IN THE PUBLIC SQUARE towards which the Tsar rode there stood, facing each other, the battalion of the Preobrazhensky regiment on the right, and the battalion of the French guards in bearskin caps on the left.
While the Emperor was riding up to one flank of the battalions, who presented arms, another crowd of horsemen was galloping up to the opposite flank, and at the head of them Rostov recognised Napoleon. That figure could be no one else. He galloped up, wearing a little hat, the ribbon of St. Andrey across his shoulder, and a blue uniform open over a white vest. He was riding a grey Arab horse of extremely fine breed, with a crimson, gold-embroidered saddle-cloth. Riding up to Alexander, he raised his hat, and at that moment Rostov, with his cavalryman's eye, could not help noticing that Napoleon had a bad and uncertain seat on horseback. The battalions shouted hurrah, and vive l'Empereur! Napoleon said something to Alexander. Both Emperors dismounted from their horses and took each other by the hands. Napoleon's face wore an unpleasantly hypocritical smile. Alexander was saying something to him with a cordial expression.
In spite of the kicking of the horses of the French gendarmes, who were keeping back the crowd, Rostov watched every movement of the Emperor Alexander and of Bonaparte, and never took his eyes off them. What struck him as something unexpected and strange was that Alexander behaved as though Bonaparte were his equal, and that Bonaparte in his manner to the Russian Tsar seemed perfectly at ease, as though this equal and intimate relation with a monarch were something natural and customary with him.
Alexander and Napoleon, with a long tail of suite, moved towards the right flank of the Preobrazhensky battalion, close up to the crowd which was standing there. The crowd found itself unexpectedly so close to the Emperors, that Rostov, who stood in the front part of it, began to be afraid he might be recognised.
“Sire, I ask your permission to give the Legion of Honour to the bravest of your soldiers,” said a harsh, precise voice, fully articulating every letter.
It was little Bonaparte speaking, looking up straight into Alexander's eyes. Alexander listened attentively to what was said to him, and bending his head smiled amiably.
“To him who bore himself most valiantly in this last war,” added Napoleon, emphasising each syllable, and with an assurance and composure, revolting to Rostov, scanning the rows of Russian soldiers drawn up before him, all presenting arms, and all gazing immovably at the face of their own Emperor.
“Will your majesty allow me to ask the opinion of the colonel?” said Alexander, and he took a few hurried steps towards Prince Kozlovsky, the commander of the battalion. Bonaparte was meanwhile taking the glove off his little white hand, and, tearing it, he threw it away. An adjutant, rushing hurriedly forward from behind, picked it up. “Give it to whom?” the Emperor Alexander asked of Kozlovsky in Russian, in a low voice.
“As your majesty commands.”
The Emperor frowned, with a look of displeasure, and, looking round, said: “Well, we must give him an answer.”
Kozlovsky scanned the ranks with a resolute air, taking in Rostov too, in that glance.
“Won't it be me!” thought Rostov.
“Lazarev!” the colonel called with a scowling face; and Lazarev, the soldier who was the best shot in firing at the range, stepped smartly forward.
“Where are you off to? Stand still!” voices whispered to Lazarev, who did not know where he was to go. Lazarev stopped short, with a sidelong scared look at his colonel, and his face quivered, as one so often sees in soldiers called up in front of the ranks.
Napoleon gave a slight backward turn of his head, and a slight motion of his little fat hand, as though seeking something with it. The members of his suite, who guessed the same second what was wanted, were all in a bustle; they whispered together, passing something from one to another, and a page—the same one Rostov had seen the previous evening at Boris's quarters—ran forward, and respectfully bowing over the outstretched hand and not keeping it one instant waiting, put in it an order on a red ribbon. Napoleon, without looking at it, pressed two fingers together; the order was between them. Napoleon approached Lazarev, who stood rolling his eyes, and still gazing obstinately at his own Emperor only. Napoleon looked round at the Emperor Alexander, as though to show that what he was doing now he was doing for the sake of his ally. The little white hand, with the order in it, just touched the button of the soldier Lazarev. It was as though Napoleon knew that it was enough for his, Napoleon's, hand to deign to touch the soldier's breast, for that soldier to be happy, rewarded, and distinguished from every one in the world. Napoleon merely laid the cross on Lazarev's breast, and, dropping his hand, turned to Alexander, as though he knew that cross would be sure to stick on Lazarev's breast. The cross did, in fact, stick on.
