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"But
you said yourself that we would sacrifice everything."
"Petya!
Be quiet, I tell you!" cried the count, with a glance at his
wife,
who had turned pale and was staring fixedly at her son.
"And
I tell you--Peter Kirilych here will also tell you..."
"Nonsense,
I tell you. Your mother's milk has hardly dried on your lips
and
you want to go into the army! There, there, I tell you," and the
count
moved to go out of the room, taking the papers, probably to
reread
them
in his study before having a nap.
"Well,
Peter Kirilych, let's go and have a smoke," he said.
Pierre
was agitated and undecided. Natasha's unwontedly brilliant eyes,
continually
glancing at him with a more than cordial look, had reduced
him
to this condition.
"No,
I think I'll go home."
"Home?
Why, you meant to spend the evening with us.... You don't often
come
nowadays as it is, and this girl of mine," said the count good-
naturedly,
pointing to Natasha, "only brightens up when you're here."
"Yes,
I had forgotten... I really must go home... business..." said
Pierre
hurriedly.
"Well,
then, au revoir!" said the count, and went out of the room.
"Why
are you going? Why are you upset?" asked Natasha, and she looked
challengingly
into Pierre's eyes.
"Because
I love you!" was what he wanted to say, but he did not say it,
and
only blushed till the tears came, and lowered his eyes.
"Because
it is better for me to come less often... because... No, simply
I
have business...."
"Why?
No, tell me!" Natasha began resolutely and suddenly stopped.
They
looked at each other with dismayed and embarrassed faces. He
tried
to
smile but could not: his smile expressed suffering, and he
silently
kissed
her hand and went out.
Pierre
made up his mind not to go to the Rostovs' any more.
CHAPTER
XXI
After
the definite refusal he had received, Petya went to his room and
there
locked himself in and wept bitterly. When he came in to tea,
silent,
morose, and with tear-stained face, everybody pretended not to
notice
anything.
Next
day the Emperor arrived in Moscow, and several of the Rostovs'
domestic
serfs begged permission to go to have a look at him. That
morning
Petya was a long time dressing and arranging his hair and collar
to
look like a grown-up man. He frowned before his looking glass,
gesticulated,
shrugged his shoulders, and finally, without saying a word
to
anyone, took his cap and left the house by the back door, trying
to
avoid
notice. Petya decided to go straight to where the Emperor was and
to
explain frankly to some gentleman-in-waiting (he imagined the
Emperor
to
be always surrounded by gentlemen-in-waiting) that he, Count
Rostov,
in
spite of his youth wished to serve his country; that youth could
be
no
hindrance to loyalty, and that he was ready to... While dressing,
Petya
had prepared many fine things he meant to say to the
gentleman-in-
waiting.
It
was on the very fact of being so young that Petya counted for
success
in
reaching the Emperor--he even thought how surprised everyone would
be
at
his youthfulness--and yet in the arrangement of his collar and
hair
and
by his sedate deliberate walk he wished to appear a grown-up man.
But
the farther he went and the more his attention was diverted by
the
ever-increasing
crowds moving toward the Kremlin, the less he remembered
to
walk with the sedateness and deliberation of a man. As he
approached
the
Kremlin he even began to avoid being crushed and resolutely stuck
out
his elbows in a menacing way. But within the Trinity Gateway he
was
so
pressed to the wall by people who probably were unaware of the
patriotic
intentions with which he had come that in spite of all his
determination
he had to give in, and stop while carriages passed in,
rumbling
beneath the archway. Beside Petya stood a peasant woman, a
footman,
two tradesmen, and a discharged soldier. After standing some
time
in the gateway, Petya tried to move forward in front of the
others
without
waiting for all the carriages to pass, and he began resolutely
working
his way with his elbows, but the woman just in front of him, who
was
the first against whom he directed his efforts, angrily shouted
at
him:
"What
are you shoving for, young lordling? Don't you see we're all
standing
still? Then why push?"
"Anybody
can shove," said the footman, and also began working his elbows
to
such effect that he pushed Petya into a very filthy corner of the
gateway.
Petya
wiped his perspiring face with his hands and pulled up the damp
collar
which he had arranged so well at home to seem like a man's.
He
felt that he no longer looked presentable, and feared that if he
were
now
to approach the gentlemen-in-waiting in that plight he would not
be
admitted
to the Emperor. But it was impossible to smarten oneself up or
move
to another place, because of the crowd. One of the generals who
drove
past was an acquaintance of the Rostovs', and Petya thought of
asking
his help, but came to the conclusion that that would not be a
manly
thing to do. When the carriages had all passed in, the crowd,
carrying
Petya with it, streamed forward into the Kremlin Square which
was
already full of people. There were people not only in the square,
but
everywhere--on the slopes and on the roofs. As soon as Petya
found
himself
in the square he clearly heard the sound of bells and the joyous
voices
of the crowd that filled the whole Kremlin.
