The day after Rostov had been to see
Boris, a review was held of the Austrian and Russian
troops, both those freshly arrived from Russia and
those who had been campaigning under Kutuzov.
The two Emperors, the Russian with his heir the Tsarevich,
and the Austrian with the Archduke, inspected the
allied army of eighty thousand men.
From early morning the smart clean
troops were on the move, forming up on the field before
the fortress. Now thousands of feet and bayonets
moved and halted at the officers’ command, turned
with banners flying, formed up at intervals, and wheeled
round other similar masses of infantry in different
uniforms; now was heard the rhythmic beat of hoofs
and the jingling of showy cavalry in blue, red, and
green braided uniforms, with smartly dressed bandsmen
in front mounted on black, roan, or gray horses; then
again, spreading out with the brazen clatter of the
polished shining cannon that quivered on the gun carriages
and with the smell of linstocks, came the artillery
which crawled between the infantry and cavalry and
took up its appointed position. Not only the
generals in full parade uniforms, with their thin or
thick waists drawn in to the utmost, their red necks
squeezed into their stiff collars, and wearing scarves
and all their decorations, not only the elegant, pomaded
officers, but every soldier with his freshly washed
and shaven face and his weapons clean and polished
to the utmost, and every horse groomed till its coat
shone like satin and every hair of its wetted mane
lay smooth felt that no small matter was
happening, but an important and solemn affair.
Every general and every soldier was conscious of his
own insignificance, aware of being but a drop in that
ocean of men, and yet at the same time was conscious
of his strength as a part of that enormous whole.
From early morning strenuous activities
and efforts had begun and by ten o’clock all
had been brought into due order. The ranks were
drawn up on the vast field. The whole army was
extended in three lines: the cavalry in front,
behind it the artillery, and behind that again the
infantry.
A space like a street was left between
each two lines of troops. The three parts of
that army were sharply distinguished: Kutuzov’s
fighting army (with the Pavlograds on the right flank
of the front); those recently arrived from Russia,
both Guards and regiments of the line; and the Austrian
troops. But they all stood in the same lines,
under one command, and in a like order.
Like wind over leaves ran an excited
whisper: “They’re coming! They’re
coming!” Alarmed voices were heard, and a stir
of final preparation swept over all the troops.
From the direction of Olmutz in front
of them, a group was seen approaching. And at
that moment, though the day was still, a light gust
of wind blowing over the army slightly stirred the
streamers on the lances and the unfolded standards
fluttered against their staffs. It looked as
if by that slight motion the army itself was expressing
its joy at the approach of the Emperors. One
voice was heard shouting: “Eyes front!”
Then, like the crowing of cocks at sunrise, this was
repeated by others from various sides and all became
silent.
In the deathlike stillness only the
tramp of horses was heard. This was the Emperors’
suites. The Emperors rode up to the flank, and
the trumpets of the first cavalry regiment played
the general march. It seemed as though not the
trumpeters were playing, but as if the army itself,
rejoicing at the Emperors’ approach, had naturally
burst into music. Amid these sounds, only the
youthful kindly voice of the Emperor Alexander was
clearly heard. He gave the words of greeting,
and the first regiment roared “Hurrah!”
so deafeningly, continuously, and joyfully that the
men themselves were awed by their multitude and the
immensity of the power they constituted.
Rostov, standing in the front lines
of Kutuzov’s army which the Tsar approached
first, experienced the same feeling as every other
man in that army: a feeling of self-forgetfulness,
a proud consciousness of might, and a passionate attraction
to him who was the cause of this triumph.
He felt that at a single word from
that man all this vast mass (and he himself an insignificant
atom in it) would go through fire and water, commit
crime, die, or perform deeds of highest heroism, and
so he could not but tremble and his heart stand still
at the imminence of that word.
“Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!”
thundered from all sides, one regiment after another
greeting the Tsar with the strains of the march, and
then “Hurrah!"... Then the general march,
and again “Hurrah! Hurrah!” growing
ever stronger and fuller and merging into a deafening
roar.
Till the Tsar reached it, each regiment
in its silence and immobility seemed like a lifeless
body, but as soon as he came up it became alive, its
thunder joining the roar of the whole line along which
he had already passed. Through the terrible and
deafening roar of those voices, amid the square masses
of troops standing motionless as if turned to stone,
hundreds of riders composing the suites moved carelessly
but symmetrically and above all freely, and in front
of them two men the Emperors. Upon
them the undivided, tensely passionate attention of
that whole mass of men was concentrated.
