In the village of Gostieradeck there were some Russian troops, disorientated but still in some sort of order, walking away from the battlefield. Here they were out of range of the French cannons and the sounds of gunfire seemed a long way away. Here it was clear to everyone that the battle had been lost, and defeat was on everyone’s lips. Rostov asked around, but no one could tell him where the Tsar, or Kutuzov, might be found. Some said that the rumour about the Tsar being wounded was true. Others said it wasn’t, and the false report that had spread like wildfire could be easily explained – it was the Grand Marshal Tolstoy, a member of the Emperor’s entourage out with the others on the battlefield, who had been seen rushing back in the Tsar’s carriage all pale and terrified. One officer mentioned to Rostov that over to the left outside the village he had seen a senior officer from headquarters, and Rostov rode off in that direction, no longer hoping to find anyone, but just to keep his conscience clear. He had ridden for a couple of miles, passing the last of the Russian troops, when he came to a kitchen-garden enclosed by a ditch; two men on horseback stood facing the ditch. One of them had a white plume in his hat and Rostov fancied he had seen him before. The other man was a stranger on a fine chestnut (in his case it was the horse that looked familiar). He rode up to the ditch, gave his horse a touch of the spurs, loosened the reins and jumped easily across into the garden, disturbing nothing but a little earth that crumbled down from the bank under his horse’s hind hooves. Turning the horse sharply, he jumped back over the ditch and made a respectful approach to the horseman with the white plume, as if inviting him to do the same. Rostov was suddenly fascinated by the rider whose general appearance had struck him as familiar, and when this man made a gesture of refusal with his head and his hand Rostov instantly recognized his idolized and much-lamented sovereign.
‘No, it can’t be. Not him on his own in the middle of this empty field,’ thought Rostov. At that moment Alexander turned his head and Rostov caught sight of the beloved features so sharply etched into his memory. The Tsar was pale, his cheeks looked haggard and his eyes hollow, but this made his features look even more charming and gentle. Rostov was delighted to discover that the rumour about the Emperor being wounded was untrue. He was delighted to see him. Now was his chance – indeed it was his duty – to go straight up to him and deliver the message entrusted to him by Dolgorukov.
But, just as a lovelorn youth dithers and freezes, too scared to force out the words he has dreamt about for nights on end, panics and looks around for help or any chance of delay and escape now that the longed-for moment is here and he and she are alone together, so Rostov, suddenly presented with what he wanted most in all the world, had no idea how to approach the Emperor, and his mind was assailed by thousands of reasons why it would be wrong, inconvenient and impossible to do so.
‘No! It would be like taking advantage of him when he’s alone and despondent. It might be unpleasant and painful for him to see an unfamiliar face when he’s suffering like that. Anyway, what could I say to him now, when one look at him makes my heart leap and my mouth go all dry?’ In his imagination he had composed innumerable speeches addressed to the Tsar, but not one of them came to mind now. They had been intended for other occasions; they were meant to be spoken mainly at moments of victory and triumph, and predominantly on his deathbed, when the Emperor thanked him for his heroism and he with his dying breath gave voice to the love that he had just proved in action.
‘Then again, how can I ask the Emperor for instructions about the right flank when it’s nearly four o’clock in the afternoon and we’ve lost the battle? No, I mustn’t go up to him. I mustn’t interrupt him while he’s thinking. Better die a thousand deaths than get one angry glance from him, one sign of his disapproval,’ Rostov decided, and with a heavy heart he rode away in some despair, constantly turning to look back at the Tsar, still standing there, a picture of indecision.
While Rostov was thinking things over and riding sadly away, a certain Captain Von Toll happened to ride up to the same spot, saw the Emperor and went straight up to him, offering his services and helping him to walk across the ditch. Feeling unwell and in need of rest, the Tsar sat down under an apple-tree, and Von Toll remained at his side. Rostov looked back down the long road and watched with envy and regret as Von Toll stayed with the Emperor for some time, talking eagerly, and the Emperor, clearly in tears, put a hand over his eyes and shook hands with Von Toll.
