战争与和平(上)-第358章

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ard　over　Russians　as　cold　and　starving；　who　were　continually　dying　and　being　left　behind　on　the　road；　and　whom　they　had　orders　to　shoot—it　was　not　only　incomprehensible；　but　revolting。　And　the　soldiers　of　the　escort；　apparently　afraid　in　the　miserable　plight　they　were　in　themselves；　to　give　way　to　the　pity　they　felt　for　the　prisoners；　for　fear　of　making　their　own　lot　harder；　treated　them　with　marked　moroseness　and　severity。
At　Dorogobuzh　the　soldiers　of　the　escort　had　gone　off　to　plunder　their　own　stores；　leaving　the　prisoners　locked　in　a　stable；　and　several　prisoners　had　burrowed　under　the　wall　and　run　away；　but　they　were　caught　by　the　French　and　shot。
The　arrangement；　made　at　the　start　from　Moscow；　that　the　officers　among　the　prisoners　should　march　separately　from　the　common　soldiers；　had　long　since　been　given　up。　All　who　could　walk　marched　together；　and　at　the　third　stage　Pierre　had　rejoined　Karataev　and　the　bow…legged；　purple…grey　dog；　who　had　chosen　Karataev　for　her　master。
On　the　third　day　after　leaving　Moscow；　Karataev　had　a　return　of　the　fever；　which　had　kept　him　in　the　Moscow　hospital；　and　as　Karataev’s　strength　failed；　Pierre　held　more　aloof　from　him。　Pierre　could　not　have　said　why　it　was；　but　from　the　time　Karataev　fell　sick；　he　had　to　make　an　effort　to　force　himself　to　go　near　him。　And　when　he　did　go　near　him　and　heard　the　subdued　moans；　which　Karataev　often　uttered；　as　he　lay　at　the　halting…places；　and　smelt　the　increasing　odour　from　the　sick　man。　Pierre　moved　further　away　from　him　and　did　not　think　about　him。
In　captivity　in　the　shed　that　had　been　his　prison；　Pierre　had　learned　not　through　his　intellect；　but　through　his　whole　being；　through　life；　that　man　is　created　for　happiness；　that　happiness　lies　in　himself；　in　the　satisfaction　of　his　natural；　human　cravings；　that　all　unhappiness　is　due；　not　to　lack　of　what　is　needful；　but　to　superfluity。　But　now；　during　the　last　three　weeks　of　the　march；　he　had　learned　another　new　and　consolatory　truth—he　had　learned　that　there　is　nothing　terrible　to　be　dreaded　in　the　world。　He　had　learned　that　just　as　there　is　no　position　in　the　world　in　which　a　man　can　be　happy　and　perfectly　free；　so　too　there　is　no　position　in　which　he　need　be　unhappy　and　in　bondage。　He　had　found　out　that　there　is　a　limit　to　suffering　and　a　limit　to　freedom；　and　that　that　limit　is　very　soon　reached；　that　the　man　who　suffered　from　a　crumpled　petal　in　his　bed　of　roses；　suffered　just　as　much　as　he　suffered　now；　sleeping　on　the　bare；　damp　earth；　with　one　side　getting　chilled　as　the　other　side　got　warm；　that　when　in　former　days　he　had　put　on　his　tight　dancing…shoes；　he　had　suffered　in　just　the　same　way　as　now；　when　he　walked　quite　barefoot　（his　foot…gear　had　long　since　fallen　to　pieces）；　with　his　feet　covered　with　sores。　He　learned　that　when　he　had—by　his　own　free…will；　as　he　had　fancied—married　his　wife；　he　had　been　no　more　free　than　now　when　he　was　locked　up　for　the　night　in　a　stable。　Of　all　that　he　did　himself　afterwards　call　sufferings；　though　at　the　time　he　hardly　felt　them　so；　the　chief　was　the　state　of　his　bare；　blistered；　sore　feet。　The　horse…flesh　was　savoury　and　nourishing；　the　saltpetre　flavour　given　it　by　the　gun…powder　they　used　instead　of　salt　was　positively　agreeable；　there　was　no　great　degree　of　cold；　it　was　always　warm　in　the　daytime　on　the　march；　and　at　night　there　were　the　camp…fires；　and　the　lice　that　devoured　him　helped　to　keep　him　warm。　One　thing　was　painful　in　the　earlier　days—　that　was　his　feet。
On　the　second　day　of　the　march；　as　he　examined　his　blisters　by　the　camp…fire；　Pierre　thought　he　could　not　possibly　walk　on　them；　but　when　they　all　got　up；　he　set　off　limping；　and　later　on；　when　he　got　warm；　he　walked　without　pain；　though　his　feet　looked　even　more　terrible　that　evening。　But　he　did　not　look　at　them；　and　thought　of　something　else。
Only　now　Pierre　grasped　all　the　force　of　vitality　in　man；　and　the　saving　power　innate　in　man；　of　transferring　his　attention；　like　the　safety…valve　in　steam…engines；　that　lets　off　the　superfluous　steam　so　soon　as　its　pressure　exceeds　a　certain　point。
