战争与和平(上)-第277部分

快捷操作: 按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页 按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页 按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部! 如果本书没有阅读完，想下次继续接着阅读，可使用上方 "收藏到我的浏览器" 功能 和 "加入书签" 功能！


“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。


Chapter　17
LIKE　ALL　OLD　PEOPLE；　Kutuzov　slept　little　at　night。　He　often　dropped　into　sudden　naps　during　the　daytime；　but　at　night　he　lay　on　his　bed　without　undressing；　and　generally　not　asleep　but　thinking。
He　was　lying　like　that　now　on　his　bedstead；　his　huge；　heavy；　misshapen　head　leaning　on　his　fat　hand。　He　was　thinking　with　his　one　eye　wide　open；　gazing　into　the　darkness。
Since　Bennigsen；　who　was　in　correspondence　with　the　Tsar　and　had　more　weight　than　all　the　rest　of　the　staff；　had　avoided　him；　Kutuzov　was　more　at　ease　so　far　as　not　being　compelled　to　lead　his　soldiers　into　useless　offensive　operations。　The　lesson　of　Tarutino　and　the　day　before　the　battle；　a　memory　that　rankled　in　Kutuzov’s　mind；　must；　he　thought；　have　its　effect　on　them　too。
“They　ought　to　understand　that　we　can　but　lose　by　taking　the　offensive。　Time　and　patience；　these　are　my　champions！”　thought　Kutuzov。　He　knew　the　apple　must　not　be　picked　while　it　was　green。　It　will　fall　of　itself　when　ripe；　but　if　you　pick　it　green；　you　spoil　the　apple　and　the　tree　and　set　your　teeth　on　edge。　Like　an　experienced　hunter；　he　knew　the　beast　was　wounded；　wounded　as　only　the　whole　force　of　Russia　could　wound　it；　but　whether　to　death　or　not；　was　a　question　not　yet　solved。　Now　from　the　sending　of　Lauriston　and　Bertemy；　and　from　the　reports　brought　by　the　irregulars；　Kutuzov　was　almost　sure　that　the　wound　was　a　deadly　one。　But　more　proof　was　wanted；　he　must　wait。
“They　want　to　run　and　look　how　they　have　wounded　him。　Wait　a　bit；　you　will　see。　Always　man？uvres；　attacks；”　he　thought。　“What　for？　Anything　to　distinguish　themselves。　As　though　there　were　any　fun　in　fighting。　They　are　like　children　from　whom　you　can　never　get　a　sensible　view　of　things　because　they　all　want　to　show　how　well　they　can　fight。　But　that’s　not　the　point　now。　And　what　skilful　man？uvres　all　these　fellows　propose！　They　think　that　when　they　have　thought　of　two　or　three　contingencies　（he　recalled　the　general　plan　from　Petersburg）　that　they　have　thought　of　all　of　them。　And　there　is　no　limit　to　them！”
The　unanswered　question；　whether　the　wound　dealt　at　Borodino　were　mortal　or　not；　had　been　for　a　whole　month　hanging　over　Kutuzov’s　head。　On　one　side；　the　French　had　taken　possession　of　Moscow。　On　the　other　side；　in　all　his　being；　Kutuzov　felt　beyond　all　doubt　that　the　terrible　blow　for　which；　together　with　all　the　Russians；　he　had　strained　all　his　strength　must　have　been　mortal。　But　in　any　case　proofs　were　wanted；　and　he　had　been　waiting　for　them　now　a　month；　and　as　time　went　on　he　grew　more　impatient。　As　he　lay　on　his　bed　through　sleepless　nights；　he　did　the　very　thing　these　younger　generals　did；　the　very　thing　he　found　fault　with　in　them。　He　imagined　all　possible　contingencies；　just　like　the　younger　generation；　but　with　this　difference　that　he　based　no　conclusion　on　the　suppositions；　and　that　he　saw　these　contingencies　not　as　two　or　three；　but　as　thousands。　The　more　he　pondered；　the　more　of　them　he　saw。　