FROM PRINCE SHTCHERBATOV'S HOUSE the prisoners were taken straight downhill across the Virgin's Meadow to the left of the monastery of the Virgin, and led to a kitchen garden, in which there stood a post. A big pit had been dug out near the post, and the freshly turned-up earth was heaped up by it. A great crowd of people formed a semicircle about the pit and the post. The crowd consisted of a small number of Russians and a great number of Napoleon's soldiers not on duty: there were Germans, Italians, and Frenchmen in various uniforms. To the right and left of the post stood rows of French soldiers, in blue uniforms, with red epaulettes, in Hessians and shako. The prisoners were stood in a certain order, in accordance with a written list (Pierre was sixth) and led up to the post. Several drums suddenly began beating on both sides of them, and Pierre felt as though a part of his soul was being torn away from him by that sound. He lost all power of thought and reflection. He could only see and hear. And there was only one desire left in him, the desire that the terrible thing that was to be done should be done more quickly. Pierre looked round at his companions and scrutinised them.

The two men at the end were shaven convicts; one tall and thin, the other a swarthy, hirsute, muscular fellow with a flattened nose. The third was a house-serf, a man of five-and-forty, with grey hair and a plump, well-fed figure. The fourth was a peasant, a very handsome fellow with a full, flaxen beard and black eyes. The fifth was a factory hand, a thin, sallow lad of eighteen, in a dressing-gown.

Pierre heard the Frenchmen deliberating how they were to be shot, singly, or two at a time. “Two at a time,” a senior officer answered coldly. There was a stir in the ranks of the soldiers, and it was evident that every one was in haste and not making haste, not as people do when they are getting through some job every one can understand, but as men hasten to get something done that is inevitable, but is disagreeable and incomprehensible.

A French official wearing a scarf came up to the right side of the file of prisoners, and read aloud the sentence in Russian and in French.

Then two couples of French soldiers came up to the prisoners by the instruction of an officer, and took the two convicts who stood at the head. The convicts went up to the post, stopped there, and while the sacks were being brought, they looked dumbly about them, as a wild beast at bay looks at the approaching hunter. One of them kept on crossing himself, the other scratched his back and worked his lips into the semblance of a smile. The soldiers with hurrying fingers bandaged their eyes, put the sacks over their heads and bound them to the post.

A dozen sharpshooters, with muskets, stepped out of the ranks with a fine, regular tread, and halted eight paces from the post. Pierre turned away not to see what was coming. There was a sudden bang and rattle that seemed to Pierre louder than the most terrific clap of thunder, and he looked round. There was a cloud of smoke, and the French soldiers, with trembling hands and pale faces, were doing something in it by the pit. The next two were led up. Those two, too, looked at every one in the same way, with the same eyes, dumbly, and in vain, with their eyes only begging for protection, and plainly unable to understand or believe in what was coming. They could not believe in it, because they only knew what their life was to them, and so could not understand, and could not believe, that it could be taken from them.

Pierre tried not to look, and again turned away; but again a sort of awful crash smote his hearing, and with the sound he saw smoke, blood, and the pale and frightened faces of the Frenchmen, again doing something at the post, and balking each other with their trembling hands. Pierre, breathing hard, looked about him as though asking, “What does it mean?” The same question was written in all the eyes that met Pierre's eyes. On all the faces of the Russians, on the faces of the French soldiers and officers, all without exception, he read the same dismay, horror, and conflict as he felt in his own heart. “But who is it doing it there really? They are all suffering as I am! Who is it? who?” flashed for one second through Pierre's mind. “Sharpshooters of the eighty-sixth, forward!” some one shouted. The fifth prisoner standing beside Pierre was led forward—alone. Pierre did not understand that he was saved; that he and all the rest had been brought here simply to be present at the execution. With growing horror, with no sense of joy or relief, he gazed at what was being done. The fifth was the factory lad in the loose gown. As soon as they touched him, he darted away in terror and clutched at Pierre (Pierre shuddered and tore himself away from him). The factory lad could not walk. He was held up under the arms and dragged along, and he screamed something all the while. When they had brought him to the post he was suddenly quiet. He seemed suddenly to have grasped something. Whether he grasped that it was no use to scream, or that it was impossible for men to kill him, he stood at the post, waiting to be bound like the others, and like a wild beast under fire looked about him with glittering eyes.

Pierre could not make himself turn away and close his eyes. The curiosity and emotion he felt, and all the crowd with him, at this fifth murder reached its highest pitch. Like the rest, this fifth man seemed calm. He wrapped his dressing-gown round him, and scratched one bare foot with the other.

When they bound up his eyes, of himself he straightened the knot, which hurt the back of his head; then, when they propped him against the blood-stained post, he staggered back, and as he was uncomfortable in that position, he shifted his attitude, and leaned back quietly, with his feet put down symmetrically. Pierre never took his eyes off him, and did not miss the slightest movement he made.

