Book 2 Chapter 1

IN THE OCTOBER OF 1805 the Russian troops were occupying the towns and villages of the Austrian archduchy, and fresh regiments kept arriving from Russia and encamping about the fortress of Braunau, burdening the inhabitants on whom they were billeted. Braunau was the chief headquarters of the commander-in-chief, Kutuzov.

On the 11th of October 1805, one of the infantry regiments that had just reached Braunau had halted half a mile from the town, awaiting the inspection of the commander-in-chief. In spite of the un-Russian character of the country and the environment (the fruit gardens, the stone walls, the tiled roofs, the mountains in the distance, the foreign peasants, who looked with curiosity at the Russian soldiers), the regiment looked exactly as every Russian regiment always looks when it is getting ready for inspection anywhere in the heart of Russia. In the evening, on the last stage of the march, the order had been received that the commander-in-chief would inspect the regiment on the march. Though the wording of the order did not seem quite clear to the general in command of the regiment, and the question arose whether they were to take it to mean, in marching order or not, it was decided on a consultation between the majors to present the regiment in parade order on the ground, since, as the saying is, it is better to bow too low than not to bow low enough. And the soldiers after a twenty-five mile march had not closed their eyes, but had spent the night mending and cleaning, while the adjutants and officers had been reckoning up and calculating. And by the morning the regiment, instead of the straggling, disorderly crowd it had been on the last march, the previous evening, presented the spectacle of an organised mass of two thousand men, of whom every one knew his part and his duty, and had every button and every strap in its proper position, and shining with cleanliness. It was not only the outside that was in good order; if the commander-in-chief should think fit to peep below the uniform, he would see on every man alike a clean shirt, and in every knapsack he would find the regulation number of articles. There was only one circumstance which no one could feel comfortable about. That was their foot-gear. More than half the soldiers had holes in their boots. But this deficiency was not due to any shortcoming on the part of their commanding officer, since in spite of his repeated demands the boots had not yet been granted him by the Austrian authorities, and the regiment had marched nearly a thousand miles.

The commander of the regiment was a sanguine-looking general past middle age, with grey whiskers and eyebrows, broad and thick-set, and thicker through from the chest to the back than across the shoulders. He wore a brand-new uniform with the creases still in it where it had been folded, and rich gold epaulettes, which seemed to stand up instead of lying down on his thick shoulders. The general had the air of a man who has successfully performed one of the most solemn duties of his life. He walked about in front of the line, and quivered as he walked, with a slight jerk of his back at each step. The general was unmistakably admiring his regiment, and happy in it, and it was evident that his whole brain was engrossed by the regiment. But for all that, his quivering strut seemed to say that, apart from his military interests, he had plenty of warmth in his heart for the attractions of social life and the fair sex.

“Well, Mihail Mitritch, sir,” he said, addressing a major (the major came forward smiling; they were evidently in excellent spirits).

“We have had our hands full all night…But it'll do, I fancy; the regiment's not so bad as some…eh?”

The major understood this good-humoured irony and laughed.

“Even on the Tsaritsyn review ground they wouldn't be turned off.”

“Eh?” said the commander.

At that moment two figures on horseback came into sight on the road from the town, where sentinels had been posted to give the signal. They were an adjutant, and a Cossack riding behind him.

The adjutant had been sent by the commander-in-chief to confirm to the commander what had not been clearly stated in the previous order, namely, that the commander-in-chief wished to inspect the regiment exactly in the order in which it had arrived—wearing their overcoats, and carrying their baggage, and without any sort of preparation.

A member of the Hofkriegsrath from Vienna had been with Kutuzov the previous day, proposing and demanding that he should move on as quickly as possible to effect a junction with the army of Archduke Ferdinand and Mack; and Kutuzov, not considering this combination advisable, had intended, among other arguments in support of his view, to point out to the Austrian general the pitiable condition in which were the troops that had arrived from Russia. It was with this object, indeed, that he had meant to meet the regiment, so that the worse the condition of the regiment, the better pleased the commander-in-chief would be with it. Though the adjutant did not know these details, he gave the general in command of the regiment the message that the commander-in-chief absolutely insisted on the men being in their overcoats and marching order, and that, if the contrary were the case, the commander-in-chief would be displeased.

On hearing this the general's head sank; he shrugged his shoulders, and flung up his hands with a choleric gesture.

