sobs in her throat as she tried to look at him without tears. Princess Mary inquired. CHAPTER XVWhen Natásha opened Prince Andrew’s door with a familiar movement and let Princess Mary pass into the room before her, the princess felt the sobs in her throat.  The princess understood what Natásha had meant by the words: “two days ago this suddenly happened.”   “How are you now?” said Princess Mary, herself surprised at what she was saying. “And have you brought little Nicholas?” he asked in the same slow, quiet manner and with an obvious effort to remember. He was silent, and she did not know what to say to him. He said: “They told her that all Moscow has been burned down, and that…” Princess Mary pressed his hand.  He, the sensitive, tender Prince Andrew, how could he say that, before her whom he loved and who loved him?  Natásha stopped.  Andrew, would you like to see little Nicholas? He is always talking about you, Princess Mary said. When Princess Mary began to cry, he tried to return to life and to see things from their point of view. Prince Andrew smiled just perceptibly and for the first time, but Princess Mary, who knew his face so well, saw with horror that he did not smile with pleasure or affection for his son, but with quiet, gentle irony because he thought she was trying what she believed to be the last means of arousing him. Natásha, who felt her glance, did not look at her.  After that he avoided Dessalles and the countess who caressed him and either sat alone or came timidly to Princess Mary, or to Natásha of whom he seemed even fonder than of his aunt, and clung to them quietly and shyly. Prince Andrew felt that he was dying and was already half dead. The flower of eternal, unfettered love had unfolded itself in his soul as if freed from the bondage of life that had restrained it. He had felt it for the first time when the shell spun like a top before him, and knew that he was face to face with death. His illness pursued its normal physical course, but what Natásha referred to when she said: “This suddenly happened,” had occurred two days before Princess Mary arrived.   She had learned to knit stockings since Prince Andrew had casually mentioned that no one nursed the sick so well as old nurses who knit stockings, and that there is something soothing in the knitting of stockings.  And so it was: in Sónya’s place sat Natásha who had just come in noiselessly. Natásha, I love you too much! More than anything in the world. She turned away for an instant. Natásha felt happy and agitated, but at once remembered that this would not do and that he had to be quiet. “But you have not slept,” she said, repressing her joy. Prince Andrew dreamed that he was lying in the room he really was in. He had a single question, that of the closed door to bolt and lock it. He went, and tried to hurry, but his legs refused to move and he knew he would not be in time to lock the door though he painfully strained all his powers. And that fear was the fear of death.

That was what had happened to him two days before Princess Mary’s arrival.  From that day an awakening from life came to Prince Andrew together with his awakening from sleep.  Both Princess Mary and Natásha, who did not leave him, felt this.  Where is he now?…

The old count cried because he felt that before long he, too, must take the same step. When the last convulsions of the body, which the spirit was leaving, occurred, Princess Mary and Natásha were present. Little Nicholas cried because his heart was rent by painful perplexity.

Summary of Book 13

There is no cause of an historical event except the one cause of all causes. But there are laws directing events, and some of these laws are known to us while we are conscious of others we cannot comprehend. It may seem to be a matter of indifference whether we understand the meaning of historical events this way or that. Russian soldiers marched from the Ryazána to the Kalúga road and to the Tarútino camp across the Krásnaya Pakhrá River after their retreat from Moscow in 1812. The French, including the French, acknowledges the genius of Russian commanders when they speak of that flank march.

But it is hard to understand why military writers, and following them others, consider this flank march to be the profound conception of some one man who saved Russia and destroyed Napoleon. What would have happened had Moscow not burned down? If Murat had not lost sight of the Russians? If Napoleon had not remained inactive? In any of these eventualities the French march that brought salvation might have proved disastrous.

What would have happened if on approaching Tarútino, Napoleon had attacked the Russians with but a tenth of the energy he had shown when he attacked them at Smolénsk?  It is impossible to say exactly when it was decided to abandon Moscow and move to Tarútino. The Russian army retreated from Nízhni-Nóvgorod to avoid being separated from its supplies by the broad river Oká in the Túla and Ryazán provinces. French troops who had for a time lost touch with the Russians forced the Russian army to turn further south and cross over to the Kalúga-Túla road beyond the Pakhrá. At Tarútino Kutúzov moved his army along the Ryazán road from the Nízhni to Kalúga.

The Russian army, which had been continually retreating back from the invaders, deviated from that direct course and was naturally drawn toward the district where supplies were abundant. When the advance of the French had ceased, the Russian army was left with a return movement toward Moscow, describing an arc in the direction where most provisions were to be found. Monsieur Le Prince Koutouzov: I should be cursed by posterity were I looked on as the initiator of a settlement of any sort. Such is the present spirit of my nation. Russian Kutúzov continued to restrain his troops from attacking while French troops were pillaging in Moscow and Russian troops were encamped at Tarútino.

The Russian army was commanded by Kutúzov and his staff, and also by the Emperor from Petersburg. After the news of the abandonment of Moscow had been received in Petersburg, a detailed plan of the whole campaign had been drawn up and sent to him for his guidance. He only replied that movements arranged from a distance were always difficult to execute. Prince Michael Ilariónovich sent a letter to Kutúzov after the battle at Tarútino. He wrote: Since September 2 Moscow has been in the hands of the enemy. Your last reports were written on the twentieth, and during all this time not only has no action been taken against the enemy or for the relief of the ancient capital, you have even retreated farther.

The men were forbidden to talk out loud, to smoke their pipes, or to strike a light, and they tried to prevent their horses neighing as they advanced noiselessly. Toward dawn, Count Orlóv-Denísov, who had dozed off, was awakened by a deserter from the French army being brought to him.  Count Orlóv-Denísov: “How could one capture a commander in chief from among such a mass of troops!”. As often happens when someone we have trusted is no longer before our eyes, it suddenly seemed quite clear and obvious to him that the sergeant was an impostor, that he had lied, and that the whole Russian attack would be ruined by the absence of those two regiments, which he would lead away heaven only knew where.  It seemed to the count that things were beginning to stir in the French camp, and his keen-sighted adjutant confirmed this.

If the Cossacks had pursued the French, without heeding what was behind and around them, they would have captured Murat and everything there. Fifteen hundred prisoners and thirty-eight guns were taken on the spot, besides standards and horses, saddles, horsecloths, and the like. The French, not being farther pursued, began to recover themselves and began firing.  Kutúzov: “I prefer not to take lessons from anyone, but I can die with my men as well as anybody,” he said, and advanced with a single division. One of the first bullets killed him, and other bullets killed many of his men; his division remained under fire for some time quite uselessly.

He well knew that nothing but confusion would come of this battle undertaken against his will, and as far as was in his power held the troops back. Ermólov: “He’s having a little fun at my expense”. Meanwhile another column was to have attacked the French from the front, but Kutúzov accompanied that column.  Russian Kutúzov received a diamond decoration, and Bennigsen some diamonds and a hundred thousand rubles for their part in the battle of Tarútino. The Russian general ordered an advance at every hundred paces, though at every 100 paces he halted for three quarters of an hour.

The whole battle consisted in what Orlóv-Denísov’s Cossacks had done: the rest of the army merely lost some hundreds of men uselessly. No battle, whether French or Russian, takes place as those who planned it anticipated, that is essential condition. It is clear that the battle of Tarútino, just because of its incongruities, was exactly what was wanted at that stage of the campaign. With a minimum of effort and insignificant losses, despite the greatest confusion, the most important results of the whole campaign were attained: the transition from retreat to advance, an exposure of the weakness of the French, and the administration of that shock which Napoleon’s army had only awaited to begin its flight. It would be difficult and even impossible to imagine any result more opportune than the actual outcome of this battle.

The Russian aim of the battle was to drive the French out of Russia and destroy their army. Napoleon’s position is most brilliant. He can either fall on the Russian army with double its strength and destroy it or negotiate an advantageous peace. The Russians retreat and abandon their ancient capital. The Russian army, only half the strength of the French, does not make a single attempt to attack for a whole month.

He can either fall on the Russian army with double its strength and destroy it; negotiate an advantageous peace, or in case of a refusal make a menacing move on Petersburg, or even, in the case of a reverse, return to Smolénsk or Vílna; or remain in Moscow; in short, no special genius would seem to be required to retain the brilliant position the French held at that time.  Napoleon did not destroy the Russian army of Kutúzov, but chose the most foolish and ruinous of all the courses open to him. He remained in Moscow till October, letting the troops plunder the city; then, hesitating whether to leave a garrison behind him, he quitted Moscow without joining battle, turned to the right and reached Málo-Yaroslávets, and retired instead to Mozháysk along the devastated Smolénsk road. Nothing more stupid than that could have been devised, or more disastrous for the army, as the sequel showed. Napoleon’s activity in Moscow was no less astounding than it was in Egypt, Italy, Austria, and Prussia.

He employed all his ability and strength to do the best he could for himself and his army, as he had done previously and as he did subsequently in 1813. He ordered General Sabastiani to find Russian Kutúzov, charged Murat to find him, and drew up a brilliant plan for a future campaign over the whole map of Russia. Historians falsely represent Napoleon’s faculties as having weakened in Moscow, and do so only because the results did not justify his actions. We have paid for the right to look at the matter plainly and simply, and we will not abandon that right. We do not know for certain in how far his genius was genuine in Egypt—where forty centuries looked down upon his grandeur—for his great exploits there are all told us by Frenchmen.

Moscow was granted a constitution and a municipality was established. Napoleon decreed that all the troops in turn should enter Moscow à la maraude * to obtain provisions for themselves, so that the army might have its future provided for. As looters, Napoleon ordered the priests to be brought back and services to be again performed in the churches. With regard to commerce and to provisioning the army, the following was placarded everywhere:. Inhabitants of Moscow: Tranquillity is returning to this capital and order is being restored in it.

Peasants of the countryside: His Majesty the Emperor and King protects them, and considers no one among you his enemy except those who disobey his orders. From today peasants, husbandmen and those living in the neighborhood of Moscow may without any danger bring their supplies of all kinds to two appointed markets, of which one is on the Mokhováya Street and the other at the Provision Market. If a seller is unable to obtain a fair price he will be free to take his goods back to his village and no one may hinder him under any pretense.

Napoleon paid his soldiers in forged Russian money and gave food to those who had been burned out, but as food was too precious to be given to foreigners, he provided them with money to buy it from outside. He visited the Foundling Hospital and visited the orphans saved by him to kiss his white hands, graciously conversing with Tutólmin. But as food was too precious to be given to foreigners, who were for the most part enemies, Napoleon preferred to supply them with money with which to purchase food from outside, and had paper rubles distributed to them.”

 With reference to diplomacy, all Napoleon’s arguments as to his magnanimity and justice, both to Tutólmin and to Yákovlev, proved useless. The pursuit of the Russian army, about which Napoleon was so concerned, produced an unheard-of result. The fortifying of the Krémlin, for which la Mosquée (as Napoleon termed the church of Basil the Beatified) was to have been razed to the ground, proved quite useless. With regard to legal matters, after the execution of the supposed incendiaries the rest of Moscow burned down. The establishment of a municipality did not stop the robberies and was only of use to certain people who looted Moscow or saved their property from being looted. Two or three priests who were found in Moscow did try to carry out Napoleon’s wish, but one of them was slapped in the face by a French soldier while conducting service, and a French official reported of another that: “The priest whom I found and invited to say Mass cleaned and locked up the church.  The French, collecting booty, cared only for gold. The genuine as well as the false paper money which flooded Moscow lost its value. The theaters set up in the Krémlin and in Posnyákov’s house were closed because the actors and actresses were robbed. Napoleon’s army, like a herd of cattle trampling underfoot the provender which might have saved it from starvation, disintegrated and perished with each additional day it remained in Moscow.

It began to run away only when suddenly seized by a panic caused by the capture of transport trains on the Smolénsk road, and by the battle of Tarútino. Napoleon, too, carried away his own personal trésor, but on seeing the baggage trains that impeded the army, he was (Thiers says) horror-struck. To study the skillful tactics and aims of Napoleon and his army from the time it entered Moscow till it was destroyed is like studying the dying leaps and shudders of a wounded animal. The news of that battle of Tarútino, unexpectedly received by Napoleon at a review, evoked in him a desire to punish the Russians (Thiers says), and he issued the order for departure which the whole army was demanding. The French called it Azor; the soldier who told stories called it Femgálka; others called it Gray, or sometimes Flabby.

His attire by now consisted of a dirty torn shirt, trousers and a peasant coat and cap. Pierre’s attire by now consisted of a dirty torn shirt (the only remnant of his former clothing), a pair of soldier’s trousers which by Karatáev’s advice he tied with string round the ankles for warmth, and a peasant coat and cap.  The sight of them reminded him of all he had experienced and learned during these weeks and this recollection was pleasant to him. A French corporal, with a short pipe in his mouth, said: “What sunshine, Monsieur Kiril!”. (Their name for Pierre.)  While Pierre was explaining about the army leaving Moscow, a thin, sallow, tattered French soldier came up to the door of the shed and asked where the French soldier Platoche was.

