Over the meal the conversation turned to recent political developments, in particular Napoleon's seizure of the Duke of Oldenburg's lands, and the Russian note, hostile to Napoleon, that had been sent to every European court.2
'Bonaparte sets about Europe like a pirate-king on a captured ship,' said Rostopchin, rehearsing a little saying he had had occasion to use before. 'One can only wonder that the ruling sovereigns are so tolerant - or so easily dazzled. The Pope is next in line. Bonaparte is brazen enough to try and depose the head of the Catholic Church, and no one says a word. Our Emperor is the only one who has protested against the seizure of the Duke of Oldenburg's lands. And even he . . .' Count Rostopchin broke off at this point, sensing that he was on the very brink of prohibited criticism.
'He's been offered other bits of land instead of the Duchy of Oldenburg,' said the old prince. 'He shifts the dukes about anywhere he likes . . . It's like me sending my serfs from Bald Hills over to Bogucharovo or down to Ryazan.'
'The Duke of Oldenburg bears his misfortune with admirable strength of character and resignation,' said Boris in a polite contribution to the discussion. He could say this because on the way down from Petersburg he had had the honour of being presented to the duke. The old prince stared at the young man as if he wanted to take him up on something, but he thought better of it, considering him too young.
'I have read our protest against the Oldenburg affair, and I was surprised at the poor wording of it,' said Count Rostopchin with the offhand manner of one who can criticize something because he is closely familiar with it.
Pierre looked at Rostopchin in innocent amazement, at a loss to understand why he should be bothered about the poor wording of the note.
'Does it matter how the note is worded, Count,' he said, 'if the content is strong enough?'
'My dear fellow, with five hundred thousand men behind us, it should be easy to get the style right,' said Count Rostopchin. Pierre saw the point of Count Rostopchin's dissatisfaction with the wording of the note.
'Plenty of scribblers everywhere,' said the old prince. 'Up in Petersburg they do nothing else but write - not just notes, they keep on writing new laws. My Andrey up yonder, he's written a thick volume of new laws for Russia. Everybody's at it nowadays!' and he gave a weird kind of laugh.
The conversation ground to a halt, and then the old general drew attention to himself by clearing his throat.
'Did you hear what happened at the review in Petersburg? Marvellous performance by the new French ambassador!'
'Eh? Oh yes, I did hear something. Blurted something out in his Majesty's presence, didn't he?'
'His Majesty drew his attention to the grenadier division as they marched past,' the general persisted, 'and it seems the ambassador ignored him and had the gall to say "In France we don't bother with stupid things like that." The Emperor vouchsafed no response. At the next review his Majesty, so they say, gave him the cold shoulder.'
No one spoke. Here was a detail pertaining to the Tsar personally, but it was beyond criticism.
'The cheek of the man!' said the old prince. 'Do you know Metivier? I threw him out of the house today. He came here and they let him in, even though I asked for no one to be admitted,' said the old prince, glaring across at his daughter. And he went through the whole of his conversation with the French doctor and his reasons for believing Metivier was a spy. His reasons were very flimsy and obscure, but no one raised an objection.
After the main course champagne was served. The guests rose to congratulate the old prince. Princess Marya too went round to him. He treated her to a cold, spiteful glare, and offered her a clean-shaven, wrinkled cheek. There was a look on his face that said everything: their conversation that morning had not been forgotten, his decision still stood and only the presence of visitors prevented him from talking about it now.
When they proceeded to the drawing-room for coffee the old men sat down together. Prince Nikolay got more excited and began to expound his ideas on the impending war. He said that our wars against Bonaparte would always be lost while ever we went on seeking alliances with the Germans and meddling in European affairs that we couldn't get out of because of the Peace of Tilsit. 'We have no business fighting for or against Austria,' he went on. 'Our political interests are all to the east, and as far as Napoleon is concerned all we need is a well-armed force guarding the frontier and a strong policy, and he won't dare cross the Russian frontier again, as he did in 1807.'
'But how are we ever going to be able to fight the French, Prince!' said Count Rostopchin. 'How can we take arms against our teachers and our idols? Look at our young men, look at our ladies. The French are our gods, and Paris is our Paradise.'
