ierre took a cab and drove round to the governor's.
Count Rostopchin had come back into town from his summer villa at Sokolniki that very morning. The ante-room and reception-room in the count's house were crammed with officials, some of them called in by him, others wanting instructions. Vasilchikov and Platov had already been in and informed the count that defending Moscow was out of the question; the city would have to be surrendered. This news was being kept from the people, but the top officials and the heads of the various departments knew that Moscow would soon be in enemy hands, as did Count Rostopchin himself. And to avoid personal responsibility all of them had come to the governor to ask what to do with the sections they were in charge of.
At the moment when Pierre walked into the waiting-room an army courier was on his way out from an interview with the count. With an air of hopelessness he waved away the questions coming at him, and walked across the room.
While he was waiting Pierre cast a weary gaze over the roomful of various officials, young and old, military and civilian, important and insignificant. Every last one of them seemed worried and unhappy. Pierre went over to one group that contained someone he knew. They welcomed him and went on with their conversation.
'No, sending them away and bringing them back again won't do any harm, but as things stand we don't know where we are.'
'But look what he's written here,' said another, pointing to a printed paper he was holding in his hand.
'That's different. We need that sort of thing for the common people,' said the first man.
'What is it?' asked Pierre.
'It's the latest poster.'
Pierre took it and started to read.
'His Serene Highness Prince Kutuzov has withdrawn through Mozhaysk to join up more quickly with troops heading his way, and he has now taken up a strong position which the enemy will find it hard to attack. Forty-eight cannons and supplies of ammunition have been sent out to him, and his Serene Highness has vowed to defend Moscow to the last drop of blood and fight in the streets. Brother citizens, do not misunderstand the closing of the Law Courts; this step was unavoidable, but be assured that we shall still have our own ways of dealing with criminals! When the time comes I shall need some good men, from town and country. I shall give the call a day or two beforehand, but for the moment there's no need, and I say no more. You will find axes useful, and hunting spears are pretty good too, but the three-pronged fork is the best of the lot - Frenchmen weigh no more than a sheaf of rye. Tomorrow afternoon I shall take the Iversk icon of the Mother of God to the wounded men in Catherine's Hospital. There we shall have the water blessed, and they will get better more quickly. I'm feeling better myself. I did have trouble with one eye, but now I'm on the lookout with both.'
'But I was told by the military,' said Pierre, 'there couldn't be any fighting in the town, and the position . . .'
'Yes, yes, that's what we're saying,' said the first speaker.
'And what does it mean when he says, "I did have trouble with one eye, but now I'm on the lookout with both"?'
'The count had a stye on his eye,' said the adjutant smiling, 'and he was very upset when I told him people were coming up to ask what was wrong with him. Oh, by the way, Count,' he said suddenly, turning to Pierre with a smile on his face, 'we've been hearing about your family problems. The word is that your wife, the countess . . .'
'I haven't heard anything,' said Pierre indifferently. 'What have you heard?'
'Oh, you know how it is - stories go the rounds. I'm just telling you what I've heard.'
'What have you heard?'
'Well, people are saying,' said the adjutant with the same unwavering smile, 'that your wife, the countess, is getting ready to go abroad. I'm sure it's all nonsense.'
'Maybe it is,' said Pierre, looking round absentmindedly. 'Who's that?' he asked, pointing to a little old man with a big snow-white beard, eyebrows of the same colour and a ruddy face, wearing a clean blue coat.
'Him? Oh, he's just a local tradesman. He runs an eating-place. It's Vereshchagin. You must have heard the story about the proclamation.'
'Oh, that's Vereshchagin, is it?' said Pierre, staring closely at the old man's calm, steady face, searching for signs of treachery.
'That's not the Vereshchagin. That's the father of the fellow who wrote the proclamation,' said the adjutant. 'His son's in gaol. Got it coming to him, I shouldn't wonder.'
A little old gentleman wearing a star and another official, a German with a cross round his neck, came over to join them.
