NAPOLEON'S GENERALS, Davoust, Ney, and Murat, who were close to that region of fire, and sometimes even rode into it, several times led immense masses of orderly troops into that region. But instead of what had invariably happened in all their previous battles, instead of hearing that the enemy were in flight, the disciplined masses of troops came back in undisciplined, panic-stricken crowds. They formed them in good order again, but their number was steadily dwindling. In the middle of the day Murat sent his adjutant to Napoleon with a request for reinforcements.
Napoleon was sitting under the redoubt, drinking punch, when Murat's adjutant galloped to him with the message that the Russians would be routed if his majesty would let them have another division.
“Reinforcements?” said Napoleon, with stern astonishment, staring, as though failing to comprehend his words, at the handsome, boyish adjutant, who wore his black hair in floating curls, like Murat's own. “Reinforcements!” thought Napoleon. “How can they want reinforcements when they have half the army already, concentrated against one weak, unsupported flank of the Russians?”
“Tell the King of Naples,” said Napoleon sternly, “that it is not midday, and I don't yet see clearly over my chess-board. You can go.”
The handsome, boyish adjutant with the long curls heaved a deep sigh, and still holding his hand to his hat, galloped back to the slaughter.
Napoleon got up, and summoning Caulaincourt and Berthier, began conversing with them of matters not connected with the battle.
In the middle of the conversation, which began to interest Napoleon, Berthier's eye was caught by a general, who was galloping on a steaming horse to the redoubt, followed by his suite. It was Beliard. Dismounting from his horse, he walked rapidly up to the Emperor, and, in a loud voice, began boldly explaining the absolute necessity of reinforcements. He swore on his honour that the Russians would be annihilated if the Emperor would let them have another division.
Napoleon shrugged his shoulders, and continued walking up and down, without answering. Beliard began loudly and eagerly talking with the generals of the suite standing round him.
“You are very hasty, Beliard,” said Napoleon, going back again to him. “It is easy to make a mistake in the heat of the fray. Go and look again and then come to me.” Before Beliard was out of sight another messenger came galloping up from another part of the battlefield.
“Well, what is it now?” said Napoleon, in the tone of a man irritated by repeated interruptions.
“Sire, the prince …” began the adjutant.
“Asks for reinforcements?” said Napoleon, with a wrathful gesture. The adjutant bent his head affirmatively and was proceeding to give his message, but the Emperor turned and walked a couple of steps away, stopped, turned back, and beckoned to Berthier. “We must send the reserves,” he said with a slight gesticulation. “Whom shall we send there? what do you think?” he asked Berthier, that “gosling I have made an eagle,” as he afterwards called him.
“Claparède's division, sire,” said Berthier, who knew all the divisions, regiments, and battalions by heart.
Napoleon nodded his head in assent.
The adjutant galloped off to Claparède's division. And a few moments later the Young Guards, stationed behind the redoubt, were moving out. Napoleon gazed in that direction in silence.
“No,” he said suddenly to Berthier, “I can't send Claparède. Send Friant's division.”
Though there was no advantage of any kind in sending Friant's division rather than Claparède's, and there was obvious inconvenience and delay now in turning back Claparède and despatching Friant, the order was carried out. Napoleon did not see that in relation to his troops he played the part of the doctor, whose action in hindering the course of nature with his nostrums he so truly gauged and condemned.
Friant's division vanished like the rest into the smoke of the battlefield. Adjutants still kept galloping up from every side, and all, as though in collusion, said the same thing. All asked for reinforcements; all told of the Russians standing firm and keeping up a hellish fire, under which the French troops were melting away.
Napoleon sat on a camp-stool, plunged in thought. M. de Beausset, the reputed lover of travel, had been fasting since early morning, and approaching the Emperor, he ventured respectfully to suggest breakfast to his majesty.
“I hope that I can already congratulate your majesty on a victory,” he said.
Napoleon shook his head. Supposing the negative to refer to the victory only and not to the breakfast, M. de Beausset permitted himself with respectful playfulness to observe that there was no reason in the world that could be allowed to interfere with breakfast when breakfast was possible.
“Go to the…” Napoleon jerked out gloomily, and he turned his back on him. A saintly smile of sympathy, regret, and ecstasy beamed on M. de Beausset's face as he moved with his swinging step back to the other generals.
Napoleon was experiencing the bitter feeling of a lucky gambler, who, after recklessly staking his money and always winning, suddenly finds, precisely when he has carefully reckoned up all contingencies, that the more he considers his course, the more certain he is of losing.
The soldiers were the same, the generals the same, there had been the same preparations, the same disposition, the same proclamation, “court et énergique.” He was himself the same,—he knew that; he knew that he was more experienced and skilful indeed now than he had been of old. The enemy even was the same as at Austerlitz and Friedland. But the irresistible wave of his hand seemed robbed of its might by magic.
