War and Peace
evoked by the memory of the time when the paper he was now reading had
been written. He took the letter from Michael Ivánovich’s hand, put it
in his pocket, folded up his papers, and called in Alpátych who had long
been waiting.
The prince had a list of things to be bought in Smolénsk and, walking
up and down the room past Alpátych who stood by the door, he gave his
instructions.
“First, notepaper—do you hear? Eight quires, like this sample,
gilt-edged... it must be exactly like the sample. Varnish, sealing wax,
as in Michael Ivánovich’s list.”
He paced up and down for a while and glanced at his notes.
“Then hand to the governor in person a letter about the deed.”
Next, bolts for the doors of the new building were wanted and had to be
of a special shape the prince had himself designed, and a leather case
had to be ordered to keep the “will” in.
The instructions to Alpátych took over two hours and still the prince
did not let him go. He sat down, sank into thought, closed his eyes, and
dozed off. Alpátych made a slight movement.
“Well, go, go! If anything more is wanted I’ll send after you.”
Alpátych went out. The prince again went to his bureau, glanced into it,
fingered his papers, closed the bureau again, and sat down at the table
to write to the governor.
It was already late when he rose after sealing the letter. He wished
to sleep, but he knew he would not be able to and that most depressing
thoughts came to him in bed. So he called Tíkhon and went through the
rooms with him to show him where to set up the bed for that night.
He went about looking at every corner. Every place seemed
unsatisfactory, but worst of all was his customary couch in the study.
That couch was dreadful to him, probably because of the oppressive
thoughts he had had when lying there. It was unsatisfactory everywhere,
but the corner behind the piano in the sitting room was better than
other places: he had never slept there yet.
With the help of a footman Tíkhon brought in the bedstead and began
putting it up.
“That’s not right! That’s not right!” cried the prince, and himself
pushed it a few inches from the corner and then closer in again.
“Well, at last I’ve finished, now I’ll rest,” thought the prince, and
let Tíkhon undress him.
Frowning with vexation at the effort necessary to divest himself of his
coat and trousers, the prince undressed, sat down heavily on the
bed, and appeared to be meditating as he looked contemptuously at his
withered yellow legs. He was not meditating, but only deferring the
moment of making the effort to lift those legs up and turn over on the
bed. “Ugh, how hard it is! Oh, that this toil might end and you would
release me!” thought he. Pressing his lips together he made that effort
for the twenty-thousandth time and lay down. But hardly had he done so
before he felt the bed rocking backwards and forwards beneath him as if
it were breathing heavily and jolting. This happened to him almost every
night. He opened his eyes as they were closing.
“No peace, damn them!” he muttered, angry he knew not with whom. “Ah
yes, there was something else important, very important, that I was
keeping till I should be in bed. The bolts? No, I told him about them.
No, it was something, something in the drawing room. Princess Mary
talked some nonsense. Dessalles, that fool, said something. Something in
my pocket—can’t remember....”
“Tíkhon, what did we talk about at dinner?”
“About Prince Michael...”
“Be quiet, quiet!” The prince slapped his hand on the table. “Yes, I
know, Prince Andrew’s letter! Princess Mary read it. Dessalles said
something about Vítebsk. Now I’ll read it.”
He had the letter taken from his pocket and the table—on which stood a
glass of lemonade and a spiral wax candle—moved close to the bed, and
putting on his spectacles he began reading. Only now in the stillness of
the night, reading it by the faint light under the green shade, did he
grasp its meaning for a moment.
“The French at Vítebsk, in four days’ march they may be at Smolénsk;
perhaps are already there! Tíkhon!” Tíkhon jumped up. “No, no, I don’t
want anything!” he shouted.
He put the letter under the candlestick and closed his eyes. 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. He recalled all the words spoken at that
first meeting with Potëmkin. And he saw before him a plump, rather
sallow-faced, short, stout woman, the Empress Mother, with her smile
and her words at her first gracious reception of him, and then that same
face on the catafalque, and the encounter he had with Zúbov over her
coffin about his right to kiss her hand.
“Oh, quicker, quicker! To get back to that time and have done with all
the present! Quicker, quicker—and that they should leave me in peace!”
CHAPTER IV
Bald Hills, Prince Nicholas Bolkónski’s estate, lay forty miles east
from Smolénsk and two miles from the main road to Moscow.
The same evening that the prince gave his instructions to Alpátych,
Dessalles, having asked to see Princess Mary, told her that, as the
prince was not very well and was taking no steps to secure his safety,
though from Prince Andrew’s letter it was evident that to remain at Bald
Hills might be dangerous, he respectfully advised her to send a letter
by Alpátych to the Provincial Governor at Smolénsk, asking him to let
her know the state of affairs and the extent of the danger to which
Bald Hills was exposed. Dessalles wrote this letter to the Governor
for Princess Mary, she signed it, and it was given to Alpátych with
instructions to hand it to the Governor and to come back as quickly as
possible if there was danger.
