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"
One
step
beyond
that
boundary
line
which
resembles
the
line
dividing
the
living
from
the
dead
lies
uncertainty
,
suffering
,
and
death
.
And
what
is
there
?
Who
is
there
?
--
there
beyond
that
field
,
that
tree
,
that
roof
lit
up
by
the
sun
?
No
one
knows
,
but
one
wants
to
know
.
You
fear
and
yet
long
to
cross
that
line
,
and
know
that
sooner
or
later
it
must
be
crossed
and
you
will
have
to
find
out
what
is
there
,
just
as
you
will
inevitably
have
to
learn
what
lies
the
other
side
of
death
.
But
you
are
strong
,
healthy
,
cheerful
,
and
excited
,
and
are
surrounded
by
other
such
excitedly
animated
and
healthy
men
.
"
So
thinks
,
or
at
any
rate
feels
,
anyone
who
comes
in
sight
of
the
enemy
,
and
that
feeling
gives
a
particular
glamour
and
glad
keenness
of
impression
to
everything
that
takes
place
at
such
moments
.
On
the
high
ground
where
the
enemy
was
,
the
smoke
of
a
cannon
rose
,
and
a
ball
flew
whistling
over
the
heads
of
the
hussar
squadron
.
The
officers
who
had
been
standing
together
rode
off
to
their
places
.
The
hussars
began
carefully
aligning
their
horses
.
Silence
fell
on
the
whole
squadron
.
All
were
looking
at
the
enemy
in
front
and
at
the
squadron
commander
,
awaiting
the
word
of
command
.
A
second
and
a
third
cannon
ball
flew
past
.
Evidently
they
were
firing
at
the
hussars
,
but
the
balls
with
rapid
rhythmic
whistle
flew
over
the
heads
of
the
horsemen
and
fell
somewhere
beyond
them
.
The
hussars
did
not
look
round
,
but
at
the
sound
of
each
shot
,
as
at
the
word
of
command
,
the
whole
squadron
with
its
rows
of
faces
so
alike
yet
so
different
,
holding
its
breath
while
the
ball
flew
past
,
rose
in
the
stirrups
and
sank
back
again
.
The
soldiers
without
turning
their
heads
glanced
at
one
another
,
curious
to
see
their
comrades
'
impression
.
Every
face
,
from
Denísov
's
to
that
of
the
bugler
,
showed
one
common
expression
of
conflict
,
irritation
,
and
excitement
,
around
chin
and
mouth
.
The
quartermaster
frowned
,
looking
at
the
soldiers
as
if
threatening
to
punish
them
.
Cadet
Mirónov
ducked
every
time
a
ball
flew
past
.
Rostóv
on
the
left
flank
,
mounted
on
his
Rook
--
a
handsome
horse
despite
its
game
leg
--
had
the
happy
air
of
a
schoolboy
called
up
before
a
large
audience
for
an
examination
in
which
he
feels
sure
he
will
distinguish
himself
.
He
was
glancing
at
everyone
with
a
clear
,
bright
expression
,
as
if
asking
them
to
notice
how
calmly
he
sat
under
fire
.
But
despite
himself
,
on
his
face
too
that
same
indication
of
something
new
and
stern
showed
round
the
mouth
.
"
Who
's
that
curtseying
there
?
Cadet
Miwónov
!
That
's
not
wight
!
Look
at
me
,
"
cried
Denísov
who
,
unable
to
keep
still
on
one
spot
,
kept
turning
his
horse
in
front
of
the
squadron
.
The
black
,
hairy
,
snub-nosed
face
of
Váska
Denísov
,
and
his
whole
short
sturdy
figure
with
the
sinewy
hairy
hand
and
stumpy
fingers
in
which
he
held
the
hilt
of
his
naked
saber
,
looked
just
as
it
usually
did
,
especially
toward
evening
when
he
had
emptied
his
second
bottle
;
he
was
only
redder
than
usual
.
With
his
shaggy
head
thrown
back
like
birds
when
they
drink
,
pressing
his
spurs
mercilessly
into
the
sides
of
his
good
horse
,
Bedouin
,
and
sitting
as
though
falling
backwards
in
the
saddle
,
he
galloped
to
the
other
flank
of
the
squadron
and
shouted
in
a
hoarse
voice
to
the
men
to
look
to
their
pistols
.
He
rode
up
to
Kírsten
.
The
staff
captain
on
his
broad-backed
,
steady
mare
came
at
a
walk
to
meet
him
.
His
face
with
its
long
mustache
was
serious
as
always
,
only
his
eyes
were
brighter
than
usual
.
"
Well
,
what
about
it
?
"
said
he
to
Denísov
.
"
It
wo
n't
come
to
a
fight
.
You
'll
see
--
we
shall
retire
.
"
"
The
devil
only
knows
what
they
're
about
!
"
muttered
Denísov
.
"
Ah
,
Wostóv
,
"
he
cried
noticing
the
cadet
's
bright
face
,
"
you
've
got
it
at
last
.
"
And
he
smiled
approvingly
,
evidently
pleased
with
the
cadet
.
Rostóv
felt
perfectly
happy
.
Just
then
the
commander
appeared
on
the
bridge
.
Denísov
galloped
up
to
him
.
"
Your
excellency
!
Let
us
attack
them
!
I
'll
dwive
them
off
.
"
