THE WIND had sunk, black storm-clouds hung low over the battlefield, melting on the horizon into the clouds of smoke from the powder. Darkness had come, and the glow of conflagrations showed all the more distinctly in two places. The cannonade had grown feebler, but the snapping of musketry-fire in the rear and on the right was heard nearer and more often. As soon as Tushin with his cannons, continually driving round the wounded and coming upon them, had got out of fire and were descending the ravine, he was met by the staff, among whom was the staff-officer and Zherkov, who had twice been sent to Tushin's battery, but had not once reached it. They all vied with one another in giving him orders, telling him how and where to go, finding fault and making criticisms. Tushin gave no orders, and in silence, afraid to speak because at every word he felt, he could not have said why, ready to burst into tears, he rode behind on his artillery nag. Though orders were given to abandon the wounded, many of them dragged themselves after the troops and begged for a seat on the cannons. The jaunty infantry-officer—the one who had run out of Tushin's shanty just before the battle—was laid on Matvyevna's carriage with a bullet in his stomach. At the bottom of the hill a pale ensign of hussars, holding one arm in the other hand, came up to Tushin and begged for a seat.
“Captain, for God's sake. I've hurt my arm,” he said timidly. “For God's sake. I can't walk. For God's sake!” It was evident that this was not the first time the ensign had asked for a lift, and that he had been everywhere refused. He asked in a hesitating and piteous voice, “Tell them to let me get on, for God's sake!”
“Let him get on, let him get on,” said Tushin. “Put a coat under him, you, uncle.” He turned to his favourite soldier. “But where's the wounded officer?”
“We took him off; he was dead,” answered some one.
“Help him on. Sit down, my dear fellow, sit down. Lay the coat there, Antonov.”
The ensign was Rostov. He was holding one hand in the other. He was pale and his lower jaw was trembling as though in a fever. They put him on Matvyevna, the cannon from which they had just removed the dead officer. There was blood on the coat that was laid under him, and Rostov's riding-breeches and arm were smeared with it.
“What, are you wounded, my dear?” said Tushin, going up to the cannon on which Rostov was sitting.
“No; it's a sprain.”
“How is it there's blood on the frame?” asked Tushin.
“That was the officer, your honour, stained it,” answered an artillery-man, wiping the blood off with the sleeve of his coat, and as it were apologising for the dirty state of the cannon.
With difficulty, aided by the infantry, they dragged the cannon uphill, and halted on reaching the village of Guntersdorf. It was by now so dark that one could not distinguish the soldiers' uniforms ten paces away, and the firing had begun to subside. All of a sudden there came the sound of firing and shouts again close by on the right side. The flash of the shots could be seen in the darkness. This was the last attack of the French. It was met by the soldiers in ambush in the houses of the village. All rushed out of the village again, but Tushin's cannons could not move and the artillerymen, Tushin, and the ensign looked at one another in anticipation of their fate. The firing on both sides began to subside, and some soldiers in lively conversation streamed out of a side street.
“Not hurt, Petrov?” inquired one.
“We gave it them hot, lads. They won't meddle with us now,” another was saying.
“One couldn't see a thing. Didn't they give it to their own men! No seeing for the darkness, mates. Isn't there something to drink?”
The French had been repulsed for the last time. And again, in the complete darkness, Tushin's cannons moved forward, surrounded by the infantry, who kept up a hum of talk.
In the darkness they flowed on like an unseen, gloomy river always in the same direction, with a buzz of whisper and talk and the thud of hoofs and rumble of wheels. Above all other sounds, in the confused uproar, rose the moans and cries of the wounded, more distinct than anything in the darkness of the night. Their moans seemed to fill all the darkness surrounding the troops. Their moans and the darkness seemed to melt into one. A little later a thrill of emotion passed over the moving crowd. Some one followed by a suite had ridden by on a white horse, and had said something as he passed.
