战争与和平(上)-第325章

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　could　see；　was　one　conflagration。　On　all　sides　he　saw　places　laid　waste；　with　stoves　and　pipes　left　standing　in　them；　and　now　and　then　the　charred　walls　of　a　stone　house。
Pierre　stared　at　the　fires；　and　did　not　recognise　parts　of　the　town　that　he　knew　well。　Here　and　there　could　be　seen　churches　that　had　not　been　touched　by　the　fire。　The　Kremlin　uninjured；　rose　white　in　the　distance；　with　towers　and　Ivan　the　Great。　Close　at　hand；　the　cupola　of　the　Monastery　of　the　New　Virgin　shone　brightly；　and　the　bells　for　service　rang　out　gaily　from　it。　Those　bells　reminded　Pierre　that　it　was　Sunday　and　the　festival　of　the　birth　of　the　Virgin　Mother。　But　there　seemed　to　be　no　one　to　keep　this　holiday；　on　all　sides　they　saw　the　ruin　wrought　by　the　fires；　and　the　only　Russians　they　met　were　a　few　tattered　and　frightened…looking　people；　who　hid　themselves　on　seeing　the　French。
It　was　evident　that　the　Russian　nest　was　in　ruins　and　destroyed；　but　with　this　annihilation　of　the　old　Russian　order　of　life；　Pierre　was　unconsciously　aware　that　the　French　had　raised　up　over　this　ruined　nest　an　utterly　different　but　strong　order　of　their　own。　He　felt　this　at　the　sight　of　the　regular　ranks　of　the　boldly　and　gaily　marching　soldiers　who　were　escorting　him　and　the　other　prisoners；　he　felt　it　at　the　sight　of　some　important　French　official　in　a　carriage　and　pair；　driven　by　a　soldier；　whom　they　met　on　their　way。　He　felt　it　at　the　gay　sounds　of　regimental　music；　which　floated　across　from　the　left　of　the　meadow；　and　he　had　felt　it　and　realised　it　particularly　strongly　from　the　memorandum　the　French　officer　had　read　in　the　morning　when　he　called　over　the　prisoners’　names。　Pierre　was　taken　by　one　set　of　soldiers；　led　off　to　one　place；　and　thence　to　another；　with　dozens　of　different　people。　It　seemed　to　him　that　they　might　have　forgotten　him；　have　mixed　him　up　with　other　people。　But　no；　his　answers　given　at　the　examination　came　back　to　him　in　the　form　of　the　designation；　“the　one　who　will　not　give　his　name。”　And　under　this　designation；　which　filled　Pierre　with　dread；　they　led　him　away　somewhere；　with　unhesitating　conviction　written　on　their　faces　that　he　and　the　other　prisoners　with　him　were　the　right　ones；　and　that　they　were　being　taken　to　the　proper　place。　Pierre　felt　himself　an　insignificant　chip　that　had　fallen　under　the　wheel　of　a　machine　that　worked　without　a　hitch；　though　he　did　not　understand　it。
Pierre　was　led　with　the　other　prisoners　to　the　right　side　of　the　Virgin’s　Meadow；　not　far　from　the　monastery；　and　taken　up　to　a　big；　white　house　with　an　immense　garden。　It　was　the　house　of　Prince　Shtcherbatov；　and　Pierre　had　often　been　inside　it　in　former　days　to　see　its　owner。　Now；　as　he　learnt　from　the　talk　of　the　soldiers；　it　was　occupied　by　the　marshal；　the　Duke　of　Eckmühl。
They　were　led　up　to　the　entrance；　and　taken　into　the　house；　one　at　a　time。　Pierre　was　the　sixth　to　be　led　in。　Through　a　glass…roofed　gallery；　a　vestibule；　and　a　hall；　all　familiar　to　Pierre；　he　was　led　to　the　long；　low…pitched　study；　at　the　door　of　which　stood　an　adjutant。
Davoust　was　sitting　at　a　table　at　the　end　of　the　room；　his　spectacles　on　his　nose。　Pierre　came　close　up　to　him。　Davoust；　without　raising　his　eyes；　was　apparently　engaged　in　looking　up　something　in　a　document　that　lay　before　him。　Without　raising　his　eyes；　he　asked　softly：　“Who　are　you？”
Pierre　was　mute　because　he　was　incapable　of　articulating　a　word。　Davoust　was　not　to　Pierre　simply　a　French　general；　to　Pierre；　Davoust　was　a　man　notorious　for　his　cruelty。　Looking　at　the　cold　face　of　Davoust；　which；　like　a　stern　teacher；　seemed　to　consent　for　a　time　to　have　patience　and　await　a　reply；　Pierre　felt　that　every　second　of　delay　might　cost　him　his　life。　But　he　did　not　know　what　to　say。　To　say　the　same　as　he　had　said　at　the　first　examination　he　did　not　dare；　to　disclose　his　name　and　his　position　would　be　both　dangerous　and　shameful。　Pierre　stood　mute。　But　before　he　had　time　to　come　to　any　decision；　Davoust　raised　his　head；　thrust　his　spectacles　up　on　his　forehead；　screwed　up　his　eyes；　and　looked　intently　at　Pierre。
“I　know　this　man；”　he　said；　in　a　frigid；　measured　tone；　obviously　reckoning　on　frightening　Pierre。　The　chill　that　had　been　running　down　Pierre’s　back　seemed　to　clutch　his　head　in　a　vice。
“General；　you　cannot　know　me；　I　have　never　seen　you。”
“It　is　a　Russian　spy；”　Davoust　interrupted；　addressing　another　general　in　the　room；　whom　Pierre　had　not　noticed。　And　Davoust　turned　away。　With　an　unexpected　thrill　in　his　voice；　Pierre　began　speaking　with　sudden　rapidity。
“Non；　monseigneur；”　he　said；　suddenly　recalling　that　Davoust　was　a　duke；　“you　could　not　know　me。　I　am　a　militia　officer；　and　I　have　not　quitted　Moscow。”
“Your　name？”　repeated　Davoust。
“Bezuhov。”
“What　proof　is　there　that　you　are　not　lying？”
“Monseigneur！”　cried　Pierre　in　a　voice　not　of　offence　but　of　supplication。
Davoust　lifted　his　eyes　and　looked　intently　at　Pierre。　For　several　seconds　they　looked　at　one　another；　and　that　look　saved　Pierre。　In　that　glance；　apart　from　all　circumstances　of　warfare　and　of　judgment；　human　relations　arose　between　these　two　men。　Both　of　them　in　that　one　instant　were　vaguely　aware　of　an　immense　number　of　different　things；　and　knew　that　they　were　both　children　of　humanity；　that　they　were　brothers。
At　the　first　glance　when　Davoust　raised　his　head　from　his　memorandum；　where　men’s　lives　and　doings　were　marked　off　by　numbers；　Pierre　was　only　a　circumstance；　and　Davoust　could　have　shot　him　with　no　sense　of　an　evil　deed　on　his　conscience；　but　now　he　saw　in　him　a　man。　He　pondered　an　instant。
“How　will　you　prove　to　me　the　truth　of　what　you　say？”　said　Davoust　coldly。
Pierre　thought　of　Ramballe；　and　mentioned　his　name　and　regiment　and　the　street　and　house　where　he　could　be　found。
“You　are　not　what　you　say；”　Davoust　said　again。
In　a　trembling；　breaking　voice；　Pierre　began　to　bring　forward　proofs　of　the　truth　of　his　testimony。
But　at　that　moment　an　adjutant　came　in　and　said　something　to　Davoust。
Davoust　beamed　at　the　news　the　adjutant　brought　him；　and　began　buttoning　up　his　uniform。　Apparently　he　had　completely　forgotten　about　Pierre。　When　an　adjutant　reminded　him　of　the　prisoner；　he　nodded　in　Pierre’s　direction　with　a　frown；　and　told　them　to　take　him　away。　But　where　were　they　to　take　him—Pierre　did　not　know：　whether　back　to　the　shed　or　the　place　prepared　for　their　execution　which　his　companions　had　pointed　out　to　him　as　they　passed　through　the　Virgin’s　Meadow。
He　turned　his　head　and　saw　that　the　adjutant　was　repeating　some　question。
“Yes；　of　course！”　said　Davoust。　But　what　that　“yes”　meant；　Pierre　could　not　tell。
Pierre　did　not　remember　how　or　where　he　went；　and　how　long　he　was　going。　In　a　condition　of　complete　stupefaction　and　bewilderment；　seeing　nothing　around　him；　he　moved　his　legs　in　company　with　the　others　till　they　all　stopped；　and　he　stopped。
There　was　one　idea　all　this　time　in　Pierre’s　head。　It　was　the　question：　Who；　who　was　it　really　that　was　condemning　him　to　death？　It　was　not　the　men　who　had　questioned　him　at　the　first　examination；　of　them　not　one　would　or　obviously　could　do　so。　It　was　not　Davoust；　who　had　looked　at　him　in　such　a　human　fashion。　In　another　minute　Davoust　would　have　understood　that　they　were　doing　wrong；　but　the　adjutant　who　had　come　in　at　that　moment　had　prevented　it。　And　that　adjutant　had　obviously　had　no　evil　intent；　but　he　might　have　stayed　away。　Who　was　it；　after　all；　who　was　punishing　him；　killing　him；　taking　his　life—his；　Pierre’s；　with　all　his　memories；　his　strivings；　his　hopes；　and　his　ideas？　Who　was　doing　it？　And　Pierre　felt　that　it　was　no　one’s　doing。　It　was　discipline；　and　the　concatenation　of　circumstances。　Some　sort　of　discipline　was　killing　him；　Pierre；　robbing　him　of　life；　of　all；　annihilating　him。


Chapter　11
FROM　PRINCE　SHTCHERBATOV’S　HOUSE　the　prisoners　were　taken　straight　downhill　across　the　Virgin’s　Meadow　to　the　left　of　the　monastery　of　the　Virgin；　and　led　to　a　kitchen　garden；　in　which　there　stood　a　post。　A　big　pit　had　been　dug　out　near　the　post；　and　the　freshly　turned…up　earth　was　heaped　up　by　it。　A　great　crowd　of　people　formed　a　semicircle　about　the　pit　and　the　post。　The　crowd　consisted　of　a　small　number　of　Russians　and　a　great　number