THERE was nothing in Pierre's soul now like what had passed within him in similar circumstances during the time of his being betrothed to Ellen.

He did not go over, as he had then, with a sickening sense of shame the words he had uttered; he did not say to himself: “Oh, why did I not say that, and why, oh why, did I say then: I love you.” Now, on the contrary, every word of hers and of his own, he went over in his imagination with every detail of look and smile, and wanted to add nothing, to take nothing away, he longed only to hear it over again. As for doubts— whether what he contemplated doing was right or wrong—there was never a trace of them now. Only one terrible doubt sometimes assailed his mind. Was it not all a dream? Was not Princess Marya mistaken? Am I not too conceited and self-confident? I believe in it; but all at once— and it's what is sure to happen—Princess Marya tells her; and she smiles and answers: “How queer! He has certainly made a mistake. Doesn't he know that he is a man, a mere man, while I? … I am something altogether different, higher.”

This doubt alone often beset Pierre. He made no plans of any sort now. The happiness before him seemed to him so incredible that the only thing that mattered was to bring it to pass, and nothing could be beyond. Everything else was over.

A joyful, unexpected frenzy, of which Pierre had believed himself incapable, seized upon him. The whole meaning of life, not for him only, but for all the world, seemed to him centred in his love and the possibility of her loving him. Sometimes all men seemed to him to be absorbed in nothing else than his future happiness. It seemed to him sometimes that they were all rejoicing as he was himself, and were only trying to conceal that joy, by pretending to be occupied with other interests. In every word and gesture he saw an allusion to his happiness. He often surprised people by his significant and blissful looks and smiles, that seemed to express some secret understanding with them. But when he realised that people could not know of his happiness, he pitied them from the bottom of his heart, and felt an impulse to try to make them somehow understand that all that they were interested in was utter nonsense and trifles not deserving of attention.

When suggestions were made to him that he should take office under government, or when criticisms of any sort on general, political questions, or on the war, were made before him, on the supposition that one course of events or another would affect the happiness of all men, he listened with a gentle smile of commiseration, and astounded the persons conversing with him by his strange observations. But both those persons, who seemed to Pierre to grasp the true significance of life, that is, his feeling, and those luckless wretches who obviously had no notion of it—all at this period appeared to Pierre in the radiant light of his own glowing feeling; so that on meeting any one, he saw in him without the slightest effort everything that was good and deserving of love.

As he looked through his dead wife's papers and belongings, he had no feeling towards her memory but one of pity that she had not known the happiness he knew now. Prince Vassily, who was particularly haughty just then, having received a new post and a star, struck him as a pathetic and kind-hearted old man, very much to be pitied.

Often afterwards Pierre recalled that time of happy insanity. All the judgments he formed of men and circumstances during that period remained for ever true to him. Far from renouncing later on those views of men and things, on the contrary, in inner doubts and contradictions, he flew back to the view he had had during that time of madness; and that view always turned out to be a true one.

“Perhaps,” he thought, “I did seem strange and absurd then; but I was not so mad then as I seemed. On the contrary, I was cleverer and had more insight then than at any time, and I understood everything worth understanding in life, because … I was happy.”

Pierre's madness showed itself in his not waiting, as in old days, for those personal grounds, which he had called good qualities in people, in order to love them; but as love was brimming over in his heart he loved men without cause, and so never failed to discover incontestable reasons that made them worth loving.

皮埃尔现在的心情，与他在向海伦求婚时的处境虽然相似，但心情却完全不同。

他从来不愿意重复他当时带着一种病态的羞愧心情对海伦说出的那些话，他不会对自己说：“哎呀，我为什么不说这一点，为什么，为什么我当时说‘Jevousaime'①？”相反，他现在重复着她说过的每一句话和他说过的每一句话，既不添加一个字，也不减少一个字，在他头脑中像过电影似的，详细地回顾了她的表情和她的微笑，他现在所想的只是不停地重复。他对自己所做的事情是好还是坏，连一丝一毫怀疑的影子也不存在了。只有一团可怕的疑云不时在头脑中掠过。所有这一切莫非是在做梦吧？玛丽亚公爵小姐没有弄错了吧？我是不是太自负，或者是太自信了呢？我有信心；可是突然之间说不定会发生这种事：玛丽亚公爵小姐告诉了她，她一定会微微一笑，回答她说：“真是太奇怪了！他多半是弄错了。难道他不知道他自己是一个什么样的人，是一个普普通通的人嘛！可是我呢？……我则完全不同，我是另一种人，高尚的人。”

①法语：我爱您。

只有这团疑云常常在他的脑海中掠过，他现在也还没有制定任何计划。他似乎觉得眼前的这个幸福是那么不可思议，然而，他只要能够得到它，往后就不再会有什么事了，一切都圆满告终了。

一种令人喜悦的、意外的疯狂支配着皮埃尔，而这种喜悦和疯狂是他从前不认为自己也会有的。人生的全部意义，不仅对于他一个人，而是对整个世界来说，他觉得只在于他的爱情，只在于她能不能爱他，有时候，他觉得所有的人所忙的就只有一件事——就是为他们的未来的幸福而奔忙。有时候，他又觉得，所有的人都同他一样高兴，只不过他们尽力掩饰这种高兴，假装他们的兴趣在其他方面罢了。他把人们的一言一行都看作是对他的幸福所作的暗示。他经常以他那意味深长的自己感到幸福的目光和微笑（似乎他们之间已有默契），使遇见他的人感到吃惊。但是，当他明白了人家可能尚不知道他的幸福的时候，他就十分可怜他们，并且想对他们加以解释，他们所忙碌的一切都只不过是一种不值得注意的无足轻重的一些小事罢了。

当人们建议他出来做点事，或者当人们讨论某种公共的、国家的事情和战争时；人们认为某件事这样或那样的结局将决定大家的幸福的时候，他总是以一种温和的、同情的微笑聆听着，并且发表一些奇谈怪论，使同他说话的人感到惊奇。皮埃尔觉得，那些懂得生命的真正意义的人，也就是懂得他的感情的人，以及那些显然不懂得这一点的人，——在这一时期里，所有的人，他觉得都被他的光辉感情照得通体透亮，不管遇见什么人，他立刻毫不费力地从他们身上看出一切好的值得爱的东西来。

他在处理亡妻的事务和一些文件的时候，除了惋惜她已经永远不可能知道他现在所知道的幸福之外，对亡妻竟然没有丝毫怀念之情。瓦西里公爵现在由于已经谋得一个新官职和获得了几枚勋章，特别骄傲，而在皮埃尔的心目中，他只不过是一个令人感动的、善良的、可怜的老头子。

皮埃尔在后来经常回忆在这一段时间里幸福的狂热。他认为，在这一段时间里所形成的对人们和对环境的一切见解，永远都是正确的。他后来不仅不放弃这些对人和对事物的观点，而且恰恰相反，每当在他的内心产生某种怀疑和产生矛盾的时候，他总是要求助于在那段狂热时期所形成的看法，而这个观点永远都被证明是正确的。

“可能，”他想，“我在当时的确显得有点稀奇和古怪；然而，当时我并不像从表面上看到的那样狂热。正相反，我在当时却比任何时候都更聪明，更能够看清楚一切事情，只要是在生活中值得了解的一切，全都了解了，因为……当时我是幸福的。”

皮埃尔的狂热就在于，他不像以往那样，一定要在他所爱的人身上发现被他称之为人所应当具有的优秀品质的时候，才爱他们，而现在他的内心充满了爱，他在无缘无故地爱人们的时候，他总能找到值得他爱他们的无可争辩的理由。