For
a while the crowd was less dense, but suddenly all heads were
bared,
and
everyone rushed forward in one direction. Petya was being pressed
so
that
he could scarcely breathe, and everybody shouted, "Hurrah!
hurrah!
hurrah!"
Petya stood on tiptoe and pushed and pinched, but could see
nothing
except the people about him.
All
the faces bore the same expression of excitement and enthusiasm.
A
tradesman's
wife standing beside Petya sobbed, and the tears ran down
her
cheeks.
"Father!
Angel! Dear one!" she kept repeating, wiping away her tears
with
her fingers.
"Hurrah!"
was heard on all sides.
For
a moment the crowd stood still, but then it made another rush
forward.
Quite
beside himself, Petya, clinching his teeth and rolling his eyes
ferociously,
pushed forward, elbowing his way and shouting "hurrah!" as
if
he were prepared that instant to kill himself and everyone else,
but
on
both sides of him other people with similarly ferocious faces
pushed
forward
and everybody shouted "hurrah!"
"So
this is what the Emperor is!" thought Petya. "No, I can't
petition
him
myself--that would be too bold." But in spite of this he
continued
to
struggle desperately forward, and from between the backs of those
in
front
he caught glimpses of an open space with a strip of red cloth
spread
out on it; but just then the crowd swayed back--the police in
front
were pushing back those who had pressed too close to the
procession:
the Emperor was passing from the palace to the Cathedral of
the
Assumption--and Petya unexpectedly received such a blow on his
side
and
ribs and was squeezed so hard that suddenly everything grew dim
before
his eyes and he lost consciousness. When he came to himself, a
man
of clerical appearance with a tuft of gray hair at the back of
his
head
and wearing a shabby blue cassock--probably a church clerk and
chanter--was
holding him under the arm with one hand while warding off
the
pressure of the crowd with the other.
"You've
crushed the young gentleman!" said the clerk. "What are you up
to?
Gently!... They've crushed him, crushed him!"
The
Emperor entered the Cathedral of the Assumption. The crowd spread
out
again more evenly, and the clerk led Petya--pale and
breathless--to
the
Tsar-cannon. Several people were sorry for Petya, and suddenly a
crowd
turned toward him and pressed round him. Those who stood nearest
him
attended to him, unbuttoned his coat, seated him on the raised
platform
of the cannon, and reproached those others (whoever they might
be)
who had crushed him.
"One
might easily get killed that way! What do they mean by it?
Killing
people!
Poor dear, he's as white as a sheet!"--various voices were heard
saying.
Petya
soon came to himself, the color returned to his face, the pain
had
passed,
and at the cost of that temporary unpleasantness he had obtained
a
place by the cannon from where he hoped to see the Emperor who
would
be
returning that way. Petya no longer thought of presenting his
petition.
If he could only see the Emperor he would be happy!
While
the service was proceeding in the Cathedral of the Assumption--it
was
a combined service of prayer on the occasion of the Emperor's
arrival
and of thanksgiving for the conclusion of peace with the Turks--
the
crowd outside spread out and hawkers appeared, selling kvas,
gingerbread,
and poppyseed sweets (of which Petya was particularly
fond),
and ordinary conversation could again be heard. A tradesman's
wife
was showing a rent in her shawl and telling how much the shawl
had
cost;
another was saying that all silk goods had now got dear. The
clerk
who
had rescued Petya was talking to a functionary about the priests
who
were
officiating that day with the bishop. The clerk several times
used
the
word "plenary" (of the service), a word Petya did not understand.
Two
young citizens were joking with some serf girls who were cracking
nuts.
All these conversations, especially the joking with the girls,
were
such as might have had a particular charm for Petya at his age,
but
they
did not interest him now. He sat on his elevation--the pedestal
of
the
cannon--still agitated as before by the thought of the Emperor
and
by
his love for him. The feeling of pain and fear he had experienced
when
he was being crushed, together with that of rapture, still
further
intensified
his sense of the importance of the occasion.
Suddenly
the sound of a firing of cannon was heard from the embankment,
to
celebrate the signing of peace with the Turks, and the crowd
rushed
impetuously
toward the embankment to watch the firing. Petya too would
have
run there, but the clerk who had taken the young gentleman under
his
protection stopped him. The firing was still proceeding when
officers,
generals, and gentlemen-in-waiting came running out of the
cathedral,
and after them others in a more leisurely manner: caps were
again
raised, and those who had run to look at the cannon ran back
again.
At last four men in uniforms and sashes emerged from the
cathedral
doors. "Hurrah! hurrah!" shouted the crowd again.
"Which
is he? Which?" asked Petya in a tearful voice, of those around
him,
but no one answered him, everybody was too excited; and Petya,
fixing
on one of those four men, whom he could not clearly see for the
tears
of joy that filled his eyes, concentrated all his enthusiasm on
him--though
it happened not to be the Emperor--frantically shouted
"Hurrah!"
and resolved that tomorrow, come what might, he would join the
army.
The
crowd ran after the Emperor, followed him to the palace, and
began
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