spoke to the taciturn Michael Ivanovich more often than to anyone else.
In the dining room, which like all the rooms in the house was
exceedingly lofty, the members of the household and the footmen - one
behind each chair - stood waiting for the prince to enter. The head
butler, napkin on arm, was scanning the setting of the table, making
signs to the footmen, and anxiously glancing from the clock to the door
by which the prince was to enter. Prince Andrew was looking at a large
gilt frame, new to him, containing the genealogical tree of the Princes
Bolkonski, opposite which hung another such frame with a badly painted
portrait (evidently by the hand of the artist belonging to the estate)
of a ruling prince, in a crown - an alleged descendant of Rurik and
ancestor of the Bolkonskis. Prince Andrew, looking again at that
genealogical tree, shook his head, laughing as a man laughs who looks at
a portrait so characteristic of the original as to be amusing.
"How thoroughly like him that is!" he said to Princess Mary, who had
come up to him.
Princess Mary looked at her brother in surprise. She did not understand
what he was laughing at. Everything her father did inspired her with
reverence and was beyond question.
"Everyone has his Achilles’ heel," continued Prince Andrew.
"Fancy, with his powerful mind, indulging in such nonsense!"
Princess Mary could not understand the boldness of her brother’s
criticism and was about to reply, when the expected footsteps were heard
coming from the study. The prince walked in quickly and jauntily as was
his wont, as if intentionally contrasting the briskness of his manners
with the strict formality of his house. At that moment the great clock
struck two and another with a shrill tone joined in from the drawing
room. The prince stood still; his lively glittering eyes from under
their thick, bushy eyebrows sternly scanned all present and rested on
the little princess. She felt, as courtiers do when the Tsar enters, the
sensation of fear and respect which the old man inspired in all around
him. He stroked her hair and then patted her awkwardly on the back of
her neck.
"I’m glad, glad, to see you," he said, looking attentively into
her eyes, and then quickly went to his place and sat down. "Sit down,
sit down! Sit down, Michael Ivanovich!"
He indicated a place beside him to his daughter-in-law. A footman moved
the chair for her.
"Ho, ho!" said the old man, casting his eyes on her rounded figure.
"You’ve been in a hurry. That’s bad!"
He laughed in his usual dry, cold, unpleasant way, with his lips only
and not with his eyes.
"You must walk, walk as much as possible, as much as possible," he
said.
The little princess did not, or did not wish to, hear his words. She was
silent and seemed confused. The prince asked her about her father, and
she began to smile and talk. He asked about mutual acquaintances, and
she became still more animated and chattered away giving him greetings
from various people and retelling the town gossip.
"Countess Apraksina, poor thing, has lost her husband and she has
cried her eyes out," she said, growing more and more lively.
As she became animated the prince looked at her more and more sternly,
and suddenly, as if he had studied her sufficiently and had formed a
definite idea of her, he turned away and addressed Michael Ivanovich.
"Well, Michael Ivanovich, our Bonaparte will be having a bad time
of it. Prince Andrew" (he always spoke thus of his son) "has been
telling me what forces are being collected against him! While you and I
never thought much of him."
Michael Ivanovich did not at all know when "you and I" had said
such things about Bonaparte, but understanding that he was wanted as
a peg on which to hang the prince’s favorite topic, he looked
inquiringly at the young prince, wondering what would follow.
"He is a great tactician!" said the prince to his son, pointing to
the architect.
And the conversation again turned on the war, on Bonaparte, and the
generals and statesmen of the day. The old prince seemed convinced not
only that all the men of the day were mere babies who did not know the
A B C of war or of politics, and that Bonaparte was an insignificant
little Frenchy, successful only because there were no longer any
Potemkins or Suvorovs left to oppose him; but he was also convinced
that there were no political difficulties in Europe and no real war,
but only a sort of puppet show at which the men of the day were playing,
pretending to do something real. Prince Andrew gaily bore with his
father’s ridicule of the new men, and drew him on and listened to him
with evident pleasure.
"The past always seems good," said he, "but did not Suvorov
himself fall into a trap Moreau set him, and from which he did not know
how to escape?"
"Who told you that? Who?" cried the prince. "Suvorov!" And he
jerked away his plate, which Tikhon briskly caught. "Suvorov!...
