Book Three: 1805 - Chapter X

by Leo Tolstoy

　　At dawn on the sixteenth of November, Denisov's squadron, in whichNicholas Rostov served and which was in Prince Bagration's detachment,moved from the place where it had spent the night, advancing intoaction as arranged, and after going behind other columns for about twothirds of a mile was stopped on the highroad. Rostov saw theCossacks and then the first and second squadrons of hussars andinfantry battalions and artillery pass by and go forward and thenGenerals Bagration and Dolgorukov ride past with their adjutants.All the fear before action which he had experienced as previously, allthe inner struggle to conquer that fear, all his dreams ofdistinguishing himself as a true hussar in this battle, had beenwasted. Their squadron remained in reserve and Nicholas Rostov spentthat day in a dull and wretched mood. At nine in the morning, he heardfiring in front and shouts of hurrah, and saw wounded being broughtback (there were not many of them), and at last he saw how a wholedetachment of French cavalry was brought in, convoyed by a sontnyaof Cossacks. Evidently the affair was over and, though not big, hadbeen a successful engagement. The men and officers returning spokeof a brilliant victory, of the occupation of the town of Wischau andthe capture of a whole French squadron. The day was bright and sunnyafter a sharp night frost, and the cheerful glitter of that autumn daywas in keeping with the news of victory which was conveyed, not onlyby the tales of those who had taken part in it, but also by the joyfulexpression on the faces of soldiers, officers, generals, andadjutants, as they passed Rostov going or coming. And Nicholas, whohad vainly suffered all the dread that precedes a battle and had spentthat happy day in inactivity, was all the more depressed.

　　"Come here, Wostov. Let's dwink to dwown our gwief!" shoutedDenisov, who had settled down by the roadside with a flask and somefood.

　　The officers gathered round Denisov's canteen, eating and talking.

　　"There! They are bringing another!" cried one of the officers,indicating a captive French dragoon who was being brought in on footby two Cossacks.

　　One of them was leading by the bridle a fine large French horse hehad taken from the prisoner.

　　"Sell us that horse!" Denisov called out to the Cossacks.

　　"If you like, your honor!"

　　The officers got up and stood round the Cossacks and their prisoner.The French dragoon was a young Alsatian who spoke French with a Germanaccent. He was breathless with agitation, his face was red, and whenhe heard some French spoken he at once began speaking to the officers,addressing first one, then another. He said he would not have beentaken, it was not his fault but the corporal's who had sent him toseize some horsecloths, though he had told him the Russians werethere. And at every word he added: "But don't hurt my little horse!"and stroked the animal. It was plain that he did not quite grasp wherehe was. Now he excused himself for having been taken prisoner and now,imagining himself before his own officers, insisted on his soldierlydiscipline and zeal in the service. He brought with him into ourrearguard all the freshness of atmosphere of the French army, whichwas so alien to us.

　　The Cossacks sold the horse for two gold pieces, and Rostov, beingthe richest of the officers now that he had received his money, boughtit.

　　"But don't hurt my little horse!" said the Alsatian good-naturedlyto Rostov when the animal was handed over to the hussar.

　　Rostov smilingly reassured the dragoon and gave him money.

　　"Alley! Alley!" said the Cossack, touching the prisoner's arm tomake him go on.

　　"The Emperor! The Emperor!" was suddenly heard among the hussars.

　　All began to run and bustle, and Rostov saw coming up the roadbehind him several riders with white plumes in their hats. In a momenteveryone was in his place, waiting.

　　Rostov did not know or remember how he ran to his place and mounted.Instantly his regret at not having been in action and his dejectedmood amid people of whom he was weary had gone, instantly everythought of himself had vanished. He was filled with happiness at hisnearness to the Emperor. He felt that this nearness by itself madeup to him for the day he had lost. He was happy as a lover when thelonged-for moment of meeting arrives. Not daring to look round andwithout looking round, he was ecstatically conscious of hisapproach. He felt it not only from the sound of the hoofs of theapproaching cavalcade, but because as he drew near everything grewbrighter, more joyful, more significant, and more festive aroundhim. Nearer and nearer to Rostov came that sun shedding beams ofmild and majestic light around, and already he felt himselfenveloped in those beams, he heard his voice, that kindly, calm, andmajestic voice that was yet so simple! And as if in accord withRostov's feeling, there was a deathly stillness amid which was heardthe Emperor's voice.

　　"The Pavlograd hussars?" he inquired.

　　"The reserves, sire!" replied a voice, a very human one comparedto that which had said: "The Pavlograd hussars?"

