Old Ivan, like countless Gray Cattle, was driven onward—not for victory, but for someone's vanity and a scrap of empty paper.
All that remained upon the frozen earth were bodies still trembling in the mud. History would record only the numbers, while that folly went unremembered by all.
Lev Tolstoy wrote thus in his diary.
Meanwhile, Prince Alexander Sergeyevich Menshikov was having his servants attend to his appearance with meticulous care.
His dark green general's dress uniform, even its golden epaulettes polished to a shine, was covered in medals. Yet his riding boots had been deliberately speckled with a little dirt.
Some surely could not understand why anyone would put a few muddy spots on such expensive riding boots, but that was precisely the designer's brilliance.
This was the image a prince should possess: resolute and daring, weathered by wind and frost, yet without losing his elegance.
"Report! His Majesty the Tsar's advance cavalry has entered the camp!"
"Throw open the gates! Have the soldiers leave camp to receive inspection!"
"At once, sir!"
Prince Menshikov donned his cloak, stepped out of the tent, mounted his expensive Arabian horse, and rode all the way beyond the camp.
The distant figures of cavalry gradually grew larger, and the band began to play.
Prince Menshikov was deeply confident, for before him stood the finest troops under his command. Every man was tall and strong, and even amid such wind and snow, they stood ramrod straight like statues.
Soon, the Tsar's ceremonial procession came into view. Following tradition, Prince Menshikov dismounted, walked before the Tsar's procession, and presented his scepter.
"Your Majesty, your arrival is sunlight piercing the clouds, letting us see the hope of victory once more.
"Please inspect these warriors, who do not fear sacrifice for you and the great Russian Empire.