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Volume I, Part Three, Chapter XI

At ten o'clock in the evening Weyrother with his plans rode over to Kutuzov's quarters, where a council of war had been appointed. All the commanders of the columns were summoned to the commander in chief, and with the exception of Prince Bagration, who declined to come, all arrived at the appointed hour.

Weyrother, who was in full control of the proposed battle, presented, by his eagerness and briskness, a sharp contrast to the dissatisfied and sleepy Kutuzov, who reluctantly played the part of chairman and director of the council of war. Weyrother evidently felt himself to be at the head of a movement that had already become unrestrainable. He was like a harnessed horse running downhill with a heavy load. Whether he was pulling it or being pushed by it, he did not know; but he was being carried along at the utmost possible speed, with no time left to consider what this movement would lead to. Weyrother had been twice that evening to the enemy's picket line to reconnoiter personally, and twice to the Emperors, Russian and Austrian, to report and explain, and to his chancery, where he dictated the German disposition. Now, much exhausted, he arrived at Kutuzov's.

He was evidently so busy that he even forgot to be respectful to the commander in chief: he interrupted him, spoke rapidly, indistinctly, without looking at the face of his interlocutor, and without answering the questions put to him. He was bespattered with mud and had a pitiful, exhausted, distracted, and at the same time presumptuous and proud look.

Kutuzov was occupying a small nobleman's castle near Ostralitz. In the large drawing room, which had become the commander in chief's study, were gathered: Kutuzov himself, Weyrother, and the members of the council of war. They were drinking tea. They only awaited Prince Bagration to begin the council. At eight o'clock Bagration's orderly arrived with the news that the Prince could not be present. Prince Andrew came to report this to the commander in chief, and, availing himself of the permission previously given him by Kutuzov to be present at the council, remained in the room.

— Since Prince Bagration is not coming, we may begin, — said Weyrother, hastily rising from his seat and going up to the table on which an enormous map of the environs of Brünn was spread out.

Kutuzov, with his uniform unbuttoned so that his fat neck seemed to bulge over his collar, was sitting in an easy chair of the Voltaire type, his plump old hands resting symmetrically on the armrests, and was almost asleep. At the sound of Weyrother's voice he opened his single eye with an effort.

— Yes, yes, if you please, for it is getting late, — he muttered, and nodding his head, he let it droop and again closed his eyes.

If at first the members of the council thought Kutuzov was pretending to sleep, the sounds he emitted through his nose during the subsequent reading proved that the commander in chief at that moment was concerned with something far more important than a desire to show his contempt for the disposition or anything else: he was engaged in satisfying the irresistible human need for sleep. He was really asleep. Weyrother, with the movement of a man too busy to lose a single minute, glanced at Kutuzov, and having convinced himself that he was asleep, took up a paper and in a loud, monotonous voice began to read the disposition of the forthcoming battle, under a heading which he also read:

"Disposition for the attack on the enemy position behind Kobelnitz and Sokolnitz, November 20, 1805."

The disposition was very complicated and difficult. In the original it ran:

