Kabanata Kabanata 59 · 第59章

At dawn on the sixteenth of November, Denísov’s squadron, in

which Nicholas Rostóv served and which was in Prince Bagratión’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. Rostóv 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

Bagratión and Dolgorúkov 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 Rostóv 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 sótnya 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 Rostóv 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, Wostóv. Let’s dwink to dwown our gwief!” shouted

Denísov, who had settled down by the roadside with a flask and some

food.

The officers gathered round Denísov’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!” Denísov 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 Rostóv, 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 Rostóv when the animal was handed over to the hussar.

Rostóv 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 Rostóv saw coming up the road behind

him several riders with white plumes in their hats. In a moment everyone

was in his place, waiting.

Rostóv 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 Rostóv 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

Rostóv’s feeling, there was a deathly stillness amid which was heard

the Emperor’s voice.

“The Pávlograd hussars?” he inquired.

“The reserves, sire!” replied a voice, a very human one compared to

that which had said: “The Pávlograd hussars?”

The Emperor drew level with Rostóv 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 Rostóv’s and rested on them for not more than

two seconds. Whether or no the Emperor understood what was going on in

Rostóv’s soul (it seemed to Rostóv that he understood everything),

at any rate his light-blue eyes gazed for about two seconds into

Rostóv’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 Pávlograd division was ordered to advance. In Wischau

itself, a petty German town, Rostóv 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 Rostóv. Rostóv 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.

Rostóv saw tears filling the Emperor’s eyes and heard him, as he was

riding away, say to Czartorýski: “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. Denísov celebrated his

promotion to the rank of major, and Rostóv, 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 Schön 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, Kírsten, shouted enthusiastically and no

less sincerely than the twenty-year-old Rostóv.

When the officers had emptied and smashed their glasses, Kírsten 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, Denísov with his short hand

patted his favorite, Rostóv, 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.

“Denísov, don’t make fun of it!” cried Rostóv. “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 Rostóv 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.