“What did he say? Where we are going now? to halt, eh? Thanked us, what?” eager questions were heard on all sides, and the whole moving mass began to press back on itself (the foremost, it seemed, had halted), and a rumour passed through that the order had been given to halt. All halted in the muddy road, just where they were.
Fires were lighted and the talk became more audible. Captain Tushin, after giving instructions to his battery, sent some of his soldiers to look for an ambulance or a doctor for the ensign, and sat down by the fire his soldiers had lighted by the roadside. Rostov too dragged himself to the fire. His whole body was trembling with fever from the pain, the cold, and the damp. He was dreadfully sleepy, but he could not go to sleep for the agonising pain in his arm, which ached and would not be easy in any position. He closed his eyes, then opened them to stare at the fire, which seemed to him dazzling red, and then at the stooping, feeble figure of Tushin, squatting in Turkish fashion near him. The big, kindly, and shrewd eyes of Tushin were fixed upon him with sympathy and commiseration. He saw that Tushin wished with all his soul to help him, but could do nothing for him.
On all sides they heard the footsteps and the chatter of the infantry going and coming and settling themselves round them. The sounds of voices, of steps, and of horses' hoofs tramping in the mud, the crackling firewood far and near, all melted into one fluctuating roar of sound.
It was not now as before an unseen river flowing in the darkness, but a gloomy sea subsiding and still agitated after a storm. Rostov gazed vacantly and listened to what was passing before him and around him. An infantry soldier came up to the fire, squatted on his heels, held his hands to the fire, and turned his face.
“You don't mind, your honour?” he said, looking inquiringly at Tushin. “Here I've got lost from my company, your honour; I don't know myself where I am. It's dreadful!”
With the soldier an infantry officer approached the fire with a bandaged face. He asked Tushin to have the cannon moved a very little, so as to let a store waggon pass by. After the officer two soldiers ran up to the fire. They were swearing desperately and fighting, trying to pull a boot from one another.
“No fear! you picked it up! that's smart!” one shouted in a husky voice.
Then a thin, pale soldier approached, his neck bandaged with a bloodstained rag. With a voice of exasperation he asked the artillerymen for water.
“Why, is one to die like a dog?” he said.
Tushin told them to give him water. Next a good-humoured soldier ran up, to beg for some red-hot embers for the infantry.
“Some of your fire for the infantry! Glad to halt, lads. Thanks for the loan of the firing; we'll pay it back with interest,” he said, carrying some glowing firebrands away into the darkness.
Next four soldiers passed by, carrying something heavy in an overcoat. One of them stumbled.
“Ay, the devils, they've left firewood in the road,” grumbled one.
“He's dead; why carry him?” said one of them.
“Come on, you!” And they vanished into the darkness with their burden.
“Does it ache, eh?” Tushin asked Rostov in a whisper.
“Yes, it does ache.”
“Your honour's sent for to the general. Here in a cottage he is,” said a gunner, coming up to Tushin.
“In a minute, my dear.” Tushin got up and walked away from the fire, buttoning up his coat and setting himself straight.
In a cottage that had been prepared for him not far from the artillerymen's fire, Prince Bagration was sitting at dinner, talking with several commanding officers, who had gathered about him. The little old colonel with the half-shut eyes was there, greedily gnawing at a mutton-bone, and the general of twenty-two years' irreproachable service, flushed with a glass of vodka and his dinner, and the staff-officer with the signet ring, and Zherkov, stealing uneasy glances at every one, and Prince Andrey, pale with set lips and feverishly glittering eyes.
In the corner of the cottage room stood a French flag, that had been captured, and the auditor with the na?ve countenance was feeling the stuff of which the flag was made, and shaking his head with a puzzled air, possibly because looking at the flag really interested him, or possibly because he did not enjoy the sight of the dinner, as he was hungry and no place had been laid for him. In the next cottage there was the French colonel, who had been taken prisoner by the dragoons. Our officers were flocking in to look at him. Prince Bagration thanked the several commanding officers, and inquired into details of the battle and of the losses. The general, whose regiment had been inspected at Braunau, submitted to the prince that as soon as the engagement began, he had fallen back from the copse, mustered the men who were cutting wood, and letting them pass by him, had made a bayonet charge with two battalions and repulsed the French.
