 8 The Last of the Infantry hurriedly crossed the bridge, squeezing together as they approached it as if passing through a funnel. At last the baggage wagons had all crossed, the crush was less and the last battalion came onto the bridge. Only Denisov's squadron of hussars remained on the far side of the bridge facing the enemy, who could be seen from the hill on the opposite bank that was not yet visible from the bridge, for the horizon as seen from the valley through which the river flowed was formed by the rising ground only half a mile away. At the foot of the hill they wasteland over which a few groups of our Cossack scouts were moving. Suddenly on the road at the top of the high ground artillery and troops in blue uniform were seen. These were the French, a group of Cossack scouts retired down the hill at a trot. All the officers and men of Denisov's squadron, though they tried to talk of other things and to look in other directions, thought only of what was there on the hilltop and kept constantly looking at the patches appearing on the skyline, which they knew to be the enemy's troops. The weather had cleared again since noon and the sun was descending brightly upon the Danube and the dark hills around it. It was calm and at intervals the bugle calls and the shouts of the enemy could be heard from the hill. There was no one now between the squadron and the enemy except a few scattered skirmishers. An empty space of some seven hundred yards was all that separated them. The enemy ceased firing and that stern, threatening, inaccessible and intangible line which separates two hostile armies was all the more clearly felt. One step beyond that boundary line which resembles the line dividing the living from the dead lies uncertainty, suffering and death. And what is there? Who is there? There beyond that field, that tree, that roof lit up by the sun. No one knows, but one wants to know. You fear and yet long to cross that line and know that sooner or later it must be crossed and you will have to find out what is there, just as you will inevitably have to learn what lies the other side of death. But you are strong, healthy, cheerful and excited and are surrounded by other such excitedly animated and healthy men. So thinks or at any rate feels anyone who comes inside of the enemy and that feeling gives a particular glamour and glad kindness of impression to everything that takes place at such moments. On the high ground where the enemy was, the smoke of a cannon rose and a ball flew whistling over the heads of the Husser squadron, the officers who had been standing together rode off to their places. The Hussers began carefully aligning their Hussers. Silence fell on the whole squadron. All were looking at the enemy in front and at the squadron commander awaiting the word of command. A second and a third cannon ball flew past. Evidently they were firing at the Hussers, but the balls were rapid rhythmic whistle, flew over the heads of the Hussmen and fell somewhere beyond them. The Hussers did not look round, but at the sound of each shot, as at the word of command, the whole squadron with its rows of faces so alike yet so different, holding its breath while the ball flew past, rose in the stirrups and sunk back again. The soldiers, without turning their heads, glanced at one another, curious to see their comrade's impression. Every face, from Denisov's to that of the bugler, showed one common expression of conflict, irritation and excitement around chin and mouth. The quartermaster frowned, looking at the soldiers as if threatening to punish them. Cadet Mironov ducked every time a ball flew past. Rustov, on the left flank, mounted on his rook, a handsome horse despite its game leg, had the happy air of a schoolboy, called up before a large audience of an examination in which he feels sure he will distinguish himself. He was glancing at everyone with a clear, bright expression, as if asking them to notice how calmly he sat under fire. But despite himself, on his face too, that same indication of something new and stern showed round the mouth. Who's that courtesy there, Cadet Mironov? That's not white. Look at me, cried Denisov, unable to keep still on one spot, kept turning his horse in front of the squadron. The black hairy snub-nosed face of Vaska Denisov, and his whole short, sturdy figure with the sinewy hair-hand and stumpy fingers in which he held the hilt of his naked sabre, looked just as it usually did, especially toward evening when he had emptied his second bottle. He was only redder than usual, with his shaggy head thrown back like birds when they drink, pressing his spurs mercilessly into the sides of his good horse, Bedwin, and sitting as they were falling backwards in the saddle. He galloped to the other flank of the squadron and shouted in a hoarse voice to the men to look to their pistols. He rode up to Kirsten, the staff captain, on his broad back, steady mare, came at a walk to meet him. His face, with its long mustache, was serious as always, only his eyes were brighter than usual. Well, what about it? said he to Denisov. It won't come to a fight. You'll see. He shall retire. The devil only knows what they're about, muttered Denisov. Ah, Wostov, he cried, noticing the cadet's bright face. You've got it at last. And he smiled approvingly, evidently pleased with the cadet. Rostov felt perfectly happy. Just then the commander appeared on the bridge. Denisov galloped up to him. Your Excellency, let us attack them. I'll drive them up. Attack indeed, said the colonel, in a bald voice, puckering up his face as if driving off a troublesome flight. And why are you stopping here? Don't you see the skirmishes are retreating? Lead the squadron back. The squadron crossed the bridge and drew out a range of fire without having lost a single man. The second squadron that had been in the front line followed them across, and the last Cossacks quitted the far side of the river. The two Pavlegrad squadrons, having crossed the bridge, retired up the hill one after the other. Their colonel, Carl Bogdanovich Schubert, came up to Denisov's squadron and rode at a foot pace not far from Rostov, without taking any notice of him, although they were now meeting for the first time since their encounter concerning Talianin. Rostov, feeling that he was at the front, and in the power of a man toward whom he now admitted that he had been to blame, did not lift his eyes from the colonel's athletic back. He snapped covered with light hair and his red neck. It seemed to Rostov that Bogdanovich was only pretending not to notice him, and that his whole aim now was to test the cadet's courage, so he drew himself up and looked around him merrily. Then it seemed to him that Bogdanovich rode so near in order to show him his courage. Next he thought that his enemy would send the squadron on a desperate attack just to punish him, Rostov. Then he imagined how, after the attack, Bogdanovich, which come up to him as he lay wounded and would magnanimously extend the hand of reconciliation. The high-shouldered figure of Zhirkov, familiar to the Pavlogrades, as he had but recently left their regiment, rode up to the colonel. After his dismissal from headquarters, Zhirkov had not remained in the regiment, saying he was not such a fool as to slave at the front when he could get more rewards by doing nothing on the staff and had succeeded in attaching himself as an orderly officer to Prince Bagration. He now came to his former chief with an order from the commander of the rear guard. Colonel, he said, addressing Rostov's enemy with an air of gloomy gravity and glancing round at his comrades, there is an order to stop and fire the bridge. An order to who? asked the colonel morosely. I don't myself know to who? replied the cornet in a serious tone, but the prince told me to go and tell the colonel that the houses must return quickly and fire the bridge. Zhirkov was followed by an officer of the suite who rode up to the colonel of Hussars with the same order. After him the stout Nespisky came galloping up on a Cossack horse that could scarcely carry his weight. How's this, colonel? He shouted as he approached. I told you to fire the bridge and now someone has gone and blundered. They are all beside themselves over there and one can't make anything out. The colonel deliberately stopped the regiment and turned to Nespisky. You spoke to me of inflammable material, said he, but you said nothing about firing it. But, my dear sir, said Nespisky as he drew up, taking off his cap and smoothing his hair wet with perspiration with his plump hand. Wasn't I telling you to fire the bridge when inflammable material had been put in position? I am not, your dear sir, Mr. Staff Officer, and you did not tell me to burn the bridge. I know the service and it is my habit ordered strictly to obey. You said the bridge would be burned, but who would it burn? I could not know by the Holy Spirit. Ah, that's always the way, said Nespisky with a wave of the hand. How did you get here? Said he, turning to Zerkoff. On the same business, but you are damp, let me ring you out. You were saying, Mr. Staff Officer, continued the colonel in an offended tone. Colonel interrupted the officer at the sweep. You must be quick or the enemy will bring up his guns to use Grapeshot. The colonel looked silently at the officer of the sweep, at the Stout Staff Officer, and at Zerkoff, and he frowned. I will the bridge fire, he said in a solemn tone, as if to announce that in spite of all the unpleasantness he had to endure, he would still do the right thing. Striking his horse with his long muscular legs, as if it were to blame for everything, the colonel moved forward and ordered the second squadron, that in which Rostov was serving under Denisov, to return to the bridge. There, it's just as I thought, said Rostov to himself. He wishes to test me. His heart contracted and the blood rushed to his face. Let him see whether I am a coward, he thought. Again, on all the bright faces of the squadron, the serious expression appeared that they had worn when under fire. Rostov watched his enemy, the colonel, closely defined in his face confirmation of his own conjecture, that the colonel did not once glance at Rostov, and looked as he always did when at the front, solemn and stern. Then came the word of command. Look sharp, look sharp, several voices repeated around him. Their sabers catching in the bridles and their spurs jingling. The husses hastily dismounted, not knowing what they were to do. The men were crossing themselves. Rostov no longer looked at the colonel. He had no time. He was afraid of falling behind the husses, so much afraid that his heart stood still. His hands trembled as he gave his horse into an orderly charge, and he felt the blood rush to his heart with the thug. Denisov rode past him, leaning back and shouting something. Rostov saw nothing but the husses running all around him, their spurs catching and their sabers clattering. Stretchers shouted someone behind him. Rostov did not think what this call for stretchers meant. He ran on, trying only to be ahead of the others. But just at the bridge, not looking at the ground, he came on some sticky, trodden mud, stumbled and fell on his hands. The others outstripped him. At both sides, captain, he heard the voice of the colonel, who had ridden ahead, had pulled up his horse near the bridge with a triumphed, cheerful face. Rostov, wiping his muddy hands on his britches, looked at his enemy and was