War and Peace
and sometimes asked them to repeat their remarks, but did not himself
take part in the conversations or express any opinion. After hearing
what was being said by one or other of these groups he generally turned
away with an air of disappointment, as though they were not speaking of
anything he wished to hear. Some discussed the position that had been
chosen, criticizing not the position itself so much as the mental
capacity of those who had chosen it. Others argued that a mistake had
been made earlier and that a battle should have been fought two days
before. Others again spoke of the battle of Salamanca, which was
described by Crosart, a newly arrived Frenchman in a Spanish uniform.
(This Frenchman and one of the German princes serving with the Russian
army were discussing the siege of Saragossa and considering the
possibility of defending Moscow in a similar manner.) Count Rostopchín
was telling a fourth group that he was prepared to die with the city
train bands under the walls of the capital, but that he still could not
help regretting having been left in ignorance of what was happening, and
that had he known it sooner things would have been different.... A
fifth group, displaying the profundity of their strategic perceptions,
discussed the direction the troops would now have to take. A sixth group
was talking absolute nonsense. Kutúzov’s expression grew more and more
preoccupied and gloomy. From all this talk he saw only one thing: that
to defend Moscow was a physical impossibility in the full meaning of
those words, that is to say, so utterly impossible that if any senseless
commander were to give orders to fight, confusion would result but the
battle would still not take place. It would not take place because the
commanders not merely all recognized the position to be impossible, but
in their conversations were only discussing what would happen after its
inevitable abandonment. How could the commanders lead their troops to
a field of battle they considered impossible to hold? The lower-grade
officers and even the soldiers (who too reason) also considered the
position impossible and therefore could not go to fight, fully convinced
as they were of defeat. If Bennigsen insisted on the position being
defended and others still discussed it, the question was no longer
important in itself but only as a pretext for disputes and intrigue.
This Kutúzov knew well.
Bennigsen, who had chosen the position, warmly displayed his Russian
patriotism (Kutúzov could not listen to this without wincing) by
insisting that Moscow must be defended. His aim was as clear as daylight
to Kutúzov: if the defense failed, to throw the blame on Kutúzov who had
brought the army as far as the Sparrow Hills without giving battle; if
it succeeded, to claim the success as his own; or if battle were not
given, to clear himself of the crime of abandoning Moscow. But this
intrigue did not now occupy the old man’s mind. One terrible question
absorbed him and to that question he heard no reply from anyone. The
question for him now was: “Have I really allowed Napoleon to reach
Moscow, and when did I do so? When was it decided? Can it have been
yesterday when I ordered Plátov to retreat, or was it the evening
before, when I had a nap and told Bennigsen to issue orders? Or was it
earlier still?... When, when was this terrible affair decided? Moscow
must be abandoned. The army must retreat and the order to do so must
be given.” To give that terrible order seemed to him equivalent to
resigning the command of the army. And not only did he love power to
which he was accustomed (the honours awarded to Prince Prozoróvski,
under whom he had served in Turkey, galled him), but he was convinced
that he was destined to save Russia and that that was why, against
the Emperor’s wish and by the will of the people, he had been chosen
commander in chief. He was convinced that he alone could maintain
command of the army in these difficult circumstances, and that in all
the world he alone could encounter the invincible Napoleon without fear,
and he was horrified at the thought of the order he had to issue. But
something had to be decided, and these conversations around him which
were assuming too free a character must be stopped.
He called the most important generals to him.
“My head, be it good or bad, must depend on itself,” said he, rising
from the bench, and he rode to Filí where his carriages were waiting.
CHAPTER IV
The Council of War began to assemble at two in the afternoon in the
better and roomier part of Andrew Savostyánov’s hut. The men, women, and
children of the large peasant family crowded into the back room across
the passage. Only Malásha, Andrew’s six-year-old granddaughter whom
his Serene Highness had petted and to whom he had given a lump of sugar
while drinking his tea, remained on the top of the brick oven in the
larger room. Malásha looked down from the oven with shy delight at the
faces, uniforms, and decorations of the generals, who one after another
came into the room and sat down on the broad benches in the corner
under the icons. “Granddad” himself, as Malásha in her own mind called
Kutúzov, sat apart in a dark corner behind the oven. He sat, sunk deep
in a folding armchair, and continually cleared his throat and pulled at
the collar of his coat which, though it was unbuttoned, still seemed
to pinch his neck. Those who entered went up one by one to the field
marshal; he pressed the hands of some and nodded to others. His adjutant
Kaysárov was about to draw back the curtain of the window facing
Kutúzov, but the latter moved his hand angrily and Kaysárov understood
that his Serene Highness did not wish his face to be seen.
Round the peasant’s deal table, on which lay maps, plans, pencils, and
papers, so many people gathered that the orderlies brought in another
bench and put it beside the table. Ermólov, Kaysárov, and Toll, who had
just arrived, sat down on this bench. In the foremost place, immediately
under the icons, sat Barclay de Tolly, his high forehead merging into
his bald crown. He had a St. George’s Cross round his neck and looked
pale and ill. He had been feverish for two days and was now shivering
and in pain. Beside him sat Uvárov, who with rapid gesticulations was
giving him some information, speaking in low tones as they all did.
