CHAPTER X
Having returned to the watchman’s hut, Petya found Denisov in the
passage. He was awaiting Petya’s return in a state of agitation,
anxiety, and self-reproach for having let him go.
"Thank God!" he exclaimed. "Yes, thank God!" he repeated, listening to
Petya’s rapturous account. "But, devil take you, I haven’t slept because
of you! Well, thank God. Now lie down. We can still get a nap before
morning."
"But... no," said Petya, "I don’t want to sleep yet. Besides I know
myself, if I fall asleep it’s finished. And then I am used to not
sleeping before a battle."
He sat awhile in the hut joyfully recalling the details of his
expedition and vividly picturing to himself what would happen next day.
Then, noticing that Denisov was asleep, he rose and went out of doors.
It was still quite dark outside. The rain was over, but drops were still
falling from the trees. Near the watchman’s hut the black shapes of the
Cossacks’ shanties and of horses tethered together could be seen. Behind
the hut the dark shapes of the two wagons with their horses beside them
were discernible, and in the hollow the dying campfire gleamed red.
Not all the Cossacks and hussars were asleep; here and there, amid the
sounds of falling drops and the munching of the horses near by, could be
heard low voices which seemed to be whispering.
Petya came out, peered into the darkness, and went up to the wagons.
Someone was snoring under them, and around them stood saddled horses
munching their oats. In the dark Petya recognized his own horse, which
he called "Karabakh" though it was of Ukranian breed, and went up to it.
"Well, Karabakh! We’ll do some service tomorrow," said he, sniffing its
nostrils and kissing it.
"Why aren’t you asleep, sir?" said a Cossack who was sitting under a
wagon.
"No, ah... Likhachev - isn’t that your name? Do you know I have only just
come back! We’ve been into the French camp."
And Petya gave the Cossack a detailed account not only of his ride but
also of his object, and why he considered it better to risk his life
than to act "just anyhow."
"Well, you should get some sleep now," said the Cossack.
"No, I am used to this," said Petya. "I say, aren’t the flints in your
pistols worn out? I brought some with me. Don’t you want any? You can
have some."
The Cossack bent forward from under the wagon to get a closer look at
Petya.
"Because I am accustomed to doing everything accurately," said Petya.
"Some fellows do things just anyhow, without preparation, and then
they’re sorry for it afterwards. I don’t like that."
"Just so," said the Cossack.
"Oh yes, another thing! Please, my dear fellow, will you sharpen my
saber for me? It’s got bl..." (Petya feared to tell a lie, and the saber
never had been sharpened.) "Can you do it?"
"Of course I can."
Likhachev got up, rummaged in his pack, and soon Petya heard the warlike
sound of steel on whetstone. He climbed onto the wagon and sat on its
edge. The Cossack was sharpening the saber under the wagon.
"I say! Are the lads asleep?" asked Petya.
"Some are, and some aren’t - like us."
"Well, and that boy?"
"Vesenny? Oh, he’s thrown himself down there in the passage. Fast asleep
after his fright. He was that glad!"
After that Petya remained silent for a long time, listening to the
sounds. He heard footsteps in the darkness and a black figure appeared.
"What are you sharpening?" asked a man coming up to the wagon.
"Why, this gentleman’s saber."
"That’s right," said the man, whom Petya took to be an hussar. "Was the
cup left here?"
"There, by the wheel!"
The hussar took the cup.
"It must be daylight soon," said he, yawning, and went away.
Petya ought to have known that he was in a forest with Denisov’s
guerrilla band, less than a mile from the road, sitting on a wagon
captured from the French beside which horses were tethered, that under
it Likhachev was sitting sharpening a saber for him, that the big dark
blotch to the right was the watchman’s hut, and the red blotch below to
the left was the dying embers of a campfire, that the man who had come
for the cup was an hussar who wanted a drink; but he neither knew nor
waited to know anything of all this. He was in a fairy kingdom where
nothing resembled reality. The big dark blotch might really be the
watchman’s hut or it might be a cavern leading to the very depths of
the earth. Perhaps the red spot was a fire, or it might be the eye of an
enormous monster. Perhaps he was really sitting on a wagon, but it might
very well be that he was not sitting on a wagon but on a terribly high
tower from which, if he fell, he would have to fall for a whole day or a
whole month, or go on falling and never reach the bottom. Perhaps it
was just the Cossack, Likhachev, who was sitting under the wagon, but it
might be the kindest, bravest, most wonderful, most splendid man in the
world, whom no one knew of. It might really have been that the hussar
came for water and went back into the hollow, but perhaps he had simply
vanished - disappeared altogether and dissolved into nothingness.
Nothing Petya could have seen now would have surprised him. He was in a
fairy kingdom where everything was possible.
He looked up at the sky. And the sky was a fairy realm like the earth.
It was clearing, and over the tops of the trees clouds were swiftly
sailing as if unveiling the stars. Sometimes it looked as if the clouds
were passing, and a clear black sky appeared. Sometimes it seemed as
if the black spaces were clouds. Sometimes the sky seemed to be rising
high, high overhead, and then it seemed to sink so low that one could
touch it with one’s hand.
Petya’s eyes began to close and he swayed a little.
The trees were dripping. Quiet talking was heard. The horses neighed and
jostled one another. Someone snored.
