War and Peace (23 page)

Kutuzov bowed, still with the same smile.

“But I am convinced of this, and relying on the last letter with which his Highness the Archduke Ferdinand has honoured me, I imagine that the Austrian troops under the command of so talented a leader as General Mack, have by now gained a decisive victory and have no longer need of our aid,” said Kutuzov.

The general frowned. Though there was no positive news of the defeat of the Austrians, there were too many circumstances in confirmation of the unfavourable reports; and so Kutuzov’s supposition in regard to an Austrian victory sounded very much like a sneer. But Kutuzov smiled blandly, still 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 the army of General Mack had given him news of victory, and of the most favourable strategical position of the army.

“Give me that letter,” said Kutuzov, addressing Prince Andrey. “Here, if you will kindly look”—and Kutuzov, with an ironical smile
about the corners of his mouth, read in German the following passage from the letter of the Archduke Ferdinand:

“We have a force, perfectly kept together, of nearly 70,000 men, in order to attack and defeat the enemy if they should pass the Lech. As we are masters of Ulm, we cannot lose the advantage of remaining masters also of both sides of the Danube; and moreover able, should the enemy not cross the Lech, to pass over the Danube at any moment, throw ourselves upon their line of communications, recross the Danube lower down, and entirely resist the enemy’s aim if they should attempt to turn their whole force upon our faithful ally. In this way we shall await courageously the moment when the Imperial Russian is ready, and shall then, in conjunction, easily find a possibility of preparing for the foe that fate which he so richly deserves.”

Kutuzov concluded this period with a heavy sigh and looked intently and genially at the member of the Hofkriegsrath.

“But you know, your excellency, the sage precept to prepare for the worst,” said the Austrian general, obviously wishing to have done with jests and to come to business. He could not help glancing round at the adjutant.

“Excuse me, general,” Kutuzov interrupted him, and he, too, turned to Prince Andrey. “Here, my dear boy, get all the reports from our scouts from Kozlovsky. Here are two letters from Count Nostits, here is a letter from his Highness the Archduke Ferdinand, here is another,” he said, giving him several papers. “And of all this make out clearly in French a memorandum showing all the information we have had of the movements of the Austrian Army. Well, do so, and then show it to his excellency.”

Prince Andrey bowed in token of understanding from the first word not merely what had been said, but also what Kutuzov would have liked to have said to him. He gathered up the papers, and making a comprehensive bow, stepped softly over the carpet and went out into the reception-room.

Although so short a time had passed since Prince Andrey had left Russia, he had changed greatly during that time. In the expression of his face, in his gestures, in his gait, there was scarcely a trace to be seen now of his former affectation, ennui, and indolence. He had the air of a man who has not time to think of the impression he is making on others,
and is absorbed in work, both agreeable and interesting. His face showed more satisfaction with himself and those around him. His smile and his glance were more light-hearted and attractive.

Kutuzov, whom he had overtaken in Poland, had received him very cordially, had promised not to forget him, had marked him out among the other adjutants, had taken him with him to Vienna and given him the more serious commissions. From Vienna, Kutuzov had written to his old comrade, Prince Andrey’s father.

“Your son,” he wrote, “gives promise of becoming an officer, who will make his name by his industry, firmness, and conscientiousness. I consider myself lucky to have such an assistant at hand.”

On Kutuzov’s staff, among his fellow-officers, and in the army generally, Prince Andrey had, as he had had in Petersburg society, two quite opposite reputations. Some, the minority, regarded Prince Andrey as a being different from themselves and from all other men, expected great things of him, listened to him, were enthusiastic in his praise, and imitated him, and with such people Prince Andrey was frank and agreeable. Others, the majority, did not like Prince Andrey, and regarded him as a sulky, cold, and disagreeable person. But with the latter class, too, Prince Andrey knew how to behave so that he was respected and even feared by them.

Coming out of Kutuzov’s room into the reception-room, Prince Andrey went in with his papers to his comrade, the adjutant on duty, Kozlovsky, who was sitting in the window with a book.

“What is it, prince?” queried Kozlovsky.

