 War and Peace. Book 11, Chapter 25, read for LibriVox.org. Toward nine o'clock in the morning, when the troops were already moving through Moscow, no one came to the Count anymore for instructions. Those who were able to get away were already going of their own accord. Those who remained behind decided for themselves what they must do. The Count ordered his carriage that he might drive to Sokolniki, and sat in his study with folded hands, morose, sallow, and taciturn. In quiet and untroubled times, it seems to every administrator that it is only by his effort that the whole population under his rule is kept going. And in this consciousness of being indispensable, every administrator finds the chief reward of his labor and efforts. While the sea of history remains calm, the ruler-administer, in his frail bark, holding on with a boat-hook to the ship of the people and himself moving, naturally imagines that his efforts move the ship he is holding on to. But as soon as a storm arises, and the sea begins to heave and the ship to move, such a delusion is no longer possible. The ship moves independently, with its own enormous motion. The boat-hook no longer reaches the moving vessel, and suddenly the administrator, instead of appearing a ruler and source of power, becomes an insignificant, useless, feeble man. Rostoption felt this, and it was this which exasperated him. The superintendent of police, whom the crowd had stopped, went in to see him at the same time as an agitant who informed the Count that the horses were harnessed. They were both pale, and the superintendent of police, after reporting that he had executed the instructions he had received, informed the Count that an immense crowd had collected in the courtyard and wished to see him. Without saying a word, Rostoption rose and walked hastily to his light, luxurious drawing-room, went to the balcony-door, took hold of the handle, let it go again, and went to the window from which he had a better view of the whole crowd. The tall lad was standing in front, flourishing his arm and saying something with a stern look. The blood-stained Smith stood beside him with a gloomy face. A drone of voices was audible through the closed window. Is my carriage ready? asked Rostoption, stepping back for window. It is your Excellency, replied the agitant. Rostoption went again to the balcony-door. But what do they want? he asked the superintendent of police. Your Excellency, they say they have got ready, according to your orders, to go against the French, and they shouted something about treachery. But it is a turbulent crowd, Your Excellency. I hardly managed to get away from it. Your Excellency, I venture to suggest you may go. I don't need you to tell me what to do, explained Rostoption angrily. He stood at the balcony-door, looking at the crowd. This is what they have done with Russia. This is what they have done with me, he thought, full of an irrepressible fury that welled up within him against the someone to whom what was happening might be attributed. As often happens with passionate people, he was mastered by anger, but was still seeking an object on which to vent it. Here is that mob, the dregs of the people, he thought as he gazed at the crowd. This rabble that they have roused by their folly. They want a victim, he thought, as he looked at the tall lad flourishing his arm. And this thought occurred to him just because he himself desired a victim, something on which to vent his rage. Is the carriage ready? he asked again. Yes, Your Excellency. What are your orders about Veresh Chagan? He is waiting at the porch, said the agitant. Ah! exclaimed Rostopchen, as if struck by an unexpected recollection. And rapidly opening the door, he went resolutely out onto the balcony. The talking instantly ceased. Hats and capes were doffed, and all eyes were raised to the count. Good morning, lads, said the count, briskly and loudly. Thank you for coming. I'll come out to you in a moment, but we must first settle with this villain. We must punish the villain who has caused the ruin of Moscow. Wait for me. And the count stepped as briskly back into the room and slammed the door behind him. A murmur of approbation and satisfaction ran through the crowd. He'll settle with all the villains, you'll see, and you said the French. He'll show you what law is. The mob were saying, as if reproving one another, for their lack of confidence. A few minutes later, an officer came hurriedly out of the front door, gave an order, and the dragoons formed up in a line. The crowd moved eagerly from the balcony towards the porch. Rostopchen, coming out there with quick, angry steps, looked hastily around, as if seeking someone. Where is he? he inquired. As he spoke, he saw a young man coming round the corner of the house between two dragoons. He had a long, thin neck, and his head, that had been half-shaped, was again covered by short hair. This young man was dressed in a threadbare, blue cloth coat lined with fox fur that had once been smart, and dirty hemp and convict trousers over which were pulled his thin, dirty, tron down boots. On his thin, weak legs were heavy chains which hampered his irresolute movements. Ah, said Rostopchen, hurriedly turning away his eyes from the young man in the fur-lined coat, and pointing to the bottom step of the porch, put him there. The young man in his clattering chains stepped clumsily to the spot indicated, holding away with one finger the coat collar which shaved his neck, turning his long neck twice this way and that, sighed, and submissively folded before him his thin hands, unused to work. For several seconds while the young man was taking his place on the step, the silence continued. Only among the back rows of the people who were all pressing towards the one spot could sighs, groans, and the shuffling of feet be heard. While waiting for the young man to take his place on the step, Rostopchen stood, frowning, and rubbing his face with his hand. Ladz, said he, with a metallic ring in his voice. This man, Vereshagan, is the scoundrel by whose doing Moscow is perishing. The young man in the fur-lined coat, stooping a little, stood in a submissive attitude, his finger clasped before him, his emanciated young face, disfigured by the half-shaven head, hung down hopelessly. At the count's first words, he raised it slowly and looked up at him as if wishing to say something, or at least to meet his eye. But Rostopchen did not look at him. A vein in the young man's long thin neck swelled like a cord, and went blue behind the ear, and suddenly his face flushed. All eyes were fixed on him. He looked at the crowd, and rendered more hopeful by the expression he read on the faces there. He smiled sadly and timidly, and lowering his head, shifted his feet on the step. He has betrayed his Tsar and his country. He had gone over to bone apart. He alone of all the Russians has disgraced the Russian name. He has caused Moscow to perish, said Rostopchen, in a sharp, even voice. But suddenly, he glanced down at Vereshagin, who continued to stand in the same submissive attitude as if almost inflamed by the sight. He raised his arm, and addressed the people, almost shouting, Deal with him as you see fit, I hand him over to you. The crowd remained silent, and only pressed closer and closer to one another, to keep one another back, to breathe in that stifling atmosphere, to be unable to stir, and to await something unknown, uncomprehended, and terrible, was becoming unbearable. Though standing in the front, who had seen and heard what had taken place before them, all stood with wide-open eyes and mouths, straining with all their strength, and held back the crowd that was pushing behind him. Beat him! let the traitor perish, and not disgrace the Russian name, shouted Rostopchen. Cut him down! I command it! Hearing not so much the words as the angry tone of Rostopchen's voice, the crowd moaned and heaved forward, but again paused. Count! exclaimed a timid yet theatrical voice of Vereshagin in the midst of the momentary silence that ensued. Count! One God is above us both! He lifted his head again, and the thick vein in his neck filled with blood, and the color rapidly came and went in his face. He did not finish what he wished to say. Cut him down! I command it! shouted Rostopchen, suddenly growing pale like Vereshagin. Draw savers! cried the Dragoon officer, drawing his own. Another still stronger wave flowed through the crowd, and reaching the front ranks carried it swaying to the very steps of the porch. The tall youth, with a stony look on his face, and rigid and uplifted arm, stood beside Vereshagin. Saber him! the Dragoon officer almost whispered, and one of the soldiers, his face all at once distorted with fury, struck Vereshagin on the head, with the blunt side of his saber. Ah! cried Vereshagin in meek surprise, looking round with a frightened glance, as if not understanding why this was done to him. A similar moan of surprise and horror ran through the crowd. Oh, Lord! exclaimed a sorrowful voice. But after the exclamation of surprise, that had escaped from Vereshagin, he uttered a plaintive cry of pain, and that cry was fatal. The barrier of human feeling, strained to the utmost, that had held the crowd in check, suddenly broke. The crime had begun, and must now be completed. The plaintive moan of reproach was drowned by the threatening and angry roar of the crowd. Like the seventh and last wave that shatters a ship, the last irresistible wave burst from the rear, and reached the front ranks, carrying them off their feet, and engulfing them all. The Dragoon was about to repeat his blow. Vereshagin, with a cry of horror covering his head with his hands, rushed toward the crowd. The tall youth, against whom he stumbled, seized his thin neck with his hands, and, yelling wildly, fell with him under the feet of the pressing, struggling crowd. Some beat and tore at Vereshagin, others at the tall youth, and the screams of those being trampled, and of those who tried to rescue the tall lad, only increased the fury of the crowd. It was a long time before the Dragoons could extricate the bleeding youth beaten almost to death, and for a long time, despite the feverish haste with which the mob tried to end the work that had been begun, those who were hitting, throttling, and tearing at Vereshagin were unable to kill him, for the crowd pressed from all sides, swaying as one mass with them in the center, and rendering it impossible for them either to kill him, or let him go. Hit him with an axe, eh? Crushed, traitor, he sold Christ, still alive, tenacious, serves him right, torture serves a thief right, use the hatchet, what, still alive? Only when the victim ceased to struggle, and his cries changed to a long drawn, measured death rattle, did the crowd around his prostrate bleeding corpse begin rapidly to change places. Each one came up, glanced at what had been done, and with horror, reproach, and astonishment pushed back again. Oh Lord, the people are like wild beasts. How could he still be alive? Voices in the crowd could be heard saying. Quite a young fellow, too. Must have been a merchant's son. What men? And they're saying he's not the right one. How not the right one? Oh Lord, and there's another. Has been beaten, too. They say he's nearly done for. Oh, the people, aren't they afraid of sinning? Said this same mob now, looking with pain distress at the dead body, with its long thin, half severed neck, and its livid face stained with blood and dust. A painstaking police officer, considering the presence of a corpse in his excellently's courtyard unseemly, told the dragoons to take it away. Two dragoons took it by its distorted legs and dragged it along the ground. The gory, dust-stained, half-shaven