NEAR THE VILLAGE of Pratzen Rostov had been told to look for Kutuzov and the Emperor. But there they were not, nor was there a single officer to be found in command, nothing but disorderly crowds of troops of different sorts. He urged on his weary horse to hasten through this rabble, but the further he went the more disorderly the crowds became. The high road along which he rode, was thronged with carriages, with vehicles of all sorts, and Austrian and Russian soldiers of every kind, wounded and unwounded. It was all uproar and confused bustle under the sinister whiz of the flying cannon balls from the French batteries stationed on the heights of Pratzen.
“Where's the Emperor? Where's Kutuzov?” Rostov kept asking of every one he could stop, and from no one could he get an answer.
At last clutching a soldier by the collar, he forced him to answer him.
“Aye! brother! they've all bolted long ago!” the soldier said to Rostov, laughing for some reason as he pulled himself away. Letting go that soldier, who must, he thought, be drunk, Rostov stopped the horse of a groom or postillion of some personage of consequence, and began to cross-question him. The groom informed Rostov that an hour before the Tsar had been driven at full speed in a carriage along this very road, and that the Tsar was dangerously wounded.
“It can't be,” said Rostov; “probably some one else.”
“I saw him myself,” said the groom with a self-satisfied smirk; “it's high time I should know the Emperor, I should think, after the many times I've seen him in Petersburg; I saw him as it might be here. Pale, deadly pale, sitting in the carriage. The way they drove the four raven horses! my goodness, didn't they dash by us! It would be strange, I should think, if I didn't know the Tsar's horses and Ilya Ivanitch; why, Ilya never drives any one else but the Tsar.”
Rostov let go of the horse and would have gone on. A wounded officer passing by addressed him. “Why, who is it you want?” asked the officer, “the commander-in-chief? Oh, he was killed by a cannon ball, struck in the breast before our regiment.”
“Not killed—wounded,” another officer corrected him.
“Who? Kutuzov?” asked Rostov.
“Not Kutuzov, but what's his name—well, it's all the same, there are not many left alive. Go that way, over there to that village, all the commanding officers are there,” said the officer, pointing to the village of Gostieradeck, and he walked on.
Rostov rode on at a walking pace, not knowing to whom and with what object he was going now. The Tsar was wounded, the battle was lost. There was no refusing to believe in it now. Rostov rode in the direction which had been pointed out to him, and saw in the distance turrets and a church. What had he to hasten for now? What was he to say now to the Tsar or to Kutuzov, even if they were alive and not wounded?
“Go along this road, your honour, that way you will be killed in a trice!” a soldier shouted to him. “You'll be killed that way!”
“Oh! what nonsense!” said another. “Where is he to go? That way's nearest.” Rostov pondered, and rode off precisely in the direction in which he had been told he would be killed.
“Now, nothing matters; if the Emperor is wounded, can I try and save myself?” he thought. He rode into the region where more men had been killed than anywhere, in fleeing from Pratzen. The French had not yet taken that region, though the Russians—those who were slightly wounded or unhurt—had long abandoned it. All over the field, like ridges of dung on well-kept plough-land, lay the heaps of dead and wounded, a dozen or fifteen bodies to every three acres. The wounded were crawling two or three together, and their shrieks and groans had a painful and sometimes affected sound, it seemed to Rostov. Rostov put his horse to a trot to avoid the sight of all those suffering people, and he felt afraid. He was afraid of losing not his life, but his pluck, which he needed so much, which he knew would not stand the sight of those luckless wretches. The French had ceased firing at this field that was dotted over with dead and wounded, because there seemed no one living upon it, but seeing an adjutant trotting across it, they turned a cannon upon him and shot off several cannon balls. The sense of those whizzing, fearful sounds, and of the dead bodies all round him melted into a single impression of horror and pity for himself in Rostov's heart. He thought of his mother's last letter. “What would she be feeling now,” he thought, “if she could see me here now on this field with cannons aimed at me?”
