Kutuzov’s face grew more and more careworn and gloomy. From all this talk Kutuzov saw one thing only： the defence of Moscow was a physical impossibility in the fullest sense of the words. It was so utterly impossible that even if some insane commander were to give orders for a battle， all that would follow would be a muddle， and no battle would be fought. There would be no battle， because all the officers in command， not merely recognised the position to be impossible， but were only engaged now in discussing what was to be done after the inevitable abandonment of that position. How could officers lead their men to a field of battle which they considered it impossible to hold？ The officers of lower rank， and even the soldiers themselves （they too form their conclusions）， recognised that the position could not be held， and so they could not advance into battle with the conviction that they would be defeated. That Bennigsen urged the defence of this position， and others still discussed it， was a fact that had no significance in itself， but only as a pretext for dissension and intrigue. Kutuzov knew that.
Bennigsen was warmly manifesting his Russian patriotism （Kutuzov could not listen to him without wincing）， by insisting on the defence of Moscow. To Kutuzov， his object was as clear as daylight： in case of the defence being unsuccessful， to throw the blame on Kutuzov， who had brought the army as far as the Sparrow Hills without a battle； in case of its being successful， to claim the credit； in case of it not being attempted， to clear himself of the crime of abandoning Moscow.
But these questions of intrigue did not occupy the old man’s mind now. One terrible question absorbed him. And to that question he heard no reply from any one. The question for him now was this： “Can it be that I have let Napoleon get to Moscow， and when did I do it？ When did it happen？ Was it yesterday， when I sent word to Platov to retreat， or the evening before when I had a nap and bade Bennigsen give instructions？ Or earlier still？ … When， when was it this fearful thing happened？ Moscow must be abandoned. The army must retire， and I must give the order for it.”
To give that terrible order seemed to him equivalent to resigning the command of the army. And apart from the fact that he loved power， and was used to it （the honours paid to Prince Prozorovsky， under whom he had been serving in Turkey， galled him）， he was convinced that he was destined to deliver Russia， and had only for that cause been chosen commander-in-chief contrary to the Tsar’s wishes by the will of the people. He was persuaded that in these difficult circumstances he was the one man who could maintain his position at the head of the army， that he was the only man in the world capable of meeting Napoleon as an antagonist without panic. And he was in terror at the idea of having to resign the command. But he must decide on some step， he must cut short this chatter round him， which was beginning to assume too free a character.
He beckoned the senior generals to him.
“Ma tête， f？t-elle bonne ou mauvaise， n’a qu’à s’aider d’elle-même，” he said， getting up from his bench， and he rode off to Fili， where his carriages were waiting.