, though - where does this leave her and me in the eyes of society - and even the court?' he added, lowering his voice. 'She's down in Moscow and you're up here. Things have gone far enough, dear boy.' He drew him down by the arm. 'This is just a little misunderstanding, I'm sure you agree. Now why don't we sit down and write a letter, and she'll come up here, we can have things out and all the gossip will stop . . . Otherwise, my dear boy, to be quite candid, you might live to regret it.'
Prince Vasily gave Pierre a knowing look.
'I've learned from excellent sources that the Dowager Empress is taking a keen interest in this business. You know she is very graciously disposed towards Helene.'
Several times Pierre had been on the point of replying, but, for one thing, Prince Vasily kept interrupting and wouldn't let him, and in any case Pierre was worried about striking the wrong note of final refusal, determined as he was to deny his father-in-law. Beyond that, he couldn't get yesterday's masonic precept out of his head: 'Be thou kindly and courteous.' He blinked and blushed, got to his feet and flopped down again, trying to force himself to do what he found hardest - say something unpleasant to a man's face, something he wasn't expecting, whoever he might be. He had become so used to complying with that offhand tone of authority which Prince Vasily affected that even now he felt he might not be able to resist it. But at the same time he sensed that his whole future would depend on what he said now, determining whether he would continue down the old path or start along the new one that the masons had shown to be so attractive, and that he was convinced would lead him towards self-regeneration and a new life.
'Come on, dear boy,' said Prince Vasily, full of good humour, 'just say yes, I'll do the writing, and then we'll kill the fatted calf.' But before Prince Vasily could finish his little joke, Pierre's face lit up with a fury all too reminiscent of his father, and without looking him in the eye he breathed out in a soft whisper, 'Prince, I did not invite you here. Go away. Please go away!' He leapt up and opened the door for him. 'Go away!' he repeated, amazed at himself and much enjoying the embarrassment and dismay written all over Prince Vasily's face.
'What's wrong with you? Are you ill?'
'Go away!' came the quavering voice once more. And Prince Vasily had to go, without a word of explanation.
A week later Pierre said goodbye to his new masonic friends, leaving them large sums of money for alms, and set off for his estates. His new brethren had given him letters addressed to masons in Kiev and Odessa, and they promised to write to him and guide him in his new way of life.
CHAPTER 6
Pierre's duel with Dolokhov had been hushed up, and in spite of the Tsar's strong disapproval of duelling at that time no one paid a price for it, neither the duellists nor their seconds. Nevertheless the whole affair, confirmed by Pierre's break with his wife, was much talked of in society. As an illegitimate son Pierre had been looked on most patronizingly; as the most eligible bachelor in all Russia he had been cosseted and praised; but now after his marriage, when young ladies and their mothers had lost all hope in him, he had declined steeply in society's esteem, especially since he had neither the wit nor the will to curry public favour. He was blamed for the whole affair. Hadn't he been insanely jealous, given to the same fits of bloodthirsty rage as his father? And when Helene returned to Petersburg after Pierre's departure she was received on all sides not only warmly but with a touch of deference appropriate for someone in distress. Whenever the conversation touched upon her husband, Helene would assume a dignified expression which she had mastered with all her usual savoir faire, though she had never quite worked out what it was supposed to mean. It seemed to imply that she was determined to survive her ordeal without a word of complaint, and her husband was a cross sent by God for her to bear. Prince Vasily was more open on the subject. He would shrug when the conversation came round to Pierre, point to his forehead and say, 'A bit touched. I've said it all along.'
'Yes, I said it was coming,' Anna Pavlovna would say about Pierre. 'I said it at the time, and I was the first to do so.' (She had to insist on being the first.) 'I said he was a young madman ruined by the depravity of our times. I said it when everyone else was in ecstasies over him, and he'd only just come home from abroad. Don't you remember? At one of my soirees he passed himself off as some kind of Marat?6 And look how it's ended. I was against that marriage all along. I predicted everything that has happened.'
