History (or what is called by that name) replying to these questions
says that this occurred because Kutuzov and Tormasov and Chichagov, and
this man and that man, did not execute such and such maneuvers....
But why did they not execute those maneuvers? And why if they were
guilty of not carrying out a prearranged plan were they not tried and
punished? But even if we admitted that Kutuzov, Chichagov, and others
were the cause of the Russian failures, it is still incomprehensible
why, the position of the Russian army being what it was at Krasnoe and
at the Berezina (in both cases we had superior forces), the French army
with its marshals, kings, and Emperor was not captured, if that was what
the Russians aimed at.
The explanation of this strange fact given by Russian military
historians (to the effect that Kutuzov hindered an attack) is unfounded,
for we know that he could not restrain the troops from attacking at
Vyazma and Tarutino.
Why was the Russian army - which with inferior forces had withstood the
enemy in full strength at Borodino - defeated at Krasnoe and the Berezina
by the disorganized crowds of the French when it was numerically
superior?
If the aim of the Russians consisted in cutting off and capturing
Napoleon and his marshals - and that aim was not merely frustrated but all
attempts to attain it were most shamefully baffled - then this last period
of the campaign is quite rightly considered by the French to be a
series of victories, and quite wrongly considered victorious by Russian
historians.
The Russian military historians in so far as they submit to claims
of logic must admit that conclusion, and in spite of their lyrical
rhapsodies about valor, devotion, and so forth, must reluctantly admit
that the French retreat from Moscow was a series of victories for
Napoleon and defeats for Kutuzov.
But putting national vanity entirely aside one feels that such a
conclusion involves a contradiction, since the series of French
victories brought the French complete destruction, while the series
of Russian defeats led to the total destruction of their enemy and the
liberation of their country.
The source of this contradiction lies in the fact that the historians
studying the events from the letters of the sovereigns and the generals,
from memoirs, reports, projects, and so forth, have attributed to this
last period of the war of 1812 an aim that never existed, namely that of
cutting off and capturing Napoleon with his marshals and his army.
There never was or could have been such an aim, for it would have been
senseless and its attainment quite impossible.
It would have been senseless, first because Napoleon’s disorganized
army was flying from Russia with all possible speed, that is to say, was
doing just what every Russian desired. So what was the use of performing
various operations on the French who were running away as fast as they
possibly could?
Secondly, it would have been senseless to block the passage of men whose
whole energy was directed to flight.
Thirdly, it would have been senseless to sacrifice one’s own troops in
order to destroy the French army, which without external interference
was destroying itself at such a rate that, though its path was not
blocked, it could not carry across the frontier more than it actually
did in December, namely a hundredth part of the original army.
Fourthly, it would have been senseless to wish to take captive the
Emperor, kings, and dukes - whose capture would have been in the highest
degree embarrassing for the Russians, as the most adroit diplomatists of
the time (Joseph de Maistre and others) recognized. Still more senseless
would have been the wish to capture army corps of the French, when our
own army had melted away to half before reaching Krasnoe and a whole
division would have been needed to convoy the corps of prisoners, and
when our men were not always getting full rations and the prisoners
already taken were perishing of hunger.
All the profound plans about cutting off and capturing Napoleon and his
army were like the plan of a market gardener who, when driving out of
his garden a cow that had trampled down the beds he had planted, should
run to the gate and hit the cow on the head. The only thing to be said
in excuse of that gardener would be that he was very angry. But not even
that could be said for those who drew up this project, for it was not
they who had suffered from the trampled beds.
But besides the fact that cutting off Napoleon with his army would have
been senseless, it was impossible.
It was impossible first because - as experience shows that a three-mile
movement of columns on a battlefield never coincides with the plans - the
probability of Chichagov, Kutuzov, and Wittgenstein effecting a junction
on time at an appointed place was so remote as to be tantamount to
impossibility, as in fact thought Kutuzov, who when he received the plan
remarked that diversions planned over great distances do not yield the
desired results.
Secondly it was impossible, because to paralyze the momentum with which
Napoleon’s army was retiring, incomparably greater forces than the
Russians possessed would have been required.
Thirdly it was impossible, because the military term "to cut off" has no
meaning. One can cut off a slice of bread, but not an army. To cut off
an army - to bar its road - is quite impossible, for there is always plenty
of room to avoid capture and there is the night when nothing can be
seen, as the military scientists might convince themselves by the
example of Krasnoe and of the Berezina. It is only possible to capture
prisoners if they agree to be captured, just as it is only possible
to catch a swallow if it settles on one’s hand. Men can only be taken
prisoners if they surrender according to the rules of strategy and
tactics, as the Germans did. But the French troops quite rightly did not
consider that this suited them, since death by hunger and cold awaited
them in flight or captivity alike.
Fourthly and chiefly it was impossible, because never since the world
began has a war been fought under such conditions as those that obtained
in 1812, and the Russian army in its pursuit of the French strained its
strength to the utmost and could not have done more without destroying
itself.
During the movement of the Russian army from Tarutino to Krasnoe it
lost fifty thousand sick or stragglers, that is a number equal to the
population of a large provincial town. Half the men fell out of the army
without a battle.
