第二十一章

英文

俄军从夜间两点到次日下午两点穿过莫斯科，尾随其后的是最后撤离的居民和伤兵。

行军时，在石桥、在莫斯科河桥和雅乌兹河桥上，发生了异常拥挤的现象。

在军队分两路绕过克里姆林宫，聚集到莫斯科河桥和石桥上时，大量士兵趁那短暂停留、互相拥挤的机会，从桥头折回，偷偷摸摸地窜过瓦西里·布拉任内教堂，经博罗维茨基城门回到红场附近的小山上。他们凭着某种感觉，觉得在那里可以轻而易举地拿走别人的东西。这一群家伙，像买便宜货一样，挤满了商场内的大小各条通道。但已听不到店员甜言蜜语劝购的声音，看不到小贩和五颜六色的女顾客——只有士兵的制服和大衣在晃动，士兵们没带武器，空手进去，默默地走出来时全身已鼓鼓囊囊。商人和掌柜（人不太多）像丢了魂似的在士兵中穿行，打开店铺，进去再拴上门，然后同伙计一道把货物搬往别处。商场附近的广场上站着军鼓队，在敲集合鼓。但是鼓声并不能使抢劫的士兵像从前那样跑步集合，他们反而跑得离军鼓更远了。在士兵中间，在店铺里外和过道上，看得见一些穿灰长褂、剃光头的人①。两名军官，一个制服上扎了腰带，骑一匹灰黑的瘦马，另一个穿大衣徒步，站在伊利英卡街拐角上交谈。第三名军官骑马向他们走来。

①指从监狱释放出来的囚犯。

“将军下令无论如何得立即把他们赶出来。这算什么，太不成体统！一半人跑散了。”

“你去哪儿？……你们去哪儿？……”他朝三名步兵大声问，这三人没带武器，提着大衣下摆，正经过这里往市场溜。

“站住，混蛋！”

“能让他们集合吗？”另一个军官答话。“你集合不起来的；

得快点走，免得剩下的人再跑，只能这样！”

“怎样走呢？——都停在那里，挤在桥上一动不动的。要末布置一条封锁线阻止剩下的人逃跑，好吗？”

“行啦，快往那边去！把他们赶出来。”上级军官吼叫着。

扎腰带的军官翻身下马，叫来一个鼓手，同他一起走进商场拱门。几个士兵撒腿一齐跑掉了。一个鼻子周围发生了一圈红包丘疹的商人，富态的脸上现着镇定的精明的神气，急忙而潇洒地晃着胳膊来到军官面前。

“大人，”他说，“行行善吧，保护我们吧。这儿无论什么东西我们都不当一回事，我们乐意奉送。请吧，我现在就抱呢料出来。对您这样高贵的人物，就是送两匹也成，悉叫尊便！因为我们觉得，怎么说呢，简直是抢劫！劳驾了！能不能派个岗哨让我们关上门……”

几个商人这时围拢了过来。

“唉！还瞎扯哩，”其中一个瘦个子板着脸说。“脑袋都掉了，还哭头发。爱拿就拿呗！”他使劲一挥手，转身朝向军官。

“你，伊万·西多内奇，倒真会说，”刚才那位商人生气地插话，“您请吧，大人。”

“还说啥呢！”瘦个儿叫了起来，“我有三间铺子，十万卢布的货物。难道军队开走了你还保得住。唉，人哪，上帝的旨意是不可违抗的。”

“请进吧，大人，”刚才那个商人鞠着躬说。军官困惑地站着，脸止现出迟疑不决的神态。

“这与我无关！”他突然大声地说，顺着店铺快步走开。在一间开着的铺子里，传出斗殴和相骂的声音，当军官走到时，门里跳出一个被推搡出来的人（他穿着一件灰长褂，剃光了头）。

这个人弯着腰从商人和军官身旁溜走了。军官冲向这间店铺里的士兵。这时，传来莫斯科河桥上人堆里的恐怖的喊叫声，军官立即跑出商场，到了广场上。

“怎么回事？怎么回事？”他问，但他的同伴已策马朝喊声方向去了，他走过瓦西里·布拉任内教堂。从商场跑出的军官骑上马也跟着去了。当他骑马跑到桥边，看到两尊卸下前车架的大炮，正走上桥去的步兵，几辆翻倒的大车，看到几张惊慌的面孔，以及喜笑颜开的士兵们的面孔，大炮旁停着一辆双套车。这辆车的车轮后面，蜷缩着四只戴项圈的猎犬。车上的东西堆积如山，最上面。靠着一把倒置的童椅，坐着一位农妇，在刺耳地绝望地尖叫，同志们对军官说，人群的吼声和农妇的尖叫，是由于叶尔莫洛夫将军碰上这群人后，得知士兵们跑到商店去了，成群的百姓堵塞了大桥，他便命令把大炮从前车架卸下，做出将要向桥上开炮的样子。人群碰翻车辆，大声叫喊，拥挤着疏通了大桥，军队方才向前开动。

CHAPTER XXII

Chinese

THE TOWN ITSELF meanwhile was deserted. There was scarcely a creature in the streets. The gates and the shops were all closed; here and there near pot-houses could be heard solitary shouts or drunken singing. No one was driving in the streets, and footsteps were rarely heard. Povarsky Street was perfectly still and deserted. In the immense courtyard of the Rostovs' house a few wisps of straw were lying about, litter out of the waggons that had gone away, and not a man was to be seen. In the Rostovs' house—abandoned with all its wealth—there were two persons in the great drawing-room. These were the porter, Ignat, and the little page, Mishka, the grandson of Vassilitch, who had remained in Moscow with his grandfather. Mishka had opened the clavichord, and was strumming with one finger. The porter, with his arms akimbo and a gleeful smile on his face, was standing before the great looking-glass.

“That's fine, eh, Uncle Ignat?” said the boy, beginning to bang with both hands at once on the keys.

“Ay, ay!” answered Ignat, admiring the broadening grin on his visage in the glass.

“Shameless fellows! Shameless, upon my word!” they heard behind them the voice of Mavra Kuzminishna, who had softly entered. “The fat-faced fellow grinning at himself! So this is what you are at! It's not all cleared away down there, and Vassilitch fairly knocked up. You wait a bit!”

Ignat, setting his belt straight, left off smiling, and with eyes submissively downcast, walked out of the room.

“Auntie, I was only just touching …” said the boy.

“I'll teach you only just to touch. Little rascal!” cried Mavra Kuzminishna, waving her hand at him. “Go and set the samovar for your granddad.”

Brushing the dust off, she closed the clavichord, and sighing heavily went out of the drawing-room and closed the door. Going out into the yard Mavra Kuzminishna mused where she would go next: whether to drink tea in the lodge with Vassilitch, or to the storeroom to put away what still remained to be stored away.

There was a sound of rapid footsteps in the still street. The steps paused at the gate, the latch rattled as some hand tried to open it.

Mavra Kuzminishna went up to the little gate.

“Whom do you want?”

“The count, Count Ilya Andreitch Rostov.”

“But who are you?”

“I am an officer. I want to see him,” said a genial voice, the voice of a Russian gentleman.

Mavra Kuzminishna opened the gate. And there walked into the courtyard a round-faced officer, a lad of eighteen, whose type of face strikingly resembled the Rostovs'.

“They have gone away, sir. Yesterday, in the evening, their honours set off,” said Mavra Kuzminishna cordially. The young officer standing in the gateway, as though hesitating whether to go in or not, gave a click with his tongue expressive of disappointment.

“Ah, how annoying!” he said. “Yesterday I ought to … Ah, what a pity …”

Meanwhile Mavra Kuzminishna was intently and sympathetically scrutinising the familiar features of the Rostov family in the young man's face, and the tattered cloak and trodden-down boots he was wearing. “What was it you wanted to see the count for?” she asked.

“Well … what am I to do now!” the officer cried, with vexation in his voice, and he took hold of the gate as though intending to go away. He stopped short again in uncertainty.

“You see,” he said all at once, “I am a kinsman of the count's, and he has always been very kind to me. So do you see” (he looked with a merry and good-humoured smile at his cloak and boots) “I am in rags, and haven't a farthing; so I had meant to ask the count …”

Mavra Kuzminishna did not let him finish.

“Would you wait just a minute, sir? Only one minute,” she said. And as soon as the officer let go of the gate, Mavra Kuzminishna turned, and with her rapid, elderly step hurried into the back court to her lodge.

While she was running to her room, the officer, with downcast head and a faint smile, was pacing up and down the yard, gazing at his tattered boots.

“What a pity I have missed uncle! What a nice old body! Where has she run off to? And how am I to find out the nearest way for me to overtake the regiment, which must be at Rogozhsky by now?” the young officer was musing meanwhile. Mavra Kuzminishna came round the corner with a frightened and, at the same time, resolute face, carrying in her hands a knotted check handkerchief. A few steps from him, she untied the handkerchief, took out of it a white twenty-five rouble note, and gave it hurriedly to the officer.

“Had his excellency been at home, to be sure, he would have done a kinsman's part, but as it is … see, may be …” Mavra Kuzminishna was overcome with shyness and confusion. But the officer, with no haste nor reluctance, took the note, and thanked Mavra Kuzminishna. “If only the count had been at home,” murmured Mavra Kuzminishna, as it were apologetically. “Christ be with you, sir. God keep you safe,” she said, bowing and showing him out. The officer, smiling and shaking his head, as though laughing at himself, ran almost at a trot along the empty streets to overtake his regiment at Yauzsky bridge.

But for some time Mavra Kuzminishna remained standing with wet eyes before the closed gate, pensively shaking her head, and feeling a sudden rush of motherly tenderness and pity for the unknown boy-officer.

