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IV

This new person was the young Prince Andrei Bolkonsky, husband of the little princess. It was clear, not so much from the way the young prince had arrived late and was yet received in the most polite fashion by the hostess, as from the way that he made his entrance, that he was one of those young people who are so pampered by society that they have come to despise it. The young prince, a slightly short but slim man, was extremely handsome, with dark hair and a brownish complexion and a somewhat languorous air; he was dressed with exceptional elegance and had tiny hands and feet. Everything about his appearance, from his bored and weary gaze to his measured saunter, made the sharpest possible contrast to his lively little wife. He was evidently not only acquainted with everyone present in the drawing room, but so sick of them all that he found it utterly tedious even to look at or listen to them, since he knew in advance exactly how everything would go. Of all the people there that he found so very boring, he seemed to find none more so than his own pretty wife. He turned away from her lovely face with a faint, sour grimace that spoiled his handsome features, as if he were thinking: “You were the last thing this company required to make it utterly loathsome to me.”

He kissed Anna Pavlovna’s hand with an expression that suggested he would have given God only knew what to be spared this onerous duty and, squinting his eyes till they were almost closed, he surveyed the assembled company.

“You have a large gathering,” he said in a high, thin voice, nodding to one person while proffering his hand to another, holding it out to be shaken.

“You intend to go to the war, prince?” said Anna Pavlovna.

“General Kutuzóv,” he said, stressing the final syllable, zóff, like a Frenchman, and removing a glove from a perfectly white, tiny hand with which he rubbed his eye, “General-in-Chief Kutuzóv has asked me to be his adjutant.”

“But what about Lise, your wife?”

“She will go to the country.”

“And are you not ashamed to deprive us of your delightful wife?”

The young adjutant puffed out his lips to make a derisive sound of the kind that only the French make, but said nothing.

“André,” said his wife, addressing her husband in the same flirtatious tone in which she addressed strangers, “do come here and sit down and listen to the story the vicomte is telling us about Mademoiselle Georges and Buonaparte.”

Andrei narrowed his eyes and sat down as far away as possible, as though he had not heard his wife.

“Pray continue, vicomte,” said Anna Pavlovna. “The vicomte was telling us how the Duc d’Enghien visited Mademoiselle Georges,” she added, addressing the new arrival, so that he could follow the continuation of the story.

“The purported rivalry between Buonaparte and the duke over Mademoiselle Georges,” said Prince Andrei in a tone suggesting it was absurd for anyone not to know about that, and he slumped against the armrest of his chair. At this point the young man in spectacles named Monsieur Pierre, who had not taken his delighted, affectionate gaze off Prince Andrei from the moment he entered the drawing room, approached him and grasped him by the arm. Prince Andrei was so incurious that, without even glancing round, he twisted his face into a grimace that expressed annoyance with whoever was touching his epaulette, but on seeing Pierre’s smiling face, Prince Andrei also broke into a smile, and suddenly his entire face was transformed by the kind and intelligent expression that suffused it.

“What’s this? You here, my dear Horse Guard?” the prince asked with delight, but also with a slightly patronising and supercilious inflection.

“I knew that you would be,” replied Pierre. “I’ll come to you for supper,” he added quietly, in order not to disturb the vicomte, who was continuing with his story. “May I?”

“No, you may not,” said Prince Andrei, laughing and turning away, but letting Pierre know with a gentle squeeze of his hand that he need not have asked.

The vicomte was telling them that Mademoiselle Georges had implored the duke to hide, that the duke had said he had never hidden from anyone, and that Mademoiselle Georges had said to him, “Your highness, your sword belongs to the King and to France” and that the duke had after all hidden himself under the laundry in the next room, and that when Napoleon had become unwell, the duke had emerged from under the laundry and seen Buonaparte there before him.

“Charming, quite exquisite!” said a voice among the listeners.

Even Anna Pavlovna, having observed that the most difficult part of the tale had been negotiated successfully, calmed down and was quite able to enjoy the story. The vicomte warmed to his task and, rolling his r’s powerfully, declaimed with the animation of an actor …

“The enemy of his house, the usurper of the throne, the man who stood at the head of his nation, was here, before him, prostrate and motionless on the ground and perhaps at his last gasp. As the great Corneille said: ‘Malicious glee surged in his breast and outraged majesty alone helped him repel it.’”

