Book 1 Chapter 6

THERE was the rustle of a woman's dress in the next room. Prince Andrey started up, as it were pulling himself together, and his face assumed the expression it had worn in Anna Pavlovna's drawing-room. Pierre dropped his legs down off the sofa. The princess came in. She had changed her gown, and was wearing a house dress as fresh and elegant as the other had been. Prince Andrey got up and courteously set a chair for her.

“Why is it, I often wonder,” she began in French as always, while she hurriedly and fussily settled herself in the low chair, “why is it Annette never married? How stupid you gentlemen all are not to have married her. You must excuse me, but you really have no sense about women. What an argumentative person you are, Monsieur Pierre!”

“I'm still arguing with your husband; I can't make out why he wants to go to the war,” said Pierre, addressing the princess without any of the affectation so common in the attitude of a young man to a young woman.

The princess shivered. Clearly Pierre's words touched a tender spot.

“Ah, that's what I say,” she said. “I can't understand, I simply can't understand why men can't get on without war. Why is it we women want nothing of the sort? We don't care for it. Come, you shall be the judge. I keep saying to him: here he is uncle's adjutant, a most brilliant position. He's so well known, so appreciated by every one. The other day at the Apraxins' I heard a lady ask: ‘So that is the famous Prince André? Upon my word!' ” She laughed. “He's asked everywhere. He could very easily be a flügel-adjutant. You know the Emperor has spoken very graciously to him. Annette and I were saying it would be quite easy to arrange it. What do you think?”

Pierre looked at Prince Andrey, and, noticing that his friend did not like this subject, made no reply.

“When are you starting?” he asked.

“Ah, don't talk to me about that going away; don't talk about it. I won't even hear it spoken of,” said the princess in just the capriciously playful tone in which she had talked to Ippolit at the soirée, a tone utterly incongruous in her own home circle, where Pierre was like one of the family. “This evening when I thought all these relations so precious to me must be broken off.…And then, you know, André?” She looked significantly at her husband. “I'm afraid! I'm afraid!” she whispered, twitching her shoulder. Her husband looked at her as though he were surprised to observe that there was some one in the room beside himself and Pierre, and with frigid courtesy he addressed an inquiry to his wife.

“What are you afraid of, Liza? I don't understand,” he said.

“See what egoists all men are; they are all, all egoists! Of his own accord, for his own whim, for no reason whatever, he is deserting me, shutting me up alone in the country.”

“With my father and sister, remember,” said Prince Andrey quietly.

“It's just the same as alone, without my friends.…And he doesn't expect me to be afraid.” Her tone was querulous now, her upper lip was lifted, giving her face not a joyous expression, but a wild-animal look, like a squirrel. She paused as though feeling it indecorous to speak of her condition before Pierre, though the whole gist of the matter lay in that.

“I still don't understand what you are afraid of,” Prince Andrey said deliberately, not taking his eyes off his wife. The princess flushed red, and waved her hands despairingly.

“No, André, I say you are so changed, so changed…”

“Your doctor's orders were that you were to go to bed earlier,” said Prince Andrey. “It's time you were asleep.”

The princess said nothing, and suddenly her short, downy lip began to quiver; Prince Andrey got up and walked about the room, shrugging his shoulders.

Pierre looked over his spectacles in na?ve wonder from him to the princess, and stirred uneasily as though he too meant to get up, but had changed his mind.

“What do I care if Monsieur Pierre is here,” the little princess said suddenly, her pretty face contorted into a tearful grimace; “I have long wanted to say to you, Andrey, why are you so changed to me? What have I done? You go away to the war, you don't feel for me. Why is it?”

“Liza!” was all Prince Andrey said, but in that one word there was entreaty and menace, and, most of all, conviction that she would herself regret her words; but she went on hurriedly.

“You treat me as though I were ill, or a child. I see it all. You weren't like this six months ago.”

“Liza, I beg you to be silent,” said Prince Andrey, still more expressively.

Pierre, who had been growing more and more agitated during this conversation, got up and went to the princess. He seemed unable to endure the sight of her tears, and was ready to weep himself.

“Please don't distress yourself, princess. You only fancy that because …I assure you, I've felt so myself…because…through…oh, excuse me, an outsider has no business…Oh, don't distress yourself…goodbye.”

Prince Andrey held his hand and stopped him.

“No, stay a little, Pierre. The princess is so good, she would not wish to deprive me of the pleasure of spending an evening with you.”

“No, he thinks of nothing but himself,” the princess declared, not attempting to check her tears of anger.

“Liza,” said Prince Andrey drily, raising his voice to a pitch that showed his patience was exhausted.

All at once the angry squirrel expression of the princess's lovely little face changed to an attractive look of terror that awakened sympathy. She glanced from under her brows with lovely eyes at her husband, and her face wore the timorous, deprecating look of a dog when it faintly but rapidly wags its tail in penitence.

“Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!” murmured the princess, and holding her gown with one hand, she went to her husband and kissed him on the forehead.

“Good-night, Liza,” said Prince Andrey, getting up and kissing her hand courteously, as though she were a stranger.

The friends were silent. Neither of them began to talk. Pierre looked at Prince Andrey; Prince Andrey rubbed his forehead with his small hand.

“Let us go and have supper,” he said with a sigh, getting up and going to the door.

They went into the elegantly, newly and richly furnished dining-room. Everything from the dinner-napkins to the silver, the china and the glass, wore that peculiar stamp of newness that is seen in the household belongings of newly married couples. In the middle of supper Prince Andrey leaned on his elbow, and like a man who has long had something on his mind, and suddenly resolves on giving it utterance, he began to speak with an expression of nervous irritation which Pierre had never seen in his friend before.

“Never, never marry, my dear fellow; that's my advice to you; don't marry till you have faced the fact that you have done all you're capable of doing, and till you cease to love the woman you have chosen, till you see her plainly, or else you will make a cruel mistake that can never be set right. Marry when you're old and good for nothing…Or else everything good and lofty in you will be done for. It will all be frittered away over trifles. Yes, yes, yes! Don't look at me with such surprise. If you expect anything of yourself in the future you will feel at every step that for you all is over, all is closed up except the drawing-room, where you will stand on the same level with the court lackey and the idiot…And why!”…He made a vigorous gesture.