第二十二章

英文

城内此时是空旷寂寞。大街上几乎没有一个行人。住户的大门和店铺都上了锁，只在一些酒馆附近听得见吼叫或是醉汉的哼唱。街上没有人驶行，行人的脚步声也很少听得见。波瓦尔大街一片沉寂荒凉。罗斯托夫府邸的院子里，撒着草料屑和马的粪便，却不见一个人影。在罗斯托夫连财产也全部留下来了的府上，有两个人待在大客厅里。这是看门人伊格纳特和小家伙米什卡，他是同爷爷瓦西里奇一道留在莫斯科的。米什卡打开克拉维珂琴盖①，用一个指头弹了起来。看门人双手叉腰笑嘻嘻地站在大穿衣镜前面。

①clavichord之音译，或译“翼琴”，今又称古钢琴，因系现代钢琴piano之前身，但当时并不古。

“弹得多好啊！啊？伊格纳特叔叔！”小孩说，突然两只手都在键盘上拍打起来。

“啧啧，你呀！”伊格纳特回答，望着镜子里愈来愈高兴的笑容，他很是惊奇。

“不害臊！真不害臊！”两人背后传来悄悄进屋的玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜的声音。“瞧他那个大胖脸，龇牙咧嘴。养你们干这个！那边什么都没收掇好呢，瓦西里奇累坏了。等着给你算帐！”

伊格纳特整理好腰带，收敛起笑容，驯服地垂下眼睛，赶忙走出屋子。

“大婶，我轻轻弹了一下。”小孩说。

“我也轻轻揍你一下，小淘气鬼！”玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜朝他挥手喊道：“去，给爷爷烧茶。”

玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜掸掸灰尘，合上了克拉维珂琴盖。

然后重重地叹了一口气，出了客厅，锁上了房门。

走到院子里，玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜想了想该去哪儿：去瓦西里奇厢房喝茶呢，还是去库房收拾还没收拾好的东西。

寂静的街上响起了急促的脚步声。脚步声在门旁停住了。

门闩发出了响声，一只手用力推开它。

玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜走到便门前。

“找谁？”

“伯爵，伊利亚·安德烈伊奇·罗斯托夫伯爵。”

“您又是谁呢？”

“我是军官。我想要见他。”一副悦耳高雅的腔调在说话。

玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜打开了便门，走到院子里来的是一个十七八岁，圆脸、脸型像罗斯托夫家的军官。

“都走啦，少爷。昨天傍晚走的，”玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜客气地说。

年轻的军官站在便门里，好像有点犹豫不决——是进屋还是不进屋去——的样子，他弹了一下舌头。

“噢，太遗憾了！”他说，“我本应该昨天……噢，真遗憾！

……”

玛拉夫·库兹米尼什娜同情地仔细从年轻人脸上，察看她所熟悉的罗斯托夫血缘的特征，又看看他身上的挂破了的军大衣和破旧的皮靴。

“您为什么要来找伯爵呢？”他问。

“那就……没法了！”军官沮丧地说，抓住门像是要走。他又迟疑地停下。

“您看出来了没有？”突然他说，“我是伯爵的家属，他一向对我很好。现在，您瞧见没有（他友好地愉快地微笑着看了自己的大衣和皮靴），都穿破了，可钱又没有，我想请求伯爵……”

玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜不让他说下去。

“您稍稍等一下，少爷。就一分钟，”他说。军官刚刚把手从门上放下，玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜就已转身，以老太婆的快步子向后院自己的厢房走去。

在玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜跑回自己屋子的这段时间，军官低下头望着已裂开的皮靴，脸上有些许笑意，在院子里蹓跶。“真遗憾，没碰到叔叔。但是老太婆很好啊！她跑到哪儿去了？我又怎么会知道，走哪些街道可以抄近路赶上团队呢？他们现在恐怕走到罗戈日城门了呢。”年轻军官在这一时刻想着。玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜神情惊慌却又坚定，手里捧着一个裹好的方格头巾，从一个角落出来。在走到离军官几步远的地方，她便解开头巾，拿出里面那张白色的二十五卢布钞票，急忙递给他。

“老爷要是在家，晓得了。他们准会照亲属招呼，但是，也许……现在……”玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜觉得难为情，慌乱起来了。但是，军官并不拒绝，不慌不忙地接过纸币，并感谢玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜。“要是伯爵在家，”玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜仍在抱歉地说。“愿基督保佑您，少爷上帝保佑您。”玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜说，一面鞠着躬送他出门。军官仿佛在自我嘲弄，微笑地摇着头，几乎快步跑过空旷的街道，朝雅乌兹桥方向去追赶自己所属的团队。

而玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜还含着眼泪，久久地站在已经上了闩的便门后面，沉思地摇着头，突然觉得她对陌生的青年军官怀有母性的柔情和怜爱。

CHAPTER XXIII

Chinese

IN AN UNFINISHED HOUSE in Varvarka, the lower part of which was a pot-house, there were sounds of drunken brawling and singing. Some ten factory hands were sitting on benches at tables in a little, dirty room. Tipsy, sweating, blear-eyed, with wide-gaping mouths, bloated with drink, they were singing some sort of a song. They were singing discordantly, with toil, with labour, not because they wanted to sing, but simply to betoken that they were drunk, and were enjoying themselves. One of them, a tall, flaxen-headed fellow, in a clean, blue long coat was standing over the rest. His face, with its straight, fine nose, would have been handsome, but for the thick, compressed, continually twitching lips and the lustreless, staring, and frowning eyes. He was standing over the singers, and, obviously with some notion in his head, was making solemn and angular passes over their heads with his bare, white arm, while he tried to spread his dirty fingers out unnaturally wide apart. The sleeve of his coat was incessantly slipping down, and the young fellow kept carefully tucking it up again with his left hand, as though there was something of special significance requiring that white, sinewy, waving arm to be bare. In the middle of the song, shouts and blows were heard in the passage and the porch. The tall fellow waved his arms.

“Shut up!” he shouted peremptorily. “A fight, lads!” and still tucking up his sleeves, he went out to the porch.

The factory hands followed him. They had brought the tavern- keeper some skins that morning from the factory, had had drink given them for this service, and had been drinking under the leadership of the tall young man. The blacksmiths working in a smithy hard by heard the sounds of revelry in the pothouse, and supposing the house had been forcibly broken into, wanted to break in too. A conflict was going on in the porch.

The tavern-keeper was fighting with a blacksmith in the doorway, and at the moment when the factory hands emerged, the smith had reeled away from the tavern-keeper, and fallen on his face on the pavement.

Another smith dashed in at the door, staggering with his chest against the tavern-keeper.

The young man with the sleeve tucked up, as he went, dealt a blow in the face of the smith who had dashed in at the door, and shouted wildly:

“Lads! they are beating our mates!”

Meanwhile, the smith got up from the ground, and with blood spurting from his bruised face, cried in a wailing voice:

“Help! They have killed me …! They have killed a man! Mates! …”

“Oy, mercy on us, killed entirely, a man killed!” squealed a woman, coming out of the gates next door. A crowd of people gathered round the blood-stained smith.

“Haven't you ruined folks enough, stripping the shirts off their backs?” said a voice, addressing the tavern-keeper; “and so now you have murdered a man! Blackguard!”

The tall young man standing on the steps turned his bleared eyes from the tavern-keeper to the smiths, as though considering with which to fight.

“Cut-throat!” he cried suddenly at the tavern-keeper. “Lads, bind him!”

“Indeed, and you try and bind a man like me!” bawled the tavern-keeper, tearing himself away from the men who threw themselves on him, and taking off his cap, he flung it on the ground. As though this act had some mysterious and menacing significance, the factory hands, who had surrounded the tavern-keeper, stood still in uncertainty.

“I know the law, mate, very well, I do. I'll go to the police. Are you thinking I won't find them? Robbery's not the order of the day for any one!” bawled the tavern-keeper, picking up his cap.

“And go we will, so there!” … “And go we will … so there!” the tavern-keeper and the tall fellow repeated after one another, and both together moved forward along the street. The blood-bespattered smith walked on a level with them. The factory-hands and a mob of outsiders followed them with talk and shouting.

At the corner of Maroseyka, opposite a great house with closed shutters, and the signboard of a bootmaker, stood a group of some twenty bootmakers, thin, exhausted-looking men, with dejected faces, in loose smocks, and torn coats.

“He ought to pay folks properly!” a thin boot hand, with a scant beard and scowling brows, was saying. “He's sucked the life-blood out of us, and then he's quit of us. He's been promising and promising us all the week. And now he's driven us to the last point, and he's made off.” Seeing the mob and the blood-bespattered smith, the man paused, and the bootmakers with inquisitive eagerness joined the moving crowd.

“Where are the folks going?”

“Going to the police, to be sure.”

“Is it true we are beaten?”

“Why, what did you think? Look what folks are saying!”

Questions and answers were audible. The tavern-keeper, taking advantage of the increased numbers of the rabble, dropped behind the mob, and went back to his tavern.

The tall young fellow, not remarking the disappearance of his foe, the tavern-keeper, still moved his bare arm and talked incessantly, attracting the attention of all. The mob pressed about his figure principally, expecting to get from him some solution of the questions that were absorbing all of them.

“Let them show the order, let him show the law, that's what the government's for! Isn't it the truth I am saying, good Christian folk?” said the tall young man, faintly smiling.

“Does he suppose there's no government? Could we do without government? Wouldn't there be plenty to rob us, eh?”

“Why talk nonsense!” was murmured in the crowd. “Why, will they leave Moscow like this! They told you a lot of stuff in joke, and you believed them. Haven't we troops enough? No fear, they won't let him enter! That's what the government's for. Ay, listen what folks are prating of!” they said, pointing to the tall fellow.

By the wall of the Kitay-Gorod there was another small group of people gathered about a man in a frieze coat, who held a paper in his hand.

“A decree, a decree being read! A decree is being read,” was heard in the crowd, and the mob surged round the reader.

The man in the frieze coat was reading the placard of the 31st of August. When the mob crowded round, he seemed disconcerted, but at the demand of the tall fellow who pressed close up to him, he began with a faint quiver in his voice reading the notice again from the beginning.

“Early to-morrow I am going to his highness the prince,” he read (“his highness!” the tall young man repeated, with a triumphant smile and knitted brows), “to consult with him, to act and to aid the troops to exterminate the wretches; we, too, will destroy them root and branch …” the reader went on and paused (“D'ye see?” bawled the tall fellow with an air of victory. “He'll unravel the whole evil for you …”) “and send our visitors packing to the devil; I shall come back to dinner, and we will set to work, we will be doing till we have done, and done away with the villains.”

