战争与和平(上)-第296章
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des Czars；” at which the great Russian nobles were to mingle with the courtiers of the French Emperor。 In thought he had appointed a governor capable of winning the hearts of the people。 Having heard that Moscow was full of religious institutions； he had mentally decided that his bounty was to be showered on these institutions。 He imagined that as in Africa he had had to sit in a mosque wearing a burnous； in Moscow he must be gracious and bountiful as the Tsars。 And being； like every Frenchman； unable to imagine anything moving without a reference to sa chère； sa tendre； sa pauvre mère； he decided finally to touch the Russian heart； that he would have inscribed on all these charitable foundations in large letters； “Dedicated to my beloved mother；” or simply； “Maison de ma mère；” he decided。 “But am I really in Moscow？ Yes； there she lies before me； but why is the deputation from the city so long in coming？” he wondered。
Meanwhile a whispered and agitated consultation was being held among his generals and marshals in the rear of the suite。 The adjutants sent to bring the deputation had come back with the news that Moscow was empty； that every one had left or was leaving the city。 The faces of all the suite were pale and perturbed。 It was not that Moscow had been abandoned by its inhabitants （grave as that fact appeared） that alarmed them。 They were in alarm at the idea of making the fact known to the Emperor； they could not see how； without putting his majesty into the terrible position； called by the French ridicule； to inform him that he had been waiting so long for the boyards in vain； that there was a drunken mob； but no one else in Moscow。 Some of the suite maintained that come what may； they must anyway scrape up a deputation of some sort； others opposed this view； and asserted that the Emperor must be carefully and skilfully prepared； and then told the truth。
“We shall have to tell him all the same；” said some gentleman of the suite。… “But； gentlemen …”
The position was the more difficult as the Emperor； pondering on his magnanimous plans； was walking patiently up and down before the map of the city； shading his eyes to look from time to time along the road to Moscow； with a proud and happy smile。
“But it’s awkward …” the gentlemen…in…waiting kept repeating； shrugging their shoulders and unable to bring themselves to settle the terrible word in their minds： “le ridicule。…”
Meanwhile the Emperor； weary of waiting in vain； and with his actor’s instinct feeling that the great moment； being too long deferred； was beginning to lose its grandeur； made a sign with his hand。 A solitary cannon shot gave the signal； and the invading army marched into Moscow—at the Tver； the Kaluga； and the Dorogomilov gates。 More and more rapidly； vying with one another； at a quick run and a trot； the troops marched in； concealed in the clouds of dust they raised； and making the air ring with their deafening shouts。
Tempted on by the advance of the army； Napoleon too rode as far as the Dorogomilov gate； but there he halted again； and dismounting walked about the Kamerkolezhsky wall for a long time； waiting for the deputation。
Chapter 20
MOSCOW meanwhile was empty。 There was still people in the city； a fiftieth part of all the former inhabitants still remained in it； but it was empty。
It was deserted as a dying； queenless hive is deserted。
In a queenless hive there is no life left。 Yet at a superficial glance it seems as much alive as other hives。
In the hot rays of the midday sun the bees soar as gaily around the queenless hive as around other living hives； from a distance it smells of honey like the rest； and bees fly into and out of it just the same。 Yet one has but to watch it a little to see that there is no life in the hive。 The flight of the bees is not as in living hives； the smell and the sound that meet the beekeeper are changed。 When the beekeeper strikes the wall of the sick hive； instead of the instant； unanimous response； the buzzing of tens of thousands of bees menacingly arching their backs； and by the rapid stroke of their wings making that whirring； living sound； he is greeted by a disconnected； droning hum from different parts of the deserted hive。 From the alighting board comes not as of old the spirituous； fragrant smell of honey and bitterness； and the whiff of heat from the multitudes within。 A smell of chill emptiness and decay mingles with the scent of honey。 Around the entrance there is now no throng of guards； arching their backs and trumpeting the menace； ready to die in its defence。 There is heard no more the low； even hum； the buzz of toil； like the singing of boiling water； but the broken； discordant uproar of disorder comes forth。 The black； long…shaped； honey…smeared workers fly timidly and furtively in and out of the hive： they do not sting； but crawl away at the sight of danger。 Of old they flew in only with their bags of honey； and flew out empty： now they fly out with their burdens。 The beekeeper opens the lower partition and peeps into the lower half of the hive。 Instead of the clusters of black； sleek bees； clinging on each other’s legs； hanging to the lower side of the partition； and with an unbroken hum of toil building at the wax； drowsy； withered bees wander listlessly about over the roof and walls of the hive。 Instead of the cleanly glued…up floor； swept by the bees’ wings； there are now bits of wax； excrement； dying bees feebly kicking； and dead bees lying not cleared away on the floor。
The beekeeper opens the upper door and examines the super of the hive。 In place of close rows of bees； sealing up every gap left in the combs and fostering the brood； he sees only the skilful； complex； edifice of combs； and even in this the virginal purity of old days is gone。 All is forsaken； and soiled； black； stranger bees scurry swiftly and stealthily about the combs in search of plunder； while the dried…up； shrunken； listless； old…looking bees of the hive wander slowly about； doing nothing to hinder them； having lost every desire and sense of life。 Drones； gadflies； wasps and butterflies flutter about aimlessly； brushing their wings against the walls of the hive。 Here and there； between the cells full of dead brood and honey； is heard an angry buzz； here and there a couple of bees from old habit and custom； though they know not why they do it； are cleaning the hive； painfully dragging away a dead bee or a wasp； a task beyond their strength。 In another corner two other old bees are languidly fighting or cleaning themselves or feeding one another； themselves unaware whether with friendly or hostile intent。 Elsewhere a crowd of bees； squeezing one another； is falling upon some victim； beating and crushing it； and the killed or enfeebled bee drops slowly； light as a feather； on to the heap of corpses。 The beekeeper parts the two centre partitions to look at the nursery。 Instead of the dense； black rings of thousands of bees； sitting back to back； watching the high mysteries of the work of generation； he sees hundreds of dejected； lifeless； and slumbering wrecks of bees。 Almost all have died； unconscious of their coming end； sitting in the holy place； which they had watched—now no more。 They reek of death and corruption。 But a few of them still stir； rise up； fly languidly and settle on the hand of the foe； without the spirit to die stinging him； the rest are dead and as easily brushed aside as fishes’ scales。 The beekeeper closes the partition； chalks a mark on the hive； and choosing his own time； breaks it up and burns it。
So was Moscow deserted； as Napoleon； weary； uneasy and frowning； paced up and down at the Kamerkolezhsky wall awaiting that merely external； but still to his mind essential observance of the proprieties—a deputation。
Some few men were still astir in odd corners of Moscow； aimlessly following their old habits； with no understanding of what they were doing。
When； with due circumspectness； Napoleon was informed that Moscow was deserted； he looked wrathfully at his informant； and turning his back on him； went on pacing up and down in silence。
“My carriage；” he said。 He sat down in his carriage beside the adjutant on duty； and drove into the suburbs。
“Moscow de