Pierre took off his spectacles, which transformed his face, making it look even more good-natured, and looked wonderingly at his friend.

“My wife,” pursued Prince Andrey, “is an excellent woman. She is one of those rare women with whom one can feel quite secure of one's honour; but, my God! what wouldn't I give now not to be married! You are the first and the only person I say this to, because I like you.”

As Prince Andrey said this he was less than ever like the Bolkonsky who had sat lolling in Anna Pavlovna's drawing-room with half-closed eyelids, filtering French phrases through his teeth. His dry face was quivering with nervous excitement in every muscle; his eyes, which had seemed lustreless and lifeless, now gleamed with a full, vivid light. It seemed that the more lifeless he was at ordinary times, the more energetic he became at such moments of morbid irritability.

“You can't understand why I say this,” he went on. “Why, the whole story of life lies in it. You talk of Bonaparte and his career,” he said, though Pierre had not talked of Bonaparte; “you talk of Bonaparte, but Bonaparte when he was working his way up, going step by step straight to his aim, he was free; he had nothing except his aim and he attained it. But tie yourself up with a woman, and, like a chained convict, you lose all freedom. And all the hope and strength there is in you is only a drag on you, torturing you with regret. Drawing-rooms, gossip, balls, vanity, frivolity—that's the enchanted circle I can't get out of. I am setting off now to the war, the greatest war there has ever been, and I know nothing, and am good for nothing. I am very agreeable and sarcastic,” pursued Prince Andrey, “and at Anna Pavlovna's every one listens to me. And this imbecile society without which my wife can't exist, and these women…If you only knew what these society women are, and, indeed, women generally! My father's right. Egoism, vanity, silliness, triviality in everything—that's what women are when they show themselves as they really are. Looking at them in society, one fancies there's something in them, but there's nothing, nothing, nothing. No, don't marry, my dear fellow, don't marry!” Prince Andrey concluded.

“It seems absurd to me,” said Pierre, “that you, you consider yourself a failure, your life wrecked. You have everything, everything before you. And you…”

He did not say why you, but his tone showed how highly he thought of his friend, and how much he expected of him in the future.

“How can he say that?” Pierre thought.

Pierre regarded Prince Andrey as a model of all perfection, because Prince Andrey possessed in the highest degree just that combination of qualities in which Pierre was deficient, and which might be most nearly expressed by the idea of strength of will. Pierre always marvelled at Prince Andrey's faculty for dealing with people of every sort with perfect composure, his exceptional memory, his wide knowledge (he had read everything, knew everything, had some notion of everything), and most of all at his capacity for working and learning. If Pierre were frequently struck in Andrey by his lack of capacity for dreaming and philosophising (to which Pierre was himself greatly given), he did not regard this as a defect but as a strong point. Even in the very warmest, friendliest, and simplest relations, flattery or praise is needed just as grease is needed to keep wheels going round.

“I am a man whose day is done,” said Prince Andrey. “Why talk of me? let's talk about you,” he said after a brief pause, smiling at his own reassuring thoughts. The smile was instantly reflected on Pierre's face.

“Why, what is there to say about me?” said Pierre, letting his face relax into an easy-going, happy smile. “What am I? I am a bastard.” And he suddenly flushed crimson. Apparently it was a great effort to him to say this. “With no name, no fortune.…And after all, really…” He did not finish. “Meanwhile I am free though and I'm content. I don't know in the least what to set about doing. I meant to ask your advice in earnest.”

Prince Andrey looked at him with kindly eyes. But in his eyes, friendly and kind as they were, there was yet a consciousness of his own superiority.

“You are dear to me just because you are the one live person in all our society. You're lucky. Choose what you will, that's all the same. You'll always be all right, but there's one thing: give up going about with the Kuragins and leading this sort of life. It's not the right thing for you at all; all this riotous living and dissipation and all…”

“What would you have, my dear fellow?” said Pierre, shrugging his shoulders; “women, my dear fellow, women.”

“I can't understand it,” answered Andrey. “Ladies, that's another matter, but Kuragin's women, women and wine, I can't understand!”

Pierre was living at Prince Vassily Kuragin's, and sharing in the dissipated mode of life of his son Anatole, the son whom they were proposing to marry to Prince Andrey's sister to reform him.

“Do you know what,” said Pierre, as though a happy thought had suddenly occurred to him; “seriously, I have been thinking so for a long while. Leading this sort of life I can't decide on anything, or consider anything properly. My head aches and my money's all gone. He invited me to-night, but I won't go.”

“Give me your word of honour that you will give up going.”

“On my honour!”

It was past one o'clock when Pierre left his friend's house. It was a cloudless night, a typical Petersburg summer night. Pierre got into a hired coach, intending to drive home. But the nearer he got, the more he felt it impossible to go to bed on such a night, more like evening or morning. It was light enough to see a long way in the empty streets. On the way Pierre remembered that all the usual gambling set were to meet at Anatole Kuragin's that evening, after which there usually followed a drinking-bout, winding up with one of Pierre's favorite entertainments.

“It would be jolly to go to Kuragin's,” he thought. But he immediately recalled his promise to Prince Andrey not to go there again.

But, as so often happens with people of weak character, as it is called, he was at once overcome with such a passionate desire to enjoy once more this sort of dissipation which had become so familiar to him, that he determined to go. And the idea at once occurred to him that his promise was of no consequence, since he had already promised Prince Anatole to go before making the promise to Andrey. Finally he reflected that all such promises were merely relative matters, having no sort of precise significance, especially if one considered that to-morrow one might be dead or something so extraordinary might happen that the distinction between honourable and dishonourable would have ceased to exist. Such reflections often occurred to Pierre, completely nullifying all his resolutions and intentions. He went to Kuragin's.

