战争与和平(上)-第85部分

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ring　affectation　on　his　lips　in　answer　to　my　remorse。”
Pierre　was　one　of　those　people　who　in　spite　of　external　weakness　of　character—so…called—do　not　seek　a　confidant　for　their　sorrows。　He　worked　through　his　trouble　alone。
“She；　she　alone　is　to　blame　for　everything；”　he　said　to　himself；　“but　what　of　it？　Why　did　I　bind　myself　to　her；　why　did　I　say　to　her　that　‘I　love　you；’　which　was　a　lie；　and　worse　than　a　lie；”　he　said　to　himself；　“I　am　to　blame；　and　ought　to　bear　…　What？　The　disgrace　to　my　name；　the　misery　of　my　life？　Oh；　that’s　all　rubbish；”　he　thought；　“disgrace　to　one’s　name　and　honour；　all　that’s　relative；　all　that’s　apart　from　myself。
“Louis　XVI　was　executed　because　they　said　he　was　dishonourable　and　a　criminal”　（the　idea　crossed　Pierre’s　mind）；　“and　they　were　right　from　their　point　of　view　just　as　those　were　right　too　who　died　a　martyr’s　death　for　his　sake；　and　canonised　him　as　a　saint。　Then　Robespierre　was　executed　for　being　a　tyrant。　Who　is　right；　who　is　wrong？　No　one。　But　live　while　you　live；　to…morrow　you　die；　as　I　might　have　died　an　hour　ago。　And　is　it　worth　worrying　oneself；　when　life　is　only　one　second　in　comparison　with　eternity？”　But　at　the　moment　when　he　believed　himself　soothed　by　reflections　of　that　sort；　he　suddenly　had　a　vision　of　her；　and　of　her　at　those　moments　when　he　had　most　violently　expressed　his　most　insincere　love　to　her；　and　he　felt　a　rush　of　blood　to　his　heart；　and　had　to　jump　up　again；　and　move　about　and　break　and　tear　to　pieces　anything　that　his　hands　came　across。　“Why　did　I　say　to　her　‘I　love　you’？”　he　kept　repeating　to　himself。　And　as　he　repeated　the　question　for　the　tenth　time　the　saying　of　Molière　came　into　his　head：　“But　what　the　devil　was　he　doing　in　that　galley？”　and　he　laughed　at　himself。
In　the　night　he　called　for　his　valet　and　bade　him　pack　up　to　go　to　Petersburg。　He　could　not　conceive　how　he　was　going　to　speak　to　her　now。　He　resolved　that　next　day　he　would　go　away；　leaving　her　a　letter；　in　which　he　would　announce　his　intention　of　parting　from　her　for　ever。
In　the　morning　when　the　valet　came　into　the　study　with　his　coffee；　Pierre　was　lying　on　an　ottoman　asleep　with　an　open　book　in　his　hand。
He　woke　up　and　looked　about　him　for　a　long　while　in　alarm；　unable　to　grasp　where　he　was。
“The　countess　sent　to　inquire　if　your　excellency　were　at　home；”　said　the　valet。
But　before　Pierre　had　time　to　make　up　his　mind　what　answer　he　would　send；　the　countess　herself　walked　calmly　and　majestically　into　the　room。　She　was　wearing　a　white　satin　dressing…gown　embroidered　with　silver；　and　had　her　hair　in　two　immense　coils　wound　like　a　coronet　round　her　exquisite　head。　In　spite　of　her　calm；　there　was　a　wrathful　line　on　her　rather　prominent；　marble　brow。　With　her　accustomed　self…control　and　composure　she　did　not　begin　to　speak　till　the　valet　had　left　the　room。　She　knew　of　the　duel　and　had　come　to　talk　of　it。　She　waited　till　the　valet　had　set　the　coffee　and　gone　out。　Pierre　looked　timidly　at　her　over　his　spectacles；　and　as　the　hare；　hemmed　in　by　dogs；　goes　on　lying　with　its　ears　back　in　sight　of　its　foes；　so　he　tried　to　go　on　reading。　But　he　felt　that　this　was　senseless　and　impossible；　and　again　he　glanced　timidly　at　her。　She　did　not　sit　down；　but　stood　looking　at　him　with　a　disdainful　smile；　waiting　for　the　valet　to　be　gone。
“What’s　this　about　now？　What　have　you　been　up　to？　I’m　asking　you；”　she　said　sternly。
