Book 1 Chapter 13

PIERRE had not succeeded in fixing upon a career in Petersburg, and really had been banished to Moscow for disorderly conduct. The story told about him at Count Rostov's was true. Pierre had assisted in tying the police officer to the bear. He had arrived a few days previously, stopping as he always did at his father's house. Though he had assumed that his story would be already known at Moscow, and that the ladies who were about his father, always unfavourably disposed to him, would profit by this opportunity of turning the count against him, he went on the day of his arrival to his father's part of the house. Going into the drawing-room, where the princesses usually sat, he greeted the ladies, two of whom were sitting at their embroidery frames, while one read aloud. There were three of them. The eldest, a trim, long-waisted, severe maiden-lady, the one who had come out to Anna Mihalovna, was reading. The younger ones, both rosy and pretty, were only to be distinguished by the fact that one of them had a little mole which made her much prettier. They were both working at their embroidery frames. Pierre was received like a man risen from the dead or stricken with plague. The eldest princess paused in her reading and stared at him in silence with dismay in her eyes. The second assumed precisely the same expression. The youngest, the one with the mole, who was of a mirthful and laughing disposition, bent over her frame, to conceal a smile, probably evoked by the amusing scene she foresaw coming. She pulled her embroidery wool out below, and bent down as though examining the pattern, hardly able to suppress her laughter.

“Good morning, cousin,” said Pierre. “You don't know me?”

“I know you only too well, only too well.”

“How is the count? Can I see him?” Pierre asked, awkwardly as always, but not disconcerted.

“The count is suffering both physically and morally, and your only anxiety seems to be to occasion him as much suffering as possible.”

“Can I see the count?” repeated Pierre.

“Hm … if you want to kill him, to kill him outright, you can see him. Olga, go and see if uncle's broth is ready—it will soon be time for it,” she added, to show Pierre they were busy, and busy in seeing after his father's comfort, while he was obviously only busy in causing him discomfort.

Olga went out. Pierre stood still a moment, looked at the sisters and bowing said: “Then I will go to my room. When I can see him, you will tell me.” He went away and heard the ringing but not loud laugh of the sister with the mole behind him.

The next day Prince Vassily had come and settled in the count's house. He sent for Pierre and said to him:

“My dear fellow, if you behave here as you did at Petersburg, you will come to a very bad end; that's all I have to say to you. The count is very, very ill; you must not see him.”

Since then Pierre had not been disturbed, and he spent the whole day alone in his room upstairs.

At the moment when Boris came in, Pierre was walking up and down his room, stopping now and then in the corners, making menacing gestures at the wall, as though thrusting some invisible enemy through with a lance, then he gazed sternly over his spectacles, then pacing up and down again, murmuring indistinct words, shrugging his shoulders and gesticulating.

“England's day is over!” he said, scowling and pointing at some one with his finger. “Mr. Pitt, as a traitor to the nation and to the rights of man, is condemned…” he had not time to deliver Pitt's sentence, imagining himself at that moment Napoleon, and having in the person of his hero succeeded in the dangerous crossing of the Channel and in the conquest of London, when he saw a graceful, handsome young officer come in. He stood still. Pierre had seen Boris last as a boy of fourteen, and did not remember him in the least. But in spite of that he took his hand in his characteristically quick and warm-hearted manner, and smiled cordially at him.

“You remember me?” Boris said calmly with a pleasant smile. “I have come with my mother to see the count, but it seems he is not quite well.”

“Yes, he is ill, it seems. People are always bothering him,” answered Pierre, trying to recall who this youth might be.

Boris perceived that Pierre did not know him, but did not think fit to make himself known, and without the slightest embarrassment looked him straight in the face.

“Count Rostov asks you to come to dinner with him to-day,” he said, after a rather long silence somewhat disconcerting for Pierre.

“Ah, Count Rostov,” began Pierre, delighted. “So you are his son, Ilya? Can you believe it, for the first moment I did not recognise you. Do you remember how we used to slide on the Sparrow Hills with Madame Jacquot … long ago?”

