from the Tsar about it too. Anyone who stays is a traitor to the Tsar.
Do you hear?"
"I hear," Dron answered without lifting his eyes.
Alpatych was not satisfied with this reply.
"Eh, Dron, it will turn out badly!" he said, shaking his head.
"The power is in your hands," Dron rejoined sadly.
"Eh, Dron, drop it!" Alpatych repeated, withdrawing his hand from
his bosom and solemnly pointing to the floor at Dron's feet. "I can
see through you and three yards into the ground under you," he
continued, gazing at the floor in front of Dron.
Dron was disconcerted, glanced furtively at Alpatych and again
lowered his eyes.
"You drop this nonsense and tell the people to get ready to leave
their homes and go to Moscow and to get carts ready for tomorrow
morning for the princess' things. And don't go to any meeting
yourself, do you hear?"
Dron suddenly fell on his knees.
"Yakov Alpatych, discharge me! Take the keys from me and discharge
me, for Christ's sake!"
"Stop that!" cried Alpatych sternly. "I see through you and three
yards under you," he repeated, knowing that his skill in beekeeping,
his knowledge of the right time to sow the oats, and the fact that
he had been able to retain the old prince's favor for twenty years had
long since gained him the reputation of being a wizard, and that the
power of seeing three yards under a man is considered an attribute
of wizards.
Dron got up and was about to say something, but Alpatych interrupted
him.
"What is it you have got into your heads, eh?... What are you
thinking of, eh?"
"What am I to do with the people?" said Dron. "They're quite
beside themselves; I have already told them..."
"'Told them,' I dare say!" said Alpatych. "Are they drinking?" he
asked abruptly.
"Quite beside themselves, Yakov Alpatych; they've fetched another
barrel."
"Well, then, listen! I'll go to the police officer, and you tell
them so, and that they must stop this and the carts must be got
ready."
"I understand."
Alpatych did not insist further. He had managed people for a long
time and knew that the chief way to make them obey is to show no
suspicion that they can possibly disobey. Having wrung a submissive "I
understand" from Dron, Alpatych contented himself with that, though he
not only doubted but felt almost certain that without the help of
troops the carts would not be forthcoming.
And so it was, for when evening came no carts had been provided.
In the village, outside the drink shop, another meeting was being
held, which decided that the horses should be driven out into the
woods and the carts should not be provided. Without saying anything of
this to the princess, Alpatych had his own belongings taken out of the
carts which had arrived from Bald Hills and had those horses got ready
for the princess' carriages. Meanwhile he went himself to the police
authorities.
CHAPTER X
After her father's funeral Princess Mary shut herself up in her room
and did not admit anyone. A maid came to the door to say that Alpatych
was asking for orders about their departure. (This was before his talk
with Dron.) Princess Mary raised herself on the sofa on which she
had been lying and replied through the closed door that she did not
mean to go away and begged to be left in peace.
The windows of the room in which she was lying looked westward.
She lay on the sofa with her face to the wall, fingering the buttons
of the leather cushion and seeing nothing but that cushion, and her
confused thoughts were centered on one subject--the irrevocability
of death and her own spiritual baseness, which she had not
suspected, but which had shown itself during her father's illness. She
wished to pray but did not dare to, dared not in her present state
of mind address herself to God. She lay for a long time in that
position.
The sun had reached the other side of the house, and its slanting
rays shone into the open window, lighting up the room and part of
the morocco cushion at which Princess Mary was looking. The flow of
her thoughts suddenly stopped. Unconsciously she sat up, smoothed
her hair, got up, and went to the window, involuntarily inhaling the
freshness of the clear but windy evening.
"Yes, you can well enjoy the evening now! He is gone and no one will
hinder you," she said to herself, and sinking into a chair she let her
head fall on the window sill.
Someone spoke her name in a soft and tender voice from the garden
and kissed her head. She looked up. It was Mademoiselle Bourienne in a
black dress and weepers. She softly approached Princess Mary,
sighed, kissed her, and immediately began to cry. The princess
looked up at her. All their former disharmony and her own jealousy
recurred to her mind. But she remembered too how he had changed of
late toward Mademoiselle Bourienne and could not bear to see her,
thereby showing how unjust were the reproaches Princess Mary had
mentally addressed to her. "Besides, is it for me, for me who
desired his death, to condemn anyone?" she thought.
