战争与和平(上)-第285章

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of　life　were　nowhere　to　be　found。
Though　bullets　and　cannon　balls　were　not　whistling　here　on　the　road　along　which　he　was　going；　still　he　saw　here　on　all　sides　the　same　sights　as　on　the　field　of　battle。　There　were　everywhere　the　same　suffering；　exhausted；　and　sometimes　strangely　indifferent　faces；　everywhere　the　same　blood　and　soldiers’　overcoats；　the　same　sound　of　firing　at　a　distance；　yet　still　rousing　the　same　horror。　There　was　heat　and　dust　besides。
After　walking　about　three　versts　along　the　Mozhaisk　road；　Pierre　sat　down　by　the　roadside。
The　shadows　of　night　were　beginning　to　fall　over　the　earth；　and　the　roar　of　cannon　died　down。　Pierre　lay　leaning　on　his　elbow；　and　lay　so　a　long　while；　gazing　at　the　shadows　passing　by　him　in　the　dusk。　He　was　continually　fancying　that　a　cannon　ball　was　swooping　down　upon　him　with　a　fearful　whiz。　He　started　and　sat　up。　He　had　no　idea　how　long　he　had　been　there。　In　the　middle　of　the　night；　three　soldiers；　dragging　branches　after　them；　settled　themselves　near　him　and　began　making　a　fire。
Casting　sidelong　glances　at　Pierre；　the　soldiers　lighted　the　fire；　set　a　pot　on　it；　broke　up　their　biscuits　into　it；　and　put　in　some　lard。　The　pleasant　odour　of　the　savoury　and　greasy　mess　blended　with　the　smell　of　smoke。　Pierre　raised　himself　and　sighed。　The　soldiers　（there　were　three　of　them）　were　eating　and　talking　among　themselves。　without　taking　any　notice　of　Pierre。
“And　what　lot　will　you　be　one　of？”　one　of　the　soldiers　suddenly　asked　Pierre；　evidently　suggesting　in　this　inquiry　precisely　what　Pierre　was　thinking　about。　“If　you　are　hungry　we’ll　give　you　some；　only　tell　us　whether　you’re　a　true　man。”
“I？”　…　said　Pierre；　feeling　the　necessity　of　minimising　his　social　position　as　far　as　possible；　so　as　to　be　closer　to　the　soldiers　and　more　within　their　range。　“I　am　really　a　militia　officer；　but　my　company’s　nowhere　about；　I　came　to　the　battle　and　lost　sight　of　my　comrades。”
“Well！　Fancy　that！”　said　one　of　the　soldiers。
Another　soldier　shook　his　head。
“Well；　you　can　have　some　of　the　mash；　if　you　like！”　said　the　first；　and　licking　a　wooden　spoon　he　gave　it　to　Pierre。
Pierre　squatted　by　the　fire；　and　fell　to　eating　the　mess　in　the　pot；　which　seemed　to　him　the　most　delicious　dish　he　had　ever　tasted。　While　he　was　bending　over　the　pot；　helping　himself　to　big　spoonfuls　and　greedily　munching　one　after　another；　the　soldiers　stared　at　him　in　silence。
“Where　do　you　want　to　go？　Tell　us！”　the　first　of　them　asked　again。
“To　Mozhaisk。”
“You’re　a　gentleman；　then？”
“Yes。”
“And　what’s　your　name？”
“Pyotr　Kirillovitch。”
“Well；　Pyotr　Kirillovitch；　come　along；　we’ll　take　you　there。”
In　the　pitch　dark　the　soldiers　and　Pierre　walked　to　Mozhaisk。
The　cocks　were　crowing　when　they　reached　Mozhaisk；　and　began　ascending　the　steep　hill　into　the　town。
Pierre　walked　on　with　the　soldiers；　entirely　forgetting　that　his　inn　was　at　the　bottom　of　the　hill　and　he　had　passed　it。　He　would　not　have　been　aware　of　this—so　preoccupied　was　he—if　he　had　not　chanced　halfway　up　the　hill　to　stumble　across　his　groom；　who　had　been　to　look　for　him　in　the　town；　and　was　on　his　way　back　to　the　inn。　The　groom　recognised　Pierre　by　his　hat；　which　gleamed　white　in　the　dark。
“Your　excellency！”　he　cried；　“why；　we　had　quite　given　you　up。　How　is　it　you　are　on　foot？　And；　mercy　on　us；　where　are　you　going？”
“Oh；　to　be　sure…”　said　Pierre。
The　soldiers　halted。
“Well；　found　your　own　folks　then？”　said　one　of　them。
“Well；　good…bye　to　you—Pyotr　Kirillovitch；　wasn’t　it？”
“Good…bye；　Pyotr　Kirillovitch！”　said　the　other　voices。
“Good…bye；”　said　Pierre；　and　with　the　groom　he　turned　in　the　direction　of　the　inn。
“I　ought　to　give　them　something！”　thought　Pierre；　feeling　for　his　pocket。　“No；　better　not；”　some　inner　voice　prompted　him。
There　was　not　a　room　at　the　inn：　all　were　full。　Pierre　went　out　into　the　yard；　and　muffling　his　head　up；　lay　down　in　his　carriage。


Chapter　9
