War And Peace: Book 12 - CHAPTER XII

作者: Leo Tolstoy

Free Download Babylon Translate Software

The poster (email) is not available. 收藏推荐:

图书介绍

Author: Leo Tolstoy

AFTER THE EXECUTION Pierre was separated from the other prisoners and left

alone in a small, despoiled, and filthy church.

Towards evening a patrol sergeant, with two soldiers, came into the church

and informed Pierre that he was pardoned, and was now going to the barracks of

the prisoners of war. Without understanding a word of what was said to him,

Pierre got up and went with the soldiers. He was conducted to some sheds that

had been rigged up in the upper part of the meadow out of charred boards, beams,

and battens, and was taken into one of them. Some twenty persons of various

kinds thronged round Pierre. He stared at them, with no idea of what these men

were, why they were here, and what they wanted of him. He heard the words they

said to him, but his mind made no kind of deduction or interpretation of them;

he had no idea of their meaning. He made some answer, too, to the questions

asked him, but without any notion who was hearing him, or how they would

understand his replies. He gazed at faces and figures, and all seemed to him

equally meaningless.

From the moment when Pierre saw that fearful murder committed by men who did

not want to do it, it seemed as though the spring in his soul, by which

everything was held together and given the semblance of life, had been wrenched

out, and all seemed to have collapsed into a heap of meaningless refuse. Though

he had no clear apprehension of it, it had annihilated in his soul all faith in

the beneficent ordering of the universe, and in the soul of men, and in his own

soul, and in God. This state of mind Pierre had experienced before, but never

with such intensity as now. When such doubts had come upon him in the past they

had arisen from his own fault. And at the very bottom of his heart Pierre had

been aware then that salvation from that despair and from these doubts lay in

his own hands. But now he felt that it was not his fault that the world was

collapsing before his eyes, and that nothing was left but meaningless ruins. He

felt that to get back to faith in life was not in his power.

Around him in the darkness stood men. Probably they found something very

entertaining in him. They were telling him something, asking him something, then

leading him somewhere, and at last he found himself in a corner of the shed

beside men of some sort, who were talking on all sides, and laughing.

“And so, mates…that same prince who” (with a special emphasis on the last

word)…some voice was saying in the opposite corner of the shed.

Sitting in the straw against the wall, mute and motionless, Pierre opened,

and then closed, his eyes. As soon as he shut his eyes he saw the fearful face

of the factory lad, fearful especially from its simplicity, and the faces of the

involuntary murderers, still more fearful in their uneasiness. And he opened his

eyes again and stared blankly about him in the darkness.

Close by him a little man was sitting bent up, of whose presence Pierre was

first aware from the strong smell of sweat that rose at every movement he made.

This man was doing something with his feet in the darkness, and although Pierre

did not see his face, he was aware that he was continually glancing at him.

Peering intently at him in the dark, Pierre made out that the man was undoing

his foot-gear. And the way he was doing it began to interest Pierre.

Undoing the strings in which one foot was tied up, he wound them neatly off,

and at once set to work on the other leg, glancing at Pierre. While one hand

hung up the first leg-binder, the other was already beginning to untie the other

leg. In this way, deftly, with rounded, effective movements following one

another without delay, the man unrolled his leg-wrappers and hung them up on

pegs driven in over-head, took out a knife, cut off something, shut the knife

up, put it under his bolster and settling himself more at his ease, clasped his

arms round his knees, and stared straight at Pierre. Pierre was conscious of

something pleasant, soothing, and rounded off in those deft movements, in his

comfortable establishment of his belongings in the corner, and even in the very

smell of the man, and he did not take his eyes off him.

“And have you seen a lot of trouble, sir? Eh?” said the little man suddenly.