The handsome young Emperor Alexander,
in the uniform of the Horse Guards, wearing a cocked
hat with its peaks front and back, with his pleasant
face and resonant though not loud voice, attracted
everyone’s attention.
Rostov was not far from the trumpeters,
and with his keen sight had recognized the Tsar and
watched his approach. When he was within twenty
paces, and Nicholas could clearly distinguish every
detail of his handsome, happy young face, he experienced
a feeling tenderness and ecstasy such as he had never
before known. Every trait and every movement
of the Tsar’s seemed to him enchanting.
Stopping in front of the Pavlograds,
the Tsar said something in French to the Austrian
Emperor and smiled.
Seeing that smile, Rostov involuntarily
smiled himself and felt a still stronger flow of love
for his sovereign. He longed to show that love
in some way and knowing that this was impossible was
ready to cry. The Tsar called the colonel of
the regiment and said a few words to him.
“Oh God, what would happen to
me if the Emperor spoke to me?” thought Rostov.
“I should die of happiness!”
The Tsar addressed the officers also:
“I thank you all, gentlemen, I thank you with
my whole heart.” To Rostov every word sounded
like a voice from heaven. How gladly would he
have died at once for his Tsar!
“You have earned the St. George’s
standards and will be worthy of them.”
“Oh, to die, to die for him,” thought
Rostov.
The Tsar said something more which
Rostov did not hear, and the soldiers, straining their
lungs, shouted “Hurrah!”
Rostov too, bending over his saddle,
shouted “Hurrah!” with all his might,
feeling that he would like to injure himself by that
shout, if only to express his rapture fully.
The Tsar stopped a few minutes in
front of the hussars as if undecided.
“How can the Emperor be undecided?”
thought Rostov, but then even this indecision appeared
to him majestic and enchanting, like everything else
the Tsar did.
That hesitation lasted only an instant.
The Tsar’s foot, in the narrow pointed boot
then fashionable, touched the groin of the bobtailed
bay mare he rode, his hand in a white glove gathered
up the reins, and he moved off accompanied by an irregularly
swaying sea of aides-de-camp. Farther and farther
he rode away, stopping at other regiments, till at
last only his white plumes were visible to Rostov from
amid the suites that surrounded the Emperors.
Among the gentlemen of the suite,
Rostov noticed Bolkonski, sitting his horse indolently
and carelessly. Rostov recalled their quarrel
of yesterday and the question presented itself whether
he ought or ought not to challenge Bolkonski.
“Of course not!” he now thought. “Is
it worth thinking or speaking of it at such a moment?
At a time of such love, such rapture, and such self-sacrifice,
what do any of our quarrels and affronts matter?
I love and forgive everybody now.”
When the Emperor had passed nearly
all the regiments, the troops began a ceremonial march
past him, and Rostov on Bedouin, recently purchased
from Denisov, rode past too, at the rear of his squadron that
is, alone and in full view of the Emperor.
Before he reached him, Rostov, who
was a splendid horseman, spurred Bedouin twice and
successfully put him to the showy trot in which the
animal went when excited. Bending his foaming
muzzle to his chest, his tail extended, Bedouin, as
if also conscious of the Emperor’s eye upon
him, passed splendidly, lifting his feet with a high
and graceful action, as if flying through the air
without touching the ground.
Rostov himself, his legs well back
and his stomach drawn in and feeling himself one with
his horse, rode past the Emperor with a frowning but
blissful face “like a vewy devil,” as Denisov
expressed it.
“Fine fellows, the Pavlograds!” remarked
the Emperor.
“My God, how happy I should
be if he ordered me to leap into the fire this instant!”
thought Rostov.
When the review was over, the newly
arrived officers, and also Kutuzov’s, collected
in groups and began to talk about the awards, about
the Austrians and their uniforms, about their lines,
about Bonaparte, and how badly the latter would fare
now, especially if the Essen corps arrived and Prussia
took our side.
But the talk in every group was chiefly
about the Emperor Alexander. His every word and
movement was described with ecstasy.
They all had but one wish: to
advance as soon as possible against the enemy under
the Emperor’s command. Commanded by the
Emperor himself they could not fail to vanquish anyone,
be it whom it might: so thought Rostov and most
of the officers after the review.
All were then more confident of victory
than the winning of two battles would have made them.