head, with its long neck trailed, twisting along the ground. The crowd shrank back from it. At the moment when Vershagan fell, and the crowd closed in with savage yells and swayed about him, Rastap Shin suddenly turned pale, and, instead of going back to the entrance where his carriage awaited him, went with hurried steps and bent head, not knowing where and why, along the passage leading to the rooms on the ground floor. The Count's face was white, and he could not control the feverish twitching of his lower jaw. This-this way, Your Excellency! Where-where are you going? This way, please! said a trembling, frightened voice behind him. Count Rastap Shin was unable to reply, and turning obediently went in the direction indicated. At the back entrance stood his kalesh. The distant roar of the yelling crowd was audible even there. He hastily took his seat and told the coachman to drive him to his country house in Sokolnyki. When they reached Myosnitsky Street, and could no longer hear the shouts of the mob, the Count began to repent. He remembered with dissatisfaction the agitation and fear he had betrayed before his subordinates. The mob is terrible, disgusting, he said to himself in French. They are like wolves, whom nothing but flesh can appease. Count, one god is above us both. Vereshagin's words suddenly recurred to him, and a disagreeable shiver ran down his back. But this was only a momentary feeling, and Count Rastap Shin smiled disdainfully at himself. I had other duties, thought he. The people had to be appeased. My other victims have perished, and are perishing for the public good. And he began thinking of his social duties to his family, and to the city entrusted to him, and of himself. Not himself is Theodore Vasilyevich Rastap Shin. He fancied that Theodore Vasilyevich Rastap Shin was sacrificing himself for the public good, but himself as governor, the representative of authority, and of the Tsar. Had I simply been Theodore Vasilyevich, my course of action would have been quite different, but it was my duty to safeguard my life and dignity as commander-in-chief. Lightly swaying on the flexible springs of his carriage, and no longer hearing the terrible sounds of the crowd, Rastap Shin grew physically calm, and, as always happens, as soon as he became physically tranquil, his mind devised reasons why he should be mentally tranquil too. The thought which tranquilized Rastap Shin was not a new one. Since the world began, and men have killed one another, no one has ever committed such a crime against his fellow man without comforting himself with this same idea. This idea is Libyan public, the hypothetical welfare of other people. To a man not swayed by passion, that welfare is never certain, but he who commits such a crime always knows just where that welfare lies, and Rastap Shin now knew it. Not only did his reason not reproach him for what he had done, but he even found a cause for self-satisfaction and having so successfully contrived to avail himself of a convenient opportunity to punish a criminal and at the same time pacify the mob. Veresh Shogun was tried and condemned to death, thought Rastap Shin, though the senate had only condemned Veresh Shogun to hard labor. He was a traitor and a spy. I could not let him go unpunished, and so I have killed two birds with one stone. To appease the mob, I gave them a victim, and at the same time punished a miscreant. Having reached his country house and begun to give orders about domestic arrangements, the count grew quite tranquil. Half an hour later he was driving with his fast horses across the Sokolniki field. No longer thinking of what had occurred, but considering what was to come. He was driving to the Yauza Bridge, where he had heard that Kutuzov was. Count Rastap Shin was mentally preparing the angry and stinging reproaches he meant to address to Kutuzov for his deception. He would make that foxy old courtier feel that the responsibility for all the calamities that would follow the abandonment of the city and the ruin of Russia, as Rastap Shin regarded it, would fall upon his doting old head. Planning beforehand what he would say to Kutuzov, Rastap Shin turned angrily in his kalash and gay sternly from side to side. The Sokolniki field was deserted. Only at the end of it, in front of the Alm's house and the lunatic asylum, could be seen some people in whites and others like them walking singly across the fields shouting and gesticulating. One of these was running to cross the path of Count Rastap Shin's carriage and the Count himself, his coachman and his dragoons, and curiosity at these released lunatics and especially at the one running towards them. Sweying from side to side, his long thin fingers in his fluttering dressing gown, this lunatic was running impetuously, his gazed fix on Rastap Shin shouting something in a hoarse voice and making signs to him to stop. The lunatic's solemn loomy face was thin and yellow with its beard growing in uneven tufts. His black agate pupils with saffron yellow whites moved restlessly near the lower eyelids. Stop! Pull up, I tell you! he cried in a piercing voice and again shouted something breathlessly with emphatic intonations and gestures. Coming abreast of the collage, he ran beside it. The rice they have slain me. The rice I have risen from the dead. They stormed me, crucified me. I shall rise, shall rise, shall rise. They have torn my body. The kingdom of God will be overthrown. The rice I will overthrow it and the rice re-establish it. He cried, raising his voice higher and higher. Count Rastap Shin suddenly grew pale as he had done when the crowd closed in on various shogun. He turned away. Go fast, faster! he cried in a trembling voice to his coachman. The collage flew over the ground as fast as the horses could draw it. But for a long time Count Rastap Shin still heard the insane despairing screams growing fainter in the distance. While his eyes saw nothing but the astonished, frightened, bloodstained face of the traitor in the fur-lined coat. Recent as that mental picture was, Rastap Shin already felt that it had cut deep into his heart and drawn blood. Even now he felt clearly that the gory trace of that recollection would not pass with time, but that the terrible memory would, on the contrary, dwell in his heart ever more cruelly and painfully toward the end of his life. He seemed still to hear the sound of his own words. Cut him down! I command it! Why did I utter those words? It was by some accident I said them. I need not have said them, he thought, and then nothing would have happened. He saw the frightened and then infuriated face of the dragoon who dealt the blow, the look of silent, timid reproach that boy in the fur-lined coat had turned upon him. But I did not do it for my own sake. I was bound to act that way. The mob, the traitor, the public welfare, thought he. Troops were still crowding at the Yausa Bridge. It was hot. Kutuzov, dejected and frowning, sat on a bench by the bridge, toying with his whip in the sand, when a collage dashed up noisily. A man in a general's uniform, with plumes in his hat, went up to Kutuzov and said something in French. It was counter-stop-chin. He told Kutuzov that he had come because Moscow, the capital, was no more, and only the army remained. Things would have been different if your serene highness had not told me that you would not abandon Moscow without another battle. All this would not have happened, he said. Kutuzov looked at rest-stop-chin, as if not grasping what was said to him. He was trying to read something peculiar, written that moment on the face of the man addressing him. Rest-stop-chin grew confused and became silent. Kutuzov silently shook his head, and not taking his penetrating gaze from rest-stop-chin's face, smuddered softly. No, I shall not give Moscow up without a battle. Whether Kutuzov was thinking of something entirely different when he spoke those words, or uttered them purposely, knowing them to be meaningless, at any rate, rest-stop-chin made no reply, and hastily left him. And strange to say, the governor of Moscow, the proud count rest-stop-chin, took up a cossack whip, and went to the bridge, where he began with shouts to drive on the carts that blocked the way. Burant rode a detachment of Württemberg-Hussars, and behind them rode the king of Naples himself, accompanied by a numerous suite. About the middle of the Arbat Street, near the church of the miraculous icon of St. Nicholas, Murat halted to await news from the advance detachment, as to the condition in which they had found the citadel Le Kremlin. Around Murat gathered a group of those who had remained in Moscow. They all stared in timid bewilderment at the strange, long-haired commander, dressed up in feathers and gold. Is that their tsar himself? Is not bad. Low voices could be heard saying. An interpreter rode up to the group. Take off your cap, your caps. These words went from one to another in the crowd. The interpreter addressed an old porter and asked if it was far to the Kremlin. The porter, listening in perplexity to the unfamiliar Polish accent and not realising that the interpreter was speaking Russian, did not understand what was being said to him and slipped behind the others. Murat approached the interpreter and told him to ask where the Russian army was. One of the Russians understood what was asked and several voices at once began answering the interpreter. A French officer returning from the advance detachment rode up to Murat and reported that the gates of the citadel had been barricaded and that there was probably an ambush gate there. Good said Murat and turning to one of the gentlemen in his suite ordered four light guns to be moved forward to fire at the gates. The guns emerged at a trot from the column following Murat and advanced up the arbor. When they reached the end of the Vosty Dvizienska street they halted and drew in the square. Several French officers superintended the placing of the guns and looked at the Kremlin through field glasses. The bells in the Kremlin were ringing for whispers and this sound troubled the French. They imagined it to be a call to arms. A few infantrymen ran to the Kutafiev gate. Beams and wooden screens had been put there and two musket shots rang out from under the gate as soon as an officer and man began to run toward it. A general, who was standing by the guns, shouted some words of command to the officer and the latter ran back again with his man. The sound of three more shots came from the gate. One shot struck a French soldier's foot and from behind the screens came the strange sound of a few voices shouting. Instantly, as at a word of command, the expression of cheerful serenity on the faces of the French general, officers and men changed to one of determined, concentrated readiness for strife and suffering. To all of them, from the Marshal to the least soldier, that place was not the Vosdvizenka, Mokhavaya or Kutafiev street, nor the Troitsa gate, places familiar in Moscow, but a new battlefield which would probably prove sanguinary and all made ready for that battle. The cries from the gates ceased, the guns were advanced, the artillerymen blew the ash off their lint stocks, and an officer gave the word, fire. This was followed by two whistling sounds of canister shot one after another. The shot rattled against the stone of the gate and upon the wooden beams and screens and two wavering clouds of smoke rose over the square. A few instance after the echo of the reports resounding over the stone-built Kremlin had died away, the French heard a strange sound above their head. Thousands of crows rose above the walls and circled in the air, cawing and noisily flapping their wings. Together with that sound came a solitary