War And Peace полностью

The idea of doing some military service had occurred to Pierre long before this, and he would have done something about it but for two things: in the first place, he was a sworn member of the Masonic brotherhood committed to peace on earth and the abolition of war, and secondly, one look at the great mass of Muscovites who had gone into uniform as self-proclaimed patriots, and for some reason he squirmed with embarrassment at the idea of doing the same thing. But the main reason for not carrying out his intention to join up was the rather vague idea that he, l’russe Besuhof, was associated with the number of the beast, 666, and his role in putting an end to the power of the beast ‘speaking great things and blasphemies’ had been predetermined from time immemorial, which meant that his was not to go about doing things, his was to sit there and wait for the inevitable to happen.

CHAPTER 20

As usual on Sundays the Rostovs were having a few close friends in for dinner. Pierre arrived early in order to catch them alone.

During the past year Pierre had put on so much weight he would have looked grotesque but for his great height, big limbs and the solid strength that enabled him to carry his enormous bulk with evident ease.

He mounted the stairs, puffing and panting and muttering under his breath. His driver no longer bothered to ask whether to wait. He knew that when the count was at the Rostovs’ he would be there till midnight. The Rostovs’ footmen ran forward with a warm welcome, eager to help him off with his cloak, and take his stick and hat. Pierre always stuck to his club habit of leaving his stick and hat behind in the vestibule.

The first person he saw at the Rostovs’ was Natasha. Before actually seeing her, while he was taking off his cloak he heard her. She was practising her scales in the hall. He knew she had given up singing during her illness, so he was surprised and delighted by the sound of her voice. He opened the door softly, and there was Natasha, in the lilac-coloured dress she had worn at the service, walking up and down the room singing.

She had her back turned to him as he opened the door, but when she made a sharp turn and saw the look of surprise on his chubby face she coloured up and walked quickly over to him.

‘I want to start singing again,’ she said. ‘It’s something to do, isn’t it?’ she added by way of an excuse.

‘A splendid thing to do!’

‘Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come! I’m feeling so happy today,’ she said with the old enthusiasm that Pierre hadn’t seen for many a long day. ‘Did you know darling Nikolay has won the George Cross? I’m so proud of him.’

‘Of course I do. I sent the announcement. Well, I mustn’t stop you,’ he added, and made as if to walk through into the drawing-room.

Natasha stopped him.

‘Count, I shouldn’t really be singing, should I?’ she said, blushing, her eyes fixed quizzically on Pierre’s face.

‘Yes . . . Why not? You’ve got things the wrong way round. But why do you ask me?’

‘I really don’t know,’ Natasha answered hastily. ‘I just wouldn’t want to do anything you wouldn’t like. I trust you completely. You’ve no idea what you mean to me, how much you’ve done for me!’ She was gabbling away and didn’t notice Pierre colouring up at these words. ‘I saw something else in that announcement – he, Bolkonsky,’ – she blurted the word out in a rapid whisper – ‘he’s here in Russia, back in the army. What do you think,’ she said hurriedly, obviously anxious to get it all out before her strength failed her, ‘will he ever forgive me? Will he always think badly of me? What do you think? What do you think?’

‘What I think is . . .’ said Pierre. ‘There’s nothing for him to forgive . . . If I was him . . .’ By association, Pierre was instantly transported back in memory to the time when he had comforted her and said that if he was somebody else, the best man in the world and free, he would be down on his knees asking for her hand, and the same feeling of compassion, tenderness and love came over him, and the same words rose to his lips. But she didn’t give him enough time to say them.

‘Yes, you, you,’ she said, breathing out the word you with much enthusiasm, ‘you’re different. Anyone kinder, more generous, better than you I have never known – no one could be! If it hadn’t been for you then, and even now . . . I don’t know what would have become of me, because . . .’ Suddenly her eyes were watering; she turned away, held her music up to her eyes, started singing and set off again to walk up and down the room.

At that moment Petya ran in from the drawing-room.

By now Petya was a handsome, rosy-cheeked boy of fifteen, with full red lips, very like Natasha. He was studying for university entry, but in recent days he and his comrade, Obolensky, had made up their minds to go into the hussars.

Petya rushed over to his namesake, Pierre, to talk business.

He had asked him to find out whether he would be accepted into the hussars.