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In the middle of this fresh tale Pierre was summoned to the commander in
chief. |
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When he entered the private room Count Rostopchin, puckering his face,
was rubbing his forehead and eyes with his hand. A short man was saying
something, but when Pierre entered he stopped speaking and went out. |
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"Ah, how do you do, great warrior?" said Rostopchin as soon as
the short man had left the room. "We have heard of your prowess. But that's
not the point. Between ourselves, mon cher, do you belong to the Masons?"
he went on severely, as though there were something wrong about it which he
nevertheless intended to pardon. Pierre remained silent. "I am well
informed, my friend, but I am aware that there are Masons and Masons and I hope
that you are not one of those who on pretense of saving mankind wish to ruin
Russia." |
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"Yes, I am a Mason," Pierre replied. |
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"There, you see, mon cher! I expect you know that Messrs. Speranski
and Magnitski have been deported to their proper place. Mr. Klyucharev has been
treated in the same way, and so have others who on the plea of building up the
temple of Solomon have tried to destroy the temple of their fatherland. You can
understand that there are reasons for this and that I could not have exiled the
Postmaster had he not been a harmful person. It has now come to my knowledge
that you lent him your carriage for his removal from town, and that you have
even accepted papers from him for safe custody. I like you and don't wish you
any harm and- as you are only half my age- I advise you, as a father would, to
cease all communication with men of that stamp and to leave here as soon as
possible." |
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"But what did Klyucharev do wrong, Count?" asked Pierre. |
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"That is for me to know, but not for you to ask," shouted
Rostopchin. |
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"If he is accused of circulating Napoleon's proclamation it is not
proved that he did so," said Pierre without looking at Rostopchin,
"and Vereshchagin..." |
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"There we are!" Rostopchin shouted at Pierre louder than
before, frowning suddenly. "Vereshchagin is a renegade and a traitor who
will be punished as he deserves," said he with the vindictive heat with
which people speak when recalling an insult. "But I did not summon you to
discuss my actions, but to give you advice- or an order if you prefer it. I beg
you to leave the town and break off all communication with such men as
Klyucharev. And I will knock the nonsense out of anybody"- but probably
realizing that he was shouting at Bezukhov who so far was not guilty of
anything, he added, taking Pierre's hand in a friendly manner, "We are on
the eve of a public disaster and I haven't time to be polite to everybody who
has business with me. My head is sometimes in a whirl. Well, mon cher, what are
you doing personally?" |
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"Why, nothing," answered Pierre without raising his eyes or
changing the thoughtful expression of his face. |
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The count frowned. |
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"A word of friendly advice, mon cher. Be off as soon as you can,
that's all I have to tell you. Happy he who has ears to hear. Good-by, my dear
fellow. Oh, by the by!" he shouted through the doorway after Pierre,
"is it true that the countess has fallen into the clutches of the holy
fathers of the Society of Jesus?" |
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Pierre
did not answer and left Rostopchin's room more sullen and angry than he had ever
before shown himself. |
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When he reached home it was already getting dark. Some eight people had
come to see him that evening: the secretary of a committee, the colonel of his
battalion, his steward, his major-domo, and various petitioners. They all had
business with Pierre and wanted decisions from him. Pierre did not understand
and was not interested in any of these questions and only answered them in order
to get rid of these people. When left alone at last he opened and read his
wife's letter. |
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"They, the soldiers at the battery, Prince Andrew killed... that old
man... Simplicity is submission to God. Suffering is necessary... the meaning of
all... one must harness... my wife is getting married... One must forget and
understand..." And going to his bed he threw himself on it without
undressing and immediately fell asleep. |
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When he awoke next morning the major-domo came to inform him that a
special messenger, a police officer, had come from Count Rostopchin to know
whether Count Bezukhov had left or was leaving the town. |
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A dozen persons who had business with Pierre were awaiting him in the
drawing room. Pierre dressed hurriedly and, instead of going to see them, went
to the back porch and out through the gate. |
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From that time till the end of the destruction of Moscow no one of
Bezukhov's household, despite all the search they made, saw Pierre again or knew
where he was. |
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The Rostovs remained in Moscow till the first of September, that is, till
the eve of the enemy's entry into the city. |
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After Petya had joined Obolenski's regiment of Cossacks and left for
Belaya Tserkov where that regiment was forming, the countess was seized with
terror. The thought that both her sons were at the war, had both gone from under
her wing, that today or tomorrow either or both of them might be killed like the
three sons of one of her acquaintances, struck her that summer for the first
time with cruel clearness. She tried to get Nicholas back and wished to go
herself to join Petya, or to get him an appointment somewhere in Petersburg, but
neither of these proved possible. Petya could not return unless his regiment did
so or unless he was transferred to another regiment on active service. Nicholas
was somewhere with the army and had not sent a word since his last letter, in
which he had given a detailed account of his meeting with Princess Mary. The
countess did not sleep at night, or when she did fall asleep dreamed that she
saw her sons lying dead. After many consultations and conversations, the count
at last devised means to tranquillize her. He got Petya transferred from
Obolenski's regiment to Bezukhov's, which was in training near Moscow. Though
Petya would remain in the service, this transfer would give the countess the
consolation of seeing at least one of her sons under her wing, and she hoped to
arrange matters for her Petya so as not to let him go again, but always get him
appointed to places where he could not possibly take part in a battle. As long
as Nicholas alone was in danger the countess imagined that she loved her
first-born more than all her other children and even reproached herself for it;
but when her youngest: the scapegrace who had been bad at lessons, was always
breaking things in the house and making himself a nuisance to everybody, that
snub-nosed Petya with his merry black eyes and fresh rosy cheeks where soft down
was just beginning to show- when he was thrown amid those big, dreadful, cruel
men who were fighting somewhere about something and apparently finding pleasure
in it- then his mother thought she loved him more, much more, than all her other
children. The nearer the time came for Petya to return, the more uneasy grew the
countess. She began to think she would never live to see such happiness. The
presence of Sonya, of her beloved Natasha, or even of her husband irritated her.
"What do I want with them? I want no one but Petya," she thought. |
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At the end of August the Rostovs received another letter from Nicholas.
He wrote from the province of Voronezh where he had been sent to procure
remounts, but that letter did not set the countess at ease. Knowing that one son
was out of danger she became the more anxious about Petya. |
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Though by the twentieth of August nearly all the Rostovs' acquaintances
had left Moscow, and though everybody tried to persuade the countess to get away
as quickly as possible, she would not bear of leaving before her treasure, her
adored Petya, returned. On the twenty-eighth of August he arrived. The
passionate tenderness with which his mother received him did not please the
sixteen-year-old officer. Though she concealed from him her intention of keeping
him under her wing, Petya guessed her designs, and instinctively fearing that he
might give way to emotion when with her- might "become womanish" as he
termed it to himself- he treated her coldly, avoided her, and during his stay in
Moscow attached himself exclusively to Natasha for whom he had always had a
particularly brotherly tenderness, almost lover-like. |
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Owing to the count's customary carelessness nothing was ready for their
departure by the twenty-eighth of August and the carts that were to come from
their Ryazan and Moscow estates to remove their household belongings did not
arrive till the thirtieth. |
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From the twenty-eighth till the thirty-first all Moscow was in a bustle
and commotion. Every day thousands of men wounded at Borodino were brought in by
the Dorogomilov gate and taken to various parts of Moscow, and thousands of
carts conveyed the inhabitants and their possessions out by the other gates. In
spite of Rostopchin's broadsheets, or because of them or independently of them,
the strangest and most contradictory rumors were current in the town. Some said
that no one was to be allowed to leave the city, others on the contrary said
that all the icons had been taken out of the churches and everybody was to be
ordered to leave. Some said there had been another battle after Borodino at
which the French had been routed, while others on the contrary reported that the
Russian army bad been destroyed. Some talked about the Moscow militia which,
preceded by the clergy, would go to the Three Hills; others whispered that
Augustin had been forbidden to leave, that traitors had been seized, that the
peasants were rioting and robbing people on their way from Moscow, and so on.
