 War and Peace, Book 3, Chapter 14, Redford LibriVox.org, by Ava Harnick. At five in the morning it was still quite dark. The troops of the center, the reserves, and Bagration's right flank had not yet moved. But on the left flank the columns of infantry, cavalry, and artillery, which were to be the first to descend the heights to attack the French right flank, and drive it into the Bohemian mountains, according to plan, were already up and astirred. The smoke of the campfires into which they were throwing everything superfluous made the eyes smart. It was cold and dark. The officers were hurriedly drinking tea and breakfasting. The soldiers, munching biscuits and beating a tattoo with their feet to warm themselves, gathering round the fires, throwing into the flames the remains of sheds, chairs, tables, wheels, tubs, and everything that they did not want or could not carry away with them. Austrian column guides were moving in and out among the Russian troops and served as heralds of the advance. As soon as an Austrian officer shot himself near a commanding officer's quarters, the regiment began to move. The soldiers ran from the fires, thrust their pipes into their boots, their bags into the carts, got their muskets ready, and formed rank. The officers buttoned up their coats, buckled on their swords and pouches, and moved along the ranks shouting. The train drivers and orderlies harnessed and packed the wagons and tied on the loads. The adjutants and battalion and regimental commanders mounted, crossed themselves, gave final instructions, orders and commissions to the baggagemen who remained behind, and the monotonous tramp of thousands of feet resounded. The column moved forward without knowing where and unable from the masses around them the smoke and the increasing fog to see either the place they were leaving or that to which they were going. A soldier on the march is hemmed in and borne along by his regiment as much as a sailor is by his ship. However far he has walked, whatever strange unknown and dangerous places he reaches, just as a sailor is always surrounded by the same decks, masts and rigging of his ship, so the soldier always has around him the same comrades, the same ranks, the same sergeant major Ivan Mitrich, the same company dog Jack, and the same commanders. The sailor rarely cares to know the latitude in which his ship is sailing, but on the day of battle heaven knows how and whence, a stern note of which all are conscious sounds in the moral atmosphere of an army announcing the approach of something decisive and solemn and awakening in the man an unusual curiosity. On the day of battle the soldiers excitedly try to get beyond the interests of the regiment, they listen intently, look about and eagerly ask concerning what is going on around them. The fog had grown so dense that though it was growing light they could not see ten paces ahead, bushes looked like gigantic trees and level ground like cliffs and slopes. Anywhere on any side one might encounter an enemy invisible ten paces off, but the columns advanced for a long time, always in the same fog, descending and ascending hills, avoiding gardens and enclosures, going over new and unknown ground, and nowhere encountering the enemy. On the contrary, the soldiers became aware that in front, behind and on all sides other Russian columns were moving in the same direction. Every soldier felt glad to know that to the unknown place where he was going many more of our men were going too. There now the Kurskis have also gone past was being said in the ranks. It is wonderful what a lot of our troops have gathered lads. Last night I looked at the campfires and there was no end of them, a regular Moscow. Though none of the column commanders rode up to the ranks or talked to the men, the commanders as we saw at the Council of War were out of humor and dissatisfied with their fare and so did not exert themselves to cheer the men, but merely carried out the orders, yet the troops marched gaily as they always do when going into action, especially to an attack. But when they had marched for about an hour in the dense fog, the greater part of the men had to halt and an unpleasant consciousness of some dislocation and blunder spread through the ranks. How such a consciousness is communicated is very difficult to define, but it certainly is communicated very shortly and flows rapidly, imperceptibly and irrepressibly as water does in a creek. Had the Russian army been alone without any allies, it might perhaps have been a long time before this consciousness of mismanagement became a general conviction, but as it was, the disorder was readily and naturally attributed to the stupid Germans and everyone was convinced that a dangerous model had been occasioned by the sausages. Why have we stopped? Is the way blocked, or have we already come up against the French? No, one can't hear them, they would be firing if we had. They were in a hurry enough to start us, and now here we stand in the middle of a field without rhyme or reason. It is all those damn Germans muddling. What stupid devils! Yes, and I would send them on in front, but no fear, they are crowding up behind, and now here we stand hungry. I say, shall we soon be clear? They say the cavalry are blocking the way, said an officer. Oh, those damn Germans! They don't know their own country, said another. What division are you? Shouted an adjutant riding up. The 18s. Then why are you here? You should have gone on long ago, now you won't get there till evening. What stupid orders! They don't themselves know what they are doing, said the officer and rode off. Then a general rode past shouting something angrily, not in Russian, tuffle-offer. But what his jabbering no one can make out, said a soldier mimicking the general who had ridden away. I would shoot them, the scoundrels. We were ordered to be at the place before nine, but we haven't got halfway. Fine orders was being repeated on different sides. And the feeling of energy with which the troops had started began to turn into vexation and anger at the stupid arrangements and at the Germans. The cause of the confusion was that while the Austrian cavalry was moving toward our left flank, the higher command found that our center was too far separated from our right flank, and the cavalry were all ordered to turn back to the right. Several thousand cavalry crossed in front of the infantry who had to wait. At the front an altercation occurred between an Austrian guide and the Russian general. The general shouted the demand that the cavalry should be halted. The Austrian argued that not he, but the higher command was to blame. The troops, meanwhile, stood growing listless and dispirited. After an hour's delay, they at last moved on descending the hill. The fog that was dispersing on the hill lay still more densely below where they were descending. In front in the fog a shot was heard and then another, at first irregularly at varying intervals, trattata, and then more and more regularly and rapidly. And the action at the Goldbach stream began. Not expecting to come on the enemy down by the stream and having stumbled on him in the fog, hearing no encouraging word from their commanders, and with a consciousness of being too late, spreading through the ranks and above all being unable to see anything in front or around them in the sick fog, the Russians exchanged shots with the enemy lazily and advanced and again halted receiving no timely orders from the officers or agitants who wondered about in the fog in those unknown surroundings unable to find their own regiments. In this way the action began for the first, second and third columns, which had gone down into the valley, the force column with which Kutuzov was stood on the Prazen Heights. Below, where the fight was beginning, there was still sick fog. On the higher ground it was clearing, but nothing could be seen of what was going on in front, whether all the enemy forces were as we supposed six miles away or whether they were nearby in that sea or mist, no one knew till after eight o'clock. It was nine o'clock in the morning. The fog lay unbroken like a seed down below, but higher up at the village of