Pierre flushed and hesitated. “Then a patrol came up and all who were not pillaging, all the men, that is, they took prisoner. And me with them.”
“I am sure you are not telling us all; I am sure you did something,” said Natasha, and after a moment’s pause, “something good.”
Pierre went on with his story. When he came to the execution, he would have passed over the horrible details of it, but Natasha insisted on his leaving nothing out.
Pierre was beginning to tell them about Karataev; he had risen from the table and was walking up and down, Natasha following him with her eyes.
“No,” he said, stopping short in his story, “you cannot understand what I learned from that illiterate man—that ****** creature.”
“No, no, tell us,” said Natasha. “Where is he now？”
“He was killed almost before my eyes.”
And Pierre began to describe the latter part of their retreat, Karataev’s illness （his voice shook continually） and then his death.
Pierre told the tale of his adventures as he had never thought of them before. He saw now as it were a new significance in all he had been through. He experienced now in telling it all to Natasha that rare happiness given to men by women when they listen to them—not by clever women, who, as they listen, are either trying to remember what they are told to enrich their intellect and on occasion to repeat it, or to adapt what is told them to their own ideas and to bring out in haste the clever comments elaborated in their little mental factory. This rare happiness is given only by those real women, gifted with a faculty for picking out and assimilating all that is best in what a man shows them. Natasha, though herself unconscious of it, was all rapt attention; she did not lost one word, one quaver of the voice, one glance, one twitching in the facial muscles, one gesture of Pierre’s. She caught the word before it was uttered and bore it straight to her open heart, divining the secret import of all Pierre’s spiritual travail.
Princess Marya understood his story and sympathised with him, but she was seeing now something else that absorbed all her attention. She saw the possibility of love and happiness between Natasha and Pierre. And this idea, which struck her now for the first time, filled her heart with gladness.
It was three o’clock in the night. The footmen, with melancholy and severe faces, came in with fresh candles, but no one noticed them.
Pierre finished his story. With shining, eager eyes Natasha still gazed intently and persistently at him, as though she longed to understand something more, that perhaps he had left unsaid. In shamefaced and happy confusion, Pierre glanced at her now and then, and was thinking what to say now to change the subject. Princess Marya was mute. It did not strike any of them that it was three o’clock in the night, and time to be in bed.
“They say： sufferings are misfortunes,” said Pierre. “But if at once, this minute, I was asked, would I remain what I was before I was taken prisoner, or go through it all again, I should say, for God’s sake let me rather be a prisoner and eat horseflesh again. We imagine that as soon as we are torn out of our habitual path all is over, but it is only the beginning of something new and good. As long as there is life, there is happiness. There is a great deal, a great deal before us. That I say to you,” he said, turning to Natasha.
“Yes, yes,” she said, answering something altogether different, “and I too would ask for nothing better than to go through it all again.”
Pierre looked intently at her.
“Yes, and nothing more,” Natasha declared.
“Not true, not true,” cried Pierre. “I am not to blame for being alive and wanting to live; and you the same.”
All at once Natasha let her head drop into her hands, and burst into tears.
“What is it, Natasha？” said Princess Marya.
“Nothing, nothing.” She smiled through her tears to Pierre. “Good-night, it’s bedtime.”
Pierre got up, and took leave.
Natasha, as she always did, went with Princess Marya into her bedroom. They talked of what Pierre had told them. Princess Marya did not give her opinion of Pierre. Natasha, too, did not talk of him.
“Well, good-night, Marie,” said Natasha. “Do you know I am often afraid that we don’t talk of him” （she meant Prince Andrey）, “as though we were afraid of desecrating our feelings, and so we forget him.”
Princess Marya sighed heavily, and by this sigh acknowledged the justice of Natasha’s words; but she did not in words agree with her.
“Is it possible to forget？” she said.
“I was so glad to tell all about it to-day; it was hard and painful, and yet I was glad to … very glad,” said Natasha; “I am sure that he really loved him. That was why I told him … it didn’t matter my telling him？” she asked suddenly, blushing.
“Pierre？ Oh, no！ How good he is,” said Princess Marya.
“Do you know, Marie,” said Natasha, suddenly, with a mischievous smile, such as Princess Marya had not seen for a long while on her face. “He has become so clean and smooth and fresh; as though he had just come out of a bath; do you understand？ Out of a moral bath. Isn’t it so？”
“Yes,” said Princess Marya. “He has gained a great deal.”
“And his short jacket, and his cropped hair; exactly as though he had just come out of a bath … papa used sometimes …”
“I can understand how he” （Prince Andrey） “cared for no one else as he did for him,” said Princess Marya.
“Yes, and he is so different from him. They say men are better friends when they are utterly different. That must be true; he is not a bit like him in anything, is he？”
“Yes, and he is such a splendid fellow.”
“Well, good-night,” answered Natasha. And the same mischievous smile lingered a long while as though forgotten on her face.