But all this was only talk; in reality (though the Council of Fili, at which it
was decided to abandon Moscow, had not yet been held) both those who went away
and those who remained behind felt, though they did not show it, that Moscow
would certainly be abandoned, and that they ought to get away as quickly as
possible and save their belongings. It was felt that everything would suddenly
break up and change, but up to the first of September nothing had done so. As a
criminal who is being led to execution knows that he must die immediately, but
yet looks about him and straightens the cap that is awry on his head, so Moscow
involuntarily continued its wonted life, though it knew that the time of its
destruction was near when the conditions of life to which its people were
accustomed to submit would be completely upset. |
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During the three days preceding the occupation of Moscow the whole Rostov
family was absorbed in various activities. The head of the family, Count Ilya
Rostov, continually drove about the city collecting the current rumors from all
sides and gave superficial and hasty orders at home about the preparations for
their departure. |
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The countess watched the things being packed, was dissatisfied with
everything, was constantly in pursuit of Petya who was always running away from
her, and was jealous of Natasha with whom he spent all his time. Sonya alone
directed the practical side of matters by getting things packed. But of late
Sonya had been particularly sad and silent. Nicholas' letter in which he
mentioned Princess Mary had elicited, in her presence, joyous comments from the
countess, who saw an intervention of Providence in this meeting of the princess
and Nicholas. |
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"I was never pleased at Bolkonski's engagement to Natasha,"
said the countess, "but I always wanted Nicholas to marry the princess, and
had a presentiment that it would happen. What a good thing it would be!" |
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Sonya felt that this was true: that the only possibility of retrieving
the Rostovs' affairs was by Nicholas marrying a rich woman, and that the
princess was a good match. It was very bitter for her. But despite her grief, or
perhaps just because of it, she took on herself all the difficult work of
directing the storing and packing of their things and was busy for whole days.
The count and countess turned to her when they had any orders to give. Petya and
Natasha on the contrary, far from helping their parents, were generally a
nuisance and a hindrance to everyone. Almost all day long the house resounded
with their running feet, their cries, and their spontaneous laughter. They
laughed and were gay not because there was any reason to laugh, but because
gaiety and mirth were in their hearts and so everything that happened was a
cause for gaiety and laughter to them. Petya was in high spirits because having
left home a boy he had returned (as everybody told him) a fine young man,
because he was at home, because he had left Belaya Tserkov where there was no
hope of soon taking part in a battle and had come to Moscow where there was to
be fighting in a few days, and chiefly because Natasha, whose lead he always
followed, was in high spirits. Natasha was gay because she had been sad too long
and now nothing reminded her of the cause of her sadness, and because she was
feeling well. She was also happy because she had someone to adore her: the
adoration of others was a lubricant the wheels of her machine needed to make
them run freely- and Petya adored her. Above all, they were gay because there
was a war near Moscow, there would be fighting at the town gates, arms were
being given out, everybody was escaping- going away somewhere, and in general
something extraordinary was happening, and that is always exciting, especially
to the young. |
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On Saturday, the thirty-first of August, everything in the Rostovs' house
seemed topsy-turvy. All the doors were open, all the furniture was being carried
out or moved about, and the mirrors and pictures had been taken down. There were
trunks in the rooms, and hay, wrapping paper, and ropes were scattered about.
The peasants and house serfs carrying out the things were treading heavily on
the parquet floors. The yard was crowded with peasant carts, some loaded high
and already corded up, others still empty. |
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The voices and footsteps of the many servants and of the peasants who had
come with the carts resounded as they shouted to one another in the yard and in
the house. The count bad been out since morning. The countess had a headache
brought on by all the noise and turmoil and was lying down in the new sitting
room with a vinegar compress on her head. Petya was not at home, he had gone to
visit a friend with whom he meant to obtain a transfer from the militia to the
active army. Sonya was in the ballroom looking after the packing of the glass
and china. Natasha was sitting on the floor of her dismantled room with dresses,
ribbons, and scarves strewn all about her, gazing fixedly at the floor and
holding in her hands the old ball dress (already out of fashion) which she had
worn at her first Petersburg ball. |
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Natasha was ashamed of doing nothing when everyone else was so busy, and
several times that morning had tried to set to work, but her heart was not in
it, and she could not and did not know how to do anything except with all her
heart and all her might. For a while she had stood beside Sonya while the china
was being packed and tried to help, but soon gave it up and went to her room to
pack her own things. At first she found it amusing to give away dresses and
ribbons to the maids, but when that was done and what was left had still to be
packed, she found it dull. |
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"Dunyasha, you pack! You will, won't you, dear?" And when
Dunyasha willingly promised to do it all for her, Natasha sat down on the floor,
took her old ball dress, and fell into a reverie quite unrelated to what ought
to have occupied her thoughts now. She was roused from her reverie by the talk
of the maids in the next room (which was theirs) and by the sound of their
hurried footsteps going to the back porch. Natasha got up and looked out of the
window. An enormously long row of carts full of wounded men had stopped in the
street. |
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The housekeeper, the old nurse, the cooks, coachmen, maids, footmen,
postilions, and scullions stood at the gate, staring at the wounded. |
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Natasha, throwing a clean pocket handkerchief over her hair and holding
an end of it in each hand, went out into the street. |
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The former housekeeper, old Mavra Kuzminichna, had stepped out of the
crowd by the gate, gone up to a cart with a hood constructed of bast mats, and
was speaking to a pale young officer who lay inside. Natasha moved a few steps
forward and stopped shyly, still holding her handkerchief, and listened to what
the housekeeper was saying. |
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"Then you have nobody in Moscow?" she was saying. "You
would be more comfortable somewhere in a house... in ours, for instance... the
family are leaving." |
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"I don't know if it would be allowed," replied the officer in a
weak voice. "Here is our commanding officer... ask him," and he
pointed to a stout major who was walking back along the street past the row of
carts. |
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Natasha glanced with frightened eyes at the face of the wounded officer
and at once went to meet the major. |
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"May the wounded men stay in our house?" she asked. |
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The major raised his hand to his cap with a smile. |
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"Which one do you want, Ma'am'selle?" said he, screwing up his
eyes and smiling. |
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Natasha quietly repeated her question, and her face and whole manner were
so serious, though she was still holding the ends of her handkerchief, that the
major ceased smiling and after some reflection- as if considering in how far the
thing was possible- replied in the affirmative. |
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"Oh yes, why not? They may," he said. |
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With a slight inclination of her head, Natasha stepped back quickly to
Mavra Kuzminichna, who stood talking compassionately to the officer. |
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"They may. He says they may!" whispered Natasha. |
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The cart in which the officer lay was turned into the Rostovs' yard, and
dozens of carts with wounded men began at the invitation of the townsfolk to
turn into the yards and to draw up at the entrances of the houses in Povarskaya
Street. Natasha was evidently pleased to be dealing with new people outside the
ordinary routine of her life. She and Mavra Kuzminichna tried to get as many of
the wounded as possible into their yard. |
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"Your Papa must be told, though," said Mavra Kuzminichna. |
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"Never mind, never mind, what does it matter? For one day we can
move into the drawing room. They can have all our half of the house." |
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"There now, young lady, you do take things into your head! Even if
we put them into the wing, the men's room, or the nurse's room, we must ask
permission." |
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"Well, I'll ask." |
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Natasha ran into the house and went on tiptoe through the half-open door
into the sitting room, where there was a smell of vinegar and Hoffman's drops. |
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"Are you asleep, Mamma?" |
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"Oh, what sleep-?" said the countess, waking up just as she was
dropping into a doze. |
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"Mamma darling!" said Natasha, kneeling by her mother and
bringing her face close to her mother's, "I am sorry, forgive me, I'll
never do it again; I woke you up! Mavra Kuzminichna has sent me: they have
brought some wounded here- officers. Will you let them come? They have nowhere
to go. I knew you'd let them come!" she said quickly all in one breath. |
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"What officers? Whom have they brought? I don't understand anything
about it," said the countess. |
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Natasha laughed, and the countess too smiled slightly. |
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"I knew you'd give permission... so I'll tell them," and,
having kissed her mother, Natasha got up and went to the door. |
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In the hall she met her father, who had returned with bad news. |
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"We've stayed too long!" said the count with involuntary
vexation. "The Club is closed and the police are leaving." |
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"Papa, is it all right- I've invited some of the wounded into the
house?" said Natasha. |
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"Of course it is," he answered absently. "That's not the
point. I beg you not to indulge in trifles now, but to help to pack, and
tomorrow we must go, go, go!...." |
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And the count gave a similar order to the major-domo and the servants. |
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At dinner Petya having returned home told them the news he had heard. He
said the people had been getting arms in the Kremlin, and that though
