《War And Peace》Book12 CHAPTER I

《War And Peace》　Book12 　CHAPTER I
　　　　by Leo Tolstoy

IN THE HIGHER CIRCLES in Petersburg the intricate conflict between the
parties of Rumyantsev, of the French, of Marya Fyodorovna, of the Tsarevitch,
and the rest was going on all this time with more heat than ever, drowned, as
always, by the buzzing of the court drones. But the easy, luxurious life of
Petersburg, troubled only about phantasms, the reflection of life, went on its
old way; and the course of that life made it a difficult task to believe in the
danger and the difficult position of the Russian people. There were the same
levees and balls, the same French theatre, the same court interests, the same
interests and intrigues in the government service. It was only in the very
highest circles that efforts were made to recollect the difficulty of the real
position. There was whispered gossip of how the two Empresses had acted in
opposition to one another in these difficult circumstances. The Empress Marya
Fyodorovna, anxious for the welfare of the benevolent and educational
institutions under her patronage, had arrangements made for the removal of all
the institutes to Kazan, and all the belongings of these establishments were
already packed. The Empress Elizaveta Alexyevna on being asked what commands she
was graciously pleased to give, had been pleased to reply that in regard to
state matters she could give no commands, since that was all in the Tsar's
hands; as far as she personally was concerned, she had graciously declared, with
her characteristic Russian patriotism, that she would be the last to leave
Petersburg.

On the 26th of August, the very day of the battle of Borodino, there was a
soirée at Anna Pavlovna's, the chief attraction of which was to be the
reading of the Metropolitan's letter, written on the occasion of his sending to
the Tsar the holy picture of Saint Sergey. This letter was looked upon as a
model of patriotic ecclesiastical eloquence. It was to be read by Prince Vassily
himself, who was famed for his fine elocution. (He used even to read aloud in
the Empress's drawing-room.) The beauty of his elocution was supposed to lie in
the loud, resonant voice, varying between a despairing howl and a tender whine,
in which he rolled off the words quite independently of the sense, so that a
howl fell on one word and a whine on others quite at random. This reading, as
was always the case with Anna Pavlovna's entertainments, had a political
significance. She was expecting at this soirée several important
personages who were to be made to feel ashamed of patronising the French
theatre, and to be roused to patriotic fervour. A good many people had already
arrived, but Anna Pavlovna did not yet see those persons whose presence in her
drawing-room was necessary, and she was therefore starting general topics of
conversation before proceeding to the reading.

The news of the day in Petersburg was the illness of Countess Bezuhov. The
countess had been taken ill a few days previously; she had missed several
entertainments, of which she was usually the ornament, and it was said that she
was seeing no one, and that instead of the celebrated Petersburg physicians, who
usually attended her, she had put herself into the hands of some Italian doctor,
who was treating her on some new and extraordinary method.

Everybody was very well aware that the charming countess's illness was due to
inconveniences arising from marrying two husbands at once, and that the Italian
doctor's treatment consisted in the removal of such inconvenience. But in the
presence of Anna Pavlovna no one ventured to think about that view of the
question, or even, as it were, to know what they did know about it.

“They say the poor countess is very ill. The doctor says it is angina
pectoris.”

“Angine? Oh, that's a terrible illness.”

“They say the rivals are reconciled, thanks to the angine…” The word
angine was repeated with GREat relish.

“I am told the old count is touching. He cried like a child when the doctor
told him there was danger.”

“Oh, it would be a terrible loss. She is a fascinating woman.”

“You speak of the poor countess,” said Anna Pavlovna, coming up. “I sent to
inquire after her. I was told she was getting better. Oh, no doubt of it, she is
the most charming woman in the world,” said Anna Pavlovna, with a smile at her
own enthusiasm. “We belong to different camps, but that does not prevent me from
appreciating her as she deserves. She is very unhappy,” added Anna
Pavlovna.

