War And Peace: Book 11 - CHAPTER XIX

作者: Leo Tolstoy

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Author: Leo Tolstoy

ON THE NIGHT of the 1st of September Kutuzov gave the Russian troops the

command to fall back across Moscow to the Ryazan road.

The first troops moved that night, marching deliberately and in steady order.

But at dawn the retreating troops on reaching the Dorogomilov bridge saw before

them, crowding on the other side, and hurrying over the bridge, and blocking the

streets and alleys on the same side, and bearing down upon them from behind,

immense masses of soldiers. And the troops were overtaken by causeless panic and

haste. There was a general rush forward towards the bridge, on to the bridge, to

the fords and to the boats. Kutuzov had himself driven by back streets to the

other side of Moscow.

At ten o'clock in the morning of the 2nd of September the only troops left in

the Dorogomilov suburbs were the regiments of the rear-guard, and the crush was

over. The army was already on the further side of Moscow, and out of the town

altogether.

At the same time, at ten o'clock in the morning of the 2nd of September,

Napoleon was standing in the midst of his troops on Poklonny Hill, gazing at the

spectacle that lay before him. From the 26th of August to the 2nd of September,

from the day of Borodino to the entrance into Moscow, all that agitating, that

memorable week, there had been that extraordinarily beautiful autumn weather,

which always comes as a surprise, when though the sun is low in the sky it

shines more warmly than in spring, when everything is glistening in the pure,

limpid air, so that the eyes are dazzled, while the chest is braced and

refreshed inhaling the fragrant autumn air; when the nights even are warm, and

when in these dark, warm nights golden stars are continually falling from the

sky, to the delight or terror of all who watch them.

At ten o'clock on the 2nd of September the morning light was full of the

beauty of fairyland. From Poklonny Hill Moscow lay stretching wide below with

her river, her gardens, and her churches, and seemed to be living a life of her

own, her cupolas twinkling like stars in the sunlight.

At the sight of the strange town, with its new forms of unfamiliar

architecture, Napoleon felt something of that envious and uneasy curiosity that

men feel at the sight of the aspects of a strange life, knowing nothing of them.

It was clear that that town was teeming with vigorous life. By those indefinable

tokens by which one can infallibly tell from a distance a live body from a dead

one, Napoleon could detect from Poklonny Hill the throb of life in the town, and

could feel, as it were, the breathing of that beautiful, great being. Every

Russian gazing at Moscow feels she is the mother; every foreigner gazing at her,

and ignorant of her significance as the mother city, must be aware of the

feminine character of the town, and Napoleon felt it.

“This Asiatic city with the innumerable churches, Moscow the holy. Here it is

at last, the famous city! It was high time,” said Napoleon; and dismounting from

his horse he bade them open the plan of Moscow before him, and sent for his

interpreter, Lelorme d'Ideville.

“A city occupied by the enemy is like a girl who has lost her honour,” he

thought (it was the phrase he had uttered to Tutchkov at Smolensk). And from

that point of view he gazed at the Oriental beauty who lay for the first time

before his eyes. He felt it strange himself that the desire so long cherished,

and thought so impossible, had at last come to pass. In the clear morning light

he gazed at the town, and then at the plan, looking up its details, and the

certainty of possessing it agitated and awed him.

“But how could it be otherwise?” he thought. “Here is this capital, she lies

at my feet awaiting her fate. Where is Alexander now, and what is he thinking? A

strange, beautiful, and grand city! And a strange and grand moment is this! In

what light must I appear to them?” he mused, thinking of his soldiers. “Here is

the city—the reward for all those of little faith,” he thought, looking round at

his suite and the approaching troops, forming into ranks.

“One word of mine, one wave of my arm, and the ancient capital of the Tsar is

no more. But my clemency is ever prompt to stoop to the vanquished. I must be

magnanimous and truly great. But no, it is not true that I am in Moscow,” the

idea suddenly struck him. “She lies at my feet, though, her golden domes and

crosses flashing and twinkling in the sun. But I will spare her. On the ancient

monuments of barbarism and despotism I will inscribe the great words of justice

and mercy … Alexander will feel that more bitterly than anything; I know him.”

