With regard to maintaining morale among the troops and people, parade after parade was held, and decorations were bestowed.
The Emperor rode about the streets reassuring the citizens, and despite being very busy with affairs of state he found time for personal appearances at theatres set up at his behest.
With regard to philanthropy - philanthropy being a monarch's greatest gallantry - Napoleon did all that could have been expected of him. He had 'My Mother's House' inscribed on all the charitable institutions, thus combining warm filial sentiment with the majesty of a virtuous monarch. He visited the foundling home, and as he gave the orphans saved by him his white hands to kiss, he indulged Tutolmin with gracious conversation. Then he ordered his soldiers to be paid in forged Russian money. Thiers waxes eloquent on this subject: Reinforcing the effectiveness of these methods by an action worthy of both him and the French army, he had relief distributed to the fire victims. But since food was too precious to be given away to foreigners mostly treated like enemies, Napoleon preferred to issue them with money so that they could provide for themselves from outside, and he had them paid in roubles notes.
With regard to army discipline, orders were continually being issued prescribing severe punishment for dereliction of military duty, and an end to all looting.
CHAPTER 10
But, strange to relate, all these arrangements, efforts and plans, not the least bit inferior to many others made before under similar circumstances, never got through to what mattered. Like the hands on a clock-face detached from the workings, they went round aimlessly and arbitrarily without engaging with the cogs.
With regard to the military, the plan of campaign, this work of genius - on which subject Thiers claims that 'his genius never devised anything more profound, skilful or admirable', and goes on to take issue with Monsieur Fain over the date of this work of genius, which was not the 4th, but the 15th of October - this plan never was and never could have been put into practice, because it was utterly remote from reality. The idea of fortifying the Kremlin, which would have entailed pulling down 'the Mosque' (as Napoleon called the Cathedral of Vasily the Blessed), turned out to be quite useless. The mining of the Kremlin was merely to satisfy the Emperor's desire on leaving Moscow to have the Kremlin blown up, which was like having the floor beaten because a child has hurt himself on it. The pursuit of the Russian army, one of Napoleon's major preoccupations, gave rise to an incredible phenomenon. The French generals managed to lose sight of the sixty-thousand-strong Russian army, and it took what Thiers refers to as the 'skill', nay the 'genius', of Murat for them to rediscover this sixty-thousand-strong needle in a haystack.
With regard to diplomacy, all Napoleon's insistence on magnanimity and justice when speaking to Tutolmin and Yakovlev (whose main concern was to find himself a greatcoat and a carriage to travel in) came to nothing. Alexander refused to receive these envoys, and did not respond to the messages they brought.
With regard to law and order, the execution of the so-called incendiaries was followed by the other half of Moscow burning down.
The establishment of a municipal council did not stop the looting, and benefited nobody beyond the few people who sat on it, and were able to use the maintenance of public order as a pretext for plundering Moscow for themselves, or protecting their own property against other plunderers.
With regard to religion, Napoleon's simple trick in Egypt of making a personal appearance in a mosque cut no ice when it was attempted here. Two or three priests picked up in Moscow made an attempt to carry out Napoleon's wishes; but one of them was hit in the face by a French soldier during the service, and another was referred to as follows by a French official: 'The priest whom I had discovered and invited to resume saying Mass cleaned the church and then closed it. During the night the doors were forced open, padlocks were smashed, books were torn to pieces and other desecrations occurred.'
With regard to commerce, the proclamation to 'hard-working artisans and peasants' fell on deaf ears. There were no hard-working artisans left in Moscow, and the peasants seized any messengers who ventured too far out of the town with this proclamation and killed them.
With regard to entertainment, attempts to provide theatres for the people and the troops were equally unsuccessful. Theatres set up in the Kremlin and in Poznyakov's house were immediately closed down, because the actors and actresses were being stripped of their possessions.
Even philanthropy failed to achieve the desired results. Moscow was full of paper money, genuine and counterfeit, and the notes were valueless. The French were assiduously piling up their loot, and they cared for nothing but gold. It was not only Napoleon's generously bestowed banknotes that lost their value; even silver went down in relation to gold.
