Natasha was standing
In the middle of the drawing room
With a pale yet steady face
When I appeared in the doorway,
She grew flustered and I hurried to her
I thought that she would give me her hand
But instead she stopped,
Breathing heavily,
Her thin arms hanging lifelessly
Just in the very pose
She used to stand in as a young girl
When she went to the middle of the ballroom
To sing
But the look on her face was
Quite different
Peter Kirilovich—
Pierre
Prince Bolkonsky was your friend—
He is your friend
He once told me that I should turn to you
Pierre sniffed as he looked at her,
But he didn't speak
'Til then he had reproached her,
And tried to despise her
But now he felt such pity for her
That there was no room in his soul for reproach
He is here now
Tell him to—
Tell him to forgive me
Yes, I will tell him to forgive you
But, he gave me your letters—
No, I know that all is over
I know that it never can be
But still I'm tormented
By the wrongs I've done him
Tell him that I beg him to forgive,
Forgive,
Forgive me for everything
Yes I will tell him, tell him everything,
But—
But I should like to know one thing
Did you love—
Did you love that bad man?
Don't call him bad
But I don't know,
I don't know at all
She began to cry
And a greater sense of pity,
Tenderness, and love
Overflowed Pierre's heart
He felt the tears begin to trickle
Underneath his spectacles
And he hoped that no one would see
We won't speak of it anymore
We won't speak of it, my dear
But one thing I beg of you,
Consider me your friend
And if you ever need help,
Or simply to open your heart to someone
Not now, but when your mind is clear
Think of me
Pierre grew confused
Don't speak to me like that
I am not worth it!
Stop, stop, stop!
You have your whole life before you—
Before me?
No, all is over for me!
All over?
If I were not myself,
But the brightest,
Handsomest,
Best man on earth,
And if I were free,
I would get down on my knees,
This minute,
And ask you for your hand.
And for your love.
And for the first time in many days,
I weep tears of gratitude
Tears of tenderness
Tears of thanks
And, glancing at Pierre,
Oh, Pierre
I leave the room smiling
And restraining tears of tenderness,
Tears of joy which choke me,
I throw my fur coat on my shoulders,
Unable to find the sleeves
Outside, my great, broad chest
Breathes in deep the air
With joy
Despite the ten degrees of frost
And I get into my sleigh

ENVIAR CORREÇÕES