MOSCOW
[The foreground is an open place amid the ancient irregular streets
of the city, which disclose a jumble of architectural styles, the
Asiatic prevailing over the European. A huge triangular white-
walled fortress rises above the churches and coloured domes on a
hill in the background, the central feature of which is a lofty
tower with a gilded cupola, the Ivan Tower. Beneath the battlements
of this fortress the Moskva River flows.
An unwonted rumbling of wheels proceeds from the cobble-stoned
streets, accompanied by an incessant cracking of whips.]
DUMB SHOW
Travelling carriages, teams, and waggons, laden with pictures,
carpets, glass, silver, china, and fashionable attire, are rolling
out of the city, followed by foot-passengers in streams, who carry
their most precious possessions on their shoulders. Others bear
their sick relatives, caring nothing for their goods, and mothers
go laden with their infants. Others drive their cows, sheep, and
goats, causing much obstruction. Some of the populace, however,
appear apathetic and bewildered, and stand in groups asking questions.
A thin man with piercing eyes gallops about and gives stern orders.
SPIRIT OF THE PITIES
Whose is the form seen ramping restlessly,
Geared as a general, keen-eyed as a kite,
Mid this mad current of close-filed confusion;
High-ordering, smartening progress in the slow,
And goading those by their own thoughts o'er-goaded;
Whose emissaries knock at every door
In rhythmal rote, and groan the great events
The hour is pregnant with?
SPIRIT OF THE YEARS
Rostopchin he,
The city governor, whose name will ring
Far down the forward years uncannily!
SPIRIT OF RUMOUR
His arts are strange, and strangely do they move him:--
To store the stews with stuffs inflammable,
To bid that pumps be wrecked, captives enlarged
And primed with brands for burning, are the intents
His warnings to the citizens outshade!
When the bulk of the populace has passed out eastwardly the Russian
army retreating from Borodino also passes through the city into the
country beyond without a halt. They mostly move in solemn silence,
though many soldiers rush from their ranks and load themselves with
spoil.
When they are got together again and have marched out, there goes by
on his horse a strange scarred old man with a foxy look, a swollen
neck and head and a hunched figure. He is KUTUZOF, surrounded by
his lieutenants. Away in the distance by other streets and bridges
with other divisions pass in like manner GENERALS BENNIGSEN, BARCLAY
DE TOLLY, DOKHTOROF, the mortally wounded BAGRATION in a carriage, and
other generals, all in melancholy procession one way, like autumnal
birds of passage. Then the rear-guard passes under MILORADOVITCH.
Next comes a procession of another kind.
A long string of carts with wounded men is seen, which trails out of
the city behind the army. Their clothing is soiled with dried blood,
and the bandages that enwrap them are caked with it.
The greater part of this migrant multitude takes the high road to
Vladimir.