about to run on, thinking that the father he went to the front the better. But Volgdenich, without looking or at recognising Rostov, shouted to him, Who's that running on the middle of the bridge? To the right, come back cadet, he cried angrily, and turning to Denisov, who, showing off his courage, had ridden on to the planks of the bridge. Why run risks, captain? You should dismount, he said. Oh, every bullet has its fillet, answered Vaska Denisov, turning in his saddle. Meanwhile, Nespisky, Serkov and the officers of the suite were standing together at a range of the shots, watching, now the small group of men with yellow shackles, dark green jackets braided with cord and blue riding britches, who were swarming near the bridge and then at what was approaching in the distance from the opposite side, the blue uniforms and groups with horses, easily recognisable as artillery. Will they burn the bridge or not? He'll get there first, will they get there and fire the bridge, or will the French get within grape shot range and wipe them out? These were the questions each man of the troops on the high ground above the bridge involuntarily asked himself with a sinking heart, watching the bridge and the husses in the bright evening light and the blue tunics advancing from the other side with their bayonets and guns. Ah, the husses will get it hot, said Nespisky. They are within grape shot range now. He shouldn't have taken so many men, said the officer of the suite. True enough, answered Nespisky. Two smart fellows could have done the job just as well. Ah, your Excellency, put in circle, his eyes fixed on the husses, but still with that naïve air that made it impossible to know whether he was speaking ingest or in earnest. Ah, your Excellency, how you look at things, send two men and who then would give us the Vladimir medal and ribbon. But now, even if they do get peppered, the squadron may be recommended for honors and he may get a ribbon. Our Bogdanovich knows how things are done. There now, said the officer of the suite. That's grape shot. He pointed to the French guns, the limbers of which were being detached and hurriedly removed. On the French side, amid the groups with cannon, a cloud of smoke appeared, then a second and a third, almost simultaneously. And at the moment when the first report was heard, a fourth was seen. Then two reports, one after another, and a third. Uh oh, grown Nespisky, as if in fierce pain, seizing the officer of the suite by the arm. Look, a man has fallen, fallen, fallen. Two, I think. If I was that, I would never go to war. Said Nespisky, turning away. The French guns were hastily reloaded. The infantry in their blue uniforms advanced toward the bridge at a run. Smoke appeared again, but at irregular intervals, and grape shot cracked and rattled onto the bridge. But this time, Nespisky could not see what was happening there, as a dense cloud of smoke arose from it. The Hussars had succeeded in setting it on fire and the French batteries were now firing at them, no longer to hinder them that because the guns were trained, and there was someone to fire at. The French had time to fire three rounds of grape shot before the Hussars got back to their horses. Two were misdirected and the shot went too high. But the last round fell in the midst of a group of Hussars and knocked three of them over. Rustoff, absorbed by his relations with Bogdanovich, had paused on the bridge not knowing what to do. There was no one to chew down, as he had always imagined battles to himself, nor could he help to fire the bridge because he had not brought any burning straw with him like the other soldiers. He stood looking about him when suddenly he heard a rattle on the bridge as if nuts were being split, and the Hussars nearest to him fell against the rails with a groan. Rustoff ran up to him with the others. Again someone shouted, stretches, four men seized the Hussars and began lifting him. Oh, for Christ's sake, let me alone cried the wounded man, but still he was lifted and laid on the stretcher. Nicholas Rustoff turned away and, as if searching for something, gazed into the distance at the waters of the Danube, at the sky and at the sun. How beautiful the sky looked, how blue, how calm and how deep, how bright and glorious was the setting sun. With what soft glitter the waters of the distant Danube shone, and fairer still were the faraway blue mountains beyond the river, the nunnery, the mysterious gorges, and the pine forests veiled in the mist of their summits. There was peace and happiness. I should wish him for nothing else, nothing if only I were there, thought Rustoff. In myself alone and in that sunshine there is so much happiness, but here groans suffering, fear, and this uncertainty and hurry. There they are shouting again and again are all running back somewhere, and I shall run with them, and it, death, is here above me and around. Another instant and I shall never again see the sun, this water, that gorge. At that instant the sun began to hide behind the clouds and other stretches came into view before Rustoff, and the fear of death and of the stretches and love of the sun and of life all merged into one feeling, a sickening agitation. Oh Lord God, thou who art in that heaven, save, forgive, and protect me, Rustoff whispered. The hussars ran back to the men who held their horses. Their voices sounded louder and calmer. The stretches disappeared from sight. Well, friend, so you've smelled powder, shouted Vaska Denisov, just above his ear. It's all over, but I am a coward, yes, a coward, thought Rustoff, and sighing deeply he took root, his horse, which stood resting one foot from the orderly and began to mount. With that grape shot he asked Denisov, yes, and no mistake cried Denisov, you walk like regular books and at nasty work, and attacks pleasant work, hacking away at dogs, but this sort of thing is the very devil, and with them shooting at you like a target. And Denisov rode up to a group that had stopped new Rustoff, composed of the Colonel, Nezvitsky, Serkov, and the officer from the suite. Well, it seems that no one has noticed, thought Rustoff, and this was true. No one had taken any notice. For everyone knew the sensation which the dead under fire for the first time had experienced. Here's something for you to report, said Serkov. See if I don't get promoted to a sublutenancy. Inform the Prince that I the bridge fired, said the Colonel triumphantly and gaily, and if he asks about the losses. A triple, said the Colonel, in his vast voice. Two houses wounded, and one knocked out. He added, unable to restrain a happy smile, and pronouncing the phrase knocked out with ringing distinctness. End of chapter 8. War and Peace, book 2, chapter 9, read for LibriVox.org by Gesine. Pursued by the French army of 100,000 men under the command of Bonaparte, encountering a population that was unfriendly to it, losing confidence in its allies, suffering from shortness of supplies, and compelled to act under conditions of war unlike anything that had been foreseen, the Russian army of 35,000 men commanded by Kutuzov was hurriedly retreating along the Danube. Stopping were overtaken by the enemy, and fighting reguard actions only as far as necessary to enable it to retreat without losing its heavy equipment. There had been actions at Lambach, Armstetten, and Melk, but despite the courage and endurance acknowledged even by the enemy, with which the Russians fought, the only consequence of these actions was a yet more rapid retreat. Austrian troops that had escaped captured Ulm and had joined Kutuzov at Braunau, now separated from the Russian army, and Kutuzov was left with only his own weak and exhausted forces. The defense of Vienna was no longer to be thought of. Instead of an offensive, the plan of which carefully prepared in accord with the modern science of strategics, had been handed to Kutuzov when he was in Vienna by the Austrian Hofkriegsrat. The sole and almost unattainable aim remaining for him was to effect a junction with the forces that were advancing from Russia without losing his army as Mak had done at Ulm. On the 28th of October, Kutuzov with his army crossed to the left bank of the Danube and took up a position for the first time with a river between himself and the main body of the French. On the 30th, he attacked Mortier's division which was on the left bank and broke it up. In this action for the first time trophies were taken, banners, cannon and two enemy generals. For the first time after a fortnight's retreat the Russian troops had halted and after a fight had not only held the field but had repulsed the French. Though the troops were ill-clad, exhausted and had lost a third of their number in killed, wounded, sick and stragglers, though a number of sick and wounded had been abandoned on the other side of the Danube with a letter in which Kutuzov entrusted them to the humanity of the enemy. And though the big hospitals and the houses in Krems converted into military hospitals could no longer accommodate all the sick and wounded, yet the Stan made at Krems and the victory over Mortier raised the spirit of the army considerably. Throughout the whole army and at headquarters, most joyful though erroneous rumors were rife of the imaginary approach of columns from Russia, of some victory gained by the Austrians and of the retreat of the frightened Bonaparte. Prince Andrew during the battle had been in attendance on the Austrian general Schmitt who was killed in the action. His horse had been wounded under him and his own arm slightly grazed by a bullet. As a mark of the commander-in-chief's special favour he was sent with the news of this victory to the Austrian court, now no longer at Vienna, which was threatened by the French, but at Brun. Despite his apparently delicate build, Prince Andrew could endure physical fatigue far better than many very muscular men and on the night of the battle, having arrived at Krems excited but not weary, with dispatches from Drov to Kutuzov, he was sent immediately with a special dispatch to Brun. To be so sent meant not only a reward but an important step toward promotion. The night was dark but starry, the road showed black in the snow that had fallen the previous day, the day of the battle. Reviewing his impressions of the recent battle, picturing pleasantly to himself the impression his news of a victory would create, or recalling this end of, given him by the commander-in-chief and his fellow officers, Prince Andrew was galloping along in a post-chase, enjoying the feelings of a man who has at length begun to attain a long desired happiness. As soon as he closed his eyes, his ears seemed filled with the rattle of the wheels and the sensation of victory. Then he began to imagine that the Russians were running away and that he himself was killed, but he quickly roused himself with a feeling of joy, as if learning afresh that this was not so, but that on the contrary the French had run away. He again recalled all the details of the victory and his own calm courage during the battle, and feeling reassured he dozed off. The dark, starry night was followed by a bright, cheerful morning. The snow was thawing in the sunshine, the horses galloped quickly, and on both sides of the road were forests of different kinds, fields and villages. At one of the post-stations he overtook a convoy of Russian wounded. The Russian officer in charge of the transport lolled back in the front cart, shouting and scolding a soldier