Shlapanets, where Napoleon stood with his marshals around him, it was quite light. Above him was a clear blue sky and the sun's vast orb twirled like a huge hollow crimson float on the surface of that milky sea of mist. The whole French army and even Napoleon himself with his staff were not on the far side of the streams and hollows of Shlapanets and Shlapanets beyond which we intended to take up our position and begin the action, but were on this side so close to our own forces that Napoleon with the naked eye could distinguish a mounted man from one on foot. Napoleon in the blue cloak, which he had worn on his Italian campaign, sat on his small gray Arab horse a little in front of his marshals. He gazed silently at the hills, which seemed to rise out of the sea of mist, and on which the Russian troops were moving in the distance, and he listened to the sounds of firing in the valley. Not a single muscle of his face, which in those days was still thin, moved. His gleaming eyes were fixed intently on one spot. His predictions were being justified. Part of the Russian force had already descended into the valley toward the ponds and lakes, and part were leaving these Pratsen heights, which he intended to attack and regarded as the key to the position. He saw over the mist that in a hollow between two hills near the village of Pratsen, the Russian columns, their bayonets glittering, were moving continuously in one direction towards the valley, and disappearing one after another into the mist. From information he had received the evening before, from the sound of wheels and footsteps heard by the outposts during the night, by the disorderly movement of the Russian columns, and from all indications he saw clearly that the allies believed him to be far away in front of them, and that the columns moving near Pratsen constituted the center of the Russian army, and that that center was still already sufficiently weakened to be successfully attacked. But still he did not begin the engagement. Today was a great day for him. The anniversary of his coronation. Before dawn he had slept for a few hours, and refreshed vigorous and in good spirits, he mounted his horse and rode out into the field in that happy mood in which everything seems possible and everything succeeds. He said motionless, looking at the heights visible above the mist, and his cold face wore that special look of confident, self-complacent happiness that one sees on the face of a boy happily in love. The Marshal stood behind him, not venturing to distract his attention. He looked now at the Pratsen heights, now at the sun floating up out of the mist. When the sun had entirely emerged from the fog, and fields and mist were aglow with dazzling light, as if he had only awaited this to begin the action, he drew the glove from his shapely white hand, made a sign with it to the Marshals, and ordered the action to begin. The Marshals, accompanied by agitants, galloped off in different directions, and a few minutes later the chief forces of the French army moved rapidly to those Pratsen heights, which were being more and more denuded by Russian troops, moving down the valley to their left. At eight o'clock Kutuzov rode to Pratsen at the head of the fourth column, Milarodovich's, the one that was to take the place of Presbyshevsky's, and Langerund's columns, which had already gone down into the valley. He greeted the men of the foremost regiment and gave them the order to march, thereby indicating that he intended to lead the column himself. When he had reached the village of Pratsen, he halted, Prince Andrew was behind, among the immense number forming the commander-in-chief's suite. He was in a state of suppressed excitement and irritation, though controllably calm as a man is at the approach of a long-awaited moment. He was firmly convinced that this was the day of his Tulum, or his bridge of Akola. How it would come about, he did not know, but he felt sure it would do so. The locality and the position of our troops were known to him as far as they could be known to anyone in our army. His own strategic plan, which obviously could not now be carried out, was forgotten. Now entering into Weirother's plan, Prince Andrew considered possible contingencies and formed new projects, such as might call for his rapidity of perception and decision. To the left down below in the mist, the muskety fire of unseen forces could be heard. It was there Prince Andrew sought the fight would concentrate. There we shall encounter difficulties, and there sought he, I shall be sent with a brigade or division, and there, standard in hand, I shall go forward and break whatever is in front of me. He could not look calmly at the standards of the passing battalions, seeing them he kept thinking, that may be the very standard with which I shall lead the army. In the morning all that was left of the night mist on the heights was a whore frost now turning to dew, but in the valleys it still lay like a milk white sea. Nothing was visible in the valley to the left into which our troops had descended, and from whence came the sounds of firing. Above the heights was the dark clear sky, and to the right the vast orb of the sun. In front far off on the farthest shore of that sea of mist some wooded hills were discernible, and it was there the enemy probably was, for something could be described. On the right the guards were entering the misty region with a sound of hooves and wheels, and now and then a gleam of bayonets. To the left beyond the village similar masses of cavalry came up and disappeared in the sea of mist. In front and behind moved infantry. The commander in chief was standing at the end of the village, letting the troops pass by him. That morning Kutuzov seemed worn and irritable. The infantry passing before him came to halt without any command being given, apparently obstructed by something in front. Do order them to form into battalion columns and go round the village, he said angrily to a general who had ridden up. Don't you understand your excellency, my dear sir, that you must not defile through narrow village streets when we are marching against the enemy? I intended to reform them beyond the village, your excellency, answered the general. Kutuzov laughed bitterly. You will make a fine sing of it, deploying inside of the enemy, very fine. The enemy is still far away, your excellency, according to the dispositions. The dispositions exclaimed Kutuzov bitterly. Who told you that? Kindly do as you are ordered. Yes, sir. My dear fellow, Nezvitsky whispered to Prince Andrew, the old man is as surly as a dog. An Austrian officer in a white uniform with green plumes in his hat galloped up to Kutuzov and asked in the emperor's name had the force column advanced into action. Kutuzov turned round, without answering, and his eye happened to fall upon Prince Andrew, who was beside him. Seeing him, Kutuzov's malevolent and caustic expression softened, as if admitting that what was being done was not his adjutant's fault and still not answering the Austrian adjutant he addressed Borkonsky. Go, my dear fellow, and see whether the Third Division has passed the village. Tell it to stop and await my orders. Hardly had Prince Andrew started, then he stopped him, and asked whether sharpshooters have been posted, he added, What are they doing? What are they doing? He murmured to himself, still not replying to the Austrian. Prince Andrew galloped off to execute the order. Overtaking the battalions that continued to advance, he stopped the Third Division and convinced himself that there really were no sharpshooters in front of our columns. The colonel at the head of the regiment was much surprised at the Commander-in-Chief's order to throw out squirmishers. He had felt perfectly sure that there were other troops in front of him and that the enemy must be at least six miles away. There was really nothing to be seen in front, except a barren descent hidden by dense mist. Having given orders in the Commander-in-Chief's name to rectify this omission, Prince Andrew galloped back. Kutuzov, still in the same place, his stout body resting heavily in the saddle with the lassitude of age, set yawning, wearily with closed