War and Peace: Original Version

The brisk song lent a special significance to the tone of rakishly familiar merriment with which Zherkov spoke, and to the deliberate coldness of Dolokhov’s replies.

“Well, how are you getting on with your people, with the commander?” asked Zherkov.

“All right, they’re fine people. How did you worm your way on to the staff?”

“I was attached. I’m on duty.”

They said nothing for a moment. “She loosed the brave falcon from out her right sleeve,” said the song, making them feel spry and cheerful despite themselves. Their conversation would probably have been rather different, had they not been speaking against the sound of singing.

“Is it true then, they’ve beaten the Austrians?” asked Dolokhov.

“God only knows, they say so.”

“I’m glad,” Dolokhov replied curtly and clearly, as the song required.

“Why not come to see us some evening, you can have a game of faro,” said Zherkov.

“Have you come into big money, then?”

“Come.”

“I can’t. I swore an oath. I don’t drink and I don’t play until they promote me.”

“Well then, that’s until the first action …”

“We’ll see that when the time comes …” They were silent again.

“Do call in if you need anything, everyone at headquarters will help,” said Zherkov.

Dolokhov laughed.

“No need to worry about me. If I want something, I won’t bother to ask, I’ll take it.” And Dolokhov glared spitefully into Zherkov’s face.

“All right, I was only …”

“Well, and I was only.”

“Goodbye.”

“Good health.”

And way up high, and far away,

To mine own native parts …

Zherkov spurred on his horse, which grew frisky and shuffled its feet three times, deciding which one to start with before it galloped off, overtaking the company and catching up with the carriage, all in time to the song.

IV

On returning from the review, Kutuzov went through into his study with the Austrian general and, calling to an adjutant, ordered him to bring several documents relating to the condition of the troops that were arriving and the letters received so far from the Archduke Ferdinand. Prince Andrei Bolkonsky entered the commander-in-chief’s study with the required papers. Kutuzov and the Austrian member of the Hofkriegsrat were sitting in front of a plan laid out on the desk.

“Ah …” said Kutuzov, glancing round at Bolkonsky and seeming with this sound to invite the adjutant to wait, then he continued with the conversation he had begun in French.

“I say only one thing, general,” Kutuzov said with a pleasing elegance of expression and intonation that obliged one to listen closely to every single unhurriedly spoken word. It was clear that even Kutuzov listened to himself with pleasure. “I say only one thing, general, that if the business depended on my personal wishes, then the will of His Majesty the Emperor Franz would have been carried out long since. I would have joined with the archduke long ago. And believe me, on my honour, that for me personally to hand over the supreme command of the army to a general more knowledgeable and skilled than I am, of which Austria has such an abundance, and lay down this entire onerous responsibility, for me personally it would be a real joy. But circumstances are sometimes stronger than we are, general.” And Kutuzov smiled with an expression which suggested that he was saying: “You have every right not to believe me, and it is actually all the same to me whether you believe me or not, but you have no excuse for telling me so. And that is the entire point.”

The Austrian general appeared dissatisfied, but he could not help replying to Kutuzov in the same tone of voice.

“On the contrary,” he said in a peevish and angry tone that contradicted the flattering meaning of the words he was speaking, “on the contrary, your excellency’s contribution to the common cause is highly valued by His Majesty, but we believe that the present delay is depriving the glorious Russian troops and their commanders-in-chief of the laurels which they are accustomed to reap in battles” – concluding with a phrase that he had obviously prepared.

Kutuzov bowed, without altering his smile.

“I am convinced of it, and, on the basis of the last letter with which His Highness the Archduke Ferdinand has favoured me, I believe that the Austrian forces, under the command of such a skilled aide as General Mack, have already won a decisive victory and are no longer in need of our assistance,” said Kutuzov.

The general shuddered and frowned. Although there had been no positive news of the Austrians’ defeat, there were too many circumstances that confirmed the general unfavourable rumours, and therefore Kutuzov’s assumption of an Austrian victory sounded very much like a jibe. But Kutuzov smiled meekly, still with the same expression, which said that he had the right to assume this. Indeed, the latest letter that he had received from Mack’s army had informed him of a victory and the highly advantageous strategic position of the army.

