《战争与和平War and Peace》
作者:[俄]列夫·尼古拉耶维奇·托尔斯泰Leo Tolstoy【完结】
《战争与和平》是俄国作家列夫·尼古拉耶维奇·托尔斯泰创作的长篇小说，也是其代表作，创作于1863—1869年。
该作以1812年的卫国战争为中心，反映从1805到1820年间的重大历史事件。以鲍尔康斯、别祖霍夫、罗斯托夫和库拉金四大贵族的经历为主线，在战争与和平的交替描写中把众多的事件和人物串联起来。
作者将“战争”与“和平”的两种生活、两条线索交叉描写，构成一部百科全书式的壮阔史诗。 《战争与和平》的基本主题是肯定这次战争中俄国人民正义的抵抗行动，赞扬俄国人民在战争中表现出来的爱国热情和英雄主义。但作品的基调是宗教仁爱思想和人道主义，作家反对战争，对战争各方的受难并都给予了深切的同情。
内容简介
1805年，在拿破仑率兵征服欧洲之后，法国和俄国之间也发生了战争。可是在俄国上层社会，人们的生活依旧恬静悠闲，社交舞会照常举行。青年公爵安德烈·保尔康斯基把已有身孕的妻子交给退隐于领地“秃山”的父亲及妹妹玛丽娅之后，就担任库图佐夫将军的副官，向前线出发去了，他希望这次战争能为自己带来辉煌与荣耀。
安德烈刚刚留学归来的好友皮埃尔·别祖霍夫，是莫斯科数一数二的资本家，是社交界的宠儿。居心叵测的监护人库拉金公爵看到这一点，便企图把美貌但品行不端的女儿爱伦嫁给他，结果计谋顺利达成，可这桩婚事实在不幸之至。同年11月，安德烈所属的俄军在奥斯特里茨之役战败。安德烈历尽种种艰难后回到秃山。是日夜晚，妻子莉沙正好产下一名男婴，但她却在分娩时死去了。安德烈陷入孤独和绝望中，他觉得自己的人生已告结束，便下定决心终老于领地。另一方面，婚后不久的皮埃尔发现妻子爱伦与好友多勃赫夫之间存在暖昧关系，为了保护自己的名声，他与多勃赫夫进行决斗。在幸运地击倒对方后，皮埃尔即与妻子分居，他也陷入了善恶和生死问题的困扰之中。不久，皮埃尔加入了共济会，得出了一套生活的哲学。他又怀着宽宏大量之心，接回了妻子。
1807年2月，俄奥联军在埃尔劳与法军进行了一场残酷的鏖战，双方损失都很惨重。6月拿破仑与沙皇签署了和平协定，暂时的和平生活开始了。1809年春天，安德烈因贵族会之事而去拜托罗斯托夫公爵。在公爵家里，他立即为充满生命力、美丽动人的公爵的女儿娜塔莎所吸引，娜塔莎答应了他的求婚。但秃山老公爵认为她不够富有，年龄太小而加以反对。最后双方相约一年后成婚。不久，安德烈出国了。娜塔莎伤心地答应等待一年，却又无法忍受寂寞。她结识了爱伦的兄弟阿纳托尔。在他的诱惑下，两人决定私奔。至此，她与安德烈的婚约宣告无效。这对安德烈骄傲的性格是一次极其沉重的打击，为此他痛苦不堪。然而由于军务缠身，他对此事又渐渐淡忘了。
1812年，拿破仑率先撕毁原来的和平协定，指挥军队跨过涅曼河，俄法两国再度交战，年迈的库图佐夫将军决心阻止法军继续向前推进，但由于战术失误和其他原因，并未使俄军毕其功于一役。战役还不断进行着，双方损失都很惨重。最后，俄法军队在博罗狄诺展开了一场异常激烈的争夺战。显然，这是俄军所进行的最糟糕的战役。库图佐夫不得不痛心地宣布军队无力保卫莫斯科，拿破仑则作为胜利者进抵又一座空城。安德烈在博罗狄诺战役中身负重伤。罗斯托夫家将原本用来搬运家产的马车，改派去运送伤兵。娜塔莎意外地在伤员中发现了奄奄一息的安德烈。她向他谢罪，并精心地看护他。彼此间又旧情重萌，但为时已晚。安德烈伤口恶化，不久即在睡梦中逝去。
皮埃尔留在莫斯科，决意做一名民族英雄。他化装成农夫，想伺机刺杀拿破仑，但在解救一位遭受法国士兵凌辱的俄国妇女时，他被捕成为俘虏。皮埃尔的妻子爱伦在战火中仍然难以抑止自己的放荡行为，最后，因误食堕胎药而死亡。拿破仑的军队在空城莫斯科完全分崩离析，他疲劳地等待着，寄希望于沙皇要求他签订和平协定。但是这一天迟迟不来，他只好放弃莫斯科回师法国。在通往斯摩梭斯克的途中，法军彻底瓦解，成为一群落荒而逃、恣意抢掠的乌合之众。在哥萨克人的不断骚扰下，大量俄国战俘被解救，皮埃尔也重获自由。俄国终于赢得了战争的胜利。
皮埃尔又回到了莫斯科，恢复了同罗斯托夫和保尔康斯基一家的友谊。娜塔莎吸引了他，而他也突然意识到娜塔莎已长大成人。于是时机一成熟，他就恭请她父母同意他们的婚事。与此同时，娜塔莎之兄尼古拉也正在考虑娶安德烈之妹玛丽娅为妻。皮埃尔与娜塔莎结为伉俪，生活幸福。这位曾经单纯而轻浮的女子变成了一个勤劳能干的妻子。他们结婚8年后，养育了4个可爱聪敏的孩子。娜塔莎完全把自己的一切献给了丈夫和孩子们。他们发现彼此的生活实现了他们过去的梦想。尼古拉虽然无法完全肯定自己对玛丽娅的爱，却懂得这桩婚事明智适宜。他们收养了安德烈的儿子尼古路什卡，生活也十分快乐幸福。
Part One
Chapter 1
WELL, PRINCE, Genoa and Lucca are now no more than private estates of the Bonaparte family. No, I warn you, that if you do not tell me we are at war, if you again allow yourself to palliate all the infamies and atrocities of this Antichrist (upon my word, I believe he is), I don’t know you in future, you are no longer my friend, no longer my faithful slave, as you say. There, how do you do, how do you do? I see I’m scaring you, sit down and talk to me.”
These words were uttered in July 1805 by Anna Pavlovna Scherer, a distinguished lady of the court, and confidential maid-of-honour to the Empress Marya Fyodorovna. It was her greeting to Prince Vassily, a man high in rank and office, who was the first to arrive at her soirée. Anna Pavlovna had been coughing for the last few days; she had an attack of la grippe, as she said—grippe was then a new word only used by a few people. In the notes she had sent round in the morning by a footman in red livery, she had written to all indiscriminately:
