speechless at his side, he put spurs to his horse and rode off down the lane.
CHAPTER 5
The troops continued their retreat from Smolensk. The enemy came on behind. On the 10th of August, as the regiment under Prince Andrey's command marched along the main road, they went past the avenue leading off to Bald Hills. There had been more than three weeks of hot weather and drought. Every day fleecy clouds floated across the heavens, now and then hiding the sun, but the sky always cleared in the late afternoon and the sun went down in a deep red haze. The earth got its only refreshment from a heavy dew at night. Any wheat left in the fields was scorched and scattered. The marshes had dried up. The cattle bellowed from hunger, finding nothing to graze on in the sun-baked meadows. Only at night and in the woods was there any cool air, and then only while the dew lasted. Out on the road, the high road where the troops were marching, there was never any cool air, not even at night, not even when the road went through a wood. No dew touched the six inches of churned-up sandy dust. They were on the road at first light. Axle-deep, the wagons and big guns trundled on without a sound, while the infantry marched up to their ankles in soft, choking, burning dust that never cooled off overnight. Sandy dust stuck to feet and wheels, and rose in a cloud over the marching men, getting into eyes and hair and nostrils and, worst of all, down into the lungs of man and beast moving down the road. The higher the sun, the higher the cloud of dust, and through the filter of tiny, burning dust-particles you could look straight at the sun, hanging there like a huge crimson ball in a sky devoid of clouds. There wasn't a breath of wind, and men were left gasping in the thick, still atmosphere. They marched with cloths over their mouths and noses. Whenever they got to a village there was a rush for the wells. They fought over the water, and drank it down to the mud.
Prince Andrey was a regimental commander, and as such he was committed to the management of the regiment, the welfare of his men, the need to receive and transmit orders. For him the burning and abandonment of Smolensk were an epoch-making event. A new feeling, a burning hatred of the enemy, made him transcend his personal sorrow. He was wholly committed to his regiment, he looked after his officers and men, and he treated them with kindness. The regiment called him 'our prince', they were proud of him, and he was well-liked. But his kindness and friendliness were confined to the regiment, Timokhin and other such men, different people from an alien sphere, people with no knowledge or understanding of his past. The moment he brushed up against anyone from the old days, or any of the staff officers, he became all prickly, full of venom, derision and contempt. Anything that linked him with memories from the past he found repulsive, so, when it came to dealings with that old world, all he wanted was to avoid unfairness and do his duty.
Indeed, all was darkness and gloom for Prince Andrey, especially after Smolensk had been abandoned on the 6th of August, though he believed it could and should have been defended, and after his ailing father had been forced to flee to Moscow, leaving his beloved Bald Hills open to plundering, the estate that he had loved so much, developed and settled with peasants. Because of his position, Prince Andrey had others things to think about - he was bothered about his regiment. However, on the 10th of August the column which included his regiment marched past the turn-off to Bald Hills. Two days before Prince Andrey had been informed that his father, his son and his sister had left for Moscow. Even though there was nothing for him to do on the estate, he decided, with a typical urge to rub salt into his own wounds, that he must ride over to Bald Hills.
He had his horse saddled and rode off down the side-road towards his father's house, where he had been born and spent his childhood. As he rode past the pond, where there had always been dozens of peasant women gossiping as they pounded the washing or rinsed the clothes, Prince Andrey could see there was no one there, and the little wooden pier was torn away and floating sideways, half-sunk in the middle of the pond. He rode to the keeper's lodge. There was no one anywhere near the stone gates, and the door had been left open. The paths of the garden were overgrown, and calves and horses could be seen wandering about all over the English park. Prince Andrey rode over to the conservatory, where some of the glass panes were broken and the trees in tubs were either knocked over or dried up. He called Taras, the gardener. No response. Going round the conservatory into the open garden, he saw that the ornamental fence was in ruins, and plum-tree branches had been ripped off with the fruit. An old peasant (Prince Andrey had seen him by the gate since childhood) was still there on a little green bench making a shoe from bark-fibre.
