Book 10 Chapter 15

ON RECEIVING THE CHIEF COMMAND of the army, Kutuzov remembered Prince Andrey and sent him a summons to headquarters.

Prince Andrey reached Tsarevo-Zaimishtche on the very day and at the very hour when Kutuzov was making his first inspection of the troops. Prince Andrey stopped in the village at the house of the priest, where the commander-in-chief's carriage was standing, and sat down on a bench at the gate to await his highness, as every one now called Kutuzov. From the plain beyond the village came the sounds of regimental music, and the roar of a vast multitude, shouting “Hurrah!” to the new commander-in-chief. At the gate, some ten paces from Prince Andrey, stood two orderlies, a courier, and a butler, taking advantage of their master's absence to enjoy the fine weather. A swarthy, little lieutenant-colonel of hussars, his face covered with bushy moustaches and whiskers, rode up to the gate, and glancing at Prince Andrey asked whether his highness were putting up here and whether he would soon be back.

Prince Andrey told him that he did not belong to his highness's staff, but had only just arrived. The lieutenant-colonel of hussars turned to the smart orderly, and the orderly told him with the peculiar scornfulness with which a commander-in-chief's orderlies do speak to officers:

“His highness? We expect him back immediately. What is your business?”

The officer grinned in his moustaches at the orderly's tone, dismounted, gave his horse to a servant, and went up to Bolkonsky with a slight bow.

Bolkonsky made room for him on the bench. The hussar sat down beside him.

“You, too, waiting for the commander-in-chief?” he began. “They say he is willing to see any one, thank God! It was a very different matter with the sausage-makers! Yermolov might well ask to be promoted a German. Now, I dare say, Russians may dare to speak again. And devil knows what they have been about. Nothing but retreating and retreating. Have you been in the field?” he asked.

“I have had the pleasure,” said Prince Andrey, “not only of taking part in the retreat, but also of losing everything I valued in the retreat—not to speak of my property and the home of my birth … my father, who died of grief. I am a Smolensk man.”

“Ah! … Are you Prince Bolkonsky? Very glad to make your acquaintance. Lieutenant-colonel Denisov, better known by the name of Vaska,” said Denisov, pressing Prince Andrey's hand and looking into his face with a particularly kindly expression. “Yes, I had heard about it,” he said sympathetically, and after a brief pause he added: “Yes, this is Scythian warfare. It's all right, but not for those who have to pay the piper. So you are Prince Andrey Bolkonsky?” He shook his head. “I am very glad, prince; very glad to make your acquaintance,” he added, pressing his hand again with a melancholy smile.

Prince Andrey knew of Denisov from Natasha's stories of her first suitor. The recollection of them—both sweet and bitter—carried him back to the heart-sickness of which he had of late never thought, though it still lay buried within him. Of late so many different and grave matters, such as the abandonment of Smolensk, his visit to Bleak Hills, the recent news of his father's death—so many emotions had filled his heart that those memories had long been absent, and when they returned did not affect him nearly so violently. And for Denisov, the associations awakened by the name of Bolkonsky belonged to a far-away, romantic past, when, after supper and Natasha's singing, hardly knowing what he was doing, he had made an offer to the girl of fifteen. He smiled at the recollection of that time and his love for Natasha, and passed at once to what he was just now intensely and exclusively interested in. This was a plan of campaign he had formed while on duty at the outposts during the retreat. He had laid the plan before Barclay de Tolly, and now intended to lay it before Kutuzov. The plan was based on the fact that the line of the French operations was too extended, and on the suggestion that, instead of or along with a frontal attack, barring the advance of the French, attacks should be made on their communications. He began explaining his plan to Prince Andrey.

“They are not able to defend all that line; it's impossible. I'll undertake to break through them. Give me five hundred men and I would cut their communications, that's certain! The one system to adopt is partisan warfare.”

Denisov got up and began with gesticulations to explain his plans to Bolkonsky. In the middle of his exposition they heard the shouts of the army, mingling with music, and song, and apparently coming from detached groups scattered over a distance. From the village came cheers and the tramp of horses' hoofs.

“Himself is coming,” shouted the Cossack, who stood at the gate; “he's coming!”

