ON THE 8TH of September, there came into the prisoners' coach-house an officer of very great consequence, judging by the respectfulness with which he was addressed by the soldiers on guard. This officer, probably some one on the staff, held a memorandum in his hand, and called over all the Russians' names, giving Pierre the title of “the one who will not give his name.” And with an indolent and indifferent glance at all the prisoners, he gave the officer on guard orders to have them decently dressed and in good order before bringing them before the marshal. In an hour a company of soldiers arrived, and Pierre with the thirteen others was taken to the Virgin's Meadow. It was a fine day, sunny after rain, and the air was exceptionally clear. The smoke did not hang low over the town as on the day when Pierre had been taken from the guard-room of the Zubovsky rampart; the smoke rose up in columns into the pure air. Flames were nowhere to be seen; but columns of smoke were rising up on all sides, and all Moscow, all that Pierre could see, was one conflagration. On all sides he saw places laid waste, with stoves and pipes left standing in them, and now and then the charred walls of a stone house.
Pierre stared at the fires, and did not recognise parts of the town that he knew well. Here and there could be seen churches that had not been touched by the fire. The Kremlin uninjured, rose white in the distance, with towers and Ivan the Great. Close at hand, the cupola of the Monastery of the New Virgin shone brightly, and the bells for service rang out gaily from it. Those bells reminded Pierre that it was Sunday and the festival of the birth of the Virgin Mother. But there seemed to be no one to keep this holiday; on all sides they saw the ruin wrought by the fires, and the only Russians they met were a few tattered and frightened-looking people, who hid themselves on seeing the French.
It was evident that the Russian nest was in ruins and destroyed; but with this annihilation of the old Russian order of life, Pierre was unconsciously aware that the French had raised up over this ruined nest an utterly different but strong order of their own. He felt this at the sight of the regular ranks of the boldly and gaily marching soldiers who were escorting him and the other prisoners; he felt it at the sight of some important French official in a carriage and pair, driven by a soldier, whom they met on their way. He felt it at the gay sounds of regimental music, which floated across from the left of the meadow; and he had felt it and realised it particularly strongly from the memorandum the French officer had read in the morning when he called over the prisoners' names. Pierre was taken by one set of soldiers, led off to one place, and thence to another, with dozens of different people. It seemed to him that they might have forgotten him, have mixed him up with other people. But no; his answers given at the examination came back to him in the form of the designation, “the one who will not give his name.” And under this designation, which filled Pierre with dread, they led him away somewhere, with unhesitating conviction written on their faces that he and the other prisoners with him were the right ones, and that they were being taken to the proper place. Pierre felt himself an insignificant chip that had fallen under the wheel of a machine that worked without a hitch, though he did not understand it.
Pierre was led with the other prisoners to the right side of the Virgin's Meadow, not far from the monastery, and taken up to a big, white house with an immense garden. It was the house of Prince Shtcherbatov, and Pierre had often been inside it in former days to see its owner. Now, as he learnt from the talk of the soldiers, it was occupied by the marshal, the Duke of Eckmühl.
They were led up to the entrance, and taken into the house, one at a time. Pierre was the sixth to be led in. Through a glass-roofed gallery, a vestibule, and a hall, all familiar to Pierre, he was led to the long, low-pitched study, at the door of which stood an adjutant.
Davoust was sitting at a table at the end of the room, his spectacles on his nose. Pierre came close up to him. Davoust, without raising his eyes, was apparently engaged in looking up something in a document that lay before him. Without raising his eyes, he asked softly: “Who are you?”
Pierre was mute because he was incapable of articulating a word. Davoust was not to Pierre simply a French general; to Pierre, Davoust was a man notorious for his cruelty. Looking at the cold face of Davoust, which, like a stern teacher, seemed to consent for a time to have patience and await a reply, Pierre felt that every second of delay might cost him his life. But he did not know what to say. To say the same as he had said at the first examination he did not dare; to disclose his name and his position would be both dangerous and shameful. Pierre stood mute. But before he had time to come to any decision, Davoust raised his head, thrust his spectacles up on his forehead, screwed up his eyes, and looked intently at Pierre.
