campfires, or wattle fences to serve for shelter.
Some fifteen men with merry shouts were shaking down the high wattle
wall of a shed, the roof of which had already been removed.
"Now then, all together - shove!" cried the voices, and the huge surface
of the wall, sprinkled with snow and creaking with frost, was seen
swaying in the gloom of the night. The lower stakes cracked more and
more and at last the wall fell, and with it the men who had been pushing
it. Loud, coarse laughter and joyous shouts ensued.
"Now then, catch hold in twos! Hand up the lever! That’s it.... Where
are you shoving to?"
"Now, all together! But wait a moment, boys... With a song!"
All stood silent, and a soft, pleasant velvety voice began to sing. At
the end of the third verse as the last note died away, twenty voices
roared out at once: "Oo-oo-oo-oo! That’s it. All together! Heave away,
boys!..." but despite their united efforts the wattle hardly moved, and
in the silence that followed the heavy breathing of the men was audible.
"Here, you of the Sixth Company! Devils that you are! Lend a hand...
will you? You may want us one of these days."
Some twenty men of the Sixth Company who were on their way into the
village joined the haulers, and the wattle wall, which was about
thirty-five feet long and seven feet high, moved forward along the
village street, swaying, pressing upon and cutting the shoulders of the
gasping men.
"Get along... Falling? What are you stopping for? There now...."
Merry senseless words of abuse flowed freely.
"What are you up to?" suddenly came the authoritative voice of a
sergeant major who came upon the men who were hauling their burden.
"There are gentry here; the general himself is in that hut, and you
foul-mouthed devils, you brutes, I’ll give it to you!" shouted he,
hitting the first man who came in his way a swinging blow on the back.
"Can’t you make less noise?"
The men became silent. The soldier who had been struck groaned and wiped
his face, which had been scratched till it bled by his falling against
the wattle.
"There, how that devil hits out! He’s made my face all bloody," said he
in a frightened whisper when the sergeant major had passed on.
"Don’t you like it?" said a laughing voice, and moderating their tones
the men moved forward.
When they were out of the village they began talking again as loud as
before, interlarding their talk with the same aimless expletives.
In the hut which the men had passed, the chief officers had gathered and
were in animated talk over their tea about the events of the day and the
maneuvers suggested for tomorrow. It was proposed to make a flank march
to the left, cut off the Vice-King (Murat) and capture him.
By the time the soldiers had dragged the wattle fence to its place
the campfires were blazing on all sides ready for cooking, the wood
crackled, the snow was melting, and black shadows of soldiers flitted
to and fro all over the occupied space where the snow had been trodden
down.
Axes and choppers were plied all around. Everything was done without any
orders being given. Stores of wood were brought for the night, shelters
were rigged up for the officers, caldrons were being boiled, and muskets
and accouterments put in order.
The wattle wall the men had brought was set up in a semicircle by the
Eighth Company as a shelter from the north, propped up by musket rests,
and a campfire was built before it. They beat the tattoo, called the
roll, had supper, and settled down round the fires for the night - some
repairing their footgear, some smoking pipes, and some stripping
themselves naked to steam the lice out of their shirts.
CHAPTER VIII
One would have thought that under the almost incredibly wretched
conditions the Russian soldiers were in at that time - lacking warm boots
and sheepskin coats, without a roof over their heads, in the snow
with eighteen degrees of frost, and without even full rations (the
commissariat did not always keep up with the troops) - they would have
presented a very sad and depressing spectacle.
On the contrary, the army had never under the best material conditions
presented a more cheerful and animated aspect. This was because all who
began to grow depressed or who lost strength were sifted out of the army
day by day. All the physically or morally weak had long since been left
behind and only the flower of the army - physically and mentally - remained.
More men collected behind the wattle fence of the Eighth Company than
anywhere else. Two sergeants major were sitting with them and their
campfire blazed brighter than others. For leave to sit by their wattle
they demanded contributions of fuel.
"Eh, Makeev! What has become of you, you son of a bitch? Are you lost or
have the wolves eaten you? Fetch some more wood!" shouted a red-haired
and red-faced man, screwing up his eyes and blinking because of the
smoke but not moving back from the fire. "And you, Jackdaw, go and fetch
some wood!" said he to another soldier.
This red-haired man was neither a sergeant nor a corporal, but being
robust he ordered about those weaker than himself. The soldier
they called "Jackdaw," a thin little fellow with a sharp nose, rose
obediently and was about to go but at that instant there came into
the light of the fire the slender, handsome figure of a young soldier
carrying a load of wood.
"Bring it here - that’s fine!"
They split up the wood, pressed it down on the fire, blew at it with
their mouths, and fanned it with the skirts of their greatcoats, making
the flames hiss and crackle. The men drew nearer and lit their pipes.
The handsome young soldier who had brought the wood, setting his arms
akimbo, began stamping his cold feet rapidly and deftly on the spot
where he stood.
"Mother! The dew is cold but clear.... It’s well that I’m a
musketeer..." he sang, pretending to hiccough after each syllable.
"Look out, your soles will fly off!" shouted the red-haired man,
noticing that the sole of the dancer’s boot was hanging loose. "What a
fellow you are for dancing!"