human cry from the gateway and amid the smoke appeared the figure of a bare-headed man in a peasant's coat. He grasped the musket and took aim at the French. Fire repeated the officer once more and the reports of a musket and of two cannon shots were heard simultaneously. The gate was again hidden by smoke. Nothing more stirred behind the screens and the French infantry soldiers and officers advanced to the gate. In the gateway lay three wounded and four dead. Two men in peasant coats run away at the foot of the wall towards the Znamenka. Clear that the way said the officer pointing to the beams and the corpses and the French soldiers after dispatching the wounded threw the corpses over the parapet. Who these men were nobody knew. Clear that the way was all that was said of them and they were thrown over the parapet and removed later on that they may not stink. Tears alone dedicate a few eloquent lines to their memory. These wretches had occupied the sacred citadel having supplied themselves with guns from the arsenal and fired the wretches at the French. Some of them were sabered and the Kremlin was purge of their presence. Murat was informed that the way had been cleared. The French entered the gates and began pitching their camp in the Senate Square. Out of the windows of the Senate House the soldiers threw chairs into the square for fuel and kindled fires there. Other detachments passed through the Kremlin and encamped along the Moroseika, the Lubyanka and Pokrovka streets. Others quartered themselves along the Vostvizhenka, the Nikolsky and the Tverskoy streets. No masters of the houses being found anywhere, the French were not billeted on the inhabitants as is usual in towns but lived in it as in a camp. Though tattered, hungry, worn out and reduced a third of their original number, the French entered Moskva in good marching order. It was a weary and famished but still a fighting and menacing army. But it remained an army only until its soldiers had dispersed into their different lodgings. As soon as the men of the various regiments began to disperse among the wealthy and deserted houses, the army was lost forever and there came into being something nondescript, neither citizens nor soldiers, but what are known as Marudas. When five weeks later, these same men left Moskva, they no longer formed an army. They were a mob of Marudas, each carrying a quantity of articles which seemed to him valuable or useful. The aim of each man when he left Moskva was no longer as it had been to conquer, but merely to keep what he had acquired. Like a monkey which puts its paw into the narrow neck of a jug and having seized a handful of nuts will not open its fist for fear of losing what it holds and therefore perishes, the French when they left Moskva had inevitably to perish because they carried their loot with them yet to abandon what they had stolen was as impossible for them as it is for the monkey to open its paw and let go of its nuts. Ten minutes after each regiment had entered the Moskva district, not a soldier or officer was left. Men in military uniforms and hessian boots could be seen through the windows, laughing and walking through the rooms. In cellars and storerooms similar men were busy among the provisions and in the yards unlocking or breaking open coach house and stable doors, lighting fires in kitchens and kneading and baking bread with rolled up sleeves and cooking. Or frightening and using caressing women and children. There were many such men both in the shops and houses, but there was no army. Order after order was issued by the French commanders that day forbidding the men to disperse about the town, sternly forbidding any violence to the inhabitants or any looting and announcing a roll call for that very evening. But despite all these measures, the man who had till then constituted an army flowed all over the wealthy deserted city with its comforts and plentiful supplies. As a hungry herd of cattle keeps well together when crossing a barren field, but gets out of hand and at once disperses uncontrollably as soon as it reaches rich pastures, so did the army disperse all over the wealthy city. No residents were left in Moskva and the soldiers like water percolating through sand spread irresistibly through the city in all directions from the Kremlin into which they had first marched. The cavalry on entering a merchant's house that had been abandoned and finding the stabbling more than sufficient for their horses went on all the same to the next house which seemed to them better. Many of them appropriated several houses, chalked their names on them and quarreled and even fought with other companies for them. Before they had had time to secure quarters the soldiers ran out into the streets to see the city and hearing that everything had been abandoned rushed to places where valuables were to be had for the taking. The officers followed to check the soldiers and were involuntarily drawn into doing the same. In carriage row, carriages had been left in the shops and generals flocked there to select carlessers and coaches for themselves. The few inhabitants who had remained invited commanding officers to their houses hoping thereby to secure themselves from being plundered. There were masses of wells and there seemed no end to it. All around the quarters occupied by the French were other regions still unexplored and unoccupied where they thought yet greater riches might be found. And Moscow engulfed the army ever deeper and deeper. When water is spilled on dry ground, both the dry ground and the water disappear and mud results. And in the same way, the entry of the famished army into the rich and deserted city resulted in fires and looting and the destruction of both the army and the wealthy city. The French attributed the far of Moscow all patriotism ferocs the Rostov shin. Asterik, Rostov chins, ferocious patriotism, the Russians to the barbarity of the French. In reality, however, it was not and could not be possible to explain the burning of Moscow by making any individual or any group of people responsible for it. Moscow was burned because it found itself in a position in which any town built of wood was bound to burn quite apart from whether it had or had not. A hundred and thirty inferior fire engines deserted Moscow had to burn as inevitably as a heap of shavings has to burn on which sparks continually fall for several days. A town built of wood where scarcely they passes without configurations when the house owners are in residence and the police force is present cannot help burning when its inhabitants have left it and it is occupied by soldiers whose smoke pipes make campfires of the Senate chairs in the Senate Square and cook themselves meals twice a day. In peacetime it is only necessary to billet troops in the villages of any district and the number of fires in that district immediately increases. How much then must the probability of fire be increased in an abandoned wooden town where foreign troops are quartered? Le patriotisme ferroce, the roste of shame and the barbarity of the French were not to blame in the matter. Moscow was set on fire by the soldiers pipes, kitchens and campfires and by the carelessness of enemy soldiers occupying houses they did not own. Even if there was any arson which is very doubtful for no one had any reason to burn the houses in any case a troublesome and dangerous thing to do arson cannot be regarded as the cause for the same thing would have happened without any incendiarism. However tempting it might be for the French to blame roste option's ferocity and for Russians to blame the scoundrel Bonaparte or later on to place a heroic torch in the hands of their own people it is impossible not to see that there could be no such direct cause of the fire for Moscow had to burn as every village factory or house must burn which is left by its owners and in which strangers are allowed to live and cook their porridge. Moscow was burned by its inhabitants it is true but by those who had abandoned it and not by those who remained in it. Moscow when occupied by the enemy did not remain intact like Berlin Vienna and other towns simply because its inhabitants abandoned it and did not welcome the French with bread and salt nor bring them the keys of the city. End of chapter 26 recording by Eva Harnick Pontevedra Florida. War and Peace book 11 chapter 27 read for LibreBox.org by David Reem. The absorption of the French by Moscow radiating star-wise as it did only reached the quarter where Pierre was staying by the evening of the 2nd of September. After the last two days spent in solitude and unusual circumstances Pierre was in a state bordering on insanity. He was completely obsessed by one persistent thought he did not know how or when this thought had taken such possession of him but he remembered nothing of the past understood nothing of the present and all he saw and heard appeared to him like a dream. He had left home only to escape the intricate tangle of life's demands that enmeshed him and which in his present condition he was unable to unravel. He had gone to Joseph Alexeyevich's house on the plea of sorting the deceased's books and papers only in search of rest from life's turmoil for in his mind the memory of Joseph Alexeyevich was connected with a world of eternal solemn and calm thoughts quite contrary to the restless confusion into which he felt himself being drawn. He sought a quiet refuge and in Joseph Alexeyevich's study he really found it. When he sat with his elbows on the dusty writing table in the death-like stillness of the study calm and significant memories of the last few days rose one after another in his imagination particularly of the battle of Borodino and of the vague sense of his own insignificance and insincerity compared with the truth simplicity and strength of the class of men he mentally classed as they. When Garrison roused him from his riverry the idea occurred to him of taking part in the popular defense of Moscow which he knew was projected and with that object he had asked Garrison to get him a peasant's coat and a pistol, conviting to him his intention of remaining in Joseph Alexeyevich's house and keeping his name secret. Then during the first day spent in an action and solitude he tried several times to fix his attention on the Masonic manuscripts but was unable to do so. The idea that had previously occurred to him of the cabalistic significance of his name in connection with Bonaparte's more than once vaguely presented itself. But the idea that he, Larus Buzuhov, was destined to set a limit to the power of the beast was as yet only one of the fancies that often passed through his mind and left no trace behind. When, having bought the coat merely with the object of taking part among the people in the defense of Moscow, Pierre had met the Rostovs and Natasha had said to him, Are you remaining in Moscow? How splendid! The thought flashed into his mind that it really would be a good thing even if Moscow were taken for him to remain there and do what he was predestined to do. Next day, with the sole idea of not spurring himself and not lagging in any way behind them, Pierre went to the Three Hills Gate. But when he returned to the house convinced that Moscow would not be defended, he suddenly felt that what before had seemed to him merely a possibility had now become absolutely necessary and inevitable. He must remain in Moscow concealing his name and must meet Napoleon and kill him and either perish or put an end to the misery of all Europe, which it seemed to him was solely due to Napoleon. Pierre knew all the details of the attempt on Bonaparte's life in 1809 by a German student in Vienna and knew that the student had been shot, and the risk to which