الفصل الفصل 205 · 第205章

On 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.