War and Peace
buckwheat porridge, and choke themselves with cabbage soup. They are all
dwarfs and one peasant woman will toss three of them with a hayfork.”
Others did not like that tone and said it was stupid and vulgar. It was
said that Rostopchín had expelled all Frenchmen and even all foreigners
from Moscow, and that there had been some spies and agents of Napoleon
among them; but this was told chiefly to introduce Rostopchín’s witty
remark on that occasion. The foreigners were deported to Nízhni by
boat, and Rostopchín had said to them in French: “Rentrez en vous-mêmes;
entrez dans la barque, et n’en faites pas une barque de Charon.” * There
was talk of all the government offices having been already removed from
Moscow, and to this Shinshín’s witticism was added—that for that alone
Moscow ought to be grateful to Napoleon. It was said that Mamónov’s
regiment would cost him eight hundred thousand rubles, and that Bezúkhov
had spent even more on his, but that the best thing about Bezúkhov’s
action was that he himself was going to don a uniform and ride at the
head of his regiment without charging anything for the show.
* “Think it over; get into the barque, and take care not to
make it a barque of Charon.”
“You don’t spare anyone,” said Julie Drubetskáya as she collected
and pressed together a bunch of raveled lint with her thin, beringed
fingers.
Julie was preparing to leave Moscow next day and was giving a farewell
soiree.
“Bezúkhov est ridicule, but he is so kind and good-natured. What
pleasure is there to be so caustique?”
“A forfeit!” cried a young man in militia uniform whom Julie called “mon
chevalier,” and who was going with her to Nízhni.
In Julie’s set, as in many other circles in Moscow, it had been agreed
that they would speak nothing but Russian and that those who made a
slip and spoke French should pay fines to the Committee of Voluntary
Contributions.
“Another forfeit for a Gallicism,” said a Russian writer who was
present. “‘What pleasure is there to be’ is not Russian!”
“You spare no one,” continued Julie to the young man without heeding the
author’s remark.
“For caustique—I am guilty and will pay, and I am prepared to pay again
for the pleasure of telling you the truth. For Gallicisms I won’t be
responsible,” she remarked, turning to the author: “I have neither the
money nor the time, like Prince Galítsyn, to engage a master to teach me
Russian!”
“Ah, here he is!” she added. “Quand on... No, no,” she said to the
militia officer, “you won’t catch me. Speak of the sun and you see its
rays!” and she smiled amiably at Pierre. “We were just talking of you,”
she said with the facility in lying natural to a society woman. “We were
saying that your regiment would be sure to be better than Mamónov’s.”
“Oh, don’t talk to me of my regiment,” replied Pierre, kissing his
hostess’ hand and taking a seat beside her. “I am so sick of it.”
“You will, of course, command it yourself?” said Julie, directing a sly,
sarcastic glance toward the militia officer.
The latter in Pierre’s presence had ceased to be caustic, and his face
expressed perplexity as to what Julie’s smile might mean. In spite of
his absent-mindedness and good nature, Pierre’s personality immediately
checked any attempt to ridicule him to his face.
“No,” said Pierre, with a laughing glance at his big, stout body. “I
should make too good a target for the French, besides I am afraid I
should hardly be able to climb onto a horse.”
Among those whom Julie’s guests happened to choose to gossip about were
the Rostóvs.
“I hear that their affairs are in a very bad way,” said Julie. “And he
is so unreasonable, the count himself I mean. The Razumóvskis wanted
to buy his house and his estate near Moscow, but it drags on and on. He
asks too much.”
“No, I think the sale will come off in a few days,” said someone.
“Though it is madness to buy anything in Moscow now.”
“Why?” asked Julie. “You don’t think Moscow is in danger?”
“Then why are you leaving?”
“I? What a question! I am going because... well, because everyone is
going: and besides—I am not Joan of Arc or an Amazon.”
“Well, of course, of course! Let me have some more strips of linen.”
“If he manages the business properly he will be able to pay off all his
debts,” said the militia officer, speaking of Rostóv.
“A kindly old man but not up to much. And why do they stay on so long in
Moscow? They meant to leave for the country long ago. Natalie is quite
well again now, isn’t she?” Julie asked Pierre with a knowing smile.
“They are waiting for their younger son,” Pierre replied. “He joined
Obolénski’s Cossacks and went to Bélaya Tsérkov where the regiment is
being formed. But now they have had him transferred to my regiment and
are expecting him every day. The count wanted to leave long ago, but the
countess won’t on any account leave Moscow till her son returns.”
“I met them the day before yesterday at the Arkhárovs’. Natalie has
recovered her looks and is brighter. She sang a song. How easily some
people get over everything!”
“Get over what?” inquired Pierre, looking displeased.
Julie smiled.
“You know, Count, such knights as you are only found in Madame de
Souza’s novels.”
“What knights? What do you mean?” demanded Pierre, blushing.
“Oh, come, my dear count! C’est la fable de tout Moscou. Je vous admire,
ma parole d’honneur!” *
* “It is the talk of all Moscow. My word, I admire you!”
“Forfeit, forfeit!” cried the militia officer.
“All right, one can’t talk—how tiresome!”
“What is ‘the talk of all Moscow’?” Pierre asked angrily, rising to his
feet.
