Peace, war and peace

Efim, seeing the young lady run out, was surprised.

"Young lady!" he said. "It's cold! Why no hat? You'll catch cold, the count will scold you."

"I'm not afraid!" cried Natasha, jumping in the frost. "Efim, oh Efim, will you take me to Moscow tomorrow? We're going to our aunt, I heard. Will you take me?"

"I'll take you, young lady," answered Efim, smiling into his mustache. "Wherever you order, there I'll take you. Even to the end of the world."

Natasha laughed, ran to the porch railing, wrapped her arms around it, and began to look at the sky. The sky was low, winter, that grayish-blue color that comes in December, when the day is short and the frost strong, and stars are already beginning to light in the east, though the sun has not yet set. Natasha looked at this sky, at the clouds, at the rare, twinkling stars, and sighed - not because she was sad, no, she was merry, but in that sigh there was something that made Efim suddenly think: "The girl is growing. Still small, but already sighing like a grown-up. She must have her own sorrow, even if she doesn't say what." He remembered his own daughter, who died in infancy, and for a moment felt pain, but the pain passed at once, because life is life, and there is no time to grieve the past when you have work to do.

"Efim," Natasha suddenly said without turning, "do stars fall? Kolya told me they fall. But I don't believe it. Stars are God's little eyes, they don't fall."

"Your brother, Nikolai Ilyich, was surely joking," answered Efim. "Stars don't fall. They stand in the sky like candles in church. And what falls are shooting stars; in the folk they call them falling stars. But those aren't stars, just flyers."

"How do you know?" asked Natasha, turning her rosy, frost-covered face to him.

"Because I'm old," said Efim. "I know everything."

Natasha laughed, pushed off from the railing, ran across the porch, grabbing the posts, then stopped, looked at the sky once more, and said:

"And when I grow up, I will sing. Right on a stage. So that everyone weeps. And you, Efim, will weep too."

"I will, young lady," said Efim. "Where can I go?"

At that moment the door opened, and Nikolai came onto the porch - twelve years old, already tall, with freckles and that mischievous, boyish expression that later, when he became an officer, would turn into dash, but for now only promised future bravado. He was without a hat, in a jacket thrown over his shoulders, and seeing Natasha, he shouted:

"So there you are! I've been looking for you! Mama told you to come inside - you'll catch cold, silly. And Efim, what are you staring at? Take her inside!"

"You're the silly one!" Natasha shouted back, stuck out her tongue at her brother, and ran up the stairs, but halfway she stopped, turned, stuck out her tongue again, and disappeared behind the door.

Nikolai smirked, shook his head, and, already leaving, said to Efim:

"Don't listen to her. She's little and foolish. And tomorrow we're going to Moscow. Harness the horses early."

"At your service," said Efim, adjusted his cap, and remained alone.

He sat on the box, gazing at the darkening sky where the first stars had already lit - large, bright, such as you don't see in summer - and thought. He thought about how strangely life was arranged. Children grew: today they were little, running about, playing pranks; tomorrow - look - they were adults, each with their own path. Natasha - she would probably become a singer, as she said. Or not a singer, but something else, but anyway she would be happy or unhappy - as God willed. And he, Efim, would go on sitting on the box and driving them as long as his legs carried him. And that was good. Because order must be. Without order, one cannot manage.

In the house, music began to play - someone sat at the harpsichord, and they sang in chorus, voices - adult, child, high and low - all blending into one, into that which is called a "family celebration," and Efim, listening, suddenly felt good. Cold, but good. Because he was part of this house, this life, this celebration. And though he did not sit at the table, but sat on the box, he was still here, still one of them. And that little girl who had just looked at the sky and sighed like an adult - she too was part of his life. And he would remember her like this - little, rosy, with disheveled hair - and when she grew up, he would remember and perhaps weep.

Natasha, meanwhile, returned to the drawing room, ran to her father, climbed onto his lap, and, pressing close to his warm belly, whispered:

"Papa, when I grow up, I will sing on stage. Will you come and listen?"

