‘Are you related to Intendant-General Kirill Denisov?’ asked Kutuzov, interrupting.
‘He’s my uncle, sir.’
‘Oh! We used to be friends,’ said Kutuzov breezily. ‘Very good, very good, dear boy. You stay here on the staff, and we’ll have a little talk tomorrow.’ Nodding to Denisov, he turned away and reached out for the papers that Konovnitsyn had brought over.
‘If your Highness would like to come through into the house, you would be most welcome . . .’ said the disgruntled duty general. ‘There are plans to be gone over and some papers to sign.’ An adjutant appeared in the doorway and announced that all was in readiness within. But Kutuzov seemed not to want people with him when he went inside. He scowled . . .
‘No, have a table brought out here, dear boy. I’ll go through them here,’ he said. ‘Don’t you go away,’ he added, turning to Prince Andrey. Prince Andrey stayed there in the porch listening to what the duty general had to say.
While they were busy with the report Prince Andrey detected a woman’s voice whispering on the inside of the doorway, and he caught the rustle of a woman’s silk dress. Several times glancing across, he noticed behind the door a good-looking woman with red cheeks and a full figure, wearing a pink dress with a lilac silk scarf over her head. She was holding a dish, and she seemed to be waiting for the commander-in-chief to come in. Kutuzov’s adjutant explained to Prince Andrey in a whisper that this was the priest’s wife, it was her house, and she was going to welcome his Highness with the traditional bread and salt. Her husband had met his Serene Highness with a cross in church, and now it was her turn in the house . . .
‘She’s very pretty,’ added the adjutant with a smile. Kutuzov glanced round at these words. He was listening to the duty general’s report (mostly a critique of the position at Tsarevo-Zaymishche) just as he had listened to Denisov, and just as he had listened to the debate at the council of war before Austerlitz seven years ago. He was obviously listening only because he had ears to listen with, and, even though one of them was packed with tow for his earache, they could not help hearing, but it was obvious that nothing that general could possibly say was going to be of any interest, let alone surprise him, because he had heard it all before, and if he was listening it was only because he had to, just as you have to listen to a service in church. Every word spoken by Denisov had been businesslike and sensible. What the general was now saying was even more businesslike and sensible, but Kutuzov clearly had no time for knowledge or intellect, because he knew something different that would win the day – something different, independent of intellect and knowledge. Prince Andrey kept a close watch on his face, and all he could make out on it was a look of boredom mixed with curiosity about the female voice whispering inside the door, and a desire to observe decorum. It may have been obvious that Kutuzov had no time for intellect or learning, or even the eager patriotism shown by Denisov, but his distaste was not based on intellect, or sentiment, or knowledge (none of which he had any pretensions towards), it came from something else – old age and long experience. The only amendment to the report made by Kutuzov himself had to do with looting by the Russian soldiers. The last item in the general’s report was a document presented for his Highness’s signature relating to a landowner’s claim for compensation from the army authorities for the commandeering of his green oats.
Kutuzov smacked his lips and shook his head as he listened to this claim.
‘Chuck it in the stove . . . Into the fire with it! And I tell you once and for all, my dear fellow,’ he said, ‘chuck everything like that into the fire. Let them cut corn and burn wood to their hearts’ content. I haven’t told them to, and they don’t have my permission, but I can’t investigate this sort of thing. It can’t be helped. You can’t make omelettes without breaking eggs.’ He glanced down at the paper again. ‘Pernickety devil, he’s just like a German,’ he muttered with a shake of his head.
CHAPTER 16
‘Well, that’s that then,’ said Kutuzov as he signed the last document and lumbered to his feet. He smoothed out the rolls of fat on his podgy white neck and walked over to the door with a more buoyant look about him.
The priest’s wife, with the blood rushing to her face, grabbed the dish, but although she had been rehearsing for ages, she missed the right moment to present it. She went ahead anyway and offered it to Kutuzov with a low bow. Kutuzov screwed up his eyes, gave a smile, chucked her under the chin and said, ‘Oh what a pretty face! Thank you, my pet!’
He took some gold coins out of his trouser pocket and put them on her dish.
