战争与和平(上)-第222章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　in　the　past；　and　understood　nothing　in　the　present；　and　everything　he　saw　and　heard　seemed　passing　in　a　dream。
Pierre　had　left　his　own　house　simply　to　escape　from　the　complicated　tangle　woven　about　him　by　the　demands　of　daily　life；　which　in　his　condition　at　that　time　he　was　incapable　of　unravelling。　He　had　gone　to　Osip　Alexyevitch’s　house　on　the　pretext　of　sorting　out　the　books　and　papers　of　the　deceased。　Simply　he　was　in　search　of　a　quiet　home　of　rest　from　the　storm　of　life；　and　his　memories　of　Osip　Alexyevitch　were　connected　in　his　soul　with　a　whole　world　of　calm；　solemn；　and　eternal　ideals；　in　every　way　the　reverse　of　the　tangled　whirl　of　agitation　into　which　he　felt　himself　being　drawn。　He　was　in　search　of　a　quiet　refuge；　and　he　certainly　found　it　in　Osip　Alexyevitch’s　study。　When；　in　the　deathlike　stillness　of　the　study；　he　sat　with　his　elbows　on　the　dusty　writing…table　of　his　deceased　friend；　there　passed　in　calm　and　significant　succession　before　his　mental　vision　the　impressions　of　the　last　few　days；　especially　of　the　battle　of　Borodino；　and　of　that　overwhelming　sense　of　his　own　pettiness　and　falsity　in　comparison　with　the　truth　and　simplicity　and　force　of　that　class　of　men；　who　were　mentally　referred　to　by　him　as　“they。”　When　Gerasim　roused　him　from　his　reverie；　the　idea　occurred　to　Pierre　that　he　would　take　part　in　the　defence　of　Moscow　by　the　people；　which　was；　he　knew；　expected。　And　with　that　object　he　had　asked　Gerasim　to　get　him　a　peasant’s　coat　and　a　pistol；　and　had　told　him　that　he　intended　to　conceal　his　name；　and　to　remain　in　Osip　Alexyevitch’s　house。　Then　during　the　first　day　of　solitude　and　idleness　（Pierre　tried　several　times　in　vain　to　fix　his　attention　on　the　masonic　manuscripts）　there　rose　several　times　vaguely　to　his　mind　the　idea　that　had　occurred　to　him　in　the　past　of　the　cabalistic　significance　of　his　name　in　connection　with　the　name　of　Bonaparte。　But　the　idea　that　he；　l’russe　Besuhof；　was　destined　to　put　an　end　to　the　power　of　the　Beast；　had　as　yet　only　come　to　him　as　one　of　those　dreams　that　flit　idly　through　the　brain；　leaving　no　trace　behind。　When　after　buying　the　peasant’s　coat；　simply　with　the　object　of　taking　part　in　the　defence　of　Moscow　by　the　people；　Pierre　had　met　the　Rostovs；　and　Natasha　said　to　him；　“You　are　staying？　Ah；　how　splendid　that　is！”　the　idea　had　flashed　into　his　mind　that　it　really　might　be　splendid；　even　if　they　did　take　Moscow；　for　him　to　remain；　and　to　do　what　had　been　fore…told　for　him　to　do。
Next　day　with　the　simple　aim　of　not　sparing　himself　and　not　doing　less　than　they　would　do；　he　had　gone　out　to　the　Three　Hills　barrier。　But　when　he　came　back；　convinced　that　Moscow　would　not　be　defended；　he　suddenly　felt　that　what　had　only　occurred　to　him　before　as　a　possibility　had　now　become　something　necessary　and　inevitable。　He　must　remain　in　Moscow；　concealing　his　name；　must　meet　Napoleon；　and　kill　him；　so　as　either　to　perish　or　to　put　an　end　to　the　misery　of　all　Europe；　which　was　in　Pierre’s　opinion　entirely　due　to　Napoleon　alone。
Pierre　knew　all　the　details　of　the　German　student’s　attempt　on　Napoleon’s　life　at　Vienna　in　1809；　and　knew　that　that　student　had　been　shot。　And　the　danger　to　which　he　would　be　exposing　his　own　life　in　carrying　out　his　design　excited　him　even　more　violently。
