checked any attempt to ridicule him to his face.
"No," said Pierre, with a laughing glance at his big, stout body. "I
should make too good a target for the French, besides I am afraid I
should hardly be able to climb onto a horse."
Among those whom Julie’s guests happened to choose to gossip about were
the Rostovs.
"I hear that their affairs are in a very bad way," said Julie. "And he
is so unreasonable, the count himself I mean. The Razumovskis wanted
to buy his house and his estate near Moscow, but it drags on and on. He
asks too much."
"No, I think the sale will come off in a few days," said someone.
"Though it is madness to buy anything in Moscow now."
"Why?" asked Julie. "You don’t think Moscow is in danger?"
"Then why are you leaving?"
"I? What a question! I am going because... well, because everyone is
going: and besides - I am not Joan of Arc or an Amazon."
"Well, of course, of course! Let me have some more strips of linen."
"If he manages the business properly he will be able to pay off all his
debts," said the militia officer, speaking of Rostov.
"A kindly old man but not up to much. And why do they stay on so long in
Moscow? They meant to leave for the country long ago. Natalie is quite
well again now, isn’t she?" Julie asked Pierre with a knowing smile.
"They are waiting for their younger son," Pierre replied. "He joined
Obolenski’s Cossacks and went to Belaya Tserkov where the regiment is
being formed. But now they have had him transferred to my regiment and
are expecting him every day. The count wanted to leave long ago, but the
countess won’t on any account leave Moscow till her son returns."
"I met them the day before yesterday at the Arkharovs’. Natalie has
recovered her looks and is brighter. She sang a song. How easily some
people get over everything!"
"Get over what?" inquired Pierre, looking displeased.
Julie smiled.
"You know, Count, such knights as you are only found in Madame de
Souza’s novels."
"What knights? What do you mean?" demanded Pierre, blushing.
"Oh, come, my dear count! C’est la fable de tout Moscou. Je vous admire,
ma parole d’honneur!" *
* "It is the talk of all Moscow. My word, I admire you!"
"Forfeit, forfeit!" cried the militia officer.
"All right, one can’t talk - how tiresome!"
"What is ‘the talk of all Moscow’?" Pierre asked angrily, rising to his
feet.
"Come now, Count, you know!"
"I don’t know anything about it," said Pierre.
"I know you were friendly with Natalie, and so... but I was always more
friendly with Vera - that dear Vera."
"No, madame!" Pierre continued in a tone of displeasure, "I have not
taken on myself the role of Natalie Rostova’s knight at all, and have
not been to their house for nearly a month. But I cannot understand the
cruelty..."
"Qui s’excuse s’accuse," * said Julie, smiling and waving the lint
triumphantly, and to have the last word she promptly changed the
subject. "Do you know what I heard today? Poor Mary Bolkonskaya arrived
in Moscow yesterday. Do you know that she has lost her father?"
* "Who excuses himself, accuses himself."
"Really? Where is she? I should like very much to see her," said Pierre.
"I spent the evening with her yesterday. She is going to their estate
near Moscow either today or tomorrow morning, with her nephew."
"Well, and how is she?" asked Pierre.
"She is well, but sad. But do you know who rescued her? It is quite a
romance. Nicholas Rostov! She was surrounded, and they wanted to kill
her and had wounded some of her people. He rushed in and saved her...."
"Another romance," said the militia officer. "Really, this general
flight has been arranged to get all the old maids married off. Catiche
is one and Princess Bolkonskaya another."
"Do you know, I really believe she is un petit peu amoureuse du jeune
homme." *
* "A little bit in love with the young man."
"Forfeit, forfeit, forfeit!"
"But how could one say that in Russian?"
CHAPTER XVIII
When Pierre returned home he was handed two of Rostopchin’s broadsheets
that had been brought that day.
The first declared that the report that Count Rostopchin had forbidden
people to leave Moscow was false; on the contrary he was glad that
ladies and tradesmen’s wives were leaving the city. "There will be less
panic and less gossip," ran the broadsheet "but I will stake my life on
it that that scoundrel will not enter Moscow." These words showed Pierre
clearly for the first time that the French would enter Moscow. The
second broadsheet stated that our headquarters were at Vyazma, that
Count Wittgenstein had defeated the French, but that as many of the
inhabitants of Moscow wished to be armed, weapons were ready for them
at the arsenal: sabers, pistols, and muskets which could be had at a low
price. The tone of the proclamation was not as jocose as in the former
Chigirin talks. Pierre pondered over these broadsheets. Evidently the
terrible stormcloud he had desired with the whole strength of his soul
but which yet aroused involuntary horror in him was drawing near.
"Shall I join the army and enter the service, or wait?" he asked himself
for the hundredth time. He took a pack of cards that lay on the table
and began to lay them out for a game of patience.
"If this patience comes out," he said to himself after shuffling the
cards, holding them in his hand, and lifting his head, "if it comes out,
it means... what does it mean?"
He had not decided what it should mean when he heard the voice of the
eldest princess at the door asking whether she might come in.
"Then it will mean that I must go to the army," said Pierre to himself.
"Come in, come in!" he added to the princess.
Only the eldest princess, the one with the stony face and long waist,
was still living in Pierre’s house. The two younger ones had both
married.
