战争与和平(上)-第71章

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They　were　Napoleon　and　two　adjutants　escorting　him。　Bonaparte；　making　a　tour　of　the　field　of　battle；　had　been　giving　his　last　instructions　for　the　strengthening　of　the　battery　firing　at　the　Augest　dam；　and　was　inspecting　the　dead　and　wounded　on　the　field　of　battle。
“Fine　men！”　said　Napoleon；　looking　at　a　dead　Russian　grenadier；　who　with　his　face　thrust　into　the　earth　and　blackened　neck　lay　on　his　stomach；　one　stiff　arm　flung　wide。
“The　field…guns　have　exhausted　their　ammunition；”　said　an　adjutant；　arriving　that　moment　from　the　battery　that　was　firing　at　Augest。
“Bring　up　more　from　the　reserve；”　said　Napoleon；　and　riding　a　few　steps　away　stood　still；　looking　at　Prince　Andrey；　who　lay　on　his　back　with　the　abandoned　flagstaff　beside　him　（the　flag　had　been　taken　by　the　French　as　a　trophy）。
“That’s　a　fine　death！”　said　Napoleon；　looking　at　Bolkonsky。　Prince　Andrey　knew　that　it　was　said　of　him；　and　that　it　was　Napoleon　saying　it。　He　heard　the　speaker　of　those　words　addressed　as　“your　majesty。”　But　he　heard　the　words　as　he　heard　the　buzzing　of　flies。　It　was　not　merely　that　he　took　no　interest　in　them；　but　he　did　not　attend　to　them　and　at　once　forgot　them。　There　was　a　burning　pain　in　his　head；　he　felt　he　was　losing　blood；　and　he　saw　above　him　the　high；　far…away；　everlasting　sky。　He　knew　it　was　Napoleon—his　hero—but　at　that　moment　Napoleon　seemed　to　him　such　a　small；　insignificant　creature　in　comparison　with　what　was　passing　now　between　his　soul　and　that　lofty；　limitless　sky　with　the　clouds　flying　over　it。　It　meant　nothing　to　him　at　that　moment　who　was　standing　over　him；　what　was　being　said　of　him。　He　was　only　glad　that　people　were　standing　over　him；　and　his　only　desire　was　that　these　people　should　help　him　and　bring　him　back　to　life；　which　seemed　to　him　so　good；　because　he　saw　it　all　quite　differently　now。　He　made　a　supreme　effort　to　stir　and　utter　some　sound。　He　moved　his　leg　faintly；　and　uttered　a　weak；　sickly　moan　that　touched　himself。　“Ah；　he’s　alive；”　said　Napoleon。　“Pick　up　this　young　man　and　carry　him　to　an　ambulance！”　Saying　this；　Napoleon　rode　on　to　meet　Marshal　Lannes；　who　rode　up　to　meet　the　conqueror；　smiling；　taking　off　his　hat　and　congratulating　him　on　his　victory。
Prince　Andrey　remembered　nothing　more；　he　lost　consciousness　from　the　excruciating　pain　caused　by　being　laid　on　the　stretcher；　the　jolting　while　he　was　being　moved；　and　the　sounding　of　his　wound　at　the　ambulance。　He　only　regained　consciousness　towards　the　end　of　the　day　when　with　other　Russian　officers；　wounded　and　prisoners；　he　was　being　taken　to　the　hospital。　On　this　journey　he　felt　a　little　stronger；　and　could　look　about　him　and　even　speak。
The　first　words　he　heard　on　coming　to　himself　were　from　a　French　convoy　officer　who　was　saying　hurriedly：　“They　must　stop　here；　the　Emperor　will　be　here　directly；　it　will　be　a　pleasure　for　him　to　see　these　prisoners。”
“There　are　such　a　lot　of　prisoners　to…day；　almost　the　whole　of　the　Russian　army；　that　he　is　probably　weary　of　seeing　them；”　said　another　officer。
“Well；　but　this　one；　they　say；　is　the　commander　of　all　the　Emperor　Alexander’s　guards；”　said　the　first　speaker；　pointing　to　a　wounded　Russian　officer　in　the　white　uniform　of　the　horse…guards。　Bolkonsky　recognised　Prince　Repnin；　whom　he　had　met　in　Petersburg　society。　Beside　him　stood　another　officer　of　the　horse…guards；　a　lad　of　nineteen；　also　wounded。
Bonaparte　rode　up　at　a　gallop　and　pulled　up。　“Who　is　the　senior　officer？”　he　said；　on　seeing　the　prisoners。
They　named　the　colonel；　Prince　Repnin。
“Are　you　the　commander　of　the　regiment　of　Emperor　Alexander’s　horse…guards？”　asked　Napoleon。
“I　was　in　command　of　a　squadron；”　replied　Repnin。
