he wanted it, but simply from a conscientious desire for
knowledge.
111
Chapter XIX
At the men’s end of the table the talk grew more and more
animated. The colonel told them that the declaration of war
had already appeared in Petersburg and that a copy, which
he had himself seen, had that day been forwarded by courier
to the commander in chief.
‘And why the deuce are we going to fight Bonaparte?’
remarked Shinshin. ‘He has stopped Austria’s cackle and I
fear it will be our turn next.’
The colonel was a stout, tall, plethoric German, evidently
devoted to the service and patriotically Russian. He resented Shinshin’s remark.
‘It is for the reasson, my goot sir,’ said he, speaking with a
German accent, ‘for the reasson zat ze Emperor knows zat.
He declares in ze manifessto zat he cannot fiew wiz indifference ze danger vreatening Russia and zat ze safety and
dignity of ze Empire as vell as ze sanctity of its alliances…’
he spoke this last word with particular emphasis as if in it
lay the gist of the matter.
Then with the unerring official memory that characterized him he repeated from the opening words of the
manifesto:
… and the wish, which constitutes the Emperor’s sole
and absolute aimto establish peace in Europe on firm foundationshas now decided him to despatch part of the army
112
War and Peace
abroad and to create a new condition for the attainment of
that purpose.
‘Zat, my dear sir, is vy…’ he concluded, drinking a tumbler of wine with dignity and looking to the count for
approval.
‘Connaissez-vous le Proverbe:* ‘Jerome, Jerome, do not
roam, but turn spindles at home!’?’ said Shinshin, puckering
his brows and smiling. ‘Cela nous convient a merveille.[2] Suvorov nowhe knew what he was about; yet they beat him a plate couture,[3] and where are we to find Suvorovs now?
Je vous demande un peu,’*[4] said he, continually changing
from French to Russian.
*Do you know the proverb?
*[2] That suits us down to the ground.
*[3] Hollow.
*[4] I just ask you that.
‘Ve must vight to the last tr-r-op of our plood!’ said the
colonel, thumping the table; ‘and ve must tie for our Emperor, and zen all vill pe vell. And ve must discuss it as little as
po-o-ossible”… he dwelt particularly on the word possible…
‘as po-o-ossible,’ he ended, again turning to the count. ‘Zat
is how ve old hussars look at it, and zere’s an end of it! And
how do you, a young man and a young hussar, how do you
judge of it?’ he added, addressing Nicholas, who when he
heard that the war was being discussed had turned from his
partner with eyes and ears intent on the colonel.
‘I am quite of your opinion,’ replied Nicholas, flaming
up, turning his plate round and moving his wineglasses
about with as much decision and desperation as though he
113
were at that moment facing some great danger. ‘I am convinced that we Russians must die or conquer,’ he concluded,
consciousas were othersafter the words were uttered that
his remarks were too enthusiastic and emphatic for the occasion and were therefore awkward.
‘What you said just now was splendid!’ said his partner
Julie.
Sonya trembled all over and blushed to her ears and
behind them and down to her neck and shoulders while
Nicholas was speaking.
Pierre listened to the colonel’s speech and nodded approvingly.
‘That’s fine,’ said he.
‘The young man’s a real hussar!’ shouted the colonel,
again thumping the table.
‘What are you making such a noise about over there?’
Marya Dmitrievna’s deep voice suddenly inquired from the
other end of the table. ‘What are you thumping the table
for?’ she demanded of the hussar, ‘and why are you exciting
yourself? Do you think the French are here?’
‘I am speaking ze truce,’ replied the hussar with a smile.
‘It’s all about the war,’ the count shouted down the table.
‘You know my son’s going, Marya Dmitrievna? My son is
going.’
‘I have four sons in the army but still I don’t fret. It is all
in God’s hands. You may die in your bed or God may spare
you in a battle,’ replied Marya Dmitrievna’s deep voice,
which easily carried the whole length of the table.
‘That’s true!’
114
War and Peace
Once more the conversations concentrated, the ladies’ at
the one end and the men’s at the other.
‘You won’t ask,’ Natasha’s little brother was saying; ‘I
know you won’t ask!’
‘I will,’ replied Natasha.
Her face suddenly flushed with reckless and joyous resolution. She half rose, by a glance inviting Pierre, who sat
opposite, to listen to what was coming, and turning to her
mother:
‘Mamma!’ rang out the clear contralto notes of her childish voice, audible the whole length of the table.
‘What is it?’ asked the countess, startled; but seeing by
her daughter’s face that it was only mischief, she shook a
finger at her sternly with a threatening and forbidding
movement of her head.
The conversation was hushed.
‘Mamma! What sweets are we going to have?’ and
Natasha’s voice sounded still more firm and resolute.
The countess tried to frown, but could not. Marya Dmitrievna shook her fat finger.
