‘That’s a fine death!’ said Napoleon, looking at Bolkonsky. Prince Andrey knew that it was said of him, and that it was Napoleon saying it. He heard the speaker of those words addressed as ‘your majesty.’ But he heard the words as he heard the buzzing of flies. It was not merely that he took no interest in them, but he did not attend to them and at once forgot them. There was a burning pain in his head; he felt he was losing blood, and he saw above him the high, far-away, everlasting sky. He knew it was Napoleon—his hero—but at that moment Napoleon seemed to him such a small, insignificant creature in comparison with what was passing now between his soul and that lofty, limitless sky with the clouds flying over it. It meant nothing to him at that moment who was standing over him, what was being said of him. He was only glad that people were standing over him, and his only desire was that these people should help him and bring him back to life, which seemed to him so good, because he saw it all quite differently now. He made a supreme effort to stir and
utter some sound. He moved his leg faintly, and uttered a weak, sickly moan that touched himself. ‘Ah, he’s alive,’ said Napoleon. ‘Pick up this young man and carry him to an ambulance! ’ Saying this, Napoleon rode on to meet Marshal Lannes, who rode up to meet the conqueror, smiling, taking off his hat and congratulating him on his victory.
Prince Andrey remembered nothing more; he lost consciousness from the excruciating pain caused by being laid on the stretcher, the jolting while he was being moved, and the sounding of his wound at the ambulance. He only regained consciousness towards the ena of the day when with other Russian officers, wounded and prisoners, he was oeing taken to the hospital. On this journey he felt a little stronger, and could look about him and even speak.
The first words he heard on coming to himself were from a French convoy officer who was saying hurriedly: They must stop here; the Emperor will be here directly; it will be a pleasure for him to see these prisoners.’
‘There are such a lot of prisoners io day, almost the whole of the Russian army, that he is probably weary of seeing them,’ said another officer.
‘Well, but this one, they say. is the commander of all the Emperor Alexander’s guards,’ said the first speaker, pointing to a wounded Russian officer in the white uniform o f the horse-guards. Bolkonsky recognised Prince Repnin, whom he had met in Petersburg society. Beside him stood another officer of the horse-guards, a lad of nineteen, also wounded.
Bonaparte rode up at a gallop and pulled up, ‘Who is the senior officer?’ he said, on seeing the prisoners.
They namec the colonel, Prince Repnin.
‘Are yon the commander of the regiment of Emperor Alexander’s horse- guards?’ asked Napoleon.
‘I was in command of a squadron,’ replied Repnin.
1 ‘Tour regiment did its duty honourably,’ said Napoleon.
‘The praise of a great general is a soldier’s best reward,’ said Repnin.
‘I bestow it upon you with pleasure,’ said Napoleon. ‘Who is this young man beside you?’ Prince Repnin gave his name, Lieutenant Suhtelen.
Looking at him, Napoleon said with a smile: ‘He has come very young to meddle with us.’
‘Youth is no hindrance to valour,’ said Suhtelen in a breaking voice.
‘A fine answer,’ said Napoleon; ‘young man, you will go far.’
Prince Andrey, who had been thrust forward under the Emperor’s eyes to complete the show of prisoners, could not fail to attract his notice. Napoleon apparently remembered seeing him on the field, and addressing him he used the same epithet, ‘young man,’ with which his first sight of Bolkonsky was associated in his memory.
‘And you, young man,’ he said to him, ‘how are you feeling, 1 non brave?’
Although five minutes previously Prince Andrey had been able to say a few words to the soldiers who were carrying him, he was silent now, with his eyes fastened directly upon Napoleon. So trivial seemed to him
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at that moment all the interests that were engrossing Napoleon, so petty seemed to him his hero, with his paltry vanity and glee of victory, in comparison with that lofty, righteous, and kindly sky which he had seen and comprehended, that he could not answer him. And all indeed seemed to him so trifling and unprofitable beside the stern and solemn train of thought aroused in him by weakness from loss of blood, by suffering and the nearness of death. Gazing into Napoleon’s eyes, Prince Andrey mused on the nothingness of greatness, on the nothingness of life, of which no one could comprehend the significance, and on the nothingness —still more—of death, the meaning of which could be understood and explained by none of the living.
The Emperor, after vainly pausing for a reply, turned away and said to one of the officers in command—
‘See that they look after these gentlemen and take them to my bivouac; let my doctor Larrey attend to their wounds. Au revoir, Prince Repnin,’ and he galloped away.
