His adjutants were first into the yard. Kutuzov dug his heels into his horse, which was ambling along so slowly under his weight, and all the time he kept nodding right and left and raising a hand to his white horseguard’s cap with its red band and no peak. When he got to the guard of honour, to be saluted by a set of elite grenadiers, most of them sporting decorations, he paused for a moment in silence and looked at them very closely with the steady gaze of a true commander before turning to the group of generals and other officers standing round him. There was a subtle change in his expression, and he shrugged with an air of bemusement.
‘What, with men like these nothing but retreat after retreat?’ he said. ‘Well, goodbye, General,’ he added, and urged his horse in through the gateway right past Prince Andrey and Denisov.
‘Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!’ went the roaring voices behind him.
Since the last time Prince Andrey had seen him Kutuzov had put on even more weight and now he looked really flabby, bloated with fat. But some things about him had not changed – the familiar scar, the wall-eye and the overall impression of weariness in face and figure. As well as the white horse guard’s cap he was wearing a military greatcoat with a whip on a narrow strap slung across his shoulder. He sat on his game little horse very badly, a ponderous, wobbly load.
‘Ugh! . . . ugh! . . . ugh!’ he wheezed, though the sound was barely audible, as he rode into the courtyard. His face shone with the relief of a man looking forward to a nice rest after being a long time in the limelight. He withdrew his left foot from the stirrup with a lurch of his big body and scowled with exertion as he brought it up on to the saddle, used his knee to steady himself and flopped down with a groan into the supporting arms of his Cossacks and aides.
He pulled himself together, looked round with his eyes half-closed, glanced at Prince Andrey, seemed not to recognize him, and shambled off tubbily in the direction of the steps.
‘Ugh! . . . ugh! . . . ugh!’ he wheezed, and turned to take another look at Prince Andrey. As often happens with old men, the impression of Prince Andrey’s face had taken some seconds to trigger a memory of his personality. ‘Oh, hello there, my dear fellow, hello there. Do come along . . .’ he said wearily, lumbering up the steps that creaked under his weight. He unbuttoned his coat and sat down on a bench in the porch.
‘Well then, how’s your father keeping?’
‘News of his death reached me yesterday,’ said Prince Andrey tersely.
Kutuzov looked at him wide-eyed with dismay, then he took his cap off and crossed himself. ‘God rest his soul! And may God’s will be done with all of us!’ He heaved the deepest of sighs and paused. ‘I loved him deeply and had great respect for him, and you have my heartfelt sympathy.’ He put both arms round Prince Andrey, hugged him to his fat chest and held on for quite some time. When he released him, Prince Andrey could see Kutuzov’s thick lips quivering, and there were tears in his eyes. He gave another sigh and pushed down on the bench with both hands to help himself up.
‘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.’
