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Volume I, Part Two, Chapter VII

The rest of the infantry hurriedly crossed the bridge, pressing together into a funnel at the entrance. At last the carts all passed, the crush became less, and the last battalion stepped onto the bridge. Only Denisov's squadron of hussars remained on the other side of the bridge facing the enemy. The enemy, visible in the distance from the opposite hill, could not yet be seen from below, from the bridge, since from the hollow through which the river flowed the horizon was bounded by the opposite rising ground not more than half a verst away. In front lay a wasteland over which here and there moved small groups of our Cossack patrols. Suddenly on the opposite rise of the road troops in blue coats and artillery appeared. It was the French. A patrol of Cossacks trotted back down the hill. All the officers and men of Denisov's squadron, though they tried to talk of other things and look around them, could not help thinking only of what was there on the hill, and kept peering at the patches appearing on the horizon, which they recognized as enemy troops. The weather cleared again after midday, the sun shone brightly as it went down over the Danube and the dark hills enclosing it. It was quiet, and from that hill came now and then the sound of bugles and the shouts of the enemy. Between the squadron and the enemy there was now no one but some small patrols. An empty space of some three hundred paces separated them from him. The enemy had ceased firing, and the strict, menacing, inaccessible, and intangible line that separates two hostile armies could be felt the more clearly.

"One step beyond that line, which recalls the line dividing the living from the dead, and — the unknown of suffering and death. And what is there? who is there? there, beyond that field, and that tree, and that roof lit up by the sun? No one knows, but one wants to know; and one is afraid to cross that line, and yet one wants to cross it; and one knows that sooner or later one will have to cross it and find out what there is on the other side of the line, just as inevitably as one must find out what there is on the other side of death. And yet one is strong, healthy, cheerful, and irritable, and surrounded by such healthy and irritably animated men." So, even if he does not think it, feels every man who is in sight of the enemy, and this feeling gives a special brilliance and joyful sharpness of impression to everything that takes place in these minutes.

A puff of smoke from a gun appeared on the enemy's hill, and a cannonball flew whistling over the heads of the hussar squadron. The officers who had been standing together scattered to their places. The hussars began carefully aligning their horses. Silence fell on the squadron. All were looking forward at the enemy and at the squadron commander, waiting for the word of command. A second and a third cannonball flew past. Evidently they were firing at the hussars; but the cannonballs with a rapid rhythmic whistle flew over the heads of the hussars and struck the ground somewhere behind them. The hussars did not look round, but at the sound of each flying cannonball, as if at a word of command, the whole squadron with its uniformly varied faces, holding its breath while the cannonball flew past, rose in the stirrups and sank down again. The soldiers, without turning their heads, glanced at one another out of the corners of their eyes, curiously watching the effect on their comrades. On every face, from Denisov's to that of the bugler, one common expression of conflict, irritation, and excitement showed itself around the lips and chin. The quartermaster frowned, looking at the soldiers as if threatening punishment. Cadet Mironov ducked at each passing cannonball. Rostov, sitting on the left flank on his Rook — a handsome horse despite its spavins — had the happy look of a schoolboy called up before a large audience for an examination in which he is sure he will distinguish himself. He looked clearly and brightly at everyone, as if asking them to notice how calmly he stood under fire. But in his face too that same expression of something new and strict showed itself around the mouth against his will.

— Who's that bowing there? Cadet Mironov! That's not right, look at me! — shouted Denisov, who could not keep still and kept turning his horse about in front of the squadron.

The snub-nosed, black-haired face of Vaska Denisov, and his whole short sturdy figure, with his sinewy (with short fingers covered with hair) hand holding the hilt of his drawn saber, looked exactly as it always did, especially towards evening, after he had drunk two bottles. He was only redder than usual, and tossing his shaggy head back, like a bird when it drinks, mercilessly pressing his spurs with his small feet into the flanks of his good Bedouin, he, as if falling back, galloped to the other flank of the squadron and in a hoarse voice shouted to the men to examine their pistols. He rode up to Kirsten. The staff captain, on a broad and steady mare, rode at a foot's pace to meet Denisov. The staff captain, with his long mustaches, was as serious as always, only his eyes sparkled more than usual.

— Well, what of it? — said he to Denisov, — it won't come to a fight. You'll see, we shall retire.

— The devil knows what they're doing! — muttered Denisov. — Ah! Rostov! — he cried to the cadet, noticing his cheerful face. — Well, you've got your wish.

And he smiled approvingly, evidently pleased with the cadet. Rostov felt perfectly happy. Just then the commander appeared on the bridge. Denisov galloped up to him.

— Your excellency! let us attack! I'll overthrow them.

— What attack, — said the commander in a bored voice, frowning as if at a troublesome fly. — And why are you standing here? You see the flankers are retreating. Lead the squadron back.

The squadron crossed the bridge and drew out of range of fire without having lost a single man. The second squadron that had been in the skirmish line followed them across, and the last Cossacks cleared the other side.

The two Pavlograd squadrons, having crossed the bridge, went back up the hill one after the other. Their regimental commander, Karl Bogdanich Schubert, rode up to Denisov's squadron and rode at a foot's pace not far from Rostov, without paying any attention to him, in spite of the fact that they were now meeting for the first time since their encounter concerning Telyanin. Rostov, feeling that he was in the ranks and in the power of the man toward whom he now considered himself guilty, did not take his eyes off the athletic back, the flaxen nape, and the red neck of the regimental commander. It seemed to Rostov now that Bogdanich was only pretending not to notice him, and that his whole aim now was to test the cadet's courage, and he drew himself up and looked around cheerfully; then it seemed to him that Bogdanich rode near on purpose to display his own courage to Rostov. Then he thought that his enemy would now purposely send the squadron on a desperate attack to punish him, Rostov. Then he imagined how, after the attack, he would come up to him and magnanimously offer him, a wounded man, the hand of reconciliation.

Zherkov's figure, familiar to the Pavlograds (he had recently left their regiment), with high-shrugging shoulders, rode up to the regimental commander. Zherkov, after his expulsion from the headquarters staff, had not remained in the regiment, saying he was not such a fool as to toil at the front when by doing nothing on the staff he would get more rewards, and had succeeded in getting appointed as an orderly officer to Prince Bagration. He came to his former chief with an order from the commander of the rearguard.

— Colonel, — he said with his gloomy seriousness, addressing Rostov's enemy and looking round at his comrades, — there's an order to stop and fire the bridge.

— Who ordered it? — asked the colonel sullenly.

— I really don't know, colonel, who ordered it, — replied the cornet seriously, — but the prince told me: "Go and tell the colonel that the hussars must return quickly and fire the bridge."

Following Zherkov, a staff officer rode up to the hussar colonel with the same order. Following the staff officer, the stout Nesvitsky rode up on a Cossack horse that could scarcely carry him at a gallop.

— How's this, colonel, — he shouted as he rode up, — I told you to fire the bridge, and now someone has bungled; they are all going crazy over there, one can't make anything out.

The colonel deliberately stopped the regiment and turned to Nesvitsky:

— You spoke to me of combustible materials, — he said, — but you said nothing to me about firing it.

— But how's this, my good sir, — Nesvitsky began, halting, taking off his cap and smoothing his hair wet with perspiration with his plump hand, — how could I not have said to fire the bridge, when the combustible materials were laid?

— I am not your "good sir", Mr. Staff Officer, and you did not tell me to firé the bridge! I know the service, and it is my habit to execute orders strictly. You said the bridge would be fired, but who would fire it, I could not know by the holy ghost...

— Well, it's always like that, — said Nesvitsky with a wave of his hand. — What are you doing here? — he asked, turning to Zherkov.

— Why, on the same errand. But you're damp, let me wring you out.

— You said, Mr. Staff Officer... — continued the colonel in an offended tone.

— Colonel, — interrupted the staff officer, — we must make haste, or the enemy will bring up his guns to grapeshot range.

