บทที่ บทที่ 25 · 第25章

At Bald Hills, Prince Nicholas Andréevich Bolkónski’s estate, the

arrival of young Prince Andrew and his wife was daily expected, but

this expectation did not upset the regular routine of life in the old

prince’s household. General in Chief Prince Nicholas Andréevich

(nicknamed in society, “the King of Prussia”) ever since the Emperor

Paul had exiled him to his country estate had lived there continuously

with his daughter, Princess Mary, and her companion, Mademoiselle

Bourienne. Though in the new reign he was free to return to the

capitals, he still continued to live in the country, remarking that

anyone who wanted to see him could come the hundred miles from Moscow to

Bald Hills, while he himself needed no one and nothing. He used to

say that there are only two sources of human vice—idleness and

superstition, and only two virtues—activity and intelligence. He

himself undertook his daughter’s education, and to develop these two

cardinal virtues in her gave her lessons in algebra and geometry

till she was twenty, and arranged her life so that her whole time was

occupied. He was himself always occupied: writing his memoirs, solving

problems in higher mathematics, turning snuffboxes on a lathe, working

in the garden, or superintending the building that was always going on

at his estate. As regularity is a prime condition facilitating activity,

regularity in his household was carried to the highest point of

exactitude. He always came to table under precisely the same conditions,

and not only at the same hour but at the same minute. With those about

him, from his daughter to his serfs, the prince was sharp and invariably

exacting, so that without being a hardhearted man he inspired such fear

and respect as few hardhearted men would have aroused. Although he was

in retirement and had now no influence in political affairs, every high

official appointed to the province in which the prince’s estate lay

considered it his duty to visit him and waited in the lofty antechamber

just as the architect, gardener, or Princess Mary did, till the prince

appeared punctually to the appointed hour. Everyone sitting in this

antechamber experienced the same feeling of respect and even fear when

the enormously high study door opened and showed the figure of a rather

small old man, with powdered wig, small withered hands, and bushy gray

eyebrows which, when he frowned, sometimes hid the gleam of his shrewd,

youthfully glittering eyes.

On the morning of the day that the young couple were to arrive, Princess

Mary entered the antechamber as usual at the time appointed for the

morning greeting, crossing herself with trepidation and repeating a

silent prayer. Every morning she came in like that, and every morning

prayed that the daily interview might pass off well.

An old powdered manservant who was sitting in the antechamber rose

quietly and said in a whisper: “Please walk in.”

Through the door came the regular hum of a lathe. The princess timidly

opened the door which moved noiselessly and easily. She paused at the

entrance. The prince was working at the lathe and after glancing round

continued his work.

The enormous study was full of things evidently in constant use.

The large table covered with books and plans, the tall glass-fronted

bookcases with keys in the locks, the high desk for writing while

standing up, on which lay an open exercise book, and the lathe with

tools laid ready to hand and shavings scattered around—all indicated

continuous, varied, and orderly activity. The motion of the small foot

shod in a Tartar boot embroidered with silver, and the firm pressure

of the lean sinewy hand, showed that the prince still possessed the

tenacious endurance and vigor of hardy old age. After a few more turns

of the lathe he removed his foot from the pedal, wiped his chisel,

dropped it into a leather pouch attached to the lathe, and, approaching

the table, summoned his daughter. He never gave his children a blessing,

so he simply held out his bristly cheek (as yet unshaven) and, regarding

her tenderly and attentively, said severely:

“Quite well? All right then, sit down.” He took the exercise book

containing lessons in geometry written by himself and drew up a chair

with his foot.

“For tomorrow!” said he, quickly finding the page and making a

scratch from one paragraph to another with his hard nail.

The princess bent over the exercise book on the table.

“Wait a bit, here’s a letter for you,” said the old man suddenly,

taking a letter addressed in a woman’s hand from a bag hanging above

the table, onto which he threw it.

At the sight of the letter red patches showed themselves on the

princess’ face. She took it quickly and bent her head over it.

“From Héloïse?” asked the prince with a cold smile that showed his

still sound, yellowish teeth.

“Yes, it’s from Julie,” replied the princess with a timid glance

and a timid smile.

“I’ll let two more letters pass, but the third I’ll read,” said

the prince sternly; “I’m afraid you write much nonsense. I’ll read

the third!”