Princess Mary vividly pictured to herself the position of
Mademoiselle Bourienne, whom she had of late kept at a distance, but
who yet was dependent on her and living in her house. She felt sorry
for her and held out her hand with a glance of gentle inquiry.
Mademoiselle Bourienne at once began crying again and kissed that
hand, speaking of the princess' sorrow and making herself a partner in
it. She said her only consolation was the fact that the princess
allowed her to share her sorrow, that all the old misunderstandings
should sink into nothing but this great grief; that she felt herself
blameless in regard to everyone, and that he, from above, saw her
affection and gratitude. The princess heard her, not heeding her words
but occasionally looking up at her and listening to the sound of her
voice.
"Your position is doubly terrible, dear princess," said Mademoiselle
Bourienne after a pause. "I understand that you could not, and cannot,
think of yourself, but with my love for you I must do so.... Has
Alpatych been to you? Has he spoken to you of going away?" she asked.
Princess Mary did not answer. She did not understand who was to go
or where to. "Is it possible to plan or think of anything now? Is it
not all the same?" she thought, and did not reply.
"You know, chere Marie," said Mademoiselle Bourienne, "that we are
in danger--are surrounded by the French. It would be dangerous to move
now. If we go we are almost sure to be taken prisoners, and God
knows..."
Princess Mary looked at her companion without understanding what she
was talking about.
"Oh, if anyone knew how little anything matters to me now," she
said. "Of course I would on no account wish to go away from him....
Alpatych did say something about going.... Speak to him; I can do
nothing, nothing, and don't want to...."
"I've spoken to him. He hopes we should be in time to get away
tomorrow, but I think it would now be better to stay here," said
Mademoiselle Bourienne. "Because, you will agree, chere Marie, to fall
into the hands of the soldiers or of riotous peasants would be
terrible."
Mademoiselle Bourienne took from her reticule a proclamation (not
printed on ordinary Russian paper) of General Rameau's, telling people
not to leave their homes and that the French authorities would
afford them proper protection. She handed this to the princess.
"I think it would be best to appeal to that general," she continued,
"and and am sure that all due respect would be shown you."
Princess Mary read the paper, and her face began to quiver with
stifled sobs.
"From whom did you get this?" she asked.
"They probably recognized that I am French, by my name," replied
Mademoiselle Bourienne blushing.
Princess Mary, with the paper in her hand, rose from the window
and with a pale face went out of the room and into what had been
Prince Andrew's study.
"Dunyasha, send Alpatych, or Dronushka, or somebody to me!" she
said, "and tell Mademoiselle Bourienne not to come to me," she
added, hearing Mademoiselle Bourienne's voice. "We must go at once, at
once!" she said, appalled at the thought of being left in the hands of
the French.
"If Prince Andrew heard that I was in the power of the French!
That I, the daughter of Prince Nicholas Bolkonski, asked General
Rameau for protection and accepted his favor!" This idea horrified
her, made her shudder, blush, and feel such a rush of anger and
pride as she had never experienced before. All that was distressing,
and especially all that was humiliating, in her position rose
vividly to her mind. "They, the French, would settle in this house: M.
le General Rameau would occupy Prince Andrew's study and amuse himself
by looking through and reading his letters and papers. Mademoiselle
Bourienne would do the honors of Bogucharovo for him. I should be
given a small room as a favor, the soldiers would violate my
father's newly dug grave to steal his crosses and stars, they would
tell me of their victories over the Russians, and would pretend to
sympathize with my sorrow..." thought Princess Mary, not thinking
her own thoughts but feeling bound to think like her father and her
brother. For herself she did not care where she remained or what
happened to her, but she felt herself the representative of her dead
father and of Prince Andrew. Involuntarily she thought their
thoughts and felt their feelings. What they would have said and what
they would have done she felt bound to say and do. She went into
Prince Andrew's study, trying to enter completely into his ideas,
and considered her position.
