战争与和平(上)-第239章

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er　finger’s　pricked；　it　hurts　the　same。　And　if　they　hadn’t　shaved　Platon　for　a　soldier；　then　Mihailo　would　have　had　to　go。　He　called　us　all　together—would　you　believe　it—made　us　stand　before　the　holy　picture。　‘Mihailo；’　says　he；　‘come　here；　bend　down　to　his　feet；　and　you；　women；　bow　down；　and　you；　grandchildren。　Do　you　understand？’　says　he。　Yes；　so　you　see；　my　dear。　Fate　acts　with　reason。　And　we　are　always　passing　judgment；　that’s　not　right；　and　this　doesn’t　suit　us。　Our　happiness；　my　dear；　is　like　water　in　a　dragnet；　you　drag；　and　it　is　all　puffed　up；　but　pull　it　out　and　there’s　nothing。　Yes；　that’s　it。”　And　Platon　moved　to　a　fresh　seat　in　the　straw。
After　a　short　pause；　Platon　got　up。
“Well；　I　dare　say；　you　are　sleepy？”　he　said；　and　he　began　rapidly　crossing　himself；　murmuring：
“Lord　Jesus　Christ；　holy　Saint　Nikola；　Frola　and　Lavra；　Lord　Jesus　Christ；　holy　Saint　Nikola；　Frola　and　Lavra；　Lord　Jesus　Christ—have　mercy　and　save　us！”　he　concluded；　bowed　down　to　the　ground；　got　up；　sighed；　and　sat　down　on　his　straw。　“That’s　right。　Let　me　lie　down　like　a　stone；　O　God；　and　rise　up　like　new　bread！”　he　murmured；　and　lay　down；　pulling　his　military　coat　over　him。
“What　prayer　was　that　you　recited？”　asked　Pierre。
“Eh？”　said　Platon　（he　was　already　half　asleep）。　“Recited？　I　prayed　to　God。　Don’t　you　pray；　too？”
“Yes；　I　do；”　said　Pierre。　“But　what　was　it　you　said—Frola　and　Lavra？”
“Eh；　to　be　sure；”　Platon　answered　quickly。　“They’re　the　horses’　saints。　One　must　think　of　the　poor　beasts；　too；”　he　said。　“Why；　the　little　hussy；　she’s　curled　up。　You’re　warm；　child　of　a　bitch！”　he　said；　feeling　the　dog　at　his　feet；　and；　turning　over　again；　he　fell　asleep　at　once。
Outside　shouting　and　wailing　could　be　heard　somewhere　far　away；　and　through　the　cracks　in　the　walls　could　be　seen　the　glow　of　fire；　but　within　the　shed　all　was　dark　and　hushed。　For　a　long　while　Pierre　did　not　sleep；　and　lay　with　open　eyes　in　the　darkness；　listening　to　Platon　snoring　rhythmically　as　he　lay　beside　him；　and　he　felt　that　the　world　that　had　been　shattered　was　rising　up　now　in　his　soul；　in　new　beauty；　and　on　new　foundations　that　could　not　be　shaken。


Chapter　13
IN　THIS　SHED；　where　Pierre　spent　four　weeks；　there　were　twenty…three　soldiers；　three　officers；　and　two　civilian　functionaries；　all　prisoners。
They　were　all　misty　figures　to　Pierre　afterwards；　but　Platon　Karataev　remained　for　ever　in　his　mind　the　strongest　and　most　precious　memory；　and　the　personification　of　everything　Russian；　kindly；　and　round。　When　next　day　at　dawn　Pierre　saw　his　neighbour；　his　first　impression　of　something　round　was　fully　confirmed；　Platon’s　whole　figure　in　his　French　military　coat；　girt　round　the　waist　with　cord；　in　his　forage…cap　and　bast　shoes；　was　roundish；　his　head　was　perfectly　round；　his　back；　his　chest；　his　shoulders；　even　his　arms；　which　he　always　held　as　though　he　were　about　to　embrace　something；　were　round　in　their　lines；　his　friendly　smile　and　big；　soft；　brown　eyes；　too；　were　round。
Platon　Karataev　must　have　been　over　fifty　to　judge　by　his　stories　of　the　campaigns　in　which　he　had　taken　part。　He　did　not　himself　know　and　could　not　determine　how　old　he　was。　But　his　strong；　dazzlingly　white　teeth　showed　in　two　unbroken　semicircles　whenever　he　laughed；　as　he　often　did；　and　all　were　good　and　sound：　there　was　not　a　grey　hair　in　his　beard　or　on　his　head；　and　his　whole　frame　had　a　look　of　suppleness　and　of　unusual　hardiness　and　endurance。
His　face　had　an　expression　of　innocence　and　youth　in　spite　of　the　curving　wrinkles　on　it；　his　voice　had　a　pleasant　sing…song　note。　But　the　great　peculiarity　of　his　talk　was　its　spontaneity　and　readiness。　It　was　evident　that　he　never　thought　of　what　he　was　saying；　or　of　what　he　was　going　to　say；　and　that　gave　a　peculiar；　irresistible　persuasiveness　to　his　rapid　and　genuine　intonations。