with coarse abuse. In each of the long German carts six or more pale, dirty, bandaged men were being jolted over the stony road. Some of them were talking, he heard Russian words, others were eating bread. The more severely wounded looked silently with the languid interest of sick children at the convoy, harrying past them. Prince Andrew told his driver to stop and asked the soldier in what action they had been wounded. Day before yesterday on the Danube answered the soldier. Prince Andrew took out his purse and gave the soldier three gold pieces. That's for them all, he said to the officer who came up. Get well soon, lads, he continued, turning to the soldiers. There's plenty to do still. What news, sir? asked the officer, evidently anxious to start a conversation. Good news, go on. He shouted to the driver and they galloped on. It was already quite dark when Prince Andrew rattled over the paved streets of Brun and found himself surrounded by high buildings, the lights of shops, houses and street lamps, fine carriages and all that atmosphere of a large and active town which was always so attractive to a soldier after camp life. Despite his rapid journey and sleepless night, Prince Andrew, when he drove up to the palace, felt even more vigorous and alert than he had done the day before. Only his eyes gleamed feverishly and his thoughts followed one another with extraordinary clearness and rapidity. He again vividly recalled the details of the battle, no longer dim but definite and in the concise form in which he imagined himself stating them to the Emperor Francis. He vividly imagined the casual questions that might be put to him and the answers he would give. He expected to be at once presented to the Emperor. At the chief entrance to the palace, however, an official came running out to meet him and learning that he was a special messenger led him to another entrance. To the right from the corridor, oe hochkeborn, there you will find the adjutant on duty, said the official. He will conduct you to the minister of war. The adjutant on duty, meeting Prince Andrew, asked him to wait and went into the minister of war. Five minutes later he returned and bowing with particular courtesy ushered Prince Andrew before him along a corridor to the cabinet where the minister of war was at work. The adjutant, by his elaborate courtesy, appeared to wish to ward off any attempted familiarity on the part of the Russian messenger. Prince Andrew's joyous feeling was considerably weakened as he approached the door of the minister's room. He felt offended and without his noticing it the feeling of offence immediately turned into one of disdain which was quite uncalled for. His fertile mind instantly suggested to him a point of view which gave him a right to despise the adjutant and the minister. Away from the smell of powder they probably think it easy to gain victories, he thought. His eyes narrowed disdainfully. He entered the room of the minister of war with peculiarly deliberate steps. This feeling of disdain was heightened when he saw the minister seated at a large table reading some papers and making pencil notes on them, and for the first two or three minutes taking no notice of his arrival. A wax candle stood at each side of the minister's bent bald head with its gray temples. He went on reading to the end without raising his eyes at the opening of the door and the sound of footsteps. Take this and deliver it, said he to his adjutant, handing him the papers and still taking no notice of the special messenger. Prince Andrew felt that either the actions of Kudasov's army interested the minister of war less than any of the other matters he was concerned with or he wanted to give the Russian special messenger that impression. But that is a matter of perfect indifference to me, he thought. The minister drew the remaining papers together, arranged them evenly, and then raised his head. He had an intellectual and very distinctive head, but the instant he turned to Prince Andrew, the firm intelligent expression of his face changed in a way evidently deliberate and habitual to him. His face took on the stupid artificial smile, which does not even attempt to hide its artificiality. Of a man who is continually receiving many petitioners one after another, from General Field Marshal Kudasov, he asked, I hope it is good news. There has been an encounter with Motye, a victory. It was high time. He took the dispatch which was addressed to him and began to read it with a mournful expression. Oh my God! My God! Schmidt! He exclaimed in German. What a calamity! What a calamity! Having glanced through the dispatch, he laid it on the table and looked at Prince Andrew, evidently considering something. Ah! What a calamity! You say the affair was decisive, but Motye is not captured. Again he pondered. I am very glad you have brought good news, though Schmidt's death is a heavy price to pay for the victory. His Majesty will no doubt wish to see you, but not today. I thank you. You must have a rest. Be at the levee tomorrow after the parade. However, I will let you know. The stupid smile which had left his face while he was speaking reappeared. Au revoir. Thank you very much. His Majesty will probably desire to see you, he added, bowing his head. When Prince Andrew left the palace, he felt that all the interest and happiness the victory had afforded him, had been now left in the indifferent hands of the minister of war and the polite adjutant. The whole tenor of his thoughts instantaneously changed. The battle seemed the memory of a remote event long past. End of Chapter 9. Recorded by Gesine in May 2007. Prince Andrew stayed at Brun with Bolibin, a Russian acquaintance of his in the diplomatic service. Ah! My dear Prince, I could not have a more welcome visitor, said Bolibin, as he came out to meet Prince Andrew. Friends, put the Prince's things in my bedroom, said he to the servant who was ushering Balkonsky in. So you are a messenger of victory, eh? Splendid, and I am sitting here ill, as you see. After washing and dressing, Prince Andrew came into the diplomat's luxurious study and sat down to the dinner prepared for him. Bolibin settled down comfortably beside the fire. After his journey and the campaign during which he had been deprived of all the comforts of cleanliness and all the refinements of life, Prince Andrew felt a pleasant sense of repose among luxurious surroundings such as he had been accustomed to from childhood. Besides, it was pleasant, after his reception by the Austrians, to speak, if not in Russian, for they were speaking French, at least with a Russian, who would, he supposed, share the general Russian antipathy to the Austrians, which was then particularly strong. Bolibin was a man of thirty-five, a bachelor, and of the same circle as Prince Andrew. They had known each other previously in Petersburg, but had become more intimate when Prince Andrew was in Vienna with Katoosov. Just as Prince Andrew was a young man who gave promise of rising high in the military profession, so to an even greater extent, Bolibin gave promise of rising in his diplomatic career. He, still a young man but no longer a young diplomat, as he had entered the service at the age of sixteen, had been in Paris and Copenhagen, and now held a rather important post in Vienna. Both the Foreign Minister and our Ambassador in Vienna knew him and valued him. He was not one of those many diplomats who are esteemed because they have certain negative qualities, avoid doing certain things, and speak French. He was one of those who, liking work, knew how to do it, and despite his indolence, would sometimes spend a whole night at his writing-table. He worked well whatever the import of his work. It was not the question what for, but the question how, that interested him. What the diplomatic matter might be he did not care, but it gave him great pleasure to prepare a circular, memorandum or report, skillfully, pointedly, and elegantly. Bilibin's services were valued not only for what he wrote, but also for his skill in dealing and conversing with those in the highest spheres. Bilibin liked conversation as he liked work, only when it could be made elegantly witty. In society he always awaited an opportunity to say something striking, and took part in a conversation only when that was possible. His conversation was always sprinkled with wittily original finished phrases of general interest. These sayings were prepared in the inner laboratory of his mind in a portable form, as if intentionally, so that insignificant society people might carry them from drawing-room to drawing-room, and in fact Bilibin's witticisms were hawked about in the Viennese drawing-rooms, and often had an influence on matters considered important. His thin, worn, sallow face was covered with deep wrinkles, which always looked as clean and well washed as the tips of one's fingers after a Russian bath. The movement of these wrinkles formed the principal play of expression on his face. Now his forehead would pucker into deep folds, and his eyebrows were lifted, then his eyebrows would descend, and deep wrinkles would crease his cheeks. His small, deep-set eyes always twinkled and looked out straight. Well, now tell me about your exploits, said he. Bulkonski, very modestly, without once mentioning himself, described the engagement and his reception by the Minister of War. They received me and my news, as one receives a dog in a game of skittles, said he, in conclusion. Bilibin smiled, and the wrinkles on his face disappeared. He remarked, examining his nails from a distance, and puckering the skin above his left eye. He went on, talking this way in French, uttering only those words in Russian, on which he wished to put to contemptuous emphasis. Come, now, you with all your forces fall on the unfortunate of the Russian army, and I must say that your victory was not particularly victorious. He went on, talking this way in French, uttering only those words in Russian, on which he wished to put to contemptuous emphasis. Come, now, you with all your forces fall on the unfortunate Mortier and his one division, and even then Mortier slips through your fingers. Where's the victory? But seriously, said Prince Andrew, we can at any rate say without boasting that it was a little better than at Ulm. Why didn't you capture one, just one marshal for us? Because not everything happens as one expects, or with the smoothness of a parade, we had expected, as I told you, to get at their rear by seven in the morning, but had not reached it by five in the afternoon. And why didn't you do it at seven in the morning? You ought to have been there at seven in the morning! returned Billabin with a smile. You ought to have been there at seven in the morning. Why did you not succeed in impressing on Bonaparte by diplomatic methods that he had better leave Genoa alone? retorted Prince Andrew in the same tone. I know, interrupted Billabin. You're thinking it's very easy to take marshals sitting on a sofa by the fire. That is true. But still, why didn't you capture him? So don't be surprised if not only the Minister of War, but also his most august Majesty the Emperor and King Francis is not much delighted by your victory. Even I, a poor secretary of the Russian Embassy, do not feel any need in token of my joy to give my friends a failer, or let him go with his Liebchen to the Praetor. True, we have no Praetor here. He looked straight at Prince Andrew, and suddenly unwrinkled his forehead. It