Анатолий Шигапов – Peace, war and peace (страница 1)

Анатолий Шигапов

Peace, war and peace

Part One

I

In the great reception hall of the Winter Palace - the very one that adjoined the state bedchamber and was filled with marble statues and tall mirrors in gilded frames - Count Fyodor Vasilyevich Rostopchin stood by the window, watching the wet snow fall on the granite slabs of the embankment. This snow was the wettest, most unpleasant kind that only appears in a Petersburg November; it fell and immediately melted, and the count felt that along with this snow, all of his former life - Catherine's life, satisfied, understandable, where everyone knew their place and the very word "tomorrow" meant nothing frightening - was melting away, and something that had never existed before was coming to replace it. And although he, Rostopchin, could not put into words exactly what was coming, he felt with his entire being that this new thing would be the heaviest, most agonizing of anything he had ever experienced.

In the hall, despite the late hour, dignitaries, generals, and foreign ambassadors crowded together; no one slept, no one thought of sleep - they whispered, glancing at the door leading to the inner chambers, and all waited: when would the new emperor arrive from Gatchina, who would be the first to swear loyalty, who would be the first to have his head cut off. But they did not wait in the bedchamber where the body lay - only the closest, those permitted a final farewell, were allowed there - but here, in the reception room, where the candles in the heavy candelabra had long since burned down and their yellow, trembling light fell on the gilded walls, on the tall mirrors dimly reflecting the motionless figures of courtiers, and on faces pale and strained, like those of people who could lose everything in a single night.

"C'est donc fait, mon cher," said Rostopchin without turning, for he recognized the steps of Prince Dolgorukov - the very one who had enjoyed great influence under Catherine and now, like everyone else, did not know if he would remain at court even until morning. "She is dead, and here we are left with this man who spent forty years waiting, and I ask you, prince, frankly, in all honesty: do you believe we will survive this reign? I confess, I do not. He is strange, very strange, and moreover convinced of his own rightness, and that, as we know, is more dangerous than any madness. He thinks that order, discipline, and the parade step will save Russia, but Russia, forgive me, does not need saving from the Prussians, and he does not understand that."

Prince Dolgorukov, an old grandee with gray sideburns and dim eyes, slowly approached the window and also stared at the snow that kept falling and melting, leaving murky streaks on the glass. He was silent for a long time - so long that Rostopchin began to think the old man had fallen asleep standing - but finally the prince spoke, quietly and reluctantly:

"You are too harsh, Count. He is unhappy. And unhappiness, you know, makes people cruel, but in time he may soften."

"We shall see," Rostopchin smiled bitterly - the bitter smile he wore when speaking truths no one wanted to hear. "I do not believe in miracles. And worst of all, he hates everyone close to his mother, everyone without exception. For me, for you, for anyone who wore Catherine's ribbon, there is only either to adapt or to perish. No third option."

He walked away from the window and paced the hall, mechanically glancing at the doors from which adjutants kept emerging with pale faces - pale not from grief but from fear, the very fear that makes people both submissive and cruel simultaneously. At the far end of the hall, by a pillar upholstered in dark green cloth, stood old Count Kirill Vladimirovich Bezukhov, leaning on a cane - he was ill and could barely stand - and beside him, holding onto the tail of his coat, a boy of about eleven shifted from foot to foot: chubby, clumsy, with huge thoughtful eyes that looked at everything around him with an expression as if he saw not what others saw, but something of his own, understandable only to him. This was Pierre, the count's illegitimate son, whom the old man, it was said, intended to declare his heir. Rostopchin, looking at this boy, thought that children probably did not understand what was happening, and thank God they did not, because if they did, they would surely die of fear or pity.

He remembered that below, at the servants' entrance, wives and children of those admitted to the halls waited in carriages. It was said that Countess Rostova had brought her three children - ten-year-old Nikolai, four-year-old Natasha, and eight-year-old Vera - and now they all sat in the dark, wrapped in greatcoats and shawls, not understanding why they were not allowed into the warm rooms. The eldest, Nikolai, was probably teasing his sisters, while little Natasha was likely asleep, lulled by the steady patter of raindrops on the carriage roof. "And let them be," thought Rostopchin. "They do not need to see what is happening here. They do not need to know how fear makes adults look like trembling hares."

A doctor came out of the bedchamber, wiping his hands, and whispered something to the court marshal. He crossed himself and, without looking at anyone, walked toward the exit with quick, short steps. Rostopchin understood it was over. He approached Prince Dolgorukov and said quietly, almost into his ear, so that no one else could hear:

"She is dead. Now we shall see what Paul does. But I tell you, Prince, this is the beginning of the end, and mark my words: before a year passes, many of us will regret being born."

Dolgorukov said nothing, only sighed and straightened his order ribbon, which had slipped slightly askew. The gesture was so old, so habitual, that Rostopchin suddenly felt pity for the old man - that hopeless pity one feels before a person whose time has already passed, though he himself has not yet realized it.

He went out into the corridor, descended the wide marble staircase where guardsmen with rifles stood on every step, and found himself at the main entrance. Here, in the vestibule, it was cold and smelled of dampness and horses, and doormen in red livery, constantly opening and closing the heavy oak doors, let in and out couriers who brought and took various packages. Rostopchin paused for a moment, looking out into the street. The night was dark and windy; the snow mixed with rain that an hour ago had seemed endless had already stopped, and in the gaps between clouds a black, starry sky appeared here and there. Carriages crowded at the entrance - dozens of them, black with lit lanterns - and in one, the one closest to the porch, a child's face flashed in the window - round, with a turned-up nose - and immediately disappeared as someone drew the curtain.

"The Rostovs," thought Rostopchin. "The boy is ten. He does not yet know what awaits him. And thank God he does not."

He put on his greatcoat, took his tricorne from the doorman, and stepped onto the porch. The wet snow immediately began to melt on his face, mixing with sweat, and it was unpleasant, but he did not wipe his face because he suddenly wanted to feel this cold, sticky moisture as something real, the only real thing left in this world where everything else - ranks, ribbons, positions, hopes - was deceit and dust. The coachman brought the carriage; Rostopchin got in, slammed the door, and said, "To Liteynaya."

The carriage moved, its wheels clattering on the wet cobblestones. The sound was so steady, so familiar, that the count involuntarily closed his eyes and began to think. He thought about what had been and what would be, and how strangely life was arranged: the smartest man could not foresee what would happen to him in a week. Only yesterday he, Rostopchin, was in power; Catherine called him "mon ami" and entrusted him with important affairs; today he was nobody; and if Paul merely frowned, tomorrow he, Rostopchin, would be taken to Shlisselburg, and no one would intercede, no one would remember. And from that fear he had felt for hours, something suddenly lifted, and instead of fear came a calm, almost indifferent curiosity: what would happen next?

He opened his eyes and looked out the window. The sky was low and murky, but here and there stars were breaking through; the wind was scattering the clouds; it seemed that the whole sky, this entire endless cold vault, pressed down on Petersburg, that this oppression would never end, and that the people living under this sky could no longer breathe freely because they had grown accustomed to fear. And Rostopchin thought that human history was not what tsars and ministers did, nor what was written in decrees and treaties, but something else that happened by itself, beyond human will, and people only thought they were leading it, whereas in fact it was leading them, as the wind leads an autumn leaf - and no one knew where or why. Catherine died. Paul became tsar. He, Rostopchin, sat in a carriage driving over wet pavement, and all of it together was something that could neither be stopped nor changed nor even fully understood; one could only watch and marvel, as one watches a swift river in which chips of wood spin and drown.