On Poklonnaya hill, four miles short of the Dorogomilov gate, Kutuzov got out of his carriage and sat down on a bench by the side of the road. A great crowd of generals gathered around. Count Rostopchin, who had come out from Moscow, joined them. The brilliant company broke up into small groups, chatting among themselves about the pros and cons of the present position, the state of the army, the plans that had been submitted, the general situation in Moscow, and all things military. Everybody felt that, although they had not been summoned for this purpose, and nobody was prepared to call it by its proper name, this was a council of war. Conversation was restricted to topics of general interest. If anyone imparted or received any personal news it was communicated in a whisper, and the talk swiftly returned to general topics. Not a joke, laugh or smile passed between these people. They were all obviously struggling to keep on top of things. All the groups, as they chatted away, did their level best to stick close to the commander-in-chief, whose bench was the centre of interest, and they spoke out to make themselves heard. The commander-in-chief listened, and sometimes made an inquiry about something said near by, but he didn’t enter into any conversation or express an opinion. More often than not he would listen to one group talking, only to turn away in disappointment as if they were saying things he had no desire to hear. Some of them were discussing the position, criticizing not so much the position itself as the intellectual calibre of those who had selected it. Others argued that the real mistake had been made earlier on; they should have gone into battle two days before. A different set was going on about the battle of Salamanca, which was being described by a newly arrived Frenchman by the name of Crosart, dressed in a Spanish uniform. (This Frenchman, along with one of the German princes serving in the Russian army, was analysing the siege of Saragossa, in the belief that Moscow might have to be defended in the same way.) In the fourth group, Count Rostopchin was saying that he and the Moscow city guard were ready to die at the city walls, but he still felt it proper to complain that he had been kept in the dark, and if only he’d known earlier on everything would have been different . . . A fifth group was demonstrating a profound level of strategic awareness by discussing the right direction for the troops to go in. A sixth group was talking utter nonsense.
Kutuzov’s face looked ever more worried and dejected. From all this talk Kutuzov drew a single conclusion: defending Moscow was
Bennigsen, who had chosen the present position, was waxing eloquent in a great show of Russian patriotism – Kutuzov couldn’t listen to him without wincing – and insisting on the defence of Moscow. His purpose was as clear as daylight to Kutuzov: if the defence failed it was Kutuzov’s fault – he had brought the army all the way to the Sparrow hills without fighting the enemy – but if it was successful he wanted the credit, and if they opted out he washed his hands of the crime of abandoning Moscow.
But the old man had no time now for this kind of chicanery. There was only one terrible question on his mind, a question to which he heard no answer. The question was: ‘How can I have let Napoleon get as far as Moscow, and when did I do it? When did it happen? Yesterday, when I sent word to Platov to fall back, or the evening before when I had a nap and let Bennigsen take over? Or was it before that? . . . When, oh when did this ghastly thing happen? Moscow has to be abandoned. The army must fall back. The order must be given.’
