‘And ask whether the marksmen have been deployed,’ he added. ‘What they are doing? What they are doing?’ he murmured to himself, still not responding to the Austrian.
Prince Andrey galloped off to carry out the order. Overtaking all the battalions ahead of them, he stopped the third division and soon found out that there really was no line of marksmen in advance of our columns. The commander of the leading regiment was greatly shocked to receive an order from the commander-in-chief to deploy his marksmen. There he stood, sure in the knowledge that there were other troops ahead of him, and the enemy had to be at least six or seven miles away. And in fact there was nothing visible in front of him but an empty downhill slope blanketed with fog. Having passed on the commander-in-chief’s order to put things right, Prince Andrey galloped back. Kutuzov was still in the same place, his portly figure slumped in the saddle with the lassitude of age, and he was yawning wearily with his good eye closed. Instead of moving on, the troops had been told to order arms.
‘Good, good,’ he said to Prince Andrey before turning to the general, who was saying, watch in hand, that it must be time for them to get going because all the columns of the left flank had gone down already.
‘There’s plenty of time, your Excellency,’ Kutuzov got out between yawns. ‘Plenty of time!’ he repeated.
At that moment from a long way behind Kutuzov came the sound of regiments cheering, and the noise of it began to sweep towards them down the long, strung-out line of advancing Russian columns. Whoever was the cause of it must have been riding quickly. When the soldiers in the regiment near to Kutuzov started cheering he rode off to one side and looked around with a scowl. Towards them down the road from Pratzen galloped what seemed like an entire squadron of multicoloured horsemen. Two of them were riding side by side ahead of the rest at full gallop, one dressed in a black uniform with white plumes, on a bobtailed chestnut thoroughbred, the other dressed in white and riding a black horse. It was the two Emperors and their entourage. With all the panache expected from a veteran of the line, Kutuzov brought the men to attention and rode at the salute towards the Emperors. His whole body and manner had been suddenly transformed. He had adopted the air of an unquestioning subordinate. With an exaggerated display of respect which was clearly not to Alexander’s taste he rode up and saluted the Tsar.
A look of displeasure, no more than a wisp of mist in a clear blue sky, flashed across the Emperor’s young and happy face and vanished. That day, following his indisposition, he looked rather thinner than at Olmütz, where Bolkonsky had seen him for the first time abroad. But his fine grey eyes shone with the same captivating mixture of majesty and gentleness, and his delicate mouth, with its expressive versatility, showed most of all his noble spirit and young innocence.
If at Olmütz he had been more majestic, here he was brighter and more energetic. Slightly red in the face from a quick two-mile gallop, he reined in his horse, drew a long deep breath and looked round at his entourage, faces as young and eager as his own. Behind the Tsar, chatting and smiling, stood Czartoryski and Novosiltsev, Prince Volkonsky and Stroganov, and all the other high-spirited young men in opulent uniforms astride their splendid horses, which looked well groomed, still fresh and only slightly heated from the gallop. Emperor Francis, a long-faced young man with a ruddy complexion, sat bolt upright on his handsome black stallion and glanced around slowly with a rather worried look. He called one of his white adjutants over and asked him something. ‘Probably wants to know what time they started,’ thought Prince Andrey, watching his old acquaintance with an irrepressible smile as he recalled his audience with him in Brno. The imperial entourage included a number of elite young orderly officers – Russians and Austrians – from the guards and regiments of the line. Among them were grooms with spare horses, splendid animals from the royal stables, covered with embroidered saddle-cloths.
This glittering cavalcade of young people galloping up with so much youthful energy and assurance acted on Kutuzov’s demoralized staff like a breath of fresh country air blowing through an open window into a stuffy room.
‘Why aren’t you moving forward, Mikhail Larionovich?’ Emperor Alexander asked Kutuzov rather abruptly, stealing a respectful glance towards Emperor Francis.
‘I am waiting to see, your Majesty,’ Kutuzov answered with a polite bow.
The Emperor cupped an ear with a slight frown, as if he hadn’t quite heard.
