Unruffled by Pierre’s decision to move in, Gerasim took it with the composure of a servant who had seen many weird things in his time; in fact, he seemed delighted to have someone to serve. That same evening, without even wondering what they were for, he managed to acquire a coachman’s long coat and cap, and he promised to get the necessary pistol the next day. Twice during the evening Bazdeyev’s brother shuffled up to the door in his galoshes, and stood there fawning as he stared in at Pierre. But the moment Pierre turned to face him he gathered up his dressing-gown, looking embarrassed and angry, and scuttled away.
Pierre put on the coachman’s coat that Gerasim had got hold of, once it had been disinfected with steam, and the two of them went out together to buy a pistol at the Sukharev market. It was then that Pierre ran into the Rostovs.
CHAPTER 19
During the night of the 1st of September Kutuzov ordered the Russian troops to fall back through Moscow and go down the Ryazan road.
The first troops moved that night, marching at an easy pace and in good order. But at dawn, when the retreating troops got to the Dorogomilov bridge, they saw endless masses of soldiers hurrying across, herding together on the other side, struggling up slopes, blocking the streets and alleys, while masses more bore down on them from the rear. And for no good reason they panicked and rushed forward. There was a great surge towards the bridge, up on to the bridge itself, down to the fords and into the boats. Kutuzov had arranged to be driven through the back streets right round to the other side of Moscow.
By ten o’clock on the morning of the 2nd of September the only troops left in the suburb of Dorogomilov were some members of the rearguard, and they had plenty of space. The army itself was now beyond Moscow, out on the other side.
At that time, ten o’clock on the morning of the 2nd of September, Napoleon was standing amidst his troops up on Poklonny hill, gazing down on the spectacle that lay before him. From the 26th of August to the 2nd of September, from the battle of Borodino to the entry of the French into Moscow, throughout that anxious but memorable week, there had been a spell of that extraordinarily beautiful autumn weather that always takes us by surprise, when the low sunshine is warmer than in spring; when the air is pure and thin, everything sparkles enough to sting the eyes; when you breathe deep and feel refreshed, drinking in the fragrant autumn air; when even the nights are warm, and on dark, warm nights like these golden stars startle or delight us by scattering themselves endlessly down the sky.
The weather was like this at ten o’clock on the 2nd of September. The morning light was magical. Down below Poklonny hill lay the sprawl of Moscow with her river, her gardens and her churches; she seemed to be living a life of her own, and her domes shimmered like stars in the sunlight.
Looking down on this strange city, with its weird forms of unfamiliar architecture, Napoleon felt a touch of envy and a pang of niggling curiosity as men do when they come across an alien way of life that knows nothing of them. Here was a town that was obviously living life to the full. From the elusive signs that tell you unmistakably even at a distance whether a body is dead or alive, Napoleon, far away on Poklonny hill, could feel the life pulsating through this town, and almost hear the big, beautiful creature breathing. Every Russian looking at Moscow feels her to be a mother; every foreigner who sees her, although probably ignorant of her significance as the mother city, is bound to sense her femininity, as did Napoleon.
‘This Asiatic city with churches beyond number, holy Moscow! Here she is at last, the famous city! Not before time,’ said Napoleon. Dismounting from his horse, he told them to open a plan of Moscow before him, and sent for his interpreter, Lelorgne d’Ideville.
‘An occupied city is like a girl who has lost her virtue,’ he thought (something he had said to Tuchkov at Smolensk).
And this was how he looked on the oriental beauty that he was seeing for the first time as she lay there before him. He had a strange feeling now that the desire burning in him for so long like an impossible dream had been gratified. In the clear morning light he looked first at the town and then at the plan, checking its details, excited and overawed by the certainty of possessing it.
‘But how could it be otherwise?’ he thought. ‘Here is this capital at my feet awaiting her fate. Where is Alexander now, and what must he be thinking? A strange, beautiful, magnificent city! And a strange and magnificent moment for me! I wonder how I seem to them,’ he mused, thinking of his soldiers. ‘Here is the city – a reward for all these men of little faith,’ he thought, looking round at his entourage and the troops who were marching up and falling into line.
