ve behaved so naturally or been so direct and familiar in his relations with everyone, whether higher or lower in rank. There was something that always drew him towards men richer or more powerful than himself, and he had the rare gift of knowing precisely when he could and should make use of such persons.
Pierre's unexpected elevation to wealth and the title of Count Bezukhov, coming as it did after a life of solitude and easy-going pleasure, now made him feel so hemmed in and preoccupied that the only time he could be alone with his thoughts was in bed. He had to sign papers, put in official appearances with no clear idea of what he was doing, consult his chief steward, go out to his estate near Moscow and receive a host of people who had never wanted to know of his existence before but would have been hurt and offended now if he had refused to see them. These different people - businessmen, relatives, acquaintances - showed the same friendliness and affection to the young heir; every last one of them, ostentatiously and beyond all doubt, was convinced of Pierre's noble qualities. He kept hearing people say, 'With your remarkably kind disposition . . .' or, 'With a heart as good as yours. . .' or, 'Count, you are so pure-minded . . .' or, 'If only he was as clever as you . . .' and so on, until he came to believe genuinely in his own exceptional kindness and his own exceptional intelligence, especially since at the bottom of his heart he had always thought of himself as both very kind-hearted and very intelligent. Even people who had once been nasty to him and sometimes openly hostile now showed him warmth and affection. The eldest princess, she of the long waist and doll-like plastered-down hair, so bad-tempered before, had gone to see Pierre in his room after the funeral. With eyes downcast and many a blush she told him how greatly she regretted the misunderstandings that had arisen between them; now she felt she had no right to ask for anything except only his permission, following the blow that had befallen her, to stay on for a few weeks in the house she had always been so fond of, and where she had sacrificed so much. At these words she lost control and lapsed into tears. Deeply moved by the change that had come over such a statue-like person, Pierre took the princess by the hand and apologized to her, though he had no idea for what. From that day on the princess began knitting a striped scarf for Pierre, and she adopted a completely different attitude towards him.
'Do this for her sake, dear boy. She had a lot to put up with from the late count,' Prince Vasily said to him, handing him a document to sign for the princess's benefit. Prince Vasily had decided it might be worth throwing the poor princess a bone to chew on (a draft for thirty thousand) so that it wouldn't occur to her to open her mouth about Prince Vasily's part in the business of the inlaid portfolio. Pierre signed, and from then on the princess became even sweeter. Her younger sisters were also very nice to him, especially the youngest, the pretty one with the mole, who often embarrassed Pierre with her smiles and her own embarrassment at the sight of him.
It seemed so natural to Pierre that he should be liked by one and all, and it would have seemed so unnatural if anyone had not liked him, that he couldn't help believing in the sincerity of everyone around him. In any case, he had no time to wonder about their sincerity or insincerity. There was no time for anything; he wandered about in a permanent state of mild and agreeable intoxication. There he was, apparently the central figure in an important social system, a man from whom something was always expected, someone who, if he failed to do this or that, would let people down and disappoint them; whereas if he did do this and that, all would be well - so he did do what was demanded of him, though any happy outcomes belonged to the future.
In these early days it was Prince Vasily more than anyone who took charge of Pierre's affairs, and of Pierre himself. Since the death of old Count Bezukhov he had kept a firm hold on Pierre. Prince Vasily went about with the air of a man weighed down by affairs, careworn and weary, but ultimately too sensitive to abandon this helpless youth, heir to such a huge fortune and the son of a friend to boot, by leaving him to an uncertain destiny and open to exploitation. During those few days spent in Moscow following the death of Count Bezukhov, he had summoned Pierre, or gone to see him, and had prescribed for him everything that had to be done in tones of such weariness and authority that he seemed to be saying by way of a refrain, 'You're aware that I'm a very busy man and my concern for you is based on charity alone, and in any case I'm sure you appreciate that what I am proposing is the only thing to do.'
