Chapter Chapter 19 · 第19章

At the men’s end of the table the talk grew more and more animated.

The colonel told them that the declaration of war had already appeared

in Petersburg and that a copy, which he had himself seen, had that day

been forwarded by courier to the commander in chief.

“And why the deuce are we going to fight Bonaparte?” remarked

Shinshín. “He has stopped Austria’s cackle and I fear it will be

our turn next.”

The colonel was a stout, tall, plethoric German, evidently devoted to

the service and patriotically Russian. He resented Shinshín’s remark.

“It is for the reasson, my goot sir,” said he, speaking with a

German accent, “for the reasson zat ze Emperor knows zat. He

declares in ze manifessto zat he cannot fiew wiz indifference ze danger

vreatening Russia and zat ze safety and dignity of ze Empire as vell

as ze sanctity of its alliances...” he spoke this last word with

particular emphasis as if in it lay the gist of the matter.

Then with the unerring official memory that characterized him he

repeated from the opening words of the manifesto:

... and the wish, which constitutes the Emperor’s sole and absolute

aim—to establish peace in Europe on firm foundations—has now decided

him to despatch part of the army abroad and to create a new condition

for the attainment of that purpose.

“Zat, my dear sir, is vy...” he concluded, drinking a tumbler of

wine with dignity and looking to the count for approval.

“Connaissez-vous le Proverbe:* ‘Jerome, Jerome, do not roam, but

turn spindles at home!’?” said Shinshín, puckering his brows and

smiling. “Cela nous convient à merveille.*(2) Suvórov now—he knew

what he was about; yet they beat him à plate couture,*(3) and where

are we to find Suvórovs now? Je vous demande un peu,” *(4) said he,

continually changing from French to Russian.

*Do you know the proverb?

*(2) That suits us down to the ground.

*(3) Hollow.

*(4) I just ask you that.

“Ve must vight to the last tr-r-op of our plood!” said the colonel,

thumping the table; “and ve must tie for our Emperor, and zen all vill

pe vell. And ve must discuss it as little as po-o-ossible”... he dwelt

particularly on the word possible... “as po-o-ossible,” he ended,

again turning to the count. “Zat is how ve old hussars look at it, and

zere’s an end of it! And how do you, a young man and a young hussar,

how do you judge of it?” he added, addressing Nicholas, who when he

heard that the war was being discussed had turned from his partner with

eyes and ears intent on the colonel.

“I am quite of your opinion,” replied Nicholas, flaming up, turning

his plate round and moving his wineglasses about with as much decision

and desperation as though he were at that moment facing some great

danger. “I am convinced that we Russians must die or conquer,” he

concluded, conscious—as were others—after the words were uttered

that his remarks were too enthusiastic and emphatic for the occasion and

were therefore awkward.

“What you said just now was splendid!” said his partner Julie.

Sónya trembled all over and blushed to her ears and behind them and

down to her neck and shoulders while Nicholas was speaking.

Pierre listened to the colonel’s speech and nodded approvingly.

“That’s fine,” said he.

“The young man’s a real hussar!” shouted the colonel, again

thumping the table.

“What are you making such a noise about over there?” Márya

Dmítrievna’s deep voice suddenly inquired from the other end of the

table. “What are you thumping the table for?” she demanded of the

hussar, “and why are you exciting yourself? Do you think the French

are here?”

“I am speaking ze truce,” replied the hussar with a smile.

“It’s all about the war,” the count shouted down the table. “You

know my son’s going, Márya Dmítrievna? My son is going.”

“I have four sons in the army but still I don’t fret. It is all

in God’s hands. You may die in your bed or God may spare you in a

battle,” replied Márya Dmítrievna’s deep voice, which easily

carried the whole length of the table.

“That’s true!”

Once more the conversations concentrated, the ladies’ at the one end

and the men’s at the other.

“You won’t ask,” Natásha’s little brother was saying; “I know

you won’t ask!”

“I will,” replied Natásha.

Her face suddenly flushed with reckless and joyous resolution. She half

rose, by a glance inviting Pierre, who sat opposite, to listen to what

was coming, and turning to her mother:

“Mamma!” rang out the clear contralto notes of her childish voice,

audible the whole length of the table.

“What is it?” asked the countess, startled; but seeing by her

daughter’s face that it was only mischief, she shook a finger at her

sternly with a threatening and forbidding movement of her head.

The conversation was hushed.

“Mamma! What sweets are we going to have?” and Natásha’s voice

sounded still more firm and resolute.

The countess tried to frown, but could not. Márya Dmítrievna shook her

fat finger.

“Cossack!” she said threateningly.

Most of the guests, uncertain how to regard this sally, looked at the

elders.

“You had better take care!” said the countess.

“Mamma! What sweets are we going to have?” Natásha again cried

boldly, with saucy gaiety, confident that her prank would be taken in

good part.

Sónya and fat little Pétya doubled up with laughter.

“You see! I have asked,” whispered Natásha to her little brother

and to Pierre, glancing at him again.

“Ice pudding, but you won’t get any,” said Márya Dmítrievna.

Natásha saw there was nothing to be afraid of and so she braved even

Márya Dmítrievna.

“Márya Dmítrievna! What kind of ice pudding? I don’t like ice

cream.”

“Carrot ices.”

“No! What kind, Márya Dmítrievna? What kind?” she almost screamed;

“I want to know!”

Márya Dmítrievna and the countess burst out laughing, and all the

guests joined in. Everyone laughed, not at Márya Dmítrievna’s answer

but at the incredible boldness and smartness of this little girl who had

dared to treat Márya Dmítrievna in this fashion.

Natásha only desisted when she had been told that there would be

pineapple ice. Before the ices, champagne was served round. The band

again struck up, the count and countess kissed, and the guests, leaving

their seats, went up to “congratulate” the countess, and reached

across the table to clink glasses with the count, with the children, and

with one another. Again the footmen rushed about, chairs scraped, and

in the same order in which they had entered but with redder faces, the

guests returned to the drawing room and to the count’s study.