The commander of the regiment was an elderly, choleric, stout, and
thick-set general with grizzled eyebrows and whiskers, and wider
from chest to back than across the shoulders. He had on a brand-new
uniform showing the creases where it had been folded and thick gold
epaulettes which seemed to stand rather than lie down on his massive
shoulders. He had the air of a man happily performing one of the
most solemn duties of his life. He walked about in front of the line
and at every step pulled himself up, slightly arching his back. It was
plain that the commander admired his regiment, rejoiced in it, and
that his whole mind was engrossed by it, yet his strut seemed to
indicate that, besides military matters, social interests and the fair
sex occupied no small part of his thoughts.
"Well, Michael Mitrich, sir?" he said, addressing one of the
battalion commanders who smilingly pressed forward (it was plain
that they both felt happy). "We had our hands full last night.
However, I think the regiment is not a bad one, eh?"
The battalion commander perceived the jovial irony and laughed.
"It would not be turned off the field even on the Tsaritsin Meadow."
"What?" asked the commander.
At that moment, on the road from the town on which signalers had
been posted, two men appeared on horse back. They were an
aide-de-camp followed by a Cossack.
The aide-de-camp was sent to confirm the order which had not been
clearly worded the day before, namely, that the commander in chief
wished to see the regiment just in the state in which it had been on
the march: in their greatcoats, and packs, and without any preparation
whatever.
A member of the Hofkriegsrath from Vienna had come to Kutuzov the
day before with proposals and demands for him to join up with the army
of the Archduke Ferdinand and Mack, and Kutuzov, not considering
this junction advisable, meant, among other arguments in support of
his view, to show the Austrian general the wretched state in which the
troops arrived from Russia. With this object he intended to meet the
regiment; so the worse the condition it was in, the better pleased the
commander in chief would be. Though the aide-de-camp did not know
these circumstances, he nevertheless delivered the definite order that
the men should be in their greatcoats and in marching order, and
that the commander in chief would otherwise be dissatisfied. On
hearing this the regimental commander hung his head, silently shrugged
his shoulders, and spread out his arms with a choleric gesture.
"A fine mess we've made of it!" he remarked.
"There now! Didn't I tell you, Michael Mitrich, that if it was
said 'on the march' it meant in greatcoats?" said he reproachfully
to the battalion commander. "Oh, my God!" he added, stepping
resolutely forward. "Company commanders!" he shouted in a voice
accustomed to command. "Sergeants major!... How soon will he be here?"
he asked the aide-de-camp with a respectful politeness evidently
relating to the personage he was referring to.
"In an hour's time, I should say."
"Shall we have time to change clothes?"
"I don't know, General...."
The regimental commander, going up to the line himself, ordered
the soldiers to change into their greatcoats. The company commanders
ran off to their companies, the sergeants major began bustling (the
greatcoats were not in very good condition), and instantly the squares
that had up to then been in regular order and silent began to sway and
stretch and hum with voices. On all sides soldiers were running to and
fro, throwing up their knapsacks with a jerk of their shoulders and
pulling the straps over their heads, unstrapping their overcoats and
drawing the sleeves on with upraised arms.
In half an hour all was again in order, only the squares had
become gray instead of black. The regimental commander walked with his
jerky steps to the front of the regiment and examined it from a
distance.
"Whatever is this? This!" he shouted and stood still. "Commander
of the third company!"
"Commander of the third company wanted by the general!...
commander to the general... third company to the commander." The words
passed along the lines and an adjutant ran to look for the missing
officer.
When the eager but misrepeated words had reached their destination
in a cry of: "The general to the third company," the missing officer
appeared from behind his company and, though he was a middle-aged
man and not in the habit of running, trotted awkwardly stumbling on
his toes toward the general. The captain's face showed the
uneasiness of a schoolboy who is told to repeat a lesson he has not
learned. Spots appeared on his nose, the redness of which was
evidently due to intemperance, and his mouth twitched nervously. The
general looked the captain up and down as he came up panting,
slackening his pace as he approached.
"You will soon be dressing your men in petticoats! What is this?"
shouted the regimental commander, thrusting forward his jaw and
pointing at a soldier in the ranks of the third company in a greatcoat
of bluish cloth, which contrasted with the others. "What have you been
after? The commander in chief is expected and you leave your place?