“As soon as I saw, your excellency, that the first battalion was thrown into confusion, I stood in the road and thought, ‘I'll let them get through and then open fire on them'; and that's what I did.”
The general had so longed to do this, he had so regretted not having succeeded in doing it, that it seemed to him now that this was just what had happened. Indeed might it not actually have been so? Who could make out in such confusion what did and what did not happen?
“And by the way I ought to note, your excellency,” he continued, recalling Dolohov's conversation with Kutuzov and his own late interview with the degraded officer, “that the private Dolohov, degraded to the ranks, took a French officer prisoner before my eyes and particularly distinguished himself.”
“I saw here, your excellency, the attack of the Pavlograd hussars,” Zherkov put in, looking uneasily about him. He had not seen the hussars at all that day, but had only heard about them from an infantry officer. “They broke up two squares, your excellency.”
When Zherkov began to speak, several officers smiled, as they always did, expecting a joke from him. But as they perceived that what he was saying all redounded to the glory of our arms and of the day, they assumed a serious expression, although many were very well aware that what Zherkov was saying was a lie utterly without foundation. Prince Bagration turned to the old colonel.
“I thank you all, gentlemen; all branches of the service behaved heroically—infantry, cavalry, and artillery. How did two cannons come to be abandoned in the centre?” he inquired, looking about for some one. (Prince Bagration did not ask about the cannons of the left flank; he knew that all of them had been abandoned at the very beginning of the action.) “I think it was you I sent,” he added, addressing the staff-officer.
“One had been disabled,” answered the staff-officer, “but the other, I can't explain; I was there all the while myself, giving instructions, and I had scarcely left there.… It was pretty hot, it's true,” he added modestly.
Some one said that Captain Tushin was close by here in the village, and that he had already been sent for.
“Oh, but you went there,” said Prince Bagration, addressing Prince Andrey.
“To be sure, we rode there almost together,” said the staff-officer, smiling affably to Bolkonsky.
“I had not the pleasure of seeing you,” said Prince Andrey, coldly and abruptly. Every one was silent.
Tushin appeared in the doorway, timidly edging in behind the generals' backs. Making his way round the generals in the crowded hut, embarrassed as he always was before his superior officers, Tushin did not see the flag-staff and tumbled over it. Several of the officers laughed.
“How was it a cannon was abandoned?” asked Bagration, frowning, not so much at the captain as at the laughing officers, among whom Zherkov's laugh was the loudest. Only now in the presence of the angry-looking commander, Tushin conceived in all its awfulness the crime and disgrace of his being still alive when he had lost two cannons. He had been so excited that till that instant he had not had time to think of that. The officers' laughter had bewildered him still more. He stood before Bagration, his lower jaw quivering, and could scarcely articulate:
“I don't know … your excellency … I hadn't the men, your excellency.”
“You could have got them from the battalions that were covering your position!” That there were no battalions there was what Tushin did not say, though it was the fact. He was afraid of getting another officer into trouble by saying that, and without uttering a word he gazed straight into Bagration's face, as a confused schoolboy gazes at the face of an examiner.
The silence was rather a lengthy one. Prince Bagration, though he had no wish to be severe, apparently found nothing to say; the others did not venture to intervene. Prince Andrey was looking from under his brows at Tushin and his fingers moved nervously.
“Your excellency,” Prince Andrey broke the silence with his abrupt voice, “you sent me to Captain Tushin's battery. I went there and found two-thirds of the men and horses killed, two cannons disabled and no forces near to defend them.”
