CHAPTER XXXIX

Several tens of thousands of the slain lay in diverse postures and

various uniforms on the fields and meadows belonging to the Davýdov

family and to the crown serfs—those fields and meadows where for

hundreds of years the peasants of Borodinó, Górki, Shevárdino, and

Semënovsk had reaped their harvests and pastured their cattle. At the

dressing stations the grass and earth were soaked with blood for a space

of some three acres around. Crowds of men of various arms, wounded and

unwounded, with frightened faces, dragged themselves back to Mozháysk

from the one army and back to Valúevo from the other. Other crowds,

exhausted and hungry, went forward led by their officers. Others held

their ground and continued to fire.

Over the whole field, previously so gaily beautiful with the glitter of

bayonets and cloudlets of smoke in the morning sun, there now spread a

mist of damp and smoke and a strange acid smell of saltpeter and blood.

Clouds gathered and drops of rain began to fall on the dead and wounded,

on the frightened, exhausted, and hesitating men, as if to say: “Enough,

men! Enough! Cease... bethink yourselves! What are you doing?”

To the men of both sides alike, worn out by want of food and rest,

it began equally to appear doubtful whether they should continue to

slaughter one another; all the faces expressed hesitation, and the

question arose in every soul: “For what, for whom, must I kill and be

killed?... You may go and kill whom you please, but I don’t want to do

so any more!” By evening this thought had ripened in every soul. At any

moment these men might have been seized with horror at what they were

doing and might have thrown up everything and run away anywhere.

But though toward the end of the battle the men felt all the horror of

what they were doing, though they would have been glad to leave off,

some incomprehensible, mysterious power continued to control them, and

they still brought up the charges, loaded, aimed, and applied the match,

though only one artilleryman survived out of every three, and though

they stumbled and panted with fatigue, perspiring and stained with blood

and powder. The cannon balls flew just as swiftly and cruelly from both

sides, crushing human bodies, and that terrible work which was not done

by the will of a man but at the will of Him who governs men and worlds

continued.

Anyone looking at the disorganized rear of the Russian army would have

said that, if only the French made one more slight effort, it would

disappear; and anyone looking at the rear of the French army would have

said that the Russians need only make one more slight effort and the

French would be destroyed. But neither the French nor the Russians made

that effort, and the flame of battle burned slowly out.

The Russians did not make that effort because they were not attacking

the French. At the beginning of the battle they stood blocking the

way to Moscow and they still did so at the end of the battle as at the

beginning. But even had the aim of the Russians been to drive the French

from their positions, they could not have made this last effort, for all

the Russian troops had been broken up, there was no part of the Russian

army that had not suffered in the battle, and though still holding their

positions they had lost ONE HALF of their army.

The French, with the memory of all their former victories during

fifteen years, with the assurance of Napoleon’s invincibility, with the

consciousness that they had captured part of the battlefield and had

lost only a quarter of their men and still had their Guards intact,

twenty thousand strong, might easily have made that effort. The French

who had attacked the Russian army in order to drive it from its position

ought to have made that effort, for as long as the Russians continued to

block the road to Moscow as before, the aim of the French had not been

attained and all their efforts and losses were in vain. But the French

did not make that effort. Some historians say that Napoleon need only

have used his Old Guards, who were intact, and the battle would have

been won. To speak of what would have happened had Napoleon sent his

Guards is like talking of what would happen if autumn became spring. It

could not be. Napoleon did not give his Guards, not because he did not

want to, but because it could not be done. All the generals, officers,

and soldiers of the French army knew it could not be done, because the

flagging spirit of the troops would not permit it.

It was not Napoleon alone who had experienced that nightmare feeling

of the mighty arm being stricken powerless, but all the generals and

soldiers of his army whether they had taken part in the battle or not,

after all their experience of previous battles—when after one tenth of

such efforts the enemy had fled—experienced a similar feeling of terror

before an enemy who, after losing HALF his men, stood as threateningly

at the end as at the beginning of the battle. The moral force of the

attacking French army was exhausted. Not that sort of victory which is

defined by the capture of pieces of material fastened to sticks, called

standards, and of the ground on which the troops had stood and were

standing, but a moral victory that convinces the enemy of the moral

superiority of his opponent and of his own impotence was gained by the

Russians at Borodinó. The French invaders, like an infuriated animal

that has in its onslaught received a mortal wound, felt that they were

perishing, but could not stop, any more than the Russian army, weaker

by one half, could help swerving. By impetus gained, the French army was

still able to roll forward to Moscow, but there, without further effort

on the part of the Russians, it had to perish, bleeding from the mortal

wound it had received at Borodinó. The direct consequence of the battle

of Borodinó was Napoleon’s senseless flight from Moscow, his retreat

along the old Smolénsk road, the destruction of the invading army of

five hundred thousand men, and the downfall of Napoleonic France, on

which at Borodinó for the first time the hand of an opponent of stronger

spirit had been laid.

BOOK ELEVEN: 1812

CHAPTER I

Absolute continuity of motion is not comprehensible to the human mind.

Laws of motion of any kind become comprehensible to man only when he

examines arbitrarily selected elements of that motion; but at the

same time, a large proportion of human error comes from the arbitrary

division of continuous motion into discontinuous elements. There is a

well-known, so-called sophism of the ancients consisting in this, that

Achilles could never catch up with a tortoise he was following, in spite

of the fact that he traveled ten times as fast as the tortoise. By

the time Achilles has covered the distance that separated him from the

tortoise, the tortoise has covered one tenth of that distance ahead

of him: when Achilles has covered that tenth, the tortoise has covered

another one hundredth, and so on forever. This problem seemed to

the ancients insoluble. The absurd answer (that Achilles could never

overtake the tortoise) resulted from this: that motion was arbitrarily

divided into discontinuous elements, whereas the motion both of Achilles

and of the tortoise was continuous.

By adopting smaller and smaller elements of motion we only approach a

solution of the problem, but never reach it. Only when we have admitted

the conception of the infinitely small, and the resulting geometrical

progression with a common ratio of one tenth, and have found the sum of

this progression to infinity, do we reach a solution of the problem.

A modern branch of mathematics having achieved the art of dealing with

the infinitely small can now yield solutions in other more complex

problems of motion which used to appear insoluble.

This modern branch of mathematics, unknown to the ancients, when dealing

with problems of motion admits the conception of the infinitely small,

and so conforms to the chief condition of motion (absolute continuity)

and thereby corrects the inevitable error which the human mind cannot

avoid when it deals with separate elements of motion instead of

examining continuous motion.

In seeking the laws of historical movement just the same thing happens.

The movement of humanity, arising as it does from innumerable arbitrary

human wills, is continuous.

To understand the laws of this continuous movement is the aim of

history. But to arrive at these laws, resulting from the sum of all

those human wills, man’s mind postulates arbitrary and disconnected

units. The first method of history is to take an arbitrarily selected

series of continuous events and examine it apart from others, though

there is and can be no beginning to any event, for one event always

flows uninterruptedly from another.

The second method is to consider the actions of some one man—a king or a

commander—as equivalent to the sum of many individual wills; whereas the

sum of individual wills is never expressed by the activity of a single

historic personage.

Historical science in its endeavor to draw nearer to truth continually

takes smaller and smaller units for examination. But however small the

units it takes, we feel that to take any unit disconnected from others,

or to assume a beginning of any phenomenon, or to say that the will of

many men is expressed by the actions of any one historic personage, is

in itself false.

It needs no critical exertion to reduce utterly to dust any deductions

drawn from history. It is merely necessary to select some larger or

smaller unit as the subject of observation—as criticism has every

right to do, seeing that whatever unit history observes must always be

arbitrarily selected.

Only by taking infinitesimally small units for observation (the

differential of history, that is, the individual tendencies of men) and

attaining to the art of integrating them (that is, finding the sum of

these infinitesimals) can we hope to arrive at the laws of history.

The first fifteen years of the nineteenth century in Europe present an

extraordinary movement of millions of people. Men leave their customary

pursuits, hasten from one side of Europe to the other, plunder and

slaughter one another, triumph and are plunged in despair, and for some

years the whole course of life is altered and presents an intensive

movement which first increases and then slackens. What was the cause of

this movement, by what laws was it governed? asks the mind of man.

The historians, replying to this question, lay before us the sayings and

doings of a few dozen men in a building in the city of Paris, calling

these sayings and doings “the Revolution”; then they give a detailed

biography of Napoleon and of certain people favorable or hostile to him;

tell of the influence some of these people had on others, and say: that

is why this movement took place and those are its laws.

But the mind of man not only refuses to believe this explanation, but

plainly says that this method of explanation is fallacious, because in

it a weaker phenomenon is taken as the cause of a stronger. The sum of

human wills produced the Revolution and Napoleon, and only the sum of

those wills first tolerated and then destroyed them.

“But every time there have been conquests there have been conquerors;

every time there has been a revolution in any state there have been

great men,” says history. And, indeed, human reason replies: every time

conquerors appear there have been wars, but this does not prove that the

conquerors caused the wars and that it is possible to find the laws of

a war in the personal activity of a single man. Whenever I look at my

watch and its hands point to ten, I hear the bells of the neighboring

church; but because the bells begin to ring when the hands of the clock

reach ten, I have no right to assume that the movement of the bells is

caused by the position of the hands of the watch.

Whenever I see the movement of a locomotive I hear the whistle and see

the valves opening and wheels turning; but I have no right to conclude

that the whistling and the turning of wheels are the cause of the

movement of the engine.

The peasants say that a cold wind blows in late spring because the oaks

are budding, and really every spring cold winds do blow when the oak

is budding. But though I do not know what causes the cold winds to blow

when the oak buds unfold, I cannot agree with the peasants that the

unfolding of the oak buds is the cause of the cold wind, for the

force of the wind is beyond the influence of the buds. I see only a

coincidence of occurrences such as happens with all the phenomena of

life, and I see that however much and however carefully I observe the

hands of the watch, and the valves and wheels of the engine, and the

oak, I shall not discover the cause of the bells ringing, the engine

moving, or of the winds of spring. To that I must entirely change my

point of view and study the laws of the movement of steam, of the

bells, and of the wind. History must do the same. And attempts in this

direction have already been made.

To study the laws of history we must completely change the subject of

our observation, must leave aside kings, ministers, and generals, and

study the common, infinitesimally small elements by which the masses are

moved. No one can say in how far it is possible for man to advance

in this way toward an understanding of the laws of history; but it is

evident that only along that path does the possibility of discovering

the laws of history lie, and that as yet not a millionth part as much

mental effort has been applied in this direction by historians as has

been devoted to describing the actions of various kings, commanders,

and ministers and propounding the historians’ own reflections concerning

these actions.

CHAPTER II

The forces of a dozen European nations burst into Russia. The Russian

army and people avoided a collision till Smolénsk was reached, and again

from Smolénsk to Borodinó. The French army pushed on to Moscow, its

goal, its impetus ever increasing as it neared its aim, just as the

velocity of a falling body increases as it approaches the earth. Behind

it were seven hundred miles of hunger-stricken, hostile country; ahead

were a few dozen miles separating it from its goal. Every soldier in

Napoleon’s army felt this and the invasion moved on by its own momentum.

The more the Russian army retreated the more fiercely a spirit of hatred

of the enemy flared up, and while it retreated the army increased and

consolidated. At Borodinó a collision took place. Neither army was

broken up, but the Russian army retreated immediately after the

collision as inevitably as a ball recoils after colliding with another

having a greater momentum, and with equal inevitability the ball

of invasion that had advanced with such momentum rolled on for some

distance, though the collision had deprived it of all its force.

The Russians retreated eighty miles—to beyond Moscow—and the French

reached Moscow and there came to a standstill. For five weeks after that

there was not a single battle. The French did not move. As a bleeding,

mortally wounded animal licks its wounds, they remained inert in Moscow

for five weeks, and then suddenly, with no fresh reason, fled back:

they made a dash for the Kalúga road, and (after a victory—for at

Málo-Yaroslávets the field of conflict again remained theirs) without

undertaking a single serious battle, they fled still more rapidly back

to Smolénsk, beyond Smolénsk, beyond the Berëzina, beyond Vílna, and

farther still.

On the evening of the twenty-sixth of August, Kutúzov and the whole

Russian army were convinced that the battle of Borodinó was a victory.

