________________________________________________
_ Bald Hills, Prince Nicholas Bolkonski's estate, lay forty miles east
from Smolensk and two miles from the main road to Moscow.
The same evening that the prince gave his instructions to
Alpatych, Dessalles, having asked to see Princess Mary, told her that,
as the prince was not very well and was taking no steps to secure
his safety, though from Prince Andrew's letter it was evident that
to remain at Bald Hills might be dangerous, he respectfully advised
her to send a letter by Alpatych to the Provincial Governor at
Smolensk, asking him to let her know the state of affairs and the
extent of the danger to which Bald Hills was exposed. Dessalles
wrote this letter to the Governor for Princess Mary, she signed it,
and it was given to Alpatych with instructions to hand it to the
Governor and to come back as quickly as possible if there was danger.
Having received all his orders Alpatych, wearing a white beaver hat-
a present from the prince- and carrying a stick as the prince did,
went out accompanied by his family. Three well-fed roans stood ready
harnessed to a small conveyance with a leather hood.
The larger bell was muffled and the little bells on the harness
stuffed with paper. The prince allowed no one at Bald Hills to drive
with ringing bells; but on a long journey Alpatych liked to have them.
His satellites- the senior clerk, a countinghouse clerk, a scullery
maid, a cook, two old women, a little pageboy, the coachman, and
various domestic serfs- were seeing him off.
His daughter placed chintz-covered down cushions for him to sit on
and behind his back. His old sister-in-law popped in a small bundle,
and one of the coachmen helped him into the vehicle.
"There! There! Women's fuss! Women, women!" said Alpatych, puffing
and speaking rapidly just as the prince did, and he climbed into the
trap.
After giving the clerk orders about the work to be done, Alpatych,
not trying to imitate the prince now, lifted the hat from his bald
head and crossed himself three times.
"If there is anything... come back, Yakov Alpatych! For Christ's
sake think of us!" cried his wife, referring to the rumors of war
and the enemy.
"Women, women! Women's fuss!" muttered Alpatych to himself and
started on his journey, looking round at the fields of yellow rye
and the still-green, thickly growing oats, and at other quite black
fields just being plowed a second time.
As he went along he looked with pleasure at the year's splendid crop
of corn, scrutinized the strips of ryefield which here and there
were already being reaped, made his calculations as to the sowing
and the harvest, and asked himself whether he had not forgotten any of
the prince's orders.
Having baited the horses twice on the way, he arrived at the town
toward evening on the fourth of August.
Alpatych kept meeting and overtaking baggage trains and troops on
the road. As he approached Smolensk he heard the sounds of distant
firing, but these did not impress him. What struck him most was the
sight of a splendid field of oats in which a camp had been pitched and
which was being mown down by the soldiers, evidently for fodder.
This fact impressed Alpatych, but in thinking about his own business
he soon forgot it.
All the interests of his life for more than thirty years had been
bounded by the will of the prince, and he never went beyond that
limit. Everything not connected with the execution of the prince's
orders did not interest and did not even exist for Alpatych.
On reaching Smolensk on the evening of the fourth of August he put
up in the Gachina suburb across the Dnieper, at the inn kept by
Ferapontov, where he had been in the habit of putting up for the
last thirty years. Some thirty years ago Ferapontov, by Alpatych's
advice, had bought a wood from the prince, had begun to trade, and now
had a house, an inn, and a corn dealer's shop in that province. He was
a stout, dark, red-faced peasant in the forties, with thick lips, a
broad knob of a nose, similar knobs over his black frowning brows, and
a round belly.
Wearing a waistcoat over his cotton shirt, Ferapontov was standing
before his shop which opened onto the street. On seeing Alpatych he
went up to him.
"You're welcome, Yakov Alpatych. Folks are leaving the town, but you
have come to it," said he.
"Why are they leaving the town?" asked Alpatych.
"That's what I say. Folks are foolish! Always afraid of the French."
"Women's fuss, women's fuss!" said Alpatych.
