A FEW INTIMATE FRIENDS were, as usual on Sundays, dining with the Rostovs.

Pierre came early, hoping to find them alone.

Pierre had that year grown so stout, that he would have been grotesque, had not he been so tall, so broad-shouldered, and so powerfully built that he carried off his bulky proportions with evident ease.

Puffing, and muttering something to himself, he went up the stairs. His coachman did not even ask whether he should wait. He knew that when the count was at the Rostovs', it was till midnight. The Rostovs' footmen ran with eager welcome to take off his cloak, and take his stick and hat. From the habit of the club, Pierre always left his stick and hat in the vestibule.

The first person he saw at the Rostovs' was Natasha. Before he saw her, while taking off his cloak, he heard her. She was practising her solfa exercises in the hall. He knew she had given up singing since her illness, and so he was surprised and delighted at the sound of her voice. He opened the door softly, and saw Natasha, in the lilac dress she had worn at the service, walking up and down the room singing. She had her back turned to him as he opened the door; but when she turned sharply round and saw his broad, surprised face, she flushed and ran quickly up to him.

“I want to try and sing again,” she said. “It's something to do, any way,” she added as though in excuse.

“Quite right too!”

“How glad I am you have come! I'm so happy to-day,” she said with the old eagerness that Pierre had not seen for so long. “You know, Nikolenka has got the St. George's Cross. I'm so proud of him.”

“Of course, I sent you the announcement. Well, I won't interrupt you,” he added, and would have gone on to the drawing-room.

Natasha stopped him.

“Count, is it wrong of me to sing?” she said, blushing, but still keeping her eyes fixed inquiringly on Pierre.

“No.… Why should it be? On the contrary.… But why do you ask me?”

“I don't know myself,” Natasha answered quickly; “but I shouldn't like to do anything you wouldn't like. I trust you in everything. You don't know how much you are to me, and what a great deal you have done for me!” …She spoke quickly, and did not notice how Pierre flushed at these words. “I saw in that announcement, he, Bolkonsky” (she uttered the word in a rapid whisper), “he is in Russia, and in the army again. What do you think,” she said hurriedly, evidently in haste to speak because she was afraid her strength would fail her, “will he ever forgive me? Will he not always have an evil feeling for me? What do you think? What do you think?”

“I think…” said Pierre. “He has nothing to forgive… If I were in his place…” From association of ideas, Pierre was instantly carried back in imagination to the time when he had comforted her by saying that if he were not himself, but the best man in the world and free, he would beg on his knees for her hand, and the same feeling of pity, tenderness, and love took possession of him, and the same words rose to his lips. But she did not give him time to utter them.

“Yes, you—you,” she said, uttering that word you with enthusiasm, “that's a different matter. Any one kinder, more generous than you, I have never known—no one could be. If it had not been for you then, and now too… I don't know what would have become of me, because…” Tears suddenly came into her eyes: she turned away, held her music before her eyes, and began again singing and walking up and down the room.

At that moment Petya ran in from the drawing-room.

Petya was by now a handsome, rosy lad of fifteen, with full red lips, very like Natasha. He was being prepared for the university, but had lately resolved in secret with his comrade, Obolensky, to go into the hussars.

Petya rushed up to his namesake, Pierre, to talk to him of this scheme.

He had begged him to find out whether he would be accepted in the hussars.

Pierre walked about the drawing-room, not heeding Petya.

The boy pulled him by the arm to attract his attention.

“Come, tell me about my plan, Pyotr Kirillitch, for mercy's sake! You're my only hope,” said Petya.

“Oh yes, your plan. To be an hussar? I'll speak about it; to-day I'll tell them all about it.”

“Well, my dear fellow, have you got the manifesto?” asked the old count. “My little countess was at the service in the Razumovskys' chapel; she heard the new prayer there. Very fine it was, she tells me.”

