IT was a dark, warm autumn night. Rain had been falling for the last four days. Changing horses twice, Bolhovitinov galloped in an hour and a half thirty versts over a muddy, slippery road. He reached Letashevko after one o'clock in the night. Dismounting at a hut, on the hurdle fence of which was the inscription “Headquarters of the Staff,” and letting his horse go, he walked into the dark entry.

“The general on duty at once! Very important!” he cried to some one, who jumped up, wheezing in the darkness.

“His honour has been very unwell since the evening; he has not slept for three nights,” an orderly's voice whispered, interposing. “You must wake the captain first.”

“Very important from General Dohturov,” said Bolhovitinov, feeling for the opened door and going in.

The orderly went in before him, and began waking some one up. “Your honour, your honour, a courier.”

“What? what? from whom?” said a sleepy voice.

“From Dohturov and from Alexey Petrovitch. Napoleon is at Fominskoe,” said Bolhovitinov, not seeing the speaker in the darkness, but assuming from the voice that it was not Konovnitsyn.

The man who had been waked yawned and stretched. “I don't want to wake him,” he said, fumbling for something. “He's ill! Perhaps it's only a rumour.”

“Here is the report,” said Bolhovitinov. “My instructions are to give it at once to the general on duty.”

“Wait a minute, I'll strike a light. What do you do with things, damn you!” said the sleepy voice addressing the orderly. The speaker was Shtcherbinin, Konovnitsyn's adjutant. “I have found it, I have found it,” he added.

The orderly struck a light, Shtcherbinin felt for a candlestick.

“Ah, the nasty beasts!” he said with disgust.

By the light of the sparks in the tinderbox Bolhovitinov had a glimpse of Shtcherbinin's youthful face, and in a corner another man asleep. This was Konovnitsyn.

When the tinder broke first into a blue and then into a red flame, Shtcherbinin lighted a tallow candle—the cockroaches that had been gnawing it ran away in all directions—and looked at the messenger. Bolhovitinov was bespattered all over, and on rubbing his face with his sleeve, had smudged that too with mud.

“But who sends the report?” said Shtcherbinin, taking the packet.

“The news is certain,” said Bolhovitinov. “Prisoners and Cossacks and spies, all tell the same story.”

“Well there's no help for it, we must wake him,” said Shtcherbinin, getting up and going to the sleeping man who wore a nightcap and was covered up with a military cloak. “Pyotr Petrovich!” he said. Konovnitsyn did not stir. “Wanted at headquarters!” he said with a smile, knowing these words would be sure to wake him. And the head in the nightcap was in fact lifted at once. Konovnitsyn's strong, handsome face, with feverishly swollen cheeks, still wore for an instant a far-away dreamy look, but he gave a sudden start and his face resumed its customary expression of calmness and strength.

“Well, what is it? From whom?” he asked at once, but with no haste, blinking at the light. Hearing what the officer had to tell him, Konovnitsyn broke open the packet and read it. He had hardly read it before he dropped his feet in worsted stockings on to the earth floor and began putting on his boots. Then he took off the nightcap, and combing his hair, put on a forage cap.

“Did you get here quickly? Let us go to his highness.”

Konovnitsyn understood at once that the news was of great importance, and that they must lose no time. As to whether it were good news or bad, he had no opinion and did not even put the question to himself. That did not interest him. He looked at the whole subject of the war, not with his intellect, not with his reason, but with something different. In his heart he had a deep, unaltered conviction that all would be well, yet that he ought not to believe in this, and still more ought not to say so, but ought simply to do his duty. And that he did do, giving all his energies to it.

Pyotr Petrovich Konovnitsyn, like Dohturov, is simply as a formality included in the list of the so-called heroes of 1812 with the Barclays, Raevskys, Yermolovs, Platovs and Miloradovitchs. Like Dohturov, he had the reputation of being a man of very limited capacities and information; and, like Dohturov, he never proposed plans of campaign, but was always to be found in the most difficult position. Ever since he had been appointed the general on duty, he had slept with his door open, and given orders to be waked on the arrival of any messenger. In battle he was always under fire, so that Kutuzov even reproached him for it, and was afraid to send him to the front. Like Dohturov, he was one of those inconspicuous cogwheels, which, moving without creaking or rattling, make up the most essential part of the machine.

Coming out of the hut into the damp, dark night, Konovnitsyn frowned, partly from his headache getting worse, and partly from the disagreeable thought that occurred to him of the stir this would make in all the nest of influential persons on the staff; of its effect on Bennigsen in particular, who since the battle of Tarutino had been at daggers drawn with Kutuzov; of the suppositions and discussions and orders and counter-orders. And the presentiment of all that was disagreeable to him, though he knew it to be inevitable.

Toll, to whom he went to communicate the news, did in fact begin at once expounding his views on the situation to the general who shared his abode; and Konovnitsyn, after listening in weary silence, reminded him that they must go to his highness.

