Shortly after the warm rivers trek, in which he took part with everybody else, Dron was appointed village elder and overseer of Bogucharovo, and he had carried out his duties fastidiously for twenty-three years. The peasants were more scared of him than they were of the master. He commanded the respect of both princes, old and young, as well as the steward, and they jokingly called him 'the minister'. During his period of office Dron had never got drunk or had a day's illness. Even after a sleepless night or any amount of hard labour he had never shown a flicker of fatigue, and although he could not read or write he never forgot a monetary item or an ounce of flour, though he sold it in great wagonloads, nor did he miss a single wheatsheaf anywhere on the fields of Bogucharovo.
It was Dron that Alpatych, now back from the ruined estate at Bald Hills, summoned on the day of the prince's funeral. He told him to get twelve horses ready for the princess's carriages, and eighteen wagons for the onward move from Bogucharovo. Although the peasants paid rent instead of working as serfs, Alpatych was not anticipating any difficulty in having this order carried out because there were two hundred and thirty households down in Bogucharovo, and the peasants were not short of a rouble or two. But when Dron heard the order he looked down and said nothing in reply. Alpatych gave him the names of some peasants he knew; Dron was to take the carts from them.
Dron told him the horses belonging to those peasants were away working. Alpatych named some other peasants, but they too, according to Dron, had no horses available: some were working in government transport, some had gone lame, and some had died of starvation. The way Dron saw it, there wouldn't be any horses, not even for the princess's carriages, let alone the baggage transport.
Alpatych fixed his man with a close stare and a dark scowl. Dron was the very model of a village elder, but Alpatych had not spent twenty years managing the prince's estates for nothing, and he was himself a model steward. He had a remarkable capacity for sensing the needs and instincts of the peasants he was dealing with, and this made him an outstanding steward. One glance at Dron told him that these responses were not an expression of his own thinking, but that of a general mood that had permeated the Bogucharovo community and captured his imagination. At the same time, he knew that Dron, who had feathered his own nest and was loathed in the village, must surely be vacillating between the two camps - the masters and the peasants. He could see equivocation in his very eyes, so he came up close and scowled at Dron.
'Now listen, Dronushka,' he said, 'don't give me that nonsense. His Excellency Prince Andrey gave me the orders personally - to move the people away, and not leave them behind with the enemy, and the Tsar has said the same thing in a decree. Anyone who stays behind is a traitor to the Tsar. Do you hear what I say?'
'Yes,' said Dron, still looking down.
This was not enough for Alpatych.
'Listen, Dron, there's going to be trouble!' said Alpatych with a shake of his head.
'You're in charge!' said Dron gloomily.
'Dron, that's enough!' repeated Alpatych, taking his hand out of his coat-front and pointing down at the floor under Dron's feet with great solemnity. 'I can see straight through you. Nay, son, I can see three yards down underneath you,' he said, staring at the floor beneath Dron's feet.
Dron, visibly disconcerted, managed one quick glance at Alpatych before looking down again.
'Now you can just drop this nonsense, and tell everybody to get packed and ready to leave for Moscow, and get some carts ready tomorrow morning for the princess's things. And don't you go to the meeting. Do you hear what I say?'
Suddenly Dron fell at his feet.
'Yakov Alpatych, let me go! Take my keys. Let me go, for the love of Christ!'
'That's enough!' cried Alpatych sternly. 'I can see three yards down underneath you,' he repeated, knowing that his wizardry with bees, his uncanny instinct for sowing at just the right time, and his skill in pleasing the old prince over twenty years had long ago given him the reputation of a magician, and folk knew that the ability to see three yards down underneath people was something only magicians can do.
Dron got to his feet and was about to speak, but Alpatych cut him short.
'Where did you get such an idea? Eh? What are you thinking about? Eh?'
'What can I do with the people?' said Dron. 'They're all worked up. I've tried to tell them . . .'
'Tried to tell them!' said Alpatych. 'Are they drinking?' he asked abruptly.