“You are mistaken,” said Boris, deliberately, with a bold and rather sarcastic smile. “I am Boris, the son of Princess Anna Mihalovna Drubetskoy. It is the father of the Rostovs who is called Ilya, the son's Nikolay. And I don't know any Madame Jacquot.”

Pierre shook his hands and head, as though flies or bees were swarming upon him.

“Ah, how is it! I've mixed it all up. There are such a lot of relatives in Moscow! You are Boris … yes. Well, now, we have got it clear. Tell me, what do you think of the Boulogne expedition? Things will go badly with the English, you know, if Napoleon gets across the Channel. I believe that the expedition is very possible. If only Villeneuve doesn't make a mess of it!”

Boris knew nothing at all about the Boulogne expedition, and it was the first time he had heard of Villeneuve.

“Here in Moscow we are more interested in dinner parties and scandal than in politics,” he said in his self-possessed, sarcastic tone. “I know nothing and think nothing about it. Moscow's more engrossed in scandal than anything,” he went on. “Just now they are all talking about you and about the count.”

Pierre smiled his kindly smile, as though afraid for his companion's sake that he might say something he would regret. But Boris spoke distinctly, clearly and drily, looking straight into Pierre's face.

“There's nothing else to do in Moscow but talk scandal,” he went on. “Every one's absorbed in the question whom the count will leave his fortune to, though perhaps he will outlive us all, as I sincerely hope he may.”

“Yes, all that's very horrid,” Pierre interposed, “very horrid.” Pierre was still afraid this officer would inadvertently drop into some remark disconcerting for himself.

“And it must seem to you,” said Boris, flushing slightly, but not changing his voice or attitude, “it must seem to you that every one's thinking of nothing but getting something from him.”

“That's just it,” thought Pierre.

“And that's just what I want to say to you to prevent misunderstandings, that you are very much mistaken if you reckon me and my mother among those people. We are very poor, but I—at least I speak for myself—just because your father is rich, I don't consider myself a relation of his, and neither I nor my mother would ever ask him for anything or take anything from him.”

It was a long while before Pierre understood, but, when he did understand, he jumped up from the sofa, seized Boris's hand with his characteristic quickness and awkwardness, and blushing far more than Boris, began speaking with a mixed sensation of shame and annoyance.

“Well, this is strange! Do you suppose I … how you could think … I know very well …”

But Boris again interrupted him.

“I am glad I have told you everything frankly. Perhaps you dislike it: you must excuse me,” he said, trying to put Pierre at his ease instead of being put at his ease by him; “but I hope I have not offended you. I make it a rule to say everything quite plainly.… Then what message am I to take? You will come to dinner at the Rostovs'?” And Boris, with an evident sense of having discharged an onerous duty, having extricated himself from an awkward position, and put somebody else into one became perfectly pleasant again.

“No, let me tell you,” said Pierre, regaining his composure, “you are a wonderful person. What you have just said was very fine, very fine. Of course you don't know me, it's so long since we've seen each other … we were children.… You might suppose I should … I understand, I quite understand. I shouldn't have done it, I shouldn't have had the courage, but it's splendid. I'm very glad I have made your acquaintance. A queer idea,” he added, pausing and smiling, “you must have had of me.” He laughed. “But what of it? Let us know each other better, please!” He pressed Boris's hand. “Do you know I've not once seen the count? He has not sent for me … I am sorry for him, as a man … But what can one do?”

“And so you think Napoleon will succeed in getting his army across?” Boris queried, smiling.

Pierre saw that Boris was trying to change the conversation, and so he began explaining the advantages and difficulties of the Boulogne expedition.

A footman came in to summon Boris to the princess. The princess was going. Pierre promised to come to dinner in order to see more of Boris, and pressed his hand warmly at parting, looking affectionately into his face over his spectacles.

When he had gone, Pierre walked for some time longer up and down his room, not thrusting at an unseen foe, but smiling at the recollection of that charming, intelligent, and resolute young man.

As so often happens with young people, especially if they are in a position of loneliness, he felt an unreasonable tenderness for this youth, and he firmly resolved to become friends with him.

Prince Vassily accompanied the princess to the hall. The princess was holding her handkerchief to her eyes, and her face was tearful.

