War And Peace

Pierre was describing his adventures as he had never done before, as he had never actually recalled them before. It was as if he could now see a new significance in everything he had been through. Now as he unburdened himself to Natasha he was experiencing that rare happiness provided for men by listening women – not clever women, who when they listen are either trying to memorize what they are hearing so as to broaden their minds and acquire things worth repeating, or to adapt the story to their own experience and come out with quick, clever comments nicely polished in their own little mental workshop – no, this happiness was of the kind that is provided only by real women, those with a talent for selecting and absorbing all the best things a man can show of himself. Without knowing it, Natasha was transfixed; she didn’t miss a single word, a catch in the voice, a glance, a single twitch of the facial muscles, any of Pierre’s gestures. She seized upon the word before it was out and took it straight to her open heart, divining the secret meanings of all Pierre’s spiritual travail.

Princess Marya listened with understanding and sympathy, but she was now seeing something new that captured all her attention. She saw the possibility of love and happiness between Natasha and Pierre. And as this idea struck her now for the first time her heart was filled with gladness.

It was three o’clock in the morning. Doleful footmen wandered in and out stiffly, replacing the candles, but nobody noticed them.

Pierre got to the end of his story. Natasha was still gazing at him closely and persistently with an excited gleam in her eyes, as if she was trying to get at something extra, something perhaps left unsaid. In sheepish but happy embarrassment, Pierre glanced at her now and then, wondering what he could say to change the subject. Princess Marya said nothing. It didn’t occur to any of them that it was three in the morning, and time to go to bed.

‘Everybody says that adversity means suffering,’ said Pierre. ‘But if you asked me now, at this moment, whether I wanted to stay as I was before I was taken prisoner, or go through it all again, my God, I’d sooner be a prisoner and eat horse-meat again. We all think we only have to be knocked a little bit off course and we’ve lost everything, but it’s only the start of something new and good. Where there is life, there is happiness. There is a huge amount yet to come. I’m saying that for your benefit,’ he said, turning to Natasha.

‘Yes, you’re right,’ she said, responding to a different idea. ‘Me too. I wouldn’t want to do anything but go through it all again from start to finish.’

Pierre watched her closely.

‘That, and nothing more,’ Natasha declared.

‘No, that’s not right,’ cried Pierre. ‘It’s not my fault I’m still alive and I want to live, and the same applies to you.’

All at once Natasha let her head drop into her hands and burst into tears.

‘What’s wrong, Natasha?’ said Princess Marya.

‘Nothing, nothing.’ She smiled at Pierre through her tears. ‘Goodnight. It’s bedtime.’

Pierre got up and took his leave.

As always, Natasha went with Princess Marya into her bedroom. They talked about what Pierre had told them. Princess Marya didn’t say what she thought about Pierre, and Natasha didn’t talk about him either.

‘Well, goodnight, Marie,’ said Natasha. ‘Do you know what? I’m afraid we often avoid talking about him,’ (Prince Andrey) ‘as if we were scared of causing offence, so we forget him.’

Princess Marya gave a deep sigh, thus acknowledging the truth of what Natasha had said, but she didn’t put her agreement into words.

‘How could we forget?’ she said.

‘I felt so good telling him all about it today. It was painful and difficult, but it felt right . . . It really did,’ said Natasha; ‘I’m sure he really loved him. That’s why I told him . . . It didn’t matter, did it?’ she asked suddenly, blushing.

‘What, talking to Pierre? Oh, no! He’s such a good man, isn’t he?’ said Princess Marya.

‘Marie, do you know something?’ said Natasha suddenly, with a mischievous smile on her face, the like of which Princess Marya hadn’t seen for a very long time. ‘He’s different, sort of clean and smooth and fresh. It’s as if he’s just come out of the bath-house. Do you know what I mean? A moral bath-house. Am I right?’

‘Yes, you are,’ said Princess Marya. ‘He’s gained a lot.’

‘That short jacket of his, and his short hair . . . It’s as if he’d just come out of a bath-house . . . Sometimes Papa used to . . .’

‘I can see why he’ (Prince Andrey) ‘loved him more than anybody else,’ said Princess Marya.

‘Yes, and he’s so different from him. They do say men make better friends when they are quite different from each other. It must be true. He’s not a bit like him, is he?’

‘No, but he’s a wonderful man.’

‘Oh well, goodnight,’ answered Natasha.

And the same smile of mischief lingered on her face as if it had been half-forgotten.

CHAPTER 18