He is a Russian seigneur who has had misfortunes, but he is a man.  He feared the prisoners looking on would laugh at him, and thrust his head into the shirt hurriedly; none of the prisoners said a word. “It’s good, quite good, thank you,” said the Frenchman, in French, “but there must be some linen left over?”. The Frenchman insisted on having the pieces returned that were left over and asked Pierre to translate what he said. His captors tried to move him from the men’s shed to the officers’ shed, but he refused and stayed in the shed where he was first put. The Frenchman looked at the linen, considered for a moment, then looked inquiringly at Pierre and, as if Pierre’s look had told him something, suddenly blushed and shouted in a squeaky voice:”Platoche!  In burned and devastated Moscow Pierre experienced almost the extreme limits of privation a man can endure; but thanks to his physical strength and health, of which he had till then been unconscious, and thanks especially to the fact that the privations came so gradually that it was impossible to say when they began, he endured his position not only lightly but joyfully.  His anger with his wife and anxiety that his name should not be smirched were no longer as important as they once were. When Prince Andrew said that happiness could only be negative, he said it with a shade of bitterness and irony as though he was really saying that all desire for positive happiness is implanted in us merely to torment us and never be satisfied. But Pierre believed it without any mental reservation. Here and now for the first time he fully appreciated the enjoyment of eating when he wanted to eat. The satisfaction of one’s needs, cleanliness, and freedom, now that he was deprived of all this, seemed to Pierre to constitute perfect happiness. Pierre d’Arc de Triomph felt that he had never before known joy and inner freedom when he saw the sights of the New Convent of the Virgin at dawn and heard the noise of the crows flying from Moscow across the field. With his knowledge of languages, the respect shown him by the French, his simplicity, his readiness to give anything asked of him (he received the allowance of three rubles a week made to officers); with his strength, which he showed to the soldiers by pressing nails into the walls of the hut; his gentleness to his companions, and his capacity for sitting still and thinking without doing anything (which seemed to them incomprehensible), he appeared to them a rather mysterious and superior being.

At seven in the morning a French convoy in marching trim, wearing shakos and carrying muskets, knapsacks, and enormous sacks, stood in front of the sheds, and animated French talk mingled with curses sounded all along the lines. …” Pierre began. As Pierre was speaking a sharp rattle of drums on two sides of the shed drowned the sick man’s groans. The corporal frowned at Pierre’s words and, uttering some meaningless oaths, slammed the door. When the door was opened and the prisoners, crowding against one another like a flock of sheep, squeezed into the exit, Pierre pushed his way forward. The officers, who had come from the other sheds, were all strangers to Pierre and much better dressed than he. They looked at him and at his shoes mistrustfully, as at an alien. One fat major grumbled and growled at everybody because he thought he was being pushed and that they were all hurrying when they had nowhere to go. An official in felt boots and wearing a commissariat uniform ran round from side to side and gazed at the ruins of Moscow, loudly announcing his observations as to what had been burned down and what this or that part of the city was that they could see.  As they passed near a church in the Khamóvniki (one of the few unburned quarters of Moscow) the whole mass of prisoners suddenly started to one side and exclamations of horror and disgust were heard. The French soldiers drove away with their swords the crowd of prisoners who were gazing at the dead body of a man, set upright against the palings of a church and smeared with soot. Thirty thousand devils! From all sides he heard the rattle of wheels, the tramp of feet, and incessant shouts of anger and abuse. Russian wenches, by heaven, so they are!  Pierre stood pressed against the wall of a charred house, listening to that noise which mingled in his imagination with the roll of the drums. From the moment Pierre had recognized the appearance of the mysterious force nothing had seemed to him strange or dreadful: neither the corpse smeared with soot for fun nor these women hurrying away nor the burned ruins of Moscow.  During the hour Pierre watched them they all came flowing from the different streets with one and the same desire to get on quickly. They all jostled one another, began to grow angry and to fight, white teeth gleamed, brows frowned, ever the same words of abuse flew from side to side, and all the faces bore the same swaggeringly resolute and coldly cruel expression. French prisoner of war Pierre saw a Frenchman beat a Russian soldier cruelly for straying too far from the road, and heard his friend the captain reprimand and threaten to court-martial a noncommissioned officer on account of the escape of the Russian. Neither he nor any of the others spoke of the roughness of their treatment by the French, or of the order to shoot them which had been announced to them. They spoke of personal reminiscences, of amusing scenes they had witnessed in Moscow, and avoided all talk of their present situation. He was stopped by a sentinel who ordered him back and took him to an unharnessed cart where there was no-one. The evening was ending, but the night was yet to come. On the road he was stopped by a French sentinel who ordered him back. “Ha-ha-ha!” laughed Pierre.  The result was a compromise which was inevitable: a small detachment was sent to Fáfísk to attack Broussier. By a strange coincidence, this task, which turned out to be a most difficult and important one, was entrusted to Dokhtúrov—that same modest little Dokhtúrov whom no one had described to us as drawing up plans of battles, dashing about in front of regiments, showering crosses on batteries, and so on, and who was thought to be and was spoken of as undecided and undiscerning—but whom we find commanding wherever the position was most difficult all through the Russo-French wars from Austerlitz to the year 1813.  Generals on the staff, excited by the memory of the easy victory at Tarútino, urged Kutúzov to carry out Dórokhov’s suggestion.  At the Battle of Borodinó, when Bagratión was killed and nine tenths of the men of our left flank had fallen, Dokhtúrov was sent to defend the town of Smolénsk against the full force of the French artillery fire. At Austerlitz he remained last at the Augezd dam, rallying the regiments, saving what was possible when all were flying and perishing and not a single general was left in the rear guard. Many heroes have been described in verse and prose, but of him scarcely a word has been said. The silence of the Russian is the clearest testimony to his merit. Dokhtúrov was ordered by Kutuzov to attack Formínsk, where only Broussier had been at that time. The French army was marching from Moscow in an unexpected direction along the Kalúga road. Cossack officer Bolkhovítinov was chosen to explain the whole affair by word of mouth and report on it.

“There’s nothing to be done, we’ll have to wake him,” said Shcherbínin, rising and going up to the man in the nightcap who lay covered by a greatcoat. (Konovnítsyn did not stir) “The news is reliable,” said Bolkhovítinov. “Prisoners, Cossacks, and the scouts all say the same thing.” Peter Petróvich Konovnítsyn, like Dokhtúrov, seems to have been included merely for propriety’s sake in the list of the so-called heroes of 1812. In battle he was always under fire, so that Kutúzov reproved him for it and feared to send him to the front. He was one of those unnoticed cogwheels that, without clatter or noise, constitute the most essential part of the machine.

The lesson of the Tarútino battle and of the day before it, which Kutúzov remembered with pain, must, he thought, have some effect on others too. Kutúzov: “They must understand that we can only lose by taking the offensive”. He knew that the beast was wounded, but whether it was mortally wounded or not was still an undecided question. Now by the fact of Lauriston and Barthélemi having been sent, and by the reports of the guerrillas he was almost sure that the wound was mortal. But he needed further proofs and it was necessary to wait.

He imagined all sorts of possible contingencies, just like the younger men, but with this difference, that he saw thousands of contingencies instead of two or three and based nothing on them. The longer he thought the more contingencies presented themselves, the less he allowed himself to believe that the French army was beaten and preparing for flight. Napoleon’s army stampeded through Medýn and Yukhnóv 11 days after leaving Moscow. To such customary routine belonged his conversations with the staff, the letters he wrote from Tarútino to Madame de Staël, the reading of novels, the distribution of awards, his correspondence with Petersburg, and so on.  On the one hand the French had occupied Moscow.  But these were only suppositions, which seemed important to the younger men but not to Kutúzov.

Summary of Book 14

The Battle of Borodinó, with the occupation of Moscow that followed it and the flight of the French without further conflicts, is one of the most instructive phenomena in history. All Napoleon’s wars serve to confirm this rule. In proportion to the defeat of the Austrian army Austria loses its rights, and the strength of France increases. But then, in 1812, the French gain a victory near Moscow, and after that, with no further battles, it is not Russia that ceases to exist, but the French army of six hundred thousand, and then Napoleonic France itself. Moscow is taken and after that, with no further battles, it is not Russia that ceases to exist, but the French army of six hundred thousand, and then Napoleonic France itself.

After the French victory at Borodinó there was no general engagement nor any that were at all serious, yet the French army ceased to exist. If it were an example taken from the history of China, we might say that it was not an historic phenomenon. But this event occurred before our fathers’ eyes, and for them it was a question of the life or death of their fatherland, and it happened in the greatest of all known wars. The victory gained did not bring the usual results because the peasants Karp and Vlas (who after the French had evacuated Moscow drove in their carts to pillage the town, and in general personally failed to manifest any heroic feelings), and the whole innumerable multitude of such peasants, did not bring their hay to Moscow for the high price offered them, but burned it instead. After the burning of Smolénsk a war began which did not follow any previous traditions of war.

One can imagine what confusion and obscurity would result from such an account of the duel. The fencer who demanded a contest according to the rules of fencing was the French army; his opponent who threw away the rapier and snatched up the cudgel was the Russian people; those who try to explain the matter according to the rules of fencing are the historians who have described the event. When the French invaded Russia in 1813, Napoleon complained to Kutúzov and the Emperor Alexander that the war was being carried on contrary to all the rules of war. The Russians responded by lifting the weapon with all its menacing and majestic strength and belaboring the French till the whole invasion had perished. In spite of the complaints of the French as to the nonobservance of the rules, in spite of the fact that to some highly placed Russians it seemed rather disgraceful to fight with a cudgel and they wanted to assume a pose en quarte or en tierce according to all the rules, and to make an adroit thrust en prime, and so on—the cudgel of the people’s war was lifted with all its menacing and majestic strength, and without consulting anyone’s tastes or rules and regardless of anything else, it rose and fell with stupid simplicity, but consistently, and belabored the French till the whole invasion had perished.

Guerrilla warfare does not fit in with a well-known rule of tactics which says that an attacker should concentrate his forces in order to be stronger than his opponent at the moment of conflict. Military science, seeing in history innumerable instances of the fact that small detachments defeat larger ones, obscurely admits the existence of this unknown factor and tries to discover it. The spirit of an army is the factor which multiplied by the mass gives the resulting force. To define and express the significance of this unknown factor is a problem for science. This problem is only solvable if we cease arbitrarily to substitute for the unknown x itself the conditions under which that force becomes apparent, and stop mistaking these for the real significance of the factor.

The Russians Cossacks and peasants killed thousands of enemy stragglers, marauders, and foragers by killing them off as instinctively as dogs killing a stray mad dog to death. By October 1812, when the French were fleeing toward Smolénsk, there were hundreds of such companies, of various sizes and characters. The Cossacks and peasants who crept in among the French now considered everything possible. The partisan warfare flamed up most fiercely in the latter days of October. It had become clear to all what could be ventured against the French and what could not.

Now only the commanders of detachments with staffs and moving according to rules at a distance from the French still regarded many things as impossible. Cossacks of Denísov’s party had seized two wagons loaded with cavalry saddles which were stuck in the mud. They planned to let the French pass without alarming them and then surprise them at dawn, falling like an avalanche on their heads from two sides, and capture them all at one blow. Tíkhon Shcherbáty, a peasant of the Cossacks, was sent out to seize one of the French quartermasters who had been sent on in advance. Denísov’s horse swerved to avoid a pool in the track and bumped his rider’s knee against a tree.

Behind them along the narrow, sodden, cut up forest road came hussars in threes and fours, and then Cossacks: some in felt cloaks, some in French greatcoats, and some with horsecloths over their heads. Two wagons, drawn by French horses and by saddled Cossack horses that had been hitched on in front, rumbled over the tree stumps and branches. The officer, a very young lad with a broad rosy face and keen merry eyes, galloped up to Denísov and handed him a sodden envelope from the general of the German army. But what’s this?” he asked, noticing the French drummer boy.  Denísov, the esaul and Pétya rode silently to the edge of the forest where it reached out to Shámshevo, to have a look at the part of the French bivouac they were to attack next day. They were accompanied by some Cossacks and the hussar who had the prisoner, and an officer on the Kirghíz horse. The peasant guide beckoned mysteriously to them with his hand. From the spot where the peasant was standing they could see the French. Their un-Russian shouting at their horses which were straining uphill with the carts, and their calls to one another, could be clearly heard. “Whether Dólokhov comes or not, we must seize it, eh?” said Denísov with a merry sparkle in his eyes. “We’ll send the infantwy down by the swamps,” said the esaul. “They’ll cweep up to the garden; you’ll wide up fwom there with the Cossacks”—he pointed to a spot in the forest beyond the village. And at the signal shot… The French were evidently firing and shouting at him.

Tíkhon Shcherbáty was one of the most indispensable men in their band. He was a peasant from Pokróvsk, near the river Gzhat. The French who had been pursuing him stopped when he plunged into a stream and scrambled out on all fours, all black with the wet, and ran on. Denísov took Tíkhon with him when he went out on expeditions and enrolled him among the Cossacks. At night he would go out for booty and always brought back French clothing and weapons, and when told to would bring in French captives also.

