第 二百三十三 章 · 第233章

The Council of War began to assemble at two in the afternoon in the

better and roomier part of Andrew Savostyánov’s hut. The men, women, and

children of the large peasant family crowded into the back room across

the passage. Only Malásha, Andrew’s six-year-old granddaughter whom

his Serene Highness had petted and to whom he had given a lump of sugar

while drinking his tea, remained on the top of the brick oven in the

larger room. Malásha looked down from the oven with shy delight at the

faces, uniforms, and decorations of the generals, who one after another

came into the room and sat down on the broad benches in the corner

under the icons. “Granddad” himself, as Malásha in her own mind called

Kutúzov, sat apart in a dark corner behind the oven. He sat, sunk deep

in a folding armchair, and continually cleared his throat and pulled at

the collar of his coat which, though it was unbuttoned, still seemed

to pinch his neck. Those who entered went up one by one to the field

marshal; he pressed the hands of some and nodded to others. His adjutant

Kaysárov was about to draw back the curtain of the window facing

Kutúzov, but the latter moved his hand angrily and Kaysárov understood

that his Serene Highness did not wish his face to be seen.

Round the peasant’s deal table, on which lay maps, plans, pencils, and

papers, so many people gathered that the orderlies brought in another

bench and put it beside the table. Ermólov, Kaysárov, and Toll, who had

just arrived, sat down on this bench. In the foremost place, immediately

under the icons, sat Barclay de Tolly, his high forehead merging into

his bald crown. He had a St. George’s Cross round his neck and looked

pale and ill. He had been feverish for two days and was now shivering

and in pain. Beside him sat Uvárov, who with rapid gesticulations was

giving him some information, speaking in low tones as they all did.

Chubby little Dokhtúrov was listening attentively with eyebrows

raised and arms folded on his stomach. On the other side sat Count

Ostermann-Tolstóy, seemingly absorbed in his own thoughts. His broad

head with its bold features and glittering eyes was resting on his hand.

Raévski, twitching forward the black hair on his temples as was his

habit, glanced now at Kutúzov and now at the door with a look of

impatience. Konovnítsyn’s firm, handsome, and kindly face was lit up by

a tender, sly smile. His glance met Malásha’s, and the expression of his

eyes caused the little girl to smile.

They were all waiting for Bennigsen, who on the pretext of inspecting

the position was finishing his savory dinner. They waited for him from

four till six o’clock and did not begin their deliberations all that

time but talked in low tones of other matters.

Only when Bennigsen had entered the hut did Kutúzov leave his corner and

draw toward the table, but not near enough for the candles that had been

placed there to light up his face.

Bennigsen opened the council with the question: “Are we to abandon

Russia’s ancient and sacred capital without a struggle, or are we to

defend it?” A prolonged and general silence followed. There was a frown

on every face and only Kutúzov’s angry grunts and occasional cough

broke the silence. All eyes were gazing at him. Malásha too looked at

“Granddad.” She was nearest to him and saw how his face puckered; he

seemed about to cry, but this did not last long.

“Russia’s ancient and sacred capital!” he suddenly said, repeating

Bennigsen’s words in an angry voice and thereby drawing attention to the

false note in them. “Allow me to tell you, your excellency, that that

question has no meaning for a Russian.” (He lurched his heavy body

forward.) “Such a question cannot be put; it is senseless! The question

I have asked these gentlemen to meet to discuss is a military one.

The question is that of saving Russia. Is it better to give up Moscow

without a battle, or by accepting battle to risk losing the army as well

as Moscow? That is the question on which I want your opinion,” and he

sank back in his chair.

The discussion began. Bennigsen did not yet consider his game lost.

Admitting the view of Barclay and others that a defensive battle at

Filí was impossible, but imbued with Russian patriotism and the love

of Moscow, he proposed to move troops from the right to the left flank

during the night and attack the French right flank the following day.

Opinions were divided, and arguments were advanced for and against that

project. Ermólov, Dokhtúrov, and Raévski agreed with Bennigsen. Whether

feeling it necessary to make a sacrifice before abandoning the capital

or guided by other, personal considerations, these generals seemed not

to understand that this council could not alter the inevitable course

of events and that Moscow was in effect already abandoned. The other

generals, however, understood it and, leaving aside the question of

Moscow, spoke of the direction the army should take in its retreat.

Malásha, who kept her eyes fixed on what was going on before her,

understood the meaning of the council differently. It seemed to her that

it was only a personal struggle between “Granddad” and “Long-coat” as

she termed Bennigsen. She saw that they grew spiteful when they spoke to

one another, and in her heart she sided with “Granddad.” In the midst of

the conversation she noticed “Granddad” give Bennigsen a quick, subtle

glance, and then to her joys she saw that “Granddad” said something to

“Long-coat” which settled him. Bennigsen suddenly reddened and paced

angrily up and down the room. What so affected him was Kutúzov’s calm

and quiet comment on the advantage or disadvantage of Bennigsen’s

proposal to move troops by night from the right to the left flank to

attack the French right wing.

“Gentlemen,” said Kutúzov, “I cannot approve of the count’s plan. Moving

troops in close proximity to an enemy is always dangerous, and military

history supports that view. For instance...” Kutúzov seemed to reflect,

searching for an example, then with a clear, naïve look at Bennigsen he

added: “Oh yes; take the battle of Friedland, which I think the count

well remembers, and which was... not fully successful, only because our

troops were rearranged too near the enemy....”

There followed a momentary pause, which seemed very long to them all.

The discussion recommenced, but pauses frequently occurred and they all

felt that there was no more to be said.

During one of these pauses Kutúzov heaved a deep sigh as if preparing to

speak. They all looked at him.

“Well, gentlemen, I see that it is I who will have to pay for the broken

crockery,” said he, and rising slowly he moved to the table. “Gentlemen,

I have heard your views. Some of you will not agree with me. But I,” he

paused, “by the authority entrusted to me by my Sovereign and country,

order a retreat.”

After that the generals began to disperse with the solemnity and

circumspect silence of people who are leaving, after a funeral.

Some of the generals, in low tones and in a strain very different from

the way they had spoken during the council, communicated something to

their commander in chief.

Malásha, who had long been expected for supper, climbed carefully

backwards down from the oven, her bare little feet catching at its

projections, and slipping between the legs of the generals she darted

out of the room.

When he had dismissed the generals Kutúzov sat a long time with his

elbows on the table, thinking always of the same terrible question:

“When, when did the abandonment of Moscow become inevitable? When was

that done which settled the matter? And who was to blame for it?”

“I did not expect this,” said he to his adjutant Schneider when the

latter came in late that night. “I did not expect this! I did not think

this would happen.”

“You should take some rest, your Serene Highness,” replied Schneider.

“But no! They shall eat horseflesh yet, like the Turks!” exclaimed

Kutúzov without replying, striking the table with his podgy fist. “They

shall too, if only...”