介绍:
译文不是同一版，看个大概吧
Natasha was standing in the middle of the drawing-room, looking pale, composed and much thinner (though hardly the picture of contrition that Pierre had expected). When Pierre appeared in the doorway she lurched forward a little, clearly unsure whether to walk over to greet him or wait for him to come across to her.
Pierre hurried over. He was expecting her to offer her hand as usual but instead she came close and stopped in front of him, breathing hard and letting her arms dangle down lifelessly, in the very pose she had so often taken up in the middle of the hall when she was about to sing, except that the look on her face was quite different.
‘Count Bezukhov,’ she began, gabbling her words, ‘Prince Bolkonsky was your friend. Well, he still is,’ she corrected herself. (She thought of everything as belonging to the past, and now quite different.) ‘He once told me I should turn to you...’
Pierre looked at her, speechless and choking. Until then he had reproached her in his heart, and made every effort to despise her, but now he felt so sorry for her there was no room in his heart for reproach.
‘He’s back now. Please ask him . . . to for . . . forgive me.’ She stopped short and her breath came even faster, but she wasn’t weeping.
‘Yes . . . I will tell him,’ said Pierre, ‘but . . .’ He didn’t know how to go on.
Natasha was visibly alarmed at a certain idea that might well have occurred to Pierre.
‘No, I know it’s all over,’ she hastened to say. ‘No, it can’t ever happen now. What upsets me is the harm I’ve done to him. There’s only one thing I ask – I want him to forgive me, forgive me, forgive me for everything . . .’ Her whole body was convulsed. She sat down on a chair.
Pierre felt a heart-breaking surge of pity for her, the like of which he had never known before.
‘Yes, I will tell him, I’ll go through it all again,’ said Pierre. ‘But . . . well, there’s just one thing I’d like to know . . .’
‘What’s that?’ was the question in Natasha’s eyes.
‘I’d like to know whether you were in love with . . .’ Pierre didn’t know what to call Anatole, and he coloured up at the very thought of him, ‘with that vile man.’
‘Please don’t call him vile,’ said Natasha. ‘I don’t . . . know. I just don’t know . . .’ She burst into tears again, and Pierre was overwhelmed with an even stronger sensation of pity, tenderness and love. He could feel tears trickling down under his spectacles, and hoped no one would see them.
‘We won’t say another word about it, my dear girl,’ he said. His voice was so gentle, tender and full of feeling that it had a strange effect on Natasha. ‘Not another word, my dear. I’ll tell him everything. I’ll just ask you one thing: please look on me as a friend, and if you ever need any help or advice, or if you just want to pour out your soul to somebody – not now, but when you’ve had a chance to get things clear – please think of me.’ He took her hand and kissed it. ‘I’ll be only too happy to . . .’ Pierre was suddenly embarrassed.
‘Don’t talk to me like that. I’m not worth it!’ cried Natasha, and she made as if to leave, but Pierre held her back by the arm. He knew he had more to say. But when he spoke he was surprised at the way it came out.
‘Hush, don’t say things like that. You have your whole life ahead of you,’ he told her.
‘Oh no I don’t! It’s all gone wrong for me,’ she said, full of shame and humiliation.
‘All gone wrong?’ he repeated. ‘If I was somebody else, the handsomest, the cleverest, the best man in the world, and if I were free, I’d be down on my knees right now begging for your hand and your love.’
For the first time in many days Natasha wept tears of gratitude and emotion as she took a quick glance at Pierre and walked out of the room.
Pierre went out after her, almost running down to the vestibule, fighting down tears of affection and happiness that gave him a lump in his throat. He flung his fur coat over his shoulders, unable to find his way into the sleeves, and got into his sledge.
‘Where to now, your Excellency?’ asked the coachman.
‘Where to?’ Pierre asked himself. ‘Where can I go? I can’t face the club or visiting people.’ All of humanity seemed so pathetically poor compared with the tenderness and love that he now felt, compared with the new softness and gratitude shown by Natasha as she had turned at the last moment and glanced at him through her tears.
‘Home,’ said Pierre, defying ten degrees of frost by flinging aside the bearskin coat from his great chest and taking in deep, joyous lungfuls of air.
大家还在听
