War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy (ebook reader for pc TXT) 📕

Give me five hundwed men and I will bweak the line, that’s certain! There’s only one way⁠—guewilla warfare!”

Denísov rose and began gesticulating as he explained his plan to Bolkónski. In the midst of his explanation shouts were heard from the army, growing more incoherent and more diffused, mingling with music and songs and coming from the field where the review was held. Sounds of hoofs and shouts were nearing the village.

“He’s coming! He’s coming!” shouted a Cossack standing at the gate.

Bolkónski and Denísov moved to the gate, at which a knot of soldiers (a guard of honor) was standing, and they saw Kutúzov coming down the street mounted on a rather small sorrel horse. A huge suite of generals rode behind him. Barclay was riding almost beside him, and a crowd of officers ran after and around them shouting, “Hurrah!”

His adjutants galloped into the yard before him. Kutúzov was impatiently urging on his horse, which ambled smoothly under his weight, and he raised his hand to his white Horse Guard’s cap with a red band and no peak, nodding his head continually. When he came up to the guard of honor, a fine set of Grenadiers mostly wearing decorations, who were giving him the salute, he looked at them silently and attentively for nearly a minute with the steady gaze of a commander and then turned to the crowd of generals and officers surrounding him. Suddenly his face assumed a subtle expression, he shrugged his shoulders with an air of perplexity.

“And with such fine fellows to retreat and retreat! Well, goodbye, General,” he added, and rode into the yard past Prince Andréy and Denísov.

“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” shouted those behind him.

Since Prince Andréy had last seen him Kutúzov had grown still more corpulent, flaccid, and fat. But the bleached eyeball, the scar, and the familiar weariness of his expression were still the same. He was wearing the white Horse Guard’s cap and a military overcoat with a whip hanging over his shoulder by a thin strap. He sat heavily and swayed limply on his brisk little horse.

“Whew⁠ ⁠… whew⁠ ⁠… whew!” he whistled just audibly as he rode into the yard. His face expressed the relief of relaxed strain felt by a man who means to rest after a ceremony. He drew his left foot out of the stirrup and, lurching with his whole body and puckering his face with the effort, raised it with difficulty onto the saddle, leaned on his knee, groaned, and slipped down into the arms of the Cossacks and adjutants who stood ready to assist him.

He pulled himself together, looked round, screwing up his eyes, glanced at Prince Andréy, and, evidently not recognizing him, moved with his waddling gait to the porch. “Whew⁠ ⁠… whew⁠ ⁠… whew!” he whistled, and again glanced at Prince Andréy. As often occurs with old men, it was only after some seconds that the impression produced by Prince Andréy’s face linked itself up with Kutúzov’s remembrance of his personality.

“Ah, how do you do, my dear prince? How do you do, my dear boy? Come along⁠ ⁠…” said he, glancing wearily round, and he stepped onto the porch which creaked under his weight.

He unbuttoned his coat and sat down on a bench in the porch.

“And how’s your father?”

“I received news of his death, yesterday,” replied Prince Andréy abruptly.

Kutúzov looked at him with eyes wide open with dismay and then took off his cap and crossed himself:

“May the kingdom of Heaven be his! God’s will be done to us all!” He sighed deeply, his whole chest heaving, and was silent for a while. “I loved him and respected him, and sympathize with you with all my heart.”

He embraced Prince Andréy, pressing him to his fat breast, and for some time did not let him go. When he released him Prince Andréy saw that Kutúzov’s flabby lips were trembling and that tears were in his eyes. He sighed and pressed on the bench with both hands to raise himself.

“Come! Come with me, we’ll have a talk,” said he.

But at that moment Denísov, no more intimidated by his superiors than by the enemy, came with jingling spurs up the steps of the porch, despite the angry whispers of the adjutants who tried to stop him. Kutúzov, his hands still pressed on the seat, glanced at him glumly. Denísov, having given his name, announced that he had to communicate to his Serene Highness a matter of great importance for their country’s welfare. Kutúzov looked wearily at him and, lifting his hands with a gesture of annoyance, folded them across his stomach, repeating the words: “For our country’s welfare? Well, what is it? Speak!” Denísov blushed like a girl (it was strange to see the color rise in that shaggy, bibulous, timeworn face) and boldly began to expound his plan of cutting the enemy’s lines of communication between Smolénsk and Vyázma. Denísov came from those parts and knew the country well. His plan seemed decidedly a good one, especially from the strength of conviction with which he spoke. Kutúzov looked down at his own legs, occasionally glancing at the door of the adjoining hut as if expecting something unpleasant to emerge from it. And from that hut, while Denísov was speaking, a general with a portfolio under his arm really did appear.

“What?” said Kutúzov, in the midst of Denísov’s explanations, “are you ready so soon?”

“Ready, your Serene Highness,” replied the general.

Kutúzov swayed his head, as much as to say: “How is one man to deal with it all?” and again listened to Denísov.

“I give my word of honor as a Wussian officer,” said Denísov, “that I can bweak Napoleon’s line of communication!”

“What relation are you to Intendant General Kiríl Andréevich Denísov?” asked Kutúzov, interrupting him.

“He is my uncle, your Sewene Highness.”

“Ah, we were friends,” said Kutúzov cheerfully. “All right, all right, friend, stay here at the staff and tomorrow we’ll have a talk.”

With a nod to Denísov he turned away and put out his hand for the papers Konovnítsyn had brought him.

“Would