"But what has happened between you?" she asked. "What has he said
to you? Why doesn’t he come to the house?"
Natasha did not answer her questions.
"For God’s sake, Sonya, don’t tell anyone, don’t torture
me," Natasha entreated. "Remember no one ought to interfere in such
matters! I have confided in you...."
"But why this secrecy? Why doesn’t he come to the house?" asked
Sonya. "Why doesn’t he openly ask for your hand? You know Prince
Andrew gave you complete freedom - if it is really so; but I don’t
believe it! Natasha, have you considered what these secret reasons can
be?"
Natasha looked at Sonya with astonishment. Evidently this question
presented itself to her mind for the first time and she did not know how
to answer it.
"I don’t know what the reasons are. But there must be reasons!"
Sonya sighed and shook her head incredulously.
"If there were reasons..." she began.
But Natasha, guessing her doubts, interrupted her in alarm.
"Sonya, one can’t doubt him! One can’t, one can’t! Don’t you
understand?" she cried.
"Does he love you?"
"Does he love me?" Natasha repeated with a smile of pity at her
friend’s lack of comprehension. "Why, you have read his letter and
you have seen him."
"But if he is dishonorable?"
"He! dishonorable? If you only knew!" exclaimed Natasha.
"If he is an honorable man he should either declare his intentions or
cease seeing you; and if you won’t do this, I will. I will write to
him, and I will tell Papa!" said Sonya resolutely.
"But I can’t live without him!" cried Natasha.
"Natasha, I don’t understand you. And what are you saying! Think of
your father and of Nicholas."
"I don’t want anyone, I don’t love anyone but him. How dare you
say he is dishonorable? Don’t you know that I love him?" screamed
Natasha. "Go away, Sonya! I don’t want to quarrel with you, but
go, for God’s sake go! You see how I am suffering!" Natasha cried
angrily, in a voice of despair and repressed irritation. Sonya burst
into sobs and ran from the room.
Natasha went to the table and without a moment’s reflection wrote
that answer to Princess Mary which she had been unable to write all
the morning. In this letter she said briefly that all their
misunderstandings were at an end; that availing herself of the
magnanimity of Prince Andrew who when he went abroad had given her her
freedom, she begged Princess Mary to forget everything and forgive her
if she had been to blame toward her, but that she could not be his
wife. At that moment this all seemed quite easy, simple, and clear to
Natasha.
On Friday the Rostovs were to return to the country, but on Wednesday
the count went with the prospective purchaser to his estate near Moscow.
On the day the count left, Sonya and Natasha were invited to a big
dinner party at the Karagins’, and Marya Dmitrievna took them
there. At that party Natasha again met Anatole, and Sonya noticed
that she spoke to him, trying not to be overheard, and that all through
dinner she was more agitated than ever. When they got home Natasha was
the first to begin the explanation Sonya expected.
"There, Sonya, you were talking all sorts of nonsense about him,"
Natasha began in a mild voice such as children use when they wish to be
praised. "We have had an explanation today."
"Well, what happened? What did he say? Natasha, how glad I am
you’re not angry with me! Tell me everything - the whole truth. What
did he say?"
Natasha became thoughtful.
"Oh, Sonya, if you knew him as I do! He said... He asked me what I
had promised Bolkonski. He was glad I was free to refuse him."
Sonya sighed sorrowfully.
"But you haven’t refused Bolkonski?" said she.
"Perhaps I have. Perhaps all is over between me and Bolkonski. Why do
you think so badly of me?"
"I don’t think anything, only I don’t understand this..."
"Wait a bit, Sonya, you’ll understand everything. You’ll see what
a man he is! Now don’t think badly of me or of him. I don’t think
badly of anyone: I love and pity everybody. But what am I to do?"
Sonya did not succumb to the tender tone Natasha used toward her.
The more emotional and ingratiating the expression of Natasha’s face
became, the more serious and stern grew Sonya’s.
"Natasha," said she, "you asked me not to speak to you, and I
haven’t spoken, but now you yourself have begun. I don’t trust him,
Natasha. Why this secrecy?"
"Again, again!" interrupted Natasha.
"Natasha, I am afraid for you!"
"Afraid of what?"
"I am afraid you’re going to your ruin," said Sonya resolutely,
and was herself horrified at what she had said.
Anger again showed in Natasha’s face.
"And I’ll go to my ruin, I will, as soon as possible! It’s not
your business! It won’t be you, but I, who’ll suffer. Leave me
alone, leave me alone! I hate you!"
"Natasha!" moaned Sonya, aghast.
"I hate you, I hate you! You’re my enemy forever!" And Natasha
ran out of the room.
Natasha did not speak to Sonya again and avoided her. With the same
expression of agitated surprise and guilt she went about the house,
taking up now one occupation, now another, and at once abandoning them.
Hard as it was for Sonya, she watched her friend and did not let her
out of her sight.
The day before the count was to return, Sonya noticed that Natasha sat
by the drawing room window all the morning as if expecting something and
that she made a sign to an officer who drove past, whom Sonya took to
be Anatole.