'Well, my dear boy, tomorrow we're off at last,' he said one day, closing his eyes and gently squeezing Pierre's elbow, seeming to imply that what he was saying had been settled long before, and couldn't have been settled in any other way.
'Yes, we're off tomorrow, and I can give you a place in my coach. I'm very glad. All our important business is settled here. And I really should have been back long ago. Look what I've just received from the chancellor. I applied on your behalf and you've been placed on the diplomatic list and made a gentleman of the bedchamber. Now a career in diplomacy lies open to you.'
His tone of weariness combined with authority was having its usual effect, but Pierre had spent so long worrying about his future career that he now made as if to protest. But Prince Vasily cut across him by cooing away in a deep bass that precluded any possibility of interruption, a device that he had recourse to whenever he needed to be at his most persuasive.
'No, dear boy, I've done this for myself, for my own conscience. Please don't thank me. No one has ever complained of being too much loved. In any case you're quite free; you could give it all up tomorrow. You'll see for yourself in Petersburg. And it's high time you got away from all these painful memories.' Prince Vasily sighed. 'So that's it, my dear boy. By the way, my valet can go in your coach. Oh - I almost forgot,' he added. 'I'm sure you know, dear boy, your father owed me a little something, so I'll take it out of what has come in from the Ryazan estate. It's nothing you need to bother about. We can sort the details out later.'
What had 'come in from the Ryazan estate' were several thousand roubles paid in lieu of service by Pierre's peasants; these Prince Vasily now kept for himself.
Petersburg was just like Moscow; Pierre was enveloped by the same atmosphere of tenderness and affection. He couldn't resign from his post, or rather the title (for he did nothing) that Prince Vasily had obtained for him, and as for his acquaintances, invitations and social obligations, these were so numerous that Pierre felt even more bewildered, rushed off his feet and expectant of some future benefit which was always on the way but never realized.
Not many of his former bachelor acquaintances were left in the city. The guards were away on active service, Dolokhov had been reduced to the ranks, Anatole was also doing army service somewhere in the provinces and Prince Andrey was abroad; so Pierre had no opportunity of nights out like the ones he had loved before, nor could he bare his soul in intimate conversation with a respected older friend. When he was not out at dinners and balls he spent most of his time at Prince Vasily's in the company of his wife, the fat princess, and their beautiful daughter, Helene.
Anna Pavlovna Scherer was no different from anyone else in showing Pierre how much society's attitude towards him had changed.
Formerly, when Pierre had been with Anna Pavlovna he had always felt that whatever he was saying sounded unseemly, tactless or out of place; phrases that had seemed so clever as he formed them in his mind always came out as something stupid, whereas Hippolyte's silliest remarks were taken as clever and pleasing. Now every word he uttered was deemed delightful. Anna Pavlovna may not have actually said so, but he could see she was longing to, and it was only respect for his modesty that kept her from doing so.
At the beginning of the winter of 1805-6, Pierre received one of Anna Pavlovna's customary pink invitation-cards, to which had been added: 'Here you will find the lovely Helene, of whom one can never see enough.'
As he read this Pierre felt for the first time that a kind of bond had formed between him and Helene, which people were now noticing, and this idea both alarmed him, because it seemed like a growing obligation that he could not fulfil, and yet pleased him as an amusing prospect.
Anna Pavlovna's soiree was just like the previous one, except that the special attraction provided for her guests was not Mortemart, but a diplomat fresh back from Berlin with the latest details of Emperor Alexander's visit to Potsdam,2 and of the indissoluble alliance sworn between two distinguished friends to uphold the cause of righteousness against an enemy of the human race. Pierre was welcomed by Anna Pavlovna with just a touch of sadness at the recent loss sustained by the young man on the death of old Count Bezukhov. (Everyone seemed to think that Pierre needed constant assurance that he was much distressed by the death of a father he had hardly known.) Her sadness was much like the even more exalted emotion that she always displayed at any reference to her most august Majesty the Empress Maria Fyodorovna. Pierre felt flattered by it. Anna Pavlovna had used all her old skill to set up different circles in her drawing-room. One large group, which included Prince Vasily and some generals, had the benefit of the diplomat. Another group was positioned near the tea table. Pierre made a move to join the first group, but Anna Pavlovna - who was behaving like an exasperated general on the battlefield thinking up thousands of unachievable bright ideas - on seeing Pierre, fingered his coat sleeve and said, 'Wait, I have plans for you for this evening.'
