第 六十八 章 · 第68章

On the Pratzen Heights, where he had fallen with the flagstaff in his

hand, lay Prince Andrew Bolkónski bleeding profusely and unconsciously

uttering a gentle, piteous, and childlike moan.

Toward evening he ceased moaning and became quite still. He did not know

how long his unconsciousness lasted. Suddenly he again felt that he was

alive and suffering from a burning, lacerating pain in his head.

“Where is it, that lofty sky that I did not know till now, but saw

today?” was his first thought. “And I did not know this suffering

either,” he thought. “Yes, I did not know anything, anything at all

till now. But where am I?”

He listened and heard the sound of approaching horses, and voices

speaking French. He opened his eyes. Above him again was the same lofty

sky with clouds that had risen and were floating still higher, and

between them gleamed blue infinity. He did not turn his head and did not

see those who, judging by the sound of hoofs and voices, had ridden up

and stopped near him.

It was Napoleon accompanied by two aides-de-camp. Bonaparte riding

over the battlefield had given final orders to strengthen the batteries

firing at the Augesd Dam and was looking at the killed and wounded left

on the field.

“Fine men!” remarked Napoleon, looking at a dead Russian grenadier,

who, with his face buried in the ground and a blackened nape, lay on his

stomach with an already stiffened arm flung wide.

“The ammunition for the guns in position is exhausted, Your

Majesty,” said an adjutant who had come from the batteries that were

firing at Augesd.

“Have some brought from the reserve,” said Napoleon, and having gone

on a few steps he stopped before Prince Andrew, who lay on his back with

the flagstaff that had been dropped beside him. (The flag had already

been taken by the French as a trophy.)

“That’s a fine death!” said Napoleon as he gazed at Bolkónski.

Prince Andrew understood that this was said of him and that it was

Napoleon who said it. He heard the speaker addressed as Sire. But he

heard the words as he might have heard the buzzing of a fly. Not only

did they not interest him, but he took no notice of them and at once

forgot them. His head was burning, he felt himself bleeding to death,

and he saw above him the remote, lofty, and everlasting sky. He knew it

was Napoleon—his hero—but at that moment Napoleon seemed to him

such a small, insignificant creature compared with what was passing now

between himself and that lofty infinite sky with the clouds flying over

it. At that moment it meant nothing to him who might be standing over

him, or what was said of him; he was only glad that people were standing

near him and only wished that they would help him and bring him back to

life, which seemed to him so beautiful now that he had today learned to

understand it so differently. He collected all his strength, to stir and

utter a sound. He feebly moved his leg and uttered a weak, sickly groan

which aroused his own pity.

“Ah! He is alive,” said Napoleon. “Lift this young man up and

carry him to the dressing station.”

Having said this, Napoleon rode on to meet Marshal Lannes, who, hat in

hand, rode up smiling to the Emperor to congratulate him on the victory.

Prince Andrew remembered nothing more: he lost consciousness from the

terrible pain of being lifted onto the stretcher, the jolting while

being moved, and the probing of his wound at the dressing station.

He did not regain consciousness till late in the day, when with other

wounded and captured Russian officers he was carried to the hospital.

During this transfer he felt a little stronger and was able to look

about him and even speak.

The first words he heard on coming to his senses were those of a French

convoy officer, who said rapidly: “We must halt here: the Emperor

will pass here immediately; it will please him to see these gentlemen

prisoners.”

“There are so many prisoners today, nearly the whole Russian army,

that he is probably tired of them,” said another officer.

“All the same! They say this one is the commander of all the Emperor

Alexander’s Guards,” said the first one, indicating a Russian

officer in the white uniform of the Horse Guards.

Bolkónski recognized Prince Repnín whom he had met in Petersburg

society. Beside him stood a lad of nineteen, also a wounded officer of

the Horse Guards.

Bonaparte, having come up at a gallop, stopped his horse.

“Which is the senior?” he asked, on seeing the prisoners.

They named the colonel, Prince Repnín.

