找免费的小说阅读,来英文小说网!
Book 10 Chapter 21

PIERRE got out of his carriage, and passing by the toiling peasants, clambered up the knoll from which the doctor had told him he could get a view of the field of battle.

It was eleven o'clock in the morning. The sun was a little on the left, and behind Pierre, and in the pure, clear air, the huge panorama that stretched in an amphitheatre before him from the rising ground lay bathed in brilliant sunshine.

The Smolensk high-road ran winding through that amphitheatre, intersecting it towards the left at the top, and passing through a village with a white church, which lay some five hundred paces before and below the knoll. This was Borodino. The road passed below the village, crossed a bridge, and ran winding uphill and downhill, mounting up and up to the hamlet of Valuev, visible six versts away, where Napoleon now was. Behind Valuev the road disappeared into a copse turning yellow on the horizon. In this copse of birch- and pine-trees, on the right of the road, could be seen far away the shining cross and belfry of the Kolotsky monastery. Here and there in the blue distance, to right and to left of the copse and the road, could be seen smoking camp-fires and indistinct masses of our troops and the enemy's. On the right, along the course of the rivers Kolotcha and Moskva, the country was broken and hilly. Through the gaps between the hills could be seen the villages of Bezzubovo and Zaharino. On the left the ground was more level; there were fields of corn and a smoking village that had been set on fire—Semyonovskoye.

Everything Pierre saw was so indefinite, that in no part of the scene before him could he find anything fully corresponding to his preconceptions. There was nowhere a field of battle such as he had expected to see, nothing but fields, dells, troops, woods, camp-fires, villages, mounds, and streams. With all Pierre's efforts, he could not discover in the living landscape a military position. He could not even distinguish between our troops and the enemy's.

“I must ask some one who understands it,” he thought, and he addressed the officer, who was looking with curiosity at his huge, unmilitary figure.

“Allow me to ask,” Pierre said, “what village is that before us?”

“Burdino, isn't it called?” said the officer, turning inquiringly to his comrade.

“Borodino,” the other corrected.

The officer, obviously pleased at an opportunity for conversation, went nearer to Pierre.

“Are these our men there?” asked Pierre.

“Yes, and away further, those are the French,” said the officer. “There they are, there you can see them.”

“Where? where?” asked Pierre.

“One can see them with the naked eye. Look!” The officer pointed to smoke rising on the left beyond the river, and the same stern and grave expression came into his face that Pierre had noticed in many of the faces he had met.

“Ah, that's the French! And there? …” Pierre pointed to a knoll on the left about which troops could be seen.

“Those are our men.”

“Oh, indeed! And there? …” Pierre pointed to another mound in the distance, with a big tree on it, near a village that could be seen in a gap between the hills, where there was a dark patch and the smoke of campfires.

“Ah! that's he again!” said the officer. (It was the redoubt of Shevardino.) “Yesterday that was ours, but now it's his.”

“So what is our position, then?”

“Our position?” said the officer, with a smile of satisfaction. “I can describe it very clearly, because I have had to do with the making of almost all our fortifications. There, our centre, do you see, is here at Borodino.” He pointed to the village with the white church, in front of them. “There's the ford across the Kolotcha. Here, do you see, where the rows of mown hay are still lying in the low ground, there's the bridge. That's our centre. Our right flank is away yonder” (he pointed to the right, far away to the hollows among the hills), “there is the river Moskva, and there we have thrown up three very strong redoubts. The left flank …” there the officer paused. “It's hard to explain, you see. … Yesterday our left flank was over there, at Shevardino, do you see, where the oak is. But now we have drawn back our left wing, now it's over there,—you see the village and the smoke—that's Semyonovskoye, and here—look,” he pointed to Raevsky's redoubt. “Only the battle won't be there, most likely. He has moved his troops here, but that's a blind; he will probably try to get round on the right. Well, but however it may be, there'll be a lot of men missing at roll-call to-morrow!” said the officer.

The old sergeant, who came up during the officer's speech, had waited in silence for his superior officer to finish speaking. But at this point he interrupted him in undisguised annoyance at his last words.

“We have to send for gabions,” he said severely.

The officer seemed abashed, as though he were fully aware that though he might think how many men would be missing next day, he ought not to talk about it.

“Well, send the third company again,” he said hurriedly. “And who are you, not one of the doctors?”

