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Book 3 Chapter 17

ON THE RIGHT FLANK in Bagration's detachment, at nine o'clock the battle had not yet begun. Not caring to assent to Dolgorukov's request that he should advance into action, and anxious to be rid of all responsibility, Prince Bagration proposed to Dolgorukov to send to inquire of the commander-in-chief. Bagration was aware that as the distance between one flank and the other was almost eight miles, if the messenger sent were not killed (which was highly probable), and if he were to succeed in finding the commander-in-chief (which would be very difficult), he would hardly succeed in making his way back before the evening.

Bagration looked up and down his suite with his large, expressionless, sleepy eyes, and the childish face of Rostov, unconsciously all a-quiver with excitement and hope, was the first that caught his eye. And he sent him.

“And if I meet his majesty before the commander-in-chief, your excellency?” said Rostov, with his hand to the peak of his cap.

“You can give the message to his majesty,” said Dolgorukov, hurriedly interposing before Bagration.

On being relieved from picket duty, Rostov had managed to get a few hours' sleep before morning, and felt cheerful, bold, and resolute, with a peculiar springiness in his movements, and confidence in his luck, and in that frame of mind in which everything seems easy and possible.

All his hopes had been fulfilled that morning: there was to be a general engagement, he was taking part in it; more than that, he was in attendance on the bravest general; more than that, he was being sent on a commission to Kutuzov, perhaps even to the Tsar himself. It was a fine morning, he had a good horse under him, his heart was full of joy and happiness. On receiving his orders, he spurred his horse and galloped along the line. At first he rode along the line of Bagration's troops which had not yet advanced into action, and were standing motionless, then he rode into the region occupied by Uvarov's cavalry, and here he began to observe activity and signs of preparation for battle. After he had passed Uvarov's cavalry, he could distinctly hear the sound of musket-fire and the booming of cannons ahead of him. The firing grew louder and more intense.

The sound that reached him in the fresh morning air was not now, as before, the report of two or three shots at irregular intervals, and then one or two cannons booming. Down the slopes of the hillsides before Pratzen, he could hear volleys of musketry, interspersed with such frequent shots of cannon that sometimes several booming shots could not be distinguished from one another, but melted into one mingled roar of sound.

He could see the puffs of musket smoke flying down the hillsides, as though racing one another, while the cannon smoke hung in clouds, that floated along and melted into one another. He could see, from the gleam of bayonets in the smoke, that masses of infantry were moving down, and narrow lines of artillery with green caissons.

On a hillock Rostov stopped his horse to try and make out what was going on. But however much he strained his attention, he could not make out and understand what he saw; there were men of some sort moving about there in the smoke, lines of troops were moving both backwards and forwards; but what for? Who? where were they going? it was impossible to make out. This sight, and these sounds, so far from exciting any feeling of depression or timidity in him, only increased his energy and determination.

“Come, fire away, at them again!” was his mental response to the sounds he heard. Again he galloped along the line, penetrating further and further into the part where the troops were already in action.

“How it will be there, I don't know, but it will all be all right!” thought Rostov.

After passing Austrian troops of some sort, Rostov noticed that the next part of the forces (they were the guards) had already advanced into action.

“So much the better! I shall see it close,” he thought.

He was riding almost along the front line. A body of horsemen came galloping towards him. They were a troop of our Uhlans returning in disorder from the attack. Rostov, as he passed them, could not help noticing one of them covered with blood, but he galloped on.

“That's no affair of mine!” he thought.

He had not ridden on many hundred paces further when there came into sight, on his left, across the whole extent of the field, an immense mass of cavalry on black horses, in dazzling white uniforms, trotting straight towards him, cutting off his advance. Rostov put his horse to his utmost speed to get out of the way of these cavalrymen, and he would have cleared them had they been advancing at the same rate, but they kept increasing their pace, so that several horses broke into a gallop. More and more loudly Rostov could hear the thud of their horses' hoofs, and the jingle of their weapons, and more and more distinctly he could see their horses, their figures, and even their faces. These were our horse-guards, charging to attack the French cavalry, who were advancing to meet them.

The cavalry guards were galloping, though still holding in their horses. Rostov could see their faces now, and hear the word of command, “Charge!” uttered by an officer, as he let his thoroughbred go at full speed. Rostov, in danger of being trampled underfoot or carried away to attack the French, galloped along before their line as fast as his horse could go, and still he was not in time to escape them.

The last of the line of cavalry, a pock-marked man of immense stature, scowled viciously on seeing Rostov just in front of him, where he must inevitably come into collision with him. This horse-guard would infallibly have overturned Rostov and his Bedouin (Rostov felt himself so little and feeble beside these gigantic men and horses) if he had not bethought himself of striking the horse-guard's horse in the face with his riding-whip. The heavy, black, high horse twitched its ears and reared, but its pock-marked rider brought it down with a violent thrust of the spurs into its huge sides, and the horse, lashing its tail and dragging its neck, flew on faster than ever. The horse-guard had hardly passed Rostov when he heard their shout, “Hurrah!” and looking round saw their foremost ranks mixed up with some strange cavalry, in red epaulettes, probably French. He could see nothing more, for immediately after cannons were fired from somewhere, and everything was lost in the smoke.

