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Volume I, Part Three, Chapter XVII

Near the village of Pratzen Rostov had been ordered to seek Kutuzov and the sovereign. But not only were they not there, there was not a single commander, but there were varied crowds of disordered troops. He urged on his already tired horse to pass these crowds quicker, but the further he advanced, the more disordered the crowds became. On the highroad onto which he rode, there crowded carriages, vehicles of all sorts, Russian and Austrian soldiers of all arms, wounded and unhurt. All this hummed and swarmed in confusion under the dismal sound of cannonballs flying from the French batteries placed on the Pratzen heights.

— Where is the sovereign? Where is Kutuzov? — Rostov asked everyone he could stop, and could get no answer from anyone.

Finally, catching hold of a soldier's collar, he forced him to answer.

— Eh! brother! They've all been there a long time, bolted ahead! — said the soldier to Rostov, laughing at something and tearing himself away.

Leaving this soldier, who was evidently drunk, Rostov stopped the horse of an orderly or riding master of some important person and began questioning him. The orderly told Rostov that the sovereign had been driven past an hour ago at full speed in a carriage along this very road, and that the sovereign was dangerously wounded.

— It cannot be, — said Rostov, — it must have been someone else.

— I saw him myself, — said the orderly with a self-confident smile. — It's time I knew the sovereign: I think I've seen him often enough in Petersburg just like that. He was sitting in the carriage pale as death. How he let his four black horses go, my fathers, he thundered past us: it seems it's time to know the tsar's horses and Ilya Ivanych; it seems Ilya the coachman doesn't drive anyone else as he does the tsar.

Rostov let go of his horse and was about to ride on. A wounded officer passing by turned to him.

— Who is it you need? — asked the officer. — The commander in chief? He was killed by a cannonball, struck in the chest by our regiment.

— Not killed, wounded, — corrected another officer.

— But who? Kutuzov? — asked Rostov.

— Not Kutuzov, but what's his name, — well, it's all the same, there are not many left alive. Go that way, towards that village, all the commanders are gathered there, — said this officer, pointing to the village of Hostieradek, and passed by.

Rostov rode at a footpace, not knowing why or to whom he was now going. The sovereign is wounded, the battle is lost. It was impossible not to believe this now. Rostov rode in the direction that had been pointed out to him and in which a tower and a church could be seen in the distance. Where was he to hurry to? What was he now to say to the sovereign or to Kutuzov, even if they were alive and not wounded?

— Go by this road, your honor, and they'll kill you straight off there, — a soldier shouted to him. — They'll kill you there!

— Oh! what are you saying! said another. — Where is he to go? It's nearer here.

Rostov pondered and rode exactly in the direction where they had told him he would be killed.

"It's all the same now: if the sovereign is wounded, can I really spare myself?" he thought. He rode into the space where the most men fleeing from Pratzen had perished. The French did not yet occupy this place, and the Russians, those who were alive or wounded, had long since left it. On the field, like sheaves on good arable land, lay ten or fifteen killed and wounded men on every acre of ground. The wounded had crawled together in twos and threes, and their unpleasant, sometimes feigned, as it seemed to Rostov, cries and groans could be heard. Rostov put his horse to a trot so as not to see all these suffering people, and he felt frightened. He was not afraid for his life, but for that courage which he needed and which, he knew, would not withstand the sight of these unfortunates.

The French, having ceased firing at this field strewn with the dead and wounded because there was no longer anyone alive on it, seeing an adjutant riding across it, turned a gun on him and fired several cannonballs. The sensation of these whistling, terrible sounds and the dead men all around merged for Rostov into a single impression of horror and pity for himself. He remembered his mother's last letter. "What would she feel, — he thought, — if she saw me here now, on this field and with the cannons aimed at me."

