战争与和平(上)-第262章

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had　come　in　his　dream　at　Mozhaisk。
Life　is　everything。　Life　is　God。　All　is　changing　and　moving；　and　that　motion　is　God。　And　while　there　is　life；　there　is　the　joy　of　the　consciousness　of　the　Godhead。　To　love　life　is　to　love　God。　The　hardest　and　the　most　blessed　thing　is　to　love　this　life　in　one’s　sufferings；　in　undeserved　suffering。
“Karataev！”　flashed　into　Pierre’s　mind。　And　all　at　once　there　rose　up；　as　vivid　as　though　alive；　the　image；　long　forgotten；　of　the　gentle　old　teacher；　who　had　given　Pierre　geography　lessons　in　Switzerland。　“Wait　a　minute；”　the　old　man　was　saying。　And　he　was　showing　Pierre　a　globe。　This　globe　was　a　living；　quivering　ball；　with　no　definite　limits。　Its　whole　surface　consisted　of　drops；　closely　cohering　together。　And　those　drops　were　all　in　motion；　and　changing；　several　passing　into　one；　and　then　one　splitting　up　again　into　many。　Every　drop　seemed　striving　to　spread；　to　take　up　more　space；　but　the　others；　pressing　upon　it；　sometimes　absorbed　it；　sometimes　melted　into　it。
“This　is　life；”　the　old　teacher　was　saying。
“How　simple　it　is　and　how　clear；”　thought　Pierre。　“How　was　it　I　did　not　know　that　before？　God　is　in　the　midst；　and　each　drop　strives　to　expand；　to　reflect　Him　on　the　largest　scale　possible。　And　it　grows；　and　is　absorbed　and　crowded　out；　and　on　the　surface　it　disappears；　goes　back　into　the　depths；　and　falls　not　to　the　surface　again。　That　is　how　it　is　with　him；　with　Karataev；　he　is　absorbed　and　has　disappeared。”
“You　understand；　my　child；”　said　the　teacher。
“You　understand；　damn　you！”　shouted　a　voice；　and　Pierre　woke　up。
He　raised　his　head　and　sat　up。　A　French　soldier　was　squatting　on　his　heels　by　the　fire。　He　had　just　shoved　away　a　Russian　soldier；　and　was　roasting　a　piece　of　meat　on　the　end　of　a　ramrod。　His　sinewy；　lean；　hairy；　red　hands；　with　short　fingers；　were　deftly　turning　the　ramrod。　His　brown；　morose　face；　with　its　sullen　brows；　could　be　clearly　seen　in　the　light　of　the　glowing　embers。
“It’s　just　the　same　to　him；”　he　muttered；　quickly　addressing　a　soldier　standing　behind　him。　“Brigand！　go！”
And　the　soldier；　turning　the　ramrod；　glanced　gloomily　at　Pierre。　The　latter　turned　away；　gazing　into　the　shadows。　A　Russian　soldier；　the　one　who　had　been　pushed　away；　was　sitting　near　the　fire；　patting　something　with　his　hand。　Looking　more　closely；　Pierre　saw　the　grey　dog；　who　was　sitting　by　the　soldier；　wagging　her　tail。
“Ah；　she　has　come　…”　said　Pierre。　“And　Plat　…”　he　was　beginning；　but　he　did　not　go　on。　All　at　once；　instantly　in　close　connection；　there　rose　up　the　memory　of　the　look　Platon　had　fixed　upon　him；　as　he　sat　under　the　tree；　of　the　shot　heard　at　that　spot；　of　the　dog’s　howl；　of　the　guilty　faces　of　the　soldiers　as　they　ran　by；　of　the　smoking　gun；　of　Karataev’s　absence　at　that　halting…place；　and　he　was　on　the　point　of　fully　realising　that　Karataev　had　been　killed；　but　at　the　same　instant；　at　some　mysterious　summons；　there　rose　up　the　memory　of　a　summer　evening　he　had　spent　with　a　beautiful　Polish　lady　on　the　verandah　of　his　house　at　Kiev。　And　nevertheless；　making　no　effort　to　connect　the　impressions　of　the　day；　and　to　deduce　anything　from　them；　Pierre　closed　his　eyes；　and　the　picture　of　the　summer　night　in　the　country　mingled　with　the　thought　of　bathing　and　of　that　fluid；　quivering　globe；　and　he　seemed　to　sink　deep　down　into　water；　so　that　the　waters　closed　over　his　head。
Before　sunrise　he　was　wakened　by　loud　and　rapid　shots　and　outcries。　The　French　were　flying　by　him。
“The　Cossacks！”　one　of　them　shouted；　and　a　minute　later　a　crowd　of　Russians　were　surrounding　Pierre。　For　a　long　while　Pierre　could　not　understand　what　had　happened　to　him。　He　heard　all　about　him　his　comrades’　wails　of　joy。