eyes. The troops were no longer moving, but stood with the butts of their muskets on the ground. All right, all right, he said to Prince Andrew and turned to General, who, watching hand, was saying it was time they started as all the left-line columns had already descended. Plenty of time, Your Excellency, muttered Kutuzov in the midst of a yawn. Plenty of time, he repeated. Just then, at a distance behind Kutuzov, was heard the sound of regiments saluting, and this sound rapidly came nearer along the whole extended line of the advancing Russian columns. Evidently, the person they were greeting was riding quickly. When the soldiers of the regiment in front of which Kutuzov was standing began to shout, he rode a little to one side and looked round with a frown. Along the road, from Pratsen galloped, what looked like a squadron of horsemen in various uniforms. Two of them rode side by side, in front, at full gallop. One in a black uniform, with white plumes in his hat, rode a bobtail chestnut horse. The other, who was in a white uniform, rode a black one. These were the two emperors followed by their suites. Kutuzov, effecting the manners of an old soldier at the front, gave the command attention and rode up to the emperors with a salute. His whole appearance and manner were suddenly transformed. He put on the air of a subordinate who obeys without reasoning, with an effectation of respect which evidently struck Alexander unpleasantly, he rode up and saluted. This unpleasant impression merely flitted over the young and happy face of the emperor, like a cloud of haze across a clear sky and vanished. After his illness, he looked rather thinner that day, than on the field of Olmutz, where Volkonsky had seen him for the first time abroad. But there was still the same bewitching combination of majesty and mildness in his fine gray eyes, and on his delicate lips the same capacity for varying expression and the same prevalent appearance of good-hearted innocent youth. At the Olmutz review, he had seemed more majestic. Here he seemed brighter and more energetic. He was slightly flushed after galloping two miles, and reigning in his horse, he sighed restfully and looked drunk at the faces of his sweet, young and animated as his own. Tsar Turisky, Novosiltsev, Prince Volkonsky, Stroganov and the others, all richly dressed, gay young man, and splendid, well-groomed, fresh, only slightly heated horses, exchanging the marks and smiling, had stopped behind the emperor. The Emperor Francis, a rosy, long-faced, young man, sat very erect on his handsome black horse, looking about him in a leisurely and preoccupied manner. He beckoned to one of his white agitants and asked some questions. Most likely, he is asking at what o'clock they started, saw Prince Andrew watching his old acquaintance with a smile he could not repress as he recalled his reception at Brön. In the Emperor's suite were the picked young ordinary officers of the guard and line regiments, Russian and Austrian. Among them were grooms leading the Tsar's beautiful relay horses covered with embroidered cloths. As when a window is opened, a whiff of fresh air from the fields enters a stuffy room, so a whiff of usefulness, energy and confidence of success reached Kutuzov's cheerless staff with the galloping advent of all these brilliant young men. Why aren't you beginning, Mikhail Ilarionovich? said the Emperor Alexander, hurriedly to Kutuzov, glancing courteously at the same time at the Emperor Francis. I'm waiting, Your Majesty, answered Kutuzov, bending forward respectfully. The Emperor frowning slightly bent his ear forward as if he had not quite heard. Waiting, Your Majesty, repeated Kutuzov. Prince Andrew noted that Kutuzov's upper lip twitched unnaturally as he said the word waiting. Not all the columns have formed up yet, Your Majesty. The Tsar heard but obviously did not like the reply. He shrugged his rather round shoulders and glanced at Novosiltsev, who was near him, as if complaining of Kutuzov. You know, Mikhail Ilarionovich, we are not on the Empress's field, where a parade does not begin till all the troops are assembled, said the Tsar, with another glance at the Emperor Francis, as if inviting him, if not to join in, at least to listen to what he was saying. But the Emperor Francis continued to look about him and did not listen. That is just why I do not begin, Tsar, said Kutuzov in a resounding voice, apparently to preclude the possibility of not being heard, and again something in his face twitched. That is just why I do not begin, Tsar, because we are not on parade and not on the Empress's field, said clearly and distinctly. In the Emperor's suite, all exchange rapid looks that express dissatisfaction and reproach. Although he may be, he should not, he certainly should not speak like that, their glances seem to say. The Tsar looked intently and observantly into Kutuzov's eye, waiting to hear whether he would say anything more. But Kutuzov, with respectful about head, seemed also to be waiting. The silence lasted for about a minute. However, if you commanded your Majesty, said Kutuzov, lifting his head and again assuming his former tone of a dull, unreasoning but submissive general. He touched his horse and having called Miloradovic, the commander of the column gave him the order to advance. The troops again began to move, and two battalions of the Novgorod and one of the Aspheron Regiment went forward past the Emperor. As this Aspheron battalion marched by, the red-faced Miloradovic, without his great court, with his orders on his breast and an enormous tuft of plumes in his cocked hat worn on one side with its corners front and back, galloped strenuously forward and with a dashing salute reigned in his horse before the Emperor. God be with you, General, said the Emperor. He answered gaily, raising nevertheless ironic smiles among the gentlemen of the Tsar's suite by his poor French. Asterisk indicates the translation of the French sentence as follows. Indeed, Tsar, we shall do everything it is possible to do, Tsar, end of quotation. Miloradovic wheeled his horse sharply and stationed himself a little behind the Emperor. The Aspheron man, excited by the Tsar's presence, passed in step before the Emperor's and their suites at a bold brisk pace. Lads shouted Miloradovic in a loud, self-confident and cheery voice, obviously so elated by the sound of firing, by the prospect of battle, and by the sight of the gallant Aspheron's, his camarades in Suvorov's time now passing so gallantly before the Emperor's that he forgot the sovereign's presence. Lads, it's not the first village you have had to take, cried he. Glad to do our best, shouted the soldiers. The Emperor's horse started at the sudden cry. This horse that had carried the sovereign at reviews in Russia bore him also here on the field of Osterlitz and during the heedless blows of his left foot and pricking its ears at the sound of shots, just as it had done on the Emperor's field, not understanding the significance of the firing nor of the nearness of the Emperor Francis' Black Cobb nor of all that was being said, sought and felt that day by its rider. The Emperor turned with a smile to one of his followers and made the remark to him, pointing to the gallant Aspheron's. End of Chapter 15. Recording by Ava Harnick, Pontevedra, Florida. War and Peace. Book 3. Chapter 16. Read for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari. Kutizov, accompanied by his agitants, rode at a walking pace behind the cariboneers. When he had gone less than half a mile in the rear of the column, he stopped at a solitary deserted house that had probably once been an inn, where two roads parted. Both of them led downhill, and troops were marching along both. The fog had begun to clear, and enemy troops were already dimly visible about a mile and a half off in the opposite heights. Down below on the left, the firing became more distinct. Kutizov had stopped and was speaking to an Austrian general. Prince Andrew, who was a little behind looking at them, turned to an agitant to ask him for a field-glass. Look! Look! said this agitant, looking not at the troops in the distance, but down the hill before him. It's the