Marya Genrikhovna was the regimental doctor's wife, a pretty young German girl whom he had married in Poland. Being short of money or reluctant to part from his young wife in the early days of their marriage, the doctor took her with him everywhere; she was part of the regiment and his jealousy made him the butt of many a joke among the hussar officers.
Rostov flung a cape over his shoulders, yelled across to Lavrushka to follow on with their things, and set off with Ilyin, slipping in the mud and splashing straight through pools in the drizzling rain with intermittent flashes of lightning in the distance searing through the evening darkness.
'Rostov, where are you?'
'Over here . . . Look at that lightning!' they called to one another.
CHAPTER 13
The doctor's little covered cart stood waiting by an abandoned inn; inside there were half a dozen officers. Marya Genrikhovna, a buxom little German blonde, was sitting on a broad bench in the front corner wearing her short dressing-gown and night-cap. Her husband, the doctor, lay asleep just behind her. Rostov and Ilyin came in to a raucous welcome of shouting and happy laughter.
'Hey! You're having a wonderful time in here!' said Rostov with a laugh.
'Well, don't just stand there gawping at us!'
'Look at them! Dripping all over the place! Do you want to flood us out? Don't drip all over Marya Genrikhovna's clothes,' came the various voices.
Rostov and Ilyin looked round quickly for some little corner where they could get out of their wet clothes without offending the modesty of Marya Genrikhovna. They headed for a little partition to go behind it and change, but the tiny space was completely filled by three officers who sat there playing cards by the light of a single candle on an empty box and refused to budge. Marya Genrikhovna yielded up a petticoat for use as a curtain and with that for a screen Rostov and Ilyin, assisted by Lavrushka, who had followed on with their kit-bags, got out of their wet things and came out in dry clothes.
A fire had been lit in the broken-down stove. They got hold of a board, rigged it up across a couple of saddles, covered it with a horse-cloth and then produced a small samovar, a hamper and half a bottle of rum. They all crowded round Marya Genrikhovna, asking her to be mother. One of them offered her a clean handkerchief to wipe her pretty little hands; somebody else spread his tunic under her little feet to keep them out of the damp; a third man hung his cape over the window to keep the draught out; a fourth wafted the flies away from her husband's face so he wouldn't wake up.
'Leave him alone,' said Marya Genrikhovna with a shy, happy smile. 'He won't have any trouble sleeping - he's been up all night.'
'Oh no, Marya Genrikhovna,' answered the officer, 'we've got to look after the doctor! Anything could happen, and I want him to be nice to me when he cuts my leg off, or my arm.'
There were only three glasses, the water was so dirty you couldn't tell whether the tea was strong or weak, and the samovar only held enough water for six glasses, but all this added to the pleasure of waiting, in order of rank, until it was your turn to receive a glass from Marya Genrikhovna's chubby little hands with their short and not too clean nails. All the officers seemed to have really fallen in love with Marya Genrikhovna for one evening. Even the officers who had been playing cards behind the screen soon abandoned their game and came to gather round the samovar, catching the general mood and flirting with Marya Genrikhovna. She, seeing herself surrounded by such brilliant and solicitous young men, was beaming with delight despite her best efforts to conceal it, and the obvious way she jumped every time her husband stirred in his sleep behind her. There was plenty of sugar but only one spoon, so no one could have a proper stir. It was decided that Marya Genrikhovna would stir everybody's glass in turn. Rostov received his glass, topped it up with rum and asked Marya Genrikhovna to do the stirring.
'But you don't take sugar, do you?' she said, and the smile never left her face, seeming to suggest that everything she said and everybody else said was wildly amusing and had a double meaning.
'I'm not bothered about the sugar, I just want you to stir it with your little hand.'
Marya Genrikhovna accepted this and looked round for the spoon, but someone had snatched it away.
'Use one of your little fingers, Marya Genrikhovna,' said Rostov. 'It'll taste nicer.'
'Too hot,' said Marya Genrikhovna, colouring up with pleasure.
Ilyin fetched a bucketful of water, topped it up with a little rum, walked over to Marya Genrikhovna and asked her to stir it with her finger.