The vicomte stopped and, as he prepared to proceed with his story with still greater verve, he smiled, as though reassuring the ladies, who were already over-excited. Quite without warning during this pause, the beautiful Princess Hélène looked at her watch, exchanged glances with her father, and the two of them suddenly stood up, their movements disturbing the circle and interrupting the story.

“We shall be late, papa,” she said simply, all the while beaming her smile at everyone.

“Do forgive me, my dear vicomte,” said Prince Vasily to the Frenchman, affectionately tugging him down by the sleeve to prevent him rising from his seat. “These wretched festivities of the ambassador’s deprive me of my pleasure and interrupt you.”

“So awfully sorry to forsake your exquisite soirée,” he said to Anna Pavlovna.

His daughter, Princess Hélène, began making her way between the chairs, gently restraining the folds of her gown, with the smile on her lovely face beaming ever more radiantly.

V

Anna Pavlovna requested the vicomte to wait while she showed Prince Vasily and his daughter out through the next room. The elderly lady who had previously been sitting with the aunt and had then so foolishly expressed her interest in the vicomte’s story, hastily rose to her feet and followed Prince Vasily to the entrance hall.

The former pretence of interest had completely vanished from her face. That kind, tearful face now expressed only anxiety and fear.

“What can you tell me, prince, about my Boris?” she said, as she caught up with him in the hallway (she pronounced the name Boris with a distinctive stress on the “o”). “I cannot stay here in St. Petersburg any longer. Tell me, what news can I bring my poor boy?”

Although Prince Vasily listened to the elderly lady unwillingly, almost impolitely, and even showed his impatience, she smiled at him affectionately and imploringly, and to prevent him leaving took him by the arm.

“What trouble would it be for you to have a word with His Majesty, and he would be directly transferred to the Guards,” she pleaded.

“Believe me, I will do all that I can, princess,” replied Prince Vasily, “but it is difficult for me to ask His Majesty; I would advise you to appeal to Razumovsky through Prince Golitsyn, that would be wiser.”

The elderly lady bore the name of Drubetskaya, one of the finest family names in Russia, but she was poor and, having long since withdrawn from society, she had forfeited her former connections. She had come here now solely to obtain an appointment to the Guards for her only son. It was only in order to see Prince Vasily that she had had herself invited to Anna Pavlovna’s soirée, and it was only for that reason that she had sat listening to the vicomte’s story. She was alarmed at Prince Vasily’s words; her once-beautiful face expressed, for a moment, something close to disdain. She smiled again and clutched Prince Vasily’s arm more tightly.

“Listen, prince,” she said, “I have never once petitioned you for anything and I never will, and I have never once reminded you of my father’s friendship towards you. But now I entreat you in God’s name, do this for my son and I shall regard you as my benefactor,” she added hastily. “No, do not be angry, but promise me. I have asked Golitsyn and he refused. Be the same good fellow you always were,” she said, trying to smile, despite the tears in her eyes.

“Papa, we shall be late,” said Princess Hélène, turning her beautiful head on her classical shoulders as she waited by the door.

Influence in society is capital which, if it is not to diminish, must be protected. Prince Vasily knew this and, realising that if he began asking for everyone who begged him, he would soon be unable to ask for anyone at all, he rarely made use of his influence. In Princess Drubetskaya’s case, however, her renewed appeal prompted something akin to a pang of conscience. She had reminded him of the truth: that he had been obliged to her father for the first steps in his own career. In addition, he could see from her manner that she was one of those women, especially mothers, who, once they have taken an idea into their heads, will never relent until their wishes have been granted, otherwise they are prepared to carry on badgering every day and every minute and even create scenes. It was this final consideration that swayed him.

“My dear Anna Mikhailovna,” he said with the customary familiarity and boredom in his voice, “for me it is almost impossible to do what you wish, but in order to prove to you that I love you and honour the memory of the late count, your father, I shall do the impossible. Your son shall be transferred to the Guards, here is my hand on it. Are you content?”

And he shook her hand, tugging it downwards.