“I am told to make a note of the reason why we are not moving forward.”

“And why aren’t we?”

Prince Andrey shrugged his shoulders

“No news from Mack?” asked Kozlovsky.

“No.”

“If it were true that he had been beaten, news would have come.”

“Most likely,” said Prince Andrey, and he moved towards the door to go out. But he was met on the way by a tall man who at that instant walked into the reception-room, slamming the door. The stranger, who had obviously just arrived, was an Austrian general in a long coat, with a black kerchief tied round his head, and the order of Maria Theresa on his neck. Prince Andrey stopped short.

“Commander-in-chief Kutuzov?” the general asked quickly, speaking
with a harsh German accent. He looked about him on both sides, and without a pause walked to the door of the private room.

“The commander-in-chief is engaged,” said Kozlovsky, hurriedly going up to the unknown general and barring his way to the door. “Whom am I to announce?”

The unknown general looked disdainfully down at the short figure of Kozlovsky, as though surprised that they could be ignorant of his identity.

“The commander-in-chief is engaged,” Kozlovsky repeated tranquilly.

The general’s face contracted, his lips twitched and quivered. He took out a notebook, hurriedly scribbled something in pencil, tore out the leaf, handed it to Kozlovsky, and with rapid steps walked to the window, dropped on to a chair and looked round at the persons in the room, as though asking what they were looking at him for. Then the general lifted his head, craned his neck forward as though intending to say something, but immediately, as though carelessly beginning to hum to himself, uttered a strange sound which broke off at once. The door of the private room opened, and Kutuzov appeared in the doorway.

The general with the bandaged head, bent forward as though fleeing from danger, strode towards Kutuzov, his thin legs moving swiftly.

“You see the unfortunate Mack,” he articulated in French in a breaking voice.

The face of Kutuzov, as he stood in the doorway, remained for several instants perfectly unmoved. Then a frown seemed to run over his face, like a wave, leaving his forehead smooth again; he bowed his head respectfully, closed his eyes, ushered Mack in before him without a word, and closed the door behind him.

The report, which had been in circulation before this, of the defeat of the Austrians and the surrender of the whole army at Ulm, turned out to be the truth. Within half an hour adjutants had been despatched in various directions with orders. It was evident that the Russian troops which had hitherto been inactive, were destined soon to meet the enemy.

Prince Andrey was one of those rare staff-officers whose interests were concentrated on the general progress of the war. On seeing Mack and learning the details of his overthrow, he grasped the fact that half the campaign was lost; he perceived all the difficulty of the position of the Russian troops, and vividly pictured to himself what lay before the Army, and the part he would have to play in the work in store for them.
He could not help feeling a rush of joyful emotion at the thought of the humiliation of self-confident Austria, and the prospect within a week, perhaps, of seeing and taking part in the meeting of the Russians with the French, the first since Suvorov’s day. But he was afraid of the genius of Bonaparte, which might turn out to be more powerful than all the bravery of the Russian troops; and at the same time he could not bear to entertain the idea of the disgrace of his favourite hero.

Excited and irritated by these ideas, Prince Andrey went towards his own room to write to his father, to whom he wrote every day. In the corridor he met Nesvitsky, the comrade with whom he shared a room, and the comic man, Zherkov. They were, as usual, laughing at some joke.

“What are you looking so dismal about?” asked Nesvitsky, noticing Prince Andrey’s pale face and gleaming eyes.

“There’s nothing to be gay about,” answered Bolkonsky.

Just as Prince Andrey met Nesvitsky and Zherkov, there came towards them from the other end of the corridor Strauch, an Austrian general, who was 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 plenty of room in the wide corridor for the generals to pass the three officers easily. But Zherkov, pulling Nesvitsky back by the arm, cried in a breathless voice:

“They are coming!… they are coming!… move aside, make way! please, make way.”

The generals advanced with an air of wishing to avoid burdensome honours. The face of the comic man, Zherkov, suddenly wore a stupid smile of glee, which he seemed unable to suppress.