“I know this man,” he said, in a frigid, measured tone, obviously reckoning on frightening Pierre. The chill that had been running down Pierre's back seemed to clutch his head in a vice.
“General, you cannot know me, I have never seen you.”
“It is a Russian spy,” Davoust interrupted, addressing another general in the room, whom Pierre had not noticed. And Davoust turned away. With an unexpected thrill in his voice, Pierre began speaking with sudden rapidity.
“Non, monseigneur,” he said, suddenly recalling that Davoust was a duke, “you could not know me. I am a militia officer, and I have not quitted Moscow.”
“Your name?” repeated Davoust.
“Bezuhov.”
“What proof is there that you are not lying?”
“Monseigneur!” cried Pierre in a voice not of offence but of supplication.
Davoust lifted his eyes and looked intently at Pierre. For several seconds they looked at one another, and that look saved Pierre. In that glance, apart from all circumstances of warfare and of judgment, human relations arose between these two men. Both of them in that one instant were vaguely aware of an immense number of different things, and knew that they were both children of humanity, that they were brothers.
At the first glance when Davoust raised his head from his memorandum, where men's lives and doings were marked off by numbers, Pierre was only a circumstance, and Davoust could have shot him with no sense of an evil deed on his conscience; but now he saw in him a man. He pondered an instant.
“How will you prove to me the truth of what you say?” said Davoust coldly.
Pierre thought of Ramballe, and mentioned his name and regiment and the street and house where he could be found.
“You are not what you say,” Davoust said again.
In a trembling, breaking voice, Pierre began to bring forward proofs of the truth of his testimony.
But at that moment an adjutant came in and said something to Davoust.
Davoust beamed at the news the adjutant brought him, and began buttoning up his uniform. Apparently he had completely forgotten about Pierre. When an adjutant reminded him of the prisoner, he nodded in Pierre's direction with a frown, and told them to take him away. But where were they to take him—Pierre did not know: whether back to the shed or the place prepared for their execution which his companions had pointed out to him as they passed through the Virgin's Meadow.
He turned his head and saw that the adjutant was repeating some question.
“Yes, of course!” said Davoust. But what that “yes” meant, Pierre could not tell.
Pierre did not remember how or where he went, and how long he was going. In a condition of complete stupefaction and bewilderment, seeing nothing around him, he moved his legs in company with the others till they all stopped, and he stopped.
There was one idea all this time in Pierre's head. It was the question: Who, who was it really that was condemning him to death? It was not the men who had questioned him at the first examination; of them not one would or obviously could do so. It was not Davoust, who had looked at him in such a human fashion. In another minute Davoust would have understood that they were doing wrong, but the adjutant who had come in at that moment had prevented it. And that adjutant had obviously had no evil intent, but he might have stayed away. Who was it, after all, who was punishing him, killing him, taking his life—his, Pierre's, with all his memories, his strivings, his hopes, and his ideas? Who was doing it? And Pierre felt that it was no one's doing. It was discipline, and the concatenation of circumstances. Some sort of discipline was killing him, Pierre, robbing him of life, of all, annihilating him.