那是一个温暖而又漆黑的秋天的夜晚。已经下了三天多的小雨。换了两次马，在一个半小时内，在泥泞的道路上奔驰了三十俄里，在夜间一点多钟，博尔霍维季诺夫来到列塔舍夫卡。他在一处篱笆上挂着“总司令部”牌子的农舍前下了马，他丢下马走进昏暗的农舍的过厅。

“我要立刻见值勤的将军！非常重要！”他在黑暗中对一个正在起身的用鼻子吸气的人说道。

“他大人从昨晚起就很不舒服，一连三个晚上都没睡觉了，”勤务兵低声央求道。“您还是先叫醒上尉吧。”

“很重要，我是多赫图罗夫将军派来的，”博尔霍维季诺夫一边说着，一边摸索着走进已打开的门。勤务兵走到他前面去叫醒一个人。

“大人，大人，来了一个信使。”

“什么？什么？谁派来的？”传来一个睡眼惺松的人的说话声。

“从多赫图罗夫和阿列克谢·彼得罗维奇那里来的。拿破仑在福明斯克，”博尔霍维季诺夫说，在黑暗中看不见问他的人，但是，根据这声音来判断，不是科诺夫尼岑。

被叫醒的人打了个哈欠，伸了伸懒腰。

“我不想叫醒他，”他一边摸什么东西，一边说道，“他病的厉害！或许，那，是谣言吧。”

“这是书面报告，”博尔霍维季诺夫说，“交待我立刻交给值勤将军。”

“请等一下，我把灯点上。该死的，你都把它塞到什么地方？”伸懒腰的人对勤务兵说。这个人是科诺夫尼岑的副官谢尔比宁。“找到了，找到了，”他接着补充说。

勤务兵打着了火①，谢尔比宁在摸烛台。

①用火石和火镰打火。

“咳，讨厌的家伙。”他厌恶地说。

借助火星的亮光，博尔霍维季诺夫看到了手持蜡烛的谢尔比宁的年轻的面孔，在前面屋角处睡着一个人。这个人就是科诺夫尼岑。

硫磺火柴一接近火绒，就先发出蓝色的，后发出红色的火焰，燃烧起来，谢尔比宁点燃了蜡烛，方才在烛台上啃蜡烛的蟑螂纷纷逃走，他看了看那个信使。博尔霍维季诺夫周身是泥，他用衣袖擦脸的时候，又擦了一脸的泥巴。

“是谁报告的？”谢尔比宁拿起一封公文问道。

“情报是可靠的，”博尔霍维季诺夫说，“俘虏、哥萨克、侦察兵，他们所有的报告都完全一致。”

“没办法了，应当叫醒他。”谢尔比宁说着就站起来，走向那个头戴睡帽、盖一件军大衣的人。“彼得，彼得罗维奇！”他说道。科诺夫尼岑一动也不动。“到总司令部去！”他面带微笑，因为他知道这一句话多半可以叫醒他。果然，戴睡帽的头立刻抬了起来。在科诺夫尼岑双颊烧得通红的、俊秀而又坚决的脸上，在一瞬间还停留在远离现实的梦境之中，然而，随后突然哆嗦了一下；他的脸上立刻显露出平时那种镇静而坚定的表情。

“哦，什么事？谁派来的？”他不慌不忙地立即问道，亮光刺得他直眨眼睛。科诺夫尼岑一边听军官的报告，一边拆开公文读了一遍。他刚一读完，就把穿着毛袜的两只脚伸到地上，开始穿靴子，拢了拢鬓角，戴上军帽。

“你到得快吗？咱们去见总座。”

科诺夫尼岑立刻明白，这一情报十分重要，不能有丝毫拖延。这一情报是好还是坏，他不去想，也不问自己。他看待战争中的一切事情不是用智力或推理，而是用另外的一种什么东西。在他内心深处有一个深藏未露的信念：一切都会好的，但是不应当信赖于此，尤其不应当去谈论这个，只应当做好自己的工作。而他正是全心全意地去做自己的本职工作的。

彼得·彼得罗维奇也和多赫图罗夫一样，只是出于礼貌，才把他载入巴克莱、拉耶夫斯基、叶尔莫洛夫、普拉托夫、米洛拉多维奇之流的所谓的一八一二年的英雄的名单。他和多赫图罗夫一样，以知识浅薄、能力有限著称，而且还和多赫图罗夫一样，从未制定过作战计划。但他总是哪个地方最困难，他就在哪个地方；自从他被任命为值勤将军以来，他总是开着门睡觉，咐咐，来了每一个人都要叫醒他。打仗时他总是冒着炮火在最前沿，库图佐夫曾为此而责备过他，简直不敢派他去。他就像多赫图罗夫一样，是一个不声不响、常被人们忽略的小齿轮，但是这个齿轮却是机器的最主要的部件。

科诺夫尼岑出了小屋，走进潮湿的黑夜，他皱起了眉头——一部分是由于头痛得更厉害了，一部分是由于他脑海中浮现出一种不愉快的情景：在获悉这一情报时，参谋部，这个有权势的人的整个窝巢一定会被搅动得乱作一团，特别是在塔鲁丁诺战役之后和库图佐夫针尖对麦芒的贝尼格森：要提建议，争吵，下命令，取消命令。这种预感使他感到极不愉快，虽然他知道这是无法避免的事情。

果真，当他顺路到托尔处，把这一新的情报告知他时，托尔立刻向和他同住在一起的一位将军讲述自己的意见，科诺夫尼岑默默地、懒洋洋地听着、他提醒他，应该去见总座阁下了。