“Yes, I have got it,” answered Pierre. “The Tsar will be here tomorrow.… There's to be an extraordinary meeting of the nobility and a levy they say of ten per thousand. Oh, I congratulate you.”

“Yes, yes, thank God. Well, and what news from the army?”

“Our soldiers have retreated again. They are before Smolensk, they say,” answered Pierre.

“Mercy on us, mercy on us!” said the count. “Where's the manifesto?”

“The Tsar's appeal? Ah, yes!” Pierre began looking for the papers in his pockets, and could not find them. Still slapping his pockets, he kissed the countess's hand as she came in, and looked round uneasily, evidently expecting Natasha, who had left off singing now, but had not come into the drawing-room. “Good Heavens, I don't know where I have put it,” he said.

“To be sure, he always mislays everything,” said the countess.

Natasha came in with a softened and agitated face and sat down, looking mutely at Pierre. As soon as she came into the room, Pierre's face, which had been overcast, brightened, and while still seeking for the paper, he looked several times intently at her.

“By God, I'll drive round, I must have forgotten them at home. Of course…”

“Why, you will be late for dinner.”

“Oh! and the coachman has not waited.”

But Sonya had gone into the vestibule to look for the papers, and there found them in Pierre's hat, where he had carefully put them under the lining. Pierre would have read them.

“No, after dinner,” said the old count, who was obviously looking forward to the reading of them as a great treat.

At dinner they drank champagne to the health of the new cavalier of St. George, and Shinshin told them of the news of the town, of the illness of the old Georgian princess, and of the disappearance of Metivier from Moscow, and described how a German had been brought before Rastoptchin by the people, who declared (so Count Rastoptchin told the story) that he was a champignon, and how Count Rastoptchin had bade them let the champignon go, as he was really nothing but an old German mushroom.

“They keep on seizing people,” said the count. “I tell the countess she ought not to speak French so much. Now's not the time to do it.”

“And did you hear,” said Shinshin, “Prince Galitzin has engaged a Russian teacher—he's learning Russian. It begins to be dangerous to speak French in the streets.”

“Well, Count Pyotr Kirillitch, now if they raise a general militia, you will have to mount a horse too, ah?” said the old count addressing Pierre.

Pierre was dreamy and silent all dinner-time. He looked at the count as though not understanding.

“Yes, yes, for the war,” he said. “No! A fine soldier I should make! And yet everything's so strange; so strange! Why, I don't understand it myself. I don't know, I am far from being military in my taste, but in these days no one can answer for himself.”

After dinner the count settled himself comfortably in a low chair, and with a serious face asked Sonya, who enjoyed the reputation of a good reader, to read the Tsar's appeal.

“To our metropolitan capital Moscow. The enemy has entered our border with an immense host and comes to lay waste our beloved country,” Sonya read conscientiously in her thin voice. The count listened with closed eyes, heaving abrupt sighs at certain passages.

Natasha sat erect, looking inquisitively and directly from her father to Pierre.

Pierre felt her eyes on him and tried not to look round. The countess shook her head disapprovingly and wrathfully at every solemn expression in the manifesto. In all these words she saw nothing but that the danger menacing her son would not soon be over. Shinshin, pursing his lips up into a sarcastic smile, was clearly preparing to make a joke at the first subject that presented itself: at Sonya's reading, the count's next remark, or even the manifesto itself, if no better pretext should be found.

After reading of the dangers threatening Russia, the hopes the Tsar rested upon Moscow, and particularly on its illustrious nobility, Sonya, with a quiver in her voice, due principally to the attention with which they were listening to her, read the last words: “We shall without delay be in the midst of our people in the capital, and in other parts of our empire, for deliberation, and for the guidance of all our militia levies both those which are already barring the progress of the foe, and those to be formed for conflict with him, wherever he may appear. And may the ruin with which he threatens us recoil on his own head, and may Europe, delivered from bondage, glorify the name of Russia!”