The word of command must have sounded, and after it the shots of the eight muskets. But Pierre, however earnestly he tried to recollect it afterwards, had not heard the slightest sound from the shots. He only saw the factory lad suddenly fall back on the cords, saw blood oozing in two places, and saw the cords themselves work loose from the weight of the hanging body, and the factory lad sit down, his head falling unnaturally, and one leg bent under him. Pierre ran up to the post. No one hindered him. Men with pale and frightened faces were doing something round the factory lad. There was one old whiskered Frenchman, whose lower jaw twitched all the while as he untied the cords. The body sank down. The soldiers, with clumsy haste, dragged it from the post and shoved it into the pit.

All of them clearly knew, beyond all doubt, that they were criminals, who must make haste to hide the traces of their crime.

Pierre glanced into the pit and saw that the factory lad was lying there with his knees up close to his head, and one shoulder higher than the other. And that shoulder was convulsively, rhythmically rising and falling. But spadefuls of earth were already falling all over the body. One of the soldiers, in a voice of rage, exasperation, and pain, shouted to Pierre to stand aside. But Pierre did not understand him, and still stood at the post, and no one drove him away.

When the pit was quite filled up, the word of command was heard, Pierre was taken back to his place, and the French troops, standing in ranks on both sides of the post, faced about, and began marching with a measured step past the post. The twenty-four sharpshooters, standing in the middle of the circle, with uncharged muskets, ran back to their places as their companies marched by them.

Pierre stared now with dazed eyes at these sharpshooters, who were running two together out of the circle. All of them had joined their companies except one. A young soldier, with a face of deathly pallor, still stood facing the pit on the spot upon which he had shot, his shako falling backwards off his head, and his fuse dropping on to the ground. He staggered like a drunken man, taking a few steps forward, and then a few back, to keep himself from falling. An old under-officer ran out of the ranks, and, seizing the young soldier by the shoulder, dragged him to his company. The crowd of Frenchmen and Russians began to disperse. All walked in silence, with downcast eyes.

“That will teach them to set fire to the places,” said some one among the French. Pierre looked round at the speaker, and saw that it was a soldier who was trying to console himself somehow for what had been done, but could not. Without finishing his sentence, he waved his hand and went on.

离开谢尔巴托夫公爵府，俘虏们被带着直接往下走，经圣母广场，到圣母修道院左边，然后又被带到一个菜园，那里竖立着一根柱子。柱子后面是掘好的一个大坑，边沿有新垒起的泥土，土坑和柱子附近，呈半圆形站着一大群人。人群里小半是俄国人，大半是拿破仑的不当班的军人：德国人，意大利人，法国人等，他们穿着各式制服。柱子左右两边，站着排成行的法军，他们身穿带有红色穗条肩章的蓝制服，脚登皮靴，头戴圆筒帽。

罪犯是按名单上的顺序排好（皮埃尔站在第六名），被带到柱子前面去的。几面军鼓突然从两边敲响了，于是皮埃尔感到，随着鼓声灵魂好像飞走了大半似的。他失掉了思考和理解的能力。他只能看和听。并且，他只剩下一个愿望，希望快点儿发生完应该发生的可怕事情。

皮埃尔朝难友望去，一个个地看他们。

头两个人是剃光了头的囚犯。一个又高又瘦；另一个黧黑，多毛，肌肉强健，长了个扁鼻子。第三人是个家奴，约四十五岁，头发已开始灰白，身体肥胖，保养得好。第四个是农夫，很漂亮，有一大把褐色的胡子和一双黑眼睛。第五个是工场伙计，黄皮肤，瘦小，十八九岁的样子，穿外套。

皮埃尔听到法国人在商议如何枪毙：一次枪毙一个或是两个？“两个。”为首的军官冷漠而平静地说。士兵的队列里有了动静，可以看出都在忙着，而大家的忙，不是忙于去干大家明白的事，却是忙于去完成一件必须完成的，但不愉快也不可思议的事。

一个佩绶带的法国官员走近一排犯人的右手边，用俄语和法语宣读判辞。

然后，两对法国兵走近犯人，根据军官的指示。带出站在前头的两名囚犯。囚犯走到柱子前停下，在法国兵去拿口袋来的功夫，默默地看着周围，像被打伤的野兽望着走过来的猎人。一个老是划十字，另一个在抓背脊，动了动嘴唇，像微笑的样子。士兵们急急忙忙伸出手来，开始给他们蒙上眼睛，把口袋套住他们的头，并把他们绑到柱子上。

十二名持枪的步兵，迈着整齐有力的步伐走出队列，在离柱子八步远处停下。皮埃尔转过身去，以免看见将要发生的事。突然响起了炸裂声和隆隆声，皮埃尔觉得比可怕的雷声还更响亮，他转过脸去看，看见了硝烟，同时，脸色苍白的法国人用发抖的手在坑旁干着什么。又带去另外两个。这两人照样用同样的目光看着大家，两人一个样地仔细看，沉默着，枉然地寻求着保护，显然不明白，不相信将要发生的事。他们不能相信，因为只有他们自己知道，生命对于他们意味着什么，也因为他们不懂，也不相信他们的生命可以被夺去。

