War and Peace
by
Leo Tolstoy
Part 20 out of 34
what her father was saying was correct.
"When the snow melts they'll sink in the Polish swamps. Only they
could fail to see it," the prince continued, evidently thinking of the
campaign of 1807 which seemed to him so recent. "Bennigsen should have
advanced into Prussia sooner, then things would have taken a different
turn..."
"But, Prince," Dessalles began timidly, "the letter mentions
Vitebsk...."
"Ah, the letter? Yes..." replied the prince peevishly. "Yes...
yes..." His face suddenly took on a morose expression. He paused.
"Yes, he writes that the French were beaten at... at... what river
is it?"
Dessalles dropped his eyes.
"The prince says nothing about that," he remarked gently.
"Doesn't he? But I didn't invent it myself."
No one spoke for a long time.
"Yes... yes... Well, Michael Ivanovich," he suddenly went on,
raising his head and pointing to the plan of the building, "tell me
how you mean to alter it...."
Michael Ivanovich went up to the plan, and the prince after speaking
to him about the building looked angrily at Princess Mary and
Dessalles and went to his own room.
Princess Mary saw Dessalles' embarrassed and astonished look fixed
on her father, noticed his silence, and was struck by the fact that
her father had forgotten his son's letter on the drawing-room table;
but she was not only afraid to speak of it and ask Dessalles the
reason of his confusion and silence, but was afraid even to think
about it.
In the evening Michael Ivanovich, sent by the prince, came to
Princess Mary for Prince Andrew's letter which had been forgotten in
the drawing room. She gave it to him and, unpleasant as it was to
her to do so, ventured to ask him what her father was doing.
"Always busy," replied Michael Ivanovich with a respectfully
ironic smile which caused Princess Mary to turn pale. "He's worrying
very much about the new building. He has been reading a little, but
now"- Michael Ivanovich went on, lowering his voice- "now he's at
his desk, busy with his will, I expect." (One of the prince's favorite
occupations of late had been the preparation of some papers he meant
to leave at his death and which he called his "will.")
"And Alpatych is being sent to Smolensk?" asked Princess Mary.
"Oh, yes, he has been waiting to start for some time."
CHAPTER III
When Michael Ivanovich returned to the study with the letter, the
old prince, with spectacles on and a shade over his eyes, was
sitting at his open bureau with screened candles, holding a paper in
his outstretched hand, and in a somewhat dramatic attitude was reading
his manuscript- his "Remarks" as he termed it- which was to be
transmitted to the Emperor after his death.
When Michael Ivanovich went in there were tears in the prince's eyes
evoked by the memory of the time when the paper he was now reading had
been written. He took the letter from Michael Ivanovich's hand, put it
in his pocket, folded up his papers, and called in Alpatych who had
long been waiting.
The prince had a list of things to be bought in Smolensk and,
walking up and down the room past Alpatych who stood by the door, he
gave his instructions.
"First, notepaper- do you hear? Eight quires, like this sample,
gilt-edged... it must be exactly like the sample. Varnish, sealing
wax, as in Michael Ivanovich's list."
He paced up and down for a while and glanced at his notes.
"Then hand to the governor in person a letter about the deed."
Next, bolts for the doors of the new building were wanted and had to
be of a special shape the prince had himself designed, and a leather
case had to be ordered to keep the "will" in.
The instructions to Alpatych took over two hours and still the
prince did not let him go. He sat down, sank into thought, closed
his eyes, and dozed off. Alpatych made a slight movement.
"Well, go, go! If anything more is wanted I'll send after you."
Alpatych went out. The prince again went to his bureau, glanced into
it, fingered his papers, closed the bureau again, and sat down at
the table to write to the governor.
It was already late when he rose after sealing the letter. He wished
to sleep, but he knew he would not be able to and that most depressing
thoughts came to him in bed. So he called Tikhon and went through
the rooms with him to show him where to set up the bed for that night.
He went about looking at every corner. Every place seemed
unsatisfactory, but worst of all was his customary couch in the study.
That couch was dreadful to him, probably because of the oppressive
thoughts he had had when lying there. It was unsatisfactory
everywhere, but the corner behind the piano in the sitting room was
better than other places: he had never slept there yet.
With the help of a footman Tikhon brought in the bedstead and
began putting it up.
"That's not right! That's not right!" cried the prince, and
himself pushed it a few inches from the corner and then closer in
again.
"Well, at last I've finished, now I'll rest," thought the prince,
and let Tikhon undress him.
Frowning with vexation at the effort necessary to divest himself
of his coat and trousers, the prince undressed, sat down heavily on
the bed, and appeared to be meditating as he looked contemptuously
at his withered yellow legs. He was not meditating, but only deferring
the moment of making the effort to lift those legs up and turn over on
the bed. "Ugh, how hard it is! Oh, that this toil might end and you
would release me!" thought he. Pressing his lips together he made that
effort for the twenty-thousandth time and lay down. But hardly had
he done so before he felt the bed rocking backwards and forwards
beneath him as if it were breathing heavily and jolting. This happened
to him almost every night. He opened his eyes as they were closing.
"No peace, damn them!" he muttered, angry he knew not with whom. "Ah
yes, there was something else important, very important, that I was
keeping till I should be in bed. The bolts? No, I told him about them.
No, it was something, something in the drawing room. Princess Mary
talked some nonsense. Dessalles, that fool, said something.
Something in my pocket- can't remember..."
"Tikhon, what did we talk about at dinner?"
"About Prince Michael..."
"Be quiet, quiet!" The prince slapped his hand on the table. "Yes, I
know, Prince Andrew's letter! Princess Mary read it. Dessalles said
something about Vitebsk. Now I'll read it."
He had the letter taken from his pocket and the table- on which
stood a glass of lemonade and a spiral wax candle- moved close to
the bed, and putting on his spectacles he began reading. Only now in
the stillness of the night, reading it by the faint light under the
green shade, did he grasp its meaning for a moment.
"The French at Vitebsk, in four days' march they may be at Smolensk;
perhaps are already there! Tikhon!" Tikhon jumped up. "No, no, I don't
want anything!" he shouted.
He put the letter under the candlestick and closed his eyes. And
there rose before him the Danube at bright noonday: reeds, the Russian
camp, and himself a young general without a wrinkle on his ruddy face,
vigorous and alert, entering Potemkin's gaily colored tent, and a
burning sense of jealousy of "the favorite" agitated him now as
strongly as it had done then. He recalled all the words spoken at that
first meeting with Potemkin. And he saw before him a plump, rather
sallow-faced, short, stout woman, the Empress Mother, with her smile
and her words at her first gracious reception of him, and then that
same face on the catafalque, and the encounter he had with Zubov
over her coffin about his right to kiss her hand.
"Oh, quicker, quicker! To get back to that time and have done with
all the present! Quicker, quicker- and that they should leave me in
peace!"
CHAPTER IV
Bald Hills, Prince Nicholas Bolkonski's estate, lay forty miles east
from Smolensk and two miles from the main road to Moscow.
The same evening that the prince gave his instructions to
Alpatych, Dessalles, having asked to see Princess Mary, told her that,
as the prince was not very well and was taking no steps to secure
his safety, though from Prince Andrew's letter it was evident that
to remain at Bald Hills might be dangerous, he respectfully advised
her to send a letter by Alpatych to the Provincial Governor at
Smolensk, asking him to let her know the state of affairs and the
extent of the danger to which Bald Hills was exposed. Dessalles
wrote this letter to the Governor for Princess Mary, she signed it,
and it was given to Alpatych with instructions to hand it to the
Governor and to come back as quickly as possible if there was danger.
Having received all his orders Alpatych, wearing a white beaver hat-
a present from the prince- and carrying a stick as the prince did,
went out accompanied by his family. Three well-fed roans stood ready
harnessed to a small conveyance with a leather hood.
The larger bell was muffled and the little bells on the harness
stuffed with paper. The prince allowed no one at Bald Hills to drive
with ringing bells; but on a long journey Alpatych liked to have them.
His satellites- the senior clerk, a countinghouse clerk, a scullery
maid, a cook, two old women, a little pageboy, the coachman, and
various domestic serfs- were seeing him off.
His daughter placed chintz-covered down cushions for him to sit on
and behind his back. His old sister-in-law popped in a small bundle,
and one of the coachmen helped him into the vehicle.
"There! There! Women's fuss! Women, women!" said Alpatych, puffing
and speaking rapidly just as the prince did, and he climbed into the
trap.
After giving the clerk orders about the work to be done, Alpatych,
not trying to imitate the prince now, lifted the hat from his bald
head and crossed himself three times.
"If there is anything... come back, Yakov Alpatych! For Christ's
sake think of us!" cried his wife, referring to the rumors of war
and the enemy.
"Women, women! Women's fuss!" muttered Alpatych to himself and
started on his journey, looking round at the fields of yellow rye
and the still-green, thickly growing oats, and at other quite black
fields just being plowed a second time.
As he went along he looked with pleasure at the year's splendid crop
of corn, scrutinized the strips of ryefield which here and there
were already being reaped, made his calculations as to the sowing
and the harvest, and asked himself whether he had not forgotten any of
the prince's orders.
Having baited the horses twice on the way, he arrived at the town
toward evening on the fourth of August.
Alpatych kept meeting and overtaking baggage trains and troops on
the road. As he approached Smolensk he heard the sounds of distant
firing, but these did not impress him. What struck him most was the
sight of a splendid field of oats in which a camp had been pitched and
which was being mown down by the soldiers, evidently for fodder.
This fact impressed Alpatych, but in thinking about his own business
he soon forgot it.
All the interests of his life for more than thirty years had been
bounded by the will of the prince, and he never went beyond that
limit. Everything not connected with the execution of the prince's
orders did not interest and did not even exist for Alpatych.
On reaching Smolensk on the evening of the fourth of August he put
up in the Gachina suburb across the Dnieper, at the inn kept by
Ferapontov, where he had been in the habit of putting up for the
last thirty years. Some thirty years ago Ferapontov, by Alpatych's
advice, had bought a wood from the prince, had begun to trade, and now
had a house, an inn, and a corn dealer's shop in that province. He was
a stout, dark, red-faced peasant in the forties, with thick lips, a
broad knob of a nose, similar knobs over his black frowning brows, and
a round belly.
