| ON RECEIVING THE CHIEF COMMAND of the army, Kutuzov remembered Prince Andrey and sent him a summons to headquarters. Prince Andrey reached Tsarevo-Zaimishtche on the very day and at the very hour when Kutuzov was making his first inspection of the troops. Prince Andrey stopped in the village at the house of the priest, where the commander-in-chief’s carriage was standing, and sat down on a bench at the gate to await his highness, as every one now called Kutuzov. From the plain beyond the village came the sounds of regimental music, and the roar of a vast multitude, shouting “Hurrah!” to the new commander-in-chief. At the gate, some ten paces from Prince Andrey, stood two orderlies, a courier, and a butler, taking advantage of their master’s absence to enjoy the fine weather. A swarthy, little lieutenant-colonel of hussars, his face covered with bushy moustaches and whiskers, rode up to the gate, and glancing at Prince Andrey asked whether his highness were putting up here and whether he would soon be back. Prince Andrey told him that he did not belong to his highness’s staff, but had only just arrived. The lieutenant-colonel of hussars turned to the smart orderly, and the orderly told him with the peculiar scornfulness with which a commander-in-chief’s orderlies do speak to officers: “His highness? We expect him back immediately. What is your business?” The officer grinned in his moustaches at the orderly’s tone, dismounted, gave his horse to a servant, and went up to Bolkonsky with a slight bow. Bolkonsky made room for him on the bench. The hussar sat down beside him. “You, too, waiting for the commander-in-chief?” he began. “They say he is willing to see any one, thank God! It was a very different matter with the sausage-makers! Yermolov might well ask to be promoted a German. Now, I dare say, Russians may dare to speak again. And devil knows what they have been about. Nothing but retreating and retreating. Have you been in the field?” he asked. “I have had the pleasure,” said Prince Andrey, “not only of taking part in the retreat, but also of losing everything I valued in the retreat—not to speak of my property and the home of my birth … my father, who died of grief. I am a Smolensk man.” “Ah! … Are you Prince Bolkonsky? Very glad to make your acquaintance. Lieutenant-colonel Denisov, better known by the name of Vaska,” said Denisov, pressing Prince Andrey’s hand and looking into his face with a particularly kindly expression. “Yes, I had heard about it,” he said sympathetically, and after a brief pause he added: “Yes, this is Scythian warfare. It’s all right, but not for those who have to pay the piper. So you are Prince Andrey Bolkonsky?” He shook his head. “I am very glad, prince; very glad to make your acquaintance,” he added, pressing his hand again with a melancholy smile. Prince Andrey knew of Denisov from Natasha’s stories of her first suitor. The recollection of them—both sweet and bitter—carried him back to the heart-sickness of which he had of late never thought, though it still lay buried within him. Of late so many different and grave matters, such as the abandonment of Smolensk, his visit to Bleak Hills, the recent news of his father’s death—so many emotions had filled his heart that those memories had long been absent, and when they returned did not affect him nearly so violently. And for Denisov, the associations awakened by the name of Bolkonsky belonged to a far-away, romantic past, when, after supper and Natasha’s singing, hardly knowing what he was doing, he had made an offer to the girl of fifteen. He smiled at the recollection of that time and his love for Natasha, and passed at once to what he was just now intensely and exclusively interested in. This was a plan of campaign he had formed while on duty at the outposts during the retreat. He had laid the plan before Barclay de Tolly, and now intended to lay it before Kutuzov. The plan was based on the fact that the line of the French operations was too extended, and on the suggestion that, instead of or along with a frontal attack, barring the advance of the French, attacks should be made on their communications. He began explaining his plan to Prince Andrey. “They are not able to defend all that line; it’s impossible. I’ll undertake to break through them. Give me five hundred men and I would cut their communications, that’s certain! The one system to adopt is partisan warfare.” Denisov got up and began with gesticulations to explain his plans to Bolkonsky. In the middle of his exposition they heard the shouts of the army, mingling with music, and song, and apparently coming from detached groups scattered