战争与和平(上)-第359章

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“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；　he　does　nothing　wrong。　Only　he　prays　to　God　for　death。　Very　well。　And　so　at　night…time　they　are　gathered　together；　the　convicts；　just　as　we　are　here；　and　the　old　man　with　them。　And　so　they　fall　to　talking　of　what　each　is　suffering　for；　and　how　he　has　sinned　against　God。　One　tells　how　he　took　a　man’s　life；　another　two；　another　had　set　fire　to　something；　and　another　was　a　runaway　just　for　no　reason。　So　they　began　asking　the　old　man；　‘What；’　they　say；　‘are　you　suffering　for；　grandfather？’　‘I　am　suffering；　dear　brethren；’　says　he；　‘for　my　own　sins；　and　for　other　men’s　sins。　I　have　not　taken　a　life；　nor　taken　other　men’s　goods；　save　what　I　have　bestowed　on　poorer　brethren。　I　was　a　merchant；　dear　brethren；　and　I　had　great　wealth。’　And　he　tells　them　this　and　that；　and　how　the　whole　thing　had　happened。　‘For　myself；’　says　he；　‘I　do　not　grieve。　God　has　chastened　me。　The　only　thing；’　says　he；　‘I　am　sorry　for　my　old　wife　and　my　children。’　And　so　the　old　man　fell　a…weeping。　And　it　so　happened　that　in　that　company　there　was　the　very　man；　you　know；　who　had　killed　the　merchant。　‘Where　did　it　happen；　grandfather？’　says　he。　‘When　and　in　what　month？’　and　so　he　asked　him　all　about　it。　His　heart　began　to　ache。　He　goes　up　to　the　old　man　like　this—and　falls　down　at　his　feet。　‘You　are　suffering　for　me；　old　man；’　says　he。　‘It’s　the　holy　truth；　this　man　is　tormented　innocently；　for　nothing；　lads；’　says　he。　‘I　did　that　deed；’　says　he；　‘and　put　the　knife　under　his　head　when　he　was　asleep。　Forgive　me；　grandfather；　for　Christ’s　sake！’　says　he。”
Karataev　paused；　smiling　blissfully；　and　gazing　at　the　fire；　as　he　rearranged　the　logs。
“The　old　man；　he　says；　‘God　forgive　you；’　says　he；　‘but　we　are　all　sinners　before　God；’　says　he。　‘I　am　suffering　for　my　own　sins。’　And　he　wept　with　bitter　tears。　What　do　you　think；　darling？”　said　Karataev；　his　ecstatic　smile　growing　more　and　more　radiant；　as　though　the　great　charm　and　whole　point　of　his　story　lay　in　what　he　was　going　to　tell　now；　“what　do　you　think；　darling；　that　murderer　confessed　of　himself　to　the　police。　‘I　have　killed　six　men；’　says　he　（for　he　was　a　great　criminal）；　‘but　what　I　am　most　sorry　for　is　this　old　man。　Let　him　not　weep　through　my　fault。’　He　confessed。　It　was　written　down；　and　a　paper　sent　off　to　the　right　place。　The　place　was　far　away。　Then　came　a　trial。　Then　all　the　reports　were　written　in　due　course；　by　the　authorities；　I　mean。　It　was　brought　to　the　Tsar。　Then　a　decree　comes　from　the　Tsar　to　let　the　merchant　go　free；　to　give　him　the　recompense　they　had　awarded　him。　The　paper　comes；　they　fall　to　looking　for　the　old　man。　Where　was　that　old　man　who　had　suffered　innocently？　The　paper　had　come　from　the　Tsar；　and　they　fell　to　looking　for　him。”　Karataev’s　lower　jaw　quivered。　“But　God　had　pardoned　him　already—he　was　dead！　So　it　happened；　darling！”　Karataev　concluded；　and　he　gazed　a　long　while　straight　before　him；　smiling　silently。
Not　the　story　itself；　but　its　mysterious　import；　the　ecstatic　gladness　that　beamed　in　Karataev’s　face　as　he　told　it；　the　mysterious　significance　of　that　gladness　vaguely　filled　and　rejoiced　Pierre’s　soul　now。