He was too deaf to hear Prince Andrey coming up. He just sat there on the seat where the old prince had been fond of sitting, with the bark-fibre hanging from the branches of a broken down and dried-up magnolia.
Prince Andrey rode on to the house. Several lime-trees in the old garden had been cut down, and a piebald mare was wandering about with her foal among the rose bushes right in front of the house. The windows were all shuttered, except for one downstairs that was open. A little serf-boy dashed indoors the moment he saw Prince Andrey.
Alpatych had sent his family away, and was staying on alone at Bald Hills. He was sitting in the house, reading The Lives of the Saints. On hearing that Prince Andrey had come, he walked outside with his spectacles on his nose, buttoning himself up, hurried over to the prince, and without saying a word burst into tears as he kissed him on the knee.
Then he turned away, annoyed with himself for being so soft, and went into a full account of how things stood. Everything of real or sentimental value had been moved to Bogucharovo. Some grain had been carted away, anything up to a hundred quarters, but the hay and spring corn - a wonderful crop this year, according to Alpatych - had been commandeered by the troops and cut while still green. The peasants were ruined; some had gone to Bogucharovo, but a few had stayed on. Prince Andrey cut him short and asked when his father and sister had left, meaning when had they set off for Moscow. Alpatych assumed he was talking about the move to Bogucharovo; he said they had set off on the 7th, and then he was off again into problems of management, and he wanted instructions.
'Am I under your Honour's orders to let the oats go and get a receipt from the officers?' he asked. 'We've still got six hundred quarters.'
'What can I tell him?' Prince Andrey wondered, looking down at the old man's bald head shining in the sun. He could tell by the look on his face that Alpatych knew full well how irrelevant these questions were; he was only asking them to allay his own grief.
'Yes, let it go,' he said.
'If your Excellency noticed that the garden's a bit untidy,' said Alpatych, 'there was nothing I could do to stop it. Three regiments have been through and spent the night here. The dragoons were the worst. I wrote down the CO's name and rank so we can file a complaint.'
'But what about you? What are you going to do? Are you staying on if the enemy occupies the place?' Prince Andrey asked him.
Alpatych turned to Prince Andrey, looked him straight in the face, and then all at once, he pointed heavenwards with a solemn gesture.
'He is my refuge. His will be done!' he said.
A group of peasants and house serfs were coming across the field, baring their heads as they got near to Prince Andrey.
'Well, goodbye!' said the prince, bending down towards Alpatych. 'You should go. Take whatever you can, and tell the peasants to go to one of the other estates - Ryazan or Moscow.'
Alpatych was clinging to his leg and sobbing his heart out. Prince Andrey eased him away, spurred his horse and galloped away down the avenue.
The old man was still there, squatting over his last and tapping away at his new shoe, as inconsequential as a fly on the dead face of a loved one. Then two little girls came haring out of the conservatory with their skirts full of plums picked from the trees, only to run straight into Prince Andrey. The elder girl took one horrified look at the young master, grabbed her younger playmate by the hand and nipped off to hide behind a birch-tree, scattering green plums and not stopping to pick them up.
Prince Andrey was startled, and he turned away hoping they might not notice he had seen them. He felt sorry for the pretty little girl that he had frightened. He was wary of glancing in her direction, yet he felt an overwhelming urge to do just that. He was swept by a lovely, heart-warming sensation that was quite new to him; the sight of those two little girls had suddenly made him aware that there were such things as other human interests, a million miles from his own but no less legitimate. The little creatures had one burning ambition: to pinch those green plums and scoff them without getting caught, and Prince Andrey wished them well in their enterprise. He could not resist another glance. Feeling safe at last, they had nipped out of their hiding-place and they were off, singing out in shrill little voices, holding their skirts up and dashing merrily across the grassy field as fast as their bare, sunburnt little feet would carry them.
