'Here's your little kid. Oh, it's a girl. Better still,' said the Frenchman. 'So long, then, old boy. Got to be nice to each other. We're all mortal, aren't we?' And the Frenchman with the mark on his cheek ran back to his mates.
Breathless with joy, Pierre ran up to the child, and tried to pick her up. But when she saw a stranger, the little girl - a consumptive-looking, ugly little thing, very like her mother - screamed and ran away. But Pierre soon caught her, and lifted her up in his arms. Screeching in desperate fury, she tried to wrench herself away from Pierre using her tiny little hands, and bite him with her slobbering little mouth. Pierre felt a pang of horror and disgust, as if he was in contact with some nasty little wild animal. Fighting down an impulse to throw the child away, he ran back with it to the big house. But now it was impossible to get out that way. Aniska, the servant-girl, was nowhere to be seen, and it was with a mixture of pity and disgust that Pierre held on to the sopping wet, pitifully howling baby as tenderly as he could, and rushed across the garden to find another way out.
CHAPTER 34
Pierre ran round via many a back-street and courtyard, but when he got back to the Gruzinsky garden at the corner of Povarsky Street carrying his little burden, for a moment or two he didn't recognize the place he had set out from to go and look for the baby; it was so crammed with people and all the bits and pieces they had carried out from the houses. Apart from Russian families who had run away from the fire with a few belongings, there were also one or two French soldiers wearing different uniforms. Pierre ignored them. He was anxious to find the civil servant's family, and give the child back to its mother, so he could go off and save somebody else. Pierre somehow felt he had a lot more to do, and it must be done quickly. Well warmed up by the heat from the fire and all the running about, at this point Pierre was full of energy and determination, enjoying the same thrill of youth that had surged through him when he had rushed off to save the baby, but now it was even stronger. The baby had gone quiet, and she sat there on his arm hanging on to Pierre's coat with her tiny hands, and looking round like a little wild animal. Pierre glanced at her once or twice with a half smile. He thought he could see something pathetically innocent and angelic in that frightened, sickly little face.
Neither the official nor his wife was anywhere to be seen in the place where he had left them. Pierre strode quickly through the crowd, scanning the various faces as he came across them. He couldn't help noticing a Georgian or Armenian family consisting of a very old man with fine oriental features wearing a new, cloth-covered sheepskin coat and new boots, an old woman who looked rather similar and a much younger woman, the very image of an oriental beauty, with black eyebrows arching in sharp lines and a beautifully impassive oval face that looked remarkably soft and tender. Among the bits and pieces scattered all over the ground and all the people crowding into that open space, she stood there in her rich satin mantle with a bright lilac shawl over her head, looking for all the world like a tender hot-house plant that had been thrown out in the snow. She was sitting on some bundled up things just behind the old woman, and her big black almond eyes with their long lashes were glued to the ground. She seemed conscious of her beauty, and it scared her. Pierre was much taken by her face, and even though he was in a hurry he glanced round at her several times as he made his way over to the fence. When he got there and still couldn't find the people he was looking for, he stopped and took a good look around.
Pierre stood out now with a baby in his arms, and several Russians, men and women, soon gathered round him.
'Have you lost somebody, good sir? You're a gentleman, aren't you, sir? Whose baby is that?' they asked him.
Pierre told them the baby belonged to a woman in a black cloak who had been sitting on this very spot with her children, and he asked who she was and where she might have gone.
'Must be the Anferovs,' said an old deacon to a peasant woman with a pockmarked face. 'Lord, have mercy! Lord, have mercy!' he added, in his characteristic bass growl.
'No, not the Anferovs,' said the woman. 'Oh no, the Anferovs went off first thing this morning. It'll either be Marya Nikolayevna's or Ivanova's.'
'He called her a woman, and Marya Nikolayevna's a lady,' put in a house serf.
'You know who she is, then? Thin woman. Long teeth,' said Pierre.
'Yes, that's Marya Nikolayevna. Her lot moved out into the garden when we got attacked by these wolves,' said the woman, nodding towards the French soldiers.