“Read this if you like, Father,” said the princess, blushing still

more and holding out the letter.

“The third, I said the third!” cried the prince abruptly, pushing

the letter away, and leaning his elbows on the table he drew toward him

the exercise book containing geometrical figures.

“Well, madam,” he began, stooping over the book close to his

daughter and placing an arm on the back of the chair on which she sat,

so that she felt herself surrounded on all sides by the acrid scent of

old age and tobacco, which she had known so long. “Now, madam, these

triangles are equal; please note that the angle ABC...”

The princess looked in a scared way at her father’s eyes glittering

close to her; the red patches on her face came and went, and it was

plain that she understood nothing and was so frightened that her

fear would prevent her understanding any of her father’s further

explanations, however clear they might be. Whether it was the

teacher’s fault or the pupil’s, this same thing happened every day:

the princess’ eyes grew dim, she could not see and could not hear

anything, but was only conscious of her stern father’s withered face

close to her, of his breath and the smell of him, and could think only

of how to get away quickly to her own room to make out the problem in

peace. The old man was beside himself: moved the chair on which he was

sitting noisily backward and forward, made efforts to control himself

and not become vehement, but almost always did become vehement, scolded,

and sometimes flung the exercise book away.

The princess gave a wrong answer.

“Well now, isn’t she a fool!” shouted the prince, pushing the book

aside and turning sharply away; but rising immediately, he paced up and

down, lightly touched his daughter’s hair and sat down again.

He drew up his chair, and continued to explain.

“This won’t do, Princess; it won’t do,” said he, when Princess

Mary, having taken and closed the exercise book with the next day’s

lesson, was about to leave: “Mathematics are most important, madam!

I don’t want to have you like our silly ladies. Get used to it and

you’ll like it,” and he patted her cheek. “It will drive all the

nonsense out of your head.”

She turned to go, but he stopped her with a gesture and took an uncut

book from the high desk.

“Here is some sort of Key to the Mysteries that your Héloïse has

sent you. Religious! I don’t interfere with anyone’s belief... I

have looked at it. Take it. Well, now go. Go.”

He patted her on the shoulder and himself closed the door after her.

Princess Mary went back to her room with the sad, scared expression that

rarely left her and which made her plain, sickly face yet plainer. She

sat down at her writing table, on which stood miniature portraits and

which was littered with books and papers. The princess was as untidy as

her father was tidy. She put down the geometry book and eagerly broke

the seal of her letter. It was from her most intimate friend from

childhood; that same Julie Karágina who had been at the Rostóvs’

name-day party.

Julie wrote in French:

Dear and precious Friend, How terrible and frightful a thing is

separation! Though I tell myself that half my life and half my happiness

are wrapped up in you, and that in spite of the distance separating us

our hearts are united by indissoluble bonds, my heart rebels against

fate and in spite of the pleasures and distractions around me I cannot

overcome a certain secret sorrow that has been in my heart ever since

we parted. Why are we not together as we were last summer, in your big

study, on the blue sofa, the confidential sofa? Why cannot I now, as

three months ago, draw fresh moral strength from your look, so gentle,

calm, and penetrating, a look I loved so well and seem to see before me

as I write?

Having read thus far, Princess Mary sighed and glanced into the mirror

which stood on her right. It reflected a weak, ungraceful figure and

thin face. Her eyes, always sad, now looked with particular hopelessness

at her reflection in the glass. “She flatters me,” thought the

princess, turning away and continuing to read. But Julie did not flatter

her friend, the princess’ eyes—large, deep and luminous (it seemed

as if at times there radiated from them shafts of warm light)—were

so beautiful that very often in spite of the plainness of her face

they gave her an attraction more powerful than that of beauty. But the

princess never saw the beautiful expression of her own eyes—the look

they had when she was not thinking of herself. As with everyone, her

face assumed a forced unnatural expression as soon as she looked in a

glass. She went on reading:

