THROUGH THE LANES of Hamovniky, the prisoners marched alone with their escort, a train of carts and waggons, belonging to the soldiers of the escort, following behind them. But as they came out to the provision shops they found themselves in the middle of a huge train of artillery, moving with difficulty, and mixed up with private baggage-waggons.

At the bridge itself the whole mass halted, waiting for the foremost to get across. From the bridge the prisoners got a view of endless trains of baggage-waggons in front and behind. On the right, where the Kaluga road turns by Neskutchny Gardens, endless files of troops and waggons stretched away into the distance. These were the troops of Beauharnais's corps, which had set off before all the rest. Behind, along the riverside, and across Kamenny bridge, stretched the troops and transport of Ney's corps.

Davoust's troops, to which the prisoners belonged, were crossing by the Crimean Ford, and part had already entered Kaluga Street. But the baggage-trains were so long that the last waggons of Beauharnais's corps had not yet got out of Moscow into Kaluga Street, while the vanguard of Ney's troops had already emerged from Bolshaya Ordynka.

After crossing the Crimean Ford, the prisoners moved a few steps at a time and then halted, and again moved forward, and the crowd of vehicles and people grew greater and greater on all sides. After taking over an hour in crossing the few hundred steps which separates the bridge from Kaluga Street and getting as far as the square where the Zamoskvoryetche streets run into Kaluga Street, the prisoners were jammed in a close block and kept standing for several hours at the crossroads. On all sides there was an unceasing sound, like the roar of the sea, of rumbling wheels, and tramping troops, and incessant shouts of anger and loud abuse. Pierre stood squeezed against the wall of a charred house, listening to that sound, which in his imagination melted off into the roll of drums.

Several of the Russian officers clambered up on to the wall of the burnt house by which Pierre stood so as to get a better view.

“The crowds! What crowds!…They have even loaded goods on the cannons! Look at the furs!…” they kept saying. “I say, the vermin, they have been pillaging.…Look at what that one has got behind, on the cart.…Why, they are holy pictures, by God!…Those must be Germans. And a Russian peasant; by God!…Ah; the wretches!…See, how he's loaded; he can hardly move! Look, I say, chaises; they have got hold of them, too!…See, he has perched on the boxes. Heavens!…They have started fighting!…That's right; hit him in the face! We shan't get by before evening like this. Look, look!…Why, that must surely be Napoleon himself. Do you see the horses! with the monograms and a crown! That's a portable house. He has dropped his sack, and doesn't see it. Fighting again.…A woman with a baby, and good-looking, too! Yes, I dare say; that's the way they will let you pass.…Look; why, there's no end to it. Russian wenches, I do declare they are. See how comfortable they are in the carriages!”

Again a wave of general curiosity, as at the church in Hamovniky, carried all the prisoners forward towards the road, and Pierre, thanks to his height, saw over the heads of the others what attracted the prisoners' curiosity. Three carriages were blocked between caissons, and in them a number of women with rouged faces, decked out in flaring colours, were sitting closely packed together, shouting something in shrill voices.

From the moment when Pierre had recognised the manifestation of that mysterious force, nothing seemed to him strange or terrible; not the corpse with its face blacked for a jest, nor these women hurrying away, nor the burnt ruins of Moscow. All that Pierre saw now made hardly any impression on him—as though his soul, in preparation for a hard struggle, refused to receive any impression that might weaken it.

The carriages of women drove by. They were followed again by carts, soldiers, waggons, soldiers, carriages, soldiers, caissons, and again soldiers, and at rare intervals women.

Pierre did not see the people separately; he saw only their movement.

All these men and horses seemed, as it were, driven along by some unseen force. During the hour in which Pierre watched them they all were swept out of the different streets with the same one desire to get on as quickly as possible. All of them, alike hindered by the rest, began to get angry and to fight. The same oaths were bandied to and fro, and white teeth flashed, and every frowning face wore the same look of reckless determination and cold cruelty, which had struck Pierre in the morning in the corporal's face, while the drums were beating.

It was almost evening when the officer in command of their escort rallied his men, and with shouts and oaths forced his way in among the baggage-trains; and the prisoners, surrounded on all sides, came out on the Kaluga road.