The colonel looked silently at the staff officer, at the stout staff officer, at Zherkov, and frowned.

— I vill firé the bridge, — he said in a solemn tone, as if to express that, in spite of all the unpleasantnesses done to him, he would still do the right thing.

Striking his horse with his long muscular legs as if it were to blame for everything, the colonel moved forward and ordered the 2nd squadron, the one in which Rostov served under Denisov, to return to the bridge.

"There, it's just as I thought, — thought Rostov, — he wants to test me!" — His heart contracted and the blood rushed to his face. — "Let him see whether I am a coward!" — he thought.

Again on all the cheerful faces of the men of the squadron appeared that serious expression they had worn when standing under fire. Rostov, without taking his eyes off him, watched his enemy, the regimental commander, wishing to find in his face confirmation of his surmises; but the colonel did not once glance at Rostov, but looked, as always at the front, strict and solemn. A command was heard.

— Look sharp! Look sharp! — several voices said around him.

Catching their sabers in the reins, jingling their spurs, and hurrying, the hussars dismounted, not knowing themselves what they were going to do. The hussars crossed themselves. Rostov no longer looked at the regimental commander, — he had no time. He was afraid, afraid with a sinking heart, of falling behind the hussars. His hand trembled as he gave his horse to the horse-holder, and he felt the blood rush to his heart with a thud. Denisov, leaning back and shouting something, rode past him. Rostov saw nothing but the hussars running around him, catching their spurs and clanking their sabers.

— Stretchers! — shouted a voice from behind.

Rostov did not think of what the demand for stretchers meant; he ran on, trying only to be ahead of everyone; but at the very bridge, not looking at his feet, he got into the sticky, trampled mud, and stumbling, fell on his hands. Others ran past him.

— On bof sides, captain, — he heard the voice of the regimental commander, who, having ridden on ahead, had pulled up near the bridge with a triumphant and cheerful face.

Rostov, wiping his soiled hands on his riding breeches, looked at his enemy and was about to run on, thinking that the farther he went to the front the better. But Bogdanich, though he did not look at him or recognize Rostov, shouted at him:

— Who is that running in the middle of the bridge? To the right side! Cadet, back! — he shouted angrily, and turned to Denisov, who, showing off his courage, had ridden onto the planks of the bridge.

— Why run risks, captain! You should dismount, — said the colonel.

— Eh! he'll find someone to blame, — replied Vaska Denisov, turning in his saddle. ————

Meanwhile Nesvitsky, Zherkov, and the staff officer stood together out of range of the shots, watching now this small group of men in yellow shakos, dark green jackets embroidered with cords, and blue riding breeches, swarming near the bridge, and now the other side, the blue coats approaching in the distance, and the groups with horses that could easily be recognized as artillery.

"Will they fire the bridge or not? Who will be first? Will they run and fire the bridge, or will the French bring up their guns to grapeshot range and kill them?" These questions, with a sinking of the heart, every man in that great mass of troops stationed above the bridge involuntarily asked himself, as in the bright evening light they watched the bridge and the hussars, and on the other side the blue coats advancing with bayonets and guns.

— Oh! the hussars will catch it! — said Nesvitsky. — They are not further than grapeshot range now.

— He led too many men, it was a mistake, — said the staff officer.

— Indeed it was, — said Nesvitsky. — Two smart fellows would have done just as well.

— Ah, your excellency, — put in Zherkov, not taking his eyes off the hussars, but still with that naive manner which made it impossible to guess whether he was speaking seriously or not. — Ah, your excellency! How you judge! Send two men, and who would give us the Vladimir with the ribbon? But this way, even if they get thrashed, one can present the squadron and get the ribbon oneself. Our Bogdanich knows the rules.

— There, — said the staff officer, — that's grapeshot!

He pointed to the French guns which were being unlimbered and hurriedly drawn away.

On the French side, in the groups where the guns were, a puff of smoke appeared, then a second, a third, almost simultaneously, and at the moment when the sound of the first shot reached them, a fourth appeared. Two sounds one after the other, and a third.

