'Come in, do come in, and we'll have a chat,' he said, but at that moment Denisov, who cringed before the authorities as little as he did before the enemy, ignored the indignant whispering of adjutants trying hard to stop him, and walked boldly up the steps, spurs a-jangle. Kutuzov still had his hands pushing down on the seat, and he gave Denisov a resentful glance. Denisov stated his name and then announced that he needed to apprise his Highness on a matter of vital importance for the good of the country. Kutuzov levelled a weary eye at Denisov, raised both hands in a gesture of annoyance before folding them across his stomach, and repeated what he had heard: 'The good of the country? Well, what do you mean? Out with it.' Denisov coloured up like a young girl (it was most odd to see a blush spreading over that hairy, ageing, hard-drinking face), and launched into a confident exposition of his plan for cutting the enemy's line of operations somewhere between Smolensk and Vyazma. Denisov came from that region, and he knew the locality well. His plan seemed unquestionably sound, primarily because of the strength of conviction in his delivery. Kutuzov stared at his feet, occasionally glancing up towards the courtyard of the house next-door, as if he was expecting something nasty to emerge from it. What did emerge from next-door while Denisov was in mid-flow was a general with a briefcase under his arm.
'What's this?' asked Kutuzov in the middle of Denisov's exposition. 'It didn't take you long to get things ready.'
'Indeed not, your Serene Highness,' said the general. Kutuzov shook his head as if to say, 'How can one man be so efficient?' and turned his mind back to Denisov.
'On my word of honour as a Wussian officer,' Denisov was saying, 'I shall cut wight thwough Napoleon's communications.'
'Are you related to Intendant-General Kirill Denisov?' asked Kutuzov, interrupting.
'He's my uncle, sir.'
'Oh! We used to be friends,' said Kutuzov breezily. 'Very good, very good, dear boy. You stay here on the staff, and we'll have a little talk tomorrow.' Nodding to Denisov, he turned away and reached out for the papers that Konovnitsyn had brought over.
'If your Highness would like to come through into the house, you would be most welcome . . .' said the disgruntled duty general. 'There are plans to be gone over and some papers to sign.' An adjutant appeared in the doorway and announced that all was in readiness within. But Kutuzov seemed not to want people with him when he went inside. He scowled . . .
'No, have a table brought out here, dear boy. I'll go through them here,' he said. 'Don't you go away,' he added, turning to Prince Andrey. Prince Andrey stayed there in the porch listening to what the duty general had to say.
While they were busy with the report Prince Andrey detected a woman's voice whispering on the inside of the doorway, and he caught the rustle of a woman's silk dress. Several times glancing across, he noticed behind the door a good-looking woman with red cheeks and a full figure, wearing a pink dress with a lilac silk scarf over her head. She was holding a dish, and she seemed to be waiting for the commander-in-chief to come in. Kutuzov's adjutant explained to Prince Andrey in a whisper that this was the priest's wife, it was her house, and she was going to welcome his Highness with the traditional bread and salt. Her husband had met his Serene Highness with a cross in church, and now it was her turn in the house . . .
'She's very pretty,' added the adjutant with a smile. Kutuzov glanced round at these words. He was listening to the duty general's report (mostly a critique of the position at Tsarevo-Zaymishche) just as he had listened to Denisov, and just as he had listened to the debate at the council of war before Austerlitz seven years ago. He was obviously listening only because he had ears to listen with, and, even though one of them was packed with tow for his earache, they could not help hearing, but it was obvious that nothing that general could possibly say was going to be of any interest, let alone surprise him, because he had heard it all before, and if he was listening it was only because he had to, just as you have to listen to a service in church. Every word spoken by Denisov had been businesslike and sensible. What the general was now saying was even more businesslike and sensible, but Kutuzov clearly had no time for knowledge or intellect, because he knew something different that would win the day - something different, independent of intellect and knowledge. Prince Andrey kept a close watch on his face, and all he could make out on it was a look of boredom mixed with curiosity about the female voice whispering inside the door, and a desire to observe decorum. It may have been obvious that Kutuzov had no time for intellect or learning, or even the eager patriotism shown by Denisov, but his distaste was not based on intellect, or sentiment, or knowledge (none of which he had any pretensions towards), it came from something else - old age and long experience. The only amendment to the report made by Kutuzov himself had to do with looting by the Russian soldiers. The last item in the general's report was a document presented for his Highness's signature relating to a landowner's claim for compensation from the army authorities for the commandeering of his green oats.