is now my turn to ask you why, Montchere, said Balkonsky. I confess I do not understand, perhaps there are diplomatic subtleties here beyond my feeble intelligence, but I can't make it out. Mack loses a whole army. The Archduke Ferdinand and the Archduke Karl give no signs of life, and make blunder after blunder. Katoozov alone at last gains a real victory, destroying the spell of the invincibility of the French, and the Minister of War does not even care to hear the details. That's just it, my dear fellow. You see it's hara for the Tsar, for Russia, for the Orthodox Greek faith. All that is beautiful, but what do we, I mean the Austrian court, care for your victories? Bring us nice news of a victory by the Archduke Karl or Ferdinand, one Archduke's as good as another, as you know. And even if it is only over a fire brigade of Bonaparts, that will be another story, and we'll fire off some cannon. But this sort of thing seems done on purpose to vex us. The Archduke Karl does nothing. The Archduke Ferdinand disgraces himself. You abandon Vienna, give up its defence, as much as to say, Heaven is with us, but Heaven help you and your capital. The one general whom we all loved, Schmidt, you expose to a bullet, and then you congratulate us on the victory. Admit that more irritating news than yours could not have been conceived. It's as if it had been done on purpose, on purpose. Besides, suppose you did gain a brilliant victory, if even the Archduke Karl gained a victory. What effect would that have on the general course of events? It's too late now, when Vienna is occupied by the French army. What? Occupied? Vienna occupied? Not only occupied, but Bonaparte is at Schoenbrunn, and the Count, our dear Count Verbner, goes to him for orders. After the fatigues and impressions of the journey, his reception, and especially after having dined, Balkonski felt that he could not take in the full significance of the words he heard. Count Lichtenfels was here this morning, Billibin continued, and showed me a letter in which the parade of the French in Vienna was fully described, Prince Murati, Toulis Tremblant. You see that your victory is not a matter for great rejoicing, and that you can't be received as a saviour. Really, I don't care about that. I don't care at all, said Prince Andrew, beginning to understand that his news of the battle before Krems was really of small importance, in view of such events as the fall of Austria's capital. How is it Vienna was taken? What of the bridge, and its celebrated bridgehead, and Prince Ausberg? We heard reports that Prince Ausberg was defending Vienna, he said. Prince Ausberg is on this, on our side of the river, and is defending us, doing it very badly, I think, but still he is defending us. But Vienna is on the other side. No, the bridge has not yet been taken, and I hope it will not be, for it is mined and orders have been given to blow it up. Otherwise we should long ago have been in the mountains of Bohemia, and you and your army would have spent a bad quarter of an hour between two fires. But still this does not mean that the campaign is over, said Prince Andrew. Well, I think it is. The big wigs here think so, too, but they don't say so. It will be, as I said at the beginning of the campaign, it won't be your skirmishing at Dorenstein, or gunpowder at all, that will decide the matter, for those who devised it, said Billibin, quoting one of his own moth, releasing the wrinkles on his forehead and pausing. The only question is, what will come of the meeting between the Emperor Alexander and the King of Prussia in Berlin? If Prussia joins the Allies, Austria's hand will be forced and there will be war. If not, it is merely a question of settling where the preliminaries of the new Campo Formio are to be drawn up. What an extraordinary genius! Prince Andrew suddenly exclaimed, clenching his small hand and striking the table with it. And what luck the man has! Buona part? said Billibin inquiringly, puckering up his forehead to indicate that he was about to say something witty. Buona part? he repeated, accentuating the you. I think, however, now that he lays down laws for Austria at Schoenbrunn, we must let him off the you. I shall certainly adopt an innovation and call him simply Bonaparte. But joking apart, said Prince Andrew, do you really think the campaign is over? This is what I think. Austria has been made a fool of, and she is not used to it. She will retaliate. And she has been fooled in the first place because her provinces have been pillaged. They say the Holy Russian army loots terribly. Her army is destroyed, her capital taken, and all this for the boyeh, fine eyes, of his Sardinian majesty. And therefore this is between ourselves. I instinctively feel that we are being deceived. My instinct tells me of negotiations with France and projects for peace, a secret peace concluded separately. Impossible! cried Prince Andrew. That would be too base. If we live, we shall see, replied Billibin, his face again becoming smooth as a sign that the conversation was at an end. When Prince Andrew reached the room prepared for him, and lay down in a clean shirt on the feather bed with its warmed and fragrant pillows, he felt that the battle of which he had brought tidings was far, far away from him. The alliance with Prussia, Austria's treachery, Bonaparte's new triumph, tomorrow's levy and parade, and the audience with the Emperor Francis occupied his thoughts. He closed his eyes, and immediately a sound of cannonading, of musketry, and the rattling of carriage-wheels seemed to fill his ears. And now, again drawn out in a thin line, the musketeers were descending the hill, the French were firing, and he felt his heart palpitating as he rode forward beside Schmidt, with the bullets merrily whistling all around, and he experienced ten folds the joy of living, as he had not done since childhood. He woke up. Yes, that all happened, he said, and smiling happily to himself like a child, he fell into a deep, youthful slumber. End of Chapter 10. This recording is in the public domain. War and Peace. Book II. Chapter 11. RedVilibreRox.org by Corey Samuel. Next day he woke late. Recalling his recent impressions, the first thought that came into his mind was that today he had to be presented to the Emperor Francis. He remembered the Minister of War, the polite Austrian adjudant Bilibin, and last night's conversation. Having dressed for his attendance at court, in full parade uniform, which he had not worn for a long time, he went into Bilibin's study fresh, animated, and handsome, with his hand bandaged. In the study were four gentlemen of the diplomatic corps. With Prince Hippolyte Keragin, who was a secretary to the embassy, Valkonsky was already acquainted. Bilibin introduced him to the others. The gentlemen assembled at Bilibin's were young, wealthy, gay society men, who here, as in Vienna, formed a special set, which Bilibin, their leader, called Les Nordres, ours. This set, consisting almost exclusively of diplomats, evidently had its own interests, which had nothing to do with war or politics, but related to high society, to certain women, and to the official side of the service. These gentlemen received Prince Andrew as one of themselves, and honour they did not extend to many. From politeness and to start conversation, they asked him a few questions about the army and the battle, and then the talk went off into merry jests and gossip. But the best of it was, said one, telling of the misfortune of a fellow diplomat, that the chancellor told him flatly that his appointment to London was a promotion, and that he was so to regard it. Can you fancy the figure he cut? But the worst of it, gentlemen, I am giving Keragin away to you, is that that man suffers, and this Don Juan, wicked fellow, is taking advantage of it. Prince Hippolyte was lolling in a lounge-chair with his legs over its arm. He began to laugh. Tell me about that, he said. Oh, you Don Juan, you serpent! cried several voices. You, Bolkonsky, don't know, said Billibin, turning to Prince Andrew, that all the atrocities of the French army, I nearly said of the Russian army, are nothing compared to what this man has been doing among the women. La ferme ille compagnia de l'homme, woman is man's companion, announced Prince Hippolyte, and began looking to a large net at his elevated legs. Billibin and the rest of ours burst out laughing in Hippolyte's face, and Prince Andrew saw that Hippolyte, of whom he had to admit he had almost been jealous on his wife's account, was the butt of this set. Oh, I must give you a treat, Billibin whispered to Bolkonsky. Kyragin is exquisite when he discusses politics, you should see his gravity. He sat down beside Hippolyte, and wrinkling his forehead began talking to him about politics. Prince Andrew and the others gathered round these two. The Berlin cabinet cannot express a feeling of alliance, began Hippolyte, gazing round with importance at the others, without expressing, as in its last note, you understand. Besides, unless His Majesty the Emperor derogates from the principle of our alliance, wait, I have not finished, he said to Prince Andrew, seizing him by the arm. I believe that intervention will be stronger than non-intervention, and— he paused. Finally, one cannot impute the non-receipt of our dispatch of November 18, that is how it will end. And he released Bolkonsky's arm to indicate that he had now quite finished. Demosthenes, I know thee by the pebble thou secretest in thy golden mouth, said Billibin, and the mop of hair on his head moved with satisfaction. Everybody laughed, and Hippolyte louder than any one. He was evidently distressed and breathed painfully, but could not restrain the wild laughter that convulsed his usually impassive features. Well now, gentlemen, said Billibin. Bolkonsky is my guest in this house, and in Brune itself. I want to entertain him as far as I can with all the pleasures of life here. If we were in Vienna, it would be easy. But here, in this wretched Moravian whole, it is more difficult, and I beg you all to help me. Brune's attractions must be shown him. You can undertake the theatre, I society, and you Hippolyte, of course, the women. We must let him see Amelie. She's exquisite, said one of ours, kissing his fingertips. In general, we must turn this bloodthirsty soldier to more humane interests, said Billibin. I shall scarcely be able to avail myself of your hospitality, gentlemen. It is already time for me to go," replied Prince Andrew, looking at his watch. Where to? To the Emperor. Oh, oh, oh! Well, Au revoir, Bolkonsky! Au revoir, Prince! Come back early to dinner! cried several voices. We'll take you in hand. When speaking to the Emperor, try as far as you can to praise the way that provisions are supplied, and the routes indicated, said Billibin, accompanying him to the hall. I should like to speak well of them, but as far as I know the facts, I can't," replied Bolkonsky, smiling. Well, talk as much as you can, anyway. He has a passion for giving audiences, but he does not like talking himself, and can't do it, as you will see. At the levee, Prince Andrew stood among the Austrian officers, as he had been told to, and the Emperor Francis merely looked fixedly into his face, and just nodded to him with his long head. But after it was over, the adjudant he had seen the previous day, ceremoniously informed Bolkonsky that the Emperor desired to give him an audience. The Emperor Francis received him standing in the