Анатолий Шигапов – Peace, war and peace (страница 10)

And as she was leaving the drawing room, she heard from above, from the nursery, the sound of laughter - Natasha, probably, making peace with Nikolai, and the two of them inventing something together, their voices so merry, so carefree, that Agafya involuntarily smiled, shook her head, and went her way, softly humming an old Christmas song her mother had sung - the words long forgotten, but the melody remained, and lived in her, and warmed her soul, as fire in the stove warms a winter evening.

X

The day was August, hot, stuffy, with that heavy, leaden silence that comes before a thunderstorm. In the count's house it was quiet - the master had not left his study for three days and received no one; the servants walked on tiptoe, afraid to disturb. Only in the morning had the post arrived from abroad, and the count, having received a letter, sat over it for a long time, then called his steward and said: "Pierre writes. Alive, healthy. Asks permission to return. But I think - let him study another year. France, they say, is calming down. The Terror is over, the Jacobins have been dispersed. Now consuls rule, and it seems quieter."

The steward, an old German, bowed and left. And rumors went through the house that the young master Pierre, now thirteen, was writing terrible letters from Paris, and that France, they said, was no longer what it had been, and that a new ruler there, some Bonaparte, had pacified everyone and was now gathering an army, and it was unknown against whom. Semyon, cleaning harness, listened with half an ear and thought his own thoughts. He thought about how the count was old and ill, and the heir was a boy abroad, and it was unknown whether he, Semyon, would have to drive with this boy or would remain with the old master until his death. He was not afraid of death - he had seen old masters die, and he knew that after death one still had to live and serve the new master. But he did not like the thought that the new master would be that fat, clumsy boy who once, before his departure, had run around the yard and kept asking the servants why the sky was blue and why people could not fly.

"He's strange," said Semyon aloud, addressing no one. "And his eyes are not like everyone else's. He looks and seems to see something we don't see."

"And what," asked the cook, fat Marfa, who had just milked the cow, "will he come back, they say? He'll need watching over. He might do foolish things."

"He won't," answered Semyon. "He's quiet. Only very thoughtful. And thoughtful people rarely do foolish things. They suffer more inwardly."

The servants' hall laughed. Semyon took offense - not at the laughter, but at not being understood. He was about to say something more, but at that moment the count's valet, Grigory, came out of the house and said the count wanted the carriage harnessed - to go to town, to Prince Kuragin's. Semyon stood up, put on his sheepskin coat, and went to the stable to harness.

The count drove alone; Semyon, sitting on the box, heard the old master sigh heavily as he settled onto the cushions and say to himself in French: "Que faire, mon Dieu? Il est encore si jeune." Semyon did not understand whom the count meant, but guessed Pierre. He was afraid, probably, that the boy would be lost in a foreign land. Or afraid that he himself would not live to see his return. So they drove in silence, only the wheels clattering on the cobblestones, while over Moscow a thunderstorm gathered, stuffy and low, pressing on the chest.

At Prince Vasily's house, the count stayed only a short while - came out pale, angry, slammed the carriage door, and ordered them to drive back. Semyon turned and saw from a second-story window Princess Hélène looking out - slender, with marble shoulders - smiling. But her smile was somehow empty, unreal, and Semyon felt uneasy. He started the horses, and the carriage rolled back.

That same evening, in Count Bezukhov's house, they learned news that spread all over Moscow: Emperor Paul had signed a decree forbidding young people from going abroad to study without special permission. Now Pierre, like many Russian nobles, could not return because he had been sent before the decree, but also could not stay - because the decree demanded everyone's return. The count sat in his study, rereading his son's letter, thinking. And Semyon, standing by the stable, looked at the sky. The thunderstorm had passed by, only rustled and gone, but the air became cleaner, and the first stars lit in the black, high sky.

"What will be, will be," thought Semyon. "And the count will probably obtain permission. He has influence, money. And Pierre will come - and we'll go on living. There's room for everyone."