“Mates！　our　own　folk！　brothers！”　the　old　soldiers　cried；　weeping；　as　they　embraced　the　Cossacks　and　the　hussars。　The　hussars　and　the　Cossacks　crowded　round　the　prisoners；　pressing　on　them　clothes；　and　boots；　and　bread。　Pierre　sat　sobbing　in　their　midst；　and　could　not　utter　one　word；　he　hugged　the　first　soldier　who　went　up　to　him；　and　kissed　him；　weeping。
Dolohov　was　standing　at　the　gates　of　a　dilapidated　house；　letting　the　crowd　of　unarmed　Frenchmen　pass　by　him。　The　French；　excited　by　all　that　had　happened；　were　talking　loudly　among　themselves；　but　as　they　passed　before　Dolohov；　who　stood　switching　his　boots　with　his　riding…whip；　and　watching　them　with　his　cold；　glassy　eyes；　that　boded　nothing　good；　their　talk　died　away。　One　of　Dolohov’s　Cossacks　stood　on　the　other　side；　counting　the　prisoners；　and　marking　off　the　hundreds　with　a　chalk　mark　on　the　gate。
“How　many？”　Dolohov　asked　him。
“The　second　hundred；”　answered　the　Cossack。
“Filez；　filez；”　said　Dolohov；　who　had　picked　up　the　expression　from　the　French；　and　when　he　met　the　eyes　of　the　passing　prisoners；　his　eyes　gleamed　with　a　cruel　light。
With　a　gloomy　face　Denisov；　holding　his　high　Cossack　hat　in　his　hand；　was　walking　behind　the　Cossacks；　who　were　bearing　to　a　hole　freshly　dug　in　the　garden　the　body　of　Petya　Rostov。


Chapter　16
FROM　THE　28TH　of　October；　when　the　frosts　began；　the　flight　of　the　French　assumed　a　more　tragic　aspect；　from　the　men　being　frozen　or　roasted　to　death　by　the　camp…fires；　while　the　Emperor；　and　kings；　and　dukes；　still　drove　on　with　their　stolen　booty　in　fur　cloaks　and　closed　carriages。　But　in　its　essentials；　the　process　of　the　flight　and　disintegration　of　the　French　army　went　on　unchanged。
From　Moscow　to　Vyazma　of　the　seventy…three　thousands　of　the　French　army　（not　reckoning　the　Guards；　who　had　done　nothing　but　pillage　all　through　the　war）；　only　thirty…six　thousand　were　left；　though　only　five　thousand　had　been　killed　in　battle。　Here　we　have　the　first　term　of　a　progression；　by　which　the　remaining　terms　are　determined　with　mathematical　exactness。　The　French　army　went　on　melting　away　and　disappearing　in　the　same　ratio　from　Moscow　to　Vyazma；　from　Vyazma　to　Smolensk；　from　Smolensk　to　the　Berezina；　from　the　Berezina　to　Vilna；　apart　from　the　greater　or　less　degree　of　cold；　the　pursuit　and　barring　of　the　way；　and　all　other　conditions　taken　separately。　After　Vyazma；　instead　of　three　columns；　the　French　troops　formed　a　single　mass；　and　so　they　marched　on　to　the　end。　This　is　how　Berthier　wrote　to　the　Emperor　（and　we　know　that　generals　feel　it　permissible　to　depart　rather　widely　from　the　truth　in　describing　the　condition　of　their　armies）：—
“I　think　it　my　duty　to　report　to　your　majesty　the　condition　of　the　various　corps　under　my　observation　on　the　march　the　last　two　or　three　days。　They　are　almost　disbanded。　Hardly　a　quarter　of　the　men　remain　with　the　flags　of　their　regiments；　the　rest　wander　off　on　their　own　account　in　different　directions；　trying　to　seek　food　and　to　escape　discipline。　All　think　only　of　Smolensk；　where　they　hope　to　recover。　During　the　last　few　days　many　soldiers　have　been　observed　to　throw　away　their　cartridges　and　muskets。　In　such　a　condition　of　affairs；　whatever　your　further　plans　may　be；　the　interests　of　your　majesty’s　service　make　it　essential　to　muster　the　army　at　Smolensk；　and　to　rid　them　of　ineffectives；　such　as　cavalry　men　without　horses；　as　well　as　of　superfluous　baggage　and　a　part　of　the　artillery；　which　is　now　out　of　proportion　with　the　numbers　of　the　effective　army。　Supplies　and　some　days’　rest　are　essential：　the　soldiers　are　exhausted　by　hunger　and　fatigue；　during　the　last　few　days　many　have　died　by　the　roadside　or　in　the　bivouacs。　This　state　of　things　is　growing　continually　worse；　and　if　steps　are　not　quickly　taken　for　averting　the　danger；　we　shall　be　exposed　to　the　risk　of　being　unable　to　control　the　army　in　the　event　of　a　battle。
