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.

第十七章

英文

九点钟，巴格拉季翁的右翼还没有开始战斗。巴格拉季翁公爵不想同意多尔戈鲁科夫开始一场战斗的要求，并想推卸自己的责任，他因此建议多尔戈鲁科夫派人前去请示总司令。巴格拉季翁知道，假如被派出的人员没有被打死（被打死的可能性很大），假如他甚至能够找到总司令，这也是一件非常困难的事，那么从分隔左右两翼的约莫七俄里的间距来看，被派出的人员在傍晚以前也赶不回来。

巴格拉季翁用他那毫无表情的睡眠不足的大眼睛望望他的侍从们，罗斯托夫因为激动和期待而不由地楞住的那张童稚的脸首先引起了他的注目。他于是派他去见总司令。

“大人，如果我在遇见总司令以前先遇见陛下，那要怎样呢？”罗斯托夫举手敬礼时说道。

“您可以禀告陛下。”多尔戈鲁科夫连忙打断巴格拉季翁的话，说道。

罗斯托夫交接了值班工作后，黎明前睡了几个钟头，觉得自己很愉快、勇敢、坚定，他的动作强劲而有力，他对自己的幸福充满信心，生气勃勃，仿佛一切都轻松愉快，一切都可以付诸于实现。

这天早上他的一切愿望都实现了，打了一场大仗，他参加了战斗，而且还在骁勇的将军麾下充任传令军官，不仅如此，他还受托前往库图佐夫驻扎地，或则觐见国王陛下。早晨的天气晴朗，他的坐骑很听使唤。他心中感到愉快和幸福。接获命令后，他便驱马沿着一条阵线奔驰而去。巴格拉季翁的部队还没有投入战斗，停留在原地不动，罗斯托夫起初沿着巴格拉季翁的部队据守的阵线骑行，他后来驰进乌瓦罗夫骑兵部队占据的空地，并在这里发现了军队调动和准备战斗的迹象，他走过乌瓦罗夫骑兵部队驻扎地之后，已经清晰地听见自己前面传来的阵阵炮声。炮声越来越响亮。

在那早晨的清新空气中，现已不像从前那样在不同的时间间隔里传来两三阵枪声，接着就听见一两阵炮声；而在普拉茨高地前面的山坡上可以听见被那频频的炮声打断的此起彼伏的枪声，炮声的频率很大，有时候没法分辨清这几阵炮声的差别，炮声融汇成一片隆隆的轰鸣。

可以看见，火枪的硝烟仿佛沿着山坡互相追逐，来回地奔腾，火炮的浓烟滚滚，渐渐散开，连成一片了。可以看见在硝烟中刺刀闪耀的地方，一群群步兵和随带绿色弹药箱的炮兵的细长的队伍行进着。

站在小山岗上的罗斯托夫将战马勒住片刻，以便仔细观察前面发生的情况，可是不管他怎样集中注意力，他丝毫也没法明白，也不能分析发生的情况；不知是些什么人在那硝烟弥漫的地方不停地向前移动，不知是些什么部队正在前前后后不断地推进；但是为什么？他们是些什么人？到哪里去？简直没法弄明白。这种情景、这些声音不仅在他身上没有引起任何泄气或胆怯的感觉，相反地给他增添了坚毅和精力。

“喂，再加点——再加点劲呀！”他在思想中面对这些声音说，继而策马沿着战线奔驰而去，愈益深入已经投入战斗的军队之中。

“那里将要发生什么情况，我不知道，可是一切都很顺利啊！”罗斯托夫想道。

罗斯托夫从某些奥国的部队近旁驰过后，就已发现，下一段战线的部队（这是近卫军）已经投入战斗了。

“那样做岂不更妙！我在附近的地方观察一下。”他想了想。

他几乎沿着前沿阵线骑行前进。有几个骑者向他奔驰而来。这是我们的枪骑兵，他们溃不成军，从进攻中败退下来。罗斯托夫从他们身边走过去，无意中发现一个鲜血淋漓的枪骑兵，他继续疾驰而去。

“这件事与我无关！”他想了想。他还没有走到几百步远，就有一大帮骑着黑马、身穿闪闪发亮的白色军装的骑兵在一整片田野里出现了，他们从左面截断他的去路，迳直地向他奔驰而来。罗斯托夫纵马全速地飞跑，想从这些骑兵身旁走开，如果他们仍以原速骑行，他就能够躲开他们，但是他们正在加快步速，有几匹战马飞速地奔驰起来了。罗斯托夫愈益清晰地听见他们的马蹄声和那兵器的铿锵声，愈益清晰地看见他们的马匹、身形、甚至于面孔。这是我们的近卫重骑兵，他们去进攻迎面走来的法国骑兵。

近卫重骑兵一面驰骋，一面微微地勒住战马。罗斯托夫已经望见他们的面孔，并且听见那个骑着一匹纯种马全速迅驰的军官发出的口令：“快步走，快步走！”罗斯托夫担心自己会被压倒，或被拖进一场攻击法军的战斗中，于是沿着战线使尽全力地催马疾驰，仍旧来不及避开他们这些人。

靠边站的近卫重骑兵是个身材魁梧的麻面的男人，他看见自己面前那个难免要相撞的罗斯托夫之后，便凶狠狠地皱起眉头。如果罗斯托夫没有想到挥起马鞭抽打重骑兵的战马的眼睛，他准会把罗斯托夫随同他的贝杜英打翻在地的（和这些高大的人与马相比，罗斯托夫觉得自己身材矮小而且软弱无力）。这匹沉甸甸的身长二俄尺又五俄寸的黑马抿起耳朵，猛然往一边窜去，可是麻脸的重骑兵用那巨大的马刺使劲地朝它肋部刺去，战马摇摇尾巴，伸直脖子，更快地奔跑起来了。几名重骑兵一从罗斯托夫身边过去，他就听见他们的喊声：“乌拉！”他回头一看，望见他们前面的队伍和那些陌生的大概佩戴有红色肩章的法国骑兵混杂在一起。再往后，什么都看不见了，因为炮队立刻从某处开始射击，一切被烟雾笼罩住了。

当这几名重骑兵从他身旁走过、隐没在烟雾中时，罗斯托夫心中犹豫不决，他是否跟在他们背后疾速地骑行，或是向他需要去的地方驰去。这是一次使法国人自己感到惊奇的重骑兵发动的十分顺利的进攻。罗斯托夫觉得可怖的是，他过后听到，此次进攻之后，这一大群身材魁梧的美男子，这些骑着千匹战马从他身旁走过的极为卓越的富豪子弟、年轻人、军官和士官生只剩下十八人了。

“为什么我要羡慕，我的机运走不掉，我也许立刻就会看见国王！”罗斯托夫想了想，就继续向前疾驰而去。

他走到步兵近卫军近旁时，发现一枚枚炮弹飞过了步兵的队列和它周围的地方，之所以有此发现，与其说是因为他听见炮弹的啸声，毋宁说是因为他看见士兵们脸上流露出惊慌不安的神色，军官们脸上流露出不自然的威风凛凛的表情。

他从步兵近卫军兵团的一条阵线后面驰过的时候，他听见有个什么人喊他的名字。

“罗斯托夫！”

“什么？”他没有认出鲍里斯时，应声喊道。

“怎么样，我们到了第一线！我们的兵团发动过进攻！”鲍里斯说道，脸上流露着幸福的微笑，这是头一次上火线的年轻人时常流露的微笑。

罗斯托夫停下来了。

“原来是这么回事！”他说道，“怎么样了？”

“击退了！”鲍里斯兴奋地说，变得健谈了。“你可以设想一下吗？”

鲍里斯开始讲到，近卫军官兵在某处停留，看见自己前面的部队，以为是奥军，这些部队突然间发射出一枚枚炮弹，近卫军才知道，他们已经到达第一线，出乎意料地投入战斗。

罗斯托夫没有听完鲍里斯说话，就驱马上路。

“你上哪里去？”鲍里斯问道。

“受托去觐见陛下。”

“瞧，他在这儿！”鲍里斯说道，他仿佛听见，罗斯托夫要拜看“殿下”，而不是“陛下”。

他向他指了指站在离他们百步路远的大公，他头戴钢盔，身穿骑兵制服上装，拱起双肩，蹙起额角，对那面色苍白的奥国军官大声呵斥一通。

“要知道这是大公，而我要叩见总司令或国王。”罗斯托夫说完这句话，就策马出发。

“伯爵，伯爵！”贝格喊着，他和鲍里斯一样兴致勃勃，从另一边跑到前面来，“伯爵，我的右手负伤了（他说着，一面伸出血淋淋的、用手帕包扎的手腕给他看），我还是留在队伍里。伯爵，我左手能持军刀，我们姓冯·贝格的一族，个个是英雄豪杰。”

贝格还想说些什么话，但是罗斯托夫没有把话听完，便继续骑行。

罗斯托夫走过了近卫军驻地和一片空地，为了不致于遭遇重骑兵进攻那样的事情，他不再窜入第一线，而是远远绕过那个可以听见至为剧烈的枪炮射击声的地点，沿着预备队的阵线向前驰去。骤然在他自己前面，在我们的部队的后面，在他无论怎样也料想不到会有敌人出现的地方，他听见了近处的枪声。

“有这种可能吗？”罗斯托夫想了想，“敌人在我军的后方么？不可能，”罗斯托夫想了想，忽然他为自己、为战事的结局而感到惊恐。“可是，无论怎么样。”他想了想，“现在用不着迂回前进。我应当去找这里的总司令，假如一切已经毁灭了，那末我的事业也就随着大家一起毁灭了。”

罗斯托夫向普拉茨村后被各兵种占据的空地越往前走，他心里突然产生的不祥的预感就越应验了。

“这是怎么回事？这是怎么回事？向谁射击呢？谁在射击呢？”罗斯托夫站在俄奥两国的士兵身旁时问道，这一群群混成一团的士兵奔跑着，截断了他的去路。

“鬼才知道他们呢？把他们统统揍死！全完蛋啦！”一群群逃跑的士兵和他一样不能确切地明了这里发生了什么事情，都用俄国话、德国话和捷克话回答他。

“打德国鬼子！”有一人吼道。

“让他们这帮叛徒见鬼去吧！”

“ZumHenkerdieseRussen！…”①这个德国人嘟哝着什么。

①德语：这些俄国人见鬼去吧！

有几个伤兵在路上行走。咒骂声、喊声、呻吟声汇合成一片轰鸣。枪声停息了，后来罗斯托夫才知道，俄国士兵和奥国士兵对射了一阵。

“我的天啊！这是怎么回事？”罗斯托夫想道，“这里是国王每时每刻都可能看见他们的地方……不是的，想必只是几个坏蛋干的。这会过去的，不是那么回事，不可能，”他想道，“不过，要快点、快点从他们这里走过去！”

罗斯托夫脑海中不会想到失败和逃亡的事情。虽然他也看见，正是在普拉茨山上，在他奉命去寻找总司令的那座山上还有法国的大炮和军队，但是他不能，也不愿意相信这种事。

CHAPTER XVIII

Chinese

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 battle, had been seen pale and terrified driving back at full gallop in the Tsar's carriage. One officer told Rostov that, behind the village to the left, he had seen some one from headquarters, and Rostov rode off in that direction, with no hope now of finding any one, but simply to satisfy his conscience. After going about two miles and passing the last of the Russian troops, Rostov saw, near a kitchen-garden enclosed by a ditch, two horsemen standing facing the ditch. One with a white plume in his hat seemed somehow a familiar figure to Rostov, the other, a stranger on a splendid chestnut horse (the horse Rostov fancied he had seen before) rode up to the ditch, put spurs to his horse, and lightly leaped over the ditch into the garden. A little earth from the bank crumbled off under his horse's hind hoofs. Turning the horse sharply, he leaped the ditch again and deferentially addressed the horseman in the white plume, apparently urging him to do the same. The rider, whose figure seemed familiar to Rostov had somehow riveted his attention, made a gesture of refusal with his head and his hand, and in that gesture Rostov instantly recognised his lamented, his idolised sovereign.

“But it can't be he, alone, in the middle of this empty field,” thought Rostov. At that moment Alexander turned his head and Rostov saw the beloved features so vividly imprinted on his memory. The Tsar was pale, his cheeks looked sunken, and his eyes hollow, but the charm, the mildness of his face was only the more striking. Rostov felt happy in the certainty that the report of the Emperor's wound was false. He was happy that he was seeing him. He knew that he might, that he ought, indeed, to go straight to him and to give him the message he had been commanded to give by Dolgorukov.

But, as a youth in love trembles and turns faint and dares not utter what he has spent nights in dreaming of, and looks about in terror, seeking aid or a chance of delay or flight, when the moment he has longed for comes and he stands alone at her side, so Rostov, now when he was attaining what he had longed for beyond everything in the world, did not know how to approach the Emperor, and thousands of reasons why it was unsuitable, unseemly, and impossible came into his mind.

“What! it's as though I were glad to take advantage of his being alone and despondent. It may be disagreeable and painful to him, perhaps, to see an unknown face at such a moment of sadness; besides, what can I say to him now, when at the mere sight of him my heart is throbbing and leaping into my mouth?” Not one of the innumerable speeches he had addressed to the Tsar in his imagination recurred to his mind now. These speeches for the most part were appropriate to quite other circumstances; they had been uttered for the most part at moments of victory and triumph, and principally on his deathbed when, as he lay dying of his wounds, the Emperor thanked him for his heroic exploits, and he gave expression as he died to the love he had proved in deeds. “And then, how am I to ask the Emperor for his instructions to the right flank when it's four o'clock in the afternoon and the battle is lost? No, certainly I ought not to ride up to him, I ought not to break in on his sorrow. Better die a thousand deaths than that he should give me a glance, a thought of disapproval,” Rostov decided, and with grief and despair in his heart he rode away, continually looking back at the Tsar, who still stood in the attitude of indecision..

While Rostov was making these reflections and riding mournfully away from the Tsar, Captain Von Toll happened to ride up to the same spot, and seeing the Emperor, went straight up to him, offered him his services, and assisted him to cross the ditch on foot. The Tsar, feeling unwell and in need of rest, sat down under an apple-tree, and Von Toll remained standing by his side. Rostov from a distance saw with envy and remorse how Von Toll talked a long while warmly to the Emperor, how the Emperor, apparently weeping, hid his face in his hand, and pressed Von Toll's hand.

“And it might have been I in his place?” Rostov thought, and hardly restraining his tears of sympathy for the Tsar, he rode away in utter despair, not knowing where and with what object he was going now.

His despair was all the greater from feeling that it was his own weakness that was the cause of his regret.

He might…not only might, but ought to have gone up to the Emperor. And it was a unique chance of showing his devotion to the Emperor. And he had not made use of it.… “What have I done?” he thought. And he turned his horse and galloped back to the spot where he had seen the Emperor; but there was no one now beyond the ditch. There were only transport waggons and carriages going by. From one carrier Rostov learned that Kutuzov's staff were not far off in the village towards which the transport waggons were going. Rostov followed them.

In front of him was Kutuzov's postillion leading horses in horse-cloths. A baggage waggon followed the postillion, and behind the waggon walked an old bandy-legged servant in a cap and a cape.

“Tit, hey. Tit!” said the postillion.

“Eh,” responded the old man absent-mindedly.

“Tit! Stupay molotit!” (“Tit, go a-thrashing!”)

“Ugh, the fool, pugh!” said the old man, spitting angrily. A short interval of silence followed, and then the same joke was repeated.

By five o'clock in the evening the battle had been lost at every point. More than a hundred cannons were in the possession of the French. Przhebyshevsky and his corps had surrendered. The other columns had retreated, with the loss of half their men, in confused, disorderly masses. All that were left of Langeron's and Dohturov's forces were crowded together in hopeless confusion on the dikes and banks of the ponds near the village of Augest.

At six o'clock the only firing still to be heard was a heavy cannonade on the French side from numerous batteries ranged on the slope of the table-land of Pratzen, and directed at our retreating troops.