Bolkonsky and Denisov moved up to the gate, where there stood a knot of soldiers (a guard of honour), and they saw Kutuzov coming down the street mounted on a low bay horse. An immense suite of generals followed him. Barclay rode almost beside him; a crowd of officers was running behind and around them shouting “hurrah!”

His adjutants galloped into the yard before him. Kutuzov impatiently kicked his horse, which ambled along slowly under his weight, and continually nodded his head and put his hand up to his white horse-guard's cap, with a red band and no peak. When he reached the guard of honour, a set of stalwart grenadiers, mostly cavalry men, saluting him, he looked at them for a minute in silence, with the intent, unflinching gaze of a man used to command; then he turned to the group of generals and officers standing round him. His face suddenly wore a subtle expression; he shrugged his shoulders with an air of perplexity. “And with fellows like that retreat and retreat!” he said. “Well, good-bye, general,” he added, and spurred his horse into the gateway by Prince Andrey and Denisov.

“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” rang out shouts behind him.

Since Prince Andrey had seen him last Kutuzov had grown stouter and more corpulent than ever; he seemed swimming in fat. But the familiar scar, and the white eye, and the expression of weariness in his face and figure were unchanged. He was wearing a white horse-guard's cap and a military coat, and a whip on a narrow strap was slung over his shoulder. He sat heavily swaying on his sturdy horse.

“Fugh! … fugh! … fugh! …” he whistled, hardly audibly, as he rode into the courtyard. His face expressed the relief of a man who looks forward to resting after a performance. He drew his left foot out of the stirrup, and with a lurch of his whole person, frowning with the effort, brought it up to the saddle, leaned on his knee, and with a groan let himself drop into the arms of the Cossacks and adjutants, who stood ready to support him.

He pulled himself together, looked round with half-shut eyes, glanced at Prince Andrey, and evidently not recognising him, moved with his shambling gait towards the steps.

“Fugh! … fugh! … fugh!” he whistled, and again looked round at Prince Andrey. As is often the case with the aged, the impression of Prince Andrey's face did not at once call up the memory of his personality. “Ah, how are you, how are you, my dear boy, come along …” he said wearily, and walked heavily up the steps that creaked under his weight. He unbuttoned his coat and sat down on the seat in the porch.

“Well, how's your father?”

“The news of his death reached me yesterday,” said Prince Andrey briefly.

Kutuzov looked at him with his eye opened wide with dismay, then he took off his cap, and crossed himself. “The peace of heaven be with him! And may God's will be done with all of us!” He heaved a heavy sigh and paused. “I loved him deeply and respected him, and I feel for you with all my heart.” He embraced Prince Andrey, pressed him to his fat breast, and for some time did not let him go. When he released him Prince Andrey saw that Kutuzov's thick lips were quivering and there were tears in his eye. He sighed and pressed his hands on the seat to help himself in rising from it.

“Come in, come in, we'll have a chat,” he said; but at that moment Denisov, who stood as little in dread of the authorities as he did of the enemy, walked boldly up, his spurs clanking on the steps, regardless of the indignant whispers of the adjutants, who tried to prevent him. Kutuzov, his hands still pressed on the seat to help him up, looked ruefully at Denisov. Denisov, mentioning his name, announced that he had to communicate to his highness a matter of great importance for the welfare of Russia. Kutuzov bent his weary eyes on Denisov, and, lifting his hands with a gesture of annoyance, folded them across his stomach, and repeated, “For the welfare of Russia? Well, what is it? Speak.” Denisov blushed like a girl (it was strange to see the colour come on that hirsute, time-worn, hard-drinking face), and began boldly explaining his plan for cutting the enemy's line between Smolensk and Vyazma. Denisov's home was in that region, and he knew the country well. His plan seemed unquestionably a good one, especially with the energy of conviction that was in his words. Kutuzov stared at his own feet, and occasionally looked round towards the yard of the next cottage, as though he were expecting something unpleasant to come from it. From the cottage there did in fact emerge, during Denisov's speech, a general with a portfolio under his arm.

“Eh?” Kutuzov inquired in the middle of Denisov's exposition, “are you ready now?”

“Yes, your highness,” said the general. Kutuzov shook his head with an air that seemed to say, “How is one man to get through it all?” and gave his attention again to Denisov.

