War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [525]
Napoleon was experiencing a painful feeling similar to that which is always experienced by a lucky gambler, who madly threw his money about, always won, and suddenly, precisely when he has calculated all the chances of the game, feels that the more he thinks over his move, the more certain he is to lose.
The troops were the same, the generals were the same, there were the same preparations, the same disposition, the same proclamation courte et énergique, he himself was the same, he knew it, he knew that he was even much more experienced and skillful now than he was before, even the enemy was the same as at Austerlitz and Friedland; but the terrible swing of the arm fell magically strengthless.
All the old methods, which had invariably been crowned with success—concentrating the batteries on a single point, attacking with the reserves to break the line, attacking with les hommes de fer†498 of the cavalry—all these methods had already been employed, and not only was there no victory, but from all sides the same news came of killed and wounded generals, of the need for reinforcements, of the impossibility of dislodging the Russians, and of disarray among the troops.
Formerly, after two or three instructions, two or three phrases, the marshals and adjutants had come galloping with congratulations and cheerful faces, had announced trophies of whole corps of prisoners, des faisceaux de drapeaux et d’aigles ennemis,‡499 of cannon and baggage trains, and Murat had asked only for permission to let the cavalry take the baggage trains. It had been that way at Lodi, Marengo, Arcole, Jena, Austerlitz, Wagram,35 and so on and so forth. But now something strange was happening with his troops.
Despite the news of the taking of the flèches, Napoleon saw that this was different, quite different, from all his previous battles. He saw that the same feeling he experienced was being experienced by all the people around him, battle-seasoned as they were. All their faces were sad, they all avoided each other’s eyes. Beausset alone could not understand the meaning of what was happening. But Napoleon, after his long experience of war, knew very well what it meant when, in the course of eight hours, after making every effort, the attacking army had not won the battle. He knew that this was almost a lost battle, and that the smallest chance—at that precarious point of indecision the battle had come to—could destroy him and his troops.
When he went through in imagination the whole of this strange Russian campaign, in which not a single battle had been won, in which no banners, no cannon, no corps of troops had been taken in two months, when he looked at the hidden sadness on the faces around him and listened to reports that the Russians still stood their ground—a terrible feeling, like one experienced in dreams, seized him, and all the unlucky chances that could destroy him came to his mind. The Russians could assault his left wing, could break through his center, a stray cannonball could kill him. It was all possible. In his former battles, he had thought only of the chances of success, but now he imagined a countless number of unlucky chances, and he expected them all. Yes, it was as in a dream, when a man sees a villain coming at him, and in his dream the man swings and hits the villain with terrible force, which he knows should destroy him, and he feels his arm fall strengthless and limp as a rag, and the terror of irresistible destruction takes hold of the helpless man.
The news that the Russians were attacking the left flank of the French army awakened this terror in Napoleon. He sat silently on a camp chair at the foot of the barrow, his head lowered and his elbows on his knees. Berthier came up to him and suggested that they ride along the line to ascertain what position things were in.
“What? What’s that you say?” said Napoleon. “Yes, tell them to bring my horse.”
He mounted