War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [501]
“Call him over to me,” said Kutuzov. The adjutant conveyed his serenity’s wish, and Pierre went towards the bench. But before him a rank-and-file militiaman came up to Kutuzov. It was Dolokhov.
“What’s that one doing here?” asked Pierre.
“He’s such a sly fox, he slips in everywhere!” came the answer. “You see, he was reduced to the ranks. Now he has to get jumping. He’s been submitting some projects, snuck behind the enemy’s lines at night…but a fine fellow!…”
Pierre, taking off his hat, bowed respectfully to Kutuzov.
“I decided that if I report to Your Serenity, you can chase me away or tell me you already know what I’m reporting, and I’ll be none the worse for it…” Dolokhov was saying.
“Yes, yes.”
“But if I’m right, then I’ll be of benefit to the fatherland, for which I’m prepared to die.”
“Yes…yes…”
“And if Your Serenity needs a man who won’t spare his hide, please remember me…Maybe I’ll prove useful to Your Serenity.”
“Yes…yes…” Kutuzov repeated, looking at Pierre with his laughing, narrowing eye.
Just then Boris, with his courtly adroitness, moved up next to Pierre, in proximity to his superior, and with the most natural air, and not loudly, as if continuing a conversation they had already begun, said to Pierre:
“The militiamen—they just went and put on clean white shirts, so as to be prepared for death. Such heroism, Count!”
Boris said it to Pierre in order to be heard by his serenity. He knew that Kutuzov would pay attention to these words, and in fact his serenity addressed him.
“What’s that you’re saying about the militia?” he said to Boris.
“They’ve put on white shirts, Your Serenity, getting ready for tomorrow, for death.”
“Ah!…Wonderful, incomparable people!” said Kutuzov and, closing his eyes, he shook his head. “Incomparable people!” he said with a sigh.
“So you want a whiff of powder?” he said to Pierre. “Yes, a pleasant smell. I have the honor of being an admirer of your spouse. Is she well? My camp is at your service.” And, as often happens with old people, Kutuzov started looking around absentmindedly, as if forgetting all he had to say or do.
Evidently recalling what he was searching for, he beckoned to Andrei Sergeich Kaisarov, his adjutant’s brother.
“How, how do they go, those verses of Marin’s, how do they go? What he wrote on Gerakov: ‘You’ll be a teacher in the corps…’27 Recite it, recite it,” said Kutuzov, obviously getting ready to laugh. Kaisarov recited…Kutuzov, smiling, nodded his head in rhythm with the verses.
When Pierre left Kutuzov, Dolokhov, coming up to him, offered him his hand.
“Very glad to meet you here, Count,” he said to him loudly and unembarrassed by the presence of strangers, with particular resoluteness and solemnity. “On the eve of a day when God knows who of us is destined to remain alive, I’m glad of the chance to tell you that I regret the misunderstandings that occurred between us and would wish that you not have anything against me. I ask you to forgive me.”
Pierre, smiling, gazed at Dolokhov, not knowing what to say to him. Dolokhov, with tears in his eyes, embraced and kissed Pierre.
Boris said something to his general, and Count Bennigsen turned to Pierre and proposed that he come with him along the line.
“It will be interesting for you,” he said.
“Yes, very interesting,” said Pierre.
Half an hour later, Kutuzov left for Tatarinovo, and Bennigsen with the suite, Pierre among them, rode along the line.
XXIII
From Gorki Bennigsen went down by the