Kutúzov reported so to the Emperor. He gave orders to prepare for a

fresh conflict to finish the enemy and did this not to deceive anyone,

but because he knew that the enemy was beaten, as everyone who had taken

part in the battle knew it.

But all that evening and next day reports came in one after another

of unheard-of losses, of the loss of half the army, and a fresh battle

proved physically impossible.

It was impossible to give battle before information had been collected,

the wounded gathered in, the supplies of ammunition replenished, the

slain reckoned up, new officers appointed to replace those who had been

killed, and before the men had had food and sleep. And meanwhile, the

very next morning after the battle, the French army advanced of itself

upon the Russians, carried forward by the force of its own momentum now

seemingly increased in inverse proportion to the square of the distance

from its aim. Kutúzov’s wish was to attack next day, and the whole

army desired to do so. But to make an attack the wish to do so is not

sufficient, there must also be a possibility of doing it, and that

possibility did not exist. It was impossible not to retreat a day’s

march, and then in the same way it was impossible not to retreat another

and a third day’s march, and at last, on the first of September when

the army drew near Moscow—despite the strength of the feeling that had

arisen in all ranks—the force of circumstances compelled it to retire

beyond Moscow. And the troops retired one more, last, day’s march, and

abandoned Moscow to the enemy.

For people accustomed to think that plans of campaign and battles are

made by generals—as anyone of us sitting over a map in his study may

imagine how he would have arranged things in this or that battle—the

questions present themselves: Why did Kutúzov during the retreat not do

this or that? Why did he not take up a position before reaching Filí?

Why did he not retire at once by the Kalúga road, abandoning Moscow? and

so on. People accustomed to think in that way forget, or do not know,

the inevitable conditions which always limit the activities of any

commander in chief. The activity of a commander in chief does not at all

resemble the activity we imagine to ourselves when we sit at ease in

our studies examining some campaign on the map, with a certain number of

troops on this and that side in a certain known locality, and begin our

plans from some given moment. A commander in chief is never dealing with

the beginning of any event—the position from which we always contemplate

it. The commander in chief is always in the midst of a series of

shifting events and so he never can at any moment consider the whole

import of an event that is occurring. Moment by moment the event is

imperceptibly shaping itself, and at every moment of this continuous,

uninterrupted shaping of events the commander in chief is in the

midst of a most complex play of intrigues, worries, contingencies,

authorities, projects, counsels, threats, and deceptions and is

continually obliged to reply to innumerable questions addressed to him,

which constantly conflict with one another.

Learned military authorities quite seriously tell us that Kutúzov should

have moved his army to the Kalúga road long before reaching Filí, and

that somebody actually submitted such a proposal to him. But a commander

in chief, especially at a difficult moment, has always before him not

one proposal but dozens simultaneously. And all these proposals, based

on strategics and tactics, contradict each other.

A commander in chief’s business, it would seem, is simply to choose one

of these projects. But even that he cannot do. Events and time do not

wait. For instance, on the twenty-eighth it is suggested to him to

cross to the Kalúga road, but just then an adjutant gallops up from

Milorádovich asking whether he is to engage the French or retire. An

order must be given him at once, that instant. And the order to retreat

carries us past the turn to the Kalúga road. And after the adjutant

comes the commissary general asking where the stores are to be taken,

and the chief of the hospitals asks where the wounded are to go, and a

courier from Petersburg brings a letter from the sovereign which does

not admit of the possibility of abandoning Moscow, and the commander in

chief’s rival, the man who is undermining him (and there are always

not merely one but several such), presents a new project diametrically

opposed to that of turning to the Kalúga road, and the commander in

chief himself needs sleep and refreshment to maintain his energy and

a respectable general who has been overlooked in the distribution of

rewards comes to complain, and the inhabitants of the district pray to

be defended, and an officer sent to inspect the locality comes in and

gives a report quite contrary to what was said by the officer

previously sent; and a spy, a prisoner, and a general who has been

on reconnaissance, all describe the position of the enemy’s army

differently. People accustomed to misunderstand or to forget these

inevitable conditions of a commander in chief’s actions describe to

us, for instance, the position of the army at Filí and assume that the

commander in chief could, on the first of September, quite freely decide

whether to abandon Moscow or defend it; whereas, with the Russian army

less than four miles from Moscow, no such question existed. When had

that question been settled? At Drissa and at Smolénsk and most

palpably of all on the twenty-fourth of August at Shevárdino and on

the twenty-sixth at Borodinó, and each day and hour and minute of the

retreat from Borodinó to Filí.

CHAPTER III

When Ermólov, having been sent by Kutúzov to inspect the position, told

the field marshal that it was impossible to fight there before Moscow

and that they must retreat, Kutúzov looked at him in silence.

“Give me your hand,” said he and, turning it over so as to feel the

pulse, added: “You are not well, my dear fellow. Think what you are

saying!”

Kutúzov could not yet admit the possibility of retreating beyond Moscow

without a battle.

On the Poklónny Hill, four miles from the Dorogomílov gate of Moscow,

Kutúzov got out of his carriage and sat down on a bench by the roadside.

A great crowd of generals gathered round him, and Count Rostopchín, who

had come out from Moscow, joined them. This brilliant company separated

into several groups who all discussed the advantages and disadvantages

of the position, the state of the army, the plans suggested, the

situation of Moscow, and military questions generally. Though they had

not been summoned for the purpose, and though it was not so called, they

all felt that this was really a council of war. The conversations all

dealt with public questions. If anyone gave or asked for personal

news, it was done in a whisper and they immediately reverted to general

matters. No jokes, or laughter, or smiles even, were seen among all

these men. They evidently all made an effort to hold themselves at the

height the situation demanded. And all these groups, while talking

among themselves, tried to keep near the commander in chief (whose

bench formed the center of the gathering) and to speak so that he might

overhear them. The commander in chief listened to what was being said

and sometimes asked them to repeat their remarks, but did not himself

take part in the conversations or express any opinion. After hearing

what was being said by one or other of these groups he generally turned

away with an air of disappointment, as though they were not speaking of

anything he wished to hear. Some discussed the position that had been

chosen, criticizing not the position itself so much as the mental

capacity of those who had chosen it. Others argued that a mistake had

been made earlier and that a battle should have been fought two days

before. Others again spoke of the battle of Salamanca, which was

described by Crosart, a newly arrived Frenchman in a Spanish uniform.

(This Frenchman and one of the German princes serving with the Russian

army were discussing the siege of Saragossa and considering the

possibility of defending Moscow in a similar manner.) Count Rostopchín

was telling a fourth group that he was prepared to die with the city

train bands under the walls of the capital, but that he still could not

help regretting having been left in ignorance of what was happening, and

that had he known it sooner things would have been different.... A

fifth group, displaying the profundity of their strategic perceptions,

discussed the direction the troops would now have to take. A sixth group

was talking absolute nonsense. Kutúzov’s expression grew more and more

preoccupied and gloomy. From all this talk he saw only one thing: that

to defend Moscow was a physical impossibility in the full meaning of

those words, that is to say, so utterly impossible that if any senseless

commander were to give orders to fight, confusion would result but the

battle would still not take place. It would not take place because the

commanders not merely all recognized the position to be impossible, but

in their conversations were only discussing what would happen after its

inevitable abandonment. How could the commanders lead their troops to

a field of battle they considered impossible to hold? The lower-grade

officers and even the soldiers (who too reason) also considered the

position impossible and therefore could not go to fight, fully convinced

as they were of defeat. If Bennigsen insisted on the position being

defended and others still discussed it, the question was no longer

important in itself but only as a pretext for disputes and intrigue.

This Kutúzov knew well.

Bennigsen, who had chosen the position, warmly displayed his Russian

patriotism (Kutúzov could not listen to this without wincing) by

insisting that Moscow must be defended. His aim was as clear as daylight

to Kutúzov: if the defense failed, to throw the blame on Kutúzov who had

brought the army as far as the Sparrow Hills without giving battle; if

it succeeded, to claim the success as his own; or if battle were not

given, to clear himself of the crime of abandoning Moscow. But this

intrigue did not now occupy the old man’s mind. One terrible question

absorbed him and to that question he heard no reply from anyone. The

question for him now was: “Have I really allowed Napoleon to reach

Moscow, and when did I do so? When was it decided? Can it have been

yesterday when I ordered Plátov to retreat, or was it the evening

before, when I had a nap and told Bennigsen to issue orders? Or was it

earlier still?... When, when was this terrible affair decided? Moscow

must be abandoned. The army must retreat and the order to do so must

be given.” To give that terrible order seemed to him equivalent to

resigning the command of the army. And not only did he love power to

which he was accustomed (the honours awarded to Prince Prozoróvski,

under whom he had served in Turkey, galled him), but he was convinced

that he was destined to save Russia and that that was why, against

the Emperor’s wish and by the will of the people, he had been chosen

commander in chief. He was convinced that he alone could maintain

command of the army in these difficult circumstances, and that in all

the world he alone could encounter the invincible Napoleon without fear,

and he was horrified at the thought of the order he had to issue. But

something had to be decided, and these conversations around him which

were assuming too free a character must be stopped.

He called the most important generals to him.

“My head, be it good or bad, must depend on itself,” said he, rising

from the bench, and he rode to Filí where his carriages were waiting.

CHAPTER IV

The Council of War began to assemble at two in the afternoon in the

better and roomier part of Andrew Savostyánov’s hut. The men, women, and

children of the large peasant family crowded into the back room across

the passage. Only Malásha, Andrew’s six-year-old granddaughter whom

his Serene Highness had petted and to whom he had given a lump of sugar

while drinking his tea, remained on the top of the brick oven in the

larger room. Malásha looked down from the oven with shy delight at the

faces, uniforms, and decorations of the generals, who one after another

came into the room and sat down on the broad benches in the corner

under the icons. “Granddad” himself, as Malásha in her own mind called

Kutúzov, sat apart in a dark corner behind the oven. He sat, sunk deep

in a folding armchair, and continually cleared his throat and pulled at

the collar of his coat which, though it was unbuttoned, still seemed

to pinch his neck. Those who entered went up one by one to the field

marshal; he pressed the hands of some and nodded to others. His adjutant

Kaysárov was about to draw back the curtain of the window facing

Kutúzov, but the latter moved his hand angrily and Kaysárov understood

that his Serene Highness did not wish his face to be seen.

Round the peasant’s deal table, on which lay maps, plans, pencils, and

papers, so many people gathered that the orderlies brought in another

bench and put it beside the table. Ermólov, Kaysárov, and Toll, who had

just arrived, sat down on this bench. In the foremost place, immediately

under the icons, sat Barclay de Tolly, his high forehead merging into

his bald crown. He had a St. George’s Cross round his neck and looked

pale and ill. He had been feverish for two days and was now shivering

and in pain. Beside him sat Uvárov, who with rapid gesticulations was

giving him some information, speaking in low tones as they all did.

Chubby little Dokhtúrov was listening attentively with eyebrows

raised and arms folded on his stomach. On the other side sat Count

Ostermann-Tolstóy, seemingly absorbed in his own thoughts. His broad

head with its bold features and glittering eyes was resting on his hand.

Raévski, twitching forward the black hair on his temples as was his

habit, glanced now at Kutúzov and now at the door with a look of

impatience. Konovnítsyn’s firm, handsome, and kindly face was lit up by

a tender, sly smile. His glance met Malásha’s, and the expression of his

eyes caused the little girl to smile.

They were all waiting for Bennigsen, who on the pretext of inspecting

the position was finishing his savory dinner. They waited for him from

four till six o’clock and did not begin their deliberations all that

time but talked in low tones of other matters.

Only when Bennigsen had entered the hut did Kutúzov leave his corner and

draw toward the table, but not near enough for the candles that had been

placed there to light up his face.

Bennigsen opened the council with the question: “Are we to abandon

Russia’s ancient and sacred capital without a struggle, or are we to

defend it?” A prolonged and general silence followed. There was a frown

on every face and only Kutúzov’s angry grunts and occasional cough

broke the silence. All eyes were gazing at him. Malásha too looked at

“Granddad.” She was nearest to him and saw how his face puckered; he

seemed about to cry, but this did not last long.

