THE ATTACK of the Sixth Chasseurs covered the retreat of the right flank. In the centre Tushin's forgotten battery had succeeded in setting fire to Sch?ngraben and delaying the advance of the French. The French stayed to put out the fire, which was fanned by the wind, and this gave time for the Russians to retreat. The retreat of the centre beyond the ravine was hurried and noisy; but the different companies kept apart. But the left flank, which consisted of the Azovsky and Podolosky infantry and the Pavlograd hussars, was simultaneously attacked in front and surrounded by the cream of the French army under Lannes, and was thrown into disorder. Bagration had sent Zherkov to the general in command of the left flank with orders to retreat immediately.

Zherkov, keeping his hand still at his cap, had briskly started his horse and galloped off. But no sooner had he ridden out of Bagration's sight than his courage failed him. He was overtaken by a panic he could not contend against, and he could not bring himself to go where there was danger.

After galloping some distance towards the troops of the left flank, he rode not forward where he heard firing, but off to look for the general and the officers in a direction where they could not by any possibility be; and so it was that he did not deliver the message.

The command of the left flank belonged by right of seniority to the general of the regiment in which Dolohov was serving—the regiment which Kutuzov had inspected before Braunau. But the command of the extreme left flank had been entrusted to the colonel of the Pavlograd hussars, in which Rostov was serving. Hence arose a misunderstanding. Both commanding officers were intensely exasperated with one another, and at a time when fighting had been going on a long while on the right flank, and the French had already begun their advance on the left, these two officers were engaged in negotiations, the sole aim of which was the mortification of one another. The regiments—cavalry and infantry alike—were by no means in readiness for the engagement. No one from the common soldier to the general expected a battle; and they were all calmly engaged in peaceful occupations—feeding their horses in the cavalry, gathering wood in the infantry.

“He is my senior in rank, however,” said the German colonel of the hussars, growing very red and addressing an adjutant, who had ridden up. “So let him do as he likes. I can't sacrifice my hussars. Bugler! Sound the retreat!”

But things were becoming urgent. The fire of cannon and musketry thundered in unison on the right and in the centre, and the French tunics of Lannes's sharpshooters had already passed over the milldam, and were forming on this side of it hardly out of musket-shot range.

The infantry general walked up to his horse with his quivering strut, and mounting it and drawing himself up very erect and tall, he rode up to the Pavlograd colonel. The two officers met with affable bows and concealed fury in their hearts.

“Again, colonel,” the general said, “I cannot leave half my men in the wood. I beg you, I beg you,” he repeated, “to occupy the position, and prepare for an attack.”

“And I beg you not to meddle in what's not your business,” answered the colonel, getting hot. “If you were a cavalry officer …”

“I am not a cavalry officer, colonel, but I am a Russian general, and if you are unaware of the fact …”

“I am fully aware of it, your excellency,” the colonel screamed suddenly, setting his horse in motion and becoming purple in the face. “If you care to come to the front, you will see that this position cannot be held. I don't want to massacre my regiment for your satisfaction.”

“You forget yourself, colonel. I am not considering my own satisfaction, and I do not allow such a thing to be said.”

Taking the colonel's proposition as a challenge to his courage, the general squared his chest and rode scowling beside him to the front line, as though their whole difference would inevitably be settled there under the enemy's fire. They reached the line, several bullets flew by them, and they stood still without a word. To look at the front line was a useless proceeding, since from the spot where they had been standing before, it was clear that the cavalry could not act, owing to the bushes and the steep and broken character of the ground, and that the French were out-flanking the left wing. The general and the colonel glared sternly and significantly at one another, like two cocks preparing for a fight, seeking in vain for a symptom of cowardice. Both stood the test without flinching. Since there was nothing to be said, and neither was willing to give the other grounds for asserting that he was the first to withdraw from under fire, they might have remained a long while standing there, mutually testing each other's pluck, if there had not at that moment been heard in the copse, almost behind them, the snap of musketry and a confused shout of voices. The French were attacking the soldiers gathering wood in the copse. The hussars could not now retreat, nor could the infantry. They were cut off from falling back on the left by the French line. Now, unfavourable as the ground was, they must attack to fight a way through for themselves.

