War and Peace
had first wanted to effect a diversion in Greece and then in Warsaw but
never wished to go where he was sent: Chichagóv, noted for the boldness
with which he spoke to the Emperor, and who considered Kutúzov to be
under an obligation to him because when he was sent to make peace
with Turkey in 1811 independently of Kutúzov, and found that peace had
already been concluded, he admitted to the Emperor that the merit of
securing that peace was really Kutúzov’s; this Chichagóv was the first
to meet Kutúzov at the castle where the latter was to stay. In undress
naval uniform, with a dirk, and holding his cap under his arm, he handed
Kutúzov a garrison report and the keys of the town. The contemptuously
respectful attitude of the younger men to the old man in his dotage was
expressed in the highest degree by the behavior of Chichagóv, who knew
of the accusations that were being directed against Kutúzov.
When speaking to Chichagóv, Kutúzov incidentally mentioned that the
vehicles packed with china that had been captured from him at Borísov
had been recovered and would be restored to him.
“You mean to imply that I have nothing to eat out of.... On the
contrary, I can supply you with everything even if you want to give
dinner parties,” warmly replied Chichagóv, who tried by every word he
spoke to prove his own rectitude and therefore imagined Kutúzov to be
animated by the same desire.
Kutúzov, shrugging his shoulders, replied with his subtle penetrating
smile: “I meant merely to say what I said.”
Contrary to the Emperor’s wish Kutúzov detained the greater part of the
army at Vílna. Those about him said that he became extraordinarily slack
and physically feeble during his stay in that town. He attended to army
affairs reluctantly, left everything to his generals, and while awaiting
the Emperor’s arrival led a dissipated life.
Having left Petersburg on the seventh of December with his suite—Count
Tolstóy, Prince Volkónski, Arakchéev, and others—the Emperor reached
Vílna on the eleventh, and in his traveling sleigh drove straight to
the castle. In spite of the severe frost some hundred generals and staff
officers in full parade uniform stood in front of the castle, as well as
a guard of honor of the Semënov regiment.
A courier who galloped to the castle in advance, in a troyka with three
foam-flecked horses, shouted “Coming!” and Konovnítsyn rushed into the
vestibule to inform Kutúzov, who was waiting in the hall porter’s little
lodge.
A minute later the old man’s large stout figure in full-dress uniform,
his chest covered with orders and a scarf drawn round his stomach,
waddled out into the porch. He put on his hat with its peaks to the
sides and, holding his gloves in his hand and walking with an effort
sideways down the steps to the level of the street, took in his hand the
report he had prepared for the Emperor.
There was running to and fro and whispering; another troyka flew
furiously up, and then all eyes were turned on an approaching sleigh
in which the figures of the Emperor and Volkónski could already be
descried.
From the habit of fifty years all this had a physically agitating effect
on the old general. He carefully and hastily felt himself all over,
readjusted his hat, and pulling himself together drew himself up and,
at the very moment when the Emperor, having alighted from the sleigh,
lifted his eyes to him, handed him the report and began speaking in his
smooth, ingratiating voice.
The Emperor with a rapid glance scanned Kutúzov from head to foot,
frowned for an instant, but immediately mastering himself went up to the
old man, extended his arms and embraced him. And this embrace too, owing
to a long-standing impression related to his innermost feelings, had its
usual effect on Kutúzov and he gave a sob.
The Emperor greeted the officers and the Semënov guard, and again
pressing the old man’s hand went with him into the castle.
When alone with the field marshal the Emperor expressed his
dissatisfaction at the slowness of the pursuit and at the mistakes made
at Krásnoe and the Berëzina, and informed him of his intentions for a
future campaign abroad. Kutúzov made no rejoinder or remark. The same
submissive, expressionless look with which he had listened to the
Emperor’s commands on the field of Austerlitz seven years before settled
on his face now.
When Kutúzov came out of the study and with lowered head was crossing
the ballroom with his heavy waddling gait, he was arrested by someone’s
voice saying:
“Your Serene Highness!”
Kutúzov raised his head and looked for a long while into the eyes of
Count Tolstóy, who stood before him holding a silver salver on which lay
a small object. Kutúzov seemed not to understand what was expected of
him.
Suddenly he seemed to remember; a scarcely perceptible smile flashed
across his puffy face, and bowing low and respectfully he took the
object that lay on the salver. It was the Order of St. George of the
First Class.
CHAPTER XI
Next day the field marshal gave a dinner and ball which the Emperor
honored by his presence. Kutúzov had received the Order of St. George
of the First Class and the Emperor showed him the highest honors, but
everyone knew of the imperial dissatisfaction with him. The proprieties
were observed and the Emperor was the first to set that example,
but everybody understood that the old man was blameworthy and
good-for-nothing. When Kutúzov, conforming to a custom of Catherine’s
day, ordered the standards that had been captured to be lowered at the
Emperor’s feet on his entering the ballroom, the Emperor made a wry face
and muttered something in which some people caught the words, “the old
comedian.”