middle of the room. Before the conversation began, Prince Andrew was struck by the fact that the Emperor seemed confused and blushed as if not knowing what to say. Tell me, when did the battle begin? he asked hurriedly. Prince Andrew replied. Then followed other questions just as simple. Was Catoose off well? When had he left Krems? And so on. The Emperor spoke as if his sole aim were to put a given number of questions. The answers to these questions, as was only too evident, did not interest him. At what o'clock did the battle begin? asked the Emperor. I cannot inform your Majesty at what o'clock the battle began at the front, but at Durenstein, where I was, our attack began after five in the afternoon, replied Bolkonsky, growing more animated and expecting that he would have a chance to give a reliable account, which he had ready in his mind of all he knew and had seen. But the Emperor smiled and interrupted him. How many miles? From where to where, your Majesty? From Durenstein to Krems. Three and a half miles, your Majesty. The French have abandoned the Left Bank? According to the Scouts, the last of them crossed on rafts during the night. Is there sufficient forage in Krems? Forage has not been supplied to the extent, the Emperor interrupted him. At what o'clock was General Schmidt killed? At seven o'clock, I believe. At seven o'clock? It's sad, very sad. The Emperor thanked Prince Andrew and bowed. Prince Andrew withdrew and was immediately surrounded by courtiers on all sides. Everywhere he saw friendly looks and heard friendly words. Yesterday's a student reproached him for not having stayed at the palace and offered him his own house. The Minister of War came up and congratulated him on the Maria Theresa order of the third grade, which the Emperor was conferring on him. The Empress's Chamberlain invited him to see her Majesty. The Archduchess also wished to see him. He did not know whom to answer, and for a few seconds collected his thoughts. Then the Russian ambassador took him by the shoulder, led him to the window, and began to talk to him. Contrary to Bolibin's forecast, the news he had brought was joyfully received. A thanksgiving service was arranged. Gatuzov was awarded the Grand Cross of Maria Theresa, and the whole army received rewards. Volkonsky was invited everywhere and had to spend the whole morning calling on the principal Austrian dignitaries. Between four and five in the afternoon, having made all his calls, he was returning to Bolibin's house, thinking out a letter to his father about the battle, and his visit to Brun. At the door he found a vehicle half full of luggage. Franz, Bolibin's man, was dragging a portmanteau with some difficulty out of the front door. Before returning to Bolibin's, Prince Andrew had gone to a bookshop to provide himself with some books for the campaign, and had spent some time in the shop. What is it? he asked. Oh, your Excellency! said Franz, with difficulty rolling the portmanteau into the vehicle, we are to move on still farther. The scoundrel is again at our heels. A. What? asked Prince Andrew. Bolibin came out to meet him. His usually calm face showed excitement. There now, confessed that this is delightful, said he. This affair of the Thébor Bridge at Vienna they have crossed without striking a blow. Prince Andrew could not understand. But where do you come from to not know what every coachman in the town knows? I come from the Archduchesses, I heard nothing there. And you didn't see that every body is packing up? I did not. What is it all about? inquired Prince Andrew impatiently. What's it all about? Why the French have crossed the bridge that Alsberg was defending, and the bridge was not blown up, so that Murat is now rushing along the road to Brun, and will be here in a day or two. What? Here? But why did they not blow up the bridge if it was mine? That is what I ask you. No one, not even Bonaparte knows why. Valkonsky shrugged his shoulders. But if the bridge is crossed it means that the Army II is lost. It will be cut off, said he. That's just it, answered Bolibin. Listen! The French entered Vienna as I told you. Very well. Next day, which was yesterday, those gentlemen, Monsieur le Marchot, the Marshals, Murat, Lan, and Beliard, mount and ride the bridge. Observe that all three are Gascons. Gentlemen, says one of them, you know that the Thay War bridge is mined and doubly mined, and there are menacing fortifications at its head, and an army of fifteen thousand men has been ordered to blow up the bridge, and not let us cross. But it will please our sovereign, the Emperor Napoleon, if we take this bridge. So let us three go and take it. Yes, let's, say the others. And off they go, and take the bridge, cross it, and now with their whole army are on this side of the Danube, marching on us, you and your lines of communication. Stop jesting, said Prince Andrew sadly and seriously. This news grieved him, and yet he was pleased. As soon as he learned that the Russian army was in such a hopeless situation, it occurred to him that it was he who was destined to lead it out of this position. That here was the Toulon that would lift him from the ranks of obscure officers, and offer him the first step to fame. Listening to Billibin, he was already imagining how, on reaching the army, he would give an opinion at the War Council, which would be the only one that could save the army, and how he alone would be entrusted with the executing of the plan. Stop this jesting, he said. I am not jesting, Billibin went on. Nothing is truer or sadder. These gentlemen ride on to the bridge alone and wave white handkerchiefs. They assure the officer on duty that they, the marshals, are on their way to negotiate with Prince Ausberg. He lets them enter the Tête de Pont, bridgehead. They spin him a thousand gas grenades, saying that the war is over, that the Emperor Francis is arranging a meeting with Bonaparte, that they desire to see Prince Ausberg, and so on. The officer sends for Ausberg. These gentlemen embrace the officers, crack jokes, sit on the cannon, and, meanwhile, a French battalion gets to the bridge unobserved, flings the bags of incendiary material into the water, and approaches the Tête de Pont. At a length appears the Lieutenant General, our dear Prince Ausberg von Morten himself. Dearest foe, flower of the Austrian army, hero of the Turkish wars, hostilities are ended, we can shake one another's hand. The Emperor Napoleon burns with impatience to make Prince Ausberg's acquaintance. In a word, those gentlemen, Gaskon's indeed, so bewildered him with fine words, and he is so flattered by his rapidly established intimacy with the French marshals, and so dazzled by the sight of Murat's mantle and ostrich-blooms, Kilnivouac could fall, et oublier celloui, qu'il devait faire vers l'ennemi. That their fire gets into his eyes, and he forgets that he ought to be firing at the enemy. In spite of the animation of his speech, Billibyn did not forget to pause after this moe to give time for its due appreciation. The French battalion rushes to the bridge-head, spikes the guns, and the bridge is taken, but what is best of all, he went on, his excitement subsiding under the delightful interest of his own story. Is that the Sergeant, in charge of the cannon, which was to give the signal to fire the mines and blow up the bridge, the Sergeant, seeing that the French troops were running onto the bridge, was about to fire, but lands stayed his hand. The Sergeant, who was evidently wiser than his general, goes up to Ausberg and says, Prince, you are being deceived, here are the French. Murat, seeing that all is lost if the Sergeant is allowed to speak, turns to Ausberg with famed astonishment. He is a true Gaskon, and says, I don't recognise the world-famous Austrian discipline, if you allow a subordinate to address you like that. It was a stroke of genius. Prince Ausberg feels his dignity at stake, and orders the Sergeant to be arrested. Come, you must own that this affair of the table-bridge is delightful. It is not exactly stupidity, nor rascality. It may be treachery, said Prince Andrew, vividly imagining the gray overcoats, wounds, the smoke of gunpowder, the sounds of firing, and the glory that awaited him. Not that either. That puts the court in too bad a light, replied Belibin. It's not treachery, nor rascality, nor stupidity. It is just as at Ulm. It is— He seemed to be trying to find the right expression. See, siddhu mak, nus som mak. It is, it is a bit of a mak. We are maked. He concluded, feeling that he had produced a good epigram, a fresh one that would be repeated. His hitherto-puckered brow became smooth as a sign of pleasure, and with a slight smile he began to examine his nails. Where are you off to, he said suddenly, to Prince Andrew, who had risen and was going towards his room. I'm going away. Where to? To the army. But you meant to stay another two days. But now I am off at once. And Prince Andrew, after giving directions about his departure, went to his room. Do you know more, Cher? said Belibin, following him. I have been thinking about you. Why are you going? And in proof of the conclusiveness of his opinion, all the wrinkles vanished from his face. Prince Andrew looked inquiringly at him, and gave no reply. Why are you going? I know you think it is your duty to gallop back to the army now that it is in danger. I understand that, more sure it is heroism. Not at all, said Prince Andrew. But as you are a philosopher, be a consistent one. Look at the other side of the question, and you will see that your duty, on the contrary, is to take care of yourself. Leave it to those who are no longer fit for anything else. You have not been ordered to return, and have not been dismissed from here. Therefore you can stay and go with us wherever our ill luck takes us. They say we are going to Olmutz, and Olmutz is a very decent town. You and I will travel comfortably in my Kalesh. Do stop joking, Belibin, cried Balkonsky. I am speaking sincerely as a friend. Consider. Where and why are you going, when you might remain here? You were faced by one of two things, and the skin over his left temple-puckered. Either you will not reach your regiment before peace is concluded, or you will share defeat and disgrace with Katoosov's whole army. And Belibin unwrinkled his temple, feeling that the dilemma was insoluble. I cannot argue about it, replied Prince Andrew coldly, but he thought, I am going to save the army. My dear fellow, you are a hero, said Belibin. End of chapter 12. This recording is in the public domain. War and Peace Book 2 Chapter 13 Read for Libfox.org by Anna Simon Chapter 13 That same night, having taken leave of the Minister of War, Balkonsky set off to rejoin the army, not knowing where he would find it, and fearing to be captured by the French on the way to Krams. In Brune, everybody attached to the court was packing up, and the heavy baggage was already being dispatched to Almuts. Near Hetzholzdorf, Prince Andrew struck the high road along which the Russian army was moving with great haste and in the greatest disorder. The road was so obstructed with carts that it was impossible to get by in a carriage. Prince Andrew took a horse and a cossack from a cossack commander, and hungry and wary, making his way past the baggage wagons, rode in search of the commander-in-chief and of his own luggage. Very sinister reports of the position of the army reached him as he went along, and the appearance of the troops in their disorderly