She looked round at Helene and beamed at her.
'My dear Helene, please show some charity to my poor aunt, who simply adores you. Go and keep her company just for ten minutes. And so that you don't find it too tiresome, here's our dear count who will surely not refuse to follow you.'
The lovely Helene moved off towards the old aunt, but Anna Pavlovna kept Pierre back at her side, with the air of somebody who has one last, essential arrangement to put in place.
'She is gorgeous, isn't she?' she said to Pierre, nodding after the majestic beauty as she floated away from them. 'Look how she carries herself! For such a young girl, what sensitivity, what magnificent deportment! It comes from the heart, you know. It will be a happy man who wins her. A man with no social skills would occupy a brilliant place in society beside her, don't you think? I just wanted to know what you think.' And she let him go.
Pierre was speaking sincerely when he gave a positive response to her question about Helene's perfect deportment. If he ever gave a thought to Helene it was to recall her beauty and that extraordinary way she had of maintaining an aloof and dignified silence in society.
The old aunt welcomed the two young people into her corner but seemed less eager to express her adoration of Helene than to demonstrate her fear of Anna Pavlovna. She kept glancing at her niece as if wondering what she was supposed to do with them. Before moving on, Anna Pavlovna again fingered Pierre's sleeve, and said: 'I hope you will never again say that my parties are boring,' and she glanced at Helene.
Helene smiled back in a way that suggested she knew it was impossible for her to be looked at without being admired. The old aunt coughed, swallowed and said in French that she was very glad to see Helene; then she turned to Pierre with the same greeting and the same set facial expression. In the middle of a desultory and tedious conversation Helene looked round at Pierre and treated him to one of the bright and beautiful smiles which everyone received from her. Pierre was so used to it, this smile that meant so little to him, that he virtually ignored it. The aunt was speaking at that moment about a collection of snuff-boxes which had belonged to old Count Bezukhov, and she showed them her own little box. Princess Helene asked if she could look at the portrait of the aunt's husband on the snuff-box lid.
'I think it's by Vinesse,' said Pierre, mentioning a celebrated miniaturist as he bent forward over the table to take the snuff-box, though he was actually eavesdropping on the conversation at the other table. He half rose, meaning to go over, but the aunt passed him the snuff-box behind Helene's back. This caused Helene to thrust forward to make room, and she looked round with another smile. She was wearing a fashionable evening dress cut very low at the front and back. Her bosom, which had always seemed like marble to Pierre, was so close to his short-sighted eyes that he could hardly miss the vibrant delights of her neck and shoulders, and so near his lips that he was only a few inches away from kissing it all. He could sense the warmth of her body, the aroma of her perfume, and he could hear the slight creaking of her corset as she breathed. What he saw was not marble beauty at one with her gown, what he saw and sensed was the sheer delight of her body, veiled from him only by her clothes. And once he had seen this, he could never again see it otherwise, just as we cannot reconstruct an illusion once it has been explained.
She glanced round, stared him in the face, her dark eyes flashing, and gave him her smile.
'So it's taken you all this time to notice how lovely I am?' Helene seemed to be saying. 'How could you not see that I'm a woman? Yes, a woman, who might belong to anyone - yes, even to you,' her eyes said. At that moment Pierre suddenly felt that Helene not only could, but must, become his wife - it had to be so.
He knew it at that moment as surely as he would have done standing beside her under the wedding crown. How it would happen and when, he didn't know. Neither did he know whether or not it would turn out to be a good thing - he had an inkling that it wouldn't - but he did know it was going to happen.
