War and Peace
“No, I saw... At first there was nothing, then I saw him lying
down.”
“Andrew lying? Is he ill?” asked Natásha, her frightened eyes fixed
on her friend.
“No, on the contrary, on the contrary! His face was cheerful, and he
turned to me.” And when saying this she herself fancied she had really
seen what she described.
“Well, and then, Sónya?...”
“After that, I could not make out what there was; something blue and
red....”
“Sónya! When will he come back? When shall I see him! O, God, how
afraid I am for him and for myself and about everything!...” Natásha
began, and without replying to Sónya’s words of comfort she got into
bed, and long after her candle was out lay open-eyed and motionless,
gazing at the moonlight through the frosty windowpanes.
CHAPTER XIII
Soon after the Christmas holidays Nicholas told his mother of his love
for Sónya and of his firm resolve to marry her. The countess, who
had long noticed what was going on between them and was expecting this
declaration, listened to him in silence and then told her son that he
might marry whom he pleased, but that neither she nor his father would
give their blessing to such a marriage. Nicholas, for the first time,
felt that his mother was displeased with him and that, despite her love
for him, she would not give way. Coldly, without looking at her son,
she sent for her husband and, when he came, tried briefly and coldly to
inform him of the facts, in her son’s presence, but unable to restrain
herself she burst into tears of vexation and left the room. The old
count began irresolutely to admonish Nicholas and beg him to abandon his
purpose. Nicholas replied that he could not go back on his word, and his
father, sighing and evidently disconcerted, very soon became silent and
went in to the countess. In all his encounters with his son, the count
was always conscious of his own guilt toward him for having wasted the
family fortune, and so he could not be angry with him for refusing to
marry an heiress and choosing the dowerless Sónya. On this occasion, he
was only more vividly conscious of the fact that if his affairs had not
been in disorder, no better wife for Nicholas than Sónya could have
been wished for, and that no one but himself with his Mítenka and
his uncomfortable habits was to blame for the condition of the family
finances.
The father and mother did not speak of the matter to their son again,
but a few days later the countess sent for Sónya and, with a cruelty
neither of them expected, reproached her niece for trying to catch
Nicholas and for ingratitude. Sónya listened silently with downcast
eyes to the countess’ cruel words, without understanding what
was required of her. She was ready to sacrifice everything for her
benefactors. Self-sacrifice was her most cherished idea but in this case
she could not see what she ought to sacrifice, or for whom. She could
not help loving the countess and the whole Rostóv family, but neither
could she help loving Nicholas and knowing that his happiness depended
on that love. She was silent and sad and did not reply. Nicholas felt
the situation to be intolerable and went to have an explanation with his
mother. He first implored her to forgive him and Sónya and consent to
their marriage, then he threatened that if she molested Sónya he would
at once marry her secretly.
The countess, with a coldness her son had never seen in her before,
replied that he was of age, that Prince Andrew was marrying without his
father’s consent, and he could do the same, but that she would never
receive that intriguer as her daughter.
Exploding at the word intriguer, Nicholas, raising his voice, told
his mother he had never expected her to try to force him to sell his
feelings, but if that were so, he would say for the last time.... But he
had no time to utter the decisive word which the expression of his face
caused his mother to await with terror, and which would perhaps have
forever remained a cruel memory to them both. He had not time to say it,
for Natásha, with a pale and set face, entered the room from the door
at which she had been listening.
“Nicholas, you are talking nonsense! Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet, I
tell you!...” she almost screamed, so as to drown his voice.
“Mamma darling, it’s not at all so... my poor, sweet darling,” she
said to her mother, who conscious that they had been on the brink of
a rupture gazed at her son with terror, but in the obstinacy and
excitement of the conflict could not and would not give way.
“Nicholas, I’ll explain to you. Go away! Listen, Mamma darling,”
said Natásha.
Her words were incoherent, but they attained the purpose at which she
was aiming.
The countess, sobbing heavily, hid her face on her daughter’s breast,
while Nicholas rose, clutching his head, and left the room.
Natásha set to work to effect a reconciliation, and so far succeeded
that Nicholas received a promise from his mother that Sónya should not
be troubled, while he on his side promised not to undertake anything
without his parents’ knowledge.
Firmly resolved, after putting his affairs in order in the regiment,
to retire from the army and return and marry Sónya, Nicholas, serious,
sorrowful, and at variance with his parents, but, as it seemed to him,
passionately in love, left at the beginning of January to rejoin his
regiment.
After Nicholas had gone things in the Rostóv household were more
depressing than ever, and the countess fell ill from mental agitation.
Sónya was unhappy at the separation from Nicholas and still more so on
account of the hostile tone the countess could not help adopting toward
her. The count was more perturbed than ever by the condition of his
affairs, which called for some decisive action. Their town house and
estate near Moscow had inevitably to be sold, and for this they had to
go to Moscow. But the countess’ health obliged them to delay their
departure from day to day.
