Book Thirteen: 1812 - Chapter XVII

by Leo Tolstoy

　　Kutuzov like all old people did not sleep much at night. He oftenfell asleep unexpectedly in the daytime, but at night, lying on hisbed without undressing, he generally remained awake thinking.

　　So he lay now on his bed, supporting his large, heavy, scarredhead on his plump hand, with his one eye open, meditating andpeering into the darkness.

　　Since Bennigsen, who corresponded with the Emperor and had moreinfluence than anyone else on the staff, had begun to avoid him,Kutuzov was more at ease as to the possibility of himself and histroops being obliged to take part in useless aggressive movements. Thelesson of the Tarutino battle and of the day before it, whichKutuzov remembered with pain, must, he thought, have some effect onothers 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 willfall of itself when ripe, but if picked unripe the apple is spoiled,the tree is harmed, and your teeth are set on edge. Like anexperienced sportsman he knew that the beast was wounded, andwounded as only the whole strength of Russia could have wounded it,but whether it was mortally wounded or not was still an undecidedquestion. Now by the fact of Lauriston and Barthelemi having beensent, and by the reports of the guerrillas, Kutuzov was almost surethat the wound was mortal. But he needed further proofs and it wasnecessary to wait.

　　"They want to run to see how they have wounded it. Wait and we shallsee! Continual maneuvers, continual advances!" thought he. "Whatfor? Only to distinguish themselves! As if fighting were fun. They arelike children from whom one can't get any sensible account of what hashappened because they all want to show how well they can fight. Butthat's not what is needed now.

　　"And what ingenious maneuvers they all propose to me! It seems tothem that when they have thought of two or three contingencies" (heremembered the general plan sent him from Petersburg) "they haveforeseen everything. But the contingencies are endless."

　　The undecided question as to whether the wound inflicted at Borodinowas mortal or not had hung over Kutuzov's head for a whole month. Onthe one hand the French had occupied Moscow. On the other Kutuzov feltassured with all his being that the terrible blow into which he andall the Russians had put their whole strength must have been mortal.But in any case proofs were needed; he had waited a whole month forthem and grew more impatient the longer he waited. Lying on his bedduring those sleepless nights he did just what he reproached thoseyounger generals for doing. He imagined all sorts of possiblecontingencies, just like the younger men, but with this difference,that he saw thousands of contingencies instead of two or three andbased nothing on them. The longer he thought the more contingenciespresented themselves. He imagined all sorts of movements of theNapoleonic army as a whole or in sections- against Petersburg, oragainst him, or to outflank him. He thought too of the possibility(which he feared most of all) that Napoleon might fight him with hisown weapon and remain in Moscow awaiting him. Kutuzov even imaginedthat Napoleon's army might turn back through Medyn and Yukhnov, butthe one thing he could not foresee was what happened- the insane,convulsive stampede of Napoleon's army during its first eleven daysafter leaving Moscow: a stampede which made possible what Kutuzovhad not yet even dared to think of- the complete extermination ofthe French. Dorokhov's report about Broussier's division, theguerrillas' reports of distress in Napoleon's army, rumors ofpreparations for leaving Moscow, all confirmed the supposition thatthe French army was beaten and preparing for flight. But these wereonly suppositions, which seemed important to the younger men but notto Kutuzov. With his sixty years' experience he knew what value toattach to rumors, knew how apt people who desire anything are to groupall news so that it appears to confirm what they desire, and he knewhow readily in such cases they omit all that makes for the contrary.And the more he desired it the less he allowed himself to believeit. This question absorbed all his mental powers. All else was tohim only life's customary routine. To such customary routinebelonged his conversations with the staff, the letters he wrote fromTarutino to Madame de Stael, the reading of novels, the distributionof awards, his correspondence with Petersburg, and so on. But thedestruction of the French, which he alone foresaw, was his heart's onedesire.

　　On the night of the eleventh of October he lay leaning on his armand 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 marshalcalled out to them.

　　While a footman was lighting a candle, Toll communicated thesubstance of the news.

　　"Who brought it?" asked Kutuzov with a look which, when the candlewas 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 bigpaunch resting against the other which was doubled under him. Hescrewed up his seeing eye to scrutinize the messenger morecarefully, as if wishing to read in his face what preoccupied hisown 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 hischest, "come nearer- nearer. What news have you brought me? Eh? ThatNapoleon has left Moscow? Are you sure? Eh?"

　　Bolkhovitinov gave a detailed account from the beginning of all hehad been told to report.

　　"Speak quicker, quicker! Don't torture me!" Kutuzov interrupted him.

　　Bolkhovitinov told him everything and was then silent, awaitinginstructions. Toll was beginning to say something but Kutuzovchecked him. He tried to say something, but his face suddenly puckeredand wrinkled; he waved his arm at Toll and turned to the opposite sideof the room, to the corner darkened by the icons that hung there.

　　"O Lord, my Creator, Thou has heard our prayer..." said he in atremulous voice with folded hands. "Russia is saved. I thank Thee, OLord!" and he wept.