战争与和平(上)-第61章

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rench　adroitness　and　the　Italian　actor…faculty！　You　know　the　anecdote　about　Bonaparte　and　Count　Markov？　Count　Markov　was　the　only　person　who　knew　how　to　treat　him。　You　know　the　story　of　the　handkerchief？　It’s　a　gem！”　And　the　talkative　Dolgorukov　turning　from　Boris　to　Prince　Andrey　told　the　story　of　how　Bonaparte；　to　test　Markov；　our　ambassador；　had　purposely　dropped　his　handkerchief　before　him；　and　had　stood　looking　at　him；　probably　expecting　Markov　to　pick　it　up　for　him；　and　how　Markov　promptly　dropped　his　own　beside　it；　and　had　picked　up　his　own　without　touching　Bonaparte’s。
“Capital；”　said　Bolkonsky。　“But；　prince；　I　have　come　to　you　as　a　petitioner　in　behalf　of　this　young　friend。　You　see　…”　But　before　Prince　Andrey　could　finish；　an　adjutant　came　into　the　room　to　summon　Prince　Dolgorukov　to　the　Emperor。
“Ah；　how　annoying！”　said　Dolgorukov；　getting　up　hurriedly　and　shaking　hands　with　Prince　Andrey　and　Boris。　“You　know　I　shall　be　very　glad　to　do　all　that　depends　on　me　both　for　you　and　for　this　charming　young　man。”　Once　more　he　shook　hands　with　Boris　with　an　expression　of　good…natured；　genuine；　heedless　gaiety。　“But　you　see　…　another　time！”
Boris　was　excited　by　the　thought　of　being　so　close　to　the　higher　powers；　as　he　felt　himself　to　be　at　that　instant。　He　was　conscious　here　of　being　in　contact　with　the　springs　that　controlled　all　those　vast　movements　of　the　masses；　of　which　in　his　regiment　he　felt　himself　a　tiny；　humble；　and　insignificant　part。　They　followed　Prince　Dolgorukov　out　into　the　corridor　and　met　（coming　out　of　the　door　of　the　Tsar’s　room　at　which　Dolgorukov　went　in）　a　short　man　in　civilian　dress　with　a　shrewd　face　and　a　sharply　projecting　lower　jaw；　which；　without　spoiling　his　face；　gave　him　a　peculiar　alertness　and　shiftiness　of　expression。　This　short　man　nodded　to　Dolgorukov；　as　if　he　were　an　intimate　friend；　and　stared　with　an　intently　cold　gaze　at　Prince　Andrey；　walking　straight　towards　him　and　apparently　expecting　him　to　bow　or　move　out　of　his　way。　Prince　Andrey　did　neither；　there　was　a　vindictive　look　on　his　face；　and　the　short　young　man　turned　away　and　walked　at　the　side　of　the　corridor。
“Who’s　that？”　asked　Boris。
“That’s　one　of　the　most　remarkable　men—and　the　most　unpleasant　to　me。　The　minister　of　foreign　affairs；　Prince　Adam　Tchartorizhsky。”
“Those　are　the　men；”　added　Bolkonsky　with　a　sigh　which　he　could　not　suppress；　as　they　went　out　of　the　palace；　“those　are　the　men　who　decide　the　fates　of　nations。”
Next　day　the　troops　set　off　on　the　march；　and　up　to　the　time　of　the　battle　of　Austerlitz；　Boris　did　not　succeed　in　seeing　Bolkonsky　or　Dolgorukov　again；　and　remained　for　a　while　in　the　Ismailov　regiment。


Chapter　10
AT　DAWN　on　the　16th；　Denisov’s　squadron；　in　which　Nikolay　Rostov　was　serving；　and　which　formed　part　of　Prince　Bagration’s　detachment；　moved　on　from　its　halting　place　for　the　night—to　advance　into　action；　as　was　said。　After　about　a　mile’s　march；　in　the　rear　of　other　columns；　it　was　brought　to　a　standstill　on　the　high…road。　Rostov　saw　the　Cossacks；　the　first　and　second　squadrons　of　hussars；　and　the　infantry　battalions　with　the　artillery　pass　him　and　march　on　ahead；　he　also　saw　the　Generals　Bagration　and　Dolgorukov　ride　by　with　their　adjutants。　All　the　panic　he　had　felt；　as　before；　at　the　prospect　of　battle；　all　the　inner　conflict　by　means　of　which　he　had　overcome　that　panic；　all　his　dreams　of　distinguishing　himself　in　true　hussar　style　in　this　battle—all　were　for　nothing。　His　squadron　was　held　back　in　reserve；　and　Nikolay　Rostov　spent　a　tedious　and　wretched　day。　About　nine　o’clock　in　the　morning　he　heard　firing　ahead　of　him；　and　shouts　of　hurrah；　saw　the　wounded　being　brought　back　（there　were　not　many　of　them）；　and　finally　saw　a　whole　detachment　of　French　cavalry　being　brought　away　in　the　midst　of　a　company　of　Cossacks。　