The demands of life, which had seemed to her annihilated by her
father's death, all at once rose before her with a new, previously
unknown force and took possession of her.
Agitated and flushed she paced the room, sending now for Michael
Ivanovich and now for Tikhon or Dron. Dunyasha, the nurse, and the
other maids could not say in how far Mademoiselle Bourienne's
statement was correct. Alpatych was not at home, he had gone to the
police. Neither could the architect Michael Ivanovich, who on being
sent for came in with sleepy eyes, tell Princess Mary anything. With
just the same smile of agreement with which for fifteen years he had
been accustomed to answer the old prince without expressing views of
his own, he now replied to Princess Mary, so that nothing definite
could be got from his answers. The old valet Tikhon, with sunken,
emaciated face that bore the stamp of inconsolable grief, replied:
"Yes, Princess" to all Princess Mary's questions and hardly
refrained from sobbing as he looked at her.
At length Dron, the village Elder, entered the room and with a
deep bow to Princess Mary came to a halt by the doorpost.
Princess Mary walked up and down the room and stopped in front of
him.
"Dronushka," she said, regarding as a sure friend this Dronushka who
always used to bring a special kind of gingerbread from his visit to
the fair at Vyazma every year and smilingly offer it to her,
"Dronushka, now since our misfortune..." she began, but could not go
on.
"We are all in God's hands," said he, with a sigh.
They were silent for a while.
"Dronushka, Alpatych has gone off somewhere and I have no one to
turn to. Is true, as they tell me, that I can't even go away?"
"Why shouldn't you go away, your excellency? You can go," said Dron.
"I was told it would be dangerous because of the enemy. Dear friend,
I can do nothing. I understand nothing. I have nobody! I want to go
away tonight or early tomorrow morning."
Dron paused. He looked askance at Princess Mary and said: "There are
no horses; I told Yakov Alpatych so."
"Why are there none?" asked the princess.
"It's all God's scourge," said Dron. "What horses we had have been
taken for the army or have died--this is such a year! It's not a
case of feeding horses--we may die of hunger ourselves! As it is, some
go three days without eating. We've nothing, we've been ruined."
Princess Mary listened attentively to what he told her.
"The peasants are ruined? They have no bread?" she asked.
"They're dying of hunger," said Dron. "It's not a case of carting."
"But why didn't you tell me, Dronushka? Isn't it possible to help
them? I'll do all I can...."
To Princess Mary it was strange that now, at a moment when such
sorrow was filling her soul, there could be rich people and poor,
and the rich could refrain from helping the poor. She had heard
vaguely that there was such a thing as "landlord's corn" which was
sometimes given to the peasants. She also knew that neither her father
nor her brother would refuse to help the peasants in need, she only
feared to make some mistake in speaking about the distribution of
the grain she wished to give. She was glad such cares presented
themselves, enabling her without scruple to forget her own grief.
She began asking Dron about the peasants' needs and what there was
in Bogucharovo that belonged to the landlord.
"But we have grain belonging to my brother?" she said.
"The landlord's grain is all safe," replied Dron proudly. "Our
prince did not order it to be sold."
"Give it to the peasants, let them have all they need; I give you
leave in my brother's name," said she.
Dron made no answer but sighed deeply.
"Give them that corn if there is enough of it. Distribute it all.
I give this order in my brother's name; and tell them that what is
ours is theirs. We do not grudge them anything. Tell them so."
Dron looked intently at the princess while she was speaking.
"Discharge me, little mother, for God's sake! Order the keys to be
taken from me," said he. "I have served twenty-three years and have
done no wrong. Discharge me, for God's sake!"
Princess Mary did not understand what he wanted of her or why he was
asking to be discharged. She replied that she had never doubted his
devotion and that she was ready to do anything for him and for the
peasants.
CHAPTER XI
An hour later Dunyasha came to tell the princess that Dron had come,
and all the peasants had assembled at the barn by the princess'
order and wished to have word with their mistress.
"But I never told them to come," said Princess Mary. "I only told
Dron to let them have the grain."
"Only, for God's sake, Princess dear, have them sent away and
don't go out to them. It's all a trick," said Dunyasha, "and when
Yakov Alpatych returns let us get away... and please don't..."
