战争与和平(上)-第261章

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rtain　point。
He　did　not　see　and　did　not　hear　how　the　prisoners　that　lagged　behind　were　shot；　though　more　than　a　hundred　of　them　had　perished　in　that　way。　He　did　not　think　about　Karataev；　who　was　getting　weaker　every　day；　and　would　obviously　soon　fall　a　victim　to　the　same　fate。　Still　less　did　Pierre　think　about　himself。　The　harder　his　lot　became；　the　more　terrible　his　future；　the　more　independent　of　his　present　plight　were　the　glad　and　soothing　thoughts；　memories；　and　images　that　occurred　to　him。


Chapter　13
AT　MIDDAY　on　the　22nd；　Pierre　was　walking　along　the　muddy；　slippery　road　uphill；　looking　at　his　feet　and　at　the　unevenness　of　the　road。　From　time　to　time　he　glanced　at　the　familiar　crowd　around　him；　and　then　again　at　his　feet。　Both　that　crowd　and　those　feet　were　alike　his　and　familiar　to　him。　The　purplish；　bandy…legged；　grey　dog　was　running　merrily　along　at　the　side　of　the　road；　sometimes　picking　up　a　hind　leg；　and　skipping　along　on　three　paws　as　a　sign　of　content　and　briskness；　or　barking　at　the　crows　that　perched　on　the　carrion。　The　grey　dog　was　sleeker　and　merrier　than　in　Moscow。　All　around　lay　the　flesh　of　different　animals—　from　men　to　horses—in　different　stages　of　decomposition；　and　the　marching　soldiers　prevented　wolves　from　coming　near　it；　so　that　the　grey　dog　could　feast　to　her　heart’s　content。
Rain　had　been　falling　since　early　morning；　and　it　seemed　continually　as　though　in　another　minute　it　would　cease　and　the　sky　would　clear；　when；　after　a　short　break；　the　rain　came　on　again　more　heavily。　The　road；　saturated　with　rain；　could　soak　up　no　more；　and　streams　flowed　along　the　ruts。
Pierre　walked；　looking　from　side　to　side；　counting　his　steps；　and　reckoning　them　off　in　threes　on　his　fingers。　Inwardly　addressing　the　rain；　he　said　to　it；　“Now　then；　come　on　then；　pelt　away！”
It　seemed　to　him　that　he　was　thinking　of　nothing　at　all；　but　somewhere　deep　down　his　soul　was　pondering　something　grave　and　consolatory。　That　something　was　the　subtlest；　spiritual　deduction　arising　from　his　talk　the　night　before　with　Karataev。
Getting　chilled　by　the　dying　fire　on　the　previous　night’s　halt；　Pierre　had　got　up　and　moved　to　the　next　fire；　which　was　burning　better。　There　Platon　was　sitting；　with　a　coat　put　over　his　head；　like　a　priest’s　chasuble。　In　his　flexible；　pleasant　voice；　feeble　now　from　illness；　he　was　telling　the　soldiers　a　story　Pierre　had　heard　already。　It　was　past　midnight；　the　time　when　Karataev’s　fever　usually　abated；　and　he　was　particularly　lively。　As　he　drew　near　the　fire　and　heard　Platon’s　weak；　sickly　voice；　and　saw　his　piteous　mien　in　the　bright　firelight；　Pierre　felt　a　pang　at　heart。　He　was　frightened　at　his　own　pity　for　this　man；　and　would　have　gone　away；　but　there　was　no　other　fire　to　go　to；　and　trying　not　to　look　at　Platon；　he　sat　down　by　it。
“Well；　how　is　your　fever？”　he　asked。
“How　is　my　fever？　Weep　over　sickness；　and　God　won’t　give　you　death；”　said　Karataev；　and　he　went　back　at　once　to　the　story　he　had　begun。
“And　so；　brother；”　he　went　on　with　a　smile　on　his　thin；　white　face；　and　a　peculiar；　joyful　light　in　his　eyes；　“And　so；　brother　…”
Pierre　had　heard　the　story　long　before。　Karataev　had　told　it　to　him；　about　six　times　already；　and　always　with　special　joyful　emotion。　But　well　as　Pierre　knew　the　story；　he　listened　to　it　now　as　though　it　were　something　new；　and　the　subdued　ecstasy；　which　Karataev　evidently　felt　in　telling　it；　infected　Pierre　too。
It　was　the　story　of　an　old　merchant；　who　had　lived　in　good　works　and　in　the　fear　of　God　with　his　family；　and　had　made　a　journey　one　day　with　a　companion；　a　rich　merchant；　to　Makary。