They marched very quickly without pausing, and only halted when the sun was setting. The baggage-carts were moved up close to one another, and the men began to prepare for the night. Every one seemed ill-humoured and dissatisfied. Oaths, angry shouts, and fighting could be heard on all sides till a late hour. A carriage, which had been following the escort, had driven into one of their carts and run a shaft into it. Several soldiers ran up to the cart from different sides; some hit the carriage horses on the head as they turned them round, other were fighting among themselves, and Pierre saw one German seriously wounded by a blow from the flat side of a sword on his head.

It seemed as though now when they had come to a standstill in the midst of the open country, in the cold twilight of the autumn evening, all these men were experiencing the same feeling of unpleasant awakening from the hurry and eager impulse forward that had carried them all away at setting off. Now standing still, all as it were grasped that they knew not where they were going, and that there was much pain and hardship in store for them on the journey.

At this halting-place, the prisoners were even more roughly treated by their escort than at starting. They were for the first time given horse-flesh to eat.

In every one of the escort, from the officers to the lowest soldier, could be seen a sort of personal spite against every one of the prisoners, in surprising contrast with the friendly relations that had existed between them before.

This spite was increased when, on counting over the prisoners, it was discovered that in the bustle of getting out of Moscow one Russian soldier had managed to run away by pretending to be seized with colic. Pierre had seen a Frenchman beat a Russian soldier unmercifully for moving too far from the road, and heard the captain, who had been his friend, reprimanding an under-officer for the escape of the prisoner, and threatening him with court-martial. On the under-officer's urging that the prisoner was ill and could not walk, the officer said that their orders were to shoot those who should lag behind. Pierre felt that that fatal force which had crushed him at the execution, and had been imperceptible during his imprisonment, had now again the mastery of his existence. He was afraid; but he felt too, that as that fatal force strove to crush him, there was growing up in his soul and gathering strength a force of life that was independent of it. Pierre supped on soup made of rye flour and horseflesh, and talked a little with his companions.

Neither Pierre nor any of his companions talked of what they had seen in Moscow, nor of the harsh treatment they received from the French, nor of the orders to shoot them, which had been announced to them. As though in reaction against their more depressing position, all were particularly gay and lively. They talked of personal reminiscences, of amusing incidents they had seen as they marched, and avoided touching on their present position.

The sun had long ago set. Stars were shining brightly here and there in the sky; there was a red flush, as of a conflagration on the horizon, where the full moon was rising, and the vast, red ball seemed trembling strangely in the grey darkness. It became quite light. The evening was over, but the night had not yet begun. Pierre left his new companions and walked between the camp-fires to the other side of the road, where he had been told that the common prisoners were camping. He wanted to talk to them. On the road a French sentinel stopped him and bade him go back.

Pierre did go back, but not to the camp-fire where his companions were, but to an unharnessed waggon where there was nobody. Tucking his legs up under him, and dropping his head, he sat down on the cold ground against the waggon wheel, and sat there a long while motionless, thinking. More than an hour passed by. No one disturbed Pierre. Suddenly he burst into such a loud roar of his fat, good-humoured laughter, that men looked round on every side in astonishment at this strange and obviously solitary laughter. “Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Pierre. And he talked aloud to himself. “The soldier did not let me pass. They have taken me—shut me up. They keep me prisoner. Who is ‘me'? Me? Me—my immortal soul! ha, ha, ha! … Ha, ha, ha! …” he laughed, with the tears starting into his eyes.

A man got up and came to see what this strange, big man was laughing at all by himself. Pierre left off laughing, got up, walked away from the inquisitive intruder, and looked about him.

The immense, endless bivouac, which had been full of the sound of crackling fires and men talking, had sunk to rest; the red camp-fires burnt low and dim. High overhead in the lucid sky stood the full moon. Forests and fields, that before could not be seen beyond the camp, came into view now in the distance. And beyond those fields and forests could be seen the bright, shifting, alluring, boundless distance. Pierre glanced at the sky, at the far-away, twinkling stars. “And all that is mine, and all that is in me, and all that is I!” thought Pierre. “And all this they caught and shut up in a shed closed in with boards!” He smiled and went to lie down to sleep beside his companions.