When she was free to do so Anna Pavlovna was still giving her soirees, soirees that only she could arrange, soirees which brought together what she described as 'the real cream of good society, the flower of Petersburg's intellectual elite'. Apart from their fine sense of social discrimination Anna Pavlovna's soirees were still famous for always parading some new and interesting personality and determining more clearly and unmistakably than anywhere else the exact political temperature of loyalist court society in Petersburg.
Towards the end of 1806, when all the grisly details were known - Napoleon's rout of the Prussian army at Jena and Auerstadt, and the surrender of almost all the Prussian strongholds - and just when our troops had entered Prussia at the start of our second campaign against Napoleon, Anna Pavlovna was giving one of these soirees. Tonight 'the real cream of good society' consisted of the enchanting if unhappy Helene, deserted by her husband; Mortemart; the fascinating Prince Hippolyte, just back from Vienna; two diplomats; the same old aunt; one young man described in that drawing-room as 'a man of much merit'; one newly appointed maid of honour and her mother, and several other persons of lesser standing.
Tonight's novelty, Anna Pavlovna's new offering to her guests for their delectation this evening, was Boris Drubetskoy, who had just arrived as a special messenger from the Prussian army, and it was in that same Prussian army that he served as adjutant to a personage of very high rank.
The political temperature taken at that soiree indicated the following:
'Whatever the European rulers and commanders may do by way of pandering to Bonaparte with the object of causing me, and us in general, maximum annoyance and mortification, our opinion in regard to Bonaparte cannot be changed. We shall never stop voicing our true opinion on this matter in the clearest terms, and all we have to say to the King of Prussia and everybody else is, "Hard luck. You got what you wanted, George Dandin."7 And that's all we have to say.'
This is what was shown by the political temperature taken at Anna Pavlovna's soiree. When Boris, soon to be served up to the guests, entered the drawing-room, almost everyone who mattered was there and the conversation had been steered by Anna Pavlovna towards our diplomatic relations with Austria and the prospects of an alliance with her.
Boris cut a dashing figure in his adjutant's elegant uniform as he strolled into the drawing-room, fresh-faced and rosy-cheeked but now fully matured as a man. He was duly led across to pay his respects to the aunt before joining the general circle.
Anna Pavlovna offered him a desiccated hand to kiss and then introduced him to a number of people he didn't know, adding a whispered description of them one by one. Prince Hippolyte Kuragin was 'a young man of great charm', M. Krug, charge d'affaires from Copenhagen, 'a serious intellectual', and the simplest description of all was applied to M. Shitov, a 'man of much merit' who was always referred to thus.
Thanks to a combination of his mother's exertions, his own tastes and the peculiarities of his canny nature, Boris had by this time succeeded in obtaining a very advantageous position in the service. In his capacity as an adjutant in the entourage of a high-ranking officer, he had been given a very important assignment in Prussia, from where he had just returned as a special messenger. He had mastered the unwritten code that had pleased him so much at Olmutz, which allows for a junior officer to outrank a general and says that what you need to succeed in the service is not effort, hard work, gallantry or perseverance, but simply the art of getting on well with people who have promotion and awards in their gift. He often marvelled at his own rapid advancement, and the fact that other people couldn't see how it was done. This discovery had altered everything beyond recognition - his whole manner of life, his relationships with old friends, all his plans for the future. Though not well off he would spend his last kopeck to look better turned out than anyone else. He would have deprived himself of many a pleasure sooner than permit himself to drive in an inferior carriage or be seen on the streets of Petersburg in an old uniform. He sought out and cultivated only people in higher positions who might be of use to him. He loved Petersburg and despised Moscow. The Rostov household and his childish passion for Natasha were now unpleasant memories, and he had never been back to their house since joining the army. Once admitted to Anna Pavlovna's drawing-room, a development which he saw as an important step up in the service, he knew immediately how to act and let Anna Pavlovna reap the benefits of any interest he might be able to offer, which left him free to observe every face in detail and take stock of any advantages or possibilities of intimacy with anyone there. He sat down in the place indicated, next to the lovely Helene, and opened his ears to the general run of conversation, which was conducted in French. The Danish charge d'affaires was holding forth.