Eh? I'll teach you to dress the men in fancy coats for a parade....
Eh...?"
The commander of the company, with his eyes fixed on his superior,
pressed two fingers more and more rigidly to his cap, as if in this
pressure lay his only hope of salvation.
"Well, why don't you speak? Whom have you got there dressed up as
a Hungarian?" said the commander with an austere gibe.
"Your excellency..."
"Well, your excellency, what? Your excellency! But what about your
excellency?... nobody knows."
"Your excellency, it's the officer Dolokhov, who has been reduced to
the ranks," said the captain softly.
"Well? Has he been degraded into a field marshal, or into a soldier?
If a soldier, he should be dressed in regulation uniform like the
others."
"Your excellency, you gave him leave yourself, on the march."
"Gave him leave? Leave? That's just like you young men," said the
regimental commander cooling down a little. "Leave indeed.... One says
a word to you and you... What?" he added with renewed irritation, "I
beg you to dress your men decently."
And the commander, turning to look at the adjutant, directed his
jerky steps down the line. He was evidently pleased at his own display
of anger and walking up to the regiment wished to find a further
excuse for wrath. Having snapped at an officer for an unpolished
badge, at another because his line was not straight, he reached the
third company.
"H-o-o-w are you standing? Where's your leg? Your leg?" shouted
the commander with a tone of suffering in his voice, while there
were still five men between him and Dolokhov with his bluish-gray
uniform.
Dolokhov slowly straightened his bent knee, looking straight with
his clear, insolent eyes in the general's face.
"Why a blue coat? Off with it... Sergeant major! Change his
coat... the ras..." he did not finish.
"General, I must obey orders, but I am not bound to endure..."
Dolokhov hurriedly interrupted.
"No talking in the ranks!... No talking, no talking!"
"Not bound to endure insults," Dolokhov concluded in loud, ringing
tones.
The eyes of the general and the soldier met. The general became
silent, angrily pulling down his tight scarf.
"I request you to have the goodness to change your coat," he said as
he turned away.
CHAPTER II
"He's coming!" shouted the signaler at that moment.
The regimental commander, flushing, ran to his horse, seized the
stirrup with trembling hands, threw his body across the saddle,
righted himself, drew his saber, and with a happy and resolute
countenance, opening his mouth awry, prepared to shout. The regiment
fluttered like a bird preening its plumage and became motionless.
"Att-ention!" shouted the regimental commander in a soul-shaking
voice which expressed joy for himself, severity for the regiment,
and welcome for the approaching chief.
Along the broad country road, edged on both sides by trees, came a
high, light blue Viennese caleche, slightly creaking on its springs
and drawn by six horses at a smart trot. Behind the caleche galloped
the suite and a convoy of Croats. Beside Kutuzov sat an Austrian
general, in a white uniform that looked strange among the Russian
black ones. The caleche stopped in front of the regiment. Kutuzov
and the Austrian general were talking in low voices and Kutuzov smiled
slightly as treading heavily he stepped down from the carriage just as
if those two thousand men breathlessly gazing at him and the
regimental commander did not exist.
The word of command rang out, and again the regiment quivered, as
with a jingling sound it presented arms. Then amidst a dead silence
the feeble voice of the commander in chief was heard. The regiment
roared, "Health to your ex... len... len... lency!" and again all
became silent. At first Kutuzov stood still while the regiment
moved; then he and the general in white, accompanied by the suite,
walked between the ranks.
From the way the regimental commander saluted the commander in chief
and devoured him with his eyes, drawing himself up obsequiously, and
from the way he walked through the ranks behind the generals,
bending forward and hardly able to restrain his jerky movements, and
from the way he darted forward at every word or gesture of the
commander in chief, it was evident that he performed his duty as a
subordinate with even greater zeal than his duty as a commander.
Thanks to the strictness and assiduity of its commander the
regiment, in comparison with others that had reached Braunau at the
same time, was in splendid condition. There were only 217 sick and
stragglers. Everything was in good order except the boots.
Kutuzov walked through the ranks, sometimes stopping to say a few
friendly words to officers he had known in the Turkish war,
sometimes also to the soldiers. Looking at their boots he several
times shook his head sadly, pointing them out to the Austrian
general with an expression which seemed to say that he was not blaming
anyone, but could not help noticing what a bad state of things it was.
