War And Peace

‘Well, my dear fellow, your little princess is very nice, very nice,’ said the viscount, as he got into the carriage with Hippolyte. ‘Very nice indeed.’ He kissed his fingertips. ‘And very French.’ Hippolyte snorted and laughed.

‘And, you know, you are awful with that innocent little way of yours,’ went on the viscount. ‘I pity the poor husband, that baby officer who fancies himself a prince regent.’ Hippolyte honked again, and said through his laughter, ‘And you told me that Russian ladies weren’t as good as French ladies. You just have to know how to get things going.’

Pierre arrived ahead of the others. Like one of the family he walked straight into Prince Andrey’s study, lay down on the sofa as he usually did, and took up the first book that came to hand (Caesar’s Commentaries).¹⁵ Propped up on one elbow, he opened it in the middle and started to read.

‘What have you done to Mademoiselle Scherer? She’ll have the vapours,’ said Prince Andrey, as he came into the study rubbing his small white hands.

Pierre rolled his massive body so that the sofa creaked, looked at Prince Andrey with an eager smile, and gave an airy wave.

‘No, that abbé was very interesting, only he’s got things wrong . . . The way I see it, eternal peace is possible, but . . . oh, I don’t know how to put it . . . Well, not through the balance of power, anyway . . .’

Prince Andrey was obviously not interested in abstract talk like this.

‘My dear fellow, you can’t always come straight out with what you’re thinking. Come on, then. Have you made your mind up? Are you going to be a cavalryman or a diplomat?’ asked Prince Andrey, after a short pause.

Pierre sat up on the sofa with his legs tucked under him. ‘You won’t find it hard to believe I still don’t know. I don’t fancy either of those jobs.’

‘But you’ll have to decide, won’t you? Your father’s waiting.’

At the age of ten Pierre had been sent abroad with an abbé as his tutor, and there he had stayed till he was twenty. When he returned to Moscow, his father had dismissed the tutor and said to the young man, ‘Off you go to Petersburg, have a good look round, and decide for yourself. I’ll agree to anything. Here is a letter to Prince Vasily and here’s some money. Write and tell me everything. I’ll give you every assistance.’ Pierre had spent the last three months choosing a career and had done nothing. This was the decision that Prince Andrey was talking about. Pierre rubbed his forehead.

‘I’m sure he must be a freemason,’¹⁶ he said, thinking of the abbé he had seen at the party.

‘That’s all nonsense,’ said Prince Andrey, stopping him in his tracks. ‘Let’s get down to business. Have you been to the horse guards?’

‘No, I haven’t, but listen – I’ve had one idea I’d like to talk to you about. We’re at war with Napoleon. If we were fighting for freedom, I’d understand it, I’d be the first to enlist, but helping England and Austria against the greatest man in the world – that’s not right.’

Prince Andrey gave a shrug; it was all he could do in the face of such childish words from Pierre. His manner suggested there was no answer to such absurdities. And indeed it would have been hard to find any answer to this naive question other than the one he gave now. ‘If everybody fought for nothing but his own convictions, there wouldn’t be any wars,’ he said.

‘And a good thing too,’ said Pierre.

Prince Andrey grinned at him. ‘Yes it probably would be a good thing, but it won’t ever happen . . .’

‘Well, why are you going to war?’ asked Pierre.

‘Why? I don’t know. Because I have to. I’m just going.’ He paused. ‘I’m going because the life I’m leading here, this life is . . . not to my taste!’

CHAPTER 6

From the next room came the rustling of a woman’s dress. Prince Andrey jumped, as if he had just woken up, and his face resumed the expression it had worn in Anna Pavlovna’s drawing-room. Pierre lowered his legs from the sofa. In came the princess. She had changed into an informal dress every bit as fresh and elegant as the earlier one. Prince Andrey got to his feet and courteously pushed an easy-chair towards her.

‘I often wonder why it is,’ she began, as always in French, speedily and fussily settling herself into the chair, ‘that Annette never married? You must be very foolish, all you men, not to have married her. Forgive me for saying so, but you really don’t know the first thing about women. And Monsieur Pierre, you really are a man for an argument!’

‘I’ve just been arguing with your husband. I can’t imagine why he wants to go off to war,’ said Pierre to the princess without any of the inhibitions which so often affect the attitude of a young man to a young woman.

The princess reacted sharply – Pierre’s words had clearly touched a raw nerve.