“Come now, Count, you know!”
“I don’t know anything about it,” said Pierre.
“I know you were friendly with Natalie, and so... but I was always more
friendly with Véra—that dear Véra.”
“No, madame!” Pierre continued in a tone of displeasure, “I have not
taken on myself the role of Natalie Rostóva’s knight at all, and have
not been to their house for nearly a month. But I cannot understand the
cruelty...”
“Qui s’excuse s’accuse,” * said Julie, smiling and waving the lint
triumphantly, and to have the last word she promptly changed the
subject. “Do you know what I heard today? Poor Mary Bolkónskaya arrived
in Moscow yesterday. Do you know that she has lost her father?”
* “Who excuses himself, accuses himself.”
“Really? Where is she? I should like very much to see her,” said Pierre.
“I spent the evening with her yesterday. She is going to their estate
near Moscow either today or tomorrow morning, with her nephew.”
“Well, and how is she?” asked Pierre.
“She is well, but sad. But do you know who rescued her? It is quite a
romance. Nicholas Rostóv! She was surrounded, and they wanted to kill
her and had wounded some of her people. He rushed in and saved her....”
“Another romance,” said the militia officer. “Really, this general
flight has been arranged to get all the old maids married off. Catiche
is one and Princess Bolkónskaya another.”
“Do you know, I really believe she is un petit peu amoureuse du jeune
homme.” *
* “A little bit in love with the young man.”
“Forfeit, forfeit, forfeit!”
“But how could one say that in Russian?”
CHAPTER XVIII
When Pierre returned home he was handed two of Rostopchín’s broadsheets
that had been brought that day.
The first declared that the report that Count Rostopchín had forbidden
people to leave Moscow was false; on the contrary he was glad that
ladies and tradesmen’s wives were leaving the city. “There will be less
panic and less gossip,” ran the broadsheet “but I will stake my life on
it that that scoundrel will not enter Moscow.” These words showed Pierre
clearly for the first time that the French would enter Moscow. The
second broadsheet stated that our headquarters were at Vyázma, that
Count Wittgenstein had defeated the French, but that as many of the
inhabitants of Moscow wished to be armed, weapons were ready for them
at the arsenal: sabers, pistols, and muskets which could be had at a low
price. The tone of the proclamation was not as jocose as in the former
Chigírin talks. Pierre pondered over these broadsheets. Evidently the
terrible stormcloud he had desired with the whole strength of his soul
but which yet aroused involuntary horror in him was drawing near.
“Shall I join the army and enter the service, or wait?” he asked himself
for the hundredth time. He took a pack of cards that lay on the table
and began to lay them out for a game of patience.
“If this patience comes out,” he said to himself after shuffling the
cards, holding them in his hand, and lifting his head, “if it comes out,
it means... what does it mean?”
He had not decided what it should mean when he heard the voice of the
eldest princess at the door asking whether she might come in.
“Then it will mean that I must go to the army,” said Pierre to himself.
“Come in, come in!” he added to the princess.
Only the eldest princess, the one with the stony face and long waist,
was still living in Pierre’s house. The two younger ones had both
married.
“Excuse my coming to you, cousin,” she said in a reproachful and
agitated voice. “You know some decision must be come to. What is going
to happen? Everyone has left Moscow and the people are rioting. How is
it that we are staying on?”
“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! Very satisfactory! Barbara Ivánovna told me today
how our troops are distinguishing themselves. It certainly does them
credit! And the people too are quite mutinous—they no longer obey,
even my maid has taken to being rude. At this rate they will soon begin
beating us. One can’t walk in the streets. But, above all, the French
will be here any day now, so what are we waiting for? I ask just one
thing of you, cousin,” she went on, “arrange for me to be taken to
Petersburg. Whatever I may be, I can’t live under Bonaparte’s rule.”
“Oh, come, ma cousine! Where do you get your information from? On the
contrary...”
“I won’t submit to your Napoleon! Others may if they please.... If you
don’t want to do this...”
“But I will, I’ll give the order at once.”
The princess was apparently vexed at not having anyone to be angry with.
Muttering to herself, she sat down on a chair.
“But you have been misinformed,” said Pierre. “Everything is quiet in
the city and there is not the slightest danger. See! I’ve just been
reading...” He showed her the broadsheet. “Count Rostopchín writes that
he will stake his life on it that the enemy will not enter Moscow.”
“Oh, that count of yours!” said the princess malevolently. “He is a
hypocrite, a rascal who has himself roused the people to riot. Didn’t
he write in those idiotic broadsheets that anyone, ‘whoever it might be,
should be dragged to the lockup by his hair’? (How silly!) ‘And honor
and glory to whoever captures him,’ he says. This is what his cajolery
has brought us to! Barbara Ivánovna told me the mob near killed her
because she said something in French.”
“Oh, but it’s so... You take everything so to heart,” said Pierre, and
began laying out his cards for patience.
Although that patience did come out, Pierre did not join the army,
but remained in deserted Moscow ever in the same state of agitation,
irresolution, and alarm, yet at the same time joyfully expecting
something terrible.
Next day toward evening the princess set off, and Pierre’s head steward
came to inform him that the money needed for the equipment of his
regiment could not be found without selling one of the estates. In
general the head steward made out to Pierre that his project of raising