“No, I am nothing in particular,” answered Pierre. And he went downhill again, passing the peasant militiamen.

“Ah, the damned beasts!” said the officer, pinching his nose, and hurrying by them with Pierre.

“Here they come! … They are bringing her, they are coming. … Here she is … they'll be here in a minute,” cried voices suddenly, and officers, soldiers, and peasants ran forward along the road.

A church procession was coming up the hill from Borodino. In front of it a regiment of infantry marched smartly along the dusty road, with their shakoes off and their muskets lowered. Behind the infantry came the sounds of church singing.

Soldiers and peasants came running down bareheaded to meet it, overtaking Pierre.

“They are bringing the Holy Mother! Our defender … the Holy Mother of Iversky! …”

“The Holy Mother of Smolensk …” another corrected.

The militiamen who had been in the village and those who had been working at the battery, flinging down their spades, ran to meet the procession. The battalion marching along the dusty road was followed by priests in church robes, a little old man in a hood with attendant deacons and choristers. Behind them came soldiers and officers bearing a huge holy picture, with tarnished face in a setting of silver. This was the holy ikon that had been brought away from Smolensk, and had accompanied the army ever since. Behind, before, and all around it, walked or ran crowds of soldiers with bared heads, bowing to the earth.

On the top of the hill the procession stopped; the men bearing the holy picture on a linen cloth were relieved by others; the deacons relighted their censers, and the service began. The burning rays of the sun beat vertically down on the crowds; a faint, fresh breeze played with the hair of their bare heads, and fluttered the ribbons with which the holy picture was decked; the singing sounded subdued under the open sky. An immense crowd—officers, soldiers, and militiamen—stood round, all with bare heads. In a space apart, behind the priests and deacons, stood the persons of higher rank. A bald general, with the order of St. George on his neck, stood directly behind the priest. He was unmistakably a German, for he stood, not crossing himself, patiently waiting for the end of the service, to which he thought it right to listen, probably as a means of arousing the patriotism of the Russian peasantry; another general stood in a martial pose and swung his arm before his chest, looking about him as he made the sign of the cross. Pierre, standing among the peasants, recognised in this group of higher rank several persons he knew. But he did not look at them; his whole attention was engrossed by the serious expression of the faces in the crowd, soldiers and peasants alike, all gazing with the same eagerness at the holy picture. As soon as the weary choristers (it was their twentieth service) began languidly singing their habitual chant, “O Mother of God, save Thy servants from calamity,” and priest and deacon chimed in, “For to Thee we all fly as our invincible Bulwark and Protectress,” there was a gleam on every face of that sense of the solemnity of the coming moment, which he had seen on the hill at Mozhaisk and by glimpses in so many of the faces meeting him that morning. And heads were bowed lower, while locks of hair fluttered in the breeze, and there was the sound of sighing and beating the breast as the soldiers crossed themselves.

The crowd suddenly parted and pressed upon Pierre. Some one, probably a very great person, judging by the promptitude with which they made way for him, was approaching the holy picture.

It was Kutuzov, who had been making the round of the position. On his way back to Tatarinovo, he joined the service. Pierre at once recognised him from his peculiar figure, which marked him out at once.

In a long military coat, with his enormously stout figure and bent back, with his white head uncovered, and his blind white eye, conspicuous in his puffy face, Kutuzov walked with his waddling swaying gait into the ring and stood behind the priest. He crossed himself with an habitual gesture, bent down, with his hand touching the earth, and, sighing heavily, bowed his grey head. Kutuzov was followed by Bennigsen and his suite. In spite of the presence of the commander-in-chief, which drew the attention of all persons of higher rank, the militiamen and soldiers went on praying without looking at him.

When the service was over, Kutuzov went up to the holy picture, dropped heavily down on his knees, bowing to the earth, and for a long time he attempted to get up, and was unable from his weakness and heavy weight. His grey head twitched with the strain. At last he did get up, and putting out his lips in a na?ve, childlike way kissed the holy picture, and again bowed down, with one hand touching the ground. The other generals followed his example; then the officers, and after them the soldiers and militiamen ran up with excited faces, pushing each other, and shoving breathlessly forward.