He was armed with a musketoon (which he carried rather as a joke), a pike and an ax, which latter he used as a wolf uses its teeth, picking fleas out of its fur or crunching thick bones. Denísov then relieved him from drudgery and began taking him with him on his expeditions. When anything particularly difficult or nasty had to be done, everybody pointed laughingly at him. Tíkhon was the buffoon of all the Cossacks and hussars. I went to get Frenchmen,” answered Tíkhon boldly and hurriedly, in a husky but melodious bass voice. “What a bwute you are!” shouted Tíkhon, waving his arms with an angry scowl and throwing out his chest. Pétya badly wanted to laugh, but noticed that they all refrained from laughing. “The Frenchmen rushed at me with their little swords, so I went for them with my ax, this way: ‘Christ be with you!'”. The officer sent to inquire about his health met him on the way with the news that Dólokhov was soon coming and that all was well with him. The officer who had been sent to inquire met Denísov on the way with the news that Dólokhov was soon coming and that all was well with him. But this uneasiness lasted only a moment.   But when he saw the French and saw Tíkhon and learned that there would certainly be an attack that night, he decided, with the rapidity with which young people change their views, that the general, whom he had greatly respected till then, was a rubbishy German, that Denísov was a hero, the esaul a hero, and Tíkhon a hero too, and that it would be shameful for him to leave them at a moment of difficulty. In the twilight saddled horses could be seen, and Cossacks and hussars who had rigged up rough shelters in the glade and were kindling glowing fires in a hollow of the forest where the French could not see the smoke.  He then said: What would it be to you? … Oh, you want a knife? And ran out into the passage to his Cossack and brought back some bags of raisins and 100 flints. And running over the events of the day he remembered the French drummer boy.  Will it seem odd if I ask? and immediately, blushing and looking anxiously at the officers to see if they appeared ironical, he said:May I call in that boy who was taken prisoner and give him something to eat? Call him in. His name is Vincent Bosse. Have him fetched. “I’ll call him,” said Pétya. “Entrez, entrez.”  “Ah, Vesénny?” said a Cossack. The arrival of Dólokhov diverted Pétya’s attention from the drummer boy, to whom he had fed mutton and vodka and dressed in a Russian coat so that he might be kept with their band and not sent away with the other prisoners. “Oh, what can I do for him?” he thought, and opening the door to let the boy pass in first. The Cossack officer surprised everyone by becoming a most correct officer of the Guards, who in Moscow had worn a Persian costume. He was clean-shaven and wore a Guardsman’s padded coat with an Order of St. George at his buttonhole and a plain forage cap set straight on his head. He took off his wet felt cloak in a corner of the room, and without greeting anyone went up to General Denísov and began questioning him about the matter in hand. Then he told him all he knew of the French detachment. Denísov: “As for him, I won’t let him go on any account”. Dólokhov: “And I say boldly that I have not a single man’s life on my conscience”. Pétya: “There’s no need for you to go at all,” said Denísov of the French drummer boy.  “Dites donc, le colonel Gérard est ici?” * he asked. “Mot d’ordre,” repeated the sentinel, barring the way and not replying. “Quand un officier fait sa ronde, les sentinelles ne demandent pas le mot d’ordre…” cried Dólokhov suddenly flaring up and riding straight at the sentinel.  “When an officer is making his round, sentinels don’t ask him for the password, I am asking you if the colonel is here,” he cried.

*  Dólokhov remarked that the Cossacks were a danger only to stragglers such as his companion and himself, “but probably they would not dare to attack large detachments?” he added inquiringly.  “Well, now he’ll come away,” Pétya thought every moment as he stood by the campfire listening to the talk. The Russian officers laughed as one of them said: A horrid business dragging these corpses about with one! It would be better to shoot such rabble, and burst into laughter. Pétya rode beside him, longing to look round to see whether or not the French were running after them, but not daring to.

When they had descended to the bridge Pétya and Dólokhov rode past the sentinel, who without saying a word paced morosely up and down it, then they descended into the hollow where the Cossacks awaited them.  We’ve been into the French camp.” “Well, you should get some sleep now,” said the Cossack. “No, I am used to this,” said Pétya.  Likhachëv’s saber was sharpened by a Cossack, but Pétya feared to tell a lie, and the saber never had been sharpened. Some fellows do things just anyhow, without preparation, and then they’re sorry for it afterwards. I don’t like that, he said. He climbed onto the wagon and sat on its edge, listening to the sounds of steel on whetstone. Pétya should have known that he was in a forest with Denísov’s guerrilla band, less than a mile from the road, sitting on a wagon captured from the French beside which horses were tethered, that under it Likhachëv was sharpening a saber for him, that the big dark blotch to the right was the watchman’s hut and the dying embers of a campfire were an hussar who wanted a drink. But he neither knew nor waited to know anything of all this. He looked up at the sky, and the sky was a fairy realm like the earth. He was as musical as Natásha and more so than Nicholas, but had never learned music or thought about it. “Oh—why, that was in a dream!” he said to himself, as he lurched forward. “It’s ready, your honor; you can split a Frenchman in half with it!” Pétya woke up. The Cossacks were untying their horses and tightening their saddle girths when Denísov came out of the watchman’s hut and ordered them to mount. Pétya put his foot in the stirrup.  French soldiers, probably Frenchmen, ran from right to left across the road in front of him. Cossacks were galloping along the road in front of him.  Pétya galloped up, and the first thing he saw was the pale face and trembling jaw of a Frenchman, clutching the handle of a lance that had been aimed at him. The shots were fired from a yard of the landowner’s house he had visited the night before with Cossacks and Russian cossacks. French soldiers and hussars were fighting behind a wattle fence in a garden thickly overgrown with bushes. A gallant-looking Frenchman, in a blue overcoat, capless, and with a frowning red face, had been defending himself against the hussars.  Wait for the infantry!” he exclaimed as Pétya rode up to him. The shots came from the yard of the landowner’s house he had visited the night before with Dólokhov.

His arms and legs jerked rapidly and his head was motionless; a bullet had pierced his skull. “I am used to something sweet.  “Done for!” repeated Dólokhov as if the utterance of these words afforded him pleasure, and he went quickly up to the prisoners, who were surrounded by Cossacks who had hurried up.  Raisins, fine ones… take them all!” he recalled Pétya’s words.

Half the wagons laden with hardtack that had traveled the first stages with them had been captured by Cossacks, the other half had gone on ahead. From Vyázma onwards the French army, which had till then moved in three columns, went on as a single group. The symptoms of disorder that Pierre had noticed at their first halting place after leaving Moscow had now reached the utmost limit. The prisoners were more burdensome to the escort than even the cavalry saddles or Junot’s baggage. At Dorogobúzh while the soldiers of the convoy, after locking the prisoners in a stable, had gone off to pillage their own stores, several of the soldier prisoners tunneled under the wall and ran away, but were recaptured by the French and shot.

During the march Pierre learned that there is no condition in which man can be happy and entirely free. He also learned that suffering and freedom have their limits and that those limits are very near together. The one thing that was at first hard to bear was his feet; but when everybody got up he walked without feeling the pain, though at night his feet became more terrible to look at. At midday on the twenty-second of October Pierre was going uphill along the muddy, slippery road, looking at his feet and at the roughness of the way. He did not see and did not hear how they shot the prisoners who lagged behind, though more than a hundred perished in that way.

Only now did Pierre realize the full strength of life in man and the saving power he has of transferring his attention from one thing to another. At their halting place, feeling chilly by a dying campfire, Pierre had got up and gone to the next one, which was burning better. There Platón Karatáev was sitting covered up, with his greatcoat as if it were a vestment, telling the soldiers in his effective and pleasant though now feeble voice a story Pierre knew. Karatáev: Ten years or more passed by. Only he prayed to God for death.

Well, one night the convicts were gathered just as we are, with the old man among them. And they began telling what each was suffering for, and how they had sinned against God. He adds: And he went on to tell them all about it in due order. Forgive me, Daddy, for Christ’s sake! Pierre Karatáev: And the old man said, ‘God will forgive you, we are all sinners in His sight,’ and he wept bitter tears.

So he confessed and it was all written down and the papers sent off in due form. After a while the Tsar’s decree came: to set the merchant free and give him compensation that had been awarded. But God had already forgiven him—he was dead! That’s how it was, dear fellows! Pierre Karatáev saw a glimpse of a man in a three-cornered hat with a tranquil look on his handsome, plump, white face.

His eye fell on Pierre’s large and striking figure, and in the expression with which he frowned and looked away Pierre thought he detected sympathy and a desire to conceal that sympathy. When the prisoners again went forward Pierre looked round. Pierre heard them ask. Two French soldiers ran past Pierre, one of them carrying a lowered and smoking gun. Behind him, where Karatáev had been sitting, the dog began to howl.

What a stupid beast! Why is it howling? thought Pierre. He again slept as he had done at Mozháysk after the battle of Borodinó.  “How simple and clear it is,” thought Pierre.

French soldiers were running past him. Dólokhov asked the Cossack. Denísov, bareheaded and with a gloomy face, walked behind some Cossacks who were carrying the body of Pétya Rostóv to a hole that had been dug in the garden. From Moscow to Vyázma the French army of seventy-three thousand men not reckoning the Guards was reduced to thirty-six thousand. The army should be rallied at Smolénsk and freed of ineffectives, such as dismounted cavalry, unnecessary baggage, and artillery material that is no longer in proportion to the present forces. After staggering into Smolénsk which seemed to them a promised land, the French, searching for food, killed one another, sacked their own stores, and when everything had been plundered fled farther.

The Russian and French armies during the campaign from Moscow to Smolénsk were like two players in a game of Russian blindman’s buff. They all went without knowing whither or why they were going, and Napoleon, for no one issued any orders to him. He and those around him retained their old habits of calling one another sire, mon cousin, roi de Naples, and so on.  And here as in a game of blindman’s buff the French ran into our vanguard.  The Russian army, expecting Napoleon to take the road to the right beyond the Dnieper—which was the only reasonable thing for him to do—themselves turned to the right and came out onto the highroad at Krásnoe.

Beyond Smolénsk there were several different roads available for the French, and one would have thought that during their stay of four days they might have learned where the enemy was, might have arranged some more advantageous plan and undertaken something new.  This campaign consisted in a flight of the French during which they did all they could to destroy themselves. Their supreme chief donned a fur coat and, having seated himself in a sleigh, galloped on alone, abandoning his companions. From Orshá they fled farther along the road to Vílna, still playing at blindman’s buff with the pursuing army. At the Berëzina they became disorganized, many were drowned and many surrendered, but those who got across the river fled farther.

Mountains of books have been written by the historians about this campaign, and everywhere are described Napoleon’s arrangements, the maneuvers, and his profound plans which guided the army, as well as the military genius shown by his marshals. Similarly profound considerations are given for his retreat from Smolénsk to Orshá.  Then his heroism at Krásnoe is described, where he is reported to have been prepared to accept battle and take personal command, and to have walked about with a birch stick and said:”J’ai assez fait l’empereur; il est temps de faire le général,” * but nevertheless immediately ran away again, abandoning to its fate the scattered fragments of the army he left behind.*  When it is impossible to stretch the very elastic threads of historical ratiocination any farther, the historians produce a saving conception of “greatness”. For the great man nothing is wrong, there is no atrocity for which a great man can be blamed. And Napoleon, escaping home in a warm fur coat and leaving to perish those who were not merely his comrades but were (in his opinion) men he had brought there, feels que c’est grand, and his soul is tranquil.

The Russian army was defeated at Krásnoe and Berëzina by the disorganized crowds of the French when it was numerically superior to them. How could the French be so enormously superior to us that when we had surrounded them with superior forces we could not beat them? How could that happen? History says that this occurred because Kutúzov and Tormásov and Chichagóv and others did not execute such and such maneuvers, but why did they not execute those maneuvers? The French retreat from Moscow was a series of victories for Napoleon and defeats for Kutúzov, according to Russian military historians.

But putting national vanity entirely aside one feels that such a conclusion involves a contradiction, since the series of French victories brought the French complete destruction. The source of this contradiction lies in the fact that the historians studying the events have attributed to this last period of the war of 1812 an aim that never existed. It would have been senseless to wish to capture army corps of the French, when our own army had melted away to half before reaching Krásnoe, and when our men were not always getting full rations and the prisoners already taken were perishing of hunger. The probability of Chichagóv, Kutúzov, and Wittgenstein effecting a junction on time at an appointed place was so remote as to be tantamount to impossibility, as in fact thought Knutuzov, who when he received the plan, remarked that diversions planned over great distances do not yield the desired results. It was impossible, because to paralyze the momentum with which Napoleon’s army was retiring, incomparably greater forces than the Russians possessed would’ve been required.