In the village of Gostieradeck there were Russian troops, in some confusion indeed, but in far better discipline, who had come from the field of battle. Here they were out of range of the French cannons, and the sounds of firing seemed far away. Here every one saw clearly that the battle was lost, and all were talking of it. No one to whom Rostov applied could tell him where was the Tsar, or where was Kutuzov. Some said that the rumour of the Tsar's wound was correct, others said not, and explained this widely spread false report by the fact that the Ober-Hofmarschall Tolstoy, who had come out with others of the Emperor's suite to the field of battle, had been seen pale and terrified driving back at full gallop in the Tsar's carriage. One officer told Rostov that, behind the village to the left, he had seen some one from headquarters, and Rostov rode off in that direction, with no hope now of finding any one, but simply to satisfy his conscience. After going about two miles and passing the last of the Russian troops, Rostov saw, near a kitchen-garden enclosed by a ditch, two horsemen standing facing the ditch. One with a white plume in his hat seemed somehow a familiar figure to Rostov, the other, a stranger on a splendid chestnut horse (the horse Rostov fancied he had seen before) rode up to the ditch, put spurs to his horse, and lightly leaped over the ditch into the garden. A little earth from the bank crumbled off under his horse's hind hoofs. Turning the horse sharply, he leaped the ditch again and deferentially addressed the horseman in the white plume, apparently urging him to do the same. The rider, whose figure seemed familiar to Rostov had somehow riveted his attention, made a gesture of refusal with his head and his hand, and in that gesture Rostov instantly recognised his lamented, his idolised sovereign.
“But it can't be he, alone, in the middle of this empty field,” thought Rostov. At that moment Alexander turned his head and Rostov saw the beloved features so vividly imprinted on his memory. The Tsar was pale, his cheeks looked sunken, and his eyes hollow, but the charm, the mildness of his face was only the more striking. Rostov felt happy in the certainty that the report of the Emperor's wound was false. He was happy that he was seeing him. He knew that he might, that he ought, indeed, to go straight to him and to give him the message he had been commanded to give by Dolgorukov.
But, as a youth in love trembles and turns faint and dares not utter what he has spent nights in dreaming of, and looks about in terror, seeking aid or a chance of delay or flight, when the moment he has longed for comes and he stands alone at her side, so Rostov, now when he was attaining what he had longed for beyond everything in the world, did not know how to approach the Emperor, and thousands of reasons why it was unsuitable, unseemly, and impossible came into his mind.
“What! it's as though I were glad to take advantage of his being alone and despondent. It may be disagreeable and painful to him, perhaps, to see an unknown face at such a moment of sadness; besides, what can I say to him now, when at the mere sight of him my heart is throbbing and leaping into my mouth?” Not one of the innumerable speeches he had addressed to the Tsar in his imagination recurred to his mind now. These speeches for the most part were appropriate to quite other circumstances; they had been uttered for the most part at moments of victory and triumph, and principally on his deathbed when, as he lay dying of his wounds, the Emperor thanked him for his heroic exploits, and he gave expression as he died to the love he had proved in deeds. “And then, how am I to ask the Emperor for his instructions to the right flank when it's four o'clock in the afternoon and the battle is lost? No, certainly I ought not to ride up to him, I ought not to break in on his sorrow. Better die a thousand deaths than that he should give me a glance, a thought of disapproval,” Rostov decided, and with grief and despair in his heart he rode away, continually looking back at the Tsar, who still stood in the attitude of indecision.
While Rostov was making these reflections and riding mournfully away from the Tsar, Captain Von Toll happened to ride up to the same spot, and seeing the Emperor, went straight up to him, offered him his services, and assisted him to cross the ditch on foot. The Tsar, feeling unwell and in need of rest, sat down under an apple-tree, and Von Toll remained standing by his side. Rostov from a distance saw with envy and remorse how Von Toll talked a long while warmly to the Emperor, how the Emperor, apparently weeping, hid his face in his hand, and pressed Von Toll's hand.
“And it might have been I in his place?” Rostov thought, and hardly restraining his tears of sympathy for the Tsar, he rode away in utter despair, not knowing where and with what object he was going now.