And it is of this period of the campaign - when the army lacked boots
and sheepskin coats, was short of provisions and without vodka, and
was camping out at night for months in the snow with fifteen degrees
of frost, when there were only seven or eight hours of daylight and
the rest was night in which the influence of discipline cannot be
maintained, when men were taken into that region of death where
discipline fails, not for a few hours only as in a battle, but for
months, where they were every moment fighting death from hunger and
cold, when half the army perished in a single month - it is of this period
of the campaign that the historians tell us how Miloradovich should have
made a flank march to such and such a place, Tormasov to another place,
and Chichagov should have crossed (more than knee-deep in snow) to
somewhere else, and how so-and-so "routed" and "cut off" the French and
so on and so on.
The Russians, half of whom died, did all that could and should have been
done to attain an end worthy of the nation, and they are not to blame
because other Russians, sitting in warm rooms, proposed that they should
do what was impossible.
All that strange contradiction now difficult to understand between the
facts and the historical accounts only arises because the historians
dealing with the matter have written the history of the beautiful words
and sentiments of various generals, and not the history of the events.
To them the words of Miloradovich seem very interesting, and so do their
surmises and the rewards this or that general received; but the question
of those fifty thousand men who were left in hospitals and in graves
does not even interest them, for it does not come within the range of
their investigation.
Yet one need only discard the study of the reports and general plans and
consider the movement of those hundreds of thousands of men who took a
direct part in the events, and all the questions that seemed insoluble
easily and simply receive an immediate and certain solution.
The aim of cutting off Napoleon and his army never existed except in
the imaginations of a dozen people. It could not exist because it was
senseless and unattainable.
The people had a single aim: to free their land from invasion. That aim
was attained in the first place of itself, as the French ran away,
and so it was only necessary not to stop their flight. Secondly it was
attained by the guerrilla warfare which was destroying the French, and
thirdly by the fact that a large Russian army was following the French,
ready to use its strength in case their movement stopped.
The Russian army had to act like a whip to a running animal. And the
experienced driver knew it was better to hold the whip raised as a
menace than to strike the running animal on the head.
BOOK FIFTEEN: 1812 - 13
CHAPTER I
When seeing a dying animal a man feels a sense of horror: substance
similar to his own is perishing before his eyes. But when it is a
beloved and intimate human being that is dying, besides this horror at
the extinction of life there is a severance, a spiritual wound, which
like a physical wound is sometimes fatal and sometimes heals, but always
aches and shrinks at any external irritating touch.
After Prince Andrew’s death Natasha and Princess Mary alike felt this.
Drooping in spirit and closing their eyes before the menacing cloud of
death that overhung them, they dared not look life in the face. They
carefully guarded their open wounds from any rough and painful contact.
Everything: a carriage passing rapidly in the street, a summons to
dinner, the maid’s inquiry what dress to prepare, or worse still any
word of insincere or feeble sympathy, seemed an insult, painfully
irritated the wound, interrupting that necessary quiet in which
they both tried to listen to the stern and dreadful choir that still
resounded in their imagination, and hindered their gazing into those
mysterious limitless vistas that for an instant had opened out before
them.
Only when alone together were they free from such outrage and pain.
They spoke little even to one another, and when they did it was of very
unimportant matters.
Both avoided any allusion to the future. To admit the possibility of
a future seemed to them to insult his memory. Still more carefully did
they avoid anything relating to him who was dead. It seemed to them that
what they had lived through and experienced could not be expressed in
words, and that any reference to the details of his life infringed the
majesty and sacredness of the mystery that had been accomplished before
their eyes.
Continued abstention from speech, and constant avoidance of everything
that might lead up to the subject - this halting on all sides at the
boundary of what they might not mention - brought before their minds with
still greater purity and clearness what they were both feeling.
But pure and complete sorrow is as impossible as pure and complete joy.
Princess Mary, in her position as absolute and independent arbiter of
her own fate and guardian and instructor of her nephew, was the first to
be called back to life from that realm of sorrow in which she had dwelt
for the first fortnight. She received letters from her relations to
which she had to reply; the room in which little Nicholas had been put
was damp and he began to cough; Alpatych came to Yaroslavl with reports
on the state of their affairs and with advice and suggestions that they
should return to Moscow to the house on the Vozdvizhenka Street, which
had remained uninjured and needed only slight repairs. Life did not
stand still and it was necessary to live. Hard as it was for Princess
Mary to emerge from the realm of secluded contemplation in which she
had lived till then, and sorry and almost ashamed as she felt to leave
Natasha alone, yet the cares of life demanded her attention and she
involuntarily yielded to them. She went through the accounts with
Alpatych, conferred with Dessalles about her nephew, and gave orders and
made preparations for the journey to Moscow.
Natasha remained alone and, from the time Princess Mary began making
preparations for departure, held aloof from her too.
Princess Mary asked the countess to let Natasha go with her to Moscow,
and both parents gladly accepted this offer, for they saw their daughter
losing strength every day and thought that a change of scene and the
advice of Moscow doctors would be good for her.
"I am not going anywhere," Natasha replied when this was proposed to
her. "Do please just leave me alone!" And she ran out of the room, with
difficulty refraining from tears of vexation and irritation rather than
of sorrow.