Consider, Prince Andrew. Two... Frederick and Suvorov; Moreau!...
Moreau would have been a prisoner if Suvorov had had a free hand; but
he had the Hofs-kriegs-wurst-schnapps-Rath on his hands. It would have
puzzled the devil himself! When you get there you’ll find out what
those Hofs-kriegs-wurst-Raths are! Suvorov couldn’t manage them so
what chance has Michael Kutuzov? No, my dear boy," he continued,
"you and your generals won’t get on against Buonaparte; you’ll
have to call in the French, so that birds of a feather may fight
together. The German, Pahlen, has been sent to New York in America, to
fetch the Frenchman, Moreau," he said, alluding to the invitation made
that year to Moreau to enter the Russian service.... "Wonderful!...
Were the Potemkins, Suvorovs, and Orlovs Germans? No, lad, either you
fellows have all lost your wits, or I have outlived mine. May God help
you, but we’ll see what will happen. Buonaparte has become a great
commander among them! Hm!..."
"I don’t at all say that all the plans are good," said Prince
Andrew, "I am only surprised at your opinion of Bonaparte. You
may laugh as much as you like, but all the same Bonaparte is a great
general!"
"Michael Ivanovich!" cried the old prince to the architect who,
busy with his roast meat, hoped he had been forgotten: "Didn’t
I tell you Buonaparte was a great tactician? Here, he says the same
thing."
"To be sure, your excellency," replied the architect.
The prince again laughed his frigid laugh.
"Buonaparte was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He has got
splendid soldiers. Besides he began by attacking Germans. And only
idlers have failed to beat the Germans. Since the world began everybody
has beaten the Germans. They beat no one - except one another. He made
his reputation fighting them."
And the prince began explaining all the blunders which, according to
him, Bonaparte had made in his campaigns and even in politics. His
son made no rejoinder, but it was evident that whatever arguments were
presented he was as little able as his father to change his opinion. He
listened, refraining from a reply, and involuntarily wondered how this
old man, living alone in the country for so many years, could know and
discuss so minutely and acutely all the recent European military and
political events.
"You think I’m an old man and don’t understand the present state
of affairs?" concluded his father. "But it troubles me. I don’t
sleep at night. Come now, where has this great commander of yours shown
his skill?" he concluded.
"That would take too long to tell," answered the son.
"Well, then go off to your Buonaparte! Mademoiselle Bourienne,
here’s another admirer of that powder-monkey emperor of yours," he
exclaimed in excellent French.
"You know, Prince, I am not a Bonapartist!"
"Dieu sait quand reviendra." hummed the prince out of tune and, with
a laugh still more so, he quitted the table.
The little princess during the whole discussion and the rest of
the dinner sat silent, glancing with a frightened look now at her
father-in-law and now at Princess Mary. When they left the table she
took her sister-in-law’s arm and drew her into another room.
"What a clever man your father is," said she; "perhaps that is why
I am afraid of him."
"Oh, he is so kind!" answered Princess Mary.
CHAPTER XXVIII
Prince Andrew was to leave next evening. The old prince, not altering
his routine, retired as usual after dinner. The little princess was in
her sister-in-law’s room. Prince Andrew in a traveling coat without
epaulettes had been packing with his valet in the rooms assigned to him.
After inspecting the carriage himself and seeing the trunks put in, he
ordered the horses to be harnessed. Only those things he always kept
with him remained in his room; a small box, a large canteen fitted
with silver plate, two Turkish pistols and a saber - a present from
his father who had brought it from the siege of Ochakov. All these
traveling effects of Prince Andrew’s were in very good order: new,
clean, and in cloth covers carefully tied with tapes.
When starting on a journey or changing their mode of life, men capable
of reflection are generally in a serious frame of mind. At such moments
one reviews the past and plans for the future. Prince Andrew’s face
looked very thoughtful and tender. With his hands behind him he paced
briskly from corner to corner of the room, looking straight before him
and thoughtfully shaking his head. Did he fear going to the war, or was
he sad at leaving his wife? - perhaps both, but evidently he did not
wish to be seen in that mood, for hearing footsteps in the passage he
hurriedly unclasped his hands, stopped at a table as if tying the
cover of the small box, and assumed his usual tranquil and impenetrable
expression. It was the heavy tread of Princess Mary that he heard.