He began to raise his voice so that everyone could hear.
'Our fashions are French, our ideas are French, our feelings are French! Look here, you sent Metivier packing because he's a Frenchman and a scoundrel, but our ladies go down on their knees and crawl after him. I was at a party yesterday evening, and, do you know, out of five ladies three were Catholics and they had a papal dispensation that allows them to do their embroidery on Sundays. And they sat there virtually naked, like signboards in a public bath-house - pardon me for saying so. Oh dear me, when you look at our young people today, Prince, you feel like taking Peter the Great's old cudgel3 out of the museum and cracking a few ribs with it. Do it the Russian way! Soon knock the nonsense out of them!'
Nobody spoke. The old prince looked across at Rostopchin with a grin on his face and shook his head approvingly.
'Well, goodbye, your Excellency. Keep well,' said Rostopchin, jumping to his feet with his usual alacrity and extending a hand to the prince.
'Goodbye, my dear fellow . . . Music to my ears. What a man - always worth listening to!' said the old prince, holding on to the hand and offering his cheek. The others rose when Rostopchin did.
CHAPTER 4
Sitting there in the drawing-room listening to the old men's chatter and tittle-tattle, Princess Marya couldn't understand a word of what she was hearing. The only thing she could think about was whether or not all the guests were aware of her father's hostility towards her. She hadn't even noticed that Drubetskoy - now on his third visit to their house - had been particularly attentive and amiable towards to her all through dinner.
Princess Marya turned to Pierre with a far-away, inquiring look in her eyes, he being the last to go, after the prince had departed, leaving them alone together in the drawing-room. He had come over to her, hat in hand, with a smiling face.
'Can I stay on a bit?' he said, depositing his great bulk into a low chair alongside Princess Marya.
'Please do,' she said, but her eyes asked him, 'Didn't you notice?'
Pierre was in a happy after-dinner mood. He looked straight ahead and smiled a sweet smile. 'Have you known that young man very long, Princess?' he said.
'Which one?'
'Drubetskoy.'
'No, not very long . . .'
'Do you like him?'
'Yes, he's a very nice young man. Why do you ask?' said Princess Marya, still thinking of her conversation that morning with her father.
'Because in my experience, when a young man comes from Petersburg to Moscow on leave, it is usually with the object of marrying an heiress.'
'Is that your experience?' said Princess Marya.
'Oh yes,' Pierre went on with a smile, 'and that young man is carrying on in such a way that wherever there are wealthy heiresses - that's where he is. I can read him like a book. At this moment he's wondering whether to mount an assault on you or Mademoiselle Julie Karagin. He's paying her a lot of attention.'
'Does he go there?'
'Yes, very often. And do you know the latest way of courting a woman?' said Pierre, beaming breezily, and obviously enjoying that jovial mood of ironical banter for which he had reproached himself so many times in his diary.
'No,' said Princess Marya.
'Well, nowadays, in order to please the girls in Moscow,
you have to be melancholic. He's very melancholic just now with Mademoiselle Karagin,' said Pierre.
'Is he really?' said Princess Marya, staring into Pierre's kindly face but constantly preoccupied with her own troubles. 'I'd feel a bit better,' she was thinking, 'if I could just confide in somebody and tell them how I feel. And Pierre's the one to confide in. He's so kind and generous. I think I'd feel better. He would tell me what to do.'
'Would you ever marry him?' asked Pierre.
'Oh heavens, Count! There are times when I'd marry anybody,' Princess Marya said with tears in her voice, much to her own surprise. 'Oh! It's so hard when you love someone close to you and you feel . . .' she went on in a tremulous voice, 'you can't do anything for him that won't cause trouble, and you know you can't do anything about it. There's only one thing to do - go away, but where can I go?'
'What's wrong? What's happened, princess?'
But Princess Marya, instead of going into explanations, burst into tears.
'I don't know what's wrong with me today. Please don't take any notice. Forget what I've said.'
Pierre's breezy attitude was gone. He questioned the princess anxiously, begging her to make a clean breast of it and tell him all her troubles, but she just kept on repeating the same things - she wanted him to forget what she had said, she couldn't remember what she had said, and the only worry she had was the one he knew about - Prince Andrey's marriage, which looked like setting father against son.
