‘Vereshchagin! Haven’t they hanged him yet?’ cried Rostopchin. ‘Bring him in here.’
CHAPTER 25
By nine o’clock next morning, with the troops on their way through Moscow, people had stopped coming to Rostopchin for instructions. Anyone who could get away was doing so without any prompting, and those who stayed behind were making their own decisions about what needed to be done.
Count Rostopchin had himself driven to Sokolniki, where he sat down in his study with his arms folded and a dark scowl on his sallow face, and waited in silence.
In moments of untroubled repose every administrator feels that the entire population working under him is kept going only by his efforts; this feeling of being absolutely indispensable gives every administrator his greatest sense of reward for all the hard work that he puts in. It is easy to understand that while ever the ocean of history remains calm, a pilot-administrator in a little bobbing boat holding on to the ship of the people with a tiny boathook, and moving along with it, might easily think
Rostopchin could sense this, and he was infuriated. The police-chief who had been confronted by the crowd arrived to see him just as an adjutant walked in to tell him his horses were ready. Both men were pale, and the police-chief, after reporting that he had carried out his assignment, told Count Rostopchin there was a huge crowd of people out in the courtyard wanting to see him.
Without saying a word Rostopchin got to his feet and walked out quickly into his airy, luxuriously appointed drawing-room, where he crossed to the balcony door and took hold of the handle, only to let go of it and move across to a window that gave a better view of the whole crowd. The tall young man was standing at the front, with a serious look on his face, waving his arms in the air and saying something. The bloody-faced blacksmith stood next to him looking truculent. The roar of raised voices came in through the closed windows.
‘Is the carriage ready?’ said Rostopchin, moving back from the window.
‘Yes, your Excellency,’ said the adjutant.
Rostopchin went back to the balcony door.
‘Well, what do they want?’ he asked the police-chief.
‘Sir, they say they are following your orders and they have come together to go and fight the French. There was some shouting about treachery. But they are a rough lot, your Excellency. I only just managed to get away. Your Excellency, if I may advise you . . .’
‘Please go. I know what to do without any help from you,’ cried Rostopchin angrily. He stood at the balcony door looking down at the crowd. ‘Look what they’ve done to Russia! Look what they’ve done to me!’ he thought, feeling a great surge of uncontainable fury against the persons unknown who must be to blame for what was happening. As is often the case with hot-headed people, the fact that he was in a foul temper meant that he needed someone to vent his fury on. ‘There they are – the mob, the dregs,’ he thought, looking down at the crowd. ‘This is the rabble they have stirred up by their folly. What they need is a victim,’ it occurred to him as he watched the tall man in front with his arm in the air. And why did it occur to him? Because he too needed a victim, some object to vent his fury on.
‘Is the carriage ready?’ he asked again.
‘Yes, your Excellency. What are your orders in relation to Vereshchagin? He is waiting by the steps,’ answered the adjutant.
‘Oh is he?’ cried Rostopchin, as if he had suddenly remembered something.
He flung open the door and strode purposefully out on to the balcony. The roar of voices instantly died down, caps and hats were doffed, and all eyes looked up at the governor.
‘Good day, men!’ said the count, raising his voice and speaking quickly. ‘Thank you for coming here. I’ll be with you in a moment, but first we have to deal with a criminal. We have to punish the villain who has brought Moscow to its knees. Wait there for me!’ And he strode back inside, slamming the door behind him.
A murmur of approval and pleasure ran through the crowd. ‘He’ll sort ’em out, all them traitors. Talk about the French . . . he’s got the measure of that lot!’ said the people, only too keen to blame everybody else for their own lack of faith.
A few minutes later an officer hurried out of the main entrance, and brought the dragoons to attention. The crowd surged eagerly across from the balcony to the front steps. An angry-looking Rostopchin emerged rapidly at the top of them, and glanced round quickly as if he was looking for somebody.
