As for Count Rostopchin, one day he would pour scorn on those who were leaving, but the next he would evacuate all the government offices; he distributed weapons that wouldn’t work to the drunken rabble; one day he would raise aloft the holy icons, the next he would ban the movement of all holy relics and images by Father Augustin; he commandeered all the private vehicles left in Moscow, then used one hundred and thirty-six of them to transport Leppich and his air-balloons; at one time he dropped hints that he might set fire to Moscow and described how he had burnt his own house down, then he wrote a proclamation to the French in which he solemnly accused
I am by birth Tatarian,
But Rome – I am your man!
The French call me barbarian,
The Russians – George Dandin.
This man had no idea what was happening. He just wanted to be seen doing something, to take people by surprise, to do a heroic deed that was gloriously patriotic, and he behaved like a little boy amusing himself while events of enormous magnitude – the abandonment and burning of Moscow – were inexorably taking shape, and he kept raising his tiny little fist first to urge on, then to turn back the mighty tide of popular will that swept him along as it went.
CHAPTER 6
Hélène had returned with the court from Vilna to Petersburg, where she found herself in an embarrassing situation.
Here in Petersburg Hélène had enjoyed the special patronage of an important dignitary, who occupied one of the highest positions in the government. Out in Vilna she had formed a liaison with a young foreign prince. When she got back to Petersburg prince and dignitary were both in town, both were asserting their rights, and Hélène was faced with a problem she had not previously encountered in her career: how to preserve her intimacy with both, without offending either.
What might have seemed to any other woman a difficult task verging on the impossible Countess Bezukhov took in her stride, and without sacrificing her reputation as a highly intelligent lady. Had she attempted to cover things up, or had she tried to wriggle out of her awkward situation by being shifty and clever, she would have ruined everything by acknowledging that she was in the wrong. But no, Hélène behaved like a great personality who can get away with anything; convinced of her innocence, she assumed the moral high ground, and looked down on everybody else as guilty people.
The first time the young foreigner came out with an objection to her behaviour, she tilted back her beautiful head with some pride, half-turned towards him and put him in his place.
‘So this is it,’ she said. ‘The selfishness and cruelty of men! Just what I was expecting. A woman sacrifices herself for you, she suffers, and this is her reward. What right have you to ask me, monseigneur, to account for my friendships and affections? This man has been more than a father to me!’
The prince began to protest, but Hélène cut him short.
‘Well, yes, maybe his feelings for me do go beyond those of a father, but that’s no reason for me to shut the door in his face. Not being a man, I cannot show ingratitude. What you must realize, monseigneur, is that as far as my personal feelings are concerned I am accountable only to God and my own conscience!’ she concluded, raising a hand to her sublimely beetling bosom as she glanced up to heaven.
‘No, for God’s sake listen!’
‘Marry me, and I’ll be your slave!’
‘No, it’s impossible.’
‘I’m not good enough for you to marry, you . . .’ And she broke down in tears.
The prince did his best to soothe her, but Hélène had every appearance of being inconsolable. She insisted tearfully that nothing could stop her remarrying, and there were precedents for this. (There were very few at that time, but Hélène cited Napoleon and one or two exalted personages.) She had never been a wife to her husband. She had been sacrificed into marriage.
‘But what about the law? Religion?’ murmured the prince, half won-over.
‘Religion, laws . . . what were they invented for if they can’t manage something like this?’ said Hélène.
