rstanding! The lovely image of Natasha that was so dear to his soul - and he had known her since childhood - didn't fit with this new picture of her as someone depraved, stupid and cruel. He thought of his own wife. 'They're all the same,' he told himself, reflecting that he was not the only man to be tied by the unhappy hand of fate to a dreadful woman. But even so he could have wept for Prince Andrey, wept for his pride. And the more he felt for his friend, the more his feeling of contempt and revulsion grew as he thought of Natasha, who had just walked past him with that air of icy aloofness. He was not to know that Natasha's heart was overflowing with despair, shame and humiliation, and she could hardly be blamed for her face happening to look all calm, aloof and austere.
'What do you mean get married?' cried Pierre when he heard Marya Dmitriyevna's words. 'He can't get married - he's married already.'
'It never rains but it pours,' said Marya Dmitriyevna. 'What a splendid young man! Absolute swine! And she's still expecting him to come - she has been for two days! We've got to stop her waiting for him. We must tell her.'
Once Pierre had told her all about Anatole's marriage, and she had vented her fury in the strongest language, Marya Dmitriyevna got round to letting Pierre know why she had sent for him. She was terrified that either Count Rostov or Prince Bolkonsky, who might arrive at any moment, could easily get to know about this affair despite her best efforts to conceal it and challenge Kuragin to a duel, so she now wanted Pierre to act on her behalf and kick his brother-in-law out of Moscow with clear instructions never to darken her door again. Pierre promised to do what she wanted, suddenly recognizing the danger that threatened the old count, and Nikolay and Prince Andrey. After outlining her wishes in a few precise words, she let him go through into the drawing-room.
'Keep the count in the dark. Behave as if you know nothing,' she said. 'And I'll go and tell her she needn't bother waiting for him! Oh, and do stay on for dinner, if you feel like it,' she called after Pierre.
Pierre met the old count. He seemed nervous and upset. That morning Natasha had told him she had broken off her engagement to Bolkonsky.
'Trouble, nothing but trouble, my dear fellow,' he said to Pierre, 'when these girls are away from their mother. I'm sorry I ever came. I won't beat about the bush. Maybe you've heard - she's broken off her engagement without a word to a soul. I must admit I never did like the idea of them getting married. Oh, I know he's a fine man, but there was never going to be much happiness with them going against his father like that, and Natasha will never be short of suitors. Still, it had been going on for such a long time . . . but how could she do such a thing without a word to her father and mother? And now she's ill, and God knows what's wrong with her. It's an awful thing, Count, a really awful thing to take your daughters away from their mother . . .'
Pierre could see the count was terribly upset, and he kept trying to change the subject but the count came back time and again to his woes.
Sonya came into the drawing-room, long in the face.
'Natasha's not too well. She's up in her room and would like to see you. Marya Dmitriyevna's with her and she wants you there too.'
'Yes, of course, you're such a great friend of Bolkonsky's. She probably wants to send him a message,' said the count. 'Oh dear, oh dear! Everything was going so well!' And the count walked out of the room clutching at his few grey hairs.
Marya Dmitriyevna had told Natasha that Anatole was already married. Natasha didn't believe her, and insisted on confirmation from Pierre's own lips. Sonya told Pierre this much as she led him down the corridor to Natasha's room.
Natasha was sitting beside Marya Dmitriyevna, looking pale and serious, and she met Pierre at the door with a quizzical glare of feverish intensity. She neither smiled nor nodded, she just stared at him and her look asked a simple question: was he a friend or an enemy like the rest of them, as far as Anatole was concerned? Pierre the man clearly didn't exist for her.
'He knows the whole story,' said Marya Dmitriyevna to Natasha. 'Let him say whether I'm telling the truth or not.'
Like a wounded animal at bay watching the dogs and the hunt close in, Natasha looked from one to the other.
'Natalya,' Pierre began, looking down with a feeling of pity for her and revulsion at the operation he had to perform, 'true or not, what difference does it make? You see . . .'
'So it's not true that he's married?'
'I'm afraid it is.'
'He is married! Since when?' she asked. 'Word of honour?'
