‘Atten-shun!’ roared the general in a voice that would shake souls, a voice of personal pleasure, of warning to the regiment and of welcome to the approaching commander-in-chief.
Towards them down the broad, tree-lined country road came a tall, blue Viennese coach drawn by six horses at a smart trot, creaking on its springs. The general’s entourage and an escort of Croats followed on behind the coach. At Kutuzov’s side sat an Austrian general in a white uniform that looked out of place among the black Russian ones. The coach drew up before the regiment. Kutuzov and the Austrian general were chatting together in low voices, and Kutuzov gave a slight smile as he stepped down ponderously from the carriage step, for all the world as if these two thousand men watching him and the other general with bated breath simply didn’t exist.
A command rang out; the regiment jerked into life and presented arms with a ringing clatter. Then through the deathly silence came the reedy voice of the commander-in-chief. The regiment roared its response: ‘Long live His Ex – cellency! . . . ency . . . ency!’ Then silence again. At first Kutuzov stood rooted to one spot while the regiment changed formation, then he began walking along the ranks, accompanied by the general in white and followed by his entourage.
From the way the regimental commander saluted his commander-in-chief, staring fixedly at him, rigidly to attention and yet somehow cringing, from the way he bent forward eagerly as he followed the generals down the ranks, barely disguising his quivering walk, and jumped nervously at every word and movement of the commander-in-chief, it was evident that he was enjoying his role as a subordinate even more than his role as a commander. Because of his strictness and keenness, the regiment was in fine fettle compared with others that had reached Braunau at the same time. The sick and the stragglers numbered no more than two hundred and seventeen, and everything was in splendid order – except the soldiers’ boots.
Kutuzov walked the ranks, stopping occasionally to say a few friendly words to officers he had known in the Turkish war, and sometimes to the other ranks. More than once, looking down at their boots, he shook his head sadly, and pointed them out to the Austrian general, as if to say that, although no one was to blame, he couldn’t help noticing how bad things were. Each time this happened the regimental commander sprang forward so as not to miss a single word the commander-in-chief might say about his men. Following on behind Kutuzov, near enough for the slightest whisper to carry, came the twenty-strong entourage. These gentlemen were talking among themselves, and occasionally laughing. Closest of all to the commander-in-chief walked a handsome adjutant. It was Prince Andrey Bolkonsky. Alongside him was his comrade Nesvitsky, a tall and very fat staff-officer with a kind smile, a handsome face and watery eyes. Nesvitsky could hardly help laughing at a dark-skinned hussar near by. This officer, unsmiling and looking ahead doggedly with unblinking eyes, was goggling intently at the commander’s back, mimicking his every movement. Each time the commanding officer quivered and bent forward, the hussar officer quivered and bent forward in exactly the same way. Nesvitsky was laughing and nudging the others so they didn’t miss him playing the fool.
Kutuzov walked at a slow, leisurely pace past the thousands of eyes almost straining out of their sockets in an effort to see him. When he got to the third company he stopped abruptly. The entourage had not foreseen such a sudden stop and couldn’t help pressing up close behind.
‘Ah, Timokhin!’ said the commander-in-chief, recognizing the red-nosed captain who had been in trouble over the blue greatcoat.
It might have seemed impossible for anyone to stand as erect as Timokhin had done when the regimental commander had rebuked him, but now, finding himself spoken to by the commander-in-chief, the captain stretched himself to attention so rigidly that he seemed unlikely to survive the experience, should the commander-in-chief stay there much longer looking at him. For this reason Kutuzov, seeing how things stood and wishing him nothing but good, turned away sharply. A flicker of a smile passed over Kutuzov’s podgy, battle-scarred face.
‘Another old comrade from Izmail!’ he said. ‘A gallant officer! Are you pleased with him?’ Kutuzov asked the general in command. And the general, oblivious to the mirror-like mimicry of the hussar behind him, quivered, pressed forward and responded, ‘Yes, sir, very pleased indeed.’
‘We all have our little weaknesses,’ said Kutuzov, smiling as he walked away. ‘His was a predilection for Bacchus.’3