Kutuzov smacked his lips and shook his head as he listened to this claim.
'Chuck it in the stove . . . Into the fire with it! And I tell you once and for all, my dear fellow,' he said, 'chuck everything like that into the fire. Let them cut corn and burn wood to their hearts' content. I haven't told them to, and they don't have my permission, but I can't investigate this sort of thing. It can't be helped. You can't make omelettes without breaking eggs.' He glanced down at the paper again. 'Pernickety devil, he's just like a German,' he muttered with a shake of his head.
CHAPTER 16
'Well, that's that then,' said Kutuzov as he signed the last document and lumbered to his feet. He smoothed out the rolls of fat on his podgy white neck and walked over to the door with a more buoyant look about him.
The priest's wife, with the blood rushing to her face, grabbed the dish, but although she had been rehearsing for ages, she missed the right moment to present it. She went ahead anyway and offered it to Kutuzov with a low bow. Kutuzov screwed up his eyes, gave a smile, chucked her under the chin and said, 'Oh what a pretty face! Thank you, my pet!'
He took some gold coins out of his trouser pocket and put them on her dish.
'Well now, how is life treating you?' he said, walking through to the room that had been set aside for him. The priest's wife, with a dimpled smile on her rosy-cheeked face, followed him in. The adjutant came out to Prince Andrey in the porch, and invited him to lunch. Half an hour later Kutuzov sent for Prince Andrey. He was sprawling in an armchair, still wearing his unbuttoned military coat. He was holding a French novel, and when Prince Andrey came in he marked his place with a paper-knife and put it down. Prince Andrey saw from the cover it was The Knights of the Swan, a romantic tale by Madame de Genlis.
'Do sit down, sit down here, and let's have a little talk,' said Kutuzov. 'It's sad, very sad. But don't forget, dear boy, you can look on me as a father, a second father!'
Prince Andrey told Kutuzov everything he knew about his father's death, and what he had seen at Bald Hills during his recent visit.
'Is this what we've been reduced to?' Kutuzov cried suddenly, deeply disturbed, accepting Prince Andrey's account as a vivid picture of the plight Russia was in.
'Give me time. Just give me time!' he added with a vicious glare, but he seemed reluctant to dwell on such a disturbing subject, and he went on to say, 'I've sent for you to keep you here with me.'
'I thank your Highness,' answered Prince Andrey, 'but I'm afraid I'm no good for staff work any more,' he said, with a smile that was not lost on Kutuzov, who looked back quizzically. 'No, the thing is,' added Prince Andrey, 'I've got used to my regiment. I like the officers, and the men seem to like me. I wouldn't want to leave the regiment. If I decline the honour of being in attendance on you, please believe . . .'
Kutuzov's podgy face glowed with a shrewd, kindly expression and a suggestion of irony. He cut Bolkonsky short.
'I'm sorry. You would have been useful to me. But you're right, you're quite right.
It's not here that good men are needed. There's never any shortage of counsellors, but good men are hard to come by. The regiments wouldn't be what they are if all the counsellors served in them like you. I remember you at Austerlitz. Yes I do, I remember you with that flag!' said Kutuzov, and Prince Andrey's face flushed with pleasure at the memory of it. Kutuzov drew him close, offering him a cheek to kiss, and again Prince Andrey caught a glimpse of tears in the old man's eyes. Even though Prince Andrey knew Kutuzov was prone to tears, and he was being especially nice to him in order to show sympathy for his recent loss, he still felt pleased and flattered by this reminder of Austerlitz.