The hussars of the squadron in which Rostov was an ensign had hardly time to mount their horses when they were confronted by the enemy. Again, as on the Enns bridge, there was no one between the squadron and the enemy, and between them lay that terrible border-line of uncertainty and dread, like the line dividing the living from the dead. All the soldiers were conscious of that line, and the question whether they would cross it or not, and how they would cross it, filled them with excitement.

The colonel rode up to the front, made some angry reply to the questions of the officers, and, like a man desperately insisting on his rights, gave some command. No one said anything distinctly, but through the whole squadron there ran a vague rumour of attack. The command to form in order rang out, then there was the clank of sabres being drawn out of their sheaths. But still no one moved. The troops of the left flank, both the infantry and the hussars, felt that their commanders themselves did not know what to do, and the uncertainty of the commanders infected the soldiers.

“Make haste, if only they'd make haste,” thought Rostov, feeling that at last the moment had come to taste the joys of the attack, of which he had heard so much from his comrades.

“With God's help, lads,” rang out Denisov's voice, “forward, quick, gallop!”

The horses' haunches began moving in the front line. Rook pulled at the reins and set off of himself.

On the right Rostov saw the foremost lines of his own hussars, and still further ahead he could see a dark streak, which he could not distinguish clearly, but assumed to be the enemy. Shots could be heard, but at a distance.

“Quicker!” rang out the word of command, and Rostov felt the drooping of Rook's hindquarters as he broke into a gallop. He felt the joy of the gallop coming, and was more and more lighthearted. He noticed a solitary tree ahead of him. The tree was at first in front of him, in the middle of that border-land that had seemed so terrible. But now they had crossed it and nothing terrible had happened, but he felt more lively and excited every moment. “Ah, won't I slash at him!” thought Rostov, grasping the hilt of his sabre tightly. “Hur … r … a … a!” roared voices.

“Now, let him come on, whoever it may be,” thought Rostov, driving the spurs into Rook, and outstripping the rest, he let him go at full gallop. Already the enemy could be seen in front. Suddenly something swept over the squadron like a broad broom. Rostov lifted his sabre, making ready to deal a blow, but at that instant the soldier Nikitenko galloped ahead and left his side, and Rostov felt as though he were in a dream being carried forward with supernatural swiftness and yet remaining at the same spot. An hussar, Bandartchuk, galloped up from behind close upon him and looked angrily at him. Bandartchuk's horse started aside, and he galloped by.

“What's the matter? I'm not moving? I've fallen, I'm killed …” Rostov asked and answered himself all in one instant. He was alone in the middle of the field. Instead of the moving horses and the hussars' backs, he saw around him the motionless earth and stubblefield. There was warm blood under him.

“No, I'm wounded, and my horse is killed.” Rook tried to get up on his forelegs, but he sank again, crushing his rider's leg under his leg. Blood was flowing from the horse's head. The horse struggled, but could not get up. Rostov tried to get up, and fell down too. His sabretache had caught in the saddle. Where were our men, where were the French, he did not know. All around him there was no one.

Getting his leg free, he stood up. “Which side, where now was that line that had so sharply divided the two armies?” he asked himself, and could not answer. “Hasn't something gone wrong with me? Do such things happen, and what ought one to do in such cases?” he wondered as he was getting up. But at that instant he felt as though something superfluous was hanging on his benumbed left arm. The wrist seemed not to belong to it. He looked at his hand, carefully searching for blood on it. “Come, here are some men,” he thought joyfully, seeing some men running towards him. “They will help me!” In front of these men ran a single figure in a strange shako and a blue coat, with a swarthy sunburnt face and a hooked nose. Then came two men, and many more were running up behind. One of them said some strange words, not Russian. Between some similar figures in similar shakoes behind stood a Russian hussar. He was being held by the arms; behind him they were holding his horse too.