“That's right!” cried the count, opening his wet eyes, and several times interrupted by a sniff, as though he had put a bottle of strong smelling-salts to his nose. He went on, “Only let our sovereign say the word, we will sacrifice everything without grudging.”

Before Shinshin had time to utter the joke he was ready to make on the count's patriotism, Natasha had jumped up from her seat and run to her father.

“What a darling this papa is!” she cried, kissing him, and she glanced again at Pierre with the unconscious coquetry that had come back with her fresh interest in life.

“Oh, what a patriot she is!” said Shinshin.

“Not a patriot at all, but simply…” Natasha began, nettled. “You think everything funny, but this isn't at all a joke…”

“A joke,” repeated the count. “Only let him say the word, we will all go… We're not a set of Germans!”

“Did you notice,” said Pierre, “the words, ‘for deliberation…' ”

“Yes, to be sure, for whatever might come…”

Meanwhile Petya, to whom no one was paying attention, went up to his father, and very red, said in a voice that passed abruptly from gruffness to shrillness, “Well, now, papa, I tell you positively—and mamma too, say what you will—I tell you you must let me go into the army, because I cannot… and that's all about it.”

The countess in dismay turned her eyes up to heaven, clasped her hands, and said angrily to her husband:

“See, what your talk has brought us to!”

But the count recovered the same instant from the excitement.

“Come, come,” he said. “A fine warrior you'd make! Don't talk nonsense; you have your studies to attend to.”

“It's not nonsense, papa. Fedya Obolensky's younger than I am, and he's going too; and what's more, I can't anyhow study now, when…” Petya stopped, flushed till his face was perspiring, yet stoutly went on … “when the country's in danger.”

“Hush, hush, nonsense!…”

“Why, but you said yourself you would sacrifice everything.”

“Petya! I tell you be quiet,” cried the count, looking at his wife, who was gazing with a white face and fixed eyes at her younger son.

“Let me say …Pyotr Kirillovitch here will tell you…”

“I tell you, it's nonsense; the milk's hardly dry on his lips, and he wants to go into the army! Come, come, I tell you,” and the count, taking the papers with him, was going out of the room, probably to read them once more in his study before his nap.

“Pyotr Kirillovitch, let us have a smoke.…”

Pierre felt embarrassed and hesitating. Natasha's unusually brilliant and eager eyes, continually turned upon him with more than cordiality in them, had reduced him to this condition.

“No; I think I'll go home.…”

“Go home? But you meant to spend the evening with us.… You come rarely enough, as it is. And this girl of mine,” said the count good-humouredly, looking towards Natasha, “is never in spirits but when you are here.…”

“But I have forgotten something. I really must go home.… Business.…” Pierre said hurriedly.

“Well, good-bye then,” said the count as he went out of the room.

“Why are you going away? Why are you so upset? What for?” Natasha asked Pierre, looking with challenging eyes into his face.

“Because I love you!” he wanted to say, but he did not say it. He crimsoned till the tears came, and dropped his eyes.

“Because it is better for me not to be so often with you.… Because …no, simply I have business.…”

“What for? No, do tell me,” Natasha was beginning resolutely, and she suddenly stopped. Both in dismay and embarrassment looked at one another. He tried to laugh, but could not; his smile expressed suffering, and he kissed her hand and went out without a word.

Pierre made up his mind not to visit the Rostovs again.

像平时一样，星期天总有一些亲近的熟人在罗斯托夫家吃饭。

皮埃尔想单独见到他们，就早早地来了。

今年内，皮埃尔发胖了，如果不是他身材高大，四肢结实，不是那么有力足以轻松自如地带动肥胖的身躯，那么，他就很难看了。

他气喘吁吁，独自念叨着什么，走上了楼梯。他的车夫已经不问他要不要等候他。他知道，若是伯爵在罗斯托夫家作客，那么他一定会呆到十二点钟。罗斯托夫家的仆人愉快地跑过来从他身上脱下斗篷，接过手杖和帽子。按照俱乐部的习惯，皮埃尔把手杖和帽子留在前厅。