Officious hands, Russian and French, were instantaneously ready to support it, to fasten it to his uniform.
Lazarev looked darkly at the little man with white hands who was doing something to him, and still standing rigidly, presenting arms, he looked again straight into Alexander's face, as though he were asking him: “Was he to go on standing there, or was it his pleasure for him to go now, or perhaps to do something else?” But no order was given him, and he remained for a good while still in the same rigid position.
The Emperors mounted their horses and rode away. The Preobrazhensky battalion broke up, and, mingling with the French guards, sat down to the tables prepared for them.
Lazarev was put in the place of honour. French and Russian officers embraced him, congratulated him, and shook hands with him. Crowds of officers and common people flocked up simply to look at Lazarev. There was a continual hum of laughter and French and Russian chatter round the tables in the square. Two officers with flushed faces passed by Rostov, looking cheerful and happy.
“What do you say to the banquet, my boy? All served on silver,” one was saying. “Seen Lazarev?”
“Yes.”
“They say the Preobrazhenskies are to give them a dinner tomorrow.”
“I say, what luck for Lazarev! Twelve hundred francs pension for life.”
“Here's a cap, lads!” cried a Preobrazhensky soldier, putting on a French soldier's fur cap.
“It's awfully nice, first-rate!”
“Have you heard the watchword?” said an officer of the guards to another. “The day before yesterday it was ‘Napoléon, France, bravoure'; to-day it's ‘Alexandre, Russie, grandeur.” One day our Emperor gives it, and next day Napoleon. To-morrow the Emperor is to send the St. George to the bravest of the French guards. Can't be helped! Must respond in the same way.”
Boris, with his comrade Zhilinsky, had come too to look at the banquet. On his way back Boris noticed Rostov, who was standing at the corner of a house. “Rostov! good day; we haven't seen each other,” he said, and could not refrain from asking him what was the matter, so strangely gloomy and troubled was the face of Rostov.
“Nothing, nothing,” answered Rostov.
“Are you coming in?”
“Yes.”
Rostov stood a long while in the corner, looking at the fête from a distance. His brain was seething in an agonising confusion, which he could not work out to any conclusion. Horrible doubts were stirring in his soul. He thought of Denisov with his changed expression, his submission, and all the hospital with torn-off legs and arms, with the filth and disease. So vividly he recalled that hospital smell of corpse that he looked round to ascertain where the stench came from. Then he thought of that self-satisfied Bonaparte, with his white hands—treated now with cordiality and respect by the Emperor Alexander. For what, then, had those legs and arms been torn off, those men been killed? Then he thought of Lazarev rewarded, and Denisov punished and unpardoned. He caught himself in such strange reflections that he was terrified at them.
Hunger and the savoury smell of the Preobrazhensky dinner roused him from this mood; he must get something to eat before going away. He went to an hotel which he had seen in the morning. In the hotel he found such a crowd of people, and of officers who had come, as he had, in civilian dress, that he had difficulty in getting dinner. Two officers of his own division joined him at table. The conversation naturally turned on the peace. The two officers, Rostov's comrades, like the greater part of the army, were not satisfied with the peace concluded after Friedland. They said that had they kept on a little longer it would have meant Napoleon's downfall; that his troops had neither provisions nor ammunition. Nikolay ate in silence and drank heavily. He finished two bottles of wine by himself. The inward ferment working within him still fretted him, and found no solution. He dreaded giving himself up to his thoughts, and could not get away from them. All of a sudden, on one of the officers saying that it was humiliating to look at the French, Rostov began shouting with a violence that was quite unprovoked, and consequently greatly astounded the officers.