Two　equally　powerful　feelings　drew　Pierre　irresistibly　to　his　design。　The　first　was　the　craving　for　sacrifice　and　suffering　through　the　sense　of　the　common　calamity；　the　feeling　that　had　impelled　him　to　go　to　Mozhaisk　on　the　25th；　and　to　place　himself　in　the　very　thick　of　the　battle；　and　now　to　run　away　from　his　own　house；　to　give　up　his　accustomed　luxury　and　comfort；　to　sleep　without　undressing　on　a　hard　sofa；　and　to　eat　the　same　food　as　Gerasim。　The　other　was　that　vague　and　exclusively　Russian　feeling　of　contempt　for　everything　conventional；　artificial；　human；　for　everything　that　is　regarded　by　the　majority　of　men　as　the　highest　good　in　the　world。　Pierre　had　for　the　first　time　experienced　that　strange　and　fascinating　feeling　in　the　Slobodsky　palace；　when　he　suddenly　felt　that　wealth　and　power　and　life；　all　that　men　build　up　and　guard　with　such　effort；　is　only　worth　anything　through　the　joy　with　which　it　can　all　be　cast　away。
It　was　the　same　feeling　that　impels　the　volunteer…recruit　to　drink　up　his　last　farthing；　the　drunken　man　to　smash　looking…glasses　and　window…panes　for　no　apparent　cause；　though　he　knows　it　will　cost　him　his　little　all；　the　feeling　through　which　a　man　in　doing　things；　vulgarly　speaking；　senseless；　as　it　were；　proves　his　personal　force　and　power；　by　manifesting　the　presence　of　a　higher　standard　of　judging　life；　outside　mere　human　limitations。
Ever　since　the　day　when　Pierre　first　experienced　this　feeling　in　the　Slobodsky　palace；　he　had　been　continually　under　the　influence　of　it；　but　it　was　only　now　that　it　found　full　satisfaction。　Moreover　at　the　present　moment　Pierre　was　supported　in　his　design；　and　prevented　from　abandoning　it；　by　the　steps　he　had　already　taken　in　that　direction。　His　flight　from　his　own　house；　and　his　disguise；　and　his　pistol；　and　his　statement　to　the　Rostovs　that　he　should　remain　in　Moscow；—all　would　have　been　devoid　of　meaning；　would　have　been　indeed　absurd　and　laughable　（a　point　to　which　Pierre　was　sensitive）　if　after　all　that　he　had　simply　gone　out　of　Moscow　like　other　people。
Pierre’s　physical　state；　as　is　always　the　case；　corresponded　with　his　moral　condition。　The　coarse　fare　to　which　he　was　unused；　the　vodka　he　drank　during　those　days；　the　lack　of　wine　and　cigars；　his　dirty；　unchanged　linen；　and　two　half…sleepless　nights；　spent　on　a　short　sofa　without　bedding；　all　reduced　Pierre　to　a　state　of　nervous　irritability　bordering　on　madness。
It　was　two　o’clock　in　the　afternoon。　The　French　had　already　entered　Moscow。　Pierre　knew　this；　but　instead　of　acting；　he　only　brooded　over　his　enterprise；　going　over　all　the　minutest　details　of　it。　In　his　dreams　Pierre　never　clearly　pictured　the　very　act　of　striking　the　blow；　nor　the　death　of　Napoleon；　but　with　extraordinary　vividness　and　mournful　enjoyment　dwelt　on　his　own　end　and　his　heroic　fortitude。
“Yes；　one　man　for　all；　I　must　act　or　perish！”　he　thought。　“Yes；　I　will　approach　…　and　then　all　at　once　…　with　a　pistol　or　a　dagger！”　thought　Pierre。　“But　that　doesn’t　matter。　It’s　not　I　but　the　Hand　of　Providence　punishes　you。…　I　shall　say”　（Pierre　pondered　over　the　words　he　would　utter　as　he　killed　Napoleon）。　“Well；　take　me；　execute　me！”　Pierre　would　murmur　to　himself；　bowing　his　head　with　a　sad　but　firm　expression　on　his　face。
While　Pierre　was　standing　in　the　middle　of　the　room；　musing　in　this　fashion；　the　door　of　the　study　opened；　and　Makar　Alexyevitch—always　hitherto　so　timid—appeared　in　the　doorway；　completely　transformed。
His　dressing…gown　was　hanging　open。　His　face　was　red　and　distorted。　He　was　unmistakably　drunk。　On　seeing　Pierre　he　was　for　the　first　minute　disconcerted；　but　observing　discomfiture　in　Pierre’s　face　too；　he　was　at　once　emboldened　by　it；　and　with　his　thin；　tottering　legs　walked　into　the　middle　of　the　room。
“They　have　grown　fearful；”　he　said；　in　a　husky　and　confidential　voice。　“I　say：　I　will　not　surrender；　I　say　…　eh；　sir？”　He　paused　and　suddenly　catching　sight　of　the　pistol　on　the　table；　snatched　it　with　surprising　rapidity　and　ran　out　into　the　corridor。
