War and Peace: Original Version

“Hello, cousin,” said Pierre. “Do you not recognise me?”

“I recognise you only too well, too well.”

“How is the count’s health? May I see him?” Pierre asked awkwardly, as always, but without embarrassment.

“The count is suffering both physically and morally, and you seem to have taken pains to inflict as much moral suffering on him as possible.”

“May I see the count?” Pierre repeated.

“Hmm! If you wish to kill him, to finish him completely, you may see him. Olga, go and see if the broth is ready for uncle, it will soon be time,” she added, thereby indicating to Pierre that they were busy and fully occupied with comforting his father, whereas he was obviously occupied only with causing him distress.

Olga went out. Pierre stood for a moment, looked at the sisters, bowed and said:

“Then I shall go to my room. When it is possible, you will let me know.”

He went out and heard the quiet laughter of the sister with the mole ringing behind him.

The following day Prince Vasily had arrived and installed himself in the count’s house. He summoned Pierre and told him, “My dear boy, if you behave here in the same way as in St. Petersburg, you will come to a very bad end: I have nothing more to say to you. The count is very, very ill, you should not see him at all.”

Since then no one had bothered Pierre, who, wherever he happened to be, was content with his own thoughts and walked around his room, occasionally halting in the corners, making threatening gestures at the wall, as if he were running an invisible enemy through with a sword, and peering severely over the top of his spectacles, and then recommencing his stroll, repeating inaudible words to himself, shrugging his shoulders and throwing his hands up in the air.

“England is done for!” he said, frowning and pointing at someone. “Pitt, as a traitor to the nation and the people’s law, is condemned to …” He had not yet finished pronouncing sentence on Pitt, imagining at that moment that he was Napoleon himself and having already completed, together with his beloved hero, the dangerous crossing via the Pas de Calais and conquered London, when he saw a young, well-proportioned, handsome officer entering his room. He halted. Pierre, who had seen Boris only rarely, had left him as a fourteen-year-old boy and did not remember him at all, but in spite of that, in his typical brisk and genial manner he took him by the hand and smiled amicably, displaying his bad teeth.

“Do you remember me?” asked Boris. “Maman and I came to see the count, but it seems he is not quite well.”

“Yes, it seems he is unwell. Everyone is bothering him,” replied Pierre, completely failing to notice that by saying this he appeared to be reproaching Boris and his mother.

He was trying to recall who this young man was, but Boris thought he had caught some hint in Pierre’s words.

He flushed and looked at Pierre boldly and sardonically, as much as to say: “I have nothing to be ashamed of.” Pierre could think of nothing to say.

“Count Rostov has invited you to come for dinner today,” Boris continued after a silence that was rather long and awkward for Pierre.

“Ah! Count Rostov!” Pierre said cheerfully. “So you are his son, Ilya. Can you imagine, for a moment I didn’t recognise you. Do you remember how we went to the Sparrow Hills with Madame Jacquot?”

“You are mistaken,” Boris said unhurriedly, with a bold and rather sardonic smile. “I am Boris, Princess Anna Mikhailovna Drubetskaya’s son. It is Rostov senior who is called Ilya, and his son is Nikolai. And I have never known any Madame Jacquot.”

Pierre began waving his hands and his head about as though he had been attacked by a mosquito or bees.

“Ah, this is terrible! I have confused everything. I have so many relatives in Moscow! You are Boris … yes. Right then, you and I have agreed on that. Well, what do you think of the Boulogne expedition? The English will really be in trouble if Napoleon crosses the Channel. I think an expedition is very likely. As long as Villeneuve does not blunder.”

Boris knew nothing about any Boulogne expedition, he did not read the newspapers and this was the first time he had heard of Villeneuve.

“Here in Moscow we are more concerned with dinners and gossip than politics,” he said in his calm, sardonic tone. “I know nothing about all this and have no thoughts on it. Moscow is concerned with gossip above all else,” he continued. “And what they are talking about now is you and the count.”

