War and Peace. Лев Толстой

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СКАЧАТЬ her how I’ve seen the emperor?) Natásha … take my sabretache …”—“Keep to the right, your honor, there are bushes here,” came the voice of an hussar, past whom Rostóv was riding in the act of falling asleep. Rostóv lifted his head that had sunk almost to his horse’s mane and pulled up beside the hussar. He was succumbing to irresistible, youthful, childish drowsiness. “But what was I thinking? I mustn’t forget. How shall I speak to the emperor? No, that’s not it—that’s tomorrow. Oh yes! Natásha … sabretache … saber them … Whom? The hussars … Ah, the hussars with mustaches. Along the Tverskaya Street rode the hussar with mustaches … I thought about him too, just opposite Guryev’s house … Old Guryev… . Oh, but Denísov’s a fine fellow. But that’s all nonsense. The chief thing is that the emperor is here. How he looked at me and wished to say something, but dared not… . No, it was I who dared not. But that’s nonsense, the chief thing is not to forget the important thing I was thinking of. Yes, Na-tasha, sabretache, oh, yes, yes! That’s right!” And his head once more sank to his horse’s neck. All at once it seemed to him that he was being fired at. “What? What? What? … Cut them down! What? …” said Rostóv, waking up. At the moment he opened his eyes he heard in front of him, where the enemy was, the long-drawn shouts of thousands of voices. His horse and the horse of the hussar near him pricked their ears at these shouts. Over there, where the shouting came from, a fire flared up and went out again, then another, and all along the French line on the hill fires flared up and the shouting grew louder and louder. Rostóv could hear the sound of French words but could not distinguish them. The din of many voices was too great; all he could hear was: “ahahah!” and “rrrr!”

      “What’s that? What do you make of it?” said Rostóv to the hussar beside him. “That must be the enemy’s camp!”

      The hussar did not reply.

      “Why, don’t you hear it?” Rostóv asked again, after waiting for a reply.

      “Who can tell, your honor?” replied the hussar reluctantly.

      “From the direction, it must be the enemy,” repeated Rostóv.

      “It may be he or it may be nothing,” muttered the hussar. “It’s dark … Steady!” he cried to his fidgeting horse.

      Rostóv’s horse was also getting restive: it pawed the frozen ground, pricking its ears at the noise and looking at the lights. The shouting grew still louder and merged into a general roar that only an army of several thousand men could produce. The lights spread farther and farther, probably along the line of the French camp. Rostóv no longer wanted to sleep. The gay triumphant shouting of the enemy army had a stimulating effect on him. “Vive l’empereur! L’empereur!” he now heard distinctly.

      “They can’t be far off, probably just beyond the stream,” he said to the hussar beside him.

      The hussar only sighed without replying and coughed angrily. The sound of horse’s hoofs approaching at a trot along the line of hussars was heard, and out of the foggy darkness the figure of a sergeant of hussars suddenly appeared, looming huge as an elephant.

      “Your Honor, the generals!” said the sergeant, riding up to Rostóv.

      Rostóv, still looking round toward the fires and the shouts, rode with the sergeant to meet some mounted men who were riding along the line. One was on a white horse. Prince Bagratión and Prince Dolgorúkov with their adjutants had come to witness the curious phenomenon of the lights and shouts in the enemy’s camp. Rostóv rode up to Bagratión, reported to him, and then joined the adjutants listening to what the generals were saying.

      “Believe me,” said Prince Dolgorúkov, addressing Bagratión, “it is nothing but a trick! He has retreated and ordered the rearguard to kindle fires and make a noise to deceive us.”

      “Hardly,” said Bagratión. “I saw them this evening on that knoll; if they had retreated they would have withdrawn from that too… . Officer!” said Bagratión to Rostóv, “are the enemy’s skirmishers still there?”

      “They were there this evening, but now I don’t know, Your Excellency. Shall I go with some of my hussars to see?” replied Rostóv.

      Bagratión stopped and, before replying, tried to see Rostóv’s face in the mist.

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

      “Yes, sir.”

      Rostóv spurred his horse, called to Sergeant Fédchenko and two other hussars, told them to follow him, and trotted downhill in the direction from which the shouting came. He felt both frightened and pleased to be riding alone with three hussars into that mysterious and dangerous misty distance where no one had been before him. Bagratión called to him from the hill not to go beyond the stream, but Rostóv pretended not to hear him and did not stop but rode on and on, continually mistaking bushes for trees and gullies for men and continually discovering his mistakes. Having descended the hill at a trot, he no longer saw either our own or the enemy’s fires, but heard the shouting of the French more loudly and distinctly. In the valley he saw before him something like a river, but when he reached it he found it was a road. Having come out onto the road he reined in his horse, hesitating whether to ride along it or cross it and ride over the black field up the hillside. To keep to the road which gleamed white in the mist would have been safer because it would be easier to see people coming along it. “Follow me!” said he, crossed the road, and began riding up the hill at a gallop toward the point where the French pickets had been standing that evening.

      “Your Honor, there he is!” cried one of the hussars behind him. And before Rostóv had time to make out what the black thing was that had suddenly appeared in the fog, there was a flash, followed by a report, and a bullet whizzing high up in the mist with a plaintive sound passed out of hearing. Another musket missed fire but flashed in the pan. Rostóv turned his horse and galloped back. Four more reports followed at intervals, and the bullets passed somewhere in the fog singing in different tones. Rostóv reined in his horse, whose spirits had risen, like his own, at the firing, and went back at a footpace. “Well, some more! Some more!” a merry voice was saying in his soul. But no more shots came.

      Only when approaching Bagratión did Rostóv let his horse gallop again, and with his hand at the salute rode up to the general.

      Dolgorúkov was still insisting that the French had retreated and had only lit fires to deceive us.

      “What does that prove?” he was saying as Rostóv rode up. “They might retreat and leave the pickets.”

      “It’s plain that they have not all gone yet, Prince,” said Bagratión. “Wait till tomorrow morning, we’ll find out everything tomorrow.”

      “The picket is still on the hill, Your Excellency, just where it was in the evening,” reported Rostóv, stooping forward with his hand at the salute and unable to repress the smile of delight induced by his ride and especially by the sound of the bullets.

      “Very good, very good,” said Bagratión. “Thank you, officer.”

      “Your Excellency,” said Rostóv, “may I ask a favor?”

      “What is it?”

      “Tomorrow our squadron is to be in reserve. May I ask to be attached to the first squadron?”

      “What’s your name?”

      “Count Rostóv.”

      “Oh, СКАЧАТЬ