"Ozheg-zheg, Ozheg-zheg..." hissed the saber against the whetstone,
and suddenly Petya heard an harmonious orchestra playing some unknown,
sweetly solemn hymn. Petya was as musical as Natasha and more so than
Nicholas, but had never learned music or thought about it, and so the
melody that unexpectedly came to his mind seemed to him particularly
fresh and attractive. The music became more and more audible. The melody
grew and passed from one instrument to another. And what was played was
a fugue - though Petya had not the least conception of what a fugue is.
Each instrument - now resembling a violin and now a horn, but better
and clearer than violin or horn - played its own part, and before it had
finished the melody merged with another instrument that began almost the
same air, and then with a third and a fourth; and they all blended into
one and again became separate and again blended, now into solemn church
music, now into something dazzlingly brilliant and triumphant.
"Oh - why, that was in a dream!" Petya said to himself, as he lurched
forward. "It’s in my ears. But perhaps it’s music of my own. Well, go
on, my music! Now!..."
He closed his eyes, and, from all sides as if from a distance, sounds
fluttered, grew into harmonies, separated, blended, and again all
mingled into the same sweet and solemn hymn. "Oh, this is delightful!
As much as I like and as I like!" said Petya to himself. He tried to
conduct that enormous orchestra.
"Now softly, softly die away!" and the sounds obeyed him. "Now fuller,
more joyful. Still more and more joyful!" And from an unknown depth rose
increasingly triumphant sounds. "Now voices join in!" ordered Petya. And
at first from afar he heard men’s voices and then women’s. The voices
grew in harmonious triumphant strength, and Petya listened to their
surpassing beauty in awe and joy.
With a solemn triumphal march there mingled a song, the drip from the
trees, and the hissing of the saber, "Ozheg-zheg-zheg..." and again the
horses jostled one another and neighed, not disturbing the choir but
joining in it.
Petya did not know how long this lasted: he enjoyed himself all the
time, wondered at his enjoyment and regretted that there was no one to
share it. He was awakened by Likhachev’s kindly voice.
"It’s ready, your honor; you can split a Frenchman in half with it!"
Petya woke up.
"It’s getting light, it’s really getting light!" he exclaimed.
The horses that had previously been invisible could now be seen to their
very tails, and a watery light showed itself through the bare branches.
Petya shook himself, jumped up, took a ruble from his pocket and gave it
to Likhachev; then he flourished the saber, tested it, and sheathed
it. The Cossacks were untying their horses and tightening their saddle
girths.
"And here’s the commander," said Likhachev.
Denisov came out of the watchman’s hut and, having called Petya, gave
orders to get ready.
CHAPTER XI
The men rapidly picked out their horses in the semidarkness, tightened
their saddle girths, and formed companies. Denisov stood by the
watchman’s hut giving final orders. The infantry of the detachment
passed along the road and quickly disappeared amid the trees in the mist
of early dawn, hundreds of feet splashing through the mud. The esaul
gave some orders to his men. Petya held his horse by the bridle,
impatiently awaiting the order to mount. His face, having been bathed
in cold water, was all aglow, and his eyes were particularly brilliant.
Cold shivers ran down his spine and his whole body pulsed rhythmically.
"Well, is ev’wything weady?" asked Denisov. "Bwing the horses."
The horses were brought. Denisov was angry with the Cossack because the
saddle girths were too slack, reproved him, and mounted. Petya put his
foot in the stirrup. His horse by habit made as if to nip his leg, but
Petya leaped quickly into the saddle unconscious of his own weight and,
turning to look at the hussars starting in the darkness behind him, rode
up to Denisov.
"Vasili Dmitrich, entrust me with some commission! Please... for God’s
sake...!" said he.
Denisov seemed to have forgotten Petya’s very existence. He turned to
glance at him.
"I ask one thing of you," he said sternly, "to obey me and not shove
yourself forward anywhere."
He did not say another word to Petya but rode in silence all the way.
When they had come to the edge of the forest it was noticeably growing
light over the field. Denisov talked in whispers with the esaul and
the Cossacks rode past Petya and Denisov. When they had all ridden by,
Denisov touched his horse and rode down the hill. Slipping onto their
haunches and sliding, the horses descended with their riders into the
ravine. Petya rode beside Denisov, the pulsation of his body constantly
increasing. It was getting lighter and lighter, but the mist still hid
distant objects. Having reached the valley, Denisov looked back and
nodded to a Cossack beside him.
"The signal!" said he.
The Cossack raised his arm and a shot rang out. In an instant the tramp
of horses galloping forward was heard, shouts came from various sides,
and then more shots.
At the first sound of trampling hoofs and shouting, Petya lashed his
horse and loosening his rein galloped forward, not heeding Denisov who
shouted at him. It seemed to Petya that at the moment the shot was
fired it suddenly became as bright as noon. He galloped to the bridge.
Cossacks were galloping along the road in front of him. On the bridge
he collided with a Cossack who had fallen behind, but he galloped on.
In front of him soldiers, probably Frenchmen, were running from right
to left across the road. One of them fell in the mud under his horse’s
feet.
Cossacks were crowding about a hut, busy with something. From the midst
of that crowd terrible screams arose. Petya galloped up, and the
first thing he saw was the pale face and trembling jaw of a Frenchman,
clutching the handle of a lance that had been aimed at him.