The dancer stopped, pulled off the loose piece of leather, and threw it
on the fire.
"Right enough, friend," said he, and, having sat down, took out of his
knapsack a scrap of blue French cloth, and wrapped it round his foot.
"It’s the steam that spoils them," he added, stretching out his feet
toward the fire.
"They’ll soon be issuing us new ones. They say that when we’ve finished
hammering them, we’re to receive double kits!"
"And that son of a bitch Petrov has lagged behind after all, it seems,"
said one sergeant major.
"I’ve had an eye on him this long while," said the other.
"Well, he’s a poor sort of soldier...."
"But in the Third Company they say nine men were missing yesterday."
"Yes, it’s all very well, but when a man’s feet are frozen how can he
walk?"
"Eh? Don’t talk nonsense!" said a sergeant major.
"Do you want to be doing the same?" said an old soldier, turning
reproachfully to the man who had spoken of frozen feet.
"Well, you know," said the sharp-nosed man they called Jackdaw in a
squeaky and unsteady voice, raising himself at the other side of the
fire, "a plump man gets thin, but for a thin one it’s death. Take
me, now! I’ve got no strength left," he added, with sudden resolution
turning to the sergeant major. "Tell them to send me to hospital; I’m
aching all over; anyway I shan’t be able to keep up."
"That’ll do, that’ll do!" replied the sergeant major quietly.
The soldier said no more and the talk went on.
"What a lot of those Frenchies were taken today, and the fact is that
not one of them had what you might call real boots on," said a soldier,
starting a new theme. "They were no more than make-believes."
"The Cossacks have taken their boots. They were clearing the hut for the
colonel and carried them out. It was pitiful to see them, boys," put in
the dancer. "As they turned them over one seemed still alive and, would
you believe it, he jabbered something in their lingo."
"But they’re a clean folk, lads," the first man went on; "he was
white - as white as birchbark - and some of them are such fine fellows, you
might think they were nobles."
"Well, what do you think? They make soldiers of all classes there."
"But they don’t understand our talk at all," said the dancer with a
puzzled smile. "I asked him whose subject he was, and he jabbered in his
own way. A queer lot!"
"But it’s strange, friends," continued the man who had wondered at their
whiteness, "the peasants at Mozhaysk were saying that when they began
burying the dead - where the battle was you know - well, those dead had been
lying there for nearly a month, and says the peasant, ‘they lie as white
as paper, clean, and not as much smell as a puff of powder smoke.’"
"Was it from the cold?" asked someone.
"You’re a clever fellow! From the cold indeed! Why, it was hot. If it
had been from the cold, ours would not have rotted either. ‘But,’ he
says, ‘go up to ours and they are all rotten and maggoty. So,’ he says,
‘we tie our faces up with kerchiefs and turn our heads away as we drag
them off: we can hardly do it. But theirs,’ he says, ‘are white as paper
and not so much smell as a whiff of gunpowder.’"
All were silent.
"It must be from their food," said the sergeant major. "They used to
gobble the same food as the gentry."
No one contradicted him.
"That peasant near Mozhaysk where the battle was said the men were all
called up from ten villages around and they carted for twenty days and
still didn’t finish carting the dead away. And as for the wolves, he
says..."
"That was a real battle," said an old soldier. "It’s the only one worth
remembering; but since that... it’s only been tormenting folk."
"And do you know, Daddy, the day before yesterday we ran at them and,
my word, they didn’t let us get near before they just threw down their
muskets and went on their knees. ‘Pardon!’ they say. That’s only one
case. They say Platov took ‘Poleon himself twice. But he didn’t know
the right charm. He catches him and catches him - no good! He turns into
a bird in his hands and flies away. And there’s no way of killing him
either."
"You’re a first-class liar, Kiselev, when I come to look at you!"
"Liar, indeed! It’s the real truth."
"If he fell into my hands, when I’d caught him I’d bury him in the
ground with an aspen stake to fix him down. What a lot of men he’s
ruined!"
"Well, anyhow we’re going to end it. He won’t come here again," remarked
the old soldier, yawning.
The conversation flagged, and the soldiers began settling down to sleep.
"Look at the stars. It’s wonderful how they shine! You would think the
women had spread out their linen," said one of the men, gazing with
admiration at the Milky Way.
"That’s a sign of a good harvest next year."
"We shall want some more wood."
"You warm your back and your belly gets frozen. That’s queer."
"O Lord!"
"What are you pushing for? Is the fire only for you? Look how he’s
sprawling!"
In the silence that ensued, the snoring of those who had fallen asleep
could be heard. Others turned over and warmed themselves, now and again
exchanging a few words. From a campfire a hundred paces off came a sound
of general, merry laughter.
"Hark at them roaring there in the Fifth Company!" said one of the
soldiers, "and what a lot of them there are!"
One of the men got up and went over to the Fifth Company.
"They’re having such fun," said he, coming back. "Two Frenchies have
turned up. One’s quite frozen and the other’s an awful swaggerer. He’s
singing songs...."
"Oh, I’ll go across and have a look...."
And several of the men went over to the Fifth Company.
CHAPTER IX
The fifth company was bivouacking at the very edge of the forest. A huge
campfire was blazing brightly in the midst of the snow, lighting up the
branches of trees heavy with hoarfrost.