After she felt herself deserted by Princes Mary and alone in her grief,
Natasha spent most of the time in her room by herself, sitting huddled
up feet and all in the corner of the sofa, tearing and twisting
something with her slender nervous fingers and gazing intently and
fixedly at whatever her eyes chanced to fall on. This solitude exhausted
and tormented her but she was in absolute need of it. As soon as anyone
entered she got up quickly, changed her position and expression, and
picked up a book or some sewing, evidently waiting impatiently for the
intruder to go.
She felt all the time as if she might at any moment penetrate that
on which - with a terrible questioning too great for her strength - her
spiritual gaze was fixed.
One day toward the end of December Natasha, pale and thin, dressed in a
black woolen gown, her plaited hair negligently twisted into a knot, was
crouched feet and all in the corner of her sofa, nervously crumpling and
smoothing out the end of her sash while she looked at a corner of the
door.
She was gazing in the direction in which he had gone - to the other side
of life. And that other side of life, of which she had never before
thought and which had formerly seemed to her so far away and improbable,
was now nearer and more akin and more comprehensible than this side of
life, where everything was either emptiness and desolation or suffering
and indignity.
She was gazing where she knew him to be; but she could not imagine him
otherwise than as he had been here. She now saw him again as he had been
at Mytishchi, at Troitsa, and at Yaroslavl.
She saw his face, heard his voice, repeated his words and her own, and
sometimes devised other words they might have spoken.
There he is lying back in an armchair in his velvet cloak, leaning
his head on his thin pale hand. His chest is dreadfully hollow and his
shoulders raised. His lips are firmly closed, his eyes glitter, and a
wrinkle comes and goes on his pale forehead. One of his legs twitches
just perceptibly, but rapidly. Natasha knows that he is struggling with
terrible pain. "What is that pain like? Why does he have that pain? What
does he feel? How does it hurt him?" thought Natasha. He noticed her
watching him, raised his eyes, and began to speak seriously:
"One thing would be terrible," said he: "to bind oneself forever to a
suffering man. It would be continual torture." And he looked searchingly
at her. Natasha as usual answered before she had time to think what she
would say. She said: "This can’t go on - it won’t. You will get well - quite
well."
She now saw him from the commencement of that scene and relived what she
had then felt. She recalled his long sad and severe look at those words
and understood the meaning of the rebuke and despair in that protracted
gaze.
"I agreed," Natasha now said to herself, "that it would be dreadful if
he always continued to suffer. I said it then only because it would have
been dreadful for him, but he understood it differently. He thought it
would be dreadful for me. He then still wished to live and feared death.
And I said it so awkwardly and stupidly! I did not say what I meant.
I thought quite differently. Had I said what I thought, I should have
said: even if he had to go on dying, to die continually before my eyes,
I should have been happy compared with what I am now. Now there is
nothing... nobody. Did he know that? No, he did not and never will know
it. And now it will never, never be possible to put it right." And
now he again seemed to be saying the same words to her, only in her
imagination Natasha this time gave him a different answer. She stopped
him and said: "Terrible for you, but not for me! You know that for me
there is nothing in life but you, and to suffer with you is the greatest
happiness for me," and he took her hand and pressed it as he had
pressed it that terrible evening four days before his death. And in her
imagination she said other tender and loving words which she might have
said then but only spoke now: "I love thee!... thee! I love, love..."
she said, convulsively pressing her hands and setting her teeth with a
desperate effort....
She was overcome by sweet sorrow and tears were already rising in her
eyes; then she suddenly asked herself to whom she was saying this.
Again everything was shrouded in hard, dry perplexity, and again with a
strained frown she peered toward the world where he was. And now, now
it seemed to her she was penetrating the mystery.... But at the instant
when it seemed that the incomprehensible was revealing itself to her a
loud rattle of the door handle struck painfully on her ears. Dunyasha,
her maid, entered the room quickly and abruptly with a frightened look
on her face and showing no concern for her mistress.
"Come to your Papa at once, please!" said she with a strange, excited
look. "A misfortune... about Peter Ilynich... a letter," she finished
with a sob.
CHAPTER II
Besides a feeling of aloofness from everybody Natasha was feeling a
special estrangement from the members of her own family. All of
them - her father, mother, and Sonya - were so near to her, so familiar, so
commonplace, that all their words and feelings seemed an insult to the
world in which she had been living of late, and she felt not merely
indifferent to them but regarded them with hostility. She heard
Dunyasha’s words about Peter Ilynich and a misfortune, but did not grasp
them.
"What misfortune? What misfortune can happen to them? They just live
their own old, quiet, and commonplace life," thought Natasha.
As she entered the ballroom her father was hurriedly coming out of
her mother’s room. His face was puckered up and wet with tears. He
had evidently run out of that room to give vent to the sobs that were
choking him. When he saw Natasha he waved his arms despairingly and
burst into convulsively painful sobs that distorted his soft round face.
"Pe... Petya... Go, go, she... is calling..." and weeping like a child
and quickly shuffling on his feeble legs to a chair, he almost fell into
it, covering his face with his hands.
Suddenly an electric shock seemed to run through Natasha’s whole being.
Terrible anguish struck her heart, she felt a dreadful ache as if
something was being torn inside her and she were dying. But the pain
was immediately followed by a feeling of release from the oppressive
constraint that had prevented her taking part in life. The sight of her
father, the terribly wild cries of her mother that she heard through the
door, made her immediately forget herself and her own grief.
