War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [209]
“It’s better for us to part,” he said haltingly.
“We’ll part, if you please, but only if you give me a fortune,” said Hélène…“To part—how scary!”
Pierre jumped up from the sofa and, staggering, rushed at her.
“I’ll kill you!” he shouted, and with a strength as yet unknown to him, he seized the marble slab from a table, took a step towards her, and swung.
Hélène’s face became frightful; she shrieked and sprang away from him. His father’s blood told in him. Pierre felt the enthusiasm and enchantment of rage. He threw down the slab, broke it, and, approaching Hélène with widespread arms, shouted “Out!” in such a frightful voice that everybody in the house was terrified on hearing this shout. God knows what Pierre would have done at that moment if Hélène had not run out of the room.
A week later Pierre gave his wife power of attorney for the management of all his estates in Great Russia,13 which formed the major part of his fortune, and left alone for Petersburg.
VII
Two months had gone by since the news of the battle of Austerlitz and the loss of Prince Andrei was received at Bald Hills. And, despite all the letters sent through the embassy, despite all the searches, his body had not been found, nor was he among the prisoners. Worst of all for his family was that there still remained a hope that he had been picked up by the local populace on the battlefield and might be lying somewhere recovering or dying alone, among strangers, unable to send news of himself. In the newspapers, from which the old prince had first learned of the defeat at Austerlitz, it was written, as usual, quite briefly and indefinitely, that, after brilliant battles, the Russians had been forced to retreat, and that the retreat had been carried out in perfect order. From this official report the old prince understood that the Russians had been defeated. A week after the newspapers brought news of the battle of Austerlitz came a letter from Kutuzov, which informed the prince of the fate that had befallen his son.
“Before my eyes,” wrote Kutuzov, “your son, with a standard in his hands, at the head of a regiment, fell as a hero worthy of his father and his fatherland. To the general regret of myself and the entire army, it is still unknown whether he is alive or not. I flatter myself and you with the hope that your son is alive, for otherwise he would be among the officers found on the battlefield and his name would be on the list given me by the peace envoys.”
Having received this news late in the evening, when he was alone in his study, the old prince did not say anything to anyone. As usual, the next day he went for his morning walk; but he was silent with the steward, the gardener, and the architect, and though he looked angry, he said nothing to anyone.
When Princess Marya came into his study at the usual time, he was standing and working at his lathe, but, as usual, did not turn to her.
“Ah! Princess Marya!” he suddenly said unnaturally and threw down his chisel. (The wheel went on turning by inertia. Princess Marya long remembered the dying creak of the wheel, which merged for her with what followed after.)
Princess Marya moved towards him, saw his face, and something suddenly sank inside her. Her eyes ceased to see clearly. By her father’s face, not sad, not crushed, but angry and working itself unnaturally, she could see that there, there above her, hanging over her and crushing her, was a terrible misfortune, the worst misfortune in life, one she had not yet experienced, an irreparable, inconceivable misfortune—the death of a loved one.
“Mon père—André?” said the graceless, awkward princess, with such an inexpressible loveliness of sorrow and self-forgetfulness that her father could not endure her gaze and, sobbing, turned away.
“I’ve received news. He’s not among the prisoners, and