Pierre swore on his word of honour.
'Is he still here?' she gabbled.
'Yes. I saw him a few minutes ago.'
Speech being clearly beyond her, she gestured with both hands for them to go away and leave her alone.
CHAPTER 20
Instead of staying to dinner Pierre drove away immediately after leaving Natasha's room. He scoured the town in search of Anatole Kuragin. At the very thought of this man the blood rushed to his heart and he could hardly breathe. He was nowhere to be found, not on the ice-hills, not at the gypsies', not at Comoneno's. Pierre drove to the club. In there it was just like any normal day with members coming in for dinner and sitting around in groups. They greeted Pierre and went on talking about the city and the latest news. A footman well accustomed to Pierre's friends and habits greeted him, and said several things: a place had been left for him in the small dining-room, Prince Mikhail Zakharych was in the library, and Pavel Timofeich had not yet come in. One of Pierre's acquaintances broke off from chatting about the weather to ask if he'd heard about Kuragin's abduction of young Countess Rostov, which was the talk of the town, but was it true? Pierre laughed it off as a bit of nonsense, having just come from the Rostovs'. He asked after Anatole; one man said he wasn't in yet, another said he was expected for dinner. It felt strange for Pierre to look round at that quiet crowd of uninvolved people, who had no knowledge of what turmoil his spirit was going through. He wandered from room to room, waited for everyone to arrive, and then, with no sign of Anatole, he abandoned dinner and set off for home.
His prey, Anatole, was dining that day with Dolokhov, and the pair of them were trying to work out how the plan that had ended in failure could be made to succeed. According to Anatole it was vital for him to see Natasha, so that evening he went round to his sister's to discuss with her how another meeting could be arranged. When Pierre got back home after his fruitless tour of the city his valet told him that Prince Anatole was in with the countess. The countess's drawing-room was full of guests.
Pierre completely ignored his wife even though he hadn't seen her since his return - at that moment he loathed her more than ever - strode into the drawing-room, spotted Anatole and went over to him.
'Oh, hello, Pierre,' said the countess, coming over to her husband. 'You've no idea what a predicament our Anatole finds himself in . . .' She stopped short at the sight of her husband's lowered head, the fire in his eye, the resolute tread - she had recognized the look of towering rage and dreadful power that she knew only too well from personal experience following the duel with Dolokhov.
'Wherever you are, there's bound to be vice and evil,' said Pierre to his wife. 'Anatole, come with me. I want a word with you,' he said in French. Anatole glanced round at his sister, but got to his feet compliantly, ready to follow Pierre.
Pierre grabbed him by the arm, jerked him forwards and walked out of the room.
'Please, not in my drawing-room . . .' Helene whispered, but there was no response from Pierre. He had gone.
Anatole followed on with his usual jaunty swagger. But there was an uneasy look on his face. Pierre went into his room, shut the door behind them and spoke to Anatole without looking at him. 'Did you tell Countess Rostov you would marry her? Did you try to elope with her?'
'My dear fellow,' answered Anatole, in French (as was the whole conversation), 'I do not feel obliged to answer questions addressed to me in that tone of voice.'
Pierre's face, already pale, was now contorted with rage. With one huge hand he grabbed Anatole by the collar of his uniform, and proceeded to shake him from side to side until a sufficient degree of terror had registered on his face.
'When I say I want a word with you . . .' Pierre insisted.
'I say. This is ridiculous, isn't it?' said Anatole, fingering his collar where a button had been ripped away with a piece of cloth.
'You're a vile swine, and I have no idea what prevents me from permitting myself the pleasure of braining you with this,' said Pierre. (The awkwardness of his speech was because it was in French.) He had picked up a heavy paperweight and was now wielding it ominously, but he soon put it back down again.
'Did you promise to marry her?'
'I, er . . . I never thought . . . I didn't actually, er . . . because . . .'
Pierre cut him short.
'Have you got any letters from her? Have you got any letters?' Pierre repeated his question, bearing down on Anatole. Anatole took one look at him, stuffed his hand in his pocket and took out a wallet.