"I hear you have given orders to harness," she cried, panting (she
had apparently been running), "and I did so wish to have another talk
with you alone! God knows how long we may again be parted. You are not
angry with me for coming? You have changed so, Andrusha," she added,
as if to explain such a question.
She smiled as she uttered his pet name, "Andrusha." It was
obviously strange to her to think that this stern handsome man should be
Andrusha - the slender mischievous boy who had been her playfellow in
childhood.
"And where is Lise?" he asked, answering her question only by a
smile.
"She was so tired that she has fallen asleep on the sofa in my room.
Oh, Andrew! What a treasure of a wife you have," said she, sitting
down on the sofa, facing her brother. "She is quite a child: such a
dear, merry child. I have grown so fond of her."
Prince Andrew was silent, but the princess noticed the ironical and
contemptuous look that showed itself on his face.
"One must be indulgent to little weaknesses; who is free from them,
Andrew? Don’t forget that she has grown up and been educated in
society, and so her position now is not a rosy one. We should enter into
everyone’s situation. Tout comprendre, c’est tout pardonner. * Think
what it must be for her, poor thing, after what she has been used to,
to be parted from her husband and be left alone in the country, in her
condition! It’s very hard."
* To understand all is to forgive all.
Prince Andrew smiled as he looked at his sister, as we smile at those we
think we thoroughly understand.
"You live in the country and don’t think the life terrible," he
replied.
"I... that’s different. Why speak of me? I don’t want any other
life, and can’t, for I know no other. But think, Andrew: for a young
society woman to be buried in the country during the best years of her
life, all alone - for Papa is always busy, and I... well, you know what
poor resources I have for entertaining a woman used to the best society.
There is only Mademoiselle Bourienne...."
"I don’t like your Mademoiselle Bourienne at all," said Prince
Andrew.
"No? She is very nice and kind and, above all, she’s much to be
pitied. She has no one, no one. To tell the truth, I don’t need her,
and she’s even in my way. You know I always was a savage, and now am
even more so. I like being alone.... Father likes her very much. She and
Michael Ivanovich are the two people to whom he is always gentle and
kind, because he has been a benefactor to them both. As Sterne says:
‘We don’t love people so much for the good they have done us, as
for the good we have done them.’ Father took her when she was homeless
after losing her own father. She is very good-natured, and my father
likes her way of reading. She reads to him in the evenings and reads
splendidly."
"To be quite frank, Mary, I expect Father’s character sometimes
makes things trying for you, doesn’t it?" Prince Andrew asked
suddenly.
Princess Mary was first surprised and then aghast at this question.
"For me? For me?... Trying for me!..." said she.
"He always was rather harsh; and now I should think he’s getting
very trying," said Prince Andrew, apparently speaking lightly of their
father in order to puzzle or test his sister.
"You are good in every way, Andrew, but you have a kind of
intellectual pride," said the princess, following the train of her own
thoughts rather than the trend of the conversation - "and that’s a
great sin. How can one judge Father? But even if one might, what feeling
except veneration could such a man as my father evoke? And I am so
contented and happy with him. I only wish you were all as happy as I
am."
Her brother shook his head incredulously.
"The only thing that is hard for me... I will tell you the truth,
Andrew... is Father’s way of treating religious subjects. I don’t
understand how a man of his immense intellect can fail to see what is
as clear as day, and can go so far astray. That is the only thing
that makes me unhappy. But even in this I can see lately a shade of
improvement. His satire has been less bitter of late, and there was a
monk he received and had a long talk with."
"Ah! my dear, I am afraid you and your monk are wasting your
powder," said Prince Andrew banteringly yet tenderly.
"Ah! mon ami, I only pray, and hope that God will hear me.
Andrew..." she said timidly after a moment’s silence, "I have a
great favor to ask of you."
"What is it, dear?"
"No - promise that you will not refuse! It will give you no trouble
and is nothing unworthy of you, but it will comfort me. Promise,
Andrusha!..." said she, putting her hand in her reticule but not yet
taking out what she was holding inside it, as if what she held were
the subject of her request and must not be shown before the request was
granted.