“I give you my word of honour as a Russian officer,” Denisov was saying, “that I will cut Napoleon's communications.”

“Is Kirill Andreivitch Denisov, the ober-intendant, any relation of yours?” Kutuzov interposed.

“My uncle, your highness.”

“Oh! we used to be friends,” said Kutuzov, more cheerily. “Very good, very good, my dear boy; you stay here on the staff; we'll have a talk to-morrow.” Nodding to Denisov, he turned away and put out his hand for the papers Konovnitsyn had brought him.

“Will not your highness be pleased to walk into the house?” said the general on duty in a discontented voice; “it's necessary to look through the plans and to sign some papers.” An adjutant appeared at the door to announce that everything was in readiness within. But apparently Kutuzov preferred to be rid of business before going indoors. He paused …

“No; have a table placed here, my dear boy; I'll look through them here,” he said. “Don't you go away,” he added, addressing Prince Andrey. Prince Andrey remained in the porch listening to the general on duty.

While the latter was presenting his report Prince Andrey heard the whisper of a woman's voice and the rustle of a woman's silk dress at the door. Several times glancing in that direction he noticed behind the door a plump, rosy-faced, good-looking woman in a pink dress with a lilac silk kerchief on her head. She had a dish in her hand and was apparently waiting for the commander-in-chief to enter. Kutuzov's adjutant explained to Prince Andrey in a whisper that this was the priest's wife, the mistress of the house, who intended to offer his highness bread and salt, the emblems of welcome, on his entrance. Her husband had met his highness with the cross in church, and she intended to welcome him to the house.… “She's very pretty,” added the adjutant with a smile. Kutuzov looked round at the words. He heard the general's report, the subject of which was chiefly a criticism of the position of the troops before Tsarevo-Zaimishtche, just as he had heard Denisov, and just as, seven years before, he had heard the discussions of the military council before Austerlitz. He was obviously hearing it simply because he had ears, and although one of them was stuffed up with cotton-wool they could not help hearing. But it was obvious that nothing that general could possibly say could surprise or interest him, that he knew beforehand all he would be told, and listened only because he had to listen to it, just as one has to listen to the litany being sung. All Denisov had said was practical and sensible. What the general was saying was even more practical and sensible, but apparently Kutuzov despised both knowledge and intellect, and knew of something else that would settle things—something different, quite apart from intellect and knowledge. Prince Andrey watched the commander-in-chief's face attentively, and the only expression he could detect in it was an expression of boredom, of curiosity to know the meaning of the feminine whispering at the door, and of a desire to observe the proprieties. It was obvious that Kutuzov despised intellect and learning, and even the patriotic feeling Denisov had shown; but he did not despise them through intellect, nor through sentiment, nor through learning (for he made no effort to display anything of the kind), he despised them through something else—through his old age, through his experience of life. The only instruction of his own that Kutuzov inserted in the report related to acts of marauding by Russian troops. The general, at the end of the report, presented his highness a document for signature relating to a petition for damages from a landowner for the cutting of his oats by certain officers.

Kutuzov smacked his lips together and shook his head, as he listened to the matter.

“Into the stove … into the fire with it! And I tell you once for all, my dear fellow,” he said, “all such things put into the fire. Let them cut the corn and burn the wood to their heart's content. It's not by my orders and it's not with my permission, but I can't pursue the matter. It can't be helped. You can't hew down trees without the chips flying.” He glanced once more at the paper. “Oh, this German preciseness,” he commented, shaking his head.

库图佐夫在奉命统率全军以后，想起了安德烈公爵，于是给他送去一道到总部报到的命令。

安德烈公爵抵达察列沃—扎伊米希的那天，正赶上库图佐夫检阅军队，而且是检阅正在进行的时刻。安德烈公爵在村里牧师住宅旁停下来，那儿有一辆总司令的马车，然后他在大门旁的长凳上坐下等勋座（现在大家都这么称呼库图佐夫）。从村外的田野里时而传来军乐声，时而传来欢呼新总司令“乌拉！”的巨大吼叫声。离安德烈公爵十来步远的大门旁站在两个勤务兵、一个通信员和一个管家。他们趁公爵不在，天气晴和，便走了出来。一位黑脸膛、生着浓密髭须和颊须的小个子骠骑兵中校，骑马来到大门前，他端详一下安德烈公爵，问道：勋座大人是不是就在这儿，他什么时候回来。

