|
An
elderly sergeant who had approached the officer while he was
giving
these
explanations had waited in silence for him to finish speaking,
but
at
this point, evidently not liking the officer's remark,
interrupted
him.
"Gabions
must be sent for," said he sternly.
The
officer appeared abashed, as though he understood that one might
think
of how many men would be missing tomorrow but ought not to speak
of
it.
"Well,
send number three company again," the officer replied hurriedly.
"And
you, are you one of the doctors?"
"No,
I've come on my own," answered Pierre, and he went down the hill
again,
passing the militiamen.
"Oh,
those damned fellows!" muttered the officer who followed him,
holding
his nose as he ran past the men at work.
"There
they are... bringing her, coming... There they are... They'll be
here
in a minute..." voices were suddenly heard saying; and officers,
soldiers,
and militiamen began running forward along the road.
A
church procession was coming up the hill from Borodino. First
along
the
dusty road came the infantry in ranks, bareheaded and with arms
reversed.
From behind them came the sound of church singing.
Soldiers
and militiamen ran bareheaded past Pierre toward the
procession.
"They
are bringing her, our Protectress!... The Iberian Mother of God!"
someone
cried.
"The
Smolensk Mother of God," another corrected him.
The
militiamen, both those who had been in the village and those who
had
been
at work on the battery, threw down their spades and ran to meet
the
church
procession. Following the battalion that marched along the dusty
road
came priests in their vestments--one little old man in a hood
with
attendants
and singers. Behind them soldiers and officers bore a large,
dark-faced
icon with an embossed metal cover. This was the icon that had
been
brought from Smolensk and had since accompanied the army. Behind,
before,
and on both sides, crowds of militiamen with bared heads walked,
ran,
and bowed to the ground.
At
the summit of the hill they stopped with the icon; the men who
had
been
holding it up by the linen bands attached to it were relieved by
others,
the chanters relit their censers, and service began. The hot
rays
of the sun beat down vertically and a fresh soft wind played with
the
hair of the bared heads and with the ribbons decorating the icon.
The
singing did not sound loud under the open sky. An immense crowd
of
bareheaded
officers, soldiers, and militiamen surrounded the icon.
Behind
the priest and a chanter stood the notabilities on a spot
reserved
for them. A bald general with a St. George's Cross on his neck
stood
just behind the priest's back, and without crossing himself (he
was
evidently a German) patiently awaited the end of the service,
which
he
considered it necessary to hear to the end, probably to arouse
the
patriotism
of the Russian people. Another general stood in a martial
pose,
crossing himself by shaking his hand in front of his chest while
looking
about him. Standing among the crowd of peasants, Pierre
recognized
several acquaintances among these notables, but did not look
at
them--his whole attention was absorbed in watching the serious
expression
on the faces of the crowd of soldiers and militiamen who were
all
gazing eagerly at the icon. As soon as the tired chanters, who
were
singing
the service for the twentieth time that day, began lazily and
mechanically
to sing: "Save from calamity Thy servants, O Mother of
God,"
and the priest and deacon chimed in: "For to Thee under God we
all
flee
as to an inviolable bulwark and protection," there again kindled
in
all
those faces the same expression of consciousness of the solemnity
of
the
impending moment that Pierre had seen on the faces at the foot of
the
hill at Mozhaysk and momentarily on many and many faces he had
met
that
morning; and heads were bowed more frequently and hair tossed
back,
and
sighs and the sound men made as they crossed themselves were
heard.
The
crowd round the icon suddenly parted and pressed against Pierre.
Someone,
a very important personage judging by the haste with which way
was
made for him, was approaching the icon.
It
was Kutuzov, who had been riding round the position and on his
way
back
to Tatarinova had stopped where the service was being held.
Pierre
recognized
him at once by his peculiar figure, which distinguished him
from
everybody else.
With
a long overcoat on his exceedingly stout, round-shouldered body,
with
uncovered white head and puffy face showing the white ball of the
eye
he had lost, Kutuzov walked with plunging, swaying gait into the
crowd
and stopped behind the priest. He crossed himself with an
accustomed
movement, bent till he touched the ground with his hand, and
bowed
his white head with a deep sigh. Behind Kutuzov was Bennigsen and
the
suite. Despite the presence of the commander-in-chief, who
attracted
the
attention of all the superior officers, the militiamen and
soldiers
continued
their prayers without looking at him.
When
the service was over, Kutuzov stepped up to the icon, sank
heavily
to
his knees, bowed to the ground, and for a long time tried vainly
to
rise,
but could not do so on account of his weakness and weight. His
white
head twitched with the effort. At last he rose, kissed the icon
as
a
child does with naively pouting lips, and again bowed till he
touched
the
ground with his hand. The other generals followed his example,
then
the
officers, and after them with excited faces, pressing on one
another,
crowding, panting, and pushing, scrambled the soldiers and
militiamen.
