《War And Peace》　Book8 　CHAPTER XXII
　　　　by Leo Tolstoy

THAT EVENING Pierre went to the Rostovs' to fulfil Prince Andrey's
commission. Natasha was in bed, the count was at the club, and Pierre, after
giving the letters to Sonya, went in to see Marya Dmitryevna, who was interested
to know how Prince Andrey had taken the news. Ten minutes later, Sonya came in
to Marya Dmitryevna.

"Natasha insists on seeing Count Pyotr Kirillitch," she said.

"Why, are we to take him up to her, eh? Why, you are all in a muddle there,"
said Marya Dmitryevna.

"No, she has dressed and gone into the drawing-room," said Sonya.

Marya Dmitryevna could only shrug her shoulders. "When will the countess
come? She has quite worn me out! You mind now, don't tell her everything," she
said to Pierre. "One hasn't the heart to scold her, she's so piteous, poor
thing."

Natasha was standing in the middle of the drawing-room, looking thinner, and
with a pale, set face (not at all overcome with shame, as Pierre had expected to
see her). When Pierre appeared in the doorway, she made a hurried movement,
evidently in uncertainty whether to go to meet him, or to wait for him to come
to her.

Pierre went hurriedly towards her. He thought she would give him her hand as
usual. But coming near him she stopped, breathing hard, and letting her hands
hang lifelessly, exactly in the same pose in which she used to stand in the
middle of the room to sing, but with an utterly different expression.

"Pyotr Kirillitch," she began, speaking quickly, "Prince Bolkonsky was your
friend-he is your friend," she corrected herself. (It seemed to her that
everything was in the past, and now all was changed.) "He told me to apply to
you ..."

Pierre choked dumbly as he looked at her. Till then he had in his heart
blamed her, and tried to despise her; but now he felt so sorry for her, that
there was no room in his heart for blame.

"He is here now, tell him ... to for ... to forgive me." She stopped short and
breathed even more quickly, but she did not weep.

"Yes ... I will tell him," said Pierre; "but ..." He did not know what to
say.

Natasha was evidently dismayed at the idea that might have occurred to
Pierre.

"No, I know that everything is over," she said hurriedly. "No, that can never
be. I'm only wretched at the wrong I have done him. Only tell him that I beg him
to forgive, to forgive, forgive me for everything ..." Her whole body was heaving;
she sat down on a chair.

A feeling of pity he had never known before flooded Pierre's heart.

"I will tell him, I will tell him everything once more," said Pierre; "but ...
I should like to know one thing..."

"To know what?" Natasha's eyes asked.

"I should like to know, did you love ..." Pierre did not know what to call
Anatole, and flushed at the thought of him-"did you love that bad man?"

"Don't call him bad," said Natasha. "But I don't ... know, I don't know ..." She
began crying again, and Pierre was more than ever overwhelmed with pity,
tenderness, and love. He felt the tears trickling under his spectacles, and
hoped they would not be noticed.

"We won't talk any more of it, my dear," he said. It seemed suddenly so
strange to Natasha to hear the gentle, tender, sympathetic voice in which he
spoke. "We won't talk of it, my dear, I'll tell him everything. But one thing I
beg you, look on me as your friend; and if you want help, advice, or simply want
to open your heart to some one-not now, but when things are clearer in your
heart-think of me." He took her hand and kissed it. "I shall be happy, if I am
able ..." Pierre was confused.

"Don't speak to me like that; I'm not worth it!" cried Natasha, and she would
have left the room, but Pierre held her hand. He knew there was something more
he must say to her. But when he said it, he was surprised at his own
words.

"Hush, hush, your whole life lies before you," he said to her.

"Before me! No! All is over for me," she said, with shame and
self-humiliation.

"All over?" he repeated. "If I were not myself, but the handsomest,
cleverest, best man in the world, and if I were free I would be on my knees this
minute to beg for your hand and your love."

For the first time for many days Natasha wept with tears of gratitude and
softened feeling, and glancing at Pierre, she went out of the room.

Pierre followed her, almost running into the vestibule, and restraining the
tears of tenderness and happiness that made a lump in his throat. He flung on
his fur coat, unable to find the armholes, and got into his sledge.

"Now where, your excellency?" asked the coachman.

"Where?" Pierre asked himself. "Where can I go now? Not to the club or to pay
calls." All men seemed to him so pitiful, so poor in comparison with the feeling
of tenderness and love in his heart, in comparison with that softened, grateful
glance she had turned upon him that last minute through her tears.

"Home," said Pierre, throwing open the bearskin coat over his broad, joyously
breathing chest in spite of ten degrees of frost.

It was clear and frosty. Over the dirty, half-dark streets, over the black
roofs was a dark, starlit sky. It was only looking at the sky that Pierre forgot
the mortifying meanness of all things earthly in comparison with the height his
soul had risen to. As he drove into Arbatsky Square, the immense expanse of
dark, starlit sky lay open before Pierre's eyes. Almost in the centre of it
above the Prechistensky Boulevard, surrounded on all sides by stars, but
distinguished from all by its nearness to the earth, its white light and long,
upturned tail, shone the huge, brilliant comet of 1812; the comet which
betokened, it was said, all manner of horrors and the end of the world. But in
Pierre's heart that bright comet, with its long, luminous tail, aroused no
feeling of dread. On the contrary, his eyes wet with tears, Pierre looked
joyously at this bright comet, which seemed as though after flying with
inconceivable swiftness through infinite space in a parabola, it had suddenly,
like an arrow piercing the earth, stuck fast at one chosen spot in the black
sky, and stayed there, vigorously tossing up its tail, shining and playing with
its white light among the countless other twinkling stars. It seemed to Pierre
that it was in full harmony with what was in his softened and emboldened heart,
that had gained vigour to blossom into a new life.