The count was the first to stand up. He gave a deep sigh and crossed himself before the icon. All the others did the same. Then the count proceeded to embrace Mavra and Vasilich, who were staying on in Moscow, and while they caught his hand and kissed him on the shoulder, he patted them on the back and mumbled a few vague words of affection and encouragement. The countess went off to the icon-shrine, where Sonya found her kneeling before the few holy images that were still left up on the walls. (All the best icons, family heirlooms, were going with them.)
Out on the steps and down in the courtyard the servants who were travelling with the family, armed to the teeth with swords and daggers issued by Petya, were standing around with their trousers tucked in their boots, belts and straps good and tight, saying goodbye to those who were staying behind.
As always at the start of a journey, many things had been forgotten or wrongly stowed, and the two grooms, one at each side of the open carriage door, had to stand there for quite some time waiting to help the countess up the steps, while maids flew back and forth with cushions and little bundles between house, carriages, coach and gig.
'They'll go on forgetting things as long as they live!' said the countess. 'Oh, you know I can't sit like that.' Dunyasha gritted her teeth and looked all offended, but instead of saying anything she got quickly up into the carriage to rearrange the cushions.
'Oh, these servants!' said the count, shaking his head.
Old Yefim, the only coachman the countess would trust as a driver, sat perched up on his box, not bothering to look round at what was happening at the back. Thirty years of experience had taught him it would be some time yet before he would hear the magic words, 'Off we go, and God go with us!' and even when they were uttered he would be stopped again at least twice to send back for something that had been forgotten, after which he would still have to pull up one last time for the countess herself to stick her head out of window and beg him for heaven's sake to take care going downhill. Knowing all this, he waited philosophically, more patiently than his horses, especially the near one, Falcon, a chestnut who wouldn't stop pawing the ground and champing the bit. At long last they all were on board, the steps were folded away, doors slammed, a forgotten travelling-case was sent for, and there was the countess with her head out the window saying what was expected of her. Only then did Yefim remove his hat with a deliberate gesture and make the sign of the cross. Likewise the postilion and all the servants.
'Off we go, and God go with us!' said Yefim, putting his hat back on. 'Pull, me beauties!'
The postilion urged the horses. The right shaft-horse took the strain, the high springs creaked and the carriage rocked. A footman ran alongside and jumped up on the box. The carriage lumbered out of the courtyard on to the bumpy road, others jolted out behind and they set off down the street in a long procession. In carriages, coach and gig all the travellers made the sign of the cross towards the church opposite. The servants who were staying on walked along on both sides of the carriages to see them off.
Rarely had Natasha felt such a thrill of delight as the one she felt now, sitting in the carriage next to the countess and looking out at the slow-moving walls of poor, forsaken Moscow. From time to time she would stick her head out of the carriage window to glance back, and then look ahead at the long train of wagons full of wounded soldiers that were leading the way. Almost at the front she could see the raised hood of Prince Andrey's carriage. She didn't know who was inside, but every time she surveyed the procession of wagons her eyes searched for that coach. She knew it would be right in front.
In Kudrino, and from every street, from Nikitskaya, Presnya and Podnovinskaya, came other trains of vehicles, just like the Rostovs', and by the time they got to Sadovaya the carriages and carts were two abreast all down the road.
As they turned past the Sukharev water-tower, Natasha, who was keeping a sharp eye on the walking crowds and passing vehicles, gave a cry of delight and surprise.
'Good Heavens! Mamma, Sonya, look over there! It's him!'
'Who? Who?'
'Look! For heaven's sake, it's Pierre Bezukhov,' said Natasha, leaning right out to get a good look at a tall, corpulent figure in a coachman's long coat, obviously, from his bearing and his walk, a gentleman in borrowed clothing. There he was, going through the Sukharev tower-arch, walking along with a sallow-faced, beardless little old man in a rough overcoat.
'Saints above! Bezukhov dressed like a driver, with that funny old boy,' said Natasha. 'Look! Look!'
'That's not him. Don't be so silly!'