' "Vienna considers the bases of the proposed treaty so unattainable,"' he said, ' "that they could not be secured even by a succession of the most brilliant victories, and she doubts whether we have any means at all of securing them." These are the actual words of the Vienna cabinet.'
'The doubt is flattering,' put in the serious intellectual with a subtle smile.
'We must make a distinction between the Vienna cabinet and the Emperor of Austria,' said Mortemart. 'The Emperor of Austria can never have thought up anything like this. It is the cabinet talking.'
'Alas, my dear vicomte,' said Anna Pavlovna, 'Europe will never be a sincere ally of ours.' (She slightly mispronounced the first syllable of the French word 'Europe' as if it were a nicety of pronunciation that she could allow herself to use in the presence of a native speaker.)
Then Anna Pavlovna steered the conversation round to the courage and determination of the Prussian King, so that Boris could be brought into action.
Boris was listening carefully to each speaker, but as he waited for his turn he managed to get in a few glances at the lovely Helene, who more than once smiled back into the handsome young adjutant's eyes.
It was perfectly natural when speaking of the Prussian situation for Anna Pavlovna to invite Boris to describe his journey to Glogau, and the situation of the Prussian army as seen by him. Boris took his time, using his immaculate French to recount many a fascinating detail about the armies, and the court, and studiously keeping any personal opinion out of the facts he was narrating. Boris held their interest for quite some time, which allowed Anna Pavlovna to feel that her novelty item had gone down very well with the guests. Keenest of all to show interest in Boris's account was Helene. She asked him a number of detailed questions about his trip and seemed particularly fascinated by the situation of the Prussian army. The moment he had finished she turned to him with her usual smile.
'You really must come and see me,' she said in a tone that implied that this was absolutely essential, for reasons he couldn't begin to understand. 'Tuesday, between eight and nine. It will give me great pleasure.'
Boris promised that he would, and was about to plunge into further conversation with her when Anna Pavlovna took him aside on the pretext that her aunt wished to hear him.
'You know her husband, don't you?' said Anna Pavlovna, closing her eyes and nodding lugubriously in the direction of Helene. 'Oh dear, such an unhappy woman and so exquisite! Don't mention him. Please don't mention his name. It's too much for her!'
CHAPTER 7
When Boris and Anna Pavlovna rejoined the main company, Prince Hippolyte was dominating the conversation. He was leaning forward in his armchair and had just said, 'The King of Prussia!' with a guffaw. Everyone turned towards him. 'The King of Prussia?' he asked with another laugh before settling back, relaxed and serious-looking, into the depths of his armchair. Anna Pavlovna waited for him to go on, but since Hippolyte seemed determined not to add anything, she began to talk about the heathen Bonaparte, who had stolen Frederick the Great's sword at Potsdam.
'Yes, it's Frederick the Great's sword that I . . .' she began, but Hippolyte interrupted her by saying, 'The King of Prussia . . .' But again, as soon as everyone turned to listen to him he apologized and said no more. Anna Pavlovna frowned. Mortemart, Hippolyte's friend, gave him a stern look and said, 'Come on, what's all this about the King of Prussia?'
Hippolyte laughed, and seemed embarrassed to do so.
'No, it's nothing. All I meant was . . .' (He had been trying all evening to get in a joke he had heard in Vienna).8 'All I meant was that we are wrong if we go to war for the King of Prussia!'
Boris gave a cautious smile that could be taken either way, as a sneer or approval of the joke depending on how it was received. Everyone laughed.
'Your joke is a very bad one! Very clever but unfair,' said Anna Pavlovna, wagging a tiny wrinkled finger at him. 'We are going to war for sound principles, not for the King of Prussia. Oh, this Prince Hippolyte, he's such a naughty boy!' she said.
The conversation, mainly about politics and the latest news, went on all evening without flagging. Later on it took an even livelier turn when a new subject came up: rewards bestowed by the Tsar.
