Emma Watson Pussy
Books:
Anna Karenina
War And Peace
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he had righted himself in his saddle he saw that
he would immediately overtake the enemy he had selected. That
Frenchman, by his uniform an officer, was going at a gallop, crouching
on his gray horse and urging it on with his saber. In another moment
Rostovs horse dashed its breast against the hindquarters of the
officers horse, almost knocking it over, and at the same instant
Rostov, without knowing why, raised his saber and struck the Frenchman
with it.
The instant he had done this, all Rostovs animation vanished. The
officer fell, not so much from the blow--which had but slightly cut
his arm above the elbow--as from the shock to his horse and from
fright. Rostov reined in his horse, and his eyes sought his foe to see
whom he had vanquished. The French dragoon officer was hopping with
one foot on the ground, the other being caught in the stirrup. His
eyes, screwed up with fear as if he every moment expected another
blow, gazed up at Rostov with shrinking terror. His pale and
mud-stained face--fair and young, with a dimple in the chin and
light-blue eyes--was not an enemys face at all suited to a
battlefield, but a most ordinary, homelike face. Before Rostov had
decided what to do with him, the officer cried, "I surrender!" He
hurriedly but vainly tried to get his foot out of the stirrup and
did not remove his frightened blue eyes from Rostovs face. Some
hussars who galloped up disengaged his foot and helped him into the
saddle. On all sides, the hussars were busy with the dragoons; one was
wounded, but though his face was bleeding, he would not give up his
horse; another was perched up behind an hussar with his arms round
him; a third was being helped by an hussar to mount his horse. In
front, the French infantry were firing as they ran. The hussars
galloped hastily back with their prisoners. Rostov galloped back
with the rest, aware of an unpleasant feeling of depression in his
heart. Something vague and confused, which he could not at all account
for, had come over him with the capture of that officer and the blow
he had dealt him.
Count Ostermann-Tolstoy met the returning hussars, sent for
Rostov, thanked him, and said he would report his gallant deed to
the Emperor and would recommend him for a St. Georges Cross. When
sent for by Count Ostermann, Rostov, remembering that he had charged
without orders, felt sure his commander was sending for him to
punish him for breach of discipline. Ostermanns flattering words
and promise of a reward should therefore have struck him all the
more pleasantly, but he still felt that same vaguely disagreeable
feeling of moral nausea. "But what on earth is worrying me?" he
asked himself as he rode back from the general. "Ilyin? No, hes safe.
Have I disgraced myself in any way? No, thats not it." Something
else, resembling remorse, tormented him. "Yes, oh yes, that French
officer with the dimple. And I remember how my arm paused when I
raised it."
Rostov saw the prisoners being led away and galloped after them to
have a look at his Frenchman with the dimple on his chin. He was
sitting in his foreign uniform on an hussar packhorse and looked
anxiously about him; The sword cut on his arm could scarcely be called
a wound. He glanced at Rostov with a feigned smile and waved his
hand in greeting. Rostov still had the same indefinite feeling, as
of shame.
All that day and the next his friends and comrades noticed that
Rostov, without being dull or angry, was silent, thoughtful, and
preoccupied. He drank reluctantly, tried to remain alone, and kept
turning something over in his mind.
Rostov was always thinking about that brilliant exploit of his, which
to his amazement had gained him the St. Georges Cross and even given
him a reputation for bravery, and there was something he could not at
all understand. "So others are even more afraid than I am!" he
thought. "So thats all there is in what is called heroism! And did I
do it for my countrys sake? And how was he to blame, with his dimple
and blue eyes? And how frightened he was! He thought that I should
kill him. Why should I kill him? My hand trembled. And they have given
me a St. Georges Cross.... I cant make it out at all."
But while Nicholas was considering these questions and still could
reach no clear solution of what puzzled him so,
War And Peace page 389 War And Peace page 391
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