Having received all his orders Alpátych, wearing a white beaver hat—a
present from the prince—and carrying a stick as the prince did, went out
accompanied by his family. Three well-fed roans stood ready harnessed to
a small conveyance with a leather hood.
The larger bell was muffled and the little bells on the harness stuffed
with paper. The prince allowed no one at Bald Hills to drive with
ringing bells; but on a long journey Alpátych liked to have them. His
satellites—the senior clerk, a countinghouse clerk, a scullery maid,
a cook, two old women, a little pageboy, the coachman, and various
domestic serfs—were seeing him off.
His daughter placed chintz-covered down cushions for him to sit on and
behind his back. His old sister-in-law popped in a small bundle, and one
of the coachmen helped him into the vehicle.
“There! There! Women’s fuss! Women, women!” said Alpátych, puffing and
speaking rapidly just as the prince did, and he climbed into the trap.
After giving the clerk orders about the work to be done, Alpátych, not
trying to imitate the prince now, lifted the hat from his bald head and
crossed himself three times.
“If there is anything... come back, Yákov Alpátych! For Christ’s sake
think of us!” cried his wife, referring to the rumors of war and the
enemy.
“Women, women! Women’s fuss!” muttered Alpátych to himself and started
on his journey, looking round at the fields of yellow rye and the
still-green, thickly growing oats, and at other quite black fields just
being plowed a second time.
As he went along he looked with pleasure at the year’s splendid crop
of corn, scrutinized the strips of ryefield which here and there were
already being reaped, made his calculations as to the sowing and the
harvest, and asked himself whether he had not forgotten any of the
prince’s orders.
Having baited the horses twice on the way, he arrived at the town toward
evening on the fourth of August.
Alpátych kept meeting and overtaking baggage trains and troops on the
road. As he approached Smolénsk he heard the sounds of distant firing,
but these did not impress him. What struck him most was the sight of a
splendid field of oats in which a camp had been pitched and which
was being mown down by the soldiers, evidently for fodder. This fact
impressed Alpátych, but in thinking about his own business he soon
forgot it.
All the interests of his life for more than thirty years had been
bounded by the will of the prince, and he never went beyond that limit.
Everything not connected with the execution of the prince’s orders did
not interest and did not even exist for Alpátych.
On reaching Smolénsk on the evening of the fourth of August he put up
in the Gáchina suburb across the Dnieper, at the inn kept by Ferapóntov,
where he had been in the habit of putting up for the last thirty years.
Some thirty years ago Ferapóntov, by Alpátych’s advice, had bought a
wood from the prince, had begun to trade, and now had a house, an
inn, and a corn dealer’s shop in that province. He was a stout, dark,
red-faced peasant in the forties, with thick lips, a broad knob of a
nose, similar knobs over his black frowning brows, and a round belly.
Wearing a waistcoat over his cotton shirt, Ferapóntov was standing
before his shop which opened onto the street. On seeing Alpátych he went
up to him.
“You’re welcome, Yákov Alpátych. Folks are leaving the town, but you
have come to it,” said he.
“Why are they leaving the town?” asked Alpátych.
“That’s what I say. Folks are foolish! Always afraid of the French.”
“Women’s fuss, women’s fuss!” said Alpátych.
“Just what I think, Yákov Alpátych. What I say is: orders have been
given not to let them in, so that must be right. And the peasants are
asking three rubles for carting—it isn’t Christian!”
Yákov Alpátych heard without heeding. He asked for a samovar and for hay
for his horses, and when he had had his tea he went to bed.
All night long troops were moving past the inn. Next morning Alpátych
donned a jacket he wore only in town and went out on business. It was a
sunny morning and by eight o’clock it was already hot. “A good day for
harvesting,” thought Alpátych.
From beyond the town firing had been heard since early morning. At eight
o’clock the booming of cannon was added to the sound of musketry. Many
people were hurrying through the streets and there were many soldiers,
but cabs were still driving about, tradesmen stood at their shops, and
service was being held in the churches as usual. Alpátych went to the
shops, to government offices, to the post office, and to the Governor’s.
In the offices and shops and at the post office everyone was talking
about the army and about the enemy who was already attacking the town,
everybody was asking what should be done, and all were trying to calm
one another.
In front of the Governor’s house Alpátych found a large number of
people, Cossacks, and a traveling carriage of the Governor’s. At the
porch he met two of the landed gentry, one of whom he knew. This man, an
ex-captain of police, was saying angrily:
“It’s no joke, you know! It’s all very well if you’re single. ‘One man
though undone is but one,’ as the proverb says, but with thirteen in
your family and all the property... They’ve brought us to utter ruin!
What sort of governors are they to do that? They ought to be hanged—the
brigands!...”
“Oh come, that’s enough!” said the other.
“What do I care? Let him hear! We’re not dogs,” said the ex-captain of
police, and looking round he noticed Alpátych.
“Oh, Yákov Alpátych! What have you come for?”
“To see the Governor by his excellency’s order,” answered Alpátych,
lifting his head and proudly thrusting his hand into the bosom of his
coat as he always did when he mentioned the prince.... “He has ordered
me to inquire into the position of affairs,” he added.