His despair was all the greater from feeling that it was his own weakness that was the cause of his regret.
He might…not only might, but ought to have gone up to the Emperor. And it was a unique chance of showing his devotion to the Emperor. And he had not made use of it.… “What have I done?” he thought. And he turned his horse and galloped back to the spot where he had seen the Emperor; but there was no one now beyond the ditch. There were only transport waggons and carriages going by. From one carrier Rostov learned that Kutuzov's staff were not far off in the village towards which the transport waggons were going. Rostov followed them.
In front of him was Kutuzov's postillion leading horses in horse-cloths. A baggage waggon followed the postillion, and behind the waggon walked an old bandy-legged servant in a cap and a cape.
“Tit, hey. Tit!” said the postillion.
“Eh,” responded the old man absent-mindedly.
“Tit! Stupay molotit!” (“Tit, go a-thrashing!”)
“Ugh, the fool, pugh!” said the old man, spitting angrily. A short interval of silence followed, and then the same joke was repeated.
By five o'clock in the evening the battle had been lost at every point. More than a hundred cannons were in the possession of the French. Przhebyshevsky and his corps had surrendered. The other columns had retreated, with the loss of half their men, in confused, disorderly masses. All that were left of Langeron's and Dohturov's forces were crowded together in hopeless confusion on the dikes and banks of the ponds near the village of Augest.
At six o'clock the only firing still to be heard was a heavy cannonade on the French side from numerous batteries ranged on the slope of the table-land of Pratzen, and directed at our retreating troops.
In the rearguard Dohturov and the rest, rallying their battalions, had been firing at the French cavalry who were pursuing them. It was begining to get dark. On the narrow dam of Augest, where the old miller in his peaked cap had sat for so many years with his fishing tackle, while his grandson, with tucked-up shirt-sleeves, turned over the silvery, floundering fish in the net; on that dam where the Moravians, in their shaggy caps and blue jackets, had for so many years peacefully driven their horses and waggons, loaded with wheat, to the mill and driven back over the same dam, dusty with flour that whitened their waggons—on that narrow dam men, made hideous by the terror of death, now crowded together, amid army waggons and cannons, under horses' feet and between carriage-wheels, crushing each other, dying, stepping over the dying, and killing each other, only to be killed in the same way a few steps further on.
Every ten seconds a cannon ball flew lashing the air and thumped down, or a grenade burst in the midst of that dense crowd, slaying men and splashing blood on those who stood near. Dolohov, wounded in the hand, with some dozen soldiers of his company on foot (he was already an officer) and his general on horseback, were the sole representatives of a whole regiment. Carried along by the crowd, they were squeezed in the approach to the dam and stood still, jammed in on all sides because a horse with a cannon had fallen, and the crowd were dragging it away. A cannon ball killed some one behind them, another fell in front of them and spurted the blood upon Dolohov. The crowd moved forward desperately, was jammed, moved a few steps and was stopped again. “Only to get over these hundred steps and certain safety: stay here two minutes and death to a certainty,” each man was thinking.
Dolohov standing in the centre of the crowd, forced his way to the edge of the dam, knocking down two soldiers, and ran on to the slippery ice that covered the millpond.
“Turn this way!” he shouted, bounding over the ice, which cracked under him. “Turn this way!” he kept shouting to the cannon. “It bears!…” The ice bore him, but swayed and cracked, and it was evident that, not to speak of a cannon or a crowd of people, it would give way in a moment under him alone. Men gazed at him and pressed to the bank, unable to bring themselves to step on to the ice. The general of his regiment on horseback at the end of the dam lifted his hand and opened his mouth to speak to Dolohov. Suddenly one of the cannon balls flew so low over the heads of the crowd that all ducked. There was a wet splash, as the general fell from his horse into a pool of blood. No one glanced at the general, no one thought of picking him up.
“On to the ice! Get on the ice! Get on! turn! don't you hear! Get on!” innumerable voices fell to shouting immediately after the ball had struck the general, not knowing themselves what and why they were shouting.
