He looked at the row of birches shining in the sunshine, with their motionless green and yellow foliage and white bark. “To die … to be killed tomorrow … That I should not exist … That all this should still be, but no me. …”
And the birches with their light and shade, the curly clouds, the smoke of the campfires, and all that was around him changed and seemed terrible and menacing. A cold shiver ran down his spine. He rose quickly, went out of the shed, and began to walk about.
After he had returned, voices were heard outside the shed. “Who’s that?” he cried.
The red-nosed Captain Timókhin, formerly Dólokhov’s squadron commander, but now from lack of officers a battalion commander, shyly entered the shed followed by an adjutant and the regimental paymaster.
Prince Andréy rose hastily, listened to the business they had come about, gave them some further instructions, and was about to dismiss them when he heard a familiar, lisping, voice behind the shed.
“Devil take it!” said the voice of a man stumbling over something.
Prince Andréy looked out of the shed and saw Pierre, who had tripped over a pole on the ground and had nearly fallen, coming his way. It was unpleasant to Prince Andréy to meet people of his own set in general, and Pierre especially, for he reminded him of all the painful moments of his last visit to Moscow.
“You? What a surprise!” said he. “What brings you here? This is unexpected!”
As he said this his eyes and face expressed more than coldness—they expressed hostility, which Pierre noticed at once. He had approached the shed full of animation, but on seeing Prince Andréy’s face he felt constrained and ill at ease.