He　did　not　see　and　did　not　hear　how　the　prisoners　that　lagged　behind　were　shot；　though　more　than　a　hundred　of　them　had　perished　in　that　way。　He　did　not　think　about　Karataev；　who　was　getting　weaker　every　day；　and　would　obviously　soon　fall　a　victim　to　the　same　fate。　Still　less　did　Pierre　think　about　himself。　The　harder　his　lot　became；　the　more　terrible　his　future；　the　more　independent　of　his　present　plight　were　the　glad　and　soothing　thoughts；　memories；　and　images　that　occurred　to　him。


Chapter　13
AT　MIDDAY　on　the　22nd；　Pierre　was　walking　along　the　muddy；　slippery　road　uphill；　looking　at　his　feet　and　at　the　unevenness　of　the　road。　From　time　to　time　he　glanced　at　the　familiar　crowd　around　him；　and　then　again　at　his　feet。　Both　that　crowd　and　those　feet　were　alike　his　and　familiar　to　him。　The　purplish；　bandy…legged；　grey　dog　was　running　merrily　along　at　the　side　of　the　road；　sometimes　picking　up　a　hind　leg；　and　skipping　along　on　three　paws　as　a　sign　of　content　and　briskness；　or　barking　at　the　crows　that　perched　on　the　carrion。　The　grey　dog　was　sleeker　and　merrier　than　in　Moscow。　All　around　lay　the　flesh　of　different　animals—　from　men　to　horses—in　different　stages　of　decomposition；　and　the　marching　soldiers　prevented　wolves　from　coming　near　it；　so　that　the　grey　dog　could　feast　to　her　heart’s　content。
Rain　had　been　falling　since　early　morning；　and　it　seemed　continually　as　though　in　another　minute　it　would　cease　and　the　sky　would　clear；　when；　after　a　short　break；　the　rain　came　on　again　more　heavily。　The　road；　saturated　with　rain；　could　soak　up　no　more；　and　streams　flowed　along　the　ruts。
Pierre　walked；　looking　from　side　to　side；　counting　his　steps；　and　reckoning　them　off　in　threes　on　his　fingers。　Inwardly　addressing　the　rain；　he　said　to　it；　“Now　then；　come　on　then；　pelt　away！”
It　seemed　to　him　that　he　was　thinking　of　nothing　at　all；　but　somewhere　deep　down　his　soul　was　pondering　something　grave　and　consolatory。　That　something　was　the　subtlest；　spiritual　deduction　arising　from　his　talk　the　night　before　with　Karataev。
Getting　chilled　by　the　dying　fire　on　the　previous　night’s　halt；　Pierre　had　got　up　and　moved　to　the　next　fire；　which　was　burning　better。　There　Platon　was　sitting；　with　a　coat　put　over　his　head；　like　a　priest’s　chasuble。　In　his　flexible；　pleasant　voice；　feeble　now　from　illness；　he　was　telling　the　soldiers　a　story　Pierre　had　heard　already。　It　was　past　midnight；　the　time　when　Karataev’s　fever　usually　abated；　and　he　was　particularly　lively。　As　he　drew　near　the　fire　and　heard　Platon’s　weak；　sickly　voice；　and　saw　his　piteous　mien　in　the　bright　firelight；　Pierre　felt　a　pang　at　heart。　He　was　frightened　at　his　own　pity　for　this　man；　and　would　have　gone　away；　but　there　was　no　other　fire　to　go　to；　and　trying　not　to　look　at　Platon；　he　sat　down　by　it。
“Well；　how　is　your　fever？”　he　asked。
“How　is　my　fever？　Weep　over　sickness；　and　God　won’t　give　you　death；”　said　Karataev；　and　he　went　back　at　once　to　the　story　he　had　begun。
“And　so；　brother；”　he　went　on　with　a　smile　on　his　thin；　white　face；　and　a　peculiar；　joyful　light　in　his　eyes；　“And　so；　brother　…”
Pierre　had　heard　the　story　long　before。　Karataev　had　told　it　to　him；　about　six　times　already；　and　always　with　special　joyful　emotion。　But　well　as　Pierre　knew　the　story；　he　listened　to　it　now　as　though　it　were　something　new；　and　the　subdued　ecstasy；　which　Karataev　evidently　felt　in　telling　it；　infected　Pierre　too。
It　was　the　story　of　an　old　merchant；　who　had　lived　in　good　works　and　in　the　fear　of　God　with　his　family；　and　had　made　a　journey　one　day　with　a　companion；　a　rich　merchant；　to　Makary。
Both　the　merchants　had　put　up　at　an　inn　and　gone　to　sleep；　and　next　day　the　rich　merchant　had　been　found　robbed；　and　with　his　throat　cut。　A　knife；　stained　with　blood；　was　found　under　the　old　merchant’s　pillow。　The　merchant　was　tried；　sentenced　to　be　flogged；　and　to　have　his　nostrils　slit—all　according　to　the　law　in　due　course；　as　Karataev　said—and　sent　to　hard　labour。
“And　so；　brother”　（it　was　at　this　point　in　the　story　that　Pierre　found　Karataev）　“ten　years　or　more　passed　by　after　that。　The　old　man　lives　on　in　prison。　He　submits；　as　is　fitting；