Driving up to the steps of a big house in the Horse Guards' barracks, where Anatole lived, he ran up the lighted steps and the staircase and went in at an open door. There was no one in the ante-room; empty bottles, cloaks, and over-shoes were lying about in disorder: there was a strong smell of spirits; in the distance he heard talking and shouting.

The card-playing and the supper were over, but the party had not broken up. Pierre flung off his cloak, and went into the first room, where there were the remnants of supper, and a footman who, thinking himself unobserved, was emptying the half-full glasses on the sly. In the third room there was a great uproar of laughter, familiar voices shouting, and a bear growling. Eight young men were crowding eagerly about the open window. Three others were busy with a young bear, one of them dragging at its chain and frightening the others with it.

“I bet a hundred on Stevens!” cried one.

“Mind there's no holding him up!” shouted another.

“I'm for Dolohov!” shouted a third. “Hold the stakes, Kuragin.”

“I say, let Mishka be, we're betting.”

“All at a go or the wager's lost!” cried a fourth.

“Yakov, give us a bottle, Yakov!” shouted Anatole himself, a tall, handsome fellow, standing in the middle of the room, in nothing but a thin shirt, open over his chest. “Stop, gentlemen. Here he is, here's Petrusha, the dear fellow.” He turned to Pierre.

A man of medium height with bright blue eyes, especially remarkable from looking sober in the midst of the drunken uproar, shouted from the window: “Come here. I'll explain the bets!” This was Dolohov, an officer of the Semenov regiment, a notorious gambler and duellist, who was living with Anatole. Pierre smiled, looking good-humouredly about him.

“I don't understand. What's the point?”

“Wait a minute, he's not drunk. A bottle here,” said Anatole; and taking a glass from the table he went up to Pierre.

“First of all, you must drink.”

Pierre began drinking off glass after glass, looking from under his brows at the drunken group, who had crowded about the window again, and listening to their talk. Anatole kept his glass filled and told him that Dolohov had made a bet with an Englishman, Stevens, a sailor who was staying here, that he, Dolohov, would drink a bottle of rum sitting in the third story window with his legs hanging down outside.

“Come, empty the bottle,” said Anatole, giving Pierre the last glass, “or I won't let you go!”

“No, I don't want to,” said Pierre, shoving Anatole away; and he went up to the window.

Dolohov was holding the Englishman's hand and explaining distinctly the terms of the bet, addressing himself principally to Anatole and Pierre.

Dolohov was a man of medium height, with curly hair and clear blue eyes. He was five-and-twenty. Like all infantry officers he wore no moustache, so that his mouth, the most striking feature in his face, was not concealed. The lines of that mouth were extremely delicately chiselled. The upper lip closed vigorously in a sharp wedge-shape on the firm lower one, and at the corners the mouth always formed something like two smiles, one at each side, and altogether, especially in conjunction with the resolute, insolent, shrewd look of his eyes, made such an impression that it was impossible to overlook his face. Dolohov was a man of small means and no connections. And yet though Anatole was spending ten thousand a year, Dolohov lived with him and succeeded in so regulating the position that Anatole and all who knew them respected Dolohov more than Anatole. Dolohov played at every sort of game, and almost always won. However much he drank, his brain never lost its clearness. Both Kuragin and Dolohov were at that time notorious figures in the fast and dissipated world in Petersburg.

The bottle of rum was brought: the window-frame, which hindered any one sitting on the outside sill of the window, was being broken out by two footmen, obviously flurried and intimidated by the shouts and directions given by the gentlemen around them.

Anatole with his swaggering air came up to the window. He was longing to break something. He shoved the footmen aside and pulled at the frame, but the frame did not give. He smashed a pane.

“Now then, you're the strong man,” he turned to Pierre. Pierre took hold of the cross beam, tugged, and with a crash wrenched the oak frame out.

“All out, or they'll think I'm holding on,” said Dolohov.

“The Englishman's bragging…it's a fine feat…eh?” said Anatole.

“Fine,” said Pierre, looking at Dolohov, who with the bottle in his hand had gone up to the window, from which the light of the sky could be seen and the glow of morning and of evening melting into it. Dolohov jumped up on to the window, holding the bottle of rum in his hand. “Listen!” he shouted, standing on the sill and facing the room. Every one was silent.

“I take a bet” (he spoke in French that the Englishman might hear him, and spoke it none too well)…“I take a bet for fifty imperials—like to make it a hundred?” he added, turning to the Englishman.

“Nó, fifty,” said the Englishman.

“Good, for fifty imperials, that I'll drink off a whole bottle of rum without taking it from my lips. I'll drink it sitting outside the window, here on this place” (he bent down and pointed to the sloping projection of the wall outside the window)… “and without holding on to anything.…That right?”

“All right,” said the Englishman.

Anatole turned to the Englishman and taking him by the button of his coat, and looking down at him (the Englishman was a short man), he began repeating the terms of the wager in English.

“Wait a minute!” shouted Dolohov, striking the bottle on the window to call attention. “Wait a minute, Kuragin; listen: if any one does the same thing, I'll pay him a hundred imperials. Do you understand?”

The Englishman nodded without making it plain whether be intended to take this new bet or not.

Anatole persisted in keeping hold of the Englishman, and although the latter, nodding, gave him to understand that he comprehended fully, Anatole translated Dolohov's words into English. A thin, youthful hussar, who had been losing at cards that evening, slipped up to the window, poked his head out and looked down.

“Oo!…oo!…oo!” he said looking out of the window at the pavement below.

“Shut up!” cried Dolohov, and he pushed the officer away, so that, tripping over his spurs, he went skipping awkwardly into the room.

Setting the bottle on the window-sill, so as to have it within reach, Dolohov climbed slowly and carefully into the window. Lowering his legs over, with both hands spread open on the window-ledge, he tried the position, seated himself, let his hands go, moved a little to the right, and then to the left, and took the bottle. Anatole brought two candles, and set them on the window-ledge, so that it was quite light. Dolohov's back in his white shirt and his curly head were lighted up on both sides. All crowded round the window. The Englishman stood in front. Pierre smiled, and said nothing. One of the party, rather older than the rest, suddenly came forward with a scared and angry face, and tried to clutch Dolohov by his shirt.