"What is a trick?" asked Princess Mary in surprise.
"I know it is, only listen to me for God's sake! Ask nurse too. They
say they don't agree to leave Bogucharovo as you ordered."
"You're making some mistake. I never ordered them to go away,"
said Princess Mary. "Call Dronushka."
Dron came and confirmed Dunyasha's words; the peasants had come by
the princess' order.
"But I never sent for them," declared the princess. "You must have
given my message wrong. I only said that you were to give them the
grain."
Dron only sighed in reply.
"If you order it they will go away," said he.
"No, no. I'll go out to them," said Princess Mary, and in spite of
the nurse's and Dunyasha's protests she went out into the porch; Dron,
Dunyasha, the nurse, and Michael Ivanovich following her.
"They probably think I am offering them the grain to bribe them to
remain here, while I myself go away leaving them to the mercy of the
French," thought Princess Mary. "I will offer them monthly rations and
housing at our Moscow estate. I am sure Andrew would do even more in
my place," she thought as she went out in the twilight toward the
crowd standing on the pasture by the barn.
The men crowded closer together, stirred, and rapidly took off their
hats. Princess Mary lowered her eyes and, tripping over her skirt,
came close up to them. So many different eyes, old and young, were
fixed on her, and there were so many different faces, that she could
not distinguish any of them and, feeling that she must speak to them
all at once, did not know how to do it. But again the sense that she
represented her father and her brother gave her courage, and she
boldly began her speech.
"I am very glad you have come," she said without raising her eyes,
and feeling her heart beating quickly and violently. "Dronushka
tells me that the war has ruined you. That is our common misfortune,
and I shall grudge nothing to help you. I am myself going away because
it is dangerous here... the enemy is near... because... I am giving
you everything, my friends, and I beg you to take everything, all
our grain, so that you may not suffer want! And if you have been
told that I am giving you the grain to keep you here--that is not
true. On the contrary, I ask you to go with all your belongings to our
estate near Moscow, and I promise you I will see to it that there
you shall want for nothing. You shall be given food and lodging."
The princess stopped. Sighs were the only sound heard in the crowd.
"I am not doing this on my own account," she continued, "I do it
in the name of my dead father, who was a good master to you, and of my
brother and his son."
Again she paused. No one broke the silence.
"Ours is a common misfortune and we will share it together. All that
is mine is yours," she concluded, scanning the faces before her.
All eyes were gazing at her with one and the same expression. She
could not fathom whether it was curiosity, devotion, gratitude, or
apprehension and distrust--but the expression on all the faces was
identical.
"We are all very thankful for your bounty, but it won't do for us to
take the landlord's grain," said a voice at the back of the crowd.
"But why not?" asked the princess.
No one replied and Princess Mary, looking round at the crowd,
found that every eye she met now was immediately dropped.
"But why don't you want to take it?" she asked again.
No one answered.
The silence began to oppress the princess and she tried to catch
someone's eye.
"Why don't you speak?" she inquired of a very old man who stood just
in front of her leaning on his stick. "If you think something more
is wanted, tell me! I will do anything," said she, catching his eye.
But as if this angered him, he bent his head quite low and muttered:
"Why should we agree? We don't want the grain."
"Why should we give up everything? We don't agree. Don't agree....
We are sorry for you, but we're not willing. Go away yourself,
alone..." came from various sides of the crowd.
And again all the faces in that crowd bore an identical
expression, though now it was certainly not an expression of curiosity
or gratitude, but of angry resolve.
"But you can't have understood me," said Princess Mary with a sad
smile. "Why don't you want to go? I promise to house and feed you,
while here the enemy would ruin you..."
But her voice was drowned by the voices of the crowd.
"We're not willing. Let them ruin us! We won't take your grain. We
don't agree."
Again Princess Mary tried to catch someone's eye, but not a single
eye in the crowd was turned to her; evidently they were all trying
to avoid her look. She felt strange and awkward.
"Oh yes, an artful tale! Follow her into slavery! Pull down your
houses and go into bondage! I dare say! 'I'll give you grain, indeed!'
she says," voices in the crowd were heard saying.