His　physical　powers　and　activity　were　such；　during　the　first　period　of　his　imprisonment；　that　he　seemed　not　to　know　what　fatigue　or　sickness　meant。　Every　evening　as　he　lay　down　to　sleep；　he　said：　“Let　me　lie　down；　Lord；　like　a　stone；　let　me　rise　up　like　new　bread”；　and　every　morning　on　getting　up；　he　would　shake　his　shoulder　in　the　same　way；　saying：　“Lie　down　and　curl　up；　get　up　and　shake　yourself。”　And　he　had；　in　fact；　only　to　lie　down　in　order　to　sleep　at　once　like　a　stone；　and　he　had　but　to　shake　himself　to　be　ready　at　once；　on　waking；　without　a　second’s　delay；　to　set　to　work　of　some　sort；　just　as　children；　on　waking；　begin　at　once　playing　with　their　toys。　He　knew　how　to　do　everything；　not　particularly　well；　but　not　badly　either。　He　baked；　and　cooked；　and　sewed；　and　planed；　and　cobbled　boots。　He　was　always　busy；　and　only　in　the　evenings　allowed　himself　to　indulge　in　conversation；　which　he　loved；　and　singing。　He　sang　songs；　not　as　singers　do；　who　know　they　are　listened　to；　but　sang；　as　the　birds　sing；　obviously；　because　it　was　necessary　to　him　to　utter　those　sounds；　as　it　sometimes　is　to　stretch　or　to　walk　about；　and　those　sounds　were　always　thin；　tender；　almost　feminine；　melancholy　notes；　and　his　face　as　he　uttered　them　was　very　serious。
Being　in　prison；　and　having　let　his　beard　grow；　he　had　apparently　cast　off　all　the　soldier’s　ways　that　had　been　forced　upon　him　and　were　not　natural　to　him；　and　had　unconsciously　relapsed　into　his　old　peasant　habits。
“A　soldier　discharged　is　the　shirt　outside　the　breeches　again；”　he　used　to　say。　He　did　not　care　to　talk　of　his　life　as　a　soldier；　though　he　never　complained；　and　often　repeated　that　he　had　never　once　been　beaten　since　he　had　been　in　the　service。　When　he　told　stories；　it　was　always　by　preference　of　his　old　and　evidently　precious　memories　of　his　life　as　a　“Christian；”　as　he　pronounced　the　word　“krestyan；”　or　peasant。　The　proverbial　sayings；　of　which　his　talk　was　full；　were　not　the　bold；　and　mostly　indecent；　sayings　common　among　soldiers；　but　those　peasant　saws；　which　seem　of　so　little　meaning　looked　at　separately；　and　gain　all　at　once　a　significance　of　profound　wisdom　when　uttered　appropriately。
Often　he　would　say　something　directly　contrary　to　what　he　had　said　before；　but　both　sayings　were　equally　true。　He　liked　talking；　and　talked　well；　adorning　his　speech　with　caressing　epithets　and　proverbial　sayings；　which　Pierre　fancied　he　often　invented　himself。　But　the　great　charm　of　his　talk　was　that　the　simplest　incidents—sometimes　the　same　that　Pierre　had　himself　seen　without　noticing　them—in　his　account　of　them　gained　a　character　of　seemliness　and　solemn　significance。　He　liked　to　listen　to　the　fairy　tales　which　one　soldier　used　to　tell—always　the　same　ones　over　and　over　again—in　the　evenings；　but　most　of　all　he　liked　to　listen　to　stories　of　real　life。　He　smiled　gleefully　as　he　listened　to　such　stories；　putting　in　words　and　asking　questions；　all　aiming　at　bringing　out　clearly　the　moral　beauty　of　the　action　of　which　he　was　told。　Attachments；　friendships；　love；　as　Pierre　understood　them；　Karataev　had　none；　but　he　loved　and　lived　on　affectionate　terms　with　every　creature　with　whom　he　was　thrown　in　life；　and　especially　so　with　man—not　with　any　particular　man；　but　with　the　men　who　happened　to　be　before　his　eyes。　He　loved　his　dog；　loved　his　comrades；　loved　the　French；　loved　Pierre；　who　was　his　neighbour。　But　Pierre　felt　that　in　spite　of　Karataev’s　affectionate　tenderness　to　him　（in　which　he　involuntarily　paid　tribute　to　Pierre’s　spiritual　life）；　he　would　not　suffer　a　moment’s　grief　at　parting　from　him。　And　Pierre　began　to　have　the　same　feeling　towards　Karataev。