These last words were uttered by the reader in the midst of complete silence. The tall fellow's head sank dejectedly. It was obvious that nobody had understood these last words. The words “I shall come back to dinner” in especial seemed to offend both reader and audience. The faculties of the crowd were strained to the highest pitch, and this was too easy and unnecessarily simple; it was just what any one of them might have said, and what for that reason could not be said in a decree coming from a higher authority.

All stood in depressed silence. The tall fellow's lips moved, and he staggered.

“Ask him! … Isn't that himself? … How'd it be to ask him! Or else … He'll explain …” was suddenly heard in the back rows of the crowd, and the general attention turned to the chaise of the head of the police, which drove into the square, escorted by two mounted dragoons.

The head of the police, who had driven out that morning by Count Rastoptchin's command to set fire to the barques in the river, and had received for that commission a large sum of money, at that moment in his pocket, ordered his coachman to stop on seeing a crowd bearing down upon him.

“What are those people?” he shouted to the people, who timidly approached the chaise in detached groups. “What is this crowd, I ask you?” repeated the head of police, receiving no reply.

“Your honour,” said the man in the frieze coat, “it was their wish, your honour, not sparing their substance, in accord with his excellency the count's proclamation, to serve, and not to make a riot at all, as his excellency said …”

“The count has not gone, he is here, and will give orders about you,” said the head of police. “Go on!” he said to his coachman. The crowd stood still, pressing round those who had heard what was said by the official, and looking at the departing chaise.

The head of the police meantime looked about him in alarm, and said something to his coachman; the horses trotted faster.

“Cheated, mates! Lead us to himself!” bawled the voice of the tall fellow. “Don't let him go, lads! Let him answer for it! Keep him!” roared voices, and the crowd dashed full speed after the chaise.

The mob in noisy talk pursued the head of the police to Lubyanka.

“Why, the gentry and the tradespeople are all gone, and we are left to perish. Are we dogs, pray?” was heard more frequently in the crowd.

第二十三章

英文

瓦尔瓦尔卡街一座未竣工的楼房里，传出醉汉的叫喊和歌声。它的下层开了一家酒店。在一间肮脏的小房间里，十来个工人正围坐在一张桌旁的长凳上，他们都醉醺醺的，头上冒汗，眼睛浑浊，使劲张大嘴巴打哈欠，还在唱着一支歌。他们各顾各地费颈而又卖力地唱着，显然不是因为他们想唱，而纯粹是为了证明他们喝醉了，在玩乐罢了，喝，喝下去。其中有一个高个儿的浅黄色头发的小伙子，身穿纯蓝色外衣，高踞于众人之上。他有一张长着秀气而笔直的鼻梁的脸，如果他的不停翻动的嘴唇不那么薄不闭得那么紧，眼睛不浑浊、阴沉、呆滞，那末，他那张脸定是很美的。他高踞于唱歌者之上，显然他是在想着什么，他把那只袖子卷到胳膊肘的白手，在那些人头上庄严地僵硬地挥动，并且不自然地使劲伸直肮脏的手指。他的外衣的袖口不停地滑下，他就费力地用左手再把它卷上去，仿佛这段白皙、青筋暴露、挥动着的手臂一定得裸露着，此中含有其深意。他唱着唱着，过道里和台阶上传来了殴斗的喊声和碰撞的声音。高个小伙子把手挥了一下。

“停下！”他发号施令地喊道，“打起来了，弟兄们！”他仍然不停地卷着袖子往台阶走去。

这些工人跟着他。他们今天早晨由高个小伙子承头，从工厂带了几张皮子给酒店老板，才换来酒喝的。附近几家铁匠铺的铁匠听到酒店闹哄哄，以为酒店被打劫，便也想拼命往里冲。台阶上发生了斗殴。

老板在门洞里与一个铁匠扭打在一起，在工人出来的时候，铁匠挣脱老板，仆倒在马路上。另一个铁匠冲向门口，用胸膛顶着老板。

卷起袖子的小伙子一上来就照这个往门里冲的铁匠脸上一拳，并且狂叫：

“弟兄们！我们的人挨打了！”

这时，刚才倒下的铁匠从地上爬起来，把被打伤的脸抓出血来，哭着喊叫：

“救命啊！打死人了！……有人被打死了！弟兄们！

……”

“哎呀，朝死里打了，打死人了！”隔壁大门里出来一位农妇尖声地说。一群人围住了血淋淋的铁匠。

“你抢人抢得不够，抢到别人剩下的身上穿的衬衫来了，”谁的声音，朝问酒店老板说，“怎么，你打死人了？强盗！”

站在台阶上的高个儿小伙子瞪着浑浊的眼睛看看老板，又看看这几个铁匠，好像在考虑现在该同谁打架。

“凶手！”他突然朝老板喊叫，“把他捆起来。弟兄们！”

“干吗，只捆我一个！”老板喊叫，推开朝他扑来的人，并摘下帽子扔到地上。这一举动似乎含有某种神秘的威吓作用，包围老板的工人迟疑地站着不动了。

“要说法规嘛，老兄，我很懂得的，清楚得很。我要到警察分局去。你以为我不会去吗？抢劫是谁都不许干的！”老板喊道，拾起了帽子。

“咱走哇，瞧你说的！咱走哇……瞧你说的，”酒店老板和高个小伙子彼此重复着说，随后两人就从街上朝前走了。工人和看热闹的吵吵嚷嚷地跟着他俩走。面部流血的铁匠走在他俩旁边。

马罗谢卡街拐角处，一块挂有靴匠招牌，护窗板关上的大房子的对面，站着二十来位面容沮丧的靴匠，他们瘦弱憔悴，穿着罩衫和破烂的长褂子。

“他应该给大伙发遣散费！”胡子稀疏、眉毛紧皱的瘦个子工匠说，“他吸干我们的血，就扔下不管，这算什么。他骗我们，骗了整整一个礼拜。把我们拖到这个地步，他自己倒跑了。”

说话的工匠看见一大群人和一个血淋淋的人，就默不作声，所有的靴匠都带着急不可耐的好奇心朝那群向前移动的人走出。

“这伙人是到哪儿去啊？”

“明摆着，去见当官的呗。”

“怎么说我们的人没占上风，是吗？”

“你以为会怎样！瞧瞧人们怎么说。”

听着这一问一答，老板趁着人越来越多的时机，落在他们后面，转身回自家酒店去了。

高个小伙子没发现自己的敌人——老板的消失，仍挥动露出一截的手臂，不停地说话，引来众人的注意。大家紧靠着他，指望得到对困扰他们的各种问题的解答。

“他会依照规章，会维护法律，当官的就是干这个的。我是不是该这样说，正教徒们？”高个小伙子说，脸上不无笑意。

“他以为官府没有了，是吧？难道没有官府可能吗？不然抢东西的人那就会更多了。”

“净讲空话！”人群中有人答腔。“怎么不，莫斯科都放弃了嘛！人家给你说着玩，你就以为真了。我们的军队是不少，就这样把敌人放进来！官府就是干这个的。还是听听老百姓怎么说吧。”大伙儿说，指着高个小伙子。

在中国城①的城墙附近，另有一小堆人围着一个穿厚呢大衣的人，他手里拿着一份文件。

①在克里姆林宫附近的一地名，不是美国一些城市华人聚居处那样的唐人街。

“告示，读告示了！读告示了！”人群中有人在说，于是，大伙儿朝读告示的人涌来。

穿厚呢大衣的人读起了八月三十一日的布告。当人群围拢来时，他显得有点窘，但高个小伙子挤到他身边求他，他声音有点发抖地从头开始读。

“我明天一早去见公爵阁下，”他读道，（“阁下！”高个小伙子。嘴角含笑，皱起眉毛庄严地重复说）……“与他商谈，采取行动，帮助军队消灭匪徒；我们即将把他们的气焰……”读布告的人读到这里停了一下（“瞧见了吗？”小伙子响亮地得胜似地说。“他会给你把全部情况摊开……）消灭他们，并把这些客人打发去见鬼吧；吃午饭时我要回来，然后着手做这件事，做好，做完，把匪徒解决掉。”

最后几句话是在一片沉默中读完的。高个小伙子忧郁地低下头。显然，谁也不明白最后几句话。特别是：“我明天午饭时回来，”这句话甚至使读的人和听的人都忧伤不已。大伙儿的理解力很强，可是这种话太简单，太浅显，它是他们中的每一个人要都能说的，因而算不上是出自上层当局的告示。

大家默默地伤心地站着。高个小伙子的嘴唇直动着，还晃动身体。

“应该问问他！……这是他自己吗？当然要问！……不会指点的……他该说清……”突然，在人群后几排听见说话声，大家的注意力便转向驶进广场的警察局长的轻便马车，这是由两名龙骑兵护送着的。

局长这天上午奉伯爵之命去烧毁货船，执行任务时捞到了一大笔钱，这笔钱正揣在他口袋里，看到朝他走来的人群，叫车夫停车。

“你们是些什么人？”他向三五一群怯生生靠拢来的人们喊道，“干什么的？我问你们呢？”局长未得到回答就重复地问。

“局座，他们，”穿厚呢大衣的那位小官说，“局座，他们是遵照伯爵大人的通告，不顾性命，愿意效劳的，绝不是暴动，正如伯爵大人的命令里所说……”

“伯爵没有离开，他在此地，关于你们的安排就会作出，“局长说，“走吧！”他对车夫说。人群在原地没动，围着听到官长说话的那些人，同时望着远去的马车。

这时，警察局长恐慌地回头看了一眼，对车夫说了句话，马便跑得更快了。

“欺骗人，弟兄们！追他去！”高个小伙子大声喊道，“别放过他，弟兄们！让地答复！抓住他！”众人喊了起来，跑着去追马车。

追赶局长的人群闹哄哄地朝卢比扬卡街跑去。

“甚么哟，老爷和商人都走光了，为了这个我们却要牺牲的。甚么哟，我们是他们的狗，还是怎么的！”人群里的怨言愈来愈多。

CHAPTER XXIV

Chinese

ON THE EVENING of the 1st of September, Count Rastoptchin had come away from his interview with Kutuzov mortified and offended at not having been invited to the council of war, and at Kutuzov's having taken no notice of his offer to take part in the defence of the city, and astonished at the new view of things revealed to him in the camp, in which the tranquillity of the city and its patriotic fervour were treated as matters of quite secondary importance, if not altogether irrelevant and trivial. Mortified, offended, and astonished at all this, Count Rastoptchin had returned to Moscow. After supper, he lay down on a sofa without undressing, and at one o'clock was waked by a courier bringing him a letter from Kutuzov. The letter asked the count, since the troops were retreating to the Ryazan road behind Moscow, to send police officials to escort troops through the town. The letter told Rastoptchin nothing new. He had known that Moscow would be abandoned not merely since his interview the previous day with Kutuzov on the Poklonny Hill, but ever since the battle of Borodino; since when all the generals who had come to Moscow had with one voice declared that another battle was impossible, and with Rastoptchin's sanction government property had been removed every night, and half the inhabitants had left. But nevertheless the fact, communicated in the form of a simple note, with a command from Kutuzov, and received at night, breaking in on his first sleep, surprised and irritated the governor.