'O Lord, have mercy upon us!' the deacon added again.
'Try down there. I'm sure it's her. She was crying her eyes out,' said the woman again. 'I'm sure it's her. Look, down there.'
But Pierre was no longer listening. For some seconds he had been absorbed in something that was going on only a few steps away. He was watching the Armenian family and two French soldiers who had come over to them. One of them, a fidgety little man, was wearing a blue greatcoat, with a piece of string tied round his middle. He had a nightcap on his head, and his feet were bare. The other soldier made a stronger impression on Pierre. A tall, skinny, round-shouldered man with fair hair, he lumbered about with a moronic look on his face. He was dressed in a rough tunic, blue trousers and big worn boots. The little Frenchman in the blue coat who had nothing on his feet had gone up to the Armenians, spoken to them, and grabbed at the old man's legs, which soon had him pulling off his boots as fast as he could. The other soldier in the tunic had stopped right in front of the beautiful Armenian girl, and he stood there with his hands in his pockets, starting at her without saying a word or moving a muscle.
'Here, you take the baby,' said Pierre, speaking forcefully and shoving the child on to the peasant woman. 'You take her back. Go on, take her!' His voice had risen almost to a shout, and he put the screaming child down on the ground before turning back to watch the Frenchmen and the Armenian family. By now the old man was sitting on the ground with nothing on his feet. The little Frenchman had just taken the second boot, and was slapping the boots together. The old man was sobbing as he spoke, but Pierre noticed all this only in passing. His eyes were riveted on the Frenchman in the tunic, who had taken his hands out of his pockets, sidled up to the young woman with a deliberate little swagger, and was now fingering her neck.
The beautiful Armenian girl sat there as before, completely immobile, with her long eyelashes drooping downwards, apparently not seeing or feeling what the soldier was doing to her.
In the short time it took for Pierre to cover the few steps separating him from the Frenchmen, the tall, thin marauder in the tunic managed to tear a necklace from the Armenian beauty's neck, which left the young woman clutching at her neck with both hands and screaming.
'Leave her alone!' Pierre roared in a voice that sounded hoarse with rage. He grabbed the tall, stooping soldier by his round shoulders and gave him a good shove. The soldier fell down, scrambled to his feet and ran away. But his comrade threw the boots to one side, and bore down on Pierre drawing his sword threateningly.
'Let's not do anything stupid, now,' he shouted.
Pierre was in the kind of furious rage that made him oblivious to everything, and he had the strength of ten men. He flung himself at the barefoot Frenchman before the man could finish drawing his sword, flattened him and began hammering him with both fists. Roars of encouragement came from the crowd, but just then a patrol of French lancers came riding round the corner. The lancers trotted up to Pierre and the Frenchman, surrounding them both. Pierre never remembered what happened next. He had a vague recollection of hitting somebody and being hit back until eventually he found himself with his hands tied, being searched by a group of French soldiers standing all round him.
'Lieutenant, he's got a dagger,' were the first words Pierre recognized.
'Aha, a weapon,' said the officer, and he turned to the barefoot soldier, who had been taken along with Pierre. 'All right. You can tell your story at the court martial,' said the officer. Then he turned and said to Pierre, 'Listen you. Do you s
peak French?'
Pierre looked around with bloodshot eyes, and said nothing. His face must have looked terrible, because the officer whispered something, and four more lancers detached themselves from the rest, came over and stationed themselves next to Pierre on both sides.
'Do you speak French?' The officer repeated the question, but kept his distance as he did so. 'Get the interpreter.'
A little man in Russian civilian clothing emerged from the ranks. Pierre could tell immediately from the way he dressed and spoke that he was a French salesman from a Moscow shop.
'He doesn't look like a common man,' said the interpreter, eyeing Pierre.
'Oh no? He looks very much like an arsonist to me,' said the officer. 'Ask him who he is.'
''Oo are you?' asked the interpreter in very Frenchified Russian. 'You must answer ze officer.'