"Excuse my coming to you, cousin," she said in a reproachful and
agitated voice. "You know some decision must be come to. What is going
to happen? Everyone has left Moscow and the people are rioting. How is
it that we are staying on?"
"On the contrary, things seem satisfactory, ma cousine," said Pierre
in the bantering tone he habitually adopted toward her, always feeling
uncomfortable in the role of her benefactor.
"Satisfactory, indeed! Very satisfactory! Barbara Ivanovna told me today
how our troops are distinguishing themselves. It certainly does them
credit! And the people too are quite mutinous - they no longer obey,
even my maid has taken to being rude. At this rate they will soon begin
beating us. One can’t walk in the streets. But, above all, the French
will be here any day now, so what are we waiting for? I ask just one
thing of you, cousin," she went on, "arrange for me to be taken to
Petersburg. Whatever I may be, I can’t live under Bonaparte’s rule."
"Oh, come, ma cousine! Where do you get your information from? On the
contrary..."
"I won’t submit to your Napoleon! Others may if they please.... If you
don’t want to do this..."
"But I will, I’ll give the order at once."
The princess was apparently vexed at not having anyone to be angry with.
Muttering to herself, she sat down on a chair.
"But you have been misinformed," said Pierre. "Everything is quiet in
the city and there is not the slightest danger. See! I’ve just been
reading..." He showed her the broadsheet. "Count Rostopchin writes that
he will stake his life on it that the enemy will not enter Moscow."
"Oh, that count of yours!" said the princess malevolently. "He is a
hypocrite, a rascal who has himself roused the people to riot. Didn’t
he write in those idiotic broadsheets that anyone, ‘whoever it might be,
should be dragged to the lockup by his hair’? (How silly!) ‘And honor
and glory to whoever captures him,’ he says. This is what his cajolery
has brought us to! Barbara Ivanovna told me the mob near killed her
because she said something in French."
"Oh, but it’s so... You take everything so to heart," said Pierre, and
began laying out his cards for patience.
Although that patience did come out, Pierre did not join the army,
but remained in deserted Moscow ever in the same state of agitation,
irresolution, and alarm, yet at the same time joyfully expecting
something terrible.
Next day toward evening the princess set off, and Pierre’s head steward
came to inform him that the money needed for the equipment of his
regiment could not be found without selling one of the estates. In
general the head steward made out to Pierre that his project of raising
a regiment would ruin him. Pierre listened to him, scarcely able to
repress a smile.
"Well then, sell it," said he. "What’s to be done? I can’t draw back
now!"
The worse everything became, especially his own affairs, the better
was Pierre pleased and the more evident was it that the catastrophe he
expected was approaching. Hardly anyone he knew was left in town. Julie
had gone, and so had Princess Mary. Of his intimate friends only the
Rostovs remained, but he did not go to see them.
To distract his thoughts he drove that day to the village of Vorontsovo
to see the great balloon Leppich was constructing to destroy the foe,
and a trial balloon that was to go up next day. The balloon was not yet
ready, but Pierre learned that it was being constructed by the Emperor’s
desire. The Emperor had written to Count Rostopchin as follows:
As soon as Leppich is ready, get together a crew of reliable and
intelligent men for his car and send a courier to General Kutuzov to let
him know. I have informed him of the matter.
Please impress upon Leppich to be very careful where he descends for
the first time, that he may not make a mistake and fall into the enemy’s
hands. It is essential for him to combine his movements with those of
the commander in chief.
On his way home from Vorontsovo, as he was passing the Bolotnoe Place
Pierre, seeing a large crowd round the Lobnoe Place, stopped and got out
of his trap. A French cook accused of being a spy was being flogged. The
flogging was only just over, and the executioner was releasing from the
flogging bench a stout man with red whiskers, in blue stockings and
a green jacket, who was moaning piteously. Another criminal, thin and
pale, stood near. Judging by their faces they were both Frenchmen. With
a frightened and suffering look resembling that on the thin Frenchman’s
face, Pierre pushed his way in through the crowd.
"What is it? Who is it? What is it for?" he kept asking.
But the attention of the crowd - officials, burghers, shopkeepers,
peasants, and women in cloaks and in pelisses - was so eagerly centered on
what was passing in Lobnoe Place that no one answered him. The stout man
rose, frowned, shrugged his shoulders, and evidently trying to appear
firm began to pull on his jacket without looking about him, but suddenly
his lips trembled and he began to cry, in the way full-blooded grown-up
men cry, though angry with himself for doing so. In the crowd people
began talking loudly, to stifle their feelings of pity as it seemed to
Pierre.
"He’s cook to some prince."
"Eh, mounseer, Russian sauce seems to be sour to a Frenchman... sets his
teeth on edge!" said a wrinkled clerk who was standing behind Pierre,
when the Frenchman began to cry.
The clerk glanced round, evidently hoping that his joke would be
appreciated. Some people began to laugh, others continued to watch in
dismay the executioner who was undressing the other man.
Pierre choked, his face puckered, and he turned hastily away, went back
to his trap muttering something to himself as he went, and took his
seat. As they drove along he shuddered and exclaimed several times so
audibly that the coachman asked him:
"What is your pleasure?"
"Where are you going?" shouted Pierre to the man, who was driving to
Lubyanka Street.
