She was just as he had known her almost as a child, and later when betrothed to Prince Andrey. A bright, questioning light gleamed in her eyes; there was a friendly and strangely mischievous expression in her face.
Pierre dined, and would have spent the whole evening with them; but Princess Marya was going to vespers, and Pierre went with them.
Next day Pierre arrived early, dined with them, and stayed the whole evening. Although Princess Marya and Natasha were obviously glad to see their visitor, and although the whole interest of Pierre’s life was now centred in that house, by the evening they had said all they had to say, and the conversation passed continually from one trivial subject to another and often broke off altogether. Pierre stayed so late that evening that Princess Marya and Natasha exchanged glances, plainly wondering whether he would not soon go. Pierre saw that, but he could not go away. He began to feel it irksome and awkward, but still he sat on because he could not get up and go.
Princess Marya, foreseeing no end to it, was the first to get up, and complaining of a sick headache, she began saying good-night.
“So you are going to-morrow to Petersburg？” she said.
“No, I am not going,” said Pierre hurriedly, with surprise and a sort of resentment in his tone. “No … yes, to Petersburg. To-morrow, perhaps; but I won’t say good-bye. I shall come to see if you have any commissions to give me,” he added, standing before Princess Marya, turning very red, and not taking leave.
Natasha gave him her hand and retired. Princess Marya, on the contrary, instead of going away, sank into an armchair, and with her luminous, deep eyes looked sternly and intently at Pierre. The weariness she had unmistakably betrayed just before had now quite passed off. She drew a deep, prolonged sigh, as though preparing for a long conversation.
As soon as Natasha had gone, all Pierre’s confusion and awkwardness instantly vanished, and were replaced by excited eagerness.
He rapidly moved a chair close up to Princess Marya. “Yes, I wanted to tell you,” he said, replying to her look as though to words. “Princess, help me. What am I to do？ Can I hope？ Princess, my dear friend, listen to me. I know all about it. I know I am not worthy of her; I know that it is impossible to talk of it now. But I want to be a brother to her. No, not that, I don’t, I can’t …” He paused and passed his hands over his face and eyes. “It’s like this,” he went on, ****** an evident effort to speak coherently. “I don’t know since when I have loved her. But I have loved her alone, only her, all my life, and I love her so that I cannot imagine life without her. I cannot bring myself to ask for her hand now; but the thought that, perhaps, she might be my wife and my letting slip this opportunity … opportunity … is awful. Tell me, can I hope？ Tell me, what am I to do？ Dear princess,” he said, after a brief pause, touching her hand as she did not answer.
“I am thinking of what you have just told me,” answered Princess Marya. “This is what I think. You are right that to speak to her of love now …” The princess paused. She had meant to say that to speak to her of love now was impossible; but she stopped, because she had seen during the last three days by the sudden change in Natasha that she would by no means be offended if Pierre were to avow his love, that, in fact, it was the one thing she desired.
“To speak to her now … is out of the question,” she nevertheless said.
“But what am I to do？”
“Trust the matter to me,” said Princess Marya. “I know …”
Pierre looked into her eyes. “Well, well …” he said.
“I know that she loves … that she will love you,” Princess Marya corrected herself.
She had hardly uttered the words, when Pierre leaped up, and with a face of consternation clutched at Princess Marya’s hand.
“What makes you think so？ You think I may hope？ You think so？ …”
“Yes, I think so,” said Princess Marya, smiling. “Write to her parents. And leave it to me. I will tell her when it is possible. I desire it to come to pass. And I have a feeling in my heart that it will be so.”
“No, it cannot be！ How happy I am！ But it cannot be！ … How happy I am！ No, it cannot be！” Pierre kept saying, kissing Princess Marya’s hands.
“You should go to Petersburg; it will be better. And I will write to you,” she said.
“To Petersburg？ I am to go？ Yes, very well, I will go. But I can come and see you to-morrow？”
Next day Pierre came to say good-bye. Natasha was less animated than on the preceding days; but sometimes that day, looking into her eyes, Pierre felt that he was vanishing away, that he and she were no more, that there was nothing but happiness. “Is it possible？ No, it cannot be,” he said to himself at every glance she gave, every gesture, every word, that filled his soul with gladness.
When, on saying good-bye, he took her thin, delicate hand he unconsciously held it somewhat longer in his own.
“Is it possible that that hand, that face, those eyes, all that treasure of womanly charm, so far removed from me, is it possible it may all one day be my own for ever, as close and intimate as I am to myself？ No, it’s surely impossible？ …”
“Good-bye, count,” she said to him aloud. “I shall so look forward to seeing you again,” she added in a whisper.
And those ****** words, and the look in the eyes and the face, that accompanied them, formed the subject of inexhaustible reminiscences, interpretations, and happy dreams for Pierre during two whole months. “I shall look forward to seeing you again.” “Yes, yes, how did she say it？ Yes. ‘I shall so look forward to seeing you again.’ Oh, how happy I am！ How can it be that I am so happy！” Pierre said to himself.