In the village of Hostieradek there were Russian troops, confused, it is true, but in better order, marching away from the field of battle. French cannonballs no longer reached here, and the sounds of firing seemed distant. Here everyone already clearly saw and said that the battle was lost. To whomever Rostov turned, no one could tell him where the sovereign was or where Kutuzov was. Some said the rumor of the sovereign's wound was true, others said not, and explained this false rumor that had spread by the fact that indeed, pale and terrified, the Chief Marshal Count Tolstoy, who had ridden out with others in the emperor's suite to the field of battle, had dashed back from the battlefield in the sovereign's carriage. One officer told Rostov that behind the village, to the left, he had seen some of the high command, and Rostov rode there, no longer hoping to find anyone, but merely to clear his conscience before himself. Having ridden some three versts and passed the last Russian troops, Rostov saw near a kitchen garden, surrounded by a ditch, two horsemen standing opposite the ditch. One, with a white plume in his hat, seemed somehow familiar to Rostov; the other, an unfamiliar horseman on a fine chestnut horse (this horse seemed familiar to Rostov) rode up to the ditch, spurred his horse, and, dropping the reins, lightly jumped over the kitchen-garden ditch. Only the earth crumbled from the bank from the horse's hind hooves. Turning the horse sharply, he again jumped back over the ditch and respectfully addressed the horseman with the white plume, evidently suggesting that he do the same. The horseman, whose figure seemed familiar to Rostov and for some reason involuntarily riveted his attention, made a negative gesture with his head and hand, and by this gesture Rostov instantly recognized his lamented, adored sovereign.

"But it could not be him, alone in the middle of this empty field," thought Rostov. At that moment Alexander turned his head, and Rostov saw those beloved features so vividly engraved on his memory. The sovereign was pale, his cheeks were hollow and his eyes sunken; but there was all the more charm and mildness in his features. Rostov was happy, convinced that the rumor of the sovereign's wound was untrue. He was happy to see him. He knew that he could, indeed ought to, address him directly and deliver what he had been ordered to deliver from Dolgorukov.

But just as an enamored youth trembles and turns faint, not daring to say what he dreams of at night, and looks around in terror, seeking help or the possibility of delay and flight, when the desired moment has come and he stands alone with her, so Rostov now, having achieved what he desired most in the world, did not know how to approach the sovereign, and a thousand considerations occurred to him why it was inconvenient, improper, and impossible.

"What! It would seem as if I were glad of the opportunity to take advantage of his being alone and in despondency. An unknown face might seem unpleasant and burdensome to him in this minute of sorrow; besides, what can I say to him now, when at one glance at him my heart stands still and my mouth goes dry?" Not one of those countless speeches which he had composed in his imagination, addressing the sovereign, now came into his head. Those speeches for the most part were held under quite different conditions, they were spoken for the most part at moments of victory and triumph, and preferably on his deathbed from wounds received, while the sovereign thanked him for his heroic deeds, and he, dying, expressed his love, proved in action.

"Besides, how am I to ask the sovereign for his orders for the right flank when it is already after three in the afternoon, and the battle is lost? No, I decidedly must not ride up to him, I must not disturb his reverie. Better to die a thousand times than to receive a bad look or a bad opinion from him," Rostov decided, and with sorrow and despair in his heart he rode away, constantly looking back at the sovereign, who still stood in the same attitude of irresolution.

While Rostov was making these reflections and sadly riding away from the sovereign, Captain von Toll chanced to ride to the same spot, and seeing the sovereign, rode straight up to him, offered him his services, and helped him cross the ditch on foot. The sovereign, wishing to rest and feeling unwell, sat down under an apple tree, and Toll remained standing beside him. Rostov from afar saw with envy and remorse how von Toll spoke for a long time and with warmth to the sovereign, how the sovereign, evidently weeping, covered his eyes with his hand and pressed Toll's hand.

"And I might have been in his place!" Rostov thought to himself, and scarcely restraining tears of pity for the sovereign's fate, rode on in complete despair, not knowing where or why he was now going.

His despair was the greater because he felt that his own weakness had been the cause of his grief.

He might have... not only might have, but he ought to have ridden up to the sovereign. And this was the only opportunity to show the sovereign his devotion. And he had not taken advantage of it... "What have I done?" he thought. And he turned his horse and galloped back to the spot where he had seen the emperor; but there was no one left beyond the ditch. Only carts and carriages were passing. From one driver Rostov learned that Kutuzov's staff was not far off in a village to which the baggage trains were going. Rostov followed them.

