《War And Peace》 Book6 CHAPTER XVIII
by Leo Tolstoy
NEXT DAY when Prince Andrey thought of the ball it did not occupy his mind
for long. “Yes, it was a very successful ball. And besides…yes, the younger
Rostov is very charming. There's something fresh in her, original, unlike
Petersburg.” That was all he thought about the previous day's ball, and after
his morning tea he set to work.
But from fatigue and want of sleep he was not very well disposed for work,
and could get nothing done. He was continually criticising his own work—a habit
common with him—and was glad when he heard a visitor arrive.
The visitor was Bitsky, a man who was a member of various committees and of
all the societies in Petersburg. He was a passionate adherent of the new ideas
and of Speransky, and the busiest purveyor of news in Petersburg, one of those
men who choose their opinions like their clothes—according to the fashion—but
for that very reason seem the most vehement partisans. Scarcely waiting to
remove his hat, he ran fussily up to Prince Andrey, and at once began talking.
He had just learned particulars of the sitting of the State Council of that
morning, opened by the Tsar, and began enthusiastically upon the subject. The
Tsar's speech had been, he said, an extraordinary one. It had been a speech such
as are only delivered by constitutional monarchs. “The Emperor directly asserted
that the Council and the Senate are the estates of the realm; he said that
government should be founded not on arbitrary authority, but on a secure basis.
The Emperor said that the fiscal system must be reconstituted and the accounts
must be public,” Bitsky announced, laying stress on certain words, and opening
his eyes significantly. “Yes, to-day's sitting marks an epoch, the GREatest
epoch in our history,” he concluded.
Prince Andrey heard his account of the opening of the State Council, to which
he had been looking forward with such eagerness, and to which he had attached so
much consequence, and was amazed that now, when it had come to pass, this event,
far from affecting him, struck him as less than insignificant. With quiet irony
he listened to Bitsky's enthusiastic description. The idea in his mind was of
the simplest. “What is it to me and Bitsky,” he thought, “what is it to us,
whatever the Emperor is pleased to say in the Council? Can all that make me any
happier or better?”
And this simple reflection suddenly destroyed all Prince Andrey's former
interest in the reforms that were being made. That day Prince Andrey was to dine
with Speransky, “with only a few friends,” as the host had said in inviting him.
That dinner, in the intimate home circle of the man who had so fascinated him,
had seemed very attractive to Prince Andrey, especially as he had not hitherto
seen Speransky in his home surroundings. But now he had no wish to go to
it.
At the hour fixed, however, Prince Andrey was entering the small house in
Tavritchesky Garden. The little house, which was Speransky's property, was
distinguished by an extraordinary cleanliness, suggestive of the cleanliness of
a convent. In the parqueted dining-room, Prince Andrey, who was a little late,
found all that circle of Speransky's intimate friends already gathered together
at five o'clock. There were no ladies present, except Speransky's little
daughter (with a long face like her father's) and her governess. The guests were
Gervais, Magnitsky and Stolypin. From the vestibule Prince Andrey had caught the
sound of loud voices and a ringing, staccato laugh—a laugh such as one hears on
the stage. Some one—it sounded like Speransky—was giving vent to a staccato
“ha…ha…ha…” Prince Andrey had never before heard Speransky laugh, and this
shrill, ringing laugh from the GREat statesman made a strange impression on
him.
Prince Andrey went into the dining-room. The whole party were standing
between the two windows at a little table laid with hors d'œuvres.
Speransky was standing at the table with a mirthful countenance, wearing a GREy
frock coat with a star, and the white waistcoat and high white stock, in which
he had been at the famous sitting of the State Council. His guests formed a ring
round him. Turning towards him Magnitsky was relating an anecdote. Speransky
listened, laughing beforehand at what Magnitsky was going to say. Just as Prince
Andrey walked into the room, Magnitsky's words were again drowned in laughter.
Stolypin gave vent to a bass guffaw as he munched a piece of bread and cheese.
Gervais softly hissed a chuckle, and Speransky laughed his shrill, staccato
laugh.
Speransky, still laughing, gave Prince Andrey his soft, white hand. “Very
glad to see you, prince,” he said. “One minute…” he turned to Magnitsky, whose
tale he was interrupting. “We have made a compact to-day; this is a holiday
dinner, and not one word about business.” And he turned again to the
story-teller, and again he laughed.
With a sense of wondering and melancholy disillusion, Prince Andrey heard his
laughter and looked at Speransky laughing. It was not Speransky, but some other
man, it seemed to Prince Andrey. All that had seemed mysterious and attractive
in Speransky suddenly seemed to Prince Andrey obvious and unattractive.
