That same night, Rostov was with a
platoon on skirmishing duty in front of Bagration’s
detachment. His hussars were placed along the
line in couples and he himself rode along the line
trying to master the sleepiness that kept coming over
him. An enormous space, with our army’s
campfires dimly glowing in the fog, could be seen behind
him; in front of him was misty darkness. Rostov
could see nothing, peer as he would into that foggy
distance: now something gleamed gray, now there
was something black, now little lights seemed to glimmer
where the enemy ought to be, now he fancied it was
only something in his own eyes. His eyes kept
closing, and in his fancy appeared now the
Emperor, now Denisov, and now Moscow memories and
he again hurriedly opened his eyes and saw close before
him the head and ears of the horse he was riding,
and sometimes, when he came within six paces of them,
the black figures of hussars, but in the distance
was still the same misty darkness. “Why
not?... It might easily happen,” thought
Rostov, “that the Emperor will meet me and give
me an order as he would to any other officer; he’ll
say: ‘Go and find out what’s there.’
There are many stories of his getting to know an officer
in just such a chance way and attaching him to himself!
What if he gave me a place near him? Oh, how I
would guard him, how I would tell him the truth, how
I would unmask his deceivers!” And in order
to realize vividly his love devotion to the sovereign,
Rostov pictured to himself an enemy or a deceitful
German, whom he would not only kill with pleasure
but whom he would slap in the face before the Emperor.
Suddenly a distant shout aroused him. He started
and opened his eyes.
“Where am I? Oh yes, in
the skirmishing line... pass and watchword shaft,
Olmutz. What a nuisance that our squadron will
be in reserve tomorrow,” he thought. “I’ll
ask leave to go to the front, this may be my only
chance of seeing the Emperor. It won’t be
long now before I am off duty. I’ll take
another turn and when I get back I’ll go to the
general and ask him.” He readjusted himself
in the saddle and touched up his horse to ride once
more round his hussars. It seemed to him that
it was getting lighter. To the left he saw a
sloping descent lit up, and facing it a black knoll
that seemed as steep as a wall. On this knoll
there was a white patch that Rostov could not at all
make out: was it a glade in the wood lit up by
the moon, or some unmelted snow, or some white houses?
He even thought something moved on that white spot.
“I expect it’s snow... that spot... a
spot une tache,” he
thought. “There now... it’s not a
tache... Natasha... sister, black eyes...
Na... tasha... (Won’t she be surprised when
I tell her how I’ve seen the Emperor?) Natasha...
take my sabretache...” “Keep
to the right, your honor, there are bushes here,”
came the voice of an hussar, past whom Rostov was
riding in the act of falling asleep. Rostov lifted
his head that had sunk almost to his horse’s
mane and pulled up beside the hussar. He was
succumbing to irresistible, youthful, childish drowsiness.
“But what was I thinking? I mustn’t
forget. How shall I speak to the Emperor?
No, that’s not it that’s tomorrow.
Oh yes! Natasha... sabretache... saber them...
Whom? The hussars... Ah, the hussars with
mustaches. Along the Tverskaya Street rode the
hussar with mustaches... I thought about him
too, just opposite Guryev’s house... Old
Guryev.... Oh, but Denisov’s a fine fellow.
But that’s all nonsense. The chief thing
is that the Emperor is here. How he looked at
me and wished to say something, but dared not....
No, it was I who dared not. But that’s
nonsense, the chief thing is not to forget the important
thing I was thinking of. Yes, Na-tasha, sabretache,
oh, yes, yes! That’s right!” And
his head once more sank to his horse’s neck.
All at once it seemed to him that he was being fired
at. “What? What? What?...
Cut them down! What?...” said Rostov, waking
up. At the moment he opened his eyes he heard
in front of him, where the enemy was, the long-drawn
shouts of thousands of voices. His horse and
the horse of the hussar near him pricked their ears
at these shouts. Over there, where the shouting
came from, a fire flared up and went out again, then
another, and all along the French line on the hill
fires flared up and the shouting grew louder and louder.
Rostov could hear the sound of French words but could
not distinguish them. The din of many voices
was too great; all he could hear was: “ahahah!”
and “rrrr!”
“What’s that? What
do you make of it?” said Rostov to the hussar
beside him. “That must be the enemy’s
camp!”
The hussar did not reply.
“Why, don’t you hear it?” Rostov
asked again, after waiting for a reply.
“Who can tell, your honor?” replied the
hussar reluctantly.
“From the direction, it must be the enemy,”
repeated Rostov.
“It may be he or it may be nothing,”
muttered the hussar. “It’s dark...
Steady!” he cried to his fidgeting horse.
Rostov’s horse was also getting
restive: it pawed the frozen ground, pricking
its ears at the noise and looking at the lights.
The shouting grew still louder and merged into a general
roar that only an army of several thousand men could
produce. The lights spread farther and farther,
probably along the line of the French camp. Rostov
no longer wanted to sleep. The gay triumphant
shouting of the enemy army had a stimulating effect
on him. “Vive l’Empereur! L’Empereur!”
he now heard distinctly.
“They can’t be far off,
probably just beyond the stream,” he said to
the hussar beside him.
The hussar only sighed without replying
and coughed angrily. The sound of horse’s
hoofs approaching at a trot along the line of hussars
was heard, and out of the foggy darkness the figure
of a sergeant of hussars suddenly appeared, looming
huge as an elephant.
