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Shortly after nine o'clock that evening, Weyrother drove with
his plans to Kutuzov's quarters where the council of war was to
be held. All the commanders of columns were summoned to the commander
in chief's and with the exception of Prince Bagration, who declined
to come, were all there at the appointed time.
Weyrother, who was in full control of the proposed battle,
by his eagerness and briskness presented a marked contrast to
the dissatisfied and drowsy Kutuzov, who reluctantly played the
part of chairman and president of the council of war. Weyrother
evidently felt himself to be at the head of a movement that had
already become unrestrainable. He was like a horse running downhill
harnessed to a heavy cart. Whether he was pulling it or being
pushed by it he did not know, but rushed along at headlong speed
with no time to consider what this movement might lead to. Weyrother
had been twice that evening to the enemy's picket line to reconnoiter
personally, and twice to the Emperors, Russian and Austrian, to
report and explain, and to his headquarters where he had dictated
the dispositions in German, and now, much exhausted, he arrived
at Kutuzov's.
He was evidently so busy that he even forgot to be polite
to the commander in chief. He interrupted him, talked rapidly
and indistinctly, without looking at the man he was addressing,
and did not reply to questions put to him. He was bespattered
with mud and had a pitiful, weary, and distracted air, though
at the same time he was haughty and self-confident.
Kutuzov was occupying a nobleman's castle of modest dimensions
near Ostralitz. In the large drawing room which had become the
commander in chief's office were gathered Kutuzov himself, Weyrother,
and the members of the council of war. They were drinking tea,
and only awaited Prince Bagration to begin the council. At last
Bagration's orderly came with the news that the prince could not
attend. Prince Andrew came in to inform the commander in chief
of this and, availing himself of permission previously given him
by Kutuzov to be present at the council, he remained in the room.
"Since Prince Bagration is not coming, we may begin,"
said Weyrother, hurriedly rising from his seat and going up to
the table on which an enormous map of the environs of Brunn was
spread out.
Kutuzov, with his uniform unbuttoned so that his fat neck
bulged over his collar as if escaping, was sitting almost asleep
in a low chair, with his podgy old hands resting symmetrically
on its arms. At the sound of Weyrother's voice, he opened his
one eye with an effort.
"Yes, yes, if you please! It is already late," said
he, and nodding his head he let it droop and again closed his
eye.
If at first the members of the council thought that Kutuzov
was pretending to sleep, the sounds his nose emitted during the
reading that followed proved that the commander in chief at that
moment was absorbed by a far more serious matter than a desire
to show his contempt for the dispositions or anything else- he
was engaged in satisfying the irresistible human need for sleep.
He really was asleep. Weyrother, with the gesture of a man too
busy to lose a moment, glanced at Kutuzov and, having convinced
himself that he was asleep, took up a paper and in a loud, monotonous
voice began to read out the dispositions for the impending battle,
under a heading which he also read out:
"Dispositions for an attack on the enemy position behind
Kobelnitz and Sokolnitz, November 30, 1805."
The dispositions were very complicated and difficult. They
began as follows:
"As the enemy's left wing rests on wooded hills and his
right extends along Kobelnitz and Sokolnitz behind the ponds that
are there, while we, on the other hand, with our left wing by
far outflank his right, it is advantageous to attack the enemy's
latter wing especially if we occupy the villages of Sokolnitz
and Kobelnitz, whereby we can both fall on his flank and pursue
him over the plain between Schlappanitz and the Thuerassa forest,
avoiding the defiles of Schlappanitz and Bellowitz which cover
the enemy's front. For this object it is necessary that... The
first column marches... The second column marches... The third
column marches..." and so on, read Weyrother.
The generals seemed to listen reluctantly to the difficult
dispositions. The tall, fair-haired General Buxhowden stood, leaning
his back against the wall, his eyes fixed on a burning candle,
and seemed not to listen or even to wish to be thought to listen.
