AT DAWN on the 16th, Denisov's squadron, in which Nikolay Rostov was serving, and which formed part of Prince Bagration's detachment, moved on from its halting place for the night—to advance into action, as was said. After about a mile's march, in the rear of other columns, it was brought to a standstill on the high-road. Rostov saw the Cossacks, the first and second squadrons of hussars, and the infantry battalions with the artillery pass him and march on ahead; he also saw the Generals Bagration and Dolgorukov ride by with their adjutants. All the panic he had felt, as before, at the prospect of battle, all the inner conflict by means of which he had overcome that panic, all his dreams of distinguishing himself in true hussar style in this battle—all were for nothing. His squadron was held back in reserve, and Nikolay Rostov spent a tedious and wretched day. About nine o'clock in the morning he heard firing ahead of him, and shouts of hurrah, saw the wounded being brought back (there were not many of them), and finally saw a whole detachment of French cavalry being brought away in the midst of a company of Cossacks. Obviously the action was over, and the action had, obviously, been a small one, but successful. The soldiers and officers as they came back were talking of a brilliant victory, of the taking of the town of Vishau, and a whole French squadron taken prisoners. The day was bright and sunny after a sharp frost at night, and the cheerful brightness of the autumn day was in keeping with the news of victory, which was told not only by the accounts of those who had taken part in it, but by the joyful expression of soldiers, officers, generals, and adjutants, who rode to and fro by Rostov. All the greater was the pang in Nikolay's heart that he should have suffered the dread that goes before the battle for nothing, and have spent that happy day in inactivity.
“Rostov, come here, let's drink ‘begone, dull care!' ” shouted Denisov, sitting at the roadside before a bottle and some edibles. The officers gathered in a ring, eating and talking, round Denisov's wine-case.
“Here they're bringing another!” said one of the officers, pointing to a French prisoner, a dragoon, who was being led on foot by two Cossacks. One of them was leading by the bridle the prisoner's horse, a tall and beautiful French beast.
“Sell the horse?” Denisov called to the Cossacks.
“If you will, your honour.”
The officers got up and stood round the Cossacks and the prisoner. The French dragoon was a young fellow, an Alsatian who spoke French with a German accent. He was breathless with excitement, his face was red, and hearing French spoken he began quickly speaking to the officers, turning from one to another. He said that they wouldn't have taken him, that it wasn't his fault he was taken, but the fault of the corporal, who had sent him to get the horsecloths, that he had told him the Russians were there. And at every word he added: “But don't let anybody hurt my little horse,” and stroked his horse. It was evident that he did not quite grasp where he was. At one moment he was excusing himself for having been taken prisoner, at the next, imagining himself before his superior officers, he was trying to prove his soldierly discipline and zeal for the service. He brought with him in all its freshness into our rearguard the atmosphere of the French army, so alien to us.
The Cossacks sold the horse for two gold pieces, and Rostov, being the richest of the officers since he had received money from home, bought it.
“Be good to the little horse!” the Alsatian said with simple-hearted good-nature to Rostov, when the horse was handed to the hussar.
Rostov smiling, soothed the dragoon, and gave him money.
“Alley! Alley!” said the Cossack, touching the prisoner's arm to make him go on.
“The Emperor! the Emperor!” was suddenly heard among the hussars. Everything was bustle and hurry, and Rostov saw behind them on the road several horsemen riding up with white plumes in their hats. In a single moment all were in their places and eagerly expectant.
Rostov had no memory and no consciousness of how he ran to his post and got on his horse. Instantly his regret at not taking part in the battle, his humdrum mood among the men he saw every day—all was gone; instantly all thought of self had vanished. He was entirely absorbed in the feeling of happiness at the Tsar's being near. His nearness alone made up to him by itself, he felt, for the loss of the whole day. He was happy, as a lover is happy when the moment of the longed-for meeting has come. Not daring to look round from the front line, by an ecstatic instinct without looking round, he felt his approach. And he felt it not only from the sound of the tramping hoofs of the approaching cavalcade, he felt it because as the Tsar came nearer everything grew brighter, more joyful and significant, and more festive. Nearer and nearer moved this sun, as he seemed to Rostov, shedding around him rays of mild and majestic light, and now he felt himself enfolded in that radiance, he heard his voice—that voice caressing, calm, majestic, and yet so simple. A deathlike silence had come—as seemed to Rostov fitting—and in that silence he heard the sound of the Tsar's voice.
