第639章

第639章thecavalrytransport,andtheprisoners,andthemarshal’sage-train,haltedatthevillageofshamshevo.allcrowdedtogetherroundthecampfire.pierrewentuptoafire,atesomeroasthorse-flesh,laydownwithhisbacktothefire,andatoncefellasleep.hefellintothesamesortofsleepthathehadsleptatmozhaisk,afterthebattleofborodino.

againthefactsofreallifemingledwithhisdreams;andagainsomeone,himselforsomeoneelse,wasutteringthoughtsinhisear,andthesamethoughts,indeed,ashadcomeinhisdreamatmozhaisk.

lifeiseverything.lifeisgod.allischangingandmoving,andthatmotionisgod.andwhilethereislife,thereisthejoyoftheconsciousnessofthegodhead.tolovelifeistolovegod.thehardestandthemostblessedthingistolovethislifeinone’ssufferings,inundeservedsuffering.

“karataev！”flashedintopierre’smind.andallatoncethereroseup,asvividasthoughalive,theimage,longforgotten,ofthegentleoldteacher,whohadgivenpierregeographylessonsinswitzerland.“waitaminute,”theoldmanwassaying.andhewasshowingpierreaglobe.thisglobewasaliving,quiveringball,withnodefinitelimits.itswholesurfaceconsistedofdrops,closelycoheringtogether.andthosedropswereallinmotion,andchanging,severalpassingintoone,andthenonesplittingupagainintomany.everydropseemedstrivingtospread,totakeupmorespace,buttheothers,pressinguponit,sometimesabsorbedit,sometimesmeltedintoit.

“thisislife,”theoldteacherwassaying.

“howsimpleitisandhowclear,”thoughtpierre.“howwasitididnotknowthatbefore？godisinthemidst,andeachdropstrivestoexpand,toreflecthimonthelargestscalepossible.anditgrows,andisabsorbedandcrowdedout,andonthesurfaceitdisappears,goesbackintothedepths,andfallsnottothesurfaceagain.thatishowitiswithhim,withkarataev;heisabsorbedandhasdisappeared.”

“youunderstand,mychild,”saidtheteacher.

“youunderstand,damnyou！”shoutedavoice,andpierrewokeup.

heraisedhisheadandsatup.afrenchsoldierwassquattingonhisheelsbythefire.hehadjustshovedawayarussiansoldier,andwasroastingapieceofmeatontheendofaramrod.hissinewy,lean,hairy,redhands,withshortfingers,weredeftlyturningtheramrod.hisbrown,moroseface,withitssullenbrows,couldbeclearlyseeninthelightoftheglowingembers.

“it’sjustthesametohim,”hemuttered,quicklyaddressingasoldierstandingbehindhim.“brigand！go！”

andthesoldier,turningtheramrod,glancedgloomilyatpierre.thelatterturnedaway,gazingintotheshadows.arussiansoldier,theonewhohadbeenpushedaway,wassittingnearthefire,pattingsomethingwithhishand.lookingmoreclosely,pierresawthegreydog,whowassittingbythesoldier,inghertail.

“ah,shehascome…”saidpierre.“andplat…”hewasbeginning,buthedidnotgoon.allatonce,instantlyincloseconnection,thereroseupthememoryofthelookplatonhadfixeduponhim,ashesatunderthetree,oftheshotheardatthatspot,ofthedog’showl,oftheguiltyfacesofthesoldiersastheyranby,ofthesmokinggun,ofkarataev’sabsenceatthathalting-place;andhewasonthepointoffullyrealisingthatkarataevhadbeenkilled,butatthesameinstant,atsomemysterioussummons,thereroseupthememoryofasummereveninghehadspentwithabeautifulpolishladyontheverandahofhishouseatkiev.andnevertheless,makingnoefforttoconnecttheimpressionsoftheday,andtodeduceanythingfromthem,pierreclosedhiseyes,andthepictureofthesummernightinthecountrymingledwiththethoughtofbathingandofthatfluid,quiveringglobe,andheseemedtosinkdeepdownintowater,sothatthewatersclosedoverhishead.

beforesunrisehewaswakenedbyloudandrapidshotsandoutcries.thefrenchwereflyingbyhim.

“thecossacks！”oneofthemshouted,andaminutelateracrowdofrussiansweresurroundingpierre.foralongwhilepierrecouldnotunderstandwhathadhappenedtohim.heheardallabouthimhiscomrades’wailsofjoy.

“mates！ourownfolk！brothers！”theoldsoldierscried,weeping,astheyembracedthecossacksandthehussars.thehussarsandthecossackscrowdedroundtheprisoners,pressingonthemclothes,andboots,andbread.pierresatsobbingintheirmidst,andcouldnotutteroneword;heedthefirstsoldierwhowentuptohim,andkissedhim,weeping.

dolohovwasstandingatthegatesofadilapidatedhouse,lettingthecrowdofunarmedfrenchmenpassbyhim.thefrench,excitedbyallthathadhappened,weretalkingloudlyamongthemselves;butastheypassedbeforedolohov,whostoodswitchinghisbootswithhisriding-whip,andwatchingthemwithhiscold,glassyeyes,thatbodednothinggood,theirtalkdiedaway.oneofdolohov’scossacksstoodontheotherside,countingtheprisoners,andmarkingoffthehundredswithachalkmarkonthegate.

“howmany？”dolohovaskedhim.

“thesecondhundred,”answeredthecossack.

“filez,filez,”saiddolohov,whohadpickeduptheexpressionfromthefrench;andwhenhemettheeyesofthepassingprisoners,hiseyesgleamedwithacruellight.

withagloomyfacedenisov,holdinghishighcossackhatinhishand,waswalkingbehindthecossacks,whowerebearingtoaholefreshlyduginthegardenthebodyofpetyarostov.