"Just what I think, Yakov Alpatych. What I say is: orders have
been given not to let them in, so that must be right. And the peasants
are asking three rubles for carting- it isn't Christian!"
Yakov Alpatych heard without heeding. He asked for a samovar and for
hay for his horses, and when he had had his tea he went to bed.
All night long troops were moving past the inn. Next morning
Alpatych donned a jacket he wore only in town and went out on
business. It was a sunny morning and by eight o'clock it was already
hot. "A good day for harvesting," thought Alpatych.
From beyond the town firing had been heard since early morning. At
eight o'clock the booming of cannon was added to the sound of
musketry. Many people were hurrying through the streets and there were
many soldiers, but cabs were still driving about, tradesmen stood at
their shops, and service was being held in the churches as usual.
Alpatych went to the shops, to government offices, to the post office,
and to the Governor's. In the offices and shops and at the post office
everyone was talking about the army and about the enemy who was
already attacking the town, everybody was asking what should be
done, and all were trying to calm one another.
In front of the Governor's house Alpatych found a large number of
people, Cossacks, and a traveling carriage of the Governor's. At the
porch he met two of the landed gentry, one of whom he knew. This
man, an ex-captain of police, was saying angrily:
"It's no joke, you know! It's all very well if you're single. 'One
man though undone is but one,' as the proverb says, but with
thirteen in your family and all the property... They've brought us
to utter ruin! What sort of governors are they to do that? They
ought to be hanged- the brigands!..."
"Oh come, that's enough!" said the other.
"What do I care? Let him hear! We're not dogs," said the
ex-captain of police, and looking round he noticed Alpatych.
"Oh, Yakov Alpatych! What have you come for?"
"To see the Governor by his excellency's order," answered
Alpatych, lifting his head and proudly thrusting his hand into the
bosom of his coat as he always did when he mentioned the prince.... He
has ordered me to inquire into the position of affairs," he added.
"Yes, go and find out!" shouted the angry gentleman. "They've
brought things to such a pass that there are no carts or
anything!... There it is again, do you hear?" said he, pointing in the
direction whence came the sounds of firing.
"They've brought us all to ruin... the brigands!" he repeated, and
descended the porch steps.
Alpatych swayed his head and went upstairs. In the waiting room were
tradesmen, women, and officials, looking silently at one another.
The door of the Governor's room opened and they all rose and moved
forward. An official ran out, said some words to a merchant, called
a stout official with a cross hanging on his neck to follow him, and
vanished again, evidently wishing to avoid the inquiring looks and
questions addressed to him. Alpatych moved forward and next time the
official came out addressed him, one hand placed in the breast of
his buttoned coat, and handed him two letters.
"To his Honor Baron Asch, from General-in-Chief Prince Bolkonski,"
he announced with such solemnity and significance that the official
turned to him and took the letters.
A few minutes later the Governor received Alpatych and hurriedly
said to him:
"Inform the prince and princess that I knew nothing: I acted on
the highest instructions- here..." and he handed a paper to
Alpatych. "Still, as the prince is unwell my advice is that they
should go to Moscow. I am just starting myself. Inform them..."
But the Governor did not finish: a dusty perspiring officer ran into
the room and began to say something in French. The Governor's face
expressed terror.
"Go," he said, nodding his head to Alpatych, and began questioning
the officer.
Eager, frightened, helpless glances were turned on Alpatych when
he came out of the Governor's room. Involuntarily listening now to the
firing, which had drawn nearer and was increasing in strength,
Alpatych hurried to his inn. The paper handed to him by the Governor
said this:
"I assure you that the town of Smolensk is not in the slightest
danger as yet and it is unlikely that it will be threatened with
any. I from the one side and Prince Bagration from the other are
marching to unite our forces before Smolensk, which junction will be
effected on the 22nd instant, and both armies with their united forces
will defend our compatriots of the province entrusted to your care
till our efforts shall have beaten back the enemies of our Fatherland,
or till the last warrior in our valiant ranks has perished. From
this you will see that you have a perfect right to reassure the
inhabitants of Smolensk, for those defended by two such brave armies
may feel assured of victory." (Instructions from Barclay de Tolly to
Baron Asch, the civil governor of Smolensk, 1812.)