Sonya began watching her friend still more attentively and noticed that
at dinner and all that evening Natasha was in a strange and unnatural
state. She answered questions at random, began sentences she did not
finish, and laughed at everything.
After tea Sonya noticed a housemaid at Natasha’s door timidly
waiting to let her pass. She let the girl go in, and then listening at
the door learned that another letter had been delivered.
Then suddenly it became clear to Sonya that Natasha had some dreadful
plan for that evening. Sonya knocked at her door. Natasha did not let
her in.
"She will run away with him!" thought Sonya. "She is capable of
anything. There was something particularly pathetic and resolute in
her face today. She cried as she said good-by to Uncle," Sonya
remembered. "Yes, that’s it, she means to elope with him, but
what am I to do?" thought she, recalling all the signs that clearly
indicated that Natasha had some terrible intention. "The count is
away. What am I to do? Write to Kuragin demanding an explanation? But
what is there to oblige him to reply? Write to Pierre, as Prince Andrew
asked me to in case of some misfortune?... But perhaps she really
has already refused Bolkonski - she sent a letter to Princess Mary
yesterday. And Uncle is away...." To tell Marya Dmitrievna who had
such faith in Natasha seemed to Sonya terrible. "Well, anyway,"
thought Sonya as she stood in the dark passage, "now or never I must
prove that I remember the family’s goodness to me and that I love
Nicholas. Yes! If I don’t sleep for three nights I’ll not leave this
passage and will hold her back by force and will and not let the family
be disgraced," thought she.
CHAPTER XVI
Anatole had lately moved to Dolokhov’s. The plan for Natalie
Rostova’s abduction had been arranged and the preparations made by
Dolokhov a few days before, and on the day that Sonya, after listening
at Natasha’s door, resolved to safeguard her, it was to have been
put into execution. Natasha had promised to come out to Kuragin at the
back porch at ten that evening. Kuragin was to put her into a troyka
he would have ready and to drive her forty miles to the village of
Kamenka, where an unfrocked priest was in readiness to perform a
marriage ceremony over them. At Kamenka a relay of horses was to wait
which would take them to the Warsaw highroad, and from there they would
hasten abroad with post horses.
Anatole had a passport, an order for post horses, ten thousand rubles
he had taken from his sister and another ten thousand borrowed with
Dolokhov’s help.
Two witnesses for the mock marriage - Khvostikov, a retired petty
official whom Dolokhov made use of in his gambling transactions, and
Makarin, a retired hussar, a kindly, weak fellow who had an unbounded
affection for Kuragin - were sitting at tea in Dolokhov’s front
room.
In his large study, the walls of which were hung to the ceiling with
Persian rugs, bearskins, and weapons, sat Dolokhov in a traveling cloak
and high boots, at an open desk on which lay an abacus and some bundles
of paper money. Anatole, with uniform unbuttoned, walked to and fro from
the room where the witnesses were sitting, through the study to the room
behind, where his French valet and others were packing the last of his
things. Dolokhov was counting the money and noting something down.
"Well," he said, "Khvostikov must have two thousand."
"Give it to him, then," said Anatole.
"Makarka" (their name for Makarin) "will go through fire and
water for you for nothing. So here are our accounts all settled," said
Dolokhov, showing him the memorandum. "Is that right?"
"Yes, of course," returned Anatole, evidently not listening to
Dolokhov and looking straight before him with a smile that did not
leave his face.
Dolokhov banged down the lid of his desk and turned to Anatole with an
ironic smile:
"Do you know? You’d really better drop it all. There’s still
time!"
"Fool," retorted Anatole. "Don’t talk nonsense! If you only
knew... it’s the devil knows what!"
"No, really, give it up!" said Dolokhov. "I am speaking
seriously. It’s no joke, this plot you’ve hatched."
"What, teasing again? Go to the devil! Eh?" said Anatole, making a
grimace. "Really it’s no time for your stupid jokes," and he left
the room.
Dolokhov smiled contemptuously and condescendingly when Anatole had
gone out.
"You wait a bit," he called after him. "I’m not joking, I’m
talking sense. Come here, come here!"
Anatole returned and looked at Dolokhov, trying to give him his
attention and evidently submitting to him involuntarily.
"Now listen to me. I’m telling you this for the last time. Why
should I joke about it? Did I hinder you? Who arranged everything for
you? Who found the priest and got the passport? Who raised the money? I
did it all."
"Well, thank you for it. Do you think I am not grateful?" And
Anatole sighed and embraced Dolokhov.
"I helped you, but all the same I must tell you the truth; it is a
dangerous business, and if you think about it - a stupid business. Well,
you’ll carry her off - all right! Will they let it stop at that? It
will come out that you’re already married. Why, they’ll have you in
the criminal court...."
