War and Peace by graf Leo Tolstoy
CHAPTER V
1911 words | Chapter 130
While waiting for the announcement of his appointment to the committee
Prince Andrew looked up his former acquaintances, particularly those he
knew to be in power and whose aid he might need. In Petersburg he now
experienced the same feeling he had had on the eve of a battle, when
troubled by anxious curiosity and irresistibly attracted to the ruling
circles where the future, on which the fate of millions depended, was
being shaped. From the irritation of the older men, the curiosity of the
uninitiated, the reserve of the initiated, the hurry and preoccupation
of everyone, and the innumerable committees and commissions of whose
existence he learned every day, he felt that now, in 1809, here in
Petersburg a vast civil conflict was in preparation, the commander in
chief of which was a mysterious person he did not know, but who was
supposed to be a man of genius—Speránski. And this movement of
reconstruction of which Prince Andrew had a vague idea, and Speránski
its chief promoter, began to interest him so keenly that the question
of the army regulations quickly receded to a secondary place in his
consciousness.
Prince Andrew was most favorably placed to secure good reception in the
highest and most diverse Petersburg circles of the day. The reforming
party cordially welcomed and courted him, in the first place because
he was reputed to be clever and very well read, and secondly because by
liberating his serfs he had obtained the reputation of being a liberal.
The party of the old and dissatisfied, who censured the innovations,
turned to him expecting his sympathy in their disapproval of the
reforms, simply because he was the son of his father. The feminine
society world welcomed him gladly, because he was rich, distinguished, a
good match, and almost a newcomer, with a halo of romance on account
of his supposed death and the tragic loss of his wife. Besides this
the general opinion of all who had known him previously was that he had
greatly improved during these last five years, having softened and grown
more manly, lost his former affectation, pride, and contemptuous irony,
and acquired the serenity that comes with years. People talked about
him, were interested in him, and wanted to meet him.
The day after his interview with Count Arakchéev, Prince Andrew spent
the evening at Count Kochubéy’s. He told the count of his interview
with Síla Andréevich (Kochubéy spoke of Arakchéev by that nickname
with the same vague irony Prince Andrew had noticed in the Minister of
War’s anteroom).
“Mon cher, even in this case you can’t do without Michael
Mikháylovich Speránski. He manages everything. I’ll speak to him. He
has promised to come this evening.”
“What has Speránski to do with the army regulations?” asked Prince
Andrew.
Kochubéy shook his head smilingly, as if surprised at Bolkónski’s
simplicity.
“We were talking to him about you a few days ago,” Kochubéy
continued, “and about your freed plowmen.”
“Oh, is it you, Prince, who have freed your serfs?” said an old man
of Catherine’s day, turning contemptuously toward Bolkónski.
“It was a small estate that brought in no profit,” replied Prince
Andrew, trying to extenuate his action so as not to irritate the old man
uselessly.
“Afraid of being late...” said the old man, looking at Kochubéy.
“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” he continued. “Who
will plow the land if they are set free? It is easy to write laws, but
difficult to rule.... Just the same as now—I ask you, Count—who will
be heads of the departments when everybody has to pass examinations?”
“Those who pass the examinations, I suppose,” replied Kochubéy,
crossing his legs and glancing round.
“Well, I have Pryánichnikov serving under me, a splendid man, a
priceless man, but he’s sixty. Is he to go up for examination?”
“Yes, that’s a difficulty, as education is not at all general,
but...”
Count Kochubéy did not finish. He rose, took Prince Andrew by the arm,
and went to meet a tall, bald, fair man of about forty with a large open
forehead and a long face of unusual and peculiar whiteness, who was
just entering. The newcomer wore a blue swallow-tail coat with a
cross suspended from his neck and a star on his left breast. It was
Speránski. Prince Andrew recognized him at once, and felt a throb
within him, as happens at critical moments of life. Whether it was from
respect, envy, or anticipation, he did not know. Speránski’s whole
figure was of a peculiar type that made him easily recognizable. In
the society in which Prince Andrew lived he had never seen anyone who
together with awkward and clumsy gestures possessed such calmness and
self-assurance; he had never seen so resolute yet gentle an expression
as that in those half-closed, rather humid eyes, or so firm a smile that
expressed nothing; nor had he heard such a refined, smooth, soft
voice; above all he had never seen such delicate whiteness of face or
hands—hands which were broad, but very plump, soft, and white. Such
whiteness and softness Prince Andrew had only seen on the faces of
soldiers who had been long in hospital. This was Speránski, Secretary
of State, reporter to the Emperor and his companion at Erfurt, where he
had more than once met and talked with Napoleon.
Speránski did not shift his eyes from one face to another as people
involuntarily do on entering a large company and was in no hurry to
speak. He spoke slowly, with assurance that he would be listened to, and
he looked only at the person with whom he was conversing.
