Анатолий Шигапов – Peace, war and peace (страница 12)

"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.