The regimental commander ran forward on each such occasion, fearing to
miss a single word of the commander in chief's regarding the regiment.
Behind Kutuzov, at a distance that allowed every softly spoken word to
be heard, followed some twenty men of his suite. These gentlemen
talked among themselves and sometimes laughed. Nearest of all to the
commander in chief walked a handsome adjutant. This was Prince
Bolkonski. Beside him was his comrade Nesvitski, a tall staff officer,
extremely stout, with a kindly, smiling, handsome face and moist eyes.
Nesvitski could hardly keep from laughter provoked by a swarthy hussar
officer who walked beside him. This hussar, with a grave face and
without a smile or a change in the expression of his fixed eyes,
watched the regimental commander's back and mimicked his every
movement. Each time the commander started and bent forward, the hussar
started and bent forward in exactly the same manner. Nesvitski laughed
and nudged the others to make them look at the wag.
Kutuzov walked slowly and languidly past thousands of eyes which
were starting from their sockets to watch their chief. On reaching the
third company he suddenly stopped. His suite, not having expected
this, involuntarily came closer to him.
"Ah, Timokhin!" said he, recognizing the red-nosed captain who had
been reprimanded on account of the blue greatcoat.
One would have thought it impossible for a man to stretch himself
more than Timokhin had done when he was reprimanded by the
regimental commander, but now that the commander in chief addressed
him he drew himself up to such an extent that it seemed he could not
have sustained it had the commander in chief continued to look at him,
and so Kutuzov, who evidently understood his case and wished him
nothing but good, quickly turned away, a scarcely perceptible smile
flitting over his scarred and puffy face.
"Another Ismail comrade," said he. "A brave officer! Are you
satisfied with him?" he asked the regimental commander.
And the latter - unconscious that he was being reflected in the
hussar officer as in a looking glass - started, moved forward, and
answered: "Highly satisfied, your excellency!"
"We all have our weaknesses," said Kutuzov smiling and walking
away from him. "He used to have a predilection for Bacchus."
The regimental commander was afraid he might be blamed for this
and did not answer. The hussar at that moment noticed the face of
the red-nosed captain and his drawn-in stomach, and mimicked his
expression and pose with such exactitude that Nesvitski could not help
laughing. Kutuzov turned round. The officer evidently had complete
control of his face, and while Kutuzov was turning managed to make a
grimace and then assume a most serious, deferential, and innocent
expression.
The third company was the last, and Kutuzov pondered, apparently
trying to recollect something. Prince Andrew stepped forward from
among the suite and said in French:
"You told me to remind you of the officer Dolokhov, reduced to the
ranks in this regiment."
"Where is Dolokhov?" asked Kutuzov.
Dolokhov, who had already changed into a soldier's gray greatcoat,
did not wait to be called. The shapely figure of the fair-haired
soldier, with his clear blue eyes, stepped forward from the ranks,
went up to the commander in chief, and presented arms.
"Have you a complaint to make?" Kutuzov asked with a slight frown.
"This is Dolokhov," said Prince Andrew.
"Ah!" said Kutuzov. "I hope this will be a lesson to you. Do your
duty. The Emperor is gracious, and I shan't forget you if you
deserve well."
The clear blue eyes looked at the commander in chief just as
boldly as they had looked at the regimental commander, seeming by
their expression to tear open the veil of convention that separates
a commander in chief so widely from a private.
"One thing I ask of your excellency," Dolokhov said in his firm,
ringing, deliberate voice. "I ask an opportunity to atone for my fault
and prove my devotion to His Majesty the Emperor and to Russia!"
Kutuzov turned away. The same smile of the eyes with which he had
turned from Captain Timokhin again flitted over his face. He turned
away with a grimace as if to say that everything Dolokhov had said
to him and everything he could say had long been known to him, that he
was weary of it and it was not at all what he wanted. He turned away
and went to the carriage.
The regiment broke up into companies, which went to their
appointed quarters near Braunau, where they hoped to receive boots and
clothes and to rest after their hard marches.
"You won't bear me a grudge, Prokhor Ignatych?" said the
regimental commander, overtaking the third company on its way to its
quarters and riding up to Captain Timokhin who was walking in front.
