While these conversations were going on in the reception room and the princess's room, a carriage containing Pierre, who had been sent for, and Anna Mikhailovna, who found it necessary to accompany him, was driving into the court of Count Besyukov's house. As the wheels rolled softly over the straw beneath the windows, Anna Mikhailovna, having turned with words of comfort to her companion, realised that he was asleep in his corner, and woke him up, rousing himself. Pierre followed Anna Mikhailovna out of the carriage, and only then began to think of the interview with his dying father, which awaited him. He noticed that they had not come to the front entrance but to the back door. While he was getting down from the carriage steps, two men, who looked like tradespeople, ran hurriedly from the entrance and hid in the shadow of the wall. Pausing for a moment, Pierre noticed several other men of the same kind, hiding in the shadow of the house on both sides. But neither Anna Mikhailovna, nor the footman, nor the coachman, who could not help seeing these people, took any notice of them. It seems to be all right, Pierre concluded, and followed Anna Mikhailovna. She hurriedly ascended the narrow, dimly-lit stone staircase, calling to Pierre, who was lagging behind, to follow. Though he did not see why it was necessary for him to go to the count at all, still less why he had to go by the buck stairs, yet judging by Anna Mikhailovna's air of assurance and haste, Pierre concluded that it was all absolutely necessary. Halfway up the stairs, they were almost knocked over by some men who, carrying pearls, came running downstairs, their boots clattering. These men pressed close to the wall to let Pierre and Anna Mikhailovna pass, and did not evince the least surprise at seeing them there. Is this the way to the princess's apartments? asked Anna Mikhailovna of one of them. Yes! replied a footman in a bold, loud voice, as if anything were now permissible. The door to the left, ma'am. Perhaps the count did not ask for me, said Pierre, when he reached the landing. I'd better go to my own room. Anna Mikhailovna paused, and waited for him to come up. Ah! my friend! she said, touching his arm, as she had done her sons when speaking to him that afternoon. Believe me, I suffer no less than you do, but be a man! But really, hadn't I better go away? he asked, looking kindly at her over his spectacles. Ah! my dear friend! forget the wrongs that may have been done you! Think that he is your father! Perhaps in the agony of death, she sighed. I have loved you like a son from the first. Trust yourself to me, Pierre. I shall not forget your interests. Pierre did not understand a word, but the conviction that all this hard to be grew stronger, and he meekly flew down to Mikhailovna, who was already opening a door. This door laid into a back-and-a-room. An old man, a servant of the princesses, sat in her corner, knitting a stocking. Pierre had never been in this part of the house, and did not even know of the existence of these rooms. Anna Mikhailovna, a dressing-a-maid who was hurrying past with a decanter on a tray as my dear and my sweet, asked about the princess's health, and then led Pierre along a stoned posage. The first one on the left laid into the princess's apartments. The maid with the decanter in her haste had not closed the door. Everything in the house was done in haste at that time. And Pierre and Anna Mikhailovna, in passing, instinctively glanced into the room where Prince Vasily and the eldest princess were sitting close together, talking. Seeing them pass, Prince Vasily drew back with obvious impatience, while the princess jumped up and, with a gesture of desperation, slammed the door with all her might. This action was so unlike her usual composure, and the fear depicted on Prince Vasily's verse so out of keeping with his dignity that Pierre stopped and glanced inquiringly over his spectacles at his guide. Anna Mikhailovna evinced to no surprise. She only smiled faintly and sighed, as if to say that this was no more than she had expected. Be amine, my friend, I will look after your interests," said she in reply to his look. And went still faster along the posage. Pierre could not make out what it was all about, and still less what watching over his interests meant. But he decided that all these things had to be. From the posage they went into a large, dim-lillet room adjoining the Count's reception room. It was one of those sumptuous but cold apartments known to Pierre only from the front approach, but even in this room there now stood an empty bath, and water had been spilled on the carpet. They were met by a deacon, with a censor, and by a servant who passed out on tiptoe without heeding them. They went into the reception room familiar to Pierre, with two Italian windows opening into the conservatory, with its large bust and full-length portrait of Catherine the Great. The same people were still sitting here in almost the same positions as before, whispering to one another. All became silent, and turned to look at the pale, tear-worn Anna Mikolovna as she entered, and at the big stout figure of Pierre, who, hanging his head, meekly followed her. Anna Mikolovna's face expressed a consciousness that the decisive moment had arrived. With the air of a practical Petersburg lady, she now, keeping Pierre close beside her, entered the room even more boldly than that afternoon. She felt that, as she brought with her the person the dying man wished to see, her own admission was assured. Casting a rapid glance at all those in the room, and noticing the count's confessor there, she glided up to him with a salt of amble, not exactly bowing, yet seeming to grow, suddenly smaller, and respectfully received the blessing first of one, and then of another priest. God be thanked that you were in time, she said, to one of the priests. All we relatives have been in such anxiety. This young man is the count's son, she added more softly. What a terrible moment. Having said this, she went up to the doctor. Dear doctor, said she, this young man is the count's son, is there any hope? The doctor cast a rapid glance upwards, and silently shrugged his shoulders. Anna Mikolovna with just the same movement raised her shoulders and eyes, almost closing the lotter, sighed, and moved away from the doctor to Pierre. To him, in a particularly respectful and tenderly sad voice, she said, trust in his mercy, and pointing out a small sofa for him to sit and wait for her. She went silently toward the door that everyone was watching, and it creaked very slightly as she disappeared behind it. Pierre, having made up his mind to obey his monitress implicitly, moved toward the sofa, she had indicated. As soon as Anna Mikolovna had disappeared, he noticed that the eyes of all in the room turned to him with something more than curiosity and sympathy. He noticed that they whispered to one another, casting significant looks at him with a kind of awe and even civility. A deference such as he had never before received was shown him. A strange lady, the one who had been talking to the priests, rose and offered him a seat. An ed decamp picked up and returned a glove Pierre had dropped. The doctors became respectfully silent as he passed by, and moved to make way for him. At first Pierre wished to take another seat, so as not to trouble the lady, and also to pick up the glove himself, and to pass round the doctors who were not even in his way, but all at once, he felt that this work did not do. And that tonight he was a personal obliged to perform some sort of awful right which everyone expected of him, and that he was therefore bound to accept their services. He took the glove in silence from the ed decamp, and sat down in the latest chair, placing his huge hands symmetrically on his knees in the naïvet attitude of an Egyptian statue, and decided in his own mind that all walls as it shall be, and that in order not to lose his head and do foolish things he must not act on his own ideas tonight, but must yield himself up entirely to the will of those who are guiding him. Not two minutes had passed before Prince Fassily, with head erect, majestically entered the room. He was wearing his long coat with three stars on the breast. He seemed to have grown thinner since the morning. His eyes seemed larger than usual when he glanced round and noticed Pierre. He went up to him, took his hand, a thing he never used to do, and drew it downwards as if wishing to ascertain whether it was firmly fixed on. Courage! Courage, my friend, he has asked to see you! That is well! And he turned to go. But Pierre thought it necessary to ask. How is, and hesitated, not knowing whether it would be proper to call the dying man the Count, yet ashamed to call him Father. He had another stroke about half an hour ago. Courage, my friend! Pierre's