“Your　regiment　did　its　duty　honourably；”　said　Napoleon。
“The　praise　of　a　great　general　is　a　soldier’s　best　reward；”　said　Repnin。
“I　bestow　it　upon　you　with　pleasure；”　said　Napoleon。　“Who　is　this　young　man　beside　you？”　Prince　Repnin　gave　his　name；　Lieutenant　Suhtelen。
Looking　at　him；　Napoleon　said　with　a　smile：　“He　has　come　very　young　to　meddle　with　us。”
“Youth　is　no　hindrance　to　valour；”　said　Suhtelen　in　a　breaking　voice。
“A　fine　answer；”　said　Napoleon；　“young　man；　you　will　go　far。”
Prince　Andrey；　who　had　been　thrust　forward　under　the　Emperor’s　eyes　to　complete　the　show　of　prisoners；　could　not　fail　to　attract　his　notice。　Napoleon　apparently　remembered　seeing　him　on　the　field；　and　addressing　him　he　used　the　same　epithet；　“young　man；”　with　which　his　first　sight　of　Bolkonsky　was　associated　in　his　memory。
“And　you；　young　man；”　he　said　to　him；　“how　are　you　feeling；　mon　brave？”
Although　five　minutes　previously　Prince　Andrey　had　been　able　to　say　a　few　words　to　the　soldiers　who　were　carrying　him；　he　was　silent　now；　with　his　eyes　fastened　directly　upon　Napoleon。　So　trivial　seemed　to　him　at　that　moment　all　the　interests　that　were　engrossing　Napoleon；　so　petty　seemed　to　him　his　hero；　with　his　paltry　vanity　and　glee　of　victory；　in　comparison　with　that　lofty；　righteous；　and　kindly　sky　which　he　had　seen　and　comprehended；　that　he　could　not　answer　him。　And　all　indeed　seemed　to　him　so　trifling　and　unprofitable　beside　the　stern　and　solemn　train　of　thought　aroused　in　him　by　weakness　from　loss　of　blood；　by　suffering　and　the　nearness　of　death。　Gazing　into　Napoleon’s　eyes；　Prince　Andrey　mused　on　the　nothingness　of　greatness；　on　the　nothingness　of　life；　of　which　no　one　could　comprehend　the　significance；　and　on　the　nothingness—still　more—of　death；　the　meaning　of　which　could　be　understood　and　explained　by　none　of　the　living。
The　Emperor；　after　vainly　pausing　for　a　reply；　turned　away　and　said　to　one　of　the　officers　in　command—
“See　that　they　look　after　these　gentlemen　and　take　them　to　my　bivouac；　let　my　doctor　Larrey　attend　to　their　wounds。　Au　revoir；　Prince　Repnin；”　and　he　galloped　away。
His　face　was　radiant　with　happiness　and　self…satisfaction。
The　soldiers；　who　had　been　carrying　Prince　Andrey；　had　come　across　the　golden　relic　Princess　Marya　had　hung　upon　her　brother’s　neck；　and　taken　it　off　him；　but　seeing　the　graciousness　the　Emperor　had　shown　to　the　prisoners；　they　made　haste　to　restore　the　holy　image。
Prince　Andrey　did　not　see　who　put　it　on　him　again；　nor　how　it　was　replaced；　but　all　at　once　he　found　the　locket　on　its　delicate　gold　chain　on　his　chest　outside　his　uniform。
“How　good　it　would　be；”　thought　Prince　Andrey；　as　he　glanced　at　the　image　which　his　sister　had　hung　round　his　neck　with　such　emotion　and　reverence；　“how　good　it　would　be　if　all　were　as　clear　and　simple　as　it　seems　to　Marie。　How　good　to　know　where　to　seek　aid　in　this　life　and　what　to　expect　after　it；　there；　beyond　the　grave！”
“How　happy　and　at　peace　I　should　be；　if　I　could　say　now；　‘Lord；　have　mercy　on　me！…’　But　to　whom　am　I　to　say　that？　Either　a　Power　infinite；　inconceivable；　to　which　I　cannot　appeal；　which　I　cannot　even　put　into　words；　the　great　whole；　or　nothing；”　he　said　to　himself；　“or　that　God；　who　has　been　sewn　up　here　in　this　locket　by　Marie？　There　is　nothing；　nothing　certain　but　the　nothingness　of　all　that　is　comprehensible　to　us；　and　the　grandeur　of　something　incomprehensible；　but　more　important！”
