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War and Peace, Book 1, Chapter 26. Red for LibriVox.org by AlexFoster.me.uk
The Greyhaird Valley was sitting drowsily listening to the snoring of the prince, who
was in his large study. From the far side of the house through the closed doors came the
sound of difficult passages, twenty times repeated, of a sonata by Dusek. Just then a closed
carriage and another with a hood drove up to the porch. Prince Andrew got out of the
carriage, helped his little wife to a light, and let her pass into the house before
him. Old Tic-on, wearing a wig, put his head out of the door of the anti-chamber, reported
in a whisper that the prince was sleeping and hastily closed the door.
Tic-on knew that neither the son's arrival nor any other unusual event must be allowed
to disturb the appointed order of the day. Prince Andrew apparently knew this as well
as Tic-on. He looked at his watch as if to ascertain whether his father's habits had
changed since he was at home last, and having us yurt himself that they had not, he returned
to his wife.
He will get up in twenty minutes. Let us go across to Mary's room, he said.
The little princess had grown stouter during this time, but her eyes and her short, downy,
smiling lip lifted when she began to speak, just as merrily and as prettily as ever.
Why this is a palace, she said to her husband, looking around with the expression with which
people compliment their host at a bowl. Let's come, quick, quick, and with a glance
around, she smiled at Tic-on at her husband and at the footmen who accompanied them.
Is that Mary practicing? Let's go quietly and take her by surprise.
Prince Andrew followed her with a courteous but sad expression. You've grown older, Tic-on,
he said, in passing to the old man, who kissed his hand. Before they reached the room from
which the sounds of the clavacord came, the pretty fair-haired Frenchwoman, Mademoiselle
Boyenne, rushed out apparently beside herself with delight.
Ah, what joy for the princess, exclaimed she, at last, I must let her know.
No, no, please not. You are Mademoiselle Boyenne, said the little princess, pukissing her.
I know you already through my sister-in-law's friendship for you. She was not expecting us.
She went up to the door of the sitting-room from which came the sound of the oft-repeated
passage of the sonata. Prince Andrew stopped and made a grimace, as if expecting something
unpleasant.
The little princess entered the room. The passage broke off in the middle, a cry was heard,
then Princess Mary's heavy-trade and the sound of kissing. When Prince Andrew went in,
the two princesses, who had only met once before for a short time at his wedding, were in
each other's arms, warmly pressing their lips to whatever place they happened to touch.
Prince Moiselle Boyenne stood near them, pressing her hand to her heart, with a beatific smile
and obviously equally ready to cry or to laugh.
Prince Andrew shrugged his shoulders and frowned, as lovers of music do when they hear a
false note. The two women let go of one another, and then, as if afraid of being too late,
seized each other's hands, kissing them and pulling them away, and again began kissing
each other on the face, and then to Prince Andrew's surprise both began to cry and kiss
again. Mad Moiselle Boyenne also began to cry.
Prince Andrew evidently fell in her tears, but to the two women it seemed quite natural
that they should cry, and apparently it never entered their heads that it could have
been otherwise at this meeting.
Ah, my dear, ah, Mary, they suddenly exclaimed, and then laughed, I was dreaming last night.
You were not expecting us? Ah, Mary, have you got thinner, and you have grown stouter.
I knew that Prince has at once, but in Mad Moiselle Boyenne. I had no idea, exclaimed
Prince's Mary, ah, Andrew, I did not see you.
Prince Andrew, in his sister, hand in hand, kissed one another, and he told her she was still
the same cry baby as ever.
Prince's Mary had turned toward her brother, and through her eyes the loving, warm, gentle
look of her large luminous eyes, very beautiful at that moment, rested on Prince Andrew's face.
Her little princess talked incessantly. Her short downy upper lip continually and rapidly
touching her rosy-neather lip were necessary, and drawing up again next moment when her
face broke into a smile of glittering teeth and sparkling eyes.
She told of an accident they had had on Spasky Hill, which might have been serious for
her in her condition, and immediately after that informed them that she had left all her
clothes in Petersburg, and that Heaven knew what she would have to dress in here, and
that Andrew had quite changed, and that Kitty Odenseva had married an old man, and that
there was a suit of a Mary, a real one, but that they could talk of that later.
Prince's Mary was still looking silently at her brother, and her beautiful eyes were
full of love and sadness. It was plain, she was following a train of thought independent
of her sister-in-law's words. In the midst of a description of the last Petersburg fate,
she addressed her brother, so, you were really going to war, Andrew, she said, sighing.
Liza sighed, too.
Yes, and even tomorrow, reply to brother. He is leaving me here. God knows why when he
might have had promotion. Princess Mary did not listen to the end, but continuing her train
of thought turned to her sister-in-law with a tender glance at her figure.