'This is my cup,' he said. 'Dip your finger in and I'll drink the lot.'
When the samovar had been emptied Rostov reached for the cards and proposed a game of 'kings' with Marya Genrikhovna. They drew lots to decide who was going to be her partner. Rostov proposed new rules: whoever was 'king' would have the right to kiss Marya Genrikhovna's hand, and the 'knave' would have to get the samovar going again for the doctor when he woke up.
'Yes, but what if Marya Genrikhovna is king?' asked Ilyin.
'She's already our queen! And her word is law.' The game had hardly started when the doctor's dishevelled head suddenly loomed up behind his wife. He had been awake for some time, listening to what they were saying, and it was clear that he could see nothing enjoyable, diverting or the least bit funny in what was being said and done. His face was a picture of sorrow and anguish. Without greeting the officers he scratched himself and asked them to let him through because they were standing in his way. The moment he had left the room all the officers erupted in great bellows of laughter, and Marya Genrikhovna blushed till her eyes watered, which made her even more alluring to all the officers. When he came back in from the yard the doctor turned to his wife (who had wiped the radiant smile off her face and was now watching him apprehensively, waiting to see what his verdict would be) and told her it had stopped raining and they would have to spend the night in their covered cart if they didn't want all their things to be stolen.
'No, I'll put a guard on it . . . two guards!' said Rostov. 'Don't say another word, doctor.'
'I'll guard it myself!' said Ilyin.
'No, gentlemen, you've had plenty of sleep, but I've had two sleepless nights,' said the doctor, and he sat down moodily at his wife's side to wait for the end of the game.
One look at the doctor's moody expression as he stole shifty glances at his wife, and the officers became rowdier than ever; many of them laughed uncontrollably and had to work hard at thinking up decent excuses for doing so. When the doctor had gone, taking his wife with him, and the pair of them had settled down in their little cart, the officers took to the inn floor and snuggled down under their damp coats. But sleep didn't come; they chatted away for quite some time, harking back to the worried doctor and his blissful wife, and even running out on to the steps to report back on what was going on in the cart. Several times Rostov buried his head in his coat and tried to get to sleep, only to be distracted by some new comment, and then the conversation would start up again, and the room would soon be ringing with great guffaws of ridiculous laughter like that of happy children.
CHAPTER 14
It was past two o'clock and they were all still awake when the quartermaster appeared with orders for them to proceed to a little place called Ostrovna. The officers buckled to immediately, getting their things together, with no pause in the laughter and banter, and the samovar was refilled with dirty water. But Rostov set off for his squadron without waiting for tea. It was getting light, the drizzle had cleared up and the dark clouds were thinning. It was a damp morning, the chill made worse by clothes that had not had time to dry out. As they came out of the inn into the half-light of early morning Rostov and Ilyin both glanced under the leather cover of the doctor's cart, still glistening from the rain. The doctor's feet stuck out from under the apron. In the middle of the cart they caught a glimpse of his wife's night-cap on a pillow, and they could hear sleepy breathing.
'Lovely little thing, isn't she?' said Rostov to Ilyin, close be
hind.
'A delightful woman!' responded Ilyin, with all the gravity of a sixteen-year-old.
Half an hour later the squadron was on parade along the road. They were given the order to mount, and they did so, crossing themselves. Rostov rode off, ordering them to move forward, and the hussars came after him four abreast, to the sound of hooves splashing through mud, jingling sabres and subdued exchanges between the men, trotting down the broad highway between two rows of birch-trees after the infantry and artillery, which had gone on ahead.
The broken clouds, violet-coloured and tinged red by the rising sun, scudded before the wind. It was getting lighter by the minute. They could now clearly see, still wet from yesterday's rain, the feathery grass that is a permanent feature of all country roadsides. The birch branches hung down, swaying in the wind, with glittering droplets showering right and left. The soldiers' faces became clearer and clearer. Rostov, with Ilyin sticking beside him, rode down one side of the road between the two rows of birches.