Gerasim　and　the　porter；　who　had　followed　Makar　Alexyevitch；　stopped　him　in　the　vestibule；　and　tried　to　get　the　pistol　away　from　him。　Pierre　coming　out　of　the　study　looked　with　repugnance　and　compassion　at　the　half…insane　old　man。　Makar　Alexyevitch；　frowning　with　effort；　succeeded　in　keeping　the　pistol；　and　was　shouting　in　a　husky　voice；　evidently　imagining　some　heroic　scene。
“To　arms！　Board　them！　You　shan’t　get　it！”　he　was　shouting。
“Give　over；　please；　give　over。　Do　me　the　favour；　sir；　please　be　quiet。　There　now；　if　you　please；　sir；　…”　Gerasim　was　saying；　cautiously　trying　to　steer　Makar　Alexyevitch　by　his　elbows　towards　the　door。
“Who　are　you？　Bonaparte！…”　yelled　Makar　Alexyevitch。
“That’s　not　the　thing；　sir。　You　come　into　your　room　and　rest　a　little。　Let　me　have　the　pistol　now。”
“Away；　base　slave！　Don’t　touch　me！　Do　you　see？”　screamed　Makar　Alexyevitch；　brandishing　the　pistol。　“Run　them　down！”
“Take　hold！”　Gerasim　whispered　to　the　porter。
They　seized　Makar　Alexyevitch　by　the　arms　and　dragged　him　towards　the　door。
The　vestibule　was　filled　with　the　unseemly　sounds　of　scuffling　and　drunken；　husky　gasping。
Suddenly　a　new　sound；　a　shrill；　feminine　shriek；　was　heard　from　the　porch；　and　the　cook　ran　into　the　vestibule。
“They！　Merciful　heavens！　…　My　goodness；　here　they　are！　Four　of　them；　horsemen！”　she　screamed。
Gerasim　and　the　porter　let　Makar　Alexyevitch　go；　and　in　the　hush　that　followed　in　the　corridor　they　could　distinctly　hear　several　hands　knocking　at　the　front　door。


Chapter　28
HAVING　INWARDLY　RESOLVED　that　until　the　execution　of　his　design；　he　ought　to　disguise　his　station　and　his　knowledge　of　French；　Pierre　stood　at　the　half…open　door　into　the　corridor；　intending　to　conceal　himself　at　once　as　soon　as　the　French　entered。　But　the　French　entered；　and　Pierre　did　not　leave　the　door；　and　irresistible　curiosity　kept　him　there。
There　were　two　of　them。　One—an　officer；　a　tall；　handsome　man　of　gallant　bearing；　the　other；　obviously　a　soldier　or　officer’s　servant；　a　squat；　thin；　sunburnt　man；　with　hollow　cheeks　and　a　dull　expression。　The　officer　walked　first；　limping　and　leaning　on　a　stick。　After　advancing　a　few　steps；　the　officer　apparently　making　up　his　mind　that　these　would　be　good　quarters；　stopped；　turned　round　and　shouted　in　a　loud；　peremptory　voice　to　the　soldiers　standing　in　the　doorway　to　put　up　the　horses。　Having　done　this　the　officer；　with　a　jaunty　gesture；　crooking　his　elbow　high　in　the　air；　stroked　his　moustaches　and　put　his　hand　to　his　hat。
“Bonjour；　la　compagnie！”　he　said　gaily；　smiling　and　looking　about　him。
No　one　made　any　reply。
“Vous　êtes　le　bourgeois？”　the　officer　asked；　addressing　Gerasim。
Gerasim　looked　back　with　scared　inquiry　at　the　officer。
“Quartire；　quartire；　logement；”　said　the　officer；　looking　down　with　a　condescending　and　good…humoured　smile　at　the　little　man。　“The　French　are　good　lads。　Don’t　let　us　be　cross；　old　fellow；”　he　went　on　in　French；　clapping　the　scared　and　mute　Gerasim　on　the　shoulder。　“I　say；　does　no　one　speak　French　in　this　establishment？”　he　added；　looking　round　and　meeting　Pierre’s　eyes。　Pierre　withdrew　from　the　door。
The　officer　turned　again　to　Gerasim。　He　asked　him　to　show　him　over　the　house。
“Master　not　here—no　understand　…　me　you　…”　said　Gerasim；　trying　to　make　his　words　more　comprehensible　by　saying　them　in　reverse　order。
The　French　officer；　smiling；　waved　his　hands　in　front　of　Gerasim’s　nose；　to　give　him　to　understand　that　he　too　failed　to　understand　him；　and　walked　with　a　limp　towards　the　door　where　Pierre　was　standing。　Pierre　was　about　to　retreat　to　conceal　himself　from　him；　but　at　that　very　second　he　caught　sight　of　Makar　Alexyevitch　peeping　out　of　the　open　kitchen　door　with　a　pistol　in　his　hand。　With　a　madman’s　cunning；　Makar　Alexyevitch　eyed　the　Frenchmen；　and　lifting　the　pistol；　took　aim。　“Run　them　down！！！”　yelled　the　drunkard；　pressing　the　trigger。　The　French　officer　turned　round　at　the　scream；　and　at　the　sa