But the most striking example of the ineffectiveness of all the authorities' efforts was Napoleon's vain attempt to stop the looting and restore discipline.
Here are some reports submitted by the military authorities:
'Looting goes on in the city despite all the orders to stop it. Public order has not yet been restored, and there isn't a single merchant trading within the law. Only the canteen-keepers venture to sell things, and they are dealing in stolen goods.'
'Part of my district continues to be a prey to looting by the soldiers of the Third Corps, who, not satisfied with going down into the cellars and stripping the poor wretches of what little they have left, are vicious enough to stab them in the process, as I have seen on more than one occasion.'
'Nothing new to report, apart from further stealing and looting by the soldiers. October 8th.'
'Stealing and looting continue. A gang of robbers is operating in our district, and they will have to be stopped, though it will take strong guards to do it. October 11th.'
'The Emperor is exceedingly displeased that, in defiance of strict orders to stop all looting, bands of pillaging guardsmen can be seen continually returning to the Kremlin. In the old guards, indiscipline and looting have been worse than ever last night and today. The Emperor notes with regret that soldiers of the elite, appointed to guard his person, who ought to be setting an example to the other ranks, are so lax in their discipline that they have started breaking into cellars and store-rooms prepared for the army. Others have sunk so low they have been ignoring sentries and officers on guard duty and even swearing at them and hitting them.'
'The grand marshal of the palace complains bitterly [wrote the governor] that despite repeated prohibitions the soldiers continue to obey the call of nature in all the courtyards, and even under the Emperor's own windows.'
The army, like a herd of cattle running wild and trampling underfoot the very fodder that might have saved them from dying of hunger, was falling apart and getting closer to disaster with every extra day that passed as they stayed on in Moscow.
But it never stirred.
It panicked and ran only when it was suddenly shocked and horrified by the capture of wagon-trains on the Smolensk road and the battle of Tarutino. News of the battle of Tarutino reached Napoleon unexpectedly in mid-parade, and, according to Thiers, filled him with an urge to punish the Russians, and he gave the army the marching orders they had long been clamouring for.
In their flight from Moscow the soldiers took with them everything they had been able to lay their hands on. Even Napoleon took his own personal treasure-trove. Thiers tells us he was shocked to see all those wagons groaning under army loot, but, for all his experience of war, he decided against ordering all the extra wagons to be burnt, as he had done with a marshal's baggage on the way to Moscow. He took one look at all these carts and carriages filled with soldiers, and said it was all right, these vehicles would come in handy for transporting food and also the sick and the wounded.
The plight of the army was like the plight of a wounded beast that realizes the end is near, but doesn't know what it's doing. Studying the subtle manoeuvres and general aims of Napoleon and his army from the time they entered Moscow to the moment of their des
truction is rather like looking for meaning in the jumping and twitching of a mortally wounded animal. Very often the wounded creature will hear a slight movement and rush towards the shooting huntsman, lurching forward, then back again, hastening its own end. This is what Napoleon was now doing, under pressure from his entire army. Rumours of the battle of Tarutino shocked the wild beast into action, and it rushed headlong towards the shooting, got as far as the huntsman, darted back, then forward again, and eventually, like any wild beast, ran away down a familiar track that happened to be the worst and most disastrous of all ways out.
The Napoleon that comes down to us as the motive force behind this movement (just as primitive people saw the figurehead on the prow of a ship as the motive force driving the ship), the Napoleon who was active at this time was like a child in a carriage who pulls on the straps inside and thinks he is doing the driving.
