War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
The next day he had followed the people out to the Three Hills gate with one idea in mind: to spare no effort in keeping up with them in everything they did. But when he came back, certain that Moscow was not going to be defended, he suddenly felt that what had seemed like an outside possibility before had now become an unavoidable necessity. He had to stay on in Moscow, hide his identity, meet Napoleon and kill him. He had to put an end to the misery of Europe, all of which in Pierre's estimation could be laid at Napoleon's door, or die in the attempt.
Pierre knew every detail of the German student's attempt on Napoleon's life in Vienna in 1809,3 and he also knew that the student had been shot. But the danger to which he was exposing himself in fulfilling his purpose acted only as a further stimulus.
Two emotions of equal intensity drove him inexorably on. The first was the impulse towards sacrifice and suffering stemming from his sense of the common calamity, the feeling that had induced him to go down to Mozhaysk on the 25th and find his way into the very thick of the battle, and had now made him give up his life of ease and luxury, run away from home, sleep in his clothes on a hard sofa and eat the same food as Gerasim. The other was that vague, exclusively Russian, feeling of contempt for everything conventional, artificial, rooted solely in human experience, a contempt for everything that most people would consider the best things in the world. Pierre had felt this strangely attractive emotion for the first time in the Slobodskoy palace, when it suddenly occurred to him that wealth, power, life itself, all the things that men put so much effort into building up and maintaining, if they have any value at all, are never worth more than the pleasure to be had by renouncing them.
It was the feeling that makes a volunteer-recruit spend his last farthing on drink, or a drunken man smash mirrors and windows for no good reason, even though he knows it will cost him what little he has; the feeling that impels a man to do things that the common mentality would write off as insane, in order to take the measure of his own independence and strength by maintaining the existence of a higher code transcending everyday experience by which human life is to be judged.
Ever since the day when Pierre had experienced this emotion for the first time in the Slobodskoy palace it had exerted a strong hold on him, but only now did he feel able to give it its head. More than that, Pierre now found himself confirmed in his purpose, and prevented from abandoning it, by everything he had already done towards its fulfilment. His running away from home, the peasant coat, the pistol, his meeting with the Rostovs when he had told them he was staying on in Moscow - it would all seem so humiliating and ridiculous (something Pierre cared about) if after all that he had turned round and left Moscow like everybody else.
As always, Pierre's physical condition corresponded to his state of mind. The rough diet that was so new to him, all the vodka he drank during those days, the absence of wine and cigars, his dirty unchanged linen, and two nights without much sleep on a short sofa with no bedclothes, all kept Pierre in a state of nervous tension not far from madness.
It was getting on for two o'clock in the afternoon. The French were now in Moscow. Pierre knew this, but instead of doing anything he just sat there thinking about the task that lay ahead of him, going over it in minute detail. In his daydreams Pierre never had a clear picture of himself carrying out the murder, nor of Napoleon dying, but he could imagine with stark vividness and wistful enjoyment his own demise and his manly heroism.
'Yes, one for all. I must do it or die in the attempt!' he thought. 'Yes, I'll get near him . . . and then suddenly . . . Pistol or dagger?' thought Pierre. 'Well, it doesn't make any difference . . . "You are being executed not by me but the Hand of Providence," I shall say.' (Pierre was wondering what to say at the moment of killing Napoleon.) 'Go on then. Take me. Execute me,' Pierre would go on to say, bowing his head with a sad but resolute expression on his face.
While Pierre was standing there in the middle of the room thinking along these lines the door of the study opened, and there in the doorway stood Makar Bazdeyev. Before, he had always looked so diffident, but now he was completely transformed.
His dressing-gown hung open. His face was red and hideously contorted. He had obviously been drinking. When he saw Pierre he was taken aback for a moment, but then, noticing that Pierre was as shocked as he was, he rallied and tottered out into the middle of the room on his spindly legs.