About midnight they heard the sound of steps in the snow of the forest,
and the crackling of dry branches.
"A bear, lads," said one of the men.
They all raised their heads to listen, and out of the forest into the
bright firelight stepped two strangely clad human figures clinging to
one another.
These were two Frenchmen who had been hiding in the forest. They came up
to the fire, hoarsely uttering something in a language our soldiers did
not understand. One was taller than the other; he wore an officer’s hat
and seemed quite exhausted. On approaching the fire he had been going to
sit down, but fell. The other, a short sturdy soldier with a shawl
tied round his head, was stronger. He raised his companion and said
something, pointing to his mouth. The soldiers surrounded the Frenchmen,
spread a greatcoat on the ground for the sick man, and brought some
buckwheat porridge and vodka for both of them.
The exhausted French officer was Ramballe and the man with his head
wrapped in the shawl was Morel, his orderly.
When Morel had drunk some vodka and finished his bowl of porridge he
suddenly became unnaturally merry and chattered incessantly to the
soldiers, who could not understand him. Ramballe refused food and
resting his head on his elbow lay silent beside the campfire, looking at
the Russian soldiers with red and vacant eyes. Occasionally he emitted
a long-drawn groan and then again became silent. Morel, pointing to his
shoulders, tried to impress on the soldiers the fact that Ramballe was
an officer and ought to be warmed. A Russian officer who had come up
to the fire sent to ask his colonel whether he would not take a French
officer into his hut to warm him, and when the messenger returned and
said that the colonel wished the officer to be brought to him, Ramballe
was told to go. He rose and tried to walk, but staggered and would have
fallen had not a soldier standing by held him up.
"You won’t do it again, eh?" said one of the soldiers, winking and
turning mockingly to Ramballe.
"Oh, you fool! Why talk rubbish, lout that you are - a real peasant!" came
rebukes from all sides addressed to the jesting soldier.
They surrounded Ramballe, lifted him on the crossed arms of two
soldiers, and carried him to the hut. Ramballe put his arms around their
necks while they carried him and began wailing plaintively:
"Oh, you fine fellows, my kind, kind friends! These are men! Oh, my
brave, kind friends," and he leaned his head against the shoulder of one
of the men like a child.
Meanwhile Morel was sitting in the best place by the fire, surrounded by
the soldiers.
Morel, a short sturdy Frenchman with inflamed and streaming eyes, was
wearing a woman’s cloak and had a shawl tied woman fashion round his
head over his cap. He was evidently tipsy, and was singing a French song
in a hoarse broken voice, with an arm thrown round the nearest soldier.
The soldiers simply held their sides as they watched him.
"Now then, now then, teach us how it goes! I’ll soon pick it up. How is
it?" said the man - a singer and a wag - whom Morel was embracing.
"Vive Henri Quatre! Vive ce roi valiant!" sang Morel, winking. "Ce
diable à quatre..." *
* "Long live Henry the Fourth, that valiant king! That rowdy
devil."
"Vivarika! Vif-seruvaru! Sedyablyaka!" repeated the soldier, flourishing
his arm and really catching the tune.
"Bravo! Ha, ha, ha!" rose their rough, joyous laughter from all sides.
Morel, wrinkling up his face, laughed too.
"Well, go on, go on!"
"Qui eut le triple talent,
De boire, de battre,
Et d’être un vert galant." *
* Who had a triple talent
For drinking, for fighting,
And for being a gallant old boy...
"It goes smoothly, too. Well, now, Zaletaev!"
"Ke..." Zaletaev, brought out with effort: "ke-e-e-e," he drawled,
laboriously pursing his lips, "le-trip-ta-la-de-bu-de-ba, e
de-tra-va-ga-la" he sang.
"Fine! Just like the Frenchie! Oh, ho ho! Do you want some more to eat?"
"Give him some porridge: it takes a long time to get filled up after
starving."
They gave him some more porridge and Morel with a laugh set to work on
his third bowl. All the young soldiers smiled gaily as they watched him.
The older men, who thought it undignified to amuse themselves with such
nonsense, continued to lie at the opposite side of the fire, but one
would occasionally raise himself on an elbow and glance at Morel with a
smile.
"They are men too," said one of them as he wrapped himself up in his
coat. "Even wormwood grows on its own root."
"O Lord, O Lord! How starry it is! Tremendous! That means a hard
frost...."
They all grew silent. The stars, as if knowing that no one was looking
at them, began to disport themselves in the dark sky: now flaring
up, now vanishing, now trembling, they were busy whispering something
gladsome and mysterious to one another.
CHAPTER X
The French army melted away at the uniform rate of a mathematical
progression; and that crossing of the Berezina about which so much has
been written was only one intermediate stage in its destruction, and
not at all the decisive episode of the campaign. If so much has been
and still is written about the Berezina, on the French side this is only
because at the broken bridge across that river the calamities their army
had been previously enduring were suddenly concentrated at one moment
into a tragic spectacle that remained in every memory, and on the
Russian side merely because in Petersburg - far from the seat of war - a
plan (again one of Pfuel’s) had been devised to catch Napoleon in a
strategic trap at the Berezina River. Everyone assured himself that all
would happen according to plan, and therefore insisted that it was just
the crossing of the Berezina that destroyed the French army. In reality
the results of the crossing were much less disastrous to the French - in
guns and men lost - than Krasnoe had been, as the figures show.