“Russia’s ancient and sacred capital!” he suddenly said, repeating

Bennigsen’s words in an angry voice and thereby drawing attention to the

false note in them. “Allow me to tell you, your excellency, that that

question has no meaning for a Russian.” (He lurched his heavy body

forward.) “Such a question cannot be put; it is senseless! The question

I have asked these gentlemen to meet to discuss is a military one.

The question is that of saving Russia. Is it better to give up Moscow

without a battle, or by accepting battle to risk losing the army as well

as Moscow? That is the question on which I want your opinion,” and he

sank back in his chair.

The discussion began. Bennigsen did not yet consider his game lost.

Admitting the view of Barclay and others that a defensive battle at

Filí was impossible, but imbued with Russian patriotism and the love

of Moscow, he proposed to move troops from the right to the left flank

during the night and attack the French right flank the following day.

Opinions were divided, and arguments were advanced for and against that

project. Ermólov, Dokhtúrov, and Raévski agreed with Bennigsen. Whether

feeling it necessary to make a sacrifice before abandoning the capital

or guided by other, personal considerations, these generals seemed not

to understand that this council could not alter the inevitable course

of events and that Moscow was in effect already abandoned. The other

generals, however, understood it and, leaving aside the question of

Moscow, spoke of the direction the army should take in its retreat.

Malásha, who kept her eyes fixed on what was going on before her,

understood the meaning of the council differently. It seemed to her that

it was only a personal struggle between “Granddad” and “Long-coat” as

she termed Bennigsen. She saw that they grew spiteful when they spoke to

one another, and in her heart she sided with “Granddad.” In the midst of

the conversation she noticed “Granddad” give Bennigsen a quick, subtle

glance, and then to her joys she saw that “Granddad” said something to

“Long-coat” which settled him. Bennigsen suddenly reddened and paced

angrily up and down the room. What so affected him was Kutúzov’s calm

and quiet comment on the advantage or disadvantage of Bennigsen’s

proposal to move troops by night from the right to the left flank to

attack the French right wing.

“Gentlemen,” said Kutúzov, “I cannot approve of the count’s plan. Moving

troops in close proximity to an enemy is always dangerous, and military

history supports that view. For instance...” Kutúzov seemed to reflect,

searching for an example, then with a clear, naïve look at Bennigsen he

added: “Oh yes; take the battle of Friedland, which I think the count

well remembers, and which was... not fully successful, only because our

troops were rearranged too near the enemy....”

There followed a momentary pause, which seemed very long to them all.

The discussion recommenced, but pauses frequently occurred and they all

felt that there was no more to be said.

During one of these pauses Kutúzov heaved a deep sigh as if preparing to

speak. They all looked at him.

“Well, gentlemen, I see that it is I who will have to pay for the broken

crockery,” said he, and rising slowly he moved to the table. “Gentlemen,

I have heard your views. Some of you will not agree with me. But I,” he

paused, “by the authority entrusted to me by my Sovereign and country,

order a retreat.”

After that the generals began to disperse with the solemnity and

circumspect silence of people who are leaving, after a funeral.

Some of the generals, in low tones and in a strain very different from

the way they had spoken during the council, communicated something to

their commander in chief.

Malásha, who had long been expected for supper, climbed carefully

backwards down from the oven, her bare little feet catching at its

projections, and slipping between the legs of the generals she darted

out of the room.

When he had dismissed the generals Kutúzov sat a long time with his

elbows on the table, thinking always of the same terrible question:

“When, when did the abandonment of Moscow become inevitable? When was

that done which settled the matter? And who was to blame for it?”

“I did not expect this,” said he to his adjutant Schneider when the

latter came in late that night. “I did not expect this! I did not think

this would happen.”

“You should take some rest, your Serene Highness,” replied Schneider.

“But no! They shall eat horseflesh yet, like the Turks!” exclaimed

Kutúzov without replying, striking the table with his podgy fist. “They

shall too, if only...”

CHAPTER V

At that very time, in circumstances even more important than retreating

without a battle, namely the evacuation and burning of Moscow,

Rostopchín, who is usually represented as being the instigator of that

event, acted in an altogether different manner from Kutúzov.

After the battle of Borodinó the abandonment and burning of Moscow was

as inevitable as the retreat of the army beyond Moscow without fighting.

Every Russian might have predicted it, not by reasoning but by the

feeling implanted in each of us and in our fathers.

The same thing that took place in Moscow had happened in all the towns

and villages on Russian soil beginning with Smolénsk, without the

participation of Count Rostopchín and his broadsheets. The people

awaited the enemy unconcernedly, did not riot or become excited or tear

anyone to pieces, but faced its fate, feeling within it the strength to

find what it should do at that most difficult moment. And as soon as the

enemy drew near the wealthy classes went away abandoning their property,

while the poorer remained and burned and destroyed what was left.

The consciousness that this would be so and would always be so was and

is present in the heart of every Russian. And a consciousness of this,

and a foreboding that Moscow would be taken, was present in Russian

Moscow society in 1812. Those who had quitted Moscow already in July

and at the beginning of August showed that they expected this. Those who

went away, taking what they could and abandoning their houses and half

their belongings, did so from the latent patriotism which expresses

itself not by phrases or by giving one’s children to save the fatherland

and similar unnatural exploits, but unobtrusively, simply, organically,

and therefore in the way that always produces the most powerful results.

“It is disgraceful to run away from danger; only cowards are running

away from Moscow,” they were told. In his broadsheets Rostopchín

impressed on them that to leave Moscow was shameful. They were ashamed

to be called cowards, ashamed to leave, but still they left, knowing

it had to be done. Why did they go? It is impossible to suppose that

Rostopchín had scared them by his accounts of horrors Napoleon had

committed in conquered countries. The first people to go away were the

rich educated people who knew quite well that Vienna and Berlin had

remained intact and that during Napoleon’s occupation the inhabitants

had spent their time pleasantly in the company of the charming Frenchmen

whom the Russians, and especially the Russian ladies, then liked so

much.

They went away because for Russians there could be no question as to

whether things would go well or ill under French rule in Moscow. It was

out of the question to be under French rule, it would be the worst thing

that could happen. They went away even before the battle of Borodinó and

still more rapidly after it, despite Rostopchín’s calls to defend Moscow

or the announcement of his intention to take the wonder-working icon of

the Iberian Mother of God and go to fight, or of the balloons that were

to destroy the French, and despite all the nonsense Rostopchín wrote in

his broadsheets. They knew that it was for the army to fight, and that

if it could not succeed it would not do to take young ladies and house

serfs to the Three Hills quarter of Moscow to fight Napoleon, and that

they must go away, sorry as they were to abandon their property

to destruction. They went away without thinking of the tremendous

significance of that immense and wealthy city being given over to

destruction, for a great city with wooden buildings was certain when

abandoned by its inhabitants to be burned. They went away each on his

own account, and yet it was only in consequence of their going away

that the momentous event was accomplished that will always remain the

greatest glory of the Russian people. The lady who, afraid of being

stopped by Count Rostopchín’s orders, had already in June moved with her

Negroes and her women jesters from Moscow to her Sarátov estate, with

a vague consciousness that she was not Bonaparte’s servant, was really,

simply, and truly carrying out the great work which saved Russia. But

Count Rostopchín, who now taunted those who left Moscow and now had the

government offices removed; now distributed quite useless weapons to

the drunken rabble; now had processions displaying the icons, and now

forbade Father Augustin to remove icons or the relics of saints; now

seized all the private carts in Moscow and on one hundred and thirty-six

of them removed the balloon that was being constructed by Leppich; now

hinted that he would burn Moscow and related how he had set fire to his

own house; now wrote a proclamation to the French solemnly upbraiding

them for having destroyed his Orphanage; now claimed the glory of

having hinted that he would burn Moscow and now repudiated the deed;

now ordered the people to catch all spies and bring them to him, and now

reproached them for doing so; now expelled all the French residents from

Moscow, and now allowed Madame Aubert-Chalmé (the center of the whole

French colony in Moscow) to remain, but ordered the venerable old

postmaster Klyucharëv to be arrested and exiled for no particular

offense; now assembled the people at the Three Hills to fight the French

and now, to get rid of them, handed over to them a man to be killed

and himself drove away by a back gate; now declared that he would

not survive the fall of Moscow, and now wrote French verses in albums

concerning his share in the affair—this man did not understand the

meaning of what was happening but merely wanted to do something himself

that would astonish people, to perform some patriotically heroic

feat; and like a child he made sport of the momentous, and unavoidable

event—the abandonment and burning of Moscow—and tried with his puny hand

now to speed and now to stay the enormous, popular tide that bore him

along with it.

CHAPTER VI

Hélène, having returned with the court from Vílna to Petersburg, found

herself in a difficult position.

In Petersburg she had enjoyed the special protection of a grandee who

occupied one of the highest posts in the Empire. In Vílna she had formed

an intimacy with a young foreign prince. When she returned to Petersburg

both the magnate and the prince were there, and both claimed their

rights. Hélène was faced by a new problem—how to preserve her intimacy

with both without offending either.

What would have seemed difficult or even impossible to another woman did

not cause the least embarrassment to Countess Bezúkhova, who evidently

deserved her reputation of being a very clever woman. Had she attempted

concealment, or tried to extricate herself from her awkward position

by cunning, she would have spoiled her case by acknowledging herself

guilty. But Hélène, like a really great man who can do whatever

he pleases, at once assumed her own position to be correct, as she

sincerely believed it to be, and that everyone else was to blame.

The first time the young foreigner allowed himself to reproach her, she

lifted her beautiful head and, half turning to him, said firmly: “That’s

just like a man—selfish and cruel! I expected nothing else. A woman

sacrifices herself for you, she suffers, and this is her reward! What

right have you, monseigneur, to demand an account of my attachments and

friendships? He is a man who has been more than a father to me!” The

prince was about to say something, but Hélène interrupted him.

“Well, yes,” said she, “it may be that he has other sentiments for me

than those of a father, but that is not a reason for me to shut my door

on him. I am not a man, that I should repay kindness with ingratitude!

Know, monseigneur, that in all that relates to my intimate feelings I

render account only to God and to my conscience,” she concluded, laying

her hand on her beautiful, fully expanded bosom and looking up to

heaven.

“But for heaven’s sake listen to me!”

“Marry me, and I will be your slave!”

“But that’s impossible.”

“You won’t deign to demean yourself by marrying me, you...” said Hélène,

beginning to cry.

The prince tried to comfort her, but Hélène, as if quite distraught,

said through her tears that there was nothing to prevent her marrying,

that there were precedents (there were up to that time very few, but

she mentioned Napoleon and some other exalted personages), that she had

never been her husband’s wife, and that she had been sacrificed.

“But the law, religion...” said the prince, already yielding.

“The law, religion... What have they been invented for if they can’t

arrange that?” said Hélène.

The prince was surprised that so simple an idea had not occurred to him,

and he applied for advice to the holy brethren of the Society of Jesus,

with whom he was on intimate terms.

A few days later at one of those enchanting fetes which Hélène gave at

her country house on the Stone Island, the charming Monsieur de Jobert,

a man no longer young, with snow white hair and brilliant black eyes,

a Jesuit à robe courte * was presented to her, and in the garden by the

light of the illuminations and to the sound of music talked to her for a

long time of the love of God, of Christ, of the Sacred Heart, and of the

consolations the one true Catholic religion affords in this world and

the next. Hélène was touched, and more than once tears rose to her eyes

and to those of Monsieur de Jobert and their voices trembled. A dance,

for which her partner came to seek her, put an end to her discourse with

her future directeur de conscience, but the next evening Monsieur de

Jobert came to see Hélène when she was alone, and after that often came

again.

* Lay member of the Society of Jesus.

One day he took the countess to a Roman Catholic church, where she knelt

down before the altar to which she was led. The enchanting, middle-aged

Frenchman laid his hands on her head and, as she herself afterward

described it, she felt something like a fresh breeze wafted into her

soul. It was explained to her that this was la grâce.

After that a long-frocked abbé was brought to her. She confessed to

him, and he absolved her from her sins. Next day she received a box

containing the Sacred Host, which was left at her house for her to

partake of. A few days later Hélène learned with pleasure that she had

now been admitted to the true Catholic Church and that in a few days the

Pope himself would hear of her and would send her a certain document.