She ran to her father, but he feebly waved his arm, pointing to her
mother’s door. Princess Mary, pale and with quivering chin, came out
from that room and taking Natasha by the arm said something to her.
Natasha neither saw nor heard her. She went in with rapid steps, pausing
at the door for an instant as if struggling with herself, and then ran
to her mother.
The countess was lying in an armchair in a strange and awkward position,
stretching out and beating her head against the wall. Sonya and the
maids were holding her arms.
"Natasha! Natasha!..." cried the countess. "It’s not true... it’s not
true... He’s lying... Natasha!" she shrieked, pushing those around her
away. "Go away, all of you; it’s not true! Killed!... ha, ha, ha!...
It’s not true!"
Natasha put one knee on the armchair, stooped over her mother, embraced
her, and with unexpected strength raised her, turned her face toward
herself, and clung to her.
"Mummy!... darling!... I am here, my dearest Mummy," she kept on
whispering, not pausing an instant.
She did not let go of her mother but struggled tenderly with her,
demanded a pillow and hot water, and unfastened and tore open her
mother’s dress.
"My dearest darling... Mummy, my precious!..." she whispered
incessantly, kissing her head, her hands, her face, and feeling her own
irrepressible and streaming tears tickling her nose and cheeks.
The countess pressed her daughter’s hand, closed her eyes, and became
quiet for a moment. Suddenly she sat up with unaccustomed swiftness,
glanced vacantly around her, and seeing Natasha began to press her
daughter’s head with all her strength. Then she turned toward her
daughter’s face which was wincing with pain and gazed long at it.
"Natasha, you love me?" she said in a soft trustful whisper. "Natasha,
you would not deceive me? You’ll tell me the whole truth?"
Natasha looked at her with eyes full of tears and in her look there was
nothing but love and an entreaty for forgiveness.
"My darling Mummy!" she repeated, straining all the power of her love to
find some way of taking on herself the excess of grief that crushed her
mother.
And again in a futile struggle with reality her mother, refusing to
believe that she could live when her beloved boy was killed in the bloom
of life, escaped from reality into a world of delirium.
Natasha did not remember how that day passed nor that night, nor the
next day and night. She did not sleep and did not leave her mother. Her
persevering and patient love seemed completely to surround the countess
every moment, not explaining or consoling, but recalling her to life.
During the third night the countess kept very quiet for a few minutes,
and Natasha rested her head on the arm of her chair and closed her eyes,
but opened them again on hearing the bedstead creak. The countess was
sitting up in bed and speaking softly.
"How glad I am you have come. You are tired. Won’t you have some tea?"
Natasha went up to her. "You have improved in looks and grown more
manly," continued the countess, taking her daughter’s hand.
"Mamma! What are you saying..."
"Natasha, he is no more, no more!"
And embracing her daughter, the countess began to weep for the first
time.
CHAPTER III
Princess Mary postponed her departure. Sonya and the count tried to
replace Natasha but could not. They saw that she alone was able to
restrain her mother from unreasoning despair. For three weeks Natasha
remained constantly at her mother’s side, sleeping on a lounge chair
in her room, making her eat and drink, and talking to her incessantly
because the mere sound of her tender, caressing tones soothed her
mother.
The mother’s wounded spirit could not heal. Petya’s death had torn from
her half her life. When the news of Petya’s death had come she had been
a fresh and vigorous woman of fifty, but a month later she left her room
a listless old woman taking no interest in life. But the same blow that
almost killed the countess, this second blow, restored Natasha to life.
A spiritual wound produced by a rending of the spiritual body is like
a physical wound and, strange as it may seem, just as a deep wound may
heal and its edges join, physical and spiritual wounds alike can yet
heal completely only as the result of a vital force from within.
Natasha’s wound healed in that way. She thought her life was ended,
but her love for her mother unexpectedly showed her that the essence of
life - love - was still active within her. Love awoke and so did life.
Prince Andrew’s last days had bound Princess Mary and Natasha together;
this new sorrow brought them still closer to one another. Princess Mary
put off her departure, and for three weeks looked after Natasha as if
she had been a sick child. The last weeks passed in her mother’s bedroom
had strained Natasha’s physical strength.
One afternoon noticing Natasha shivering with fever, Princess Mary took
her to her own room and made her lie down on the bed. Natasha lay down,
but when Princess Mary had drawn the blinds and was going away she
called her back.
"I don’t want to sleep, Mary, sit by me a little."
"You are tired - try to sleep."
"No, no. Why did you bring me away? She will be asking for me."
"She is much better. She spoke so well today," said Princess Mary.
Natasha lay on the bed and in the semidarkness of the room scanned
Princess Mary’s face.
"Is she like him?" thought Natasha. "Yes, like and yet not like. But she
is quite original, strange, new, and unknown. And she loves me. What
is in her heart? All that is good. But how? What is her mind like? What
does she think about me? Yes, she is splendid!"
"Mary," she said timidly, drawing Princess Mary’s hand to herself,
"Mary, you mustn’t think me wicked. No? Mary darling, how I love you!
Let us be quite, quite friends."
And Natasha, embracing her, began kissing her face and hands, making
Princess Mary feel shy but happy by this demonstration of her feelings.
