after. He realized that he couldn't even recall his face.
He then started on a round of his friends and relations, seeing how well he could recall their features and the tones of their voices. It was interesting to find that, apart from his long-dead mother, there were very few women who remained at all clearly in his memory. There was a plump little Princess who had fluttered her eyelashes at him at a ball in Petersburg last winter and occupied his attention for a week or two, and a black-eyed beauty who had captured his heart years ago, before he joined the army even, but had been un-attainably betrothed to one of his friends.
That little dancer from the Opera—he couldn't remember her name. He couldn't remember her face either, he realized on reflection: he was confusing her with another—several others. What about Danilov's sister? He had seriously thought of marrying her a couple of years ago, before he went off to the Turkish campaign with Kutuzov. More than three years now, he supposed. Anyway he couldn't remember her at all—was she dark or fair? Just as well he hadn't married her.
Nevertheless, time he did marry. Thirty-two, and not even betrothed yet. 'If I marry this year,' he thought, ‘I’ll be in my mid fifties when my eldest son comes of age! Surely the war can’t go on much longer? The French have been fighting— how long now? Twenty years ? Surely no country can stand a war that long. It must end soon. End! For all I know, Bona parte could go on marching through Russia from Smolensk to Moscow, and then on to Petersburg and from there to Sevastopol! We could be fighting him for another twenty years! I low old is he? Forty-odd? Kutuzov's nearly seventy. Another thirty years of Bonaparte!'
He was suddenly aware that Kusminsky was riding at his elbow and he turned to look at him.
‘ Sorry,' he said. 'I was thinking.'
'Nothing very cheerful, from the look of you. What was making you scowl like that?'
'I'd just worked out that we could go on fighting Bonaparte I'H another thirty years. Wouldn't it make you scowl?'
'God forbid!' exclaimed the surgeon. 'Surely someone will put a bullet through his head before that!'
'Surely,' replied Orlov grimly. 'But it won't necessarily kill him, you know. Kutuzov has been shot through the head iu ice and it doesn't seem to have prevented him from going on with his military career.'
'Ah, but Mikhail Ilarionovitch is a Russian!' said Kusminsky with fine chauvinism. 'One bullet through the head should do for a mere Italian!'
'Let it be soon!' said Orlov. He glanced up at the sky and drew out his watch. To his surprise, it was five o'clock.
'There appears to be a clearing just ahead,' said Kusminsky, anticipating his thoughts. 'And a convenient stream as well. How fortuitous!'
'Indeed,' replied Orlov. 'Most pro vidential,' he said in the same spirit.
CHAPTER FIVE
The clearing proved a suitable camp-site for the night and Orlov gave a succession of clear, logical instructions for making camp with the ease of long practice. He forced himself to fight down his fatigue long enough to see that everything was proceeding properly, knowing that the pattern set tonight would be the precedent for every night as long as "the journey lasted.
When everything was going on to his satisfaction, sheer perversity made him go over to the little group of men whose leg injuries prevented them from walking about, and he stood talking to them for a few minutes as they lay industriously turning the sheets from the inn into piles of neatly rolled bandages. After that, there was a shaky cart-wheel to look at and a few queries about the horses to answer.
By the time he had finished, the camp was settling into a routine of preparation for the evening meal and he saw that the two tents had been set up a little distance away, between the stream and a clump of bushes. Kolniev's green coat was hanging from the corner pole of one so Orlov made for the other, but was
He then started on a round of his friends and relations, seeing how well he could recall their features and the tones of their voices. It was interesting to find that, apart from his long-dead mother, there were very few women who remained at all clearly in his memory. There was a plump little Princess who had fluttered her eyelashes at him at a ball in Petersburg last winter and occupied his attention for a week or two, and a black-eyed beauty who had captured his heart years ago, before he joined the army even, but had been un-attainably betrothed to one of his friends.
That little dancer from the Opera—he couldn't remember her name. He couldn't remember her face either, he realized on reflection: he was confusing her with another—several others. What about Danilov's sister? He had seriously thought of marrying her a couple of years ago, before he went off to the Turkish campaign with Kutuzov. More than three years now, he supposed. Anyway he couldn't remember her at all—was she dark or fair? Just as well he hadn't married her.
Nevertheless, time he did marry. Thirty-two, and not even betrothed yet. 'If I marry this year,' he thought, ‘I’ll be in my mid fifties when my eldest son comes of age! Surely the war can’t go on much longer? The French have been fighting— how long now? Twenty years ? Surely no country can stand a war that long. It must end soon. End! For all I know, Bona parte could go on marching through Russia from Smolensk to Moscow, and then on to Petersburg and from there to Sevastopol! We could be fighting him for another twenty years! I low old is he? Forty-odd? Kutuzov's nearly seventy. Another thirty years of Bonaparte!'
He was suddenly aware that Kusminsky was riding at his elbow and he turned to look at him.
‘ Sorry,' he said. 'I was thinking.'
'Nothing very cheerful, from the look of you. What was making you scowl like that?'
'I'd just worked out that we could go on fighting Bonaparte I'H another thirty years. Wouldn't it make you scowl?'
'God forbid!' exclaimed the surgeon. 'Surely someone will put a bullet through his head before that!'
'Surely,' replied Orlov grimly. 'But it won't necessarily kill him, you know. Kutuzov has been shot through the head iu ice and it doesn't seem to have prevented him from going on with his military career.'
'Ah, but Mikhail Ilarionovitch is a Russian!' said Kusminsky with fine chauvinism. 'One bullet through the head should do for a mere Italian!'
'Let it be soon!' said Orlov. He glanced up at the sky and drew out his watch. To his surprise, it was five o'clock.
'There appears to be a clearing just ahead,' said Kusminsky, anticipating his thoughts. 'And a convenient stream as well. How fortuitous!'
'Indeed,' replied Orlov. 'Most pro vidential,' he said in the same spirit.
CHAPTER FIVE
The clearing proved a suitable camp-site for the night and Orlov gave a succession of clear, logical instructions for making camp with the ease of long practice. He forced himself to fight down his fatigue long enough to see that everything was proceeding properly, knowing that the pattern set tonight would be the precedent for every night as long as "the journey lasted.
When everything was going on to his satisfaction, sheer perversity made him go over to the little group of men whose leg injuries prevented them from walking about, and he stood talking to them for a few minutes as they lay industriously turning the sheets from the inn into piles of neatly rolled bandages. After that, there was a shaky cart-wheel to look at and a few queries about the horses to answer.
By the time he had finished, the camp was settling into a routine of preparation for the evening meal and he saw that the two tents had been set up a little distance away, between the stream and a clump of bushes. Kolniev's green coat was hanging from the corner pole of one so Orlov made for the other, but was
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