struck him as really beautiful yesterday; today, even though he had only caught a glimpse of her, she had looked even prettier. She was a charming sixteen-year-old, obviously passionately in love with him - he didn't doubt this for a minute. 'Why shouldn't he love her and even get married to her one day? But not now,' mused Rostov. 'Just now there is so much else to do and enjoy!'
'Yes, they have thought it through,' he thought; 'I must keep my freedom.'
'Well, that's all right, then,' he said, 'we can talk about this later on. Oh, I'm so glad to be back with you!' he added. 'Now, you tell me, you've not been unfaithful to Boris, have you?'
'Don't be silly!' cried Natasha, laughing. 'I never think about him or anybody else. I'm not interested.'
'And what exactly do you mean by that?'
'What do I mean?' Natasha queried, and her face lit up with a happy smile. 'Have you seen Duport?'2
'No.'
'You haven't? Duport, the famous ballet-dancer? Oh, you won't understand then. This is me now . . .' Forming her arms into a circle, Natasha held out her skirt like a ballerina, tripped a few steps away, twirled round in a pirouette and then did a little entrechat, tapping her toes together in mid-air, coming down on the very tips of them and tripping forward a few steps.
'Look, I'm on points. Can't you see?' she said, but she couldn't stay up on her toes. 'That's me from now on! I'm never going to get married. I'm going to be a ballet-dancer. But don't tell anybody.'
Rostov roared with laughter so merrily that Denisov in his room felt a pang of jealousy, and Natasha couldn't help laughing too.
'No, but that's good, isn't it?' she kept asking.
'Of course it is. So you're not going to marry Boris?'
Natasha flared up.
'I'm not going to marry anybody! I'll tell him myself when I see him.'
'All right then,' said Rostov.
'But this is all stupid,' Natasha burbled on. 'Tell me about Denisov. Is he nice?' she asked.
'Yes, he is.'
'Well, off you go then. Go and get dressed . . . I'm scared of Denisov.'
'What do you mean scared?' asked Nikolay. 'No, Vaska's a good man.'
'Is that what you call him - Vaska? . . . Doesn't it sound funny! Is he very nice, then?'
'Yes, he is.'
'Get ready quickly and come and have some tea. We'll all be there together.'
And Natasha rose on to her points and tiptoed out of the room like a ballerina, but she was smiling the smile of a happy fifteen-year-old girl. In the drawing-room Rostov blushed when he came across Sonya, not knowing how to approach her. Yesterday they had kissed in that first joyful moment of meeting, but today he felt he couldn't do that. He could sense quizzical eyes upon him, his mother's and his sisters' - they were all wondering how he would behave with her. He kissed her hand and called her vous and Sonya. But their eyes when they met were on tu terms and they shared a tender kiss. Her eyes apologized for having dared to use Natasha as an emissary and remind him of his promise, and they thanked him for his love. His eyes thanked her for offering him his freedom, and told her that whatever happened he would never stop loving her, because it was impossible not to love her.
'It's odd, though - isn't it?' said Vera, choosing her moment when everyone was silent, 'odd that Sonya and Nikolay have gone all formal, like strangers.'
Vera's remark was true, like all her remarks, but like most of them it made everybody feel rather embarrassed - they all reddened, not just Sonya, Nikolay and Natasha, but even the countess, who was wary of her son's love for Sonya because it might threaten his prospects of a brilliant marriage, even she blushed like a little girl. Much to Rostov's surprise, when Denisov came into the drawing-room dressed in his new uniform, with his hair slicked down and nicely perfumed, he cut the same dashing figure as he had done on the battlefield, and behaved with the kind of sophistication and courtesy towards the ladies that Rostov had never expected to see in him.
CHAPTER 2
On his return to Moscow from the army Nikolay Rostov was received by his family as a hero and idol, the best of sons; by his relatives as a pleasant, charming and courteous young man; and by his acquintances as a handsome lieutenant of hussars, a good dancer and one of the most eligible bachelors in town.