In later days, Count Rastoptchin, by way of explaining his action during this time, wrote several times in his notes that his two great aims at that time were to maintain tranquillity in Moscow, and to make the inhabitants go out of it. If this twofold aim is admitted, every act of Rastoptchin's appears irreproachable. Why were not the holy relics, the arms, the ammunition, the powder, the stores of bread taken away? Why were thousands of the inhabitants deceived into a belief that Moscow would not be abandoned and so ruined? “To preserve the tranquillity of the city,” replies Count Rastoptchin's explanation. Why were heaps of useless papers out of the government offices and Leppich's balloon and other objects carried away? “To leave the town empty,” replies Count Rastoptchin's explanation. One has but to admit some menace to public tranquillity and every sort of action is justified.

All the horrors of terrorism were based only on anxiety for public tranquillity.

What foundation was there for Count Rastoptchin's dread of popular disturbance in Moscow in 1812? What reason was there for assuming a disposition to revolution in the city? The inhabitants were leaving it; the retreating troops were filling Moscow. Why were the mob likely to riot in consequence?

Not in Moscow only, but everywhere else in Russia nothing like riots took place at the approach of the enemy. On the 1st and 2nd of September more than ten thousand people were left in Moscow, and except for the mob that gathered in the commander-in-chief's courtyard, attracted there by himself, nothing happened. It is obvious that there would have been even less ground for anticipating disturbances among the populace if, after the battle of Borodino, when the surrender of Moscow became a certainty, or at least a probability, Rastoptchin had taken steps for the removal of all the holy relics, of the powder, ammunition, and treasury, and had told the people straight out that the town would be abandoned, instead of exciting the populace by posting up placards and distributing arms.

Rastoptchin, an impulsive, sanguine man, who had always moved in the highest spheres of the administration, was a patriot in feeling, but had not the faintest notion of the character of the people he supposed himself to be governing. From the time when the enemy first entered Smolensk, Rastoptchin had in his own imagination been playing the part of leader of popular feeling—of the heart of Russia. He did not merely fancy—as every governing official always does fancy—that he was controlling the external acts of the inhabitants of Moscow, but fancied that he was shaping their mental attitude by means of his appeals and placards, written in that vulgar, slangy jargon which the people despise in their own class, and simply fail to understand when they hear it from persons of higher station. The picturesque figure of leader of the popular feeling was so much to Rastoptchin's taste, and he so lived in it, that the necessity of abandoning it, the necessity of surrendering Moscow with no heroic effect of any kind, took him quite unawares; the very ground he was standing on seemed slipping from under his feet, and he was utterly at a loss what to do. Though he knew it was coming, he could not till the last minute fully believe in the abandonment of Moscow, and did nothing towards it. The inhabitants left the city against his wishes. If the courts were removed, it was only due to the insistence of the officials, to which Rastoptchin reluctantly gave way. He was himself entirely absorbed by the role he had assumed. As is often the case with persons of heated imagination, he had known for a long while that Moscow would be abandoned; but he had known it only with his intellect, and refused with his whole soul to believe in it, and could not mentally adapt himself to the new position of affairs.

The whole course of his painstaking and vigorous activity—how far it was beneficial or had influence on the people is another question— aimed simply at awakening in the people the feeling he was himself possessed by—hatred of the French and confidence in himself.

But when the catastrophe had begun to take its true historic proportions; when to express hatred of the French in words was plainly insufficient; when it was impossible to express that hatred even by a battle; when self-confidence was of no avail in regard to the one question before Moscow; when the whole population, as one man, abandoning their property, streamed out of Moscow, in this negative fashion giving proof of the strength of their patriotism;—then the part Rastoptchin had been playing suddenly became meaningless. He felt suddenly deserted, weak, and absurd, with no ground to stand on.

On being waked out of his sleep to read Kutuzov's cold and peremptory note, Rastoptchin felt the more irritated the more he felt himself to blame. There was still left in Moscow all that was under his charge, all the government property which it was his duty to have removed to safety. There was no possibility of getting it all away. “Who is responsible for it? who has let it come to such a pass?” he wondered. “Of course, it's not my doing. I had everything in readiness; I held Moscow in my hand—like this! And see what they have brought things to! Scoundrels, traitors!” he thought, not exactly defining who were these scoundrels and traitors, but feeling a necessity to hate these vaguely imagined traitors, who were to blame for the false and ludicrous position in which he found himself.

All that night Rastoptchin was giving instructions, for which people were continually coming to him from every part of Moscow. His subordinates had never seen the count so gloomy and irascible.

“Your excellency, they have come from the Estates Department, from the director for instructions.… From the Consistory, from the Senate, from the university, from the Foundling Hospital, the vicar has sent … he is inquiring … what orders are to be given about the fire brigade? The overseer of the prison … the superintendent of the mad-house …” all night long, without pause, messages were being brought to the count.

To all these inquiries he gave brief and wrathful replies, the drift of which was that his instructions were now not needed, that all his careful preparations had now been ruined by somebody, and that that somebody would have to take all responsibility for anything that might happen now.

“Oh, tell that blockhead,” he replied to the inquiry from the Estates Department, “to stay and keep guard over his deeds. Well, what nonsense are you asking about the fire brigade? There are horses, let them go off to Vladimir. Don't leave them for the French.”

“Your excellency, the superintendent of the madhouse has come; what are your commands?”

“My commands? Let them all go, that's all.… And let the madmen out into the town. When we have madmen in command of our armies, it seems it's God's will they should be free.”

To the inquiry about the convicts in the prison, the count shouted angrily to the overseer:

“What, do you want me to give you two battalions for a convoy for them, when we haven't any battalions at all? Let them all go, and that settles it!”

“Your excellency, there are political prisoners—Myeshkov, Vereshtchagin …”

“Vereshtchagin! He is not yet hanged?” cried Rastoptchin. “Send him to me.”

第二十四章

英文

九月一日晚，同库图佐夫会面之后，拉斯托普钦伯爵感到伤心，认为受了凌辱，因为他未被邀请参加军事会议，库图佐夫对他所提出关于参加保卫古都的建议未予注意；同时，他还对大本营向他表示的一个新看法感到震惊，持这一看法，古都保持平静，古都的爱国热情等不仅是次要的，而且是全无必要的，微不足的，——为所有这一切伤心，受辱和震惊的拉斯托普钦伯爵回到了莫斯科。晚饭后，伯爵未脱衣服在沙发上就寝，十二点过后便被递交库图佐夫便函的信使唤醒了。便函称，由于部队要撤往莫斯科以东的梁赞公路，故问伯爵能否通融派出警宪官员引导部队通过城市，这一消息对拉斯托普钦已非新闻。不仅从昨天库图佐夫在波克隆山会面时算起，还要从波罗底诺战役算起——当时，所有会聚莫斯科的将军众口一词地说，不能再发起战役了；同时，在伯爵许可下，每晚都在运出公家的财产，居民也撤走一半——拉斯托普钦伯爵就已知道，莫斯科必将放弃；但是，以带有库图佐夫命令的便笺形式通知的、在夜间刚入睡时收到的这个消息，仍使伯爵惊讶和气愤。

后来，拉斯托普钦伯爵在解释这期间自己的行动时，多次在回忆录中写道，他当时有两项重要目标：de　maintenir　la　tranquillité　a　Moscou　et　d'en　faire　partir　les　habitants．①如果认可这一双重目标，拉斯托普钦的任何行动都是无可非议的。为什么不运走莫斯科的圣物、武器、子弹、火药和粮食储备，为什么欺骗成千万居民，说不会放弃莫斯科，不会把它毁灭掉呢？为了保持都城的平静，拉斯托普钦伯爵如此解释说。为什么运走政府机关一捆捆无用的文件，列比赫气球和别的物品呢？为的是使它变成一座空城，拉斯托普钦伯爵如此解释说。只要假设有什么事威胁着民众的安定，一切行为都是说得过去的。

①保持莫斯科的平静，疏散居民。

恐怖措施的全部可怕之处，就是以关心民众的安定作为依据。

拉斯托普钦伯爵有什么根据为一八一二年莫斯科民众的安定而担心？设想城里有骚动趋势的理由是什么？居民走了，军队后撤时挤满了莫斯科。结果，民众便会暴动，这是为什么呢？

不仅在莫斯科，也在全俄各地，在敌人打进来时，都没有发生类似骚动的事件。九月一日和二日，一万多人还留在莫斯科，除了一群人奉总司令之召聚在他府邸院子里之外，什么事也未发生。假如波罗底诺战役之后莫斯科的放弃已势在必行，或至少有此可能；假如拉斯托普钦不是发放武器和传单以鼓动民众，而是采取措施运走所有圣物、火药、子弹和钱币，并同民众开诚宣布城市要放弃，显而易见，便更不要担心在民众中会发生骚乱。