'They're all worked up, Yakov Alpatych. Yes, they've got another barrel.'
'Then you listen to me. I'm off to the police. You tell them that. And tell them to stop all this nonsense and get the carts ready.'
'Yes sir,' answered Dron.
Yakov Alpatych had had his say. He had been handling peasants for many a long year, and he knew that the best way to bring them into line was not to give them the slightest inkling they could do anything other than obey. Alpatych was happy enough with the submissive 'Yes sir' that he had got out of Dron, though he still had his doubts, amounting to near-certainty that the carts would not be forthcoming without the intervention of the military authorities.
And indeed, when evening came there were still no carts. Another village meeting had been held outside the tavern, and a decision had been taken to drive the horses out into the woods and not provide any carts. Without a word of this to the princess, Alpatych ordered his own things to be unloaded from the wagons from Bald Hills and those horses to be harnessed to the princess's carriage. Meanwhile he went to the police.
CHAPTER 10
After her father's funeral Princess Marya locked herself away in her room and wouldn't let anyone in. A maid came to the door to say that Alpatych had come to ask for instructions about their departure. (This was before Alpatych had spoken to Dron.) Princess Marya half-rose from the sofa where she was lying, and shouted through the closed door that she was never going anywhere, and would they please leave her alone.
The windows of the room Princess Marya was lying in looked west. She lay on the sofa with her face towards the wall, and as she fingered the buttons on a leather cushion she could see nothing but that cushion, and for all her vagueness there was only one thing on her mind. She was thinking about the finality of death and her own vileness of spirit, which she hadn't known about until now, until it had emerged during her father's illness. She wanted to pray, but hadn't the courage to do so; she could not turn to God in her present spiritual state. She lay like this for a very long time.
The sun had gone round to the other side of the house and the slanting rays of evening light filtered in through the open window, casting a glow across part of the morocco cushion Princess Marya was staring at. Suddenly her train of thought was broken. She sat up without knowing what she was doing, smoothed her hair back, got to her feet and walked over to the window, instinctively inhaling the fresh cool air of a fine, if rather breezy, evening.
'Yes, now you can enjoy a beautiful evening! He's gone. No one's going to stop you,' she said to herself, sinking down on to a chair and resting her head on the window-sill.
A soft and tender voice spoke her name out in the garden and she felt someone kiss her on the head. She looked up. It was Mademoiselle Bourienne dressed in black with tokens of mourning. She had stolen up on Princess Marya, kissed her with a sigh and promptly burst into tears. Princess Marya looked round at her. All their nasty encounters, and her jealousy of the young Frenchwoman, came flooding back into Princess Marya's mind. She also remembered that he had changed towards Mademoiselle Bourienne in recent days until he could not stand the sight of her, which just went to show how unfair she had been in rebuking her. 'Yes, and who am I, who am I - the one who wanted him dead - to pass judgement on anyone else?' she thought.
Princess Marya had a sudden vision of Mademoiselle Bourienne's predicament, debarred from her company while still dependent on her, and living on among strangers. And she felt sorry for her. She gave her the benefit of a gentle, quizzical gaze and held out her hand
. Mademoiselle Bourienne burst into tears again as she took her hand, kissed it, and went on to talk about the princess's grief, with which she so much wanted to associate herself. She said her only consolation in her grief was that the princess was letting her share it with her. She said that all their former contretemps must pale into insignificance before their overwhelming grief, that she felt a new sense of purity before other people, and that the one above now looked down on her with love and gratitude. The princess listened without taking anything in, though she did glance at her now and then, and her ears were attuned to the sound of her voice.
'Your position is doubly dreadful, dear Princess,' said Mademoiselle Bourienne after a short silence. 'I know you could not think about yourself and you still can't, but my love is such that I must do it for you . . . Has Alpatych been to see you? Has he talked to you about leaving?' she asked.
Princess Marya didn't answer. She could not work out who was moving or where to. 'How can anyone start doing new things now, or thinking about anything? Nothing makes any difference now, does it?' she was wondering. She didn't answer.