flight confirmed these rumors. Translation. That Russian army which has been brought from the ends of the earth by English gold which he'll cause to share the same fate, the fate of the army at Hohm. He remembered these words in Bonaparte's address to his army at the beginning of the campaign, and they awoke in him astonishment at the genius of his hero, a feeling of wounded pride and a hope of glory. And should there be nothing left but to die, he thought? Well, if need be, I shall do it no worse than others. He looked with disdain at the endless confused mass of detachments, carts, guns, artillery, and again baggage wagons and vehicles of all kinds overtaking one another and blocking the muddy road, three and sometimes four abreast. From all sides, behind and before, as far as ear could reach, there were the rattle of wheels, the creaking of carts and gun carriages, the tramp of horses, the crack of whips, shouts, the urging of horses, and the swearing of soldiers, orderlies and officers. All along the sides of the road, fallen horses were to be seen, some flayed, some not, and broken down carts beside which solitary soldiers set waiting for something, and again soldiers straggling from their companies, crowds of whom set off to the neighbouring villages, or returned from them, dragging sheep, fowls, hay, and bulging sex. At each ascent or descent of the road, the crowds were yet denser, and the din of shouting more incessant. Soldiers floundering knee-deep in mud, pushed the guns and wagons themselves. Whips cracked, hoofs slipped, traces broke, and lungs were strained with shouting. The officers directing the march rode backward and forward between the carts. Their voices were but feebly heard amid the uproar, and once saw by their faces that they dispaired of the possibility of checking this disorder. Here is our dear Orthodox Russian army, thought Balkansky, recalling Bilibin's words. Wishing to find out where the commander-in-chief was, he rode up to a convoy. Directly opposite to him came a strange one-horse vehicle evidently rigged up by soldiers out of any available materials and looking like something between a cart, a cabriolet, and a kalesh. A soldier was driving, and a woman enveloped in shawls set behind the apron under the leather hood of the vehicle. Prince Andrew rode up, and was just putting his question to a soldier when his attention was diverted by the desperate shrieks of the woman in the vehicle. An officer in charge of transport was beating the soldier who was driving the woman's vehicle for trying to get ahead of others, and the strokes of his whip fell on the apron of the aquapage. The woman screamed piercingly. Seeing Prince Andrew, she leaned out from behind the apron, and waving her thin arms from under the woolen shawl, cried, Mr. Ate the camp! Mr. Ate the camp! For heaven's sake, protect me! What will become of us? I am the wife of the Doctor of the Seventh Treasures. They won't let us pass. We are left behind, and have lost our people. I'll flatten you into a pancake! shouted the angry officer to the soldier. Turn back with your slut! Mr. Ate the camp! Help me! What does it all mean? screamed the Doctor's wife. Kindly let this card pass. Don't you see it's a woman? said Prince Andrew, riding up to the officer. The officer glanced at him, and without replying, turned again to the soldier. I'll teach you to push on. Back! Let them pass, I tell you! repeated Prince Andrew, compressing his lips. And who are you? cried the officer, turning on him with tipsy rage. Who are you? Are you in command here? Huh? I am commander here, not you. Go back, or I'll flatten you into a pancake! repeated he. This expression evidently pleased him. That was a nice snap for the little Ate the camp. came a voice from behind. Prince Andrew saw that the officer was in that state of senseless tipsy rage, when a man does not know what he's saying. He saw that his championship with the Doctor's wife in a queer trap might expose him to what he dreaded more than anything in the world to ridicule, but his instinct urged him on. Before the officer finished his sentence, Prince Andrew, his face distorted with fury, rode up to him, and raised his riding whip. Kindly let them pass. The officer flourished his arm and hastily rode away. It's all the fault of these fellows on the staff that there's this disorder, he muttered, do as you like. Prince Andrew, without lifting his eyes, rode hastily away from the Doctor's wife, who was calling him her a deliverer, and recalling with a sense of disgust the minutest details of this humiliating scene, he galloped on to the village, where he was told that the commander in chief was. Unreaching the village, he dismounted and went to the nearest house, intending to rest if but for a moment, eat something, and try to sort out the stinging and tormenting thoughts that confused his mind. This is a mob of scoundrels and not an army, he was thinking, as he went up to the window of the first house, when a familiar voice called him by name. He turned round. Nesvitsky's handsome face looked out of the little window. Nesvitsky, moving his moist lips as he chewed something and flourishing his arm, called him to enter. Bulkonsky! Bulkonsky! Don't you hear? Come quick! he shouted. Entering the house, Prince Andrew saw Nesvitsky and another Edgerton having something to eat. They hastily turned round to him, asking if he had any news. On their familiar faces, he read agitation and alarm. This was particularly noticeable on Nesvitsky's usually laughing countenance. Where is the commander in chief? asked Bulkonsky. Here, in that house, bounced the Edgerton. Well, is it true that it's peace and capitulation? asked Nesvitsky. I was going to ask you. I know nothing except that it was all I could do to get here. And we, my boy, it's terrible! I was wrong to laugh at Mac. We're getting it still worse, said Nesvitsky, but sit down and have something to eat. You won't be able to find either your baggage or anything else now, Prince, and God only knows where your man, Peter, is, said the other Edgerton. Where are our headquarters? We are to spend the night in his name. Well, I've got all I need into packs for two horses, said Nesvitsky. They've made up splendid packs for me, fit to cross the Bohemian mountains with. It's a bad lookout, old fellow. But what's the matter with you? You must be ill to shiver like that, he added, noticing that Prince Andrew winced as at an electric shock. Ah, it's nothing, replied Prince Andrew. He had just remembered his recent encounter with the doctor's wife and the convoy officer. What is the Commander-in-Chief doing here? he asked. I can't make out at all, said Nesvitsky. Well, all I can make out is that everything is abominable, abominable. Quite abominable, said Prince Andrew. And he went off to the house where the Commander-in-Chief was. Passing by Kudasov's carriage and the exhausted saddle-horses of his suite, with their Cossacks who were talking loudly together, Prince Andrew entered the passage. Kudasov himself, he was told, was in the house with Prince Pryatian and Meirotrch. Meirotrch was the Austrian general who had succeeded Schmidt. In the passage little Koslovsky was squatting on his heels in front of a clerk. The clerk, with cuffs turned up, was hastily writing at a top-turned-bottom upwards. Koslovsky's face looked worn. He, too, had evidently not slept all night. He glanced at Prince Andrew and did not even nod to him. Second line. Have you written it? He continued dictating to the clerk. The key of Grenadiers, Prylian. One can't write so fast, your honour, said the clerk, glancing angrily and disrespectfully at Koslovsky. Through the door came the sounds of Kudasov's voice, excited and dissatisfied, interrupted by another, an unfamiliar voice. From the sound of these voices, the inattentive way Koslovsky looked at him, the disrespectful manner of the exhausted clerk, the fact that the clerk and Koslovsky were squatting on the floor by a tub so near the commander-in-chief, and from the noisy laughter of the Cossacks holding the horses near the window, Prince Andrew felt that something important and disastrous was about to happen. He turned to Koslovsky with urgent questions. Immediately, Prince, said Koslovsky, dispositions for Bagration. What about capitalization? Nothing of the sort, orders the Richard for a battle. Prince Andrew moved toward the door from whence voices were heard. Just as he was going to open it, the sounds ceased. The door opened, and Kudasov, with his eagle nose and puffy face, appeared in the doorway. Prince Andrew stood right in front of Kudasov, but the expression of the commander-in-chief's one sound eye showed him to be so preoccupied with thoughts and anxieties as to be oblivious of his presence. He looked straight at his etude in his face without recognizing him. Well, have you finished? Said he took Koslovsky. One moment, Your Excellency. Bagration, a gaunt, middle-aged man of medium height, with a firm, impassive face of oriental type, came out after the commander-in-chief. I have the honor to present myself, repeated Prince Andrew rather loudly, handing Kudasov an envelope. Ah, from Vienna? Very good. Later, later. Kudasov went out into the porch with Bagration. Well, goodbye, Prince, said he to Bagration. My blessing, and may Christ be with you in your great endeavor. His face suddenly softened, and tears came into his eyes. With his left hand he drew Bagration towards him, and with his right, on which he wore a ring, he made the sign of the cross over him, with a gesture evidently habitual, offering his puffy cheek, but Bagration kissed him on the neck instead. Christ be with you, Kudasov repeated, and went towards his carriage. Get in with me, said he to Bulkonsky. Your Excellency, I should like to be of use here. Allow me to remain with Prince Bagration's detachment. Get in, said Kudasov, and noticing that Bulkonsky still delayed, he added, I need good officers myself, need them myself. They got into the carriage, and drove for a few minutes in silence. There is still much, much before us, he said, as if with an old man's penetration, he understood all that was passing in Bulkonsky's mind. If a tenth part of his detachment returns, I shall thank God, he added, as if speaking to himself. Prince Andrew glanced at Kudasov's face, only a foot distant from him, and involuntarily noticed the carefully washed seams of the scar near his temple, or an Ismail bullet had pierced his skull, and the empty eye socket. Yes, he has a right to speak so calmly of those men's, the, thought Bulkonsky. That is why I beg to be sent to that detachment, he said. Kudasov did not reply. He seemed to have forgotten what he had been saying, and sat plunged in thought. Five minutes later, gently swaying on the soft springs of the carriage, he turned to Prince Andrew. There was not a trace of vegetation on his face. With delicate irony, he questioned Prince Andrew about the details of his interview with the Emperor, about the remarks he had heard at court concerning the Krams Affair, and about some ladies they both knew. End of Chapter 13. War and Peace, Book 2, Chapter 14, read for Liberfox.org by Anna Simon. On November 1st, Kudasov had received, through a spy, news that the army he commanded was in an almost hopeless position. This spy reported that the French, after crossing the bridge at Vienna, were advancing in immense force upon Kudasov's line of communication with the troops that were arriving