他在罗斯托夫家看见的第一个人就是娜塔莎。还在他看到她之前，他在前厅脱斗篷时就听见她的声音了。她在大厅作视唱练习。他知道，她从生病后就未唱过歌了。所以她的歌声使他又惊又喜。他轻轻地推开门，看见娜塔莎身穿一件做礼拜时常穿的雪青色连衣裙，在屋里边走边唱。当她开门时，她是背朝着他的，但是当她陡然转声，看见他胖胖的惊奇的脸时，她脸红了，快步走到他跟前。

“我又想试试唱歌，”她说，“总算有点事儿干。”仿佛抱歉似地又补充道。

“好极了。”

“您来了，我真高兴！我今天非常幸福！”她说，带着皮埃尔在她身上久已不见的活泼神态。“您知道，Nicalas（尼古拉）得了圣乔治十字勋章了，我真为他高兴。”

“当然知道，命令是我送来的。好了，我不打扰您了。”他补充道，要往客厅走。

娜塔莎拦住他。

“伯爵！怎么啦，我唱得很糟吗？”她红着脸说，却没有垂下眼睛，而是疑问地望着皮埃尔。

“哪里……为什么？恰恰相反……，可是您为什么这样问我呢？”

“我自己也不知道”娜塔莎飞快地答道，“可我不愿做您不喜欢的任何事情。我完全相信您。您不知道，您对我是多么重要，您为我做了多少事情啊！……”她说得很快，没有发现在她说这些话时皮埃尔脸红了。“在那同一个命令中，我看见了他，博尔孔斯基（她说这些话时，说得很快，声音又低）——他又在俄罗斯服役了。您认为怎样？”她又快又急地说，显然害怕力不从心，“有一天他会原谅我吗？他不会对我抱有恶感吧？你以为怎样？您以为怎样？”

“我想……”皮埃尔说，“他没什么要宽恕您的……如果是我处在他的地位……”由于回忆的关系，皮埃尔的脑海中立刻重映出那一天的情景：他安慰她说，假如他不是他，而是世界上最好而且自由的人，他会跪下向她求婚，于是同样是那种怜悯、温柔、爱恋的感情充满了他的心胸，同样是那些话来到他的嘴边，但是她不给他说出这些话的时间。

“您啊，您，”她说，带着欣喜说出这个您字，“您是另一回事。我不知道有谁能比您更善良、宽厚和更好的了，不可能有这样的人。如果当时没有您，甚至现在没有您，我不知道，我会怎么样，因为……”泪水突然涌出她的眼眶；她转过身去，拿起乐谱，捧到眼前唱起来，又在大厅里走来走去。

这时，彼佳从客厅里跑出来了。

彼佳现在是一个漂亮的面颊红润的十五岁的男孩，嘴唇又红又厚，像娜塔莎一样。他准备上大学，但是近来他悄悄决定与同学奥博连斯基一起去当骠骑兵。

彼德就是为此事来找自己的同名人的。

他请求皮埃尔打听一下骠骑兵要不要他。

皮埃尔在客厅里踱着步，不听彼佳的话。

彼佳拉拉他的手，好让他注意自己。

“我的事情怎么样，彼得·基里雷奇，看在上帝面上，全靠您啦。”彼佳说。

“啊，是的，是的，你的事。当骠骑兵？我去说，我去说，今天就去说。”

“怎么样，mon　cher①，怎么样，宣言搞到了吗？”老伯爵问。“伯爵夫人在拉祖莫夫斯基家做礼拜，听到了新的祷文。

祷文好极了，她说。”

①法语：亲爱的。

“弄到了，”皮埃尔回答道。“明天，皇帝要……举行贵族非常会议，据说，每千人中抽十人。对了，祝贺您。”

“是的，是的，感谢上帝。军队有何消息吗？”

