To issue such a dreadful order seemed like resigning his command of the army. And apart from the fact that he loved power and had got used to it (he had been galled by the honours lavished on Prince Prozorovsky, under whom he had served in Turkey), he was convinced that he was destined to be the saviour of Russia, and this was why he had been appointed commander-in-chief, against the Tsar’s wishes but by the will of the people. He was convinced that in these difficult times he was the only man who could hold out as head of the army, and the only man in the world capable of taking on Napoleon without flinching. Now he dreaded having to give this order. But he had to do something; he had to stop this idle chatter that was getting out of hand.
He summoned his senior generals.
‘For good or ill, it is in my head that the decision must be made,’ he said in French, getting up from his bench, and he rode off to Fili, where his carriages were waiting.
CHAPTER 4
A council of war had been convened for two o’clock in a spacious room at the best end of a wooden house belonging to a prosperous peasant by the name of Andrey Savostyanov. His large family, men, women and children, were all huddled together in a dark room across the passage. His Serene Highness had taken to Andrey’s six-year-old granddaughter, Malasha, and given her a sugar-lump while he drank his tea; she alone was allowed to stay behind in the large room, tucked away on top of the big stove. Malasha was a picture of delight, peeping down timidly at all the faces and uniforms, and the decorations worn by the generals, as they strode in one after another and took their places on the broad benches in the special corner under the icons. Kutuzov (‘Grandad’ to Malasha in her mind) was sitting on his own in a dark corner just past the stove. He was slumped down in a folding armchair, constantly clearing his throat and pulling at his coat-collar, which seemed too tight for his neck, even though it was unbuttoned. The generals came in one after another and presented themselves to the field-marshal; he shook hands with some of them, and nodded to the others.
Adjutant Kaysarov made as if to open a curtain covering the window opposite Kutuzov, but his Highness waved him away angrily, and Kaysarov got the point: Kutuzov didn’t want his face to be seen.
The peasant’s deal table, covered with maps, plans, pencils and papers, was so crowded that the orderlies brought another bench in, and put it near the table for Yermolov, Kaysarov and Toll to come over and sit on. In the place of honour under the icons sat Barclay de Tolly, with the Order of St George round his neck; his high forehead merging into a bald pate crowned the pallid face of a sick man. He had been feverish for the last two days, and he was all aches and pains. Beside him sat Uvarov, talking in hushed tones like everyone else and making rapid gestures with his hands. Chubby little Dokhturov was listening intently with raised eyebrows, clasping his hands over his stomach. Sitting opposite was the clean-cut, bright-eyed Count Ostermann-Tolstoy, with his broad head propped up on one hand, keeping his thoughts to himself. Rayevsky sat there, as usual twisting the black hair at his temples into curls, and looking from Kutuzov to the door and back again. Konovnitsyn’s strong, handsome face was shining warmly with a shrewd and kindly smile. He caught Malasha looking his way and made funny signals with his eyes, bringing a smile to the little girl’s face.
They were waiting for Bennigsen, who was supposed to be out on a tour of inspection but was actually finishing a jolly good lunch. From four till six they waited, and in all that time they held back from serious deliberations, limiting themselves to side-issues discussed in hushed tones.
Only when Bennigsen came in at last did Kutuzov stir from his corner and move over to the table, taking good care to ensure that his face kept out of the candle-light thoughtfully provided.
Bennigsen opened the proceedings with a question: were they to abandon the holy and ancient capital of Russia without a struggle, or stand and defend it?
A long silence ensured. Brows were furrowed, and the only sounds that broke the stillness came from Kutuzov, who kept clearing his throat and coughing irritably. All eyes were on him. Even Malasha couldn’t take her eyes off ‘Grandad’. She was nearer than anyone, and she could see his face crumpling; he was on the verge of tears. But not for long.
