'Taking no prisoners,' said Prince Andrey. 'That alone would transform the whole war and would make it less cruel. But playing at war, that's what's so vile, being magnanimous and all that sort of thing. That kind of magnanimity and sensitivity reminds me of the magnanimity and sensitivity of a posh lady who feels sick at the sight of a calf being slaughtered - she's such a nice person she can't stand the sight of blood, but she does enjoy a nice dish of fricasseed veal. They go on and on about the rules of war, chivalry, flags of truce, showing mercy to the afflicted, and so on. It's a load of rubbish. I saw enough chivalry and flags of truce in 1805. They cheated us, and we cheated them. They loot people's homes, issue counterfeit money and, worst of all, they kill my children and my father, and they still go on about the rules of war, and being magnanimous in victory. Don't take any prisoners! Kill and be killed! Anyone who has got this far, as I have, through suffering . . .'
Prince Andrey, who had been thinking he didn't mind one way or the other whether they took Moscow as they had taken Smolensk, was stopped sharply in mid-flow by a sudden tremor and a lump in his throat. He walked up and down once or twice without saying anything, but his eyes had a feverish glint in them and his top lip quivered as he launched forth again.
'If we didn't have all this business of magnanimity in warfare, we would only ever go to war when there was something worth facing certain death for, as there is now. Nobody would go to war just because Pavel Ivanych had insulted Mikhail Ivanych. But if there's going to be a war like this one, let there be war. And besides, the intensity of military commitment would be of a different order. All these Westphalians and Hessians brought over here by Napoleon would never have followed him into Russia, and we wouldn't have gone off to fight in Austria and in Prussia without knowing what for. War is not being nice to each other, it's the vilest thing in human life, and we ought to understand that and not play at war. It's a terrible necessity, and we should be strict about it and take it seriously. It comes down to this: no more lying, war means war and it's not a plaything. Otherwise war will be a nice hobby for idle people and butterfly minds . . . The military class gets all the honours. And what is war, what is necessary for success on the battlefield, what is the moral basis of a military society? The aim of war is murder, the weapons of war are spying, treachery and the fostering of further treachery, the destruction of people, looting their property and stealing from them to keep the army on the road, falsehood and deceit, which go by the name of clever tactical ploys, and the moral basis of the military class is the curtailment of freedom through discipline, linked with idleness, ignorance, cruelty, debauchery and drunkenness. And in spite of all that, it's still the highest class, universally respected. All heads of state except the Chinese wear military uniforms, and the biggest rewards go to the man who has killed the most people . . . People come together to murder one another, as they will do tomorrow; men get slaughtered and crippled in their tens of thousands, and then services of thanksgiving are held to celebrate the killing of vast numbers of men (they even exaggerate the numbers), and victory is proclaimed, on the basis that the more men slaughtered, the greater the achievement. How can God look down from heaven and listen to it all?' Prince Andrey called out in a shrill voice that set the teeth on edge. 'Listen, old fellow, life's become unbearable for me just lately. I can see I've come to understand too much. And it's not a good thing for man to taste of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil . . . Oh, well, not much longer!' he added. 'But I can see you're nodding off, and it's time I went to bed. Off you go back to Gorki,' said Prince Andrey suddenly.
'Oh no!' answered Pierre, his deeply sympathetic eyes lighting up with alarm as he looked at Prince Andrey.
'Time you were on your way. You need a good night's sleep before a battle,' repeated Prince Andrey. He went quickly over to Pierre, embraced him and kissed him. 'Goodbye, then. Off you go,' he cried. 'Maybe we'll meet again . . . maybe not . . .' and he turned on his heel and hurried off back into the barn.
By now it was dark, and Pierre could not make out the expression on his face, so he never knew whether it was intimidating or affectionate.
He stood there for some time in silence, wondering whether to follow him in or go back to Gorki. 'No, he doesn't need me!' Pierre told himself, 'and I know this is our last meeting!' He gave a deep sigh and rode off back to Gorki.
