fuss or struggle.
On one of his estates three hundred serfs had been given the status of free farm-labourers (one of the first examples of this in Russia), and on the others forced labour had been replaced by the payment of rent. At Bogucharovo he was paying for a trained midwife to look after the peasant-women in childbirth, and a salaried priest was teaching the children of the peasants and house servants how to read and write. Prince Andrey spent half his time at Bald Hills with his father and his son, who was still being looked after by nurses. The other half he spent 'cloistered at Bogucharovo', as his father put it. For all the indifference to current events that he had shown to Pierre, he followed them closely, receiving a constant stream of books, and he was amazed to discover that when people came to see him or his father fresh from Petersburg, the very maelstrom of life, they were all miles behind him in their awareness of recent political developments at home and abroad, even though he had never left the countryside.
When not engaged in the management of his estates or voracious reading over a wide area, Prince Andrey had used the time to do a searching study of our last two military debacles, and had also drafted a series of reforms in our service rules and regulations.
In the spring of 1808 Prince Andrey set off to visit the Ryazan estates, which now belonged to his son, with him as trustee.
Warmed by the spring sunshine, he drove along in his carriage, glancing at the first shoots of grass, the first leaves on the birch-trees and the first spring clouds looking fluffy and white as they floated through the bright blue sky. His mind was blank as he looked out on both sides, a picture of cheery unconcern.
They went over the crossing where he and Pierre had had their conversation a year before. They drove through a muddy village, past threshing floors and green winter crops, down and over a bridge still packed with snow, back uphill along a clay road gouged into hollows by the rain, past strips of stubble and a few bushes turning green, and then at last they drove into a wood with birch-trees on either side of the road. In the wood there was no wind and it was almost hot. The birches stood there with no sign of movement, spangled with their sticky green leaves, while lilac-coloured flowers and the first shoots of new green grass pushed up and peeped out from under last year's leaves. A scattering of baby firs stood out as coarse evergreens among the birches - a nasty reminder of winter. The horses neighed as they entered the forest, visibly perspiring.
Andrey's servant, Pyotr, said something to the coachman. He agreed, but his sympathy didn't seem to satisfy Pyotr, who turned on the box to face his master.
'Nice day, sir!' he said with a respectful smile.
'You what?'
'It's nice, isn't it, sir?'
'What is he talking about? . . . Oh, he must mean the spring,' thought Prince Andrey, glancing around. 'That's it. Everything's turning green . . . as early as this! The birch-trees, the wild cherries . . . even the alders are just on the turn. But not the oak, no sign there. Look, there's one.'
There at the roadside stood an oak-tree. It must have been ten times older than the birch-trees that made up the wood, ten times as thick and twice the height of any of them. That tree was enormous - it would have taken two men to join hands round its girth - with branches broken off it ages ago and its old, cracked bark all scarred and broken. There is stood among the beaming birches, with its great gnarled hands and fingers sprawling out awkwardly and unevenly, a truculent, sneering monster. He alone refused to submit to the charms of spring; he would not countenance either springtime or sunshine.
'Springtime, love and happiness!' this tree seemed to be saying. 'Aren't you fed up with it all, this stupid, senseless sham? It never changes, the same old trick! There is no springtime, sunshine or happiness. Just look at those dead fir-trees sitting there where they've been brought down, always the same every one of them, and look at me sticking out broken, peeling fingers wherever they care to grow - out of my back, out of my sides. That's how they've grown, and that's how I am, and I don't believe in any of your hopes and shams.'
Prince Andrey drove on through the forest, glancing back several times at the oak-tree as if he was expecting it to do something. Flowers and grass grew underneath it, but it just stood there among them, an ugly, awkward thing, stock-still and scowling.
'He's right, that tree, a thousand times right,' mused the prince. 'Other people, young people, they can keep that sham going, but he and I know what life is. Our lives are over and done with!' The tree had stirred up a host of new ideas in the prince's soul which held no hope, though their bitterness was sweet. On the journey there he seemed to have reconsidered his entire life and come right back to his first conclusion, which was as reassuring as it was devoid of hope - that he needn't bother with anything new, all he had to do was live out his life without doing any harm, free from worry and any kind of desire.
