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THE FRENCH ARMY went on melting away at a regularly increasing rate. And the
crossing of the Berezina, of which so much has been written, was only one of the
intermediate stages of the destruction of the army, and by no means the decisive
episode of the campaign. The reason that so much has been written about Berezina
on the French side is that at the broken-down bridge of Berezina the woes, which
had till then come upon them in a sort of regular succession, were suddenly
concentrated there in a single moment—in one tragic catastrophe, which remained
printed on the memory of all. On the Russian side, the reason that so much has
been made of Berezina was simply that at Petersburg, far away from the theatre
of war, a plan had been devised (again by Pfuhl of all people) for catching
Napoleon in a strategic snare on the banks of the Berezina. Every one was
convinced that the plan would come off exactly as arranged, and so they insisted
that Berezina had in any case been the scene of the final ruin of the French. In
reality the results of Berezina were less ruinous to the French in loss of
cannons and prisoners than was the fighting at Krasnoe, as statistics
prove.
The sole significance of the disaster of Berezina lies in the fact that it
proved obviously and unmistakably how misleading were all plans for cutting off
the enemy's retreat; and the one possible course of action was that which was
supported by Kutuzov and the mass of the Russian army—simply to follow on the
enemy's track. The crowd of French soldiers fled with continually accelerating
velocity, with all their energies directed to the attainment of their goal. It
was fleeing like a wounded beast and could not be stopped on the way. This was
proved, not so much by the construction of the crossing, as by what happened at
the bridges. When the bridges were broken down, unarmed soldiers, camp-followers
from Moscow, women with children, who were with the French transport, all under
the influence of vis inertiœ, dashed forward for the boats, or rushed
into the frozen water, instead of surrendering.
Their impulse was a reasonable one. The position of fugitives and of pursuers
was equally wretched. By remaining with his own men, each hoped for the help of
comrades in misfortune, for a definite place of his own among them. By
surrendering to the Russians, he found himself in the same wretched
circumstances, but placed on a lower level than others as regards the
satisfaction of his vital needs. The French had no need of authentic evidence
that half of the prisoners—whom the Russians were unable to look after, however
much they desired to save them— were dying of cold and hunger. They felt that it
could not but be so. The most humane Russian officers, even those naturally
warmly disposed to the French, Frenchmen in the Russian service, could do
nothing for the prisoners. They perished from the wretched plight in which the
Russians were themselves placed. Bread and clothing could not be taken from the
starving, insistent soldiers to give it to Frenchmen—not hated, not obnoxious,
nor in any way to blame—but simply superfluous. Some did even do this; but it
was only an exception.
Behind them lay certain destruction; before them lay hope. Their ships were
burnt; there was no hope of safety but in keeping together and in flight, and
all the forces of the French were bent on this united flight.
The more precipitate the flight of the French, and the more wretched the
plight of those left behind (especially after Berezina, on which great hopes had
been set, owing to the Petersburg plan), the more violent were the attacks made
by the Russian generals on one another, and still more on Kutuzov. Assuming that
the failure of the Petersburg plan would be ascribed to him, the dissatisfaction
with him, contempt of him, and jeering at him became more and more pronounced.
This contempt and jeering was of course expressed in respectful form—in such a
form that Kutuzov could not even ask what he was accused of. They did not talk
to him seriously; they submitted their reports and asked for his decisions with
an air of performing a melancholy ceremony, while they winked behind his back,
and at every step tried to deceive him. It was accepted as a recognised thing by
all those men that it was useless talking to the old man, simply because they
could not understand him. They took it for granted that he could never
comprehend the deep significance of their plans, that he would answer them with
his phrases (they fancied they were only meaningless phrases) about a golden
bridge, and about the impossibility of going beyond the frontier with a crowd of
barefoot beggars. And everything he said—for instance, that they must wait for
provisions, or that the men had no boots—all was so simple; while everything
they proposed was so complicated and so clever, that it was obvious to them that
he was stupid and in his dotage, while they were military officers of genius,
without authority to take the lead. The dissatisfaction and malicious gossip of
the staff reached its utmost limits after the brilliant admiral, the favourite
hero of Petersburg, Wittgenstein, had joined the army. Kutuzov saw it, and
simply sighed and shrugged his shoulders. Only once, after Berezina, he lost his
temper and wrote to Bennigsen, who was in private correspondence with the Tsar,
the following note:
“I beg your Most High Excellency on the receipt of this letter to retire to
Kaluga, on account of your attacks of ill-health, and there to await the further
commands of His Majesty the Emperor.”
But this dismissal of Bennigsen was followed by the arrival on the scene of
the Grand Duke Konstantin Pavlovitch, who had received a command at the
beginning of the campaign and had been removed from the army by Kutuzov. Now the
Grand Duke on rejoining the army informed Kutuzov of the Tsar's dissatisfaction
at the poor successes of our troops, and the slowness of their progress. The
Tsar himself intended to be with the army in a few days.
The old man, as experienced in court methods as in warfare—who in the August
of that year had been chosen commander-in-chief against the Tsar's will, who had
dismissed the Grand Duke and heir-apparent from the army, and acting on his own
authority, in opposition to the Tsar's will, had decreed the abandonment of
Moscow—understood at once now that his day was over, that his part was played
out, and that his supposed power was no more. And not only from the attitude of
the court did he see this. On one side he saw the war—that war in which he had
played his part—was over, and he felt that his work was done. On the other hand,
at this very time, he began to be sensible of the physical weariness of his aged
frame, and the necessity of physical rest.