皮埃尔想要不看，但又回过头去；同时仿佛有一种可怕的爆炸声又一次地震动了他的耳朵，随着这一阵声响，他看到了硝烟，谁的鲜血，和吓得发白的法国人的面孔，他们又用发抖的手不时地彼此相撞，在柱子旁干着什么，皮埃尔沉重地呼吸着，望着四周，像是在问：这是怎么啦？与皮埃尔目光相遇的那些人的目光里，也有着相同的询问。

在所有俄罗斯人的脸上，在法军士兵，军官的脸上，无一例外，他都看到了惊吓、骇怕和斗争，他内心也有这样的感受。这究竟是谁干的呢？他们都感到痛苦，我也和他们一样，是谁？是谁？”这个问题在皮埃尔心上闪了一下。

“Tirailleursdu86—me，enavant”（第86团的步兵，出列！）有人在喊口令。和皮埃尔站在一起的第五名被带出去，——只是一个人。皮埃尔不明白他得救了。不明白他和其余剩下的人只是带来陪陪枪决的。他的恐惧在增长，既无高兴，也无放心的感觉，就这样看着正在发生的事。第五个是穿工作衫的工场伙计。法军一挨着他，他立即恐惧地跳开，抱住皮埃尔（皮埃尔浑身一抖，挣脱了出来）。工场伙计走不动。他是被架着拖起走的，同时他又在叫喊着什么。当他被带到柱子前面，他突然不叫了。他仿佛突然明白了什么。他明白了叫喊徒劳无益吗？还是明白了杀死他是不可能的吗？总之，他站在柱子旁边，等待被蒙上眼睛和一应手续，他也像被打伤的野兽一样，用闪光的眼睛望着周围。

皮埃尔这时已无法阻遇自己转过身去闭住眼睛了。在枪毙第五个人时他和整个人群的好奇和激动，达到了最高点。像前面几个一样，这第五个也显得平静：他掩上衣襟，用一只光脚搔另一只脚。

在给他蒙眼睛时，他自己弄好勒痛他的后脑的结子；随后，让他靠到满是血迹的柱子上去，他往后一仰，因为那时他觉得站的姿势不舒适，然后改正一下姿势，再把两脚摆整齐，靠稳了。皮埃尔没有把目光从他身上移开，不放过极细微的动作。

应该听到口令了，口令之后应该响起八支步枪的射击声。但皮埃尔，勿论他后来怎样努力回忆，也没回忆起一点点射击声。他只看到，不知为什么工场伙计突然倒在绳索上，血从两个地方喷射出来，绳索本身在下垂的身体的重压下松开了，而工场伙计不自然地垂着头，屈着一条腿坐了下去。皮埃尔朝柱子跑去。没有人拦阻他。工场伙计的周围，吓坏了的脸色苍白的一些人在干着什么。留着唇髭的一名法国老兵在解绳子时，下巴在发抖。尸体放下来了。士兵笨拙地匆忙地托他往柱子后面拖，推到坑里去。

大家都确切无疑地知道，他们是罪犯，他们是必须把罪证快些掩盖起来的罪犯。

皮埃尔朝坑里望了一眼，看到工场伙计屈腿卧着，膝盖抵着头朝上蜷着。一边肩膀高一边肩膀低。高的那边肩膀痉挛地均匀地上下起伏着。但一铲铲的泥土在撒向那具尸体。一个士兵生气地恶狠狠地病态地向皮埃尔吼了一声，让他回去。

但皮埃尔听不明白，仍旧站在柱子旁，也没有谁赶他走。

当土坑填满后，又听到一声口令。皮埃尔被带回原位，而柱子两边站成行的法军队伍转了个半圆，开始齐步走过柱子旁。圈子中央拿着放空了的枪的二十四名步兵，在各连士兵走过他们身旁时，跑步归队。

皮埃尔茫然地看着这批步兵从圈子里两人一排地跑出来。除一个外，都回到了队伍里。这个年轻士兵脸色死一般的苍白，筒帽推到了后面，枪已放下，仍在他射击的地方面朝土坑站着。他像醉汉一样摇摇晃晃，向前走几步，又向后走几步，支撑着快要倒下的身躯。一个年老的军士从队列跑出，抓着年轻士兵的肩膀把他拖回了连的队伍。那群俄国人和法国人，开始散开。大家默默地走着，头向下低垂。

“Caleurapprendraàincendier．①一个法国人说。皮埃尔朝那说话的人看去，看到这是一个兵，他想为他们干的事自我安慰一下，其实白搭。这人话没有说完，摆摆手走开了。

①这就是他们放火得到的教训。