FOR A LONG WHILE Pierre could not sleep that night. He walked up and down his room, at one moment frowning deep in some difficult train of thought, at the next shrugging his shoulders and shaking himself and at the next smiling blissfully.
He thought of Prince Andrey, of Natasha, of their love, and at one moment was jealous of her past, and at the next reproached himself, and then forgave himself for the feeling. It was six o'clock in the morning, and still he paced the room.
“Well, what is one to do, if there's no escaping it? What is one to do? It must be the right thing, then,” he said to himself; and hurriedly undressing, he got into bed, happy and agitated, but free from doubt and hesitation.
“However strange, however impossible such happiness, I must do everything that we may be man and wife,” he said to himself.
Several days previously Pierre had fixed on the following Friday as the date on which he would set off to Petersburg. When he waked up next day it was Thursday, and Savelitch came to him for orders about packing the things for the journey.
“To Petersburg? What is Petersburg? Who is in Petersburg?” he unconsciously asked, though only of himself. “Yes, some long while ago, before this happened, I was meaning for some reason to go to Petersburg,” he recalled. “Why was it? And I shall go, perhaps. How kind he is, and how attentive, how he remembers everything!” he thought, looking at Savelitch's old face. “And what a pleasant smile!” he thought.
“Well, and do you still not want your freedom, Savelitch?” asked Pierre.
“What should I want my freedom for, your excellency? With the late count—the Kingdom of Heaven to him—we got on very well, and under you, we have never known any unkindness.”
“Well, but your children?”
“My children too will do very well, your excellency; under such masters one can get on all right.”
“Well, but my heirs?” said Pierre. “All of a sudden I shall get married … It might happen, you know,” he added, with an involuntary smile.
“And I make bold to say, a good thing too, your excellency.”
“How easy he thinks it,” thought Pierre. “He does not know how terrible it is, how perilous. Too late or too early … It is terrible!”
“What are your orders? Will you be pleased to go to-morrow?” asked Savelitch.
“No; I will put it off a little. I will tell you later. You must excuse the trouble I give you,” said Pierre, and watching Savelitch's smile, he thought how strange it was, though, that he should not know there was no such thing as Petersburg, and that that must be settled before everything.
“He really does know, though,” he thought; “he is only pretending. Shall I tell him? What does he think about it? No, another time.”
At breakfast, Pierre told his cousin that he had been the previous evening at Princess Marya's, and had found there—could she fancy whom—Natasha Rostov.
The princess looked as though she saw nothing more extraordinary in that fact than if Pierre had seen some Anna Semyonovna.
“You know her?” asked Pierre.
“I have seen the princess,” she answered, “and I had heard they were making a match between her and young Rostov. That would be a very fine thing for the Rostovs; I am told they are utterly ruined.”
“No, I meant, do you know Natasha Rostov?”
“I heard at the time all about that story. Very sad.”
“She does not understand, or she is pretending,” thought Pierre. “Better not tell her either.”
The princess, too, had prepared provisions for Pierre's journey.
“How kind they all are,” thought Pierre, “to trouble about all this now, when it certainly can be of no interest to them. And all for my sake; that is what's so marvellous.”
The same day a police officer came to see Pierre, with an offer to send a trusty agent to the Polygonal Palace to receive the things that were to-day to be restored among the owners.
“And this man too,” thought Pierre, looking into the police officer's face, “what a nice, good-looking officer, and how good-natured! To trouble about such trifles now. And yet they say he is not honest, and takes bribes. What nonsense! though after all why shouldn't he take bribes? He has been brought up in that way. They all do it. But such a pleasant, good-humoured face, and he smiles when he looks at me.”
Pierre went to Princess Marya's to dinner. As he drove through the streets between the charred wrecks of houses, he admired the beauty of those ruins. The chimneys of stoves, and the tumbledown walls of houses stretched in long rows, hiding one another, all through the burnt quarters of the town, and recalled to him the picturesque ruins of the Rhine and of the Colosseum. The sledge-drivers and men on horseback, the carpenters at work on the frames of the houses, the hawkers and shopkeepers all looked at Pierre with cheerful, beaming faces, and seemed to him to say: “Oh, here he is! We shall see what comes of it.”