“And how can you judge what would be best!” he shouted, with his face suddenly suffused with a rush of blood. “How can you judge of the action of the Emperor? What right have we to criticise him? We cannot comprehend the aims or the actions of the Emperor!”
“But I didn't say a word about the Emperor,” the officer said in justification of himself, unable to put any other interpretation on Rostov's violence than that he was drunk.
But Rostov did not heed him.
“We are not diplomatic clerks, we are soldiers, and nothing more,” he went on. “Command us to die—then we die. And if we are punished, it follows we're in fault; it's not for us to judge. If it's his majesty the Emperor's pleasure to recognise Bonaparte as emperor, and to conclude an alliance with him, then it must be the right thing. If we were once to begin criticising and reasoning about everything, nothing would be left holy to us. In that way we shall be saying there is no God, nothing,” cried Nikolay, bringing his fist down on the table. His remarks seemed utterly irrelevant to his companions, but followed quite consistently from the train of his own ideas. “It's our business to do our duty, to hack them to pieces, and not to think; that's all about it,” he shouted.
“And to drink,” put in one of the officers, who had no desire to quarrel.
“Yes, and to drink,” assented Nikolay. “Hi, you there! Another bottle!” he roared.
在国王奔驰而去的广场上，右边有普列奥布拉任斯基兵团的一个营，左边有戴着熊皮帽子的法国近卫军的一个营，两营人面对面地伫立着。
在国王驰近举枪敬礼的两营官兵的一个侧翼时，另一群骑士驰近对面的侧翼，罗斯托夫认出了领头的是拿破仑。这不可能是任何其他人。他头上戴着小礼帽，肩上横挎着安德烈勋章绶带，身穿白色的无袖上衣，外面罩着敞开扣子的蓝色制服，骑着一匹不同于一般的阿拉伯良种灰马，马鞍上垫着用金色丝线刺绣的绛红鞍韂，他奔驰而来，到了亚历山大面前，微微地举起礼帽。罗斯托夫这个骑兵的眼睛一望见这个动作，就不能不发觉，拿破仑笨拙地、不平稳地骑行。两营官兵都高呼：“乌拉”和“Vive l'Empereur！”①拿破仑对亚历山大说了一句什么话。二位皇帝下了马、手牵手。拿破仑脸上流露出不悦意的佯装的微笑。亚历山大带着亲热的表情对他谈论着什么事。
