战争与和平(上)-第251章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


“His　highness？　We　expect　him　back　immediately。　What　is　your　business？”
The　officer　grinned　in　his　moustaches　at　the　orderly’s　tone；　dismounted；　gave　his　horse　to　a　servant；　and　went　up　to　Bolkonsky　with　a　slight　bow。
Bolkonsky　made　room　for　him　on　the　bench。　The　hussar　sat　down　beside　him。
“You；　too；　waiting　for　the　commander…in…chief？”　he　began。　“They　say　he　is　willing　to　see　any　one；　thank　God！　It　was　a　very　different　matter　with　the　sausage…makers！　Yermolov　might　well　ask　to　be　promoted　a　German。　Now；　I　dare　say；　Russians　may　dare　to　speak　again。　And　devil　knows　what　they　have　been　about。　Nothing　but　retreating　and　retreating。　Have　you　been　in　the　field？”　he　asked。
“I　have　had　the　pleasure；”　said　Prince　Andrey；　“not　only　of　taking　part　in　the　retreat；　but　also　of　losing　everything　I　valued　in　the　retreat—not　to　speak　of　my　property　and　the　home　of　my　birth　…　my　father；　who　died　of　grief。　I　am　a　Smolensk　man。”
“Ah！　…　Are　you　Prince　Bolkonsky？　Very　glad　to　make　your　acquaintance。　Lieutenant…colonel　Denisov；　better　known　by　the　name　of　Vaska；”　said　Denisov；　pressing　Prince　Andrey’s　hand　and　looking　into　his　face　with　a　particularly　kindly　expression。　“Yes；　I　had　heard　about　it；”　he　said　sympathetically；　and　after　a　brief　pause　he　added：　“Yes；　this　is　Scythian　warfare。　It’s　all　right；　but　not　for　those　who　have　to　pay　the　piper。　So　you　are　Prince　Andrey　Bolkonsky？”　He　shook　his　head。　“I　am　very　glad；　prince；　very　glad　to　make　your　acquaintance；”　he　added；　pressing　his　hand　again　with　a　melancholy　smile。
Prince　Andrey　knew　of　Denisov　from　Natasha’s　stories　of　her　first　suitor。　The　recollection　of　them—both　sweet　and　bitter—carried　him　back　to　the　heart…sickness　of　which　he　had　of　late　never　thought；　though　it　still　lay　buried　within　him。　Of　late　so　many　different　and　grave　matters；　such　as　the　abandonment　of　Smolensk；　his　visit　to　Bleak　Hills；　the　recent　news　of　his　father’s　death—so　many　emotions　had　filled　his　heart　that　those　memories　had　long　been　absent；　and　when　they　returned　did　not　affect　him　nearly　so　violently。　And　for　Denisov；　the　associations　awakened　by　the　name　of　Bolkonsky　belonged　to　a　far…away；　romantic　past；　when；　after　supper　and　Natasha’s　singing；　hardly　knowing　what　he　was　doing；　he　had　made　an　offer　to　the　girl　of　fifteen。　He　smiled　at　the　recollection　of　that　time　and　his　love　for　Natasha；　and　passed　at　once　to　what　he　was　just　now　intensely　and　exclusively　interested　in。　This　was　a　plan　of　campaign　he　had　formed　while　on　duty　at　the　outposts　during　the　retreat。　He　had　laid　the　plan　before　Barclay　de　Tolly；　and　now　intended　to　lay　it　before　Kutuzov。　The　plan　was　based　on　the　fact　that　the　line　of　the　French　operations　was　too　extended；　and　on　the　suggestion　that；　instead　of　or　along　with　a　frontal　attack；　barring　the　advance　of　the　French；　attacks　should　be　made　on　their　communications。　He　began　explaining　his　plan　to　Prince　Andrey。
“They　are　not　able　to　defend　all　that　line；　it’s　impossible。　I’ll　undertake　to　break　through　them。　Give　me　five　hundred　men　and　I　would　cut　their　communications；　that’s　certain！　The　one　system　to　adopt　is　partisan　warfare。”
Denisov　got　up　and　began　with　gesticulations　to　explain　his　plans　to　Bolkonsky。　In　the　middle　of　his　exposition　they　heard　the　shouts　of　the　army；　mingling　with　music；　and　song；　and　apparently　coming　from　detached　groups　scattered　over　a　distance。　From　the　village　came　cheers　and　the　tramp　of　horses’　hoofs。
“Himself　is　coming；”　shouted　the　Cossack；　who　stood　at　the　gate；　“he’s　coming！”
Bolkonsky　and　Denisov　moved　up　to　the　gate；　where　there　stood　a　knot　of　soldiers　（a　guard　of　honour）；　and　they　saw　Kutuzov　coming　down　the　street　mounted　on　a　low　bay　horse。　An　immense　suite　of　generals　followed　him。　Barclay　rode　almost　beside　him；　a　crowd　of　officers　was　running　behind　and　around　them　shouting　“hurrah！”
