Saddled horses were standing at the entrance, and the entourage was assembling; clearly the Emperor would soon be setting off.
'Any minute now I might see him,' thought Rostov. 'If only I could give him the letter myself and talk to him about it . . . I can't be arrested for not being in uniform, can I? Surely not. He'd see the rights and wrongs of it. He understands everything. He knows everything. Is there anyone fairer and more gracious? And even if I did get arrested just for being here, so what?' he thought as he watched an officer climb the steps and go into the house where the Emperor was staying. 'Look, there are people going in and out. Oh! This is stupid. I'm going in and I'll give him the letter myself. Hard luck on Drubetskoy - he's driven me to it.' And then, with a sudden determination he didn't know he was capable of, Rostov walked straight into the house where the Emperor was staying, fingering the letter in his pocket.
'No, I can't miss this chance, not after Austerlitz,' he thought, expecting to meet the Emperor any minute and feeling his heart surge with blood at the very idea. 'I shall fall at his feet and implore him. He will raise me up, hear what I have to say and thank me.' 'I am always happy to do good, but to right a wrong is the greatest happiness,' Rostov could hear him saying. Curious eyes were upon him as he climbed the steps. At the top he saw a broad staircase leading straight up to a landing with a closed door on the right hand side. Below, under the stairs, was a door leading to the ground-floor rooms.
'Whom do you wish to see?' someone asked him.
'I have a letter. An appeal to his Majesty,' said Nikolay with a quavering voice.
'An appeal. You need the duty officer. This way, please.' (He motioned to the downstairs door.) 'Only it won't be accepted.'
At the sound of these casual words Rostov suddenly felt panic-stricken at what he was doing. The idea of meeting the Emperor at any moment was so wonderful that it scared him stiff, and he might have made a bolt for it but for an attendant who now came forward and opened the duty officer's door for him. Rostov went in.
There in the room stood a short, stout man of about thirty, dressed in white trousers, high boots and a cambric shirt which he seemed to have only just put on. A valet stood behind him buttoning his splendid new silk-embroidered braces, which made a strong impact on Rostov, though he couldn't have said why. The stout man was talking to someone in the next room.
'Good figure, and fiendishly pretty,' he was saying, but when he saw Rostov he stopped and frowned.
'What do you want? An appeal?'
'What is it?' asked someone from the next room.
'It's another appeal,' answered the man in the braces.
'Tell him to come back later. He'll be coming out any minute. We have to go.'
'Come back later, tomorrow. You're too late . . .'
Rostov turned to leave, but the man in the braces stopped him.
'Who is it from? Who are you?'
'It's from Major Denisov,' answered Rostov.
'Who are you - an officer?'
'A lieutenant, Count Rostov.'
'Damned cheek! Send it through the proper channels. Now get out . . . go away . . .' And he began putting on the uniform handed to him by the valet.
Rostov went out into the hall again, and saw there were lots of officers and generals in full dress uniform at the top of the steps, and he would have to walk right past them.
Cursing his own temerity and almost fainting away at the thought of meeting the Emperor at any minute and suffering the humiliation of being arrested before his very eyes, Rostov now saw the total folly of his bad behaviour, which he thoroughly regretted, and he was just squeezing through the splendidly attired entourage all round the front of the house, his eyes looking down at the ground, when a familiar voice called out to him, and a hand stopped him.
'Well, sir, what might you be doing here out of uniform?' asked a deep voice.
It was a cavalry general who had won special favour with the Emperor during the recent campaign; he had been the commanding officer of Rostov's division.
Rostov looked at him in dismay and tried to make some excuse, but once he saw that the general's face looked amused and benevolent he took him to one side and blurted out his story with great excitement, begging him to intercede for Denisov, who was known personally to the general.
The general heard Rostov's story and shook his head gravely. 'I'm sorry, very sorry. Such a gallant fellow. Give me the letter.'
