战争与和平(上)-第69章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


The　last　of　the　line　of　cavalry；　a　pock…marked　man　of　immense　stature；　scowled　viciously　on　seeing　Rostov　just　in　front　of　him；　where　he　must　inevitably　come　into　collision　with　him。　This　horse…guard　would　infallibly　have　overturned　Rostov　and　his　Bedouin　（Rostov　felt　himself　so　little　and　feeble　beside　these　gigantic　men　and　horses）　if　he　had　not　bethought　himself　of　striking　the　horse…guard’s　horse　in　the　face　with　his　riding…whip。　The　heavy；　black；　high　horse　twitched　its　ears　and　reared；　but　its　pock…marked　rider　brought　it　down　with　a　violent　thrust　of　the　spurs　into　its　huge　sides；　and　the　horse；　lashing　its　tail　and　dragging　its　neck；　flew　on　faster　than　ever。　The　horse…guard　had　hardly　passed　Rostov　when　he　heard　their　shout；　“Hurrah！”　and　looking　round　saw　their　foremost　ranks　mixed　up　with　some　strange　cavalry；　in　red　epaulettes；　probably　French。　He　could　see　nothing　more；　for　immediately　after　cannons　were　fired　from　somewhere；　and　everything　was　lost　in　the　smoke。
At　the　moment　when　the　horse…guards　passing　him　vanished　into　the　smoke；　Rostov　hesitated　whether　to　gallop　after　them　or　to　go　on　where　he　had　to　go。　This　was　the　brilliant　charge　of　the　horse…guards　of　which　the　French　themselves　expressed　their　admiration。　Rostov　was　appalled　to　hear　afterwards　that　of　all　that　mass　of　huge；　fine　men；　of　all　those　brilliant；　rich　young　officers　and　ensigns　who　had　galloped　by　him　on　horses　worth　thousands　of　roubles。　only　eighteen　were　left　after　the　charge。
“I　have　no　need　to　envy　them；　my　share　won’t　be　taken　from　me；　and　may　be　I　shall　see　the　Emperor　in　a　minute！”　thought　Rostov；　and　he　galloped　on。
When　he　reached　the　infantry　of　the　guards；　he　noticed　that　cannon　balls　were　flying　over　and　about　them；　not　so　much　from　the　sound　of　the　cannon　balls；　as　from　the　uneasiness　he　saw　in　the　faces　of　the　soldiers　and　the　unnatural；　martial　solemnity　on　the　faces　of　the　officers。
As　he　rode　behind　one　of　the　lines　of　the　regiments　of　footguards；　he　heard　a　voice　calling　him　by　name：　“Rostov！”
“Eh？”　he　called　back；　not　recognising　Boris。
“I　say；　we’ve　been　in　the　front　line！　Our　regiment　marched　to　the　attack！”　said　Boris；　smiling　that　happy　smile　that　is　seen　in　young　men　who　have　been　for　the　first　time　under　fire。　Rostov　stopped。
“Really！”　he　said。　“Well；　how　was　it？”
“We　beat　them！”　said　Boris；　growing　talkative　in　his　eagerness。　“You　can　fancy　…”　And　Boris　began　describing　how　the　guards　having　taken　up　their　position；　and　seeing　troops　in　front　of　them　had　taken　them　for　Austrians；　and　all　at　once　had　found　out　from　the　cannon　balls　aimed　at　them　from　those　troops　that　they　were　in　the　front　line；　and　had　quite　unexpectedly　to　advance　to　battle。　Rostov　set　his　horse　moving　without　waiting　to　hear　Boris　to　the　end。
“Where　are　you　off　to？”　asked　Boris。
“To　his　majesty　with　a　commission。”
“Here　he　is！”　said　Boris；　who　had　not　caught　what　Rostov　said；　and　thinking　it　was　the　grand　duke　he　wanted；　he　pointed　him　out；　standing　a　hundred　paces　from　them；　wearing　a　helmet　and　a　horse…guard’s　white　elk　tunic；　with　his　high　shoulders　and　scowling　brows；　shouting　something　to　a　pale；　white…uniformed　Austrian　officer。
“Why；　that’s　the　grand　duke；　and　I　must　see　the　commander…in…chief　or　the　Emperor；”　said　Rostov；　and　he　was　about　to　start　again。
“Count；　count！”　shouted　Berg；　running　up　on　the　other　side；　as　eager　as　Boris。　“I　was　wounded　in　my　right　hand”　（he　pointed　to　his　blood…stained　hand；　bound　up　with　a　pocket…handkerchief）；　“and　I　kept　my　place　in　the　front。　Count；　I　held　my　sabre　in　my　left　hand。　All　my　family；　count；　the　Von　Bergs；　have　been　knights。”　Berg　would　have　said　more；　but　Rostov　rode　on　without　listening。
