战争与和平(上)-第249章

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g　at　him。　“Ach…ma！”　he　cried；　and　walked　away。　The　Frenchman　looked　at　the　linen；　he　hesitated；　glanced　inquiringly　at　Pierre；　and　as　though　Pierre’s　eyes　had　told　him　something：
“Here；　Platoche！”　he　cried　in　a　shrill　voice；　suddenly　blushing。　“Keep　them　yourself；”　he　said；　and　giving　him　the　remnants；　he　turned　and　went　out。
“There；　look’ee　now；”　said　Karataev；　shaking　his　head。　“They　say　they’re　not　Christians；　but　they　have　souls　too。　It’s　true　what　the　old　folks　used　to　say：　a　sweating　hand　is　an　open　hand；　but　a　dry　hand　is　closefisted。　His　own　back’s　bare；　and　yet　he　has　given　me　this。”　Karataev　paused　for　a　while；　smiling　dreamily　and　gazing　at　the　cuttings　of　linen。　“But　first…rate　leg　binders　they’ll　make　me；　my　dear；”　he　added；　as　he　went　back　into　the　shed。


Chapter　12
FOUR　WEEKS　had　passed　since　Pierre　had　been　taken　prisoner。　Although　the　French　had　offered　to　transfer　him　from　the　common　prisoners’　shed　to　the　officers’；　he　had　remained　in　the　same　shed　as　at　first。
In　Moscow；　wasted　by　fire　and　pillage；　Pierre　passed　through　hardships　almost　up　to　the　extreme　limit　of　privation　that　a　man　can　endure。　But；　owing　to　his　vigorous　health　and　constitution；　of　which　he　had　hardly　been　aware　till　then；　and　still　more；　owing　to　the　fact　that　these　privations　came　upon　him　so　gradually　that　it　was　impossible　to　say　when　they　began；　he　was　able　to　support　his　position；　not　only　with　ease；　but　with　positive　gladness。　And　it　was　just　at　this　time　that　he　attained　that　peace　and　content　with　himself；　for　which　he　had　always　striven　in　vain　before。　For　long　years　of　his　life　he　had　been　seeking　in　various　directions　for　that　peace；　that　harmony　with　himself；　which　had　struck　him　so　much　in　the　soldiers　at　Borodino。　He　had　sought　for　it　in　philanthropy；　in　freemasonry；　in　the　dissipations　of　society；　in　wine；　in　heroic　feats　of　self…sacrifice；　in　his　romantic　love　for　Natasha；　he　had　sought　it　by　the　path　of　thought；　and　all　his　researches　and　all　his　efforts　had　failed　him。　And　now　without　any　thought　of　his　own；　he　had　gained　that　peace　and　that　harmony　with　himself　simply　through　the　horror　of　death；　through　hardships；　through　what　he　had　seen　in　Karataev。　Those　fearful　moments　that　he　had　lived　through　during　the　execution　had；　as　it　were；　washed　for　ever　from　his　imagination　and　his　memory　the　disturbing　ideas　and　feelings　that　had　once　seemed　to　him　so　important。　No　thought　came　to　him　of　Russia；　of　the　war；　of　politics；　or　of　Napoleon。　It　seemed　obvious　to　him　that　all　that　did　not　concern　him；　that　he　was　not　called　upon　and　so　was　not　able　to　judge　of　all　that。　“Russia　and　summer　never　do　well　together；”　he　repeated　Karataev’s　words；　and　those　words　soothed　him　strangely。　His　project　of　killing　Napoleon；　and　his　calculations　of　the　cabalistic　numbers；　and　of　the　beast　of　the　Apocalypse　struck　him　now　as　incomprehensible　and　positively　ludicrous。　His　anger　with　his　wife；　and　his　dread　of　his　name　being　disgraced　by　her；　seemed　to　him　trivial　and　amusing。　What　business　of　his　was　it；　if　that　woman　chose　to　lead　somewhere　away　from　him　the　life　that　suited　her　tastes？　What　did　it　matter　to　any　one—least　of　all　to　him—whether　they　found　out　or　not　that　their　prisoner’s　name　was　Count　Bezuhov？
