Book 11 Chapter 17

BY TWO O'CLOCK the Rostovs' four carriages, packed and ready to start, stood in the approach. The waggon-loads of wounded were filing one after another out of the yard.

The coach in which Prince Andrey was being taken drove by the front door, and attracted the attention of Sonya, who was helping a maid to arrange the countess's seat comfortably in her huge, high carriage.

“Whose carriage is that?” asked Sonya, popping her head out of the carriage window.

“Why, haven't you heard, miss?” answered the maid. “The wounded prince; he stayed the night in the house, and is going on with us.”

“Oh, who is he? what's his name?”

“Our betrothed that was … Prince Bolkonsky himself!” answered the maid, sighing. “They say he is dying.”

Sonya jumped out of the carriage and ran in to the countess. The countess, dressed for the journey, in her hat and shawl, was walking wearily about the drawing-room, waiting for the rest of the household to come in and sit down with closed doors, for the usual silent prayer before setting out. Natasha was not in the room.

“Mamma,” said Sonya. “Prince Andrey is here, wounded and dying; He is going with us.”

The countess opened her eyes in dismay, and clutching Sonya's arm, looked about her.

“Natasha,” she said.

Both to Sonya and the countess this news had for the first moment but one significance. They knew their Natasha, and alarm at the thought of the effect the news might have on her outweighed all sympathy for the man, though they both liked him.

“Natasha does not know yet, but he is going with us,” said Sonya.

“You say he is dying?”

Sonya nodded.

The countess embraced Sonya and burst into tears. “The ways of the Lord are past our finding out!” she thought, feeling that in all that was passing now the Hand of the Almighty, hitherto unseen, was beginning to be manifest.

“Well, mamma, it's all ready. What is it? …” asked Natasha, running with her eager face into the room.

“Nothing,” said the countess. “If we're ready, then do let us start.” And the countess bent over her reticule to hide her agitated face. Sonya embraced Natasha and kissed her.

Natasha looked inquisitively at her.

“What is it? What has happened?”

“Nothing, … oh, no, …”

“Something very bad, concerning me? … What is it?” asked the keen-witted Natasha.

Sonya sighed, and made no reply. The count, Petya, Madame Schoss, Mavra Kuzminishna, and Vassilitch came into the drawing-room; and closing the doors, they all sat down, and sat so in silence, without looking at each other for several seconds.

The count was the first to get up. With a loud sigh he crossed himself before the holy picture. All the others did the same. Then the count proceeded to embrace Mavra Kuzminishna and Vassilitch, who were to remain in Moscow; and while they caught at his hand and kissed his shoulder, he patted them on the back with vaguely affectionate and reassuring phrases. The countess went off to the little chapel, and Sonya found her there on her knees before the holy pictures, that were still left here and there on the walls. All the holy pictures most precious through association with the traditions of the family were being taken with them.

In the porch and in the yard the servants who were going—all of whom had been armed with swords and daggers by Petya—with their trousers tucked in their boots, and their sashes or leather belts tightly braced, took leave of those who were left behind.

As is invariably the case at starting on a journey, a great many things were found to have been forgotten, or packed in the wrong place; and two grooms were kept a long while standing, one each side of the open carriage door, ready to help the countess up the carriage steps, while maids were flying with pillows and bags from the house to the carriages, the coach, and the covered gig, and back again.

“They will always forget everything as long as they live!” said the countess. “You know that I can't sit like that.” And Dunyasha, with clenched teeth and an aggrieved look on her face, rushed to the carriage to arrange the cushions again without a word.

“Ah, those servants,” said the count, shaking his head.

The old coachman Efim, the only one whom the countess could trust to drive her, sat perched up on the box, and did not even look round at what was passing behind him. His thirty years' experience had taught him that it would be some time yet before they would say, “Now, in God's name, start!” and that when they had said it, they would stop him at least twice again to send back for things that had been forgotten; and after that he would have to pull up once more for the countess herself to put her head out of window and beg him, for Christ's sake, to drive carefully downhill. He knew this, and therefore awaited what was to come with more patience than his horses, especially the left one, the chestnut Falcon, who was continually pawing the ground and champing at the bit. At last all were seated; the carriage steps were pulled up, and the door slammed, and the forgotten travelling-case had been sent for and the countess had popped her head out and given the usual injunctions. Then Efim deliberately took his hat off and began crossing himself. The postillion and all the servants did the same.