"I will," said the count, stroking her head. "And I'll sit in the front row. And I'll weep."

"And Efim will come too," said Natasha. "I told him. He said he would."

"And Efim will come," smiled the count. "We'll all come."

And Natasha, comforted, closed her eyes and fell asleep right in her father's arms, because the day had been long, and she was tired - the singing, the running in the frost, the tears - all mixed in her child's head into one big, sweet, Christmas dream, in which she was a princess, and sang, and everyone wept, and it was warm, and bright, and good.

Efim, hearing the music die down and the voices fall silent, understood that the guests were leaving. He climbed down from the box, adjusted the harness, went to the horses, patted their muzzles, gave each a piece of bread he had saved earlier. The horses snorted, shook their manes; steam poured from their nostrils; their eyes gleamed in the dark, and Efim thought that those eyes were like stars in the sky: they too shone, they too lived their own special life, which people did not understand.

He sat back down, lit his pipe - old, smoke-blackened, which he had smoked since the late count's father's time - and waited to be called. And he thought about how life was like a road: you go and go, but where you'll arrive - unknown. Today - this morning he did not know that in the evening he would listen to a little young lady's singing and look at the stars. And he still did not know what tomorrow would bring. But whatever would come - would come. And one must be ready. For anything.

And the stars in the sky lit up, more and more; the frost strengthened; snow creaked under someone's steps; candles burned in the Rostov house; and life continued - that same incomprehensible life that cannot be stopped or turned back, only traveled along, as along this snow-covered road, peering into the darkness and hoping that ahead - there is light.

Part Two

I

Old doorman Zakhar Ivanov, who had served at the Maltese Chapel of Mikhailovsky Castle since the day it was consecrated, and in his time had seen generals, bishops, and the emperor himself, who, it was said, now slept in this castle surrounded by sentries and cannons - stood by the heavy oak doors upholstered in black leather and opened them whenever another carriage arrived. The day was January, frosty, windy, with that Petersburg wind that roamed the Neva and howled in the chimneys of Mikhailovsky Castle so plaintively and woefully that even the old doorman, used to everything, sometimes started and crossed himself. There were no people in the street - only occasional carriages passed, sentries walked the parade ground marking time, flocks of jackdaws circled over the low, leaden sky, and it seemed that this sky pressed down on the castle, on the city, on all of Russia, and this weight could not be thrown off by any force.

Today something important was to happen in the chapel - Zakhar knew this by the special bustle that occurs in a palace when the sovereign is preparing for a celebration. In the morning came chamberlains, then knights of the Maltese cross in white cloaks with eight-pointed stars, then Prince Vasily Kuragin himself, who, it was said, was the chief organizer. Zakhar opened doors, bowed, let them in, and when no one was there, he furtively opened the door and looked into the chapel. The chapel was small but richly decorated: on the walls hung Maltese banners; candles burned on the altar; it smelled of incense and wax. In the middle of the chapel, on a dais, stood a lectern, before which Emperor Paul was to kneel to accept the title of Grand Master of the Order of Malta.

Zakhar did not understand this enterprise - what knights, what order, why a Russian tsar, an Orthodox sovereign, should put on Catholic crosses and call himself a master? But he was a bonded man and dared not reason. However, a young subdeacon standing beside him, with lively eyes named Fedot, whispered in his ear:

"What is all this for, Uncle Zakhar? Knights, pah. Catholicism, crosses. Our sovereign is Orthodox, and yet he climbs to be a master. This is not good."

Zakhar only sighed, crossed himself furtively, and answered:

"Be quiet, Fedot. It is not our business. What the sovereign commands, that you do. Reasoning will only land you in trouble."

But he thought to himself: "Indeed - knights. It's laughable. Yet the sovereign is serious. And everyone around him is serious. And Prince Vasily bows, and the nobles stand at attention. And the sky above us is leaden, heavy. All this bodes no good. C'est le début de la fin."