'Mamma,' shouted Natasha. 'I'll bet you anything it's him. I tell you it is. Stop, stop!' she yelled to the coachman; but the coachman couldn't stop, because carts and carriages were pouring out of Meshchansky Street, and people were shouting at the Rostovs to get a move on and stop holding everybody up.
And in fact, even though he was further away now, the Rostovs did get a glimpse of Pierre, or someone remarkably like him: there he was in his coachman's coat, walking down the street with his head bowed and a serious look on his face, side by side with a little, beardless old man who looked like a servant. The old fellow, suddenly aware of being looked at by a face poking out of a carriage window, nudged Pierre on the elbow politely and said something, pointing towards the carriage. Pierre's thoughts were miles away, and it took some time for him to grasp what the old man was saying. Eventually he got the message and looked in the direction indicated. The moment he saw Natasha he followed his instinct and strode quickly towards the carriage. But he had hardly gone a dozen steps when he pulled up, obviously with something on his mind. Natasha's beaming face looked back at him from the carriage window glowing with amusement and affection.
'Come on, Pyotr Kirillych! We knew it was you! Isn't it marvellous?' she shouted, holding a hand out to him. 'How are things with you? What are you doing like that?'
Pierre took her outstretched hand and kissed it clumsily as he bumbled along beside the carriage, which was still moving.
'Is anything wrong, Count?' the countess asked, sounding surprised and sympathetic.
'Huh? What do you mean? Don't ask,' said Pierre, and he glanced up at Natasha, though without having to look he had felt warmed by the glow of her radiant, laughing eyes.
'What are you doing, then? Staying on in Moscow?'
For a moment Pierre said nothing.
'Staying on?' he then asked. 'Er, yes, that's what I'm doing. Goodbye, then.'
'Oh, I wish I was a man. I'd stay on with you. I think it's wonderful!' said Natasha. 'Mamma, please can I stay?'
Pierre looked blankly at Natasha, trying to say something, but the countess cut him short.
'We hear you were at the battle.'
'Yes, I was,' answered Pierre. 'Tomorrow there's going to be another battle . . .' he was starting to say, but it was Natasha's turn to interrupt.
'But there's something wrong, isn't there, Count? There's something different about you.'
'Oh, don't ask. Please don't ask. I can't tell you. Tomorrow . . . No! . . . Goodbye, then. Goodbye,' he said. 'Terrible times!'
Letting the carriage go, he stepped back on to the pavement.
Natasha's head was still sticking out of the carriage window. For some time her smiling face beamed fondly back at him, glowing with happiness tinged with amusement.
CHAPTER 18
Since his disappearance from home Pierre had been living for a couple of days in the empty house of his deceased benefactor, Osip Bazdeyev. This was how it came about.
When he woke up the morning after his return to Moscow and his meeting with Count Rostopchin, it took Pierre some time to realize where he was and what was required of him. When he was told that the names of the persons waiting so patiently to see him had been added to by that of a Frenchman who had come along with a letter from his wife, the Countess Helene, he felt suddenly overwhelmed by the sense of alienation and hopelessness that was his weak spot. He had a sudden feeling that everything was finished, all over the
place, broken down, there was no right or wrong, no future to look forward to, no way out of his present situation. A strange smile came to his face and he started muttering under his breath. One minute he would flop down on the sofa in an attitude of utter dejection, the next he would get to his feet, go over to the door and peep through the crack into the ante-room where the visitors were waiting, only to turn back with a wave of his arms and snatch up a book. The butler came in for the second time to say that the Frenchman who had brought the letter from the countess was most anxious to see him if only for a minute, and someone had come from Osip Bazdeyev's widow to ask him to take charge of his books because she was leaving for the country.
'Oh, er, yes, hang on, I'm coming . . . Or shall I . . . ? No . . . All right, go and tell them I'll be there in a minute,' said Pierre.