On reaching Princess Marya's house, Pierre was beset by a sudden doubt whether it were true that he had been there the day before, and had really seen Natasha and talked to her. “Perhaps it was all my own invention, perhaps I shall go in and see no one.” But no sooner had he entered the room than in his whole being, from his instantaneous loss of freedom, he was aware of her presence. She was wearing the same black dress, that hung in soft folds, and had her hair arranged in the same way, but she was utterly different. Had she looked like this when he came in yesterday, he could not have failed to recognise her.
She was just as he had known her almost as a child, and later when betrothed to Prince Andrey. A bright, questioning light gleamed in her eyes; there was a friendly and strangely mischievous expression in her face.
Pierre dined, and would have spent the whole evening with them; but Princess Marya was going to vespers, and Pierre went with them.
Next day Pierre arrived early, dined with them, and stayed the whole evening. Although Princess Marya and Natasha were obviously glad to see their visitor, and although the whole interest of Pierre's life was now centred in that house, by the evening they had said all they had to say, and the conversation passed continually from one trivial subject to another and often broke off altogether. Pierre stayed so late that evening that Princess Marya and Natasha exchanged glances, plainly wondering whether he would not soon go. Pierre saw that, but he could not go away. He began to feel it irksome and awkward, but still he sat on because he could not get up and go.
Princess Marya, foreseeing no end to it, was the first to get up, and complaining of a sick headache, she began saying good-night.
“So you are going to-morrow to Petersburg?” she said.
“No, I am not going,” said Pierre hurriedly, with surprise and a sort of resentment in his tone. “No … yes, to Petersburg. To-morrow, perhaps; but I won't say good-bye. I shall come to see if you have any commissions to give me,” he added, standing before Princess Marya, turning very red, and not taking leave.
Natasha gave him her hand and retired. Princess Marya, on the contrary, instead of going away, sank into an armchair, and with her luminous, deep eyes looked sternly and intently at Pierre. The weariness she had unmistakably betrayed just before had now quite passed off. She drew a deep, prolonged sigh, as though preparing for a long conversation.
As soon as Natasha had gone, all Pierre's confusion and awkwardness instantly vanished, and were replaced by excited eagerness.
He rapidly moved a chair close up to Princess Marya. “Yes, I wanted to tell you,” he said, replying to her look as though to words. “Princess, help me. What am I to do? Can I hope? Princess, my dear friend, listen to me. I know all about it. I know I am not worthy of her; I know that it is impossible to talk of it now. But I want to be a brother to her. No, not that, I don't, I can't …” He paused and passed his hands over his face and eyes. “It's like this,” he went on, making an evident effort to speak coherently. “I don't know since when I have loved her. But I have loved her alone, only her, all my life, and I love her so that I cannot imagine life without her. I cannot bring myself to ask for her hand now; but the thought that, perhaps, she might be my wife and my letting slip this opportunity … opportunity … is awful. Tell me, can I hope? Tell me, what am I to do? Dear princess,” he said, after a brief pause, touching her hand as she did not answer.
“I am thinking of what you have just told me,” answered Princess Marya. “This is what I think. You are right that to speak to her of love now …” The princess paused. She had meant to say that to speak to her of love now was impossible; but she stopped, because she had seen during the last three days by the sudden change in Natasha that she would by no means be offended if Pierre were to avow his love, that, in fact, it was the one thing she desired.
“To speak to her now … is out of the question,” she nevertheless said.
“But what am I to do?”
“Trust the matter to me,” said Princess Marya. “I know …”
Pierre looked into her eyes. “Well, well …” he said.
“I know that she loves … that she will love you,” Princess Marya corrected herself.
She had hardly uttered the words, when Pierre leaped up, and with a face of consternation clutched at Princess Marya's hand.
“What makes you think so? You think I may hope? You think so? …”
“Yes, I think so,” said Princess Marya, smiling. “Write to her parents. And leave it to me. I will tell her when it is possible. I desire it to come to pass. And I have a feeling in my heart that it will be so.”
“No, it cannot be! How happy I am! But it cannot be! … How happy I am! No, it cannot be!” Pierre kept saying, kissing Princess Marya's hands.
“You should go to Petersburg; it will be better. And I will write to you,” she said.
“To Petersburg? I am to go? Yes, very well, I will go. But I can come and see you to-morrow?”