mind was in such a confused state that the word stroke suggested to him a blow from something. He looked at Prince Fassily in perplexity and only later grasped that a stroke was an attack of illness. Prince Fassily said something to Lorraine in passing, and went through the door on tiptoe. He could not walk well on tiptoe, and his whole body jerked at each step. The eldest princess followed him, and the priests and deacons, and some servants also went in at the door. Through that door was heard a noise of things being moved about. And at last Anna Mikalovna, still with the same expression, pale but resolute in the discharge of duty, ran out, and touching Pierre lightly on the arm, said, The divine mercy is inexhaustible. Auction is about to be administered. Come! Pierre went in at the door, stepping on the soft carpet, and noticed that the strange lady, the aide de camp, and some of the servants, all followed him in. As if there were now no further need for permission to enter that room. End of Chapter 22. Chapter 23. Pierre well knew this large room divided by columns and an arch. Its walls hung round with Persian carpets. The part of the room behind the columns, with a high silk-curtained mahogany bedstead on one side, and on the other an immense case containing icons, was brightly illuminated with red light like a Russian church during evening service. Under the gleaming icons stood a long, invalid chair, and in that chair on snowy white smooth pillows, evidently freshly changed, Pierre saw, covered to the waist by a bright green quilt, the familiar majestic figure of his father, Count Bezekoff, with that gray mane of hair above his broad forehead, which reminded one of a lion, and the deep characteristically noble wrinkles of his handsome, ruddy face. He lay just under the icons, his large thick hands outside the quilt. Into the right hand, which was lying palm downwards, a wax taper had been thrust between forefinger and thumb, and an old servant, bending over from behind the chair, held it in position. By the chair stood the priests, their long hair falling over their magnificent glittering vestments, with lighted tapers in their hands, slowly and solemnly conducting the service. A little behind them stood the two younger princesses, holding handkerchiefs to their eyes, and just in front of them their eldest sister, Katish, with a vicious and determined look steadily fixed on the icons, as though declaring to all that she could not answer for herself, should she glance round. Anna Mikhailovna, with a meek, sorrowful, and all forgiving expression on her face, stood by the door near the strange lady. Prince Facili, in front of the door, near the invalid chair, a wax taper in his left hand, was leaning his left arm on the carved back of a velvet chair. He had turned round for the purpose, and was crossing himself with his right hand. Turning his eyes upward each time, he touched his forehead. His face wore a calm look of piety, and resignation to the will of God. If you do not understand these sentiments, he seemed to be saying, so much the worse for you. Behind him stood the aide de camp, the doctors and the men's servants, the men and women had separated as in church. All were silently crossing themselves, and the reading of the church service, the subdued chanting of deep bass voices, and in the intervals, sighs, and the shuffling of feet, were the only sounds that could be heard. Anna Mikhailovna, with an air of importance that showed that she felt she quite knew what she was about, went across the room to where Pierre was standing, and gave him a taper. He lit it, and, distracted by observing those around him, began crossing himself with the hand that held the taper. Sophie, the rosy, laughter-loving, youngest princess with the mole, watched him. She smiled, hid her face and her handkerchief, and remained with it hidden for a while. Then, looking up and seeing Pierre, she again began to laugh. She evidently felt unable to look at him, without laughing, but could not resist looking at him. So, to be out of temptation, she slipped quietly behind one of the columns. In the midst of the service, the voices of the priests suddenly ceased. They whispered to one another, and the old servant, who was holding the count's hand, got up and said something to the ladies. Anna Mikhailovna stepped forward and, stooping over the dying man, beckoned to Lorraine from behind her back. The French doctor held no taper. He was leaning against one of the columns in a respectful attitude, implying that he, a foreigner, in spite of all differences of faith, understood the full importance of the right now being performed, and even approved of it. He now approached the sick man with the noiseless step of one in full vigor of life, with his delicate white fingers raised from the quilt, the hand that was free, and turning sideways, felt the pulse, and reflected a moment. The sick man was given something to drink. There was a stir around him. Then the people resumed their places, and the service continued. During this interval Pierre noticed that Prince Facili left the chair on which he had been leaning, and with air which intimated that he knew what he was about, and if others did not understand him—it was so much the worse for them—did not go up to the dying man, but passed by him, joined the eldest princess, and moved with her to the side of the room where stood the high bedstead with its silken hangings. On leaving the bed both Prince Facili and the princess passed out by a back door, but returned to their places one after the other before the service was concluded. Pierre paid no more attention to this occurrence than to the rest of what went on, having made up his mind once and for all that what he saw happening around him that evening was in some way essential. The chanting of the service ceased, and the voice of the priest was heard respectfully congratulating the dying man on having received the sacrament. The dying man lay as lifeless and immovable as before. Around him everyone began to stir. Steps were audible, and whispers, among which Anna Mikhailovna's was the most distinct. Pierre heard her say, certainly he must be moved on to the bed. Here it will be impossible. The sick man was so surrounded by doctors, princesses, and servants that Pierre could no longer see their reddish-yellow face with its gray mane, which, though he saw other faces as well, he had not lost sight of for a single moment during the whole service. He judged by the cautious movements of those who crowded round the invalid chair that they had lifted the dying man and were moving him. Catch hold of my arm or you'll drop him! he heard one of the servants say in a frightened whisper, catch hold from underneath, here! exclaimed different voices, and the heavy breathing of the bears and the shuffling of their feet grew more hurried, as if the weights they were carrying were too much for them. As the bears, among them who was Anna Mikhailovna, passed the young man, he caught a momentary glimpse between their heads and backs of the dying man's high, stout, uncovered chest and powerful shoulders, raised by those who were holding him under the armpits, and of his gray, curly, linen head. This head, with its remarkably broad brow and cheekbones, its handsome sensual mouth and its cold majestic expression, was not disfigured by the approach of death. It was the same as Pierre remembered it three months before, when the Count had sent him to Petersburg. But now this head was swaying helplessly with the uneven movements of the bears, and the cold, listless gaze fixed itself upon nothing. After a few minutes' bustle, beside the high bedstead, those who had carried the sick man disappeared. Anna Mikhailovna touched Pierre's hand and said, come. Pierre went with her to the bed on which the sick man had been laid in a stately pose in keeping with the ceremony just completed. He lay with his head propped high on the pillows. His hands were symmetrically placed on the green silk quilt, the palm's downward. When Pierre came up the Count was gazing straight at him, but with a look the significance of which could not be understood by mortal man. Even if this look meant nothing but that as long as one has eyes they must look somewhere, or it meant too much. Pierre hesitated, not knowing what to do, and glanced inquiringly at his guide.  