"Hurrah!... Lads!... ours!" shouted Petya, and giving rein to his
excited horse he galloped forward along the village street.
He could hear shooting ahead of him. Cossacks, hussars, and ragged
Russian prisoners, who had come running from both sides of the road,
were shouting something loudly and incoherently. A gallant-looking
Frenchman, in a blue overcoat, capless, and with a frowning red face,
had been defending himself against the hussars. When Petya galloped
up the Frenchman had already fallen. "Too late again!" flashed through
Petya’s mind and he galloped on to the place from which the rapid firing
could be heard. The shots came from the yard of the landowner’s house
he had visited the night before with Dolokhov. The French were making
a stand there behind a wattle fence in a garden thickly overgrown with
bushes and were firing at the Cossacks who crowded at the gateway.
Through the smoke, as he approached the gate, Petya saw Dolokhov, whose
face was of a pale-greenish tint, shouting to his men. "Go round! Wait
for the infantry!" he exclaimed as Petya rode up to him.
"Wait?... Hurrah-ah-ah!" shouted Petya, and without pausing a moment
galloped to the place whence came the sounds of firing and where the
smoke was thickest.
A volley was heard, and some bullets whistled past, while others plashed
against something. The Cossacks and Dolokhov galloped after Petya into
the gateway of the courtyard. In the dense wavering smoke some of the
French threw down their arms and ran out of the bushes to meet the
Cossacks, while others ran down the hill toward the pond. Petya was
galloping along the courtyard, but instead of holding the reins he waved
both his arms about rapidly and strangely, slipping farther and farther
to one side in his saddle. His horse, having galloped up to a campfire
that was smoldering in the morning light, stopped suddenly, and Petya
fell heavily on to the wet ground. The Cossacks saw that his arms and
legs jerked rapidly though his head was quite motionless. A bullet had
pierced his skull.
After speaking to the senior French officer, who came out of the house
with a white handkerchief tied to his sword and announced that
they surrendered, Dolokhov dismounted and went up to Petya, who lay
motionless with outstretched arms.
"Done for!" he said with a frown, and went to the gate to meet Denisov
who was riding toward him.
"Killed?" cried Denisov, recognizing from a distance the unmistakably
lifeless attitude - very familiar to him - in which Petya’s body was lying.
"Done for!" repeated Dolokhov as if the utterance of these words
afforded him pleasure, and he went quickly up to the prisoners, who
were surrounded by Cossacks who had hurried up. "We won’t take them!" he
called out to Denisov.
Denisov did not reply; he rode up to Petya, dismounted, and with
trembling hands turned toward himself the bloodstained, mud-bespattered
face which had already gone white.
"I am used to something sweet. Raisins, fine ones... take them all!" he
recalled Petya’s words. And the Cossacks looked round in surprise at the
sound, like the yelp of a dog, with which Denisov turned away, walked to
the wattle fence, and seized hold of it.
Among the Russian prisoners rescued by Denisov and Dolokhov was Pierre
Bezukhov.
CHAPTER XII
During the whole of their march from Moscow no fresh orders had been
issued by the French authorities concerning the party of prisoners
among whom was Pierre. On the twenty-second of October that party was
no longer with the same troops and baggage trains with which it had left
Moscow. Half the wagons laden with hardtack that had traveled the first
stages with them had been captured by Cossacks, the other half had gone
on ahead. Not one of those dismounted cavalrymen who had marched in
front of the prisoners was left; they had all disappeared. The artillery
the prisoners had seen in front of them during the first days was
now replaced by Marshal Junot’s enormous baggage train, convoyed by
Westphalians. Behind the prisoners came a cavalry baggage train.
From Vyazma onwards the French army, which had till then moved in three
columns, went on as a single group. The symptoms of disorder that Pierre
had noticed at their first halting place after leaving Moscow had now
reached the utmost limit.
The road along which they moved was bordered on both sides by dead
horses; ragged men who had fallen behind from various regiments
continually changed about, now joining the moving column, now again
lagging behind it.
Several times during the march false alarms had been given and the
soldiers of the escort had raised their muskets, fired, and run
headlong, crushing one another, but had afterwards reassembled and
abused each other for their causeless panic.
These three groups traveling together - the cavalry stores, the convoy of
prisoners, and Junot’s baggage train - still constituted a separate and
united whole, though each of the groups was rapidly melting away.
Of the artillery baggage train which had consisted of a hundred and
twenty wagons, not more than sixty now remained; the rest had been
captured or left behind. Some of Junot’s wagons also had been captured
or abandoned. Three wagons had been raided and robbed by stragglers
from Davout’s corps. From the talk of the Germans Pierre learned that
a larger guard had been allotted to that baggage train than to the
prisoners, and that one of their comrades, a German soldier, had been
shot by the marshal’s own order because a silver spoon belonging to the
marshal had been found in his possession.
The group of prisoners had melted away most of all. Of the three hundred
and thirty men who had set out from Moscow fewer than a hundred now
remained. The prisoners were more burdensome to the escort than even the
cavalry saddles or Junot’s baggage. They understood that the saddles and
Junot’s spoon might be of some use, but that cold and hungry soldiers
should have to stand and guard equally cold and hungry Russians who
froze and lagged behind on the road (in which case the order was to
shoot them) was not merely incomprehensible but revolting. And the
escort, as if afraid, in the grievous condition they themselves were in,
of giving way to the pity they felt for the prisoners and so rendering
their own plight still worse, treated them with particular moroseness
and severity.
