War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
All night long there was a constant flow of troops down the street past the inn. Next morning Alpatych put on a jacket that he kept for town wear and went about his business. It was a sunny morning, and it had been hot since eight o'clock. 'Good day for harvesting,' he thought.
Gunfire had been heard outside the town first thing, and since eight o'clock cannon-fire had been mingling with the rattle of muskets. The streets were crowded with people in a hurry, including soldiers, but drivers still plied for hire, shopkeepers stood at their shops, and church services were being held as usual. Alpatych went shopping, called at the government offices, went to the post and then on to the governor's. The offices, shops and post office were abuzz with talk of the war and the enemy attack. The people were all asking what to do and trying to calm each other's fears.
Outside the governor's house Alpatych came across a large group of people including some Cossacks, and there at the entrance stood a travelling carriage belonging to the governor. On the steps Yakov Alpatych ran into two gentlemen, one of whom he knew, a former police-captain, who was holding forth with some passion.
'Well, it's no joke now,' he was saying. 'You're all right if you're on your own. One mouth to feed's not too bad, but if you've got thirteen in the family and a bit of property . . . This is it . . . we've all had it. I blame the government . . . Brigands, dammit, I'd hang the lot of them . . .'
'Shh! You don't know who's listening,' said the other.
'I don't care! Let him hear! We're not dogs, are we?' said the former policeman, looking round and catching sight of Alpatych.
'Hey, Yakov Alpatych, what are you doing here?'
'His Excellency's orders. I'm to see the governor,' answered Alpatych, stretching up proudly to his full height and putting one hand to his bosom, as he always did when he spoke the old prince's name . . . 'His Excellency bade me inquire about the present state of affairs,' he said.
'May as well tell you, then,' cried the gentleman. 'It's come to this - you can't get a cart or anything else! . . . There it goes again - hear that?' he said, pointing in the direction of the gunfire.
'This is it . . . we've all had it . . . brigands!' he said, repeating himself, and went off down the steps.
Alpatych shook his head and went on up. The waiting-room was full of merchants, women and clerks, looking at each other in complete silence. The door of the governor's room opened, at which they all stood up and pressed forward. A clerk hurried out, spoke to a merchant, told a tubby official with a cross round his neck to follow him, and vanished again, obviously anxious to avoid all the looks and questions coming his way. Alpatych edged forward, and the next time the clerk came out he put one hand inside his buttoned coat and spoke to him, handing over the two letters.
'For his Honour Baron Asch from General-in-Chief Prince Bolkonsky,' he boomed out with so much portentousness and heavy meaning that the clerk turned and took the letters. A few minutes later the governor received Alpatych and said to him hurriedly, 'Please tell the prince and the princess I knew nothing about it . . . I was acting on orders from above . . . and that's . . .'
He gave Alpatych a printed notice.
'And by the way, since the prince is not well I advise them to leave for Moscow. I'm off myself very soon. Tell them . . .' But the governor never finished his sentence. An officer covered in dust and drenched with sweat rushed in and blurted out something in French. Horror was written all over the governor's face.
'You can go,' he said, nodding to Alpatych, and then he turned to the officer with more questions. Horrified, helpless eyes turned eagerly towards Alpatych when he came out of the governor's room. No longer could Alpatych ignore the gunfire, which was getting closer and louder by the minute, as he hurried back to the inn. The document handed to Alpatych by the governor read as follows: Be assured that at present the town of Smolensk is not in the slightest danger, nor is it likely to be so threatened. I shall proceed from one side, and Prince Bagration from the other, and we shall join forces outside Smolensk on the 22nd inst., after which our two armies with their combined forces will defend their compatriots in the province entrusted to your governance until their efforts shall have driven back the enemies of our country, or until their gallant ranks be destroyed down to the last warrior. You will hereby take note that you have a perfect right to reassure the inhabitants of Smolensk, since those who are defended by two such valiant armies may be confident of their victory. (Directive from Barclay de Tolly to the Civil Governor of Smolensk, Baron Asch, 1812.)