All the old man?uvres that had invariably been crowned with success: the concentration of the battery on one point, and the advance of the reserves to break the line, and the cavalry attack of “men of iron,” all these resources had been employed; and far from victory being secure, from all sides the same tidings kept pouring in of killed or wounded generals, of reinforcements needed, of the troops being in disorder, and the Russians impossible to move.
Hitherto, after two or three orders being given, two or three phrases delivered, marshals and adjutants had galloped up with radiant faces and congratulations, announcing the capture as trophies of whole corps of prisoners, of bundles of flags and eagles, of cannons and stores, and Murat had asked leave to let the cavalry go to capture the baggage. So it had been at Lodi, Marengo, Arcole, Jena, Austerlitz, Wagram, and so on, and so on. But now something strange was coming over his men.
In spite of the news of the capture of the flèches, Napoleon saw that things were not the same, not at all the same as at previous battles. He saw that what he was feeling, all the men round him, experienced in military matters, were feeling too. All their faces were gloomy; all avoided each others' eyes. It was only a Beausset who could fail to grasp the import of what was happening. Napoleon after his long experience of war knew very well all that was meant by an unsuccessful attack after eight hours' straining every possible effort. He knew that this was almost equivalent to a defeat, and that the merest chance might now, in the critical point the battle was in, be the overthrow of himself and his troops.
When he went over in his own mind all this strange Russian campaign, in which not a single victory had been gained, in which not a flag, nor a cannon, nor a corps had been taken in two months, when he looked at the concealed gloom in the faces round him, and heard reports that the Russians still held their ground—a terrible feeling, such as is experienced in a nightmare, came over him, and all the unlucky contingencies occurred to him that might be his ruin. The Russians might fall upon his left wing, might break through his centre; a stray ball might even kill himself. All that was possible. In his former battles he had only considered the possibilities of success, now an immense number of unlucky chances presented themselves, and he expected them all. Yes, it was like a nightmare, when a man dreams that an assailant is attacking him, and in his dream he lifts up his arm and deals a blow with a force at his assailant that he knows must crush him, and feels that his arm falls limp and powerless as a rag, and the horror of inevitable death comes upon him in his helplessness.
The news that the Russians were attacking the left flank of the French army aroused that horror in Napoleon. He sat in silence on a camp-stool under the redoubt, his elbows on his knees, and his head sunk in his hands. Berthier came up to him and suggested that they should inspect the lines to ascertain the position of affairs.
“What? What do you say?” said Napoleon. “Yes, tell them to bring my horse.” He mounted a horse and rode to Semyonovskoye.
In the slowly parting smoke, over the whole plain through which Napoleon rode, men and horses, singly and in heaps, were lying in pools of blood. Such a fearful spectacle, so great a mass of killed in so small a space, had never been seen by Napoleon nor any of his generals. The roar of the cannon that had not ceased for ten hours, exhausted the ear and gave a peculiar character to the spectacle (like music accompanying living pictures). Napoleon rode up to the height of Semyonovskoye, and through the smoke he saw ranks of soldiers in uniforms of unfamiliar hues. They were the Russians.
The Russians stood in serried ranks behind Semyonovskoye and the redoubt, and their guns kept up an incessant roar and smoke all along their lines. It was not a battle. It was a prolonged massacre, which could be of no avail either to French or Russians. Napoleon pulled up his horse, and sank again into the brooding reverie from which Berthier had roused him. He could not stay that thing that was being done before him and about him, and that was regarded as being led by him and as depending on him, that thing for the first time, after ill success, struck him as superfluous and horrible. One of the generals, riding up to Napoleon, ventured to suggest to him that the Old Guards should advance into action. Ney and Berthier, standing close by, exchanged glances and smiled contemptuously at the wild suggestion of this general.
Napoleon sat mute with downcast head.
“Eight hundred leagues from France, I am not going to let my Guard be destroyed,” he said, and turning his horse, he rode back to Shevardino.
