War and Peace
“Angina? Oh, that’s a terrible illness!”
“They say that the rivals are reconciled, thanks to the angina...” and
the word angina was repeated with great satisfaction.
“The count is pathetic, they say. He cried like a child when the doctor
told him the case was dangerous.”
“Oh, it would be a terrible loss, she is an enchanting woman.”
“You are speaking of the poor countess?” said Anna Pávlovna, coming
up just then. “I sent to ask for news, and hear that she is a little
better. Oh, she is certainly the most charming woman in the world,” she
went on, with a smile at her own enthusiasm. “We belong to different
camps, but that does not prevent my esteeming her as she deserves. She
is very unfortunate!” added Anna Pávlovna.
Supposing that by these words Anna Pávlovna was somewhat lifting the
veil from the secret of the countess’ malady, an unwary young man
ventured to express surprise that well-known doctors had not been called
in and that the countess was being attended by a charlatan who might
employ dangerous remedies.
“Your information may be better than mine,” Anna Pávlovna suddenly and
venomously retorted on the inexperienced young man, “but I know on good
authority that this doctor is a very learned and able man. He is private
physician to the Queen of Spain.”
And having thus demolished the young man, Anna Pávlovna turned to
another group where Bilíbin was talking about the Austrians: having
wrinkled up his face he was evidently preparing to smooth it out again
and utter one of his mots.
“I think it is delightful,” he said, referring to a diplomatic note that
had been sent to Vienna with some Austrian banners captured from the
French by Wittgenstein, “the hero of Petropol” as he was then called in
Petersburg.
“What? What’s that?” asked Anna Pávlovna, securing silence for the mot,
which she had heard before.
And Bilíbin repeated the actual words of the diplomatic dispatch, which
he had himself composed.
“The Emperor returns these Austrian banners,” said Bilíbin, “friendly
banners gone astray and found on a wrong path,” and his brow became
smooth again.
“Charming, charming!” observed Prince Vasíli.
“The path to Warsaw, perhaps,” Prince Hippolyte remarked loudly and
unexpectedly. Everybody looked at him, understanding what he meant.
Prince Hippolyte himself glanced around with amused surprise. He knew no
more than the others what his words meant. During his diplomatic career
he had more than once noticed that such utterances were received as very
witty, and at every opportunity he uttered in that way the first words
that entered his head. “It may turn out very well,” he thought, “but
if not, they’ll know how to arrange matters.” And really, during the
awkward silence that ensued, that insufficiently patriotic person
entered whom Anna Pávlovna had been waiting for and wished to convert,
and she, smiling and shaking a finger at Hippolyte, invited Prince
Vasíli to the table and bringing him two candles and the manuscript
begged him to begin. Everyone became silent.
“Most Gracious Sovereign and Emperor!” Prince Vasíli sternly declaimed,
looking round at his audience as if to inquire whether anyone had
anything to say to the contrary. But no one said anything. “Moscow, our
ancient capital, the New Jerusalem, receives her Christ”—he placed a
sudden emphasis on the word her—“as a mother receives her zealous sons
into her arms, and through the gathering mists, foreseeing the brilliant
glory of thy rule, sings in exultation, ‘Hosanna, blessed is he that
cometh!’”
Prince Vasíli pronounced these last words in a tearful voice.
Bilíbin attentively examined his nails, and many of those present
appeared intimidated, as if asking in what they were to blame. Anna
Pávlovna whispered the next words in advance, like an old woman
muttering the prayer at Communion: “Let the bold and insolent
Goliath...” she whispered.
Prince Vasíli continued.
“Let the bold and insolent Goliath from the borders of France encompass
the realms of Russia with death-bearing terrors; humble Faith, the sling
of the Russian David, shall suddenly smite his head in his bloodthirsty
pride. This icon of the Venerable Sergius, the servant of God and
zealous champion of old of our country’s weal, is offered to Your
Imperial Majesty. I grieve that my waning strength prevents rejoicing
in the sight of your most gracious presence. I raise fervent prayers to
Heaven that the Almighty may exalt the race of the just, and mercifully
fulfill the desires of Your Majesty.”
“What force! What a style!” was uttered in approval both of reader and
of author.
Animated by that address Anna Pávlovna’s guests talked for a long time
of the state of the fatherland and offered various conjectures as to the
result of the battle to be fought in a few days.
“You will see,” said Anna Pávlovna, “that tomorrow, on the Emperor’s
birthday, we shall receive news. I have a favorable presentiment!”
CHAPTER II
Anna Pávlovna’s presentiment was in fact fulfilled. Next day during the
service at the palace church in honor of the Emperor’s birthday, Prince
Volkónski was called out of the church and received a dispatch from
Prince Kutúzov. It was Kutúzov’s report, written from Tatárinova on the
day of the battle. Kutúzov wrote that the Russians had not retreated a
step, that the French losses were much heavier than ours, and that he
was writing in haste from the field of battle before collecting full
information. It followed that there must have been a victory. And at
once, without leaving the church, thanks were rendered to the Creator
for His help and for the victory.
Anna Pávlovna’s presentiment was justified, and all that morning a
joyously festive mood reigned in the city. Everyone believed the victory
to have been complete, and some even spoke of Napoleon’s having been
captured, of his deposition, and of the choice of a new ruler for
France.