She looked timidly at her brother.
"Even if it were a great deal of trouble..." answered Prince Andrew,
as if guessing what it was about.
"Think what you please! I know you are just like Father. Think as
you please, but do this for my sake! Please do! Father’s father, our
grandfather, wore it in all his wars." (She still did not take out
what she was holding in her reticule.) "So you promise?"
"Of course. What is it?"
"Andrew, I bless you with this icon and you must promise me you will
never take it off. Do you promise?"
"If it does not weigh a hundredweight and won’t break my neck...
To please you..." said Prince Andrew. But immediately, noticing
the pained expression his joke had brought to his sister’s face, he
repented and added: "I am glad; really, dear, I am very glad."
"Against your will He will save and have mercy on you and bring you
to Himself, for in Him alone is truth and peace," said she in a voice
trembling with emotion, solemnly holding up in both hands before her
brother a small, oval, antique, dark-faced icon of the Saviour in a gold
setting, on a finely wrought silver chain.
She crossed herself, kissed the icon, and handed it to Andrew.
"Please, Andrew, for my sake!..."
Rays of gentle light shone from her large, timid eyes. Those eyes lit
up the whole of her thin, sickly face and made it beautiful. Her brother
would have taken the icon, but she stopped him. Andrew understood,
crossed himself and kissed the icon. There was a look of tenderness, for
he was touched, but also a gleam of irony on his face.
"Thank you, my dear." She kissed him on the forehead and sat down
again on the sofa. They were silent for a while.
"As I was saying to you, Andrew, be kind and generous as you always
used to be. Don’t judge Lise harshly," she began. "She is so
sweet, so good-natured, and her position now is a very hard one."
"I do not think I have complained of my wife to you, Masha, or blamed
her. Why do you say all this to me?"
Red patches appeared on Princess Mary’s face and she was silent as if
she felt guilty.
"I have said nothing to you, but you have already been talked to. And
I am sorry for that," he went on.
The patches grew deeper on her forehead, neck, and cheeks. She tried to
say something but could not. Her brother had guessed right: the little
princess had been crying after dinner and had spoken of her forebodings
about her confinement, and how she dreaded it, and had complained of her
fate, her father-in-law, and her husband. After crying she had fallen
asleep. Prince Andrew felt sorry for his sister.
"Know this, Masha: I can’t reproach, have not reproached, and never
shall reproach my wife with anything, and I cannot reproach myself
with anything in regard to her; and that always will be so in whatever
circumstances I may be placed. But if you want to know the truth... if
you want to know whether I am happy? No! Is she happy? No! But why this
is so I don’t know..."
As he said this he rose, went to his sister, and, stooping, kissed
her forehead. His fine eyes lit up with a thoughtful, kindly, and
unaccustomed brightness, but he was looking not at his sister but over
her head toward the darkness of the open doorway.
"Let us go to her, I must say good-by. Or - go and wake and I’ll
come in a moment. Petrushka!" he called to his valet: "Come here,
take these away. Put this on the seat and this to the right."
Princess Mary rose and moved to the door, then stopped and said:
"Andrew, if you had faith you would have turned to God and asked Him
to give you the love you do not feel, and your prayer would have been
answered."
"Well, maybe!" said Prince Andrew. "Go, Masha; I’ll come
immediately."
On the way to his sister’s room, in the passage which connected one
wing with the other, Prince Andrew met Mademoiselle Bourienne smiling
sweetly. It was the third time that day that, with an ecstatic and
artless smile, she had met him in secluded passages.
"Oh! I thought you were in your room," she said, for some reason
blushing and dropping her eyes.
Prince Andrew looked sternly at her and an expression of anger suddenly
came over his face. He said nothing to her but looked at her forehead
and hair, without looking at her eyes, with such contempt that the
Frenchwoman blushed and went away without a word. When he reached his
sister’s room his wife was already awake and her merry voice, hurrying
one word after another, came through the open door. She was speaking as
usual in French, and as if after long self-restraint she wished to make
up for lost time.
"No, but imagine the old Countess Zubova, with false curls and her
mouth full of false teeth, as if she were trying to cheat old age....