"To the Governor’s, as you ordered," answered the coachman.
"Fool! Idiot!" shouted Pierre, abusing his coachman - a thing he rarely
did. "Home, I told you! And drive faster, blockhead!" "I must get away
this very day," he murmured to himself.
At the sight of the tortured Frenchman and the crowd surrounding the
Lobnoe Place, Pierre had so definitely made up his mind that he could no
longer remain in Moscow and would leave for the army that very day that
it seemed to him that either he had told the coachman this or that the
man ought to have known it for himself.
On reaching home Pierre gave orders to Evstafey - his head coachman who
knew everything, could do anything, and was known to all Moscow - that
he would leave that night for the army at Mozhaysk, and that his saddle
horses should be sent there. This could not all be arranged that day,
so on Evstafey’s representation Pierre had to put off his departure till
next day to allow time for the relay horses to be sent on in advance.
On the twenty-fourth the weather cleared up after a spell of rain, and
after dinner Pierre left Moscow. When changing horses that night
in Perkhushkovo, he learned that there had been a great battle that
evening. (This was the battle of Shevardino.) He was told that there in
Perkhushkovo the earth trembled from the firing, but nobody could answer
his questions as to who had won. At dawn next day Pierre was approaching
Mozhaysk.
Every house in Mozhaysk had soldiers quartered in it, and at the hostel
where Pierre was met by his groom and coachman there was no room to be
had. It was full of officers.
Everywhere in Mozhaysk and beyond it, troops were stationed or on the
march. Cossacks, foot and horse soldiers, wagons, caissons, and cannon
were everywhere. Pierre pushed forward as fast as he could, and the
farther he left Moscow behind and the deeper he plunged into that sea
of troops the more was he overcome by restless agitation and a new and
joyful feeling he had not experienced before. It was a feeling akin
to what he had felt at the Sloboda Palace during the Emperor’s visit - a
sense of the necessity of undertaking something and sacrificing
something. He now experienced a glad consciousness that everything that
constitutes men’s happiness - the comforts of life, wealth, even
life itself - is rubbish it is pleasant to throw away, compared with
something... With what? Pierre could not say, and he did not try to
determine for whom and for what he felt such particular delight in
sacrificing everything. He was not occupied with the question of what to
sacrifice for; the fact of sacrificing in itself afforded him a new and
joyous sensation.
CHAPTER XIX
On the twenty-fourth of August the battle of the Shevardino Redoubt was
fought, on the twenty-fifth not a shot was fired by either side, and on
the twenty-sixth the battle of Borodino itself took place.
Why and how were the battles of Shevardino and Borodino given and
accepted? Why was the battle of Borodino fought? There was not the least
sense in it for either the French or the Russians. Its immediate result
for the Russians was, and was bound to be, that we were brought nearer
to the destruction of Moscow - which we feared more than anything in
the world; and for the French its immediate result was that they were
brought nearer to the destruction of their whole army - which they feared
more than anything in the world. What the result must be was quite
obvious, and yet Napoleon offered and Kutuzov accepted that battle.
If the commanders had been guided by reason, it would seem that it must
have been obvious to Napoleon that by advancing thirteen hundred miles
and giving battle with a probability of losing a quarter of his army,
he was advancing to certain destruction, and it must have been equally
clear to Kutuzov that by accepting battle and risking the loss of a
quarter of his army he would certainly lose Moscow. For Kutuzov this was
mathematically clear, as it is that if when playing draughts I have one
man less and go on exchanging, I shall certainly lose, and therefore
should not exchange. When my opponent has sixteen men and I have
fourteen, I am only one eighth weaker than he, but when I have exchanged
thirteen more men he will be three times as strong as I am.
Before the battle of Borodino our strength in proportion to the French
was about as five to six, but after that battle it was little more than
one to two: previously we had a hundred thousand against a hundred and
twenty thousand; afterwards little more than fifty thousand against a
hundred thousand. Yet the shrewd and experienced Kutuzov accepted the
battle, while Napoleon, who was said to be a commander of genius,
gave it, losing a quarter of his army and lengthening his lines of
communication still more. If it is said that he expected to end the
campaign by occupying Moscow as he had ended a previous campaign by
occupying Vienna, there is much evidence to the contrary. Napoleon’s
historians themselves tell us that from Smolensk onwards he wished
to stop, knew the danger of his extended position, and knew that the
occupation of Moscow would not be the end of the campaign, for he had
seen at Smolensk the state in which Russian towns were left to him, and
had not received a single reply to his repeated announcements of his
wish to negotiate.
In giving and accepting battle at Borodino, Kutuzov acted involuntarily
and irrationally. But later on, to fit what had occurred, the historians
provided cunningly devised evidence of the foresight and genius of the
generals who, of all the blind tools of history were the most enslaved
and involuntary.
The ancients have left us model heroic poems in which the heroes furnish
the whole interest of the story, and we are still unable to accustom
ourselves to the fact that for our epoch histories of that kind are
meaningless.
On the other question, how the battle of Borodino and the preceding
battle of Shevardino were fought, there also exists a definite and
well-known, but quite false, conception. All the historians describe the
affair as follows:
The Russian army, they say, in its retreat from Smolensk sought out
for itself the best position for a general engagement and found such a
position at Borodino.
