War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER I

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IN THE OCTOBER OF 1805 the Russian troops were occupying the towns

and villages of the Austrian archduchy, and fresh regiments kept arriving

from Russia and encamping about the fortress of Braunau, burdening the

inhabitants on whom they were billeted. Braunau was the chief headquarters

of the commander-in-chief, Kutuzov.

On the 11th of October 1805, one of the infantry regiments that had

just reached Braunau had halted half a mile from the town, awaiting

the inspection of the commander-in-chief. In spite of the un-Russian

character of the country and the environment (the fruit gardens, the

stone walls, the tiled roofs, the mountains in the distance, the foreign

peasants, who looked with curiosity at the Russian soldiers), the regiment

looked exactly as every Russian regiment always looks when it is getting

ready for inspection anywhere in the heart of Russia. In the evening,

on the last stage of the march, the order had been received that the

commander-in-chief would inspect the regiment on the march. Though the

wording of the order did not seem quite clear to the general in command

of the regiment, and the question arose whether they were to take it

to mean, in marching order or not, it was decided on a consultation

between the majors to present the regiment in parade order on the ground,

since, as the saying is, it is better to bow too low than not to bow

low enough. And the soldiers after a twenty-five mile march had not

closed their eyes, but had spent the night mending and cleaning, while

the adjutants and officers had been reckoning up and calculating. And

by the morning the regiment, instead of the straggling, disorderly crowd

it had been on the last march, the previous evening, presented the spectacle

of an organised mass of two thousand men, of whom every one knew his

part and his duty, and had every button and every strap in its proper

position, and shining with cleanliness. It was not only the outside

that was in good order; if the commander-in-chief should think fit to

peep below the uniform, he would see on every man alike a clean shirt,

and in every knapsack he would find the regulation number of articles.

There was only one circumstance which no one could feel comfortable

about. That was their foot-gear. More than half the soldiers had holes

in their boots. But this deficiency was not due to any shortcoming on

the part of their commanding officer, since in spite of his repeated

demands the boots had not yet been granted him by the Austrian authorities,

and the regiment had marched nearly a thousand miles.

The commander of the regiment was a sanguine-looking general past middle

age, with grey whiskers and eyebrows, broad and thick-set, and thicker

through from the chest to the back than across the shoulders. He wore

a brand-new uniform with the creases still in it where it had been folded,

and rich gold epaulettes, which seemed to stand up instead of lying

down on his thick shoulders. The general had the air of a man who has

successfully performed one of the most solemn duties of his life. He

walked about in front of the line, and quivered as he walked, with a

slight jerk of his back at each step. The general was unmistakably admiring

his regiment, and happy in it, and it was evident that his whole brain

was engrossed by the regiment. But for all that, his quivering strut

seemed to say that, apart from his military interests, he had plenty

of warmth in his heart for the attractions of social life and the fair

sex.

“Well, Mihail Mitritch, sir,” he said, addressing a major (the major

came forward smiling; they were evidently in excellent spirits).

“We have had our hands full all night…But it'll do, I fancy; the regiment's

not so bad as some…eh?”

The major understood this good-humoured irony and laughed.

“Even on the Tsaritsyn review ground they wouldn't be turned off.”

“Eh?” said the commander.

At that moment two figures on horseback came into sight on the road

from the town, where sentinels had been posted to give the signal. They

were an adjutant, and a Cossack riding behind him.

The adjutant had been sent by the commander-in-chief to confirm to

the commander what had not been clearly stated in the previous order,

namely, that the commander-in-chief wished to inspect the regiment exactly

in the order in which it had arrived—wearing their overcoats, and carrying

their baggage, and without any sort of preparation.

A member of the Hofkriegsrath from Vienna had been with Kutuzov the

previous day, proposing and demanding that he should move on as quickly

as possible to effect a junction with the army of Archduke Ferdinand

and Mack; and Kutuzov, not considering this combination advisable, had

intended, among other arguments in support of his view, to point out

to the Austrian general the pitiable condition in which were the troops

that had arrived from Russia. It was with this object, indeed, that

he had meant to meet the regiment, so that the worse the condition of

the regiment, the better pleased the commander-in-chief would be with

it. Though the adjutant did not know these details, he gave the general

in command of the regiment the message that the commander-in-chief absolutely

insisted on the men being in their overcoats and marching order, and

that, if the contrary were the case, the commander-in-chief would be

displeased.

On hearing this the general's head sank; he shrugged his shoulders,

and flung up his hands with a choleric gesture.

