War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [161]
The handsome young emperor Alexander, in the uniform of the horse guards, in a triangular hat, worn brim first, with his pleasant face and sonorous but not loud voice, attracted the full force of attention.
Rostov stood not far from the trumpeters, and with his keen-sighted eyes he recognized the sovereign from afar and followed his approach. When the sovereign had approached to within twenty paces, and Nikolai could make out clearly, in all its details, the handsome, young, and happy face of the emperor, he experienced a feeling of tenderness and rapture such as he had never experienced before. Every feature, every movement of the sovereign seemed lovely to him.
Having stopped facing the Pavlogradsky regiment, the sovereign said something in French to the Austrian emperor and smiled.
Seeing that smile, Rostov involuntarily began to smile himself and felt a still stronger surge of love for his sovereign. He wanted to show his love for the sovereign in some way. He knew that this was impossible and wanted to cry. The sovereign summoned the regimental commander and said a few words to him.
“My God! what would happen to me if the sovereign addressed me!” thought Rostov. “I’d die of happiness.”
The sovereign also addressed the officers.
“I thank you all, gentlemen” (every word Rostov heard was like a sound from heaven), “with all my heart.”
How happy Rostov would be if he could die now for his sovereign!
“You have merited the St. George standards and will be worthy of them.”
“Just to die, to die for him!” thought Rostov.
The sovereign said something more which Rostov did not hear, and the soldiers, straining their chests, shouted: “Hurrah!”
Rostov also shouted with all his might, leaning towards his saddle, wishing to hurt himself with this cry, only so as to express fully his rapture for the sovereign.
The sovereign stood for a few seconds facing the hussars, as if undecided.
“How can a sovereign be undecided?” thought Rostov, and then even this indecision seemed majestic and enchanting to Rostov, like everything the sovereign did.
The sovereign’s indecision lasted only a moment. The sovereign’s foot, in the narrow, sharp toe of its boot, as they wore them then, touched the belly of the bobtailed bay mare he was riding; the sovereign’s hand in its white glove picked up the reins, and he set off, accompanied by a disorderly swaying sea of adjutants. He rode further and further, stopping by other regiments, and at last Rostov could only see his white plumes beyond the suite that surrounded the emperors.
Among the gentlemen of the suite, Rostov noticed Bolkonsky, sitting his horse lazily and casually. Rostov remembered his quarrel with him yesterday, and the question arose whether he should or should not challenge him. “Of course not,” Rostov thought now…“And is it worth thinking and talking about it at a moment like this? At a moment of such a feeling of love, rapture, and self-denial—what are all our quarrels and offenses?! I love everybody, I forgive everybody now,” thought Rostov.
When the sovereign had ridden by almost all the regiments, the troops began a ceremonial march past him, and Rostov, on Bedouin, newly purchased from Denisov, rode at the tail end of his squadron—that is, alone and in full view of the sovereign.
Before he reached the sovereign, Rostov, an excellent horseman, twice put the spurs to his Bedouin and happily brought him to that furious-paced trot which Bedouin was prone