战争与和平(上)-第70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！


n’s　objections　were　well　founded；　yet　it　was　evident　that　their　principal　object　was　to　make　Weierother；　who　had　read　his　plans　so　conceitedly；　as　though　to　a　lot　of　schoolboys；　feel　that　he　had　to　deal　not　with　fools；　but　with　men　who　could　teach　him　something　in　military　matters。
When　the　monotonous　sound　of　Weierother’s　voice　ceased；　Kutuzov　opened　his　eyes；　as　the　miller　wakes　up　at　any　interruption　in　the　droning　of　the　mill…wheels；　listened　to　what　Langeron　was　saying；　and　as　though　saying　to　himself：　“Oh；　you’re　still　at　the　same　nonsense！”　made　haste　to　close　his　eyes　again；　and　let　his　head　sink　still　lower。
Langeron；　trying　to　deal　the　most　malignant　thrusts　possible　at　Weierother’s　military　vanity　as　author　of　the　plan；　showed　that　Bonaparte　might　easily　become　the　attacking　party　instead　of　waiting　to　be　attacked；　and　so　render　all　this　plan　of　the　disposition　of　the　troops　utterly　futile。　Weierother　met　all　objections　with　a　confident　and　contemptuous　smile；　obviously　prepared　beforehand　for　every　objection；　regardless　of　what　they　might　say　to　him。
“If　he　could　have　attacked　us；　he　would　have　done　so　to…day；”　he　said。
“You　suppose　him；　then；　to　be　powerless？”　said　Langeron。
“I　doubt　if　he　has　as　much　as　forty　thousand　troops；”　answered　Weierother　with　the　smile　of　a　doctor　to　whom　the　sick…nurse　is　trying　to　expound　her　own　method　of　treatment。
“In　that　case；　he　is　going　to　meet　his　ruin　in　awaiting　our　attack；”　said　Langeron　with　a　subtle；　ironical　smile；　looking　round　again　for　support　to　Miloradovitch　near　him。　But　Miloradovitch　was　obviously　thinking　at　that　instant　of　anything　in　the　world　rather　than　the　matter　in　dispute　between　the　generals。
“Ma　foi；”　he　said；　“to…morrow　we　shall　see　all　that　on　the　field　of　battle。”
Weierother　smiled　again；　a　smile　that　said　that　it　was　comic　and　queer　for　him　to　meet　with　objections　from　Russian　generals　and　to　have　to　give　proofs　to　confirm　what　he　was　not　simply　himself　convinced　of；　but　had　thoroughly　convinced　their　majesties　the　Emperors　of　too。
“The　enemy　have　extinguished　their　fires　and　a　continual　noise　has　been　heard　in　their　camp；”　he　said。　“What　does　that　mean？　Either　they　are　retreating—the　only　thing　we　have　to　fear；　or　changing　their　position”　（he　smiled　ironically）。　“But　even　if　they　were　to　take　up　their　position　at　Turas；　it　would　only　be　saving　us　a　great　deal　of　trouble；　and　all　our　arrangements　will　remain　unchanged　in　the　smallest　detail。”
“How　can　that　be？…”　said　Prince　Andrey；　who　had　a　long　while　been　looking　out　for　an　opportunity　of　expressing　his　doubts。　Kutuzov　waked　up；　cleared　his　throat　huskily；　and　looked　round　at　the　generals。
“Gentlemen；　the　disposition　for　to…morrow；　for　to…day　indeed　（for　it’s　going　on　for　one　o’clock）；　can’t　be　altered　now；”　he　said。　“You　have　heard　it；　and　we　will　all　do　our　duty。　And　before　a　battle　nothing　is　of　so　much　importance…”　（he　paused）　“as　a　good　night’s　rest。”
He　made　a　show　of　rising　from　his　chair。　The　generals　bowed　themselves　out。　It　was　past　midnight。　Prince　Andrey　went　out。
The　council　of　war　at　which　Prince　Andrey　had　not　succeeded　in　expressing　his　opinion；　as　he　had　hoped　to　do；　had　left　on　him　an　impression　of　uncertainty　and　uneasiness。　Which　was　right—Dolgorukov　and　Weierother？　or　Kutuzov　and　Langeron　and　the　others；　who　did　not　approve　of　the　plan　of　attack—he　did　not　know。　But　had　it　really　been　impossible　for　Kutuzov　to　tell　the　Tsar　his　views　directly？　Could　it　not　have　been　managed　differently？　On　account　of　personal　and　court　considerations　were　tens　of　thousands　of　lives　to　be　risked—“and　my　life；　mine？”　he　thought。
