War and Peace
Dokhtúrov he had the reputation of being a man of very limited capacity
and information, and like Dokhtúrov he never made plans of battle but
was always found where the situation was most difficult. Since his
appointment as general on duty he had always slept with his door open,
giving orders that every messenger should be allowed to wake him up. In
battle he was always under fire, so that Kutúzov reproved him for it and
feared to send him to the front, and like Dokhtúrov he was one of those
unnoticed cogwheels that, without clatter or noise, constitute the most
essential part of the machine.
Coming out of the hut into the damp, dark night Konovnítsyn
frowned—partly from an increased pain in his head and partly at the
unpleasant thought that occurred to him, of how all that nest of
influential men on the staff would be stirred up by this news,
especially Bennigsen, who ever since Tarútino had been at daggers
drawn with Kutúzov; and how they would make suggestions, quarrel, issue
orders, and rescind them. And this premonition was disagreeable to him
though he knew it could not be helped.
And in fact Toll, to whom he went to communicate the news, immediately
began to expound his plans to a general sharing his quarters, until
Konovnítsyn, who listened in weary silence, reminded him that they must
go to see his Highness.
CHAPTER XVII
Kutúzov like all old people did not sleep much at night. He often fell
asleep unexpectedly in the daytime, but at night, lying on his bed
without undressing, he generally remained awake thinking.
So he lay now on his bed, supporting his large, heavy, scarred head on
his plump hand, with his one eye open, meditating and peering into the
darkness.
Since Bennigsen, who corresponded with the Emperor and had more
influence than anyone else on the staff, had begun to avoid him, Kutúzov
was more at ease as to the possibility of himself and his troops being
obliged to take part in useless aggressive movements. The lesson of the
Tarútino battle and of the day before it, which Kutúzov remembered with
pain, must, he thought, have some effect on others too.
“They must understand that we can only lose by taking the offensive.
Patience and time are my warriors, my champions,” thought Kutúzov. He
knew that an apple should not be plucked while it is green. It will fall
of itself when ripe, but if picked unripe the apple is spoiled, the tree
is harmed, and your teeth are set on edge. Like an experienced sportsman
he knew that the beast was wounded, and wounded as only the whole
strength of Russia could have wounded it, but whether it was mortally
wounded or not was still an undecided question. Now by the fact of
Lauriston and Barthélemi having been sent, and by the reports of the
guerrillas, Kutúzov was almost sure that the wound was mortal. But he
needed further proofs and it was necessary to wait.
“They want to run to see how they have wounded it. Wait and we shall
see! Continual maneuvers, continual advances!” thought he. “What for?
Only to distinguish themselves! As if fighting were fun. They are
like children from whom one can’t get any sensible account of what has
happened because they all want to show how well they can fight. But
that’s not what is needed now.
“And what ingenious maneuvers they all propose to me! It seems to
them that when they have thought of two or three contingencies” (he
remembered the general plan sent him from Petersburg) “they have
foreseen everything. But the contingencies are endless.”
The undecided question as to whether the wound inflicted at Borodinó was
mortal or not had hung over Kutúzov’s head for a whole month. On the one
hand the French had occupied Moscow. On the other Kutúzov felt assured
with all his being that the terrible blow into which he and all the
Russians had put their whole strength must have been mortal. But in any
case proofs were needed; he had waited a whole month for them and grew
more impatient the longer he waited. Lying on his bed during those
sleepless nights he did just what he reproached those younger generals
for doing. He imagined all sorts of possible contingencies, just like
the younger men, but with this difference, that he saw thousands of
contingencies instead of two or three and based nothing on them. The
longer he thought the more contingencies presented themselves. He
imagined all sorts of movements of the Napoleonic army as a whole or
in sections—against Petersburg, or against him, or to outflank him.
He thought too of the possibility (which he feared most of all) that
Napoleon might fight him with his own weapon and remain in Moscow
awaiting him. Kutúzov even imagined that Napoleon’s army might turn back
through Medýn and Yukhnóv, but the one thing he could not foresee was
what happened—the insane, convulsive stampede of Napoleon’s army during
its first eleven days after leaving Moscow: a stampede which made
possible what Kutúzov had not yet even dared to think of—the complete
extermination of the French. Dórokhov’s report about Broussier’s
division, the guerrillas’ reports of distress in Napoleon’s army, rumors
of preparations for leaving Moscow, all confirmed the supposition that
the French army was beaten and preparing for flight. But these were
only suppositions, which seemed important to the younger men but not to
Kutúzov. With his sixty years’ experience he knew what value to attach
to rumors, knew how apt people who desire anything are to group all news
so that it appears to confirm what they desire, and he knew how readily
in such cases they omit all that makes for the contrary. And the more
he desired it the less he allowed himself to believe it. This question
absorbed all his mental powers. All else was to him only life’s
customary routine. To such customary routine belonged his conversations
with the staff, the letters he wrote from Tarútino to Madame de Staël,
the reading of novels, the distribution of awards, his correspondence
with Petersburg, and so on. But the destruction of the French, which he
alone foresaw, was his heart’s one desire.
