Dolgorukov, who had been one of the most passionate advocates of attack, had just come back from the council, weary and exhausted, but excited and proud of his victory. Prince Andrey introduced his protege, but although Prince Dolgorukov shook hands politely and warmly, he said nothing to Boris, and, obviously unable to contain the thoughts which now obsessed him, he spoke to Prince Andrey in French.
'Well, my dear fellow, what a battle we have won! I pray to God that what happens next will be just as victorious. Anyway, my dear fellow,' he blurted out in his enthusiasm, 'I must admit I owe them an apology, the Austrians, and especially Weierother. The accuracy, the eye for detail, the knowledge of the locality, the anticipation of everything, every development, every last point! No, my dear fellow, better conditions than these could never have been devised. Austrian planning combined with Russian courage - what more could you want?'
'So we definitely are going to attack?' said Bolkonsky.
'And do you know, old fellow, I'm sure Napoleon doesn't know what day it is. Did you know the Emperor heard from him today?' Dolgorukov gave a knowing smile.
'No! What did he say?' asked Bolkonsky.
'What could he say? Tiddly-om-pom-pom or words to that effect - he's just playing for time. I tell you we've got him, haven't we? Oh, but you've not heard the funniest bit,' he said with a burst of friendly laughter. 'They couldn't think what to call him when they wrote back. Not "Consul", definitely not "Emperor" - I think I'd have said "To General Bonaparte".'
'But there's a world of difference between refusing to recognize him as Emperor and calling him General Bonaparte,' said Bolkonsky.
'That's the point,' Dolgorukov burbled on, still laughing. 'You know Bilibin - such a bright fellow - he suggested addressing it, "To the Usurper and Enemy of Humanity".' Dolgorukov roared with happy laughter.
'And that was it?' observed Bolkonsky.
'Well no, Bilibin thought up a proper form of address. He lives by his wit, and his wits.'
'What was it?'
' "To the Head of the French Government",' said Dolgorukov with some satisfaction, now speaking seriously. 'That's quite good, isn't it?'
'Yes, very good. He's bound to hate it,' observed Bolkonsky.
'I'll say he will! My brother knows him, he's had dinner with him - the Emperor we should call him nowadays - more than once in Paris, and he used to tell me he'd never seen a sharper and more crafty diplomat - you know, a combination of French finesse and Italian showmanship! You know all those stories about Napoleon and Count Markov? Count Markov was the only man who had the measure of him. Have you heard the one about the handkerchief? It's a gem!'
Dolgorukov was now in full flood and kept turning from Boris to Prince Andrey as he told his story: to test our ambassador, Markov, Napoleon deliberately dropped his handkerchief in front of him and stood watching, probably expecting Markov to pick it up for him, but Markov just dropped his own handkerchief beside it and then picked it up again without touching Bonaparte's.
'Lovely story,' said Bolkonsky. 'But listen, Prince, I've come to ask a favour for my young friend here. It's like this . . .' But before Prince Andrey could finish, an adjutant came into the room to summon Prince Dolgorukov to the Emperor.
'Oh, how infuriating!' said Dolgorukov, getting up hurriedly and shaking hands with Prince Andrey and Boris. 'Count on me to do everything I can for both of you, you and this charming young man.' Once more he shook hands with Boris with a look of genuine good will, for all his distracted excitement. 'But you see how things are . . . Some other time!'
Boris was transported by the very thought of being at that moment so close to the highest authorities. He was suddenly aware that he was in direct contact with the mainsprings that regulated all those vast movements of the masses in which he in his regiment felt himself playing such a tiny, humble, insignificant part. They followed Prince Dolgorukov out into the corridor where they came across (coming out of a door to the Tsar's room where Dolgorukov went in) a short man in civilian clothing with a bright face and a jaw that jutted out, not spoiling his face but giving him a sharp and rather wily look. This short man nodded to Dolgorukov as if they were close friends, but stared icily at Prince Andrey and walked straight towards him, apparently expecting him to bow or give way. Prince Andrey did neither. There was a nasty look on his face, and it was the short young man who stepped aside and walked off down one side of the corridor.