Crowds of people were scurrying nervously about the streets.
Carts piled high with household crockery, chairs and little cupboards were pouring out through gates in a constant stream and trundling down the streets. There were carts outside the entrance to the house next-door to Ferapontov, and women were howling as they said goodbye. A yapping yard dog frisked around the harnessed horses.
Alpatych put on more speed than usual as he hurried into the yard and went straight in under the shed roof to his horses and trap. The coachman was asleep. He woke him up, told him to get the horses ready, and went over to the house. In the family quarters he could hear children wailing, a woman sobbing uncontrollably, and Ferapontov yelling himself hoarse with rage. The cook burst into the passage flapping like a frightened hen, just as Alpatych walked in.
'It's the mistress. He's beating her up. He'll be the death of her! . . . He's beat her up, smashed her face in! . . .'
'What for?' asked Alpatych.
'She wanted to go. It's just a woman's way! Take me away, she says. Don't finish me off with all my little ones. Folks has all gone, she says. What about us? And he's just beat her up . . . beat her and smashed her!'
Alpatych nodded to signify some kind of approval, but he didn't want to hear any more so he strode straight across towards the opposite door into the room where his purchases had been left.
'You brute! You murderer!' yelled a thin, pale woman rushing out with a baby in her arms and the scarf torn off her head. She ran down the steps into the yard. Ferapontov came after her, but when he saw Alpatych he pulled his waistcoat down, smoothed his hair back, gave a yawn and followed Alpatych across into the room.
'Not going already, are you?' he asked.
Without answering or looking round, Alpatych gathered up his purchases and asked how much he owed.
'We can sort that out later. Been to the governor's, eh?' asked Ferapontov. 'What have they decided to do?'
Alpatych replied that the governor had told him nothing definite.
'How can we pack up and go with our business to look after?' said Ferapontov. 'Cost us seven roubles for cartage to Dorogobuzh. I keeps on saying it: they've no conscience! Now, Selivanov, he pulled a good trick on Friday, sold flour to the army at nine roubles a sack. Quick drink of tea?' he added. While the horses were being harnessed, Alpatych and Ferapontov drank tea together and had a good chat about the price of corn, the crops and good weather for the harvest.
'I think it's calming down a bit,' said Ferapontov, getting to his feet after the third cup of tea. 'I imagine our boys had the best of it. They said they wouldn't let them through. That's our strength for you . . . The other day they were on about Matvey Ivanych Platov - seems he drove 'em into the river Marina. Eighteen thousand drowned in a day.' Alpatych scooped up his purchases, handed them to the coachman who had just come in and settled up with Ferapontov. From the gateway came the sound of wheels, hooves and jingling bells as a little trap drove out.
Now, well into the afternoon, half the street lay in shadow, with the other half in bright sunshine. Alpatych glanced through the window and went to the door. Suddenly they heard the strange sound of a faraway hiss and crump, followed by booming cannon-fire blending into one dull roar that made the windows rattle.
Alpatych went out into the street; two men were running down the street towards the bridge. From different sides came the whistle and thud of cannonballs and the crash of grenades exploding as they rained down on th
At first the crashing cascade of grenades and cannonballs excited nothing but curiosity. Ferapontov's wife, who had been howling incessantly out in the shed, now walked down to the gate carrying the baby, and stared in silence at the people as she listened to all the noises.
The cook and a shopkeeper also came out to the gate. They were all bright and cheerful, eager to get a glimpse of the shells flying overhead. Several people came round the corner chatting away.
'Some force!' one was saying. 'Roof and ceiling smashed to bits.'
'Like a pig's snout digging the ground up!' said another voice.
'Terrific stuff! Keeps you on your toes!' he went on with a laugh. 'Lucky you skipped to one side or you'd have been flattened.' Others joined them. They slowed to a stop and talked about cannonballs raining down next door to them. Meanwhile other missiles - hurtling cannonballs with an ominous hiss, or sweetly whistling grenades - were flying incessantly overhead, though none of them fell anywhere near; they all flew on somewhere else. Alpatych was getting into his trap. The innkeeper stood by the gate.
