Epilogue 1 Chapter 11

TWO MONTHS PREVIOUSLY, Pierre was already settled at the Rostovs' when he received a letter from a certain Prince Fyodor, urging him to come to Petersburg for the discussion of various important questions that were agitating the Petersburg members of a society, of which Pierre had been one of the chief founders.

Natasha read this letter, as she did indeed all her husband's letters, and bitterly as she always felt his absence, she urged him herself to go to Petersburg. To everything appertaining to her husband's intellectual, abstract pursuits, she ascribed immense consequence, though she had no understanding of them, and she was always in dread of being a hindrance to her husband in such matters. To Pierre's timid glance of inquiry after reading the letter, she replied by begging him to go, and all she asked was that he would fix an absolutely certain date for his return. And leave of absence was given him for four weeks.

Ever since the day fixed for his return, a fortnight before, Natasha had been in a continual condition of alarm, depression, and irritability.

Denisov, a general on the retired list, very much dissatisfied at the present position of public affairs, had arrived during that fortnight, and he looked at Natasha with melancholy wonder, as at a bad likeness of a person once loved. A bored, dejected glance, random replies, and incessant talk of the nursery was all he saw and heard of his enchantress of old days.

All that fortnight Natasha had been melancholy and irritable, especially when her mother, her brother, Sonya, or Countess Marya tried to console her by excusing Pierre, and inventing good reasons for his delay in returning.

“It's all nonsense, all idiocy,” Natasha would say; “all his projects that never lead to anything, and all those fools of societies,” she would declare of the very matters in the immense importance of which she firmly believed. And she would march off to the nursery to nurse her only boy, the baby Petya.

No one could give her such sensible and soothing consolation as that little three months' old creature, when it lay at her breast, and she felt the movement of its lips and the snuffling of its nose. That little creature said to her: “You are angry, you are jealous, you would like to punish him, you are afraid, but here am I—I am he. Here, I am he …” And there was no answering that. It was more than true.

Natasha had so often during that fortnight had recourse to her baby for comfort, that she had over-nursed him, and he had fallen ill. She was terrified at his illness, but still this was just what she needed. In looking after him, she was able to bear her uneasiness about her husband better.

She was nursing the baby when Pierre's carriage drove noisily up to the entrance, and the nurse, knowing how to please her mistress, came inaudibly but quickly to the door with a beaming face.

“He has come?” asked Natasha in a rapid whisper, afraid to stir for fear of waking the baby, who was dropping asleep.

“He has come, ma'am,” whispered the nurse.

The blood rushed to Natasha's face, and her feet involuntarily moved, but to jump up and run was out of the question. The baby opened its little eyes again, glanced, as though to say, “You are here,” and gave another lazy smack with its lips.

Cautiously withdrawing her breast, Natasha dandled him, handed him to the nurse, and went with swift steps towards the door. But at the door she stopped as though her conscience pricked her for being in such haste and joy to leave the baby, and she looked back. The nurse, with her elbows raised, was lifting the baby over the rail of the cot.

“Yes, go along, go along, ma'am, don't worry, run along,” whispered the nurse, smiling with the familiarity that was common between nurse and mistress.

With light steps Natasha ran to the vestibule. Denisov, coming out of the study into the hall with a pipe in his mouth, seemed to see Natasha again for the first time. A vivid radiance of joy shed streams of light from her transfigured countenance.

“He has come!” she called to him, as she flew by, and Denisov felt that he was thrilled to hear that Pierre had come, though he did not particularly care for him. Running into the vestibule, Natasha saw a tall figure in a fur cloak fumbling at his scarf.

“He! he! It's true. Here he is,” she said to herself, and darting up to him, she hugged him, squeezing her head to his breast, and then drawing back, glanced at the frosty, red, and happy face of Pierre. “Yes, here he is; happy, satisfied …”

And all at once she remembered all the tortures of suspense she had passed through during the last fortnight. The joy beaming in her face vanished; she frowned, and a torrent of reproaches and angry words broke upon Pierre.

“Yes, you are all right, you have been happy, you have been enjoying yourself … But what about me! You might at least think of your children. I am nursing, my milk went wrong … Petya nearly died of it. And you have been enjoying yourself. Yes, enjoying yourself …”

Pierre knew he was not to blame, because he could not have come sooner. He knew this outburst on her part was unseemly, and would be all over in two minutes. Above all, he knew that he was himself happy and joyful. He would have liked to smile, but dared not even think of that. He made a piteous, dismayed face, and bowed before the storm.

