Prince Andrey told him he was not on his Highness’s staff, and he too had only just arrived. The lieutenant-colonel of hussars turned to an immaculate orderly, the orderly of the commander-in-chief himself, who spoke to him with that special kind of aloofness with comes naturally to a commander-in-chief’s orderly when speaking to officers:
‘His Highness? Yes, he should be back soon. What is it you want?’
The officer grinned through his whiskers at the orderly’s tone, dismounted, gave his horse to a servant, and walked over 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’s weady to weceive evewybody, thank God! Not like those widiculous kwauts! No wonder Yermolov talked about being pwomoted to the wank of German. Now p’whaps the Wussians will get a word in. God knows what they think they’ve been up to. Just one wetweat after another. Have you seen any action?’ he asked.
‘I have had the pleasure,’ said Prince Andrey, ‘not only of taking part in the retreat, but also of losing everything I held dear during that retreat – not to speak of my property, the house where I was born . . . and my father – he died of grief. I’m from near Smolensk.’
‘Oh, you must be Pwince Bolkonsky! Delighted to meet you. Lieutenant-Colonel Denisov, better known as Vaska,’ said Denisov, shaking hands with Prince Andrey and looking him in the face with warm friendliness. ‘Yes, I heard about that,’ he said with some sympathy, and after a brief pause he went on, ‘Yes, we’re fighting like the Scythians. It’s all vewy well, except for those who bear the bwunt of it. So you’re Pwince Andwey Bolkonsky!’ He shook his head. ‘Yes, I’m vewy, vewy pleased to meet you,’ he added, shaking his hand with a wistful smile.
Prince Andrey knew about Denisov from Natasha’s stories of when she was first wooed. The bitter-sweet memory brought back the heartache he hadn’t even thought about in recent days, though it still lay buried in his soul. In recent days so many different things had happened, some of them vitally important, like the abandonment of Smolensk, his visit to Bald Hills and the news of his father’s recent death, and he had gone through so many trials that these particular memories had left him alone for long periods, and when they did come to mind they didn’t hurt with anything like the old intensity. And as far as Denisov was concerned, the associations evoked by the name of Bolkonsky belonged to a romantic time in the distant past, when one evening after supper, much affected by Natasha’s singing, he had proposed to a little fifteen-year-old girl without really knowing what he was doing. He smiled at the thought of those days and his love for Natasha, and then went straight on to the one thing that had become an outright obsession with him. This was a plan of action that had come to him while he had been on duty at the outposts during the retreat. He had laid the plan before Barclay de Tolly, and now he had every intention of laying it before Kutuzov. It was based on the fact that the French operations line was over-extended, and his idea was that, instead a frontal attack blocking the French advance (or maybe along with an attack of that kind), they ought to concentrate on their communications. He began explaining his plan to Prince Andrey.
‘They can’t defend the whole of that line. It’s not possible. I guawantee I could bweak thwough it. Give me five hundwed men and I’ll cut their communications, for sure I will! There’s only one system that’ll work – guewilla warfare.’
Denisov got to his feet and began to elaborate for Bolkonsky’s benefit, with much waving of the arms. He was in mid-flow when suddenly they heard the soldiers shouting again, ragged sounds this time that blended with music and song over a wide area near the parade-ground. Hoofbeats and cheering soon could be heard in the nearby village.
‘He’s coming! He’s coming!’ shouted the Cossack from the gate.
Bolkonsky and Denisov walked over to the gate, where a little group of soldiers formed a guard of honour, and there was Kutuzov coming down the street on a little bay horse. An immense suite of generals followed on. Barclay was riding almost level with him, and a great crowd of officers was scurrying about behind them and on every side with loud cries of ‘Hurrah!’
