War and Peace
unfaithful wife, a retired gentleman-in-waiting, fond of eating and
drinking and, as he unbuttoned his waistcoat, of abusing the government
a bit, a member of the Moscow English Club, and a universal favorite in
Moscow society. For a long time he 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.
Sometimes he consoled himself with the thought that he was only living
this life temporarily; but then he was shocked by the thought of how
many, like himself, had entered that life and that club temporarily,
with all their teeth and hair, and had only left it when not a single
tooth or hair remained.
In moments of pride, when he thought of his position it seemed to
him that he was quite different and distinct from those other retired
gentlemen-in-waiting he had formerly despised: they were empty, stupid,
contented fellows, satisfied with their position, “while I am still
discontented and want to do something for mankind. But 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—by that elemental force against which
man is powerless—to the condition I am in,” said he to himself in
moments of humility; and after living some time in Moscow he no longer
despised, but began to grow fond of, to respect, and to pity his
comrades in destiny, as he pitied himself.
Pierre no longer suffered moments of despair, hypochondria, and disgust
with life, but the malady that had formerly found expression in such
acute attacks was driven inwards and never left him for a moment.
“What for? Why? What is going on in the world?” he would ask himself
in perplexity several times a day, involuntarily beginning to reflect
anew on the meaning of the phenomena of life; but knowing by experience
that there were no answers to these questions he made haste to turn away
from them, and took up a book, or hurried off to the club or to Apollón
Nikoláevich’s, to exchange the gossip of the town.
“Hélène, who has never cared for anything but her own body and
is one of the stupidest women in the world,” thought Pierre, “is
regarded by people as the acme of intelligence and refinement, and they
pay homage to her. 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. The
Spaniards, through the Catholic clergy, offer praise to God for their
victory over the French on the fourteenth of June, and the French,
also through the Catholic clergy, offer praise because on that same
fourteenth of June they defeated the Spaniards. My brother Masons swear
by the blood that they are ready to sacrifice everything for their
neighbor, but they do not give a ruble each to the collections for the
poor, and they intrigue, the Astraea Lodge against the Manna Seekers,
and fuss about an authentic Scotch carpet and a charter that nobody
needs, and the meaning of which the very man who wrote it does not
understand. We all profess the Christian law of forgiveness of injuries
and love of our neighbors, the law in honor of which we have built in
Moscow forty times forty churches—but yesterday a deserter was knouted
to death and a minister of that same law of love and forgiveness, a
priest, gave the soldier a cross to kiss before his execution.” So
thought Pierre, and the whole of this general deception which everyone
accepts, accustomed as he was to it, astonished him each time as if it
were something new. “I understand the deception and confusion,” he
thought, “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. So it appears that it must
be so! But I—what is to become of me?” thought he. 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. Every sphere of work was connected, in his eyes, with evil and
deception. Whatever he tried to be, whatever he engaged in, the evil and
falsehood of it repulsed him and blocked every path of activity. Yet he
had to live and to find occupation. It was too dreadful to be under
the burden of these insoluble problems, so he abandoned himself to
any distraction in order to forget them. He frequented every kind of
society, drank much, bought pictures, engaged in building, and above
all—read.
He read, and read everything that came to hand. On coming home, while
his valets were still taking off his things, he picked up a book and
began to read. From reading he passed to sleeping, from sleeping to
gossip in drawing rooms of the club, from gossip to carousals and women;
from carousals back to gossip, reading, and wine. Drinking became more
and more a physical and also a moral necessity. Though the doctors
warned him that with his corpulence wine was dangerous for him, he
drank a great deal. He was only quite at ease when having poured several
glasses of wine mechanically into his large mouth he felt a pleasant
warmth in his body, an amiability toward all his fellows, and a
readiness to respond superficially to every idea without probing it
deeply. Only after emptying a bottle or two did he feel dimly that the
terribly tangled skein of life which previously had terrified him was
not as dreadful as he had thought. He was always conscious of some
aspect of that skein, as with a buzzing in his head after dinner or
supper he chatted or listened to conversation or read. But under the
influence of wine he said to himself: “It doesn’t matter. I’ll
get it unraveled. I have a solution ready, but have no time now—I’ll
think it all out later on!” But the later on never came.
In the morning, on an empty stomach, all the old questions appeared as
insoluble and terrible as ever, and Pierre hastily picked up a book, and
if anyone came to see him he was glad.