"Oh, nonsense, nonsense!" Anatole ejaculated and again made a
grimace. "Didn’t I explain to you? What?" And Anatole, with the
partiality dull-witted people have for any conclusion they have reached
by their own reasoning, repeated the argument he had already put to
Dolokhov a hundred times. "Didn’t I explain to you that I have come
to this conclusion: if this marriage is invalid," he went on, crooking
one finger, "then I have nothing to answer for; but if it is valid, no
matter! Abroad no one will know anything about it. Isn’t that so? And
don’t talk to me, don’t, don’t."
"Seriously, you’d better drop it! You’ll only get yourself into a
mess!"
"Go to the devil!" cried Anatole and, clutching his hair, left the
room, but returned at once and dropped into an armchair in front of
Dolokhov with his feet turned under him. "It’s the very devil!
What? Feel how it beats!" He took Dolokhov’s hand and put it on his
heart. "What a foot, my dear fellow! What a glance! A goddess!" he
added in French. "What?"
Dolokhov with a cold smile and a gleam in his handsome insolent eyes
looked at him - evidently wishing to get some more amusement out of him.
"Well and when the money’s gone, what then?"
"What then? Eh?" repeated Anatole, sincerely perplexed by a thought
of the future. "What then?... Then, I don’t know.... But why talk
nonsense!" He glanced at his watch. "It’s time!"
Anatole went into the back room.
"Now then! Nearly ready? You’re dawdling!" he shouted to the
servants.
Dolokhov put away the money, called a footman whom he ordered to bring
something for them to eat and drink before the journey, and went into
the room where Khvostikov and Makarin were sitting.
Anatole lay on the sofa in the study leaning on his elbow and smiling
pensively, while his handsome lips muttered tenderly to himself.
"Come and eat something. Have a drink!" Dolokhov shouted to him
from the other room.
"I don’t want to," answered Anatole continuing to smile.
"Come! Balaga is here."
Anatole rose and went into the dining room. Balaga was a famous troyka
driver who had known Dolokhov and Anatole some six years and had given
them good service with his troykas. More than once when Anatole’s
regiment was stationed at Tver he had taken him from Tver in the
evening, brought him to Moscow by daybreak, and driven him back again
the next night. More than once he had enabled Dolokhov to escape when
pursued. More than once he had driven them through the town with gypsies
and "ladykins" as he called the cocottes. More than once in their
service he had run over pedestrians and upset vehicles in the streets
of Moscow and had always been protected from the consequences by "my
gentlemen" as he called them. He had ruined more than one horse in
their service. More than once they had beaten him, and more than once
they had made him drunk on champagne and Madeira, which he loved; and
he knew more than one thing about each of them which would long ago have
sent an ordinary man to Siberia. They often called Balaga into their
orgies and made him drink and dance at the gypsies’, and more than one
thousand rubles of their money had passed through his hands. In their
service he risked his skin and his life twenty times a year, and in
their service had lost more horses than the money he had from them would
buy. But he liked them; liked that mad driving at twelve miles an hour,
liked upsetting a driver or running down a pedestrian, and flying at
full gallop through the Moscow streets. He liked to hear those wild,
tipsy shouts behind him: "Get on! Get on!" when it was impossible
to go any faster. He liked giving a painful lash on the neck to some
peasant who, more dead than alive, was already hurrying out of his way.
"Real gentlemen!" he considered them.
Anatole and Dolokhov liked Balaga too for his masterly driving and
because he liked the things they liked. With others Balaga bargained,
charging twenty-five rubles for a two hours’ drive, and rarely
drove himself, generally letting his young men do so. But with "his
gentlemen" he always drove himself and never demanded anything for
his work. Only a couple of times a year - when he knew from their valets
that they had money in hand - he would turn up of a morning quite sober
and with a deep bow would ask them to help him. The gentlemen always
made him sit down.
"Do help me out, Theodore Ivanych, sir," or "your excellency,"
he would say. "I am quite out of horses. Let me have what you can to
go to the fair."
And Anatole and Dolokhov, when they had money, would give him a
thousand or a couple of thousand rubles.
Balaga was a fair-haired, short, and snub-nosed peasant of about
twenty-seven; red-faced, with a particularly red thick neck, glittering
little eyes, and a small beard. He wore a fine, dark-blue, silk-lined
cloth coat over a sheepskin.
On entering the room now he crossed himself, turning toward the front
corner of the room, and went up to Dolokhov, holding out a small, black
hand.
"Theodore Ivanych!" he said, bowing.
"How d’you do, friend? Well, here he is!"
"Good day, your excellency!" he said, again holding out his hand to
Anatole who had just come in.
"I say, Balaga," said Anatole, putting his hands on the man’s
shoulders, "do you care for me or not? Eh? Now, do me a service....
What horses have you come with? Eh?"
"As your messenger ordered, your special beasts," replied Balaga.
"Well, listen, Balaga! Drive all three to death but get me there in
three hours. Eh?"
"When they are dead, what shall I drive?" said Balaga with a wink.
"Mind, I’ll smash your face in! Don’t make jokes!" cried
Anatole, suddenly rolling his eyes.
"Why joke?" said the driver, laughing. "As if I’d grudge my
gentlemen anything! As fast as ever the horses can gallop, so fast
we’ll go!"