Never since the world began has a war been fought under such conditions as those that obtained in 1812. The Russian army lost fifty thousand sick or stragglers, that is, half the men fell out of the army without a battle. One can cut off a slice of bread, but not an army. But the French troops quite rightly did not consider that this suited them, since death by hunger and cold awaited them in flight or captivity alike. To cut off an army—to bar its road—is quite impossible, for there is always plenty of room to avoid capture and there is the night when nothing can be seen, as the military scientists might convince themselves by the example of Krásnoe and of the Berëzina.

It is of this period of the campaign that the historians tell us how Milorádovich should have made a flank march to such and such a place, Tormásov should have crossed (more than knee-deep in snow) to somewhere else, and so-and-so “routed” and “cut off” the French. The Russians, half of whom died, did all that could and should have been done to attain an end worthy of the nation, and they are not to blame because other Russians, sitting in warm rooms, proposed that they should do what was impossible. The aim of cutting off Napoleon and his army never existed except in the imaginations of a dozen people, and could not exist because it was senseless and unattainable. But one need only discard the study of the reports and general plans and consider the movement of those hundreds of thousands of men who took a direct part in the events, and all the questions that seemed insoluble easily and simply receive an immediate and certain solution. The Russian army had to act like a whip to a running animal, and the experienced driver knew it was better to hold the whip raised as a menace than to strike the running animal on the head. Secondly it was attained by the guerrilla warfare which was destroying the French, and thirdly by the fact that a large Russian army was following the French, ready to use its strength in case their movement stopped.

Summary of Book 15

After Prince Andrew’s death Princess Mary and Natáshaasas felt a severance, a spiritual wound, which like a physical wound is sometimes fatal and sometimes heals, but always aches and shrinks at any external irritating touch. They carefully guarded their open wounds from any rough and painful contact. To admit the possibility of a future seemed to them to insult his memory. Princess Mary was the first to be called back to life from that realm of sorrow in which she had dwelt for the first fortnight. Natásha remained alone and, from the time Princess Mary began making preparations for departure, Princess Mary held aloof from her too.

The cares of life demanded her attention and she involuntarily yielded to them. She spent most of the time in her room by herself, sitting huddled up feet and all in the corner of the sofa, tearing and twisting something with her slender nervous fingers and gazing intently and fixedly at whatever her eyes chanced to fall on. How does it hurt him? He raised his eyes and said: To bind oneself forever to a suffering man. It would be continual torture.

She replied: This can’t go on —it won’t. You will get well—quite well. Natásha: I said it then only because it would have been dreadful for him, but he understood it differently. He then still wished to live and feared death. And I said it so awkwardly and stupidly!

I did not say what I meant! Now he seemed to be saying the same words to her, only in her imagination. Natásha this time gave him a different answer. She stopped him and said: “Terrible for you, but not for me!”. She was overcome by sweet sorrow and tears were already rising in her eyes.

Natásha’s maid Dunyásha, her maid, entered the room quickly and abruptly with a frightened look on her face and showing no concern for her mistress. … ha, ha-ha, ha! … It’s not real!

Princess Mary, pale and with quivering chin, came out from that room and taking Natásha by the arm said something to her.  Natásha did not remember how that day passed nor that night, nor the next day and night, She did not sleep and did not leave her mother. For three weeks she remained at her mother’s side, making her eat and drink and talking to her incessantly because the mere sound of her caressing tones soothed her. “Mamma!   She spoke so well today,” said Princess Mary. Princess Mary began to understand a side of life previously incomprehensible to her.

For Princess Mary the experience opened out a new and hitherto unprehended side of life: belief in life and its enjoyment. The Russians were so fatigued that they could not go any faster than twenty-seven miles a day. The flight was so rapid that the Russian army pursuing the French could not keep up with them; cavalry and artillery horses broke down, and the information received of the movements of the French was never reliable. CHAPTER IVAfter the encounter at Vyázma, where Kutúzov had been unable to hold back his troops in their anxiety to overwhelm and cut off the enemy and so on, the farther movement of the fleeing French, and of the Russians who pursued them, continued as far as Krásnoe without a battle.  At the end of January Princess Mary left for Moscow, and the count insisted on Natásha’s going with her to consult the doctors.

Kutúzov: Napoleon’s army was destroyed by the rapidity of its movement, and a convincing proof of this is the corresponding decrease of the Russian army. The Russian army moved voluntarily, with no such threat of destruction as hung over the French, and that the Frenchmen were left behind in enemy hands while the sick Russians left behind were among their own people. When the Russians stumbled on the French army at Krásnoe, they expected to find one of the three French columns and stumbled instead on Napoleon himself. Despite all Kutúzov’s efforts to avoid that ruinous encounter and to preserve his troops, the massacre of the broken mob of French soldiers by worn-out Russians continued for three days. The French, avoiding the Russians, dispersed and hid themselves in the forest by night, and continued their flight.

At Krásnoe they took 26,000 prisoners, several hundred cannon, and a stick called a “marshal’s staff,” and disputed as to who had distinguished himself and were pleased with their achievement. They blamed Kutúzov and said that from the beginning of the campaign he had prevented their vanquishing Napoleon. They blamed Kutúzov and said that from the very beginning of the campaign he had prevented their vanquishing Napoleon, that he thought of nothing but satisfying his passions and would not advance from the Linen Factories because he was comfortable there, that at Krásnoe he checked the advance because on learning that Napoleon was there he had quite lost his head, and that it was probable that he had an understanding with Napoleon and had been bribed by him, and so on, and so on. Kutúzov is described by foreigners as a crafty, dissolute, weak old courtier, and by Russians as something indefinite. For Russian historians, strange and terrible to say, Napoleon is the object of adulation and enthusiasm; he is grand.

The Emperor was dissatisfied with him. He deprived the Russian army of the glory of complete victory over the French at Krásnoe and the Berëzina.

Kutúzov never talked of “forty centuries looking down from the Pyramids,” of the sacrifices he offered for the fatherland, or of what he intended to accomplish or had accomplished; in general he said nothing about himself, adopted no pose, always appeared to be the simplest and most ordinary of men. He jested with generals, officers, and soldiers, and never contradicted those who tried to prove anything to him. In spite of himself, in very diverse circumstances, he repeatedly expressed his real thoughts with the bitter conviction that he would not be understood. He alone said that the battle of Borodinó was a victory, and repeated this both verbally and in his dispatches and reports up to the time of his death. In reply to Lauriston’s proposal of peace, he said: There can be no peace, for such is the people’s will.

His actions were all directed to one and the same threefold end: (1) to brace all his strength for conflict with the French, (2) to defeat them, and (3) to drive them out of Russia. And this courtier, as he is described to us, who lies to Arakchéev to please the Emperor, he alone—incurring thereby the Emperor’s displeasure—said in Vílna that to carry the war beyond the frontier is useless and harmful. Kutúzov declared till his death that Borodinó was a victory, despite the assurance of generals that the battle was lost and despite the fact that for an army to have to retire after winning a battle was unprecedented. He alone during the whole retreat insisted that battles, which were useless then, should not be fought, and that a new war should never be begun nor the frontiers of Russia crossed. When the battle of Krásnoe was over, Kutúzov rode to Dóbroe on his plump little white horse followed by an enormous suite of discontented generals who whispered among themselves behind his back.

All along the road groups of French prisoners captured that day (there were seven thousand of them) were crowding to warm themselves at campfires. One group of the French stood close to the road, and two of them, one of them with his face covered in sores, tore a piece of raw flesh with their hands. Russian general Kutúzov noticed a Russian soldier laughingly patting a Frenchman on the shoulder, saying something to him in a friendly manner. At another spot he looked at two soldiers who were holding French eagle standards captured from the French and standing in front of the Preobrazhénsk regiment. The commander in chief was silent for a few seconds before he began speaking.

He thanked the soldiers and officers and said: “The victory is complete and Russia will not forget you!”. We’ll see our visitors off and then we’ll rest. The Tsar won’t forget your service. It is hard for you, but still you are at home while they—you see what they have come to, pointing to the prisoners, Worse off than our poorest beggars! He cried as he rode off at a gallop, and left the broken ranks of the soldiers laughing joyfully and shouting “Hurrah!”.

CHAPTER VIIWhen the troops reached their night’s halting place on the eighth of November, the last day of the Krásnoe battles, it was already growing dusk.  Afterwards when one of the generals addressed Kutúzov asking whether he wished his calèche to be sent for, Kutúzov in answering unexpectedly gave a sob, being evidently greatly moved.   …”  Sergeant major: “There are gentry here; the general himself is in that hut, and you foul-mouthed devils, you brutes, I’ll give it to you!”. When they were out of the village they began talking again as loud as before, interlarding their talk with the same aimless expletives. “What are you up to?” suddenly came the authoritative voice of a sergeant major who came upon the men who were hauling their burden.  The soldiers had to strip themselves naked to steam the lice out of their shirts as they stoked the fires. They split up the wood, blew at it with their pipes and fanned it with the skirts of their greatcoats, making the flames hiss and crackle. “When a man’s feet are frozen how can he walk?” one dancer asked, as he stamped his cold feet on the spot where he stood. “Right enough, friend,” said he, and, having sat down, took out of his knapsack a scrap of blue French cloth, and wrapped it round his foot.  “What a lot of those Frenchies were taken today, and the fact is that not one of them had what you might call real boots on,” said a soldier, starting a new theme.  “They’re a clean folk, lads, as white as birchbark; you might think they were nobles,” said one soldier. They make soldiers of all classes there.” The old soldier said: “You’re a first-class liar, Kiselëv, when I come to look at you!”.

“Two Frenchies have turned up.  “Hark at them roaring there in the Fifth Company!” said one of the soldiers, “and what a lot of them there are!” Two French soldiers who had been hiding in the forest came up to a campfire and said something in a language our soldiers did not understand. Morel, pointing to his shoulders, tried to impress on the soldiers: “You won’t do it again, eh?” said one of the soldiers, winking and turning mockingly to the French officer.

Vive ce roi valiant!” and “Long live Henry the Fourth, that valiant king! That rowdy devil! Just like the Frenchie!  In reality it was only one intermediate stage in its destruction, and not at all the decisive episode of the campaign.

When the bridges broke down, unarmed soldiers, people from Moscow and women with children who were with the French transport pressed forward into boats and into the ice-covered water and did not surrender. In reality the results of the crossing were much less disastrous to the French—in guns and men lost—than Krásnoe had been, as the figures show. The sole importance of the crossing of the Berëzina lies in the fact that it plainly and indubitably proved the fallacy of all the plans for cutting off the enemy’s retreat and the soundness of the only possible line of action—the one Kutúzov and the general mass of the army demanded—namely, simply to follow the enemy up.  If so much has been and still is written about the Berëzina, on the French side this is only because at the broken bridge across that river the calamities their army had been previously enduring were suddenly concentrated at one moment into a tragic spectacle that remained in every memory, and on the Russian side merely because in Petersburg—far from the seat of war—a plan (again one of Pfuel’s) had been devised to catch Napoleon in a strategic trap at the Berëzina River.  Russian commander Kutúzov: The French perished from the conditions to which the Russian army was itself exposed.

He went on: As long as they remained with their own people each might hope for help from his fellows and the definite place he held among them. But those who surrendered would be on a lower level to claim a share in the necessities of life. After the junction with the army of the brilliant admiral and Petersburg hero Wittgenstein, this mood and the gossip of the staff reached their maximum. Kutúzov saw this and merely sighed and shrugged his shoulders. Only once, after the affair of the Berëzina, did he get angry and write to Bennigsen (who reported separately to the Emperor) the following letter:.

On the twenty-ninth of November Kutúzov entered Vílna. He saw on the one hand that the military business in which he had played his part was ended and felt that his mission was accomplished; and at the same time he began to be conscious of the physical weariness of his aged body and of the necessity of physical rest. And he suddenly turned from the cares of army and state and, as far as the passions that seethed around him allowed, immersed himself in the quiet life of his former life. Chichagóv, one of the most zealous cutters-off and breakers-up, was the first to meet Kutúzov at the castle where the latter was to stay. In undress naval uniform, with a dirk, and holding his dirk under his arm, he handed Kutunzov a garrison report and the keys of the town of Vílna.

The contemptuously respectful attitude of the younger men to the old man in his dotage was expressed in the highest degree by the behavior of Chichaigóv. Contrary to the Emperor’s wish, Kutuza became extraordinarily slack and physically feeble during his stay in that town. He attended to army affairs reluctantly, left everything to his generals, and led a dissipated life. Field Marshal Konovnítsyn rushed into the hall porter’s little lodge to inform the Emperor. When alone with the field marshal the Emperor expressed his dissatisfaction at the slowness of the pursuit and at the mistakes made at Krásnoe and the Berëzina, and informed him of his intentions for a future campaign abroad.

Kutúzov made no rejoinder or remark.  When Kutúzov received the Order of St. George of the First Class, the Emperor showed him the highest honors, but everyone knew of the imperial dissatisfaction with him. The proprieties were observed and the Emperor was the first to set that example, but everybody understood that the old man was blameworthy and good-for-nothing. Kutúzov did not understand what Europe, the balance of power, or Napoleon meant; he could not understand it. To avoid unpleasant encounters with the old man, the natural method was to do what had been done with him at Austerlitz and with Barclay at the beginning of the Russian campaign.

