That hesitation lasted only an instant. The Tsar’s foot, in the narrow
pointed boot then fashionable, touched the groin of the bobtailed bay
mare he rode, his hand in a white glove gathered up the reins, and he
moved off accompanied by an irregularly swaying sea of aides-de-camp.
Farther and farther he rode away, stopping at other regiments, till at
last only his white plumes were visible to Rostov from amid the suites
that surrounded the Emperors.
Among the gentlemen of the suite, Rostov noticed Bolkonski, sitting
his horse indolently and carelessly. Rostov recalled their quarrel of
yesterday and the question presented itself whether he ought or ought
not to challenge Bolkonski. "Of course not!" he now thought. "Is
it worth thinking or speaking of it at such a moment? At a time of such
love, such rapture, and such self-sacrifice, what do any of our quarrels
and affronts matter? I love and forgive everybody now."
When the Emperor had passed nearly all the regiments, the troops began
a ceremonial march past him, and Rostov on Bedouin, recently purchased
from Denisov, rode past too, at the rear of his squadron - that is,
alone and in full view of the Emperor.
Before he reached him, Rostov, who was a splendid horseman, spurred
Bedouin twice and successfully put him to the showy trot in which the
animal went when excited. Bending his foaming muzzle to his chest, his
tail extended, Bedouin, as if also conscious of the Emperor’s eye
upon him, passed splendidly, lifting his feet with a high and graceful
action, as if flying through the air without touching the ground.
Rostov himself, his legs well back and his stomach drawn in and feeling
himself one with his horse, rode past the Emperor with a frowning but
blissful face "like a vewy devil," as Denisov expressed it.
"Fine fellows, the Pavlograds!" remarked the Emperor.
"My God, how happy I should be if he ordered me to leap into the fire
this instant!" thought Rostov.
When the review was over, the newly arrived officers, and also
Kutuzov’s, collected in groups and began to talk about the awards,
about the Austrians and their uniforms, about their lines, about
Bonaparte, and how badly the latter would fare now, especially if the
Essen corps arrived and Prussia took our side.
But the talk in every group was chiefly about the Emperor Alexander. His
every word and movement was described with ecstasy.
They all had but one wish: to advance as soon as possible against the
enemy under the Emperor’s command. Commanded by the Emperor himself
they could not fail to vanquish anyone, be it whom it might: so thought
Rostov and most of the officers after the review.
All were then more confident of victory than the winning of two battles
would have made them.
CHAPTER IX
The day after the review, Boris, in his best uniform and with his
comrade Berg’s best wishes for success, rode to Olmutz to see
Bolkonski, wishing to profit by his friendliness and obtain for himself
the best post he could - preferably that of adjutant to some important
personage, a position in the army which seemed to him most attractive.
"It is all very well for Rostov, whose father sends him ten thousand
rubles at a time, to talk about not wishing to cringe to anybody and not
be anyone’s lackey, but I who have nothing but my brains have to
make a career and must not miss opportunities, but must avail myself of
them!" he reflected.
He did not find Prince Andrew in Olmutz that day, but the appearance of
the town where the headquarters and the diplomatic corps were stationed
and the two Emperors were living with their suites, households, and
courts only strengthened his desire to belong to that higher world.
He knew no one, and despite his smart Guardsman’s uniform, all these
exalted personages passing in the streets in their elegant carriages
with their plumes, ribbons, and medals, both courtiers and military
men, seemed so immeasurably above him, an insignificant officer of the
Guards, that they not only did not wish to, but simply could not, be
aware of his existence. At the quarters of the commander in chief,
Kutuzov, where he inquired for Bolkonski, all the adjutants and even
the orderlies looked at him as if they wished to impress on him that a
great many officers like him were always coming there and that everybody
was heartily sick of them. In spite of this, or rather because of
it, next day, November 15, after dinner he again went to Olmutz and,
entering the house occupied by Kutuzov, asked for Bolkonski. Prince
Andrew was in and Boris was shown into a large hall probably formerly
used for dancing, but in which five beds now stood, and furniture of
various kinds: a table, chairs, and a clavichord. One adjutant, nearest
the door, was sitting at the table in a Persian dressing gown, writing.
Another, the red, stout Nesvitski, lay on a bed with his arms under his
head, laughing with an officer who had sat down beside him. A third was
playing a Viennese waltz on the clavichord, while a fourth, lying on
the clavichord, sang the tune. Bolkonski was not there. None of these
gentlemen changed his position on seeing Boris. The one who was writing
and whom Boris addressed turned round crossly and told him Bolkonski
was on duty and that he should go through the door on the left into the
reception room if he wished to see him. Boris thanked him and went to
the reception room, where he found some ten officers and generals.