French! The two generals and the agitant took hold of the field-glass, trying to snatch it from one another. The expression on all their faces suddenly changed to one of horror. The French were supposed to be a mile and a half away, but had suddenly and unexpectedly appeared just in front of us. It's the enemy? No! Yes! See it is! For certain! But how is that? said different voices. With the naked eye Prince Andrew saw them below to the right, not more than five hundred paces from where Kutizov was standing, a dense French column coming up to meet the Absurans. Here it is! The decisive moment has arrived. My turn has come, thought Prince Andrew, and striking his horse he rode up to Kutizov. The Absurans must be stopped, your Excellency, cried he. But at that very instant a cloud of smoke spread all around, firing was heard quite close at hand, and a voice of naive terror, barely two steps from Prince Andrew shouted, Brothers! All is lost! And at this, as if at a command, everyone began to run. Confused and ever-increasing crowds were running back to where five minutes before the troops had passed the emperors. Not only would it have been difficult to stop that crowd, it was even impossible not to be carried back with it oneself. Bulkonsky only tried not to lose touch with it, and looked around bewildered and unable to grasp what was happening in front of him. Nazvitsky, with an angry face, red and unlike himself, was shouting to Kutizov that if he did not ride away at once he would certainly be taken prisoner. Kutizov remained in the same place, and without answering drew out a handkerchief. Blood was flowing from his cheek. Prince Andrew forced his way to him. Your wounded, he asked, hardly able to master the trembling of his lower jaw. The wound is not here, it is there, said Kutizov, pressing the handkerchief to his wounded cheek and pointing to the fleeing soldiers. Stop them, he shouted, and at the same moment, probably realizing that it was impossible to stop them, spurred his horse and rode to the right. A fresh wave of the flying mob caught him, and bore him back with it. The troops were running in such a dense mass, that once surrounded by them it was difficult to get out again. One was shouting, Get on! Why are you hindering us? Another in the same place turned around and fired in the air. A third was striking the horse Kutizov himself rode. Having by a great effort got away to the left from that flood of men, Kutizov, with his sweet diminished by more than half, rode toward a sound of artillery fire nearby. Having forced his way out of the crowd of fugitives, Prince Andrew, trying to keep near Kutizov, saw on the slope of the hill, amid the smoke, a Russian battery that was still firing, and Frenchmen running toward it. Higher ups stood some Russian infantry, neither moving forward to protect the battery, nor backward with the fleeing crowd. A mounted general separated himself from the infantry, and approached Kutizov. Of Kutizov's sweet only four remained. They were all pale, and exchanged looks and silence. Stop those wretches! gasped Kutizov to the regimental commander, pointing to the flying soldiers. But at that instant, as if to punish him for these words, bullets flew hissing across the regiment, and across Kutizov's sweet, like a flock of little birds. The French had attacked the battery, and seeing Kutizov, we're firing at him. After this volley the regimental commander clutched at his leg, several soldiers fell, and a second lieutenant who is holding the flag let it fall from his hands. It swayed and fell, but caught on the muskets of the nearest soldiers. The soldiers started firing without orders. Oh, grown Kutizov despairingly and looked around. Bulkonsky he whispered, his voice trembling from a consciousness of the feebleness of age. Bulkonsky he whispered, pointing to the disordered battalion and at the enemy. What is that? But before he had finished speaking, Prince Andrew, feeling tears of shame and anger choking him, had already leapt from his horse, and run to the standard. Forward lads he shouted, in a voice piercing as a child's. Here it is thought he, seizing the staff of the standard and hearing with pleasure the whistle of bullets evidently aimed at him. Several soldiers fell. Hurrah! shouted Prince Andrew, and scarcely able to hold up the heavy standard, he ran forward with full confidence that the whole battalion would follow him. And really he only ran a few steps alone. One soldier moved and then another, and soon the whole battalion ran forward shouting, Hurrah! and overtook him. A sergeant of the battalion ran up and took the flag that was swaying from its weight in Prince Andrew's hands, but he was immediately killed. Prince Andrew again seized the standard, and dragging it by the staff ran on with the battalion. In front he saw our artillerymen, some of whom were fighting, while others, having abandoned their guns, were running toward him. He also saw French infantry soldiers, who were seizing the artillery horses and turning their guns round. Prince Andrew and the battalion were already within twenty paces of the canyon. He heard the whistle of bullets above him unceasingly, and to the right and left of him soldiers continually groaned and dropped. But he did not look at them. He looked only at what was going on in front of him—at the battery. He now saw clearly the figure of a red-haired gunner with his shackle knocked to rye, pulling one end of a mop while a French soldier tugged at the other. He could distinctly see the distraught yet angry expression on the faces of these two men, who evidently did not realize what they were doing. What are they about, thought Prince Andrew, as he gazed at them? Why doesn't the red-haired gunner run away as he has unarmed? Why doesn't the Frenchman stab him? He will not get away before the Frenchman remembers his bayonet and stabs him. And really another French soldier trailing his musket ran up to the struggling men, and the fate of the red-haired gunner, who had triumphantly secured the mop and still did not realize what awaited him, was about to be decided. But Prince Andrew did not see how it ended. It seemed to him, as though one of the soldiers near him hit him on the head with the full swing of a bludgeon. It hurt a little, but the worst of it was that the pain distracted him and prevented his seeing what he had been looking at. What's this? Am I falling? My legs are giving way, thought he, and he fell on his back. He opened his eyes, hoping to see how the struggle of the Frenchman with the gunners ended, whether the red-haired gunner had been killed or not, and whether the cannon had been captured or saved. But he saw nothing. Above him there was now nothing but the sky, the lofty sky, not clear yet still immeasurably lofty, with gray clouds gliding slowly across it. How quiet, peaceful, and solemn! Not at all as I ran, thought Prince Andrew. Not as we ran, shouting, and fighting. Not at all as the gunner and the Frenchman with frightened and angry faces struggled for the mop. How differently do those clouds glide across that lofty infinite sky? How was it I did not see that lofty sky before? And how happy I am to have found it at last! Yes, all is vanity, all falsehood, except that infinite sky. There is nothing, nothing but that. But even it does not exist. There is nothing but quiet and peace, thank God. On our right flank, commanded by Bagration, at nine o'clock, the battle had not yet begun. Not wishing to agree to Dolgorokov's demand to commence the action, and wishing to avert responsibility from himself, Prince Bagration proposed to Dolgorokov to send to inquire of the commander-in-chief. Bagration knew that, as the distance between the two flanks was more than six miles, even if the messenger were not killed, which he very likely would be, and found the commander-in-chief which would be very difficult, he would not be able to get back before evening. Bagration cast his large, expressionless, sleepy eyes round his suite, and the boyish face of Rostov, breathless with excitement and hope, was the first to catch his eye. He sent him. And if I should meet his majesty before I meet the commander-in-chief, your