拉斯托普钦虽然有爱国热情，却是暴躁易怒的一个人，他一直在高层政界活动，对于他自以为在治理着的民众，没有丝毫的了解。从敌人最初进占斯摩棱斯克时候起，拉斯托普钦就为自己设想了一个支配民情——俄罗斯之心——的角色。他不仅觉得（正如每一行政长官都这样觉得）他是在支配莫斯科居民的外在行为，而且还觉得他通过措词低下、告示和传单支配着他们的心情，其实写在上面的一派胡言，民众在自己范围内是瞧不起的，当它从上面传下来时，民众也不理解，对扮演民情支配者的角色，拉斯托普钦为此而自鸣得意，他习以为常地以至于必须退出角色，没有任何英勇表现，也必须放弃莫斯科，对他不啻是晴天霹雳，他突然失掉脚下他赖以站立的土地，茫然不知所措了。他虽然已经知道，但直到最后一分钟仍不能全心全意地相信莫斯科会放弃，所以，与此有关的事一件也没有作。居民的撤走，是违背他的意愿的。如果说搬走了一些机关，那也是应官员们的请求，伯爵不情愿地同意的。他本人只扮演那个他为自己弄到的角色。像常常发生在富有热情奔放的想象力的人身上那样，他早就知道莫斯科要被放弃，但他仅仅是靠推断才知道的，他不能用整个的心去相信，不能使想象去适应这一新情况。

他的整个活动，即竭尽全力的精力充沛的活动对民众（有多大用处、对民众有多大影响，则是另一问题），也就是致力于居民心中唤起他正体验着的情感——出于爱国主义而仇恨法国人，对自己怀有信心。

但当事件具有真正的历史的规模时，当不足以话语表示自己对法国人的仇恨时，当即使用战斗也不足以表示这种仇恨时，当自己对莫斯科问题的信心已经无用时，而全市居民一致抛弃财产、川流不息地离开莫斯科，以这一否定行为显示民情的全部威力时，——这时，拉斯托普钦选择的角色，突然变得毫无意义。他感到他本人突然间孤独、脆弱和可笑了，脚下没有土壤了。

从睡梦中被唤醒，接到库图佐夫冷冰冰的命令口吻的便笺，拉斯托普钦愈益觉得气愤，愈益感到自己不对了。所有托付他的东西还留在莫斯科，包括全部他应该运走的公家财产。全部运走已不可能了。

“这件事究竟是谁的错，谁造成的？”他想。“自然不是我。我把一切都准备好了，瞧，我把莫斯科掌握是牢牢的！瞧他们把事情闹到了什么地步！是些坏蛋，叛徒！”他想，虽然确定不了谁是坏蛋和叛徒，但他觉得必须仇恨这些坏蛋和叛徒，他们在使他处于虚伪可笑的境地，是有罪过的。

整个晚上，拉斯托普钦伯爵都在下达命令，听候命令的人来自莫斯科各处。近侍们从未见过伯爵如此阴郁和气急败坏。

“爵爷，领地注册局局长派人来请示……宗教法庭、枢密院、大学、孤儿院，副主教都派人来……问……关于消防队您有何指示？典狱官来了……精神病院监督来了……”整晚不停地向伯爵报告。

对所有这些问题，伯爵一概给予简略的愤怒的答复，以表示他的指示现在用不着了；他竭尽全力准备好的一切被某个人破坏了，而这个人将要对马上发生的一切承担全部责任。

“呶，告诉那个木头人，”他回答领地注册局里派来的人的请示，“他得留下来看管他的文件。喏，你干吗要问关于消防队的废话？有匹马嘛，让他们开到弗拉基米尔去。不是给法国人留下的。”

“爵爷，疯人院的监督来了，您有何指示？”

“有何指示吗？让他们都走，就这样……疯子嘛让他们都到城内去，放了就是了。我们这边是由疯子指挥军队，上帝就是这样安排的。”

对于蹲在监狱里的囚犯问题，伯爵呵斥典狱官：“怎么，派给你两营人护送吗？派不出！放掉他们就完事了！”

“爵爷，还有政治犯：梅什科夫，韦烈夏金呢。”

“韦列夏金！他还没被绞死吗？”拉斯托普钦喊道，“带他到我这儿来。”

CHAPTER XXV

Chinese

BY NINE O'CLOCK in the morning, when the troops were moving across Moscow, people had ceased coming to Rastoptchin for instructions. All who could get away were going without asking leave; those who stayed decided for themselves what they had better do.

Count Rastoptchin ordered his horses in order to drive to Sokolniky, and with a yellow and frowning face, sat in silence with folded arms in his study.

Every governing official in quiet, untroubled times feels that the whole population under his charge is only kept going by his efforts; and it is this sense of being indispensably necessary in which every governing official finds the chief reward for his toils and cares. It is easy to understand that while the ocean of history is calm, the governing official holding on from his crazy little skiff by a pole to the ship of the people, and moving with it, must fancy that it is his efforts that move the ship on to which he is clinging. But a storm has but to arise to set the sea heaving and the ship tossing upon it, and such error becomes at once impossible. The ship goes on its vast course unchecked, the pole fails to reach the moving vessel, and the pilot, from being the master, the source of power, finds himself a helpless, weak, and useless person.

Rastoptchin felt this, and it drove him to frenzy. The head of the police, who had got away from the crowd, went in to see him at the same time as an adjutant, who came to announce that his horses were ready. Both were pale, and the head of the police, after reporting that he had discharged the commission given to him, informed Count Rastoptchin that there was an immense crowd of people in his courtyard wanting to see him.

Without a word in reply, Count Rastoptchin got up and walked with rapid steps to his light, sumptuously furnished drawing-room. He went up to the balcony door, took hold of the door-handle, let go of it, and moved away to the window, from which the whole crowd could be better seen. The tall young fellow was standing in the front, and with a severe face, waving his arms and saying something. The blood-bespattered smith stood beside him with a gloomy air. Through the closed windows could be heard the roar of voices.

“Is the carriage ready?” said Rastoptchin, moving back from the window.

“Yes, your excellency,” said the adjutant.

Rastoptchin went again to the balcony door.

“Why, what is it they want?” he asked the head of the police.

“Your excellency, they say they have come together to go to fight the French, by your orders; they were shouting something about treachery. But it is an angry crowd, your excellency. I had much ado to get away. If I may venture to suggest, your excellency …”

“Kindly leave me; I know what to do without your assistance,” cried Rastoptchin angrily. He stood at the door of the balcony looking at the crowd. “This is what they have done with Russia! This is what they have done with me!” thought Rastoptchin, feeling a rush of irrepressible rage against the undefined some one to whose fault what was happening could be set down. As is often the case with excitable persons, he was possessed by fury, while still seeking an object for it. “Here is the populace, the dregs of the people,” he thought, looking at the crowd, “that they have stirred up by their folly. They want a victim,” came into his mind, as he watched the waving arm of the tall fellow in front. And the thought struck him precisely because he too wanted a victim, an object for his wrath.

“Is the carriage ready?” he asked again.

“Yes, your excellency. What orders in regard to Vereshtchagin? He is waiting at the steps,” answered the adjutant.

“Ah!” cried Rastoptchin, as though struck by some sudden recollection.

And rapidly opening the door, he walked resolutely out on the balcony. The hum of talk instantly died down, caps and hats were lifted, and all eyes were raised upon the governor.

“Good-day, lads!” said the count, speaking loudly and quickly. “Thanks for coming. I'll come out to you in a moment, but we have first to deal with a criminal. We have to punish the wretch by whose doing Moscow is ruined. Wait for me!” And as rapidly he returned to the apartment, slamming the door violently.

An approving murmur of satisfaction ran through the crowd. “He'll have all the traitors cut down, of course. And you talk of the French … he'll show us the rights and the wrongs of it all!” said the people, as it were reproaching one another for lack of faith.

A few minutes later an officer came hurriedly out of the main entrance, and gave some order, and the dragoons drew themselves up stiffly. The crowd moved greedily up from the balcony to the front steps. Coming out there with hasty and angry steps, Rastoptchin looked about him hurriedly, as though seeking some one.

“Where is he?” he said, and at the moment he said it, he caught sight of a young man with a long, thin neck, and half of his head shaven and covered with short hair, coming round the corner of the house between two dragoons. This young man was clothed in a fox-lined blue cloth coat, that had once been foppish but was now shabby, and in filthy convict's trousers of fustian, thrust into uncleaned and battered thin boots. His uncertain gait was clogged by the heavy manacles hanging about his thin, weak legs.

“Ah!” said Rastoptchin, hurriedly turning his eyes away from the young man in the fox-lined coat and pointing to the bottom steps. “Put him here!”

With a clank of manacles the young man stepped with effort on to the step indicated to him; putting his finger into the tight collar of his coat, he turned his long neck twice, and sighing, folded his thin, unworkmanlike hands before him with a resigned gesture.

For several seconds, while the young man was taking up his position on the step, there was complete silence. Only at the back of the mass of people, all pressing in one direction, could be heard sighs and groans and sounds of pushing and the shuffling of feet.

Rastoptchin, waiting for him to be on the spot he had directed, scowled, and passed his hand over his face.

“Lads!” he said, with a metallic ring in his voice, “this man, Vereshtchagin, is the wretch by whose doing Moscow is lost.”

The young man in the fox-lined coat stood in a resigned pose, clasping his hands together in front of his body, and bending a little forward. His wasted young face, with its look of hopelessness and the hideous disfigurement of the half-shaven head, was turned downwards. At the count's first words he slowly lifted his head and looked up from below at the count, as though he wanted to say something to him, or at least to catch his eye. But Rastoptchin did not look at him. The blue vein behind the young man's ear stood out like a cord on his long, thin neck, and all at once his face flushed crimson.

All eyes were fixed upon him. He gazed at the crowd, and, as though made hopeful by the expression he read on the faces there, he smiled a timid, mournful smile, and dropping his head again, shifted his feet on the step.

“He is a traitor to his Tsar and his country; he deserted to Bonaparte; he alone of all the Russians has disgraced the name of Russia, and through him Moscow is lost,” said Rastoptchin in a harsh, monotonous voice; but all at once he glanced down rapidly at Vereshtchagin, who still stood in the same submissive attitude. As though that glance had driven him to frenzy, flinging up his arms, he almost yelled to the crowd:

“You shall deal with him as you think fit! I hand him over to you!”