When he entered, Prince Andrew, his eyes drooping contemptuously (with
that peculiar expression of polite weariness which plainly says, "If
it were not my duty I would not talk to you for a moment"), was
listening to an old Russian general with decorations, who stood very
erect, almost on tiptoe, with a soldier’s obsequious expression on his
purple face, reporting something.
"Very well, then, be so good as to wait," said Prince Andrew to the
general, in Russian, speaking with the French intonation he affected
when he wished to speak contemptuously, and noticing Boris, Prince
Andrew, paying no more heed to the general who ran after him imploring
him to hear something more, nodded and turned to him with a cheerful
smile.
At that moment Boris clearly realized what he had before surmised, that
in the army, besides the subordination and discipline prescribed in the
military code, which he and the others knew in the regiment, there was
another, more important, subordination, which made this tight-laced,
purple-faced general wait respectfully while Captain Prince Andrew, for
his own pleasure, chose to chat with Lieutenant Drubetskoy. More than
ever was Boris resolved to serve in future not according to the written
code, but under this unwritten law. He felt now that merely by having
been recommended to Prince Andrew he had already risen above the general
who at the front had the power to annihilate him, a lieutenant of the
Guards. Prince Andrew came up to him and took his hand.
"I am very sorry you did not find me in yesterday. I was fussing about
with Germans all day. We went with Weyrother to survey the dispositions.
When Germans start being accurate, there’s no end to it!"
Boris smiled, as if he understood what Prince Andrew was alluding to
as something generally known. But it was the first time he had heard
Weyrother’s name, or even the term "dispositions."
"Well, my dear fellow, so you still want to be an adjutant? I have
been thinking about you."
"Yes, I was thinking" - for some reason Boris could not help
blushing - "of asking the commander in chief. He has had a letter from
Prince Kuragin about me. I only wanted to ask because I fear the Guards
won’t be in action," he added as if in apology.
"All right, all right. We’ll talk it over," replied Prince Andrew.
"Only let me report this gentleman’s business, and I shall be at
your disposal."
While Prince Andrew went to report about the purple-faced general, that
gentleman - evidently not sharing Boris’ conception of the advantages
of the unwritten code of subordination - looked so fixedly at the
presumptuous lieutenant who had prevented his finishing what he had to
say to the adjutant that Boris felt uncomfortable. He turned away and
waited impatiently for Prince Andrew’s return from the commander in
chief’s room.
"You see, my dear fellow, I have been thinking about you,"
said Prince Andrew when they had gone into the large room where the
clavichord was. "It’s no use your going to the commander in chief.
He would say a lot of pleasant things, ask you to dinner" ("That
would not be bad as regards the unwritten code," thought Boris),
"but nothing more would come of it. There will soon be a battalion of
us aides-de-camp and adjutants! But this is what we’ll do: I have
a good friend, an adjutant general and an excellent fellow, Prince
Dolgorukov; and though you may not know it, the fact is that now
Kutuzov with his staff and all of us count for nothing. Everything is
now centered round the Emperor. So we will go to Dolgorukov; I have to
go there anyhow and I have already spoken to him about you. We shall
see whether he cannot attach you to himself or find a place for you
somewhere nearer the sun."
Prince Andrew always became specially keen when he had to guide a young
man and help him to worldly success. Under cover of obtaining help
of this kind for another, which from pride he would never accept for
himself, he kept in touch with the circle which confers success and
which attracted him. He very readily took up Boris’ cause and went
with him to Dolgorukov.
It was late in the evening when they entered the palace at Olmutz
occupied by the Emperors and their retinues.
That same day a council of war had been held in which all the members of
the Hofkriegsrath and both Emperors took part. At that council, contrary
to the views of the old generals Kutuzov and Prince Schwartzenberg, it
had been decided to advance immediately and give battle to Bonaparte.
The council of war was just over when Prince Andrew accompanied
by Boris arrived at the palace to find Dolgorukov. Everyone at
headquarters was still under the spell of the day’s council, at which
the party of the young had triumphed. The voices of those who counseled
delay and advised waiting for something else before advancing had been
so completely silenced and their arguments confuted by such conclusive
evidence of the advantages of attacking that what had been discussed
at the council - the coming battle and the victory that would certainly
result from it - no longer seemed to be in the future but in the past.