All Moscow knew the Rostovs. The old count was not without money that year after remortgaging all of his estates, and this made it possible for dear little Nikolay, who kept his own racehorse and wore the very latest riding breeches - a new style as yet unseen in Moscow - and the most fashionable boots with very pointed toes and tiny silver spurs, to enjoy himself. It didn't take long for Rostov, once back, to resume the old ways and feel good. He now considered himself grown up, a real man. The despair he had once felt when he had failed a Divinity examination, the times he had borrowed money from Gavrilo to pay his sledge-drivers, those stolen kisses with Sonya - he looked back on it all as childish nonsense belonging to the infinitely distant past. Now look at him - a lieutenant of hussars with silver braid on his jacket and a St George's Cross, owner of a horse in training for a race and on familiar terms with well-known men of the track, elderly and respected persons. He had also taken up with a certain lady living on the boulevard whom he visited of an evening. He had led the mazurka at the Arkharovs' ball,3 discussed the war with Field-Marshal Kamensky, become a regular at the English Club and was on intimate terms with a forty-year-old colonel whom he had met through Denisov.
His passion for the Tsar had cooled a little in Moscow as time went by and he never saw him. But he never stopped talking about the Emperor and his love for him, always with an implication that he was holding something back, that his own feeling for the Emperor had something about it that was beyond most people, though he joined wholeheartedly in the general feeling of adoration for Emperor Alexander, who had been dubbed 'the angel incarnate' by Moscow society of the day.
During this brief interlude in Moscow before returning to the army, far from growing closer to Sonya, he broke with her. She was very pretty and charming, and it was obvious that she was passionately in love with him. But he was at that stage of a young man's life when he thinks he is too busy for that sort of thing and he is reluctant to tie himself down because freedom is so precious and necessary when there is so much to be done. Whenever he thought about Sonya during this stay in Moscow, he said to himself, 'Oh dear, there are plenty more fish in the sea, so many girls like her waiting somewhere for me to meet them. There's plenty of time for me to think about falling in love when I feel like it, but I'm too busy just now.' He also began to consider that female company somehow undermined his masculinity. Whenever he went to a ball, knowing he was going to be with the ladies, he did so with a great show of reluctance. The races, the English Club, nights out with Denisov and visits to a certain place - that was all different, that was just what a dashing young hussar was meant to do.
At the beginning of March old Count Ilya Rostov set himself the demanding task of arranging a dinner at the English Club in honour of Prince Bagration.
The count would parade up and down the big hall in his dressing-gown, giving instructions to the chief bursar and to Feoktist, the renowned head chef, concerning the asparagus, fresh cucumbers, strawberries, veal and fish on the menu for Prince Bagration's dinner. The count was both founder-member and doyen of the club. He had been entrusted with the organization of the Bagration banquet because it would have been difficult to find anyone more capable of organizing a dinner on such a grand and lavish scale, let alone anyone more able and willing to put in some money of his own, should the organization require it. The chef and the bursar listened to the count's orders with humorous indulgence written all over their faces, because they knew that he was the best man around for throwing a dinner costing thousands from which good money could be made on the side.
'Oh yes, croutons, we must have croutons in the turtle soup.'
'How many cold dishes - three, I suppose? . . .' queried the chef.
The count thought this over.
'Yes, there'll have to be three . . . Number one - mayonnaise,' he said, counting on a crooked finger.
'And did you decide on the large sturgeon?' asked the bursar.
'Yes, it can't be helped. We'll have to have them even if they won't bring the prices down. Good gracious, I nearly forgot. We must have another entree. My godfathers!' He clutched at his head. 'Who's going to get the flowers for me? Mitenka! Where's Mitenka! Oh, there you are. What I want you to do,' he said to the steward, who was quick to respond to his call, 'is get down to my country place as fast as you can,' (it was just outside the city) 'and tell Maksimka the gardener to organize some serf labour. Tell him to empty the conservatories and send everything here, packed in felt. Two hundred pots, and I want them here by Friday.'
After handing out various instructions right, left and centre, he was just about to go home to the countess for a rest when suddenly something else occurred to him, so he came back, summoning the chef and the bursar yet again and issuing further orders. Then in the doorway they heard the light tread and jingling spurs of a young man approaching, and in came Nikolay, looking all rosy and handsome, with his darkening moustache, visibly relaxed and healthier after his easy life in Moscow.