The Russians, they say, fortified this position in advance on the left
of the highroad (from Moscow to Smolensk) and almost at a right angle
to it, from Borodino to Utitsa, at the very place where the battle was
fought.
In front of this position, they say, a fortified outpost was set up on
the Shevardino mound to observe the enemy. On the twenty-fourth, we
are told, Napoleon attacked this advanced post and took it, and, on the
twenty-sixth, attacked the whole Russian army, which was in position on
the field of Borodino.
So the histories say, and it is all quite wrong, as anyone who cares to
look into the matter can easily convince himself.
The Russians did not seek out the best position but, on the contrary,
during the retreat passed many positions better than Borodino. They did
not stop at any one of these positions because Kutuzov did not wish to
occupy a position he had not himself chosen, because the popular demand
for a battle had not yet expressed itself strongly enough, and because
Miloradovich had not yet arrived with the militia, and for many other
reasons. The fact is that other positions they had passed were stronger,
and that the position at Borodino (the one where the battle was fought),
far from being strong, was no more a position than any other spot one
might find in the Russian Empire by sticking a pin into the map at
hazard.
Not only did the Russians not fortify the position on the field of
Borodino to the left of, and at a right angle to, the highroad (that
is, the position on which the battle took place), but never till the
twenty-fifth of August, 1812, did they think that a battle might be
fought there. This was shown first by the fact that there were no
entrenchments there by the twenty fifth and that those begun on the
twenty-fifth and twenty-sixth were not completed, and secondly, by the
position of the Shevardino Redoubt. That redoubt was quite senseless
in front of the position where the battle was accepted. Why was it
more strongly fortified than any other post? And why were all efforts
exhausted and six thousand men sacrificed to defend it till late at
night on the twenty-fourth? A Cossack patrol would have sufficed to
observe the enemy. Thirdly, as proof that the position on which the
battle was fought had not been foreseen and that the Shevardino Redoubt
was not an advanced post of that position, we have the fact that up to
the twenty-fifth, Barclay de Tolly and Bagration were convinced that the
Shevardino Redoubt was the left flank of the position, and that Kutuzov
himself in his report, written in hot haste after the battle, speaks of
the Shevardino Redoubt as the left flank of the position. It was much
later, when reports on the battle of Borodino were written at leisure,
that the incorrect and extraordinary statement was invented (probably to
justify the mistakes of a commander in chief who had to be represented
as infallible) that the Shevardino Redoubt was an advanced post - whereas
in reality it was simply a fortified point on the left flank - and that
the battle of Borodino was fought by us on an entrenched position
previously selected, whereas it was fought on a quite unexpected spot
which was almost unentrenched.
The case was evidently this: a position was selected along the river
Kolocha - which crosses the highroad not at a right angle but at an acute
angle - so that the left flank was at Shevardino, the right flank near the
village of Novoe, and the center at Borodino at the confluence of the
rivers Kolocha and Voyna.
To anyone who looks at the field of Borodino without thinking of how
the battle was actually fought, this position, protected by the river
Kolocha, presents itself as obvious for an army whose object was to
prevent an enemy from advancing along the Smolensk road to Moscow.
Napoleon, riding to Valuevo on the twenty-fourth, did not see (as the
history books say he did) the position of the Russians from Utitsa
to Borodino (he could not have seen that position because it did not
exist), nor did he see an advanced post of the Russian army, but while
pursuing the Russian rearguard he came upon the left flank of the
Russian position - at the Shevardino Redoubt - and unexpectedly for the
Russians moved his army across the Kolocha. And the Russians, not having
time to begin a general engagement, withdrew their left wing from the
position they had intended to occupy and took up a new position which
had not been foreseen and was not fortified. By crossing to the other
side of the Kolocha to the left of the highroad, Napoleon shifted the
whole forthcoming battle from right to left (looking from the Russian
side) and transferred it to the plain between Utitsa, Semenovsk, and
Borodino - a plain no more advantageous as a position than any other plain
in Russia - and there the whole battle of the twenty-sixth of August took
place.
Had Napoleon not ridden out on the evening of the twenty-fourth to the
Kolocha, and had he not then ordered an immediate attack on the redoubt
but had begun the attack next morning, no one would have doubted that
the Shevardino Redoubt was the left flank of our position, and the
battle would have taken place where we expected it. In that case
we should probably have defended the Shevardino Redoubt - our left
flank - still more obstinately. We should have attacked Napoleon in the
center or on the right, and the engagement would have taken place on the
twenty-fifth, in the position we intended and had fortified. But as the
attack on our left flank took place in the evening after the retreat of
our rear guard (that is, immediately after the fight at Gridneva), and
as the Russian commanders did not wish, or were not in time, to begin a
general engagement then on the evening of the twenty-fourth, the first
and chief action of the battle of Borodino was already lost on the
twenty-fourth, and obviously led to the loss of the one fought on the
twenty-sixth.
After the loss of the Shevardino Redoubt, we found ourselves on the
morning of the twenty-fifth without a position for our left flank, and
were forced to bend it back and hastily entrench it where it chanced to
be.