All that was done around her and to her at this time, all the attention

devoted to her by so many clever men and expressed in such pleasant,

refined ways, and the state of dove-like purity she was now in (she wore

only white dresses and white ribbons all that time) gave her pleasure,

but her pleasure did not cause her for a moment to forget her aim. And

as it always happens in contests of cunning that a stupid person gets

the better of cleverer ones, Hélène—having realized that the main object

of all these words and all this trouble was, after converting her to

Catholicism, to obtain money from her for Jesuit institutions (as to

which she received indications)—before parting with her money insisted

that the various operations necessary to free her from her husband

should be performed. In her view the aim of every religion was merely

to preserve certain proprieties while affording satisfaction to

human desires. And with this aim, in one of her talks with her Father

Confessor, she insisted on an answer to the question, in how far was she

bound by her marriage?

They were sitting in the twilight by a window in the drawing room.

The scent of flowers came in at the window. Hélène was wearing a white

dress, transparent over her shoulders and bosom. The abbé, a well-fed

man with a plump, clean-shaven chin, a pleasant firm mouth, and white

hands meekly folded on his knees, sat close to Hélène and, with a

subtle smile on his lips and a peaceful look of delight at her beauty,

occasionally glanced at her face as he explained his opinion on the

subject. Hélène with an uneasy smile looked at his curly hair and his

plump, clean-shaven, blackish cheeks and every moment expected the

conversation to take a fresh turn. But the abbé, though he evidently

enjoyed the beauty of his companion, was absorbed in his mastery of the

matter.

The course of the Father Confessor’s arguments ran as follows: “Ignorant

of the import of what you were undertaking, you made a vow of conjugal

fidelity to a man who on his part, by entering the married state without

faith in the religious significance of marriage, committed an act of

sacrilege. That marriage lacked the dual significance it should have

had. Yet in spite of this your vow was binding. You swerved from it.

What did you commit by so acting? A venial, or a mortal, sin? A venial

sin, for you acted without evil intention. If now you married again

with the object of bearing children, your sin might be forgiven. But the

question is again a twofold one: firstly...”

But suddenly Hélène, who was getting bored, said with one of her

bewitching smiles: “But I think that having espoused the true religion I

cannot be bound by what a false religion laid upon me.”

The director of her conscience was astounded at having the case

presented to him thus with the simplicity of Columbus’ egg. He was

delighted at the unexpected rapidity of his pupil’s progress, but could

not abandon the edifice of argument he had laboriously constructed.

“Let us understand one another, Countess,” said he with a smile, and

began refuting his spiritual daughter’s arguments.

CHAPTER VII

Hélène understood that the question was very simple and easy from

the ecclesiastical point of view, and that her directors were making

difficulties only because they were apprehensive as to how the matter

would be regarded by the secular authorities.

So she decided that it was necessary to prepare the opinion of society.

She provoked the jealousy of the elderly magnate and told him what she

had told her other suitor; that is, she put the matter so that the only

way for him to obtain a right over her was to marry her. The elderly

magnate was at first as much taken aback by this suggestion of marriage

with a woman whose husband was alive, as the younger man had been, but

Hélène’s imperturbable conviction that it was as simple and natural as

marrying a maiden had its effect on him too. Had Hélène herself shown

the least sign of hesitation, shame, or secrecy, her cause would

certainly have been lost; but not only did she show no signs of secrecy

or shame, on the contrary, with good-natured naïveté she told her

intimate friends (and these were all Petersburg) that both the prince

and the magnate had proposed to her and that she loved both and was

afraid of grieving either.

A rumor immediately spread in Petersburg, not that Hélène wanted to

be divorced from her husband (had such a report spread many would have

opposed so illegal an intention) but simply that the unfortunate and

interesting Hélène was in doubt which of the two men she should marry.

The question was no longer whether this was possible, but only which was

the better match and how the matter would be regarded at court. There

were, it is true, some rigid individuals unable to rise to the height of

such a question, who saw in the project a desecration of the sacrament

of marriage, but there were not many such and they remained silent,

while the majority were interested in Hélène’s good fortune and in the

question which match would be the more advantageous. Whether it was

right or wrong to remarry while one had a husband living they did not

discuss, for that question had evidently been settled by people “wiser

than you or me,” as they said, and to doubt the correctness of that

decision would be to risk exposing one’s stupidity and incapacity to

live in society.

Only Márya Dmítrievna Akhrosímova, who had come to Petersburg that

summer to see one of her sons, allowed herself plainly to express

an opinion contrary to the general one. Meeting Hélène at a ball she

stopped her in the middle of the room and, amid general silence, said

in her gruff voice: “So wives of living men have started marrying

again! Perhaps you think you have invented a novelty? You have been

forestalled, my dear! It was thought of long ago. It is done in all the

brothels,” and with these words Márya Dmítrievna, turning up her wide

sleeves with her usual threatening gesture and glancing sternly round,

moved across the room.

Though people were afraid of Márya Dmítrievna she was regarded in

Petersburg as a buffoon, and so of what she had said they only noticed,

and repeated in a whisper, the one coarse word she had used, supposing

the whole sting of her remark to lie in that word.

Prince Vasíli, who of late very often forgot what he had said and

repeated one and the same thing a hundred times, remarked to his

daughter whenever he chanced to see her:

“Hélène, I have a word to say to you,” and he would lead her

aside, drawing her hand downward. “I have heard of certain projects

concerning... you know. Well my dear child, you know how your father’s

heart rejoices to know that you... You have suffered so much.... But, my

dear child, consult only your own heart. That is all I have to say,” and

concealing his unvarying emotion he would press his cheek against his

daughter’s and move away.

Bilíbin, who had not lost his reputation of an exceedingly clever man,

and who was one of the disinterested friends so brilliant a woman as

Hélène always has—men friends who can never change into lovers—once gave

her his view of the matter at a small and intimate gathering.

“Listen, Bilíbin,” said Hélène (she always called friends of that sort

by their surnames), and she touched his coat sleeve with her white,

beringed fingers. “Tell me, as you would a sister, what I ought to do.

Which of the two?”

Bilíbin wrinkled up the skin over his eyebrows and pondered, with a

smile on his lips.

“You are not taking me unawares, you know,” said he. “As a true friend,

I have thought and thought again about your affair. You see, if you

marry the prince”—he meant the younger man—and he crooked one finger,

“you forever lose the chance of marrying the other, and you will

displease the court besides. (You know there is some kind of

connection.) But if you marry the old count you will make his last days

happy, and as widow of the Grand... the prince would no longer be making

a mésalliance by marrying you,” and Bilíbin smoothed out his forehead.

“That’s a true friend!” said Hélène beaming, and again touching

Bilíbin’s sleeve. “But I love them, you know, and don’t want to distress

either of them. I would give my life for the happiness of them both.”

Bilíbin shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say that not even he could

help in that difficulty.

“Une maîtresse-femme! * That’s what is called putting things squarely.

She would like to be married to all three at the same time,” thought he.

* A masterly woman.

“But tell me, how will your husband look at the matter?” Bilíbin asked,

his reputation being so well established that he did not fear to ask so

naïve a question. “Will he agree?”

“Oh, he loves me so!” said Hélène, who for some reason imagined that

Pierre too loved her. “He will do anything for me.”

Bilíbin puckered his skin in preparation for something witty.

“Even divorce you?” said he.

Hélène laughed.

Among those who ventured to doubt the justifiability of the proposed

marriage was Hélène’s mother, Princess Kurágina. She was continually

tormented by jealousy of her daughter, and now that jealousy concerned

a subject near to her own heart, she could not reconcile herself to the

idea. She consulted a Russian priest as to the possibility of divorce

and remarriage during a husband’s lifetime, and the priest told her that

it was impossible, and to her delight showed her a text in the Gospel

which (as it seemed to him) plainly forbids remarriage while the husband

is alive.

Armed with these arguments, which appeared to her unanswerable, she

drove to her daughter’s early one morning so as to find her alone.

Having listened to her mother’s objections, Hélène smiled blandly and

ironically.

“But it says plainly: ‘Whosoever shall marry her that is divorced...’”

said the old princess.

“Ah, Maman, ne dites pas de bêtises. Vous ne comprenez rien. Dans ma

position j’ai des devoirs,” * said Hélène changing from Russian, in

which language she always felt that her case did not sound quite clear,

into French which suited it better.

* “Oh, Mamma, don’t talk nonsense! You don’t understand

anything. In my position I have obligations.”

“But, my dear....”

“Oh, Mamma, how is it you don’t understand that the Holy Father, who has

the right to grant dispensations...”

Just then the lady companion who lived with Hélène came in to announce

that His Highness was in the ballroom and wished to see her.

“Non, dites-lui que je ne veux pas le voir, que je suis furieuse contre

lui, parce qu’il m’a manqué parole.” *

* “No, tell him I don’t wish to see him, I am furious with

him for not keeping his word to me.”

“Comtesse, à tout péché miséricorde,” * said a fair-haired young man

with a long face and nose, as he entered the room.

* “Countess, there is mercy for every sin.”

The old princess rose respectfully and curtsied. The young man who had

entered took no notice of her. The princess nodded to her daughter and

sidled out of the room.

“Yes, she is right,” thought the old princess, all her convictions

dissipated by the appearance of His Highness. “She is right, but how

is it that we in our irrecoverable youth did not know it? Yet it is so

simple,” she thought as she got into her carriage.

By the beginning of August Hélène’s affairs were clearly defined and

she wrote a letter to her husband—who, as she imagined, loved her very

much—informing him of her intention to marry N.N. and of her having

embraced the one true faith, and asking him to carry out all the

formalities necessary for a divorce, which would be explained to him by

the bearer of the letter.

And so I pray God to have you, my friend, in His holy and powerful

keeping—Your friend Hélène.

This letter was brought to Pierre’s house when he was on the field of

Borodinó.

CHAPTER VIII

Toward the end of the battle of Borodinó, Pierre, having run down

from Raévski’s battery a second time, made his way through a gully to

Knyazkóvo with a crowd of soldiers, reached the dressing station, and

seeing blood and hearing cries and groans hurried on, still entangled in

the crowds of soldiers.

The one thing he now desired with his whole soul was to get away quickly

from the terrible sensations amid which he had lived that day and return

to ordinary conditions of life and sleep quietly in a room in his own

bed. He felt that only in the ordinary conditions of life would he

be able to understand himself and all he had seen and felt. But such

ordinary conditions of life were nowhere to be found.

Though shells and bullets did not whistle over the road along which he

was going, still on all sides there was what there had been on the field

of battle. There were still the same suffering, exhausted, and sometimes

strangely indifferent faces, the same blood, the same soldiers’

overcoats, the same sounds of firing which, though distant now, still

aroused terror, and besides this there were the foul air and the dust.

Having gone a couple of miles along the Mozháysk road, Pierre sat down

by the roadside.

Dusk had fallen, and the roar of guns died away. Pierre lay leaning on

his elbow for a long time, gazing at the shadows that moved past him in

the darkness. He was continually imagining that a cannon ball was flying

toward him with a terrific whizz, and then he shuddered and sat up. He

had no idea how long he had been there. In the middle of the night three

soldiers, having brought some firewood, settled down near him and began

lighting a fire.

The soldiers, who threw sidelong glances at Pierre, got the fire to burn

and placed an iron pot on it into which they broke some dried bread and

put a little dripping. The pleasant odor of greasy viands mingled with

the smell of smoke. Pierre sat up and sighed. The three soldiers were

eating and talking among themselves, taking no notice of him.

“And who may you be?” one of them suddenly asked Pierre, evidently

meaning what Pierre himself had in mind, namely: “If you want to eat

we’ll give you some food, only let us know whether you are an honest

man.”

“I, I...” said Pierre, feeling it necessary to minimize his social

position as much as possible so as to be nearer to the soldiers and

better understood by them. “By rights I am a militia officer, but my men

are not here. I came to the battle and have lost them.”

“There now!” said one of the soldiers.

Another shook his head.

“Would you like a little mash?” the first soldier asked, and handed

Pierre a wooden spoon after licking it clean.

Pierre sat down by the fire and began eating the mash, as they called

the food in the cauldron, and he thought it more delicious than any food

he had ever tasted. As he sat bending greedily over it, helping himself

to large spoonfuls and chewing one after another, his face was lit up by

the fire and the soldiers looked at him in silence.