“The Pavlograd hussars?” he was saying interrogatively
“The reserve, sire,” replied a voice—such a human voice, after the superhuman voice that had said: “Les hussards de Pavlograd?”
The Tsar was on a level with Rostov, and he stood still there. Alexander's face was even handsomer than it had been at the review three days before. It beamed with such gaiety and youth, such innocent youthfulness, that suggested the playfulness of a boy of fourteen, and yet it was still the face of the majestic Emperor. Glancing casually along the squadron, the Tsar's eyes met the eyes of Rostov, and for not more than two seconds rested on them. Whether it was that the Tsar saw what was passing in Rostov's soul (it seemed to Rostov that he saw everything), any way he looked for two seconds with his blue eyes into Rostov's face. (A soft, mild radiance beamed from them.) Then all at once he raised his eyebrows, struck his left foot sharply against his horse, and galloped on.
The young Emperor could not restrain his desire to be present at the battle, and in spite of the expostulations of his courtiers, at twelve o'clock, escaping from the third column which he had been following, he galloped to the vanguard. Before he reached the hussars, several adjutants met him with news of the successful issue of the engagement.
The action, which had simply consisted in the capture of a squadron of the French, was magnified into a brilliant victory over the enemy, and so the Tsar and the whole army believed, especially while the smoke still hung over the field of battle, that the French had been defeated, and had been forced to retreat against their will. A few minutes after the Tsar had galloped on, the division of the Pavlograd hussars received orders to move forward. In Vishau itself, a little German town, Rostov saw the Tsar once more. In the market-place of the town where there had been rather a heavy firing before the Tsar's arrival, lay several dead and wounded soldiers, whom there had not been time to pick up. The Tsar, surrounded by his suite of officers and courtiers, was mounted on a different horse from the one he had ridden at the review, a chestnut English thoroughbred. Bending on one side with a graceful gesture, holding a gold field-glass to his eyes, he was looking at a soldier lying on his face with a blood-stained and uncovered head. The wounded soldier was an object so impure, so grim, and so revolting, that Rostov was shocked at his being near the Emperor. Rostov saw how the Tsar's stooping shoulders shuddered, as though a cold shiver had passed over them, how his left foot convulsively pressed the spur into the horse's side, and how the trained horse looked round indifferently and did not stir. An adjutant dismounting lifted the soldier up under his arms, and began laying him on a stretcher that came up. The soldier groaned.
“Gently, gently, can't you do it more gently?” said the Tsar, apparently suffering more than the dying soldier, and he rode away.
Rostov saw the tears in the Tsar's eyes, and heard him say in French to Tchartorizhsky, as he rode off: “What an awful thing war is, what an awful thing!”
The forces of the vanguard were posted before Vishau in sight of the enemy's line, which had been all day retreating before us at the slightest exchange of shots. The Tsar's thanks were conveyed to the vanguard, rewards were promised, and a double allowance of vodka was served out to the men. Even more gaily than on the previous night the bivouac fires crackled, and the soldiers sang their songs. Denisov on that night celebrated his promotion to major, and, towards the end of the carousal, after a good deal of drinking, Rostov proposed a toast to the health of the Emperor, but “not our Sovereign the Emperor, as they say at official dinners,” said he, “but to the health of the Emperor, the good, enchanting, great man, let us drink to his health, and to a decisive victory over the French!”
“If we fought before,” said he, “and would not yield an inch before the French, as at Sch?ngraben, what will it be now when he is at our head? We will all die, we will gladly die for him. Eh, gentlemen? Perhaps I'm not saying it right. I've drunk a good deal, but that's how I feel, and you do too. To the health of Alexander the First! Hurrah!”
“Hurrah!” rang out the cheery voices of the officers. And the old captain Kirsten shouted no less heartily and sincerely than Rostov, the boy of twenty.
When the officers had drunk the toast and smashed their glasses, Kirsten filled some fresh ones, and in his shirt-sleeves and riding-breeches went out to the soldiers' camp-fires, glass in hand, and waving his hand in the air stood in a majestic pose, with his long grey whiskers and his white chest visible through the open shirt in the light of the camp-fire.