From that day a tender and passionate friendship such as exists only
between women was established between Princess Mary and Natasha. They
were continually kissing and saying tender things to one another and
spent most of their time together. When one went out the other became
restless and hastened to rejoin her. Together they felt more in harmony
with one another than either of them felt with herself when alone. A
feeling stronger than friendship sprang up between them; an exclusive
feeling of life being possible only in each other’s presence.
Sometimes they were silent for hours; sometimes after they were already
in bed they would begin talking and go on till morning. They spoke most
of what was long past. Princess Mary spoke of her childhood, of her
mother, her father, and her daydreams; and Natasha, who with a passive
lack of understanding had formerly turned away from that life of
devotion, submission, and the poetry of Christian self-sacrifice, now
feeling herself bound to Princess Mary by affection, learned to love her
past too and to understand a side of life previously incomprehensible to
her. She did not think of applying submission and self-abnegation to her
own life, for she was accustomed to seek other joys, but she understood
and loved in another those previously incomprehensible virtues. For
Princess Mary, listening to Natasha’s tales of childhood and early
youth, there also opened out a new and hitherto uncomprehended side of
life: belief in life and its enjoyment.
Just as before, they never mentioned him so as not to lower (as they
thought) their exalted feelings by words; but this silence about him had
the effect of making them gradually begin to forget him without being
conscious of it.
Natasha had grown thin and pale and physically so weak that they all
talked about her health, and this pleased her. But sometimes she was
suddenly overcome by fear not only of death but of sickness, weakness,
and loss of good looks, and involuntarily she examined her bare arm
carefully, surprised at its thinness, and in the morning noticed her
drawn and, as it seemed to her, piteous face in her glass. It seemed to
her that things must be so, and yet it was dreadfully sad.
One day she went quickly upstairs and found herself out of breath.
Unconsciously she immediately invented a reason for going down, and
then, testing her strength, ran upstairs again, observing the result.
Another time when she called Dunyasha her voice trembled, so she called
again - though she could hear Dunyasha coming - called her in the deep chest
tones in which she had been wont to sing, and listened attentively to
herself.
She did not know and would not have believed it, but beneath the layer
of slime that covered her soul and seemed to her impenetrable, delicate
young shoots of grass were already sprouting, which taking root would so
cover with their living verdure the grief that weighed her down that
it would soon no longer be seen or noticed. The wound had begun to heal
from within.
At the end of January Princess Mary left for Moscow, and the count
insisted on Natasha’s going with her to consult the doctors.
CHAPTER IV
After the encounter at Vyazma, where Kutuzov had been unable to hold
back his troops in their anxiety to overwhelm and cut off the enemy and
so on, the farther movement of the fleeing French, and of the Russians
who pursued them, continued as far as Krasnoe without a battle. The
flight was so rapid that the Russian army pursuing the French could
not keep up with them; cavalry and artillery horses broke down, and the
information received of the movements of the French was never reliable.
The men in the Russian army were so worn out by this continuous marching
at the rate of twenty-seven miles a day that they could not go any
faster.
To realize the degree of exhaustion of the Russian army it is only
necessary to grasp clearly the meaning of the fact that, while not
losing more than five thousand killed and wounded after Tarutino and
less than a hundred prisoners, the Russian army which left that place a
hundred thousand strong reached Krasnoe with only fifty thousand.
The rapidity of the Russian pursuit was just as destructive to our army
as the flight of the French was to theirs. The only difference was that
the Russian army moved voluntarily, with no such threat of destruction
as hung over the French, and that the sick Frenchmen were left behind
in enemy hands while the sick Russians left behind were among their
own people. The chief cause of the wastage of Napoleon’s army was
the rapidity of its movement, and a convincing proof of this is the
corresponding decrease of the Russian army.
Kutuzov as far as was in his power, instead of trying to check the
movement of the French as was desired in Petersburg and by the Russian
army generals, directed his whole activity here, as he had done at
Tarutino and Vyazma, to hastening it on while easing the movement of our
army.
But besides this, since the exhaustion and enormous diminution of the
army caused by the rapidity of the advance had become evident, another
reason for slackening the pace and delaying presented itself to Kutuzov.
The aim of the Russian army was to pursue the French. The road the
French would take was unknown, and so the closer our troops trod on
their heels the greater distance they had to cover. Only by following
at some distance could one cut across the zigzag path of the French. All
the artful maneuvers suggested by our generals meant fresh movements of
the army and a lengthening of its marches, whereas the only reasonable
aim was to shorten those marches. To that end Kutuzov’s activity was
directed during the whole campaign from Moscow to Vilna - not casually or
intermittently but so consistently that he never once deviated from it.
Kutuzov felt and knew - not by reasoning or science but with the whole of
his Russian being - what every Russian soldier felt: that the French were
beaten, that the enemy was flying and must be driven out; but at the
same time he like the soldiers realized all the hardship of this march,
the rapidity of which was unparalleled for such a time of the year.
But to the generals, especially the foreign ones in the Russian army,
who wished to distinguish themselves, to astonish somebody, and for some
reason to capture a king or a duke - it seemed that now - when any battle
must be horrible and senseless - was the very time to fight and conquer
somebody. Kutuzov merely shrugged his shoulders when one after
another they presented projects of maneuvers to be made with those
soldiers - ill-shod, insufficiently clad, and half starved - who within a
month and without fighting a battle had dwindled to half their number,
and who at the best if the flight continued would have to go a greater
distance than they had already traversed, before they reached the
frontier.