excellency, said Rostov, with his hand to his cap. You can give the message to his majesty, said Dolgorokov, hurriedly interrupting Bagration. On being relieved from picket duty, Rostov had managed to get a few hours' sleep before morning, and felt cheerful, bold and resolute, with elasticity of movement, faith in his good fortune, and generally in that state of mind which makes everything seem possible, pleasant, and easy. All his wishes were being fulfilled that morning. There was to be a general engagement in which he was taking part. More than that, he was orderly to the bravest general, and still more, he was going with a message to Kutuzov, perhaps even to the sovereign himself. The morning was bright, he had a good horse under him, and his heart was full of joy and happiness. On receiving the order he gave his horse the rain and galloped along the line. At first he rode along the line of Bagration's troops, which had not yet advanced into action, but were standing motionless. Then he came to the region occupied by Uverov's cavalry, and here he noticed a stir and signed to preparation for battle. Having passed Uverov's cavalry, he clearly heard the sound of cannon and musketry ahead of him. The firing grew louder and louder. In the fresh morning air were now heard not two or three musket shots at irregular intervals as before, followed by one or two cannon shots, but a roll of volleys of musketry from the slopes of the hill before Protzen interrupted by such frequent reports of cannon that sometimes several of them were not serrated from one another, but merged into a general roar. He could see puffs of musketry smoke that seemed to chase one another down the hill-sides, and clouds of kinsmoke rolling, spreading, and mingling with one another. He could also, by the gleam of bayonets visible through the smoke, make out moving masses of infantry and narrow lines of artillery with green cations. Rostov stopped his horse for a moment on a hillock to see what was going on, but strained his attention as he would he could not understand or make out anything of what was happening. There in the smoke men of some sort were moving about, in front and behind moved lots of troops, but why, wither and who they were, it was impossible to make out. These sights and sounds had no depressing or intimidating effect on him. On the contrary, they stimulated his energy and determination. Go on, go on, give it to them, he mentally exclaimed at these sounds, and again proceeded to gallop along the line, penetrating further and further into the region where the army was already in action. How it will be there, I don't know, but all will be well," thought Rostov. After passing some Austrian troops he noted that the next part of the line, the guards, was already in action. So much the better, I shall see it close, he thought. He was riding along the front line. A handful men came gupping toward him. They were our humans, who with disordered ranks were returning from the attack. Rostov got out of their way, involuntarily noticed that one of them was bleeding, and galloped on. That is no business of mine, he thought. He had not ridden many hundred yards after that before he saw to his left, across the whole width of the field, an enormous mass of cavalry in brilliant white uniforms, mounted on black horses, trotting straight toward him and across his path. Rostov put his horse to full gallop to get out of the way of these men, and he would have got clear had they continued at the same speed, but kept increasing their pace, so that some of horses were already galloping. Rostov heard the thud of their hooves and the eagle of the weapons and saw their horses, their figures, and even their faces, more and more distinctly. They were our horse-guards, advancing to attack the French cavalry that was coming to meet them. The horse-guards were galloping, but still holding in their horses. Rostov could already see their faces and heard the command, Charge, shouted by an officer who was urging his thoroughbred to full speed. Rostov, fearing to be crushed or swept into the attack on the French, galloped along the front as hard as his horse could go, but still was not in time to avoid them. The last of the horse-guards, a huge, pockmarked fellow, frowned angrily on seeing Rostov before him, with whom he would inevitably collide. This guardsman would certainly have bowled Rostov and his bedouin over. Rostov felt himself quite tiny and weak compared to these gigantic men and horses, had it not occurred to Rostov to flourish his whip before the eye of the guardsman's horse. The heavy black horse, sixteen hands high, shite, throwing back at ears, but the pockmarked guardsman drove his huge seared in violently, and the horse, flourishing its tail and extending its neck, galloped on yet faster. Hardly had the horse-guards passed Rostov before he heard them shout, Hurrah! and lean back, saw that their foremost ranks were mixed up with some foreign cavalry red epaulettes, probably French. He could see nothing more, for immediately afterwards cannon began firing from somewhere, and smoke it upped everything. At that moment, as the horse-guards, having passed him, disappeared in the smoke, Rostov hesitated whether to gallop after them, or to go where he was sent. This was the brilliant charge of the horse-guards that amazed even the French themselves. Rostov was horrified to hear later, that of all that mass of huge and handsome men, of all those brilliant rich youths, officers, and cadets who had galloped past him on their thousand ruble horses, only eighteen were left after the charge. Why should I envy them? My chance is not lost, and maybe I shall see the Emperor immediately, thought Rostov, and galloped on. When he came level with the foot-guards, he noticed that about them and around them cannon-balls were flying, of which he was aware not so much because he heard their sound, as because he saw the uneasiness on the soldiers' faces and unnatural war-like solemnity on those of the officers. Passing behind one of the lines of a regiment of foot-guards, he heard a voice calling him by name. Rostov! What, he answered, not recognizing Boris? I say, we've been in the front line. Our regiment attacked, said Boris, with the happy smiles seen on the faces of young men who have been under fire for the first time. Rostov stopped. Have you, he said? Well, how did it go? We drove them back, said Boris, with animation, growing talkative. Can you imagine it? And he began describing how the guards, having taken up their position and seeing troops before them, thought they were Austrians, and all at once discovered from the cannon-balls discharged by those troops that they were themselves in the front line and had unexpectedly to go into action. Rostov, without hearing Boris to the end, spurred his horse. Where are you off to, asked Boris? With a message to his majesty. There he is, said Boris, thinking Rostov had said his highness, and pointing to the Grand Duke who with his high shoulders and frowning brows stood a hundred paces away from them in his helmet and horse-guard's jacket, shouting something to a pale white-uniformed Austrian officer. But that's the Grand Duke, and I want the commander-in-chief or the emperor, said Rostov, and was about to spur his horse. Count, count, shouted Berg, who ran up from the other side as eager as Boris. Count, I am wounded in my right hand. And he showed his bleeding hand with a handkerchief tied around it, and I remained at the front. I held the sword in my left hand count. All our family, the von Bergs, have been knights. He said something more, but Rostov did not wait to hear it, and rode away. Having passed the guards, and traversed an empty space, Rostov, to avoid again getting in front of the first line as he had done when the horse-guards charged, followed the line of reserves, going far round the place where the hottest musket fire and cannonade were heard. Suddenly he heard musket fire quite close in front of him, and behind our troops, where he could never have expected the enemy to be. What can it be, he thought? The enemy in the rear of our army? Impossible! And suddenly he was seized by a panic of fear for himself and