“Lads, to the health of our Sovereign the Emperor, to victory over our enemies, hurrah!” he roared in his stalwart old soldier's baritone. The hussars thronged about him and responded by a loud shout in unison.
Late at night, when they had all separated, Denisov clapped his short hand on the shoulder of his favourite Rostov. “To be sure he'd no one to fall in love with in the field, so he's fallen in love with the Tsar,” he said.
“Denisov, don't joke about that,” cried Rostov, “it's such a lofty, such a sublime feeling, so…”
“I believe you, I believe you, my dear, and I share the feeling and approve…”
“No, you don't understand!” And Rostov got up and went out to wander about among the camp-fires, dreaming of what happiness it would be to die—not saving the Emperor's life—(of that he did not even dare to dream), but simply to die before the Emperor's eyes. He really was in love with the Tsar and the glory of the Russian arms and the hope of coming victory. And he was not the only man who felt thus in those memorable days that preceded the battle of Austerlitz: nine-tenths of the men in the Russian army were at that moment in love, though less ecstatically, with their Tsar and the glory of the Russian arms.
十六日凌晨，尼古拉·罗斯托夫所服役的那个隶属于巴格拉季翁公爵的队伍的杰尼索夫所指挥的骑兵连从宿营地点启行，参与一次战役，据说，骑兵连追随其他纵队之后已骑行一俄里左右，在大路上遇阻，停止前进了。罗斯托夫看见，哥萨克兵、第一第二骠骑兵连和配备有炮队的步兵营从他身边向前推进。巴格拉季翁和多尔戈鲁科夫二位将军偕同副官骑着战马走过去了。像从前那样在战斗前所经受的恐惧、他用以克服这种恐惧的内心斗争、他以骠骑兵的姿态在这次战役中荣立战功的理想，这一切成了泡影。他们的骑兵连被留下来充当后备，尼古拉·罗斯托夫愁闷地过了一天。上午八点多钟，他听见前面的枪声、“乌拉”声，他看见从前线送回的伤兵（他们为数不多），最后他看见，数以百计的哥萨克在中途押送一队法国骑兵。显然这次战斗结束了，显然战斗的规模不大，但是可谓马到成功。前线回来的官兵述说辉煌的胜利、维绍市的攻克、整整一个法国骑兵连的被俘。在一夜的霜冻之后，白昼的天气明朗，阳光灿烂令人愉快的秋日和胜利的佳音融合为一体了，不仅是参加战斗的官兵传播胜利的佳音，而且那些骑着战马在罗斯托夫身边来回地奔走的士兵、军官、将军和副官的面部表情也透露了这个消息。这就使得尼古拉的内心疼痛得更为剧烈，他徒然地经受了一次战斗前的恐惧，在这个愉快的日子他消极无为。