People were anxiously roaming about the streets.
Carts piled high with household utensils, chairs, and cupboards kept
emerging from the gates of the yards and moving along the streets.
Loaded carts stood at the house next to Ferapontov's and women were
wailing and lamenting as they said good-by. A small watchdog ran round
barking in front of the harnessed horses.
Alpatych entered the innyard at a quicker pace than usual and went
straight to the shed where his horses and trap were. The coachman
was asleep. He woke him up, told him to harness, and went into the
passage. From the host's room came the sounds of a child crying, the
despairing sobs of a woman, and the hoarse angry shouting of
Ferapontov. The cook began running hither and thither in the passage
like a frightened hen, just as Alpatych entered.
"He's done her to death. Killed the mistress!... Beat her... dragged
her about so!..."
"What for?" asked Alpatych.
"She kept begging to go away. She's a woman! 'Take me away,' says
she, 'don't let me perish with my little children! Folks,' she says,
'are all gone, so why,' she says, 'don't we go?' And he began
beating and pulling her about so!"
At these words Alpatych nodded as if in approval, and not wishing to
hear more went to the door of the room opposite the innkeeper's, where
he had left his purchases.
"You brute, you murderer!" screamed a thin, pale woman who, with a
baby in her arms and her kerchief torn from her head, burst through
the door at that moment and down the steps into the yard.
Ferapontov came out after her, but on seeing Alpatych adjusted his
waistcoat, smoothed his hair, yawned, and followed Alpatych into the
opposite room.
"Going already?" said he.
Alpatych, without answering or looking at his host, sorted his
packages and asked how much he owed.
"We'll reckon up! Well, have you been to the Governor's?" asked
Ferapontov. "What has been decided?"
Alpatych replied that the Governor had not told him anything
definite.
"With our business, how can we get away?" said Ferapontov. "We'd
have to pay seven rubles a cartload to Dorogobuzh and I tell them
they're not Christians to ask it! Selivanov, now, did a good stroke
last Thursday- sold flour to the army at nine rubles a sack. Will
you have some tea?" he added.
While the horses were being harnessed Alpatych and Ferapontov over
their tea talked of the price of corn, the crops, and the good weather
for harvesting.
"Well, it seems to be getting quieter," remarked Ferapontov,
finishing his third cup of tea and getting up. "Ours must have got the
best of it. The orders were not to let them in. So we're in force,
it seems.... They say the other day Matthew Ivanych Platov drove
them into the river Marina and drowned some eighteen thousand in one
day."
Alpatych collected his parcels, handed them to the coachman who
had come in, and settled up with the innkeeper. The noise of wheels,
hoofs, and bells was heard from the gateway as a little trap passed
out.
It was by now late in the afternoon. Half the street was in
shadow, the other half brightly lit by the sun. Alpatych looked out of
the window and went to the door. Suddenly the strange sound of a
far-off whistling and thud was heard, followed by a boom of cannon
blending into a dull roar that set the windows rattling.
He went out into the street: two men were running past toward the
bridge. From different sides came whistling sounds and the thud of
cannon balls and bursting shells falling on the town. But these sounds
were hardly heard in comparison with the noise of the firing outside
the town and attracted little attention from the inhabitants. The town
was being bombarded by a hundred and thirty guns which Napoleon had
ordered up after four o'clock. The people did not at once realize
the meaning of this bombardment.
At first the noise of the falling bombs and shells only aroused
curiosity. Ferapontov's wife, who till then had not ceased wailing
under the shed, became quiet and with the baby in her arms went to the
gate, listening to the sounds and looking in silence at the people.
The cook and a shop assistant came to the gate. With lively
curiosity everyone tried to get a glimpse of the projectiles as they
flew over their heads. Several people came round the corner talking
eagerly.
"What force!" remarked one. "Knocked the roof and ceiling all to
splinters!"
"Routed up the earth like a pig," said another.