Prince Bagration and Tushin looked now with equal intensity at Bolkonsky, as he went on speaking with suppressed emotion.
“And if your excellency will permit me to express my opinion,” he went on, “we owe the success of the day more to the action of that battery and the heroic steadiness of Captain Tushin and his men than to anything else,” said Prince Andrey, and he got up at once and walked away from the table, without waiting for a reply.
Prince Bagration looked at Tushin and, apparently loath to express his disbelief in Bolkonsky's off-handed judgment, yet unable to put complete faith in it, he bent his head and said to Tushin that he could go. Prince Andrey walked out after him.
“Thanks, my dear fellow, you got me out of a scrape,” Tushin said to him.
Prince Andrey looked at Tushin, and walked away without uttering a word. Prince Andrey felt bitter and melancholy. It was all so strange, so unlike what he had been hoping for.
“Who are they? Why are they here? What do they want? And when will it all end?” thought Rostov, looking at the shadowy figures that kept flitting before his eyes. The pain in his arm became even more agonising. He was heavy with sleep, crimson circles danced before his eyes, and the impression of these voices and these faces and the sense of his loneliness all blended with the misery of the pain. It was they, these soldiers, wounded and unhurt alike, it was they crushing and weighing upon him, and twisting his veins and burning the flesh in his sprained arm and shoulder. To get rid of them he closed his eyes.
He dozed off for a minute, but in that brief interval he dreamed of innumerable things. He saw his mother and her large, white hand; he saw Sonya's thin shoulders, Natasha's eyes and her laugh, and Denisov with his voice and his whiskers, and Telyanin, and all the affair with Telyanin and Bogdanitch. All that affair was inextricably mixed up with this soldier with the harsh voice, and that affair and this soldier here were so agonisingly, so ruthlessly pulling, crushing, and twisting his arm always in the same direction. He was trying to get away from them, but they would not let go of his shoulder for a second. It would not ache, it would be all right if they wouldn't drag at it; but there was no getting rid of them.
He opened his eyes and looked upwards. The black pall of darkness hung only a few feet above the light of the fire. In the light fluttered tiny flakes of falling snow. Tushin had not returned, the doctor had not come. He was alone, only a soldier was sitting now naked on the other side of the fire, warming his thin, yellow body.
“Nobody cares for me!” thought Rostov. “No one to help me, no one to feel sorry for me. And I too was once at home, and strong, and happy and loved,” he sighed, and with the sigh unconsciously he moaned.
“In pain, eh?” asked the soldier, shaking his shirt out before the fire, and without waiting for an answer, he added huskily: “Ah, what a lot of fellows done for to-day—awful!”
Rostov did not hear the soldier. He gazed at the snowflakes whirling over the fire and thought of the Russian winter with his warm, brightly lighted home, his cosy fur cloak, his swift sledge, his good health, and all the love and tenderness of his family. “And what did I come here for!” he wondered.
On the next day, the French did not renew the attack and the remnant of Bagration's detachment joined Kutuzov's army.
