STAGGERING from the crush of the crowd that carried him along with it, Pierre looked about him.

“Count! Pyotr Kirillitch! How did you come here?” said a voice. Pierre looked round.

Boris Drubetskoy, brushing his knee with his hand (he had probably made it dusty in his devotions before the holy picture) came up to Pierre smiling. Boris was elegantly dressed, though his get-up was of a style appropriate to active service. He wore a long military coat and had a riding-whip slung across his shoulder, as Kutuzov had.

Kutuzov had meanwhile reached the village, and sat down in the shade of the nearest house, on a bench which one Cossack ran to fetch him, and another hastily covered with a rug. An immense retinue of magnificent officers surrounded him.

The procession was moving on further, accompanied by the crowd. Pierre stood still about thirty paces from Kutuzov, talking to Boris.

He explained to him his desire to take part in the battle and to inspect the position.

“I tell you what you had better do,” said Boris. “I will do the honours of the camp for you. You will see everything best of all from where Count Bennigsen is to be. I am in attendance on him. I will mention it to him. And if you like to go over the position, come along with us; we are just going to the left flank. And then when we come back, I beg you will stay the night with me, and we will make up a game of cards. You know Dmitry Sergeitch, of course. He is staying there.” He pointed to the third house in Gorky.

“But I should have liked to have seen the right flank. I'm told it is very strong,” said Pierre. “I should have liked to go from the river Moskva through the whole position.”

“Well, that you can do later, but the great thing is the left flank.”

“Yes, yes. And where is Prince Bolkonsky's regiment? can you point it out to me?” asked Pierre.

“Andrey Nikolaevitch's? We shall pass it. I will take you to him.”

“What about the left flank?” asked Pierre.

“To tell you the truth, between ourselves, there's no making out how things stand with the left flank,” said Boris confidentially, dropping his voice. “Count Bennigsen had proposed something quite different. He proposed to fortify that knoll over there, not at all as it has … but …” Boris shrugged his shoulders. “His highness would not have it so, or he was talked over. You see …” Boris did not finish because Kaisarov, Kutuzov's adjutant, at that moment came up to Pierre. “Ah, Paisy Sergeitch,” said Boris to him, with an unembarrassed smile, “I am trying, you see, to explain the position to the count. It's amazing how his highness can gauge the enemy's plans so accurately!”

“Do you mean about the left flank?” said Kaisarov.

“Yes, yes; just so. Our left flank is now extremely strong.”

Although Kutuzov had made a clearance of the superfluous persons on the staff, Boris had succeeded, after the change he had made, in retaining a post at headquarters. Boris was in attendance on Count Bennigsen. Count Bennigsen, like every one on whom Boris had been in attendance, looked on young Prince Drubetskoy as an invaluable man. Among the chief officers of the army there were two clearly defined parties: Kutuzov's party and the party of Bennigsen, the chief of the staff. Boris belonged to the latter faction, and no one succeeded better than he did in paying the most servile adulation to Kutuzov, while managing to insinuate that the old fellow was not good for much, and that everything was really due to the initiative of Bennigsen. Now the decisive moment of battle had come, which must mean the downfall of Kutuzov and the transfer of the command to Bennigsen, or if Kutuzov should gain the battle, the credit of it must be skilfully put down to Bennigsen. In any case many promotions were bound to be made, and many new men were certain to be brought to the front after the morrow. And Boris was consequently in a state of nervous exhilaration all that day.

Others of Pierre's acquaintances joined him; and he had not time to answer all the questions about Moscow that were showered upon him, nor to listen to all they had to tell him. Every face wore a look of excitement and agitation. But it seemed to Pierre that the cause of the excitement that was betrayed by some of those faces was to be found in questions of personal success, and he could not forget that other look of excitement he had seen in the other faces, that suggested problems, not of personal success, but the universal questions of life and death.

Kutuzov noticed Pierre's figure and the group gathered about him.

“Call him to me,” said Kutuzov.

An adjutant communicated his highness's desire, and Pierre went towards the bench. But a militiaman approached Kutuzov before him. It was Dolohov.

“How does that man come to be here?” asked Pierre.

“Oh, he's such a sly dog, he pokes himself in everywhere!” was the answer he received. “He has been degraded to the ranks, you know. Now he wants to pop up again. He has made plans of some sort and spies in the enemy's lines at night … but he's a plucky fellow …”

Pierre took off his hat and bowed respectfully to Kutuzov.

“I decided that if I were to lay the matter before your highness, you might dismiss me or say that you were aware of the facts and then I shouldn't lose anything,” Dolohov was saying.

“To be sure.”

“And if I were right, I should do a service for my fatherland, for which I am ready to die.”

“To be sure … to be sure …”

“And if your highness has need of a man who would not spare his skin graciously remember me … perhaps I might be of use to your highness …”

“To be sure … to be sure …” repeated Kutuzov, looking with laughing, half-closed eye at Pierre.