The people were silent, and only pressed closer and closer on one another. To bear each other's weight, to breathe in that tainted foulness, to be unable to stir, and to be expecting something vague, uncomprehended and awful, was becoming unbearable. The men in the front of the crowd, who saw and heard all that was passing before them, all stood with wide-open, horror-struck eyes and gaping mouths, straining all their strength to support the pressure from behind on their backs.

“Beat him! … Let the traitor perish and not shame the name of Russia!” screamed Rastoptchin. “Cut him down! I give the command!” Hearing not the words, but only the wrathful tones of Rastoptchin's voice, the mob moaned and heaved forward, but stopped again.

“Count!” … the timid and yet theatrical voice of Vereshtchagin broke in upon the momentary stillness that followed. “Count, one God is above us …” said Vereshtchagin, lifting his head, and again the thick vein swelled on his thin neck and the colour swiftly came and faded again from his face. He did not finish what he was trying to say.

“Cut him down! I command it! …” cried Rastoptchin, suddenly turning as white as Vereshtchagin himself.

“Draw sabres!” shouted the officer to the dragoons, himself drawing his sabre.

Another still more violent wave passed over the crowd, and reaching the front rows, pushed them forward, and threw them staggering right up to the steps. The tall young man, with a stony expression of face and his lifted arm rigid in the air, stood close beside Vereshtchagin. “Strike at him!” the officer said almost in a whisper to the dragoons; and one of the soldiers, his face suddenly convulsed by fury, struck Vereshtchagin on the head with the flat of his sword.

Vereshtchagin uttered a brief “Ah!” of surprise, looking about him in alarm, as though he did not know what this was done to him for. A similar moan of surprise and horror ran through the crowd.

“O Lord!” some one was heard to utter mournfully. After the exclamation of surprise that broke from Vereshtchagin he uttered a piteous cry of pain, and that cry was his undoing. The barrier of human feeling that still held the mob back was strained to the utmost limit, and it snapped instantaneously. The crime had been begun, its completion was inevitable. The piteous moan of reproach was drowned in the angry and menacing roar of the mob. Like the great seventh wave that shatters a ship, that last, irresistible wave surged up at the back of the crowd, passed on to the foremost ranks, carried them off their feet and engulfed all together. The dragoon who had struck the victim would have repeated his blow. Vereshtchagin, with a scream of terror, putting his hands up before him, dashed into the crowd. The tall young man, against whom he stumbled, gripped Vereshtchagin's slender neck in his hands, and with a savage shriek fell with him under the feet of the trampling, roaring mob. Some beat and tore at Vereshtchagin, others at the tall young man. And the screams of persons crushed in the crowd and of those who tried to rescue the tall young man only increased the frenzy of the mob. For a long while the dragoons were unable to get the bleeding, half-murdered factory workman away. And in spite of all the feverish haste with which the mob strove to make an end of what had once been begun, the men who beat and strangled Vereshtchagin and tore him to pieces could not kill him. The crowd pressed on them on all sides, heaved from side to side like one man with them in the middle, and would not let them kill him outright or let him go.

“Hit him with an axe, eh? … they have crushed him … Traitor, he sold Christ! … living … alive … serve the thief right. With a bar! … Is he alive? …”

Only when the victim ceased to struggle, and his shrieks had passed into a long-drawn, rhythmic death-rattle, the mob began hurriedly to change places about the bleeding corpse on the ground. Every one went up to it, gazed at what had been done, and pressed back horror-stricken, surprised, and reproachful.

“O Lord, the people's like a wild beast; how could he be alive!” was heard in the crowd. “And a young fellow too … must have been a merchant's son, to be sure, the people … they do say it's not the right man … not the right man! … O Lord! … They have nearly murdered another man; they say he's almost dead … Ah, the people … who wouldn't be afraid of sin …” were saying now the same people, looking with rueful pity at the dead body, with the blue face fouled with dust and blood, and the long, slender, broken neck.

A punctilious police official, feeling the presence of the body unseemly in the courtyard of his excellency, bade the dragoons drag the body away into the street. Two dragoons took hold of the mutilated legs, and drew the body away. The dead, shaven head, stained with blood and grimed with dust, was trailed along the ground, rolling from side to side on the long neck. The crowd shrank away from the corpse.

When Vereshtchagin fell, and the crowd with a savage yell closed in and heaved about him, Rastoptchin suddenly turned white, and instead of going to the back entrance, where horses were in waiting for him, he strode rapidly along the corridor leading to the rooms of the lower story, looking on the floor and not knowing where or why he was going. The count's face was white, and he could not check the feverish twitching of his lower jaw.

“Your excellency, this way … where are you going? … this way,” said a trembling, frightened voice behind him. Count Rastoptchin was incapable of making any reply. Obediently turning, he went in the direction indicated. At the back entrance stood a carriage. The distant roar of the howling mob could be heard even there. Count Rastoptchin hurriedly got into the carriage, and bade them drive him to his house at Sokolniky beyond the town. As he drove out into Myasnitsky Street and lost the sound of the shouts of the mob, the count began to repent. He thought with dissatisfaction now of the excitement and terror he had betrayed before his subordinates. “The populace is terrible, it is hideous. They are like wolves that can only be appeased with flesh,” he thought. “Count! there is one God over us!” Vereshtchagin's words suddenly recurred to him, and a disagreeable chill ran down his back. But that feeling was momentary, and Count Rastoptchin smiled contemptuously at himself. “I had other duties. The people had to be appeased. Many other victims have perished and are perishing for the public good,” he thought; and he began to reflect on the social duties he had towards his family and towards the city intrusted to his care; and on himself—not as Fyodor Vassilyevitch Rastoptchin (he assumed that Fyodor Vassilyevitch Rastoptchin was sacrificing himself for le bien publique)—but as governor of Moscow, as the representative of authority intrusted with full powers by the Tsar. “If I had been simply Fyodor Vassilyevitch, my course of action might have been quite different; but I was bound to preserve both the life and the dignity of the governor.”

Lightly swayed on the soft springs of the carriage, and hearing no more of the fearful sounds of the mob, Rastoptchin was physically soothed, and as is always the case simultaneously with physical relief, his intellect supplied him with grounds for moral comfort. The thought that reassured Rastoptchin was not a new one. Ever since the world has existed and men have killed one another, a man has never committed such a crime against his fellow without consoling himself with the same idea. That idea is le bien publique, the supposed public good of others.

To a man not swayed by passion this good never seems certain; but a man who has committed such a crime always knows positively where that public good lies. And Rastoptchin now knew this.

Far from reproaching himself in his meditations on the act he had just committed, he found grounds for self-complacency in having so successfully made use of an occasion so à propos for executing a criminal, and at the same time satisfying the crowd. “Vereshtchagin had been tried and condemned to the death penalty,” Rastoptchin reflected (though Vereshtchagin had only been condemned by the senate to hard labour). “He was a spy and a traitor; I could not let him go unpunished, and so I hit two birds with one stone. I appeased the mob by giving them a victim, and I punished a miscreant.”

Reaching his house in the suburbs, the count completely regained his composure in arranging his domestic affairs.

Within half an hour the count was driving with rapid horses across the Sokolniky plain, thinking no more now of the past, but absorbed in thought and plans for what was to come. He was approaching now the Yauzsky bridge, where he had been told that Kutuzov was. In his own mind he was preparing the biting and angry speeches he would make, upbraiding Kutuzov for his deception. He would make that old court fox feel that the responsibility for all the disasters bound to follow the abandonment of Moscow, and the ruin of Russia (as Rastoptchin considered it), lay upon his old, doting head. Going over in anticipation what he would say to him, Rastoptchin wrathfully turned from side to side in the carriage, and angrily looked about him.

The Sokolniky plain was deserted. Only at one end of it, by the alms-house and lunatic asylum, there were groups of people in white garments, and similar persons were wandering about the plain, shouting and gesticulating.

One of them was running right across in front of Count Rastoptchin's carriage. And Count Rastoptchin himself and his coachman, and the dragoons, all gazed with a vague feeling of horror and curiosity at these released lunatics, and especially at the one who was running towards them.

Tottering on his long, thin legs in his fluttering dressing-gown, this madman ran at headlong speed, with his eyes fixed on Rastoptchin, shouting something to him in a husky voice, and making signs to him to stop. The gloomy and triumphant face of the madman was thin and yellow, with irregular tufts of beard growing on it. The black, agate-like pupils of his eyes moved restlessly, showing the saffron-yellow whites above. “Stay! stop, I tell you!” he shouted shrilly, and again breathlessly fell to shouting something with emphatic gestures and intonations.

He reached the carriage and ran alongside it.

“Three times they slew me, three times I rose again from the dead. They stoned me, they crucified me … I shall rise again … I shall rise again … I shall rise again. My body they tore to pieces. The kingdom of heaven will be overthrown … Three times I will overthrow it, and three times I will set it up again,” he screamed, his voice growing shriller and shriller. Count Rastoptchin suddenly turned white, as he had turned white when the crowd fell upon Vereshtchagin. He turned away. “G … go on, faster!” he cried in a trembling voice to his coachman.

The carriage dashed on at the horses' topmost speed. But for a long while yet Count Rastoptchin heard behind him the frantic, desperate scream getting further away, while before his eyes he saw nothing but the wondering, frightened, bleeding face of the traitor in the fur-lined coat. Fresh as that image was, Rastoptchin felt now that it was deeply for ever imprinted on his heart. He felt clearly now that the bloody print of that memory would never leave him, that the further he went the more cruelly, the more vindictively, would that fearful memory rankle in his heart to the end of his life. He seemed to be hearing now the sound of his own words: “Tear him to pieces, you shall answer for it to me!— Why did I say these words? I said it somehow without meaning to … I might not have said them,” he thought, “and then nothing would have happened.” He saw the terror-stricken, and then suddenly frenzied face of the dragoon who had struck the first blow, and the glance of silent, timid reproach cast on him by that lad in the fox-lined coat. “But I didn't do it on my own account. I was bound to act in that way. La plèbe … le traître … le bien publique, …” he mused.

