Chapter Chapter 109 · 第109章

Next morning, having taken leave of no one but the count, and not

waiting for the ladies to appear, Prince Andrew set off for home.

It was already the beginning of June when on his return journey he drove

into the birch forest where the gnarled old oak had made so strange and

memorable an impression on him. In the forest the harness bells sounded

yet more muffled than they had done six weeks before, for now all was

thick, shady, and dense, and the young firs dotted about in the forest

did not jar on the general beauty but, lending themselves to the mood

around, were delicately green with fluffy young shoots.

The whole day had been hot. Somewhere a storm was gathering, but only

a small cloud had scattered some raindrops lightly, sprinkling the road

and the sappy leaves. The left side of the forest was dark in the shade,

the right side glittered in the sunlight, wet and shiny and scarcely

swayed by the breeze. Everything was in blossom, the nightingales

trilled, and their voices reverberated now near, now far away.

“Yes, here in this forest was that oak with which I agreed,” thought

Prince Andrew. “But where is it?” he again wondered, gazing at

the left side of the road, and without recognizing it he looked with

admiration at the very oak he sought. The old oak, quite transfigured,

spreading out a canopy of sappy dark-green foliage, stood rapt and

slightly trembling in the rays of the evening sun. Neither gnarled

fingers nor old scars nor old doubts and sorrows were any of them in

evidence now. Through the hard century-old bark, even where there were

no twigs, leaves had sprouted such as one could hardly believe the old

veteran could have produced.

“Yes, it is the same oak,” thought Prince Andrew, and all at once he

was seized by an unreasoning springtime feeling of joy and renewal. All

the best moments of his life suddenly rose to his memory. Austerlitz

with the lofty heavens, his wife’s dead reproachful face, Pierre at

the ferry, that girl thrilled by the beauty of the night, and that night

itself and the moon, and... all this rushed suddenly to his mind.

“No, life is not over at thirty-one!” Prince Andrew suddenly decided

finally and decisively. “It is not enough for me to know what I have

in me—everyone must know it: Pierre, and that young girl who wanted to

fly away into the sky, everyone must know me, so that my life may not be

lived for myself alone while others live so apart from it, but so that

it may be reflected in them all, and they and I may live in harmony!”

On reaching home Prince Andrew decided to go to Petersburg that autumn

and found all sorts of reasons for this decision. A whole series of

sensible and logical considerations showing it to be essential for him

to go to Petersburg, and even to re-enter the service, kept springing

up in his mind. He could not now understand how he could ever even have

doubted the necessity of taking an active share in life, just as a month

before he had not understood how the idea of leaving the quiet country

could ever enter his head. It now seemed clear to him that all his

experience of life must be senselessly wasted unless he applied it to

some kind of work and again played an active part in life. He did not

even remember how formerly, on the strength of similar wretched logical

arguments, it had seemed obvious that he would be degrading himself if

he now, after the lessons he had had in life, allowed himself to believe

in the possibility of being useful and in the possibility of happiness

or love. Now reason suggested quite the opposite. After that journey

to Ryazán he found the country dull; his former pursuits no longer

interested him, and often when sitting alone in his study he got up,

went to the mirror, and gazed a long time at his own face. Then he would

turn away to the portrait of his dead Lise, who with hair curled à la

grecque looked tenderly and gaily at him out of the gilt frame. She

did not now say those former terrible words to him, but looked simply,

merrily, and inquisitively at him. And Prince Andrew, crossing his

arms behind him, long paced the room, now frowning, now smiling, as

he reflected on those irrational, inexpressible thoughts, secret as a

crime, which altered his whole life and were connected with Pierre, with

fame, with the girl at the window, the oak, and woman’s beauty

and love. And if anyone came into his room at such moments he was

particularly cold, stern, and above all unpleasantly logical.

“My dear,” Princess Mary entering at such a moment would say,

“little Nicholas can’t go out today, it’s very cold.”

“If it were hot,” Prince Andrew would reply at such times very dryly

to his sister, “he could go out in his smock, but as it is cold he

must wear warm clothes, which were designed for that purpose. That is

what follows from the fact that it is cold; and not that a child who

needs fresh air should remain at home,” he would add with extreme

logic, as if punishing someone for those secret illogical emotions that

stirred within him.

At such moments Princess Mary would think how intellectual work dries

men up.