— Oh, oh! — groaned Nesvitsky as if in burning pain, clutching the staff officer's arm. — Look, one has fallen, fallen, fallen!

— Two, I think?

— If I were tsar, I would never make war, — said Nesvitsky, turning away.

The French guns were hurriedly being loaded again. The infantry in their blue coats advanced towards the bridge at a run. Again, but at different intervals, puffs of smoke appeared, and the grapeshot clicked and rattled on the bridge. But this time Nesvitsky could not see what was happening on the bridge. A dense smoke arose from it. The hussars had succeeded in firing the bridge, and the French batteries were firing at them no longer to hinder them, but because the guns had been aimed and there was someone to fire at.

The French had time to fire three volleys of grapeshot before the hussars got back to their horse-holders. Two of the volleys were ill-directed and the grapeshot went too high, but the last shot struck the middle of a group of hussars and knocked down three of them.

Rostov, absorbed in his relations with Bogdanich, paused on the bridge, not knowing what to do. There was no one to hack down (as he had always imagined a battle), nor could he help to fire the bridge, because he had not brought a wisp of straw with him like the other soldiers. He stood looking around, when suddenly a rattle like scattering nuts was heard on the bridge, and one of the hussars nearest to him fell with a groan on the railings. Rostov ran up to him with the others. Again someone shouted: "Stretchers!". Four men took hold of the hussar and began to lift him.

— Oooo!... Let me alone, for Christ's sake, — cried the wounded man; but still he was lifted up and laid on the stretcher.

Nikolai Rostov turned away and, as if searching for something, began looking into the distance, at the waters of the Danube, at the sky, at the sun. How beautiful the sky seemed, how blue, calm, and deep! How bright and glorious the sinking sun! How gently and glossily the water glistened in the distant Danube! And still better were the distant blue mountains beyond the Danube, the convent, the mystic gorges, the pine forests veiled in mist to their summits... there it was quiet, happy... "I should wish for nothing, wish for nothing, if only I were there," thought Rostov. "In myself alone and in this sun there is so much happiness, and here... groans, suffering, fear, and this uncertainty, this hurry... There they are shouting something again, and again they have all run back somewhere, and I shall run with them, and there it is, there is death, above me, around me... An instant — and I shall never again see this sun, this water, this gorge"...

At that instant the sun became hidden behind the clouds; other stretchers came into view in front of Rostov. And the fear of death and of the stretchers, and the love of the sun and of life — all merged into one feeling of sickening agitation.

"O Lord God! Thou who art there in that sky, save, forgive, and protect me!" whispered Rostov to himself.

The hussars ran back to the horse-holders, voices became louder and calmer, the stretchers disappeared from sight.

— Well, brother, smelt powder?... — Vaska Denisov's voice shouted in his ear.

"It's all over; but I am a coward, yes, a coward," thought Rostov, and sighing heavily, he took his Rook, which was resting one foot, from the horse-holder, and began to mount.

— What was that, grapeshot? — he asked Denisov.

— Yes, and what grapeshot! — shouted Denisov. — They worked like heroes! But it's nasty work! An attack is a fine thing, hack them to pieces, but here, the devil knows what it is, they shoot at you as at a target.

And Denisov rode up to the group that had halted not far from Rostov: the regimental commander, Nesvitsky, Zherkov, and the staff officer.

"Yet it seems no one noticed," thought Rostov to himself. And indeed no one had noticed anything, for everyone was familiar with the feeling experienced for the first time by the cadet who had never before been under fire.

— Here's a report for you, — said Zherkov, — see if they don't make me a sublieutenant.

— Inform the prince that I firéd the bridge, — said the colonel solemnly and cheerfully.

— And if they ask about the losses?

— A trifle! — boomed the colonel, — two hussars wounded, and one stone dead, — he said with evident joy, unable to suppress a happy smile as he sonorously rolled out the beautiful words stone dead.