When the review was over the officers of both groups, the reinforcements and Kutuzov’s men, began to break down into little clusters. The talk was of honours won, the Austrians and their uniforms, their front line, Napoleon and the trouble in store for him once Essen’s corps arrived and Prussia came in on our side. But the main topic of conversation in every circle was Emperor Alexander, his every word and gesture recalled with huge delight.
They were united in a single desire: under the Emperor’s leadership to march on the enemy at the earliest opportunity. With the Emperor himself in command they could not fail to conquer any foe – this was the opinion of Rostov and most of the officers after the review. After the review they all felt more confident of victory than they would have done if they’d had a couple of victories behind them.
CHAPTER 9
The day after the inspection Boris Drubetskoy donned his best uniform and rode into Olmütz, bolstered by his comrade Berg’s best wishes, to see Bolkonsky, hoping to take advantage of his good relationship with him to improve his own position by becoming an adjutant to some person of significance, an army post that he saw as particularly attractive.
‘It’s all right for Rostov with a father who keeps sending him the odd ten thousand to talk about not sucking up to people and not being anybody’s flunkey. I’m not like him – I’ve got to rely on my brains and I have a career to make. I can’t afford to miss any opportunities. I’ve got to take them when they come.’
He didn’t find Prince Andrey in Olmütz that day. But the very sight of the town where the staff headquarters and the diplomatic corps were based and where both Emperors were staying with their suites, household and court, only served to reinforce his desire to belong to this elevated world.
He didn’t know anybody there, and in spite of his stylish guardsman’s uniform, all these exalted persons scurrying up and down the streets in their fine carriages, plumes, ribbons and medals – courtiers and military men – seemed to be so infinitely far above him, a little guards officer, that they were not so much reluctant to recognize his existence as simply unaware of it. At the quarters of the commander-in-chief, Kutuzov, where he asked for Bolkonsky, all the aides and even the orderlies looked at him as though they wished to impress on him that there were always plenty of officers like him hanging around and they were all heartily sick of seeing them. Despite this, or rather because of it, he went back the following day, the 15th, after dinner, walked into the house occupied by Kutuzov and asked for Bolkonsky. Prince Andrey was in, and Boris was shown into a large room probably once used for dancing though now it contained five beds and various other pieces of furniture: a table, some chairs and a clavier. One adjutant was sitting near the door dressed in a Persian dressing gown, writing at a table. Another, the stout, red-faced Nesvitsky, was lying on a bed with his arms under his head, sharing a joke with an officer sitting at his side. A third was playing a Viennese waltz on the clavier, while a fourth leant on the instrument, humming along. Bolkonsky wasn’t there. These gentlemen saw Boris come in, but not one of them moved. Boris approached the one who was writing, and he turned round looking irritated and said that Bolkonsky was the duty adjutant, and if he wanted to see him he should go through the door on the left into the reception-room. Boris thanked him, and did as instructed. In the reception-room he found a dozen men, officers and generals.
When Boris entered Prince Andrey was wincing disdainfully (with the air of polite weariness which so clearly says, ‘If I was off duty I wouldn’t waste a minute of my time talking to you’), as he listened to an old Russian general weighed down with medals, who was standing there rigidly almost on tiptoe, red in the face, expounding something to Prince Andrey and looking as obsequious as any common soldier.
