The procession came to a halt at the top of the hill. The men who had kept the icon aloft by its linen holdings were relieved by others, the deacons relit their censers and the service began. The scorching sunshine beat straight down on them, a cool and gentle breeze toyed with the hair on many a bared head, and stirred the ribbons that decked the holy icon, and the singing had a subdued sound under the open sky. The icon was surrounded by a huge crowd of people – officers, soldiers and men of the militia, all with bared heads. An open space had been reserved for the top brass to the rear of priest and deacon. A bald-headed general wearing the order of St George round his neck stood immediately behind the priest, and he never crossed himself during the service – he was obviously a German – but nevertheless, listened carefully through to the end, knowing it was necessary to arouse the patriotism in the Russian peasant. Another general stood there in a martial pose and as he made the sign of the cross he flapped a hand in front of his chest and looked round on all sides. Pierre was standing among the peasants, and he recognized in this group of officials several persons he knew. But he didn’t look at them; he was fascinated by the grave expressions on the faces in the crowd of soldiers and peasant militiamen, all gazing with equal intensity at the holy icon. As soon as the weary choristers, singing out now for the twentieth time, launched into their leisurely, mechanical rendition of, ‘O Mother of God, save Thy servants from all adversities’, and priest and deacon chimed in with, ‘For to Thee under God every man doth flee as to a steadfast bulwark and defence’, every face was lit up with a special awareness of the solemnity of the coming moment, the same expression he had seen on the hill at Mozhaysk and then flickering again on so many, many faces that he had come across that morning. Ever more urgently came the bowing of heads, the tossing back of hair, the sounds of deep sighing and the beating of breasts as the soldiers crossed themselves.
The crowd round the icon suddenly parted and Pierre was squashed back. Someone was walking over to the holy icon, probably someone of real consequence, to judge by the alacrity with which people made way for him.
It was Kutuzov, on his way back to Tatarinova after a tour of our position, and he had come to take part in the service. Pierre knew him at once by his peculiar figure, which marked him out from everyone else.
With a long overcoat draped over his enormous bulk and his slightly stooping back, with his white head bared and his blind white eye all too noticeable in a puffy face, Kutuzov lurched and staggered his way out into the ring and stood behind the priest. He crossed himself in a practised way, bent down to touch the earth, gave a deep sigh and bowed his grey head. Kutuzov was followed by Bennigsen and his entourage. Although the commander-in-chief attracted the attention of all the top brass, the militiamen and soldiers ignored him and went on with their prayers.
When the service was over Kutuzov went up to the holy icon, flopped down heavily on his knees, bowed down to the ground, and then found he could not get up, despite several attempts to do so, because of his great bulk and general feebleness. His grey head quivered with the effort. At last he managed it, and thrusting out his lips like a simple child he kissed the icon, and gave another bow with one hand touching the ground. The other generals duly followed, then the officers, and after them came the soldiers and militiamen, breathless with excitement, pushing and shoving, falling over each other in one mad scramble.
CHAPTER 22
Caught in the crush and reeling back off balance, Pierre looked about him.
‘Count! Count Bezukhov! What are you doing here?’ said a voice. Pierre looked round.
Boris Drubetskoy, wiping his knees with one hand (he must have dirtied them going down before the icon), was walking over to Pierre with a smile on his face. Boris was immaculately turned out, with the slightest hint of the battle-ready soldier about him. He wore a long military coat with a riding-crop slung across one shoulder à la Kutuzov.
Meanwhile Kutuzov had reached the village, and he now sat down in the shade of the nearest house on a bench swiftly provided by one Cossack and covered with a rug by another. He was immediately surrounded by a vast and glittering entourage.
The icon moved on, and the crowd with it. Pierre stood there talking to Boris no more than thirty paces from Kutuzov. He explained his determination to take part in the battle and inspect the position.