The war of 1812 was to assume another, a European, significance. For this fresh war another leader was necessary, having qualities and views differing from Kutuzov’s and animated by different motives. Alexander I was as necessary for the movement of the peoples from east to west and for the refixing of national frontiers as Kutútzov had been for the salvation of Russia. But he did not feel the full effects of the physical privation and strain he had suffered until after they were over. He fell ill when he reached Orël and was laid up for three months.

His search for the aim of life had not merely disappeared temporarily, but he felt that it no longer existed for him. How splendid!” said he to himself when a cleanly laid table was moved up to him with savory beef tea, or when he lay down for the night on a soft clean bed, or when he remembered that the French had gone and that his wife was no more.  In his captivity he learned that in Karatáev God was greater, more infinite and unfathomable than in the Architect of the Universe recognized by the Freemasons. He felt like a man who after straining his eyes to see into the far distance finds what he sought at his very feet. He could not see an aim, for he now had faith in an ever-living, ever-manifest God. In external ways Pierre had hardly changed at all. As before he was absent-minded and seemed occupied not with what was before his eyes but with something special of his own. The difference between his former and present self was that formerly when he did not grasp what lay before him or was said to him, he had puckered his forehead painfully as if vainly seeking to distinguish something at a distance. The princess, who had never liked him, felt that he regarded her with indifference and irony.

“If all Russians are in the least like you, it is sacrilege to fight such a nation,” he said to him. “You, who have suffered so from the French, do not even feel animosity toward them.” The Italian seemed happy only when he could come to see Pierre, talk with him, tell him about his past, his life at home, and his love, and pour out to him his indignation against the French and especially against Napoleon. Willarski was a married man with a family, who regarded all occupations as hindrances to life, and considered that they were all contemptible because their aim was the welfare of himself and his family. When he met Pierre, Willarski found it strange to think that he had been like that himself but a short time before. In practical matters Pierre unexpectedly felt within himself a center of gravity he had previously lacked.

He is now able to decide what should or should not be done with regard to money, as when a French colonel demanded that he give him four thousand francs to send to his wife and children. The burning of Moscow cost him about two million rubles, according to the head steward’s calculation. His income would be reduced by three fourths, but he felt it must be done. “Yes, of course that’s true,” said Pierre with a cheerful smile.   They continued what the French had begun.

The Russians who entered Moscow, finding it plundered, plundered it in their turn.  The longer the French plunderers plundered, the more the wealth of the city was destroyed. Besides the plunderers, very various people, some drawn by curiosity, some by official duties, some by self-interest—house owners, clergy, officials of all kinds, tradesmen, artisans, and peasants—streamed into Moscow as blood flows to the heart.  The higher authorities and the police organized the distribution of goods left behind by the French.   On the third day after his arrival he heard from the Drubetskóys that Princess Mary was in Moscow.

Everyone was pleased to see Pierre, everyone wished to meet him, and everyone questioned him about what he had seen.   He glanced once at the companion’s face, saw her attentive and kindly gaze fixed on him, and, as often happens when one is talking, felt somehow that this companion in the black dress was a good, kind, excellent creature who would not hinder his conversing freely with Princess Mary. Perhaps she will see me,” said Pierre. Pierre: “No, it’s only the unexpectedness of it”. And with difficulty, effort, and stress, like the opening of a door grown rusty on its hinges, a smile appeared on the face with the attentive eyes of the lady in the black dress. When she smiled doubt was no longer possible, it was Natásha and he loved her. But at that moment Princess Mary said, “Natásha!”  “Natásha, my lord, why had such a splendid boy, so full of life, to die?” asks Princess Mary. “Only one who believes that there is a God ruling us can bear a loss such as hers and… yours,” says Pierre. Princess Mary was forced to reveal details which she feared to recall for her own sake. Yes, yes, and so he grew tranquil and softened? With all his soul he had always sought one thing—to be perfectly good, so he could not be afraid of death. So he did soften?… What a happy thing that he saw you again? But Pierre’s face quivering with emotion, his questions and his eager restless expression, gradually compelled her to go into details which she feared to recall for her own sake. Princess Mary, frowning in her effort to hold back her tears, sat beside Natásha. Pierre listened to her with lips parted and eyes fixed upon her full of tears. She got up just as Nicholas entered, almost ran to the door which was hidden by curtains, struck her head against it, and rushed from the room with a moan either of pain or sorrow.

They all three of them now experienced that feeling of awkwardness which usually follows after a serious and heartfelt talk. “We have been told,” Princess Mary interrupted her, “that you lost two millions in Moscow.  “But I am three times as rich as before,” returned Pierre. Natásha smiled and was on the point of speaking.  “Yes, and so you are once more an eligible bachelor,” said Princess Mary. Pierre laughed. Natásha asked with a slight smile.  “But it’s true that you remained in Moscow to kill Napoleon?”  Princess Mary, leaning on her elbow, watched Pierre with an attention that never wandered. She understood not only what he said but also what he wished to express in words. said Natásha.  She saw the possibility of love and happiness between the two, which filled her heart with gladness. The footmen tried to change the candles but no one noticed. Princess Mary was silent.  Pierre finished his story.  Natásha without knowing it was all attention: she did not lose a word, no single quiver in Pierre’s voice, no look, no twitch of a muscle in his face, nor a single gesture.  Princess Mary: “I too should wish nothing but to relive it all from the beginning!”. Princess Mary did not express her opinion of Pierre nor did she speak of him. She said only: “Is it possible to forget?”. “Well, good night, Mary!” said Natásha.  “I understand why he” (Prince Andrew) “liked no one so much as him,” said Princess Mary. Princess Mary’s mischievous smile lingered for a long time on her face as if it had been forgotten there. Pierre: They say men are friends when they are quite different. Really he is quite unlike him—in everything. “Well, good night,” said Natásha. How easy he thinks it, thought Pierre, he doesn’t know how terrible it is and how dangerous. Too soon or too late, it is terrible, he said. “I have seen the princess,” she replied.  Natásha Rostóva!” At breakfast Pierre told the princess, his cousin, that he had been to see Princess Mary the day before and had there met—”Whom do you think?   Pierre went to Princess Mary’s to dinner. At the entrance to Princess Mary’s house Pierre felt doubtful whether he had really been there the night before and really seen Natásha and talked to her.   Princess, my dear friend, listen!  Pierre noticed this but could not go.  Natásha gave him her hand and went out.  Princess Mary, foreseeing no end to this, rose first, and complaining of a headache began to say good night. I cannot imagine life without her. I cannot propose to her at present, but the thought that perhaps she might someday be my wife and that I may be missing that possibility. Tell me, can I hope? Tell me what I am to do, dear princess! he said. Princess Mary stopped.  Pierre was looking into Princess Mary’s eyes. She was going to say that to speak of love was impossible, but she stopped because she had seen by the sudden change in Natásha two days before that she would not only not be hurt if Pierre spoke of his love, but that it was the very thing she wished for. Natásha and Pierre felt as if he was vanishing as he looked at her. Is it possible? No, it can’t be, he told himself at every look, gesture, and word that filled his soul with joy. Natásha said good-by to him: “I shall look forward very much to your return”. When Princess Mary Pierre Natásha was taken ill, he did not repeat to himself with a sickening feeling of shame the words he had spoken, or say: “Oh, why did I not say that?”. and, “Whatever made me say ‘Je vous aime’?”. On the contrary, he repeated in imagination every word that he or Princess Mary had spoken and pictured every detail of her face and smile. At the height of his insanity Pierre saw in everyone he met everything that was good and worthy of being loved. When dealing with the affairs of his dead wife, her memory aroused in him no feeling but pity that she had not known the bliss he now knew. Pierre’s insanity consisted in not waiting, as he used to do, to discover personal attributes which he termed “good qualities” before loving them.

The change that took place in Natásha at first surprised Princess Mary; but when she understood its meaning it grieved her.  After Pierre’s departure that first evening, when Natásha had said to Princess Mary with a gaily mocking smile: “He looks just, yes, just as if he had come out of a Russian bath—in a short coat and with his hair cropped,” something hidden and unknown to herself, but irrepressible, awoke in Natásha’s soul.

 When Princess Mary returned to her room after her nocturnal talk with Pierre, Natásha met her on the threshold. He has spoken? He has spoken? she repeated. And a joyful yet pathetic expression which seemed to beg forgiveness for her joy settled onNatásha’s face.

She gave herself up so fully and frankly to this new feeling that she did not try to hide the fact that she was no longer sad, but bright and cheerful. But noticing the grieved expression on Princess Mary’s face she guessed the reason of that sadness and suddenly began to cry. Princess Mary: “I am happy for your sake”. “But why go to Petersburg?”

Summary of Epilogue Book 1

They condemn the historical personages who, in their opinion, caused what they describe as the reaction. Among them are Alexander and Napoleon, Madame de Staël, Photius, Schelling, Fichte, Chateaubriand, and the rest. According to their accounts a reaction took place at that time in Russia also. All the well-known people of that period, from Alexander and Napoleon to Madame de Staël, Photius, Schelling, Fichte, Chateaubriand, and the rest, pass before their stern judgment seat and are acquitted or condemned according to whether they conduced to progress or to reaction.  It lies in the fact that an historic character like Alexander I, standing on the highest possible pinnacle of human power with the blinding light of history focused upon him; a character exposed to those strongest of all influences: the intrigues, flattery, and self-deception inseparable from power; a character who at every moment of his life felt a responsibility for all that was happening in Europe; and not a fictitious but a live character who like every man had his personal habits, passions, and impulses toward goodness, beauty, and truth—that this character—though not lacking in virtue (the historians do not accuse him of that)—had not the same conception of the welfare of humanity fifty years ago as a present-day professor who from his youth upwards has been occupied with learning: that is, with books and lectures and with taking notes from them.

Do not the very actions for which the historians praise Alexander I (the liberal attempts at the beginning of his reign, his struggle with Napoleon, the firmness he displayed in 1812 and the campaign of 1813) flow from the same sources—the circumstances of his birth, education, and life—that made his personality what it was and from which the actions for which they blame him (the Holy Alliance, the restoration of Poland, and the reaction of 1820 and later) also flowed? He says: “We see that every year and with each new writer, opinion as to what is good for mankind changes; so that what once seemed good, ten years later seems bad, and vice versa”. He adds: “The activity of Alexander or of Napoleon cannot be called useful or harmful, for it is impossible to say for what it was useful or beneficial.” Alexander’s father’s house in Moscow and the prosperity of the Petersburg and other universities, or the freedom of Poland seem to me to be good or bad. Whether the preservation of my father’s house in Moscow, or the glory of the Russian arms, or the prosperity of the Petersburg and other universities, or the freedom of Poland or the greatness of Russia, or the balance of power in Europe, or a certain kind of European culture called “progress” appear to me to be good or bad, I must admit that besides these things the action of every historic character has other more general purposes inaccessible to me. If we admit that human life can be ruled by reason, the possibility of life is destroyed.

Alexander could have arranged matters according to the program his accusers would have given him. If the aim of the European wars had been the aggrandizement of Russia, that aim might have been accomplished without all the preceding wars and without the invasion. To a herd of rams, the ram the herdsman drives each evening into a special enclosure to feed and that becomes twice as fat as the others must seem to be a genius. But the rams need only cease to suppose that all that happens to them happens solely for the attainment of their sheepish aims. It is impossible to imagine any two people more completely adapted down to the smallest detail for the purpose they had to fulfill, than Napoleon and Alexander with all their antecedents.

We need only confess that we do not know the purpose of the European convulsions and that we know only the facts. For the peoples of the west to be able to make their warlike movement to Moscow it was necessary: (1) that they should form themselves into a military group of a size able to endure a collision with the army of the east. (2) That they should abandon all established traditions and customs, and (3) that during their military movement they should have at their head a man who could justify to them the deceptions, robberies, and murders which would have to be committed during that movement. For the peoples of the west to be able to make their warlike movement to Moscow it was necessary: (1) that they should form themselves into a military group of a size able to endure a collision with the warlike military group of the east, (2) that they should abandon all established traditions and customs, and (3) that during their military movement they should have at their head a man who could justify to himself and to them the deceptions, robberies, and murders which would have to be committed during that movement. He was a man without convictions, without habits, without traditions, without a name, and not even a Frenchman.

And the men who commit these crimes, especially their leader, assure themselves that this is admirable, this is glory—it resembles Caesar and Alexander the Great and is therefore good. Owing to various diplomatic considerations the Russian armies—just those which might have destroyed his prestige—do not appear upon the scene till he is no longer there. This ideal of glory and grandeur was destined to guide this man and his associates in Africa. Whatever he does succeeds. The plague does not touch him.

The cruelty of murdering prisoners is not imputed to him as a fault. His childishly rash, uncalled-for, and ignoble departure from Africa, leaving his comrades in distress, is set down to his credit. When he reaches Paris, the dissolution of the republican government can only serve to exalt him. Chance, millions of chances, give him power, and all men as if by agreement co-operate to confirm that power. He forms the characters of the rulers of France, who submit to him; chance forms the character of Paul I of Russia who recognizes his government; chance contrives a plot against him which not only fails to harm him but confirms his power.