he would expose his life by carrying out his design excited him still more. Two equally strong feelings drew Pierre irresistibly to this purpose. The first was a feeling of the necessity of sacrifice and suffering in view of the common calamity, the same feeling that had caused him to go to Moziask on the 25th and to make his way to the very thick of the battle, and had now caused him to run away from his home and in place of the luxury and comfort to which he was accustomed to sleep on a hard sofa without undressing and eat the same food as garrison. The other was that vague and quite Russian feeling of contempt for everything conventional, artificial, and human, for everything the majority of men regard as the greatest good in the world. Pierre had first experienced this strange and fascinating feeling at the Sloboda Palace when he had suddenly felt that wealth, power, and life, all that men so painstakingly acquire and guard, if it has any worth has so only by reason the joy with which it can all be renounced. It was the feeling that induces a volunteer recruit to spend his last penny on drink, and a drunken man to smash mirrors or glasses for no apparent reason and knowing that it will cost him all the money he possesses. The feeling which causes a man to perform actions which, from an ordinary point of view are insane, to test, as it were, his personal power and strength, affirming the existence of a higher non-human criterion of life. From the very day Pierre had experienced this feeling for the first time at the Sloboda Palace, he had been continuously under its influence, but only now found full satisfaction for it. Moreover, at this moment Pierre was supported in his design and prevented from renouncing it by what he had already done in that direction. If he were now to leave Moscow like everyone else, his flight from home, the peasant coat, the pistol, and his announcement to the Rostovs that he would remain in Moscow would all become not merely meaningless, but contemptible and ridiculous, and to this Pierre was very sensitive. Pierre's physical condition, as is always the case, corresponded to his mental state. The unaccustomed coarse food, the vodka he drank during those days, the absence of wine and cigars, his dirty unchanged linen, two almost sleepless nights passed on a short sofa without bedding, all this kept him in a state of excitement boarding on insanity. It was two o'clock in the afternoon. The French had already entered Moscow. Pierre knew this, but instead of acting he only thought about his undertaking, going over its minutest details in his mind. In his fancy he did not clearly picture to himself either the striking of the blow or the death of Napoleon, but with extraordinary vividness and melancholy enjoyment imagined his own destruction and heroic endurance. Yes, alone, for the sake of all, I must do it or perish, he thought. Yes, I will approach, and then suddenly, with pistol or dagger. But that is all the same. It is not I, but the hand of Providence that punishes thee, I shall say, thought he, imagining what he would say when killing Napoleon. Well then, take me and execute me, he went on, speaking to himself and bowing his head with a sad but firm expression. While Pierre, standing in the middle of the room, was talking to himself in this way, the study door opened, and on the threshold appeared the figure of Makar Alexeyevich, always so timid before, but now quite transformed. His dressing gown was unfastened, his face red and distorted. He was obviously drunk. On seeing Pierre he grew confused at first, but noticing embarrassment on Pierre's face immediately grew bold and staggering on his thin legs advanced into the middle of the room. There frightened, he said confidentially in a horse voice, I say, I won't surrender. I say, am I not right, sir? He paused and then suddenly seeing the pistol on the table seized it with unexpected rapidity and ran out into the corridor. Garrison in the porter, who had followed Makar Alexeyevich, stopped him in the vestibule and tried to take the pistol from him. Pierre, coming out into the corridor, looked with pity and repulsion at the half-crazy old man. Makar Alexeyevich, frowning with exertion, held onto the pistol and screamed hoarsely, evidently with some heroic fancy in his head. To arms, bore them. No, you shan't get it, he yelled. That will do. Please, that will do. Have the goodness. Please, sir, to let go. Please, sir, pleaded Garrison, trying carefully to steer Makar Alexeyevich by the elbows back to the door. Who are you? Bonaparte, shouted Makar Alexeyevich. That's not right, sir. Come to your room, please, and rest. Allow me to have the pistol. Be off, thou base slave. Touch me not. See this, shouted Makar Alexeyevich, brandishing the pistol. Bored them. Catch hold, whispered Garrison, to the porter. They seized Makar Alexeyevich by the arms and dragged him to the door. The vestibule was filled with the discordant sounds of a struggle and of a tipsy, hoarse voice. Suddenly a fresh sound, a piercing feminine scream, reverberated from the porch, and the cook came running into the vestibule. It's them, gracious heavens, O Lord, four of them! Horsemen, she cried. Garrison and the porter let Makar Alexeyevich go, and in the now silent quarter the sound of several hands knocking at the front door could be heard. Pied, having decided that until he had carried out his design, he would disclose neither his identity nor his knowledge of French, stood at the half-open door of the corridor, intending to conceal himself as soon as the French entered. But the French entered, and still Pied did not retire. An irresistible curiosity kept him there. There were two of them. One was an officer, a tall, soldierly, handsome man. The other evidently a private or an orderly, sunburned, short and thin, with sunken cheeks and a dull expression. The officer walked in front, leaning on a stick and slightly limping. When he had advanced a few steps, he stopped, having apparently decided that these were good quarters, turned round to the soldiers standing at the entrance, and in a loud voice of command ordered them to put up the horses. Having done that, the officer, lifting his elbow with a small gesture, stroked his moustache, and lightly touched his head. Bonjour la compagnie, said he, gaily, smiling and looking about him. No one gave any reply. Vous êtes le beau-join? the officer asked, j'ai résumé. Jerusalem gazed the officer with an alarmed and inquiring look. Cartier, quartier, logement, said the officer, looking down at the little man with a condescending and good-natured smile. Les Français sont des bons-enfants. Que diable, voyons, ne nous fachons pas, mon vieux. Translation. Quartiers, quartiers, lodgings. The French are good fellows. What the devil! There, don't let us be cross-old fellow, added he, clapping the scared and silent gyrusm on the shoulder. Well, does no one speak French in this establishment? He asked again, in French, looking around and meeting Pierre's eyes. Pierre moved away from the door. Again the officer turned to Jerusalem and asked him to show him the rooms in the house. Master, not here. Don't understand me, you, said Jerusalem, trying to render his words more comprehensible by contorting them. Still smiling, the French officer spread out his hands before Jerusalem's nose, intimating that he did not understand him either, and moved, limping to the door at which Pierre was standing. Pierre wished to go away and conceal himself, but at that moment he saw Makar Alexeyevich appearing at the open kitchen door with a pistol in his hand. With a madman's cunning, Makar Alexeyevich eyed the Frenchman, raised his pistol, and took aim. Bored them! yelled the tipsy man, trying to press the trigger. Hearing the yell, the officer turned round, and at the same moment Pierre threw himself on the drunkard. Just when Pierre snatched at and struck up the pistol, Makar Alexeyevich at last got his fingers on the trigger. There was a deafening report, and all were enveloped in a cloud of smoke. The Frenchman turned pale and rushed to the door. Forgetting his intention of concealing his knowledge of French, Pierre snatching away the pistol and throwing it down, ran up to the officer and addressed him in French. You're not wounded, he asked. I think not, answered the Frenchman, feeling himself over. But I've had a lucky escape this time, he added, pointed to the damaged plaster of the wall. Who is that man? said he, looking sternly at Pierre. Oh, I'm really in despair at what has occurred, said Pierre rapidly, quite forgetting the part he had intended to play. He's an unfortunate madman who did not know what he was doing. The officer went up to Makar Alexeyevich and took him by the collar. Makar Alexeyevich was standing with parted lips, swaying as if about to fall asleep as he leaned against the wall. Brigant, you shall pay for this, said the Frenchman, letting go of him. We French are merciful after victory, but we do not pardon traitors, he added, with a look of gloomy dignity and a fine energetic gesture. Pierre continued in French to persuade the officer not to hold that drunken impassile to account. The Frenchman listened in silence with the same gloomy expression, but suddenly turned to Pierre with a smile. For a few seconds he looked at him in silence. His handsome face assumed a melodramatically gentle expression, and he held out his hand. You have saved my life! You are French, said he. For a Frenchman that deduction was indubitable. Only a Frenchman could perform a great deed, and to save his life, the life of Monsieur Rambal, captain of the Thirteen Light Regiment, was undoubtedly a very great deed. But however indubitable that conclusion and the officer's conviction based upon it, Pierre felt it necessary to disillusion him. I am Russian, he said quickly. Tat, tat, tat. Tell that to others, said the officer, waving his finger before his nose and smiling. You shall tell me all about that presently. I am delighted to meet a compatriot. Well, and what are we to do with this man, he added, addressing himself to Pierre as to a brother. Even if Pierre were not a Frenchman, having once received that loftiest of human appellations, he could not renounce it, said the officer's look and tone. In reply to his last question, Pierre again explained who Makar Alexeevich was and how, just before the arrival, that drunken imbecile had seized a loaded pistol, which they had not had time to recover from him, and begged the officer to let the deed go unpunished. The Frenchman expanded his chest and made a majestic gesture with his arm. You have saved my life. You are French. You ask his pardon? I granted you. Lead that man away, said he quickly and energetically, and taking the arm of Pierre, whom he had promoted to be a Frenchman for saving his life, he went with him into the room. The soldiers in the yard, hearing the shot, came into the passage, asking what had happened, and expressed their readiness to punish the culprits, but the officer sternly checked them. You'll be called in when you're wanted, he said. The soldiers went out again, and the orderly, who had meanwhile had time to visit the kitchen, came up to his officer. Captain, there is soup and a leg of mutton in the kitchen, said he. Shall I serve them up? Yes, and some wine, answered the captain. End of Chapter 28. War and Peace, Book 11, Chapter 29, read for Libervox.org by Anna Simon. When the French officer went into the room with Pierre, the latter again thought of this duty to assure him that he was not French and wished to go away, but the officer would not hear of it. He was so very polite, amiable, good-natured, and genuinely grateful to Pierre for saving his life, that Pierre had not the heart to