Pierre, carefully stretching his neck so as not to touch the quilt, followed her suggestion and pressed his lips to the large, boned, fleshy hand. Neither the hand nor a single muscle of the Count's face stirred. Once more, Pierre looked questioningly at Anna Mikhailovna to see what he was to do next. Anna Mikhailovna with her eyes indicated a chair that stood beside the bed. Pierre obediently sat down, his eyes asking if he were doing right. Anna Mikhailovna nodded approvingly. Again Pierre fell into the naively symmetrical pose of an Egyptian statue. Evidently distressed that his stout and clumsy body took up so much room and doing his utmost to look as small as possible. He looked at the Count, who still gazed at the spot where Pierre's face had been before he sat down. Anna Mikhailovna indicated by her attitude her consciousness of the pathetic importance of these last moments of meeting between father and son. This lasted about two minutes, which to Pierre seemed an hour. Suddenly the broad muscles and lines of the Count's face began to twitch. The twitching increased. The handsome mouth was drawn to one side. Only now did Pierre realize how near death his father was, and from that distorted mouth issued an indistinct horse sound. Anna Mikhailovna looked attentively at the sick man's eyes, trying to guess what he wanted. She pointed first to Pierre, then to some drink, then named Prince Facili in an inquiring whisper, then pointed to the quilt.  He made an effort to look at the servant who stood constantly at the head of the bed. Once to turn to the other side, whispered the servant, and got up to turn the Count's heavy body toward the wall. Pierre rose to help him. While the Count was being turned over, one of his arms fell back helplessly, and he made a fruitless effort to pull it forward. Whether he noticed the look of terror with which Pierre regarded that lifeless arm, or whether some other thought flitted across his dying brain at any rate, he glanced at the refractory arm, at Pierre's terror-stricken face, and again at the arm, and on his face a feeble, piteous smile appeared, quite out of keeping with his features that seemed to deride his own helplessness.   He sighed. He is dozing, said Anna Mikalovna, observing that one of the princesses was coming to take her turn at watching. Let us go. Pierre went out. End of Chapter 23 from Book 1 of War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy. Read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California for LibriVox. Fall 2006. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. War and Peace. Book 1. Translated by Islemar and Louise Maud. Chapter 24 There was now no one in the reception room, except Prince Facili and the eldest princess, who were sitting under the portrait of Catherine the Great and talking eagerly. As soon as they saw Pierre and his companion, they became silent, and Pierre thought he saw the princess hide something as she whispered, I can't bear the sight of that woman. Catechesis had tea served in the small drawing room, said Prince Facili to Anna Mikalovna. Go and take something, my poor Anna Mikalovna, or you will not hold out. To Pierre he said nothing, merely giving his arm a sympathetic squeeze below the shoulder. Pierre went with Anna Mikalovna into the small drawing room. There is nothing so refreshing after a sleepless night as a cup of this delicious Russian tea. Laurent was saying with an air of restrained animation, as he stood sipping the tea from a delicate Chinese handle-less cup, before a table on which tea and a cold supper were laid in the small circular room. Around the table all who were at Count Bezikov's house that night had gathered to fortify themselves. Pierre well remembered this small circular drawing room with its mirrors and little tables. During balls given at the house Pierre, who did not know how to dance, had liked sitting in this room to watch the ladies who, as they passed through in their ball, dresses with diamonds and pearls on their bare shoulders, looked at themselves in the brilliantly lighted mirrors which repeated their reflections several times. Now this same room was dimly lighted by two candles. On one small table tea things and supper dishes stood in disorder, and in the middle of the night a motley throng of people sat there, not merry-making, but somberly whispering, and betraying by every word and movement that they none of them forgot what was happening and what was about to happen in the bedroom. Pierre did not eat anything, though he would very much have liked to. He looked inquiringly at his monetress, and saw that she was again going on tiptoe to the reception room where they had left Prince Facili and the eldest princess. Pierre concluded that this also was essential, and, after a short interval, followed her. Anna Mikhailovna was standing beside the princess, and they were both speaking in excited whispers. Permit me, Princess, to know what is necessary and what is not necessary, said the younger of the two speakers, evidently in the same state of excitement as when she had slammed the door of her room. But, my dear princess, answered Anna Mikhailovna blandly, but impressively, blocking the way to the bedroom and preventing the other from passing, won't this be too much for poor uncle at a moment when he needs repose? Worldly conversation at a moment when his soul is already prepared. Prince Facili was seated in an easy chair in his familiar attitude, with one leg crossed high above the other. His cheeks, which were so flabby that they looked heavier below, were twitching violently. But he wore the air of a man little concerned in what the two ladies were saying. Come, my dear Anna Mikhailovna, let Katish do as she pleases. You know how fun the count is of her. I don't even know what is in this paper, said the younger of the two ladies, addressing Prince Facili, and pointing to an inlaid portfolio she held in her hand. All I know is that his real will is in his writing table, and this is a paper he has forgotten. She tried to pass Anna Mikhailovna, but the latter sprang so as to bar her path. I know, my dear kind Princess, said Anna Mikhailovna, seizing the portfolio so firmly that it was plain she would not let go easily. Dear Princess, I beg and implored you, have some pity on him. Je vous en conjure. The Princess did not reply. Their efforts in the struggle for the portfolio were the only sounds audible. But it was evident that if the Princess did speak, her words would not be flattering to Anna Mikhailovna. Though the latter held on tenaciously, her voice lost none of its honeyed firmness and softness. Pierre, my dear, come here. I think he will not be out of place in a family consultation. Is it not so, Prince? Why don't you speak, cousin? Suddenly shrieked the Princess so loud that those in the drawing-room heard her, and were startled. What do you remain silent when Heaven knows who permits herself to interfere, making a scene on the very threshold of a dying man's room? In trigger, she hissed viciously, and tugged with all her might at the portfolio. But Anna Mikhailovna went forward a step or two to keep her hold on the portfolio, and changed her grip. Prince facility rose. Oh, said he, with reproach and surprise. This is absurd. Come, let go, I tell you. The Princess, let go. And you, too. But Anna Mikhailovna did not obey him. Let go, I tell you. I will take the responsibility. I myself will go and ask him. I— Does that satisfy you? But Prince, said Anna Mikhailovna, after such a solemn sacrament, allow him a moment's peace. Here. Pierre, tell them your opinion, said she, turning to the young man who, having come quite close, was gazing with astonishment at the angry face of the Princess, which had lost all dignity, and at the twitching cheeks of Prince facility. Remember that you will answer for the consequences, said Prince facility, severely. You don't know what you are doing. Vile woman, shouted the Princess, darting unexpectedly at Anna Mikhailovna and snatching the portfolio from her.  