The Council of War begins to assemble at two in the afternoon in the better and roomier part of Andrew Savostyanov's hut. The peasant family crowds into the back room across the passage. Only Malasha, Andrew's six-year-old granddaughter, whom his Serene Highness has petted and given a lump of sugar while drinking his tea, remains on the top of the brick oven in the larger room. She looks down with shy delight at the faces, uniforms, and decorations of the generals who sit on the broad benches under the icons. Granddad, as she calls Kutuzov, sits apart in a dark corner behind the oven, sunk deep in a folding armchair, continually clearing his throat and pulling at his coat collar, which, though unbuttoned, still seems to pinch his neck. He presses the hands of some who enter and nods to others. When Kaysarov is about to draw back the window curtain facing him, Kutuzov moves his hand angrily: he does not wish his face to be seen. Round the peasant's deal table, maps, plans, pencils, and papers gather so many people that another bench is brought. Barclay de Tolly sits in the foremost place under the icons, pale and ill, feverish for two days, a St George's Cross round his neck. Beside him Uvarov speaks in low tones. Chubby little Dokhturov listens with arms folded. Ostermann-Tolstoy seems absorbed in his own thoughts. Raevski glances with impatience now at Kutuzov, now at the door. Konovnitsyn's kindly face lights with a tender, sly smile that makes Malasha smile back.
They all wait for Bennigsen, who on the pretext of inspecting the position is finishing his savoury dinner. From four till six they do not begin their deliberations but talk in low tones of other matters. Only when he enters does Kutuzov leave his corner and draw toward the table, but not near enough for the candles to light up his face. Bennigsen opens with the question: are we to abandon Russia's ancient and sacred capital without a struggle, or are we to defend it? A prolonged silence follows. There is a frown on every face. Kutuzov's angry grunts and occasional cough break it. All eyes, and Malasha's too, gaze at him. His face puckers as if he were about to cry, but this does not last long. Russia's ancient and sacred capital, he repeats in an angry voice, drawing attention to the false note. That question has no meaning for a Russian. It cannot be put; it is senseless. The question is a military one: saving Russia. Is it better to give up Moscow without a battle, or by accepting battle to risk losing the army as well as Moscow? That is the question on which he wants their opinion. Bennigsen does not yet consider his game lost. Admitting that a defensive battle at Fili is impossible, he proposes to move troops from the right to the left flank during the night and attack the French right the following day. Ermolov, Dokhturov, and Raevski agree. Whether feeling it necessary to make a sacrifice before abandoning the capital or guided by personal considerations, they seem not to understand that this council cannot alter the inevitable course of events and that Moscow is in effect already abandoned. The other generals, however, understand it and, leaving Moscow aside, speak of the direction the army should take in retreat.
To Malasha it is only a personal struggle between Granddad and Long-coat, as she terms Bennigsen. She sides with Granddad. She sees him give Bennigsen a quick, subtle glance, then say something that settles him. Bennigsen suddenly reddens and paces angrily. What so affects him is Kutuzov's calm comment on the danger of moving troops by night in close proximity to an enemy. Military history supports that view. For instance, take the battle of Friedland, which the count well remembers, and which was not fully successful only because our troops were rearranged too near the enemy. There follows a momentary pause that seems very long. The discussion recommences, but pauses frequently occur and they all feel there is no more to be said. Well, gentlemen, I see that it is I who will have to pay for the broken crockery, Kutuzov says, rising slowly. He has heard their views. Some will not agree. But by the authority entrusted to him by his Sovereign and country, he orders a retreat. The generals disperse with the solemnity and circumspect silence of people leaving after a funeral. Malasha climbs carefully backwards down from the oven and darts out between their legs. Left alone, Kutuzov sits a long time with his elbows on the table, thinking always of the same terrible question: when did the abandonment of Moscow become inevitable, and who was to blame? He tells Schneider he did not expect this, did not think this would happen. When the adjutant suggests rest, Kutuzov does not reply. He strikes the table with his podgy fist. They shall eat horseflesh yet, like the Turks. They shall too, if only.
