战争与和平(上)-第200章

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osened　and　then　drew　up　the　folds　of　it；　another；　crumbling　the　dry　clay　in　his　hands；　rubbed　up　his　bayonet　with　it；　another　shifted　and　fastened　the　buckle　of　his　shoulder　straps；　while　another　carefully　undid；　and　did　up　again；　his　leg　bandages；　and　changed　his　boots。　Some　built　little　houses　of　clods　of　the　ploughed　field；　or　plaited　straws　of　stubble。　All　of　them　appeared　entirely　engrossed　in　these　pursuits。　When　men　were　killed　or　wounded；　when　the　stretchers　trailed　by；　when　our　troops　retreated；　when　immense　masses　of　the　enemy　came　into　view　through　the　smoke；　no　one　took　any　notice　of　these　circumstances。　When　our　artillery　or　cavalry　advanced；　when　our　infantry　could　be　seen　moving；　approving　observations　could　be　heard　on　all　sides。　But　quite　extraneous　incidents　that　had　nothing　to　do　with　the　battle　were　what　attracted　most　notice；　as　though　the　attention　of　these　morally　overstrained　men　found　a　rest　in　the　commonplace　incidents　of　everyday　life。　Some　batteries　of　artillery　passed　in　front　of　their　line。　In　one　of　the　ammunition　carriages　a　horse　had　put　its　legs　through　the　traces。
“Hey！　look　at　the　trace…horse！…　Take　her　leg　out！　She’ll　fall！…　Hey！　they　don’t　see！…”　Shouts　rose　from　the　ranks　all　through　the　regiment。
Another　time　the　attention　of　all　was　attracted　by　a　little　brown　dog；　with　its　tail　in　the　air；　who　had　come　no　one　knew　from　where；　and　was　running　about　fussily　in　front　of　the　ranks。　All　at　once　a　cannon　ball　fell　near　it；　and　it　squealed　and　dashed　away　with　its　tail　between　its　legs！　Roars　and　shrieks　of　laughter　rang　out　from　the　whole　regiment。　But　distractions　of　this　kind　did　not　last　more　than　a　minute；　and　the　men　had　been　eight　hours　without　food　or　occupation；　with　the　terror　of　death　never　relaxing　for　an　instant；　and　their　pale　and　haggard　faces　grew　paler　and　more　haggard。
Prince　Andrey；　pale　and　haggard　like　every　one　else　in　the　regiment；　walked　to　and　fro　in　the　meadow　next　to　the　oat…field　from　one　boundary…line　to　the　other；　with　his　hands　clasped　behind　his　back；　and　his　eyes　fixed　on　the　ground。　There　was　no　need　for　him　to　give　orders；　and　nothing　for　him　to　do。　Everything　was　done　of　itself。　The　killed　were　dragged　behind　the　line；　the　wounded　were　removed；　and　the　ranks　closed　up。　If　any　soldiers　ran　away；　they　made　haste　to　return　at　once。　At　first　Prince　Andrey；　thinking　it　his　duty　to　keep　up　the　spirits　of　the　men；　and　set　them　an　example；　had　walked　about　among　the　ranks。　But　soon　he　felt　that　there　was　nothing　he　could　teach　them。　All　his　energies；　like　those　of　every　soldier；　were　unconsciously　directed　to　restraining　himself　from　contemplating　the　horror　of　his　position。　He　walked　about　the　meadow；　dragging　one　leg　after　the　other；　making　the　grass　rustle；　and　watching　the　dust；　which　covered　his　boots。　Then　he　strode　along；　trying　to　step　on　the　traces　of　the　footsteps　of　the　mowers　on　the　meadow；　or　counting　his　steps；　calculated　how　many　times　he　would　have　to　walk　from　one　boundary　rut　to　another　to　make　a　verst；　or　cut　off　the　flowers　of　wormwood　growing　in　the　rut；　and　crushing　them　in　his　hands；　sniffed　at　the　bitter…sweet；　pungent　odour。　Of　all　the　thoughts　of　the　previous　day　not　a　trace　remained。　He　thought　of　nothing　at　all。　He　listened　wearily　to　the　sounds　that　were　ever　the　same；　the　whiz　of　the　shells　above　the　booming　of　the　cannon；　looked　at　the　faces　of　the　men　of　the　first　battalion；　which　he　had　gazed　at　to　weariness　already；　and　waited。　“Here　it　comes　…　this　one’s　for　us　again！”　he　thought；　listening　to　the　whiz　of　something　flying　out　of　the　region　of　smoke。　“One；　another！　More！　Fallen”　…　He　stopped　short　and　looked　towards　the　ranks。　“No；　it　has　flown　over。　But　that　one　has　fallen！”　And　he　fell　to　pacing　up　and　down　again；　trying　to　reach　the　next　boundary　in　sixteen　steps。