At this moment that terrible door, which Pierre had watched so long and which had always opened so quietly, burst noisily open and banged against the wall, and the second of the three sisters rushed out, ringing her hands. What are you doing? she cried vehemently. He is dying, and you leave me alone with him. Her sister dropped the portfolio. Anna Mikhailovna, stooping quickly, caught up the object of contention and ran into the bedroom. The eldest Princess and Prince facility, recovering themselves, followed her. A few minutes later the eldest sister came out with a pale hard face, again biting her underlip. At sight of Pierre her expression showed an irrepressible hatred. Yes, now you may be glad, said she. This is what you have been waiting for. And bursting into tears, she hid her face and her handkerchief and rushed from the room. Prince facility came next. He staggered to the sofa on which Pierre was sitting and dropped onto it, covering his face with his hand. Pierre noticed that he was pale, and that his jaw quivered and shook as if in an ague. Ah, my friend, said he, taking Pierre by the elbow. And there was in his voice a sincerity and weakness Pierre had never observed in it before. How often we sin, how much we deceive, and all for what? I am near sixty, dear friend. I, too, all will end in death. All death is awful, and he burst into tears. Anna Mikhailovna came out last. She approached Pierre with slow, quiet steps. Pierre, she said. Pierre gave her an inquiring look. She kissed the young man on his forehead, wetting him with her tears. Then, after a pause, she said, He is no more. Pierre looked at her over his spectacles. Come, I will go with you. Try to weep. Nothing gives such relief as tears. She led him into the dark drawing-room, and Pierre was glad no one could see his face. Anna Mikhailovna left him, and when she returned, he was fast asleep with his head on his arm. In the morning Anna Mikhailovna said to Pierre, Yes, my dear, this is a great loss for us all, not to speak of you. But God will support you. You are young, and are now, I hope, in command of an immense fortune. This will has not yet been opened. I know you well enough to be sure that this will will not turn your head, but it imposes duties on you, and you must be a man. Perhaps later on I may tell you, my dear boy, that if I had not been there, God only knows what would have happened. You know, Uncle promised me only the day before not to forget Boris, but he had no time. I hope, my dear friend, you will carry out your father's wish. Pierre understood nothing of all this, and, coloring shyly, looked in silence at Princess Anna Mikhailovna. After her talk with Pierre, Anna Mikhailovna returned to Rostov's, and went to bed. On waking in the morning, she told the Rostov's, and all her acquaintances, the details of Count Bzukov's death. She said the Count had died as she would herself wish to die, that his end was not only touching, but edifying. As to the last meeting between father and son, it was so touching that she could not think of it without tears, and did not know which had behaved better during those awful moments. The father, who so remembered everything and every body at last, and had spoken such pathetic words to the son, or Pierre, whom it had been pitiful to see, so stricken was he with grief, though he tried hard to hide it in order not to sadden his dying father. It is painful, but it does one good. It uplifts the soul to see such men as the old Count, and his worthy son, said she. Of the behavior of the eldest Princess and Prince Facili, she spoke disapprovingly, but in whispers, and as a great secret. End of Chapter 24 From War and Peace Book 1 by Leo Tolstoy Read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California. Fall 2006 War and Peace Book 1, Chapter 25, read for LibriVox.org by Ezwa At Baldhills, Prince Nicholas Andreevich Bolgonsky'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 Andreevich, 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 Bourien. 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 Baldhills, 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 cardinals 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 snuff boxes 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 hard-hearted man, he inspired such fear and respect as few hard-hearted 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 wait it in the lofty anti-chamber, just as the architect, gardener, or Prince's marriage did, till the Prince appeared punctually to the appointed hour. Everyone sitting in this anti-chamber 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 anti-chamber as usual at the appointed time 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 man-servant who was sitting in the anti-chamber 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 shaving scattered round, all indicated continuous, varied, and orderly activity. The motion of the small foot shud in a tartar boot embroidered with silver, and the firm pressure of the linty newy 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 Prince's face. She took it quickly and bent her head over it. From Eloise asked the Prince with a cold smile that showed his still-sounding 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, suddenly. 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 elbow 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 A, B, C, 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 Prince's 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, scold it, 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 air 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.  She turned to go, but he stopped her with a gesture and took an uncut book from the eye desk. Here is some sort of key to the mysteries that your Eloise 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 Caragina, who had been at the Rostov's 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 morale 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 Prince's eyes, large, deep and luminous, it seemed as if at times they radiated from them shafts of warm light. Was 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 gods, who are starting on their march to the frontier. Our dear Emperor has left Pittsburgh, and it is thought intent to expose his precious person to the chances of war. God drawn 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 a sovereign. To say nothing of my brothers, this war has deprived me of one of the associations nearest to my heart. I mean young Nicholas Rostov, 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 musk are gossiped, is the death of old Count Besukov and his inheritance. Fancy, the three princesses have received very little. Prince Vasilis, 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 Besukov and possessor of the finest fortune in Russia. It is rumoured that Prince Vasilis played a very despicable part in this affair, and that he returned to Pittsburgh 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 Besukov and the owner of one of the largest fortunes in Russia, I am much amused to watch the change in the tones and manners of the mamas burdened with 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 Besukova, but you will understand that I have no desire for the post. About marriages, do you know that a while ago, that universal auntie Anna Makailovna told me under the seal of strict secrecy of a plan of marriage for you? It is neither more nor less than with Prince Vasili's son, Anna Toll, whom they wish to reform by marrying him to someone rich and distinguished, 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 Mama has sent for me to go and dine at the appraxins. 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. PS.   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 thirteenth 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 dare to complain, I, who am deprived of all who are dear to me? Ha! 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 prove 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 Bezukov'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 Basilie, it is very sad for both. Ha! 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 Basilie, but I 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 Savior has left for our guidance here below. Let us try to conform to them and follow them. 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 Fazili. 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 petty rival 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 counter-marches, things of which I understand nothing. And the day before yesterday, during my daily work through the village, I witnessed a heart-rending scene. It was a convoy of conscripts and rolled 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. Merry. Ah, you are sending off a letter, princess? I have already dispatched mine.  