Pierre steps out of his carriage and, passing the toiling militiamen, ascends the knoll from which, according to the doctor, the battlefield can be seen. It is about eleven o'clock. The sun, somewhat to the left and behind him, lights an enormous panorama rising like an amphitheatre in clear rarefied air. From above on the left the Smolensk highroad bisects it, passing through a village with a white church some five hundred paces in front: Borodino. Below, the road crosses the river by a bridge and rises to Valuevo, about four miles away, where Napoleon is then stationed. Beyond, it disappears into a yellowing forest. The cross of the Kolocha Monastery gleams. Smoking campfires and indefinite masses of troops, ours and the enemy's, show to right and left. To the right the ground along the Kolocha and Moskva is broken and hilly: Bezubova and Zakharino in the distance. To the left, more level, fields of grain and the smoking ruins of Semenovsk. All Pierre sees is so indefinite that neither side satisfies his expectations. Nowhere is the battlefield he expected, only fields, meadows, troops, woods, smoke, villages, mounds, and streams. He can descry no military position, nor even distinguish our troops from the enemy's.
He asks an officer what village that is in front. Burdino, isn't it? Borodino, the other corrects. The officer, glad of a talk, points: those are ours, there the French, smoke beyond the river. That knoll with the oak was ours yesterday, now his: the Shevardino Redoubt. The officer constructed nearly all our entrenchments and can tell the position clearly. Centre at Borodino, the white church, the bridge where rows of hay lie in the hollow. Right flank far away, three strong redoubts by the Moskva. The left flank is difficult to explain. Yesterday it was at Shevardino; now it is over there, Semenovsk, Raevski's knoll. But the battle will hardly be there. His having moved troops there is only a ruse; he will probably pass round to the right of the Moskva. But wherever it may be, many a man will be missing tomorrow. An elderly sergeant, waiting in silence, does not like the remark and interrupts: Gabions must be sent for. The officer appears abashed, as though one might think of how many will be missing but ought not to speak of it. Send number three company again. And you, are you one of the doctors? No, I've come on my own. Pierre goes down the hill. The officer mutters about those damned fellows, holding his nose as he runs past the men at work.
Voices cry they are bringing her. Officers, soldiers, and militiamen run forward. A church procession comes up the hill from Borodino: infantry in ranks, bareheaded, arms reversed, then church singing. They are bringing her, our Protectress, the Iberian Mother of God. The Smolensk Mother of God, another corrects. Militiamen throw down spades. Priests in vestments follow, then soldiers bearing a large dark-faced icon with an embossed metal cover, the icon brought from Smolensk that has accompanied the army. At the summit the bearers are relieved, censers relit, and service begins. The sun beats vertically. A fresh wind plays with bared hair and with the ribbons on the icon. A bald general with a St. George's Cross, evidently a German, does not cross himself, awaiting the end probably to arouse patriotism. Another crosses with a martial shake of the hand while looking about. Pierre, among the peasants, recognizes acquaintances among the notables but does not look at them. His attention is on the soldiers and militiamen gazing at the icon. When the tired chanters, singing for the twentieth time that day, begin Save from calamity Thy servants, O Mother of God, the same expression of the impending moment kindles that Pierre saw at Mozhaysk. The crowd parts. Kutuzov, whom Pierre recognizes at once by his peculiar figure, walks with plunging gait in a long overcoat, uncovered white head, puffy face showing the white ball of the eye he has lost. He crosses himself, bows till he touches the ground, and sighs. Behind him Bennigsen and the suite. The militiamen continue their prayers without looking at him. When the service is over Kutuzov sinks heavily to his knees before the icon, bows to the ground, and for a long time tries vainly to rise, his white head twitching with the effort. At last he rises, kisses the icon as a child does with naively pouting lips, and bows again. The other generals follow, then the officers, then, crowding, panting, and pushing, the soldiers and militiamen.