(It seemed to Napoleon that the chief import of what had happened lay in his

personal contest with Alexander.) “From the heights of the Kremlin—yes, that's

the Kremlin, yes—I will dictate to them the laws of justice, I will teach them

the meaning of true civilisation, I will make the generations of boyards to

enshrine their conqueror's name in love. I will tell the deputation that I have

not sought, and do not seek, war; but I have been waging war only with the

deceitful policy of their court; that I love and respect Alexander, and that in

Moscow I will accept terms of peace worthy of myself and my peoples. I have no

wish to take advantage of the fortune of war to humiliate their honoured

Emperor. ‘Boyards,' I will say to them, ‘I do not seek war; I seek the peace and

welfare of all my subjects.' But I know their presence will inspire me, and I

shall speak to them as I always do, clearly, impressively, and greatly. But can

it be true that I am in Moscow! Yes, there she is!”

“Let the boyards be brought to me,” he said, addressing his suite. A general,

with a brilliant suite of adjutants, galloped off at once to fetch the

boyards.

Two hours passed. Napoleon had lunched, and was again standing on the same

spot on the Poklonny Hill, waiting for the deputation. His speech to the boyards

had by now taken definite shape in his mind. The speech was full of dignity and

of greatness, as Napoleon understood it. Napoleon was himself carried away by

the magnanimity with which he intended to act in Moscow. In imagination he had

already fixed the days for a “réunion dans le palais des Czars,” at which

the great Russian nobles were to mingle with the courtiers of the French

Emperor. In thought he had appointed a governor capable of winning the hearts of

the people. Having heard that Moscow was full of religious institutions, he had

mentally decided that his bounty was to be showered on these institutions. He

imagined that as in Africa he had had to sit in a mosque wearing a burnous, in

Moscow he must be gracious and bountiful as the Tsars. And being, like every

Frenchman, unable to imagine anything moving without a reference to sa chère,

sa tendre, sa pauvre mère, he decided finally to touch the Russian heart,

that he would have inscribed on all these charitable foundations in large

letters, “Dedicated to my beloved mother,” or simply, “Maison de ma

mère,” he decided. “But am I really in Moscow? Yes, there she lies before

me; but why is the deputation from the city so long in coming?” he

wondered.

Meanwhile a whispered and agitated consultation was being held among his

generals and marshals in the rear of the suite. The adjutants sent to bring the

deputation had come back with the news that Moscow was empty, that every one had

left or was leaving the city. The faces of all the suite were pale and

perturbed. It was not that Moscow had been abandoned by its inhabitants (grave

as that fact appeared) that alarmed them. They were in alarm at the idea of

making the fact known to the Emperor; they could not see how, without putting

his majesty into the terrible position, called by the French ridicule, to

inform him that he had been waiting so long for the boyards in vain, that there

was a drunken mob, but no one else in Moscow. Some of the suite maintained that

come what may, they must anyway scrape up a deputation of some sort; others

opposed this view, and asserted that the Emperor must be carefully and skilfully

prepared, and then told the truth.

“We shall have to tell him all the same,” said some gentleman of the suite.…

“But, gentlemen …”

The position was the more difficult as the Emperor, pondering on his

magnanimous plans, was walking patiently up and down before the map of the city,

shading his eyes to look from time to time along the road to Moscow, with a

proud and happy smile.

“But it's awkward …” the gentlemen-in-waiting kept repeating, shrugging their

shoulders and unable to bring themselves to settle the terrible word in their

minds: “le ridicule.…”

Meanwhile the Emperor, weary of waiting in vain, and with his actor's

instinct feeling that the great moment, being too long deferred, was beginning

to lose its grandeur, made a sign with his hand. A solitary cannon shot gave the

signal, and the invading army marched into Moscow—at the Tver, the Kaluga, and

the Dorogomilov gates. More and more rapidly, vying with one another, at a quick

run and a trot, the troops marched in, concealed in the clouds of dust they

raised, and making the air ring with their deafening shouts.

Tempted on by the advance of the army, Napoleon too rode as far as the

Dorogomilov gate, but there he halted again, and dismounting walked about the

Kamerkolezhsky wall for a long time, waiting for the deputation.

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