War and Peace

rince Vasíli was not a man who deliberately thought out his plans.
Still less did he think of injuring anyone for his own advantage. He
was merely a man of the world who had got on and to whom getting on had
become a habit. Schemes and devices for which he never rightly accounted
to himself, but which formed the whole interest of his life,
were constantly shaping themselves in his mind, arising from the
circumstances and persons he met. Of these plans he had not merely one
or two in his head but dozens, some only beginning to form themselves,
some approaching achievement, and some in course of disintegration. He
did not, for instance, say to himself: “This man now has influence, I
must gain his confidence and friendship and through him obtain a special
grant.” Nor did he say to himself: “Pierre is a rich man, I must
entice him to marry my daughter and lend me the forty thousand rubles
I need.” But when he came across a man of position his instinct
immediately told him that this man could be useful, and without any
premeditation Prince Vasíli took the first opportunity to gain his
confidence, flatter him, become intimate with him, and finally make his
request.

He had Pierre at hand in Moscow and procured for him an appointment as
Gentleman of the Bedchamber, which at that time conferred the status of
Councilor of State, and insisted on the young man accompanying him to
Petersburg and staying at his house. With apparent absent-mindedness,
yet with unhesitating assurance that he was doing the right thing,
Prince Vasíli did everything to get Pierre to marry his daughter. Had
he thought out his plans beforehand he could not have been so natural
and shown such unaffected familiarity in intercourse with everybody both
above and below him in social standing. Something always drew him toward
those richer and more powerful than himself and he had rare skill in
seizing the most opportune moment for making use of people.

Pierre, on unexpectedly becoming Count Bezúkhov and a rich man, felt
himself after his recent loneliness and freedom from cares so beset and
preoccupied that only in bed was he able to be by himself. He had to
sign papers, to present himself at government offices, the purpose of
which was not clear to him, to question his chief steward, to visit his
estate near Moscow, and to receive many people who formerly did not
even wish to know of his existence but would now have been offended
and grieved had he chosen not to see them. These different
people—businessmen, relations, and acquaintances alike—were all
disposed to treat the young heir in the most friendly and flattering
manner: they were all evidently firmly convinced of Pierre’s noble
qualities. He was always hearing such words as: “With your remarkable
kindness,” or, “With your excellent heart,” “You are yourself so
honorable, Count,” or, “Were he as clever as you,” and so on,
till he began sincerely to believe in his own exceptional kindness and
extraordinary intelligence, the more so as in the depth of his heart it
had always seemed to him that he really was very kind and intelligent.
Even people who had formerly been spiteful toward him and evidently
unfriendly now became gentle and affectionate. The angry eldest
princess, with the long waist and hair plastered down like a doll’s,
had come into Pierre’s room after the funeral. With drooping eyes
and frequent blushes she told him she was very sorry about their past
misunderstandings and did not now feel she had a right to ask him for
anything, except only for permission, after the blow she had received,
to remain for a few weeks longer in the house she so loved and where
she had sacrificed so much. She could not refrain from weeping at these
words. Touched that this statuesque princess could so change, Pierre
took her hand and begged her forgiveness, without knowing what for.
From that day the eldest princess quite changed toward Pierre and began
knitting a striped scarf for him.

“Do this for my sake, mon cher; after all, she had to put up with a
great deal from the deceased,” said Prince Vasíli to him, handing him
a deed to sign for the princess’ benefit.

Prince Vasíli had come to the conclusion that it was necessary to throw
this bone—a bill for thirty thousand rubles—to the poor princess
that it might not occur to her to speak of his share in the affair of
the inlaid portfolio. Pierre signed the deed and after that the princess
grew still kinder. The younger sisters also became affectionate to him,
especially the youngest, the pretty one with the mole, who often made
him feel confused by her smiles and her own confusion when meeting him.