At the moment when the horse-guards passing him vanished into the smoke, Rostov hesitated whether to gallop after them or to go on where he had to go. This was the brilliant charge of the horse-guards of which the French themselves expressed their admiration. Rostov was appalled to hear afterwards that of all that mass of huge, fine men, of all those brilliant, rich young officers and ensigns who had galloped by him on horses worth thousands of roubles. only eighteen were left after the charge.

“I have no need to envy them, my share won't be taken from me, and may be I shall see the Emperor in a minute!” thought Rostov, and he galloped on.

When he reached the infantry of the guards, he noticed that cannon balls were flying over and about them, not so much from the sound of the cannon balls, as from the uneasiness he saw in the faces of the soldiers and the unnatural, martial solemnity on the faces of the officers.

As he rode behind one of the lines of the regiments of footguards, he heard a voice calling him by name: “Rostov!”

“Eh?” he called back, not recognising Boris.

“I say, we've been in the front line! Our regiment marched to the attack!” said Boris, smiling that happy smile that is seen in young men who have been for the first time under fire. Rostov stopped.

“Really!” he said. “Well, how was it?”

“We beat them!” said Boris, growing talkative in his eagerness. “You can fancy …” And Boris began describing how the guards having taken up their position, and seeing troops in front of them had taken them for Austrians, and all at once had found out from the cannon balls aimed at them from those troops that they were in the front line, and had quite unexpectedly to advance to battle. Rostov set his horse moving without waiting to hear Boris to the end.

“Where are you off to?” asked Boris.

“To his majesty with a commission.”

“Here he is!” said Boris, who had not caught what Rostov said, and thinking it was the grand duke he wanted, he pointed him out, standing a hundred paces from them, wearing a helmet and a horse-guard's white elk tunic, with his high shoulders and scowling brows, shouting something to a pale, white-uniformed Austrian officer.

“Why, that's the grand duke, and I must see the commander-in-chief or the Emperor,” said Rostov, and he was about to start again.

“Count, count!” shouted Berg, running up on the other side, as eager as Boris. “I was wounded in my right hand” (he pointed to his blood-stained hand, bound up with a pocket-handkerchief), “and I kept my place in the front. Count, I held my sabre in my left hand. All my family, count, the Von Bergs, have been knights.” Berg would have said more, but Rostov rode on without listening.

After riding by the guards, and on through an empty space, Rostov rode along the line of the reserves for fear of getting in the way of the front line, as he had done in the charge of the horse-guards, and made a wide circuit round the place where he heard the hottest musket-fire and cannonade. All of a sudden, in front of him and behind our troops, in a place where he could never have expected the enemy to be, he heard the sound of musket-fire quite close

“What can it be?” thought Rostov. “The enemy in the rear of our troops? It can't be,” thought Rostov, but a panic of fear for himself and for the issue of the whole battle came over him all at once. “Whatever happens, though,” he reflected, “it's useless to try and escape now. It's my duty to seek the commander-in-chief here, and if everything's lost, it's my duty to perish with all the rest.”

The foreboding of evil that had suddenly come upon Rostov grew stronger and stronger the further he advanced into the region behind the village of Pratzen, which was full of crowds of troops of all sorts.

“What does it mean? What is it? Whom are they firing at? Who is firing?” Rostov kept asking, as he met Austrian and Russian soldiers running in confused crowds across his path.

“Devil knows! Killed them all! Damn it all,” he was answered in Russian, in German, and in Czech, by the hurrying rabble, who knew no more than he what was being done.

“Kill the Germans!” shouted one.

“To hell with them—the traitors.”

“Zum Henker diese Russen,” muttered a German.

Several wounded were among the crowds on the road. Shouts, oaths, moans were mingled in the general hubbub. The firing began to subside, and, as Rostov found out later, the Russian and Austrian soldiers had been firing at one another.

“My God! how can this be?” thought Rostov. “And here, where any minute the Emperor may see them.… No, these can only be a few wretches. It will soon be over, it's not the real thing, it can't be,” he thought. “Only to make haste, make haste, and get by them.”

The idea of defeat and flight could not force its way into Rostov's head. Though he saw the French cannons and troops precisely on Pratzen hill, the very spot where he had been told to look for the commander-in-chief, he could not and would not believe in it.


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

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

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

“您可以禀告陛下。”多尔戈鲁科夫连忙打断巴格拉季翁的话,说道。

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

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

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

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

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

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

“那里将要发生什么情况,我不知道,可是一切都很顺利啊!”罗斯托夫想道。

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

“那样做岂不更妙!我在附近的地方观察一下。”他想了想。

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

他从步兵近卫军兵团的一条阵线后面驰过的时候,他听见有个什么人喊他的名字。

“罗斯托夫!”

“什么?”他没有认出鲍里斯时,应声喊道。

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

罗斯托夫停下来了。

“原来是这么回事!”他说道,“怎么样了?”

“击退了!”鲍里斯兴奋地说,变得健谈了。“你可以设想一下吗?”

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

罗斯托夫没有听完鲍里斯说话,就驱马上路。

“你上哪里去?”鲍里斯问道。

“受托去觐见陛下。”

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

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

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

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

贝格还想说些什么话,但是罗斯托夫没有把话听完,便继续骑行。

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

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

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

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

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

“打德国鬼子!”有一人吼道。

“让他们这帮叛徒见鬼去吧!”

“ZumHenkerdieseRussen!…”①这个德国人嘟哝着什么。

①德语:这些俄国人见鬼去吧!


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

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

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



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