On the rug-covered bench where Pierre had seen him in the morning sat Kutuzov, his grey head hanging, his heavy body relaxed. He gave no orders, but only assented to or dissented from what others suggested. Yes, yes, do that. Yes, yes: go, dear boy, and have a look. Or, No, don't, we'd better wait. He listened to reports and gave directions when his subordinates demanded that of him, but when listening it seemed as if he were not interested in the import of the words spoken, but rather in the expression of face and tone of voice of those who were reporting. By long years of military experience he knew, and with the wisdom of age understood, that it is impossible for one man to direct hundreds of thousands of others struggling with death, and he knew that the result of a battle is decided not by the orders of a commander in chief, nor the place where the troops are stationed, nor by the number of cannon or of slaughtered men, but by that intangible force called the spirit of the army, and he watched this force and guided it in as far as that was in his power. His general expression was concentrated quiet attention, his face strained as if he found it difficult to master the fatigue of his old and feeble body.
At eleven o'clock they brought him news that the fleches captured by the French had been retaken, but that Prince Bagration was wounded. Kutuzov groaned and swayed his head. Ride over to Prince Peter Ivanovich and find out about it exactly. He asked the Duke of Wurttemberg to take command of the first army. Soon after the duke's departure, before he could possibly have reached Semenovsk, his adjutant came back asking for more troops. Kutuzov made a grimace, sent Dokhturov to take over the first army, and requested the duke, whom he said he could not spare at such an important moment, to return to him. When they brought news that Murat had been taken prisoner, and the staff congratulated him, Kutuzov smiled. Wait a little, gentlemen. The battle is won, and there is nothing extraordinary in the capture of Murat. Still, it is better to wait before we rejoice. But he sent an adjutant to take the news round the army. When Scherbinin came galloping from the left flank with news that the French had captured the fleches and the village of Semenovsk, Kutuzov, guessing by the sounds and by Scherbinin's looks that the news was bad, rose as if to stretch his legs and, taking Scherbinin's arm, led him aside. Go, my dear fellow, he said to Ermolov, and see whether something can't be done. Kutuzov was in Gorki, near the centre of the Russian position. The attack directed by Napoleon against the left flank had been several times repulsed. In the centre the French had not got beyond Borodino, and on their left Uvarov's cavalry had put the French to flight. Toward three o'clock the French attacks ceased. On the faces of all who came from the field, and of those who stood around him, Kutuzov noticed extreme tension. He was satisfied with the day's success, a success exceeding his expectations, but the old man's strength was failing. Several times his head dropped as if it were falling and he dozed off. Dinner was brought him.
Adjutant General Wolzogen, the man who when riding past Andrew had said the war should be extended widely, and whom Bagration so detested, rode up while Kutuzov was at dinner. He had come from Barclay de Tolly to report on the left flank. The sagacious Barclay, seeing crowds of wounded running back and the disordered rear, weighed all the circumstances, concluded that the battle was lost, and sent his favourite officer with that news. Kutuzov was chewing a piece of roast chicken with difficulty and glanced at Wolzogen with eyes that brightened under their puckering lids. Wolzogen, nonchalantly stretching his legs, approached with a half-contemptuous smile, scarcely touching the peak of his cap, with an affected nonchalance intended to show that, as a highly trained military man, he left it to Russians to make an idol of this useless old man, but that he knew whom he was dealing with. Der alte Herr is making himself very comfortable, thought Wolzogen, and looking severely at the dishes he began to report as Barclay had ordered and as he himself had seen and understood it. All the points of our position are in the enemy's hands and we cannot dislodge them for lack of troops, the men are running away and it is impossible to stop them. Kutuzov ceased chewing and fixed an astonished gaze on him. Wolzogen, noticing the old gentleman's agitation, said with a smile that he had not considered it right to conceal what he had seen. The troops are in complete disorder. You have seen? You have seen? Kutuzov shouted, frowning and rising quickly. How dare you, sir, say that to me? You know nothing about it. Tell General Barclay from me that his information is incorrect and that the real course of the battle is better known to me, the commander in chief, than to him. The enemy has been repulsed on the left and defeated on the right flank. If you have seen amiss, do not allow yourself to say what you don't know. Be so good as to ride to General Barclay and inform him of my firm intention to attack the enemy tomorrow. All were silent but the heavy breathing of the panting old general. They are repulsed everywhere, for which I thank God and our brave army! The enemy is beaten, and tomorrow we shall drive him from the sacred soil of Russia. He crossed himself and suddenly sobbed as his eyes filled with tears. Wolzogen, shrugging his shoulders and curling his lips, stepped silently aside, marveling at the old gentleman's conceited stupidity.
Ah, here he is, my hero! Kutuzov said to a portly, handsome, dark-haired general ascending the knoll. This was Raevski, who had spent the whole day at the most important part of the field. Raevski reported that the troops were firmly holding their ground and that the French no longer ventured to attack. Then you do not think, like some others, that we must retreat? On the contrary, your Highness, in indecisive actions it is always the most stubborn who remain victors. Kaysarov! Sit down and write out the order of the day for tomorrow. And you, ride along the line and announce that tomorrow we attack. Wolzogen returned from Barclay saying that General Barclay wished to have written confirmation of the order the field marshal had given. Kutuzov, without looking at Wolzogen, gave directions for the order to be written out which the former commander in chief, to avoid personal responsibility, very judiciously wished to receive. And by means of that mysterious indefinable bond which maintains throughout an army one and the same temper, known as the spirit of the army, and which constitutes the sinew of war, Kutuzov's words, his order for a battle next day, immediately became known from one end of the army to the other. It was far from being the same words or the same order that reached the farthest links of that chain. The tales passing from mouth to mouth did not even resemble what Kutuzov had said, but the sense of his words spread everywhere because what he said was not the outcome of cunning calculations, but of a feeling that lay in the commander in chief's soul as in that of every Russian. And on learning that tomorrow they were to attack the enemy, and hearing from the highest quarters a confirmation of what they wanted to believe, the exhausted, wavering men felt comforted and inspirited.
