PIERRE, on returning to Gorky from seeing Prince Andrey, gave directions to his postillion to have horses ready and to call him early next morning, and promptly fell fast asleep in the corner behind a screen which Boris had put at his disposal.

When Pierre was fully awake next morning, there was no one in the hut. The panes were rattling in the little windows. The postillion was at his side, shaking him. “Your excellency, your excellency, your excellency …” the groom kept saying persistently, shaking him by the shoulder, without even looking at him, apparently having lost all hope of ever waking him up.

“Eh, has it begun? Is it time?” said Pierre, waking up.

“Listen to the firing, your excellency,” said the postillion, an old soldier; “all the gentlemen are gone already; his highness set off long ago.”

Pierre dressed in haste, and ran out into the porch. It was a bright, fresh, dewy, cheerful morning. The sun had just broken through the cloud that had screened it, and its rays filtered through the rent clouds, and over the roofs of the street opposite on to the dew-drenched dust of the road, on to the fences and the windows of the houses, and Pierre's horses standing by the cottage. The roar of the cannon could be heard more distinctly in the open air. An adjutant galloped down the street, followed by a Cossack.

“It's time, count, it's time!” cried the adjutant. Pierre gave orders that he should be followed with a horse, and walked along the street to the knoll from which he had viewed the field of battle the day before. On this knoll was a crowd of officers, and Pierre heard the French chatter of the staff, and saw Kutuzov's grey head sunk in his shoulders, and his white cap, with red braiding on it. Kutuzov was looking through a field-glass along the high-road before him.

Mounting the steps of the approach to the mound, Pierre glanced before him, and felt a thrill of delight at the beauty of the spectacle. It was the same scene that he had admired from that mound the day before. But now the whole panorama was filled with troops and the smoke of the guns, and in the pure morning air the slanting rays of the sun, behind Pierre on the left, shed on it a brilliant light full of gold and pink tones, and broken up by long, dark shadows. The distant forests that bounded the scene lay in a crescent on the horizon, looking as though carved out of some precious yellow-green stone, and through their midst behind Valuev ran the great Smolensk road, all covered with troops. In the foreground lay golden fields and copses glittering in the sun. Everywhere, to right, to left, and in front were soldiers. The whole scene was inspiriting, impressive, and unexpected; but what struck Pierre most of all was the aspect of the field of battle itself, of Borodino, and the hollow on both sides of the Kolotcha.

About the Kolotcha, in Borodino, and both sides of it, especially to the left where the Voina runs through swampy ground into the Kolotcha, a mist still hung over the scene, melting, parting, shimmering with light in the bright sunshine, and giving fairy-like beauty to the shapes seen through it. The smoke of the guns mingled with this mist, and everywhere gleams of sunlight sparkled in it from the water, from the dew, from the bayonets of the soldiers crowding on the river banks and in Borodino. Through this mist could be seen a white church, here and there roofs of cottages in Borodino, and fitful glimpses came of compact masses of soldiers, and green ammunition-boxes and cannons. And the whole scene moved, or seemed to move, as the mist and smoke trailed over the wide plain. In this low ground about Borodino in the mist, and above it, and especially along the whole line to the left, in the copses, in the meadows below, and on the tops of the heights, clouds of smoke were incessantly springing out of nothing, now singly, now several at once, then at longer intervals, then in rapid succession. These clouds of smoke, puffing, rolling, melting into one another, and sundering apart, trailed all across the wide plain. These puffs of smoke, and the reports that followed them, were, strange to say, what gave the chief charm to the scene.

“Poooff!” suddenly there flew up a round, compact ball of smoke, with shades of purple, grey, and milk-white in it, and “booom!” followed the roar of the cannon a minute later.

“Pooff-pooff!” two clouds of smoke rose, meeting and mingling into one; and “boom-boom,” the sound repeated what the eye had seen.