“My dear man, you are my benefactor! I expected nothing less from you,” the mother lied and demeaned herself, “I knew how kind you are.”

He was about to leave.

“Wait, just one more word. Since he will move to the Guards …” she said and stopped short. “You are on good terms with Mikhail Ilarionovich Kutuzov, recommend Boris to him as an adjutant. Then my mind would be at rest, and then …”

Anna Mikhailovna begged, like a gypsy, for her son: the more she was given, the more she wanted. Prince Vasily smiled.

“That I do not promise. You have no idea how Kutuzov has been besieged since he was appointed commander-in-chief. He told me himself that all the ladies of Moscow have conspired to give him their children as adjutants.”

“No, promise me, I shan’t let you go, my dear man, my benefactor …”

“Papa,” the beauty repeated in the same tone as before, “we shall be late.”

“Well, au revoir. You see?”

“Then tomorrow you will put it to His Majesty.”

“Without fail, but concerning Kutuzov I do not promise.”

“No, promise me, promise, Vasily,” Anna Mikhkailovna said as he left, with the smile of a young coquette which once must have been natural to her, but now was quite out of place on her kind, careworn face. She had clearly forgotten her age and sought out of habit to employ all the ancient feminine wiles. But as soon as he went out her face once again assumed the cold, artifical expression it had worn previously. She returned to the circle in which the vicomte was continuing with his story and once again pretended to be listening, waiting until it was time to leave, since her business was already done.

VI

The end of the vicomte’s story went as follows:

“The Duc d’Enghien took out of his pocket a vial of rock crystal mounted in gold which contained the elixir of life given to his father by the Comte St. Germain. This elixir, as is well known, possessed the property of bringing the dead, or the almost dead, back to life, but it was not to be given to anyone but members of the house of Condé. Outsiders who tasted the elixir were cured in the same way as the Condés, but they became implacable enemies of the ducal house. A proof of this can be seen in the fact that the duke’s father, wishing to restore his dying horse, gave it these drops. The horse revived, but several times afterwards it attempted to kill its rider and once during a battle it carried him into the republicans’ camp. The duke’s father killed his beloved horse. In spite of this, the young and chivalrous Duc d’Enghien poured several drops into the mouth of his enemy Buonaparte, and the ogre revived.”

“‘Who are you?’ asked Buonaparte.

“‘A relative of the maid,’ replied the duke.

“‘Lies!’ cried Buonaparte.

“‘General, I am unarmed,’ replied the duke.

“‘Your name?’

“‘I have saved your life,’ replied the duke.

“The duke left, but the elixir took effect. Buonaparte began to feel hatred for the duke and from that day on he swore to destroy the unfortunate and magnanimous youth. Having learned who his rival was from a handkerchief dropped by the duke, which was embroidered with the crest of the house of Condé, Buonaparte ordered his minions to contrive a conspiracy between Pichegru and Georges as a pretext, then had the heroic martyr seized in the dukedom of Baden and killed.

“The angel and the demon. And that was how the most terrible crime in history was committed.”

With this the vicomte concluded his story and swung round on his chair in an excess of agitation. Everyone was silent.

“The murder of the duke was more than a crime, vicomte,” said Prince Andrei, smiling gently, as though he were making fun of the vicomte, “it was a mistake.”

The vicomte raised his eyebrows and spread his arms wide. His gesture could have signified many things.

“But what do you make of the latest farce, of the coronation in Milan?” asked Anna Pavlovna. “In this new farce, the peoples of Genoa and Lucca declare their wishes to Mr. Buonaparte and Mr. Buonaparte sits on a throne and grants the people’s wishes. Oh, it is exquisite! Why, it’s enough to drive one insane. Just imagine, the entire world has lost its wits.”

Prince Andrei turned away from Anna Pavlovna, as if to imply that the talk was leading nowhere.

“God has given me the crown. Woe betide him who touches it,” Prince Andrei declared proudly, as though they were his own words (they were in fact those of Bonaparte when the crown was set upon his head). “They say he looked awfully fine as he pronounced those words,” he added.

Anna Pavlovna glanced sharply at Prince Andrei.

“I hope,” she continued, “that that was the drop which will finally make the glass run over. The sovereigns can no longer tolerate this man who is such a threat to everything.”