'They're not up to it,' his hoarse voice said confidingly. 'I'm telling you. I shall not surrender. Is that not right, sir?' He paused and thought for a moment, then he took one look at the pistol lying on the table, grabbed it with surprising speed and rushed out into the corridor.
Gerasim and the porter, who had been following Makar, stopped him in the hallway and tried to take the pistol from him. Pierre came out of the study and watched the half-insane old man with a mixture of revulsion and compassion. Makar was frowning with exertion as he struggled to hold on to the pistol, and he called out in his hoarse voice, obviously dreaming up some great adventure.
'To arms! Prepare for boarding! Oh no you don't! You're not getting this!' he was shouting.
'Everything's going to be quite all right. Please let go, sir. There you are, sir. Please . . .' Gerasim was saying, trying to steer Makar gently by his elbows towards the door.
'Who are you? Napoleon!' roared Makar.
'That's not very nice, sir. Just come into your room, please, and have a little lie-down. Give me that little pistol.'
'Be gone, you scurvy knave! Don't touch me! See this?' screamed Makar, brandishing the pistol. 'Prepare for boarding!'
'See if you can grab it,' Gerasim whispered to the porter.
They seized Makar by the arms and dragged him off towards the door.
The hallway rang with the unseemly sounds of a scuffle and a drunken voice, wheezy and gasping.
Then there was another cry, a woman screaming out in the porch, and the cook came running into the vestibule.
'Look who's here! Lord in heaven! Four of 'em, on horses!' she screamed.
Gerasim and the porter let go of Makar. The corridor was quiet for a moment, then it echoed with a loud knocking as several hands pounded on the front door.
CHAPTER 28
Pierre had made up his mind it would be better for him not to reveal his title or his knowledge of French until his purpose had been achieved, so he stood by the half-open door into the corridor, determined to hide as soon as the French came in. But when they did Pierre stayed by the door, held there by an irresistible curiosity.
There were two of them. One was an officer, tall and handsome, a fine figure of a man; the other, obviously a common soldier or an orderly, was a short, thin, sunburnt man with sunken cheeks and a blank look on his face. The officer limped in first, leaning on a stick. He took only a few steps before apparently deciding that these would make good quarters; he stopped, turned round and bawled in an authoritative voice to the soldiers standing in the doorway to put up the horses. Having seen to this, he crooked an elbow and raised it on high ostentatiously, smoothing his moustache and touching his hat.
'Good day to you one and all!' he said in French with a cheery smile, taking a good look around.
There was no response.
'Are you the master of the house?' the officer asked Gerasim.
Gerasim gave the officer an anxious, quizzical look.
'Quarters. Quarters. Lodgings,' said the officer, peering down at the little man from his great height with a cheery, ingratiating smile. 'The French are good fellows. No harsh words between us, old fellow,' he went on in French, looking at Gerasim, who was too scared to speak, and clapping him on the shoulder. 'I say, are there no French-speakers in this establishment?' he added, looking round and meeting Pierre's eyes. Pierre shrank back from the door.
The officer turned back to Gerasim, and asked to be shown over the house.
'Gone master . . . no savvy . . . me you . . .' said Gerasim, trying to add meaning to his words by saying them in the wrong order.
The French officer gave a smile, waved his hands in front of Gerasim's nose to let him know he didn't understand either, and limped over towards the door where Pierre was standing. Pierre made a move, intending to go and hide, but at that very moment he caught a glimpse of Makar Bazdeyev, who had appeared at the open kitchen door with a pistol in his hand. With a madman's cunning Makar eyed the Frenchmen, raised his pistol and took aim.
'Prepare for boarding!' yelled the drunken man, squeezing the trigger. The French officer spun round at this cry, and at the same instant Pierre flung himself at the drunkard. As Pierre grabbed the pistol and jerked it up in the air, Makar finally managed to get his finger on the trigger, there was a terrific bang and they were all enveloped in a cloud of smoke. The Frenchman turned pale and rushed back to the door.