皮埃尔下了马车,从干活儿的后备军人身边走过去,爬上那个医生告诉他从那儿可以看见战场的土岗。

这时是上午十一点左右。透过明净的、稀薄的空气,一轮太阳高悬在皮埃尔的左后方,明晃晃地照耀着面前像圆剧场一般隆起的广阔的战地全貌。

斯摩棱斯克大路从左上方穿过圆形剧场,经过一座坐落在土岗前下方五百来步有白色教堂的村子(这村子就是波罗底诺)蜿蜒曲折地延伸着。然后又从村子下面过去,跨过一座桥,一起一伏地经过几个山坡,盘旋着越爬越高,一直延伸到从六俄里外可以看见的瓦卢耶瓦村(现在拿破仑就驻扎在那儿)。过了瓦卢耶瓦村,大路就隐没在地平线上一片已经变黄的森林里了。在那片长满白桦和枞树的森林里,大路的右边,科洛恰修道院的十字架和钟楼远远地在太阳下闪光。在那黛青色的远方,在森林和大路的两旁,好些地方都可以看见冒烟的篝火和分辨不清的敌我双方的战士。右边,沿科洛恰河和莫斯科河流域,是峡谷纵横的山地。在峡谷中间,从远处可以看见别祖博沃村和扎哈林诺村。左边地势比较平坦,有长着庄稼的田地,那里可以看见一座被烧掉的冒烟的村子——谢苗诺夫斯科耶村。

皮埃尔从左右两边所看到的一切,都是那么不明确。战场的左右两边都不大像他所想象的那样。到处都找不到他希望看见的样子。只是看见田野、草地、军队、篝火的青烟、村庄、丘陵、小河,无论怎样观看,也不能从这充满生命活力的地方找到战场,甚至分不清敌人和我们的队伍。

“得问一个了解情况的人。”他想,于是转身问一个军官,那个军官正好奇地打量他那不是军人装束的庞大身躯。

“请问,”皮埃尔对那个军官说,“前面是什么村庄?”

“是布尔金诺吧?”那个军官问他的伙伴。

“波罗底诺。”另一个纠正他说。

显然,那个军官有一个谈话的机会,觉得很高兴,于是凑近皮埃尔。

“那儿是我们的人吗?”皮埃尔问。

“是的,再往前去就是法国人,”那个军官说,“那儿就是他们,看得见。”

“哪儿?哪儿?”皮埃尔问。

“凭肉眼就看得见。那不是,就在那儿!”军官用手指着河对岸左边看得见的烟,他脸上的神情严肃而认真,皮埃尔碰到的很多面孔都有这种表情。

“啊,那是法国人!那儿呢?……”皮埃尔指着左边的山岗,那附近有一些队伍。

“那是我们的人。”

“啊,是我们的人!那边呢?”皮埃尔指着远方有一棵大树的土岗,旁边有一个坐落在山谷里的村子,也有一些篝火在冒烟,还有一些黑糊糊的东西。

“这又是·他,”那个军官说。(即指舍瓦尔金诺多面堡。)

“昨天是我们的,现在是·他·的了。”

“那么我们的阵地呢?”

“阵地?”那个军官带着得意的微笑说。“这个我可以给您讲清楚,因为我修筑过我们所有的工事。在那儿,看见么,我们的中心在波罗底诺,就在那儿。”他指着前面有白色教堂的村庄。“那儿是科洛恰河渡口。就在那儿,您看,那边洼地上还堆放着成排的刚割下来的干草呢,您瞧,那儿还有一座桥。那是我们的中心。我们的右翼就在那儿(他指着离山谷很远的正右方),那儿是莫斯科河,那儿我们有三个多面堡,修筑得非常坚固。右翼……”军官说到这儿停住了。“您知道,这很难给您说得明白……昨天我们的右翼在那里,在舍瓦尔金诺,在那里,瞧见么,那儿有一棵橡树;现在我们把左翼后撤了,现在在那儿,那儿——您看见那个村子和那缕青烟了吗?——那是谢苗诺夫斯科耶,而这里,”他指了指拉耶夫斯基土岗。“不过,战斗未必在这里进行。·他把军队调到这里,只是一种诡计;·他很可能从右边迂回莫斯科。不过,不管在哪儿打,我们的人明天都要大大地减少了!”那个军官说。

一个年老的中士在军官说话的时候走过来,默默地等待他的长官把话说完;但是,显然他不喜欢军官在这个地方说这样的话,他打断了他的话。

“该去取土筐了。”他说,口气颇严厉。

军官似乎慌了神,好像明白他不该说这种话,只可以在心里想会有多么大的伤亡。

“对了,又要派三连去。”军官急忙说。

“您有何贵干,是大夫吗?”