for the issue of the whole battle. But, be that what it may, he reflected, there is no riding round it now. I must look for the commander-in-chief here, and if all is lost, it is for me to perish with the rest. The foreboding of evil that had suddenly come over Rostov was more and more confirmed the further he rode into the region behind the village of Protsin, which was full of troops of all kinds. What does it mean? What is it? Whom are they firing at? Who is firing? Rostov kept asking, as he came up to the Russian and Austrian soldiers running in confused crowds across his path. The devil knows. They've killed everybody. It's all up now, he was told, in Russian, German, and Czech, by the crowd of fugitives who understood what was happening as little as he did. Kill the Germans! shouted one. May the devil take them, the traitors. Zum Hänkordies Russen, muttered German, hang these Russians. Several wounded men passed along the road, and words of abuse, screams, and groans mingled in a general hubbub. Then the firing died down. Rostov learned later that Russian and Austrian soldiers had been firing at one another. My God! What does it all mean, thought he? And here, where at any moment the Emperor may see them. But no, these must only be a handful of scoundrels. It will soon be over. It can't be that. It can't be. Only to get past them quicker, quicker. The idea of defeat and flight could not enter Rostov's head. Though he saw French cannon and French troops on the Pratsen Heights, just where he had been ordered to look for the Commander in Chief, he could not, did not wish, to believe that. Pratsen. But neither they nor a single commanding officer were there. Only disorganized crowds of troops of various kinds. He urged on his already weary horse to get quickly past these crowds. But the further he went, the more disorganized they were. The high road on which he had come out was thronged with callishes, carriages of all sorts, and Russian and Austrian soldiers of all arms, some wounded, and some not. This whole mass droned and jostled in confusion, under the dismal influence of cannonballs, flying from the French batteries stationed on the Pratsen Heights. Where's the Emperor? Where's Kutuzov? Rostov kept asking everyone he could stop, but got no answer from anyone. At last, seizing a soldier by his collar, he forced him to answer. Hey, brother! They've all bolted long ago, said the soldier, laughing for some reason and shaking himself free. Having left that soldier, who was evidently drunk, Rostov stopped the horse of a batman, or groom of some important personage, and began to question him. The man announced that the Tsar had been driven in a carriage at full speed about an hour before along that very road, and that he was dangerously wounded. It can't be, said Rostov. It must have been someone else. I saw him myself, replied the man with a self-confidence smile of derision. I ought to know the Emperor by now, after the times I've seen him in Petersburg. I saw him, just as I see him. There he sat in the carriage, as pale as anything. How they made the four black horses fly. Gracious me, they did rattle past. It's time I knew the Imperial Horses and Ilya Ivanovich. I don't think Ilya drives anyone except the Tsar. Rostov left go of the horse and was about to ride on, when a wounded officer, passing by, addressed him. Who is it you want? he asked, the Commander-in-Chief. He was killed by a cannon-ball, struck in the breast before our regiment. Not killed, wounded, another officer corrected him. Who? Kutasov? asked Rostov. Not Kutasov, but what's his name? Well, never mind. There are not many left alive. Go that way, to that village. All the commanders are there, said the officer, pointing to the village of Holsterdeck. And he walked on. Rostov rode at a foot pace, not knowing why or to whom he was now going. The Emperor was wounded. The battle lost. It was impossible to doubt it now. Rostov rode in the direction pointed out to him, in which he saw turrets and a church. What need to hurry? What was he to say to the Tsar or Kutasov, even if they were alive and unwounded? Take this road, your honour. That way you'd be killed at once, the soldier shouted to him. They'd kill you there. Well, what are you talking about, said another. Where is he to go? That way is nearer. Rostov considered, and then went in the direction where they said he would be killed. It's all the same now. If the Emperor is wounded, am I to try and save myself, he thought? He rode on to the region where the greatest number of men had perished and fleeing from Protsin. The French had not yet occupied that region, and the Russians, the uninjured and slightly wounded, had left it long ago. All about the field, like heaps of manure on well-kept plowland, lay from ten to fifteen dead and wounded to each couple of acres. The wounded crept together in twos and threes, and one could hear their discresing screams and groans, sometimes feigned or so it seemed to Rostov. He put his horse to a trot to avoid seeing all these suffering men, and he felt afraid, afraid not for his life, but for the courage he needed, and which he knew would not stand at the sight of these unfortunates. The French, who had ceased firing at this field, strewn with dead and wounded where there was no one left to fire at, on seeing an agitant riding over it trained a gun on him, and fired several shots. The sensation of those terrible whistling sounds, and of the corpses around him merged in Rostov's mind into a single feeling of terror and pity for himself. He remembered his mother's last letter. What would she feel, thought he, if she saw me here now on this field with the cannon aimed at me? In the village of Holsterdek there were Russian troops retiring from the field of battle, who, though still in some confusion, were less disordered. The French cannon did not reach there, and the musketry fire sounded far away. Here everyone clearly saw and said that the battle was lost. No one whom Rostov asked could tell him where the Emperor Orkutsov was. Some said the report that the Emperor was wounded was correct, others that it was not, and explained the false rumor that had spread by the fact that the Emperor's carriage had really galloped from the field of battle with the pale and terrified Oberhofmarschel Count Tolstoy, who had ridden out to the battlefield with others in the Emperor's suite. One officer told Rostov that he had seen someone from headquarters behind the village to the left, and Vither Rostov rode, not hoping to find anyone but merely to ease his conscience. When he had ridden about two miles and had passed the last of the Russian troops, he saw, near a kitchen garden with a ditch rounded, two men on horseback facing the ditch, one with a white plume in his hat seemed familiar to Rostov, the other on a beautiful chestnut horse, which Rostov fancied he had seen before, rode up to the ditch, struck his horse with his spurs, and giving it the rain leaped lightly over. Only a little earth crumbled from the bank under the horse's hind hooves. Turning the horse sharply, he again jumped the ditch, and deferentially addressed the horseman with the white plumes, evidently suggesting that he should do the same. The rider, whose figure seemed familiar to Rostov, and involuntarily riveted his attention, made a gesture of refusal with his head and hand, and by that gesture Rostov instantly recognized his lamented and adored monarch. But it can't be he, alone in the midst of this empty field, thought Rostov. At that moment Alexander turned his head, and Rostov saw the beloved features that were so deeply engraved on his memory. The emperor was pale, his cheeks sunken, and his eyes hollow, but the charm, the mildness of his features, was all the greater. Rostov was happy in the assurance that the rumors about the emperor being wounded were false. He was happy to be seeing him. He knew that he might and even ought to go straight to him, and give the message Dolgorokov had ordered him to deliver. But as a youth in love trembles, is unnerved, and dares not utter the thoughts he has dreamed of for nights, but looks around for help, or a chance of delay, and flight, when the longed-for