Not only was the Russian army on the twenty-sixth defended by weak,
unfinished entrenchments, but the disadvantage of that position was
increased by the fact that the Russian commanders - not having fully
realized what had happened, namely the loss of our position on the left
flank and the shifting of the whole field of the forthcoming battle from
right to left - maintained their extended position from the village of
Novoe to Utitsa, and consequently had to move their forces from right to
left during the battle. So it happened that throughout the whole battle
the Russians opposed the entire French army launched against our left
flank with but half as many men. (Poniatowski’s action against Utitsa,
and Uvarov’s on the right flank against the French, were actions
distinct from the main course of the battle.) So the battle of Borodino
did not take place at all as (in an effort to conceal our commanders’
mistakes even at the cost of diminishing the glory due to the Russian
army and people) it has been described. The battle of Borodino was not
fought on a chosen and entrenched position with forces only slightly
weaker than those of the enemy, but, as a result of the loss of the
Shevardino Redoubt, the Russians fought the battle of Borodino on an
open and almost unentrenched position, with forces only half as numerous
as the French; that is to say, under conditions in which it was not
merely unthinkable to fight for ten hours and secure an indecisive
result, but unthinkable to keep an army even from complete
disintegration and flight.
CHAPTER XX
On the morning of the twenty-fifth Pierre was leaving Mozhaysk. At the
descent of the high steep hill, down which a winding road led out of the
town past the cathedral on the right, where a service was being held and
the bells were ringing, Pierre got out of his vehicle and proceeded on
foot. Behind him a cavalry regiment was coming down the hill preceded by
its singers. Coming up toward him was a train of carts carrying men who
had been wounded in the engagement the day before. The peasant drivers,
shouting and lashing their horses, kept crossing from side to side. The
carts, in each of which three or four wounded soldiers were lying
or sitting, jolted over the stones that had been thrown on the steep
incline to make it something like a road. The wounded, bandaged with
rags, with pale cheeks, compressed lips, and knitted brows, held on to
the sides of the carts as they were jolted against one another. Almost
all of them stared with naïve, childlike curiosity at Pierre’s white hat
and green swallow-tail coat.
Pierre’s coachman shouted angrily at the convoy of wounded to keep to
one side of the road. The cavalry regiment, as it descended the hill
with its singers, surrounded Pierre’s carriage and blocked the road.
Pierre stopped, being pressed against the side of the cutting in which
the road ran. The sunshine from behind the hill did not penetrate into
the cutting and there it was cold and damp, but above Pierre’s head was
the bright August sunshine and the bells sounded merrily. One of the
carts with wounded stopped by the side of the road close to Pierre. The
driver in his bast shoes ran panting up to it, placed a stone under one
of its tireless hind wheels, and began arranging the breech-band on his
little horse.
One of the wounded, an old soldier with a bandaged arm who was following
the cart on foot, caught hold of it with his sound hand and turned to
look at Pierre.
"I say, fellow countryman! Will they set us down here or take us on to
Moscow?" he asked.
Pierre was so deep in thought that he did not hear the question. He was
looking now at the cavalry regiment that had met the convoy of wounded,
now at the cart by which he was standing, in which two wounded men
were sitting and one was lying. One of those sitting up in the cart had
probably been wounded in the cheek. His whole head was wrapped in rags
and one cheek was swollen to the size of a baby’s head. His nose
and mouth were twisted to one side. This soldier was looking at the
cathedral and crossing himself. Another, a young lad, a fair-haired
recruit as white as though there was no blood in his thin face, looked
at Pierre kindly, with a fixed smile. The third lay prone so that his
face was not visible. The cavalry singers were passing close by:
Ah lost, quite lost... is my head so keen,
Living in a foreign land...
they sang their soldiers’ dance song.
As if responding to them but with a different sort of merriment, the
metallic sound of the bells reverberated high above and the hot rays of
the sun bathed the top of the opposite slope with yet another sort of
merriment. But beneath the slope, by the cart with the wounded near the
panting little nag where Pierre stood, it was damp, somber, and sad.
The soldier with the swollen cheek looked angrily at the cavalry
singers.
"Oh, the coxcombs!" he muttered reproachfully.
"It’s not the soldiers only, but I’ve seen peasants today, too....
The peasants - even they have to go," said the soldier behind the cart,
addressing Pierre with a sad smile. "No distinctions made nowadays....
They want the whole nation to fall on them - in a word, it’s Moscow! They
want to make an end of it."
In spite of the obscurity of the soldier’s words Pierre understood what
he wanted to say and nodded approval.
The road was clear again; Pierre descended the hill and drove on.
He kept looking to either side of the road for familiar faces, but only
saw everywhere the unfamiliar faces of various military men of different
branches of the service, who all looked with astonishment at his white
hat and green tail coat.
Having gone nearly three miles he at last met an acquaintance and
eagerly addressed him. This was one of the head army doctors. He was
driving toward Pierre in a covered gig, sitting beside a young surgeon,
and on recognizing Pierre he told the Cossack who occupied the driver’s
seat to pull up.
"Count! Your excellency, how come you to be here?" asked the doctor.
"Well, you know, I wanted to see..."
"Yes, yes, there will be something to see...."
Pierre got out and talked to the doctor, explaining his intention of
taking part in a battle.
The doctor advised him to apply direct to Kutuzov.