Da der Feind mit seinem linken Fluegel an die mit Wald bedeckten Berge lehnt und sich mit seinem rechten Fluegel laengs Kobelnitz und Sokolnitz hinter die dort befindlichen Teiche zieht, wir im Gegentheil mit unserem linken Fluegel seinen rechten sehr debordiren, so ist es vortheilhaft letzteren Fluegel dse Feindes zu attakiren, besonders wenn wir die Doerfer Sokolnitz und Kobelnitz im Besitze haben, wodurch wir dem Feind zugleich in die Flanke fallen und ihn auf der Flaeche zwischen Schlapanitz und dem Thuerassa-Walde verfolgen koennen, indem wir dem Defileen von Schlapanitz und Bellowitz ausweichen, welche die feindliche Front decken. Zu diesem Endzwecke ist es noethig... Die erste Kolonne marschirt... die zweite Kolonne marschirt... die dritte Kolonne marschirt... [As the enemy rests his left wing on the wooded mountains and extends his right wing along Kobelnitz and Sokolnitz behind the ponds situated there, and as we, on the contrary, greatly outflank his right wing with our left, it is advantageous for us to attack the latter wing of the enemy, especially if we have possession of the villages of Sokolnitz and Kobelnitz, whereby we can simultaneously fall upon the enemy's flank and pursue him on the plain between Schlapanitz and the Turas wood, avoiding the defiles of Schlapanitz and Bellowitz, which cover the enemy's front. To this end it is necessary... The first column marches... the second column marches... the third column marches...] and so on, read Weyrother. The generals seemed to listen reluctantly to the difficult disposition. The tall, fair-haired General Buxhowden stood leaning his back against the wall, and fixing his eyes on a burning candle, seemed not to listen, and not even to want anyone to think he was listening. Exactly opposite Weyrother, fixing his bright, wide-open eyes upon him, and sitting in a martial pose with his arms akimbo on his knees, was the ruddy Miloradovich, with his mustache and shoulders raised. He preserved an obstinate silence, gazing at Weyrother's face, and only took his eyes off him when the Austrian chief of staff ceased speaking. At such moments Miloradovich would look around significantly at the other generals. But from the meaning of this significant look it was impossible to tell whether he agreed or disagreed, was pleased or displeased with the disposition. Closest of all to Weyrother sat Count Langeron, and with a subtle smile of a southern French face, which never left him during the whole reading, he gazed at his delicate fingers as they rapidly twirled a gold snuffbox with a portrait on it by its corners. In the middle of one of the longest sentences he stopped the rotary motion of the snuffbox, raised his head, and with unpleasant politeness on the very tips of his thin lips interrupted Weyrother, wishing to say something: but the Austrian general, not pausing in his reading, frowned angrily and waved his elbows, as if to say: later, later you shall tell me your thoughts, now please look at the map and listen. Langeron raised his eyes with an expression of perplexity, looked round at Miloradovich as if seeking an explanation, but meeting the significant but meaningless gaze of Miloradovich, he drooped his eyes sadly and again began to twirl the snuffbox.

— Une leçon de géographie [A lesson in geography.], — he muttered as if to himself, but loud enough to be heard.

Przebyszewski, with respectful but dignified politeness, bent his ear toward Weyrother, with the air of a man absorbed in attention. The little Dokhturov sat directly opposite Weyrother, with a diligent and modest air, and bending over the outspread map, conscientiously studied the disposition and the unfamiliar locality. He several times asked Weyrother to repeat words he had not clearly heard and the difficult names of the villages. Weyrother complied with his request, and Dokhturov made notes.

When the reading, which lasted more than an hour, was over, Langeron, again stopping his snuffbox and without looking at Weyrother or at anyone in particular, began to say how difficult it was to carry out such a disposition, in which the enemy's position is assumed to be known, whereas it might be unknown to us, since the enemy was in motion. Langeron's objections were well founded, but it was obvious that their chief aim was to make General Weyrother, who had read his disposition as confidently as a schoolmaster to his pupils, feel that he was dealing not merely with fools, but with men who could teach him a thing or two in military matters. When the monotonous sound of Weyrother's voice ceased, Kutuzov opened his eyes like a miller who wakes up when the soporific sound of the mill wheels is interrupted, listened to what Langeron was saying, and, as if to say: "Oh, you are still at that nonsense!" hastily closed his eyes and let his head drop still lower.

Trying to inflict the most stinging wound possible on Weyrother's authorial military vanity, Langeron argued that Bonaparte might easily attack instead of being attacked, and thus render all this disposition entirely useless. Weyrother met all objections with a firm and contemptuous smile, evidently prepared beforehand for every objection, regardless of what might be said to him.

— If he could have attacked us, he would have done so today, — he said.

— So you think he is powerless? — said Langeron.

— It is much if he has forty thousand troops, — answered Weyrother, with the smile of a doctor to whom a quack woman is trying to dictate a remedy.

— In that case he is going to his ruin by awaiting our attack, — said Langeron, with a subtle, ironical smile, again looking round for support to the nearest man, Miloradovich.

But Miloradovich at that moment was evidently thinking least of all of what the generals were disputing about.

— Ma foi [Upon my word,], — he said, — tomorrow we shall see everything on the battlefield.

Weyrother smiled again with that smile which said that to him it was ridiculous and strange to meet with objections from Russian generals, and to have to prove to them what he was not only thoroughly convinced of himself, but what the sovereign Emperors were convinced of.

