‘But as you well know, your Excellency, it is always wise to prepare for the worst,’ said the Austrian general, clearly eager to stop playing around and get down to business. He glanced with displeasure at the adjutant.
‘Excuse me, General,’ Kutuzov interrupted him, and he too turned to Prince Andrey. ‘My dear fellow, I want you to collect all our intelligence reports from Kozlovsky. Here are two letters from Count Nostitz, here’s one from his Highness the Archduke Ferdinand and there’s all these others,’ he said, handing him several documents. ‘Take all this and write me a memorandum, a note in your neatest French clearly presenting all the information we’ve received about any movements of the Austrian army. Do that, please, and then show it to his Excellency.’
Prince Andrey gave a nod which indicated that he had understood from the outset not only what was said but also what Kutuzov would have liked to say. He gathered up the papers, gave a single bow and padded across the carpeted floor and out into the reception-room.
Although it was not long since Prince Andrey had left Russia, he had changed a great deal during that time. His facial expression and the way he moved and walked showed barely a trace of his former affectation and languid boredom. He had the air of a man too absorbed in enjoyable and fascinating work to think about making an impression on other people. His face showed greater contentment – with himself and those around him. His smile was easier; a warmer charm shone in his eyes.
General Kutuzov, whom he had caught up with in Poland, had received him very graciously and promised not to forget him. He gave him preference over the other adjutants and took him to Vienna, entrusting him with the more important commissions. From Vienna Kutuzov wrote as follows to his old comrade, Prince Andrey’s father: ‘Your son, with his knowledge, spirit and attention to detail, has the potential to become an outstanding officer. I consider myself lucky to have such an able subordinate.’
On Kutuzov’s staff, among his fellow officers and in the army generally, Prince Andrey was what he had been in Petersburg society, a man with two completely different reputations. Some people – the minority – considered him a cut above themselves and everybody else; they expected a lot from him, they listened to him, admired and imitated him, and with these people Prince Andrey was open and agreeable. Others – the majority – didn’t like him at all, seeing him as petulant, aloof and thoroughly unpleasant. But Prince Andrey knew enough to ensure that even these people treated him with respect and sometimes a certain awe.
He left Kutuzov’s room and walked across the ante-room to his comrade, the duty adjutant, Kozlovsky, who was sitting by the window reading.
‘What is it, Prince?’ queried Kozlovsky.
‘I’ve been told to write a note saying why we’re not going on.’
‘Well, why aren’t we?’
Prince Andrey shrugged.
‘No news from Mack?’ asked Kozlovsky.
‘No.’
‘If he really had been beaten we would have heard by now.’
‘Quite likely,’ said Prince Andrey, moving towards the door. But he was confronted on the way out by a tall man who walked into the ante-room and slammed the door behind him. The new arrival was an Austrian general in a long coat, with a black cloth around his head and the Order of Maria Theresa around his neck. Prince Andrey stopped short.
‘Ze Commander-in-Chief Kutuzoff?’ asked the general, speaking quickly with a rough German accent. He looked to both sides and walked straight on to the door of the private room.
‘The commander-in-chief is busy,’ said Kozlovsky, hurrying over to the unknown general and barring his way to the door. ‘Who shall I say has arrived?’
The newcomer looked down on the diminutive Kozlovsky, apparently surprised not to be recognized.
‘The commander-in-chief is busy,’ Kozlovsky repeated calmly.
The general’s face contorted, his lips twitching and trembling. He took out a note-book, jotted something down in pencil, tore the page out and handed it to Kozlovsky, and then strode swiftly to the window, where he threw himself into a small chair and looked around at the others as though wondering why they were watching him. Then he looked up and thrust his neck out as though about to speak, only to start humming with a kind of forced nonchalance, a strange sound which he snapped off almost immediately. The door of the private room opened, and there was Kutuzov in the doorway. As though fleeing from some danger, the general with the bandaged head bent forward and sped towards him on spindly legs.
‘You see before you the unfortunate Mack,’ he managed to say in French, his voice breaking.
Kutuzov’s face, as he stood there in the doorway, remained impassive for a few moments. Then a wrinkle rippled across it like a wave, and left his forehead smooth. He bowed his head respectfully, closed his eyes, ushered Mack in without a word and closed the door behind him.