Meanwhile Boris, with his courtier-like tact, had moved close to the commander-in-chief with Pierre, and in the most natural manner, in a quiet voice, as though continuing his previous conversation, he said to Pierre:

“The peasant militiamen have simply put on clean, white shirts to be ready to die. What heroism, count!”

Boris said this to Pierre with the evident intention of being overheard by his excellency. He knew Kutuzov's attention would be caught by those words, and his highness did in fact address him.

“What are you saying about the militia?” he said to Boris.

“They have put on white shirts, your highness, by way of preparing for to-morrow, to be ready for death.”

“Ah! … A marvellous, unique people,” said Kutuzov, and closing his eyes he shook his head. “A unique people!” he repeated, with a sigh.

“Do you want a sniff of powder?” he said to Pierre. “Yes; a pleasant smell. I have the honour to be one of your wife's worshippers; is she quite well? My quarters are at your service.” And Kutuzov began, as old people often do, gazing abstractedly about him, as though forgetting all he had to say or do. Apparently recollecting the object of his search, he beckoned to Andrey Sergeitch Kaisarov, the brother of his adjutant.

“How was it, how do they go, those verses of Marin? How do they go? What he wrote on Gerakov: ‘You will be teacher in the corps …' Tell me, tell me,” said Kutuzov, his countenance relaxing in readiness for a laugh. Kaisarov repeated the lines … Kutuzov, smiling, nodded his head to the rhythm of the verse.

When Pierre moved away from Kutuzov, Dolohov approached and took his hand

“I am very glad to meet you here, count,” he said, aloud, disregarding the presence of outsiders, and speaking with a marked determination and gravity. “On the eve of a day which God knows who among us will be destined to survive I am glad to have the chance of telling you that I regret the misunderstandings there have been between us in the past; and I should be glad to think you had nothing against me. I beg you to forgive me.”

Pierre looked with a smile at Dolohov, not knowing what to say to him. With tears starting into his eyes, Dolohov embraced and kissed Pierre.

Boris had said a few words to his general, and Count Bennigsen addressed Pierre, proposing that he should accompany them along the line.

“You will find it interesting,” he said.

“Yes, very interesting,” said Pierre.

Half an hour later Kutuzov was on his way back to Tatarinovo, while Bennigsen and his suite, with Pierre among them, were inspecting the position.

被挤得跌跌撞撞的皮埃尔，向四处张望着。

“伯爵，彼得·基里雷奇！您怎么在这儿？”不知是谁在叫他，皮埃尔回头看了一眼。

鲍里斯·德鲁别茨科伊用手拍着弄脏了的膝盖（想必他也向圣像跪拜过），微笑着走了过来。鲍里斯穿着雅致，一副剽悍英武的气派。他穿一件长外衣，像库图佐夫一样肩上挎一根马鞭。

这时，库图佐夫向村庄走去，到了最近一户人家，就在阴凉处坐在一个哥萨克跑着送来的一张长凳上，另一个哥萨克赶快铺上一块毯子。一大群衣着华丽的侍从围着总司令。

圣像向前移动了，后面跟着一大群人。皮埃尔站在离库图佐夫三十来步的地方，在跟鲍里斯谈话。

皮埃尔说他想参加战斗，并且察看一下阵地。

“好哇，您这样做很好，”鲍里斯说。“Je　vous　ferai　les　honneurs　du　camp①，您可以从贝尼格森伯爵要去的地方把一切看得清清楚楚。我就在他的部下。我一定向他报告。如果您想巡视阵地，就跟我们来；我们要去左翼。然后再回来，请您在我们那里过夜，咱们可以凑一局牌。您不是认识德米特里·谢尔盖伊奇吗？他也在那儿住。”他指着戈尔基村第三户人家说。

①法语：我一定代表营盘招待您。

“不过我很想看看右翼，听说右翼很强。”皮埃尔说。“我想从莫斯科河出发，把整个阵地都走一遍。”

“好的，这以后再说，主要的是左翼……”

“是的，是的。博尔孔斯基的团队在哪儿？您能给我指点指点吗？”皮埃尔问道。

“安德烈·尼古拉耶维奇吗？我们要从那儿经过，我领您去找他。”

“我们的左翼怎么样？”皮埃尔问。

“我对您说实话，entre　nous①，天知道左翼的情况是怎样的，”鲍里斯说，机密地、压低了声音，“贝尔格森伯爵完全不是那么设想的。他本来打算在那个山岗上设防，完全不是现在这样……但是，”鲍里斯耸了耸肩。“勋座不同意，也许他听了什么人的话。要知道……”鲍里斯没有把话说完，因为这时库图佐夫的副官凯萨罗夫来了。“啊！派西·谢尔盖伊奇，”鲍里斯带着很随便的微笑对凯萨罗夫说。“我正给伯爵介绍我们的阵地呢。真奇怪，勋座对法国人的意图怎么料得这么准！”

①法语：只是咱们俩私下谈谈。

“您是说左翼吗？”凯萨罗夫说。

“是的，是的，正是。我们的左翼现在非常、非常坚固。”