在通过哈莫夫尼克区的一些胡同时，只有俘虏和押送队以及跟在后面的属于押送队的各种车辆同行；但是，他们走到粮店处，就卷进一列夹杂有私人车辆的庞大而又拥挤的炮兵队伍中间了。

到了桥头，所有的人都停了下来，等待着前面的人先过去。从桥上他们可以看见在他们前面和后面移动着一眼望不到头的辎重车队。在右边，在卡卢日斯卡雅大路经过涅斯库奇内转弯的地方，无穷无尽的一排排的部队和车辆一直伸展到远方。这是先头部队博加尔涅兵团；在后面，沿着河堤通过卡缅内桥行进的是内伊的部队和车队。

俘虏所在的达乌部队涉过克里米亚浅滩，一部分已经进入卡卢日斯卡雅大街。然而，辎重车队拉得那么长，以致于内伊的先头部队已经走出了奥尔登卡大路的时候，博加尔涅的车队还没有走出莫斯科进入卡卢日斯卡雅大街。

涉过克里米亚浅滩之后，俘虏们每走几步就得停下来，过一会再走，从四面八方来的车辆和人们越来越拥挤。俘虏们在桥和卡卢日斯卡雅大街之间走了一个多小时，才走了几百步，走到了莫斯科河南岸大街和卡卢日斯卡雅大街汇合处的广场上，俘虏们挤成一堆，在交叉路口站着等了几个小时。四面传来的轰轰隆隆的车轮声，像海啸般响个不停，其中还夹杂着脚步声和不停的斥责声和咒骂声。皮埃尔靠在一处被焚毁的房屋的残壁上，倾听着这些与他想象中的鼓声混合在一起的喧嚣声。

有几个俘虏军官，为了看得更清楚些，他们爬到皮埃尔靠着的那堵被烧毁的房屋的墙头上。

“好多的人啊！嘿，真是人山人海！……连一些炮上都堆满了东西！你们看：是皮衣服……”他们说，“看那些流氓抢的东西……看那辆车后面的东西……那是从圣像上弄下来的，一定是！……那些一定是德国人。还有一个俄国农民，是真的……嗨，这些坏蛋！……看那家伙把自己装载成什么样子了，连路都走不动了！看，真没想到，连这种小马车都抢来了！……看那个家伙坐在箱子上，我的天哪！……他们打起来了！……”

“对，打他的嘴巴——打他的嘴巴！照这样，我们天黑以前还走不出去。看，看那里，那一定是拿破仑。看，多好的马！还有带花体字的皇冠。像一所活动的房子。那家伙掉了口袋都还不知道呢。又打起来了……一个抱小孩的女人，长得不错。可不是，你要有这样漂亮，准让你过去……看，没有个完。俄国姑娘，真是俄国姑娘们！坐在马车里多舒服呵！”

就像在哈莫夫尼克的教堂前那样，又有一股一致的好奇的浪潮把所有的俘虏都涌向大路，皮埃尔凭着他个子高，越过所有人的头顶看见了吸引了俘虏们好奇心的事情。在许多弹药车之间夹着三辆马车，车里紧挤着坐着一些衣着鲜艳、涂脂抹粉、叽叽喳喳喊叫着的女人。

自从皮埃尔意识到那种神秘的力量已经出现的那一刻起，似乎任何东西：无论是为了好玩把脸涂黑的尸体，无论是这些不知往何方奔忙的妇女，无论是莫斯科的火场，都不能使他感到惊奇和害怕。皮埃尔对他现在所见到的一切，都不会留下任何印象——好像他的灵魂正在准备应付一场艰苦斗争，因而拒绝接受可能削弱它的印象。

那些女人坐的车子过去了，接着过来的又是大车；士兵们；运货车，士兵们；马车，士兵们；弹药车，士兵们，时而还有一些妇女。

皮埃尔看不见一个个的人，看见的是一股人流。

所有的这些人和马，好像被一种无形的力量驱赶着。皮埃尔连续观察了一小时，所有的人都抱着赶快通过的愿望从各条街口涌出来；他们无一例外地相互冲撞着，相互发怒，相互打斗；他们个个都龇牙咧嘴，皱着眉头，相互对骂，所有人的脸上都流露出不顾一切的往前赶和冷酷无情的表情，这就是那天早晨在鼓声中班长脸上露出来的，令皮埃尔吃惊的那种表情。

快到傍晚时，押送队的军官把队伍集合起来，吵吵嚷嚷挤进运载弹药的车队的行列，俘虏们在四面包围中走上卡卢日斯卡雅大路。

他们走得很快，没有休息，在太阳落山之时才停了下来。辎重车一个挨一个集中起来，人们开始准备过夜。所有的人都有气，都不满意。好一阵都可以听到从四面八方传来的咒骂声、凶恶的喊叫声和相互殴斗声。押送队后面的一辆马车撞到押送队的一辆大车上，把车子撞了一个洞，有几个士兵从不同方向跑到大车前；一些士兵把套在马车上的马牵到一边，抽打着马头，另一些士兵则相互打起架来，皮埃尔看见，一个德国士兵的头被刀砍成重伤。

