“O, Natasha!” Sonya suddenly almost screamed, catching her companion’s arm and stepping back from the door.
“What? What is it?” asked Natasha.
“It’s that, that . . .” said Sonya, with a white face and trembling lips.
Natasha softly closed the door and went with Sonya to the window, not yet understanding what the latter was telling her.
“You remember,” said Sonya with a solemn and frightened expression. “You remember when I looked in the mirror for you . . . at Otradnoe at Christmas? Do you remember what I saw?”
“Yes, yes!” cried Natasha opening her eyes wide, and vaguely recalling that Sonya had told her something about Prince Andrew whom she had seen lying down.
“You remember?” Sonya went on. “I saw it then and told everybody, you and Dunyasha. I saw him lying on a bed,” said she, making a gesture with her hand and a lifted finger at each detail, “and that he had his eyes closed and was covered just with a pink quilt, and that his hands were folded,” she concluded, convincing herself that the details she had just seen were exactly what she had seen in the mirror.
She had in fact seen nothing then but had mentioned the first thing that came into her head, but what she had invented then seemed to her now as real as any other recollection. She not only remembered what she had then said—that he turned to look at her and smiled and was covered with something red—but was firmly convinced that she had then seen and said that he was covered with a pink quilt and that his eyes were closed.
“Yes, yes, it really was pink!” cried Natasha, who now thought she too remembered the word pink being used, and saw in this the most extraordinary and mysterious part of the prediction.
“But what does it mean?” she added meditatively.
“Oh, I don’t know, it is all so strange,” replied Sonya, clutching at her head.
A few minutes later Prince Andrew rang and Natasha went to him, but Sonya, feeling unusually excited and touched, remained at the window thinking about the strangeness of what had occurred.
They had an opportunity that day to send letters to the army, and the countess was writing to her son.
“Sonya!” said the countess, raising her eyes from her letter as her niece passed, “Sonya, won’t you write to Nicholas?” She spoke in a soft, tremulous voice, and in the weary eyes that looked over her spectacles Sonya read all that the countess meant to convey with these words. Those eyes expressed entreaty, shame at having to ask, fear of a refusal, and readiness for relentless hatred in case of such refusal.
Sonya went up to the countess and, kneeling down, kissed her hand.
“Yes, Mamma, I will write,” said she.
Sonya was softened, excited, and touched by all that had occurred that day, especially by the mysterious fulfillment she had just seen of her vision. Now that she knew that the renewal of Natasha’s relations with Prince Andrew would prevent Nicholas from marrying Princess Mary, she was joyfully conscious of a return of that self-sacrificing spirit in which she was accustomed to live and loved to live. So with a joyful consciousness of performing a magnanimous deed—interrupted several times by the tears that dimmed her velvety black eyes—she wrote that touching letter the arrival of which had so amazed Nicholas.
- Details of this kind in the novel are usually based on evidence that was in Tolstoy’s possession. That news of the battle fought on August 26 only reached Voronezh (about 175 miles south of Moscow) nearly three weeks later indicates how slow communication was at that time in Russia. The roads in Voronezh province, however, were bad even in recent times.—A.M.
- At a Russian church service the congregation stands or kneels, and does not sit.—A.M.
- We have here an instance of the way Tolstoy utilizes his personal experiences in his novels.
At the age of twenty-three, when in the army in the Caucasus, he lost at cards all the ready money he had and gave a note of hand for a further five hundred rubles. The time arrived for the note to be presented, and he found himself quite unable to meet it. He was in despair at the unpleasantness that threatened him should a complaint be lodged with his commander. Telling of this in a letter to his “Auntie” Tatiana, he says: “In the evening while saying my prayers I asked God—and very fervently—to help me out of this disagreeable scrape. ‘But how can I get out of it?’ thought I as I lay down. ‘Nothing can happen that will make it possible for me to meet that debt . . . Lord help met’ said I, and I fell asleep.”
Next day he received a letter from his brother Nicholas telling him that d native Chechen much attached to him (Leo Tolstoy) had won the note of hand from its holder and brought it to Nicholas to send to Leo as a present.
The two incidents are so similar that the one in the novel was no doubt prompted by the one mentioned above.—A.M. - From Voronezh in the south to Yaroslavl in the north will have been a journey of at least five hundred miles, considering that Princess Mary could not pass through Moscow which was in the hands of the French.—A.M.
- The saint referred to was Saint Sergius, who had founded the monastery.—A.M.
- Pierre’s treatment as a prisoner. He is questioned by Davout. Shooting of prisoners. Platón Karatáev
THE OFFICER AND SOLDIERS who had arrested Pierre treated him with hostility but yet with respect, in the guardhouse to which he was taken. In their attitude toward him could still be felt both uncertainty as to who he might be—perhaps a very important person—and hostility as a result of their recent personal conflict with him.
But when the guard was relieved next morning, Pierre felt that for the new guard—both officers and men—he was not as interesting as he had been to his captors; and in fact the guard of the second day did not recognize in this big, stout man in a peasant coat the vigorous person who had fought so desperately with the marauder and the convoy and had uttered those solemn words about saving a child; they saw in him only No. 17 of the captured Russians, arrested and detained for some reason by order of the Higher Command. If they noticed anything remarkable about Pierre, it was only his unabashed, meditative concentration and thoughtfulness, and the way he spoke French, which struck them as surprisingly good. In spite of this he was placed that day with the other arrested suspects, as the separate room he had occupied was required by an officer.
All the Russians confined with Pierre were men of the lowest class and, recognizing him as a gentleman, they all avoided him, more especially as he spoke French. Pierre felt sad at hearing them making fun of him.
That evening he learned that all these prisoners (he, probably, among them) were to be tried for incendiarism. On the third day he was taken with the others to a house where a French general with a white mustache sat with two colonels and other Frenchmen with scarves on their arms. With the precision and definiteness customary in addressing prisoners, and which is supposed to preclude human frailty, Pierre like the others was questioned as to who he was, where he had been, with what object, and so on.
These questions, like questions put at trials generally, left the essence of the matter aside, shut out the possibility of that essence’s being revealed, and were designed only to form a channel through which the judges wished the answers of the accused to flow so as to lead to the desired result, namely a conviction. As soon as Pierre began to say anything that did not fit in with that aim, the channel was removed and the water could flow to waste. Pierre felt, moreover, what the accused always feel at their trial, perplexity as to why these questions were put to him. He had a feeling that it was only out of condescension or a kind of civility that this device of placing a channel was employed. He knew he was in these men’s power, that only by force had they brought him there, that force alone gave them the right to demand answers to their questions, and that the sole object of that assembly was to inculpate him. And so, as they had the power and wish to inculpate him, this expedient of an inquiry and trial seemed unnecessary. It was evident that any answer would lead to conviction. When asked what he was doing when he was arrested, Pierre replied in a rather tragic manner that he was restoring to its parents a child he had saved from the flames. Why had he fought the marauder? Pierre answered that he “was protecting a woman,” and that “to protect a woman who was being insulted was the duty of every man; that . . .” They interrupted him, for this was not to the point. Why was he in the yard of a burning house where witnesses had seen him? He replied that he had gone out to see what was happening in Moscow. Again they interrupted him: they had not asked where he was going, but why he was found near the fire? Who was he? they asked, repeating their first question, which he had declined to answer. Again he replied that he could not answer it.
“Put that down, that’s bad . . . very bad,”
