战争与和平(上)-第274节

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f　at　some　amusing　notion。
“Charming　fellow　the　colonel　of　these　Würtembergers；”　he　said　all　at　once。　“He’s　a　German；　but　a　good　fellow　if　ever　there　was　one。　But　a　German。”
He　sat　down　facing　Pierre。
“By　the　way；　you　know　German？”
Pierre　looked　at　him　in　silence。
“How　do　you　say　‘asile’　in　German？”
“Asile？”　repeated　Pierre。　“Asile　in　German　is　Unterkunft。”
“What　do　you　say？”　the　captain　queried　quickly　and　doubtfully。
“Unterkunft；”　repeated　Pierre。
“Onterkoff；”　said　the　captain；　and　for　several　seconds　he　looked　at　Pierre　with　his　laughing　eyes。　“The　Germans　are　awful　fools；　aren’t　they；　M。　Pierre？”　he　concluded。
“Well；　another　bottle　of　this　Moscow　claret；　eh？　Morel；　warm　us　another　bottle！”　the　captain　shouted　gaily。
Morel　brought　candles　and　a　bottle　of　wine。　The　captain　looked　at　Pierre　in　the　candle…light；　and　was　obviously　struck　by　the　troubled　face　of　his　companion。　With　genuine　regret　and　sympathy　in　his　face；　Ramballe　approached　Pierre；　and　bent　over　him。
“Eh；　we　are　sad！”　he　said；　touching　Pierre　on　the　hand。　“Can　I　have　hurt　you？　No；　really；　have　you　anything　against　me？”　he　questioned。　“Perhaps　it　is　owing　to　the　situation　of　affairs？”
Pierre　made　no　reply；　but　looked　cordially　into　the　Frenchman’s　eyes。　This　expression　of　sympathy　was　pleasant　to　him。
“My　word　of　honour；　to　say　nothing　of　what　I　owe　you；　I　have　a　liking　for　you。　Can　I　do　anything　for　you？　Dispose　of　me。　It　is　for　life　and　death。　With　my　hand　and　my　heart；　I　say　so；”　he　said；　slapping　himself　on　the　chest。
“Thank　you；”　said　Pierre。　The　captain　gazed　at　Pierre　as　he　had　gazed　at　him　when　he　learnt　the　German　for　“refuge；”　and　his　face　suddenly　brightened。
“Ah；　in　that　case；　I　drink　to　our　friendship；”　he　cried　gaily；　pouring　out　two　glasses　of　wine。
Pierre　took　the　glass　and　emptied　it。　Ramballe　emptied　his；　pressed　Pierre’s　hand　once　more；　and　leaned　his　elbow　on　the　table　in　a　pose　of　pensive　melancholy。
“Yes；　my　dear　friend；　such　are　the　freaks　of　fortune；”　he　began。　“Who　would　have　said　I　should　be　a　soldier　and　captain　of　dragoons　in　the　service　of　Bonaparte；　as　we　used　to　call　him。　And　yet　here　I　am　at　Moscow　with　him。　I　must　tell　you；　my　dear　fellow；”　he　continued　in　the　mournful　and　measured　voice　of　a　man　who　intends　to　tell　a　long　story；　“our　name　is　one　of　the　most　ancient　in　France。”
And　with　the　easy　and　na？ve　unreserve　of　a　Frenchman；　the　captain　told　Pierre　the　history　of　his　forefathers；　his　childhood；　boyhood；　and　manhood；　and　all　his　relations；　his　fortunes；　and　domestic　affairs。　“Ma　pauvre　mère；”　took；　of　course；　a　prominent　part　in　this　recital。
“But　all　that　is　only　the　setting　of　life；　the　real　thing　is　love。　Love！　Eh；　M。　Pierre？”　he　said；　warming　up。　“Another　glass。”
Pierre　again　emptied　his　glass；　and　filled　himself　a　third。