A　whiz　and　a　thud！　Five　paces　from　him　the　dry　soil　was　thrown　up；　as　a　cannon　ball　sank　into　the　earth。　A　chill　ran　down　his　back。　He　looked　at　the　ranks。　Probably　a　number　had　been　struck：　the　men　had　gathered　in　a　crowd　in　the　second　battalion。
“M。　l’aide…de…camp；”　he　shouted；　“tell　the　men　not　to　crowd　together。”
The　adjutant；　having　obeyed　this　instruction；　was　approaching　Prince　Andrey。　From　the　other　side　the　major　in　command　of　the　battalion　came　riding　up。
“Look　out！”　rang　out　a　frightened　cry　from　a　soldier；　and　like　a　bird；　with　swift；　whirring　wings　alighting　on　the　earth；　a　grenade　dropped　with　a　dull　thud　a　couple　of　paces　from　Prince　Andrey；　near　the　major’s　horse。　The　horse；　with　no　question　of　whether　it　were　right　or　wrong　to　show　fear；　snorted；　reared；　almost　throwing　the　major；　and　galloped　away。　The　horse’s　terror　infected　the　men。
“Lie　down！”　shouted　the　adjutant；　throwing　himself　on　the　ground。　Prince　Andrey　stood　in　uncertainty。　The　shell　was　smoking　and　rotating　like　a　top　between　him　and　the　recumbent　adjutant；　near　a　bush　of　wormwood　in　the　rut　between　the　meadow　and　the　field。
“Can　this　be　death？”　Prince　Andrey　wondered；　with　an　utterly　new；　wistful　feeling；　looking　at　the　grass；　at　the　wormwood　and　at　the　thread　of　smoke　coiling　from　the　rotating　top。　“I　can’t　die；　I　don’t　want　to　die；　I　love　life；　I　love　this　grass　and　earth　and　air　…”
He　thought　this；　and　yet　at　the　same　time　he　did　not　forget　that　people　were　looking　at　him。
“For　shame；　M。　l’aide…de…camp！”　he　said　to　the　adjutant；　“what　sort　of　…”　He　did　not　finish。　Simultaneously　there　was　a　tearing；　crashing　sound；　like　the　smash　of　broken　crockery；　a　puff　of　stifling　fumes；　and　Prince　Andrey　was　sent　spinning　over；　and　flinging　up　one　arm；　fell　on　his　face。
Several　officers　ran　up　to　him。　A　great　stain　of　blood　was　spreading　over　the　grass　from　the　right　side　of　his　stomach。
The　militiamen　stood　with　the　stretchers　behind　the　officers。　Prince　Andrey　lay　on　his　chest；　with　his　face　sunk　in　the　grass；　he　was　still　breathing　in　hard；　hoarse　gasps。
“Well；　why　are　you　waiting；　come　along！”
The　peasants　went　up　and　took　him　by　the　shoulders　and　legs；　but　he　moaned　piteously；　and　they　looked　at　one　another；　and　laid　him　down　again。
“Pick　him　up；　lay　him　on；　it’s　all　the　same！”　shouted　some　one。　They　lifted　him　by　the　shoulders　again　and　laid　him　on　the　stretcher。
“Ah；　my　God！　my　God！　what　is　it？…The　stomach！　It’s　all　over　then！　Ah；　my　God！”　could　be　heard　among　the　officers。　“It　almost　grazed　my　ear；”　the　adjutant　was　saying。　The　peasants；　with　the　stretcher　across　their　shoulders；　hurried　along　the　path　they　had　trodden　to　the　ambulance　station。
“Keep　step！…Aie！…these　peasants！”　cried　an　officer；　seizing　them　by　the　shoulders；　as　they　jogged　along；　jolting　the　stretcher。
“Drop　into　it；　Fyodor；　eh？”　said　the　foremost　peasant。
“That’s　it；　first…rate；”　said　the　hindmost；　falling　into　step。
“Your　excellency？　Eh；　prince？”　said　the　trembling　voice　of　Timohin；　as　he　ran　up　and　peeped　over　the　stretcher。
Prince　Andrey　opened　his　eyes；　and　looked　at　the　speaker　from　the　stretcher；　through　which　his　head　had　dropped；　and　closed　his　eyelids　again。
