战争与和平(上)-第248章

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en　before　the　Emperor’s　own　windows。”
The　army；　like　a　herd　of　cattle　run　wild；　and　trampling　underfoot　the　fodder　that　might　have　saved　them　from　starvation；　was　falling　to　pieces；　and　getting　nearer　to　its　ruin　with　every　day　it　remained　in　Moscow。
But　it　did　not　move。
It　only　started　running　when　it　was　seized　by　panic　fear　at　the　capture　of　a　transport　on　the　Smolensk　road　and　the　battle　of　Tarutino。　The　news　of　the　battle　of　Tarutino　reached　Napoleon　unexpectedly　in　the　middle　of　a　review；　and　aroused　in　him—so　Thiers　tells　us—a　desire　to　punish　the　Russians；　and　he　gave　the　order　for　departure　that　all　the　army　was　clamouring　for。
In　their　flight　from　Moscow；　the　soldiers　carried　with　them　all　the　plunder　they　had　collected。　Napoleon；　too；　carried　off　his　own　private　trésor。　Seeing　the　great　train　of　waggons；　loaded　with　the　booty　of　the　army；　Napoleon　was　alarmed　（as　Thiers　tells　us）。　But　with　his　military　experience；　he　did　not　order　all　unnecessary　waggons　of　goods　to　be　burnt；　as　he　had　done　with　a　marshal’s　baggage　on　the　way　to　Moscow。　He　gazed　at　those　carts　and　carriages；　filled　with　soldiers；　and　said　that　it　was　very　well；　that　those　conveyances　would　come　in　useful　for　provisions；　the　sick；　and　the　wounded。
The　plight　of　the　army　was　like　the　plight　of　a　wounded　beast；　that　feels　its　death　at　hand；　and　knows　not　what　it　is　doing。　Studying　the　intricate　man？uvres　and　schemes　of　Napoleon　and　his　army　from　the　time　of　entering　Moscow　up　to　the　time　of　the　destruction　of　that　army　is　much　like　watching　the　death　struggles　and　convulsions　of　a　beast　mortally　wounded。　Very　often　the　wounded　creature；　hearing　a　stir；　rushes　to　meet　the　hunter’s　shot；　runs　forward　and　back　again；　and　itself　hastens　its　end。　Napoleon　under　the　pressure　of　his　army　did　likewise。　Panic…stricken　at　the　rumour　of　the　battle　of　Tarutino；　like　a　wild　beast；　the　army　made　a　rush　towards　the　shot；　reached　the　hunter；　and　ran　back　again；　and　at　last；　like　every　wild　creature　took　the　old　familiar　track；　that　was　the　worst　and　most　disastrous　way　for　it。
Napoleon　is　represented　to　us　as　the　leader　in　all　this　movement；　just　as　the　figurehead　in　the　prow　of　a　ship　to　the　savage　seems　the　force　that　guides　the　ship　on　its　course。　Napoleon　in　his　activity　all　this　time　was　like　a　child；　sitting　in　a　carriage；　pulling　the　straps　within　it；　and　fancying　he　is　moving　it　along。


Chapter　11
EARLY　in　the　morning　of　the　6th　of　October；　Pierre　came　out　of　the　shed；　and　when　he　went　back；　he　stood　in　the　doorway；　playing　with　the　long　bandy…legged；　purplish…grey　dog；　that　jumped　about　him。　This　dog　lived　in　their　shed；　sleeping　with　Karataev；　though　it　sometimes　went　off　on　its　own　account　into　the　town；　and　came　back　again。　It　had　probably　never　belonged　to　any　one；　and　now　it　had　no　master；　and　no　name。　The　French　called　it　Azor；　the　soldier　who　told　stories　called　it　Femgalka；　Karataev　called　it　“Grey…coat；”　and　sometimes　“Floppy。”　The　lack　of　a　master；　of　a　name；　of　any　particular　breed；　and　even　of　a　definite　colour；　by　no　means　troubled　the　purplish…grey　dog。　Its　fluffy　tail　stood　up　firm　and　round　like　a　plume；　its　bandy　legs　served　it　so　well　that　often；　as　though　disdaining　to　use　all　four；　it　would　hold　one　hind…leg　gracefully　up；　and　run　very　quickly　and　smartly　on　three　paws。　Everything　was　a　source　of　satisfaction　to　it。　At　one　moment；　it　was　barking　with　joy；　then　it　would　bask　in　the　sun；　with　a　dreamy　and　thoughtful　air；　then　it　would　frolic　about；　playing　with　a　chip　or　a　straw。
