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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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