Exactly opposite Weyrother, with his glistening wide-open eyes
fixed upon him and his mustache twisted upwards, sat the ruddy
Miloradovich in a military pose, his elbows turned outwards, his
hands on his knees, and his shoulders raised. He remained stubbornly
silent, gazing at Weyrother's face, and only turned away his eyes
when the Austrian chief of staff finished reading. Then Miloradovich
looked round significantly at the other generals. But one could
not tell from that significant look whether he agreed or disagreed
and was satisfied or not with the arrangements. Next to Weyrother
sat Count Langeron who, with a subtle smile that never left his
typically southern French face during the whole time of the reading,
gazed at his delicate fingers which rapidly twirled by its corners
a gold snuffbox on which was a portrait. In the middle of one
of the longest sentences, he stopped the rotary motion of the
snuffbox, raised his head, and with inimical politeness lurking
in the corners of his thin lips interrupted Weyrother, wishing
to say something. But the Austrian general, continuing to read,
frowned angrily and jerked his elbows, as if to say: "You
can tell me your views later, but now be so good as to look at
the map and listen." Langeron lifted his eyes with an expression
of perplexity, turned round to Miloradovich as if seeking an explanation,
but meeting the latter's impressive but meaningless gaze drooped
his eyes sadly and again took to twirling his snuffbox.
"A geography lesson!" he muttered as if to himself,
but loud enough to be heard.
Przebyszewski, with respectful but dignified politeness, held
his hand to his ear toward Weyrother, with the air of a man absorbed
in attention. Dohkturov, a little man, sat opposite Weyrother,
with an assiduous and modest mien, and stooping over the outspread
map conscientiously studied the dispositions and the unfamiliar
locality. He asked Weyrother several times to repeat words he
had not clearly heard and the difficult names of villages. Weyrother
complied and Dohkturov noted them down.
When the reading which lasted more than an hour was over,
Langeron again brought his snuffbox to rest and, without looking
at Weyrother or at anyone in particular, began to say how difficult
it was to carry out such a plan in which the enemy's position
was assumed to be known, whereas it was perhaps not known, since
the enemy was in movement. Langeron's objections were valid but
it was obvious that their chief aim was to show General Weyrother-
who had read his dispositions with as much self-confidence as
if he were addressing school children- that he had to do, not
with fools, but with men who could teach him something in military
matters.
When the monotonous sound of Weyrother's voice ceased, Kutuzov
opened his eye as a miller wakes up when the soporific drone of
the mill wheel is interrupted. He listened to what Langeron said,
as if remarking, "So you are still at that silly business!"
quickly closed his eye again, and let his head sink still lower.
Langeron, trying as virulently as possible to sting Weyrother's
vanity as author of the military plan, argued that Bonaparte might
easily attack instead of being attacked, and so render the whole
of this plan perfectly worthless. Weyrother met all objections
with a firm and contemptuous smile, evidently prepared beforehand
to meet all objections be they what they might.
"If he could attack us, he would have done so today,"
said he.
"So you think he is powerless?" said Langeron.
"He has forty thousand men at most," replied Weyrother,
with the smile of a doctor to whom an old wife wishes to explain
the treatment of a case.
"In that case he is inviting his doom by awaiting our
attack," said Langeron, with a subtly ironical smile, again
glancing round for support to Miloradovich who was near him.
But Miloradovich was at that moment evidently thinking of
anything rather than of what the generals were disputing about.
"Ma foi!" said he, "tomorrow we shall see all
that on the battlefield."
Weyrother again gave that smile which seemed to say that to
him it was strange and ridiculous to meet objections from Russian
generals and to have to prove to them what he had not merely convinced
himself of, but had also convinced the sovereign Emperors of.
"The enemy has quenched his fires and a continual noise
is heard from his camp," said he. "What does that mean?
Either he is retreating, which is the only thing we need fear,
or he is changing his position." (He smiled ironically.)
"But even if he also took up a position in the Thuerassa,
he merely saves us a great deal of trouble and all our arrangements
to the minutest detail remain the same."
