战争与和平(上)-第207章

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　a　hundred　times；　and　every　time　he　happened　to　see　his　daughter　he　used　to　say：
“Ellen；　I　have　a　word　to　say　to　you；”　he　would　say；　drawing　her　aside　and　pulling　her　arm　downwards。　“I　have　got　wind　of　certain　projects　relative　to　…　you　know。　Well；　my　dear　child；　you　know　how　my　father’s　heart　rejoices　to　know　you　are　…　You　have　suffered　so　much。　But；　my　dear　child；　consult　only　your　heart。　That’s　all　I　tell　you。”　And　concealing　an　emotion　identical　on　each　occasion；　he　pressed　his　cheek　to　his　daughter’s　cheek　and　left　her。
Bilibin；　who　had　not　lost　his　reputation　as　a　wit；　was　a　disinterested　friend　of　Ellen’s；　one　of　those　friends　always　to　be　seen　in　the　train　of　brilliant　women；　men　friends　who　can　never　pass　into　the　rank　of　lovers。　One　day；　in　a　“small　and　intimate　circle；”　Bilibin　gave　his　friend　Ellen　his　views　on　the　subject。
“écoutez；　Bilibin”　（Ellen　always　called　friends　of　the　category　to　which　Bilibin　belonged　by　their　surnames）；　and　she　touched　his　coat…sleeve　with　her　white；　beringed　fingers。　“Tell　me；　as　you　would　a　sister；　what　ought　I　to　do？　Which　of　the　two？”
Bilibin　wrinkled　up　the　skin　over　his　eyebrows；　and　pondered　with　a　smile　on　his　lips。
“You　do　not　take　me　unawares；　you　know；”　he　said。　“As　a　true　friend；　I　have　thought；　and　thought　again　of　your　affair。　You　see；　if　you　marry　the　prince”—（the　younger　suitor）　he　crooked　his　finger—“you　lose　forever　the　chance　of　marrying　the　other；　and　then　you　displease　the　court。　（There　is　a　sort　of　relationship；　you　know。）　But　if　you　marry　the　old　count；　you　make　the　happiness　of　his　last　days。　And　then　as　widow　of　the　great　…　the　prince　will　not　be　making　a　mésalliance　in　marrying　you　…”　and　Bilibin　let　the　wrinkles　run　out　of　his　face。
“That’s　a　real　friend！”　said　Ellen　beaming；　and　once　more　touching　Bilibin’s　sleeve。　“But　the　fact　is　I　love　them　both；　and　I　don’t　want　to　make　them　unhappy。　I　would　give　my　life　for　the　happiness　of　both；”　she　declared。
Bilibin　shrugged　his　shoulders　to　denote　that　for　such　a　trouble　even　he　could　suggest　no　remedy。
“Une　ma？tresse…femme！　That　is　what’s　called　putting　the　question　squarely。　She　would　like　to　be　married　to　all　three　at　once；”　thought　Bilibin。
“But　do　tell　me　what　is　your　husband’s　view　of　the　question？”　he　said；　the　security　of　his　reputation　saving　him　from　all　fear　of　discrediting　himself　by　so　na？ve　a　question。　“Does　he　consent？”
“Oh；　he　is　so　fond　of　me！”　said　Ellen；　who；　for　some　unknown　reason；　fancied　that　Pierre　too　adored　her。　“Il　fera　tout　pour　moi。”
Bilibin　puckered　up　his　face　in　preparation　of　the　coming　mot。
“Même　le　divorce？”　he　said。
Ellen　laughed。
Among　the　persons　who　ventured　to　question　the　legality　of　the　proposed　marriage　was　Ellen’s　mother；　Princess　Kuragin。　She　had　constantly　suffered　pangs　of　envy　of　her　daughter；　and　now　when　the　ground　for　such　envy　was　the　one　nearest　to　her　own　heart；　she　could　not　reconcile　herself　to　the　idea　of　it。
She　consulted　a　Russian　priest　to　ascertain　how　far　divorce　and　remarriage　was　possible　for　a　woman　in　her　husband’s　lifetime。　The　priest　assured　her　that　this　was　impossible；　and　to　her　delight　referred　her　to　the　text　in　the　Gospel　in　which　（as　it　seemed　to　the　priest）　remarriage　during　the　lifetime　of　the　husband　was　directly　forbidden。
Armed　with　these　arguments；　which　seemed　to　her　irrefutable；　Princess　Kuragin　drove　round　to　her　daughter’s　early　one　morning　in　order　to　find　her　alone。
Ellen　heard　her　mother’s　protests　to　the　end；　and　smiled　with　bland　sarcasm。
“You　see　it　is　plainly　said：　‘He　who　marryeth　her　that　is　divorced…’　”