The sole importance of the crossing of the Berezina lies in the fact
that it plainly and indubitably proved the fallacy of all the plans for
cutting off the enemy’s retreat and the soundness of the only possible
line of action - the one Kutuzov and the general mass of the army
demanded - namely, simply to follow the enemy up. The French crowd fled
at a continually increasing speed and all its energy was directed to
reaching its goal. It fled like a wounded animal and it was impossible
to block its path. This was shown not so much by the arrangements it
made for crossing as by what took place at the bridges. When the bridges
broke down, unarmed soldiers, people from Moscow and women with
children who were with the French transport, all - carried on by vis
inertiæ - pressed forward into boats and into the ice-covered water and
did not, surrender.
That impulse was reasonable. The condition of fugitives and of pursuers
was equally bad. As long as they remained with their own people each
might hope for help from his fellows and the definite place he held
among them. But those who surrendered, while remaining in the same
pitiful plight, would be on a lower level to claim a share in the
necessities of life. The French did not need to be informed of the fact
that half the prisoners - with whom the Russians did not know what to
do - perished of cold and hunger despite their captors’ desire to save
them; they felt that it could not be otherwise. The most compassionate
Russian commanders, those favorable to the French - and even the Frenchmen
in the Russian service - could do nothing for the prisoners. The French
perished from the conditions to which the Russian army was itself
exposed. It was impossible to take bread and clothes from our hungry and
indispensable soldiers to give to the French who, though not harmful, or
hated, or guilty, were simply unnecessary. Some Russians even did that,
but they were exceptions.
Certain destruction lay behind the French but in front there was hope.
Their ships had been burned, there was no salvation save in collective
flight, and on that the whole strength of the French was concentrated.
The farther they fled the more wretched became the plight of the
remnant, especially after the Berezina, on which (in consequence of the
Petersburg plan) special hopes had been placed by the Russians, and
the keener grew the passions of the Russian commanders, who blamed one
another and Kutuzov most of all. Anticipation that the failure of
the Petersburg Berezina plan would be attributed to Kutuzov led
to dissatisfaction, contempt, and ridicule, more and more strongly
expressed. The ridicule and contempt were of course expressed in a
respectful form, making it impossible for him to ask wherein he was
to blame. They did not talk seriously to him; when reporting to him or
asking for his sanction they appeared to be fulfilling a regrettable
formality, but they winked behind his back and tried to mislead him at
every turn.
Because they could not understand him all these people assumed that
it was useless to talk to the old man; that he would never grasp the
profundity of their plans, that he would answer with his phrases (which
they thought were mere phrases) about a "golden bridge," about the
impossibility of crossing the frontier with a crowd of tatterdemalions,
and so forth. They had heard all that before. And all he said - that it
was necessary to await provisions, or that the men had no boots - was so
simple, while what they proposed was so complicated and clever, that
it was evident that he was old and stupid and that they, though not in
power, were commanders of genius.
After the junction with the army of the brilliant admiral and Petersburg
hero Wittgenstein, this mood and the gossip of the staff reached their
maximum. Kutuzov saw this and merely sighed and shrugged his shoulders.
Only once, after the affair of the Berezina, did he get angry and write
to Bennigsen (who reported separately to the Emperor) the following
letter:
"On account of your spells of ill health, will your excellency please
be so good as to set off for Kaluga on receipt of this, and there await
further commands and appointments from His Imperial Majesty."
But after Bennigsen’s departure, the Grand Duke Tsarevich Constantine
Pavlovich joined the army. He had taken part in the beginning of the
campaign but had subsequently been removed from the army by Kutuzov.
Now having come to the army, he informed Kutuzov of the Emperor’s
displeasure at the poor success of our forces and the slowness of their
advance. The Emperor intended to join the army personally in a few days’
time.
The old man, experienced in court as well as in military affairs - this
same Kutuzov who in August had been chosen commander in chief
against the sovereign’s wishes and who had removed the Grand Duke and
heir - apparent from the army - who on his own authority and contrary to the
Emperor’s will had decided on the abandonment of Moscow, now realized at
once that his day was over, that his part was played, and that the power
he was supposed to hold was no longer his. And he understood this not
merely from the attitude of the court. He saw on the one hand that the
military business in which he had played his part was ended and felt
that his mission was accomplished; and at the same time he began to
be conscious of the physical weariness of his aged body and of the
necessity of physical rest.
On the twenty-ninth of November Kutuzov entered Vilna - his "dear Vilna"
as he called it. Twice during his career Kutuzov had been governor of
Vilna. In that wealthy town, which had not been injured, he found old
friends and associations, besides the comforts of life of which he had
so long been deprived. And he suddenly turned from the cares of army
and state and, as far as the passions that seethed around him allowed,
immersed himself in the quiet life to which he had formerly been
accustomed, as if all that was taking place and all that had still to be
done in the realm of history did not concern him at all.
