War And Peace полностью

Zherkov responded smartly; still saluting, he spurred his horse and galloped off. But the moment he was out of Bagration’s sight his courage failed him. He panicked uncontrollably and could not bring himself to ride into the danger area. Approaching the left-flank troops, instead of riding straight ahead into the gunfire, he veered off to look for the general and his officers in places where they couldn’t possibly be. So the order was not passed on.

The left flank was commanded by the senior general of Dolokhov’s regiment, the one that Kutuzov had inspected before Braunau. But the extreme left flank was commanded by the colonel of the Pavlograd hussars, Nikolay Rostov’s regiment. The two commanders were at cross purposes. There was a feud between them, and while battle was raging on the right flank and the French had already begun to advance, these two officers were still in discussions devoted to mutual abuse. The two regiments, cavalry and infantry, were anything but ready for the action to come. Not a man among them, soldier or general, was expecting a battle. All were going about their peaceful occupations; cavalrymen feeding horses and footsoldiers cutting wood.

‘Yes, I know he outrankink me,’ said the German colonel of the hussars, growing very red and addressing an adjutant who had just ridden over. ‘So let him to do how he likes. Mine hussars I not zacrifice. Bugler! Sound ze retreat!’

But things were getting urgent. On the right and in the centre cannon and musket now thundered in concert, and the French greatcoats of Lannes’s sharpshooters had crossed the dam by the millpond and were re-forming on this side a couple of musket shots away.

The infantry general walked over to his horse, quivering as always, mounted, sat up very straight and tall, and rode off to see the Pavlograd colonel. The two commanders met with polite bows and secret venom in their hearts.

‘Now look here, Colonel,’ said the general, ‘I cannot leave half my men in the wood. I beg you. I beg you,’ he repeated. ‘Get into position, and prepare to attack.’

‘And I am peggink you not meddlink in ozzer pipple’s business,’ answered the colonel, roused to fury. ‘If you voz cavalry officer . . .’

‘I am not a cavalry officer, Colonel, but I am a Russian general, and if you are unaware . . .’

‘Avare of zis I am. Sir.’ Suddenly the colonel, purple with rage, put spurs to his horse and yelled at the general, ‘Kindly pliss to come to ze front viz me, you vill see zis position no goot! I vill not testroy my regiment chest to pliss you.’

‘You forget yourself, Colonel. I am not thinking of my own pleasure, and I cannot allow such a thing to be said.’

The general saw the colonel’s proposition as a challenge to his courage, so he squared his chest and rode off with him, scowling, towards the front line, as if the whole argument between them would be settled once and for all when they were there under fire. When they arrived at the front several bullets flew by, and they just halted in silence. There was nothing new to be seen – it was obvious from where they had been standing before that the cavalry couldn’t operate here because of bushes and gullies, and also that the French were outflanking them to the left. The general and the colonel glared at each other with sour determination on both sides, like two cocks strutting around ready for a fight, vainly searching for the slightest sign of cowardice. Both passed the test. There was nothing more to be said, and neither was willing to give the other any grounds for claiming that he had been the first to withdraw from under fire, and they might have stayed there for ever locked in this trial of strength, but for a burst of musket-fire and several voices shouting just behind them in the wood. The French had attacked some of our soldiers collecting wood in the copse. No one could retreat now, neither the hussars nor the infantry. They were cut off from retreat on the left by the French line. Now, never mind the rough terrain, they were going to have to fight their way through.

The hussars of Nikolay Rostov’s squadron had scarcely had time to mount their horses when suddenly there they were, confronting the enemy. Once again, as on the Enns bridge, there was no one between the squadron and the enemy, but there was that dreadful dividing line of uncertainty and fear, so similar to the line between the living and the dead. All of them sensed this, and one question worried them all: would they cross it or not, and if yes, how they would cross it?