'Well, it's a long story really,' the adjutant was saying. 'There was this proclamation that came out a couple of months ago. It was sent to the count, and he ordered an inquiry. Well, Gavrilo Ivanych here looked into things and he found out the proclamation had gone through exactly sixty-three pairs of hands. He goes to one fellow and asks where he got it from. Oh, so-and-so. Where did he get it from? So-and-so. And it went on like that until they traced it all the way back to Vereshchagin . . . Bit of a tradesman, not much education, you know, makes a bit on the side,' said the adjutant with a smile. 'So they asked him where he got it from. Not that we didn't know. There was only one man he could have got it from - the postmaster. But there must have been some kind of deal between them. Nobody, he says - he wrote it himself. No good threatening him or asking questions. He sticks to his story. He wrote it himself. So they told the count, and he had him in. "Where did you get this proclamation?" "Wrote it myself." Well, you know what the count's like,' said the adjutant, enjoying himself and smiling with pride. 'Came down on him like a ton of bricks . . . called him a brazen liar and a stubborn idiot!'
'I see! The count needed him to point the finger at Klyucharyov,' said Pierre.
'Well no, he didn't,' said the adjutant in dismay. 'Klyucharyov had sins enough to answer for without that. That's why he was banished. Anyway, the count was furious. "How could you have written this?" says he. He picks up a copy of the Hamburg Gazette from the table. "Here it is. You didn't write this, you translated it, and you made a rotten job of it because you're a stupid fool and you don't know any French." Can you imagine it? "No," says he, "I haven't read no gazettes. I just wrote it." "Well if you did, you're a traitor, and I'm handing you over to the court, and they'll string you up. Just tell us where you got it from." "I haven't seen no gazettes. I wrote it." And that's where it stands. The count had the father in. Same story. So they had him tried and sentenced. I think he got hard labour. That's why the father's here now - interceding for his son. But he's a useless layabout! You know the type - spoilt brat, tradesman's son, fancy-man seducer of women, been to a few classes and let it go to his head. Ugly customer! His father runs that eating-house down by the Stone Bridge, with that huge icon, God the Father - you know, a sceptre in one hand and an orb in the other - well, he took that home for a day or two, and do you know what he did with it? He got somebody from the gutter who could paint a bit, and . . .'
CHAPTER 11
In the middle of this new story Pierre was called in to see the governor-general.
He walked into Count Rostopchin's study. As he did so Rostopchin was scowling and rubbing his forehead and eyes with one hand. There was a little man with him and he was speaking, but the moment Pierre came in he stopped talking and left the room.
'Ah! See the conquering hero comes,' said Rostopchin as soon as he had gone. 'We've been hearing about your valiant deeds! But that's by the way. Tell me, my dear fellow, just between the two of us - are you a freemason?' said Count Rostopchin, looking all serious as if this was some kind of criminal activity that he might just be prepared to condone. Pierre made no response. 'I keep my ear to the ground, old man, and I do know there are masons and masons. I just hope you're not one of those who use the salvation of mankind as an excuse to destroy Russia itself.'
'Yes, I am a mason,' answered Pierre.
'Well then, listen to me, dear boy. I imagine you're not unaware that Messrs Speransky and Magnitsky have been sent away to their proper places, and Mr Klyucharyov has got the same treatment, along with all the others who have used the building of Solomon's temple as an excuse to bring down the temple of Russia. You may take it from me there are good reasons behind this. I could never have banished our Postmaster General if he hadn't been a danger to the community. It has now come to my notice that it was you who sent a carriage to get him out of town, and his papers have been sent to you for safe-keeping. I like you, and I wish you no harm, and since you're half my age, I'm going to give you a bit of fatherly advice. Sever all contacts with that kind of person, and get out of here as fast as you can.'
'But what has Klyucharyov done wrong?' asked Pierre.
'That's my business. I'm not answerable to you!' Rostopchin burst out.