On the 29th of November, Kutuzov reached Vilna—his dear Vilna, as he used to
call it. Twice during his military career he had been governor of Vilna.
In that wealthy town, which had escaped injury, Kutuzov found old friends and
old associations, as well as the comforts of which he had been so long deprived.
And at once turning his back on all military and political cares, he plunged
into the quiet routine of his accustomed life, so far as the passions raging all
round him would permit. It was as though all that was being done, and had still
to be done, in the world of history, was no concern of his now.
Tchitchagov was one of the generals most zealous in advocating attack and
cutting off the enemy's retreat; he had at first suggested making a diversion in
Greece and then in Warsaw, but was never willing to go where he was commanded to
go. Tchitchagov, who was notorious for the boldness of his remarks to the Tsar,
considered Kutuzov was under an obligation to him, because when he had been sent
in 1811 to conclude peace with Turkey over Kutuzov's head, and found on arriving
that peace had already been concluded, he had frankly admitted to the Tsar that
the credit of having concluded peace belonged to Kutuzov.
This Tchitchagov was the first to meet Kutuzov at Vilna, at the castles where
the latter was to stay. Wearing a naval uniform with a dirk, and holding his
forage cap under his arm, he handed the commander-in-chief the military report
and the keys of the town. The contemptuously respectful attitude of youth to old
age in its dotage was expressed in the most marked manner in all the behaviour
of Tchitchagov, who was aware of the disfavour into which Kutuzov had
fallen.
In conversation with Tchitchagov, Kutuzov happened to say that his carriages,
packed with china, that had been carried off by the enemy at Borisovo, had been
recovered unhurt, and would be restored to him.
“You mean to say I have nothing to eat out of? On the contrary, I can provide
everything for you, even if you want to give dinner-parties,” Tchitchagov
protested, getting hot. Every word he had uttered had been with the motive of
proving his own rectitude, and so he imagined that Kutuzov too was preoccupied
with the same desire. Shrugging his shoulders and smiling his subtle,
penetrating smile, Kutuzov answered:
“I mean to say to you what I do say to you. Nothing more.”
In opposition to the Tsar's wishes, Kutuzov kept the greater part of the
troops in Vilna. He was said by all the persons about him to be getting much
weaker, and breaking down physically during his stay in Vilna. He took no
interest in the business of the army, left everything to his generals, and spent
the time of waiting for the Tsar in social dissipation.
The Tsar, with his suite—Count Tolstoy, Prince Volkonsky, Araktcheev, and the
rest—left Petersburg on the 7th of December, and reached Vilna on the 11th, and
drove straight up to the castle in his travelling sledge. In spite of the
intense cold there were some hundred generals and staff-officers in full parade
uniform, and a guard of honour of the Semyonovsky regiment standing before the
castle.
A courier, galloping up to the castle with steaming horses in advance of the
Tsar, shouted: “He is coming!”
Konovnitsyn rushed into the vestibule to inform Kutuzov, who was waiting in
the porter's little room within.
A minute later the big, heavy figure of the old man in full parade uniform,
his breast covered with orders, and a scarf drawn tight about his bulky person,
walked with a rolling gait on to the steps. He put his cocked hat on, with the
flat side foremost, took his gloves in his hand, and going sideways with
difficulty down the steps, took in his hand the report, that had been prepared
to give the Tsar.
Bustle and hurry and whispering, another set of three horses dashing
furiously up, and all eyes were turned on the approaching sledge, in which the
figures of the Tsar and Volkonsky could already be distinguished.
From the habit of fifty years, all this had a physically agitating effect on
the old man. He felt himself over with nervous haste, set his hat straight, and
pulling himself together and standing erect at the very moment when the Tsar
stepping out of the sledge, turned his eyes upon him, he handed him the report,
and began speaking in his measured, ingratiating voice.
The Tsar scanned Kutuzov from head to foot in a rapid glance, frowned for an
instant; but at once overcoming his feelings, went up to him, and opening his
arms, embraced the old general. Again, through old habitual association of
ideas, arousing some deep feeling in his own heart, this embrace had its usual
effect on Kutuzov: he gave a sob.
The Tsar greeted the officers and the Semyonovsky guard of honour; and once
more shaking hands with the old man, he went with him into the castle.
When he was alone with the commander-in-chief, the Tsar gave expression to
his displeasure at the slowness of the pursuit of the enemy, and the blunders
made at Krasnoe and the Berezina, and to his views as to the coming campaign
abroad. Kutuzov made no observation or explanation. The same expression of
unreasoning submission with which seven years before he had listened to the
Tsar's commands on the field of Austerlitz remained fixed now on his face.
When Kutuzov had left the room, and with downcast head walked across the
reception-hall with his heavy, waddling step, a voice stopped him.
“Your highness,” said some one.
He raised his head, and looked into the face of Count Tolstoy, who stood
facing him with a small object on a silver dish. Kutuzov seemed for some time
unable to grasp what was wanted of him.
All at once he seemed to recollect himself; a faint smile gleamed on his
pudgy face, and with a low, respectful bow, he picked up the object on the dish.
It was the Order of St. George of the first rank.
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