The bridge over the Yauza was still crowded with troops. It was hot. Kutuzov, looking careworn and weary, was sitting on a bench near the bridge, and playing with a whip on the sand, when a carriage rattled noisily up to him. A man in the uniform of a general, wearing a hat with plumes, came up to Kutuzov. He began addressing him in French, his eyes shifting uneasily, with a look between anger and terror in them. It was Count Rastoptchin. He told Kutuzov that he had come here, for since Moscow was no more, the army was all that was left. “It might have been very different if your highness had not told me you would not abandon Moscow without a battle; all this would not have been!” said he.

Kutuzov stared at Rastoptchin, and, as though not understanding the meaning of the words addressed to him, he strove earnestly to decipher the special meaning betrayed at that minute on the face of the man addressing him. Rastoptchin ceased speaking in discomfiture. Kutuzov slightly shook his head, and, still keeping his searching eyes on Rastoptchin's face, he murmured softly:

“Yes, I won't give up Moscow without a battle.”

Whether Kutuzov was thinking of something different when he uttered those words, or said them purposely, knowing them to be meaningless, Count Rastoptchin made him no reply, and hastily left him. And—strange to tell! the governor of Moscow, the proud Count Rastoptchin, picking up a horse whip, went to the bridge, and fell to shouting and driving on the crowded carts.

第二十五章

英文

到早晨九点钟，当部队已经通过莫斯科时，再也没有谁来向伯爵请示了。所有能走的人，他们自己走了；留下来的那些人，他们自己决定该怎么办。

伯爵吩咐套马，准备到索科尔尼茨去，他皱起眉头，脸色蜡黄，抱紧胳膊默不作声地坐在办公室里。

每一位行政长官在世道太平时，都觉得只有靠了他的勤政，他治下的平民百姓才过得自在，蒸蒸日上，而当意识到非我莫属时，每个行政长官便以作为对自己劳苦和勤政的主要奖赏。故尔可以理解，只要历史的海洋风平浪静，作为统治者的行政长官，乘坐一条破船用钩竿抓挠人民的大船向前驶行，一定会觉得，被他钩着的大船是靠他的努力才前进的。但风浪一起，海上波涛汹涌，大船自动地前进。这时，便不会发生错觉了。大船以那前所未有的速度自动地航行着，当钩竿够不着前进着的航船时，统治者便突然从掌权者，力量的源泉的地位，转变为渺小的无用的虚弱的人。

拉斯托普钦感觉到这点，也正是这点使他恼火。

受到人群阻拦的警察局长，和前来报告马已套好的副官，一起走进伯爵办公室。两人脸色苍白，局长谈了执行任务的情况后，报告说，院子里有一大群民众希望见伯爵。

拉斯托普钦一言不发，起身快步走进豪华、明亮的客厅，走到了阳台门边，抓住门柄，又松开手，朝窗户走去，从那里更能看清全部人群。高个小伙子站在前几排中间，绷紧着脸，挥动着一只手在讲话。脸上糊着血的铁匠阴沉地站在他身旁。透过关闭的窗户，可听到闹哄哄的声音。

“马车准备好了？”拉斯托普钦问，离开了窗户。

“好了，爵爷。”副官说。

拉斯托普钦又走到阳台门边。

“他们有什么要求？”他问警察局长。

“钧座，他们说他们奉钧座之命准备去打法国人，又在喊叫着什么叛徒。不过这是一群暴徒，钧座。我好不容易才脱身，钧座，卑职斗胆建议……”

“请便吧，没有您我也知道怎么办，”拉斯托普钦生气地大声说。他在阳台门边往下看着人群。“他们把俄国搞成这样！他们把我也搞成这样！”拉斯托普钦想，感到心里头升起一股不可遏制的怒火，要向这笔账该记在他头上的某个人发泄。像肝火旺的人常有的情形，愤怒控制了他，但还没找到发泄对象。“La　voilà　la　populace，la　lie　du　peuple，”他望着人群心里想道，“la　plébe　qu'ils　ont　soulevée　par　leur　sottise．Il　leur　faut　une　victime．”①出现在他思绪里，这时，他看到了高个小伙子挥动手臂。他之所以有这个想法，正是因为他本人就需要这件牺牲品，这个供他发泄愤怒的对象。

①这一群贱民，老百姓的败类。平民，他们的愚蠢把这些败类和贱民鼓动起来了，他们需要一个牺牲品。

“马车准备好了吗？”他又问了一次。

“好了，爵爷。您下令如何处置韦列夏金？他已被带来，在门廊旁等着。”副官说。

“噢！”拉斯托普钦大叫了一声，仿佛被意外想起的一件事震惊了。

于是，他迅速拉开门，迈着坚定的步子走上阳台。说话声突然静止，礼帽和便帽都从头上脱下，所有的眼睛都抬起来望着走出来的伯爵。

“你们好，弟兄们！”伯爵讲得又快又响亮，“谢谢你们到来。我马上下来看你们，但我们得先处置一个坏人。我们必须惩办一个使莫斯科毁掉了的坏人。请等着我！”伯爵同样快步地返回室内，砰地一声关上了门。

人群里传遍了满意和赞许的低语声。“这么说，他要惩治所有的坏家伙了！而你说，只是一个法国人……他就会把全部情况给你推开的！”人们说着，仿佛彼此责备对方不相信自己似的。

几分钟后，从正门匆匆走出一位军官，说了句什么命令，于是龙骑兵排成长列。人群离开阳台急切地涌向门廊。拉斯托普钦愤怒地快步走上门廊，急忙扫视周围，似乎在寻找谁。

“他在哪儿？”伯爵问道，就在他刚一说完这句话的同时，他看到两个龙骑兵夹着一个年轻人从屋角走了出来，这人脖子细长，剃掉半边的头又长出了短发。他身穿一件颇为漂亮的，现已破旧的蓝呢面狐皮大衣，肮脏的麻布囚裤，裤脚塞在未经擦拭且已变形的瘦小的靴子里。细瘦而无力的腿上套着脚镣，使步履蹒跚的年轻人行动更加吃力。

“噢！”拉斯托普钦说，急忙从穿狐皮袄的年轻人身上移开目光，指着门廊的最下一级台阶。“带他到这儿来，”年轻人拖响着脚镣，艰难地走到指定的台阶下，用一根指头戳开压紧的衣领，扭动了两下细长的脖领，叹了一口气，把细瘦的不干活的手叠在肚皮上，保持温顺的姿势。

在那个年轻人在梯级上站稳的几秒钟内，仍然没人作声。只是在后面几排，那里的人都往一个地方挤，听得到咕哝嘟囔，推挤和脚步移动的声音。

拉斯托普钦在等他站好的时间里，阴沉沉地用手抹了抹脸。

“弟兄们！”拉斯托普钦用金属般的洪亮嗓音说，“这个人，韦列夏金，就是那个使莫斯科毁掉了的坏人。”

穿狐皮袄的年轻人温顺地站着，手掌交叉叠在肚皮上，微微弯腰。他那绝望的憔悴的、由于头被剃得残缺不全而显得难看的年轻的脸，向下低垂着。在听到伯爵头几句话时，他缓慢地抬起头来仰望伯爵，想要对他讲话或与他对视，但拉斯托普钦不看他。年轻人的细长脖颈上，在耳后，一根青筋像一条绳子那样鼓起来，随后，脸色突然发红。

所有的目光一齐射向他。他看了看人群，似乎从他们脸上看到尚有希望的表情，他凄惨而悄然地笑了一笑，又低下了头，移动好站在阶梯上的双脚。

“他背叛了自己的皇上和祖国，他效忠波拿巴，就是他玷污了俄国人的名声，并且，因为他莫斯科才毁掉了的，”拉斯托普钦从容地尖起嗓子讲述着；但突然飞快地往下面看了一眼韦列夏金，这人依然是一副温顺的模样。仿佛他被这一瞥激怒了，他举起手几乎喊叫地对这群人说：“你们自己来审判他吧！我把他交给你们！”

这群人默不作声，只是挤得愈来愈紧，互相偎靠着，呼吸着这股被感染了的窒息的空气，没有力气移动身子，等待着某种不可知的不可理解的可怕事情发生，是教人难以忍受的。前排的人对一切情形看得清楚听得明白，都恐怖地睁大眼睛，张大嘴巴，鼓足了劲，挺直了腰，挡住后面的人的推挤。

“打他！……让这个叛徒完蛋，不许他有损俄国人的名声！”拉斯托普钦喊着。“用刀砍！我命令！”没听清楚讲话，却听清伯爵愤怒声音的人群，骚动起来，并往前挤，随后又停了下来。

“伯爵！……”在又一次出现的短暂的寂静中，响起了韦列夏金胆怯而又铿锵的说话声。“伯爵，我们的头上，有一个上帝……”韦列夏金说，他抬起了头，细小的脖颈上那根粗血管又充血了，鼓胀起来，红潮很快泛上他的面庞，又很快地消失。他没有把他要说的话说完。

“砍他的头！我命令……”拉斯托普钦吼叫之后，突然脸色刷白，像韦列夏金一样。

“刀出鞘！”军官向龙骑兵发出口令，本人也拔出了军刀。

人群又一次地更为猛烈地涌动起来，涌动的波浪到达前排后，竟摇晃着涌上门廊的台阶。高个小伙子于是同韦列复金并排站在一起，脸上的表情呆若石头，举起的那只手也僵着不放下来。

“砍！”军官对龙骑兵的说话声几乎是耳语，于是，一个士兵突然恶狠狠扭曲着脸，举起一把钝马刀砍向韦列夏金的头部。

“啊！”韦列夏金吃惊地叫了一声，恐惧地环顾四周，似乎还不明白，为什么这事发生在他身上。人群同样发出恐惧的惊叹。

“哦，上帝！”不知谁发出悲伤的叹息。

韦列复金在发出那声惊叫之后，紧接着又痛得他可怜地呼喊，而这一声呼喊倒要了他的命。压力达到极限的人类感情的堤防，刚才还控制着人群，现在顷刻瓦解了。罪行既然开了头，就必须会把它干到底。责难的哀吟，淹没在人群雷霆怒吼之中。这最后一次不可遏制的波浪，就像最后的，击碎船只的七级浪一样利害，从后面几排涌到前排，冲倒他们，吞没了一切。砍了一刀的龙骑兵想再砍一刀。韦列夏金恐怖的叫着，抱头跑向人群。高个小伙子被他撞了一下，趁势伸出两手卡住韦列夏金细长的脖颈，狂叫着和他一起跌倒在挤成一团的吼叫着的人群脚下。