'Make your own way, then, and God go with you. I know your way is the way of honour!' He paused. 'I missed you at Bucharest. I needed someone to send . . .' And he was off on to another subject, the Turkish war, and the peace that had been concluded. 'Oh yes, I've had my share of criticism,' he said, 'for the war and the peace . . . but everything fell into place at the right time. "Everything falls into place for the man who knows how to wait," ' he said, quoting the French proverb. 'And there were just as many counsellors there as there are here . . .' he went on, falling back on the subject of counsellors that had become an obsession with him. 'Ugh, counsellors, counsellors!' he said. 'If we'd listened to them all we'd still be in Turkey, without any peace and with the war still on. Too much of a hurry. More haste, less speed, I say. Kamensky would have come to grief there, if he hadn't died first. He went about storming fortresses with thirty thousand men. Taking fortresses is easy enough, the hard part is winning the war. And you don't get that by storming and attacking - what you need are time and patience. Kamensky used his soldiers to attack Rushchuk. I used those two, time and patience, and I took more fortresses than he did, and I soon had the Turks eating horse-meat!' He shook his head. 'And I'll have the French doing it too. Take my word for it,' cried Kutuzov, warming to his task and patting himself on the chest, 'I'll have them eating horse-flesh!' And again his eyes were misty with tears.
'But we shall have to fight, shan't we?' said Prince Andrey.
'Oh yes, if that's what people want they'll have to have it . . . But mark my words, dear boy! There's nothing stronger than those two old soldiers - time and patience. There's nothing they can't do, but our wise counsellors are deaf in one ear, and that's where the trouble is. Some want action, others don't. So what am I to do?' he asked, evidently expecting a reply. 'Come on, what would you have me do?' he repeated, and his shrewd eyes shone with deep meaning. 'I'll tell you what to do,' he said, with no answer forthcoming from Prince Andrey. 'I'll tell you what to do, and what I do. When in doubt, my friend,' - he paused - 'hold back.' He said this in French, slowly, syllable by syllable.
'Well, goodbye, my dear fellow. I feel for you with all my heart in your great sorrow, and don't forget - as far as you're concerned I'm not his Highness, or a prince, or a commander-in-chief, I'm a father to you. If you need anything come straight to me. Goodbye, my dear boy!' Again he hugged and kissed him.
And Prince Andrey was hardly out of the room when Kutuzov heaved a sigh of relief and settled down to Madame de Genlis and The Knights of the Swan.
How or why it came about Prince Andrey could never have explained, but after this encounter with Kutuzov he returned to his regiment greatly reassured about the way things were going and the man they had been entrusted to. The more clearly he registered the absence of all personal interest in this old man, who seemed to have reduced himself to going through the motions of old passions, and had replaced an active mind capable of organizing things and coming to conclusions with a capacity for calm contemplation as events unfolded, the more confident he felt that everything would work out as it should. 'He has no axe to grind. He won't have any ideas or hatch any schemes,' Prince Andrey told himself, 'but he'll listen to everybody and miss nothing, he'll put things in their proper places, he won't get in the way of anything useful or allow anything that might do any harm. He knows there is something stronger and more important than his will - the inexorable march of events - and he has the knack of watching events and seeing what they mean, and when he sees what they mean he knows how to stand back from them and redirect his will somewhere else. But the main reason for believing in him,' thought Prince Andrey, 'is that he's Russian - never mind Madame de Genlis and a few French proverbs - and his voice shook when he said, "Is this what we've been reduced to?" and he choked when he said he would "soon have them eating horse-flesh!" '
It was this feeling, shared more or less dimly by everyone, that underpinned the unanimity and general approval which accompanied the appointment of Kutuzov as commander-in-chief, the people's choice whatever misgivings may have been felt in court circles.
CHAPTER 17
After the Tsar's departure from Moscow life went on in the same old way, and its course seemed so normal that it was soon hard to recall the days of fervour and heady patriotism, and hard to believe the country was in real danger, and the members of the English Club were also sons of Mother Russia, ready for any sacrifice. The one thing that brought back the general mood of patriotic fervour during the Tsar's Moscow visit was the call for contributions of men and money, which soon turned from offers into officially formulated demands that had every appearance of being legal and binding.
