War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [579]
“There are political prisoners, Your Excellency: Meshkov, Vereshchagin.”17
“Vereshchagin! He hasn’t been hanged yet?” cried Rastopchin. “Bring him to me.”
XXV
By nine o’clock in the morning, when troops were already moving through Moscow, no one came anymore to ask the count for instructions. Everyone who could go was going on his own; those who stayed decided on their own what they should do.
The count ordered horses prepared in order to go to Sokolniki, and, frowning, yellow, and taciturn, sat in his office with folded arms.
To every administrator, in peaceful, unstormy times, it seems that the entire population entrusted to him moves only by his efforts, and in this consciousness of his necessity every administrator finds the chief reward for his labors and efforts. It is understandable that, as long as the historical sea is calm, it must seem to the ruler-administrator in his frail little bark, resting his pole against the ship of the people and moving along with it, that his efforts are moving the ship. But once a storm arises, the sea churns up, and the ship begins to move by itself, and then the delusion is no longer possible. The ship follows its own enormous, independent course, the pole does not reach the moving ship, and the ruler suddenly, from his position of power, from being a source of strength, becomes an insignificant, useless, and feeble human being.
Rastopchin felt that, and it irritated him.
The police chief, whom the crowd had stopped, entered the count’s study along with the adjutant, who came to announce that the horses were ready. Both were pale, and the police chief, having reported that his mission had been accomplished, told the count that a huge crowd of people was standing in the courtyard and wished to see him.
Rastopchin, without a word of reply, stood up and with quick steps headed for his bright, luxurious drawing room, went to the door of the balcony, took hold of the handle, let go again, and went to the window, from which the whole crowd was better seen. The tall fellow was standing in front, waving his arm with a stern look, and saying something. The blood-smeared blacksmith was standing next to him with a gloomy air. Through the closed windows came the noise of voices.
“Is the carriage ready?” asked Rastopchin, stepping away from the window.
“Yes, Your Excellency,” said the adjutant.
Rastopchin again went up to the door of the balcony.
“What do they want?” he asked the police chief.
“They say, Your Excellency, that they have gathered on your orders to go against the French. They shouted something about treason. It’s a violent crowd, Your Excellency. I barely got away. Your Excellency, I venture to suggest…”
“Kindly leave, I know what to do without you,” Rastopchin cried angrily. He stood at the door of the balcony, looking at the crowd. “See what they’ve done to Russia! See what they’ve done to me!” Rastopchin thought, feeling an irrepressible wrath rising in his soul against someone to whom he could ascribe the cause of all that was happening. As often happens with hot-tempered people, wrath had already taken hold of him, but he was still seeking an object for it. “La voilà la populace, la lie du peuple,” he thought, looking at the crowd, “la plèbe qu’ils ont soulevée par leur sottise. Il leur faut une victime”*551 occurred to him as he looked at the tall fellow swinging his arm. And it occurred to him precisely because he needed that victim himself, that object for his wrath.
“Is the carriage ready?” he asked once more.
“Yes, Your Excellency. What are your orders concerning Vereshchagin? He’s waiting by the porch,” said the adjutant.
“Ah!” cried Rastopchin, as if struck by some unexpected recollection.
And, quickly opening the door, he stepped resolutely onto the balcony. The talk suddenly ceased, hats and caps were taken off, and all eyes were raised to the emerging count.
“Greetings, lads!” the count said quickly and loudly. “Thank you for coming. I’ll come out to you presently, but first of