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AFTER THE TSAR had left Moscow, the life of that city flowed on in its old
accustomed channel, and the current of that life ran so much as usual that it
was difficult to remember the days of patriotic fervour and enthusiasm, and hard
to believe that Russia actually was in danger, and that the members of the
English club were also her devoted sons, ready to make any sacrifice for her
sake. The one thing that recalled the general patriotic fervour of the days of
the Tsar's presence in Moscow was the call for contributions of men and money,
and these demands were presented at once in a legal, official form, so that they
seemed inevitable. As the enemy drew nearer to Moscow the attitude taken by its
inhabitants in regard to their position did not become more serious, but, on the
contrary, more frivolous, as is always the case with people who see a great
danger approaching. At the approach of danger there are always two voices that
speak with equal force in the heart of man: one very reasonably tells the man to
consider the nature of the danger and the means of avoiding it; the other even
more reasonably says that it is too painful and harassing to think of the
danger, since it is not in a man's power to provide for everything and escape
from the general march of events; and that it is therefore better to turn aside
from the painful subject till it has come, and to think of what is pleasant. In
solitude a man generally yields to the first voice; in society to the second. So
it was now with the inhabitants of Moscow. It was long since there had been so
much gaiety in Moscow as that year.
Rastoptchin's posters, with a print at the top of a gin-shop, a potman, and
the Moscow artisan, Karpushka Tchigirin, “who, having gone into the militia,
heard that Bonaparte meant to come to Moscow, was mightily wroth thereat, used
very bad language about all the French, came out of the gin-shop and began to
address the people assembled under the eagles,” were as much read and discussed
as the last bouts rimés of Vassily Lvovitch Pushkin.
In the corner room of the club the members gathered together to read these
posters; and some liked the way Karpushka was made to jeer at the French, saying
that “they would be blown out with Russian cabbage, that Russian porridge would
rip their guts open, and cabbage soup would finish them off; that they were all
dwarfs, and a village lass could toss three of them on her pitchfork
single-handed!”
Some people did not approve of this tone, and said it was vulgar and stupid.
People said that Rastoptchin had sent all Frenchmen, and even foreigners, out of
Moscow, and that there had been spies and agents of Napoleon among them. But
they talked of this principally in order to repeat the witticisms uttered by
Rastoptchin on the occasion. The foreigners had been put on a barque sailing to
Nizhny, and Rastoptchin had said to them: “Keep yourselves to yourselves, get
into the barque, and take care it does not become the barque of Charon to you.”
People talked too of all the government offices having been removed from Moscow,
and added Shinshin's joke, that for that alone Moscow ought to be grateful to
Napoleon. People said that Mamonov's regiment was costing him eight hundred
thousand; that Bezuhov was spending even more on his; but that the noblest proof
of Bezuhov's patriotism was that he was going to put on the uniform himself and
ride at the head of his regiment, without any charge for seats to
spectators.
“You have no mercy on any one,” said Julie Drubetskoy, gathering up a pinch
of scraped lint in her slender fingers covered with rings.
Julie was intending to leave Moscow next day, and was giving a farewell
soirée.
“Bezuhov est ridicule, but he is so good-natured, so nice; how can you
take pleasure in being so caustique?”
“Forfeit!” said a young man in a volunteer's uniform, whom Julie called
“mon chevalier,” and was taking with her to Nizhny.
In Julie's circle, as in many circles in Moscow, it was a principle now to
speak nothing but Russian, and those who made a mistake by speaking French had
to pay a forfeit for the benefit of the committee of voluntary
subscriptions.
“Another forfeit for a Gallicism,” said a Russian writer who happened to be
present. “ ‘Take pleasure!' is not Russian.”
“You have no mercy on any one,” Julie went on to the volunteer, paying no
attention to the remark of the author.
“Caustique, I admit,” she said, “and I'll pay for the pleasure of
telling you the truth. I am ready to pay even more; but I am not responsible for
Gallicisms,” she said to the writer. “I have neither the time nor the money to
engage a teacher and learn Russian like Prince Galitzin. Ah, here he is!” added
Julie. “Quand on … No, no,” she protested to the volunteer, “you're not
going to catch me. When one speaks of the sun, one sees its rays. We were just
talking of you,” she said, smiling affably to Pierre, and adding, with the easy
lying characteristic of society women, “We were saying your regiment was certain
to be a finer one than Mamonov's.”