Ha, ha, ha! Mary!"
This very sentence about Countess Zubova and this same laugh Prince
Andrew had already heard from his wife in the presence of others some
five times. He entered the room softly. The little princess, plump and
rosy, was sitting in an easy chair with her work in her hands, talking
incessantly, repeating Petersburg reminiscences and even phrases. Prince
Andrew came up, stroked her hair, and asked if she felt rested after
their journey. She answered him and continued her chatter.
The coach with six horses was waiting at the porch. It was an autumn
night, so dark that the coachman could not see the carriage pole.
Servants with lanterns were bustling about in the porch. The immense
house was brilliant with lights shining through its lofty windows. The
domestic serfs were crowding in the hall, waiting to bid good-by to
the young prince. The members of the household were all gathered in the
reception hall: Michael Ivanovich, Mademoiselle Bourienne, Princess
Mary, and the little princess. Prince Andrew had been called to his
father’s study as the latter wished to say good-by to him alone. All
were waiting for them to come out.
When Prince Andrew entered the study the old man in his old-age
spectacles and white dressing gown, in which he received no one but his
son, sat at the table writing. He glanced round.
"Going?" And he went on writing.
"I’ve come to say good-by."
"Kiss me here," and he touched his cheek: "Thanks, thanks!"
"What do you thank me for?"
"For not dilly-dallying and not hanging to a woman’s apron strings.
The Service before everything. Thanks, thanks!" And he went on
writing, so that his quill spluttered and squeaked. "If you have
anything to say, say it. These two things can be done together," he
added.
"About my wife... I am ashamed as it is to leave her on your
hands...."
"Why talk nonsense? Say what you want."
"When her confinement is due, send to Moscow for an accoucheur.... Let
him be here...."
The old prince stopped writing and, as if not understanding, fixed his
stern eyes on his son.
"I know that no one can help if nature does not do her work," said
Prince Andrew, evidently confused. "I know that out of a million
cases only one goes wrong, but it is her fancy and mine. They have been
telling her things. She has had a dream and is frightened."
"Hm... Hm..." muttered the old prince to himself, finishing what he
was writing. "I’ll do it."
He signed with a flourish and suddenly turning to his son began to
laugh.
"It’s a bad business, eh?"
"What is bad, Father?"
"The wife!" said the old prince, briefly and significantly.
"I don’t understand!" said Prince Andrew.
"No, it can’t be helped, lad," said the prince. "They’re
all like that; one can’t unmarry. Don’t be afraid; I won’t tell
anyone, but you know it yourself."
He seized his son by the hand with small bony fingers, shook it, looked
straight into his son’s face with keen eyes which seemed to see
through him, and again laughed his frigid laugh.
The son sighed, thus admitting that his father had understood him. The
old man continued to fold and seal his letter, snatching up and throwing
down the wax, the seal, and the paper, with his accustomed rapidity.
"What’s to be done? She’s pretty! I will do everything. Make your
mind easy," said he in abrupt sentences while sealing his letter.
Andrew did not speak; he was both pleased and displeased that his father
understood him. The old man got up and gave the letter to his son.
"Listen!" said he; "don’t worry about your wife: what can be
done shall be. Now listen! Give this letter to Michael Ilarionovich. *
I have written that he should make use of you in proper places and not
keep you long as an adjutant: a bad position! Tell him I remember
and like him. Write and tell me how he receives you. If he is all
right - serve him. Nicholas Bolkonski’s son need not serve under
anyone if he is in disfavor. Now come here."
*Kutuzov.
He spoke so rapidly that he did not finish half his words, but his son
was accustomed to understand him. He led him to the desk, raised the
lid, drew out a drawer, and took out an exercise book filled with his
bold, tall, close handwriting.
"I shall probably die before you. So remember, these are my memoirs;
hand them to the Emperor after my death. Now here is a Lombard bond
and a letter; it is a premium for the man who writes a history of
Suvorov’s wars. Send it to the Academy. Here are some jottings for
you to read when I am gone. You will find them useful."
Andrew did not tell his father that he would no doubt live a long time
yet. He felt that he must not say it.
"I will do it all, Father," he said.