'Hello, my boy! My head's going round,' said the old gentleman, with a chagrined smile at his son. 'Come on, I need your help! We must get hold of some singers. We've got the band, but shouldn't we have some gypsy singers too? You military men love that sort of thing.'
'If you want my opinion, Papa, I think Prince Bagration made less fuss getting ready for Schongrabern than you're doing now,' said his son with a smile.
The old count pretended to be angry.
'It's easy to talk like that! You try!' The count turned to the chef, and he eyed the pair of them closely and affectionately with a shrewd but respectful look on his face.
'Ah, Feoktist, I don't know about young people today,' he said. 'They like laughing at us old fogeys!'
'I know, sir. They're very good at eating a nice dinner, but arranging it all and serving it up, they don't want to know about that!'
'True, true!' cried the count, and cheerfully grabbing his son by both hands, he shouted, 'I've got you now! Take the sledge and pair this minute and get over to Bezukhov. Tell him Count Ilya Rostov has sent for some of his strawberries and fresh pineapples. You won't find them anywhere else. If he's not in, go and see the princesses and give them the same message. Then go on to the Gaiety - the coachman, Ipatka, he knows the way - and get hold of Ilyushka, that gypsy who danced at Count Orlov's, you remember, in a white Cossack coat, and bring him here.'
'And a few gypsy girls too?' asked Nikolay, laughing.
'Now, now! . . .'
At this moment Anna Mikhaylovna padded into the room with that air of busy practicality allied to Christian meekness that never left her face. Although Anna Mikhaylovna ran across the count in his dressing-gown every day of the week, he was always embarrassed when she did and invariably apologized for his attire. He did so now.
'My dear count, don't mention it,' she said with a demure closing of the eyes. 'I'll go and see Bezukhov,' she said. 'Young Bezukhov has just come back, Count, and we're sure to get everything we need from his conservatories. I had to see him anyway. He has forwarded a letter from Boris. Thank God, Boris is now a staff-officer.'
The count was only too pleased to let Anna Mikhaylovna take over one of his responsibilities and he ordered the light carriage for her.
'Tell Bezukhov he must come. I'll put his name down. Is his wife with him?' he asked.
Anna Mikhaylovna rolled her eyes up, and her face was suffused with profound sorrow.
'Oh, my dear, he's not a happy man,' she said. 'If it's true what people say things are awful. Little did we think it would turn out like this when we were celebrating his good fortune! And he has such a noble, angelic nature, young Bezukhov! Yes, my heart goes out to him, and I shall do what I can to comfort him.'
'Why, what's it all about?' asked both the Rostovs, young and old together.
Anna Mikhaylovna heaved a deep sigh.
'It's Dolokhov, Marya Ivanovna's son,' she said in a confiding whisper. 'They say he has quite compromised her. The count looked after him, invited him into his house in Petersburg, and now it's come to this! . . . She came down here, and that madcap has followed her,' said Anna Mikhaylovna. Anxious to sympathize with Pierre, she unwittingly allowed her tone of voice and the ghost of a smile to imply equal sympathy for the man she was describing as a madcap. 'They do say Pierre is desperately unhappy.'
'Well, tell him to come to the club, anyway. It will all blow over. This is going to be some banquet!'
Just before two o'clock the next day, the 3rd of March, the two hundred and fifty members of the English Club and fifty of their guests were awaiting the arrival of their guest of honour, Prince Bagration, hero of the Austrian campaign.
When news came through of defeat at Austerlitz all Moscow was nonplussed. This was a time when the Russians had become so used to victories that news of a defeat was rejected as unbelievable by some people, while others said there must be some special reason behind such a strange event. At the English Club, a forum for anyone of substance, anyone in the know, anyone who carried any weight, during December, when the news began to filter through, there was virtually a conspiracy of silence - not a word was spoken about the war and the latest defeat. The men who dominated club conversation, such as Count Rostopchin, Prince Yury Dolgoruky, Valuyev, Count Markov and Prince Vyazemsky, kept away from the building but continued to meet in private circles in their various houses.
