‘You need not have said that to me, Father,’ said the son
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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 youas 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
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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.
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BOOK TWO: 1805
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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 surroundingsfruit gardens, stone fences, tiled roofs, and hills
in the distanceand 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
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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 regimentinstead of the straggling, disorderly crowd it
had been on its last march the day beforepresented a wellordered 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
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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-decamp 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
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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 run
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ning 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 con202
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trasted 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
