Chương Chương 332 · 第332章

At the end of January Pierre went to Moscow and stayed in an annex of

his house which had not been burned. He called on Count Rostopchín and

on some acquaintances who were back in Moscow, and he intended to leave

for Petersburg two days later. Everybody was celebrating the victory,

everything was bubbling with life in the ruined but reviving city.

Everyone was pleased to see Pierre, everyone wished to meet him, and

everyone questioned him about what he had seen. Pierre felt particularly

well disposed toward them all, but was now instinctively on his

guard for fear of binding himself in any way. To all questions put to

him—whether important or quite trifling—such as: Where would he live?

Was he going to rebuild? When was he going to Petersburg and would he

mind taking a parcel for someone?—he replied: “Yes, perhaps,” or, “I

think so,” and so on.

He had heard that the Rostóvs were at Kostromá but the thought of

Natásha seldom occurred to him. If it did it was only as a pleasant

memory of the distant past. He felt himself not only free from social

obligations but also from that feeling which, it seemed to him, he had

aroused in himself.

On the third day after his arrival he heard from the Drubetskóys that

Princess Mary was in Moscow. The death, sufferings, and last days of

Prince Andrew had often occupied Pierre’s thoughts and now recurred to

him with fresh vividness. Having heard at dinner that Princess Mary

was in Moscow and living in her house—which had not been burned—in

Vozdvízhenka Street, he drove that same evening to see her.

On his way to the house Pierre kept thinking of Prince Andrew, of their

friendship, of his various meetings with him, and especially of the last

one at Borodinó.

“Is it possible that he died in the bitter frame of mind he was then in?

Is it possible that the meaning of life was not disclosed to him

before he died?” thought Pierre. He recalled Karatáev and his death and

involuntarily began to compare these two men, so different, and yet so

similar in that they had both lived and both died and in the love he

felt for both of them.

Pierre drove up to the house of the old prince in a most serious mood.

The house had escaped the fire; it showed signs of damage but its

general aspect was unchanged. The old footman, who met Pierre with a

stern face as if wishing to make the visitor feel that the absence

of the old prince had not disturbed the order of things in the house,

informed him that the princess had gone to her own apartments, and that

she received on Sundays.

“Announce me. Perhaps she will see me,” said Pierre.

“Yes, sir,” said the man. “Please step into the portrait gallery.”

A few minutes later the footman returned with Dessalles, who brought

word from the princess that she would be very glad to see Pierre if he

would excuse her want of ceremony and come upstairs to her apartment.

In a rather low room lit by one candle sat the princess and with her

another person dressed in black. Pierre remembered that the princess

always had lady companions, but who they were and what they were like

he never knew or remembered. “This must be one of her companions,” he

thought, glancing at the lady in the black dress.

The princess rose quickly to meet him and held out her hand.

“Yes,” she said, looking at his altered face after he had kissed her

hand, “so this is how we meet again. He spoke of you even at the very

last,” she went on, turning her eyes from Pierre to her companion with a

shyness that surprised him for an instant.

“I was so glad to hear of your safety. It was the first piece of good

news we had received for a long time.”

Again the princess glanced round at her companion with even more

uneasiness in her manner and was about to add something, but Pierre

interrupted her.

“Just imagine—I knew nothing about him!” said he. “I thought he had been

killed. All I know I heard at second hand from others. I only know that

he fell in with the Rostóvs.... What a strange coincidence!”

Pierre spoke rapidly and with animation. He glanced once at the

companion’s face, saw her attentive and kindly gaze fixed on him, and,

as often happens when one is talking, felt somehow that this companion

in the black dress was a good, kind, excellent creature who would not

hinder his conversing freely with Princess Mary.

But when he mentioned the Rostóvs, Princess Mary’s face expressed still

greater embarrassment. She again glanced rapidly from Pierre’s face to

that of the lady in the black dress and said:

“Do you really not recognize her?”

Pierre looked again at the companion’s pale, delicate face with its

black eyes and peculiar mouth, and something near to him, long forgotten

and more than sweet, looked at him from those attentive eyes.

“But no, it can’t be!” he thought. “This stern, thin, pale face that

looks so much older! It cannot be she. It merely reminds me of her.”

But at that moment Princess Mary said, “Natásha!” And with difficulty,

effort, and stress, like the opening of a door grown rusty on its

hinges, a smile appeared on the face with the attentive eyes, and from

that opening door came a breath of fragrance which suffused Pierre with

a happiness he had long forgotten and of which he had not even been

thinking—especially at that moment. It suffused him, seized him, and

enveloped him completely. When she smiled doubt was no longer possible,

it was Natásha and he loved her.

At that moment Pierre involuntarily betrayed to her, to Princess Mary,

and above all to himself, a secret of which he himself had been unaware.

He flushed joyfully yet with painful distress. He tried to hide his

agitation. But the more he tried to hide it the more clearly—clearer

than any words could have done—did he betray to himself, to her, and to

Princess Mary that he loved her.

“No, it’s only the unexpectedness of it,” thought Pierre. But as soon as

he tried to continue the conversation he had begun with Princess Mary he

again glanced at Natásha, and a still-deeper flush suffused his face and

a still-stronger agitation of mingled joy and fear seized his soul. He

became confused in his speech and stopped in the middle of what he was

saying.

Pierre had failed to notice Natásha because he did not at all expect to

see her there, but he had failed to recognize her because the change in

her since he last saw her was immense. She had grown thin and pale, but

that was not what made her unrecognizable; she was unrecognizable at the

moment he entered because on that face whose eyes had always shone with

a suppressed smile of the joy of life, now when he first entered and

glanced at her there was not the least shadow of a smile: only her eyes

were kindly attentive and sadly interrogative.

Pierre’s confusion was not reflected by any confusion on Natásha’s part,

but only by the pleasure that just perceptibly lit up her whole face.