WAR AND PEACE (Aylmer & Louise Maude's Translation). Leo Tolstoy

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      “I’ll flatten you into a pancake!” shouted the angry officer to the soldier. “Turn back with your slut!”

      “Mr. Aide-de-camp! Help me!… What does it all mean?” screamed the doctor’s wife.

      “Kindly let this cart pass. Don’t you see it’s a woman?” said Prince Andrew riding up to the officer.

      The officer glanced at him, and without replying turned again to the soldier. “I’ll teach you to push on!… Back!”

      “Let them pass, I tell you!” repeated Prince Andrew, compressing his lips.

      “And who are you?” cried the officer, turning on him with tipsy rage, “who are you? Are you in command here? Eh? I am commander here, not you! Go back or I’ll flatten you into a pancake,” repeated he. This expression evidently pleased him.

      “That was a nice snub for the little aide-de-camp,” came a voice from behind.

      Prince Andrew saw that the officer was in that state of senseless, tipsy rage when a man does not know what he is saying. He saw that his championship of the doctor’s wife in her queer trap might expose him to what he dreaded more than anything in the world—to ridicule; but his instinct urged him on. Before the officer finished his sentence Prince Andrew, his face distorted with fury, rode up to him and raised his riding whip.

      “Kind…ly let—them—pass!”

      The officer flourished his arm and hastily rode away.

      “It’s all the fault of these fellows on the staff that there’s this disorder,” he muttered. “Do as you like.”

      Prince Andrew without lifting his eyes rode hastily away from the doctor’s wife, who was calling him her deliverer, and recalling with a sense of disgust the minutest details of this humiliating scene he galloped on to the village where he was told that the commander in chief was.

      On reaching the village he dismounted and went to the nearest house, intending to rest if but for a moment, eat something, and try to sort out the stinging and tormenting thoughts that confused his mind. “This is a mob of scoundrels and not an army,” he was thinking as he went up to the window of the first house, when a familiar voice called him by name.

      He turned round. Nesvitski’s handsome face looked out of the little window. Nesvitski, moving his moist lips as he chewed something, and flourishing his arm, called him to enter.

      “Bolkonski! Bolkonski!… Don’t you hear? Eh? Come quick…” he shouted.

      Entering the house, Prince Andrew saw Nesvitski and another adjutant having something to eat. They hastily turned round to him asking if he had any news. On their familiar faces he read agitation and alarm. This was particularly noticeable on Nesvitski’s usually laughing countenance.

      “Where is the commander in chief?” asked Bolkonski.

      “Here, in that house,” answered the adjutant.

      “Well, is it true that it’s peace and capitulation?” asked Nesvitski.

      “I was going to ask you. I know nothing except that it was all I could do to get here.”

      “And we, my dear boy! It’s terrible! I was wrong to laugh at Mack, we’re getting it still worse,” said Nesvitski. “But sit down and have something to eat.”

      “You won’t be able to find either your baggage or anything else now, Prince. And God only knows where your man Peter is,” said the other adjutant.

      “Where are headquarters?”

      “We are to spend the night in Znaim.”

      “Well, I have got all I need into packs for two horses,” said Nesvitski. “They’ve made up splendid packs for me—fit to cross the Bohemian mountains with. It’s a bad lookout, old fellow! But what’s the matter with you? You must be ill to shiver like that,” he added, noticing that Prince Andrew winced as at an electric shock.

      “It’s nothing,” replied Prince Andrew.

      He had just remembered his recent encounter with the doctor’s wife and the convoy officer.

      “What is the commander in chief doing here?” he asked.

      “I can’t make out at all,” said Nesvitski.

      “Well, all I can make out is that everything is abominable, abominable, quite abominable!” said Prince Andrew, and he went off to the house where the commander in chief was.

      Passing by Kutuzov’s carriage and the exhausted saddle horses of his suite, with their Cossacks who were talking loudly together, Prince Andrew entered the passage. Kutuzov himself, he was told, was in the house with Prince Bagration and Weyrother. Weyrother was the Austrian general who had succeeded Schmidt. In the passage little Kozlovski was squatting on his heels in front of a clerk. The clerk, with cuffs turned up, was hastily writing at a tub turned bottom upwards. Kozlovski’s face looked worn—he too had evidently not slept all night. He glanced at Prince Andrew and did not even nod to him.

      “Second line… have you written it?” he continued dictating to the clerk. “The Kiev Grenadiers, Podolian…”

      “One can’t write so fast, your honor,” said the clerk, glancing angrily and disrespectfully at Kozlovski.

      Through the door came the sounds of Kutuzov’s voice, excited and dissatisfied, interrupted by another, an unfamiliar voice. From the sound of these voices, the inattentive way Kozlovski looked at him, the disrespectful manner of the exhausted clerk, the fact that the clerk and Kozlovski were squatting on the floor by a tub so near to the commander in chief, and from the noisy laughter of the Cossacks holding the horses near the window, Prince Andrew felt that something important and disastrous was about to happen.

      He turned to Kozlovski with urgent questions.

      “Immediately, Prince,” said Kozlovski. “Dispositions for Bagration.”

      “What about capitulation?”

      “Nothing of the sort. Orders are issued for a battle.”

      Prince Andrew moved toward the door from whence voices were heard. Just as he was going to open it the sounds ceased, the door opened, and Kutuzov with his eagle nose and puffy face appeared in the doorway. Prince Andrew stood right in front of Kutuzov but the expression of the commander in chief’s one sound eye showed him to be so preoccupied with thoughts and anxieties as to be oblivious of his presence. He looked straight at his adjutant’s face without recognizing him.

      “Well, have you finished?” said he to Kozlovski.

      “One moment, your excellency.”

      Bagration, a gaunt middle-aged man of medium height with a firm, impassive face of Oriental type, came out after the commander in chief.

      “I have the honor to present myself,” repeated Prince Andrew rather loudly, handing Kutuzov an envelope.

      “Ah, from Vienna? Very good. Later, later!”

      Kutuzov СКАЧАТЬ