'Haven't you seen enough?' he shouted to the cook, who had come out in her red skirt, with her sleeves rolled up and her bare elbows working away, and was now going down to the corner to listen to what people were saying.
'Marvellous, isn't it?' she said time after time, but as soon as she heard her master's voice, she came back, pulling down her tucked-up skirt.
Something whistled over their heads again, this time very near, like a little bird swooping down on them, there was a flash of fire in the middle of the street, a big bang and smoke all over the place.
'Stupid girl, what do you think you're doing?' yelled the innkeeper, running over to the cook.
Immediately women on all sides gave a pathetic, 'Oh no!', the baby screamed with shock, and the people crowded round the cook with ashen faces. The cook's groans and cries rose above the rest of the crowd.
'A-agh! My lovely friends, dear lovely friends! Don't let me die! My dear lovely friends! . . .'
Five minutes later the street was deserted. The cook had had her thigh broken by shrapnel from a grenade, and they carried her off into the kitchen. Alpatych, his coachman, Ferapontov's wife and children and the porter were down in the cellar, all ears. The roar of the cannons, the whistling shells, and the pathetic whimpering of the cook, loudest of all, were unrelenting. Ferapontov's wife, rocking and crooning at her baby, asked everybody who came down into the cellar in a frightened whisper where her husband had gone after he had stayed out on the street. A newly arrived shopkeeper told her he had gone off with the crowd to the cathedral, where they were raising on high the holy icon of Smolensk, which had power to work miracles.
Towards dusk the cannonade eased off. Alpatych came out of the cellar and stood in the doorway.
The evening sky, recently so clear, was blotted out with smoke. A new crescent moon stood high in the heavens, weirdly distorted through the smoke. After the terrible roar of the cannons a hush seemed to have settled on the town, broken only by footsteps that seemed to echo everywhere, the sound of groans and distant cries, and the crackle of buildings on fire. The cook had stopped moaning. On two sides palls of black smoke rose up from fires and drifted away. Out on the streets soldiers in their various uniforms marched or scurried all over the place, not in formation but like creatures from a shattered anthill. Several of them ran straight into Ferapontov's yard before Alpatych's very eyes. He went back to the gate. The street was blocked by a bustling, scurrying regiment in retreat.
'They've surrendered the town. Get out while you can,' said an officer noticing him standing there. Then he turned straight back to the soldiers and yelled, 'I'll give it you, running through the yards!'
Alpatych went back into the house, called out for the coachman and told him to get going. Alpatych and the coachman were followed out by Ferapontov's entire household. When they saw smoke coming from burning houses and sometimes even flames, clearly visible despite the gathering gloom, the women, who had kept quiet until now, broke down and howled as they gazed at the fires. Similar cries came like echoes from other parts of the street. Alpatych's hands shook as he and the coachman sorted out the tangled reins and traces of the horses under the shed-roofing.
As Alpatych was driving out through the gate he saw a dozen loudmouthed soldiers in Ferapontov's open shop helping themselves to wheat flour and sunflower seeds, and filling their bags and knapsacks. Ferapontov chose this moment to arrive home and come back into his shop. When he saw the soldiers his first impulse was to yell at them, but he stopped himself, clutched at his hair, and broke down, half-laughing, half-sobbing.
'Help yourselves, boys! Don't leave it for those devils,' he shouted, grabbing sacks with his own hands and hurling them into the street. Some of the soldiers ran away because they were scared; others went on filling their bags. Ferapontov caught sight of Alpatych and turned in his direction.
'Russia's had it!' he roared. 'Alpatych! We've had it! I'll set fire to it myself. We've had it!' Ferapontov ran into the yard.
A solid moving mass of soldiers blocked the whole steet; Alpatych could not get through and had no alternative but to wait. Ferapontov's wife and children were also sitting there on top of a cart, waiting for a chance to get going.