'Dear Marie, you do know, don't you?' said Mademoiselle Bourienne, 'that we're in danger, we're surrounded by the French, and it's dangerous to go anywhere. If we do move we're almost sure to be taken prisoner, and God knows . . .'
Princess Marya looked at her companion, with not the slightest idea what she was saying.
'Oh, if only people knew - it makes no difference now,' she said. 'Of course, I wouldn't dream of leaving him . . . Alpatych said something about going away . . . Have a word with him . . . I can't do anything. I don't want to . . .'
'I've had a word with him. He's hoping we may get away tomorrow, but I think we'd be better off staying here,' said Mademoiselle Bourienne. 'Because . . . you must agree, dear Marie, that to fall into the hands of soldiers or rioting peasants out on the road would be absolutely awful.'
Mademoiselle Bourienne took a sheet of unusual, non-Russian paper out of her tiny handbag. It was the proclamation by General Rameau telling people not to leave their homes because they would be given full protection by the French commanders. She handed it to the princess.
'I think it might be best to throw ourselves on the mercy of this general,' said Mademoiselle Bourienne. 'I'm sure you'd be treated with proper courtesy.'
Princess Marya read the paper and her face crumpled with tearless sobbing.
'Where did you get this?' she asked.
'They probably guessed I was French from my name,' said Mademoiselle Bourienne, colouring up.
Proclamation in hand, Princess Marya rose from the window, walked out of the room, ashen-faced, and went straight into Prince Andrey's former study.
'Dunyasha! Send for Alpatych, Dronushka, anybody!' said Princess Marya. 'And tell Mademoiselle Bourienne to keep away,' she added, hearing the Frenchwoman's voice. 'We must be on the road! On the road as soon as possible!' said Princess Marya, horrified at the thought of falling into the hands of the French.
Oh, if Prince Andrey ever found out she was in the hands of the French! That she, the daughter of Prince Nikolay Andreich Bolkonsky, should be reduced to asking General Rameau for protection, and accepting favours from him! The very idea horrified her and gave her the shudders. She turned bright red and felt a surge of malevolence and sheer pride the like of which she had never felt before. She had a sudden vision of her present position: the difficulty was bad enough, but, oh, the humiliation! 'They, the French, will settle down in this house. General Rameau will take over Prince Andrey's study, and amuse himself by going through his letters and papers. Mademoiselle Bourienne will give them an honourable welcome to Bogucharovo. I shall get a little room as a special favour. The soldiers will break into father's new grave to steal his crosses and medals. They'll go on and on about their victories over the Russians, with lots of hypocritical sympathy for me in my grief . . .' These thoughts did not come naturally to Princess Marya, but it was now her bounden duty to think like her father and brother. As far as she was concerned she could stay anywhere and do anything, but no, she must think like a true representative of her dead father and Prince Andrey. Instinctively she had begun to think their thoughts and feel their feelings. She felt the inevitability of saying and doing whatever they would have said or done. She went into Prince Andrey's study, tried to get right inside his way of thinking, and considered her predicament.
The practicalities of life that had seemed so insignificant since her father's death rose up again before Princess Marya with new, unparalleled intensity, and became an obsession.
Red in the face and over-excited, she paced the room, sending first for Alpatych, then Mikhail Ivanych, then Tikhon, then Dron. Dunyasha, the old nurse and the maids could not tell her how far Mademoiselle Bourienne had been right in what she said. Alpatych wasn't in; he had gone to the police. A sleepy-eyed Mikhail Ivanych, the architect, came when he was sent for, but he had nothing to say to her. In response to her questions all he could do was smile the same smile of acquiescence he had got used to over fifteen years of responding non-committally to the old prince's comments, so there were no definite answers to be got from him. The old valet, Tikhon, also came when called, his pinched and sunken features a picture of inconsolable grief; all he did was answer 'Yes, ma'am,' to every question put to him by Princess Marya, and as he looked at her he could scarcely contain his sobs.