At dinner the conversation never paused for a moment, and consisted of
something like the contents of a jest-book. Magnitsky had hardly finished his
anecdote when another gentleman expressed his readiness to relate something even
more amusing. The anecdotes for the most part related, if not to the service
itself, to persons prominent in the service. It was as though in this circle the
utter insignificance of these prominent persons was so completely accepted that
the only attitude possible towards them was one of good-humoured hilarity.
Speransky told them how at the council that morning a deaf statesman, on being
asked his opinion, replied that he was of the same opinion. Gervais described a
whole episode of the revision, only remarkable for the imbecility of all
concerned in it. Stolypin, stammering, took up the conversation and began
talking of the abuses of the old order of things, with a warmth that threatened
to give the conversation a serious turn. Magnitsky began to make fun of
Stolypin's earnestness. Gervais put in his joke, and the conversation resumed
its former lively tone. It was obvious that after his labours Speransky liked to
rest and be amused in the circle of his friends; and all his friends understood
his tastes, and were trying to amuse him and themselves. But this kind of gaiety
seemed to Prince Andrey tiresome and anything but gay. Speransky's high voice
struck him unpleasantly, and his continual laugh in its high-pitched, falsetto
note was for some reason an offence to Prince Andrey's feelings. Prince Andrey
did not laugh, and was afraid he would be felt uncongenial by this party. But no
one noticed his lack of sympathy with the general merriment. All of them
appeared to be GREatly enjoying themselves.
Several times he tried to enter into the conversation, but every time the
word was snatched out of his mouth, like a cork out of water, and he could not
bandy jokes with them. There was nothing wrong or unseemly in what they said; it
was all witty, and might have been amusing, but something—that very something
that makes the zest of gaiety—was wanting, and they did not even know of its
existence.
After dinner Speransky's daughter and her governess rose from the table.
Speransky patted his daughter with his white hand, and kissed her. And that
gesture, too, seemed to Prince Andrey unnatural.
The men sat on over their port, after the English fashion. A conversation
sprang up about Napoleon's doings in Spain, of which all were united in
approving, while Prince Andrey attacked them. But in the middle of this
discussion Speransky, obviously wishing to change the subject, began with a
smile telling an anecdote, which had no connection with it. For several instants
every one was silent.
As they sat at table, Speransky, corking up a bottle of wine and saying,
“Nowadays good wine doesn't go a-begging!” gave it to the servant and got up.
All rose, and talking just as noisily, went into the drawing-room. Speransky was
handed two envelopes brought by a special courier. He took them and went into
his study. As soon as he had gone, there was a lull in the general gaiety, and
the guests began conversing sensibly in low tones together.
“Well, now for the recitation!” said Speransky, coming out of his study. “A
marvellous talent!” he said to Prince Andrey. Magnitsky at once threw himself
into an attitude, and began to recite comic French verses, a skit he had
composed on various well-known persons. Several times he was interrupted by
applause. At the conclusion of the recitation Prince Andrey went up to Speransky
to say good-bye.
“Why so early?” said Speransky.
“I promised to be at a soirée.…”
They said no more. Prince Andrey looked at those mirror-like, impenetrable
eyes, so close to his, and he felt it ludicrous that he should have expected
anything from Speransky, and from all his own work connected with him, and
marvelled how he could have ascribed any value to what Speransky was doing. That
punctual, mirthless laugh was ringing in Prince Andrey's ears long after he had
left Speransky's.
On reaching home Prince Andrey began looking at his life in Peters-burg
during the last four months, as though it were something new. He thought of the
efforts he had made, and the people he had tried to see, and the history of his
project of army reform, which had been accepted for consideration, and had been
shelved because another scheme, a very poor one, had already been worked out and
presented to the Tsar. He thought of the sittings of the committee, of which
Berg was a member. He thought of the conscientious and prolonged deliberations
that took place at those sittings on every point relating to the formalities of
the sittings themselves, and the studious brevity with which anything relating
to the reality of their duties was touched on in passing. He thought of his work
on the legislative reforms, of his careful translation of the Roman and French
codes into Russian, and he felt ashamed of himself. Then he vividly imagined
Bogutcharovo, his pursuits in the country, his expedition to Ryazan; he thought
of his peasants, of Dron the village elder; and applying the section on Personal
Rights, which he had divided into paragraphs, to them, he marvelled how he could
have so long busied himself on work so idle.