Rostopchin's broadsheet had said that he would sound a call two or three days in
advance, the order had certainly already been given for everyone to go armed to
the Three Hills tomorrow, and that there would be a big battle there. |
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The countess looked with timid horror at her son's eager, excited face as
he said this. She realized that if she said a word about his not going to the
battle (she knew he enjoyed the thought of the impending engagement) he would
say something about men, honor, and the fatherland- something senseless,
masculine, and obstinate which there would be no contradicting, and her plans
would be spoiled; and so, hoping to arrange to leave before then and take Petya
with her as their protector and defender, she did not answer him, but after
dinner called the count aside and implored him with tears to take her away
quickly, that very night if possible. With a woman's involuntary loving cunning
she, who till then had not shown any alarm, said that she would die of fright if
they did not leave that very night. Without any pretense she was now afraid of
everything. |
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Madame Schoss, who had been out to visit her daughter, increased the
countess' fears still more by telling what she had seen at a spirit dealer's in
Myasnitski Street. When returning by that street she had been unable to pass
because of a drunken crowd rioting in front of the shop. She had taken a cab and
driven home by a side street and the cabman had told her that the people were
breaking open the barrels at the drink store, having received orders to do so. |
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After dinner the whole Rostov household set to work with enthusiastic
haste packing their belongings and preparing for their departure. The old count,
suddenly setting to work, kept passing from the yard to the house and back
again, shouting confused instructions to the hurrying people, and flurrying them
still more. Petya directed things in the yard. Sonya, owing to the count's
contradictory orders, lost her head and did not know what to do. The servants
ran noisily about the house and yard, shouting and disputing. Natasha, with the
ardor characteristic of all she did suddenly set to work too. At first her
intervention in the business of packing was received skeptically. Everybody
expected some prank from her and did not wish to obey her; but she resolutely
and passionately demanded obedience, grew angry and nearly cried because they
did not heed her, and at last succeeded in making them believe her. Her first
exploit, which cost her immense effort and established her authority, was the
packing of the carpets. The count had valuable Gobelin tapestries and Persian
carpets in the house. When Natasha set to work two cases were standing open in
the ballroom, one almost full up with crockery, the other with carpets. There
was also much china standing on the tables, and still more was being brought in
from the storeroom. A third case was needed and servants had gone to fetch it. |
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"Sonya, wait a bit- we'll pack everything into these," said
Natasha. |
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"You can't, Miss, we have tried to," said the butler's
assistant. |
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"No, wait a minute, please." |
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And Natasha began rapidly taking out of the case dishes and plates
wrapped in paper. |
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"The dishes must go in here among the carpets," said she. |
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"Why, it's a mercy if we can get the carpets alone into three
cases," said the butler's assistant. |
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"Oh, wait, please!" And Natasha began rapidly and deftly
sorting out the things. "These aren't needed," said she, putting aside
some plates of Kiev ware. "These- yes, these must go among the
carpets," she said, referring to the Saxony china dishes. |
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"Don't, Natasha! Leave it alone! We'll get it all packed,"
urged Sonya reproachfully. |
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"What a young lady she is!" remarked the major-domo. |
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But Natasha would not give in. She turned everything out and began
quickly repacking, deciding that the inferior Russian carpets and unnecessary
crockery should not be taken at all. When everything had been taken out of the
cases, they recommenced packing, and it turned out that when the cheaper things
not worth taking had nearly all been rejected, the valuable ones really did all
go into the two cases. Only the lid of the case containing the carpets would not
shut down. A few more things might have been taken out, but Natasha insisted on
having her own way. She packed, repacked, pressed, made the butler's assistant
and Petya- whom she had drawn into the business of packing- press on the lid,
and made desperate efforts herself. |
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"That's enough, Natasha," said Sonya. "I see you were
right, but just take out the top one." |
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"I won't!" cried Natasha, with one hand bolding back the hair
that hung over her perspiring face, while with the other she pressed down the
carpets. "Now press, Petya! Press, Vasilich, press hard!" she cried. |
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The carpets yielded and the lid closed; Natasha, clapping her hands,
screamed with delight and tears fell from her eyes. But this only lasted a
moment. She at once set to work afresh and they now trusted her completely. The
count was not angry even when they told him that Natasha had countermanded an
order of his, and the servants now came to her to ask whether a cart was
sufficiently loaded, and whether it might be corded up. Thanks to Natasha's
directions the work now went on expeditiously, unnecessary things were left, and
the most valuable packed as compactly as possible. |
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But hard as they all worked till quite late that night, they could not
get everything packed. The countess had fallen asleep and the count, having put
off their departure till next morning, went to bed. |
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Sonya and Natasha slept in the sitting room without undressing. |
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That night another wounded man was driven down the Povarskaya, and Mavra
Kuzminichna, who was standing at the gate, had him brought into the Rostovs'
yard. Mavra Kuzminichna concluded that he was a very important man. He was being
conveyed in a caleche with a raised hood, and was quite covered by an apron. On
the box beside the driver sat a venerable old attendant. A doctor and two
soldiers followed the carriage in a cart. |
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"Please come in here. The masters are going away and the whole house
will be empty," said the old woman to the old attendant. |
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"Well, perhaps," said he with a sigh. "We don't expect to
get him home alive! We have a house of our own in Moscow, but it's a long way
from here, and there's nobody living in it." |
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"Do us the honor to come in, there's plenty of everything in the
master's house. Come in," said Mavra Kuzminichna. "Is he very
ill?" she asked. |
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|
The attendant made a hopeless gesture. |
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|
"We don't expect to get him home! We must ask the doctor." |
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And the old servant got down from the box and went up to the cart. |
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"All right!" said the doctor. |
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The old servant returned to the caleche, looked into it, shook his head
disconsolately, told the driver to turn into the yard, and stopped beside Mavra
Kuzminichna. |
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"O, Lord Jesus Christ!" she murmured. |
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She invited them to take the wounded man into the house. |
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"The masters won't object..." she said. |
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But they had to avoid carrying the man upstairs, and so they took him
into the wing and put him in the room that had been Madame Schoss'. |
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This wounded man was Prince Andrew Bolkonski. |
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Moscow's last day had come. It was a clear bright autumn day, a Sunday.
The church bells everywhere were ringing for service, just as usual on Sundays.
Nobody seemed yet to realize what awaited the city. |
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|
Only two things indicated the social condition of Moscow- the rabble,
that is the poor people, and the price of commodities. An enormous crowd of
factory hands, house serfs, and peasants, with whom some officials, seminarists,
and gentry were mingled, had gone early that morning to the Three Hills. Having
waited there for Rostopchin who did not turn up, they became convinced that
Moscow would be surrendered, and then dispersed all about the town to the public
houses and cookshops. Prices too that day indicated the state of affairs. The
price of weapons, of gold, of carts and horses, kept rising, but the value of
paper money and city articles kept falling, so that by midday there were
instances of carters removing valuable goods, such as cloth, and receiving in
payment a half of what they carted, while peasant horses were fetching five
hundred rubles each, and furniture, mirrors, and bronzes were being given away
for nothing. |
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In the Rostovs' staid old-fashioned house the dissolution of former
conditions of life was but little noticeable. As to the serfs the only
indication was that three out of their huge retinue disappeared during the
night, but nothing was stolen; and as to the value of their possessions, the
thirty peasant carts that had come in from their estates and which many people
envied proved to be extremely valuable and they were offered enormous sums of
money for them. Not only were huge sums offered for the horses and carts, but on
the previous evening and early in the morning of the first of September,
orderlies and servants sent by wounded officers came to the Rostovs' and wounded
men dragged themselves there from the Rostovs' and from neighboring houses where
they were accommodated, entreating the servants to try to get them a lift out of
Moscow. The major-domo to whom these entreaties were addressed, though he was
sorry for the wounded, resolutely refused, saying that he dare not even mention
the matter to the count. Pity these wounded men as one might, it was evident
that if they were given one cart there would be no reason to refuse another, or
all the carts and one's own carriages as well. Thirty carts could not save all
the wounded and in the general catastrophe one could not disregard oneself and
one's own family. So thought the major-domo on his master's behalf. |
|
|
On waking up that morning Count Ilya Rostov left his bedroom softly, so
as not to wake the countess who had fallen asleep only toward morning, and came
out to the porch in his lilac silk dressing gown. In the yard stood the carts
ready corded. The carriages were at the front porch. The major-domo stood at the
porch talking to an elderly orderly and to a pale young officer with a bandaged
arm. On seeing the count the major-domo made a significant and stern gesture to
them both to go away. |
|
|
"Well, Vasilich, is everything ready?" asked the count, and
stroking his bald head he looked good-naturedly at the officer and the orderly
and nodded to them. (He liked to see new faces.) |
|
|
"We can harness at once, your excellency." |
|
|
"Well, that's right. As soon as the countess wakes we'll be off, God
willing! What is it, gentlemen?" he added, turning to the officer.