风停息了，乌云低垂于战地的上空，在地平线上和硝烟连成一片了。天渐渐黑了，两地的火光显得更加明亮。炮声变得低沉了，可是后面和右面越近越密地听见噼噼啪啪的枪声。图申伴随着自己的大炮绕过伤员，也碰上伤员；一当他走出火线，并且沿着下坡道走到冲沟，就遇见首长和副官们，其中有校官和两次曾被派遣、没有一次到达图申的炮台的热尔科夫。他们个个都抢先开腔，给他发布命令，传达命令，指明行进的方式与方向，责备他而且呵斥他。图申未曾作出任何安排，默不作声地骑着炮兵连的一匹劣马，跟在后面走，他害怕开口，因为每说一句话自己不知道为什么总要大哭一场。虽然发布了抛弃伤员的命令，但是其中还有许多人勉强挣扎着跟在部队后面走，恳求容许他们坐在炮身上。那名在战前曾经从图申的茅棚中飞快跑出来的英姿勃勃的步兵军官，腹部中了一颗子弹，躺在马特维夫娜大炮的拖车上。在山下，脸色苍白的骠骑兵士官生，把一只手托着另一只手，走到了图申跟前，恳求准许他坐在炮身上。
“上尉，看在上帝份上，我的手给震伤了，”他胆怯地说，“看在上帝份上，我没法子走下去。看在上帝份上！”
显然，这个士官生不止一次地恳求首长允许他在什么地方坐下，他到处遭到拒绝。他用诉苦的犹豫不决的嗓音哀求。
“请您吩咐，让我坐上去，看在上帝份上。”
“让他坐上去，让他坐上去，”图申说道，“大叔，你垫上大衣，”他把脸对着一个可爱的士兵，说道，“负伤的军官在哪儿？”
“把他扛下去了，已经死了。”有个人答道。
“让他坐吧。亲爱的，请坐，请坐。安东诺夫，给垫上大衣。”
士官生就是罗斯托夫。他用一只手托着另一只手，脸色苍白，发冷发热，下颌颤抖着。人家让他坐在马特维夫娜大炮身上，一名死去的军官就是从这门大炮上打下去的。那件垫坐的大衣沾满了鲜血，弄脏了罗斯托夫的紧腿裤和两只手。
“亲爱的，怎么？您负伤了吗？”图申向罗斯托夫所坐的那门大炮炮身前面走去时说道。
“不，我是给震伤的。”
“那炮架上为什么有血呢？”图申问道。
“大人，是那个军官沾上血污的。”炮兵用大衣袖子揩拭血污时答道，仿佛是因为大炮不干净而请求原谅似的。
他们在步兵帮助下好不容易才把大炮搬运到山上，抵达贡台斯多尔夫村停止前进。天很黑了，距离十步路就看不清楚士兵的制服，互相射击声开始停息。忽然从右面不远的地方又传来呐喊声和枪炮声。由于射击的关系，黑暗中火光闪耀。这是法军最后一次进攻，埋伏于村舍中的士兵迎击敌人的进攻，群众又从村子里冲出来，他是图申的大炮不能移动了，炮手们、图申和士官生沉默地面面相觑，等待厄运的降临。互相射击声开始停息，谈得正欢的士兵从侧面街上蜂拥而出。
“彼得罗夫，安然无恙吗？”有一名士兵问道。
“老兄，收拾他们了。现在决不会过来。”另一名士兵说道。
“什么都看不见。他们收拾自己人了！弟兄们，黑洞洞的，什么都看不见。没有什么可喝的吗？”
法国人最后一次被击退了。在伸手不见五指的昏暗中，图申的大炮宛如镶嵌着框架似的，四周簇拥着喧嚣的步兵，又向前方挺进了。
在黑暗中，有一条看不见的黑魆魆的大河，仿佛朝着一个方向平缓地流动。絮语声和说话声、马蹄声和车轮声互相交织成一片。在那昏暗的深夜里，伤员的呻吟声和说话声，透过这一片嘈杂的响声，清晰可闻。他们的呻吟声中好像充满了笼罩军队的一片黑暗。他们的呻吟和这深夜的昏暗被视若等同。少顷，前进的人群骚动起来。一个骑着白马的人偕同侍从从一旁经过。行走的时候，不知他说了什么话。