At long last Dron, the village elder, turned up, and with a deep bow to the princess he stationed himself near the door.
Princess Marya paced the room and came to a halt face to face with him.
'Dronushka,' she said. Here was a staunch friend, the dear old Dronushka who had gone to the fair at Vyazma every year and come back smiling, with the same old gingerbread, his speciality, just for her. 'Dronushka, ever since our sad loss . . .' she began, and then stopped, unable to continue.
'We are all in God's hands,' he said with a sigh.
Neither of them spoke.
'Dronushka, Alpatych has gone off somewhere, and I've no one to turn to. Is it true what they say - I can't get away?'
'Why not, your Excellency? Of course you can,' said Dron.
'I've been told it's too dangerous because of the enemy. My dear friend, there's nothing I can do. I can't tell what's happening. I have nobody. I want to go, definitely, tonight, or first thing in the morning.'
Dron didn't speak. He looked up rather furtively at Princess Marya.
'There aren't any horses,' he said. 'I've just been telling Yakov Alpatych.'
'What do you mean, there aren't any horses?' said the princess.
'It's a punishment sent by the Lord,' said Dron. 'Some horses has gone off for the troops, and some be dead. What a year we've had. We'll be lucky if we don't die of hunger ourselves, never mind feeding the horses! As things is, some of 'em goes three days without a bite to eat. There's nothing left. We're all ruined.'
Princess Marya listened carefully to what he was saying.
'The peasants are ruined? They have no bread?' she asked.
'They are dying of hunger,' said Dron. 'No use talking about horses and carts.'
'But why didn't you say, Dronushka? Can't someone help them? I'll do whatever I can . . .' It seemed curious to Princess Marya that at a moment like this, when her heart was full of grief, there could be such a thing as rich and poor, and the rich weren't helping the poor. She had a vague recollection of hearing about a special store, 'the master's grain', that was sometimes given out to the peasants. She also knew that neither her brother nor her father would refuse the peasants in their hour of need; she was just a little worried about not saying quite the right thing about distributing this grain. She was pleased to have an excuse for getting involved in something for which she could forget her own grief with a clear conscience. She wanted Dronushka to tell her all about the peasants' needs, and whether there was any of 'the master's grain' at Bogucharovo.
'By the way, does my brother have any of that "master's grain" here?'
she asked.
'Yes. It's not been touched,' Dron declared with no little pride. 'The prince didn't give me no orders about selling it.'
'Give it to the peasants. Give them all they need. You have my brother's permission,' said Princess Marya.
Dron heaved a deep sigh but said nothing.
'Go and distribute that grain, if there's enough to go round. Give it all away. You have my brother's permission, and tell them - what's ours is theirs. We begrudge them nothing. Tell them from me.'
Dron watched the princess closely all the while she was speaking. 'Let me go, ma'am, for God's sake. Please have my keys taken away,' said he. 'I have served these twenty-three years, and never done anything wrong. Let me go, for God's sake.'
Princess Marya could not make head or tail of what he wanted and why he was asking to be let go. She told him she had never doubted his loyalty, and she was ready to do anything for him and the peasants.
CHAPTER 11
An hour later Dunyasha came in and told the princess that Dron had come back, and all the peasants were gathered together outside the barn just as the princess had ordered, and they wanted to hold some discussions with the mistress.
'But I never sent for them,' said Princess Marya. 'I only told Dronushka to give them the grain.'
'Oh, please, ma'am . . . in God's name, Princess, have them sent away and don't go out to see them. It's a trick,' said Dunyasha. 'Yakov Alpatych will be here soon and we can leave . . . and if I may say so . . .'
'What do you mean a trick?' asked the princess in some surprise.
'Oh, I'm sure it must be . . . Please do what I say, in God's name. Ask nurse. They say they won't leave now, even when you've ordered them to go.'
'There must be some mistake. I haven't ordered them to go away . . .' said Princess Marya. 'Send for Dronushka.'
Dron duly appeared and confirmed what Dunyasha had said. The peasants had come in response to orders from the princess.