“Here's a mess we've made of it,” he said. “Why, didn't I tell you, Mihail Mitritch, that on the march meant in their overcoats,” he said reproachfully to the major. “Ah, my God!” he added, and stepped resolutely forward. “Captains of the companies!” he shouted in a voice used to command. “Sergeants!… Will his excellency be coming soon?” he said, turning to the adjutant with an expression of respectful deference, that related obviously only to the person he was speaking of.

“In an hour's time, I believe.”

“Have we time to change clothes?”

“I can't say, general.…”

The general, going himself among the ranks, gave orders for the men to change back to their overcoats. The captains ran about among the companies, the sergeants bustled to and fro (the overcoats were not quite up to the mark), and instantaneously the squadrons, that had been in regular order and silent, were heaving to and fro, straggling apart and humming with talk. The soldiers ran backwards and forwards in all directions, stooping with their shoulders thrown back, drawing their knapsacks off over their heads, taking out their overcoats and lifting their arms up to thrust them into the sleeves.

Half an hour later everything was in its former good order again, only the squadrons were now grey instead of black. The general walked in front of the regiment again with his quivering strut, and scanned it from some distance.

“What next? what's this!” he shouted, stopping short. “Captain of the third company!”

“The captain of the third company to the general! The captain to the general of the third company to the captain!” … voices were heard along the ranks, and an adjutant ran to look for the tardy officer. When the sound of the officious voices, varying the command, and, by now, crying, “the general to the third company,” reached their destination, the officer called for emerged from behind his company, and, though he was an elderly man and not accustomed to running, he moved at a quick trot towards the general, stumbling awkwardly over the toes of his boots. The captain's face showed the uneasiness of a schoolboy who is called up to repeat an unlearnt lesson. Patches came out on his red nose (unmistakably due to intemperance), and he did not know how to keep his mouth steady. The general looked the captain up and down as he ran panting up, slackening his pace as he drew nearer.

“You'll soon be dressing your men in petticoats! What's the meaning of it?” shouted the general, thrusting out his lower jaw and pointing in the ranks of the third division to a soldier in an overcoat of a colour different from the rest. “Where have you been yourself? The commander-in-chief is expected, and you're not in your place? Eh? … I'll teach you to rig your men out in dressing-gowns for inspection! … Eh?”

The captain, never taking his eyes off his superior officer, pressed the peak of his cap more and more tightly with his two fingers, as though he saw in this compression his only hope of safety.

“Well, why don't you speak? Who's that dressed up like a Hungarian?” the general jested bitterly.

“Your excellency …”

“Well, what's your excellency? Your excellency! Your excellency! But what that means, your excellency, nobody knows.”

“Your excellency, that's Dolohov, the degraded officer,” the captain said softly.

“Well, is he degraded to be a field-marshal, or a common soldier? If he's a soldier, then he must be dressed like all the rest, according to regulation.”

“Your excellency, you gave him leave yourself on the march.”

“Gave him leave? There, you're always like that, you young men,” said the general, softening a little. “Gave him leave? If one says a word to you, you go and …” The general paused. “One says a word to you, and you go and…Eh?” he said with renewed irritation. “Be so good as to clothe your men decently.…”

And the general, looking round at the adjutant, walked with his quivering strut towards the regiment. It was obvious that he was pleased with his own display of anger, and that, walking through the regiment, he was trying to find a pretext for wrath. Falling foul of one officer for an unpolished ensign, of another for the unevenness of the rank, he approached the third company.

“How are you standing? Where is your leg? Where is your leg?” the general shouted with a note of anguish in his voice, stopping five men off Dolohov, who was wearing his blue overcoat. Dolohov slowly straightened his bent leg, and looked with his clear, insolent eyes straight in the general's face.

“Why are you in a blue coat? Off with it!…Sergeant! change his coat…the dir…” Before he had time to finish the word—

“General, I am bound to obey orders, but I am not bound to put up with…” Dolohov hastened to say.

“No talking in the ranks! … No talking, no talking!”

“Not bound to put up with insults,” Dolohov went on, loudly and clearly. The eyes of the general and the soldier met. The general paused, angrily pulling down his stiff scarf.

“Change your coat, if you please,” he said as he walked away.