Chance puts the Duc d’Enghien in his hands and unexpectedly causes him to kill him. It is not Napoleon who prepares himself for the accomplishment of his role, so much as all those around him who prepares him to take on himself the whole responsibility for what is happening and has to happen. In 1811 the group of people that had formed in France unites into one group with the peoples of Central Europe. The strength of the justification of the man who stands at the head of the movement grows with the increased size of the group. When he is ready so too are the forces of the invasion which pushes eastward and reaches its final goal—Moscow.

The invasion pushes eastward and reaches its final goal—Moscow.  A countermovement is accomplished from east to west with a remarkable resemblance to the preceding movement from west to east. The invaders flee, turn back, flee again, and all the chances are now not for Napoleon but always against him. Napoleon himself is no longer of any account; all his actions are evidently pitiful and mean. The manager has brought the drama to a close and stripped the actor to show him to us.

And all this was found in Alexander I; all this had been prepared by innumerable so-called chances in his life: his education, his early liberalism, the advisers who surrounded him, and by Austerlitz, and Tilsit, and Erfurt. What was needed was a sense of justice and a sympathy with European affairs, but a remote sympathy not dulled by petty interests; a moral superiority over those sovereigns of the day who co-operated with him; a mild and attractive personality; and a personal grievance against Napoleon.  Alexander I, the pacifier of Europe, realized the insignificance of his supposed power when Napoleon in exile was drawing up childish and mendacious plans of how he would have made mankind happy had he retained power. Alexander I said: I too am a man like you. Let me live like a man and think of my soul and of God.

A poet describes the purpose of the bee as to suck the fragrance of flowers. A beekeeper explains that the bee gathers pollen to feed the young bees and rear a queen, and that it exists to perpetuate its race. The higher the human intellect rises in the discovery of these purposes, the more obvious it becomes that the ultimate purpose is beyond our comprehension. The Bee of Argyll: All that is accessible to man is the relation of the life of the bee to other manifestations of life. And so it is with the purpose of historic characters and nations – William Wordsworth, The Life of the Bee.

Natásha Rostóv’s wedding to Count Ilyá Bezúkhov was the last happy event in the family of the old Rostóvs. The events of the previous year: the burning of Moscow and the flight from it, the death of Prince Andrew, Natásha’s despair and Pétya’s death fell blow after blow on the old countess’ head. Nicholas was with the Russian army in Paris when the news of his father’s death reached him.   Natásha and Pierre were living in Petersburg at the time and had no clear idea of Nicholas’ circumstances.  The couple were unable to conceive of life without the luxurious conditions she had been used to from childhood and Nicholas tried to hide his wretched condition from his wife and children.

Nicholas’ position became worse and worse.  He could see no way out of this situation and wished for nothing and hoped for nothing. “I never expected anything else of him,” said Princess Mary to herself, feeling a joyous sense of her love for him.   Nicholas sighed, bit his mustache, and laid out the cards for a patience, trying to divert his mother’s attention to another topic. After her visit to the Rostóvs Princess Mary confessed to herself that she had been right in not wishing to be the first to call.

She felt herself all the time in an awkward position, and when she asked herself what distressed her, she had to admit that it was her relation to Rostóv. With Mademoiselle Bourienne’s help the princess maintained the conversation very well, but at the very last moment, just when he rose, she was so tired of talking of what did not interest her, that in a fit of absent-mindedness she sat still. They spoke of the countess’ health, of their mutual friends, of the latest war news, and when the ten minutes required by propriety had elapsed after which a visitor may rise, Nicholas got up to say good-by. Count Nicholas felt sorry for her as she sat motionless with a look of suffering on her gentle face. He wished to help her and say something pleasant, but could think of nothing to say.

“Wait a moment, I’ll fetch it,” said Mademoiselle Bourienne, and she left the room. Princess Mary gazed intently into his eyes with her own luminous ones as he said this.  Nicholas paid off all his debts and bought a small estate adjoining Bald Hills and was negotiating to buy back Otrádnoe, his pet dream. “Princess!” Nicholas Carlin: Nicholas was a plain farmer who laughed at theoretical treatises on estate management, disliked factories and the raising of expensive seed corn, and did not make a hobby of any particular part of the work on his estate. He always had before his mind’s eye the estate as a whole and not any specific part of it.

He was hard on the lazy, depraved and weak, and tried to get them expelled from the commune. Few landowners had their crops sown and harvested so early and so well, or got so good a return, as did Nicholas. Countess Mary was jealous of her husband Nicholas’s passion for farming, but she could not understand the joys and vexations he derived from that world. She did not understand why he was so animated and happy when, after getting up at daybreak and spending the whole morning in the fields or on the threshing floor, he returned from the sowing or mowing or reaping to have tea with her.

I must put our affairs in order while I am alive, that’s all. That’s all about it! he said. And all Nicholas did was fruitful—probably just because he refused to allow himself to think that he was doing good to others for virtue’s sake.  Countess Mary turned red and then pale, but continued to sit with head bowed and lips compressed and gave her husband no reply.

He left her side and paced up and down the room, furiously angry at the memory of him. “Nicholas, I saw it… he was to blame, but why do you… Nicholas!” and she covered her face with her hands. Countess  Oh, Mary, don’t remind me of it!”  Among the gentry of the province Nicholas was respected but not liked. He did not concern himself with the interests of his own class, and consequently some thought him proud and others thought him stupid. “Mary, you must despise me!” he would say.  Countess Nicholas had asked Princess Mary to be gentle and kind to his cousin but she could not overcome her feelings of ill will. “What?” asked Countess Mary, surprised. It was the eve of St. Nicholas, the fifth of December, 1820. Besides the Bezúkhov family, Nicholas’ old friend the retired General Vasíli Dmítrich Denísov was staying with the Rostóvs this fifth of December. On the sixth, which was his name day when the house would be full of visitors, Nicholas knew he would have to exchange his Tartar tunic for a tail coat, and put on narrow boots with pointed toes, and drive to the new church he had built, and then receive visitors who would come to congratulate him, offer them refreshments, and talk about the elections of the nobility; but he considered himself entitled to spend the eve of that day in his usual way.   Countess Mary sat at the other end of the table.  “Then I’m not mistaken,” thought Countess Mary.  “I am angry but I won’t tell you why,” countess Mary responded. When they left the table and went as usual to thank the old countess, she asked him why he was upset with her. Nicholas replied: “Tomorrow I shall have to suffer, so today I’ll go and rest”. Nicholas suddenly moved and said crossly: Mary, dear, I think he is asleep. Why did you bring him here? Mary didn’t reply, but to avoid obeying Sónya beckoned Andrew, her eldest son, to follow her on tiptoe. Mary, is that you?  Natásha, her father’s pet, ran to her father when Countess Mary was in the sitting room. She boldly opened the creaking door, went up to the sofa with energetic steps of her sturdy little legs, and kissed the hand which lay under his head. Nicholas turned with a tender smile on his face; Countess Mary moved away from the door and took the boy back to the nursery. He did not ask if she was ready to listen to him; he did not care. And he told her of his plans to persuade Pierre to stay with them till spring. And Nicholas, taking his little daughter in his strong hand, lifted her high, placed her on his shoulder, held her by the legs, and paced the room with her.  And she was right,” said Countess Mary with a happy smile.

Countess Mary: “I should never, never have believed that one could be so happy,” she whispered to herself. Nicholas went out holding the child by the hand; Countess Mary remained in the sitting room. Since their marriage Natásha and her husband had lived in Moscow, in Petersburg, on their estate near Moscow, or with her mother, that is to say, in Nicholas’ house.   Natásha did not follow the golden rule advocated by clever folk, especially by the French, which says that a girl should not let herself go when she marries. Natásha on the contrary, abandoned all her witchery, of which her singing had been an unusually powerful part.

She felt that the allurements instinct had formerly taught her to use would now be merely ridiculous in the eyes of her husband. Natásha saw no need of any other or better husband, but could not imagine how it would be if things were different. Discussions and questions of that kind did not then and do not now exist for those for whom the purpose of a dinner is the nourishment it affords; and marriage is the family. Natásha did not care for society in general, but prized the more the society of her relatives—Countess Mary, and her brother, her mother, and Sónya.  Natásha valued the company of those to whom she could come striding disheveled from the nursery in her dressing gown, and with joyful face show a yellow instead of a green stain on baby’s napkin.

He had to show partiality for anything to get just what he liked done always. To make up for this, at home Pierre had the right to regulate his life and that of the whole family as he chose.

CHAPTER XITwo months previously when Pierre was already staying with the Rostóvs he had received a letter from Prince Theodore, asking him to come to Petersburg to confer on some important questions that were being discussed there by a society of which Pierre was one of the principal founders. On reading that letter (she always read her husband’s letters) Natásha herself suggested that he should go to Petersburg, though she would feel his absence very acutely.   She was nursing her boy when the sound of Pierre’s sleigh was heard at the front door, and the old nurse—knowing how to please her mistress—entered the room inaudibly but hurriedly and with a beaming face. Natásha declared of the very affairs in the immense importance of which she firmly believed. Natásha Denísov, who had come out of the study into the dancing room with his pipe, now for the first time recognized the old Natásha.

“He’s come!” she exclaimed as she ran past, and Denisísov felt that he too was delighted that Pierre, whom he did not much care for, had returned. But all at once she remembered the tortures of suspense she had experienced for the last fortnight, and the joy that had lit up her face vanished; she frowned and overwhelmed Pierre with a torrent of reproaches and angry words. “How he did frighten me,” she said, as she gazed tenderly at her husband and child. “And yet he’s such an affectionate father, says his wife, but only after they are a year old or so.” At that moment Nicholas and Countess Mary came in.  Come along, Pierre!” “Now, Pierre nurses them splendidly,” said Natásha.  The servants were glad to have him back because no one else drew them into the social life of the household as he did. Nicholas, now a slim lad of fifteen, was delighted because his uncle Pierre as he called him was the object of his rapturous and passionate affection. Countess Mary who had brought him up had done her utmost to make him love her husband as she loved him, and little Nicholas did love his uncle, but loved him with just a shade of contempt.  Pierre’s past life and his unhappiness prior to 1812 (of which young Nicholas had formed a vague poetic picture from some words he had overheard), his adventures in Moscow, his captivity, Platón Karatáev (of whom he had heard from Pierre), his love for Natásha (of whom the lad was also particularly fond), and especially Pierre’s friendship with the father whom Nicholas could not remember—all this made Pierre in his eyes a hero and a saint. The guests welcomed Pierre because he always helped to enliven and unite any company he was in. The old ladies were pleased with the presents he brought them, and especially that Natásha would now be herself again. The countess Natásha was delighted to receive a gold comb set with pearls, of a kind then just coming into fashion: “How pleased the children will be and Mamma too!” when she received it. Pierre told her the price. After the deaths of her son and husband, Belóva felt herself a being accidentally forgotten in this world and left without aim or object for her existence. Life gave her no new impressions; she wanted nothing from life but tranquillity only death could give her. But until death came she had to go on living, that is, to use her vital forces. Nicholas, Pierre, Natásha, and Countess Mary’s maids knew by infallible symptoms when Belóva would again be deaf, the snuff damp, and the countess’ face yellow. The old lady’s condition was understood by the whole household though no one ever spoke of it. Only by a rare glance exchanged with a sad smile between Nicholas, Pierre Natásha and Countess Mary was the common understanding of her condition expressed.

They consisted of a box for cards, of splendid workmanship, a bright-blue Sèvres tea cup with shepherdesses depicted on it and with a lid, and a gold snuffbox with the count’s portrait on the lid which Pierre had had done by a miniaturist in Petersburg.  Pierre, Natásha, Nicholas, Countess Mary, and Denísov had much to talk about that they could not discuss before the old countess. The children with their tutors and governesses had had tea and their voices were audible from the next room. Pierre answered the countess’ questions as to whether Prince Vasíli had aged.  Denísov, not being a member of the family, did not understand Pierre’s caution and being, as a malcontent, much interested in what was occurring in Petersburg, kept urging Pierre to tell them about what had happened in the Semënovsk regiment, then about Arakchéev, and then about the Bible Society.

Once or twice Pierre was carried away and began to speak of these things, but Nicholas and Natásha always brought him back to the health of Prince Iván and Countess Mary Alexéevna.  I know that feeling,” said Nicholas.  Pierre exclaimed.  “Finished, finished!” little Natásha’s gleeful yell rose above them all.  Good night!” said Pierre, giving his hand to the Swiss tutor, and he turned to young Nicholas with a smile.  Countess Mary sat down doing woolwork; Natásha did not take her eyes off her husband.  “No, Monsieur Dessalles, I will ask my aunt to let me stay,” replied Nicholas Bolkónski also in a whisper.