"How is that?..." began Prince Andrew, who had for
long been waiting an opportunity to express his doubts.
Kutuzov here woke up, coughed heavily, and looked round at
the generals.
"Gentlemen, the dispositions for tomorrow- or rather
for today, for it is past midnight- cannot now be altered,"
said he. "You have heard them, and we shall all do our duty.
But before a battle, there is nothing more important..."
he paused, "than to have a good sleep."
He moved as if to rise. The generals bowed and retired. It
was past midnight. Prince Andrew went out.
The council of war, at which Prince Andrew had not been able
to express his opinion as he had hoped to, left on him a vague
and uneasy impression. Whether Dolgorukov and Weyrother, or Kutuzov,
Langeron, and the others who did not approve of the plan of attack,
were right- he did not know. "But was it really not possible
for Kutuzov to state his views plainly to the Emperor? Is it possible
that on account of court and personal considerations tens of thousands
of lives, and my life, my life," he thought, "must be
risked?"
"Yes, it is very likely that I shall be killed tomorrow,"
he thought. And suddenly, at this thought of death, a whole series
of most distant, most intimate, memories rose in his imagination:
he remembered his last parting from his father and his wife; he
remembered the days when he first loved her. He thought of her
pregnancy and felt sorry for her and for himself, and in a nervously
emotional and softened mood he went out of the hut in which he
was billeted with Nesvitski and began to walk up and down before
it.
The night was foggy and through the fog the moonlight gleamed
mysteriously. "Yes, tomorrow, tomorrow!" he thought.
"Tomorrow everything may be over for me! All these memories
will be no more, none of them will have any meaning for me. Tomorrow
perhaps, even certainly, I have a presentiment that for the first
time I shall have to show all I can do." And his fancy pictured
the battle, its loss, the concentration of fighting at one point,
and the hesitation of all the commanders. And then that happy
moment, that Toulon for which he had so long waited, presents
itself to him at last. He firmly and clearly expresses his opinion
to Kutuzov, to Weyrother, and to the Emperors. All are struck
by the justness of his views, but no one undertakes to carry them
out, so he takes a regiment, a division- stipulates that no one
is to interfere with his arrangements- leads his division to the
decisive point, and gains the victory alone. "But death and
suffering?" suggested another voice. Prince Andrew, however,
did not answer that voice and went on dreaming of his triumphs.
The dispositions for the next battle are planned by him alone.
Nominally he is only an adjutant on Kutuzov's staff, but he does
everything alone. The next battle is won by him alone. Kutuzov
is removed and he is appointed... "Well and then?" asked
the other voice. "If before that you are not ten times wounded,
killed, or betrayed, well... what then?..." "Well then,"
Prince Andrew answered himself, "I don't know what will happen
and don't want to know, and can't, but if I want this- want glory,
want to be known to men, want to be loved by them, it is not my
fault that I want it and want nothing but that and live only for
that. Yes, for that alone! I shall never tell anyone, but, oh
God! what am I to do if I love nothing but fame and men's esteem?
Death, wounds, the loss of family- I fear nothing. And precious
and dear as many persons are to me- father, sister, wife- those
dearest to me- yet dreadful and unnatural as it seems, I would
give them all at once for a moment of glory, of triumph over men,
of love from men I don't know and never shall know, for the love
of these men here," he thought, as he listened to voices
in Kutuzov's courtyard. The voices were those of the orderlies
who were packing up; one voice, probably a coachman's, was teasing
Kutuzov's old cook whom Prince Andrew knew, and who was called
Tit. He was saying, "Tit, I say, Tit!"
"Well?" returned the old man.
"Go, Tit, thresh a bit!" said the wag.
"Oh, go to the devil!" called out a voice, drowned
by the laughter of the orderlies and servants.
"All the same, I love and value nothing but triumph over
them all, I value this mystic power and glory that is floating
here above me in this mist!"
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