War And Peace: Book 11 - CHAPTER XX

作者: Leo Tolstoy

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Author: Leo Tolstoy

MOSCOW meanwhile was empty. There was still people in the city; a fiftieth

part of all the former inhabitants still remained in it, but it was empty.

It was deserted as a dying, queenless hive is deserted.

In a queenless hive there is no life left. Yet at a superficial glance it

seems as much alive as other hives.

In the hot rays of the midday sun the bees soar as gaily around the queenless

hive as around other living hives; from a distance it smells of honey like the

rest, and bees fly into and out of it just the same. Yet one has but to watch it

a little to see that there is no life in the hive. The flight of the bees is not

as in living hives, the smell and the sound that meet the beekeeper are changed.

When the beekeeper strikes the wall of the sick hive, instead of the instant,

unanimous response, the buzzing of tens of thousands of bees menacingly arching

their backs, and by the rapid stroke of their wings making that whirring, living

sound, he is greeted by a disconnected, droning hum from different parts of the

deserted hive. From the alighting board comes not as of old the spirituous,

fragrant smell of honey and bitterness, and the whiff of heat from the

multitudes within. A smell of chill emptiness and decay mingles with the scent

of honey. Around the entrance there is now no throng of guards, arching their

backs and trumpeting the menace, ready to die in its defence. There is heard no

more the low, even hum, the buzz of toil, like the singing of boiling water, but

the broken, discordant uproar of disorder comes forth. The black, long-shaped,

honey-smeared workers fly timidly and furtively in and out of the hive: they do

not sting, but crawl away at the sight of danger. Of old they flew in only with

their bags of honey, and flew out empty: now they fly out with their burdens.

The beekeeper opens the lower partition and peeps into the lower half of the

hive. Instead of the clusters of black, sleek bees, clinging on each other's

legs, hanging to the lower side of the partition, and with an unbroken hum of

toil building at the wax, drowsy, withered bees wander listlessly about over the

roof and walls of the hive. Instead of the cleanly glued-up floor, swept by the

bees' wings, there are now bits of wax, excrement, dying bees feebly kicking,

and dead bees lying not cleared away on the floor.

The beekeeper opens the upper door and examines the super of the hive. In

place of close rows of bees, sealing up every gap left in the combs and

fostering the brood, he sees only the skilful, complex, edifice of combs, and

even in this the virginal purity of old days is gone. All is forsaken; and

soiled, black, stranger bees scurry swiftly and stealthily about the combs in

search of plunder; while the dried-up, shrunken, listless, old-looking bees of

the hive wander slowly about, doing nothing to hinder them, having lost every

desire and sense of life. Drones, gadflies, wasps and butterflies flutter about

aimlessly, brushing their wings against the walls of the hive. Here and there,

between the cells full of dead brood and honey, is heard an angry buzz; here and

there a couple of bees from old habit and custom, though they know not why they

do it, are cleaning the hive, painfully dragging away a dead bee or a wasp, a

task beyond their strength. In another corner two other old bees are languidly

fighting or cleaning themselves or feeding one another, themselves unaware

whether with friendly or hostile intent. Elsewhere a crowd of bees, squeezing

one another, is falling upon some victim, beating and crushing it; and the

killed or enfeebled bee drops slowly, light as a feather, on to the heap of

corpses. The beekeeper parts the two centre partitions to look at the nursery.

Instead of the dense, black rings of thousands of bees, sitting back to back,

watching the high mysteries of the work of generation, he sees hundreds of

dejected, lifeless, and slumbering wrecks of bees. Almost all have died,

unconscious of their coming end, sitting in the holy place, which they had

watched—now no more. They reek of death and corruption. But a few of them still

stir, rise up, fly languidly and settle on the hand of the foe, without the

spirit to die stinging him; the rest are dead and as easily brushed aside as

fishes' scales. The beekeeper closes the partition, chalks a mark on the hive,

and choosing his own time, breaks it up and burns it.

So was Moscow deserted, as Napoleon, weary, uneasy and frowning, paced up and

down at the Kamerkolezhsky wall awaiting that merely external, but still to his

mind essential observance of the proprieties—a deputation.

Some few men were still astir in odd corners of Moscow, aimlessly following

their old habits, with no understanding of what they were doing.

When, with due circumspectness, Napoleon was informed that Moscow was

deserted, he looked wrathfully at his informant, and turning his back on him,

went on pacing up and down in silence.

“My carriage,” he said. He sat down in his carriage beside the adjutant on

duty, and drove into the suburbs.

“Moscow deserted! What an incredible event!” he said to himself.

He did not drive right into the town, but put up for the night at an inn in

the Dorogomilov suburb. The dramatic scene had not come off.

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