"Ah!" said Anatole. "Well, sit down."
"Yes, sit down!" said Dolokhov.
"I’ll stand, Theodore Ivanych."
"Sit down; nonsense! Have a drink!" said Anatole, and filled a large
glass of Madeira for him.
The driver’s eyes sparkled at the sight of the wine. After refusing
it for manners’ sake, he drank it and wiped his mouth with a red silk
handkerchief he took out of his cap.
"And when are we to start, your excellency?"
"Well..." Anatole looked at his watch. "We’ll start at once.
Mind, Balaga! You’ll get there in time? Eh?"
"That depends on our luck in starting, else why shouldn’t we be
there in time?" replied Balaga. "Didn’t we get you to Tver in
seven hours? I think you remember that, your excellency?"
"Do you know, one Christmas I drove from Tver," said Anatole,
smilingly at the recollection and turning to Makarin who gazed
rapturously at him with wide-open eyes. "Will you believe it,
Makarka, it took one’s breath away, the rate we flew. We came across
a train of loaded sleighs and drove right over two of them. Eh?"
"Those were horses!" Balaga continued the tale. "That time I’d
harnessed two young side horses with the bay in the shafts," he went
on, turning to Dolokhov. "Will you believe it, Theodore Ivanych,
those animals flew forty miles? I couldn’t hold them in, my hands grew
numb in the sharp frost so that I threw down the reins - ‘Catch hold
yourself, your excellency!’ says I, and I just tumbled on the bottom
of the sleigh and sprawled there. It wasn’t a case of urging them on,
there was no holding them in till we reached the place. The devils took
us there in three hours! Only the near one died of it."
CHAPTER XVII
Anatole went out of the room and returned a few minutes later wearing
a fur coat girt with a silver belt, and a sable cap jauntily set on one
side and very becoming to his handsome face. Having looked in a mirror,
and standing before Dolokhov in the same pose he had assumed before it,
he lifted a glass of wine.
"Well, good-by, Theodore. Thank you for everything and farewell!" said
Anatole. "Well, comrades and friends..." he considered for a moment "...
of my youth, farewell!" he said, turning to Makarin and the others.
Though they were all going with him, Anatole evidently wished to make
something touching and solemn out of this address to his comrades. He
spoke slowly in a loud voice and throwing out his chest slightly swayed
one leg.
"All take glasses; you too, Balaga. Well, comrades and friends of my
youth, we’ve had our fling and lived and reveled. Eh? And now, when
shall we meet again? I am going abroad. We have had a good time - now
farewell, lads! To our health! Hurrah!..." he cried, and emptying his
glass flung it on the floor.
"To your health!" said Balaga who also emptied his glass, and wiped his
mouth with his handkerchief.
Makarin embraced Anatole with tears in his eyes.
"Ah, Prince, how sorry I am to part from you!
"Let’s go. Let’s go!" cried Anatole.
Balaga was about to leave the room.
"No, stop!" said Anatole. "Shut the door; we have first to sit down.
That’s the way."
They shut the door and all sat down.
"Now, quick march, lads!" said Anatole, rising.
Joseph, his valet, handed him his sabretache and saber, and they all
went out into the vestibule.
"And where’s the fur cloak?" asked Dolokhov. "Hey, Ignatka! Go to
Matrena Matrevna and ask her for the sable cloak. I have heard what
elopements are like," continued Dolokhov with a wink. "Why, she’ll rush
out more dead than alive just in the things she is wearing; if you delay
at all there’ll be tears and ‘Papa’ and ‘Mamma,’ and she’s frozen in a
minute and must go back - but you wrap the fur cloak round her first thing
and carry her to the sleigh."
The valet brought a woman’s fox-lined cloak.
"Fool, I told you the sable one! Hey, Matrena, the sable!" he shouted so
that his voice rang far through the rooms.
A handsome, slim, and pale-faced gypsy girl with glittering black eyes
and curly blue-black hair, wearing a red shawl, ran out with a sable
mantle on her arm.
"Here, I don’t grudge it - take it!" she said, evidently afraid of her
master and yet regretful of her cloak.
Dolokhov, without answering, took the cloak, threw it over Matrena, and
wrapped her up in it.
"That’s the way," said Dolokhov, "and then so!" and he turned the collar
up round her head, leaving only a little of the face uncovered. "And
then so, do you see?" and he pushed Anatole’s head forward to meet the
gap left by the collar, through which Matrena’s brilliant smile was
seen.
"Well, good-by, Matrena," said Anatole, kissing her. "Ah, my revels here
are over. Remember me to Steshka. There, good-by! Good-by, Matrena, wish
me luck!"
"Well, Prince, may God give you great luck!" said Matrena in her gypsy
accent.
Two troykas were standing before the porch and two young drivers were
holding the horses. Balaga took his seat in the front one and holding
his elbows high arranged the reins deliberately. Anatole and Dolokhov
got in with him. Makarin, Khvostikov, and a valet seated themselves in
the other sleigh.
"Well, are you ready?" asked Balaga.