Chapter　14
“TO　YOUR　PLACES！”　a　voice　shouted　suddenly。
There　was　a　cheerful　stir　among　the　prisoners　and　convoy　soldiers；　and　an　air　of　expecting　something　festive　and　solemn。　Shouted　commands　could　be　heard　on　all　sides；　and　a　party　of　well…dressed　cavalry　soldiers　on　good　horses　came　trotting　up　from　the　left；　making　a　circuit　round　the　prisoners。　Every　face　wore　the　look　of　nervousness　commonly　seen　at　the　approach　of　men　in　authority。　The　prisoners　huddled　together　and　were　shoved　out　of　the　way。　The　convoy　soldiers　formed　in　ranks。
“The　Emperor！　The　Emperor！　The　marshal！　The　duke！…”　and　the　sleek　cavalry　soldiers　had　hardly　ridden　by　when　a　carriage　rattled　up　drawn　by　grey　horses。　Pierre　had　a　passing　glimpse　of　the　serene；　handsome；　fat；　white　face　of　a　man　in　a　three…cornered　hat。　It　was　one　of　the　marshals。　The　marshal’s　eye　was　caught　by　Pierre’s　big；　striking　figure；　and　in　the　expression　with　which　he　frowned　and　looked　away　Pierre　fancied　he　saw　pity　and　the　desire　to　conceal　it。
The　general　in　charge　of　the　transport　whipped　up　his　lean　horse；　and　galloped　after　the　carriage　with　a　red；　panic…stricken　face。　Several　officers　met　in　a　group；　the　soldiers　came　round　them。　All　had　excited　and　uneasy　faces。
“What　did　he　say？　What　was　it　he　said？　…”　Pierre　heard。
While　the　marshal　was　driving　by；　the　prisoners　had　been　hustled　together　into　one　group；　and　Pierre　caught　sight　of　Karataev；　whom　he　had　not　yet　seen　that　morning。　He　was　sitting；　wrapped　in　his　little　military　coat；　leaning　against　a　birch…tree。　His　face　still　wore　the　same　look　of　joyous　emotion　as　when　he　had　been　telling　the　story　of　the　merchant；　but　it　had　another　expression　too；　a　look　of　subdued　solemnity。
Karataev　looked　at　Pierre　with　his　kindly；　round　eyes；　that　were　bright　now　with　tears；　and　there　was　an　unmistakable　appeal　in　them。　He　evidently　wanted　to　say　something　to　him。　But　Pierre　was　in　too　great　dread　for　himself。　He　made　as　though　he　had　not　seen　that　look；　and　hastily　walked　away。
When　the　prisoners　set　off　again　Pierre　looked　back。　Karataev　was　sitting　under　the　birch…tree　by　the　edge　of　the　road；　and　two　Frenchmen　were　bending　over　him　in　conversation。　Pierre　did　not　look　again。　He　went　on　limping　up　the　hill。
There　was　the　sound　of　a　shot　behind；　at　the　spot　where　Karataev　was　sitting。　Pierre　heard　that　shot　distinctly；　but　at　the　moment　that　he　heard　it；　he　recalled　that　he　had　not　finished　reckoning　up　how　many　stages　were　left　to　Smolensk；　the　calculation　he　had　begun　before　the　marshal　rode　by。　And　he　began　to　reckon。　Two　French　soldiers　ran　by　Pierre；　one　holding　a　still　smoking　gun。　They　were　both　pale；　and　in　the　expression　of　their　faces—one　of　them　glanced　timidly　at　Pierre—there　was　something　like　what　he　had　seen　in　the　young　soldier　at　the　execution　in　Moscow。　Pierre　looked　at　the　soldier　and　remembered　how；　the　day　before　yesterday；　the　man　had　burnt　his　shirt　in　drying　it　before　the　fire；　and　how　the　others　had　laughed　at　him。
The　dog　began　to　howl　behind　at　the　spot　where　Karataev　was　sitting。　“Silly　creature！　what　is　she　howling　for？”　thought　Pierre
The　prisoners；　his　companions　marching　at　his　side；　like　him；　refrained　from　looking　back　to　the　place　whence　came　the　sound　of　the　shot　and　the　dog’s　howl。　There　was　a　set　look　on　all　their　faces。


Chapter　15
THE　CAVALRY　TRANSPORT；　and　the　prisoners；　and　the　marshal’s　baggage…train；　halted　at　the　village　of　Shamshevo。　All　crowded　together　round　the　campfire。　Pierre　went　up　to　a　fire；　ate　some　roast　horse…flesh；　lay　down　with　his　back　to　the　fire；　and　at　once　fell　asleep。　He　fell　into　the　same　sort　of　sleep　that　he　had　slept　at　Mozhaisk；　after　the　battle　of　Borodino。
Again　the　facts　of　real　life　mingled　with　his　dreams；　and　again　some　one；　himself　or　some　one　else；　was　uttering　thoughts　in　his　ear；　and　the　same　thoughts；　indeed；　as　had　come　in　his　dream　at　Mozhaisk。
Life　is　everything。　Life　is　God。　All　is　changing　and　moving；　and　that　motion　is　God。　And　while　there　is　life；　there　is　the　joy　of　the　consciousness　of　the　Godhead。　To　love　life　is　to　love　God。　The　hardest　and　the　most　blessed　thing　is　to　love　this　life　in　one’s　sufferings；　in　undeserved　suffering。
“Karataev！”　flashed　into　Pierre’s　mind。　And　all　at　once　there　rose　up；　as　vivid　as　though　alive；　the　image；　long　forgotten；　of　the　gentle　old　teacher；　who　had　given　Pierre　geography　lessons　in　Switzerland。　“Wait　a　minute；”　the　old　man　was　saying。　And　he　was　showing　Pierre　a　globe。　This　globe　was　a　living；　quivering　ball；　with　no　definite　limits。　Its　whole　surface　consisted　of　drops；　closely　cohering　together。　And　those　drops　were　all　in　motion；　and　changing；　several　passing　into　one；　and　then　one　splitting　up　again　into　many。　Every　drop　seemed　striving　to　spread；　to　take　up　more　space；　but　the　others；　pressing　upon　it；　sometimes　absorbed　it；　sometimes　melted　into　it。
“This　is　life；”　the