War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [309]
That evening there was a reception at Countess Elena Vassilievna’s, there was the French ambassador, there was a prince who had lately become a frequent visitor to the countess’s house, and there were many brilliant ladies and gentlemen. Pierre came downstairs, strolled through the rooms, and struck all the guests by his concentratedly distracted and gloomy look.
Since the time of the ball, Pierre had been feeling in himself the approach of an attack of hypochondria and had been making desperate efforts to fight it off. Since the time of his wife’s closeness to the prince, Pierre had been unexpectedly granted the rank of gentleman of the chamber, and since that time he had begun to feel the burden and shame of grand society, and his former gloomy thoughts about the vanity of all human things had begun to visit him more often. At the same time, the feeling he had noticed between his protégée Natasha and Prince Andrei, his contrasting of his own position with that of his friend, intensified this gloomy mood still more. He tried equally to avoid thoughts of his wife and of Natasha and Prince Andrei. Again everything seemed insignificant to him compared with eternity, again the question “What for?” presented itself. And he made himself work day and night over Masonic writings, hoping to ward off the approaching evil spirit. Towards midnight, having left the countess’s rooms, Pierre was sitting at his desk upstairs in the low-ceilinged, smoke-filled study, wearing a shabby dressing gown, copying the original Scottish charters, when someone came into his room. It was Prince Andrei.
“Ah, it’s you,” said Pierre, with a distracted and displeased air. “And here I am working,” he said, pointing to his notebook with that look of escaping from life’s adversities with which unhappy people look at their work.
Prince Andrei, with a radiant, rapturous face, renewed towards life, stopped before Pierre and, not noticing his sad face, smiled at him with the egoism of happiness.
“Well, dear heart,” he said, “I wanted to tell you yesterday, and I’ve come to tell you today. I’ve never experienced anything like it. I’m in love, my friend.”
Pierre suddenly sighed deeply, and dropped his heavy body onto the sofa beside Prince Andrei.
“With Natasha Rostov, is it?” he said.
“Yes, yes, who else? I’d never have believed it, but this feeling is stronger than I am. Yesterday I was tormented, I suffered, but I wouldn’t trade that torment for anything in the world. I’ve never lived before. Only now am I alive, but I can’t live without her. But can she love me?…I’m too old for her…Why don’t you speak?…”
“I? I? What was I telling you?” Pierre said suddenly, getting up and beginning to pace the room. “I’ve always thought so…This girl is such a treasure, such a…She’s a rare girl…My dear friend, I beg you, don’t be clever, don’t doubt, marry, marry, marry…And I’m sure there’ll be no man happier than you.”
“But she?”
“She loves you.”
“Don’t talk nonsense…” said Prince Andrei, smiling and looking into Pierre’s eyes.
“She loves you, I know it,” Pierre shouted angrily.
“No, listen,” said Prince Andrei, stopping him by the arm. “Can you know what state I’m in? I must tell it all to somebody.”
“Well, well, talk, I’m very glad,” said Pierre, and indeed his face changed, the furrow smoothed out, and he listened joyfully to Prince Andrei. Prince Andrei seemed and was quite a different, new man. Where was his anguish, his contempt for life, his disillusionment? Pierre was the only man before whom he would venture to speak himself out; but then he spoke everything that was in his heart. First he lightly and boldly made plans far into the future, saying how he could not sacrifice his happiness to his father’s whim, how he would make his father agree to this marriage and love her, or else he would do without his consent; then he was astonished, as at something strange, alien, independent of him, at the feeling that possessed him.
“I wouldn’t have believed it if someone