At Dorogobuzh while the soldiers of the convoy, after locking the
prisoners in a stable, had gone off to pillage their own stores, several
of the soldier prisoners tunneled under the wall and ran away, but were
recaptured by the French and shot.
The arrangement adopted when they started, that the officer prisoners
should be kept separate from the rest, had long since been abandoned.
All who could walk went together, and after the third stage Pierre had
rejoined Karataev and the gray-blue bandy-legged dog that had chosen
Karataev for its master.
On the third day after leaving Moscow Karataev again fell ill with the
fever he had suffered from in the hospital in Moscow, and as he grew
gradually weaker Pierre kept away from him. Pierre did not know why, but
since Karataev had begun to grow weaker it had cost him an effort to
go near him. When he did so and heard the subdued moaning with which
Karataev generally lay down at the halting places, and when he smelled
the odor emanating from him which was now stronger than before, Pierre
moved farther away and did not think about him.
While imprisoned in the shed Pierre had learned not with his intellect
but with his whole being, by life itself, that man is created for
happiness, that happiness is within him, in the satisfaction of simple
human needs, and that all unhappiness arises not from privation but from
superfluity. And now during these last three weeks of the march he had
learned still another new, consolatory truth - that nothing in this world
is terrible. He had learned that as there is no condition in which man
can be happy and entirely free, so there is no condition in which he
need be unhappy and lack freedom. He learned that suffering and freedom
have their limits and that those limits are very near together; that the
person in a bed of roses with one crumpled petal suffered as keenly as
he now, sleeping on the bare damp earth with one side growing chilled
while the other was warming; and that when he had put on tight dancing
shoes he had suffered just as he did now when he walked with bare feet
that were covered with sores - his footgear having long since fallen to
pieces. He discovered that when he had married his wife - of his own free
will as it had seemed to him - he had been no more free than now when they
locked him up at night in a stable. Of all that he himself subsequently
termed his sufferings, but which at the time he scarcely felt, the worst
was the state of his bare, raw, and scab-covered feet. (The horseflesh
was appetizing and nourishing, the saltpeter flavor of the gunpowder
they used instead of salt was even pleasant; there was no great cold,
it was always warm walking in the daytime, and at night there were the
campfires; the lice that devoured him warmed his body.) The one thing
that was at first hard to bear was his feet.
After the second day’s march Pierre, having examined his feet by the
campfire, thought it would be impossible to walk on them; but when
everybody got up he went along, limping, and, when he had warmed up,
walked without feeling the pain, though at night his feet were more
terrible to look at than before. However, he did not look at them now,
but thought of other things.
Only now did Pierre realize the full strength of life in man and the
saving power he has of transferring his attention from one thing
to another, which is like the safety valve of a boiler that allows
superfluous steam to blow off when the pressure exceeds a certain limit.
He did not see and did not hear how they shot the prisoners who lagged
behind, though more than a hundred perished in that way. He did not
think of Karataev who grew weaker every day and evidently would soon
have to share that fate. Still less did Pierre think about himself. The
harder his position became and the more terrible the future, the more
independent of that position in which he found himself were the joyful
and comforting thoughts, memories, and imaginings that came to him.
CHAPTER XIII
At midday on the twenty-second of October Pierre was going uphill along
the muddy, slippery road, looking at his feet and at the roughness of
the way. Occasionally he glanced at the familiar crowd around him and
then again at his feet. The former and the latter were alike familiar
and his own. The blue-gray bandy legged dog ran merrily along the side
of the road, sometimes in proof of its agility and self-satisfaction
lifting one hind leg and hopping along on three, and then again going on
all four and rushing to bark at the crows that sat on the carrion. The
dog was merrier and sleeker than it had been in Moscow. All around lay
the flesh of different animals - from men to horses - in various stages of
decomposition; and as the wolves were kept off by the passing men the
dog could eat all it wanted.
It had been raining since morning and had seemed as if at any moment it
might cease and the sky clear, but after a short break it began raining
harder than before. The saturated road no longer absorbed the water,
which ran along the ruts in streams.
Pierre walked along, looking from side to side, counting his steps in
threes, and reckoning them off on his fingers. Mentally addressing the
rain, he repeated: "Now then, now then, go on! Pelt harder!"
It seemed to him that he was thinking of nothing, but far down and
deep within him his soul was occupied with something important and
comforting. This something was a most subtle spiritual deduction from a
conversation with Karataev the day before.
At their yesterday’s halting place, feeling chilly by a dying campfire,
Pierre had got up and gone to the next one, which was burning better.
There Platon Karataev was sitting covered up - head and all - with his
greatcoat as if it were a vestment, telling the soldiers in his
effective and pleasant though now feeble voice a story Pierre knew. It
was already past midnight, the hour when Karataev was usually free of
his fever and particularly lively. When Pierre reached the fire and
heard Platon’s voice enfeebled by illness, and saw his pathetic face
brightly lit up by the blaze, he felt a painful prick at his heart. His
feeling of pity for this man frightened him and he wished to go away,
but there was no other fire, and Pierre sat down, trying not to look at
Platon.
"Well, how are you?" he asked.
