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War in Peace, Book 1, Chapter 27. Red for Librevox.org by Kristen McQuillan, mediatinker.com
At the appointed hour, the prince, powdered and shavin entered the dining room where
his daughter-in-law, Princess Mary, and Mademoiselle Boyan were already awaiting him together
with his architect, who by a strange caprice of his employers was admitted to table, though
the position of that insignificant individual was such as could certainly not have caused
him to expect that honor. The prince, who generally kept very strictly to social distinctions,
and rarely admitted even important government officials to his table, had unexpectedly
selected Michael Ivanovich, who always went into a corner to blow his nose on his checked
hankerchief, to illustrate the theory that all men are equals, and had more than once
impressed on his daughter that Michael Ivanovich was not a wit worse than you or I. At dinner,
the prince usually spoke to the taciturn Michael Ivanovich more often than to anyone else.
In the dining room, which, like all the rooms in the house, was exceedingly lofty, the
members of the household and the footmen, one behind each chair, stood waiting for the
prince to enter. The head butler, napkin on arm, was scanning the setting of the table,
making signs to the footmen, and anxiously glancing from the clock to the door by which
the prince was to enter. Prince Andrew was looking at a large guilt frame new to him,
containing the genealogical tree of the prince's balkonsky, opposite which hung another
such frame with a badly painted portrait, evidently by the hand of the artist belonging
to the estate, of a ruling prince in a crown, an alleged descendant of Rurik and the ancestor
of the balkonskys. Prince Andrew, looking again at that genealogical tree, shook his head,
laughing as a man who laughs, who looks at a portrait, so characteristic of the original
as to be amusing, how thoroughly like him that is, he said to Princess Mary, who would come
up to him. Princess Mary looked at her brother in surprise, she did not understand what he
was laughing at, everything her father did inspired her with reverence and was beyond
question. Everyone has as Achilles Yule, continued
Prince Andrew, fancy with his powerful mind indulging in such nonsense.
Princess Mary could not understand the boldness of her brother's criticism and was about
to reply when the expected footsteps were heard coming from the study. The prince walked
in quickly and jauntily as was his want, as if intentionally contrasting the briskness
of his manners with the strict formality of his house. At that moment the great clock
struck two, and another with a shrill tone joined in from the drawing-room. The prince
stood still, his lively glittering eyes from under their thick bushy eyebrows, sternly
scanned all present, and rested on the little princess. She felt, as courtiers do, when
the Tsar enters, the sensation of fear and respect which the old man inspired in all
around him. He stroked her hair, then padded her awkwardly on the back of her neck.
I'm glad, glad to see you, he said, looking attentively into her eyes, and then quickly
went to his place, and sat down. Sit down, sit down, sit down, Michael Ivanovich.
He indicated a place beside him to his daughter-in-law, a footman moved the chair for her.
Ho-ho, said the old man, casting his eyes on her rounded figure. You've been in a hurry,
that's bad. He laughed in his usual dry, cold, unpleasant way, with his lips only and
not with his eyes. You must walk. Walk as much as possible, as much as possible, he said.
The little princess did not, or did not wish to, hear his words. She was silent and seemed
confused. The prince asked about her father, and she began to smile and talk. He asked about
mutual acquaintances, and she became still more animated, and chattered away, giving him
greetings from various people, and retelling the tailing gossip. Countess Apraksina poor
thing has lost her husband, and she's cried her eyes out, she said, growing more and
more lively. As she became animated, the prince looked at her more and more sternly,
and suddenly, as if he'd studied her sufficiently, and had formed a definite idea of her, he turned
away, and addressed Michael Ivanovich.
Well, Michael Ivanovich, our bona part will be having a bad time of it. Prince Andrew,
he always spoke thus of his son, has been telling me what forces are being collected against
him, while you and I never thought much of him.