“If you have nothing better to do, count (or prince), and if the prospect of spending an evening with a poor invalid is not too alarming to you, I shall be charmed to see you at my house between 7 and 10. Annette Scherer.”
“Heavens! what a violent outburst!” the prince responded, not in the least disconcerted at such a reception. He was wearing an embroidered court uniform, stockings and slippers, and had stars on his breast, and a bright smile on his flat face.
He spoke in that elaborately choice French, in which our forefathers not only spoke but thought, and with those slow, patronising intonations peculiar to a man of importance who has grown old in court society. He went up to Anna Pavlovna, kissed her hand, presenting her with a view of his perfumed, shining bald head, and complacently settled himself on the sofa.
“First of all, tell me how you are, dear friend. Relieve a friend’s anxiety,” he said, with no change of his voice and tone, in which indifference, and even irony, was perceptible through the veil of courtesy and sympathy.
“How can one be well when one is in moral suffering? How can one help being worried in these times, if one has any feeling?” said Anna Pavlovna. “You’ll spend the whole evening with me, I hope?”
“And the fête at the English ambassador’s? To-day is Wednesday. I must put in an appearance there,” said the prince. “My daughter is coming to fetch me and take me there.”
“I thought to-day’s fête had been put off. I confess that all these festivities and fireworks are beginning to pall.”
“If they had known that it was your wish, the fête would have been put off,” said the prince, from habit, like a wound-up clock, saying things he did not even wish to be believed.
“Don’t tease me. Well, what has been decided in regard to the Novosiltsov dispatch? You know everything.”
“What is there to tell?” said the prince in a tired, listless tone. “What has been decided? It has been decided that Bonaparte has burnt his ships, and I think that we are about to burn ours.”
Prince Vassily always spoke languidly, like an actor repeating his part in an old play. Anna Pavlovna Scherer, in spite of her forty years, was on the contrary brimming over with excitement and impulsiveness. To be enthusiastic had become her pose in society, and at times even when she had, indeed, no inclination to be so, she was enthusiastic so as not to disappoint the expectations of those who knew her. The affected smile which played continually about Anna Pavlovna’s face, out of keeping as it was with her faded looks, expressed a spoilt child’s continual consciousness of a charming failing of which she had neither the wish nor the power to correct herself, which, indeed, she saw no need to correct.