"Are you staying in my house?" |
|
|
The officer came nearer and suddenly his face flushed crimson. |
|
|
"Count, be so good as to allow me... for God's sake, to get into
some corner of one of your carts! I have nothing here with me.... I shall be all
right on a loaded cart..." |
|
|
Before the officer had finished speaking the orderly made the same
request on behalf of his master. |
|
|
"Oh, yes, yes,yes!" said the count hastily. "I shall be
very pleased, very pleased. Vasilich, you'll see to it. Just unload one or two
carts. Well, what of it... do what's necessary..." said the count,
muttering some indefinite order. |
|
|
But at the same moment an expression of warm gratitude on the officer's
face had already sealed the order. The count looked around him. In the yard, at
the gates, at the window of the wings, wounded officers and their orderlies were
to be seen. They were all looking at the count and moving toward the porch. |
|
|
"Please step into the gallery, your excellency," said the
major-domo. "What are your orders about the pictures?" |
|
|
The count went into the house with him, repeating his order not to refuse
the wounded who asked for a lift. |
|
|
"Well, never mind, some of the things can be unloaded," he
added in a soft, confidential voice, as though afraid of being overheard. |
|
|
At nine o'clock the countess woke up, and Matrena Timofeevna, who had
been her lady's maid before her marriage and now performed a sort of chief
gendarme's duty for her, came to say that Madame Schoss was much offended and
the young ladies' summer dresses could not be left behind. On inquiry, the
countess learned that Madame Schoss was offended because her trunk had been
taken down from its cart, and all the loads were being uncorded and the luggage
taken out of the carts to make room for wounded men whom the count in the
simplicity of his heart had ordered that they should take with them. The
countess sent for her husband. |
|
|
"What is this, my dear? I hear that the luggage is being
unloaded." |
|
|
"You know, love, I wanted to tell you... Countess dear... an officer
came to me to ask for a few carts for the wounded. After all, ours are things
that can be bought but think what being left behind means to them!... Really
now, in our own yard- we asked them in ourselves and there are officers among
them.... You know, I think, my dear... let them be taken... where's the
hurry?" |
|
|
The count spoke timidly, as he always did when talking of money matters.
The countess was accustomed to this tone as a precursor of news of something
detrimental to the children's interests, such as the building of a new gallery
or conservatory, the inauguration of a private theater or an orchestra. She was
accustomed always to oppose anything announced in that timid tone and considered
it her duty to do so. |
|
|
She assumed her dolefully submissive manner and said to her husband:
"Listen to me, Count, you have managed matters so that we are getting
nothing for the house, and now you wish to throw away all our- all the
children's property! You said yourself that we have a hundred thousand rubles'
worth of things in the house. I don't consent, my dear, I don't! Do as you
please! It's the government's business to look after the wounded; they know
that. Look at the Lopukhins opposite, they cleared out everything two days ago.
That's what other people do. It's only we who are such fools. If you have no
pity on me, have some for the children." |
|
|
Flourishing his arms in despair the count left the room without replying. |
|
|
"Papa, what are you doing that for?" asked Natasha, who had
followed him into her mother's room. |
|
|
"Nothing! What business is it of yours?" muttered the count
angrily. |
|
|
"But I heard," said Natasha. "Why does Mamma object?" |
|
|
"What business is it of yours?" cried the count. |
|
|
Natasha stepped up to the window and pondered. |
|
|
"Papa! Here's Berg coming to see us," said she, looking out of
the window. |
|
|
Berg, the Rostovs' son-in-law, was already a colonel wearing the orders
of Vladimir and Anna, and he still filled the quiet and agreeable post of
assistant to the head of the staff of the assistant commander of the first
division of the Second Army. |
|
|
On the first of September he had come to Moscow from the army. |
|
|
He had nothing to do in Moscow, but he had noticed that everyone in the
army was asking for leave to visit Moscow and had something to do there. So he
considered it necessary to ask for leave of absence for family and domestic
reasons. |
|
|
Berg drove up to his father-in-law's house in his spruce little trap with
a pair of sleek roans, exactly like those of a certain prince. He looked
attentively at the carts in the yard and while going up to the porch took out a
clean pocket handkerchief and tied a knot in it. |
|
|
From the anteroom Berg ran with smooth though impatient steps into the
drawing room, where he embraced the count, kissed the hands of Natasha and
Sonya, and hastened to inquire after "Mamma's" health. |
|
|
"Health, at a time like this?" said the count. "Come, tell
us the news! Is the army retreating or will there be another battle?" |
|
|
"God Almighty alone can decide the fate of our fatherland,
Papa," said Berg. "The army is burning with a spirit of heroism and
the leaders, so to say, have now assembled in council. No one knows what is
coming. But in general I can tell you, Papa, that such a heroic spirit, the
truly antique valor of the Russian army, which they- which it" (he
corrected himself) "has shown or displayed in the battle of the
twenty-sixth- there are no words worthy to do it justice! I tell you, Papa"
(he smote himself on the breast as a general he had heard speaking had done, but
Berg did it a trifle late for he should have struck his breast at the words
"Russian army"), "I tell you frankly that we, the commanders, far
from having to urge the men on or anything of that kind, could hardly restrain
those... those... yes, those exploits of antique valor," he went on
rapidly. "General Barclay de Tolly risked his life everywhere at the head
of the troops, I can assure you. Our corps was stationed on a hillside. You can
imagine!" |
|
|
And Berg related all that he remembered of the various tales he had heard
those days. Natasha watched him with an intent gaze that confused him, as if she
were trying to find in his face the answer to some question. |
|
|
"Altogether such heroism as was displayed by the Russian warriors
cannot be imagined or adequately praised!" said Berg, glancing round at
Natasha, and as if anxious to conciliate her, replying to her intent look with a
smile. "'Russia is not in Moscow, she lives in the hearts of her sons!'
Isn't it so, Papa?" said he. |
|
|
Just then the countess came in from the sitting room with a weary and
dissatisfied expression. Berg hurriedly jumped up, kissed her hand, asked about
her health, and, swaying his head from side to side to express sympathy,
remained standing beside her. |
|
|
"Yes, Mamma, I tell you sincerely that these are hard and sad times
for every Russian. But why are you so anxious? You have still time to get
away...." |
|
|
"I can't think what the servants are about," said the countess,
turning to her husband. "I have just been told that nothing is ready yet.
Somebody after all must see to things. One misses Mitenka at such times. There
won't be any end to it." |
|
|
The count was about to say something, but evidently restrained himself.
He got up from his chair and went to the door. |
|
|
At that moment Berg drew out his handkerchief as if to blow his nose and,
seeing the knot in it, pondered, shaking his head sadly and significantly. |
|
|
"And I have a great favor to ask of you, Papa," said he. |
|
|
"Hm..." said the count, and stopped. |
|
|
"I was driving past Yusupov's house just now," said Berg with a
laugh, "when the steward, a man I know, ran out and asked me whether I
wouldn't buy something. I went in out of curiosity, you know, and there is a
small chiffonier and a dressing table. You know how dear Vera wanted a
chiffonier like that and how we had a dispute about it." (At the mention of
the chiffonier and dressing table Berg involuntarily changed his tone to one of
pleasure at his admirable domestic arrangements.) "And it's such a beauty!