In the rearguard Dohturov and the rest, rallying their battalions, had been firing at the French cavalry who were pursuing them. It was begining to get dark. On the narrow dam of Augest, where the old miller in his peaked cap had sat for so many years with his fishing tackle, while his grandson, with tucked-up shirt-sleeves, turned over the silvery, floundering fish in the net; on that dam where the Moravians, in their shaggy caps and blue jackets, had for so many years peacefully driven their horses and waggons, loaded with wheat, to the mill and driven back over the same dam, dusty with flour that whitened their waggons—on that narrow dam men, made hideous by the terror of death, now crowded together, amid army waggons and cannons, under horses' feet and between carriage-wheels, crushing each other, dying, stepping over the dying, and killing each other, only to be killed in the same way a few steps further on.

Every ten seconds a cannon ball flew lashing the air and thumped down, or a grenade burst in the midst of that dense crowd, slaying men and splashing blood on those who stood near. Dolohov, wounded in the hand, with some dozen soldiers of his company on foot (he was already an officer) and his general on horseback, were the sole representatives of a whole regiment. Carried along by the crowd, they were squeezed in the approach to the dam and stood still, jammed in on all sides because a horse with a cannon had fallen, and the crowd were dragging it away. A cannon ball killed some one behind them, another fell in front of them and spurted the blood upon Dolohov. The crowd moved forward desperately, was jammed, moved a few steps and was stopped again. “Only to get over these hundred steps and certain safety: stay here two minutes and death to a certainty,” each man was thinking.

Dolohov standing in the centre of the crowd, forced his way to the edge of the dam, knocking down two soldiers, and ran on to the slippery ice that covered the millpond.

“Turn this way!” he shouted, bounding over the ice, which cracked under him. “Turn this way!” he kept shouting to the cannon. “It bears!…” The ice bore him, but swayed and cracked, and it was evident that, not to speak of a cannon or a crowd of people, it would give way in a moment under him alone. Men gazed at him and pressed to the bank, unable to bring themselves to step on to the ice. The general of his regiment on horseback at the end of the dam lifted his hand and opened his mouth to speak to Dolohov. Suddenly one of the cannon balls flew so low over the heads of the crowd that all ducked. There was a wet splash, as the general fell from his horse into a pool of blood. No one glanced at the general, no one thought of picking him up.

“On to the ice! Get on the ice! Get on! turn! don't you hear! Get on!” innumerable voices fell to shouting immediately after the ball had struck the general, not knowing themselves what and why they were shouting.

One of the hindmost cannons that had been got on to the dam was turned off upon the ice. Crowds of soldiers began running from the dam on to the frozen pond. The ice cracked under one of the foremost soldiers, and one leg slipped into the water. He tried to right himself and floundered up to his waist. The soldiers nearest tried to draw back, the driver of the cannon pulled up his horse, but still the shouts were heard from behind: “Get on to the ice, why are you stopping? go on! go on!” And screams of terror were heard in the crowd. The soldiers near the cannon waved at the horses, and lashed them to make them turn and go on. The horses moved from the dam's edge. The ice that had held under the foot-soldiers broke in a huge piece, and some forty men who were on it dashed, some forwards, some backwards, drowning one another.

Still the cannon balls whizzed as regularly and thumped on to the ice, into the water, and most often into the crowd that covered the dam, the pond and the bank.

第十八章

英文

罗斯托夫奉命在普拉茨村附近寻找库图佐夫和国王。但是他们非但不在此地，甚至连一位首长亦无踪影，此地只有一群群溃散的各种部队的官兵。他驱赶着已经疲惫的马，想快点穿过这些人群，但是他越往前走，这些人群就显得更加紊乱。他走到一条大路上，各种四轮马车、轻便马车、俄奥两军各个兵种的伤兵和未受伤的士兵都在这条大路上挤来挤去。这一切在法国炮队从普拉茨高地发射的炮弹的异常沉闷的隆隆声中，发出嗡嗡的响音，混成一团，蠕动着。

“国王在哪里？库图佐夫在哪里？”罗斯托夫拦住什么人，就问什么人，可是没有获得任何人的回答。

最后他抓住一个士兵的衣领，强迫他回答。

“哎，老兄！大家早就跑了，向前面溜跑了！”士兵对罗斯托夫说，一面挣脱，一面在笑着什么。

罗斯托夫放开这个显然喝得酩酊大醉的士兵之后，便拦住一位长官的勤务兵或是调马师牵着的马，开始诘问勤务兵。勤务兵告知罗斯托夫，大约一小时前有人让国王乘坐四轮轿式马车沿着这条大路拼命地疾驰而去，国王负了伤，很危险。

“不可能，”罗斯托夫说，“想必是别人。”

“我亲眼见过，”勤务兵说道，脸上流露出自信的冷笑。

“我该认得国王了；我在彼得堡看见他多少次啊。他坐在四轮轿式马车上，看上去脸色太苍白。只要他将那四匹乌骓套上马车，我的爷啊，他就轰隆轰隆地从我们身边疾驰而去。好像我应该认得这几匹御马和马车夫伊利亚·伊万诺维奇，好像他除开沙皇而外，就不替他人赶车。”

罗斯托夫催马想继续往前驰骋。一名从他身旁走过的负伤的军官转过脸来和他谈话。

“您要找谁呀？”军官问道，“找总司令吗？他被炮弹炸死了，他就在我们团里，他的胸部中弹了。”

“没有给炸死，负伤了。”另一名军官改正了他说的话。

“是谁呀？库图佐夫吗？”罗斯托夫问道。

“不是库图佐夫，哦，想不起他是什么人。横竖一样，幸存的人不多了。瞧，您到那里去吧，到首长们集合的那个村子去吧。”这名军官指着霍斯蒂拉德克村时说道，旋即从身旁走过去了。

罗斯托夫一步一步地缓行，他不知道，现在要找什么人，目的何在。国王负伤了，这一仗可打输了。眼下不能不相信这件事。罗斯托夫朝着人家指给他看的那个方向驰去，在远处可以望见塔楼和教堂。他急急忙忙赶到哪里去呢？“若是国王和库图佐夫甚至还活着，没有负伤，那么要对他们说些什么话呢？”

“大人，请您从这条路去吧，在那条路上走真会给打死的，”这个士兵对他喊道，“在那条路上走会被打死的！”

“噢，你说什么话！”另一名士兵说道，“他要到哪儿去呀？

从那条路上走更近。”

罗斯托夫思忖了一会，朝着人家告诉他会被打死的那个方向疾驰而去。

“现在横竖一样：既然国王负了伤，难道我还要保护自己么？”他想道。他驰入那个从普拉茨高地跑下来的人员死亡最多的空地。法国官兵还没有占领这个地方，而那些还活着或已负伤的俄国官兵老早就放弃了这个地方。每俄亩就有十至十五名伤亡人员，就像良田中的一垛垛小麦似的，躺在战场上。伤员二三人一道慢慢地爬行，可以听见他们那逆耳的、罗斯托夫有时认为是假装的喊叫和呻吟。罗斯托夫纵马飞奔，以免看见这些受苦受难的人，他觉得胆寒起来。他所担心的不是自己的性命，而是他所需要的勇敢精神，他知道，看见这些不幸者的情状，他的勇敢豪迈必将动摇不定。

因为战场上已经没有一个活着的人了，法军于是对这个布满伤亡战士的疆场停止射击了，在看见那个沿着战场骑行的副官之后，便用大炮对他瞄准，扔出了几枚炮弹。他因为听见可怕的呼啸，因为看见周围的一具具死尸的惨状，给他造成了恐怖的印象，并且使他怜惜自己。他心中想起母亲最近写的一封信。“设若她现在看见我在这儿，在这个战场上，几门大炮对着我瞄准，她会产生何种感想？”他想道。

从战场上退下来的俄国部队驻扎在霍斯蒂拉德克村，即使紊乱，但秩序大有改善。法军的炮弹已经不会落到这里来了，射击声好像隔得很远了。这里的人们清楚地看见，而且都在谈论，这一仗是打输了。无论罗斯托夫去问什么人，谁也没法告诉他，国王在哪里，库图佐夫在哪里。有些人说，国王负伤的消息是真实的，另一些人说，这个消息不符合事实，可以说，所以会有这一则虚假的消息，是因为那个随同皇帝的其他侍从走上战场、惊惶失措、面色惨白的宫廷首席事务大臣托尔斯泰伯爵确实乘坐国王的四轮轿式马车，离开战场，向后撤退了。有一名军官对罗斯托夫说，在那村后的左方，他看见一位高级首长，他于是便往那里去了，他并不指望找到什么人，只是为了使他自己的良心纯洁罢了。罗斯托夫大约走了三俄里，并且绕过了最后一批俄国部队，他在四周围以水沟的菜园附近看见两位站在水沟对面的骑士。其中一人头戴白缨帽，不知怎的罗斯托夫心里觉得这人很面熟，另一位不相识的骑士正骑着一匹枣红色的骏马（罗斯托夫仿佛认识这匹骏马）走到了水沟前面，他用马刺刺马，放松缰绳，轻快地跃过菜园的水沟。一片片尘土从那匹马的后蹄踩过的路堤上塌落下来。他猛然调转马头，又跳回水沟对面去了，他毕恭毕敬地把脸转向头戴白缨帽的骑士，和他谈话，显然想请他如法炮制一番。罗斯托夫仿佛认得骑士的身形，骑士不知怎的吸引了罗斯托夫的注意力，他否定地摇摇头，摆摆手，罗斯托夫只凭这个姿势就立刻认出他正是他为之痛哭的、令人崇拜的国王。

“可是他不能独自一人置身于空旷的田野之中，”罗斯托夫想了想。这时候亚历山大转过头来，罗斯托夫看见了深深印入他脑海中的可爱的面容。国王脸色苍白，两腮塌陷，一对眼睛眍进去，尽管如此，他的面庞倒显得更加俊秀，更加温顺了。罗斯托夫感到幸运，因为他确信，国王负伤的谣言并非事实。他看见皇帝，感到无比幸福。他知道，他能够，甚至应当径直地去叩见国王，把多尔戈鲁科夫命令他传达的事情禀告国王。

可是他像个谈情说爱的青年，当那朝思暮想的时刻已经来临他得以单独和她约会时，他浑身颤抖，呆若木鸡，竟不敢说出夜夜梦想的心事，他惊惶失措地向四下张望，寻找援助，或者觅求拖延时日和逃走的机会，而今罗斯托夫已经达到了他在人世间渴望达到的目标，他不知道怎样前去叩见国王，他脑海中浮现出千万种心绪，他觉得这样觐见不很适宜，有失礼仪，令人受不了。

“怎么行呢！趁他独自一人心灰意冷之时，我前去叩见他陛下，竟然感到高兴似的。在这悲哀的时刻，一张陌生的面孔想必会使他感到厌恶和难受，而且现在，当我朝他望一眼就会感到心悸、口干舌燥的时候，我能够对他说些什么话！”在他为叩见国王原想表达的千言万语中，现在就连一句话也想不到了。那些言词多半是在其他场合下才倾吐出来，多半是在凯旋和举行盛典的时刻才倾吐出来，而主要是在他一旦身受重创、生命垂危，国王感谢他的英勇业绩，即是说在他行将就木，要向国王表示他以实际行动证明他的爱戴之忱时，他才倾吐这番言词。

“而且，现在已经是下午三点多钟了，这一仗也打败了，至于向右翼发布命令的事情，我要向国王请示什么呢？不对，我根本就不应该走到国王面前去，不应该破坏他的沉思状态。我与其遇见他那忧郁的目光，听见他那厉声的责备，我毋宁千死而不顾。罗斯托夫拿定了主意，怀着忧悒和绝望的心情走开了，但仍不断地回头望着那位踌躇不前的国王。

当罗斯托夫前思后想，悲伤地离开国王的时候，上尉冯·托尔无意中走到那个地方，看见了国王，他径直地向他跟前走去，替他效劳，帮助他徒步越过水沟。国王想休息片刻，他觉得身体欠适，于是坐在苹果树下，托尔在他身边停步了。罗斯托夫怀着妒嫉和懊悔的心情从远处看见，冯·托尔心情激动地对国王说了很久的话，国王显然大哭了一场，他用一只手捂住眼睛，握了握托尔的手。

“我原来也可以处在他的地位啊！”罗斯托夫暗自思量，好不容易他才忍住了他对国王的遭遇深表同情的眼泪，他完全失望地继续向前走，他不知道现在要往何处去，目的何在。

他那绝望的心情之所以更加强烈，是因为他觉得，他本身的软弱是他痛苦的原因。

他原来可以……不仅仅可以，而且应该走到国王跟前去。这是他向国王表示忠诚的唯一的机会。可是他没有利用这个机会……“我干了什么事啊？”他想了想。他于是拨转马头，朝他看见皇帝的那个地方跑回去了，可是在水沟对面，现已空无人影了。只有一辆辆四轮马车和轻便马车在路上行驶着。罗斯托夫从一个带篷马车车夫那里打听到，库图佐夫的司令部驻扎在辎重车队驶去的那个离这里不远的村子里。罗斯托夫跟在车队后面走去了。

库图佐夫的调马师牵着几匹披着马被的战马在罗斯托夫前面走。一辆大板车跟在调马师后面驶行，一个老仆人头戴宽边帽、身穿短皮袄、长着一双罗圈腿尾随于车后。

“季特，季特啊！”调马师说道。

“干嘛？”老头儿心不在焉地答道。

“季特！去打小麦吧。”

“嗳，傻瓜，呸！”老头儿怒气冲冲地吐了一口唾沫，说道。沉默地走了半晌，又同样地开起玩笑来了。

下午四点多钟，各个据点都打了败仗。一百多门大炮均已落入法军手中。

普热贝舍夫斯基及其兵团已经放下武器。其他纵队的伤亡人数将近一半，溃不成军，混作一团地退却了。

朗热隆和多赫图罗夫的残馀部队，在奥格斯特村的池塘附近和堤岸上，人群混杂地挤来挤去。

下午五点多钟，只有奥格斯特堤坝附近才能听见剧烈的炮声，法国官兵在普拉茨高地的侧坡上布置了许多炮队，向撤退的我军鸣炮射击。

后卫部队的多赫图罗夫和其他人，聚集了几个营的官兵，正在回击那些跟踪追逐我军的法国骑兵。暮色开始降临了。多少年来磨坊主老头戴着尖顶帽，持着钓鱼杆，坐在这条狭窄的奥格斯特堤岸上安闲地钓鱼，他的孙子卷起衬衣的袖口，把手伸进坛子里逐一地翻转挣扎着的银光闪闪的鲜鱼；多少年来，摩拉维亚人头戴毛茸茸的皮帽，身穿蓝色短上装，坐在满载小麦的双套马车上，沿着这条堤岸安闲地驶行，这些人身上粘满了面粉，赶着装满白面的大车又沿着这条堤岸驶去，——而今在这条狭窄的堤岸上，那些由于死亡的恐惧而变得面目可憎的人们在载货大车和大炮之间、马蹄之下和车轮之间挤挤擦擦地走动，互相践踏，直至死亡，他们踩在行将死去的人们身上往前走，互相残杀，仅仅是为着走完几步后也同样被人击毙。

每隔十秒钟就有一颗炮弹挤压着空气，发出隆隆的响声，或者有颗手榴弹在这密集的人群中爆炸，杀死那些站在附近的人，把鲜血溅在他们身上。多洛霍夫的一只手负了伤，他带着十个自己连队的士兵步行着（他已经晋升为军官），他的团长骑在马上，这些人就代表了全团的残部。四周的人群蜂拥而来，把他们卷走，排挤到堤坝前面，停止前进了，因为前面有匹马倒在大炮下面，一群人正在把它拖出来。还有一颗炮弹击毙了他们后面的人，另一颗落在前面，竟把鲜血溅在多洛霍夫身上。一群人绝望地向前靠拢，蜷缩在一起，移动了几步，又停止下来。

“走完这一百步，想必就能得救；再站两分钟，想必会丧命。”每个人都是这样想的。

多洛霍夫站在一群人中间，向堤坝边上直冲过去，打倒了两个士兵，他奔跑到池塘的滑溜溜的冰面上。

“转个弯！”地在脚底下噼啪作响的冰上蹦蹦跳跳时喊道，“转个弯！”地向着大炮喊道，“冰经得住！……”

他站在冰上，冰经住了，但是塌陷了一点，而且发出噼啪的响声，快要迸裂了。显然，它不仅在大炮底下或是人群的脚下，甚至在他一个人的脚下都会陷下去。人们注视着他，蜷缩在岸边，还不敢走下去。团长骑着战马停在堤岸前面，面对多洛霍夫举起手，张开口。骤然间有颗炮弹在人群的上方低低地飞来，发出一阵呼啸声，人们个个都弯下腰去。有样什么东西扑通一声落到潮湿的地方，那位将军和他的战马一同倒在血泊里。谁也没有朝将军瞥上一眼，谁也没有想到把他扶起来。

“走到冰上去！沿着冰面走去！走吧！转向一旁吧！还是没有听见呀！走吧！”一枚炮弹击中将军后，可以听见无数人在叫喊，他们自己并不知道在喊叫什么，为什么喊叫。

最后一排大炮中有一门登上了堤岸，拐了个弯，开到冰上去了。一群群士兵开始从堤岸上跑到冰冻的池塘里去。那些在前面行走的士兵中，有一人的脚下的冰块破裂了，一条腿落进水里，他原想站稳身子，但却陷入了齐腰深的水中。几个站在他附近的士兵趑趄不前了，炮车的驭手勒住了马，但是从后面还可以听见一片呐喊声：“走到冰上去，干嘛站住，走啊，走啊！”人群中也传来可怕的喊声。那些站在大炮周围的士兵向战马挥动着手臂，鞭打着马匹，叫它们拐弯，向前推进。那些马儿都离开堤岸，起步了。原先经得住步兵践踏的冰面塌陷了一大块，沿着冰面行走的四十来个人，有的前倾，有的后仰，互相推挤地落入水中，快要淹死了。

一颗颗炮弹仍然发出均匀的啸声，扑通扑通地落在冰上、水中，不断地落在挤满堤坝、池塘和池岸的人群中。

CHAPTER XIX

Chinese

PRINCE ANDREY BOLKONSKY was lying on the hill of Pratzen, on the spot where he had fallen with the flagstaff in his hands. He was losing blood, and kept moaning a soft, plaintive, childish moan, of which he himself knew nothing. Towards evening he ceased moaning and became perfectly still. He did not know how long his unconsciousness lasted. Suddenly he felt again that he was alive and suffering from a burning, lacerating pain in his head.

