“It was horrible,” relates the daughter of a merchant. “The Russians themselves were burning Moscow.”—“We were struck with terror at seeing fires all round us,” says another witness.—“Moscow,” says yet another, “was burned to drive out Bonaparte. I do not know how it happened, but one thing is certain, that our house was set on fire.” A drunken man, dressed in a peasant’s smock, was seen leaving the house of Prince Kourakin, the steward and four footmen driving him out with blows. He uttered a shout of triumph, exclaiming, “How well it burns!” Kourakin’s servants declared that he was an incendiary, and that they were about to give him up to the French. He was at once shot. It is impossible to attribute the burning of Moscow to a concerted plan. It was due in great measure to the fact that a large proportion of the houses were built of wood, and to the determination of the Russians not to allow their property to fall into the hands of the enemy. At first the responsibility was thrown on Rostopchin, who assured Bagration that if the worst came to the worst he was resolved to reduce the city to ashes. The fact that the Governor caused all fire-extinguishing appliances to be removed may suggest the theory that the destruction of the city was due to the action of the Governor-General. But subsequent inquiries demonstrated that the conflagration was, in the main, accidental, and Rostopchin himself confirms this idea. “It is a trait in the Russian character,” he says in his _Explanation_, “to destroy rather than to suffer anything to fall into the hands of the enemy. Let everything perish!” After Napoleon and his army occupied the city, several generals and officers visited the principal carriage-manufactories. Each selected a carriage and wrote his name upon it. The merchants, of one accord, set fire to their shops that they might not become “purveyors” to the enemy. On the other hand, the French officers seem to have suspected their own men, and this suspicion was a source of no little vexation. Ségur states that a number of officers took refuge in the halls of the Palace. Other generals, among them Mortier, who had been fighting the flames for thirty-six hours, arrived in a state of exhaustion. Some were taciturn. Others charged their companions with responsibility for the outbreak. All believed that drunkenness and want of discipline among the soldiers had helped to spread the conflagration. They looked at each other with dismay. What would Europe say? They spoke with downcast eyes, as if awestruck by so terrible a catastrophe, which tarnished their glory, destroyed the fruits of their victory, and endangered their lives. Would not Providence—the whole civilized world—punish such criminals?