The　militiamen　carried　Prince　Andrey　to　the　copse；　where　there　were　vans　and　an　ambulance　station。　The　ambulance　station　consisted　of　three　tents；　pitched　at　the　edge　of　a　birch　copse。　In　the　wood　stood　the　ambulance　waggons　and　horses。　The　horses　in　nose…bags　were　munching　oats；　and　the　sparrows　flew　up　to　them　and　picked　up　the　grains　they　dropped。　Some　crows；　scenting　blood；　flitted　to　and　fro　among　the　birches；　cawing　impatiently。　For　more　than　five　acres　round　the　tents　there　were　sitting　or　lying　men　stained　with　blood；　and　variously　attired。　They　were　surrounded　by　crowds　of　dejected…looking　and　intently　observant　soldiers；　who　had　come　with　stretchers。　Officers；　trying　to　keep　order；　kept　driving　them　away　from　the　place；　but　it　was　of　no　use。　The　soldiers；　heedless　of　the　officers；　stood　leaning　against　the　stretchers；　gazing　intently　at　what　was　passing　before　their　eyes；　as　though　trying　to　solve　some　difficult　problem　in　this　spectacle。　From　the　tents　came　the　sound　of　loud；　angry　wailing；　and　piteous　moans。　At　intervals　a　doctor’s　assistant　ran　out　for　water；　or　to　point　out　those　who　were　to　be　taken　in　next。　The　wounded；　awaiting　their　turn　at　the　tent；　uttered　hoarse　groans　and　moans；　wept；　shouted；　swore；　or　begged　for　vodka。　Several　were　raving　in　delirium。　Prince　Andrey；　as　a　colonel；　was　carried　through　the　crowd　of　wounded　not　yet　treated；　and　brought　close　up　to　one　of　the　tents；　where　his　bearers　halted　awaiting　instructions。　Prince　Andrey　opened　his　eyes；　and　for　a　long　while　could　not　understand　what　was　passing　around　him。　The　meadow；　the　wormwood；　the　black；　whirling　ball；　and　his　passionate　rush　of　love　for　life　came　back　to　his　mind。　A　couple　of　paces　from　him　stood　a　tall；　handsome；　dark…haired　sergeant；　with　a　bandaged　head；　leaning　against　a　branch。　He　had　been　wounded　in　the　head　and　in　the　leg；　and　was　talking　loudly；　attracting　general　attention。　A　crowd　of　wounded　men　and　stretcher…bearers　had　gathered　round　him；　greedily　listening　to　his　words。
“We　regularly　hammered　him　out；　so　he　threw　up　everything；　we　took　the　king　himself；”　the　soldier　was　shouting；　looking　about　him　with　feverishly　glittering　black　eyes。　“If　only　the　reserves　had　come　up　in　the　nick　of　time；　my　dear　fellow；　there　wouldn’t　have　been　a　sign　of　him　left；　for　I　can　tell　you　…”
Prince　Andrey；　like　all　the　men　standing　round　the　speaker；　gazed　at　him　with　bright　eyes；　and　felt　a　sense　of　comfort。　“But　isn’t　it　all　the　same　now？”　he　thought。　“What　will　be　there；　and　what　has　been　here？　why　was　I　so　sorry　to　part　with　life？　There　was　something　in　this　life　that　I　didn’t　understand；　and　don’t　understand。”


Chapter　37
ONE　OF　THE　DOCTORS　came　out　of　the　tent　with　a　blood…stained　apron；　and　small；　blood…stained　hands；　in　one　of　which　he　had　a　cigar；　carefully　held　between　his　thumb　and　little　finger；　that　it　might　not　be　stained　too。　This　doctor　threw　his　head　up；　and　looked　about　him；　but　over　the　level　of　the　wounded　crowd。　He　was　evidently　longing　for　a　short　respite。　After　turning　his　head　from　right　to　left　for　a　few　minutes；　he　sighed　and　dropped　his　eyes　again。
“All　right；　immediately；”　he　said　in　reply　to　an　assistant；　who　pointed　him　our　Prince　Andrey；　and　he　bade　the　bearers　carry　him　into　the　tent。
A　murmur　rose　in　the　crowd　of　wounded　men　waiting。
“Even　in　the　next　world　it’s　only　the　gentry　who　will　have　a　good　time；”　said　one。
Prince　Andrey　was　carried　in；　and　laid　on　a　table　that　had　just　been　cleared；　and　was　being　rinsed　over　by　an　assistant。　He　could　not　make　out　distinctly　what　was　in　the　tent。　The　pitiful　groans　on　all　sides；　and　the　excruciating　pain　in　his　thigh；　his　stomach；　and　his　back　distracted　his　attention。　Everything　he　saw　around　melted　for　him　into　a　single　general　impression　of　naked；　blood…stained；　human　flesh；　which　seemed　to　fill　up　the　whole　low…pitched　tent；　as；　a　few　weeks　before；　on　that　hot　August　day；　the　bare　human　flesh　had　filled　up　the　dirty　pond　along　the　Smolensk　road。　Yes；　it　was　the　same　flesh；　the　same　chair　à　canon；　the　sight　of　which　had　aroused　in　him　then　a　horror；　that　seemed　prophetic　of　what　he　felt　now。
There　were　three　tables　in　the　tent。　Two　were　occupied；　on　the　third　they　laid　Prince　Andrey。　For　some　tim