War And Peace

‘What a beautiful woman!’ said everyone who saw her. The viscount shrugged and looked down, as if transfixed by a mysterious force, as she arranged herself to sit before him, not sparing him that ever-dazzling smile.

‘Madame, I doubt my abilities in front of such an audience,’ he said, bowing with a smile.

The princess rested her round, bare arm on a little table and found it unnecessary to say anything. She smiled, and she waited. Sitting up straight throughout the viscount’s story, she glanced down occasionally either at her beautiful, round arm so casually draped across the table, or at her still lovelier bosom and the diamond necklace above it that kept needing adjustment. Several times she also adjusted the folds of her gown, and whenever the narrative made a strong impact on the audience she would glance across at Anna Pavlovna in order to imitate whatever expression she could see written on the maid of honour’s face before resuming her radiant smile.

The little Princess Bolkonsky had also moved away from the tea table, following Hélène. ‘Wait a minute, I must have my work,’ she said. ‘Come along, what are you thinking about?’ she demanded of Prince Hippolyte. ‘Please fetch my bag.’

With a smile and a word for everyone, the little princess got the whole group to rearrange itself, and then sat down and settled her skirts.

‘Now I’m all right,’ she insisted, and took up her work, inviting the viscount to begin. Prince Hippolyte brought her little bag, walked round behind her, moved up a chair and sat down beside her.

The ‘charming’ Hippolyte bore a close resemblance to his beautiful sister; it was even more remarkable that in spite of the similarity he was a very ugly man. His features were like his sister’s, but whereas she glowed with joie de vivre, classical beauty and the smiling self-assurance of youth, her brother’s face was just the opposite – dim with imbecility, truculent and peevish – and his body was thin and feeble. His eyes, nose and mouth – all his features seemed to twist themselves into in a vague kind of obtuse snarl, while his arms and legs were always in an awkward tangle.

‘It’s not a ghost story, is it?’ he asked, settling down next to the princess and jerking his lorgnette up to his eyes, as if he needed this instrument before he could say anything.

‘Why no, my dear fellow,’ said the astonished viscount with a shrug.

‘It’s just that I can’t abide ghost stories,’ said Prince Hippolyte, his tone implying that he had blurted all this out before realizing what it meant. Because of the self-confidence with which he had spoken, no one could tell whether what he had said was very clever or very stupid. He was dressed in a dark green frock-coat, stockings, light shoes and knee-breeches of a colour he referred to as ‘the thigh of a startled nymph’.

The viscount then gave a nice rendition of a story that was doing the rounds. Apparently the Duke of Enghien had driven to Paris for a secret assignation with a young woman, Mlle George, only to run into Bonaparte, who was also enjoying the favours of the same famous actress. On meeting the duke, Napoleon had fallen into one of his fainting fits and had been completely at the duke’s mercy. The duke had not taken advantage of this, but Bonaparte had later rewarded his magnanimity by having him put to death.

This was a very charming and interesting story, especially the bit when the rivals suddenly recognized each other, and it seemed to excite the ladies. ‘Delightful!’ said Anna Pavlovna, with an inquiring glance at the little princess. ‘Delightful!’ whispered the little princess, stabbing her needle into her sewing to show that the interest and charm of the story were getting in the way of her work. With a grateful smile of appreciation at this silent tribute, the viscount resumed his narrative, but Anna Pavlovna, who never took her eyes off the dreadful young man who was worrying her so much, could hear him holding forth with the abbé too forcefully and too heatedly, so she sped across into the danger zone on a rescue mission. Sure enough, Pierre had managed to get into a political conversation with the abbé about the balance of power, and the abbé, evidently taken by young man’s naive passion, was expounding to him his cherished idea. Both men were listening too earnestly and talking too bluntly, and Anna Pavlovna didn’t like it.

‘You do it by means of the balance of power in Europe and the rights of the people,’ the abbé was saying. ‘If one powerful state like Russia – despite its reputation for barbarity – were to take a disinterested stand as the head of an alliance aimed at guaranteeing the balance of power in Europe, it would save the world!’