虽然那些驱使人群后退的法国宪兵的马匹在肆意践踏，但是罗斯托夫仍然目不转睛地注视亚历山大皇帝和波拿巴的每个动作。使他觉得惊奇的意外情形是，亚历山大竟以平等地位对待波拿巴，波拿巴也以平等地位对待俄国沙皇，波拿巴感到毫无拘束，他仿佛认为和国王接近是很自然的习以为常的事情。
亚历山大、拿破仑和一长列跟随着他们的侍从走到了普列奥布拉任斯基营的右翼前面，径直地向站在那儿的人群身边走去。忽然一群人不知不觉地在二位皇帝近旁出现了，以致于站在这群人前排的罗斯托夫害怕有人会把他认出来。
“Sire，je vous demande la permission de donAner la légion d′honneur au plus brave de vos soldats．”②一个具有刺耳的尖细嗓音的人开腔了，把个个字母全都说出来了。
①法语：皇帝万岁！
②法语：国王，请让我把荣誉团勋章发给您的最勇敢的士兵。
身材矮小的波拿巴说了这席话，他从下向上直勾勾地盯着亚历山大的眼睛。亚历山大用心地听他说话，低下头，快活地微微一笑。
“A celui qui s'est le plus vaillament conduit dans cette derni－er guerre．”①拿破仑补充说，清楚地说出每个音节，他带着罗斯托夫觉得气忿的沉着和自信的神情环顾挺直身子站在他面前，举枪敬礼，凝神注视皇帝面容的俄国士兵的队列。
“Votre majesté me permettra－t－elle de deAmander l'avis du colonel？”②亚历山大说，并向营长科兹洛夫斯基公爵急促地迈出几步。与此同时，波拿巴从洁白的小手上取下一只手套，把它撕破，抛在地上。一名副官急忙地向前奔去，把它拣起来。
①法语：发给在这次战争中表现得最勇敢的人。
②法语：陛下，请允许我问问上校的意见，好吗？
“发给什么人？”亚历山大皇帝用俄语低声地问科兹洛夫斯基。
“陛下，请吩咐。”
国王不满地皱了皱眉头，环顾四周后说道：
“真要答复他呀。”
科兹洛夫斯基神情坚定地环视自己的队伍，连罗斯托夫也被囊括在他的视线中。
“真的在注意我吗？”罗斯托夫想了想。
“拉扎列夫！”上校皱了皱眉头，喊出了口令，按高矮顺序排在第一的士兵拉扎列夫勇敢地向前走去。
“你到哪里去？在这里站住！”拉扎列夫因不知道要往哪里走，众人低声地对他说。拉扎列夫停步了，露出惊惶的样子，朝上校斜视一眼，便像士兵们被喊到队列前面时常有的情形那样，他的面孔颤动了一下。
拿破仑稍微扭转头，把那胖乎乎的小手向后伸，好像想拿件什么东西似的。就在这时候他的侍从们猜中了是怎么回事，开始慌乱起来，动弹起来，互相传递着一样东西；罗斯托夫昨天在鲍里斯那儿看见的那个少年侍从向前跑去，毕恭毕敬地向那只伸出的手弯下身子，省得它多等一秒钟，他将一枚系有红色绶带的勋章搁在他手上。拿破仑瞧也不瞧，就用两个指头夹住，勋章不知不觉地就夹在两个指头之间。拿破仑走到拉扎列夫面前，拉扎列夫瞪大眼睛，目不转睛地望着自己的国王，拿破仑回头望望亚历山大皇帝，心里表示，他现在所做的事情都是为了他的同盟军。他那只拿着勋章的雪白的小手碰了碰士兵拉扎列夫的钮扣。拿破仑好像知道，只要他拿破仑的手碰一碰士兵的胸部，这个士兵就会永远走运，得到奖励，就会在尘世上出类拔萃。拿破仑刚刚把十字勋章贴在拉扎列夫胸前，就放下手来，把脸转向亚历山大，仿佛他知道，十字勋章必须粘在拉扎列夫胸前。十字勋章真的粘上了。
几只俄国的和法国的殷勤的手，霎时间接住十字勋章，把它别在制服上。拉扎列夫阴郁地望望那个在他身上碰了碰、长着两只雪白的小手的、身材矮小的人，拉扎列夫仍旧一动不动地举枪敬礼，又直勾勾地盯着亚历山大的眼睛，好像他在向亚历山大发问：他是否还要站下去？是否让他现在走动一下？或者还要他做点什么事情？但是没有对他作出任何吩咐，他于是一动不动地呆了相当久。
两位皇帝都骑马走了。普列奥布拉任斯基营的官兵使队列陷于紊乱状态后便和法国近卫军混合起来，在给他们预备的餐桌旁就坐。