“Where is it, that lofty sky that I knew not till now and saw to-day?” was his first thought. “And this agony I did not know either,” he thought. “Yes, I knew nothing, nothing till now. But where am I?”

He fell to listening, and caught the sound of approaching hoofs and voices speaking French. He opened his eyes. Above him was again the same lofty sky, with clouds higher than ever floating over it, and between them stretches of blue infinity. He did not turn his head and did not see the men who, judging from the voices and the thud of hoofs, had ridden up to him and stopped.

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.

第十九章

英文

安德烈·博尔孔斯基公爵正躺在普拉茨山上他拿着旗杆倒下的那个地方，身上流淌着鲜血，连他自己也不知道他正在轻声地、凄厉地、孩提般地呻吟。

时近黄昏，他不再呻吟，完全安静下来了。他不知道他那不省人事的状态持续了多久。忽然他觉得自己还活着，他的头颅像炸碎似地剧痛，十分难受。

“这个高高的天空在哪里，这个我至今还不知道，现时才看见的高高的天空在哪里？”这是他脑海中首先想到的事情。

“这种痛苦，我并不晓得。”他想了想。“是的，我迄今一无所知，一无所知。可是我在哪里呢？”

他开始谛听并且听见渐渐临近的马蹄声和用法语说话的声音。他张开了眼睛。他的上方仍旧是那高高的天空和飘浮得更高的云彩，透过云彩可以看见蔚蓝的无边无际的天空。他没有转过头来，没有望见那些只凭马蹄声和谈话声就能判明已经向他驰近、停止前进的人们。

向他驰近的骑者是拿破仑和随行的两名副官。波拿巴在视察战场时发出最后的命令：加强那射击奥格斯特堤坝的炮台，并且审视战场上的伤亡战士。

“Debeauxhommes！”①拿破仑瞧着一名战死的掷弹兵说。他俯卧着，后脑勺发黑，脸埋在土里，一只已经变得僵硬的手伸得很远很远。

“Lesmunitionsdespiecesdepositionsontépuiseés，sire！②”这时有一名从射击奥格斯特村的炮台所在地驰来的副官说道。

①法语：光荣的人民！

②法语：陛下，再也没有炮弹了！

“Faitesavancercellesdelareserve，”①拿破仑说道，向一旁走了几步，在那仰卧的安德烈公爵跟前停步了，旗杆被扔在安德烈公爵的身边（法军已夺去军旗，将它作为战利品）。

“Voilaunelellemost，”②拿破仑瞧着博尔孔斯基说。

安德烈公爵心中明白，这正是指他而言，拿破仑说了这番话。他听见有人把这个说话的人称为sive。③但是这些话他听起来就像听见苍蝇发出嗡嗡的声音，他非但不感兴趣，而且不予以理会，听后立刻忘记得一干二净。他的头部感到一阵灼痛，他觉得他的血液快要流完了，他看见他的上方的遥远的高高的永恒的天空。他知道这是拿破仑——他心目中的英雄，但是在这个时刻，与他的内心和那一望无垠的高空以及空际的翔云之间所发生的各种情况相比较，他仿佛觉得拿破仑是如此渺小，如此微不足道。在这个时刻，不管什么人站在他跟前，不管谈到什么有关他的事情，他都满不在乎，他感到高兴的只是，人们都在他面前停步，他所冀望的只是，人们都来援救他，使他得以复生，他觉得生命是如此宝贵，因为地现在对它的理解有所不同了。他鼓足了全身的力气，想使自己的身体微微地移动一下，发出一个什么音来。他软弱无力地移动一下脚，发出怜悯他自己的微弱而痛苦的呻吟。

“哦！他还活着，”拿破仑说，“把这个青年抬起来，（Cejeunehomme）送到裹伤站去！”

①法语：吩咐从后备队中把炮弹运去。

②法语：这才是善终。

③法语：陛下。

说完这句话，拿破仑便迎着拉纳元帅走去，这位元帅脱下礼帽，向皇帝面前驰来，一面微露笑容，一面恭贺胜利。

后来安德烈什么都不记得了，因为有人把他搁在担架上，担架员行走时引起的震荡和在裹伤站探测伤口，使他感到阵阵剧痛，他因此失去知觉。到了白昼的尽头，他才苏醒过来了，这时候他和其他一些俄国的负伤军官、被俘军官一并被送到野战医院。在转移时他觉得自己的精力已稍事恢复，已经能够环顾四周，甚至能够开口说话了。

在他苏醒后他首先听到的是法国护卫军官讲的几句话，他急急忙忙地说：

“要在这儿停下来，皇帝马上驾临了，目睹这些被俘的先生会使他感到高兴的。”

“现在，俘虏太多了，俄国的军队几乎全部被俘了，这事儿大概会使他厌烦的。”另一名军官说道。

“啊，竟有这样的事！据说，这位是亚历山大皇帝的整个近卫军的指挥官。”第一名军官指着那个身穿重骑兵白色制服的被俘的俄国军官时说道。

博尔孔斯基认出了他在彼得堡上流社会中遇见的列普宁公爵。另一名年方十九岁的男孩站在他身旁，他也是一名负伤的重骑兵军官。

波拿巴策马疾驰而来，他勒住战马。

“谁是长官？”他看见这些俘虏后说道。

有人说出了上校列普宁公爵的名字。

“您是亚历山大皇帝的重骑兵团团长吗？”拿破仑问道。

“我指挥过骑兵连。”列普宁回答。

“伟大统率的赞扬是对士兵的最佳奖赏。”列普宁说。

“我很高兴地给予您奖赏，”拿破仑说，“这个站在您身边的年轻人是谁？”

列普宁公爵说出中尉苏赫特伦的名字。

拿破仑朝他瞥了一眼，面露微笑地说道：

“Ilestvenubienjeunesefrotteranous。”①

①法语：他硬要闯来和我们打仗，太年轻了。

“年轻并不妨碍我当一名勇士，”苏赫特伦用那若断若续的嗓音说。

“回答得很好，”拿破仑说道，“年轻人，前程远大。”

为了充分展示战利品——俘虏，安德烈公爵也被摆到前面来，让皇帝亲眼瞧瞧，他不能不引起皇帝的注意。看来拿破仑想起他在战场上见过他，于是向他转过脸来说话，说话时使用的正是“青年”（jeunehomme）这个称呼，博尔孔斯基衬托以“青年”二字头一次映入他的记忆中。

“唔，是您，青年人？”他把脸转向他，说道。“您觉得怎样？我的勇士。”

虽然，五分钟以前安德烈公爵可以对抬他的士兵们说几句话，但是，现在他两眼直勾勾地望着拿破仑，沉默无言了……他仿佛觉得，在这个时刻，与他所看见和所理解的正直而仁慈的高空相比较，那使拿破仑着迷的各种利益是如此微不足道，他仿佛觉得，他心目中的英雄怀有卑鄙的虚荣和胜利的欢愉，竟是如此渺小，——以致使他不能回答他的问题。

而且，因为流尽了鲜血，他虚弱无力，痛苦不堪，等待即将来临的死亡，这在他心中产生了严肃而宏伟的思想，而这一切与之相比照，显得如此无益和微不足道。安德烈公爵端详着拿破仑的一双眼睛，心里想到丰功伟绩的渺小，谁也不能弄明白其涵义的生命的渺小，而且想到死亡的毫无价值，事实上在活人当中谁也不能理解和说明死亡的意义。

皇帝没有等他回答，就扭过脸去，临行时他对一名长官说：“叫他们照料这些先生，把他们送到我的野营地去，叫我的医生拉雷给他们检查伤口。列普宁公爵，再见。”于是他驱马向前奔驰而去。

他的脸上流露着自满和幸福的光彩。

这几名抬安德烈公爵的士兵摘下了那尊公爵小姐玛丽亚挂在哥哥身上的、偶然被他们发现的金质小神像，但是他们看见皇帝温和地对待战俘，于是就急忙把小神像还给他了。

安德烈公爵没有看见是谁怎样地又把小神像挂在他身上了，但是那尊系有细金链的神像忽然悬挂在他胸前的制服上。

“那就太好了，”安德烈公爵望了望那尊他妹妹满怀厚意和敬慕的心情给他挂在胸前的小神像，心中思忖了一下，“如果一切都像公爵小姐玛丽亚脑海中想象的那样简单而明了，那就太好了。假如知道，在这一生要在何方去寻找帮助，在盖棺之后会有什么事件发生，那就太好了！如果我目前能够这样说：老天爷，饶了我吧！……那么我会感到何等幸福和安宁！可是我向谁说出这句话呢？或则向那个不明确的、不可思议的力量诉说——我不仅不能诉诸于它，而且不能用言词向它表达：这一切至为伟大，抑或渺小，”他喃喃自语，“或则向公爵小姐玛丽亚缝在这个护身香囊里的上帝诉说吗？除开我所明了的各种事物的渺小和某种不可理解的、但却至为重要的事物的伟大而外，并无任何事物，并无任何事物值得坚信不移啊！”

担架被抬了起来，出发了。担架一颠簸，他又会感到难以忍受的疼痛，发冷发热的状态更加剧烈了，他开始发谵语。对父亲、妻子和妹妹的叨念、对未来的想望，作战前夕他所体验到的温情、矮小的、微不足道的拿破仑的身躯和位于这一切之上的高空——便构成他在热病状态中所产生的模糊观念的主要基础。

他脑海中浮现出童山的幽静生活和安逸的家庭幸福。他已经在享受这种幸福了，忽然间那个身材矮小的拿破仑在面前出现了，他流露出冷漠无情、愚昧平庸、因为别人不幸而显得幸运的眼神，于是痛苦和疑惑开始随之而生，唯有天空才应允赐予人以慰藉。这种种幻觉在凌晨之前已混为一团，继之汇合成朦胧的不省人事的昏厥状态，依据拿破仑的御医拉雷的意见，这种病情的结局十之八九是死亡，而不是痊愈。

“C'estunsujetnerveuxetbilieux，”拉雷说。“Iln'enrechapperapas．”①

①法语：这是个神经质的，易动肝火的人，他是不会复元的。

安德烈公爵属于其他无可挽救的伤员之列，他已被交给当地居民照应去了。

BOOK 4

CHAPTER I

Chinese

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, recognising his young master. “Can it be? my darling?” And Prokofy, shaking with emotion, made a dash towards the drawing-room door, probably with the view of announcing him; but apparently he changed his mind, for he came back and fell on his young master's shoulder.

“All well?” asked Rostov, pulling his hand away from him.

“Thank God, yes! All, thank God! Only just finished supper! Let me have a look at you, your excellency!”

“Everything perfectly all right?”

“Thank God, yes, thank God!”

Rostov, completely forgetting Denisov, flung off his fur coat and, anxious that no one should prepare the way for him, he ran on tip-toe into the big, dark reception-hall. Everything was the same, the same card-tables, the same candelabra with a cover over it, but some one had already seen the young master, and he had not reached the drawing-room when from a side door something swooped headlong, like a storm upon him, and began hugging and kissing him. A second and a third figure dashed in at a second door and at a third; more huggings, more kisses, more outcries and tears of delight. He could not distinguish where and which was papa, which was Natasha, and which was Petya. All were screaming and talking and kissing him at the same moment. Only his mother was not among them, that he remembered.

“And I never knew… Nikolenka … my darling!”

“Here he is … our boy … my darling Kolya.… Isn't he changed! Where are the candles? Tea!”

“Kiss me too!”

“Dearest … and me too.”

Sonya, Natasha, Petya, Anna Mihalovna, Vera, and the old count were all hugging him; and the servants and the maids flocked into the room with talk and outcries.

Petya hung on his legs.

“Me too!” he kept shouting.

Natasha, after pulling him down to her and kissing his face all over, skipped back from him and, keeping her hold of his jacket, pranced like a goat up and down in the same place uttering shrill shrieks of delight.

All round him were loving eyes shining with tears of joy, all round were lips seeking kisses.

Sonya too, as red as crimson baize, clung to his arm and beamed all over, gazing blissfully at his eyes for which she had so long been waiting. Sonya was just sixteen and she was very pretty, especially at this moment of happy, eager excitement. She gazed at him, unable to take her eyes off him, smiling and holding her breath. He glanced gratefully at her; but still he was expectant and looking for some one, and the old countess had not come in yet. And now steps were heard at the door. The steps were so rapid that they could hardly be his mother's footsteps.

But she it was in a new dress that he did not know, made during his absence. All of them let him go, and he ran to her. When they came together, she sank on his bosom, sobbing. She could not lift up her face, and only pressed it to the cold braiding of his hussar's jacket. Denisov, who had come into the room unnoticed by any one, stood still looking at them and rubbing his eyes.

“Vassily Denisov, your son's friend,” he said, introducing himself to the count, who looked inquiringly at him.

“Very welcome. I know you, I know you,” said the count, kissing and embracing Denisov. “Nikolenka wrote to us … Natasha, Vera, here he is, Denisov.”

The same happy, ecstatic faces turned to the tousled figure of Denisov and surrounded him.

“Darling Denisov,” squealed Natasha, and, beside herself with delight she darted up to him, hugging and kissing him. Every one was disconcerted by Natasha's behaviour. Denisov too reddened. but he smiled, took Natasha's hand and kissed it.

Denisov was conducted to the room assigned him, while the Rostovs all gathered about Nikolenka in the divan-room.

The old countess sat beside him, keeping tight hold of his hand, which she was every minute kissing. The others thronged round them, gloating over every movement, every glance, every word he uttered, and never taking their enthusiastic and loving eyes off him. His brother and sisters quarrelled and snatched from one another the place nearest him and disputed over which was to bring him tea, a handkerchief, a pipe.

Rostov was very happy in the love they showed him. But the first minute of meeting them had been so blissful that his happiness now seemed a little thing, and he kept expecting something more and more and more.

Next morning after his journey he slept on till ten o'clock.

The adjoining room was littered with swords, bags, sabretaches, open trunks, and dirty boots. Two pairs of cleaned boots with spurs had just been stood against the wall. The servants brought in wash-hand basins, hot water for shaving, and their clothes well brushed. The room was full of a masculine odour and reeked of tobacco.