Michael Ivanovich did not know at all when you and I had said such things about Bonaparte,
but understanding that he was wanted as a peg on which to hang the prince's favorite
topic, he looked inquiringly at the young prince, wondering what would follow.
He is a great tactician, said the prince to his son, pointing to the architect.
And the conversation, again, turned on the war, on Bonaparte, and the generals and statesmen
of the day. The old prince seemed convinced that not only all the men of the day were mere
babies who did not know the ABC of war or of politics, and that Bonaparte was an insignificant
little Frenchy, successful only because there were no longer any petemkin's, or serveroves
left to oppose him. But he was also convinced that there were no political difficulties in
Europe and no real war, but only a sort of puppet show at which the men of the day were
playing, pretending to do something real.
Prince Andrew galey bore with his father's ridicule of the new men, and drew him on, and
listened to him with evident pleasure.
The past always seems good, he said, but did not serverove himself fall into a trap morose
at him, and from which he did not know how to escape?
Who told you that? Who? cried the prince.
Souverove, and he jerked his plate away, which tick on briskly caught.
Souverove considered Prince Andrew, too, Frederick and Souverove.
Moro, Moro would have been a prisoner if Souverove had had a free hand, but he had the
Hof's Krieg-Würsch-Nofstath on his hands, it would have puzzled the devil himself.
When you get there, you'll find out what those Hof's Krieg-Würsch-Würsch-Raths are.
Souverove couldn't manage them, so what chance has Michael Kutsov, no my dear boy, he continued,
you and your generals won't get on against Bonaparte, you'll have to call in the French,
so the birds of a feather may fight together.
The German, Faelin, has been sent to New York in America to fetch the Frenchman, Moro,
he said, alluding to the invitation made that year to Morove to enter the Russian service.
Wonderful, were the Potenkin, Souveroves and Orlov's Germans?
No, Lad, either you fellows have lost all your wits or I've outlived mine.
May God help you, but we'll see what will happen.
Bonaparte has become a great commander among them.
Hmm.
I don't at all say that all plans are good, said Prince Andrew.
I'm only surprised at your opinion of Bonaparte, and you may laugh as much as you like,
but all the same, Bonaparte is a great general.
Michael Ivanovich, cried the old Prince to the architect, who, busy with his roast meat,
hoped he had been forgotten, didn't I tell you Bonaparte was a great tactician?
Here, he says the same thing.
To be sure your excellency replied the architect.
The Prince again laughed, his frigid laugh.
Bonaparte was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, he's got splendid soldiers.
Besides, he began by attacking Germans, and only idlers have failed to beat the Germans.
Once the world began, everybody has beaten the Germans.
They beat no one, except one another.
He made his reputation fighting them.
And the Prince began explaining all the blunders, which, according to him, Bonaparte had
made in his campaigns, and even in politics.
His son made no rejoinder, but it was evident that whatever arguments were presented,
he was as little able as his father to change his opinion.
He listened, refraining from a reply, and involuntarily wondered how this old man living
alone in the country for so many years could know and discuss so minutely and accurately
all the recent European military and political events.
You think I'm an old man and don't understand the present state of affairs, concluded
his father, but it troubles me, I don't sleep at night.
Come now, where has this great commander of yours shown his skills, he concluded?
That would take too long to tell, answered the son.
Well, then, go to your Bonaparte.
Then was Elbowrienne, here's another admirer of that powder-monkey emperor of yours,
he exclaimed in excellent French.
You know, Prince, I am not a Bonaparteist!
Do you say, Juan Vévia?
Hum the Prince out of tune, and with a laugh still more so, he quitted the table.
The little princess, during the whole discussion, and the rest of the dinner, sat silent, glancing
with a frightened look now at her father-in-law, and now at Princess Mary.
On the left the table, she took her sister-in-law's arm, and drew her into another room.
What a clever man your father is, she said, perhaps that's why I'm afraid of him.
Oh, he's so kind, answered Princess Mary.
End of chapter 27.