(The regimental commander's face now that the inspection was happily
over beamed with irrepressible delight.) "It's in the Emperor's
service... it can't be helped... one is sometimes a bit hasty on
parade... I am the first to apologize, you know me!... He was very
pleased!" And he held out his hand to the captain.
"Don't mention it, General, as if I'd be so bold!" replied the
captain, his nose growing redder as he gave a smile which showed where
two front teeth were missing that had been knocked out by the butt end
of a gun at Ismail.
"And tell Mr. Dolokhov that I won't forget him - he may be quite
easy. And tell me, please - I've been meaning to ask - how is to ask-
how is he behaving himself, and in general..."
"As far as the service goes he is quite punctilious, your
excellency; but his character..." said Timokhin.
"And what about his character?" asked the regimental commander.
"It's different on different days," answered the captain. "One day
he is sensible, well educated, and good-natured, and the next he's a
wild beast.... In Poland, if you please, he nearly killed a Jew."
"Oh, well, well!" remarked the regimental commander. "Still, one
must have pity on a young man in misfortune. You know he has important
connections... Well, then, you just..."
"I will, your excellency," said Timokhin, showing by his smile
that he understood his commander's wish.
"Well, of course, of course!"
The regimental commander sought out Dolokhov in the ranks and,
reining in his horse, said to him:
"After the next affair... epaulettes."
Dolokhov looked round but did not say anything, nor did the
mocking smile on his lips change.
"Well, that's all right," continued the regimental commander. "A cup
of vodka for the men from me," he added so that the soldiers could
hear. "I thank you all! God be praised!" and he rode past that company
and overtook the next one.
"Well, he's really a good fellow, one can serve under him," said
Timokhin to the subaltern beside him.
"In a word, a hearty one..." said the subaltern, laughing (the
regimental commander was nicknamed King of Hearts).
The cheerful mood of their officers after the inspection infected
the soldiers. The company marched on gaily. The soldiers' voices could
be heard on every side.
"And they said Kutuzov was blind of one eye?"
"And so he is! Quite blind!"
"No, friend, he is sharper-eyed than you are. Boots and leg bands...
he noticed everything..."
"When he looked at my feet, friend... well, thinks I..."
"And that other one with him, the Austrian, looked as if he were
smeared with chalk - as white as flour! I suppose they polish him up as
they do the guns."
"I say, Fedeshon!... Did he say when the battles are to begin? You
were near him. Everybody said that Buonaparte himself was at Braunau."
"Buonaparte himself!... Just listen to the fool, what he doesn't
know! The Prussians are up in arms now. The Austrians, you see, are
putting them down. When they've been put down, the war with Buonaparte
will begin. And he says Buonaparte is in Braunau! Shows you're a fool.
You'd better listen more carefully!"
"What devils these quartermasters are! See, the fifth company is
turning into the village already... they will have their buckwheat
cooked before we reach our quarters."
"Give me a biscuit, you devil!"
"And did you give me tobacco yesterday? That's just it, friend!
Ah, well, never mind, here you are."
"They might call a halt here or we'll have to do another four
miles without eating."
"Wasn't it fine when those Germans gave us lifts! You just sit still
and are drawn along."
"And here, friend, the people are quite beggarly. There they all
seemed to be Poles - all under the Russian crown - but here they're
all regular Germans."
"Singers to the front " came the captain's order.
And from the different ranks some twenty men ran to the front. A
drummer, their leader, turned round facing the singers, and
flourishing his arm, began a long-drawn-out soldiers' song, commencing
with the words: "Morning dawned, the sun was rising," and
concluding: "On then, brothers, on to glory, led by Father
Kamenski." This song had been composed in the Turkish campaign and now
being sung in Austria, the only change being that the words "Father
Kamenski" were replaced by "Father Kutuzov."
Having jerked out these last words as soldiers do and waved his arms
as if flinging something to the ground, the drummer - a lean,
handsome soldier of forty - looked sternly at the singers and screwed
up his eyes. Then having satisfied himself that all eyes were fixed on
him, he raised both arms as if carefully lifting some invisible but
precious object above his head and, holding it there for some seconds,
suddenly flung it down and began:
"Oh, my bower, oh, my bower...!"
