War and Peace: Original Version

“Papa,” the beauty repeated in the same tone as before, “we shall be late.”

“Well, au revoir. You see?”

“Then tomorrow you will put it to His Majesty.”

“Without fail, but concerning Kutuzov I do not promise.”

“No, promise me, promise, Vasily,” Anna Mikhkailovna said as he left, with the smile of a young coquette which once must have been natural to her, but now was quite out of place on her kind, careworn face. She had clearly forgotten her age and sought out of habit to employ all the ancient feminine wiles. But as soon as he went out her face once again assumed the cold, artifical expression it had worn previously. She returned to the circle in which the vicomte was continuing with his story and once again pretended to be listening, waiting until it was time to leave, since her business was already done.

VI

The end of the vicomte’s story went as follows:

“The Duc d’Enghien took out of his pocket a vial of rock crystal mounted in gold which contained the elixir of life given to his father by the Comte St. Germain. This elixir, as is well known, possessed the property of bringing the dead, or the almost dead, back to life, but it was not to be given to anyone but members of the house of Condé. Outsiders who tasted the elixir were cured in the same way as the Condés, but they became implacable enemies of the ducal house. A proof of this can be seen in the fact that the duke’s father, wishing to restore his dying horse, gave it these drops. The horse revived, but several times afterwards it attempted to kill its rider and once during a battle it carried him into the republicans’ camp. The duke’s father killed his beloved horse. In spite of this, the young and chivalrous Duc d’Enghien poured several drops into the mouth of his enemy Buonaparte, and the ogre revived.”

“‘Who are you?’ asked Buonaparte.

“‘A relative of the maid,’ replied the duke.

“‘Lies!’ cried Buonaparte.

“‘General, I am unarmed,’ replied the duke.

“‘Your name?’

“‘I have saved your life,’ replied the duke.

“The duke left, but the elixir took effect. Buonaparte began to feel hatred for the duke and from that day on he swore to destroy the unfortunate and magnanimous youth. Having learned who his rival was from a handkerchief dropped by the duke, which was embroidered with the crest of the house of Condé, Buonaparte ordered his minions to contrive a conspiracy between Pichegru and Georges as a pretext, then had the heroic martyr seized in the dukedom of Baden and killed.

“The angel and the demon. And that was how the most terrible crime in history was committed.”

With this the vicomte concluded his story and swung round on his chair in an excess of agitation. Everyone was silent.

“The murder of the duke was more than a crime, vicomte,” said Prince Andrei, smiling gently, as though he were making fun of the vicomte, “it was a mistake.”

The vicomte raised his eyebrows and spread his arms wide. His gesture could have signified many things.

“But what do you make of the latest farce, of the coronation in Milan?” asked Anna Pavlovna. “In this new farce, the peoples of Genoa and Lucca declare their wishes to Mr. Buonaparte and Mr. Buonaparte sits on a throne and grants the people’s wishes. Oh, it is exquisite! Why, it’s enough to drive one insane. Just imagine, the entire world has lost its wits.”

Prince Andrei turned away from Anna Pavlovna, as if to imply that the talk was leading nowhere.

“God has given me the crown. Woe betide him who touches it,” Prince Andrei declared proudly, as though they were his own words (they were in fact those of Bonaparte when the crown was set upon his head). “They say he looked awfully fine as he pronounced those words,” he added.

Anna Pavlovna glanced sharply at Prince Andrei.

“I hope,” she continued, “that that was the drop which will finally make the glass run over. The sovereigns can no longer tolerate this man who is such a threat to everything.”

“The sovereigns? I do not speak of Russia,” said the vicomte with courteous despair, “but the sovereigns! What did they do for Louis XVI, for the Queen, for Elizabeth? Nothing!” he continued, growing animated. “And believe me, they are now being punished for their betrayal of the Bourbon cause. The sovereigns? They send their ambassadors to greet this usurper of the throne.”

And with a contemptuous sigh he again shifted his position. At these words Prince Hippolyte, who had been looking at the vicomte through his lorgnette the whole time, suddenly turned his entire body towards the little Princess Bolkonskaya and, after asking her for a needle, began to show her, by drawing with the point on the table, the Condé coat of arms. He expounded it to her with an expression as intent as if the princess had asked him to do it.

“The Condé coat of arms consists of a shield with a staff gules engrailed with a staff azure,” he prattled. The princess listened, smiling.

“If Buonaparte remains on the throne of France for another year,” said the vicomte, continuing the chief conversation with the air of a man who is listening to no one, but merely pursuing his own train of thought on a matter which he knows better than everyone else, “then things will be carried too far by all the intrigues, violence, exiles and executions. Society, I mean good society, French society, will be exterminated for ever, and then what?”

He shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands.

“The Emperor Alexander,” said Anna Pavlovna with the melancholy that always accompanied her talk of the imperial family, “has declared that he will allow the French themselves to choose their own form of government. And I think there can be no doubt that, once it is liberated from the usurper, the entire nation will throw itself into the arms of the legitimate King,” said Anna Pavlovna, striving to be as gracious as possible with the émigré and royalist.

“Oh, if only that happy moment could come!” said the vicomte, inclining his head in gratitude for this mark of attention.

“And what do you think, Monsieur Pierre?” Anna Pavlovna sweetly asked the fat young man whose awkward silence was irksome to her as a polite hostess. “What do you think? You have recently come from Paris.”

While waiting for a reply, Anna Pavlovna smiled at the vicomte and the others, as if to say: “I must be polite even with him; you see, I still speak to him, even though I know he has nothing to say.”

VII

“The entire nation will die for its Emperor, for the greatest man in the world!” the young man said suddenly in a loud and vehement voice, without any preamble whatsoever, resembling a young peasant lad fearful of being interrupted and deprived of the opportunity to express himself in full. He glanced round at Prince Andrei. Prince Andrei smiled.

“The greatest genius of our age,” Pierre continued.

“What? That is your opinion? You are joking!” screeched Anna Pavlovna, her fright prompted less by the words that the young man uttered than by the animation, so spontaneous and entirely improper, that was expressed in the full, fleshy features of his face, and still more by the sound of his voice, which was too loud and, above all, too natural. He made no gestures and spoke in short bursts, occasionally adjusting his spectacles and glancing around, but it was clear from his whole appearance that no one could stop him now and he would express his entire view, regardless of the proprieties. The young man was like a wild, unbroken horse who, until saddled and stirrupped, is quiet and even timid and in no way different from other horses, but who, as soon as the harness is put on him, suddenly begins for no clear reason to pull in his head, and rear and buck in the most ludicrous manner possible, without knowing why himself. The young man had evidently sensed the bridle and begun his ludicrous bucking.

“Nobody in France even thinks about the Bourbons nowadays,” he continued hastily, so that no one would interrupt him, and constantly glancing round at Prince Andrei, as though he was the only one from whom he expected encouragement. “Do not forget that it is only three months since I returned from France.”

He spoke in excellent French.

“Monsieur le vicomte is absolutely right to suppose that in a year it will be too late for the Bourbons. It is already too late. There are no more royalists. Some have abandoned their fatherland, others have become Bonapartists. The whole of St. Germain pays homage to the Emperor.”

“There are exceptions,” the vicomte said superciliously.

The worldly, experienced Anna Pavlovna looked anxiously by turns at the vicomte and the improper young man and could not forgive herself for imprudently inviting this youth without first getting to know him.

The improper youth was the illegitimate son of a rich and renowned grandee. Anna Pavlovna had invited him out of respect for his father, bearing in mind also that Monsieur Pierre had just returned from abroad, where he had been educated.

“If only I had known that he was so badly brought up and a bonapartist,” she thought, looking at his big, close-cropped head and his large, fleshy features. “So this is the upbringing they give young men nowadays. You can tell a man of good society straight away,” she said to herself, admiring the vicomte’s composure.

“Almost the entire nobility,” Pierre continued, “has gone over to Bonaparte.”

“So say the Bonapartists,” said the vicomte. “It is hard these days to discover the opinion of the French public.”

“As Bonaparte said,” Prince Andrei began, and involuntarily everyone turned in the direction of his voice, which was low and indolent, but always audible because of its self-assurance, waiting to hear exactly what Bonaparte had said.

“‘I showed them the path to glory, but they did not want it,’” Prince Andrei continued after a brief silence, again repeating the words of Napoleon. “‘I opened up my ante-chambers and the crowds rushed in.’ I do not know how justified he was in saying that, but it was clever, viciously clever,” he concluded with an acid smile and turned away.

“He did have the right to speak out like that against the royalist aristocracy; it no longer exists in France,” Pierre put in, “or if it does, then it carries no weight. And the people? The people adore the great man, and the people have chosen him. The people are without prejudice; they have seen the greatest genius and hero in the world.”

“He might be a hero to some,” said the vicomte, not replying to the young man and not even looking at him, but addressing Anna Pavlovna and Prince Andrei, “but after the murder of the duke there is one more martyr in heaven and one less hero on earth.”