'I'm not saying who I am. I'm your prisoner. Take me away,' Pierre blurted out in French.
'Aha!' commented the officer with a scowl. 'All right, march him away!'
A crowd had collected round the lancers. Nearest of all to Pierre stood the peasant woman with the pockmarked face, who now had the baby. As the patrol moved off she came forward.
'Hey, where are they taking you, dearie?' she said. 'The baby! What shall I to do with the baby if it's not theirs?' she cried.
'What does this woman want?' inquired the officer.
Pierre was behaving as if he had been drinking. His blood was up and his spirits soared at the sight of the little girl he had saved.
'What is she talking about?' he said. 'She's bringing me my daughter. I've just saved her from the fire,' he declared. 'Goodbye!' And he strode off solemnly between the Frenchmen, wondering why on earth he had blurted out such a pointless lie.
The lancers' patrol was one of the ones Durosnel had ordered out on to the streets of Moscow to stop any looting, and, more importantly, to catch the arsonists who, according to a widespread opinion mooted among the top-ranking French officers that day, were behind all the fires. In the course of patrolling a few more streets the lancers arrested another half-dozen suspicious characters, all Russian - a shopkeeper, a couple of theology students, a peasant and a house serf - along with several people caught looting. But of all these suspicious characters Pierre seemed more suspicious than anyone.
When they had all been taken away for the night to a large house on the Zubov rampart, where a guardhouse had been set up, Pierre was separated from the rest and placed under close guard.
VOLUME IV
PART I
CHAPTER 1
Meanwhile in Petersburg a complex struggle was not only continuing in the highest circles, it was gaining in intensity. The parties involved - those of Rumyantsev, the French set, Marya Fyodorovna, the Tsarevich and others - found themselves drowned out as always by the buzzing of the court drones. But life in the city went on as before, an easy life, full of luxury, disturbed only by phantoms and reflections of real life, and this meant that a great effort of will was needed for them to realize just how dangerous and difficult the situation of the Russian people was. There were the same receptions and balls, the same French theatre, the same interests pursued at court, the same interests and intrigues pursued in government service. Only in the very highest circles was an effort made to bear in mind the full difficulty of the present situation. It was whispered that the two Empresses had adopted polarized attitudes towards these difficult circumstances. The Dowager Empress, Marya Fyodorovna, worried about the welfare of the charities and educational institutions of which she was patron, had made arrangements for them all to be evacuated to Kazan, and all their belongings were now packed. But when the younger Empress, Yelizaveta Alexeyevna, was asked what arrangements she might like to make, she replied graciously enough, with the patriotic spirit that was now her byword, that she couldn't make any arrangements for state institutions, since they were the Tsar's business, but as far as she personally was concerned, she stated in the same gracious way that she would be the last person to leave Petersburg.
On the 26th of August, the very day of the battle of Borodino, a soiree was held at Anna Pavlovna Scherer's house, the high point of which was to be a reading of the Metropolitan's letter written to accompany the icon of Saint Sergiy, which was being sent to the Tsar. This letter was considered a model of ecclesiastical and patriotic eloquence. It was to be read by no less a person than Prince Vasily, who was famous for his powers of declamation. (He was one of the Empress's readers.) His declamatory skill consisted in delivering a torrent of words in sonorous tones and a sing-song voice that plunged up and down between a gentle murmur and a despairing wail irrespective of meaning, which meant it was entirely a matter of chance whether any particular words attracted a murmur or a wail. This reading, as always with Anna Pavlovna and her hospitality, was not without political significance. She was expecting a number of bigwigs, and she wanted to embarrass them for continuing to visit the French theatre, and appeal to their patriotic spirit. A lot of people had already arrived, but not all of the ones she was waiting for, so Anna Pavlovna delayed the reading and went about encouraging general conversation.
The hottest news in Petersburg concerned Countess Helene Bezukhov, who was ill. The countess had fallen sick a few days ago, and missed a number of occasions at which she would normally have been the finest adornment. The word was that she refused to see anyone, and instead of engaging the famous Petersburg physicians who usually attended her, she had placed herself in the hands of some Italian doctor, who was giving her some new and unusual treatment.