It pulls out and has a secret English drawer, you know! And dear Vera has long
wanted one. I wish to give her a surprise, you see. I saw so many of those
peasant carts in your yard. Please let me have one, I will pay the man well,
and..." |
|
|
The count frowned and coughed. |
|
|
"Ask the countess, I don't give orders." |
|
|
"If it's inconvenient, please don't," said Berg. "Only I
so wanted it, for dear Vera's sake." |
|
|
"Oh, go to the devil, all of you! To the devil, the devil, the
devil..." cried the old count. "My head's in a whirl!" |
|
|
And he left the room. The countess began to cry. |
|
|
"Yes, Mamma! Yes, these are very hard times!" said Berg. |
|
|
Natasha left the room with her father and, as if finding it difficult to
reach some decision, first followed him and then ran downstairs. |
|
|
Petya was in the porch, engaged in giving out weapons to the servants who
were to leave Moscow. The loaded carts were still standing in the yard. Two of
them had been uncorded and a wounded officer was climbing into one of them
helped by an orderly. |
|
|
"Do you know what it's about?" Petya asked Natasha. |
|
|
She understood that he meant what were their parents quarreling about.
She did not answer. |
|
|
"It's because Papa wanted to give up all the carts to the
wounded," said Petya. "Vasilich told me. I consider..." |
|
|
"I consider," Natasha suddenly almost shouted, turning her
angry face to Petya, "I consider it so horrid, so abominable, so... I don't
know what. Are we despicable Germans?" |
|
|
Her throat quivered with convulsive sobs and, afraid of weakening and
letting the force of her anger run to waste, she turned and rushed headlong up
the stairs. |
|
|
Berg was sitting beside the countess consoling her with the respectful
attention of a relative. The count, pipe in hand, was pacing up and down the
room, when Natasha, her face distorted by anger, burst in like a tempest and
approached her mother with rapid steps. |
|
|
"It's horrid! It's abominable! she screamed. "You can't
possibly have ordered it!" |
|
|
Berg and the countess looked at her, perplexed and frightened. The count
stood still at the window and listened. |
|
|
"Mamma,
it's impossible: see what is going on in the yard!" she cried. "They
will be left!..." |
|
|
"What's the matter with you? Who are 'they'? What do you want?" |
|
|
"Why, the wounded! It's impossible, Mamma. It's monstrous!... No,
Mamma darling, it's not the thing. Please forgive me, darling.... Mamma, what
does it matter what we take away? Only look what is going on in the yard...
Mamma!... It's impossible!" |
|
|
The count stood by the window and listened without turning round.
Suddenly he sniffed and put his face closer to the window. |
|
|
The countess glanced at her daughter, saw her face full of shame for her
mother, saw her agitation, and understood why her husband did not turn to look
at her now, and she glanced round quite disconcerted. |
|
|
"Oh, do as you like! Am I hindering anyone?" she said, not
surrendering at once. |
|
|
"Mamma, darling, forgive me!" |
|
|
But the countess pushed her daughter away and went up to her husband. |
|
|
"My dear, you order what is right.... You know I don't understand
about it," said she, dropping her eyes shamefacedly. |
|
|
"The eggs... the eggs are teaching the hen," muttered the count
through tears of joy, and he embraced his wife who was glad to hide her look of
shame on his breast. |
|
|
"Papa! Mamma! May I see to it? May I?..." asked Natasha.
"We will still take all the most necessary things." |
|
|
The count nodded affirmatively, and Natasha, at the rapid pace at which
she used to run when playing at tag, ran through the ballroom to the anteroom
and downstairs into the yard. |
|
|
The servants gathered round Natasha, but could not believe the strange
order she brought them until the count himself, in his wife's name, confirmed
the order to give up all the carts to the wounded and take the trunks to the
storerooms. When they understood that order the servants set to work at this new
task with pleasure and zeal. It no longer seemed strange to them but on the
contrary it seemed the only thing that could be done, just as a quarter of an
hour before it had not seemed strange to anyone that the wounded should be left
behind and the goods carted away but that had seemed the only thing to do. |
|
|
The whole household, as if to atone for not having done it sooner, set
eagerly to work at the new task of placing the wounded in the carts. The wounded
dragged themselves out of their rooms and stood with pale but happy faces round
the carts. The news that carts were to be had spread to the neighboring houses,
from which wounded men began to come into the Rostovs' yard. Many of the wounded
asked them not to unload the carts but only to let them sit on the top of the
things. But the work of unloading, once started, could not be arrested. It
seemed not to matter whether all or only half the things were left behind. Cases
full of china, bronzes, pictures, and mirrors that had been so carefully packed
the night before now lay about the yard, and still they went on searching for
and finding possibilities of unloading this or that and letting the wounded have
another and yet another cart. |
|
|
"We can take four more men," said the steward. "They can
have my trap, or else what is to become of them?" |
|
|
"Let them have my wardrobe cart," said the countess.
"Dunyasha can go with me in the carriage." |
|
|
They unloaded the wardrobe cart and sent it to take wounded men from a
house two doors off. The whole household, servants included, was bright and
animated. Natasha was in a state of rapturous excitement such as she had not
known for a long time. |
|
|
"What could we fasten this onto?" asked the servants, trying to
fix a trunk on the narrow footboard behind a carriage. "We must keep at
least one cart." |
|
|
"What's in it?" asked Natasha. |
|
|
"The count's books." |
|
|
"Leave it, Vasilich will put it away. It's not wanted." |
|
|
The phaeton was full of people and there was a doubt as to where Count
Peter could sit. |
|
|
"On the box. You'll sit on the box, won't you, Petya?" cried
Natasha. |
|
|
Sonya too was busy all this time, but the aim of her efforts was quite
different from Natasha's. She was putting away the things that had to be left
behind and making a list of them as the countess wished, and she tried to get as
much taken away with them as possible. |
|
|
Before two o'clock in the afternoon the Rostovs' four carriages, packed
full and with the horses harnessed, stood at the front door. One by one the
carts with the wounded had moved out of the yard. |
|
|
The caleche in which Prince Andrew was being taken attracted Sonya's
attention as it passed the front porch. With the help of a maid she was
arranging a seat for the countess in the huge high coach that stood at the
entrance. |
|
|
"Whose caleche is that?" she inquired, leaning out of the
carriage window. |
|
|
"Why, didn't you know, Miss?" replied the maid. "The
wounded prince: he spent the night in our house and is going with us." |
|
|
"But who is it? What's his name?" |
|
|
"It's our intended that was- Prince Bolkonski himself! They say he
is dying," replied the maid with a sigh. |
|
|
Sonya jumped out of the coach and ran to the countess. The countess,
tired out and already dressed in shawl and bonnet for her journey, was pacing up
and down the drawing room, waiting for the household to assemble for the usual
silent prayer with closed doors before starting. Natasha was not in the room. |
|
|
"Mamma," said Sonya, "Prince Andrew is here, mortally
wounded. He is going with us." |
|
|
The countess opened her eyes in dismay and, seizing Sonya's arm, glanced
around. |
|
|
"Natasha?" she murmured. |
|
|
At that moment this news had only one significance for both of them. They
knew their Natasha, and alarm as to what would happen if she heard this news
stifled all sympathy for the man they both liked. |
|
|
"Natasha does not know yet, but he is going with us," said
Sonya. |
|
|
"You say he is dying?" |
|
|
Sonya nodded. |
|
|
The countess put her arms around Sonya and began to cry. |
|
|
"The ways of God are past finding out!" she thought, feeling
that the Almighty Hand, hitherto unseen, was becoming manifest in all that was
now taking place. |
|
|
"Well, Mamma? Everything is ready. What's the matter?" asked
Natasha, as with animated face she ran into the room. |
|
|
"Nothing," answered the countess. "If everything is ready
let us start." |
|
|
And the countess bent over her reticule to hide her agitated face. Sonya
embraced Natasha and kissed her. |
|
|
Natasha looked at her inquiringly. |
|
|
"What is it? What has happened?" |
|
|
"Nothing... No..." |
|
|
"Is it something very bad for me? What is it?" persisted
Natasha with her quick intuition. |
|
|
Sonya sighed and made no reply. The count, Petya, Madame Schoss, Mavra
Kuzminichna, and Vasilich came into the drawing room and, having closed the
doors, they all sat down and remained for some moments silently seated without
looking at one another. |
|
|
The count was the first to rise, and with a loud sigh crossed himself
before the icon. All the others did the same. Then the count embraced Mavra
Kuzminichna and Vasilich, who were to remain in Moscow, and while they caught at
his hand and kissed his shoulder he patted their backs lightly with some vaguely
affectionate and comforting words. The countess went into the oratory and there
Sonya found her on her knees before the icons that had been left here and there
hanging on the wall. (The most precious ones, with which some family tradition
was connected, were being taken with them.) |
|
|
In the porch and in the yard the men whom Petya had armed with swords and
daggers, with trousers tucked inside their high boots and with belts and girdles
tightened, were taking leave of those remaining behind. |
|
|
As is always the case at a departure, much had been forgotten or put in
the wrong place, and for a long time two menservants stood one on each side of
the open door and the carriage steps waiting to help the countess in, while
maids rushed with cushions and bundles from the house to the carriages, the
caleche, the phaeton, and back again. |
|
|
"They always will forget everything!" said the countess.