Prince Andrey was feeling quite refreshed by his escape from the dusty realm of the high-road that the troops were marching along. But not far from Bald Hills he turned back on to the road, and caught up with his regiment at their halt near a dam at the end of a small pond. It was about two in the afternoon. The sun, a red ball seen through the dust, baked and scorched his back intolerably through his black coat. The dust was still there, standing immobile over the halted, chattering troops. There wasn't a breath of wind. As he rode towards the dam, Prince Andrey caught a whiff from the pond, a fresh, muddy smell. He felt an urge to dive in, however muddy it might be. He glanced over at the pond, where he could hear nothing but shrieks and laughter. It wasn't very big, it was covered with thick green slime, and it had obviously gone up a couple of feet, enough to overflow the dam, by being full of white, naked human bodies, soldiers with brick-red hands, faces and necks, all larking about in the water. All this bare, white human flesh, whooping and roaring with laughter, was thrashing around in the muddy pool like carp in a bucket. These were the sounds of men having fun, and that gave it all an air of special sadness.
One blond young soldier of the third company with a thin strap round his ankle - Prince Andrey knew who he was - crossed himself, stepped back to get a good run-up and plunged in with a huge splash. Another man, a swarthy-skinned NCO with an unruly head of hair, stood waist-deep in the water, flexing his muscular figure and snorting with delight as he poured the water over his head with hands that were black to the wrists. The place rang to the sound of back-slapping, whooping and roaring.
Out on the banks, up on the dam, down in the pond, everywhere was a picture of white, healthy, muscular flesh. Timokhin, the officer with the little red nose, towelling himself on the dam, was embarrassed at the sight of Prince Andrey, but he decided he must speak.
'It's really good, sir. You ought to have a go!' he said.
'Too dirty,' said Prince Andrey, pulling a face.
'We'll clear it for you. Give us a minute.' And naked as he was Timokhin ran off to clear the boys out.
'The prince's coming in.'
'What prince? Ours?' several voices cried, and they were all so keen to get out of the way that Prince Andrey could hardly manage to pacify them. He could not help feeling it would have been better to have a sponge-down in a shed.
'Flesh, bodies, cannon fodder . . .' he thought, looking down at his own naked body and shuddering, not so much from the cold as from an inexplicable feeling of revulsion and horror that had come over him at the sight of that great throng of bodies splashing about in the dirty pond.
On the 7th of August Prince Bagration, halting at Mikhaylovka on the Smolensk road, had written in the following terms to Arakcheyev: Dear Count Aleksey Andreyevich,
[He was writing to Arakcheyev, but he knew the letter would be read by the Tsar, so he weighed every word, to the best of his ability.]
I imagine the minister [Barclay de Tolly] will have reported the abandonment of Smolensk to the enemy. It is painful, it is sad, and the whole army is in despair that such a crucially important place has been so wantonly abandoned. I for my part tried to persuade him in the most urgent terms, and in the end I wrote to him, but he was not to be convinced. On my word of honour, Napoleon was in deeper trouble than ever before, and he might have lost half his army, but he would never have taken Smolensk. Our troops have fought and are fighting as never before. I kept the enemy at bay with fifteen thousand men for thirty-five hours and beat them, but he wouldn't hold out for fourteen hours. It is shameful, a stain on our army, and as far as he is concerned, I don't think he should still be in the land of the living. If he reports that we sustained great losses, it is not true; four thousand maybe, not even that. And if it had been ten thousand, what then? We're at war. And besides, the enemy's losses were incalculable.
What would it have cost him to hold out for a couple of days? To say the least, they would have gone away of their own accord, for they hadn't a drop of water for man or horse. He gave me his word he would not retreat, then all of a sudden he sends a dispatch that he is withdrawing that very night. You cannot fight like this, and we may soon have brought the enemy right through to Moscow . . .
Rumour has it that you are thinking of suing for peace. God forbid that you should! After all those sacrifices and so many insane retreats - in suing for peace you will turn the whole of Russia against you, and every man jack of us will be too ashamed to wear the uniform. If it comes to it, we must go out and fight while ever Russia can, while ever there's a man still standing . . .
