The Burning of Moscow Read online

  Fedor Rostopchin came from an ancient but not particularly prominent or wealthy noble family, which proudly preserved a tradition that it descended from the Crimean Tatar Prince David Rabchaka, a distant descendant of the notorious Mongol leader Chinggis Khan. As was customary at that time, the young Rostopchin was enlisted in the elite Life Guard Preobrazhenskii Regiment at a young age but did not actually serve in the regiment at that time since he was preoccupied with studies at the famous Page Corps. After graduating at the age of 19 in 1782, he began service with the LG Preobrazhenskii Regiment and it quickly became apparent that he was an intelligent and capable officer who thirsted for distinction. But his lack of patronage, so crucial in career advancement, meant that Rostopchin initially languished in the junior officer ranks, despite participating in the Russo-Swedish and Russo-Turkish Wars. In 1792, however, his chance came when he was tasked with delivering the news of the Peace of Jassy (which ended the Russo-Turkish War) to St Petersburg, for which he received the rank of kamer-junker (valet of the chamber). He did his best to advance at the imperial court, earning a name for his witty repartee and marrying the niece of Empress Catherine’s favourite, a move which he hoped would open more doors for him at court. But his quirky and eccentric character turned many people away from him and the Empress herself teasingly called him ‘Fedor the mad’. Thus, despite earnest efforts, his career had stalled, leaving the young but desperate Rostopchin pondering retirement. It was then that an auspicious incident introduced him to Grand Duke Pavel Petrovich, the son of Empress Catherine II. Mother and son were estranged, and the court largely followed the Empress’s example in ignoring her son. Assigned to the Grand Duke’s palace at Gatchina, Rostopchin proved to be the exception, approaching his duties in a conscientious manner while many others shirked on their responsibilities. Upset at seeing his colleagues not serving the Grand Duke in good faith, he wrote a complaint denouncing them. The letter became public and caused a scandal, effectively destroying Rostopchin’s hopes for a successful career at the court of Catherine II – but it did draw the attention of Grand Duke Paul, who appreciated the young man’s devotion at a time when most people stayed away from him. Thus, as Catherine II lay on her deathbed in November 1796, Rostopchin was among those few who could be confident about the future. Indeed, his career took off under Emperor Paul, who appreciated the young man’s commitment and keen wit. One day Paul teasingly asked Rostopchin, in the presence of the court, why his family was not of princely rank. ‘Sire, that is because my [Tatar] ancestors came to Russia in winter,’ Rostopchin quickly replied. ‘What does this have to do with the title?’ inquired the befuddled emperor. ‘When my Tatar ancestor appeared for the first time at the Russian court, the Sovereign offered him the choice between a fur coat and the title of prince. My ancestor chose the former without hesitation.’4 Paul laughed heartily at this explanation, which further endeared the young man to him. Within three years Rostopchin was already a lieutenant general and chevalier of some of the highest imperial orders. In 1799 Paul rewarded Rostopchin’s loyalty with the title of count of the Russian Empire (Rostopchin refused the princely title!), appointed him Grand Chancellor of the Order of the Maltese Knights and granted him vast estates that turned him into one of the wealthiest men in the empire. It was indeed a glorious time for Rostopchin – but all good things come to an end.5