All Moscow talks of nothing but war. One of my two brothers is already

abroad, the other is with the Guards, who are starting on their march

to the frontier. Our dear Emperor has left Petersburg and it is thought

intends to expose his precious person to the chances of war. God grant

that the Corsican monster who is destroying the peace of Europe may

be overthrown by the angel whom it has pleased the Almighty, in His

goodness, to give us as sovereign! To say nothing of my brothers, this

war has deprived me of one of the associations nearest my heart. I mean

young Nicholas Rostóv, who with his enthusiasm could not bear to remain

inactive and has left the university to join the army. I will confess to

you, dear Mary, that in spite of his extreme youth his departure for

the army was a great grief to me. This young man, of whom I spoke to you

last summer, is so noble-minded and full of that real youthfulness which

one seldom finds nowadays among our old men of twenty and, particularly,

he is so frank and has so much heart. He is so pure and poetic that

my relations with him, transient as they were, have been one of the

sweetest comforts to my poor heart, which has already suffered so much.

Someday I will tell you about our parting and all that was said then.

That is still too fresh. Ah, dear friend, you are happy not to know

these poignant joys and sorrows. You are fortunate, for the latter are

generally the stronger! I know very well that Count Nicholas is too

young ever to be more to me than a friend, but this sweet friendship,

this poetic and pure intimacy, were what my heart needed. But enough of

this! The chief news, about which all Moscow gossips, is the death of

old Count Bezúkhov, and his inheritance. Fancy! The three princesses

have received very little, Prince Vasíli nothing, and it is Monsieur

Pierre who has inherited all the property and has besides been

recognized as legitimate; so that he is now Count Bezúkhov and

possessor of the finest fortune in Russia. It is rumored that Prince

Vasíli played a very despicable part in this affair and that he

returned to Petersburg quite crestfallen.

I confess I understand very little about all these matters of wills and

inheritance; but I do know that since this young man, whom we all used

to know as plain Monsieur Pierre, has become Count Bezúkhov and the

owner of one of the largest fortunes in Russia, I am much amused to

watch the change in the tone and manners of the mammas burdened by

marriageable daughters, and of the young ladies themselves, toward

him, though, between you and me, he always seemed to me a poor sort

of fellow. As for the past two years people have amused themselves

by finding husbands for me (most of whom I don’t even know), the

matchmaking chronicles of Moscow now speak of me as the future Countess

Bezúkhova. But you will understand that I have no desire for the post.

À propos of marriages: do you know that a while ago that universal

auntie Anna Mikháylovna told me, under the seal of strict secrecy, of

a plan of marriage for you. It is neither more nor less than with Prince

Vasíli’s son Anatole, whom they wish to reform by marrying him to

someone rich and distinguée, and it is on you that his relations’

choice has fallen. I don’t know what you will think of it, but

I consider it my duty to let you know of it. He is said to be very

handsome and a terrible scapegrace. That is all I have been able to find

out about him.

But enough of gossip. I am at the end of my second sheet of paper, and

Mamma has sent for me to go and dine at the Apráksins’. Read the

mystical book I am sending you; it has an enormous success here. Though

there are things in it difficult for the feeble human mind to grasp, it

is an admirable book which calms and elevates the soul. Adieu! Give

my respects to monsieur your father and my compliments to Mademoiselle

Bourienne. I embrace you as I love you.

JULIE

P.S. Let me have news of your brother and his charming little wife.

The princess pondered awhile with a thoughtful smile and her luminous

eyes lit up so that her face was entirely transformed. Then she suddenly

rose and with her heavy tread went up to the table. She took a sheet of

paper and her hand moved rapidly over it. This is the reply she wrote,

also in French:

Dear and precious Friend, Your letter of the 13th has given me great

delight. So you still love me, my romantic Julie? Separation, of which

you say so much that is bad, does not seem to have had its usual effect

on you. You complain of our separation. What then should I say, if I

dared complain, I who am deprived of all who are dear to me? Ah, if

we had not religion to console us life would be very sad. Why do you

suppose that I should look severely on your affection for that young

man? On such matters I am only severe with myself. I understand such

feelings in others, and if never having felt them I cannot approve of

them, neither do I condemn them. Only it seems to me that Christian

love, love of one’s neighbor, love of one’s enemy, is worthier,

sweeter, and better than the feelings which the beautiful eyes of a

young man can inspire in a romantic and loving young girl like yourself.

