Bab Bab 224 · 第224章

Napoleon’s generals—Davout, Ney, and Murat, who were near that region of

fire and sometimes even entered it—repeatedly led into it huge masses of

well-ordered troops. But contrary to what had always happened in their

former battles, instead of the news they expected of the enemy’s flight,

these orderly masses returned thence as disorganized and terrified mobs.

The generals re-formed them, but their numbers constantly decreased.

In the middle of the day Murat sent his adjutant to Napoleon to demand

reinforcements.

Napoleon sat at the foot of the knoll, drinking punch, when Murat’s

adjutant galloped up with an assurance that the Russians would be routed

if His Majesty would let him have another division.

“Reinforcements?” said Napoleon in a tone of stern surprise, looking at

the adjutant—a handsome lad with long black curls arranged like Murat’s

own—as though he did not understand his words.

“Reinforcements!” thought Napoleon to himself. “How can they need

reinforcements when they already have half the army directed against a

weak, unentrenched Russian wing?”

“Tell the King of Naples,” said he sternly, “that it is not noon yet,

and I don’t yet see my chessboard clearly. Go!...”

The handsome boy adjutant with the long hair sighed deeply without

removing his hand from his hat and galloped back to where men were being

slaughtered.

Napoleon rose and having summoned Caulaincourt and Berthier began

talking to them about matters unconnected with the battle.

In the midst of this conversation, which was beginning to interest

Napoleon, Berthier’s eyes turned to look at a general with a suite, who

was galloping toward the knoll on a lathering horse. It was Belliard.

Having dismounted he went up to the Emperor with rapid strides and in

a loud voice began boldly demonstrating the necessity of sending

reinforcements. He swore on his honor that the Russians were lost if the

Emperor would give another division.

Napoleon shrugged his shoulders and continued to pace up and down

without replying. Belliard began talking loudly and eagerly to the

generals of the suite around him.

“You are very fiery, Belliard,” said Napoleon, when he again came up to

the general. “In the heat of a battle it is easy to make a mistake. Go

and have another look and then come back to me.”

Before Belliard was out of sight, a messenger from another part of the

battlefield galloped up.

“Now then, what do you want?” asked Napoleon in the tone of a man

irritated at being continually disturbed.

“Sire, the prince...” began the adjutant.

“Asks for reinforcements?” said Napoleon with an angry gesture.

The adjutant bent his head affirmatively and began to report, but the

Emperor turned from him, took a couple of steps, stopped, came back, and

called Berthier.

“We must give reserves,” he said, moving his arms slightly apart.

“Who do you think should be sent there?” he asked of Berthier (whom he

subsequently termed “that gosling I have made an eagle”).

“Send Claparède’s division, sire,” replied Berthier, who knew all the

division’s regiments, and battalions by heart.

Napoleon nodded assent.

The adjutant galloped to Claparède’s division and a few minutes later

the Young Guards stationed behind the knoll moved forward. Napoleon

gazed silently in that direction.

“No!” he suddenly said to Berthier. “I can’t send Claparède. Send

Friant’s division.”

Though there was no advantage in sending Friant’s division instead of

Claparède’s, and even an obvious inconvenience and delay in stopping

Claparède and sending Friant now, the order was carried out exactly.

Napoleon did not notice that in regard to his army he was playing

the part of a doctor who hinders by his medicines—a role he so justly

understood and condemned.

Friant’s division disappeared as the others had done into the smoke

of the battlefield. From all sides adjutants continued to arrive at a

gallop and as if by agreement all said the same thing. They all asked

for reinforcements and all said that the Russians were holding their

positions and maintaining a hellish fire under which the French army was

melting away.

Napoleon sat on a campstool, wrapped in thought.

M. de Beausset, the man so fond of travel, having fasted since morning,

came up to the Emperor and ventured respectfully to suggest lunch to His

Majesty.

“I hope I may now congratulate Your Majesty on a victory?” said he.

Napoleon silently shook his head in negation. Assuming the negation to

refer only to the victory and not to the lunch, M. de Beausset ventured

with respectful jocularity to remark that there is no reason for not

having lunch when one can get it.

“Go away...” exclaimed Napoleon suddenly and morosely, and turned aside.

A beatific smile of regret, repentance, and ecstasy beamed on M. de

Beausset’s face and he glided away to the other generals.

Napoleon was experiencing a feeling of depression like that of an

ever-lucky gambler who, after recklessly flinging money about and always

winning, suddenly just when he has calculated all the chances of the

game, finds that the more he considers his play the more surely he

loses.

His troops were the same, his generals the same, the same preparations

had been made, the same dispositions, and the same proclamation courte

et énergique, he himself was still the same: he knew that and knew that

he was now even more experienced and skillful than before. Even the

enemy was the same as at Austerlitz and Friedland—yet the terrible

stroke of his arm had supernaturally become impotent.

All the old methods that had been unfailingly crowned with success: the

concentration of batteries on one point, an attack by reserves to break

the enemy’s line, and a cavalry attack by “the men of iron,” all these

methods had already been employed, yet not only was there no victory,

but from all sides came the same news of generals killed and wounded,

of reinforcements needed, of the impossibility of driving back the

Russians, and of disorganization among his own troops.

Formerly, after he had given two or three orders and uttered a

few phrases, marshals and adjutants had come galloping up with

congratulations and happy faces, announcing the trophies taken, the

corps of prisoners, bundles of enemy eagles and standards, cannon and

stores, and Murat had only begged leave to loose the cavalry to gather

in the baggage wagons. So it had been at Lodi, Marengo, Arcola, Jena,

Austerlitz, Wagram, and so on. But now something strange was happening

to his troops.

Despite news of the capture of the flèches, Napoleon saw that this was

not the same, not at all the same, as what had happened in his former

battles. He saw that what he was feeling was felt by all the men about

him experienced in the art of war. All their faces looked dejected, and

they all shunned one another’s eyes—only a de Beausset could fail to

grasp the meaning of what was happening.

But Napoleon with his long experience of war well knew the meaning of

a battle not gained by the attacking side in eight hours, after all

efforts had been expended. He knew that it was a lost battle and that

the least accident might now—with the fight balanced on such a strained

center—destroy him and his army.

When he ran his mind over the whole of this strange Russian campaign in

which not one battle had been won, and in which not a flag, or cannon,

or army corps had been captured in two months, when he looked at the

concealed depression on the faces around him and heard reports of the

Russians still holding their ground—a terrible feeling like a nightmare

took possession of him, and all the unlucky accidents that might destroy

him occurred to his mind. The Russians might fall on his left wing,

might break through his center, he himself might be killed by a stray

cannon ball. All this was possible. In former battles he had only

considered the possibilities of success, but now innumerable unlucky

chances presented themselves, and he expected them all. Yes, it was like

a dream in which a man fancies that a ruffian is coming to attack him,

and raises his arm to strike that ruffian a terrible blow which he knows

should annihilate him, but then feels that his arm drops powerless and

limp like a rag, and the horror of unavoidable destruction seizes him in

his helplessness.

The news that the Russians were attacking the left flank of the French

army aroused that horror in Napoleon. He sat silently on a campstool

below the knoll, with head bowed and elbows on his knees. Berthier

approached and suggested that they should ride along the line to

ascertain the position of affairs.

“What? What do you say?” asked Napoleon. “Yes, tell them to bring me my

horse.”

He mounted and rode toward Semënovsk.

Amid the powder smoke, slowly dispersing over the whole space through

which Napoleon rode, horses and men were lying in pools of blood, singly

or in heaps. Neither Napoleon nor any of his generals had ever before

seen such horrors or so many slain in such a small area. The roar of

guns, that had not ceased for ten hours, wearied the ear and gave

a peculiar significance to the spectacle, as music does to tableaux

vivants. Napoleon rode up the high ground at Semënovsk, and through the

smoke saw ranks of men in uniforms of a color unfamiliar to him. They

were Russians.

The Russians stood in serried ranks behind Semënovsk village and its

knoll, and their guns boomed incessantly along their line and sent

forth clouds of smoke. It was no longer a battle: it was a continuous

slaughter which could be of no avail either to the French or the

Russians. Napoleon stopped his horse and again fell into the reverie

from which Berthier had aroused him. He could not stop what was going on

before him and around him and was supposed to be directed by him and to

depend on him, and from its lack of success this affair, for the first

time, seemed to him unnecessary and horrible.

One of the generals rode up to Napoleon and ventured to offer to lead

the Old Guard into action. Ney and Berthier, standing near Napoleon,

exchanged looks and smiled contemptuously at this general’s senseless

offer.

Napoleon bowed his head and remained silent a long time.

“At eight hundred leagues from France, I will not have my Guard

destroyed!” he said, and turning his horse rode back to Shevárdino.