War And Peace

‘That’s it, then. We’ll have to wake him,’ said Shcherbinin. He got to his feet and went over to the sleeping man, who was wearing a night-cap and was covered with a greatcoat. ‘Sir!’ he said. Konovnitsyn did not stir. ‘You’re wanted at headquarters!’ he said with a smile, knowing these words would be sure to wake him. And sure enough, the head in the night-cap came up in a flash. For a moment Konovnitsyn’s strong, handsome face, with its cheeks feverishly inflamed, wore a far-away, dreamy look, but he gave a sudden start and his face resumed its usual expression of composure and strength.

‘Well, what is it? Who wants me?’ he asked at once, but with no haste, blinking at the light. Konovnitsyn listened to the officer, then broke open the seal and read the dispatch. Without waiting to finish reading he lowered his feet in their worsted stockings to the earth floor and started pulling on his boots. Then he took off his night-cap, ran a comb down both sides of his head, and put on his forage cap.

‘How long did it take you to get here? We must go and see his Highness.’

Konovnitsyn had not been slow to realize that this news was of vital importance, and there was no time to be lost. It never crossed his mind to wonder whether it was good news or bad. This was not the point. His whole attitude to the war was based on something other than intellect or reason. Deep in his heart he had an unspoken conviction that all would be well, but it was not his job to entertain any such belief, let alone talk about it; his job was to go on doing his duty. He was doing his duty, and putting all his energy into it.

Like Dokhturov, General Konovnitsyn gets only a passing mention in the 1812 roll of honour, alongside the Barclays, Rayevskys, Yermolovs, Platovs and Miloradoviches. Like Dokhturov, he was dismissed as a man of very limited ability and knowledge. Again like Dokhturov, he was no compiler of battle-plans, but he was always there in the thick of things. Ever since being appointed duty general he had slept with his door open, and given orders to be woken up if a messenger arrived. In battle he was always under fire, so much so that Kutuzov told him off about it, and was reluctant to send him out. Like Dokhturov, he was one of those inconspicuous cog-wheels that never judder or rattle; they just go on working as the most essential parts of the machine.

As he walked out of the hut into the damp, dark night, Konovnitsyn gave a scowl, partly because his headache was getting worse, and partly from a nasty thought that had occurred to him: this news would create a stir in the nest of all these important staff people, and especially with Bennigsen, who had been at daggers drawn with Kutuzov ever since the battle of Tarutino. They were in for a stream of proposals, arguments, orders and counter-orders. He could see it all coming, and although it gave him no pleasure, he knew it had to be.

And sure enough, Toll, to whom he reported the new developments, launched forth immediately with his version of events for the benefit of the general who shared his quarters, until Konovnitsyn, after listening for some time in weary silence, reminded him they ought to go and see his Serene Highness.

CHAPTER 17

Like all old people Kutuzov was a poor sleeper. During the day he would often nod off unexpectedly, but at night he would lie there on his bed without getting undressed, and more often than not he just lay awake, thinking.

He was lying on his bed like that now, with his huge, heavy, disfigured head resting on a fat hand. He was thinking, with his one eye wide open, staring into the darkness.

Since he was being cold-shouldered by Bennigsen, the one man who was in correspondence with the Tsar and carried more weight than anybody else on the staff, Kutuzov was more at ease with himself in one respect: he didn’t have to lead his soldiers into attack when it was useless to do so. And he could only imagine that the lesson learnt at Tarutino and the day before the battle, a painful memory for Kutuzov, must surely have an effect on them too.

‘They’ve got to understand we can only lose by going on the offensive. Patience and time, these are my heroes of the battlefield!’ thought Kutuzov. He knew better than to pick apples while they are still green. An apple will fall when it’s good and ripe, but if you pick it while it’s still green you spoil the apple and the tree and you set your teeth on edge. Like a good hunter, he knew the beast had been wounded, wounded as only the whole might of Russia could have wounded it, but the question of whether it was mortally wounded was still open. Now from the overtures made through Lauriston and Barthélemy, and from the reports coming in from guerrillas, Kutuzov was virtually certain the wound was a deadly one. But more proof was needed. They must wait.