War And Peace: Book 8 - CHAPTER III

作者: Leo Tolstoy

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Author: Leo Tolstoy

IN THE YEAR 1811 there was living in Moscow a French doctor called Metivier,

who was rapidly coming into fashion. He was a very tall, handsome man, polite as

only a Frenchman is, and was said by every one in Moscow to be an

extraordinarily clever doctor. He was received in the very best houses, not

merely as a doctor, but as an equal.

Prince Nikolay Andreitch had always ridiculed medicine, but of late he had by

Mademoiselle Bourienne's advice allowed this doctor to see him, and had become

accustomed to his visits. Metivier used to see the old prince twice a

week.

On St. Nikolay's day, the name-day of the old prince, all Moscow was driving

up to the approach of his house, but he gave orders for no one to be admitted to

see him. Only a few guests, of whom he gave a list to Princess Marya, were to be

invited to dinner.

Metivier, who arrived in the morning with his felicitations, thought himself

as the old prince's doctor entitled to forcer la consigne, as he told

Princess Marya, and went in to the prince. It so happened that on that morning

of his name-day the old prince was in one of his very worst tempers. He had

spent the whole morning wandering about the house, finding fault with every one,

and affecting not to understand what was said to him and to be misunderstood by

everybody. Princess Marya knew that mood well from subdued and fretful

grumbling, which usually found vent in a violent outburst of fury, and as though

facing a cocked and loaded gun, she went all the morning in expectation of an

explosion. The morning passed off fairly well, till the doctor's arrival. After

admitting the doctor, Princess Marya sat down with a book in the drawing-room

near the door, where she could hear all that passed in the prince's study.

At first she heard Metivier's voice alone, then her father's voice, then both

voices began talking at once. The door flew open, and in the doorway she saw the

handsome, terrified figure of Metivier with his shock of black hair, and the old

prince in a skull-cap and dressing-gown, his face hideous with rage and his eyes

lowered.

“You don't understand,” screamed the old prince, “but I do! French spy, slave

of Bonaparte, spy, out of my house—away, I tell you!” And he slammed the door.

Metivier, shrugging his shoulders, went up to Mademoiselle Bourienne, who ran

out of the next room at the noise.

“The prince is not quite well, bile and rush of blood to the head. Calm

yourself, I will look in to-morrow,” said Metivier; and putting his fingers to

his lips he hurried off.

Through the door could be heard steps shuffling in slippers and shouts:

“Spies, traitors, traitors everywhere! Not a minute of peace in my own

house!”

After Metivier's departure the old prince sent for his daughter, and the

whole fury of his passion spent itself on her. She was to blame for the spy's

having been admitted to see him. Had not he told her, told her to make a list,

and that those not on the list were on no account to be admitted? Why then had

that scoundrel been shown up? She was to blame for everything. With her he could

not have a minute of peace, could not die in peace, he told her.

“No, madame, we must part, we must part, I tell you! I can put up with no

more,” he said, and went out of the room. And as though afraid she might find

some comfort, he turned back and trying to assume an air of calmness, he added:

“And don't imagine that I have said this in a moment of temper; no, I'm quite

calm and I have thought it well over, and it shall be so—you shall go away, and

find some place for yourself!…” But he could not restrain himself, and with the

vindictive fury which can only exist where a man loves, obviously in anguish, he

shook his fists and screamed at her: “Ah! if some fool would marry her!” He

slammed the door, sent for Mademoiselle Bourienne, and subsided into his

study.

At two o'clock the six persons he had selected arrived to dinner. Those

guests—the celebrated Count Rastoptchin, Prince Lopuhin and his nephew, General

Tchatrov, an old comrade of the prince's in the field, and of the younger

generation Pierre and Boris Drubetskoy were awaiting him in the drawing-room.

Boris, who had come on leave to Moscow shortly before, had been anxious to be

presented to Prince Nikolay Andreitch, and had succeeded in so far ingratiating

himself in his favour, that the old prince made in his case an exception from

his usual rule of excluding all young unmarried men from his house.

The prince did not receive what is called “society,” but his house was the

centre of a little circle into which—though it was not talked of much in the

town—it was more flattering to be admitted than anywhere else. Boris had grasped

that fact a week previously, when he heard Rastoptchin tell the

commander-in-chief of Moscow, who had invited him to dine on St. Nikolay's day,

that he could not accept his invitation.

“On that day I always go to pay my devotions to the relics of Prince Nikolay

Andreitch.”

“Oh yes, yes…” assented the commander-in-chief. “How is he?…”

The little party assembled before dinner in the old-fashioned, lofty

drawing-room, with its old furniture, was like the solemn meeting of some legal

council board.

All sat silent, or if they spoke, spoke in subdued tones. Prince Nikolay

Andreitch came in, serious and taciturn. Princess Marya seemed meeker and more

timid than usual. The guests showed no inclination to address their conversation

to her, for they saw that she had no thought for what they were saying. Count

Rastoptchin maintained the conversation alone, relating the latest news of the

town and the political world. Lopuhin and the old general took part in the

conversation at rare intervals. Prince Nikolay Andreitch listened like a

presiding judge receiving a report submitted to him, only testifying by his

silence, or from time to time by a brief word, that he was taking cognizance of

the facts laid before him.

The tone of the conversation was based on the assumption that no one approved

of what was being done in the political world. Incidents were related obviously

confirming the view that everything was going from bad to worse. But in every

story that was told, and in every criticism that was offered, what was striking

was the way that the speaker checked himself, or was checked, every time the

line was reached where a criticism might have reference to the person of the

Tsar himself.

At dinner the conversation turned on the last political news, Napoleon's

seizure of the possessions of the Duke of Oldenburg, and the Russian note,

hostile to Napoleon, which had been despatched to all the European courts.

“Bonaparte treats all Europe as a pirate does a captured vessel,” said

Rastoptchin, repeating a phrase he had uttered several times before. “One only

marvels at the long-suffering or the blindness of the ruling sovereigns. Now

it's the Pope's turn, and Bonaparte doesn't scruple to try and depose the head

of the Catholic Church, and no one says a word. Our Emperor alone has protested

against the seizure of the possessions of the Duke of Oldenburg. And even…”

Count Rastoptchin broke off, feeling that he was on the very border line beyond

which criticism was impossible.

“Other domains have been offered him instead of the duchy of Oldenburg,” said

the old prince. “He shifts the dukes about, as I might move my serfs from Bleak

Hills to Bogutcharovo and the Ryazan estates.”

“The Duke of Oldenburg supports his misfortune with admirable force of

character and resignation,” said Boris putting in his word respectfully. He said

this because on his journey from Petersburg he had had the honour of being

presented to the duke. The old prince looked at the young man as though he would

have liked to say something in reply, but changed his mind, considering him too

young.

“I have read our protest about the Oldenburg affair, and I was surprised at

how badly composed the note was,” said Count Rastoptchin in the casual tone of a

man criticising something with which he is very familiar.

Pierre looked at Rastoptchin in na

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