“Hi, Grishka, a pipe!” shouted the husky voice of Vaska Denisov. “Rostov, get up!”

Rostov, rubbing his eyelids that seemed glued together, lifted his tousled head from the warm pillow.

“Why, is it late?”

“It is late, nearly ten,” answered Natasha's voice, and in the next room they heard the rustle of starched skirts and girlish laughter. The door was opened a crack, and there was a glimpse of something blue, of ribbons, black hair and merry faces. Natasha with Sonya and Petya had come to see if he were not getting up.

“Nikolenka, get up!” Natasha's voice was heard again at the door.

“At once!” Meanwhile in the outer room Petya had caught sight of the swords and seized upon them with the rapture small boys feel at the sight of a soldier brother, and regardless of its not being the proper thing for his sisters to see the young men undressed, he opened the bedroom door.

“Is this your sword?” he shouted.

The girls skipped away. Denisov hid his hairy legs under the bed-clothes, looking with a scared face to his comrade for assistance. The door admitted Petya and closed after him. A giggle was heard from outside.

“Nikolenka, come out in your dressing-gown,” cried Natasha's voice.

“Is this your sword?” asked Petya, “or is it yours?” he turned with deferential respect to the swarthy, whiskered Denisov.

Rostov made haste to get on his shoes and stockings, put on his dressing-gown and went out. Natasha had put on one spurred boot and was just getting into the other. Sonya was “making cheeses,” and had just whirled her skirt into a balloon and was ducking down, when he came in. They were dressed alike in new blue frocks, both fresh, rosy, and good-humoured. Sonya ran away, but Natasha, taking her brother's arm, led him into the divan-room, and a conversation began between them. They had not time to ask and answer all the questions about the thousand trifling matters which could only be of interest to them. Natasha laughed at every word he said and at every word she said, not because what they said was amusing, but because she was in high spirits and unable to contain her joy, which brimmed over in laughter.

“Ah, isn't it nice, isn't it splendid!” she kept saying every moment. Under the influence of the warm sunshine of love, Rostov felt that for the first time for a year and a half his soul and his face were expanding in that childish smile, he had not once smiled since he left home.

“No, I say,” she said, “you're quite a man now, eh? I'm awfully glad you're my brother.” She touched his moustache. “I do want to know what sort of creatures you men are. Just like us? No.”

“Why did Sonya run away?” asked Rostov.

“Oh, there's a lot to say about that! How are you going to speak to Sonya? Shall you call her ‘thou' or ‘you'?”

“As it happens,” said Rostov.

“Call her ‘you,' please; I'll tell you why afterwards.”

“But why?”

“Well, I'll tell you now. You know that Sonya's my friend, such a friend that I burnt my arm for her sake. Here, look.” She pulled up her muslin sleeve and showed him on her long, thin, soft arm above the elbow near the shoulder (on the part which is covered even in a ball-dress) a red mark.

“I burnt that to show her my love. I simply heated a ruler in the fire and pressed it on it.”

Sitting in his old schoolroom on the sofa with little cushions on the arms, and looking into Natasha's wildly eager eyes, Rostov was carried back into that world of home and childhood which had no meaning for any one else but gave him some of the greatest pleasures in his life. And burning one's arm with a ruler as a proof of love did not strike him as pointless; he understood it, and was not surprised at it.

“Well, is that all?” he asked.

“Well, we are such friends, such great friends! That's nonsense—the ruler; but we are friends for ever. If she once loves any one, it's for ever; I don't understand that, I forget so quickly.”

“Well, what then?”

“Yes, so she loves me and you.” Natasha suddenly flushed. “Well, you remember before you went away … She says you are to forget it all… She said, I shall always love him, but let him be free. That really is splendid, noble! Yes, yes; very noble? Yes?” Natasha asked with such seriousness and emotion that it was clear that what she was saying now she had talked of before with tears. Rostov thought a little.

“I never take back my word,” he said. “And besides, Sonya's so charming that who would be such a fool as to renounce his own happiness?”

“No, no,” cried Natasha. “She and I have talked about that already. We knew that you'd say that. But that won't do, because, don't you see, if you say that—if you consider yourself bound by your word, then it makes it as though she had said that on purpose. It makes it as though you were, after all, obliged to marry her, and it makes it all wrong.”

Rostov saw that it had all been well thought over by them. On the previous day, Sonya had struck him by her beauty; in the glimpse he had caught of her to-day, she seemed even prettier. She was a charming girl of sixteen, obviously passionately in love with him (of that he could not doubt for an instant). “Why should he not love her now, even if he did not marry her,” mused Rostov, “but … just now he had so many other joys and interests!”

“Yes, that's a very good conclusion on their part,” he thought; “I must remain free.”

“Well, that's all right, then,” he said; “we'll talk about it later on. Ah, how glad I am to be back with you!” he added. “Come, tell me, you've not been false to Boris?”

“That's nonsense!” cried Natasha, laughing. “I never think of him nor of any one else, and don't want to.”

“Oh, you don't, don't you! Then what do you want?”

“I?” Natasha queried, and her face beamed with a happy smile. “Have you seen Duport?”

“No.”

“Not seen Duport, the celebrated dancer? Oh, well then, you won't understand. I—that's what I am.” Curving her arms, Natasha held out her skirt, as dancers do, ran back a few steps, whirled round, executed a pirouette, bringing her little feet together and standing on the very tips of her toes, moved a few steps forward.

“You see how I stand? there, like this,” she kept saying; but she could not keep on her toes. “So that's what I'm going to be! I'm never going to be married to any one; I'm going to be a dancer. Only, don't tell anybody.”

Rostov laughed so loudly and merrily that Denisov in his room felt envious, and Natasha could not help laughing with him.

“No, isn't it all right?” she kept saying.

“Oh, quite. So you don't want to marry Boris now?”

Natasha got hot.

“I don't want to marry any one. I'll tell him so myself when I see him.”

“Oh, will you?” said Rostov.

“But that's all nonsense,” Natasha prattled on. “And, I say, is Denisov nice?” she asked.

“Yes, he's nice.”

“Well, good-bye, go and dress. Is he a dreadful person — Denisov?”

“How, dreadful?” asked Nikolay. “No, Vaska's jolly.”

“You call him Vaska? … that's funny. Well, is he very nice?”

“Very nice.”

“Make haste and come to tea, then. We are all going to have it together.”

And Natasha rose on to her toes and stepped out of the room, as dancers do, but smiling as only happy girls of fifteen can smile. Rostov reddened on meeting Sonya in the drawing-room. He did not know how to behave with her. Yesterday they had kissed in the first moment of joy at meeting, but to-day they felt that out of the question. He felt that every one, his mother and his sisters, were looking inquiringly at him, and wondering how he would behave with her. He kissed her hand, and called her you and Sonya. But their eyes when they met spoke more fondly and kissed tenderly. Her eyes asked his forgiveness for having dared, by Natasha's mediation, to remind him of his promise, and thanked him for his love. His eyes thanked her for offering him his freedom, and told her that whether so, or otherwise, he should never cease to love her, because it was impossible not to love her.

“How queer it is, though,” said Vera, selecting a moment of general silence, “that Sonya and Nikolenka meet now and speak like strangers.”

Vera's observation was true, as were all her observations; but like most of her observations it made every one uncomfortable—not Sonya, Nikolay, and Natasha only crimsoned; the countess, too, who was afraid of her son's love for Sonya as a possible obstacle to his making a brilliant marriage, blushed like a girl.

To Rostov's surprise, Denisov in his new uniform, pomaded and perfumed, was quite as dashing a figure in a drawing-room as on the field of battle, and was polite to the ladies and gentlemen as Rostov had never expected to see him.

第一章

英文

一八○六年初，尼古拉·罗斯托夫回家休假。杰尼索夫也正前往沃罗涅日城家中，罗斯托夫劝他同去莫斯科，并在他们家中住下。杰尼索夫在倒数第二站遇见一位同事，和他一起喝了三瓶葡萄酒，于是就挨近罗斯托夫，躺在驿用雪橇底部。虽然道路坎坷不平，但是当他驶近莫斯科时，他还没有睡醒。罗斯托夫愈益趋近莫斯科，他就愈益失去耐心了。

“快到了吗？快到了吗？哎呀，这些讨厌的街道、小商店、白面包、路灯和出租马车！”当他们已经在边防哨所登记了假条，驶入莫斯科时，罗斯托夫想道。

“杰尼索夫，我们已经到了！他还在睡呀！”他说道，把全身向前探出来，好像他希望用这个姿势来加快雪橇行驶的速度。杰尼索夫并没有回答。

“你看，这就是十字路拐角，车夫扎哈尔时常在这里停车。你看，他就是扎哈尔，还是那匹马。这就是大家常去购买蜜糖饼干的铺子。喂！快到了吗？”

“朝哪幢大楼走呢？”驿站马车夫问。

“就是街道的尽头，向那幢大楼走过去，怎么看不见！这就是我们的楼房。”罗斯托夫说道，“这不就是我们的楼房么！”

“杰尼索夫！杰尼索夫！马上就到了。”

杰尼索夫抬起头，咳嗽几声清清喉咙，什么话也没有回答。

“德米特里，”罗斯托夫把脸转向那个坐在车夫座上的仆人说，“这不就是我们家里的灯光么？”

“是的，少爷。老爷书斋里射出了灯光。”

“还没有睡吗？啊？你认为怎样？”

“留神，你别忘了，你马上给我拿件骠骑兵穿的新上衣来。”罗斯托夫抚摸着最近蓄起来的胡髭，补充说。

“喂，你快赶吧，”他对驿站马车夫喊道。“瓦夏，醒醒吧。”

他把脸转向那个又低下头来打着盹儿的杰尼索夫说。

“喂，你快赶吧，给你三个卢布喝酒，快赶吧！”当那雪橇开到离门口只有三幢房子那样远的地方，罗斯托夫喊道。他好像觉得，那几匹马还没有起步。后来那辆雪橇向右转，开到了门口，罗斯托夫看见了灰泥已经脱落的屋檐、台阶、人行道上的柱子。他在驶行时就从雪橇中跳了出来，向门斗跑去。屋子不动地屹立着，现出漠不关心的样子，仿佛无论什么人走进屋里来都与它毫不相干似的。门斗里没有人影了。

“我的天啊！一切都顺遂吧？”罗斯托夫想了想，心里极度紧张地停了片刻，旋即经过门斗和他熟悉的、歪歪斜斜的梯子拼命地往前跑。门拉手很不干净，伯爵夫人因此时常大发雷霆，然而就是那个门拉手，仍然是那样轻而易举地给拉开了。

接待室里点着一根很明亮的蜡烛。

米哈伊洛老头儿睡在大木箱上。随从的仆役普罗科菲力气很大，掀得起马车的尾部，他坐着，用布条编织着鞋子。他望望敞开的那扇门，他的冷淡的昏昏欲睡的表情忽然变得又惊恐又喜悦了。

“我的老天爷！年轻的伯爵！”他认出年轻的伯爵后大声喊道。“这是怎么回事？我亲爱的！”普罗科菲激动得浑身颤栗，急忙地向客厅门前冲去，也许是想去禀告，但看来他又改变了主意，走了回来，就俯在少爷的肩膀上。

“大家都很健康吗？”罗斯托夫挣脱他的一只手问道。

“谢天谢地！还是要谢天谢地！刚才吃过了饭啊！大人，让我来看看您！”

“都很顺遂么？”

“谢天谢地，谢天谢地！”

罗斯托夫完全忘记了杰尼索夫，他并不希望有人抢在前头去禀告，于是脱下皮袄，踮着脚尖跑进这个昏暗的大厅。样样东西还是老样子，还是那几张铺着绿呢面的牌桌，还是那个带有灯罩的枝形吊灯架，但是有人看见少爷了，他还没有来得及跑到客厅，就有什么人风驰电掣似的从侧门飞奔出来，拥抱他亲吻他。还有另一个、第三个这样的人从另一扇、从第三扇门里跳出来，仍然是拥抱，仍然是接吻，可以听见叫喊，可以看见愉快的眼泪。他不能分辨哪个人是父亲，他在哪里，哪个人是娜塔莎，哪个人是彼佳。大家同时叫喊，说话，同时吻他。只有母亲一人不在他们之中，这一点他是想到了。

“可是我呢，不晓得……尼古卢什卡……我的亲人！”“瞧，他……我们的……我的亲人，科利亚①……全变了！

……没有蜡烛啊！把茶端来！”

①科利亚和尼古卢什卡都是尼古拉的爱称。

“你要吻吻我吧！”

“我的心肝……吻吻我吧。”

索尼娅、娜塔莎、彼佳、安娜·米哈伊洛夫娜、薇拉、老伯爵都在拥抱他，男女仆人挤满了几个房间，说东道西，高兴得叫起来了。

彼佳紧紧搂住他的一双腿，悬起来了。

“吻吻我吧！”他喊道。

娜塔莎叫他稍稍弯下腰来凑近她，在他脸上热烈地吻了好几下，然后跳到旁边去，她拉着他的骠骑兵上装的下摆，像只山羊似的在原地蹦蹦跳跳，发出刺耳的尖叫声。

四面都是闪烁着愉快的眼泪的、爱抚的眼睛，四面都是寻找接吻的嘴唇。

索尼娅满面通红，俨如大红布一般，她也握着他的手，喜形于色，幸福的目光投射于她所企盼的他那对一睹为快的眼睛。索尼娅今年已满十六岁了，她的相貌非常俊美，尤其是在这个幸福的、热情洋溢的时刻。她目不转睛地瞧着他，面露微笑，快要屏住呼吸了。他怀着感谢的心情望望她，但是他还在等待和寻找什么人。老伯爵夫人尚未走出门，一阵步履声终于从门里传出来了。脚步是那么迅速，这不可能是他的母亲的脚步。

但是她穿上一件他不在家时缝制的他还没有见过的新连衣裙。大家都从他身边走开，于是他向她跟前跑去。当他们迎面走近的时候，她嚎啕大哭，倒在他怀里。她抬不起头来，只是把脸贴在他那件骠骑兵制服的冷冰冰的绶带上。没有人注意杰尼索夫、他走进房来，伫立着，一面注视母子二人，一面不停地揩拭眼泪。

“我叫做瓦西里·杰尼索夫，是您儿子的朋友。”他向那个疑惑地打量着他的伯爵自我介绍时说道。

“欢迎光临，晓得，晓得，”伯爵在抱着杰尼索夫亲吻时说，“尼古卢什卡写了信……娜塔莎，薇拉，他就是杰尼索夫。”

还是那几张幸福的、热情洋溢的面孔朝那毛茸茸的杰尼索夫的身躯转过来，把他围在中间了。

“亲爱的，杰尼索夫！”娜塔莎得意忘形，发出刺耳的尖声，一下子跑到杰尼索夫跟前，抱住他吻了吻。大家都对娜塔莎的举止感到困惑不解。杰尼索夫也涨红了脸，但他微微一笑，握住了娜塔莎的手吻了吻。

杰尼索夫被领到给他准备的房里，而罗斯托夫一家人围住尼古卢什卡聚集在摆有沙发的休息室里。

老伯爵夫人坐在他身旁，没有松开她每分钟要吻的他的一只手，聚集在他们周围的其他人正在观察他的每个动作，谛听他的每句话，寻视他的目光，并用欣喜而爱抚的眼睛直盯着他。小弟弟和姐姐们正在争论，他们争先恐后地要坐在靠近他的地方，只为着端茶、拿手帕和烟斗的事而争夺不休。

罗斯托夫受到众人的爱抚，因而感到无比幸福，但是他们会面的第一瞬间是那样欢乐，以致现在他觉得幸福还不足，他还在、还在、还在期待着什么。

翌日早晨，旅途劳累的人都睡到九点多钟。

前面的房间里，乱七八糟地放着马刀、手提包、图囊、打开的箱笼、邋遢的靴子。两双擦得干干净净的带有马刺的皮靴刚刚摆放在墙边。几个仆人端来了脸盆、刮脸用的热水和几件洗刷干净的衣裳。房里发散着烟草和男人的气息。

“嗨，格里什卡，把烟斗拿来！”瓦西里·杰尼索夫用那嘶哑的嗓音喊道，“罗斯托夫，起床吧！”