It is very difficult for events to be reflected in their real strength
and completeness amid the conditions of court life and far from the
scene of action. General events involuntarily group themselves around
some particular incident. So now the courtiers’ pleasure was based as
much on the fact that the news had arrived on the Emperor’s birthday as
on the fact of the victory itself. It was like a successfully arranged
surprise. Mention was made in Kutúzov’s report of the Russian losses,
among which figured the names of Túchkov, Bagratión, and Kutáysov. In
the Petersburg world this sad side of the affair again involuntarily
centered round a single incident: Kutáysov’s death. Everybody knew
him, the Emperor liked him, and he was young and interesting. That day
everyone met with the words:
“What a wonderful coincidence! Just during the service. But what a loss
Kutáysov is! How sorry I am!”
“What did I tell about Kutúzov?” Prince Vasíli now said with a
prophet’s pride. “I always said he was the only man capable of defeating
Napoleon.”
But next day no news arrived from the army and the public mood grew
anxious. The courtiers suffered because of the suffering the suspense
occasioned the Emperor.
“Fancy the Emperor’s position!” said they, and instead of extolling
Kutúzov as they had done the day before, they condemned him as the cause
of the Emperor’s anxiety. That day Prince Vasíli no longer boasted of
his protégé Kutúzov, but remained silent when the commander in chief was
mentioned. Moreover, toward evening, as if everything conspired to make
Petersburg society anxious and uneasy, a terrible piece of news was
added. Countess Hélène Bezúkhova had suddenly died of that terrible
malady it had been so agreeable to mention. Officially, at large
gatherings, everyone said that Countess Bezúkhova had died of a
terrible attack of angina pectoris, but in intimate circles details
were mentioned of how the private physician of the Queen of Spain had
prescribed small doses of a certain drug to produce a certain effect;
but Hélène, tortured by the fact that the old count suspected her and
that her husband to whom she had written (that wretched, profligate
Pierre) had not replied, had suddenly taken a very large dose of the
drug, and had died in agony before assistance could be rendered her.
It was said that Prince Vasíli and the old count had turned upon the
Italian, but the latter had produced such letters from the unfortunate
deceased that they had immediately let the matter drop.
Talk in general centered round three melancholy facts: the Emperor’s
lack of news, the loss of Kutáysov, and the death of Hélène.
On the third day after Kutúzov’s report a country gentleman arrived from
Moscow, and news of the surrender of Moscow to the French spread through
the whole town. This was terrible! What a position for the Emperor to
be in! Kutúzov was a traitor, and Prince Vasíli during the visits of
condolence paid to him on the occasion of his daughter’s death said of
Kutúzov, whom he had formerly praised (it was excusable for him in his
grief to forget what he had said), that it was impossible to expect
anything else from a blind and depraved old man.
“I only wonder that the fate of Russia could have been entrusted to such
a man.”
As long as this news remained unofficial it was possible to doubt it,
but the next day the following communication was received from Count
Rostopchín:
Prince Kutúzov’s adjutant has brought me a letter in which he demands
police officers to guide the army to the Ryazán road. He writes that
he is regretfully abandoning Moscow. Sire! Kutúzov’s action decides the
fate of the capital and of your empire! Russia will shudder to learn of
the abandonment of the city in which her greatness is centered and in
which lie the ashes of your ancestors! I shall follow the army. I have
had everything removed, and it only remains for me to weep over the fate
of my fatherland.
On receiving this dispatch the Emperor sent Prince Volkónski to Kutúzov
with the following rescript:
Prince Michael Ilariónovich! Since the twenty-ninth of August I have
received no communication from you, yet on the first of September I
received from the commander in chief of Moscow, via Yaroslávl, the sad
news that you, with the army, have decided to abandon Moscow. You can
yourself imagine the effect this news has had on me, and your silence
increases my astonishment. I am sending this by Adjutant-General Prince
Volkónski, to hear from you the situation of the army and the reasons
that have induced you to take this melancholy decision.
CHAPTER III
Nine days after the abandonment of Moscow, a messenger from Kutúzov
reached Petersburg with the official announcement of that event. This
messenger was Michaud, a Frenchman who did not know Russian, but who was
quoique étranger, russe de cœur et d’âme, * as he said of himself.
* Though a foreigner, Russian in heart and soul.
The Emperor at once received this messenger in his study at the palace
on Stone Island. Michaud, who had never seen Moscow before the campaign
and who did not know Russian, yet felt deeply moved (as he wrote) when
he appeared before notre très gracieux souverain * with the news of the
burning of Moscow, dont les flammes éclairaient sa route. *(2)
* Our most gracious sovereign.
* (2) Whose flames illumined his route.
Though the source of M. Michaud’s chagrin must have been different from
that which caused Russians to grieve, he had such a sad face when shown
into the Emperor’s study that the latter at once asked:
“Have you brought me sad news, Colonel?”
“Very sad, sire,” replied Michaud, lowering his eyes with a sigh. “The
abandonment of Moscow.”
“Have they surrendered my ancient capital without a battle?” asked the
Emperor quickly, his face suddenly flushing.