Chubby little Dokhtúrov was listening attentively with eyebrows
raised and arms folded on his stomach. On the other side sat Count
Ostermann-Tolstóy, seemingly absorbed in his own thoughts. His broad
head with its bold features and glittering eyes was resting on his hand.
Raévski, twitching forward the black hair on his temples as was his
habit, glanced now at Kutúzov and now at the door with a look of
impatience. Konovnítsyn’s firm, handsome, and kindly face was lit up by
a tender, sly smile. His glance met Malásha’s, and the expression of his
eyes caused the little girl to smile.
They were all waiting for Bennigsen, who on the pretext of inspecting
the position was finishing his savory dinner. They waited for him from
four till six o’clock and did not begin their deliberations all that
time but talked in low tones of other matters.
Only when Bennigsen had entered the hut did Kutúzov leave his corner and
draw toward the table, but not near enough for the candles that had been
placed there to light up his face.
Bennigsen opened the council with the question: “Are we to abandon
Russia’s ancient and sacred capital without a struggle, or are we to
defend it?” A prolonged and general silence followed. There was a frown
on every face and only Kutúzov’s angry grunts and occasional cough
broke the silence. All eyes were gazing at him. Malásha too looked at
“Granddad.” She was nearest to him and saw how his face puckered; he
seemed about to cry, but this did not last long.
“Russia’s ancient and sacred capital!” he suddenly said, repeating
Bennigsen’s words in an angry voice and thereby drawing attention to the
false note in them. “Allow me to tell you, your excellency, that that
question has no meaning for a Russian.” (He lurched his heavy body
forward.) “Such a question cannot be put; it is senseless! The question
I have asked these gentlemen to meet to discuss is a military one.
The question is that of saving Russia. Is it better to give up Moscow
without a battle, or by accepting battle to risk losing the army as well
as Moscow? That is the question on which I want your opinion,” and he
sank back in his chair.
The discussion began. Bennigsen did not yet consider his game lost.
Admitting the view of Barclay and others that a defensive battle at
Filí was impossible, but imbued with Russian patriotism and the love
of Moscow, he proposed to move troops from the right to the left flank
during the night and attack the French right flank the following day.
Opinions were divided, and arguments were advanced for and against that
project. Ermólov, Dokhtúrov, and Raévski agreed with Bennigsen. Whether
feeling it necessary to make a sacrifice before abandoning the capital
or guided by other, personal considerations, these generals seemed not
to understand that this council could not alter the inevitable course
of events and that Moscow was in effect already abandoned. The other
generals, however, understood it and, leaving aside the question of
Moscow, spoke of the direction the army should take in its retreat.
Malásha, who kept her eyes fixed on what was going on before her,
understood the meaning of the council differently. It seemed to her that
it was only a personal struggle between “Granddad” and “Long-coat” as
she termed Bennigsen. She saw that they grew spiteful when they spoke to
one another, and in her heart she sided with “Granddad.” In the midst of
the conversation she noticed “Granddad” give Bennigsen a quick, subtle
glance, and then to her joys she saw that “Granddad” said something to
“Long-coat” which settled him. Bennigsen suddenly reddened and paced
angrily up and down the room. What so affected him was Kutúzov’s calm
and quiet comment on the advantage or disadvantage of Bennigsen’s
proposal to move troops by night from the right to the left flank to
attack the French right wing.
“Gentlemen,” said Kutúzov, “I cannot approve of the count’s plan. Moving
troops in close proximity to an enemy is always dangerous, and military
history supports that view. For instance...” Kutúzov seemed to reflect,
searching for an example, then with a clear, naïve look at Bennigsen he
added: “Oh yes; take the battle of Friedland, which I think the count
well remembers, and which was... not fully successful, only because our
troops were rearranged too near the enemy....”
There followed a momentary pause, which seemed very long to them all.
The discussion recommenced, but pauses frequently occurred and they all
felt that there was no more to be said.
During one of these pauses Kutúzov heaved a deep sigh as if preparing to
speak. They all looked at him.
“Well, gentlemen, I see that it is I who will have to pay for the broken
crockery,” said he, and rising slowly he moved to the table. “Gentlemen,
I have heard your views. Some of you will not agree with me. But I,” he
paused, “by the authority entrusted to me by my Sovereign and country,
order a retreat.”
After that the generals began to disperse with the solemnity and
circumspect silence of people who are leaving, after a funeral.
Some of the generals, in low tones and in a strain very different from
the way they had spoken during the council, communicated something to
their commander in chief.
Malásha, who had long been expected for supper, climbed carefully
backwards down from the oven, her bare little feet catching at its
projections, and slipping between the legs of the generals she darted
out of the room.