罗斯托夫揩着困得睁不开的眼睛，从那睡得热呼呼的枕头上抬起他那蓬乱的头。

“怎么，太晚了吗？”

“很晚了，九点多钟了。”娜塔莎拉大嗓门回答，隔壁房里传来了浆硬的衣裳发出的沙沙响声、低语声和少女的笑声，在略微敞开的房里闪现出什么蔚蓝色的东西、绦带、黑色的头发和愉快的面孔。这就是娜塔莎、索尼娅和彼佳，他们来看看他是否起床。

“尼古连卡，起床吧！”房门口又传来娜塔莎的说话声。

“我马上起来！”

这时候彼佳在第一个房间里看见了几柄马刀，就急忙拿了起来，他感到异常高兴，平常孩子们看见威武的长兄时也有同样的感受，他打开房门，竟然忘记姐姐们在看见脱光衣服的男人时会觉得有失体统呢。

“这是你的马刀吗？”他喊道。少女们躲到一边去。杰尼索夫睁大了一双惊恐的眼睛，把他自己的毛茸茸的脚藏进被窝里，他看着同事的眼色，求他帮个忙。门打开了，把彼佳放进来了，门又合上了。门后可以听见一阵笑声。

“尼古连卡，穿上长罩衫出来吧。”传来娜塔莎的说话声。

“这是你的马刀吗？”彼佳问道，“要不然，这柄是您的？”他露出低三下四而且恭敬的神情向面目黧黑的大胡子杰尼索夫说。

罗斯托夫赶快穿起皮靴，披上长罩衫，走出去了。娜塔莎穿上一只带有马刺的皮靴，又把脚伸进另一只皮靴中。当他走出去的时候，索尼娅正在转圈子，刚刚想鼓起连衣裙行个屈膝礼。这两个女人穿着同样的天蓝色的新连衣裙，都显得娇嫩，面露红晕，十分高兴。索尼娅跑开了，娜塔莎挽着哥哥的手，把他领到摆满沙发的休息室，二人开始聊天了。他们来不及互相询问和回答千万个只有他们二人才关心的琐碎问题。娜塔莎听见他说的和她说的每一句话都露出笑意，之所以如此，不是因为他们说的话滑稽可笑，而是因为她心中觉得高兴，她禁不住乐得放声大笑了。

“啊，多么美妙，太美妙了！”对她听到的一切，她都附带这么说。罗斯托夫感觉到，在热烈的抚爱之光的影响下，一年半以后头一次在他的心中和脸上流露着自从他走出家门后未曾流露的童稚的微笑。

“不，听听吧，”她说道，“你现在完全是个男人么？你是我的哥哥，使我感到无比高兴，”她摸了摸他的胡髭，“我很想知道，你们男子汉是怎么样的？是不是都像我们这个样子呢？不是一样吗？”

“索尼娅干嘛跑掉了？”罗斯托夫问道。

“是的，说来话长了！你跟索尼娅交谈称呼‘你'还是称呼‘您'？”

“看情形。”罗斯托夫说。

“请你称呼她‘您'，以后告诉你。”

“这是怎么回事？”

“喏，我现在就来说给你听。你晓得，索尼娅是我的朋友，是那样一个挚友，我为她宁可烧伤自己的胳膊。请你看看，”她卷起细纱布袖筒，让他看看她那瘦长而柔软的小手臂上，即是在肩膀以下，比肘弯高得多的部位上的一块红印（这个部位常被舞会服装遮蔽着）。

“我烧伤这个地方，是为着向她证明我的爱心。就是把那直尺搁在火上烧红，向这个部位一按！”

在从前作过教室的房间里，罗斯托夫坐在扶手带有弹簧垫的沙发上，两眼望着娜塔莎的极为活泼的明眸，他又进入了他自己家庭的儿童世界，这个世界除他而外对任何人都毫无意义，而他觉得这是人生的最佳享受，至于借助直尺烙伤手臂藉以表明爱心一事，他也觉得不无好处。他明白这一点并不因此而感到惊奇。

“那又怎样呢？只有这些么？”他问道。

“嘿，我们都很和睦，都很和睦！用直尺烙伤手臂，这要什么紧，虽是愚蠢的事情，但是我们永远是朋友。她一爱上什么人，就会爱上一辈子；可是我不明白这一点，我就立刻置之脑后了。”

“那怎样呢？”

“是啊，她这样爱我，也爱你。”娜塔莎忽然涨红了脸，“你还记得，离别之前……她说，要你忘记这一切……她说：我永远爱他，但愿他自由安乐。要知道，真是太妙了，太高尚了！对吗？太高尚了？对吗？”娜塔莎这么严肃而且激动地询问他，由此可见，她从前诉说这番话时她眼睛里噙满着泪水。罗斯托夫陷入沉思了。

“我无论如何也不会收回自己的诺言，”他说，“以后也不会这样做的，索尼娅长得这样美丽，什么样的蠢人想要放弃自己的幸福呢？”

“不，不，”娜塔莎喊道，“这件事我和她已经谈过了。我们知道你会说出这番话。但是不能这样做，你要明白，假如你要这么说——认为你自己受到诺言的束缚，那么就好像她是存心说出这番话的。由此可见，你毕竟是迫不得已才娶她为妻的，那就完全不像话了。”

罗斯托夫看见，这一切都是他们别具心裁构想出来的。索尼娅昨天就凭她的姿色使他惊倒。今天瞥见她之后，他觉得她更漂亮了。显然她是个狂热地爱他的（对于这一点他毫不怀疑）年方十六岁的富有迷力的姑娘。干嘛他现在能不爱她，甚至于能不娶她，罗斯托夫这样想，但是……但是……现在还有多少其他乐事和活动啊！“是的，她们构想得多么美妙。”

他思忖了一下，“仍然要做个自由人。”

“啊，太美妙了。”他说，“我们以后再谈吧。啊，看见你我多么高兴！”他补充一句话。

“嗯，你为什么没有在鲍里斯面前变节呢？”哥哥问道。

“这是愚蠢的事啊！”娜塔莎含着笑意喊道，“无论是他，还是什么人，我既不考虑，也不想知道。”

“原来是这么一回事！那你要怎么样呢？”

“我吗？”娜塔莎再问一遍，幸福的微笑使她容光焕发。

“你看见迪波尔了么？”

“没有。”

“你见过闻名的舞蹈家迪波尔么？那你就没法弄明白。你看，我是这么跳的。”娜塔莎像跳舞那样撩起裙子，把双臂蜷曲成圆形，跑开几步，转过来，身体腾空跃起，两脚互相拍击，踮着脚尖儿走了几步。

“瞧，我不是站住了么？”她说，但是她踮着脚尖站不稳了。“你看我就是这样跳的！我永远不嫁给任何人，我要当个舞蹈家。不过我请你不要告诉任何人。”

罗斯托夫嗓音洪亮地、欢快地哈哈大笑，致使隔壁房里的杰尼索夫忌妒起来，娜塔莎忍耐不住了，于是和他一块放声大笑。

“不，你看妙不妙？”她总是这样说。

“很妙。你已经不愿嫁给鲍里斯吧？”

娜塔莎涨红了脸。

“我不愿意嫁给任何人。当我看见他时，我要对他说的也是同样的话。”

“原来是这样！”罗斯托夫说道。

“是呀，这全是废话，”娜塔莎继续说些没意思的话，“怎么，杰尼索夫是个好人吧？”她问道。

“他是个好人。”

“嗯，再见，去穿衣服吧。杰尼索夫，他是个可怕的人？”

“为什么可怕呢？”尼古拉问，“不，瓦西卡是个很好的人。”

“你把他叫做瓦西卡吗？……真奇怪。怎么，他挺好吗？”

“挺好。”

“喂，快点来喝茶。大伙儿一块喝茶。”

娜塔莎就像舞蹈家一样，踮起脚尖儿从房间里走过来，她面露笑容，只有年方十五岁的幸福的少女才是这样笑容可掬的。罗斯托夫在客厅里遇见索尼娅后，他的脸涨得通红了。他不知道怎样对待她。昨天在会面的欢天喜地的第一瞬间他们互相接吻了，但是今天他们觉得这样做是不行的，他觉得母亲、姐妹们，大家都带着疑惑的目光注视着他，等待他用什么方式对待她。他吻了一下她的手，对她称谓“您”——“索尼娅”。但是他们的目光相遇之后，却互相称谓“你”，目光温存地接吻。她借助目光请求他原谅，因为她敢于通过使者娜塔莎向他提及他的承诺，并且感谢他的眷恋。他也用目光感谢她，因为她同意他所提出的个人自由的建议，并且说，无论情况怎么样，他将永远地爱她，不能不爱她。

“可是这多么古怪，”薇拉选择大家沉默的时刻说，“索尼娅和尼古连卡现在如同陌生人，会面时称呼‘您'。”薇拉的评论有如她所有的评论，都是合乎情理的，可是也正如她的大部分评论一样，大家听来都觉得很不自在，不仅索尼娅、尼古拉和娜塔莎，而且连老伯爵夫人也像个少女一样涨红了脸，因为她害怕儿子去爱索尼娅，会使他失去名门望族的配偶。罗斯托夫感到惊奇的是，杰尼索夫穿着一身新制服，涂了发油，喷了香水，就像上阵似的，穿着得十分考究，他摆出这个样子，在客厅里出现了，他对女士和男子都献殷勤，以致罗斯托夫怎么也没料到他竟有这副样子。

CHAPTER II

Chinese

ON HIS RETURN to Moscow from the army, Nikolay Rostov was received by his family as a hero, as the best of sons, their idolised Nikolenka; by his relations, as a charming, agreeable, and polite young man; by his acquaintances as a handsome lieutenant of hussars, a good dancer, and one of the best matches in Moscow.

All Moscow was acquainted with the Rostovs; the old count had plenty of money that year, because all his estates had been mortgaged, and so Nikolenka, who kept his own racehorse, and wore the most fashionable riding-breeches of a special cut, unlike any yet seen in Moscow, and the most fashionable boots, with extremely pointed toes, and little silver spurs, was able to pass his time very agreeably. After the first brief interval of adapting himself to the old conditions of life, Rostov felt very happy at being home again. He felt that he had grown up and become a man. His despair at failing in a Scripture examination, his borrowing money from Gavrilo for his sledge-drivers, his stolen kisses with Sonya—all that he looked back upon as childishness from which he was now immeasurably remote. Now he was a lieutenant of hussars with a silver-braided jacket, and a soldier's cross of St. George, he had a horse in training for a race, and kept company with well-known racing men, elderly and respected persons. He had struck up an acquaintance too, with a lady living in a boulevard, whom he used to visit in the evening. He led the mazurka at the Arharovs' balls, talked to Field-Marshal Kamensky about the war, and used familiar forms of address to a colonel of forty, to whom he had been introduced by Denisov.

His passion for the Tsar flagged a little in Moscow, as he did not see him, and had no chance of seeing him all that time. But still he often used to talk about the Emperor and his love for him, always with a suggestion in his tone that he was not saying all that there was in his feeling for the Emperor, something that every one could not understand; and with his whole heart he shared the general feeling in Moscow of adoration for the Emperor Alexander Pavlovitch, who was spoken of at that time in Moscow by the designation of the “angel incarnate.”

During this brief stay in Moscow, before his return to the army, Rostov did not come nearer to Sonya, but on the contrary drifted further away from her. She was very pretty and charming, and it was obvious that she was passionately in love with him. But he was at that stage of youth when there seems so much to do, that one has not time to pay attention to love, and a young man dreads being bound, and prizes his liberty, which he wants for so much else. When he thought about Sonya during this stay at Moscow, he said to himself: “Ah! there are many, many more like her to come, and there are many of them somewhere now, though I don't know them yet. There's plenty of time before me to think about love when I want to, but I have not the time now.” Moreover, it seemed to him that feminine society was somewhat beneath his manly dignity. He went to balls, and into ladies' society with an affection of doing so against his will. Races, the English club, carousals with Denisov, and the nocturnal visits that followed—all that was different, all that was the correct thing for a dashing young hussar.

At the beginning of March the old count, Ilya Andreivitch Rostov, was very busily engaged in arranging a dinner at the English Club, to be given in honour of Prince Bagration.

The count, in his dressing-gown, was continually walking up and down in the big hall, seeing the club manager, the celebrated Feoktista, and the head cook, and giving them instructions relative to asparagus, fresh cucumbers, strawberries, veal, and fish, for Prince Bagration's dinner. From the day of its foundation, the count had been a member of the club, and was its steward. He had been entrusted with the organisation of the banquet to Bagration by the club, because it would have been hard to find any one so well able to organise a banquet on a large and hospitable scale, and still more hard to find any one so able and willing to advance his own money, if funds were needed, for the organisation of the fête. The cook and the club manager listened to the count's orders with good-humoured faces, because they knew that with no one better than with him could one make a handsome profit out of a dinner costing several thousands.

“Well, then, mind there are scallops, scallops in pie-crust, you know.”

“Cold entrées, I suppose—three? …” questioned the cook.

The count pondered.

“Couldn't do with less, three … mayonnaise, one,” he said, crooking his finger.

“Then it's your excellency's order to take the big sturgeons?” asked the manager.

“Yes; it can't be helped, we must take them, if they won't knock the price down. Ah, mercy on us, I was forgetting. Of course we must have another entrée on the table. Ah, good heavens!” he clutched at his head. “And who's going to get me the flowers? Mitenka! Hey, Mitenka! You gallop, Mitenka,” he said to the steward who came in at his call, “you gallop off to the Podmoskovny estate” (the count's property in the environs of Moscow), “and tell Maksimka the gardener to set the serfs to work to get decorations from the greenhouses. Tell him everything from his conservatories is to be brought here, and is to be packed in felt. And that I'm to have two hundred pots here by Friday.”

After giving further and yet further directions of all sorts, he was just going off to the countess to rest from his labours, but he recollected something else, turned back himself, brought the cook and manager back, and began giving orders again. They heard in the doorway a light, manly tread and a jingling of spurs, and the young count came in, handsome and rosy, with his darkening moustache, visibly sleeker and in better trim for his easy life in Moscow.

“Ah, my boy! my head's in a whirl,” said the old gentleman, with a somewhat shamefaced smile at his son. “You might come to my aid! We have still the singers to get, you see. The music is all settled, but shouldn't we order some gypsy singers? You military gentlemen are fond of that sort of thing.”

“Upon my word, papa, I do believe that Prince Bagration made less fuss over getting ready for the battle of Schöngraben than you are making now,” said his son, smiling.

The old count pretended to be angry.

“Well, you talk, you try!” And the count turned to the cook, who with a shrewd and respectful face looked observantly and sympathetically from father to son.

“What are the young people coming to, eh, Feoktista?” said he; “they laugh at us old fellows!”

“To be sure, your excellency, all they have to do is to eat a good dinner, but to arrange it all and serve it up, that's no affair of theirs!”

“True, true!” cried the count; and gaily seizing his son by both hands, he cried: “Do you know now I've got hold of you! Take a sledge and pair this minute and drive off to Bezuhov, and say that Count Ilya Andreivitch has sent, say, to ask him for strawberries and fresh pineapples. There's no getting them from any one else. If he's not at home himself, you go in and give the message to the princesses; and, I say, from there you drive off to the Gaiety—Ipatka the coachman knows the place—and look up Ilyushka there, the gypsy who danced at Count Orlov's, do you remember, in a white Cossack dress, and bring him here to me.”

“And bring his gypsy girls here with him?” asked Nikolay, laughing.

“Come, come! …”

At this moment Anna Mihalovna stepped noiselessly into the room with that air of Christian meekness, mingled with practical and anxious preoccupation, that never left her face. Although Anna Mihalovna came upon the count in his dressing-gown every day, he was invariably disconcerted at her doing so, and apologised for his costume.

“Don't mention it, my dear count,” she said, closing her eyes meekly. “I am just going to see Bezuhov,” she said. “Young Bezuhov has arrived, and now we shall get all we want, count, from his greenhouses. I was wanting to see him on my own account, too. He has forwarded me a letter from Boris. Thank God, Boris is now on the staff.”

The count was overjoyed at Anna Mihalovna's undertaking one part of his commissions, and gave orders for the carriage to be brought round for her.

“Tell Bezuhov to come. I'll put his name down. Brought his wife with him?” he asked.