Everybody knew only too well that the lovely countess's indisposition arose from the difficulties of marrying two husbands at the same time, and the Italian doctor's cure amounted to getting rid of the difficulties. But in the presence of Anna Pavlovna no one was bold enough to think thoughts like that; it was as if they knew nothing at all about it.
'I hear the poor countess is very ill. The doctor says it's angina pectoris.'
'Angina? Oh, that's an awful thing to have.'
'They do say the rivals have been reconciled, thanks to the angina.' They took great pleasure in mouthing the medical term.
'I'm told the old count's reaction was very moving. He cried like a baby when the doctor told him how serious it was.'
'Oh, it would be a terrible loss. She's such a charming woman.'
'You're talking about the poor countess,' said Anna Pavlovna, sidling up. 'I've sent for news of her. I did hear she was a bit better. Oh, there's no doubt about it, she's the loveliest woman in the world,' said Anna Pavlovna, smiling at her own solemn words. 'We do belong to different camps, but that doesn't stop me giving the countess her due. She's so unhappy.'
Taking these last words as a slight lifting of the veil of mystery that hung over the countess's illness, one rather impetuous young man felt emboldened to voice surprise that the best-known doctors hadn't been called in, and the countess was being looked after by some quack, who might be giving her dangerous medicine.
'Well, you're better informed than I am!' cried Anna Pavlovna, rounding on the callow young man with sudden viciousness. 'But I have it on the best authority that this doctor is a very learned and skilful man. He is private physician to the Queen of Spain.'
And leaving the young man annihilated, Anna Pavlovna turned to Bilibin, who was talking about the Austrians over in a different group, with his forehead all puckered up and ready to relax in the delivery of some bon mot.
'I thought it was rather charming!' He was talking about a diplomatic note that had gone to Vienna along with the Austrian banners captured by Wittgenstein, 'the hero of Petropolis', as they called him in Petersburg.
'What is? What do you mean?' Anna Pavlovna inquired, thus creating a silence for the bon mot, even though she had heard it before.
And Bilibin repeated the precise wording of the diplomatic dispatch that he had composed.
'The Emperor returns the Austrian flags,' said Bilibin, 'friendly banners gone astray, fo
und by him along the way,' Bilibin concluded, relaxing his wrinkles.
'Charming, charming!' commented Prince Vasily.
'I suppose you mean the way to Warsaw,' said Prince Hippolyte in a very loud voice, much to everyone's surprise. All eyes turned to him; no one knew what he meant. Prince Hippolyte stared around as well in breezy bemusement. He had no more idea than anyone else what his words were supposed to mean. He had often noticed in his career as a diplomat that an off-the-cuff remark like that was considered very witty, so he had blurted out the first words that came into his head, just in case. 'It might come out all right,' he had thought, 'and if it doesn't they'll know what to do with it.' As it happened the awkward silence that ensued was broken by the arrival of the inadequately patriotic person Anna Pavlovna was wanting to tackle, so she smiled, wagged her finger at Prince Hippolyte, called Prince Vasily over to the table, set him up with two candles and a manuscript, and asked him to start. There was a general hush.
'Most gracious sovereign Emperor!' thundered Prince Vasily with a dark glare at the audience as if inviting anyone to challenge him. But nobody said a word. 'Moscow, our ancient capital, the New Jerusalem, receives her Messiah' - the emphasis was sudden and misplaced - 'like unto a mother that embraces her zealous sons, and sees through the gathering darkness a vision of thy dominion in all its dazzling glory, raising her voice in triumph and singing, "Hosanna! Blessed is he that cometh forth!" ' Prince Vasily uttered these last words in the most plangent tones.
Bilibin was examining his nails very closely, and many in the audience shrank back visibly, as if wondering whether they might have done something wrong. Anna Pavlovna was mouthing the words in advance, as old women whisper the next prayer in the communion service. 'Let the flagrant and brazen Goliath . . .' she whispered.