'Who was that?' asked Boris.
'He's a very remarkable man - and very unpleasant to me. It's the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Prince Adam Czartoryski. He's the kind of man,' added Bolkonsky with an uncontainable sigh as they left the palace, 'he's the kind of man who decides the fates of nations.'
Next day the troops were on the march, and Boris had no opportunity of seeing Bolkonsky or Dolgorukov again before the battle of Austerlitz. For the time being he would stay with the Izmailov regiment.
CHAPTER 10
At dawn on the 16th the squadron in which Nikolay Rostov was serving under Denisov (part of Prince Bagration's detachment) moved on after a good night's sleep and was told it was going into action. After marching the best part of a mile behind other columns they were halted on the highway, and Rostov watched as many troops went on past them - the Cossacks, the first and second squadrons of hussars, infantry battalions with artillery, even the two generals, Bagration and Dolgorukov, and their adjutants. All the dread of battle that had been building up in him again, all the inner conflict which had enabled him to overcome that dread, all his dreams of personal glory in this battle as a fighting hussar - all of this now counted for nothing. His squadron was held back in reserve, and Nikolay Rostov spent a tedious and miserable day. It was still not quite nine o'clock in the morning when he heard firing and loud cheers up ahead, then he saw some wounded men being brought back (not many of them) and finally he watched a whole detachment of French cavalry being brought in surrounded by a Cossack unit. It was clear that the action was over, and no less clear that the action had been small-scale but successful. The returning soldiers and officers spoke of a brilliant victory in which the town of Wischau had been seized and a whole French squadron taken prisoner. It was a bright and sunny day following a sharp overnight frost, and the cheery autumn sunshine went well with the news of victory coming from the participants but also visible on the happy faces of soldiers, officers, generals and adjutants riding up and down in front of Nikolay Rostov. It rankled with him all the more that he had fought down his dread of battle only to spend that whole happy day doing nothing.
'Hey, Wostov, come over here! Let's dwink to dwown our sowwow!' called Denisov from the roadside where he was sitting with a bottle and some food. The officers had gathered around Denisov's hamper for a drink and a bite to eat.
'Here comes another one!' said one of the officers, pointing to a French prisoner, a dragoon, being brought in on foot by two Cossacks. One of them was leading his horse, a big, beautiful French charger.
'Sell us your horse!' Denisov called out to the Cossacks.
'Yes, sir.'
The officers got up and surrounded the Cossacks and the prisoner. The French dragoon was a young boy from Alsace who spoke French with a German accent. Red in the face and breathless with excitement, once he heard the French language he began jabbering at all of the officers, all of them one after another. He said he wouldn't have been caught, it wasn't his fault that he had been, it was the corporal's fault, he'd sent him for some horse-cloths, though he had told him the Russians were there. And all the time he kept on stroking his charger and saying, 'Please don't let them hurt my little horse.' He obviously had no idea where he was. One minute he was apologizing for having been taken prisoner, the next he was trying to prove to imaginary superior officers what a good, keen serving soldier he was. He was wafting over to us in the rearguard the full flavour of the French army, which we found utterly alien.
The Cossacks sold the horse for two gold pieces, and since Rostov was currently the richest of
ficer, having just received money from home, he bought it.
'Please don't hurt my little horse!' the Alsatian said lovingly to Rostov as the horse was handed over.
Rostov reassured the dragoon with a smile and gave him some money.
'Alley! Alley!' said one of the Cossacks, plucking the prisoner by the arm to make him walk on.
'The Tsar's coming! It's him!' came a sudden call among the hussars. There was a frenzied scurrying and Rostov saw several horsemen with white plumes in their hats, riding up the road towards them. Everyone snapped into place and stood waiting.