“Yes；　it　may　well　be　that　I　shall　be　killed　to…morrow；”　he　thought。
And　all　at　once；　at　that　thought　of　death；　a　whole　chain　of　memories；　the　most　remote　and　closest　to　his　heart；　rose　up　in　his　imagination。　He　recalled　his　last　farewell　to　his　father　and　his　wife；　he　recalled　the　early　days　of　his　love　for　her；　thought　of　her　approaching　motherhood；　and　he　felt　sorry　for　her　and　for　himself；　and　in　a　nervously　overwrought　and　softened　mood　he　went　out　of　the　cottage　at　which　he　and　Nesvitsky　were　putting　up；　and　began　to　walk　to　and　fro　before　it。　The　night　was　foggy；　and　the　moonlight　glimmered　mysteriously　through　the　mist。　“Yes；　to…morrow；　to…morrow！”　he　thought。　“To…morrow；　maybe；　all　will　be　over　for　me；　all　these　memories　will　be　no　more；　all　these　memories　will　have　no　more　meaning　for　me。　To…morrow；　perhaps—for　certain；　indeed—to…morrow；　I　have　a　presentiment；　I　shall　have　for　the　first　time　to　show　all　I　can　do。”　And　he　pictured　the　engagement；　the　loss　of　it；　the　concentration　of　the　fighting　at　one　point；　and　the　hesitation　of　all　the　commanding　officers。　And　then　the　happy　moment—that　Toulon　he　had　been　waiting　for　so　long—at　last　comes　to　him。　Resolutely　and　clearly　he　speaks　his　opinion　to　Kutuzov　and　Weierother；　and　the　Emperors。　All　are　struck　by　the　justness　of　his　view；　but　no　one　undertakes　to　carry　it　into　execution；　and　behold；　he　leads　the　regiment；　only　making　it　a　condition　that　no　one　is　to　interfere　with　his　plans；　and　he　leads　his　division　to　the　critical　point　and　wins　the　victory　alone。　“And　death　and　agony！”　said　another　voice。　But　Prince　Andrey　did　not　answer　that　voice；　and　went　on　with　his　triumphs。　The　disposition　of　the　battle　that　ensues　is　all　his　work　alone。　Nominally；　he　is　an　adjutant　on　the　staff　of　Kutuzov；　but　he　does　everything　alone。　The　battle　is　gained　by　him　alone。　Kutuzov　is　replaced；　he　is　appointed。…　“Well；　and　then？”　said　the　other　voice　again；　“what　then；　if　you　do　a　dozen　times　over　escape　being　wounded；　killed；　or　deceived　before　that；　well；　what　then？”　“Why；　then…”　Prince　Andrey　answered　himself；　“I　don’t　know　what　will　come　then；　I　can’t　know；　and　don’t　want　to；　but　if　I　want　that；　if　I　want　glory；　want　to　be　known　to　men；　want　to　be　loved　by　them；　it’s　not　my　fault　that　I　want　it；　that　it’s　the　only　thing　I　care　for；　the　only　thing　I　live　for。　Yes；　the　only　thing！　I　shall　never　say　to　any　one；　but；　my　God！　what　am　I　to　do；　if　I　care　for　nothing　but　glory；　but　men’s　love？　Death；　wounds；　the　loss　of　my　family—nothing　has　terrors　for　me。　And　dear　and　precious　as　many　people　are　to　me：　father；　sister；　wife—the　people　dearest　to　me；　yet　dreadful　and　unnatural　as　it　seems；　I　would　give　them　all　up　for　a　moment　of　glory；　of　triumph　over　men；　of　love　from　men　whom　I　don’t　know；　and　shall　never　know；　for　the　love　of　those　people　there；”　he　thought；　listening　to　the　talk　in　the　courtyard　of　Kutuzov’s　house。　He　could　hear　the　voices　of　the　officers’　servants　packing　up；　one　of　them；　probably　a　coachman；　was　teasing　Kutuzov’s　old　cook；　a　man　called　Tit；　whom　Prince　Andrey　knew。　He　kept　calling　him　and　making　a　joke　on　his　name。
