War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [566]
“By God, it’s Bezukhov, in a kaftan, with some sort of little old boy! By God,” Natasha said, “look, look!”
“No, it’s not him. How can you talk such nonsense.”
“Mama,” Natasha shouted, “it’s him, I’ll bet you anything! I assure you. Wait, wait!” she shouted to the driver; but the driver could not stop, because more carts and carriages were driving out of Meshchanskaya Street, and they were shouting at the Rostovs to move on and not hold up others.
Indeed, though now much further away than before, all the Rostovs saw Pierre, or a man extraordinarily like Pierre, in a coachman’s kaftan, walking down the street with a bowed head and a serious face, beside a little beardless old man who looked like a footman. The little old man noticed a face thrust out at him from the carriage and, respectfully touching Pierre’s elbow, said something to him, pointing at the carriage. For a long time Pierre could not understand what he was saying, so immersed he obviously was in his thoughts. When he finally understood him, he looked in the direction he was pointing in and, recognizing Natasha, yielded to his first impression that same second and quickly made for the carriage. But, having gone some ten steps, he evidently remembered something and stopped.
Natasha’s face, thrust out of the carriage window, beamed with mocking tenderness.
“Pyotr Kirilych! Come here! We recognized you! It’s astonishing!” she shouted, giving him her hand. “How can it be? Why are you like this?”
Pierre took the hand held out to him and clumsily, in motion (since the carriage went on moving), kissed it.
“What’s the matter with you, Count?” the countess asked in an astonished and commiserating voice.
“What? What? Why? Don’t ask me,” said Pierre, and he glanced at Natasha, whose radiant, joyful gaze (he felt it without glancing at her) poured its loveliness upon him.
“But you’re not staying in Moscow, are you?”
Pierre was silent for a moment.
“In Moscow?” he said questioningly. “Yes, in Moscow. Good-bye.”
“Ah, I wish I were a man, I’d certainly stay with you. Ah, that’s so good!” said Natasha. “Mama, please let me stay.” Pierre looked distractedly at Natasha and was about to say something, but the countess interrupted him.
“You were in the battle, we’ve heard?”
“Yes, I was,” answered Pierre. “Tomorrow there will also be a battle…” he began, but Natasha interrupted him.
“But what’s the matter with you, Count? You don’t look yourself…”
“Ah, don’t ask me, don’t ask me, I know nothing myself. Tomorrow…But no! Good-bye, good-bye,” he said, “terrible times!” And, dropping behind the carriage, he went back to the sidewalk.
Natasha leaned out of the window for a long time, beaming at him with her tender and slightly mocking, joyful smile.
XVIII
Pierre, since disappearing from his house, had been living for two days in the empty apartment of the late Bazdeev. Here is how it happened.
On waking up the day after his return to Moscow and his meeting with Count Rastopchin, Pierre could not understand for a long time where he was and what was wanted of him. When, among the names of other persons waiting for him in the waiting room, he was told there was also a Frenchman who had brought a letter from Countess Elena Vassilievna, he was suddenly overcome by that feeling of confusion and hopelessness he was apt to succumb to. He suddenly imagined that everything was over now, everything was mixed up, everything was destroyed, that no one was right or wrong, that there would be nothing in the future, and there was no way out of this situation. Smiling unnaturally and muttering something, he sat on the sofa in a helpless pose, then got up, went to the door, peeked through the crack into the waiting room, then, waving his hands, went back and picked