Kabanata Kabanata 51 · 第51章

In November, 1805, Prince Vasíli had to go on a tour of inspection

in four different provinces. He had arranged this for himself so as to

visit his neglected estates at the same time and pick up his son Anatole

where his regiment was stationed, and take him to visit Prince Nicholas

Bolkónski in order to arrange a match for him with the daughter of that

rich old man. But before leaving home and undertaking these new affairs,

Prince Vasíli had to settle matters with Pierre, who, it is true, had

latterly spent whole days at home, that is, in Prince Vasíli’s house

where he was staying, and had been absurd, excited, and foolish in

Hélène’s presence (as a lover should be), but had not yet proposed

to her.

“This is all very fine, but things must be settled,” said Prince

Vasíli to himself, with a sorrowful sigh, one morning, feeling that

Pierre who was under such obligations to him (“But never mind that”)

was not behaving very well in this matter. “Youth, frivolity... well,

God be with him,” thought he, relishing his own goodness of heart,

“but it must be brought to a head. The day after tomorrow will be

Lëlya’s name day. I will invite two or three people, and if he does

not understand what he ought to do then it will be my affair—yes, my

affair. I am her father.”

Six weeks after Anna Pávlovna’s “At Home” and after the sleepless

night when he had decided that to marry Hélène would be a calamity and

that he ought to avoid her and go away, Pierre, despite that decision,

had not left Prince Vasíli’s and felt with terror that in people’s

eyes he was every day more and more connected with her, that it was

impossible for him to return to his former conception of her, that he

could not break away from her, and that though it would be a terrible

thing he would have to unite his fate with hers. He might perhaps have

been able to free himself but that Prince Vasíli (who had rarely before

given receptions) now hardly let a day go by without having an evening

party at which Pierre had to be present unless he wished to spoil

the general pleasure and disappoint everyone’s expectation. Prince

Vasíli, in the rare moments when he was at home, would take Pierre’s

hand in passing and draw it downwards, or absent-mindedly hold out his

wrinkled, clean-shaven cheek for Pierre to kiss and would say: “Till

tomorrow,” or, “Be in to dinner or I shall not see you,” or, “I

am staying in for your sake,” and so on. And though Prince Vasíli,

when he stayed in (as he said) for Pierre’s sake, hardly exchanged a

couple of words with him, Pierre felt unable to disappoint him.

Every day he said to himself one and the same thing: “It is time I

understood her and made up my mind what she really is. Was I mistaken

before, or am I mistaken now? No, she is not stupid, she is an excellent

girl,” he sometimes said to himself “she never makes a mistake,

never says anything stupid. She says little, but what she does say is

always clear and simple, so she is not stupid. She never was abashed and

is not abashed now, so she cannot be a bad woman!” He had often begun

to make reflections or think aloud in her company, and she had always

answered him either by a brief but appropriate remark—showing that it

did not interest her—or by a silent look and smile which more palpably

than anything else showed Pierre her superiority. She was right in

regarding all arguments as nonsense in comparison with that smile.

She always addressed him with a radiantly confiding smile meant for him

alone, in which there was something more significant than in the general

smile that usually brightened her face. Pierre knew that everyone was

waiting for him to say a word and cross a certain line, and he knew that

sooner or later he would step across it, but an incomprehensible terror

seized him at the thought of that dreadful step. A thousand times during

that month and a half while he felt himself drawn nearer and nearer to

that dreadful abyss, Pierre said to himself: “What am I doing? I need

resolution. Can it be that I have none?”

He wished to take a decision, but felt with dismay that in this matter

he lacked that strength of will which he had known in himself and really

possessed. Pierre was one of those who are only strong when they feel

themselves quite innocent, and since that day when he was overpowered

by a feeling of desire while stooping over the snuffbox at Anna

Pávlovna’s, an unacknowledged sense of the guilt of that desire

paralyzed his will.

On Hélène’s name day, a small party of just their own people—as

his wife said—met for supper at Prince Vasíli’s. All these friends

and relations had been given to understand that the fate of the young

girl would be decided that evening. The visitors were seated at supper.