“It is terrible, terrible!” she said; “but whatever it costs me, I will do my duty. I will come to stay the night. He can't be left like this. Every minute is precious. I can't understand why his nieces put it off. Maybe God will help me to find a way to prepare him. Adieu, prince, may God support you …”

“Adieu, my kind friend,” answered Prince Vassily, turning away from her.

“Oh, he is in an awful position!” said the mother to her son, when they were sitting in the carriage again. “He scarcely knows any one.”

“I don't understand, mamma, what his attitude is as regards Pierre.”

“The will will make all that plain, my dear; our fate, too, hangs upon it.…”

“But what makes you think he will leave us anything?”

“Oh, my dear! He is so rich, and we are so poor.”

“Well, that's hardly a sufficient reason, mamma.”

“Oh, my God, how ill he is, how ill he is!” cried his mother.

皮埃尔在彼得堡始终没有给自己选择一门职业，他确因滋意闹事被驱逐到莫斯科去。有人在罗斯托夫家叙述的那则故事合乎事实。皮埃尔参与了一起捆绑警察分局局长和狗熊的案件。他在几天前才回来，像平日一样，呆在父亲住宅里。虽然他推想，他的这段历史，莫斯科已经家喻户晓。他父亲周围的那些太太一向对他不怀好意，她们要借此机会使他父亲忿怒。但是在他抵达的那天，他还是到他父亲的寓所去了。他走进公爵小姐平时驻足的客厅，向用绷子绣花和读书（她们之中有一人正在朗读一本书）的几个小姐打招呼。她们共有三个人。年长的小姐素性好洁，腰身太长，面部表情过分严肃，她就是到过安娜·米哈伊洛夫娜家里串门的姑娘，她在朗读一本书；两个年幼的小姐脸颊粉红，十分秀丽，她们之间的差异只是其中一位唇上长着一点使她显得更为美丽的胎痣，她们二人都用绷子绣花哩。她们会见皮埃尔，把他看作死人或鼠疫病人。年长的公爵小姐中断了朗读，默不做声地用恐惧的眼睛朝他瞟了一眼；那位年幼的公爵小姐，脸上没有胎痣，却流露出同样的表情；最年幼的小姐，脸上长着一点胎痣，天性活泼，滑稽可笑，她朝绷子弯下腰去，藏起了笑意，大概她已预见到即将演出一幕闹剧，这使她觉得可笑。她把绒线向下扯，弯下腰来，好像在识别图案似的，好不容易她才忍住没有笑出声来。

“Bomjour，macousine，”皮埃尔说道，“VousnemereBconnaissezpas？”①

“我还记得很清楚，很清楚。”

“伯爵的健康情况怎样？我能会见他吗？”皮埃尔像平日那样不好意思地问道，但并没有困窘不安。

“伯爵无论在身体上，还是在精神上都遭受痛苦，似乎您试图使他在精神上遭受更大的痛苦。”

“我能会见伯爵吗？”皮埃尔重复自己说过的话。

“嗯！……假如您想杀死他，杀掉他，那么您就能见他一面。奥莉加，走去看看，表叔喝的汤炖好了吗，时候快到了。”她补充说道，向皮埃尔表示，她们都很忙，正忙着安慰他父亲，显然他只是忙着让他父亲心痛。

奥莉加走出去了。皮埃尔站了片刻，望望那两个表妹，鞠了一躬，说道：

“那我就到自己房里去好了。在能会面的时候，就请你们告诉我吧。”

他走出去了，身后传来那个长有胎痣的表妹的洪亮悦耳、但却低沉的笑声。

翌日，瓦西里公爵来了，他在伯爵家里落歇。他把皮埃尔喊到身边，对他说道：

“Moncher，sivousvousconduisezici，commeà

Pétersbeurg，vousfinireztrèsmal；c'esttoutcequejevousdis，②伯爵的病情很严重，很严重；你根本用不着和他见面。”

①法语：表妹，您好，您不认识我了？

②法语：我亲爱的，假如您在这里也像在彼得堡那样行为不正当，结果会弄得很糟，这是真话。

从那时起，大家不再打扰皮埃尔了，他孑然一人整天价呆在楼上自己房里。

当鲍里斯向皮埃尔房里走进来时，他正在房里来回踱方步，有时候在屋角里停步不前，对着墙壁做出威胁的手势，仿佛用长剑刺杀那看不见的敌人似的，他板起脸孔从眼镜上方向外张望，然后又开始踱来踱去，有时候口里喃喃地说着不清晰的话语，他耸耸肩，摊开两手。