CHAPTER 2
As trustee of his son's Ryazan estates Prince Andrey needed to have a meeting with the local marshal of the nobility. Count Ilya Rostov was the marshal in question, and in mid-May Prince Andrey went to see him.
Spring was now at its hottest. The woodland was clothed in green, and everywhere was dusty and so hot that if you drove past any water you felt like going in for a swim.
Prince Andrey was in a miserable mood as he drove up the avenue towards the Rostovs' house at Otradnoye, mentally running through the bits of business that he would want to raise with the marshal. Through the trees on the right he heard happy female voices, and then he watched as a small crowd of young girls ran across his path. Out in front, dashing towards the coach came a black-haired, black-eyed girl, quite remarkably slender in her yellow print dress, with a white handkerchief on her head and stray locks of loose hair tumbling out of it. She was calling out, but once she saw a stranger she ran back laughing, without a glance in his direction.
For some reason Prince Andrey felt a sudden pang. It was such a lovely day, with sunshine and happiness on every hand, and here was this pretty slip of a girl who was oblivious to his existence and cared even less about it, and she was so pleased and happy with her own special life - a silly life, he had no doubt, but one that was merry and happy. 'What is she so glad about? What's in her mind? Not army regulations. Not Ryazan peasants and the rent they'll have to pay. What is in her mind, and why is she so happy?' Prince Andrey couldn't help wondering.
This year (1809) Count Ilya Rostov was living at Otradnoye exactly as he had always done, which meant entertaining virtually the whole province with hunting parties, theatricals, dinners and music. Always delighted to see a new guest, he gave Prince Andrey a warm welcome and almost forced him to stay the night.
Prince Andrey was bored during the day, left to the ministrations of an elderly host and hostess and some of the more notable guests amid the throng that filled the count's house in honour of an impending name-day. Several times Bolkonsky glanced across at Natasha, who never stopped laughing and enjoying herself with all the younger members of the company, and every time he wondered, 'What's in her mind? What is it that she is so glad about?'
That night, alone in a new place, he couldn't get to sleep. He read for a while, put out his candle and then lit it again. It was hot in his bedroom with the shutters closed on the inside. He felt angry with this stupid old man (his description of Count Rostov) who had detained him by claiming that the documents they needed were still in town, and he was annoyed with himself for having stayed.
Prince Andrey got out of bed and went over to open the window. The moment he pulled the shutters back, moonlight poured into the room as if it had been standing outside for ages waiting for this opportunity. He opened the window. The night was cool, still and bright. Just outside the window stood a row of pollarded trees, black on one side, gleaming with silver on the other. Beneath them there was a rambling kind of vegetation with lush, damp leaves and stems dappled with silver. Further away, beyond the silhouetted trees, some sort of sloping roof glistening with dew, and away to the right stood the rambling mass of a tall tree, with brilliant-white trunk and branches, and there above it was the moon, almost full, in a clear, almost starless spring sky. Prince Andrey leant out with his elbows on the window-ledge and fixed his gaze on that sky.
His room was on the middle floor; there were people in the room above, and they too were still awake. He could hear girls talking.
'Just once more,' said a female voice overhead, and Prince Andrey had no difficulty in recognizing it.
'Oh, when are you coming to bed?' came another voice.
'I'm not. I can't sleep. It's no use. Come on. Last time.'
The two female voices sang a musical line, the finale of some duet.
'Isn't it lovely! Anyway, it's time to go to sleep. Come on, that's it.'
'Oh, you go to sleep. I can't,' responded the first voice, now coming from somewhere nearer to the window. She must have been leaning right out because he could hear her dress rustling and even the sound of her breathing. Silence had descended and everything froze in the stillness of the moonlight and the shadows. Prince Andrey hardly dared to move for fear of giving himself away - not that he had intended any of this.