Rostov had barely enough time to hand over the letter and tell him all about Denisov's plight when jingling spurs announced rapid movement down the stairs, at which the general left him and moved over on to the steps. The gentlemen of the Emperor's entourage ran down and took to their horses. The same groom who had been at Austerlitz, a man called Hayne, led the Emperor's horse forward, and when light footsteps came tripping down the staircase Rostov knew them at once. Forgetting any danger of being recognized, Rostov went along with a number of curious local people and moved up close to the steps, where once again, after a lapse of two years, he saw the adored features - the same face, the same glance, the same walk, the same blend of majesty and gentleness . . . And the feeling of rapturous adoration inspired by the Emperor was rekindled in Rostov's heart with all its old force. The Emperor was wearing the uniform of the Preobrazhensky regiment, white chamois leather breeches and high boots, and a star which Rostov didn't recognize. (It was the Legion of Honour.) He came out on the steps holding his hat under one arm and pulling on a glove. He stopped and had a look around, illuminating everything that met with his glance. He said a few words to one or two of the generals. Then he recognized Rostov's former divisional commander, smiled at him and beckoned him over.
All the entourage stood aside and Rostov watched as the general spoke to the Emperor for quite some time.
The Emperor said a few words in return and then took a step towards his horse. Once again the massed entourage and the spectators, Rostov among them, surged in closer to the Emperor. Standing by his horse with one hand on the saddle, the Emperor turned back to the cavalry general and said aloud obviously for all to hear, 'I cannot do it, General, and the reason I cannot do it is because the law is mightier than I am,' and he put his foot in the stirrup. The general bowed his head respectfully while the Emperor mounted his horse and galloped off down the street. Beside himself with excitement, Rostov ran on behind with the crowd.
CHAPTER 21
The Tsar rode off towards a square in which two battalions stood on parade ranged against each other: to the right, the men of the Preobrazhensky regiment and, to the left, the French guards in their bearskin caps.
As the Emperor rode up to one flank of the battalions, where the men presented arms, another group of horsemen was galloping up to the opposite flank, and at their head Rostov recognized Napoleon. It couldn't be anyone else. He galloped up, wearing a small hat and a blue uniform open over a white vest, with the St Andrew ribbon draped across his chest. He was riding a magnificent grey thoroughbred Arab caparisoned in crimson and gold. Riding up to Alexander, he half-raised his hat, a movement which immediately told Rostov, with his cavalryman's eye, that Napoleon was a poor and clumsy horseman. The battalions roared out their 'Hurrah!' and 'Long live the Emperor!' Napoleon said something to Alexander. Both Emperors dismounted and took each other by the hands. Napoleon's face wore an unpleasantly forced smile. Alexander was saying something to him with a warm and friendly expression on his face.
Despite the danger of being trampled by the horses of the French gendarmes controlling the crowd, Rostov followed every movement of the Emperor Alexander and Bonaparte, never taking his eyes off them. He was struck by something quite unexpected: Alexander was treating Bonaparte like an equal, and Bonaparte was completely relaxed, taking his familiarity with the Russian Tsar for granted as if it was something of long standing, and he seemed to be on equal terms with the Russian monarch.
Alexander and Napoleon, with their suite stretched out behind in a long train, moved towards the right flank
of the Preobrazhensky battalion and ended up close to the crowd that was standing there. Suddenly the crowd found itself right next to the two Emperors, and Rostov, who was well to the front, began to be afraid of being recognized.
'Sire, I beg permission to award the Legion of Honour to the bravest of your soldiers,' said a clipped, grating voice, carefully articulating every letter.
It was the diminutive Bonaparte speaking, looking up straight into Alexander's eyes. Alexander listened attentively to what was being said, then inclined his head and gave an amiable smile.
'To the man who conducted himself with the greatest courage in this last war,' added Napoleon with precise enunciation of every syllable. He was scanning the ranks of Russian soldiers drawn up before him, still rigidly presenting arms but with their eyes fixed on the face of their own Emperor. Napoleon's air of authority and self-possession turned Rostov's stomach.