Both　the　merchants　had　put　up　at　an　inn　and　gone　to　sleep；　and　next　day　the　rich　merchant　had　been　found　robbed；　and　with　his　throat　cut。　A　knife；　stained　with　blood；　was　found　under　the　old　merchant’s　pillow。　The　merchant　was　tried；　sentenced　to　be　flogged；　and　to　have　his　nostrils　slit—all　according　to　the　law　in　due　course；　as　Karataev　said—and　sent　to　hard　labour。
“And　so；　brother”　（it　was　at　this　point　in　the　story　that　Pierre　found　Karataev）　“ten　years　or　more　passed　by　after　that。　The　old　man　lives　on　in　prison。　He　submits；　as　is　fitting；　he　does　nothing　wrong。　Only　he　prays　to　God　for　death。　Very　well。　And　so　at　night…time　they　are　gathered　together；　the　convicts；　just　as　we　are　here；　and　the　old　man　with　them。　And　so　they　fall　to　talking　of　what　each　is　suffering　for；　and　how　he　has　sinned　against　God。　One　tells　how　he　took　a　man’s　life；　another　two；　another　had　set　fire　to　something；　and　another　was　a　runaway　just　for　no　reason。　So　they　began　asking　the　old　man；　‘What；’　they　say；　‘are　you　suffering　for；　grandfather？’　‘I　am　suffering；　dear　brethren；’　says　he；　‘for　my　own　sins；　and　for　other　men’s　sins。　I　have　not　taken　a　life；　nor　taken　other　men’s　goods；　save　what　I　have　bestowed　on　poorer　brethren。　I　was　a　merchant；　dear　brethren；　and　I　had　great　wealth。’　And　he　tells　them　this　and　that；　and　how　the　whole　thing　had　happened。　‘For　myself；’　says　he；　‘I　do　not　grieve。　God　has　chastened　me。　The　only　thing；’　says　he；　‘I　am　sorry　for　my　old　wife　and　my　children。’　And　so　the　old　man　fell　a…weeping。　And　it　so　happened　that　in　that　company　there　was　the　very　man；　you　know；　who　had　killed　the　merchant。　‘Where　did　it　happen；　grandfather？’　says　he。　‘When　and　in　what　month？’　and　so　he　asked　him　all　about　it。　His　heart　began　to　ache。　He　goes　up　to　the　old　man　like　this—and　falls　down　at　his　feet。　‘You　are　suffering　for　me；　old　man；’　says　he。　‘It’s　the　holy　truth；　this　man　is　tormented　innocently；　for　nothing；　lads；’　says　he。　‘I　did　that　deed；’　says　he；　‘and　put　the　knife　under　his　head　when　he　was　asleep。　Forgive　me；　grandfather；　for　Christ’s　sake！’　says　he。”
Karataev　paused；　smiling　blissfully；　and　gazing　at　the　fire；　as　he　rearranged　the　logs。
“The　old　man；　he　says；　‘God　forgive　you；’　says　he；　‘but　we　are　all　sinners　before　God；’　says　he。　‘I　am　suffering　for　my　own　sins。’　And　he　wept　with　bitter　tears。　What　do　you　think；　darling？”　said　Karataev；　his　ecstatic　smile　growing　more　and　more　radiant；　as　though　the　great　charm　and　whole　point　of　his　story　lay　in　what　he　was　going　to　tell　now；　“what　do　you　think；　darling；　that　murderer　confessed　of　himself　to　the　police。　‘I　have　killed　six　men；’　says　he　（for　he　was　a　great　criminal）；　‘but　what　I　am　most　sorry　for　is　this　old　man。　Let　him　not　weep　through　my　fault。’　He　confessed。　It　was　written　down；　and　a　paper　sent　off　to　the　right　place。　The　place　was　far　away。　Then　came　a　trial。　Then　all　the　reports　were　written　in　due　course；　by　the　authorities；　I　mean。　It　was　brought　to　the　Tsar。　Then　a　decree　comes　from　the　Tsar　to　let　the　merchant　go　free；　to　give　him　the　recompense　they　had　awarded　him。　The　paper　comes；　they　fall　to　looking　for　the　old　man。　Where　was　that　old　man　who　had　suffered　innocently？　The　paper　had　come　from　the　Tsar；　and　they　fell　to　looking　for　him。”　Karataev’s　lower　jaw　quivered。　“But　God　had　pardoned　him　already—he　was　dead！　So　it　happened；　darling！”　Karataev　concluded；　and　he　gazed　a　long　while　straight　before　him；　smiling　silently。
Not　the　story　itself；　but　its　mysterious　import；　the　ecstatic　gladness　that　beamed　in　Karataev’s　face　as　he　told　it；　the　mysterious　significance　of　that　gladness　vaguely　filled　and　rejoiced　Pierre’s　soul　now。


Chapter　14
“TO　YOUR　PLACES！”　a　voice　shouted　suddenly。