“I could not, upon my word. But how is Petya?”

“He is all right now, come along. Aren't you ashamed? If you could see what I am like without you, how wretched I am …”

“Are you quite well?”

“Come along, come along,” she said, not letting go of his hand. And they went off to their rooms. When Nikolay and his wife came to look for Pierre, they found him in the nursery, with his baby son awake in his arms, and he was dandling him. There was a gleeful smile on the baby's broad face and open, toothless mouth. The storm had long blown over, and a bright, sunny radiance of joy flowed all over Natasha's face, as she gazed tenderly at her husband and son.

“And did you have a good talk over everything with Prince Fyodor?” Natasha was saying.

“Yes, capital.”

“You see, he holds his head up” (Natasha meant the baby). “Oh, what a fright he gave me. And did you see the princess? Is it true that she is in love with that …”

“Yes, can you fancy …”

At that moment Nikolay came in with his wife. Pierre, not letting go of his son, stooped down, kissed them, and answered their inquiries. But it was obvious that in spite of the many interesting things they had to discuss, the baby, with the wobbling head in the little cap, was absorbing Pierre's whole attention.

“How sweet he is!” said Countess Marya, looking at the baby and playing with him. “That's thing I can't understand, Nikolay,” she said, turning to her husband, “how it is you don't feel the charm of these exquisite little creatures?”

“Well, I don't, I can't,” said Nikolay, looking coldly at the baby. “Just a morsel of flesh. Come along, Pierre.”

“The great thing is, that he is really a devoted father,” said Countess Marya, apologising for her husband, “but only after a year or so …”

“Oh, Pierre is a capital nurse,” said Natasha; “he says his hand is just made for a baby's back. Just look.”

“Oh yes, but not for this,” Pierre cried laughing, and hurriedly snatching up the baby, he handed him back to his nurse.

两个月前皮埃尔已经在罗斯托夫家住下，他接到费奥多尔公爵的信，信中说彼得堡有个协会将讨论重要问题，要他去参加，因为皮埃尔是这个协会的主要创办人之一。

娜塔莎经常看丈夫的信件，她也看了这封信，尽管丈夫不在家会给她带来负担，她还是主动劝他去彼得堡。尽管她对丈夫所从事的抽象的脑力劳动一窍不通，但她还是很重视他的专业工作，唯恐对丈夫的工作有所妨碍。皮埃尔读完信，胆怯地用探询的目光看了娜塔莎一眼，娜塔莎同意他去，但要他把归期明确地定下来。皮埃尔获准四星期的假期。

两星期前，皮埃尔的假期就满了，在这两周里，娜塔莎一直处于心情烦躁，提心吊胆的状态，有时还有些忧郁不安。

杰尼索夫现在已是一位退役将军，对现状不满，正好这时来到他们家中。他看到目前的娜塔莎与当年曾一度心爱的人已大不一样，就像看到一幅不同的画，感到十分忧悒、惊讶和无限感慨，原来像天仙般可爱的她，现在向他投来的却是悲伤而无神的目光，谈起话来答非所问，还有无穷无尽的关于孩子的唠叨。

这段时间娜塔莎一直心情郁闷，烦躁不安，特别是母亲、哥哥或玛丽亚伯爵夫人宽慰她，为皮埃尔迟迟不归找借口，尽力替他辩解时，她心情更坏。

“都是胡说，都是废话，”娜塔莎说，“他的胡思乱想不会有什么结果，那些协会都愚蠢透顶，”现在她对那些自己原来认为很重要的事下了这样的断语。随后她就到育儿室去喂她自己的唯一的儿子佩佳去了。

她抱起出生刚满三个月的小东西感到他的小嘴在翕动，小鼻子在呼哧，她从他身上获得的东西超过了任何人的启示和安慰。这个小东西仿佛在说：“你生气了，你妒忌了，你要向他算帐，你又害怕了，可我就是他，我就是他……”她无言以对，因为他说的是实话。

在这烦躁不安的两星期里娜塔莎常常跑到孩子那里去寻求安慰，不断摆弄孩子，结果奶喂多了，把孩子也弄病了。孩子一病，她惊慌失措，但又希望孩子生病。因为孩子一病要照顾，就会减轻对丈夫的牵挂。