Sometimes he remembered how he had heard that soldiers in war when
entrenched under the enemy’s fire, if they have nothing to do, try
hard to find some occupation the more easily to bear the danger. To
Pierre all men seemed like those soldiers, seeking refuge from life:
some in ambition, some in cards, some in framing laws, some in women,
some in toys, some in horses, some in politics, some in sport, some
in wine, and some in governmental affairs. “Nothing is trivial, and
nothing is important, it’s all the same—only to save oneself from it
as best one can,” thought Pierre. “Only not to see it, that dreadful
it!”
CHAPTER II
At the beginning of winter Prince Nicholas Bolkónski and his daughter
moved to Moscow. At that time enthusiasm for the Emperor Alexander’s
regime had weakened and a patriotic and anti-French tendency prevailed
there, and this, together with his past and his intellect and his
originality, at once made Prince Nicholas Bolkónski an object of
particular respect to the Moscovites and the center of the Moscow
opposition to the government.
The prince had aged very much that year. He showed marked signs of
senility by a tendency to fall asleep, forgetfulness of quite recent
events, remembrance of remote ones, and the childish vanity with which
he accepted the role of head of the Moscow opposition. In spite of this
the old man inspired in all his visitors alike a feeling of respectful
veneration—especially of an evening when he came in to tea in his
old-fashioned coat and powdered wig and, aroused by anyone, told his
abrupt stories of the past, or uttered yet more abrupt and scathing
criticisms of the present. For them all, that old-fashioned house with
its gigantic mirrors, pre-Revolution furniture, powdered footmen, and
the stern shrewd old man (himself a relic of the past century) with his
gentle daughter and the pretty Frenchwoman who were reverently devoted
to him presented a majestic and agreeable spectacle. But the visitors
did not reflect that besides the couple of hours during which they saw
their host, there were also twenty-two hours in the day during which the
private and intimate life of the house continued.
Latterly that private life had become very trying for Princess Mary.
There in Moscow she was deprived of her greatest pleasures—talks with
the pilgrims and the solitude which refreshed her at Bald Hills—and
she had none of the advantages and pleasures of city life. She did not
go out into society; everyone knew that her father would not let her
go anywhere without him, and his failing health prevented his going out
himself, so that she was not invited to dinners and evening parties. She
had quite abandoned the hope of getting married. She saw the coldness
and malevolence with which the old prince received and dismissed the
young men, possible suitors, who sometimes appeared at their house. She
had no friends: during this visit to Moscow she had been disappointed in
the two who had been nearest to her. Mademoiselle Bourienne, with whom
she had never been able to be quite frank, had now become unpleasant to
her, and for various reasons Princess Mary avoided her. Julie, with whom
she had corresponded for the last five years, was in Moscow, but proved
to be quite alien to her when they met. Just then Julie, who by the
death of her brothers had become one of the richest heiresses in Moscow,
was in the full whirl of society pleasures. She was surrounded by young
men who, she fancied, had suddenly learned to appreciate her worth.
Julie was at that stage in the life of a society woman when she feels
that her last chance of marrying has come and that her fate must be
decided now or never. On Thursdays Princess Mary remembered with a
mournful smile that she now had no one to write to, since Julie—whose
presence gave her no pleasure was here and they met every week. Like the
old émigré who declined to marry the lady with whom he had spent his
evenings for years, she regretted Julie’s presence and having no one
to write to. In Moscow Princess Mary had no one to talk to, no one to
whom to confide her sorrow, and much sorrow fell to her lot just then.
The time for Prince Andrew’s return and marriage was approaching, but
his request to her to prepare his father for it had not been carried
out; in fact, it seemed as if matters were quite hopeless, for at every
mention of the young Countess Rostóva the old prince (who apart from
that was usually in a bad temper) lost control of himself. Another
lately added sorrow arose from the lessons she gave her six year-old
nephew. To her consternation she detected in herself in relation to
little Nicholas some symptoms of her father’s irritability. However
often she told herself that she must not get irritable when teaching her
nephew, almost every time that, pointer in hand, she sat down to show
him the French alphabet, she so longed to pour her own knowledge quickly
and easily into the child—who was already afraid that Auntie might at
any moment get angry—that at his slightest inattention she trembled,
became flustered and heated, raised her voice, and sometimes pulled him
by the arm and put him in the corner. Having put him in the corner
she would herself begin to cry over her cruel, evil nature, and little
Nicholas, following her example, would sob, and without permission would
leave his corner, come to her, pull her wet hands from her face, and
comfort her. But what distressed the princess most of all was her
father’s irritability, which was always directed against her and had
of late amounted to cruelty. Had he forced her to prostrate herself to