'If he's accused of circulating Napoleon's proclamations, you have no proof,' said Pierre, avoiding Rostopchin's eyes. 'And as for Vereshchagin . . .'
'Ah, there you have it!' Rostopchin cut in, scowling again and shouting louder than before. 'Vereshchagin is a snake in the grass, a traitor who will get what's coming to him,' he said, speaking with all the vindictiveness of someone recalling an old grievance. 'But I didn't call you in to talk about my affairs - I brought you here to give you some advice, or your marching orders, if that's the way you prefer it. I'm asking you to sever all contacts with the likes of Klyucharyov and get out of town. I'm going to beat the nonsense out of anybody stupid enough to . . .' But then suddenly he seemed to realize he was bawling at a man who hadn't done anything wrong, so he took Pierre by the hand in a friendly way and added: 'We're on the eve of a public disaster, and I haven't time for niceties when people come in to talk business. Sometimes my head fair spins. Anyway, what are you up to now, my dear fellow, you personally?'
'Oh, nothing,' answered Pierre, still refusing to look up. His face looked preoccupied, and its expression didn't change.
The count frowned.
'Listen to me, old man. Get away as soon you can. That's my friendly advice to you. Nothing more to be said. A word to the wise . . . Goodbye, dear boy. Oh, by the way,' he shouted after Pierre as he walked out through the doorway, 'is it true the countess has fallen into the clutches of the holy fathers of the Society of Jesus?'
Pierre did not respond to this. He stormed out of Rostopchin's room with the darkest, angriest scowl that had ever been seen on his face.
By the time he reached home it was getting dark. That evening more than half-a-dozen assorted visitors came to see him - a committee secretary, the colonel of his militia battalion, his steward, his butler, and several other petitioners. All of them had business to discuss with Pierre, and he had decisions to make. He hadn't the slightest idea what they were on about, not the slightest interest in any of them, and to each man in turn he blurted out the first thing that came into his head just to get rid of him. Alone at last, he broke open his wife's letter and read it through.
'The men - the soldiers in the battery, Prince Andrey killed . . . the old man . . . Simplicity is submitting to God's will. The need to suffer . . . the meaning of the whole . . . harnessing things together . . . my wife is going to be married . . . The need to forget and understand . . .' And he went over to his bed, flung himself down on it without taking his clothes off, and fell fast asleep.
When he woke up the following morning his butler came in with the news that an official from the police department had been expressly ordered by Count Rostopchin to come round and find out whether Count Bezuhov had already left, or was on his way.
A dozen assorted visitors were waiting downstairs in the drawing-room to see Pierre on business. Pierre threw on some clothes, but instead of going down to see the waiting throng, he ran down the back stairs and slipped out through the gate.
From that moment on, until after the destruction of Moscow, despite many attempts to trace him, no member of Bezukhov's household staff saw him again, or knew where he had gone.
CHAPTER 12
The Rostovs stayed on in Moscow until the 1st of September, the day before the enemy entered the city.
Once Petya had joined Obolensky's Cossack regiment and gone off to Belaya Tserkov, where the regiment was forming, the countess panicked. For the first time that summer the realization that both of her sons were away at war, both had flown the nest, and today or tomorrow either one of them might get killed, possibly both of them at the same time, which had happened to the three sons of a lady she knew, struck her with painful clarity. She tried to get Nikolay back, she wanted to run off after Petya and get him posted to Petersburg, but neither was possible. Petya couldn't be brought back unless his regiment came back too, or unless he was transferred to another regiment on active service. Nikolay was away at the front somewhere, and not a word had been heard from him since his last letter, which had contained a detailed description of his encounter with Princess Marya. The countess couldn't sleep at night, and when she did sleep she dreamt that both of her sons had been killed. After much deliberation and consultation the count eventually hit on a way of soothing the countess. He got Petya transferred from Obolensky's regiment to Bezukhov's, which was in training near Moscow. True, Petya was still in the army, but this transfer gave the countess the consolation of seeing at least one of her sons under her wing again, and she was hoping to arrange for Petya never to go away, and always to be sent to serve in places where there would be no risk of his going into battle. While ever Nikolay had been the only one in danger the countess had imagined, not without some qualms of conscience, that she loved her eldest child more than the others, but now that her younger boy, naughty little Petya, bad at his lessons, the clumsy boy who broke everything in the house and drove them all wild, her Petya, with his turned-up nose, laughing black eyes and fresh rosy cheeks with only a bit of fluff on them, had got in with those huge, awful, violent men who had gone away somewhere fighting over something or other, and enjoying it too - now as a mother she seemed to love him more, much more, than all the rest. The nearer they got to the time when her longed-for Petya was due back in Moscow, the more worried the countess became. She felt certain she would never live to see such happiness. The close proximity of Sonya, or her favourite Natasha, or even her husband simply irritated the countess. 'I don't need them. All I want is Petya!' she thought.
