IN THE LARGE BEST ROOM of the peasant Andrey Savostyanov's cottage, at two o'clock, a council met. The men and women and children of the peasant's big family all crowded together in the room on the other side of the passage. Only Andrey's little grandchild, Malasha, a child of six, whom his highness had petted, giving her sugar while he drank his tea, stayed behind by the big stove in the best room. Malasha peeped out from on the stove with shy delight at the faces, the uniforms, and the crosses of the generals, who kept coming into the room one after another, and sitting in a row on the broad benches in the best corner under the holy images. “Granddad” himself, as Malasha in her own mind called Kutuzov, was sitting apart from the rest in the dark corner behind the stove. He sat sunk all of a heap in a folding armchair, and was continually clearing his throat and straightening the collar of his coat, which, though it was unbuttoned, still seemed to gall his neck. The generals, as they came in one after another, walked up to the commander-in-chief: he shook hands with some, to others he merely nodded.

The adjutant, Kaisarov, would have drawn back a curtain from the window facing Kutuzov, but the latter shook his hand angrily at him, and Kaisarov saw that his highness did not care for them to see his face.

Round the peasant's deal table, on which lay maps, plans, pencils, and papers, there was such a crowd that the orderlies brought in another bench, and set it near the table. Yermolov, Kaisarov, and Toll seated themselves on this bench. In the foremost place, under the holy images, sat Barclay de Tolly, with his Order of St. George on his neck, with his pale, sickly face and high forehead that met his bald head. He had been in the throes of fever for the last two days, and was shivering and shaking now. Beside him sat Uvarov, speaking to him with rapid gesticulations in the same low voice in which everybody spoke. Little chubby Dohturov was listening attentively with his eyebrows raised and his hands clasped over his stomach. On the other side, resting his broad head on his hand, sat Count Osterman-Tolstoy, with his bold features and brilliant eyes, apparently plunged in his own thoughts. Raevsky sat twisting his black curls on his temples, as he always did, and looking with impatience from Kutuzov to the door. Konovnitsyn's firm, handsome, good-humoured face was bright with a sly and kindly smile. He caught Malasha's eye, and made signs to her with his eyes, that set the little girl smiling.

They were all waiting for Bennigsen, who, on the pretext of a fresh inspection of the position, was engaged in finishing his luxurious dinner. They waited for him from four to six o'clock, and all that time did not enter on their deliberations, but talked of extraneous matters in subdued tones.

Only when Bennigsen had entered the hut, Kutuzov moved out of his corner and came up to the table, but sat there so that his face did not come within the light of the candles on it.

Bennigsen opened the council by the question: Whether to abandon the holy and ancient capital of Russia, or to defend it?

A prolonged silence followed. Every face was knitted, and in the stillness Kutuzov could be heard angrily coughing and clearing his throat. All eyes were fixed on him. Malasha too gazed at “Granddad.”

She was nearest of all to him, and saw that his face was working; he seemed to be going to cry. But that did not last long.

“The holy and ancient capital of Russia!” he cried suddenly, in a wrathful voice, repeating Bennigsen's words, and thereby underlining the false note in them. “Allow me to tell your excellency that that question has no meaning to a Russian.” (He lurched his unwieldy figure forward.) “Such a question cannot be put; there is no sense in such a question. The question I have asked these gentlemen to meet to discuss is the question of the war. The question is: The safety of Russia lies in her army. Is it better to risk the loss of the army and of Moscow by giving battle, or to abandon Moscow without a battle? That is the question on which I desire to learn your opinion.” He lurched back into his low chair again.

A debate began. Bennigsen did not yet consider that the game was lost. Overruled by the opinion of Barclay and others in admitting the impossibility of maintaining a defensive position at Fili, he proceeded to prove his Russian patriotism and devotion to Moscow by proposing to move the army during the night from the right to the left flank of the position, and to aim a blow at the French right flank next day. Opinions were divided, and arguments were advanced for and against this project. Yermolov, Dohturov, and Raevsky sided with Bennigsen. Led by a feeling that a sacrifice was called for before abandoning the city, and by other personal considerations, these generals seemed unable to grasp that the council then sitting could not affect the inevitable course of events, and that Moscow was already in effect abandoned. The other generals understood this, and leaving the question of Moscow on one side, talked of the direction the army ought to take in retreating.

Malasha, who kept her eyes fixed on what was passing before her, saw the council in quite a different light. It seemed to her that the whole point at issue was a personal struggle between “Granddad” and “Longcoat,” as she called Bennigsen to herself. She saw that they were angry when they spoke to one another, and in her heart she was on “Granddad's” side. In the middle of the conversation, she caught the swift, subtle glance that “Granddad” gave Bennigsen, and immediately after she noted with glee that “Granddad's” words had put “Longcoat” down. Bennigsen suddenly flushed, and strode angrily across the room. The words that had thus affected Bennigsen were Kutuzov's quietly and softly uttered comment on his proposal to move the troops from the right to the left flank in the night in order to attack the French right.