"Why should you be God knows where out of sight, during the battle?" he
said, exchanging glances with his young companion. "Anyhow his Serene
Highness knows you and will receive you graciously. That’s what you must
do."
The doctor seemed tired and in a hurry.
"You think so?... Ah, I also wanted to ask you where our position is
exactly?" said Pierre.
"The position?" repeated the doctor. "Well, that’s not my line. Drive
past Tatarinova, a lot of digging is going on there. Go up the hillock
and you’ll see."
"Can one see from there?... If you would..."
But the doctor interrupted him and moved toward his gig.
"I would go with you but on my honor I’m up to here" - and he pointed to
his throat. "I’m galloping to the commander of the corps. How do matters
stand?... You know, Count, there’ll be a battle tomorrow. Out of an army
of a hundred thousand we must expect at least twenty thousand wounded,
and we haven’t stretchers, or bunks, or dressers, or doctors enough for
six thousand. We have ten thousand carts, but we need other things as
well - we must manage as best we can!"
The strange thought that of the thousands of men, young and old, who
had stared with merry surprise at his hat (perhaps the very men he had
noticed), twenty thousand were inevitably doomed to wounds and death
amazed Pierre.
"They may die tomorrow; why are they thinking of anything but death?"
And by some latent sequence of thought the descent of the Mozhaysk hill,
the carts with the wounded, the ringing bells, the slanting rays of the
sun, and the songs of the cavalrymen vividly recurred to his mind.
"The cavalry ride to battle and meet the wounded and do not for a moment
think of what awaits them, but pass by, winking at the wounded. Yet from
among these men twenty thousand are doomed to die, and they wonder at my
hat! Strange!" thought Pierre, continuing his way to Tatarinova.
In front of a landowner’s house to the left of the road stood carriages,
wagons, and crowds of orderlies and sentinels. The commander in chief
was putting up there, but just when Pierre arrived he was not in and
hardly any of the staff were there - they had gone to the church service.
Pierre drove on toward Gorki.
When he had ascended the hill and reached the little village street, he
saw for the first time peasant militiamen in their white shirts and with
crosses on their caps, who, talking and laughing loudly, animated and
perspiring, were at work on a huge knoll overgrown with grass to the
right of the road.
Some of them were digging, others were wheeling barrowloads of earth
along planks, while others stood about doing nothing.
Two officers were standing on the knoll, directing the men. On seeing
these peasants, who were evidently still amused by the novelty of their
position as soldiers, Pierre once more thought of the wounded men at
Mozhaysk and understood what the soldier had meant when he said: "They
want the whole nation to fall on them." The sight of these bearded
peasants at work on the battlefield, with their queer, clumsy boots
and perspiring necks, and their shirts opening from the left toward
the middle, unfastened, exposing their sunburned collarbones, impressed
Pierre more strongly with the solemnity and importance of the moment
than anything he had yet seen or heard.
CHAPTER XXI
Pierre stepped out of his carriage and, passing the toiling militiamen,
ascended the knoll from which, according to the doctor, the battlefield
could be seen.
It was about eleven o’clock. The sun shone somewhat to the left and
behind him and brightly lit up the enormous panorama which, rising like
an amphitheater, extended before him in the clear rarefied atmosphere.
From above on the left, bisecting that amphitheater, wound the Smolensk
highroad, passing through a village with a white church some five
hundred paces in front of the knoll and below it. This was Borodino.
Below the village the road crossed the river by a bridge and, winding
down and up, rose higher and higher to the village of Valuevo visible
about four miles away, where Napoleon was then stationed. Beyond Valuevo
the road disappeared into a yellowing forest on the horizon. Far in
the distance in that birch and fir forest to the right of the road, the
cross and belfry of the Kolocha Monastery gleamed in the sun. Here and
there over the whole of that blue expanse, to right and left of the
forest and the road, smoking campfires could be seen and indefinite
masses of troops - ours and the enemy’s. The ground to the right - along the
course of the Kolocha and Moskva rivers - was broken and hilly. Between
the hollows the villages of Bezubova and Zakharino showed in the
distance. On the left the ground was more level; there were fields of
grain, and the smoking ruins of Semenovsk, which had been burned down,
could be seen.
All that Pierre saw was so indefinite that neither the left nor the
right side of the field fully satisfied his expectations. Nowhere
could he see the battlefield he had expected to find, but only fields,
meadows, troops, woods, the smoke of campfires, villages, mounds, and
streams; and try as he would he could descry no military "position" in
this place which teemed with life, nor could he even distinguish our
troops from the enemy’s.
"I must ask someone who knows," he thought, and addressed an officer who
was looking with curiosity at his huge unmilitary figure.
"May I ask you," said Pierre, "what village that is in front?"
"Burdino, isn’t it?" said the officer, turning to his companion.
"Borodino," the other corrected him.
The officer, evidently glad of an opportunity for a talk, moved up to
Pierre.
"Are those our men there?" Pierre inquired.
"Yes, and there, further on, are the French," said the officer. "There
they are, there... you can see them."
"Where? Where?" asked Pierre.
"One can see them with the naked eye... Why, there!"
The officer pointed with his hand to the smoke visible on the left
beyond the river, and the same stern and serious expression that Pierre
had noticed on many of the faces he had met came into his face.
