Book Fifteen: 1812-13 - Chapter XV

by Leo Tolstoy

　　At the end of January Pierre went to Moscow and stayed in an annexof his house which had not been burned. He called on CountRostopchin and on some acquaintances who were back in Moscow, and heintended to leave for Petersburg two days later. Everybody wascelebrating the victory, everything was bubbling with life in theruined but reviving city. Everyone was pleased to see Pierre, everyonewished to meet him, and everyone questioned him about what he hadseen. Pierre felt particularly well disposed toward them all, butwas now instinctively on his guard for fear of binding himself inany way. To all questions put to him- whether important or quitetrifling- such as: Where would he live? Was he going to rebuild?When was he going to Petersburg and would he mind taking a parcelfor someone?- he replied: "Yes, perhaps," or, "I think so," and so on.

　　He had heard that the Rostovs were at Kostroma but the thought ofNatasha seldom occurred to him. If it did it was only as a pleasantmemory of the distant past. He felt himself not only free fromsocial 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 Drubetskoysthat Princess Mary was in Moscow. The death, sufferings, and last daysof Prince Andrew had often occupied Pierre's thoughts and now recurredto him with fresh vividness. Having heard at dinner that Princess Marywas in Moscow and living in her house- which had not been burned- inVozdvizhenka Street, he drove that same evening to see her.

　　On his way to the house Pierre kept thinking of Prince Andrew, oftheir friendship, of his various meetings with him, and especiallyof the last one at Borodino.

　　"Is it possible that he died in the bitter frame of mind he was thenin? Is it possible that the meaning of life was not disclosed to himbefore he died?" thought Pierre. He recalled Karataev and his deathand involuntarily began to compare these two men, so different, andyet so similar in that they had both lived and both died and in thelove he felt for both of them.

　　Pierre drove up to the house of the old prince in a most seriousmood. The house had escaped the fire; it showed signs of damage butits general aspect was unchanged. The old footman, who met Pierre witha stern face as if wishing to make the visitor feel that the absenceof the old prince had not disturbed the order of things in thehouse, informed him that the princess had gone to her ownapartments, 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 broughtword from the princess that she would be very glad to see Pierre if hewould 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 heranother person dressed in black. Pierre remembered that the princessalways had lady companions, but who they were and what they werelike he never knew or remembered. "This must be one of hercompanions," 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 herhand, "so this is how we meet again. He of spoke of you even at thevery last," she went on, turning her eyes from Pierre to her companionwith a shyness that surprised him for an instant.

　　"I was so glad to hear of your safety. It was the first piece ofgood news we had received for a long time."

　　Again the princess glanced round at her companion with even moreuneasiness in her manner and was about to add something, but Pierreinterrupted her.

　　"Just imagine- I knew nothing about him!" said he. "I thought he hadbeen killed. All I know I heard at second hand from others. I onlyknow that he fell in with the Rostovs.... What a strange coincidence!"

　　Pierre spoke rapidly and with animation. He glanced once at thecompanion's face, saw her attentive and kindly gaze fixed on him, and,as often happens when one is talking, felt somehow that this companionin the black dress was a good, kind, excellent creature who wouldnot hinder his conversing freely with Princess Mary.

　　But when he mentioned the Rostovs, Princess Mary's face expressedstill greater embarrassment. She again glanced rapidly from Pierre'sface 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 withits black eyes and peculiar mouth, and something near to him, longforgotten and more than sweet, looked at him from those attentiveeyes.

　　"But no, it can't be!" he thought. "This stern, thin, pale face thatlooks so much older! It cannot be she. It merely reminds me of her."But at that moment Princess Mary said, "Natasha!" And with difficulty,effort, and stress, like the opening of a door grown rusty on itshinges, a smile appeared on the face with the attentive eyes, and fromthat opening door came a breath of fragrance which suffused Pierrewith a happiness he had long forgotten and of which he had not evenbeen thinking- especially at that moment. It suffused him, seized him,and enveloped him completely. When she smiled doubt was no longerpossible, it was Natasha and he loved her.

　　At that moment Pierre involuntarily betrayed to her, to PrincessMary, and above all to himself, a secret of which he himself hadbeen unaware. He flushed joyfully yet with painful distress. Hetried to hide his agitation. But the more he tried to hide it the moreclearly- clearer than any words could have done- did he betray tohimself, to her, and to Princess Mary that he loved her.

　　"No, it's only the unexpectedness of it," thought Pierre. But assoon as he tried to continue the conversation he had begun withPrincess Mary he again glanced at Natasha, and a still-deeper flushsuffused his face and a still-stronger agitation of mingled joy andfear seized his soul. He became confused in his speech and stoppedin the middle of what he was saying.

　　Pierre had failed to notice Natasha because he did not at all expectto see her there, but he had failed to recognize her because thechange in her since he last saw her was immense. She had grown thinand pale, but that was not what made her unrecognizable; she wasunrecognizable at the moment he entered because on that face whoseeyes 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 leastshadow of a smile: only her eyes were kindly attentive and sadlyinterrogative.

　　Pierre's confusion was not reflected by any confusion on Natasha'spart, but only by the pleasure that just perceptibly lit up herwhole face.