“With God's blessing!” said Efim, putting his hat on. “Off!” The postillion started his horse. The right-shaft horse began to pull, the high springs creaked, and the carriage swayed. The footman jumped up on the box while it was moving. The carriage jolted as it drove out of the yard on to the uneven pavement; the other vehicles jolted in the same way as they followed in a procession up the street. All the occupants of the carriages, the coach and the covered gig, crossed themselves on seeing the church opposite. The servants, who were staying in Moscow, walked along on both sides of the carriages to see them off.

Natasha had rarely felt such a joyful sensation as she experienced at that moment sitting in the carriage by the countess and watching, as they slowly moved by her, the walls of forsaken, agitated Moscow. Now and then she put her head out of the carriage window and looked back, and then in front of the long train of waggons full of wounded soldiers preceding them. Foremost of them all she could see Prince Andrey's closed carriage. She did not know who was in it, and every time she took stock of the procession of waggons she looked out for that coach. She knew it would be the foremost. In Kudrino and from Nikitsky Street, from Pryesny, and from Podnovinsky several trains of vehicles, similar to the Rostovs', came driving out, and by the time they reached Sadovoy Street the carriages and carts were two deep all along the road.

As they turned round Suharev Tower, Natasha, who was quickly and inquisitively scrutinising the crowd driving and walking by, uttered a cry of delight and surprise:

“Good Heavens! Mamma, Sonya, look; it's he!”

“Who? who?”

“Look, do look! Bezuhov,” said Natasha, putting her head out of the carriage window and staring at a tall, stout man in a coachman's long coat, obviously a gentleman disguised, from his carriage and gait. He was passing under the arch of the Suharev Tower beside a yellow-looking, beardless, little old man in a frieze cloak.

“Only fancy! Bezuhov in a coachman's coat, with a queer sort of old-looking boy,” said Natasha. “Do look; do look!”

“No, it's not he. How can you be so absurd!”

“Mamma,” cried Natasha. “On my word of honour, I assure you, it is he. Stop, stop,” she shouted to the coachman; but the coachman could not stop, because more carts and carriages were coming out of Myeshtchansky Street, and people were shouting at the Rostovs to move on, and not to keep the rest of the traffic waiting.

All the Rostovs did, however, though now at a much greater distance, see Pierre, or a man extraordinarily like him, wearing a coachman's coat, and walking along the street with bent head and a serious face beside a little, beardless old man, who looked like a footman. This old man noticed a face poked out of the carriage window staring at them, and respectfully touching Pierre's elbow, he said something to him, pointing towards the carriage. It was some time before Pierre understood what he was saying; he was evidently deeply absorbed in his own thoughts. At last he looked in the direction indicated, and recognising Natasha, he moved instantly towards the carriage, as though yielding to the first impulse. But after taking a dozen steps towards it, he stopped short, apparently recollecting something. Natasha's head beamed out of the carriage window with friendly mockery.

“Pyotr Kirillitch, come here! We recognized you, you see! It's a wonder!” she cried, stretching out a hand to him. “How is it? Why are you like this?”

Pierre took her outstretched hand, and awkwardly kissed it as he ran beside the still moving carriage.

“What has happened, count?” the countess asked him, in a surprised and commiserating tone.

“Eh? Why? Don't ask me,” said Pierre, and he looked up at Natasha, the charm of whose radiant, joyous eyes he felt upon him without looking at her.

“What are you doing, or are you staying in Moscow?”

Pierre was silent.

“In Moscow?” he queried. “Yes, in Moscow. Good-bye.”

“Oh, how I wish I were a man, I would stay with you. Ah, how splendid that is!” said Natasha. “Mamma, do let me stay.”

Pierre looked absently at Natasha, and was about to say something, but the countess interrupted him.

“You were at the battle, we have been told.”

“Yes, I was there,” answered Pierre. “To-morrow there will be a battle again …” he was beginning, but Natasha interposed:

“But what is the matter, count? You are not like yourself …”

“Oh, don't ask me, don't ask me, I don't know myself. To-morrow … No! Good-bye; good-bye,” he said; “it's an awful time!” And he left the carriage and walked away to the pavement.

For a long while Natasha's head was still thrust out of the carriage window, and she beamed at him with a kindly and rather mocking, joyous smile.

