Анатолий Шигапов – Peace, war and peace (страница 3)

An hour later, Countess Golovina left the palace. Outside, the frost was strengthening; snow creaked underfoot; rare stars had already lit up in the darkening sky. Her carriage stood at the entrance, and a footman gave her his hand to help her in. When the carriage moved, she leaned back against the cushions and closed her eyes. She remembered Boris Drubetskoy's face - those clear, childish eyes that did not yet know fear. "Happy boy," she thought. "He does not understand what fear is. But we already understand. And that is the most terrible thing."

The carriage clattered over the icy pavement, and the countess opened the window to take a breath of fresh air. The wind struck her face, cold and sharp, and she screwed up her eyes. When she opened them, a star gleamed above the city in a break in the clouds - bright, solitary - and for a moment the countess thought that this star had seen Catherine, Peter, and all the other tsars, and would see those who came after, and that all of this - the fear, the decrees, the parade drills, the prohibitions - was for the star but a single moment, but for a person, an entire life, full of fear and hope, and no one knew what in it was most important. She closed the window, told the coachman to drive home, and all the way sat silently looking at the flickering lights of the city, which seemed to her like little helpless candles in that black, icy darkness.

III

In the study, which smelled of leather, tobacco, and old books, two candles burned in brass holders, their yellow, flickering light falling on portraits of ancestors, on shelves of papers, and on a tall Venetian mirror in a carved frame, before which stood Prince Nikolai Andreevich Bolkonsky. He was already dressed for the road - in an old-fashioned dark-green woolen coat of the kind still worn under Catherine, and a powdered wig he put on only for the most solemn occasions - and now, his head slightly tilted, he was fastening his orders, one after another. His fingers, dry and sinewy, with long, slightly crooked nails yellowed by age, moved with that habitual, almost mechanical precision that only years of daily ritual can give.

Beside him, eyes downcast, stood nineteen-year-old Andrei - tall, lean, with fine features on which was fixed an expression of restrained, almost stern deference, such as one sees in young men who have already left childhood but not yet achieved full independence and are therefore forced to be silent and listen when their elders speak. His face was pale, his lips tightly pressed, and only his eyes - gray, lively, intelligent - betrayed the inner agitation he tried to hide from his father.

"So then, my son," said the old prince without turning, continuing to fuss with his orders, "I am going to Petersburg. To kiss the hand of the sovereign, who, they say, hates all us old Catherine's dogs. Very well, he has a right to that, because his mother, may she rest in peace, did not much favor her son. But an old man like me is used to it. C'est une absurdité, mais que faire?" And he grunted with annoyance because the order would not fasten.

Andrei was silent. He knew that no answer was required of him, and in general he knew that at moments when his father spoke in this tone - grumbling but not ill-natured - it was better to remain silent and not interrupt, because the old prince loved to talk by himself and only pretended to ask his son's opinion.

"But you," the old man continued, finally managing with the orders and turning to Andrei so that the skirts of his coat flew open, revealing his waistcoat, buttoned to the last button, "you stay here, in Bald Hills. Look after the estate, after Marya. And remember one thing, and remember it well, because your life may depend on it: Paul is mad, but his madness is not the madness of weakness - no, it is the madness of power, and therefore doubly dangerous. Be silent, don't meddle, don't stick out. A wise man under a tyrant either keeps quiet or flees. You cannot flee - you have your estate, debts, a sister - so be silent. And don't even think of arguing, don't think of proving, don't think of showing that you are smarter than he is. He does not forgive that."

Andrei raised his eyes to his father - and in those gray, deep eyes something like bitterness flashed, but it disappeared at once, replaced by the habitual expression of respectful submission.

"Oui, mon père," he answered, his voice steady, without a tremor, though inside everything tightened at the thought that life, real life - with dangers, deeds, great achievements - was passing him by, while he, Andrei Bolkonsky, must sit in this backwater and wait for something real to begin. "I will do everything as you say."

"See that you do," said the old prince, with something between satisfaction and regret in his voice. "And if anything - write. But no more than once a month, because I am a busy man and you are not to burden me with every trifle."

He went to the table, took from it a heavy cane with a silver knob, which he used more for show than for need, and, leaning on it, headed for the door. Prokofy had been standing by the door, his arms crossed over his stomach, watching. He saw how the old prince, passing the mirror, glanced at his reflection and gave a slight smirk - the smirk that meant: "Never mind, we'll yet see which of us lives longer." Then the old prince went out into the vestibule, and Prokofy hurried after him to help his master dress for the road - to put on the heavy bearskin coat he detested for its immoderate weight but wore on account of the frost, and the high boots, and the cap with earflaps that made him look like an old, ruffled bear.

Andrei walked behind, not lagging a step but not overtaking. On the porch, where the frost nipped at his cheeks and breathing became difficult because the air was prickly, dry, and smelled of snow, stood an old carriage - leather-covered, with high springs - into which the old prince always climbed with difficulty, grumbling each time that it was time to buy a new one but a pity to spend the money. The horses, gray dapples, impatiently stamped their feet, and steam poured from their nostrils.

Before getting in, the old prince turned to his son, silently removed his cap, crossed him with a broad, sweeping cross - the kind one makes only before a long journey or before death - and said:

"Well, God be with you. Guard your honor, Andrei. And remember: honor is dearer than life, because a man has only one life, but he carries his honor within him and passes it to his children after death."

Andrei bowed silently. Prokofy gave the master his hand to help him onto the step, and the old prince, grunting and quietly swearing, finally climbed inside, flopped onto the threadbare cushions, and slammed the door.

"And you, Prokofy!" he shouted, sticking his head out the little window that slid open with a squeak. "Keep an eye on him! See that the estate doesn't fall apart, that Marya doesn't weep, that he -" he nodded toward Andrei - "doesn't do any stupid things. You are an old servant, you know the rules."

"At your service, Your Excellency," answered Prokofy, bowing low and holding his cap with one hand to keep it from flying off in the wind, and with the other the skirts of his coat, which were billowing.

"Go!" commanded the old prince, and the coachman, sitting on the box in a sheepskin coat and mittens, tugged the reins. The horses set off slowly, heavily, but still they moved, and the carriage, swaying on its springs, creaked along the packed snow-covered road, growing smaller and smaller until it became a black dot on the white field, and then the dot disappeared around the bend where the forest began.

Andrei stood on the porch and watched. Prokofy stood beside him, not daring to break the silence. The wind lifted snow from the ground, and small snowflakes swirled over the yard; it was so quiet that one could hear dogs barking in the distance and the creak of fresh, newly fallen snow underfoot. Andrei did not move. He stood leaning his hand on the carved pillar of the porch and looked at the oak - that huge, spreading oak that grew right by the house, a few fathoms from the porch, and which, the old folk said, had been planted by the present prince's grandfather, or maybe earlier. This oak was so thick that two people could not embrace it; its branches, black, gnarled, battered by frost and time, reached toward the sky like crooked fingers, and it seemed that this tree was not just a tree but something living, thinking, perhaps even possessing its own will and memory.

"When will real life begin?" thought Andrei, looking at the oak. "Must my whole life pass like this - in waiting, in silence, in languishing, while my elders say 'be silent,' when I cannot take a step without asking permission, when each day is like the one before and all the future seems as gray as this sky?" The sky was low, gray, monotonous, without a break; it seemed to press down on the earth, on this oak, on this house, on him, Andrei, on his entire life, which had not yet begun but was already ending. And he suddenly felt aggrieved - aggrieved to the point of tears, though he would not show them, considering that a man should not cry, so he only clenched his jaw harder and stared at one spot.