All the advantages were on our side. Our enormous forces, undoubtedly
superior to Napoleon’s, were concentrated in one place, the troops
inspired by the Emperors’ presence were eager for action. The
strategic position where the operations would take place was familiar in
all its details to the Austrian General Weyrother: a lucky accident had
ordained that the Austrian army should maneuver the previous year on the
very fields where the French had now to be fought; the adjacent
locality was known and shown in every detail on the maps, and Bonaparte,
evidently weakened, was undertaking nothing.
Dolgorukov, one of the warmest advocates of an attack, had just
returned from the council, tired and exhausted but eager and proud
of the victory that had been gained. Prince Andrew introduced his
protege, but Prince Dolgorukov politely and firmly pressing his hand
said nothing to Boris and, evidently unable to suppress the thoughts
which were uppermost in his mind at that moment, addressed Prince Andrew
in French.
"Ah, my dear fellow, what a battle we have gained! God grant that
the one that will result from it will be as victorious! However, dear
fellow," he said abruptly and eagerly, "I must confess to having
been unjust to the Austrians and especially to Weyrother. What
exactitude, what minuteness, what knowledge of the locality, what
foresight for every eventuality, every possibility even to the smallest
detail! No, my dear fellow, no conditions better than our present ones
could have been devised. This combination of Austrian precision with
Russian valor - what more could be wished for?"
"So the attack is definitely resolved on?" asked Bolkonski.
"And do you know, my dear fellow, it seems to me that Bonaparte has
decidedly lost bearings, you know that a letter was received from him
today for the Emperor." Dolgorukov smiled significantly.
"Is that so? And what did he say?" inquired Bolkonski.
"What can he say? Tra-di-ri-di-ra and so on... merely to gain time.
I tell you he is in our hands, that’s certain! But what was most
amusing," he continued, with a sudden, good-natured laugh, "was that
we could not think how to address the reply! If not as ‘Consul’
and of course not as ‘Emperor,’ it seemed to me it should be to
‘General Bonaparte.’"
"But between not recognizing him as Emperor and calling him General
Bonaparte, there is a difference," remarked Bolkonski.
"That’s just it," interrupted Dolgorukov quickly, laughing.
"You know Bilibin - he’s a very clever fellow. He suggested
addressing him as ‘Usurper and Enemy of Mankind.’"
Dolgorukov laughed merrily.
"Only that?" said Bolkonski.
"All the same, it was Bilibin who found a suitable form for the
address. He is a wise and clever fellow."
"What was it?"
"To the Head of the French Government... Au chef du gouvernement
français," said Dolgorukov, with grave satisfaction. "Good,
wasn’t it?"
"Yes, but he will dislike it extremely," said Bolkonski.
"Oh yes, very much! My brother knows him, he’s dined with him - the
present Emperor - more than once in Paris, and tells me he never met a
more cunning or subtle diplomatist - you know, a combination of French
adroitness and Italian play-acting! Do you know the tale about him and
Count Markov? Count Markov was the only man who knew how to handle
him. You know the story of the handkerchief? It is delightful!"
And the talkative Dolgorukov, turning now to Boris, now to Prince
Andrew, told how Bonaparte wishing to test Markov, our ambassador,
purposely dropped a handkerchief in front of him and stood looking
at Markov, probably expecting Markov to pick it up for him, and how
Markov immediately dropped his own beside it and picked it up without
touching Bonaparte’s.
"Delightful!" said Bolkonski. "But I have come to you, Prince,
as a petitioner on behalf of this young man. You see..." but
before Prince Andrew could finish, an aide-de-camp came in to summon
Dolgorukov to the Emperor.
"Oh, what a nuisance," said Dolgorukov, getting up hurriedly and
pressing the hands of Prince Andrew and Boris. "You know I should
be very glad to do all in my power both for you and for this dear young
man." Again he pressed the hand of the latter with an expression of
good-natured, sincere, and animated levity. "But you see... another
time!"
Boris was excited by the thought of being so close to the higher powers
as he felt himself to be at that moment. He was conscious that here
he was in contact with the springs that set in motion the enormous
movements of the mass of which in his regiment he felt himself a tiny,
obedient, and insignificant atom. They followed Prince Dolgorukov out
into the corridor and met - coming out of the door of the Emperor’s
room by which Dolgorukov had entered - a short man in civilian clothes
with a clever face and sharply projecting jaw which, without spoiling
his face, gave him a peculiar vivacity and shiftiness of expression.