“O　mamma；　don’t　talk　nonsense。　You　don’t　understand。　In　my　position　I　have　duties…”　Ellen　began；　passing　out　of　Russian　into　French；　for　in　the　former　language　she　always　felt　a　lack　of　clearness　about　her　case。
“But；　my　dear…”
“O　mamma；　how　is　it　you　don’t　understand　that　the　Holy　Father；　who　has　the　right　of　granting　dispensations…”
At　that　moment　the　lady　companion；　who　lived　in　Ellen’s　house；　came　in　to　announce　that　his　highness　was　in　the　drawing…room；　and　wished　to　see　her。
“No；　tell　him　I　don’t　want　to　see　him；　that　I　am　furious　with　him　for　not　keeping　his　word。”
“Countess；　there　is　mercy　for　every　sin；”　said　a　young　man　with　fair　hair　and　a　long　face　and　long　nose。
The　old　princess　rose　respectfully　and　curtsied　at　his　entrance。　The　young　man　took　no　notice　of　her。　Princess　Kuragin　nodded　to　her　daughter；　and　swam　to　the　door。
“Yes；　she　is　right；”　thought　the　old　princess；　all　of　whose　convictions　had　been　dissipated　by　the　appearance　of　his　highness　on　the　scene。　“She　is　right；　but　how　was　it　in　our　youth—gone　now　for　ever—we　knew　nothing　of　this？　And　it　is　so　simple；”　thought　Princess　Kuragin；　as　she　settled　herself　in　her　carriage。
At　the　beginning　of　August　Ellen’s　affairs　were　settled；　and　she　wrote　to　her　husband　（who；　as　she　supposed；　was　deeply　attached　to　her）　a　letter；　in　which　she　made　known　to　him　her　intention　of　marrying　N。　N。　She　informed　him　also　of　her　conversion　to　the　one　true　faith；　and　begged　him　to　go　through　all　the　necessary　formalities　for　obtaining　a　divorce；　of　which　the　bearer　of　the　letter　would　give　him　further　details。　“On　which　I　pray　God　to　have　you　in　His　holy　and　powerful　keeping。　Your　friend；　Ellen。”
This　letter　was　brought　to　Pierre’s　house　at　the　time　when　he　was　on　the　field　of　Borodino。


Chapter　8
AT　THE　END　of　the　day　of　Borodino；　Pierre　ran　for　a　second　time　from　Raevsky’s　battery；　and　with　crowds　of　soldiers　crossed　the　ravine　on　the　way　to　Knyazkovo。　There　he　reached　an　ambulance　tent；　and　seeing　blood　and　hearing　screams　and　groans；　he　hurried　on；　caught　up　in　a　mob　of　soldiers。
The　one　thing　Pierre　desired　now　with　his　whole　soul　was　to　get　away　from　the　terrible　sensations　in　which　he　had　passed　that　day；　to　get　back　into　the　ordinary　conditions　of　life；　and　to　go　to　sleep　quietly　indoors　in　his　own　bed。　He　felt　that　only　in　the　ordinary　conditions　of　life　would　he　be　fit　to　understand　himself　and　all　he　had　seen　and　felt。　But　the　ordinary　conditions　of　life　were　nowhere　to　be　found。
Though　bullets　and　cannon　balls　were　not　whistling　here　on　the　road　along　which　he　was　going；　still　he　saw　here　on　all　sides　the　same　sights　as　on　the　field　of　battle。　There　were　everywhere　the　same　suffering；　exhausted；　and　sometimes　strangely　indifferent　faces；　everywhere　the　same　blood　and　soldiers’　overcoats；　the　same　sound　of　firing　at　a　distance；　yet　still　rousing　the　same　horror。　There　was　heat　and　dust　besides。
After　walking　about　three　versts　along　the　Mozhaisk　road；　Pierre　sat　down　by　the　roadside。
The　shadows　of　night　were　beginning　to　fall　over　the　earth；　and　the　roar　of　cannon　died　down。　Pierre　lay　leaning　on　his　elbow；　and　lay　so　a　long　while；　gazing　at　the　shadows　passing　by　him　in　the　dusk。　He　was　continually　fancying　that　a　cannon　ball　was　swooping　down　upon　him　with　a　fearful　whiz。　He　started　and　sat　up。　He　had　no　idea　how　long　he　had　been　there。　In　the　middle　of　the　night；　three　soldiers；　dragging　branches　after　them；　settled　themselves　near　him　and　began　making　a　fire。
Casting　sidelong　glances　at　Pierre；　the　soldiers　lighted　the　fire；　set　a　pot　on　it；　broke　up　their　biscuits　into　it；　and　put　in　some　lard。　The　pleasant　odour　of　the　savoury　and　greasy　mess　blended　with　the　smell　of　smoke。　Pierre　raised　himself　and　sighed。　The　soldiers　（there　were　three　of　them）　were　eating　and　talking　among　themselves。　without　taking　any　notice　of　Pierre。
