SECOND OFFICER
The governor,
He says; the Count Rostopchin, sire.
NAPOLÉON
So! Even the ancient Kremlin is not sanct
From their infernal scheme! Go, take him out;
Make him a quick example to the rest.
[Exeunt guard with their prisoner to the court below, whence a
musket-volley resounds in a few minutes. Meanwhile the flames
pop and spit more loudly, and the window-panes of the room they
stand in crack and fall in fragments.]
Incendiarism afoot, and we unware
Of what foul tricks may follow, I will go.
Outwitted here, we’ll march on Petersburg,
The Devil if we won’t!
[The marshals murmur and shake their heads.]
BESSIERES
Your pardon, sire,
But we are all convinced that weather, time,
Provisions, roads, equipment, mettle, mood,
Serve not for such a perilous enterprise.
[NAPOLÉON remains in gloomy silence. Enter BERTHIER.]
NAPOLÉON [apathetically]
Well, Berthier. More misfortunes?
BERTHIER
News is brought,
Sire, of the Russian army’s whereabouts.
That fox Kutúzof, after marching east
As if he were conducting his whole force
To Vladimir, when at the Riazan Road
Down-doubled sharply south, and in a curve
Has wheeled round Moscow, making for Kalouga,
To strike into our base, and cut us off.
MURAT
Another reason against Petersburg!
Come what come may, we must defeat that army,
To keep a sure retreat through Smolensk on
To Lithuania.
NAPOLÉON [jumping up]
I must act! We’ll leave,
Or we shall let this Moscow be our tomb.
May Heaven curse the author of this war—
Ay, him, that Russian minister, self-sold
To England, who fomented it.—’Twas he
Dragged Alexander into it, and me!
[The marshals are silent with looks of incredulity, and Caulaincourt
shrugs his shoulders.]
Now no more words; but hear. Eugène and Ney
With their divisions fall straight back upon
The Petersburg and Zwenigarod Roads;
Those of Davout upon the Smolensk route.
I will retire meanwhile to Petrowskoi.
Come, let us go.
[NAPOLÉON and the marshals move to the door. In leaving, the
Emperor pauses and looks back.]
I fear that this event
Marks the beginning of a train of ills....
Moscow was meant to be my rest,
My refuge, and—it vanishes away!
[Exeunt NAPOLÉON, marshals, etc. The smoke grows denser and
obscures the scene.]
SCENE IX
THE ROAD FROM SMOLENSKO INTO LITHUANIA
[The season is far advanced towards winter. The point of observation
is high amongst the clouds, which, opening and shutting fitfully to
the wind, reveal the earth as a confused expanse merely.]
SPIRIT OF THE PITIES
Where are we? And why are we where we are?