To　all　the　other　soldiers　Platon　Karataev　was　the　most　ordinary　soldier；　they　called　him　“little　hawk；”　or　Platosha；　made　good…humoured　jibes　at　his　expense；　sent　him　to　fetch　things。　But　to　Pierre；　such　as　he　appeared　on　that　first　night—an　unfathomable；　rounded…off；　and　everlasting　personification　of　the　spirit　of　simplicity　and　truth—so　he　remained　to　him　for　ever。
Platon　Karataev　knew　nothing　by　heart　except　his　prayers。　When　he　talked；　he　did　not　know　on　beginning　a　sentence　how　he　was　going　to　end　it。
When　Pierre；　struck　sometimes　by　the　force　of　his　remarks；　asked　him　to　repeat　what　he　had　said；　Platon　could　never　recall　what　he　had　said　the　minute　before；　just　as　he　could　never　repeat　to　Pierre　the　words　of　his　favourite　song。　There　came　in；　“My　own　little　birch…tree；”　and　“My　heart　is　sick；”　but　there　was　no　meaning　in　the　words。　He　did　not　understand；　and　could　not　grasp　the　significance　of　words　taken　apart　from　the　sentence。　Every　word　and　every　action　of　his　was　the　expression　of　a　force　uncomprehended　by　him；　which　was　his　life。　But　his　life；　as　he　looked　at　it；　had　no　meaning　as　a　separate　life。　It　had　meaning　only　as　a　part　of　a　whole；　of　which　he　was　at　all　times　conscious。　His　words　and　actions　flowed　from　him　as　smoothly；　as　inevitably；　and　as　spontaneously；　as　the　perfume　rises　from　the　flower。　He　could　not　understand　any　value　or　significance　in　an　act　or　a　word　taken　separately。


Chapter　14
ON　HEARING　from　Nikolay　that　her　brother　was　at　Yaroslavl　with　the　Rostovs；　Princess　Marya；　in　spite　of　her　aunt’s　efforts　to　dissuade　her；　prepared　at　once　to　go　to　him　and　to　go　not　alone；　but　with　her　nephew；　whether　this　were　difficult　or　not；　whether　it　were　possible　or　not；　she　did　not　inquire；　and　did　not　care　to　know：　it　was　her　duty　not　only　to　be　herself　at　the　side　of　her—perhaps　dying—brother；　but　to　do　everything　possible　to　take　his　son　to　him；　and　she　prepared　to　set　off。　If　Prince　Andrey　had　not　himself　communicated　with　her；　Princess　Marya　put　that　down　either　to　his　being　too　weak　to　write；　or　to　his　considering　the　long　journey　too　difficult　and　dangerous　for　her　and　his　son。
Within　a　few　days　Princess　Marya　was　ready　for　the　journey。　Her　equipage　consisted　of　her　immense　travelling　coach　in　which　she　had　come　to　Voronezh；　and　a　covered　trap　and　a　waggon。　She　was　accompanied　by　Mademoiselle　Bourienne；　Nikolushka；　with　his　tutor；　the　old　nurse；　three　maids；　Tihon；　a　young　valet；　and　a　courier；　whom　her　aunt　was　sending　with　her。
To　travel　by　the　usual　route　to　Moscow　was　not　to　be　thought　of；　and　the　circuitous　route　which　Princess　Marya　was　obliged　to　take　by　Lipetsk；　Ryazan；　Vladimir；　and　Shuya　was　very　long；　from　lack　of　posting　horses　difficult；　and　in　the　neighbourhood　of　Ryazan；　where　they　were　told　the　French　had　begun　to　appear；　positively　dangerous。
During　this　difficult　journey；　Mademoiselle　Bourienne；　Dessalle；　and　Princess　Marya’s　servants　were　astonished　at　the　tenacity　of　her　will　and　her　energy。　She　was　the　last　to　go　to　rest；　the　first　to　rise；　and　no　difficulty　could　daunt　her。　Thanks　to　her　activity　and　energy；　which　infected　her　companions；　she　was　towards　the　end　of　the　second　week　close　upon　Yaroslavl。
The　latter　part　of　her　stay　in　Voronezh　had　been　the　happiest　period　in　Princess　Marya’s　life。　Her　love　for　Rostov　was　not　then　a　source　of　torment　or　agitation　to　her。　That　love　had　by　then　filled　her　whole　soul　and　become　an　inseparable　part　of　herself；　and　she　no　longer　struggled　against　it。　Of　late　Princess　Marya　was　convinced—though　she　never　clearly　in　so　many　words　admitted　it　to　herself—that　she　loved　and　was　beloved。　She　had　been　convinced　of　this　by　her　last　interview　with　Nikolay　when　he　came　to　tell　her　that　her　brother　was　with　the　Rostovs。　Niko