“November　9。　Thirty　versts　from　Smolensk。”
After　struggling　into　Smolensk；　the　promised　land　of　their　dreams；　the　French　killed　one　another　fighting　over　the　food　there；　sacked　their　own　stores；　and　when　everything　had　been　pillaged；　they　ran　on　further。　All　hastened　on；　not　knowing　whither　or　for　what　end　they　were　going；　least　of　all　knew　that　great　genius；　Napoleon；　since　there　was　no　one　to　give　him　orders。　But　still　he　and　those　about　him　clung　to　their　old　habits：　wrote　commands；　letters；　reports；　orders　of　the　day；　called　each　other　your　majesty；　mon　frère；　Prince　d’Eckmühl；　roi　de　Naples；　and　so　on。　But　the　orders　and　reports　were　all　on　paper：　no　attempt　was　made　to　carry　them　out；　because　they　could　not　be　carried　out。　And　although　they　addressed　each　other　as　“majesty；”　“highness；”　and　“mon　cousin；”　they　all　felt　that　they　were　pitiful　and　loathsome　creatures；　who　had　done　a　great　wrong；　for　which　they　had　now　to　pay　the　penalty。　And　in　spite　of　their　pretence　of　caring　for　the　army；　each　was　thinking　only　of　himself；　and　how　to　make　his　escape　as　quickly　as　possible　to　safety。


Chapter　17
THE　ACTIONS　of　the　Russian　and　French　armies　during　the　retreat　from　Moscow　to　the　Niemen　resemble　a　game　of　Russian　blindman’s　buff；　in　which　there　are　two　players；　both　with　their　eyes　bandaged；　and　one　rings　a　bell　at　intervals　to　let　the　other　know　of　his　whereabouts。　At　first　he　rings　his　bell　with　no　fear　of　his　opponent；　but　when　he　begins　to　find　himself　in　a　difficult　position；　he　runs　away　as　noiselessly　as　he　can　from　his　opponent；　and　often　supposing　he　is　running　away　from　him；　walks　straight　into　his　arms。
At　first　Napoleon’s　army　made　its　whereabouts　known—that　was　in　the　early　period　of　the　retreat　along　the　Kaluga　road—but　afterwards；　when　they　had　taken　to　the　Smolensk　road；　they　ran　holding　the　tongue　of　the　bell；　and　often　supposing　they　were　running　away；　ran　straight　towards　the　Russians。
Owing　to　the　rapidity　of　the　flight　of　the　French；　and　of　the　Russians　after　them；　and　the　consequent　exhaustion　of　the　horses；　the　chief　means　of　keeping　a　close　watch　on　the　enemy’s　position—by　means　of　charges　of　cavalry—was　out　of　the　question。　Moreover；　in　consequence　of　the　frequent　and　rapid　changes　of　position　of　both　armies；　what　news　did　come　always　came　too　late。　If　information　arrived　on　the　second　that　the　army　of　the　enemy　had　been　in　a　certain　place　on　the　first；　by　the　third；　when　the　information　could　be　acted　upon；　the　army　was　already　two　days’　march　further；　and　in　quite　a　different　position。
One　army　fled；　the　other　pursued。　From　Smolensk；　there　were　a　number　of　different　roads　for　the　French　to　choose　from；　and　one　would　have　thought　that；　as　they　stayed　there　four　days；　the　French　might　have　found　out　where　the　enemy　was；　have　thought　out　some　advantageous　plan；　and　undertaken　something　new。　Yet；　after　a　halt　of　four　days；　the　crowds　of　them　ran　back；　again　not　to　right　or　to　left；　but；　with　no　man？uvres　or　plans；　along　their　old　road—the　worst　one—by　Krasnoe　and　Orsha；　along　their　beaten　track。
Expecting　the　enemy　in　their　rear　and　not　in　front；　the　French　ran；　straggling　out；　and　getting　separated　as　far　as　twenty…four　hours’　march　from　one　another。　In　front　of　all　fled　the　Emperor；　then　the　kings；　then　the　dukes。　The　Russian　army；　supposing　Napoleon　would　take　the　road　to　the　right　beyond　the　Dnieper—the　only　sensible　course—turned　also　to　the　right；　and　came　out　on　the　high　road　at　Krasnoe。　And　here；　just　as　in　the　game　of　blindman；　the　French　came　bearing　straight　down　on　our　vanguard。　Seeing　the　enemy　unexpectedly；　the　French　were　thrown　into　confusion；　stopped　short　fro