战争与和平(上)-第247部分

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ceited；　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　captain。
Then　Pierre　explained　that　he　had　loved　this　woman　from　his　earliest　youth；　but　had　not　dared　to　think　of　her　because　she　was　too　young；　and　he　had　been　an　illegitimate　son；　with　no　name　of　his　own。　Then　when　he　had　received　a　name　and　wealth；　he　had　not　dared　think　of　her　because　he　loved　her　too　much；　because　he　set　her　too　high　above　all　the　world；　and　so　even　more　above　himself。　On　reaching　this　point；　Pierre　asked　the　captain；　did　he　understand　that。
The　captain　made　a　gesture　expressing　that　whether　he　understood　it　or　not；　he　begged　him　to　proceed。
“Platonic　love；　moonshine…”　he　muttered。　The　wine　he　had　drunk；　or　an　impulse　of　frankness；　or　the　thought　that　this　man　did　not　know　and　never　would　know；　any　of　the　persons　concerned　in　his　story；　or　all　together　loosened　Pierre’s　tongue。　With　faltering　lips　and　with　a　faraway　look　in　his　moist　eye；　he　told　all　his　story；　his　marriage　and　the　story　of　Natasha’s　love　for　his　dearest　friend　and　her　betrayal　of　him；　and　all　his　own　simple　relations　with　her。　In　response　to　questions　from　Ramballe；　he　told　him；　too；　what　he　had　at　first　concealed—his　position　in　society—and　even　disclosed　his　name。
What　impressed　the　captain　more　than　anything　else　in　Pierre’s　story　was　the　fact　that　Pierre　was　very　wealthy；　that　he　had　two　palatial　houses　in　Moscow；　and　that　he　had　abandoned　everything；　and　yet　had　not　left　Moscow；　but　was　staying　in　the　town　concealing　his　name　and　station。
Late　in　the　night　they　went　out　together　into　the　street。　The　night　was　warm　and　clear。　On　the　left　there　was　the　glow　of　the　first　fire　that　broke　out　in　Moscow；　in　Petrovka。　On　the　right　a　young　crescent　moon　stood　high　in　the　sky；　and　in　the　opposite　quarter　of　the　heavens　hung　the　brilliant　comet　which　was　connected　in　Pierre’s　heart　with　his　love。　At　the　gates　of　the　yard　stood　Gerasim；　the　cook；　and　two　Frenchmen。　Pierre　could　hear　their　laughter　and　talk；　incomprehensible　to　one　another。　They　were　looking　at　the　glow　of　the　fire　burning　in　the　town。
There　was　nothing　alarming　in　a　small　remote　fire　in　the　immense　city。
Gazing　at　the　lofty；　starlit　sky；　at　the　moon；　at　the　comet　and　the　glow　of　the　fire；　Pierre　felt　a　thrill　of　joyous　and　tender　emotion。　“How　fair　it　all　is！　what　more　does　one　want？”　he　thought。　And　all　at　once；　when　he　recalled　his　design；　his　head　seemed　going　round；　he　felt　so　giddy　that　he　leaned　against　the　fence　so　as　not　to　fall。
Without　taking　leave　of　his　new　friend；　Pierre　left　the　gate　with　unsteady　steps；　and　going　back　to　his　room　lay　down　on　the　sofa　and　at　once　fell　asleep。


Chapter　30
FROM　VARIOUS　ROADS；　and　with　various　feelings；　the　inhabitants　running　and　driving　away　from　Moscow；　and　the　retreating　troops；　gazed　at　the　glow　of　the　first　fire　that　broke　out　in　the　city　on　the　2nd　of　September。