那天，娜塔莎正在给孩子喂奶，门口传来皮埃尔的雪橇声。保姆知道怎样来讨好女主人，就欢喜得容光焕发，悄悄地快步走进来。

“是他回来了吗？”娜塔莎连忙低声问，身子不敢动弹，唯恐吵醒刚睡着的孩子。

“回来了，太太。”保姆低声说。

血涌上娜塔莎的脸，她的脚不由自主地动起来，但她不能立刻跳起来跑出屋去。孩子又睁眼看了一下。“你在这儿，”

他仿佛这么说，随后又懒洋洋地咂起嘴来。

娜塔莎轻轻地抽出奶头，摇了摇孩子，又把他交给保姆，快步向门口走去。但她在门口站住，似乎由于太高兴而匆忙地放下孩子有点内疚。于是她又回头看了一眼，保姆正抬起臂肘，把婴儿放到小床上去。

“您去吧，去吧，太太，您放心好了。”保姆含笑低声说，主仆之间的关系显然很融洽。

娜塔莎轻快地跑进前厅。

杰尼索夫衔着烟斗从书斋来到大厅，这里他才第一次认出娜塔莎的本来面目。她又容光焕发，喜气洋洋。

“他回来了！”她一边跑，一边说。杰尼索夫并不怎么喜欢皮埃尔，但这时他也因皮埃尔的归来而感到高兴。娜塔莎一跑进前厅，就看见一个穿皮大衣的体格魁伟的人正在解下围巾。

“是他！是他！真的，就是他！”她自言自语，跑过去拥抱他，把他的头贴到自己的胸前，然后又把他推开，瞧了瞧他那结着霜花的红润快乐的脸。“对，是他，真使人高兴，真使人开心……”

突然，娜塔莎想起等待他两个星期的苦恼和委屈，脸上的喜色顿时烟消云散。她眉头一皱，就向皮埃尔发起火来。

“哼，你倒开心，玩得挺美……可我在家呢？！你也得想想孩子啊。我自己喂奶，可是我的奶坏了。佩佳差点没死掉。

是啊！你多开心，你多舒服！”。

皮埃尔觉得自己没有错，因为他不可能提前回来。他知道她这样发脾气是不对的，也知道过两分钟她就会消气，但主要是他心里觉得很高兴，很得意。他想笑，又不敢笑，就装出一副怯生生的可怜相，弯下腰来。

“我实在没办法早回来，真的！佩佳怎么样？”

“现在没什么了，我们走吧！你真不害臊！你该亲眼看看，你不在时我遭的那个折磨啊！

“你身体好吗？”

“走吧，走吧，”她说着，没有放开他的手。他们一起到卧室去了。

尼古拉夫妇来访皮埃尔时，皮埃尔正在育儿室用他那大手抱着刚睡醒的儿子逗着玩。孩子咧着嘴，没有长牙的宽脸上浮起愉快的微笑。一切暴风骤雨已经过去，娜塔莎深情地望着丈夫和儿子，脸上焕发出快乐明朗的光辉。

“你跟费奥多尔公爵都谈妥了吗？”娜塔莎问。

“是的，谈得好极了。”

“你看，我们的小儿子抬起头来了。他可把我吓坏了！”

“你看见公爵夫人没有？她可真的爱上他了？……”

“是啊，你可以想象到……”

这时，尼古拉和玛丽亚伯爵夫人进屋来。皮埃尔没有放下孩子，俯身吻了吻他们，回答了他们的问话。显然，虽然有许多有趣的事可谈，但皮埃尔却完全被那戴着睡帽、摇晃着脑袋的儿子吸引住了。

“多么可爱！”玛丽亚伯爵夫人望着孩子说，同时逗着他玩。“尼古拉，我真不明白，”她对丈夫说，“你怎么不懂得这些小宝贝有多可爱。”

“我不懂，我看不出来，”尼古拉说，冷冷地瞧着婴儿。

“一块肉罢了，走吧，皮埃尔。”

“其实，他还是个慈祥温存的父亲，”玛丽亚伯爵夫人替丈夫辩解说，“但要等孩子满一周岁……”

“皮埃尔可是很会带孩子，”娜塔莎说，“他说，他的手生来就是为了抱孩子的。你们瞧。”

“不，可偏偏不是为了抱孩子。”皮埃尔忽然笑着说，抱起孩子，把他交给保姆。