一八○五年十月间，俄国军队侵占了奥国大公管辖的几个大村庄和城市，一些新兵团又从俄国开来，驻扎在布劳瑙要塞附近的地方，因而加重了居民的负担。库图佐夫总司令的大本营也坐落在布劳瑙。

一八○五年十月十一日，刚刚抵达布劳瑙的步兵团在离城市半英里处扎营，听候总司令检阅军队。尽管地形和周围环境（果园、石砌的围墙、瓦房盖、远处望得见的山峦）与俄罗斯迥然不同，尽管非俄罗斯民众怀着好奇心观望着士兵，但是，这个兵团的外貌，却和俄罗斯中部任何地区任何一个准备接受检阅的俄国兵一模一样。

那天傍晚，在最近一次行军的路上，接到了一项关于总司令检阅行军中的兵团的命令。虽然团长不太明了命令中的措词，出现了应当怎样领会措词的问题：士兵是不是穿上行军的服装接受检阅？而在营长会议上，遵照以礼相待的准则，决定兵团的士兵穿上阅兵服接受检阅。于是在三十俄里的行军之后，士兵们目不交睫，彻夜缝补衣裳，洗濯污秽；副官和连长命令士兵报数，清除一部分人。次日清晨，这个兵团已经不是最近一次行军的前夜那样松松垮垮的乌合之众，而是一支拥有两千人众的排列整齐的军队，每个人都熟谙自己的位置和任务，每个人的每个纽扣和每根皮带都位于原处，洁净得闪闪发亮。而且不仅是外面穿的军装没有破烂不堪，如果总司令要察看军装里面，他就会看到每个人都穿着一件同样干净的衬衫，他也会发现每只背袋里都装有一定数量的物件，正像士兵们说的那样，“锥子、肥皂，应有尽有。”人人都认为，只有一件事令人心烦，那就是鞋子问题。士兵们的皮靴多半穿破了。但是这个缺点不能归咎于团长。虽然多次提出要求，奥国主管部门并没有把军需品拨给团长，而这个兵团走了一千俄里路了。

这个团长是个易于激动的、须眉均已苍白的渐近老境的将军，他体格结实，胸背之间的宽度大于左右两肩之间的宽度。他身穿一套新缝制的带有一溜溜褶痕的军装，镀金的肩章挺厚，好像没有压低他那肥胖的肩膀，而是使它隆起来。团长的那副样子，就像某人正在顺利地完成一项平生最庄严的事业似的。他在队列前面慢慢地走动，有点儿弯腰曲背，走动时微微发抖，看起来，这个团长非常欣赏自己的兵团，因为他居于一团之首而感到幸福，他把全部精力都投入这个兵团了。尽管如此，他那微微发抖的步态仿佛说明，他除开对军事颇感兴趣，对上流社会的生活方式和女性的兴趣在他灵魂深处也占有相当重要的地位。

“喂，老兄，米哈伊洛·米特里奇，”他把脸转向一个营长，说道（这营长微微一笑，向前移动一步，看上去他们都很走运），“夜里我们都挨责备了。可是，似乎还不错，我们的兵团不是劣等的……啊，不是吗？”

营长听懂了这句令人开心的讽刺话，笑起来了。

“就是在察里津草地举行阅兵式，也不会有人把我们赶出去的。”

“什么？”那团长说道。

这时候，在那分布着信号兵的直通城市的大道上，有两个骑马的人出现了，一个是副官，另一个是跟随身后的哥萨克。

副官是由总司令部派来向团长阐明昨天发布的命令中模糊不清的措词的，即是阐明，总司令意欲看见一个完全处于行军状态的兵团——穿军大衣，罩上外套，不作任何检阅准备。

前一天，奥国军事参议院有一名参议员由维也纳前来叩见库图佐夫，建议并要求俄国军队尽速与费迪南大公和马克的部队汇合，但是库图佐夫认为这种汇合并无裨益，所以，他在摆出可作为他的观点的佐证时，还试图请那位奥国将军目睹一下来自俄国的军队的凄惨情状。他愿意前来与兵团士兵会面，就是要臻达这个目的；因此，兵团的处境愈益恶劣，总司令就愈益高兴。尽管那个副官不熟悉详情，但他已向团长转达了非履行不可的总司令的要求，即是士兵必须穿军大衣，罩上外套，不然，总司令就会表示不满意的。

团长听了这些话后垂下头来，默不作声地耸耸肩膀，很激动地把两手一摊。

“胡作非为啊！”他说道。“米哈伊洛·米特里奇，我不是跟你说过，在行军中，就是要穿军大衣，”他指责营长，“唉呀！我的天！”他补充一句话，就很坚定地向前走去。“诸位，连长！”他用那惯于发口令的嗓音喊道。“上士！……他即将光临？”他流露出恭恭敬敬的神情面对前来的副官说道。看来是为他所提起的那人，他才面带这种表情的。