"Well, now, good-by!" He gave his son his hand to kiss, and embraced
him. "Remember this, Prince Andrew, if they kill you it will hurt me,
your old father..." he paused unexpectedly, and then in a querulous
voice suddenly shrieked: "but if I hear that you have not behaved like
a son of Nicholas Bolkonski, I shall be ashamed!"
"You need not have said that to me, Father," said the son with a
smile.
The old man was silent.
"I also wanted to ask you," continued Prince Andrew, "if I’m
killed and if I have a son, do not let him be taken away from you - as I
said yesterday... let him grow up with you.... Please."
"Not let the wife have him?" said the old man, and laughed.
They stood silent, facing one another. The old man’s sharp eyes were
fixed straight on his son’s. Something twitched in the lower part of
the old prince’s face.
"We’ve said good-by. Go!" he suddenly shouted in a loud, angry
voice, opening his door.
"What is it? What?" asked both princesses when they saw for a moment
at the door Prince Andrew and the figure of the old man in a white
dressing gown, spectacled and wigless, shouting in an angry voice.
Prince Andrew sighed and made no reply.
"Well!" he said, turning to his wife.
And this "Well!" sounded coldly ironic, as if he were saying: "Now
go through your performance."
"Andrew, already!" said the little princess, turning pale and
looking with dismay at her husband.
He embraced her. She screamed and fell unconscious on his shoulder.
He cautiously released the shoulder she leaned on, looked into her face,
and carefully placed her in an easy chair.
"Adieu, Mary," said he gently to his sister, taking her by the hand
and kissing her, and then he left the room with rapid steps.
The little princess lay in the armchair, Mademoiselle Bourienne chafing
her temples. Princess Mary, supporting her sister-in-law, still looked
with her beautiful eyes full of tears at the door through which Prince
Andrew had gone and made the sign of the cross in his direction. From
the study, like pistol shots, came the frequent sound of the old man
angrily blowing his nose. Hardly had Prince Andrew gone when the study
door opened quickly and the stern figure of the old man in the white
dressing gown looked out.
"Gone? That’s all right!" said he; and looking angrily at the
unconscious little princess, he shook his head reprovingly and slammed
the door.
BOOK TWO: 1805
CHAPTER I
In October, 1805, a Russian army was occupying the villages and towns of
the Archduchy of Austria, and yet other regiments freshly arriving from
Russia were settling near the fortress of Braunau and burdening the
inhabitants on whom they were quartered. Braunau was the headquarters of
the commander in chief, Kutuzov.
On October 11, 1805, one of the infantry regiments that had just reached
Braunau had halted half a mile from the town, waiting to be inspected
by the commander in chief. Despite the un-Russian appearance of the
locality and surroundings - fruit gardens, stone fences, tiled roofs,
and hills in the distance - and despite the fact that the inhabitants
(who gazed with curiosity at the soldiers) were not Russians, the
regiment had just the appearance of any Russian regiment preparing for
an inspection anywhere in the heart of Russia.
On the evening of the last day’s march an order had been received that
the commander in chief would inspect the regiment on the march. Though
the words of the order were not clear to the regimental commander, and
the question arose whether the troops were to be in marching order or
not, it was decided at a consultation between the battalion commanders
to present the regiment in parade order, on the principle that it is
always better to "bow too low than not bow low enough." So the
soldiers, after a twenty-mile march, were kept mending and cleaning all
night long without closing their eyes, while the adjutants and
company commanders calculated and reckoned, and by morning the
regiment - instead of the straggling, disorderly crowd it had been on
its last march the day before - presented a well-ordered array of two
thousand men each of whom knew his place and his duty, had every button
and every strap in place, and shone with cleanliness. And not only
externally was all in order, but had it pleased the commander in chief
to look under the uniforms he would have found on every man a clean
shirt, and in every knapsack the appointed number of articles, "awl,
soap, and all," as the soldiers say. There was only one circumstance
concerning which no one could be at ease. It was the state of the
soldiers’ boots. More than half the men’s boots were in holes. But
this defect was not due to any fault of the regimental commander, for
in spite of repeated demands boots had not been issued by the Austrian
commissariat, and the regiment had marched some seven hundred miles.
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 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?"
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