战争与和平(上)-第224章

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ut　Pierre　interrupted　him。
“The　Emperor；”　repeated　Pierre；　and　his　face　suddenly　wore　a　mournful　and　embarrassed　look。　“What　of　the　Emperor？”
“The　Emperor？　He　is　generosity；　mercy；　justice；　order；　genius—that　is　the　Emperor。　It　is　I；　Ramballe；　who　tell　you　that。　I　was　his　enemy　eight　years　ago。　My　father　was　an　emigrant　count。　But　he　has　conquered　me；　that　man。　He　has　taken　hold　of　me。　I　could　not　resist　the　spectacle　of　the　greatness　and　glory　with　which　he　was　covering　France。　When　I　understood　what　he　wanted；　when　I　saw　he　was　preparing　a　bed　of　laurels　for　us；　I　said　to　myself：　‘That　is　a　monarch。’　And　I　gave　myself　up　to　him。　Oh　yes；　he　is　the　greatest　man　of　the　centuries；　past　and　to　come。”
“And　is　he　in　Moscow？”　Pierre　asked；　hesitating　and　looking　guilty。
The　Frenchman　gazed　at　Pierre’s　guilty　face；　and　grinned。
“No；　he　will　make　his　entry　to…morrow；”　he　said；　and　went　on　with　his　talk。
Their　conversation　was　interrupted　by　several　voices　shouting　at　the　gates；　and　Morel　coming　in　to　tell　the　captain　that　some　Würtemberg　hussars　had　come　and　wanted　to　put　up　their　horses　in　the　yard　in　which　the　captain’s　had　been　put　up。　The　difficulty　arose　chiefly　from　the　hussars　not　understanding　what　was　said　to　them。
The　captain　bade　the　senior　sergeant　be　brought　to　him；　and　in　a　stern　voice　asked　him　to　what　regiment　he　belonged；　who　was　his　commanding　officer；　and　on　what　pretext　he　dared　attempt　to　occupy　quarters　already　occupied。　The　German；　who　knew　very　little　French；　succeeded　in　answering　the　first　two　questions；　but　in　reply　to　the　last　one；　which　he　did　not　understand；　he　answered　in　broken　French　and　German　that　he　was　quartermaster　of　the　regiment；　and　had　received　orders　from　his　superior　officer　to　occupy　all　the　houses　in　the　row。　Pierre；　who　knew　German；　translated　the　German’s　words　to　the　captain；　and　translated　the　captain’s　answer　back　for　the　Würtemberg　hussar。　On　understanding　what　was　said　to　him；　the　German　gave　in；　and　took　his　men　away。
The　captain　went　out　to　the　entrance　and　gave　some　loud　commands。
When　he　came　back　into　the　room；　Pierre　was　sitting　where　he　had　been　sitting　before；　with　his　head　in　his　hands。　His　face　expressed　suffering。　He　really　was　at　that　moment　suffering。　As　soon　as　the　captain　had　gone　out；　and　Pierre　had　been　left　alone；　he　suddenly　came　to　himself；　and　recognised　the　position　he　was　in。　It　was　not　that　Moscow　had　been　taken；　not　that　these　lucky　conquerors　were　making　themselves　at　home　there　and　patronising　him；　bitterly　as　Pierre　felt　it；　that　tortured　him　at　that　moment。　He　was　tortured　by　the　consciousness　of　his　own　weakness。　The　few　glasses　of　wine　he　had　drunk；　the　chat　with　this　good…natured　fellow；　had　dissipated　that　mood　of　concentrated　gloom；　which　he　had　been　living　in　for　the　last　few　days；　and　which　was　essential　for　carrying　out　his　design。　The　pistol　and　the　dagger　and　the　peasant’s　coat　were　ready；　Napoleon　was　making　his　entry　on　the　morrow。　Pierre　felt　it　as　praiseworthy　and　as　beneficial　as　ever　to　slay　the　miscreant；　but　he　felt　now　that　he　would　not　do　it。　He　struggled　against　the　consciousness　of　his　own　weakness；　but　he　vaguely　felt　that　he　could　not　overcome　it；　that　his　past　gloomy　train　of　ideas；　of　vengeance；　murder；　and　self…sacrifice；　had　been　blown　away　like　dust　at　contact　with　the　first　human　being。
The　captain　came　into　the　room；　limping　a　little；　and　whistling　some　tune。
The　Frenchman’s　chatter　that　had　amused　Pierre　struck　him　now　as　revolting。　And　his　whistling　a　tune；　and　his　gait；　and　his　gesture　in　twisting　his　moustaches；　all　seemed　insulting　to　Pierre　now。