拉扎列夫坐在贵宾席上，俄国军官和法国军官都拥抱他，祝贺他，和他握手。一群群军官和百姓走过来了，只不过想亲眼瞧瞧拉扎列夫。餐桌周围的广场上洋溢着俄国人和法国人的嘈杂的说话声和哈哈大笑声。两个军官满面通红，高高兴兴地从罗斯托夫身边走过去。
“老弟，酒宴还丰盛吧？清一色的银器，”一名军官说，“看见拉扎列夫吗？”
“看见了。”
“据说明天普列奥布拉任斯基营的官兵要款待他们。”
“不过，拉扎列夫多么幸运！他获得一千二百法郎的终身恤金。”
“弟兄们，瞧瞧，一顶好帽子！”一个普列奥布拉任斯基营的人戴上法国人的毛茸茸的帽子，高声喊叫。
“好极了，妙极了！”
“你听到口令吗？”一名近卫军军官对另一名军官说，“前天是Napoléon，France，bravoure①，昨天是Alexandre，Russie，gran－deur②，一天由我国国王发出口令，另一天就由拿破仑发出口令。明天我们的国王给法国近卫军军人中最勇敢的人颁发乔治十字勋章。不能不如此！应当回敬嘛。”
①法语：拿破仑，法国，勇敢。
②法语：亚历山大，俄国，伟大。
鲍里斯和自己的伙伴日林斯基也来观看普列奥布拉任斯基营的官兵举办的宴会。鲍里斯在他回去的路上发现站立在屋角上的罗斯托夫。
“罗斯托夫！你好！我们没有会面啊。”他对他说，而且忍不住，要问问他出了什么事；因为罗斯托夫的脸色阴郁，现出不愉快的样子。
“没有什么，没有什么。”罗斯托夫答道。
“你顺路来一趟吗？”
“嗯，我会来的。”
罗斯托夫在屋角里站了很久，从远外窥视参加盛宴的人们。他脑海中产生了无法忍受的痛苦，他的心灵中出现了可怕的疑团。他时而回想杰尼索夫那种改变了的面部表情，他的温顺的样子，整个医院的气氛，那些已被截除的手足，污秽与疾病。他仿佛现在深深感觉到医院里的死尸的气味，他环顾四周，想要弄清楚这种气味是从哪里传来的。他时而回想这个沾沾自喜的波拿巴，他那洁白的小手，他如今正是亚历山大皇帝所喜爱和崇敬的皇帝。截断手和脚，把人们打死，这到底是为了什么呢？他时而回想获得奖赏的拉扎列夫和遭到惩罚的未受宽容的杰尼索夫。他常常发现自己产生这种古怪的念头，以致于害怕起来。
普列奥布拉任斯基营官兵们吃的食物的香气和罗斯托夫的饥饿，把他从这种停滞状态中唤醒过来，应当在动身之前吃点东西。他到早晨他看见的那家饭店去了。在饭店里他碰见许多老百姓和军官，他们也和他一样，穿着便服来到了本地，他好不容易才弄到一顿午饭。两个和他同在一个师部服务的军官跟他结伴了。不消说，话题涉及到和平。军官们，即是罗斯托夫的同志们，正如军队中的大多数人，都不满意弗里德兰战役后缔结的和平。据说，拿破仑再坚持一些时日，就要完蛋的，他的部队中既没有面包，也没有弹药。尼古拉不吭一声地吃着，主要是喝酒。他一个人就喝了两瓶酒，他内心出现的痛苦的心事没有化除，总是没完没了地使他难受。他害怕沉沦于自己的思想，可是又不能把它摒弃。忽然有一名军官说，一看见法国官兵就令人难受，罗斯托夫听见这些话毫无缘由地、急躁地喊叫起来，使两名军官大为惊讶。
“您怎么能够判断，什么举动更恰当！”他忽然涨红了脸，大声叫喊，“您怎么能够判断国王的所作所为，我们有什么评论的权利？！我们既没法了解国王的意旨，也没法了解国王的行为！”
“有关国王的事情，我只字未提。”军官替自己辩护，除了说罗斯托夫烂醉如泥，并无其他理由对自己解释他的急躁脾气。
但是罗斯托夫不听他的话。
“我们不是外交官，而是大兵，无二话可说，”他继续讲下去，“命令我们去死，那就去死。假如要处罚，那就是说，犯有过失；我们没法子评论。皇帝陛下愿意承认波拿巴是个皇帝并且和他缔结联盟，那就是说，应当这样做。否则，如果我们评论一切，议论一切，那么就没有什么神圣的东西了。那末我们就会说，没有上帝，什么都没有。”尼古拉一面捶桌子，一面叫喊，根据交谈者的见解，这是很不相宜的，但根据他的思路来看，这是很合乎逻辑的。
“我们的事业是履行天职，互相厮杀，不用思索，再没有别的。”他作结论说。
“喝吧。”有个不愿意争吵的军官说。
“对，就来喝吧，”尼古拉附和地说，“喂，你呀！再喝一瓶！”他喊了一声。
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