“The sovereigns? I do not speak of Russia,” said the vicomte with courteous despair, “but the sovereigns! What did they do for Louis XVI, for the Queen, for Elizabeth? Nothing!” he continued, growing animated. “And believe me, they are now being punished for their betrayal of the Bourbon cause. The sovereigns? They send their ambassadors to greet this usurper of the throne.”

And with a contemptuous sigh he again shifted his position. At these words Prince Hippolyte, who had been looking at the vicomte through his lorgnette the whole time, suddenly turned his entire body towards the little Princess Bolkonskaya and, after asking her for a needle, began to show her, by drawing with the point on the table, the Condé coat of arms. He expounded it to her with an expression as intent as if the princess had asked him to do it.

“The Condé coat of arms consists of a shield with a staff gules engrailed with a staff azure,” he prattled. The princess listened, smiling.

“If Buonaparte remains on the throne of France for another year,” said the vicomte, continuing the chief conversation with the air of a man who is listening to no one, but merely pursuing his own train of thought on a matter which he knows better than everyone else, “then things will be carried too far by all the intrigues, violence, exiles and executions. Society, I mean good society, French society, will be exterminated for ever, and then what?”

He shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands.

“The Emperor Alexander,” said Anna Pavlovna with the melancholy that always accompanied her talk of the imperial family, “has declared that he will allow the French themselves to choose their own form of government. And I think there can be no doubt that, once it is liberated from the usurper, the entire nation will throw itself into the arms of the legitimate King,” said Anna Pavlovna, striving to be as gracious as possible with the émigré and royalist.

“Oh, if only that happy moment could come!” said the vicomte, inclining his head in gratitude for this mark of attention.

“And what do you think, Monsieur Pierre?” Anna Pavlovna sweetly asked the fat young man whose awkward silence was irksome to her as a polite hostess. “What do you think? You have recently come from Paris.”

While waiting for a reply, Anna Pavlovna smiled at the vicomte and the others, as if to say: “I must be polite even with him; you see, I still speak to him, even though I know he has nothing to say.”

VII

“The entire nation will die for its Emperor, for the greatest man in the world!” the young man said suddenly in a loud and vehement voice, without any preamble whatsoever, resembling a young peasant lad fearful of being interrupted and deprived of the opportunity to express himself in full. He glanced round at Prince Andrei. Prince Andrei smiled.

“The greatest genius of our age,” Pierre continued.

“What? That is your opinion? You are joking!” screeched Anna Pavlovna, her fright prompted less by the words that the young man uttered than by the animation, so spontaneous and entirely improper, that was expressed in the full, fleshy features of his face, and still more by the sound of his voice, which was too loud and, above all, too natural. He made no gestures and spoke in short bursts, occasionally adjusting his spectacles and glancing around, but it was clear from his whole appearance that no one could stop him now and he would express his entire view, regardless of the proprieties. The young man was like a wild, unbroken horse who, until saddled and stirrupped, is quiet and even timid and in no way different from other horses, but who, as soon as the harness is put on him, suddenly begins for no clear reason to pull in his head, and rear and buck in the most ludicrous manner possible, without knowing why himself. The young man had evidently sensed the bridle and begun his ludicrous bucking.

“Nobody in France even thinks about the Bourbons nowadays,” he continued hastily, so that no one would interrupt him, and constantly glancing round at Prince Andrei, as though he was the only one from whom he expected encouragement. “Do not forget that it is only three months since I returned from France.”

He spoke in excellent French.

“Monsieur le vicomte is absolutely right to suppose that in a year it will be too late for the Bourbons. It is already too late. There are no more royalists. Some have abandoned their fatherland, others have become Bonapartists. The whole of St. Germain pays homage to the Emperor.”

“There are exceptions,” the vicomte said superciliously.

The worldly, experienced Anna Pavlovna looked anxiously by turns at the vicomte and the improper young man and could not forgive herself for imprudently inviting this youth without first getting to know him.

The improper youth was the illegitimate son of a rich and renowned grandee. Anna Pavlovna had invited him out of respect for his father, bearing in mind also that Monsieur Pierre had just returned from abroad, where he had been educated.

