“And with such fine fellows to retreat and retreat! Well, goodbye, General,” he added, and rode into the yard past Prince Andréy and Denísov.
“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” shouted those behind him.
Since Prince Andréy had last seen him Kutúzov had grown still more corpulent, flaccid, and fat. But the bleached eyeball, the scar, and the familiar weariness of his expression were still the same. He was wearing the white Horse Guard’s cap and a military overcoat with a whip hanging over his shoulder by a thin strap. He sat heavily and swayed limply on his brisk little horse.
“Whew … whew … whew!” he whistled just audibly as he rode into the yard. His face expressed the relief of relaxed strain felt by a man who means to rest after a ceremony. He drew his left foot out of the stirrup and, lurching with his whole body and puckering his face with the effort, raised it with difficulty onto the saddle, leaned on his knee, groaned, and slipped down into the arms of the Cossacks and adjutants who stood ready to assist him.
He pulled himself together, looked round, screwing up his eyes, glanced at Prince Andréy, and, evidently not recognizing him, moved with his waddling gait to the porch. “Whew … whew … whew!” he whistled, and again glanced at Prince Andréy. As often occurs with old men, it was only after some seconds that the impression produced by Prince Andréy’s face linked itself up with Kutúzov’s remembrance of his personality.