over a distance. From the village came cheers and the tramp of horses’ hoofs. “Himself is coming,” shouted the Cossack, who stood at the gate; “he’s coming!” Bolkonsky and Denisov moved up to the gate, where there stood a knot of soldiers (a guard of honour), and they saw Kutuzov coming down the street mounted on a low bay horse. An immense suite of generals followed him. Barclay rode almost beside him; a crowd of officers was running behind and around them shouting “hurrah!” His adjutants galloped into the yard before him. Kutuzov impatiently kicked his horse, which ambled along slowly under his weight, and continually nodded his head and put his hand up to his white horse-guard’s cap, with a red band and no peak. When he reached the guard of honour, a set of stalwart grenadiers, mostly cavalry men, saluting him, he looked at them for a minute in silence, with the intent, unflinching gaze of a man used to command; then he turned to the group of generals and officers standing round him. His face suddenly wore a subtle expression; he shrugged his shoulders with an air of perplexity. “And with fellows like that retreat and retreat!” he said. “Well, good-bye, general,” he added, and spurred his horse into the gateway by Prince Andrey and Denisov. “Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” rang out shouts behind him. Since Prince Andrey had seen him last Kutuzov had grown stouter and more corpulent than ever; he seemed swimming in fat. But the familiar scar, and the white eye, and the expression of weariness in his face and figure were unchanged. He was wearing a white horse-guard’s cap and a military coat, and a whip on a narrow strap was slung over his shoulder. He sat heavily swaying on his sturdy horse. “Fugh! … fugh! … fugh! …” he whistled, hardly audibly, as he rode into the courtyard. His face expressed the relief of a man who looks forward to resting after a performance. He drew his left foot out of the stirrup, and with a lurch of his whole person, frowning with the effort, brought it up to the saddle, leaned on his knee, and with a groan let himself drop into the arms of the Cossacks and adjutants, who stood ready to support him. He pulled himself together, looked round with half-shut eyes, glanced at Prince Andrey, and evidently not recognising him, moved with his shambling gait towards the steps. “Fugh! … fugh! … fugh!” he whistled, and again looked round at Prince Andrey. As is often the case with the aged, the impression of Prince Andrey’s face did not at once call up the memory of his personality. “Ah, how are you, how are you, my dear boy, come along …” he said wearily, and walked heavily up the steps that creaked under his weight. He unbuttoned his coat and sat down on the seat in the porch. “Well, how’s your father?” “The news of his death reached me yesterday,” said Prince Andrey briefly. Kutuzov looked at him with his eye opened wide with dismay, then he took off his cap, and crossed himself. “The peace of heaven be with him! And may God’s will be done with all of us!” He heaved a heavy sigh and paused. “I loved him deeply and respected him, and I feel for you with all my heart.” He embraced Prince Andrey, pressed him to his fat breast, and for some time did not let him go. When he released him Prince Andrey saw that Kutuzov’s thick lips were quivering and there were tears in his eye. He sighed and pressed his hands on the seat to help himself in rising from it. “Come in, come in, we’ll have a chat,” he said; but at that moment Denisov, who stood as little in dread of the authorities as he did of the enemy, walked boldly up, his spurs clanking on the steps, regardless of the indignant whispers of the adjutants, who tried to prevent him. Kutuzov, his hands still pressed on the seat to help him up, looked ruefully at Denisov. Denisov, mentioning his name, announced that he had to communicate to his highness a matter of great importance for the welfare of Russia. Kutuzov bent his weary eyes on Denisov, and, lifting his hands with a gesture of annoyance, folded them across his stomach, and repeated, “For the welfare of Russia? Well, what is it? Speak.” Denisov blushed like a girl (it was strange to see the colour come on that hirsute, time-worn, hard-drinking face), and began boldly explaining his plan for cutting the enemy’s line between Smolensk and Vyazma. Denisov’s home was in that region, and he knew the country well. His plan seemed unquestionably a good one, especially with the energy of conviction that was in his words. Kutuzov stared at his own feet, and occasionally looked round towards the yard of the next cottage, as though he were expecting