Next morning, having taken leave of no one but the count, and not waiting for the ladies to appear, Prince Andrew sets off for home. It is already the beginning of June when on his return journey he drives into the birch forest where the gnarled old oak made so strange and memorable an impression. Harness bells sound still more muffled than six weeks before: all is thick, shady, and dense, and the young firs, delicately green with fluffy young shoots, no longer jar on the general beauty but lend themselves to the mood around. The whole day has been hot. Somewhere a storm is gathering, but only a small cloud has scattered raindrops, sprinkling the road and the sappy leaves. The left side of the forest is dark in shade; the right glitters, wet and shiny, scarcely swayed by the breeze. Everything is in blossom; nightingales trill, their voices now near, now far.
Yes, here was that oak with which I agreed, Andrew thinks. But where is it? Gazing at the left side of the road, without recognising it, he looks with admiration at the very oak he sought. The old oak, quite transfigured, spreads a canopy of sappy dark-green foliage, rapt and slightly trembling in the evening sun. Neither gnarled fingers nor old scars nor old doubts and sorrows are in evidence now. Through the hard century-old bark, even where there were no twigs, leaves have sprouted such as one could hardly believe the old veteran could have produced. Yes, it is the same oak, and all at once he is seized by an unreasoning springtime feeling of joy and renewal. All the best moments of his life rise: Austerlitz with the lofty heavens, his wife's dead reproachful face, Pierre at the ferry, that girl thrilled by the beauty of the night, and that night itself and the moon. No, life is not over at thirty-one, he decides finally and decisively. It is not enough for him to know what he has in him; everyone must know it: Pierre, and that young girl who wanted to fly away into the sky. His life must not be lived for himself alone while others live so apart from it, but must be reflected in them all, so that they and he may live in harmony.
On reaching home he decides to go to Petersburg that autumn and finds all sorts of reasons. Sensible, logical considerations showing it essential to go, even to re-enter the service, keep springing up. He cannot now understand how he ever doubted the necessity of taking an active share in life, just as a month before he could not understand how leaving the quiet country could enter his head. All his experience must be wasted unless he applies it to work. He does not even remember how formerly similar wretched arguments made it obvious that he would degrade himself if, after life's lessons, he believed in being useful, in happiness or love. Now reason suggests the opposite. After Ryazán the country is dull; former pursuits no longer interest him. Sitting alone he gets up, goes to the mirror, gazes a long time at his own face, then turns to the portrait of dead Lise, hair curled à la grecque, who no longer says those terrible words but looks simply, merrily, and inquisitively from the gilt frame. He paces, arms behind him, now frowning, now smiling, reflecting on irrational, inexpressible thoughts, secret as a crime, connected with Pierre, fame, the girl at the window, the oak, woman's beauty and love. If anyone comes in at such moments he is particularly cold, stern, and unpleasantly logical. When Mary says little Nicholas cannot go out, it is very cold, he answers that if it were hot the child could go in his smock, but as it is cold he must wear warm clothes designed for that purpose: that follows from the fact that it is cold, not that a child who needs fresh air should remain at home. He speaks with extreme logic, as if punishing someone for those secret illogical emotions. At such moments Mary thinks how intellectual work dries men up.