Forgetting his intention of hiding his knowledge of French, Pierre snatched the pistol away and threw it down, before running over to the officer and speaking to him in French. 'You're not wounded, are you?' he asked.
'No, I don't think so,' answered the officer, checking all over his body, 'but it was a near thing,' he added, pointing to a hole in the plaster on one wall.
'Who is this man?' he asked with a grim look at Pierre.
'Oh, I really am in despair at what's happened,' Pierre blurted out, forgetting the part he was supposed to be playing. 'He's a madman, a wretched creature. He didn't know what he was doing.'
The officer went over to Makar and fingered his collar.
Makar's lips were pouting as he leant shakily against the wall; he seemed almost to be falling asleep.
'You brigand! You're going to pay for this!' said the Frenchman, letting go of him. 'We are merciful in victory, but we do not pardon traitors,' he added with a splendid flourish, looking all grave and gloomy.
Pierre carried on in French, trying to persuade the officer not to be too hard on this drunken imbecile. The Frenchman listened in silence with the same gloomy air, and then suddenly turned to Pierre with a smile on his face. He stared at him for several seconds without saying anything. Then his handsome face melted into an expression of histrionic sentimentality, and he held out his hand.
'You saved my life. You are French,' he said. For this Frenchman there could be no other conclusion. Heroic deeds could only be performed by Frenchmen and saving the life of Monsieur Ramballe, captain of the Thirteenth Light Brigade, had been an unmistakably heroic deed.
But, for all the sureness of the officer's conclusion and his absolute certainty, Pierre felt he had to disillusion him.
'I'm Russian,' he said quickly.
'Tut-tut-tut! Tell that to other people,' said the Frenchman, smiling and waving a finger before his nose. 'You can tell me all about it later on,' he said. 'Delighted to meet a fellow countryman. Well then, what shall we do with this man?' he added, treating Pierre like a brother-in-arms. The French officer's expression and tone seemed to imply that if Pierre really wasn't a Frenchman he would hardly want to disavow the designation once it had been bestowed, this being the most honourable title in the world. Pierre dealt with his last question, and explained again who Makar Bazdeyev was. He also explained that just before the officer's arrival the drunken imbecile had managed to snatch a loaded pistol and they had been unable to get it off him. Pierre begged him to let his action go unpunished.
The Frenchman stuck out his chest, and made a regal gesture with one hand.
'You saved my life! You are a Frenchman. You ask me to pardon him. I grant you his pardon. Take this man away.' The French officer spoke quickly and with strong emphasis. He had latched on to Pierre, promoting him to French citizenship for having saved his life, and now walked with him further into the house.
The soldiers, who had heard the shot out in the yard, had come into the passage to find out what was happening, only too keen to help punish any offenders, but the officer stopped them in their tracks.
'You will be sent for when you are needed,' he said. The soldiers withdrew. The orderly, who had found his way to the kitchen, came in to report to the officer.
'Captain, they have soup and a leg of mutton in the kitchen,' he said. 'Shall I serve them up?'
'Yes, and the wine,' said the captain.
CHAPTER 29
The French officer walked further in with Pierre, who felt duty bound to repeat for the captain's benefit that he wasn't French; he also made an attempt to go his own way, but the captain wouldn't hear of it. He was so courteous, polite, affable and genuinely grateful to him for saving his life that Pierre hadn't the heart to refuse, so he sat down with him in the first large room they came to. When Pierre kept on insisting he wasn't French, the captain, plainly at a loss to understand how anyone could repudiate such a flattering title, gave a shrug and said that if he insisted on passing himself off as a Russian, so be it, but it made no difference - he would still feel a special bond between them that would last for ever, eternal gratitude to Pierre for saving his life.
If this man had shown even the slightest sensitivity towards the feelings of others, and had had the faintest inkling of what Pierre was going through, Pierre might well have walked away at this point. But since the man was a bundle of energy and impervious to anything beyond himself he was too much for Pierre.