“我认为要过一个钟头。”

“还来得及换衣服吗？”

“将军，我不晓得……”

这个团长亲自走到了队列的前面，吩咐士兵们重新穿上军大衣。连长各自奔回连部，上士们开始忙碌起来了（一部分大衣未予缝补，不太完整），就在这一刹那间，那些原先既整齐而又肃静的四边形队列开始蠕动、松散，喧哗不已。士兵从四面八方来回奔走，一个个向前耸起肩膀，绕过头上取下行军用的背袋，脱下军大衣，抬起一双手伸进衣袖中。

过了半个钟头，一切恢复了原有的秩序，只有四边形队列已由黑色变成灰色的了。团长又用那微微发抖的步态走到兵团的前面，从远处望它一眼。

“这又是什么名堂？这是什么名堂？”他在停步之时喊，“第三连连长！……”

“传呼第三连连长去见将军，传呼连长去见将军，传呼第三连连长去见团长！……”一列列队伍都听见传呼的声音，一名副官跑去寻找那个磨磨蹭蹭的军官。

这些费劲传呼的声音越传越不对头，在传到被传者的耳鼓时，原话已经变成“将军被传到第三连”了。这名被传的军官从连部后面窜出来，他虽然是个已过中年的男人，不习惯于跑步，但他还是步履踉跄，磕磕绊绊地快步走到将军面前。上尉那种惶惑不安的神色，就像有人叫一个没有学会功课的学生回答问题似的。他那显然由于饮酒无度而发红的脸上现出了斑点，嘴巴撇得合不拢了。他走到团长近侧，放慢了脚步，当他气喘吁吁走到团长面前时，团长从头到脚把他打量一番。

“您很快要给士兵们换上长袍了！这是什么名堂？”团长喊道，他用下颔指了指第三连的队伍中的一个穿着与别人的军大衣截然不同的厂呢色军大衣的士兵，“您刚才呆在哪儿？预料总司令就要到了，而您擅自离开岗位，啊，不是吗？……我要教训您一顿，干嘛要让士兵们穿上卡萨金去接受检阅！

……啊，不是吗？

连长眼巴巴地望着首长，他把两个指头按在帽檐上，越按越紧，好像他认为这会儿只有按帽檐行礼才能得救似的。

“喂，您为什么不开腔？您这儿有一个装扮成匈牙利人的是谁呀？”团长带着严肃的神色，开玩笑说。

“大人……”

“喂，什么‘大人'？大人！大人！可是谁不知道‘大人'是什么。”

“大人，他是受降级处分的多洛霍夫……”上尉轻声地说道。

“怎么？他被贬为元帅，是不是？还是贬为士兵呢？士兵就应当像大家一样穿军装。”

“大人，您亲自准许他在行军时可以穿这种衣服。”

“我准许的么？我准许的么？你们这些年轻人总是这个样子，”团长有几分冷静地说道。“我准许的么？对你们随便说句什么话，你们就……怎么？”他怒气冲冲地说道，“请让士兵们穿着得体面一点……”

团长掉过头来望望副官，他又用那微微发抖的步态向兵团的队伍走去。可见他很喜欢大发脾气，在这个兵团的队伍中走了一阵之后，他想再找一个大发脾气的借口。他威吓一个军官，因为这个军官戴着尚未擦亮的奖章，又威吓另一个军官，因为他带的队伍不整齐，之后他就向第三连走去。

“你是怎——样站的？脚放在哪里？脚放在哪里？”离那个身穿浅蓝色军大衣的多洛霍夫莫约有五人间隔的地方，团长就用含有痛楚的嗓音喊道。

多洛霍夫把他那弯着的腿慢慢地伸直，用炯炯发亮的放肆无礼的目光朝将军的面孔瞥了一眼。

“干嘛要穿蓝色的军大衣？脱掉！……上士！给他换衣服……坏东西……”团长还没有把话说完，多洛霍夫就急急忙忙地说道：

“将军，我必须执行命令。但是，我不应该忍受……”

“在队伍里不要闲扯！……不要闲扯，不要闲扯！……”

“我不应该忍受屈辱。”多洛霍夫用那洪亮的嗓音把话说完了。

将军和士兵的视线相遇了。将军怒气冲冲地向下拉着那条系得紧紧的腰带，他沉默起来了。

“请您换换衣服吧，我请求您。”他走开时说道。