Wearing a waistcoat over his cotton shirt, Ferapontov was standing
before his shop which opened onto the street. On seeing Alpatych he
went up to him.
"You're welcome, Yakov Alpatych. Folks are leaving the town, but you
have come to it," said he.
"Why are they leaving the town?" asked Alpatych.
"That's what I say. Folks are foolish! Always afraid of the French."
"Women's fuss, women's fuss!" said Alpatych.
"Just what I think, Yakov Alpatych. What I say is: orders have
been given not to let them in, so that must be right. And the peasants
are asking three rubles for carting- it isn't Christian!"
Yakov Alpatych heard without heeding. He asked for a samovar and for
hay for his horses, and when he had had his tea he went to bed.
All night long troops were moving past the inn. Next morning
Alpatych donned a jacket he wore only in town and went out on
business. It was a sunny morning and by eight o'clock it was already
hot. "A good day for harvesting," thought Alpatych.
From beyond the town firing had been heard since early morning. At
eight o'clock the booming of cannon was added to the sound of
musketry. Many people were hurrying through the streets and there were
many soldiers, but cabs were still driving about, tradesmen stood at
their shops, and service was being held in the churches as usual.
Alpatych went to the shops, to government offices, to the post office,
and to the Governor's. In the offices and shops and at the post office
everyone was talking about the army and about the enemy who was
already attacking the town, everybody was asking what should be
done, and all were trying to calm one another.
In front of the Governor's house Alpatych found a large number of
people, Cossacks, and a traveling carriage of the Governor's. At the
porch he met two of the landed gentry, one of whom he knew. This
man, an ex-captain of police, was saying angrily:
"It's no joke, you know! It's all very well if you're single. 'One
man though undone is but one,' as the proverb says, but with
thirteen in your family and all the property... They've brought us
to utter ruin! What sort of governors are they to do that? They
ought to be hanged- the brigands!..."
"Oh come, that's enough!" said the other.
"What do I care? Let him hear! We're not dogs," said the
ex-captain of police, and looking round he noticed Alpatych.
"Oh, Yakov Alpatych! What have you come for?"
"To see the Governor by his excellency's order," answered
Alpatych, lifting his head and proudly thrusting his hand into the
bosom of his coat as he always did when he mentioned the prince.... He
has ordered me to inquire into the position of affairs," he added.
"Yes, go and find out!" shouted the angry gentleman. "They've
brought things to such a pass that there are no carts or
anything!... There it is again, do you hear?" said he, pointing in the
direction whence came the sounds of firing.
"They've brought us all to ruin... the brigands!" he repeated, and
descended the porch steps.
Alpatych swayed his head and went upstairs. In the waiting room were
tradesmen, women, and officials, looking silently at one another.
The door of the Governor's room opened and they all rose and moved
forward. An official ran out, said some words to a merchant, called
a stout official with a cross hanging on his neck to follow him, and
vanished again, evidently wishing to avoid the inquiring looks and
questions addressed to him. Alpatych moved forward and next time the
official came out addressed him, one hand placed in the breast of
his buttoned coat, and handed him two letters.
"To his Honor Baron Asch, from General-in-Chief Prince Bolkonski,"
he announced with such solemnity and significance that the official
turned to him and took the letters.
A few minutes later the Governor received Alpatych and hurriedly
said to him:
"Inform the prince and princess that I knew nothing: I acted on
the highest instructions- here..." and he handed a paper to
Alpatych. "Still, as the prince is unwell my advice is that they
should go to Moscow. I am just starting myself. Inform them..."
But the Governor did not finish: a dusty perspiring officer ran into
the room and began to say something in French. The Governor's face
expressed terror.
"Go," he said, nodding his head to Alpatych, and began questioning
the officer.
Eager, frightened, helpless glances were turned on Alpatych when
he came out of the Governor's room. Involuntarily listening now to the
firing, which had drawn nearer and was increasing in strength,
Alpatych hurried to his inn. The paper handed to him by the Governor
said this:
"I assure you that the town of Smolensk is not in the slightest
danger as yet and it is unlikely that it will be threatened with
any. I from the one side and Prince Bagration from the other are
marching to unite our forces before Smolensk, which junction will be
effected on the 22nd instant, and both armies with their united forces
will defend our compatriots of the province entrusted to your care
till our efforts shall have beaten back the enemies of our Fatherland,
or till the last warrior in our valiant ranks has perished. From
this you will see that you have a perfect right to reassure the
inhabitants of Smolensk, for those defended by two such brave armies
may feel assured of victory." (Instructions from Barclay de Tolly to
Baron Asch, the civil governor of Smolensk, 1812.)
People were anxiously roaming about the streets.
Carts piled high with household utensils, chairs, and cupboards kept
emerging from the gates of the yards and moving along the streets.
Loaded carts stood at the house next to Ferapontov's and women were
wailing and lamenting as they said good-by. A small watchdog ran round
barking in front of the harnessed horses.
Alpatych entered the innyard at a quicker pace than usual and went
straight to the shed where his horses and trap were. The coachman
was asleep. He woke him up, told him to harness, and went into the
passage. From the host's room came the sounds of a child crying, the
despairing sobs of a woman, and the hoarse angry shouting of
Ferapontov. The cook began running hither and thither in the passage
like a frightened hen, just as Alpatych entered.
"He's done her to death. Killed the mistress!... Beat her... dragged
her about so!..."
"What for?" asked Alpatych.
"She kept begging to go away. She's a woman! 'Take me away,' says
she, 'don't let me perish with my little children! Folks,' she says,
'are all gone, so why,' she says, 'don't we go?' And he began
beating and pulling her about so!"
At these words Alpatych nodded as if in approval, and not wishing to
hear more went to the door of the room opposite the innkeeper's, where
he had left his purchases.
"You brute, you murderer!" screamed a thin, pale woman who, with a
baby in her arms and her kerchief torn from her head, burst through
the door at that moment and down the steps into the yard.
Ferapontov came out after her, but on seeing Alpatych adjusted his
waistcoat, smoothed his hair, yawned, and followed Alpatych into the
opposite room.
"Going already?" said he.
Alpatych, without answering or looking at his host, sorted his
packages and asked how much he owed.
"We'll reckon up! Well, have you been to the Governor's?" asked
Ferapontov. "What has been decided?"
Alpatych replied that the Governor had not told him anything
definite.
"With our business, how can we get away?" said Ferapontov. "We'd
have to pay seven rubles a cartload to Dorogobuzh and I tell them
they're not Christians to ask it! Selivanov, now, did a good stroke
last Thursday- sold flour to the army at nine rubles a sack. Will
you have some tea?" he added.
While the horses were being harnessed Alpatych and Ferapontov over
their tea talked of the price of corn, the crops, and the good weather
for harvesting.
"Well, it seems to be getting quieter," remarked Ferapontov,
finishing his third cup of tea and getting up. "Ours must have got the
best of it. The orders were not to let them in. So we're in force,
it seems.... They say the other day Matthew Ivanych Platov drove
them into the river Marina and drowned some eighteen thousand in one
day."
Alpatych collected his parcels, handed them to the coachman who
had come in, and settled up with the innkeeper. The noise of wheels,
hoofs, and bells was heard from the gateway as a little trap passed
out.
It was by now late in the afternoon. Half the street was in
shadow, the other half brightly lit by the sun. Alpatych looked out of
the window and went to the door. Suddenly the strange sound of a
far-off whistling and thud was heard, followed by a boom of cannon
blending into a dull roar that set the windows rattling.
He went out into the street: two men were running past toward the
bridge. From different sides came whistling sounds and the thud of
cannon balls and bursting shells falling on the town. But these sounds
were hardly heard in comparison with the noise of the firing outside
the town and attracted little attention from the inhabitants. The town
was being bombarded by a hundred and thirty guns which Napoleon had
ordered up after four o'clock. The people did not at once realize
the meaning of this bombardment.
At first the noise of the falling bombs and shells only aroused
curiosity. Ferapontov's wife, who till then had not ceased wailing
under the shed, became quiet and with the baby in her arms went to the
gate, listening to the sounds and looking in silence at the people.
The cook and a shop assistant came to the gate. With lively
curiosity everyone tried to get a glimpse of the projectiles as they
flew over their heads. Several people came round the corner talking
eagerly.
"What force!" remarked one. "Knocked the roof and ceiling all to
splinters!"
"Routed up the earth like a pig," said another.
"That's grand, it bucks one up!" laughed the first. "Lucky you
jumped aside, or it would have wiped you out!"
Others joined those men and stopped and told how cannon balls had
fallen on a house close to them. Meanwhile still more projectiles, now
with the swift sinister whistle of a cannon ball, now with the
agreeable intermittent whistle of a shell, flew over people's heads
incessantly, but not one fell close by, they all flew over. Alpatych
was getting into his trap. The innkeeper stood at the gate.
"What are you staring at?" he shouted to the cook, who in her red
skirt, with sleeves rolled up, swinging her bare elbows, had stepped
to the corner to listen to what was being said.
"What marvels!" she exclaimed, but hearing her master's voice she
turned back. pulling down her tucked-up skirt.
Once more something whistled, but this time quite close, swooping
downwards like a little bird; a flame flashed in the middle of the
street, something exploded, and the street was shrouded in smoke.
"Scoundrel, what are you doing?" shouted the innkeeper, rushing to
the cook.
At that moment the pitiful wailing of women was heard from different
sides, the frightened baby began to cry, and people crowded silently
with pale faces round the cook. The loudest sound in that crowd was
her wailing.
"Oh-h-h! Dear souls, dear kind souls! Don't let me die! My good
souls!..."
Five minutes later no one remained in the street. The cook, with her
thigh broken by a shell splinter, had been carried into the kitchen.
Alpatych, his coachman, Ferapontov's wife and children and the house
porter were all sitting in the cellar, listening. The roar of guns,
the whistling of projectiles, and the piteous moaning of the cook,
which rose above the other sounds, did not cease for a moment. The
mistress rocked and hushed her baby and when anyone came into the
cellar asked in a pathetic whisper what had become of her husband
who had remained in the street. A shopman who entered told her that
her husband had gone with others to the cathedral, whence they were
fetching the wonder-working icon of Smolensk.