‘Cossack!’ she said threateningly.
Most of the guests, uncertain how to regard this sally,
looked at the elders.
‘You had better take care!’ said the countess.
‘Mamma! What sweets are we going to have?’ Natasha
again cried boldly, with saucy gaiety, confident that her
prank would be taken in good part.
Sonya and fat little Petya doubled up with laughter.
‘You see! I have asked,’ whispered Natasha to her little
115
brother and to Pierre, glancing at him again.
‘Ice pudding, but you won’t get any,’ said Marya Dmitrievna.
Natasha saw there was nothing to be afraid of and so she
braved even Marya Dmitrievna.
‘Marya Dmitrievna! What kind of ice pudding? I don’t
like ice cream.’
‘Carrot ices.’
‘No! What kind, Marya Dmitrievna? What kind?’ she almost screamed; ‘I want to know!’
Marya Dmitrievna and the countess burst out laughing,
and all the guests joined in. Everyone laughed, not at Marya
Dmitrievna’s answer but at the incredible boldness and
smartness of this little girl who had dared to treat Marya
Dmitrievna in this fashion.
Natasha only desisted when she had been told that there
would be pineapple ice. Before the ices, champagne was
served round. The band again struck up, the count and
countess kissed, and the guests, leaving their seats, went up
to ‘congratulate’ the countess, and reached across the table to clink glasses with the count, with the children, and
with one another. Again the footmen rushed about, chairs
scraped, and in the same order in which they had entered
but with redder faces, the guests returned to the drawing
room and to the count’s study.
CHAPTER XX
The card tables were drawn out, sets made up for boston, and the count’s visitors settled themselves, some in the
two drawing rooms, some in the sitting room, some in the
116
War and Peace
library.
The count, holding his cards fanwise, kept himself with
difficulty from dropping into his usual after-dinner nap,
and laughed at everything. The young people, at the countess’ instigation, gathered round the clavichord and harp.
Julie by general request played first. After she had played
a little air with variations on the harp, she joined the other
young ladies in begging Natasha and Nicholas, who were
noted for their musical talent, to sing something. Natasha,
who was treated as though she were grown up, was evidently very proud of this but at the same time felt shy.
‘What shall we sing?’ she said.
‘‘The Brook,’’ suggested Nicholas.
‘Well, then,let’s be quick. Boris, come here,’ said Natasha.
‘But where is Sonya?’
She looked round and seeing that her friend was not in
the room ran to look for her.
Running into Sonya’s room and not finding her there,
Natasha ran to the nursery, but Sonya was not there either.
Natasha concluded that she must be on the chest in the passage. The chest in the passage was the place of mourning
for the younger female generation in the Rostov household. And there in fact was Sonya lying face downward on
Nurse’s dirty feather bed on the top of the chest, crumpling
her gauzy pink dress under her, hiding her face with her
slender fingers, and sobbing so convulsively that her bare
little shoulders shook. Natasha’s face, which had been so
radiantly happy all that saint’s day, suddenly changed: her
eyes became fixed, and then a shiver passed down her broad
117
neck and the corners of her mouth drooped.
‘Sonya! What is it? What is the matter?… Oo… Oo… Oo…!’
And Natasha’s large mouth widened, making her look quite
ugly, and she began to wail like a baby without knowing
why, except that Sonya was crying. Sonya tried to lift her
head to answer but could not, and hid her face still deeper
in the bed. Natasha wept, sitting on the blue-striped feather
bed and hugging her friend. With an effort Sonya sat up and
began wiping her eyes and explaining.
‘Nicholas is going away in a week’s time, his… papers…
have come… he told me himself… but still I should not cry,’
and she showed a paper she held in her handwith the verses
Nicholas had written, ‘still, I should not cry, but you can’t…
no one can understand… what a soul he has!’
And she began to cry again because he had such a noble
soul.
‘It’s all very well for you… I am not envious… I love you
and Boris also,’ she went on, gaining a little strength; ‘he is
nice… there are no difficulties in your way…. But Nicholas
is my cousin… one would have to… the Metropolitan himself… and even then it can’t be done. And besides, if she tells
Mamma’ (Sonya looked upon the countess as her mother
and called her so) ‘that I am spoiling Nicholas’ career and
am heartless and ungrateful, while truly… God is my witness,’ and she made the sign of the cross, ‘I love her so much,
and all of you, only Vera… And what for? What have I done
to her? I am so grateful to you that I would willingly sacrifice everything, only I have nothing…’
Sonya could not continue, and again hid her face in her
118
War and Peace
hands and in the feather bed. Natasha began consoling her,
but her face showed that she understood all the gravity of
her friend’s trouble.
‘Sonya,’ she suddenly exclaimed, as if she had guessed
the true reason of her friend’s sorrow, ‘I’m sure
