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same manner. Nesvitski laughed and nudged the others to 

make them look at the wag. 

Kutuzov walked slowly and languidly past thousands 

of eyes which were starting from their sockets to watch 

their chief. On reaching the third company he suddenly 

stopped. His suite, not having expected this, involuntarily 

came closer to him. 

‘Ah, Timokhin!’ said he, recognizing the red-nosed 

captain who had been reprimanded on account of the blue 

greatcoat. 

One would have thought it impossible for a man to 

stretch himself more than Timokhin had done when he 

was reprimanded by the regimental commander, but now 

that the commander in chief addressed him he drew 

himself up to such an extent that it seemed he could not 

have sustained it had the commander in chief continued to 

look at him, and so Kutuzov, who evidently understood 

his case and wished him nothing but good, quickly turned 

away, a scarcely perceptible smile flitting over his scarred 

and puffy face. 

‘Another Ismail comrade,’ said he. ‘A brave officer! 

Are you satisfied with him?’ he asked the regimental 

commander. 

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And the latter- unconscious that he was being reflected 

in the hussar officer as in a looking glass- started, moved 

forward, and answered: ‘Highly satisfied, your 

excellency!’ 

‘We all have our weaknesses,’ said Kutuzov smiling 

and walking away from him. ‘He used to have a 

predilection for Bacchus.’ 

The regimental commander was afraid he might be 

blamed for this and did not answer. The hussar at that 

moment noticed the face of the red-nosed captain and his 

drawn-in stomach, and mimicked his expression and pose 

with such exactitude that Nesvitski could not help 

laughing. Kutuzov turned round. The officer evidently 

had complete control of his face, and while Kutuzov was 

turning managed to make a grimace and then assume a 

most serious, deferential, and innocent expression. 

The third company was the last, and Kutuzov 

pondered, apparently trying to recollect something. Prince 

Andrew stepped forward from among the suite and said in 

French: 

‘You told me to remind you of the officer Dolokhov, 

reduced to the ranks in this regiment.’ 

‘Where is Dolokhov?’ asked Kutuzov. 

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Dolokhov, who had already changed into a soldier’s 

gray greatcoat, did not wait to be called. The shapely 

figure of the fair-haired soldier, with his clear blue eyes, 

stepped forward from the ranks, went up to the 

commander in chief, and presented arms. 

‘Have you a complaint to make?’ Kutuzov asked with 

a slight frown. 

‘This is Dolokhov,’ said Prince Andrew. 

‘Ah!’ said Kutuzov. ‘I hope this will be a lesson to 

you. Do your duty. The Emperor is gracious, and I shan’t 

forget you if you deserve well.’ 

The clear blue eyes looked at the commander in chief 

just as boldly as they had looked at the regimental 

commander, seeming by their expression to tear open the 

veil of convention that separates a commander in chief so 

widely from a private. 

‘One thing I ask of your excellency,’ Dolokhov said in 

his firm, ringing, deliberate voice. ‘I ask an opportunity to 

atone for my fault and prove my devotion to His Majesty 

the Emperor and to Russia!’ 

Kutuzov turned away. The same smile of the eyes with 

which he had turned from Captain Timokhin again flitted 

over his face. He turned away with a grimace as if to say 

that everything Dolokhov had said to him and everything 

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