One of the hindmost cannons that had been got on to the dam was turned off upon the ice. Crowds of soldiers began running from the dam on to the frozen pond. The ice cracked under one of the foremost soldiers, and one leg slipped into the water. He tried to right himself and floundered up to his waist. The soldiers nearest tried to draw back, the driver of the cannon pulled up his horse, but still the shouts were heard from behind: “Get on to the ice, why are you stopping? go on! go on!” And screams of terror were heard in the crowd. The soldiers near the cannon waved at the horses, and lashed them to make them turn and go on. The horses moved from the dam's edge. The ice that had held under the foot-soldiers broke in a huge piece, and some forty men who were on it dashed, some forwards, some backwards, drowning one another.
Still the cannon balls whizzed as regularly and thumped on to the ice, into the water, and most often into the crowd that covered the dam, the pond and the bank.
罗斯托夫奉命在普拉茨村附近寻找库图佐夫和国王。但是他们非但不在此地，甚至连一位首长亦无踪影，此地只有一群群溃散的各种部队的官兵。他驱赶着已经疲惫的马，想快点穿过这些人群，但是他越往前走，这些人群就显得更加紊乱。他走到一条大路上，各种四轮马车、轻便马车、俄奥两军各个兵种的伤兵和未受伤的士兵都在这条大路上挤来挤去。这一切在法国炮队从普拉茨高地发射的炮弹的异常沉闷的隆隆声中，发出嗡嗡的响音，混成一团，蠕动着。
“国王在哪里？库图佐夫在哪里？”罗斯托夫拦住什么人，就问什么人，可是没有获得任何人的回答。
最后他抓住一个士兵的衣领，强迫他回答。
“哎，老兄！大家早就跑了，向前面溜跑了！”士兵对罗斯托夫说，一面挣脱，一面在笑着什么。
罗斯托夫放开这个显然喝得酩酊大醉的士兵之后，便拦住一位长官的勤务兵或是调马师牵着的马，开始诘问勤务兵。勤务兵告知罗斯托夫，大约一小时前有人让国王乘坐四轮轿式马车沿着这条大路拼命地疾驰而去，国王负了伤，很危险。
“不可能，”罗斯托夫说，“想必是别人。”
“我亲眼见过，”勤务兵说道，脸上流露出自信的冷笑。
