War and Peace: Original Version

Dolokhov uttered this theatrical speech with animation (he flushed brightly as he said it). But Kutuzov turned away. The same smile that altered only the eyes flitted across his face as when he had turned away from Captain Timokhin. This time too he turned away and frowned, as if wishing in this way to state that everything that Dolokhov had said to him, and everything that he could have said, had already been known to him for a long, long time, that he was tired of all this, and that all this was not at all what was needed. He turned away and set off towards the carriage.

III

The regiment broke up into companies and set out for its appointed quarters not far from Braunau, where it hoped to obtain shoes and clothes and to rest after its days of hard marching.

“Don’t hold it against me, Prokhor Ignatych,” said the regimental commander, overtaking the third company as it moved towards its quarters and approaching its captain, Timokhin, who was walking at the front. Having dealt successfully with the review the regimental commander’s face expressed irrepressible joy. “Service to the Tsar … I have to … sometimes you give someone in the ranks a dressing down …” (he seized Timokhin’s hand with joyful agitation). “I’ll be the first to apologise, you know me … well … I hope … Most grateful.” And he held his hand out again to the company commander.

“For goodness’ sake, general, how would I dare,” the captain replied, his nose reddening. He smiled, revealing with his smile the lack of two front teeth, smashed out with a musket butt at Izmail …

“Yes, inform Mr Dolokhov that I shall not forget him, he needn’t worry. But tell me, please, I have been wanting to ask what … how is he behaving himself? And all that …”

“In the line of service he’s very correct, your excellency … as for his character …” said Timokhin.

“What, what about his character?” asked the regimental commander.

THE MILITARY REVIEW: KUTUZOV AND DOLOKHOV Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1867 (#ulink_6da4a207-b18f-5e93-9637-aa16d79829ef)

“There are days on end, your excellency,” said the captain, “when he comes over all bright and clever and good-natured. Then all the soldiers love him, your excellency. But some days he’s a wild beast. In Poland he nearly killed a yid, by your leave …”

“Well yes, well yes,” said the regimental commander, “still, one must have pity on a young man in misfortune. Important connections, after all … connections … So just you mind …”

“Yes, your excellency,” said Timokhin, making it clear with his smile that he understood his superior’s wishes.

“Well yes, yes.”

The regimental commander sought out Dolokhov in the ranks and reined in his horse.

“Till the first action, then epaulettes,” he said, addressing Dolokhov. Dolokhov glanced round but did not say anything and did not alter the expression of his sneering, smiling mouth.

“Well, that’s all right, then,” the regimental commander continued. “A glass of vodka each for the men from me,” he added loudly, so that the soldiers would hear. “I thank you all. God be praised!” And he rode round the company and approached the next one.

“Now he really is a good man, someone you can serve under,” Timokhin said to a subaltern walking beside him.

“Heart’s the word all right …” (the regimental commander was nicknamed the king of hearts). “Didn’t he say anything about extra pay?” asked the subaltern.

“No.”

“That’s bad.”

The regimental commander’s happy mood had infected Timokhin. After talking with the subaltern, he went up to Dolokhov.

“Well, old man,” he said to Dolokhov, “after you talking to the commander-in-chief, our general’s turned sweet on you as well.”

“Our general’s a swine,” said Dolokhov.

“It won’t do to go saying things like that.”

“Why not, if it’s true?”

“But it won’t do, and by saying that you’re offending me.”

“I don’t wish to offend you, because you’re a good man, but he …”

“Come, come, that won’t do.”

“All right, I won’t.”

The commander’s happy mood after the review was transmitted to the soldiers as well. The company marched along merrily. On all sides there were soldiers’ voices talking to each other.

“How come they said Kutuzov was half-blind, with one eye.”

“Well he is! As one-eyed as they come.”

“Nah … brother, he’s sharper-eyed than you are, boots and leg wrappings and all, he looked everything over.”

“The way he looked at my feet, brother … Well! 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.”