‘One word from me, one wave of my arm, and the ancient capital of the Tsars would be no more. But my clemency is ever ready to descend upon the vanquished. I must be magnanimous and truly great. But no, it isn’t true – I am not yet in Moscow,’ he suddenly realized. ‘Still, here she lies at my feet with her golden domes and crosses glinting and shimmering in the sun. But I shall spare her. On the ancient monuments of barbarism and despotism I shall inscribe great words of justice and mercy . . . That will hurt Alexander more than anything else. I know him.’ (Napoleon seemed to think that amidst all these events the most important thing was the rivalry between him and Alexander.) ‘From the heights of the Kremlin – yes, there it is, the Kremlin, yes – I shall give them the laws of justice, I shall teach them the meaning of true civilization, I shall make generations of boyars2 speak their conqueror’s name with love. I shall tell their deputation that I have not sought, and do not seek, war; my war has been waged against the dishonest policy of their court; I love and respect Alexander, and in Moscow I shall accept terms of peace worthy of myself and my peoples. I have no wish to use the fortunes of war to humiliate a monarch deserving of respect. “Boyars,” I shall say to them, “I have no desire for war. I desire peace and prosperity for all my subjects.” And I know I can count on being inspired by their very presence, and I shall speak to them as I always do, clearly but solemnly, like a great man. But am I really in Moscow? Yes, there she is!’
‘Bring me the boyars,’ he said to his entourage. Immediately a general galloped off with his own brilliant suite to fetch the boyars.
Two hours passed. Napoleon took lunch, and returned to the same spot on Poklonny hill, waiting for the deputation to arrive. His speech to the boyars had by now taken definite shape in his mind. It was a speech full of dignity and majesty, as seen by Napoleon.
Napoleon was carried away by the attitude of magnanimity which he had every intention of striking in Moscow. In his own mind he had already scheduled certain days for assemblies in the Tsars’ palace at which the great Russian nobles would mingle with the courtiers of the French Emperor. Mentally he saw himself appointing a governor capable of winning the hearts of the people. Having heard that Moscow was full of religious institutions, he imagined himself showering them with blessings. As he saw it, when he had been in Africa he had had to sit in a mosque wearing one of their capes, and now in Moscow he must be like the Tsars and show mercy. And since, like all Frenchmen, he couldn’t conceive of anything at all emotional without some reference to his poor mother sweet and tender, he decided to have an inscription put on all these charitable foundations in capital letters saying: THIS ESTABLISHMENT IS DEDICATED TO MY DEAR MOTHER or simply MY MOTHER’S HOUSE. ‘Am I really in Moscow? Yes, there she is lying before me. But why is the deputation from the city taking so long?’ he wondered.
Meanwhile at the rear of the suite heated exchanges were going on in whispers between the generals and marshals. The adjutants that had gone to fetch the deputation had come back with the news that Moscow was empty; whether they had driven off or just walked away, everybody had gone. The faces of those conferring looked pale and worried. It wasn’t the fact that Moscow had been abandoned by its inhabitants (bad enough in itself) that alarmed them; it was the prospect of having to tell the Emperor, and how to tell him. Without putting his Majesty into the terrible situation that the French see as being ‘open to ridicule’, how could they tell him that it had been a waste of time waiting for the boyars, and there was nobody left in Moscow apart from a few drunken mobs? Some of them said come what may they would have to scrape up some kind of deputation; others said no, the Emperor must be properly prepared by skilful persuasion, and then told the truth.
‘We’ll have to tell him eventually,’ said some members of the entourage . . . ‘But gentlemen . . .’
The situation was made worse by the fact the Emperor, thoroughly absorbed in his magnanimous plans, was strolling patiently to and fro in front of the city map, shading his eyes now and then to look down the Moscow road, with a proud and happy smile on his face.
‘It can’t be done . . .’ the gentlemen-in-waiting kept repeating with a shrug. They couldn’t bring themselves to utter the terrible words that haunted all their minds: ‘open to ridicule . . .’
