战争与和平(上)-第235部分

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　their　trousers　tucked　in　their　boots；　and　their　sashes　or　leather　belts　tightly　braced；　took　leave　of　those　who　were　left　behind。
As　is　invariably　the　case　at　starting　on　a　journey；　a　great　many　things　were　found　to　have　been　forgotten；　or　packed　in　the　wrong　place；　and　two　grooms　were　kept　a　long　while　standing；　one　each　side　of　the　open　carriage　door；　ready　to　help　the　countess　up　the　carriage　steps；　while　maids　were　flying　with　pillows　and　bags　from　the　house　to　the　carriages；　the　coach；　and　the　covered　gig；　and　back　again。
“They　will　always　forget　everything　as　long　as　they　live！”　said　the　countess。　“You　know　that　I　can’t　sit　like　that。”　And　Dunyasha；　with　clenched　teeth　and　an　aggrieved　look　on　her　face；　rushed　to　the　carriage　to　arrange　the　cushions　again　without　a　word。
“Ah；　those　servants；”　said　the　count；　shaking　his　head。
The　old　coachman　Efim；　the　only　one　whom　the　countess　could　trust　to　drive　her；　sat　perched　up　on　the　box；　and　did　not　even　look　round　at　what　was　passing　behind　him。　His　thirty　years’　experience　had　taught　him　that　it　would　be　some　time　yet　before　they　would　say；　“Now；　in　God’s　name；　start！”　and　that　when　they　had　said　it；　they　would　stop　him　at　least　twice　again　to　send　back　for　things　that　had　been　forgotten；　and　after　that　he　would　have　to　pull　up　once　more　for　the　countess　herself　to　put　her　head　out　of　window　and　beg　him；　for　Christ’s　sake；　to　drive　carefully　downhill。　He　knew　this；　and　therefore　awaited　what　was　to　come　with　more　patience　than　his　horses；　especially　the　left　one；　the　chestnut　Falcon；　who　was　continually　pawing　the　ground　and　champing　at　the　bit。　At　last　all　were　seated；　the　carriage　steps　were　pulled　up；　and　the　door　slammed；　and　the　forgotten　travelling…case　had　been　sent　for　and　the　countess　had　popped　her　head　out　and　given　the　usual　injunctions。　Then　Efim　deliberately　took　his　hat　off　and　began　crossing　himself。　The　postillion　and　all　the　servants　did　the　same。
“With　God’s　blessing！”　said　Efim；　putting　his　hat　on。　“Off！”　The　postillion　started　his　horse。　The　right…shaft　horse　began　to　pull；　the　high　springs　creaked；　and　the　carriage　swayed。　The　footman　jumped　up　on　the　box　while　it　was　moving。　The　carriage　jolted　as　it　drove　out　of　the　yard　on　to　the　uneven　pavement；　the　other　vehicles　jolted　in　the　same　way　as　they　followed　in　a　procession　up　the　street。　All　the　occupants　of　the　carriages；　the　coach　and　the　covered　gig；　crossed　themselves　on　seeing　the　church　opposite。　The　servants；　who　were　staying　in　Moscow；　walked　along　on　both　sides　of　the　carriages　to　see　them　off。
Natasha　had　rarely　felt　such　a　joyful　sensation　as　she　experienced　at　that　moment　sitting　in　the　carriage　by　the　countess　and　watching；　as　they　slowly　moved　by　her；　the　walls　of　forsaken；　agitated　Moscow。　Now　and　then　she　put　her　head　out　of　the　carriage　window　and　looked　back；　and　then　in　front　of　the　long　train　of　waggons　full　of　wounded　soldiers　preceding　them。　Foremost　of　them　all　she　could　see　Prince　Andrey’s　closed　carriage。　She　did　not　know　who　was　in　it；　and　every　time　she　took　stock　of　the　procession　of　waggons　she　looked　out　for　that　coach。　She　knew　it　would　be　the　foremost。　In　Kudrino　and　from　Nikitsky　Street；　from　Pryesny；　and　from　Podnovinsky　several　trains　of　vehicles；　similar　to　the　Rostovs’；　came　driving　out；　and　by　the　time　they　reached　Sadovoy　Street　the　carriages　and　carts　were　two　deep　all　along　the　road。