安德烈公爵说，他不是勋座司令部的人员，也是刚来报到的。骠骑兵中校问那个服装华丽的勤务兵。那个勤务兵带着所有总司令的勤务兵与军官说话时所具有的特别蔑视的腔调对他说：“什么勋座大人？大概快回来了。您有何贵干？”

对此骠骑兵中校只冷笑了一声。他下了马，把马交给传令兵，然后走到安德烈公爵跟前，向他弯弯腰以示致敬。博尔孔斯基在长凳上掷挪身子让了坐。骠骑兵中校在他身旁坐下。

“您也是等总司令的吗？”骠骑兵中校问。“据说，人人都见得到，谢天谢地。不然和那些卖腊肠的家伙①打交道，够倒霉的！难怪耶尔莫洛夫要申请入德籍。现在我们俄国人大概也能说上话了。鬼知道搞的啥名堂。一个劲地后退、后退！

您参加过战役吗？”他问。

“有幸参加过战役，”安德烈公爵回答说，“不仅参加过撤退，而且在撤退中失去了我所珍惜的一切。且不说田庄和亲爱的家园……我父亲就死于忧愤。我是斯摩棱斯克人。”

“啊？……您是博尔孔斯基公爵吗？认识您，我非常高兴。我是杰尼索夫中校，大家都知道我叫瓦西卡。”杰尼索夫说，他握着安德烈公爵的手，用特别和善的目光凝视着博尔孔斯基的面孔。“是的，我听说了。”他深表同情地说，停了片刻，又接着说：“简直是西徐亚人战争②。这一切都很好，只是对那些替人背黑锅的不好。您是安德烈·博尔孔斯基公爵吗？”他摇了摇头。“非常高兴，非常高兴和您认识。”他握着他的手，带着感伤的微笑又说。

①指德国人，当时俄军中有不少德籍高级将领。

②西徐亚，意思是说这次战争是野蛮人的战争。

安德烈公爵听娜塔莎讲过，知道杰尼索夫是她的第一个求婚人。这段又甜蜜又痛苦的回忆现在又触动了他那敏感的负伤的心灵。近来久已不去想它，但在灵魂深处仍感到痛楚。最近的感受太多了。如放弃斯摩梭斯克，童山之行，不久前他父亲逝世的消息等等都给他留下了深刻的印象。他的感受是那么多，以致过去那些事的印象久已淡薄，即使记起来，对他的影响也远远没有先前那么深远了。可是对杰尼索夫来说，由博尔孔斯基这个名字引起的一连串回忆却是富有诗意的遥远的过去。当时在吃罢晚饭，听完娜塔莎歌唱之后，他自己也不知是怎么回事，竟然向一个十五岁的少女求起婚来。他回想起当时的情景以及他对娜塔莎的爱慕之情，禁不住微微一笑，然后又立刻转向他目前最热心、最专注的事情上去了。这就是他于撤退期间在前哨服务时想出的作战方案。他曾经把这个方案呈交给巴克莱·德·托利，现在他打算向库图佐夫提出。这个方案的论点是：法军的战线拉得太长，我军不必从正面堵截法军，应当攻击他们的交通线，或则一面正面作战，一面攻击他们的交通线。他开始向安德烈公爵说明他的方案。

“他们想据守住整个战线。这是不可能的。我保证突破他们的防线。给我五百人，我会把他们的交通线切得七零八落，准行！唯一的办法，就是打游击战。”

杰尼索夫站起来、打着手势，向安德烈公爵描述他的方案。他在描述时，从检阅的地方传来军队的呐喊声，这声音越来越不连贯，越来越散乱，其中夹杂着军乐和歌声。村里传来马蹄声和喊声。

“他来了，”站在大门旁的哥萨克喊道，“他来了！”

博尔孔斯基和杰尼索夫向大门口走去，那儿排着一大群士兵（仪仗队），他们看见库图佐夫骑着一匹枣红色小马沿着大街驰来。一大群将军侍从骑马跟随着他。巴克莱几乎和他并辔而行。一群军官在他们四周边跑边喊：“乌拉！”