'Frenchman or Russian prince incognito,' said the Frenchman with a glance at Pierre's dirty but obviously high-quality linen, and the ring on his finger. 'I owe my life to you, and I offer you my friendship. A Frenchman never forgets an insult or a favour. I offer you my friendship. That's all I have to say.'
The officer's smile, tone of voice, facial expression and hand-movements spoke so eloquently of open-heartedness and nobility (in the French sense) that Pierre instinctively smiled back as he accepted the outstretched hand.
'Captain Ramballe of the Thirteenth Light Brigade, Chevalier of the Legion of Honour following the business of the 7th of September,'4 he said by way of introduction, an irrepressible smile of self-satisfaction curling the corners of his mouth under the moustache. 'Will you now please tell me with whom I have the honour of conducting this pleasant conversation when I might have been lying in an ambulance with that madman's bullet in my body?'
Pierre said he wasn't in a position to give his name, and he coloured up as he tried to think of another name and started to give reasons for not being in a position to name himself, but the Frenchman cut him short.
'Please!' he said. 'I understand your reasons. You're an officer . . . maybe a staff-officer. You have taken up arms against us. That's none of my business. I owe you my life, and that's what counts. I am at your service. You are a nobleman, aren't you?' he added rather quizzically. Pierre gave a bow.
'Well, please tell me your Christian name. I ask no more than that . . . Monsieur Pierre, you say? Splendid. That's all I want to know.'
When they had served up the mutton, an omelette, a samovar, vodka, and some wine taken from a Russian cellar and brought along by the French, Ramballe invited Pierre to share his meal, and then he set to work himself with the greedy appetite of a healthy, hungry man, munching away with his strong teeth, and continually smacking his lips and exclaiming, 'Splendid! Delicious!' His reddened face was soon running with perspiration. Pierre was feeling hungry too, and he joined in with a will. Morel, the orderly, brought some hot water in a sauce-pan and put a bottle of claret in it to warm. He returned with a bottle of kvass for them to taste. This drink was already known to the French, and it had its own nickname. They called it 'pig's lemonade' and Morel, who had found it in the kitchen, praised it to the skies. But since the captain had his wine, acquired on the way across Moscow, he let Morel have the kvass while he attended to the bottle of Bordeaux. He wrapped a napkin round the neck of the bottle and poured out a glass of wine for himself and Pierre. With his appetite satisfied and the wine going to his head the captain became livelier than ever, and he chatted away incessantly throughout dinner.
'Oh yes, my dear Monsieur Pierre, I owe you a candle in church for saving me from that
'I was,' said Pierre.
'Were you really?' pursued the Frenchman. 'Oh well, all the better then. You are proud enemies, though. The big redoubt was well held, for goodness' sake. And you made us pay for it too! I went at it three times, sure as I'm sitting here. Three times we were right on top of the cannons, and three times we were driven back like men of cardboard. Oh, it was splendid, Monsieur Pierre. Your grenadiers were superb, by God. I watched them close ranks six times in succession and march as if they were out on parade. Wonderful men. Our king of Naples, who knows it all backwards, yelled out, "Bravo!" 'Aha! Soldiers like us!' he said after a moment's silence. 'All the better, Monsieur Pierre, all the better. Terrible in war . . . chivalrous with the fair sex.' (He gave a wink and a smile.) 'There you have the French, M. Pierre. Isn't that right?'
The captain was so simple-hearted and good-humoured, so cheery, self-contained and pleased with himself that Pierre almost winked back as he enjoyed watching him. It was probably the mention of chivalry that brought the captain round to contemplating the state of things in Moscow.
'By the way, do tell me, is it true that all the women have left Moscow? What a curious idea! What were they frightened of?'
'Wouldn't the French ladies leave Paris if the Russians came?' said Pierre.
'Ha-ha-ha!' The Frenchman burst out in a roar of spirited laughter, clapping Pierre on the shoulder. 'That's a good one, that is!' he went on. 'Paris . . . But Paris . . . Paris . . .'
'Paris is the capital of the world,' said Pierre, finishing the sentence for him.