“I cannot approve of the count's plan, gentlemen,” said Kutuzov. “Movements of troops in close proximity to the enemy are always risky, and military history affords many examples of disasters arising from them. For instance …” (Kutuzov seemed to ponder, seeking an example, and then looking with a frank, na?ve expression at Bennigsen) … “well, the battle of Friedland, which, as I have no doubt the count remembers, was not … completely successful owing to the change of the position of the troops in too close proximity to the enemy …”

A momentary silence followed that seemed lengthy to all.

The debate was renewed; but pauses often interrupted it, and it was felt that there was nothing to talk about.

In one of these pauses Kutuzov heaved a heavy sigh, as though preparing to speak. All looked round at him.

“Well, gentlemen, I see that it is I who will have to pay for the broken pots,” he said. And slowly rising from his seat, he walked up to the table. “Gentlemen, I have heard your opinions. Some of you will not agree with me. But I” (he stopped), “by the authority intrusted me by my Tsar and my country, give the order to retire.”

After that the generals began to disperse with the solemnity and circumspect taciturnity with which people separate after a funeral. Several of the generals made some communication to the commander-in-chief in a low voice, pitched in quite a different scale from that in which they had been talking at the council.

Malasha, who had long been expected in the other room to supper, dropped backwards down from the stove, her bare toes clinging to the projections of the stove, and slipping between the generals' legs, she darted out at the door.

After dismissing the generals, Kutuzov sat a long while with his elbows on the table, pondering that terrible question: “When, when had it become inevitable that Moscow should be abandoned? When was the thing done that made it inevitable, and who is to blame for it?”

“This I did not expect!” he said to the adjutant, Schneider, who came in to him late at night; “this I did not expect! This I never thought of!”

“You must rest, your highness,” said Schneider.

“Yes; but they shall eat horse-flesh like the Turks!” Kutuzov cried, not heeding him, as he brought his podgy fist down on the table. “They too, shall eat it, if only …!”

两点正，在农民安德烈·萨沃斯季雅诺夫一间宽敞、也是最好的房间里召集了会议。这一庞大农户的男人、妇女和小孩，统统挤到隔着过厅的那间没有烟囱的农舍里。只有安德烈的一个孙女玛拉莎，才六岁的小姑娘，呆在这个大房间的壁灶上，勋座抚爱她，吃茶时赏给她一块方糖。玛拉莎怯生地欢喜地从壁灶上瞧着将军们的面孔，制服和十字勋章，他们相继进屋，对直走向客位，在圣像下的宽凳上落座。老爷爷，玛拉莎心里这样称呼的库图佐夫，有意避开众人坐在壁灶后边不见亮光的角落里。他埋在折叠扶手椅里，不停地咳呛着清嗓子，不断拉抻礼服的衣领，虽然衣领是敞开的，仿佛仍卡着脖子。来人相继走到陆军元帅身旁，有的握手，有的鞠躬。副官凯萨罗夫想要拉开库图佐夫对面的窗帘，但是库图佐夫生气地朝他摆手，于是凯萨罗夫明白，勋座不愿让人看见他的脸。

农家的杉木桌上摆着地图、计划、铅笔，纸张，桌旁的人多得坐不下，勤务兵只得又抬来一张长凳放在桌边。在这条凳子上就座的是刚来的叶尔莫洛夫，凯萨罗夫和托尔。在圣像下边的首位上坐着挂圣乔治十字勋章的巴克莱—德—托利，他一副苍白的病容，高高的额头与秃项连成了一片。他患疟疾已有两天，此时正在发冷，快散架了。和他并排坐的是乌瓦罗夫，他低声地（大家说话都这样）告诉巴克莱什么事情，手势动作极快。矮胖的多赫图罗夫眉毛高挑，双手叠放在肚皮上，凝神谛听着。另一边坐的是奥斯特曼—托尔斯泰伯爵，他把棱角英武双目有神的头颅托在宽大的手掌上，流露出一副沉思的样子。拉耶夫斯基不耐烦地像往常一样裹他的黑发卷儿，时而默瞅库图佐夫，时而瞧瞧进出的门。科诺夫尼岑刚毅优美、和善的脸上，闪烁着温和狡黠的微笑。他碰到玛拉莎的目光，对她挤挤眼，使小姑娘乐了。