On active service Rostov allowed himself the indulgence of riding a Cossack horse instead of an ordinary regimental animal. A connoisseur and lover of horses, he had recently managed to acquire a big chestnut-and-white charger from the Don steppe, a lovely beast with a fine spirit, who was never outgalloped. Rostov found him a delight to ride. He was thinking about his horse now, and the morning, and the doctor's wife, but the approaching danger never crossed his mind.
In earlier days Rostov had always felt scared as he rode into battle; now he felt not a flicker of fear. He was fearless not because he had got used to being under fire (you never get used to danger) but because he had learnt how to master his own spirit in the face of danger. He had formed the habit, when riding into battle, of thinking about anything except the one thing that ought to have been more fascinating than anything else - the danger that lay ahead. However earnestly he had struggled to do this, and however many times he had bitterly called himself a coward in the early days, he had never been able to manage it. But it had come by itself with the passing years. He rode on now between the birch-trees with Ilyin at his side, occasionally stripping the leaves from twigs that came to hand, sometimes touching his horse's flank with one foot, finishing a pipe and handing it back without turning round to a hussar following on, all with the cheery breeziness of someone out for a ride. He felt for Ilyin with his over-excited face and his persistent, worried chatter. He knew from experience what an agonizing state the cornet must be in, racked by forebodings of terror and of death, and he knew that nothing could help him but the passage of time.
Once the sun had appeared in the clear band of sky just below the stormclouds the wind died down, as if it would not presume to spoil the beauty of a summer morning after a storm; the branches still dripped, but the droplets fell straight to the ground, and a hush lay over everything. The sun was now fully up just above the horizon, though it soon vanished into a long, narrow strip of overhanging cloud, only to emerge brighter still a few minutes later on top of the cloud, breaking out through its edges. Everything was bright and shining. And coinciding with the bright sunlight, as if in response to it, the first shots rang out ahead.
Rostov had no time to think things over and work out how far away these shots had been; one of Count Ostermann-Tolstoy's adjutants was suddenly on him, galloping up from Vitebsk with an order to advance down the road at a steady pace.
The squadron overtook the infantry and the battery, even though they had also picked up speed, and then the hussars trotted down a hill, through an empty village which had lost all its inhabitants, and up the other side. The horses were beginning to lather and the men were red in the face.
'Halt! Dress ranks!' called the divisional commander ahead of them. 'By the left, forward! Walk on!'
And the hussars made their way past the lines to the left flank of our position, coming to a halt behind our uhlans, who formed the front line. To the right was a dense column of infantry - the reserves - and behind them further up the hill on the line of the horizon where the air was so sweet and clear our cannons stood, picked out in the angled rays of the bright morning sunshine. Ahead of us, across the valley, we could see the enemy's columns and guns. In the valley itself our advance line had gone into action and was merrily exchanging fire with the enemy.
These shots were music to Rostov's ears, music he had not heard for such a long time, and he felt his spirits rise. Tra-ta-ta-ta! More shots rang out, volleys and rapid single fire. Then - silence, but not for long; more bursts, like the sound of fire-crackers underfoot.
The hussars stayed where they were for an hour or so. The cannons opened up. Count Ostermann rode up with his suite behind the squadron, stopped for a quick consultation with the colonel of the regiment and rode on uphill towards the big guns.
Just after he had gone a command was roared out among the uhlans.
'Columns! fall in! Prepare to charge!'
The infantry platoons ahead of them parted to let the cavalry through. The uhlans surged forward, with fluttering streamers atop their lances, and proceeded downhill at a steady pace towards the French cavalry, just now emerging down below on the left.
As soon as the uhlans had moved off down the slope the hussars were ordered uphill to cover the battery. As they moved round to take up the positions vacated by the uhlans, they heard the fizzing and whining of musket-shot from the front, falling short of its target.
This sound, which he had not heard for many a long day, had an even more joyous and energizing effect on Rostov than the musket-shots before them. He rose in the saddle and scanned the battlefield opening out before him as he rode uphill, and his heart went out to the uhlans as they pressed forward. They flew down on the French dragoons, there was some kind of hurly-burly in the smoke and five minutes later the uhlans were dashing back, not towards the spot they had come from, but further left. In among the orange-coloured ranks of uhlans on their chestnut horses, and behind them, a huge mass of blue French dragoons mounted on their greys could now be seen.