“Gentlemen, this is idiocy; he'll be killed,” said this more sensible man.

Anatole stopped him.

“Don't touch him; you'll startle him and he'll be killed. Eh?…What then, eh?”

Dolohov turned, balancing himself, and again spreading his hands out.

“If any one takes hold of me again,” he said, letting his words drop one by one through his thin, tightly compressed lips, “I'll throw him down from here. Now…”

Saying “now,” he turned again, let his hands drop, took the bottle and put it to his lips, bent his head back and held his disengaged hand upwards to keep his balance. One of the footmen who had begun clearing away the broken glass, stopped still in a stooping posture, his eyes fixed on the window and Dolohov's back. Anatole stood upright, with wide-open eyes. The Englishman stared from one side, pursing up his lips. The man who had tried to stop it, had retreated to the corner of the room, and lay on the sofa with his face to the wall. Pierre hid his face, and a smile strayed forgotten upon it, though it was full of terror and fear. All were silent. Pierre took his hands from his eyes; Dolohov was still sitting in the same position, only his head was so far bent back that his curls touched his shirt collar, and the hand with the bottle rose higher and higher, trembling with evident effort. Evidently the bottle was nearly empty, and so was tipped higher, throwing the head back. “Why is it so long?” thought Pierre. It seemed to him that more than half an hour had passed. Suddenly Dolohov made a backward movement of the spine, and his arm trembled nervously; this was enough to displace his whole body as he sat on the sloping projection. He moved all over, and his arm and head trembled still more violently with the strain. One hand rose to clutch at the window-ledge, but it dropped again. Pierre shut his eyes once more, and said to himself that he would never open them again. Suddenly he was aware of a general stir about him. He glanced up, Dolohov was standing on the window-ledge, his face was pale and full of merriment.

“Empty!”

He tossed the bottle to the Englishman, who caught it neatly. Dolohov jumped down from the window. He smelt very strongly of rum.

“Capital! Bravo! That's something like a bet. You're a devil of a fellow!” came shouts from all sides.

The Englishman took out his purse and counted out the money. Dolohov frowned and did not speak. Pierre dashed up to the window.

“Gentlemen. Who'll take a bet with me? I'll do the same!” he shouted suddenly. “I don't care about betting; see here, tell them to give me a bottle. I'll do it.…Tell them to give it here.”

“Let him, let him!” said Dolohov, smiling.

“What, are you mad? No one would let you. Why, you turn giddy going downstairs,” various persons protested.

“I'll drink it; give me the bottle of rum,” roared Pierre, striking the table with a resolute, drunken gesture, and he climbed into the window. They clutched at his arms; but he was so strong that he shoved every one far away who came near him.

“No, there's no managing him like that,” said Anatole. “Wait a bit, I'll get round him.…Listen, I'll take your bet, but for to-morrow, for we're all going on now to…”

“Yes, come along,” shouted Pierre, “come along.…And take Mishka with us.”…And he caught hold of the bear, and embracing it and lifting it up, began waltzing round the room with it.

女人穿的连衣裙在隔壁房里发出沙沙的响声。安德烈公爵仿佛已清醒过来，把身子抖动一下，他的脸上正好流露出他在安娜·帕夫洛夫娜客厅里常有的那副表情。皮埃尔把他的两腿从沙发上放下去。公爵夫人走了进来。她穿着另一件家常穿的，但同样美观、未曾穿过的连衣裙。安德烈公爵站了起来，恭恭敬敬地把一张安乐椅移到她近旁。

“我为什么常常思考，”她像平常那样说了一句德国话，就连忙坐在安乐椅上，“安内特为什么还不嫁人呢？先生们，你们都十分愚蠢，竟然不娶她为妻了。请你们原宥我吧，但是，女人有什么用场，你们却丝毫不明了哩。皮埃尔先生，您是个多么爱争论的人啊！”

“我总会和您的丈夫争论；我不明白，他为什么要去作战。”皮埃尔向公爵夫人转过身来毫无拘束地（年轻男人对年轻女人交往中常有的这种拘束）说道。

公爵夫人颤抖了一下。显然，皮埃尔的话触及了她的痛处。

“咳，我说的也是同样的话啊！”她说道，“我不明了，根本不明了，为什么男人不作战就不能活下去呢？为什么我们女人什么也下想要，什么也不需要呢？呵，您就做个裁判吧。我总把一切情形说给他听：他在这里是他叔父的副官，一个顶好的职位。大家都很熟悉他，都很赏识他。近日来我在阿普拉克辛家里曾听到，有个太太问过一句话：他就是闻名的安德烈公爵吗？说真话！”她笑了起来，“他到处都受到欢迎。他可以轻而易举地当上侍从武官。您知道，国王很慈善地和他谈过话。我和安内特说过，撮合这门亲事不会有困难。您认为怎样？”

皮埃尔望了望安德烈公爵，发现他的朋友不喜欢这次谈话，便一言不答。

“您什么时候走呢？”他发问。

“哦！请您不要对我说走的事，您不要说吧！这件事我不愿意听，”公爵夫人用在客厅里和伊波利特谈话时的那种猥亵而任性的音调说道，看来，这音调用在皮埃尔仿佛是成员的家庭中很不适合，“今天当我想到要中断这一切宝贵的关系……然后呢？安德烈，你知道吗？”她意味深长地眨眨眼睛向丈夫示意，“我觉得可怕，觉得可怕啊！”她的脊背打颤，轻言细语地说。

丈夫望着她，流露出那种神态，仿佛他惊恐万状，因为他发觉，除开他和皮埃尔而外，屋中还有一个人，但是他依然现出冷淡和谦逊的表情，用疑问的音调对妻子说：

“丽莎，你害怕什么？我无法理解。”他说道。

“算什么男人，男人都是利己主义者，都是，都是利己主义者啊！他自己因为要求苛刻，过分挑剔，天晓得为什么，把我抛弃了，把我一个人关在乡下。”