“If only I had known that he was so badly brought up and a bonapartist,” she thought, looking at his big, close-cropped head and his large, fleshy features. “So this is the upbringing they give young men nowadays. You can tell a man of good society straight away,” she said to herself, admiring the vicomte’s composure.

“Almost the entire nobility,” Pierre continued, “has gone over to Bonaparte.”

“So say the Bonapartists,” said the vicomte. “It is hard these days to discover the opinion of the French public.”

“As Bonaparte said,” Prince Andrei began, and involuntarily everyone turned in the direction of his voice, which was low and indolent, but always audible because of its self-assurance, waiting to hear exactly what Bonaparte had said.

“‘I showed them the path to glory, but they did not want it,’” Prince Andrei continued after a brief silence, again repeating the words of Napoleon. “‘I opened up my ante-chambers and the crowds rushed in.’ I do not know how justified he was in saying that, but it was clever, viciously clever,” he concluded with an acid smile and turned away.

“He did have the right to speak out like that against the royalist aristocracy; it no longer exists in France,” Pierre put in, “or if it does, then it carries no weight. And the people? The people adore the great man, and the people have chosen him. The people are without prejudice; they have seen the greatest genius and hero in the world.”

“He might be a hero to some,” said the vicomte, not replying to the young man and not even looking at him, but addressing Anna Pavlovna and Prince Andrei, “but after the murder of the duke there is one more martyr in heaven and one less hero on earth.”

Anna Pavlovna and the others had no time to appreciate the vicomte’s words before the unbroken horse continued his novel and amusing bucking.

“The execution of the Duc d’Enghien,” Pierre continued, “was a state necessity, and I see precisely greatness of soul in the fact that Napoleon was not afraid to take upon himself alone the responsibility for that act.”

“You approve of murder!” Anna Pavlovna exclaimed in a ghastly whisper.

“Monsieur Pierre, how can you see greatness of soul in murder?” said the little princess, smiling and drawing her work closer to her.

“Ah! Oh!” said various voices.

“Magnificent,” Prince Hippolyte suddenly said in English, and began slapping his open hand against his knee. The vicomte merely shrugged.

“Is the murder of the duke a good deed or a bad one?” he said, surprising everyone with his high-toned presence of mind. “One or the other …”

Pierre sensed that this dilemma had been posed for him so that if he replied in the negative, they would force him to repudiate his admiration for his hero, but if he replied in the positive, that the deed was a good one, then God alone knew what might happen to him. He replied in the positive, unafraid of what would happen.

“This deed is a great one, like everything that this great man does,” he said audaciously, paying no attention to the horror expressed on all of their faces except the face of Prince Andrei, or to the contemptuous shrugs; he carried on talking on his own, even though his hostess clearly did not wish it. Everyone exchanged glances of amazement as they listened to him, except Prince Andrei. Prince Andrei listened with sympathy and a quiet smile.

“Surely he knew,” continued Pierre, “what a furious storm the death of the duke would stir up against him? He knew that for this one head he would be obliged once again to wage war against the whole of Europe, that he would fight, and would be victorious again, because …”

“Are you Russian?” asked Anna Pavlovna.

“I am. But he will be victorious, because he is a great man. The death of the duke was necessary. He is a genius and the difference between a genius and ordinary people is that he does not act for himself, but for humanity. The royalists wished to inflame once again the internal war and revolution that he had suppressed. He needed domestic peace, and with the execution of the duke he set an example that made the Bourbons stop their intrigues.”

“But, mon cher Monsieur Pierre,” said Anna Pavlovna, attempting to overcome him by meekness, “how can you call the means to the restoration of the legitimate throne intrigues?”

“Only the will of the people is legitimate,” he replied, “and they drove out the Bourbons and handed power to the great Napoleon.”

And he looked triumphantly over the top of his spectacles at his listeners.

“Ah! The Social Contract,” the vicomte said in a quiet voice, evidently reassured at having recognised the source from which his opponent’s views were derived.

“Well, after this …!” exclaimed Anna Pavlovna.

But even after this Pierre continued speaking just as uncivilly.