Next day Pierre came to say good-bye. Natasha was less animated than on the preceding days; but sometimes that day, looking into her eyes, Pierre felt that he was vanishing away, that he and she were no more, that there was nothing but happiness. “Is it possible? No, it cannot be,” he said to himself at every glance she gave, every gesture, every word, that filled his soul with gladness.
When, on saying good-bye, he took her thin, delicate hand he unconsciously held it somewhat longer in his own.
“Is it possible that that hand, that face, those eyes, all that treasure of womanly charm, so far removed from me, is it possible it may all one day be my own for ever, as close and intimate as I am to myself? No, it's surely impossible? …”
“Good-bye, count,” she said to him aloud. “I shall so look forward to seeing you again,” she added in a whisper.
And those simple words, and the look in the eyes and the face, that accompanied them, formed the subject of inexhaustible reminiscences, interpretations, and happy dreams for Pierre during two whole months. “I shall look forward to seeing you again.” “Yes, yes, how did she say it? Yes. ‘I shall so look forward to seeing you again.' Oh, how happy I am! How can it be that I am so happy!” Pierre said to himself.
皮埃尔在这一夜久久不能入睡；他在卧室内来回走动着，忽而皱紧眉头，深入思考什么为难的事情，突然耸动双肩，浑身打战，时而又露出幸福的微笑。
他想到了安德烈公爵，想到了娜塔莎，想到了他们的爱情，他时而嫉妒她的过去，时而为此责备自己，时而又为此而原谅自己。已经是早上六点钟了，他仍然一直在卧室内来回踱着步。
“呶，到底该怎么办才好；非这样办不行吗？到底怎么办才好呢？！就是说，应当这样办。”他自言自语地说，于是匆匆脱去衣服，上床睡了，他感到幸福和激动，无忧无虑。
“既不管这种幸福多么奇特，也不管这种幸福多么不可能，为了和她结为夫妇，我都要竭尽自己的全力去做。”他自言自语道。
皮埃尔早在几天之前就决定星期五动身去彼得堡。他在星期四早上醒来时，萨韦利伊奇进来向他请示收拾行李的事。
“怎么，去彼得堡？彼得堡是什么？谁在彼得堡？”他不由自由地问道，虽然他是在问自己。“噢，是的，好像是好久以前，还在这件事尚未发生的时候，我不知道为什么的确打算过要去一趟彼得堡，”他回忆道。“到底是为了什么呢？或许我要去。他是一个多好的人，多细心，把一切事情都记得那么清楚，”他望着萨韦利伊奇那苍老的脸，“他的微笑多么愉快！”他想。
“萨韦利伊奇，你怎么一点都不想自由呢？”皮埃尔问。