"Go!" he cried, twisting the reins round his hands, and the troyka tore
down the Nikitski Boulevard.
"Tproo! Get out of the way! Hi!... Tproo!..." The shouting of Balaga
and of the sturdy young fellow seated on the box was all that could
be heard. On the Arbat Square the troyka caught against a carriage;
something cracked, shouts were heard, and the troyka flew along the
Arbat Street.
After taking a turn along the Podnovinski Boulevard, Balaga began to
rein in, and turning back drew up at the crossing of the old Konyusheny
Street.
The young fellow on the box jumped down to hold the horses and Anatole
and Dolokhov went along the pavement. When they reached the gate
Dolokhov whistled. The whistle was answered, and a maidservant ran out.
"Come into the courtyard or you’ll be seen; she’ll come out directly,"
said she.
Dolokhov stayed by the gate. Anatole followed the maid into the
courtyard, turned the corner, and ran up into the porch.
He was met by Gabriel, Marya Dmitrievna’s gigantic footman.
"Come to the mistress, please," said the footman in his deep bass,
intercepting any retreat.
"To what Mistress? Who are you?" asked Anatole in a breathless whisper.
"Kindly step in, my orders are to bring you in."
"Kuragin! Come back!" shouted Dolokhov. "Betrayed! Back!"
Dolokhov, after Anatole entered, had remained at the wicket gate and was
struggling with the yard porter who was trying to lock it. With a last
desperate effort Dolokhov pushed the porter aside, and when Anatole ran
back seized him by the arm, pulled him through the wicket, and ran back
with him to the troyka.
CHAPTER XVIII
Marya Dmitrievna, having found Sonya weeping in the corridor, made her
confess everything, and intercepting the note to Natasha she read it and
went into Natasha’s room with it in her hand.
"You shameless good-for-nothing!" said she. "I won’t hear a word."
Pushing back Natasha who looked at her with astonished but tearless
eyes, she locked her in; and having given orders to the yard porter to
admit the persons who would be coming that evening, but not to let them
out again, and having told the footman to bring them up to her, she
seated herself in the drawing room to await the abductors.
When Gabriel came to inform her that the men who had come had run
away again, she rose frowning, and clasping her hands behind her paced
through the rooms a long time considering what she should do. Toward
midnight she went to Natasha’s room fingering the key in her pocket.
Sonya was sitting sobbing in the corridor. "Marya Dmitrievna, for God’s
sake let me in to her!" she pleaded, but Marya Dmitrievna unlocked
the door and went in without giving her an answer.... "Disgusting,
abominable... In my house... horrid girl, hussy! I’m only sorry for her
father!" thought she, trying to restrain her wrath. "Hard as it may
be, I’ll tell them all to hold their tongues and will hide it from the
count." She entered the room with resolute steps. Natasha lying on the
sofa, her head hidden in her hands, and she did not stir. She was in
just the same position in which Marya Dmitrievna had left her.
"A nice girl! Very nice!" said Marya Dmitrievna. "Arranging meetings
with lovers in my house! It’s no use pretending: you listen when I speak
to you!" And Marya Dmitrievna touched her arm. "Listen when I speak!
You’ve disgraced yourself like the lowest of hussies. I’d treat you
differently, but I’m sorry for your father, so I will conceal it."
Natasha did not change her position, but her whole body heaved with
noiseless, convulsive sobs which choked her. Marya Dmitrievna glanced
round at Sonya and seated herself on the sofa beside Natasha.
"It’s lucky for him that he escaped me; but I’ll find him!" she said in
her rough voice. "Do you hear what I am saying or not?" she added.
She put her large hand under Natasha’s face and turned it toward her.
Both Marya Dmitrievna and Sonya were amazed when they saw how Natasha
looked. Her eyes were dry and glistening, her lips compressed, her
cheeks sunken.
"Let me be!... What is it to me?... I shall die!" she muttered,
wrenching herself from Marya Dmitrievna’s hands with a vicious effort
and sinking down again into her former position.
"Natalie!" said Marya Dmitrievna. "I wish for your good. Lie still,
stay like that then, I won’t touch you. But listen. I won’t tell you how
guilty you are. You know that yourself. But when your father comes back
tomorrow what am I to tell him? Eh?"
Again Natasha’s body shook with sobs.
"Suppose he finds out, and your brother, and your betrothed?"
"I have no betrothed: I have refused him!" cried Natasha.
"That’s all the same," continued Marya Dmitrievna. "If they hear of
this, will they let it pass? He, your father, I know him... if he
challenges him to a duel will that be all right? Eh?"
"Oh, let me be! Why have you interfered at all? Why? Why? Who asked
you to?" shouted Natasha, raising herself on the sofa and looking
malignantly at Marya Dmitrievna.
"But what did you want?" cried Marya Dmitrievna, growing angry again.
"Were you kept under lock and key? Who hindered his coming to the house?
Why carry you off as if you were some gypsy singing girl?... Well, if he
had carried you off... do you think they wouldn’t have found him?