“Where have you to go to? Tell us!” said one of them.

“To Mozháysk.”

“You’re a gentleman, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And what’s your name?”

“Peter Kirílych.”

“Well then, Peter Kirílych, come along with us, we’ll take you there.”

In the total darkness the soldiers walked with Pierre to Mozháysk.

By the time they got near Mozháysk and began ascending the steep hill

into the town, the cocks were already crowing. Pierre went on with the

soldiers, quite forgetting that his inn was at the bottom of the hill

and that he had already passed it. He would not soon have remembered

this, such was his state of forgetfulness, had he not halfway up the

hill stumbled upon his groom, who had been to look for him in the

town and was returning to the inn. The groom recognized Pierre in the

darkness by his white hat.

“Your excellency!” he said. “Why, we were beginning to despair! How is

it you are on foot? And where are you going, please?”

“Oh, yes!” said Pierre.

The soldiers stopped.

“So you’ve found your folk?” said one of them. “Well, good-by, Peter

Kirílych—isn’t it?”

“Good-by, Peter Kirílych!” Pierre heard the other voices repeat.

“Good-by!” he said and turned with his groom toward the inn.

“I ought to give them something!” he thought, and felt in his pocket.

“No, better not!” said another, inner voice.

There was not a room to be had at the inn, they were all occupied.

Pierre went out into the yard and, covering himself up head and all, lay

down in his carriage.

CHAPTER IX

Scarcely had Pierre laid his head on the pillow before he felt himself

falling asleep, but suddenly, almost with the distinctness of reality,

he heard the boom, boom, boom of firing, the thud of projectiles, groans

and cries, and smelled blood and powder, and a feeling of horror and

dread of death seized him. Filled with fright he opened his eyes and

lifted his head from under his cloak. All was tranquil in the yard. Only

someone’s orderly passed through the gateway, splashing through the mud,

and talked to the innkeeper. Above Pierre’s head some pigeons, disturbed

by the movement he had made in sitting up, fluttered under the dark roof

of the penthouse. The whole courtyard was permeated by a strong peaceful

smell of stable yards, delightful to Pierre at that moment. He could see

the clear starry sky between the dark roofs of two penthouses.

“Thank God, there is no more of that!” he thought, covering up his head

again. “Oh, what a terrible thing is fear, and how shamefully I yielded

to it! But they... they were steady and calm all the time, to the

end...” thought he.

They, in Pierre’s mind, were the soldiers, those who had been at the

battery, those who had given him food, and those who had prayed before

the icon. They, those strange men he had not previously known, stood out

clearly and sharply from everyone else.

“To be a soldier, just a soldier!” thought Pierre as he fell asleep,

“to enter communal life completely, to be imbued by what makes them what

they are. But how to cast off all the superfluous, devilish burden of my

outer man? There was a time when I could have done it. I could have run

away from my father, as I wanted to. Or I might have been sent to serve

as a soldier after the duel with Dólokhov.” And the memory of the dinner

at the English Club when he had challenged Dólokhov flashed through

Pierre’s mind, and then he remembered his benefactor at Torzhók. And now

a picture of a solemn meeting of the lodge presented itself to his mind.

It was taking place at the English Club and someone near and dear to him

sat at the end of the table. “Yes, that is he! It is my benefactor.

But he died!” thought Pierre. “Yes, he died, and I did not know he was

alive. How sorry I am that he died, and how glad I am that he is alive

again!” On one side of the table sat Anatole, Dólokhov, Nesvítski,

Denísov, and others like them (in his dream the category to which these

men belonged was as clearly defined in his mind as the category of

those he termed they), and he heard those people, Anatole and Dólokhov,

shouting and singing loudly; yet through their shouting the voice of his

benefactor was heard speaking all the time and the sound of his words

was as weighty and uninterrupted as the booming on the battlefield, but

pleasant and comforting. Pierre did not understand what his benefactor

was saying, but he knew (the categories of thoughts were also quite

distinct in his dream) that he was talking of goodness and the

possibility of being what they were. And they with their simple, kind,

firm faces surrounded his benefactor on all sides. But though they were

kindly they did not look at Pierre and did not know him. Wishing to

speak and to attract their attention, he got up, but at that moment his

legs grew cold and bare.

He felt ashamed, and with one arm covered his legs from which his cloak

had in fact slipped. For a moment as he was rearranging his cloak Pierre

opened his eyes and saw the same penthouse roofs, posts, and yard, but

now they were all bluish, lit up, and glittering with frost or dew.

“It is dawn,” thought Pierre. “But that’s not what I want. I want to

hear and understand my benefactor’s words.” Again he covered himself up

with his cloak, but now neither the lodge nor his benefactor was there.

There were only thoughts clearly expressed in words, thoughts that

someone was uttering or that he himself was formulating.

Afterwards when he recalled those thoughts Pierre was convinced that

someone outside himself had spoken them, though the impressions of that

day had evoked them. He had never, it seemed to him, been able to think

and express his thoughts like that when awake.

“To endure war is the most difficult subordination of man’s freedom to

the law of God,” the voice had said. “Simplicity is submission to the

will of God; you cannot escape from Him. And they are simple. They do

not talk, but act. The spoken word is silver but the unspoken is golden.

Man can be master of nothing while he fears death, but he who does not

fear it possesses all. If there were no suffering, man would not know

his limitations, would not know himself. The hardest thing (Pierre went

on thinking, or hearing, in his dream) is to be able in your soul to

unite the meaning of all. To unite all?” he asked himself. “No, not

to unite. Thoughts cannot be united, but to harness all these thoughts

together is what we need! Yes, one must harness them, must harness

them!” he repeated to himself with inward rapture, feeling that these

words and they alone expressed what he wanted to say and solved the

question that tormented him.

“Yes, one must harness, it is time to harness.”

“Time to harness, time to harness, your excellency! Your excellency!”

some voice was repeating. “We must harness, it is time to harness....”

It was the voice of the groom, trying to wake him. The sun shone

straight into Pierre’s face. He glanced at the dirty innyard in the

middle of which soldiers were watering their lean horses at the pump

while carts were passing out of the gate. Pierre turned away with

repugnance, and closing his eyes quickly fell back on the carriage seat.

“No, I don’t want that, I don’t want to see and understand that. I want

to understand what was revealing itself to me in my dream. One second

more and I should have understood it all! But what am I to do? Harness,

but how can I harness everything?” and Pierre felt with horror that the

meaning of all he had seen and thought in the dream had been destroyed.

The groom, the coachman, and the innkeeper told Pierre that an officer

had come with news that the French were already near Mozháysk and that

our men were leaving it.

Pierre got up and, having told them to harness and overtake him, went on

foot through the town.

The troops were moving on, leaving about ten thousand wounded behind

them. There were wounded in the yards, at the windows of the houses, and

the streets were crowded with them. In the streets, around carts that

were to take some of the wounded away, shouts, curses, and blows could

be heard. Pierre offered the use of his carriage, which had overtaken

him, to a wounded general he knew, and drove with him to Moscow. On the

way Pierre was told of the death of his brother-in-law Anatole and of

that of Prince Andrew.

CHAPTER X

On the thirtieth of August Pierre reached Moscow. Close to the gates of

the city he was met by Count Rostopchín’s adjutant.

“We have been looking for you everywhere,” said the adjutant. “The count

wants to see you particularly. He asks you to come to him at once on a

very important matter.”

Without going home, Pierre took a cab and drove to see the Moscow

commander in chief.

Count Rostopchín had only that morning returned to town from his summer

villa at Sokólniki. The anteroom and reception room of his house

were full of officials who had been summoned or had come for orders.

Vasílchikov and Plátov had already seen the count and explained to him

that it was impossible to defend Moscow and that it would have to be

surrendered. Though this news was being concealed from the inhabitants,

the officials—the heads of the various government departments—knew that

Moscow would soon be in the enemy’s hands, just as Count Rostopchín

himself knew it, and to escape personal responsibility they had all

come to the governor to ask how they were to deal with their various

departments.

As Pierre was entering the reception room a courier from the army came

out of Rostopchín’s private room.

In answer to questions with which he was greeted, the courier made a

despairing gesture with his hand and passed through the room.

While waiting in the reception room Pierre with weary eyes watched the

various officials, old and young, military and civilian, who were there.

They all seemed dissatisfied and uneasy. Pierre went up to a group of

men, one of whom he knew. After greeting Pierre they continued their

conversation.

“If they’re sent out and brought back again later on it will do no harm,

but as things are now one can’t answer for anything.”

“But you see what he writes...” said another, pointing to a printed

sheet he held in his hand.

“That’s another matter. That’s necessary for the people,” said the

first.

“What is it?” asked Pierre.

“Oh, it’s a fresh broadsheet.”

Pierre took it and began reading.

His Serene Highness has passed through Mozháysk in order to join up with

the troops moving toward him and has taken up a strong position where

the enemy will not soon attack him. Forty-eight guns with ammunition

have been sent him from here, and his Serene Highness says he will

defend Moscow to the last drop of blood and is even ready to fight in

the streets. Do not be upset, brothers, that the law courts are closed;

things have to be put in order, and we will deal with villains in our

own way! When the time comes I shall want both town and peasant lads and

will raise the cry a day or two beforehand, but they are not wanted yet

so I hold my peace. An ax will be useful, a hunting spear not bad, but a

three-pronged fork will be best of all: a Frenchman is no heavier than a

sheaf of rye. Tomorrow after dinner I shall take the Iberian icon of

the Mother of God to the wounded in the Catherine Hospital where we will

have some water blessed. That will help them to get well quicker. I,

too, am well now: one of my eyes was sore but now I am on the lookout

with both.

“But military men have told me that it is impossible to fight in the

town,” said Pierre, “and that the position...”

“Well, of course! That’s what we were saying,” replied the first

speaker.

“And what does he mean by ‘One of my eyes was sore but now I am on the

lookout with both’?” asked Pierre.

“The count had a sty,” replied the adjutant smiling, “and was very much

upset when I told him people had come to ask what was the matter with

him. By the by, Count,” he added suddenly, addressing Pierre with a

smile, “we heard that you have family troubles and that the countess,

your wife...”

“I have heard nothing,” Pierre replied unconcernedly. “But what have you

heard?”

“Oh, well, you know people often invent things. I only say what I

heard.”

“But what did you hear?”

“Well, they say,” continued the adjutant with the same smile, “that

the countess, your wife, is preparing to go abroad. I expect it’s

nonsense....”

“Possibly,” remarked Pierre, looking about him absent-mindedly. “And who

is that?” he asked, indicating a short old man in a clean blue peasant

overcoat, with a big snow-white beard and eyebrows and a ruddy face.

“He? That’s a tradesman, that is to say, he’s the restaurant

keeper, Vereshchágin. Perhaps you have heard of that affair with the

proclamation.”

“Oh, so that is Vereshchágin!” said Pierre, looking at the firm, calm

face of the old man and seeking any indication of his being a traitor.

“That’s not he himself, that’s the father of the fellow who wrote the

proclamation,” said the adjutant. “The young man is in prison and I

expect it will go hard with him.”

An old gentleman wearing a star and another official, a German wearing a

cross round his neck, approached the speaker.

“It’s a complicated story, you know,” said the adjutant. “That

proclamation appeared about two months ago. The count was informed of

it. He gave orders to investigate the matter. Gabriel Ivánovich

here made the inquiries. The proclamation had passed through exactly

sixty-three hands. He asked one, ‘From whom did you get it?’ ‘From

so-and-so.’ He went to the next one. ‘From whom did you get it?’ and so

on till he reached Vereshchágin, a half educated tradesman, you know, ‘a

pet of a trader,’” said the adjutant smiling. “They asked him, ‘Who gave

it you?’ And the point is that we knew whom he had it from. He could

only have had it from the Postmaster. But evidently they had come to

some understanding. He replied: ‘From no one; I made it up myself.’

They threatened and questioned him, but he stuck to that: ‘I made it

up myself.’ And so it was reported to the count, who sent for the man.

‘From whom did you get the proclamation?’ ‘I wrote it myself.’ Well, you

know the count,” said the adjutant cheerfully, with a smile of pride,

“he flared up dreadfully—and just think of the fellow’s audacity, lying,

and obstinacy!”