“It must be one of ours taken prisoner.… Yes. Surely they couldn't take me too? What sort of men are they?” Rostov was still wondering, unable to believe his own eyes. “Can they be the French?” He gazed at the approaching French, and although only a few seconds before he had been longing to get at these Frenchmen and to cut them down, their being so near seemed to him now so awful that he could not believe his eyes. “Who are they? What are they running for? Can it be to me? Can they be running to me? And what for? To kill me? Me, whom every one's so fond of?” He recalled his mother's love, the love of his family and his friends, and the enemy's intention of killing him seemed impossible. “But they may even kill me.” For more than ten seconds he stood, not moving from the spot, nor grasping his position. The foremost Frenchman with the hook nose was getting so near that he could see the expression of his face. And the excited, alien countenance of the man, who was running so lightly and breathlessly towards him, with his bayonet lowered, terrified Rostov. He snatched up his pistol, and instead of firing with it, flung it at the Frenchman and ran to the bushes with all his might. Not with the feeling of doubt and conflict with which he had moved at the Enns bridge, did he now run, but with the feeling of a hare fleeing from the dogs. One unmixed feeling of fear for his young, happy life took possession of his whole being. Leaping rapidly over the hedges with the same impetuosity with which he used to run when he played games, he flew over the field, now and then turning his pale, good-natured, youthful face, and a chill of horror ran down his spine. “No, better not to look,” he thought, but as he got near to the bushes he looked round once more. The French had given it up, and just at the moment when he looked round the foremost man was just dropping from a run into a walk, and turning round to shout something loudly to a comrade behind. Rostov stopped. “There's some mistake,” he thought; “it can't be that they meant to kill me.” And meanwhile his left arm was as heavy as if a hundred pound weight were hanging on it. He could run no further. The Frenchman stopped too and took aim. Rostov frowned and ducked. One bullet and then another flew hissing by him; he took his left hand in his right, and with a last effort ran as far as the bushes. In the bushes there were Russian sharpshooters.

第六猎骑兵团的进攻，保证了右翼的撤退。已被遗忘的图申（点火烧毁了申格拉本村）主管的炮台在中央阵地采取军事行动，阻止了法国军队的前进。法国人扑灭被风蔓卷而来的烈火，使俄国军队赢得向后撤退的时间。中央阵地的军队向后撤退，仓促而忙乱，但是各个部队在撤退时并没有乱成一团。左翼是由亚速和波多尔斯克两个步兵团以及保罗格勒骠骑兵团所组成，但因法军拉纳带领的优势兵力的进攻和包抄而处于溃乱之中。巴格拉季翁派热尔科夫去见左翼将军，向他转交火速退却的命令。

热尔科夫没有把行礼时举到帽檐边的手放下，就动作迅速地拨马疾驰而去，但是一当他离开巴格拉季翁，就力不从心，一种不可克服的恐惧把他控制住了，他不能到那个危险的地方去。当他向左翼的军队驰近后，他没有向那枪林弹雨的前方走去，而是在将军和首长们不会露面的地方去寻找他们，所以他没有传达命令。

左翼是由资历深的在布劳瑙城下晋谒库图佐夫的即是多洛霍夫在其手下当兵的那个兵团的团长指挥。罗斯托夫在保罗格勒兵团服役，该团团长受命指挥边远的左翼，因此这种事发生了误会。两个首长反目，仇恨很深，正当左翼早已发生战事，法国军队开始进攻之际，两个首长竟忙于旨在互相侮辱的谈判。无论是骑兵团，抑或是步兵团，对行将爆发的战斗都很少作出准备。两个兵团的人员，从士兵到将军，都没有料到要会战，竟泰然自若地从事和平劳动：骑兵喂马，步兵收拾木柴。

“他到底比我的军阶更高，”德国佬——骠骑兵团团长，涨红了脸，对着向前走来的副官说道，“他愿意干什么事，就让他干什么事。我不能牺牲自己的骠骑兵。司号兵，吹退却号！”

然而，战事急如星火。排炮声和步枪声互相交融，响彻了左翼和中央阵地，拉纳带领的身穿外套的法国步兵越过了磨坊的堤坝，在堤坝这边的两射程远的地方排队了。步兵上校迈着颤抖的脚步走到马前面，翻身上马，骑在马上时身材显得端正而高大，他走到保罗格勒兵团团长跟前，两个团长相会了，他们恭恭敬敬地点头行礼，可是心中隐藏着仇恨。

“上校，再一次，”将军说道，“可是我不能把一半人员留在森林中。我请求您，我请求您，”他重说一遍，“占领阵地，准备进攻。”

“我请求您不要干预别人的事，”上校急躁地答道，“既然您是个骑兵……”

“上校，我不是骑兵，而是俄国将军，既然您不清楚……”