Your father, or brother, or your betrothed? And he’s a scoundrel, a
wretch - that’s a fact!"
"He is better than any of you!" exclaimed Natasha getting up. "If you
hadn’t interfered... Oh, my God! What is it all? What is it? Sonya,
why?... Go away!"
And she burst into sobs with the despairing vehemence with which people
bewail disasters they feel they have themselves occasioned. Marya
Dmitrievna was to speak again but Natasha cried out:
"Go away! Go away! You all hate and despise me!" and she threw herself
back on the sofa.
Marya Dmitrievna went on admonishing her for some time, enjoining on her
that it must all be kept from her father and assuring her that nobody
would know anything about it if only Natasha herself would undertake
to forget it all and not let anyone see that something had happened.
Natasha did not reply, nor did she sob any longer, but she grew cold
and had a shivering fit. Marya Dmitrievna put a pillow under her head,
covered her with two quilts, and herself brought her some lime-flower
water, but Natasha did not respond to her.
"Well, let her sleep," said Marya Dmitrievna as she went out of the room
supposing Natasha to be asleep.
But Natasha was not asleep; with pale face and fixed wide-open eyes she
looked straight before her. All that night she did not sleep or weep and
did not speak to Sonya who got up and went to her several times.
Next day Count Rostov returned from his estate near Moscow in time for
lunch as he had promised. He was in very good spirits; the affair with
the purchaser was going on satisfactorily, and there was nothing to keep
him any longer in Moscow, away from the countess whom he missed. Marya
Dmitrievna met him and told him that Natasha had been very unwell the
day before and that they had sent for the doctor, but that she was
better now. Natasha had not left her room that morning. With compressed
and parched lips and dry fixed eyes, she sat at the window, uneasily
watching the people who drove past and hurriedly glancing round at
anyone who entered the room. She was evidently expecting news of him and
that he would come or would write to her.
When the count came to see her she turned anxiously round at the sound
of a man’s footstep, and then her face resumed its cold and malevolent
expression. She did not even get up to greet him. "What is the matter
with you, my angel? Are you ill?" asked the count.
After a moment’s silence Natasha answered: "Yes, ill."
In reply to the count’s anxious inquiries as to why she was so dejected
and whether anything had happened to her betrothed, she assured him
that nothing had happened and asked him not to worry. Marya Dmitrievna
confirmed Natasha’s assurances that nothing had happened. From
the pretense of illness, from his daughter’s distress, and by the
embarrassed faces of Sonya and Marya Dmitrievna, the count saw clearly
that something had gone wrong during his absence, but it was so terrible
for him to think that anything disgraceful had happened to his beloved
daughter, and he so prized his own cheerful tranquillity, that he
avoided inquiries and tried to assure himself that nothing particularly
had happened; and he was only dissatisfied that her indisposition
delayed their return to the country.
CHAPTER XIX
From the day his wife arrived in Moscow Pierre had been intending to go
away somewhere, so as not to be near her. Soon after the Rostovs came
to Moscow the effect Natasha had on him made him hasten to carry out
his intention. He went to Tver to see Joseph Alexeevich’s widow, who
had long since promised to hand over to him some papers of her deceased
husband’s.
When he returned to Moscow Pierre was handed a letter from Marya
Dmitrievna asking him to come and see her on a matter of great
importance relating to Andrew Bolkonski and his betrothed. Pierre had
been avoiding Natasha because it seemed to him that his feeling for her
was stronger than a married man’s should be for his friend’s fiancee.
Yet some fate constantly threw them together.
"What can have happened? And what can they want with me?" thought he
as he dressed to go to Marya Dmitrievna’s. "If only Prince Andrew would
hurry up and come and marry her!" thought he on his way to the house.
On the Tverskoy Boulevard a familiar voice called to him.
"Pierre! Been back long?" someone shouted. Pierre raised his head. In
a sleigh drawn by two gray trotting-horses that were bespattering the
dashboard with snow, Anatole and his constant companion Makarin dashed
past. Anatole was sitting upright in the classic pose of military
dandies, the lower part of his face hidden by his beaver collar and his
head slightly bent. His face was fresh and rosy, his white-plumed hat,
tilted to one side, disclosed his curled and pomaded hair besprinkled
with powdery snow.
"Yes, indeed, that’s a true sage," thought Pierre. "He sees nothing
beyond the pleasure of the moment, nothing troubles him and so he is
always cheerful, satisfied, and serene. What wouldn’t I give to be like
him!" he thought enviously.
In Marya Dmitrievna’s anteroom the footman who helped him off with his
fur coat said that the mistress asked him to come to her bedroom.
When he opened the ballroom door Pierre saw Natasha sitting at the
window, with a thin, pale, and spiteful face. She glanced round at him,
frowned, and left the room with an expression of cold dignity.
"What has happened?" asked Pierre, entering Marya Dmitrievna’s room.
"Fine doings!" answered Dmitrievna. "For fifty-eight years have I lived
in this world and never known anything so disgraceful!"
