War and Peace Leo Tolstoy (best e books to read .TXT) 📖

of the war. In this letter Prince Andréy pointed out to his father the danger of staying at Bald Hills, so near the theater of war and on the army’s direct line of march, and advised him to move to Moscow.

At dinner that day, on Dessalles’ mentioning that the French were said to have already entered Vítebsk, the old prince remembered his son’s letter.

“There was a letter from Prince Andréy today,” he said to Princess Márya⁠—“Haven’t you read it?”

“No, Father,” she replied in a frightened voice.

She could not have read the letter as she did not even know it had arrived.

“He writes about this war,” said the prince, with the ironic smile that had become habitual to him in speaking of the present war.

“That must be very interesting,” said Dessalles. “Prince Andréy is in a position to know⁠ ⁠…”

“Oh, very interesting!” said Mademoiselle Bourienne.

“Go and get it for me,” said the old prince to Mademoiselle Bourienne. “You know⁠—under the paperweight on the little table.”

Mademoiselle Bourienne jumped up eagerly.

“No, don’t!” he exclaimed with a frown. “You go, Mikháil Ivánovich.”

Mikháil Ivánovich rose and went to the study. But as soon as he had left the room the old prince, looking uneasily round, threw down his napkin and went himself.

“They can’t do anything⁠ ⁠… always make some muddle,” he muttered.

While he was away Princess Márya, Dessalles, Mademoiselle Bourienne, and even little Nikolúshka exchanged looks in silence. The old prince returned with quick steps, accompanied by Mikháil Ivánovich, bringing the letter and a plan. These he put down beside him⁠—not letting anyone read them at dinner.

On moving to the drawing room he handed the letter to Princess Márya and, spreading out before him the plan of the new building and fixing his eyes upon it, told her to read the letter aloud. When she had done so Princess Márya looked inquiringly at her father. He was examining the plan, evidently engrossed in his own ideas.

“What do you think of it, Prince?” Dessalles ventured to ask.

“I? I?⁠ ⁠…” said the prince as if unpleasantly awakened, and not taking his eyes from the plan of the building.

“Very possibly the theater of war will move so near to us that⁠ ⁠…”

“Ha ha ha! The theater of war!” said the prince. “I have said and still say that the theater of war is Poland and the enemy will never get beyond the Niemen.”

Dessalles looked in amazement at the prince, who was talking of the Niemen when the enemy was already at the Dnieper, but Princess Márya, forgetting the geographical position of the Niemen, thought that what her father was saying was correct.

“When the snow melts they’ll sink in the Polish swamps. Only they could fail to see it,” the prince continued, evidently thinking of the campaign of 1807 which seemed to him so recent. “Bennigsen should have advanced into Prussia sooner, then things would have taken a different turn⁠ ⁠…”

“But, Prince,” Dessalles began timidly, “the letter mentions Vítebsk.⁠ ⁠…”

“Ah, the letter? Yes⁠ ⁠…” replied the prince peevishly. “Yes⁠ ⁠… yes⁠ ⁠…” His face suddenly took on a morose expression. He paused. “Yes, he writes that the French were beaten at⁠ ⁠… at⁠ ⁠… what river is it?”

Dessalles dropped his eyes.

“The prince says nothing about that,” he remarked gently.

“Doesn’t he? But I didn’t invent it myself.”

No one spoke for a long time.

“Yes⁠ ⁠… yes⁠ ⁠… Well, Mikháil Ivánovich,” he suddenly went on, raising his head and pointing to the plan of the building, “tell me how you mean to alter it.⁠ ⁠…”

Mikháil Ivánovich went up to the plan, and the prince after speaking to him about the building looked angrily at Princess Márya and Dessalles and went to his own room.

Princess Márya saw Dessalles’ embarrassed and astonished look fixed on her father, noticed his silence, and was struck by the fact that her father had forgotten his son’s letter on the drawing room table; but she was not only afraid to speak of it and ask Dessalles the reason of his confusion and silence, but was afraid even to think about it.

In the evening Mikháil Ivánovich, sent by the prince, came to Princess Márya for Prince Andréy’s letter which had been forgotten in the drawing room. She gave it to him and, unpleasant as it was to her to do so, ventured to ask him what her father was doing.

“Always busy,” replied Mikháil Ivánovich with a respectfully ironic smile which caused Princess Márya to turn pale. “He’s worrying very much about the new building. He has been reading a little, but now”⁠—Mikháil Ivánovich went on, lowering his voice⁠—“now he’s at his desk, busy with his will, I expect.” (One of the prince’s favorite occupations of late had been the preparation of some papers he meant to leave at his death and which he called his “will.”)

“And Alpátych is being sent to Smolénsk?” asked Princess Márya.

“Oh, yes, he has been waiting to start for some time.”

III

When Mikháil Ivánovich returned to the study with the letter, the old prince, with spectacles on and a shade over his eyes, was sitting at his open bureau with screened candles, holding a paper in his outstretched hand, and in a somewhat dramatic attitude was reading his manuscript⁠—his “Remarks” as he termed it⁠—which was to be transmitted to the Emperor after his death.

When Mikháil Ivánovich went in there were tears in the prince’s eyes evoked by the memory of the time when the paper he was now reading had been written. He took the letter from Mikháil Ivánovich’s hand, put it in his pocket, folded up his papers, and called in Alpátych who had long been waiting.

The prince had a list of things to be bought in Smolénsk and, walking up and down the room past Alpátych who stood by the door, he gave his instructions.

“First, notepaper⁠—do you hear? Eight quires, like this sample, gilt-edged⁠ ⁠… it must be exactly like the sample. Varnish, sealing wax, as in Mikháil Ivánovich’s list.”

He paced up and down for a while and glanced at his notes.

“Then hand to the governor in person a letter about the deed.”

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