“我该认得国王了；我在彼得堡看见他多少次啊。他坐在四轮轿式马车上，看上去脸色太苍白。只要他将那四匹乌骓套上马车，我的爷啊，他就轰隆轰隆地从我们身边疾驰而去。好像我应该认得这几匹御马和马车夫伊利亚·伊万诺维奇，好像他除开沙皇而外，就不替他人赶车。”
罗斯托夫催马想继续往前驰骋。一名从他身旁走过的负伤的军官转过脸来和他谈话。
“您要找谁呀？”军官问道，“找总司令吗？他被炮弹炸死了，他就在我们团里，他的胸部中弹了。”
“没有给炸死，负伤了。”另一名军官改正了他说的话。
“是谁呀？库图佐夫吗？”罗斯托夫问道。
“不是库图佐夫，哦，想不起他是什么人。横竖一样，幸存的人不多了。瞧，您到那里去吧，到首长们集合的那个村子去吧。”这名军官指着霍斯蒂拉德克村时说道，旋即从身旁走过去了。
罗斯托夫一步一步地缓行，他不知道，现在要找什么人，目的何在。国王负伤了，这一仗可打输了。眼下不能不相信这件事。罗斯托夫朝着人家指给他看的那个方向驰去，在远处可以望见塔楼和教堂。他急急忙忙赶到哪里去呢？“若是国王和库图佐夫甚至还活着，没有负伤，那么要对他们说些什么话呢？”
“大人，请您从这条路去吧，在那条路上走真会给打死的，”这个士兵对他喊道，“在那条路上走会被打死的！”
“噢，你说什么话！”另一名士兵说道，“他要到哪儿去呀？
从那条路上走更近。”
罗斯托夫思忖了一会，朝着人家告诉他会被打死的那个方向疾驰而去。
“现在横竖一样：既然国王负了伤，难道我还要保护自己么？”他想道。他驰入那个从普拉茨高地跑下来的人员死亡最多的空地。法国官兵还没有占领这个地方，而那些还活着或已负伤的俄国官兵老早就放弃了这个地方。每俄亩就有十至十五名伤亡人员，就像良田中的一垛垛小麦似的，躺在战场上。伤员二三人一道慢慢地爬行，可以听见他们那逆耳的、罗斯托夫有时认为是假装的喊叫和呻吟。罗斯托夫纵马飞奔，以免看见这些受苦受难的人，他觉得胆寒起来。他所担心的不是自己的性命，而是他所需要的勇敢精神，他知道，看见这些不幸者的情状，他的勇敢豪迈必将动摇不定。
因为战场上已经没有一个活着的人了，法军于是对这个布满伤亡战士的疆场停止射击了，在看见那个沿着战场骑行的副官之后，便用大炮对他瞄准，扔出了几枚炮弹。他因为听见可怕的呼啸，因为看见周围的一具具死尸的惨状，给他造成了恐怖的印象，并且使他怜惜自己。他心中想起母亲最近写的一封信。“设若她现在看见我在这儿，在这个战场上，几门大炮对着我瞄准，她会产生何种感想？”他想道。
从战场上退下来的俄国部队驻扎在霍斯蒂拉德克村，即使紊乱，但秩序大有改善。法军的炮弹已经不会落到这里来了，射击声好像隔得很远了。这里的人们清楚地看见，而且都在谈论，这一仗是打输了。无论罗斯托夫去问什么人，谁也没法告诉他，国王在哪里，库图佐夫在哪里。有些人说，国王负伤的消息是真实的，另一些人说，这个消息不符合事实，可以说，所以会有这一则虚假的消息，是因为那个随同皇帝的其他侍从走上战场、惊惶失措、面色惨白的宫廷首席事务大臣托尔斯泰伯爵确实乘坐国王的四轮轿式马车，离开战场，向后撤退了。有一名军官对罗斯托夫说，在那村后的左方，他看见一位高级首长，他于是便往那里去了，他并不指望找到什么人，只是为了使他自己的良心纯洁罢了。罗斯托夫大约走了三俄里，并且绕过了最后一批俄国部队，他在四周围以水沟的菜园附近看见两位站在水沟对面的骑士。其中一人头戴白缨帽，不知怎的罗斯托夫心里觉得这人很面熟，另一位不相识的骑士正骑着一匹枣红色的骏马（罗斯托夫仿佛认识这匹骏马）走到了水沟前面，他用马刺刺马，放松缰绳，轻快地跃过菜园的水沟。一片片尘土从那匹马的后蹄踩过的路堤上塌落下来。他猛然调转马头，又跳回水沟对面去了，他毕恭毕敬地把脸转向头戴白缨帽的骑士，和他谈话，显然想请他如法炮制一番。罗斯托夫仿佛认得骑士的身形，骑士不知怎的吸引了罗斯托夫的注意力，他否定地摇摇头，摆摆手，罗斯托夫只凭这个姿势就立刻认出他正是他为之痛哭的、令人崇拜的国王。