“他说了什么？现在要到哪儿去？是不是站着不动呢？是不是表示谢意？”从四面传来贪婪地问长问短的话语声，正在行走的人群互相挤挤插插（看起来，先头部队停止前进了，）停止前进的风闻传开了。行走的时候，大家都在泥泞的道路中间停步了。
火光通明，谈话声听得更加清晰了。图申向全连作出指示后，派出一名士兵替士官生寻找裹伤站或军医，士兵们在路上生起篝火，图申便在篝火旁坐下。罗斯托夫举步维艰，也走到篝火面前。由于疼痛、寒冷和潮湿，他浑身像发疟疾似的直打哆嗦。他很想睡觉，可是折磨人的疼痛使他不能入睡，那只隐隐作痛的臂膀，不知道摆在哪里才好。他时而合上眼睛，时而注视似乎烧得通红的篝火，时而注视盘腿坐在身旁的图申，注视他那有点伛偻而虚弱的身体。图申那一对仁慈而聪明的大眼睛怜悯地凝视着他。他看出，图申真心实意地愿意帮助他，可是他无能为力。
从四面传来步行者、骑行者和在四周驻扎的步兵的脚步声和说话声。说话声、脚步声和在泥泞中移步的马蹄的响声、近处和远处的柴火的噼啪声，融汇成一片振荡的嗡嗡声。
一条在黑暗中看不见的大河现在不像从前那样奔流，而像暴风雨之后，昏暗的大海渐渐趋于平静，但海面还在荡漾。罗斯托夫茫然地望着而且听着他面前和四周发生的情况。一名步兵走到篝火前，蹲下来，伸出手来炙火，把脸转过来。
“大人，炙炙火不要紧吧？”他带着疑惑的样子把脸转向图申，说道，“大人，您看，和连队失散了，我自己也不知道，呆在啥地方。真糟糕！”
一名裹着面颊的步兵军官和一名士兵走到篝火前，把脸转向图申，请他下命令将大炮移开一点，好让车子开过去。两名士兵跟在连长后面跑着，撞上了篝火。他们拖着一只皮靴，拼命地相骂和殴斗。
“怎么，是你捡起来的吗？瞧，你很机智啊！”有一名士兵用嘶哑的嗓音喊道。
之后有一名士兵颈上裹着血迹斑斑的包脚布，很瘦，面色苍白，向前面走来，他带着愤怒的嗓音向炮手们要点水喝。
“干嘛我要像狗那样死掉，是不是？”他说。
图申下命令给他一点水。然后有一名愉快的士兵跑到面前来，给步兵要一点炭火。
“给步兵一点炽热的炭火！乡亲们，祝你们幸福地留在此地，谢谢你们的炭火，我们偿还时要加上利息。”他一面说道，一面拿着通红的炭火块，送往昏暗的地方去。
有四名士兵用大衣兜着一件沉重的东西，跟在这名士兵后面，从篝火旁边走过去了。其中有一人绊得要跌倒了。
“你瞧，这些鬼家伙，把木柴摆在路上了。”他说了一句牢骚话。
“他死了，干嘛还要抬他？”其中有一人说道。
“您得啦吧！”
他们于是挑着自己的担子在黑暗中隐没不见了。
“怎么？疼痛吗？”图申轻声地问罗斯托夫。
“疼痛。”
“大人，请到将军那里去他在此地的一间农舍里。”炮兵士官走到图申跟前，说道。
“亲爱的，马上就去。”
图申站起来，扣上大衣，整理一下，从篝火旁边走开了……
在离炮手们生起的篝火不远的地方，巴格拉季翁公爵坐在给他准备的一间农舍中吃午饭，并同聚集在他那里的部队中的几个首长谈话。其中包括：眼睛半开半合的小老头，他贪婪地啃着羊骨头；军龄二十二年的无可指责的将军，他一面用餐，一面喝伏特加酒佐餐，满面红光；校官戴着一只刻有名字的戒指；热尔科夫惴惴不安地望着众人；安德烈公爵脸色苍白，紧闭嘴唇，一对冷热病的眼睛发亮。
