‘War is the subjection of man’s will to the law of God at its most agonizing extreme,’ said the voice. ‘Simplicity is submitting to God’s will. You cannot escape Him. And
‘Yes, we must get them
‘Time to get them in harness. Time to harness the horses, your Excellency! Your Excellency . . .’ A voice was saying it over and over again. ‘Harness the horses, harness the horses . . . Time to go, sir . . .’
It was the groom waking Pierre. The sun was shining straight in Pierre’s eyes. He glanced at the filthy inn and its yard, where soldiers were watering their skinny horses at the well, and wagons were trundling out through the gate.
He turned away in disgust, closed his eyes and quickly sank back down into the carriage-seat. ‘No, I don’t want that. I don’t want to see that and understand it. I want to know what was coming out in my dream. In another second I would have seen it all. What can I do now? Harness things? How can I harness things together?’ And Pierre was horrified to realize that the entire meaning of what he had seen and thought during his dream had slipped away.
And here were the groom, the coachman and the porter all telling Pierre the same story: an officer had brought word that the French were advancing on Mozhaysk and our troops were retreating.
Pierre got out, ordered them to pack the carriage and follow on and walked through the town on foot.
The troops were on the march, leaving behind not far from ten thousand wounded men. You could see the wounded sitting by the windows in the houses, and thronging the yards and streets. Out on the streets you could hear men screaming, swearing and banging on the carts detailed to take the wounded away. When Pierre’s carriage caught up with him he gave a lift to a wounded general that he knew, all the way to Moscow. On the way he learnt that his brother-in-law, Anatole, and Prince Andrey had both been killed.
CHAPTER 10
Pierre got back to Moscow on the 30th. Almost at the city gates he was met by one of Count Rostopchin’s adjutants.
‘Hey, we’ve been looking for you everywhere,’ said the adjutant. ‘The count needs to see you as a matter of urgency. He wants you to come and see him straightaway. It’s something very important.’ Instead of going home, Pierre took a cab and drove round to the governor’s.
Count Rostopchin had come back into town from his summer villa at Sokolniki that very morning. The ante-room and reception-room in the count’s house were crammed with officials, some of them called in by him, others wanting instructions. Vasilchikov and Platov had already been in and informed the count that defending Moscow was out of the question; the city would have to be surrendered. This news was being kept from the people, but the top officials and the heads of the various departments knew that Moscow would soon be in enemy hands, as did Count Rostopchin himself. And to avoid personal responsibility all of them had come to the governor to ask what to do with the sections they were in charge of.
At the moment when Pierre walked into the waiting-room an army courier was on his way out from an interview with the count. With an air of hopelessness he waved away the questions coming at him, and walked across the room.
While he was waiting Pierre cast a weary gaze over the roomful of various officials, young and old, military and civilian, important and insignificant. Every last one of them seemed worried and unhappy. Pierre went over to one group that contained someone he knew. They welcomed him and went on with their conversation.
‘No, sending them away and bringing them back again won’t do any harm, but as things stand we don’t know where we are.’
‘But look what he’s written here,’ said another, pointing to a printed paper he was holding in his hand.
‘That’s different. We need that sort of thing for the common people,’ said the first man.
‘What is it?’ asked Pierre.
‘It’s the latest poster.’
Pierre took it and started to read.