Natásha, who had borne the first period of separation from her
betrothed lightly and even cheerfully, now grew more agitated and
impatient every day. The thought that her best days, which she would
have employed in loving him, were being vainly wasted, with no advantage
to anyone, tormented her incessantly. His letters for the most part
irritated her. It hurt her to think that while she lived only in the
thought of him, he was living a real life, seeing new places and new
people that interested him. The more interesting his letters were
the more vexed she felt. Her letters to him, far from giving her any
comfort, seemed to her a wearisome and artificial obligation. She could
not write, because she could not conceive the possibility of expressing
sincerely in a letter even a thousandth part of what she expressed by
voice, smile, and glance. She wrote to him formal, monotonous, and dry
letters, to which she attached no importance herself, and in the rough
copies of which the countess corrected her mistakes in spelling.
There was still no improvement in the countess’ health, but it was
impossible to defer the journey to Moscow any longer. Natásha’s
trousseau had to be ordered and the house sold. Moreover, Prince Andrew
was expected in Moscow, where old Prince Bolkónski was spending the
winter, and Natásha felt sure he had already arrived.
So the countess remained in the country, and the count, taking Sónya
and Natásha with him, went to Moscow at the end of January.
BOOK EIGHT: 1811 - 12
CHAPTER I
After Prince Andrew’s engagement to Natásha, Pierre without any
apparent cause suddenly felt it impossible to go on living as before.
Firmly convinced as he was of the truths revealed to him by his
benefactor, and happy as he had been in perfecting his inner man, to
which he had devoted himself with such ardor—all the zest of such a
life vanished after the engagement of Andrew and Natásha and the death
of Joseph Alexéevich, the news of which reached him almost at the same
time. Only the skeleton of life remained: his house, a brilliant wife
who now enjoyed the favors of a very important personage, acquaintance
with all Petersburg, and his court service with its dull formalities.
And this life suddenly seemed to Pierre unexpectedly loathsome. He
ceased keeping a diary, avoided the company of the Brothers, began going
to the club again, drank a great deal, and came once more in touch
with the bachelor sets, leading such a life that the Countess Hélène
thought it necessary to speak severely to him about it. Pierre felt that
she was right, and to avoid compromising her went away to Moscow.
In Moscow as soon as he entered his huge house in which the faded and
fading princesses still lived, with its enormous retinue; as soon as,
driving through the town, he saw the Iberian shrine with innumerable
tapers burning before the golden covers of the icons, the Krémlin
Square with its snow undisturbed by vehicles, the sleigh drivers and
hovels of the Sívtsev Vrazhók, those old Moscovites who desired
nothing, hurried nowhere, and were ending their days leisurely; when he
saw those old Moscow ladies, the Moscow balls, and the English Club, he
felt himself at home in a quiet haven. In Moscow he felt at peace, at
home, warm and dirty as in an old dressing gown.
Moscow society, from the old women down to the children, received Pierre
like a long-expected guest whose place was always ready awaiting him.
For Moscow society Pierre was the nicest, kindest, most intellectual,
merriest, and most magnanimous of cranks, a heedless, genial nobleman of
the old Russian type. His purse was always empty because it was open to
everyone.
Benefit performances, poor pictures, statues, benevolent societies,
gypsy choirs, schools, subscription dinners, sprees, Freemasons,
churches, and books—no one and nothing met with a refusal from him,
and had it not been for two friends who had borrowed large sums from
him and taken him under their protection, he would have given everything
away. There was never a dinner or soiree at the club without him. As
soon as he sank into his place on the sofa after two bottles of Margaux
he was surrounded, and talking, disputing, and joking began. When there
were quarrels, his kindly smile and well-timed jests reconciled the
antagonists. The Masonic dinners were dull and dreary when he was not
there.
When after a bachelor supper he rose with his amiable and kindly smile,
yielding to the entreaties of the festive company to drive off somewhere
with them, shouts of delight and triumph arose among the young men.
At balls he danced if a partner was needed. Young ladies, married and
unmarried, liked him because without making love to any of them, he was
equally amiable to all, especially after supper. “Il est charmant; il
n’a pas de sexe,” * they said of him.
* “He is charming; he has no sex.”
Pierre was one of those retired gentlemen-in-waiting of whom there were
hundreds good-humoredly ending their days in Moscow.
How horrified he would have been seven years before, when he first
arrived from abroad, had he been told that there was no need for him
to seek or plan anything, that his rut had long been shaped, eternally
predetermined, and that wriggle as he might, he would be what all in
his position were. He could not have believed it! Had he not at one
time longed with all his heart to establish a republic in Russia;
then himself to be a Napoleon; then to be a philosopher; and then
a strategist and the conqueror of Napoleon? Had he not seen the
possibility of, and passionately desired, the regeneration of the sinful
human race, and his own progress to the highest degree of perfection?
Had he not established schools and hospitals and liberated his serfs?
But instead of all that—here he was, the wealthy husband of an