This short man nodded to Dolgorukov as to an intimate friend and stared
at Prince Andrew with cool intensity, walking straight toward him and
evidently expecting him to bow or to step out of his way. Prince Andrew
did neither: a look of animosity appeared on his face and the other
turned away and went down the side of the corridor.
"Who was that?" asked Boris.
"He is one of the most remarkable, but to me most unpleasant of
men - the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Prince Adam Czartoryski.... It
is such men as he who decide the fate of nations," added Bolkonski
with a sigh he could not suppress, as they passed out of the palace.
Next day, the army began its campaign, and up to the very battle of
Austerlitz, Boris was unable to see either Prince Andrew or Dolgorukov
again and remained for a while with the Ismaylov regiment.
CHAPTER X
At dawn on the sixteenth of November, Denisov’s squadron, in
which Nicholas Rostov served and which was in Prince Bagration’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. Rostov 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
Bagration and Dolgorukov 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 Rostov 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 sotnya 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 Rostov 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, Wostov. Let’s dwink to dwown our gwief!" shouted
Denisov, who had settled down by the roadside with a flask and some
food.
The officers gathered round Denisov’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!" Denisov 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 Rostov, 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 Rostov when the animal was handed over to the hussar.
Rostov 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 Rostov saw coming up the road behind
him several riders with white plumes in their hats. In a moment everyone
was in his place, waiting.
Rostov 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 Rostov 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
Rostov’s feeling, there was a deathly stillness amid which was heard
the Emperor’s voice.
"The Pavlograd hussars?" he inquired.
"The reserves, sire!" replied a voice, a very human one compared to
that which had said: "The Pavlograd hussars?"
The Emperor drew level with Rostov 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 Rostov’s and rested on them for not more than
two seconds. Whether or no the Emperor understood what was going on in
Rostov’s soul (it seemed to Rostov that he understood everything),
at any rate his light-blue eyes gazed for about two seconds into
Rostov’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 Pavlograd division was ordered to advance. In Wischau
itself, a petty German town, Rostov 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 Rostov. Rostov 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.
Rostov saw tears filling the Emperor’s eyes and heard him, as he was
riding away, say to Czartoryski: "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. Denisov celebrated his
promotion to the rank of major, and Rostov, 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, Kirsten, shouted enthusiastically and no
less sincerely than the twenty-year-old Rostov.
When the officers had emptied and smashed their glasses, Kirsten 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, Denisov with his short hand
patted his favorite, Rostov, 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.
"Denisov, don’t make fun of it!" cried Rostov. "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 Rostov 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.
CHAPTER XI
The next day the Emperor stopped at Wischau, and Villier, his physician,
was repeatedly summoned to see him. At headquarters and among the troops
near by the news spread that the Emperor was unwell. He ate nothing and
had slept badly that night, those around him reported. The cause of this
indisposition was the strong impression made on his sensitive mind by
the sight of the killed and wounded.
At daybreak on the seventeenth, a French officer who had come with
a flag of truce, demanding an audience with the Russian Emperor, was
brought into Wischau from our outposts. This officer was Savary. The
Emperor had only just fallen asleep and so Savary had to wait. At midday
he was admitted to the Emperor, and an hour later he rode off with
Prince Dolgorukov to the advanced post of the French army.
It was rumored that Savary had been sent to propose to Alexander
a meeting with Napoleon. To the joy and pride of the whole army, a
personal interview was refused, and instead of the Sovereign, Prince
Dolgorukov, the victor at Wischau, was sent with Savary to negotiate
with Napoleon if, contrary to expectations, these negotiations were
actuated by a real desire for peace.
Toward evening Dolgorukov came back, went straight to the Tsar, and
remained alone with him for a long time.
On the eighteenth and nineteenth of November, the army advanced two
days’ march and the enemy’s outposts after a brief interchange
of shots retreated. In the highest army circles from midday on the
nineteenth, a great, excitedly bustling activity began which lasted till
the morning of the twentieth, when the memorable battle of Austerlitz
was fought.
Till midday on the nineteenth, the activity - the eager talk, running to
and fro, and dispatching of adjutants - was confined to the Emperor’s
headquarters. But on the afternoon of that day, this activity reached
Kutuzov’s headquarters and the staffs of the commanders of columns.
By evening, the adjutants had spread it to all ends and parts of the
army, and in the night from the nineteenth to the twentieth, the whole
eighty thousand allied troops rose from their bivouacs to the hum of
voices, and the army swayed and started in one enormous mass six miles
long.