“可是他不能独自一人置身于空旷的田野之中，”罗斯托夫想了想。这时候亚历山大转过头来，罗斯托夫看见了深深印入他脑海中的可爱的面容。国王脸色苍白，两腮塌陷，一对眼睛眍进去，尽管如此，他的面庞倒显得更加俊秀，更加温顺了。罗斯托夫感到幸运，因为他确信，国王负伤的谣言并非事实。他看见皇帝，感到无比幸福。他知道，他能够，甚至应当径直地去叩见国王，把多尔戈鲁科夫命令他传达的事情禀告国王。
可是他像个谈情说爱的青年，当那朝思暮想的时刻已经来临他得以单独和她约会时，他浑身颤抖，呆若木鸡，竟不敢说出夜夜梦想的心事，他惊惶失措地向四下张望，寻找援助，或者觅求拖延时日和逃走的机会，而今罗斯托夫已经达到了他在人世间渴望达到的目标，他不知道怎样前去叩见国王，他脑海中浮现出千万种心绪，他觉得这样觐见不很适宜，有失礼仪，令人受不了。
“怎么行呢！趁他独自一人心灰意冷之时，我前去叩见他陛下，竟然感到高兴似的。在这悲哀的时刻，一张陌生的面孔想必会使他感到厌恶和难受，而且现在，当我朝他望一眼就会感到心悸、口干舌燥的时候，我能够对他说些什么话！”在他为叩见国王原想表达的千言万语中，现在就连一句话也想不到了。那些言词多半是在其他场合下才倾吐出来，多半是在凯旋和举行盛典的时刻才倾吐出来，而主要是在他一旦身受重创、生命垂危，国王感谢他的英勇业绩，即是说在他行将就木，要向国王表示他以实际行动证明他的爱戴之忱时，他才倾吐这番言词。
“而且，现在已经是下午三点多钟了，这一仗也打败了，至于向右翼发布命令的事情，我要向国王请示什么呢？不对，我根本就不应该走到国王面前去，不应该破坏他的沉思状态。我与其遇见他那忧郁的目光，听见他那厉声的责备，我毋宁千死而不顾。罗斯托夫拿定了主意，怀着忧悒和绝望的心情走开了，但仍不断地回头望着那位踌躇不前的国王。
当罗斯托夫前思后想，悲伤地离开国王的时候，上尉冯·托尔无意中走到那个地方，看见了国王，他径直地向他跟前走去，替他效劳，帮助他徒步越过水沟。国王想休息片刻，他觉得身体欠适，于是坐在苹果树下，托尔在他身边停步了。罗斯托夫怀着妒嫉和懊悔的心情从远处看见，冯·托尔心情激动地对国王说了很久的话，国王显然大哭了一场，他用一只手捂住眼睛，握了握托尔的手。
“我原来也可以处在他的地位啊！”罗斯托夫暗自思量，好不容易他才忍住了他对国王的遭遇深表同情的眼泪，他完全失望地继续向前走，他不知道现在要往何处去，目的何在。
他那绝望的心情之所以更加强烈，是因为他觉得，他本身的软弱是他痛苦的原因。
他原来可以……不仅仅可以，而且应该走到国王跟前去。这是他向国王表示忠诚的唯一的机会。可是他没有利用这个机会……“我干了什么事啊？”他想了想。他于是拨转马头，朝他看见皇帝的那个地方跑回去了，可是在水沟对面，现已空无人影了。只有一辆辆四轮马车和轻便马车在路上行驶着。罗斯托夫从一个带篷马车车夫那里打听到，库图佐夫的司令部驻扎在辎重车队驶去的那个离这里不远的村子里。罗斯托夫跟在车队后面走去了。
库图佐夫的调马师牵着几匹披着马被的战马在罗斯托夫前面走。一辆大板车跟在调马师后面驶行，一个老仆人头戴宽边帽、身穿短皮袄、长着一双罗圈腿尾随于车后。
“季特，季特啊！”调马师说道。
“干嘛？”老头儿心不在焉地答道。
“季特！去打小麦吧。”
“嗳，傻瓜，呸！”老头儿怒气冲冲地吐了一口唾沫，说道。沉默地走了半晌，又同样地开起玩笑来了。
下午四点多钟，各个据点都打了败仗。一百多门大炮均已落入法军手中。