By now night had fallen. There were stars in the sky, and from time to time the new moon shone down through the pall of smoke. Alpatych's trap and his hostess's cart trundled slowly along amidst rows of soldiers and other vehicles, and where the road sloped down to the Dnieper they came to a complete stop. Down a lane not far from the crossroads where they had halted some shops and a house were on fire. The fire had almost burnt itself out. The flames were dying down, lost in black smoke, but then they would suddenly flare up again, picking out the faces of the milling crowd held up at the crossroads with a peculiar clarity. Black figures flitted in and out near the fire, and people could be heard talking and shouting above the unceasing crackle of the flames. Alpatych could see it would be some time before his trap would be able to move on, so he got out and walked back to the lane to have a look at the fire. Soldiers were nipping in and out near the fire, and Alpatych saw two of them hard at work with a man in a rough coat, hauling burning beams from the fire across the street to a yard opposite, while others carried armfuls of hay.
Alpatych joined a large group of people standing in front of a tall barn that was well on fire. Flames were licking up the walls, the back one had collapsed, the boarded roof was falling in, and the beams were all ablaze. The crowd were obviously waiting for the roof to come down. Alpatych waited with them.
'Alpatych!' The old man suddenly heard a familiar voice calling to him.
'Glory be, it's your Excellency,' answered Alpatych, instantly recognizing the voice of the young prince.
Prince Andrey, mounted on a black horse and wearing a cape across his shoulders, was there at the back of the crowd, looking down at Alpatych.
'What are you doing here?' he asked.
'Your . . . your Excellency!' was all Alpatych could get out, his voice choking with sobs . . . 'Your, your . . . have we really had it? Your father . . .'
'What are you doing here?' Prince Andrey repeated.
The flames flared up and in the bright light Alpatych caught a momentary glimpse of his young master's face, pale and worn. Alpatych told him the full story of how he had been sent to town and was now finding it hard to get away.
'Anyway, your Excellency, do you think we've had it?' he asked again.
Instead of replying Prince Andrey took out his note-book, propped up one knee, and scribbled a pencilled message on a torn-out page. He wrote this to his s
When he had given Alpatych this written message he gave him some more instructions about getting the old prince, the princess, his son and the tutor on the road, and how and where he could be contacted once this was done. The words were hardly out of his mouth when a staff officer, complete with entourage, galloped up to him.
'You're a colonel, aren't you?' shouted the staff officer in a voice that Prince Andrey recognized, with its German accent. 'Houses are being set on fire under your very nose and you just stand there! What's the meaning of this? You will answer for it!' shouted Berg, who was now assisting the Head of Staff commanding the First Army infantry, left flank - a good position, 'nice and prominent', as Berg put it.
Prince Andrey glanced at him without any reaction, and carried on talking to Alpatych.
'So, tell them that I shall wait for an answer until the 10th, and if I don't receive news by the 10th that they've all gone away, I shall have to drop everything and go over to Bald Hills in person.'
By now Berg had recognized Prince Andrey.
'Prince,' he said, 'I spoke like that purely because it's my duty to carry out instructions . . . and I'm a stickler for . . . I do beg your pardon.' Berg was most apologetic.
There was a great crash in the middle of the fire. The flames died down for a second or two, and clouds of black smoke swirled out from under the roof. This was followed by another fearful crash and a massive collapse.
'Oooh!' roared the crowd as the roofing of the barn came crashing down and a smell of baking wafted up from the burning grain. The flames flared up again, lighting up the happy, careworn faces of the crowd round the fire.
The man in the rough coat raised both arms and yelled out, 'That's it! There she goes! Well done, boys!'
'He's the owner,' went the word.
'There you have it then,' said Prince Andrey. 'Tell them everything I've told you.'
This was addressed to Alpatych. Without a word to Berg, who was standing speechless at his side, he put spurs to his horse and rode off down the lane.