Princess Kurágina, a portly imposing woman who had once been handsome,

was sitting at the head of the table. On either side of her sat the

more important guests—an old general and his wife, and Anna Pávlovna

Schérer. At the other end sat the younger and less important guests,

and there too sat the members of the family, and Pierre and Hélène,

side by side. Prince Vasíli was not having any supper: he went round

the table in a merry mood, sitting down now by one, now by another, of

the guests. To each of them he made some careless and agreeable remark

except to Pierre and Hélène, whose presence he seemed not to notice.

He enlivened the whole party. The wax candles burned brightly, the

silver and crystal gleamed, so did the ladies’ toilets and the gold

and silver of the men’s epaulets; servants in scarlet liveries moved

round the table, the clatter of plates, knives, and glasses mingled with

the animated hum of several conversations. At one end of the table, the

old chamberlain was heard assuring an old baroness that he loved her

passionately, at which she laughed; at the other could be heard the

story of the misfortunes of some Mary Víktorovna or other. At the

center of the table, Prince Vasíli attracted everybody’s attention.

With a facetious smile on his face, he was telling the ladies about last

Wednesday’s meeting of the Imperial Council, at which Sergéy Kuzmích

Vyazmítinov, the new military governor general of Petersburg, had

received and read the then famous rescript of the Emperor Alexander

from the army to Sergéy Kuzmích, in which the Emperor said that he was

receiving from all sides declarations of the people’s loyalty, that

the declaration from Petersburg gave him particular pleasure, and that

he was proud to be at the head of such a nation and would endeavor to be

worthy of it. This rescript began with the words: “Sergéy Kuzmích,

From all sides reports reach me,” etc.

“Well, and so he never got farther than: ‘Sergéy Kuzmích’?”

asked one of the ladies.

“Exactly, not a hair’s breadth farther,” answered Prince Vasíli,

laughing, “‘Sergéy Kuzmích... From all sides... From all sides...

Sergéy Kuzmích...’ Poor Vyazmítinov could not get any farther!

He began the rescript again and again, but as soon as he uttered

‘Sergéy’ he sobbed, ‘Kuz-mí-ch,’ tears, and ‘From all

sides’ was smothered in sobs and he could get no farther. And again

his handkerchief, and again: ‘Sergéy Kuzmích, From all sides,’...

and tears, till at last somebody else was asked to read it.”

“Kuzmích... From all sides... and then tears,” someone repeated

laughing.

“Don’t be unkind,” cried Anna Pávlovna from her end of the table

holding up a threatening finger. “He is such a worthy and excellent

man, our dear Vyazmítinov....”

Everybody laughed a great deal. At the head of the table, where the

honored guests sat, everyone seemed to be in high spirits and under the

influence of a variety of exciting sensations. Only Pierre and

Hélène sat silently side by side almost at the bottom of the table, a

suppressed smile brightening both their faces, a smile that had nothing

to do with Sergéy Kuzmích—a smile of bashfulness at their own

feelings. But much as all the rest laughed, talked, and joked, much

as they enjoyed their Rhine wine, sauté, and ices, and however they

avoided looking at the young couple, and heedless and unobservant as

they seemed of them, one could feel by the occasional glances they gave

that the story about Sergéy Kuzmích, the laughter, and the food

were all a pretense, and that the whole attention of that company was

directed to—Pierre and Hélène. Prince Vasíli mimicked the sobbing

of Sergéy Kuzmích and at the same time his eyes glanced toward his

daughter, and while he laughed the expression on his face clearly said:

“Yes... it’s getting on, it will all be settled today.” Anna

Pávlovna threatened him on behalf of “our dear Vyazmítinov,” and

in her eyes, which, for an instant, glanced at Pierre, Prince Vasíli

read a congratulation on his future son-in-law and on his daughter’s

happiness. The old princess sighed sadly as she offered some wine to the

old lady next to her and glanced angrily at her daughter, and her sigh

seemed to say: “Yes, there’s nothing left for you and me but to sip

sweet wine, my dear, now that the time has come for these young ones to

be thus boldly, provocatively happy.” “And what nonsense all this is

that I am saying!” thought a diplomatist, glancing at the happy faces

of the lovers. “That’s happiness!”

Into the insignificant, trifling, and artificial interests uniting that

society had entered the simple feeling of the attraction of a healthy

and handsome young man and woman for one another. And this human feeling

dominated everything else and soared above all their affected chatter.