“不是,我随便看看。”皮埃尔回答道。然后他又绕过那些后备军人走下山岗去。

“咳,该死的东西!”军官跟在他后面,捂着鼻子从干活的人们旁边跑过去,说道。

“瞧,他们!……抬着来了……那是圣母……马上就要到了……”突然听见嘈杂的人声,军官、士兵、后备军人都顺着大路往前跑去。

在波罗底诺山脚下出现了游行的教会队伍。在尘土飞扬的大路上,步兵在前面整整齐齐地走着,他们光着头,枪口朝下背着。步兵后面响起了教会的歌声。

没有戴帽子的士兵和后备军人绕过皮埃尔,向那队人跑去。

“圣母来了!保护神!……伊韦尔圣母!……”

“斯摩棱斯克圣母。”另外一个人更正说。

后备军人们——就是那些在村子里的,还有那些正在炮兵连干活儿的,都扔下铁锹向教会的游行队伍跑去。在尘土飞扬的路上行进着的一营人后面,是穿着法衣的神甫们——一个戴着高筒僧帽的小老头、一群僧侣和唱诗班。再后面就是士兵和军官抬着一幅巨大的、金光闪闪的黑脸圣像。这是从斯摩棱斯克运出并且从此就跟着军队的圣像。圣像的周围是成群的没戴帽子的军人,他们走着,跑着,跪拜叩头。

圣像抬到山上就停了下来,用一大块布托着圣像的人们换了班,读经员重新点起手提香炉,开始祈祷了。炽热的阳光烘烤着大地;清凉的微风吹拂着人们的头发和圣像的饰带,歌声在寥廓的苍穹下显得不怎么响亮。一大群光头的军官、士兵和后备军人围着圣像。有一些官员站在神甫和读经员后面的一片空地上,一个脖子上挂着圣升治十字勋章的秃顶将军,站在神甫背后,他没划十字(显然是德国人),耐心地等待祈祷结束,他认为必须听完那想必可以激发俄国人民的爱国热忱的祈祷。另外一个将军很精神地站在那里,一只手不时地在胸前抖动着划十字,他老向四周张望。站在农民中间的皮埃尔认出了官员中的几个熟人,但他没看他们:他全部的注意力都被这群贪看圣像的士兵和后备军人的严肃面孔吸引住了。疲倦的读经员一开始懒洋洋地、习惯地唱(唱第二十遍了):“把你的奴隶从灾难中拯救出来吧,圣母。”神甫和助祭就接着唱:“上帝保佑我们,投向你,就像投向不可摧毁的堡垒。”于是所有人的脸上又现出那种意识到即将来临的重大事件时的表情,这种表情那天早晨皮埃尔在莫扎伊斯克山脚下看见过,有时也在碰见的许许多多张脸上看见过这种表情,人们更加频繁地低头,抖动头发,听得见叹息声和在胸前划十字发出的声音。

围着圣像的人群忽然闪开来,推挤着皮埃尔。从人们匆忙地让路这一点来看,向圣像走来的大概是一个非常显要的人物。

这是视察阵地的库图佐夫。他在回塔塔里诺沃的路上前来祈祷。皮埃尔从他与众不同的特殊身形,立刻认出了库图佐夫。

库图佐夫庞大而肥胖的身上穿着一件长长的礼服,背微驼,满头白发,没有戴帽子,浮肿的脸上有一只因负伤而流泪的白眼睛,他迈着一瘸一拐的摇晃不定的步子走进人群,在神甫后面停了下来。他用习惯性的动作划了十字,然后一躬到地,深深地叹了口气,低下满是白发的头。库图佐夫后面是贝尼格森和侍从。虽然总司令的出现引起了全体高级官员的注意,但是后备军人和士兵却没看他,仍然继续祷告着。

祈祷完毕了,库图佐夫走到圣像前,挺费劲地跪下叩头,试了半天想站起来,却因身体笨重、衰弱,站不起来。最后他还是站了起来,像天真的孩子似的噘起嘴唇去吻圣像,又鞠了一躬,一只手触到地面。将军们都跟着他这样做;然后是军官们照样做了,在军官之后,士兵和后备军人互相推挤着,践踏着,喘息着,流露出激动的神情在地上爬行。



欢迎访问英文小说网http://novel.tingroom.com