Bab Bab 64 · 第64章

At eight o’clock Kutúzov rode to Pratzen at the head of the fourth

column, Milorádovich’s, the one that was to take the place of

Przebyszéwski’s and Langeron’s columns which had already gone down

into the valley. He greeted the men of the foremost regiment and gave

them the order to march, thereby indicating that he intended to lead

that column himself. When he had reached the village of Pratzen he

halted. Prince Andrew was behind, among the immense number forming the

commander in chief’s suite. He was in a state of suppressed excitement

and irritation, though controlledly calm as a man is at the approach of

a long-awaited moment. He was firmly convinced that this was the day of

his Toulon, or his bridge of Arcola. How it would come about he did not

know, but he felt sure it would do so. The locality and the position of

our troops were known to him as far as they could be known to anyone

in our army. His own strategic plan, which obviously could not now

be carried out, was forgotten. Now, entering into Weyrother’s plan,

Prince Andrew considered possible contingencies and formed new projects

such as might call for his rapidity of perception and decision.

To the left down below in the mist, the musketry fire of unseen forces

could be heard. It was there Prince Andrew thought the fight would

concentrate. “There we shall encounter difficulties, and there,”

thought he, “I shall be sent with a brigade or division, and there,

standard in hand, I shall go forward and break whatever is in front of

me.”

He could not look calmly at the standards of the passing battalions.

Seeing them he kept thinking, “That may be the very standard with

which I shall lead the army.”

In the morning all that was left of the night mist on the heights was

a hoar frost now turning to dew, but in the valleys it still lay like a

milk-white sea. Nothing was visible in the valley to the left into which

our troops had descended and from whence came the sounds of firing.

Above the heights was the dark clear sky, and to the right the vast orb

of the sun. In front, far off on the farther shore of that sea of mist,

some wooded hills were discernible, and it was there the enemy probably

was, for something could be descried. On the right the Guards were

entering the misty region with a sound of hoofs and wheels and now and

then a gleam of bayonets; to the left beyond the village similar masses

of cavalry came up and disappeared in the sea of mist. In front and

behind moved infantry. The commander in chief was standing at the end of

the village letting the troops pass by him. That morning Kutúzov seemed

worn and irritable. The infantry passing before him came to a halt

without any command being given, apparently obstructed by something in

front.

“Do order them to form into battalion columns and go round the

village!” he said angrily to a general who had ridden up. “Don’t

you understand, your excellency, my dear sir, that you must not

defile through narrow village streets when we are marching against the

enemy?”

“I intended to re-form them beyond the village, your excellency,”

answered the general.

Kutúzov laughed bitterly.

“You’ll make a fine thing of it, deploying in sight of the enemy!

Very fine!”

“The enemy is still far away, your excellency. According to the

dispositions...”

“The dispositions!” exclaimed Kutúzov bitterly. “Who told you

that?... Kindly do as you are ordered.”

“Yes, sir.”

“My dear fellow,” Nesvítski whispered to Prince Andrew, “the old

man is as surly as a dog.”

An Austrian officer in a white uniform with green plumes in his hat

galloped up to Kutúzov and asked in the Emperor’s name had the fourth

column advanced into action.

Kutúzov turned round without answering and his eye happened to fall

upon Prince Andrew, who was beside him. Seeing him, Kutúzov’s

malevolent and caustic expression softened, as if admitting that what

was being done was not his adjutant’s fault, and still not answering

the Austrian adjutant, he addressed Bolkónski.

“Go, my dear fellow, and see whether the third division has passed the

village. Tell it to stop and await my orders.”

Hardly had Prince Andrew started than he stopped him.

“And ask whether sharpshooters have been posted,” he added. “What

are they doing? What are they doing?” he murmured to himself, still

not replying to the Austrian.

Prince Andrew galloped off to execute the order.

Overtaking the battalions that continued to advance, he stopped

the third division and convinced himself that there really were no

sharpshooters in front of our columns. The colonel at the head of the

regiment was much surprised at the commander in chief’s order to throw

out skirmishers. He had felt perfectly sure that there were other troops

in front of him and that the enemy must be at least six miles away.

There was really nothing to be seen in front except a barren descent

hidden by dense mist. Having given orders in the commander in chief’s

name to rectify this omission, Prince Andrew galloped back. Kutúzov

still in the same place, his stout body resting heavily in the saddle

with the lassitude of age, sat yawning wearily with closed eyes. The

troops were no longer moving, but stood with the butts of their muskets

on the ground.

“All right, all right!” he said to Prince Andrew, and turned to a

general who, watch in hand, was saying it was time they started as all

the left-flank columns had already descended.

“Plenty of time, your excellency,” muttered Kutúzov in the midst of

a yawn. “Plenty of time,” he repeated.

Just then at a distance behind Kutúzov was heard the sound of regiments

saluting, and this sound rapidly came nearer along the whole extended

line of the advancing Russian columns. Evidently the person they were

greeting was riding quickly. When the soldiers of the regiment in front

of which Kutúzov was standing began to shout, he rode a little to one

side and looked round with a frown. Along the road from Pratzen galloped

what looked like a squadron of horsemen in various uniforms. Two of them

rode side by side in front, at full gallop. One in a black uniform with

white plumes in his hat rode a bobtailed chestnut horse, the other who

was in a white uniform rode a black one. These were the two Emperors

followed by their suites. Kutúzov, affecting the manners of an old

soldier at the front, gave the command “Attention!” and rode up

to the Emperors with a salute. His whole appearance and manner were

suddenly transformed. He put on the air of a subordinate who obeys

without reasoning. With an affectation of respect which evidently struck

Alexander unpleasantly, he rode up and saluted.