refuse, and sat down with him in the parlour, the first room they entered. To Pierre's assurances that he was not a Frenchman, the captain, evidently not understanding how anyone could decline so flattering an appellation, shrugged his shoulders, and said that if Pierre absolutely insisted on passing for a Russian, that it be so, but for all that he would be forever bound to Pierre by gratitude for saving his life. Had this man been endowed with the slightest capacity for perceiving the feelings of others, and had he had all understood what Pierre's feelings were, the latter would probably have left him, but the man's animated obtuseness to everything other than himself designed Pierre. A Frenchman, or a Russian Prince incognito, sat the officer, looking at Pierre's fine, though dirty linen, and had the ring on his finger. I owe my life to you, and offer you my friendship. A Frenchman never forgets either an insult or a service. I offer you my friendship. That is all I can say. There was so much good nature and nobility, in the French sense of the word, in the officer's voice, in the expression of his face, and in his gestures, that Pierre, unconsciously smiling in response to the Frenchman's smile, pressed the hand held out to him. Captain Rambal, of the Thirteenth Light Regiment, chevalier of the Legion of Honor for the affair on the 7th of September, he introduced himself, a self-satisfied, irrepressible smile puckering his lips under his moustache. Will you now be so good as to tell me with whom I have the honor of conversing so pleasantly, instead of being in the ambulance, with that maniac's bullet in my body? Pierre replied that he could not tell him his name, and, blushing, began to try to invent a name and to say something about his reason for concealing it, but the Frenchman hastily interrupted him. Oh, please, said he, I understand your reasons. You are an officer, a superior officer, perhaps. You have borne arms against us. That's not my business. I owe you my life. That is enough for me. I am quite at your service. You belong to the Gentry? he concluded, with a trade of inquiry in his tone. Pierre bent his head. Your baptismal name, if you please, let us all I ask. Monsieur Pierre, you say? That's all I want to know. When the mutton and an omelet had been served, and as some of her and vodka brought, with some wine which the French had taken from a Russian cellar and brought with them, Rambal invited Pierre to share his dinner, and himself began to eat greedily and quickly like a healthy and hungry man, munching his food rapidly with his strong teeth, continually smacking his lips and repeating, excellent, delicious. His face grew red and was covered with perspiration. Pierre was hungry and shared the dinner with pleasure. Montréal, the orderly, brought some hot water in a saucepan and placed a bottle of claret in it. He also brought a bottle of croiss, taken from the kitchen for them to try. That beverage was already known to the French, and had been given a special name. They called it Luminade de Couchon, Pigs Lemonade, and Montréal spoke well of the Luminade de Couchon he had found in the kitchen. But as the captain had the wine there taken, while passing through Moscow, he left the croiss to Montréal, and applied himself to the bottle of Bordeaux. He wrapped the bottle up to its neck in a table napkin, and poured out wine for himself and for Pierre. The satisfaction of his hunger and the wine rendered the captain still more lively, and he chatted incessantly all through dinner. Yes, my dear Monsieur Pierre, I owe you a fine, votive candle for saving me from that maniac. You see, I've bullets enough in my body already. Here's one I got at Rakan, he touched his side, and a second at Smolensk. He showed his scar on his cheek, and his leg, which I should see doesn't want to march. I got that on the seventh and the great battle of La Moscova. Sacre Dieu, it was splendid, that the luge of fire was worth seeing. It was a tough job you said as there, my word. You may be proud of it. And on my honour, in spite of the cough I caught there, I should be ready to begin again. I pity those who did not see it. I was there, said Pierre. But really? So much the better. You're certainly brave foes. The great readout held out well by my pipe, continued the Frenchman, and you made his pay dear for it. I was at it three times, sure as I sit here, three times who reached the guns, and three times who were thrown back like cardboard figures. How it was beautiful, Monsieur Pierre. Your granadiers were splendid by heaven. I saw them close up their ranks six times in succession, and marches even parade. Fine fellows. Her king of Naples, who knows what's what, cried, Burevo. So you're one of us soldiers, he added, smiling, after a momentary pause. So much the better. So much the better, Monsieur Pierre. Terrible in battle. Galant, with the fur, he winked and smiled. That's what the French are, Monsieur Pierre, aren't they? The captain was so naively and good, humorately gay, so real, and so pleased with himself, that Pierre almost winked back as he looked merely at him. Probably the word Galant turned the captain's thoughts to the state of Moscow. Hapopo, tell me, please, is it true that the women have all left Moscow? What a queer idea! What had they to be afraid of? Would not the French ladies leave Paris if the Russians ended it? asked Pierre. The Frenchman admitted a merry, sandren chuckle, patting Pierre on the shoulder. What a thing to say, he exclaimed. Paris. But Paris. Paris. Paris. The capital of the world. Pierre finished his remark for him. The captain looked at Pierre. He had a habit of stopping short in the middle of his talk and gazing intently, with his laughing, kindly eyes. Well, if you hadn't told me you were Russian, I should have wagered that you were Parisian. You have that, I don't know what, that. And having uttered this compliment, he again gay-set him in silence. I've been in Paris. I spent years there, said Pierre. Oh, yes, one sees that plainly. Paris. A man who doesn't know Paris is a savage. You can tell a Parisian two leagues off. Paris is Thalma, la Duchénoire, Poitiers, the Sorbonne, the Boulevardes. And noticing that his conclusion was weaker than what he had gone before, he added quickly. There's only one Paris in the world. You have been to Paris and have remained Russian. Well, I don't esteem you the less for it. Under the influence of the wine he had drunk, and after the days he had spent alone with his dispressing thoughts, Pierre involuntarily enjoyed talking with his cheerful and good-natured man. To return to your ladies, I hear they are lovely. What a wretched idea to go and bury themselves in the steppes when the French army is in Moscow. What a chance those girls have missed. You're peasant now. That's another thing. But you civilized people. You ought to know it's better than that. We took Vienna, Berlin, Madrid, Naples, Rome, Warsaw, all the world's capitals. We are feared, but we are loved. We are nice to know. And then the emperor. He began, but Pierre interrupted him. The emperor, Pierre repeated, and his face suddenly became sad and embarrassed. It's the emperor. The emperor? He's generosity, mercy, justice, order, genius. That's what the emperor is. It is I, Rambal, who tell you so. I assure you, I was his enemy eight years ago. My father was an emigrant count. But that man has vanquished me. He's taken hold of me. I could not resist the sight of the grandeur and glory with which he has coveted France, when I understood what he wanted, when I saw that he was preparing a bed of laurels for us. You know, I said to myself, that is a monarch, and I devoted myself to him. So there, oh yes, mon cher, he's the greatest man of the ages, past or future. Is he in Moscow? Pierre stammered with a guilty look. The Frenchman looked at his guilty face and smiled. No, you'll make his entry tomorrow, he replied, and continued his talk. Their conversation was interrupted by the cries of several voices at the gate, and by Morel, who came to say that some Wurttemberg Hussars had come and wanted to put up their horses in the yard where the captain's horses were. This difficulty had arisen chiefly, because the Hussars did not understand what was said to them in French. The captain had their senior sergeant called in, and in a silent voice asked him to what regiment he belonged, who was his commanding officer, and by what right he allowed himself to claim quarters that were already occupied. The German, who knew little French, answered the two first questions by giving the names of his regiment and of his commanding officer. But in reply to the third question, which he did not understand, said, introducing broken French into his own German, that he was the quartermaster of the regiment, and his commander had ordered him to occupy all the houses one after another. Pierre, who knew German, translated what the German said to the captain, and gave the captain's reply to the Brittenberg Hussar in German. When he had understood what was said to him, the German submitted and took his men elsewhere. The captain went out into the porch and gave some orders in a loud voice. When he returned to the room, Pierre was sitting in the same place as before, with his head in his hands. His face expressed suffering. He really was suffering at that moment. When the captain went out and he was left alone, suddenly he came to himself and realized the position he was in. It was not that Moscow had been taken or that the happy conquerors were masters in it and were patronizing him. Painful as that was, it was not that which tormented Pierre at the moment. He was tormented by the consciousness of his own weakness. The few glasses of wine he had drunk and the conversation with this good-natured man had destroyed the mood of concentrated gloom in which he had spent the last few days, and which was essential for the execution of his design. The pistol, dagger, and peasant coat were ready. Napoleon was to enter the town next day. Pierre still considered that it would be a useful and worthy action to slay the evildoer, but now he felt that he would not do it. He did not know why, but he felt of foreboding that he would not carry out his intention. He struggled against the confession of his weakness, but dimly felt that he could not overcome it, and that his former gloomy frame of mind, concerning vengeance, killing, and self-sacrifice, had been dispersed like dust by contact with the first man he met. The captain returned to the room, limping slightly, and whistling a tune. The Frenchman's chatter, which had previously amused Pierre, now repelled him. The tune he was whistling, his gate, and the gesture with which he twirled his moustache, all now seemed offensive. I will go away immediately. I want to hear another word to him, thought Pierre. He thought this, but still sat in the same place. A strange feeling of weakness tied him to the spot. He wished to get up and go away, but could not do so. The captain, on the other hand, seemed very cheerful. He paced up and down the room twice. His eyes shone, and his moustache twitched as if he were smiling to himself at some amusing thought. The colonel of those Wurtenbergers is delightful, he suddenly said. He's a German, but a nice fellow all the same. But he's a German, he sat down facing Pierre. By the way, you know German, then. Pierre looked at him in silence. What's the German for shelter? Shelter, Pierre repeated. The German for shelter is Unterkunft. How do you say it? The captain asked quickly and doubtfully. Unterkunft, Pierre repeated. Unterkunft, said the captain, and looked at Pierre for some seconds with laughing eyes. These Germans are first-rate fools. Don't you think so, Monsieur