War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [391]
XXII
That same evening Pierre went to the Rostovs to carry out his errand. Natasha was in bed, the count was at the club, and Pierre, having delivered the letters to Sonya, went to see Marya Dmitrievna, who was interested to know how Prince Andrei had taken the news. Ten minutes later, Sonya came into Marya Dmitrievna’s room.
“Natasha absolutely wants to see Count Pyotr Kirillovich,” she said.
“But how? Are we to take him to her, or what? It’s not tidied up there,” said Marya Dmitrievna.
“No, she’s dressed and has come out to the drawing room,” said Sonya.
Marya Dmitrievna only shrugged her shoulders.
“When will the countess come, she’s got me completely worn out. You watch yourself, don’t tell her everything,” she turned to Pierre. “One doesn’t have the heart to scold her, she’s so pathetic, so pathetic!”
Natasha, wasted, with a pale and stern face (not at all shamefaced as Pierre expected her to be), was standing in the middle of the drawing room. When Pierre appeared in the doorway, she became flustered, obviously undecided whether to go to him or wait for him.
Pierre hastily went up to her. He thought that she would give him her hand, as always; but, coming close to him, she stopped, breathing heavily and lowering her arms lifelessly, in exactly the same pose in which she came out to the middle of the room to sing, but with quite a different expression.
“Pyotr Kirilyich,” she began, speaking quickly, “Prince Bolkonsky was your friend—is your friend,” she corrected herself (it seemed to her that everything only was and that now it was all different). “He told me then to turn to you…”
Pierre sniffed silently, looking at her. Up to then he had reproached her in his soul and had tried to despise her; but now he felt such pity for her that there was no room in his soul for reproach.
“He’s here now, tell him…to for…forgive me.” She stopped and began to breathe still more rapidly, but she did not cry.
“Yes…I’ll tell him,” said Pierre, “but…” He did not know what to say.
Natasha was evidently afraid of the thought that might have occurred to Pierre.
“No, I know it’s all over,” she said hastily. “No, it can never be. I’m only tormented by the wrong I’ve done him. Tell him only that I beg him to forgive me, to forgive me for everything…” Her whole body shook, and she sat down on a chair.
A feeling of pity such as he had never experienced before overflowed Pierre’s soul.
“I’ll tell him, I’ll tell him everything once more,” said Pierre, “but…I’d like to know one thing…”
“What?” asked Natasha’s gaze.
“I’d like to know whether you loved…” Pierre did not know what to call Anatole, and he blushed at the thought of him, “whether you loved that bad man?”
“Don’t call him bad,” said Natasha. “But I don’t know, I don’t know anything…” She began to cry again.
A still greater feeling of pity, tenderness, and love took hold of Pierre. He felt tears flowing behind his spectacles and hoped they would not be noticed.
“Let’s not talk anymore, my friend,” said Pierre.
It seemed so strange suddenly for Natasha to hear that meek, tender, heartfelt voice.
“Let’s not talk, my friend, I’ll tell him everything; but I ask one thing of you—consider me your friend, and if you need help, advice, or simply to pour out your soul to somebody—not now, but when your soul is clear—remember me.” He took her hand and kissed it. “I’ll be happy if I’m able to…” Pierre became confused.
“Don’t talk to me like that: I’m not worthy of it!” cried Natasha, and she was about to leave the room, but Pierre held her back by the hand. He knew he had something more to tell her. But when he said it, he was surprised at his words himself.
“Stop it, stop it, your whole life is ahead of you,” he said.
“Ahead of me? No! For me all is lost,” she said with shame and self-abasement.
“All is lost?” he repeated. “If I were not I, but the handsomest, brightest, and best man in the world, and I was free, I would go on my knees this minute and ask for your hand and your love.”
Natasha, for the first time in many days, wept tears of gratitude