"That's grand, it bucks one up!" laughed the first. "Lucky you
jumped aside, or it would have wiped you out!"
Others joined those men and stopped and told how cannon balls had
fallen on a house close to them. Meanwhile still more projectiles, now
with the swift sinister whistle of a cannon ball, now with the
agreeable intermittent whistle of a shell, flew over people's heads
incessantly, but not one fell close by, they all flew over. Alpatych
was getting into his trap. The innkeeper stood at the gate.
"What are you staring at?" he shouted to the cook, who in her red
skirt, with sleeves rolled up, swinging her bare elbows, had stepped
to the corner to listen to what was being said.
"What marvels!" she exclaimed, but hearing her master's voice she
turned back. pulling down her tucked-up skirt.
Once more something whistled, but this time quite close, swooping
downwards like a little bird; a flame flashed in the middle of the
street, something exploded, and the street was shrouded in smoke.
"Scoundrel, what are you doing?" shouted the innkeeper, rushing to
the cook.
At that moment the pitiful wailing of women was heard from different
sides, the frightened baby began to cry, and people crowded silently
with pale faces round the cook. The loudest sound in that crowd was
her wailing.
"Oh-h-h! Dear souls, dear kind souls! Don't let me die! My good
souls!..."
Five minutes later no one remained in the street. The cook, with her
thigh broken by a shell splinter, had been carried into the kitchen.
Alpatych, his coachman, Ferapontov's wife and children and the house
porter were all sitting in the cellar, listening. The roar of guns,
the whistling of projectiles, and the piteous moaning of the cook,
which rose above the other sounds, did not cease for a moment. The
mistress rocked and hushed her baby and when anyone came into the
cellar asked in a pathetic whisper what had become of her husband
who had remained in the street. A shopman who entered told her that
her husband had gone with others to the cathedral, whence they were
fetching the wonder-working icon of Smolensk.
Toward dusk the cannonade began to subside. Alpatych left the cellar
and stopped in the doorway. The evening sky that had been so clear was
clouded with smoke, through which, high up, the sickle of the new moon
shone strangely. Now that the terrible din of the guns had ceased a
hush seemed to reign over the town, broken only by the rustle of
footsteps, the moaning, the distant cries, and the crackle of fires
which seemed widespread everywhere. The cook's moans had now subsided.
On two sides black curling clouds of smoke rose and spread from the
fires. Through the streets soldiers in various uniforms walked or
ran confusedly in different directions like ants from a ruined
ant-hill. Several of them ran into Ferapontov's yard before Alpatych's
eyes. Alpatych went out to the gate. A retreating regiment,
thronging and hurrying, blocked the street.
Noticing him, an officer said: "The town is being abandoned. Get
away, get away!" and then, turning to the soldiers, shouted:
"I'll teach you to run into the yards!"
Alpatych went back to the house, called the coachman, and told him
to set off. Ferapontov's whole household came out too, following
Alpatych and the coachman. The women, who had been silent till then,
suddenly began to wail as they looked at the fires- the smoke and even
the flames of which could be seen in the failing twilight- and as if
in reply the same kind of lamentation was heard from other parts of
the street. Inside the shed Alpatych and the coachman arranged the
tangled reins and traces of their horses with trembling hands.
As Alpatych was driving out of the gate he saw some ten soldiers
in Ferapontov's open shop, talking loudly and filling their bags and
knapsacks with flour and sunflower seeds. Just then Ferapontov
returned and entered his shop. On seeing the soldiers he was about
to shout at them, but suddenly stopped and, clutching at his hair,
burst into sobs and laughter:
"Loot everything, lads! Don't let those devils get it!" he cried,
taking some bags of flour himself and throwing them into the street.
Some of the soldiers were frightened and ran away, others went on
filling their bags. On seeing Alpatych, Ferapontov turned to him:
"Russia is done for!" he cried. "Alpatych, I'll set the place on
fire myself. We're done for!..." and Ferapontov ran into the yard.
Soldiers were passing in a constant stream along the street blocking
it completely, so that Alpatych could not pass out and had to wait.
