CHAPTER X

The French army melted away at the uniform rate of a mathematical
progression; and that crossing of the Berëzina 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 Berëzina, 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 Berëzina River. Everyone assured himself that all would happen
according to plan, and therefore insisted that it was just the crossing of
the Berëzina 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 Krásnoe had been, as the figures show.

The sole importance of the crossing of the Berëzina 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 Kutúzov 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 Berëzina, 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 Kutúzov
most of all. Anticipation that the failure of the Petersburg Berëzina plan
would be attributed to Kutúzov 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. Kutúzov saw this and merely sighed and shrugged his shoulders.
Only once, after the affair of the Berëzina, 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 Kalúga on receipt of this, and there await
further commands and appointments from His Imperial Majesty.”

But after Bennigsen’s departure, the Grand Duke Tsarévich Constantine
Pávlovich joined the army. He had taken part in the beginning of the
campaign but had subsequently been removed from the army by Kutúzov. Now
having come to the army, he informed Kutúzov 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 Kutúzov 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 Kutúzov entered Vílna—his “dear
Vílna” as he called it. Twice during his career Kutúzov had been governor
of Vílna. 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.

Chichagóv, 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: Chichagóv, noted for the boldness
with which he spoke to the Emperor, and who considered Kutúzov to be under
an obligation to him because when he was sent to make peace with Turkey in
1811 independently of Kutúzov, and found that peace had already been
concluded, he admitted to the Emperor that the merit of securing that
peace was really Kutúzov’s; this Chichagóv was the first to meet Kutúzov
at the castle where the latter was to stay. In undress naval uniform, with
a dirk, and holding his cap under his arm, he handed Kutúzov a garrison
report and the keys of the town. The contemptuously respectful attitude of
the younger men to the old man in his dotage was expressed in the highest
degree by the behavior of Chichagóv, who knew of the accusations that were
being directed against Kutúzov.

When speaking to Chichagóv, Kutúzov incidentally mentioned that the
vehicles packed with china that had been captured from him at Borísov had
been recovered and would be restored to him.

“You mean to imply that I have nothing to eat out of…. On the contrary,
I can supply you with everything even if you want to give dinner parties,”
warmly replied Chichagóv, who tried by every word he spoke to prove his
own rectitude and therefore imagined Kutúzov to be animated by the same
desire.

Kutúzov, shrugging his shoulders, replied with his subtle penetrating
smile: “I meant merely to say what I said.”

Contrary to the Emperor’s wish Kutúzov detained the greater part of the
army at Vílna. Those about him said that he became extraordinarily slack
and physically feeble during his stay in that town. He attended to army
affairs reluctantly, left everything to his generals, and while awaiting
the Emperor’s arrival led a dissipated life.

Having left Petersburg on the seventh of December with his suite—Count
Tolstóy, Prince Volkónski, Arakchéev, and others—the Emperor reached
Vílna on the eleventh, and in his traveling sleigh drove straight to the
castle. In spite of the severe frost some hundred generals and staff
officers in full parade uniform stood in front of the castle, as well as a
guard of honor of the Semënov regiment.

A courier who galloped to the castle in advance, in a troyka with three
foam-flecked horses, shouted “Coming!” and Konovnítsyn rushed into the
vestibule to inform Kutúzov, who was waiting in the hall porter’s little
lodge.

A minute later the old man’s large stout figure in full-dress uniform, his
chest covered with orders and a scarf drawn round his stomach, waddled out
into the porch. He put on his hat with its peaks to the sides and, holding
his gloves in his hand and walking with an effort sideways down the steps
to the level of the street, took in his hand the report he had prepared
for the Emperor.

There was running to and fro and whispering; another troyka flew furiously
up, and then all eyes were turned on an approaching sleigh in which the
figures of the Emperor and Volkónski could already be descried.

From the habit of fifty years all this had a physically agitating effect
on the old general. He carefully and hastily felt himself all over,
readjusted his hat, and pulling himself together drew himself up and, at
the very moment when the Emperor, having alighted from the sleigh, lifted
his eyes to him, handed him the report and began speaking in his smooth,
ingratiating voice.

The Emperor with a rapid glance scanned Kutúzov from head to foot, frowned
for an instant, but immediately mastering himself went up to the old man,
extended his arms and embraced him. And this embrace too, owing to a
long-standing impression related to his innermost feelings, had its usual
effect on Kutúzov and he gave a sob.

The Emperor greeted the officers and the Semënov guard, and again pressing
the old man’s hand went with him into the castle.

When alone with the field marshal the Emperor expressed his
dissatisfaction at the slowness of the pursuit and at the mistakes made at
Krásnoe and the Berëzina, and informed him of his intentions for a future
campaign abroad. Kutúzov made no rejoinder or remark. The same submissive,
expressionless look with which he had listened to the Emperor’s commands
on the field of Austerlitz seven years before settled on his face now.

When Kutúzov came out of the study and with lowered head was crossing the
ballroom with his heavy waddling gait, he was arrested by someone’s voice
saying:

“Your Serene Highness!”

Kutúzov raised his head and looked for a long while into the eyes of Count
Tolstóy, who stood before him holding a silver salver on which lay a small
object. Kutúzov seemed not to understand what was expected of him.

Suddenly he seemed to remember; a scarcely perceptible smile flashed
across his puffy face, and bowing low and respectfully he took the object
that lay on the salver. It was the Order of St. George of the First Class.