And there was a tone of such friendliness and simplicity in the sing-song voice

that Pierre wanted to answer, but his jaw quivered, and he felt the tears

rising. At the same second, leaving no time for Pierre's embarrassment to

appear, the little man said, in the same pleasant voice:

“Ay, darling, don't grieve,” he said, in that tender, caressing sing-song in

which old Russian peasant women talk. “Don't grieve, dearie; trouble lasts an

hour, but life lasts for ever! Ay, ay, my dear. And we get on here finely, thank

God; nothing to vex us. They're men, too, and bad and good among them,” he said;

and, while still speaking, got with a supple movement on his knees to his feet,

and clearing his throat walked away.

“Hey, the hussy, here she is!” Pierre heard at the end of the shed the same

caressing voice. “Here she is, the hussy; she remembers me! There, there, lie

down!” And the soldier, pushing down a dog that was jumping up on him, came back

to his place and sat down. In his hands he had something wrapped up in a

cloth.

“Here, you taste this, sir,” he said, returning to the respectful tone he had

used at first, and untying and handing to Pierre several baked potatoes. “At

dinner we had soup. But the potatoes are first-rate!”

Pierre had eaten nothing the whole day, and the smell of the potatoes struck

him as extraordinarily pleasant. He thanked the soldier and began eating.

“But why so, eh?” said the soldier smiling, and he took one of the potatoes.

“You try them like this.” He took out his clasp-knife again, cut the potato in

his hand into two even halves, and sprinkled them with salt from the cloth, and

offered them to Pierre.

“The potatoes are first-rate,” he repeated. “You taste them like that.”

It seemed to Pierre that he had never eaten anything so good.

“No, I am all right,” said Pierre; “but why did they shoot those poor

fellows?…The last was a lad of twenty.”

“Tss…tss…” said the little man. “Sin, indeed,…sin…” he added quickly, just as

though the words were already in his mouth and flew out of it by accident; he

went on: “How was it, sir, you came to stay in Moscow like this?”

“I didn't think they would come so soon. I stayed by accident,” said

Pierre.

“But how did they take you, darling; from your home?”

“No, I went out to see the fire, and then they took me up and brought me to

judgment as an incendiary.”

“Where there's judgment, there there's falsehood,” put in the little

man.

“And have you been here long?” asked Pierre, as he munched the last

potato.

“I? On Sunday they took me out of the hospital in Moscow.”

“Who are you, a soldier?”

“We are soldiers of the Apsheron regiment. I was dying of fever. We were

never told anything. There were twenty of us lying sick. And we had never a

thought, never a guess of how it was.”

“Well, and are you miserable here?” asked Pierre.

“Miserable, to be sure, darling. My name's Platon, surname Karataev,” he

added, evidently to make it easier for Pierre to address him. “In the regiment

they called me ‘the little hawk.' How can one help being sad, my dear?

Moscow—she's the mother of cities. One must be sad to see it. Yes, the maggot

gnaws the cabbage, but it dies before it's done; so the old folks used to say,”

he added quickly.

“What, what was that you said?” asked Pierre.

“I?” said Karataev. “I say it's not by our wit, but as God thinks fit,” said

he, supposing that he was repeating what he had said. And at once he went on:

“Tell me, sir, and have you an estate from your fathers? And a house of your

own? To be sure, your cup was overflowing! And a wife, too? And are your old

parents living?” he asked, and though Pierre could not see him in the dark, he

felt that the soldier's lips were puckered in a restrained smile of kindliness

while he asked these questions. He was evidently disappointed that Pierre had no

parents, especially that he had not a mother.

“Wife for good counsel, mother-in-law for kind welcome, but none dear as your

own mother!” said he. “And have you children?” he went on to ask. Pierre's

negative reply seemed to disappoint him again, and he added himself: “Oh well,

you are young folks; please God, there will be. Only live in peace and

concord.”

“But it makes no difference now,” Pierre could not help saying.