moment comes, and he is alone with her. So Rostov, now that he had attained what he had longed for more than anything else in the world, did not know how to approach the emperor, and a thousand reasons occurred to him why it would be inconvenient, unseemly, and impossible to do so. What? It is as if I were glad of a chance to take advantage of his being alone and despondent. A strange face may seem unpleasant or painful to him at this moment of sorrow. Besides, what can I say to him now, when my heart fails me and my mouth feels dry at the mere sight of him? Not one of the innumerable speeches addressed to the emperor that he had composed in his imagination could he now recall. Those speeches were intended for quite other conditions. They were for the most part to be spoken at a moment of victory and triumph. Generally when he was dying of wounds and the sovereign had thanked him for heroic deeds, and while dying he expressed the love his actions had proved. Besides, how can I ask the emperor for his instructions for the right flank now that it is nearly four o'clock and the battle is lost? No, certainly I must not approach him. I must not intrude on his reflections. Better to die a thousand times than risk receiving an unkind look or bad opinion from him, Rostov decided. And sorrowfully and with a heart full of despair he rode away, continually looking back at the Tsar, who still remained in the same attitude of indecision. While Rostov was thus arguing with himself and writing sadly away, Captain Vontolle chanced to ride to the same spot, and seeing the emperor at once rode up to him, offered his services and assisted him to cross the ditch on foot. The emperor, wishing to rest and feeling unwell, sat down under an apple-tree, and Vontolle remained beside him. Rostov, from a distance, saw with envy and remorse how Vontolle spoke long and warmly to the emperor, and how the emperor, evidently weeping, covered his eyes with his hand and pressed Vontolle's hand. And I might have been in his place, thought Rostov, and hardly restraining his tears of pity for the emperor. He rode on in utter despair, not knowing where to or why he was now riding. His despair was all the greater, from feeling that his own weakness was the cause of his grief. He might, not only might but should have gone to the sovereign. It was a unique chance to show his devotion to the emperor and he had not made use of it. What have I done, thought he? And he turned round and galloped back to the place where he had seen the emperor, but there was no one beyond the ditch now. Only some carts and carriages were passing by. From one of the drivers he learned that Kutuzov's staff were not far off. In the village the vehicles were going to. Rostov followed them. In front of him walked Kutuzov's groom, leading horses and horse-cloths. Then came a cart, and behind that walked an old bandy-legged domestic-surf in a peaked cap and sheepskin coat. "'Tit, I say, tit!' said the groom. "'What?' answered the old man absentmindedly. "'Go, tit! Thresh a bit!' "'Oh, you fool!' said the old man, spitting angrily. Some time passed in silence and then the same joke was repeated. Before five in the evening the battle had been lost at all points. More than a hundred cannon were already in the hands of the French. Presbyshevsky and his corp had laid down their arms. Other columns, after losing half their men, were retreating in disorderly confused masses. The remains of Langerons and Doktorov's mingled forces were crowding around the dams and banks of the pods near the village of Ogedds. After five o'clock it was only at the Ogedds' dam that a hot cannonade, delivered by the French alone, was still to be heard from numerous batteries ranged on the slopes of Protson Heights, directed at our retreating forces. In the rearguard, Doktorov and others rallying some battalions kept up a musketry fire at the French cavalry that was pursuing our troops. It was growing dusk. On the narrow Ogedds' dam, where for so many years the old miller had been accustomed to sit, in his tasseled cap, peacefully angling, while his grandson, with shirt-sleeves rolled up, handled the floundering silvery fish in the watering can. On that dam, over which for so many years moravians and shaggy caps and blue jackets had peacefully driven their two horse carts loaded with wheat, and had returned dusty, with flour whitening their carts. On that narrow dam, amid the wagons and the cannon, under the horse's hoofs and between the wagon-wheels, men disfigured by fear of death now crowded together, crushing one another, dying, stepping over the dying and killing one another, only to move on a few steps and be killed themselves in the same way. Every ten seconds a cannon ball flew compressing the air around, or a shell burst in the midst of that dense throng, killing some and splashing with blood those near him. Dolokov, now an officer, wounded in the arm and on foot with the regimental commander on horseback and some ten men of his company, represented all that was left of that whole regiment. Impelled by the crowd they had got wedged at the approach to the dam, and jammed in on all sides had stopped because a horse in front had fallen under a cannon, and the crowd were dragging it out. A cannon ball killed someone behind them, another fell in front and splashed Dolokov with blood, the crowd pushing forward desperately, squeezed together, moved a few steps, and again stopped. Move on a hundred yards, and we are certainly saved. Remain here another two minutes, and it is certainly death sought each one. Dolokov, who was in the midst of the crowd, forced his way to the edge of the dam, throwing two soldiers off their feet, and ran on to the slippery ice that covered the mill-pool. Turn this way, he shouted, jumping over the ice which creaked under him. Turn this way, he shouted to those with the gun. It bears. The ice bore him, but it swayed and creaked, and it was plain that it would give way not only under a cannon or a crowd, but very soon, even under his weight alone. The men looked at him, and pressed to the bank, hesitating to step onto the ice. The general on horse back at the entrance to the dam raised his hand and opened his mouth to address Dolokov. Suddenly, a cannon ball hissed so low above the crowd that everyone ducked. It flopped into something moist, and the general fell from his horse in a pool of blood. Nobody gave him a look or thought of raising him. Get on to the ice, over the ice! Go on, turn! Don't you hear? Go on! Inumerable voices suddenly shouted after the ball had struck the general. The men themselves not knowing what or why they were shouting. One of the hindmost guns that was going on to the dam turned off onto the ice. Crowds of soldiers from the dam began running on to the frozen pond. The ice gave way under one of the foremost shoulders, and one leg slipped into the water. He tried to ride himself, but fell in up to his waist. The nearest soldiers strained back. The gun driver stopped his horse, but from behind still came the shouts. On to the ice! Why do you stop? Go on! Go on! And cries of horror were heard in the crowd. The soldiers near the gun waved their arms and beat the horses to make them turn and move on. The horses moved off the bank. The ice that had held under those on foot collapsed in a great mass, and some forty men who were on it dashed. Some forward and some back, drowning one another. Still the cannon balls continued regularly to whistle and flop onto the ice and into the water, and oftenest of all among the crowd that covered the dam, the pond, and the bank. Le Prince Andrew Bulkonsky, bleeding profusely and unconsciously uttering a gentle, piteous and childlike moan. Toward evening he seized moaning and became quiet still. He did not know how long his unconsciousness lasted. Suddenly he again felt that he was alive and suffering from a burning, lacerating pain in his head. Where is it that lofty sky that I did not know till now, but so today? Was his first thought. And I did not know the suffering either, he thought. Yes, I did not know anything, anything at all till now. But where am I? He listened and heard the sound of approaching horses and