Chichagov, one of the most zealous "cutters-off" and "breakers-up," who
had first wanted to effect a diversion in Greece and then in Warsaw but
never wished to go where he was sent: Chichagov, noted for the boldness
with which he spoke to the Emperor, and who considered Kutuzov to be
under an obligation to him because when he was sent to make peace
with Turkey in 1811 independently of Kutuzov, and found that peace had
already been concluded, he admitted to the Emperor that the merit of
securing that peace was really Kutuzov’s; this Chichagov was the first
to meet Kutuzov at the castle where the latter was to stay. In undress
naval uniform, with a dirk, and holding his cap under his arm, he handed
Kutuzov a garrison report and the keys of the town. The contemptuously
respectful attitude of the younger men to the old man in his dotage was
expressed in the highest degree by the behavior of Chichagov, who knew
of the accusations that were being directed against Kutuzov.
When speaking to Chichagov, Kutuzov incidentally mentioned that the
vehicles packed with china that had been captured from him at Borisov
had been recovered and would be restored to him.
"You mean to imply that I have nothing to eat out of.... On the
contrary, I can supply you with everything even if you want to give
dinner parties," warmly replied Chichagov, who tried by every word he
spoke to prove his own rectitude and therefore imagined Kutuzov to be
animated by the same desire.
Kutuzov, shrugging his shoulders, replied with his subtle penetrating
smile: "I meant merely to say what I said."
Contrary to the Emperor’s wish Kutuzov detained the greater part of the
army at Vilna. Those about him said that he became extraordinarily slack
and physically feeble during his stay in that town. He attended to army
affairs reluctantly, left everything to his generals, and while awaiting
the Emperor’s arrival led a dissipated life.
Having left Petersburg on the seventh of December with his suite - Count
Tolstoy, Prince Volkonski, Arakcheev, and others - the Emperor reached
Vilna on the eleventh, and in his traveling sleigh drove straight to
the castle. In spite of the severe frost some hundred generals and staff
officers in full parade uniform stood in front of the castle, as well as
a guard of honor of the Semenov regiment.
A courier who galloped to the castle in advance, in a troyka with three
foam-flecked horses, shouted "Coming!" and Konovnitsyn rushed into the
vestibule to inform Kutuzov, who was waiting in the hall porter’s little
lodge.
A minute later the old man’s large stout figure in full-dress uniform,
his chest covered with orders and a scarf drawn round his stomach,
waddled out into the porch. He put on his hat with its peaks to the
sides and, holding his gloves in his hand and walking with an effort
sideways down the steps to the level of the street, took in his hand the
report he had prepared for the Emperor.
There was running to and fro and whispering; another troyka flew
furiously up, and then all eyes were turned on an approaching sleigh
in which the figures of the Emperor and Volkonski could already be
descried.
From the habit of fifty years all this had a physically agitating effect
on the old general. He carefully and hastily felt himself all over,
readjusted his hat, and pulling himself together drew himself up and,
at the very moment when the Emperor, having alighted from the sleigh,
lifted his eyes to him, handed him the report and began speaking in his
smooth, ingratiating voice.
The Emperor with a rapid glance scanned Kutuzov from head to foot,
frowned for an instant, but immediately mastering himself went up to the
old man, extended his arms and embraced him. And this embrace too, owing
to a long-standing impression related to his innermost feelings, had its
usual effect on Kutuzov and he gave a sob.
The Emperor greeted the officers and the Semenov guard, and again
pressing the old man’s hand went with him into the castle.
When alone with the field marshal the Emperor expressed his
dissatisfaction at the slowness of the pursuit and at the mistakes made
at Krasnoe and the Berezina, and informed him of his intentions for a
future campaign abroad. Kutuzov made no rejoinder or remark. The same
submissive, expressionless look with which he had listened to the
Emperor’s commands on the field of Austerlitz seven years before settled
on his face now.
When Kutuzov came out of the study and with lowered head was crossing
the ballroom with his heavy waddling gait, he was arrested by someone’s
voice saying:
"Your Serene Highness!"
Kutuzov raised his head and looked for a long while into the eyes of
Count Tolstoy, who stood before him holding a silver salver on which lay
a small object. Kutuzov seemed not to understand what was expected of
him.
Suddenly he seemed to remember; a scarcely perceptible smile flashed
across his puffy face, and bowing low and respectfully he took the
object that lay on the salver. It was the Order of St. George of the
First Class.
CHAPTER XI
Next day the field marshal gave a dinner and ball which the Emperor
honored by his presence. Kutuzov had received the Order of St. George
of the First Class and the Emperor showed him the highest honors, but
everyone knew of the imperial dissatisfaction with him. The proprieties
were observed and the Emperor was the first to set that example,
but everybody understood that the old man was blameworthy and
good-for-nothing. When Kutuzov, conforming to a custom of Catherine’s
day, ordered the standards that had been captured to be lowered at the
Emperor’s feet on his entering the ballroom, the Emperor made a wry face
and muttered something in which some people caught the words, "the old
comedian."
The Emperor’s displeasure with Kutuzov was specially increased at Vilna
by the fact that Kutuzov evidently could not or would not understand the
importance of the coming campaign.
When on the following morning the Emperor said to the officers assembled
about him: "You have not only saved Russia, you have saved Europe!" they
all understood that the war was not ended.