"Oh, my bower new...!" chimed in twenty voices, and the castanet
player, in spite of the burden of his equipment, rushed out to the
front and, walking backwards before the company, jerked his
shoulders and flourished his castanets as if threatening someone.
The soldiers, swinging their arms and keeping time spontaneously,
marched with long steps. Behind the company the sound of wheels, the
creaking of springs, and the tramp of horses' hoofs were heard.
Kutuzov and his suite were returning to the town. The commander in
chief made a sign that the men should continue to march at ease, and
he and all his suite showed pleasure at the sound of the singing and
the sight of the dancing soldier and the gay and smartly marching men.
In the second file from the right flank, beside which the carriage
passed the company, a blue-eyed soldier involuntarily attracted
notice. It was Dolokhov marching with particular grace and boldness in
time to the song and looking at those driving past as if he pitied all
who were not at that moment marching with the company. The hussar
cornet of Kutuzov's suite who had mimicked the regimental commander,
fell back from the carriage and rode up to Dolokhov.
Hussar cornet Zherkov had at one time, in Petersburg, belonged to
the wild set led by Dolokhov. Zherkov had met Dolokhov abroad as a
private and had not seen fit to recognize him. But now that Kutuzov
had spoken to the gentleman ranker, he addressed him with the
cordiality of an old friend.
"My dear fellow, how are you?" said he through the singing, making
his horse keep pace with the company.
"How am I?" Dolokhov answered coldly. "I am as you see."
The lively song gave a special flavor to the tone of free and easy
gaiety with which Zherkov spoke, and to the intentional coldness of
Dolokhov's reply.
"And how do you get on with the officers?" inquired Zherkov.
"All right. They are good fellows. And how have you wriggled onto
the staff?"
"I was attached; I'm on duty."
Both were silent.
"She let the hawk fly upward from her wide right sleeve," went the
song, arousing an involuntary sensation of courage and cheerfulness.
Their conversation would probably have been different but for the
effect of that song.
"Is it true that Austrians have been beaten?" asked Dolokhov.
"The devil only knows! They say so."
"I'm glad," answered Dolokhov briefly and clearly, as the song
demanded.
"I say, come round some evening and we'll have a game of faro!" said
Zherkov.
"Why, have you too much money?"
"Do come."
"I can't. I've sworn not to. I won't drink and won't play till I get
reinstated."
"Well, that's only till the first engagement."
"We shall see."
They were again silent.
"Come if you need anything. One can at least be of use on the
staff..."
Dolokhov smiled. "Don't trouble. If I want anything, I won't beg-
I'll take it!"
"Well, never mind; I only..."
"And I only..."
"Good-by."
"Good health..."
"It's a long, long way.
To my native land..."
Zherkov touched his horse with the spurs; it pranced excitedly
from foot to foot uncertain with which to start, then settled down,
galloped past the company, and overtook the carriage, still keeping
time to the song.
CHAPTER III
On returning from the review, Kutuzov took the Austrian general into
his private room and, calling his adjutant, asked for some papers
relating to the condition of the troops on their arrival, and the
letters that had come from the Archduke Ferdinand, who was in
command of the advanced army. Prince Andrew Bolkonski came into the
room with the required papers. Kutuzov and the Austrian member of
the Hofkriegsrath were sitting at the table on which a plan was spread
out.
"Ah!..." said Kutuzov glancing at Bolkonski as if by this
exclamation he was asking the adjutant to wait, and he went on with
the conversation in French.
"All I can say, General," said he with a pleasant elegance of
expression and intonation that obliged one to listen to each
deliberately spoken word. It was evident that Kutuzov himself listened
with pleasure to his own voice. "All I can say, General, is that if
the matter depended on my personal wishes, the will of His Majesty the
Emperor Francis would have been fulfilled long ago. I should long
ago have joined the archduke. And believe me on my honour that to me
personally it would be a pleasure to hand over the supreme command
of the army into the hands of a better informed and more skillful
general - of whom Austria has so many - and to lay down all this heavy
responsibility. But circumstances are sometimes too strong for us,
General."
And Kutuzov smiled in a way that seemed to say, "You are quite at
liberty not to believe me and I don't even care whether you do or not,
but you have no grounds for telling me so. And that is the whole
point."
The Austrian general looked dissatisfied, but had no option but to
reply in the same tone.