It seemed so natural to Pierre that everyone should like him, and it
would have seemed so unnatural had anyone disliked him, that he could
not but believe in the sincerity of those around him. Besides, he had
no time to ask himself whether these people were sincere or not. He
was always busy and always felt in a state of mild and cheerful
intoxication. He felt as though he were the center of some important and
general movement; that something was constantly expected of him, that if
he did not do it he would grieve and disappoint many people, but if he
did this and that, all would be well; and he did what was demanded of
him, but still that happy result always remained in the future.

More than anyone else, Prince Vasíli took possession of Pierre’s
affairs and of Pierre himself in those early days. From the death of
Count Bezúkhov he did not let go his hold of the lad. He had the air of
a man oppressed by business, weary and suffering, who yet would not, for
pity’s sake, leave this helpless youth who, after all, was the son of
his old friend and the possessor of such enormous wealth, to the caprice
of fate and the designs of rogues. During the few days he spent in
Moscow after the death of Count Bezúkhov, he would call Pierre, or
go to him himself, and tell him what ought to be done in a tone of
weariness and assurance, as if he were adding every time: “You know
I am overwhelmed with business and it is purely out of charity that
I trouble myself about you, and you also know quite well that what I
propose is the only thing possible.”

“Well, my dear fellow, tomorrow we are off at last,” said Prince
Vasíli one day, closing his eyes and fingering Pierre’s elbow,
speaking as if he were saying something which had long since been agreed
upon and could not now be altered. “We start tomorrow and I’m giving
you a place in my carriage. I am very glad. All our important business
here is now settled, and I ought to have been off long ago. Here is
something I have received from the chancellor. I asked him for you, and
you have been entered in the diplomatic corps and made a Gentleman of
the Bedchamber. The diplomatic career now lies open before you.”

Notwithstanding the tone of wearied assurance with which these words
were pronounced, Pierre, who had so long been considering his career,
wished to make some suggestion. But Prince Vasíli interrupted him in
the special deep cooing tone, precluding the possibility of interrupting
his speech, which he used in extreme cases when special persuasion was
needed.

“Mais, mon cher, I did this for my own sake, to satisfy my conscience,
and there is nothing to thank me for. No one has ever complained yet of
being too much loved; and besides, you are free, you could throw it
up tomorrow. But you will see everything for yourself when you get to
Petersburg. It is high time for you to get away from these terrible
recollections.” Prince Vasíli sighed. “Yes, yes, my boy. And my
valet can go in your carriage. Ah! I was nearly forgetting,” he added.
“You know, mon cher, your father and I had some accounts to settle, so
I have received what was due from the Ryazán estate and will keep it;
you won’t require it. We’ll go into the accounts later.”

By “what was due from the Ryazán estate” Prince Vasíli meant
several thousand rubles quitrent received from Pierre’s peasants,
which the prince had retained for himself.

In Petersburg, as in Moscow, Pierre found the same atmosphere of
gentleness and affection. He could not refuse the post, or rather the
rank (for he did nothing), that Prince Vasíli had procured for him,
and acquaintances, invitations, and social occupations were so numerous
that, even more than in Moscow, he felt a sense of bewilderment, bustle,
and continual expectation of some good, always in front of him but never
attained.

Of his former bachelor acquaintances many were no longer in Petersburg.
The Guards had gone to the front; Dólokhov had been reduced to the
ranks; Anatole was in the army somewhere in the provinces; Prince Andrew
was abroad; so Pierre had not the opportunity to spend his nights as he
used to like to spend them, or to open his mind by intimate talks with
a friend older than himself and whom he respected. His whole time
was taken up with dinners and balls and was spent chiefly at Prince
Vasíli’s house in the company of the stout princess, his wife, and
his beautiful daughter Hélène.

Like the others, Anna Pávlovna Schérer showed Pierre the change of
attitude toward him that had taken place in society.

Formerly in Anna Pávlovna’s presence, Pierre had always felt that
what he was saying was out of place, tactless and unsuitable, that
remarks which seemed to him clever while they formed in his mind became
foolish as soon as he uttered them, while on the contrary Hippolyte’s
stupidest remarks came out clever and apt. Now everything Pierre said
was charmant. Even if Anna Pávlovna did not say so, he could see that
she wished to and only refrained out of regard for his modesty.