from Russia. If Kudasov decided to remain at Krams, Napoleon's army of 150,000 men would cut him off completely, and surround his exhausted army of 40,000, and he would find himself in the position of Mac at Elm. If Kudasov decided to abandon the road, connecting him with the troops arriving from Russia, he would have to march with no road into unknown parts of the Bohemian mountains, defending himself against superior forces of the enemy, and abandoning all hope of a junction with Boxhauden. If Kudasov decided to retreat along the road from Krams to Olmwood, to unite with the troops arriving from Russia, he risked being first told on that road by the French who had crossed the Vienna Bridge, and encumbered by his baggage and transport, having to accept battle on the march against the enemy three times as strong, who would hem him in from two sides. Kudasov chose this latter course. The French, the spy reported, having crossed the Vienna Bridge, were advancing by forced marches towards Zneim, which lay 66 miles off on the line of Kudasov's retreat. If he reached Zneim before the French, there would be great hope of saving the army, to let the French forestall him at Zneim meant the exposure of his whole army to a disgrace such as that of Olm, or to utter destruction. But to forestall the French with his whole army was impossible. The road for the French from Vienna to Zneim was shorter and better than the road for the Russians from Krams to Zneim. The night he received the news, Kudasov sent Bregatian's vanguard, four thousand strong, to the right, across the hills, from the Krams Zneim to the Vienna Zneim road. Bregatian was to make this march without resting, and to hold facing Vienna with Zneim to his rear, and if he succeeded in forestalling the French, he was to delay them as long as possible. Kudasov himself, with all his transport, took the road to Zneim. Marching thirty miles that stormy night across roadless hills, with his hungry, ill shot soldiers, and losing a third of his men as stragglers by the way, Bregatian came out on the Vienna Zneim road at Hollaproon, a few hours ahead of the French who were approaching Hollaproon from Vienna. Kudasov, with his transport, had still to march for some days before he could reach Zneim. Hence Bregatian, with his four thousand hungry, exhausted men, would have to detain for days the whole enemy army that came upon him at Hollaproon, which was clearly impossible. But a freak of fate made the impossible possible. The success of the trick that had placed the Vienna bridge in the hands of the French, without a fight, led Murat to try to deceive Kudasov in a similar way. Meeting Bregatian's weak detachment on the Zneim road, he supposed to be Kudasov's whole army. To be able to crush it absolutely, he awaited the arrival of the rest of the troops who were on their way from Vienna, and with this object offered a three days truce, on condition that both armies should remain in position without moving. Murat declared that negotiations for peace were already proceeding, and that he therefore offered this truce to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. Count Nostitz, the Austrian general occupying the advanced posts, believed Murat's emissary, and retired, leaving Bregatian's division exposed. Another emissary rode to the Russian line to announce the peace negotiations, and to offer the Russian army the three days truce. Bregatian replied that he was not authorized either to accept or refuse a truce, and sent his adjutant to Kudasov to report the offer he had received. A truce was Kudasov's sole chance of gaining time, giving Bregatian's exhausted troops some rest, and letting the transport and heavy convoys, whose movements were concealed from the French, advance if but one stage nearer his name. The offer of a truce gave the only, and a quite unexpected chance of saving the army. On receiving the news, he immediately dispatched adjutant General Witzingerode, who was in attendance on him, to the enemy camp. Witzingerode was not merely to agree to the truce, but also to offer terms of capitulation, and meanwhile Kudasov sent his adjutants back to hasten to the utmost the movements of the baggage trains of the entire army along the cramps's name rode. Bregatian's exhausted and hungry detachment, which alone covered this movement of the transport and of the whole army, had to remain stationary in face of an enemy eight times as strong as itself. Kudasov's expectations that the proposals of capitulation, which were in no way binding, might give time for part of the transport to pass, and also that Murat's mistake would very soon be discovered proved correct. As soon as Bonaparte, who was at Schonbrunn, sixteen miles from Hallebrunn, received Murat's dispatch with the proposal of a truce and a capitulation, he detected the ruse, and wrote the following letter to Murat. Schonbrunn, 25th Brumaire, 1805, at eight o'clock in the morning. To Prince Murat, I cannot find words to express to you my displeasure. You command only my advance guard, and have no right to arrange an armistice without my order. You are causing me to lose the fruits of a campaign. Break the armistice immediately, and march on the enemy. Inform him that the general who signed that capitulation had no right to do so, and that no one but the Emperor of Russia has that right. If, however, the Emperor of Russia ratifies that convention, I will ratify it. But it is only a trick. March on. Destroy the Russian army. You are in a position to seize its baggage and artillery. The Russian emperors ate the camp as an imposter. Officers are nothing when they have no powers. This one had none. The Austrians let themselves be tricked at the crossing of the Vienna Bridge. You are letting yourself be tricked by an ate the camp of the Emperor. Bonaparte's agitant rode full gallop with this menacing letter to Murat. Bonaparte himself, not trusting to his generals, moved with all the guards to the field of battle, afraid of letting a ready victim escape. And agrations four thousand men, merrily lighted campfires, dried and warmed themselves, cooked their porridge for the first time for three days, and not one of them knew or imagined what was in store for him. End of Chapter 14. War and Peace, Book 2, Chapter 15, Read for Liberfox by Anna Simon Between three and four o'clock in the afternoon, Prince Andrew, who had persisted in his request to Kutuzov, arrived at Grund and reported himself to Bagration. Bonaparte's agitant had not yet reached Murat's detachment, and the battle had not yet begun. In Bagration's detachment, no one knew anything of the general position of affairs. They talked of peace, but did not believe in its possibility. Others talked of a battle, but also disbelieved in the nearness of an engagement. Bagration, knowing Bulkonsky to be a favourite and trusted agitant, received him with distinction and special marks of favour, explaining to him that there would probably be an engagement that day or the next, and giving him full liberty to remain with him during the battle, or to join the rearguard and have an eye on the order of retreat, which is also very important. However, there will hardly be an engagement today, said Bagration, as if to reassure Prince Andrew. If he is one of the ordinary little staff Dendi's sent to earn a medal, he can get his reward just as well in the rearguard, but if he wishes to stay with me, let him. He'll be of use here if he's a brave officer, thought Bagration. Prince Andrew, without replying, asked Prince's permission to ride round the position to see the disposition of the forces, so as to know his bearings should he be sent to execute an order. The officer on duty, a handsome, elegantly dressed man with a diamond ring on his forefinger, who was fond of speaking French, though he spoke it badly, offered to conduct Prince Andrew. On all sides they saw rain-soaked officers with dejected faces who seemed to be seeking something, and soldiers dragging doors, benches, and fencing from the village. There now, Prince, we can't stop those fellows, said the staff officer, pointing through the soldiers. The officers don't keep them in hand. And there, he pointed to a subtler's tent, they crowd in and sit. This morning I turned them all out, and now look, it's full again. I must go there, Prince, and scare them a bit. It won't take a moment. Yes, let's go in, and I'll get myself a roll and some cheese, said Prince Andrew, who had not yet had time to eat anything. Why didn't you mention it, Prince? I would have offered you something. They dismounted and entered the tent. Several officers, with flushed and wary faces, were sitting at the table, eating and drinking. Now, what does this mean, gentlemen? said the staff officer, in the reproachful tone of a man who has repeated the same thing more than once. You know it won't do to leave your post like this. The Prince gave orders that no one should leave his post. Now you, Captain. And he turned to a thin, dirty little artillery officer who, without his boots, he'd given them to the canteen keeper to dry. In only his stockings, rose when they entered, smiling not altogether comfortably. Well, aren't you ashamed of yourself, Captain Tushin? he continued. One would think that as an artillery officer you would set a good example, yet here you are without your boots. The alarm will be sounded, and you'll be in a pretty position without your boots. The staff officer smiled. Kindly returned to your posts, gentlemen, all of you, all, he added, in a tone of command. Prince Andrew smiled involuntarily as he looked at the artillery officer Tushin, who, silent and smiling, shifting from one stocking foot to the other, glanced inquiringly with his large, intelligent, kindly eyes from Prince Andrew to the staff officer. The soldiers say it feels easier without boots, said Captain Tushin, smiling shyly in his uncomfortable position, evidently wishing to adopt a jokler tone. But before it finished, he felt that his chest was unacceptable and had not come off. He grew confused. Kindly returned to your posts, said the staff officer, trying to preserve his gravity. Prince Andrew glanced again at the artillery officer's small figure. There was something peculiar about it, quite unsolderly, rather comic, but extremely attractive. The staff officer and Prince Andrew mounted their horses and rode on. Having ridden beyond the village, continually meeting and overtaking soldiers and officers of various regiments, they saw on their left some entrenchments being thrown up, the freshly dug clay of which showed up red. Several battalions of soldiers in their shirt sleeves despite the cold wind swarmed in these earthworks like a host of white ants. Spade fills of red clay were continually being thrown up from behind the bank by unseen hands. Prince Andrew and the officer rode up, looked at the entrenchment, and went on again. Just behind it, they came upon some dozens of soldiers, continually replaced by others who ran from the entrenchment. They had to hold their noses and put their horses to a trot to escape from the poisoned atmosphere of these latrines. Voila l'agrimon des camps, Monsieur le Prince. Translation. This is a pleasure one gets in camp, Prince, said the staff officer. They rode up the opposite hill. From there the French could already be seen. Prince Andrew stopped and began examining the position. That's our battery, said the staff officer, indicating the highest point. It is in charge of the queer fellow