"On the contrary," he said, in a querulous and angry tone that
contrasted with his flattering words, "on the contrary, your
excellency's participation in the common action is highly valued by
His Majesty; but we think the present delay is depriving the
splendid Russian troops and their commander of the laurels they have
been accustomed to win in their battles," he concluded his evidently
prearranged sentence.
Kutuzov bowed with the same smile.
"But that is my conviction, and judging by the last letter with
which His Highness the Archduke Ferdinand has honored me, I imagine
that the Austrian troops, under the direction of so skillful a
leader as General Mack, have by now already gained a decisive
victory and no longer need our aid," said Kutuzov.
The general frowned. Though there was no definite news of an
Austrian defeat, there were many circumstances confirming the
unfavorable rumors that were afloat, and so Kutuzov's suggestion of an
Austrian victory sounded much like irony. But Kutuzov went on
blandly smiling with the same expression, which seemed to say that
he had a right to suppose so. And, in fact, the last letter he had
received from Mack's army informed him of a victory and stated
strategically the position of the army was very favorable.
"Give me that letter," said Kutuzov turning to Prince Andrew.
"Please have a look at it" - and Kutuzov with an ironical smile about
the corners of his mouth read to the Austrian general the following
passage, in German, from the Archduke Ferdinand's letter:
We have fully concentrated forces of nearly seventy thousand men
with which to attack and defeat the enemy should he cross the Lech.
Also, as we are masters of Ulm, we cannot be deprived of the advantage
of commanding both sides of the Danube, so that should the enemy not
cross the Lech, we can cross the Danube, throw ourselves on his line
of communications, recross the river lower down, and frustrate his
intention should he try to direct his whole force against our faithful
ally. We shall therefore confidently await the moment when the
Imperial Russian army will be fully equipped, and shall then, in
conjunction with it, easily find a way to prepare for the enemy the
fate he deserves.
Kutuzov sighed deeply on finishing this paragraph and looked at
the member of the Hofkriegsrath mildly and attentively.
"But you know the wise maxim your excellency, advising one to expect
the worst," said the Austrian general, evidently wishing to have
done with jests and to come to business. He involuntarily looked round
at the aide-de-camp.
"Excuse me, General," interrupted Kutuzov, also turning to Prince
Andrew. "Look here, my dear fellow, get from Kozlovski all the reports
from our scouts. Here are two letters from Count Nostitz and here is
one from His Highness the Archduke Ferdinand and here are these," he
said, handing him several papers, "make a neat memorandum in French
out of all this, showing all the news we have had of the movements
of the Austrian army, and then give it to his excellency."
Prince Andrew bowed his head in token of having understood from
the first not only what had been said but also what Kutuzov would have
liked to tell him. He gathered up the papers and with a bow to both,
stepped softly over the carpet and went out into the waiting room.
Though not much time had passed since Prince Andrew had left Russia,
he had changed greatly during that period. In the expression of his
face, in his movements, in his walk, scarcely a trace was left of
his former affected languor and indolence. He now looked like a man
who has time to think of the impression he makes on others, but is
occupied with agreeable and interesting work. His face expressed
more satisfaction with himself and those around him, his smile and
glance were brighter and more attractive.
Kutuzov, whom he had overtaken in Poland, had received him very
kindly, promised not to forget him, distinguished him above the
other adjutants, and had taken him to Vienna and given him the more
serious commissions. From Vienna Kutuzov wrote to his old comrade,
Prince Andrew's father.
Your son bids fair to become an officer distinguished by his
industry, firmness, and expedition. I consider myself fortunate to
have such a subordinate by me.
On Kutuzov's staff, among his fellow officers and in the army
generally, Prince Andrew had, as he had had in Petersburg society, two
quite opposite reputations. Some, a minority, acknowledged him to be
different from themselves and from everyone else, expected great
things of him, listened to him, admired, and imitated him, and with
them Prince Andrew was natural and pleasant. Others, the majority,
disliked him and considered him conceited, cold, and disagreeable. But
among these people Prince Andrew knew how to take his stand so that
they respected and even feared him.
Coming out of Kutuzov's room into the waiting room with the papers
in his hand Prince Andrew came up to his comrade, the aide-de-camp
on duty, Kozlovski, who was sitting at the window with a book.