'Have you heard anything about the Rostovs?' she asked, changing the subject. 'I believe they're due here soon. I'm expecting Andrey, too, any day now. I should have liked them to have their first meeting here.'
'And how does he look on things now?' asked Pierre, meaning the old prince. Princess Marya shook her head. 'Well, it can't be helped,' she continued. 'There are only a few months left now before the year is up. And it can't go on like this. All I'd like to do is spare my brother the first few minutes. Oh, I do wish they'd come. I'm hoping she and I can get to know each other . . . You've known them quite some time, haven't you?' asked Princess Marya. 'Give me your honest opinion, hand on heart. What sort of a girl is she? What do you make of her? But please tell me the whole truth, because, well, Andrey's taking such a risk going against his father. I just wanted to know . . .'
A vague instinct told Pierre that all this beating about the bush and the repeated insistence on hearing the whole truth rather suggested that Princess Marya was anything but well-disposed towards her future sister-in-law, as if she wanted Pierre to disapprove of Prince Andrey's choice, but Pierre said what he felt rather than what he thought. 'I don't know how to answer your question,' he said, colouring up without knowing why. 'I really don't know what sort of girl she is. I can't analyse her. She's fascinating. I don't know why. There's nothing more to be said about her.'
Princess Marya sighed, and her face seemed to say, 'Yes, just as I expected, just what I was dreading.'
'Is she clever?' asked Princess Marya. Pierre thought about this.
'I don't think she is,' he said. 'And yet, you know, perhaps she could be. She doesn't think it's worthwhile being clever . . . No, no, she's just fascinating, that's all.'
Princess Marya shook her head again, showing further disapproval.
'Oh, I do want to like her! You can tell her that if you see her before I do.'
'I have heard they'll be here in a day or two,' said Pierre.
Princess Marya told him about her plan of action: as soon as the Rostovs arrived she was going to form an attachment with her future sister-in-law and do what she could to bring the old prince round and get him to understand her.
CHAPTER 5
Boris had not succeeded in finding a wealthy heiress to marry in Petersburg, and it was with this in mind that he had come down to Moscow. In Moscow Boris found himself hesitating between the two wealthiest heiresses - Julie Karagin and Princess Marya. Although Princess Marya, for all her plainness, seemed more attractive than Julie, somehow he felt awkward about paying court to her. At their last meeting on the old prince's name-day every time he had begun to talk sentimentally her responses had been all over the place and she had obviously not been listening to him.
Julie, by contrast, was only too eager to receive his attentions, though she showed it in her own special way. Julie was now twenty-seven. On the death of her two brothers she had become extremely wealthy. By now she had lost what looks she had ever had, though she believed herself to be no less attractive, in fact far prettier than ever before. She had been confirmed in this delusion first by becoming a wealthy heiress but also because as she grew older she became less dangerous to men, which enabled them to approach her more easily and take full advantage of her suppers, her soirees and the lively society that gathered about her without incurring any obligations. A man who, ten years ago, would have been reluctant to visit a house with a seventeen-year-old girl in it for fear of compromising her and tying himself down would now call in cheerfully every day, treating her not as a good match but as a sexless acquaintance.
That winter the Karagins' house was one of the most open and welcoming in Moscow. Besides all the invitation-only dinner-parties and soirees, people gathered in large numbers at the Karagins' every day of the week, especially men, who took supper at midnight and stayed on till three in the morning. Julie never missed anything to do with the ballroom, the theatre or strolling in public. She dressed in the latest fashion. But in spite of everything, Julie was a picture of disillusionment, telling everyone she had lost all faith in love or friendship, or any of the joys of the here and now, and she looked only for the consolation to come - up there. She had adopted the tone of a girl who has suffered a great disappointment, a girl who has lost her lover or been cruelly deceived by him. Although nothing remotely like that had ever happened to her, she was looked upon as if it had, and it was her own firm belief that she had suffered a great deal in life. This melancholy never stopped her enjoying herself and never stopped young men enjoying themselves in her company. Every visiting guest took great care to acknowledge the melancholic state of mind that afflicted the hostess, and then went straight off to enjoy himself in society chit-chat, dancing, clever games, or a session of bouts rimes, which was all the rage at the Karagins'. There were only one or two young men, and they included Boris, who dipped below the surface of Julie's melancholy, and with these young men she held longer conversations in more secluded places on the vanity of everything in this world, and they were also privy to her albums, page after page of doleful sketches, sayings and poetry.
