“Don’t be in such a hurry, your honour,” the clerk answered rudely and angrily, looking at Kozlovsky. Through the door he heard at that moment Kutuzov’s voice, eager and dissatisfied, and other unfamiliar voices interrupting him. The sound of those voices, the inattention with which Kozlovsky glanced at him, the churlishness of the harassed clerk, the fact that the clerk and Kozlovsky were sitting round a tub on the floor at so little distance from the commander-in-chief, and that the Cossacks holding the horses laughed so loudly at the window—all made Prince Andrey feel that some grave calamity was hanging over them.
Prince Andrey turned to Kozlovsky with urgent questions.
“In a minute, prince,” said Kozlovsky. “The disposition of Bagration’s troops…”
“What about capitulation？”
“Nothing of the sort; arrangements have been made for a battle！”
Prince Andrey went towards the door from which the sound of voices came. But at the moment when he was going to open the door, the voices in the room paused, the door opened of itself, and Kutuzov with his eagle nose and podgy face appeared in the doorway. Prince Andrey was standing exactly opposite Kutuzov; but from the expression of the commander-in-chief’s one seeing eye it was evident that thought and anxiety so engrossed him as to veil, as it were, his vision. He looked straight into his adjutant’s face and did not recognise him.
“Well, have you finished？” he addressed Kozlovsky.
“In a second, your Excellency.”
Bagration, a short lean man, not yet elderly, with a resolute and impassive face of oriental type, came out after the commander-in-chief.
“I have the honour to report myself,” Prince Andrey said for the second time, rather loudly, as he handed Kutuzov an envelope.
“Ah, from Vienna？ Very good！ Later, later！” Kutuzov went out to the steps with Bagration.
“Well, prince, good-bye,” he said to Bagration. “Christ be with you！ May my blessing bring you a great victory！” Kutuzov’s face suddenly softened, and there were tears in his eyes. With his left arm he drew Bagration to him, while with his right hand, on which he wore a ring, he crossed him with a gesture evidently habitual. He offered him his podgy cheek, but Bagration kissed him on the neck. “Christ be with you！” repeated Kutuzov, and he went towards his carriage. “Get in with me,” he said to Bolkonsky.
“Your Most High Excellency, I should have liked to be of use here. Allow me to remain in Prince Bagration’s detachment.”
“Get in,” said Kutuzov, and noticing that Bolkonsky still delayed： “I have need of good officers myself, myself.”
They took their seats in the carriage and drove for some minutes in silence.
“There is a great deal, a great deal of everything still before us,” he said, with an expression of old-age clairvoyance, as though he saw all that was passing in Bolkonsky’s heart. “If one-tenth part of his detachment comes in, I shall thank God,” added Kutuzov, as though talking to himself.
Prince Andrey glanced at Kutuzov, and unconsciously his eyes were caught by the carefully washed seams of the scar on his temple, where the bullet had gone through his head at Ismail, and the empty eyesocket, not a yard from him. “Yes, he has the right to speak so calmly of the destruction of these men,” thought Bolkonsky.
“That’s why I ask you to send me to that detachment,” he said.
Kutuzov made no reply. He seemed to have forgotten what was said to him, and sat plunged in thought. Five minutes later, swaying easily in the soft carriage springs, Kutuzov addressed Prince Andrey. There was no trace of emotion on his face now. With delicate irony he questioned Prince Andrey about the details of his interview with the Emperor, about the comments he had heard at Court on the Krems engagement, and about ladies of their common acquaintance.