Inside the chapel, all who were supposed to attend had gathered. Emperor Paul, pale, with burning, mad eyes, in a white Maltese cloak embroidered with golden lilies, and a crown on his head - the same crown that was too large and constantly slipped askew - stood before the lectern accepting the regalia. Prince Vasily Kuragin, in a white cloak over his uniform, with a particularly solemn face, presented on a velvet cushion the Maltese cross - eight-pointed, silver, with a white eagle - and, bending to the sovereign's ear, said:

"L'Empereur a pris la croix, c'est un grand honneur pour la Russie."

Paul took the cross, with trembling hands pressed it to his lips, then to his heart, and froze. In the chapel it became so quiet that one could hear the crackle of candles and the wind howling outside. Everyone waited - what would he say, what would he do? But the emperor was silent, only his eyes burned ever brighter, with that unkind, unearthly fire that made even the bravest lower their eyes.

In the crowd of dignitaries, by a column, stood two men: Count Rostopchin, the same one who had been powerful under Catherine, and now, though still at court, was said to be in disgrace - and Bilibin, a young diplomat, clever, mocking, with perpetually narrowed eyes. Rostopchin, looking at the emperor, at his white cloak and burning eyes, shook his head and said to Bilibin, trying to ensure no one else heard:

"What is this? What is he doing? Knights, crosses - and all in earnest?"

Bilibin smirked - that thin, caustic smirk he wore when speaking of the foolishness of the powerful - and answered:

"C'est une folie, mais une folie dangereuse."

Rostopchin wanted to answer, but at that moment Paul turned, and his gaze fell on them - and both, the count and the diplomat, lowered their eyes and put on such faces as if they had said nothing, only prayed and rejoiced in the great event.

In another corner of the chapel, by the wall where the Maltese banner hung, stood Pierre Bezukhov - the same one now called count, though he was only fifteen, and who, having returned from abroad only a month ago, had already managed to amaze Petersburg society with his strange speeches and even stranger behavior. Pierre was fat, clumsy, in a black coat too short for him, and looked at the ceremony with eyes that held not reverence but rather bewilderment mixed with curiosity. He did not understand why all this was needed - crosses, cloaks, Maltese eagles. It all seemed to him a strange, incomprehensible theater, where the emperor played the lead role and everyone else was an extra. And he, Pierre, was also an extra, though no one had asked him.

He sighed - so heavily, so deeply, that the dignitary standing beside him looked at him with bewilderment - then took a notebook from his pocket and wrote something in pencil. What exactly, Zakhar could not make out, but thought: "An intelligent master, evidently. He writes things down so as not to forget. Or maybe his thoughts, which he will tell no one." Pierre finished writing, put away the notebook, and again began to look at the emperor, who still stood before the lectern, motionless, seeming to have forgotten everyone and seeing something no one else could see.

At last the ceremony ended. The emperor gave a sign, and everyone began to disperse - not noisily, not merrily, as after a celebration, but quietly, fearfully, looking around. Paul left the chapel with quick, nervous steps, looking at no one, and Zakhar, opening the door for him, noticed that the sovereign's face was pale and earthy, his eyes burning with the same unhealthy, mad fire. "Lord, save and have mercy," thought Zakhar and crossed himself.

When everyone had left, Zakhar closed the heavy oak doors, bolted them, and went out onto the porch. The courtyard was empty; only sentries walked the parade ground, and the wind drove fine, prickly blowing snow across the snow. The sky over Petersburg was low, leaden, with rare flocks of jackdaws circling the castle as if sensing something evil. Zakhar stood, looked at the spire of the Peter and Paul Fortress, where the evening lights had just been lit, and thought: "This bodes no good. Knights, masters - all of this is not ours, foreign. And the sovereign is not himself. And people are afraid. And the sky is so heavy. Here it is, the beginning of the end." He crossed himself once more, turned, and went to his little room to stoke the stove and set the samovar, because he could not bear standing in the cold, and his old bones ached.