And having put him on his honor not to repeat anything she told him,
Marya Dmitrievna informed him that Natasha had refused Prince Andrew
without her parents’ knowledge and that the cause of this was Anatole
Kuragin into whose society Pierre’s wife had thrown her and with whom
Natasha had tried to elope during her father’s absence, in order to be
married secretly.
Pierre raised his shoulders and listened open-mouthed to what was told
him, scarcely able to believe his own ears. That Prince Andrew’s
deeply loved affianced wife - the same Natasha Rostova who used to be so
charming - should give up Bolkonski for that fool Anatole who was already
secretly married (as Pierre knew), and should be so in love with him as
to agree to run away with him, was something Pierre could not conceive
and could not imagine.
He could not reconcile the charming impression he had of Natasha, whom
he had known from a child, with this new conception of her baseness,
folly, and cruelty. He thought of his wife. "They are all alike!" he
said to himself, reflecting that he was not the only man unfortunate
enough to be tied to a bad woman. But still he pitied Prince Andrew to
the point of tears and sympathized with his wounded pride, and the more
he pitied his friend the more did he think with contempt and even with
disgust of that Natasha who had just passed him in the ballroom with
such a look of cold dignity. He did not know that Natasha’s soul was
overflowing with despair, shame, and humiliation, and that it was not
her fault that her face happened to assume an expression of calm dignity
and severity.
"But how get married?" said Pierre, in answer to Marya Dmitrievna. "He
could not marry - he is married!"
"Things get worse from hour to hour!" ejaculated Marya Dmitrievna. "A
nice youth! What a scoundrel! And she’s expecting him - expecting him
since yesterday. She must be told! Then at least she won’t go on
expecting him."
After hearing the details of Anatole’s marriage from Pierre, and giving
vent to her anger against Anatole in words of abuse, Marya Dmitrievna
told Pierre why she had sent for him. She was afraid that the count or
Bolkonski, who might arrive at any moment, if they knew of this affair
(which she hoped to hide from them) might challenge Anatole to a duel,
and she therefore asked Pierre to tell his brother-in-law in her name to
leave Moscow and not dare to let her set eyes on him again. Pierre - only
now realizing the danger to the old count, Nicholas, and Prince
Andrew - promised to do as she wished. Having briefly and exactly
explained her wishes to him, she let him go to the drawing room.
"Mind, the count knows nothing. Behave as if you know nothing either,"
she said. "And I will go and tell her it is no use expecting him! And
stay to dinner if you care to!" she called after Pierre.
Pierre met the old count, who seemed nervous and upset. That morning
Natasha had told him that she had rejected Bolkonski.
"Troubles, troubles, my dear fellow!" he said to Pierre. "What troubles
one has with these girls without their mother! I do so regret having
come here.... I will be frank with you. Have you heard she has broken
off her engagement without consulting anybody? It’s true this engagement
never was much to my liking. Of course he is an excellent man, but
still, with his father’s disapproval they wouldn’t have been happy, and
Natasha won’t lack suitors. Still, it has been going on so long, and
to take such a step without father’s or mother’s consent! And now she’s
ill, and God knows what! It’s hard, Count, hard to manage daughters in
their mother’s absence...."
Pierre saw that the count was much upset and tried to change the
subject, but the count returned to his troubles.
Sonya entered the room with an agitated face.
"Natasha is not quite well; she’s in her room and would like to see you.
Marya Dmitrievna is with her and she too asks you to come."
"Yes, you are a great friend of Bolkonski’s, no doubt she wants to send
him a message," said the count. "Oh dear! Oh dear! How happy it all
was!"
And clutching the spare gray locks on his temples the count left the
room.
When Marya Dmitrievna told Natasha that Anatole was married, Natasha
did not wish to believe it and insisted on having it confirmed by Pierre
himself. Sonya told Pierre this as she led him along the corridor to
Natasha’s room.
Natasha, pale and stern, was sitting beside Marya Dmitrievna, and her
eyes, glittering feverishly, met Pierre with a questioning look the
moment he entered. She did not smile or nod, but only gazed fixedly at
him, and her look asked only one thing: was he a friend, or like the
others an enemy in regard to Anatole? As for Pierre, he evidently did
not exist for her.
"He knows all about it," said Marya Dmitrievna pointing to Pierre and
addressing Natasha. "Let him tell you whether I have told the truth."
Natasha looked from one to the other as a hunted and wounded animal
looks at the approaching dogs and sportsmen.
"Natalya Ilynichna," Pierre began, dropping his eyes with a feeling of
pity for her and loathing for the thing he had to do, "whether it is
true or not should make no difference to you, because..."
"Then it is not true that he’s married!"
"Yes, it is true."
"Has he been married long?" she asked. "On your honor?..."
Pierre gave his word of honor.
"Is he still here?" she asked, quickly.
"Yes, I have just seen him."
She was evidently unable to speak and made a sign with her hands that
they should leave her alone.
CHAPTER XX
Pierre did not stay for dinner, but left the room and went away at once.