“Here's a mess we've made of it,” he said. “Why, didn't I tell you,

Mihail Mitritch, that on the march meant in their overcoats,” he said

reproachfully to the major. “Ah, my God!” he added, and stepped resolutely

forward. “Captains of the companies!” he shouted in a voice used to

command. “Sergeants!… Will his excellency be coming soon?” he said,

turning to the adjutant with an expression of respectful deference,

that related obviously only to the person he was speaking of.

“In an hour's time, I believe.”

“Have we time to change clothes?”

“I can't say, general.…”

The general, going himself among the ranks, gave orders for the men

to change back to their overcoats. The captains ran about among the

companies, the sergeants bustled to and fro (the overcoats were not

quite up to the mark), and instantaneously the squadrons, that had been

in regular order and silent, were heaving to and fro, straggling apart

and humming with talk. The soldiers ran backwards and forwards in all

directions, stooping with their shoulders thrown back, drawing their

knapsacks off over their heads, taking out their overcoats and lifting

their arms up to thrust them into the sleeves.

Half an hour later everything was in its former good order again, only

the squadrons were now grey instead of black. The general walked in

front of the regiment again with his quivering strut, and scanned it

from some distance.

“What next? what's this!” he shouted, stopping short. “Captain of the

third company!”

“The captain of the third company to the general! The captain to the

general of the third company to the captain!” … voices were heard along

the ranks, and an adjutant ran to look for the tardy officer. When the

sound of the officious voices, varying the command, and, by now, crying,

“the general to the third company,” reached their destination, the officer

called for emerged from behind his company, and, though he was an elderly

man and not accustomed to running, he moved at a quick trot towards

the general, stumbling awkwardly over the toes of his boots. The captain's

face showed the uneasiness of a schoolboy who is called up to repeat

an unlearnt lesson. Patches came out on his red nose (unmistakably due

to intemperance), and he did not know how to keep his mouth steady.

The general looked the captain up and down as he ran panting up, slackening

his pace as he drew nearer.

“You'll soon be dressing your men in petticoats! What's the meaning

of it?” shouted the general, thrusting out his lower jaw and pointing

in the ranks of the third division to a soldier in an overcoat of a

colour different from the rest. “Where have you been yourself? The commander-in-chief

is expected, and you're not in your place? Eh? … I'll teach you to rig

your men out in dressing-gowns for inspection! … Eh?”

The captain, never taking his eyes off his superior officer, pressed

the peak of his cap more and more tightly with his two fingers, as though

he saw in this compression his only hope of safety.

“Well, why don't you speak? Who's that dressed up like a Hungarian?”

the general jested bitterly.

“Your excellency …”

“Well, what's your excellency? Your excellency! Your excellency! But

what that means, your excellency, nobody knows.”

“Your excellency, that's Dolohov, the degraded officer,” the captain

said softly.

“Well, is he degraded to be a field-marshal, or a common soldier? If

he's a soldier, then he must be dressed like all the rest, according

to regulation.”

“Your excellency, you gave him leave yourself on the march.”

“Gave him leave? There, you're always like that, you young men,” said

the general, softening a little. “Gave him leave? If one says a word

to you, you go and …” The general paused. “One says a word to you, and

you go and…Eh?” he said with renewed irritation. “Be so good as to clothe

your men decently.…”

And the general, looking round at the adjutant, walked with his quivering

strut towards the regiment. It was obvious that he was pleased with

his own display of anger, and that, walking through the regiment, he

was trying to find a pretext for wrath. Falling foul of one officer

for an unpolished ensign, of another for the unevenness of the rank,

he approached the third company.

“How are you standing? Where is your leg? Where is your leg?” the general

shouted with a note of anguish in his voice, stopping five men off Dolohov,

who was wearing his blue overcoat. Dolohov slowly straightened his bent

leg, and looked with his clear, insolent eyes straight in the general's

face.

“Why are you in a blue coat? Off with it!…Sergeant! change his coat…the

dir…” Before he had time to finish the word—

“General, I am bound to obey orders, but I am not bound to put up with…”

Dolohov hastened to say.

“No talking in the ranks! … No talking, no talking!”

“Not bound to put up with insults,” Dolohov went on, loudly and clearly.

The eyes of the general and the soldier met. The general paused, angrily

pulling down his stiff scarf.

“Change your coat, if you please,” he said as he walked away.

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1. Ebooks list page : 82
2. War And Peace: Book 4 - CHAPTER V
3. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER III
4. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER II
5. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER IV
6. War And Peace: Book 3 - CHAPTER XIX
7. War And Peace: Book 3 - CHAPTER XVI
8. War And Peace: Book 3 - CHAPTER XV
9. War And Peace: Book 3 - CHAPTER XIV
10. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER V
11. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER VI
12. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER XIX
13. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER XVI
14. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER XIV
15. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER XV
16. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER XI