Ferapontov's wife and children were also sitting in a cart waiting
till it was it was possible to drive out.
Night had come. There were stars in the sky and the new moon shone
out amid the smoke that screened it. On the sloping descent to the
Dnieper Alpatych's cart and that of the innkeeper's wife, which were
slowly moving amid the rows of soldiers and of other vehicles, had
to stop. In a side street near the crossroads where the vehicles had
stopped, a house and some shops were on fire. This fire was already
burning itself out. The flames now died down and were lost in the
black smoke, now suddenly flared up again brightly, lighting up with
strange distinctness the faces of the people crowding at the
crossroads. Black figures flitted about before the fire, and through
the incessant crackling of the flames talking and shouting could be
heard. Seeing that his trap would not be able to move on for some
time, Alpatych got down and turned into the side street to look at the
fire. Soldiers were continually rushing backwards and forwards near
it, and he saw two of them and a man in a frieze coat dragging burning
beams into another yard across the street, while others carried
bundles of hay.
Alpatych went up to a large crowd standing before a high barn
which was blazing briskly. The walls were all on fire and the back
wall had fallen in, the wooden roof was collapsing, and the rafters
were alight. The crowd was evidently watching for the roof to fall in,
and Alpatych watched for it too.
"Alpatych!" a familiar voice suddenly hailed the old man.
"Mercy on us! Your excellency!" answered Alpatych, immediately
recognizing the voice of his young prince.
Prince Andrew in his riding cloak, mounted on a black horse, was
looking at Alpatych from the back of the crowd.
"Why are you here?" he asked.
"Your... your excellency," stammered Alpatych and broke into sobs.
"Are we really lost? Master!..."
"Why are you here?" Prince Andrew repeated.
At that moment the flames flared up and showed his young master's
pale worn face. Alpatych told how he had been sent there and how
difficult it was to get away.
"Are we really quite lost, your excellency?" he asked again.
Prince Andrew without replying took out a notebook and raising his
knee began writing in pencil on a page he tore out. He wrote to his
sister:
"Smolensk is being abandoned. Bald Hills will be occupied by the
enemy within a week. Set off immediately for Moscow. Let me know at
once when you will start. Send by special messenger to Usvyazh."
Having written this and given the paper to Alpatych, he told him how
to arrange for departure of the prince, the princess, his son, and the
boy's tutor, and how and where to let him know immediately. Before
he had had time to finish giving these instructions, a chief of
staff followed by a suite galloped up to him.
"You are a colonel?" shouted the chief of staff with a German
accent, in a voice familiar to Prince Andrew. "Houses are set on
fire in your presence and you stand by! What does this mean? You
will answer for it!" shouted Berg, who was now assistant to the
chief of staff of the commander of the left flank of the infantry of
the first army, a place, as Berg said, "very agreeable and well en
evidence."
Prince Andrew looked at him and without replying went on speaking to
Alpatych.
"So tell them that I shall await a reply till the tenth, and if by
the tenth I don't receive news that they have all got away I shall
have to throw up everything and come myself to Bald Hills."
"Prince," said Berg, recognizing Prince Andrew, "I only spoke
because I have to obey orders, because I always do obey exactly....
You must please excuse me," he went on apologetically.
Something cracked in the flames. The fire died down for a moment and
wreaths of black smoke rolled from under the roof. There was another
terrible crash and something huge collapsed.
"Ou-rou-rou!" yelled the crowd, echoing the crash of the
collapsing roof of the barn, the burning grain in which diffused a
cakelike aroma all around. The flames flared up again, lighting the
animated, delighted, exhausted faces of the spectators.
The man in the frieze coat raised his arms and shouted:
"It's fine, lads! Now it's raging... It's fine!"
"That's the owner himself," cried several voices.
"Well then," continued Prince Andrew to Alpatych, "report to them as
I have told you"; and not replying a word to Berg who was now mute
beside him, he touched his horse and rode down the side street. _
Read next: Book Ten: 1812: Chapter 5
Read previous: Book Ten: 1812: Chapter 3
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