He　often　thought　now　of　his　conversation　with　Prince　Andrey；　and　agreed　fully　with　his　friend；　though　he　put　a　somewhat　different　construction　on　his　meaning。　Prince　Andrey　had　said　and　thought　that　happiness　is　only　negative；　but　he　had　said　this　with　a　shade　of　bitterness　and　irony。　It　was　as　though　in　saying　this　he　had　expressed　another　thought—that　all　the　strivings　towards　positive　happiness；　that　are　innate　in　us；　were　only　given　us　for　our　torment。　But　Pierre　recognised　the　truth　of　the　main　idea　with　no　such　undercurrent　of　feeling。　The　absence　of　suffering；　the　satisfaction　of　needs；　and　following　upon　that；　freedom　in　the　choice　of　occupation；　that　is；　of　one’s　manner　of　life；　seemed　to　Pierre　the　highest　and　most　certain　happiness　of　man。　Only　here　and　now　for　the　first　time　in　his　life　Pierre　fully　appreciated　the　enjoyment　of　eating　when　he　was　hungry；　of　drinking　when　he　was　thirsty；　of　sleep　when　he　was　sleepy；　of　warmth　when　he　was　cold；　of　talking　to　a　fellow　creature　when　he　wanted　to　talk　and　to　hear　men’s　voices。　The　satisfaction　of　his　needs—good　food；　cleanliness；　freedom—seemed　to　Pierre　now　that　he　was　deprived　of　them　to　be　perfect　happiness；　and　the　choice　of　his　occupation；　that　is；　of　his　manner　of　life　now　that　that　choice　was　so　limited；　seemed　to　him　such　an　easy　matter　that　he　forgot　that　a　superfluity　of　the　conveniences　of　life　destroys　all　happiness　in　satisfying　the　physical　needs；　while　a　great　freedom　in　the　choice　of　occupation；　that　freedom　which　education；　wealth；　and　position　in　society　had　given　him；　makes　the　choice　of　occupations　exceedingly　difficult；　and　destroys　the　very　desire　and　possibility　of　occupation。
All　Pierre’s　dreams　now　turned　to　the　time　when　he　would　be　free。　And　yet；　in　all　his　later　life；　Pierre　thought　and　spoke　with　enthusiasm　of　that　month　of　imprisonment；　of　those　intense　and　joyful　sensations　that　could　never　be　recalled；　and　above　all　of　that　full；　spiritual　peace；　of　that　perfect；　inward　freedom；　of　which　he　had　only　experience　at　that　period。
On　the　first　day；　when；　getting　up　early　in　the　morning；　he　came　out　of　the　shed　into　the　dawn；　and　saw　the　cupolas　and　the　crosses　of　the　New　Monastery　of　the　Virgin；　all　still　in　darkness；　saw　the　hoar　frost　on　the　long　grass；　saw　the　slopes　of　the　Sparrow　Hills　and　the　wood…clad　banks　of　the　encircling　river　vanishing　into　the　purple　distance；　when　he　felt　the　contact　of　the　fresh　air　and　heard　the　sounds　of　the　rooks　crying　out　of　Moscow　across　the　fields；　and　when　flashes　of　light　suddenly　gleamed　out　of　the　east　and　the　sun’s　rim　floated　triumphantly　up　from　behind　a　cloud；　and　cupolas　and　crosses　and　hoar　frost　and　the　horizon　and　the　river　were　all　sparkling　in　the　glad　light；　Pierre　felt　a　new　feeling　of　joy　and　vigour　in　life　such　as　he　had　never　experienced　before。
And　that　feeling　had　not　left　him　during　the　whole　period　of　his　imprisonment；　but　on　the　contrary　had　gone　on　growing　in　him　as　the　hardships　of　his　position　increased。
That　feeling—of　being　ready　for　anything；　of　moral　alertness—was　strengthened　in　Pierre　by　the　high　opinion　in　which　he　began　to　be　held　by　his　companions　very　soon　after　he　entered　the　shed。　His　knowledge　of　languages；　the　respect　shown　him　by　the　French；　the　good…nature　with　which　he　gave　away　anything　he　was　asked　for　（he　received　the　allowance　of　three　roubles　a　week；　given　to　officers　among　the　prisoners）；　the　strength　he　showed　in　driving　nails　into　the　wall；　the　gentleness　of　his　behaviour　to　his　companions；　and　his　capacity—which　seemed　to　him　mysterious—of　sitting　stockstill　doing　nothing　and　plunged　in　thought；　all　made　him　seem　to　the　soldiers　a　rather　mysterious　creature　of　a　higher　order。　The　very　peculiarities　that　in　the　society　he　had　previously　lived　in　had　been　a　source　of　embarrassment；　if　not　of　annoyance—his　strength；　his　disdain　for　the　comforts　of　life；　his　absent…mindedness；　his　good…nature—here　among　these　men　gave　him　the　prestige　almost　of　a　hero。　And　Pierre　felt　that　their　view　of　him　brought　its　duties。


Chapter　13
ON　THE　NIGHT　of　the　6th　of　October；　the　march　of　the　retreating　French　army　began：　kitchens　and　shanties　were　broken　up；　waggons　were　packed；　and　troops　and　trains　of　baggage　began　moving。