“跟我父亲和妹妹在一起，别忘记。”安德烈公爵低声说道。

“我身边没有我的朋友们了，横直是孑然一人……他还想要我不怕哩。”

她的声调已经含有埋怨的意味，小嘴唇翘了起来，使脸庞赋有不高兴的、松鼠似的兽性的表情。她默不作声了，似乎她认为在皮埃尔面前说到她怀孕是件不体面的事，而这正是问题的实质所在。

“我还是不明白，你害怕什么。”安德烈公爵目不转睛地看着妻子，慢条斯理地说道。

公爵夫人涨红了脸，失望地挥动双手。

“不，安德烈，你变得真厉害，变得真厉害……”

“你的医生吩咐你早点就寝，”安德烈公爵说道，“你去睡觉好了。”

公爵夫人不发一言，突然她那长满茸毛的小嘴唇颤栗起来；安德烈公爵站起来，耸耸肩，从房里走过去了。

皮埃尔惊奇而稚气地借助眼镜时而望望他，时而望望公爵夫人，他身子动了一下，好像他也想站起来，但又改变了念头。

“皮埃尔先生在这儿，与我根本不相干，”矮小的公爵夫人忽然说了一句话，她那秀丽的脸上忽然现出发哭的丑相，“安德烈，我老早就想对你说：你为什么对我改变了态度呢？我对你怎么啦？你要到军队里去，你不怜悯我，为什么？”

“丽莎！”安德烈公爵只说了一句话，但这句话既含有乞求，又含有威胁，主要是有坚定的信心，深信她自己会懊悔自己说的话，但是她忙着把话继续说下去：

“你对待我就像对待病人或者对待儿童那样。我看得一清二楚啊。难道半年前你是这个模样吗？”

“丽莎，我请您住口。”安德烈公爵愈益富于表情地说道。

在谈话的时候，皮埃尔越来越激动不安，他站了起来，走到公爵夫人面前。看来他不能经受住流泪的影响，自己也准备哭出声来。

“公爵夫人，请放心。这似乎是您的想象，因为我要您相信，我自己体会到……为什么……因为……不，请您原谅，外人在这儿真是多余的了……不，请您放心……再见……”

安德烈公爵抓住他的一只手，要他止步。

“皮埃尔，不，等一下。公爵夫人十分善良，她不想我失去和你消度一宵的快乐。”

“不，他心中只是想到自己的事。”公爵夫人说道，忍不住流出气忿的眼泪。

“丽莎，”安德烈公爵冷漠地说道，抬高了声调，这足以表明，他的耐性到了尽头。

公爵夫人那副魅人的、令人怜悯的、畏惧的表情替代了她那漂亮脸盘上像松鼠似的忿忿不平的表情；她蹙起额角，用一双秀丽的眼睛望了望丈夫，俨像一只疾速而乏力地摇摆着下垂的尾巴的狗，脸上现出了胆怯的、表露心曲的神态。

“Mondieu，mondieu！”①公爵夫人说道，用一只手撩起连衣裙褶，向丈夫面前走去，吻了吻他的额头。

“Bonsoir，Lise．”②安德烈公爵说道，他站了起来，像在外人近旁那样恭恭敬敬地吻着她的手。

①法语：我的天哪，我的天哪！

②法语：丽莎，再会。

朋友们沉默不言。他们二人谁也不开腔。皮埃尔不时地看看安德烈公爵，安德烈公爵用一只小手揩揩自己的额头。

“我们去吃晚饭吧。”他叹一口气说道，站立起来向门口走去。

他们走进一间重新装修得豪华而优雅的餐厅。餐厅里的样样东西，从餐巾到银质器皿、洋瓷和水晶玻璃器皿，都具有年轻夫妇家的日常用品的异常新颖的特征。晚餐半中间，安德烈公爵用臂肘支撑着身子，开始说话了，他像个心怀积愫、忽然决意全盘吐露的人那样，脸上带有神经兴奋的表情，皮埃尔从未见过他的朋友流露过这种神态。

“我的朋友，永远，永远都不要结婚；这就是我对你的忠告，在你没有说你已做完你力所能及的一切以前，在你没有弃而不爱你所挑选的女人以前，在你还没有把她看清楚以前，你就不要结婚吧！否则，你就会铸成大错，弄到不可挽救的地步。当你是个毫不中用的老头的时候再结婚吧……否则，你身上所固有的一切美好而崇高的品质都将会丧失。一切都将在琐碎事情上消耗殆尽。是的，是的，是的！甭这样惊奇地望着我。如果你对自己的前程有所期望，你就会处处感觉到，你的一切都已完结，都已闭塞，只有那客厅除外，在那里你要和宫廷仆役和白痴平起平坐，被视为一流……岂不就是这么回事啊！……”

他用劲地挥挥手。

皮埃尔把眼镜摘下来，他的面部变了样子，显得愈加和善了，他很惊讶地望着自己的朋友。

“我的妻子，”安德烈公爵继续说下去，“是个挺好的女人。她是可以放心相处并共同追求荣誉的难能可贵的女人之一，可是，我的老天哪，只要我能不娶亲，我如今不论什么都愿意贡献出来啊！我是头一回向你一个人说出这番话的，因为我爱护你啊。”

安德烈公爵说这话时与原先不同，更不像博尔孔斯基了，那时，博尔孔斯基把手脚伸开懒洋洋地坐在安娜·帕夫洛夫娜的安乐椅上，把眼睛眯缝起来，透过齿缝说了几句法国话。他那冷淡的脸部由于神经兴奋的缘故每块肌肉都在颤栗着，一对眼睛里射出的生命之火在先前似乎熄灭了，现在却闪闪发亮。看来，他平常显得愈加暮气沉沉，而在兴奋时就会显得愈加生气勃勃。

