Ever since the day when Pierre had experienced this emotion for the first time in the Slobodskoy palace it had exerted a strong hold on him, but only now did he feel able to give it its head. More than that, Pierre now found himself confirmed in his purpose, and prevented from abandoning it, by everything he had already done towards its fulfilment. His running away from home, the peasant coat, the pistol, his meeting with the Rostovs when he had told them he was staying on in Moscow – it would all seem so humiliating and ridiculous (something Pierre cared about) if after all that he had turned round and left Moscow like everybody else.
As always, Pierre’s physical condition corresponded to his state of mind. The rough diet that was so new to him, all the vodka he drank during those days, the absence of wine and cigars, his dirty unchanged linen, and two nights without much sleep on a short sofa with no bedclothes, all kept Pierre in a state of nervous tension not far from madness.
It was getting on for two o’clock in the afternoon. The French were now in Moscow. Pierre knew this, but instead of doing anything he just sat there thinking about the task that lay ahead of him, going over it in minute detail. In his daydreams Pierre never had a clear picture of himself carrying out the murder, nor of Napoleon dying, but he could imagine with stark vividness and wistful enjoyment his own demise and his manly heroism.
‘Yes, one for all. I must do it or die in the attempt!’ he thought. ‘Yes, I’ll get near him . . . and then suddenly . . . Pistol or dagger?’ thought Pierre. ‘Well, it doesn’t make any difference . . . “You are being executed not by me but the Hand of Providence,” I shall say.’ (Pierre was wondering what to say at the moment of killing Napoleon.) ‘Go on then. Take me. Execute me,’ Pierre would go on to say, bowing his head with a sad but resolute expression on his face.
While Pierre was standing there in the middle of the room thinking along these lines the door of the study opened, and there in the doorway stood Makar Bazdeyev. Before, he had always looked so diffident, but now he was completely transformed.
His dressing-gown hung open. His face was red and hideously contorted. He had obviously been drinking. When he saw Pierre he was taken aback for a moment, but then, noticing that Pierre was as shocked as he was, he rallied and tottered out into the middle of the room on his spindly legs.
‘They’re not up to it,’ his hoarse voice said confidingly. ‘I’m telling you. I shall not surrender. Is that not right, sir?’ He paused and thought for a moment, then he took one look at the pistol lying on the table, grabbed it with surprising speed and rushed out into the corridor.
Gerasim and the porter, who had been following Makar, stopped him in the hallway and tried to take the pistol from him. Pierre came out of the study and watched the half-insane old man with a mixture of revulsion and compassion. Makar was frowning with exertion as he struggled to hold on to the pistol, and he called out in his hoarse voice, obviously dreaming up some great adventure.
‘To arms! Prepare for boarding! Oh no you don’t! You’re not getting this!’ he was shouting.
‘Everything’s going to be quite all right. Please let go, sir. There you are, sir. Please . . .’ Gerasim was saying, trying to steer Makar gently by his elbows towards the door.
‘Who are you? Napoleon!’ roared Makar.
‘That’s not very nice, sir. Just come into your room, please, and have a little lie-down. Give me that little pistol.’
‘Be gone, you scurvy knave! Don’t touch me! See this?’ screamed Makar, brandishing the pistol. ‘Prepare for boarding!’
‘See if you can grab it,’ Gerasim whispered to the porter.
They seized Makar by the arms and dragged him off towards the door.
The hallway rang with the unseemly sounds of a scuffle and a drunken voice, wheezy and gasping.
Then there was another cry, a woman screaming out in the porch, and the cook came running into the vestibule.
‘Look who’s here! Lord in heaven! Four of ’em, on horses!’ she screamed.
Gerasim and the porter let go of Makar. The corridor was quiet for a moment, then it echoed with a loud knocking as several hands pounded on the front door.
CHAPTER 28
Pierre had made up his mind it would be better for him not to reveal his title or his knowledge of French until his purpose had been achieved, so he stood by the half-open door into the corridor, determined to hide as soon as the French came in. But when they did Pierre stayed by the door, held there by an irresistible curiosity.
