At dawn on the sixteenth of November,
Denisov’s squadron, in which Nicholas Rostov
served and which was in Prince Bagration’s detachment,
moved from the place where it had spent the night,
advancing into action as arranged, and after going
behind other columns for about two thirds of a mile
was stopped on the highroad. Rostov saw the Cossacks
and then the first and second squadrons of hussars
and infantry battalions and artillery pass by and
go forward and then Generals Bagration and Dolgorukov
ride past with their adjutants. All the fear before
action which he had experienced as previously, all
the inner struggle to conquer that fear, all his dreams
of distinguishing himself as a true hussar in this
battle, had been wasted. Their squadron remained
in reserve and Nicholas Rostov spent that day in a
dull and wretched mood. At nine in the morning,
he heard firing in front and shouts of hurrah, and
saw wounded being brought back (there were not many
of them), and at last he saw how a whole detachment
of French cavalry was brought in, convoyed by a sotnya
of Cossacks. Evidently the affair was over and,
though not big, had been a successful engagement.
The men and officers returning spoke of a brilliant
victory, of the occupation of the town of Wischau
and the capture of a whole French squadron. The
day was bright and sunny after a sharp night frost,
and the cheerful glitter of that autumn day was in
keeping with the news of victory which was conveyed,
not only by the tales of those who had taken part in
it, but also by the joyful expression on the faces
of soldiers, officers, generals, and adjutants, as
they passed Rostov going or coming. And Nicholas,
who had vainly suffered all the dread that precedes
a battle and had spent that happy day in inactivity,
was all the more depressed.
“Come here, Wostov. Let’s
dwink to dwown our gwief!” shouted Denisov,
who had settled down by the roadside with a flask and
some food.
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
foot by two Cossacks.
One of them was leading by the bridle
a fine large French horse he had 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 German
accent. He was breathless with agitation, his
face was red, and when he heard some French spoken
he at once began speaking to the officers, addressing
first one, then another. He said he would not
have been taken, it was not his fault but the corporal’s
who had sent him to seize some horsecloths, though
he had told him the Russians were there. 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 where he was.
Now he excused himself for having been taken prisoner
and now, imagining himself before his own officers,
insisted on his soldierly discipline and zeal in the
service. He brought with him into our rearguard
all the freshness of atmosphere of the French army,
which was so alien to us.
The Cossacks sold the horse for two
gold pieces, and Rostov, being the richest of the
officers now that he had received his money, bought
it.
“But don’t hurt my little
horse!” said the Alsatian good-naturedly to
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 to make
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 road behind him several riders with
white plumes in their hats. In a moment everyone
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 dejected
mood amid people of whom he was weary had gone, instantly
every thought of himself had vanished. He was
filled with happiness at his nearness to the Emperor.
He felt that this nearness by itself made up to him
for the day he had lost. He was happy as a lover
when the longed-for moment of meeting arrives.
Not daring to look round and without looking round,
he was ecstatically conscious of his approach.
He felt it not only from the sound of the hoofs of
the approaching cavalcade, but because as he drew
near everything grew brighter, more joyful, more significant,
and more festive around him. Nearer and nearer
to Rostov came that sun shedding beams of mild and
majestic light around, and already he felt himself
enveloped in those beams, he heard his voice, that
kindly, calm, and majestic voice that was yet so simple!
And as if in accord with Rostov’s feeling, there
was a deathly stillness amid which was heard the Emperor’s
voice.
“The Pavlograd hussars?” he inquired.
“The reserves, sire!”
replied a voice, a very human one compared to that
which had said: “The Pavlograd hussars?”
The Emperor drew level with Rostov
and halted. Alexander’s face was even more
beautiful than it had been three days before at the
review. It shone with such gaiety and youth,
such innocent youth, that it suggested the liveliness
of a fourteen-year-old boy, and yet it was the face
of the majestic Emperor. Casually, while surveying
the squadron, the Emperor’s eyes met Rostov’s
and rested on them for not more than two seconds.
