“Your son,” he wrote, “promises to become an outstanding officer, by his knowledge, firmness, and industry. I consider myself fortunate to have such a subordinate at hand.”
On Kutuzov’s staff, among his comrades and colleagues, and in the army in general, as in Petersburg society, Prince Andrei had two completely opposite reputations. Some, the smaller part, considered Prince Andrei to be something distinct from themselves and from all others, expected great success from him, listened to him, admired him, and imitated him; and with these people Prince Andrei was simple and pleasant. Others, the majority, did not like Prince Andrei, considering him a pompous, cold, and unpleasant man. But with these people Prince Andrei was able to behave in such a way as to be respected and even feared.
Coming out to the waiting room from Kutuzov’s office, Prince Andrei, holding the papers, went up to his colleague on duty, the adjutant Kozlovsky, who was sitting by the window with a book.
“Well, what is it, Prince?” asked Kozlovsky.
“I’ve been ordered to compose a memorandum explaining why we are not moving forward.”
“And why is it?”
Prince Andrei shrugged his shoulders.
“Any news from Mack?” asked Kozlovsky.
“No.”
“If it were true that he’s been defeated, the news would have come.”
“Probably,” said Prince Andrei and headed for the front door; but just then the door slammed and a tall Austrian general, evidently just arrived, in a frock coat, his head bound in a black bandage and the order of Maria Theresa on his neck, quickly entered the waiting room. Prince Andrei stopped.
“General in Chief Kutuzov?” the just-arrived general spoke quickly, with a strong German accent, glancing to both sides and going to the door of the office without pausing.
“The general in chief is busy,” said Kozlovsky, hastily going up to the unknown general and barring his way to the door. “How shall I announce you?”
The unknown general looked down scornfully at the short Kozlovsky, as if surprised that there could be people who did not know him.
“The general in chief is busy,” Kozlovsky calmly repeated.
The general’s face frowned, his lips twitched and trembled. He took out a notebook, quickly jotted something with a pencil, tore out the page, handed it over, went with quick steps to the window, dropped his body into a chair, and looked around at those who were in the room, as if asking why they were looking at him. Then the general raised his head, stretched his neck, as if intending to say something, but at once, as if casually beginning to hum to himself, produced a strange sound, which at once broke off. The door to the office opened, and Kutuzov appeared on the threshold. The general with the bandaged head, leaning forward as if fleeing from danger, went up to Kutuzov with long, rapid strides of his thin legs.
“Vous voyez le malheureux Mack,”*179 he uttered in a breaking voice.
The face of Kutuzov, who was standing in the doorway of his office, remained perfectly immobile for a few moments. Then a wrinkle passed like a wave over his face, his brow became smooth again, he inclined his head deferentially, closed his eyes, silently allowed Mack to pass, followed him in, and closed the door behind him.
The rumor that had already spread earlier about the defeat of the Austrians and the surrender of the entire army at Ulm turned out to be true. Within half an hour adjutants had been sent out in various directions with orders demonstrating that the Russian troops, so far inactive, would soon also have to meet the enemy.
Prince Andrei was one of the rare officers on the staff who placed his main interest in the general course of military operations. Seeing Mack and hearing the details of his ruin, he understood that half the campaign was lost, understood all the difficulty of the Russian troops’ position, and vividly pictured to himself what awaited the army, and the role he was to play in it. Involuntarily, he experienced an excited, joyful feeling at the thought of the disgrace of self-confident Austria and of the fact that in a week, perhaps, he would have to see and take part in the encounter of the Russians with the French, the first since Suvorov. But he feared the genius of Bonaparte, which might prove stronger than all the courage of the Russian troops, and at the same time he could not allow for the disgrace of his hero.
Excited and irritated by these thoughts, Prince Andrei went to his room to write to his father, to whom he wrote every day. In the corridor he met his roommate Nesvitsky and the joker Zherkov; they were laughing at something, as usual.
“Why so glum?” asked Nesvitsky, noticing Prince Andrei’s pale face with its glittering eyes.
“There’s nothing to be merry about,” replied Bolkonsky.
Just as Prince Andrei met Nesvitsky and Zherkov, the Austrian general Strauch, attached to Kutuzov’s staff to oversee the supplying of the Russian army, came from the other end of the corridor, along with the member of the Hofkriegsrath who had arrived the day before. The corridor was wide enough for the generals to pass the three officers unhindered, but Zherkov, pushing Nesvitsky aside with his hand, said in a breathless voice:
“They’re coming!…they’re coming!…step aside, make way, make way, please.”
The generals came on, looking as if they could do without embarrassing honors. The face of the joker Zherkov suddenly showed a stupid smile of joy, which he seemed unable to suppress.
“Your Excellency,” he said in German, stepping forward and addressing the Austrian general, “I have the honor to congratulate you.”
He bowed his head and began scraping with one foot, then the other, awkwardly, like children who are learning to dance.
The general who was a member of the Hofkriegsrath looked at him sternly; but, noticing the seriousness of the stupid smile, could not refuse it a moment’s attention. He narrowed his eyes, showing that he was listening.
“I have the honor to congratulate you: General Mack has arrived in good health, except for a slight wound here,” he added with a beaming smile, pointing to his head.
The general frowned, turned away, and walked on.
“Gott, wie naiv!”*180 he said angrily after going a few steps.
Nesvitsky, guffawing, put his arm around Prince Andrei, but Bolkonsky, turning still more pale, with an angry expression on his face, pushed him away and turned to Zherkov. The nervous irritation he had felt at the sight of Mack, the news of his defeat, and the thought of what awaited the Russian army now found its outlet in his anger at Zherkov’s inappropriate joke.
“If you, my dear sir,” he began in a shrill voice, with a slight trembling of the lower jaw, “wish to be a buffoon, I cannot prevent you from being one; but I announce to you that the next time you dare to clown in my presence, I will teach you how to behave.”
Nesvitsky and Zherkov were so astounded by this outburst that they silently stared wide-eyed at Bolkonsky.
“Why, I only congratulated him,” said Zherkov.
“I am not joking with you, kindly keep silent!” shouted Bolkonsky, and, taking Nesvitsky by the arm, he walked away from Zherkov, who was at a loss how to reply.
“Well, what’s with you, brother?” Nesvitsky said peaceably.
“What’s with me?” said Prince Andrei, stopping in agitation. “Understand that we’re either officers serving our tsar and fatherland, and rejoice in our common successes and grieve over our common failures, or we’re lackeys, who have nothing to do with their masters’ doings. Quarante mille hommes massacrés et l’armée de nos alliés détruite, et vous trouvez là le mot pour rire,” he said, as if clinching his opinion by this French phrase. “C’est bien pour un garçon de rien, comme cette individu, dont vous avez fait un ami, mais pas pour vous, pas pour vous.*181 Only schoolboys can have fun like that,” Prince Andrei added in Russian, pronouncing the word with a French accent, noticing that Zherkov was still within earshot.