War And Peace: Book 3 - CHAPTER X

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AT DAWN on the 16th, Denisov's squadron, in which Nikolay Rostov was serving,

and which formed part of Prince Bagration's detachment, moved on from its

halting place for the night—to advance into action, as was said. After about a

mile's march, in the rear of other columns, it was brought to a standstill on

the high-road. Rostov saw the Cossacks, the first and second squadrons of

hussars, and the infantry battalions with the artillery pass him and march on

ahead; he also saw the Generals Bagration and Dolgorukov ride by with their

adjutants. All the panic he had felt, as before, at the prospect of battle, all

the inner conflict by means of which he had overcome that panic, all his dreams

of distinguishing himself in true hussar style in this battle—all were for

nothing. His squadron was held back in reserve, and Nikolay Rostov spent a

tedious and wretched day. About nine o'clock in the morning he heard firing

ahead of him, and shouts of hurrah, saw the wounded being brought back (there

were not many of them), and finally saw a whole detachment of French cavalry

being brought away in the midst of a company of Cossacks. Obviously the action

was over, and the action had, obviously, been a small one, but successful. The

soldiers and officers as they came back were talking of a brilliant victory, of

the taking of the town of Vishau, and a whole French squadron taken prisoners.

The day was bright and sunny after a sharp frost at night, and the cheerful

brightness of the autumn day was in keeping with the news of victory, which was

told not only by the accounts of those who had taken part in it, but by the

joyful expression of soldiers, officers, generals, and adjutants, who rode to

and fro by Rostov. All the greater was the pang in Nikolay's heart that he

should have suffered the dread that goes before the battle for nothing, and have

spent that happy day in inactivity.

“Rostov, come here, let's drink ‘begone, dull care!' ” shouted Denisov,

sitting at the roadside before a bottle and some edibles. The officers gathered

in a ring, eating and talking, round Denisov's wine-case.

“Here they're bringing another!” said one of the officers, pointing to a

French prisoner, a dragoon, who was being led on foot by two Cossacks. One of

them was leading by the bridle the prisoner's horse, a tall and beautiful French

beast.

“Sell the horse?” Denisov called to the Cossacks.

“If you will, your honour.”

The officers got up and stood round the Cossacks and the prisoner. The French

dragoon was a young fellow, an Alsatian who spoke French with a German accent.

He was breathless with excitement, his face was red, and hearing French spoken

he began quickly speaking to the officers, turning from one to another. He said

that they wouldn't have taken him, that it wasn't his fault he was taken, but

the fault of the corporal, who had sent him to get the horsecloths, that he had

told him the Russians were there. And at every word he added: “But don't let

anybody hurt my little horse,” and stroked his horse. It was evident that he did

not quite grasp where he was. At one moment he was excusing himself for having

been taken prisoner, at the next, imagining himself before his superior

officers, he was trying to prove his soldierly discipline and zeal for the

service. He brought with him in all its freshness into our rearguard the

atmosphere of the French army, so alien to us.

The Cossacks sold the horse for two gold pieces, and Rostov, being the

richest of the officers since he had received money from home, bought it.

“Be good to the little horse!” the Alsatian said with simple-hearted

good-nature to Rostov, when the horse was handed to the hussar.

Rostov smiling, soothed 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. Everything

was bustle and hurry, and Rostov saw behind them on the road several horsemen

riding up with white plumes in their hats. In a single moment all were in their

places and eagerly expectant.

Rostov had no memory and no consciousness of how he ran to his post and got

on his horse. Instantly his regret at not taking part in the battle, his humdrum

mood among the men he saw every day—all was gone; instantly all thought of self

had vanished. He was entirely absorbed in the feeling of happiness at the Tsar's

being near. His nearness alone made up to him by itself, he felt, for the loss

of the whole day. He was happy, as a lover is happy when the moment of the

longed-for meeting has come. Not daring to look round from the front line, by an

ecstatic instinct without looking round, he felt his approach. And he felt it

not only from the sound of the tramping hoofs of the approaching cavalcade, he

felt it because as the Tsar came nearer everything grew brighter, more joyful

and significant, and more festive. Nearer and nearer moved this sun, as he

seemed to Rostov, shedding around him rays of mild and majestic light, and now

he felt himself enfolded in that radiance, he heard his voice—that voice

caressing, calm, majestic, and yet so simple. A deathlike silence had come—as

seemed to Rostov fitting—and in that silence he heard the sound of the Tsar's

voice.