As the enemy closed in on Moscow the attitude of the inhabitants to their situation, far from becoming all serious-minded, actually became more frivolous, as always happens with people who can see a terrible danger bearing down on them. At the first approach of danger two voices always speak out with equal force in a man's heart: one tells him very sensibly to consider the exact extent of the danger and any means of avoiding it; the other says even more sensibly that it's too wearisome and agonizing to contemplate the danger, since it is not in a man's power to anticipate future events and avoid the general run of things, so you might as well turn away from the nastiness until it hits you, and dwell on things that are pleasant. Left to himself a man will usually listen to the first voice; out in society he listens to the second one. This is what was now happening to the good people of Moscow. It was years since there had been so much fun in the city.
Rostopchin's broadsheets were the talk of the town, rivalling Vasily Pushkin's3 latest bouts rimes in popularity. They featured a drinking-house at the top, a tapster and a Moscow citizen, Karpushka Chigirin, an ex-militiaman who, when he has had a drop too much to drink, hears that Napoleon is bent on marching on Moscow, whereupon he flies into a rage, curses the French up hill and down dale, walks out of the drinking-house and speaks to the assembled people under the sign of the eagle.
The club members got together in the corner room to peruse these posters, and some of them were greatly amused by Karpushka's being so rude to the French and saying things like they'll get bloated on Russian cabbage, burst their bellies on Russian porridge and choke to death on the cabbage soup, and anyway they're all dwarfs and any village lass could fork 'em away three at a time.
There were others, though, who did not approve of this tone, which they called vulgar and stupid. Rumour had it that Rostopchin had expelled all Frenchmen, in fact all foreigners, from Moscow, and some of them had turned out to be spies and agents of Napoleon. But the main reason for putting this about was to be able to keep repeating the funny things Rostopchin said as he dispatched them. As the foreigners were being shepherded on board a barge heading for Nizhny, Rostopchin had said to them in French, 'Keep yourselves to yourselves, get on this barge, and make sure it doesn't turn into Charon's ferry.'4 The word went round that all government offices had been evacuated from Moscow, which inspired Shinshin's much-repeated little joke that at last Napoleon had given Moscow something to be grateful for. It was claimed that Mamonov's regiment was costing him eight hundred thousand, and Bezukhov was stumping up even more, but the best thing about him was that he was going to get into uniform and ride at the head of his regiment, and spectators were welcome without paying at the gate.
'You never say nice things
about anybody,' said Julie Drubetskoy, picking up a handful of lint and squeezing it between slender fingers that glittered with rings.
Julie would be leaving Moscow the following day, and she was giving a farewell soiree.
'Bezukhov does look ridiculous, but he's very nice, and his heart's in the right place. How can you take pleasure to be so caustique?'
'You're fined!' said a young man in a militiaman's uniform, referred to by Julie as her knight in shining armour - he was going with her to Nizhny.
In Julie's circle, as in many others in Moscow, the unwritten rule was to speak nothing but Russian, and anybody who slipped up and spoke some French had to pay a fine into the coffers of the Committee for Voluntary Donations.
'A double fine for Frenchified Russian,' said a Russian writer who happened to be within earshot. You can't say "take pleasure to be. . ."'
'You never say nice things about anybody,' Julie persisted with the militiaman, ignoring the author and his remark.
'I plead guilty to caustique,' she said, 'and I'll even pay up for taking pleasure to tell the truth. But I won't be held responsible for Frenchified Russian,' she said, turning now to the scribbler. 'I have neither the time nor the money to hire a teacher and learn Russian like Prince Golitsyn. Oh, but here he comes!' added Julie. 'Quand on . . . Oh no,' she protested to the militiaman, 'you can't catch me like that. When one talks of the sun, out it comes! We were just talking about you.' She gave a sweet smile as she welcomed Pierre with the easy lapse into falsehood that comes naturally to women in high society. 'We were saying your regiment's bound to be better than Mamonov's.'
'Oh, don't talk to me about the regiment,' answered Pierre, kissing his hostess's hand and sitting down beside her. 'I've had enough of it!'
'You will, er, take command personally, won't you?' said Julie, exchanging a sly, mocking glance with the militiaman.