Back in the barn Prince Andrey lay down on a rug, but he could not get to sleep.
He closed his eyes. One image followed another. There was one that gave him pleasure, and he lingered over it. He vividly recalled one evening in Petersburg. Natasha's face was a picture of eager excitement as she told him how she had gone mushrooming the previous summer and got lost in a big forest. She was describing in any old order the depths of the forest, her own sensations, and her chat with a bee-keeper she had come across, and she never stopped interrupting herself to say, 'No, I can't do it. I'm not telling it properly. No, you can't possibly understand,' even though Prince Andrey kept trying to reassure her that he was taking it in and he really had understood everything she had been trying to say. Natasha was dissatisfied with her own words. She felt they didn't do justice to the poetical and romantic feelings she had experienced that day and now wanted to turn inside out. 'It was all so wonderful, that old man, the darkness in the forest . . . and his nice, kind . . . no, I can't describe it,' she had said, all worked up and red in the face.
Prince Andrey smiled now the same happy smile he had smiled then as he gazed into her eyes. 'I did understand her,' thought Prince Andrey. 'It was more than understanding. That spiritual energy, that sincerity, that open-heartedness, the very soul of her that seemed to be bound up in her body, I loved the soul in her . . . My love was so deep and blissful . . .' And then suddenly he remembered how their love had ended. 'He didn't care for any of that. He didn't see any of it. It didn't register on him. All he saw in her was a pretty little girl, nice and fresh, but it would have been below him to unite his destiny with hers. And what about me? . . . And there he is, still alive and enjoying life.'
Prince Andrey leapt to his feet like a scalded cat, and began walking up and down again outside the barn.
CHAPTER 26
On the 25th of August, the eve of the battle of Borodino, Napoleon's quarters were at Valuyevo. M. de Bausset, prefect of the French Emperor's palace, and Colonel Fabvier, arrived there, the former from Paris, the latter from Madrid.
M. de Bausset had changed into court uniform and ordered the package he had brought for the Emperor to be carried in before him; now he walked into the outer section of Napoleon's tent, and chatted to an aide as he set about unpacking the box.
Fabvier stopped at the entrance and stayed outside, talking to some generals that he knew.
The Emperor Napoleon was still in his bedroom, finishing his toilet. With much snorting and harrumphing he twisted this way and that, offering first his fat back and then his flabby, hairy chest to the flesh-brush wielded by a valet who was rubbing him down. Another valet held one finger over the mouth of a little bottle as he sprinkled the Emperor's pampered person with eau de cologne, and the look on his face suggested that he was unique in knowing where and how much to sprinkle. Napoleon's short hair was wet and matted down over his forehead. But his face, for all its sallow puffiness, glowed with physical pleasure. 'Go on, harder, keep at it . . .' he kept saying amidst further shrugs and harrumphing as the valet brushed away. An adjutant who had come into the bedroom to report the number of prisoners taken in yesterday's action stood by the door; he had delivered his message and was waiting for permission to leave. Napoleon glanced up at him with a scowl.
'No prisoners?' he exclaimed, repeating what the adjutant had said. 'They're forcing us to destroy them. Too bad for the Russian army . . . Go on, harder . . .' he said, hunching up his podgy shoulders for the valet. 'Good. Send de Bausset in, and Fabvier too,' he said to the adjutant with a nod.
'Yes, sir.' And the adjutant was out of the door.
It took
no time at all for the two valets to get his Majesty into his blue guards uniform, and soon he was striding through into the reception-room with a bold and rapid tread.
De Bausset meanwhile was busy fussing with the present he had brought from the Empress, which he wanted to arrange across a couple of chairs right in front of the Emperor's doorway. But his Majesty had taken less time than expected to get dressed and come out, so the surprise wasn't quite ready.