Prince Andrew followed Speránski’s every word and movement with
particular attention. As happens to some people, especially to men
who judge those near to them severely, he always on meeting
anyone new—especially anyone whom, like Speránski, he knew by
reputation—expected to discover in him the perfection of human
qualities.
Speránski told Kochubéy he was sorry he had been unable to come sooner
as he had been detained at the palace. He did not say that the Emperor
had kept him, and Prince Andrew noticed this affectation of modesty.
When Kochubéy introduced Prince Andrew, Speránski slowly turned
his eyes to Bolkónski with his customary smile and looked at him in
silence.
“I am very glad to make your acquaintance. I had heard of you, as
everyone has,” he said after a pause.
Kochubéy said a few words about the reception Arakchéev had given
Bolkónski. Speránski smiled more markedly.
“The chairman of the Committee on Army Regulations is my good friend
Monsieur Magnítski,” he said, fully articulating every word and
syllable, “and if you like I can put you in touch with him.” He
paused at the full stop. “I hope you will find him sympathetic and
ready to co-operate in promoting all that is reasonable.”
A circle soon formed round Speránski, and the old man who had talked
about his subordinate Pryánichnikov addressed a question to him.
Prince Andrew without joining in the conversation watched every movement
of Speránski’s: this man, not long since an insignificant divinity
student, who now, Bolkónski thought, held in his hands—those plump
white hands—the fate of Russia. Prince Andrew was struck by the
extraordinarily disdainful composure with which Speránski answered
the old man. He appeared to address condescending words to him from
an immeasurable height. When the old man began to speak too loud,
Speránski smiled and said he could not judge of the advantage or
disadvantage of what pleased the sovereign.
Having talked for a little while in the general circle, Speránski rose
and coming up to Prince Andrew took him along to the other end of the
room. It was clear that he thought it necessary to interest himself in
Bolkónski.
“I had no chance to talk with you, Prince, during the animated
conversation in which that venerable gentleman involved me,” he said
with a mildly contemptuous smile, as if intimating by that smile that he
and Prince Andrew understood the insignificance of the people with whom
he had just been talking. This flattered Prince Andrew. “I have known
of you for a long time: first from your action with regard to your
serfs, a first example, of which it is very desirable that there should
be more imitators; and secondly because you are one of those gentlemen
of the chamber who have not considered themselves offended by the new
decree concerning the ranks allotted to courtiers, which is causing so
much gossip and tittle-tattle.”
“No,” said Prince Andrew, “my father did not wish me to take
advantage of the privilege. I began the service from the lower grade.”
“Your father, a man of the last century, evidently stands above our
contemporaries who so condemn this measure which merely re-establishes
natural justice.”
“I think, however, that these condemnations have some ground,”
returned Prince Andrew, trying to resist Speránski’s influence, of
which he began to be conscious. He did not like to agree with him in
everything and felt a wish to contradict. Though he usually spoke easily
and well, he felt a difficulty in expressing himself now while talking
with Speránski. He was too much absorbed in observing the famous
man’s personality.
“Grounds of personal ambition maybe,” Speránski put in quietly.
“And of state interest to some extent,” said Prince Andrew.
“What do you mean?” asked Speránski quietly, lowering his eyes.
“I am an admirer of Montesquieu,” replied Prince Andrew, “and
his idea that le principe des monarchies est l’honneur me paraît
incontestable. Certains droits et privilèges de la noblesse me
paraissent être des moyens de soutenir ce sentiment.” *
* “The principle of monarchies is honor seems to me
incontestable. Certain rights and privileges for the
aristocracy appear to me a means of maintaining that
sentiment.”
The smile vanished from Speránski’s white face, which was much
improved by the change. Probably Prince Andrew’s thought interested
him.
“Si vous envisagez la question sous ce point de vue,” * he began,
pronouncing French with evident difficulty, and speaking even slower
than in Russian but quite calmly.
* “If you regard the question from that point of view.”
Speránski went on to say that honor, l’honneur, cannot be upheld by
privileges harmful to the service; that honor, l’honneur, is either a
negative concept of not doing what is blameworthy or it is a source of
emulation in pursuit of commendation and rewards, which recognize it.
His arguments were concise, simple, and clear.
“An institution upholding honor, the source of emulation, is one
similar to the Légion d’honneur of the great Emperor Napoleon, not
harmful but helpful to the success of the service, but not a class or
court privilege.”
“I do not dispute that, but it cannot be denied that court privileges
have attained the same end,” returned Prince Andrew. “Every courtier
considers himself bound to maintain his position worthily.”
“Yet you do not care to avail yourself of the privilege, Prince,”
said Speránski, indicating by a smile that he wished to finish amiably
an argument which was embarrassing for his companion. “If you will
do me the honor of calling on me on Wednesday,” he added, “I will,
after talking with Magnítski, let you know what may interest you, and
shall also have the pleasure of a more detailed chat with you.”
Closing his eyes, he bowed à la française, without taking leave, and
trying to attract as little attention as possible, he left the room.
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