虽然库图佐夫把参谋部所有多余的人都打发走了，鲍里斯却能不受这次调动的影响而留在司令部。鲍里斯在贝尔格森伯爵那儿谋了个职位。贝尼格森伯爵也像鲍里斯跟随过的所有的人一样，认为德鲁别茨科伊是个无价之宝。

军队领导层中有两个截然不同，泾渭分明的派别：库图佐夫派及其参谋长贝尼格森派。鲍里斯属于后一派，谁也没有他那样善于奴颜婢膝，曲意奉承库图佐夫，而同时又给人以老头子不行，一切都由贝尼格森主持的感觉。现在到了战斗的决定时刻，库图佐夫就该垮台了，大权将要交给贝尼格森，或者，就算库图佐夫打了胜仗，也要使人觉得一切功劳归贝尼格森。不管怎样，为明天的战斗将有重赏，一批新人将被提拔。因此，鲍里斯整天情绪激昂。

在凯萨罗夫之后，又有一些熟人走过来，皮埃尔来不及回答他们像撒豆子似的向他撒来的关于莫斯科情况的询问，也来不及听他们的讲述。每个人的表情都是既兴奋又惊慌，但是皮埃尔觉得，其中一些人之所以紧张，多半是因为考虑到个人得失，而另外一些人脸上的另一种紧张表情（这种紧张不是因为关心个人问题，而是关心整体的生死问题）却始终萦绕在皮埃尔心头。库图佐夫看见了皮埃尔和围着他的一群人。

“叫他来见我。”库图佐夫说。副官传达了勋座的命令，于是皮埃尔就向长凳走了过来。但是有一个普通的后备军人抢在他的前头向库图佐夫走去。这人是多洛霍夫。

“这家伙怎么在这儿？”皮埃尔问。

“这个骗子手，没有他钻不到的地方！”有人这样回答道。

“他早就降为士兵了。现在却要提升。他提出了些作战方案而且夜里爬到敌人的散兵线……倒是条好汉！……”

皮埃尔脱下帽子，恭恭敬敬地向库图佐夫鞠了一躬。

“我认为，如果我向勋座大人报告，您可能把我撵走，也许会说，您已经知道我所报告的事，即使这样，对我也没有什么坏处……”多洛霍夫说。

“是的，是的。”

“如果我对了，这就会给祖国带来好处，我随时准备为祖国献身。”

“是的，……是的……”

“假如勋座大人需要不吝惜自己生命的人，请记起我……

也许勋座大人用得上我。”

“是的……是的……”库图佐夫重复着，眯起眼睛，微笑地望着皮埃尔。

这时，鲍里斯以其侍从武官特有的灵活性，迅速移到皮埃尔身边，靠近了首长，用最自然的态度，仿佛是继续已经开始的谈话似的，低声对皮埃尔说：

“后备军人都穿上了干净的白衬衫，准备为国捐躯。多么英勇啊，伯爵！”

鲍里斯对皮埃尔说这话，显然是为了让勋座听见。他知道库图佐夫一样会注意这句话，勋座对他说：

“你说后备军人怎么来着？”他问鲍里斯。

“勋座大人，他们穿上白衬衫，准备明天去赴死。”

“啊！……英勇卓绝、无与伦比的人民！”库图佐夫说，他闭上眼睛，摇了摇头：“无与伦比的人民！”他叹息着，重复说了一遍。

“您想闻闻火药味吗？”他对皮埃尔说。“是的，令人愉快的气味。我很荣幸作为尊夫人的崇拜者。她好吗？我的住处可以供您使用。”正像老年人常有的情形，库图作夫精神恍惚地向四周张望，好象忘了他要说什么或者要做什么似的。

显然他想起他要寻找的东西了，于是他向副官的弟弟安德烈·谢尔盖伊奇·凯萨罗夫招手。

“马林那首诗是怎么说来着，怎么说的？就是咏格拉科夫的那几句：‘你在兵团里充教师爷……'你说说看，你说说看。”库图佐夫说，显然想笑出来。凯萨罗夫背诵起来……库图佐夫微笑着，头随着诗的节奏摇晃着。

当皮埃尔离开库图佐夫时，多洛霍夫走近皮埃尔，握起他的手。

“我非常高兴在这儿看见您，伯爵，”他不顾有别人在场，大声说着，语气特别坚定而激昂。“在这只有上帝才知道咱们之间谁注定活下来的前夕，我很高兴能有这个机会对您说，我为咱们中间曾经发生的误会而抱歉，我希望您对我不再有任何芥蒂。请您原谅我。”

皮埃尔看着多洛霍夫，不知对他说什么好，一味咧着嘴微笑。多洛霍夫含泪拥抱皮埃尔，吻了吻他。

鲍里斯对他的将军说了几句话，于是贝尔格森转向皮埃尔，邀他一同去视察战线。

“那会使您感兴趣的。”他说。

“是的，会非常有趣。”皮埃尔说。

半小时后，库图佐夫向塔塔里诺沃进发，贝尼格森带着他的侍从，皮埃尔和他们一道，视察战线去了。

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