Pierre looked round at the first puff of smoke, which he had seen a second before a round, compact ball, and already in its place were wreaths of smoke trailing away to one side, and “pooff”…(then a pause) “pooff-pooff”—three more flew up, and another four at once, and at the same intervals after each other “boom…boom-boom-boom,” rang out the sonorous, resolute, unfailing sounds. At one moment it seemed that those clouds of smoke were scudding across the plain, at the next, that they were stationary, and the copses, fields, and glittering bayonets were flying by them. From the left side these great clouds of smoke were incessantly flying over the fields and bushes, with the stately roar resounding after each of them. Still nearer, in the low meadows and copses, there darted up from the musket-fire tiny puffs that hardly formed into balls of smoke, and each of these, too, had its tiny report echoing after it. Tra-ta-ta-ta sounded the crack of the muskets at frequent intervals, but thin and irregular in comparison with the rhythmic roar of the cannon.

Pierre longed to be there in the midst of the smoke, the glittering bayonets, the movement, and the noise. He looked round at Kutuzov and his suite to compare his own impression with that of others. All like him were looking before them at the field, and, he fancied, with the same feeling. Every face now was lighted up by that latent heat of feeling that Pierre had noticed the day before, and understood perfectly after his talk with Prince Andrey.

“Go, my dear fellow, go, and Christ be with you!” said Kutuzov, never taking his eyes off the field of battle, to a general standing beside him. The general, who received this order, ran by Pierre down the descent from the mound.

“To ride across!…” the general said coldly and severely, in answer to a question from one of the staff.

“And I too, I too,” thought Pierre, and he went in the same direction.

The general mounted a horse, led up to him by a Cossack. Pierre went up to the groom, who was holding his horses. Asking him which was the quietest, Pierre got on it, clutched at the horse's mane, pressed his heels into the beast's stomach, and feeling that his spectacles were slipping off, and that he was incapable of letting go of the mane and the reins, he galloped after the general, followed by smiles from the staff officers staring at him from the mound.

皮埃尔从安德烈公爵那儿回到戈尔基，命令马夫把马备好，明天一早叫醒他，然后就在鲍里斯让给他的间壁的一个角落里睡着了。

第二天早晨，当皮埃尔完全醒来时，屋里已经没有人了。

小窗户上的玻璃震动着。马夫站在床前推他。

“大人，大人，大人，……”马夫眼睛没看皮埃尔，一个劲儿推他的肩膀，一面推，一面呼唤，显然他已失去叫醒他的希望。

“什么？开始了吗？到时候啦？”皮埃尔醒来就问。“您听听咆声，”这个退伍兵——马夫说，“老爷们全出动了，勋座也老早就过去了。”

皮埃尔连忙穿上衣服，跑到门廊上。外面天气晴朗，空气新鲜，露珠儿闪着光，令人愉快。太阳刚从乌云里蹦出来，阳光被零零碎碎的乌云遮成两半，越过对面街上的屋顶，照射到布满露水的大路尘土上，照射到房屋的墙上，照射到围墙上的窗眼上和站在农舍旁的皮埃尔的马身上。外面的炮声听得更清楚了。一个副官带着一名哥萨克从街上急驰而过。

“到时候了，伯爵，到时候了！”副官喊道。

皮埃尔吩咐马夫牵着马跟他走。他沿着街步行到他昨天观看战场的那个土岗上。土岗上有一群军人，可以听见参谋人员用法语谈话，看见库图佐夫戴着红箍白帽的、白发苍苍的脑袋和他那缩进两肩之间的满是白发的后脑勺。库图佐夫用望远镜瞭望着前面的大路。

皮埃尔沿着阶梯登上土岗，他一看面前的美景，就陶醉了。这仍然是他昨天在这山岗上欣赏到的景致；但是现在这一带地方硝烟弥漫，满山遍野都是军队，明亮的太阳从皮埃尔左后方升起，在早晨洁净的空气中，太阳把那金色、玫瑰色的斜晖和长长的黑影投射到地面上，风景渐渐消失不见了，远方的树林，宛如一块雕刻的黄绿宝石，在地平线上可以看见错落有致的黑色树巅，斯摩棱斯克大道从树林中间即瓦卢耶瓦村的后面穿过，大道上全是军队。金黄色的田野和小树林在近处闪闪发亮。前方、右方和左方，到处都是军队。所有这一切都是那么生机勃勃，庄严壮丽，而且出乎意外；但是，最让皮埃尔吃惊的是波罗底诺和科洛恰河两岸平川地带战场的景象。