The conversation turned on the contemporary gossip about those in power, in which most people see the chief interest of home politics. Nicholas was dissatisfied with the things done in Petersburg which seemed to him stupid, and made forcible and sharp comments on what Pierre said. Natásha, who had long expected to be fetched to nurse her baby, now heard the nurse calling her and went to the nursery.  “What was it about?” asked Nicholas. “I told them just one thing in Petersburg,” he said: “Everything is going to ruin!”.

“Well, what does that lead up to?” said Nicholas. “Well, you know whom,” said Pierre, with a meaning glance from under his brows.  Pierre Natásha: When you stand expecting the overstrained string to snap at any moment, when everyone is expecting the inevitable catastrophe, as many as possible must join hands as closely as they can to withstand the general calamity. Everything that is young and strong is being enticed away and depraved. No independent men, such as you or I, are left.

Let him be? Pierre: “And what position will you adopt toward the government?”. Let him be,” said Pierre, taking Nicholas by the arm and continuing.  Nicholas Denísov: “It is not at all what you suppose; but that is what the German Tugendbund was, and what I am proposing”. Pierre Natásha: If we’re not satisfied, let us have a bunt of our own. That’s all wight. Nicholas: “I’m your man!”. Nicholas Bolkónski: “If Papa were alive, would he agree with you?”. “Uncle Pierre, you…

no… If Papa were alive… would he agree with you?” he asked. Natásha was the first to speak, defending her husband and attacking her brother.   Must tell Nicholas this. They have formed. And yet there need only be a discussion and she has no words of her own but only repeats his sayings! He added: And I behaved badly today. You weren’t in the study. Pierre Natásha is impossible: such a child! I don’t know what would become of him if Natásha didn’t keep him in hand. Have you any idea why he went to Petersburg?  Had Nicholas been able to analyze his feelings he would have found that his steady, tender, and proud love of his wife rested on his feeling of wonder at her spirituality and at the lofty moral world, almost beyond his reach, in which she had her being. Countess Mary: As I see it you were quite right, and I told Natásha so. Pierre says everybody is suffering, tortured, and being corrupted, and that it is our duty to help our neighbor. Nicholas Bolkónski: “Of course he is right there, but he forgets that we have other duties nearer to us, duties indicated to us by God Himself,” Countess Mary adds. Next summer I’ll take him to Petersburg. Pierre always was a dreamer and always will be, said Nicholas when asked about Arakchéev. Countess Mary wanted to tell him that man does not live by bread alone and that he attached too much importance to these matters. But she knew she must not say this and that it would be useless to do so. Countess Mary felt a submissive tender love for the man who would never understand all that she understood, and this seemed to make her love for him even stronger. She thought of her nephew, Nicholas, and compared her feeling for him with her feelings for her own children. Countess Mary’s soul always strove toward the infinite, the eternal, and the absolute, and could therefore never be at peace. What will become of us if she dies, as I always fear when her face is like that? thought he, and placed himself before the icon. Her husband’s account of the boy’s agitation while Pierre was speaking struck her forcibly, and various traits of his gentle, sensitive character recurred to her mind; and while thinking of her nephew she thought also of her own children.

Natásha and Pierre began to talk as only a husband and wife can talk, that is, with extraordinary clearness and rapidity, understanding and expressing each other’s thoughts in ways contrary to all rules of logic. Natásha was so used to this kind of talk with her husband that for her it was the surest sign of something being wrong between them if Pierre followed a line of logical reasoning. When he began proving anything, or talking argumentatively and calmly and she, led on by his example, began to do the same, she knew that they were on the verge of a quarrel. Pierre, answering Natásha’s words, told her how intolerable it had been for him to meet ladies at dinners and balls in Petersburg. “Nicholas has the weakness of never agreeing with anything not generally accepted,” she said.

He replied: “To Nicholas ideas and discussions are an amusement—almost a pastime,” he said. All the time in Petersburg I saw everyone as in a dream.  “How like his father he is,” Pierre interjected. Natásha knew why he mentioned Mítya’s likeness to Nicholas: the recollection of his dispute with his brother-in-law was unpleasant and he wanted to know what Natásha thought of it. Natásha: Can a man so important and necessary to society be also my husband?

How did this happen? Pierre: “He would not have approved of you now, do you think he would?”. “You are as like him as two peas—like the boy,” she said of her little son. At that moment it seemed to Pierre that he was chosen to give a new direction to the whole of Russian society. It was the sequel to his complacent reflections on his success in Petersburg.

“Oh nothing, only a trifle,” said Natásha, smiling still more brightly.  Dessalles slept propped up on four pillows and his Roman nose emitted sounds of rhythmic snoring. Nicholas was afraid of the dark and they could not cure him of it. Little Nicholas turned to look at Pierre but Pierre was no longer there.  He felt himself powerless, limp, and formless; his father caressed and pitied him.

But Uncle Nicholas came nearer and nearer to them as he became faint with love. Yes, I will do something with which even he would be satisfied! “But Uncle Pierre!

Summary of Epilogue Book 2

For the ancients these questions were solved by a belief in the direct participation of the Deity in human affairs. Modern history, in theory, rejects both these principles. Instead of the former divinely appointed aims of the Jewish, Greek, or Roman nations, modern history has postulated its own aims. In 1789 a ferment arises in Paris; it grows, spreads, and is expressed by a movement of peoples from west to east. To one historian this goal is the greatness of the Roman, Spanish, or French realm; to another it is liberty, equality, and a certain kind of civilization of a small corner of the world called Europe.

If history had retained the conception of the ancients it would have said that God, to reward or punish his people, gave Napoleon power and directed his will to the fulfillment of the divine ends. One might believe or disbelieve in the divine significance of Napoleon, but for anyone believing in it there would have been nothing unintelligible in the history of that period, nor would there have been any contradictions. Modern history cannot give that reply. At that time there was in France a man of genius—Napoleon.  Having become an Emperor he again went out to kill people in Italy, Austria, and Prussia.

The Allies defeated Napoleon, entered Paris, forced Napoleon to abdicate, and sent him to the island of Elba, not depriving him of the title of Emperor and showing him every respect, though five years before and one year later they all regarded him as an outlaw and a brigand.  In Russia there was an Emperor, Alexander, who decided to restore order in Europe and therefore fought against Napoleon.  Then Louis XVIII, who till then had been the laughingstock both of the French and the Allies, began to reign.  This is a caricature of the contradictory replies, not meeting the questions, which all the historians give. The strangeness and absurdity of these replies arise from the fact that modern history, like a deaf man, answers questions no one has asked.

To this, modern history laboriously replies either that Napoleon was a great genius, or that Louis XIV was very proud, or that certain writers wrote certain books. Biographical historians and historians of different nationalities and tendencies understand the force which produces events as a power inherent in heroes and rulers. One historian says that an event was produced by Napoleon’s power, another by Alexander’s, a third by some other person’s power. The answers given by this kind of historian to the question of what causes events to happen are satisfactory only as long as there is but one historian to each event. Many universal historians still treat the conception of power as a force that itself produces events, and treat it as their cause.

This contradiction occurs because after entering the field of analysis the universal historians stop halfway. Gervinus, Schlosser, and others, for instance, at one time prove Napoleon to be a product of the Revolution, of the ideas of 1789 and so forth, and at another say the campaign of 1812 and other things they do not like were simply the product of Napoleon’s misdirected will. The historian Gervinus tries to prove that the campaign of 1813 and the restoration of the Bourbons were due to other things beside Alexander’s will. He decomposes Alexander’s power into the components: Talleyrand, Chateaubriand, and the rest. The historian is again obliged to fall back on power and to recognize it as the resultant of the forces, that is, he has to admit an unexplained force acting on the resultant.

But even admitting as correct all the cunningly devised arguments with which these histories are filled, history’s essential question still remains unanswered. How a book, Le Contrat Social, had the effect of making Frenchmen begin to drown one another cannot be understood without an explanation of the causal nexus of this new force with the event. It is possible to understand that Napoleon had power and so events occurred; with some effort one may even conceive that Napoleon together with other influences was the cause of an event; but how a book, Le Contrat Social, had the effect of making Frenchmen begin to drown one another cannot be understood without an explanation of the causal nexus of this new force with the event. But they contradict themselves when they describe an actual historic event as resulting from an exercise of power. History can only be explained by introducing a power which they apparently do not recognize.

But not to speak of the intrinsic quality of histories of this kind (which may possibly even be of use to someone for something) the histories of culture, to which all general histories tend more and more to approximate, are significant from the fact that after seriously and minutely examining various religious, philosophic, and political doctrines as causes of events, as soon as they have to describe an actual historic event such as the campaign of 1812 for instance, they involuntarily describe it as resulting from an exercise of power—and say plainly that that was the result of Napoleon’s will.  Alexander Tsiolkas: The only conception that can explain the movement of the locomotive is that of a force commensurate with the movement observed. He goes on: So long as histories are written of separate individuals, whether Caesars, Alexanders, Luthers, or Voltaires, and not the histories of all, absolutely all those who take part in an event, it is quite impossible to describe the movements of humanity without the conception of some force compelling men to direct their activity toward a certain end. And the only such conception known to historians is power. Thierry Thiers: The conception of power as an explanation of historical events is the one handle by means of which the material of history, as at present expounded, can be dealt with, and anyone who breaks that handle off, as Buckle did, without finding some other method of treating historical material, deprives himself of the one possible way of dealing with it.

He goes on: In dealing with humanity’s inquiry, the science of history up to now is like money in circulation. The biographies and special national histories are like paper money. They can be used and can circulate and fulfill their purpose without harm to anyone and even advantageously, as long as no one asks what is the security behind them. But just as doubts of the real value of paper money arise either because, being easy to make, too much of it gets made or because people try to exchange it for gold, so also doubts concerning the real value of such histories arise either because too many of them are written or because in his simplicity of heart someone inquires: by what force did Napoleon do this?—that is, wants to exchange the current paper money for the real gold of actual comprehension.

Historians of culture and historians of history are like people who see the defects of paper money and decide to substitute for it money that has not the specific gravity of gold. As gold is gold only if it is serviceable not merely for exchange but also for use, so universal historians will be valuable only when they can answer humanity’s essential question: What is power?

He had the power and so what he ordered was done. But as soon as we do not admit that, it becomes essential to determine what is this power of one man over others. And that is how power is understood by the science of jurisprudence. Napoleon ordered an army to be raised and go to war.  When applied to history that definition of power needs explanation.

For history, the state and power are merely phenomena, just as for modern physics fire is not an element but a phenomenon. If power be the collective will of the people transferred to their ruler, if not, then why was Napoleon I? Why was Napoleon III a criminal when he was taken prisoner at Boulogne? To these questions three answers are possible:. Was the will of the Russian people transferred to Napoleon in 1809, when our army in alliance with the French went to fight the Austrians?

Some historians have tried to explain the relation of the people to their rulers. A Legitimist historian will prove that the National Convention, the Directory, and Bonaparte were mere infringers of the true power; a Republican and a Bonapartist will prove: the one that the Empire was the real power, and that all the others were violations of it. One set of historians says that power rests on a conditional delegation of the will of the people to their rulers. But the facts of history almost always contradict that theory, and Louis XIV’s activity, contrary to the program, reacted on Louis XVI. Each historian, according to his view of what constitutes a nation’s progress, looks for these conditions in the greatness, wealth, freedom, or enlightenment of citizens of France or some other country.  Historians must admit some transfers are accidents dependent on cunning, on mistakes, on craft, or on the weakness of a ruler or a party leader.

Equally little does this view explain why for several centuries the collective will is not withdrawn from certain rulers and their heirs, and then suddenly during a period of fifty years is transferred to the Convention, to the Directory, to Napoleon, to Alexander, to Louis XVIII, to Napoleon again, to Charles X, to Louis Philippe, to a Republican government, and to Napoleon III.  Historians of the third class assume that the will of the people is transferred to historic personages conditionally, but that the conditions are unknown to us. These historians resemble a botanist who, having noticed that some plants grow from seeds producing two cotyledons, should insist that all that grows does so by sprouting into two leaves. But in that case, if the force that moves nations lies not in the historic leaders but in the nations themselves, what significance have those leaders? If the whole activity of the leaders serves as the expression of the people’s will, as some historians suppose, then all the details of the court scandals contained in the biographies of a Napoleon or a Catherine serve to express the life of the nation, which is evident nonsense; but if it is only some particular side of the activity of an historical leader which serves to express the people’s life, as other so-called “philosophical” historians believe, then to determine which side of the activity of a leader expresses the nation’s life, we have first of all to know in what the nation’s life consists.

The aim of humanity consists in freedom, equality, enlightenment, progress, civilization, and culture, they say. But as it is in no way proved that the people’s will is always transferred to the rulers and enlighteners of humanity, it happens that the activity of the millions who migrate, burn houses, abandon agriculture, and destroy one another never is expressed in the account of a dozen people who did not burn houses or slay their fellow creatures. Is the ferment of the peoples of the west at the end of the eighteenth century explained by the activities of Louis XIV, XV, and XVI, their mistresses and ministers? Is the movement of the Russian people eastward to Kazán and Siberia expressed by details of the morbid character of Iván the Terrible? Is the ferment of the peoples of the west at the end of the eighteenth century and their drive eastward explained by the activity of Louis XIV, XV, and XVI, their mistresses and ministers, and by the lives of Napoleon, Rousseau, Diderot, Beaumarchais, and others?