"Well, Prince?" asked Kozlovski.
"I am ordered to write a memorandum explaining why we are not
advancing."
"And why is it?"
Prince Andrew shrugged his shoulders.
"Any news from Mack?"
"No."
"If it were true that he has been beaten, news would have come."
"Probably," said Prince Andrew moving toward the outer door.
But at that instant a tall Austrian general in a greatcoat, with the
order of Maria Theresa on his neck and a black bandage round his head,
who had evidently just arrived, entered quickly, slamming the door.
Prince Andrew stopped short.
"Commander in Chief Kutuzov?" said the newly arrived general
speaking quickly with a harsh German accent, looking to both sides and
advancing straight toward the inner door.
"The commander in chief is engaged," said Kozlovski, going hurriedly
up to the unknown general and blocking his way to the door. "Whom
shall I announce?"
The unknown general looked disdainfully down at Kozlovski, who was
rather short, as if surprised that anyone should not know him.
"The commander in chief is engaged," repeated Kozlovski calmly.
The general's face clouded, his lips quivered and trembled. He
took out a notebook, hurriedly scribbled something in pencil, tore out
the leaf, gave it to Kozlovski, stepped quickly to the window, and
threw himself into a chair, gazing at those in the room as if
asking, "Why do they look at me?" Then he lifted his head, stretched
his neck as if he intended to say something, but immediately, with
affected indifference, began to hum to himself, producing a queer
sound which immediately broke off. The door of the private room opened
and Kutuzov appeared in the doorway. The general with the bandaged
head bent forward as though running away from some danger, and, making
long, quick strides with his thin legs, went up to Kutuzov.
"Vous voyez le malheureux Mack," he uttered in a broken voice.
Kutuzov's face as he stood in the open doorway remained perfectly
immobile for a few moments. Then wrinkles ran over his face like a
wave and his forehead became smooth again, he bowed his head
respectfully, closed his eyes, silently let Mack enter his room before
him, and closed the door himself behind him.
The report which had been circulated that the Austrians had been
beaten and that the whole army had surrendered at Ulm proved to be
correct. Within half an hour adjutants had been sent in various
directions with orders which showed that the Russian troops, who had
hitherto been inactive, would also soon have to meet the enemy.
Prince Andrew was one of those rare staff officers whose chief
interest lay in the general progress of the war. When he saw Mack
and heard the details of his disaster he understood that half the
campaign was lost, understood all the difficulties of the Russian
army's position, and vividly imagined what awaited it and the part
he would have to play. Involuntarily he felt a joyful agitation at the
thought of the humiliation of arrogant Austria and that in a week's
time he might, perhaps, see and take part in the first Russian
encounter with the French since Suvorov met them. He feared that
Bonaparte's genius might outweigh all the courage of the Russian
troops, and at the same time could not admit the idea of his hero
being disgraced.
Excited and irritated by these thoughts Prince Andrew went toward
his room to write to his father, to whom he wrote every day. In the
corridor he met Nesvitski, with whom he shared a room, and the wag
Zherkov; they were as usual laughing.
"Why are you so glum?" asked Nesvitski noticing Prince Andrew's pale
face and glittering eyes.
"There's nothing to be gay about," answered Bolkonski.
Just as Prince Andrew met Nesvitski and Zherkov, there came toward
them from the other end of the corridor, Strauch, an Austrian
general who on Kutuzov's staff in charge of the provisioning of the
Russian army, and the member of the Hofkriegsrath who had arrived
the previous evening. There was room enough in the wide corridor for
the generals to pass the three officers quite easily, but Zherkov,
pushing Nesvitski aside with his arm, said in a breathless voice,
"They're coming!... they're coming!... Stand aside, make way, please
make way!"
The generals were passing by, looking as if they wished to avoid
embarrassing attentions. On the face of the wag Zherkov there suddenly
appeared a stupid smile of glee which he seemed unable to suppress.
"Your excellency," said he in German, stepping forward and
addressing the Austrian general, "I have the honor to congratulate
you."
He bowed his head and scraped first with one foot and then with
the other, awkwardly, like a child at a dancing lesson.
The member of the Hofkriegsrath looked at him severely but, seeing
the seriousness of his stupid smile, could not but give him a moment's
attention. He screwed up his eyes showing that he was listening.
