‘The enemy has put out his fires and a continual noise comes from his camp,’ he said. ‘What does this mean? Either he is retreating and that’s all we have to fear, or else he’s changing position.’ (He smiled his smile.) ‘But even if he set himself up in Thuerassa, that would only save us a good deal of trouble and all our arrangements would stay in place, every last detail.’
‘How can that be? . . .’ said Prince Andrey, who had long been waiting for a chance to voice his own doubts. Kutuzov woke up, cleared his throat hoarsely and scanned the generals.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘the disposition for tomorrow, no, for today – it’s past midnight – cannot now be changed. You have heard it, and we shall all do our duty. But before a battle there’s nothing more important than . . .’ (he paused) ‘a good night’s sleep.’
He made it clear that he was about to rise from his chair. The generals bowed and left. It was past midnight. Prince Andrey went out.
The council of war at which Prince Andrey had not managed to voice his opinion in the way that he had hoped had left him with a feeling of uncertainty and unease. Who was right – Dolgorukov and Weierother on the one hand, or Kutuzov and Langeron and the other men who disapproved of the plan of attack? He didn’t know. But couldn’t Kutuzov have gone straight to the Tsar with his views? Couldn’t it all have been handled differently? Was it really necessary to put tens of thousands of lives at risk, including my life,
‘Yes, I could easily get killed tomorrow,’ he mused.
And suddenly, at the thought of death, a whole chain of memories, some distant, some close to his heart, rose up in his imagination. He remembered saying goodbye to his father and his wife; he remembered falling in love with her, thought of her being pregnant, which made him feel sorry for her and for himself; and it was in a state of emotion and nervous anxiety that he walked out of the hut that he was sharing with Nesvitsky and began to stroll about outside. It was a foggy night and the moonlight shimmered mysteriously through the mist. ‘Tomorrow, oh yes, tomorrow!’ he thought. ‘Maybe tomorrow will see the last of me, and there will be no more memories – all these memories will have no more meaning for me. Maybe tomorrow – yes, it must be tomorrow – I can feel it coming – for the first time I shall have to show what I’m made of.’ And he imagined the battle, the loss of it, the fighting concentrated at one point and all the commanding officers in terrible confusion. And then he could sense the happy moment – at long last it would be like Toulon for Napoleon. With challenging frankness he voices his opinion before Kutuzov and Weierother and the Emperors. All are struck by the correctness of his approach, but no one is prepared to carry it through, so there he goes, leading a regiment, a division, with the sole proviso that no one is to interfere with his plans, and he leads his division through the crisis and on to a victory that is his alone. ‘Yes, but what about death and agony?’ says a different voice. Prince Andrey ignores it and goes on with his triumphs. Comes the next battle, and it is for him alone to plan the disposition. He may be described as a lowly aide to Kutuzov, but here he is doing everything on his own. The next battle is won by him. Kutuzov is replaced; he is the replacement . . . ‘Yes, but what comes next?’ queries the other voice. ‘Say you can manage to avoid getting wounded, killed or cheated a dozen times or more? What happens next?’ ‘Well, er . . .’ Prince Andrey answered himself, ‘I don’t know what happens next, I can’t possibly know, I don’t wish to know, but if that’s what I want, if I want glory, if I want to be famous and loved by everyone, it’s not my fault that I want this, that this is all I care for, the only thing I live for. Yes, only this! I won’t breathe a word of it to anyone, but, my God!, what can I do, if I care for nothing but glory and the love of men? Death, wounds, the loss of my family – nothing can frighten me. I know many people are dear and precious to me, my father, my sister, my wife – my nearest and dearest, yet, however terrible and unnatural it may seem, I would give them all up for one moment of glory, triumph over men, to be loved by men I don’t even know, and never shall know, to be loved by these people there,’ he thought, listening to men talking in the courtyard of Kutuzov’s castle. They were the voices of the officers’ servants doing the packing. Someone, probably one of the drivers, was teasing Kutuzov’s old cook, well known to Prince Andrey, about his name – Titus.
‘Hey, Tighty Titus!’ he said.
‘What d’you want?’ answered the old man.
‘Titus a drum!’ said the funny man.
‘Garn!’ said the cook’s voice, but it was swamped by the laughter of valets and servants.