At　seven　o’clock　in　the　morning　an　escort　of　French　soldiers　in　marching　order；　in　shakoes；　with　guns；　knapsacks；　and　huge　sacks；　stood　before　the　sheds　and　a　running　fire　of　eager　French　talk；　interspersed　with　oaths；　was　kept　up　all　along　the　line。
In　the　shed　they　were　ready；　dressed　and　belted　and　shod；　only　waiting　for　the　word　of　command　to　come　out。　The　sick　soldier；　Sokolov；　pale　and　thin；　with　blue　rings　round　his　eyes；　sat　alone　in　his　place；　without　boots　or　out…of…door　clothes　on。　His　eyes；　that　looked　prominent　from　the　thinness　of　his　face；　gazed　inquiringly　at　his　companions；　who　took　no　notice　of　him；　and　he　uttered　low　groans　at　regular　intervals。　It　was　evidently　not　so　much　his　sufferings—he　was　ill　with　dysentery—as　the　dread　and　grief　of　being　left　alone　that　made　him　groan。
Pierre　was　shod　with　a　pair　of　slippers　that　Karataev　had　made　for　him　out　of　the　leather　cover　of　a　tea…chest；　brought　him　by　a　Frenchman　for　soling　his　boots。　With　a　cord　tied　round　for　a　belt；　he　went　up　to　the　sick　man；　and　squatted　on　his　heels　beside　him。
“Come；　Sokolov；　they　are　not　going　away　altogether；　you　know。　They　have　a　hospital　here。　Very　likely　you　will　be　better　off　than　we　others；”　said　Pierre。
“O　Lord！　it　will　be　the　death　of　me！　O　Lord！”　the　soldier　groaned　more　loudly。
“Well；　I　will　ask　them　again　in　a　minute；”　said　Pierre；　and　getting　up；　he　went　to　the　door　of　the　shed。　While　Pierre　was　going　to　the　door；　the　same　corporal；　who　had　on　the　previous　day　offered　Pierre　a　pipe；　came　in　from　outside；　accompanied　by　two　soldiers。　Both　the　corporal　and　the　soldiers　were　in　marching　order；　with　knapsacks　on　and　shakoes；　with　straps　buttoned；　that　changed　their　familiar　faces。
The　corporal　had　come　to　the　door　so　as　to　shut　it　in　accordance　with　the　orders　given　him。　Before　getting　them　out；　he　had　to　count　over　the　prisoners。
“Corporal；　what　is　to　be　done　with　the　sick　man？”　Pierre　was　beginning；　but　at　the　very　moment　that　he　spoke　the　words　he　doubted　whether　it　were　the　corporal　he　knew　or　some　stranger—the　corporal　was　so　unlike　himself　at　that　moment。　Moreover；　at　the　moment　Pierre　was　speaking；　the　roll　of　drums　was　suddenly　heard　on　both　sides。　The　corporal　scowled　at　Pierre’s　words；　and　uttering　a　meaningless　oath；　he　slammed　the　door。　It　was　half…dark　now　in　the　shed；　the　drums　beat　a　sharp　tattoo　on　both　sides；　drowning　the　sick　man’s　groans。
“Here　it　is！…Here　it　is　again！”　Pierre　said　to　himself；　and　an　involuntary　shudder　ran　down　his　back。　In　the　changed　face　of　the　corporal；　in　the　sound　of　his　voice；　in　the　stimulating　and　deafening　din　of　the　drums；　Pierre　recognised　that　mysterious；　unsympathetic　force　which　drove　men；　against　their　will；　to　do　their　fellow…creatures　to　death；　that　force；　the　effect　of　which　he　had　seen　at　the　execution。　To　be　afraid；　to　try　and　avoid　that　force；　to　appeal　with　entreaties　or　with　exhortations　to　the　men　who　were　serving　as　its　instruments；　was　useless。　That　Pierre　knew　now。　One　could　but　wait　and　be　patient。　Pierre　did　not　go　near　the　sick　man　again；　and　did　not　look　round　at　him。　He　stood　at　the　door　of　the　shed　in　silence；　scowling。
When　the　doors　of　the　shed　were　opened；　and　the　prisoners；　huddling　against　one　another　like　a　flock　of　sheep；　crowded　in　the　entry；　Pierre　pushed　in　front　of　them；　and　went　up　to　the　very　captain　who　was；　so　the　corporal　had　declared；　ready　to　do　anything　for　him。　The　captain　was　in　marching　trim；　and　from　his　face；　too；　there　looked　out　the　same　“it”　Pierre　had　recognised　in　the　corporal’s　words　and　in　the　roll　of　the　drums。
“Filez；　filez！”　the　captain　was　saying；　frowning　sternly；　and　looking　at　the　prisoners　crowding　by　him。
Pierre　knew　his　effort　would　be　in　vain；　yet　he　went　up　to　him。
“Well；　what