The Midnight Messenger's Burden — War and Peace

It was a warm, dark autumn night and had been raining for four days. Having changed horses twice and galloped twenty miles in an hour and a half over sticky mud, Bolkhovitinov reached Litashovka after one o'clock. He dismounted at a cottage whose wattle fence bore the sign General Staff and entered a dark passage demanding the general on duty. The orderly whispered that Konovnitsyn had been very unwell since evening and this was the third night he had not slept; they should wake the captain first. Bolkhovitinov insisted the news was from Dokhturov and important. In the dark a sleepy voice asked from whom. Napoleon is at Forminsk, Bolkhovitinov said, guessing this was not Konovnitsyn. The man stretching himself, Shcherbinin the adjutant, did not like waking the invalid. Perhaps it was only a rumour. Here is the dispatch, Bolkhovitinov answered. My orders are to give it at once to the general on duty.

Shcherbinin fumbled for a candle, cursed the orderly, and kindled sulphur splinters. Cockroaches ran from the tallow. By the light Bolkhovitinov, bespattered with mud, his face smeared from wiping it with his sleeve, handed over the envelope. Prisoners, Cossacks, and scouts all said the same thing. Shcherbinin went to the man in the nightcap covered by a greatcoat. Peter Petrovich did not stir until the adjutant smiled and said, To the General Staff. The handsome fever-flushed face lifted, still dreamy for an instant, then assumed its habitual calm. Konovnitsyn broke the seal, read, lowered woolen-stockinged legs to the earthen floor, put on boots, combed his hair, and donned his cap. Did you get here quickly? Let us go to his Highness.

He understood at once that the news was of great importance and that no time must be lost. He did not ask whether it was good or bad. That did not interest him. He regarded the war not with intelligence or reason but by something else: a deep unexpressed conviction that all would be well, yet one must not trust to this or speak about it, only attend to one's own work. Like Dokhturov he seemed included merely for propriety among the so-called heroes of 1812. He had the reputation of limited capacity, never made plans of battle, always appeared where the situation was most difficult, slept with his door open so every messenger could wake him, and stayed under fire until Kutuzov feared to send him to the front. Coming out into the damp night he frowned, partly from headache, partly at the thought of how the nest of influential men, especially Bennigsen, at daggers drawn with Kutuzov since Tarutino, would be stirred up, quarrel, issue orders, and rescind them. Toll immediately began expounding plans to a roommate. Konovnitsyn, listening in weary silence, reminded him they must go to see his Highness.