Kutuzov alone would not see this and openly expressed his opinion that
no fresh war could improve the position or add to the glory of Russia,
but could only spoil and lower the glorious position that Russia had
gained. He tried to prove to the Emperor the impossibility of levying
fresh troops, spoke of the hardships already endured by the people, of
the possibility of failure and so forth.
This being the field marshal’s frame of mind he was naturally regarded
as merely a hindrance and obstacle to the impending war.
To avoid unpleasant encounters with the old man, the natural method was
to do what had been done with him at Austerlitz and with Barclay at
the beginning of the Russian campaign - to transfer the authority to the
Emperor himself, thus cutting the ground from under the commander in
chief’s feet without upsetting the old man by informing him of the
change.
With this object his staff was gradually reconstructed and its real
strength removed and transferred to the Emperor. Toll, Konovnitsyn, and
Ermolov received fresh appointments. Everyone spoke loudly of the field
marshal’s great weakness and failing health.
His health had to be bad for his place to be taken away and given to
another. And in fact his health was poor.
So naturally, simply, and gradually - just as he had come from Turkey to
the Treasury in Petersburg to recruit the militia, and then to the army
when he was needed there - now when his part was played out, Kutuzov’s
place was taken by a new and necessary performer.
The war of 1812, besides its national significance dear to every Russian
heart, was now to assume another, a European, significance.
The movement of peoples from west to east was to be succeeded by a
movement of peoples from east to west, and for this fresh war another
leader was necessary, having qualities and views differing from
Kutuzov’s and animated by different motives.
Alexander I was as necessary for the movement of the peoples from east
to west and for the refixing of national frontiers as Kutuzov had been
for the salvation and glory of Russia.
Kutuzov did not understand what Europe, the balance of power, or
Napoleon meant. He could not understand it. For the representative of
the Russian people, after the enemy had been destroyed and Russia had
been liberated and raised to the summit of her glory, there was nothing
left to do as a Russian. Nothing remained for the representative of the
national war but to die, and Kutuzov died.
CHAPTER XII
As generally happens, Pierre did not feel the full effects of the
physical privation and strain he had suffered as prisoner until after
they were over. After his liberation he reached Orel, and on the third
day there, when preparing to go to Kiev, he fell ill and was laid up
for three months. He had what the doctors termed "bilious fever." But
despite the fact that the doctors treated him, bled him, and gave him
medicines to drink, he recovered.
Scarcely any impression was left on Pierre’s mind by all that happened
to him from the time of his rescue till his illness. He remembered
only the dull gray weather now rainy and now snowy, internal physical
distress, and pains in his feet and side. He remembered a general
impression of the misfortunes and sufferings of people and of being
worried by the curiosity of officers and generals who questioned him, he
also remembered his difficulty in procuring a conveyance and horses, and
above all he remembered his incapacity to think and feel all that time.
On the day of his rescue he had seen the body of Petya Rostov. That same
day he had learned that Prince Andrew, after surviving the battle of
Borodino for more than a month had recently died in the Rostovs’ house
at Yaroslavl, and Denisov who told him this news also mentioned Helene’s
death, supposing that Pierre had heard of it long before. All this at
the time seemed merely strange to Pierre: he felt he could not grasp its
significance. Just then he was only anxious to get away as quickly as
possible from places where people were killing one another, to some
peaceful refuge where he could recover himself, rest, and think over
all the strange new facts he had learned; but on reaching Orel he
immediately fell ill. When he came to himself after his illness he saw
in attendance on him two of his servants, Terenty and Vaska, who had
come from Moscow; and also his cousin the eldest princess, who had been
living on his estate at Elets and hearing of his rescue and illness had
come to look after him.
It was only gradually during his convalescence that Pierre lost the
impressions he had become accustomed to during the last few months
and got used to the idea that no one would oblige him to go anywhere
tomorrow, that no one would deprive him of his warm bed, and that he
would be sure to get his dinner, tea, and supper. But for a long time in
his dreams he still saw himself in the conditions of captivity. In the
same way little by little he came to understand the news he had been
told after his rescue, about the death of Prince Andrew, the death of
his wife, and the destruction of the French.
A joyous feeling of freedom - that complete inalienable freedom natural
to man which he had first experienced at the first halt outside
Moscow - filled Pierre’s soul during his convalescence. He was surprised
to find that this inner freedom, which was independent of external
conditions, now had as it were an additional setting of external
liberty. He was alone in a strange town, without acquaintances. No one
demanded anything of him or sent him anywhere. He had all he wanted:
the thought of his wife which had been a continual torment to him was no
longer there, since she was no more.
"Oh, how good! How splendid!" said he to himself when a cleanly laid
table was moved up to him with savory beef tea, or when he lay down for
the night on a soft clean bed, or when he remembered that the French had
gone and that his wife was no more. "Oh, how good, how splendid!"
And by old habit he asked himself the question: "Well, and what then?
What am I going to do?" And he immediately gave himself the answer:
"Well, I shall live. Ah, how splendid!"
The very question that had formerly tormented him, the thing he had
continually sought to find - the aim of life - no longer existed for
him now. That search for the aim of life had not merely disappeared
temporarily - he felt that it no longer existed for him and could not
present itself again. And this very absence of an aim gave him the
complete, joyous sense of freedom which constituted his happiness at
this time.