“And the count wanted him to say it was from Klyucharëv? I understand!”

said Pierre.

“Not at all,” rejoined the adjutant in dismay. “Klyucharëv had his own

sins to answer for without that and that is why he has been banished.

But the point is that the count was much annoyed. ‘How could you have

written it yourself?’ said he, and he took up the Hamburg Gazette that

was lying on the table. ‘Here it is! You did not write it yourself but

translated it, and translated it abominably, because you don’t even know

French, you fool.’ And what do you think? ‘No,’ said he, ‘I have not

read any papers, I made it up myself.’ ‘If that’s so, you’re a traitor

and I’ll have you tried, and you’ll be hanged! Say from whom you had

it.’ ‘I have seen no papers, I made it up myself.’ And that was the end

of it. The count had the father fetched, but the fellow stuck to it.

He was sent for trial and condemned to hard labor, I believe. Now the

father has come to intercede for him. But he’s a good-for-nothing lad!

You know that sort of tradesman’s son, a dandy and lady-killer. He

attended some lectures somewhere and imagines that the devil is no match

for him. That’s the sort of fellow he is. His father keeps a cookshop

here by the Stone Bridge, and you know there was a large icon of God

Almighty painted with a scepter in one hand and an orb in the other.

Well, he took that icon home with him for a few days and what did he do?

He found some scoundrel of a painter...”

CHAPTER XI

In the middle of this fresh tale Pierre was summoned to the commander in

chief.

When he entered the private room Count Rostopchín, puckering his face,

was rubbing his forehead and eyes with his hand. A short man was saying

something, but when Pierre entered he stopped speaking and went out.

“Ah, how do you do, great warrior?” said Rostopchín as soon as the short

man had left the room. “We have heard of your prowess. But that’s not

the point. Between ourselves, mon cher, do you belong to the Masons?” he

went on severely, as though there were something wrong about it which

he nevertheless intended to pardon. Pierre remained silent. “I am well

informed, my friend, but I am aware that there are Masons and I hope

that you are not one of those who on pretense of saving mankind wish to

ruin Russia.”

“Yes, I am a Mason,” Pierre replied.

“There, you see, mon cher! I expect you know that Messrs. Speránski and

Magnítski have been deported to their proper place. Mr. Klyucharëv has

been treated in the same way, and so have others who on the plea of

building up the temple of Solomon have tried to destroy the temple of

their fatherland. You can understand that there are reasons for this and

that I could not have exiled the Postmaster had he not been a harmful

person. It has now come to my knowledge that you lent him your carriage

for his removal from town, and that you have even accepted papers from

him for safe custody. I like you and don’t wish you any harm and—as

you are only half my age—I advise you, as a father would, to cease

all communication with men of that stamp and to leave here as soon as

possible.”

“But what did Klyucharëv do wrong, Count?” asked Pierre.

“That is for me to know, but not for you to ask,” shouted Rostopchín.

“If he is accused of circulating Napoleon’s proclamation it is not

proved that he did so,” said Pierre without looking at Rostopchín, “and

Vereshchágin...”

“There we are!” Rostopchín shouted at Pierre louder than before,

frowning suddenly. “Vereshchágin is a renegade and a traitor who will

be punished as he deserves,” said he with the vindictive heat with which

people speak when recalling an insult. “But I did not summon you to

discuss my actions, but to give you advice—or an order if you prefer it.

I beg you to leave the town and break off all communication with such

men as Klyucharëv. And I will knock the nonsense out of anybody”—but

probably realizing that he was shouting at Bezúkhov who so far was not

guilty of anything, he added, taking Pierre’s hand in a friendly manner,

“We are on the eve of a public disaster and I haven’t time to be polite

to everybody who has business with me. My head is sometimes in a whirl.

Well, mon cher, what are you doing personally?”

“Why, nothing,” answered Pierre without raising his eyes or changing the

thoughtful expression of his face.

The count frowned.

“A word of friendly advice, mon cher. Be off as soon as you can, that’s

all I have to tell you. Happy he who has ears to hear. Good-by, my dear

fellow. Oh, by the by!” he shouted through the doorway after Pierre,

“is it true that the countess has fallen into the clutches of the holy

fathers of the Society of Jesus?”

Pierre did not answer and left Rostopchín’s room more sullen and angry

than he had ever before shown himself.

When he reached home it was already getting dark. Some eight people had

come to see him that evening: the secretary of a committee, the colonel

of his battalion, his steward, his major-domo, and various petitioners.

They all had business with Pierre and wanted decisions from him. Pierre

did not understand and was not interested in any of these questions and

only answered them in order to get rid of these people. When left alone

at last he opened and read his wife’s letter.

“They, the soldiers at the battery, Prince Andrew killed... that old

man... Simplicity is submission to God. Suffering is necessary... the

meaning of all... one must harness... my wife is getting married... One

must forget and understand...” And going to his bed he threw himself on

it without undressing and immediately fell asleep.

When he awoke next morning the major-domo came to inform him that a

special messenger, a police officer, had come from Count Rostopchín to

know whether Count Bezúkhov had left or was leaving the town.

A dozen persons who had business with Pierre were awaiting him in the

drawing room. Pierre dressed hurriedly and, instead of going to see

them, went to the back porch and out through the gate.

From that time till the end of the destruction of Moscow no one of

Bezúkhov’s household, despite all the search they made, saw Pierre again

or knew where he was.

CHAPTER XII

The Rostóvs remained in Moscow till the first of September, that is,

till the eve of the enemy’s entry into the city.

After Pétya had joined Obolénski’s regiment of Cossacks and left for

Bélaya Tsérkov where that regiment was forming, the countess was seized

with terror. The thought that both her sons were at the war, had both

gone from under her wing, that today or tomorrow either or both of them

might be killed like the three sons of one of her acquaintances, struck

her that summer for the first time with cruel clearness. She tried to

get Nicholas back and wished to go herself to join Pétya, or to get

him an appointment somewhere in Petersburg, but neither of these proved

possible. Pétya could not return unless his regiment did so or unless

he was transferred to another regiment on active service. Nicholas was

somewhere with the army and had not sent a word since his last letter,

in which he had given a detailed account of his meeting with Princess

Mary. The countess did not sleep at night, or when she did fall asleep

dreamed that she saw her sons lying dead. After many consultations and

conversations, the count at last devised means to tranquillize her. He

got Pétya transferred from Obolénski’s regiment to Bezúkhov’s, which was

in training near Moscow. Though Pétya would remain in the service, this

transfer would give the countess the consolation of seeing at least one

of her sons under her wing, and she hoped to arrange matters for her

Pétya so as not to let him go again, but always get him appointed to

places where he could not possibly take part in a battle. As long as

Nicholas alone was in danger the countess imagined that she loved her

first-born more than all her other children and even reproached herself

for it; but when her youngest: the scapegrace who had been bad at

lessons, was always breaking things in the house and making himself a

nuisance to everybody, that snub-nosed Pétya with his merry black eyes

and fresh rosy cheeks where soft down was just beginning to show—when

he was thrown amid those big, dreadful, cruel men who were fighting

somewhere about something and apparently finding pleasure in it—then

his mother thought she loved him more, much more, than all her other

children. The nearer the time came for Pétya to return, the more uneasy

grew the countess. She began to think she would never live to see such

happiness. The presence of Sónya, of her beloved Natásha, or even of

her husband irritated her. “What do I want with them? I want no one but

Pétya,” she thought.

At the end of August the Rostóvs received another letter from Nicholas.

He wrote from the province of Vorónezh where he had been sent to procure

remounts, but that letter did not set the countess at ease. Knowing that

one son was out of danger she became the more anxious about Pétya.

Though by the twentieth of August nearly all the Rostóvs’ acquaintances

had left Moscow, and though everybody tried to persuade the countess to

get away as quickly as possible, she would not hear of leaving before

her treasure, her adored Pétya, returned. On the twenty-eighth of August

he arrived. The passionate tenderness with which his mother received him

did not please the sixteen-year-old officer. Though she concealed from

him her intention of keeping him under her wing, Pétya guessed her

designs, and instinctively fearing that he might give way to emotion

when with her—might “become womanish” as he termed it to himself—he

treated her coldly, avoided her, and during his stay in Moscow attached

himself exclusively to Natásha for whom he had always had a particularly

brotherly tenderness, almost lover-like.

Owing to the count’s customary carelessness nothing was ready for their

departure by the twenty-eighth of August and the carts that were to

come from their Ryazán and Moscow estates to remove their household

belongings did not arrive till the thirtieth.

From the twenty-eighth till the thirty-first all Moscow was in a bustle

and commotion. Every day thousands of men wounded at Borodinó were

brought in by the Dorogomílov gate and taken to various parts of Moscow,

and thousands of carts conveyed the inhabitants and their possessions

out by the other gates. In spite of Rostopchín’s broadsheets, or because

of them or independently of them, the strangest and most contradictory

rumors were current in the town. Some said that no one was to be allowed

to leave the city, others on the contrary said that all the icons had

been taken out of the churches and everybody was to be ordered to leave.

Some said there had been another battle after Borodinó at which the

French had been routed, while others on the contrary reported that the

Russian army had been destroyed. Some talked about the Moscow militia

which, preceded by the clergy, would go to the Three Hills; others

whispered that Augustin had been forbidden to leave, that traitors had

been seized, that the peasants were rioting and robbing people on their

way from Moscow, and so on. But all this was only talk; in reality

(though the Council of Filí, at which it was decided to abandon Moscow,

had not yet been held) both those who went away and those who remained

behind felt, though they did not show it, that Moscow would certainly

be abandoned, and that they ought to get away as quickly as possible and

save their belongings. It was felt that everything would suddenly break

up and change, but up to the first of September nothing had done so.

As a criminal who is being led to execution knows that he must die

immediately, but yet looks about him and straightens the cap that is

awry on his head, so Moscow involuntarily continued its wonted life,

though it knew that the time of its destruction was near when the

conditions of life to which its people were accustomed to submit would

be completely upset.

During the three days preceding the occupation of Moscow the whole

Rostóv family was absorbed in various activities. The head of the

family, Count Ilyá Rostóv, continually drove about the city collecting

the current rumors from all sides and gave superficial and hasty orders

at home about the preparations for their departure.

The countess watched the things being packed, was dissatisfied with

everything, was constantly in pursuit of Pétya who was always running

away from her, and was jealous of Natásha with whom he spent all his

time. Sónya alone directed the practical side of matters by getting

things packed. But of late Sónya had been particularly sad and silent.

Nicholas’ letter in which he mentioned Princess Mary had elicited, in

her presence, joyous comments from the countess, who saw an intervention

of Providence in this meeting of the princess and Nicholas.

“I was never pleased at Bolkónski’s engagement to Natásha,” said the

countess, “but I always wanted Nicholas to marry the princess, and had a

presentiment that it would happen. What a good thing it would be!”

Sónya felt that this was true: that the only possibility of retrieving

the Rostóvs’ affairs was by Nicholas marrying a rich woman, and that the

princess was a good match. It was very bitter for her. But despite

her grief, or perhaps just because of it, she took on herself all the

difficult work of directing the storing and packing of their things and

was busy for whole days. The count and countess turned to her when they

had any orders to give. Pétya and Natásha on the contrary, far from

helping their parents, were generally a nuisance and a hindrance to

everyone. Almost all day long the house resounded with their running

feet, their cries, and their spontaneous laughter. They laughed and were

gay not because there was any reason to laugh, but because gaiety and

mirth were in their hearts and so everything that happened was a cause

for gaiety and laughter to them. Pétya was in high spirits because

having left home a boy he had returned (as everybody told him) a fine

young man, because he was at home, because he had left Bélaya Tsérkov

where there was no hope of soon taking part in a battle and had come to

Moscow where there was to be fighting in a few days, and chiefly because

Natásha, whose lead he always followed, was in high spirits. Natásha was

gay because she had been sad too long and now nothing reminded her of

the cause of her sadness, and because she was feeling well. She was also

happy because she had someone to adore her: the adoration of others was

a lubricant the wheels of her machine needed to make them run freely—and

Pétya adored her. Above all, they were gay because there was a war near

Moscow, there would be fighting at the town gates, arms were being

given out, everybody was escaping—going away somewhere, and in general

something extraordinary was happening, and that is always exciting,

especially to the young.