In front of him walked Kutuzov's riding master, leading horses in horsecloths. Behind the riding master came a cart, and behind the cart walked an old house serf with bandy legs, in a peaked cap and a short sheepskin coat.

— Tit, oh Tit! — said the riding master.

— What? — the old man answered absentmindedly.

— Tit! Go thresh.

— Eh, fool, phew! — the old man said, spitting angrily. A short time of silent movement passed, and the same joke was repeated again.

At past four o'clock in the afternoon the battle was lost at all points. More than a hundred guns were already in the possession of the French.

Przhebishevsky and his corps had laid down their arms. Other columns, having lost about half their men, were retreating in disordered, mixed crowds.

The remnants of Langeron's and Dokhturov's troops, mingled together, crowded around the ponds on the dams and banks near the village of Augezd.

At past five o'clock it was only at the Augezd dam that a hot cannonade was still heard from the French alone, who had drawn up numerous batteries on the slopes of the Pratzen heights and were firing at our retreating troops.

In the rear guard, Dokhturov and others, gathering battalions, kept firing back at the French cavalry that was pursuing our men. It was beginning to grow dusk. On the narrow Augezd dam, where for so many years the old miller in his cap had peacefully sat with his fishing rods, while his grandson, with his shirt sleeves rolled up, fingered the silvery, quivering fish in the watering can; on this dam, over which for so many years Moravians in shaggy caps and blue jackets had peacefully driven their two-horse wagons loaded with wheat and driven away along the same dam, dusted with flour, with white wagons — on this narrow dam now, amidst wagons and cannons, under the horses and between the wheels, crowded men disfigured by the fear of death, crushing one another, dying, stepping over the dying, and killing one another only so as, after taking a few steps, to be killed in exactly the same way.

Every ten seconds, compressing the air, a cannonball smacked or a grenade burst in the midst of this dense crowd, killing and splashing with blood those who stood close. Dolokhov, wounded in the arm, on foot with a dozen soldiers of his company (he was already an officer) and his regimental commander on horseback, represented the remnants of the whole regiment. Dragged along by the crowd, they squeezed into the entrance to the dam and, pressed from all sides, stopped because a horse had fallen under a cannon in front, and the crowd was pulling it out. One cannonball killed someone behind them, another struck in front and splashed Dolokhov with blood. The crowd pushed forward desperately, squeezed together, moved a few paces, and stopped again.

"To walk these hundred paces and I am probably saved; to stand here another two minutes, and I am probably lost," everyone thought.

Dolokhov, standing in the middle of the crowd, tore his way to the edge of the dam, knocking down two soldiers, and ran onto the slippery ice that covered the pond.

— Turn off! — he shouted, bounding over the ice, which crackled under him, — turn off! — he shouted to the cannon. — It holds!...

The ice held him, but bent and cracked, and it was evident that not only under the cannon or a crowd of people, but under him alone it would presently give way. They looked at him and pressed towards the bank, not yet daring to step onto the ice. The regimental commander, standing on horseback at the entrance, raised his hand and opened his mouth, addressing Dolokhov. Suddenly one of the cannonballs whistled so low over the crowd that everyone ducked. Something smacked into the wet, and the general fell with his horse in a pool of blood. No one glanced at the general, no one thought of picking him up.

— Get onto the ice! get onto the ice! Go on! turn! don't you hear! Go on! — innumerable voices suddenly began to shout after the cannonball had struck the general, not knowing themselves what or why they were shouting.

One of the rear cannons that was entering the dam turned off onto the ice. Crowds of soldiers began to run down from the dam onto the frozen pond. The ice cracked under one of the foremost soldiers, and one leg went into the water; he tried to right himself and fell in up to his waist. The nearest soldiers hesitated, the artillery driver stopped his horse, but from behind shouts were still heard: "Get onto the ice, why have you stopped, go on! go on!" And cries of terror were heard in the crowd. The soldiers surrounding the cannon waved at the horses and beat them to make them turn and move on. The horses moved off the bank. The ice that had held the foot soldiers collapsed in a huge piece, and about forty men who were on the ice rushed some forward, some back, drowning one another.

The cannonballs still whistled as evenly and smacked onto the ice, into the water, and most often into the crowd that covered the dam, the ponds, and the bank.