War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [185]
Bagration looked over his suite with his big, expressionless, sleepy eyes, and Rostov’s childlike face, involuntarily transfixed with excitement and hope, was the first thing that struck his eye. He sent him.
“And if I should meet His Majesty before the commander in chief, Your Excellency?” asked Rostov, holding his hand to his visor.
“You can give the message to His Majesty,” said Dolgorukov, hastily cutting off Bagration.
After being relieved from the picket line, Rostov had managed to sleep for a few hours before morning, and he felt cheerful, bold, resolute, with that suppleness of movement, assurance of his good luck, and in that state of mind in which everything seems easy, cheerful, and possible.
All his wishes were being fulfilled that morning: general battle was to be given, he was to take part in it; moreover, he was an orderly officer of the bravest of generals; moreover, he was going with a message to Kutuzov and maybe to the sovereign himself. The morning was bright, the horse under him was good. He felt joyful and happy. On receiving the order, he started his horse and rode along the line. First he rode along the line of Bagration’s troops, who had not yet gone into action and stood motionless; then he rode into the space occupied by Uvarov’s cavalry, and here he noticed movement and signs of preparation for action; having passed Uvarov’s cavalry, he clearly heard the sounds of cannon and gunfire ahead of him. The fire kept intensifying.
In the fresh morning air, the shooting was no longer as before—at irregular intervals, two or three gunshots, then one or two cannon shots—now on the slopes of the hills before Pratz one could hear rolling salvos of musket fire, interrupted by such rapid cannon fire that at times the separate shots could not be distinguished from each other, but merged into a general roar.
One could see the puffs of gunsmoke as if running and chasing each other on the slopes, and the smoke of the cannon swirling, spreading, and merging together. One could see, from the gleam of bayonets amidst the smoke, the moving masses of infantry and the narrow strips of artillery with green caissons.
Rostov stopped his horse for a minute on a knoll, so as to see what was going on; but no matter how he strained his attention, he could neither understand nor make out what was going on: some sort of men were moving about in the smoke; some sort of sheets of troops were moving in front and behind; but why? who? where?—it was impossible to grasp. The sights and sounds not only did not arouse any sort of dejected or timid feelings in him, but, on the contrary, gave him energy and determination.
“More, more, step it up!” he addressed these sounds mentally, and again started riding along the line, penetrating further and further into the area of the troops already going into action.
“How it’s going to be, I don’t know, but all will be well!” thought Rostov.
Having ridden past some Austrian troops, Rostov noticed that the next part of the line (this was the guards) had already gone into action.
“So much the better! I’ll see it close-up,” he thought.
He was riding almost along the front line. Several horsemen came riding in his direction. They were our life uhlans, who were returning from an attack in disorderly ranks. Rostov passed by them, involuntarily noticing that one of them was covered with blood, and rode on.
“It’s none of my business!” he thought. He had not managed to go a few hundred paces after that when to the left of him, cutting across, there appeared along the whole width of the field an enormous mass of cavalrymen on black horses, in white gleaming uniforms, coming straight at him at a canter. Rostov sent his horse into a full gallop to get out of the way of these cavalrymen, and he would have gotten away from them if they had continued