Jests fell flat, news was not interesting, and the animation was

evidently forced. Not only the guests but even the footmen waiting at

table seemed to feel this, and they forgot their duties as they looked

at the beautiful Hélène with her radiant face and at the red, broad,

and happy though uneasy face of Pierre. It seemed as if the very light

of the candles was focused on those two happy faces alone.

Pierre felt that he was the center of it all, and this both pleased and

embarrassed him. He was like a man entirely absorbed in some occupation.

He did not see, hear, or understand anything clearly. Only now and

then detached ideas and impressions from the world of reality shot

unexpectedly through his mind.

“So it is all finished!” he thought. “And how has it all happened?

How quickly! Now I know that not because of her alone, nor of myself

alone, but because of everyone, it must inevitably come about. They are

all expecting it, they are so sure that it will happen that I cannot, I

cannot, disappoint them. But how will it be? I do not know, but it

will certainly happen!” thought Pierre, glancing at those dazzling

shoulders close to his eyes.

Or he would suddenly feel ashamed of he knew not what. He felt it

awkward to attract everyone’s attention and to be considered a

lucky man and, with his plain face, to be looked on as a sort of Paris

possessed of a Helen. “But no doubt it always is and must be so!”

he consoled himself. “And besides, what have I done to bring it about?

How did it begin? I traveled from Moscow with Prince Vasíli. Then there

was nothing. So why should I not stay at his house? Then I played cards

with her and picked up her reticule and drove out with her. How did it

begin, when did it all come about?” And here he was sitting by her

side as her betrothed, seeing, hearing, feeling her nearness, her

breathing, her movements, her beauty. Then it would suddenly seem to him

that it was not she but he was so unusually beautiful, and that that was

why they all looked so at him, and flattered by this general admiration

he would expand his chest, raise his head, and rejoice at his good

fortune. Suddenly he heard a familiar voice repeating something to him a

second time. But Pierre was so absorbed that he did not understand what

was said.

“I am asking you when you last heard from Bolkónski,” repeated

Prince Vasíli a third time. “How absent-minded you are, my dear

fellow.”

Prince Vasíli smiled, and Pierre noticed that everyone was smiling at

him and Hélène. “Well, what of it, if you all know it?” thought

Pierre. “What of it? It’s the truth!” and he himself smiled his

gentle childlike smile, and Hélène smiled too.

“When did you get the letter? Was it from Olmütz?” repeated

Prince Vasíli, who pretended to want to know this in order to settle a

dispute.

“How can one talk or think of such trifles?” thought Pierre.

“Yes, from Olmütz,” he answered, with a sigh.

After supper Pierre with his partner followed the others into the

drawing room. The guests began to disperse, some without taking leave

of Hélène. Some, as if unwilling to distract her from an important

occupation, came up to her for a moment and made haste to go away,

refusing to let her see them off. The diplomatist preserved a mournful

silence as he left the drawing room. He pictured the vanity of his

diplomatic career in comparison with Pierre’s happiness. The old

general grumbled at his wife when she asked how his leg was. “Oh, the

old fool,” he thought. “That Princess Hélène will be beautiful

still when she’s fifty.”

“I think I may congratulate you,” whispered Anna Pávlovna to the

old princess, kissing her soundly. “If I hadn’t this headache I’d

have stayed longer.”

The old princess did not reply, she was tormented by jealousy of her

daughter’s happiness.

While the guests were taking their leave Pierre remained for a long time

alone with Hélène in the little drawing room where they were sitting.

He had often before, during the last six weeks, remained alone with her,

but had never spoken to her of love. Now he felt that it was inevitable,

but he could not make up his mind to take the final step. He felt

ashamed; he felt that he was occupying someone else’s place here

beside Hélène. “This happiness is not for you,” some inner voice

whispered to him. “This happiness is for those who have not in them

what there is in you.”

But, as he had to say something, he began by asking her whether she was

satisfied with the party. She replied in her usual simple manner that

this name day of hers had been one of the pleasantest she had ever had.

