Kabanata Kabanata 43 · 第43章

Between three and four o’clock in the afternoon Prince Andrew, who

had persisted in his request to Kutúzov, arrived at Grunth and reported

himself to Bagratión. Bonaparte’s adjutant had not yet reached

Murat’s detachment and the battle had not yet begun. In Bagratión’s

detachment no one knew anything of the general position of affairs. They

talked of peace but did not believe in its possibility; others talked

of a battle but also disbelieved in the nearness of an engagement.

Bagratión, knowing Bolkónski to be a favorite and trusted adjutant,

received him with distinction and special marks of favor, explaining to

him that there would probably be an engagement that day or the next, and

giving him full liberty to remain with him during the battle or to join

the rearguard and have an eye on the order of retreat, “which is also

very important.”

“However, there will hardly be an engagement today,” said Bagratión

as if to reassure Prince Andrew.

“If he is one of the ordinary little staff dandies sent to earn a

medal he can get his reward just as well in the rearguard, but if he

wishes to stay with me, let him... he’ll be of use here if he’s a

brave officer,” thought Bagratión. Prince Andrew, without replying,

asked the prince’s permission to ride round the position to see the

disposition of the forces, so as to know his bearings should he be sent

to execute an order. The officer on duty, a handsome, elegantly dressed

man with a diamond ring on his forefinger, who was fond of speaking

French though he spoke it badly, offered to conduct Prince Andrew.

On all sides they saw rain-soaked officers with dejected faces who

seemed to be seeking something, and soldiers dragging doors, benches,

and fencing from the village.

“There now, Prince! We can’t stop those fellows,” said the staff

officer pointing to the soldiers. “The officers don’t keep them in

hand. And there,” he pointed to a sutler’s tent, “they crowd in

and sit. This morning I turned them all out and now look, it’s full

again. I must go there, Prince, and scare them a bit. It won’t take a

moment.”

“Yes, let’s go in and I will get myself a roll and some cheese,”

said Prince Andrew who had not yet had time to eat anything.

“Why didn’t you mention it, Prince? I would have offered you

something.”

They dismounted and entered the tent. Several officers, with flushed and

weary faces, were sitting at the table eating and drinking.

“Now what does this mean, gentlemen?” said the staff officer, in

the reproachful tone of a man who has repeated the same thing more

than once. “You know it won’t do to leave your posts like this.

The prince gave orders that no one should leave his post. Now you,

Captain,” and he turned to a thin, dirty little artillery officer who

without his boots (he had given them to the canteen keeper to dry),

in only his stockings, rose when they entered, smiling not altogether

comfortably.

“Well, aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Captain Túshin?” he

continued. “One would think that as an artillery officer you would set

a good example, yet here you are without your boots! The alarm will be

sounded and you’ll be in a pretty position without your boots!” (The

staff officer smiled.) “Kindly return to your posts, gentlemen, all of

you, all!” he added in a tone of command.

Prince Andrew smiled involuntarily as he looked at the artillery officer

Túshin, who silent and smiling, shifting from one stockinged foot to

the other, glanced inquiringly with his large, intelligent, kindly eyes

from Prince Andrew to the staff officer.

“The soldiers say it feels easier without boots,” said Captain

Túshin smiling shyly in his uncomfortable position, evidently wishing

to adopt a jocular tone. But before he had finished he felt that his

jest was unacceptable and had not come off. He grew confused.

“Kindly return to your posts,” said the staff officer trying to

preserve his gravity.

Prince Andrew glanced again at the artillery officer’s small figure.

There was something peculiar about it, quite unsoldierly, rather comic,

but extremely attractive.

The staff officer and Prince Andrew mounted their horses and rode on.

Having ridden beyond the village, continually meeting and overtaking

soldiers and officers of various regiments, they saw on their left some

entrenchments being thrown up, the freshly dug clay of which showed up

red. Several battalions of soldiers, in their shirt sleeves despite

the cold wind, swarmed in these earthworks like a host of white ants;

spadefuls of red clay were continually being thrown up from behind the

bank by unseen hands. Prince Andrew and the officer rode up, looked at

the entrenchment, and went on again. Just behind it they came upon some

dozens of soldiers, continually replaced by others, who ran from the

entrenchment. They had to hold their noses and put their horses to a

trot to escape from the poisoned atmosphere of these latrines.

“Voilà l’agrément des camps, monsieur le prince,” * said the

staff officer.

* “This is a pleasure one gets in camp, Prince.”

They rode up the opposite hill. From there the French could already be

seen. Prince Andrew stopped and began examining the position.

“That’s our battery,” said the staff officer indicating the

highest point. “It’s in charge of the queer fellow we saw without

his boots. You can see everything from there; let’s go there,

Prince.”

“Thank you very much, I will go on alone,” said Prince Andrew,

wishing to rid himself of this staff officer’s company, “please

don’t trouble yourself further.”

The staff officer remained behind and Prince Andrew rode on alone.

The farther forward and nearer the enemy he went, the more orderly and

cheerful were the troops. The greatest disorder and depression had been

in the baggage train he had passed that morning on the Znaim road seven

miles away from the French. At Grunth also some apprehension and alarm

could be felt, but the nearer Prince Andrew came to the French lines the

more confident was the appearance of our troops. The soldiers in

their greatcoats were ranged in lines, the sergeants major and company

officers were counting the men, poking the last man in each section in

the ribs and telling him to hold his hand up. Soldiers scattered over

the whole place were dragging logs and brushwood and were building

shelters with merry chatter and laughter; around the fires sat others,

dressed and undressed, drying their shirts and leg bands or mending

boots or overcoats and crowding round the boilers and porridge cookers.