"Ah, those are the French! And over there?..." Pierre pointed to a knoll
on the left, near which some troops could be seen.
"Those are ours."
"Ah, ours! And there?..." Pierre pointed to another knoll in the
distance with a big tree on it, near a village that lay in a hollow
where also some campfires were smoking and something black was visible.
"That’s his again," said the officer. (It was the Shevardino Redoubt.)
"It was ours yesterday, but now it is his."
"Then how about our position?"
"Our position?" replied the officer with a smile of satisfaction. "I
can tell you quite clearly, because I constructed nearly all our
entrenchments. There, you see? There’s our center, at Borodino, just
there," and he pointed to the village in front of them with the white
church. "That’s where one crosses the Kolocha. You see down there where
the rows of hay are lying in the hollow, there’s the bridge. That’s our
center. Our right flank is over there" - he pointed sharply to the right,
far away in the broken ground - "That’s where the Moskva River is, and
we have thrown up three redoubts there, very strong ones. The left
flank..." here the officer paused. "Well, you see, that’s difficult to
explain.... Yesterday our left flank was there at Shevardino, you see,
where the oak is, but now we have withdrawn our left wing - now it is over
there, do you see that village and the smoke? That’s Semenovsk, yes,
there," he pointed to Raevski’s knoll. "But the battle will hardly
be there. His having moved his troops there is only a ruse; he will
probably pass round to the right of the Moskva. But wherever it may be,
many a man will be missing tomorrow!" he remarked.
An elderly sergeant who had approached the officer while he was giving
these explanations had waited in silence for him to finish speaking, but
at this point, evidently not liking the officer’s remark, interrupted
him.
"Gabions must be sent for," said he sternly.
The officer appeared abashed, as though he understood that one might
think of how many men would be missing tomorrow but ought not to speak
of it.
"Well, send number three company again," the officer replied hurriedly.
"And you, are you one of the doctors?"
"No, I’ve come on my own," answered Pierre, and he went down the hill
again, passing the militiamen.
"Oh, those damned fellows!" muttered the officer who followed him,
holding his nose as he ran past the men at work.
"There they are... bringing her, coming... There they are... They’ll be
here in a minute..." voices were suddenly heard saying; and officers,
soldiers, and militiamen began running forward along the road.
A church procession was coming up the hill from Borodino. First along
the dusty road came the infantry in ranks, bareheaded and with arms
reversed. From behind them came the sound of church singing.
Soldiers and militiamen ran bareheaded past Pierre toward the
procession.
"They are bringing her, our Protectress!... The Iberian Mother of God!"
someone cried.
"The Smolensk Mother of God," another corrected him.
The militiamen, both those who had been in the village and those who had
been at work on the battery, threw down their spades and ran to meet the
church procession. Following the battalion that marched along the dusty
road came priests in their vestments - one little old man in a hood with
attendants and singers. Behind them soldiers and officers bore a large,
dark-faced icon with an embossed metal cover. This was the icon that had
been brought from Smolensk and had since accompanied the army. Behind,
before, and on both sides, crowds of militiamen with bared heads walked,
ran, and bowed to the ground.
At the summit of the hill they stopped with the icon; the men who had
been holding it up by the linen bands attached to it were relieved by
others, the chanters relit their censers, and service began. The hot
rays of the sun beat down vertically and a fresh soft wind played with
the hair of the bared heads and with the ribbons decorating the icon.
The singing did not sound loud under the open sky. An immense crowd
of bareheaded officers, soldiers, and militiamen surrounded the icon.
Behind the priest and a chanter stood the notabilities on a spot
reserved for them. A bald general with a St. George’s Cross on his neck
stood just behind the priest’s back, and without crossing himself (he
was evidently a German) patiently awaited the end of the service, which
he considered it necessary to hear to the end, probably to arouse the
patriotism of the Russian people. Another general stood in a martial
pose, crossing himself by shaking his hand in front of his chest
while looking about him. Standing among the crowd of peasants, Pierre
recognized several acquaintances among these notables, but did not
look at them - his whole attention was absorbed in watching the serious
expression on the faces of the crowd of soldiers and militiamen who were
all gazing eagerly at the icon. As soon as the tired chanters, who were
singing the service for the twentieth time that day, began lazily and
mechanically to sing: "Save from calamity Thy servants, O Mother of
God," and the priest and deacon chimed in: "For to Thee under God we all
flee as to an inviolable bulwark and protection," there again kindled in
all those faces the same expression of consciousness of the solemnity
of the impending moment that Pierre had seen on the faces at the foot of
the hill at Mozhaysk and momentarily on many and many faces he had met
that morning; and heads were bowed more frequently and hair tossed back,
and sighs and the sound men made as they crossed themselves were heard.
The crowd round the icon suddenly parted and pressed against Pierre.
Someone, a very important personage judging by the haste with which way
was made for him, was approaching the icon.
It was Kutuzov, who had been riding round the position and on his way
back to Tatarinova had stopped where the service was being held. Pierre
recognized him at once by his peculiar figure, which distinguished him
from everybody else.