“L'Angleterreavécu，”①他皱起眉头，用手指指着某人说道，“M．Pittcommetraitreàlanationetaudroitdesgensestcondamnéà…”②这时分他把自己想象为拿破仑本人，并随同英雄经历危险越过加来海峡，侵占了伦敦，但他尚未说完处死皮特这句话时，忽然看见一个身材匀称、面目俊秀、向他走来的青年军官。他停步了。皮埃尔离开鲍里斯时，他才是个十四岁的男孩，皮埃尔简直记不得他了，尽管如此，皮埃尔还是现出他所特有的敏捷而热情的样子，一把握住鲍里斯的手，脸上含着友善的微笑。

①法语：英国完蛋了。

②法语：皮特是个背叛民族、出卖民权的败类，要判处……

“您记得我吗？”鲍里斯面露愉快的微笑，心平气和地说道，“我和我母亲来找伯爵，可是他好像身体欠佳。”

“是啊，他好像身体欠佳。人家老是打扰他。”皮埃尔答道，竭力地追忆这个年轻人到底是何人。

鲍里斯觉得，皮埃尔不认识他了，但他认为用不着说出自己的姓名，两眼直盯着他的眼睛，丝毫不觉得困惑不安。

“罗斯托夫伯爵请您今天到他家去用午饭。”他在相当长久的使皮埃尔觉得很不自在的沉默后说道。

“啊！罗斯托夫伯爵！”皮埃尔高兴地说道，“伊利亚，那末，您就是他的儿子罗？您可以想想，我头一眼没有把您认出来呢。您还记得我们和m－meJacquot①乘车上麻雀山吗？

……那是很久很久以前的事啊。”

①法语：雅科太太。

“您搞错了，”鲍里斯露出不同凡俗的略带讥讽的微笑，不慌不忙地说道，“我是鲍里斯，是叫做安娜·米哈伊洛夫娜·德鲁别茨卡娅的公爵夫人的儿子，罗斯托夫的父亲叫做伊利亚，他儿子叫做尼古拉。我可不认识什么雅科太太。”

皮埃尔挥了挥手，晃了晃脑袋，好像有蚊蚋或蜜蜂向他袭来似的。

“哎，是怎么回事啊！我把什么都搞混了。有这么许多莫斯科的亲戚！是的，您是鲍里斯……嗯，我们说得有个头绪了。喂，您对布伦远征有什么看法呢？只要拿破仑渡过海峡，英国人就要遭殃了，是吗？我想，远征是十拿九稳的事。但愿维尔纳夫不要出漏子！”

布伦远征的事，鲍里斯一无所知，他不看报，还是头一次听到维尔纳夫这个人物。

“我们在这个地方，在莫斯科，对午宴和谗言比对政治更为关心，”他用那平静的讥讽的语调说道，“这事情，我一无所知，心里也不去想它。莫斯科最关心的是谗言，”他继续说道，“眼下大家都在谈论您，谈论伯爵哩。”

皮埃尔露出善意的微笑，好像他惧怕对方会说出什么使他本人懊悔的话。但是鲍里斯一直盯着皮埃尔的眼睛，他说话时，听来令人信服，但却索然乏味。

“莫斯科除开散布流言飞语而外，再也没有事情可干了，”他继续说道，“大家都在关心，伯爵会把财产留给什么人，不过他可能比我们大家活得更长，这就是我的衷心的祝愿……”

“说得对，这真够呛，”皮埃尔随着说起来，“真是够呛。”皮埃尔老是害怕这个军官会出乎意外地热衷于一场使他本人感到尴尬的谈话。

“您必定以为。”鲍里斯有点涨红了脸，说道，但没有改变嗓音和姿态，“您必定以为，大家关心的只是从富翁那里得到什么东西。”

