AT THE END of January Pierre arrived in Moscow and settled in the lodge of his mansion, as that had escaped the fire. He called on Count Rastoptchin and several acquaintances, and was intending in three days to set off to Petersburg. Every one was triumphant at victory; the ruined and reviving city was bubbling over with life. Every one was glad to see Pierre; everybody was eager to see him, and to ask him about all he had seen. Pierre had a particularly friendly feeling towards every one he met. But unconsciously he was a little on his guard with people to avoid fettering his freedom in any way. To all the questions put to him—important or trivial—whether they asked him where he meant to live, whether he were going to build, when he was starting for Petersburg, or whether he could take a parcel there for someone, he answered, “Yes, very possibly,” “I dare say I may,” and so on.

He heard that the Rostovs were in Kostroma, and the thought of Natasha rarely came to his mind, and when it did occur to him it was as a pleasant memory of time long past. He felt himself set free, not only from the cares of daily life, but also from that feeling which, it seemed to him, he had voluntarily brought upon himself.

The third day after his arrival in Moscow he learnt from the Drubetskoys that Princess Marya was in Moscow. The death, the sufferings, and the last days of Prince Andrey had often engaged Pierre's thoughts, and now recurred to him with fresh vividness. He heard at dinner that Princess Marya was in Moscow, and living in her own house in Vosdvizhenka, which had escaped the fire, and he went to call upon her the same evening.

On the way to Princess Marya's Pierre's mind was full of Prince Andrey, of his friendship for him, of the different occasions when they had met, and especially of their last interview at Borodino.

“Can he possibly have died in the bitter mood he was in then? Was not the meaning of life revealed to him before death?” Pierre wondered. He thought of Karataev, of his death, and unconsciously compared those two men, so different, and yet alike, in the love he had felt for both, and in that both had lived, and both were dead.

In the most serious frame of mind Pierre drove up to the old prince's house. The house had remained entire. There were traces to be seen of the havoc wrought in it, but the character of the house was unchanged. The old footman met Pierre with a stern face, that seemed to wish to make the guest feel that the absence of the old prince did make no difference in the severe routine of the household, and said that the princess had retired to her own apartments, and received on Sundays.

“Take my name to her, perhaps she will see me,” said Pierre.

“Yes, your excellency,” answered the footman; “kindly walk into the portrait-gallery.”

A few minutes later the footman returned accompanied by Dessalle. Dessalle brought a message from the princess that she would be very glad to see Pierre, and begged him, if he would excuse the lack of ceremony, to come upstairs to her apartment.

In a low-pitched room, lighted by a single candle, he found the princess, and some one with her in a black dress. Pierre recollected that the princess had always had lady-companions of some sort with her, but who those companions were, and what they were like, he did not remember. “That is one of her companions,” he thought, glancing at the lady in the black dress.

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

“Yes,” she said, scrutinising his altered face, after he had kissed her hand; “so this is how we meet again. He often talked of you at the last,” she said, turning her eyes from Pierre to the companion with a sort of bashfulness that struck him.

“I was so glad to hear of your safety. It was the only piece of good news we had had for a long time.”

Again the princess glanced still more uneasily at the companion, and would have spoken; but Pierre interrupted her.

“Only imagine, I knew nothing about him,” he said. “I believed he had been killed. All I have heard has been through others, at third-hand. I only know that he fell in with the Rostovs.… What a strange stroke of destiny!”

Pierre talked rapidly, eagerly. He glanced once at the companion's face, saw attentively friendly, inquiring eyes fixed upon him; and as often happens, while talking, he vaguely felt that this lady-companion in the black dress was a good, kind, friendly creature, who need be no hindrance to his talking freely to Princess Marya.

But as he uttered the last words about the Rostovs, the embarrassment in Princess Marya's face became even more marked. Again her eyes shifted from Pierre's face to the face of the lady in the black dress, and she said:

“You don't recognise her?”

Pierre glanced once more at the pale, thin face of her companion, with its black eyes and strange mouth. Something very near to him, long forgotten, and more than sweet, gazed at him out of those intent eyes.

“But no, it cannot be,” he thought. “That stern, thin, pale face that looks so much older? It cannot be she. It is only a reminder of it.”

But at that moment Princess Marya said, “Natasha!”