In the midst of a conversation about politics, Anna Pavlovna became greatly excited.
“Ah, don’t talk to me about Austria! I know nothing about it, perhaps, but Austria has never wanted, and doesn’t want war. She is betraying us. Russia alone is to be the saviour of Europe. Our benefactor knows his lofty destiny, and will be true to it. That’s the one thing I have faith in. Our good and sublime emperor has the greatest part in the world to play, and he is so virtuous and noble that God will not desert him, and he will fulfil his mission—to strangle the hydra of revolution, which is more horrible than ever now in the person of this murderer and miscreant.… Whom can we reckon on, I ask you? … England with her commercial spirit will not comprehend and cannot comprehend all the loftiness of soul of the Emperor Alexander. She has refused to evacuate Malta. She tries to detect, she seeks a hidden motive in our actions. What have they said to Novosiltsov? Nothing. They didn’t understand, they’re incapable of understanding the self-sacrifice of our emperor, who desires nothing for himself, and everything for the good of humanity. And what have they promised? Nothing. What they have promised even won’t come to anything! Prussia has declared that Bonaparte is invincible, and that all Europe can do nothing against him.… And I don’t believe a single word of what was said by Hardenberg or Haugwitz. That famous Prussian neutrality is a mere snare. I have no faith but in God and the lofty destiny of our adored emperor. He will save Europe!” She stopped short abruptly, with a smile of amusement at her own warmth.
“I imagine,” said the prince, smiling, “that if you had been sent instead of our dear Wintsengerode, you would have carried the Prussian king’s consent by storm,—you are so eloquent. Will you give me some tea?”
“In a moment. By the way,” she added subsiding into calm again, “there are two very interesting men to be here to-night, the vicomte de Mortemart; he is connected with the Montmorencies through the Rohans, one of the best families in France. He is one of the good emigrants, the real ones. Then Abbé Morio; you know that profound intellect? He has been received by the emperor. Do you know him?”
“Ah! I shall be delighted,” said the prince. “Tell me,” he added, as though he had just recollected something, speaking with special non-chalance, though the question was the chief motive of his visit: “is it true that the dowager empress desires the appointment of Baron Funke as first secretary to the Vienna legation? He is a poor creature, it appears, that baron.” Prince Vassily would have liked to see his son appointed to the post, which people were trying, through the Empress Marya Fyodorovna, to obtain for the baron.
Anna Pavlovna almost closed her eyes to signify that neither she nor any one else could pass judgment on what the empress might be pleased or see fit to do.
“Baron Funke has been recommended to the empress-mother by her sister,” was all she said in a dry, mournful tone. When Anna Pavlovna spoke of the empress her countenance suddenly assumed a profound and genuine expression of devotion and respect, mingled with melancholy, and this happened whenever she mentioned in conversation her illustrious patroness. She said that her Imperial Majesty had been graciously pleased to show great esteem to Baron Funke, and again a shade of melancholy passed over her face. The prince preserved an indifferent silence. Anna Pavlovna, with the adroitness and quick tact of a courtier and a woman, felt an inclination to chastise the prince for his temerity in referring in such terms to a person recommended to the empress, and at the same time to console him.
“But about your own family,” she said, “do you know that your daughter, since she has come out, charms everybody? People say she is as beautiful as the day.”
The prince bowed in token of respect and acknowledgment.
“I often think,” pursued Anna Pavlovna, moving up to the prince and smiling cordially to him, as though to mark that political and worldly conversation was over and now intimate talk was to begin: “I often think how unfairly the blessings of life are sometimes apportioned. Why has fate given you two such splendid children—I don’t include Anatole, your youngest—him I don’t like” (she put in with a decision admitting of no appeal, raising her eyebrows)—“such charming children? And you really seem to appreciate them less than any one, and so you don’t deserve them.”
And she smiled her ecstatic smile.
“What would you have? Lavater would have said that I have not the bump of paternity,” said the prince.
“Don’t keep on joking. I wanted to talk to you seriously. Do you know I’m not pleased with your youngest son. Between ourselves” (her face took its mournful expression), “people have been talking about him to her majesty and commiserating you…”
The prince did not answer, but looking at him significantly, she waited in silence for his answer. Prince Vassily frowned.