  In late March 1801 Rostopchin was stunned by the assassination of his benefactor. The new sovereign, Emperor Alexander I, disliked Rostopchin and many others who had been devoted to his father and who suspected him of having approved Paul’s assassination. So Rostopchin was given no employment and had to settle at his estate at Voronovo near Moscow. But his inquisitive mind could not stay out of public affairs for long and over the next few years he voiced increasing criticism of the policies of the Russian government, especially in the wake of the Russian defeats at Austerlitz and Friedland – ‘how can the Lord bless the armies of the wicked son?’ he wrote bluntly after Austerlitz, hinting at his suspicion of Alexander’s involvement in Paul’s assassination.6 He opposed the Franco-Russian rapprochement at Tilsit and openly accused some of Alexander’s advisers of being stooges of France. In 1807 he published a small pamphlet denouncing the prevalence of French culture among the Russian elite, and speaking of the need to revive and maintain Russian traditions. The booklet proved to be a runaway success, selling over 7,000 copies and raising its author’s public profile. Rostopchin followed up this success with a series of similar publications, effectively turning himself into an unofficial mouthpiece of the anti-French traditionalist party that gradually gained prominence in the upper circles of Russian society.7 Among its more vocal members was Grand Duchess Catherine Pavlovna, Emperor Alexander’s beloved sister, who had declined a marriage proposal from Napoleon and instead married a German princeling, George of Oldenburg. After her husband was appointed governor of Tver, Novgorod and Yaroslav, Catherine had settled in a provincial town, where she routinely invited leading personalities of Moscow society to dispel the boredom of provincial life. Rostopchin was a frequent visitor and the two quickly became friends. This rapport with the Grand Duchess, whom Alexander adored and trusted, proved to be of momentous significance for Rostopchin, for Catherine beseeched her brother to appoint her friend as the governor-general of Moscow. According to the well-informed Alexander Bulgakov, this appointment was ‘almost forced out of the emperor’ by Catherine, who ‘admired Rostopchin’s sharp wit and pleasant conversation’.8 The Emperor, who distrusted the Russian nationalists and personally loathed Rostopchin, excused his initial evasiveness by noting that Rostopchin held the civilian position of chief chamberlain and thus could not be appointed to the position of governor of Moscow, which required its holder to wear a military uniform. ‘And this is the only insurmountable obstacle?’ the Grand Duchess observed cannily. ‘This seems to be a simple task for a tailor.’9 In the spring of 1812 Emperor Alexander granted his sister’s wish and appointed Rostopchin military governor of Moscow, with the Senate issuing the official decree on 6 June.10 In late July Rostopchin received even greater authority when Alexander appointed him commander-in-chief of Moscow.11

  Governor Rostopchin took control of the city in the first days of June and threw himself wholeheartedly into his new occupation. A clever man, skilful courtier, wit and cynic, he proved an able administrator and sought to restore the order that had waned under his predecessor’s lax governing. Some of his initial decisions dealt with seemingly mundane issues, such as prohibiting coffin makers from displaying coffins on their shop signs,12 removing packs of stray dogs from the streets, forbidding the smoking of tobacco in public (ostensibly to prevent fires caused by discarded embers), introducing stricter restriction on butchers, and banning children from flying paper kites that ‘frighten horses and might cause unfortunate incidents’.13 He demanded tighter supervision of the city to put an end to ‘debauchery, drunkenness, [and] outrages of various kinds’, and instructed police to raid more than 390 houses that ‘operate as herbergen [hostels], restaurants, taverns and cook shops’ and get rid of ‘dissolute’ women who corrupted young men; all these institutions were subsequently required to close at ten o’clock in the evening.14

  At the same time, eager to ingratiate himself with influential Muscovites, Rostopchin presided over a seemingly unending series of balls, banquets, dinners and other parties, causing some to remark that the 1812 season was the most brilliant people had known in a long time.15 With rumours of war whirling around, Rostopchin also sought to shape and direct public opinion. At the start of the summer he assured everyone that the war would be quick and decisive in Russia’s favour. ‘Napoleon? We would not even let him cross the frontier,’ he boasted. The news of the Grande Armée’s invasion of Russia surprised him but he remained unabashed. ‘War? Yes, it’s war all right,’ he proclaimed. ‘But that does not mean that Napoleon will reach Moscow.’ His benefactor Grand Duchess Catherine, who detested Napoleon and was among the first to have foreseen the i
mpending war against France, urged the new governor of Moscow to act. ‘Tell Rostopchin’, Catherine wrote to her confidant Prince Obolenskii, ‘that he must inflame the nobility of Moscow. All he needs to do is to show the danger the Fatherland is in and the national significance of this war.’16 Rostopchin agreed with her, perceiving his prime duty as eradicating any signs of subversion from within and keeping up the people’s morale. Therefore, he decided to ‘work on the minds of the people, to arouse them and prepare them for any sacrifice for the salvation of the Fatherland’. Yet Rostopchin’s form of ‘patriotism’ promoted a deep hatred of foreigners and incited the populace to rise up against them.