But as soon as the butler had gone Pierre picked up his hat, which was lying on the table, and left by the other door. He found no one in the corridor. Pierre walked the whole length of the corridor to the staircase and went down as far as the first landing, frowning and rubbing his forehead with both hands. The hall porter was standing by the front door. But there was another staircase leading down from the landing to the back entrance. Pierre went down the back stairs and out into the yard. He had not been seen. But once outside, the moment he got to the gate the drivers standing by their carriages and the gate porter saw the master coming and doffed their caps. Aware of their scrutiny, Pierre behaved like an ostrich sticking its head in a bush to avoid being seen; bowing his head and quickening his pace, he hurried away down the street.
Of all the business waiting for Pierre's attention that morning the task of sorting out Osip Bazdeyev's books and papers seemed more urgent than anything else.
He hailed the first cab that came along and told the driver to take him to Patriarch's Ponds, where Bazdeyev's widow lived.
With his eyes glued on the lines of loaded carts coming from all directions and trundling out of Moscow, Pierre felt as happy as a truant schoolboy as he braced his big frame to make sure he didn't fall out of the rickety old droshky and chatted away to his driver.
The driver told him they were issuing arms in the Kremlin, and tomorrow they were sending everybody out through the Three Hills gate, and there was going to be a terrific battle.
When he got to Patriarch's Ponds, Pierre managed to rediscover Bazdeyev's house, which he hadn't visited for some time. There was the little garden gate. It was Gerasim, the same little sallow-skinned, beardless old man Pierre had seen with Bazdeyev five years before at Torzhok, who answered his knock.
'Anybody in?' asked Pierre.
'Owing to present circumstances, Madame Bazdeyev and her children have gone to the country house at Torzhok, sir.'
'I'd still like to come in. I want to look through the books,' said Pierre.
'Yes sir, you are most welcome,' said the old servant. 'Makar Alekseyevich, the brother of my late master, God rest his soul, has stayed on, but he's not too strong, your Honour.'
Pierre knew full well that Bazdeyev's brother, Makar, was a drunken half-wit.
'Yes, I know about that. Come on, let's go in,' said Pierre, and he went inside. There in the vestibule stood a tall, bald-headed old man in a dressing-gown, with a red nose and galoshes on his bare feet. When he saw Pierre he muttered something irritably and walked off down a corridor.
'He had a fine mind once, but you can see he's not as strong as he was, your Honour,' said Gerasim. 'Would you care to go into the study?' Pierre nodded. 'It's been sealed up, and nothing has been touched. Madame Bazdeyev gave orders that if you sent for the books I was to let them go.'
Pierre went into the gloomy study which he had entered with such trepidation when his benefactor was still alive. Untouched since the death of Bazdeyev, it was now thick with dust, and gloomier than ever.
Gerasim opened one of the shutters, and tiptoed out. Pierre took a walk round the room, and then went over to a cupboard where the manuscripts were kept, and took one lot out. It was something of great importance that had been one of the most sacred treasures of their order: a set of original Scotch Acts with Bazdeyev's notes and commentaries. He sat down at the dusty desk, laid out the manuscripts, opened them up and closed them again before pushing them to one side. With his elbows on the desk and his head in his hands he sat there thinking.
Gerasim peeped in cautiously several times only to see Pierre sitting always in the same position.
More than two hours passed. Gerasim ventured to make a little noise from the doorway to get Pierre's attention. Pierre didn't hear him.
'Sir, should I let the driver go?'
'Oh yes,' said Pierre, rousing himself and starting to his feet. 'Listen,' he added, taking Gerasim by one of the buttons on his coat and looking down at the little old man with moist eyes that were glinting with excitement. 'Listen. You know tomorrow there's going to be a battle . . .'
'I have heard tell . . .' answered Gerasim.
'Please don't tell anybody who I am. And do what I say . . .'
'Oh yes, sir,' said Gerasim. 'Can I get you something to eat, sir?'
'No, but I do want something else. I want some peasant clothing and a pistol,' said Pierre, suddenly colouring up.
'Oh yes, sir,' said Gerasim, after a moment's thought.
Pierre spent the whole day alone in his benefactor's study. Gerasim could hear him pacing restlessly up and down, and talking to himself. He spent the night there too, on a bed specially made up for him.