“大人，我很清楚，”上校拨着马，涨红了脸，忽然喊道，“您光顾一下散兵线，行不行？那您将会看到，这个阵地毫无用处。我不想花掉自己的兵团来博取您的欢心。”

“上校，您忘乎所以了。我并不注重自己的欢乐，而且不容许说这种话。”

将军接受了上校所提出的比赛勇气的邀请，他挺直胸膛，皱起眉头，和他一同向散兵线走去，好像他们的全部分歧应当在那枪林弹雨下的散兵线上获得解决。他们到达散兵线，有几颗子弹从他们头上飞过，他们沉默地停下来，可是散兵线没有什么可看的，因为从他们原先站过的地方可以清楚地看见，骑兵不能在灌木林和峡谷中作战，法国人正向左翼绕过去。将军和上校像两只准备格斗的公鸡，严肃地意味深长地怒目相视，白白地守候对方露出胆怯的神态。两个人经受住了考验。因为没有什么话可说，两个人都不愿意使对方有所借口，说他头一个走出了子弹的射程，若不是这时在森林中，几乎是在他们身后传来了噼噼啪啪的枪声和汇成一片的低沉的喊声，他们就要长久地站在那里比赛勇气。法国人攻击一名在森林中拾起木柴的士兵。骠骑兵已经没法和步兵一道撤退了。他们被法军散兵线截断了向左面撤退的道路。现在无论地形怎样不方便，为了要给自己开辟一条道路，就必须发动进攻。

罗斯托夫所服役的那个骑兵连的官兵刚刚骑上战马，就迎头遇见敌人，于是停了下来。又像在恩斯河桥上的情形那样，在骑兵连和敌人之间空无一人；他们之间隔着一条危险的未知的恐怖的界线，好像是一条分隔生者和死者的界线。所有的人都觉察到这条界线。他们是否能够越过这条界线，如何越过这条界线的问题，使他们颇为不安。

上校已驰至战线的正面，气忿地回答军官们提出的一些问题，就像一个拼命地固执己见的人那样，发布了一项命令。没有人说过什么明确的话，但是进攻的消息传遍了骑兵连。发出了排队的口令，随后可以听见出鞘的马刀铿锵作响。但是谁也没有前进一步。左翼的部队，无论是步兵，抑或是骠骑兵，都感觉到，首长们自己也不知道应该怎么办，因此首长们的犹豫不决的心情感染了整个部队。

“快一点，要快一点。”罗斯托夫想道，心里觉得，享受进攻的乐趣的时刻终于来到了，关于这种事他从骠骑兵战友那里听得可多哩。

“伙伴们，愿上帝保佑，”传来杰尼索夫的嗓音，“跑步走！”

前列中的一匹匹马的臀部微微摆动起来了。“白嘴鸦”拽了拽缰绳，就自己上路了。

罗斯托夫从右边望见他自己的前几列骠骑兵，前面稍远的地方，他可以望见他原来望不清的黑魆魆的地带，不过他认为这就是敌军，可以听见一阵阵枪声，不过是从远处传来的。

“要加快马的步速！”发出了口令，罗斯托夫觉察到，他的“白嘴鸦”尥了一下马蹶子，疾驰起来了。

他预先猜测到它的动作，他于是变得越发高兴了。他发现了前面的一棵孤零零的树。这棵树始终位于前面那条显得多么可怕的界线的中间。可是当他们越过了这条界线，就非但没有什么可怕而且变得越发愉快，越发活跃了。“啊呀，我真要把它砍掉。”罗斯托夫手中握着马刀刀柄，心中想道。

“乌——拉——拉——拉！”响起了一片喊声。

“欸，无论是谁，现在落到我手上来吧。”罗斯托夫一面想道，一面用马刺刺着“白嘴鸦”，要赶上其他人员，便让它袭步奔驰起来。前面已经望得见敌人。忽然骑兵连像给宽扫把鞭挞了一下。罗斯托夫举起了马刀，准备砍杀，但这时正在前面疾驰的士兵尼基琴科从他身边走开了；罗斯托夫如入梦乡，他心中觉得，还在神速地向前飞奔，同时又觉得停滞不前。一名熟悉的骠骑兵邦达尔丘克从后面疾驰着赶上来了，他恼火地瞟了一眼。邦达尔丘克的马猛地往旁边一蹿，绕过去了。