CHAPTER XIII

On Saturday, the thirty-first of August, everything in the Rostóvs’

house seemed topsy-turvy. All the doors were open, all the furniture was

being carried out or moved about, and the mirrors and pictures had been

taken down. There were trunks in the rooms, and hay, wrapping paper, and

ropes were scattered about. The peasants and house serfs carrying out

the things were treading heavily on the parquet floors. The yard was

crowded with peasant carts, some loaded high and already corded up,

others still empty.

The voices and footsteps of the many servants and of the peasants who

had come with the carts resounded as they shouted to one another in

the yard and in the house. The count had been out since morning. The

countess had a headache brought on by all the noise and turmoil and was

lying down in the new sitting room with a vinegar compress on her head.

Pétya was not at home, he had gone to visit a friend with whom he meant

to obtain a transfer from the militia to the active army. Sónya was in

the ballroom looking after the packing of the glass and china. Natásha

was sitting on the floor of her dismantled room with dresses, ribbons,

and scarves strewn all about her, gazing fixedly at the floor and

holding in her hands the old ball dress (already out of fashion) which

she had worn at her first Petersburg ball.

Natásha was ashamed of doing nothing when everyone else was so busy, and

several times that morning had tried to set to work, but her heart was

not in it, and she could not and did not know how to do anything except

with all her heart and all her might. For a while she had stood beside

Sónya while the china was being packed and tried to help, but soon gave

it up and went to her room to pack her own things. At first she found it

amusing to give away dresses and ribbons to the maids, but when that was

done and what was left had still to be packed, she found it dull.

“Dunyásha, you pack! You will, won’t you, dear?” And when Dunyásha

willingly promised to do it all for her, Natásha sat down on the floor,

took her old ball dress, and fell into a reverie quite unrelated to what

ought to have occupied her thoughts now. She was roused from her reverie

by the talk of the maids in the next room (which was theirs) and by the

sound of their hurried footsteps going to the back porch. Natásha got

up and looked out of the window. An enormously long row of carts full of

wounded men had stopped in the street.

The housekeeper, the old nurse, the cooks, coachmen, maids, footmen,

postilions, and scullions stood at the gate, staring at the wounded.

Natásha, throwing a clean pocket handkerchief over her hair and holding

an end of it in each hand, went out into the street.

The former housekeeper, old Mávra Kuzmínichna, had stepped out of the

crowd by the gate, gone up to a cart with a hood constructed of bast

mats, and was speaking to a pale young officer who lay inside.

Natásha moved a few steps forward and stopped shyly, still holding her

handkerchief, and listened to what the housekeeper was saying.

“Then you have nobody in Moscow?” she was saying. “You would be more

comfortable somewhere in a house... in ours, for instance... the family

are leaving.”

“I don’t know if it would be allowed,” replied the officer in a weak

voice. “Here is our commanding officer... ask him,” and he pointed to a

stout major who was walking back along the street past the row of carts.

Natásha glanced with frightened eyes at the face of the wounded officer

and at once went to meet the major.

“May the wounded men stay in our house?” she asked.

The major raised his hand to his cap with a smile.

“Which one do you want, Ma’am’selle?” said he, screwing up his eyes and

smiling.

Natásha quietly repeated her question, and her face and whole

manner were so serious, though she was still holding the ends of her

handkerchief, that the major ceased smiling and after some reflection—as

if considering in how far the thing was possible—replied in the

affirmative.

“Oh yes, why not? They may,” he said.

With a slight inclination of her head, Natásha stepped back quickly to

Mávra Kuzmínichna, who stood talking compassionately to the officer.

“They may. He says they may!” whispered Natásha.

The cart in which the officer lay was turned into the Rostóvs’ yard,

and dozens of carts with wounded men began at the invitation of the

townsfolk to turn into the yards and to draw up at the entrances of the

houses in Povarskáya Street. Natásha was evidently pleased to be dealing

with new people outside the ordinary routine of her life. She and Mávra

Kuzmínichna tried to get as many of the wounded as possible into their

yard.

“Your Papa must be told, though,” said Mávra Kuzmínichna.

“Never mind, never mind, what does it matter? For one day we can move

into the drawing room. They can have all our half of the house.”

“There now, young lady, you do take things into your head! Even if we

put them into the wing, the men’s room, or the nurse’s room, we must ask

permission.”

“Well, I’ll ask.”

Natásha ran into the house and went on tiptoe through the half-open door

into the sitting room, where there was a smell of vinegar and Hoffman’s

drops.

“Are you asleep, Mamma?”

“Oh, what sleep—?” said the countess, waking up just as she was dropping

into a doze.

“Mamma darling!” said Natásha, kneeling by her mother and bringing her

face close to her mother’s, “I am sorry, forgive me, I’ll never do it

again; I woke you up! Mávra Kuzmínichna has sent me: they have brought

some wounded here—officers. Will you let them come? They have nowhere to

go. I knew you’d let them come!” she said quickly all in one breath.

“What officers? Whom have they brought? I don’t understand anything

about it,” said the countess.

Natásha laughed, and the countess too smiled slightly.

“I knew you’d give permission... so I’ll tell them,” and, having kissed

her mother, Natásha got up and went to the door.

In the hall she met her father, who had returned with bad news.

“We’ve stayed too long!” said the count with involuntary vexation. “The

Club is closed and the police are leaving.”

“Papa, is it all right—I’ve invited some of the wounded into the house?”

said Natásha.

“Of course it is,” he answered absently. “That’s not the point. I beg

you not to indulge in trifles now, but to help to pack, and tomorrow we

must go, go, go!...”

And the count gave a similar order to the major-domo and the servants.

At dinner Pétya having returned home told them the news he had heard.

He said the people had been getting arms in the Krémlin, and that though

Rostopchín’s broadsheet had said that he would sound a call two or three

days in advance, the order had certainly already been given for everyone

to go armed to the Three Hills tomorrow, and that there would be a big

battle there.

The countess looked with timid horror at her son’s eager, excited face

as he said this. She realized that if she said a word about his not

going to the battle (she knew he enjoyed the thought of the impending

engagement) he would say something about men, honor, and the

fatherland—something senseless, masculine, and obstinate which there

would be no contradicting, and her plans would be spoiled; and so,

hoping to arrange to leave before then and take Pétya with her as their

protector and defender, she did not answer him, but after dinner called

the count aside and implored him with tears to take her away quickly,

that very night if possible. With a woman’s involuntary loving cunning

she, who till then had not shown any alarm, said that she would die of

fright if they did not leave that very night. Without any pretense she

was now afraid of everything.

CHAPTER XIV

Madame Schoss, who had been out to visit her daughter, increased the

countess’ fears still more by telling what she had seen at a spirit

dealer’s in Myasnítski Street. When returning by that street she had

been unable to pass because of a drunken crowd rioting in front of

the shop. She had taken a cab and driven home by a side street and the

cabman had told her that the people were breaking open the barrels at

the drink store, having received orders to do so.

After dinner the whole Rostóv household set to work with enthusiastic

haste packing their belongings and preparing for their departure. The

old count, suddenly setting to work, kept passing from the yard to the

house and back again, shouting confused instructions to the hurrying

people, and flurrying them still more. Pétya directed things in the

yard. Sónya, owing to the count’s contradictory orders, lost her head

and did not know what to do. The servants ran noisily about the house

and yard, shouting and disputing. Natásha, with the ardor characteristic

of all she did suddenly set to work too. At first her intervention in

the business of packing was received skeptically. Everybody expected

some prank from her and did not wish to obey her; but she resolutely

and passionately demanded obedience, grew angry and nearly cried because

they did not heed her, and at last succeeded in making them believe her.

Her first exploit, which cost her immense effort and established her

authority, was the packing of the carpets. The count had valuable

Gobelin tapestries and Persian carpets in the house. When Natásha set

to work two cases were standing open in the ballroom, one almost full

up with crockery, the other with carpets. There was also much china

standing on the tables, and still more was being brought in from the

storeroom. A third case was needed and servants had gone to fetch it.

“Sónya, wait a bit—we’ll pack everything into these,” said Natásha.

“You can’t, Miss, we have tried to,” said the butler’s assistant.

“No, wait a minute, please.”

And Natásha began rapidly taking out of the case dishes and plates

wrapped in paper.

“The dishes must go in here among the carpets,” said she.

“Why, it’s a mercy if we can get the carpets alone into three cases,”

said the butler’s assistant.

“Oh, wait, please!” And Natásha began rapidly and deftly sorting out the

things. “These aren’t needed,” said she, putting aside some plates

of Kiev ware. “These—yes, these must go among the carpets,” she said,

referring to the Saxony china dishes.

“Don’t, Natásha! Leave it alone! We’ll get it all packed,” urged Sónya

reproachfully.

“What a young lady she is!” remarked the major-domo.

But Natásha would not give in. She turned everything out and began

quickly repacking, deciding that the inferior Russian carpets and

unnecessary crockery should not be taken at all. When everything had

been taken out of the cases, they recommenced packing, and it turned

out that when the cheaper things not worth taking had nearly all been

rejected, the valuable ones really did all go into the two cases. Only

the lid of the case containing the carpets would not shut down. A few

more things might have been taken out, but Natásha insisted on having

her own way. She packed, repacked, pressed, made the butler’s assistant

and Pétya—whom she had drawn into the business of packing—press on the

lid, and made desperate efforts herself.

“That’s enough, Natásha,” said Sónya. “I see you were right, but just

take out the top one.”

“I won’t!” cried Natásha, with one hand holding back the hair that hung

over her perspiring face, while with the other she pressed down the

carpets. “Now press, Pétya! Press, Vasílich, press hard!” she cried.

The carpets yielded and the lid closed; Natásha, clapping her hands,

screamed with delight and tears fell from her eyes. But this only

lasted a moment. She at once set to work afresh and they now trusted her

completely. The count was not angry even when they told him that Natásha

had countermanded an order of his, and the servants now came to her

to ask whether a cart was sufficiently loaded, and whether it might

be corded up. Thanks to Natásha’s directions the work now went on

expeditiously, unnecessary things were left, and the most valuable

packed as compactly as possible.

But hard as they all worked till quite late that night, they could not

get everything packed. The countess had fallen asleep and the count,

having put off their departure till next morning, went to bed.

Sónya and Natásha slept in the sitting room without undressing.

That night another wounded man was driven down the Povarskáya, and Mávra

Kuzmínichna, who was standing at the gate, had him brought into the

Rostóvs’ yard. Mávra Kuzmínichna concluded that he was a very important

man. He was being conveyed in a calèche with a raised hood, and was

quite covered by an apron. On the box beside the driver sat a venerable

old attendant. A doctor and two soldiers followed the carriage in a

cart.

“Please come in here. The masters are going away and the whole house

will be empty,” said the old woman to the old attendant.

“Well, perhaps,” said he with a sigh. “We don’t expect to get him home

alive! We have a house of our own in Moscow, but it’s a long way from

here, and there’s nobody living in it.”

“Do us the honor to come in, there’s plenty of everything in the

master’s house. Come in,” said Mávra Kuzmínichna. “Is he very ill?” she

asked.

The attendant made a hopeless gesture.

“We don’t expect to get him home! We must ask the doctor.”

And the old servant got down from the box and went up to the cart.

“All right!” said the doctor.

The old servant returned to the calèche, looked into it, shook his

head disconsolately, told the driver to turn into the yard, and stopped

beside Mávra Kuzmínichna.

“O, Lord Jesus Christ!” she murmured.

She invited them to take the wounded man into the house.

“The masters won’t object...” she said.

But they had to avoid carrying the man upstairs, and so they took him

into the wing and put him in the room that had been Madame Schoss’.

This wounded man was Prince Andrew Bolkónski.

CHAPTER XV

Moscow’s last day had come. It was a clear bright autumn day, a Sunday.

The church bells everywhere were ringing for service, just as usual on

Sundays. Nobody seemed yet to realize what awaited the city.