“真是这样。”皮埃尔思忖了一会。

“为了要避免误解，我正想把话对您说，假如您把我和我母亲都算在这类人之列，那就大错特错了。我们虽然很贫穷，但我至少要替自己说话；正是因为您父亲很富有，我才不把自己看成是他的亲戚，无论是我，还是我母亲，我们永远也不会乞讨他的任何东西，也不会接受他的任何东西。”

皮埃尔久久地不能明白，但是当他明白了，他就从沙发上飞快跳起来，以他那固有的敏捷而笨拙的动作一把托住了鲍里斯的手臂；这时分他比鲍里斯的脸红得厉害多了，满怀着又羞愧又懊悔的感情说起话来：

“这多么古怪！我难道……可谁又会去想呢？……我十分清楚……”

可是鲍里斯又把他的话打断了：

“我把话全部说出来了，我觉得非常高兴。您也许会不乐意，就请您原谅我吧。”他说道，不仅不让皮埃尔安慰他，他反而安慰皮埃尔，“但是我希望，我不会使您受到屈辱。我的规矩是坦率地把话说干净……我应该怎样转达呢？您去罗斯托夫家吃午饭吗？”

鲍里斯显然推卸了沉重的责任，自己摆脱了尴尬的处境，却又使别人处于那种境地，于是他又变得非常愉快了。

“不，请您听我说吧，”皮埃尔心平气和地说道，“您是个不平凡的人。您方才说的话很不错，很不错。不消说，您不认识我了。我们许久不见面了……那时候还是儿童呢……您可以把我推测一番……我心里明白，十分明白。如果我缺乏勇气，这件事我就办不成啊，可是这棒极了。我和您认识了，我觉得非常高兴。说来真奇怪，”他沉默片刻，面露微笑地补充了一句，“您把我推测成什么样子！”他笑了起来。“也罢，这没有什么，那怎样呢？我们以后会认识得更加透彻的。就这样吧。”他握握鲍里斯的手。“您是否知道，伯爵那儿我一次也没有去过哩。他没邀请我……我怜悯他这个人……可是有什么法子呢？”

“您以为拿破仑会派军队越过海峡吗？”鲍里斯面露微笑地问道。

皮埃尔心里明白，鲍里斯想要改变话题，于是答应他了，开始诉说布伦远征之事的利与弊。

仆役走来呼唤鲍里斯去见公爵夫人。公爵夫人快要走了。皮埃尔答应来用午饭，为了要和鲍里斯亲近起来，他紧紧地握着鲍里斯的手，透过眼镜温和地望着他的眼睛……他离开以后，皮埃尔又在房间里久久地踱着方步，他再也不用长剑去刺杀那个望不见的敌人了；当他回想起这个聪明可爱、性格坚强的年轻人时，脸上微露笑容。

正像青春时期的人，尤其是像独居之时的人那样，他对这个年轻人抱着一种无缘无故的温情，他起誓了，一定要和他做个朋友。

瓦西里公爵送走公爵夫人。公爵夫人用手巾捂着眼角，她泪流满面。

“这多么可怕！多么可怕！”她说道，“无论我花费多大的代价，我也要履行自己的义务。我准来过夜。不能就这样丢下他不管。每瞬间都很宝贵啊。我真不明白，公爵小姐们干嘛要磨磨蹭蹭。也许上帝会帮助我想出办法来给他准备后事……Adieu，monprince，quelebonDieuvoussoutienne……”①

“Adieu，mabonne，”②瓦西里公爵答道，一面转过脸去避开她。

①法语：公爵，再见吧，但愿上帝保佑您……

②法语：我亲爱的，再见吧。

“唉，他的病势很严重，糟糕透了，”当母亲和儿子又坐上四轮轿式马车时，母亲对儿子说道，“他几乎什么人也认不得了。”

“妈妈，我不明白，他对皮埃尔的态度怎样？”儿子问道。

“遗嘱将说明一切，我的亲人，我们的命运以它为转移……”

“可是您为什么认为，他会把点什么东西留给我们呢？”

“唉，我的朋友！他那么富有，可我们却这么穷！”

“嘿，妈妈，这还不是充分的理由啊。”

“哎呀，我的天！我的天！他病得多么厉害啊！”母亲悲叹地说道。