Война и мир

Chapter 1

           

           OnedaytowardtheendofDecemberNatásha,paleandthin,dressedinablackwoolengown,herplaitedhairnegligentlytwistedintoaknot,wascrouchedfeetandallinthecornerofhersofa,nervouslycrumplingandsmoothingouttheendofhersashwhileshelookedatacornerofthedoor.

           Shewasgazinginthedirectioninwhichhehadgone—totheothersideoflife.Andthatothersideoflife,ofwhichshehadneverbeforethoughtandwhichhadformerlyseemedtohersofarawayandimprobable,wasnownearerandmoreakinandmorecomprehensiblethanthissideoflife,whereeverythingwaseitheremptinessanddesolationorsufferingandindignity.

           Shewasgazingwheresheknewhimtobe;butshecouldnotimaginehimotherwisethanashehadbeenhere.ShenowsawhimagainashehadbeenatMytíshchi,atTróitsa,andatYaroslávl.

           Shesawhisface,heardhisvoice,repeatedhiswordsandherown,andsometimesdevisedotherwordstheymighthavespoken.

           Thereheislyingbackinanarmchairinhisvelvetcloak,leaninghisheadonhisthinpalehand.Hischestisdreadfullyhollowandhisshouldersraised.Hislipsarefirmlyclosed,hiseyesglitter,andawrinklecomesandgoesonhispaleforehead.Oneofhislegstwitchesjustperceptibly,butrapidly.Natáshaknowsthatheisstrugglingwithterriblepain.“Whatisthatpainlike?Whydoeshehavethatpain?Whatdoeshefeel?Howdoesithurthim?”thoughtNatásha.Henoticedherwatchinghim,raisedhiseyes,andbegantospeakseriously:

           “Onethingwouldbeterrible,”saidhe:“tobindoneselfforevertoasufferingman.

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