Obviously　the　action　was　over；　and　the　action　had；　obviously；　been　a　small　one；　but　successful。　The　soldiers　and　officers　as　they　came　back　were　talking　of　a　brilliant　victory；　of　the　taking　of　the　town　of　Vishau；　and　a　whole　French　squadron　taken　prisoners。　The　day　was　bright　and　sunny　after　a　sharp　frost　at　night；　and　the　cheerful　brightness　of　the　autumn　day　was　in　keeping　with　the　news　of　victory；　which　was　told　not　only　by　the　accounts　of　those　who　had　taken　part　in　it；　but　by　the　joyful　expression　of　soldiers；　officers；　generals；　and　adjutants；　who　rode　to　and　fro　by　Rostov。　All　the　greater　was　the　pang　in　Nikolay’s　heart　that　he　should　have　suffered　the　dread　that　goes　before　the　battle　for　nothing；　and　have　spent　that　happy　day　in　inactivity。
“Rostov；　come　here；　let’s　drink　‘begone；　dull　care！’　”　shouted　Denisov；　sitting　at　the　roadside　before　a　bottle　and　some　edibles。　The　officers　gathered　in　a　ring；　eating　and　talking；　round　Denisov’s　wine…case。
“Here　they’re　bringing　another！”　said　one　of　the　officers；　pointing　to　a　French　prisoner；　a　dragoon；　who　was　being　led　on　foot　by　two　Cossacks。　One　of　them　was　leading　by　the　bridle　the　prisoner’s　horse；　a　tall　and　beautiful　French　beast。
“Sell　the　horse？”　Denisov　called　to　the　Cossacks。
“If　you　will；　your　honour。”
The　officers　got　up　and　stood　round　the　Cossacks　and　the　prisoner。　The　French　dragoon　was　a　young　fellow；　an　Alsatian　who　spoke　French　with　a　German　accent。　He　was　breathless　with　excitement；　his　face　was　red；　and　hearing　French　spoken　he　began　quickly　speaking　to　the　officers；　turning　from　one　to　another。　He　said　that　they　wouldn’t　have　taken　him；　that　it　wasn’t　his　fault　he　was　taken；　but　the　fault　of　the　corporal；　who　had　sent　him　to　get　the　horsecloths；　that　he　had　told　him　the　Russians　were　there。　And　at　every　word　he　added：　“But　don’t　let　anybody　hurt　my　little　horse；”　and　stroked　his　horse。　It　was　evident　that　he　did　not　quite　grasp　where　he　was。　At　one　moment　he　was　excusing　himself　for　having　been　taken　prisoner；　at　the　next；　imagining　himself　before　his　superior　officers；　he　was　trying　to　prove　his　soldierly　discipline　and　zeal　for　the　service。　He　brought　with　him　in　all　its　freshness　into　our　rearguard　the　atmosphere　of　the　French　army；　so　alien　to　us。
The　Cossacks　sold　the　horse　for　two　gold　pieces；　and　Rostov；　being　the　richest　of　the　officers　since　he　had　received　money　from　home；　bought　it。
“Be　good　to　the　little　horse！”　the　Alsatian　said　with　simple…hearted　good…nature　to　Rostov；　when　the　horse　was　handed　to　the　hussar。
Rostov　smiling；　soothed　the　dragoon；　and　gave　him　money。
“Alley！　Alley！”　said　the　Cossack；　touching　the　prisoner’s　arm　to　make　him　go　on。
“The　Emperor！　the　Emperor！”　was　suddenly　heard　among　the　hussars。　Everything　was　bustle　and　hurry；　and　Rostov　saw　behind　them　on　the　road　several　horsemen　riding　up　with　white　plumes　in　their　hats。　In　a　single　moment　all　were　in　their　places　and　eagerly　expectant。
Rostov　had　no　memory　and　no　consciousness　of　how　he　ran　to　his　post　and　got　on　his　horse。　Instantly　his　regret　at　not　taking　part　in　the　battle；　his　humdrum　mood　among　the　men　he　saw　every　day—all　was　gone；　instantly　all　thought　of　self　had　vanished。　He　was　entirely　absorbed　in　the　feeling　of　happiness　at　the　Tsar’s　being　near。　His　nearness　alone　made　up　to　him　by　itself；　he　felt；　for　the　loss　of　the　whole　day。　He　was　happy；　as　a　lover　is　happy　when　the　moment　of　the　longed…for　meeting　has　come。　Not　daring　to　look　round　from　the　front　line；　by　an　ecstatic　instinct　without　looking　round；　he　felt　his　approach。　And　he　felt　it　not　only　from　the　sound　of　the　tramping　hoofs　of　the　approaching　cavalcade；　he　felt　it　because　as　the　Tsar　came　nearer　everything　grew　brighter；　more　joyful　and　significant；　and　more　festive。　Nearer　and　nearer　moved　this　sun；　as　he　seemed　to　Rostov；　shedding　around　him　rays　of　mild　and　majestic　light；　and　now　he　felt　himself　enfolded　in　that　radiance；　he　heard　his　voice—that　voice　caressing；　calm；　majestic；　and　yet　so　simple。　A　deathlike　silence　had　come—as　seemed　to　Rostov　fitting—and　in　that　silence　he　heard　the　sound　of　the　Tsar’s　voice。
