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Kutuzov like all old people did not sleep much at night. He
often fell asleep unexpectedly in the daytime, but at night, lying
on his bed without undressing, he generally remained awake thinking.
So he lay now on his bed, supporting his large, heavy, scarred
head on his plump hand, with his one eye open, meditating and
peering into the darkness.
Since Bennigsen, who corresponded with the Emperor and had
more influence than anyone else on the staff, had begun to avoid
him, Kutuzov was more at ease as to the possibility of himself
and his troops being obliged to take part in useless aggressive
movements. The lesson of the Tarutino battle and of the day before
it, which Kutuzov remembered with pain, must, he thought, have
some effect on others too.
"They must understand that we can only lose by taking
the offensive. Patience and time are my warriors, my champions,"
thought Kutuzov. He knew that an apple should not be plucked while
it is green. It will fall of itself when ripe, but if picked unripe
the apple is spoiled, the tree is harmed, and your teeth are set
on edge. Like an experienced sportsman he knew that the beast
was wounded, and wounded as only the whole strength of Russia
could have wounded it, but whether it was mortally wounded or
not was still an undecided question. Now by the fact of Lauriston
and Barthelemi having been sent, and by the reports of the guerrillas,
Kutuzov was almost sure that the wound was mortal. But he needed
further proofs and it was necessary to wait.
"They want to run to see how they have wounded it. Wait
and we shall see! Continual maneuvers, continual advances!"
thought he. "What for? Only to distinguish themselves! As
if fighting were fun. They are like children from whom one can't
get any sensible account of what has happened because they all
want to show how well they can fight. But that's not what is needed
now.
"And what ingenious maneuvers they all propose to me!
It seems to them that when they have thought of two or three contingencies"
(he remembered the general plan sent him from Petersburg) "they
have foreseen everything. But the contingencies are endless."
The undecided question as to whether the wound inflicted at
Borodino was mortal or not had hung over Kutuzov's head for a
whole month. On the one hand the French had occupied Moscow. On
the other Kutuzov felt assured with all his being that the terrible
blow into which he and all the Russians had put their whole strength
must have been mortal. But in any case proofs were needed; he
had waited a whole month for them and grew more impatient the
longer he waited. Lying on his bed during those sleepless nights
he did just what he reproached those younger generals for doing.
He imagined all sorts of possible contingencies, just like the
younger men, but with this difference, that he saw thousands of
contingencies instead of two or three and based nothing on them.
The longer he thought the more contingencies presented themselves.
He imagined all sorts of movements of the Napoleonic army as a
whole or in sections- against Petersburg, or against him, or to
outflank him. He thought too of the possibility (which he feared
most of all) that Napoleon might fight him with his own weapon
and remain in Moscow awaiting him. Kutuzov even imagined that
Napoleon's army might turn back through Medyn and Yukhnov, but
the one thing he could not foresee was what happened- the insane,
convulsive stampede of Napoleon's army during its first eleven
days after leaving Moscow: a stampede which made possible what
Kutuzov had not yet even dared to think of- the complete extermination
of the French. Dorokhov's report about Broussier's division, the
guerrillas' reports of distress in Napoleon's army, rumors of
preparations for leaving Moscow, all confirmed the supposition
that the French army was beaten and preparing for flight. But
these were only suppositions, which seemed important to the younger
men but not to Kutuzov. With his sixty years' experience he knew
what value to attach to rumors, knew how apt people who desire
anything are to group all news so that it appears to confirm what
they desire, and he knew how readily in such cases they omit all
that makes for the contrary. And the more he desired it the less
he allowed himself to believe it. This question absorbed all his
mental powers. All else was to him only life's customary routine.
To such customary routine belonged his conversations with the
staff, the letters he wrote from Tarutino to Madame de Stael,
the reading of novels, the distribution of awards, his correspondence
with Petersburg, and so on. But the destruction of the French,
which he alone foresaw, was his heart's one desire.
On the night of the eleventh 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 Bolkhovitinov.
"Eh, who's there? Come in, come in! What news?"
the field marshal called out to them.
While a footman was lighting a candle, Toll communicated the
substance of the news.
"Who brought it?" asked Kutuzov with a look which,
when the candle was lit, struck Toll by its cold severity.
"There can be no doubt about it, your Highness."
"Call him in, call him here."
Kutuzov sat up with one leg hanging down from the bed and
his big paunch resting against the other which was doubled under
him. He screwed up his seeing eye to scrutinize the messenger
more carefully, as if wishing to read in his face what preoccupied
his own mind.
"Tell me, tell me, friend," said he to Bolkhovitinov
in his low, aged voice, as he pulled together the shirt which
gaped open on his chest, "come nearer- nearer. What news
have you brought me? Eh? That Napoleon has left Moscow? Are you
sure? Eh?"
Bolkhovitinov gave a detailed account from the beginning of
all he had been told to report.
"Speak quicker, quicker! Don't torture me!" Kutuzov
interrupted him.
Bolkhovitinov told him everything and was then silent, awaiting
instructions. Toll was beginning to say something but Kutuzov
checked him. He tried to say something, but his face suddenly
puckered and wrinkled; he waved his arm at Toll and turned to
the opposite side of the room, to the corner darkened by the icons
that hung there.
"O Lord, my Creator, Thou has heard our prayer..."
said he in a tremulous voice with folded hands. "Russia is
saved. I thank Thee, O Lord!" and he wept.
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