“And　what　lot　will　you　be　one　of？”　one　of　the　soldiers　suddenly　asked　Pierre；　evidently　suggesting　in　this　inquiry　precisely　what　Pierre　was　thinking　about。　“If　you　are　hungry　we’ll　give　you　some；　only　tell　us　whether　you’re　a　true　man。”
“I？”　…　said　Pierre；　feeling　the　necessity　of　minimising　his　social　position　as　far　as　possible；　so　as　to　be　closer　to　the　soldiers　and　more　within　their　range。　“I　am　really　a　militia　officer；　but　my　company’s　nowhere　about；　I　came　to　the　battle　and　lost　sight　of　my　comrades。”
“Well！　Fancy　that！”　said　one　of　the　soldiers。
Another　soldier　shook　his　head。
“Well；　you　can　have　some　of　the　mash；　if　you　like！”　said　the　first；　and　licking　a　wooden　spoon　he　gave　it　to　Pierre。
Pierre　squatted　by　the　fire；　and　fell　to　eating　the　mess　in　the　pot；　which　seemed　to　him　the　most　delicious　dish　he　had　ever　tasted。　While　he　was　bending　over　the　pot；　helping　himself　to　big　spoonfuls　and　greedily　munching　one　after　another；　the　soldiers　stared　at　him　in　silence。
“Where　do　you　want　to　go？　Tell　us！”　the　first　of　them　asked　again。
“To　Mozhaisk。”
“You’re　a　gentleman；　then？”
“Yes。”
“And　what’s　your　name？”
“Pyotr　Kirillovitch。”
“Well；　Pyotr　Kirillovitch；　come　along；　we’ll　take　you　there。”
In　the　pitch　dark　the　soldiers　and　Pierre　walked　to　Mozhaisk。
The　cocks　were　crowing　when　they　reached　Mozhaisk；　and　began　ascending　the　steep　hill　into　the　town。
Pierre　walked　on　with　the　soldiers；　entirely　forgetting　that　his　inn　was　at　the　bottom　of　the　hill　and　he　had　passed　it。　He　would　not　have　been　aware　of　this—so　preoccupied　was　he—if　he　had　not　chanced　halfway　up　the　hill　to　stumble　across　his　groom；　who　had　been　to　look　for　him　in　the　town；　and　was　on　his　way　back　to　the　inn。　The　groom　recognised　Pierre　by　his　hat；　which　gleamed　white　in　the　dark。
“Your　excellency！”　he　cried；　“why；　we　had　quite　given　you　up。　How　is　it　you　are　on　foot？　And；　mercy　on　us；　where　are　you　going？”
“Oh；　to　be　sure…”　said　Pierre。
The　soldiers　halted。
“Well；　found　your　own　folks　then？”　said　one　of　them。
“Well；　good…bye　to　you—Pyotr　Kirillovitch；　wasn’t　it？”
“Good…bye；　Pyotr　Kirillovitch！”　said　the　other　voices。
“Good…bye；”　said　Pierre；　and　with　the　groom　he　turned　in　the　direction　of　the　inn。
“I　ought　to　give　them　something！”　thought　Pierre；　feeling　for　his　pocket。　“No；　better　not；”　some　inner　voice　prompted　him。
There　was　not　a　room　at　the　inn：　all　were　full。　Pierre　went　out　into　the　yard；　and　muffling　his　head　up；　lay　down　in　his　carriage。


Chapter　9
PIERRE　had　hardly　put　his　head　on　the　pillow　when　he　felt　that　he　was　dropping　asleep。　But　all　of　a　sudden　he　heard；　almost　with　the　distinctness　of　reality；　the　sound　of　the　boom；　boom；　boom　of　the　cannon；　the　groans　and　shrieks　and　dull　thud　of　the　falling　shell；　smelt　the　blood　and　powder；　and　the　feeling　of　horror；　of　the　dread　of　death　came　over　him。　He　opened　his　eyes　in　a　panic；　and　put　his　head　out　from　the　cloak。　All　was　quiet　in　the　yard。　The　only　sound　came　from　a　servant　of　some　sort　talking　with　the　porter　at　the　gate；　and　splashing　through　the　mud。　Over　Pierre’s　head；　under　the　dark；　wooden　eaves；　he　heard　pigeons　fluttering；　startled　by　the　movement　he　had　made　in　sitting　up。　The　whole　yard　was　pervaded　by　the　strong　smell　of　a　tavern—full　of　peaceful　suggestion　and　soothing　relief　to　Pierre—the　smell　of　hay；　of　dung；　and　of　tar。　Between　two　dark　sheds　he　caught　a　glimpse　of　the　pure；　starlit　sky。
“Thank　God；　that　is　all　over！”　thought　Pierre；　covering　his　head　up　again。　“Oh；　how　awful　terror　is；　and　how　shamefully　I　gave　way　to　it！　But　they…they　were　firm　and　calm　all　the　while　up　to　the　end　…”　he　thought。　They；　in　Pierre’s　mind；　meant　the　soldiers；　those　who　had　been　on　the　battery；　and　those　who