一点多钟，装载停当的罗斯托夫家的四辆马车停在大门口，运送受伤官兵的大车一辆接一辆地驶出了院子。

载着公爵安德烈的马车从台阶旁经过时，引起了索尼娅的注意，她正同一位使女布置伯爵夫人在车上的座位，夫人高大宽敞的马车正停在大门口。

“这是谁的马车？”索尼娅从车窗探出头来问。

“您还不知道吗，小姐？”使女回答，“受伤的公爵：他在咱们府上留宿，也同咱们一道走。”

“是谁呢？姓什么？”

“咱们先前的未婚姑爷。博尔孔斯基公爵！”使女叹气着回答，“听说快要死了。”

索尼娅跳下马车，跑着去找伯爵夫人。伯爵夫人已穿好了旅行服装，披着披巾，戴着帽子，疲倦地在客厅踱来踱去，等待家奴们关好门户坐下作启程前的祈祷。娜塔莎不在这里。

“姆妈，”索尼娅说，“安德烈公爵在这里，受伤了，生命垂危。他同咱们一道走。”

伯爵夫人惊吓地睁大眼睛，并抓着索尼娅的手朝周围看了看。

“娜塔莎呢？”她开口问。

对索尼娅，同时也对伯爵夫人来说，这消息在头一分钟内只有一个意义。她们是了解娜塔莎的，因而，害怕娜塔莎会出事的恐惧感，压倒了她们对一个人的同情，而这个人她们也是喜爱的。

“娜塔莎还不知道；但他是同我们一道走的。”索尼娅说。

“你是说他生命垂危？”

索尼娅点了点头。

伯爵夫人拥抱着索尼娅哭了。

“天意难解！”她想，感到在目前已造成的局面中，一只全能的手已从人们先前目力不及之处开始出现。

“呶，妈妈，一切准备完毕。你们在谈什么？……”娜塔莎兴高采烈地跑进来说。

“没谈什么，”伯爵夫人说，“准备好了，那就出发。”伯爵夫人俯身朝手提包弯下腰去，把凄惶的面孔埋起来。索尼娅抱住娜塔莎吻她。

娜塔莎想问个明白地瞪着她。

“你怎么啦？出什么事了？”

“没什么……没有……”

“对我很糟的事吗？…什么事？”敏感的娜塔莎问。

索尼娅叹气，但什么也没有回答。伯爵，彼佳，肖斯太太，玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜，瓦西里奇等都来到了客厅，拴好门，然后人家坐了下来，默不作声，谁也不看谁地坐了几秒钟。

伯爵第一个起立，长叹一声，对着圣像划十字。大家也跟着这样做。然后，伯爵开始拥抱玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜和瓦西里奇，他们要留守莫斯科；两人这时也抓住伯爵的手，亲吻他的肩上，他轻拍他们的背，说了几句听不真切的亲切的安慰话。伯爵夫人往祈祷室去，索尼娅发现她跪在墙上残缺不全的圣像前面（家传的最宝贵的圣像要随身运走）。

在台阶上，在院子里，要走的仆人带着匕首和马刀（是彼佳发给他们的），裤脚塞进靴子，裤带和腰带系得紧紧的，正和留下的仆人告别。

像临行前常常发生的情形那样，许多东西拉下啦，放的不是地方啦；两个随从在敞开的车门和放下的脚蹬的两边已站立很久，等着待候伯爵夫人上车；同时，使女们抱着坐垫和包袱跑到几辆马车上（格式马车和大小四轮等），在从家里到马车之间的路上来回跑动。

“一辈子都是忘这忘那的！”伯爵夫人说，“你该知道，我不能这样坐！”杜尼亚莎咬紧牙关，一声不吭地跑了过来重新整理座位，一脸的委屈。

“噢，这些人哪！”伯爵摇着头说。

专为伯爵夫人驾车的老车夫叶菲姆高高地坐在驭手座上，对他后边发生的事不屑一顾。积三十年之经验，他知道还不会很快命令他：“出发！”即使下了命令，还会让他停车两次，派人去取忘了拿的东西，这之后还会叫他停一次，伯爵夫人才会从车窗探出头来，以基督的名义哀求他在下坡时要小心。他知道这样的情形，所以比他的马（尤其是左辕的枣红马，叫雄鹰，此刻在踏脚和嚼马嚼子）更有耐心地静候事态的发展。

大家终于就座，脚蹬折拢收进车厢，车门关上，只等去取首饰匣的人回来。伯爵夫人探出头来说了该说的话。这时，叶菲姆慢慢从头上摘下帽子，画了十字。骑导马的马夫和所有仆人也画了十字。