Pierre took the proffered letter, shoved a table out of the way and flopped down on the sofa.
'Don't worry, I'm not going to get violent,' said Pierre in response to Anatole's gesture of alarm. 'Letters - that's number one,' said Pierre like a child going through a lesson. 'Number two - ,' he went on after a moment's silence, getting to his feet again and starting to pace up and down, 'you're leaving Moscow tomorrow.'
'But how can I? . . .'
'And three . . .' Pierre ignored him and went on, 'you never breathe a word of what went on between you and the young countess. I know I can't stop you, but if you have a grain of conscience . . .'
Pierre paced up and down the room several times without saying anything. Anatole sat there at the table, scowling and biting his lips.
'When all's said and done surely you can get it into your head that there is such a thing as other people's happiness and peace of mind beyond your own pleasure - can't you see you're ruining someone's whole life just for a bit of fun? Go and amuse yourself with women like my wife. You're within your rights there - they know what you want from them. They're armed against you because they've experienced the same kind of depravity, but promising marriage to a young girl, pulling the wool over her eyes, carrying her off! . . . Can't you see - it's so sordid, it's like attacking an old man or a child! . . .'
Pierre paused and glanced at Anatole, with more curiosity now than anger.
'Well, I'm not too sure about that, you know,' said Anatole, regaining self-confidence as Pierre controlled his fury. 'I'm not too sure about that - and I don't want to be,' he said, avoiding Pierre's eyes and speaking with a slight tremor of the jaw, 'but you've called me names - "sordid" and suchlike - which as a man of honour I can't accept from anyone.'
Pierre looked at him in amazement, at a loss to understand what he could possibly want.
'I know it's all been in private,' Anatole persisted. 'But I'm afraid I can't . . .'
'What is it you want - satisfaction?' said Pierre sarcastically.
'Well, the least you could do is take it back, what? If you're asking me to do what you want. How about that?'
'Yes, yes, I take it all back,' said Pierre, 'and please forgive me.' Pierre couldn't take his eyes off the dangling button. 'Yes, and here's some money too. You might need it for the journey.'
Anatole smiled.
The look on his face, the mean, cringing smile that he knew so well from his wife, was the last straw for Pierre. 'You're a vile and callous breed!' he cried, and stormed out of the room.
Next day Anatole left for Petersburg.
CHAPTER 21
Pierre drove round to let Marya Dmitriyevna know that her wishes had been carried out - Kuragin had been banished from Moscow. The whole house was in a state of turmoil and alarm. Natasha was very poorly and Marya Dmitriyevna told him why on the quiet: once she had been told Anatole was married, that same night she had poisoned herself with arsenic, which she had got hold of by some secret means. After swallowing just a little she had become so scared she had woken Sonya up and told her what she had done. The necessary antidotes had been administered in good time and now she was out of danger, but still too weak even to think of being taken back to the country, and the countess had been sent for. Pierre saw the count in his terrible distress, and Sonya constantly in tears, but he wasn't allowed to see Natasha.
That day Pierre dined at the club and heard gossip on all sides about the attempted abduction of young Countess Rostov. He strenuously denied all such stories, assuring everyone there was nothing in them beyond the fact his brother-in-law had proposed to Natasha and been refused. It had occurred to Pierre that his duty lay in covering up the whole affair and restoring the young countess's reputation.
He was dreading Prince Andrey's return, but every day he drove round to the old prince to catch up on the latest news about him.
Mademoiselle Bourienne had kept old Prince Bolkonsky abreast of all the rumours flying about the town, and he had read the note to Princess Marya in which Natasha had broken off the engagement. He seemed more cheerful than usual and couldn't wait to see his son again.
A few days after Anatole's departure Pierre received a note from Prince Andrey letting him know he was back and inviting him over.
The first thing his father did when Prince Andrey arrived home in Moscow was hand over Natasha's note to Princess Marya breaking off the engagement. (Mademoiselle Bourienne had filched the note from Princess Marya and handed it on to the old prince.) From his father's lips he heard a rather embellished account of Natasha's elopement.