Napoleon spotted immediately what they were up to, and guessed they weren't ready for him. Not wishing to deprive them of the pleasure of preparing a nice surprise for him, he pretended he hadn't seen M. de Bausset, and called Fabvier over. Napoleon arranged his face into a severe frown as he listened in silence to Fabvier's discourse on the courage and devotion of his men fighting at Salamanca, the other end of Europe, whose only thought was to be worthy of their Emperor, and whose only dread was to incur his displeasure. The battle had been a disaster. Napoleon made one or two sarcastic comments during Fabvier's account, to the effect that no more could have been expected in view of his absence.
'I must put things right in Moscow,' said Napoleon. 'Goodbye for now,' he added, and summoned de Bausset, who had now had enough time to get his surprise ready; something had been placed across the chairs and covered with a cloth.
De Bausset gave a very low bow in true French courtly fashion, the special bow of the older Bourbon retainers, and came closer to hand over a letter.
Napoleon addressed him breezily, and tweaked his ear.
'It hasn't taken you long. I'm delighted to see you. Well, come on then, what's the word from Paris?' he said, his earlier dark glare switching instantly to a look of warm cordiality.
'Sire, the whole of Paris regrets your absence,' answered de Bausset, going through the motions. But even though Napoleon knew de Bausset was obliged to say this or something like it, even though in his brighter moments he knew it wasn't true, he was still gratified to hear it. He was gracious enough to give the man's ear another tweak.
'I'm so sorry to have made you do so much travelling,' he said.
'Sire, I expected nothing less than to find you at the gates of Moscow,' said de Bausset.
Napoleon gave a smile, looked up distractedly and glanced to his right. An adjutant glided forward with a gold snuff-box, which he offered up. Napoleon took it.
'Yes, it's all worked out well for you,' he said, bringing the open snuff-box up to his nose. 'You and your wanderlust. In three days' time you'll get your first sight of Moscow. I'm sure you weren't expecting to see the Asiatic capital. It'll be a nice trip for you.'
De Bausset bowed in appreciation of this sympathetic interest in his wanderlust (though this was the first he had heard of it).
'Well now, what have we here?' said Napoleon, observing that all the courtiers were staring at the object hidden under the cloth. De Bausset, practised courtier that he was, performed a nifty backward two-step, half-twisting but not once turning his back, and in one movement whipped off the cover and proclaimed, 'A present to your Majesty from the Empress.'
It was a brightly coloured portrait, painted by Gerard, of the son born to Napoleon and the daughter of the Austrian Emperor, the little boy known for some reason as the King of Rome.
He was a very pretty child with curly hair and eyes like those of Christ in the Sistine Madonna, and he had been portrayed playing cup and ball. The ball represented the earth and the stick in his other hand was meant as a sceptre.
Although the painter's message (with the so-called King of Rome skewering the earth on a sceptre) was not altogether clear, the allegory seemed to strike Napoleon in the same way that it had struck everyone who had seen it in Paris, as something perfectly understandable and most appealing.
'The King of Rome!' he exclaimed, with an elegant gesture towards the portrait. 'Admirable!' He had an Italian's knack of changing his facial expression at will, and by the time he had walked over to the portrait his air was one of contemplative tenderness. He could sense the moment; whatever he might say or do now would be history in the making, and it occurred to him that the best thing to do, with him at the height of his power, enough for his child to be playing cup and ball with the earth itself, would be to go for the opposite extreme and put on a show of fatherly affection at it simplest. His eyes were misty with emotion as he moved closer, looked round for a chair (one was under him in a flash), and sat down facing the portrait. One gesture from him and everybody tiptoed out, leaving the great man alone with his feelings.
After sitting there for a while and reaching out, for no particular reason, to feel the rough texture of a highlight in the painting, he got to his feet and recalled de Bausset and the officer on duty. He gave orders for the portrait to be taken outside and placed in front of his tent so that the old guard stationed near him should not miss the pleasure of seeing the King of Rome, son and heir of their adored Emperor.
And sure enough, as expected, while he sat breakfasting with M. de Bausset, who had joined him by gracious invitation, they could hear the officers and men of the old guard cheering with delight as they dashed up to look at the portrait.
'Long live the Emperor! Long live the king of Rome! Long live the Emperor!' came the rapturous cries.