“罗斯托夫，请到这里来，我们干一杯，解解愁吧！”杰尼索夫喊道，在路边上坐下来，他面前摆着军用水壶和下酒的冷菜。
几个军官在杰尼索夫的路菜筒旁边围成一圈，一面用冷菜下酒，一面聊天。
“瞧，又押来一个啊！”有一名军官指着由两个哥萨克兵步押送的一个被俘的法国龙骑兵时，说道。
其中一人牵着一匹从俘虏手上夺来的肥大而美丽的法国战马。
“把这匹马卖掉吧！”杰尼索夫对那个哥萨克兵大声喊道。
“大人，好吧……”
军官们站立起来，把几个哥萨克兵和一个被俘的法国人围在中间。法国龙骑兵是个挺棒的小伙子，阿尔萨斯人，带着德国口音说法国话。他激动得上气不接下气，满脸通红，一听见法国话，就忽而把脸转向这个军官，忽而把脸转向那个军官，匆促地讲起话来。他说本来抓不到他，他被人抓到不是他的过错，而是那个派他去取马被的Lecapoval（班长）的过错，他对他说，俄国人已经呆在那里了。他在每句话上补充一句话：Maisqu'onnefassepasdemalamonpetit
cheval，①一面抚摩自己的马。由此可见，他不太明白，他置身于何处。他时而认为他被俘的事是可以原谅的，时而以为自己的首长就在面前，并且向首长表白他那大兵的勤恳和对执勤的关心。他把我们感到陌生的法国军队的新气氛带到了我们的后卫部队。
①法语：怜悯怜悯我的小马吧。
几个哥萨克卖掉一匹马，挣到两枚金卢布。罗斯托夫收到家中寄来的钱，现在是军官中的一个最富有的人，他买下了这匹马。
“Maisqu'onnefassepasdemalamonpetitcheval”①当这匹马转交给骠骑兵后，阿尔萨斯人和善地对罗斯托夫说。
①法语：可得怜悯怜悯小马啊。
罗斯托夫面露笑容，安慰这个龙骑兵，把钱给他了。
“喂，喂，走吧！”哥萨克兵说道，一面触动着俘虏的手臂，要他继续向前走。
“国王！国王！”忽然，骠骑兵之间传来一阵呼喊声。
大伙儿开始跑步，手忙脚乱，罗斯托夫看见他后面的大路上有几个戴着白色帽缨的渐渐驰近的骑者。大伙儿呆在原地等候着。
罗斯托夫不记得也不觉得，他是怎样跑至原处并且骑上战马的。他因为没有参加战斗而产生的遗憾、他在看腻了的人们中间产生的枯燥情绪霎时间消失殆尽，一切只顾自己的想法也转瞬间消逝了。一种因为国王行将驾临而产生的幸福之感几乎把他吞没了。他觉得他消磨了当天的时光，而仅因国王行将驾临而获得抵偿。他觉得非常幸福，就像个情夫等到了期待已久的约会似的。他不敢在队列中环顾，虽然他并未左顾右盼，而他却以狂欢的嗅觉闻到了他的驾临。他所以具有这样的感觉，不仅仅因为他听见渐渐驰近的骑行者的得得的马蹄声，而且因为随着国王的驾临，他的四遭显得更加亮堂，更加欢快，更加富有重大意义，而且更加带有节日的气氛。罗斯托夫心目中的这轮太阳离他越来越近，它在自己的四周放射出温和的壮丽的光芒，他终于觉得他自己已被这种光芒笼罩住了，他听见国王的声音，这种既温和而又平静，既庄严而又纯朴的声音。正与罗斯托夫的预感相符合，死一般的沉寂降临了，并且在这一片沉寂中可以听见国王的声音。
“LeshuzavdsdePavlograd？”①他疑惑地说。
“Larèsrve，sire！”②可以听见某人回答的语声，在那个非凡的人说了“LeshuzaidsdePanluqvad？”这句话之后，这个人的回答的语声是多么平凡。
①法语：是保罗格勒兵团的骠骑兵吗？
②法语：陛下，是后备队啊。
国王走到罗斯托夫附近的地方，停止脚步了。亚历山大的气色比三天前检阅时更加好看。这张面孔焕发着欢乐的青春的光辉，这种纯洁无瑕的青春的光辉使人想起一个年方十四岁的儿童爱玩爱闹的样子，而这毕竟还是一个庄严的皇帝的面孔。皇帝的眼睛偶而打量骑兵连，他的目光和罗斯托夫的目光相遇了，充其量凝视了两秒钟。国王是否明了罗斯托夫的心态（罗斯托夫觉得他明了一切），但他用那蔚蓝色的眼睛朝罗斯托夫的面孔看了两秒钟左右（他的眼睛流露出温柔的光辉）。后来他忽然扬起双眉，用左腿猛然踢了一下战马，向前奔驰起来。