一面夺得的法国军旗倾斜地靠在农舍的角落里，军法检察官面露稚气的神情用手抚摸着军旗的布面，困惑不安地摇头，也许是因为军旗的外形真的使他感兴趣，也许是因为他缺少餐具，饿着肚皮望望别人吃饭时心里觉得难过。一名被龙骑兵俘虏的法国上校呆在隔壁的农舍里。我们的军官围在他身边，注视着他。巴格拉季翁公爵感谢某些部队的首长，并询及战事的详情、伤亡的实情。那个曾经在布劳瑙请功的团长向公爵报告，说战斗一开始，他便从森林中撤退，召集了采伐林木的人，让他们从自己身旁过去，之后带领两个营打了一场白刃战，粉碎了法国官兵。
“大人，当我看见第一营已经失去战斗力，我便在路上停步不前了，”我心里想道：‘让这些人撤走，用另一营的火力去迎战。'我就是这样做的。”
团长极欲做到这一点，而他觉得极为遗憾的是，未能做到这一点，他以为这一切确乎如此，但是也许真有这种情形吧？难道在这一片混乱中分辨得清真有其事和确无其事呢？
“大人，而且我应当提到，”他继续说道，一面回想多洛霍夫和库图佐夫的谈话、他和受到降级处分的人最后一次的相会，“我亲眼看到，受处分降为列兵的多洛霍夫俘虏了一名法国军官，表现得特别突出。”
“大人，在这儿我看见保罗格勒兵团的官兵冲锋陷阵，”热尔科夫神情不安地向四下张望，插了一句话，其实在这天他根本没有看见骠骑兵，只是从一名步兵军官那里听到他们的消息，“大人，打败了两个方阵。”
有些人听见热尔科夫的话微微一笑，像平日那样，等待他来说句笑话，但是他们发现，他说的话也涉及我们的武装力量和今天战斗的光荣；虽然有许多人非常清楚地知道，热尔科夫所说的话是毫无根据的谎话，但是他们还是流露出严肃的神态。巴格拉季翁公爵把脸转向年老的上校。
“各位先生，我感谢大家。各种部队——步兵、骑兵和炮兵，英勇地战斗。两门大炮怎么被抛弃在中央阵地呢？”他问道，一面用目光寻觅着什么人。（巴格拉季翁公爵没有去问左翼的大炮，他已经知道，战争一爆发，那里的大炮全都扔下了。）“我好像是请您去办事的。”他把脸对着值日校官说道。
“有一门炮被摧毁了，”值日校官回答，“另一门炮我没法了解，我自己始终呆在那里，负责指挥，刚刚才离开……说实在的，战斗很激烈。”他谦虚地补充说。
有人说图申上尉驻扎在此地的一个村子附近，派人去找他了。
“就是您到过那里。”巴格拉季翁公爵把脸转向安德烈公爵，说道。
“可不是，我们差一点儿相会了。”值日校官对博尔孔斯基露出愉快的微笑，说道。
“我没有看见您的机会。”安德烈公爵冷淡地若断若续地说。大家都沉默下来。
图申在门槛前露面，从几个将军背后窜进来，在这间拥挤的农舍里，图申从将军们身边绕过去，像平时那样，看见首长们觉得局促不安。图申没有看清旗杆，绊了一跤。有几个人大声地笑起来了。
“怎么放弃了一门大炮呢？”巴格拉季翁问道，与其说对着上尉，莫如说对着几个发笑的人（其中以热尔科夫的笑声最响亮）皱起眉头。
此刻，在图申看见威严的首长们时，他才想到自己的过失和耻辱，因为他失掉两门大炮，竟然还活着。使他激动不安的是，直至此时还没有想到这件事。军官们的哄堂大笑把他弄得更糊涂了。他站在巴格拉季翁面前，下颌不住地颤抖，勉强开口说了话：
“大人……我不知道……大人，身边没有人。”
“您可以从掩护部队中弄到几个人！”