voices speaking French. He opened his eyes. Above him again was the same lofty sky with clouds that had risen and were floating still higher and between them gleamed blue infinity. He did not turn his head and did not see those who, judging by the sound of hooves and voices, had ridden up and stopped near him. It was Napoleon accompanied by two aid de camp. Bonaparte riding over the battlefield had given final orders to strengthen the batteries firing at the august dam and was looking at the killed and wounded left on the field. Fine men remarked Napoleon looking at a dead Russian grenadier who with his face buried in the ground and a blackened nape lay on his stomach with an already stiffened arm flung wide. The ammunition for the guns in position is exhausted, your majesty, said an agiton who had come from the batteries that were firing at august. Have some brought from the reserve, said Napoleon, and having gone a few steps he stopped before Prince Andrew who lay on his back with the flagstaff that had been dropped beside him. The flag had already been taken by the French as a trophy. That's a fine death, said Napoleon as he gazed at Wolkonsky. Prince Andrew understood this was said of him and that it was Napoleon who said it. He heard the speaker addressed as but he heard the words as he might have heard the buzzing of a fly. Not only did they not interest him but he took no notice of them and at once forgot them. His head was burning and he felt himself bleeding to death and he saw above him the remote, lofty and everlasting sky. He knew it was Napoleon, his hero, but at that moment Napoleon seemed to him such a small insignificant creature compared with what was passing now between himself and that lofty infinite sky with the clouds flying over it. At that moment it meant nothing to him who might be standing over him and what was said of him. He was only glad that people were standing near him and he only wished that they would help him and bring him back to life which seemed to him so beautiful now that he had today learned to understand it so differently. He collected all his strength to stir and utter a sound. He fably moved his leg and uttered a weak sickly groan which aroused his own pity. Ah! he's alive! said Napoleon. Lift this young man up and carry him to the dressing station. Having said this, Napoleon rode on to meet martial lands who had in hand rode up smiling to the Emperor to congratulate him on the victory. Prince Andrew remembered nothing more. He lost consciousness from the terrible pain of being lifted on to the stretcher, the jolting while being moved and the probing of his wound at the dressing station. He did not regain consciousness till late in the day when with other wounded and captured Russian officers he was carried to the hospital. During this transfer he felt a little stronger and was able to look about him and even speak. The first words he heard on coming to his senses were those of a French convoy officer who said rapidly, we must hold here. The Emperor will pass here immediately. It will please him to see these gentlemen prisoners. There are so many prisoners today, nearly the whole Russian army, that he is probably tired of them, said another officer. All the same, they say this one is the commander of all the Emperor Alexander's guards, said the first one indicating a Russian officer in the white uniform of horse guards. Volkonsky recognized Prince Repnin whom he had met in Petersburg society. Beside him stood a lad of nineteen, also a wounded officer of the horse guards. Born apart, having come up at a gallop, stopped his horse, which is the senior, he asked on seeing the prisoners. They named the Colonel Prince Repnin. You are the commander of Emperor Alexander's regiment of horse guards? Asked Napoleon. I commanded a squadron, replied Repnin. Your regiment fulfilled its duty honorably, said Napoleon. The praise of a great commander is a soldier's highest reward, said Repnin. I disturb it with pleasure, said Napoleon. And who is that young man beside you? Prince Repnin named Lieutenant Suptellin. After looking at him, Napoleon smiled. He is very young to come to meddle with us. You, there's no hindrance to courage, muttered Suptellin in a failing voice. A splendid reply, said Napoleon. Young man, you'll go far. Prince Andrew, who had also been brought forward before the Emperor's eyes to complete the show of prisoners, could not fail to attract his attention. Napoleon apparently remembered seeing him on the battlefield, and addressing him again used the epithet young man that was connected in his memory with Prince Andrew. Well, and you young man, said he, how do you feel, mon brave? Though five minutes before, Prince Andrew had been able to say a few words to the soldiers who were carrying him, now with his eyes fixed straight on Napoleon, he was silent. So insignificant at that moment seemed to him all the interest that engrossed Napoleon. So mean did his hero himself with his paltry vanity and joy in victory appear, compared to the lofty, equitable and kindly sky which he had seen and understood that he could not answer him. Everything seemed so futile and insignificant in comparison with the stern and solemn train of thought that weakness from loss of blood, suffering and the nearness of death aroused in him. Looking into Napoleon's eyes, Prince Andrew thought of the insignificance of greatness, the unimportance of life which no one could understand, and the still greater unimportance of death, the meaning of which no one alive could understand or explain. The Emperor, without waiting for an answer, turned away and said to one of the officers as he went, Have these gentlemen attended too and taken to my bivouac. Let my doctor Larry examine their wounds. Oh Revva, Prince Retnan, and he spurred his horse in Galbdove. His face shone with self-satisfaction and pleasure. The soldiers who had carried Prince Andrew had noticed and taken the little gold icon Princess Mary had hung round her brother's neck, but seeing the favour the Emperor showed the prisoners they are now hastened to return the holy image. Prince Andrew did not see how and by whom it was replaced, but the little icon with its thin gold chain suddenly appeared upon his chest outside his uniform. It had been good, thought Prince Andrew, glancing at the icon his sister had hung round her neck with such emotion and reverence. It had been good if everything were as clear and simple as it seems to Mary. How good it had been to know where to seek for help in this life and what to expect after it beyond the grave. How happy and calm I should be if I could now say Lord have mercy on me, but to whom should I say that? Either to a power indefinable, incomprehensible, which I not only cannot address but which I cannot even express in words. The great old or nothing said he to himself. Or to that God who has been sown into this amulet by Mary. There is nothing certain, nothing at all except the unimportance of everything I understand and the greatness of something incomprehensible but all important. The stretchers moved on. At every jolt he again felt unindurable pain. His favoritiveness increased and he grew delirious. Visions of his father, wife, sister and future son and the tenderness he had felt the night before the battle, the figure of the insignificant little Napoleon and above all this the lofty sky formed the chief subjects of his delirious fancies. The quiet home life and peaceful happiness of bold hills presented itself to him. He was already enjoying that happiness when that little Napoleon had suddenly appeared with his unsympathizing look of short-sighted delight at the misery of others and doubts and torments had followed and only the heavens promised peace. Toward morning all these dreams melted and merged into the chaos and darkness of unconsciousness and oblivion which in the opinion of Napoleon's doctor Larry was much more likely to end in death than in convalescence. He is a nervous, billiard subject, said Larry, and will not recover. And Prince Andrew with others fatally wounded was left to the care of the inhabitants of the district. End of chapter 19 End of War and Peace Book III by Leo Tolstoy