This unpleasant impression merely flitted over the young and happy face

of the Emperor like a cloud of haze across a clear sky and vanished.

After his illness he looked rather thinner that day than on the field

of Olmütz where Bolkónski had seen him for the first time abroad, but

there was still the same bewitching combination of majesty and mildness

in his fine gray eyes, and on his delicate lips the same capacity for

varying expression and the same prevalent appearance of goodhearted

innocent youth.

At the Olmütz review he had seemed more majestic; here he seemed

brighter and more energetic. He was slightly flushed after galloping two

miles, and reining in his horse he sighed restfully and looked round

at the faces of his suite, young and animated as his own. Czartorýski,

Novosíltsev, Prince Volkónsky, Strógonov, and the others, all richly

dressed gay young men on splendid, well-groomed, fresh, only slightly

heated horses, exchanging remarks and smiling, had stopped behind the

Emperor. The Emperor Francis, a rosy, long faced young man, sat very

erect on his handsome black horse, looking about him in a leisurely and

preoccupied manner. He beckoned to one of his white adjutants and asked

some question—“Most likely he is asking at what o’clock they

started,” thought Prince Andrew, watching his old acquaintance with

a smile he could not repress as he recalled his reception at Brünn.

In the Emperors’ suite were the picked young orderly officers of the

Guard and line regiments, Russian and Austrian. Among them were grooms

leading the Tsar’s beautiful relay horses covered with embroidered

cloths.

As when a window is opened a whiff of fresh air from the fields enters

a stuffy room, so a whiff of youthfulness, energy, and confidence of

success reached Kutúzov’s cheerless staff with the galloping advent

of all these brilliant young men.

“Why aren’t you beginning, Michael Ilariónovich?” said the

Emperor Alexander hurriedly to Kutúzov, glancing courteously at the

same time at the Emperor Francis.

“I am waiting, Your Majesty,” answered Kutúzov, bending forward

respectfully.

The Emperor, frowning slightly, bent his ear forward as if he had not

quite heard.

“Waiting, Your Majesty,” repeated Kutúzov. (Prince Andrew noted

that Kutúzov’s upper lip twitched unnaturally as he said the

word “waiting.”) “Not all the columns have formed up yet, Your

Majesty.”

The Tsar heard but obviously did not like the reply; he shrugged his

rather round shoulders and glanced at Novosíltsev who was near him, as

if complaining of Kutúzov.

“You know, Michael Ilariónovich, we are not on the Empress’ Field

where a parade does not begin till all the troops are assembled,” said

the Tsar with another glance at the Emperor Francis, as if inviting

him if not to join in at least to listen to what he was saying. But the

Emperor Francis continued to look about him and did not listen.

“That is just why I do not begin, sire,” said Kutúzov in a

resounding voice, apparently to preclude the possibility of not being

heard, and again something in his face twitched—“That is just why

I do not begin, sire, because we are not on parade and not on the

Empress’ Field,” said he clearly and distinctly.

In the Emperor’s suite all exchanged rapid looks that expressed

dissatisfaction and reproach. “Old though he may be, he should not, he

certainly should not, speak like that,” their glances seemed to say.

The Tsar looked intently and observantly into Kutúzov’s eye

waiting to hear whether he would say anything more. But Kutúzov, with

respectfully bowed head, seemed also to be waiting. The silence lasted

for about a minute.

“However, if you command it, Your Majesty,” said Kutúzov, lifting

his head and again assuming his former tone of a dull, unreasoning, but

submissive general.

He touched his horse and having called Milorádovich, the commander of

the column, gave him the order to advance.

The troops again began to move, and two battalions of the Nóvgorod and

one of the Ápsheron regiment went forward past the Emperor.

As this Ápsheron battalion marched by, the red-faced Milorádovich,

without his greatcoat, with his Orders on his breast and an enormous

tuft of plumes in his cocked hat worn on one side with its corners front

and back, galloped strenuously forward, and with a dashing salute reined

in his horse before the Emperor.

“God be with you, general!” said the Emperor.

“Ma foi, sire, nous ferons ce qui sera dans notre possibilité,

sire,” * he answered gaily, raising nevertheless ironic smiles among

the gentlemen of the Tsar’s suite by his poor French.

* “Indeed, Sire, we shall do everything it is possible to

do, Sire.”

Milorádovich wheeled his horse sharply and stationed himself a little

behind the Emperor. The Ápsheron men, excited by the Tsar’s presence,

passed in step before the Emperors and their suites at a bold, brisk

pace.

“Lads!” shouted Milorádovich in a loud, self-confident, and cheery

voice, obviously so elated by the sound of firing, by the prospect of

battle, and by the sight of the gallant Ápsherons, his comrades in

Suvórov’s time, now passing so gallantly before the Emperors, that he

forgot the sovereigns’ presence. “Lads, it’s not the first village

you’ve had to take,” cried he.

“Glad to do our best!” shouted the soldiers.

The Emperor’s horse started at the sudden cry. This horse that had

carried the sovereign at reviews in Russia bore him also here on the

field of Austerlitz, enduring the heedless blows of his left foot and

pricking its ears at the sound of shots just as it had done on the

Empress’ Field, not understanding the significance of the firing, nor

of the nearness of the Emperor Francis’ black cob, nor of all that was

being said, thought, and felt that day by its rider.

The Emperor turned with a smile to one of his followers and made a

remark to him, pointing to the gallant Ápsherons.