“Your honor, the generals!”
said the sergeant, riding up to Rostov.
Rostov, still looking round toward
the fires and the shouts, rode with the sergeant to
meet some mounted men who were riding along the line.
One was on a white horse. Prince Bagration and
Prince Dolgorukov with their adjutants had come to
witness the curious phenomenon of the lights and shouts
in the enemy’s camp. Rostov rode up to Bagration,
reported to him, and then joined the adjutants listening
to what the generals were saying.
“Believe me,” said Prince
Dolgorukov, addressing Bagration, “it is nothing
but a trick! He has retreated and ordered the
rearguard to kindle fires and make a noise to deceive
us.”
“Hardly,” said Bagration.
“I saw them this evening on that knoll; if they
had retreated they would have withdrawn from that too....
Officer!” said Bagration to Rostov, “are
the enemy’s skirmishers still there?”
“They were there this evening,
but now I don’t know, your excellency.
Shall I go with some of my hussars to see?” replied
Rostov.
Bagration stopped and, before replying,
tried to see Rostov’s face in the mist.
“Well, go and see,” he said, after a pause.
“Yes, sir.”
Rostov spurred his horse, called to
Sergeant Fedchenko and two other hussars, told them
to follow him, and trotted downhill in the direction
from which the shouting came. He felt both frightened
and pleased to be riding alone with three hussars
into that mysterious and dangerous misty distance
where no one had been before him. Bagration called
to him from the hill not to go beyond the stream,
but Rostov pretended not to hear him and did not stop
but rode on and on, continually mistaking bushes for
trees and gullies for men and continually discovering
his mistakes. Having descended the hill at a
trot, he no longer saw either our own or the enemy’s
fires, but heard the shouting of the French more loudly
and distinctly. In the valley he saw before him
something like a river, but when he reached it he
found it was a road. Having come out onto the
road he reined in his horse, hesitating whether to
ride along it or cross it and ride over the black
field up the hillside. To keep to the road which
gleamed white in the mist would have been safer because
it would be easier to see people coming along it.
“Follow me!” said he, crossed the road,
and began riding up the hill at a gallop toward the
point where the French pickets had been standing that
evening.
“Your honor, there he is!”
cried one of the hussars behind him. And before
Rostov had time to make out what the black thing was
that had suddenly appeared in the fog, there was a
flash, followed by a report, and a bullet whizzing
high up in the mist with a plaintive sound passed
out of hearing. Another musket missed fire but
flashed in the pan. Rostov turned his horse and
galloped back. Four more reports followed at
intervals, and the bullets passed somewhere in the
fog singing in different tones. Rostov reined
in his horse, whose spirits had risen, like his own,
at the firing, and went back at a footpace. “Well,
some more! Some more!” a merry voice was
saying in his soul. But no more shots came.
Only when approaching Bagration did
Rostov let his horse gallop again, and with his hand
at the salute rode up to the general.
Dolgorukov was still insisting that
the French had retreated and had only lit fires to
deceive us.
“What does that prove?”
he was saying as Rostov rode up. “They might
retreat and leave the pickets.”
“It’s plain that they
have not all gone yet, Prince,” said Bagration.
“Wait till tomorrow morning, we’ll find
out everything tomorrow.”
“The picket is still on the
hill, your excellency, just where it was in the evening,”
reported Rostov, stooping forward with his hand at
the salute and unable to repress the smile of delight
induced by his ride and especially by the sound of
the bullets.
“Very good, very good,”
said Bagration. “Thank you, officer.”
“Your excellency,” said Rostov, “may
I ask a favor?”
“What is it?”
“Tomorrow our squadron is to
be in reserve. May I ask to be attached to the
first squadron?”
“What’s your name?”
“Count Rostov.”
“Oh, very well, you may stay in attendance on
me.”
“Count Ilya Rostov’s son?” asked
Dolgorukov.
But Rostov did not reply.
“Then I may reckon on it, your excellency?”
“I will give the order.”
“Tomorrow very likely I may
be sent with some message to the Emperor,” thought
Rostov.
“Thank God!”
The fires and shouting in the enemy’s
army were occasioned by the fact that while Napoleon’s
proclamation was being read to the troops the Emperor
himself rode round his bivouacs. The soldiers,
on seeing him, lit wisps of straw and ran after him,
shouting, “Vive l’Empereur!” Napoleon’s
proclamation was as follows:
Soldiers! The Russian army is
advancing against you to avenge the Austrian army
of Ulm. They are the same battalions you broke
at Hollabrunn and have pursued ever since to this
place. The position we occupy is a strong one,
and while they are marching to go round me on the
right they will expose a flank to me. Soldiers!
I will myself direct your battalions. I will
keep out of fire if you with your habitual valor carry
disorder and confusion into the enemy’s ranks,
but should victory be in doubt, even for a moment,
you will see your Emperor exposing himself to the
first blows of the enemy, for there must be no doubt
of victory, especially on this day when what is at
stake is the honor of the French infantry, so necessary
to the honor of our nation.
Do not break your ranks on the plea
of removing the wounded! Let every man be fully
imbued with the thought that we must defeat these hirelings
of England, inspired by such hatred of our nation!
This victory will conclude our campaign and we can
return to winter quarters, where fresh French troops
who are being raised in France will join us, and the
peace I shall conclude will be worthy of my people,
of you, and of myself.