This longing to distinguish themselves, to maneuver, to overthrow, and
to cut off showed itself particularly whenever the Russians stumbled on
the French army.
So it was at Krasnoe, where they expected to find one of the three
French columns and stumbled instead on Napoleon himself with sixteen
thousand men. Despite all Kutuzov’s efforts to avoid that ruinous
encounter and to preserve his troops, the massacre of the broken mob
of French soldiers by worn-out Russians continued at Krasnoe for three
days.
Toll wrote a disposition: "The first column will march to so and so,"
etc. And as usual nothing happened in accord with the disposition.
Prince Eugene of Wurttemberg fired from a hill over the French crowds
that were running past, and demanded reinforcements which did not
arrive. The French, avoiding the Russians, dispersed and hid themselves
in the forest by night, making their way round as best they could, and
continued their flight.
Miloradovich, who said he did not want to know anything about the
commissariat affairs of his detachment, and could never be found when
he was wanted - that chevalier sans peur et sans reproche * as he styled
himself - who was fond of parleys with the French, sent envoys demanding
their surrender, wasted time, and did not do what he was ordered to do.
* Knight without fear and without reproach.
"I give you that column, lads," he said, riding up to the troops and
pointing out the French to the cavalry.
And the cavalry, with spurs and sabers urging on horses that could
scarcely move, trotted with much effort to the column presented
to them - that is to say, to a crowd of Frenchmen stark with cold,
frost-bitten, and starving - and the column that had been presented to
them threw down its arms and surrendered as it had long been anxious to
do.
At Krasnoe they took twenty-six thousand prisoners, several hundred
cannon, and a stick called a "marshal’s staff," and disputed as to who
had distinguished himself and were pleased with their achievement - though
they much regretted not having taken Napoleon, or at least a marshal or
a hero of some sort, and reproached one another and especially Kutuzov
for having failed to do so.
These men, carried away by their passions, were but blind tools of the
most melancholy law of necessity, but considered themselves heroes and
imagined that they were accomplishing a most noble and honorable
deed. They blamed Kutuzov and said that from the very beginning of the
campaign he had prevented their vanquishing Napoleon, that he thought of
nothing but satisfying his passions and would not advance from the Linen
Factories because he was comfortable there, that at Krasnoe he checked
the advance because on learning that Napoleon was there he had quite
lost his head, and that it was probable that he had an understanding
with Napoleon and had been bribed by him, and so on, and so on.
Not only did his contemporaries, carried away by their passions, talk
in this way, but posterity and history have acclaimed Napoleon as grand,
while Kutuzov is described by foreigners as a crafty, dissolute, weak
old courtier, and by Russians as something indefinite - a sort of puppet
useful only because he had a Russian name.
CHAPTER V
In 1812 and 1813 Kutuzov was openly accused of blundering. The Emperor
was dissatisfied with him. And in a history recently written by order
of the Highest Authorities it is said that Kutuzov was a cunning court
liar, frightened of the name of Napoleon, and that by his blunders at
Krasnoe and the Berezina he deprived the Russian army of the glory of
complete victory over the French. *
* History of the year 1812. The character of Kutuzov and
reflections on the unsatisfactory results of the battles at
Krasnoe, by Bogdanovich.
Such is the fate not of great men (grands hommes) whom the Russian mind
does not acknowledge, but of those rare and always solitary individuals
who, discerning the will of Providence, submit their personal will to
it. The hatred and contempt of the crowd punish such men for discerning
the higher laws.
For Russian historians, strange and terrible to say, Napoleon - that most
insignificant tool of history who never anywhere, even in exile, showed
human dignity - Napoleon is the object of adulation and enthusiasm; he
is grand. But Kutuzov - the man who from the beginning to the end of his
activity in 1812, never once swerving by word or deed from Borodino to
Vilna, presented an example exceptional in history of self-sacrifice
and a present consciousness of the future importance of what was
happening - Kutuzov seems to them something indefinite and pitiful, and
when speaking of him and of the year 1812 they always seem a little
ashamed.
And yet it is difficult to imagine an historical character whose
activity was so unswervingly directed to a single aim; and it would be
difficult to imagine any aim more worthy or more consonant with the
will of the whole people. Still more difficult would it be to find
an instance in history of the aim of an historical personage being so
completely accomplished as that to which all Kutuzov’s efforts were
directed in 1812.
Kutuzov never talked of "forty centuries looking down from the
Pyramids," of the sacrifices he offered for the fatherland, or of
what he intended to accomplish or had accomplished; in general he
said nothing about himself, adopted no pose, always appeared to be
the simplest and most ordinary of men, and said the simplest and most
ordinary things. He wrote letters to his daughters and to Madame de
Stael, read novels, liked the society of pretty women, jested with
generals, officers, and soldiers, and never contradicted those who tried
to prove anything to him. When Count Rostopchin at the Yauza bridge
galloped up to Kutuzov with personal reproaches for having caused the
destruction of Moscow, and said: "How was it you promised not to abandon
Moscow without a battle?" Kutuzov replied: "And I shall not abandon
Moscow without a battle," though Moscow was then already abandoned. When
Arakcheev, coming to him from the Emperor, said that Ermolov ought to
be appointed chief of the artillery, Kutuzov replied: "Yes, I was
just saying so myself," though a moment before he had said quite the
contrary. What did it matter to him - who then alone amid a senseless
crowd understood the whole tremendous significance of what was
happening - what did it matter to him whether Rostopchin attributed the
calamities of Moscow to him or to himself? Still less could it matter to
him who was appointed chief of the artillery.
