Kutuzov, like all old people, did not sleep much at night. He often fell asleep unexpectedly by day, but at night, lying on his bed without undressing, he remained awake thinking, his large scarred head on his plump hand, one eye open, peering into the darkness. Since Bennigsen, who corresponded with the Emperor and had more influence than anyone on the staff, had begun to avoid him, Kutuzov was more at ease about being forced into useless attacks. The painful lesson of Tarutino must, he thought, have some effect on others too. They must understand that we can only lose by taking the offensive. Patience and time are my warriors, he thought. An apple should not be plucked while green; it will fall when ripe, but if picked unripe the fruit is spoiled, the tree harmed, and your teeth set on edge. Like an experienced sportsman he knew the beast was wounded as only the whole strength of Russia could have wounded it, but whether mortally was still undecided. Lauriston and Barthelemi, and guerrilla reports, had almost convinced him the wound was mortal. He needed further proofs and it was necessary to wait.
They want to run to see how they have wounded it, he thought. Continual manoeuvres, continual advances, only to distinguish themselves, as if fighting were fun. They are like children from whom one cannot get a sensible account because they all want to show how well they can fight. The Petersburg plan seemed to them to have foreseen everything with two or three contingencies. The contingencies are endless. For a month the question whether Borodino had been mortal had hung over him. On one hand the French occupied Moscow. On the other he felt assured the blow must have been mortal. He imagined thousands of movements: against Petersburg, against him, around him, or, what he feared most, Napoleon remaining in Moscow waiting. He could not foresee the insane stampede of the first eleven days after Moscow, which made possible what he had not yet dared to think, the complete extermination of the French. Dorokhov's report, guerrilla news of distress, rumours of departure, confirmed flight, but with sixty years' experience he knew how people group news to match desire. The more he desired it, the less he allowed himself to believe it. Letters to Madame de Stael, novels, awards, correspondence with Petersburg were only customary routine. The destruction of the French was his heart's one desire.
On the night of the eleventh there was a stir: Toll, Konovnitsyn, and Bolkhovitinov. What news? While a footman lit a candle Toll gave the substance. Kutuzov's look of cold severity struck Toll. Call him here. Kutuzov sat up with one leg hanging, paunch against the other, screwed up his seeing eye, pulled together the shirt that gaped on his chest, and asked the messenger to come nearer. Napoleon has left Moscow? Are you sure? Speak quicker, don't torture me. Bolkhovitinov told everything and waited. Toll began to speak. Kutuzov's face puckered; he waved the man off and turned to the corner darkened by icons. O Lord, my Creator, Thou has heard our prayer. Russia is saved. I thank Thee, O Lord. And he wept.
Coming Up in Chapter 297
From the time he receives this news, all Kutuzov's activity is directed toward restraining his troops, by authority, by guile, and by entreaty, from useless attacks on the perishing enemy. Dokhturov goes to Malo-Yaroslavets, but Kutuzov lingers with the main army and gives orders for the evacuation of Kaluga.