As　they　turned　round　Suharev　Tower；　Natasha；　who　was　quickly　and　inquisitively　scrutinising　the　crowd　driving　and　walking　by；　uttered　a　cry　of　delight　and　surprise：
“Good　Heavens！　Mamma；　Sonya；　look；　it’s　he！”
“Who？　who？”
“Look；　do　look！　Bezuhov；”　said　Natasha；　putting　her　head　out　of　the　carriage　window　and　staring　at　a　tall；　stout　man　in　a　coachman’s　long　coat；　obviously　a　gentleman　disguised；　from　his　carriage　and　gait。　He　was　passing　under　the　arch　of　the　Suharev　Tower　beside　a　yellow…looking；　beardless；　little　old　man　in　a　frieze　cloak。
“Only　fancy！　Bezuhov　in　a　coachman’s　coat；　with　a　queer　sort　of　old…looking　boy；”　said　Natasha。　“Do　look；　do　look！”
“No；　it’s　not　he。　How　can　you　be　so　absurd！”
“Mamma；”　cried　Natasha。　“On　my　word　of　honour；　I　assure　you；　it　is　he。　Stop；　stop；”　she　shouted　to　the　coachman；　but　the　coachman　could　not　stop；　because　more　carts　and　carriages　were　coming　out　of　Myeshtchansky　Street；　and　people　were　shouting　at　the　Rostovs　to　move　on；　and　not　to　keep　the　rest　of　the　traffic　waiting。
All　the　Rostovs　did；　however；　though　now　at　a　much　greater　distance；　see　Pierre；　or　a　man　extraordinarily　like　him；　wearing　a　coachman’s　coat；　and　walking　along　the　street　with　bent　head　and　a　serious　face　beside　a　little；　beardless　old　man；　who　looked　like　a　footman。　This　old　man　noticed　a　face　poked　out　of　the　carriage　window　staring　at　them；　and　respectfully　touching　Pierre’s　elbow；　he　said　something　to　him；　pointing　towards　the　carriage。　It　was　some　time　before　Pierre　understood　what　he　was　saying；　he　was　evidently　deeply　absorbed　in　his　own　thoughts。　At　last　he　looked　in　the　direction　indicated；　and　recognising　Natasha；　he　moved　instantly　towards　the　carriage；　as　though　yielding　to　the　first　impulse。　But　after　taking　a　dozen　steps　towards　it；　he　stopped　short；　apparently　recollecting　something。　Natasha’s　head　beamed　out　of　the　carriage　window　with　friendly　mockery。
“Pyotr　Kirillitch；　come　here！　We　recognized　you；　you　see！　It’s　a　wonder！”　she　cried；　stretching　out　a　hand　to　him。　“How　is　it？　Why　are　you　like　this？”
Pierre　took　her　outstretched　hand；　and　awkwardly　kissed　it　as　he　ran　beside　the　still　moving　carriage。
“What　has　happened；　count？”　the　countess　asked　him；　in　a　surprised　and　commiserating　tone。
“Eh？　Why？　Don’t　ask　me；”　said　Pierre；　and　he　looked　up　at　Natasha；　the　charm　of　whose　radiant；　joyous　eyes　he　felt　upon　him　without　looking　at　her。
“What　are　you　doing；　or　are　you　staying　in　Moscow？”
Pierre　was　silent。
“In　Moscow？”　he　queried。　“Yes；　in　Moscow。　Good…bye。”
“Oh；　how　I　wish　I　were　a　man；　I　would　stay　with　you。　Ah；　how　splendid　that　is！”　said　Natasha。　“Mamma；　do　let　me　stay。”
Pierre　looked　absently　at　Natasha；　and　was　about　to　say　something；　but　the　countess　interrupted　him。
“You　were　at　the　battle；　we　have　been　told。”
“Yes；　I　was　there；”　answered　Pierre。　“To…morrow　there　will　be　a　battle　again　…”　he　was　beginning；　but　Natasha　interposed：
“But　what　is　the　matter；　count？　You　are　not　like　yourself　…”
“Oh；　don’t　ask　me；　don’t　ask　me；　I　don’t　know　myself。　To…morrow　…　No！　Good…bye；　good…bye；”　he　said；　“it’s　an　awful　time！”　And　he　left　the　carriage　and　walked　away　to　the　pavement。
For　a　long　while　Natasha’s　head　was　still　thrust　out　of　the　carriage　window；　and　she　beamed　at　him　with　a　kindly　and　rather　mocking；　joyous　smile。


Chapter　18