we saw without his boots. You can see everything from there. Let's go there, Prince. Thank you very much. I will go on alone, said Prince Andrew, wishing to rid himself of this staff officer's company. Please don't trouble yourself further. The staff officer remained behind, and Prince Andrew rode on alone. The farther forward and nearer the enemy he went, the more orderly and cheerful were the troops. The greatest disorder and depression had been in the baggage train he had passed that morning on his name road, seven miles away from the French. At Grund also, some apprehension and alarm could be felt. But the nearer Prince Andrew came to the French lines, the more confident was the appearance of our troops. The soldiers in their great coats were arranged in lines. The sergeant's major and company officers were counting the men, poking the last man in each section in the ribs and telling him to hold his hand up. Soldiers scattered over the whole place were dragging logs and brushwood, and were building shelters with merry chatter and laughter. Around the fires, said others, dressed and undressed, drying their shirts and leg bands, or mending boots or overcoats, and crowding around the boilers and porch cookers. In one company, dinner was ready, and the soldiers were gazing eagerly at the steaming boiler, waiting till the sample, which a quartermaster sergeant was carrying in a wooden bowl to an officer who sat on a log before his shelter, had been tasted. Another company, a lucky one for not all the companies at Vodka, crowded around a pockmarked, broad-shouldered sergeant major who, tilting a keg, filled one after another the canteen lids held out to him. The soldiers lifted the canteen lids to their lips with reverential faces, emptied them, rolling the vodka in their mouths, and walked away from the sergeant's major with brightened expressions, licking their lips and wiping them on the sleeves of their great coats. All their faces were as serene as if all this were happening at home, awaiting peaceful encampment, and not within sight of the enemy, before an action in which at least half of them will be left on the field. After passing a chazur regiment and in the lines of the key of Grenadiers, fine fellows busy with similar peaceful affairs, near the shelter of the regimental commander, higher than and different from the others, Prince Andrew came out in front of a platoon of Grenadiers before whom lay a naked man. Two soldiers held him, while two others were flourishing their switches and striking him regularly on his bare back. The man shrieked unnaturally. A stout major was pacing up and down the line, and regardless of the screams kept repeating, it's a shame for a soldier to steal. A soldier must be honest, honorable, and brave. But if he rops his fellows, there's no honour in him. He's a scoundrel. Go on! Go on! So the swishing sound of the strokes and the desperate but unnatural screams continued. Go on! Go on! said the major. A young officer with a bewildered and pained expression on his face stepped away from the man and looked round inquiringly at the adjutant as he rode by. Prince Andrew, having reached the front line, rode along it. Our front line and that of the enemy were far apart on the right and left planks, but in the centre, where the men with a flag of truce had passed that morning, the lines were so near together that the man could see one another's faces and speak to one another. Besides the soldiers who formed the picket line on either side, there were many curious onlookers who, jesting and laughing, stared at their strange foreign enemies. Since early morning, despite an injunction not to approach the picket line, the officers have been unable to keep sightseers away. The soldiers forming the picket line, like showmen exhibiting a curiosity, no longer looked at the French, but paid attention to the sightseers and grew wary, waiting to be relieved. Prince Andrew halted to have a look at the French. Look! Look there! one soldier was saying to another, pointing to a Russian musketeer who had gone up to the picket line with an officer, and was rapidly and excitedly talking to a French grenadier. Hark to him, jabbering! Fine, isn't it? It's all the French he can do to keep up with him. There now, Sidorov. Wait a bit and listen! It's fine! answered Sidorov, who was considered an adapted French. The soldier to whom the laugh was referred was Dolokov. Prince Andrew recognized him, and stopped to listen to what he was saying. Dolokov had come from the left flank where their regiment was stationed, with his captain. Now then, go on! Go on! incited the officer, bending forward and trying not to lose a word of the speech which was incomprehensible to him. More please! More! What is he saying? Dolokov did not answer the captain. He had been drawn into a hot dispute with the French grenadier. They were naturally talking about the campaign. The Frenchman, confusing the Auschins with the Russians, was trying to prove that the Russians had surrendered, and had fled all the way from Elm, while Dolokov maintained that the Russians had not surrendered but had beaten the French. We have orders to drive you off here, and which I'll drive you off, said Dolokov. Only take care you and your Cossacks are not all captured, said the French grenadier. The French onlookers and listeners laughed. We'll make you dance as we did under Suvorov, said Dolokov. On vous fera danser. Qu'est-ce qu'il chante? Translation? What's he singing about? asked the Frenchman. It's ancient history, said another, guessing that it referred to a former war. The emperor will teach your Suvorov as he has taught the others. Bonaparte began Dolokov, but the Frenchman interrupted him. Not Bonaparte, he's the emperor, Sakranon, cried he, angrily. The devil skinned your emperor, and Dolokov swore at him in coarse soldiers Russian, and children as Musket walked away. Let us go, Ivan Lukich, he said to the captain. Ah, that's the way to talk French, said the picket soldiers. Now, Sidorov, you have a try. Sidorov turned to the French, winked, and began to jabber meaningless sounds very fast. Karyamara Taffa saafi muta tkaska, he said, trying to give an expressive intonation to his voice. Came peels of such healthy and good-humoured laughter from the soldiers that it infected the French involuntarily. So much so that the only thing left to do seemed to be to unload the Musket's, explode the ammunition, and all return home as quickly as possible. But the guns remained loaded. The loopholes in blockhouses and entrenchments looked out just as menacingly, and the unlimited cannon confronted one another as before. From which the staff officer had told him the whole field could be seen. Here he dismounted and stopped beside the farthest of the four unlimbered cannon. Before the guns, an artillery sentry was pacing up and down. He stood at attention when the officer arrived, but at a sign resumed his measured monotonous pacing. Behind the guns were their limbers and so far their back picket ropes and artillery men's bonfires. To the left, not far from the farthest cannon, was a small, newly constructed waddle shed, from which came the sound of officer's voices and eager conversation. It was true that a view over nearly the whole Russian position and the greater part of the enemies opened out from this battery. Just facing it, on the crest of the opposite hill, the village of Chaun Gruburn could be seen, and in three places to the left and right, the French troops amid the smoke of their campfires, the greater part of whom were evidently in the village itself and behind the hill. To the left from that village, amid the smoke, was something resembling a battery, but it was impossible to see it clearly with the naked eye. Our right flank was posted on a rather steep incline, which dominated the French position. Our infantry were stationed there, and at the farthest point, the dragoons. In the center, where Tushin's battery stood, and from which Prince Andrew was surveying the position, was the easiest and most direct descent and ascent to the brook, separating us from Chaun Gruburn. On the left, our troops were close to a cop in which smoked the bonfires of our infantry who were felling wood. The French line was wider than ours, and it was plain that they could easily outflank us on both sides. Behind our position was a steep and deep dip, making it difficult for artillery and cavalry to retire. Prince Andrew took out his notebook and, leaning on the cannon, sketched a plan of the position. He made some notes on two points, intending to mention them to Bagration. His idea was, first, to concentrate all the artillery in the center, and secondly, to withdraw the cavalry to the other side of the dip. Prince Andrew, being always near the commander-in-chief, closely following the mass movements in general orders and constantly studying historical accounts of battles, involuntarily pictured to himself the course of events and the forthcoming action in broad outline. He imagined only important possibilities. If the enemy attacks the right flank, he said to himself, the Kiev Grenadiers and the Poldovsk Chasseurs must hold their position till reserves from the center come up. In that case, the Dragoons could successfully make a flank counterattack. If they attack our center, we, having the center battery on this high ground, shall withdraw the left flank under its cover and retreat to the dip by echelon, so he reasoned. All the time, he had been beside the gun. He had heard the voices of the officers distinctly, but as often happens, had not understood a word of what they were saying. Suddenly, however, he was struck by a voice coming from the shed, and its tone was so sincere that he could not but listen. No, friend, said a pleasant and as it seemed to Prince Andrew a familiar voice. What I say is that if it were possible to know what is beyond death, none of us would be afraid of it. That's so, friend. Another, a younger voice, interrupted him. Afraid or not, you can't escape it anyhow. All the same, one is afraid. Oh, you clever people, said a third manly voice, interrupting them both. Of course, you artillery men are very wise, because you can take everything along with you, vodka and snacks. And the owner of the manly voice, evidently an infantry officer, laughed. Yes, one is afraid, continued the first speaker, he had the familiar voice. One is afraid of the unknown, that's what it is. Whatever we may say about the soul going to the sky, we know there is no sky but only an atmosphere. The manly voice again interrupted the artillery officer. Well, stand to some of your herb vodka tussian, it said. Why? thought Prince Andrew. That's the captain who stood up in the settler's hut without his boots. He recognized the agreeable, philosophizing voice with pleasure. Some herb vodka, certainly, said tussian, but still, to conceive a future life, he did not finish. Just then there was a whistle in the air. Near and near, faster and louder, louder and faster, a cannonball, as if it had not finished saying what was necessary, flooded into the ground near the shed with superhuman force, throwing up a mass of earth. The ground seemed to groan at the terrible impact. An immediately tussian, with a short pipe in the corner of his mouth and his kind, intelligent face, rather pale, rushed out of the shed, followed by the owner of the manly voice, a dashing infantry officer who hurried off to his company, buttoning up his coat as he ran.