九月八号，俘虏们的车房里进来了一位很重要的军官，这从看守对他的尊敬程度上看得出来。这位军官，大概是参谋部什么人，拿着一份名单，点全部俄国人的名，呼叫皮埃尔为：celuiquin'avouepassonnom（不愿说出姓名的人）。他冷淡地懒洋洋地看了一遍被俘的人，吩咐看守军官给他们穿着得像样，收拾整齐，然后带去见元帅。一个钟头后，来了一连兵，于是，皮埃尔和另外十三个人被带往圣母广场。那是雨后晴朗的一天，空气非常清洁。烟不像皮埃尔从祖博夫斯基要塞拘留所被带出来的那天那样低垂：透过清洁的空气像圆柱似地向上升腾。火光是哪里都见不到了，但四面八方都有烟柱在往上升，而整个莫斯科，就皮埃尔所能见到的地方而言，成了火灾后的一片废墟。随处可以看见只剩炉灶和烟囱的瓦砾场，偶尔有些地方剩下石砌房屋的烧焦了的墙壁。皮埃尔观察这些废墟，他熟识的那些街坊已辨认不出来。一些地方还看得见完好的教堂。未遭破坏的克里姆林宫从远处显露着白色的轮廓，连同它的塔楼和伊凡大帝钟楼。近处，新圣母修道院的穹窿灿烂地闪光，钟声也格外响亮地从那里传来。钟声提醒皮埃尔，这是星期日，圣母诞生节。但是，似乎无人庆祝这个节日：到处是灾后的残破景象，偶尔能碰到的俄国人，都衣衫褴褛，惊惧恐慌，一见法军便躲藏起来。
显然，俄国的这个窝巢已经倾复和毁坏了，但在俄国生活秩序被摧毁的背后，皮埃尔不自觉地感到，这倾复的窝巢之上，已建立起完全不同的，稳定的法国制度。他从押解他和其他罪犯的士兵的整齐队形、精神抖擞、心情愉快地行进的样子看出；他从乘坐由一名士兵驾驶的双套车的某个法国重要文官迎面开来的样子看得出来，从左边广场传来的军乐队的愉快乐曲也使他感到这点，而尤其是，从今天早上前来的法国军官宣读囚犯名字的那份名单上更使他明白了这点。抓皮埃尔的士兵，把他带到一处，又把他连同另外几十个人带到另一处；他们好像会忘记他，把他同其他人混起来似的。但不对：他想起他回答审讯时，又被人称呼：celuiquin'avouepassonnom（不愿说出姓名的人）。皮埃尔顶着这个现在使他觉得害怕的名称，他正被带往某个地方，押解人的脸上带着明白不误的自信，所有其余囚犯和他正是他们需要押送的人，他们正被带往需要去的地方。皮埃尔觉得自己是落入他不认得的却准确运行着的机器轮子里的小小木屑。
皮埃尔同其他罪犯被带到圣母广场右边，离修道院不远，靠近拥有一个大花园的那座白色的巨大宅院。这是谢尔巴托夫公爵府，皮埃尔以前常来这里拜访主人，现在，他从士兵谈话得知，这里驻扎着元帅，艾克米尔公爵（达乌）。
他们被带至门廊前，开始一个个地被领进屋子，皮埃尔是第六个被领进去的。经过有一面玻璃窗的走廊，过厅，前厅，（这都是皮埃尔熟悉的），他被带进一间狭长的办公室，门口站着一名副官。
达乌坐在房间的尽头，俯身靠着桌子，鼻梁上架一付眼镜。皮埃尔走到他的近傍。达伍没有抬起眼睛。显然在批阅他面前的公文，他不抬眼睛，低声地问到quiêtesvous（你是谁）？
皮埃尔沉默着，因为他说不出话来。他觉得达乌不单是一名法国将军、对皮埃尔说来，达乌是以残忍出了名的人。皮埃尔望着达乌（就像一位愿意暂时耐心等待回答的厉害的教师）的那张冷酷的脸，他觉得，每延迟一秒钟，都要付出他生命的代价；但他不晓得说什么。说他第一次受审时说的那些话吗，他决定不下来；公开自己的头衔和地位又很危险，而且羞于这样作。皮埃尔沉默着。但在皮埃尔未及决定怎么办时，达乌抬起了头，把眼镜推到额头上，眯缝眼睛仔细观察了皮埃尔一番。
“我认识此人。”他用从容不迫的冷冷的嗓音说，显然以此吓唬皮埃尔。一股寒气先穿过皮埃尔的背脊，然后像老虎钳一样夹住他的头。
