War and Peace

ostóv had come to Tilsit the day least suitable for a petition
on Denísov’s behalf. He could not himself go to the general in
attendance as he was in mufti and had come to Tilsit without permission
to do so, and Borís, even had he wished to, could not have done so on
the following day. On that day, June 27, the preliminaries of peace were
signed. The Emperors exchanged decorations: Alexander received the Cross
of the Legion of Honor and Napoleon the Order of St. Andrew of the
First Degree, and a dinner had been arranged for the evening, given by
a battalion of the French Guards to the Preobrazhénsk battalion. The
Emperors were to be present at that banquet.

Rostóv felt so ill at ease and uncomfortable with Borís that, when the
latter looked in after supper, he pretended to be asleep, and early next
morning went away, avoiding Borís. In his civilian clothes and a
round hat, he wandered about the town, staring at the French and their
uniforms and at the streets and houses where the Russian and French
Emperors were staying. In a square he saw tables being set up and
preparations made for the dinner; he saw the Russian and French colors
draped from side to side of the streets, with huge monograms A and N. In
the windows of the houses also flags and bunting were displayed.

“Borís doesn’t want to help me and I don’t want to ask him.
That’s settled,” thought Nicholas. “All is over between us, but
I won’t leave here without having done all I can for Denísov and
certainly not without getting his letter to the Emperor. The Emperor!...
He is here!” thought Rostóv, who had unconsciously returned to the
house where Alexander lodged.

Saddled horses were standing before the house and the suite were
assembling, evidently preparing for the Emperor to come out.

“I may see him at any moment,” thought Rostóv. “If only I were
to hand the letter direct to him and tell him all... could they really
arrest me for my civilian clothes? Surely not! He would understand on
whose side justice lies. He understands everything, knows everything.
Who can be more just, more magnanimous than he? And even if they did
arrest me for being here, what would it matter?” thought he, looking
at an officer who was entering the house the Emperor occupied. “After
all, people do go in.... It’s all nonsense! I’ll go in and hand
the letter to the Emperor myself so much the worse for Drubetskóy who
drives me to it!” And suddenly with a determination he himself did not
expect, Rostóv felt for the letter in his pocket and went straight to
the house.

“No, I won’t miss my opportunity now, as I did after Austerlitz,”
he thought, expecting every moment to meet the monarch, and conscious of
the blood that rushed to his heart at the thought. “I will fall at
his feet and beseech him. He will lift me up, will listen, and will even
thank me. ‘I am happy when I can do good, but to remedy injustice is
the greatest happiness,’” Rostóv fancied the sovereign saying. And
passing people who looked after him with curiosity, he entered the porch
of the Emperor’s house.

A broad staircase led straight up from the entry, and to the right he
saw a closed door. Below, under the staircase, was a door leading to the
lower floor.

“Whom do you want?” someone inquired.

“To hand in a letter, a petition, to His Majesty,” said Nicholas,
with a tremor in his voice.

“A petition? This way, to the officer on duty” (he was shown the
door leading downstairs), “only it won’t be accepted.”

On hearing this indifferent voice, Rostóv grew frightened at what
he was doing; the thought of meeting the Emperor at any moment was so
fascinating and consequently so alarming that he was ready to run away,
but the official who had questioned him opened the door, and Rostóv
entered.

A short stout man of about thirty, in white breeches and high boots and
a batiste shirt that he had evidently only just put on, standing in that
room, and his valet was buttoning on to the back of his breeches a
new pair of handsome silk-embroidered braces that, for some reason,
attracted Rostóv’s attention. This man was speaking to someone in the
adjoining room.

“A good figure and in her first bloom,” he was saying, but on seeing
Rostóv, he stopped short and frowned.

“What is it? A petition?”

“What is it?” asked the person in the other room.

“Another petitioner,” answered the man with the braces.

“Tell him to come later. He’ll be coming out directly, we must
go.”

“Later... later! Tomorrow. It’s too late...”

Rostóv turned and was about to go, but the man in the braces stopped
him.

“Whom have you come from? Who are you?”

“I come from Major Denísov,” answered Rostóv.

“Are you an officer?”

“Lieutenant Count Rostóv.”

“What audacity! Hand it in through your commander. And go along with
you... go,” and he continued to put on the uniform the valet handed
him.

Rostóv went back into the hall and noticed that in the porch there were
many officers and generals in full parade uniform, whom he had to pass.

Cursing his temerity, his heart sinking at the thought of finding
himself at any moment face to face with the Emperor and being put to
shame and arrested in his presence, fully alive now to the impropriety
of his conduct and repenting of it, Rostóv, with downcast eyes, was
making his way out of the house through the brilliant suite when a
familiar voice called him and a hand detained him.

“What are you doing here, sir, in civilian dress?” asked a deep
voice.

It was a cavalry general who had obtained the Emperor’s special favor
during this campaign, and who had formerly commanded the division in
which Rostóv was serving.

Rostóv, in dismay, began justifying himself, but seeing the kindly,
jocular face of the general, he took him aside and in an excited voice
told him the whole affair, asking him to intercede for Denísov, whom
the general knew. Having heard Rostóv to the end, the general shook his
head gravely.

“I’m sorry, sorry for that fine fellow. Give me the letter.”

Hardly had Rostóv handed him the letter and finished explaining
Denísov’s case, when hasty steps and the jingling of spurs were heard
on the stairs, and the general, leaving him, went to the porch. The
gentlemen of the Emperor’s suite ran down the stairs and went to their
horses. Hayne, the same groom who had been at Austerlitz, led up the
Emperor’s horse, and the faint creak of a footstep Rostóv knew at
once was heard on the stairs. Forgetting the danger of being recognized,
Rostóv went close to the porch, together with some inquisitive
civilians, and again, after two years, saw those features he adored:
that same face and same look and step, and the same union of majesty and
mildness.... And the feeling of enthusiasm and love for his sovereign
rose again in Rostóv’s soul in all its old force. In the uniform of
the Preobrazhénsk regiment—white chamois-leather breeches and high
boots—and wearing a star Rostóv did not know (it was that of the
Légion d’honneur), the monarch came out into the porch, putting on
his gloves and carrying his hat under his arm. He stopped and looked
about him, brightening everything around by his glance. He spoke a few
words to some of the generals, and, recognizing the former commander of
Rostóv’s division, smiled and beckoned to him.

All the suite drew back and Rostóv saw the general talking for some
time to the Emperor.

The Emperor said a few words to him and took a step toward his horse.
Again the crowd of members of the suite and street gazers (among whom
was Rostóv) moved nearer to the Emperor. Stopping beside his horse,
with his hand on the saddle, the Emperor turned to the cavalry general
and said in a loud voice, evidently wishing to be heard by all:

“I cannot do it, General. I cannot, because the law is stronger than
I,” and he raised his foot to the stirrup.

The general bowed his head respectfully, and the monarch mounted and
rode down the street at a gallop. Beside himself with enthusiasm,
Rostóv ran after him with the crowd.