(1869) Leo Tolstoy
Finished Reading: 11.2009
The epic tale of Eastern European aristocratic life begins amidst some rich Russians attending splendid parties, speaking highly of the grand shadow cast by Napoleon upon the continent as he fights his distant war against nations unconcerned for here. Their domestic life seems distant from the death blows on the battlefield, it being but a romantic notion to be toasted. Finally, and alas, the war knocks on the doors of Moscow, burning with total destruction the solitary stability until now ubiquitously known. For many years these evil clouds hide the bright prospects of the future, but miserable deaths are followed by joyful births, and life goes on again with the cyclical yearning for adventure in youth, the steady hard work and simplicity of adulthood, and the remembrances of other times now forgotten.
Equal parts high society dinner parties and muddy field trench poker games, the contrast in the stations of life is exceptionally poignant. During one battle between the Russians and the French, a Russian commander retreats and pulls his remaining troops back to safety. To those who had only heard of the battle back home, the word heard was of a glorious Russian victory over the cowering French. In reality, this particular Russian commander had sent a messenger to bring word of victory to his superiors as he retreated to safety. He hoped to be given a promotion to Commander-In-Chief, in charge of all fighting in that region, on account of his assumed great victory. However, there is another inconvenient commander who outranks him, and so he leads his whole regiment around the countryside, their goal over the next few days being to hide from the ranking commander until this commander's promotion can be received. Napoleon is seen only as sub-plot while the legitimate Russian commander acts as enemy to these troops. During the confusion the soldiers are starving and fall to looting and marauding the local towns. The reported glorious victory is actually a sham, as the Russian army is on the verge of shooting itself. Meanwhile at home, the aristocrats celebrate the glorious victory against the French, and beautiful young ladies smile as they dance with their admirers in the ballroom, hoping to impress a gentleman or a soldier with an aim to improve their family's social standing with a fashionable and wealthy marriage.
I enjoyed the last chapters when Napoleon has gone home where it is warmer, leaving cold Russia to itself and the families whom we've followed throughout the story, having been ravaged by war and despair, are now living well enough as a loving family, entrenched in the happy business of domesticity. A little girl sits with her father to hear a story, a wife talks about her day to her husband who barely pays attention, and the servants take extra pride in their service to their beloved masters for everyone is happy. The atrocities of war are forgotten for now, as life goes on in the brief few breathes one can take before stumbling again into war. But those battles will not be fought by this aging generation, for they have already fought and died their deaths. The young ones who gaze out of foggy windows wondering what lies beyond, they will one day learn to fight. They do not know that beyond this peace there will be more war, followed by peace again, for they remain still on this side of the pane. War and Peace and War and Peace and Such.
This example of historical fiction is captivating. We often wonder what happened at some great event beyond the often repeated and remembered moments in books and movies. How was Napoleon feeling before he gave the orders to attack in a certain battle? Was he tired or worried about his hair? Had he a disagreement with one of his generals or perhaps he had just finished a delicious meal of crepes? We don't really ever know, but historical fiction allows pretending within the framework of fact. Not only could these events be true, but they very well might be for all we know which is often more exciting than the truth anyway, though in this case much longer to get through.
As for this novel being the greatest ever written (as has been supposed by some), I cannot attach such a prestigious medal to the lapel of any book, but certainly War and Peace is standing somewhere close, taking up half the room.