Anna Mihalovna turned up her eyes, and an expression of profound sadness came into her face.

“Ah, my dear, he's very unhappy,” she said. “If it's true what we have been hearing, it's awful. How little did we think of this when we were rejoicing in happiness! and such a lofty, angelic nature, that young Bezuhov! Yes, I pity him from my soul, and will do my utmost to give him any consolation in my power.”

“Why, what is the matter?” inquired both the Rostovs, young and old together.

Anna Mihalovna heaved a deep sigh.

“Dolohov, Marya Ivanovna's son,” she said in a mysterious whisper, “has, they say, utterly compromised her. He brought him forward, invited him to his house in Petersburg, and now this! … She has come here, and that scapegrace has come after her,” said Anna Mihalovna. She wished to express nothing but sympathy with Pierre, but in her involuntary intonations and half smile, she betrayed her sympathy with the scapegrace, as she called Dolohov. “Pierre himself, they say, is utterly crushed by his trouble.”

“Well, any way, tell him to come to the club—it will divert his mind. It will be a banquet on a grand scale.”

On the next day, the 3rd of March, at about two in the afternoon, the two hundred and fifty members of the English Club and fifty of their guests were awaiting the arrival of their honoured guest, the hero of the Austrian campaign, Prince Bagration.

On receiving the news of the defeat of Austerlitz, all Moscow had at first been thrown into bewilderment. At that period the Russians were so used to victories, that on receiving news of a defeat, some people were simply incredulous, while others sought an explanation of so strange an event in exceptional circumstances of some kind. At the English Club, where every one of note, every one who had authentic information and weight gathered together, during December, when the news began to arrive, not a word was said about the war and about the last defeat; it was as though all were in a conspiracy of silence. The men who took the lead in conversation at the club, such as Count Rostoptchin, Prince Yury Vladimirovitch Dolgoruky, Valuev, Count Markov, and Prince Vyazemsky, did not put in an appearance at the club, but met together in their intimate circles at each other's houses.

That section of Moscow society which took its opinions from others (to which, indeed, Count Ilya Andreivitch Rostov belonged) remained for a short time without leaders and without definite views upon the progress of the war. People felt in Moscow that something was wrong, and that it was difficult to know what to think of the bad news, and so better to be silent. But a little later, like jurymen coming out of their consultation room, the leaders reappeared to give their opinion in the club, and a clear and definite formula was found. Causes had been discovered to account for the fact—so incredible, unheard-of, and impossible—that the Russians had been beaten, and all became clear, and the same version was repeated from one end of Moscow to the other. These causes were: the treachery of the Austrians; the defective commissariat; the treachery of the Pole Przhebyshevsky and the Frenchman Langeron; the incapacity of Kutuzov; and (this was murmured in subdued tones) the youth and inexperience of the Emperor, who had put faith in men of no character and ability. But the army, the Russian army, said every one, had been extraordinary, and had performed miracles of valour. The soldiers, the officers, the generals—all were heroes. But the hero among heroes was Prince Bagration, who had distinguished himself in his Schöngraben engagement and in the retreat from Austerlitz, where he alone had withdrawn his column in good order, and had succeeded in repelling during the whole day an enemy twice as numerous. What contributed to Bagration's being chosen for the popular hero at Moscow was the fact that he was an outsider, that he had no connections in Moscow. In his person they could do honour to the simple fighting Russian soldier, unsupported by connections and intrigues, and still associated by memories of the Italian campaign with the name of Suvorov. And besides, bestowing upon him such honours was the best possible way of showing their dislike and disapproval of Kutuzov.

“If there had been no Bagration, somebody would have to invent him,” said the wit, Shinshin, parodying the words of Voltaire.

Of Kutuzov people did not speak at all, or whispered abuse of him, calling him the court weathercock and the old satyr.

All Moscow was repeating the words of Prince Dolgorukov: “Chop down trees enough and you're bound to cut your finger,” which in our defeat suggested a consolatory reminder of former victories, and the saying of Rostoptchin, that French soldiers have to be excited to battle by high-sounding phrases; that Germans must have it logically proved to them that it is more dangerous to run away than to go forward; but that all Russian soldiers need is to be held back and urged not to be too reckless! New anecdotes were continually to be heard on every side of individual feats of gallantry performed by our officers and men at Austerlitz. Here a man had saved a flag, another had killed five Frenchmen, another had kept five cannons loaded single-handed. The story was told of Berg, by those who did not know him, that wounded in his right hand, he had taken his sword in his left and charged on the enemy. Nothing was said about Bolkonsky, and only those who had known him intimately regretted that he had died so young, leaving a wife with child, and his queer old father.

第二章

英文

尼古拉·罗斯托夫从部队回到莫斯科以后，家里人把他看作是一个最优秀的儿子、英雄和最心爱的尼古卢什卡；亲戚们把他看作是一个可爱的、招人喜欢的、孝敬的青年；熟人们把他看作是一个俊美的骠骑兵中尉、熟练的舞蹈家、莫斯科的最优秀的未婚夫之一。

莫斯科全市的人都是罗斯托夫之家的熟人，今年老伯爵的进款足够开销了，因为他的地产全部重新典当了，所以尼古卢什卡买进了一匹个人享用的走马、一条最时髦的紧腿马裤，这是一种在莫斯科还没有人穿过的式样特殊的马裤，还添置一双最时髦的带有小银马刺的尖头皮靴，他极为愉快地消度时光。罗斯托夫回家了，在他为了适应旧的生活环境而度过一段时光后，他已体验到那种非常惬意的感觉。他仿佛觉得，他已经长大成人了。他因神学考试不及格而感到失望、向加夫里洛借钱偿还马车夫、和索尼娅偷偷地接吻，他回想起这一切，就像回想起时隔多年的久远的儿童时代的往事一般。现在他——一个骠骑兵中尉，身披一件银丝镶边的披肩，佩戴军人的乔治十字勋章，和几个知名的备受尊敬的老猎手一起训练走马。在林荫路上，他有个交往甚笃的女伴、夜晚他常到她家里去。他在阿尔哈罗夫家里举办的舞会上指挥马祖尔卡舞，和卡缅斯基元帅谈及战事，他常到英国俱乐部去，与杰尼索夫给他介绍的那个四十岁的上校交朋友，亲热地以“你”相称。

在莫斯科城，他对国王的热烈的感情稍微减弱了，因为他在这个期间没有看见他的缘故。不过他仍旧常常谈到国君，谈到他对国君的爱戴，他要大家感觉到，他没有把话全部说完，他对国王的热情中尚且存在某种不为尽人所能明了的东西；他由衷地随同当时的莫斯科公众共同体验他们对亚历山大·帕夫洛维奇皇帝的崇敬之情，莫斯科当时把他称做“天使的化身”。

罗斯托夫在动身回部队以前，在莫斯科的短暂逗留期间，他没有和索尼娅接近，相反地，和她断绝往来了。她长得标致，而且可爱，很明显，她已经爱上他了，可是他处在风华正茂的年代，看来还有许多事业要完成，没有闲暇去干这种勾当，年轻人害怕拘束，但却珍惜那种从事多项事业所必需的自由。这次他在莫斯科逗留期间，每当想到索尼娅，他总要自言自语地说：“嗳，像这样的姑娘可真多啊，在某个地方还有许多我不熟悉的姑娘呢。只要我愿意，我总来得及谈情说爱，可是现在没有闲功夫了。”此外，他出没于妇女交际场所，有损于他的英勇气概。他装作违反意志的样子，常去妇女交际场所参加舞会。而驾车赛马、英国俱乐部、与杰尼索夫纵酒、赴某地旅行——这倒是另一码事。而这对一个英姿勃勃的骠骑兵来说是很体面的。

三月初，老伯爵伊利亚·安德烈伊奇在英国俱乐部张罗筹办一次欢迎巴格拉季翁公爵的宴会。

伯爵穿一种长罩衫在大厅中踱来踱去，并且吩咐俱乐部的管事人和闻名的英国俱乐部的大厨师费奥克蒂斯特地为迎接巴格拉季翁公爵的宴会备办龙须菜、鲜黄瓜、草莓、小牛肉和鱼。自从俱乐部成立以来，伯爵就是成员和主任。他接受俱乐部的委托，为迎接巴格拉季翁筹办一次盛大的酒会，因为很少有人这样慷慨待客，他竟能举办豪华的宴会，尤其是因为很少有人为举办华筵需要耗费金钱时能够而且愿意掏出腰包。俱乐部的厨师和管事人满面春风，听候伯爵的吩咐，因为他们知道，在任何人手下都不如在他手下筹办一回耗费几千卢布的酒会中更加有利可图了。

“看着点，甲鱼汤里放点儿鸡冠子，鸡冠子，你知道么？”

“这么说来，要三个冷盘？……”厨师问道。

伯爵沉思了片刻。

“要三个……不能少于三个，一盘沙粒子油凉拌菜。”他屈着指头说道……

“那么，吩咐人去买大鲟鱼罗？”管事人问道。

“既然不让价，有什么办法，去买吧。是啊，我的老天爷啊！我本来快要忘记了。瞧，还有一盘冷菜要端上餐桌。哎呀，我的老天爷啊！”他抓住自己的脑袋，心惊胆战起来，“谁给我把花卉运来？米坚卡！啊，米坚卡！米坚卡，你快马加鞭到莫斯科郊外田庄去一趟，”他把脸转向应声走进来的管理员说，“你快马加鞭到莫斯科郊外田庄去，吩咐园丁马克西姆卡，叫他马上派人服劳役。对他说，用毡子把暖房的花统统包好，运到这里来。叫人在礼拜五以前将两百盆花给我送来。”

他又发出了一连串的指示，正走出门，要去伯爵小姐那里休息休息，可是又想起一件紧要的事情，他走回去，把管事人和厨师召回，又作出了一些指示。从门口可以听见男人的轻盈的步履声，年轻的伯爵走进来了，他长得漂亮，脸色红润，蓄起一撮黑色的胡髭。显然，莫斯科的安逸的生活使他得到充分的休息和精心的照料。

“啊，我的伙计啊！我简直晕头转向了，”老头子说，他面露微笑，好像在儿子面前有点害臊似的。“你来帮个忙也好！要知道，还得用上大批歌手啊。我有一个乐队，把那些茨冈人叫来，还是怎么样？你们军人兄弟喜欢这事儿。”

“爸爸，说实话，我想，巴格拉季翁公爵在准备申格拉本战役时还没有你们目前这样忙碌哩。”儿子面露笑意，说。

老伯爵装作怒气冲冲的样子。

“既然你会说，你来试试吧。”

厨师露出聪颖而可敬的神情，用细心观察的亲热的目光打量着父亲和儿子。

“啊，费奥克蒂斯特，年轻人是个啥样子？”他说，“居然嘲笑我们自己的兄弟——嘲笑老头子来了。”

“大人，也罢，他们只会痛痛快快地吃，而怎样收拾、怎样摆筵席，他们就不管了。”

“是啊，是啊！”伯爵大声喊道，他抓住儿子的一双手，大声喊道：“你听我说，你落到我手上来了！你立刻驾起双套雪橇，到别祖霍夫那里去走一趟，告诉他，伊利亚·安德烈伊奇派我来向您要些草莓和新鲜菠萝。再也没法向谁弄到这些东西。如果他不在家，就去告诉那几个公爵小姐。你听我说，从那里出来，你就到拉兹古利阿伊去——马车夫伊帕特卡知道怎样走，——你在那里找到茨冈人伊柳什卡，你记得吧，就是那个在奥尔洛夫伯爵家中跳舞的、身穿白色卡萨金服装的人，你把他拖到我这里来。”

“把他和几个茨冈女郎都送到这里来吗？”尼古拉面露微笑，说道。

“嗯，嗯！……”

这时候，安娜·米哈伊洛夫娜脸上流露着她所固有的、作事过分认真、忧虑不安和基督式的温顺的神情，悄悄地走进屋里来。虽然安娜·米哈伊洛夫娜每天碰见伯爵穿着一件长罩衫，但是他每次在她面前都觉得十分腼腆，请她原宥他的衣服不像样子。

“伯爵，没关系，亲爱的，”她温顺地合上眼睛时说，“我到别祖霍夫那里去走一趟，”她说，“年轻的伯爵来了，伯爵，我们现在可以从他的暖房里弄到各种花。我也要见见他。他把鲍里斯的一封信寄给我了。谢天谢地，目前鲍里斯正在司令部里供职哩。”

伯爵很高兴，安娜·米哈伊洛夫娜能承担他的一部分任务，于是他吩咐给她套一辆四轮轿式小马车。

“您告诉别祖霍夫，要他到我这里来。我要把他的名字写在请帖上面。怎么，他跟他老婆一道来吗？”他问道。

安娜·米哈伊洛夫娜翻了翻白眼，脸上露出了深深的悲痛。

“唉，我的亲人，他很不幸啊。”她说，“如果我们听到的是真情实况，这就太骇人了。当我们为他的幸福而感到非常高兴的时候，我们是否想到有这么一天！这样崇高的天使般纯洁的灵魂，年轻的别祖霍夫啊！是的，我由衷地替他惋惜，我要尽可能地赐予他以安慰。”

“是怎么回事？”罗斯托夫父子二人——一老一少，异口同声地问道。

安娜·米哈伊洛夫娜深深地叹一口气。

“玛丽亚·伊万诺夫娜的儿子多洛霍夫，”她用神秘的低声说道，“据说，完全使她声名狼藉。他领他出来，请他到彼得堡家里住下，你看……她到这里来了，这个不顾死活的家伙也跟踪而来，”安娜·米哈伊洛夫娜说，她想同情皮埃尔，但是在她自己意识不到的语调中和那微露笑意的表情中却显示出她所同情的正是她称为“不顾死活的家伙”的多洛霍夫。

“据说，皮埃尔受尽了痛苦的折磨。”

“喂，您还是告诉他，叫他到俱乐部里来，一切都会烟消云散的。宴会是丰盛无比的。”

翌日，三月三日，下午一点多钟，二百五十名英国俱乐部成员和五十位客人正在等候贵宾、奥国远征的英雄巴格拉季翁公爵莅临盛宴。刚刚接到奥斯特利茨战役的消息之后，莫斯科陷入困惑不安的状态。那时俄国人习惯于百战百胜，在获得败北的消息之后，有些人简直不相信，另一些人便在异乎寻常的原因中探求解释这一奇怪事件的根据。在贵族、拥有可靠信息的、有权有势的人士集中的英国俱乐部里，在消息开始传来的十二月份，缄口不谈论战争和迩近的一次战役，好像是众人串通一气心照不宣似的。指导言论的人们，比如：拉斯托普钦伯爵、尤里·弗拉基米罗维奇、多尔戈鲁基公爵、瓦卢耶夫、马尔科夫伯爵、维亚泽姆斯基公爵都不在俱乐部抛头露面，而在自己家中、亲密的小圈子里集会。莫斯科人一味地随声附和（伊利亚·安德烈伊奇·罗斯托夫也属于他们之列），在一段短时间内，缺乏言论的领导者，对于战争尚无明确的见解。莫斯科人都觉得，形势中有点不祥的征兆，评论这些坏消息委实令人难受，所以最好是闭口不说。可是过了一些时日，那帮在俱乐部发表意见的著名人物就像陪审官走出议事厅那样，又出现了，于是话题又很明确了。俄国人已被击溃，这一难以置信的前所未闻的令人不能容忍的重大事件的肇因已被找出了，于是一切真相大白，莫斯科的各个角落开始谈论同样的话题。这些肇因如下：奥国人的背叛、军粮供应的不景气、波兰人普热贝舍夫斯基和法国人朗热隆的变节、库图佑夫的无能、“悄悄谈论“国王因年轻、经验不足而轻信一班卑鄙之徒。但是人人都说，军队，俄国部队很不平凡，创造了英勇的奇迹。士兵、军官、将军都是英雄人物，巴格拉季翁公爵就是英雄中的英雄，他凭藉申格拉本之战和奥斯特利茨撤退二事而名扬天下，他在奥斯特利茨独自一人统率一支井井有序的纵队，而且整天价不断地击退兵力强于一倍的敌人。巴格拉季翁在莫斯科没有交情联系，是个陌生人，而这一点却有助于他被选为莫斯科的英雄。尊敬他，就是尊敬战斗的、普通的、既无交情联系又无阴谋诡计的俄国军人，人们回顾意大利出征时常把他和苏沃洛夫的名字联系在一起。此外，从对他论功行奖、表示敬意一事中可以至为明显地看出库图佐夫的受贬和失宠。

