War and Peace
the ground all night, had he beaten her or made her fetch wood or water,
it would never have entered her mind to think her position hard; but
this loving despot—the more cruel because he loved her and for that
reason tormented himself and her—knew how not merely to hurt and
humiliate her deliberately, but to show her that she was always to blame
for everything. Of late he had exhibited a new trait that tormented
Princess Mary more than anything else; this was his ever-increasing
intimacy with Mademoiselle Bourienne. The idea that at the first moment
of receiving the news of his son’s intentions had occurred to him in
jest—that if Andrew got married he himself would marry Bourienne—had
evidently pleased him, and latterly he had persistently, and as it
seemed to Princess Mary merely to offend her, shown special endearments
to the companion and expressed his dissatisfaction with his daughter by
demonstrations of love of Bourienne.
One day in Moscow in Princess Mary’s presence (she thought her father
did it purposely when she was there) the old prince kissed Mademoiselle
Bourienne’s hand and, drawing her to him, embraced her affectionately.
Princess Mary flushed and ran out of the room. A few minutes later
Mademoiselle Bourienne came into Princess Mary’s room smiling and
making cheerful remarks in her agreeable voice. Princess Mary hastily
wiped away her tears, went resolutely up to Mademoiselle Bourienne,
and evidently unconscious of what she was doing began shouting in angry
haste at the Frenchwoman, her voice breaking: “It’s horrible, vile,
inhuman, to take advantage of the weakness...” She did not finish.
“Leave my room,” she exclaimed, and burst into sobs.
Next day the prince did not say a word to his daughter, but she noticed
that at dinner he gave orders that Mademoiselle Bourienne should be
served first. After dinner, when the footman handed coffee and from
habit began with the princess, the prince suddenly grew furious,
threw his stick at Philip, and instantly gave instructions to have him
conscripted for the army.
“He doesn’t obey... I said it twice... and he doesn’t obey! She
is the first person in this house; she’s my best friend,” cried
the prince. “And if you allow yourself,” he screamed in a fury,
addressing Princess Mary for the first time, “to forget yourself again
before her as you dared to do yesterday, I will show you who is master
in this house. Go! Don’t let me set eyes on you; beg her pardon!”
Princess Mary asked Mademoiselle Bourienne’s pardon, and also her
father’s pardon for herself and for Philip the footman, who had begged
for her intervention.
At such moments something like a pride of sacrifice gathered in her
soul. And suddenly that father whom she had judged would look for his
spectacles in her presence, fumbling near them and not seeing them, or
would forget something that had just occurred, or take a false step with
his failing legs and turn to see if anyone had noticed his feebleness,
or, worst of all, at dinner when there were no visitors to excite him
would suddenly fall asleep, letting his napkin drop and his shaking
head sink over his plate. “He is old and feeble, and I dare to condemn
him!” she thought at such moments, with a feeling of revulsion against
herself.
CHAPTER III
In 1811 there was living in Moscow a French doctor—Métivier—who had
rapidly become the fashion. He was enormously tall, handsome, amiable
as Frenchmen are, and was, as all Moscow said, an extraordinarily clever
doctor. He was received in the best houses not merely as a doctor, but
as an equal.
Prince Nicholas had always ridiculed medicine, but latterly on
Mademoiselle Bourienne’s advice had allowed this doctor to visit him
and had grown accustomed to him. Métivier came to see the prince about
twice a week.
On December 6—St. Nicholas’ Day and the prince’s name day—all
Moscow came to the prince’s front door but he gave orders to admit no
one and to invite to dinner only a small number, a list of whom he gave
to Princess Mary.
Métivier, who came in the morning with his felicitations, considered
it proper in his quality of doctor de forcer la consigne, * as he told
Princess Mary, and went in to see the prince. It happened that on that
morning of his name day the prince was in one of his worst moods. He had
been going about the house all the morning finding fault with everyone
and pretending not to understand what was said to him and not to be
understood himself. Princess Mary well knew this mood of quiet absorbed
querulousness, which generally culminated in a burst of rage, and she
went about all that morning as though facing a cocked and loaded gun
and awaited the inevitable explosion. Until the doctor’s arrival the
morning had passed off safely. After admitting the doctor, Princess Mary
sat down with a book in the drawing room near the door through which she
could hear all that passed in the study.
* To force the guard.
At first she heard only Métivier’s voice, then her father’s, then
both voices began speaking at the same time, the door was flung open,
and on the threshold appeared the handsome figure of the terrified
Métivier with his shock of black hair, and the prince in his dressing
gown and fez, his face distorted with fury and the pupils of his eyes
rolled downwards.
“You don’t understand?” shouted the prince, “but I do! French
spy, slave of Buonaparte, spy, get out of my house! Be off, I tell
you...” and he slammed the door.
Métivier, shrugging his shoulders, went up to Mademoiselle Bourienne
who at the sound of shouting had run in from an adjoining room.
“The prince is not very well: bile and rush of blood to the head. Keep
calm, I will call again tomorrow,” said Métivier; and putting his
fingers to his lips he hastened away.
