战争与和平(上)- 第329部分

Chapter　9
THE　FIFTH　COMPANY　was　bivouacking　close　up　to　the　birch　copse。　An　immense　camp…fire　was　blazing　brightly　in　the　middle　of　the　snow；　lighting　up　the　rime…covered　boughs　of　the　trees。
In　the　middle　of　the　night　the　soldiers　had　heard　footsteps　and　the　cracking　of　branches　in　the　copse。
“A　bear；　lads；”　said　one　soldier。
All　raised　their　heads　and　listened；　and　out　of　the　copse　there　stepped　into　the　bright　light　of　the　fire　two　strangely　garbed　human　figures　clinging　to　one　another。　These　were　two　Frenchmen；　who　had　been　hiding　in　the　wood。　Hoarsely　articulating　something　in　a　tongue　incomprehensible　to　the　soldiers；　they　approached　the　fire。　One；　wearing　an　officer’s　hat；　was　rather　the　taller；　and　seemed　utterly　spent。　He　tried　to　sit　down　by　the　fire；　but　sank　on　to　the　ground。　The　other；　a　little；　stumpy　man；　with　a　kerchief　bound　round　his　cheeks；　was　stronger。　He　held　his　companion　up；　and　said　something　pointing　to　his　mouth。　The　soldiers　surrounded　the　Frenchmen；　laid　a　coat　under　the　sick　man；　and　brought　both　of　them　porridge　and　vodka。　The　exhausted　French　officer　was　Ramballe；　the　little　man　bandaged　up　in　the　kerchief　was　his　servant；　Morel。
When　Morel　had　drunk　some　vodka　and　eaten　a　bowl　of　porridge；　he　suddenly　passed　into　a　state　of　morbid　hilarity；　and　kept　up　an　incessant　babble　with　the　soldiers；　who　could　not　understand　him。　Ramballe　refused　food；　and　leaning　on　one　elbow　by　the　fire；　gazed　dumbly　with　red；　vacant　eyes　at　the　Russian　soldiers。　At　intervals　he　uttered　a　prolonged　groan　and　then　was　mute　again。　Morel；　pointing　to　his　shoulders；　gave　the　soldiers　to　understand　that　this　was　an　officer；　and　that　he　needed　warmth。　A　Russian　officer；　who　had　come　up　to　the　fire；　sent　to　ask　the　colonel　whether　he　would　take　a　French　officer　into　his　warm　cottage。　When　they　came　back　and　said　that　the　colonel　bade　them　bring　the　officer；　they　told　Ramballe　to　go　to　him。　He　got　up　and　tried　to　walk；　but　staggered；　and　would　have　fallen　had　not　a　soldier　standing　near　caught　him。
“What？　You　don’t　want　to；　eh？”　said　a　soldier　addressing　Ramballe　with　a　jocose　wink。
“Eh；　you　fool！　It’s　no　time　for　your　fooling。　A　peasant；　a　real　peasant；”　voices　were　heard　on　all　sides　blaming　the　jocose　soldier。　The　others　surrounded　Ramballe。　Two　of　them　held　him　up　under　the　arms　and　carried　him　to　the　cottage。　Ramballe　put　his　arms　round　the　soldiers’　necks；　and　as　they　lifted　him　he　began　wailing　plaintively。
“O　you　good　fellows！　O　my　kind；　kind　friends。　These　are　men！　O　my　brave；　kind　friends”；　and　like　a　child　he　put　his　head　down　on　the　soldier’s　shoulder。
Meanwhile　Morel　was　sitting　in　the　best　place　surrounded　by　the　soldiers。
Morel；　a　little；　thickset　Frenchman；　with　swollen；　streaming　eyes；　was　dressed　in　a　woman’s　jacket　and　had　a　woman’s　kerchief　tied　over　his　forage　cap。　He　was　evidently　tipsy；　and　with　one　arm　thrown　round　the　soldier　sitting　next　him；　he　was　singing　a　French　song　in　a　husky；　broken　voice。　The　soldiers　simply　held　their　sides　as　they　looked　at　him。
“Now　then；　now　then；　teach　it　me；　how　does　it　go？　I’ll　catch　it　in　no　time。　How　was　it？”　said　the　soldier　Morel　was　hugging；　who　was　one　of　the　singers　and　fond　of　a　joke。
“Vive　Henri　Quatre！　Vive　ce　roi　vaillant！　…”　sang　Morel；　winking。　“Ce　diable　à　quatre　…”
“Vi…va…ri…ka！　Viff…se…ru…va…ru！　Si…dya…blya…ka！…”　repeated　the　soldier；　waving　his　hand　and　catching　the　tune　correctly。
“Bravo！　Ho…ho…ho…ho！”　a　hoarse　guffaw　of　delight　rose　on　all　sides。　Morel；　wrinkling　up　his　face；　laughed　too。
“Come；　strike　up；　more；　more！”
“Qui　eut　le　triple　talent　de　boire；　de　battre；　et　d’être　un　vert　galant。”
“That　sounds　well　too。　Now；　Zaletaev！…”
“Kyu；”　Zaletaev　articulated　with　effort。　“Kyu…yu…yu　…”　he　sang；　puckering　up　his　lips　elaborately；　“le…trip…ta…la…de…boo…de…ba…ce…detra…va…ga…la。”
“That’s　fine！　That’s　a　fine　Frenchman；　to　be　sure！　oy　…　ho…ho…ho。　Well；　do　you　want　some　more　to　eat？”
“Give　him　some　porridge；　it’ll　take　him　some　time　to　satisfy　his　hunger。”
They　gave　him　more　porridge；　and　Morel；　laughing；　attacked　a　third　bowlful。　There　were　gleeful　smiles　on　the　faces　of　all　the　young　soldiers　watching　him。　The　old　soldiers；　considering　it　beneath　their　dignity　to　show　interest　in　such　trifles；　lay　on　the　other　side　of　the　fire；　but　now　and　then　one　would　raise　himself　on　his　elbow　and　glance　with　a　smile　at　Morel。
“They　are　men；　too；”　said　one；　rolling　himself　up　in　his　coat。　“Even　the　wormwood　has　its　roots。”
“O　Lord！　What　lots　of　stars！　It’s　a　sign　of　frost　…”　And　all　sank　into　silence。
The　stars；　as　though　they　knew　no　one　would　see　them　now；　were　twinkling　brightly　in　the　black　sky。　Flaring　up　and　growing　dim　again；　and　quivering；　they　seemed　to　be　busily　signalling　some　joyful　mystery　to　each　other。


Chapter　10
THE　FRENCH　ARMY　went　on　melting　away　at　a　regularly　increasing　rate。　And　the　crossing　of　the　Berezina；　of　which　so　much　has　been　written；　was　only　one　of　the　intermediate　stages　of　the　destruction　of　the　army；　and　by　no　means　the　decisive　episode　of　the　campaign。　The　reason　that　so　much　has　been　written　about　Berezina　on　the　French　side　is　that　at　the　broken…down　bridge　of　Berezina　the　woes；　which　had　till　then　come　upon　them　in　a　sort　of　regular　succession；　were　suddenly　concentrated　there　in　a　single　moment—in　one　tragic　catastrophe；　which　remained　printed　on　the　memory　of　all。　On　the　Russian　side；　the　reason　that　so　much　has　been　made　of　Berezina　was　simply　that　at　Petersburg；　far　away　from　the　theatre　of　war；　a　plan　had　been　devised　（again　by　Pfuhl　of　all　people）　for　catching　Napoleon　in　a　strategic　snare　on　the　banks　of　the　Berezina。　Every　one　was　convinced　that　the　plan　would　come　off　exactly　as　arranged；　and　so　they　insisted　that　Berezina　had　in　any　case　been　the　scene　of　the　final　ruin　of　the　French。　In　reality　the　results　of　Berezina　were　less　ruinous　to　the　French　in　loss　of　cannons　and　prisoners　than　was　the　fighting　at　Krasnoe；　as　statistics　prove。
The　sole　significance　of　the　disaster　of　Berezina　lies　in　the　fact　that　it　proved　obviously　and　unmistakably　how　misleading　were　all　plans　for　cutting　off　the　enemy’s　retreat；　and　the　one　possible　course　of　action　was　that　which　was　supported　by　Kutuzov　and　the　mass　of　the　Russian　army—simply　to　follow　on　the　enemy’s　track。　The　crowd　of　French　soldiers　fled　with　continually　accelerating　velocity；　with　all　their　energies　directed　to　the　attainment　of　their　goal。　It　was　fleeing　like　a　wounded　beast　and　could　not　be　stopped　on　the　way。　This　was　proved；　not　so　much　by　the　construction　of　the　crossing；　as　by　what　happened　at　the　bridges。　When　the　bridges　were　broken　down；　unarmed　soldiers；　camp…followers　from　Moscow；　women　with　children；　who　were　with　the　French　transport；　all　under　the　influence　of　vis　inerti？；　dashed　forward　for　the　boats；　or　rushed　into　the　frozen　water；　instead　of　surrendering。
Their　impulse　was　a　reasonable　one。　The　position　of　fugitives　and　of　pursuers　was　equally　wretched。　By　remaining　with　his　own　men；　each　hoped　for　the　help　of　comrades　in　misfortune；　for　a　definite　place　of　his　own　among　them。　By　surrendering　to　the　Russians；　he　found　himself　in　the　same　wretched　circumstances；　but　placed　on　a　lower　level　than　others　as　regards　the　satisfaction　of　his　vital　needs。　The　French　had　no　need　of　authentic　evidence　that　half　of　the　prisoners—whom　the　Russians　were　unable　to　look　after；　however　much　they　desired　to　save　them—　were　dying　of　cold　and　hunger。　They　felt　that　it　could　not　but　be　so。　The　most　humane　Russian　officers；　even　those　naturally　warmly　disposed　to　the　French；　Frenchmen　in　the　Russian　service；　could　do　nothing　for　the　prisoners。　They　perished　from　the　wretched　plight　in　which　the　Russians　were　themselves　placed。　Bread　and　clothing　could　not　be　taken　from　the　starving；　insistent　soldiers　to　give　it　to　Frenchmen—not　hated；　not　obnoxious；　nor　in　any　way　to　blame—but　simply　superfluous。　Some　did　even　do　this；　but　it　was　only　an　exception。
Behind　them　lay　certain　destruction；　before　them　lay　hope。　Their　ships　were　burnt；　there　was　no　hope　of　safety　but　in　keeping　together　and　in　flight；　and　all　the　forces　of　the　French　were　bent　on　this　united　flight。
The　more　precipitate　the　flight　of　the　French；　and　the　more　wretched　the　plight　of　those　left　behind　（especially　after　Berezina；　on　which　great　hopes　had　been　set；　owing　to　the　Petersburg　plan）；　the　more　violent　were　the　attacks　made　by　the　Russian　generals　on　one　another；　and　still　more　on　Kutuzov。　Assuming　that　the　failure　of　the　Petersburg　plan　would　be　ascribed　to　him；　the　dissatisfaction　with　him；　contempt　of　him；　and　jeering　at　him　became　more　and　more　pronounced。　This　contempt　and　jeering　was　of　course　expressed　in　respectful　form—in　such　a　form　that　Kutuzov　could　not　even　ask　what　he　was　accused　of。　They　did　not　talk　to　him　seriously；　they　submitted　their　reports　and　asked　for　his　decisions　with　an　air　of　performing　a　melancholy　ceremony；　while　they　winked　behind　his　back；　and　at　every　step　tried　to　deceive　him。　It　was　accepted　as　a　recognised　thing　by　all　those　men　that　it　was　useless　talking　to　the　old　man；　simply　because　they　could　not　understand　him。　They　took　it　for　granted　that　he　could　never　comprehend　the