Toward dusk the cannonade began to subside. Alpatych left the cellar
and stopped in the doorway. The evening sky that had been so clear was
clouded with smoke, through which, high up, the sickle of the new moon
shone strangely. Now that the terrible din of the guns had ceased a
hush seemed to reign over the town, broken only by the rustle of
footsteps, the moaning, the distant cries, and the crackle of fires
which seemed widespread everywhere. The cook's moans had now subsided.
On two sides black curling clouds of smoke rose and spread from the
fires. Through the streets soldiers in various uniforms walked or
ran confusedly in different directions like ants from a ruined
ant-hill. Several of them ran into Ferapontov's yard before Alpatych's
eyes. Alpatych went out to the gate. A retreating regiment,
thronging and hurrying, blocked the street.
Noticing him, an officer said: "The town is being abandoned. Get
away, get away!" and then, turning to the soldiers, shouted:
"I'll teach you to run into the yards!"
Alpatych went back to the house, called the coachman, and told him
to set off. Ferapontov's whole household came out too, following
Alpatych and the coachman. The women, who had been silent till then,
suddenly began to wail as they looked at the fires- the smoke and even
the flames of which could be seen in the failing twilight- and as if
in reply the same kind of lamentation was heard from other parts of
the street. Inside the shed Alpatych and the coachman arranged the
tangled reins and traces of their horses with trembling hands.
As Alpatych was driving out of the gate he saw some ten soldiers
in Ferapontov's open shop, talking loudly and filling their bags and
knapsacks with flour and sunflower seeds. Just then Ferapontov
returned and entered his shop. On seeing the soldiers he was about
to shout at them, but suddenly stopped and, clutching at his hair,
burst into sobs and laughter:
"Loot everything, lads! Don't let those devils get it!" he cried,
taking some bags of flour himself and throwing them into the street.
Some of the soldiers were frightened and ran away, others went on
filling their bags. On seeing Alpatych, Ferapontov turned to him:
"Russia is done for!" he cried. "Alpatych, I'll set the place on
fire myself. We're done for!..." and Ferapontov ran into the yard.
Soldiers were passing in a constant stream along the street blocking
it completely, so that Alpatych could not pass out and had to wait.
Ferapontov's wife and children were also sitting in a cart waiting
till it was possible to drive out.
Night had come. There were stars in the sky and the new moon shone
out amid the smoke that screened it. On the sloping descent to the
Dnieper Alpatych's cart and that of the innkeeper's wife, which were
slowly moving amid the rows of soldiers and of other vehicles, had
to stop. In a side street near the crossroads where the vehicles had
stopped, a house and some shops were on fire. This fire was already
burning itself out. The flames now died down and were lost in the
black smoke, now suddenly flared up again brightly, lighting up with
strange distinctness the faces of the people crowding at the
crossroads. Black figures flitted about before the fire, and through
the incessant crackling of the flames talking and shouting could be
heard. Seeing that his trap would not be able to move on for some
time, Alpatych got down and turned into the side street to look at the
fire. Soldiers were continually rushing backwards and forwards near
it, and he saw two of them and a man in a frieze coat dragging burning
beams into another yard across the street, while others carried
bundles of hay.
Alpatych went up to a large crowd standing before a high barn
which was blazing briskly. The walls were all on fire and the back
wall had fallen in, the wooden roof was collapsing, and the rafters
were alight. The crowd was evidently watching for the roof to fall in,
and Alpatych watched for it too.
"Alpatych!" a familiar voice suddenly hailed the old man.
"Mercy on us! Your excellency!" answered Alpatych, immediately
recognizing the voice of his young prince.
Prince Andrew in his riding cloak, mounted on a black horse, was
looking at Alpatych from the back of the crowd.
"Why are you here?" he asked.
"Your... your excellency," stammered Alpatych and broke into sobs.
"Are we really lost? Master!..."
"Why are you here?" Prince Andrew repeated.
At that moment the flames flared up and showed his young master's
pale worn face. Alpatych told how he had been sent there and how
difficult it was to get away.
"Are we really quite lost, your excellency?" he asked again.
Prince Andrew without replying took out a notebook and raising his
knee began writing in pencil on a page he tore out. He wrote to his
sister:
"Smolensk is being abandoned. Bald Hills will be occupied by the
enemy within a week. Set off immediately for Moscow. Let me know at
once when you will start. Send by special messenger to Usvyazh."
Having written this and given the paper to Alpatych, he told him how
to arrange for departure of the prince, the princess, his son, and the
boy's tutor, and how and where to let him know immediately. Before
he had had time to finish giving these instructions, a chief of
staff followed by a suite galloped up to him.
"You are a colonel?" shouted the chief of staff with a German
accent, in a voice familiar to Prince Andrew. "Houses are set on
fire in your presence and you stand by! What does this mean? You
will answer for it!" shouted Berg, who was now assistant to the
chief of staff of the commander of the left flank of the infantry of
the first army, a place, as Berg said, "very agreeable and well en
evidence."
Prince Andrew looked at him and without replying went on speaking to
Alpatych.
"So tell them that I shall await a reply till the tenth, and if by
the tenth I don't receive news that they have all got away I shall
have to throw up everything and come myself to Bald Hills."
"Prince," said Berg, recognizing Prince Andrew, "I only spoke
because I have to obey orders, because I always do obey exactly....
You must please excuse me," he went on apologetically.
Something cracked in the flames. The fire died down for a moment and
wreaths of black smoke rolled from under the roof. There was another
terrible crash and something huge collapsed.
"Ou-rou-rou!" yelled the crowd, echoing the crash of the
collapsing roof of the barn, the burning grain in which diffused a
cakelike aroma all around. The flames flared up again, lighting the
animated, delighted, exhausted faces of the spectators.
The man in the frieze coat raised his arms and shouted:
"It's fine, lads! Now it's raging... It's fine!"
"That's the owner himself," cried several voices.
"Well then," continued Prince Andrew to Alpatych, "report to them as
I have told you"; and not replying a word to Berg who was now mute
beside him, he touched his horse and rode down the side street.
CHAPTER V
From Smolensk the troops continued to retreat, followed by the
enemy. On the tenth of August the regiment Prince Andrew commanded was
marching along the highroad past the avenue leading to Bald Hills.
Heat and drought had continued for more than three weeks. Each day
fleecy clouds floated across the sky and occasionally veiled the
sun, but toward evening the sky cleared again and the sun set in
reddish-brown mist. Heavy night dews alone refreshed the earth. The
unreaped corn was scorched and shed its grain. The marshes dried up.
The cattle lowed from hunger, finding no food on the sun-parched
meadows. Only at night and in the forests while the dew lasted was
there any freshness. But on the road, the highroad along which the
troops marched, there was no such freshness even at night or when
the road passed through the forest; the dew was imperceptible on the
sandy dust churned up more than six inches deep. As soon as day dawned
the march began. The artillery and baggage wagons moved noiselessly
through the deep dust that rose to the very hubs of the wheels, and
the infantry sank ankle-deep in that soft, choking, hot dust that
never cooled even at night. Some of this dust was kneaded by the
feet and wheels, while the rest rose and hung like a cloud over the
troops, settling in eyes, ears, hair, and nostrils, and worst of all
in the lungs of the men and beasts as they moved along that road.
The higher the sun rose the higher rose that cloud of dust, and
through the screen of its hot fine particles one could look with naked
eye at the sun, which showed like a huge crimson ball in the unclouded
sky. There was no wind, and the men choked in that motionless
atmosphere. They marched with handkerchiefs tied over their noses
and mouths. When they passed through a village they all rushed to
the wells and fought for the water and drank it down to the mud.
Prince Andrew was in command of a regiment, and the management of
that regiment, the welfare of the men and the necessity of receiving
and giving orders, engrossed him. The burning of Smolensk and its
abandonment made an epoch in his life. A novel feeling of anger
against the foe made him forget his own sorrow. He was entirely
devoted to the affairs of his regiment and was considerate and kind to
his men and officers. In the regiment they called him "our prince,"
were proud of him and loved him. But he was kind and gentle only to
those of his regiment, to Timokhin and the like- people quite new to
him, belonging to a different world and who could not know and
understand his past. As soon as he came across a former acquaintance
or anyone from the staff, he bristled up immediately and grew
spiteful, ironical, and contemptuous. Everything that reminded him
of his past was repugnant to him, and so in his relations with that
former circle he confined himself to trying to do his duty and not
to be unfair.
In truth everything presented itself in a dark and gloomy light to
Prince Andrew, especially after the abandonment of Smolensk on the
sixth of August (he considered that it could and should have been
defended) and after his sick father had had to flee to Moscow,
abandoning to pillage his dearly beloved Bald Hills which he had built
and peopled. But despite this, thanks to his regiment, Prince Andrew
had something to think about entirely apart from general questions.
Two days previously he had received news that his father, son, and
sister had left for Moscow; and though there was nothing for him to do
at Bald Hills, Prince Andrew with a characteristic desire to foment
his own grief decided that he must ride there.
He ordered his horse to be saddled and, leaving his regiment on
the march, rode to his father's estate where he had been born and
spent his childhood. Riding past the pond where there used always to
be dozens of women chattering as they rinsed their linen or beat it
with wooden beetles, Prince Andrew noticed that there was not a soul
about and that the little washing wharf, torn from its place and
half submerged, was floating on its side in the middle of the pond. He
rode to the keeper's lodge. No one at the stone entrance gates of
the drive and the door stood open. Grass had already begun to grow
on the garden paths, and horses and calves were straying in the
English park. Prince Andrew rode up to the hothouse; some of the glass
panes were broken, and of the trees in tubs some were overturned and
others dried up. He called for Taras the gardener, but no one replied.
Having gone round the corner of the hothouse to the ornamental garden,
he saw that the carved garden fence was broken and branches of the
plum trees had been torn off with the fruit. An old peasant whom
Prince Andrew in his childhood had often seen at the gate was
sitting on a green garden seat, plaiting a bast shoe.
He was deaf and did not hear Prince Andrew ride up. He was sitting
on the seat the old prince used to like to sit on, and beside him
strips of bast were hanging on the broken and withered branch of a
magnolia.
