‘And what about that Austrian bloke with him – looked like they’d chalked him all over. White as flour. I bet they strips him down and cleans him like we does the guns!’
‘Hey, Fedya . . . did he say anything about when it all starts? You were nearer than me. Somebody said Bonaparte’s here in Braunau.’
‘In Braunau? Rubbish! Come off it! It’s the Prussians what’s revolting now. The Austrians, they got to put ’em down. When that’s done, that’s when there’s a war with Bonaparte. And your mate says Bonaparte’s here now! Must be stupid. You keep your ears open.’
‘Blasted quartermasters! Look! Fifth company’s turning off into that village. They’ll have their porridge cooked, and we’re nowhere near!’
‘Give us a bit of your biscuit, old man.’
‘What? Did you give me any baccy yesterday? See what I mean? Go on, then, you can have a bit.’
‘We ought to have a halt here, or we’ll have to do another three or four miles with nothing inside us.’
‘Wasn’t it great when them Germans gave us a lift in their carts! Got a move on then, didn’t we?’5
‘But listen, boys, the folks round here be a weird lot. Up to now it’s been all Poles and suchlike, all under the Russian crown, from now on it’s all Germans, me boy.’
‘Singers to the front!’ came the captain’s call, and a couple of dozen men went forward from various ranks. The drummer, who was also the leader, turned round to face the choir, waved an arm and struck up a long, meandering soldier’s song, beginning: ‘As the morning sun was dawning . . .’, and ending: ‘Therefore, boys, we march to glory, all with Father Kamensky.’ This song had been composed in Turkey, and now it was being sung in Austria, except that instead of ‘Kamensky’ they sang ‘Kutuzov’.
Rapping out the last words in military fashion with a downward sweep of his arms as if he was throwing something on the ground, the drummer, a lean, handsome soldier about forty years old, looked grimly at the soldiers’ choir and frowned. Then, satisfied that everyone was looking at him, he made as if he was delicately raising some unseen treasure over his head with both hands, held it there for a few seconds . . . and then suddenly hurled it down in one furious movement.
‘Ah, the bosom of my cottage . . .’
And two dozen voices came in with the next line, ‘My new cottage . . .’, and the wooden-spoon player, in spite of all his accoutrements, leapt smartly to the front and walked backwards facing the company, jerking his shoulders and pretending to threaten people with his spoons. The soldiers stepped out to the rhythm of the song, swinging their arms and instinctively coming into step. Suddenly, from behind the company came the sound of wheels, the crunching of springs and the clattering of horses’ hooves. Kutuzov and his entourage were returning to the town. The commander-in-chief gave a signal for the soldiers to carry on, and soon he and all his followers were enjoying the singing, the antics of the dancing soldier and the happy men marching on so smartly. There, in the second row from the right flank, which the carriage had to drive past, one figure stood out – the blue-eyed soldier, Dolokhov, marching to the rhythm of the song with a special bounce and panache, and looking at the faces of those who were driving by with apparent pity for anyone who was not marching with them then and there in the ranks. The young hussar officer in Kutuzov’s suite, Zherkov, who had been mimicking the general, dropped back from the carriage and rode up to Dolokhov.
Zherkov had at one time belonged to the wild set in Petersburg which had had Dolokhov as its leader. He had come across Dolokhov outside Russia as a common soldier, and had not seen fit to recognize him. But now, following Kutuzov’s conversation with the disgraced officer, he addressed him with all the joviality of an old friend.
‘My dear fellow, how are you?’ he asked through all the singing, while manoeuvring his horse to keep pace with the marching soldiers.
‘How am I?’ Dolokhov answered coldly. ‘Can’t you see?’
The lively song gave a particular thrust to Zherkov’s free-and-easy cheerfulness as he spoke, and to the deliberate iciness of Dolokhov’s responses.
‘Well, how do you get on with the officers?’
‘Not bad. They’re good fellows. How did you manage to worm your way on to the staff?’
‘I was seconded. Just for a spell.’
They were silent.
I took my hawk and let him leave
From my right arm, from my sleeve . . .
The song rang out, automatically arousing feelings of brightness and joy. No doubt they would have had a different kind of conversation if they hadn’t been talking against the singing.
‘Have the Austrians really been beaten?’ asked Dolokhov.
‘They keep damn well saying so.’
‘I’m glad,’ came Dolokhov’s clear, snappy reply, as demanded by the song.
‘I say, why don’t you drop round one evening? We’ll have a game of cards,’ said Zherkov.
‘Have you got plenty of money, then?’
‘Well, do come.’
‘I can’t. I’ve sworn not to. No drinking or betting till I’m promoted.’
‘Oh well, come the first action . . .’