In the beginning of the winter of 1805-6 Pierre received one of Anna
Pávlovna’s usual pink notes with an invitation to which was added:
“You will find the beautiful Hélène here, whom it is always
delightful to see.”

When he read that sentence, Pierre felt for the first time that some
link which other people recognized had grown up between himself and
Hélène, and that thought both alarmed him, as if some obligation were
being imposed on him which he could not fulfill, and pleased him as an
entertaining supposition.

Anna Pávlovna’s “At Home” was like the former one, only the
novelty she offered her guests this time was not Mortemart, but a
diplomatist fresh from Berlin with the very latest details of the
Emperor Alexander’s visit to Potsdam, and of how the two august
friends had pledged themselves in an indissoluble alliance to uphold
the cause of justice against the enemy of the human race. Anna Pávlovna
received Pierre with a shade of melancholy, evidently relating to the
young man’s recent loss by the death of Count Bezúkhov (everyone
constantly considered it a duty to assure Pierre that he was greatly
afflicted by the death of the father he had hardly known), and her
melancholy was just like the august melancholy she showed at the mention
of her most august Majesty the Empress Márya Fëdorovna. Pierre felt
flattered by this. Anna Pávlovna arranged the different groups in her
drawing room with her habitual skill. The large group, in which were
Prince Vasíli and the generals, had the benefit of the diplomat.
Another group was at the tea table. Pierre wished to join the former,
but Anna Pávlovna—who was in the excited condition of a commander on
a battlefield to whom thousands of new and brilliant ideas occur which
there is hardly time to put in action—seeing Pierre, touched his
sleeve with her finger, saying:

“Wait a bit, I have something in view for you this evening.”
(She glanced at Hélène and smiled at her.) “My dear Hélène, be
charitable to my poor aunt who adores you. Go and keep her company for
ten minutes. And that it will not be too dull, here is the dear count
who will not refuse to accompany you.”

The beauty went to the aunt, but Anna Pávlovna detained Pierre, looking
as if she had to give some final necessary instructions.

“Isn’t she exquisite?” she said to Pierre, pointing to the stately
beauty as she glided away. “And how she carries herself! For so young
a girl, such tact, such masterly perfection of manner! It comes from
her heart. Happy the man who wins her! With her the least worldly of men
would occupy a most brilliant position in society. Don’t you think so?
I only wanted to know your opinion,” and Anna Pávlovna let Pierre go.

Pierre, in reply, sincerely agreed with her as to Hélène’s
perfection of manner. If he ever thought of Hélène, it was just of
her beauty and her remarkable skill in appearing silently dignified in
society.

The old aunt received the two young people in her corner, but seemed
desirous of hiding her adoration for Hélène and inclined rather
to show her fear of Anna Pávlovna. She looked at her niece, as if
inquiring what she was to do with these people. On leaving them, Anna
Pávlovna again touched Pierre’s sleeve, saying: “I hope you won’t
say that it is dull in my house again,” and she glanced at Hélène.

Hélène smiled, with a look implying that she did not admit the
possibility of anyone seeing her without being enchanted. The aunt
coughed, swallowed, and said in French that she was very pleased to see
Hélène, then she turned to Pierre with the same words of welcome
and the same look. In the middle of a dull and halting conversation,
Hélène turned to Pierre with the beautiful bright smile that she gave
to everyone. Pierre was so used to that smile, and it had so little
meaning for him, that he paid no attention to it. The aunt was just
speaking of a collection of snuffboxes that had belonged to Pierre’s
father, Count Bezúkhov, and showed them her own box. Princess Hélène
asked to see the portrait of the aunt’s husband on the box lid.

“That is probably the work of Vinesse,” said Pierre, mentioning
a celebrated miniaturist, and he leaned over the table to take the
snuffbox while trying to hear what was being said at the other table.

