War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER VIII

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THE REST of the infantry pressed together into a funnel shape at the entrance

of the bridge, and hastily marched across it. At last all the baggage-waggons

had passed over; the crush was less, and the last battalion were stepping on to

the bridge. Only the hussars of Denisov's squadron were left on the further side

of the river facing the enemy. The enemy, visible in the distance from the

opposite mountain, could not yet be seen from the bridge below, as, from the

valley, through which the river flowed, the horizon was bounded by rising ground

not more than half a mile away. In front lay a waste plain dotted here and there

with handfuls of our scouting Cossacks. Suddenly on the road, where it ran up

the rising ground opposite, troops came into sight wearing blue tunics and

accompanied by artillery. They were the French. A scouting party of Cossacks

trotted away down the hillside. Though the officers and the men of Denisov's

squadron tried to talk of other things, and to look in other directions, they

all thought continually of nothing else but what was there on the hillside, and

kept constantly glancing towards the dark patches they saw coming into sight on

the sky-line, and recognised as the enemy's forces. The weather had cleared

again after midday, and the sun shone brilliantly as it began to go down over

the Danube and the dark mountains that encircle it. The air was still, and from

the hillside there floated across from time to time the sound of bugles and of

the shouts of the enemy. Between the squadron and the enemy there was no one now

but a few scouting parties. An empty plain, about six hundred yards across,

separated them from the hostile troops. The enemy had ceased firing, and that

made even more keenly felt the stern menace of that inaccessible, unassailable

borderland that was the dividing-line between the two hostile armies.

“One step across that line, that suggests the line dividing the living from

the dead, and unknown sufferings and death. And what is there? and who is there?

there, beyond that field and that tree and the roofs with the sunlight on them?

No one knows, and one longs to know and dreads crossing that line, and longs to

cross it, and one knows that sooner or later one will have to cross it and find

out what there is on the other side of the line, just as one must inevitably

find out what is on the other side of death. Yet one is strong and well and

cheerful and nervously excited, and surrounded by men as strong in the same

irritable excitement.” That is how every man, even if he does not think, feels

in the sight of the enemy, and that feeling gives a peculiar brilliance and

delightful keenness to one's impressions of all that takes place at such

moments.

On the rising ground occupied by the enemy, there rose the smoke of a shot,

and a cannon ball flew whizzing over the heads of the squadron of hussars. The

officers, who had been standing together, scattered in different directions. The

hussars began carefully getting their horses back into line. The whole squadron

subsided into silence. All the men were looking at the enemy in front and at the

commander of the squadron, expecting an order to be given. Another cannon ball

flew by them, and a third. There was no doubt that they were firing at the

hussars. But the cannon balls, whizzing regularly and rapidly, flew over the

heads of the hussars and struck the ground beyond them. The hussars did not look

round, but at each sound of a flying ball, as though at the word of command, the

whole squadron, with their faces so alike, through all their dissimilarity, rose

in the stirrups, holding their breath, as the ball whizzed by, then sank again.

The soldiers did not turn their heads, but glanced out of the corners of their

eyes at one another, curious to see the effect on their comrades. Every face

from Denisov down to the bugler showed about the lips and chin the same lines of

conflict and nervous irritability and excitement. The sergeant frowned, looking

the soldiers up and down, as though threatening them with punishment. Ensign

Mironov ducked at the passing of each cannon ball. On the left flank, Rostov on

his Rook—a handsome beast, in spite of his unsound legs—had the happy air of a

schoolboy called up before a large audience for an examination in which he is

confident that he will distinguish himself. He looked serenely and brightly at

every one, as though calling upon them all to notice how unconcerned he was

under fire. But into his face too there crept, against his will, that line about

the mouth that betrayed some new and strenuous feeling.

“Who's bobbing up and down there? Ensign Mironov! Not the thing! look at me!”

roared Denisov, who could not keep still in one place, but galloped to and fro

before the squadron.

