War and Peace

n receiving command of the armies Kutúzov remembered Prince Andrew and
sent an order for him to report at headquarters.

Prince Andrew arrived at Tsárevo-Zaymíshche on the very day and at the
very hour that Kutúzov was reviewing the troops for the first time. He
stopped in the village at the priest’s house in front of which stood the
commander in chief’s carriage, and he sat down on the bench at the gate
awaiting his Serene Highness, as everyone now called Kutúzov. From the
field beyond the village came now sounds of regimental music and now the
roar of many voices shouting “Hurrah!” to the new commander in chief.
Two orderlies, a courier and a major-domo, stood near by, some ten paces
from Prince Andrew, availing themselves of Kutúzov’s absence and of the
fine weather. A short, swarthy lieutenant colonel of hussars with thick
mustaches and whiskers rode up to the gate and, glancing at Prince
Andrew, inquired whether his Serene Highness was putting up there and
whether he would soon be back.

Prince Andrew replied that he was not on his Serene Highness’ staff
but was himself a new arrival. The lieutenant colonel turned to a smart
orderly, who, with the peculiar contempt with which a commander in
chief’s orderly speaks to officers, replied:

“What? His Serene Highness? I expect he’ll be here soon. What do you
want?”

The lieutenant colonel of hussars smiled beneath his mustache at the
orderly’s tone, dismounted, gave his horse to a dispatch runner, and
approached Bolkónski with a slight bow. Bolkónski made room for him on
the bench and the lieutenant colonel sat down beside him.

“You’re also waiting for the commander in chief?” said he. “They say he
weceives evewyone, thank God!... It’s awful with those sausage eaters!
Ermólov had weason to ask to be pwomoted to be a German! Now p’waps
Wussians will get a look in. As it was, devil only knows what was
happening. We kept wetweating and wetweating. Did you take part in the
campaign?” he asked.

“I had the pleasure,” replied Prince Andrew, “not only of taking part in
the retreat but of losing in that retreat all I held dear—not to mention
the estate and home of my birth—my father, who died of grief. I belong
to the province of Smolénsk.”

“Ah? You’re Pwince Bolkónski? Vewy glad to make your acquaintance! I’m
Lieutenant Colonel Denísov, better known as ‘Váska,’” said Denísov,
pressing Prince Andrew’s hand and looking into his face with a
particularly kindly attention. “Yes, I heard,” said he sympathetically,
and after a short pause added: “Yes, it’s Scythian warfare. It’s all
vewy well—only not for those who get it in the neck. So you are Pwince
Andwew Bolkónski?” He swayed his head. “Vewy pleased, Pwince, to make
your acquaintance!” he repeated again, smiling sadly, and he again
pressed Prince Andrew’s hand.

Prince Andrew knew Denísov from what Natásha had told him of her first
suitor. This memory carried him sadly and sweetly back to those painful
feelings of which he had not thought lately, but which still found
place in his soul. Of late he had received so many new and very serious
impressions—such as the retreat from Smolénsk, his visit to Bald Hills,
and the recent news of his father’s death—and had experienced so many
emotions, that for a long time past those memories had not entered his
mind, and now that they did, they did not act on him with nearly their
former strength. For Denísov, too, the memories awakened by the name of
Bolkónski belonged to a distant, romantic past, when after supper and
after Natásha’s singing he had proposed to a little girl of fifteen
without realizing what he was doing. He smiled at the recollection of
that time and of his love for Natásha, and passed at once to what now
interested him passionately and exclusively. This was a plan of campaign
he had devised while serving at the outposts during the retreat. He had
proposed that plan to Barclay de Tolly and now wished to propose it
to Kutúzov. The plan was based on the fact that the French line
of operation was too extended, and it proposed that instead of, or
concurrently with, action on the front to bar the advance of the French,
we should attack their line of communication. He began explaining his
plan to Prince Andrew.

“They can’t hold all that line. It’s impossible. I will undertake to
bweak thwough. Give me five hundwed men and I will bweak the line,
that’s certain! There’s only one way—guewilla warfare!”

