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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.
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