副官们先驰进院子。库图佐夫烦躁地策着那匹在他身体重压下稳步徐行的小马。他把手举到他那白色的近卫重骑兵军帽边（带有红箍，没有遮檐），不停地点头。他走到向他致敬的仪仗队前面时（仪仗队多半是佩戴勋章的年轻英俊的近卫兵），他用长官沉着的目光默默地、注意地看了他们一会儿，然后转向周围那些将军和军官。他脸上的神情突然起了微妙的变化，他不知所措地耸了耸肩。

“有这么棒的小伙子，还总是退却，退却！”他说，“好了，再见，将军。”他又说，策着马经过安德烈公爵和杰尼索夫面前向大门口走去。

“乌拉！乌拉！乌拉！”人们在他后面欢呼着。

自从安德烈公爵上次看见库图佐夫之后，他变得更胖了，面皮松弛，浮肿。但是安德烈公爵所熟悉的那只白眼①、伤疤，以及他脸上和身上显出的疲倦的样子，依然如故。他穿着军服，肩上挂着细皮条鞭子，戴着一顶白色的近卫重骑兵军帽。

他骑在那匹精壮的小马上，沉重地摇晃着。

①指库图佐夫那只失明的眼睛。

“嘘……嘘……嘘……”他口哨吹得几乎听不见，骑马走进院子。他脸上现出快慰而喜悦的神情，那是一个人在人多的场合作为代表露面之后想休息一下时常有的表情。他从马镫里抽出左脚，然后向前倾着整个身子，吃力得皱起了眉头，左脚使劲迈过马鞍，又用臂肘支撑着膝盖，哼哧了一声，整个人就歪倒在准备扶他的哥萨克们和副官们的手臂上。

他定了定神，眯起眼睛环顾四周，他看了看安德烈公爵，好像认不得，就迈着他那一颠一颠的步子向台阶走去。

“嘘……嘘……嘘”，他吹着口哨，又转脸看了看安德烈公爵。过了几分钟才把安德烈公爵的面孔和与其有关的回忆联系起来。（这是老年人常有的现象）

“啊，你好，公爵，你好，亲爱的朋友，来吧……”他一面环视，一面疲惫地说，挺费劲地登上在他身体的重压下咯吱作响的台阶。他解开扣子，坐到台阶上的一条长凳上。

“你父亲怎么样？”

“昨天接到他辞世的消息。”安德烈公爵简短地说。

库图佐夫睁大惊讶的双眼看了看安德烈公爵，然后摘下制帽，划了个十字：“愿他在天国安息！我们所有的人都应服从上帝的意旨！”他沉重地、深深地叹了口气，沉默了片刻，“我敬爱他，我衷心地同情你。”他拥抱安德烈公爵，把他搂到他那肥厚的胸脯上，久久地没有放开。当他放开他时，安德烈公爵看见库图佐夫厚厚的嘴唇在颤抖，眼睛里含着泪水。

他叹了口气，两手按着长凳要站起来。

“走，到我那里去吧。我们谈一谈。”他说，但是，这时，在长官面前一如在敌人面前很少胆怯的杰尼索夫，不顾门廊旁副官的愤怒的低声阻拦，响着马刺，大胆地沿着阶梯走进门廊。库图佐夫两手支撑着长凳，不满地望着杰尼索夫。杰里索夫自报了姓名，声称他有关于国家利益的重大事情要向勋座大人汇报。库图佐夫用疲倦的眼神望着杰里索夫，摆出一副厌烦的姿势，抬起两手，交叉放在肚子上，重复说：“有关国家的利益？是什么事？说吧？”杰尼索夫像姑娘的脸红了（看见这个满脸胡须、苍老、醉醺醺的脸上现出红晕，令人觉得惊异），开始大胆地陈述他切断斯摩棱斯克和维亚济马之间敌军防线的计划。杰尼索夫在那个地区住过，熟悉那一带的地形。他的计划无疑是可取的，特别是他说话的口气带有极为坚强的信心。库图佐夫看看自己的脚，有时望一望隔壁的院子，似乎在等待那边有什么令人不快的事发生。果然，在杰尼索夫正讲述的时候，从他望见的那间小屋里出来一个腋下夹着公事包的将领。

