战争与和平(上)-第294章

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癉o　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　Pierre。
“Owing　to　present　circumstances；　Sofya　Danilovna　and　her　children　have　gone　away　into　the　country；　your　excellency。”
“I’ll　come　in；　all　the　same；　I　want　to　look　through　the　books；”　said　Pierre。
“Pray　do；　you　are　very　welcome；　the　brother　of　my　late　master—the　heavenly　kingdom　be　his！—Makar　Alexyevitch　has　remained；　but　your　honour　is　aware　he　is　in　feeble　health；”　said　the　old　servant。
Makar　Alexyevitch　was；　as　Pierre　knew；　a　brother　of　Osip　Alexyevitch；　a　half…mad　creature；　besotted　by　drink。
“Yes；　yes；　I　know。　Let　us　go　in；”　said　Pierre；　and　he　went　into　the　house。　A　tall；　bald　old　man　in　a　dressing…gown；　with　a　red　nose　and　goloshes　on　his　bare　feet；　was　standing　in　the　vestibule；　seeing　Pierre；　he　muttered　something　angrily；　and　walked　away　into　the　corridor。
“He　was　a　great　intellect；　but　now；　as　your　honour　can　see；　he　has　grown　feeble；”　said　Gerasim。　“Will　you　like　to　go　into　the　study？”　Pierre　nodded。　“As　it　was　sealed　up；　so　it　has　remained。　Sofya　Danilovna　gave　orders　that　if　you　sent　for　the　books　they　were　to　be　handed　over。”
Pierre　went　into　the　gloomy　study；　which　he　had　entered　with　such　trepidation　in　the　lifetime　of　his　benefactor。　Now　covered　with　dust；　and　untouched　since　the　death　of　Osip　Alexyevitch；　the　room　was　gloomier　than　ever。
Gerasim　opened　one　blind；　and　went　out　of　the　room　on　tiptoe。　Pierre　walked　round　the　study；　went　up　to　the　bookcase；　where　the　manuscripts　were　kept；　and　took　one　of　the　most　important；　at　one　time　a　sacred　relic　of　the　order。　This　consisted　of　the　long　Scottish　acts　of　the　order；　with　Bazdyev’s　notes　and　commentaries。　He　sat　down　to　the　dusty　writing…table　and　laid　the　manuscripts　down　before　him；　opened　and　closed　them；　and　at　last；　pushing　them　away；　sank　into　thought；　with　his　elbow　on　the　table　and　his　head　in　his　hand。
Several　times　Gerasim　peeped　cautiously　into　the　study　and　saw　that　Pierre　was　sitting　in　the　same　attitude。
More　than　two　hours　passed　by；　Gerasim　ventured　to　make　a　slight　noise　at　the　door　to　attract　Pi