CHAPTER 11
Early in the morning of the 6th of October Pierre walked out of the shed, turned back and stood in the doorway playing with the lavender-grey mongrel bitch with a long body and short bandy legs that was frisking round him. She lived in their shed, sleeping with Karatayev; now and then she took herself off into town, though she always came back again. She had probably never belonged to anybody, she was nobody's now, and she didn't even have a name. The French called her Azor, the story-telling soldier called her Femgalka, but Karatayev called her Greycoat, or sometimes Floppy. She was just a lavender-grey dog, apparently quite unconcerned at having no master, no name, no particular breed, not even a definite colour. She had a fluffy tail that stood up straight in a little round tuft; her bandy legs served her so well she seemed not to need all four of them, because quite often she would gracefully cock a back-leg up, and nip around expertly on three. For her, everything was a source of fun. One moment you would catch her rolling on her back yelping with joy, then you would see her basking in the sunshine, looking all dreamy and solemn, then she was off again, frisking around with a splinter of wood or a bit of straw.
Pierre's clothing now consisted of a dirty, tattered shirt, the only thing left from what he had been wearing, a pair of soldier's drawers tied round the ankles with pieces of string on Karatayev's advice, to keep the warmth in, and a peasant's coat and cap. Physically Pierre had changed a great deal during this period. He didn't look fat any more, though he still retained the Bezukhovs' bulk and strength. A beard and moustache covered the lower part of his face; his long, matted hair, crawling with lice, gave him a thick cap of curls. There was a firm, calm look in his eyes, the kind of sharpness and alertness that Pierre's face had never shown before. All his old lassitude, which had shown itself even in his eyes, had given way to a new vitality; he looked instantly ready for action and resistance. His feet were bare.
Pierre looked across the meadow at the steady movement of wagons and men on horseback, then right out over the river, then at the dog, who was making a good show of really wanting to bite him, then down at his bare feet, twisting them about with enormous pleasure, and wriggling his big, thick, dirty toes. And every time he looked at his bare feet his face lit up with a bright smile of contentment. The sight of those bare feet reminded him of all he had gone through and all he had learnt during this period, and the memory was sweet.
For several days the weather had been calm and clear, with just a light frost in the mornings; it was a real Indian summer.
It was warm outside in the sunshine, and the warmth was particularly pleasant, with a bracing freshness still in the air after the early-morning frost.
Over everything, all objects near and far, lay the magic crystal brightness you will only ever see at this time in the autumn. The Sparrow hills were visible in the distance, along with a village, a church and a big white house. And the leafless trees, the sand, the stones and the rooftops of houses, the green church-steeple and the sharp corners of the white house in the distance all stood out with remarkable clarity, delicately etched in the limpid air. Nearer in stood the familiar ruins of a half-burnt mansion, occupied by French soldiers, with lilac bushes still showing dark-green by the fence. And even this charred and grimy house, such a hideous sight in bad weather, looked lovely, even comforting, in all the stillness and brightness.
A French corporal with a night-cap on his head and his coat casually unbuttoned, came round the corner of the shed, sucking on a stubby pipe, gave Pierre a friendly wink, and walked over to him.
'Nice bit of sunshine, eh, Monsieur Kiril?' (This was what all the French soldiers called Pierre.) 'Just like spring.'
And the corporal leant against the door, offering Pierre his pipe, even though he was always doing this, and Pierre always refused.
'If we were out on the road in weather like this . . .' he began.
Pierre asked him some questions, hoping to find out whether he had heard anything about the French moving out, and the corporal told him nearly all the troops were going, and they were expecting orders today about what to do with the prisoners. In the shed that Pierre lived in there was a Russian soldier by the name of Sokolov who was so ill he was near to death, and Pierre told the corporal something had to be done about him. The corporal told Pierre not to worry: they had field stations and proper hospitals for cases like that, they would be told what to do with the sick, and all possible contingencies had been anticipated by the powers that be.
'Anyway, Monsieur Kiril, all you have to do is say the word to the captain, you know. He's a you know what, but he doesn't forget things. Talk to the captain when he comes round. He'll do the necessary.'
The captain in question had had many a long conversation with Pierre, and done him all sorts of favours.