Prince Andrew rode up to the house. Several limes in the old
garden had been cut down and a piebald mare and her foal were
wandering in front of the house among the rosebushes. The shutters
were all closed, except at one window which was open. A little serf
boy, seeing Prince Andrew, ran into the house. Alpatych, having sent
his family away, was alone at Bald Hills and was sitting indoors
reading the Lives of the Saints. On hearing that Prince Andrew had
come, he went out with his spectacles on his nose, buttoning his coat,
and, hastily stepping up, without a word began weeping and kissing
Prince Andrew's knee.
Then, vexed at his own weakness, he turned away and began to
report on the position of affairs. Everything precious and valuable
had been removed to Bogucharovo. Seventy quarters of grain had also
been carted away. The hay and the spring corn, of which Alpatych
said there had been a remarkable crop that year, had been commandeered
by the troops and mown down while still green. The peasants were
ruined; some of them too had gone to Bogucharovo, only a few remained.
Without waiting to hear him out, Prince Andrew asked:
"When did my father and sister leave?" meaning when did they leave
for Moscow.
Alpatych, understanding the question to refer to their departure for
Bogucharovo, replied that they had left on the seventh and again
went into details concerning the estate management, asking for
instructions.
"Am I to let the troops have the oats, and to take a receipt for
them? We have still six hundred quarters left," he inquired.
"What am I to say to him?" thought Prince Andrew, looking down on
the old man's bald head shining in the sun and seeing by the
expression on his face that the old man himself understood how
untimely such questions were and only asked them to allay his grief.
"Yes, let them have it," replied Prince Andrew.
"If you noticed some disorder in the garden," said Alpatych, "it was
impossible to prevent it. Three regiments have been here and spent the
night, dragoons mostly. I took down the name and rank of their
commanding officer, to hand in a complaint about it."
"Well, and what are you going to do? Will you stay here if the enemy
occupies the place?" asked Prince Andrew.
Alpatych turned his face to Prince Andrew, looked at him, and
suddenly with a solemn gesture raised his arm.
"He is my refuge! His will be done!" he exclaimed.
A group of bareheaded peasants was approaching across the meadow
toward the prince.
"Well, good-by!" said Prince Andrew, bending over to Alpatych.
"You must go away too, take away what you can and tell the serfs to go
to the Ryazan estate or to the one near Moscow."
Alpatych clung to Prince Andrew's leg and burst into sobs. Gently
disengaging himself, the prince spurred his horse and rode down the
avenue at a gallop.
The old man was still sitting in the ornamental garden, like a fly
impassive on the face of a loved one who is dead, tapping the last
on which he was making the bast shoe, and two little girls, running
out from the hot house carrying in their skirts plums they had plucked
from the trees there, came upon Prince Andrew. On seeing the young
master, the elder one frightened look clutched her younger companion
by the hand and hid with her behind a birch tree, not stopping to pick
up some green plums they had dropped.
Prince Andrew turned away with startled haste, unwilling to let them
see that they had been observed. He was sorry for the pretty
frightened little girl, was afraid of looking at her, and yet felt
an irresistible desire to do so. A new sensation of comfort and relief
came over him when, seeing these girls, he realized the existence of
other human interests entirely aloof from his own and just as
legitimate as those that occupied him. Evidently these girls
passionately desired one thing- to carry away and eat those green
plums without being caught- and Prince Andrew shared their wish for
the success of their enterprise. He could not resist looking at them
once more. Believing their danger past, they sprang from their
ambush and, chirruping something in their shrill little voices and
holding up their skirts, their bare little sunburned feet scampered
merrily and quickly across the meadow grass.
Prince Andrew was somewhat refreshed by having ridden off the
dusty highroad along which the troops were moving. But not far from
Bald Hills he again came out on the road and overtook his regiment
at its halting place by the dam of a small pond. It was past one
o'clock. The sun, a red ball through the dust, burned and scorched his
back intolerably through his black coat. The dust always hung
motionless above the buzz of talk that came from the resting troops.
There was no wind. As he crossed the dam Prince Andrew smelled the
ooze and freshness of the pond. He longed to get into that water,
however dirty it might be, and he glanced round at the pool from
whence came sounds of shrieks and laughter. The small, muddy, green
pond had risen visibly more than a foot, flooding the dam, because
it was full of the naked white bodies of soldiers with brick-red
hands, necks, and faces, who were splashing about in it. All this
naked white human flesh, laughing and shrieking, floundered about in
that dirty pool like carp stuffed into a watering can, and the
suggestion of merriment in that floundering mass rendered it specially
pathetic.
One fair-haired young soldier of the third company, whom Prince
Andrew knew and who had a strap round the calf of one leg, crossed
himself, stepped back to get a good run, and plunged into the water;
another, a dark noncommissioned officer who was always shaggy, stood
up to his waist in the water joyfully wriggling his muscular figure
and snorted with satisfaction as he poured the water over his head
with hands blackened to the wrists. There were sounds of men
slapping one another, yelling, and puffing.
Everywhere on the bank, on the dam, and in the pond, there was
healthy, white, muscular flesh. The officer, Timokhin, with his red
little nose, standing on the dam wiping himself with a towel, felt
confused at seeing the prince, but made up his mind to address him
nevertheless.
"It's very nice, your excellency! Wouldn't you like to?" said he.
"It's dirty," replied Prince Andrew, making a grimace.
"We'll clear it out for you in a minute," said Timokhin, and,
still undressed, ran off to clear the men out of the pond.
"The prince wants to bathe."
"What prince? Ours?" said many voices, and the men were in such
haste to clear out that the prince could hardly stop them. He
decided that he would rather himself with water in the barn.
"Flesh, bodies, cannon fodder!" he thought, and he looked at his own
naked body and shuddered, not from cold but from a sense of disgust
and horror he did not himself understand, aroused by the sight of that
immense number of bodies splashing about in the dirty pond.
On the seventh of August Prince Bagration wrote as follows from
his quarters at Mikhaylovna on the Smolensk road:
Dear Count Alexis Andreevich- (He was writing to Arakcheev but
knew that his letter would be read by the Emperor, and therefore
weighed every word in it to the best of his ability.)
I expect the Minister [Barclay de Tolly] has already reported the
abandonment of Smolensk to the enemy. It is pitiable and sad, and
the whole army is in despair that this most important place has been
wantonly abandoned. I, for my part, begged him personally most
urgently and finally wrote him, but nothing would induce him to
consent. I swear to you on my honor that Napoleon was in such a fix as
never before and might have lost half his army but could not have
taken Smolensk. Our troops fought, and are fighting, as never
before. With fifteen thousand men I held the enemy at bay for
thirty-five hours and beat him; but he would not hold out even for
fourteen hours. It is disgraceful, a stain on our army, and as for
him, he ought, it seems to me, not to live. If he reports that our
losses were great, it is not true; perhaps about four thousand, not
more, and not even that; but even were they ten thousand, that's
war! But the enemy has lost masses...
What would it have cost him to hold out for another two days? They
would have had to retire of their own accord, for they had no water
for men or horses. He gave me his word he would not retreat, but
suddenly sent instructions that he was retiring that night. We
cannot fight in this way, or we may soon bring the enemy to Moscow...
There is a rumor that you are thinking of peace. God forbid that you
should make peace after all our sacrifices and such insane retreats!
You would set all Russia against you and every one of us would feel
ashamed to wear the uniform. If it has come to this- we must fight
as long as Russia can and as long as there are men able to stand...
One man ought to be in command, and not two. Your Minister may
perhaps be good as a Minister, but as a general he is not merely bad
but execrable, yet to him is entrusted the fate of our whole
country.... I am really frantic with vexation; forgive my writing
boldly. It is clear that the man who advocates the conclusion of a
peace, and that the Minister should command the army, does not love
our sovereign and desires the ruin of us all. So I write you
frankly: call out the militia. For the Minister is leading these
visitors after him to Moscow in a most masterly way. The whole army
feels great suspicion of the Imperial aide-de-camp Wolzogen. He is
said to be more Napoleon's man than ours, and he is always advising
the Minister. I am not merely civil to him but obey him like a
corporal, though I am his senior. This is painful, but, loving my
benefactor and sovereign, I submit. Only I am sorry for the Emperor
that he entrusts our fine army to such as he. Consider that on our
retreat we have lost by fatigue and left in the hospital more than
fifteen thousand men, and had we attacked this would not have
happened. Tell me, for God's sake, what will Russia, our mother
Russia, say to our being so frightened, and why are we abandoning
our good and gallant Fatherland to such rabble and implanting feelings
of hatred and shame in all our subjects? What are we scared at and
of whom are we afraid? I am not to blame that the Minister is
vacillating, a coward, dense, dilatory, and has all bad qualities. The
whole army bewails it and calls down curses upon him...
CHAPTER VI
Among the innumerable categories applicable to the phenomena of
human life one may discriminate between those in which substance
prevails and those in which form prevails. To the latter- as
distinguished from village, country, provincial, or even Moscow
life- we may allot Petersburg life, and especially the life of its
salons. That life of the salons is unchanging. Since the year 1805
we had made peace and had again quarreled with Bonaparte and had
made constitutions and unmade them again, but the salons of Anna
Pavlovna Helene remained just as they had been- the one seven and
the other five years before. At Anna Pavlovna's they talked with
perplexity of Bonaparte's successes just as before and saw in them and
in the subservience shown to him by the European sovereigns a
malicious conspiracy, the sole object of which was to cause
unpleasantness and anxiety to the court circle of which Anna
Pavlovna was the representative. And in Helene's salon, which
Rumyantsev himself honored with his visits, regarding Helene as a
remarkably intelligent woman, they talked with the same ecstasy in
1812 as in 1808 of the "great nation" and the "great man," and
regretted our rupture with France, a rupture which, according to them,
ought to be promptly terminated by peace.
