War and Peace
skillfully changed the subject. He asked him to tell them how and where
he got his wound. This pleased Rostóv and he began talking about it,
and as he went on became more and more animated. He told them of his
Schön Grabern affair, just as those who have taken part in a battle
generally do describe it, that is, as they would like it to have been,
as they have heard it described by others, and as sounds well, but not
at all as it really was. Rostóv was a truthful young man and would on
no account have told a deliberate lie. He began his story meaning to
tell everything just as it happened, but imperceptibly, involuntarily,
and inevitably he lapsed into falsehood. If he had told the truth to his
hearers—who like himself had often heard stories of attacks and had
formed a definite idea of what an attack was and were expecting to hear
just such a story—they would either not have believed him or, still
worse, would have thought that Rostóv was himself to blame since what
generally happens to the narrators of cavalry attacks had not happened
to him. He could not tell them simply that everyone went at a trot and
that he fell off his horse and sprained his arm and then ran as hard as
he could from a Frenchman into the wood. Besides, to tell everything as
it really happened, it would have been necessary to make an effort of
will to tell only what happened. It is very difficult to tell the truth,
and young people are rarely capable of it. His hearers expected a story
of how beside himself and all aflame with excitement, he had flown like
a storm at the square, cut his way in, slashed right and left, how his
saber had tasted flesh and he had fallen exhausted, and so on. And so he
told them all that.
In the middle of his story, just as he was saying: “You cannot imagine
what a strange frenzy one experiences during an attack,” Prince
Andrew, whom Borís was expecting, entered the room. Prince Andrew, who
liked to help young men, was flattered by being asked for his assistance
and being well disposed toward Borís, who had managed to please him the
day before, he wished to do what the young man wanted. Having been sent
with papers from Kutúzov to the Tsarévich, he looked in on Borís,
hoping to find him alone. When he came in and saw an hussar of the line
recounting his military exploits (Prince Andrew could not endure
that sort of man), he gave Borís a pleasant smile, frowned as with
half-closed eyes he looked at Rostóv, bowed slightly and wearily, and
sat down languidly on the sofa: he felt it unpleasant to have dropped
in on bad company. Rostóv flushed up on noticing this, but he did not
care, this was a mere stranger. Glancing, however, at Borís, he saw
that he too seemed ashamed of the hussar of the line.
In spite of Prince Andrew’s disagreeable, ironical tone, in spite of
the contempt with which Rostóv, from his fighting army point of view,
regarded all these little adjutants on the staff of whom the newcomer
was evidently one, Rostóv felt confused, blushed, and became silent.
Borís inquired what news there might be on the staff, and what, without
indiscretion, one might ask about our plans.
“We shall probably advance,” replied Bolkónski, evidently reluctant
to say more in the presence of a stranger.
Berg took the opportunity to ask, with great politeness, whether, as was
rumored, the allowance of forage money to captains of companies would be
doubled. To this Prince Andrew answered with a smile that he could
give no opinion on such an important government order, and Berg laughed
gaily.
“As to your business,” Prince Andrew continued, addressing Borís,
“we will talk of it later” (and he looked round at Rostóv). “Come
to me after the review and we will do what is possible.”
And, having glanced round the room, Prince Andrew turned to Rostóv,
whose state of unconquerable childish embarrassment now changing to
anger he did not condescend to notice, and said: “I think you were
talking of the Schön Grabern affair? Were you there?”
“I was there,” said Rostóv angrily, as if intending to insult the
aide-de-camp.
Bolkónski noticed the hussar’s state of mind, and it amused him. With
a slightly contemptuous smile, he said: “Yes, there are many stories
now told about that affair!”
“Yes, stories!” repeated Rostóv loudly, looking with eyes suddenly
grown furious, now at Borís, now at Bolkónski. “Yes, many stories!
But our stories are the stories of men who have been under the enemy’s
fire! Our stories have some weight, not like the stories of those
fellows on the staff who get rewards without doing anything!”
“Of whom you imagine me to be one?” said Prince Andrew, with a quiet
and particularly amiable smile.
A strange feeling of exasperation and yet of respect for this man’s
self-possession mingled at that moment in Rostóv’s soul.
“I am not talking about you,” he said, “I don’t know you and,
frankly, I don’t want to. I am speaking of the staff in general.”
“And I will tell you this,” Prince Andrew interrupted in a tone of
quiet authority, “you wish to insult me, and I am ready to agree with
you that it would be very easy to do so if you haven’t sufficient
self-respect, but admit that the time and place are very badly chosen.
In a day or two we shall all have to take part in a greater and more
serious duel, and besides, Drubetskóy, who says he is an old friend
of yours, is not at all to blame that my face has the misfortune to
displease you. However,” he added rising, “you know my name and
where to find me, but don’t forget that I do not regard either myself
or you as having been at all insulted, and as a man older than you, my
advice is to let the matter drop. Well then, on Friday after the review
I shall expect you, Drubetskóy. Au revoir!” exclaimed Prince Andrew,
and with a bow to them both he went out.