Denísov rose and began gesticulating as he explained his plan to
Bolkónski. In the midst of his explanation shouts were heard from the
army, growing more incoherent and more diffused, mingling with music
and songs and coming from the field where the review was held. Sounds of
hoofs and shouts were nearing the village.

“He’s coming! He’s coming!” shouted a Cossack standing at the gate.

Bolkónski and Denísov moved to the gate, at which a knot of soldiers
(a guard of honor) was standing, and they saw Kutúzov coming down the
street mounted on a rather small sorrel horse. A huge suite of generals
rode behind him. Barclay was riding almost beside him, and a crowd of
officers ran after and around them shouting, “Hurrah!”

His adjutants galloped into the yard before him. Kutúzov was impatiently
urging on his horse, which ambled smoothly under his weight, and he
raised his hand to his white Horse Guard’s cap with a red band and no
peak, nodding his head continually. When he came up to the guard of
honor, a fine set of Grenadiers mostly wearing decorations, who were
giving him the salute, he looked at them silently and attentively for
nearly a minute with the steady gaze of a commander and then turned to
the crowd of generals and officers surrounding him. Suddenly his face
assumed a subtle expression, he shrugged his shoulders with an air of
perplexity.

“And with such fine fellows to retreat and retreat! Well, good-by,
General,” he added, and rode into the yard past Prince Andrew and
Denísov.

“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” shouted those behind him.

Since Prince Andrew had last seen him Kutúzov had grown still more
corpulent, flaccid, and fat. But the bleached eyeball, the scar, and the
familiar weariness of his expression were still the same. He was wearing
the white Horse Guard’s cap and a military overcoat with a whip hanging
over his shoulder by a thin strap. He sat heavily and swayed limply on
his brisk little horse.

“Whew... whew... whew!” he whistled just audibly as he rode into the
yard. His face expressed the relief of relaxed strain felt by a man who
means to rest after a ceremony. He drew his left foot out of the stirrup
and, lurching with his whole body and puckering his face with the
effort, raised it with difficulty onto the saddle, leaned on his knee,
groaned, and slipped down into the arms of the Cossacks and adjutants
who stood ready to assist him.

He pulled himself together, looked round, screwing up his eyes, glanced
at Prince Andrew, and, evidently not recognizing him, moved with his
waddling gait to the porch. “Whew... whew... whew!” he whistled, and
again glanced at Prince Andrew. As often occurs with old men, it was
only after some seconds that the impression produced by Prince Andrew’s
face linked itself up with Kutúzov’s remembrance of his personality.

“Ah, how do you do, my dear prince? How do you do, my dear boy? Come
along...” said he, glancing wearily round, and he stepped onto the porch
which creaked under his weight.

He unbuttoned his coat and sat down on a bench in the porch.

“And how’s your father?”

“I received news of his death, yesterday,” replied Prince Andrew
abruptly.

Kutúzov looked at him with eyes wide open with dismay and then took off
his cap and crossed himself:

“May the kingdom of Heaven be his! God’s will be done to us all!” He
sighed deeply, his whole chest heaving, and was silent for a while. “I
loved him and respected him, and sympathize with you with all my heart.”

He embraced Prince Andrew, pressing him to his fat breast, and for some
time did not let him go. When he released him Prince Andrew saw that
Kutúzov’s flabby lips were trembling and that tears were in his eyes. He
sighed and pressed on the bench with both hands to raise himself.

“Come! Come with me, we’ll have a talk,” said he.

But at that moment Denísov, no more intimidated by his superiors than by
the enemy, came with jingling spurs up the steps of the porch, despite
the angry whispers of the adjutants who tried to stop him. Kutúzov, his
hands still pressed on the seat, glanced at him glumly. Denísov, having
given his name, announced that he had to communicate to his Serene
Highness a matter of great importance for their country’s welfare.
Kutúzov looked wearily at him and, lifting his hands with a gesture of
annoyance, folded them across his stomach, repeating the words: “For our
country’s welfare? Well, what is it? Speak!” Denísov blushed like a
girl (it was strange to see the color rise in that shaggy, bibulous,
time-worn face) and boldly began to expound his plan of cutting the
enemy’s lines of communication between Smolénsk and Vyázma. Denísov came
from those parts and knew the country well. His plan seemed decidedly
a good one, especially from the strength of conviction with which he
spoke. Kutúzov looked down at his own legs, occasionally glancing at the
door of the adjoining hut as if expecting something unpleasant to emerge
from it. And from that hut, while Denísov was speaking, a general with a
portfolio under his arm really did appear.

