Kutuzov walked through the ranks, stopping
now and then, and saying a few friendly words to officers he had known in the
Turkish war, and sometimes to the soldiers. Looking at their boots, he several
times shook his head dejectedly, and pointed them out to the Austrian general
with an expression as much as to say that he blamed no one for it, but he could
not help seeing what a bad state of things it was. The general in command of
the regiment, on every occasion such as this, ran forward, afraid of missing a
single word the commander-in-chief might utter regarding the regiment. Behind
Kutuzov, at such a distance that every word, even feebly articulated, could be
heard, followed his suite, consisting of some twenty persons. These gentlemen
were talking among themselves, and sometimes laughed. Nearest of all to the
commander-in-chief walked a handsome adjutant. It was Prince Bolkonsky. Beside
him was his comrade Nesvitsky, a tall staff-officer, excessively stout, with a
good-natured, smiling, handsome face, and moist eyes. Nesvitsky could hardly suppress
his mirth, which was excited by a swarthy officer of hussars walking near him.
This officer, without a smile or a change in the expression of his fixed eyes,
was staring with a serious face at the commanding officer’s back, and mimicking
every movement he made. Every time the commanding officer quivered and darted
forward, the officer of hussars quivered and darted forward in precisely the
same way. Nesvitsky laughed, and poked the others to make them look at the
mimic.
Kutuzov walked slowly and listlessly by the
thousands of eyes which were almost rolling out of their sockets in the effort
to watch him. On reaching the third company, he suddenly stopped. The suite,
not foreseeing this halt, could not help pressing up closer to him.
“Ah, Timohin!”
said the commander-in-chief, recognising the captain with the red nose who had
got into trouble over the blue overcoat.
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