CHAPTER 15
Rostov, with the sharp eye of a hunting man, was one of the first to spot these blue dragoons pursuing our uhlans. Nearer and nearer came the scattered hordes of uhlans and the pursuing French dragoons. He could now see individual figures, men that had looked so small at the bottom of the hill, fighting, chasing each other, waving arms and brandishing sabres.
For Rostov it was like watching a hunt. Instinct told him that if his hussars were to attack the French dragoons now they would give in, but the attack would have to come now, this very minute, or it would be too late. He looked round. The captain standing beside him also had his eyes glued on the cavalry down the hill.
'Andrey Sevastyanych,' said Rostov, 'we could get them couldn't we?'
'It would be a nice piece of work,' said the captain, 'but as a matter of fact . . .'
Rostov waited no longer for his response; he spurred his horse and galloped off in front of his squadron. He hardly had time to give the command - the whole squadron, feeling as he did, dashed after him. Rostov couldn't have said how or why he did it. It was like hunting; he did what he did without thinking or weighing things up. He could see the dragoons were getting close and galloping all over the place, he knew they couldn't withstand a charge, and he also knew that this was their moment, and it wouldn't come again if he missed it. He felt exhilarated by the sound of bullets whistling and whining on all sides, and his horse was straining forward so strongly he couldn't hold him back. He spurred him on, gave the command and instantly set off downhill at a half-gallop heading towards the dragoons, hearing the thudding hooves of his squadron coming on behind, properly deployed. They flew downhill, went into a full gallop, faster and faster, getting nearer and nearer to their uhlans and the pursuing French. The dragoons were not far away now. Those in front took one look at the hussars and turned back; the ones behind came juddering to a halt. It was just like diving across to cut off a wolf - Rostov urged his Don horse forward, giving him his
head, and shot across to intercept the dragoons in their tattered ranks. One uhlan stopped in his tracks, another one, on foot, flung himself to the ground to avoid being ridden down, and a riderless horse joined in with the charging hussars. Almost all the dragoons were now riding away. Rostov picked out one of them on a grey and flew after him. There was a bush in the way, but his gallant horse took it in his stride, and Nikolay was hardly straight in the saddle again when he saw that it would take him only a second or two to catch up with his chosen enemy. The Frenchman, an officer to judge by his uniform, sat hunched up on his grey horse, urging it on with his sword. The next moment Rostov's horse ran straight into the grey's hindquarters and nearly brought it down while Rostov surprised himself by raising his sword and aiming a blow at the Frenchman.
But then, in an instant, Rostov's enthusiasm suddenly drained away. The officer fell to the ground, not really from the sword cut, which gave him no more than a scratch above the elbow, but from the bump between horses and sheer terror. As Rostov reined in, his eyes were searching for his foe to see whom he had brought down. There was the French officer, hopping along with one foot caught in his stirrup. He was terrified, wincing from immediate expectation of another blow, and he looked up at Rostov, recoiling in horror. This pale, mud-stained face of a fair-haired young man with a dimple on his chin and bright blue eyes had no business with battlefields; it was not the face of an enemy; it was a domestic, indoor face. Before Rostov could make up his mind what to do with him, the officer called out in French, 'I surrender!' He was still in a panic, vainly struggling to extricate his foot from the stirrup and still staring up at Rostov with fear in his eyes of blue. Then some hussars galloped over, freed his foot and got him up into the saddle again. The hussars had their hands full on all sides dealing with the dragoons: here was a wounded man with blood streaming down his face who wouldn't let go of his horse; there was another man who had scrambled up on to a colleague's horse and was clasping him round the waist; a third was helping another hussar up on to his own horse. The French infantry were just ahead, loosing off shots as they ran. The hussars hurried away with their prisoners. Rostov galloped along with the rest, conscious of a nasty feeling inside, an aching round his heart. It was as if he had suddenly seen something, something vague and confused that he couldn't account for, in capturing that French officer and hitting him with his sword.