He drove through the town seeking Anatole Kuragin, at the thought of
whom now the blood rushed to his heart and he felt a difficulty in
breathing. He was not at the ice hills, nor at the gypsies’, nor at
Komoneno’s. Pierre drove to the Club. In the Club all was going on as
usual. The members who were assembling for dinner were sitting about
in groups; they greeted Pierre and spoke of the town news. The footman
having greeted him, knowing his habits and his acquaintances, told him
there was a place left for him in the small dining room and that Prince
Michael Zakharych was in the library, but Paul Timofeevich had not yet
arrived. One of Pierre’s acquaintances, while they were talking about
the weather, asked if he had heard of Kuragin’s abduction of Rostova
which was talked of in the town, and was it true? Pierre laughed and
said it was nonsense for he had just come from the Rostovs’. He asked
everyone about Anatole. One man told him he had not come yet, and
another that he was coming to dinner. Pierre felt it strange to see this
calm, indifferent crowd of people unaware of what was going on in his
soul. He paced through the ballroom, waited till everyone had come, and
as Anatole had not turned up did not stay for dinner but drove home.
Anatole, for whom Pierre was looking, dined that day with Dolokhov,
consulting him as to how to remedy this unfortunate affair. It seemed to
him essential to see Natasha. In the evening he drove to his sister’s
to discuss with her how to arrange a meeting. When Pierre returned home
after vainly hunting all over Moscow, his valet informed him that Prince
Anatole was with the countess. The countess’ drawing room was full of
guests.
Pierre without greeting his wife whom he had not seen since his
return - at that moment she was more repulsive to him than ever - entered
the drawing room and seeing Anatole went up to him.
"Ah, Pierre," said the countess going up to her husband. "You don’t know
what a plight our Anatole..."
She stopped, seeing in the forward thrust of her husband’s head, in his
glowing eyes and his resolute gait, the terrible indications of that
rage and strength which she knew and had herself experienced after his
duel with Dolokhov.
"Where you are, there is vice and evil!" said Pierre to his wife.
"Anatole, come with me! I must speak to you," he added in French.
Anatole glanced round at his sister and rose submissively, ready to
follow Pierre. Pierre, taking him by the arm, pulled him toward himself
and was leading him from the room.
"If you allow yourself in my drawing room..." whispered Helene, but
Pierre did not reply and went out of the room.
Anatole followed him with his usual jaunty step but his face betrayed
anxiety.
Having entered his study Pierre closed the door and addressed Anatole
without looking at him.
"You promised Countess Rostova to marry her and were about to elope with
her, is that so?"
"Mon cher," answered Anatole (their whole conversation was in French),
"I don’t consider myself bound to answer questions put to me in that
tone."
Pierre’s face, already pale, became distorted by fury. He seized Anatole
by the collar of his uniform with his big hand and shook him from side
to side till Anatole’s face showed a sufficient degree of terror.
"When I tell you that I must talk to you!..." repeated Pierre.
"Come now, this is stupid. What?" said Anatole, fingering a button of
his collar that had been wrenched loose with a bit of the cloth.
"You’re a scoundrel and a blackguard, and I don’t know what deprives
me from the pleasure of smashing your head with this!" said Pierre,
expressing himself so artificially because he was talking French.
He took a heavy paperweight and lifted it threateningly, but at once put
it back in its place.
"Did you promise to marry her?"
"I... I didn’t think of it. I never promised, because..."
Pierre interrupted him.
"Have you any letters of hers? Any letters?" he said, moving toward
Anatole.
Anatole glanced at him and immediately thrust his hand into his pocket
and drew out his pocketbook.
Pierre took the letter Anatole handed him and, pushing aside a table
that stood in his way, threw himself on the sofa.
"I shan’t be violent, don’t be afraid!" said Pierre in answer to a
frightened gesture of Anatole’s. "First, the letters," said he, as if
repeating a lesson to himself. "Secondly," he continued after a short
pause, again rising and again pacing the room, "tomorrow you must get
out of Moscow."
"But how can I?..."
"Thirdly," Pierre continued without listening to him, "you must never
breathe a word of what has passed between you and Countess Rostova.
I know I can’t prevent your doing so, but if you have a spark of
conscience..." Pierre paced the room several times in silence.
Anatole sat at a table frowning and biting his lips.
"After all, you must understand that besides your pleasure there is such
a thing as other people’s happiness and peace, and that you are ruining
a whole life for the sake of amusing yourself! Amuse yourself with women
like my wife - with them you are within your rights, for they know what
you want of them. They are armed against you by the same experience
of debauchery; but to promise a maid to marry her... to deceive, to
kidnap.... Don’t you understand that it is as mean as beating an old man
or a child?..."
Pierre paused and looked at Anatole no longer with an angry but with a
questioning look.
"I don’t know about that, eh?" said Anatole, growing more confident as
Pierre mastered his wrath. "I don’t know that and don’t want to," he
said, not looking at Pierre and with a slight tremor of his lower jaw,
"but you have used such words to me - ‘mean’ and so on - which as a man of
honor I can’t allow anyone to use."
Pierre glanced at him with amazement, unable to understand what he
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