War and Peace

utúzov like all old people did not sleep much at night. He often fell
asleep unexpectedly in the daytime, but at night, lying on his bed
without undressing, he generally remained awake thinking.

So he lay now on his bed, supporting his large, heavy, scarred head on
his plump hand, with his one eye open, meditating and peering into the
darkness.

Since Bennigsen, who corresponded with the Emperor and had more
influence than anyone else on the staff, had begun to avoid him, Kutúzov
was more at ease as to the possibility of himself and his troops being
obliged to take part in useless aggressive movements. The lesson of the
Tarútino battle and of the day before it, which Kutúzov remembered with
pain, must, he thought, have some effect on others too.

“They must understand that we can only lose by taking the offensive.
Patience and time are my warriors, my champions,” thought Kutúzov. He
knew that an apple should not be plucked while it is green. It will fall
of itself when ripe, but if picked unripe the apple is spoiled, the tree
is harmed, and your teeth are set on edge. Like an experienced sportsman
he knew that the beast was wounded, and wounded as only the whole
strength of Russia could have wounded it, but whether it was mortally
wounded or not was still an undecided question. Now by the fact of
Lauriston and Barthélemi having been sent, and by the reports of the
guerrillas, Kutúzov was almost sure that the wound was mortal. But he
needed further proofs and it was necessary to wait.

“They want to run to see how they have wounded it. Wait and we shall
see! Continual maneuvers, continual advances!” thought he. “What for?
Only to distinguish themselves! As if fighting were fun. They are
like children from whom one can’t get any sensible account of what has
happened because they all want to show how well they can fight. But
that’s not what is needed now.

“And what ingenious maneuvers they all propose to me! It seems to
them that when they have thought of two or three contingencies” (he
remembered the general plan sent him from Petersburg) “they have
foreseen everything. But the contingencies are endless.”

The undecided question as to whether the wound inflicted at Borodinó was
mortal or not had hung over Kutúzov’s head for a whole month. On the one
hand the French had occupied Moscow. On the other Kutúzov felt assured
with all his being that the terrible blow into which he and all the
Russians had put their whole strength must have been mortal. But in any
case proofs were needed; he had waited a whole month for them and grew
more impatient the longer he waited. Lying on his bed during those
sleepless nights he did just what he reproached those younger generals
for doing. He imagined all sorts of possible contingencies, just like
the younger men, but with this difference, that he saw thousands of
contingencies instead of two or three and based nothing on them. The
longer he thought the more contingencies presented themselves. He
imagined all sorts of movements of the Napoleonic army as a whole or
in sections—against Petersburg, or against him, or to outflank him.
He thought too of the possibility (which he feared most of all) that
Napoleon might fight him with his own weapon and remain in Moscow
awaiting him. Kutúzov even imagined that Napoleon’s army might turn back
through Medýn and Yukhnóv, but the one thing he could not foresee was
what happened—the insane, convulsive stampede of Napoleon’s army during
its first eleven days after leaving Moscow: a stampede which made
possible what Kutúzov had not yet even dared to think of—the complete
extermination of the French. Dórokhov’s report about Broussier’s
division, the guerrillas’ reports of distress in Napoleon’s army, rumors
of preparations for leaving Moscow, all confirmed the supposition that
the French army was beaten and preparing for flight. But these were
only suppositions, which seemed important to the younger men but not to
Kutúzov. With his sixty years’ experience he knew what value to attach
to rumors, knew how apt people who desire anything are to group all news
so that it appears to confirm what they desire, and he knew how readily
in such cases they omit all that makes for the contrary. And the more
he desired it the less he allowed himself to believe it. This question
absorbed all his mental powers. All else was to him only life’s
customary routine. To such customary routine belonged his conversations
with the staff, the letters he wrote from Tarútino to Madame de Staël,
the reading of novels, the distribution of awards, his correspondence
with Petersburg, and so on. But the destruction of the French, which he
alone foresaw, was his heart’s one desire.

On the night of the eleventh of October he lay leaning on his arm and
thinking of that.

There was a stir in the next room and he heard the steps of Toll,
Konovnítsyn, and Bolkhovítinov.

“Eh, who’s there? Come in, come in! What news?” the field marshal called
out to them.

While a footman was lighting a candle, Toll communicated the substance
of the news.

“Who brought it?” asked Kutúzov with a look which, when the candle was
lit, struck Toll by its cold severity.

“There can be no doubt about it, your Highness.”

“Call him in, call him here.”

Kutúzov sat up with one leg hanging down from the bed and his big paunch
resting against the other which was doubled under him. He screwed up his
seeing eye to scrutinize the messenger more carefully, as if wishing to
read in his face what preoccupied his own mind.

“Tell me, tell me, friend,” said he to Bolkhovítinov in his low, aged
voice, as he pulled together the shirt which gaped open on his chest,
“come nearer—nearer. What news have you brought me? Eh? That Napoleon
has left Moscow? Are you sure? Eh?”

Bolkhovítinov gave a detailed account from the beginning of all he had
been told to report.

“Speak quicker, quicker! Don’t torture me!” Kutúzov interrupted him.

Bolkhovítinov told him everything and was then silent, awaiting
instructions. Toll was beginning to say something but Kutúzov checked
him. He tried to say something, but his face suddenly puckered and
wrinkled; he waved his arm at Toll and turned to the opposite side of
the room, to the corner darkened by the icons that hung there.

“O Lord, my Creator, Thou has heard our prayer...” said he in a
tremulous voice with folded hands. “Russia is saved. I thank Thee, O
Lord!” and he wept.