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Bennigsen, who had chosen the position, warmly displayed his Russian patriotism (Kutzov could not listen to this without wincing) by insisting that Moscow must be defended. His aim was as clear as daylight to Kutzov: if the defense failed, to throw the blame on Kutzov who had brought the army as far as the Sparrow Hills without giving battle; if it succeeded, to claim the success as his own; or if battle were not given, to clear himself of the crime of abandoning Moscow. But this intrigue did not now occupy the old man’s mind. One terrible question absorbed him and to that question he heard no reply from anyone. The question for him now was: “Have I really allowed Napoleon to reach Moscow, and when did I do so? When was it decided? Can it have been yesterday when I ordered Pltov to retreat, or was it the evening before, when I had a nap and told Bennigsen to issue orders? Or was it earlier still?... When, when was this terrible affair decided? Moscow must be abandoned. The army must retreat and the order to do so must be given.” To give that terrible order seemed to him equivalent to resigning the command of the army. And not only did he love power to which he was accustomed (the honours awarded to Prince Prozorvski, under whom he had served in Turkey, galled him), but he was convinced that he was destined to save Russia and that that was why, against the Emperor’s wish and by the will of the people, he had been chosen commander in chief. He was convinced that he alone could maintain command of the army in these difficult circumstances, and that in all the world he alone could encounter the invincible Napoleon without fear, and he was horrified at the thought of the order he had to issue. But something had to be decided, and these conversations around him which were assuming too free a character must be stopped.
He called the most important generals to him.
“My head, be it good or bad, must depend on itself,” said he, rising from the bench, and he rode to Fil where his carriages were waiting.
The Council of War began to assemble at two in the afternoon in the better and roomier part of Andrew Savostynov’s hut. The men, women, and children of the large peasant family crowded into the back room across the passage. Only Malsha, Andrew’s six-year-old granddaughter whom his Serene Highness had petted and to whom he had given a lump of sugar while drinking his tea, remained on the top of the brick oven in the larger room. Malsha looked down from the oven with shy delight at the faces, uniforms, and decorations of the generals, who one after another came into the room and sat down on the broad benches in the corner under the icons. “Granddad” himself, as Malsha in her own mind called Kutzov, sat apart in a dark corner behind the oven. He sat, sunk deep in a folding armchair, and continually cleared his throat and pulled at the collar of his coat which, though it was unbuttoned, still seemed to pinch his neck. Those who entered went up one by one to the field marshal; he pressed the hands of some and nodded to others. His adjutant Kaysrov was about to draw back the curtain of the window facing Kutzov, but the latter moved his hand angrily and Kaysrov understood that his Serene Highness did not wish his face to be seen.
Round the peasant’s deal table, on which lay maps, plans, pencils, and papers, so many people gathered that the orderlies brought in another bench and put it beside the table. Ermlov, Kaysrov, and Toll, who had just arrived, sat down on this bench. In the foremost place, immediately under the icons, sat Barclay de Tolly, his high forehead merging into his bald crown. He had a St. George’s Cross round his neck and looked pale and ill. He had been feverish for two days and was now shivering and in pain. Beside him sat Uvrov, who with rapid gesticulations was giving him some information, speaking in low tones as they all did. Chubby little Dokhtrov was listening attentively with eyebrows raised and arms folded on his stomach. On the other side sat Count Ostermann-Tolsty, seemingly absorbed in his own thoughts. His broad head with its bold features and glittering eyes was resting on his hand. Ravski, twitching forward the black hair on his temples as was his habit, glanced now at Kutzov and now at the door with a look of impatience. Konovntsyn’s firm, handsome, and kindly face was lit up by a tender, sly smile. His glance met Malsha’s, and the expression of his eyes caused the little girl to smile.
They were all waiting for Bennigsen, who on the pretext of inspecting the position was finishing his savory dinner. They waited for him from four till six o’clock and did not begin their deliberations all that time but talked in low tones of other matters.
Only when Bennigsen had entered the hut did Kutzov leave his corner and draw toward the table, but not near enough for the candles that had been placed there to light up his face.
Bennigsen opened the council with the question: “Are we to abandon Russia’s ancient and sacred capital without a struggle, or are we to defend it?” A prolonged and general silence followed. There was a frown on every face and only Kutzov’s angry grunts and occasional cough broke the silence. All eyes were gazing at him. Malsha too looked at “Granddad.” She was nearest to him and saw how his face puckered; he seemed about to cry, but this did not last long.
“Russia’s ancient and sacred capital!” he suddenly said, repeating Bennigsen’s words in an angry voice and thereby drawing attention to the false note in them. “Allow me to tell you, your excellency, that that question has no meaning for a Russian.” (He lurched his heavy body forward.) “Such a question cannot be put; it is senseless! The question I have asked these gentlemen to meet to discuss is a military one. The question is that of saving Russia. Is it better to give up Moscow without a battle, or by accepting battle to risk losing the army as well as Moscow? That is the question on which I want your opinion,” and he sank back in his chair.
The discussion began. Bennigsen did not yet consider his game lost. Admitting the view of Barclay and others that a defensive battle at Fil was impossible, but imbued with Russian patriotism and the love of Moscow, he proposed to move troops from the right to the left flank during the night and attack the French right flank the following day. Opinions were divided, and arguments were advanced for and against that project. Ermlov, Dokhtrov, and Ravski agreed with Bennigsen. Whether feeling it necessary to make a sacrifice before abandoning the capital or guided by other, personal considerations, these generals seemed not to understand that this council could not alter the inevitable course of events and that Moscow was in effect already abandoned. The other generals, however, understood it and, leaving aside the question of Moscow, spoke of the direction the army should take in its retreat. Malsha, who kept her eyes fixed on what was going on before her, understood the meaning of the council differently. It seemed to her that it was only a personal struggle between “Granddad” and “Long-coat” as she termed Bennigsen. She saw that they grew spiteful when they spoke to one another, and in her heart she sided with “Granddad.” In the midst of the conversation she noticed “Granddad” give Bennigsen a quick, subtle glance, and then to her joys she saw that “Granddad” said something to “Long-coat” which settled him. Bennigsen suddenly reddened and paced angrily up and down the room. What so affected him was Kutzov’s calm and quiet comment on the advantage or disadvantage of Bennigsen’s proposal to move troops by night from the right to the left flank to attack the French right wing.
