War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy (ebook reader for pc TXT) 📕

hot,” Prince Andréy would reply at such times very dryly to his sister, “he could go out in his smock, but as it is cold he must wear warm clothes, which were designed for that purpose. That is what follows from the fact that it is cold; and not that a child who needs fresh air should remain at home,” he would add with extreme logic, as if punishing someone for those secret illogical emotions that stirred within him.

At such moments Princess Márya would think how intellectual work dries men up.

IV

Prince Andréy arrived in Petersburg in August, 1809. It was the time when the youthful Speránski was at the zenith of his fame and his reforms were being pushed forward with the greatest energy. That same August the Emperor was thrown from his calèche, injured his leg, and remained three weeks at Peterhof, receiving Speránski every day and no one else. At that time the two famous decrees were being prepared that so agitated society⁠—abolishing court ranks and introducing examinations to qualify for the grades of Collegiate Assessor and State Councilor⁠—and not merely these but a whole state constitution, intended to change the existing order of government in Russia: legal, administrative, and financial, from the Council of State down to the district tribunals. Now those vague liberal dreams with which the Emperor Alexander had ascended the throne, and which he had tried to put into effect with the aid of his associates, Czartorýski, Novosíltsev, Kochubéy, and Strógonov⁠—whom he himself in jest had called his Comité de salut public⁠—were taking shape and being realized.

Now all these men were replaced by Speránski on the civil side, and Arakchéev on the military. Soon after his arrival Prince Andréy, as a gentleman of the chamber, presented himself at court and at a levee. The Emperor, though he met him twice, did not favor him with a single word. It had always seemed to Prince Andréy before that he was antipathetic to the Emperor and that the latter disliked his face and personality generally, and in the cold, repellent glance the Emperor gave him, he now found further confirmation of this surmise. The courtiers explained the Emperor’s neglect of him by His Majesty’s displeasure at Bolkónski’s not having served since 1805.

“I know myself that one cannot help one’s sympathies and antipathies,” thought Prince Andréy, “so it will not do to present my proposal for the reform of the army regulations to the Emperor personally, but the project will speak for itself.”

He mentioned what he had written to an old field marshal, a friend of his father’s. The field marshal made an appointment to see him, received him graciously, and promised to inform the Emperor. A few days later Prince Andréy received notice that he was to go to see the Minister of War, Count Arakchéev.

On the appointed day Prince Andréy entered Count Arakchéev’s waiting room at nine in the morning.

He did not know Arakchéev personally, had never seen him, and all he had heard of him inspired him with but little respect for the man.

“He is Minister of War, a man trusted by the Emperor, and I need not concern myself about his personal qualities: he has been commissioned to consider my project, so he alone can get it adopted,” thought Prince Andréy as he waited among a number of important and unimportant people in Count Arakchéev’s waiting room.

During his service, chiefly as an adjutant, Prince Andréy had seen the anterooms of many important men, and the different types of such rooms were well known to him. Count Arakchéev’s anteroom had quite a special character. The faces of the unimportant people awaiting their turn for an audience showed embarrassment and servility; the faces of those of higher rank expressed a common feeling of awkwardness, covered by a mask of unconcern and ridicule of themselves, their situation, and the person for whom they were waiting. Some walked thoughtfully up and down, others whispered and laughed. Prince Andréy heard the nickname “Síla Andréevich” and the words, “Uncle will give it to us hot,” in reference to Count Arakchéev. One general (an important personage), evidently feeling offended at having to wait so long, sat crossing and uncrossing his legs and smiling contemptuously to himself.

But the moment the door opened one feeling alone appeared on all faces⁠—that of fear. Prince Andréy for the second time asked the adjutant on duty to take in his name, but received an ironical look and was told that his turn would come in due course. After some others had been shown in and out of the minister’s room by the adjutant on duty, an officer who struck Prince Andréy by his humiliated and frightened air was admitted at that terrible door. This officer’s audience lasted a long time. Then suddenly the grating sound of a harsh voice was heard from the other side of the door, and the officer⁠—with pale face and trembling lips⁠—came out and passed through the waiting room, clutching his head.

After this Prince Andréy was conducted to the door and the officer on duty said in a whisper, “To the right, at the window.”

Prince Andréy entered a plain tidy room and saw at the table a man of forty with a long waist, a long closely cropped head, deep wrinkles, scowling brows above dull greenish-hazel eyes and an overhanging red nose. Arakchéev turned his head toward him without looking at him.

“What is your petition?” asked Arakchéev.

“I am not petitioning, your excellency,” returned Prince Andréy quietly.

Arakchéev’s eyes turned toward him.

“Sit down,” said he. “Prince Bolkónski?”

“I am not petitioning about anything. His Majesty the Emperor has deigned to send your excellency a project submitted by me⁠ ⁠…”

“You see, my dear sir, I have read your project,” interrupted Arakchéev, uttering only the first words amiably and then⁠—again without looking at Prince Andréy⁠—relapsing gradually into a tone of grumbling contempt. “You are proposing new military laws? There are many laws but no one to carry out the old ones.