"Don't you know I can't sit like that?" |
|
|
And Dunyasha, with clenched teeth, without replying but with an aggrieved
look on her face, hastily got into the coach to rearrange the seat. |
|
|
"Oh, those servants!" said the count, swaying his head. |
|
|
Efim, the old coachman, who was the only one the countess trusted to
drive her, sat perched up high on the box and did not so much as glance round at
what was going on behind him. From thirty years' experience he knew it would be
some time yet before the order, "Be off, in God's name!" would be
given him: and he knew that even when it was said he would be stopped once or
twice more while they sent back to fetch something that had been forgotten, and
even after that he would again be stopped and the countess herself would lean
out of the window and beg him for the love of heaven to drive carefully down the
hill. He knew all this and therefore waited calmly for what would happen, with
more patience than the horses, especially the near one, the chestnut Falcon, who
was pawing the ground and champing his bit. At last all were seated, the
carriage steps were folded and pulled up, the door was shut, somebody was sent
for a traveling case, and the countess leaned out and said what she had to say.
Then Efim deliberately doffed his hat and began crossing himself. The postilion
and all the other servants did the same. "Off, in God's name!" said
Efim, putting on his hat. "Start!" The postilion started the horses,
the off pole horse tugged at his collar, the high springs creaked, and the body
of the coach swayed. The footman sprang onto the box of the moving coach which
jolted as it passed out of the yard onto the uneven roadway; the other vehicles
jolted in their turn, and the procession of carriages moved up the street. In
the carriages, the caleche, and the phaeton, all crossed themselves as they
passed the church opposite the house. Those who were to remain in Moscow walked
on either side of the vehicles seeing the travelers off. |
|
|
Rarely had Natasha experienced so joyful a feeling as now, sitting in the
carriage beside the countess and gazing at the slowly receding walls of
forsaken, agitated Moscow. Occasionally she leaned out of the carriage window
and looked back and then forward at the long train of wounded in front of them.
Almost at the head of the line she could see the raised hood of Prince Andrew's
caleche. She did not know who was in it, but each time she looked at the
procession her eyes sought that caleche. She knew it was right in front. |
|
|
In Kudrino, from the Nikitski, Presnya, and Podnovinsk Streets came
several other trains of vehicles similar to the Rostovs', and as they passed
along the Sadovaya Street the carriages and carts formed two rows abreast. |
|
|
As they were going round the Sukharev water tower Natasha, who was
inquisitively and alertly scrutinizing the people driving or walking past,
suddenly cried out in joyful surprise: |
|
|
"Dear me! Mamma, Sonya, look, it's he!" |
|
|
"Who? Who?" |
|
|
"Look! Yes, on my word, it's Bezukhov!" said Natasha, putting
her head out of the carriage and staring at a tall, stout man in a coachman's
long coat, who from his manner of walking and moving was evidently a gentleman
in disguise, and who was passing under the arch of the Sukharev tower
accompanied by a small, sallow-faced, beardless old man in a frieze coat. |
|
|
"Yes, it really is Bezukhov in a coachman's coat, with a
queer-looking old boy. Really," said Natasha, "look, look!" |
|
|
"No, it's not he. How can you talk such nonsense?" |
|
|
"Mamma," screamed Natasha, "I'll stake my head it's he! I
assure you! Stop, stop!" she cried to the coachman. |
|
|
But the coachman could not stop, for from the Meshchanski Street came
more carts and carriages, and the Rostovs were being shouted at to move on and
not block the way. |
|
|
In fact, however, though now much farther off than before, the Rostovs
all saw Pierre- or someone extraordinarily like him- in a coachman's coat, going
down the street with head bent and a serious face beside a small, beardless old
man who looked like a footman. That old man noticed a face thrust out of the
carriage window gazing at them, and respectfully touching Pierre's elbow said
something to him and pointed to the carriage. Pierre, evidently engrossed in
thought, could not at first understand him. At length when he had understood and
looked in the direction the old man indicated, he recognized Natasha, and
following his first impulse stepped instantly and rapidly toward the coach. But
having taken a dozen steps he seemed to remember something and stopped. |
|
|
Natasha's face, leaning out of the window, beamed with quizzical
kindliness. |
|
|
"Peter Kirilovich, come here! We have recognized you! This is
wonderful!" she cried, holding out her hand to him. "What are you
doing? Why are you like this?" |
|
|
Pierre took her outstretched hand and kissed it awkwardly as he walked
along beside her while the coach still moved on. |
|
|
"What is the matter, Count?" asked the countess in a surprised
and commiserating tone. |
|
|
"What? What? Why? Don't ask me," said Pierre, and looked round
at Natasha whose radiant, happy expression- of which he was conscious without
looking at her- filled him with enchantment. |
|
|
"Are you remaining in Moscow, then?" |
|
|
Pierre hesitated. |
|
|
"In Moscow?" he said in a questioning tone. "Yes, in
Moscow. Goodby!" |
|
|
"Ah, if only I were a man? I'd certainly stay with you. How
splendid!" said Natasha. "Mamma, if you'll let me, I'll stay!" |
|
|
Pierre glanced absently at Natasha and was about to say something, but
the countess interrupted him. |
|
|
"You were at the battle, we heard." |
|
|
"Yes, I was," Pierre answered. "There will be another
battle tomorrow..." he began, but Natasha interrupted him. |
|
|
"But what is the matter with you, Count? You are not like
yourself...." |
|
|
"Oh, don't ask me, don't ask me! I don't know myself. Tomorrow...