Of late, since the Emperor's return from the army, there had been
some excitement in these conflicting salon circles and some
demonstrations of hostility to one another, but each camp retained its
own tendency. In Anna Pavlovna's circle only those Frenchmen were
admitted who were deep-rooted legitimists, and patriotic views were
expressed to the effect that one ought not to go to the French theater
and that to maintain the French troupe was costing the government as
much as a whole army corps. The progress of the war was eagerly
followed, and only the reports most flattering to our army were
circulated. In the French circle of Helene and Rumyantsev the
reports of the cruelty of the enemy and of the war were contradicted
and all Napoleon's attempts at conciliation were discussed. In that
circle they discountenanced those who advised hurried preparations for
a removal to Kazan of the court and the girls' educational
establishments under the patronage of the Dowager Empress. In Helene's
circle the war in general was regarded as a series of formal
demonstrations which would very soon end in peace, and the view
prevailed expressed by Bilibin- who now in Petersburg was quite at
home in Helene's house, which every clever man was obliged to visit-
that not by gunpowder but by those who invented it would matters be
settled. In that circle the Moscow enthusiasm- news of which had
reached Petersburg simultaneously with the Emperor's return- was
ridiculed sarcastically and very cleverly, though with much caution.
Anna Pavlovna's circle on the contrary was enraptured by this
enthusiasm and spoke of it as Plutarch speaks of the deeds of the
ancients. Prince Vasili, who still occupied his former important
posts, formed a connecting link between these two circles. He
visited his "good friend Anna Pavlovna" as well as his daughter's
"diplomatic salon," and often in his constant comings and goings
between the two camps became confused and said at Helene's what he
should have said at Anna Pavlovna's and vice versa.
Soon after the Emperor's return Prince Vasili in a conversation
about the war at Anna Pavlovna's severely condemned Barclay de
Tolly, but was undecided as to who ought to be appointed commander
in chief. One of the visitors, usually spoken of as "a man of great
merit," having described how he had that day seen Kutuzov, the newly
chosen chief of the Petersburg militia, presiding over the
enrollment of recruits at the Treasury, cautiously ventured to suggest
that Kutuzov would be the man to satisfy all requirements.
Anna Pavlovna remarked with a melancholy smile that Kutuzov had done
nothing but cause the Emperor annoyance.
"I have talked and talked at the Assembly of the Nobility," Prince
Vasili interrupted, "but they did not listen to me. I told them his
election as chief of the militia would not please the Emperor. They
did not listen to me.
"It's all this mania for opposition," he went on. "And who for? It
is all because we want to ape the foolish enthusiasm of those
Muscovites," Prince Vasili continued, forgetting for a moment that
though at Helene's one had to ridicule the Moscow enthusiasm, at
Anna Pavlovna's one had to be ecstatic about it. But he retrieved
his mistake at once. "Now, is it suitable that Count Kutuzov, the
oldest general in Russia, should preside at that tribunal? He will get
nothing for his pains! How could they make a man commander in chief
who cannot mount a horse, who drops asleep at a council, and has the
very worst morals! A good reputation he made for himself at Bucharest!
I don't speak of his capacity as a general, but at a time like this
how they appoint a decrepit, blind old man, positively
blind? A fine idea to have a blind general! He can't see anything.
To play blindman's bluff? He can't see at all!"
No one replied to his remarks.
This was quite correct on the twenty-fourth of July. But on the
twenty-ninth of July Kutuzov received the title of Prince. This
might indicate a wish to get rid of him, and therefore Prince Vasili's
opinion continued to be correct though he was not now in any hurry
to express it. But on the eighth of August a committee, consisting
of Field Marshal Saltykov, Arakcheev, Vyazmitinov, Lopukhin, and
Kochubey met to consider the progress of the war. This committee
came to the conclusion that our failures were due to a want of unity
in the command and though the members of the committee were aware of
the Emperor's dislike of Kutuzov, after a short deliberation they
agreed to advise his appointment as commander in chief. That same
day Kutuzov was appointed commander in chief with full powers over the
armies and over the whole region occupied by them.
On the ninth of August Prince Vasili at Anna Pavlovna's again met
the "man of great merit." The latter was very attentive to Anna
Pavlovna because he wanted to be appointed director of one of the
educational establishments for young ladies. Prince Vasili entered the
room with the air of a happy conqueror who has attained the object
of his desires.
"Well, have you heard the great news? Prince Kutuzov is field
marshal! All dissensions are at an end! I am so glad, so delighted! At
last we have a man!" said he, glancing sternly and significantly round
at everyone in the drawing room.
The "man of great merit," despite his desire to obtain the post of
director, could not refrain from reminding Prince Vasili of his former
opinion. Though this was impolite to Prince Vasili in Anna
Pavlovna's drawing room, and also to Anna Pavlovna herself who had
received the news with delight, he could not resist the temptation.
"But, Prince, they say he is blind!" said he, reminding Prince
Vasili of his own words.
"Eh? Nonsense! He sees well enough," said Prince Vasili rapidly,
in a deep voice and with a slight cough- the voice and cough with
which he was wont to dispose of all difficulties.
"He sees well enough," he added. "And what I am so pleased about,"
he went on, "is that our sovereign has given him full powers over
all the armies and the whole region- powers no commander in chief ever
had before. He is a second autocrat," he concluded with a victorious
smile.
"God grant it! God grant it!" said Anna Pavlovna.
The "man of great merit," who was still a novice in court circles,
wishing to flatter Anna Pavlovna by defending her former position on
this question, observed:
"It is said that the Emperor was reluctant to give Kutuzov those
powers. They say he blushed like a girl to whom Joconde is read,
when he said to Kutuzov: 'Your Emperor and the Fatherland award you
this honor.'
"Perhaps the heart took no part in that speech," said Anna Pavlovna.
"Oh, no, no!" warmly rejoined Prince Vasili, who would not now yield
Kutuzov to anyone; in his opinion Kutuzov was not only admirable
himself, but was adored by everybody. "No, that's impossible," said
he, "for our sovereign appreciated him so highly before."
"God grant only that Prince Kutuzov assumes real power and does
not allow anyone to put a spoke in his wheel," observed Anna Pavlovna.
Understanding at once to whom she alluded, Prince Vasili said in a
whisper:
"I know for a fact that Kutuzov made it an absolute condition that
the Tsarevich should not be with the army. Do you know what he said to
the Emperor?"
And Prince Vasili repeated the words supposed to have been spoken by
Kutuzov to the Emperor. "I can neither punish him if he does wrong nor
reward him if he does right."
"Oh, a very wise man is Prince Kutuzov! I have known him a long
time!"
"They even say," remarked the "man of great merit" who did not yet
possess courtly tact, "that his excellency made it an express
condition that the sovereign himself should not be with the army."
As soon as he said this both Prince Vasili and Anna Pavlovna
turned away from him and glanced sadly at one another with a sigh at
his naivete.
CHAPTER VII
While this was taking place in Petersburg the French had already
passed Smolensk and were drawing nearer and nearer to Moscow.
Napoleon's historian Thiers, like other of his historians, trying to
justify his hero says that he was drawn to the walls of Moscow against
his will. He is as right as other historians who look for the
explanation of historic events in the will of one man; he is as
right as the Russian historians who maintain that Napoleon was drawn
to Moscow by the skill of the Russian commanders. Here besides the law
of retrospection, which regards all the past as a preparation for
events that subsequently occur, the law of reciprocity comes in,
confusing the whole matter. A good chessplayer having lost a game is
sincerely convinced that his loss resulted from a mistake he made
and looks for that mistake in the opening, but forgets that at each
stage of the game there were similar mistakes and that none of his
moves were perfect. He only notices the mistake to which he pays
attention, because his opponent took advantage of it. How much more
complex than this is the game of war, which occurs under certain
limits of time, and where it is not one will that manipulates lifeless
objects, but everything results from innumerable conflicts of
various wills!
After Smolensk Napoleon sought a battle beyond Dorogobuzh at Vyazma,
and then at Tsarevo-Zaymishche, but it happened that owing to a
conjunction of innumerable circumstances the Russians could not give
battle till they reached Borodino, seventy miles from Moscow. From
Vyazma Napoleon ordered a direct advance on Moscow.
Moscou, la capitale asiatique de ce grand empire, la ville sacree
des peuples d'Alexandre, Moscou avec ses innombrables eglises en forme
de pagodes chinoises,* this Moscow gave Napoleon's imagination no
rest. On the march from Vyazma to Tsarevo-Zaymishche he rode his light
bay bobtailed ambler accompanied by his Guards, his bodyguard, his
pages, and aides-de-camp. Berthier, his chief of staff, dropped behind
to question a Russian prisoner captured by the cavalry. Followed by
Lelorgne d'Ideville, an interpreter, he overtook Napoleon at a
gallop and reined in his horse with an amused expression.
*"Moscow, the Asiatic capital of this great empire, the sacred
city of Alexander's people, Moscow with its innumerable churches
shaped like Chinese pagodas."
"Well?" asked Napoleon.
"One of Platov's Cossacks says that Platov's corps is joining up
with the main army and that Kutuzov has been appointed commander in
chief. He is a very shrewd and garrulous fellow."
Napoleon smiled and told them to give the Cossack a horse and
bring the man to him. He wished to talk to him himself. Several
adjutants galloped off, and an hour later, Lavrushka, the serf Denisov
had handed over to Rostov, rode up to Napoleon in an orderly's
jacket and on a French cavalry saddle, with a merry, and tipsy face.
Napoleon told him to ride by his side and began questioning him.
"You are a Cossack?"
"Yes, a Cossack, your Honor."
"The Cossack, not knowing in what company he was, for Napoleon's
plain appearance had nothing about it that would reveal to an Oriental
mind the presence of a monarch, talked with extreme familiarity of the
incidents of the war," says Thiers, narrating this episode. In reality
Lavrushka, having got drunk the day before and left his master
dinnerless, had been whipped and sent to the village in quest of
chickens, where he engaged in looting till the French took him
prisoner. Lavrushka was one of those coarse, bare-faced lackeys who
have seen all sorts of things, consider it necessary to do
everything in a mean and cunning way, are ready to render any sort
of service to their master, and are keen at guessing their master's
baser impulses, especially those prompted by vanity and pettiness.
Finding himself in the company of Napoleon, whose identity he had
easily and surely recognized, Lavrushka was not in the least abashed
but merely did his utmost to gain his new master's favor.
He knew very well that this was Napoleon, but Napoleon's presence
could no more intimidate him than Rostov's, or a sergeant major's with
the rods, would have done, for he had nothing that either the sergeant
major or Napoleon could deprive him of.