“上帝保佑！”叶菲姆戴好帽子，说“驾！”导马夫随即启动马车。右边的辕马拉紧了套，车盘的弹簧吱扭地作响，车身摇晃了起来。一个随从跳上已启动的马车的前座。轿式马车从院子驶入不太平整的马路时颠簸了一下，其余马车随着也颠簸了一下，最后，车队全都驶上街道，朝前进发。轿式马车和大小四轮马车里的人们，都朝街对面的教堂画十字。留守莫斯科的家人在马车两旁夹道送他们。

娜塔莎从未体会过今天这样的愉快感觉，她挨着伯爵夫人坐着，两眼盯着缓慢向后移动的被放弃的惊惶不安的莫斯科的城墙。她常常探出头来或前或后地张望，看走在前边的受伤官兵的车队。她看到了走在最前面的车顶罩住了的安德烈公爵那辆四轮大马车。她不知道谁在车里，可每当想起她家的车队时，总是用目光搜寻这辆马车，她知道它在最前面。

在库德林诺，从尼基茨卡雅、普雷斯尼亚和波德诺文斯克等街道开出的与罗斯托夫家的车队同样的车队，汇合了，走到花园大街时，只好两队并排前进。

在苏哈列夫塔楼拐弯时，娜塔莎好奇地，目不暇接地观看着乘车和步行的人们，突然惊喜地叫起来。

“老天爷！妈妈，索尼娅，快看，这是他！”

“谁？谁？”

“瞧，真的，别祖霍夫！”娜塔莎说，同时从车窗里探出头来，看着一个穿马车夫长褂子的高大臃肿的人，从步态和气派来看，显然是化了装的老爷，他正同一个黄脸无须穿粗呢大衣的小老头一道，来到苏哈列夫塔楼的拱门下边。

真的，是别祖霍夫，穿着长褂子，与一个小老头儿走在一起。“真的，”娜塔莎说，“看哪，看哪！”

“那不是，这人不是他。怎么可能呢，胡说！”

“妈妈。”娜塔莎叫了起来，“您可以砍我的头，这是他。我会让您相信的。停，停。”她向车夫喊道；但车夫停不下来，因为从市民街又驶来大车和马车车队，并且朝罗斯托夫家的马车喊叫，让他们继续走，别挡路。

的确，虽然车队愈走愈远，但罗斯托夫全家人仍然看到了皮埃尔或极像皮埃尔的那个人，穿着车夫的大褂，耷拉着脑袋，面容严肃地和一个没留胡子的小老头并排走着，这个小老头像个仆人。他看到从车窗显露出来朝他们看的面孔，恭敬地碰了碰皮埃尔的胳膊肘，指着马车对他说了几句什么话。皮埃尔好久都搞不明白他说的什么，因为他显然沉浸在自己的思绪里，当他终于明白了他的话，顺着他指的方向看时，认出了娜塔莎，随即凭他最初的印象毫不犹豫地朝马车走去。但走了十来步，他似乎想起了一件事，便停了下来。

娜塔莎探出车厢的面孔，现出柔情的嘲笑。

“彼得·基里雷奇，来啊！我们认出您啦！好意外呵！”她大声说着，把手伸给他。“您这是怎么啦？您为什么这样？”

皮埃尔抓住伸过来的手，在走动中（因为马车在继续前进）笨拙地吻它。

“您出什么事啦，伯爵？”伯爵夫人用惊奇和同情的声音问。

“什么事？为什么？请别问我。”皮埃尔说，回头看一眼娜塔莎，她那喜悦的流光溢彩的目光（他不看她也能感觉到）的魅力吸引着他。

“您怎么啦，还是要留在莫斯科？”皮埃尔沉默了片刻。

“留在莫斯科？”他用问话的语气说。“对，留在莫斯科。

告别了。”

“唉，我要是男人就好了，我一定同您一道留下来。唉，那多好哇！”娜塔莎说。“妈妈，允许我留下来，我要留下来。”皮埃尔茫茫然然地看了看娜塔莎，正要开口说话，但伯爵夫人打断了他。

“您打过仗了吗，我们听说？”

“是的，打过，”皮埃尔回答，“明天还要打哩……”他开始谈起来。可是娜塔莎又打断了他：

“您究竟出了什么事，伯爵？您不像您自己……”

“噢，别问啦，请别问我，我自己什么也不知道。明天……啊不！告别了，告别了，”他连连说，“可怕的时代！”然后离开马车走上人行道。

娜塔莎久久地探出车窗外，朝他温柔地，带点嘲弄意味地高兴地笑着。