Those people in Moscow who couldn't think for themselves (and that included Count Rostov) were stuck for some time without anyone to lead them and without any clear views on how the war was going. Moscow society sensed that things were going wrong, but bad news was painful to dwell on, so they kept quiet. But it wasn't long before the bigwigs re-emerged like jurymen from a jury room to voice an opinion in the club, and a clear-cut stance was adopted. Causes had been discovered to account for such an incredible, unprecedented impossibility as defeat for the Russians; suddenly all was clear and the same version of events swept Moscow from one end to the other. The causes were as follows: Austrian treachery; poor logistical support; two treacherous foreigners, the Pole Przebyszewski and the Frenchman Langeron; Kutuzov's incompetence (mentioned only in whispers); the youth and inexperience of the Emperor, who had put his trust in stupid nonentities. But the army, the Russian army, everyone agreed, had been extraordinary, performing miracles of valour. The soldiers, officers and generals - they were heroes to a man. And the hero of heroes was Prince Bagration, who had distinguished himself at Schongrabern and during the retreat from Austerlitz, where he alone had kept his column in good order and had spent a whole day fighting off an enemy twice as strong. Bagration's rise to heroic status in Moscow had much to do with his being a non-Muscovite with no connections in the city. In his person they were paying tribute to the common Russian soldier who knew nothing about influence or intrigue and was still nostalgically associated with General Suvorov and the Italian campaign. Besides which, the honours bestowed on him were the most effective demonstration of their dislike and disapproval of Kutuzov.
'If there had been no Bagration, they would have had to invent him,' said one wit, Shinshin, parodying the words of Voltaire.
Kutuzov's name was never mentioned except to disparage him in malicious whispers by calling him a courtier who blew with the wind, or an old goat.
All Moscow was repeating Prince Dolgorukov's saying, 'If you keep playing with fire you're sure to get burnt' - his way of finding consolation for defeat in the memory of former victories. Equally popular was Rostopchin's assertion that Frenchmen have to be inspired to fight by fine phrases, Germans need to see a logical argument that it's more dangerous to run away than go forward, whereas all you have to do with a Russian soldier is tell him to hold back and say, 'Steady!' More and more stories emerged on every side, of individual acts of courage performed by our officers and men at Austerlitz. One man had saved a flag, another had killed five Frenchmen, another had done all the loading for five cannons. There was even a story told about Berg - by people who didn't know him - that when wounded in his right hand he had held his sword in his left hand and battled on. There were no stories about Bolkonsky. Only those close to him said how sorry they were that he had died so young, leaving a pregnant wife in the hands of his eccentric old father.
CHAPTER 3
On the 3rd of March every room in the English Club was abuzz with conversation and the members and guests, resplendent in uniforms or morning dress, some of them even with powdered hair and wearing Russian kaftans, were like busy bees in springtime, coming and going, sitting and standing, settling together and flying apart. Powdered and liveried footmen wearing stockings and buckled shoes stood at every doorway, anxiously watching for the slightest gesture from a guest or member so they could offer their services. Most of those present were old and distinguished people with beaming, confident faces, podgy fingers, powerful gestures and strong voices. Guests and members at this level of society sat in their own habitual places and came together in their own special little groups. A few of those present were occasional guests - young men for the most part, including Denisov, Rostov and Dolokhov, who had by now been re-commissioned in the Semyonovsky regiment. The younger men's faces, especially those of the officers, carried a look of ironic deference towards their elders which seemed to say to the members of that generation, 'We don't mind offering you respect and deference, but don't forget - the future belongs to us.'
Nesvitsky was there too, as a member of long standing. Pierre Bezukhov, who had obeyed instructions from his wife to let his hair grow long and abandon his spectacles, was wandering from room to room dressed comme il faut but looking depressed and gloomy. He was surrounded, as always, by an atmosphere of people kowtowing to his wealth, and he treated them with a kind of offhand and contemptuous sense of superiority that had now become second nature to him.
Althou