Book Twelve: 1812 - Chapter X

by Leo Tolstoy

　　On the eighth of September an officer- a very important onejudging by the respect the guards showed him- entered the coachhouse where the prisoners were. This officer, probably someone onthe staff, was holding a paper in his hand, and called over all theRussians there, naming Pierre as "the man who does not give his name."Glancing indolently and indifferently at all the prisoners, he orderedthe officer in charge to have them decently dressed and tidied upbefore taking them to the marshal. An hour later a squad of soldiersarrived and Pierre with thirteen others was led to the Virgin's Field.It was a fine day, sunny after rain, and the air was unusually pure.The smoke did not hang low as on the day when Pierre had been takenfrom the guardhouse on the Zubovski rampart, but rose through the pureair in columns. No flames were seen, but columns of smoke rose onall sides, and all Moscow as far as Pierre could see was one vastcharred ruin. On all sides there were waste spaces with only stovesand chimney stacks still standing, and here and there the blackenedwalls of some brick houses. Pierre gazed at the ruins and did notrecognize districts he had known well. Here and there he could seechurches that had not been burned. The Kremlin, which was notdestroyed, gleamed white in the distance with its towers and thebelfry of Ivan the Great. The domes of the New Convent of the Virginglittered brightly and its bells were ringing particularly clearly.These bells reminded Pierre that it was Sunday and the feast of theNativity of the Virgin. But there seemed to be no one to celebratethis holiday: everywhere were blackened ruins, and the few Russians tobe seen were tattered and frightened people who tried to hide whenthey saw the French.

　　It was plain that the Russian nest was ruined and destroyed, butin place of the Russian order of life that had been destroyed,Pierre unconsciously felt that a quite different, firm, French orderhad been established over this ruined nest. He felt this in thelooks of the soldiers who, marching in regular ranks briskly andgaily, were escorting him and the other criminals; he felt it in thelooks of an important French official in a carriage and pair driven bya soldier, whom they met on the way. He felt it in the merry sounds ofregimental music he heard from the left side of the field, and feltand realized it especially from the list of prisoners the Frenchofficer had read out when he came that morning. Pierre had beentaken by one set of soldiers and led first to one and then toanother place with dozens of other men, and it seemed that theymight have forgotten him, or confused him with the others. But no: theanswers he had given when questioned had come back to him in hisdesignation as "the man who does not give his name," and under thatappellation, which to Pierre seemed terrible, they were now leadinghim somewhere with unhesitating assurance on their faces that he andall the other prisoners were exactly the ones they wanted and thatthey were being taken to the proper place. Pierre felt himself to bean insignificant chip fallen among the wheels of a machine whoseaction he did not understand but which was working well.

　　He and the other prisoners were taken to the right side of theVirgin's Field, to a large white house with an immense garden notfar from the convent. This was Prince Shcherbitov's house, wherePierre had often been in other days, and which, as he learned from thetalk of the soldiers, was now occupied by the marshal, the Duke ofEckmuhl (Davout).

　　They were taken to the entrance and led into the house one by one.Pierre was the sixth to enter. He was conducted through a glassgallery, an anteroom, and a hall, which were familiar to him, into along low study at the door of which stood an adjutant.

　　Davout, spectacles on nose, sat bent over a table at the further endof the room. Pierre went close up to him, but Davout, evidentlyconsulting a paper that lay before him, did not look up. Withoutraising his eyes, he said in a low voice:

　　"Who are you?"

　　Pierre was silent because he was incapable of uttering a word. Tohim Davout was not merely a French general, but a man notorious forhis cruelty. Looking at his cold face, as he sat like a sternschoolmaster who was prepared to wait awhile for an answer, Pierrefelt that every instant of delay might cost him his life; but he didnot know what to say. He did not venture to repeat what he had said athis first examination, yet to disclose his rank and position wasdangerous and embarrassing. So he was silent. But before he haddecided what to do, Davout raised his head, pushed his spectacles backon his forehead, screwed up his eyes, and looked intently at him.

　　"I know that man," he said in a cold, measured tone, evidentlycalculated to frighten Pierre.

　　The chill that had been running down Pierre's back now seized hishead as in a vise.

　　"You cannot know me, General, I have never seen you..."

　　"He is a Russian spy," Davout interrupted, addressing anothergeneral who was present, but whom Pierre had not noticed.

　　Davout turned away. With an unexpected reverberation in his voicePierre rapidly began:

　　"No, monseigneur," he said, suddenly remembering that Davout was aduke. "No, monseigneur, you cannot have known me. I am a militiaofficer and have not quitted Moscow."

　　"Your name?" asked Davout.

　　"Bezukhov."

　　"What proof have I that you are not lying?"

　　"Monseigneur!" exclaimed Pierre, not in an offended but in apleading voice.

　　Davout looked up and gazed intently at him. For some seconds theylooked at one another, and that look saved Pierre. Apart fromconditions of war and law, that look established human relationsbetween the two men. At that moment an immense number of things passeddimly through both their minds, and they realized that they wereboth children of humanity and were brothers.

　　At the first glance, when Davout had only raised his head from thepapers where human affairs and lives were indicated by numbers, Pierrewas merely a circumstance, and Davout could have shot him withoutburdening his conscience with an evil deed, but now he saw in him ahuman being. He reflected for a moment.

　　"How can you show me that you are telling the truth?" said Davoutcoldly.

　　Pierre remembered Ramballe, and named him and his regiment and thestreet where the house was.

　　"You are not what you say," returned Davout.

　　In a trembling, faltering voice Pierre began adducing proofs ofthe truth of his statements.

　　But at that moment an adjutant entered and reported something toDavout.

　　Davout brightened up at the news the adjutant brought, and beganbuttoning up his uniform. It seemed that he had quite forgottenPierre.

　　When the adjutant reminded him of the prisoner, he jerked his headin Pierre's direction with a frown and ordered him to be led away. Butwhere they were to take him Pierre did not know: back to the coachhouse or to the place of execution his companions had pointed out tohim as they crossed the Virgin's Field.

　　He turned his head and saw that the adjutant was putting anotherquestion to Davout.

　　"Yes, of course!" replied Davout, but what this "yes" meant,Pierre did not know.

　　Pierre could not afterwards remember how he went, whether it wasfar, or in which direction. His faculties were quite numbed, he wasstupefied, and noticing nothing around him went on moving his legsas the others did till they all stopped and he stopped too. The onlythought in his mind at that time was: who was it that had reallysentenced him to death? Not the men on the commission that had firstexamined him- not one of them wished to or, evidently, could have doneit. It was not Davout, who had looked at him in so human a way. Inanother moment Davout would have realized that he was doing wrong, butjust then the adjutant had come in and interrupted him. Theadjutant, also, had evidently had no evil intent though he mighthave refrained from coming in. Then who was executing him, killinghim, depriving him of life- him, Pierre, with all his memories,aspirations, hopes, and thoughts? Who was doing this? And Pierrefelt that it was no one.

　　It was a system- a concurrence of circumstances.

　　A system of some sort was killing him- Pierre- depriving him oflife, of everything, annihilating him.