WAR & PEACE - Leo Tolstoy

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stopped.

      “Have you?” he said. “Well, how did it go?”

      “We drove them back!” said Boris with animation, growing talkative. “Can you imagine it?” and he began describing how the Guards, having taken up their position and seeing troops before them, thought they were Austrians, and all at once discovered from the cannon balls discharged by those troops that they were themselves in the front line and had unexpectedly to go into action. Rostov without hearing Boris to the end spurred his horse.

      “Where are you off to?” asked Boris.

      “With a message to His Majesty.”

      “There he is!” said Boris, thinking Rostov had said “His Highness,” and pointing to the Grand Duke who with his high shoulders and frowning brows stood a hundred paces away from them in his helmet and Horse Guards’ jacket, shouting something to a pale, white uniformed Austrian officer.

      “But that’s the Grand Duke, and I want the commander in chief or the Emperor,” said Rostov, and was about to spur his horse.

      “Count! Count!” shouted Berg who ran up from the other side as eager as Boris. “Count! I am wounded in my right hand” (and he showed his bleeding hand with a handkerchief tied round it) “and I remained at the front. I held my sword in my left hand, Count. All our family—the von Bergs—have been knights!”

      He said something more, but Rostov did not wait to hear it and rode away.

      Having passed the Guards and traversed an empty space, Rostov, to avoid again getting in front of the first line as he had done when the Horse Guards charged, followed the line of reserves, going far round the place where the hottest musket fire and cannonade were heard. Suddenly he heard musket fire quite close in front of him and behind our troops, where he could never have expected the enemy to be.

      “What can it be?” he thought. “The enemy in the rear of our army? Impossible!” And suddenly he was seized by a panic of fear for himself and for the issue of the whole battle. “But be that what it may,” he reflected, “there is no riding round it now. I must look for the commander in chief here, and if all is lost it is for me to perish with the rest.”

      The foreboding of evil that had suddenly come over Rostov was more and more confirmed the farther he rode into the region behind the village of Pratzen, which was full of troops of all kinds.

      “What does it mean? What is it? Whom are they firing at? Who is firing?” Rostov kept asking as he came up to Russian and Austrian soldiers running in confused crowds across his path.

      “The devil knows! They’ve killed everybody! It’s all up now!” he was told in Russian, German, and Czech by the crowd of fugitives who understood what was happening as little as he did.

      “Kill the Germans!” shouted one.

      “May the devil take them—the traitors!”

      “Zum Henker diese Russen!” * muttered a German.

      * “Hang these Russians!”

       Several wounded men passed along the road, and words of abuse, screams, and groans mingled in a general hubbub, then the firing died down. Rostov learned later that Russian and Austrian soldiers had been firing at one another.

      “My God! What does it all mean?” thought he. “And here, where at any moment the Emperor may see them…. But no, these must be only a handful of scoundrels. It will soon be over, it can’t be that, it can’t be! Only to get past them quicker, quicker!”

      The idea of defeat and flight could not enter Rostov’s head. Though he saw French cannon and French troops on the Pratzen Heights just where he had been ordered to look for the commander in chief, he could not, did not wish to, believe that.

      CHAPTER XVIII

      Rostov had been ordered to look for Kutuzov and the Emperor near the village of Pratzen. But neither they nor a single commanding officer were there, only disorganized crowds of troops of various kinds. He urged on his already weary horse to get quickly past these crowds, but the farther he went the more disorganized they were. The highroad on which he had come out was thronged with caleches, carriages of all sorts, and Russian and Austrian soldiers of all arms, some wounded and some not. This whole mass droned and jostled in confusion under the dismal influence of cannon balls flying from the French batteries stationed on the Pratzen Heights.

      “Where is the Emperor? Where is Kutuzov?” Rostov kept asking everyone he could stop, but got no answer from anyone.

      At last seizing a soldier by his collar he forced him to answer.

      “Eh, brother! They’ve all bolted long ago!” said the soldier, laughing for some reason and shaking himself free.

      Having left that soldier who was evidently drunk, Rostov stopped the horse of a batman or groom of some important personage and began to question him. The man announced that the Tsar had been driven in a carriage at full speed about an hour before along that very road and that he was dangerously wounded.

      “It can’t be!” said Rostov. “It must have been someone else.”

      “I saw him myself,” replied the man with a self-confident smile of derision. “I ought to know the Emperor by now, after the times I’ve seen him in Petersburg. I saw him just as I see you…. There he sat in the carriage as pale as anything. How they made the four black horses fly! Gracious me, they did rattle past! It’s time I knew the Imperial horses and Ilya Ivanych. I don’t think Ilya drives anyone except the Tsar!”

      Rostov let go of the horse and was about to ride on, when a wounded officer passing by addressed him:

      “Who is it you want?” he asked. “The commander in chief? He was killed by a cannon ball—struck in the breast before our regiment.”

      “Not killed—wounded!” another officer corrected him.

      “Who? Kutuzov?” asked Rostov.

      “Not Kutuzov, but what’s his name—well, never mind… there are not many left alive. Go that way, to that village, all the commanders are there,” said the officer, pointing to the village of Hosjeradek, and he walked on.

      Rostov rode on at a footpace not knowing why or to whom he was now going. The Emperor was wounded, the battle lost. It was impossible to doubt it now. Rostov rode in the direction pointed out to him, in which he saw turrets and a church. What need to hurry? What was he now to say to the Tsar or to Kutuzov, even if they were alive and unwounded?

      “Take this road, your honor, that way you will be killed at once!” a soldier shouted to him. “They’d kill you there!”

      “Oh, what are you talking about?” said another. “Where is he to go? That way is nearer.”

      Rostov considered, and then went in the direction where they said he would be killed.

      “It’s all the same now. If the Emperor is wounded, am I to try to save myself?” he thought. He rode on to the region where the greatest number of men had perished in fleeing from Pratzen. The French had not yet occupied that region, and the Russians—the uninjured and slightly wounded—had left it long ago. All about the field, like heaps of manure on well-kept plowland, lay from ten to fifteen dead and wounded to each couple of acres. The wounded crept together in twos and threes and one could hear their distressing screams and groans, sometimes feigned—or so it seemed to Rostov. He put his horse to a trot to avoid seeing all these suffering men, and he felt afraid—afraid not for his life, but for the courage he needed and which he knew would not stand the sight of these unfortunates.

      The French, who had ceased firing at this field strewn with dead and wounded where there was no one left to fire at, on seeing an adjutant riding over it trained a gun on him and fired several shots. The sensation of those terrible whistling sounds and of the corpses around him merged in Rostov’s mind into a single feeling of terror and pity for himself. He remembered his

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