War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [593]
When he came back to the room, Pierre was sitting in the same place as before, his head lowered in his hands. His face expressed suffering. He was indeed suffering at that moment. When the captain went out and Pierre was left alone, he suddenly came to his senses and realized the position he was in. It was not that Moscow had been taken, and not that these happy victors were playing the masters in it and patronizing him—painful as it felt to Pierre, that was not what tormented him at the present moment. He was tormented by the consciousness of his own weakness. The several glasses of wine he had drunk, the conversation with this good-natured man, had destroyed the concentratedly grim state of mind in which Pierre had lived for those last days, and which was necessary for the carrying out of his intention. The pistol, and the dagger, and the peasant coat were ready; Napoleon would enter tomorrow. Pierre still considered it just as useful and worthy to kill the villain; but he felt that now he would not do it. Why? He did not know, but it was as if he had a presentiment that he would not carry out his intention. He struggled against the consciousness of his weakness, but he dimly sensed that he would not overcome it, that his former grim way of thinking about revenge, murder, and self-sacrifice had fallen into dust at the first contact with a human being.
The captain, limping slightly and whistling something, came into the room.
The Frenchman’s chatter, which had previously amused Pierre, now seemed disgusting to him. The tune he whistled, and the way he walked, and the gesture of twirling his mustache, all now seemed offensive to Pierre.
“I’ll leave now, I won’t say another word to him,” thought Pierre. He thought it, and meanwhile he went on sitting in the same place. Some strange feeling of weakness chained him to his place: he wanted to get up and leave, but could not.
The captain, on the contrary, seemed very merry. He paced the room a couple of times. His eyes gleamed, and his mustache twitched slightly as if he was smiling to himself at some amusing fancy.
“Charmant,” he said suddenly, “le colonel de ces Wurtembourgeois! C’est un Allemand; mais brave garçon, s’il en fut. Mais Allemand.”*596
He sat down facing Pierre.
“À propos, vous savez donc l’allemand, vous?”†597
Pierre looked at him silently.
“Comment dites-vous ‘asile’ en allemand?”‡598
“Asile?” Pierre repeated. “Asile en allemand—Unterkunft.”
“Comment dites-vous?” the captain asked again, mistrustfully and quickly.
“Unterkunft,” Pierre repeated.
“Onterkoff,” said the captain, and he looked at Pierre for a few seconds with laughing eyes. “Les Allemands sont de fières bêtes. N’est-ce pas, monsieur Pierre?”§599 he concluded.
“Eh bien, encore une bouteille de ce Bordeaux Moscovite, n’est-ce pas? Morel, vas nous chauffer encore une petite bouteille. Morel!”*600 the captain cried merrily.
Morel brought candles and a bottle of wine. The captain looked at Pierre in the light and was evidently struck by his interlocutor’s upset face. Ramballe went up to Pierre with a look of genuine distress and concern and bent over him.
“Eh bien, nous sommes tristes,” he said, touching Pierre’s arm. “Vous aurai-je fait de la peine? Non, vrai, avez-vous quelque chose contre moi?” he asked insistently. “Peut-être rapport à la situation?”†601
Pierre made no reply, but looked affectionately into the Frenchman’s eyes. This expression of concern was pleasing to him.
“Parole d’honneur, sans parler de ce que je vous dois, j’ai de l’amitié pour vous. Puis-je faire quelque chose pour vous? Disposez de moi. C’est à la vie et à la mort. C’est la main sur coeur que je vous le dis,”‡602 he said, striking himself