War And Peace: Book 11 - CHAPTER III

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THE RUSSIAN ARMY, retreating from Borodino, halted at Fili. Yermolov, who had

been inspecting the position, rode up to the commander-in-chief.

“There is no possibility of fighting in this position,” he said.

Kutuzov looked at him in wonder, and made him repeat the words he had just

uttered. When he had done so, he put out his hand to him.

“Give me your hand,” he said; and turning it so as to feel his pulse, he

said: “You are not well, my dear boy. Think what you are saying.”

Kutuzov could not yet take in the idea of its being possible to retreat,

abandoning Moscow without a battle.

On the Poklonnaya Hill, six versts from Dorogomilovsky gate, Kutuzov got out

of his carriage and sat down on a bench by the side of the road. A great crowd

of generals gathered about him. Count Rastoptchin, who had come out from Moscow,

joined them. All this brilliant company broke up into several circles, and

talked among themselves of the advantages and disadvantages of the position, of

the condition of the troops, of the plans proposed, of the situation of

Moscow—in fact, of military questions generally. All felt that though they had

not been summoned for the purpose, it was really, if not ostensibly, a military

council. All conversation was confined to public questions. If any one did

repeat or inquire any piece of personal news, it was in a whisper, and the talk

passed at once back to general topics. There was not a jest, not a laugh, not

even a smile, to be seen among all these men. They was all making an obvious

effort to rise to the level of the situation. And all the groups, while talking

among themselves, tried to keep close to the commander-in-chief, whose bench

formed the centre of the whole crowd, and tried to talk so that he might hear

them. The commander-in-chief listened, and sometimes asked what had been said

near him, but did not himself enter into conversation or express any opinion.

For the most part, after listening to the talk of some group, he turned away

with an air of disappointment, as though they were not speaking of anything he

cared to hear about at all. Some were discussing the position, criticising not

so much the position itself as the intellectual qualifications of those who had

selected it. Others argued that a blunder had been made earlier, that a battle

ought to have been fought two days before. Others talked of the battle of

Salamanca, which a Frenchman, Crosart, wearing a Spanish uniform, was describing

to them. (This Frenchman, who had just arrived, had with one of the German

princes serving in the Russian army been criticising the siege of Saragossa,

foreseeing a possibility of a similar defence of Moscow.) In the fourth group,

Count Rastoptchin was saying that he, with the Moscow city guard, was ready to

die under the walls of the city, but that still he could not but complain of the

uncertainty in which he had been left, and that had he known it earlier, things

would have been different.… A fifth group was manifesting the profundity of

their tactical insight by discussing the direction the troops should certainly

take now. A sixth group were talking arrant nonsense.

Kutuzov's face grew more and more careworn and gloomy. From all this talk

Kutuzov saw one thing only: the defence of Moscow was a physical

impossibility in the fullest sense of the words. It was so utterly

impossible that even if some insane commander were to give orders for a battle,

all that would follow would be a muddle, and no battle would be fought. There

would be no battle, because all the officers in command, not merely recognised

the position to be impossible, but were only engaged now in discussing what was

to be done after the inevitable abandonment of that position. How could officers

lead their men to a field of battle which they considered it impossible to hold?

The officers of lower rank, and even the soldiers themselves (they too form

their conclusions), recognised that the position could not be held, and so they

could not advance into battle with the conviction that they would be defeated.

That Bennigsen urged the defence of this position, and others still discussed

it, was a fact that had no significance in itself, but only as a pretext for

dissension and intrigue. Kutuzov knew that.

Bennigsen was warmly manifesting his Russian patriotism (Kutuzov could not

listen to him without wincing), by insisting on the defence of Moscow. To

Kutuzov, his object was as clear as daylight: in case of the defence being

unsuccessful, to throw the blame on Kutuzov, who had brought the army as far as

the Sparrow Hills without a battle; in case of its being successful, to claim

the credit; in case of it not being attempted, to clear himself of the crime of

abandoning Moscow.

But these questions of intrigue did not occupy the old man's mind now. One

terrible question absorbed him. And to that question he heard no reply from any

one. The question for him now was this: “Can it be that I have let Napoleon get

to Moscow, and when did I do it? When did it happen? Was it yesterday, when I

sent word to Platov to retreat, or the evening before when I had a nap and bade

Bennigsen give instructions? Or earlier still? … When, when was it this fearful

thing happened? Moscow must be abandoned. The army must retire, and I must give

the order for it.”

To give that terrible order seemed to him equivalent to resigning the command

of the army. And apart from the fact that he loved power, and was used to it

(the honours paid to Prince Prozorovsky, under whom he had been serving in

Turkey, galled him), he was convinced that he was destined to deliver Russia,

and had only for that cause been chosen commander-in-chief contrary to the

Tsar's wishes by the will of the people. He was persuaded that in these

difficult circumstances he was the one man who could maintain his position at

the head of the army, that he was the only man in the world capable of meeting

Napoleon as an antagonist without panic. And he was in terror at the idea of

having to resign the command. But he must decide on some step, he must cut short

this chatter round him, which was beginning to assume too free a

character.

He beckoned the senior generals to him.

“Ma tête, f

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