The concentrated activity which had begun at the Emperor’s
headquarters in the morning and had started the whole movement that
followed was like the first movement of the main wheel of a large tower
clock. One wheel slowly moved, another was set in motion, and a third,
and wheels began to revolve faster and faster, levers and cogwheels to
work, chimes to play, figures to pop out, and the hands to advance with
regular motion as a result of all that activity.
Just as in the mechanism of a clock, so in the mechanism of the military
machine, an impulse once given leads to the final result; and just as
indifferently quiescent till the moment when motion is transmitted
to them are the parts of the mechanism which the impulse has not yet
reached. Wheels creak on their axles as the cogs engage one another and
the revolving pulleys whirr with the rapidity of their movement, but a
neighboring wheel is as quiet and motionless as though it were prepared
to remain so for a hundred years; but the moment comes when the lever
catches it and obeying the impulse that wheel begins to creak and joins
in the common motion the result and aim of which are beyond its ken.
Just as in a clock, the result of the complicated motion of innumerable
wheels and pulleys is merely a slow and regular movement of the
hands which show the time, so the result of all the complicated human
activities of 160,000 Russians and French - all their passions, desires,
remorse, humiliations, sufferings, outbursts of pride, fear, and
enthusiasm - was only the loss of the battle of Austerlitz, the
so-called battle of the three Emperors - that is to say, a slow movement
of the hand on the dial of human history.
Prince Andrew was on duty that day and in constant attendance on the
commander in chief.
At six in the evening, Kutuzov went to the Emperor’s headquarters
and after staying but a short time with the Tsar went to see the grand
marshal of the court, Count Tolstoy.
Bolkonski took the opportunity to go in to get some details of the
coming action from Dolgorukov. He felt that Kutuzov was upset
and dissatisfied about something and that at headquarters they were
dissatisfied with him, and also that at the Emperor’s headquarters
everyone adopted toward him the tone of men who know something others do
not know: he therefore wished to speak to Dolgorukov.
"Well, how d’you do, my dear fellow?" said Dolgorukov, who was
sitting at tea with Bilibin. "The fete is for tomorrow. How is your
old fellow? Out of sorts?"
"I won’t say he is out of sorts, but I fancy he would like to be
heard."
"But they heard him at the council of war and will hear him when he
talks sense, but to temporize and wait for something now when Bonaparte
fears nothing so much as a general battle is impossible."
"Yes, you have seen him?" said Prince Andrew. "Well, what is
Bonaparte like? How did he impress you?"
"Yes, I saw him, and am convinced that he fears nothing so much as
a general engagement," repeated Dolgorukov, evidently prizing this
general conclusion which he had arrived at from his interview with
Napoleon. "If he weren’t afraid of a battle why did he ask for that
interview? Why negotiate, and above all why retreat, when to retreat is
so contrary to his method of conducting war? Believe me, he is afraid,
afraid of a general battle. His hour has come! Mark my words!"
"But tell me, what is he like, eh?" said Prince Andrew again.
"He is a man in a gray overcoat, very anxious that I should call
him ‘Your Majesty,’ but who, to his chagrin, got no title from
me! That’s the sort of man he is, and nothing more," replied
Dolgorukov, looking round at Bilibin with a smile.
"Despite my great respect for old Kutuzov," he continued, "we
should be a nice set of fellows if we were to wait about and so give him
a chance to escape, or to trick us, now that we certainly have him in
our hands! No, we mustn’t forget Suvorov and his rule - not to put
yourself in a position to be attacked, but yourself to attack. Believe
me in war the energy of young men often shows the way better than all
the experience of old Cunctators."
"But in what position are we going to attack him? I have been at the
outposts today and it is impossible to say where his chief forces are
situated," said Prince Andrew.
He wished to explain to Dolgorukov a plan of attack he had himself
formed.
"Oh, that is all the same," Dolgorukov said quickly, and getting up
he spread a map on the table. "All eventualities have been foreseen.
If he is standing before Brunn..."
And Prince Dolgorukov rapidly but indistinctly explained Weyrother’s
plan of a flanking movement.
Prince Andrew began to reply and to state his own plan, which might
have been as good as Weyrother’s, but for the disadvantage that
Weyrother’s had already been approved. As soon as Prince Andrew began
to demonstrate the defects of the latter and the merits of his own plan,
Prince Dolgorukov ceased to listen to him and gazed absent-mindedly not
at the map, but at Prince Andrew’s face.
"There will be a council of war at Kutuzov’s tonight, though; you
can say all this there," remarked Dolgorukov.
"I will do so," said Prince Andrew, moving away from the map.
"Whatever are you bothering about, gentlemen?" said Bilibin, who,
till then, had listened with an amused smile to their conversation and
now was evidently ready with a joke. "Whether tomorrow brings
victory or defeat, the glory of our Russian arms is secure. Except your
Kutuzov, there is not a single Russian in command of a column! The
commanders are: Herr General Wimpfen, le Comte de Langeron, le Prince de
Lichtenstein, le Prince, de Hohenlohe, and finally Prishprish, and so on
like all those Polish names."
"Be quiet, backbiter!" said Dolgorukov. "It is not true; there
are now two Russians, Miloradovich, and Dokhturov, and there would be
a third, Count Arakcheev, if his nerves were not too weak."
"However, I think General Kutuzov has come out," said Prince
Andrew. "I wish you good luck and success, gentlemen!" he added and
went out after shaking hands with Dolgorukov and Bilibin.
On the way home, Prince Andrew could not refrain from asking Kutuzov,
who was sitting silently beside him, what he thought of tomorrow’s
battle.
Kutuzov looked sternly at his adjutant and, after a pause, replied:
"I think the battle will be lost, and so I told Count Tolstoy and
asked him to tell the Emperor. What do you think he replied? ‘But, my
dear general, I am engaged with rice and cutlets, look after military
matters yourself!’ Yes... That was the answer I got!"
CHAPTER XII
Shortly after nine o’clock that evening, Weyrother drove with his
plans to Kutuzov’s quarters where the council of war was to be
held. All the commanders of columns were summoned to the commander in
chief’s and with the exception of Prince Bagration, who declined to
come, were all there at the appointed time.
Weyrother, who was in full control of the proposed battle, by his
eagerness and briskness presented a marked contrast to the dissatisfied
and drowsy Kutuzov, who reluctantly played the part of chairman and
president of the council of war. Weyrother evidently felt himself to be
at the head of a movement that had already become unrestrainable. He was
like a horse running downhill harnessed to a heavy cart. Whether he was
pulling it or being pushed by it he did not know, but rushed along at
headlong speed with no time to consider what this movement might lead
to. Weyrother had been twice that evening to the enemy’s picket
line to reconnoiter personally, and twice to the Emperors, Russian and
Austrian, to report and explain, and to his headquarters where he had
dictated the dispositions in German, and now, much exhausted, he arrived
at Kutuzov’s.
He was evidently so busy that he even forgot to be polite to the
commander in chief. He interrupted him, talked rapidly and indistinctly,
without looking at the man he was addressing, and did not reply to
questions put to him. He was bespattered with mud and had a pitiful,
weary, and distracted air, though at the same time he was haughty and
self-confident.
Kutuzov was occupying a nobleman’s castle of modest dimensions near
Ostralitz. In the large drawing room which had become the commander
in chief’s office were gathered Kutuzov himself, Weyrother, and the
members of the council of war. They were drinking tea, and only awaited
Prince Bagration to begin the council. At last Bagration’s orderly
came with the news that the prince could not attend. Prince Andrew came
in to inform the commander in chief of this and, availing himself
of permission previously given him by Kutuzov to be present at the
council, he remained in the room.
"Since Prince Bagration is not coming, we may begin," said
Weyrother, hurriedly rising from his seat and going up to the table on
which an enormous map of the environs of Brunn was spread out.
Kutuzov, with his uniform unbuttoned so that his fat neck bulged over
his collar as if escaping, was sitting almost asleep in a low chair,
with his podgy old hands resting symmetrically on its arms. At the sound
of Weyrother’s voice, he opened his one eye with an effort.
"Yes, yes, if you please! It is already late," said he, and nodding
his head he let it droop and again closed his eye.
If at first the members of the council thought that Kutuzov was
pretending to sleep, the sounds his nose emitted during the reading that
followed proved that the commander in chief at that moment was absorbed
by a far more serious matter than a desire to show his contempt for
the dispositions or anything else - he was engaged in satisfying the
irresistible human need for sleep. He really was asleep. Weyrother, with
the gesture of a man too busy to lose a moment, glanced at Kutuzov and,
having convinced himself that he was asleep, took up a paper and in
a loud, monotonous voice began to read out the dispositions for the
impending battle, under a heading which he also read out:
"Dispositions for an attack on the enemy position behind Kobelnitz and
Sokolnitz, November 30, 1805."
The dispositions were very complicated and difficult. They began as
follows:
"As the enemy’s left wing rests on wooded hills and his right
extends along Kobelnitz and Sokolnitz behind the ponds that are there,
while we, on the other hand, with our left wing by far outflank his
right, it is advantageous to attack the enemy’s latter wing especially
if we occupy the villages of Sokolnitz and Kobelnitz, whereby we
can both fall on his flank and pursue him over the plain between
Schlappanitz and the Thuerassa forest, avoiding the defiles of
Schlappanitz and Bellowitz which cover the enemy’s front. For this
object it is necessary that... The first column marches... The second
column marches... The third column marches..." and so on, read
Weyrother.
The generals seemed to listen reluctantly to the difficult dispositions.
The tall, fair-haired General Buxhöwden stood, leaning his back against
the wall, his eyes fixed on a burning candle, and seemed not to listen
or even to wish to be thought to listen. Exactly opposite Weyrother,
with his glistening wide-open eyes fixed upon him and his mustache
twisted upwards, sat the ruddy Miloradovich in a military pose, his
elbows turned outwards, his hands on his knees, and his shoulders
raised. He remained stubbornly silent, gazing at Weyrother’s face,
and only turned away his eyes when the Austrian chief of staff finished
reading. Then Miloradovich looked round significantly at the other
generals. But one could not tell from that significant look whether he
agreed or disagreed and was satisfied or not with the arrangements. Next
to Weyrother sat Count Langeron who, with a subtle smile that never left
his typically southern French face during the whole time of the reading,
gazed at his delicate fingers which rapidly twirled by its corners
a gold snuffbox on which was a portrait. In the middle of one of the
longest sentences, he stopped the rotary motion of the snuffbox, raised
his head, and with inimical politeness lurking in the corners of his
thin lips interrupted Weyrother, wishing to say something. But the
Austrian general, continuing to read, frowned angrily and jerked his
elbows, as if to say: "You can tell me your views later, but now be so
good as to look at the map and listen." Langeron lifted his eyes with
an expression of perplexity, turned round to Miloradovich as if seeking
an explanation, but meeting the latter’s impressive but meaningless
gaze drooped his eyes sadly and again took to twirling his snuffbox.
"A geography lesson!" he muttered as if to himself, but loud enough
to be heard.
Przebyszewski, with respectful but dignified politeness, held his
hand to his ear toward Weyrother, with the air of a man absorbed in
attention. Dohkturov, a little man, sat opposite Weyrother, with
an assiduous and modest mien, and stooping over the outspread map
conscientiously studied the dispositions and the unfamiliar locality. He
asked Weyrother several times to repeat words he had not clearly heard
and the difficult names of villages. Weyrother complied and Dohkturov
noted them down.
When the reading which lasted more than an hour was over, Langeron again
brought his snuffbox to rest and, without looking at Weyrother or at
anyone in particular, began to say how difficult it was to carry out
such a plan in which the enemy’s position was assumed to be known,
whereas it was perhaps not known, since the enemy was in movement.
Langeron’s objections were valid but it was obvious that their chief
aim was to show General Weyrother - who had read his dispositions with
as much self-confidence as if he were addressing school children - that
he had to do, not with fools, but with men who could teach him something
in military matters.
When the monotonous sound of Weyrother’s voice ceased, Kutuzov opened
his eye as a miller wakes up when the soporific drone of the mill wheel
is interrupted. He listened to what Langeron said, as if remarking,
"So you are still at that silly business!" quickly closed his eye
again, and let his head sink still lower.
Langeron, trying as virulently as possible to sting Weyrother’s vanity
as author of the military plan, argued that Bonaparte might easily
attack instead of being attacked, and so render the whole of this
plan perfectly worthless. Weyrother met all objections with a firm and
contemptuous smile, evidently prepared beforehand to meet all objections
be they what they might.
"If he could attack us, he would have done so today," said he.
"So you think he is powerless?" said Langeron.
"He has forty thousand men at most," replied Weyrother, with the
smile of a doctor to whom an old wife wishes to explain the treatment of
a case.
"In that case he is inviting his doom by awaiting our attack," said
Langeron, with a subtly ironical smile, again glancing round for support
to Miloradovich who was near him.
But Miloradovich was at that moment evidently thinking of anything
rather than of what the generals were disputing about.
"Ma foi!" said he, "tomorrow we shall see all that on the
battlefield."
Weyrother again gave that smile which seemed to say that to him it was
strange and ridiculous to meet objections from Russian generals and to
have to prove to them what he had not merely convinced himself of, but
had also convinced the sovereign Emperors of.
"The enemy has quenched his fires and a continual noise is heard from
his camp," said he. "What does that mean? Either he is retreating,
which is the only thing we need fear, or he is changing his position."
(He smiled ironically.) "But even if he also took up a position in
the Thuerassa, he merely saves us a great deal of trouble and all our
arrangements to the minutest detail remain the same."
"How is that?..." began Prince Andrew, who had for long been waiting
an opportunity to express his doubts.
Kutuzov here woke up, coughed heavily, and looked round at the
generals.
"Gentlemen, the dispositions for tomorrow - or rather for today, for
it is past midnight - cannot now be altered," said he. "You have
heard them, and we shall all do our duty. But before a battle, there is
nothing more important..." he paused, "than to have a good sleep."
He moved as if to rise. The generals bowed and retired. It was past
midnight. Prince Andrew went out.
The council of war, at which Prince Andrew had not been able to
express his opinion as he had hoped to, left on him a vague and uneasy
impression. Whether Dolgorukov and Weyrother, or Kutuzov, Langeron,
and the others who did not approve of the plan of attack, were
right - he did not know. "But was it really not possible for Kutuzov
to state his views plainly to the Emperor? Is it possible that on
account of court and personal considerations tens of thousands of lives,
and my life, my life," he thought, "must be risked?"
"Yes, it is very likely that I shall be killed tomorrow," he
thought. And suddenly, at this thought of death, a whole series of most
distant, most intimate, memories rose in his imagination: he remembered
his last parting from his father and his wife; he remembered the days
when he first loved her. He thought of her pregnancy and felt sorry for
her and for himself, and in a nervously emotional and softened mood he
went out of the hut in which he was billeted with Nesvitski and began
to walk up and down before it.
The night was foggy and through the fog the moonlight gleamed
mysteriously. "Yes, tomorrow, tomorrow!" he thought. "Tomorrow
everything may be over for me! All these memories will be no more, none
of them will have any meaning for me. Tomorrow perhaps, even certainly,
I have a presentiment that for the first time I shall have to show all
I can do." And his fancy pictured the battle, its loss, the
concentration of fighting at one point, and the hesitation of all the
commanders. And then that happy moment, that Toulon for which he had
so long waited, presents itself to him at last. He firmly and clearly
expresses his opinion to Kutuzov, to Weyrother, and to the Emperors.
All are struck by the justness of his views, but no one undertakes to
carry them out, so he takes a regiment, a division - stipulates that no
one is to interfere with his arrangements - leads his division to
the decisive point, and gains the victory alone. "But death and
suffering?" suggested another voice. Prince Andrew, however, did not
answer that voice and went on dreaming of his triumphs. The dispositions
for the next battle are planned by him alone. Nominally he is only an
adjutant on Kutuzov’s staff, but he does everything alone. The next
battle is won by him alone. Kutuzov is removed and he is appointed...
"Well and then?" asked the other voice. "If before that you are
not ten times wounded, killed, or betrayed, well... what then?..."
"Well then," Prince Andrew answered himself, "I don’t know
what will happen and don’t want to know, and can’t, but if I want
this - want glory, want to be known to men, want to be loved by them, it
is not my fault that I want it and want nothing but that and live only
for that. Yes, for that alone! I shall never tell anyone, but, oh God!
what am I to do if I love nothing but fame and men’s esteem? Death,
wounds, the loss of family - I fear nothing. And precious and dear
as many persons are to me - father, sister, wife - those dearest to
me - yet dreadful and unnatural as it seems, I would give them all at
once for a moment of glory, of triumph over men, of love from men I
don’t know and never shall know, for the love of these men here," he
thought, as he listened to voices in Kutuzov’s courtyard. The voices
were those of the orderlies who were packing up; one voice, probably a
coachman’s, was teasing Kutuzov’s old cook whom Prince Andrew knew,
and who was called Tit. He was saying, "Tit, I say, Tit!"
"Well?" returned the old man.
"Go, Tit, thresh a bit!" said the wag.
"Oh, go to the devil!" called out a voice, drowned by the laughter
of the orderlies and servants.
"All the same, I love and value nothing but triumph over them all, I
value this mystic power and glory that is floating here above me in this
mist!"
CHAPTER XIII
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
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320
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324
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.
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:
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977
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,
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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,
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