FROM　THE　TIME　of　his　disappearance；　two　days　before；　Pierre　had　been　living　in　the　empty　abode　of　his　dead　benefactor；　Osip　Bazdyev。　This　was　how　it　had　come　to　pass。
On　waking　up　the　morning　after　his　return　to　Moscow　and　his　interview　with　Count　Rastoptchin；　Pierre　could　not　for　some　time　make　out　where　he　was　and　what　was　expected　of　him。　When　the　names　of　the　persons　waiting　to　see　him　were　announced　to　him—among　them　a　Frenchman；　who　had　brought　a　letter　from　his　wife；　the　Countess　Elena　Vassilyevna—he　felt　suddenly　overcome　by　that　sense　of　the　hopelessness　and　intricacy　of　his　position　to　which　he　was　particularly　liable。　He　suddenly　felt　that　everything　was　now　at　an　end；　everything　was　in　a　muddle；　everything　was　breaking　down；　that　no　one　was　right　nor　wrong；　that　there　was　no　future　before　him；　and　that　there　was　no　possible　escape　from　the　position。　Smiling　unnaturally　and　muttering　to　himself；　he　sat　on　the　sofa　in　a　pose　expressive　of　utter　hopelessness；　or　got　up；　approached　the　door；　and　peeped　through　the　crack　into　the　reception…room；　where　his　visitors　were　awaiting　him；　then　turned　back　with　a　gesture　of　despair　and　took　up　a　book。　The　butler　came　in　for　the　second　time　with　a　message　that　the　Frenchman　who　had　brought　the　letter　from　the　countess　was　very　desirous　of　seeing　him　if　only　for　a　minute；　and　that　they　had　sent　from　the　widow　of　Osip　Alexyevitch　Bazdyev　to　ask　him　to　take　charge　of　some　books；　as　Madame　Bazdyev　was　going　away　into　the　country。
“Oh；　yes；　in　a　minute；　wait　…　No；　no；　go　and　say；　I　am　coming　immediately；”　said　Pierre。
As　soon　as　the　butler　had　left　the　room；　Pierre　had　taken　up　his　hat；　which　was　lying　on　the　table；　and　gone　out　by　the　other　door。　He　found　no　one　in　the　corridor。　Pierre　walked　the　whole　length　of　the　corridor　to　the　staircase；　and　frowning　and　rubbing　his　forehead　with　both　hands；　he　went　down　as　far　as　the　first　story　landing。　The　porter　was　standing　at　the　front　door。　A　second　staircase　led　from　the　landing　to　the　back　entrance。　Pierre　went　down　the　back　stairs　and　out　into　the　yard。　No　one　had　seen　him。　But　as　soon　as　he　turned　out　at　the　gates　into　the　street；　the　coachman；　standing　by　the　carriages；　and　the　gate…porter　saw　him　and　took　off　their　caps　to　him。　Aware　of　their　eyes　fixed　on　him；　Pierre　did；　as　the　ostrich　does；　hiding　its　head　in　a　bush　to　escape　being　seen；　ducking　his　head　and　quickening　his　pace　he　hurried　along　the　street。
Of　all　the　business　awaiting　Pierre　that　morning；　the　task　of　sorting　the　books　and　papers　of　Osip　Alexyevitch　seemed　to　him　the　most　urgent。
He　hailed　the　first　cab…driver　he　came　across；　and　told　him　to　drive　to　Patriarch’s　Ponds；　where　was　the　house　of　the　widow　of　Bazdyev。
Continually　watching　the　loaded　vehicles　moving　out　of　Moscow　from　all　directions；　and　balancing　his　bulky　person　carefully　not　to　slip　out　of　the　rickety　old　chaise；　Pierre　had　the　happy　sensation　of　a　run…away　schoolboy；　as　he　chatted　with　his　driver。
The　latter　told　him　that　to…day　arms　were　being　given　out　in　the　Kremlin；　and　that　next　day　every　one　would　be　driven　out　beyond　the　Three　Hills　Gate；　and　there　there　was　to　be　a　great　battle。
On　reaching　the　Patriarch’s　Ponds；　Pierre　looked　for　Bazdyev’s　house；　where　he　had　not　been　for　a　long　while　past。　He　went　up　to　a　little　garden　gate。　Gerasim；　the　yellow；　beardless　old　man　Pierre　had　seen　five　years　before　at　Torzhok　with　Osip　Alexyevitch；　came　out　on　hearing　him　knock。
“At　home？”　asked