“我军又在撤退。据说，已撤到斯摩棱斯尼了。”皮埃尔回答。

“我的上帝，我的上帝！”伯爵说。“宣言在哪儿？”

“《告民众书》！啊，对了！”皮埃尔在衣袋里面找，却找不到了。他在拍身上的衣袋时，吻了吻过来的伯爵夫人的手，眼睛不安地东张西望。显然是等待娜塔莎，她已没有唱歌了，可是没有进客厅来。

“真的，我不知道，我把它放到哪儿去了。”他说。

“看你，总是丢三落四的。”伯爵夫人说。娜塔莎脸上带着柔和而兴奋的神情走进来坐下，默默地望着皮埃尔。她一走进屋里，皮埃尔本来阴郁的面容，顿时容光焕发，他一边继续找着文件，一面向她瞟了几眼。

“真的，我要去一趟，我忘在家里了。必须……”

“那来不及吃饭了。”

“啊，车夫也离去了。”但是，去前厅找文件的索尼娅在皮埃尔的帽子里找到了它们，是他心细地把文件掖在帽褶里的。皮埃尔想朗读。

“别读，吃完饭再说。”老伯爵说，看来，在这朗读中他预见到极大的乐趣。

吃饭时，大家喝着香槟酒为新的圣乔治十字勋章获得者的健康祝福，申申讲述了城里的新闻，什么关于老格鲁吉亚公爵夫人的福啦，什么梅蒂维埃从莫斯科悄悄消失了啦，有个什么德国人被人们押送到拉斯托普钦处，控告德国人是“暗探”（拉斯托普钦本人是这样说的），拉斯托普钦伯爵吩咐把这个“暗探”放了，他对人们说，这不是“暗探”，不过是一个德国糟老头子。

“在抓人，在抓人，”伯爵说，“我也告诉伯爵夫人，少讲法语，现在不是时候。”

“你们听说了吗？”申申说，“戈利岑公爵还请了一位俄语教师——学俄语呢——il　commence　à　devenir　danBgereux　de　parler　franscais　dans　les　ruesn．①

①法语：在街上讲法语成了危险的事了。

“怎么样，彼德·基里雷奇伯爵，怎样招募民兵呀，您也不得不跨上战马吗？”老伯爵对皮埃尔说。

皮埃尔这顿饭一直默默不语，若有所思。好像没弄明白似的，伯爵对他说话时，他看了看伯爵。

“是的，是的，要去参战，”他说：“不！我算什么战士！——而且，一切都这么奇怪，这么奇怪！连我自己也搞不懂。我不知道，我对军事不沾边，可是，目前谁也不能对自己负责了。”

饭后，伯爵安详地坐在椅子里，带着严肃的面孔要善于朗读的索尼娅读文《告民众书》。

“对古老的首都莫斯科的通告。”

“敌人的强大的兵力侵入俄罗斯境内。他要毁灭我们的亲爱的祖国，”索尼娅的尖细的声音卖力地读道。闭上眼睛的伯爵听到某些地方，发出阵阵的叹息声。

娜塔莎笔直地坐在那里，用探究的目光时而望着父亲，时而凝视着皮埃尔。

皮埃尔感受到了那提问自己的目光，但极力不回首去看。伯爵夫人不以为然地忿忿地摇摇头以反对宣言的每一个雄壮威严的句子。她在所有这些话中只看到了威胁她的儿子的危险还不会很快就终止。申申撇着嘴，带着嘲讽的意味微笑着，显然准备一有机会就这样做。嘲笑索尼娅的朗读，嘲笑伯爵会说出的话。甚至嘲笑《告民众书》，如果没有更好的借口的话。