something unpleasant to come from it. From the cottage there did in fact emerge, during Denisov’s speech, a general with a portfolio under his arm. “Eh?” Kutuzov inquired in the middle of Denisov’s exposition, “are you ready now?” “Yes, your highness,” said the general. Kutuzov shook his head with an air that seemed to say, “How is one man to get through it all?” and gave his attention again to Denisov. “I give you my word of honour as a Russian officer,” Denisov was saying, “that I will cut Napoleon’s communications.” “Is Kirill Andreivitch Denisov, the ober-intendant, any relation of yours?” Kutuzov interposed. “My uncle, your highness.” “Oh! we used to be friends,” said Kutuzov, more cheerily. “Very good, very good, my dear boy; you stay here on the staff; we’ll have a talk to-morrow.” Nodding to Denisov, he turned away and put out his hand for the papers Konovnitsyn had brought him. “Will not your highness be pleased to walk into the house?” said the general on duty in a discontented voice; “it’s necessary to look through the plans and to sign some papers.” An adjutant appeared at the door to announce that everything was in readiness within. But apparently Kutuzov preferred to be rid of business before going indoors. He paused … “No; have a table placed here, my dear boy; I’ll look through them here,” he said. “Don’t you go away,” he added, addressing Prince Andrey. Prince Andrey remained in the porch listening to the general on duty. While the latter was presenting his report Prince Andrey heard the whisper of a woman’s voice and the rustle of a woman’s silk dress at the door. Several times glancing in that direction he noticed behind the door a plump, rosy-faced, good-looking woman in a pink dress with a lilac silk kerchief on her head. She had a dish in her hand and was apparently waiting for the commander-in-chief to enter. Kutuzov’s adjutant explained to Prince Andrey in a whisper that this was the priest’s wife, the mistress of the house, who intended to offer his highness bread and salt, the emblems of welcome, on his entrance. Her husband had met his highness with the cross in church, and she intended to welcome him to the house.… “She’s very pretty,” added the adjutant with a smile. Kutuzov looked round at the words. He heard the general’s report, the subject of which was chiefly a criticism of the position of the troops before Tsarevo-Zaimishtche, just as he had heard Denisov, and just as, seven years before, he had heard the discussions of the military council before Austerlitz. He was obviously hearing it simply because he had ears, and although one of them was stuffed up with cotton-wool they could not help hearing. But it was obvious that nothing that general could possibly say could surprise or interest him, that he knew beforehand all he would be told, and listened only because he had to listen to it, just as one has to listen to the litany being sung. All Denisov had said was practical and sensible. What the general was saying was even more practical and sensible, but apparently Kutuzov despised both knowledge and intellect, and knew of something else that would settle things—something different, quite apart from intellect and knowledge. Prince Andrey watched the commander-in-chief’s face attentively, and the only expression he could detect in it was an expression of boredom, of curiosity to know the meaning of the feminine whispering at the door, and of a desire to observe the proprieties. It was obvious that Kutuzov despised intellect and learning, and even the patriotic feeling Denisov had shown; but he did not despise them through intellect, nor through sentiment, nor through learning (for he made no effort to display anything of the kind), he despised them through something else—through his old age, through his experience of life. The only instruction of his own that Kutuzov inserted in the report related to acts of marauding by Russian troops. The general, at the end of the report, presented his highness a document for signature relating to a petition for damages from a landowner for the cutting of his oats by certain officers. Kutuzov smacked his lips together and shook his head, as he listened to the matter. “Into the stove … into the fire with it! And I tell you once for all, my dear fellow,” he said, “all such things put into the fire. Let them cut the corn and burn the wood to their heart’s content. It’s not by my orders and it’s not with my permission, but I can’t pursue the matter. It can’t be helped. You can’t hew down trees without the chips flying.” He glanced once more at the paper. “Oh, this German preciseness,” he commented, shaking his head. |