“Ah, my dear man,” rejoined Platon, “the beggar's bag and the prison walls

none can be sure of escaping.” He settled himself more comfortably, and cleared

his throat, evidently preparing himself for a long story. “So it was like this,

dear friend, when I used to be living at home,” he began, “we have a rich

heritage, a great deal of land, the peasants were well off, and our

house—something to thank God for, indeed. Father used to go out to reap with six

of us. We got along finely. Something like peasants we were. It came to pass…”

and Platon Karataev told a long story of how he had gone into another man's

copse for wood, and had been caught by the keeper, how he had been flogged,

tried, and sent for a soldier. “And do you know, darling,” said he, his voice

changing from the smile on his face, “we thought it was a misfortune, while it

was all for our happiness. My brother would have had to go if it hadn't been for

my fault. And my younger brother had five little ones; while I, look you, I left

no one behind but my wife. I had a little girl, but God had taken her before I

went for a soldier. I went home on leave, I must tell you. I find them all

better off than ever. The yard full of beasts, the women folk at home, two

brothers out earning wages. Only Mihailo, the youngest, at home. Father says all

his children are alike; whichever finger's pricked, it hurts the same. And if

they hadn't shaved Platon for a soldier, then Mihailo would have had to go. He

called us all together—would you believe it—made us stand before the holy

picture. ‘Mihailo,' says he, ‘come here, bend down to his feet; and you, women,

bow down; and you, grandchildren. Do you understand?' says he. Yes, so you see,

my dear. Fate acts with reason. And we are always passing judgment; that's not

right, and this doesn't suit us. Our happiness, my dear, is like water in a

dragnet; you drag, and it is all puffed up, but pull it out and there's nothing.

Yes, that's it.” And Platon moved to a fresh seat in the straw.

After a short pause, Platon got up.

“Well, I dare say, you are sleepy?” he said, and he began rapidly crossing

himself, murmuring:

“Lord Jesus Christ, holy Saint Nikola, Frola and Lavra; Lord Jesus Christ,

holy Saint Nikola, Frola and Lavra; Lord Jesus Christ—have mercy and save us!”

he concluded, bowed down to the ground, got up, sighed, and sat down on his

straw. “That's right. Let me lie down like a stone, O God, and rise up like new

bread!” he murmured, and lay down, pulling his military coat over him.

“What prayer was that you recited?” asked Pierre.

“Eh?” said Platon (he was already half asleep). “Recited? I prayed to God.

Don't you pray, too?”

“Yes, I do,” said Pierre. “But what was it you said—Frola and Lavra?”

“Eh, to be sure,” Platon answered quickly. “They're the horses' saints. One

must think of the poor beasts, too,” he said. “Why, the little hussy, she's

curled up. You're warm, child of a bitch!” he said, feeling the dog at his feet;

and, turning over again, he fell asleep at once.

Outside shouting and wailing could be heard somewhere far away, and through

the cracks in the walls could be seen the glow of fire; but within the shed all

was dark and hushed. For a long while Pierre did not sleep, and lay with open

eyes in the darkness, listening to Platon snoring rhythmically as he lay beside

him, and he felt that the world that had been shattered was rising up now in his

soul, in new beauty, and on new foundations that could not be shaken.

[Translate] Download Babylon Translate Software for Free!
[Directly Download] War And Peace: Book 12 - CHAPTER XII!

Download this book from Usenet

Free register and download UseNet downloader, then you can free download from UseNet.

Download "War And Peace: Book 12 - CHAPTER XII" from Usenet!

使用Usenet下载

免费注册即可使用Usenext下载电子书！
Usenet是来自德国的下载软件，强大的共享网络搜索下载工具，免费注册后即可不限速下载150G 电子书，Audiobook等等~~赶快下载使用吧！

Copyright Disclaimer:
本站一切内容源于互联网搜索，禁止商用！如有任何不妥请联系:admin@ebookee.com，我们将在24小时内删除相关内容。

浏览量：190 添加时间：2007-05-11 00:08:23, 更新时间：2007-05-27 05:03:00, from internet