>f the howling mob could be heard even there. Count Rastoptchin hur- [riedly got into the carriage, and bade them drive him to his house at pokolniky beyond the town. As he drove out into Myasnitsky Street and ost the sound of the shouts of the mob, the count began to repent. He hought with dissatisfaction now of the excitement and terror he had oetrayed before his subordinates. ‘The populace is terrible, it is hideous. They are like wolves that can only be appeased with flesh,’ he thought. Count! there is one God over us!’ Vereshtchagin’s words suddenly recurred to him, and a disagreeable chill ran down his back. But that feeling was momentary, and Count Rastoptchin smiled contemptuously it himself. ‘I had other duties. The people had to be appeased. Many pther victims have perished and are perishing for the public good,’ he thought; and he began to reflect on the social duties he had towards his family and towards the city intrusted to his care; and on himself—not as Fyodor Vassilyevitch Rastoptchin (he assumed that Fyodor Vassilyevitch Rastoptchin was sacrificing himself for le bien publique )—but as governor of Moscow, as the representative of authority intrusted with full powers by the Tsar. ‘If I had been simply Fyodor Vassilyevitch, my course of action might have been quite different; but I was bound to preserve both the life and the dignity of the governor.’
Lightly swayed on the soft springs of the carriage, and hearing no more of the fearful sounds of the mob, Rastoptchin was physically soothed, and as is always the case simultaneously with physical relief, his intellect supplied him with grounds for moral comfort. The thought that reassured Rastoptchin was not a new one. Ever since' the world has existed and men have killed one another, a man has never committed such a crime against his fellow without consoling himself with the same idea. That idea is le bien publique, the supposed public good of others.
To a man not swayed by passion this good never seems certain; but a man who has committed such a crime always knows positively where that public good lies. And Rastoptchin now knew this.
Far from reproaching himself in his meditations on the act he had just committed, he found grounds for self-complacency in having so successfully made use of an occasion so a propos for executing a criminal, and at the same time satisfying the crowd. ‘Vereshtchagin had been tried and condemned to the death penalty,’ Rastoptchin reflected (though Vereshtchagin had only been condemned by the senate to hard labour). ‘He was a spy and a traitor; I could not let him go unpunished, and so I hit two birds with one stone. I appeased the mob by giving them a victim, and I punished a miscreant.’
Reaching his house in the suburbs, the count completely regained his composure in arranging his domestic affairs.
Within half an hour the count was driving with rapid horses across the Sokolniky plain, thinking no more now of the past, but absorbed in thought and plans for what was to come, He was approaching now the Yauzsky bridge, where he had been told that Kutuzov was. In his own mind he was preparing the biting and angry speeches he would make.
upbraiding Kutuzov for his deception. He would make that old court fox feel that the responsibility for all the disasters bound to follow the abandonment of Moscow, and the ruin of Russia (as Rastoptchin con-1 sidered it), lay upon his old, doting head. Going over in anticipation what he would say to him, Rastoptchin wrathfully turned from side to side in the carriage, and angrily looked about him.
The Sokolniky plain was deserted. Only at one end of it, by the almshouse and lunatic asylum, there were groups of people in white garments, ! and similar persons were wandering about the plain, shouting and gesticulating.
One of them was running right across in front of Count Rastoptchin’s \ carriage. And Count Rastoptchin himself and his coachman, and the dragoons, all gazed with a vague feeling of horror and curiosity at these released lunatics, and especially at the one who was running towards them.
Tottering on his long, thin legs in his fluttering dressing-gown, this madman ran at headlong speed, with his eyes fixed on Rastoptchin, shouting something to him in a husky voice, and making signs to him to stop. The gloomy and triumphant face of the madman was thin and yellow, with irregular tufts of beard growing on it. The black, agatelike pupils of his eyes moved restlessly, showing the saffron-yellow whites above. ‘Stay! stop, I tell you!’ he shouted shrilly, and again breathlessly fell to shouting something with emphatic gestures and intonations.
He reached the carriage and ran alongside it.