'Sonya! Sonya!' came the first voice again. 'How can you sleep? Come over here and look at this - it's gorgeous! Oh, it's just gorgeous! Sonya, wake up!' she said, almost with tears in her voice. 'This is the most gorgeous night there's ever been.'
Sonya made some grudging response.
'Oh, please come and look at this moon! . . . It's gorgeous! Come on. Darling, sweetheart, please come here. There you are, look at that! Hey, if you rock back on your heels like this - watch - and squeeze your knees together - hold them tight, as tight as you can - one big squeeze and you could - fly away! . . . Like this - look!'
'Mind you don't fall out.'
He heard scuffling noises followed by Sonya's voice. She was not pleased. 'Come on, it's past one o'clock.'
'Oh, you are a spoilsport. Go on then, you go to bed.'
Silence again, but Prince Andrey knew she was still sitting there. Now and then he could still hear a soft rustling, and the occasional sigh.
'Oh God! Oh God! What's it all about?' she cried suddenly. 'Oh well, I suppose I'd better go to bed,' and the window banged as it closed.
'Oblivious to my existence!' Prince Andrey had thought while he was listening to her talk, inexplicably half-hoping and dreading that she might say something about him. 'It's her again! It almost seems planned!' he thought. And he was surprised to feel his spirit overwhelmed by a sudden surge of ideas and hopes that belonged to youth and clashed with his whole way of life, so much so that his state of mind was beyond all comprehension, and he went straight to bed and fell asleep.
CHAPTER 3
Next morning Prince Andrey set off home before the ladies were up, though not without taking leave of the count.
It was early June when, on his return journey, he drove once again into the birch-wood where the gnarled oak-tree had made such a strangely indelible impression on him. The harness-bells jingled in the woodland with a more muffled sound than a month before, now that everything was densely filled out and shady. The scattering of baby firs, far from disrupting the overall beauty, blended their feathery green shoots sweetly with the general mood.
All day it had been hot, with a storm brewing somewhere near by, but only a few drops of rain from one small cloud had spattered the dusty road and the lush greenery. The left-hand side of the forest was in dark shade; the right-hand side glistened wet in the bright sunshine and rippled in the breeze. Everything was in full bloom and the nightingales were singing with sharp notes that echoed far and near.
'That oak-tree, it was somewhere near here in the forest. There was such an affinity between us,' he thought. 'But where was it?' As he wondered, he glanced across left and, unconsciously, without recognizing it, began to admire the very tree that he was looking for. The old oak was completely transformed, now spreading out a canopy of lush, dark foliage and stirring gently as it wallowed in the evening sunshine. No trace now of the gnarled fingers, the scars, the old sadness and misgivings. Succulent young leaves with no twigs had burst straight through the hard bark of a hundred years; it was almost incredible that this old fellow should have grown them.
'Oh yes, that's the one,' thought the prince, spontaneously overwhelmed by one of those surges of delight and renewal that belong to springtime. All the best times of his life came together sharply in his memory. The lofty sky at Austerlitz, the look of reproach on his dead wife's face, Pierre on the ferry and that young girl who had been so enthralled by the night's beauty, the night itself and the moon . . . suddenly he remembered it all.
'No, life isn't over at thirty-one,' was his instant, final and irrevocable conclusion. 'It is not enough for me to know what is going on inside me. Everybody must know about it - Pierre, and that girl who wanted to fly up into the sky - they must all get to know me. My life must be lived for me but also for other people. They mustn't live like that girl, separated from me. My life must be reflected in them and they must live along with me, all of us together!'