“你并不明白，我为什么要说这番话，”他继续说下去，“要知道，这是全部生活史。你说到，波拿巴和他的升迁，”他说了这句话后，虽然皮埃尔并没有说到波拿巴的事情，“你谈到波拿巴；但当波拿巴从事他的活动，一步一步地朝着他的目标前进的时候，他自由自在，除开他所追求的目标而外，他一无所有，他终于达到了目标。但是，你如若把你自己和女的捆在一起，像个带上足枷的囚犯，那你就会丧失一切自由。你的希望和力量——这一切只会成为你的累赘，使你遭受到懊悔的折磨。客厅、谗言、舞会、虚荣、微不足道的事情，这就是我无法走出的魔力圈。现在我要去参战，参加一次前所未有的至为伟大的战争，可我一无所知，一点也不中用。JesuBistresamiableettrèscaustique①．”安德烈公爵继续说下去，“大伙儿都在安娜·帕夫洛夫娜那里听我说话。他们是一群愚蠢的人，如若没有他们，我的妻子就不能生活下去，还有这些女人……但愿你能知道，touteslesfemmesdistinguées②和一般的女人都是一些什么人啊！我父亲说得很对。当女人露出她们的真面目的时候，自私自利、虚荣、愚笨、微不足道——这就是女人的普遍特征。你看看上流社会的女人，他们似乎有点什么，可是什么也没有，什么也没有，什么也没有啊！对，我的心肝，甭结婚吧，甭结婚吧。”安德烈爵说完了话。

①法语：我是个快嘴快舌的人。

②法语：这些像样的女人。

“我觉得非常可笑，”皮埃尔说道，“您认为自己无才干，认为自己的生活腐化堕落。其实您前途无量，而且您……”

他没有说出“您怎么样”，可是他的语调表明，他很器重自己的朋友，对他的前途抱有厚望。

“这种话他怎么能开口说出来呢？”皮埃尔想道。皮埃尔认为安德烈公爵是所有人的楷模，纯粹是因为安德烈公爵高度地凝聚着皮埃尔所缺乏的品德，这种品德可以用“意志力”这个概念至为切贴地表示出来。安德烈公爵善于沉着地应酬各种人，富有非凡的记忆力，博学多识（他博览群书，见多识广，洞悉一切），尤其是善于工作、善于学习，皮埃尔向来就对安德烈公爵的各种才能感到惊讶。如果说安德烈缺乏富于幻想的推理能力（皮埃尔特别倾向于这个领域），那么，他却不认为这是缺点，而是力量的源泉。

在最良好、友善和朴实的人际关系中，阿谀或赞扬都不可缺少，有如马车行驶，车轮需要抹油一样。

“Jesuisunhommefini，”①安德烈公爵说道，“关于我的情况有什么话可说的呢？让我们谈谈你的情况吧，”他说道，沉默片刻后，对他那令人快慰的想法微微一笑。

这一笑同时也在皮埃尔脸上反映出来了。

“可是，关于我的情形有什么话可说的呢？”皮埃尔说道，他嘴边浮现出愉快的、无忧无虑的微笑，“我是个什么人呢？Jesuisunbatard！”②他忽然涨红了脸。显然，他竭尽全力才把这句话说了出来，“sansnom，sansfortune……③也好，说实话……”但是他没把“说实话”这个词儿说出来，“我暂且自由自在，我心里感到舒畅。不过，我怎么也不知道我应当先做什么事。我想认真地和您商量商量。”

①法语：我是个不可救药的人。

②法语：一个私生子。

③法语：既无名，亦无财富。

安德烈公爵用慈善的目光望着他。可是在他那友爱而温柔的目光中依旧显露出他的优越感。

“在我心目中，你之所以可贵，特别是因为唯有你才是我们整个上流社会中的一个活跃分子。你觉得舒适。你选择你所愿意做的事吧，反正是这么一回事。你以后到处都行得通，不过有一点要记住：你不要再去库拉金家中了，不要再过这种生活。狂饮、骠骑兵派头，这一切……对你都不适合了。”

“Quevoulez－vous，moncher，”皮埃尔耸耸肩，说道，“Lesfemmes，moncher，lesfemmes！”①

“我不明白，”安德烈答道：“LesfemmescommeilfautB，”②这是另一码事；不过库拉金家的Lesfemmes，lesfemmesetlevin③，我不明白啊！”

①法语：我的朋友啊，毫无办法，那些女人，那些女人啊！

②法语：像样的女人。

③法语：女人，女人和酒。

皮埃尔在瓦西里·库拉金公爵家中居住，他和公爵的儿子阿纳托利一同享受纵酒作乐的生活，大家拿定了主意，要阿纳托利娶安德烈的妹妹为妻，促使他痛改前非。

“您可要知道，就是这么一回事啊！”皮埃尔说道，他脑海中仿佛突然出现一个极妙的想法，“真的，我老早就有这个念头。过着这种生活，对什么事我都拿不定主意，什么事我都无法缜密考虑。真头痛，钱也没有了。今天他又邀请我，我去不成了。”

“你向我保证，你不走，行吗？”

“我保证！”

当皮埃尔离开他的朋友走出大门时，已经是深夜一点多钟。是夜适逢是彼得堡六月的白夜。皮埃尔坐上一辆马车，打算回家去。但是他越走近家门，他就越发感觉到在这个夜晚不能入睡，这时候与其说是深夜，莫如说它更像黄昏或早晨。空荡无人的街上可以望见很远的地方。皮埃尔在途中回忆起来，今日晚上必定有一伙赌博的常客要在阿纳托利·库拉金家里聚会。豪赌之后照例是纵酒作乐，收场的节目又是皮埃尔喜爱的一种娱乐。