' "Mark my words, St Thomas," he was saying to me only the other day, "that Kiril's an educated man, speaks French he does, he's a Russian lord who's been through a bad patch, but he's a real man. And he knows what's what . . . If he wants anything, he only has to ask, nobody will refuse him nothing." When you've done your own bit of studying, see, you have a lot of time for education and posh people. I'm telling you this for your own good, Monsieur Kiril. That bit of business the other day - but for you it could have turned very nasty.'
The corporal chatted on for a few more minutes and then went away. (The other day's bit of business had been a set-to between the prisoners and the French soldiers, which Pierre had managed to sort out by persuading his companions to calm down.)
Several of the prisoners had heard Pierre talking to the corporal, and now they wanted to know what he had said. Pierre was busy telling his companions what had been said about the French moving out of Moscow when a thin, sallow, ragged French soldier came up to the door of the shed. With one quick, uncertain gesture he put his fingers to his forehead in a kind of salute, looked at Pierre, and asked whether Private Platoche, who was making a shirt for him, lived in this shed.
The French soldiers had been issued with linen and leather a week or so before this, and had got the Russian prisoners to make boots and shirts for them.
'Oh yes, me old darlin', 'tis ready all right!' said Karatayev, emerging with a neatly folded shirt. Because of the heat, and to make it easier for working, Karatayev was wearing nothing but a pair of drawers and a tattered shirt, as black as the soil. He had tied his hair up with a strip of bark-fibre like a factory-worker, and his round face looked rounder than ever and even more genial.
'A deal's a deal. Friday, I said, and I've done it,' said Platon with a broad smile, unfolding the shirt he had made.
The Frenchman looked round nervously. He seemed full of misgivings, but he overcame them, slipped off his jacket and put the shirt on. Under his uniform he hadn't been wearing a shirt; next to his yellow, thin body he wore a long, greasy, flowery silk waistcoat. He was obviously worried that the prisoners might take one look at him and fall about laughing, and he shoved his head quickly through the neck-hole. None of the prisoners said a word.
'Nice fit, that,' said Platon, easing the shirt down. The Frenchman got his head and arms t
hrough, and inspected the fit of the shirt, checking the needle-work without once looking up.
'Well, me dear, this ain't no tailor's shop, you know, and I didn't have no proper sewing kit, and they do say you can't kill a louse without the right kit,' said Karatayev, admiring his own handiwork.
'No, it's very good. Thank you very much. But you must have some stuff left over . . .' said the Frenchman.
'It'll bed in as you wears it,' said Karatayev, still revelling in his achievement. 'There you are. Nice and comfortable, that's what you'll be.'
'Thank you, thank you very much, old fellow, but what about the offcuts?' repeated the Frenchman, handing Karatayev a banknote. 'Have you got the offcuts?'
Pierre could tell Platon was determined not to understand what the Frenchman was saying in his own language, and he watched the pair of them without interfering. Karatayev thanked him for the money, but he was still lost in admiration of his own work. The Frenchman insisted, and asked Pierre to translate.
'What does he want with the offcuts?' said Karatayev. 'Nice set of leg-bands they'd have been. Oh well, it doesn't worry me.'
And so, with a sudden saddening of his features, Karatayev took a bundle of remnants out of his shirt and handed them over without looking at the Frenchman. 'Oh, dearie me!' he cried, and walked away. The Frenchman looked down at the linen, nonplussed, glanced quizzically in Pierre's direction, and seemed to pick up a message from the way Pierre looked back.
'Hey, Platoche!' he called in a thin, shrill voice, suddenly blushing. 'You can keep these,' he said. He gave him the remnants, turned away and walked off.
'Now, just look at that,' said Karatayev, shaking his head. 'Not supposed to be Christians, but they've got souls too. Like what the old folks always said: a sweaty hand's an open hand, a dry fist is tight. Not a stitch to his back, and 'e gives me this lot.' Karatayev stood there for a while, saying nothing, just smiling thoughtfully to himself and staring at the offcuts. 'Nice set of leg-bands these'll be, me dear,' he said, walking off back into the shed.