Pierre’s　attire　now　consisted　of　a　dirty；　tattered　shirt；　the　sole　relic　left　of　his　previous　wardrobe；　a　pair　of　soldier’s　drawers；　tied　with　string　round　the　ankles　by　Karataev’s　advice；　for　the　sake　of　warmth；　a　full　peasant’s　coat　and　a　peasant’s　cap。　Physically　Pierre　had　changed　greatly　during　this　period。　He　no　longer　seemed　stout；　though　he　still　had　that　look　of　solidity　and　strength　that　was　characteristic　of　the　Bezuhov　family。　The　lower　part　of　his　face　was　overgrown　with　beard　and　moustaches；　his　long；　tangled　hair；　swarming　with　lice；　formed　a　mat　of　curls　on　his　head。　His　eyes　had　a　look　of　firmness；　calm；　and　alert　readiness；　such　as　had　never　been　seen　in　Pierre’s　face　before。　All　his　old　slackness；　which　had　shown　even　in　his　eyes；　was　replaced　now　by　a　vigorous；　alert　look　of　readiness　for　action　and　for　resistance。　His　feet　were　bare。
Pierre　looked　over　the　meadow；　across　which　waggons　and　men　on　horseback　were　moving　that　morning；　then　far　away　beyond　the　river；　then　at　the　dog；　who　was　pretending　to　be　meaning　to　bite　him　in　earnest；　then　at　his　bare　feet；　which　he　shifted　with　pleasure　from　one　position　to　another；　moving　the　dirty；　thick；　big　toes。　And　every　time　he　looked　at　his　bare　feet；　a　smile　of　eager　self…satisfaction　flitted　across　his　face。　The　sight　of　those　bare　feet　reminded　him　of　all　he　had　passed　through　and　learned　during　this　time；　and　the　thought　of　that　was　sweet　to　him。
The　weather　had　for　several　days　been　still　and　clear；　with　light　frosts　in　the　mornings—the　so…called　“old　granny’s　summer。”
It　was　warm　out　of　doors　in　the　sunshine；　and　that　warmth　was　particularly　pleasant；　with　the　bracing　freshness　of　the　morning　frost　still　in　the　air。
Over　everything；　over　all　objects　near　and　far；　lay　that　magical；　crystal…clear　brightness；　which　is　only　seen　at　that　time　in　the　autumn。　In　the　distance　could　be　seen　the　Sparrow　Hills；　with　the　village；　the　church；　and　the　great　white　house。　And　the　leafless　trees；　and　the　sand　and　the　stones　and　roofs　of　the　houses；　the　green　spire　of　the　church；　and　the　angles　of　the　white　house　in　the　distance；　all　stood　out　in　the　most　delicate　outlines　with　unnatural　distinctness　in　the　limpid　air。　Close　at　hand　stood　the　familiar　ruins　of　a　half…burnt　mansion；　occupied　by　French　soldiers；　with　lilac　bushes　still　dark…green　by　the　fence。　And　even　this　charred　and　ruined　house；　which　looked　revoltingly　hideous　in　bad　weather；　had　a　sort　of　soothing　comeliness　in　the　clear；　still　brightness。
A　French　corporal；　in　a　smoking…cap；　with　his　coat　comfortably　unbuttoned；　came　round　the　corner　of　the　shed；　with　a　short　pipe　between　his　teeth；　and　with　a　friendly　wink；　approached　Pierre。
“What　sunshine；　hein；　M。　Kiril？”　（This　was　what　all　the　French　soldiers　called　Pierre。）　“One　would　say　it　was　spring。”　And　the　corporal　leaned　against　the　door；　and　offered　Pierre　his　pipe；　though　he　was　always　offering　it；　and　Pierre　always　declined　it。
“If　one　were　marching　in　weather　like　this；”　he　began。
Pierre　questioned　him　what　he　had　heard　of　the　departure　of　the　French；　and　the　corporal　told　him　that　almost　all　the　troops　were　setting　out；　and　that　to…day　instructions　were　expected　in　regard　to　the　prisoners。　In　the　shed　in　which　Pierre　was；　one　of　the　Russian　soldiers；　Sokolov；　was　dangerously　ill；　and　Pierre　told　the　corporal　that　something　ought　to　be　done　about　this　soldier。　The　corporal　said　that　Pierre　might　set　his　mind　at　rest；　that　they　had　both　travelling　and　stationary　hospitals　for　such　cases；　that　instructions　would　be　given　in　regard　to　the　sick；　and　that　in　fact　every　possible　contingency　was　provided　for　by　the　authorities。
“And　then；　M。　Kiril；　you　have　only　to　say　a　word　to　the　captain；　you　know。　Oh；　he　is　a　man　who　never　forgets　anything。　Speak　to　the　captain　when　he　makes　his　round；　he　will　do　anything　for　you。”
The　captain　of　whom　the　corporal　spoke　used　often　to　have　long　conversations　with　Pierre；　and　did　him　all　kinds　of　favours。
