“God grant,” she would say, “that all Russians love their fatherland as I love it.” She astonished me. I had always known Polina to be modest and taciturn, and I could not understand where this boldness came from.
“For pity’s sake,” I said once, “what makes you mix into what’s none of our business? Let the men fight and shout about politics; women don’t go to war, and they have no business with Bonaparte.”
Her eyes flashed.
“Shame on you,” she said. “Don’t women have a fatherland? Don’t they have fathers, brothers, husbands? Is Russian blood alien to us? Or do you think we’re born only to be spun around in the ecossaise at balls and compelled to embroider little dogs on canvas at home? No, I know what effect a woman can have on public opinion or even on the heart of just one man. I don’t accept the humiliation we’re condemned to. Look at Mme de Staël: Napoleon fought with her as with an enemy force…And uncle still dares to mock her fearfulness at the approach of the French army! ‘Don’t worry, madam: Napoleon is making war on Russia, not on you…’ Oh, yes! If uncle were caught by the French, he’d be allowed to stroll about the Palais-Royal; but Mme de Staël in such a case would die in a state prison. And Charlotte Corday? And our Marfa Posadnitsa? And Princess Dashkova?9 How am I inferior to them? Certainly not in boldness of heart and resoluteness.”
I listened to Polina with amazement. Never had I suspected such ardor, such ambition in her. Alas! What had her extraordinary inner qualities and courageous loftiness of mind brought her to? It’s true what my favorite writer said:
The sovereign’s arrival redoubled the general agitation. The ecstasy of patriotism finally took hold of high society. Drawing rooms became debating chambers. Everywhere there was talk of patriotic donations. They repeated the immortal speech of the young Count Mamonov, who donated his entire fortune.10 After that some mamas observed that the count was no longer such an enviable match, but we all admired him. Polina raved about him.
“What are you going to donate?” she once asked my brother.
“I haven’t come into my fortune yet,” my scapegrace replied. “All in all, I’ve got thirty thousand in debts: I donate that on the altar of the fatherland.”
Polina became angry.
“For some people,” she said, “honor and the fatherland are mere trifles. Their brothers die on the battlefield, and they play the fool in drawing rooms. I don’t know if you could find a woman base enough to allow such a buffoon to pretend he’s in love with her.”
My brother flared up.
“You’re too exacting, Princess,” he retorted. “You demand that everyone see Mme de Staël in you and speak to you in tirades from
With those words, he turned away. I thought they had quarreled forever, but I was mistaken: Polina liked my brother’s impertinence, she forgave him his inappropriate joke for the noble impulse of indignation, and, learning a week later that he had joined Mamonov’s regiment, she herself asked me to reconcile them. My brother was in ecstasy. He immediately offered her his hand. She accepted, but put off the wedding until the end of the war. The next day my brother left for the army.
Napoleon was approaching Moscow; our troops were retreating; Moscow was alarmed. Her inhabitants were getting out one after the other. The prince and princess persuaded mother to go with them to their estate in ––sky province.