But no! Good-by, good-by!" he muttered. "It's an awful time!" and
dropping behind the carriage he stepped onto the pavement. |
|
|
Natasha continued to lean out of the window for a long time, beaming at
him with her kindly, slightly quizzical, happy smile. |
|
|
For the last two days, ever since leaving home, Pierre had been living in
the empty house of his deceased benefactor, Bazdeev. This is how it happened. |
|
|
When he woke up on the morning after his return to Moscow and his
interview with Count Rostopchin, he could not for some time make out where he
was and what was expected of him. When he was informed that among others
awaiting him in his reception room there was a Frenchman who had brought a
letter from his wife, the Countess Helene, he felt suddenly overcome by that
sense of confusion and hopelessness to which he was apt to succumb. He felt that
everything was now at an end, all was in confusion and crumbling to pieces, that
nobody was right or wrong, the future held nothing, and there was no escape from
this position. Smiling unnaturally and muttering to himself, he first sat down
on the sofa in an attitude of despair, then rose, went to the door of the
reception room and peeped through the crack, returned flourishing his arms, and
took up a book. His major-domo came in a second time to say that the Frenchman
who had brought the letter from the countess was very anxious to see him if only
for a minute, and that someone from Bazdeev's widow had called to ask Pierre to
take charge of her husband's books, as she herself was leaving for the country. |
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"Oh, yes, in a minute; wait... or no! No, of course... go and say I
will come directly," Pierre replied to the major-domo. |
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But as soon as the man had left the room Pierre took up his hat which was
lying on the table and went out of his study by the other door. There was no one
in the passage. He went along the whole length of this passage to the stairs
and, frowning and rubbing his forehead with both hands, went down as far as the
first landing. The hall porter was standing at the front door. From the landing
where Pierre stood there was a second staircase leading to the back entrance. He
went down that staircase and out into the yard. No one had seen him. But there
were some carriages waiting, and as soon as Pierre stepped out of the gate the
coachmen and the yard porter noticed him and raised their caps to him. When he
felt he was being looked at he behaved like an ostrich which hides its head in a
bush in order not to be seen: he hung his head and quickening his pace went down
the street. |
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Of all the affairs awaiting Pierre that day the sorting of Joseph
Bazdeev's books and papers appeared to him the most necessary. |
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He hired the first cab he met and told the driver to go to the
Patriarch's Ponds, where the widow Bazdeev's house was. |
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Continually turning round to look at the rows of loaded carts that were
making their way from all sides out of Moscow, and balancing his bulky body so
as not to slip out of the ramshackle old vehicle, Pierre, experiencing the
joyful feeling of a boy escaping from school, began to talk to his driver. |
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The man told him that arms were being distributed today at the Kremlin
and that tomorrow everyone would be sent out beyond the Three Hills gates and a
great battle would be fought there. |
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Having reached the Patriarch's Ponds Pierre found the Bazdeevs' house,
where he had not been for a long time past. He went up to the gate. Gerasim,
that sallow beardless old man Pierre had seen at Torzhok five years before with
Joseph Bazdeev, came out in answer to his knock. |
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"At home?" asked Pierre. |
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"Owing to the present state of things Sophia Danilovna has gone to
the Torzhok estate with the children, your excellency." |
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"I will come in all the same, I have to look through the
books," said Pierre. |
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"Be so good as to step in. Makar Alexeevich, the brother of my late
master- may the kingdom of heaven be his- has remained here, but he is in a weak
state as you know," said the old servant. |
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Pierre knew that Makar Alexeevich was Joseph Bazdeev's half-insane
brother and a hard drinker. |
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"Yes, yes, I know. Let us go in..." said Pierre and entered the
house. |
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A tall, bald-headed old man with a red nose, wearing a dressing gown and
with galoshes on his bare feet, stood in the anteroom. On seeing Pierre he
muttered something angrily and went away along the passage. |
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"He was a very clever man but has now grown quite feeble, as your
honor sees," said Gerasim. "Will you step into the study?" Pierre
nodded. "As it was sealed up so it has remained, but Sophia Danilovna gave
orders that if anyone should come from you they were to have the books." |
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Pierre went into that gloomy study which he had entered with such
trepidation in his benefactor's lifetime. The room, dusty and untouched since
the death of Joseph Bazdeev was now even gloomier. |
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Gerasim opened one of the shutters and left the room on tiptoe. Pierre
went round the study, approached the cupboard in which the manuscripts were
kept, and took out what had once been one of the most important, the holy of
holies of the order. This was the authentic Scotch Acts with Bazdeev's notes and
explanations. He sat down at the dusty writing table, and, having laid the
manuscripts before him, opened them out, closed them, finally pushed them away,
and resting his head on his hand sank into meditation. |
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Gerasim looked cautiously into the study several times and saw Pierre
always sitting in the same attitude. |
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More than two hours passed and Gerasim took the liberty of making a
slight noise at the door to attract his attention, but Pierre did not hear him. |
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"Is the cabman to be discharged, your honor?" |
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"Oh yes!" said Pierre, rousing himself and rising hurriedly.
"Look here," he added, taking Gerasim by a button of his coat and
looking down at the old man with moist, shining, and ecstatic eyes, "I say,
do you know that there is going to be a battle tomorrow?" |
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"We heard so," replied the man. |
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"I beg you not to tell anyone who I am, and to do what I ask
you." |
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"Yes, your excellency," replied Gerasim. "Will you have
something to eat?" |
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"No, but I want something else. I want peasant clothes and a
pistol," said Pierre, unexpectedly blushing. |
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"Yes, your excellency," said Gerasim after thinking for a
moment. |
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All the rest of that day Pierre spent alone in his benefactor's study,
and Gerasim heard him pacing restlessly from one corner to another and talking
to himself. And he spent the night on a bed made up for him there. |
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Gerasim, being a servant who in his time had seen many strange things,
accepted Pierre's taking up his residence in the house without surprise, and
seemed pleased to have someone to wait on. That same evening- without even
asking himself what they were wanted for- he procured a coachman's coat and cap
for Pierre, and promised to get him the pistol next day. Makar Alexeevich came
twice that evening shuffling along in his galoshes as far as the door and
stopped and looked ingratiatingly at Pierre. But as soon as Pierre turned toward
him he wrapped his dressing gown around him with a shamefaced and angry look and
hurried away. It was when Pierre (wearing the coachman's coat which Gerasim had
procured for him and had disinfected by steam) was on his way with the old man
to buy the pistol at the Sukharev market that he met the Rostovs. |
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Kutuzov's order to retreat through Moscow to the Ryazan road was issued
at night on the first of September. |
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The first troops started at once, and during the night they marched
slowly and steadily without hurry. At daybreak, however, those nearing the town
at the Dorogomilov bridge saw ahead of them masses of soldiers crowding and
hurrying across the bridge, ascending on the opposite side and blocking the
streets and alleys, while endless masses of troops were bearing down on them
from behind, and an unreasoning hurry and alarm overcame them. They all rushed
forward to the bridge, onto it, and to the fords and the boats. Kutuzov himself
had driven round by side streets to the other side of Moscow. |
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By ten o'clock in the morning of the second of September, only the rear
guard remained in the Dorogomilov suburb, where they had ample room. The main
army was on the other side of Moscow or beyond it. |
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At that very time, at ten in the morning of the second of September,
Napoleon was standing among his troops on the Poklonny Hill looking at the
panorama spread out before him. From the twenty-sixth of August to the second of
September, that is from the battle of Borodino to the entry of the French into
Moscow, during the whole of that agitating, memorable week, there had been the
extraordinary autumn weather that always comes as a surprise, when the sun hangs
low and gives more heat than in spring, when everything shines so brightly in
the rare clear atmosphere that the eyes smart, when the lungs are strengthened
and refreshed by inhaling the aromatic autumn air, when even the nights are
warm, and when in those dark warm nights, golden stars startle and delight us
continually by falling from the sky. |
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At ten in the morning of the second of September this weather still held. |
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The brightness of the morning was magical. Moscow seen from the Poklonny
Hill lay spaciously spread out with her river, her gardens, and her churches,
and she seemed to be living her usual life, her cupolas glittering like stars in
the sunlight. |
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The view of the strange city with its peculiar architecture, such as he
had never seen before, filled Napoleon with the rather envious and uneasy
curiosity men feel when they see an alien form of life that has no knowledge of
them. This city was evidently living with the full force of its own life. By the
indefinite signs which, even at a distance, distinguish a living body from a
dead one, Napoleon from the Poklonny Hill perceived the throb of life in the
town and felt, as it were, the breathing of that great and beautiful body. |
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Every Russian looking at Moscow feels her to be a mother; every foreigner
who sees her, even if ignorant of her significance as the mother city, must feel
her feminine character, and Napoleon felt it. |
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"Cette ville asiatique aux innombrables eglises, Moscou la sainte.
La voila done enfin, cette fameuse ville! Il etait temps,"* said he, and
dismounting he ordered a plan of Moscow to be spread out before him, and
summoned Lelorgne d'Ideville, the interpreter. |
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*"That
Asiatic city of the innumerable churches, holy Moscow! Here it is then at last,
that famous city. It was high time." |
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"A town captured by the enemy is like a maid who has lost her
honor," thought he (he had said so to Tuchkov at Smolensk). From that point
of view he gazed at the Oriental beauty he had not seen before. It seemed
strange to him that his long-felt wish, which had seemed unattainable, had at
last been realized. In the clear morning light he gazed now at the city and now
at the plan, considering its details, and the assurance of possessing it
agitated and awed him. |
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"But could it be otherwise?" he thought. "Here is this
capital at my feet. Where is Alexander now, and of what is he thinking? A
strange, beautiful, and majestic city; and a strange and majestic moment! In
what light must I appear to them!" thought he, thinking of his troops.
"Here she is, the reward for all those fainthearted men," he
reflected, glancing at those near him and at the troops who were approaching and
forming up. "One word from me, one movement of my hand, and that ancient
capital of the Tsars would perish. But my clemency is always ready to descend
upon the vanquished. I must be magnanimous and truly great. But no, it can't be
true that I am in Moscow," he suddenly thought. "Yet here she is lying
at my feet, with her golden domes and crosses scintillating and twinkling in the
sunshine. But I shall spare her. On the ancient monuments of barbarism and
despotism I will inscribe great words of justice and mercy.... It is just this
which Alexander will feel most painfully, I know him." (It seemed to
Napoleon that the chief import of what was taking place lay in the personal
struggle between himself and Alexander.) "From the height of the Kremlin-
yes, there is the Kremlin, yes- I will give them just laws; I will teach them
the meaning of true civilization, I will make generations of boyars remember
their conqueror with love. I will tell the deputation that I did not, and do
not, desire war, that I have waged war only against the false policy of their
court; that I love and respect Alexander and that in Moscow I will accept terms
of peace worthy of myself and of my people. I do not wish to utilize the
fortunes of war to humiliate an honored monarch. 'Boyars,' I will say to them,
'I do not desire war, I desire the peace and welfare of all my subjects.'