Not merely in these cases but continually did that old man - who by
experience of life had reached the conviction that thoughts and the
words serving as their expression are not what move people - use quite
meaningless words that happened to enter his head.
But that man, so heedless of his words, did not once during the whole
time of his activity utter one word inconsistent with the single aim
toward which he moved throughout the whole war. Obviously in spite of
himself, in very diverse circumstances, he repeatedly expressed his real
thoughts with the bitter conviction that he would not be understood.
Beginning with the battle of Borodino, from which time his disagreement
with those about him began, he alone said that the battle of Borodino
was a victory, and repeated this both verbally and in his dispatches
and reports up to the time of his death. He alone said that the loss of
Moscow is not the loss of Russia. In reply to Lauriston’s proposal of
peace, he said: There can be no peace, for such is the people’s will. He
alone during the retreat of the French said that all our maneuvers are
useless, everything is being accomplished of itself better than we could
desire; that the enemy must be offered "a golden bridge"; that neither
the Tarutino, the Vyazma, nor the Krasnoe battles were necessary; that
we must keep some force to reach the frontier with, and that he would
not sacrifice a single Russian for ten Frenchmen.
And this courtier, as he is described to us, who lies to Arakcheev
to please the Emperor, he alone - incurring thereby the Emperor’s
displeasure - said in Vilna that to carry the war beyond the frontier is
useless and harmful.
Nor do words alone prove that only he understood the meaning of the
events. His actions - without the smallest deviation - were all directed
to one and the same threefold end: (1) to brace all his strength for
conflict with the French, (2) to defeat them, and (3) to drive them out
of Russia, minimizing as far as possible the sufferings of our people
and of our army.
This procrastinator Kutuzov, whose motto was "Patience and Time,"
this enemy of decisive action, gave battle at Borodino, investing the
preparations for it with unparalleled solemnity. This Kutuzov who before
the battle of Austerlitz began said that it would be lost, he alone, in
contradiction to everyone else, declared till his death that Borodino
was a victory, despite the assurance of generals that the battle was
lost and despite the fact that for an army to have to retire after
winning a battle was unprecedented. He alone during the whole retreat
insisted that battles, which were useless then, should not be fought,
and that a new war should not be begun nor the frontiers of Russia
crossed.
It is easy now to understand the significance of these events - if only we
abstain from attributing to the activity of the mass aims that existed
only in the heads of a dozen individuals - for the events and results now
lie before us.
But how did that old man, alone, in opposition to the general opinion,
so truly discern the importance of the people’s view of the events that
in all his activity he was never once untrue to it?
The source of that extraordinary power of penetrating the meaning of the
events then occuring lay in the national feeling which he possessed in
full purity and strength.
Only the recognition of the fact that he possessed this feeling caused
the people in so strange a manner, contrary to the Tsar’s wish, to
select him - an old man in disfavor - to be their representative in the
national war. And only that feeling placed him on that highest human
pedestal from which he, the commander in chief, devoted all his powers
not to slaying and destroying men but to saving and showing pity on
them.
That simple, modest, and therefore truly great, figure could not be
cast in the false mold of a European hero - the supposed ruler of men - that
history has invented.
To a lackey no man can be great, for a lackey has his own conception of
greatness.
CHAPTER VI
The fifth of November was the first day of what is called the battle of
Krasnoe. Toward evening - after much disputing and many mistakes made by
generals who did not go to their proper places, and after adjutants had
been sent about with counterorders - when it had become plain that the
enemy was everywhere in flight and that there could and would be no
battle, Kutuzov left Krasnoe and went to Dobroe whither his headquarters
had that day been transferred.
The day was clear and frosty. Kutuzov rode to Dobroe on his plump little
white horse, followed by an enormous suite of discontented generals who
whispered among themselves behind his back. All along the road groups of
French prisoners captured that day (there were seven thousand of them)
were crowding to warm themselves at campfires. Near Dobroe an immense
crowd of tattered prisoners, buzzing with talk and wrapped and bandaged
in anything they had been able to get hold of, were standing in the road
beside a long row of unharnessed French guns. At the approach of the
commander in chief the buzz of talk ceased and all eyes were fixed on
Kutuzov who, wearing a white cap with a red band and a padded overcoat
that bulged on his round shoulders, moved slowly along the road on his
white horse. One of the generals was reporting to him where the guns and
prisoners had been captured.
Kutuzov seemed preoccupied and did not listen to what the general was
saying. He screwed up his eyes with a dissatisfied look as he gazed
attentively and fixedly at these prisoners, who presented a specially
wretched appearance. Most of them were disfigured by frost-bitten noses
and cheeks, and nearly all had red, swollen and festering eyes.