“You are the commander of the Emperor Alexander’s regiment of Horse

Guards?” asked Napoleon.

“I commanded a squadron,” replied Repnín.

“Your regiment fulfilled its duty honorably,” said Napoleon.

“The praise of a great commander is a soldier’s highest reward,”

said Repnín.

“I bestow it with pleasure,” said Napoleon. “And who is that young

man beside you?”

Prince Repnín named Lieutenant Sukhtélen.

After looking at him Napoleon smiled.

“He’s very young to come to meddle with us.”

“Youth is no hindrance to courage,” muttered Sukhtélen in a failing

voice.

“A splendid reply!” said Napoleon. “Young man, you will go far!”

Prince Andrew, who had also been brought forward before the Emperor’s

eyes to complete the show of prisoners, could not fail to attract his

attention. Napoleon apparently remembered seeing him on the battlefield

and, addressing him, again used the epithet “young man” that was

connected in his memory with Prince Andrew.

“Well, and you, young man,” said he. “How do you feel, mon

brave?”

Though five minutes before, Prince Andrew had been able to say a few

words to the soldiers who were carrying him, now with his eyes fixed

straight on Napoleon, he was silent.... So insignificant at that moment

seemed to him all the interests that engrossed Napoleon, so mean did his

hero himself with his paltry vanity and joy in victory appear,

compared to the lofty, equitable, and kindly sky which he had seen and

understood, that he could not answer him.

Everything seemed so futile and insignificant in comparison with the

stern and solemn train of thought that weakness from loss of blood,

suffering, and the nearness of death aroused in him. Looking into

Napoleon’s eyes Prince Andrew thought of the insignificance of

greatness, the unimportance of life which no one could understand, and

the still greater unimportance of death, the meaning of which no one

alive could understand or explain.

The Emperor without waiting for an answer turned away and said to one of

the officers as he went: “Have these gentlemen attended to and taken

to my bivouac; let my doctor, Larrey, examine their wounds. Au revoir,

Prince Repnín!” and he spurred his horse and galloped away.

His face shone with self-satisfaction and pleasure.

The soldiers who had carried Prince Andrew had noticed and taken the

little gold icon Princess Mary had hung round her brother’s neck, but

seeing the favor the Emperor showed the prisoners, they now hastened to

return the holy image.

Prince Andrew did not see how and by whom it was replaced, but the

little icon with its thin gold chain suddenly appeared upon his chest

outside his uniform.

“It would be good,” thought Prince Andrew, glancing at the icon his

sister had hung round his neck with such emotion and reverence, “it

would be good if everything were as clear and simple as it seems to

Mary. How good it would be to know where to seek for help in this life,

and what to expect after it beyond the grave! How happy and calm I

should be if I could now say: ‘Lord, have mercy on me!’... But to

whom should I say that? Either to a Power indefinable, incomprehensible,

which I not only cannot address but which I cannot even express in

words—the Great All or Nothing-” said he to himself, “or to

that God who has been sewn into this amulet by Mary! There is nothing

certain, nothing at all except the unimportance of everything I

understand, and the greatness of something incomprehensible but

all-important.”

The stretchers moved on. At every jolt he again felt unendurable pain;

his feverishness increased and he grew delirious. Visions of his father,

wife, sister, and future son, and the tenderness he had felt the night

before the battle, the figure of the insignificant little Napoleon, and

above all this the lofty sky, formed the chief subjects of his delirious

fancies.

The quiet home life and peaceful happiness of Bald Hills presented

itself to him. He was already enjoying that happiness when that

little Napoleon had suddenly appeared with his unsympathizing look of

shortsighted delight at the misery of others, and doubts and torments

had followed, and only the heavens promised peace. Toward morning

all these dreams melted and merged into the chaos and darkness of

unconciousness and oblivion which in the opinion of Napoleon’s doctor,

Larrey, was much more likely to end in death than in convalescence.

“He is a nervous, bilious subject,” said Larrey, “and will not

recover.”

And Prince Andrew, with others fatally wounded, was left to the care of

the inhabitants of the district.