“I’ll　go　away　at　once；　I　won’t　say　another　word　to　him；”　thought　Pierre。　He　thought　this；　yet　went　on　sitting　in　the　same　place。　Some　strange　feeling　of　weakness　riveted　him　to　his　place；　he　longed　to　get　up　and　go；　and　could　not。
The　captain；　on　the　contrary；　seemed　in　exceedingly　good　spirits。　He　walked　a　couple　of　times　up　and　down　the　room。　His　eyes　sparkled　and　his　moustaches　slightly　twitched　as　though　he　were　smiling　to　himself　at　some　amusing　notion。
“Charming　fellow　the　colonel　of　these　Würtembergers；”　he　said　all　at　once。　“He’s　a　German；　but　a　good　fellow　if　ever　there　was　one。　But　a　German。”
He　sat　down　facing　Pierre。
“By　the　way；　you　know　German？”
Pierre　looked　at　him　in　silence。
“How　do　you　say　‘asile’　in　German？”
“Asile？”　repeated　Pierre。　“Asile　in　German　is　Unterkunft。”
“What　do　you　say？”　the　captain　queried　quickly　and　doubtfully。
“Unterkunft；”　repeated　Pierre。
“Onterkoff；”　said　the　captain；　and　for　several　seconds　he　looked　at　Pierre　with　his　laughing　eyes。　“The　Germans　are　awful　fools；　aren’t　they；　M。　Pierre？”　he　concluded。
“Well；　another　bottle　of　this　Moscow　claret；　eh？　Morel；　warm　us　another　bottle！”　the　captain　shouted　gaily。
Morel　brought　candles　and　a　bottle　of　wine。　The　captain　looked　at　Pierre　in　the　candle…light；　and　was　obviously　struck　by　the　troubled　face　of　his　companion。　With　genuine　regret　and　sympathy　in　his　face；　Ramballe　approached　Pierre；　and　bent　over　him。
“Eh；　we　are　sad！”　he　said；　touching　Pierre　on　the　hand。　“Can　I　have　hurt　you？　No；　really；　have　you　anything　against　me？”　he　questioned。　“Perhaps　it　is　owing　to　the　situation　of　affairs？”
Pierre　made　no　reply；　but　looked　cordially　into　the　Frenchman’s　eyes。　This　expression　of　sympathy　was　pleasant　to　him。
“My　word　of　honour；　to　say　nothing　of　what　I　owe　you；　I　have　a　liking　for　you。　Can　I　do　anything　for　you？　Dispose　of　me。　It　is　for　life　and　death。　With　my　hand　and　my　heart；　I　say　so；”　he　said；　slapping　himself　on　the　chest。
“Thank　you；”　said　Pierre。　The　captain　gazed　at　Pierre　as　he　had　gazed　at　him　when　he　learnt　the　German　for　“refuge；”　and　his　face　suddenly　brightened。
“Ah；　in　that　case；　I　drink　to　our　friendship；”　he　cried　gaily；　pouring　out　two　glasses　of　wine。
Pierre　took　the　glass　and　emptied　it。　Ramballe　emptied　his；　pressed　Pierre’s　hand　once　more；　and　leaned　his　elbow　on　the　table　in　a　pose　of　pensive　melancholy。
“Yes；　my　dear　friend；　such　are　the　freaks　of　fortune；”　he　began。　“Who　would　have　said　I　should　be　a　soldier　and　captain　of　dragoons　in　the　service　of　Bonaparte；　as　we　used　to　call　him。　And　yet　here　I　am　at　Moscow　with　him。　I　must　tell　you；　my　dear　fellow；”　he　continued　in　the　mournful　and　measured　voice　of　a　man　who　intends　to　tell　a　long　story；　“our　name　is　one　of　the　most　ancient　in　France。”
And　with　the　easy　and　na？ve　unreserve　of　a　Frenchman；　the　captain　told　Pierre　the　history　of　his　forefathers；　his　childhood；　boyhood；　and　manhood；　and　all　his　relations；　his　fortunes；　and　domestic　affairs。　“Ma　pauvre　mère；”　took；　of　course；　a　prominent　part　in　this　recital。
“But　all　that　is　only　the　setting　of　life；　the　real　thing　is　love。　Love！　Eh；　M。　Pierre？”　he　said；　warming　up。　“Another　glass。”
Pierre　again　emptied　his　glass；　and　filled　himself　a　third。
“O　women！　women！”　and　the　captain；　gazing　with　moist　eyes　at　Pierre；　began　talking　of　love　and　his　adventures　with　the　fair　sex。　They　were　very　numerous；　as　might　readily　be　believed；　judging　from　the　officer’s　conceited；　handsome　face　and　the　eager　enthusiasm　with　which　he　talked　of　women。　Although　all　Ramballe’s　accounts　of　his　love　affairs　were　characterised　by　that　peculiar　nastiness　in　which　the　French　find　the　unique　charm　and　poetry　of　love；　the　captain　told　his　stories　with　such　genuine　conviction　that　he　was　the　only　man　who　had　tasted　and　known　all　the　sweets　of　love；　and　he　described　the　women　he　had　known　in　such　an　alluring　fashion　that　Pierre　listened　to　him　with　curiosity。