The　Rostovs’　party　stopped　for　that　night　at　Mytishtchy；　twenty　versts　from　Moscow。　They　had　started　so　late　on　the　1st　of　September；　the　road　had　been　so　blocked　by　waggons　and　troops；　so　many　things　had　been　forgotten；　and　servants　sent　back　to　get　them；　that　they　had　decided　to　halt　for　the　first　night　five　versts　from　Moscow。　The　next　morning　they　walked　late；　and　there　were　again　so　many　delays　that　they　only　reached　Great　Mytishtchy。　At　ten　o’clock　the　Rostov　family；　and　the　wounded　soldiers　travelling　with　them；　had　all　found　places　for　the　night　in　the　yards　and　huts　of　the　greater　village。　The　servants；　the　Rostovs’　coachmen；　and　the　orderlies　of　the　wounded　officers；　after　settling　their　masters　for　the　night；　supped；　fed　their　horses；　and　came　out　into　the　porch　of　a　hut。
In　the　next　hut　lay　Raevsky’s　adjutant　with　a　broken　wrist；　and　the　terrible　pain　made　him　moan　incessantly；　and　these　moans　had　a　grue…some　sound　in　the　autumn　darkness　of　the　night。　On　the　first　night　this　adjutant　had　spent　the　night　in　a　building　in　the　same　yard　as　the　hut　in　which　the　Rostovs　slept。　The　countess　declared　that　she　had　not　closed　her　eyes　all　night　from　that　moaning；　and　at　Mytishtchy　she　had　moved　into　a　less　comfortable　hut　simply　to　get　further　away　from　the　wounded　man。　One　of　the　servants　noticed　in　the　dark　night　sky；　above　the　high　carriage　standing　at　the　entry；　another　small　glow　of　fire。　One　such　glow　had　been　seen　long　before；　and　every　one　knew　it　was　Little　Mytishtchy；　which　had　been　set　on　fire　by　Mamonov’s　Cossacks。
“I　say；　mates；　there’s　another　fire；”　said　the　man。　All　of　them　looked　towards　the　glow。
“Why；　they　told　us　Mamonov’s　Cossacks　had　fired　Little　Mytishtchy。”　“Nay！　that’s　not　Mytishtchy；　it’s　further。”　“Look’ee；　it’s　in　Moscow　seemingly。”　Two　of　the　men　left　the　porch；　went　to　a　carriage　and　squatted　on　the　step。　“It’s　more　to　the　left！　Why；　Mytishtchy　is　away　yonder；　and　that’s　quite　the　other　side。”
Several　more　men　joined　the　first　group。
“I　say　it　is　flaring；”　said　one；　“that’s　a　fire　in　Moscow；　my　friends；　either　in　Sushtchovsky　or　in　Rogozhsky。”
No　one　answered　this　remark。　And　for　a　good　while　all　these　men　gazed　in　silence　at　the　flames　of　this　new　conflagration　glowing　far　away。　An　old　man；　the　count’s　valet　（as　he　was　called）；　Danilo　Terentyitch；　came　up　to　the　crowd　and　called　Mishka。
“What　are　you　gaping　at？　…　The　count　may　ask　for　you　and　nobody　to　be　found；　go　and　put　the　clothes　together。”
“Oh；　I　only　ran　out　for　some　water；”　said　Mishka。
“And　what　do　you　say；　Danilo　Terentyitch？　that’s　a　fire　in　Moscow；　isn’t　it？”　said　one　of　the　footmen。
Danilo　Terentyitch　made　no　reply；　and　for　a　long　while　all　were　mute　again。　The　glow　spread　wider；　and　flickered　further　and　further　away。
“God　have　mercy！　…　a　wind　and　the　drought　…”　said　a　voice　again。
“Look’ee；　how　it’s　spreading。　O　Lord！　why；　one　can　see　the　jackdaws！　Lord；　have　mercy　on　us　poor　sinners！”
“They’ll　put　it　out；　never　fear。”
“Who’s　to　put　it　out？”　cried　the　voice　of　Danilo　Terentyitch；　silent　till　that　moment。　His　voice　was　quiet　and　deliberate。　“Moscow　it　is；　mates；”　he　said；　“it’s　she；　our　mother；　the　white　city　…”　his　voice　broke；　and　he　suddenly　burst　into　the　sobs　of　old　age。　An