Pierre? He concluded. Well, let's have another bottle of this Moscow Bordeaux, shall we? Morel will warm us up another little bottle. Morel? he called out gaily. Morel brought candles and a bottle of wine. The captain looked at Pierre by the candle-light, and was evidently struck by the troubled expression on his companion's face. Rambel, with genuine distress and sympathy in his face, went up to Pierre and bent over him. There, now, we're sad, said he, touching Pierre's hand. Have I upset you? No, really, have you anything against me? He asked Pierre. Perhaps it's the state of affairs. Pierre did not answer, but looked cordially into the Frenchman's eyes, whose expression of sympathy was pleasing to him. Honestly, without speaking of what I owe you, I feel friendship for you. Can I do anything for you? Dispose of me. It is for a life and death. I say it with my hand on my heart, said he, striking his chest. Thank you, said Pierre. The captain gazed intently at him as he had done when he learned that the shelter was Unterkunft in German, and his face suddenly brightened. Well, in that case, I drink to our friendship, he cried gaily, filling two glasses with wine. Pierre took one of the glasses and emptied it. Rambel emptied his, too, again pressed Pierre's hand, and lend his elbows on the table in a pensive attitude. He asked my dear friend, he began, such as Fortune's Caprice, who would have said that I should be a soldier and a captain of dragoons in the servers of Bonaparte, as we used to call him. Yet here I am in Moscow with him. I must tell you, mon cher, he continued in the sad and measured tones of a man who intends to tell a long story, that our name is one of the most ancient in France. And with a Frenchman's easy and naive frankness, the captain told Pierre the story of his ancestors, his childhood, youth, and manhood, and all about his relations and his financial and family affairs, ma pauvre mère playing, of course, an important part in the story. But all that is only life's setting, the real thing is love, love, am I not right, monsieur Pierre, said he, growing animated, another glass. Pierre again emptied his glass and poured himself out a third. Oh, women, women! And the captain, looking with glistening eyes at Pierre, began talking of love and of his love affairs. There were very many of these, as one could easily believe, looking at the officer's handsome, self-satisfied face, and noting the eager enthusiasm with which he spoke of women. Though all Rambelle's love stories had the central character, which Frenchman regard as a special charm and poetry of love, yet he told his story with such a sincere conviction that he alone had experienced and known all the charm of love, and he described women so alluringly, that Pierre listened to him with curiosity. It was plain that l'amour, which the Frenchman was so fond of, was not that low and simple kind that Pierre had once felt for his wife, nor was it the romantic love stimulated by himself that he experienced for Natasha. Rambelle despised both these kinds of love equally, the one he considered the love of clothoppers, and the other the love of simpletons. L'amour, which the Frenchman worshipped, consisted principally in the unnaturalness of his relation to the woman, and in the combination of incongruities giving the chief charm to the feeling. Thus the captain touchingly recounted the story of his love for a fascinating marquis of thirty-five, and at the same time for a charming innocent child of seventeen, daughter of the bewitching marquis. The conflict of magnanimity between the mother and the daughter, ending in the mother's sacrificing herself, and offering her daughter in marriage to her lover, even now agitated the captain, though it was the memory of a distant past. Then he recounted an episode in which the husband played the part of the lover, and he, the lover, assumed the role of the husband, as well as several droll incidents from his recollections of Germany, where Shelter is called Unterkunft, and where the husbands eat Sauerkraut, and the young girls are too blonde. Finally, the latest episode in Poland, still fresh in the captain's memory, in which he narrated with rapid gestures and glowing face, was of how he had saved the life of a pole, in general the saving of life continually occurred in the captain's stories, and the pole had entrusted to him his enchanting wife, Parisienne de Coeur, while himself entering the French service. The captain was happy, the enchanting Polish lady wished to elope with him, but, prompted by magnanimity, the captain restored the wife to the husband, saying as he did so, I have saved your life, and I save your honour. Having repeated these words, the captain wiped his eyes, and gave himself a shake, as if driving away the weakness which assailed him at this touching recollection. Listening to the captain's tales, Pierre, as often happens later in the evening, and under the influence of wine, floored all that was told him, understood it all, and at the same time floored a train of personal memories, which he knew not why, suddenly arose in his mind. While listening to these love stories, his own love for Natasha unexpectedly rose to his mind, and going over the pictures of that love in his imagination, he mentally compared them with Rambel's tales. Listening to the story of the struggle between love and duty, Pierre saw before his eyes every minutest detail of his last meeting with the object of his love at the Sugarev water-tower. At the time of that meeting it had not produced an effect upon him, he had not even once recalled it, but now it seemed to him that that meeting had had in it something very important and poetic. Peter Kirilovich, come here, we've recognised you. He now seemed to hear the words he had uttered, and to see before him her eyes, her smile, her travelling-hood, and a stray lock of her hair, and there seemed to him something pathetic and touching in all this. Having finished his tale by the enchanting Polish lady, the captain asked Pierre if he had ever experienced a similar impulse to sacrifice himself for love and a feeling of envy of the legitimate husband. Challenged by this question, Pierre raised his head and felt a need to express the thoughts that fill his mind. He began to explain that he understood love for a woman somewhat differently. He said that in all his life he had loved and still loved only one woman, and that she could never be his. Pierre then explained that he had loved this woman for his earliest years, but that he had not dared to think of her because she was too young, and because he had been an illegitimate son without a name. Afterwards, when he had received a name and wealth, he dared not think of her because he loved her too well, placing her far above everything in the world, and especially therefore above himself. When he had reached this point, Pierre asked the captain whether he understood that. The captain made a gesture, signifying that even if he did not understand it, he begged Pierre to continue. Platonic love, clouds, he muttered. Whether it was the wine he had drunk, or an impulse of frankness, or the thought that this man did not and never would know any of those who played a part in his story, or whether it was all these things together, something loosened Pierre's tongue. Speaking thickly and with a faraway look in his shining eyes, he told the whole story of his life. His marriage, Natasha's love for his best friend, her betrayal of him, had all his own simple relations with her. Urged on by Rambal's questions, he also told what he had first concealed, his own position and even his name. More than anything else in Pierre's story, the captain was impressed by the fact that Pierre was very rich, had two mentions in Moscow, and that he had abandoned everything and not left the city, but remained there concealing his name and station. When it was late at night, they went out together into the street. The night was warm and light. To the left of the house on the Pokrovka, a fire glowed, the first of those that were beginning in Moscow. To the right and high up in the sky was a sickle of the waning moon, and opposite to it hung that bright comet which was connected in Pierre's heart with his love. At the gate stood Gerasim, the cook, and two Frenchmen. Their laughter and their mutually incomprehensible remarks in two languages could be heard. They were looking at the glow seen in the town. There was nothing terrible in the once small distant fire in the immense city. Gazing at the high starry sky, at the moon, at the comet, and at the glow from the fire, Pierre experienced a joyful emotion. There now, how good it is, what more does one need, thought he. And suddenly remembering his intention, he grew dizzy and felt so faint that he leaned against the fence to save himself from falling. Without taking leave of his new friend, Pierre left the gate with unsteady steps, and returning to his room, lay down on the sofa, and immediately fell asleep. End of Chapter 29. War and Peace Book 11, Chapter 30, read for LibriVox.org by Anna Simon. The glow of the first fire that began on the 2nd of September was watched from the various roads, by the fugitive Muscovites, and by the retreating troops, with many different feelings. The Rostov Party spent the night at Mystishi, 14 miles from Moscow. They had started so late on the 1st of September. The road had been so blocked by vehicles and troops, so many things had been forgotten, for which servants were sent back, that they had decided to spend that night at a place three miles out of Moscow. The next morning they woke late, and were again delayed so often that they only got as far as Great Mystishi. At ten o'clock that evening the Rostov family and the wounded traveling with them were all distributed in the yards and huts of that large village. The Rostov's servants and coachmen, and the orderlies of the wounded officers, after attending to their masters, had supper, fed the horses, and came out into the porches. In the neighbouring hut, Leirevsky's adjutant with a fractured wrist. The awful pain he suffered made him moan incessantly and pitchously, and his moaning sounded terrible in the darkness of the autumn night. He had spent the first night in the same yard as the Rostov's. The countess said she had been unable to close her eyes on account of his moaning, and at Mystishi she moved into a worse hut simply to be farther away from the wounded man. In the darkness of the night one of the servants noticed above the high body of a coach standing with full of porch the small glow of another fire. One glow had long been visible, and everybody knew that it was Little Mystishi burning, set on fire by Mamanov's or Cossack's. But look here, brothers, there's another fire, remarked an orderly. All turned their attention to the glow. But they told as Little Mystishi had been set on fire by Mamanov's or Cossack's. But that's not Mystishi, it's farther away. Look, it must be in Moscow. Two of the gazers went round to the other side of the coach and sat down on its steps. It's more to the left. Why, but a Mystishi is over there, and this is right on the other side. Several men joined the first two. See how it's flaring, said one. That's a fire in Moscow, either in the Suchesky or the Rogosky Quarter. No one replied to this remark, and for some time they all gazed silently at the spreading flames of the second fire in the distance. Old Daniel Trentich, the Count's valet, as he was called, came up to the group and shouted at Mishka. What are you staring at, you good for nothing? The Count will be calling, and there's no be there. Go and gather the clothes together. I only ran out to get some water, said Mishka. But what do you