However, I know their presence will inspire me, and I shall speak to them as I
always do: clearly, impressively, and majestically. But can it be true that I am
in Moscow? Yes, there she lies." |
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"Qu'on m'amene les boyars,"* said he to his suite. |
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*"Bring the boyars to me." |
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A general with a brilliant suite galloped off at once to fetch the
boyars. |
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Two hours passed. Napoleon had lunched and was again standing in the same
place on the Poklonny Hill awaiting the deputation. His speech to the boyars had
already taken definite shape in his imagination. That speech was full of dignity
and greatness as Napoleon understood it. |
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He was himself carried away by the tone of magnanimity he intended to
adopt toward Moscow. In his imagination he appointed days for assemblies at the
palace of the Tsars, at which Russian notables and his own would mingle. He
mentally appointed a governor, one who would win the hearts of the people.
Having learned that there were many charitable institutions in Moscow he
mentally decided that he would shower favors on them all. He thought that, as in
Africa he had to put on a burnoose and sit in a mosque, so in Moscow he must be
beneficent like the Tsars. And in order finally to touch the hearts of the
Russians- and being like all Frenchmen unable to imagine anything sentimental
without a reference to ma chere, ma tendre, ma pauvre mere* - he decided that he
would place an inscription on all these establishments in large letters:
"This establishment is dedicated to my dear mother." Or no, it should
be simply: Maison de ma Mere,*[2] he concluded. "But am I really in Moscow?
Yes, here it lies before me, but why is the deputation from the city so long in
appearing?" he wondered. |
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*"My dear, my tender, my poor mother." |
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*[2] "House of my Mother." |
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Meanwhile an agitated consultation was being carried on in whispers among
his generals and marshals at the rear of his suite. Those sent to fetch the
deputation had returned with the news that Moscow was empty, that everyone had
left it. The faces of those who were not conferring together were pale and
perturbed. They were not alarmed by the fact that Moscow had been abandoned by
its inhabitants (grave as that fact seemed), but by the question how to tell the
Emperor- without putting him in the terrible position of appearing ridiculous-
that he had been awaiting the boyars so long in vain: that there were drunken
mobs left in Moscow but no one else. Some said that a deputation of some sort
must be scraped together, others disputed that opinion and maintained that the
Emperor should first be carefully and skillfully prepared, and then told the
truth. |
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"He will have to be told, all the same," said some gentlemen of
the suite. "But, gentlemen..." |
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The position was the more awkward because the Emperor, meditating upon
his magnanimous plans, was pacing patiently up and down before the outspread
map, occasionally glancing along the road to Moscow from under his lifted hand
with a bright and proud smile. |
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"But it's impossible..." declared the gentlemen of the suite,
shrugging their shoulders but not venturing to utter the implied word- le
ridicule... |
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At last the Emperor, tired of futile expectation, his actor's instinct
suggesting to him that the sublime moment having been too long drawn out was
beginning to lose its sublimity, gave a sign with his hand. A single report of a
signaling gun followed, and the troops, who were already spread out on different
sides of Moscow, moved into the city through Tver, Kaluga, and Dorogomilov
gates. Faster and faster, vying with one another, they moved at the double or at
a trot, vanishing amid the clouds of dust they raised and making the air ring
with a deafening roar of mingling shouts. |
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Drawn on by the movement of his troops Napoleon rode with them as far as
the Dorogomilov gate, but there again stopped and, dismounting from his horse,
paced for a long time by the Kammer-Kollezski rampart, awaiting the deputation. |
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Meanwhile Moscow was empty. There were still people in it, perhaps a
fiftieth part of its former inhabitants had remained, but it was empty. It was
empty in the sense that a dying queenless hive is empty. |
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In a queenless hive no life is left though to a superficial glance it
seems as much alive as other hives. |
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The bees circle round a queenless hive in the hot beams of the midday sun
as gaily as around the living hives; from a distance it smells of honey like the
others, and bees fly in and out in the same way. But one has only to observe
that hive to realize that there is no longer any life in it. The bees do not fly
in the same way, the smell and the sound that meet the beekeeper are not the
same. To the beekeeper's tap on the wall of the sick hive, instead of the former
instant unanimous humming of tens of thousands of bees with their abdomens
threateningly compressed, and producing by the rapid vibration of their wings an
aerial living sound, the only reply is a disconnected buzzing from different
parts of the deserted hive. From the alighting board, instead of the former
spirituous fragrant smell of honey and venom, and the warm whiffs of crowded
life, comes an odor of emptiness and decay mingling with the smell of honey.
There are no longer sentinels sounding the alarm with their abdomens raised, and
ready to die in defense of the hive. There is no longer the measured quiet sound
of throbbing activity, like the sound of boiling water, but diverse discordant
sounds of disorder. In and out of the hive long black robber bees smeared with
honey fly timidly and shiftily. They do not sting, but crawl away from danger.
Formerly only bees laden with honey flew into the hive, and they flew out empty;
now they fly out laden. The beekeeper opens the lower part of the hive and peers
in. Instead of black, glossy bees- tamed by toil, clinging to one another's legs
and drawing out the wax, with a ceaseless hum of labor- that used to hang in
long clusters down to the floor of the hive, drowsy shriveled bees crawl about
separately in various directions on the floor and walls of the hive. Instead of
a neatly glued floor, swept by the bees with the fanning of their wings, there
is a floor littered with bits of wax, excrement, dying bees scarcely moving
their legs, and dead ones that have not been cleared away. |
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The beekeeper opens the upper part of the hive and examines the super.
Instead of serried rows of bees sealing up every gap in the combs and keeping
the brood warm, he sees the skillful complex structures of the combs, but no
longer in their former state of purity. All is neglected and foul. Black robber
bees are swiftly and stealthily prowling about the combs, and the short home
bees, shriveled and listless as if they were old, creep slowly about without
trying to hinder the robbers, having lost all motive and all sense of life.
Drones, bumblebees, wasps, and butterflies knock awkwardly against the walls of
the hive in their flight. Here and there among the cells containing dead brood
and honey an angry buzzing can sometimes be heard. Here and there a couple of
bees, by force of habit and custom cleaning out the brood cells, with efforts
beyond their strength laboriously drag away a dead bee or bumblebee without
knowing why they do it. In another corner two old bees are languidly fighting,
or cleaning themselves, or feeding one another, without themselves knowing
whether they do it with friendly or hostile intent. In a third place a crowd of
bees, crushing one another, attack some victim and fight and smother it, and the
victim, enfeebled or killed, drops from above slowly and lightly as a feather,
among the heap of corpses. The keeper opens the two center partitions to examine
the brood cells. In place of the former close dark circles formed by thousands
of bees sitting back to back and guarding the high mystery of generation, he
sees hundreds of dull, listless, and sleepy shells of bees. They have almost all
died unawares, sitting in the sanctuary they had guarded and which is now no
more. They reek of decay and death. Only a few of them still move, rise, and
feebly fly to settle on the enemy's hand, lacking the spirit to die stinging
him; the rest are dead and fall as lightly as fish scales. The beekeeper closes
the hive, chalks a mark on it, and when he has time tears out its contents and
burns it clean. |
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So in the same way Moscow was empty when Napoleon, weary, uneasy, and
morose, paced up and down in front of the Kammer-Kollezski rampart, awaiting
what to his mind was a necessary, if but formal, observance of the proprieties-
a deputation. |
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In various corners of Moscow there still remained a few people aimlessly
moving about, following their old habits and hardly aware of what they were
doing. |
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|
When with due circumspection Napoleon was informed that Moscow was empty,
he looked angrily at his informant, turned away, and silently continued to walk
to and fro. |
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"My carriage!" he said. |
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|
He took his seat beside the aide-de-camp on duty and drove into the
suburb. "Moscow deserted!" he said to himself. "What an
incredible event!" |
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|
He did not drive into the town, but put up at an inn in the Dorogomilov
suburb. |
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|
The coup de theatre had not come off. |
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