In one company dinner was ready, and the soldiers were gazing eagerly

at the steaming boiler, waiting till the sample, which a quartermaster

sergeant was carrying in a wooden bowl to an officer who sat on a log

before his shelter, had been tasted.

Another company, a lucky one for not all the companies had vodka,

crowded round a pockmarked, broad-shouldered sergeant major who, tilting

a keg, filled one after another the canteen lids held out to him. The

soldiers lifted the canteen lids to their lips with reverential faces,

emptied them, rolling the vodka in their mouths, and walked away from

the sergeant major with brightened expressions, licking their lips and

wiping them on the sleeves of their greatcoats. All their faces were

as serene as if all this were happening at home awaiting peaceful

encampment, and not within sight of the enemy before an action in

which at least half of them would be left on the field. After passing a

chasseur regiment and in the lines of the Kiev grenadiers—fine fellows

busy with similar peaceful affairs—near the shelter of the regimental

commander, higher than and different from the others, Prince Andrew came

out in front of a platoon of grenadiers before whom lay a naked man. Two

soldiers held him while two others were flourishing their switches and

striking him regularly on his bare back. The man shrieked unnaturally.

A stout major was pacing up and down the line, and regardless of the

screams kept repeating:

“It’s a shame for a soldier to steal; a soldier must be honest,

honorable, and brave, but if he robs his fellows there is no honor in

him, he’s a scoundrel. Go on! Go on!”

So the swishing sound of the strokes, and the desperate but unnatural

screams, continued.

“Go on, go on!” said the major.

A young officer with a bewildered and pained expression on his face

stepped away from the man and looked round inquiringly at the adjutant

as he rode by.

Prince Andrew, having reached the front line, rode along it. Our front

line and that of the enemy were far apart on the right and left flanks,

but in the center where the men with a flag of truce had passed that

morning, the lines were so near together that the men could see one

another’s faces and speak to one another. Besides the soldiers who

formed the picket line on either side, there were many curious onlookers

who, jesting and laughing, stared at their strange foreign enemies.

Since early morning—despite an injunction not to approach the picket

line—the officers had been unable to keep sight-seers away. The

soldiers forming the picket line, like showmen exhibiting a curiosity,

no longer looked at the French but paid attention to the sight-seers and

grew weary waiting to be relieved. Prince Andrew halted to have a look

at the French.

“Look! Look there!” one soldier was saying to another, pointing to a

Russian musketeer who had gone up to the picket line with an officer and

was rapidly and excitedly talking to a French grenadier. “Hark to him

jabbering! Fine, isn’t it? It’s all the Frenchy can do to keep up

with him. There now, Sídorov!”

“Wait a bit and listen. It’s fine!” answered Sídorov, who was

considered an adept at French.

The soldier to whom the laughers referred was Dólokhov. Prince Andrew

recognized him and stopped to listen to what he was saying. Dólokhov

had come from the left flank where their regiment was stationed, with

his captain.

“Now then, go on, go on!” incited the officer, bending forward and

trying not to lose a word of the speech which was incomprehensible to

him. “More, please: more! What’s he saying?”

Dólokhov did not answer the captain; he had been drawn into a hot

dispute with the French grenadier. They were naturally talking about the

campaign. The Frenchman, confusing the Austrians with the Russians, was

trying to prove that the Russians had surrendered and had fled all

the way from Ulm, while Dólokhov maintained that the Russians had not

surrendered but had beaten the French.

“We have orders to drive you off here, and we shall drive you off,”

said Dólokhov.

“Only take care you and your Cossacks are not all captured!” said

the French grenadier.

The French onlookers and listeners laughed.

“We’ll make you dance as we did under Suvórov...,” * said

Dólokhov.

* “On vous fera danser.”

“Qu’ est-ce qu’il chante?” * asked a Frenchman.

* “What’s he singing about?”

“It’s ancient history,” said another, guessing that it referred to

a former war. “The Emperor will teach your Suvara as he has taught the

others...”

“Bonaparte...” began Dólokhov, but the Frenchman interrupted him.

“Not Bonaparte. He is the Emperor! Sacré nom...!” cried he angrily.

“The devil skin your Emperor.”

And Dólokhov swore at him in coarse soldier’s Russian and shouldering

his musket walked away.

“Let us go, Iván Lukích,” he said to the captain.

“Ah, that’s the way to talk French,” said the picket soldiers.

“Now, Sídorov, you have a try!”

Sídorov, turning to the French, winked, and began to jabber meaningless

sounds very fast: “Kari, mala, tafa, safi, muter, Kaská,” he said,

trying to give an expressive intonation to his voice.

“Ho! ho! ho! Ha! ha! ha! ha! Ouh! ouh!” came peals of such healthy

and good-humored laughter from the soldiers that it infected the French

involuntarily, so much so that the only thing left to do seemed to be

to unload the muskets, explode the ammunition, and all return home as

quickly as possible.

But the guns remained loaded, the loopholes in blockhouses and

entrenchments looked out just as menacingly, and the unlimbered cannon

confronted one another as before.