一些人扭打韦列夏金，另一些人扭打高个小伙子。被压在下面的人的喊叫，和奋力救助高个小伙子的人的呼喊，只激起了人群的狂怒。很长时间，龙骑兵老是解救不出那个满脸是血，被打得半死的工人。尽管人群迫不及待地奋力要把已经开了头的事情进行到底，但很长时间，那些扑打韦列夏金，想要卡死他撕碎他的人，都未能整治死他；人群从各个方向朝他们压过来，以他们为中心，形成一团板块，从一边到另一边地晃来晃去，既不让他们有机会打死他，又不让他们放掉他。

“用斧子砍呀，怎么样？……压成团了……叛徒，出卖了基督！……活着……还活着……恶人活该受罪。用门闩揍！

……还没死啊！”

直到牺牲品不再挣扎，它的呐喊变成有节奏的悠长的嘶哑的喘息，人群方才匆忙离开倒在地上浑身是血的尸体。刚才得以接近并且目睹这一情景的每一个人，此刻带着恐怖、责备、惊慌的神情纷纷朝后边挤去。

“哦，上帝，人跟野兽一样，哪儿有活路哟！”人群里有人说。“小小的年纪……怕是买卖人家的孩子，那样的一帮人啊！……据说，不是那一个……怎么不是那一个……呵，上帝！……听说还有一个挨了打，差不多要死了……唉，这些人啊……不怕作孽……”那些人现在又这样说，用病态的怜悯的表情看着尸体，血淋淋的发青的脸上沾满尘土，细长的脖颈被砍烂了。

一名忠于职守的警官，发觉尸体摆在大人院内不像话，有碍观瞻，命令龙骑兵把它拖到街上去。两名龙骑兵抓起打得变了形的腿，拖走尸体。血迹斑斑，糊满尘土，已经僵死的细脖子上的剃了半边的脑袋，动来动去地在地上拖着。人群挤着让开尸体。

在韦列夏金倒地，人群狂叫着挤到他身旁，前仰后翻，东倒西歪时，拉斯托普钦突然脸色苍白，他不是朝着在那里等候他上马车的后门廊走去，而是低下了头，不由自主地沿着通往下面一层房间的走廊快步地走。他自己也不知道去什么地方，为什么这样走，伯爵的面容苍白，下巴颏像害疟疾般不住停地发抖。

“爵爷，往这边……您这是往哪儿？……请这边走。”他身后一个害怕得发抖的声音说。

拉斯托普钦已无力答话，只是顺从地转过身来，朝指给他的方向去。后门廊下停着一辆轻便马车。隔得远了的汹涌的人声，在这里仍可听到。拉斯托普钦匆匆坐上马车，吩咐驶往他在索科尔尼茨的郊外别墅。行至肉铺街，再也听不到人群的哄闹声之后，伯爵开始感到后悔。他现在懊恼地回想起他在下层面前表现出的激动和惶恐不安。“La　populace　est　terrible，elle　est　hideuse，”他用法语这样想。“Ils　sont　comme　les　loups　qu'on　ne　peut　apaiser　qua'vecde　la　chair．”①“伯爵，我们的头上有一个上帝！”他突然想起韦列夏金这句话，一阵不愉快的寒战，透过他的脊梁骨。但只是短暂的一瞬，拉斯托普钦伯爵轻蔑地嘲笑了一下自己。“J'avais　d'autres　devoirs，”他想，“Il　fallait　apaiser　le　peuple．Bien　d'autres　victimes　ont　péri　et　périssent　pour　le　bien　publique．”②于是，他转而去想他所担负的责任：对他的家庭，对他的（即委托给他的）都城，以及对他自己所负的责任——不是想费多尔·瓦西里耶维奇·拉斯普钦（他认为费·瓦·拉斯托普钦正为bien　publique③作自我牺牲），而是想那个作为总督，权力的代表和沙皇的全权代表的他。“如果我仅仅是费多尔·瓦西里耶维奇，ma　ligne　de　condnite　auraite　été　tout　autrement　tracée④，但我应既保住生命，又保持总督之尊严。”

①民众成群结队是可怕的，真讨厌。他们像狼群，除了肉，别的东西什么也满足不了他们。

②我有另外的职责（即安定民心——原编者注）。许多牺牲品已经并仍将为公众利益遭到灭亡。

③公众利益。

④我的道路将完全是另一个样子。

拉斯托普钦坐在马车柔软的弹簧座上轻轻摇晃着，再也听不到人群可怕的叫喊，他在生理上已趋平静，于是又像通常那样，随着生理上的平静，理智也为他构想出使精神趋于平静的理由。使拉斯托普钦心地安宁的那一思想并不新鲜。自世界之存在及人们相互残杀之时日起，任何人犯下类似的罪行时，总是以这一思想安慰自己。这一思想便是le　bien　publique①，别人的利益。

对于未陷入嗜欲的人来说，此种福利总是不可知的；但一个正在犯下罪行的人，却总是十分清楚这一福利之所在。拉斯托普钦此刻就很清楚。

他不仅依随自己的成见不责备自己所作出的行为，反而找到了自我满足的理由，非常成功地利用这一à　proBpos②——既惩治了罪犯，又安定了民众。

“韦列夏金已受审，并判了死刑，”拉斯托普钦想（虽然韦列夏金只由枢密院判服苦役）。“他是卖国贼和叛徒；我不能使他免于刑罚，而且是je　faisais　d'une　pierre　deux　coups③；为了保持安定，我让民众处置牺牲品，惩罚了坏人。”

①公众利益。

②恰当的时机。

③一石二鸟。

驶抵郊外别墅，作了些家务安排，伯爵完全心平气和了。

半小时之后，伯爵换乘快马拉的马车经过索科尔尼茨田野时，已不再回想曾经发生的事，只思考和想象着将要发生的事情。他现在是去雅乌兹桥，他被告知库图佐夫在那里。拉斯托普钦伯爵想出一些愤怒而尖刻的言辞，准备用来对库图佐夫的欺瞒加以责备。他要让这头御前老狐狸知道，放弃故都，毁灭俄国（拉斯托普钦是这样认为）。引起的种种不幸，责任在于他这个老糊涂。拉斯托普钦预先想过一遍要对他说的话之后，就愤怒地在马车里转动身躯，怒气向四下张望。

索科尔尼茨田野一片荒凉。只是在它的尽头，在养老院和疯人院旁边，见到一堆堆穿白衣衫的人，其中有几人单个地在田野上走着，一边吼叫，一边挥动胳膊。

这几人中的一个跑着横穿过拉斯托普钦伯爵马车行驶的路。伯爵本人，以及车夫和龙骑兵们，都略带惊恐和好奇地看着这些放出来的疯子，尤其是那个跑到他们跟前来的人。这人摇晃着细长的瘦腿，长衫飘动着，拼命追着马车跑，两眼紧盯拉斯托普钦，用嘶哑的嗓子对他喊，并比划着要他停车。疯子的胡须浓密而又参差不齐，忧郁而严肃的面孔又瘦又黄。黑色的玛瑙般的瞳仁在黄而发红的眼白里低垂地、惊慌地转动着。

“停！别动！我说！”他尖叫着，又用威严的音调和姿势，喘息着喊些什么。

他赶上马车，与它并排跑着。

“他们杀死我三次，我三次从死尸复活。他们用石头打我，把我钉上十字架……我将复活……将复活……复活。他们撕碎了我的身躯。天国要毁灭……我摧毁它三次，重建它三次，”他嚷叫着，嗓门愈来愈高。拉斯托普钦伯爵脸色突然苍白，就像人群扑向韦列夏金时他的脸色发白一样。他转过头去。“走……走快点！”他用颤抖的声音对车夫喊道。

马车全速飞驰；但伯爵很久都还听到身后渐远渐弱的疯子的绝望的呼喊，而眼前则见到那个身穿狐皮大衣的惊惶的满是血迹的叛徒的脸。

这一切都还记忆犹新，拉斯托普钦现在感到它已深入自己血液嵌入内心了。他现在清楚地意识到，这记忆中的血痕将永不消失，并且相反，时间愈久，这一可怕的记忆在他心上会愈加折磨他，愈加令他难受。他现在似乎听到自己说话的声音：“砍死他，你们砍下头来回报我！”“为什么我说这句话！大概是偶然说的……我本来可以不说（他想），那就什么事都不会有了。”他看到那个砍人的士兵的恐惧而又突然变得凶狠的面孔，看见那个穿狐皮大衣的年轻人向他投射过来的胆怯的无言的责备的目光……“但我不是为自己这样作的。我必须这样作。La　plèbe，le　traitre　……le　bien　publique．”①他想。

①平民，叛徒……公众利益。

雅乌兹桥头，军队仍十分拥挤。天气很热。阴沉忧郁的库图佐夫坐在桥边一条凳子上，用鞭子玩弄沙土，这时有一辆马车隆隆向他驶来。一位身穿将军服，戴羽饰帽，不知他是愤怒，还是恐惧，眼睛珠子不停地乱转，他走到库图佐夫身旁，用法语向他讲起话来。这就是拉斯托普钦伯爵。他向库图佐夫说，莫斯科故都已经不存在了，剩下的唯有军队。

“如果钧座不告诉我，您本来不会不战而拱手让出莫斯科，这一切就都不会发生，结局就不同啦！”他说。

库图佐夫望着拉斯托普钦，好像不明白他说的这番话的意义，并且费力地想看出此刻说话人脸上的特殊表情。拉斯托普钦赧颜地沉默了。库图佐夫微微摇头，探询的目光仍盯着拉斯托普钦的脸，悄声地说：

“不，我不会不战而交出莫斯科的。”

库图佐夫说这句话时想着完全不同的事情也好，或是明知其无意义不过说说而已也好，拉斯托普钦伯爵倒没再说什么，匆匆离开了库图佐夫。真是怪事！莫斯科总督，骄傲的拉斯托普钦伯爵拿起一根短皮鞭，走到桥头，开始吆喝起来驱赶挤成一团的大车。