“I？　I？　what？”　said　Pierre。
“You　going　in　for　deeds　of　valour！　Now；　answer　me；　what　does　this　duel　mean？　What　did　you　want　to　prove　by　it？　Eh！　I　ask　you　the　question。”　Pierre　turned　heavily　on　the　sofa；　opened　his　mouth　but　could　not　answer。
“If　you　won’t　answer；　I’ll　tell　you　…”　Ellen　went　on。　“You　believe　everything　you’re　told。　You　were　told　…”　Ellen　laughed；　“that　Dolohov　was　my　lover；”　she　said　in　French；　with　her　coarse　plainness　of　speech；　uttering　the　word　“amant”　like　any　other　word；　“and　you　believed　it！　But　what　have　you　proved　by　this？　What　have　you　proved　by　this　duel？　That　you’re　a　fool；　but　every　one　knew　that　as　it　was。　What　does　it　lead　to？　Why；　that　I’m　made　a　laughing…stock　to　all　Moscow；　that　every　one’s　saying　that　when　you　were　drunk　and　didn’t　know　what　you　were　doing；　you　challenged　a　man　of　whom　you　were　jealous　without　grounds；”　Ellen　raised　her　voice　and　grew　more　and　more　passionate；　“who’s　a　better　man　than　you　in　every　respect。　…”
“Hem　…　hem　…”　Pierre　growled；　wrinkling　up　his　face；　and　neither　looking　at　her　nor　stirring　a　muscle。
“And　how　came　you　to　believe　that　he’s　my　lover？　…　Eh？　Because　I　like　his　society？　If　you　were　cleverer　and　more　agreeable；　I　should　prefer　yours。”
“Don’t　speak　to　me　…　I　beseech　you；”　Pierre　muttered　huskily。
“Why　shouldn’t　I　speak？　I　can　speak　as　I　like；　and　I　tell　you　boldly　that　it’s　not　many　a　wife　who　with　a　husband　like　you　wouldn’t　have　taken　a　lover；　but　I　haven’t　done　it；”　she　said。　Pierre　tried　to　say　something；　glanced　at　her　with　strange　eyes；　whose　meaning　she　did　not　comprehend；　and　lay　down　again。　He　was　in　physical　agony　at　that　moment；　he　felt　a　weight　on　his　chest　so　that　he　could　not　breathe。　He　knew　that　he　must　do　something　to　put　an　end　to　this　agony　but　what　he　wanted　to　do　was　too　horrible。
“We　had　better　part；”　he　articulated　huskily。
“Part；　by　all　means；　only　if　you　give　me　a　fortune；”　said　Ellen。　…　“Part—that’s　a　threat　to　frighten　me！”
Pierre　leaped　up　from　the　couch　and　rushed　staggering　towards　her。
“I’ll　kill　you！”　he　shouted；　and　snatching　up　a　marble　slab　from　a　table　with　a　strength　he　had　not　known　in　himself　till　then；　he　made　a　step　towards　her　and　waved　it　at　her。
Ellen’s　face　was　terrible　to　see；　she　shrieked　and　darted　away　from　him。　His　father’s　nature　showed　itself　in　him。　Pierre　felt　the　abandonment　and　the　fascination　of　frenzy。　He　flung　down　the　slab；　shivering　it　into　fragments；　and　with　open　arms　swooping　down　upon　Ellen；　screamed　“Go！”　in　a　voice　so　terrible　that　they　heard　it　all　over　the　house　with　horror。　God　knows　what　Pierre　would　have　done　at　that　moment　if　Ellen　had　not　run　out　of　the　room。
A　week　later　Pierre　had　made　over　to　his　wife　the　revenue　from　all　his　estates　in　Great　Russia；　which　made　up　the　larger　half　of　his　property；　and　had　gone　away　alone　to　Petersburg。


Chapter　7
TWO　MONTHS　had　passed　since　the　news　of　the　defeat　of　Austerlitz　and　the　loss　of　Prince　Andrey　had　reached　Bleak　Hills。　In　spite　of　all　researches　and　letters　through　the　Russian　embassy；　his　body　had　not　been　found；　nor　was　he　among　the　prisoners。　What　made　it　worst　of　all　for　his　father　and　sister　was　the　fact　that　there　was　still　hope　that　he　might　have　been　picked　up　on　the　battlefield　by　the　people　of　the　country；　and　might　perhaps　be　lying；　recovering；　or　dying　somewhere　alone；　among　strangers；　incapable　of　giving　any　account　of　himself。　