The　stretchers　began　to　be　moved。　At　every　jolt　he　felt　intolerable　pain　again。　The　fever　became　higher；　and　he　fell　into　delirium。　Visions　of　his　father；　his　wife；　his　sister；　and　his　future　son；　and　the　tenderness　he　had　felt　for　them　on　the　night　before　the　battle；　the　figure　of　that　little；　petty　Napoleon；　and　over　all　these　the　lofty　sky；　formed　the　chief　substance　of　his　delirious　dreams。　The　quiet　home　life　and　peaceful　happiness　of　Bleak　Hills　passed　before　his　imagination。　He　was　enjoying　that　happiness　when　suddenly　there　appeared　that　little　Napoleon　with　his　callous；　narrow　look　of　happiness　in　the　misery　of　others；　and　there　came　doubts　and　torments；　and　only　the　sky　promised　peace。　Towards　morning　all　his　dreams　mingled　and　melted　away　in　the　chaos　and　darkness　of　unconsciousness　and　oblivion；　far　more　likely；　in　the　opinion　of　Napoleon’s　doctor；　Larrey；　to　be　ended　by　death　than　by　recovery。
“He　is　a　nervous；　bilious　subject；”　said　Larrey；　“he　won’t　recover。”
Prince　Andrey；　with　the　rest　of　the　hopeless　cases；　was　handed　over　to　the　care　of　the　inhabitants　of　the　district。


Part　Four
Chapter　1
AT　THE　BEGINNING　of　the　year　1806；　Nikolay　Rostov　was　coming　home　on　leave。　Denisov；　too；　was　going　home　to　Voronezh；　and　Rostov　persuaded　him　to　go　with　him　to　Moscow　and　to　pay　him　a　visit　there。　Denisov　met　his　comrade　at　the　last　posting　station　but　one；　drank　three　bottles　of　wine　with　him；　and；　in　spite　of　the　jolting　of　the　road　on　the　journey　to　Moscow；　slept　soundly　lying　at　the　bottom　of　the　posting　sledge　beside　Rostov；　who　grew　more　and　more　impatient；　as　they　got　nearer　to　Moscow。
“Will　it　come　soon？　Soon？　Oh；　these　insufferable　streets；　bunshops；　street　lamps；　and　sledge　drivers！”　thought　Rostov；　when　they　had　presented　their　papers　at　the　town　gates　and　were　driving　into　Moscow。
“Denisov；　we’re　here！　Asleep！”　he　kept　saying；　flinging　his　whole　person　forward　as　though　by　that　position　he　hoped　to　hasten　the　progress　of　the　sledge。　Denisov　made　no　response。
“Here’s　the　corner　of　the　cross…roads；　where　Zahar　the　sledge…driver　used　to　stand；　and　here　is　Zahar；　too；　and　still　the　same　horse。　And　here’s　the　little　shop　where　we　used　to　buy　cakes。　Make　haste！　Now！”
“Which　house　is　it？”　asked　the　driver。
“Over　there；　at　the　end；　the　big　one；　how　is　it　you　don’t　see　it？　That’s　our　house；”　Rostov　kept　saying；　“that’s　our　house；　of　course。”
“Denisov！　Denisov！　we　shall　be　there　in　a　minute。”
Denisov　raised　his　head；　cleared　his　throat；　and　said　nothing。
“Dmitry；”　said　Rostov　to　his　valet　on　the　box；　“surely　that　light　is　home？”
“To　be　sure　it　is；　it’s　the　light　in　your　papa’s　study；　too。”
“They’ve　not　gone　to　bed　yet？　Eh？　What　do　you　think？”
“Mind　now；　don’t　forget　to　get　me　out　my　new　tunic；”　added　Rostov；　fingering　his　new　moustaches。
“Come；　get　on；”　he　shouted　to　the　driver。　“And　do　wake　up；　Vasya；”　he　said　to　Denisov；　who　had　begun　nodding　again。
“Come；　get　on；　three　silver　roubles　for　vodka—get　on！”　shouted　Rostov；　when　they　were　only　three　houses　from　the　entrance。　It　seemed　to　him　that　the　horses　were　not　moving。　At　last　the　sledge　turned　to　the　right　into　the　approach；　Rostov　saw　the　familiar　cornice　with　the　broken　plaster　overhead；　the　steps；　the　lamp…post。　He　jumped　out　of　the　sledge　while　it　was　moving　and　ran　into　the　porch。　The　house　stood　so　inhospitably；　as　though　it　were　no　concern　of　its　who　had　come　into　it。　There　was　no　one　in　the　porch。　“My　God！　is　everything　all　right？”　wondered　Rostov；　stopping　for　a　moment　with　a　sinking　heart；　and　then　running　on　again　along　the　porch　and　up　the　familiar；　crooked　steps。　Still　the　same　door　handle；　the　dirtiness　of　which　so　often　angered　the　countess；　turned　in　the　same　halting　fashion。　In　the　hall　there　was　a　single　tallow　candle　burning。
Old　Mihailo　was　asleep　on　his　perch。
Prokofy；　the　footman；　a　man　so　strong　that　he　had　lifted　up　a　carriage；　was　sitting　there　in　his　list　shoes。　He　glanced　towards　the　opening　door　and　his　expression　of　sleepy　indifference　was　suddenly　transformed　into　one　of　frightened　ecstasy。
“Merciful　Heavens！　The　young　count！”　he　cried；　rec