“Mongènèral，vousnepouvezpasmeconnaitre，jenevousaijamaisvu…”
“C'estunespionrusse．”①达乌打断他的话，对屋内的另一位将军说，但皮埃尔未曾留意到这位将军。达乌又把脸也转向那个将军。皮埃尔突然声音震颤地急忙说道：
①“您不可能认识我，将军，我从未见过您……”
“Non，monseigneur，”他说，又同时意外地想起达乌是公爵。“Non，monseigneur，vousn'avezpaspumeconnaitre．Jesuisunofficiermilitionnaireetjen'aipasquittéMoscou．”
“Votrenom．”达乌再问一遍。
“这人是俄国间谍。”
“Besouhof．”
“Qu'estcequimeprouveraquevousnementezpas？”
“Monseigneur！”①皮埃尔喊叫起来，不是用委屈而是用祈求的口气。
达乌抬起眼睛仔细看皮埃尔。他们彼此对视了几秒钟，这一“看”使皮埃尔得救。这一“看”便使两者之间，绕过战争和审讯，建立起了人与人的关系。这一时刻，他们两人都模糊地连连感觉到数不清的事情，明白了他们两人都是人类的孩子，是弟兄。
达乌从名单上抬起头来，（那名单上标志着人事和人的性命的是一些号码），他第一眼看见的皮埃尔只是一个小道具而已，达乌可以无愧于心地把他枪毙；但现在他在他身上看到了人。他沉思了一会儿。
“Commentmeprouverezvouslavèritèdicequevous
medites？”②他冷冷地说。
皮埃尔想起了朗巴莱，叫出他的团名，他的姓氏，和房子坐落的街道。
“Vousn'êtespascequevousdites．”③达乌又说。
①“不，阁下……不，阁下，您不可能认识我。我是民团军官，我没有离开莫斯科。” “您的名字？” “别祖霍夫。” “谁能证明您没撒谎？” “阁下。”
②您怎样向我证明您说的是真的呢？
③您不是您说的那个人。
皮埃尔哆嗦着断断续续举出例子来证明自己所说的是事实。
但这时进来一位副官，向达乌报告某件事。
达乌一听副官报告的消息，立即露出高兴的样子，并开始扣扭扣。看来他完全忘了皮埃尔。
当副官向他提起俘虏的时候，他皱起眉头往皮埃尔那边点点头说要把他带走。但该带往何处，皮埃尔则不知道：是回到车房，还是带到刑场上去，那个地方难友们在经过圣母广场的时候指给他看过了。
他回过头，看到副官在询问什么事。
“Qui，sansdoute！”（对，自然如此！）达乌说，但什么是“对”，皮埃尔不知道。
皮埃尔记不请怎样走的，是否走了很久，往哪里走的。他在脑子完全空白和麻木的情况下，看不见周围的任何东西，只是动脚同其他人一齐走，直到大家停下，他也停下。
在这全部时间内，只有一个想法缠绕在皮埃尔脑子里。这就是：谁，究竟是谁，最终判决他的死刑的？这不是委员会审讯他的那些人：他们当中谁也不愿意这样做，并且看来也不能作出这一判决。这也不是达乌，他是那么人道地看着他的。要是再等一分钟，达乌就会明白他们干得蠢，但是前来的副官妨碍了这一分钟。而这个副官显然不想干坏事，但他本来可以不进来的。那终究是谁要处死地，枪毙他，夺去他皮埃尔的生命——连同他的全部记忆，志向，希望和思想呢？
谁决定的？于是，皮埃尔感觉到，这里没有谁会这样干。
这是制度，是各种情况的凑合。
某个制度要杀死他——皮埃尔，要剥夺他的生命和一切，要消灭他。
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