War and Peace: Original Version. Лев Толстой

I thought …”

      “And that other one with him was an Austrian, looked like he’d been daubed with whitewash. White as flour. Scours it up, I reckon, like a weapon.”

      “What about it, Fedeshou, did he say as when the counter-attack will start, you were standing closer? Everyone was saying Boonaparte himself is stationed at Braunovo.”

      “Boonaparte stationed! They’re talking nonsense, the fools! Don’t know a thing. The Prussian’s up in arms now! And the Austrian, you know, he’s putting him down. Soon as he makes peace, then the war with Boonaparte will start up. And he says Boonaparte’s stationed at Braunovo! Shows you what kind of fool he is. Don’t go believing everything you hear.”

      “Look, those damn billeting officers! There’s the fifth company already turning into a village, they’ll have their gruel cooked and ready before we even get to where we’re going.”

      “Give us a rusk, you devil.”

      “Did you give me that baccy, yesterday? So there, brother. Well, never mind, have it anyway.”

      “They could at least call a halt, or we’ll cover another five versts without a bite.”

      “Wasn’t it really grand the way the Germans gave us carriages at Olmütz! Riding along real grand, like.”

      “But the folks round here, my friend, are a desperate lot altogether. Back there they was like the Poles, all under the Russian crown, but now, brother, there’s nothing but Germans everywhere.”

      “Singers to the front!” the captain’s voice shouted.

      About twenty men ran out in front of the company from various lines. The choirmaster drummer turned to face the singers and with a wave of his hand launched into a long, drawn-out soldier’s song that began: “Barely dawn, the sun was just rising …” and ended with the words: “And so, brothers, there’ll be glory for us and Father Kamensky …” This song had been composed in Turkey, and now it was being sung in Austria, the only change being that they replaced “Father Kamensky” with “Father Kutuzov”.

      After rattling off these final words in smart soldier fashion and waving his hands as if he were throwing something down on the ground, the drummer, a lean and handsome soldier of forty or so, looked the singer-soldiers over sternly and screwed his eyes shut briefly. Then, after making certain that all eyes were fixed on him, he seemed to lift some invisible, precious object above his head cautiously with both hands, hold it there for a few seconds and suddenly fling it down recklessly.

      “Ah, you bowers, bowers mine …” – “Ah, new bowers mine,” twenty voices sang, joining in, and the spoon-player, despite the weight of his equipment, bounded forward and started walking backwards in front of the company, working his shoulders and menacing someone here and there with his spoons. The soldiers walked with a broad stride, swinging their arms in time to the song, falling into step despite themselves. From behind the company there came the sound of wheels, the crunch of springs and the clatter of horses’ hooves. Kutuzov and his retinue were returning to the town. The commander-in-chief gave a sign for the men to continue marching freely, and his face and the faces of all his retinue expressed pleasure at the sound of the song, at the sight of the dancing soldier and the soldiers of the company marching along merrily and briskly. In the second row, on the right flank, the side on which the carriage was overtaking the company, they could not help but notice a handsome blue-eyed, broad, thickset soldier who was marching along especially briskly and gracefully in time to the song and who glanced merrily at the faces of the men riding past with an expression that seemed to say he pitied everyone who was not marching with the company just then. The cornet of hussars with the high shoulders fell back from the carriage and rode up to Dolokhov.

      The cornet of the hussars, Zherkov, had at one time belonged to the wild social circle led by Dolokhov. Zherkov had met Dolokhov abroad as a private, but at the time had not deemed it necessary to recognise him. Now he addressed him with the joyful greeting of an old friend.

      “My dearest friend, how are you?” he said to the sounds of the song, matching his horse’s stride to the stride of the company.

      “Greetings, brother,” Dolokhov replied coldly, “as you can see.”

      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