至于掩护部队已经撤走这一点，图申只字未提，不过这是颠扑不破的事实。他害怕说出这句话会给别的首长造成麻烦，于是就沉默不言，他用那停滞的目光盯着巴格拉季翁的面孔，有如答错题的小学生注视主考人的眼睛。
沉默持续了很长的时间。巴格拉季翁公爵显然不愿意装出严厉的样子，不知道该说什么话；其余的人都不敢在谈话时插嘴。安德烈公爵皱起眉头望着图申，手指头神经质地颤动着。
“大人，”安德烈公爵用尖锐的声音打破了沉默，“您把我派到图申上尉的炮台。我到了那儿，发现三分之二的人马被打死，两门大炮被摧毁，没有什么掩护部队。”
此刻，巴格拉季翁公爵和图申均以逼视的目光望着拘谨而激动地说话的博尔孔斯基。
“大人，如果您允许我说出自己的意见，”他继续说下去，“我们今日的成就应当归功于这个炮台的军事行动和图申上尉及其连队的百折不回的英勇行为，”安德烈公爵说道，不等他回答便立刻站立起来，从桌子旁边走开。
巴格拉季翁公爵向图申瞥了一眼，他显然不想对博尔孔斯基的尖刻的意见持不信任的态度，同时他觉得自己不能完全相信他的话，他低下头来对图申说，他可以走了。安德烈公爵跟在他后面走出门来。
“亲爱的，谢谢，你搭救我了。”图申对他说。
安德烈公爵回头望一望图申，没有说什么，便从他身旁走开了。安德烈公爵觉得愁闷而且很难受。这一切多么离奇，和他所冀望的迥然不同。
“他们是谁？他们干什么？他们要什么？这一切要到什么时候才会结束？”罗斯托夫一面想，一面观看在他面前更迭着的人影。手臂的疼痛变得更难受。他昏昏欲睡，红圈在他眼前蹦蹦跳跳；这些噪音、面孔所造成的印象、孤独的感觉都和疼痛的感觉汇成一片。就是他们，这些负伤的和未负伤的士兵，在挤压和扭脱他那只断臂和肩膀的肌腱，烧毁他那只折断的手臂和肩膀上的肌肉。他闭起眼睛，以便摆脱它们。
他微睡片刻，在这短暂的朦胧状态中，他梦见数不清的事事物物：他梦见母亲和她的洁白的大手、梦见索尼娅的瘦削的双肩、娜塔莎的眼睛和笑容、杰尼索夫、他的嗓音和胡髭，还梦见捷利亚宁、他和捷利亚宁、波格丹内奇经历的往事。这全部经历和这个带着尖细嗓音的士兵都是同一回事。这全部经历和这个士兵如此折磨人地、无休无止地抓着、挤压着他的手臂，一个劲儿地向一边拉拽。他试图摆脱他们，可是它们根本不放开、须臾也不放开他的肩膀。如果他们不拉扯他的肩膀，肩膀就不会疼痛，它就会结结实实的，可是他不能摆脱它们。
他睁开两眼望望上方。高出炭火一俄尺的地方悬挂着黑暗的夜幕。在这一片光亮中，粉末般的雪花纷纷飞下。军医没有来，图申也没有回去。他独自一人呆着，这时分只有那名小兵一丝不挂地坐在炭火对面，烘烤他那瘦黄的身体。
“没有人需要我啊！”罗斯托夫想道，“没有人来援助我，没有人来怜悯我。有个时候我在家里呆着，强壮、快活，是个宠儿。”他叹了一口气，不由地呻吟起来。
“哎哟，疼痛吗？”他问道，一面在炭火上面抖着自己的衬衫，没有等他回答，就咯咯地叫了一声，接着补充说：“一天之内遭受损害的人还少吗？——太可怕！”
罗斯托夫不听士兵的话。他望着炭火上方纷飞的雪花，回想起俄罗斯的冬天，暖和而明亮的住房、毛茸茸的皮袄、飞奔的雪橇、健康的体魄、家庭的抚爱和关心。“我干嘛走到这里来了！”他想道。
翌日，法国人没有再次发动进攻，巴格拉季翁的残部与库图佐夫的军队会合起来了。
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