It　was　evident　that　l’amour　the　Frenchman　was　so　fond　of　was　neither　that　low　and　simple　kind　of　love　Pierre　had　at　one　time　felt　for　his　wife；　nor　the　romantic　love；　exaggerated　by　himself；　that　he　felt　for　Natasha。　For　both　those　kinds　of　love　Ramballe　had　an　equal　contempt—one　was　l’amour　des　charretiers；　the　other　l’amour　des　nigauds。　L’amour　for　which　the　Frenchman　had　a　weakness　consisted　principally　in　an　unnatural　relation　to　the　woman；　and　in　combinations　of　monstrous　circumstances　which　lent　the　chief　charm　to　the　feeling。
Thus　the　captain　related　the　touching　history　of　his　love　for　a　fascinating　marquise　of　five…and…thirty；　and　at　the　same　time　for　a　charming；　innocent　child　of　seventeen；　the　daughter　of　the　fascinating　marquise。　The　conflict　of　generosity　between　mother　and　daughter；　ending　in　the　mother　sacrificing　herself　and　offering　her　daughter　in　marriage　to　her　lover；　even　now；　though　it　was　a　memory　in　the　remote　past；　moved　the　captain　deeply。　Then　he　related　an　episode　in　which　the　husband　played　the　part　of　the　lover；　and　he—the　lover—the　part　of　the　husband；　and　several　comic　episodes　among　his　reminiscences　of　Germany；　where　Unterkunft　means　asile；　where　the　husbands　eat　cabbage　soup；　and　where　the　young　girls　are　too　flaxen…haired。
The　last　episode　was　one　in　Poland；　still　fresh　in　the　captain’s　memory；　and　described　by　him　with　rapid　gestures　and　a　glowing　face。　The　story　was　that　he　had　saved　the　life　of　a　Pole—the　episode　of　saving　life　was　continually　cropping　up　in　the　captain’s　anecdotes—and　that　Pole　had　intrusted　to　his　care　his　bewitching　wife；　a　Parisian　in　heart；　while　he　himself　entered　the　French　service。　The　captain　had　been　happy；　the　bewitching　Polish　lady　had　wanted　to　elope　with　him；　but　moved　by　a　magnanimous　impulse；　the　captain　had　restored　the　wife　to　the　husband　with　the　words：　“I　saved　your　life；　and　I　save　your　honour。”
As　he　repeated　these　words；　the　captain　wiped　his　eyes　and　shook　himself；　as　though　to　shake　off　the　weakness　that　overcame　him　at　this　touching　recollection。
As　men　often　do　at　a　late　hour　at　night；　and　under　the　influence　of　wine；　Pierre　listened　to　the　captain’s　stories；　and　while　he　followed　and　understood　all　he　told　him；　he　was　also　following　a　train　of　personal　reminiscences　which　had　for　some　reason　risen　to　his　imagination。　As　he　listened　to　those　love　affairs；　his　own　love　for　Natasha　suddenly　came　into　his　mind；　and　going　over　all　the　pictures　of　that　love　in　his　imagination；　he　mentally　compared　them　with　Ramballe’s　stories。　As　he　heard　the　account　of　the　conflict　between　love　and　duty；　Pierre　saw　before　him　every　detail　of　the　meeting　with　the　object　of　his　love　at　the　Suharev　Tower。　That　meeting　had　not　at　the　time　made　much　impression　on　him；　he　had　not　once　thought　of　it　since。　But　now　it　seemed　to　him　that　there　was　something　very　significant　and　romantic　in　that　meeting。
“Pyotr　Kirillitch；　come　here；　I　recognise　you”；　he　could　hear　her　words　now；　could　see　her　eyes；　her　smile；　her　travelling　cap；　and　the　curl　peeping　out　below　it　…　and　he　felt　that　there　was　something　moving；　touching　in　all　that。
When　he　had　finished　his　tale　about　the　bewitching　Polish　lady；　the　captain　turned　to　Pierre　with　the　inquiry　whether　he　had　had　any　similar　experience　of　self…sacrifice　for　love　and　envy　of　a　lawful　husband。
Pierre；　roused　by　this　question；　lifted　his　head　and　felt　an　irresistible　impulse　to　give　expression　to　the　ideas　in　his　mind。　He　began　to　explain　that　he　looked　upon　love　for　woman　somewhat　differently。　He　said　he　had　all　his　life　long　loved　one　woman；　and　still　loved　her；　and　that　that　woman　could　never　be　his。
“Tiens！”　said　the　ca