One day towards the end of August, the Rostovs received another letter from Nikolay. He was writing from the province of Voronezh, where he had been sent to procure fresh horses. This letter brought no comfort to the countess. The knowledge that one son was out of danger just made her more apprehensive about Petya.
Although by the 20th of August virtually everyone they knew had left Moscow in dribs and drabs, and although everybody was trying to persuade the countess to get away as soon as she could, she wouldn't hear of leaving until the treasure of her life, her adored Petya, had come back. On the 28th of August he arrived. The sixteen-year-old officer was anything but delighted to be welcomed by his mother with such a morbid display of affection and soppiness. Though his mother concealed her intention of never letting him escape from under her wing again, Petya soon guessed what she was up to and instinctively recoiled from the idea that his mother might make him too soft and turn him into a silly woman (as he put it to himself), so he kept her at arm's length and avoided her, devoting himself during his stay in Moscow exclusively to Natasha. His brotherly affection was so strong he was almost in love with her.
Even as late as the 28th the count, with his usual negligence, had made no preparations for leaving, and it was the 30th of the month before the wagons that were due to come in from the Moscow and Ryazan estates and pick up their property at the house finally arrived.
From the 28th to the 31st Moscow was seething with movement. Every day thousands of war casualties from Borodino were brought in through the Dorogomilov gate and taken all over Moscow, while thousands of carts piled high with residents and their belongings trundled out through other gates. Rostopchin's posters made no difference; either independently of them, or maybe because of them, the town was alive with the weirdest and most contradictory rumours. Some said there was a ban on leaving the city; others claimed the opposite - the churches had been stripped of their icons, and everybody was going to be forced out of Moscow. Some said there had been another battle after Borodino, and the French had been routed; others claimed the opposite - the entire Russian army had been wiped out. Some said the Moscow militia was going to march out to the Three Hills, led by the clergy; others whispered that Father Augustin had been told he couldn't leave, traitors had been caught, the peasants were up in arms and they were robbing anybody who left town, and so on and so forth. But this was all talk. In point of fact, even though the council at Fili still lay in the future, so no decision to abandon Moscow had yet been taken, absolutely everyone - those who were leaving and those who were staying - felt that, although no one could say so openly, Moscow was lost and it was up to everybody to get out as soon as they could and save their own property. There was a feeling of change in the air, as if they were sitting on a powder-keg, yet everything went on unchanged until the 1st of September. Like a criminal on his way to the scaffold, who knows he has only minutes to live but still looks round at everything and straightens the untidy cap on his head, Moscow continued to go through the motions of everyday life, fully aware that the hour of doom was at hand when the normal way of life that they had grown so used to would be blasted away.
During the three days leading up to the occupation of Moscow all the Rostovs went about their various bits of family business. The head of the family, Count Ilya Rostov, drove from one end of the town to the other in search of every last rumour, and when he was at home he went round giving out trivial and ill-considered instructions to those who were getting things ready for the departure.
The countess was in charge of the packing, finding fault with everybody and forever chasing after Petya because she resented him spending all his time with Natasha. Sonya was the only person who got down to the actual business of getting