She brought into princess Merry strenuous, mournful, and gloomy world a quite different atmosphere, careless, light-hearted, and self-satisfied. Princess, I must warn you, she added, lowering her voice and evidently listening to herself with pleasure, and speaking with exaggerated grass-eye-ment. The prince has been scolding Michael Ivanovitch. He is in a very bad humor, very morose. Be prepared. Ah, dear friend, replied princess Merry, 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. War and Peace, Book One, Chapter 26, Read for LibriVox.org by Alex Foster.me.uk The grey-haired valet was sitting drowsily listening to the snoring of the prince, who was in his large study. From the far side of the house, through the closed doors, came the sound of difficult passages, twenty times repeated, of a sonata by Dusek. Just then a closed carriage and another with a hood drove up to the porch. Prince Andrew got out of the carriage, helped his little wife to a light, and let her pass into the house before him. Old Tickon, wearing a wig, put his head out of the door of the antechamber, reported in a whisper that the prince was sleeping, and hastily closed the door. Tickon knew that neither the son's arrival, nor any other unusual event must be allowed to disturb the appointed order of the day. Prince Andrew apparently knew this as well as Tickon. He looked at his watch as if to ascertain whether his father's habits had changed since he was at home last, and having us yord himself that they had not. He returned to his wife. He will get up in twenty minutes. Let us go across to Mary's room, he said. The little princess had grown stouter during this time, but her eyes and her short, downy, smiling lip lifted when she began to speak, just as merrily and as prettily as ever. Why this is a palace, she said to her husband, looking around with the expression with which people compliment their host at a ball. Let's come quick, quick! And with a glance around, she smiled at Tickon, at her husband, and at the footman who accompanied them. Is that Mary practising? Let's go quietly and take her by surprise. Prince Andrew followed her with a courteous but sad expression. You've grown older, Tickon, he said, in passing to the old man who kissed his hand. Before they reached the room from which the sounds of the clavichord came, the pretty, fair-haired Frenchwoman, Mademoiselle Boyenne, rushed out, apparently beside herself with delight. Ah, what joy for the princess! exclaimed she, at last! I must let her know. No, no, please not.  I know you already threw my sister-in-law's friendship for you. She was not expecting us. They went up to the door of the sitting-room, from which came the sound of the oft-repeated passage of the sonata. Prince Andrew stopped and made a grimace, as if expecting something unpleasant. The little princess entered the room. The passage broke off in the middle. A cry was heard, then Princess Mary's heavy tread and the sound of kissing. When Prince Andrew went in, the two princesses, who had only met once before for a short time at his wedding, were in each other's arms, warmly pressing their lips to whatever place they happened to touch.  Prince Andrew shrugged his shoulders and frowned, as lovers of music do when they hear a false note. The two women let go of one another, and then, as if afraid of being too late, seized each other's hands, kissing them and pulling them away, and again began kissing each other on the face, and then to Prince Andrew's surprise both began to cry and kissed again. Mademoiselle Boyenne also began to cry. Prince Andrew evidently fell in at ease. But to the two women it seemed quite natural that they should cry, and apparently it never entered their heads that it could have been otherwise at this meeting. Ah, my dear! Ah, Mary! they suddenly exclaimed, and then laughed. I was dreaming last night. You were not expecting us? Ah, Mary, have you got thinner, and you have grown stouter. I knew the Princess at once, but in Mademoiselle Boyenne. I had no idea, exclaimed Princess Mary. Ah, Andrew! I did not see you. Prince Andrew and his sister, hand in hand, kissed one another, and he told her that she was still the same crybaby as ever. Princess Mary had turned toward her brother, and through her eyes the loving, warm, gentle look of her large, luminous eyes, very beautiful at that moment, rested on Prince Andrew's face. The little princess talked incessantly, her short downy upper lip continually and rapidly touching her rosy nether lip when necessary, and drawing up again next moment when her face broke into a smile of glittering teeth and sparkling eyes. She told of an accident they had had on Spassky Hill, which might have been serious for her in her condition, and immediately after that informed them that she had left all her clothes in Petersburg, and that Heaven knew what she would have to dress in here, and that Andrew had quite changed, and that Kitty Odontseva had married an old man, and that there was a suit of her Mary, a real one, but that they could talk of that later. Princess Mary was still looking silently at her brother, and her beautiful eyes were full of love and sadness. It was plain she was following a train of thought independent of her sister-in-law's words. In the midst of a description of the last Petersburg fate she addressed her brother. So you were really going to war, Andrew, she said, sighing. Leser sighed too. Yes, and even to-morrow, replied her brother. He is leaving me here. God knows why when he might have had promotion. Princess Mary did not listen to the end, but continuing her train of thought turned to her sister-in-law with a tender glance at her figure. Is it certain, she said? The face of the little princess changed. She sighed and said, yes, quite certain. Ah, it is very dreadful. Her lip descended.  She needs rest, said Prince Andrew with a frown. Don't you, Leser, take her to your room, and I'll go to father. How is he? Just the same? Yes, just the same. Though I don't know what your opinion will be, answered the princess joyfully. And are the hours the same, and the walks in the avenues, and the lathe? Asked Prince Andrew with a scarcely perceptible smile, which showed that, in spite of all his love and respect for his father, he was aware of his weaknesses. The hours are the same, and the lathe, and also the mathematics and my geometry lessons, said Princess Mary gleefully, as if her lessons in geometry were among the greatest delights of life. When the twenty minutes had elapsed, and the time had come for the old prince to get up, Tikhon came to call the young prince to his father. The old man made a departure from his usual routine in honour of his son's arrival. He gave orders to admit him to his apartments while he dressed for dinner. The old prince always dressed in an old-fashioned style, wearing an antique coat and powdered hair, and when Prince Andrew entered his father's dressing-room, not with the contemptuous look and manner he wore in drawing-rooms, but with the animated face with which he talked to Pierre, the old man was sitting on a large leather-covered chair, wrapped in a powdering mantel, entrusting his head to Tikhon. Ah, here's the warrior wants to vanquish Bonaparte, said the old man, shaking his powdered head as much as the tail which Tikhon was holding faster plant would allow. He must at least tackle him properly, or else, if he goes on like this, he'll soon have us, too, for his subjects. How are you? And he held out his cheek. The old man was in a good temper after his nap before dinner. He used to say that a nap after dinner was silver before dinner, golden. He cast happy side-long glances at his son from under his thick bushy eyebrows. Prince Andrew went up and kissed his father on the spot indicated to him. He made no reply on his father's favourite topic, making fun of the military men of the day, and more particularly of Bonaparte. Yes, father, I have come to you and brought my wife, who is pregnant, said Prince Andrew, following every movement of his father's face with an eager and respectful look. How is your health?  You know me, I'm busy from morning till night, and abstemious, so, of course, I am well. Thank God! said his father, smiling. God has nothing to do with it. Well, go on, he continued, returning to his hobby. Tell me how the Germans have taught you to fight Bonaparte by this new science you call strategy. Prince Andrew smiled. Give me time to collect my wits, father, said he, with a smile that showed that his father's foibles did not prevent his son from loving and honouring him. Why, I have not yet had time to settle down. Nonsense! nonsense! cried the old man, shaking his pigtail to see whether it was firmly plaited and grasping his by the hand. The house for your wife is ready. Princess Mary will take her there and show her over, and they'll talk nineteen to a dozen. That's their women's way. I am glad to have her. Sit down and talk. About Mickelson's army, I understand. Tolstoy's too. A simultaneous expedition. But what's the southern army to do? Prussia is neutral. I know that. What about Austria? Said he, rising from his chair and pacing up and down the room, followed by Tickon, who ran after him, handing him different articles of clothing. What of Sweden? How will they cross Pomerania? Prince Andrew, seeing that his father insisted, began, at first reluctantly but gradually with more and more animation, and from habit changing unconsciously from Russian to French as he went on, to explain the plan of operation for the coming campaign. Explained how an army, ninety thousand strong, was to threaten Prussia so as to bring her out of her neutrality and draw her into the war. How part of that army was to join some Swedish forces at Stilesont, how two hundred and twenty thousand Austrians with a hundred thousand Russians were to operate in Italy and on the Rhine, how fifty thousand Russians and as many English were to land at Naples, and how a total force of five hundred thousand men was to attack the French from different sides. The old prince did not evince the least interest during this explanation, but, as if he were not listening to it, continued to dress while walking about, and three times unexpectedly interrupted.  