读到威胁俄罗斯的危险，读到皇上对莫斯科寄予的希望，特别是对名门贵族寄予的希望的时候，索尼娅带着颤抖的声音，这主要是由于大家聚精会神听她读，她读到了最后几句话：“我们要刻不容缓地到首都的人民中去，到全国各地去，同我们的民团会商并指挥他们。他们正在阻击敌人的推进，有的正组织起来打击敌人，不管他们在哪儿出现，就让敌人妄图加在我们身上的毁灭的命运，落到他们自己的头上吧，让从被奴役中解放出来的欧洲赞美俄罗斯的名声！”

“好极了！”伯爵喊起来，他睁开湿润的眼睛，鼻子断断续续地呼哧了几下，就像在他鼻子下面放了浓醋酸盐瓶似的。

“只要皇上下令，我们就不惜牺牲一切。”

申申还没来得及说出已准备好的对伯爵爱国主义的嘲讽，娜塔莎就从自己座位上跃起来，向父亲跑过去了。

“多可爱啊！这个爸爸！”她一边说，一边亲吻他，她又瞟了一眼皮埃尔，带着她那又恢复了的不自觉的妩媚与活泼。

“好一个女爱国者！”申申说。

“并不是什么爱国者，不过是……”娜塔莎气愤地回答，“您觉得一切都好笑，可这完全不是笑话……”

“谈不上玩笑！”伯爵重复道，“只要他下令，我们都上，……我们不是那些德国佬……”

“你们注意了没有，”皮埃尔说，“那上面说：‘要会商'。”

“无论那儿做什么……”

这时。谁也没有注意的彼佳走到父亲跟前，满脸通红，用时粗时细的变了音的嗓子说：

“现在，爸爸，我要断然地说——对妈妈也是这样说——我决断地说，请你们允许我参军，因为我不能……这就是我要说的……”

伯爵夫人吃惊地两眼一翻，两手一拍，生气地对丈夫说。

“这就说出事来了吧！”她说。

但是，这时伯爵从激动中静下来。

“行了，行了，”他说，“又有一个战士！不要胡闹！要学习。”

“这不是胡闹，爸爸。奥博连斯基·费佳比我还小，他也要去，主要的，反正现在我什么也学不进去，当……”彼佳停住了，脸红得冒汗。又继续说：“正当祖国遭到危险的时候。”

“够了，够了，胡闹……”

“要知道是您自己说的，我们可以牺牲一切。”

“彼佳，我给你说，住嘴！”伯爵喊道。看了一眼妻子，她脸色苍白，眼睛定定地看着小儿子。

“而我给您说。这也是彼得·基里洛维奇要说……”

“我告诉你，无稽之谈，乳臭未干就想当兵！好了，好了，我告诉你。”伯爵抓起那些文件，就往外走。大概他想在书斋里休息之前再读一遍。

“彼得·基里诺维奇，怎么啦，走去吸烟……”

皮埃尔窘迫不安，犹豫不定。娜塔莎那兴奋的眼睛奇异地闪闪发亮，不停地、十分亲切地疑视着他，使他陷入了这种状态。

“不，我似乎该回家了……”

“怎么回家，您不是要在我们这儿呆到晚上……近来您不常来，而且，我的这个……”伯爵和蔼地指着娜塔莎说，“只有您在的时候才高兴……”

“对了，我忘记了……我一定要回家……有事情……”皮埃尔匆匆忙忙地说。

“那就再见吧。”伯爵说着就走出屋去了。

“您为什么要走？您为什么心神不安呢？为什么……”娜塔莎问皮埃尔，挑战似地望着他的眼睛。

“因为我爱你！”他想说，但是没有说出来，脸红得要流出眼泪，他垂下了眼睛。

“因为我最好还是少到这儿来……因为，……不，我不过是有事情……

“因为什么，不，告诉我。“娜塔莎口气坚决，可突然又沉默了。他们俩人都吃惊地、窘迫地望着对方。他试图笑一笑，可是不能；他的微笑表达的是苦楚，他默默地吻了吻她的手，就走出去了。

皮埃尔暗自决定，自己不再到罗斯托夫家去了。

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