The Emperor’s displeasure with Kutúzov was specially increased at Vílna
by the fact that Kutúzov evidently could not or would not understand the
importance of the coming campaign.
When on the following morning the Emperor said to the officers assembled
about him: “You have not only saved Russia, you have saved Europe!” they
all understood that the war was not ended.
Kutúzov alone would not see this and openly expressed his opinion that
no fresh war could improve the position or add to the glory of Russia,
but could only spoil and lower the glorious position that Russia had
gained. He tried to prove to the Emperor the impossibility of levying
fresh troops, spoke of the hardships already endured by the people, of
the possibility of failure and so forth.
This being the field marshal’s frame of mind he was naturally regarded
as merely a hindrance and obstacle to the impending war.
To avoid unpleasant encounters with the old man, the natural method was
to do what had been done with him at Austerlitz and with Barclay at
the beginning of the Russian campaign—to transfer the authority to the
Emperor himself, thus cutting the ground from under the commander in
chief’s feet without upsetting the old man by informing him of the
change.
With this object his staff was gradually reconstructed and its real
strength removed and transferred to the Emperor. Toll, Konovnítsyn, and
Ermólov received fresh appointments. Everyone spoke loudly of the field
marshal’s great weakness and failing health.
His health had to be bad for his place to be taken away and given to
another. And in fact his health was poor.
So naturally, simply, and gradually—just as he had come from Turkey to
the Treasury in Petersburg to recruit the militia, and then to the army
when he was needed there—now when his part was played out, Kutúzov’s
place was taken by a new and necessary performer.
The war of 1812, besides its national significance dear to every Russian
heart, was now to assume another, a European, significance.
The movement of peoples from west to east was to be succeeded by a
movement of peoples from east to west, and for this fresh war another
leader was necessary, having qualities and views differing from
Kutúzov’s and animated by different motives.
Alexander I was as necessary for the movement of the peoples from east
to west and for the refixing of national frontiers as Kutúzov had been
for the salvation and glory of Russia.
Kutúzov did not understand what Europe, the balance of power, or
Napoleon meant. He could not understand it. For the representative of
the Russian people, after the enemy had been destroyed and Russia had
been liberated and raised to the summit of her glory, there was nothing
left to do as a Russian. Nothing remained for the representative of the
national war but to die, and Kutúzov died.
CHAPTER XII
As generally happens, Pierre did not feel the full effects of the
physical privation and strain he had suffered as prisoner until after
they were over. After his liberation he reached Orël, and on the third
day there, when preparing to go to Kiev, he fell ill and was laid up
for three months. He had what the doctors termed “bilious fever.” But
despite the fact that the doctors treated him, bled him, and gave him
medicines to drink, he recovered.
Scarcely any impression was left on Pierre’s mind by all that happened
to him from the time of his rescue till his illness. He remembered
only the dull gray weather now rainy and now snowy, internal physical
distress, and pains in his feet and side. He remembered a general
impression of the misfortunes and sufferings of people and of being
worried by the curiosity of officers and generals who questioned him, he
also remembered his difficulty in procuring a conveyance and horses, and
above all he remembered his incapacity to think and feel all that time.
On the day of his rescue he had seen the body of Pétya Rostóv. That same
day he had learned that Prince Andrew, after surviving the battle of
Borodinó for more than a month had recently died in the Rostóvs’ house
at Yaroslávl, and Denísov who told him this news also mentioned Hélène’s
death, supposing that Pierre had heard of it long before. All this at
the time seemed merely strange to Pierre: he felt he could not grasp its
significance. Just then he was only anxious to get away as quickly as
possible from places where people were killing one another, to some
peaceful refuge where he could recover himself, rest, and think over
all the strange new facts he had learned; but on reaching Orël he
immediately fell ill. When he came to himself after his illness he saw
in attendance on him two of his servants, Terénty and Váska, who had
come from Moscow; and also his cousin the eldest princess, who had been
living on his estate at Eléts and hearing of his rescue and illness had
come to look after him.
It was only gradually during his convalescence that Pierre lost the
impressions he had become accustomed to during the last few months
and got used to the idea that no one would oblige him to go anywhere
tomorrow, that no one would deprive him of his warm bed, and that he
would be sure to get his dinner, tea, and supper. But for a long time in
his dreams he still saw himself in the conditions of captivity. In the
same way little by little he came to understand the news he had been
told after his rescue, about the death of Prince Andrew, the death of
his wife, and the destruction of the French.
A joyous feeling of freedom—that complete inalienable freedom natural
to man which he had first experienced at the first halt outside
Moscow—filled Pierre’s soul during his convalescence. He was surprised
to find that this inner freedom, which was independent of external
conditions, now had as it were an additional setting of external
liberty. He was alone in a strange town, without acquaintances. No one
demanded anything of him or sent him anywhere. He had all he wanted:
the thought of his wife which had been a continual torment to him was no
longer there, since she was no more.