His　adjutants　galloped　into　the　yard　before　him。　Kutuzov　impatiently　kicked　his　horse；　which　ambled　along　slowly　under　his　weight；　and　continually　nodded　his　head　and　put　his　hand　up　to　his　white　horse…guard’s　cap；　with　a　red　band　and　no　peak。　When　he　reached　the　guard　of　honour；　a　set　of　stalwart　grenadiers；　mostly　cavalry　men；　saluting　him；　he　looked　at　them　for　a　minute　in　silence；　with　the　intent；　unflinching　gaze　of　a　man　used　to　command；　then　he　turned　to　the　group　of　generals　and　officers　standing　round　him。　His　face　suddenly　wore　a　subtle　expression；　he　shrugged　his　shoulders　with　an　air　of　perplexity。　“And　with　fellows　like　that　retreat　and　retreat！”　he　said。　“Well；　good…bye；　general；”　he　added；　and　spurred　his　horse　into　the　gateway　by　Prince　Andrey　and　Denisov。
“Hurrah！　hurrah！　hurrah！”　rang　out　shouts　behind　him。
Since　Prince　Andrey　had　seen　him　last　Kutuzov　had　grown　stouter　and　more　corpulent　than　ever；　he　seemed　swimming　in　fat。　But　the　familiar　scar；　and　the　white　eye；　and　the　expression　of　weariness　in　his　face　and　figure　were　unchanged。　He　was　wearing　a　white　horse…guard’s　cap　and　a　military　coat；　and　a　whip　on　a　narrow　strap　was　slung　over　his　shoulder。　He　sat　heavily　swaying　on　his　sturdy　horse。
“Fugh！　…　fugh！　…　fugh！　…”　he　whistled；　hardly　audibly；　as　he　rode　into　the　courtyard。　His　face　expressed　the　relief　of　a　man　who　looks　forward　to　resting　after　a　performance。　He　drew　his　left　foot　out　of　the　stirrup；　and　with　a　lurch　of　his　whole　person；　frowning　with　the　effort；　brought　it　up　to　the　saddle；　leaned　on　his　knee；　and　with　a　groan　let　himself　drop　into　the　arms　of　the　Cossacks　and　adjutants；　who　stood　ready　to　support　him。
He　pulled　himself　together；　looked　round　with　half…shut　eyes；　glanced　at　Prince　Andrey；　and　evidently　not　recognising　him；　moved　with　his　shambling　gait　towards　the　steps。
“Fugh！　…　fugh！　…　fugh！”　he　whistled；　and　again　looked　round　at　Prince　Andrey。　As　is　often　the　case　with　the　aged；　the　impression　of　Prince　Andrey’s　face　did　not　at　once　call　up　the　memory　of　his　personality。　“Ah；　how　are　you；　how　are　you；　my　dear　boy；　come　along　…”　he　said　wearily；　and　walked　heavily　up　the　steps　that　creaked　under　his　weight。　He　unbuttoned　his　coat　and　sat　down　on　the　seat　in　the　porch。
“Well；　how’s　your　father？”
“The　news　of　his　death　reached　me　yesterday；”　said　Prince　Andrey　briefly。
Kutuzov　looked　at　him　with　his　eye　opened　wide　with　dismay；　then　he　took　off　his　cap；　and　crossed　himself。　“The　peace　of　heaven　be　with　him！　And　may　God’s　will　be　done　with　all　of　us！”　He　heaved　a　heavy　sigh　and　paused。　“I　loved　him　deeply　and　respected　him；　and　I　feel　for　you　with　all　my　heart。”　He　embraced　Prince　Andrey；　pressed　him　to　his　fat　breast；　and　for　some　time　did　not　let　him　go。　When　he　released　him　Prince　Andrey　saw　that　Kutuzov’s　thick　lips　were　quivering　and　there　were　tears　in　his　eye。　He　sighed　and　pressed　his　hands　on　the　seat　to　help　himself　in　rising　from　it。
“Come　in；　come　in；　we’ll　have　a　chat；”　he　said；　but　at　that　moment　Denisov；　who　stood　as　little　in　dread　of　the　authorities　as　he　did　of　the　enemy；　walked　boldly　up；　his　spurs　clanking　on　the　steps；　regardless　of　the　indignant　whispers　of　the　adjutants；　who　tried　to　prevent　him。　Kutuzov；　his　hands　still　pressed　on　the　seat　to　help　him　up；　looked　ruefully　at　Denisov。　Denisov；　mentioning　his　name；　announced　that　he　had　to　communicate　to　his　highness　a　matter　of　great　importance　for　the　welfare　of　Russia。　Kutuzov　bent　his　weary　eyes　on　Denisov；　and；　lifting　his　hands　with　a　gesture　of　annoyance；　folded　them　across　his　stomach；　and　repeated；　“For　the　welfare　of　Russia？　Well；　what　is　it？　Speak。”　Denisov　blushed　like　a　girl　（it　was　strange　to　see　the　colour　come　on　that　hirsute；　time…worn；　hard…drinking　face）；　and　began　boldly　explaining　his　plan　for　cutting　the　enemy’s　line　between　Smolensk　and　Vyazma。　Denisov’s　home　was　in　that　region；　and　he　knew　the　country　well。　His　plan　seemed　unquestionably　a　good　one；　especially　with　the　energy　of　conviction　that　was　in　his　words。　Kutuzov　stared　at　his　own　feet；　and　occasionally　looked　round　towards　the　yard　of　the　next　cottage；　as　though　he　were　expecting　something　unpleasant　to　come　from　it。　From　the　cottage　there　did　in　fact　emerge；　during　Denisov’s　speech；　a　general　with　a　portfolio　under　his　arm。
“Eh？”　Kutuzov　inquired　in　the　middle　of　De