'Listen, only last year what's-his-name was given a snuff-box with a portrait on it,' said the serious intellectual. 'Why shouldn't so-and-so get the same?'
'Excuse me, a snuff-box with the Emperor's portrait on it is a reward, not a distinction,' said a diplomat. 'More like a present.'
'There are precedents for this. I would cite Schwarzenberg.'
'It's impossible,' someone else retorted.
'Do you want to bet? Now, the Grand Ribbon - that's something different . . .'
When everyone stood up to go, Helene, who had had little to say all evening, turned to Boris and with a tender, knowing look exhorted him again to come and see her on Tuesday.
'It means a lot to me,' she said with a smile, looking round at Anna Pavlovna, and Anna Pavlovna, smiling her own lugubrious smile, the one she reserved for references to her royal patroness, spoke in support of Helene's wishes. Something that Boris had said that evening about the Prussian army seemed to have inspired Helene with a need to see him again. There was an implied promise that when he came on Tuesday she would explain what the need was. When Tuesday evening came and Boris entered Helene's magnificent salon, however, he was not given any clear explanation of the necessity for his visit. There were other people present and the countess did not have a lot to say to him. It was only as he was saying goodbye and kissing her hand that she looked at him with a strangely unsmiling face and surprised him by whispering, 'Come to dinner tomorrow . . . tomorrow evening . . . please . . . you must.'
During that stay in Petersburg Boris became an intimate in the house of Countess Bezukhov.
CHAPTER 8
The conflict was flaring up and the theatre of war was moving closer to the boundaries of Russia. On all sides people could be heard cursing that enemy of the human race, Bonaparte. Militiamen and recruits were being called up from the villages and all sorts of news emerged from the theatre of war, all of it false as usual and therefore variously interpreted.
The lives of old Prince Bolkonsky, Prince Andrey and Princess Marya had changed a good deal since 1805.
In 1806 the old prince had been appointed one of the eight commanders-in-chief then appointed to direct recruitment all over Russia. Despite his age and infirmity, which had become more apparent during the period when he thought his son had been killed, the old prince felt he had no right to refuse a post to which he had been appointed by the Emperor himself, and this new field of activity gave him fresh energy and strength. He was continually away from home touring the three provinces under his command. Punctilious to the last degree in the performance of his duties, strict to the point of cruelty with his subordinates, he went into every last detail of his work. Princess Marya had stopped studying mathematics with her father, and now when she went into her father's room in the morning if he happened to be at home she was accompanied by the wet-nurse and little Prince Nikolay (as his grandfather called him). Baby Nikolay lived with his wet-nurse and the old nurse Savishna in the little princess's rooms, and Princess Marya spent most of her time in the nursery doing her best to be a mother to her little nephew. Mademoiselle Bourienne appeared equally devoted to the child, and Princess Marya often deprived herself to let her friend enjoy cuddling 'their little angel', as she called the baby, and playing with him.
In a little side-chapel near to the altar of the church at Bald Hills stood the tomb of the little princess, and there they had set up a marble monument ordered from Italy which depicted an angel with wings outspread ready to fly up to heaven. The angel's top lip curled up a little in a half-smile, and one day Prince Andrey and Princess Marya admitted to each other coming out of the chapel that the angel's face bore a curious resemblance to the face of the little princess. Even stranger - and this was something Prince Andrey did not admit to his sister - was the expression the sculptor had happened to put on the angel's face, because Prince Andrey could read in it the same words of gentle reproach that he had once read on the face of his dead wife, 'Oh, why have you done this to me?'
Soon after his return the old prince had made over to Prince Andrey a large estate called Bogucharovo just over twenty-five miles away. Partly to escape painful memories associated with Bald Hills, partly because Prince Andrey did not always feel like putting up with his father's eccentric behaviour and partly out of a need for solitude, Prince Andrey made much use of Bogucharovo, where he set up home and began to spend most of his time.
After the Austerlitz campaign, Prince Andrey had firmly resolved never to go back to the army, and when war broke out and everyone was obliged to serve, he avoided active involvement by working u