LIKE ALL OLD PEOPLE, Kutuzov slept little at night. He often dropped into sudden naps during the daytime, but at night he lay on his bed without undressing, and generally not asleep but thinking.

He was lying like that now on his bedstead, his huge, heavy, misshapen head leaning on his fat hand. He was thinking with his one eye wide open, gazing into the darkness.

Since Bennigsen, who was in correspondence with the Tsar and had more weight than all the rest of the staff, had avoided him, Kutuzov was more at ease so far as not being compelled to lead his soldiers into useless offensive operations. The lesson of Tarutino and the day before the battle, a memory that rankled in Kutuzov's mind, must, he thought, have its effect on them too.

“They ought to understand that we can but lose by taking the offensive. Time and patience, these are my champions!” thought Kutuzov. He knew the apple must not be picked while it was green. It will fall of itself when ripe, but if you pick it green, you spoil the apple and the tree and set your teeth on edge. Like an experienced hunter, he knew the beast was wounded, wounded as only the whole force of Russia could wound it; but whether to death or not, was a question not yet solved. Now from the sending of Lauriston and Bertemy, and from the reports brought by the irregulars, Kutuzov was almost sure that the wound was a deadly one. But more proof was wanted; he must wait.

“They want to run and look how they have wounded him. Wait a bit, you will see. Always man?uvres, attacks,” he thought. “What for? Anything to distinguish themselves. As though there were any fun in fighting. They are like children from whom you can never get a sensible view of things because they all want to show how well they can fight. But that's not the point now. And what skilful man?uvres all these fellows propose! They think that when they have thought of two or three contingencies (he recalled the general plan from Petersburg) that they have thought of all of them. And there is no limit to them!”

The unanswered question, whether the wound dealt at Borodino were mortal or not, had been for a whole month hanging over Kutuzov's head. On one side, the French had taken possession of Moscow. On the other side, in all his being, Kutuzov felt beyond all doubt that the terrible blow for which, together with all the Russians, he had strained all his strength must have been mortal. But in any case proofs were wanted, and he had been waiting for them now a month, and as time went on he grew more impatient. As he lay on his bed through sleepless nights, he did the very thing these younger generals did, the very thing he found fault with in them. He imagined all possible contingencies, just like the younger generation, but with this difference that he based no conclusion on the suppositions, and that he saw these contingencies not as two or three, but as thousands. The more he pondered, the more of them he saw. He imagined all sorts of movements of Napoleon's army, acting as a whole or in part, on Petersburg, against him, to out-flank him (that was what he was most afraid of), and also the possibility that Napoleon would fight against him with his own weapon, that he would stay on in Moscow waiting for him to move. Kutuzov even imagined Napoleon's army marching back to Medyn and Yuhnov. But the one thing he could not foresee was what happened—the mad, convulsive stampede of Napoleon's army during the first eleven days of its march from Moscow—the stampede that made possible what Kutuzov did not yet dare to think about, the complete annihilation of the French. Dorohov's report of Broussier's division, the news brought by the irregulars of the miseries of Napoleon's army, rumours of preparations for leaving Moscow, all confirmed the supposition that the French army was beaten and preparing to take flight. But all this was merely supposition, that seemed of weight to the younger men, but not to Kutuzov. With his sixty years' experience he knew how much weight to attach to rumours; he knew how ready men are when they desire anything to manipulate all evidence so as to confirm what they desire; and he knew how readily in that case they let everything of an opposite significance pass unheeded. And the more Kutuzov desired this supposition to be correct, the less he permitted himself to believe it. This question absorbed all his spiritual energies. All the rest was for him the mere customary performance of the routine of life. Such a customary performance and observance of routine were his conversations with the staff-officers, his letters to Madame de Sta?l that he wrote from Tarutino, his French novels, distribution of rewards, correspondence with Petersburg, and so on. But the destruction of the French, which he alone foresaw, was the one absorbing desire of his heart.

On the night of the 11th 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, Konovnitsyn and Bolhovitinov.

“Hey, who is there? Come in, come in! Anything new?” the commander-in-chief called to them.

While a footman lighted a candle, Toll told the drift of the news.

“Who brought it?” asked Kutuzov, with a face that impressed Toll when the candle was lighted by its frigid sternness.

“There can be no doubt of it, your highness.”

“Call him, call him here!”

Kutuzov sat with one leg out of bed and his unwieldy, corpulent body propped on the other leg bent under him. He screwed up his one seeing eye to get a better view of the messenger, as though he hoped in his face to read what he cared to know.

“Tell me, tell me, my dear fellow,” he said to Bolhovitinov, in his low, aged voice, pulling the shirt together that had come open over his chest. “Come here, come closer. What news is this you have brought me? Eh? Napoleon has marched out of Moscow? Is it truly so? Eh?”

Bolhovitinov began repeating in detail the message that had been given him.

“Tell me, make haste, don't torture me,” Kutuzov interrupted him.

Bolhovitinov told him all and paused, awaiting instructions. Toll was beginning to speak, but Kutuzov checked him. He tried to say something, but all at once his face began to work, to pucker; waving his hand at Toll, he turned the other way to the corner of the hut, which looked black with the holy pictures. “Lord, my Creator! Thou hast heard our prayer …” he said in a trembling voice, clasping his hands. “Russia is saved. I thank Thee, O Lord.” And he burst into tears.