“What?” said Kutúzov, in the midst of Denísov’s explanations, “are you
ready so soon?”

“Ready, your Serene Highness,” replied the general.

Kutúzov swayed his head, as much as to say: “How is one man to deal with
it all?” and again listened to Denísov.

“I give my word of honor as a Wussian officer,” said Denísov, “that I
can bweak Napoleon’s line of communication!”

“What relation are you to Intendant General Kiríl Andréevich Denísov?”
asked Kutúzov, interrupting him.

“He is my uncle, your Sewene Highness.”

“Ah, we were friends,” said Kutúzov cheerfully. “All right, all right,
friend, stay here at the staff and tomorrow we’ll have a talk.”

With a nod to Denísov he turned away and put out his hand for the papers
Konovnítsyn had brought him.

“Would not your Serene Highness like to come inside?” said the general
on duty in a discontented voice, “the plans must be examined and several
papers have to be signed.”

An adjutant came out and announced that everything was in readiness
within. But Kutúzov evidently did not wish to enter that room till he
was disengaged. He made a grimace....

“No, tell them to bring a small table out here, my dear boy. I’ll look
at them here,” said he. “Don’t go away,” he added, turning to Prince
Andrew, who remained in the porch and listened to the general’s report.

While this was being given, Prince Andrew heard the whisper of a woman’s
voice and the rustle of a silk dress behind the door. Several times on
glancing that way he noticed behind that door a plump, rosy, handsome
woman in a pink dress with a lilac silk kerchief on her head, holding
a dish and evidently awaiting the entrance of the commander in chief.
Kutúzov’s adjutant whispered to Prince Andrew that this was the wife of
the priest whose home it was, and that she intended to offer his Serene
Highness bread and salt. “Her husband has welcomed his Serene Highness
with the cross at the church, and she intends to welcome him in the
house.... She’s very pretty,” added the adjutant with a smile. At
those words Kutúzov looked round. He was listening to the general’s
report—which consisted chiefly of a criticism of the position at
Tsárevo-Zaymíshche—as he had listened to Denísov, and seven years
previously had listened to the discussion at the Austerlitz council of
war. He evidently listened only because he had ears which, though there
was a piece of tow in one of them, could not help hearing; but it
was evident that nothing the general could say would surprise or even
interest him, that he knew all that would be said beforehand, and heard
it all only because he had to, as one has to listen to the chanting of
a service of prayer. All that Denísov had said was clever and to the
point. What the general was saying was even more clever and to
the point, but it was evident that Kutúzov despised knowledge
and cleverness, and knew of something else that would decide the
matter—something independent of cleverness and knowledge. Prince
Andrew watched the commander in chief’s face attentively, and the only
expression he could see there was one of boredom, curiosity as to the
meaning of the feminine whispering behind the door, and a desire to
observe propriety. It was evident that Kutúzov despised cleverness and
learning and even the patriotic feeling shown by Denísov, but despised
them not because of his own intellect, feelings, or knowledge—he did not
try to display any of these—but because of something else. He despised
them because of his old age and experience of life. The only instruction
Kutúzov gave of his own accord during that report referred to looting by
the Russian troops. At the end of the report the general put before
him for signature a paper relating to the recovery of payment from army
commanders for green oats mown down by the soldiers, when landowners
lodged petitions for compensation.

After hearing the matter, Kutúzov smacked his lips together and shook
his head.

“Into the stove... into the fire with it! I tell you once for all, my
dear fellow,” said he, “into the fire with all such things! Let them cut
the crops and burn wood to their hearts’ content. I don’t order it
or allow it, but I don’t exact compensation either. One can’t get on
without it. ‘When wood is chopped the chips will fly.’” He looked at the
paper again. “Oh, this German precision!” he muttered, shaking his head.