Kabanata Kabanata 185 · 第185章

At the beginning of July more and more disquieting reports about the war

began to spread in Moscow; people spoke of an appeal by the Emperor to

the people, and of his coming himself from the army to Moscow. And as

up to the eleventh of July no manifesto or appeal had been received,

exaggerated reports became current about them and about the position of

Russia. It was said that the Emperor was leaving the army because it was

in danger, it was said that Smolénsk had surrendered, that Napoleon had

an army of a million and only a miracle could save Russia.

On the eleventh of July, which was Saturday, the manifesto was received

but was not yet in print, and Pierre, who was at the Rostóvs’, promised

to come to dinner next day, Sunday, and bring a copy of the manifesto

and appeal, which he would obtain from Count Rostopchín.

That Sunday, the Rostóvs went to Mass at the Razumóvskis’ private chapel

as usual. It was a hot July day. Even at ten o’clock, when the Rostóvs

got out of their carriage at the chapel, the sultry air, the shouts of

hawkers, the light and gay summer clothes of the crowd, the dusty leaves

of the trees on the boulevard, the sounds of the band and the white

trousers of a battalion marching to parade, the rattling of wheels on

the cobblestones, and the brilliant, hot sunshine were all full of that

summer languor, that content and discontent with the present, which

is most strongly felt on a bright, hot day in town. All the Moscow

notabilities, all the Rostóvs’ acquaintances, were at the Razumóvskis’

chapel, for, as if expecting something to happen, many wealthy families

who usually left town for their country estates had not gone away that

summer. As Natásha, at her mother’s side, passed through the crowd

behind a liveried footman who cleared the way for them, she heard a

young man speaking about her in too loud a whisper.

“That’s Rostóva, the one who...”

“She’s much thinner, but all the same she’s pretty!”

She heard, or thought she heard, the names of Kurágin and Bolkónski. But

she was always imagining that. It always seemed to her that everyone

who looked at her was thinking only of what had happened to her. With a

sinking heart, wretched as she always was now when she found herself

in a crowd, Natásha in her lilac silk dress trimmed with black lace

walked—as women can walk—with the more repose and stateliness the

greater the pain and shame in her soul. She knew for certain that she

was pretty, but this no longer gave her satisfaction as it used to.

On the contrary it tormented her more than anything else of late, and

particularly so on this bright, hot summer day in town. “It’s Sunday

again—another week past,” she thought, recalling that she had been here

the Sunday before, “and always the same life that is no life, and the

same surroundings in which it used to be so easy to live. I’m pretty,

I’m young, and I know that now I am good. I used to be bad, but now I

know I am good,” she thought, “but yet my best years are slipping by

and are no good to anyone.” She stood by her mother’s side and exchanged

nods with acquaintances near her. From habit she scrutinized the ladies’

dresses, condemned the bearing of a lady standing close by who was not

crossing herself properly but in a cramped manner, and again she thought

with vexation that she was herself being judged and was judging others,

and suddenly, at the sound of the service, she felt horrified at her own

vileness, horrified that the former purity of her soul was again lost to

her.

A comely, fresh-looking old man was conducting the service with that

mild solemnity which has so elevating and soothing an effect on the

souls of the worshipers. The gates of the sanctuary screen were closed,

the curtain was slowly drawn, and from behind it a soft mysterious voice

pronounced some words. Tears, the cause of which she herself did not

understand, made Natásha’s breast heave, and a joyous but oppressive

feeling agitated her.

“Teach me what I should do, how to live my life, how I may grow good

forever, forever!” she pleaded.

The deacon came out onto the raised space before the altar screen and,

holding his thumb extended, drew his long hair from under his dalmatic

and, making the sign of the cross on his breast, began in a loud and

solemn voice to recite the words of the prayer....

“In peace let us pray unto the Lord.”

“As one community, without distinction of class, without enmity, united

by brotherly love—let us pray!” thought Natásha.

“For the peace that is from above, and for the salvation of our souls.”

“For the world of angels and all the spirits who dwell above us,” prayed

Natásha.

When they prayed for the warriors, she thought of her brother and

Denísov. When they prayed for all traveling by land and sea, she

remembered Prince Andrew, prayed for him, and asked God to forgive her

all the wrongs she had done him. When they prayed for those who love us,

she prayed for the members of her own family, her father and mother and

Sónya, realizing for the first time how wrongly she had acted toward

them, and feeling all the strength of her love for them. When they

prayed for those who hate us, she tried to think of her enemies and

people who hated her, in order to pray for them. She included among her

enemies the creditors and all who had business dealings with her

father, and always at the thought of enemies and those who hated her she

remembered Anatole who had done her so much harm—and though he did not

hate her she gladly prayed for him as for an enemy. Only at prayer did

she feel able to think clearly and calmly of Prince Andrew and Anatole,

as men for whom her feelings were as nothing compared with her awe and

devotion to God. When they prayed for the Imperial family and the Synod,

she bowed very low and made the sign of the cross, saying to herself

that even if she did not understand, still she could not doubt, and at

any rate loved the governing Synod and prayed for it.

