Bab Bab 62 · 第62章

That same night, Rostóv was with a platoon on skirmishing duty in front

of Bagratión’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. Rostóv 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

Denísov, 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 Rostóv,

“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, Rostóv 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, Olmütz. 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 Rostóv 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... Natásha...

sister, black eyes... Na... tasha... (Won’t she be surprised when

I tell her how I’ve seen the Emperor?) Natásha... take my

sabretache...”—“Keep to the right, your honor, there are bushes

here,” came the voice of an hussar, past whom Rostóv was riding in

the act of falling asleep. Rostóv 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! Natásha... sabretache...

saber them... Whom? The hussars... Ah, the hussars with mustaches. Along

the Tverskáya Street rode the hussar with mustaches... I thought about

him too, just opposite Gúryev’s house... Old Gúryev.... Oh, but

Denísov’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-tásha, 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 Rostóv, 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. Rostóv 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 Rostóv to the hussar

beside him. “That must be the enemy’s camp!”

The hussar did not reply.

“Why, don’t you hear it?” Rostóv 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 Rostóv.

“It may be he or it may be nothing,” muttered the hussar. “It’s

dark... Steady!” he cried to his fidgeting horse.

Rostóv’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. Rostóv 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 Rostóv.

Rostóv, 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 Bagratión and Prince Dolgorúkov with

their adjutants had come to witness the curious phenomenon of the

lights and shouts in the enemy’s camp. Rostóv rode up to Bagratión,

reported to him, and then joined the adjutants listening to what the

generals were saying.

“Believe me,” said Prince Dolgorúkov, addressing Bagratión, “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 Bagratión. “I saw them this evening on that

knoll; if they had retreated they would have withdrawn from that too....

Officer!” said Bagratión to Rostóv, “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

Rostóv.

Bagratión stopped and, before replying, tried to see Rostóv’s face

in the mist.

“Well, go and see,” he said, after a pause.

“Yes, sir.”

Rostóv spurred his horse, called to Sergeant Fédchenko 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. Bagratión called to him from

the hill not to go beyond the stream, but Rostóv 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 Rostóv 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.

Rostóv turned his horse and galloped back. Four more reports followed

at intervals, and the bullets passed somewhere in the fog singing in

different tones. Rostóv 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 Bagratión did Rostóv let his horse gallop again,

and with his hand at the salute rode up to the general.

Dolgorúkov was still insisting that the French had retreated and had

only lit fires to deceive us.

“What does that prove?” he was saying as Rostóv rode up. “They

might retreat and leave the pickets.”

“It’s plain that they have not all gone yet, Prince,” said

Bagratión. “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 Rostóv, 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 Bagratión. “Thank you, officer.”

“Your excellency,” said Rostóv, “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 Rostóv.”

“Oh, very well, you may stay in attendance on me.”

“Count Ilyá Rostóv’s son?” asked Dolgorúkov.

But Rostóv 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 Rostóv.

“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

Hollabrünn 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.

NAPOLEON