‘Oh, how infuriating!’ said Dolgorukov, getting up hurriedly and shaking hands with Prince Andrey and Boris. ‘Count on me to do everything I can for both of you, you and this charming young man.’ Once more he shook hands with Boris with a look of genuine good will, for all his distracted excitement. ‘But you see how things are . . . Some other time!’
Boris was transported by the very thought of being at that moment so close to the highest authorities. He was suddenly aware that he was in direct contact with the mainsprings that regulated all those vast movements of the masses in which he in his regiment felt himself playing such a tiny, humble, insignificant part. They followed Prince Dolgorukov out into the corridor where they came across (coming out of a door to the Tsar’s room where Dolgorukov went in) a short man in civilian clothing with a bright face and a jaw that jutted out, not spoiling his face but giving him a sharp and rather wily look. This short man nodded to Dolgorukov as if they were close friends, but stared icily at Prince Andrey and walked straight towards him, apparently expecting him to bow or give way. Prince Andrey did neither. There was a nasty look on his face, and it was the short young man who stepped aside and walked off down one side of the corridor.
‘Who was that?’ asked Boris.
‘He’s a very remarkable man – and very unpleasant to me. It’s the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Prince Adam Czartoryski. He’s the kind of man,’ added Bolkonsky with an uncontainable sigh as they left the palace, ‘he’s the kind of man who decides the fates of nations.’
Next day the troops were on the march, and Boris had no opportunity of seeing Bolkonsky or Dolgorukov again before the battle of Austerlitz. For the time being he would stay with the Izmailov regiment.
CHAPTER 10
At dawn on the 16th the squadron in which Nikolay Rostov was serving under Denisov (part of Prince Bagration’s detachment) moved on after a good night’s sleep and was told it was going into action. After marching the best part of a mile behind other columns they were halted on the highway, and Rostov watched as many troops went on past them – the Cossacks, the first and second squadrons of hussars, infantry battalions with artillery, even the two generals, Bagration and Dolgorukov, and their adjutants. All the dread of battle that had been building up in him again, all the inner conflict which had enabled him to overcome that dread, all his dreams of personal glory in this battle as a fighting hussar – all of this now counted for nothing. His squadron was held back in reserve, and Nikolay Rostov spent a tedious and miserable day. It was still not quite nine o’clock in the morning when he heard firing and loud cheers up ahead, then he saw some wounded men being brought back (not many of them) and finally he watched a whole detachment of French cavalry being brought in surrounded by a Cossack unit. It was clear that the action was over, and no less clear that the action had been small-scale but successful. The returning soldiers and officers spoke of a brilliant victory in which the town of Wischau had been seized and a whole French squadron taken prisoner. It was a bright and sunny day following a sharp overnight frost, and the cheery autumn sunshine went well with the news of victory coming from the participants but also visible on the happy faces of soldiers, officers, generals and adjutants riding up and down in front of Nikolay Rostov. It rankled with him all the more that he had fought down his dread of battle only to spend that whole happy day doing nothing.
‘Hey, Wostov, come over here! Let’s dwink to dwown our sowwow!’ called Denisov from the roadside where he was sitting with a bottle and some food. The officers had gathered around Denisov’s hamper for a drink and a bite to eat.
‘Here comes another one!’ said one of the officers, pointing to a French prisoner, a dragoon, being brought in on foot by two Cossacks. One of them was leading his horse, a big, beautiful French charger.
‘Sell us your horse!’ Denisov called out to the Cossacks.
‘Yes, sir.’
