Book 11 Chapter 8

AT THE END of the day of Borodino, Pierre ran for a second time from Raevsky's battery, and with crowds of soldiers crossed the ravine on the way to Knyazkovo. There he reached an ambulance tent, and seeing blood and hearing screams and groans, he hurried on, caught up in a mob of soldiers.

The one thing Pierre desired now with his whole soul was to get away from the terrible sensations in which he had passed that day, to get back into the ordinary conditions of life, and to go to sleep quietly indoors in his own bed. He felt that only in the ordinary conditions of life would he be fit to understand himself and all he had seen and felt. But the ordinary conditions of life were nowhere to be found.

Though bullets and cannon balls were not whistling here on the road along which he was going, still he saw here on all sides the same sights as on the field of battle. There were everywhere the same suffering, exhausted, and sometimes strangely indifferent faces; everywhere the same blood and soldiers' overcoats, the same sound of firing at a distance, yet still rousing the same horror. There was heat and dust besides.

After walking about three versts along the Mozhaisk road, Pierre sat down by the roadside.

The shadows of night were beginning to fall over the earth, and the roar of cannon died down. Pierre lay leaning on his elbow, and lay so a long while, gazing at the shadows passing by him in the dusk. He was continually fancying that a cannon ball was swooping down upon him with a fearful whiz. He started and sat up. He had no idea how long he had been there. In the middle of the night, three soldiers, dragging branches after them, settled themselves near him and began making a fire.

Casting sidelong glances at Pierre, the soldiers lighted the fire, set a pot on it, broke up their biscuits into it, and put in some lard. The pleasant odour of the savoury and greasy mess blended with the smell of smoke. Pierre raised himself and sighed. The soldiers (there were three of them) were eating and talking among themselves. without taking any notice of Pierre.

“And what lot will you be one of?” one of the soldiers suddenly asked Pierre, evidently suggesting in this inquiry precisely what Pierre was thinking about. “If you are hungry we'll give you some, only tell us whether you're a true man.”

“I?” … said Pierre, feeling the necessity of minimising his social position as far as possible, so as to be closer to the soldiers and more within their range. “I am really a militia officer, but my company's nowhere about; I came to the battle and lost sight of my comrades.”

“Well! Fancy that!” said one of the soldiers.

Another soldier shook his head.

“Well, you can have some of the mash, if you like!” said the first, and licking a wooden spoon he gave it to Pierre.

Pierre squatted by the fire, and fell to eating the mess in the pot, which seemed to him the most delicious dish he had ever tasted. While he was bending over the pot, helping himself to big spoonfuls and greedily munching one after another, the soldiers stared at him in silence.

“Where do you want to go? Tell us!” the first of them asked again.

“To Mozhaisk.”

“You're a gentleman, then?”

“Yes.”

“And what's your name?”

“Pyotr Kirillovitch.”

“Well, Pyotr Kirillovitch, come along, we'll take you there.”

In the pitch dark the soldiers and Pierre walked to Mozhaisk.

The cocks were crowing when they reached Mozhaisk, and began ascending the steep hill into the town.

Pierre walked on with the soldiers, entirely forgetting that his inn was at the bottom of the hill and he had passed it. He would not have been aware of this—so preoccupied was he—if he had not chanced halfway up the hill to stumble across his groom, who had been to look for him in the town, and was on his way back to the inn. The groom recognised Pierre by his hat, which gleamed white in the dark.

“Your excellency!” he cried, “why, we had quite given you up. How is it you are on foot? And, mercy on us, where are you going?”

“Oh, to be sure…” said Pierre.

The soldiers halted.

“Well, found your own folks then?” said one of them.

“Well, good-bye to you—Pyotr Kirillovitch, wasn't it?”

“Good-bye, Pyotr Kirillovitch!” said the other voices.

“Good-bye,” said Pierre, and with the groom he turned in the direction of the inn.

“I ought to give them something!” thought Pierre, feeling for his pocket. “No, better not,” some inner voice prompted him.

There was not a room at the inn: all were full. Pierre went out into the yard, and muffling his head up, lay down in his carriage.