Through the study door came the sound of slippered feet and the cry:
“Spies, traitors, traitors everywhere! Not a moment’s peace in my
own house!”
After Métivier’s departure the old prince called his daughter in, and
the whole weight of his wrath fell on her. She was to blame that a spy
had been admitted. Had he not told her, yes, told her to make a list,
and not to admit anyone who was not on that list? Then why was that
scoundrel admitted? She was the cause of it all. With her, he said, he
could not have a moment’s peace and could not die quietly.
“No, ma’am! We must part, we must part! Understand that, understand
it! I cannot endure any more,” he said, and left the room. Then, as if
afraid she might find some means of consolation, he returned and trying
to appear calm added: “And don’t imagine I have said this in a
moment of anger. I am calm. I have thought it over, and it will be
carried out—we must part; so find some place for yourself....” But
he could not restrain himself and with the virulence of which only one
who loves is capable, evidently suffering himself, he shook his fists at
her and screamed:
“If only some fool would marry her!” Then he slammed the door, sent
for Mademoiselle Bourienne, and subsided into his study.
At two o’clock the six chosen guests assembled for dinner.
These guests—the famous Count Rostopchín, Prince Lopukhín with his
nephew, General Chatróv an old war comrade of the prince’s, and
of the younger generation Pierre and Borís Drubetskóy—awaited the
prince in the drawing room.
Borís, who had come to Moscow on leave a few days before, had been
anxious to be presented to Prince Nicholas Bolkónski, and had contrived
to ingratiate himself so well that the old prince in his case made an
exception to the rule of not receiving bachelors in his house.
The prince’s house did not belong to what is known as fashionable
society, but his little circle—though not much talked about in
town—was one it was more flattering to be received in than any other.
Borís had realized this the week before when the commander in chief in
his presence invited Rostopchín to dinner on St. Nicholas’ Day, and
Rostopchín had replied that he could not come:
“On that day I always go to pay my devotions to the relics of Prince
Nicholas Bolkónski.”
“Oh, yes, yes!” replied the commander in chief. “How is he?...”
The small group that assembled before dinner in the lofty old-fashioned
drawing room with its old furniture resembled the solemn gathering of
a court of justice. All were silent or talked in low tones. Prince
Nicholas came in serious and taciturn. Princess Mary seemed even quieter
and more diffident than usual. The guests were reluctant to address
her, feeling that she was in no mood for their conversation. Count
Rostopchín alone kept the conversation going, now relating the latest
town news, and now the latest political gossip.
Lopukhín and the old general occasionally took part in the
conversation. Prince Bolkónski listened as a presiding judge receives a
report, only now and then, silently or by a brief word, showing that
he took heed of what was being reported to him. The tone of the
conversation was such as indicated that no one approved of what was
being done in the political world. Incidents were related evidently
confirming the opinion that everything was going from bad to worse, but
whether telling a story or giving an opinion the speaker always stopped,
or was stopped, at the point beyond which his criticism might touch the
sovereign himself.
At dinner the talk turned on the latest political news: Napoleon’s
seizure of the Duke of Oldenburg’s territory, and the Russian Note,
hostile to Napoleon, which had been sent to all the European courts.
“Bonaparte treats Europe as a pirate does a captured vessel,” said
Count Rostopchín, repeating a phrase he had uttered several times
before. “One only wonders at the long-suffering or blindness of the
crowned heads. Now the Pope’s turn has come and Bonaparte doesn’t
scruple to depose the head of the Catholic Church—yet all keep silent!
Our sovereign alone has protested against the seizure of the Duke
of Oldenburg’s territory, and even...” Count Rostopchín paused,
feeling that he had reached the limit beyond which censure was
impossible.
“Other territories have been offered in exchange for the Duchy of
Oldenburg,” said Prince Bolkónski. “He shifts the Dukes about as
I might move my serfs from Bald Hills to Boguchárovo or my Ryazán
estates.”
“The Duke of Oldenburg bears his misfortunes with admirable
strength of character and resignation,” remarked Borís, joining in
respectfully.
He said this because on his journey from Petersburg he had had the honor
of being presented to the Duke. Prince Bolkónski glanced at the
young man as if about to say something in reply, but changed his mind,
evidently considering him too young.
“I have read our protests about the Oldenburg affair and was surprised
how badly the Note was worded,” remarked Count Rostopchín in the
casual tone of a man dealing with a subject quite familiar to him.
Pierre looked at Rostopchín with naïve astonishment, not understanding
why he should be disturbed by the bad composition of the Note.
“Does it matter, Count, how the Note is worded,” he asked, “so
long as its substance is forcible?”
“My dear fellow, with our five hundred thousand troops it should be
easy to have a good style,” returned Count Rostopchín.
Pierre now understood the count’s dissatisfaction with the wording of
the Note.
“One would have thought quill drivers enough had sprung up,”
remarked the old prince. “There in Petersburg they are always
writing—not notes only but even new laws. My Andrew there has written
a whole volume of laws for Russia. Nowadays they are always writing!”
and he laughed unnaturally.
There was a momentary pause in the conversation; the old general cleared
his throat to draw attention.
“Did you hear of the last event at the review in Petersburg? The