War And Peace

Outwardly Pierre had hardly changed at all. To look at he was the same as before. He was just as absent-minded as he had always been, and he seemed to be permanently preoccupied with something that wasn’t there, something that was all his own. The difference between his former state and the one he was now in was that in the old days, when he was oblivious to everything that was going on around him and what was being said to him, he would wince and furrow his brow in an apparently vain effort to see something that was a long way away. Nowadays he could still be oblivious to everything that was going on around him and what was being said, but at least he looked at what was going on around him with the ghost of a smile, however ironical, and he also listened to what was being said, though he was obviously seeing and hearing something very different. In the old days he had seemed like a nice man who was unhappy, which inevitably kept people at arm’s length. Nowadays a smile of joie de vivre played constantly about his mouth, his eyes shone with sympathy for others, wondering whether they were as happy as he was, and people enjoyed his company.

In the old days he had had a lot to say, he got excited when he said it, and he was a poor listener. Nowadays he was no conversationalist, but he did know how to listen, and this made people only too ready to pour out their innermost secrets to him.

His cousin, the princess, who had never liked Pierre, and had been particularly ill-disposed towards him ever since the old count’s death had left her feeling under an obligation to him, had come over to Oryol with every intention of making it clear that she had felt duty-bound to ignore his ingratitude and look after him, but it wasn’t long before she found herself, much to her own surprise and irritation, getting rather fond of him. Pierre made no effort to try and win her round; he just watched her with close curiosity. In the old days she had felt that there was mockery and indifference in the way he looked at her, and she had shrivelled up in his presence, as she did with other people, and shown only her aggressive side. Now she felt the reverse: it was as if he was delving into the innermost recesses of her life, and, at first with some suspicion but then with gratitude, she let him see her hidden kindly side.

The craftiest manipulator could not have wormed his way more skilfully into the princess’s confidence, coaxing from her recollections of her youthful heyday and warming to them. And yet Pierre’s only craftiness consisted in finding pleasure in drawing out human qualities in an embittered, hardened, and, in her own way, proud princess.

‘Yes, he’s a very, very nice man when he’s away from the influence of bad people and is influenced by people like me,’ thought the princess.

The change that had taken place in Pierre was also noticed by his servants, Terenty and Vaska, each in his own way. They found him altogether more straightforward. After undressing his master and saying good night, Terenty would often linger with the boots and clothes in his hands, on the off chance that his master might exchange a few words with him. And more often than not Pierre would stop Terenty on the way out because he could see he was dying for a chat.

‘Come on then, tell me . . . how did you manage to get any food?’ he would ask. And Terenty would launch forth into stories about the destruction of Moscow, or the late count, and he would stand there for ages, clothes in hand, chatting away or listening to Pierre, and when he did at last withdraw into the ante-room it was with a warm feeling of closeness to his master and affection for him.

The doctor who was treating Pierre and called in every day, though he never omitted to present himself, in the manner of all doctors, as a man whose every minute counts for suffering humanity, would stay on with him for hours on end, telling his favourite stories and commenting on the funny ways of patients in general, and ladies in particular.

‘Yes, it’s very nice to talk to a man like that. Not what we’re used to in the provinces,’ he would say.

There happened to be several prisoners from the French army in Oryol, and the doctor brought one of them, a young Italian officer, to see Pierre.

This officer became a regular visitor, and the princess used to laugh at the warmth that showed in his attitude to Pierre.

It was obvious that the Italian was only happy when he could come and see Pierre, and have a chat with him, talk about his own past years, his home life and his love and pour out his bile against the French, especially Napoleon.

‘If all Russians are the slightest bit like you,’ he used to say to Pierre, ‘it is sacrilege to wage war on a people like yours. You’ve suffered so much at the hands of the French, and you don’t even hold it against them.’

And yet Pierre had won the Italian’s undying devotion simply by drawing out the best aspects of his soul and admiring them.