“Your Excellency,” he said in German, moving forward and addressing the Austrian general, “I have the honour to congratulate you.” He bowed, and awkwardly, as children do at dancing-lessons, he began scraping first with one leg and then with the other. The member of the Hofkriegsrath looked severely at him, but seeing the seriousness of his stupid smile, he could not refuse him a moment’s attention. He screwed up his eyes and showed that he was listening.

“I have the honour to congratulate you. General Mack has arrived, quite well, only slightly wounded here,” he added, pointing with a beaming smile to his head.

The general frowned, turned away and went on.

“
Gott, wie naïv!
” he said angrily, when he was a few steps away.

Nesvitsky with a chuckle threw his arms round Prince Andrey, but
Bolkonsky, turning even paler, pushed him away with a furious expression, and turned to Zherkov. The nervous irritability, into which he had been thrown by the sight of Mack, the news of his defeat and the thought of what lay before the Russian army, found a vent in anger at the misplaced jest of Zherkov.

“If you, sir,” he began cuttingly, with a slight trembling in his lower jaw, “like to be a clown, I can’t prevent your being so, but if you dare to play the fool another time in my presence, I’ll teach you how to behave.”

Nesvitsky and Zherkov were so astounded at this outburst that they gazed at Bolkonsky with open eyes.

“Why, I only congratulated them,” said Zherkov.

“I am not jesting with you; be silent, please!” shouted Bolkonsky, and taking Nesvitsky’s arm, he walked away from Zherkov, who could not find any reply.

“Come, what is the matter, my dear boy?” said Nesvitsky, trying to soothe him.

“What’s the matter?” said Prince Andrey, standing still from excitement. “Why, you ought to understand that we’re either officers, who serve their Tsar and their country and rejoice in the success, and grieve at the defeat of the common cause, or we’re hirelings, who have no interest in our master’s business. Forty thousand men massacred and the army of our allies destroyed, and you find something in that to laugh at,” he said, as though by this French phrase he were strengthening his view. “It is all very well for a worthless fellow like that individual of whom you have made a friend, but not for you, not for you. None but schoolboys can find amusement in such jokes,” Prince Andrey added in Russian, uttering the word with a French accent. He noticed that Zherkov could still hear him, and waited to see whether the cornet would not reply. But the cornet turned and went out of the corridor.

The Pavlogradsky regiment of hussars was stationed two miles from Braunau. The squadron in which Nikolay Rostov was serving as ensign was billeted on a German village, Salzeneck. The officer in command of the squadron, Captain Denisov, known through the whole cavalry division under the name of Vaska Denisov, had been assigned the best
quarters in the village. Ensign Rostov had been sharing his quarters, ever since he overtook the regiment in Poland.

On the 8th of October, the very day when at headquarters all was astir over the news of Mack’s defeat, the routine of life was going on as before among the officers of this squadron.

Denisov, who had been losing all night at cards, had not yet returned home, when Rostov rode back early in the morning from a foraging expedition. Rostov, in his ensign’s uniform, rode up to the steps, with a jerk to his horse, swung his leg over with a supple, youthful action, stood a moment in the stirrup as though loath to part from the horse, at last sprang down and called the orderly.

“Ah, Bondarenko, friend of my heart,” he said to the hussar who rushed headlong up to his horse. “Walk him up and down, my dear fellow,” he said, with that gay and brotherly cordiality with which good-hearted young people behave to every one, when they are happy.

“Yes, your excellency,” answered the Little Russian, shaking his head good-humouredly.

“Mind now, walk him about well!”

Another hussar rushed up to the horse too, but Bondarenko had already hold of the reins.

It was evident that the ensign was liberal with his tips, and that his service was a profitable one. Rostov stroked the horse on the neck and then on the haunch, and lingered on the steps.

“Splendid! What a horse he will be!” he said to himself, and smiling and holding his sword, he ran up the steps, clanking his spurs. The German, on whom they were billeted, looked out of the cowshed, wearing a jerkin and a pointed cap, and holding a fork, with which he was clearing out the dung. The German’s face brightened at once when he saw Rostov. He smiled good-humouredly and winked. “Good-morning, good-morning!” he repeated, apparently taking pleasure in greeting the young man.