And the face with the intent eyes—painfully, with effort, like a rusty door opening—smiled, and through that opened door there floated to Pierre a sudden, overwhelming rush of long-forgotten bliss, of which, especially now, he had no thought. It breathed upon him, overwhelmed him, and swallowed him up entirely. When she smiled, there could be no doubt. It was Natasha, and he loved her.

In that first minute Pierre unwittingly betrayed to her and to Princess Marya, and most of all to himself, the secret of which he had been himself unaware. He flushed joyfully, and with agonising distress. He tried to conceal his emotion. But the more he tried to conceal it, the more clearly—more clearly than if he had uttered the most definite words—he betrayed to himself, and to her, and to Princess Marya, that he loved her.

“No, it is nothing; it's the sudden surprise,” Pierre thought. But as soon as he tried to go on with the conversation with Princess Marya, he glanced again at Natasha, and a still deeper flush spread over his face, and a still more violent wave of rapture and terror flooded his heart. He stammered in his speech, and stopped short in the middle of a sentence.

Pierre had not noticed Natasha because he had never expected to see her here; but he had not recognised her because the change that had taken place in her since he had seen her was immense. She had grown thin and pale. But it was not that that made her unrecognisable. No one could have recognised her at the moment when he entered, because when he first glanced at her there was no trace of a smile in the eyes that in old days had always beamed with a suppressed smile of the joy of life. They were intent, kindly eyes, full of mournful inquiry, and nothing more.

Pierre's embarrassment was not reflected in a corresponding embarrassment in Natasha, but only in a look of pleasure, that faintly lighted up her whole face.

一月底，皮埃尔来到莫斯科，他在一间未被大火焚毁的厢房住了下来。他拜访了拉斯托普钦伯爵和几位已返回莫斯科的熟人，他打算第三天动身去彼得堡。大家都在庆祝胜利；大家都欢迎皮埃尔，都希望见到他，都想向他详细打听他的所见所闻。皮埃尔觉得，他对所有他遇见的人都怀有特别的好感；然而，他现在不由自主地对所有的人都保持了警惕，以免使自己受到牵连。他对大家向他提出的所有问题——不管是重要的还是毫无意义的——例如：他想住在哪里？他是否要建房子？他什么时候去彼得堡？能不能帮忙带一个皮箱？——他都回答：“是的，可能，我想，等等。”

他听说罗斯托夫一家在科斯特罗马，然而他却很少想到娜塔莎。如果说他曾想到过她，那也只是对一件久远往事的愉快回忆罢了。他感到自己不仅摆脱了世俗的琐事，而且也摆脱了那种他好像心里觉得是自作多情的意境。

在他抵达莫斯科之后的第三天，他在德鲁别茨科伊家获悉，玛丽亚公爵小姐在莫斯科。皮埃尔常常想到安德烈公爵的死、他的痛苦和临终的那些日子，而此时此刻又生动地再现于他的脑海中。吃午饭时他得知玛丽亚公爵小姐在莫斯科住在弗兹德维仁卡街她的一幢未被烧掉的住宅里，他当天晚上就去拜访了她。

在前往拜访玛丽亚公爵小姐的路上，皮埃尔不停地思念安德烈公爵，想着他和公爵的友谊以及他们在各种不同场合会见的情景，特别是在波罗底诺的最后一次相见的情景。

难道他是在他当时所处的十分痛苦的心境中去世的吗？难道他在临终前还没有提示出人生的真谛吗？皮埃尔想。他回想起了卡拉塔耶夫，想到他的死，不由自主地把这两个如此不相同的人加以比较，他们竟如此之相似，这是因为他对两个人都怀有爱慕的心情，两个人都在这世上生活过，两个人都死了。

皮埃尔怀着极其严肃的心情乘车去老公爵家。这所住宅还算完好，但仍然有遭受破坏的痕迹，而从外表上看，还是老样子。一个神情严峻的老侍者出来迎接皮埃尔，好像要使客人觉得：虽然老公爵已去世，家规依然没有改变，他说，公爵小姐已经回房去了，只在星期天才接见客人。

“请通报一下，可能会接见的。”皮埃尔说。

“是，您老，”侍者回答道，“请到肖像室①稍候。”