“Oh, don't talk to me about my regiment,” answered Pierre, kissing his
hostess's hand, and sitting down beside her. “I am so heartily sick of
it!”
“You will take the command of it yourself, of course?” said Julie with a sly
and sarcastic look towards the volunteer.
The latter was by no means so ready to be caustic in Pierre's presence, and
his countenance betokened perplexity as to what Julie's smile could signify. In
spite of his absent-mindedness and good nature, Pierre's presence never failed
to cut short any attempt at ridicule at his expense.
“No,” answered Pierre, laughing and looking at his huge, bulky figure; “I
should make too good a target for the French, and indeed I'm afraid I could
hardly scramble on to a horse's back.”
Among the people picked out as subjects for gossip, Julie's friends happened
to pitch on the Rostovs. “Their pecuniary position is very serious, I am told,”
said Julie. “And the count is so unreasonable. The Razumovskys wanted to buy his
house and his estate in the environs, and the matter is still dragging on. He
will ask too much.”
“No, I fancy purchase will be concluded in a few days,” said some one.
“Though it's madness to buy anything in Moscow just now.”
“Why so?” said Julie. “Surely you don't suppose that Moscow is in any
danger.”
“Why are you leaving it then?”
“I? That's a strange question. I am going because … well, because everybody's
going, and I am not a Jeanne d'Arc nor an Amazon.”
“Oh, oh! Give me another strip of linen to scrape.”
“He ought to be able to pay off all his debts, if he sets about it properly,”
the volunteer observed of Count Rostov.
“He's a good-hearted old fellow, but very foolish.”
“And why are they staying on here so long? They were meaning to leave for the
country long ago. Natalie is quite well again now, I suppose?” Julie asked
Pierre, with a sly smile.
“They are waiting for their younger son,” said Pierre. “He went into
Obolensky's Cossacks, and was sent off to Byela Tserkov. The regiment is being
formed there. But now they have transferred him to my regiment, and he is
expected every day. The count wanted to get away long ago, but nothing would
induce the countess to leave Moscow till her son's return.”
“I saw them the day before yesterday at the Arharovs'. Natalie has quite
recovered her looks and her spirits. She sang a song. How easily some people get
over everything!”
“Get over what?” Pierre asked, looking displeased.
Julie smiled.
“O count, you know, such chivalrous knights as you are only to be found in
Madame Suza's novels.”
“Knights! What do you mean?” Pierre asked blushing.
“Come now, my dear count. C'est la fable de tout Moscou. Je vous admire,
ma parole d'honneur.”
“Forfeit! forfeit!” said the volunteer.
“Oh, very well. One cannot talk, what a bore it is!”
“What is the talk of all Moscow?” said Pierre angrily, rising to his
feet.
“Nonsense, count, you know!”
“I know nothing about it,” said Pierre.
“I know what great friends you have always been with Natalie, and so … But, I
was always more friendly with Vera. That darling Vera.”
“No, madam,” Pierre persisted in a tone of annoyance. “I have by no means
taken upon myself the rôle of Countess Rostov's knight; indeed, it's almost a
month since I have been near them. But I cannot understand the cruelty …”
“Qui s'excuse s'accuse,” cried Julie, smiling, and waving the lint
triumphantly, and that she might have the last word, she promptly changed the
subject. “By the way, I have heard poor Marie Bolkonsky arrived in Moscow
yesterday. Have you heard she has lost her father?”
“Really? Where is she? I should like to see her,” said Pierre.
“I spent the evening with her yesterday. She is going on to-day or to-morrow
morning to their estate in the province with her nephew.”
“Well, how is she? Tell me,” said Pierre.
“Oh, she is well, but very sad. But do you know who rescued her? It is quite
a romance. Nikolay Rostov. She was surrounded; they tried to kill her and
wounded her servants. He rushed in and saved her.…”
“Another romance,” said the volunteer. “This general flight is evidently
intended to marry off all the old maids. Katish is one, Princess Bolkonsky
another.”
“You know, I really do believe she's un petit peu amoureuse du jeune
bomme.”
“Forfeit! forfeit! forfeit!”
“But how is one to say that in Russian?”
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