Book Eleven: 1812 - Chapter XX

by Leo Tolstoy

　　Meanwhile Moscow was empty. There were still people in it, perhaps afiftieth part of its former inhabitants had remained, but it wasempty. It was empty in the sense that a dying queenless hive is empty.

　　In a queenless hive no life is left though to a superficial glanceit seems as much alive as other hives.

　　The bees circle round a queenless hive in the hot beams of themidday sun as gaily as around the living hives; from a distance itsmells of honey like the others, and bees fly in and out in the sameway. But one has only to observe that hive to realize that there is nolonger any life in it. The bees do not fly in the same way, thesmell and the sound that meet the beekeeper are not the same. To thebeekeeper's tap on the wall of the sick hive, instead of the formerinstant unanimous humming of tens of thousands of bees with theirabdomens threateningly compressed, and producing by the rapidvibration of their wings an aerial living sound, the only reply is adisconnected buzzing from different parts of the deserted hive. Fromthe alighting board, instead of the former spirituous fragrant smellof honey and venom, and the warm whiffs of crowded life, comes an odorof emptiness and decay mingling with the smell of honey. There areno longer sentinels sounding the alarm with their abdomens raised, andready to die in defense of the hive. There is no longer the measuredquiet sound of throbbing activity, like the sound of boiling water,but diverse discordant sounds of disorder. In and out of the hive longblack robber bees smeared with honey fly timidly and shiftily. They donot sting, but crawl away from danger. Formerly only bees laden withhoney flew into the hive, and they flew out empty; now they fly outladen. The beekeeper opens the lower part of the hive and peers in.Instead of black, glossy bees- tamed by toil, clinging to oneanother's legs and drawing out the wax, with a ceaseless hum of labor-that used to hang in long clusters down to the floor of the hive,drowsy shriveled bees crawl about separately in various directionson the floor and walls of the hive. Instead of a neatly glued floor,swept by the bees with the fanning of their wings, there is a floorlittered with bits of wax, excrement, dying bees scarcely moving theirlegs, and dead ones that have not been cleared away.

　　The beekeeper opens the upper part of the hive and examines thesuper. Instead of serried rows of bees sealing up every gap in thecombs and keeping the brood warm, he sees the skillful complexstructures of the combs, but no longer in their former state ofpurity. All is neglected and foul. Black robber bees are swiftly andstealthily prowling about the combs, and the short home bees,shriveled and listless as if they were old, creep slowly about withouttrying to hinder the robbers, having lost all motive and all senseof life. Drones, bumblebees, wasps, and butterflies knock awkwardlyagainst the walls of the hive in their flight. Here and there amongthe cells containing dead brood and honey an angry buzzing cansometimes be heard. Here and there a couple of bees, by force of habitand custom cleaning out the brood cells, with efforts beyond theirstrength laboriously drag away a dead bee or bumblebee without knowingwhy they do it. In another corner two old bees are languidly fighting,or cleaning themselves, or feeding one another, without themselvesknowing whether they do it with friendly or hostile intent. In a thirdplace a crowd of bees, crushing one another, attack some victim andfight and smother it, and the victim, enfeebled or killed, dropsfrom above slowly and lightly as a feather, among the heap of corpses.The keeper opens the two center partitions to examine the brood cells.In place of the former close dark circles formed by thousands ofbees sitting back to back and guarding the high mystery of generation,he sees hundreds of dull, listless, and sleepy shells of bees. Theyhave almost all died unawares, sitting in the sanctuary they hadguarded and which is now no more. They reek of decay and death. Only afew of them still move, rise, and feebly fly to settle on theenemy's hand, lacking the spirit to die stinging him; the rest aredead and fall as lightly as fish scales. The beekeeper closes thehive, chalks a mark on it, and when he has time tears out its contentsand burns it clean.

　　So in the same way Moscow was empty when Napoleon, weary, uneasy,and morose, paced up and down in front of the Kammer-Kollezskirampart, awaiting what to his mind was a necessary, if but formal,observance of the proprieties- a deputation.

　　In various corners of Moscow there still remained a few peopleaimlessly moving about, following their old habits and hardly aware ofwhat they were doing.

　　When with due circumspection Napoleon was informed that Moscow wasempty, he looked angrily at his informant, turned away, and silentlycontinued to walk to and fro.

　　"My carriage!" he said.

　　He took his seat beside the aide-de-camp on duty and drove intothe suburb. "Moscow deserted!" he said to himself. "What an incredibleevent!"

　　He did not drive into the town, but put up at an inn in theDorogomilov suburb.

　　The coup de theatre had not come off.