“如果没有巴格拉季蓊，il　faudrait　l'inventer。①”诙谐的申申滑稽地模仿伏尔泰的话说。没有人说过什么关于库图佐夫的事情。有些人轻声地责骂他，说他是个宫廷中的轻浮者和耽于酒色的老家伙。

①法语：那就应当把他虚构出来。

全莫斯科都在反复地传诵多尔戈鲁科夫说过的话：“智者千虑，必有一失”，他从过去胜利的回忆中，为我们的失败寻找慰藉，而且反复地传诵拉斯托普钦说过的话：对法国士兵，宜用高雅的词句去激励他们参与战斗；对德国士兵，要跟他们说明事理，使他们坚信，逃走比向前冲锋更危险；对俄国士兵，只有拦住他们，说一声：“慢点走！”从四面八方传来一桩桩一件件有关我们的官兵在奥斯特利茨战役中作出的英勇模范事迹。有谁保全了军旗，有谁杀死了五个法国人，有谁独自一人给五门大炮装好炮弹。那些不认识贝格的人也在谈论贝格，说他右手负伤了，便用左手紧握军刀冲锋陷阵。谁也没有说一句关于博尔孔斯基的话，只有熟谙他的身世的人才怜悯他，说他死得太早了，留下了怀孕的妻子和脾气古怪的父亲。

CHAPTER III

Chinese

ON THE 3RD OF MARCH all the rooms of the English Club were full of the hum of voices, and the members and guests of the club, in uniforms and frock-coats, some even in powder and Russian kaftans, were standing meeting, parting, and running to and fro like bees swarming in spring. Powdered footmen in livery, wearing slippers and stockings, stood at every door, anxiously trying to follow every movement of the guests and club members, so as to proffer their services. The majority of those present were elderly and respected persons, with broad, self-confident faces, fat fingers, and resolute gestures and voices. Guests and members of this class sat in certain habitual places, and met together in certain habitual circles. A small proportion of those present were casual guests—chiefly young men, among them Denisov, Rostov, and Dolohov, who was now an officer in the Semyonovsky regiment again. The faces of the younger men, especially the officers, wore that expression of condescending deference to their elders which seems to say to the older generation, “Respect and deference we are prepared to give you, but remember all the same the future is for us.” Nesvitsky, an old member of the club, was there too. Pierre, who at his wife's command had let his hair grow and left off spectacles, was walking about the rooms dressed in the height of the fashion, but looking melancholy and depressed. Here, as everywhere, he was surrounded by the atmosphere of people paying homage to his wealth, and he behaved to them with the careless, contemptuous air of sovereignty that had become habitual with him.

In years, he belonged to the younger generation, but by his wealth and connections he was a member of the older circles, and so he passed from one set to the other. The most distinguished of the elder members formed the centres of circles, which even strangers respectfully approached to listen to the words of well-known men. The larger groups were formed round Count Rostoptchin, Valuev, and Naryshkin. Rostoptchin was describing how the Russians had been trampled underfoot by the fleeing Austrians, and had had to force a way with the bayonet through the fugitives. Valuev was confidentially informing his circle that Uvarov had been sent from Petersburg to ascertain the state of opinion in Moscow in regard to Austerlitz.

In the third group Naryshkin was repeating the tale of the meeting of the Austrian council of war, at which, in reply to the stupidity of the Austrian general, Suvorov crowed like a cock. Shinshin, who stood near, tried to make a joke, saying that Kutuzov, it seemed, had not even been able to learn from Suvorov that not very difficult art of crowing like a cock—but the elder club members looked sternly at the wit, giving him thereby to understand that even such a reference to Kutuzov was out of place on that day.

Count Ilya Andreitch Rostov kept anxiously hurrying in his soft boots to and fro from the dining-room to the drawing-room, giving hasty greetings to important and unimportant persons, all of whom he knew, and all of whom he treated alike, on an equal footing. Now and then his eyes sought out the graceful, dashing figure of his young son, rested gleefully on him, and winked to him. Young Rostov was standing at the window with Dolohov, whose acquaintance he had lately made, and greatly prized. The old count went up to them, and shook hands with Dolohov.

“I beg you will come and see us; so you're a friend of my youngster's … been together, playing the hero together out there.… Ah! Vassily Ignatitch … a good day to you, old man,” he turned to an old gentleman who had just come in, but before he had time to finish his greetings to him there was a general stir, and a footman running in with an alarmed countenance, announced: “He had arrived!”

Bells rang; the stewards rushed forward; the guests, scattered about the different rooms, gathered together in one mass, like rye shaken together in a shovel, and waited at the door of the great drawing-room.

At the door of the ante-room appeared the figure of Bagration, without his hat or sword, which, in accordance with the club custom, he had left with the hall porter. He was not wearing an Astrachan cap, and had not a riding-whip over his shoulder, as Rostov had seen him on the night before the battle of Austerlitz, but wore a tight new uniform with Russian and foreign orders and the star of St. George on the left side of his chest. He had, obviously with a view to the banquet, just had his hair cut and his whiskers clipped, which changed his appearance for the worse. He had a sort of naïvely festive air, which, in conjunction with his determined, manly features, gave an expression positively rather comic to his face. Bekleshov and Fyodor Petrovitch Uvarov, who had come with him, stood still in the doorway trying to make him, as the guest of most importance, precede them. Bagration was embarrassed, and unwilling to avail himself of their courtesy; there was a hitch in the proceedings at the door, but finally Bagration did, after all, enter first. He walked shyly and awkwardly over the parquet of the reception-room, not knowing what to do with his hands. He would have been more at home and at his ease walking over a ploughed field under fire, as he had walked at the head of the Kursk regiment at Schöngraben. The stewards met him at the first door, and saying a few words of their pleasure at seeing such an honoured guest, they surrounded him without waiting for an answer, and, as it were, taking possession of him, led him off to the drawing-room. There was no possibility of getting in at the drawing-room door from the crowds of members and guests, who were crushing one another in their efforts to get a look over each other's shoulders at Bagration, as if he were some rare sort of beast. Count Ilya Andreitch laughed more vigorously than any one, and continually repeating, “Make way for him, my dear boy, make way, make way,” shoved the crowd aside, led the guests into the drawing-room, and seated them on the sofa in the middle of it. The great men, and the more honoured members of the club, surrounded the newly arrived guests. Count Ilya Andreitch, shoving his way again through the crowd, went out of the drawing-room, and reappeared a minute later with another steward carrying a great silver dish, which he held out to Prince Bagration. On the dish lay a poem, composed and printed in the hero's honour. Bagration, on seeing the dish, looked about him in dismay, as though seeking assistance. But in all eyes he saw the expectation that he would submit. Feeling himself in their power, Bagration resolutely took the dish in both hands, and looked angrily and reproachfully at the count, who had brought it. Some one officiously took the dish from Bagration (or he would, it seemed, have held it so till nightfall, and have carried it with him to the table), and drew his attention to the poem. “Well, I'll read it then,” Bagration seemed to say, and fixing his weary eyes on the paper, he began reading it with a serious and concentrated expression. The author of the verses took them, and began to read them aloud himself. Prince Bagration bowed his head and listened.

“Be thou the pride of Alexander's reign!

And save for us our Titus on the throne!

Be thou our champion and our country's stay!

A noble heart, a Caesar in the fray!

Napoleon in the zenith of his fame

Learns to his cost to fear Bagration's name,

Nor dares provoke a Russian foe again,” etc. etc.

But he had not finished the poem, when the butler boomed out sonorously: “Dinner is ready!” The door opened, from the dining-room thundered the strains of the Polonaise: “Raise the shout of victory, valiant Russian, festive sing,” and Count Ilya Andreitch, looking angrily at the author, who still went on reading his verses, bowed to Bagration as a signal to go in. All the company rose, feeling the dinner of more importance than the poem, and Bagration, again preceding all the rest, went in to dinner. In the place of honour between two Alexanders— Bekleshov and Naryshkin—(this, too, was intentional, in allusion to the name of the Tsar) they put Bagration: three hundred persons were ranged about the tables according to their rank and importance, those of greater consequence, nearer to the distinguished guest—as naturally as water flows to find its own level.

Just before dinner, Count Ilya Andreitch presented his son to the prince. Bagration recognised him, and uttered a few words, awkward and incoherent, as were indeed all he spoke that day. Count Ilya Andreitch looked about at every one in gleeful pride while Bagration was speaking to his son.

Nikolay Rostov, with Denisov and his new acquaintance Dolohov, sat together almost in the middle of the table. Facing them sat Pierre with Prince Nesvitsky. Count Ilya Andreitch was sitting with the other stewards facing Bagration, and, the very impersonation of Moscow hospitality, did his utmost to regale the prince.

His labours had not been in vain. All the banquet—the meat dishes and the Lenten fare alike—was sumptuous, but still he could not be perfectly at ease till the end of dinner. He made signs to the carver, gave whispered directions to the footmen, and not without emotion awaited the arrival of each anticipated dish. Everything was capital. At the second course, with the gigantic sturgeon (at the sight of which Ilya Andreitch flushed with shamefaced delight), the footman began popping corks and pouring out champagne. After the fish, which made a certain sensation, Count Ilya Andreitch exchanged glances with the other stewards. “There will be a great many toasts, it's time to begin!” he whispered, and, glass in hand, he got up. All were silent, waiting for what he would say.

“To the health of our sovereign, the Emperor!” he shouted, and at the moment his kindly eyes grew moist with tears of pleasure and enthusiasm. At that instant they began playing: “Raise the shout of victory!” All rose from their seats and shouted “Hurrah!” And Bagration shouted “Hurrah!” in the same voice in which he had shouted it in the field at Schöngraben. The enthusiastic voice of young Rostov could be heard above the three hundred other voices. He was on the very point of tears. “The health of our sovereign, the Emperor,” he roared, “hurrah!” Emptying his glass at one gulp, he flung it on the floor. Many followed his example. And the loud shouts lasted for a long while. When the uproar subsided, the footmen cleared away the broken glass, and all began settling themselves again; and smiling at the noise they had made, began talking. Count Ilya Andreitch rose once more, glanced at a note that lay beside his plate, and proposed a toast to the health of the hero of our last campaign, Prince Pyotr Ivanovitch Bagration, and again the count's blue eyes were dimmed with tears. “Hurrah!” was shouted again by the three hundred voices of the guests, and instead of music this time a chorus of singers began to sing a cantata composed by Pavel Ivanovitch Kutuzov:

“No hindrance bars a Russian's way,

Valour's the pledge of victory,

We have our Bagrations.

Our foes will all be at our feet,” etc. etc.

As soon as the singers had finished, more and more toasts followed, at which Count Ilya Andreitch became more and more moved, and more glass was broken and even more uproar was made. They drank to the health of Bekleshov, of Naryshkin, of Uvarov, of Dolgorukov, of Apraxin, of Valuev, to the health of the stewards, to the health of the committee, to the health of all the club members, to the health of all the guests of the club, and finally and separately to the health of the organiser of the banquet, Count Ilya Andreitch. At that toast the count took out his handkerchief and, hiding his face in it, fairly broke down.

第三章

英文

三月三日，英国俱乐部的各个厅中都听见一片嘈杂声，俱乐部的成员和客人们穿着制服、燕尾服，有些人穿着束有腰带的长衫，假发上扑了香粉，就像一群在春季迁徙时节纷飞的蜜蜂似的往来穿梭，一会儿坐着或站着，一会儿集合或散开。假发上扑有香粉的仆人，都穿着仆役制服、长袜和矮靿皮鞋，伫立在每一道门旁，很紧张地注意观察俱乐部的客人和成员的每个动作，以便上前侍候。出席者之中多数是年高望重的人士，他们都长着宽宽的充满自信的面孔、粗大的手指，脚步稳健，嗓音清晰。这一类来客和俱乐部的成员坐在他们习惯坐的某个位子上，他们在惯常团聚的某些小组中碰头。出席者之中有一小部分是由偶然来的客人组合而成的——主要是年轻人，其中包括杰尼索夫、罗斯托夫和多洛霍夫，多洛霍夫又当上谢苗诺夫兵团的军官了。在青年人、特别是青年军人脸上都流露着轻视而又尊重老人的表情，它仿佛在告诉老前辈：“我们愿意尊敬你们，但是你们要记住，未来毕竟是属于我们的。”

涅斯维茨基是俱乐部的老成员，他也待在这个地方。皮埃尔遵照妻子的吩咐，蓄一头长发，摘下了眼镜，穿着得合乎时尚，但是他却流露着忧郁而沮丧的神色，在几个大厅里踱来踱去。他在到处都是那个样子，凡是崇拜他的财富的人都把他围住，他于是摆出一副习以为常的作威作福的姿态，带着漫不经心的蔑视的表情对待他们。

论年龄，他应该和年轻人在一起，论个人财富和人情关系，他却是年高望重的客人们的几个小组的成员，因此他经常在这个小组和那个小组之间来来往往。最有威望的客人们中的老年人成为这几个小组的中心人物，甚至陌生的客人也毕恭毕敬地与他们接近，以便听取知名人士的发言。几个较大的小组安插在拉斯托普钦伯爵、瓦卢耶夫和纳雷什金的左近。拉斯托普钦谈到俄国官兵遭受逃跑的奥国官兵的践踏，溃不成军，不得不用刺刀穿过逃跑的人群给自己开辟一条道路。

瓦卢耶夫机密地谈到，乌瓦罗夫由彼得堡派来了解莫斯科人对奥斯特利茨战役的意见。

纳雷什金在第三组中谈到苏沃洛夫曾在奥国军委会会议中像公鸡似的发出尖叫声，用以回答奥国将军们说的蠢话。这时分申申站在这里，想开开玩笑，他说，看来库图佐夫没法学到苏沃洛夫这套简易的本领——像公鸡似的发出尖叫声；但是老人们严肃地看看这个爱戏谑的人，让他感觉到今天在这儿谈论库图佐夫是不体面的。

伊利亚·安德烈伊奇·罗斯托夫伯爵忧虑不安，他穿着一双软底皮靴仓促地从餐厅慢慢走进客厅，又从客厅慢慢走回来，神色慌张，和他全都认识的达官显要、地位低微的人物一视同仁地打着招呼，有时用目光搜寻身材匀称的英姿勃勃的儿子，兴高采烈地把那目光停留在他身上，向他使个眼色。年轻的罗斯托夫和多洛霍夫都站在窗口，他在不久前结识了多洛霍夫并很珍视他们的交情。老伯爵走到他们面前，握了握多洛霍夫的手。

“请光临，你跟我的棒小子交上朋友了……你们在那儿并肩作战，共同建立英雄功绩……啊！瓦西里·伊格纳季奇……，老伙计，您好，”他把脸转向从一旁走过的小老头，说道，但是他还来不及寒暄完毕，周围的一切就动弹起来，一个跑来的仆人面露惊恐的表情，他面禀：“贵宾已光临！”