“大人，我为什么要自由？老伯爵在世的时候——愿他升入天堂，现在和您生活，侍候您，从未受到虐待。”
“那，你的孩子们呢？”
“孩子们都还过得去，大人；跟上这样的主人是可以活下去的。”
“可是，我的继承人会怎么样呢？”皮埃尔说。“我突然结婚了……要知道这是很可能的事情。”他不由得微笑着补充说道。
“我斗胆说一句：这是好事，大人。”
“他把这件事想得那么容易。”皮埃尔想。“他不知道这件事有多么可怕，有多么危险。太早或者太晚……可怕！”
“您还有什么吩咐？明天是否动身？”萨韦利伊奇问。
“没有什么了，我要推迟一点。我到时候再告诉你。你原谅我给你添麻烦了，”皮埃尔说，他望着萨韦利伊奇的笑脸，想道：“可是多么奇怪，他竟然还不知道，现在谈不上什么彼得堡，他还不知道，当务之急是对那件事做出决断。或许，他确已知道，而只是佯装做不知道罢了。要跟他说一下吗？他是怎样想的呢？”皮埃尔想。“算了，以后再说吧。”
吃早饭的时候，皮埃尔告诉公爵小姐，他昨天在玛丽亚公爵小姐那儿遇见了——你猜猜看——谁？遇见了娜塔莎·罗斯托娃！
公爵小姐听后的神情显露出，她看不出来这个消息比皮埃尔见到安娜·谢苗诺夫娜时有什么特别的地方。
“您认识她吗？”皮埃尔问。
“我见到公爵小姐了，”她回答道，“我听说过，有人给她和小罗斯托夫做媒呢。这对罗斯托夫家可是一件大好事，听说，他们完全破产了。”
“不，您认识罗斯托娃吗？”
“我那时只是听到了这件事，真可惜。”
“对的，她现在还不明白，或者是佯装不知道，”皮埃尔这样想，“最好也不告诉她。”
公爵小姐同样也为皮埃尔准备了路上用的食品。
“他们全都那么厚道，”皮埃尔想，“对于他们来说，这些事情大概不会有多大的兴趣，然而他们却都做了，大家都是为了我；真令人吃惊。”
这一天，警察局长也来见皮埃尔，请他派人到多棱宫去领回今天就要发还给原主的东西。
“这个人也是这样，”皮埃尔望着警察局长的脸想道。“多么可爱、多么漂亮的军官，多么善良！现今还管这种小事情。还有人说他不廉洁，贪图享受。真是一派胡言！可是，他为什么不贪图享受？他就是那样教育出来的。所有的人都是那样干的。他在看我时，微笑着，显得那么善良，那么令人愉快。”
皮埃尔去玛丽亚公爵小姐家吃午饭。
他乘车驰过大街，街道两旁是被大火焚毁的房屋，这些废墟的美令他十分惊奇。房屋的烟囱、断壁残垣，在被大火焚烧过的市区内延伸着，相互遮掩着，此情此景，简直是莱茵河和罗马大剧场的遗迹活生生地再现于眼前。他所遇见的马车夫们、乘客们、做木框架的木匠们、女商贩和店老板们，所有这些人，都表现得很欢快，容光焕发，他们都瞧着皮埃尔，仿佛在说：“瞧，这就是他呀！那就让我们看看会有什么结果吧。”
在走进玛丽亚公爵小姐家的时候，皮埃尔甚至对自己产生了怀疑，他怀疑自己在昨天是不是真的到这里来过；他怀疑自己是不是见到过娜塔莎，并且和她谈过话。“或许是自己的虚幻的梦觉吧，有可能我进屋去之后什么人都见不到。”但是，当他还没有来得及走进房间的时候，在一瞬间失去了自主，他全副身心都感觉到，她在那里。她是在那里，她仍然着一身带软褶的黑色布拉吉，她和昨天梳着完全相同的发型，然而，她完全变成了另外一个人。假如他在昨天进来时，她就是现在这个样子，那他绝不可能在任何一瞬间能够不把她认出来。
她差不多仍旧是她在孩提时和在后来成为安德烈公爵的未婚妻时地所记得的那个样子。她的眼睛里总是忽闪着一种欢快的、探询的目光；她的脸上总是显露出温柔的和一种奇特而又顽皮的神情。
皮埃尔吃过午饭之后，原打算要坐上一个晚上的；但是玛丽亚公爵小姐要去做晚祷，皮埃尔就跟她们一道去了。
第二天皮埃尔很早就来了。吃罢午饭过后，度过了整个晚上。虽然玛丽亚公爵小姐和娜塔莎对她们的客人很明显是欢迎的；虽然皮埃尔的全部生活的情趣现在都集中在这个家庭里，但是，临近黄昏时，他们已经把所有要谈的话都交谈过了，他们谈论的话题不断地从一件琐屑的事情跳到另一件琐屑的事情上，而且谈话也常常中断。这天晚上皮埃尔一直坐到很晚，以致于玛丽亚公爵小姐和娜塔莎不时地你看看我，我看看你，很明显，她们期待着皮埃尔是不是能够早点离开。皮埃尔已经看出了这一点，但是他不能离开。他的心情感到沉重、局促不安，依旧一动也不动地坐在那里，因为他不能站起来，不能离开。
