takes to carry them out, so
he takes a regiment, a division-stipulates that no one is to interfere
with his arrangements--leads his division to the decisive point, and
gains the victory alone. "But death and suffering?" suggested another
voice. Prince Andrew, however, did not answer that voice and went on
dreaming of his triumphs. The dispositions for the next battle are
planned by him alone. Nominally he is only an adjutant on Kutuzov's
staff, but he does everything alone. The next battle is won by him
alone. Kutuzov is removed and he is appointed... "Well and then?" asked
the other voice. "If before that you are not ten times wounded, killed,
or betrayed, well... what then?..." "Well then," Prince Andrew answered
himself, "I don't know what will happen and don't want to know, and
can't, but if I want this--want glory, want to be known to men, want to
be loved by them, it is not my fault that I want it and want nothing
but that and live only for that. Yes, for that alone! I shall never
tell anyone, but, oh God! what am I to do if I love nothing but fame
and men's esteem? Death, wounds, the loss of family--I fear nothing. And
precious and dear as many persons are to me--father, sister, wife--those
dearest to me--yet dreadful and unnatural as it seems, I would give them
all at once for a moment of glory, of triumph over men, of love from men
I don't know and never shall know, for the love of these men here," he
thought, as he listened to voices in Kutuzov's courtyard. The voices
were those of the orderlies who were packing up; one voice, probably a
coachman's, was teasing Kutuzov's old cook whom Prince Andrew knew, and
who was called Tit. He was saying, "Tit, I say, Tit!"

"Well?" returned the old man.

"Go, Tit, thresh a bit!" said the wag.

"Oh, go to the devil!" called out a voice, drowned by the laughter of
the orderlies and servants.

"All the same, I love and value nothing but triumph over them all, I
value this mystic power and glory that is floating here above me in this
mist!"

CHAPTER XIII

That same night, Rostov was with a platoon on skirmishing duty in front
of Bagration's detachment. His hussars were placed along the line
in couples and he himself rode along the line trying to master the
sleepiness that kept coming over him. An enormous space, with our army's
campfires dimly glowing in the fog, could be seen behind him; in front
of him was misty darkness. Rostov could see nothing, peer as h