There　was　a　cheerful　stir　among　the　prisoners　and　convoy　soldiers；　and　an　air　of　expecting　something　festive　and　solemn。　Shouted　commands　could　be　heard　on　all　sides；　and　a　party　of　well…dressed　cavalry　soldiers　on　good　horses　came　trotting　up　from　the　left；　making　a　circuit　round　the　prisoners。　Every　face　wore　the　look　of　nervousness　commonly　seen　at　the　approach　of　men　in　authority。　The　prisoners　huddled　together　and　were　shoved　out　of　the　way。　The　convoy　soldiers　formed　in　ranks。
“The　Emperor！　The　Emperor！　The　marshal！　The　duke！…”　and　the　sleek　cavalry　soldiers　had　hardly　ridden　by　when　a　carriage　rattled　up　drawn　by　grey　horses。　Pierre　had　a　passing　glimpse　of　the　serene；　handsome；　fat；　white　face　of　a　man　in　a　three…cornered　hat。　It　was　one　of　the　marshals。　The　marshal’s　eye　was　caught　by　Pierre’s　big；　striking　figure；　and　in　the　expression　with　which　he　frowned　and　looked　away　Pierre　fancied　he　saw　pity　and　the　desire　to　conceal　it。
The　general　in　charge　of　the　transport　whipped　up　his　lean　horse；　and　galloped　after　the　carriage　with　a　red；　panic…stricken　face。　Several　officers　met　in　a　group；　the　soldiers　came　round　them。　All　had　excited　and　uneasy　faces。
“What　did　he　say？　What　was　it　he　said？　…”　Pierre　heard。
While　the　marshal　was　driving　by；　the　prisoners　had　been　hustled　together　into　one　group；　and　Pierre　caught　sight　of　Karataev；　whom　he　had　not　yet　seen　that　morning。　He　was　sitting；　wrapped　in　his　little　military　coat；　leaning　against　a　birch…tree。　His　face　still　wore　the　same　look　of　joyous　emotion　as　when　he　had　been　telling　the　story　of　the　merchant；　but　it　had　another　expression　too；　a　look　of　subdued　solemnity。
Karataev　looked　at　Pierre　with　his　kindly；　round　eyes；　that　were　bright　now　with　tears；　and　there　was　an　unmistakable　appeal　in　them。　He　evidently　wanted　to　say　something　to　him。　But　Pierre　was　in　too　great　dread　for　himself。　He　made　as　though　he　had　not　seen　that　look；　and　hastily　walked　away。
When　the　prisoners　set　off　again　Pierre　looked　back。　Karataev　was　sitting　under　the　birch…tree　by　the　edge　of　the　road；　and　two　Frenchmen　were　bending　over　him　in　conversation。　Pierre　did　not　look　again。　He　went　on　limping　up　the　hill。
There　was　the　sound　of　a　shot　behind；　at　the　spot　where　Karataev　was　sitting。　Pierre　heard　that　shot　distinctly；　but　at　the　moment　that　he　heard　it；　he　recalled　that　he　had　not　finished　reckoning　up　how　many　stages　were　left　to　Smolensk；　the　calculation　he　had　begun　before　the　marshal　rode　by。　And　he　began　to　reckon。　Two　French　soldiers　ran　by　Pierre；　one　holding　a　still　smoking　gun。　They　were　both　pale；　and　in　the　expression　of　their　faces—one　of　them　glanced　timidly　at　Pierre—there　was　something　like　what　he　had　seen　in　the　young　soldier　at　the　execution　in　Moscow。　Pierre　looked　at　the　soldier　and　remembered　how；　the　day　before　yesterday；　the　man　had　burnt　his　shirt　in　drying　it　before　the　fire；　and　how　the　others　had　laughed　at　him。
The　dog　began　to　howl　behind　at　the　spot　where　Karataev　was　sitting。　“Silly　creature！　what　is　she　howling　for？”　thought　Pierre
The　prisoners；　his　companions　marching　at　his　side；　like　him；　refrained　from　looking　back　to　the　place　whence　came　the　sound　of　the　shot　and　the　dog’s　howl。　There　was　a　set　look　on　all　their　faces。


Chapter　15
THE　CAVALRY　TRANSPORT；　and　the　prisoners；　and　the　marshal’s　baggage…train；　halted　at　the　village　of　Shamshevo。　All　crowded　together　round　the　campfire。　Pierre　went　up　to　a　fire；　ate　some　roast　horse…flesh；　lay　down　with　his　back　to　the　fire；　and　at　once　fell　asleep。　He　fell　into　the　same　sort　of　sleep　that　he　had　slept　at　Mozhaisk；　after　the　battle　of　Borodino。
Again　the　facts　of　real　life　mingled　with　his　dreams；　and　again　some　one；　himself　or　some　one　else；　was　uttering　thoughts　in　his　ear；　and　the　same　thoughts；　indeed；　as　had　come　in　his　dream　at　Mozhaisk。
Life　is　everything。　Life　is　God。　All　is　changing　and　moving；　and