Rostov had no sense or recollection of rushing to his post and getting on his horse. His disappointment at missing the battle disappeared in a flash, along with his jaded mood among familiar faces. All thought of self had vanished - he was totally absorbed in the blissful feeling brought on by the Emperor's approach, which was more than enough to compensate for a lost day. He was as happy as a lover when at last he meets his beloved. Too scared to glance down the line and without needing to, he thrilled to the sense of his approach. And he sensed it not only from the clip-clop of the coming cavalcade, he felt it because as the Tsar came nearer the atmosphere around him brightened with joy, purpose and celebration. Nearer and nearer moved this sun (as Rostov saw him), radiating its gentle, majestic light on every side until he felt himself enfolded in that radiance and heard that voice - so caressing, serene, majestic, and yet so simple. A deathly silence fell, which Rostov sensed as right and proper. Through it came the sound of the Tsar's voice.
'Are you the Pavlograd hussars?' came his inquiry.
'The reserve, sire,' replied a voice, so down to earth after the supernatural voice that had uttered the words, 'Are you the Pavlograd hussars?'
The Tsar came alongside Rostov and stopped. Alexander's face was even finer than at the inspection three days before. It glowed with the boyish delight and youthful innocence of a giddy fourteen-year-old, yet it was still the face of a majestic emperor. Glancing casually along the squadron, the Tsar's eyes met Rostov's, and lingered there not more than two seconds. Whether or not the Tsar could tell what was happening in the depths of Rostov's soul (and Rostov was almost sure that he could), he did stare into Rostov's face for two solid seconds, with his blue eyes emitting a soft and gentle radiance. Then with a sudden jerk of his eyebrows he stabbed his left foot sharply back into his horse, galloped off and was gone.
Once he had heard firing from the front the young Emperor couldn't resist the temptation to go and watch the fighting, so at twelve o'clock, ignoring all protests from his courtiers, he had left the escorting third column and ridden towards the vanguard. Before he could catch up with the hussars, however, several adjutants met him with news of the engagement and its successful outcome.
The engagement, such as it was, had resulted in the capture of a French squadron and this had been built up into a brilliant victory over the enemy. With the smoke still hanging over the battlefield the Tsar and the entire army believed that the French had been routed and forced to retreat. A few minutes after the Tsar had gone by, the Pavlograd hussar division was called forward. In Wischau itself, a little German town, Rostov caught another glimpse of the Tsar. In the marketplace, which had seen a sharp exchange of fire just before the Tsar's arrival, lay several dead and wounded soldiers who had not yet been picked up. Surrounded by his officers and courtiers, the Tsar was mounted on another bobtailed chestnut mare, not the one he had ridden to inspect the troops. Bending to one side with a graceful gesture and holding a gold lorgnette to his eyes, he was staring at a soldier lying face-down with blood all over his uncovered head. The wounded man looked so filthy, disgusting and ghastly that Rostov was deeply offended by his closeness to the Emperor. Rostov saw the Tsar's stooping shoulders shudder, as if from an icy tremor, at which his left foot jerked spasmodically, driving its spur into the horse's side, but the well-trained animal just looked around indifferently without moving an inch. Adjutants dismounted and went to lift the soldier under the arms to lay him on a stretcher that had suddenly appeared. The soldier gave a groan.
'Steady, steady! Can't you do it more gently?' said the Tsar, who seemed to be suffering more than the dying soldier, and he rode away.
Rostov had seen tears in the Tsar's eyes and he heard him say to Czartoryski in French as he rode off, 'What a terrible thing war is, what a terrible thing!'
The advance troops were positioned outside Wischau in sight of the enemy line, which had spent the whole day retreating before us at the slightest sign of firing. The Tsar's thanks were conveyed to the vanguard, rewards were promised and a double ration of vodka was issued to the men. The campfires crackled even more merrily than the previous night, and everywhere soldiers were singing. Tonight Denisov was celebrating his promotion to major, and as the party drew on, a less than sober Nikolay Rostov proposed a toast to the Emperor. 'Not just "to our Sovereign the Emperor", as they say at official dinners,' he said, 'but to our Emperor, a good man, a charming man, a great man. Here's to him, and certain defeat for the French!'
