War and Peace
Moscow would soon be in the enemy’s hands, just as Count Rostopchín
himself knew it, and to escape personal responsibility they had all
come to the governor to ask how they were to deal with their various
departments.
As Pierre was entering the reception room a courier from the army came
out of Rostopchín’s private room.
In answer to questions with which he was greeted, the courier made a
despairing gesture with his hand and passed through the room.
While waiting in the reception room Pierre with weary eyes watched the
various officials, old and young, military and civilian, who were there.
They all seemed dissatisfied and uneasy. Pierre went up to a group of
men, one of whom he knew. After greeting Pierre they continued their
conversation.
“If they’re sent out and brought back again later on it will do no harm,
but as things are now one can’t answer for anything.”
“But you see what he writes...” said another, pointing to a printed
sheet he held in his hand.
“That’s another matter. That’s necessary for the people,” said the
first.
“What is it?” asked Pierre.
“Oh, it’s a fresh broadsheet.”
Pierre took it and began reading.
His Serene Highness has passed through Mozháysk in order to join up with
the troops moving toward him and has taken up a strong position where
the enemy will not soon attack him. Forty-eight guns with ammunition
have been sent him from here, and his Serene Highness says he will
defend Moscow to the last drop of blood and is even ready to fight in
the streets. Do not be upset, brothers, that the law courts are closed;
things have to be put in order, and we will deal with villains in our
own way! When the time comes I shall want both town and peasant lads and
will raise the cry a day or two beforehand, but they are not wanted yet
so I hold my peace. An ax will be useful, a hunting spear not bad, but a
three-pronged fork will be best of all: a Frenchman is no heavier than a
sheaf of rye. Tomorrow after dinner I shall take the Iberian icon of
the Mother of God to the wounded in the Catherine Hospital where we will
have some water blessed. That will help them to get well quicker. I,
too, am well now: one of my eyes was sore but now I am on the lookout
with both.
“But military men have told me that it is impossible to fight in the
town,” said Pierre, “and that the position...”
“Well, of course! That’s what we were saying,” replied the first
speaker.
“And what does he mean by ‘One of my eyes was sore but now I am on the
lookout with both’?” asked Pierre.
“The count had a sty,” replied the adjutant smiling, “and was very much
upset when I told him people had come to ask what was the matter with
him. By the by, Count,” he added suddenly, addressing Pierre with a
smile, “we heard that you have family troubles and that the countess,
your wife...”
“I have heard nothing,” Pierre replied unconcernedly. “But what have you
heard?”
“Oh, well, you know people often invent things. I only say what I
heard.”
“But what did you hear?”
“Well, they say,” continued the adjutant with the same smile, “that
the countess, your wife, is preparing to go abroad. I expect it’s
nonsense....”
“Possibly,” remarked Pierre, looking about him absent-mindedly. “And who
is that?” he asked, indicating a short old man in a clean blue peasant
overcoat, with a big snow-white beard and eyebrows and a ruddy face.
“He? That’s a tradesman, that is to say, he’s the restaurant
keeper, Vereshchágin. Perhaps you have heard of that affair with the
proclamation.”
“Oh, so that is Vereshchágin!” said Pierre, looking at the firm, calm
face of the old man and seeking any indication of his being a traitor.
“That’s not he himself, that’s the father of the fellow who wrote the
proclamation,” said the adjutant. “The young man is in prison and I
expect it will go hard with him.”
An old gentleman wearing a star and another official, a German wearing a
cross round his neck, approached the speaker.
“It’s a complicated story, you know,” said the adjutant. “That
proclamation appeared about two months ago. The count was informed of
it. He gave orders to investigate the matter. Gabriel Ivánovich
here made the inquiries. The proclamation had passed through exactly
sixty-three hands. He asked one, ‘From whom did you get it?’ ‘From
so-and-so.’ He went to the next one. ‘From whom did you get it?’ and so
on till he reached Vereshchágin, a half educated tradesman, you know, ‘a
pet of a trader,’” said the adjutant smiling. “They asked him, ‘Who gave
it you?’ And the point is that we knew whom he had it from. He could
only have had it from the Postmaster. But evidently they had come to
some understanding. He replied: ‘From no one; I made it up myself.’
They threatened and questioned him, but he stuck to that: ‘I made it
up myself.’ And so it was reported to the count, who sent for the man.
‘From whom did you get the proclamation?’ ‘I wrote it myself.’ Well, you
know the count,” said the adjutant cheerfully, with a smile of pride,
“he flared up dreadfully—and just think of the fellow’s audacity, lying,
and obstinacy!”
“And the count wanted him to say it was from Klyucharëv? I understand!”
said Pierre.
“Not at all,” rejoined the adjutant in dismay. “Klyucharëv had his own
sins to answer for without that and that is why he has been banished.
But the point is that the count was much annoyed. ‘How could you have
written it yourself?’ said he, and he took up the Hamburg Gazette that
was lying on the table. ‘Here it is! You did not write it yourself but
translated it, and translated it abominably, because you don’t even know
French, you fool.’ And what do you think? ‘No,’ said he, ‘I have not
read any papers, I made it up myself.’ ‘If that’s so, you’re a traitor
and I’ll have you tried, and you’ll be hanged! Say from whom you had
it.’ ‘I have seen no papers, I made it up myself.’ And that was the end
of it. The count had the father fetched, but the fellow stuck to it.