玛丽亚公爵小姐不知道这种状况还要持续多久，她第一个站起来，声明自己头痛，起身告辞了。
“那么，你明天动身去彼得堡？”她说。
“不了，我不去了，”皮埃尔以惊奇的神情，好像抱屈似的急急忙忙地声明。“不去了，去得堡？明天；我还不打算辞行，我还要来看一下有没有什么事需要我去办的，”他站在玛丽亚公爵小姐面前说，他的脸涨得通红，却并不离开。
娜塔莎把手伸给他，然后走出了房间。玛丽亚公爵小姐却相反，她非但不离开，反而坐进圈椅里，她那忽闪忽闪的、深沉的目光严肃地、凝神地注视着皮埃尔。很明显，她在此之前曾明显表露出来的困倦。现在已经完全一扫而空了。她深深地长叹一声，似乎准备和他作一次长谈。
娜塔莎一离开房间，皮埃尔的惊慌不定和尴尬表情立刻完全消失了，而代之以一种急切的、兴奋的心情。他连忙把一张扶手椅移到玛丽亚公爵小姐身边。
“是的，我想对您说，”他好像是对她的话作出的回答，又好像是对她的眼神作出的回答，他说，“公爵小姐，帮帮我的忙吧，我应当怎么办呢？我还能有希望吗？公爵小姐，我的朋友，您听我说呀。我全都明白了。我知道自己配不上她；我知道，现在还不能谈到这个问题。但是，我要做她的兄长。不是，我所指的不是这个……我不想，不可能……”
他顿了一顿，用双手揉了揉眼睛，搓了一下脸。
“可真是啊，是这样的，”他继续说道，很明显，他在尽力控制住自己，尽可能地把话说得有条有理。“我自己一点也不知道，我是什么时候爱上了她的。然而，我只爱她一个人，我这一生也只爱她一个人，没有她，就很难设想我将怎样活下去。在目前，我还没有决定向她求婚，但是，一想到或许有一天她可能成为我的妻子，而我一旦失去了这个机会……机会，是多么可怕。请告诉我，我能有希望吗？请告诉我，我要怎么办才好，亲爱的公爵小姐。”他说，经过短暂的沉默之后，因为她没有作出回答，他就碰了一下她的手。
“我正在考虑您对我说过的话呢，”玛丽亚公爵小姐回答道。“我要对您说的是这样的，您是对的，您现在就向她表示爱情……”公爵小姐停住嘴。她想说，现在向她表示爱情是不可能的，但是，她没有把这话说出口，因为最近三天来她看出娜塔莎突然变了，假如皮埃尔现在向她倾吐爱慕之情，娜塔莎不但不会感到遭受屈辱，而且她正希望这样呢。
“现在向她表示……不行。”玛丽亚公爵小姐终于说。
“那我到底应该怎么办呢？”
“您就把这件事交给我吧，”玛丽亚公爵小姐说，“我知道……”
皮埃尔直盯盯地望着玛丽亚公爵小姐的眼睛。
“好吧，好吧……”他说。
“我知道她爱……她会爱您的。”玛丽亚公爵小姐纠正了自己的话。
她的这些话还没有说完，皮埃尔就跳了起来，惊惶不定地抓住玛丽亚公爵小姐的手。
“您为什么这样想？您认为我有希望吗？您认为？！
……”
“是的，我认为是这样，”玛丽亚公爵小姐说，“您给她的父母亲写封信。您就交给我吧。我将在适当的时候告诉她。我祝愿这件事能圆满成功，我的内心已经感觉到，这件事一定能成功。”
“不，这件事不可能成功！我多幸福啊！但是，这件事不可能成功……我多幸福啊！不，不可能成功！”皮埃尔吻着玛丽亚公爵小姐的手，说道。
“您到彼得堡去吧；这样更好些。我给您写信。”她说。
“去彼得堡？去那里？很好，我一定去。那我明天还可能再来吗？”
第二天，皮埃尔来辞行。娜塔莎不像前几天那样活泼；但是，在这一天，皮埃尔有时看一下娜塔莎的眼睛，他觉得，他自己正在融化，无论是他，或者是她，都不再存在了，只有一种幸福的感觉。“难道这是真的吗？不，这不可能。”他自言自语道，她的每一个眼神，每一个姿势，每一句话，都使他的心充满了欢乐的激情。
当他向她告别的时候，他握住她那瘦瘦的、纤细的手，他不由自主地把她的手久久地握在自己手中。
“难道这手、这脸，这双眼睛，所有这与自己不相同的所有女性美的珍宝，这一切都将永远属于我，就像是我对我自己的一切那样习以为常？不，这不可能！……”
“再见，伯爵，”她大声对他说，“我一定等待着您。”她又低声补了一句。
就是这样一句普通的话，以及在说这句话时的那种眼神和脸上的表情，都成了皮埃尔在以后的两个月里无穷无尽的回忆、释念和对幸福的向往。“我一定等待着您……是的，是的，她怎么说来着？是的，我一定等待着您。啊，我是多么幸福啊！这是怎么搞的，我多幸福！”皮埃尔自言自语道。
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