拿破仑的将军们——达乌、内伊和缪拉，都离火线很近，甚至有时亲临火线，他们好几次率领一大批严整的队伍到火线上去。但是，与先前历次战役常有的情形相反，不但没有预期的敌人溃逃的消息，反而那大批严整的队伍从火线逃回来，溃不成军，十分狼狈。重新整顿军队，但人数已越来越少了。中午，缪拉派他的副官到拿破仑那儿请求援兵。
拿破仑坐在土岗上正在喝潘趣酒，这时缪拉的副官骑马走来，保证说，只要陛下再给一个师，准能把俄国人打垮。
“增援？”拿破仑带着严峻、诧异的神情说，他望着那个蓄着黑色长卷发的（梳得像缪拉的发式一样）俊美的少年副官，好像没听懂他的话似的，“增援！”拿破仑心里想。“他们手中有一半的军队，去进攻软弱的、没有防御工事的一小翼俄国人，怎么还要援兵！”
“Dites au roi de Naples，qu'il n'est pas midi et que je ne vois pas encore clair sur mon échiquier，Allez……”①拿破仑严肃地说。
①法语：告诉那不勒斯王，天色还没到正午，我还没看清棋局。去吧……
那个长发秀美的少年副官，没把手从帽檐上放下来，深深地叹了口气，又跑回杀人的屠场去了。
拿破仑站起来，把科兰库尔和贝蒂埃叫来，同他们谈一些与战斗不相干的事。
在开始引起拿破仑兴致的谈话中间，贝蒂埃的目光转向一个将军，这个将军带着侍从，骑着汗淋淋的马向土岗跑来。这是贝利亚尔。他下了马，快步走到皇帝面前，大胆地高声说明增援的必要。他发誓说，只要皇帝再给一个师，俄国人就得完蛋。
拿破仑耸了耸肩，什么也没有回答，继续散他的步。贝利亚尔高声而热烈地同皇帝周围的侍从将军们谈话。
“您太性急了，贝利亚尔。”拿破仑又走到刚来的将军跟前说，“在战斗激烈的时候，很容易犯错误的。你再去看看，然后再来见我。”
贝利亚尔还没走出大家的视线，又有一个使者从战场的另一方骑马跑来。“Eh bien，qu'est ce qu'il y a？ ①拿破仑说，那腔调就像一个人老被打扰而动怒了似的。
“Sire，le prince……”②副官开始说。
“请求增援？”拿破仑带着愠怒的神色说。副官表示肯定地低下头，然后开始报告；但是皇帝转过身去不看他，走了两步，停住，又走回来，把贝蒂埃叫来。“应该派后备军了。”他说，两臂微微摊开，“您看派谁去？”他问那个他后来称之为oison que j'ai fait aigle③的贝蒂埃。
①法语：噢，又有什么事啊？
②法语：陛下，公爵……
③法语：小鹅，我使他变成了鹰的小鹅。
“陛下，派克拉帕雷德师吧？”对所有的师、团和营都了如指掌的贝蒂埃说。
拿破仑同意地点点头。
那个副官向克拉帕雷德师跑去。几分钟后，那支驻在土岗后面的青年近卫军开动了。拿破仑默默地看着那个方向。
“不。”他突然对贝蒂埃说，“我不能派克拉帕雷德。派弗里昂师去吧。”他说。
虽然用弗里昂师来代替克拉帕雷德并没有任何好处，而且这时阻留克拉帕雷德师而改派弗里昂有着明显的欠妥和迟延，但是命令被严格地执行了。拿破仑没有看见，他在对待自己的军队问题上，是在扮演着用药品危害病人的医生角色，——虽然他对这个角色曾有十分正确的理解和指摘。
弗里昂师也像别的师一样，在战场的烟雾中陷没了。副官们从各方面不断驰来，他们好像商量好似的，都说同样的话。都要求增援，都说俄国人坚守阵地，有un feu d'enBfer①法国军队在炮火下逐渐减少。
拿破仑坐在折椅上沉思起来。
那个从早晨就没吃东西，喜欢旅行的德波塞先生，走到皇帝面前，大着胆子恭请陛下用早餐。
“我希望现在就可以向陛下庆贺胜利了。”他说。
拿破仑一言不发，表示否定地摇摇头。德波塞先生以为他是否定胜利，不是否定早餐，就大着胆子，嬉笑着恭敬地说：可以吃早饭的时候，世上是没有什么能妨碍的。
“Allez vous……”②拿破仑突然面色阴沉地说，并且把脸转到了一边。德波塞先生脸上露出抱歉、后悔、欢喜的幸福微笑，迈着平稳的步子走到别的将军那儿去了。
拿破仑情绪颓丧，正像一个一向幸运的赌徒，疯狂地下赌注，从来都是赢的，可是忽然间，正当他对赌局的一切可能性都精打细算好了的时候，却感到把路子考虑得愈周全，输的可能性就愈大。
军队依然是那个样子，将军依然是那个样子，所做的准备、部署，proclamation courte et énergique③和拿破仑本人依然是那个样子，这些他都知道，他还知道，他现在比过去经验丰富得多，老练多了，而且敌人也依然同奥斯特利茨和弗里德兰战役时一样；但是，可怕的振臂一挥，打击下来却魔术般地软弱无力。