CHAPTER
XXII
Staggering
amid the crush, Pierre looked about him.
"Count
Peter Kirilovich! How did you get here?" said a voice.
Pierre
looked round. Boris Drubetskoy, brushing his knees with his hand
(he
had probably soiled them when he, too, had knelt before the
icon),
came
up to him smiling. Boris was elegantly dressed, with a slightly
martial
touch appropriate to a campaign. He wore a long coat and like
Kutuzov
had a whip slung across his shoulder.
Meanwhile
Kutuzov had reached the village and seated himself in the
shade
of the nearest house, on a bench which one Cossack had run to
fetch
and another had hastily covered with a rug. An immense and
brilliant
suite surrounded him.
The
icon was carried further, accompanied by the throng. Pierre
stopped
some
thirty paces from Kutuzov, talking to Boris.
He
explained his wish to be present at the battle and to see the
position.
"This
is what you must do," said Boris. "I will do the honors of the
camp
to you. You will see everything best from where Count Bennigsen
will
be. I am in attendance on him, you know; I'll mention it to him.
But
if you want to ride round the position, come along with us. We
are
just
going to the left flank. Then when we get back, do spend the
night
with
me and we'll arrange a game of cards. Of course you know Dmitri
Sergeevich?
Those are his quarters," and he pointed to the third house
in
the village of Gorki.
"But
I should like to see the right flank. They say it's very strong,"
said
Pierre. "I should like to start from the Moskva River and ride
round
the whole position."
"Well,
you can do that later, but the chief thing is the left flank."
"Yes,
yes. But where is Prince Bolkonski's regiment? Can you point it
out
to me?"
"Prince
Andrew's? We shall pass it and I'll take you to him."
"What
about the left flank?" asked Pierre
"To
tell you the truth, between ourselves, God only knows what state
our
left
flank is in," said Boris confidentially lowering his voice. "It
is
not
at all what Count Bennigsen intended. He meant to fortify that
knoll
quite
differently, but..." Boris shrugged his shoulders, "his Serene
Highness
would not have it, or someone persuaded him. You see..." but
Boris
did not finish, for at that moment Kaysarov, Kutuzov's adjutant,
came
up to Pierre. "Ah, Kaysarov!" said Boris, addressing him with an
unembarrassed
smile, "I was just trying to explain our position to the
count.
It is amazing how his Serene Highness could so foresee the
intentions
of the French!"
"You
mean the left flank?" asked Kaysarov.
"Yes,
exactly; the left flank is now extremely strong."
Though
Kutuzov had dismissed all unnecessary men from the staff, Boris
had
contrived to remain at headquarters after the changes. He had
established
himself with Count Bennigsen, who, like all on whom Boris
had
been in attendance, considered young Prince Drubetskoy an
invaluable
man.
In
the higher command there were two sharply defined parties:
Kutuzov's
party
and that of Bennigsen, the chief of staff. Boris belonged to the
latter
and no one else, while showing servile respect to Kutuzov, could
so
create an impression that the old fellow was not much good and
that
Bennigsen
managed everything. Now the decisive moment of battle had come
when
Kutuzov would be destroyed and the power pass to Bennigsen, or
even
if
Kutuzov won the battle it would be felt that everything was done
by
Bennigsen.
In any case many great rewards would have to be given for
tomorrow's
action, and new men would come to the front. So Boris was
full
of nervous vivacity all day.
After
Kaysarov, others whom Pierre knew came up to him, and he had not
time
to reply to all the questions about Moscow that were showered
upon
him,
or to listen to all that was told him. The faces all expressed
animation
and apprehension, but it seemed to Pierre that the cause of
the
excitement shown in some of these faces lay chiefly in questions
of
personal
success; his mind, however, was occupied by the different
expression
he saw on other faces--an expression that spoke not of
personal
matters but of the universal questions of life and death.
Kutuzov
noticed Pierre's figure and the group gathered round him.
"Call
him to me," said Kutuzov.
An
adjutant told Pierre of his Serene Highness' wish, and Pierre
went
toward
Kutuzov's bench. But a militiaman got there before him. It was
Dolokhov.
"How
did that fellow get here?" asked Pierre.
"He's
a creature that wriggles in anywhere!" was the answer. "He has
been
degraded, you know. Now he wants to bob up again. He's been
proposing
some scheme or other and has crawled into the enemy's picket
line
at night.... He's a brave fellow."
Pierre
took off his hat and bowed respectfully to Kutuzov.
"I
concluded that if I reported to your Serene Highness you might
send
me
away or say that you knew what I was reporting, but then I
shouldn't
lose
anything..." Dolokhov was saying.
"Yes,
yes."
"But
if I were right, I should be rendering a
service
| 
댓글 없음:
댓글 쓰기