Pierre smiled his kind smile, as though afraid that his interlocutor might say something that he would regret. But Boris spoke distinctly, clearly and coolly, looking straight into Pierre’s eyes.

“Moscow has nothing better to do than gossip,” he continued. “Everybody is concerned with whom the count will leave his fortune to, although he might perhaps outlive us all, which I wish with all my heart.”

“Yes, it is very difficult,” Pierre interjected. “Very difficult.” Pierre was still afraid that this boy-officer might inadvertently become involved in a conversation that would be embarrassing for him.

“But it must seem to you,” said Boris, blushing, but without changing his voice or pose, “it must surely seem that everybody is only concerned to get something from the rich man.”

That is how it is, thought Pierre.

“But what I wish to tell you, in order to avoid any misunderstandings, is that you would be greatly mistaken if you were to count myself and my mother among those people. We are very poor, but I, at least, speaking for myself, precisely because your father is rich, do not consider myself his relative and will never ask for anything or accept anything from him,” he concluded, growing more and more heated.

It took Pierre a long time to understand, but when he did, he leapt up off the divan, seized hold of Boris by the hand with his characteristic speed and clumsiness and, blushing far more than Boris, began speaking with a mixed feeling of shame and hurt.

“But listen … That’s very strange! How could I … And who could ever think … I know quite well …”

But Boris again interrupted him.

“I am glad I have made everything clear. Perhaps you find it disagreeable, forgive me,” he said, soothing Pierre instead of being soothed by him, “but I hope I have not offended you. I make it a rule to say everything directly. What shall I tell them? Will you come to the Rostovs for dinner?”

And Boris, evidently because he had relieved himself of his onerous duty, extricating himself from one awkward situation and placing the other man in another, became cheerful and relaxed.

“Now, listen,” said Pierre, calming down. “You are an amazing person. What you said just now is fine, very fine. Of course, you do not know me, we have not seen each other for so long … we were still children … You imagine me as … but I understand, I understand you very well. I could not have done that, I would not have had the courage, but it is all fine. I am very glad to have met you again. Strange,” he added with a smile, after pausing briefly, “what you imagined me to be like!” He laughed. “Well, what of it! You and I shall get to know each other better. Please.” He shook Boris’s hand.

“You know, I have never been at the count’s house before. He has never invited me. I feel sorry for him, as a man … But what can be done?” said Boris, smiling with cheerful good-nature. “And do you think Napoleon will manage to ferry his army across?” he asked.

Pierre realised that Boris wanted to change the subject and, feeling the same way, began to expound the advantages and disadvantages of the Boulogne undertaking.

A manservant came to summon Boris to his mother, the princess. The princess was leaving. Pierre promised to come to dinner and then, in order to become closer friends with Boris, he shook his hand firmly, gazing affectionately into his eyes through his spectacles … When Boris left, Pierre continued to walk round the room for a long while, no longer running through an invisible enemy with a sword, but instead smiling at the recollection of this likeable, intelligent and resolute young man.

As happens in early youth, and especially when one is lonely, Pierre felt an irrational affection for this young man and resolved to become friends with him.

Prince Vasily was seeing off the princess. The princess was holding a handkerchief and her face was wet with tears.

“It is terrible! Terrible!” she said. “But no matter what it might cost me, I shall perform my duty. I shall come to spend the night. He cannot be left like this. Every minute is precious. I do not understand why the princesses are delaying. Perhaps God will help me find the means to prepare him! Goodbye, prince, may God give you strength …”

“Goodbye, my dear,” replied Prince Vasily, turning away from her.

“Ah, he is in a terrible state,” the mother said to her son as they were getting back into the carriage. “He hardly recognises anybody. Perhaps it will be for the best.”

“I do not understand, dear mama, what is his attitude to Pierre?” her son asked.

“The will will reveal all, my friend, our fate depends on it too …”

“But what makes you think he will leave us anything at all?”

“Ah, my friend! He is so rich and we are so poor!”

“That is still not sufficient reason, dear mama.”

“Oh, my God! My God! How pitiful he is!” exclaimed his mother.

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