When he had finished the Litany the deacon crossed the stole over his

breast and said, “Let us commit ourselves and our whole lives to Christ

the Lord!”

“Commit ourselves to God,” Natásha inwardly repeated. “Lord God, I

submit myself to Thy will!” she thought. “I want nothing, wish for

nothing; teach me what to do and how to use my will! Take me, take

me!” prayed Natásha, with impatient emotion in her heart, not crossing

herself but letting her slender arms hang down as if expecting some

invisible power at any moment to take her and deliver her from herself,

from her regrets, desires, remorse, hopes, and sins.

The countess looked round several times at her daughter’s softened face

and shining eyes and prayed God to help her.

Unexpectedly, in the middle of the service, and not in the usual order

Natásha knew so well, the deacon brought out a small stool, the one he

knelt on when praying on Trinity Sunday, and placed it before the doors

of the sanctuary screen. The priest came out with his purple velvet

biretta on his head, adjusted his hair, and knelt down with an effort.

Everybody followed his example and they looked at one another in

surprise. Then came the prayer just received from the Synod—a prayer for

the deliverance of Russia from hostile invasion.

“Lord God of might, God of our salvation!” began the priest in that

voice, clear, not grandiloquent but mild, in which only the Slav clergy

read and which acts so irresistibly on a Russian heart.

“Lord God of might, God of our salvation! Look this day in mercy and

blessing on Thy humble people, and graciously hear us, spare us, and

have mercy upon us! This foe confounding Thy land, desiring to lay

waste the whole world, rises against us; these lawless men are gathered

together to overthrow Thy kingdom, to destroy Thy dear Jerusalem, Thy

beloved Russia; to defile Thy temples, to overthrow Thine altars, and to

desecrate our holy shrines. How long, O Lord, how long shall the wicked

triumph? How long shall they wield unlawful power?

“Lord God! Hear us when we pray to Thee; strengthen with Thy might

our most gracious sovereign lord, the Emperor Alexander Pávlovich; be

mindful of his uprightness and meekness, reward him according to his

righteousness, and let it preserve us, Thy chosen Israel! Bless his

counsels, his undertakings, and his work; strengthen his kingdom by

Thine almighty hand, and give him victory over his enemy, even as Thou

gavest Moses the victory over Amalek, Gideon over Midian, and David over

Goliath. Preserve his army, put a bow of brass in the hands of those who

have armed themselves in Thy Name, and gird their loins with strength

for the fight. Take up the spear and shield and arise to help us;

confound and put to shame those who have devised evil against us, may

they be before the faces of Thy faithful warriors as dust before the

wind, and may Thy mighty Angel confound them and put them to flight; may

they be ensnared when they know it not, and may the plots they have laid

in secret be turned against them; let them fall before Thy servants’

feet and be laid low by our hosts! Lord, Thou art able to save both

great and small; Thou art God, and man cannot prevail against Thee!

“God of our fathers! Remember Thy bounteous mercy and loving-kindness

which are from of old; turn not Thy face from us, but be gracious to our

unworthiness, and in Thy great goodness and Thy many mercies regard not

our transgressions and iniquities! Create in us a clean heart and renew

a right spirit within us, strengthen us all in Thy faith, fortify our

hope, inspire us with true love one for another, arm us with unity of

spirit in the righteous defense of the heritage Thou gavest to us and

to our fathers, and let not the scepter of the wicked be exalted against

the destiny of those Thou hast sanctified.

“O Lord our God, in whom we believe and in whom we put our trust, let us

not be confounded in our hope of Thy mercy, and give us a token of Thy

blessing, that those who hate us and our Orthodox faith may see it and

be put to shame and perish, and may all the nations know that Thou art

the Lord and we are Thy people. Show Thy mercy upon us this day, O Lord,

and grant us Thy salvation; make the hearts of Thy servants to rejoice

in Thy mercy; smite down our enemies and destroy them swiftly beneath

the feet of Thy faithful servants! For Thou art the defense, the succor,

and the victory of them that put their trust in Thee, and to Thee be all

glory, to Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, now and forever, world without

end. Amen.”

In Natásha’s receptive condition of soul this prayer affected her

strongly. She listened to every word about the victory of Moses over

Amalek, of Gideon over Midian, and of David over Goliath, and about

the destruction of “Thy Jerusalem,” and she prayed to God with the

tenderness and emotion with which her heart was overflowing, but without

fully understanding what she was asking of God in that prayer. She

shared with all her heart in the prayer for the spirit of righteousness,

for the strengthening of the heart by faith and hope, and its animation

by love. But she could not pray that her enemies might be trampled under

foot when but a few minutes before she had been wishing she had more

of them that she might pray for them. But neither could she doubt the

righteousness of the prayer that was being read on bended knees. She

felt in her heart a devout and tremulous awe at the thought of the

punishment that overtakes men for their sins, and especially of her own

sins, and she prayed to God to forgive them all, and her too, and to

give them all, and her too, peace and happiness. And it seemed to her

that God heard her prayer.