Prince Andrey had arrived in the evening, and Pierre had come to see him the very next morning. He was expecting to find Prince Andrey in virtually the same state as Natasha, and so it came as a surprise for him to walk into the drawing-room and hear the sound of Prince Andrey's voice in the study, holding forth enthusiastically on the subject of some affair going on up in Petersburg. The old prince and some other voice kept cutting across him from time to time. Princess Marya came out to meet Pierre. She sighed, looking back towards the door of the room where Prince Andrey was talking, in an obvious gesture of sympathy for him in all his grief, but Pierre could tell from her face that she was pleased by what had happened and also by her brother's acceptance of his fiancee's unfaithfulness.
'He says he's been expecting it,' she commented. 'I know his pride won't let him tell us what he feels, but I must say he's taken it better, far better, than I ever expected. It obviously wasn't meant to be . . .'
'So it really is all over, is it?' said Pierre.
Princess Marya looked at him in some surprise, genuinely at a loss to understand how anyone could ask a question like that. Pierre went on into the study. Prince Andrey had changed a good deal and looked altogether healthier, but there was a new furrow running down between his brows. He stood there dressed in civilian clothes, arguing vehemently face to face with his father and Prince Meshchersky, and making bold gestures.
The topic of conversation was Speransky, news of whose sudden banishment and alleged treachery had just broken in Moscow.
'Now he's being criticized and censured by people who were raving about him only a month ago,' Prince Andrey was saying, 'and by other people incapable of understanding what he's been aiming at. It's too easy to criticize a man when he's out of favour, and make him shoulder the blame for everybody else's mistakes. But I tell you this: if any good has been done in the present reign it's been done by him, and him alone . . .' He saw Pierre and stopped. His face twitched and took on a nasty look. 'And posterity will see justice done to him,' he said, winding things up before turning to Pierre.
'Now then, how are you? Still putting the weight on?' he said with some warmth, though the new furrow had etched itself deeper still on his forehead. 'Yes, I'm very well,' he said, responding to Pierre's inquiry with a smile. Pierre could see all too clearly what his smile meant: 'I'm very well, but nobody's bothered about the state of my health.'
After commenting on the dreadful state of the road from the Polish frontier, and mentioning some people he had met in Switzerland who knew Pierre, and talking about Monsieur Dessalles, whom he had brought from Switzerland to be his son's tutor, Prince Andrey plunged eagerly back into the conversation about Speransky, which was still preoccupying the two old gentlemen.
'If there had been any treachery, and any proof of a secret relationship with Napoleon, this would have come out in public,' he was quick to argue, with no little passion. 'Personally I don't much care for Speransky - I never did - but I do care for justice.'
Pierre now recognized in his friend something he knew only too well, a need to get involved in a heated dispute about some neutral topic, purely to drown out thoughts that were too near the heart and too painful.
When Prince Meshchersky had gone, Prince Andrey seized Pierre by the arm and took him along to the room that had been prepared for him. A bed had been made up and open trunks and cases stood around. Prince Andrey went over to one of them and took out a box. Out of the box he took a bundle of letters. All this he did very rapidly and in silence. Then he got to his feet again and cleared his throat. There was a scowl on his face, and his lips were set.
'I'm sorry to trouble you . . .' Pierre could see that Prince Andrey wanted to talk about Natasha, and his broad face glowed with sympathy and pity. It was an expression that infuriated Prince Andrey, and although he carried on talking his tone was clipped, sharp and bad-tempered. 'I've received a rejection from Countess Rostov, and I've heard rumours about your brother-in-law seeking her hand, or something like that. Is it all true?'
'Well, it is and it isn't,' began Pierre, but Prince Andrey cut him short.
'Here are her letters,' he said, 'and her portrait.' He picked up the little bundle and handed it to Pierre.
'Give this to the countess . . . if you happen to see her.'
'She's very ill,' said Pierre.
'Oh, so she's still here?' said Prince Andrey. 'And what about Prince Kuragin?' he snapped.
'He left a long time ago. She's been at death's door.'
'I'm very sorry to hear of her illness,' said Prince And