“O　women！　women！”　and　the　captain；　gazing　with　moist　eyes　at　Pierre；　began　talking　of　love　and　his　adventures　with　the　fair　sex。　They　were　very　numerous；　as　might　readily　be　believed；　judging　from　the　officer’s　conceited；　handsome　face　and　the　eager　enthusiasm　with　which　he　talked　of　women。　Although　all　Ramballe’s　accounts　of　his　love　affairs　were　characterised　by　that　peculiar　nastiness　in　which　the　French　find　the　unique　charm　and　poetry　of　love；　the　captain　told　his　stories　with　such　genuine　conviction　that　he　was　the　only　man　who　had　tasted　and　known　all　the　sweets　of　love；　and　he　described　the　women　he　had　known　in　such　an　alluring　fashion　that　Pierre　listened　to　him　with　curiosity。
It　was　evident　that　l’amour　the　Frenchman　was　so　fond　of　was　neither　that　low　and　simple　kind　of　love　Pierre　had　at　one　time　felt　for　his　wife；　nor　the　romantic　love；　exaggerated　by　himself；　that　he　felt　for　Natasha。　For　both　those　kinds　of　love　Ramballe　had　an　equal　contempt—one　was　l’amour　des　charretiers；　the　other　l’amour　des　nigauds。　L’amour　for　which　the　Frenchman　had　a　weakness　consisted　principally　in　an　unnatural　relation　to　the　woman；　and　in　combinations　of　monstrous　circumstances　which　lent　the　chief　charm　to　the　feeling。
Thus　the　captain　related　the　touching　history　of　his　love　for　a　fascinating　marquise　of　five…and…thirty；　and　at　the　same　time　for　a　charming；　innocent　child　of　seventeen；　the　daughter　of　the　fascinating　marquise。　The　conflict　of　generosity　between　mother　and　daughter；　ending　in　the　mother　sacrificing　herself　and　offering　her　daughter　in　marriage　to　her　lover；　even　now；　though　it　was　a　memory　in　the　remote　past；　moved　the　captain　deeply。　Then　he　related　an　episode　in　which　the　husband　played　the　part　of　the　lover；　and　he—the　lover—the　part　of　the　husband；　and　several　comic　episodes　among　his　reminiscences　of　Germany；　where　Unterkunft　means　asile；　where　the　husbands　eat　cabbage　soup；　and　where　the　young　girls　are　too　flaxen…haired。
The　last　episode　was　one　in　Poland；　still　fresh　in　the　captain’s　memory；　and　described　by　him　with　rapid　gestures　and　a　glowing　face。　The　story　was　that　he　had　saved　the　life　of　a　Pole—the　episode　of　saving　life　was　continually　cropping　up　in　the　captain’s　anecdotes—and　that　Pole　had　intrusted　to　his　care　his　bewitching　wife；　a　Parisian　in　heart；　while　he　himself　entered　the　French　service。　The　captain　had　been　happy；　the　bewitching　Polish　lady　had　wanted　to　elope　with　him；　but　moved　by　a　magnanimous　impulse；　the　captain　had　restored　the　wife　to　the　husband　with　the　words：　“I　saved　your　life；　and　I　save　your　honour。”
As　he　repeated　these　words；　the　captain　wiped　his　eyes　and　shook　himself；　as　though　to　shake　off　the　weakness　that　overcame　him　at　this　touching　recollection。
As　men　often　do　at　a　late　hour　at　night；　and　under　the　influence　of　wine；　Pierre　listened　to　the　captain’s　stories；　and　while　he　followed　and　understood　all　he　told　him；　he　was　also　following　a　train　of　personal　reminiscences　which　had　for　some　reason　risen　to　his　imagination。　As　he　listened　to　those　love　affairs；　his　own　love　for　Natasha　suddenly　came　into　his　mind；　and　going　over　all　the　pictures　of　that　love　in　his　imagination；　he　mentally　compared　them　with　Ramballe’s　stories。　As　he　heard　the　account　of　the　conflict　between　love　and　duty；　Pierre　saw　before　him　every　detail　of　the　meeting　with　the　object　of　his　love　at　the　Suharev　Tower。　That　meeting　had　not　at　the　time　made　much　impression　on　him；　he　had　not　once　thought　of　it　since。　But　now　it　seemed　to　him　that　there　was　something　very　significant　and　romantic　in　that　meeting。