Unruffled by Pierre's decision to move in, Gerasim took it with the composure of a servant who had seen many weird things in his time; in fact, he seemed delighted to have someone to serve. That same evening, without even wondering what they were for, he managed to acquire a coachman's long coat and cap, and he promised to get the necessary pistol the next day. Twice during the evening Bazdeyev's brother shuffled up to the door in his galoshes, and stood there fawning as he stared in at Pierre. But the moment Pierre turned to face him he gathered up his dressing-gown, looking embarrassed and angry, and scuttled away.
Pierre put on the coachman's coat that Gerasim had got hold of, once it had been disinfected with steam, and the two of them went out together to buy a pistol at the Sukharev market. It was then that Pierre ran into the Rostovs.
CHAPTER 19
During the night of the 1st of September Kutuzov ordered the Russian troops to fall back through Moscow and go down the Ryazan road.
The first troops moved that night, marching at an easy pace and in good order. But at dawn, when the retreating troops got to the Dorogomilov bridge, they saw endless masses of soldiers hurrying across, herding together on the other side, struggling up slopes, blocking the streets and alleys, while masses more bore down on them from the rear. And for no good reason they panicked and rushed forward. There was a great surge towards the bridge, up on to the bridge itself, down to the fords and into the boats. Kutuzov had arranged to be driven through the back streets right round to the other side of Moscow.
By ten o'clock on the morning of the 2nd of September the only troops left in the suburb of Dorogomilov were some members of the rearguard, and they had plenty of space. The army itself was now beyond Moscow, out on the other side.
At that time, ten o'clock on the morning of the 2nd of September, Napoleon was standing amidst his troops up on Poklonny hill, gazing down on the spectacle that lay before him. From the 26th of August to the 2nd of September, from the battle of Borodino to the entry of the French into Moscow, throughout that anxious but memorable week, there had been a spell of that extraordinarily beautiful autumn weather that always takes us by surprise, when the low sunshine is warmer than in spring; when the air is pure and thin, everything sparkles enough to sting the eyes; when you breathe deep and feel refreshed, drinking in the fragrant autumn air; when even the nights are warm, and on dark, warm nights like these golden stars startle or delight us by scattering themselves endlessly down the sky.
The weather was like t
his at ten o'clock on the 2nd of September. The morning light was magical. Down below Poklonny hill lay the sprawl of Moscow with her river, her gardens and her churches; she seemed to be living a life of her own, and her domes shimmered like stars in the sunlight.
Looking down on this strange city, with its weird forms of unfamiliar architecture, Napoleon felt a touch of envy and a pang of niggling curiosity as men do when they come across an alien way of life that knows nothing of them. Here was a town that was obviously living life to the full. From the elusive signs that tell you unmistakably even at a distance whether a body is dead or alive, Napoleon, far away on Poklonny hill, could feel the life pulsating through this town, and almost hear the big, beautiful creature breathing. Every Russian looking at Moscow feels her to be a mother; every foreigner who sees her, although probably ignorant of her significance as the mother city, is bound to sense her femininity, as did Napoleon.
'This Asiatic city with churches beyond number, holy Moscow! Here she is at last, the famous city! Not before time,' said Napoleon. Dismounting from his horse, he told them to open a plan of Moscow before him, and sent for his interpreter, Lelorgne d'Ideville.
'An occupied city is like a girl who has lost her virtue,' he thought (something he had said to Tuchkov at Smolensk).
And this was how he looked on the oriental beauty that he was seeing for the first time as she lay there before him. He had a strange feeling now that the desire burning in him for so long like an impossible dream had been gratified. In the clear morning light he looked first at the town and then at the plan, checking its details, excited and overawed by the certainty of possessing it.
'But how could it be otherwise?' he thought. 'Here is this capital at my feet awaiting her fate. Where is Alexander now, and what must he be thinking? A strange, beautiful, magnificent city! And a strange and magnificent moment for me! I wonder how I seem to them,' he mused, thinking of his soldiers. 'Here is the city - a reward for all these men of little faith,' he thought, looking round at his entourage and the troops who were marching up and falling into line.