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 Rostóvs came to
Moscow the effect Natásha had on him made him hasten to carry out his
intention. He went to Tver to see Joseph Alexéevich’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 Márya
Dmítrievna asking him to come and see her on a matter of great importance
relating to Andrew Bolkónski and his betrothed. Pierre had been avoiding
Natásha because it seemed to him that his feeling for her was stronger
than a married man’s should be for his friend’s fiancée. 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 Márya Dmítrievna’s. “If only Prince Andrew would hurry up
and come and marry her!” thought he on his way to the house.

On the Tverskóy 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 Makárin 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 Márya Dmítrievna’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 Natásha 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 Márya Dmítrievna’s room.

“Fine doings!” answered Dmítrievna. “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, Márya
Dmítrievna informed him that Natásha had refused Prince Andrew without her
parents’ knowledge and that the cause of this was Anatole Kurágin into
whose society Pierre’s wife had thrown her and with whom Natásha 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 Natásha Rostóva who used to be so
charming—should give up Bolkónski 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 Natásha, 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
Natásha who had just passed him in the ballroom with such a look of cold
dignity. He did not know that Natásha’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 Márya Dmítrievna. “He
could not marry—he is married!”

“Things get worse from hour to hour!” ejaculated Márya Dmítrievna. “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, Márya Dmítrievna told
Pierre why she had sent for him. She was afraid that the count or
Bolkónski, 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
Natásha had told him that she had rejected Bolkónski.

“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 Natásha 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.

Sónya entered the room with an agitated face.

“Natásha is not quite well; she’s in her room and would like to see you.
Márya Dmítrievna is with her and she too asks you to come.”

“Yes, you are a great friend of Bolkónski’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 Márya Dmítrievna told Natásha that Anatole was married, Natásha did
not wish to believe it and insisted on having it confirmed by Pierre
himself. Sónya told Pierre this as she led him along the corridor to
Natásha’s room.

Natásha, pale and stern, was sitting beside Márya Dmítrievna, 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 Márya Dmítrievna pointing to Pierre and
addressing Natásha. “Let him tell you whether I have told the truth.”

Natásha looked from one to the other as a hunted and wounded animal looks
at the approaching dogs and sportsmen.

“Natálya Ilyníchna,” 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.