After　riding　by　the　guards；　and　on　through　an　empty　space；　Rostov　rode　along　the　line　of　the　reserves　for　fear　of　getting　in　the　way　of　the　front　line；　as　he　had　done　in　the　charge　of　the　horse…guards；　and　made　a　wide　circuit　round　the　place　where　he　heard　the　hottest　musket…fire　and　cannonade。　All　of　a　sudden；　in　front　of　him　and　behind　our　troops；　in　a　place　where　he　could　never　have　expected　the　enemy　to　be；　he　heard　the　sound　of　musket…fire　quite　close
“What　can　it　be？”　thought　Rostov。　“The　enemy　in　the　rear　of　our　troops？　It　can’t　be；”　thought　Rostov；　but　a　panic　of　fear　for　himself　and　for　the　issue　of　the　whole　battle　came　over　him　all　at　once。　“Whatever　happens；　though；”　he　reflected；　“it’s　useless　to　try　and　escape　now。　It’s　my　duty　to　seek　the　commander…in…chief　here；　and　if　everything’s　lost；　it’s　my　duty　to　perish　with　all　the　rest。”
The　foreboding　of　evil　that　had　suddenly　come　upon　Rostov　grew　stronger　and　stronger　the　further　he　advanced　into　the　region　behind　the　village　of　Pratzen；　which　was　full　of　crowds　of　troops　of　all　sorts。
“What　does　it　mean？　What　is　it？　Whom　are　they　firing　at？　Who　is　firing？”　Rostov　kept　asking；　as　he　met　Austrian　and　Russian　soldiers　running　in　confused　crowds　across　his　path。
“Devil　knows！　Killed　them　all！　Damn　it　all；”　he　was　answered　in　Russian；　in　German；　and　in　Czech；　by　the　hurrying　rabble；　who　knew　no　more　than　he　what　was　being　done。
“Kill　the　Germans！”　shouted　one。
“To　hell　with　them—the　traitors。”
“Zum　Henker　diese　Russen；”　muttered　a　German。
Several　wounded　were　among　the　crowds　on　the　road。　Shouts；　oaths；　moans　were　mingled　in　the　general　hubbub。　The　firing　began　to　subside；　and；　as　Rostov　found　out　later；　the　Russian　and　Austrian　soldiers　had　been　firing　at　one　another。
“My　God！　how　can　this　be？”　thought　Rostov。　“And　here；　where　any　minute　the　Emperor　may　see　them。…　No；　these　can　only　be　a　few　wretches。　It　will　soon　be　over；　it’s　not　the　real　thing；　it　can’t　be；”　he　thought。　“Only　to　make　haste；　make　haste；　and　get　by　them。”
The　idea　of　defeat　and　flight　could　not　force　its　way　into　Rostov’s　head。　Though　he　saw　the　French　cannons　and　troops　precisely　on　Pratzen　hill；　the　very　spot　where　he　had　been　told　to　look　for　the　commander…in…chief；　he　could　not　and　would　not　believe　in　it。


Chapter　18
NEAR　THE　VILLAGE　of　Pratzen　Rostov　had　been　told　to　look　for　Kutuzov　and　the　Emperor。　But　there　they　were　not；　nor　was　there　a　single　officer　to　be　found　in　command；　nothing　but　disorderly　crowds　of　troops　of　different　sorts。　He　urged　on　his　weary　horse　to　hasten　through　this　rabble；　but　the　further　he　went　the　more　disorderly　the　crowds　became。　The　high　road　along　which　he　rode；　was　thronged　with　carriages；　with　vehicles　of　all　sorts；　and　Austrian　and　Russian　soldiers　of　every　kind；　wounded　and　unwounded。　It　was　all　uproar　and　confused　bustle　under　the　sinister　whiz　of　the　flying　cannon　balls　from　the　French　batteries　stationed　on　the　heights　of　Pratzen。
“Where’s　the　Emperor？　Where’s　Kutuzov？”　Rostov　kept　asking　of　every　one　he　could　stop；　and　from　no　one　could　he　get　an　answer。
At　last　clutching　a　soldier　by　the　collar；　he　forced　him　to　answer　him。
“Aye！　brother！　they’ve　all　bolted　long　ago！”　the　soldier　said　to　Rostov；　laughing　for　some　reason　as　he　pulled　himself　away。　Letting　go　that　soldier；　who　must；　he　thought；　be　drunk；　Rostov　stopped　the　horse　of　a　groom　or　postillion　of　some　personage　of　consequence；　and　began　to　cross…question　him。　The　groom　informed　Rostov　that　an　hour　before　the　Tsar　had　been　driven　at　full　speed　in　a　carriage　along　this　very　road；　and　that　the　Tsar　was　dangerously　wounded。
“It　can’t　be；”　said　Rostov；　“probably　some　one　else。”