Whether or no the Emperor understood what was going
on in Rostov’s soul (it seemed to Rostov that
he understood everything), at any rate his light-blue
eyes gazed for about two seconds into Rostov’s
face. A gentle, mild light poured from them.
Then all at once he raised his eyebrows, abruptly
touched his horse with his left foot, and galloped
on.
The younger Emperor could not restrain
his wish to be present at the battle and, in spite
of the remonstrances of his courtiers, at twelve o’clock
left the third column with which he had been and galloped
toward the vanguard. Before he came up with the
hussars, several adjutants met him with news of the
successful result of the action.
This battle, which consisted in the
capture of a French squadron, was represented as a
brilliant victory over the French, and so the Emperor
and the whole army, especially while the smoke hung
over the battlefield, believed that the French had
been defeated and were retreating against their will.
A few minutes after the Emperor had passed, the Pavlograd
division was ordered to advance. In Wischau itself,
a petty German town, Rostov saw the Emperor again.
In the market place, where there had been some rather
heavy firing before the Emperor’s arrival, lay
several killed and wounded soldiers whom there had
not been time to move. The Emperor, surrounded
by his suite of officers and courtiers, was riding
a bobtailed chestnut mare, a different one from that
which he had ridden at the review, and bending to
one side he gracefully held a gold lorgnette to his
eyes and looked at a soldier who lay prone, with blood
on his uncovered head. The wounded soldier was
so dirty, coarse, and revolting that his proximity
to the Emperor shocked Rostov. Rostov saw how
the Emperor’s rather round shoulders shuddered
as if a cold shiver had run down them, how his left
foot began convulsively tapping the horse’s side
with the spur, and how the well-trained horse looked
round unconcerned and did not stir. An adjutant,
dismounting, lifted the soldier under the arms to place
him on a stretcher that had been brought. The
soldier groaned.
“Gently, gently! Can’t
you do it more gently?” said the Emperor apparently
suffering more than the dying soldier, and he rode
away.
Rostov saw tears filling the Emperor’s
eyes and heard him, as he was riding away, say to
Czartoryski: “What a terrible thing war
is: what a terrible thing! Quelle terrible
chose que la guerre!”
The troops of the vanguard were stationed
before Wischau, within sight of the enemy’s
lines, which all day long had yielded ground to us
at the least firing. The Emperor’s gratitude
was announced to the vanguard, rewards were promised,
and the men received a double ration of vodka.
The campfires crackled and the soldiers’ songs
resounded even more merrily than on the previous night.
Denisov celebrated his promotion to the rank of major,
and Rostov, who had already drunk enough, at the end
of the feast proposed the Emperor’s health.
“Not ’our Sovereign, the Emperor,’
as they say at official dinners,” said he, “but
the health of our Sovereign, that good, enchanting,
and great man! Let us drink to his health and
to the certain defeat of the French!”
“If we fought before,”
he said, “not letting the French pass, as at
Schon Grabern, what shall we not do now when he is
at the front? We will all die for him gladly!
Is it not so, gentlemen? Perhaps I am not saying
it right, I have drunk a good deal but that
is how I feel, and so 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 and no less sincerely than
the twenty-year-old Rostov.
When the officers had emptied and
smashed their glasses, Kirsten filled others and,
in shirt sleeves and breeches, went glass in hand to
the soldiers’ bonfires and with his long gray
mustache, his white chest showing under his open shirt,
he stood in a majestic pose in the light of the campfire,
waving his uplifted arm.
“Lads! here’s to our Sovereign,
the Emperor, and victory over our enemies! 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 hand patted his favorite, Rostov,
on the shoulder.
“As there’s no one to
fall in love with on campaign, he’s fallen in
love with the Tsar,” he said.
“Denisov, don’t make fun
of it!” cried Rostov. “It is such
a lofty, 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, dreaming of 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 before his eyes. He really was
in love with the Tsar and the glory of the Russian
arms and the hope of future triumph. And he was
not the only man to experience that feeling during
those memorable days preceding the battle of Austerlitz:
nine tenths of the men in the Russian army were then
in love, though less ecstatically, with their Tsar
and the glory of the Russian arms.