| ON THE 17TH of August Rostov and Ilyin, accompanied by Lavrushka, who had just come back from being taken prisoner by the French, and an hussar on orderly duty, rode out from Yankovo, fifteen versts from Bogutcharovo. They meant to try a new horse that Ilyin had bought, and to find out whether there was hay to be had in the village. Bogutcharovo had been for the last three days between the two hostile armies, so that the Russian rearguard could reach the village as easily as the French vanguard; and therefore Rostov, like a careful officer, was anxious to anticipate the French in securing any provisions that might be left there. Rostov and Ilyin were in the liveliest spirits. On the way to Bogutcharovo, which they knew to be an estate belonging to a prince, with a manor-house, where they hoped to find a large household, and, perhaps, pretty servant-girls, they questioned Lavrushka about Napoleon, and laughed at his stories; then raced their horses to test Ilyin’s new purchase. Rostov had no notion that the village to which he was going was the property of the very Prince Bolkonsky who had been betrothed to his sister. Rostov and Ilyin had just let their horses race till they were weary for the last time before Bogutcharovo, and Rostov, outstripping Ilyin was the first to gallop into the village street. “You started in front,” said Ilyin, flushed. “Yes, always in front, in the meadow and here too,” answered Rostov, patting his foaming Don horse. “And on my Frenchy, your excellency,” said Lavrushka from behind, meaning the wretched cart-horse he was riding, “I could have overtaken you, only I didn’t want to put you to shame.” They rode at a walking pace towards the granary, where there was a great crowd of peasants standing. Several of the peasants took off their caps, others stared at them without taking off their caps. Two old peasants, with wrinkled faces and scanty beards, came out of the tavern, reeling and singing a tuneless song, and advanced with smiles towards the officers. “They’re fine fellows!” said Rostov, laughing. “Well, have you any hay?” “And so alike, somehow …” said Ilyin. “Ma … a … aking mer … ry in my sum … sum … mer …” chanted the peasant, with a blissful smile. A peasant came out of the crowd and went up to Rostov. “Which part will you be from?” asked the peasant. “We’re French,” answered Ilyin, laughing. “And this is Napoleon himself,” he said, pointing to Lavrushka. “I suppose you are Russians then?” the peasant inquired. “And have you many troops here?” asked another short peasant, approaching. “A great many,” answered Rostov. “But why are you all assembled here?” he added. “Is it a holiday or what?” “The old men are met about the village business,” answered the peasant, moving away from him. At that moment there came into sight two women and a man in a white hat running from the prince’s house towards the officers. “The one in pink’s mine; hands off, beware!” said Ilyin, noticing Dunyasha running resolutely towards them. “She’ll be the girl for us!” said Lavrushka, winking to Ilyin. “What is it you want, my pretty?” said Ilyin, smiling. “The princess sent me to ask of what regiment are you, and what is your name?” “This is Count Rostov, the commander of the squadron, and I am your humble servant.” “Mer … mer … mer … arbour!” chanted the drunken peasant, smiling blissfully, and gazing at Ilyin as he talked to the girl. Alpatitch followed Dunyasha, taking off his hat to Rostov as he approached. “I make bold to trouble your honour,” he said, putting one hand in his bosom, and speaking with a respectfulness in which there was a shade of contempt for the officer’s youth. “My mistress, the daughter of general-in-chief Prince Nikolay Andreitch Bolkonsky, who died on the 15th of this month, being in difficulties owing to the coarse ignorance of those people”—he pointed to the peasants—“begs you to come … Would you not be pleased,” said Alpatitch, with a melancholy smile, “to move a little away, as it is not so convenient before …” Alpatitch indicated two peasants, who were hovering about him, like gadflies about a horse. “Ay! … Alpatitch! … Ay! Yakov Alpatitch! first-rate job! Eh? … for Christ’s sake, forgive us. First-rate! ay?” cried the peasants, smiling gleefully at him. Rostov looked at the drunken peasants, and smiled. “Or possibly this entertains your excellency?” said Yakov Alpatitch, with a sober air, pointing with his other hand to the old peasants. “No, there’s nothing very entertaining in that,” said Rostov, and he moved away. “What is the matter?” he inquired. “I make bold to submit to your excellency that the rude peasants here will not let their lady leave the estate, and threaten to take the horses out of her carriage, so that everything has been packed since morning, yet her excellency cannot get away.” “Impossible!” cried Rostov. “I have the honour of submitting to you the simple truth,” said Alpatitch. Rostov got off his horse, and giving it to the orderly, walked with Alpatitch to the house, questioning him further about the state of affairs. The princess’s offer of corn, and her interview with Dron and with the peasants, had, in fact, made the position so much worse that Dron had finally given up the keys of office, joined the peasants and refused to appear when Alpatitch sent for him. In the morning when the princess ordered the horses to be put in for her to set off, the peasants had come out in a great crowd to the granary, and had sent to say that they would not let the princess go out of the village; that there was an edict that people were not to leave their houses, and that they would unharness the horses. Alpatitch went out to lecture them; in reply they told him (a certain Karp was the principal speaker, Dron kept in the background in the crowd) that the princess could not be allowed to go, that there was an edict forbidding it, but that only let her stay, and they would serve her and obey her in everything as before. At the moment when Rostov and Ilyin were galloping along the village street, regardless of the efforts of Alpatitch, the old nurse, and the maid to dissuade her, Princess Marya had just ordered the horses to be put in, and was intending to start. But seeing the horsemen galloping up, the coachmen took them for the French, and ran away, and a great lamentation arose among the women of the household. “Kind sir! protector! God has sent thee,” cried voices, with much feeling, as Rostov crossed the vestibule. Princess Marya was sitting helpless and distraught in the hall, when Rostov was shown in to see her. She did not know who he was, or what brought him there, or what was happening to her. Seeing his Russian face, and recognising him at his first words and gait for a man of her own rank, she looked at him, with her deep, luminous gaze, and began speaking in a voice, broken and trembling with emotion. Rostov at once conceived a romance in this meeting. “A defenceless girl, crushed by sorrow, alone, abandoned to the mercy of coarse, rebellious peasants! And what strange destiny has brought me here!” thought Rostov, as he listened to her and looked at her. “And what mildness, what nobility in her features and expression!” he thought, as he listened to her timid story. When she began to tell him that all this had happened the day after her father’s funeral, her voice trembled. She turned away, and as though afraid Rostov might ascribe her words to a desire to work on his feelings, she glanced at him with a look of apprehensive inquiry. There were tears in Rostov’s eyes. Princess Marya noticed it, and looked at him with the luminous eyes that made one forget the plainness of her face. “I cannot express how glad I am, princess, that I happened to come this way, and am able to serve you in anything,” said Rostov, rising. “I trust you will start at once, and I answer for it on my honour, no person shall dare to cause you annoyance, if you will only permit me to escort you,” and making a deep bow, such as are made to ladies of the royal family, he turned to the door. By the respectfulness of his tone, Rostov tried to show that though he would consider it a happiness to be acquainted with her, he did not wish to take advantage of her misfortune to force an acquaintanceship upon her. Princess Marya felt and appreciated this tone. “I am very, very grateful to you,” she said to him in French; “but I hope it was all only a misunderstanding, and that no one is to blame.” She began all at once to cry. “Excuse me,” she said. Rostov, knitting his brows, bowed low once more, and went out of the room. |