还在波罗底诺战役的尾声，皮埃尔便又一次逃离拉耶夫斯基的炮垒，同一群士兵沿河谷向克尼亚济科沃村走去、走到包扎站，看见血迹，听到叫喊和呻吟，便又混在士兵堆中匆忙继续赶路。

皮埃尔现在的全部心思，是竭望尽快摆脱他在这一天所经历的可怕印象，回到经常的生活环境，在自己房间里的床上安稳地睡一觉。只有在惯常的生活条件下，他才感觉得到他能明白他自己，明白他所见所亲历的一切。但这样的条件无处可得。

一路上，虽没有炮弹和子弹的呼啸声，但前后左右仍然是战场上的同样景象，仍然是痛苦的、疲惫的却有时奇怪地冷漠的人们，仍然在流血，仍然是穿军大衣的士兵，仍然是射击声，尽管比较遥远，但仍然引起恐怖，此外，就只有跋涉的闷热和飞扬的尘土。

沿莫扎伊斯克公路走了三俄里左右，皮埃尔在路边坐了下来。

暮色降临大地，枪炮的轰鸣也已沉寂。皮埃尔枕着胳膊肘躺下，他躺了很久，一面看着在黑暗中经过他身旁的影子。他老觉得，随着一声可怕的呼啸，会向他飞来一发炮弹；他哆嗦着抬起一点身子。他记不清在这里呆了多久。半夜，三位士兵拖来一些干树枝，在他身旁坐下，开始点燃火堆。

士兵们斜眼看了看皮埃尔，点燃了火堆，然后放上一口小锅，把面包干掰碎放进锅里，又加了一点腌猪油。沾了油荤的美味食物的香味混合着烟味。皮埃尔坐直了些，叹了口气。兵士们（他们是三个）吃着，没有注意皮埃尔，边吃边谈。

“你是干什么的？”其中一个突然对皮埃尔说，显然这问题的意思就是皮埃尔心里想的：假如你想吃，我们就给，但你要说，你是不是老实人？

“我？我……”皮埃尔吞吞吐吐，觉得有必要尽量降低自己的社会地位，以便接近兵士们，便于他们了解。“我是一位民防军官，真的，不过这里没有我的弟兄们；我来参加战斗，和自己人失散了。”

“瞧你！”一个士兵说。

另一个士兵摇了摇头。

“好吧，想吃就吃，面糊糊！”第一个士兵说，把木汤匙舔干净，递给了皮埃尔。

皮埃尔坐近火堆吃起来，锅里的糊糊他觉得是他吃过的最好食物。在他贪馋地俯身从锅里大勺大勺地舀着吃的时候，他的脸被火光照亮，三个兵默默地望着他。

“你要上哪儿去？你说哩！”其中一个又问。

“我去莫扎伊斯克。”

“你大概是老爷吧？”

“是的。”

“怎么称呼呢？”

“彼得·基里洛维奇。”

“呶，彼得·基里洛维奇，咱们一道去吧，我们送你去。”

在什么也看不见的黑暗中，士兵同皮埃尔一道向莫扎伊斯克走去。

当他们走近莫扎伊斯克，登上市郊陡峭的山峰，雄鸡已在高唱。皮埃尔同士兵一道走着，完全忘记客栈就在山脚下，他已走过而不知道。要不是他的驯马夫在半山上碰到他，他是想不起来的（他是如此的丢魂失魄）。驯马夫是去城里寻找他，现又返回客栈去的，他从白皮帽上认出了皮埃尔。

“爵爷，”他断断续续说，“我们已经绝望了。您怎么是走着来的？您这是上哪儿去啊，您说说看！”

“啊，好了。”皮埃尔说。

士兵停住了脚步。

“呶，怎么，找到自己人了？”一个问。

“呶，再见！彼得·基里洛维奇，是吧？再见了，彼得·基里洛维奇！”其余两人的声音说。

“再见。”皮埃尔说，同他的驯马夫一起往客栈走去。

“该给他们钱！”皮埃尔想，握住衣兜。“不，不用。”有一个声音对他说。

客栈的房间已没有空位子了：全部客满。皮埃尔穿过院子，蒙着头在自己马车里躺下睡觉。