Only two things indicated the social condition of Moscow—the rabble,

that is the poor people, and the price of commodities. An enormous crowd

of factory hands, house serfs, and peasants, with whom some officials,

seminarists, and gentry were mingled, had gone early that morning to

the Three Hills. Having waited there for Rostopchín who did not turn

up, they became convinced that Moscow would be surrendered, and then

dispersed all about the town to the public houses and cookshops. Prices

too that day indicated the state of affairs. The price of weapons, of

gold, of carts and horses, kept rising, but the value of paper money and

city articles kept falling, so that by midday there were instances of

carters removing valuable goods, such as cloth, and receiving in payment

a half of what they carted, while peasant horses were fetching five

hundred rubles each, and furniture, mirrors, and bronzes were being

given away for nothing.

In the Rostóvs’ staid old-fashioned house the dissolution of former

conditions of life was but little noticeable. As to the serfs the only

indication was that three out of their huge retinue disappeared

during the night, but nothing was stolen; and as to the value of their

possessions, the thirty peasant carts that had come in from their

estates and which many people envied proved to be extremely valuable and

they were offered enormous sums of money for them. Not only were huge

sums offered for the horses and carts, but on the previous evening and

early in the morning of the first of September, orderlies and servants

sent by wounded officers came to the Rostóvs’ and wounded men dragged

themselves there from the Rostóvs’ and from neighboring houses where

they were accommodated, entreating the servants to try to get them

a lift out of Moscow. The major-domo to whom these entreaties were

addressed, though he was sorry for the wounded, resolutely refused,

saying that he dare not even mention the matter to the count. Pity these

wounded men as one might, it was evident that if they were given one

cart there would be no reason to refuse another, or all the carts and

one’s own carriages as well. Thirty carts could not save all the wounded

and in the general catastrophe one could not disregard oneself and one’s

own family. So thought the major-domo on his master’s behalf.

On waking up that morning Count Ilyá Rostóv left his bedroom softly, so

as not to wake the countess who had fallen asleep only toward morning,

and came out to the porch in his lilac silk dressing gown. In the yard

stood the carts ready corded. The carriages were at the front porch.

The major-domo stood at the porch talking to an elderly orderly and to

a pale young officer with a bandaged arm. On seeing the count the

major-domo made a significant and stern gesture to them both to go away.

“Well, Vasílich, is everything ready?” asked the count, and stroking his

bald head he looked good-naturedly at the officer and the orderly and

nodded to them. (He liked to see new faces.)

“We can harness at once, your excellency.”

“Well, that’s right. As soon as the countess wakes we’ll be off, God

willing! What is it, gentlemen?” he added, turning to the officer. “Are

you staying in my house?”

The officer came nearer and suddenly his face flushed crimson.

“Count, be so good as to allow me... for God’s sake, to get into some

corner of one of your carts! I have nothing here with me.... I shall be

all right on a loaded cart....”

Before the officer had finished speaking the orderly made the same

request on behalf of his master.

“Oh, yes, yes, yes!” said the count hastily. “I shall be very pleased,

very pleased. Vasílich, you’ll see to it. Just unload one or two carts.

Well, what of it... do what’s necessary...” said the count, muttering

some indefinite order.

But at the same moment an expression of warm gratitude on the officer’s

face had already sealed the order. The count looked around him. In the

yard, at the gates, at the window of the wings, wounded officers and

their orderlies were to be seen. They were all looking at the count and

moving toward the porch.

“Please step into the gallery, your excellency,” said the major-domo.

“What are your orders about the pictures?”

The count went into the house with him, repeating his order not to

refuse the wounded who asked for a lift.

“Well, never mind, some of the things can be unloaded,” he added in a

soft, confidential voice, as though afraid of being overheard.

At nine o’clock the countess woke up, and Matrëna Timoféevna, who had

been her lady’s maid before her marriage and now performed a sort of

chief gendarme’s duty for her, came to say that Madame Schoss was much

offended and the young ladies’ summer dresses could not be left behind.

On inquiry, the countess learned that Madame Schoss was offended because

her trunk had been taken down from its cart, and all the loads were

being uncorded and the luggage taken out of the carts to make room for

wounded men whom the count in the simplicity of his heart had ordered

that they should take with them. The countess sent for her husband.

“What is this, my dear? I hear that the luggage is being unloaded.”

“You know, love, I wanted to tell you... Countess dear... an officer

came to me to ask for a few carts for the wounded. After all, ours are

things that can be bought but think what being left behind means to

them!... Really now, in our own yard—we asked them in ourselves and

there are officers among them.... You know, I think, my dear... let them

be taken... where’s the hurry?”

The count spoke timidly, as he always did when talking of money matters.

The countess was accustomed to this tone as a precursor of news of

something detrimental to the children’s interests, such as the building

of a new gallery or conservatory, the inauguration of a private theater

or an orchestra. She was accustomed always to oppose anything announced

in that timid tone and considered it her duty to do so.

She assumed her dolefully submissive manner and said to her husband:

“Listen to me, Count, you have managed matters so that we are getting

nothing for the house, and now you wish to throw away all our—all the

children’s property! You said yourself that we have a hundred thousand

rubles’ worth of things in the house. I don’t consent, my dear, I don’t!

Do as you please! It’s the government’s business to look after the

wounded; they know that. Look at the Lopukhíns opposite, they cleared

out everything two days ago. That’s what other people do. It’s only

we who are such fools. If you have no pity on me, have some for the

children.”

Flourishing his arms in despair the count left the room without

replying.

“Papa, what are you doing that for?” asked Natásha, who had followed him

into her mother’s room.

“Nothing! What business is it of yours?” muttered the count angrily.

“But I heard,” said Natásha. “Why does Mamma object?”

“What business is it of yours?” cried the count.

Natásha stepped up to the window and pondered.

“Papa! Here’s Berg coming to see us,” said she, looking out of the

window.

CHAPTER XVI

Berg, the Rostóvs’ son-in-law, was already a colonel wearing the orders

of Vladímir and Anna, and he still filled the quiet and agreeable post

of assistant to the head of the staff of the assistant commander of the

first division of the Second Army.

On the first of September he had come to Moscow from the army.

He had nothing to do in Moscow, but he had noticed that everyone in the

army was asking for leave to visit Moscow and had something to do there.

So he considered it necessary to ask for leave of absence for family and

domestic reasons.

Berg drove up to his father-in-law’s house in his spruce little trap

with a pair of sleek roans, exactly like those of a certain prince. He

looked attentively at the carts in the yard and while going up to the

porch took out a clean pocket handkerchief and tied a knot in it.

From the anteroom Berg ran with smooth though impatient steps into the

drawing room, where he embraced the count, kissed the hands of Natásha

and Sónya, and hastened to inquire after “Mamma’s” health.

“Health, at a time like this?” said the count. “Come, tell us the news!

Is the army retreating or will there be another battle?”

“God Almighty alone can decide the fate of our fatherland, Papa,” said

Berg. “The army is burning with a spirit of heroism and the leaders, so

to say, have now assembled in council. No one knows what is coming. But

in general I can tell you, Papa, that such a heroic spirit, the truly

antique valor of the Russian army, which they—which it” (he corrected

himself) “has shown or displayed in the battle of the twenty-sixth—there

are no words worthy to do it justice! I tell you, Papa” (he smote

himself on the breast as a general he had heard speaking had done, but

Berg did it a trifle late for he should have struck his breast at the

words “Russian army”), “I tell you frankly that we, the commanders, far

from having to urge the men on or anything of that kind, could hardly

restrain those... those... yes, those exploits of antique valor,” he

went on rapidly. “General Barclay de Tolly risked his life everywhere at

the head of the troops, I can assure you. Our corps was stationed on a

hillside. You can imagine!”

And Berg related all that he remembered of the various tales he had

heard those days. Natásha watched him with an intent gaze that confused

him, as if she were trying to find in his face the answer to some

question.

“Altogether such heroism as was displayed by the Russian warriors

cannot be imagined or adequately praised!” said Berg, glancing round

at Natásha, and as if anxious to conciliate her, replying to her intent

look with a smile. “‘Russia is not in Moscow, she lives in the hearts of

her sons!’ Isn’t it so, Papa?” said he.

Just then the countess came in from the sitting room with a weary and

dissatisfied expression. Berg hurriedly jumped up, kissed her hand,

asked about her health, and, swaying his head from side to side to

express sympathy, remained standing beside her.

“Yes, Mamma, I tell you sincerely that these are hard and sad times for

every Russian. But why are you so anxious? You have still time to get

away....”

“I can’t think what the servants are about,” said the countess, turning

to her husband. “I have just been told that nothing is ready yet.

Somebody after all must see to things. One misses Mítenka at such times.

There won’t be any end to it.”

The count was about to say something, but evidently restrained himself.

He got up from his chair and went to the door.

At that moment Berg drew out his handkerchief as if to blow his nose

and, seeing the knot in it, pondered, shaking his head sadly and

significantly.

“And I have a great favor to ask of you, Papa,” said he.

“Hm...” said the count, and stopped.

“I was driving past Yusúpov’s house just now,” said Berg with a laugh,

“when the steward, a man I know, ran out and asked me whether I wouldn’t

buy something. I went in out of curiosity, you know, and there is a

small chiffonier and a dressing table. You know how dear Véra wanted a

chiffonier like that and how we had a dispute about it.” (At the mention

of the chiffonier and dressing table Berg involuntarily changed his tone

to one of pleasure at his admirable domestic arrangements.) “And it’s

such a beauty! It pulls out and has a secret English drawer, you know!

And dear Véra has long wanted one. I wish to give her a surprise, you

see. I saw so many of those peasant carts in your yard. Please let me

have one, I will pay the man well, and...”

The count frowned and coughed.

“Ask the countess, I don’t give orders.”

“If it’s inconvenient, please don’t,” said Berg. “Only I so wanted it,

for dear Véra’s sake.”

“Oh, go to the devil, all of you! To the devil, the devil, the devil...”

cried the old count. “My head’s in a whirl!”

And he left the room. The countess began to cry.

“Yes, Mamma! Yes, these are very hard times!” said Berg.

Natásha left the room with her father and, as if finding it difficult to

reach some decision, first followed him and then ran downstairs.

Pétya was in the porch, engaged in giving out weapons to the servants

who were to leave Moscow. The loaded carts were still standing in the

yard. Two of them had been uncorded and a wounded officer was climbing

into one of them helped by an orderly.

“Do you know what it’s about?” Pétya asked Natásha.

She understood that he meant what were their parents quarreling about.

She did not answer.

“It’s because Papa wanted to give up all the carts to the wounded,” said

Pétya. “Vasílich told me. I consider...”

“I consider,” Natásha suddenly almost shouted, turning her angry face to

Pétya, “I consider it so horrid, so abominable, so... I don’t know what.

Are we despicable Germans?”

Her throat quivered with convulsive sobs and, afraid of weakening and

letting the force of her anger run to waste, she turned and rushed

headlong up the stairs.

Berg was sitting beside the countess consoling her with the respectful

attention of a relative. The count, pipe in hand, was pacing up and down

the room, when Natásha, her face distorted by anger, burst in like a

tempest and approached her mother with rapid steps.

“It’s horrid! It’s abominable!” she screamed. “You can’t possibly have

ordered it!”

Berg and the countess looked at her, perplexed and frightened. The count

stood still at the window and listened.

“Mamma, it’s impossible: see what is going on in the yard!” she cried.

“They will be left!...”

“What’s the matter with you? Who are ‘they’? What do you want?”

“Why, the wounded! It’s impossible, Mamma. It’s monstrous!... No, Mamma

darling, it’s not the thing. Please forgive me, darling.... Mamma, what

does it matter what we take away? Only look what is going on in the

yard... Mamma!... It’s impossible!”

The count stood by the window and listened without turning round.

Suddenly he sniffed and put his face closer to the window.

The countess glanced at her daughter, saw her face full of shame for her

mother, saw her agitation, and understood why her husband did not turn

to look at her now, and she glanced round quite disconcerted.

“Oh, do as you like! Am I hindering anyone?” she said, not surrendering

at once.

“Mamma, darling, forgive me!”

But the countess pushed her daughter away and went up to her husband.

“My dear, you order what is right.... You know I don’t understand about

it,” said she, dropping her eyes shamefacedly.

“The eggs... the eggs are teaching the hen,” muttered the count through

tears of joy, and he embraced his wife who was glad to hide her look of

shame on his breast.

“Papa! Mamma! May I see to it? May I?...” asked Natásha. “We will still

take all the most necessary things.”