He crossed himself, entered the stable, patted the horses, gave them oats, and lay down to sleep in the hayloft, listening to the harmonica playing beyond the wall in the servants' hall and someone singing an old, long song about a brave young man riding into an open field where no one awaits him. And it seemed to Semyon that this song was about everyone - about him, about the old count, about little Pierre studying in France, not knowing if he would ever return home. And over Moscow the sky was high and starry, and the wind blew from the north, and somewhere in the distance, beyond the city, began those very fields over which couriers galloped with the emperor's decrees.

XI

Count Kirill Vladimirovich, dressed in a spacious dressing gown, sat in his favorite Voltaire armchair by the window, rereading a letter that had come that morning from Paris. The letter was from Pierre - the thirteen-year-old boy the count had sent to France two years ago to study and who now, apparently, did not intend to return, because, as he wrote, his studies were absorbing and Paris the most beautiful city in the world. The count read, smiled, sometimes frowned and twitched his eyebrows - those thick, gray eyebrows that made his face resemble that of an old, life-wise lion.

"What does he write?" asked Grigory, handing him a cup.

"He writes," answered the count without raising his eyes, "that Bonaparte, that Corsican, they say, will soon chase everyone away and make himself consul. Already everyone speaks of him as the master of France. C'est un homme extraordinaire, he writes. The boy, but he's at it - judging politics."

Grigory said nothing, for he understood nothing of politics and had seen Bonaparte only in pictures - small, angry, with a hand tucked into his coat. But he noticed that the count was not angry with Pierre, but rather proud that his son was interested in such things.

"And then, Your Excellency," Grigory asked cautiously, "will he return soon? Or will he stay on in France?"

"He'll stay," said the count, putting aside the letter. "Let him study. Things are unsettled now at home. The sovereign, they say, is preparing new decrees, and who knows what will happen with Europe. Better he stay in France than be here, under the hand of an emperor who can exile you for an extra word. Ici, c'est dangereux."

Grigory sighed, straightened the napkin, and walked to the window. The sky was autumn, low, gray, with small, quickly moving clouds that seemed to Grigory like couriers shuttling between Moscow and Petersburg with tsarist decrees. A fine, frequent rain tapped on the glass - the kind that comes in September, when summer is over but winter has not yet begun, and everything around seems wet, sticky, unpleasant. And the people were the same - wet, sticky, unpleasant. Yesterday, for example, Prince Vasily Kuragin had come - ostensibly to visit the ailing count (though the count was not ill, merely tired and not coming to dinner) - but actually, as Grigory understood, to find out whether a new will had been written, and whether the estate had been left to the wrong person. Prince Vasily sat in an armchair, drank tea, spoke of trifles, but his eyes darted and he kept glancing at the writing desk where papers lay in a leather portfolio.

"A fox," Grigory thought then. "He came to sniff what lay where." And now, remembering it, he thought: "He'll come again. He'll come, certainly. As long as the count lives, he won't rest."

The count finished his chocolate, set aside his cup, and said:

"Grigory, write an answer. Say: live, study, don't be bored. And I will send him as much money as he asks. Let him not want."

Grigory went to the desk, took a pen, dipped it in ink, and began to write at dictation. The count dictated slowly, deliberately, sometimes pausing, his voice tired but firm.

"'Mon cher fils, I received your letter and was glad that you are healthy and cheerful. As for Bonaparte - do not judge what you do not know. Time will show whether he is a genius or a brigand. Study, listen to your professors, do not be lazy. And do not hurry to return. In Russia things are no better than in France, perhaps worse...'"

He paused, rubbed his forehead, and added:

"Don't write 'worse.' Delete it. Write: 'Be careful, take care of yourself. Your loving father.'"

Grigory wrote, folded the sheet, sealed it with wax, and pressed it with a stamp bearing the count's coat of arms. The count took the letter, held it to the candle for the wax to harden, and said: