you had only to do nothing that was considered bad in the Pavlograd
regiment and, when given an order, to do what was clearly, distinctly,
and definitely ordered - and all would be well.
Having once more entered into the definite conditions of this regimental
life, Rostov felt the joy and relief a tired man feels on lying down to
rest. Life in the regiment, during this campaign, was all the pleasanter
for him, because, after his loss to Dolokhov (for which, in spite
of all his family’s efforts to console him, he could not forgive
himself), he had made up his mind to atone for his fault by serving,
not as he had done before, but really well, and by being a perfectly
first-rate comrade and officer - in a word, a splendid man altogether, a
thing which seemed so difficult out in the world, but so possible in the
regiment.
After his losses, he had determined to pay back his debt to his parents
in five years. He received ten thousand rubles a year, but now resolved
to take only two thousand and leave the rest to repay the debt to his
parents.
Our army, after repeated retreats and advances and battles at Pultusk
and Preussisch-Eylau, was concentrated near Bartenstein. It was awaiting
the Emperor’s arrival and the beginning of a new campaign.
The Pavlograd regiment, belonging to that part of the army which had
served in the 1805 campaign, had been recruiting up to strength in
Russia, and arrived too late to take part in the first actions of the
campaign. It had been neither at Pultusk nor at Preussisch-Eylau and,
when it joined the army in the field in the second half of the campaign,
was attached to Platov’s division.
Platov’s division was acting independently of the main army. Several
times parts of the Pavlograd regiment had exchanged shots with
the enemy, had taken prisoners, and once had even captured Marshal
Oudinot’s carriages. In April the Pavlograds were stationed immovably
for some weeks near a totally ruined and deserted German village.
A thaw had set in, it was muddy and cold, the ice on the river broke,
and the roads became impassable. For days neither provisions for the
men nor fodder for the horses had been issued. As no transports could
arrive, the men dispersed about the abandoned and deserted villages,
searching for potatoes, but found few even of these.
Everything had been eaten up and the inhabitants had all fled - if any
remained, they were worse than beggars and nothing more could be taken
from them; even the soldiers, usually pitiless enough, instead of taking
anything from them, often gave them the last of their rations.
The Pavlograd regiment had had only two men wounded in action, but had
lost nearly half its men from hunger and sickness. In the hospitals,
death was so certain that soldiers suffering from fever, or the swelling
that came from bad food, preferred to remain on duty, and hardly able
to drag their legs went to the front rather than to the hospitals.
When spring came on, the soldiers found a plant just showing out of the
ground that looked like asparagus, which, for some reason, they called
"Mashka’s sweet root." It was very bitter, but they wandered
about the fields seeking it and dug it out with their sabers and ate it,
though they were ordered not to do so, as it was a noxious plant. That
spring a new disease broke out among the soldiers, a swelling of the
arms, legs, and face, which the doctors attributed to eating this root.
But in spite of all this, the soldiers of Denisov’s squadron fed
chiefly on "Mashka’s sweet root," because it was the second week
that the last of the biscuits were being doled out at the rate of half a
pound a man and the last potatoes received had sprouted and frozen.
The horses also had been fed for a fortnight on straw from the thatched
roofs and had become terribly thin, though still covered with tufts of
felty winter hair.
Despite this destitution, the soldiers and officers went on living just
as usual. Despite their pale swollen faces and tattered uniforms, the
hussars formed line for roll call, kept things in order, groomed their
horses, polished their arms, brought in straw from the thatched roofs in
place of fodder, and sat down to dine round the caldrons from which
they rose up hungry, joking about their nasty food and their hunger. As
usual, in their spare time, they lit bonfires, steamed themselves before
them naked; smoked, picked out and baked sprouting rotten potatoes, told
and listened to stories of Potemkin’s and Suvorov’s campaigns, or
to legends of Alesha the Sly, or the priest’s laborer Mikolka.
The officers, as usual, lived in twos and threes in the roofless,
half-ruined houses. The seniors tried to collect straw and potatoes and,
in general, food for the men. The younger ones occupied themselves as
before, some playing cards (there was plenty of money, though there was
no food), some with more innocent games, such as quoits and skittles.
The general trend of the campaign was rarely spoken of, partly because
nothing certain was known about it, partly because there was a vague
feeling that in the main it was going badly.
Rostov lived, as before, with Denisov, and since their furlough they
had become more friendly than ever. Denisov never spoke of Rostov’s
family, but by the tender friendship his commander showed him, Rostov
felt that the elder hussar’s luckless love for Natasha played a part
in strengthening their friendship. Denisov evidently tried to expose
Rostov to danger as seldom as possible, and after an action greeted his
safe return with evident joy. On one of his foraging expeditions, in
a deserted and ruined village to which he had come in search of
provisions, Rostov found a family consisting of an old Pole and his
daughter with an infant in arms. They were half clad, hungry, too weak
to get away on foot and had no means of obtaining a conveyance. Rostov
brought them to his quarters, placed them in his own lodging, and
kept them for some weeks while the old man was recovering. One of his
comrades, talking of women, began chaffing Rostov, saying that he was
more wily than any of them and that it would not be a bad thing if he
introduced to them the pretty Polish girl he had saved. Rostov took
the joke as an insult, flared up, and said such unpleasant things to the
officer that it was all Denisov could do to prevent a duel. When
the officer had gone away, Denisov, who did not himself know what
Rostov’s relations with the Polish girl might be, began to upbraid
him for his quickness of temper, and Rostov replied:
"Say what you like.... She is like a sister to me, and I can’t tell
you how it offended me... because... well, for that reason...."
Denisov patted him on the shoulder and began rapidly pacing the room
without looking at Rostov, as was his way at moments of deep feeling.
"Ah, what a mad bweed you Wostovs are!" he muttered, and Rostov
noticed tears in his eyes.
CHAPTER XVI
In April the troops were enlivened by news of the Emperor’s arrival,
but Rostov had no chance of being present at the review he held at
Bartenstein, as the Pavlograds were at the outposts far beyond that
place.
They were bivouacking. Denisov and Rostov were living in an earth hut,
dug out for them by the soldiers and roofed with branches and turf. The
hut was made in the following manner, which had then come into vogue. A
trench was dug three and a half feet wide, four feet eight inches deep,
and eight feet long. At one end of the trench, steps were cut out and
these formed the entrance and vestibule. The trench itself was the room,
in which the lucky ones, such as the squadron commander, had a board,
lying on piles at the end opposite the entrance, to serve as a table. On
each side of the trench, the earth was cut out to a breadth of about two
and a half feet, and this did duty for bedsteads and couches. The roof
was so constructed that one could stand up in the middle of the trench
and could even sit up on the beds if one drew close to the table.
Denisov, who was living luxuriously because the soldiers of his
squadron liked him, had also a board in the roof at the farther end,
with a piece of (broken but mended) glass in it for a window. When it
was very cold, embers from the soldiers’ campfire were placed on
a bent sheet of iron on the steps in the "reception room" - as
Denisov called that part of the hut - and it was then so warm that the
officers, of whom there were always some with Denisov and Rostov, sat
in their shirt sleeves.
In April, Rostov was on orderly duty. One morning, between seven and
eight, returning after a sleepless night, he sent for embers, changed
his rain-soaked underclothes, said his prayers, drank tea, got warm,
then tidied up the things on the table and in his own corner, and,
his face glowing from exposure to the wind and with nothing on but his
shirt, lay down on his back, putting his arms under his head. He was
pleasantly considering the probability of being promoted in a few days
for his last reconnoitering expedition, and was awaiting Denisov, who
had gone out somewhere and with whom he wanted a talk.
Suddenly he heard Denisov shouting in a vibrating voice behind the hut,
evidently much excited. Rostov moved to the window to see whom he was
speaking to, and saw the quartermaster, Topcheenko.
"I ordered you not to let them eat that Mashka woot stuff!"
Denisov was shouting. "And I saw with my own eyes how Lazarchuk
bwought some fwom the fields."
"I have given the order again and again, your honor, but they don’t
obey," answered the quartermaster.
Rostov lay down again on his bed and thought complacently: "Let
him fuss and bustle now, my job’s done and I’m lying
down - capitally!" He could hear that Lavrushka - that sly, bold
orderly of Denisov’s - was talking, as well as the quartermaster.
Lavrushka was saying something about loaded wagons, biscuits, and oxen
he had seen when he had gone out for provisions.
Then Denisov’s voice was heard shouting farther and farther away.
"Saddle! Second platoon!"
"Where are they off to now?" thought Rostov.
Five minutes later, Denisov came into the hut, climbed with muddy boots
on the bed, lit his pipe, furiously scattered his things about, took
his leaded whip, buckled on his saber, and went out again. In answer to
Rostov’s inquiry where he was going, he answered vaguely and crossly
that he had some business.
"Let God and our gweat monarch judge me afterwards!" said Denisov
going out, and Rostov heard the hoofs of several horses splashing
through the mud. He did not even trouble to find out where Denisov had
gone. Having got warm in his corner, he fell asleep and did not leave
the hut till toward evening. Denisov had not yet returned. The weather
had cleared up, and near the next hut two officers and a cadet were
playing svayka, laughing as they threw their missiles which buried
themselves in the soft mud. Rostov joined them. In the middle of the
game, the officers saw some wagons approaching with fifteen hussars on
their skinny horses behind them. The wagons escorted by the hussars drew
up to the picket ropes and a crowd of hussars surrounded them.
"There now, Denisov has been worrying," said Rostov, "and here
are the provisions."
"So they are!" said the officers. "Won’t the soldiers be
glad!"
A little behind the hussars came Denisov, accompanied by two infantry
officers with whom he was talking.
Rostov went to meet them.
"I warn you, Captain," one of the officers, a short thin man,
evidently very angry, was saying.
"Haven’t I told you I won’t give them up?" replied Denisov.
"You will answer for it, Captain. It is mutiny - seizing the transport
of one’s own army. Our men have had nothing to eat for two days."
"And mine have had nothing for two weeks," said Denisov.
"It is robbery! You’ll answer for it, sir!" said the infantry
officer, raising his voice.
"Now, what are you pestewing me for?" cried Denisov, suddenly
losing his temper. "I shall answer for it and not you, and you’d
better not buzz about here till you get hurt. Be off! Go!" he shouted
at the officers.
"Very well, then!" shouted the little officer, undaunted and not
riding away. "If you are determined to rob, I’ll..."
"Go to the devil! quick ma’ch, while you’re safe and sound!" and
Denisov turned his horse on the officer.
"Very well, very well!" muttered the officer, threateningly, and
turning his horse he trotted away, jolting in his saddle.
"A dog astwide a fence! A weal dog astwide a fence!" shouted
Denisov after him (the most insulting expression a cavalryman can
address to a mounted infantryman) and riding up to Rostov, he burst out
laughing.
"I’ve taken twansports from the infantwy by force!" he said.
"After all, can’t let our men starve."
The wagons that had reached the hussars had been consigned to an
infantry regiment, but learning from Lavrushka that the transport
was unescorted, Denisov with his hussars had seized it by force. The
soldiers had biscuits dealt out to them freely, and they even shared
them with the other squadrons.
The next day the regimental commander sent for Denisov, and holding his
fingers spread out before his eyes said:
"This is how I look at this affair: I know nothing about it and
won’t begin proceedings, but I advise you to ride over to the staff
and settle the business there in the commissariat department and if
possible sign a receipt for such and such stores received. If not, as
the demand was booked against an infantry regiment, there will be a row
and the affair may end badly."
From the regimental commander’s, Denisov rode straight to the staff
with a sincere desire to act on this advice. In the evening he came
back to his dugout in a state such as Rostov had never yet seen him in.
Denisov could not speak and gasped for breath. When Rostov asked what
was the matter, he only uttered some incoherent oaths and threats in a
hoarse, feeble voice.
Alarmed at Denisov’s condition, Rostov suggested that he should
undress, drink some water, and send for the doctor.
"Twy me for wobbewy... oh! Some more water... Let them twy me, but
I’ll always thwash scoundwels... and I’ll tell the Empewo’...
Ice..." he muttered.
The regimental doctor, when he came, said it was absolutely necessary
to bleed Denisov. A deep saucer of black blood was taken from his hairy
arm and only then was he able to relate what had happened to him.
"I get there," began Denisov. "‘Now then, where’s your
chief’s quarters?’ They were pointed out. ‘Please to wait.’
‘I’ve widden twenty miles and have duties to attend to and no time
to wait. Announce me.’ Vewy well, so out comes their head
chief - also took it into his head to lecture me: ‘It’s
wobbewy!’ - ‘Wobbewy,’ I say, ‘is not done by man who seizes
pwovisions to feed his soldiers, but by him who takes them to fill his
own pockets!’ ‘Will you please be silent?’ ‘Vewy good!’ Then
he says: ‘Go and give a weceipt to the commissioner, but your affair
will be passed on to headquarters.’ I go to the commissioner. I enter,
and at the table... who do you think? No, but wait a bit!... Who is it
that’s starving us?" shouted Denisov, hitting the table with the
fist of his newly bled arm so violently that the table nearly broke down
and the tumblers on it jumped about. "Telyanin! ‘What? So it’s
you who’s starving us to death! Is it? Take this and this!’ and I
hit him so pat, stwaight on his snout... ‘Ah, what a... what a...!’
and I sta’ted fwashing him... Well, I’ve had a bit of fun I can tell
you!" cried Denisov, gleeful and yet angry, his white teeth showing
under his black mustache. "I’d have killed him if they hadn’t
taken him away!"
"But what are you shouting for? Calm yourself," said Rostov.
"You’ve set your arm bleeding afresh. Wait, we must tie it up
again."
Denisov was bandaged up again and put to bed. Next day he woke calm and
cheerful.
But at noon the adjutant of the regiment came into Rostov’s and
Denisov’s dugout with a grave and serious face and regretfully showed
them a paper addressed to Major Denisov from the regimental commander
in which inquiries were made about yesterday’s occurrence. The
adjutant told them that the affair was likely to take a very bad
turn: that a court-martial had been appointed, and that in view of the
severity with which marauding and insubordination were now regarded,
degradation to the ranks would be the best that could be hoped for.
The case, as represented by the offended parties, was that, after
seizing the transports, Major Denisov, being drunk, went to the chief
quartermaster and without any provocation called him a thief, threatened
to strike him, and on being led out had rushed into the office and given
two officials a thrashing, and dislocated the arm of one of them.
In answer to Rostov’s renewed questions, Denisov said, laughing,
that he thought he remembered that some other fellow had got mixed up
in it, but that it was all nonsense and rubbish, and he did not in the
least fear any kind of trial, and that if those scoundrels dared attack
him he would give them an answer that they would not easily forget.
Denisov spoke contemptuously of the whole matter, but Rostov knew him
too well not to detect that (while hiding it from others) at heart
he feared a court-martial and was worried over the affair, which was
evidently taking a bad turn. Every day, letters of inquiry and notices
from the court arrived, and on the first of May, Denisov was ordered
to hand the squadron over to the next in seniority and appear before
the staff of his division to explain his violence at the commissariat
office. On the previous day Platov reconnoitered with two Cossack
regiments and two squadrons of hussars. Denisov, as was his wont, rode
out in front of the outposts, parading his courage. A bullet fired by
a French sharpshooter hit him in the fleshy part of his leg. Perhaps at
another time Denisov would not have left the regiment for so slight a
wound, but now he took advantage of it to excuse himself from appearing
at the staff and went into hospital.
CHAPTER XVII
In June the battle of Friedland was fought, in which the Pavlograds did
not take part, and after that an armistice was proclaimed. Rostov, who
felt his friend’s absence very much, having no news of him since he
left and feeling very anxious about his wound and the progress of his
affairs, took advantage of the armistice to get leave to visit Denisov
in hospital.
The hospital was in a small Prussian town that had been twice devastated
by Russian and French troops. Because it was summer, when it is so
beautiful out in the fields, the little town presented a particularly
dismal appearance with its broken roofs and fences, its foul streets,
tattered inhabitants, and the sick and drunken soldiers wandering about.
The hospital was in a brick building with some of the window frames and
panes broken and a courtyard surrounded by the remains of a wooden fence
that had been pulled to pieces. Several bandaged soldiers, with pale
swollen faces, were sitting or walking about in the sunshine in the
yard.
Directly Rostov entered the door he was enveloped by a smell of
putrefaction and hospital air. On the stairs he met a Russian army
doctor smoking a cigar. The doctor was followed by a Russian assistant.
"I can’t tear myself to pieces," the doctor was saying. "Come to
Makar Alexeevich in the evening. I shall be there."
The assistant asked some further questions.
"Oh, do the best you can! Isn’t it all the same?" The doctor
noticed Rostov coming upstairs.
"What do you want, sir?" said the doctor. "What do you want?
The bullets having spared you, do you want to try typhus? This is a
pesthouse, sir."
"How so?" asked Rostov.
"Typhus, sir. It’s death to go in. Only we two, Makeev and I" (he
pointed to the assistant), "keep on here. Some five of us doctors have
died in this place.... When a new one comes he is done for in a week,"
said the doctor with evident satisfaction. "Prussian doctors have been
invited here, but our allies don’t like it at all."
Rostov explained that he wanted to see Major Denisov of the hussars,
who was wounded.
"I don’t know. I can’t tell you, sir. Only think! I am alone in
charge of three hospitals with more than four hundred patients! It’s
well that the charitable Prussian ladies send us two pounds of coffee
and some lint each month or we should be lost!" he laughed. "Four
hundred, sir, and they’re always sending me fresh ones. There are four
hundred? Eh?" he asked, turning to the assistant.
The assistant looked fagged out. He was evidently vexed and impatient
for the talkative doctor to go.
"Major Denisov," Rostov said again. "He was wounded at
Molliten."
"Dead, I fancy. Eh, Makeev?" queried the doctor, in a tone of
indifference.
The assistant, however, did not confirm the doctor’s words.
"Is he tall and with reddish hair?" asked the doctor.
Rostov described Denisov’s appearance.
"There was one like that," said the doctor, as if pleased. "That
one is dead, I fancy. However, I’ll look up our list. We had a list.
Have you got it, Makeev?"
"Makar Alexeevich has the list," answered the assistant. "But if
you’ll step into the officers’ wards you’ll see for yourself,"
he added, turning to Rostov.
"Ah, you’d better not go, sir," said the doctor, "or you may
have to stay here yourself."
But Rostov bowed himself away from the doctor and asked the assistant
to show him the way.
"Only don’t blame me!" the doctor shouted up after him.
Rostov and the assistant went into the dark corridor. The smell was so
strong there that Rostov held his nose and had to pause and collect
his strength before he could go on. A door opened to the right, and an
emaciated sallow man on crutches, barefoot and in underclothing, limped
out and, leaning against the doorpost, looked with glittering envious
eyes at those who were passing. Glancing in at the door, Rostov
saw that the sick and wounded were lying on the floor on straw and
overcoats.
"May I go in and look?"
"What is there to see?" said the assistant.
But, just because the assistant evidently did not want him to go in,
Rostov entered the soldiers’ ward. The foul air, to which he had
already begun to get used in the corridor, was still stronger here. It
was a little different, more pungent, and one felt that this was where
it originated.
In the long room, brightly lit up by the sun through the large windows,
the sick and wounded lay in two rows with their heads to the walls, and
leaving a passage in the middle. Most of them were unconscious and
paid no attention to the newcomers. Those who were conscious raised
themselves or lifted their thin yellow faces, and all looked intently at
Rostov with the same expression of hope, of relief, reproach, and
envy of another’s health. Rostov went to the middle of the room and
looking through the open doors into the two adjoining rooms saw the same
thing there. He stood still, looking silently around. He had not at all
expected such a sight. Just before him, almost across the middle of the
passage on the bare floor, lay a sick man, probably a Cossack to judge
by the cut of his hair. The man lay on his back, his huge arms and legs
outstretched. His face was purple, his eyes were rolled back so that
only the whites were seen, and on his bare legs and arms which were
still red, the veins stood out like cords. He was knocking the back of
his head against the floor, hoarsely uttering some word which he kept
repeating. Rostov listened and made out the word. It was "drink,
drink, a drink!" Rostov glanced round, looking for someone who would
put this man back in his place and bring him water.
"Who looks after the sick here?" he asked the assistant.
Just then a commissariat soldier, a hospital orderly, came in from the
next room, marching stiffly, and drew up in front of Rostov.
"Good day, your honor!" he shouted, rolling his eyes at Rostov and
evidently mistaking him for one of the hospital authorities.
"Get him to his place and give him some water," said Rostov,
pointing to the Cossack.
"Yes, your honor," the soldier replied complacently, and rolling
his eyes more than ever he drew himself up still straighter, but did not
move.
"No, it’s impossible to do anything here," thought Rostov,
lowering his eyes, and he was going out, but became aware of an intense
look fixed on him on his right, and he turned. Close to the corner, on
an overcoat, sat an old, unshaven, gray-bearded soldier as thin as a
skeleton, with a stern sallow face and eyes intently fixed on Rostov.
The man’s neighbor on one side whispered something to him, pointing
at Rostov, who noticed that the old man wanted to speak to him. He drew
nearer and saw that the old man had only one leg bent under him, the
other had been amputated above the knee. His neighbor on the other side,
who lay motionless some distance from him with his head thrown back, was
a young soldier with a snub nose. His pale waxen face was still freckled
and his eyes were rolled back. Rostov looked at the young soldier and a
cold chill ran down his back.
"Why, this one seems..." he began, turning to the assistant.
"And how we’ve been begging, your honor," said the old soldier,
his jaw quivering. "He’s been dead since morning. After all we’re
men, not dogs."
"I’ll send someone at once. He shall be taken away - taken away at
once," said the assistant hurriedly. "Let us go, your honor."
"Yes, yes, let us go," said Rostov hastily, and lowering his
eyes and shrinking, he tried to pass unnoticed between the rows of
reproachful envious eyes that were fixed upon him, and went out of the
room.
CHAPTER XVIII
Going along the corridor, the assistant led Rostov to the officers’
wards, consisting of three rooms, the doors of which stood open. There
were beds in these rooms and the sick and wounded officers were lying or
sitting on them. Some were walking about the rooms in hospital dressing
gowns. The first person Rostov met in the officers’ ward was a thin
little man with one arm, who was walking about the first room in a
nightcap and hospital dressing gown, with a pipe between his teeth.
Rostov looked at him, trying to remember where he had seen him before.
"See where we’ve met again!" said the little man. "Tushin,
Tushin, don’t you remember, who gave you a lift at Schön Grabern?
And I’ve had a bit cut off, you see..." he went on with a smile,
pointing to the empty sleeve of his dressing gown. "Looking for
Vasili Dmitrich Denisov? My neighbor," he added, when he heard
who Rostov wanted. "Here, here," and Tushin led him into the next
room, from whence came sounds of several laughing voices.
"How can they laugh, or even live at all here?" thought Rostov,
still aware of that smell of decomposing flesh that had been so strong
in the soldiers’ ward, and still seeming to see fixed on him those
envious looks which had followed him out from both sides, and the face
of that young soldier with eyes rolled back.
Denisov lay asleep on his bed with his head under the blanket, though
it was nearly noon.
"Ah, Wostov? How are you, how are you?" he called out, still in the
same voice as in the regiment, but Rostov noticed sadly that under this
habitual ease and animation some new, sinister, hidden feeling showed
itself in the expression of Denisov’s face and the intonations of his
voice.
His wound, though a slight one, had not yet healed even now, six weeks
after he had been hit. His face had the same swollen pallor as the faces
of the other hospital patients, but it was not this that struck Rostov.
What struck him was that Denisov did not seem glad to see him, and
smiled at him unnaturally. He did not ask about the regiment, nor about
the general state of affairs, and when Rostov spoke of these matters
did not listen.
Rostov even noticed that Denisov did not like to be reminded of the
regiment, or in general of that other free life which was going on
outside the hospital. He seemed to try to forget that old life and
was only interested in the affair with the commissariat officers. On
Rostov’s inquiry as to how the matter stood, he at once produced from
under his pillow a paper he had received from the commission and the
rough draft of his answer to it. He became animated when he began
reading his paper and specially drew Rostov’s attention to the
stinging rejoinders he made to his enemies. His hospital companions,
who had gathered round Rostov - a fresh arrival from the world
outside - gradually began to disperse as soon as Denisov began reading
his answer. Rostov noticed by their faces that all those gentlemen had
already heard that story more than once and were tired of it. Only the
man who had the next bed, a stout Uhlan, continued to sit on his bed,
gloomily frowning and smoking a pipe, and little one-armed Tushin still
listened, shaking his head disapprovingly. In the middle of the reading,
the Uhlan interrupted Denisov.
"But what I say is," he said, turning to Rostov, "it would be
best simply to petition the Emperor for pardon. They say great rewards
will now be distributed, and surely a pardon would be granted...."
"Me petition the Empewo’!" exclaimed Denisov, in a voice to which
he tried hard to give the old energy and fire, but which sounded like
an expression of irritable impotence. "What for? If I were a wobber I
would ask mercy, but I’m being court-martialed for bwinging wobbers
to book. Let them twy me, I’m not afwaid of anyone. I’ve served
the Tsar and my countwy honowably and have not stolen! And am I to be
degwaded?... Listen, I’m w’iting to them stwaight. This is what I
say: ‘If I had wobbed the Tweasuwy...’"
"It’s certainly well written," said Tushin, "but that’s not
the point, Vasili Dmitrich," and he also turned to Rostov. "One
has to submit, and Vasili Dmitrich doesn’t want to. You know the
auditor told you it was a bad business."
"Well, let it be bad," said Denisov.
"The auditor wrote out a petition for you," continued Tushin,
"and you ought to sign it and ask this gentleman to take it. No doubt
he" (indicating Rostov) "has connections on the staff. You won’t
find a better opportunity."