Returning home from his travels, Prince Andrey decided he would go to Petersburg in the autumn, and he began dreaming up all sorts of reasons to justify the decision. A string of sensible, logical excuses for visiting the city, and even re-entering the service, was always at hand. Now, in fact, he could not begin to understand how he could ever have doubted the necessity of leading an active life, whereas a month before he would not have believed that the idea of ever leaving the country might occur to him. It now seemed absolutely clear that all his life experience would count for nothing if he failed to make practical use of it by starting to lead an active life again. He could not understand how such weak arguments could once have convinced him that he would be debasing himself if, after all he had learnt about life, he were to carry on believing in the possibility of doing something useful and the possibility of happiness and of love. Reason now spoke otherwise. After his journey to Ryazan Prince Andrey found country life tedious. His former interests had lost their appeal, and when he sat alone in his study he would often get to his feet, go over to the mirror and stare at his own face for minutes on end. Then he would turn to the portrait of Liza, looking out at him so sweetly and happily from her gilt frame with her Grecian hairstyle. Now, instead of saying those terrible words to her husband, she just looked at him with cheerful curiosity. Then he would clasp his hands behind his back and spend long minutes pacing up and down the room, frowning one moment and smiling the next, brooding on a series of strange ideas that lay beyond words, as secret as a hidden crime, ideas connected with Pierre, glory, the girl at the window, the oak-tree, the beauty of women, love - all the things that had changed the course of his life. And at moments like this if anyone came into his room his manner would be particularly abrupt, harsh, decisive, logical to a fault.
'Listen, my dear,' Princess Marya might say, coming in at just such a time, 'Little Nikolay can't go out for a walk today. It's too cold.'
'If it happened to be hot,' Andrey's tart response would be on such occasions, 'he would go out in his smock, but since it is cold you must dress him in warm clothing designed for that purpose. That's what happens when it's cold, not staying indoors when the child needs some fresh air.' He would pronounce all this with an exaggerated sense of logic, as if he needed to resolve his own inner illogicalities by secretly taking them out on someone else.
It was at times like this that Princess Marya thought how desiccated men's minds become with all that intellectual activity.
CHAPTER 4
Prince Andrey arrived in Petersburg in August 1809. This was the time when the young Speransky1 was at the peak of his fame and his reforms were being carried through with the utmost vigour. It was in August that the Tsar was thrown out of his carriage, injured his leg and was laid up for three weeks at Peterhof, seeing Speransky and no one but Speransky every day. At that time the two famous decrees were being drafted - abolishing court ranks and making entry to two Civil Service grades (collegiate assessor and state councillor) dependent on examinations - and everyone was worried about them. Beyond that, the country's entire constitution was under review, with plans for radical reform of all government systems, legal, administrative and financial, from the State Council down to the district tribunals. Alexander had come to the throne with his head full of sketchy liberalism but now his dreams were taking shape and coming into practice. So far his efforts to implement them had been assisted by Czartoryski, Novosiltsev, Kochubey and Stroganov, a group of men that he jokingly referred to as his 'Public Welfare Committee'. They had recently been replaced at a stroke by two men: Speransky on the civilian side and Arakcheyev in charge of the military.
Soon after his arrival Prince Andrey, as a gentleman of the chamber, presented himself at court and at a levee. The Tsar met him on two occasions, but didn't favour him with a single word. Prince Andrey had long suspected that the Tsar had taken against him and disliked the look of him and his whole personality. The Tsar's look of cold aloofness bore out Prince Andrey's worst suspicions. Courtiers explained the Tsar's cold shoulder by saying that his Majesty was displeased at Bolkonsky's absence from active service since 1805.
'I know only too well that we have no control over our likes and dislikes,' thought Prince Andrey, 'so it's no use even thinking I might be able to hand over my note on army reform to the Tsar personally, but the thing will speak for itself.' He sent word of his note to an old field-marshal, a friend of his father's. The field-marshal gave him an appointment, received him with affection and promised to inform the Tsar. A few days later Prince Andrey received notice to call on the war minister, Count Arakcheyev.
At nine o'clock in the morning on the appointed day Prince Andrey entered Count Arakcheyev's reception-room.
Prince Andrey did not know Arakcheyev personally, never having met him, but everything he had heard had left him with little respect for this man.
'He is