“Tit；　hey；　Tit？”　he　said。
“Well？”　answered　the　old　man。
“Tit；　stupay　molotit”　（“Tit；　go　a…thrashing”）；　said　the　jester。
“Pooh；　go　to　the　devil；　do；”　he　heard　the　cook’s　voice；　smothered　in　the　laughter　of　the　servants。
“And　yet；　the　only　thing　I　love　and　prize　is　triumph　over　all　of　them；　that　mysterious　power　and　glory　which　seems　hovering　over　me　in　this　mist！”


Chapter　13
ROSTOV　had　been　sent　that　night　with　a　platoon　on　picket　duty　to　the　line　of　outposts　in　the　foremost　part　of　Bagration’s　detachment。　His　hussars　were　scattered　in　couples　about　the　outposts；　he　himself　rode　about　the　line　of　the　outposts　trying　to　struggle　against　the　sleepiness　which　kept　overcoming　him。　Behind　him　could　be　seen　the　immense　expanse　of　the　dimly　burning　fires　of　our　army；　before　him　was　the　misty　darkness。　However　intently　Rostov　gazed　into　this　misty　distance；　he　could　see　nothing；　at　one　moment　there　seemed　something　greyish；　at　the　next　something　blackish；　then　something　like　the　glimmer　of　a　fire　over　there　where　the　enemy　must　be；　then　he　fancied　the　glimmer　had　been　only　in　his　own　eyes。　His　eyes　kept　closing；　and　there　floated　before　his　mind　the　image　of　the　Emperor；　then　of　Denisov；　and　Moscow　memories；　and　again　he　opened　his　eyes　and　saw　close　before　him　the　head　and　ears　of　the　horse　he　was　riding；　and　sometimes　black　figures　of　hussars；　when　he　rode　within　six　paces　of　them；　but　in　the　distance　still　the　same　misty　darkness。　“Why？　it　may　well　happen；”　mused　Rostov；　“that　the　Emperor　will　meet　me　and　give　me　some　commission；　as　he　might　to　any　officer；　he’ll　say；　“Go　and　find　out　what’s　there。”　There　are　a　lot　of　stories　of　how　quite　by　chance　he　has　made　the　acquaintance　of　officers　and　given　them　some　place　close　to　him　too。　Oh；　if　he　were　to　give　me　a　place　in　attendance　on　him！　Oh；　what　care　I　would　take　of　him；　how　I　would　tell　him　the　whole　truth；　how　I　would　unmask　all　who　deceive　him！”　And　to　picture　his　love　and　devotion　to　the　Tsar　more　vividly；　Rostov　imagined　some　enemy　or　treacherous　German；　whom　he　would　with　great　zest　not　simply　kill；　but　slap　in　the　face　before　the　Tsar’s　eyes。　All　at　once　a　shout　in　the　distance　roused　Rostov。　He　started　and　opened　his　eyes。　“Where　am　I？　Yes；　in　the　picket　line；　the　pass　and　watchword—shaft；　Olmütz。　How　annoying　that　our　squadron　will　be　in　reserve　…”　he　thought。　“I’ll　ask　to　go　to　the　front。　It　may　be　my　only　chance　of　seeing　the　Emperor。　And　now　it’s　not　long　before　I’m　off　duty。　I’ll　ride　round　once　more；　and　as　I　come　back；　I’ll　go　to　the　general　and　ask　him。”　He　sat　up　straight　in　the　saddle　and　set　off　to　ride　once　more　round　his　hussars。　It　seemed　to　him　that　it　was　lighter。　On　the　left　side　he　could　see　a　sloping　descent　that　looked　lighted　up　and　a　black　knoll　facing　it　that　seemed　steep　as　a　wall。　On　this　knoll　was　a　white　patch　which　Rostov　could　not　understand；　was　it　a　clearing　in　the　wood；　lighted　up　by　the　moon；　or　the　remains　of　snow；　or　white　horses？　It　seemed　to　him　indeed　that　something　was　moving　over　that　white　spot。　“It　must　be　snow—that　spot：　a　spot—une　tache；”　Rostov　mused　dreamily。　“But　that’s　not　a　tache　…　Na　…　tasha；　my　sister；　her　black　eyes。　Na　…　tasha　（won’t　she　be　surprised　when　I　tell　her　how　I’ve　seen　the　Emperor！）　Natasha　…　tasha　…　sabretache。…”　“Keep　to　the　right；　your　honour；　there　are　bushes　here；”　said　the　voice　of　an　hussar；　by　whom　Rostov　was　riding　as　he　fell　asleep。　Rostov　l