"Haven’t I said I’m not going to gwovel?" Denisov interrupted
him, went on reading his paper.
Rostov had not the courage to persuade Denisov, though he
instinctively felt that the way advised by Tushin and the other
officers was the safest, and though he would have been glad to be of
service to Denisov. He knew his stubborn will and straightforward hasty
temper.
When the reading of Denisov’s virulent reply, which took more than an
hour, was over, Rostov said nothing, and he spent the rest of the day
in a most dejected state of mind amid Denisov’s hospital comrades,
who had gathered round him, telling them what he knew and listening to
their stories. Denisov was moodily silent all the evening.
Late in the evening, when Rostov was about to leave, he asked Denisov
whether he had no commission for him.
"Yes, wait a bit," said Denisov, glancing round at the officers,
and taking his papers from under his pillow he went to the window, where
he had an inkpot, and sat down to write.
"It seems it’s no use knocking one’s head against a wall!" he
said, coming from the window and giving Rostov a large envelope. In
it was the petition to the Emperor drawn up by the auditor, in
which Denisov, without alluding to the offenses of the commissariat
officials, simply asked for pardon.
"Hand it in. It seems..."
He did not finish, but gave a painfully unnatural smile.
CHAPTER XIX
Having returned to the regiment and told the commander the state of
Denisov’s affairs, Rostov rode to Tilsit with the letter to the
Emperor.
On the thirteenth of June the French and Russian Emperors arrived in
Tilsit. Boris Drubetskoy had asked the important personage on whom he
was in attendance, to include him in the suite appointed for the stay at
Tilsit.
"I should like to see the great man," he said, alluding to Napoleon,
whom hitherto he, like everyone else, had always called Buonaparte.
"You are speaking of Buonaparte?" asked the general, smiling.
Boris looked at his general inquiringly and immediately saw that he was
being tested.
"I am speaking, Prince, of the Emperor Napoleon," he replied. The
general patted him on the shoulder, with a smile.
"You will go far," he said, and took him to Tilsit with him.
Boris was among the few present at the Niemen on the day the two
Emperors met. He saw the raft, decorated with monograms, saw Napoleon
pass before the French Guards on the farther bank of the river, saw the
pensive face of the Emperor Alexander as he sat in silence in a tavern
on the bank of the Niemen awaiting Napoleon’s arrival, saw both
Emperors get into boats, and saw how Napoleon - reaching the raft
first - stepped quickly forward to meet Alexander and held out his hand
to him, and how they both retired into the pavilion. Since he had begun
to move in the highest circles Boris had made it his habit to watch
attentively all that went on around him and to note it down. At the time
of the meeting at Tilsit he asked the names of those who had come with
Napoleon and about the uniforms they wore, and listened attentively to
words spoken by important personages. At the moment the Emperors went
into the pavilion he looked at his watch, and did not forget to look at
it again when Alexander came out. The interview had lasted an hour and
fifty-three minutes. He noted this down that same evening, among other
facts he felt to be of historic importance. As the Emperor’s suite
was a very small one, it was a matter of great importance, for a man who
valued his success in the service, to be at Tilsit on the occasion of
this interview between the two Emperors, and having succeeded in this,
Boris felt that henceforth his position was fully assured. He had not
only become known, but people had grown accustomed to him and accepted
him. Twice he had executed commissions to the Emperor himself, so
that the latter knew his face, and all those at court, far from
cold-shouldering him as at first when they considered him a newcomer,
would now have been surprised had he been absent.
Boris lodged with another adjutant, the Polish Count Zhilinski.
Zhilinski, a Pole brought up in Paris, was rich, and passionately
fond of the French, and almost every day of the stay at Tilsit, French
officers of the Guard and from French headquarters were dining and
lunching with him and Boris.
On the evening of the twenty-fourth of June, Count Zhilinski arranged a
supper for his French friends. The guest of honor was an aide-de-camp of
Napoleon’s, there were also several French officers of the Guard,
and a page of Napoleon’s, a young lad of an old aristocratic French
family. That same day, Rostov, profiting by the darkness to avoid being
recognized in civilian dress, came to Tilsit and went to the lodging
occupied by Boris and Zhilinski.
Rostov, in common with the whole army from which he came, was far
from having experienced the change of feeling toward Napoleon and the
French - who from being foes had suddenly become friends - that had
taken place at headquarters and in Boris. In the army, Bonaparte and
the French were still regarded with mingled feelings of anger, contempt,
and fear. Only recently, talking with one of Platov’s Cossack
officers, Rostov had argued that if Napoleon were taken prisoner he
would be treated not as a sovereign, but as a criminal. Quite lately,
happening to meet a wounded French colonel on the road, Rostov had
maintained with heat that peace was impossible between a legitimate
sovereign and the criminal Bonaparte. Rostov was therefore unpleasantly
struck by the presence of French officers in Boris’ lodging, dressed
in uniforms he had been accustomed to see from quite a different point
of view from the outposts of the flank. As soon as he noticed a French
officer, who thrust his head out of the door, that warlike feeling of
hostility which he always experienced at the sight of the enemy suddenly
seized him. He stopped at the threshold and asked in Russian whether
Drubetskoy lived there. Boris, hearing a strange voice in the
anteroom, came out to meet him. An expression of annoyance showed itself
for a moment on his face on first recognizing Rostov.