"I have the honor to congratulate you. General Mack has arrived,
quite well, only a little bruised just here," he added, pointing
with a beaming smile to his head.
The general frowned, turned away, and went on.
"Gott, wie naiv!"* said he angrily, after he had gone a few steps.
*"Good God, what simplicity!"
Nesvitski with a laugh threw his arms round Prince Andrew, but
Bolkonski, turning still paler, pushed him away with an angry look and
turned to Zherkov. The nervous irritation aroused by the appearance of
Mack, the news of his defeat, and the thought of what lay before the
Russian army found vent in anger at Zherkov's untimely jest.
"If you, sir, choose to make a buffoon of yourself," he said
sharply, with a slight trembling of the lower jaw, "I can't prevent
your doing so; but I warn you that if you dare to play the fool in
my presence, I will teach you to behave yourself."
Nesvitski and Zherkov were so surprised by this outburst that they
gazed at Bolkonski silently with wide-open eyes.
"What's the matter? I only congratulated them," said Zherkov.
"I am not jesting with you; please be silent!" cried Bolkonski,
and taking Nesvitski's arm he left Zherkov, who did not know what to
say.
"Come, what's the matter, old fellow?" said Nesvitski trying to
soothe him.
"What's the matter?" exclaimed Prince Andrew standing still in his
excitement. "Don't you understand that either we are officers
serving our Tsar and our country, rejoicing in the successes and
grieving at the misfortunes of our common cause, or we are merely
lackeys who care nothing for their master's business. Quarante mille
hommes massacres et l'armee de nos allies detruite, et vous trouvez la
le mot pour rire,"* he said, as if strengthening his views by this
French sentence. "C'est bien pour un garcon de rein comme cet
individu dont vous avez fait un ami, mais pas pour vous, pas pour
vous.*[2] Only a hobbledehoy could amuse himself in this way," he
added in Russian - but pronouncing the word with a French accent-
having noticed that Zherkov could still hear him.
*"Forty thousand men massacred and the army of our allies destroyed,
and you find that a cause for jesting!"
*[2] "It is all very well for that good-for-nothing fellow of whom
you have made a friend, but not for you, not for you."
He waited a moment to see whether the cornet would answer, but he
turned and went out of the corridor.
CHAPTER IV
The Pavlograd Hussars were stationed two miles from Braunau. The
squadron in which Nicholas Rostov served as a cadet was quartered in
the German village of Salzeneck. The best quarters in the village were
assigned to cavalry-captain Denisov, the squadron commander, known
throughout the whole cavalry division as Vaska Denisov. Cadet
Rostov, ever since he had overtaken the regiment in Poland, had
lived with the squadron commander.
On October 11, the day when all was astir at headquarters over the
news of Mack's defeat, the camp life of the officers of this
squadron was proceeding as usual. Denisov, who had been losing at
cards all night, had not yet come home when Rostov rode back early
in the morning from a foraging expedition. Rostov in his cadet
uniform, with a jerk to his horse, rode up to the porch, swung his leg
over the saddle with a supple youthful movement, stood for a moment in
the stirrup as if loathe to part from his horse, and at last sprang
down and called to his orderly.
"Ah, Bondarenko, dear friend!" said he to the hussar who rushed up
headlong to the horse. "Walk him up and down, my dear fellow," he
continued, with that gay brotherly cordiality which goodhearted
young people show to everyone when they are happy.
"Yes, your excellency," answered the Ukrainian gaily, tossing his
head.
"Mind, walk him up and down well!"
Another hussar also rushed toward the horse, but Bondarenko had
already thrown the reins of the snaffle bridle over the horse's
head. It was evident that the cadet was liberal with his tips and that
it paid to serve him. Rostov patted the horse's neck and then his
flank, and lingered for a moment.
"Splendid! What a horse he will be!" he thought with a smile, and
holding up his saber, his spurs jingling, he ran up the steps of the
porch. His landlord, who in a waistcoat and a pointed cap, pitchfork
in hand, was clearing manure from the cowhouse, looked out, and his
face immediately brightened on seeing Rostov. "Schon gut Morgen! Schon
gut Morgen!"* he said winking with a merry smile, evidently pleased to
greet the young man.
*"A very good morning! A very good morning!"