“怎么样？”杰尼索夫还在讲述，库图佐夫问那个将领道。

“已经准备好了吗？”

“勋座大人，准备好了。”将军说。库图佐夫摇摇头，仿佛说：“一个人怎么能办完这么多事。”然后他继续听杰尼索夫讲述。

“我用俄国军官高尚而诚实的誓言向您保证，”杰尼索夫说，“我准能切断拿破仑的交通线。”

“基里尔·安德烈耶维奇·杰尼索夫，军需总监是你什么人？”库图佐夫打断了他的话，问道。

“是家叔，勋座大人。”

“噢，我们是老朋友了，”库图佐夫挺高兴地说。“好的，好的，亲爱的，你就留在总部吧，咱们明天再谈谈。”他向杰尼索夫点了点头，就转身伸手去拿科诺夫尼岑交来的文件。

“是不是请勋座大人到屋里去？”执勤的将军用不满的语声说，“要审查几份计划和签署一些文件。”从门口走出一个副官报告说，室内一切都准备停妥。但是，看样子库图佐夫想办完事再回屋里去。他皱皱眉头……

“不，亲爱的，吩咐把桌子搬来，我就在这儿审阅文件。”他说。“你先别走。”他转向安德烈公爵说。安德烈公爵于是站在台阶上听那个执勤的将官作报告。

这时，安德烈公爵听见门里有女人的低语声和绸衣的窸窣声。他向那边看了几眼，看见门里有一个穿粉红衣裳，包上雪青色丝绸头巾，丰满、红润的美丽少妇，她捧着一个盘子，显然在等总司令进去。库图佐夫的副官低声对安德烈公爵解释道：这是女房东、牧师的老婆，她要向勋座大人献盐和面包①。她丈夫在教堂用十字架欢迎过勋座大人，她在家中……“她很漂亮。”那个副官面露微笑补充一句。库图佐夫听到这些话，回头看了看。库图佐夫在听执勤的将官的报告（报告的主要问题是对察列沃—扎伊米希阵地的抨击。），正如他听杰尼索夫的陈述和七年前在奥斯特利茨军事会议上听那些争论一样，他之所以听，只是因为他长着两只耳朵，不得不听，尽管他的一只耳朵里还塞着一小段海船的缆索②；不过显而易见，那个执勤的将军对他所能说的话，不仅没有一点可以使他吃惊或引起他的兴趣，而且他事前全知道他要说的话，他之所以听完这一切，只是因为不得不听完，正如不得不听完那像念经似的祈祷文一样。杰尼索夫说得头头是道，很有头脑，执勤的将官的话就更头头是道，更有头脑，但是显而易见，库图佐夫轻视聪明才智，他知道另外一种可以解决问题的东西——那是与聪明才智毫无关联的东西。安德烈公爵悉心观察总司令的面部表情，他所能看到的他脸上唯一的表情就是愁闷及对门里那个女人的低语的好奇以及遵守礼节的心意。显然，库图佐夫轻视聪明才智，甚至轻视杰尼索夫的爱国热情，但他的蔑视并不是由于自己的聪明才智和感情（因为他极力不显露这些天赋），而是由于别的缘故。他蔑视这一切，是因为他的高龄和丰富的生活经验。对那个报告库图佐夫只作了一个关于俄国军队在战场上抢劫一事的指示。报告结束时，执勤的将官呈上一份因士兵割青燕麦，地主要求各军长官追偿损失的文件，并请勋座大人在上面签字。

听了这件事，库图佐夫咂咂嘴，摇了摇头。

①俄国风俗，对新来的客人，献面包和盐表示欢迎。

②俄国旧习，认为这样可以治牙痛。

“扔进炉子里……投进火里去！我索兴给你说吧，亲爱的，”他说，“把所有这些东西都扔进火里去。庄稼，让他们尽管割吧；木材，让他们尽管烧吧。我不发任何命令允许这样做，但也不禁止，可是我不能赔偿，非这样不行。既然劈木头，难免木片飞。”他又看了看那个文件。“哦，德国式的精细！”他摇摇头说。