‘Yes, of course,’ Kirov said, still thinking furiously and coming to no definite conclusions. He bowed slightly and turned away, but as he reached the door, Rostopchin called him back.
‘I understand that Count and Countess Tchaikovsky are still at their house, at Byeloskoye. I recommend that you advise them to leave as soon as possible.’ He fixed him with a meaningful look. ‘As soon as possible.’
Kirov didn’t stop to consider how it was that Rostopchin knew he had an interest in that particular household. The warning was kindly meant. ‘Thank you. I was intending to,’ he said.
The streets of the city were unnaturally quiet, empty of Muscovites, and now rumbling with the vibrating thunder of heavy artillery being dragged over the wooden paving. Behind the artillery came the first of the foot soldiers. They marched in silence, looking apprehensive and unhappy. The monotonous sound of their tramping feet echoing from the shuttered houses, and the absence of cheering crowds made it seem like a funeral march; the officers rode at the heads of their columns with expressions ranging from dazed disbelief to silent rage. Some had wept when they were told that they were abandoning Moscow; others had not found the courage to tell their men, many of whom were marching in ignorance of their intent and destination.
Kirov hurried past them, heading north and west towards Byeloskoye, to warn Anne and Basil that they must leave at once. He was surprised that Basil was still in the city, having expected, if he had thought about it, that he would have left long ago at the first sign of danger. When he arrived at the house, he was even more surprised at what he found. The outer gate was open and unguarded. In the courtyard a partly loaded carriage stood, horseless, with empty valises and boxes lying around it, as if they had been looted. He met Adonis’s eyes in alarm, jumped down and flung him his reins, and strode to the door; yanked hard at the bell, rapping on the panels with the stock of his whip.
It seemed a long time before he was answered – a long time during which he imagined the worst. At last there was a shuffling sound within the hall, and a quavering voice called, ‘Who is it? Go away! There’s nothing here for you!’
‘Open the door!’ he shouted, racking his brain for the name of Anne’s butler. ‘Mikhailo, is that you? This is Count Kirov. Let me in, you fool!’
There was a brief silence, followed by the rattling of bolts and chains, and the door was swung hesitantly open. Mikhailo appeared, blinking, in the gap.
‘Oh, sir! It is you! Oh, thank Heaven! We’ve got such trouble sir!’
Kirov thrust past him. ‘Where are they? Where’s her ladyship?’
‘Upstairs, sir, in the drawing-room. Your man had better bring the horses into the hall, sir. It isn’t safe outside. We’ve had such trouble here. I don’t know what the world’s coming to…’ Kirov left Adonis to deal with the butler, was already running up the stairs two at a time and burst into the drawing-room with his nerves at the stretch.
‘Anna! Anna! Are you all right?’
He stopped dead just inside the room. The furniture had been pushed back, and in the centre a table had been placed, and covered with what looked like a white counterpane. Lying on it was the figure of a man, hands folded at the breast, the head completely wrapped in linen bandages. At the head and foot of the table stood a bronze candlestand, each bearing five candles.
Anne was sitting in a chair by the fireside, her hands folded in her lap, staring straight ahead of her. She didn’t seem to hear him or notice him. Her maid, Pauline, jumped up when the Count appeared, and came towards him with her hands extended in a pleading gesture.
‘Oh, sir, thank God you’ve come!’
‘What in God’s name has happened? Is that Basil Andreyevitch?’ he said. ‘Is your mistress ill?’
Pauline’s eyes filled with tears she had been holding back for so many hours. ‘It was looters, sir – they broke in and stole the horses. The master tried to stop them, and they shot him.’ Her lip trembled. ‘Shot him dead, sir, right in front of my mistress.’
‘Did they hurt her?’ he asked, his whole body trembling with outrage and fear.
‘No, sir, no sir. They ran off when the poor master–’ She gulped and swallowed some tears. ‘His poor head, shot all to pieces,’ she whispered, her eyes looking into his pleadingly, as though he could run time backwards and make it not to be. ‘Nurse bandaged him up. My lady insisted he should be laid out properly, though we hadn’t got a coffin, of course, and no one to make one, with half the servants run away. We prayed for him, my lady and I, all night, until it got light. And then she just sat down in that chair, as you see her now, and she hasn’t moved or spoken all day. Oh sir, do you think her poor mind has turned? After what happened at Koloskavets…’
Kirov pulled himself together and laid a firm hand on her shoulder. She felt as unsubstantial as a sparrow under his touch. ‘No, no, my poor girl. Your mistress is too strong for that. She’s in a state of shock.’
‘Yes, sir. I don’t know how she bears it. What with half the servants running away, and the others in their quarters and refusing to come out, there’s only nurse and me and Mikhailo to take care of her. But she won’t eat, and she won’t answer when I speak to her…’
‘You’ve been so brave,’ Kirov said encouragingly. ‘Now can you be brave a little longer? Can you fetch some brandy for your mistress? And then run upstairs and pack a valise with whatever you think most necessary for a journey. We shall have to leave here very soon.’
‘Are the French coming, sir?’
‘Yes, child. They’re coming to take over the city.’ He held her eyes, willing her to be strong, and after a moment she swallowed again, and straightened a little under his hand.
‘Very good, sir,’ she said. ‘Only look to my poor mistress! In her condition, she ought not to be subjected to such things.’
Kirov heard the words with distant shock; but he let the maid go, wanting to get to Anne without further delay. She had not moved or spoken since he came into the room, and she did not react at all when he came close to her, even when he knelt directly in front of her. Her face was pale and her eyes were wide, the pupils unnaturally enlarged. Her breathing was very light and shallow, and when he took hold of her hands, her skin felt cold to the touch. He thought he understood. She had gone away inside herself, for protection, to avoid a situation which had become intolerable. In normal circumstances, he would have left her alone to come back to herself in her own time; but these were not normal circumstances.
He began to rub her hands gently between his, calling her name quietly but persistently.
‘Anna! Annushka! Look at me.’
After a few moments he saw the focus of her eyes change. She looked at him, but quite blankly, as though she did not know him.
‘Anna Petrovna! Look at me. Do you know who I am? Answer me, Anna!’
She drew a small, hitching breath, and then a long, deep sigh. Her hand moved in his. A little colour returned to her cheeks. It was almost like watching someone wake from a deep sleep. She saw him, recognised him. ‘Nikolasha?’
‘Yes, my darling, I’m here.’
She closed her eyes for a moment, and swayed forward, and he stood up quickly, lifted her up, and sat down again with her on his lap, holding her close against him. After a moment she put her arms round his neck and rested her face against him, and he felt her trembling.
‘Doushka, Doushka,’ he said. He thought of all she had witnessed, and was filled with a directionless rage against Fate.