He could not see an aim, for he now had faith - not faith in any kind of
rule, or words, or ideas, but faith in an ever-living, ever-manifest
God. Formerly he had sought Him in aims he set himself. That search for
an aim had been simply a search for God, and suddenly in his captivity
he had learned not by words or reasoning but by direct feeling what his
nurse had told him long ago: that God is here and everywhere. In his
captivity he had learned that in Karataev God was greater, more infinite
and unfathomable than in the Architect of the Universe recognized by the
Freemasons. He felt like a man who after straining his eyes to see into
the far distance finds what he sought at his very feet. All his life
he had looked over the heads of the men around him, when he should have
merely looked in front of him without straining his eyes.
In the past he had never been able to find that great inscrutable
infinite something. He had only felt that it must exist somewhere and
had looked for it. In everything near and comprehensible he had seen
only what was limited, petty, commonplace, and senseless. He had
equipped himself with a mental telescope and looked into remote space,
where petty worldliness hiding itself in misty distance had seemed to
him great and infinite merely because it was not clearly seen. And such
had European life, politics, Freemasonry, philosophy, and philanthropy
seemed to him. But even then, at moments of weakness as he had accounted
them, his mind had penetrated to those distances and he had there seen
the same pettiness, worldliness, and senselessness. Now, however, he
had learned to see the great, eternal, and infinite in everything, and
therefore - to see it and enjoy its contemplation - he naturally threw away
the telescope through which he had till now gazed over men’s heads, and
gladly regarded the ever-changing, eternally great, unfathomable, and
infinite life around him. And the closer he looked the more tranquil and
happy he became. That dreadful question, "What for?" which had formerly
destroyed all his mental edifices, no longer existed for him. To that
question, "What for?" a simple answer was now always ready in his soul:
"Because there is a God, that God without whose will not one hair falls
from a man’s head."
CHAPTER XIII
In external ways Pierre had hardly changed at all. In appearance he
was just what he used to be. As before he was absent-minded and seemed
occupied not with what was before his eyes but with something special
of his own. The difference between his former and present self was that
formerly when he did not grasp what lay before him or was said to
him, he had puckered his forehead painfully as if vainly seeking to
distinguish something at a distance. At present he still forgot what was
said to him and still did not see what was before his eyes, but he now
looked with a scarcely perceptible and seemingly ironic smile at what
was before him and listened to what was said, though evidently seeing
and hearing something quite different. Formerly he had appeared to be
a kindhearted but unhappy man, and so people had been inclined to avoid
him. Now a smile at the joy of life always played round his lips, and
sympathy for others, shone in his eyes with a questioning look as to
whether they were as contented as he was, and people felt pleased by his
presence.
Previously he had talked a great deal, grew excited when he talked, and
seldom listened; now he was seldom carried away in conversation and
knew how to listen so that people readily told him their most intimate
secrets.
The princess, who had never liked Pierre and had been particularly
hostile to him since she had felt herself under obligations to him after
the old count’s death, now after staying a short time in Orel - where she
had come intending to show Pierre that in spite of his ingratitude she
considered it her duty to nurse him - felt to her surprise and vexation
that she had become fond of him. Pierre did not in any way seek her
approval, he merely studied her with interest. Formerly she had felt
that he regarded her with indifference and irony, and so had shrunk into
herself as she did with others and had shown him only the combative side
of her nature; but now he seemed to be trying to understand the most
intimate places of her heart, and, mistrustfully at first but afterwards
gratefully, she let him see the hidden, kindly sides of her character.
The most cunning man could not have crept into her confidence more
successfully, evoking memories of the best times of her youth and
showing sympathy with them. Yet Pierre’s cunning consisted simply in
finding pleasure in drawing out the human qualities of the embittered,
hard, and (in her own way) proud princess.
"Yes, he is a very, very kind man when he is not under the influence of
bad people but of people such as myself," thought she.
His servants too - Terenty and Vaska - in their own way noticed the change
that had taken place in Pierre. They considered that he had become much
"simpler." Terenty, when he had helped him undress and wished him good
night, often lingered with his master’s boots in his hands and clothes
over his arm, to see whether he would not start a talk. And Pierre,
noticing that Terenty wanted a chat, generally kept him there.
"Well, tell me... now, how did you get food?" he would ask.
And Terenty would begin talking of the destruction of Moscow, and of
the old count, and would stand for a long time holding the clothes and
talking, or sometimes listening to Pierre’s stories, and then would go
out into the hall with a pleasant sense of intimacy with his master and
affection for him.
The doctor who attended Pierre and visited him every day, though he
considered it his duty as a doctor to pose as a man whose every moment
was of value to suffering humanity, would sit for hours with Pierre
telling him his favorite anecdotes and his observations on the
characters of his patients in general, and especially of the ladies.
"It’s a pleasure to talk to a man like that; he is not like our
provincials," he would say.
There were several prisoners from the French army in Orel, and the
doctor brought one of them, a young Italian, to see Pierre.
This officer began visiting Pierre, and the princess used to make fun of
the tenderness the Italian expressed for him.