After breakfast, in the presence of de Bausset, Napoleon dictated his order of the day to the army.
'Short and sweet!' was Napoleon's assessment of it when he had read through the text of his proclamation, which had been written down at one go and needed no corrections. It ran as follows: Soldiers! The battle you have been longing for is upon us. Victory depends on you. It is essential for us; it will give us all that we need: comfortable quarters and a speedy return home. Behave as you did at Austerlitz, Friedland, Vitebsk and Smolensk. May posterity long recall with pride your achievements this day! And may it be said of each one of you: he was there at the great battle before Moscow!
'Before Moscow,' Napoleon repeated, and inviting M. de Bausset, the devotee of travel, to go with him on his ride, he left the tent and walked over to the horses that stood waiting ready saddled.
'Your Majesty is too kind,' was de Bausset's response to the invitation. He was dead on his feet, he was not a good rider and he was frightened of horses.
But Napoleon nodded to the traveller, and de Bausset had no option but to mount. The moment Napoleon came out of the tent the cheering of the guards gathered round his son's portrait was redoubled. Napoleon gave a frown.
'Take him away,' he said, pointing to the portrait with a stylish, magnificent gesture. 'It is too early for him to look upon the battlefield.'
De Bausset lowered his eyelids and bowed his head with a deep sigh. It was his way of showing how well he understood the Emperor's words and how much he appreciated them.
CHAPTER 27
History tells us that Napoleon spent the whole of that day, the 25th of August, on horseback, inspecting the locality, going over plans submitted by his marshals, and issuing personal instructions to his generals.
The Russians' original battle-line along the Kolocha had been broken, and the loss of the Shevardino redoubt on the 24th had caused them to pull back on the left flank. This section had not been entrenched, it was no longer protected by the river, and it was the only part of the front that gave on to flat, open ground. This was the obvious place for the French to attack, as any man, military or non-military, could have seen. One might have thought that this conclusion could have been reached without too much cogitation, without all the fuss and bother now indulged in by the Emperor and his marshals, and certainly without recourse to the remarkable and lofty faculty that goes by the name of genius, which is so lovingly ascribed to Napoleon. Yet the historians who later described the battle, the men surrounding the Emperor at the time and Napoleon himself all thought otherwise.
Napoleon rode up and down the field, examining the countryside with an air of profound introspection, nodding or shaking his head to himself as a register of approval or uncertainty but keeping his th
oughts to himself, and, without a word to the surrounding generals about the profound thought processes that lay behind his decisions, he transmitted only his final conclusions, and these took the form of instructions. He listened carefully to a proposal from Davout, now the Duke of Eckmuhl, that they should turn the Russian left flank, and then announced that there was no need for this, though he never explained why not. But when General Compans (who was due to attack the fleches) proposed taking his division through the woods, Napoleon signified his approval, even though the so-called Duke of Elchingen (Marshal Ney) ventured to observe that moving troops through woodland was a risky business that might break up the formation of the division.
Napoleon scrutinized the countryside across from the Shevardino redoubt, thought things over for a while in silence and then indicated two places where batteries were to be set up for tomorrow's action against the Russian fortifications, and the line running from them along which the field artillery was to be deployed.
After issuing these orders, along with a number of others, he went back to his tent, and the battle-disposition of the troops was written down from his dictation.
This disposition, which French historians describe in rapturous terms and others treat with the greatest of respect, went as follows: At daybreak two new batteries set up during the night on the plateau occupied by the Duke of Eckmuhl to open fire on the two enemy batteries opposite.
At the same time General Pernetti, commander of the 1st Corps artillery, with thirty pieces from Compans' division and all the howitzers from Desaix's and Friant's divisions, to advance, open fire and mount an intense bombardment of the enemy's battery, which will then be under attack from the following:
General Fouche, commander of the 3rd Corps artillery, is to deploy all sixteen howitzers of the 3rd and 8th Corps on both flanks of the battery detailed to bombard the left-side entrenchment, bringing the total of guns ranged against it to 40.