— The enemy has extinguished his fires, and a continuous noise is heard in his camp, — he said. — What does this mean? — Either he is retreating, which is the only thing we have to fear, or he is changing his position (he smiled). But even if he were to take up a position at Turas, he would only save us a great deal of trouble, and all our arrangements, down to the smallest detail, will remain the same.

— How so?... — said Prince Andrew, who had long been waiting for an opportunity to express his doubts.

Kutuzov woke up, cleared his throat heavily, and looked round at the generals.

— Gentlemen, the disposition for tomorrow, or rather for today (for it is past midnight), cannot now be altered, — he said. — You have heard it, and we shall all fulfill our duty. And before a battle, there is nothing more important... (he paused) than to have a good sleep.

He made a movement to rise. The generals bowed and retired. It was past midnight. Prince Andrew went out.

The council of war, at which Prince Andrew had not been able to express his opinion as he had hoped, left him with a vague and uneasy impression. Whether Dolgorukov and Weyrother were right, or whether Kutuzov, Langeron, and the others who did not approve of the plan of attack were right, he did not know. "But was it really impossible for Kutuzov to state his views directly to the Emperor? Can it really not be done otherwise? Must tens of thousands of lives, and my, my life, be risked for the sake of court and personal considerations?" he thought.

"Yes, it is very possible that I shall be killed tomorrow," he thought. And suddenly, at this thought of death, a whole series of memories, the most distant and the most intimate, rose in his imagination: he remembered his last parting with his father and his wife; he remembered the early days of his love for her; he thought of her pregnancy, and he felt sorry for her and for himself, and in a nervously softened and agitated mood he stepped out of the hut where he was billeted with Nesvitsky, and began to pace up and down in front of the house.

The night was foggy, and the moonlight gleamed mysteriously through the mist. "Yes, tomorrow, tomorrow! — he thought. — Tomorrow everything may be over for me; all these memories will be no more, all these memories will have no more meaning for me. Tomorrow, perhaps, even certainly tomorrow, I foresee it, for the first time I shall at last have to show all that I can do." And he pictured the battle, its loss, the concentration of fighting at one point, and the confusion of all the commanders. And then that happy moment, that Toulon for which he had waited so long, finally presents itself to him. He firmly and clearly states his opinion to Kutuzov, to Weyrother, and to the Emperors. All are struck by the soundness of his reasoning, but no one undertakes to execute it, and so he takes a regiment, a division, stipulates that no one is to interfere with his orders, and leads his division to the decisive point and single-handedly gains the victory. "But death and suffering?" says another voice. But Prince Andrew does not answer that voice and continues his successes. The disposition for the next battle is drawn up by him alone. He holds the rank of orderly officer to Kutuzov, but does everything himself. The next battle is won by him alone. Kutuzov is removed, he is appointed... "Well, and then?" the other voice says again, "and then, if you are not wounded, killed, or deceived ten times before then; well, what then?" — "Well, and then... — Prince Andrew answers himself, — I don't know what will happen then, I don't want to and can't know; but if I want this, want glory, want to be known to men, want to be loved by them, it is not my fault that I want it, that it is the only thing I want, the only thing I live for. Yes, for this alone! I shall never tell this to anyone, but, my God! what am I to do if I love nothing but glory and men's love. Death, wounds, the loss of my family, nothing frightens me. And dear and precious as many people are to me — my father, my sister, my wife — the dearest people to me — yet, dreadful and unnatural as it may seem, I would give them all right now for a moment of glory, of triumph over men, for the love of men I don't know and never shall know, for the love of these men here," he thought, listening to the voices in Kutuzov's courtyard. The voices of the orderlies packing up were heard in Kutuzov's courtyard; one voice, probably a coachman's, teasing Kutuzov's old cook whom Prince Andrew knew, and whose name was Tit, was saying: "Tit, I say, Tit?"

— Well, — answered the old man.

— Tit, go and thrash, — said the joker.

— Pah, go to the devil, — sounded a voice, drowned by the laughter of the orderlies and servants.

"And yet I love and value nothing but triumph over them all, I value this mysterious power and glory which is hovering over me here in this mist!"