So he rattled on, telling all the gossip he had heard among the
orderlies. Much of it true. But when Napoleon asked him whether the
Russians thought they would beat Bonaparte or not, Lavrushka screwed
up his eyes and considered.
In this question he saw subtle cunning, as men of his type see
cunning in everything, so he frowned and did not answer immediately.
"It's like this," he said thoughtfully, "if there's a battle soon,
yours will win. That's right. But if three days pass, then after that,
well, then that same battle will not soon be over."
Lelorgne d'Ideville smilingly interpreted this speech to Napoleon
thus: "If a battle takes place within the next three days the French
will win, but if later, God knows what will happen." Napoleon did
not smile, though he was evidently in high good humor, and he
ordered these words to be repeated.
Lavrushka noticed this and to entertain him further, pretending
not to know who Napoleon was, added:
"We know that you have Bonaparte and that he has beaten everybody in
the world, but we are a different matter..."- without knowing why or
how this bit of boastful patriotism slipped out at the end.
The interpreter translated these words without the last phrase,
and Bonaparte smiled. "The young Cossack made his mighty
interlocutor smile," says Thiers. After riding a few paces in silence,
Napoleon turned to Berthier and said he wished to see how the news
that he was talking to the Emperor himself, to that very Emperor who
had written his immortally victorious name on the Pyramids, would
affect this enfant du Don.*
*"Child of the Don."
The fact was accordingly conveyed to Lavrushka.
Lavrushka, understanding that this was done to perplex him and
that Napoleon expected him to be frightened, to gratify his new
masters promptly pretended to be astonished and awe-struck, opened his
eyes wide, and assumed the expression he usually put on when taken
to be whipped. "As soon as Napoleon's interpreter had spoken," says
Thiers, "the Cossack, seized by amazement, did not utter another word,
but rode on, his eyes fixed on the conqueror whose fame had reached
him across the steppes of the East. All his loquacity was suddenly
arrested and replaced by a naive and silent feeling of admiration.
Napoleon, after making the Cossack a present, had him set free like
a bird restored to its native fields."
Napoleon rode on, dreaming of the Moscow that so appealed to his
imagination, and "the bird restored to its native fields" galloped
to our outposts, inventing on the way all that had not taken place but
that he meant to relate to his comrades. What had really taken place
he did not wish to relate because it seemed to him not worth
telling. He found the Cossacks, inquired for the regiment operating
with Platov's detachment and by evening found his master, Nicholas
Rostov, quartered at Yankovo. Rostov was just mounting to go for a
ride round the neighboring villages with Ilyin; he let Lavrushka
have another horse and took him along with him.
CHAPTER VIII
Princess Mary was not in Moscow and out of danger as Prince Andrew
supposed.
After the return of Alpatych from Smolensk the old prince suddenly
seemed to awake as from a dream. He ordered the militiamen to be
called up from the villages and armed, and wrote a letter to the
commander in chief informing him that he had resolved to remain at
Bald Hills to the last extremity and to defend it, leaving to the
commander in chief's discretion to take measures or not for the
defense of Bald Hills, where one of Russia's oldest generals would
be captured or killed, and he announced to his household that he would
remain at Bald Hills.
But while himself remaining, he gave instructions for the
departure of the princess and Dessalles with the little prince to
Bogucharovo and thence to Moscow. Princess Mary, alarmed by her
father's feverish and sleepless activity after his previous apathy,
could not bring herself to leave him alone and for the first time in
her life ventured to disobey him. She refused to go away and her
father's fury broke over her in a terrible storm. He repeated every
injustice he had ever inflicted on her. Trying to convict her, he told
her she had worn him out, had caused his quarrel with his son, had
harbored nasty suspicions of him, making it the object of her life
to poison his existence, and he drove her from his study telling her
that if she did not go away it was all the same to him. He declared
that he did not wish to remember her existence and warned her not to
dare to let him see her. The fact that he did not, as she had
feared, order her to be carried away by force but only told her not to
let him see her cheered Princess Mary. She knew it was a proof that in
the depth of his soul he was glad she was remaining at home and had
not gone away.
The morning after little Nicholas had left, the old prince donned
his full uniform and prepared to visit the commander in chief. His
caleche was already at the door. Princess Mary saw him walk out of the
house in his uniform wearing all his orders and go down the garden
to review his armed peasants and domestic serfs. She sat by the window
listening to his voice which reached her from the garden. Suddenly
several men came running up the avenue with frightened faces.
Princess Mary ran out to the porch, down the flower-bordered path,
and into the avenue. A large crowd of militiamen and domestics were
moving toward her, and in their midst several men were supporting by
the armpits and dragging along a little old man in a uniform and
decorations. She ran up to him and, in the play of the sunlight that
fell in small round spots through the shade of the lime-tree avenue,
could not be sure what change there was in his face. All she could see
was that his former stern and determined expression had altered to one
of timidity and submission. On seeing his daughter he moved his
helpless lips and made a hoarse sound. It was impossible to make out
what he wanted. He was lifted up, carried to his study, and laid on
the very couch he had so feared of late.
The doctor, who was fetched that same night, bled him and said
that the prince had had a seizure paralyzing his right side.
It was becoming more and more dangerous to remain at Bald Hills, and
next day they moved the prince to Bogucharovo, the doctor accompanying
him.
By the time they reached Bogucharovo, Dessalles and the little
prince had already left for Moscow.
For three weeks the old prince lay stricken by paralysis in the
new house Prince Andrew had built at Bogucharovo, ever in the same
state, getting neither better nor worse. He was unconscious and lay
like a distorted corpse. He muttered unceasingly, his eyebrows and
lips twitching, and it was impossible to tell whether he understood
what was going on around him or not. One thing was certain- that he
was suffering and wished to say something. But what it was, no one
could tell: it might be some caprice of a sick and half-crazy man,
or it might relate to public affairs, or possibly to family concerns.
The doctor said this restlessness did not mean anything and was
due to physical causes; but Princess Mary thought he wished to tell
her something, and the fact that her presence always increased his
restlessness confirmed her opinion.
He was evidently suffering both physically and mentally. There was
no hope of recovery. It was impossible for him to travel, it would not
do to let him die on the road. "Would it not be better if the end
did come, the very end?" Princess Mary sometimes thought. Night and
day, hardly sleeping at all, she watched him and, terrible to say,
often watched him not with hope of finding signs of improvement but
wishing to find symptoms of the approach of the end.
Strange as it was to her to acknowledge this feeling in herself, yet
there it was. And what seemed still more terrible to her was that
since her father's illness began (perhaps even sooner, when she stayed
with him expecting something to happen), all the personal desires
and hopes that had been forgotten or sleeping within her had awakened.
Thoughts that had not entered her mind for years- thoughts of a life
free from the fear of her father, and even the possibility of love and
of family happiness- floated continually in her imagination like
temptations of the devil. Thrust them aside as she would, questions
continually recurred to her as to how she would order her life now,
after that. These were temptations of the devil and Princess Mary knew
it. She knew that the sole weapon against him was prayer, and she
tried to pray. She assumed an attitude of prayer, looked at the icons,
repeated the words of a prayer, but she could not pray. She felt
that a different world had now taken possession of her- the life of
a world of strenuous and free activity, quite opposed to the spiritual
world in which till now she had been confined and in which her
greatest comfort had been prayer. She could not pray, could not
weep, and worldly cares took possession of her.
It was becoming dangerous to remain in Bogucharovo. News of the
approach of the French came from all sides, and in one village, ten
miles from Bogucharovo, a homestead had been looted by French
marauders.
The doctor insisted on the necessity of moving the prince; the
provincial Marshal of the Nobility sent an official to Princess Mary
to persuade her to get away as quickly as possible, and the head of
the rural police having come to Bogucharovo urged the same thing,
saying that the French were only some twenty-five miles away, that
French proclamations were circulating in the villages, and that if the
princess did not take her father away before the fifteenth, he could
not answer for the consequences.
The princess decided to leave on the fifteenth. The cares of
preparation and giving orders, for which everyone came to her,
occupied her all day. She spent the night of the fourteenth as
usual, without undressing, in the room next to the one where the
prince lay. Several times, waking up, she heard his groans and
muttering, the creak of his bed, and the steps of Tikhon and the
doctor when they turned him over. Several times she listened at the
door, and it seemed to her that his mutterings were louder than
usual and that they turned him over oftener. She could not sleep and
several times went to the door and listened, wishing to enter but
not deciding to do so. Though he did not speak, Princess Mary saw
and knew how unpleasant every sign of anxiety on his account was to
him. She had noticed with what dissatisfaction he turned from the look
she sometimes involuntarily fixed on him. She knew that her going in
during the night at an unusual hour would irritate him.
But never had she felt so grieved for him or so much afraid of
losing him. She recalled all her life with him and in every word and
act of his found an expression of his love of her. Occasionally amid
these memories temptations of the devil would surge into her
imagination: thoughts of how things would be after his death, and
how her new, liberated life would be ordered. But she drove these
thoughts away with disgust. Toward morning he became quiet and she
fell asleep.
She woke late. That sincerity which often comes with waking showed
her clearly what chiefly concerned her about her father's illness.
On waking she listened to what was going on behind the door and,
hearing him groan, said to herself with a sigh that things were
still the same.
"But what could have happened? What did I want? I want his death!"
she cried with a feeling of loathing for herself.
She washed, dressed, said her prayers, and went out to the porch. In
front of it stood carriages without horses and things were being
packed into the vehicles.
It was a warm, gray morning. Princess Mary stopped at the porch,
still horrified by her spiritual baseness and trying to arrange her
thoughts before going to her father. The doctor came downstairs and
went out to her.
"He is a little better today," said he. "I was looking for you.
One can make out something of what he is saying. His head is
clearer. Come in, he is asking for you..."
Princess Mary's heart beat so violently at this news that she grew
pale and leaned against the wall to keep from falling. To see him,
talk to him, feel his eyes on her now that her whole soul was
overflowing with those dreadful, wicked temptations, was a torment
of joy and terror.
"Come," said the doctor.