The news of Count Bezúkhov’s death reached us before your letter

and my father was much affected by it. He says the count was the last

representative but one of the great century, and that it is his own

turn now, but that he will do all he can to let his turn come as late as

possible. God preserve us from that terrible misfortune!

I cannot agree with you about Pierre, whom I knew as a child. He always

seemed to me to have an excellent heart, and that is the quality I value

most in people. As to his inheritance and the part played by Prince

Vasíli, it is very sad for both. Ah, my dear friend, our divine

Saviour’s words, that it is easier for a camel to go through the

eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God, are

terribly true. I pity Prince Vasíli but am still more sorry for Pierre.

So young, and burdened with such riches—to what temptations he will be

exposed! If I were asked what I desire most on earth, it would be to be

poorer than the poorest beggar. A thousand thanks, dear friend, for the

volume you have sent me and which has such success in Moscow. Yet since

you tell me that among some good things it contains others which our

weak human understanding cannot grasp, it seems to me rather useless to

spend time in reading what is unintelligible and can therefore bear

no fruit. I never could understand the fondness some people have for

confusing their minds by dwelling on mystical books that merely awaken

their doubts and excite their imagination, giving them a bent for

exaggeration quite contrary to Christian simplicity. Let us rather read

the Epistles and Gospels. Let us not seek to penetrate what mysteries

they contain; for how can we, miserable sinners that we are, know the

terrible and holy secrets of Providence while we remain in this flesh

which forms an impenetrable veil between us and the Eternal? Let us

rather confine ourselves to studying those sublime rules which our

divine Saviour has left for our guidance here below. Let us try to

conform to them and follow them, and let us be persuaded that the less

we let our feeble human minds roam, the better we shall please God, who

rejects all knowledge that does not come from Him; and the less we seek

to fathom what He has been pleased to conceal from us, the sooner will

He vouchsafe its revelation to us through His divine Spirit.

My father has not spoken to me of a suitor, but has only told me that he

has received a letter and is expecting a visit from Prince Vasíli. In

regard to this project of marriage for me, I will tell you, dear sweet

friend, that I look on marriage as a divine institution to which we must

conform. However painful it may be to me, should the Almighty lay

the duties of wife and mother upon me I shall try to perform them as

faithfully as I can, without disquieting myself by examining my feelings

toward him whom He may give me for husband.

I have had a letter from my brother, who announces his speedy arrival

at Bald Hills with his wife. This pleasure will be but a brief one,

however, for he will leave us again to take part in this unhappy war

into which we have been drawn, God knows how or why. Not only where you

are—at the heart of affairs and of the world—is the talk all of

war, even here amid fieldwork and the calm of nature—which townsfolk

consider characteristic of the country—rumors of war are heard

and painfully felt. My father talks of nothing but marches and

countermarches, things of which I understand nothing; and the day

before yesterday during my daily walk through the village I witnessed a

heartrending scene.... It was a convoy of conscripts enrolled from our

people and starting to join the army. You should have seen the state of

the mothers, wives, and children of the men who were going and should

have heard the sobs. It seems as though mankind has forgotten the

laws of its divine Saviour, Who preached love and forgiveness of

injuries—and that men attribute the greatest merit to skill in killing

one another.

Adieu, dear and kind friend; may our divine Saviour and His most Holy

Mother keep you in their holy and all-powerful care!

MARY

“Ah, you are sending off a letter, Princess? I have already dispatched

mine. I have written to my poor mother,” said the smiling Mademoiselle

Bourienne rapidly, in her pleasant mellow tones and with guttural r’s.

She brought into Princess Mary’s strenuous, mournful, and gloomy

world a quite different atmosphere, careless, lighthearted, and

self-satisfied.

“Princess, I must warn you,” she added, lowering her voice and

evidently listening to herself with pleasure, and speaking with

exaggerated grasseyement, “the prince has been scolding Michael

Ivánovich. He is in a very bad humor, very morose. Be prepared.”

“Ah, dear friend,” replied Princess Mary, “I have asked you never

to warn me of the humor my father is in. I do not allow myself to judge

him and would not have others do so.”

The princess glanced at her watch and, seeing that she was five minutes

late in starting her practice on the clavichord, went into the sitting

room with a look of alarm. Between twelve and two o’clock, as the

day was mapped out, the prince rested and the princess played the

clavichord.