“如果到库拉金家去走一趟该多好啊。”他心中想道。但是立刻又想到他曾向安德烈公爵许下不去库拉金家串门的诺言。

但是，正如所谓优柔寡断者的遭遇那样，嗣后不久他又极欲再一次体验他所熟悉的腐化堕落的生活，他于是拿定主意，要到那里去了。他蓦地想到，许下的诺言毫无意义，因为在他向安德烈公爵许下诺言之前，他曾向阿纳托利公爵许下到他家去串门的诺言。他终于想到，所有这些诺言都是空洞的假设，并无明确的涵义，特别是当他想到，他明天有可能死掉，也有可能发生特殊事故，因此，承诺与不承诺的问题，就不复存在了。皮埃尔的脑海中常常出现这一类的论断，它消除了他的各种决定和意向。他还是乘车到库拉金家中去了。

他乘马车到达了阿纳托利所住的近卫骑兵队营房旁一栋大楼房的门廊前面，他登上了灯火通明的台阶，上了楼梯，向那敞开的门户走进去。接待室内荡然无人，乱七八糟地放着空瓶子、斗篷、套鞋，发散着一股酒味，远处的语声和喊声隐约可闻。

赌博和晚膳已经完毕了，但是客人们还没有各自回家。皮埃尔脱下斗篷，步入第一个房间，那里只有残酒与剩饭，还有一名仆役；他内心以为没有被人发现，悄悄地喝完了几杯残酒。第三个房间传出的喧器、哈哈大笑、熟悉的叫喊和狗熊的怒吼，清晰可闻。大约有八个年轻人在那敞开的窗口挤来挤去。有三个人正在玩耍一只小熊，一个人在地上拖着锁上铁链的小熊，用它来恐吓旁人。

“我押史蒂文斯一百卢布赌注！”有个人喊道。

“当心，不要搀扶！”另一人喊道。

“我押在多洛霍夫上啊！”第三个人喊道，“库拉金，把手掰开来。”

“喂，把小熊‘朱沙'扔开吧，这里在打赌啊！”

“要一干而尽，不然，就输了。”第四个人喊道。

“雅科夫，拿瓶酒来，雅科夫！”主人喊道，他是个身材高大的美男子，穿着一件袒露胸口的薄衬衣站在人群中间，“先生们，等一会。瞧，他就是彼得鲁沙，亲爱的朋友。”他把脸转向皮埃尔说道。

另一个身材不高、长着一对明亮的蓝眼睛的人从窗口喊叫：“请上这里来，给我们把手掰开，打赌啊！”这嗓音在所有这些醉汉的嗓音中听来令人觉得最为清醒，分外震惊。他是和阿纳托利住在一起的多洛霍夫，谢苗诺夫兵团的军官，大名鼎鼎的赌棍和决斗能手。皮埃尔面露微笑，快活地向四周张望。

“我什么也不明白。是怎么回事？”他问道。

“等一会，他还没有喝醉。给我一瓶酒。”阿纳托利说道，从桌上拿起一只玻璃杯，向皮埃尔跟前走去。

“你首先喝酒。”

皮埃尔一杯接着一杯地喝起酒来，而那些蹙起额头瞧瞧又在窗口挤来挤去的喝得醉醺醺的客人，倾听着他们交谈。阿纳托利给他斟酒，对他讲，多洛霍夫和到过此地的海员，叫做史蒂文斯的英国人打赌，这样议定：他多洛霍夫把脚吊在窗外坐在三楼窗台上一口气喝干一瓶烈性甜酒。

“喂，要喝干啊！”阿纳托利把最后一杯酒递给皮埃尔，说道，“不然，我不放过你！”

“不，我不想喝。”皮埃尔用手推开阿纳托利，说道；向窗前走去。

多洛霍夫握着英国人的手，明确地说出打赌的条件，但主要是和阿纳托利、皮埃尔打交道。

多洛霍夫这人中等身材，长着一头鬈发，有两只明亮的蓝眼睛。他约莫二十五岁。像所有的陆军军官那样，不蓄胡子，因而他的一张嘴全露出来，这正是他那令人惊叹的脸部线条。这张嘴十分清秀，弯成了曲线。上嘴唇中间似呈尖楔形，有力地搭在厚实的下嘴唇上，嘴角边经常现出两个微笑的酒窝。所有这一切，特别是在他那聪明、坚定而放肆的目光配合下，造成了一种不能不惹人注意这副脸型的印象。多洛霍夫是个不富裕的人，没有什么人情关系。尽管阿纳托利花费几万卢布现金，多洛霍夫和他住在一起，竟能为自己博得好评，他们的熟人把多洛霍夫和阿纳托利比较，更为尊重多洛霍夫，阿纳托利也尊重他。多洛霍夫无博不赌，几乎总是赢钱。无论他喝多少酒，他从来不会丧失清醒的头脑。当时在彼得堡的浪子和酒徒的领域中，多洛霍夫和库拉全都是赫赫有名的人物。

一瓶烈性甜酒拿来了。窗框使人们无法在那窗户外面的侧壁上坐下，于是有两个仆役把窗框拆下来，他们周围的老爷们指手划脚，不断地吆喝，把他们搞得慌里慌张，显得很羞怯。

阿纳托利现出洋洋得意的神气，向窗前走去。他禁不住要毁坏什么东西。他把仆人们推开，拖了拖窗框，可是拖不动它。他于是砸烂了玻璃。

“喂，你这个大力士。”他把脸转向皮埃尔说道。

皮埃尔抓住横木，拖了拖，像木制的窗框喀嚓喀嚓地响，有的地方被他弄断了，有的地方被扭脱了。

“把整个框子拆掉，要不然，大家还以为我要扶手哩。”多洛霍夫说道。

“那个英国人在吹牛嘛……可不是？……好不好呢？

……”阿纳托利说道。

“好吧。”皮埃尔望着多洛霍夫说道，多洛霍夫拿了一瓶烈性甜酒，正向窗前走去，从窗子望得见天空的亮光，曙光和夕晖在天上连成一片了。

多洛霍夫手中拿着一瓶烈性甜酒，霍地跳上了窗台。

“听我说吧！“他面向房间，站在窗台上喊道。大家都沉默不言。

“我打赌（他操着法语，让那个英国人听懂他的意思，但是他说得不太好），我赌五十金卢布，您想赌一百？”他把脸转向英国人，补充了一句。

“不，就赌五十吧。”英国人说道。

“好吧，赌五十金卢布，”二人议定，“我要一口气喝干一整瓶烈性糖酒，两手不扶着什么东西，坐在窗台外边，就坐在这个地方把它喝干（他弯下腰来，用手指指窗户外边那倾斜的墙壁上的突出部分）……就这样，好吗？……”