  The official news from the army, published daily in the newspapers, seemed to present a depressing picture of the continually retreating Russian forces and the unremitting roll of enemy successes. Despite official propaganda, some Russians found it ‘hard to believe’ that Russian victories at Mir, Ostrovno and Dashkovo were of any significance.17 So Rostopchin launched his own media blitz – his famous broadsheets (afishy) – that mixed nationalism and populism to inspire the people of Moscow and disparage the enemy.18 Their content was deliberately trivial and written in what he believed to be racy but popular Russian language to allow for quick comprehension by the masses of Moscow: ‘some of us found the language used in these broadsheets appropriate to our time and circumstances,’ commented one resident of Moscow. ‘But the majority found it vulgar and crude.’19 Yet at least one contemporary felt that ‘the broadsheets were unique – never before has a government addressed its people in such a language! The broadsheets were timely and made a forceful and indelible impact on the populace of Moscow.’20 Another perceptive contemporary noted that the governor-general

  did his best to incite the noble flames [of patriotism] among the residents of the city entrusted to him. And he succeeded in awakening the gallant spirit of our ancestors that had become dormant due to our indolence and lassitude. Like other noblemen, Rostopchin was educated abroad and was fluent in foreign languages, but he differed from other nobles in that he had also learned [the Russian] tongue and did not even disdain to speak the commoners’ language. He used his knowledge of this language when, amidst the turmoil caused by the momentous events [of the summer of 1812], he addressed the people through his daily broadsheets that featured various tales designed to entertain, encourage and incite people for the greater cause.21

  Rostopchin’s broadsheets were headed by woodcuts of a drink shop and a Muscovite called Karnyushka Chigirin, ‘who, having been a militiaman, and having had rather too much at the pub, heard that Napoleon wished to come to Moscow, grew angry, [and] abused the French in very bad language’;22 they were widely read and discussed among the inhabitants of Moscow. To ensure the effectiveness of his propaganda, Rostopchin recruited agents whose task was to mix with the crowds in public places and ‘to spread certain rumours, maintain patriotic enthusiasm and diminish the disagreeable impression made by bad news’.

  In late July throngs of Muscovites came out to greet Emperor Alexander, who had left the army after he was told, with infinite tact, that his presence in the army was onerous and it would be better if he went to Moscow and St Petersburg to cheer up people’s spirits. It was already late at night when Alexander approached the former capital of his vast realm, but so many Muscovites had gone to meet him on the road that ‘from their lanterns it was almost as light as in daytime’23 and the crowds ‘greeted him rapturously’.24 Alexander, however, was uneasy, well aware of the resentment felt by many of the city’s grandees towards the liberal tendencies and reforms he had championed earlier in his reign. Rostopchin assured the sovereign that he need have no fears: with a country at war, the nobility was far from being in a rebellious mood and could be counted upon, while the merchants, delighted by Russia’s withdrawal from the Continental Blockade, were ready to make sizeable donations towards the national cause. But to guard against disobedience or free thinking, the governor had a couple of police carriages drawn up in front of the Sloboda Palace to prevent intemperate ‘hotheads’ or ‘wild tongues’ from attempting any excesses of speech or behaviour.25

  On 24 July thousands of Muscovites massed in and around the Kremlin, hoping for a glimpse of their sovereign. A solemn service at the Cathedral of the Assumption, where the Russian rulers were traditionally crowned, was interrupted on a few occasions by ‘thunderous shouts of “hurrah”’26 by the vast multitudes of reverent subjects. As he was coming out of the cathedral, hundreds of hands grabbed at his uniform, hands and feet, making his entourage uneasy at the crush. ‘We were like a ship without masts and rudder amidst the stormy sea,’ recalled one of Alexander’s adjutants.27 The Emperor then addressed the Assembly of the Nobility and the Guild of Merchants at the Imperial Palace, where he made his plea for donations of money and recruits.28 His speech certainly had an effect and inspired everyone to sacrifice a part of his wealth for the salvation of the Fatherland. The people thronged the emperor, crying ‘We prefer to die than to surrender to the enemy!’29 In a marvellous display of patriotism and devotion, both the nobility and merchants offered their money without stinting, while Rostopchin reassured the emperor that even though the Russian armies were currently withdrawing before the enemy, ‘the Russian Empire will always remain formidable at Moscow, terrifying at Kazan and invincible at Tobolsk!’ Emperor Alexander was clearly pleased with his visit to Moscow and was in brighter spirits when the time came to leave. As he bade farewell to Rostopchin during the night of 28/29 July, Alexander conferred on him full authority to act as he saw fit whatever might occur. ‘Who can predict events? But I rely on you entirely,’ Alexander remarked enigmatically, without specifying what those events might be.30

