الفصل الفصل 226 · 第226章

Prince Andrew’s regiment was among the reserves which till after one

o’clock were stationed inactive behind Semënovsk, under heavy artillery

fire. Toward two o’clock the regiment, having already lost more than

two hundred men, was moved forward into a trampled oatfield in the gap

between Semënovsk and the Knoll Battery, where thousands of men perished

that day and on which an intense, concentrated fire from several hundred

enemy guns was directed between one and two o’clock.

Without moving from that spot or firing a single shot the regiment here

lost another third of its men. From in front and especially from the

right, in the unlifting smoke the guns boomed, and out of the mysterious

domain of smoke that overlay the whole space in front, quick hissing

cannon balls and slow whistling shells flew unceasingly. At times, as

if to allow them a respite, a quarter of an hour passed during which

the cannon balls and shells all flew overhead, but sometimes several men

were torn from the regiment in a minute and the slain were continually

being dragged away and the wounded carried off.

With each fresh blow less and less chance of life remained for those not

yet killed. The regiment stood in columns of battalion, three hundred

paces apart, but nevertheless the men were always in one and the same

mood. All alike were taciturn and morose. Talk was rarely heard in the

ranks, and it ceased altogether every time the thud of a successful

shot and the cry of “stretchers!” was heard. Most of the time, by their

officers’ order, the men sat on the ground. One, having taken off his

shako, carefully loosened the gathers of its lining and drew them tight

again; another, rubbing some dry clay between his palms, polished

his bayonet; another fingered the strap and pulled the buckle of his

bandolier, while another smoothed and refolded his leg bands and put

his boots on again. Some built little houses of the tufts in the plowed

ground, or plaited baskets from the straw in the cornfield. All seemed

fully absorbed in these pursuits. When men were killed or wounded, when

rows of stretchers went past, when some troops retreated, and when great

masses of the enemy came into view through the smoke, no one paid any

attention to these things. But when our artillery or cavalry advanced or

some of our infantry were seen to move forward, words of approval

were heard on all sides. But the liveliest attention was attracted by

occurrences quite apart from, and unconnected with, the battle. It was

as if the minds of these morally exhausted men found relief in everyday,

commonplace occurrences. A battery of artillery was passing in front of

the regiment. The horse of an ammunition cart put its leg over a trace.

“Hey, look at the trace horse!... Get her leg out! She’ll fall.... Ah,

they don’t see it!” came identical shouts from the ranks all along the

regiment. Another time, general attention was attracted by a small brown

dog, coming heaven knows whence, which trotted in a preoccupied manner

in front of the ranks with tail stiffly erect till suddenly a shell fell

close by, when it yelped, tucked its tail between its legs, and darted

aside. Yells and shrieks of laughter rose from the whole regiment. But

such distractions lasted only a moment, and for eight hours the men had

been inactive, without food, in constant fear of death, and their pale

and gloomy faces grew ever paler and gloomier.

Prince Andrew, pale and gloomy like everyone in the regiment, paced up

and down from the border of one patch to another, at the edge of the

meadow beside an oatfield, with head bowed and arms behind his back.

There was nothing for him to do and no orders to be given. Everything

went on of itself. The killed were dragged from the front, the wounded

carried away, and the ranks closed up. If any soldiers ran to the

rear they returned immediately and hastily. At first Prince Andrew,

considering it his duty to rouse the courage of the men and to set them

an example, walked about among the ranks, but he soon became convinced

that this was unnecessary and that there was nothing he could teach

them. All the powers of his soul, as of every soldier there, were

unconsciously bent on avoiding the contemplation of the horrors of their

situation. He walked along the meadow, dragging his feet, rustling the

grass, and gazing at the dust that covered his boots; now he took big

strides trying to keep to the footprints left on the meadow by the

mowers, then he counted his steps, calculating how often he must walk

from one strip to another to walk a mile, then he stripped the flowers

from the wormwood that grew along a boundary rut, rubbed them in his

palms, and smelled their pungent, sweetly bitter scent. Nothing remained

of the previous day’s thoughts. He thought of nothing. He listened with

weary ears to the ever-recurring sounds, distinguishing the whistle

of flying projectiles from the booming of the reports, glanced at the

tiresomely familiar faces of the men of the first battalion, and

waited. “Here it comes... this one is coming our way again!” he thought,

listening to an approaching whistle in the hidden region of smoke. “One,

another! Again! It has hit....” He stopped and looked at the ranks. “No,

it has gone over. But this one has hit!” And again he started trying

to reach the boundary strip in sixteen paces. A whizz and a thud! Five

paces from him, a cannon ball tore up the dry earth and disappeared. A

chill ran down his back. Again he glanced at the ranks. Probably many

had been hit—a large crowd had gathered near the second battalion.

“Adjutant!” he shouted. “Order them not to crowd together.”

The adjutant, having obeyed this instruction, approached Prince Andrew.

From the other side a battalion commander rode up.

“Look out!” came a frightened cry from a soldier and, like a bird

whirring in rapid flight and alighting on the ground, a shell dropped

with little noise within two steps of Prince Andrew and close to the

battalion commander’s horse. The horse first, regardless of whether it

was right or wrong to show fear, snorted, reared almost throwing the

major, and galloped aside. The horse’s terror infected the men.

“Lie down!” cried the adjutant, throwing himself flat on the ground.

Prince Andrew hesitated. The smoking shell spun like a top between him

and the prostrate adjutant, near a wormwood plant between the field and

the meadow.

“Can this be death?” thought Prince Andrew, looking with a quite new,

envious glance at the grass, the wormwood, and the streamlet of smoke

that curled up from the rotating black ball. “I cannot, I do not wish to

die. I love life—I love this grass, this earth, this air....” He thought

this, and at the same time remembered that people were looking at him.

“It’s shameful, sir!” he said to the adjutant. “What...”

He did not finish speaking. At one and the same moment came the sound of

an explosion, a whistle of splinters as from a breaking window frame,

a suffocating smell of powder, and Prince Andrew started to one side,

raising his arm, and fell on his chest. Several officers ran up to him.

From the right side of his abdomen, blood was welling out making a large

stain on the grass.

The militiamen with stretchers who were called up stood behind the

officers. Prince Andrew lay on his chest with his face in the grass,

breathing heavily and noisily.

“What are you waiting for? Come along!”

The peasants went up and took him by his shoulders and legs, but he

moaned piteously and, exchanging looks, they set him down again.

“Pick him up, lift him, it’s all the same!” cried someone.

They again took him by the shoulders and laid him on the stretcher.

“Ah, God! My God! What is it? The stomach? That means death! My

God!”—voices among the officers were heard saying.

“It flew a hair’s breadth past my ear,” said the adjutant.

The peasants, adjusting the stretcher to their shoulders, started

hurriedly along the path they had trodden down, to the dressing station.

“Keep in step! Ah... those peasants!” shouted an officer, seizing by

their shoulders and checking the peasants, who were walking unevenly and

jolting the stretcher.

“Get into step, Fëdor... I say, Fëdor!” said the foremost peasant.

“Now that’s right!” said the one behind joyfully, when he had got into

step.

“Your excellency! Eh, Prince!” said the trembling voice of Timókhin, who

had run up and was looking down on the stretcher.

Prince Andrew opened his eyes and looked up at the speaker from the

stretcher into which his head had sunk deep and again his eyelids

drooped.

The militiamen carried Prince Andrew to the dressing station by the

wood, where wagons were stationed. The dressing station consisted of

three tents with flaps turned back, pitched at the edge of a birch wood.

In the wood, wagons and horses were standing. The horses were eating

oats from their movable troughs and sparrows flew down and pecked the

grains that fell. Some crows, scenting blood, flew among the birch

trees cawing impatiently. Around the tents, over more than five acres,

bloodstained men in various garbs stood, sat, or lay. Around the wounded

stood crowds of soldier stretcher-bearers with dismal and attentive

faces, whom the officers keeping order tried in vain to drive from the

spot. Disregarding the officers’ orders, the soldiers stood leaning

against their stretchers and gazing intently, as if trying to comprehend

the difficult problem of what was taking place before them. From the

tents came now loud angry cries and now plaintive groans. Occasionally

dressers ran out to fetch water, or to point out those who were to be

brought in next. The wounded men awaiting their turn outside the tents

groaned, sighed, wept, screamed, swore, or asked for vodka. Some were

delirious. Prince Andrew’s bearers, stepping over the wounded who had

not yet been bandaged, took him, as a regimental commander, close up to

one of the tents and there stopped, awaiting instructions. Prince Andrew

opened his eyes and for a long time could not make out what was going

on around him. He remembered the meadow, the wormwood, the field, the

whirling black ball, and his sudden rush of passionate love of life.

Two steps from him, leaning against a branch and talking loudly and

attracting general attention, stood a tall, handsome, black-haired

noncommissioned officer with a bandaged head. He had been wounded in the

head and leg by bullets. Around him, eagerly listening to his talk, a

crowd of wounded and stretcher-bearers was gathered.

“We kicked him out from there so that he chucked everything, we grabbed

the King himself!” cried he, looking around him with eyes that glittered

with fever. “If only reserves had come up just then, lads, there

wouldn’t have been nothing left of him! I tell you surely....”

Like all the others near the speaker, Prince Andrew looked at him with

shining eyes and experienced a sense of comfort. “But isn’t it all the

same now?” thought he. “And what will be there, and what has there been

here? Why was I so reluctant to part with life? There was something in

this life I did not and do not understand.”