The snub-nosed, black, hairy face of Vaska Denisov, and his little, battered

figure, and the sinewy, short-fingered hand in which he held the hilt of his

naked sword—his whole figure was just as it always was, especially in the

evening after he had drunk a couple of bottles. He was only rather redder in the

face than usual, and tossing back his shaggy head, as birds do when they drink,

his little legs mercilessly driving the spurs into his good horse Bedouin, he

galloped to the other flank of the squadron, looking as though he were falling

backwards in the saddle, and shouted in a husky voice to the men to look to

their pistols. He rode up to Kirsten. The staff-captain on his stout, steady

charger rode at a walking pace to meet him. The staff-captain's face with its

long whiskers was serious, as always, but his eyes looked brighter than

usual.

“Well,” he said to Denisov, “it won't come to a fight. You'll see, we shall

retreat again.”

“Devil knows what they're about!” growled Denisov. “Ah, Rostov!” he called to

the ensign, noticing his beaming face. “Well, you've not had long to wait.” And

he smiled approvingly, unmistakably pleased at the sight of the ensign. Rostov

felt perfectly blissful. At that moment the colonel appeared at the bridge.

Denisov galloped up to him.

“Your excellency, let us attack! we'll settle them.”

“Attack, indeed!” said the colonel in a bored voice, puckering his face up as

though at a teasing fly. “And what are you stopping here for? You see the flanks

are retreating. Lead the squadron back.”

The squadron crossed the bridge and passed out of range of the enemy's guns

without losing a single man. It was followed by the second squadron, and the

Cossacks last of all crossed, leaving the further side of the river clear.

The two squadrons of the Pavlograd regiment, after crossing the bridge, rode

one after the other up the hill. Their colonel, Karl Bogdanitch Schubert, had

joined Denisov's squadron, and was riding at a walking pace not far from Rostov,

taking no notice of him, though this was the first time they had met since the

incident in connection with Telyanin. Rostov, feeling himself at the front in

the power of the man towards whom be now admitted that he had been to blame,

never took his eyes off the athletic back, and flaxen head and red neck of the

colonel. It seemed to Rostov at one time that Bogdanitch was only feigning

inattention, and that his whole aim was now to test the ensign's pluck; and he

drew himself up and looked about him gaily. Then he fancied that Bogdanitch was

riding close by him on purpose to show off his own valour. Then the thought

struck him that his enemy was now sending the squadron to a hopeless attack on

purpose to punish him, Rostov. Then he dreamed of how after the attack he would

go up to him as he lay wounded, and magnanimously hold out his hand in

reconciliation. The high-shouldered figure of Zherkov, who was known to the

Pavlograd hussars, as he had not long before left their regiment, rode up to the

colonel. After Zherkov had been dismissed from the staff of the

commander-in-chief, he had not remained in the regiment, saying that he was not

such a fool as to go to hard labour at the front when he could get more pay for

doing nothing on the staff, and he had succeeded in getting appointed an orderly

on the staff of Prince Bagration. He rode up to his old colonel with an order

from the commander of the rear guard.

“Colonel,” he said, with his gloomy seriousness, addressing Rostov's enemy,

and looking round at his comrades, “there's an order to go back and burn the

bridge.”

“An order, who to?” asked the colonel grimly.

“Well, I don't know, colonel, who to,” answered the cornet, seriously,

“only the prince commanded me: ‘Ride and tell the colonel the hussars are to

make haste back and burn the bridge.' ”

Zherkov was followed by an officer of the suite, who rode up to the colonel

with the same command. After the officer of the suite the stout figure of

Nesvitsky was seen riding up on a Cossack's horse, which had some trouble to

gallop with him.

“Why, colonel,” he shouted, while still galloping towards him, “I told you to

burn the bridge, and now some one's got it wrong; they're all frantic over

there, there's no making out anything.”

The colonel in a leisurely way stopped the regiment and turned to

Nesvitsky.

“You told me about burning materials,” he said; “but about burning it, you

never said a word.”

“Why, my good man,” said Nesvitsky, as he halted, taking off his forage-cap

and passing his plump hand over his hair, which was drenched with sweat, “what

need to say the bridge was to be burnt when you put burning materials to

it?”

“I'm not your ‘good man,' M. le staff-officer, and you never told me to set

fire to the bridge! I know my duty, and it's my habit to carry out my orders

strictly. You said the bridge will be burnt, but who was going to burn it I

couldn't tell.”