  Yet not all of Moscow displayed the ‘patriotic’ fervour that Rostopchin wanted to see. Just as Emperor Alexander departed, ‘former student Urusuv, not even drunk, publicly stated in a tavern that Napoleon’s arrival in Moscow is not only possible but would be beneficial for everyone’.31 Even more ‘toxic’ was the rumour that ‘Napoleon was the son of the Empress Catherine, whom she ordered to be raised in foreign lands. On her deathbed she made Emperor Paul swear that he will give half of the Russian Empire to his brother Napoleon if he ever comes back’.32 The patriotic gestures of the nobility and merchants had been largely organized in advance by Count Rostopchin, whose trusted agent ‘sat next to each merchant’s ear and whispered those hundreds and thousands of rubles of donations that, in his opinion, the merchant should make to the [national] altar’.33 In addition, many merchants saw the emperor’s appeal for troops as a way to turn a quick profit: realizing that ‘the enemy could not be defeated with bare hands’, they quickly increased the prices on weapons. Before the emperor’s speech a sword and sabre cost less than 6 rubles, a pair of pistols 7–8 rubles and a musket or carbine 11–15 rubles; after the speech a sabre went for 30–40 rubles, pistols cost up to 50 rubles and muskets and carbines could not be found for less than 80 rubles. Such exploitation was not limited to arms traders: tailors, shoemakers and other craftsmen also doubled or tripled prices for their goods. ‘I was greatly saddened to observe their practices,’ observed one Muscovite.34 Meanwhile, large segments of the city population remained quite indifferent to the emperor’s appeal. The governor was astonished to hear that some Muscovites – ‘the cowards and the malcontents’, as he calls them – were, in fact, critical of the government’s failure ‘to avoid a third war with the enemy who has already twice defeated Russian armies’.35 The governor was probably also aware of indifference among the lower classes. On the eve of the imperial visit to Moscow, one Russian landowner, inspired by patriotic zeal, gathered more than 200 of his serfs and gave ‘a rather moving speech, appealing to each peasant to support our Orthodox Sovereign at this difficult time by contributing money or volunteering for military service against the enemy’. Despite the appeal, only one man volunteered for service, leaving the landowner ‘deeply shocked by the indifference shown by [his] subjects’.36 A
nd the governor could hardly forget a rather embarrassing incident on the eve of the imperial visit – just as throngs of Muscovites filled all the quarters of the Kremlin for the solemn service, a rumour spread that the gates would soon be closed and all commoners found inside the complex would be forcibly enlisted into the army. ‘As soon as this rumour spread,’ says eyewitness Mikhail Marakuev, ‘the rabble rushed to escape and the Kremlin was emptied of people in just a few moments.’37

  Such incidents naturally caused many contemporaries to wonder if there was something or someone behind them. For Rostopchin, the answer was clear: he had long been suspicious of foreign influences in Russia and often spoke out against various secret societies and free-thinkers, be they Illuminati, Freemasons, Martinists or Jacobins. He alleged the existence of a liberal conspiracy that aimed at the destruction of traditional order in Russia, and exploited this claim to position himself as an indispensable champion of the conservative ideology, whom Emperor Alexander could trust with such an important office as the governorship of Moscow. But his struggle against freemasonry, Martinism and other radical ideologies often served as a backdrop for his settling of scores with opponents or people he disliked.38 ‘His heart is open to easy suspicions and he struggles to believe in [a person’s] decency but eagerly seizes upon even the suggestion of a misdeed [the person might have committed],’ one of Rostopchin’s victims later bemoaned.39 The governor was indeed keen to believe in denunciations and rumours against his perceived enemies. His hatred for anything or anyone associated with Revolutionary France was quite notorious. ‘A firm supporter of serfdom and a reactionary by conviction,’ one Russian historian observed, ‘Rostopchin was fanatically hostile to France as the source of the revolutionary ideals and to Napoleon as the product of that same revolution.’40 Rostopchin’s acquaintances knew, for example, that ‘next to his cabinet there was a small dark room, where, as the French saying goes, even the king has to go unattended. Inside this privy room there was a beautiful bronze bust of Napoleon. A slim plank nailed to the imperial head held a porcelain vessel that was so necessary for visitors seeking to relieve their natural needs.’41 Many also amused themselves by exploiting the governor’s deep antipathy for the French emperor. Just one month into the war Moscow was flooded with thousands of portraits of Napoleon, which proved to be a best-selling commodity due to their very low price of just one copper kopeck; rumours claimed that the governor himself had these prints made so as to make Napoleon’s appearance better known to the populace and promising a handsome reward to anyone who killed him. One of Rostopchin’s acquaintances thought it amusing to buy one of these prints as a gift for the governor, who was dismayed and could not stop himself defacing it (he drew a bushy moustache on Napoleon’s face) and scribbled a brief but vulgar inscription: