Bab Bab 323 · 第323章

The fifth of November was the first day of what is called the battle of

Krásnoe. Toward evening—after much disputing and many mistakes made by

generals who did not go to their proper places, and after adjutants had

been sent about with counterorders—when it had become plain that the

enemy was everywhere in flight and that there could and would be no

battle, Kutúzov left Krásnoe and went to Dóbroe whither his headquarters

had that day been transferred.

The day was clear and frosty. Kutúzov rode to Dóbroe on his plump little

white horse, followed by an enormous suite of discontented generals who

whispered among themselves behind his back. All along the road groups of

French prisoners captured that day (there were seven thousand of them)

were crowding to warm themselves at campfires. Near Dóbroe an immense

crowd of tattered prisoners, buzzing with talk and wrapped and bandaged

in anything they had been able to get hold of, were standing in the road

beside a long row of unharnessed French guns. At the approach of the

commander in chief the buzz of talk ceased and all eyes were fixed on

Kutúzov who, wearing a white cap with a red band and a padded overcoat

that bulged on his round shoulders, moved slowly along the road on his

white horse. One of the generals was reporting to him where the guns and

prisoners had been captured.

Kutúzov seemed preoccupied and did not listen to what the general was

saying. He screwed up his eyes with a dissatisfied look as he gazed

attentively and fixedly at these prisoners, who presented a specially

wretched appearance. Most of them were disfigured by frost-bitten noses

and cheeks, and nearly all had red, swollen and festering eyes.

One group of the French stood close to the road, and two of them, one of

whom had his face covered with sores, were tearing a piece of raw

flesh with their hands. There was something horrible and bestial in

the fleeting glance they threw at the riders and in the malevolent

expression with which, after a glance at Kutúzov, the soldier with the

sores immediately turned away and went on with what he was doing.

Kutúzov looked long and intently at these two soldiers. He puckered his

face, screwed up his eyes, and pensively swayed his head. At another

spot he noticed a Russian soldier laughingly patting a Frenchman on the

shoulder, saying something to him in a friendly manner, and Kutúzov with

the same expression on his face again swayed his head.

“What were you saying?” he asked the general, who continuing his report

directed the commander in chief’s attention to some standards captured

from the French and standing in front of the Preobrazhénsk regiment.

“Ah, the standards!” said Kutúzov, evidently detaching himself with

difficulty from the thoughts that preoccupied him.

He looked about him absently. Thousands of eyes were looking at him from

all sides awaiting a word from him.

He stopped in front of the Preobrazhénsk regiment, sighed deeply, and

closed his eyes. One of his suite beckoned to the soldiers carrying

the standards to advance and surround the commander in chief with them.

Kutúzov was silent for a few seconds and then, submitting with evident

reluctance to the duty imposed by his position, raised his head

and began to speak. A throng of officers surrounded him. He looked

attentively around at the circle of officers, recognizing several of

them.

“I thank you all!” he said, addressing the soldiers and then again the

officers. In the stillness around him his slowly uttered words were

distinctly heard. “I thank you all for your hard and faithful service.

The victory is complete and Russia will not forget you! Honor to you

forever.”

He paused and looked around.

“Lower its head, lower it!” he said to a soldier who had accidentally

lowered the French eagle he was holding before the Preobrazhénsk

standards. “Lower, lower, that’s it. Hurrah lads!” he added, addressing

the men with a rapid movement of his chin.

“Hur-r-rah!” roared thousands of voices.

While the soldiers were shouting Kutúzov leaned forward in his saddle

and bowed his head, and his eye lit up with a mild and apparently ironic

gleam.

“You see, brothers...” said he when the shouts had ceased... and all at

once his voice and the expression of his face changed. It was no longer

the commander in chief speaking but an ordinary old man who wanted to

tell his comrades something very important.

There was a stir among the throng of officers and in the ranks of the

soldiers, who moved that they might hear better what he was going to

say.

“You see, brothers, I know it’s hard for you, but it can’t be helped!

Bear up; it won’t be for long now! We’ll see our visitors off and then

we’ll rest. The Tsar won’t forget your service. It is hard for you, but

still you are at home while they—you see what they have come to,” said

he, pointing to the prisoners. “Worse off than our poorest beggars.

While they were strong we didn’t spare ourselves, but now we may even

pity them. They are human beings too. Isn’t it so, lads?”

He looked around, and in the direct, respectful, wondering gaze fixed

upon him he read sympathy with what he had said. His face grew brighter

and brighter with an old man’s mild smile, which drew the corners of his

lips and eyes into a cluster of wrinkles. He ceased speaking and bowed

his head as if in perplexity.

“But after all who asked them here? Serves them right, the bloody

bastards!” he cried, suddenly lifting his head.

And flourishing his whip he rode off at a gallop for the first time

during the whole campaign, and left the broken ranks of the soldiers

laughing joyfully and shouting “Hurrah!”

Kutúzov’s words were hardly understood by the troops. No one could have

repeated the field marshal’s address, begun solemnly and then changing

into an old man’s simplehearted talk; but the hearty sincerity of that

speech, the feeling of majestic triumph combined with pity for the foe

and consciousness of the justice of our cause, exactly expressed by that

old man’s good-natured expletives, was not merely understood but lay

in the soul of every soldier and found expression in their joyous and

long-sustained shouts. Afterwards when one of the generals addressed

Kutúzov asking whether he wished his calèche to be sent for, Kutúzov in

answering unexpectedly gave a sob, being evidently greatly moved.