“I　saw　him　myself；”　said　the　groom　with　a　self…satisfied　smirk；　“it’s　high　time　I　should　know　the　Emperor；　I　should　think；　after　the　many　times　I’ve　seen　him　in　Petersburg；　I　saw　him　as　it　might　be　here。　Pale；　deadly　pale；　sitting　in　the　carriage。　The　way　they　drove　the　four　raven　horses！　my　goodness；　didn’t　they　dash　by　us！　It　would　be　strange；　I　should　think；　if　I　didn’t　know　the　Tsar’s　horses　and　Ilya　Ivanitch；　why；　Ilya　never　drives　any　one　else　but　the　Tsar。”
Rostov　let　go　of　the　horse　and　would　have　gone　on。　A　wounded　officer　passing　by　addressed　him。　“Why；　who　is　it　you　want？”　asked　the　officer；　“the　commander…in…chief？　Oh；　he　was　killed　by　a　cannon　ball；　struck　in　the　breast　before　our　regiment。”
“Not　killed—wounded；”　another　officer　corrected　him。
“Who？　Kutuzov？”　asked　Rostov。
“Not　Kutuzov；　but　what’s　his　name—well；　it’s　all　the　same；　there　are　not　many　left　alive。　Go　that　way；　over　there　to　that　village；　all　the　commanding　officers　are　there；”　said　the　officer；　pointing　to　the　village　of　Gostieradeck；　and　he　walked　on。
Rostov　rode　on　at　a　walking　pace；　not　knowing　to　whom　and　with　what　object　he　was　going　now。　The　Tsar　was　wounded；　the　battle　was　lost。　There　was　no　refusing　to　believe　in　it　now。　Rostov　rode　in　the　direction　which　had　been　pointed　out　to　him；　and　saw　in　the　distance　turrets　and　a　church。　What　had　he　to　hasten　for　now？　What　was　he　to　say　now　to　the　Tsar　or　to　Kutuzov；　even　if　they　were　alive　and　not　wounded？
“Go　along　this　road；　your　honour；　that　way　you　will　be　killed　in　a　trice！”　a　soldier　shouted　to　him。　“You’ll　be　killed　that　way！”
“Oh！　what　nonsense！”　said　another。　“Where　is　he　to　go？　That　way’s　nearest。”　Rostov　pondered；　and　rode　off　precisely　in　the　direction　in　which　he　had　been　told　he　would　be　killed。
“Now；　nothing　matters；　if　the　Emperor　is　wounded；　can　I　try　and　save　myself？”　he　thought。　He　rode　into　the　region　where　more　men　had　been　killed　than　anywhere；　in　fleeing　from　Pratzen。　The　French　had　not　yet　taken　that　region；　though　the　Russians—those　who　were　slightly　wounded　or　unhurt—had　long　abandoned　it。　All　over　the　field；　like　ridges　of　dung　on　well…kept　plough…land；　lay　the　heaps　of　dead　and　wounded；　a　dozen　or　fifteen　bodies　to　every　three　acres。　The　wounded　were　crawling　two　or　three　together；　and　their　shrieks　and　groans　had　a　painful　and　sometimes　affected　sound；　it　seemed　to　Rostov。　Rostov　put　his　horse　to　a　trot　to　avoid　the　sight　of　all　those　suffering　people；　and　he　felt　afraid。　He　was　afraid　of　losing　not　his　life；　but　his　pluck；　which　he　needed　so　much；　which　he　knew　would　not　stand　the　sight　of　those　luckless　wretches。　The　French　had　ceased　firing　at　this　field　that　was　dotted　over　with　dead　and　wounded；　because　there　seemed　no　one　living　upon　it；　but　seeing　an　adjutant　trotting　across　it；　they　turned　a　cannon　upon　him　and　shot　off　several　cannon　balls。　The　sense　of　those　whizzing；　fearful　sounds；　and　of　the　dead　bodies　all　round　him　melted　into　a　single　impression　of　horror　and　pity　for　himself　in　Rostov’s　heart。　He　thought　of　his　mother’s　last　letter。　“What　would　she　be　feeling　now；”　he　thought；　“if　she　could　see　me　here　now　on　this　field　with　cannons　aimed　at　me？”
In　the　village　of　Gostieradeck　there　were　Russian　troops；　in　some　confusion　indeed；　but　in　far　better　discipline；　who　had　come　from　the　field　of　battle。　Here　they　were　out　of　range　of　the　French　cannons；　and　the　sounds　of　firing　seemed　far　away。　Here　every　one　saw　clearly　that　the　battle　was　lost；　and　all　were　talking　of　it。　No　one　to　whom　Rostov　applied　could　tell　him　where　was　the　Tsar；　or　where　was　Kutuzov。　Some　said　that　the　rumour　of　the　Tsar’s　wound　was　correct；　others　said　not；　and　explained　this　widely　spread　false　report　by　the　fact　that　the　Ober…Hofmarschall　Tolstoy；　who　had　come　out　with　others　of　the　Emperor’s　suite　to　the　field　of　battl