The　newspapers；　from　which　the　old　prince　had　first　heard　of　the　defeat　at　Austerlitz；　had；　as　always；　given　very　brief　and　vague　accounts　of　how　the　Russians　had　been　obliged　after　brilliant　victories　to　retreat　and　had　made　their　withdrawal　in　perfect　order。　The　old　prince　saw　from　this　official　account　that　our　army　had　been　defeated。　A　week　after　the　newspaper　that　had　brought　news　of　the　defeat　of　Austerlitz；　came　a　letter　from　Kutuzov；　who　described　to　the　old　prince　the　part　taken　in　it　by　his　son。
“Before　my　eyes；”　wrote　Kutuzov；　“your　son　with　the　flag　in　his　hands；　at　the　head　of　a　regiment；　fell　like　a　hero；　worthy　of　his　father　and　his　fatherland。　To　my　regret　and　the　general　regret　of　the　whole　army　it　has　not　been　ascertained　up　to　now　whether　he　is　alive　or　dead。　I　comfort　myself　and　you　with　the　hope　that　your　son　is　living；　as；　otherwise；　he　would　have　been　mentioned　among　the　officers　found　on　the　field　of　battle；　a　list　of　whom　has　been　given　me　under　flag　of　truce。”
After　receiving　this　letter；　late　in　the　evening　when　he　was　alone　in　his　study；　the　old　prince　went　for　this　morning　walk　as　usual　next　day。　But　he　was　silent　with　the　bailiff；　the　gardener；　and　the　architect；　and　though　he　looked　wrathful；　said　nothing　to　them。　When　Princess　Marya　went　in　to　him　at　the　usual　hour；　he　was　standing　at　the　lathe　and　went　on　turning　as　usual；　without　looking　round　at　her。　“Ah？　Princess　Marya！”　he　said　suddenly　in　an　unnatural　voice；　and　he　let　the　lathe　go。　（The　wheel　swung　round　from　the　impetus。　Long　after；　Princess　Marya　remembered　the　dying　creak　of　the　wheel；　which　was　associated　for　her　with　what　followed。）
Princess　Marya　went　up　to　him；　she　caught　sight　of　his　face；　and　something　seemed　suddenly　to　give　way　within　her。　Her　eyes　could　not　see　clearly。　From　her　father’s　face—not　sad　nor　crushed；　but　vindictive　and　full　of　unnatural　conflict—she　saw　that　there　was　hanging　over　her；　coming　to　crush　her；　a　terrible　calamity；　the　worst　in　life；　a　calamity　she　had　not　known　till　then；　a　calamity　irrevocable；　irremediable；　the　death　of　one　beloved。
“Father！　Andrey？　…”　said　the　ungainly；　awkward　princess　with　such　unutterable　beauty　of　sorrow　and　self…forgetfulness　that　her　father　could　not　bear　to　meet　her　eyes　and　turned　away　sobbing。
“I　have　had　news。　Not　among　the　prisoners；　not　among　the　killed；　Kutuzov　writes；”　he　screamed　shrilly；　as　though　he　would　drive　his　daughter　away　with　that　shriek。　“Killed！”
The　princess　did　not　swoon；　she　did　not　fall　into　a　faint。　She　was　pale；　but　when　she　heard　those　words　her　face　was　transformed；　and　there　was　a　radiance　of　something　in　her　beautiful；　luminous　eyes。　Something　like　joy；　an　exalted　joy；　apart　from　the　sorrows　and　joys　of　this　world；　flooded　the　bitter　grief　she　felt　within　her。　She　forgot　all　her　terror　of　her　father；　went　up　to　him；　took　him　by　the　hand；　drew　him　to　her；　and　put　her　arm　about　his　withered；　sinewy　neck。
“Father；”　she　said；　“do　not　turn　away　from　me；　let　us　weep　for　him　together。”
“Blackguards；　scoundrels！”　screamed　the　old　man；　turning　his　face　away　from　her。　“Destroying　the　army；　destroying　men！　What　for？　Go；　go　and　tell　Liza。”
Princess　Marya　sank　helplessly　into　an　armchair　beside　her　father　and　burst　into　tears。　She　could　see　her　brother　now　at　the　moment　when　he　parted　from　her　and　from　Liza　with　his　tender　and　at　the　same　time　haughty　expression。　She　saw