On the night of the eleventh of October he lay leaning on his arm and
thinking of that.
There was a stir in the next room and he heard the steps of Toll,
Konovnítsyn, and Bolkhovítinov.
“Eh, who’s there? Come in, come in! What news?” the field marshal called
out to them.
While a footman was lighting a candle, Toll communicated the substance
of the news.
“Who brought it?” asked Kutúzov with a look which, when the candle was
lit, struck Toll by its cold severity.
“There can be no doubt about it, your Highness.”
“Call him in, call him here.”
Kutúzov sat up with one leg hanging down from the bed and his big paunch
resting against the other which was doubled under him. He screwed up his
seeing eye to scrutinize the messenger more carefully, as if wishing to
read in his face what preoccupied his own mind.
“Tell me, tell me, friend,” said he to Bolkhovítinov in his low, aged
voice, as he pulled together the shirt which gaped open on his chest,
“come nearer—nearer. What news have you brought me? Eh? That Napoleon
has left Moscow? Are you sure? Eh?”
Bolkhovítinov gave a detailed account from the beginning of all he had
been told to report.
“Speak quicker, quicker! Don’t torture me!” Kutúzov interrupted him.
Bolkhovítinov told him everything and was then silent, awaiting
instructions. Toll was beginning to say something but Kutúzov checked
him. He tried to say something, but his face suddenly puckered and
wrinkled; he waved his arm at Toll and turned to the opposite side of
the room, to the corner darkened by the icons that hung there.
“O Lord, my Creator, Thou has heard our prayer...” said he in a
tremulous voice with folded hands. “Russia is saved. I thank Thee, O
Lord!” and he wept.
CHAPTER XVIII
From the time he received this news to the end of the campaign all
Kutúzov’s activity was directed toward restraining his troops, by
authority, by guile, and by entreaty, from useless attacks,
maneuvers, or encounters with the perishing enemy. Dokhtúrov went to
Málo-Yaroslávets, but Kutúzov lingered with the main army and gave
orders for the evacuation of Kalúga—a retreat beyond which town seemed
to him quite possible.
Everywhere Kutúzov retreated, but the enemy without waiting for his
retreat fled in the opposite direction.
Napoleon’s historians describe to us his skilled maneuvers at Tarútino
and Málo-Yaroslávets, and make conjectures as to what would have
happened had Napoleon been in time to penetrate into the rich southern
provinces.
But not to speak of the fact that nothing prevented him from advancing
into those southern provinces (for the Russian army did not bar his
way), the historians forget that nothing could have saved his army, for
then already it bore within itself the germs of inevitable ruin. How
could that army—which had found abundant supplies in Moscow and had
trampled them underfoot instead of keeping them, and on arriving at
Smolénsk had looted provisions instead of storing them—how could that
army recuperate in Kalúga province, which was inhabited by Russians such
as those who lived in Moscow, and where fire had the same property of
consuming what was set ablaze?
That army could not recover anywhere. Since the battle of Borodinó
and the pillage of Moscow it had borne within itself, as it were, the
chemical elements of dissolution.
The members of what had once been an army—Napoleon himself and all his
soldiers--fled without knowing whither, each concerned only to make his
escape as quickly as possible from this position, of the hopelessness of
which they were all more or less vaguely conscious.
So it came about that at the council at Málo-Yaroslávets, when the
generals pretending to confer together expressed various opinions, all
mouths were closed by the opinion uttered by the simple-minded soldier
Mouton who, speaking last, said what they all felt: that the one thing
needful was to get away as quickly as possible; and no one, not
even Napoleon, could say anything against that truth which they all
recognized.
But though they all realized that it was necessary to get away, there
still remained a feeling of shame at admitting that they must flee. An
external shock was needed to overcome that shame, and this shock came in
due time. It was what the French called “le hourra de l’Empereur.”
The day after the council at Málo-Yaroslávets Napoleon rode out early in
the morning amid the lines of his army with his suite of marshals and
an escort, on the pretext of inspecting the army and the scene of the
previous and of the impending battle. Some Cossacks on the prowl for
booty fell in with the Emperor and very nearly captured him. If the
Cossacks did not capture Napoleon then, what saved him was the very
thing that was destroying the French army, the booty on which the
Cossacks fell. Here as at Tarútino they went after plunder, leaving the
men. Disregarding Napoleon they rushed after the plunder and Napoleon
managed to escape.
When les enfants du Don might so easily have taken the Emperor himself
in the midst of his army, it was clear that there was nothing for it but
to fly as fast as possible along the nearest, familiar road. Napoleon
with his forty-year-old stomach understood that hint, not feeling his
former agility and boldness, and under the influence of the fright
the Cossacks had given him he at once agreed with Mouton and issued
orders—as the historians tell us—to retreat by the Smolénsk road.
That Napoleon agreed with Mouton, and that the army retreated, does
not prove that Napoleon caused it to retreat, but that the forces which
influenced the whole army and directed it along the Mozháysk (that is,
the Smolénsk) road acted simultaneously on him also.