Princess Mary entered her father's room and went up to his bed. He
was lying on his back propped up high, and his small bony hands with
their knotted purple veins were lying on the quilt; his left eye gazed
straight before him, his right eye was awry, and his brows and lips
motionless. He seemed altogether so thin, small, and pathetic. His
face seemed to have shriveled or melted; his features had grown
smaller. Princess Mary went up and kissed his hand. His left hand
pressed hers so that she understood that he had long been waiting
for her to come. He twitched her hand, and his brows and lips quivered
angrily.
She looked at him in dismay trying to guess what he wanted of her.
When she changed her position so that his left eye could see her
face he calmed down, not taking his eyes off her for some seconds.
Then his lips and tongue moved, sounds came, and he began to speak,
gazing timidly and imploringly at her, evidently afraid that she might
not understand.
Straining all her faculties Princess Mary looked at him. The comic
efforts with which he moved his tongue made her drop her eyes and with
difficulty repress the sobs that rose to her throat. He said
something, repeating the same words several times. She could not
understand them, but tried to guess what he was saying and inquiringly
repeated the words he uttered.
"Mmm...ar...ate...ate..." he repeated several times.
It was quite impossible to understand these sounds. The doctor
thought he had guessed them, and inquiringly repeated: "Mary, are
you afraid?" The prince shook his head, again repeated the same
sounds.
"My mind, my mind aches?" questioned Princess Mary.
He made a mumbling sound in confirmation of this, took her hand, and
began pressing it to different parts of his breast as if trying to
find the right place for it.
"Always thoughts... about you... thoughts..." he then uttered much
more clearly than he had done before, now that he was sure of being
understood.
Princess Mary pressed her head against his hand, trying to hide
her sobs and tears.
He moved his hand over her hair.
"I have been calling you all night..." he brought out.
"If only I had known..." she said through her tears. "I was afraid
to come in."
He pressed her hand.
"Weren't you asleep?"
"No, I did not sleep," said Princess Mary, shaking her head.
Unconsciously imitating her father, she now tried to express herself
as he did, as much as possible by signs, and her tongue too seemed
to move with difficulty.
"Dear one... Dearest..." Princess Mary could not quite make out what
he had said, but from his look it was clear that he had uttered a
tender caressing word such as he had never used to her before. "Why
didn't you come in?"
"And I was wishing for his death!" thought Princess Mary.
He was silent awhile.
"Thank you... daughter dear!... for all, for all... forgive!...
thank you!... forgive!... thank you!..." and tears began to flow
from his eyes. "Call Andrew!" he said suddenly, and a childish,
timid expression of doubt showed itself on his face as he spoke.
He himself seemed aware that his demand was meaningless. So at least
it seemed to Princess Mary.
"I have a letter from him," she replied.
He glanced at her with timid surprise.
"Where is he?"
"He's with the army, Father, at Smolensk."
He closed his eyes and remained silent a long time. Then as if in
answer to his doubts and to confirm the fact that now he understood
and remembered everything, he nodded his head and reopened his eyes.
"Yes," he said, softly and distinctly. "Russia has perished. They've
destroyed her."
And he began to sob, and again tears flowed from his eyes.
Princess Mary could no longer restrain herself and wept while she
gazed at his face.
Again he closed his eyes. His sobs ceased, he pointed to his eyes,
and Tikhon, understanding him, wiped away the tears.
Then he again opened his eyes and said something none of them
could understand for a long time, till at last Tikhon understood and
repeated it. Princess Mary had sought the meaning of his words in
the mood in which he had just been speaking. She thought he was
speaking of Russia, or Prince Andrew, of herself, of his grandson,
or of his own death, and so she could not guess his words.
"Put on your white dress. I like it," was what he said.
Having understood this Princess Mary sobbed still louder, and the
doctor taking her arm led her out to the veranda, soothing her and
trying to persuade her to prepare for her journey. When she had left
the room the prince again began speaking about his son, about the war,
and about the Emperor, angrily twitching his brows and raising his
hoarse voice, and then he had a second and final stroke.
Princess Mary stayed on the veranda. The day had cleared, it was hot
and sunny. She could understand nothing, think of nothing and feel
nothing, except passionate love for her father, love such as she
thought she had never felt till that moment. She ran out sobbing
into the garden and as far as the pond, along the avenues of young
lime trees Prince Andrew had planted.
"Yes... I... I... I wished for his death! Yes, I wanted it to end
quicker.... I wished to be at peace.... And what will become of me?
What use will peace be when he is no longer here?" Princess Mary
murmured, pacing the garden with hurried steps and pressing her
hands to her bosom which heaved with convulsive sobs.
When she had completed the tour of the garden, which brought her
again to the house, she saw Mademoiselle Bourienne- who had remained
at Bogucharovo and did not wish to leave it- coming toward her with
a stranger. This was the Marshal of the Nobility of the district,
who had come personally to point out to the princess the necessity for
her prompt departure. Princess Mary listened without understanding
him; she led him to the house, offered him lunch, and sat down with
him. Then, excusing herself, she went to the door of the old
prince's room. The doctor came out with an agitated face and said
she could not enter.
"Go away, Princess! Go away... go away!"
She returned to the garden and sat down on the grass at the foot
of the slope by the pond, where no one could see her. She did not know
how long she had been there when she was aroused by the sound of a
woman's footsteps running along the path. She rose and saw Dunyasha
her maid, who was evidently looking for her, and who stopped
suddenly as if in alarm on seeing her mistress.
"Please come, Princess... The Prince," said Dunyasha in a breaking
voice.
"Immediately, I'm coming, I'm coming!" replied the princess
hurriedly, not giving Dunyasha time to finish what she was saying, and
trying to avoid seeing the girl she ran toward the house.
"Princess, it's God's will! You must be prepared for everything,"
said the Marshal, meeting her at the house door.
"Let me alone; it's not true!" she cried angrily to him.
The doctor tried to stop her. She pushed him aside and ran to her
father's door. "Why are these people with frightened faces stopping
me? I don't want any of them! And what are they doing here?" she
thought. She opened the door and the bright daylight in that
previously darkened room startled her. In the room were her nurse
and other women. They all drew back from the bed, making way for
her. He was still lying on the bed as before, but the stern expression
of his quiet face made Princess Mary stop short on the threshold.
"No, he's not dead- it's impossible!" she told herself and
approached him, and repressing the terror that seized her, she pressed
her lips to his cheek. But she stepped back immediately. All the force
of the tenderness she had been feeling for him vanished instantly
and was replaced by a feeling of horror at what lay there before
her. "No, he is no more! He is not, but here where he was is something
unfamiliar and hostile, some dreadful, terrifying, and repellent
mystery!" And hiding her face in her hands, Princess Mary sank into
the arms of the doctor, who held her up.
In the presence of Tikhon and the doctor the women washed what had
been the prince, tied his head up with a handkerchief that the mouth
should not stiffen while open, and with another handkerchief tied
together the legs that were already spreading apart. Then they dressed
him in uniform with his decorations and placed his shriveled little
body on a table. Heaven only knows who arranged all this and when, but
it all got done as if of its own accord. Toward night candles were
burning round his coffin, a pall was spread over it, the floor was
strewn with sprays of juniper, a printed band was tucked in under
his shriveled head, and in a corner of the room sat a chanter
reading the psalms.
Just as horses shy and snort and gather about a dead horse, so the
inmates of the house and strangers crowded into the drawing room round
the coffin- the Marshal, the village Elder, peasant women- and all
with fixed and frightened eyes, crossing themselves, bowed and
kissed the old prince's cold and stiffened hand.
CHAPTER IX
Until Prince Andrew settled in Bogucharovo its owners had always
been absentees, and its peasants were of quite a different character
from those of Bald Hills. They differed from them in speech, dress,
and disposition. They were called steppe peasants. The old prince used
to approve of them for their endurance at work when they came to
Bald Hills to help with the harvest or to dig ponds, and ditches,
but he disliked them for their boorishness.
Prince Andrew's last stay at Bogucharovo, when he introduced
hospitals and schools and reduced the quitrent the peasants had to
pay, had not softened their disposition but had on the contrary
strengthened in them the traits of character the old prince called
boorishness. Various obscure rumors were always current among them: at
one time a rumor that they would all be enrolled as Cossacks; at
another of a new religion to which they were all to be converted; then
of some proclamation of the Tsar's and of an oath to the Tsar Paul
in 1797 (in connection with which it was rumored that freedom had been
granted them but the landowners had stopped it), then of Peter
Fedorovich's return to the throne in seven years' time, when
everything would be made free and so "simple" that there would be no
restrictions. Rumors of the war with Bonaparte and his invasion were
connected in their minds with the same sort of vague notions of
Antichrist, the end of the world, and "pure freedom."
In the vicinity of Bogucharovo were large villages belonging to
the crown or to owners whose serfs paid quitrent and could work
where they pleased. There were very few resident landlords in the
neighborhood and also very few domestic or literate serfs, and in
the lives of the peasantry of those parts the mysterious undercurrents
in the life of the Russian people, the causes and meaning of which are
so baffling to contemporaries, were more clearly and strongly
noticeable than among others. One instance, which had occurred some
twenty years before, was a movement among the peasants to emigrate
to some unknown "warm rivers." Hundreds of peasants, among them the
Bogucharovo folk, suddenly began selling their cattle and moving in
whole families toward the southeast. As birds migrate to somewhere
beyond the sea, so these men with their wives and children streamed to
the southeast, to parts where none of them had ever been. They set off
in caravans, bought their freedom one by one or ran away, and drove or
walked toward the "warm rivers." Many of them were punished, some sent
to Siberia, many died of cold and hunger on the road, many returned of
their own accord, and the movement died down of itself just as it
had sprung up, without apparent reason. But such undercurrents still
existed among the people and gathered new forces ready to manifest
themselves just as strangely, unexpectedly, and at the same time
simply, naturally, and forcibly. Now in 1812, to anyone living in
close touch with these people it was apparent that these undercurrents
were acting strongly and nearing an eruption.