“‘You　see；　St。　Thomas；”　he　said　to　me　the　other　day；　‘Kiril　is　a　man　of　education；　who　speaks　French；　he　is　a　Russian　lord　who　has　had　troubles；　but　he　is　a　man。　And　he　understands　…　If　he　wants　anything；　let　him　tell　me；　he　shall　not　meet　with　a　refusal。　When　one　has　studied；　one　likes　education；　you　see；　and　well…bred　people。’　It’s　for　your　own　sake　I　tell　you　that；　M。　Kiril。　In　the　affair　that　happened　the　other　day；　if　it　hadn’t　been　for　you；　things　would　have　ended　badly。”
（The　corporal　was　alluding　to　a　fight　a　few　days　before　between　the　prisoners　and　the　French　soldiers；　in　which　Pierre　had　succeeded　in　pacifying　his　companions。）　After　chatting　a　little　time　longer　the　corporal　went　away。
Several　of　the　prisoners　had　heard　Pierre　talking　to　the　corporal；　and　they　came　up　immediately　to　ask　what　the　latter　had　said。　While　Pierre　was　telling　his　companions　what　the　corporal　had　said　about　setting　off　from　Moscow；　a　thin；　sallow；　ragged　French　soldier　came　up　to　the　door　of　the　shed。　With　a　shy　and　rapid　gesture　he　put　his　fingers　to　his　forehead　by　way　of　a　salute；　and　addressing　Pierre；　asked　him　if　the　soldier；　Platoche；　who　was　making　a　shirt　for　him；　were　in　this　shed。
The　French　soldiers　had　been　provided　with　linen　and　leather　a　week　previously；　and　had　given　out　the　materials　to　the　Russian　prisoners　to　make　them　boots　and　shirts。
“It’s　ready；　darling；　it’s　ready！”　said　Karataev；　coming　out　with　a　carefully　folded　shirt。　On　account　of　the　heat　and　for　greater　convenience　in　working；　Karataev　was　wearing　nothing　but　a　pair　of　drawers　and　a　tattered　shirt；　as　black　as　the　earth。　He　had　tied　a　wisp　of　bast　round　his　hair；　as　workmen　do；　and　his　round　face　looked　rounder　and　more　pleasing　than　ever。
“Punctuality　is　own　brother　to　good　business。　I　said　Friday；　and　so　I　have　done　it；”　said　Platon；　smiling　and　displaying　the　shirt　he　had　made。
The　Frenchman　looked　about　him　uneasily；　and　as　though　overcoming　some　hesitation；　rapidly　slipped　off　his　uniform　and　put　on　the　shirt。　Under　his　uniform　he　had　no　shirt；　but　a　long；　greasy；　flowered　silk　waistcoat　next　his　bare；　yellow；　thin　body。　The　Frenchman　was　evidently　afraid　that　the　prisoners；　who　were　looking　at　him；　would　laugh　at　him；　and　he　made　haste　to　put　his　head　through　the　shirt。　None　of　the　prisoners　said　a　word。　“To　be　sure；　it　fits　well；”　Platon　observed；　pulling　the　shirt　down。　The　Frenchman；　after　putting　his　head　and　arms　through；　looked　down　at　the　shirt；　and　examined　the　stitching　without　lifting　his　eyes。
“Well；　darling；　this　isn’t　a　tailor’s；　you　know；　and　I　had　no　proper　sewing　materials；　and　there’s　a　saying　without　the　right　tool　you　can’t　even　kill　a　louse　properly；”　said　Karataev；　still　admiring　his　own　handiwork。
“Very　good；　thanks；　but　you　must　have　some　stuff　left…”　said　the　Frenchman。
“It　will　be　more　comfortable　as　it　wears　to　your　body；”　said　Karataev；　still　admiring　his　work。　“There；　you’ll　be　nice　and　comfortable。”
“Thanks；　thanks；　old　fellow；　but　what　is　left…？”　repeated　the　Frenchman；　giving　Karataev　a　paper　note。　“Give　me　the　pieces　that　are　over。”
Pierre　saw　that　Platon　did　not　want　to　understand　what　the　Frenchman　said；　and　he　looked　on　without　interfering。　Karataev　thanked　him　for　the　rouble　and　went　on　admiring　his　own　work。　The　Frenchman　persisted　in　asking　for　what　was　left；　and　asked　Pierre　to　translate　what　he　said。
“What　does　he　want　with　the　pieces？”　said　Karataev。　“They　would　have　made　me　capital　leg　wrappers。　Oh　well；　God　bless　the　man。”
And；　looking　suddenly　crestfallen　and　melancholy；　Karataev　took　a　bundle　of　remnants　out　of　his　bosom　and　gave　it　to　the　Frenchman　without　looking　at　him。　“Ach…ma！”　he　cried；　and　walked　away。　The　Frenchman　looked　at　the　linen；　he　hesitated；　gl