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
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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 latterunconscious that he was being reflected in
the hussar officer as in a looking glassstarted, 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
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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.
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‘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 himhe may be
quite easy. And tell me, pleaseI’ve been meaning to askhow
is to askhow 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
