Book Eleven: 1812 - Chapter XXVII

by Leo Tolstoy

　　The absorption of the French by Moscow, radiating starwise as itdid, only reached the quarter where Pierre was staying by theevening of the second of September.

　　After the last two days spent in solitude and unusual circumstances,Pierre was in a state bordering on insanity. He was completelyobsessed by one persistent thought. He did not know how or when thisthought had taken such possession of him, but he remembered nothing ofthe past, understood nothing of the present, and all he saw andheard appeared to him like a dream.

　　He had left home only to escape the intricate tangle of life'sdemands that enmeshed him, and which in his present condition he wasunable to unravel. He had gone to Joseph Alexeevich's house, on theplea of sorting the deceased's books and papers, only in search ofrest from life's turmoil, for in his mind the memory of JosephAlexeevich was connected with a world of eternal, solemn, and calmthoughts, quite contrary to the restless confusion into which hefelt himself being drawn. He sought a quiet refuge, and in JosephAlexeevich's study he really found it. When he sat with his elbowson the dusty writing table in the deathlike stillness of the study,calm and significant memories of the last few days rose one afteranother in his imagination, particularly of the battle of Borodino andof that vague sense of his own insignificance and insincerity comparedwith the truth, simplicity, and strength of the class of men hementally classed as they. When Gerasim roused him from his reverie theidea occurred to him of taking part in the popular defense of Moscowwhich he knew was projected. And with that object he had asked Gerasimto get him a peasant's coat and a pistol, confiding to him hisintentions of remaining in Joseph Alexeevich's house and keeping hisname secret. Then during the first day spent in inaction andsolitude (he tried several times to fix his attention on the Masonicmanuscripts, but was unable to do so) the idea that had previouslyoccurred to him of the cabalistic significance of his name inconnection with Bonaparte's more than once vaguely presented itself.But the idea that he, L'russe Besuhof, was destined to set a limitto the power of the Beast was as yet only one of the fancies thatoften passed through his mind and left no trace behind.

　　When, having bought the coat merely with the object of taking partamong the people in the defense of Moscow, Pierre had met theRostovs and Natasha had said to him: "Are you remaining inMoscow?... How splendid!" the thought flashed into his mind that itreally would be a good thing, even if Moscow were taken, for him toremain there and do what he was predestined to do.

　　Next day, with the sole idea of not sparing himself and notlagging in any way behind them, Pierre went to the Three Hills gate.But when he returned to the house convinced that Moscow would not bedefended, he suddenly felt that what before had seemed to him merely apossibility had now become absolutely necessary and inevitable. Hemust remain in Moscow, concealing his name, and must meet Napoleon andkill 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 in1809 by a German student in Vienna, and knew that the student had beenshot. And the risk to which he would expose his life by carrying outhis design excited him still more.

　　Two equally strong feelings drew Pierre irresistibly to thispurpose. The first was a feeling of the necessity of sacrifice andsuffering in view of the common calamity, the same feeling that hadcaused him to go to Mozhaysk on the twenty-fifth and to make his wayto the very thick of the battle and had now caused him to run awayfrom his home and, in place of the luxury and comfort to which hewas accustomed, to sleep on a hard sofa without undressing and eat thesame food as Gerasim. The other was that vague and quite Russianfeeling of contempt for everything conventional, artificial, andhuman- for everything the majority of men regard as the greatestgood in the world. Pierre had first experienced this strange andfascinating feeling at the Sloboda Palace, when he had suddenly feltthat wealth, power, and life- all that men so painstakingly acquireand guard- if it has any worth has so only by reason the joy withwhich it can all be renounced.

　　It was the feeling that induces a volunteer recruit to spend hislast penny on drink, and a drunken man to smash mirrors or glasses forno apparent reason and knowing that it will cost him all the moneyhe possesses: the feeling which causes a man to perform actionswhich from an ordinary point of view are insane, to test, as itwere, his personal power and strength, affirming the existence of ahigher, nonhuman criterion of life.

　　From the very day Pierre had experienced this feeling for thefirst time at the Sloboda Palace he had been continuously under itsinfluence, but only now found full satisfaction for it. Moreover, atthis moment Pierre was supported in his design and prevented fromrenouncing it by what he had already done in that direction. If hewere now to leave Moscow like everyone else, his flight from home, thepeasant coat, the pistol, and his announcement to the Rostovs thathe would remain in Moscow would all become not merely meaninglessbut contemptible and ridiculous, and to this Pierre was verysensitive.

　　Pierre's physical condition, as is always the case, correspondedto his mental state. The unaccustomed coarse food, the vodka hedrank during those days, the absence of wine and cigars, his dirtyunchanged linen, two almost sleepless nights passed on a short sofawithout bedding- all this kept him in a state of excitementbordering on insanity.

　　It was two o'clock in the afternoon. The French had alreadyentered Moscow. Pierre knew this, but instead of acting he onlythought about his undertaking, going over its minutest details inhis mind. In his fancy he did not clearly picture to himself eitherthe striking of the blow or the death of Napoleon, but withextraordinary vividness and melancholy enjoyment imagined his owndestruction and heroic endurance.

　　"Yes, alone, for the sake of all, I must do it or perish!" hethought. "Yes, I will approach... and then suddenly... with pistolor dagger? But that is all the same! 'It is not I but the hand ofProvidence that punishes thee,' I shall say," thought he, imaginingwhat he would say when killing Napoleon. "Well then, take me andexecute me!" he went on, speaking to himself and bowing his headwith a sad but firm expression.

　　While Pierre, standing in the middle of the room, was talking tohimself in this way, the study door opened and on the thresholdappeared the figure of Makar Alexeevich, always so timid before butnow quite transformed.

　　His dressing gown was unfastened, his face red and distorted. He wasobviously drunk. On seeing Pierre he grew confused at first, butnoticing embarrassment on Pierre's face immediately grew bold and,staggering on his thin legs, advanced into the middle of the room.

　　"They're frightened," he said confidentially in a hoarse voice. "Isay I won't surrender, I say... Am I not right, sir?"

　　He paused and then suddenly seeing the pistol on the table seized itwith unexpected rapidity and ran out into the corridor.

　　Gerasim and the porter, who had followed Makar Alexeevich, stoppedhim in the vestibule and tried to take the pistol from him. Pierre,coming out into the corridor, looked with pity and repulsion at thehalf-crazy old man. Makar Alexeevich, frowning with exertion, heldon to the pistol and screamed hoarsely, evidently with some heroicfancy in his head.

　　"To arms! Board 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 Gerasim, trying carefully tosteer Makar Alexeevich by the elbows back to the door.

　　"Who are you? Bonaparte!..." shouted Makar Alexeevich.

　　"That's not right, sir. Come to your room, please, and rest. Allowme to have the pistol."

　　"Be off, thou base slave! Touch me not! See this?" shouted MakarAlexeevich, brandishing the pistol. "Board them!"

　　"Catch hold!" whispered Gerasim to the porter.

　　They seized Makar Alexeevich by the arms and dragged him to thedoor.

　　The vestibule was filled with the discordant sounds of a struggleand of a tipsy, hoarse voice.

　　Suddenly a fresh sound, a piercing feminine scream, reverberatedfrom the porch and the cook came running into the vestibule.

　　"It's them! Gracious heavens! O Lord, four of them, horsemen!" shecried.

　　Gerasim and the porter let Makar Alexeevich go, and in the nowsilent corridor the sound of several hands knocking at the frontdoor could be heard.