With a long overcoat on his exceedingly stout, round-shouldered body,
with uncovered white head and puffy face showing the white ball of the
eye he had lost, Kutuzov walked with plunging, swaying gait into
the crowd and stopped behind the priest. He crossed himself with an
accustomed movement, bent till he touched the ground with his hand, and
bowed his white head with a deep sigh. Behind Kutuzov was Bennigsen and
the suite. Despite the presence of the commander in chief, who attracted
the attention of all the superior officers, the militiamen and soldiers
continued their prayers without looking at him.
When the service was over, Kutuzov stepped up to the icon, sank heavily
to his knees, bowed to the ground, and for a long time tried vainly to
rise, but could not do so on account of his weakness and weight. His
white head twitched with the effort. At last he rose, kissed the icon as
a child does with naïvely pouting lips, and again bowed till he touched
the ground with his hand. The other generals followed his example,
then the officers, and after them with excited faces, pressing on one
another, crowding, panting, and pushing, scrambled the soldiers and
militiamen.
CHAPTER XXII
Staggering amid the crush, Pierre looked about him.
"Count Peter Kirilovich! How did you get here?" said a voice.
Pierre looked round. Boris Drubetskoy, brushing his knees with his hand
(he had probably soiled them when he, too, had knelt before the icon),
came up to him smiling. Boris was elegantly dressed, with a slightly
martial touch appropriate to a campaign. He wore a long coat and like
Kutuzov had a whip slung across his shoulder.
Meanwhile Kutuzov had reached the village and seated himself in the
shade of the nearest house, on a bench which one Cossack had run
to fetch and another had hastily covered with a rug. An immense and
brilliant suite surrounded him.
The icon was carried further, accompanied by the throng. Pierre stopped
some thirty paces from Kutuzov, talking to Boris.
He explained his wish to be present at the battle and to see the
position.
"This is what you must do," said Boris. "I will do the honors of the
camp to you. You will see everything best from where Count Bennigsen
will be. I am in attendance on him, you know; I’ll mention it to him.
But if you want to ride round the position, come along with us. We are
just going to the left flank. Then when we get back, do spend the night
with me and we’ll arrange a game of cards. Of course you know Dmitri
Sergeevich? Those are his quarters," and he pointed to the third house
in the village of Gorki.
"But I should like to see the right flank. They say it’s very strong,"
said Pierre. "I should like to start from the Moskva River and ride
round the whole position."
"Well, you can do that later, but the chief thing is the left flank."
"Yes, yes. But where is Prince Bolkonski’s regiment? Can you point it
out to me?"
"Prince Andrew’s? We shall pass it and I’ll take you to him."
"What about the left flank?" asked Pierre
"To tell you the truth, between ourselves, God only knows what state our
left flank is in," said Boris confidentially lowering his voice. "It is
not at all what Count Bennigsen intended. He meant to fortify that knoll
quite differently, but..." Boris shrugged his shoulders, "his Serene
Highness would not have it, or someone persuaded him. You see..." but
Boris did not finish, for at that moment Kaysarov, Kutuzov’s adjutant,
came up to Pierre. "Ah, Kaysarov!" said Boris, addressing him with an
unembarrassed smile, "I was just trying to explain our position to
the count. It is amazing how his Serene Highness could so foresee the
intentions of the French!"
"You mean the left flank?" asked Kaysarov.
"Yes, exactly; the left flank is now extremely strong."
Though Kutuzov had dismissed all unnecessary men from the staff, Boris
had contrived to remain at headquarters after the changes. He had
established himself with Count Bennigsen, who, like all on whom Boris
had been in attendance, considered young Prince Drubetskoy an invaluable
man.
In the higher command there were two sharply defined parties: Kutuzov’s
party and that of Bennigsen, the chief of staff. Boris belonged to the
latter and no one else, while showing servile respect to Kutuzov, could
so create an impression that the old fellow was not much good and that
Bennigsen managed everything. Now the decisive moment of battle had come
when Kutuzov would be destroyed and the power pass to Bennigsen, or even
if Kutuzov won the battle it would be felt that everything was done by
Bennigsen. In any case many great rewards would have to be given for
tomorrow’s action, and new men would come to the front. So Boris was
full of nervous vivacity all day.
After Kaysarov, others whom Pierre knew came up to him, and he had not
time to reply to all the questions about Moscow that were showered upon
him, or to listen to all that was told him. The faces all expressed
animation and apprehension, but it seemed to Pierre that the cause of
the excitement shown in some of these faces lay chiefly in questions
of personal success; his mind, however, was occupied by the different
expression he saw on other faces - an expression that spoke not of
personal matters but of the universal questions of life and death.
Kutuzov noticed Pierre’s figure and the group gathered round him.
"Call him to me," said Kutuzov.
An adjutant told Pierre of his Serene Highness’ wish, and Pierre went
toward Kutuzov’s bench. But a militiaman got there before him. It was
Dolokhov.
"How did that fellow get here?" asked Pierre.
"He’s a creature that wriggles in anywhere!" was the answer. "He
has been degraded, you know. Now he wants to bob up again. He’s been
proposing some scheme or other and has crawled into the enemy’s picket
line at night.... He’s a brave fellow."
Pierre took off his hat and bowed respectfully to Kutuzov.
"I concluded that if I reported to your Serene Highness you might send
me away or say that you knew what I was reporting, but then I shouldn’t
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