'If we fought before,' he said, 'and wouldn't give them an inch, as we did at Schongrabern, what will happen now with him at our head? We'll die, gladly die for him, every last one of us. What do you say, gentlemen? Perhaps I'm not saying it right - I've drunk quite a bit - but anyway that's how I feel, and so do you. I give you Alexander the First! Hurrah!'
His cheer was echoed by a fervent roar from the officers. And old Captain Kirsten roared as wildly and sincerely as the twenty-year-old Rostov.
When the officers had drunk the toast and smashed their glasses, Kirsten poured out some more, and then went off in his shirt sleeves and riding breeches, stopping at the soldiers' campfires and standing there with his long grey whiskers, glass in hand, waving his arm in a majestic stance, his chest gleaming white in the firelight through his open shirt.
'Here you are, boys, I give you our Sovereign the Emperor and victory over the enemy! Hurrah!' he roared in his old hussar's baritone.
The hussars crowded around, responding warmly with a great roar of their own.
Late that night, when they had all gone off, Denisov clapped his young favourite, Rostov, on the shoulder with his little hand. 'There we have it. No one to fall in love with in the field, so Wostov falls in love with the Tsar,' he said.
'Denisov, don't joke about it,' cried Rostov, 'it's such a noble and wonderful feeling, it's . . .'
'Quite wight, quite wight, my dear fellow, I agwee, I appwove . . .'
'No, you just don't understand!' And Rostov got up and walked off to wander among the campfires, dreaming of how blissful it would be to die - not saving the Emperor's life, which he wouldn't dare to dream of - but just to die, there, before the Emperor's eyes.
He had, of course, fallen in love with the Tsar and Russian military honour and the hope of future glory. And he was not alone in these sentiments during those memorable days in the run up to the battle of Austerlitz. At that moment nine-tenths of all the men in the Russian army were in love, albeit less ecstatically, with their Tsar and Russian military honour.
CHAPTER 11
Next day the Tsar stayed in Wischau. His physician, Villier, was summoned to see him several times. At headquarters and among the troops stationed near by the word went round that the Tsar was ill. Those close to him reported that he had had nothing to eat and had slept badly. The cause of this indisposition was said to be the terrible shock suffered by the Tsar, with his sensitive soul, at the sight of the dead and wounded.
At dawn on the 17th a French officer was escorted into Wischau from our forward positions under a flag of truce for a meeting with the Russian Emperor. This officer was Savary. The Tsar had only just fallen asleep, so Savary had to wait. At midday he was allowed in to see the Emperor, and an hour later he rode back to the French army outposts, taking Prince Dolgorukov with him. Rumour had it that Savary had been sent to propose peace and a meeting between Alexander and Napoleon. A private meeting was refused, muc
h to the pride and delight of the entire army, and instead of the Tsar Prince Dolgorukov, the victorious general at Wischau, was dispatched with Savary for talks with Napoleon to discover whether such exchanges - contrary to all expectations - were genuinely founded on a desire for peace. In the evening Dolgorukov came back, went straight to the Tsar and spent a long time alone with him.
On the 18th and 19th the troops moved forward in two stages, and the enemy outposts, after a brief exchange of fire, fell back. The army's higher echelons were all bustle and excitement from midday on the 19th till the morning of the 20th of November, the day when the famous battle of Austerlitz was fought.
Until midday on the 19th all the activity, urgent discussions, scurrying around and dispatching of adjutants was confined to the Emperors' headquarters; after midday the activity was transferred to Kutuzov's headquarters and the column command staff. Throughout the afternoon this activity was transmitted by adjutants to every last army outpost and unit, and in the early hours of 20th November the eighty-thousand-strong allied army rose from a few hours' sleep and lumbered off, a six-mile heaving mass of men abuzz with chatter.