“The　Pavlograd　hussars？”　he　was　saying　interrogatively
“The　reserve；　sire；”　replied　a　voice—such　a　human　voice；　after　the　superhuman　voice　that　had　said：　“Les　hussards　de　Pavlograd？”
The　Tsar　was　on　a　level　with　Rostov；　and　he　stood　still　there。　Alexander’s　face　was　even　handsomer　than　it　had　been　at　the　review　three　days　before。　It　beamed　with　such　gaiety　and　youth；　such　innocent　youthfulness；　that　suggested　the　playfulness　of　a　boy　of　fourteen；　and　yet　it　was　still　the　face　of　the　majestic　Emperor。　Glancing　casually　along　the　squadron；　the　Tsar’s　eyes　met　the　eyes　of　Rostov；　and　for　not　more　than　two　seconds　rested　on　them。　Whether　it　was　that　the　Tsar　saw　what　was　passing　in　Rostov’s　soul　（it　seemed　to　Rostov　that　he　saw　everything）；　any　way　he　looked　for　two　seconds　with　his　blue　eyes　into　Rostov’s　face。　（A　soft；　mild　radiance　beamed　from　them。）　Then　all　at　once　he　raised　his　eyebrows；　struck　his　left　foot　sharply　against　his　horse；　and　galloped　on。
The　young　Emperor　could　not　restrain　his　desire　to　be　present　at　the　battle；　and　in　spite　of　the　expostulations　of　his　courtiers；　at　twelve　o’clock；　escaping　from　the　third　column　which　he　had　been　following；　he　galloped　to　the　vanguard。　Before　he　reached　the　hussars；　several　adjutants　met　him　with　news　of　the　successful　issue　of　the　engagement。
The　action；　which　had　simply　consisted　in　the　capture　of　a　squadron　of　the　French；　was　magnified　into　a　brilliant　victory　over　the　enemy；　and　so　the　Tsar　and　the　whole　army　believed；　especially　while　the　smoke　still　hung　over　the　field　of　battle；　that　the　French　had　been　defeated；　and　had　been　forced　to　retreat　against　their　will。　A　few　minutes　after　the　Tsar　had　galloped　on；　the　division　of　the　Pavlograd　hussars　received　orders　to　move　forward。　In　Vishau　itself；　a　little　German　town；　Rostov　saw　the　Tsar　once　more。　In　the　market…place　of　the　town　where　there　had　been　rather　a　heavy　firing　before　the　Tsar’s　arrival；　lay　several　dead　and　wounded　soldiers；　whom　there　had　not　been　time　to　pick　up。　The　Tsar；　surrounded　by　his　suite　of　officers　and　courtiers；　was　mounted　on　a　different　horse　from　the　one　he　had　ridden　at　the　review；　a　chestnut　English　thoroughbred。　Bending　on　one　side　with　a　graceful　gesture；　holding　a　gold　field…glass　to　his　eyes；　he　was　looking　at　a　soldier　lying　on　his　face　with　a　blood…stained　and　uncovered　head。　The　wounded　soldier　was　an　object　so　impure；　so　grim；　and　so　revolting；　that　Rostov　was　shocked　at　his　being　near　the　Emperor。　Rostov　saw　how　the　Tsar’s　stooping　shoulders　shuddered；　as　though　a　cold　shiver　had　passed　over　them；　how　his　left　foot　convulsively　pressed　the　spur　into　the　horse’s　side；　and　how　the　trained　horse　looked　round　indifferently　and　did　not　stir。　An　adjutant　dismounting　lifted　the　soldier　up　under　his　arms；　and　began　laying　him　on　a　stretcher　that　came　up。　The　soldier　groaned。
“Gently；　gently；　can’t　you　do　it　more　gently？”　said　the　Tsar；　apparently　suffering　more　than　the　dying　soldier；　and　he　rode　away。
Rostov　saw　the　tears　in　the　Tsar’s　eyes；　and　heard　him　say　in　French　to　Tchartorizhsky；　as　he　rode　off：　“What　an　awful　thing　war　is；　what　an　awful　thing！”
The　forces　of　the　vanguard　were　posted　before　Vishau　in　sight　of　the　enemy’s　line；　which　had　been　all　day　retreating　before　us　at　the　slightest　exchange　of