“No,” he said, growing more and more animated, “the Bourbons and the royalists fled from the revolution, they could not understand it. But this man rose above it, and suppressed its abuses while retaining all that is good – the equality of citizens and freedom of speech and of the press, and only because of this did he acquire power.”

“Indeed, but if, having taken power, he had returned it to the rightful king,” said the vicomte ironically, “then I should call him a great man.”

“He could not have done that. The people gave him power only so that he could rid them of the Bourbons, and because the people saw in him a great man. The revolution itself was a great thing,” continued Monsieur Pierre, demonstrating with this audacious and challenging introductory phrase his great youth and desire to express everything as quickly as possible.

“Revolution and regicide are a great thing! After this …”

“I am not talking of regicide. When Napoleon appeared, the revolution had already run its course, and the nation put itself into his hands of its own accord. But he understood the ideas of the revolution and became its representative.”

“Yes, the ideas of plunder, murder and regicide,” the ironic voice interrupted once again.

“Those were the extremes, of course, but that is not what is most important, what is important are the rights of man, emancipation from prejudices, the equality of citizens; and Napoleon retained all of these ideas in full force.”

“Liberty and equality,” the vicomte said derisively, as though he had decided finally to demonstrate seriously to this youth the full stupidity of his words. “All high-sounding words which have been compromised long ago. Who does not love liberty and equality? Our Saviour preached liberty and equality. But after the revolution were people any happier? On the contrary. We wanted liberty, but Buonaparte is destroying it.”

Prince Andrei looked with a merry smile by turns at Monsieur Pierre, at the vicomte and at his hostess, and evidently found this unexpected and indecorous episode amusing. During the first minute of Pierre’s outburst Anna Pavlovna had been horrified, for all her experience of the world, but when she saw that, despite the sacrilegious sentiments expressed by Pierre, the vicomte did not lose his temper, and when she became convinced that it was no longer possible to suppress what was being said, she gathered her strength and joined forces with the vicomte to assail the orator.

“But, my dear Monsieur Pierre,” said Anna Pavlovna, “how do you explain a great man who was capable of executing a duke or, in the final analysis, simply a man, without a trial and without any proven guilt?”

“I would like to ask,” said the vicomte, “how Monsieur Pierre explains the Eighteenth Brumaire. Surely this is deceit? It is cheap swindling, in no way resembling the conduct of a great man.”

“And the prisoners whom he killed in Africa?” the little princess interjected at the same point. “That is awful.” And she shrugged her little shoulders.

“He is a scoundrel, no matter what you say,” said Prince Hippolyte.

Monsieur Pierre did not know whom to answer, he glanced round at them all and smiled, and the smile exposed his uneven black teeth. His smile was not the same as other people’s, which merge into the absence of a smile. On the contrary, when his smile came, his serious, even rather sullen face instantly disappeared and a different one replaced it; childish, kind, even a little stupid, and seeming to beg forgiveness.

The vicomte, who was seeing him for the first time, realised that this Jacobin was by no means as terrible as the things that he said. Everyone fell silent.

“Well, do you want him to answer everyone at once?” Prince Andrei’s voice rang out. “Besides, in the actions of a statesman one should distinguish between the actions of the individual and those of the general or the emperor. So it seems to me.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” put in Pierre, delighted at the support that had been offered him. “As a man, he is great on the Bridge at Arcole, in the hospital in Jaffa, where he offers his hand to victims of the plague, but …”

Prince Andrei, evidently wishing to mitigate the awkwardness caused by Pierre’s oration, half-rose to his feet, preparing to leave and signalling to his wife.

“It is difficult,” he said, “to judge people of our own time, posterity will judge them.”

Suddenly Prince Hippolyte stood up, halting everybody by gesturing with his hands and requesting them to be seated, and began speaking:

“Today I was told a quite charming Moscow anecdote, I simply must regale you with it. I beg your pardon, vicomte, I shall tell it in Russian, otherwise the whole point of the story will be lost.”

And Prince Hippolyte began speaking in Russian with the same accent with which French people who have spent a year in Russia speak. Everyone paused, so keenly and insistently did Prince Hippolyte demand their attention for his story.

“There is à Moscou a certain lady. And she be very mean. She needed have two footmen behind a carriage. And very tall. That was to her taste. And she had chambermaid who was tall also. She said …”