There must be one man in charge, not two. Your minister may be a good man in the ministry, but as a general he's not just useless, he's beneath contempt, and the destiny of all our country has been left in his hands . . . I really am going insane with frustration; you must forgive me for putting it so strongly. It is quite clear that anyone who recommends suing for peace and putting this minister in charge of the army does not love his sovereign, and wants to see us all ruined. So, what I say is right and proper: get the militia ready. For the minister is exercising the greatest skill in leading our visitor on to the capital. Aide-de-camp Wolzogen is looked on with great suspicion by the whole army. They say he is Napoleon's man more than ours and the minister follows his advice in all things. I am always civil to him, in fact I obey him like a corporal, even though I am his senior. It hurts me to do so, but out of love for my sovereign and benefactor, I obey him. But I grieve for the Tsar that he entrusts a gallant army to men like this. Don't forget that by retreating we have lost more than fifteen thousand men, through fatigue or left sick in the hospitals, and if we had gone on the attack this would not have happened. Tell me for God's sake, what will our mother Russia have to say about this defeatism, and why are we abandoning our good and gallant country to such rabble and sowing the seeds of hatred and shame in every Russian? Have we no guts? Who are we afraid of? Don't blame me if the minister is a dithering idiot, a yellow-bellied, dilatory fool with the worst character defects. There is weeping and wailing throughout the army; they curse him and wish he was dead . . .
CHAPTER 6
All the infinite sub-divisions into which the phenomena of life can be broken down can be reduced into those in which content predominates and those in which form predominates. To the latter group we may safely assign life in Petersburg, especially in the salon, as distinct from the life in the country, the district, the province, even in Moscow. Salon life does not change.
In the aftermath of 1805 we had several times made peace with Napoleon and fallen out with him again, and we had made and unmade new constitutions, but the salons of Anna Pavlovna and Helene were the same as they had been, respectively, seven and five years before. Anna Pavlovna's circle went on in the same old way, nonplussed by Bonaparte's successes, which they saw as linked to indulgence on the part of the sovereigns of Europe in a spiteful plot aimed solely at upsetting and worrying the court circle of which Anna Pavlovna was the representative. Helene's circle went on in the same old way, flattered by the gracious presence from time to time of no less a person than Rumyantsev, a great admirer of his hostess's sharp intelligence; in 1812 these people waxed eloquent, as they had done in 1808, about a 'great nation', and a 'great man', much regretting the break with France, which, according to Helene's regular visitors, was bound to end in peace very soon.
With the Tsar's return from the army a stir of excitement had run through these rival salons in recent days, resulting in the occasional manifestation of mutual hostility, but each salon remained true to itself. Anna Pavlovna's set excluded anyone who was French (except for one or two dyed-in-the-wool legitimists), and their idea of patriotism extended to a boycott of the French theatre, and insistence that the French company playing there cost as much to maintain as a whole army corps. They were avid followers of the latest news from the front, encouraging any amount of rumours that greatly favoured our army. In the French circle of Helene and Rumyantsev any reports of enemy atrocities or the cruelty of war were discounted, and much was made of Napoleon's repeated attempts at conciliation. This group roundly condemned as premature any suggestion that it was time to plan the evacuation to Kazan of the court school and the girls' college patronized by the Dowager Empress. Helene's salon looked on the whole process as men going through the motions of war, with peace not far away at all, and the general view was that best expressed by Bilibin, who had happened to find himself in Petersburg and was now almost one of the family at Helene's, as befitted a man of intelligence: things would be decided not by gunpowder but the brains behind it. The effusions of Moscow, news of which reached Petersburg along with the Tsar, were looked on in Helene's salon with knowing irony and a measure of discreetly handled scorn.
In Anna Pavlovna's circle, by contrast, the same effusions were greeted with much enthusiasm and spoken about gravely; it was like Plutarch speaking of the ancients. Prince Vasily, who had managed to maintain his hold on all the important positions, constituted the one connecting link between the two circles. He us