在科洛恰河上面，在波罗底诺村及其两边，特别是左边，也就是沃伊纳河在沼泽地带入科洛恰河的地方，弥漫着晨雾，雾在融化，消散，在刚升起的明亮的太阳的照耀下变得透明起来，雾中一切可以看见的景物神奇地变得五光十色，只勾勒出那些东西的清晰的轮廓。枪炮的硝烟和雾混在一起，在烟雾里，到处闪烁着清晨的亮光——时而在水面上，时而在露珠上，时而在河西岸，在波罗底诺聚集着的军队的刺刀上。透过烟雾可以看见白色的教堂，波罗底诺农舍的屋顶，密集的士兵，绿色的子弹箱和大炮。所有这一切都仿佛在浮动，或是好像在浮动，因为在这一带整个空间都弥漫着烟和雾。在雾气腾腾的波罗底诺附近的洼地上，以及在它以外的高地上，特别是在战线的左方，在树林、田野、洼地、高地的顶端，仿佛无中生有似的不断地腾起大炮的团团浓烟，有时单个出现，有时成群出现；时而稀疏，时而稠密，这一带到处可以看见烟团膨胀开来，茂盛起来，汹涌滚动，混成一片。

说来奇怪，这些硝烟和射击声，竟构成了眼前景色的主体美。

噗！——突然现出圆的、浓密的、淡紫的、灰色的、浮白色的烟，砰！——过了一秒钟，浓烟中传出一声巨响。

“噗—噗”——升起两团烟，它们互相碰撞着，混合着，“砰——砰”——两声炮响证实了眼前看见的东西。

皮埃尔转脸再看那原先像一个鼓鼓的圆球似的烟，它在原地已经变成好几个球向一旁飘动，噗……（停了一会儿），噗—噗——又升起三个，四个，这样的声音，间隔同样的时间，应和着悦耳的，坚定的、准确的响声——砰……砰—砰—砰！这些烟仿佛在奔跑，又仿佛一动不动，而那些树林、田野和闪光的刺刀正从它下面跑过去。从左方，在田野和矮林那儿，不断地涌出大堆浓烟，伴随着庄严的炮声，在较近的地方，在洼地和树林那儿，步枪发射出小的，还来不及变成圆球的烟，同时有小的响声，特拉—哒—哒—哒——步枪的声音虽然频繁，但比起炮击的声音，则显得又乱又弱。

皮埃尔很想到那有烟、有闪光的刺刀和大炮，有活动，有声音的地方去。他转脸看了看库图佐夫和他的侍从，拿他的印象来和其他印象印证一番。他觉得大家都和他一样，都怀着同样的感情望着前面的战场。所有人的脸上这时都焕发着那种感情的潜热（chaleur　latente），那潜热是他昨天见到的、是他同安德烈公爵谈过话后所完全理解的。

“去吧，亲爱的朋友，去吧，愿基督与你同在。”库图佐夫对站在他身旁的将军说，眼睛并没离开战场。

那个将军领命之后，就从皮埃尔面前走过，下了山岗。

“到渡口去！”将军冷淡地、严厉地回答一个参谋人员的问话。

“我也去，我也去。”皮埃尔心里想，就追随那个将军去了。那个将军跨上哥萨克给他带过来的马。皮埃尔走到给他牵马的马夫那儿。皮埃尔问过哪匹马比较驯良后，就往一匹马身上爬，他抓住马鬃，脚尖朝外，脚跟挤着马肚子，他觉得眼镜就要掉下了，但是他不能从马鬃和缰绳上腾出手来，就跟着将军跑开了，把站在山岗上看他的参谋人员都逗乐了。