“Pyotr　Kirillitch；　come　here；　I　recognise　you”；　he　could　hear　her　words　now；　could　see　her　eyes；　her　smile；　her　travelling　cap；　and　the　curl　peeping　out　below　it　…　and　he　felt　that　there　was　something　moving；　touching　in　all　that。
When　he　had　finished　his　tale　about　the　bewitching　Polish　lady；　the　captain　turned　to　Pierre　with　the　inquiry　whether　he　had　had　any　similar　experience　of　self…sacrifice　for　love　and　envy　of　a　lawful　husband。
Pierre；　roused　by　this　question；　lifted　his　head　and　felt　an　irresistible　impulse　to　give　expression　to　the　ideas　in　his　mind。　He　began　to　explain　that　he　looked　upon　love　for　woman　somewhat　differently。　He　said　he　had　all　his　life　long　loved　one　woman；　and　still　loved　her；　and　that　that　woman　could　never　be　his。
“Tiens！”　said　the　captain。
Then　Pierre　explained　that　he　had　loved　this　woman　from　his　earliest　youth；　but　had　not　dared　to　think　of　her　because　she　was　too　young；　and　he　had　been　an　illegitimate　son；　with　no　name　of　his　own。　Then　when　he　had　received　a　name　and　wealth；　he　had　not　dared　think　of　her　because　he　loved　her　too　much；　because　he　set　her　too　high　above　all　the　world；　and　so　even　more　above　himself。　On　reaching　this　point；　Pierre　asked　the　captain；　did　he　understand　that。
The　captain　made　a　gesture　expressing　that　whether　he　understood　it　or　not；　he　begged　him　to　proceed。
“Platonic　love；　moonshine…”　he　muttered。　The　wine　he　had　drunk；　or　an　impulse　of　frankness；　or　the　thought　that　this　man　did　not　know　and　never　would　know；　any　of　the　persons　concerned　in　his　story；　or　all　together　loosened　Pierre’s　tongue。　With　faltering　lips　and　with　a　faraway　look　in　his　moist　eye；　he　told　all　his　story；　his　marriage　and　the　story　of　Natasha’s　love　for　his　dearest　friend　and　her　betrayal　of　him；　and　all　his　own　simple　relations　with　her。　In　response　to　questions　from　Ramballe；　he　told　him；　too；　what　he　had　at　first　concealed—his　position　in　society—and　even　disclosed　his　name。
What　impressed　the　captain　more　than　anything　else　in　Pierre’s　story　was　the　fact　that　Pierre　was　very　wealthy；　that　he　had　two　palatial　houses　in　Moscow；　and　that　he　had　abandoned　everything；　and　yet　had　not　left　Moscow；　but　was　staying　in　the　town　concealing　his　name　and　station。
Late　in　the　night　they　went　out　together　into　the　street。　The　night　was　warm　and　clear。　On　the　left　there　was　the　glow　of　the　first　fire　that　broke　out　in　Moscow；　in　Petrovka。　On　the　right　a　young　crescent　moon　stood　high　in　the　sky；　and　in　the　opposite　quarter　of　the　heavens　hung　the　brilliant　comet　which　was　connected　in　Pierre’s　heart　with　his　love。　At　the　gates　of　the　yard　stood　Gerasim；　the　cook；　and　two　Frenchmen。　Pierre　could　hear　their　laughter　and　talk；　incomprehensible　to　one　another。　They　were　looking　at　the　glow　of　the　fire　burning　in　the　town。
There　was　noth