‘Thrice they have slain me. Thrice did I rise again from the dead. I have been stoned and crucified . . . I shall rise again . . . rise again . . . rise again . . . My body they have torn to pieces. The kingdom of heaven shall be cast down . . . Thrice shall I cast it down, and thrice shall I raise it up again,’ he wailed, his voice getting higher and louder. Suddenly Count Rostopchin turned as white as he had done when the crowd had fallen upon Vereshchagin. He looked away. ‘G-g-get going, faster!’ he called to his driver in a quavering voice.
The carriage put on all speed. But Count Rostopchin kept on hearing somewhere at his back the mindless scream of despair as it echoed away into the far distance, while up ahead his eyes saw nothing but the shocked and scared, bleeding face of the traitor in the fur-lined coat.
For all the newness of that image, Rostopchin suddenly realized it was deeply imprinted on his heart, etched in blood. He knew the bloody imprint of that memory would never be healed, and the more distant it became, the more cruelly and viciously the dreaded memory would survive in his heart to the end of his days. He seemed to hear the sound of his own words coming back: ‘Kill him, or you’ll answer with your heads!’ ‘Why did I utter those words? They just came out . . . I needn’t have said them,’ he thought, ‘and then
There were still hordes of troops near the bridge over the Yauza. It was hot. Kutuzov cut a weary, brooding figure as he sat on a bench not far from the bridge, and he was doodling with his whip in the sand when a noisy carriage came rattling up. A man in a general’s uniform complete with plumed hat came over to Kutuzov and spoke to him in French, his eyes darting about between fury and fear. It was Count Rostopchin. He told Kutuzov he had had to come here, because Moscow was no more, the capital city had gone, and only the army was left. ‘It might have been different if your Serene Highness had not assured me you would never surrender Moscow without a fight. None of this would have happened!’
Kutuzov stared at Rostopchin as if he couldn’t make head or tail of what he was saying and had to concentrate hard in the hope of picking out some special meaning flickering for a moment on the face of the man addressing him. Rostopchin wound down in some embarrassment. Kutuzov gave a slight shake of his head and murmured quietly, with his searching eyes still glued on Rostopchin’s face, ‘No, I won’t surrender Moscow without a fight.’ Whether Kutuzov was otherwise preoccupied when he uttered these words, or said them deliberately, knowing how meaningless they were, Count Rostopchin hurried away without replying. And lo and behold! The governor-general of Moscow, the proud Count Rostopchin, picked up a whip, walked over to the bridge, and began directing the carts that were blocking the way.
CHAPTER 26
It was getting on for four o’clock in the afternoon when Murat’s troops entered Moscow. Out in front rode a detachment of the Württemberg hussars; behind them came the King of Naples himself with a large suite of men.
Half-way down the Arbat, near to St Nicholas’s Church, Murat called a halt and waited for a report from the advance detachment on the present situation at
A little knot of remaining Muscovites gathered round Murat. They stared in polite bemusement at the curious figure of the long-haired commander all decked out in feathers and gold.
‘What’s ’e supposed to be then? Is it ’im? Is ’e their Tsar? Not bad, is ’e?’ came a few quiet voices.
An interpreter came over to the group of onlookers.
‘Hey, caps . . . take your caps off,’ went the word in the little crowd as people turned to each other. The interpreter asked an old porter how far it was to the Kremlin. The porter listened blankly to a stream of Russian coming at him with a weird Polish accent, couldn’t tell that the interpreter was speaking his language and didn’t understand a word of it, so he dived behind the others for safety.
Murat came over to the interpreter and told him to ask where the Russian troops had gone. One of the Russians understood what they were after, and soon several voices were answering the interpreter all at the same time. A French officer from the advance detachment then rode up to Murat and reported that the gates into the citadel had been barricaded, and there was probably an ambush there.
‘Good,’ said Murat. He turned to one of the gentlemen of his suite and ordered him to bring up four light cannons and open fire on the gates.