Only when Prince Andrew was gone did Rostóv think of what he ought to
have said. And he was still more angry at having omitted to say it. He
ordered his horse at once and, coldly taking leave of Borís, rode
home. Should he go to headquarters next day and challenge that affected
adjutant, or really let the matter drop, was the question that worried
him all the way. He thought angrily of the pleasure he would have at
seeing the fright of that small and frail but proud man when covered by
his pistol, and then he felt with surprise that of all the men he knew
there was none he would so much like to have for a friend as that very
adjutant whom he so hated.
CHAPTER VIII
The day after Rostóv had been to see Borís, a review was held of the
Austrian and Russian troops, both those freshly arrived from Russia and
those who had been campaigning under Kutúzov. The two Emperors,
the Russian with his heir the Tsarévich, and the Austrian with the
Archduke, inspected the allied army of eighty thousand men.
From early morning the smart clean troops were on the move, forming up
on the field before the fortress. Now thousands of feet and bayonets
moved and halted at the officers’ command, turned with banners flying,
formed up at intervals, and wheeled round other similar masses of
infantry in different uniforms; now was heard the rhythmic beat of
hoofs and the jingling of showy cavalry in blue, red, and green braided
uniforms, with smartly dressed bandsmen in front mounted on black, roan,
or gray horses; then again, spreading out with the brazen clatter of the
polished shining cannon that quivered on the gun carriages and with
the smell of linstocks, came the artillery which crawled between the
infantry and cavalry and took up its appointed position. Not only the
generals in full parade uniforms, with their thin or thick waists drawn
in to the utmost, their red necks squeezed into their stiff collars, and
wearing scarves and all their decorations, not only the elegant, pomaded
officers, but every soldier with his freshly washed and shaven face and
his weapons clean and polished to the utmost, and every horse groomed
till its coat shone like satin and every hair of its wetted mane lay
smooth—felt that no small matter was happening, but an important and
solemn affair. Every general and every soldier was conscious of his own
insignificance, aware of being but a drop in that ocean of men, and
yet at the same time was conscious of his strength as a part of that
enormous whole.
From early morning strenuous activities and efforts had begun and by ten
o’clock all had been brought into due order. The ranks were drawn
up on the vast field. The whole army was extended in three lines: the
cavalry in front, behind it the artillery, and behind that again the
infantry.
A space like a street was left between each two lines of troops. The
three parts of that army were sharply distinguished: Kutúzov’s
fighting army (with the Pávlograds on the right flank of the front);
those recently arrived from Russia, both Guards and regiments of the
line; and the Austrian troops. But they all stood in the same lines,
under one command, and in a like order.
Like wind over leaves ran an excited whisper: “They’re coming!
They’re coming!” Alarmed voices were heard, and a stir of final
preparation swept over all the troops.
From the direction of Olmütz in front of them, a group was seen
approaching. And at that moment, though the day was still, a light gust
of wind blowing over the army slightly stirred the streamers on the
lances and the unfolded standards fluttered against their staffs. It
looked as if by that slight motion the army itself was expressing its
joy at the approach of the Emperors. One voice was heard shouting:
“Eyes front!” Then, like the crowing of cocks at sunrise, this was
repeated by others from various sides and all became silent.
In the deathlike stillness only the tramp of horses was heard. This
was the Emperors’ suites. The Emperors rode up to the flank, and the
trumpets of the first cavalry regiment played the general march. It
seemed as though not the trumpeters were playing, but as if the army
itself, rejoicing at the Emperors’ approach, had naturally burst into
music. Amid these sounds, only the youthful kindly voice of the Emperor
Alexander was clearly heard. He gave the words of greeting, and the
first regiment roared “Hurrah!” so deafeningly, continuously, and
joyfully that the men themselves were awed by their multitude and the
immensity of the power they constituted.
Rostóv, standing in the front lines of Kutúzov’s army which the Tsar
approached first, experienced the same feeling as every other man in
that army: a feeling of self-forgetfulness, a proud consciousness of
might, and a passionate attraction to him who was the cause of this
triumph.
He felt that at a single word from that man all this vast mass (and he
himself an insignificant atom in it) would go through fire and water,
commit crime, die, or perform deeds of highest heroism, and so he could
not but tremble and his heart stand still at the imminence of that word.
“Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!” thundered from all sides, one regiment
after another greeting the Tsar with the strains of the march, and then
“Hurrah!”... Then the general march, and again “Hurrah! Hurrah!”
growing ever stronger and fuller and merging into a deafening roar.
Till the Tsar reached it, each regiment in its silence and immobility
seemed like a lifeless body, but as soon as he came up it became alive,
its thunder joining the roar of the whole line along which he had
already passed. Through the terrible and deafening roar of those voices,
amid the square masses of troops standing motionless as if turned to
stone, hundreds of riders composing the suites moved carelessly but
symmetrically and above all freely, and in front of them two men—the
Emperors. Upon them the undivided, tensely passionate attention of that
whole mass of men was concentrated.