　　The Emperor drew level with Rostov and halted. Alexander's facewas even more beautiful than it had been three days before at thereview. It shone with such gaiety and youth, such innocent youth, thatit suggested the liveliness of a fourteen-year-old boy, and yet it wasthe face of the majestic Emperor. Casually, while surveying thesquadron, the Emperor's eyes met Rostov's and rested on them for notmore than two seconds. Whether or no the Emperor understood what wasgoing on in Rostov's soul (it seemed to Rostov that he understoodeverything), at any rate his light-blue eyes gazed for about twoseconds into Rostov's face. A gentle, mild light poured from them.Then all at once he raised his eyebrows, abruptly touched his horsewith his left foot, and galloped on.

　　The younger Emperor could not restrain his wish to be present at thebattle and, in spite of the remonstrances of his courtiers, attwelve o'clock left the third column with which he had been andgalloped toward the vanguard. Before he came up with the hussars,several adjutants met him with news of the successful result of theaction.

　　This battle, which consisted in the capture of a French squadron,was represented as a brilliant victory over the French, and so theEmperor and the whole army, especially while the smoke hung over thebattlefield, believed that the French had been defeated and wereretreating against their will. A few minutes after the Emperor hadpassed, the Pavlograd division was ordered to advance. In Wischauitself, a petty German town, Rostov saw the Emperor again. In themarket place, where there had been some rather heavy firing before theEmperor's arrival, lay several killed and wounded soldiers whomthere had not been time to move. The Emperor, surrounded by hissuite of officers and courtiers, was riding a bobtailed chestnut mare,a different one from that which he had ridden at the review, andbending to one side he gracefully held a gold lorgnette to his eyesand looked at a soldier who lay prone, with blood on his uncoveredhead. The wounded soldier was so dirty, coarse, and revolting that hisproximity to the Emperor shocked Rostov. Rostov saw how theEmperor's rather round shoulders shuddered as if a cold shiver had rundown them, how his left foot began convulsively tapping the horse'sside with the spur, and how the well-trained horse looked roundunconcerned and did not stir. An adjutant, dismounting, lifted thesoldier under the arms to place him on a stretcher that had beenbrought. The soldier groaned.

　　"Gently, gently! Can't you do it more gently?" said the Emperorapparently suffering more than the dying soldier, and he rode away.

　　Rostov saw tears filling the Emperor's eyes and heard him, as he wasriding away, say to Czartoryski: "What a terrible thing war is: what aterrible thing! Quelle terrible chose que la guerre!"

　　The troops of the vanguard were stationed before Wischau, withinsight of the enemy's lines, which all day long had yielded ground tous at the least firing. The Emperor's gratitude was announced to thevanguard, rewards were promised, and the men received a doubleration of vodka. The campfires crackled and the soldiers' songsresounded even more merrily than on the previous night. Denisovcelebrated his promotion to the rank of major, and Rostov, who hadalready drunk enough, at the end of the feast proposed the Emperor'shealth. "Not 'our Sovereign, the Emperor,' as they say at officialdinners," said he, "but the health of our Sovereign, that good,enchanting, and great man! Let us drink to his health and to thecertain defeat of the French!"

　　"If we fought before," he said, "not letting the French pass, asat Schon Grabern, what shall we not do now when he is at the front? Wewill all die for him gladly! Is it not so, gentlemen? Perhaps I am notsaying it right, I have drunk a good deal- but that is how I feel, andso do you too! To the health of Alexander the First! Hurrah!"

　　"Hurrah!" rang the enthusiastic voices of the officers.

　　And the old cavalry captain, Kirsten, shouted enthusiastically andno less sincerely than the twenty-year-old Rostov.

　　When the officers had emptied and smashed their glasses, Kirstenfilled others and, in shirt sleeves and breeches, went glass in handto the soldiers' bonfires and with his long gray mustache, his whitechest showing under his open shirt, he stood in a majestic pose in thelight of the campfire, waving his uplifted arm.

　　"Lads! here's to our Sovereign, the Emperor, and victory over ourenemies! Hurrah!" he exclaimed in his dashing, old, hussar's baritone.

　　The hussars crowded round and responded heartily with loud shouts.

　　Late that night, when all had separated, Denisov with his short handpatted his favorite, Rostov, on the shoulder.

　　"As there's no one to fall in love with on campaign, he's fallenin love with the Tsar," he said.

　　"Denisov, don't make fun of it!" cried Rostov. "It is such alofty, beautiful feeling, such a..."

　　"I believe it, I believe it, fwiend, and I share and appwove..."

　　"No, you don't understand!"

　　And Rostov got up and went wandering among the campfires, dreamingof what happiness it would be to die- not in saving the Emperor's life(he did not even dare to dream of that), but simply to die beforehis eyes. He really was in love with the Tsar and the glory of theRussian arms and the hope of future triumph. And he was not the onlyman to experience that feeling during those memorable days precedingthe battle of Austerlitz: nine tenths of the men in the Russian armywere then in love, though less ecstatically, with their Tsar and theglory of the Russian arms.