铃响了，几个领导者冲上前来，分布在各个房里的客人，就像用木锹扬开的黑麦似的，聚集成一堆，在大客厅前的舞厅门旁停步了。

巴格拉季翁在接待室门口出现了，他没有戴上军帽，也没有佩带单刀，按照俱乐部的惯例，他把这些东西存放在阍者那里了。他没有戴羔皮军帽，肩上也没有挎着马鞭，有像罗斯托夫在奥斯特利茨战役前夜看见他时那个样子，而是身穿一件紧身的新军服，佩戴有俄国以及外国的各种勋章，左胸前戴着圣乔治金星勋章。看来他在午宴之前剪了头发，剃了连鬓胡子，这使他的脸型变得难看了。他脸上流露着某种童稚而欢愉的表情，加上他那刚勇而坚定的特征，甚至于给人造成有几分滑稽可爱的印象。和他同路前来的别克列绍夫和费奥多尔·彼得罗维奇·乌瓦罗夫都在门口停步了，想让他这位主要来宾在他们前面走。巴格拉季翁慌里慌张，他不想心领他们的敬意，停在门口，最后巴格拉季翁还是走到前面去了。他在招待室的镶木地板上走着，他感到腼腆，不灵活，真不知道把手放在何处才好。申格拉本战役中，他在库尔斯克兵团前面，置身于枪林弹雨之下，沿着耕过的麦田行走时，他心里反而觉得更习惯，更轻快。几个领导骨干在第一道门口迎迓，向他道出了几句欢迎贵宾的话，不等他回答，仿佛吸引了他的注意力，把他围在中间，领他进客厅。俱乐部的成员和客人把那客厅门口拉得水泄不通，你推我撞，力图超过他人的肩头把巴格拉季翁这头稀奇的野兽打量一番。伊利亚·安德烈伊奇伯爵精力至为充沛，他含笑着说：“亲爱的，让路，让路，让路！”推开一群人，把客人们领进客厅，请他们在中间的长沙发上入座。知名人士，最受尊重的俱乐部的成员们，又把来宾围在自己中间。伊利亚·安德烈伊奇伯爵又从人群中挤过去，步出客厅，俄而，他又和另一名理事走来，手里托着一只大银盘，端到巴格拉季翁公爵面前。银盘中摆着一首为欢迎英雄而编印的诗。巴格拉季翁看了银盘，便惊惶不安地东张西望，仿佛在寻求援救似的。但是众人的眼神都要求他听从他们的意见。巴格拉季翁觉得自己已经遭受众人的控制，他于是断然地将那银盘捧在手中，他用气忿的责备的目光望了望端来银盘的伯爵。有个人怀有奉承的心情拿走巴格拉季翁手里的银盘（要不然，他好像就要这样不停地端到晚上，并且端着银盘上餐桌），这个人请他注意那首诗。“喏，让我来朗诵，”巴格拉季翁好像说了这句话，他于是把那疲倦的目光集中在一张纸上，他装出聚精会神的严肃认真的样子朗诵起来。但是这首诗的作者把诗拿在手中，开始亲自朗诵。巴格拉季翁公爵低下头来，倾听着。

歌颂亚历山大的时代！

捍卫我们的泰塔斯皇上。

祝愿他成为威严可畏的领袖和仁者，

祖国的里费，战场的凯撒！

侥幸的拿破仑

叫他尝尝

巴格拉季翁的拳头，

再不敢刁难俄国人……

但是他还没有念完这首诗，那个嗓音洪亮的管家便宣告：“菜肴已经做好了！”房门敞开了，餐厅里响起了波洛涅兹舞曲：“胜利的霹雳轰鸣，勇敢的俄罗斯人尽情地欢腾”，伊利亚·安德烈伊奇伯爵气忿地望望那个继续朗诵诗篇的作者，并向巴格拉季翁鞠躬行礼。众人起立，心里觉得酒会总比诗更重要，于是巴格拉季翁又站在众人前面向餐桌走去。众人请巴格拉季翁在二位名叫亚历山大的客人——别克列绍夫和纳雷什金之间的首席入座；与国王同名，其用意实与圣讳有关，三百人均按官阶和职位高低在餐厅里入座，客人中间谁的职位愈高谁就离那备受殷勤款待的贵宾愈近，正如水向深处、向低处流一样，是理所当然的事。

酒宴之前，伊利亚·安德烈伊奇伯爵向公爵介绍了他的儿子。巴格拉季翁在认出他之后，说了几句如同他今日所说的不连贯的表达不恰当的话。伊利亚·安德烈伊奇伯爵正当巴格拉季翁跟他儿子谈话时，他把那欣喜而矜持的目光朝着大家环视一番。

尼古拉·罗斯托夫和杰尼索夫以及一位新相识多洛霍夫一起差不多坐在餐桌正中间。皮埃尔和涅斯维茨基公爵，并排坐在他们对面。伊利亚·安德烈伊奇伯爵和其他几个领导骨干坐在巴格拉季翁对面，因而表现了莫斯科殷勤好客、亲热款待公爵的热忱。

他的劳动并没有白费。他所备办的肴馔，素菜和荤菜全都味美，十分可取，但在酒会结束之前，他依旧不能十分平静。他不时地向餐厅的侍者使眼色，轻声地吩咐仆人，他以不无激动心情，等待他所熟悉的每一道菜。全部菜肴都精美可口。在端出第二道菜——大鲟鱼拼盘时，伊利亚·安德烈伊奇看见鲟鱼，欢喜而又腼腆得面红耳赤，仆人开始砰砰地打开瓶塞，在斟香槟酒了。伊利亚·安德烈伊奇伯爵和其他几个理事互使眼色，“还要喝很多杯哩，应该开始了！”他轻声地说了一句什么话，便捧起高脚酒杯，站立起来。众人都沉默不言，等待他说话。

“祝愿国王健康长寿！”他高呼一声，就在这一瞬间，他那双和善的眼睛被狂喜与异常兴奋的泪水润湿了。就在此时奏起了乐曲：“胜利的霹雳轰鸣”。众人都从位子上站立起来，高呼“乌拉！”巴格拉季翁就像他在申格拉本战场上呐喊时那样高呼“乌拉！”从三百客人的呼声中传来年轻的罗斯托夫的热情洋溢的欢呼声。他几乎要哭出声来。“祝愿国王健康长寿！”他高声喊道。“乌拉！”他一口气喝干一杯酒，把杯子掷在地板上。很多人仿效他的榜样。一片嘹亮的欢呼声持续了很久。呼声一停息，仆人就拣起打碎的杯子，众人都各自入座，对他们自己的欢呼报以微笑，彼此间攀谈起来。伊利亚·安德烈伊奇伯爵又站立起来，瞧了瞧搁在他餐盘旁边的纸条，他为祝愿我们最后一次战役的英雄彼得·伊万诺维奇·巴格拉季翁的健康而举杯，伯爵那双蓝色的眼睛又被泪水润湿了。三百位客人又在高呼“乌拉！”，这时可以听见的不是音乐，而是歌手们吟唱的、由帕维尔·伊万诺维奇·库图佐夫撰写的大合唱。

俄罗斯人不可阻挡，

勇敢乃是胜利的保证，

而我们拥有无数位巴格拉季翁，

一切敌人将在我们脚下跪倒。

……

歌手们刚刚吟唱完毕，人们就接着一次又一次地举杯祝酒，此时伊利亚·安德烈伊奇伯爵越来越受感动，越来越多的酒樽被打碎了，欢呼声也越来越响亮。人们为别克列绍夫、纳雷什金、乌瓦罗夫、多尔戈鲁科夫、阿普拉克辛、瓦卢耶夫的健康，为理事们的健康、为管事人的健康，为俱乐部全体成员的健康、为俱乐部的列位来宾的健康干杯，末了，单独为宴会筹办人伊利亚·安德烈伊奇伯爵的健康干杯。在举杯时，伯爵取出手帕，捂住脸，放声大哭起来。

CHAPTER IV

Chinese

PIERRE was sitting opposite Dolohov and Nikolay Rostov. He ate greedily and drank heavily, as he always did. But those who knew him slightly could see that some great change was taking place in him that day. He was silent all through dinner, and blinking and screwing up his eyes, looked about him, or letting his eyes rest on something with an air of complete absent-mindedness, rubbed the bridge of his nose with his finger. His face was depressed and gloomy. He seemed not to be seeing or hearing what was passing about him and to be thinking of some one thing, something painful and unsettled.

This unsettled question that worried him was due to the hints dropped by the princess, his cousin, at Moscow in regard to Dolohov's close intimacy with his wife, and to an anonymous letter he had received that morning, which, with the vile jocoseness peculiar to all anonymous letters, had said that he didn't seem to see clearly through his spectacles, and that his wife's connection with Dolohov was a secret from no one but himself. Pierre did not absolutely believe either the princess's hints, or the anonymous letter, but he was afraid now to look at Dolohov, who sat opposite him. Every time his glance casually met Dolohov's handsome, insolent eyes, Pierre felt as though something awful, hideous was rising up in his soul, and he made haste to turn away. Involuntarily recalling all his wife's past and her attitude to Dolohov, Pierre saw clearly that what was said in the letter might well be true, might at least appear to be the truth, if only it had not related to his wife. Pierre could not help recalling how Dolohov, who had been completely reinstated, had returned to Petersburg and come to see him. Dolohov had taken advantage of his friendly relations with Pierre in their old rowdy days, had come straight to his house, and Pierre had established him in it and lent him money. Pierre recalled how Ellen, smiling, had expressed her dissatisfaction at Dolohov's staying in their house, and how cynically Dolohov had praised his wife's beauty to him, and how he had never since left them up to the time of their coming to Moscow.

“Yes, he is very handsome,” thought Pierre, “and I know him. There would be a particular charm for him in disgracing my name and turning me into ridicule, just because I have exerted myself in his behalf, have befriended him and helped him. I know, I understand what zest that would be sure to give to his betrayal of me, if it were true. Yes, if it were true, but I don't believe it. I have no right to and I can't believe it.” He recalled the expression on Dolohov's face in his moments of cruelty, such as when he was tying the police officer on to the bear and dropping him into the water, or when he had utterly without provocation challenged a man to a duel or killed a sledge-driver's horse with a shot from his pistol. That expression often came into Dolohov's face when he was looking at him. “Yes, he's a duelling bully,” thought Pierre; “to him it means nothing to kill a man, it must seem to him that every one's afraid of him. He must like it. He must think I am afraid of him. And, in fact, I really am afraid of him,” Pierre mused; and again at these thoughts he felt as though something terrible and hideous were rising up in his soul. Dolohov, Denisov, and Rostov were sitting facing Pierre and seemed to be greatly enjoying themselves. Rostov talked away merrily to his two friends, of whom one was a dashing hussar, the other a notorious duellist and scapegrace, and now and then cast ironical glances at Pierre, whose appearance at the dinner was a striking one, with his preoccupied, absent-minded, massive figure. Rostov looked with disfavour upon Pierre. In the first place, because Pierre, in the eyes of the smart hussar, was a rich civilian, and husband of a beauty, was altogether, in fact, an old woman. And secondly, because Pierre in his preoccupation and absent-mindedness had not recognised Rostov and had failed to respond to his bow. When they got up to drink the health of the Tsar, Pierre, plunged in thought, did not rise nor take up his glass.

“What are you about?” Rostov shouted to him, looking at him with enthusiastic and exasperated eyes. “Don't you hear: the health of our sovereign the Emperor!”

Pierre with a sigh obeyed, got up, emptied his glass, and waiting till all were seated again, he turned with his kindly smile to Rostov. “Why, I didn't recognise you,” he said. But Rostov had no thoughts for him, he was shouting “Hurrah!”

“Why don't you renew the acquaintance?” said Dolohov to Rostov.

“Oh, bother him, he's a fool,” said Rostov.

“One has to be sweet to the husbands of pretty women,” said Denisov. Pierre did not hear what they were saying, but he knew they were talking of him. He flushed and turned away. “Well, now to the health of pretty women,” said Dolohov, and with a serious expression, though a smile lurked in the corners of his mouth, he turned to Pierre.

“To the health of pretty women, Petrusha, and their lovers too,” he said.

Pierre, with downcast eyes, sipped his glass, without looking at Dolohov or answering him. The footman, distributing copies of Kutuzov's cantata, laid a copy by Pierre, as one of the more honoured guests. He would have taken it, but Dolohov bent forward, snatched the paper out of his hands and began reading it. Pierre glanced at Dolohov, and his eyes dropped; something terrible and hideous, that had been torturing him all through the dinner, rose up and took possession of him. He bent the whole of his ungainly person across the table. “Don't you dare to take it!” he shouted.

Hearing that shout and seeing to whom it was addressed, Nesvitsky and his neighbour on the right side turned in haste and alarm to Bezuhov.

“Hush, hush, what are you about?” whispered panic-stricken voices. Dolohov looked at Pierre with his clear, mirthful, cruel eyes, still with the same smile, as though he were saying: “Come now, this is what I like.”

“I won't give it up,” he said distinctly.

Pale and with quivering lips, Pierre snatched the copy.

“You…you…blackguard!…I challenge you,” he said, and moving back his chair, he got up from the table. At the second Pierre did this and uttered these words he felt that the question of his wife's guilt, that had been torturing him for the last four and twenty hours, was finally and incontestably answered in the affirmative. He hated her and was severed from her for ever. In spite of Denisov's entreaties that Rostov would have nothing to do with the affair, Rostov agreed to be Dolohov's second, and after dinner he discussed with Nesvitsky, Bezuhov's second, the arrangements for the duel. Pierre had gone home, but Rostov with Dolohov and Denisov stayed on at the club listening to the gypsies and the singers till late in the evening.

“So good-bye till to-morrow, at Sokolniky,” said Dolohov, as he parted from Rostov at the club steps.

“And do you feel quite calm?” asked Rostov.

Dolohov stopped.

“Well, do you see, in a couple of words I'll let you into the whole secret of duelling. If, when you go to a duel, you make your will and write long letters to your parents, if you think that you may be killed, you're a fool and certain to be done for. But go with the firm intention of killing your man, as quickly and as surely as may be, then everything will be all right. As our bear-killer from Kostroma used to say to me: ‘A bear,' he'd say, ‘why, who's not afraid of one? but come to see one and your fear's all gone, all you hope is he won't get away!' Well, that's just how I feel. A demain, mon cher.”

Next day at eight o'clock in the morning, Pierre and Nesvitsky reached the Sokolniky copse, and found Dolohov, Denisov, and Rostov already there. Pierre had the air of a man absorbed in reflections in no way connected with the matter in hand. His face looked hollow and yellow. He had not slept all night. He looked about him absent-mindedly, and screwed up his eyes, as though in glaring sunshine. He was exclusively absorbed by two considerations: the guilt of his wife, of which after a sleepless night he had not a vestige of doubt, and the guiltlessness of Dolohov, who was in no way bound to guard the honour of a man, who was nothing to him. “Maybe I should have done the same in his place,” thought Pierre. “For certain, indeed, I should have done the same; then why this duel, this murder? Either I shall kill him, or he will shoot me in the head, in the elbow, or the knee. To get away from here, to run, to bury myself somewhere,” was the longing that came into his mind. But precisely at the moments when such ideas were in his mind, he would turn with a peculiarly calm and unconcerned face, which inspired respect in the seconds looking at him, and ask: “Will it be soon?” or “Aren't we ready?”

When everything was ready, the swords stuck in the snow to mark the barrier, and the pistols loaded, Nesvitsky went up to Pierre.

“I should not be doing my duty, count,” he said in a timid voice, “nor justifying the confidence and the honour you have done me in choosing me for your second, if at this grave moment, this very grave moment, I did not speak the whole truth to you. I consider that the quarrel has not sufficient grounds and is not worth shedding blood over.… You were not right, not quite in the right; you lost your temper.…”

“Oh, yes, it was awfully stupid,” said Pierre.

“Then allow me to express your regret, and I am convinced that our opponents will agree to accept your apology,” said Nesvitsky (who, like the others assisting in the affair, and every one at such affairs, was unable to believe that the quarrel would come to an actual duel). “You know, count, it is far nobler to acknowledge one's mistake than to push things to the irrevocable. There was no great offence on either side. Permit me to convey…”

“No, what are you talking about?” said Pierre; “it doesn't matter.… Ready then?” he added. “Only tell me how and where I am to go, and what to shoot at?” he said with a smile unnaturally gentle. He took up a pistol, and began inquiring how to let it off, as he had never had a pistol in his hand before, a fact he did not care to confess. “Oh, yes, of course, I know, I had only forgotten,” he said.

“No apologies, absolutely nothing,” Dolohov was saying to Denisov, who for his part was also making an attempt at reconciliation, and he too went up to the appointed spot.

The place chosen for the duel was some eighty paces from the road, on which their sledges had been left, in a small clearing in the pine wood, covered with snow that had thawed in the warmer weather of the last few days. The antagonists stood forty paces from each other at the further edge of the clearing. The seconds, in measuring the paces, left tracks in the deep, wet snow from the spot where they had been standing to the swords of Nesvitsky and Denisov, which had been thrust in the ground ten paces from one another to mark the barrier. The thaw and mist persisted; forty paces away nothing could be seen. In three minutes everything was ready, but still they delayed beginning. Every one was silent.