He half rose, meaning to go round, but the aunt handed him the snuffbox,
passing it across Hélène’s back. Hélène stooped forward to make
room, and looked round with a smile. She was, as always at evening
parties, wearing a dress such as was then fashionable, cut very low at
front and back. Her bust, which had always seemed like marble to Pierre,
was so close to him that his shortsighted eyes could not but perceive
the living charm of her neck and shoulders, so near to his lips that
he need only have bent his head a little to have touched them. He was
conscious of the warmth of her body, the scent of perfume, and the
creaking of her corset as she moved. He did not see her marble beauty
forming a complete whole with her dress, but all the charm of her body
only covered by her garments. And having once seen this he could not
help being aware of it, just as we cannot renew an illusion we have once
seen through.

“So you have never noticed before how beautiful I am?” Hélène
seemed to say. “You had not noticed that I am a woman? Yes, I am a
woman who may belong to anyone—to you too,” said her glance. And at
that moment Pierre felt that Hélène not only could, but must, be his
wife, and that it could not be otherwise.

He knew this at that moment as surely as if he had been standing at the
altar with her. How and when this would be he did not know, he did not
even know if it would be a good thing (he even felt, he knew not why,
that it would be a bad thing), but he knew it would happen.

Pierre dropped his eyes, lifted them again, and wished once more to see
her as a distant beauty far removed from him, as he had seen her every
day until then, but he could no longer do it. He could not, any more
than a man who has been looking at a tuft of steppe grass through the
mist and taking it for a tree can again take it for a tree after he has
once recognized it to be a tuft of grass. She was terribly close to him.
She already had power over him, and between them there was no longer any
barrier except the barrier of his own will.

“Well, I will leave you in your little corner,” came Anna
Pávlovna’s voice, “I see you are all right there.”

And Pierre, anxiously trying to remember whether he had done anything
reprehensible, looked round with a blush. It seemed to him that everyone
knew what had happened to him as he knew it himself.

A little later when he went up to the large circle, Anna Pávlovna said
to him: “I hear you are refitting your Petersburg house?”

This was true. The architect had told him that it was necessary, and
Pierre, without knowing why, was having his enormous Petersburg house
done up.

“That’s a good thing, but don’t move from Prince Vasíli’s. It
is good to have a friend like the prince,” she said, smiling at Prince
Vasíli. “I know something about that. Don’t I? And you are still so
young. You need advice. Don’t be angry with me for exercising an old
woman’s privilege.”

She paused, as women always do, expecting something after they have
mentioned their age. “If you marry it will be a different thing,”
she continued, uniting them both in one glance. Pierre did not look at
Hélène nor she at him. But she was just as terribly close to him. He
muttered something and colored.

When he got home he could not sleep for a long time for thinking of what
had happened. What had happened? Nothing. He had merely understood that
the woman he had known as a child, of whom when her beauty was mentioned
he had said absent-mindedly: “Yes, she’s good looking,” he had
understood that this woman might belong to him.

“But she’s stupid. I have myself said she is stupid,” he thought.
“There is something nasty, something wrong, in the feeling she excites
in me. I have been told that her brother Anatole was in love with her
and she with him, that there was quite a scandal and that that’s why
he was sent away. Hippolyte is her brother... Prince Vasíli is her
father... It’s bad....” he reflected, but while he was thinking this
(the reflection was still incomplete), he caught himself smiling and was
conscious that another line of thought had sprung up, and while thinking
of her worthlessness he was also dreaming of how she would be his
wife, how she would love him become quite different, and how all he had
thought and heard of her might be false. And he again saw her not as the
daughter of Prince Vasíli, but visualized her whole body only veiled
by its gray dress. “But no! Why did this thought never occur to me
before?” and again he told himself that it was impossible, that there
would be something unnatural, and as it seemed to him dishonorable, in
this marriage. He recalled her former words and looks and the words
and looks of those who had seen them together. He recalled Anna
Pávlovna’s words and looks when she spoke to him about his house,
recalled thousands of such hints from Prince Vasíli and others, and was
seized by terror lest he had already, in some way, bound himself to do
something that was evidently wrong and that he ought not to do. But at
the very time he was expressing this conviction to himself, in another
part of his mind her image rose in all its womanly beauty.