大家在等贝尼格森，他藉口再次视察阵地，而其实还在享用美味的午餐。大家从四点等到六点，整个这段时间里没有正式开会，只是轻言细语谈题外的话。

库图佐夫在贝尼格森进屋时，方才从角落里起身，移近桌子，但只稍许移动，让桌上的烛光照不到他的脸。

贝尼格森率先发难：“是不战而丢掉俄罗斯神圣的古都呢？还是战而保卫之？”接着是长时间的普遍沉默。大家都阴沉着脸，寂静中只听到库图佐夫生气地在喉咙管里咳痰。所有的目光都看着他。玛拉莎也看着老爷爷。她离他最近，看见他愁眉不展，简直就要哭了。但这一时间却不长。

“·俄·罗·斯·神·圣·的·古·都！”他突然发言了，用愤怒的声音重复一遍贝尼格森的话，藉以指出这些言辞的虚伪。“请允许我告诉您，阁下，这个问题有位俄国人认为没有意义。（他向前探出他那沉重的身躯。）这样的问题不该提出来，这样的问题没有意义。我请这些先生们来讨论的是一个军事问题。问题如下：‘拯救俄国靠军队。牺牲军队和莫斯科冒险打仗值得吗，还是放弃莫斯科不打这一仗更有利呢？这就是我想知道你们怎么看的那个问题的所在。'”（他摇晃着身躯倒向椅背。）

辩论展开了。贝尼格森并不服输。尽管他同意巴克莱等人认为无法在菲利外围打一场防御战的意见，但毕竟满怀爱俄国的爱国精神和对莫斯科的深情，他建议夜间把军队从右翼调往左翼，第二天进攻法军右翼。赞成和反对该意见的引起争辩，莫衷一是。叶尔莫洛夫、多赫图罗夫和拉耶夫斯基赞成贝尼格森的意见。不知几位将军是觉得放弃古都前应该作出些牺牲呢，还是出于其它个人考虑，但他们似乎不懂得，此次会议已不能改变事情的进程，莫斯科现在已经放弃。其他将军倒懂得这点，已撇开莫斯科问题，谈起了部队撤离时应向何方转移。玛拉莎目不转睛地瞧着眼前发生的一切，对会议的意义有不同的理解。她觉得，一切不过是发生在“老爷爷”和穿长袍者之间的个人争吵，她管贝尼格森叫穿长袍者。她看出他们俩对话时怒气冲冲，而她内心里向着老爷爷。在争论中间，她发觉老爷爷迅速向贝尼格森投去机敏的一瞥，接着她高兴地察觉老爷爷对穿长袍者说了句什么，使他偃旗息鼓：贝尼格森突然涨红了脸，愤愤地在屋里转来转去。给贝尼格森造成如此影响的话，是库图佐夫平静地低声地说出的，关于贝尼格森建议的利弊的意见，即关于夜间军队从右翼转移至左翼，好发起对法军侧翼的进攻。

“先生们，我”——库图佐夫说，“不能赞赏伯爵的计划。在离敌人的近距离内调动军队，总是危险的，军事历史也肯定这个看法。例如……，（库图佐夫仿佛在沉思，他搜索例子，用明亮而天真的目光看了贝尼格森一眼。）就拿弗里德兰战役①来说吧，这一战役，我想，伯爵是清楚记得的，进行得……不完全顺利，仅仅因为我军在距敌军太近的地方重新部署……”接着是一分钟的沉默，但大家觉得这时间长极了。

辩论又重新进行下去，但时时中断，都有一种无话可说了的感觉。

①弗里德兰在东普鲁士。一八○七年法俄两军在此对垒，贝尼格森指挥有误，导致俄军失败，法军得以攻入俄境。

在一次谈话的间隙，库图佐夫深深地叹了一口气，好像要发言的样子。全体都望着他。

“Eh　bien，messieurs！Je　vois　que　c'est　moi　qui　payerai　les　pots　cassès．”①他说，然后慢慢起身，走向桌旁。“诸位，我听了你们的意见。有人是不赞成我的。但我（他停顿了一下）借助以陛下和祖国赐予的权力，我——命令撤退。”

①法语：诸位，看来得由我赔偿打破的罐子了。

将军们随即庄严肃穆地退场，像参加完了葬礼一样。

有几位将军用不大的嗓门向总司令谈了些情况，说话的口气与在会上的发言已迥然不同。

玛拉莎背向外小心地爬下高板床，光着一双脚，摸索着壁灶的梯坎，下地后站在将军们的腿缝中跑出屋子，家人早已在等待她吃晚饭。

打发了将军们之后，库图佐夫长久地用臂肘支撑着桌子坐着，老想着那个可怕的问题：“什么时候，究竟什么时候，终于决定了莫斯科要放弃？什么时候决定这个问题的，是谁的过错？”

“这一点，这一点我没料到，”他对前来的副官施奈德说，此时夜已深了，“这一点我没料到！这点我想都没想过！”

“您该休息一下了，勋座。”副官说。

“现在不！他们将会嚼马肉的，像土耳其人一样，”他没有理睬副官，咆哮着，用肌肉松弛的拳头敲桌子，“他们也会的，如果……