'If your Majesty will allow me to consult the colonel . . .' said Alexander, and he took a few hurried steps towards Prince Kozlovsky, the battalion commander. Meanwhile Bonaparte was peeling the glove off one of his little white hands, and he now tore it off and threw it away. An adjutant standing behind rushed forward eagerly and picked it up.
'Whom do we give it to?' the Emperor Alexander asked of Kozlovsky in Russian in a low voice.
'As your Majesty commands.'
The Emperor frowned with displeasure, glanced around and said, 'Well, we must give him an answer.'
Kozlovsky scanned the ranks in a businesslike manner, and his glance took in Rostov.
'Is it me?' thought Rostov.
'Lazarev!' The colonel scowled as he gave the command and Lazarev, their best marksman, stepped smartly forward.
'Where do you think you're going? Stand still!' voices whispered to Lazarev, who didn't know where to go. Lazarev came to halt, angling a scared look at his colonel, and his face twitched, as often happens to soldiers called out in front.
Napoleon half-turned his head and flapped a podgy little hand behind him, as if he was expecting to be handed something. Among the members of his suite, who knew immediately what was wanted, there was a great fuss and much whispering as something was passed from hand to hand, and then a page-boy, the same boy that Rostov had seen yesterday evening at Boris's house, trotted forward, bowed over the outstretched hand without keeping it waiting a second longer than was necessary, and placed in it a medal on a red ribbon. Without even looking, Napoleon squeezed two fingers together and there was the medal dangling between them. He then walked over to Lazarev, who stood there goggling, with eyes only for his own Emperor. Napoleon looked round at the Emperor Alexander to emphasize that what he was now doing he was doing for the benefit of his ally. The little white hand holding the medal brushed against a button on Private Lazarev's uniform. Napoleon seemed fully aware that all he had to do was deign to touch this private soldier on the breast and it would ensure that he would be for ever happy, well rewarded and distinguished from every other soldier in the world. He merely left the cross lying there on Lazarev's breast, dropped his hand and turned to Alexander apparently in no doubt that the medal would stick. And indeed it did, because many eager hands, Russian and French, were waiting to grab the cross and pin it to the uniform.
Lazarev scowled at the little man with white hands who had done something to him, and he continued to stand rigidly to attention, presenting arms, while staring straight at Alexander, as if asking for further instructions - should he just stand there, march off or do something else? No instructions were forthcoming so he stayed where he was for quite some time in the same state of rigidity.
The Emperors mounted their horses and rode away. The Preobrazhensky battalion was dismissed, and the men went to mingle with the French guards and sit down at the tables which had been set for them.
Lazarev was given a place of honour. French and Russian officers came to embrace him, congratulate him and shake him by the hand. Officers and common people crowded round just to have a look at Lazarev. There was a buzz of conversation in French and Russian and much laughter round the tables in the square. Two officers passed by near to Rostov, red-faced, merry and bright.
'How's this for a banquet, old man? Everything served up on silver,' one was saying. 'Seen Lazarev?'
'Yes.'
'I gather the Preobrazhenskys are going to give them a dinner tomorrow.'
'Yes, but what about Lazarev, lucky devil! Pension for life - twelve hundred francs.'
'How about this for a cap, boys!' yelled a Preobrazhensky soldier, putting on a French soldier's shaggy cap.
'Great stuff! It suits you!'
'Have you heard the latest response?' said one guards officer to another. 'The other day it was "Napoleon, France, Fortitude"; today it's "Alexander, Russia, Magnitude". Our Emperor calls, Napoleon responds. Tomorrow our Emperor's sending the St George to the bravest man in the French guards. Got to do it! Same response needed.'
Boris had come in with his comrade Zhilinsky to have a look at the banquet. On the way home he came across Rostov standing on the corner outside a house. 'Rostov! Hello there! We missed each other,' he said, and he had to ask what was wrong because Rostov looked a strange picture of gloom and despondency.
'Nothing's wrong. Nothing,' answered Rostov.
'You will drop in?'
'Yes.'