库图佐夫像所有的老年人一样，夜间睡得很少。他在白天常常突然打起盹来；他夜晚和衣而卧，大都没有睡着，而在思索着。

现在他就是这样躺着，用一只胖手支着他那又大、又重、因伤致残的头，睁着一只眼，向着黑暗处凝神思索。

贝尼格森自从和皇帝通过信，成了参谋部最有势力的人物以后，他总是躲着库图佐夫，而库图佐夫却因此更加清静，因为他们不再逼他和他的军队发动无益的进攻。使库图佐夫痛苦的、记忆犹新的塔鲁丁诺战役和战役前夕的教训，应当还在起作用，他在想。

“他们应该懂得，发动进攻，我们只会失败。忍耐和时间，是我们的无敌勇士！”库图佐夫想。他知道，苹果青的时候，不要去摘。成熟时，自然会落下来，要摘下青的，既糟踏了苹果又伤了树，而且还令你倒牙。他作为一个有经验的猎人，知道野兽已经受了伤，只有全俄的力量才能使它伤成那样，但对是否致命，尚未弄清。现在，根据洛里斯顿和别尔捷列米送来的情报，同时根据游击队的报告，库图佐夫差不多可以断定，它受了致命伤。但是，还需要证据，还要等一下。

他们想跑去看他们是怎样把野兽杀伤的。等一下，会看见的。总是运动，总是进攻。他想道。“为了什么？想一显身手。好像打仗是好玩的事。他们像小孩，对已发生的事，我们不能得到切实的报告，他们都要炫耀他们打得多么好。然而现在问题不在这里。”

“他们对我提出了这些多巧妙的运动战术啊！他们以为，他们想到了两三件偶然事件（他想起了来自彼得堡的总体计划），他们就想到了一切，殊不知偶然事件多得难以计数。”

在波罗底诺受的伤是否致命？这个问题在库图佐夫脑子里已悬挂了整整一个月了，尚未解决。一方面法国人占领了莫斯科。另一方面库图佐夫觉得毫无疑问的是，他和全体俄国人民竭尽全力的那可怕的一击，足以致敌于死命。但无论如何需要证据，他已经等待了一个月了，等得越久，越急不可待。在那些不眠之夜，他躺在床上做年青的将军们所做的事，做他为此而责备过他们的事。他像青年人一样，想到一切可能发生的事，不过不同的是，他不以此为根据。他看到的不是两三件，而是几千件。他越想越多。他想象拿破仑军队全军或一部份军队的各种动向——进攻彼得堡、进攻他、包围他、他想他最害怕的那种情况，就是拿破仑以他的武器——留在莫斯科等待他——来反对他。库图佐夫甚至想到，拿破仑的军队退回到梅德内和尤赫诺夫；但是有一点他未能料到，而这一点已成事实，即拿破仑在离开莫斯科的头十一天疯狂地、抽疯似地、亡命奔逃，库图佐夫当时还不敢想到这一点：法国人已完全被击溃。多洛霍夫关于布鲁西埃师的报告，游击队关于拿破仑军队内部困难的情报，来自各方的准备退出莫斯科的传闻——这一切都证实：法国军队已经溃败，并准备逃跑；但这只是推测，看重它的是年青人，而不是库图佐夫。他以六十年的经验得知，这些传闻有多大份量，知道那些抱有某种愿望的人总是收集一些消息来证实他们的愿望，在这种情况下，总是忽略了相反的消息。库图佐夫越是希望那样，他就越不让自己相信那是真的。这占据了他全部心力。而其他只是例行日常事务。他和参谋们谈话，他从塔鲁丁诺给斯塔埃尔夫人写信，读小说，颁发奖章，与彼得堡通信，等等，均为例行的日常事务。但是，法国人的毁灭，只有他一个人预见到，这才是他心中唯一的愿望。

十月十一日夜，他用手支着头，想这件事。

隔壁房间有响动，传来托尔、科诺夫尼岑和博尔霍维季诺夫的脚步声。

“喂，谁在那儿？进来，进来！有什么消息？”大元帅对他们喊道。

听差点蜡烛时，托尔讲述了消息的内容。

“谁带来的消息？”库图佐夫问道。蜡烛点亮后，他那冷峻的神情使托尔吃了一惊。

“这是无可怀疑的，阁下。”

“把他叫来，把他叫来！”

库图佐夫坐了起来，他的一条腿从床上搭拉下来，他那肥大的肚皮歪着放在另一条蜷缩起来的大腿上。他眯缝着他那一只看得见的眼睛，以便更加仔细地审视那个信使，就好像想从他的脸上能够看得出盘踞他心中的那些事情。

“说吧，说吧，亲爱的，”他一边拢起胸前敞开的衬衫，一边用他那低沉的老年人的声音对博尔霍维季诺夫说。“走近一点，再走近一点。你给我带来的什么消息呀？呃？拿破仑已经离开了莫斯科？靠得住吗？呃？”

博尔霍维季诺夫把他奉命要报告的消息又从头详细报告了一遍。

“说快一点，说快一点！不要让我着急。”库图佐夫打断他的话。

博尔霍维季诺夫把一切报告完毕，然后默默站立着，等候命令。托尔刚要说什么，库图佐夫打断他的话。他想说点什么，但是，他突然眯起眼睛，皱起脸；他向托尔挥了挥手，然后转向房间对面，转向被挂在那里的神像遮暗的角落。

“主啊！我的造物主啊！你倾听了我们的祈祷……”他合起手掌，声音颤抖地说，“俄国得救了。主啊，感谢你！”于是，他哭了。