“The Pavlograd hussars?” he was saying interrogatively

“The reserve, sire,” replied a voice—such a human voice, after the superhuman

voice that had said: “Les hussards de Pavlograd?”

The Tsar was on a level with Rostov, and he stood still there. Alexander's

face was even handsomer than it had been at the review three days before. It

beamed with such gaiety and youth, such innocent youthfulness, that suggested

the playfulness of a boy of fourteen, and yet it was still the face of the

majestic Emperor. Glancing casually along the squadron, the Tsar's eyes met the

eyes of Rostov, and for not more than two seconds rested on them. Whether it was

that the Tsar saw what was passing in Rostov's soul (it seemed to Rostov that he

saw everything), any way he looked for two seconds with his blue eyes into

Rostov's face. (A soft, mild radiance beamed from them.) Then all at once he

raised his eyebrows, struck his left foot sharply against his horse, and

galloped on.

The young Emperor could not restrain his desire to be present at the battle,

and in spite of the expostulations of his courtiers, at twelve o'clock, escaping

from the third column which he had been following, he galloped to the vanguard.

Before he reached the hussars, several adjutants met him with news of the

successful issue of the engagement.

The action, which had simply consisted in the capture of a squadron of the

French, was magnified into a brilliant victory over the enemy, and so the Tsar

and the whole army believed, especially while the smoke still hung over the

field of battle, that the French had been defeated, and had been forced to

retreat against their will. A few minutes after the Tsar had galloped on, the

division of the Pavlograd hussars received orders to move forward. In Vishau

itself, a little German town, Rostov saw the Tsar once more. In the market-place

of the town where there had been rather a heavy firing before the Tsar's

arrival, lay several dead and wounded soldiers, whom there had not been time to

pick up. The Tsar, surrounded by his suite of officers and courtiers, was

mounted on a different horse from the one he had ridden at the review, a

chestnut English thoroughbred. Bending on one side with a graceful gesture,

holding a gold field-glass to his eyes, he was looking at a soldier lying on his

face with a blood-stained and uncovered head. The wounded soldier was an object

so impure, so grim, and so revolting, that Rostov was shocked at his being near

the Emperor. Rostov saw how the Tsar's stooping shoulders shuddered, as though a

cold shiver had passed over them, how his left foot convulsively pressed the

spur into the horse's side, and how the trained horse looked round indifferently

and did not stir. An adjutant dismounting lifted the soldier up under his arms,

and began laying him on a stretcher that came up. The soldier groaned.

“Gently, gently, can't you do it more gently?” said the Tsar, apparently

suffering more than the dying soldier, and he rode away.

Rostov saw the tears in the Tsar's eyes, and heard him say in French to

Tchartorizhsky, as he rode off: “What an awful thing war is, what an awful

thing!”

The forces of the vanguard were posted before Vishau in sight of the enemy's

line, which had been all day retreating before us at the slightest exchange of

shots. The Tsar's thanks were conveyed to the vanguard, rewards were promised,

and a double allowance of vodka was served out to the men. Even more gaily than

on the previous night the bivouac fires crackled, and the soldiers sang their

songs. Denisov on that night celebrated his promotion to major, and, towards the

end of the carousal, after a good deal of drinking, Rostov proposed a toast to

the health of the Emperor, but “not our Sovereign the Emperor, as they say at

official dinners,” said he, “but to the health of the Emperor, the good,

enchanting, great man, let us drink to his health, and to a decisive victory

over the French!”

“If we fought before,” said he, “and would not yield an inch before the

French, as at Sch

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1. Ebooks list page : 82
2. War And Peace: Book 4 - CHAPTER V
3. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER III
4. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER II
5. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER I
6. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER IV
7. War And Peace: Book 3 - CHAPTER XIX
8. War And Peace: Book 3 - CHAPTER XVI
9. War And Peace: Book 3 - CHAPTER XV
10. War And Peace: Book 3 - CHAPTER XIV
11. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER V
12. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER VI
13. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER XIX
14. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER XVI
15. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER XIV
16. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER XV