With drooping head Princess Mary left the crowd and went back to the
house. Having repeated her order to Dron to have horses ready for
her departure next morning, she went to her room and remained alone
with her own thoughts.
CHAPTER XII
For a long time that night Princess Mary sat by the open window of
her room hearing the sound of the peasants' voices that reached her
from the village, but it was not of them she was thinking. She felt
that she could not understand them however much she might think
about them. She thought only of one thing, her sorrow, which, after
the break caused by cares for the present, seemed already to belong to
the past. Now she could remember it and weep or pray.
After sunset the wind had dropped. The night was calm and fresh.
Toward midnight the voices began to subside, a cock crowed, the full
moon began to show from behind the lime trees, a fresh white dewy mist
began to rise, and stillness reigned over the village and the house.
Pictures of the near past--her father's illness and last moments-
rose one after another to her memory. With mournful pleasure she now
lingered over these images, repelling with horror only the last one,
the picture of his death, which she felt she could not contemplate
even in imagination at this still and mystic hour of night. And
these pictures presented themselves to her so clearly and in such
detail that they seemed now present, now past, and now future.
She vividly recalled the moment when he had his first stroke and was
being dragged along by his armpits through the garden at Bald Hills,
muttering something with his helpless tongue, twitching his gray
eyebrows and looking uneasily and timidly at her.
"Even then he wanted to tell me what he told me the day he died,"
she thought. "He had always thought what he said then." And she
recalled in all its detail the night at Bald Hills before he had the
last stroke, when with a foreboding of disaster she had remained at
home against his will. She had not slept and had stolen downstairs
on tiptoe, and going to the door of the conservatory where he slept
that night had listened at the door. In a suffering and weary voice he
was saying something to Tikhon, speaking of the Crimea and its warm
nights and of the Empress. Evidently he had wanted to talk. "And why
didn't he call me? Why didn't he let me be there instead of Tikhon?"
Princess Mary had thought and thought again now. "Now he will never
tell anyone what he had in his soul. Never will that moment return for
him or for me when he might have said all he longed to say, and not
Tikhon but I might have heard and understood him. Why didn't I enter
the room?" she thought. "Perhaps he would then have said to me what he
said the day he died. While talking to Tikhon he asked about me twice.
He wanted to see me, and I was standing close by, outside the door. It
was sad and painful for him to talk to Tikhon who did not understand
him. I remember how he began speaking to him about Lise as if she were
alive--he had forgotten she was dead--and Tikhon reminded him that she
was no more, and he shouted, 'Fool!' He was greatly depressed. From
behind the door I heard how he lay down on his bed groaning and loudly
exclaimed, 'My God!' Why didn't I go in then? What could he have
done to me? What could I have lost? And perhaps he would then have
been comforted and would have said that word to me." And Princess Mary
uttered aloud the caressing word he had said to her on the day of
his death. "Dear-est!" she repeated, and began sobbing, with tears
that relieved her soul. She now saw his face before her. And not the
face she had known ever since she could remember and had always seen
at a distance, but the timid, feeble face she had seen for the first
time quite closely, with all its wrinkles and details, when she
stooped near to his mouth to catch what he said.
"Dear-est!" she repeated again.
"What was he thinking when he uttered that word? What is he thinking
now?" This question suddenly presented itself to her, and in answer
she saw him before her with the expression that was on his face as
he lay in his coffin with his chin bound up with a white handkerchief.
And the horror that had seized her when she touched him and
convinced herself that that was not he, but something mysterious and
horrible, seized her again. She tried to think of something else and
to pray, but could do neither. With wide-open eyes she gazed at the
moonlight and the shadows, expecting every moment to see his dead
face, and she felt that the silence brooding over the house and within
it held her fast.
"Dunyasha," she whispered. "Dunyasha!" she screamed wildly, and
tearing herself out of this silence she ran to the servants'
quarters to meet her old nurse and the maidservants who came running
toward her.
CHAPTER XIII
On the seventeenth of August Rostov and Ilyin, accompanied by
Lavrushka who had just returned from captivity and by an hussar
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