For us that movement of the peoples from west to east, without leaders, with a crowd of vagrants, and with Peter the Hermit, remains incomprehensible. And yet more incomprehensible is the cessation of that movement when a rational and sacred aim for the Crusade had been clearly defined by historic leaders. Popes, kings, and knights incited the peoples to free the Holy Land; but the people did not go, for the unknown cause which had previously impelled them to go no longer existed. The theory of the transference of the will of the people to historic persons is merely a paraphrase of the question in other words. The replies this theory gives to historical questions are like the replies of a man who, watching the movements of a herd of cattle and paying no attention to the quality of the pasturage in different parts of the field, attributes the direction the herd takes to what animal happens to be at its head.

Napoleon I issues a decree and an army enters Russia. Alexander I gives a command and the French submit to the Bourbons. Napoleon III: “Power is the collective will of the people transferred to one person”. Without admitting divine intervention in the affairs of humanity we cannot regard “power” as the cause of events. Power, from the standpoint of experience, is merely the relation that exists between the expression of someone’s will and the execution of that will by others.

Only the Deity, independent of everything, can determine the direction of humanity’s movement; but man acts in time and himself takes part in what occurs. When, for instance, we say that Napoleon ordered armies to go to war, we combine in one simultaneous expression a whole series of consecutive commands dependent one on another. Napoleon could not have commanded an invasion of Russia and never did so. All the impossible orders inconsistent with the course of events remain unexecuted. We say that Napoleon wished to invade Russia and invaded it.

In reality in all Napoleon’s activity we never find anything resembling an expression of that wish, but find a series of orders, or expressions of his will, very variously and indefinitely directed. This relation of the commander to those he commands is just what is called power. Of all the combinations in which men unite for collective action one of the most striking and definite examples is an army. Every army is composed of lower grades of the service, of whom there are always the greatest number. The soldier himself does the stabbing, hacking, burning, and pillaging, and always receives orders for these actions from men above him.

There is a law by which men, to take associated action, combine in such relations that the more directly they participate in performing the action the less they can command and the more numerous they are. This relation of the men who command to those they command is what constitutes the essence of the conception called power. When a man works alone he always has a certain set of reflections which as it seems to him directed his past activity, justify his present activity, and guide him in planning his future actions. For reasons known or unknown to us the French began to drown and kill one another, and corresponding to the event its justification appears in people’s belief that this was necessary for the welfare of France, for liberty, and for equality. This event was accompanied by its justification in the necessity for a centralization of power, resistance to Europe, and so on.

But these justifications of the events have no common sense and are all contradictory. History shows us that these justifications of the events have no common sense and are all contradictory, as in the case of killing a man as the result of recognizing his rights, and the killing of millions in Russia for the humiliation of England.

With the present complex forms of political and social life in Europe can any event that is not prescribed, decreed, or ordered by monarchs, ministers, parliaments, or newspapers be imagined? Is there any collective action which cannot find its justification in political unity, in patriotism, in the balance of power, or in civilization? The conception of a cause is inapplicable to the phenomena we are examining. The movement of nations is caused not by power, nor by intellectual activity, nor even by a combination of the two as historians have supposed, but by the activity of all the people who participate in the events. Power is the relation of a given person to other individuals, in which the more this person expresses opinions, predictions and justifications of the collective action that is performed, the less is his participation in that action.

If history dealt only with external phenomena, the establishment of a simple and obvious law would suffice, but the law of history relates to man. To produce the one or the other action, people combine in a certain formation in which they all take part, and we say that this is so because it is unthinkable otherwise, or in other words that it is a law. In this contradiction lies the problem of free will, which from most ancient times has occupied the best human minds. One single free act of man’s in violation of the laws governing human action would destroy the possibility of the existence of any laws for the whole of humanity. To understand, observe, and draw conclusions, man must first of all be conscious of himself as living.

The problem is that regarding man as a subject of observation from whatever point of view, we find a general law of necessity to which he is subject. But regarding him from within ourselves as what we are conscious of, we feel ourselves to be free. This consciousness is a source of self-cognition quite apart from and independent of reason. Without this conception of freedom not only would he be unable to understand life, but he would be deprived of life. He could not live, because all man’s efforts, all his impulses to life, are only efforts to increase freedom.

His action depends on his organization, his character, and the motives acting upon him; yet man never submits to the deductions of these experiments and arguments. Having learned from experiment and argument that a stone falls downwards, a man indubitably believes this and expects the law that he has learned to be fulfilled. If the conception of freedom appears to be a contradiction like the possibility of performing two actions at one and the same instant of time, or of an effect without a cause, that only proves that consciousness is not subject to reason. Man is the creation of an all-powerful, all-good, and all-seeing God. What is sin?

The conception of which arises from the consciousness of man’s freedom? That is a question for theology. How should the past life of nations and of humanity be regarded as the result of the free, or as the product of the constrained, activity of man? A question for history. Only in our self-confident day of the popularization of knowledge has the question of the freedom of will been put on a level on which the question itself cannot exist.

That is a question for jurisprudence. If men descended from apes at an unknown period of time, that is as comprehensible as that they were made from a handful of earth at some point in the future. They say this, not at all suspecting that thousands of years ago that the same law of necessity was acknowledged by all the religions and all the thinkers, but has never been denied. The role of the natural sciences in this matter is merely to serve as an instrument for the illumination of one side of it. In actual life each historic event, each human action, is very clearly and definitely understood without any sense of contradiction, although each event presents itself as partly free and partly compulsory.

History should deduce a definition of the conception of freedom and inevitability themselves from the immense quantity of phenomena of which it is cognizant. For history, the insoluble mystery presented by the incompatibility of free will or inevitability does not exist as it does for theology, ethics, and philosophy. History surveys a presentation of man’s life in which the union of these two contradictions has already taken place. Whatever presentation of the activity of many men or of an individual we may consider, we always regard it as the result partly of man’s free will and partly of the law of inevitability. Our conception of the degree of freedom often varies according to differences in the point of view from which we regard the event.

Every human action appears to us as a certain combination of freedom and inevitability. The more freedom we see in any action the less inevitability do we perceive, and the more inevitability the less freedom. A man trained to discipline who on duty at the word of command kills a defenseless man seems less free and more subject to the law of necessity. Every action of an insane, intoxicated, or highly excited man appears less free and more inevitable to one who knows the mental condition of him who committed the action. Similarly a man who committed a murder twenty years ago and has since lived peaceably and harmlessly in society seems less guilty and his action more due to the law of inevitability.

In all these cases the conception of freedom is increased or diminished, according to the point of view from which the action is regarded. So that the greater  conception of necessity the smaller the conception of freedom and vice versa. The degree of our conception of freedom or inevitability depends on the greater or lesser lapse of time between the performance of the action and our judgment of it. That is the ground which makes the fall of the first man, resulting in the production of the human race, appear evidently less free than a man’s entry into marriage today. If I examine an act I performed a moment ago in approximately the same circumstances as those I am in now, my action appears to me undoubtedly free.

The farther back in history the object of our observation lies, the more doubtful does the free will of those concerned in the event become and the more manifest the law of inevitability. In regard to the migration of the peoples it does not enter anyone’s head today to suppose that the renovation of the European world depended on Attila’s caprice. But in the Crusades we already see an event occupying its definite place in history and without which we cannot imagine the modern history of Europe. When we do not at all understand the cause of an action, whether a crime, a good action, or even one that is simply nonmoral, we ascribe a greater amount of freedom to it. The simpler the action we are observing and the less complex the character and mind of the man in question, the more subject to inevitability our actions and those of others appear.

If even one of the innumerable causes of the act is known to us we recognize a certain element of necessity and are less insistent on punishment for the crime. In an indifferent case we recognize in it more individuality, originality, and independence. But if even one of the innumerable causes of the act is known to us we recognize a certain element of necessity and are less insistent on punishment for the crime, or the acknowledgment of the merit of the virtuous act, or the freedom of the apparently original action.  If we examine simple actions and had a vast number of such actions under observation, our conception of their inevitability would be still greater. If our observation is constantly directed to seeking the correlation of cause and effect in people’s actions, their actions appear to us more under compulsion and less free.

That a criminal was reared among malefactors mitigates his fault in our eyes. As soon as we know the cause prompting the action we can foretell the result of the action. On these three considerations alone is based the conception of irresponsibility for crimes and the extenuating circumstances admitted by all legislative codes. The responsibility appears greater or less according to our greater or lesser knowledge of the circumstances in which the man was placed whose action is being judged, and according to the interval of time between the commission of the action and its investigation. Our conception of free will and inevitability gradually diminishes or increases as we learn more about the causes that led to the action.

Every human action is inevitably conditioned by what surrounds him and by his own body. To conceive of a man being free we must imagine him outside space, which is evidently impossible. We never get a conception of freedom in space. For my action to be free it was necessary that it should encounter no obstacles. I chose one out of all the possible directions because in it there were fewest obstacles.

If we approximate the time of judgment to the deed, we never get a conception of freedom in time. For if I examine an action committed a second ago I must still recognize it as not being free, for it is irrevocably linked to the moment at which it was committed. To imagine it as free, it is necessary to imagine it on the boundary between the past and the future, that is, outside time, which is impossible. However inaccessible to us may be the cause of any action, our own or another’s, the first demand of reason is the assumption of and search for a cause, for without a cause no phenomenon is conceivable. If we were to admit so infinitely small a remainder of inevitability as equaled zero, we should even then not have arrived at the conception of complete freedom in man, for a being uninfluenced by the external world, standing outside of time and independent of cause, is no longer a man.

As soon as there is no freedom there is also no man. The conception of the action of a man subject solely to the law of imposture without any element of freedom is just as impossible as that of the man’s completely free action. To imagine a man all alone, beyond space, beyond time, and without dependence on cause, we must imagine him all alone. If freedom were possible without inevitability we should have arrived at freedom beyond space, time, and cause, which by the fact of its being unconditioned and unlimited would be nothing. Inevitability without content is man’s reason in its three forms.

Only by uniting them do we get a clear conception of man’s life. Apart from these two concepts which in their union mutually define one another as form and content, no conception of life is possible. Reason gives expression to the laws of inevitability.  Man’s free will differs from every other force in that man is directly conscious of it, but in the eyes of reason it in no way differs from any other force. The laws of inevitability to which it is subject up to Newton’s law and the knowledge of the most complex economic and historic laws make it intelligible to us only in terms of our knowledge of these laws.

Freedom, apart from necessity, is only a momentary undefinable sensation of life; for reason, it is only an essence of life. Freedom, apart from necessity, that is, apart from the laws of reason that define it, differs in no way from gravitation, or heat, or the force that makes things grow; for reason, it is only a momentary undefinable sensation of life. If there is even a single body moving freely, then the laws of Kepler and Newton are negatived and no conception of the movement of the heavenly bodies any longer exists. If any single action is due to free will, then not a single historical law can exist, nor any conception of historical events. The recognition of man’s free will as something capable of influencing historical events, that is, as not subject to laws, is the same for history as the recognition of a free force moving the celestial bodies would be for astronomy.

To discover and define those laws is the problem of history. For history, lines exist of the movement of human wills, one end of which is hidden in the unknown but at the other end of which a consciousness of man’s will in the present moves in space, time, and dependence on cause. When Newton enunciated the law of gravity he did not say that the sun or the earth had a property of attraction. By disproving that law it might have been possible to retain the old conception of the movements of the bodies, but without disproving it, it would seem impossible to continue studying the Ptolemaic worlds. The same is done by the natural sciences: leaving aside the question of cause, they seek for laws.

History stands on the same path. And if history has for its object the study of the movement of the nations and of humanity, it too should seek the laws common to all the inseparably interconnected infinitesimal elements of free will. But even after the discovery of the law of Copernicus the Ptolemaic worlds were still studied for a long time. From the time the first person said and proved that the number of births or of crimes is subject to mathematical laws, and that this or that mode of government is determined by certain geographical and economic conditions, and that certain relations of population to soil produce migrations of peoples, the foundations on which history had been built were destroyed in their essence. The modern conception of events as the result of man’s free will is contested by the laws of statistics, geography, political economy, comparative philology, and geology.

On the one hand there is fear and regret for the loss of the edifice constructed through the ages, on the other is passion for destruction. To the defenders of the laws of Copernicus and Newton, to Voltaire for example, it seemed that the laws of astronomy destroyed religion, and he utilized the law of gravitation as a weapon against religion. Voltaire: To destroy the conception of the soul, of good and evil, to destroy the institutions of state and church that have been built up on those conceptions. Just so it seems as if we have only to admit the law of inevitability. He goes on: “By admitting our dependence on the external world, on time, and on cause, we arrive at laws”. Like Copernicus in astronomy, Voltaire’s conception of history is based on the recognition or nonrecognition of something absolute.

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