think, Daniel Trentich? Doesn't it look as if that glow were in Moscow? remarked one of the footmen. Daniel Trentich made no reply, and again, for a long time, they were all silent. The glow spread, rising and fooling, father and father still. God have mercy, it's windy and dry, said another voice. Just look, see what it's doing now! Oh Lord, you can even see the crowds flying! Lord have mercy on us sinners! They'll have it put out, no fear! Who's to put it out? Daniel Trentich, who'd hitherto been silent, was heard to say. His voice was calm and deliberate. Moscow it is, brothers, said he. Mother Moscow, the white. His voice folded, and he gave way to an old man's sob. And it was as if they had all only waited for this to realize the significance for them of the glow they were watching. Sighs were heard, words of prayer, and the sobbing of the council's valet. End of chapter 30. War and Peace, Book 11, Chapter 31, read for LibriVox.org by David Anton. The valet, returning to the cottage, informed the Count that Moscow was burning. The Count donned his dressing gown and went out to look. Sonia and Madame Chasse, who had not yet undressed, went out with him. Only Natasha and the Countess remained in the room. Petia was no longer with the family. He had gone with his regiment, which was making for Troitsa. The Countess, on hearing that Moscow was on fire, began to cry. Natasha, pale with a fixed look, was sitting on the bench under the icons, just where she had sat down on arriving, and paid no attention to her father's words. She was listening to the ceaseless moaning of the adjutant, three houses off. Oh, how terrible, said Sonia, returning from the yard, chilled and frightened. I believe the whole of Moscow will burn. There's an awful glow. Natasha, do look. You can see it from the window, she said to her cousin, evidently wishing to distract her mind. But Natasha looked at her as if not understanding what was said to her, and again fixed her eyes on the corner of the stove. She had been in this condition of stupor since the morning, when Sonia, to the surprise and annoyance of the Countess, had for some unaccountable reason found it necessary to tell Natasha of Prince Andrew's wound and of his being with their party. The Countess had seldom been so angry with anyone as she was with Sonia. Sonia had cried and begged to be forgiven, and now, as of trying to atone for her fault, paid unceasing attention to her cousin. Look, Natasha, how dreadfully it is burning, said she. What's burning? asked Natasha. Oh, yes, Moscow. And as if in order not to offend Sonia and to get rid of her, she turned her face to the window, looked out in such a way that it was evident that she could not see anything, and again settled down in her former attitude. But you didn't see it. Yes, really, I did, Natasha replied, in a voice that pleaded to be left in peace. Both the Countess and Sonia understood that, naturally, neither Moscow nor the burning of Moscow nor anything else could seem of importance to Natasha. The Count returned and laid down behind the partition. The Countess went up to her daughter and touched her head with the back of her hand as she was want to do when Natasha was ill, then touched her forehead with her lips as if to feel whether she was feverish, and finally kissed her. You are cold. You are trembling all over. You'd better lie down, said the Countess. Lie down? All right, I will. I'll lie down at once, said Natasha. When Natasha had been told that morning that Prince Andrew was seriously wounded and was traveling with her party, she had first asked many questions. Where was he going? How was he wounded? Was it serious? And could she see him? But after she had been told that she could not see him, that he was seriously wounded, but that his life was not in danger, she ceased to ask questions or to speak at all, evidently disbelieving what they told her, and convinced that, say what she might, she would still be told the same. All the way she had sat motionless in a corner of the coach with wide open eyes, and the expression in them which the Countess knew so well and feared so much, and now she sat in the same way on the bench where she had seated herself on arriving. She was planning something, and either deciding or had already decided something in her mind. The Countess knew this, but what it might be she did not know, and this alarmed and tormented her. Natasha, undressed, darling, lie down on my bed. A bed had been made on a bedstead for the Countess only. Madame Chasse and the two girls were to sleep on some hay on the floor. No, Mama, I will lie down here on the floor. Natasha replied irritably, and she went to the window and opened it. Through the open window the moans of the adjutant could be heard more distinctly. She put her head out into the damp night air, and the Countess saw her slim neck shaking with sobs and throbbing against the window frame. Natasha knew it was not Prince Andrew who was moaning. She knew Prince Andrew was in the same yard as themselves, and in a part of the hut across the passage. But this dreadful incessant moaning made her sob. The Countess exchanged a look with Sonia. Lie down, darling, lie down, my pet, said the Countess, softly touching Natasha's shoulders. Come, lie down. Oh, yes, I'll lie down at once, said Natasha, and began hurriedly undressing, tugging at the tapes of her petticoat. When she had thrown off her dress and put on a dressing jacket, she sat down with her foot under her on the bed that had been made up on the floor, jerked her thin and rather short plate of hair to the front, and began replating it. Her long, thin, practice fingers rapidly unplated, replated, and tied up her plate. Her head moved from side to side from habit, but her eyes feverishly wide looked fixedly before her. When her toilet for the night was finished, she sank gently onto the sheet, spread over the hay on the side nearest the door. Natasha, you'd better lie in the middle, said Sonia. I'll stay here, muttered Natasha. Do lie down, she added crossly, and buried her face in the pillow. The Countess, Madame Chasse, and Sonia undressed hastily and lay down. The small lamp in front of the icons was the only light left in the room. But in the yard there was a light from the fire at little Matisshi, a mile and a half away, and through the night came the noise of people shouting at a tavern Mamanov's Cossacks had set up across the street, and the agitants unceasing moans could still be heard. For a long time Natasha listened attentively to the sounds that reached her from inside and outside the room, and did not move. First she heard her mother praying and sighing, in the creaking of her bed under her. Then Madame Chasse's familiar whistling snore and Sonia's gentle breathing. Then the Countess called to Natasha. Natasha did not answer. I think she's asleep, Mama, said Sonia softly. After a short silence the Countess spoke again, but this time no one replied. Soon after that Natasha heard her mother's even breathing. Natasha did not move, though her little bare foot thrust out from under the quilt was growing cold on the bare floor. As if to celebrate a victory over everybody, a cricket chirped in a crack in the wall, a cock crowed far off and another replied nearby. The shouting in the tavern had died down. Only the moaning of the agitant was heard. Natasha sat up. Sonia, are you asleep? Mama, she whispered. No one replied. Natasha rose slowly and carefully crossed herself and stepped cautiously on the cold and dirty floor with her slim supple bare feet. The boards of the floor creaked. Stepping cautiously from one foot to the other, she ran like a kitten the few steps to the door and grasped the cold door handle. It seemed to her that something heavy was beating rhythmically against all the walls of the room. It was her own heart, sinking with alarm and terror and overflowing with love. She opened the door and stepped across the threshold and onto the cold damp earthen floor of the passage. The cold she felt refreshed her. With her bare feet she touched a sleeping man, stepped over him, and opened the door into the part of the hut where Prince Andrew lay. It was dark in there. In the farthest corner on a bench beside a bed on which something was lying stood a tallow candle with a long thick and smoldering wick. From the moment she had been told that morning of Prince Andrew's wound and his presence there, Natasha had resolved to see him. She did not know why she had to. She knew the meeting would be painful, but felt all the more convinced that it was necessary. All day she had lived only in hope of seeing him that night, but now that the moment had come she was filled with dread of what she might see. How was he maimed? What was left of him? Was he like that incessant moaning of the agitants? Yes, he was altogether like that. In her imagination he was that terrible moaning personified. When she saw an indistinct shape in the corner and mistook his knees, raised under the quilt for his shoulders, she imagined a horrible body there and stood still in terror. But an irresistible impulse drew her forward. She cautiously took one step and then another, and found herself in the middle of a small room containing baggage. Another man, Tamakan, was lying in a corner on the benches beneath the icons, and two others, the doctor in a valet, lay on the floor. The valet sat up and whispered something. Tamakan, kept awake by the pain in his wounded leg, gazed with wide open eyes at this strange apparition of a girl in a white chemise, dressing jacket and nightcap. The valet's sleepy, frightened exclamation. What do you want? What's the matter? Made Natasha's approach more swiftly to what was lying in the corner. Horribly unlike a man, as that body looked, she must see him. She passed the valet, the snuff fell from the candle-wick, and she saw Prince Andrew clearly with his arms outside the quilt, and such as she had always seen him. He was the same as ever, but the feverish color of his face, his glittering eyes rapturously turned toward her, and especially his neck, delicate as a child's, revealed by the turned-down collar of his shirt, gave him a peculiarly innocent childlike look, such as she had never seen on him before. She went up to him, and with a swift, flexible youthful movement, dropped on her knees. He smiled and held out his hand to her. Andrew found himself in the ambulance station on the field of Borodino. His feverish state and the inflammation of his bowels, which were injured, were in the doctor's opinion sure to carry him off. But on the seventh day he ate with pleasure a piece of bread with some tea, and the doctor noticed that his temperature was lower. He had regained consciousness that morning. The first night after they left Moscow had been fairly warm, and he had remained in the Kalesh, but at Matishi the wounded man himself asked to be taken out and given some tea. The pain caused by his removal into the hut had made him grown allowed, and again lose consciousness. When he had been placed on his camp-bed, he lay for a long time motionless, with closed eyes. Then he opened them and whispered softly, and the tea. His remembering such a small detail of everyday life astonished the doctor. He felt Prince Andrew's pulse, and to his surprise and dissatisfaction, found it had improved. He was dissatisfied because he knew by experience that, if his patient did not die now, he would do so a little later with great suffering. Tamakan, the red-nosed major of Prince Andrew's regiment, had joined him in Moscow and was being taken along with him, having been wounded in the leg at the Battle of Borodino. They were accompanied by a doctor. Prince Andrew's valet, his coachmen, and two orderlies. They gave Prince