This meant that Tickon was not handing him the waistcoat he wanted. Another time he interrupted, saying, and will she soon be confined?  The third interruption came when Prince Andrew was finished his description. The old man began to sing in the cracked voice of old age. Malbra is going to the wars. God knows when he will return. His son only smiled. I don't say it's a plan I approved of, said the son. I am only telling you what it is. Napoleon has also formed his plan by now, not worse than this one. Well, you've told me nothing new, and the old man repeated, meditatively and rapidly, Dieu sait grand reviendre. Go to the dining-room. CHAPTER XXVIII, THE PRINCE, POWDERED AND SHAVEN Entered the dining-room where his daughter-in-law Princess Mary and Mademoiselle Boyen were already awaiting him together with his architect, who by a strange caprice of his employers was admitted to table, though the position of that insignificant individual was such as could certainly not have caused him to expect that honour. The prince, who generally kept very strictly to social distinctions and rarely admitted even important government officials to his table, had unexpectedly selected Michael Ivanovitch, who always went into a corner to blow his nose on his checked handkerchief, to illustrate the theory that all men are equals, and had more than once impressed on his daughter that Michael Ivanovitch was not a wit worse than you or I. At dinner the prince usually spoke to the taciturn Michael Ivanovitch more often than to anyone else. In the dining-room, which, like all the rooms in the house, was exceedingly lofty, the members of the household and the footmen, one behind each chair, stood waiting for the prince to enter. The head butler, napkin on arm, was scanning the setting of the table, making signs to the footmen and anxiously glancing from the clock to the door by which the prince was to enter. Prince Andrew was looking at a large gilt frame, new to him, containing the genealogical tree of the prince's Bulkonsky, opposite which hung another such frame with a badly painted portrait, evidently by the hand of the artist belonging to the estate, of a ruling prince in a crown, an alleged descendant to Rurik and the ancestor of the Bulkonskys. Prince Andrew, looking again at that genealogical tree, shook his head, laughing as a man who laughs who looks at a portrait so characteristic of the original as to be amusing. How thoroughly like him that is, he said to Princess Mary, who had come up to him. Princess Mary looked at her brother in surprise. She did not understand what he was laughing at. Everything her father did inspired her with reverence and was beyond question. Everyone has as Achilles' heel, continued Prince Andrew, fancy with his powerful mind indulging in such nonsense. Princess Mary could not understand the boldness of her brother's criticism and was about to reply when the expected footsteps were heard coming from the study. The prince walked in quickly and jauntily as was his want, as if intentionally contrasting the briskness of his manners with the strict formality of his house. At that moment the great clock struck two and another with a shrill tone joined in from the drawing room. The prince stood still, his lively glittering eyes from under their thick bushy eyebrows sternly scanned all present and rested on the little princess. She felt, as courtiers do when the Tsar enters, the sensation of fear and respect which the old man inspired in all around him. He stroked her hair, then patted her awkwardly on the back of her neck. I'm glad, glad to see you, he said, looking attentively into her eyes, and then quickly went to his place and sat down. Sit down! Sit down! Sit down, Michael Ivanovich! He indicated a place beside him to his daughter-in-law. A footman moved the chair for her.  You've been in a hurry! That's bad!  You must walk. Walk as much as possible. As much as possible, he said. The little princess did not, or did not wish to, hear his words. She was silent and seemed confused. The prince asked about her father, and she began to smile and talk. He asked about mutual acquaintances, and she became still more animated, and chattered away, giving him greetings from various people, and retelling the town gossip. Countess Aproxena, poor thing, has lost her husband, and she's cried her eyes out, she said, growing more and more lively. As she became animated, the prince looked at her more and more sternly, and suddenly, as if he had studied her sufficiently, and had formed a definite idea of her, he turned away, and addressed Michael Ivanovich. Well, Michael Ivanovich, our Bonaparte will be having a bad time of it. Prince Andrew, he always spoke thus of his son, has been telling me what forces are being collected against him, while you and I never thought much of him. Michael Ivanovich did not know at all when you and I had said such things about Bonaparte, but understanding that he was wanted as a peg on which to hang the prince's favourite topic, he looked inquiringly at the young prince, wondering what would follow. He is a great tactician, said the prince to his son, pointing to the architect. And the conversation, again, turned on the war, on Bonaparte, and the generals and statesmen of the day. The old prince seemed convinced that not only all the men of the day were mere babies who did not know the ABC of war or of politics, and that Bonaparte was an insignificant little Frenchie, successful only because there were no longer any Potemkin's or Suvorov's left to oppose him. But he was also convinced that there were no political difficulties in Europe and no real war, but only a sort of puppet show at which the men of the day were playing, pretending to do something real. Prince Andrew Gaely bore with his father's ridicule of the new men, and drew him on, and listened to him with evident pleasure. The past always seems good, he said, but did not Suvorov himself fall into a trap Moro set him, and from which he did not know how to escape? Who told you that? Who? cried the prince. Suvorov! and he jerked his plate away, which ticked on briskly car. Suvorov, consider Prince Andrew. Two, Frederick, and Suvorov. Moro, Moro would have been a prisoner if Suvorov had had a free hand, but he had the Hofskrieg-Wirschnafsrath on his hands. It would have puzzled the devil himself. When you get there, you'll find out what those Hofskrieg-Wirschraths are. Suvorov couldn't manage them, so what chance has Michael Kutsoff? No, my dear boy, he continued. You and your generals won't get on against Bonaparte. You'll have to call in the French, so the birds of a feather may fight together. The German, Thelon, has been sent to New York and America to fetch the Frenchman Moro, he said, alluding to the invitation made that year to Moro to enter the Russian service. Wonderful, were the Potenkin, Suvorov's, and Orlov's Germans? No, lad, either you fellows have lost all your wits or I've outlived mine. May God help you, but we'll see what will happen. Bonaparte has become a great commander among them. I don't at all say that all plans are good, said Prince Andrew. I'm only surprised at your opinion of Bonaparte. You may laugh as much as you like, but all the same, Bonaparte is a great general. Michael Ivanovich cried the old prince to the architect, who, busy with his roast meat, hoped he had been forgotten. Didn't I tell you Bonaparte was a great tactician? Here he says the same thing. To be sure your Excellency, replied the architect. The prince again laughed, his frigid laugh. Bonaparte was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He's got splendid soldiers. Besides, he began by attacking Germans, and only idlers have failed to beat the Germans. Since the world began, everybody has beaten the Germans. They beat no one, except one another. He made his reputation fighting them. And the prince began explaining all the blunders, which, according to him, Bonaparte had made in his campaigns, and even in politics. His son made no rejoinder, but it was evident that whatever arguments were presented, he was as little able as his father to change his opinion. He listened, refraining from a reply, and involuntarily wondered how this old man, living alone in the country for so many years, could know and discuss so minutely and accurately all the recent European military and political events. You think I'm an old man and don't understand the present state of affairs, concluded his father. But it troubles me, I don't sleep at night. Come now, where has this great commander of yours shown his skills? He concluded. That would take too long to tell, answered the son. Well, then go to your Bonaparte. Mademoiselle Baurien, here's another admirer of that powder monkey emperor of yours, he exclaimed in excellent French. You know, Prince, I am not a Bonapartist. Ducé qu'un vivien hummed the prince out of tune, and with a laugh still more so, he quitted the table. The little princess, during the whole discussion, and the rest of the dinner, sat silent, glancing with a frightened look now at her father-in-law and now at Princess Mary. When they left the table, she took her sister-in-law's arm and drew her into another room.  