“这是怎么回事？我没有前进？——我已经倒下，被打死了……”罗斯托夫在一瞬间自问自答。他独自一人置身于战场。他从自己周围看见的不是驰骋的战马和一闪而过的骠骑兵的背脊，而是一动不动的土地和已经收割的庄稼地。热血在他的身上流淌着。“不，我负了伤，马被打死了。”“白嘴鸦”正要伸出前腿，支撑起来，可是它倒下了，压伤了乘马者的一条腿。马头正流着鲜血。马在挣扎，站不起来了。罗斯托夫想站起来，也倒下了，皮囊挂住了马鞍。我们的人在哪儿，法国人在哪儿——他不知道。周围没有一个人了。

他抽出一只腿，站立起来。“那条把两军明显地分开的界线如今在何方？！”他向自己问道，并没有回答出来。“我是否发生了什么不好的事情？是不是常有这种情形呢？在这种情形下应当怎样办呢？”他在站立的时候，向自己问道。这时他觉得，他那只失去知觉的左手上悬着什么多余的东西。手腕已经麻木，仿佛它不是他自己的。他一面望着手臂，一面徒劳地寻觅手上的血迹。“你看，这些人终于来了。”他看见有几个人向他跑来，他很高兴地思忖一下，“他们是来帮助我的！”有个人在这些人前面跑着，他头戴古怪的高筒军帽，身穿蓝色大衣，长着鹰钩鼻子，黑头发，晒得黝黑。还有两个人，还有许多人从后面跑来。其中有个人说了什么不是俄国人通常说的怪话。在这样一些头戴高筒军帽跟在后面奔跑的人中间夹杂着一个俄国骠骑兵。有人抓着他的一双手，有人在他身后抓着他的马。

“想必是我们的人被虏去当战俘……对了。他们难道要把我也抓起来？他们是一些什么人呢？”罗斯托夫不相信自己的眼睛，心里总是这么思忖着，“他们难道是法国人？”他端详着向他渐渐靠近的法国人。虽然在一瞬间他所说的不过是想追上法国人，把他们砍成肉酱，现在他仿佛觉得，他们的逼近非常可怖，致使他不相信自己的眼睛。“他们是谁呢？他们为什么跑来？难道是跑到我这里来吗？他们难道是跑到我这里来吗？为什么？要杀死我吗？杀死大家都很疼爱的我吗？”他想起他的母亲、一家人、朋友们都很爱他，因此，敌人杀害他的意图是难以想象的。“也许——真会把我杀死的！”因为不领会自己的处境，他有十多秒钟站在原地不动。那个领头的长着鹰钩鼻的法国人跑得离他很近，已经望得见他的面部表情。这个人端着刺刀，微微地屏住呼吸，轻快地朝他跑来，他那急躁的陌生的面孔使罗斯托夫感到惊恐，他抓起手枪，没有向法国人开枪，把手枪扔到他身上，使尽全力地向灌木林边跑去了。他奔跑着，他已经没有他在恩斯河桥上行走时所怀有的犹疑不决和内心斗争的感觉，但却怀有那野兔从狼犬群中逃跑时的感觉。一种无可摆脱的为其青春时代的幸福生活而担忧的感情控制着他的整个身心。他很快地跳过田塍，在田野中飞奔，动作是那样敏捷，就像他玩逮人游戏时迅速地奔跑似的。有时候他把那苍白的善良的年轻人的面孔转过来，他的脊背上起了一阵寒栗。“不，最好不要看，”他想了一下，但跑到灌木林前又掉过头来看看。一些法国官兵掉队了。甚至在他回顾的这一瞬间，领头的法国人才刚把快步改成整步，并回头对那走在后面的伙伴大声吆喝着什么。罗斯托夫停步不前。“有点儿不大对头，”他想了想，“他们想把我杀死，这是不可能的。”同时他的左手觉是沉甸甸的，好像有两普特重的哑铃悬挂在手上似的。他再也不能跑下去，法国人也停止前进，并且向他瞄准。罗斯托夫眯缝起眼睛，弯下身子。一颗又一颗子弹咝咝作响地从他身边飞过去了。他鼓足最后的力气，用右手抓住左手，向灌木林疾速地跑去。俄国步兵都呆在灌木林中。