“很好。”英国人说道。

阿纳托利向英国人转过身去，一手揪住他的燕尾服上的钮扣，居高临下地望着他（那个英国人身材矮小），开始用法语向他重说了打赌的条件。

“等一下！”多洛霍夫为了要大家注意他，便用酒瓶敲打着窗户，大声喊道，“库拉金，等一会，听我说吧。如果有谁如法炮制，我就支付一百金卢布。明白么？”

英国人点点头，怎么也不肯让人明白，他有意还是无意接受打赌的新条件。阿纳托利不愿放开英国人，虽然那个英国人点头示意，但他心里什么都明白。阿纳托利用英语把多洛霍夫的话向他翻译出来。一个年轻的、瘦骨嶙峋的男孩——近卫骠骑兵，这天夜里输了钱，他于是爬上窗台上，探出头来向下面望望。

“吓！……吓！……吓！……”他瞧着窗外人行道上的石板说道。

“安静！”多洛霍夫高声喊道，把那个军官从窗台上拉了下来，被马刺绊住腿的军官很不自在地跳到房间里。

多洛霍夫把酒瓶搁在窗台上，这样拿起来方便，他谨小慎微地、悄悄地爬上窗户。他垂下两腿，双手支撑着窗沿，打量了一番，把身子坐稳，然后放开双手，向左向右移动，拿到了一只酒瓶。阿纳托利拿来了两根蜡烛，搁在窗台，虽然这时候天大亮了，两根蜡烛从两旁把多洛霍夫穿着一件白衬衣的脊背和他长满鬈发的头照得通亮了。大家都在窗口挤来挤去。那个英国人站在大家前面。皮埃尔微微发笑，不说一句话。一个在场的年纪最大的人露出气忿的、惊惶失惜的神色，忽然窜到前面去，想一把揪住多洛霍夫的衬衣。

“先生们，这是蠢事，他会跌死的。”这个较为明智的人说道。

阿纳托利制止他。

“不要触动他，你会吓倒他，他会跌死的。怎样？……那为什么呢？……哎呀……”

多洛霍夫扭过头来，坐得平稳点了，又用双手支撑着窗户的边沿。

“如果有谁再挤到我身边来，”他透过紧团的薄嘴唇断断续续地说，“我就要把他从这里扔下去。也罢！……”

他说了一声“也罢”，又转过身去，伸开双手，拿着一只酒瓶搁到嘴边，头向后仰，抬起一只空着的手，这样，好把身子弄平稳。有一个仆人在动手捡起玻璃，他弯曲着身子站着不动弹，目不转睛地望着窗户和多洛霍夫的脊背。阿纳托利瞪大眼睛，笔直地站着。那个英国人噘起嘴唇，从一旁观看。那个想阻拦他的人跑到屋角里去，面朝墙壁地躺在沙发上。皮埃尔用手捂住脸，此时他脸上虽然现出恐怖的神色，但却迷迷糊糊地保持着微笑的表情。大家都沉默不言。皮埃尔把蒙住眼睛的手拿开。多洛霍夫保持同样的姿态坐着，不过他的头颅向后扭转过来了，后脑勺上的卷发就碰在衬衫的领子上，提着酒瓶的手越举越高，不住地颤抖，用力地挣扎着。这酒瓶显然快要喝空了，而且举起来了，头也给扭弯了。“怎么搞了这样久呢？”皮埃尔想了想。他仿佛觉得已经过了半个多钟头。多洛霍夫把脊背向后转过去，一只手神经质地颤栗起来，这一颤栗足以推动坐在倾斜的侧壁上的整个身躯。他全身都挪动起来了，他的手和头越抖越厉害，费劲地挣扎。一只手抬了起来抓住那窗台，但又滑落下去了。皮埃尔又用手捂住眼睛，对自己说：永远也没法把它睁开来。他忽然觉得周围的一切微微地摆动起来了。他看了一眼：多洛霍夫正站在窗台上，他的脸色苍白，但却露出了愉快的神态。

“酒瓶子空了。”

他把这酒瓶扔给英国人，英国人灵活地接住。多洛霍夫从窗上跳下来。他身上发散着浓重的甜酒气味。

“棒极了！好样的！这才是打赌啊！您真了不起啊！”大家从四面叫喊起来了。

那个英国人拿出钱包来数钱。多洛霍夫愁苦着脸，沉默不语。皮埃尔一跃跳上了窗台。

“先生们！谁愿意同我打赌呢？我同样做它一遍，”他忽然高声喊道，“不需要打赌，听我说，我也这么干。请吩咐给我拿瓶酒来。我一定做到……请吩咐给我拿瓶酒来。”

“让他干吧，让他干吧！”多洛霍夫面带微笑，说道。

“你干嘛，发疯了么？谁会让你干呢？你就站在梯子上也会感到头晕啊。”大家从四面开腔说话。

“我准能喝干，给我一瓶烈性甜酒吧！”皮埃尔嚷道，做出坚定的醉汉的手势，捶打着椅子，随即爬上了窗户。

有人抓住他的手，可是他很有力气，把靠近他的人推到很远去了。

“不，你这样丝毫也说服不了他，”阿纳托利说道，“等一等，我来哄骗他。你听我说，跟你打个赌吧，但约在明天，现在我们大家都要到×××家中去了。”

“我们乘车子去吧，”皮埃尔喊道，“我们乘车子去吧！……

把小熊‘米沙'也带去。”

他于是急忙抓住这头熊，抱着它让它站起来，和它一同在房里跳起舞来，双腿旋转着。