Perhaps that's why I'm afraid of him. Oh, he's so kind, answered Princess Mary. Prince Andrew was to leave the next evening. The old prince, not altering his routine, retired as usual after dinner. The little princess was in her sister-in-law's room. Prince Andrew, in a travelling coat without epaulets, had been packing with his valet and the room assigned to him. After inspecting the carriage himself and seeing the trunks put in, he ordered the horses to be harnessed. Only those things he always kept with him remained in his room, a small box, a large canteen fitted with silver plate, two Turkish pistols, and a sabre, present from his father, who had brought it from the siege of Oçkov. All of these travelling effects of Prince Andrews were in very good order, new, clean, and in cloth covers carefully tied with tapes. When starting on a journey or changing their mode of life, men capable of reflection are generally in a serious frame of mind. At such moments one reviews the past and plans for the future. Prince Andrew's face looked very thoughtful and tender. With his hands behind him he paced briskly from corner to corner of the room, looking straight before him and thoughtfully shaking his head. Did he fear going to the war, or was he sad at leaving his wife? Perhaps both, but evidently he did not wish to be seen in that mood, for hearing footsteps in the passage he hurriedly unclasped his hands, stopped at a table as if tying the covers in small box, and assumed his usual tranquil and impenetrable expression. It was the heavy tread of Princess Mary that he heard. I hear you've given orders to harness, she cried, panting, she had apparently been running, and I did so wish to have another talk with you alone. God knows how long we may again be parted.  You've changed so, Andrewsha, she added, as if to explain such a question. She smiled as she uttered his pet name, Andrewsha. It was obviously strange to her to think that this stern, handsome man should be Andrewsha, the slender, mischievous boy who'd been her playfellow in childhood. And where as lease, he asked, answering her question, only by a smile. She was so tired that she's fallen asleep on the sofa in my room. Oh, Andrew, what a treasure of a wife you have, she said, sitting down on the sofa facing her brother.  Prince Andrew was silent, but the princess noticed the ironical and contemptuous look that showed itself on his face. One must be indulgent of little weaknesses, who's free from them, Andrew. Don't forget that she's grown up and been educated in society, and so her position now is not a rosy one. We should enter into every one's situation. To comprend, c'est to pardoner, to understand all is to forgive all. Think it must be for her poor thing, after what she's been used to, to be parted from her husband and left alone in the country, in her condition. It's very hard. Prince Andrew smiled as he looked at his sister, as we smile at those we think we thoroughly understand. You live in the country, and don't think life terrible, he replied. I—that's different. Why speak of me? I don't want any other life, and can't, for I know no other. But think, Andrew, for a young society woman to be buried in the country during the best years of her life all alone, for Papa's always busy and I, well, you know what poor resources I have for entertaining a woman used to the best society. There's only Mademoiselle Borean. I don't like your Mademoiselle Borean at all, said Prince Andrew. No? She's very nice and kind, and above all, she's much to be pitied. She has no one, no one. To tell the truth, I don't need her, and she's even in my way. You know I always want the savage, and no, I'm even more so. I like being alone. Father likes her very much. She and Michael Ivanovich are the two people to whom he's always gentle and kind, because he's been a benefactor to them both. As Stern says, we don't love people so much for the good they've done us, as for the good we've done them. Father took her when she was homeless after losing her own father. She's very good-natured, and my father likes her way of reading. She reads to him in the evenings, and reads splendidly. To be quite frank, Mary, I expect Father's character sometimes makes things trying for you, doesn't it? Prince Andrew asked suddenly. Princess Mary was first surprised, and then aghast at this question. For me? For me? Trying for me? she said. He always was rather harsh. And now I should think he's getting very trying, said Prince Andrew, apparently speaking lightly of their father in order to puzzle or test his sister. You are good in every way, Andrew, but you have a kind of intellectual pride, said the princess, following the train of her own thoughts, rather than the trend of the conversation. And that's a great sin. How can one judge Father? But even if one might, what feeling except veneration could such a man as my father evoke? And I'm so contented and happy with him. I only wish you were all as happy as I am. Her brother shook his head incredulously. The only thing that's hard for me, I will tell you the truth, Andrew, is Father's way of treating religious subjects. I don't understand how a man of his immense intellect can fail to see what is as clear as day, and can go so far astray. That's the only thing that makes me unhappy. But even in this I can see lately a shade of improvement. His satire has been less bitter of late, and there was a monk he received and had a long talk with. Ah, my dear, I'm afraid you and your monk are wasting your powder, said Prince Andrew banteringly, yet tenderly. Ah, mon ami, I only pray and hope that God will hear me. Andrew, she said timidly after a moment's silence, I have a great favor to ask of you. What is it, dear? No, promise that you will not refuse. It will give you no trouble, and it's nothing unworthy of you, but it will comfort me. Promise, Andrewsha, she said, putting her hand in her reticule, but not yet taking out what she was holding inside it, as if what she held with the subject of her request must not be shown before the request was granted. She looked timidly at her brother. Even if it were a great deal of trouble, answered Prince Andrew, as if guessing what it was about. Think what you please. I know you're just like father. Think as you please, but do this for my sake, please do. Father's father, our grandfather, wore it in all his wars. She still did not take out what she was holding in her reticule. So you promise? Of course. What is it? Andrew, I bless you with this icon, and you must promise me you will never take it off. Do you promise? If it does not weigh a hundred weight and won't break my neck, to please you, said Prince Andrew. But immediately, noticing the pained expression his joke had brought to his sister's face, he repented and added, I'm glad, really, dear, I'm very glad. Against your will, he will save and have mercy on you and bring you to himself, for in him alone is truth and peace. She said in a voice trembling with emotion, solemnly holding up in both hands before her brother a small, oval, antique, dark-faced icon of the Saviour in a gold setting on a finely-wrought silver chain. She crossed herself, kissed the icon, and handed it to Andrew. Please, Andrew, for my sake. Raise of gentle light, shown from her large, timid eyes.  Her brother would have taken the icon, but she stopped him. Andrew understood, crossed himself, and kissed the icon. There was a look of tenderness, for he was touched, but also a gleam of irony on his face. Thank you, my dear. She kissed him on the forehead, and sat down again on the sofa. They were silent for a while. As I was saying to you, Andrew, be kind and generous as you always used to be. Don't judge Lise harshly, she began. She's so sweet, so good-natured, and her position now is a very hard one. I do not think I've complained of my wife to you, Masha, or blamed her. Why do you say all this to me? Red patches appeared on Princess Mary's face, and she was silent as if she felt guilty. I've said nothing to you, but you've already been talking to me. I'm sorry for that, he went on. The patches grew deeper on her forehead, neck, and cheeks. She tried to say something, but could not. Her brother had guessed right, but little Princess had been crying after dinner, and had spoken of her forebodings about her confinement and how she dreaded it, and had complained of her fate, her father-in-law, and her husband. After crying, she had fallen asleep. Prince Andrew felt sorry for his sister. Know this, Masha, I can't reproach, have not reproached, and never shall reproach my wife with anything, and I cannot reproach myself with anything in regard to her. And that will always be so, in whatever circumstances I may be placed. But if you want to know the truth, if you want to know whether I'm happy, no. Is she happy? No. But why this is so? I don't know. As he said this, he rose, went to his sister, and stooping, kissed her forehead. His fine eyes lit up with a thoughtful, kindly, and unaccustomed brightness, but he was looking not at his sister, but over her head toward the darkness of the open doorway.  