The Italian seemed happy only when he could come to see Pierre, talk
with him, tell him about his past, his life at home, and his love,
and pour out to him his indignation against the French and especially
against Napoleon.
"If all Russians are in the least like you, it is sacrilege to fight
such a nation," he said to Pierre. "You, who have suffered so from the
French, do not even feel animosity toward them."
Pierre had evoked the passionate affection of the Italian merely by
evoking the best side of his nature and taking a pleasure in so doing.
During the last days of Pierre’s stay in Orel his old Masonic
acquaintance Count Willarski, who had introduced him to the lodge in
1807, came to see him. Willarski was married to a Russian heiress who
had a large estate in Orel province, and he occupied a temporary post in
the commissariat department in that town.
Hearing that Bezukhov was in Orel, Willarski, though they had never been
intimate, came to him with the professions of friendship and intimacy
that people who meet in a desert generally express for one another.
Willarski felt dull in Orel and was pleased to meet a man of his own
circle and, as he supposed, of similar interests.
But to his surprise Willarski soon noticed that Pierre had lagged much
behind the times, and had sunk, as he expressed it to himself, into
apathy and egotism.
"You are letting yourself go, my dear fellow," he said.
But for all that Willarski found it pleasanter now than it had been
formerly to be with Pierre, and came to see him every day. To Pierre as
he looked at and listened to Willarski, it seemed strange to think that
he had been like that himself but a short time before.
Willarski was a married man with a family, busy with his family affairs,
his wife’s affairs, and his official duties. He regarded all these
occupations as hindrances to life, and considered that they were all
contemptible because their aim was the welfare of himself and his
family. Military, administrative, political, and Masonic interests
continually absorbed his attention. And Pierre, without trying to
change the other’s views and without condemning him, but with the quiet,
joyful, and amused smile now habitual to him, was interested in this
strange though very familiar phenomenon.
There was a new feature in Pierre’s relations with Willarski, with the
princess, with the doctor, and with all the people he now met, which
gained for him the general good will. This was his acknowledgment of
the impossibility of changing a man’s convictions by words, and his
recognition of the possibility of everyone thinking, feeling, and seeing
things each from his own point of view. This legitimate peculiarity of
each individual which used to excite and irritate Pierre now became a
basis of the sympathy he felt for, and the interest he took in, other
people. The difference, and sometimes complete contradiction, between
men’s opinions and their lives, and between one man and another, pleased
him and drew from him an amused and gentle smile.
In practical matters Pierre unexpectedly felt within himself a center
of gravity he had previously lacked. Formerly all pecuniary questions,
especially requests for money to which, as an extremely wealthy man,
he was very exposed, produced in him a state of hopeless agitation and
perplexity. "To give or not to give?" he had asked himself. "I have
it and he needs it. But someone else needs it still more. Who needs it
most? And perhaps they are both impostors?" In the old days he had been
unable to find a way out of all these surmises and had given to all
who asked as long as he had anything to give. Formerly he had been in a
similar state of perplexity with regard to every question concerning his
property, when one person advised one thing and another something else.
Now to his surprise he found that he no longer felt either doubt or
perplexity about these questions. There was now within him a judge who
by some rule unknown to him decided what should or should not be done.
He was as indifferent as heretofore to money matters, but now he felt
certain of what ought and what ought not to be done. The first time he
had recourse to his new judge was when a French prisoner, a colonel,
came to him and, after talking a great deal about his exploits,
concluded by making what amounted to a demand that Pierre should give
him four thousand francs to send to his wife and children. Pierre
refused without the least difficulty or effort, and was afterwards
surprised how simple and easy had been what used to appear so
insurmountably difficult. At the same time that he refused the colonel’s
demand he made up his mind that he must have recourse to artifice when
leaving Orel, to induce the Italian officer to accept some money of
which he was evidently in need. A further proof to Pierre of his own
more settled outlook on practical matters was furnished by his decision
with regard to his wife’s debts and to the rebuilding of his houses in
and near Moscow.
His head steward came to him at Orel and Pierre reckoned up with him his
diminished income. The burning of Moscow had cost him, according to the
head steward’s calculation, about two million rubles.
To console Pierre for these losses the head steward gave him an estimate
showing that despite these losses his income would not be diminished but
would even be increased if he refused to pay his wife’s debts which he
was under no obligation to meet, and did not rebuild his Moscow house
and the country house on his Moscow estate, which had cost him eighty
thousand rubles a year and brought in nothing.
"Yes, of course that’s true," said Pierre with a cheerful smile. "I
don’t need all that at all. By being ruined I have become much richer."
But in January Savelich came from Moscow and gave him an account of the
state of things there, and spoke of the estimate an architect had made
of the cost of rebuilding the town and country houses, speaking of this
as of a settled matter. About the same time he received letters from
Prince Vasili and other Petersburg acquaintances speaking of his wife’s
debts. And Pierre decided that the steward’s proposals which had so
pleased him were wrong and that he must go to Petersburg and settle his
wife’s affairs and must rebuild in Moscow. Why this was necessary he
did not know, but he knew for certain that it was necessary. His income
would be reduced by three fourths, but he felt it must be done.
Willarski was going to Moscow and they agreed to travel together.
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