年青的皇帝按捺不住，他很想参加战斗，不顾廷臣的一再进谏，十二点钟离开了他所殿后的第三纵队，向后卫部队疾驰而去。在几名副官尚未追上骠骑兵之际，他们便带着战斗顺利结束的消息来迎接国王。
这次仅仅俘获一个法军骑兵连的战役，被认为是击溃法军的一次辉煌的胜利，因此国君和全军，尤其是在战场上的硝烟尚未消散的时候，都深信法军败北，不得不撤退。国王走过之后几分钟内，他们要求保罗格勒兵团的骑兵营向前推进。在维绍——德意志的小市镇，罗斯托夫又一次看见国王。国王到达前，市镇广场上发生过相当猛烈的对射，那里躺着几具来不及运走的尸体和几个伤兵。国王被一群文武侍从簇拥着，他骑着一匹和阅兵时所骑的不同的英国式的枣红色母马，他侧着身子，用那优美的姿势执着单目眼镜，把它举到眼前，不停地望着那个匍匐于地、未戴高筒军帽、头上鲜血淋漓的士兵。这个伤兵非常邋遢、粗野、可恶，他置身于国王附近，这使罗斯托夫深感委屈。罗斯托夫看见国王的微微向前弯下的肩头颤栗了一下，仿佛打了个寒噤，看见他的左脚开始痉挛地用马刺刺着马的肋部，这匹受了训练的战马冷淡地东张西望，它呆在原地不动。一名副官下了马，搀扶起这个士兵，把他放在他面前的担架上，士兵呻吟起来了。
“静一点，静一点，难道不能安静一点么？”国王看起来比这个行将就木的士兵更难受，于是骑马走开了。
罗斯托夫看见国王的眼睛里噙满着泪水，并听见他在走开的时候，用法国话对恰尔托里日斯基说：
“战争是一件多么可怖的事啊，多么可怖的事啊！quelleter－riblechosequelaguerre！”①
①法语：战争是一件多么可怖的事啊。
一天之内，敌方的散兵线在不剧烈的对射时向我方让步，因此，我方的前卫部队就在维绍市前面扎营。国王向前卫部队表示谢意，并且答应授奖，给每人都发两份伏特加酒。这时分人人觉得比前夕更加开心，营火发出噼啪的响声，传来士兵的歌声。杰尼索夫这天夜里庆祝他被提升为少校军官，罗斯托夫已经喝得相当多了，酒宴结束时他为祝贺国王（而不是皇帝陛下）健康而干杯，这和正式宴会上大家的说法有所不同，他说道，“为祝贺仁慈、伟大、令人赞赏的国王健康而干杯，我们为他的健康而干杯，为我军必胜法军必败而干杯！”
“既然我们从前打过仗，”他说，“而且没有放走法国佬，正像申格拉本市郊之战那样。国王正在前面督阵，眼前会出现什么局面呢？我们都去捐躯，高兴地为他而捐躯。先生们，对吗？也许我不要这样说，我喝得太多了，不过我有这种感觉，你们也有这种感觉。为亚历山大一世的健康干杯！乌拉！”
“乌拉！”可以听见军官们的热情洋溢的叫喊声。
年老的骑兵大尉基尔斯坚热情洋溢地叫喊，比二十岁的罗斯托夫的喊声听起来更加诚挚。
军官们喝完了酒，打碎了酒杯，基尔斯坚斟满另外几杯酒，他只穿着一件衬衣、一条紧腿马裤，手上捧着酒杯，向士兵的篝火前面走去，装出一副庄重的姿势，挥挥手，他的脸上长着长长的斑白的胡髭，从一件敞开的衬衣里面露出洁白的胸脯，在篝火的照耀下停住了。
“伙伴们，为皇帝陛下的健康，为战胜敌人而干杯，乌拉！”
他用地那豪壮的老年骠骑兵的男中音喊道。
骠骑兵们都聚集起来，一齐用洪亮的喊声回报。
夜深时大家都已经四散了，杰尼索夫用一只短短的手拍了拍他的爱友罗斯托夫的肩膀。
“征途上没人可爱，他就爱上沙皇了。”他说。
“朋友，我相信，我相信，我有同感，表示赞许……”
“不，你不明白！”
罗斯托夫站立起来，向前走去，在篝火之间徘徊游荡，他心里想到，如能为国王捐躯，不是在拯救国王时（他不敢想到这件事），而干脆在国王眼前献身，那该是何等幸福。他的确爱上了沙皇，珍视俄国武装力量的光荣，珍视未来的凯旋的希望。在奥斯特利茨战役前的那些值得纪念的日子里，不仅他一人体验到这种感情，俄国军队中十分之九的军人都爱上他们自己的沙皇，珍视俄国武装力量的光荣，尽管没有达到那样狂热的程度。
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