One group of the French stood close to the road, and two of them, one of
whom had his face covered with sores, were tearing a piece of raw
flesh with their hands. There was something horrible and bestial in
the fleeting glance they threw at the riders and in the malevolent
expression with which, after a glance at Kutuzov, the soldier with the
sores immediately turned away and went on with what he was doing.
Kutuzov looked long and intently at these two soldiers. He puckered his
face, screwed up his eyes, and pensively swayed his head. At another
spot he noticed a Russian soldier laughingly patting a Frenchman on the
shoulder, saying something to him in a friendly manner, and Kutuzov with
the same expression on his face again swayed his head.
"What were you saying?" he asked the general, who continuing his report
directed the commander in chief’s attention to some standards captured
from the French and standing in front of the Preobrazhensk regiment.
"Ah, the standards!" said Kutuzov, evidently detaching himself with
difficulty from the thoughts that preoccupied him.
He looked about him absently. Thousands of eyes were looking at him from
all sides awaiting a word from him.
He stopped in front of the Preobrazhensk regiment, sighed deeply, and
closed his eyes. One of his suite beckoned to the soldiers carrying
the standards to advance and surround the commander in chief with them.
Kutuzov was silent for a few seconds and then, submitting with evident
reluctance to the duty imposed by his position, raised his head
and began to speak. A throng of officers surrounded him. He looked
attentively around at the circle of officers, recognizing several of
them.
"I thank you all!" he said, addressing the soldiers and then again the
officers. In the stillness around him his slowly uttered words were
distinctly heard. "I thank you all for your hard and faithful service.
The victory is complete and Russia will not forget you! Honor to you
forever."
He paused and looked around.
"Lower its head, lower it!" he said to a soldier who had accidentally
lowered the French eagle he was holding before the Preobrazhensk
standards. "Lower, lower, that’s it. Hurrah lads!" he added, addressing
the men with a rapid movement of his chin.
"Hur-r-rah!" roared thousands of voices.
While the soldiers were shouting Kutuzov leaned forward in his saddle
and bowed his head, and his eye lit up with a mild and apparently ironic
gleam.
"You see, brothers..." said he when the shouts had ceased... and all at
once his voice and the expression of his face changed. It was no longer
the commander in chief speaking but an ordinary old man who wanted to
tell his comrades something very important.
There was a stir among the throng of officers and in the ranks of the
soldiers, who moved that they might hear better what he was going to
say.
"You see, brothers, I know it’s hard for you, but it can’t be helped!
Bear up; it won’t be for long now! We’ll see our visitors off and then
we’ll rest. The Tsar won’t forget your service. It is hard for you, but
still you are at home while they - you see what they have come to," said
he, pointing to the prisoners. "Worse off than our poorest beggars.
While they were strong we didn’t spare ourselves, but now we may even
pity them. They are human beings too. Isn’t it so, lads?"
He looked around, and in the direct, respectful, wondering gaze fixed
upon him he read sympathy with what he had said. His face grew brighter
and brighter with an old man’s mild smile, which drew the corners of his
lips and eyes into a cluster of wrinkles. He ceased speaking and bowed
his head as if in perplexity.
"But after all who asked them here? Serves them right, the bloody
bastards!" he cried, suddenly lifting his head.
And flourishing his whip he rode off at a gallop for the first time
during the whole campaign, and left the broken ranks of the soldiers
laughing joyfully and shouting "Hurrah!"
Kutuzov’s words were hardly understood by the troops. No one could have
repeated the field marshal’s address, begun solemnly and then changing
into an old man’s simplehearted talk; but the hearty sincerity of that
speech, the feeling of majestic triumph combined with pity for the foe
and consciousness of the justice of our cause, exactly expressed by that
old man’s good-natured expletives, was not merely understood but lay
in the soul of every soldier and found expression in their joyous and
long-sustained shouts. Afterwards when one of the generals addressed
Kutuzov asking whether he wished his caleche to be sent for, Kutuzov in
answering unexpectedly gave a sob, being evidently greatly moved.
CHAPTER VII
When the troops reached their night’s halting place on the eighth of
November, the last day of the Krasnoe battles, it was already growing
dusk. All day it had been calm and frosty with occasional lightly
falling snow and toward evening it began to clear. Through the falling
snow a purple-black and starry sky showed itself and the frost grew
keener.
An infantry regiment which had left Tarutino three thousand strong but
now numbered only nine hundred was one of the first to arrive that night
at its halting place - a village on the highroad. The quartermasters who
met the regiment announced that all the huts were full of sick and dead
Frenchmen, cavalrymen, and members of the staff. There was only one hut
available for the regimental commander.
The commander rode up to his hut. The regiment passed through the
village and stacked its arms in front of the last huts.
Like some huge many-limbed animal, the regiment began to prepare its
lair and its food. One part of it dispersed and waded knee-deep
through the snow into a birch forest to the right of the village, and
immediately the sound of axes and swords, the crashing of branches,
and merry voices could be heard from there. Another section amid the
regimental wagons and horses which were standing in a group was busy
getting out caldrons and rye biscuit, and feeding the horses. A third
section scattered through the village arranging quarters for the staff
officers, carrying out the French corpses that were in the huts, and
dragging away boards, dry wood, and thatch from the roofs, for the
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