①法语：可怕的炮火。
②法语：滚开……
③法语：简短有力的告示。
仍然是以前那些准保成功的方法：炮火集中一点轰击，后备军冲锋以突破防线，接着是des hommes de fer①骑兵突击，——所有这些方法都用过了，但不仅没取得胜利，且到处都传来同样的消息：将军们伤亡，必须增援，无法打退俄国人，自己的军队陷入混乱之中。
以前，只要发两三道命令，说两三句话，元帅们和副官们就带着祝贺的笑脸跑来报告缴获的战利品：成队的俘虏，des faisceaux de drapeaux et d'aigles ennemis②大炮和辎重——缪拉只请求让他的骑兵去收拾辎重车。在济迪、马伦戈、阿尔科拉、耶拿、奥斯特利茨、瓦格拉木等等地方③都是这样。现在他的军队碰到了什么古怪的事情。
①法语：铁军。
②法语：成捆的敌方军旗和国旗。
③这是拿破仑发动的一些有名的战争。洛迪和马伦戈在意大利，一八○○年拿破仑在那里打败奥国人。阿尔科拉是意大利一个村子，一七九六年他在那里打败了人数比他多的奥国军队。一八○六年拿破仑在耶拿大败普鲁士人和撒克逊人。瓦格拉木是维也纳附近一个村子，一八○九年他在那里打败奥国人。
虽然占领了一些凸角堡，但拿破仑看出，这与他以前所有的战役不同，完全不同。他看出，他所感受到的，他周围那些富于作战经验的人也同样感受到了。所有的面孔都是忧虑的，所有的目光都在互相回避。只有德波塞一个人不明白所发生的事情的严重性。有长久作战经验的拿破仑十分清楚，连续进攻八个小时，用尽一切努力仍未赢得这场战役，这意味着什么。他知道，这一仗可以说是打输了，眼前的战局正处在千钧一发的时刻，随便一个哪怕最小的偶然事故，都可以毁掉他和他的军队。
他默默地回顾这次对俄国奇怪的远征，这次远征没打过一次胜仗，两个月来连一面旗帜、一门大炮、一批军队都没有缴获或俘虏。他看周围的人们深藏忧郁的面孔，听俄国人仍坚守阵地的报告，——于是一种可怕的感觉，有如做了一场噩梦似的感觉，揪住了他的心。他忽然想到可能毁掉他的那些不幸的偶然机会。俄国人可能攻打他的左翼，可能突破中央，他本人也可能被流弹打死。这一切都是可能的。以前每次战役，他只考虑成功的可能性，现在却有无数不幸的可能性摆在他面前，这一切都在等待着他。是的，这好像是在做梦，一个人梦见一个暴徒攻击他，他挥起臂膀给那个暴徒可怕的一击，他知道这一击准能消灭他，可是他觉得他的臂膀软绵绵的，像一块破布似的无力地垂下来，一种不可避免的灭亡的恐怖威胁着这个束手无策的人。
俄国人正在进攻法军左翼的消息，引起了拿破仑这种恐惧。他在土岗下面默默地坐在折椅上，垂着头，臂肘放在膝盖上，贝蒂埃走到他面前，建议去视察战线，确切地了解一下实际情况。
“什么？您说什么？”拿破仑问。“好，吩咐备马。”
他骑上马到谢苗诺夫斯科耶去了。
弥漫在整个战场的硝烟缓缓地消散着，拿破仑走过的地方，马和人，有的单个，有的成堆，躺在血泊里。这么恐怖的景象，在这么一个小小的地区有这么多死人，拿破仑和他的任何一个将军还从来没有见过。一连十个小时不断的、令人听来疲惫不堪的大炮轰鸣，给这种景象增添了特殊的意味（就像配有活动画面的音乐）。拿破仑登上谢苗诺夫斯科耶高地，透过烟雾，看见一队队穿着陌生颜色的军装的人，那是俄国人。
在谢苗诺夫斯科耶和土岗后面，站着俄军的密集队形，他们的大炮不断地轰击。他们的战线笼罩着浓烟，已经没有战斗了，只有连续不断的屠杀，无论对俄国人，抑或对法国人均无裨益的屠杀。拿破仑勒住马，又陷入刚才那种被贝蒂埃唤醒时的沉思中；他无法阻止他面前和他周围发生的事，无法阻止那被认为由他领导和由他决定的事。由于失败的原因，他第一次觉得这件事是不必要的和可怕的。
一个将军走到拿破仑面前，向他建议把老近卫军投入战斗。站在拿破仑身旁的内伊和贝蒂埃交换了眼色，对这位将军毫无意义的建议笑了笑。
拿破仑低下头，沉默了很久。
“A huit cent lieux de France je ne ferai pas démolir ma garde．”①他说，然后勒转马头，回舍瓦尔金诺去了。
①法语：在远离法国三千二百俄里之外，我不能让我的近卫军去送死。
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