PIERRE　had　hardly　put　his　head　on　the　pillow　when　he　felt　that　he　was　dropping　asleep。　But　all　of　a　sudden　he　heard；　almost　with　the　distinctness　of　reality；　the　sound　of　the　boom；　boom；　boom　of　the　cannon；　the　groans　and　shrieks　and　dull　thud　of　the　falling　shell；　smelt　the　blood　and　powder；　and　the　feeling　of　horror；　of　the　dread　of　death　came　over　him。　He　opened　his　eyes　in　a　panic；　and　put　his　head　out　from　the　cloak。　All　was　quiet　in　the　yard。　The　only　sound　came　from　a　servant　of　some　sort　talking　with　the　porter　at　the　gate；　and　splashing　through　the　mud。　Over　Pierre’s　head；　under　the　dark；　wooden　eaves；　he　heard　pigeons　fluttering；　startled　by　the　movement　he　had　made　in　sitting　up。　The　whole　yard　was　pervaded　by　the　strong　smell　of　a　tavern—full　of　peaceful　suggestion　and　soothing　relief　to　Pierre—the　smell　of　hay；　of　dung；　and　of　tar。　Between　two　dark　sheds　he　caught　a　glimpse　of　the　pure；　starlit　sky。
“Thank　God；　that　is　all　over！”　thought　Pierre；　covering　his　head　up　again。　“Oh；　how　awful　terror　is；　and　how　shamefully　I　gave　way　to　it！　But　they…they　were　firm　and　calm　all　the　while　up　to　the　end　…”　he　thought。　They；　in　Pierre’s　mind；　meant　the　soldiers；　those　who　had　been　on　the　battery；　and　those　who　had　given　him　food；　and　those　who　had　prayed　to　the　holy　picture。　They—those　strange　people；　of　whom　he　had　known　nothing　hitherto—they　stood　out　clearly　and　sharply　in　his　mind　apart　from　all　other　people。
“To　be　a　soldier；　simply　a　soldier！”　thought　Pierre　as　he　fell　asleep。　“To　enter　with　one’s　whole　nature　into　that　common　life；　to　be　filled　with　what　makes　them　what　they　are。　But　how　is　one　to　cast　off　all　that　is　superfluous；　devilish　in　one’s　self；　all　the　burden　of　the　outer　man？　At　one　time　I　might　have　been　the　same。　I　might　have　run　away　from　my　father　as　I　wanted　to。　After　the　duel　with　Dolohov　too　I　might　have　been　sent　for　a　soldier。”
And　into　Pierre’s　imagination　flashed　a　picture　of　the　dinner　at　the　club；　at　which　he　had　challenged　Dolohov；　then　the　image　of　his　benefactor　at　Torzhok。　And　there　rose　before　his　mind　a　solemn　meeting　of　the　lodge。　It　was　taking　place　at　the　English　Club。　And　some　one　he　knew；　some　one　near　and　dear　to　him；　was　sitting　at　the　end　of　the　table。　“Why；　it　is　he！　It　is　my　benefactor。　But　surely　he　died？”　thought　Pierre。　“Yes；　he　did　die；　but　I　didn’t　know　he　was　alive。　And　how　sorry　I　was　when　he　died；　and　how　glad　I　am　he　is　alive　again！”　On　one　side　of　the　table　were　sitting　Anatole；　Dolohov；　Nesvitsky；　Denisov；　and　others　like　them　（in　Pierre’s　dream　these　people　formed　as　distinct　a　class　apart　as　those　other　men　whom　he　had　called　them　to　himself）；　and　those　people；　Anatole　and　Dolohov；　were　loudly　shouting　and　singing。　But　through　their　clamour　the　voice　of　his　benefactor　could　be　heard　speaking　all　the　while；　and　the　sound　of　his　voice　was　as　weighty　and　as　uninterrupted　as　the　din　of　the　battlefield；　but　it　was　pleasant　and　comforting。　Pierre　did　not　understand　what　his　benefactor　was　saying；　but　he　knew　（the　category　of　his　ideas；　too；　was　distinct　in　his　dream）　that　he　was　talking　of　goodness；　of　the　possibility　of　being　like　them。　And　they　with　their　simple；　good；　plucky　faces　were　surrounding　his　benefactor　on　all　sides。　But　though　they　were　kindly；　they　did　not　look　at　Pierre；　they　did　not　know　him。　Pierre　wanted　to　attract　their　notice；　and　to　speak　to　them。　He　got　up；　but　at　the　same　instant　became　aware　that　his　legs　were　bare　and　chill。
He　felt　ashamed；　and　put　his　arm　over　his　legs；　from　which　his　cloak　had　in　fact　slipped　off。　For　an　instant　Pierre　opened　his　eyes　as　he　pulled　up　the　cloak；　and　saw　the　same　roofs；　and　posts；　and　yard；　but　it　was　now　full　of　bluish　light；　and　glistening　with　dew　or　frost。
“It’s　getting　light；”　thought　Pierre。　“But　that’s　not　the　point。　I　want　to　hear　and　understand　the　benefactor’s　words。”
He　muffled　himself　in　the　cloak　again；　but　the　masonic　dinner　and　his　benefactor　would　not　come　back。　All　that　remained　were　thoughts；　clearly　expressed　in　words；　ideas；　some　voice　was　speaking；　or　Pierre　was　thinking。
When　he　recalled　those　thoughts　later；　although　they　had　been　evoked　by　the　impressions　of　that　day；　Pierre　was　convinced　that　they　were　uttered　by　some　one　outside　himself。　It　seemed　to　him　th