Pierre looked down, and then up again, trying to reinstate her as the remote, inaccessible beauty that he had seen in her every day until then, but it couldn't be done. It couldn't be done any more than a man who has been staring through a fog at a patch of tall steppe grass thinking it was a tree could ever see a tree in it again once he has recognized it as a patch of grass. She was terribly close to him. Now she had him in her power. And now between him and her there were no barriers of any kind, other than those of his own volition.
'Well, I'll leave you in your little corner,' came Anna Pavlovna's voice. 'I can see you like it here.' And Pierre, coming round with a shock and wondering whether he'd done something badly wrong, blushed as he looked around. He seemed to think that everyone knew as well as he what had happened to him.
Shortly afterwards, when he went over to the larger group, Anna Pavlovna said to him, 'They say you're making improvements to your house in Petersburg.' This was true. The architect had told him it had to be done, and Pierre, without knowing why, was having his immense house done up.
'That's a good idea, but don't move away from Prince Vasily's. It is a good thing to have a friend like the prince,' she said, smiling at Prince Vasily. 'I know a thing or two about that, don't I? And you're still very young. You need advice. Now don't get cross with me for taking advantage of an old woman's privileges.'
She paused, as women do, expecting some comment after mentioning their age. 'Now if you were to get married, it would be different.' And she conjoined them in a single glance. Pierre did not look at Helene, nor she at him. But she was still terribly close.
He mumbled something and blushed.
When Pierre got home it took a long time to get to sleep. He kept going over what had happened to him. What exactly had happened? Nothing. He had simply become aware that a woman he had known since childhood of whom he used to say quite casually, 'Yes, she is pretty,' when people had told him she was a real beauty - he had become aware that this woman might now be his.
'But she's stupid. I used to say that myself - she is stupid,' he thought. 'This can't be love. No, there's something disgusting about the way she has aroused me - it's forbidden fruit. Somebody told me that her brother, Anatole, was in love with her, and she with him, and there was a bit of a scandal, and that's why Anatole was sent away. Hippolyte's another brother . . . And her father is Prince Vasily . . . It's not good,' he mused. And just as he was thinking this through (the thoughts never came to any conclusion), he caught himself smiling and became conscious of another pattern of thoughts bubbling up through the earlier ones - that he was simultaneously dwelling on her uselessness and dreaming of how she would become his wife, how she might fall in love with him, how she might change into someone quite different, and perhaps everything he had thought and heard about her might be untrue. And again he saw her, not as some daughter born to Prince Vasily - no, he saw her whole body thinly veiled by a grey dress. 'No, but, why did I never think of that before?' And again he told himself that it was impossible for there to be anything disgusting or, as he had thought, unnatural or dishonourable, in this marriage. He remembered her earlier words and glances, and the words and glances from other people who had seen them together. He remembered the words and glances of Anna Pavlovna, when she had spoken about his house, and hundreds of hints like that from Prince Vasily and other people, and he horrified himself by wondering whether one way or another he might already have tied himself into something that was obviously not a good thing to be involved in, something he ought not to do. But the moment he began to find a way of expressing this to himself, from another part of his mind she emerged again, her image floating up in all its feminine loveliness.
CHAPTER 2
In November 1805 Prince Vasily was due to set off on a tour of inspection taking him through four provinces. He had arranged this assignment for two reasons: first, to visit his run-down estates and then to pick up his son, Anatole, from where his regiment was stationed and take him on a visit to old Prince Nikolay Bolkonsky, with a view to marrying him to the rich old man's daughter. But before he could leave and deal with these new matters, Prince Vasily wanted to settle things with Pierre, who for some days now had certainly been hanging about the house (Prince Vasily's house where he was still staying), mooning around stupidly and looking all excited when Helene was there, as befits a young man in love, but he had still not made a proposal.
'This is fine, but it's got to be settled,' Prince Vasily said to himself one morning, with a sad sigh, feeling that Pierre, who owed him so much ('but let that pass'), was not behaving too well in this matter. 'Ah, the folly of youth . . . still, God bless him,' th