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ROSTOV, with his keen sportsman's eye, was one of the first to descry these
blue dragoons pursuing our Uhlans. Nearer and nearer flew the disordered crowds
of the Uhlans and the French dragoons in pursuit of them. He could see now
separate figures, looking small at the bottom of the hill, fighting, overtaking
one another, and waving their arms and their swords.
Rostov gazed at what was passing before him as at a hunt. He felt
instinctively that if he were to charge with his hussars on the French dragoons
now, they could not stand their ground; but if he were to charge it must be that
very minute or it would be too late. He looked round. The captain standing
beside him had his eyes too fixed on the cavalry below.
“Andrey Sevastianitch,” said Rostov, “we could close them in, surely …”
“And a smart job, too,” said the captain, “and indeed …”
Rostov, without waiting for his answer, set spurs to his horse and galloped
off in front of his squadron. Before he had time to give the command, the whole
squadron, sharing his feeling, flew after him. Rostov himself could not have
said how or why he did it. He did it all, as he did everything in a wolf hunt,
without thinking or considering. He saw that the dragoons were near, that they
were galloping in no order, he knew they could not stand their ground; he knew
there was only one minute to act in, which would not return if he let it slip.
The cannon balls were hissing and whistling so inspiritingly about him, his
horse pulled so eagerly forward that he could not resist it. He spurred his
horse, shouted the command, and the same instant flew full trot down-hill
towards the dragoons, hearing the tramp of his squadron behind him. As they
dashed downhill, the trot insensibly passed into a gallop that became swifter
and swifter, as they drew nearer their Uhlans and the French dragoons pursuing
them. The dragoons were close now. The foremost, seeing the hussars, began
turning back; the hindmost halted. With the same feeling with which he had
dashed off to cut off the wolf's escape, Rostov, letting his Don horse go at his
utmost speed, galloped to cut off the broken ranks of the dragoons. One Uhlan
halted; another, on foot, flung himself to the ground to avoid being knocked
down; a riderless horse was carried along with the hussars. Almost all the
dragoons were galloping back. Rostov picked out one of them on a grey horse and
flew after him. On the way he rode straight at a bush; his gallant horse cleared
it; and Nikolay was hardly straight in the saddle again when he saw in a few
seconds he would overtake the enemy he had pitched upon as his aim. The
Frenchman, probably an officer from his uniform, sat crouched upon his grey
horse, and urging it on with his sword. In another instant Rostov's horse dashed
up against the grey horse's hindquarters, almost knocking it over, and at the
same second Rostov, not knowing why he did so, raised his sword, and aimed a
blow at the Frenchman.
The instant he did this all Rostov's eagerness suddenly vanished. The officer
fell to the ground, not so much from the sword cut, for it had only just grazed
his arm above the elbow, as from fright and the shock to his horse. As Rostov
pulled his horse in, his eyes sought his foe to see what sort of man he had
vanquished. The French officer was hopping along on the ground, with one foot
caught in the stirrup. Screwing up his eyes, as though expecting another blow
every instant, he glanced up at Rostov frowning with an expression of terror.
His pale, mud-stained face—fair and young, with a dimple on the chin and clear
blue eyes—was the most unwarlike, most good-natured face, more in place by a
quiet fireside than on the field of battle. Before Rostov could make up his mind
what to do with him, the officer shouted, “I surrender.” He tried hurriedly and
failed to extricate his foot from the stirrup, and still gazed with his
frightened blue eyes at Rostov. The hussars, galloping up, freed his foot, and
got him into his saddle. The hussars were busily engaged on all sides with the
dragoons; one was wounded, but though his face was streaming with blood he would
not let go of his horse; another put his arms round an hussar as he sat perched
up behind on his horse; a third was clambering on to his horse, supported by an
hussar. The French infantry were in front, firing as they ran. The hussars
galloped hastily back with their prisoners. Rostov galloped back with the rest,
conscious of some disagreeable sensation, a kind of ache at his heart. A glimpse
of something vague and confused, of which he could not get a clear view, seemed
to have come to him with the capture of that French officer and the blow he had
dealt him.
Count Osterman-Tolstoy met the hussars on their return, summoned Rostov,
thanked him and told him he would report his gallant action to the Tsar and
would recommend him for the cross of St. George. When Rostov was called up to
Count Osterman, bethinking himself that he had received no command to charge, he
had no doubt that his commanding officer sent for him to reprimand him for his
breach of discipline. Osterman's flattering words and promise of a reward
should, therefore, have been a pleasant surprise to Rostov; but he still
suffered from that unpleasant vague feeling of moral nausea. “Why, what on earth
is it that's worrying me?” he wondered, as he rode away from the general.
“Ilyin? No, he's all right. Did I do anything disgraceful? No, that's not it
either!” Something else fretted him like a remorse. “Yes, yes, that officer with
the dimple. And I remember clearly how my hand paused when I had lifted
it.”
Rostov saw the prisoners being led away, and galloped after them to look at
his Frenchman with the dimple in his chin. He was sitting in his strange uniform
on one of the spare horses, looking uneasily about him. The sword-cut in his arm
could hardly be called a wound. He looked at Rostov with a constrained smile,
and waved his hand by way of a greeting. Rostov still felt the same discomfort
and vague remorse.
All that day and the next Rostov's friends and comrades noticed that, without
being exactly depressed or irritable, he was silent, dreamy, and preoccupied. He
did not care to drink, tried to be alone, and seemed absorbed in thought. Rostov
was still pondering on his brilliant exploit, which, to his amazement, had won
him the St. George's Cross and made his reputation indeed for fearless
gallantry. There was something he could not fathom in it. “So they are even more
frightened than we are,” he thought. “Why, is this all that's meant by heroism?
And did I do it for the sake of my country? And was he to blame with his dimple
and his blue eyes? How frightened he was! He thought I was going to kill him.
Why should I kill him? My hand trembled. And they have given me the St. George's
Cross. I can't make it out, I can't make it out!”
But while Nikolay was worrying over these questions in his heart and unable
to find any clear solution of the doubts that troubled him, the wheel of fortune
was turning in his favour, as so often happens in the service. He was brought
forward after the affair at Ostrovna, received the command of a battalion of
hussars, and when an officer of dauntless courage was wanted he was picked
out.
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