"Ah, it’s you? Very glad, very glad to see you," he said, however,
coming toward him with a smile. But Rostov had noticed his first
impulse.
"I’ve come at a bad time I think. I should not have come, but I have
business," he said coldly.
"No, I only wonder how you managed to get away from your regiment.
Dans un moment je suis à vous," * he said, answering someone who
called him.
* "In a minute I shall be at your disposal."
"I see I’m intruding," Rostov repeated.
The look of annoyance had already disappeared from Boris’ face:
having evidently reflected and decided how to act, he very quietly took
both Rostov’s hands and led him into the next room. His eyes, looking
serenely and steadily at Rostov, seemed to be veiled by something,
as if screened by blue spectacles of conventionality. So it seemed to
Rostov.
"Oh, come now! As if you could come at a wrong time!" said Boris,
and he led him into the room where the supper table was laid and
introduced him to his guests, explaining that he was not a civilian, but
an hussar officer, and an old friend of his.
"Count Zhilinski - le Comte N. N. - le Capitaine S. S.," said he,
naming his guests. Rostov looked frowningly at the Frenchmen, bowed
reluctantly, and remained silent.
Zhilinski evidently did not receive this new Russian person very
willingly into his circle and did not speak to Rostov. Boris did not
appear to notice the constraint the newcomer produced and, with the same
pleasant composure and the same veiled look in his eyes with which
he had met Rostov, tried to enliven the conversation. One of the
Frenchmen, with the politeness characteristic of his countrymen,
addressed the obstinately taciturn Rostov, saying that the latter had
probably come to Tilsit to see the Emperor.
"No, I came on business," replied Rostov, briefly.
Rostov had been out of humor from the moment he noticed the look of
dissatisfaction on Boris’ face, and as always happens to those in a
bad humor, it seemed to him that everyone regarded him with aversion
and that he was in everybody’s way. He really was in their way, for he
alone took no part in the conversation which again became general. The
looks the visitors cast on him seemed to say: "And what is he sitting
here for?" He rose and went up to Boris.
"Anyhow, I’m in your way," he said in a low tone. "Come and talk
over my business and I’ll go away."
"Oh, no, not at all," said Boris. "But if you are tired, come and
lie down in my room and have a rest."
"Yes, really..."
They went into the little room where Boris slept. Rostov, without
sitting down, began at once, irritably (as if Boris were to blame in
some way) telling him about Denisov’s affair, asking him whether,
through his general, he could and would intercede with the Emperor on
Denisov’s behalf and get Denisov’s petition handed in. When he
and Boris were alone, Rostov felt for the first time that he could not
look Boris in the face without a sense of awkwardness. Boris, with one
leg crossed over the other and stroking his left hand with the slender
fingers of his right, listened to Rostov as a general listens to the
report of a subordinate, now looking aside and now gazing straight into
Rostov’s eyes with the same veiled look. Each time this happened
Rostov felt uncomfortable and cast down his eyes.
"I have heard of such cases and know that His Majesty is very severe
in such affairs. I think it would be best not to bring it before the
Emperor, but to apply to the commander of the corps.... But in general,
I think..."
"So you don’t want to do anything? Well then, say so!" Rostov
almost shouted, not looking Boris in the face.
Boris smiled.
"On the contrary, I will do what I can. Only I thought..."
At that moment Zhilinski’s voice was heard calling Boris.
"Well then, go, go, go..." said Rostov, and refusing supper and
remaining alone in the little room, he walked up and down for a long
time, hearing the lighthearted French conversation from the next room.
CHAPTER XX
Rostov had come to Tilsit the day least suitable for a petition
on Denisov’s behalf. He could not himself go to the general in
attendance as he was in mufti and had come to Tilsit without permission
to do so, and Boris, even had he wished to, could not have done so on
the following day. On that day, June 27, the preliminaries of peace were
signed. The Emperors exchanged decorations: Alexander received the Cross
of the Legion of Honor and Napoleon the Order of St. Andrew of the
First Degree, and a dinner had been arranged for the evening, given by
a battalion of the French Guards to the Preobrazhensk battalion. The
Emperors were to be present at that banquet.
Rostov felt so ill at ease and uncomfortable with Boris that, when the
latter looked in after supper, he pretended to be asleep, and early next
morning went away, avoiding Boris. In his civilian clothes and a
round hat, he wandered about the town, staring at the French and their
uniforms and at the streets and houses where the Russian and French
Emperors were staying. In a square he saw tables being set up and
preparations made for the dinner; he saw the Russian and French colors
draped from side to side of the streets, with huge monograms A and N. In
the windows of the houses also flags and bunting were displayed.
"Boris doesn’t want to help me and I don’t want to ask him.
That’s settled," thought Nicholas. "All is over between us, but
I won’t leave here without having done all I can for Denisov and
certainly not without getting his letter to the Emperor. The Emperor!...
He is here!" thought Rostov, who had unconsciously returned to the
house where Alexander lodged.
Saddled horses were standing before the house and the suite were
assembling, evidently preparing for the Emperor to come out.
"I may see him at any moment," thought Rostov. "If only I were
to hand the letter direct to him and tell him all... could they really
arrest me for my civilian clothes? Surely not! He would understand on
whose side justice lies. He understands everything, knows everything.
