‘My beloved, companion of my soul,’ he wrote. ‘Nothing but honour could keep me from going back to the country. But now, at the outset of a campaign, I would feel a sense of dishonour not only towards my comrades, but also in my own eyes, were I to put my own happiness ahead of my duty and my love for our fatherland. But this is our last separation. Believe me, once this war is over, if I am still alive and still loved by you, I shall cast everything aside and fly to you, to press you for ever to my ardent breast.’
And indeed, it was only the outbreak of war that had detained Rostov and kept him from going back home, as he had promised, to marry Sonya. The autumn and winter at Otradnoye with the hunting, the Christmas celebrations and Sonya’s love had opened up the prospect of a nice quiet life as a country gentleman, full of pleasures he had never known before, which now beckoned alluringly. ‘A nice wife, children, a decent pack of hounds, a dozen quick borzois, managing the estate, visiting the neighbours, get myself elected to something,’ he mused. But now there was a war on, and he had to stay with his regiment. And since he had to, Nikolay Rostov, being what he was, managed to make the most of regimental life and ensure that this life was a pleasant one.
Nikolay had been given a warm welcome by his comrades on his return from leave and had then been sent off to Ukraine on a procurement mission, from where he came back with some splendid horses, which was gratifying for him and the source of much praise from the top brass. While he had been away his promotion to captain had come through, and when the regiment was placed on a war footing with an increased complement he was given his old squadron to command.
With the new campaign under way the regiment was sent to Poland on double pay, with new officers, new men and fresh horses. Best of all, the happy mood of excitement that comes at the beginning of a war permeated everything, and Rostov, conscious of his privileged position in the regiment, gave himself up body and soul to the business and pleasure of soldiering, though he knew that sooner or later he would have to give it all up.
For a variety of complex reasons, administrative, political and tactical, the army was in retreat from Vilna. Every retreating step was taken against a complex interplay of self-interest, argumentation and high passion at headquarters, but for the hussars of the Pavlograd regiment the whole business of retreating, in high summer and with everything in good supply, was the simplest and most agreeable of tasks. Low spirits, worry and intrigue might have been rampant at headquarters, but the army rank and file never gave a thought to where they were going or why. If there were any misgivings about retreating they were focused on moving out of nice familiar quarters and leaving behind a pretty Polish lady. And if it ever occurred to anyone that things were not going too well he would do his best, like a good soldier, to put a brave face on things, ignoring the general course of events and concentrating on personal affairs close at hand. At first they had been very pleasantly ensconced just outside Vilna, where they had got to know the local Polish gentry, and they had prepared for inspections that were then conducted by the Tsar or various members of the high command. Then came the order to retreat to Swienciany and destroy all stores that couldn’t be carried away. Swienciany was remembered by the hussars for two reasons only: it was ‘the drunken camp’, so called by every soldier who stayed there, and it was also the cause of many a complaint against the troops for their over-zealous application of orders to remove all stores, since they took ‘all stores’ to include horses, carriages and carpets seized from the Polish gentry. Rostov remembered Swienciany as a village in the backwoods where, on his first day, he had sacked his quartermaster and lost control of the men of his squadron, who had drunk themselves stupid on five barrels of old beer brought along without his knowledge. From Swienciany they had fallen back further and further as far as Drissa, and from Drissa the retreat had continued until they were almost back at the Russian frontier.
On the 13th of July the Pavlograd hussars saw serious action for the first time.
On the 12th of July, the night before the action, there had been a thunderstorm with torrential rain. The summer of 1812 was a bad one for thunderstorms.
The two Pavlograd squadrons were encamped in the middle of a rye-field which had been standing in full ear but was now thoroughly trampled by cattle and horses. The rain came down in torrents, and Rostov was sitting with one of his protégés, a young officer by the name of Ilyin, in a little shelter that had been knocked up for them. A fellow-officer with mutton-chop whiskers, delayed by the rain on his way back from headquarters, dropped in on Rostov.