Supposing that by these last words Anna Pavlovna had slightly lifted the veil
of mystery that hung over the countess's illness, one unwary young man permitted
himself to express surprise that no well-known doctor had been called in, and
that the countess should be treated by a charlatan, who might make use of
dangerous remedies.

“Your information may be better than mine,” cried Anna Pavlovna, falling upon
the inexperienced youth with sudden viciousness, “but I have it on good
authority that this doctor is a very learned and skilful man. He is the private
physician of the Queen of Spain.”

And having thus annihilated the young man, Anna Pavlovna turned to Bilibin,
who was talking in another group about the Austrians, and had his forehead
puckered up in wrinkles in readiness to utter un mot.

“I think it is charming!” he was saying of the diplomatic note which had been
sent to Vienna with the Austrian flags taken by Wittgenstein, “le héros de
Pétropol,” as he was called at Petersburg.

“What? what was it?” Anna Pavlovna inquired, creating a silence for the
mot to be heard, though she had in fact heard it before.

And Bilibin repeated the precise words of the diplomatic despatch he had
composed.

“The Emperor sends back the Austrian flags,” said Bilibin; “drapeaux amis
et égarés qu'il a trouvés hors de la route,” Bilibin concluded, letting the
wrinkles run off his forehead.

“Charming, charming!” said Prince Vassily.

“The road to Warsaw, perhaps,” Prince Ippolit said loudly, to the general
surprise. Everybody looked at him, at a loss to guess what he meant. Prince
Ippolit, too, looked about him with light-hearted wonder. He had no more notion
than other people what was meant by his words. In the course of his diplomatic
career he had more than once noticed that words suddenly uttered in that way
were accepted as highly diverting, and on every occasion he uttered in that way
the first words that chanced to come to his tongue. “May be, it will come out
all right,” he thought, “and if it doesn't, they will know how to give some turn
to it.” And the awkward silence that reigned was in fact broken by the entrance
of the personage of defective patriotism whom Anna Pavlovna was waiting for to
convert to a better mind; and smiling, and shaking her finger at Prince Ippolit,
she summoned Prince Vassily to the table, and setting two candles and a
manuscript before him, she begged him to begin. There was a general hush.

“Most high and gracious Emperor and Tsar!” Prince Vassily boomed out sternly,
and he looked round at his audience as though to inquire whether any one had
anything to say against that. But nobody said anything. “The chief capital city,
Moscow, the New Jerusalem, receives her Messiah”—he threw a sudden
emphasis on the “her”—“even as a mother in the embraces of her zealous
sons, and through the gathering darkness, foreseeing the dazzling glory of thy
dominion, sings aloud in triumph: ‘Hosanna! Blessed be He that cometh!”'

Prince Vassily uttered these last words in a tearful voice.

Bilibin scrutinised his nails attentively, and many of the audience were
visibly cowed, as though wondering what they had done wrong. Anna Pavlovna
murmured the words over beforehand, as old women whisper the prayer to come at
communion: “Let the base and insolent Goliath…” she whispered.

Prince Vassily continued:

“Let the base and insolent Goliath from the borders of France encompass the
realm of Russia with the horrors of death; lowly faith, the sling of the Russian
David, shall smite a swift blow at the head of his pride that thirsteth for
blood. This holy image of the most venerable Saint Sergey, of old a zealous
champion of our country's welfare, is borne to your imperial majesty. I grieve
that my failing strength hinders me from the joy of your most gracious presence.
Fervent prayers I am offering up to Heaven, and the Almighty will exalt the
faithful and fulfil in His mercy the hopes of your majesty.”

“Quel force! Quel style!” was murmured in applause of the reader and
the author. Roused by this appeal, Anna Pavlovna's guests continued for a long
while talking of the position of the country, and made various surmises as to
the issue of the battle to be fought in a few days.

“You will see,” said Anna Pavlovna, “that to-morrow on the Emperor's birthday
we shall get news. I have a presentiment of something good.”