Andrew some tea. He drank it eagerly, looking with feverish eyes at the door in front of him, as if trying to understand and remember something. I don't want any more. Is Tamakan here? he asked. Tamakan crept along the bench to him. I'm here, Your Excellency. How's your wound? Mine, sir? All right. How about you? Prince Andrew again pondered, as if trying to remember something. Couldn't one get a book? he asked. What book? The Gospels. I haven't one. The doctor promised to procure it for him, and began to ask how he was feeling. Prince Andrew answered all his questions reluctantly, but reasonably, and then said he wanted a bolster placed under him, as he was uncomfortable and in great pain. The doctor in ballet lifted the cloak with which he was covered, and, making rye faces at the noisome smell of mortifying flesh that came from the wound, began examining that dreadful place. The doctor was very much displeased about something, and made a change in the dressings, turning the wounded man over so that he groaned again and grew unconscious and delirious from the agony. He kept asking them to get him the book and put it under him. What trouble would it be to you? he said. I have not got one. Please get it for me and put it under me for a moment. He pleaded in a piteous voice. The doctor went into the passage to wash his hands. You fellows have no conscience, said he to the ballet who was pouring water over his hands, for just one moment I didn't look after you. It's such pain, you know, that I wonder how he can bear it. By the Lord Jesus Christ I thought we had put something under him, said the ballet. The first time Prince Andrew understood where he was and what was the matter with him, and remembered being wounded and how, was when he asked to be carried into the hut after his kalesh had stopped at Matisshi. After growing confused from pain while being carried into the hut, he again regained consciousness, and while drinking tea once more recalled all that had happened to him. And above all vividly remembered the moment at the ambulance station when, at the sight of the sufferings of a man he disliked, those new thoughts had come to him, which promised him happiness. And those thoughts, though now vague and indefinite, again possessed his soul. He remembered that he had now a new source of happiness, and that this happiness had something to do with the Gospels. That was why he had asked for a copy of them. The uncomfortable position in which they had put him and turned him over again confused his thoughts, and when he came to himself a third time, it was in the complete stillness of the night. Everybody near him was sleeping. A cricket chirped from across the passage. Someone was shouting and singing in the street. Cockroaches rustled on the table on the icons and on the walls, and a big fly flopped at the head of the bed, and around the candle beside him. The wick of which was charred and had shaped itself like a mushroom. His mind was not in a normal state. A healthy man usually thinks of, feels, and remembers innumerable things simultaneously, but has the power and will to select one sequence of thoughts or events on which to fix his whole attention. A healthy man can tear himself away from the deepest reflections to say a civil word to someone who comes in, and can then return again to his own thoughts. But Prince Andrew's mind was not in a normal state in that respect. All the powers of his mind were more active and clearer than ever, but they acted apart from his will. Most diverse thoughts and images occupied him simultaneously. At times his brain suddenly began to work with a vigor, clearness, and depth it had never reached when he was in health. But suddenly in the midst of its work it would turn to some unexpected idea, and he had not the strength to turn it back again. Yes, a new happiness was revealed to me of which man cannot be deprived. He thought as he lay in the semi-darkness of the quiet hut, gazing fixedly before him with feverish, wide-open eyes. A happiness lying beyond material forces, outside the material influences that act on man. A happiness of the soul alone, the happiness of loving. Every man can understand it, but to conceive it and enjoy it, it was possible only for God. But how did God enjoy that law? And why was the sun, and suddenly the sequence of these thoughts broke off? And Prince Andrew heard, without knowing whether it was a delusion or reality, a soft whispering voice, incessantly and rhythmically repeating, Pity, pity, pity, and then, and then again, Pity, pity, pity, and tee, tee, once more. At the same time he felt that above his face, above the very middle of it, some strange airy structure was being erected out of slender needles or splinters to the sound of this whispered music. He felt that he had to balance carefully, though it was difficult, so that this airy structure should not collapse. But nevertheless it kept collapsing, and again slowly rising to the sound of whispered rhythmic music. It stretches, stretches, spreading out and stretching, said Prince Andrew to himself. While listening to this whispering and feeling the sensation of this drawing out and the construction of this edifice of needles, he also saw by glimpses a red halo round the candle, and heard the wrestle of the cockroaches and the buzzing of the fly that flopped against his pillow and his face. Each time the fly touched his face it gave him a burning sensation, and yet to his surprise it did not destroy the structure, though it knocked against the very region of his face where it was rising. But besides this there was something else of importance. It was something white by the door. The statue of a Sphinx, which also oppressed him. But perhaps that's my shirt on the table, he thought, and that's my legs, and that is the door. But why is it always stretching and drawing itself out, and pity, pity, pity, and titi, and pity, pity, pity? It's enough. Please, leave off! Prince Andrew painfully entreated someone, and suddenly thoughts and feelings again swam to the surface of his mind, with peculiar clearness and force. Yes, love, he thought again quite clearly, but not love which loves for something, for some quality, for some purpose, or for some reason, but the love which I, while dying, first experienced when I saw my enemy, and yet loved him. I experienced that feeling of love which is the very essence of the soul, and does not require an object. Now again I feel that bliss. To love one's neighbors, to love one's enemies, to love everything, to love God and all his manifestations. It is possible to love someone dear to you with human love, but an enemy can only be loved by divine love. That is why I experienced such joy when I felt that I loved that man. What has become of him? Is he alive? When loving with human love, one may pass from love to hatred, but divine love cannot change. No, neither death nor anything else can destroy it, is the very essence of the soul. Yet how many people have I hated in my life, and of them all I loved and hated none as I did her. And he vividly pictured to himself Natasha, not as he had done in the past with nothing but her charms, which gave him delight, but for the first time picturing to himself her soul. And he understood her feelings, her sufferings, shame, and remorse. He now understood for the first time all the cruelty of his rejection of her, the cruelty of his rupture with her. If only it were possible for me to see her once more, just once looking into those eyes to say, The pity and the pity, and pity, pity, pity, boom, flopped the fly, and his attention was suddenly carried into another world, a world or reality and delirium in which something particular was happening. In that world some structure was still being erected and did not fall, something was still stretching out, and the candle with its red halo was still burning, and the same shirt-like sphinx lay near the door. But besides all this, something creaked. There was a whiff of fresh air, and a new white sphinx appeared, standing at the door. And that sphinx had the pale face and shining eyes of the very Natasha of whom he had just been thinking. Oh, how oppressive this continual delirium is, thought Prince Andrew, trying to drive that face from his imagination. But the face remained before him with the force of reality and drew nearer. Prince Andrew wished to return to that former world of pure thought, but he could not, and delirium drew him back into its domain. The soft, whispering voice continued its rhythmic murmur, something oppressed him and stretched out, and the strange face was before him. Prince Andrew collected all his strength in an effort to recover his senses. He moved a little, and suddenly there was a ringing in his ears, a dimness in his eyes, and like a man plunged into water he lost consciousness. When he came to himself, Natasha, that same living Natasha whom, of all people, he most longed to love with this new, pure divine love that had been revealed to him, was kneeling before him. He realized that it was the real living Natasha, and he was not surprised, but quietly happy. Natasha, motionless on her knees, she was unable to stir, with frightened eyes riveted on him, was restraining her sobs. Her face was pale and rigid, only in the lower part of it something quivered. Prince Andrew sighed with relief, smiled, and held out his hand. You, he said, how fortunate. With a rapid but careful movement Natasha drew nearer to him on her knees, and, taking his hand carefully, bent her face over it and began kissing it, just touching it lightly with her lips. Forgive me, she whispered, raising her head and glancing at him. Forgive me. I love you, said Prince Andrew. Forgive. Forgive what, he asked. Forgive me for what I have done. Faulted Natasha in a scarcely audible, broken whisper, and began kissing his hand more rapidly, just touching it with her lips. I love you more better than before, said Prince Andrew, lifting her face with his hand, so as to look into her eyes. Those eyes, filled with happy tears, gazed at him timidly, compassionately, and with joyous love. Natasha's thin, pale face, with its swollen lips, was more than plain. It was dreadful. But Prince Andrew did not see that. He saw her shining eyes, which were beautiful. They heard the sound of voices behind them. Peter, the valet, who was now wide awake, had roused the doctor. Tumakan, who had not slept at all because of the pain in his leg, had long been watching all that was going on, carefully covering his bare body with this sheet as he huddled up on his bench. What's this? said the doctor, rising from his bed. Please go away, madam. At that moment, a maid sent by the Countess, who had noticed her daughter's absence, knocked at the door. Like a synambulist, aroused from her sleep, Natasha went out of the room, and, returning to her hut, fell sobbing on her bed. From that time, during all the rest of the Rostov's journey, at every halting place and wherever they spent the night, Natasha never left the wounded Balkansky, and the doctor had to admit that he had not expected from a young girl either such firmness or such skill in nursing a wounded man. Dreadful as the Countess imagined, it would be, should Prince Andrew die in her daughter's arms during the journey, as judging by what the doctor said it seemed might easily happen, she could not oppose Natasha. Though with the intimacy now established between the wounded man and Natasha, the thought occurred that should he recover their former engagement would be renewed. No one, least of all Natasha and Prince Andrew, spoke of this. The unsettled question of life and death, which hung not only over Balkansky, but over all Russia, shut out all other considerations. END OF CHAPTER 32