He was sent for trial and condemned to hard labor, I believe. Now the
father has come to intercede for him. But he’s a good-for-nothing lad!
You know that sort of tradesman’s son, a dandy and lady-killer. He
attended some lectures somewhere and imagines that the devil is no match
for him. That’s the sort of fellow he is. His father keeps a cookshop
here by the Stone Bridge, and you know there was a large icon of God
Almighty painted with a scepter in one hand and an orb in the other.
Well, he took that icon home with him for a few days and what did he do?
He found some scoundrel of a painter...”
CHAPTER XI
In the middle of this fresh tale Pierre was summoned to the commander in
chief.
When he entered the private room Count Rostopchín, puckering his face,
was rubbing his forehead and eyes with his hand. A short man was saying
something, but when Pierre entered he stopped speaking and went out.
“Ah, how do you do, great warrior?” said Rostopchín as soon as the short
man had left the room. “We have heard of your prowess. But that’s not
the point. Between ourselves, mon cher, do you belong to the Masons?” he
went on severely, as though there were something wrong about it which
he nevertheless intended to pardon. Pierre remained silent. “I am well
informed, my friend, but I am aware that there are Masons and I hope
that you are not one of those who on pretense of saving mankind wish to
ruin Russia.”
“Yes, I am a Mason,” Pierre replied.
“There, you see, mon cher! I expect you know that Messrs. Speránski and
Magnítski have been deported to their proper place. Mr. Klyucharëv has
been treated in the same way, and so have others who on the plea of
building up the temple of Solomon have tried to destroy the temple of
their fatherland. You can understand that there are reasons for this and
that I could not have exiled the Postmaster had he not been a harmful
person. It has now come to my knowledge that you lent him your carriage
for his removal from town, and that you have even accepted papers from
him for safe custody. I like you and don’t wish you any harm and—as
you are only half my age—I advise you, as a father would, to cease
all communication with men of that stamp and to leave here as soon as
possible.”
“But what did Klyucharëv do wrong, Count?” asked Pierre.
“That is for me to know, but not for you to ask,” shouted Rostopchín.
“If he is accused of circulating Napoleon’s proclamation it is not
proved that he did so,” said Pierre without looking at Rostopchín, “and
Vereshchágin...”
“There we are!” Rostopchín shouted at Pierre louder than before,
frowning suddenly. “Vereshchágin is a renegade and a traitor who will
be punished as he deserves,” said he with the vindictive heat with which
people speak when recalling an insult. “But I did not summon you to
discuss my actions, but to give you advice—or an order if you prefer it.
I beg you to leave the town and break off all communication with such
men as Klyucharëv. And I will knock the nonsense out of anybody”—but
probably realizing that he was shouting at Bezúkhov who so far was not
guilty of anything, he added, taking Pierre’s hand in a friendly manner,
“We are on the eve of a public disaster and I haven’t time to be polite
to everybody who has business with me. My head is sometimes in a whirl.
Well, mon cher, what are you doing personally?”
“Why, nothing,” answered Pierre without raising his eyes or changing the
thoughtful expression of his face.
The count frowned.
“A word of friendly advice, mon cher. Be off as soon as you can, that’s
all I have to tell you. Happy he who has ears to hear. Good-by, my dear
fellow. Oh, by the by!” he shouted through the doorway after Pierre,
“is it true that the countess has fallen into the clutches of the holy
fathers of the Society of Jesus?”
Pierre did not answer and left Rostopchín’s room more sullen and angry
than he had ever before shown himself.
When he reached home it was already getting dark. Some eight people had
come to see him that evening: the secretary of a committee, the colonel
of his battalion, his steward, his major-domo, and various petitioners.
They all had business with Pierre and wanted decisions from him. Pierre
did not understand and was not interested in any of these questions and
only answered them in order to get rid of these people. When left alone
at last he opened and read his wife’s letter.
“They, the soldiers at the battery, Prince Andrew killed... that old
man... Simplicity is submission to God. Suffering is necessary... the
meaning of all... one must harness... my wife is getting married... One
must forget and understand...” And going to his bed he threw himself on
it without undressing and immediately fell asleep.
When he awoke next morning the major-domo came to inform him that a
special messenger, a police officer, had come from Count Rostopchín to
know whether Count Bezúkhov had left or was leaving the town.
A dozen persons who had business with Pierre were awaiting him in the
drawing room. Pierre dressed hurriedly and, instead of going to see
them, went to the back porch and out through the gate.
From that time till the end of the destruction of Moscow no one of
Bezúkhov’s household, despite all the search they made, saw Pierre again
or knew where he was.
CHAPTER XII
The Rostóvs remained in Moscow till the first of September, that is,
till the eve of the enemy’s entry into the city.
After Pétya had joined Obolénski’s regiment of Cossacks and left for
Bélaya Tsérkov where that regiment was forming, the countess was seized
with terror. The thought that both her sons were at the war, had both
gone from under her wing, that today or tomorrow either or both of them
might be killed like the three sons of one of her acquaintances, struck