He　imagined　all　sorts　of　movements　of　Napoleon’s　army；　acting　as　a　whole　or　in　part；　on　Petersburg；　against　him；　to　out…flank　him　（that　was　what　he　was　most　afraid　of）；　and　also　the　possibility　that　Napoleon　would　fight　against　him　with　his　own　weapon；　that　he　would　stay　on　in　Moscow　waiting　for　him　to　move。　Kutuzov　even　imagined　Napoleon’s　army　marching　back　to　Medyn　and　Yuhnov。　But　the　one　thing　he　could　not　foresee　was　what　happened—the　mad；　convulsive　stampede　of　Napoleon’s　army　during　the　first　eleven　days　of　its　march　from　Moscow—the　stampede　that　made　possible　what　Kutuzov　did　not　yet　dare　to　think　about；　the　complete　annihilation　of　the　French。　Dorohov’s　report　of　Broussier’s　division；　the　news　brought　by　the　irregulars　of　the　miseries　of　Napoleon’s　army；　rumours　of　preparations　for　leaving　Moscow；　all　confirmed　the　supposition　that　the　French　army　was　beaten　and　preparing　to　take　flight。　But　all　this　was　merely　supposition；　that　seemed　of　weight　to　the　younger　men；　but　not　to　Kutuzov。　With　his　sixty　years’　experience　he　knew　how　much　weight　to　attach　to　rumours；　he　knew　how　ready　men　are　when　they　desire　anything　to　manipulate　all　evidence　so　as　to　confirm　what　they　desire；　and　he　knew　how　readily　in　that　case　they　let　everything　of　an　opposite　significance　pass　unheeded。　And　the　more　Kutuzov　desired　this　supposition　to　be　correct；　the　less　he　permitted　himself　to　believe　it。　This　question　absorbed　all　his　spiritual　energies。　All　the　rest　was　for　him　the　mere　customary　performance　of　the　routine　of　life。　Such　a　customary　performance　and　observance　of　routine　were　his　conversations　with　the　staff…officers；　his　letters　to　Madame　de　Sta？l　that　he　wrote　from　Tarutino；　his　French　novels；　distribution　of　rewards；　correspondence　with　Petersburg；　and　so　on。　But　the　destruction　of　the　French；　which　he　alone　foresaw；　was　the　one　absorbing　desire　of　his　heart。
On　the　night　of　the　11th　of　October　he　lay　leaning　on　his　arm　and　thinking　of　that。
There　was　a　stir　in　the　next　room；　and　he　heard　the　steps　of　Toll；　Konovnitsyn　and　Bolhovitinov。
“Hey；　who　is　there？　Come　in；　come　in！　Anything　new？”　the　commander…in…chief　called　to　them。
While　a　footman　lighted　a　candle；　Toll　told　the　drift　of　the　news。
“Who　brought　it？”　asked　Kutuzov；　with　a　face　that　impressed　Toll　when　the　candle　was　lighted　by　its　frigid　sternness。
“There　can　be　no　doubt　of　it；　your　highness。”
“Call　him；　call　him　here！”
Kutuzov　sat　with　one　leg　out　of　bed　and　his　unwieldy；　corpulent　body　propped　on　the　other　leg　bent　under　him。　He　screwed　up　his　one　seeing　eye　to　get　a　better　view　of　the　messenger；　as　though　he　hoped　in　his　face　to　read　what　he　cared　to　know。
“Tell　me；　tell　me；　my　dear　fellow；”　he　said　to　Bolhovitinov；　in　his　low；　aged　voice；　pulling　the　shirt　together　that　had　come　open　over　his　chest。　“Come　here；　come　closer。　What　news　is　this　you　have　brought　me？　Eh？　Napoleon　has　marched　out　of　Moscow？　Is　it　truly　so？　Eh？”
Bolhovitinov　began　repeating　in　detail　the　message　that　had　been　given　him。
“Tell　me；　make　haste；　don’t　torture　me；”　Kutuzov　interrupted　him。
Bolhovitinov　told　him　all　and　paused；　awaiting　instructions。　Toll　was　beginning　to　speak；　but　Kutuzov　checked　him。　He　tried　to　say　something；　but　all　at　once　his　face　began　to　work；　to　pucker；　waving　his　hand　at　Toll；　he　turned　the　other　way　to　the　corner　of　the　hut；　which　looked　black　with　the　h