Or go and wake, and I'll come in a moment. Petrushka, he called to his valet, come here, take these away, put this on the seat, and this to the right. Princess Mary rose and moved to the door, then stopped and said, Andrew, if you had faith, you would have turned to God and asked him to give you the love you did not feel, and your prayer would have been answered. Well, maybe, said Prince Andrew. Go, Masha, I'll come immediately. On the way to his sister's room, in the passage which connected one wing with the other, Prince Andrew met Mademoiselle Boryen, smiling sweetly. It was the third time that day, with an ecstatic and artless smile, she had met him in secluded passages. Oh, I thought you were in your room, she said, for some reason blushing and dropping her eyes. Prince Andrew looked sternly at her, and an expression of anger suddenly came over his face. He said nothing to her but looked at her forehead and hair without looking at her eyes, with such contempt that the French woman blushed and went away without a word. When he reached his sister's room, his wife was already awake, and her merry voice, hurrying one word after the other, came through the open door. She was speaking as usual in French, and as if after long self-restraint, she wished to make up for lost time. No, but imagine the old Countess Zubova, with false curls and her mouth full of false teeth, as if she were trying to cheat old age on Mary. This very sentence about Countess Zubova and this same laugh Prince Andrew had already heard from his wife in the presence of others some five times. He entered the room softly. The little princess, Plump and Rosie, was sitting in an easy chair with her work in her hands, talking incessantly, repeating Petersburg reminiscences and even phrases. Prince Andrew came up, stroked her hair, and asked if she felt rested after their journey. She answered him and continued her chatter. The coach with six horses was waiting at the porch. It was an autumn night, so dark that the coachman could not see the carriage pole. Servants with lanterns were bustling about in the porch. The immense house was brilliant with lights shining through its lofty windows. The domestic serfs were crowding in the hall, waiting to bid goodbye to the young prince. The members of the household were all gathered in the reception hall. Michael Ivanovich, Mademoiselle Borien, Princess Mary, and the little princess. Prince Andrew had been called to his father's study, as the latter wished to say goodbye to him alone. All were waiting for them to come out. When Prince Andrew entered the study, the old man in his old age spectacles and white dressing gown, in which he received no one but his son, sat at the table writing. He glanced round, going, and he went on writing. I've come to say goodbye. Kiss me here, he touched his cheek. Thanks. Thanks. What do you thank me for? For not dilly-dallying and not hanging to a woman's apron strings, the service before everything. Thanks. And he went on writing, so that his quills spluttered and squeaked. If you have anything to say, say it. These are two things that can be done together, he added. About my wife. I'm ashamed as it is to leave her on your hands. Why talk nonsense? Say what you want. When her confinement is due, send to Moscow for an akusher. Let him be here. The old prince stopped writing and, as if not understanding, fixed his stern eyes on his son. I know that no one can help if nature does not do her work, said Prince Andrew, evidently confused. I know that out of a million cases only one goes wrong, but it's her fancy and mine. They have been telling her things. She's had a dream and is frightened. Mm, mm, muttered the old prince to himself, finishing what he was writing. I'll do it. He signed with a flourish, and suddenly turning to his son began to laugh. It's bad business, eh? What is bad, father? The wife, said the old prince, briefly and significantly. I don't understand, said Prince Andrew. No, it can't be helped, lad, said the prince. They're all like that. One can't unmarry. Don't be afraid. I won't tell anyone, but you know it yourself. He seized his son by the hand with small bony fingers, shook it, looked straight into his son's face with keen eyes which seemed to see through him, and again laughed his frigid laugh. The son sighed, thus admitting that his father had understood him. The old man continued to fold and seal his letter, snatching up and throwing down the wax, the seal, and the paper with his accustomed rapidity. What's to be done? She's pretty. I'll do everything. Make your mind easy, he said, in abrupt sentences, while sealing his letter. Andrew did not speak. He was both pleased and displeased, that his father understood him. The old man got up and gave the letter to his son. Listen, he said, don't worry about your wife. What can be done shall be. Now listen, give this letter to Michael Ilaw Ionovich. I have written that he should make use of you in proper places, and not keep you long as an adjutant to bad position. Tell him I remember and like him. Right, and tell me how he receives you. If he is all right, serve him. Nicholas Bulkonsky's son need not serve under anyone if he is in disfavor. Now come here. He spoke so rapidly that he did not finish half his words, but his son was accustomed to understand him. He led him to the desk, raised the lid, drew out a drawer, and took out an exercise book filled with his bold, tall, close handwriting. I shall probably die before you, so remember, these are my memoirs. Hand them to the emperor after my death. Now, here is a lombard bond and a letter. It is a premium for the man who writes a history of Suvorov's wars. Send it to the academy. Here are some jottings for you to read when I'm gone. You'll find them useful. Andrew did not tell his father that he would no doubt live a long time yet. He felt that he must not say it. I will do it all, father, he said. Well now, good-bye. He gave his son his hand to kiss and embraced him. Remember this, Prince Andrew.  He paused unexpectedly, and then, in a querulous voice, suddenly shrieked, But if I hear you've not behaved like the son of Nicholas Bulkonsky, I shall be ashamed. You need not have said that to me, father, said the son with a smile. The old man was silent. I also want to ask you, continued Prince Andrew, if I'm killed, and if I have a son, Do not let him be taken away from you. As I said yesterday, let him grow up with you, please. Not let the wife have him, said the old man, and laughed. They stood silent, facing one another. The old man's sharp eyes were fixed straight on his son's. Something twitched in the lower part of the old prince's face. We've said good-bye, go! He suddenly shouted, in a loud, angry voice, opening his door. What is it? What? Asked both princesses, when they saw for a moment at the door Prince Andrew and the figure of the old man in a white dressing gown, spectacled and wiggless, shouting in an angry voice. Prince Andrew sighed and made no reply. Well, he said, turning to his wife, and this well sounded coldly ironic, as if he were saying, now go through your performance. Andrew already, said the little princess, turning pale and looking with dismay at her husband. He embraced her. She screamed and fell unconscious on his shoulder. He cautiously released the shoulder she leaned on, looked into her face, and carefully placed her in an easy chair. Adieu, Mary, he said gently to his sister, taking her by the hand and kissing her, and then he left the room with rapid steps. The little princess lay in the arm chair, Mademoiselle Boryenne, shaping her temples. Princess Mary, supporting her sister-in-law, still looked with her beautiful eyes full of tears at the door through which Prince Andrew had gone, and made the sign of the cross in his direction. From the study, like pistol shots, came the frequent sound of the old man angrily blowing his nose. Hardly had Prince Andrew gone when the study door opened quickly and the stern figure of the old man in the white dressing gown looked out. Gone?  End of War and Peace, Book One, by Leo Tolstoy