普热贝舍夫斯基及其兵团已经放下武器。其他纵队的伤亡人数将近一半，溃不成军，混作一团地退却了。
朗热隆和多赫图罗夫的残馀部队，在奥格斯特村的池塘附近和堤岸上，人群混杂地挤来挤去。
下午五点多钟，只有奥格斯特堤坝附近才能听见剧烈的炮声，法国官兵在普拉茨高地的侧坡上布置了许多炮队，向撤退的我军鸣炮射击。
后卫部队的多赫图罗夫和其他人，聚集了几个营的官兵，正在回击那些跟踪追逐我军的法国骑兵。暮色开始降临了。多少年来磨坊主老头戴着尖顶帽，持着钓鱼杆，坐在这条狭窄的奥格斯特堤岸上安闲地钓鱼，他的孙子卷起衬衣的袖口，把手伸进坛子里逐一地翻转挣扎着的银光闪闪的鲜鱼；多少年来，摩拉维亚人头戴毛茸茸的皮帽，身穿蓝色短上装，坐在满载小麦的双套马车上，沿着这条堤岸安闲地驶行，这些人身上粘满了面粉，赶着装满白面的大车又沿着这条堤岸驶去，——而今在这条狭窄的堤岸上，那些由于死亡的恐惧而变得面目可憎的人们在载货大车和大炮之间、马蹄之下和车轮之间挤挤擦擦地走动，互相践踏，直至死亡，他们踩在行将死去的人们身上往前走，互相残杀，仅仅是为着走完几步后也同样被人击毙。
每隔十秒钟就有一颗炮弹挤压着空气，发出隆隆的响声，或者有颗手榴弹在这密集的人群中爆炸，杀死那些站在附近的人，把鲜血溅在他们身上。多洛霍夫的一只手负了伤，他带着十个自己连队的士兵步行着（他已经晋升为军官），他的团长骑在马上，这些人就代表了全团的残部。四周的人群蜂拥而来，把他们卷走，排挤到堤坝前面，停止前进了，因为前面有匹马倒在大炮下面，一群人正在把它拖出来。还有一颗炮弹击毙了他们后面的人，另一颗落在前面，竟把鲜血溅在多洛霍夫身上。一群人绝望地向前靠拢，蜷缩在一起，移动了几步，又停止下来。
“走完这一百步，想必就能得救；再站两分钟，想必会丧命。”每个人都是这样想的。
多洛霍夫站在一群人中间，向堤坝边上直冲过去，打倒了两个士兵，他奔跑到池塘的滑溜溜的冰面上。
“转个弯！”地在脚底下噼啪作响的冰上蹦蹦跳跳时喊道，“转个弯！”地向着大炮喊道，“冰经得住！……”
他站在冰上，冰经住了，但是塌陷了一点，而且发出噼啪的响声，快要迸裂了。显然，它不仅在大炮底下或是人群的脚下，甚至在他一个人的脚下都会陷下去。人们注视着他，蜷缩在岸边，还不敢走下去。团长骑着战马停在堤岸前面，面对多洛霍夫举起手，张开口。骤然间有颗炮弹在人群的上方低低地飞来，发出一阵呼啸声，人们个个都弯下腰去。有样什么东西扑通一声落到潮湿的地方，那位将军和他的战马一同倒在血泊里。谁也没有朝将军瞥上一眼，谁也没有想到把他扶起来。
“走到冰上去！沿着冰面走去！走吧！转向一旁吧！还是没有听见呀！走吧！”一枚炮弹击中将军后，可以听见无数人在叫喊，他们自己并不知道在喊叫什么，为什么喊叫。
最后一排大炮中有一门登上了堤岸，拐了个弯，开到冰上去了。一群群士兵开始从堤岸上跑到冰冻的池塘里去。那些在前面行走的士兵中，有一人的脚下的冰块破裂了，一条腿落进水里，他原想站稳身子，但却陷入了齐腰深的水中。几个站在他附近的士兵趑趄不前了，炮车的驭手勒住了马，但是从后面还可以听见一片呐喊声：“走到冰上去，干嘛站住，走啊，走啊！”人群中也传来可怕的喊声。那些站在大炮周围的士兵向战马挥动着手臂，鞭打着马匹，叫它们拐弯，向前推进。那些马儿都离开堤岸，起步了。原先经得住步兵践踏的冰面塌陷了一大块，沿着冰面行走的四十来个人，有的前倾，有的后仰，互相推挤地落入水中，快要淹死了。
一颗颗炮弹仍然发出均匀的啸声，扑通扑通地落在冰上、水中，不断地落在挤满堤坝、池塘和池岸的人群中。
欢迎访问英文小说网http://novel.tingroom.com