And not letting them interrupt her she went on to tell what she had never yet mentioned to anyone—all she had lived through during those three weeks of their journey and life at Yaroslávl.
Pierre listened to her with lips parted and eyes fixed upon her full of tears. As he listened he did not think of Prince Andréy, nor of death, nor of what she was telling. He listened to her and felt only pity for her, for what she was suffering now while she was speaking.
Princess Márya, frowning in her effort to hold back her tears, sat beside Natásha, and heard for the first time the story of those last days of her brother’s and Natásha’s love.
Evidently Natásha needed to tell that painful yet joyful tale.
She spoke, mingling most trifling details with the intimate secrets of her soul, and it seemed as if she could never finish. Several times she repeated the same thing twice.
Dessalles’ voice was heard outside the door asking whether Nikolúshka might come in to say good night.
“Well, that’s all—everything,” said Natásha.
She got up quickly just as Nikolúshka entered, almost ran to the door which was hidden by curtains, struck her head against it, and rushed from the room with a moan either of pain or sorrow.
Pierre gazed at the door through which she had disappeared and did not understand why he suddenly felt all alone in the world.
Princess Márya roused him from his abstraction by drawing his attention to her nephew who had entered the room.
At that moment of emotional tenderness Nikolúshka’s face, which resembled his father’s, affected Pierre so much that when he had kissed the boy he got up quickly, took out his handkerchief, and went to the window. He wished to take leave of Princess Márya, but she would not let him go.
“No, Natásha and I sometimes don’t go to sleep till after two, so please don’t go. I will order supper. Go downstairs, we will come immediately.”
Before Pierre left the room Princess Márya told him: “This is the first time she has talked of him like that.”
XVII
Pierre was shown into the large, brightly lit dining room; a few minutes later he heard footsteps and Princess Márya entered with Natásha. Natásha was calm, though a severe and grave expression had again settled on her face. They all three of them now experienced that feeling of awkwardness which usually follows after a serious and heartfelt talk. It is impossible to go back to the same conversation, to talk of trifles is awkward, and yet the desire to speak is there and silence seems like affectation. They went silently to table. The footmen drew back the chairs and pushed them up again. Pierre unfolded his cold table napkin and, resolving to break the silence, looked at Natásha and at Princess Márya. They had evidently both formed the same resolution; the eyes of both shone with satisfaction and a confession that besides sorrow life also has joy.
“Do you take vodka, Count?” asked Princess Márya, and those words suddenly banished the shadows of the past. “Now tell us about yourself,” said she. “One hears such improbable wonders about you.”
“Yes,” replied Pierre with the smile of mild irony now habitual to him. “They even tell me wonders I myself never dreamed of! Márya Abrámovna invited me to her house and kept telling me what had happened, or ought to have happened, to me. Stepán Stepánych also instructed me how I ought to tell of my experiences. In general I have noticed that it is very easy to be an interesting man (I am an interesting man now); people invite me out and tell me all about myself.”
Natásha smiled and was on the point of speaking.
“We have been told,” Princess Márya interrupted her, “that you lost two millions in Moscow. Is that true?”
“But I am three times as rich as before,” returned Pierre.
Though the position was now altered by his decision to pay his wife’s debts and to rebuild his houses, Pierre still maintained that he had become three times as rich as before.
“What I have certainly gained is freedom,” he began seriously, but did not continue, noticing that this theme was too egotistic.
“And are you building?”
“Yes. Savélich says I must!”
“Tell me, you did not know of the countess’ death when you decided to remain in Moscow?” asked Princess Márya and immediately blushed, noticing that her question, following his mention of freedom, ascribed to his words a meaning he had perhaps not intended.
“No,” answered Pierre, evidently not considering awkward the meaning Princess Márya had given to his words. “I heard of it in Orël and you cannot imagine how it shocked me. We were not an exemplary couple,” he added quickly, glancing at Natásha and noticing on her face curiosity as to how he would speak of his wife, “but her death shocked me terribly. When two people quarrel they are always both in fault, and one’s own guilt suddenly becomes terribly serious when the other is no longer alive. And then such a death … without friends and without consolation! I am very, very sorry for her,” he concluded, and was pleased to notice a look of glad approval on Natásha’s face.
“Yes, and so you are once more an eligible bachelor,” said Princess Márya.
Pierre suddenly flushed crimson and for a long time tried not to look at Natásha. When he ventured to glance her way again her face was cold, stern, and he fancied even contemptuous.
“And did you really see and speak to Napoleon, as we have been told?” said Princess Márya.
Pierre laughed.
“No, not once! Everybody seems to imagine that being taken prisoner means being Napoleon’s guest. Not only did I never see him but I heard nothing about him—I was in much lower company!”
Supper was over, and Pierre who at first declined to speak about his captivity was gradually led on to do so.
“But it’s true that you remained in Moscow to kill Napoleon?”