Walking down the corridor, he thought about what he had seen. He thought about Pierre - the young count who looked at the ceremony as if he saw something funny, though nothing had been funny. He thought about Prince Vasily, who spoke beautiful words but with emptiness in his eyes. He thought about Rostopchin and Bilibin, who whispered and smirked, though furtively, looking around. And he thought about the sovereign - about his pale face and burning eyes, and about how all this could not end well, because the madness of power is the most terrible illness, and there is no cure for it.

He entered his little room, closed the door, lit a candle, and sat for a long time by the stove, gazing at the fire. The fire crackled, the logs burned, and in their living, bright light there was something soothing, something that said: "Never mind, it will all grind through - flour will come. And this too will pass. And this too will end." But Zakhar knew that not everything passes and not everything ends. Sometimes it remains - in memory, in the soul, in those very stars in the sky that see everything and remember everything.

He crossed himself before the icon of the Savior hanging in the corner and whispered:

"Lord, have mercy on us sinners. Lord, save and preserve."

And fell asleep, sitting on a stool, to the steady, soothing tick of the old clock's pendulum, which marked time - that same incomprehensible time that leads a man through life, turning neither left nor right and asking no permission.

II

Valet Filipp, who had served Prince Andrei Bolkonsky for three years and knew all his habits - when to serve coffee, when to wake him for matins, when not to enter without knocking, and when not to appear at all - stood in the middle of the small entrance hall of the prince's Petersburg apartment on Galernaya Street, brushing his uniform. The uniform was new, made according to the latest Prussian pattern - the very kind all officers now wore, though many, as Filipp knew from servants' talk, secretly hated it for its discomfort and because in it you could not take a deep breath. Prince Andrei was going to a ball at Count Sheremetev's, one of those nobles who, despite disgraces and new decrees, still kept open house and received the cream of Petersburg society.

Filipp diligently brushed the sleeves, shaking off invisible dust, and, glancing at his master, who stood before the mirror tying his cravat, noticed that the prince's face today was not as usual - not gloomy and concentrated, but somehow at a loss, almost boyish. Prince Andrei was twenty-two, but he had always seemed older - both because of his seriousness and because of that special, restrained weariness that had lain on his face since he returned from the army. Today, however, in his gray, deep eyes flitted something new - impatience, expectation, almost excitement, which Filipp had never observed in him.

"Your Excellency," said Filipp, setting aside the brush and wiping his hands on a cloth, "allow me to note, your cravat has slipped to the side. Put it on as I taught you: first the knot, then the ends down... Like this."

Prince Andrei, who was standing before the mirror agonizingly trying to tie his cravat so that it looked both handsome and careless yet strict, waved his hand in annoyance and said:

"Oui, oui. In a minute. Leave me alone, Filipp."

Filipp stepped back but continued to observe. His master was not himself today. He kept adjusting his hair, pulling down his coat, going to the window and looking at the spring street, where icicles dripped from roofs and the last snow melted, puddles visible, and the sky beyond the window was no longer winter-leaden but March, gray-blue, with swift, ragged clouds. And Filipp, who knew his master inside out, grew curious: what had happened? Why all this fuss? Could he be in love? Or did he sense something momentous? Or was it simply spring - a time when young people want to go to balls, dance, and talk to ladies?

At last Prince Andrei mastered his cravat, straightened his coat, took his greatcoat from the rack, and said:

"Well, I'm off. Wait up. I'll probably be late."

"At your service," answered Filipp, opened the door, and remained alone in the entrance hall.

He sat on a stool, folded his hands on his knees, and waited. He knew how to wait - in three years of service with the prince, he had grown used to long evenings when his master was out visiting, and he, Filipp, sat in the entrance hall listening to the clock tick, carriages pass outside, and the footman from the next apartment snore in the next room. But today waiting was not boring - there was something to think about. Filipp remembered how recently in the servants' hall they had said that Prince Andrei, apparently, was looking for a bride. Who had said it - he did not remember, but the words stuck in his soul. "Can he really be thinking of marrying?" thought Filipp. "Twenty-two - just the right age. And he has a difficult, silent character; marriage, they say, changes a man. Maybe he will become cheerier. Or maybe not. As God wills."