"How am I? If we grumble at sickness, God won’t grant us death," replied
Platon, and at once resumed the story he had begun.
"And so, brother," he continued, with a smile on his pale emaciated face
and a particularly happy light in his eyes, "you see, brother..."
Pierre had long been familiar with that story. Karataev had told it
to him alone some half-dozen times and always with a specially joyful
emotion. But well as he knew it, Pierre now listened to that tale as to
something new, and the quiet rapture Karataev evidently felt as he told
it communicated itself also to Pierre. The story was of an old merchant
who lived a good and God-fearing life with his family, and who went once
to the Nizhni fair with a companion - a rich merchant.
Having put up at an inn they both went to sleep, and next morning his
companion was found robbed and with his throat cut. A bloodstained knife
was found under the old merchant’s pillow. He was tried, knouted, and
his nostrils having been torn off, "all in due form" as Karataev put it,
he was sent to hard labor in Siberia.
"And so, brother" (it was at this point that Pierre came up), "ten years
or more passed by. The old man was living as a convict, submitting as
he should and doing no wrong. Only he prayed to God for death. Well, one
night the convicts were gathered just as we are, with the old man among
them. And they began telling what each was suffering for, and how they
had sinned against God. One told how he had taken a life, another had
taken two, a third had set a house on fire, while another had simply
been a vagrant and had done nothing. So they asked the old man: ‘What
are you being punished for, Daddy?’ - ‘I, my dear brothers,’ said he, ‘am
being punished for my own and other men’s sins. But I have not killed
anyone or taken anything that was not mine, but have only helped my
poorer brothers. I was a merchant, my dear brothers, and had much
property. ‘And he went on to tell them all about it in due order. ‘I
don’t grieve for myself,’ he says, ‘God, it seems, has chastened me.
Only I am sorry for my old wife and the children,’ and the old man began
to weep. Now it happened that in the group was the very man who had
killed the other merchant. ‘Where did it happen, Daddy?’ he said. ‘When,
and in what month?’ He asked all about it and his heart began to ache.
So he comes up to the old man like this, and falls down at his feet!
‘You are perishing because of me, Daddy,’ he says. ‘It’s quite true,
lads, that this man,’ he says, ‘is being tortured innocently and for
nothing! I,’ he says, ‘did that deed, and I put the knife under your
head while you were asleep. Forgive me, Daddy,’ he says, ‘for Christ’s
sake!’"
Karataev paused, smiling joyously as he gazed into the fire, and he drew
the logs together.
"And the old man said, ‘God will forgive you, we are all sinners in His
sight. I suffer for my own sins,’ and he wept bitter tears. Well,
and what do you think, dear friends?" Karataev continued, his face
brightening more and more with a rapturous smile as if what he now had
to tell contained the chief charm and the whole meaning of his story:
"What do you think, dear fellows? That murderer confessed to the
authorities. ‘I have taken six lives,’ he says (he was a great sinner),
‘but what I am most sorry for is this old man. Don’t let him suffer
because of me.’ So he confessed and it was all written down and the
papers sent off in due form. The place was a long way off, and while
they were judging, what with one thing and another, filling in the
papers all in due form - the authorities I mean - time passed. The affair
reached the Tsar. After a while the Tsar’s decree came: to set the
merchant free and give him a compensation that had been awarded. The
paper arrived and they began to look for the old man. ‘Where is the old
man who has been suffering innocently and in vain? A paper has come from
the Tsar!’ so they began looking for him," here Karataev’s lower jaw
trembled, "but God had already forgiven him - he was dead! That’s how it
was, dear fellows!" Karataev concluded and sat for a long time silent,
gazing before him with a smile.
And Pierre’s soul was dimly but joyfully filled not by the story itself
but by its mysterious significance: by the rapturous joy that lit up
Karataev’s face as he told it, and the mystic significance of that joy.
CHAPTER XIV
"À vos places!" * suddenly cried a voice.
* "To your places."
A pleasant feeling of excitement and an expectation of something
joyful and solemn was aroused among the soldiers of the convoy and the
prisoners. From all sides came shouts of command, and from the left came
smartly dressed cavalrymen on good horses, passing the prisoners at a
trot. The expression on all faces showed the tension people feel at the
approach of those in authority. The prisoners thronged together and were
pushed off the road. The convoy formed up.
"The Emperor! The Emperor! The Marshal! The Duke!" and hardly had the
sleek cavalry passed, before a carriage drawn by six gray horses rattled
by. Pierre caught a glimpse of a man in a three-cornered hat with a
tranquil look on his handsome, plump, white face. It was one of the
marshals. His eye fell on Pierre’s large and striking figure, and in
the expression with which he frowned and looked away Pierre thought he
detected sympathy and a desire to conceal that sympathy.
The general in charge of the stores galloped after the carriage with a
red and frightened face, whipping up his skinny horse. Several officers
formed a group and some soldiers crowded round them. Their faces all
looked excited and worried.
"What did he say? What did he say?" Pierre heard them ask.
While the marshal was passing, the prisoners had huddled together in a
crowd, and Pierre saw Karataev whom he had not yet seen that morning.
He sat in his short overcoat leaning against a birch tree. On his face,
besides the look of joyful emotion it had worn yesterday while telling
the tale of the merchant who suffered innocently, there was now an
expression of quiet solemnity.
Karataev looked at Pierre with his kindly round eyes now filled with
tears, evidently wishing him to come near that he might say something to
him. But Pierre was not sufficiently sure of himself. He made as if he
did not notice that look and moved hastily away.
When the prisoners again went forward Pierre looked round. Karataev
was still sitting at the side of the road under the birch tree and two
Frenchmen were talking over his head. Pierre did not look round again
but went limping up the hill.
From behind, where Karataev had been sitting, came the sound of a shot.
Pierre heard it plainly, but at that moment he remembered that he
had not yet finished reckoning up how many stages still remained to
Smolensk - a calculation he had begun before the marshal went by. And he
again started reckoning. Two French soldiers ran past Pierre, one of
whom carried a lowered and smoking gun. They both looked pale, and
in the expression on their faces - one of them glanced timidly at
Pierre - there was something resembling what he had seen on the face of
the young soldier at the execution. Pierre looked at the soldier and
remembered that, two days before, that man had burned his shirt while
drying it at the fire and how they had laughed at him.
Behind him, where Karataev had been sitting, the dog began to howl.
"What a stupid beast! Why is it howling?" thought Pierre.
His comrades, the prisoner soldiers walking beside him, avoided looking
back at the place where the shot had been fired and the dog was howling,
just as Pierre did, but there was a set look on all their faces.
CHAPTER XV
The stores, the prisoners, and the marshal’s baggage train stopped at
the village of Shamshevo. The men crowded together round the campfires.
Pierre went up to the fire, ate some roast horseflesh, lay down with his
back to the fire, and immediately fell asleep. He again slept as he had
done at Mozhaysk after the battle of Borodino.
Again real events mingled with dreams and again someone, he or another,
gave expression to his thoughts, and even to the same thoughts that had
been expressed in his dream at Mozhaysk.
"Life is everything. Life is God. Everything changes and moves and that
movement is God. And while there is life there is joy in consciousness
of the divine. To love life is to love God. Harder and more blessed
than all else is to love this life in one’s sufferings, in innocent
sufferings."
"Karataev!" came to Pierre’s mind.
And suddenly he saw vividly before him a long-forgotten, kindly old man
who had given him geography lessons in Switzerland. "Wait a bit," said
the old man, and showed Pierre a globe. This globe was alive - a vibrating
ball without fixed dimensions. Its whole surface consisted of drops
closely pressed together, and all these drops moved and changed places,
sometimes several of them merging into one, sometimes one dividing
into many. Each drop tried to spread out and occupy as much space as
possible, but others striving to do the same compressed it, sometimes
destroyed it, and sometimes merged with it.
"That is life," said the old teacher.
"How simple and clear it is," thought Pierre. "How is it I did not know
it before?"
"God is in the midst, and each drop tries to expand so as to reflect
Him to the greatest extent. And it grows, merges, disappears from the
surface, sinks to the depths, and again emerges. There now, Karataev
has spread out and disappeared. Do you understand, my child?" said the
teacher.
"Do you understand, damn you?" shouted a voice, and Pierre woke up.
He lifted himself and sat up. A Frenchman who had just pushed a Russian
soldier away was squatting by the fire, engaged in roasting a piece
of meat stuck on a ramrod. His sleeves were rolled up and his sinewy,
hairy, red hands with their short fingers deftly turned the ramrod. His
brown morose face with frowning brows was clearly visible by the glow of
the charcoal.
"It’s all the same to him," he muttered, turning quickly to a soldier
who stood behind him. "Brigand! Get away!"
And twisting the ramrod he looked gloomily at Pierre, who turned
away and gazed into the darkness. A prisoner, the Russian soldier the
Frenchman had pushed away, was sitting near the fire patting something
with his hand. Looking more closely Pierre recognized the blue-gray dog,
sitting beside the soldier, wagging its tail.
"Ah, he’s come?" said Pierre. "And Plat - " he began, but did not finish.
Suddenly and simultaneously a crowd of memories awoke in his fancy - of
the look Platon had given him as he sat under the tree, of the shot
heard from that spot, of the dog’s howl, of the guilty faces of the two
Frenchmen as they ran past him, of the lowered and smoking gun, and of
Karataev’s absence at this halt - and he was on the point of realizing
that Karataev had been killed, but just at that instant, he knew not
why, the recollection came to his mind of a summer evening he had spent
with a beautiful Polish lady on the veranda of his house in Kiev. And
without linking up the events of the day or drawing a conclusion
from them, Pierre closed his eyes, seeing a vision of the country in
summertime mingled with memories of bathing and of the liquid, vibrating
globe, and he sank into water so that it closed over his head.
Before sunrise he was awakened by shouts and loud and rapid firing.
French soldiers were running past him.
"The Cossacks!" one of them shouted, and a moment later a crowd of
Russians surrounded Pierre.
For a long time he could not understand what was happening to him. All
around he heard his comrades sobbing with joy.
"Brothers! Dear fellows! Darlings!" old soldiers exclaimed, weeping, as
they embraced Cossacks and hussars.
The hussars and Cossacks crowded round the prisoners; one offered them
clothes, another boots, and a third bread. Pierre sobbed as he sat
among them and could not utter a word. He hugged the first soldier who
approached him, and kissed him, weeping.
Dolokhov stood at the gate of the ruined house, letting a crowd
of disarmed Frenchmen pass by. The French, excited by all that had
happened, were talking loudly among themselves, but as they passed
Dolokhov who gently switched his boots with his whip and watched them
with cold glassy eyes that boded no good, they became silent. On the
opposite side stood Dolokhov’s Cossack, counting the prisoners and
marking off each hundred with a chalk line on the gate.
"How many?" Dolokhov asked the Cossack.
"The second hundred," replied the Cossack.
"Filez, filez!" * Dolokhov kept saying, having adopted this expression
from the French, and when his eyes met those of the prisoners they
flashed with a cruel light.
* "Get along, get along!"
Denisov, bareheaded and with a gloomy face, walked behind some Cossacks
who were carrying the body of Petya Rostov to a hole that had been dug
in the garden.
CHAPTER XVI
After the twenty-eighth of October when the frosts began, the flight of
the French assumed a still more tragic character, with men freezing,
or roasting themselves to death at the campfires, while carriages
with people dressed in furs continued to drive past, carrying away the
property that had been stolen by the Emperor, kings, and dukes; but
the process of the flight and disintegration of the French army went on
essentially as before.
From Moscow to Vyazma the French army of seventy-three thousand men not
reckoning the Guards (who did nothing during the whole war but pillage)
was reduced to thirty-six thousand, though not more than five thousand
had fallen in battle. From this beginning the succeeding terms of the
progression could be determined mathematically. The French army melted
away and perished at the same rate from Moscow to Vyazma, from Vyazma
to Smolensk, from Smolensk to the Berezina, and from the Berezina to
Vilna - independently of the greater or lesser intensity of the cold, the
pursuit, the barring of the way, or any other particular conditions.
Beyond Vyazma the French army instead of moving in three columns huddled
together into one mass, and so went on to the end. Berthier wrote to his
Emperor (we know how far commanding officers allow themselves to diverge
from the truth in describing the condition of an army) and this is what
he said:
I deem it my duty to report to Your Majesty the condition of the various
corps I have had occasion to observe during different stages of the last
two or three days’ march. They are almost disbanded. Scarcely a quarter
of the soldiers remain with the standards of their regiments, the others
go off by themselves in different directions hoping to find food and
escape discipline. In general they regard Smolensk as the place where
they hope to recover. During the last few days many of the men have been
seen to throw away their cartridges and their arms. In such a state
of affairs, whatever your ultimate plans may be, the interest of Your
Majesty’s service demands that the army should be rallied at Smolensk
and should first of all be freed from ineffectives, such as dismounted
cavalry, unnecessary baggage, and artillery material that is no longer
in proportion to the present forces. The soldiers, who are worn out with
hunger and fatigue, need these supplies as well as a few days’ rest.
Many have died these last days on the road or at the bivouacs. This
state of things is continually becoming worse and makes one fear that
unless a prompt remedy is applied the troops will no longer be under
control in case of an engagement.
November 9: twenty miles from Smolensk.
After staggering into Smolensk which seemed to them a promised land, the
French, searching for food, killed one another, sacked their own stores,
and when everything had been plundered fled farther.
They all went without knowing whither or why they were going. Still less
did that genius, Napoleon, know it, for no one issued any orders to
him. But still he and those about him retained their old habits: wrote
commands, letters, reports, and orders of the day; called one another
sire, mon cousin, prince d’Eckmuhl, roi de Naples, and so on. But these
orders and reports were only on paper, nothing in them was acted upon
for they could not be carried out, and though they entitled one
another Majesties, Highnesses, or Cousins, they all felt that they were
miserable wretches who had done much evil for which they had now to
pay. And though they pretended to be concerned about the army, each
was thinking only of himself and of how to get away quickly and save
himself.
CHAPTER XVII
The movements of the Russian and French armies during the campaign
from Moscow back to the Niemen were like those in a game of Russian
blindman’s bluff, in which two players are blindfolded and one of
them occasionally rings a little bell to inform the catcher of his
whereabouts. First he rings his bell fearlessly, but when he gets into
a tight place he runs away as quietly as he can, and often thinking to
escape runs straight into his opponent’s arms.
At first while they were still moving along the Kaluga road, Napoleon’s
armies made their presence known, but later when they reached the
Smolensk road they ran holding the clapper of their bell tight - and often
thinking they were escaping ran right into the Russians.
Owing to the rapidity of the French flight and the Russian pursuit
and the consequent exhaustion of the horses, the chief means of
approximately ascertaining the enemy’s position - by cavalry scouting - was
not available. Besides, as a result of the frequent and rapid change of
position by each army, even what information was obtained could not be
delivered in time. If news was received one day that the enemy had been
in a certain position the day before, by the third day when something
could have been done, that army was already two days’ march farther on
and in quite another position.
One army fled and the other pursued. Beyond Smolensk there were several
different roads available for the French, and one would have thought
that during their stay of four days they might have learned where
the enemy was, might have arranged some more advantageous plan and
undertaken something new. But after a four days’ halt the mob, with no
maneuvers or plans, again began running along the beaten track, neither
to the right nor to the left but along the old - the worst - road, through
Krasnoe and Orsha.
Expecting the enemy from behind and not in front, the French separated
in their flight and spread out over a distance of twenty-four hours. In
front of them all fled the Emperor, then the kings, then the dukes. The
Russian army, expecting Napoleon to take the road to the right beyond
the Dnieper - which was the only reasonable thing for him to do - themselves
turned to the right and came out onto the highroad at Krasnoe. And here
as in a game of blindman’s buff the French ran into our vanguard. Seeing
their enemy unexpectedly the French fell into confusion and stopped
short from the sudden fright, but then they resumed their flight,
abandoning their comrades who were farther behind. Then for three days
separate portions of the French army - first Murat’s (the vice-king’s),
then Davout’s, and then Ney’s - ran, as it were, the gauntlet of the
Russian army. They abandoned one another, abandoned all their heavy
baggage, their artillery, and half their men, and fled, getting past the
Russians by night by making semicircles to the right.
Ney, who came last, had been busying himself blowing up the walls of
Smolensk which were in nobody’s way, because despite the unfortunate
plight of the French or because of it, they wished to punish the floor
against which they had hurt themselves. Ney, who had had a corps of ten
thousand men, reached Napoleon at Orsha with only one thousand men left,
having abandoned all the rest and all his cannon, and having crossed the
Dnieper at night by stealth at a wooded spot.
From Orsha they fled farther along the road to Vilna, still playing
at blindman’s buff with the pursuing army. At the Berezina they again
became disorganized, many were drowned and many surrendered, but those
who got across the river fled farther. Their supreme chief donned a
fur coat and, having seated himself in a sleigh, galloped on alone,
abandoning his companions. The others who could do so drove away too,
leaving those who could not to surrender or die.
CHAPTER XVIII
This campaign consisted in a flight of the French during which they did
all they could to destroy themselves. From the time they turned onto
the Kaluga road to the day their leader fled from the army, none of the
movements of the crowd had any sense. So one might have thought that
regarding this period of the campaign the historians, who attributed
the actions of the mass to the will of one man, would have found it
impossible to make the story of the retreat fit their theory. But
no! Mountains of books have been written by the historians about this
campaign, and everywhere are described Napoleon’s arrangements, the
maneuvers, and his profound plans which guided the army, as well as the
military genius shown by his marshals.
The retreat from Malo-Yaroslavets when he had a free road into a
well-supplied district and the parallel road was open to him along
which Kutuzov afterwards pursued him - this unnecessary retreat along
a devastated road - is explained to us as being due to profound
considerations. Similarly profound considerations are given for
his retreat from Smolensk to Orsha. Then his heroism at Krasnoe is
described, where he is reported to have been prepared to accept battle
and take personal command, and to have walked about with a birch stick
and said:
"J’ai assez fait l’empereur; il est temps de faire le general," * but
nevertheless immediately ran away again, abandoning to its fate the
scattered fragments of the army he left behind.
* "I have acted the Emperor long enough; it is time to act
the general."
Then we are told of the greatness of soul of the marshals, especially
of Ney - a greatness of soul consisting in this: that he made his way by
night around through the forest and across the Dnieper and escaped to
Orsha, abandoning standards, artillery, and nine tenths of his men.
And lastly, the final departure of the great Emperor from his heroic
army is presented to us by the historians as something great and
characteristic of genius. Even that final running away, described in
ordinary language as the lowest depth of baseness which every child
is taught to be ashamed of - even that act finds justification in the
historians’ language.
When it is impossible to stretch the very elastic threads of historical
ratiocination any farther, when actions are clearly contrary to all
that humanity calls right or even just, the historians produce a saving
conception of "greatness." "Greatness," it seems, excludes the standards
of right and wrong. For the "great" man nothing is wrong, there is no
atrocity for which a "great" man can be blamed.
"C’est grand!" * say the historians, and there no longer exists either
good or evil but only "grand" and "not grand." Grand is good, not
grand is bad. Grand is the characteristic, in their conception, of some
special animals called "heroes." And Napoleon, escaping home in a warm
fur coat and leaving to perish those who were not merely his comrades
but were (in his opinion) men he had brought there, feels que c’est
grand, *(2) and his soul is tranquil.
* "It is great."
* (2) That it is great.
"Du sublime (he saw something sublime in himself) au ridicule il n’y
a qu’un pas," * said he. And the whole world for fifty years has been
repeating: "Sublime! Grand! Napoleon le Grand!" Du sublime au ridicule
il n’y a qu’un pas.
* "From the sublime to the ridiculous is but a step."
And it occurs to no one that to admit a greatness not commensurable with
the standard of right and wrong is merely to admit one’s own nothingness
and immeasurable meanness.
For us with the standard of good and evil given us by Christ, no human
actions are incommensurable. And there is no greatness where simplicity,
goodness, and truth are absent.
CHAPTER XIX
What Russian, reading the account of the last part of the campaign
of 1812, has not experienced an uncomfortable feeling of regret,
dissatisfaction, and perplexity? Who has not asked himself how it is
that the French were not all captured or destroyed when our three armies
surrounded them in superior numbers, when the disordered French, hungry
and freezing, surrendered in crowds, and when (as the historians relate)
the aim of the Russians was to stop the French, to cut them off, and
capture them all?
How was it that the Russian army, which when numerically weaker than the
French had given battle at Borodino, did not achieve its purpose when it
had surrounded the French on three sides and when its aim was to capture
them? Can the French be so enormously superior to us that when we had
surrounded them with superior forces we could not beat them? How could
that happen?
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