War and Peace

n the evening of the first of September, after his interview with
Kutúzov, Count Rostopchín had returned to Moscow mortified and offended
because he had not been invited to attend the council of war, and
because Kutúzov had paid no attention to his offer to take part in the
defense of the city; amazed also at the novel outlook revealed to him
at the camp, which treated the tranquillity of the capital and its
patriotic fervor as not merely secondary but quite irrelevant and
unimportant matters. Distressed, offended, and surprised by all this,
Rostopchín had returned to Moscow. After supper he lay down on a sofa
without undressing, and was awakened soon after midnight by a courier
bringing him a letter from Kutúzov. This letter requested the count to
send police officers to guide the troops through the town, as the army
was retreating to the Ryazán road beyond Moscow. This was not news to
Rostopchín. He had known that Moscow would be abandoned not merely since
his interview the previous day with Kutúzov on the Poklónny Hill but
ever since the battle of Borodinó, for all the generals who came to
Moscow after that battle had said unanimously that it was impossible to
fight another battle, and since then the government property had been
removed every night, and half the inhabitants had left the city
with Rostopchín’s own permission. Yet all the same this information
astonished and irritated the count, coming as it did in the form of a
simple note with an order from Kutúzov, and received at night, breaking
in on his beauty sleep.

When later on in his memoirs Count Rostopchín explained his actions at
this time, he repeatedly says that he was then actuated by two important
considerations: to maintain tranquillity in Moscow and expedite the
departure of the inhabitants. If one accepts this twofold aim all
Rostopchín’s actions appear irreproachable. “Why were the holy relics,
the arms, ammunition, gunpowder, and stores of corn not removed? Why
were thousands of inhabitants deceived into believing that Moscow would
not be given up—and thereby ruined?” “To preserve the tranquillity
of the city,” explains Count Rostopchín. “Why were bundles of useless
papers from the government offices, and Leppich’s balloon and other
articles removed?” “To leave the town empty,” explains Count Rostopchín.
One need only admit that public tranquillity is in danger and any action
finds a justification.

All the horrors of the reign of terror were based only on solicitude for
public tranquillity.

On what, then, was Count Rostopchín’s fear for the tranquillity of
Moscow based in 1812? What reason was there for assuming any probability
of an uprising in the city? The inhabitants were leaving it and the
retreating troops were filling it. Why should that cause the masses to
riot?

Neither in Moscow nor anywhere in Russia did anything resembling an
insurrection ever occur when the enemy entered a town. More than
ten thousand people were still in Moscow on the first and second of
September, and except for a mob in the governor’s courtyard, assembled
there at his bidding, nothing happened. It is obvious that there would
have been even less reason to expect a disturbance among the people
if after the battle of Borodinó, when the surrender of Moscow became
certain or at least probable, Rostopchín instead of exciting the people
by distributing arms and broadsheets had taken steps to remove all
the holy relics, the gunpowder, munitions, and money, and had told the
population plainly that the town would be abandoned.

Rostopchín, though he had patriotic sentiments, was a sanguine and
impulsive man who had always moved in the highest administrative circles
and had no understanding at all of the people he supposed himself to
be guiding. Ever since the enemy’s entry into Smolénsk he had in
imagination been playing the role of director of the popular feeling
of “the heart of Russia.” Not only did it seem to him (as to all
administrators) that he controlled the external actions of Moscow’s
inhabitants, but he also thought he controlled their mental attitude by
means of his broadsheets and posters, written in a coarse tone which the
people despise in their own class and do not understand from those in
authority. Rostopchín was so pleased with the fine role of leader of
popular feeling, and had grown so used to it, that the necessity of
relinquishing that role and abandoning Moscow without any heroic display
took him unawares and he suddenly felt the ground slip away from under
his feet, so that he positively did not know what to do. Though he knew
it was coming, he did not till the last moment wholeheartedly believe
that Moscow would be abandoned, and did not prepare for it. The
inhabitants left against his wishes. If the government offices were
removed, this was only done on the demand of officials to whom the count
yielded reluctantly. He was absorbed in the role he had created
for himself. As is often the case with those gifted with an ardent
imagination, though he had long known that Moscow would be abandoned he
knew it only with his intellect, he did not believe it in his heart and
did not adapt himself mentally to this new position of affairs.

All his painstaking and energetic activity (in how far it was useful
and had any effect on the people is another question) had been simply
directed toward arousing in the masses his own feeling of patriotic
hatred of the French.

But when events assumed their true historical character, when expressing
hatred for the French in words proved insufficient, when it was not
even possible to express that hatred by fighting a battle, when
self-confidence was of no avail in relation to the one question before
Moscow, when the whole population streamed out of Moscow as one man,
abandoning their belongings and proving by that negative action all
the depth of their national feeling, then the role chosen by Rostopchín
suddenly appeared senseless. He unexpectedly felt himself ridiculous,
weak, and alone, with no ground to stand on.

When, awakened from his sleep, he received that cold, peremptory note
from Kutúzov, he felt the more irritated the more he felt himself
to blame. All that he had been specially put in charge of, the state
property which he should have removed, was still in Moscow and it was no
longer possible to take the whole of it away.

“Who is to blame for it? Who has let things come to such a pass?” he
ruminated. “Not I, of course. I had everything ready. I had Moscow
firmly in hand. And this is what they have let it come to! Villains!
Traitors!” he thought, without clearly defining who the villains and
traitors were, but feeling it necessary to hate those traitors whoever
they might be who were to blame for the false and ridiculous position in
which he found himself.

All that night Count Rostopchín issued orders, for which people came to
him from all parts of Moscow. Those about him had never seen the count
so morose and irritable.

“Your excellency, the Director of the Registrar’s Department has sent
for instructions.... From the Consistory, from the Senate, from the
University, from the Foundling Hospital, the Suffragan has sent...
asking for information.... What are your orders about the Fire Brigade?
From the governor of the prison... from the superintendent of the
lunatic asylum...” All night long such announcements were continually
being received by the count.

To all these inquiries he gave brief and angry replies indicating that
orders from him were not now needed, that the whole affair, carefully
prepared by him, had now been ruined by somebody, and that that somebody
would have to bear the whole responsibility for all that might happen.

“Oh, tell that blockhead,” he said in reply to the question from the
Registrar’s Department, “that he should remain to guard his documents.
Now why are you asking silly questions about the Fire Brigade? They have
horses, let them be off to Vladímir, and not leave them to the French.”

“Your excellency, the superintendent of the lunatic asylum has come:
what are your commands?”

“My commands? Let them go away, that’s all.... And let the lunatics
out into the town. When lunatics command our armies God evidently means
these other madmen to be free.”

In reply to an inquiry about the convicts in the prison, Count
Rostopchín shouted angrily at the governor:

“Do you expect me to give you two battalions—which we have not got—for a
convoy? Release them, that’s all about it!”

“Your excellency, there are some political prisoners, Meshkóv,
Vereshchágin...”

“Vereshchágin! Hasn’t he been hanged yet?” shouted Rostopchín. “Bring
him to me!”