Julie was so sweet with Boris, sympathizing with his premature alienation from life, offering him what consolation she could as a good friend, she having suffered so much in her own life, and she opened up one of her albums for him. Boris drew a little sketch of two trees, and wrote underneath, 'O rustic trees, your sombre branches shed upon me darkness and melancholy.'
On another page he did a drawing of a tomb and inscribed below it: Our strength and stay is death; death brings us peace tomorrow.
Ah me, no other power can shelter us from sorrow!
Julie thought this exquisite.
'There is something so delightful in a smile of melancholy,' she said to Boris, quoting verbatim from a book. 'It is a ray of light in the shadows, a subtle margin between sorrow and despair, demonstrating the possibility of consolation.'
Boris responded with the following verses in French: O poisoned fare by which my feeling soul is nourished,
Thou single stay on which my happiness has flourished,
Sweet melancholy, come to comfort and console,
To calm the storms of my darkness and isolation
And blend your hidden consolation
With these my tears I cannot control.
Julie would go to her harp and play Boris the most plangent nocturnes. Boris would read aloud to her, more than once breaking down half-way through Karamzin's romantic story, Poor Liza, choking with emotion and unable to continue. When they met in
society Julie and Boris would exchange lingering glances as though they were the only real people hailing each other in sympathy across a sea of indifference.
Anna Mikhaylovna, a frequent visitor, would play cards with Julie's mother and use every opportunity to gather all reliable information about Julie's expectations if she were to marry. (Her dowry would consist of two Penza estates and a large forested region near Nizhny Novgorod.) It was with deep emotion and complete resignation to the workings of Providence that Anna Mikhaylovna followed the exquisite sharing of sadness that united her son to the wealthy Julie.
'As charming and melancholic as ever, my dear sweet Julie,' she would say to the daughter. And to the mother, 'Boris tells me that here in your house he finds respite for his soul. He has been the victim of so many disappointments, and he's such a sensitive boy.'
'Oh, Boris dear, I have become so attached to Julie recently,' she would say to her son. 'I can't begin to tell you. But then, who could help loving her! A creature not of this world! Oh, Boris! Boris!' She would pause before going on. 'And I'm so sorry for her mamma,' she would then say. 'Only today she was showing me letters and accounts from Penza (they have a huge estate there), and, poor thing, she's all on her own. They all take advantage of her!'
Boris heard what his mother had to say with the ghost of a smile. He laughed lightly at her simple-minded scheming, but he did listen closely when she spoke about the Penza and Nizhny Novgorod estates, and sometimes followed up with penetrating questions.
Julie had long been expecting a proposal from her melancholic admirer, and was fully prepared to accept it, but Boris held back, secretly put off by the girl herself, her desperate desire to get married, her affectation and a horrible feeling that he would be giving up any last chance of true love. His leave was nearly up. Every day God sent, and sometimes several days at a time, he spent at the Karagins', and every single day Boris thought things over and decided that tomorrow was the day for him to propose. But when he was with Julie, watching her red face and chin, almost permanently powdered over, her watery eyes and that facial expression signalling instant readiness to switch from melancholy to artificial rapture inspired by conjugal bliss, Boris couldn't bring himself to say the word, even though he had long imagined himself owning those big estates, and had spent their profits several times over. Julie could see Boris hesitating, and sometimes it actually occurred to her that she might not be exactly to his taste, but feminine vanity soon came to her rescue, reassuring her that love must have made him go all shy. Even so, her melancholy was rapidly turning into exasperation, and shortly before the end of Boris's leave she thought of a positive plan of action. Just before Boris was due to go back who should appear in Moscow, and needless to say also in the Karagins' drawing-room, but Anatole Kuragin, whereupon Julie suddenly cast aside all melancholy, came over all cheerful and made a great fuss of the newcomer.