Is it certain, she said? The face of the little princess changed. She sighed and said,
yes, quite certain. Ah, it is very dreadful.
Her lip descended. She brought her face close to her sister-in-law's, and unexpectedly
again began to cry. She needs rest, said Prince Andrew with her friend. Don't you, Liza,
take her to your room, and I'll go to father. How is he, just the same? Yes, just the
same, though I don't know what your opinion will be, answered the princess joyfully.
And are the hours the same, and the walks in the other news, and the lathe? Our prince
Andrew with a scarcely perceptible smile, which showed that, in spite of all his love and
respect for his father, he was aware of his weaknesses.
The hours are the same, and the lathe, and also the mathematics and my geometry lessons,
said Princess Mary, gleefully, as if her lessons in geometry were among the greatest delights
of life.
When the twenty minutes had elapsed, and the time had come for the old prince to get up,
the icon came to call the young prince to his father. The old man made a departure from
his usual routine in honor of his son's arrival. He gave orders to admit him to his apartments
while he dressed for dinner. The old prince always dressed in an old-fashioned style, wearing
an antique coat and powdered hair, and when Prince Andrew entered his father's dressing
room, not with the contemptuous look and manner he wore in drawing-rooms, but with the animated
face with which he talked to Pierre. The old man was sitting on a large leather-covered
chair wrapped in a powdering mantle, entrusting his head to tick on.
Ah, here's the warrior, once to vanquish Bonaparte, said the old man, shaking his powdered
head as much as the tail which tick on was holding fast to plat would allow.
He must at least tackle him properly, or else if he goes on like this, he'll soon have
us too for his subjects. How are you? And he held out his cheek.
The old man was in a good temper after his nap before dinner. He used to say that a nap
after dinner was silver before dinner, golden. He cast happy side-long glances at his son
from under his thick bushy eyebrows. Prince Andrew went up and kissed his father on the
spot indicated to him. He made no reply on his father's favorite topic, making fun
of the military men of the day, and more particularly of Bonaparte.
Yes, father, I have come to you and brought my wife, who is pregnant, said Prince Andrew,
following every movement of his father's face with an eager and respectful look. How is
your health? Only fools and rakes fall ill, my boy. You know me, I'm busy from morning
till night, and abstemious, so of course I am well.
Thank God, said his father smiling. God has nothing to do with it. Well, go on, he continued,
to his hobby, tell me how the Germans have taught you to fight Bonaparte by this new science
you call strategy.
Prince Andrew's mild.
Give me time to collect my wits, father, said to you with a smile that showed that his
father's foibles did not prevent his son from loving and honouring him. Why have not
yet had time to settle down? Nonsense, nonsense, cried the old man, shaking his pigtail
to see whether it was firmly platted and grasping his by the hand.
The house for your wife is ready. Princess Mary will take her there and show her over,
and they'll talk 19 to the dozen. That's their women's way. I am glad to have her. Sit
down and talk. About Michelson's army, I understand. Tolstoy's too. A simultaneous expedition.
But what's the Southern army to do? Prussia is neutral. I know that. What about Austria?
Said he, rising from his chair and pacing up and down the room, followed by Ticcon, who
ran after him, handing him different articles of clothing.
Out of Sweden, how will they cross Pomerania?
Prince Andrew, seeing that his father insisted, began, at first reluctantly, but gradually
with more and more animation, and from habit, changing unconsciously from Russian to French,
as he went on, to explain the plan of operation for the coming campaign. Explained how an
army, 90,000 strong, was to threaten Prussia so as to bring her out of her neutrality and
draw her into the war. How part of that army was to join some Swedish forces at Strasbourg,
how 220,000 Austrians with 100,000 Russians were to operate in Italy and on the Rhine,
how 50,000 Russians and as many English were to land at Naples, at how a total force
of 500,000 men was to attack the French from different sides. The Old Prince did not
evince the least interest during this explanation, but as if he were not listening to it, continued
to dress while walking about, and three times unexpectedly interrupted. Once he stopped
it, by shouting, the white one, the white one. This meant that Ticcon was not handing
him the waistcoat he wanted. Another time he interrupted, saying, and will she soon
be confined, and shaking his head reproachfully said, that's bad, go on, go on.
The third interruption came when Prince Andrew was finished his description. The old man
began to sing in the cracked voice of old age. Malbok, Savaton, Anger, Dyecy, Con,
Oviandra. Malbra is going to the wars. God knows when he will return. His son only
smiled.
I don't say it's a plan I approved of, said the son. I am only telling you what it is.
Napoleon has also formed his plan by now, not worse than this one.
Well, you've told me nothing new, and the old man repeated, meditatively and rapidly,
Jusek or Oviandra. Go to the dining-room.
End of chapter 26 of Book One of War and Peace, right for LibriVox.org by AlexFoster.me.uk,
Nottingham, England on the 11th of February 2007.