“Well, that's always the way,” said Nesvitsky, with a wave of his arm. “How

do you come here?” he added, addressing Zherkov.

“Why, about the same order. You're sopping though, you want to be rubbed

down.”

“You said, M. le staff-officer …” pursued the colonel in an aggrieved

tone.

“Colonel,” interposed the officer of the suite, “there is need of haste, or

the enemy will have moved up their grape-shot guns.”

The colonel looked dumbly at the officer of the suite, at the stout

staff-officer, at Zherkov, and scowled.

“I will burn the bridge,” he said in a solemn tone, as though he would

express that in spite of everything they might do to annoy him, he would still

do what he ought.

Beating his long muscular legs against his horse, as though he were to blame

for it all, the colonel moved forward and commanded the second squadron, the one

under Denisov's command, in which Rostov was serving, to turn back to the

bridge.

“Yes, it really is so,” thought Rostov, “he wants to test me!” His heart

throbbed and the blood rushed to his face. “Let him see whether I'm a coward!”

he thought.

Again all the light-hearted faces of the men of the squadron wore that grave

line, which had come upon them when they were under fire. Rostov looked steadily

at his enemy, the colonel, trying to find confirmation of his suppositions on

his face. But the colonel never once glanced at Rostov, and looked, as he always

did at the front, stern and solemn. The word of command was given.

“Look sharp! look sharp!” several voices repeated around him.

Their swords catching in the reins and their spurs jingling, the hussars

dismounted in haste, not knowing themselves what they were to do. The soldiers

crossed themselves. Rostov did not look at the colonel now; he had no time. He

dreaded, with a sinking heart he dreaded, being left behind by the hussars. His

hand trembled as he gave his horse to an orderly, and he felt that the blood was

rushing to his heart with a thud. Denisov, rolling backwards, and shouting

something, rode by him. Rostov saw nothing but the hussars running around him,

clinking spurs and jingling swords.

“Stretchers!” shouted a voice behind him. Rostov did not think of the meaning

of the need of stretchers. He ran along, trying only to be ahead of all. But

just at the bridge, not looking at his feet, he got into the slippery, trodden

mud, and stumbling fell on his hands. The others out-stripped him.

“On both sides, captain,” he heard shouted by the colonel, who, riding on

ahead, had pulled his horse up near the bridge, with a triumphant and cheerful

face.

Rostov, rubbing his muddy hands on his riding-breeches, looked round at his

enemy, and would have run on further, imagining that the forwarder he went the

better it would be. But though Bogdanitch was not looking, and did not recognise

Rostov, he shouted to him.

“Who will go along the middle of the bridge? On the right side? Ensign,

back!” he shouted angrily, and he turned to Denisov, who with swaggering bravado

rode on horseback on to the planks of the bridge.

“Why run risks, captain? You should dismount,” said the colonel.

“Eh! it'll strike the guilty one,” said Vaska Denisov, turning in his

saddle.

Meanwhile Nesvitsky, Zherkov, and the officer of the suite were standing

together out of range of the enemy, watching the little group of men in yellow

shakoes, dark-green jackets, embroidered with frogs, and blue riding-breeches,

swarming about the bridge, and on the other side of the river the blue tunics

and the groups with horses, that might so easily be taken for guns, approaching

in the distance.

“Will they burn the bridge or not? Who'll get there first? Will they run

there and burn it, or the French train their grape-shot on them and kill them?”

These were the questions that, with a sinking of the heart, each man was asking

himself in the great mass of troops overlooking the bridge. In the brilliant

evening sunshine they gazed at the bridge and the hussars and at the blue

tunics, with bayonets and guns, moving up on the other side.

“Ugh! The hussars will be caught,” said Nesvitsky. “They're not out of range

of grape-shot now.”

“He did wrong to take so many men,” said the officer of the suite.

“Yes, indeed,” said Nesvitsky. “If he'd sent two bold fellows it would have

done as well.”

“Ah, your excellency,” put in Zherkov, his eyes fixed on the hussars, though

he still spoke with his na

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