Who can be more just, more magnanimous than he? And even if they did
arrest me for being here, what would it matter?" thought he, looking
at an officer who was entering the house the Emperor occupied. "After
all, people do go in.... It’s all nonsense! I’ll go in and hand
the letter to the Emperor myself so much the worse for Drubetskoy who
drives me to it!" And suddenly with a determination he himself did not
expect, Rostov felt for the letter in his pocket and went straight to
the house.
"No, I won’t miss my opportunity now, as I did after Austerlitz,"
he thought, expecting every moment to meet the monarch, and conscious of
the blood that rushed to his heart at the thought. "I will fall at
his feet and beseech him. He will lift me up, will listen, and will even
thank me. ‘I am happy when I can do good, but to remedy injustice is
the greatest happiness,’" Rostov fancied the sovereign saying. And
passing people who looked after him with curiosity, he entered the porch
of the Emperor’s house.
A broad staircase led straight up from the entry, and to the right he
saw a closed door. Below, under the staircase, was a door leading to the
lower floor.
"Whom do you want?" someone inquired.
"To hand in a letter, a petition, to His Majesty," said Nicholas,
with a tremor in his voice.
"A petition? This way, to the officer on duty" (he was shown the
door leading downstairs), "only it won’t be accepted."
On hearing this indifferent voice, Rostov grew frightened at what
he was doing; the thought of meeting the Emperor at any moment was so
fascinating and consequently so alarming that he was ready to run away,
but the official who had questioned him opened the door, and Rostov
entered.
A short stout man of about thirty, in white breeches and high boots and
a batiste shirt that he had evidently only just put on, standing in that
room, and his valet was buttoning on to the back of his breeches a
new pair of handsome silk-embroidered braces that, for some reason,
attracted Rostov’s attention. This man was speaking to someone in the
adjoining room.
"A good figure and in her first bloom," he was saying, but on seeing
Rostov, he stopped short and frowned.
"What is it? A petition?"
"What is it?" asked the person in the other room.
"Another petitioner," answered the man with the braces.
"Tell him to come later. He’ll be coming out directly, we must
go."
"Later... later! Tomorrow. It’s too late..."
Rostov turned and was about to go, but the man in the braces stopped
him.
"Whom have you come from? Who are you?"
"I come from Major Denisov," answered Rostov.
"Are you an officer?"
"Lieutenant Count Rostov."
"What audacity! Hand it in through your commander. And go along with
you... go," and he continued to put on the uniform the valet handed
him.
Rostov went back into the hall and noticed that in the porch there were
many officers and generals in full parade uniform, whom he had to pass.
Cursing his temerity, his heart sinking at the thought of finding
himself at any moment face to face with the Emperor and being put to
shame and arrested in his presence, fully alive now to the impropriety
of his conduct and repenting of it, Rostov, with downcast eyes, was
making his way out of the house through the brilliant suite when a
familiar voice called him and a hand detained him.
"What are you doing here, sir, in civilian dress?" asked a deep
voice.
It was a cavalry general who had obtained the Emperor’s special favor
during this campaign, and who had formerly commanded the division in
which Rostov was serving.
Rostov, in dismay, began justifying himself, but seeing the kindly,
jocular face of the general, he took him aside and in an excited voice
told him the whole affair, asking him to intercede for Denisov, whom
the general knew. Having heard Rostov to the end, the general shook his
head gravely.
"I’m sorry, sorry for that fine fellow. Give me the letter."
Hardly had Rostov handed him the letter and finished explaining
Denisov’s case, when hasty steps and the jingling of spurs were heard
on the stairs, and the general, leaving him, went to the porch. The
gentlemen of the Emperor’s suite ran down the stairs and went to their
horses. Hayne, the same groom who had been at Austerlitz, led up the
Emperor’s horse, and the faint creak of a footstep Rostov knew at
once was heard on the stairs. Forgetting the danger of being recognized,
Rostov went close to the porch, together with some inquisitive
civilians, and again, after two years, saw those features he adored:
that same face and same look and step, and the same union of majesty and
mildness.... And the feeling of enthusiasm and love for his sovereign
rose again in Rostov’s soul in all its old force. In the uniform of
the Preobrazhensk regiment - white chamois-leather breeches and high
boots - and wearing a star Rostov did not know (it was that of the
Legion d’honneur), the monarch came out into the porch, putting on
his gloves and carrying his hat under his arm. He stopped and looked
about him, brightening everything around by his glance. He spoke a few
words to some of the generals, and, recognizing the former commander of
Rostov’s division, smiled and beckoned to him.
All the suite drew back and Rostov saw the general talking for some
time to the Emperor.
The Emperor said a few words to him and took a step toward his horse.
Again the crowd of members of the suite and street gazers (among whom
was Rostov) moved nearer to the Emperor. Stopping beside his horse,
with his hand on the saddle, the Emperor turned to the cavalry general
and said in a loud voice, evidently wishing to be heard by all:
"I cannot do it, General. I cannot, because the law is stronger than
I," and he raised his foot to the stirrup.
The general bowed his head respectfully, and the monarch mounted and
rode down the street at a gallop. Beside himself with enthusiasm,
Rostov ran after him with the crowd.
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994
995
996
997
998
999
1000