“What would you have me do?” he said at last. “You know I have done everything for their education a father could do, and they have both turned out des imbéciles. Ippolit is at least a quiet fool, while Anatole’s a fool that won’t keep quiet, that’s the only difference,” he said, with a smile, more unnatural and more animated than usual, bringing out with peculiar prominence something surprisingly brutal and unpleasant in the lines about his mouth.
“Why are children born to men like you? If you weren’t a father, I could find no fault with you,” said Anna Pavlovna, raising her eyes pensively.
“I am your faithful slave and to you alone I can confess. My children are the bane of my existence. It’s the cross I have to bear, that’s how I explain it to myself. What would you have?” … He broke off with a gesture expressing his resignation to a cruel fate. Anna Pavlovna pondered a moment.
“Have you never thought of marrying your prodigal son Anatole? People say,” she said, “that old maids have a mania for matchmaking. I have never been conscious of this failing before, but I have a little person in my mind, who is very unhappy with her father, a relation of ours, the young Princess Bolkonsky.”
Prince Vassily made no reply, but with the rapidity of reflection and memory characteristic of worldly people, he signified by a motion of the head that he had taken in and was considering what she said.
“No, do you know that that boy is costing me forty thousand roubles a year?” he said, evidently unable to restrain the gloomy current of his thoughts. He paused. “What will it be in five years if this goes on? These are the advantages of being a father.… Is she rich, your young princess?”
“Her father is very rich and miserly. He lives in the country. You know that notorious Prince Bolkonsky, retired under the late emperor, and nicknamed the ‘Prussian King.’ He’s a very clever man, but eccentric and tedious. The poor little thing is as unhappy as possible. Her brother it is who has lately been married to Liza Meinen, an adjutant of Kutuzov’s. He’ll be here this evening.”
“Listen, dear Annette,” said the prince, suddenly taking his companion’s hand, and for some reason bending it downwards. “Arrange this matter for me and I am your faithful slave for ever and ever. She’s of good family and well off. That’s all I want.”
And with the freedom, familiarity, and grace that distinguished him, he took the maid-of-honour’s hand, kissed it, and as he kissed it waved her hand, while he stretched forward in his low chair and gazed away into the distance.
“Wait,” said Anna Pavlovna, considering. “I’ll talk to Lise (the wife of young Bolkonsky) this very evening, and perhaps it can be arranged. I’ll try my prentice hand as an old maid in your family.”
Chapter 2
ANNA PAVLOVNA’S DRAWING-ROOM gradually began to fill. The people of the highest distinction in Petersburg were there, people very different in ages and characters, but alike in the set in which they moved. The daughter of Prince Vassily, the beauty, Ellen, came to fetch her father and go with him to the ambassador’s fête. She was wearing a ball-dress with an imperial badge on it. The young Princess Bolkonsky was there, celebrated as the most seductive woman in Petersburg. She had been married the previous winter, and was not now going out into the great world on account of her interesting condition, but was still to be seen at small parties. Prince Ippolit, the son of Prince Vassily, came too with Mortemart, whom he introduced. The Abbé Morio was there too, and many others.
“Have you not yet seen, or not been introduced to ma tante?” Anna Pavlovna said to her guests as they arrived, and very seriously she led them up to a little old lady wearing tall bows, who had sailed in out of the next room as soon as the guests began to arrive. Anna Pavlovna mentioned their names, deliberately turning her eyes from the guest to ma tante, and then withdrew. All the guests performed the ceremony of greeting the aunt, who was unknown, uninteresting and unnecessary to every one. Anna Pavlovna with mournful, solemn sympathy, followed these greetings, silently approving them. Ma tante said to each person the same words about his health, her own health, and the health of her majesty, who was, thank God, better to-day. Every one, though from politeness showing no undue haste, moved away from the old lady with a sense of relief at a tiresome duty accomplished, and did not approach her again all the evening. The young Princess Bolkonsky had come with her work in a gold-embroidered velvet bag. Her pretty little upper lip, faintly darkened with down, was very short over her teeth, but was all the more charming when it was lifted, and still more charming when it was at times drawn down to meet the lower lip. As is always the case with perfectly charming women, her defect — the shortness of the lip and the half-opened mouth — seemed her peculiar, her characteristic beauty. Every one took delight in watching the pretty creature full of life and gaiety, so soon to be a mother, and so lightly bearing her burden. Old men and bored, depressed young men gazing at her felt as though they were becoming like her, by being with her and talking a little while to her. Any man who spoke to her, and at every word saw her bright little smile and shining white teeth, gleaming continually, imagined that he was being particularly successful this evening. And this each thought in turn.
