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 Denisov’s exposition, “are you ready now?”

“Yes, your highness,” said the general. Kutuzov shook his head with an air that seemed to say, “How is one man to get through it all?” and gave his attention again to Denisov.

“I give you my word of honour as a Russian officer,” Denisov was saying, “that I will cut Napoleon’s communications.”

“Is Kirill Andreivitch Denisov, the ober-intendant, any relation of yours?” Kutuzov interposed.

“My uncle, your highness.”

“Oh! we used to be friends,” said Kutuzov, more cheerily. “Very good, very good, my dear boy; you stay here on the staff; we’ll have a talk to-morrow.” Nodding to Denisov, he turned away and put out his hand for the papers Konovnitsyn had brought him.

“Will not your highness be pleased to walk into the house?” said the general on duty in a discontented voice; “it’s necessary to look through the plans and to sign some papers.” An adjutant appeared at the door to announce that everything was in readiness within. But apparently Kutuzov preferred to be rid of business before going indoors. He paused …

“No; have a table placed here, my dear boy; I’ll look through them here,” he said. “Don’t you go away,” he added, addressing Prince Andrey. Prince Andrey remained in the porch listening to the general on duty.

While the latter was presenting his report Prince Andrey heard the whisper of a woman’s voice and the rustle of a woman’s silk dress at the door. Several times glancing in that direction he noticed behind the door a plump, rosy-faced, good-looking woman in a pink dress with a lilac silk kerchief on her head. She had a dish in her hand and was apparently waiting for the commander-in-chief to enter. Kutuzov’s adjutant explained to Prince Andrey in a whisper that this was the priest’s wife, the mistress of the house, who intended to offer his highness bread and salt, the emblems of welcome, on his entrance. Her husband had met his highness with the cross in church, and she intended to welcome him to the house.… “She’s very pretty,” added the adjutant with a smile. Kutuzov looked round at the words. He heard the general’s report, the subject of which was chiefly a criticism of the position of the troops before Tsarevo-Zaimishtche, just as he had heard Denisov, and just as, seven years before, he had heard the discussions of the military council before Austerlitz. He was obviously hearing it simply because he had ears, and although one of them was stuffed up with cotton-wool they could not help hearing. But it was obvious that nothing that general could possibly say could surprise or interest him, that he knew beforehand all he would be told, and listened only because he had to listen to it, just as one has to listen to the litany being sung.