Rostov stood there on the corner for quite some time, watching the celebrations from a distance. His anguished mind was seething with problems that couldn't be resolved. His soul was alive with fearful doubts. He remembered Denisov with that new expression on his face and the way he seemed to have given in, and the hospital with all those torn-off arms and legs, the filth and disease. He remembered the stench of dead flesh in the hospital so vividly that he had looked round wondering where the smell was coming from. And he also kept remembering Napoleon with his little white hands, all smugness, and now being treated with affection and respect by the Emperor Alexander. What were all those torn-off legs and arms for, and why had those men been killed? Then he remembered Lazarev being rewarded, while Denisov got punishment instead of a pardon. He caught himself indulging in such strange ideas that they frightened him.
Hunger and the appetizing smell of the Preobrazhensky dinner brought him to his senses. He had to eat before going away. He went to a hotel he had seen that morning. There he encountered such a crowd of people and officers in civilian clothing like him that he had difficulty in getting dinner. Two officers of his own division joined him at his table. Naturally enough the conversation turned to the peace. Like most of the army Rostov's two officer comrades were dissatisfied with the peace concluded after the battle of Friedland. They kept on saying that if they could have held out just a bit longer Napoleon would have been done for - his troops were out of biscuits and ammunition. Nikolay ate in silence; most of the time he spent drinking. He polished off two bottles of wine by himself. He was agonized by an inner turmoil beyond any resolution. He was scared of his own reflections, but he couldn't get away from them. All of a sudden, in response to one of the officers who had said it was humiliating to look at the French, Rostov started shouting with a degree of violence that was quite uncalled for and shocked all the officers.
'How can you judge what would have been best!' he yelled with a rush of blood that reddened his face. 'How can you judge of the actions of the Emperor? What right have we to do any judging? We can't understand the aims or the actions of the Emperor!'
'I never mentioned the Emperor,' said the officer in self-justification, his only explanation of Rostov's outburst being that he was drunk.
Rostov wasn't listening.
'We're not officials in the diplomatic section, we're soldiers, that's what we are,' he went on. 'If they tell us to die, we die. And if we get punished, we must be in the wrong. Ours is not to judge. If his Majesty the Emperor feels like recognizing Bonaparte as an Emperor, and taking him on as an ally, that's the way it must be. If we started judging and criticizing at every end and
turn, well, nothing will be sacred. Next thing we'll be saying there's no God, no nothing,' Nikolay continued, banging on the table and yelling at them, for no good reason according to his companions but, as he saw it, quite logically.
'We've got to do our duty, kill the enemy and stop thinking. And that's your lot!' he said.
'And drink,' put in one of the officers, not in an arguing mood.
'Yes, drink,' said Nikolay in full agreement. 'Hey, you!' he roared. 'Another bottle!'
PART III
CHAPTER 1
In the year 1808 the Emperor Alexander visited Erfurt for another meeting with the Emperor Napoleon, and Petersburg high society had much to say about the splendour of this important meeting.
By 1809 the rapport between the two 'world sovereigns', as Napoleon and Alexander came to be called, had become so close that when Napoleon declared war on Austria, a Russian corps crossed the frontier for joint action alongside their old enemy Bonaparte against their old ally, the Austrian Emperor; so close indeed that high society began to talk of a possible marriage between Napoleon and one of Alexander's sisters. But, aside from foreign policy, Russian society was much preoccupied at this time with internal changes taking place in all government departments.
Meanwhile life itself, the ordinary life of real people with their personal involvement in health and sickness, hard work and relaxation, their involvement in thought, science, poetry, music, love, friendship, enmity and passion, went on as usual, far removed from political considerations, such as being for or against Napoleon, and all questions of reform.
Prince Andrey had been two years in the country without a single break. All the innovations introduced by Pierre on his estates without any concrete results, because of his continual flitting from one enterprise to another, had been carried through by Prince Andrey privately and without any noticeable effort on his part. He possessed in the highest degree the one quality that Pierre totally lacked: the practical application to get things going with no fuss or struggle.