Alpatych, who had reached Bogucharovo shortly before the old
prince's death, noticed an agitation among the peasants, and that
contrary to what was happening in the Bald Hills district, where
over a radius of forty miles all the peasants were moving away and
leaving their villages to be devastated by the Cossacks, the
peasants in the steppe region round Bogucharovo were, it was
rumored, in touch with the French, received leaflets from them that
passed from hand to hand, and did not migrate. He learned from
domestic serfs loyal to him that the peasant Karp, who possessed great
influence in the village commune and had recently been away driving
a government transport, had returned with news that the Cossacks
were destroying deserted villages, but that the French did not harm
them. Alpatych also knew that on the previous day another peasant
had even brought from the village of Visloukhovo, which was occupied
by the French, a proclamation by a French general that no harm would
be done to the inhabitants, and if they remained they would be paid
for anything taken from them. As proof of this the peasant had brought
from Visloukhovo a hundred rubles in notes (he did not know that
they were false) paid to him in advance for hay.
More important still, Alpatych learned that on the morning of the
very day he gave the village Elder orders to collect carts to move the
princess' luggage from Bogucharovo, there had been a village meeting
at which it had been decided not to move but to wait. Yet there was no
time to waste. On the fifteenth, the day of the old prince's death,
the Marshal had insisted on Princess Mary's leaving at once, as it was
becoming dangerous. He had told her that after the sixteenth he
could not be responsible for what might happen. On the evening of
the day the old prince died the Marshal went away, promising to return
next day for the funeral. But this he was unable to do, for he
received tidings that the French had unexpectedly advanced, and had
barely time to remove his own family and valuables from his estate.
For some thirty years Bogucharovo had been managed by the village
Elder, Dron, whom the old prince called by the diminutive "Dronushka."
Dron was one of those physically and mentally vigorous peasants
who grow big beards as soon as they are of age and go on unchanged
till they are sixty or seventy, without a gray hair or the loss of a
tooth, as straight and strong at sixty as at thirty.
Soon after the migration to the "warm rivers," in which he had taken
part like the rest, Dron was made village Elder and overseer of
Bogucharovo, and had since filled that post irreproachably for
twenty-three years. The peasants feared him more than they did their
master. The masters, both the old prince and the young, and the
steward respected him and jestingly called him "the Minister."
During the whole time of his service Dron had never been drunk or ill,
never after sleepless nights or the hardest tasks had he shown the
least fatigue, and though he could not read he had never forgotten a
single money account or the number of quarters of flour in any of
the endless cartloads he sold for the prince, nor a single shock of
the whole corn crop on any single acre of the Bogucharovo fields.
Alpatych, arriving from the devastated Bald Hills estate, sent for
his Dron on the day of the prince's funeral and told him to have
twelve horses got ready for the princess' carriages and eighteen carts
for the things to be removed from Bogucharovo. Though the peasants
paid quitrent, Alpatych thought no difficulty would be made about
complying with this order, for there were two hundred and thirty
households at work in Bogucharovo and the peasants were well to do.
But on hearing the order Dron lowered his eyes and remained silent.
Alpatych named certain peasants he knew, from whom he told him to take
the carts.
Dron replied that the horses of these peasants were away carting.
Alpatych named others, but they too, according to Dron, had no
horses available: some horses were carting for the government,
others were too weak, and others had died for want of fodder. It
seemed that no horses could be had even for the carriages, much less
for the carting.
Alpatych looked intently at Dron and frowned. Just as Dron was a
model village Elder, so Alpatych had not managed the prince's
estates for twenty years in vain. He a model steward, possessing in
the highest degree the faculty of divining the needs and instincts
of those he dealt with. Having glanced at Dron he at once understood
that his answers did not express his personal views but the general
mood of the Bogucharovo commune, by which the Elder had already been
carried away. But he also knew that Dron, who had acquired property
and was hated by the commune, must be hesitating between the two
camps: the masters' and the serfs'. He noticed this hesitation in
Dron's look and therefore frowned and moved closer up to him.
"Now just listen, Dronushka," said he. "Don't talk nonsense to me.
His excellency Prince Andrew himself gave me orders to move all the
people away and not leave them with the enemy, and there is an order
from the Tsar about it too. Anyone who stays is a traitor to the Tsar.
Do you hear?"
"I hear," Dron answered without lifting his eyes.
Alpatych was not satisfied with this reply.
"Eh, Dron, it will turn out badly!" he said, shaking his head.
"The power is in your hands," Dron rejoined sadly.
"Eh, Dron, drop it!" Alpatych repeated, withdrawing his hand from
his bosom and solemnly pointing to the floor at Dron's feet. "I can
see through you and three yards into the ground under you," he
continued, gazing at the floor in front of Dron.
Dron was disconcerted, glanced furtively at Alpatych and again
lowered his eyes.
"You drop this nonsense and tell the people to get ready to leave
their homes and go to Moscow and to get carts ready for tomorrow
morning for the princess' things. And don't go to any meeting
yourself, do you hear?"
Dron suddenly fell on his knees.
"Yakov Alpatych, discharge me! Take the keys from me and discharge
me, for Christ's sake!"
"Stop that!" cried Alpatych sternly. "I see through you and three
yards under you," he repeated, knowing that his skill in beekeeping,
his knowledge of the right time to sow the oats, and the fact that
he had been able to retain the old prince's favor for twenty years had
long since gained him the reputation of being a wizard, and that the
power of seeing three yards under a man is considered an attribute
of wizards.
Dron got up and was about to say something, but Alpatych interrupted
him.
"What is it you have got into your heads, eh?... What are you
thinking of, eh?"
"What am I to do with the people?" said Dron. "They're quite
beside themselves; I have already told them..."
"'Told them,' I dare say!" said Alpatych. "Are they drinking?" he
asked abruptly.
"Quite beside themselves, Yakov Alpatych; they've fetched another
barrel."
"Well, then, listen! I'll go to the police officer, and you tell
them so, and that they must stop this and the carts must be got
ready."
"I understand."
Alpatych did not insist further. He had managed people for a long
time and knew that the chief way to make them obey is to show no
suspicion that they can possibly disobey. Having wrung a submissive "I
understand" from Dron, Alpatych contented himself with that, though he
not only doubted but felt almost certain that without the help of
troops the carts would not be forthcoming.
And so it was, for when evening came no carts had been provided.
In the village, outside the drink shop, another meeting was being
held, which decided that the horses should be driven out into the
woods and the carts should not be provided. Without saying anything of
this to the princess, Alpatych had his own belongings taken out of the
carts which had arrived from Bald Hills and had those horses got ready
for the princess' carriages. Meanwhile he went himself to the police
authorities.
CHAPTER X
After her father's funeral Princess Mary shut herself up in her room
and did not admit anyone. A maid came to the door to say that Alpatych
was asking for orders about their departure. (This was before his talk
with Dron.) Princess Mary raised herself on the sofa on which she
had been lying and replied through the closed door that she did not
mean to go away and begged to be left in peace.
The windows of the room in which she was lying looked westward.
She lay on the sofa with her face to the wall, fingering the buttons
of the leather cushion and seeing nothing but that cushion, and her
confused thoughts were centered on one subject- the irrevocability
of death and her own spiritual baseness, which she had not
suspected, but which had shown itself during her father's illness. She
wished to pray but did not dare to, dared not in her present state
of mind address herself to God. She lay for a long time in that
position.
The sun had reached the other side of the house, and its slanting
rays shone into the open window, lighting up the room and part of
the morocco cushion at which Princess Mary was looking. The flow of
her thoughts suddenly stopped. Unconsciously she sat up, smoothed
her hair, got up, and went to the window, involuntarily inhaling the
freshness of the clear but windy evening.
"Yes, you can well enjoy the evening now! He is gone and no one will
hinder you," she said to herself, and sinking into a chair she let her
head fall on the window sill.
Someone spoke her name in a soft and tender voice from the garden
and kissed her head. She looked up. It was Mademoiselle Bourienne in a
black dress and weepers. She softly approached Princess Mary,
sighed, kissed her, and immediately began to cry. The princess
looked up at her. All their former disharmony and her own jealousy
recurred to her mind. But she remembered too how he had changed of
late toward Mademoiselle Bourienne and could not bear to see her,
thereby showing how unjust were the reproaches Princess Mary had
mentally addressed to her. "Besides, is it for me, for me who
desired his death, to condemn anyone?" she thought.
Princess Mary vividly pictured to herself the position of
Mademoiselle Bourienne, whom she had of late kept at a distance, but
who yet was dependent on her and living in her house. She felt sorry
for her and held out her hand with a glance of gentle inquiry.
Mademoiselle Bourienne at once began crying again and kissed that
hand, speaking of the princess' sorrow and making herself a partner in
it. She said her only consolation was the fact that the princess
allowed her to share her sorrow, that all the old misunderstandings
should sink into nothing but this great grief; that she felt herself
blameless in regard to everyone, and that he, from above, saw her
affection and gratitude. The princess heard her, not heeding her words
but occasionally looking up at her and listening to the sound of her
voice.
"Your position is doubly terrible, dear princess," said Mademoiselle
Bourienne after a pause. "I understand that you could not, and cannot,
think of yourself, but with my love for you I must do so.... Has
Alpatych been to you? Has he spoken to you of going away?" she asked.
Princess Mary did not answer. She did not understand who was to go
or where to. "Is it possible to plan or think of anything now? Is it
not all the same?" she thought, and did not reply.
"You know, chere Marie," said Mademoiselle Bourienne, "that we are
in danger- are surrounded by the French. It would be dangerous to move
now. If we go we are almost sure to be taken prisoners, and God
knows..."
Princess Mary looked at her companion without understanding what she
was talking about.
"Oh, if anyone knew how little anything matters to me now," she
said. "Of course I would on no account wish to go away from him....
Alpatych did say something about going.... Speak to him; I can do
nothing, nothing, and don't want to...."
"I've spoken to him. He hopes we should be in time to get away
tomorrow, but I think it would now be better to stay here," said
Mademoiselle Bourienne. "Because, you will agree, chere Marie, to fall
into the hands of the soldiers or of riotous peasants would be
terrible."
Mademoiselle Bourienne took from her reticule a proclamation (not
printed on ordinary Russian paper) of General Rameau's, telling people
not to leave their homes and that the French authorities would
afford them proper protection. She handed this to the princess.
"I think it would be best to appeal to that general," she continued,
"and and am sure that all due respect would be shown you."
Princess Mary read the paper, and her face began to quiver with
stifled sobs.
"From whom did you get this?" she asked.
"They probably recognized that I am French, by my name," replied
Mademoiselle Bourienne blushing.
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