“Let me have that letter,” said Kutuzov, addressing Prince Andrei. “There, if you would kindly look,” and with a mocking smile on the corners of his lips, Kutuzov read the Austrian general the following passage in German from Archduke Ferdinand’s letter:

“We have fully consolidated forces, about seventy thousand men, so that we can attack and smash the enemy if he should cross the Lech. Since we already control the Ulm, we can, if the enemy should not cross the Lech, retain the advantage of commanding both banks of the Danube, then at any moment, cross the Danube, assault his line of communication, recross the Danube lower down and, if the enemy should think of turning his entire force against our faithful allies, prevent him from realising that intention. We shall accordingly await in good spirits the time when the Imperial Russian Army shall be fully prepared and then together we shall easily find a way to prepare for the enemy the fate which he deserves.”

Kutuzov sighed heavily as he finished this sentence and gave the member of the Hofkriegsrat an attentive and affectionate look.

“But you are aware, your excellency, of the wise rule that enjoins us to assume the worst,” said the Austrian general, evidently wishing to have done with the jokes and get on with business. He glanced round with displeasure at the adjutant.

“I beg your pardon, general,” Kutuzov interrupted him and also turned to face Prince Andrei. “Listen, my dear fellow, you get all our scouts’ reports from Kozlovsky. Here are two letters from Count Nostitz, here is a letter from His Highness Archduke Ferdinand, and there is this too,” he said, handing him several papers. “And out of all this you compose a memorandum in immaculate French, a note to present clearly all the news that we have had about the operations of the Austrian army. Right, that’s it, and present it to his excellency.”

Prince Andrei inclined his head politely as a sign that, from the very first words, he had understood not only what was said, but also what Kutuzov would have liked to say to him. He gathered up the papers and, taking his leave with a bow, he walked quietly across the carpet and went out into the reception room.

Despite the fact that it was less than three months since Prince Andrei had left Russia, he had changed greatly in that time. In the expression of his face, his movements and his gait there was almost no trace of the former dissembling and weary lassitude. He had the air of a man who did not have time to think about the impression he was producing on others, and was occupied with something agreeable and interesting. His face expressed greater contentment with himself and the people around him; his smile and his glance were more cheerful and attractive.

Kutuzov, whom he had overtaken in Poland, had received him very warmly, promising not to forget him, and had singled him out from the other adjutants, taking him with him to Vienna and giving him the more serious assignments. On Kutuzov’s staff, among his comrades and colleagues, and in the army in general, Prince Andrei had two entirely opposite reputations, just as he had had in St. Petersburg society. Some, the minority, recognised that Prince Andrei was different in some way from themselves and from everyone else and, expecting great things from him, they heeded, admired and imitated him. And with these people Prince Andrei was simple and agreeable. Others, the majority, did not like Prince Andrei, and thought him a puffed-up, cold and disagreeable individual. But with these people the prince knew how to comport himself in such a way that they respected and even feared him. He was closest of all to two people: one of them was a St. Petersburg friend, the good-hearted, fat Prince Nesvitsky. Prince Nesvitsky, immensely rich, carefree and jolly, fed the entire headquarters staff and bought their drink, always laughing at anything that was even remotely funny, and incapable of understanding or believing in the possibility of acting basely or of hating anyone. The other was a man with no title, Captain Kozlovsky from the infantry regiment, who had had no education to prepare him for society and even spoke French badly, but who was carving out a career by hard work, zeal and intelligence, and for this campaign had been recommended and taken on for special assignments for the commander-in-chief. Bolkonsky had befriended him willingly, if patronisingly.

On emerging from Kutuzov’s study into the reception room, Prince Andrei took his papers across to Kozlovsky, the man on duty, who was sitting by the window with a book on fortification. Several military men in full uniform with timid expressions on their faces were waiting patiently at the other side of the room.

“Well, what is it, prince?” asked Kozlovsky.

“I have been ordered to draw up a memorandum about why we are not advancing.”

“And why is that?”

Prince Andrei shrugged.

“I think you were right,” he said.

“And is there no news from Mack?” asked Kozlovsky.

“No.”

“Well, if it were true that he has been defeated, then news would have reached us.”