①肖像室是贵族家庭悬挂祖辈肖像的房间。

几分钟后，侍者和德萨尔走了出来，德萨尔向皮埃尔转达了公爵小姐的邀请，她很高兴见他，如果他能够原谅她的失礼，请他到楼上她的房间里去。

在一间点着一只蜡烛的不太高大的房间里，公爵小姐和一位身着黑色布拉吉的女人坐在一起。皮埃尔想起了玛丽亚公爵小姐身边常有女伴相陪，但是，这些女伴都是些什么人，皮埃尔不知道，也记不得了。“这是一个女伴。”他向身着黑色布拉吉的女人看了一眼，在心中想到。

公爵小姐立即起身迎接并伸出了手。

“是啊，”在他吻了她的手之后，她仔细端详皮埃尔那张已改变了的面庞，她说，“我们这不是又见面了，他在临终之前的那些日子里，经常谈到您。”她说这些话时把目光从皮埃尔移到面容羞涩的女伴身上，女伴的羞怯表情使皮埃顿时吃了一惊。

“得知您平安无恙，我十分高兴，这是很久以来我们接到的唯一的好消息了。”玛丽亚公爵小姐又不安地向女伴看了一眼，并且想说点什么，但是皮埃尔打断了她的话。

“您可以想象得到，有关他的情况，我连一点都不知道，”他说，“我还以为他是阵亡的。我所知道的一切，都是从别人，从第三者的口中得知的。我知道他遇见了罗斯托夫一家人……多么巧的命运啊！”

皮埃尔说得又快又兴奋。他看了一眼那个女伴的脸，他看见，她以特别表示关切的、迥非寻常的目光注视着他，这是在交谈中常可见到的，他不知道为什么会感觉得这个身着黑衣的女伴是一个可爱的、善良的、顶好的人，她不会妨碍他和公爵小姐推心置腹的交谈。

然而，当他的最后一句话提到罗斯托夫一家的时候，玛丽亚公爵小姐的脸上表现出更加困惑不解的表情。她再次把视线从皮埃尔身上移到身着黑衣的女士的脸上，她说：

“难道你真的认不出她了吗？”

皮埃尔又一次看了一下那个女伴的苍白的、瘦削的、有一双黑眼睛和奇特嘴唇的面孔。从她那极为关切的眼神中，可以看出，含有一种亲切的、他久已遗忘的、十分可爱的神态。

“不、不，这不可能，”他想。“这不是一张严肃、瘦削、苍白、显得老了一些的面孔吗？这不可能是她。这只是相似罢了。”然而，此时玛丽亚公爵小姐说：“娜塔莎。”于是，那张眼神极为关切的面孔，困难地、吃力地，好像一扇生锈的门被打开了似的，露出了笑容，从这敞开的门里突然散发出一阵芳香，令皮埃尔陶然欲醉，这是他久已忘却的、特别是在此时此刻完全意想不到的幸福。芳香四溢，香气袭人，皮埃尔整个身心被这种芳香所包围，被完全吞没。当她莞尔一笑时，已经不再有什么怀疑了。这正是娜塔莎，而他爱着她。

在刚刚开头的一瞬间，皮埃尔不由自主地对她——玛丽亚公爵小姐，主要还是对他自己，诉说了他自己也不清楚的那个秘密。他由于高兴和一种异乎寻常的痛楚把脸涨得通红。他想掩饰住自己的激动。然而他越是想掩饰它，就越是更明显——比最明确的语言更为明确地对他自己、对她——玛丽亚公爵小姐诉说了，他爱着她。

“不对，这太出乎意料之外。”皮埃尔想到了。然而，在他刚刚想继续跟玛丽亚公爵小姐谈刚才已谈开了头的话题时，他又向娜塔莎看了一眼，他的脸更加被涨红了，他的心情既万分激动，又有一种莫名的恐惧。他说的话已经语无伦次，话还没说完就说不下去了。

皮埃尔开头没有注意到娜塔莎，那是因为他无论如何也不会想到，他会在这里见到她，但是他随后之所以没有认出她来，那是因为自从他上一次见到她之后，她的变化确实太大了。她消瘦了，面容变得苍白了，但是这还不能完全解释他没有认出她来的原由：当他刚进屋子时认不出她来，是因为先前，从她的这张脸上，从她的眼睛里，总可以看到那隐露出对人生的欢乐的微笑，而现在，当他刚进屋第一眼看见她时，连这种微笑的一点影子也没有；只有一对专注的、善良的和哀伤的探询的眼睛。

皮埃尔的窘态并没有使娜塔莎惶惑不安，她脸上只显露出一丝不容易被人觉察的愉快神情。