所有这些人，只是在寒冷的秋天的傍晚，在田野上停下来之后，似乎只是现在才从出发时那种匆忙和不知道去向何方的情景中清醒了一点，他们都有同样的不愉快的感觉。在停下来之后，仿佛才明白，现在仍然不知道所去的地方和前面还有多少艰难困苦。

在这次休息中，押送队对俘虏的态度比出发时更恶劣了。

俘虏们第一次得到的食品是马肉。

从军官到每一个士兵好像对每一个俘虏都抱有一种个人的仇恨，出人意外地改变了先前的友善态度。

在清点俘虏人数时，发现有一个俄国士兵在从莫斯科出发时，假装肚子痛，在忙乱中逃跑了，于是这种仇恨越发增加了。皮埃尔看见一个法国人在毒打一个俄国士兵，就只因为他离开大路远了一点，他又听到那个上尉——他的朋友，因为一个俄国士兵逃走，而斥责那个下级军官，并且威胁他，要把他送交军事法庭。那个下级军官借口说，那个俄国士兵因患病不能行动，军官说，上级有令，凡是停住不走的，统统枪毙。皮埃尔感到，行刑时使地心潮起伏的和在当俘虏期间不再觉察到的命运的力量，现在又支配了他的存在。他感到恐惧；但是他觉得，随着命运力量对他压力的增加，那不受命运约束的他灵魂中的生命力就越发增长和巩固。

皮埃尔的晚餐是喝黑麦面汤和吃马肉，他边吃边和同伴们闲谈。

不论是皮埃尔，还是他的任何一个同伴，都绝口不提他们在莫斯科所见到的任何事情，不提及法国人的粗暴态度，不提及向他们宣布的枪毙他们的命令：为了反抗目前更加恶劣的处境，大家都表现出特别的兴奋和愉快。

太阳早已落山，天空中有几处闪烁着明亮的星星；一轮满月刚刚升起，天际一片火红，一个巨大的红球在灰蒙蒙的暮霭中令人惊奇地摇晃着，渐渐明亮起来，黄昏已尽，然而，夜，还没有来临。皮埃尔站起来，离开新的同伴，穿过一堆堆火堆向路的另一边走去，他听说，那儿有被俘虏的士兵。他想和他们谈谈。在路上一个法国哨兵拦住他，叫他回去。

皮埃尔返回去了。但是他没有回到火堆边，也没有回到同伴们那里，而是朝着一辆卸了套的马车走去，那里没有一个人。他盘起腿，低着头，坐在车轮旁边冰凉的土地上，他一动也不动地坐了很久很久，他冥思苦想。已经坐了一个多小时。谁也不来打扰他。突然之间，他放声大笑，他那浑厚而和善的笑声是那么响亮，使周围的人都惊奇地掉转头看这个古怪的，显然是一个人发出的笑声。

“哈，哈，哈！”皮埃尔大笑。接着他高声自言自语道：“那个兵不让我过去。抓住我，把我关起来。他们俘虏了我，我？——我的不朽的灵魂！”他放声大笑，笑得流出了眼泪。

有一个人站起身，走近皮埃尔，看看这个古怪的大个子独自一个人在笑什么。皮埃尔不再笑了，站起身，走向一边。

离那个好奇的人更远一点，他向周围看了一眼。

先前，这偌大一片宿营地，无数的火堆噼哩啪啦地燃烧着，人们高声交谈，一片喧闹，现在静了下来，旺盛的篝火渐渐熄灭了，颜色变得苍白。一轮满月悬挂在高高的明朗的天上。宿营地以外的森林和原野原先看不见，这时在远方展现出来。再往远处，越过森林和原野，明朗的、飘忽不定的、无穷无尽的天际把人引向远方。皮埃尔仰望天空，遥看高天上渐渐远去的闪烁的星斗。“这都是我的，都在我心中，这一切就是我！”皮埃尔想。“可是，他们捉住了这一切，关在一所用板子围起来的棚子里！”他笑了笑，就走到同伴处躺下睡了。