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He made a show of rising from his chair。 The generals bowed themselves out。 It was past midnight。 Prince Andrey went out。
The council of war at which Prince Andrey had not succeeded in expressing his opinion； as he had hoped to do； had left on him an impression of uncertainty and uneasiness。 Which was right—Dolgorukov and Weierother？ or Kutuzov and Langeron and the others； who did not approve of the plan of attack—he did not know。 But had it really been impossible for Kutuzov to tell the Tsar his views directly？ Could it not have been managed differently？ On account of personal and court considerations were tens of thousands of lives to be risked—“and my life； mine？” he thought。
“Yes； it may well be that I shall be killed to…morrow；” he thought。
And all at once； at that thought of death； a whole chain of memories； the most remote and closest to his heart； rose up in his imagination。 He recalled his last farewell to his father and his wife； he recalled the early days of his love for her； thought of her approaching motherhood； and he felt sorry for her and for himself； and in a nervously overwrought and softened mood he went out of the cottage at which he and Nesvitsky were putting up； and began to walk to and fro before it。 The night was foggy； and the moonlight glimmered mysteriously through the mist。 “Yes； to…morrow； to…morrow！” he thought。 “To…morrow； maybe； all will be over for me； all these memories will be no more； all these memories will have no more meaning for me。 To…morrow； perhaps—for certain； indeed—to…morrow； I have a presentiment； I shall have for the first time to show all I can do。” And he pictured the engagement； the loss of it； the concentration of the fighting at one point； and the hesitation of all the commanding officers。 And then the happy moment—that Toulon he had been waiting for so long—at last comes to him。 Resolutely and clearly he speaks his opinion to Kutuzov and Weierother； and the Emperors。 All are struck by the justness of his view； but no one undertakes to carry it into execution； and behold； he leads the regiment； only making it a condition that no one is to interfere with his plans； and he leads his division to the critical point and wins the victory alone。 “And death and agony！” said another voice。 But Prince Andrey did not answer that voice； and went on with his triumphs。 The disposition of the battle that ensues is all his work alone。 Nominally； he is an adjutant on the staff of Kutuzov； but he does everything alone。 The battle is gained by him alone。 Kutuzov is replaced； he is appointed。… “Well； and then？” said the other voice again； “what then； if you do a dozen times over escape being wounded； killed； or deceived before that； well； what then？” “Why； then…” Prince Andrey answered himself； “I don’t know what will come then； I can’t know； and don’t want to； but if I want that； if I want glory； want to be known to men； want to be loved by them； it’s not my fault that I want it； that it’s the only thing I care for； the only thing I live for。 Yes； the only thing！ I shall never say to any one； but； my God！ what am I to do； if I care for nothing but glory； but men’s love？ Death； wounds； the loss of my family—nothing has terrors for me。 And dear and precious as many people are to me： father； sister； wife—the people dearest to me； yet dreadful and unnatural as it seems； I would give them all up for a moment of glory； of triumph over men； of love from men whom I don’t know； and shall never know； for the love of those people there；” he thought； listening to the talk in the courtyard of Kutuzov’s house。 He could hear the voices of the officers’ servants packing up； one of them； probably a coachman； was teasing Kutuzov’s old cook； a man called Tit； whom Prince Andrey knew。 He kept calling him and making a joke on his name。
“Tit； hey； Tit？” he said。
“Well？” answered the old man。
“Tit； stupay molotit” （“Tit； go a…thrashing”）； said the jester。
“Pooh； go to the devil； do；” he heard the cook’s voice； smothered in the laughter of the servants。
“And yet； the only thing I love and prize is triumph over all of them； that mysterious power and glory which seems hovering over me in this mist！”
Chapter 13
ROSTOV had been sent that night with a platoon on picket duty to the line of outposts in the foremost part of Bagration’s detachment。 His hussars were scattered in couples about the outposts； he himself rode about the line of the outposts trying to struggle against the sleepiness which kept overcoming him。 Behind him could be seen the immense expanse of the dimly burning fires of our army； before him was the misty darkness。 However intently Rostov gazed into this misty distance； he could see nothing； at one moment there seemed something greyish； at the next something blackish； then something like the glimmer of a fire over there where the enemy must be； then he fancied the glimmer had been only in his own eyes。 His eyes kept closing； and there floated before his mind the image of the Emperor； then of Denisov； and Moscow memories； and again he opened his eyes and saw close before him the head and ears of the horse he was riding； and sometimes black figures of hussars； when he rode within six paces of them； but in the distance still the same misty darkness。 “Why？ it may well happen；” mused Rostov； “that the Emperor will meet me and give me some commission； as he might to any officer； he’ll say； “Go and find out what’s there。” There are a lot of stories of how quite by chance he has made the acquaintance of officers and given them some place close to him too。 Oh； if he were to give me a place in attendance on him！ Oh； what care I would take of him； how I would tell him the whole truth； how I would unmask all who deceive him！” And to picture his love and devotion to the Tsar more vividly； Rostov imagined some enemy or treacherous German； whom he would with great zest not simply kill； but slap in the face before the Tsar’s eyes。 All at once a shout in the distance roused Rostov。 He started and opened his eyes。 “Where am I？ Yes； in the picket line； the pass and watchword—shaft； Olmütz。 How annoying that our squadron will be in reserve …” he thought。 “I’ll ask to go to the front。 It may be my only chance of seeing the Emperor。 And now it’s not long before I’m off duty。 I’ll ride round once more； and as I come back； I’ll go to the general and ask him。” He sat up straight in the saddle and set off to ride once more round his hussars。 It seemed to him that it was lighter。 On the left side he could see a sloping descent that looked lighted up and a black knoll facing it that seemed steep as a wall。 On this knoll was a white patch which Rostov could not understand； was it a clearing in the wood； lighted up by the moon； or the remains of snow； or white horses？ It seemed to him indeed that something was moving over that white spot。 “It must be snow—that spot： a spot—une tache；” Rostov mused dreamily。 “But that’s not a tache … Na … tasha； my sister； her black eyes。 Na … tasha （won’t she be surprised when I tell her how I’ve seen the Emperor！） Natasha … tasha … sabretache。…” “Keep to the right； your honour； there are bushes here；