Some of the nearest relatives had not yet left. They were sitting in

the large drawing room. Prince Vasíli came up to Pierre with languid

footsteps. Pierre rose and said it was getting late. Prince Vasíli gave

him a look of stern inquiry, as though what Pierre had just said was

so strange that one could not take it in. But then the expression of

severity changed, and he drew Pierre’s hand downwards, made him sit

down, and smiled affectionately.

“Well, Lëlya?” he asked, turning instantly to his daughter and

addressing her with the careless tone of habitual tenderness natural to

parents who have petted their children from babyhood, but which Prince

Vasíli had only acquired by imitating other parents.

And he again turned to Pierre.

“Sergéy Kuzmích—From all sides—” he said, unbuttoning the top

button of his waistcoat.

Pierre smiled, but his smile showed that he knew it was not the story

about Sergéy Kuzmích that interested Prince Vasíli just then, and

Prince Vasíli saw that Pierre knew this. He suddenly muttered

something and went away. It seemed to Pierre that even the prince was

disconcerted. The sight of the discomposure of that old man of the world

touched Pierre: he looked at Hélène and she too seemed disconcerted,

and her look seemed to say: “Well, it is your own fault.”

“The step must be taken but I cannot, I cannot!” thought Pierre,

and he again began speaking about indifferent matters, about Sergéy

Kuzmích, asking what the point of the story was as he had not heard it

properly. Hélène answered with a smile that she too had missed it.

When Prince Vasíli returned to the drawing room, the princess, his

wife, was talking in low tones to the elderly lady about Pierre.

“Of course, it is a very brilliant match, but happiness, my dear...”

“Marriages are made in heaven,” replied the elderly lady.

Prince Vasíli passed by, seeming not to hear the ladies, and sat down

on a sofa in a far corner of the room. He closed his eyes and seemed to

be dozing. His head sank forward and then he roused himself.

“Aline,” he said to his wife, “go and see what they are about.”

The princess went up to the door, passed by it with a dignified and

indifferent air, and glanced into the little drawing room. Pierre and

Hélène still sat talking just as before.

“Still the same,” she said to her husband.

Prince Vasíli frowned, twisting his mouth, his cheeks quivered and his

face assumed the coarse, unpleasant expression peculiar to him. Shaking

himself, he rose, threw back his head, and with resolute steps went

past the ladies into the little drawing room. With quick steps he went

joyfully up to Pierre. His face was so unusually triumphant that Pierre

rose in alarm on seeing it.

“Thank God!” said Prince Vasíli. “My wife has told me

everything!” (He put one arm around Pierre and the other around his

daughter.)—“My dear boy... Lëlya... I am very pleased.” (His

voice trembled.) “I loved your father... and she will make you a good

wife... God bless you!...”

He embraced his daughter, and then again Pierre, and kissed him with his

malodorous mouth. Tears actually moistened his cheeks.

“Princess, come here!” he shouted.

The old princess came in and also wept. The elderly lady was using

her handkerchief too. Pierre was kissed, and he kissed the beautiful

Hélène’s hand several times. After a while they were left alone

again.

“All this had to be and could not be otherwise,” thought Pierre,

“so it is useless to ask whether it is good or bad. It is good because

it’s definite and one is rid of the old tormenting doubt.” Pierre

held the hand of his betrothed in silence, looking at her beautiful

bosom as it rose and fell.

“Hélène!” he said aloud and paused.

“Something special is always said in such cases,” he thought, but

could not remember what it was that people say. He looked at her face.

She drew nearer to him. Her face flushed.

“Oh, take those off... those...” she said, pointing to his

spectacles.

Pierre took them off, and his eyes, besides the strange look eyes have

from which spectacles have just been removed, had also a frightened and

inquiring look. He was about to stoop over her hand and kiss it, but

with a rapid, almost brutal movement of her head, she intercepted his

lips and met them with her own. Her face struck Pierre, by its altered,

unpleasantly excited expression.

“It is too late now, it’s done; besides I love her,” thought

Pierre.

“Je vous aime!” * he said, remembering what has to be said at such

moments: but his words sounded so weak that he felt ashamed of himself.

* “I love you.”

Six weeks later he was married, and settled in Count Bezúkhov’s

large, newly furnished Petersburg house, the happy possessor, as people

said, of a wife who was a celebrated beauty and of millions of money.