War And Peace: Book 11 - CHAPTER X

作者: Leo Tolstoy

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Author: Leo Tolstoy

ON THE 30TH Pierre returned to Moscow. Almost at the city gates he was met by

an adjutant of Count Rastoptchin's.

“Why, we have been looking for you everywhere,” said the adjutant. “The count

urgently wants to see you. He begs you to come to him at once on very important

business.” Instead of going home, Pierre hailed a cab-driver and drove to the

governor's.

Count Rastoptchin had only that morning arrived from his summer villa at

Sokolniky. The ante-room and waiting-room in the count's house were full of

officials, who had been summoned by him, or had come to him for instructions.

Vassiltchekov and Platov had already seen the count, and informed him that the

defence of Moscow was out of the question, and the city would be surrendered.

Though the news was being concealed from the citizens, the heads of various

departments and officials of different kinds knew that Moscow would soon be in

the hands of the enemy, just as Count Rastoptchin knew it. And all of them to

escape personal responsibility had come to the governor to inquire how to act in

regard to the offices in their charge.

At the moment when Pierre went into the waiting-room, a courier from the army

was just coming out from an interview with the count.

The courier waved his hand with a hopeless air at the questions with which he

was besieged, and walked across the room.

While he waited, Pierre watched with weary eyes the various officials—young,

old, military, and civilian, important and insignificant— who were gathered

together in the room. All seemed dissatisfied and uneasy. Pierre went up to one

group of functionaries, among whom he recognised an acquaintance. After greeting

him, they went on with their conversation.

“Well, to send out and bring back again would be no harm; but in the present

position of affairs there's no answering for anything.”

“But look here, what he writes,” said another, pointing to a printed paper he

held in his hand.

“That's a different matter. That's necessary for the common people,” said the

first.

“What is it?” asked Pierre.

“The new proclamation.”

Pierre took it and began to read.

“His highness the prince has passed Mozhaisk, so as to unite with the troops

that are going to join him, and has taken up a strong position, where the enemy

cannot attack him suddenly. Forty-eight cannon with shells have been sent him

from here, and his highness declares that he will defend Moscow to the last drop

of blood, and is ready even to fight in the streets. Don't mind, brothers, that

the courts of justice are closed; we must take our measures, and we'll deal with

miscreants in our own fashion. When the time comes, I shall have need of some

gallant fellows, both of town and country. I will give the word in a couple of

days; but now there's no need, and I hold my peace. The axe is useful; the pike,

too, is not to be despised; but best of all is the three-pronged fork: a

Frenchman is no heavier than a sheaf of rye. To-morrow after dinner, I shall

take the Iversky Holy Mother to St. Catherine's Hospital to the wounded. There

we will consecrate the water; they will soon be well again. I, too am well now;

one of my eyes was bad, but now I look well out of both.”

“Why, I was told by military men,” said Pierre, “that there could be no

fighting in the town itself, and the position…”

“To be sure, that's just what we are saying,” said the first speaker.

“But what does that mean: ‘One of my eyes was bad, but now I look out of

both'?” asked Pierre.

“The count had a sty in his eye,” said the adjutant smiling; “and he was very

much put out when I told him people were coming to ask what was the matter. And

oh, count,” he said suddenly, addressing Pierre with a smile, “we have been

hearing that you are in trouble with domestic anxieties, that the countess, your

spouse…”

“I have heard nothing about it,” said Pierre indifferently. “What is it you

have heard?”

“Oh, you know, stories are so often made up. I only repeat what I

hear.”

“What have you heard?”

“Oh, they say,” said the adjutant again with the same smile, “that the

countess, your wife, is preparing to go abroad. It's most likely

nonsense.”

“It may be,” said Pierre, looking absent-mindedly about him. “Who is that?”

he asked, indicating a tall old man in a clean blue overcoat, with a big,

snow-white beard and eyebrows and a ruddy face.

“That? Oh, he's a merchant; that is, he's the restaurant-keeper,

Vereshtchagin. You have heard the story of the proclamation, I dare say?”

“Oh, so that's Vereshtchagin!” said Pierre, scrutinising the firm, calm face

of the old merchant, and seeking in it some token of treachery.

“That's not the man himself. That's the father of the fellow who wrote the

proclamation,” said the adjutant. “The young man himself is in custody, and I

fancy it will go hard with him.”

A little old gentleman with a star, and a German official with a cross on his

neck, joined the group.

“It's a complicated story, you see,” the adjutant was relating. “The

proclamation appeared two months ago. It was brought to the count. He ordered

inquiry to be made. Well, Gavrilo Ivanitch made investigations; the proclamation

had passed through some sixty-three hands. We come to one and ask, From whom did

you get it? From so and so. And the next refers us on to so and so; and in that

way they traced it to Vereshtchagin … a half-educated merchant's son, one of

those pretty dears, you know,” said the adjutant smiling. “He too was asked,

From whom did you get it? And we knew very well from whom he had it really. He

could have had it from no one but the director of the post-office. But it was

clear there was an understanding between them. He says he got it from no one,

but had composed it himself. And threaten him and question him as they would, he

stuck to it, he had written it himself. So the matter was reported, and the

count had him sent for. ‘From whom did you get the proclamation?' ‘I wrote it

myself.' Well! you know the count,” said the adjutant, with a smile of pride and

delight. “He was fearfully angry; and only fancy the insolence, and lying, and

stubbornness!”

“Oh! the count wanted him to say it was from Klutcharyov, I understand,” said

Pierre.

“Oh no, not at all,” said the adjutant in dismay. “Klutcharyov had sins

enough to answer for without that, and that's why he was banished. But any way,

the count was very indignant. ‘How could you write it?' says the count. He took

up the Hamburg Gazette that was on the table. ‘Here it is. You did not

compose it, but translated it, and very badly too, because you don't even know

French, you fool.' What do you think? ‘No,' says he, ‘I have never read any

gazettes; I made it up.' ‘But if so, you're a traitor, and I'll hand you over

for judgment, and you will be hanged.' ‘Tell us from whom you got it.' ‘I have

not seen any gazettes; I composed it.' So the matter rests. The count sent for

the father; he sticks to the same story. And they had him tried, and he was

sentenced, I believe, to hard labour. Now the father has come to petition in his

favour. But he is a worthless young scamp! You know the style of spoilt

merchant's son, a regular dandy and lady-killer; has attended lectures of some

sort, and so fancies that he's above everybody. A regular young scamp! His

father has an eating-house here on the Kamenny bridge; and in the shop, you

know, there is a great picture of God the Supporter of All, represented with a

sceptre in one hand and the empire in the other; well, he took that picture home

for a few days, and what do you suppose he did! He got hold of some wretched

painter…”