War And Peace: Book 8 - CHAPTER XX

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PIERRE did not stay to dinner but went away at once on leaving Natasha's

room. He drove about the town looking for Anatole Kuragin, at the very thought

of whom the blood rushed to his heart, and he felt a difficulty in breathing. On

the ice-hills, at the gypsies', at Somoneno he was not to be found. Pierre drove

to the club. In the club everything was going on just as usual: the members who

had come in to dinner were sitting in groups; they greeted Pierre, and talked of

the news of the town. The footman, after greeting him, told him, as he knew his

friends and his habits, that there was a place left for him in the little

dining-room, that Prince Mihail Zaharitch was in the library, and that Pavel

Timofeitch had not come in yet. One of Pierre's acquaintances asked him in the

middle of a conversation about the weather, whether he had heard of Kuragin's

elopement with Natalie Rostov, of which every one was talking in the town; was

it true? Pierre said, laughing, that it was all nonsense, for he had just come

from the Rostovs'. He asked every one about Anatole; one man told him he had not

come in yet; another said he was to dine there that day. It was strange to

Pierre to look at that calm, indifferent crowd of people, who knew nothing of

what was passing in his soul. He walked about the hall, waited till every one

had come in, and still seeing nothing of Anatole, he did not dine, but drove

home.

Anatole was dining that day with Dolohov, and consulting with him how to

achieve the exploit that had miscarried. It seemed to him essential to see

Natasha. In the evening he went to his sister's, to discuss with her means for

arranging their meeting. When Pierre, after vainly driving about all Moscow,

returned home, his valet told him that Prince Anatole Vassilyevitch was with the

countess. The drawing-room of the countess was full of guests.

Pierre did not bestow a greeting on his wife, whom he had not seen since his

return (she was more hateful to him than ever at that moment); he walked into

the drawing-room, and seeing Anatole, went straight up to him.

“Ah, Pierre,” said the countess, going up to her husband, “you don't know

what a plight our poor Anatole is in …” She stopped short, seeing in her

husband's bowed head, in his glittering eyes, in his resolute tread, that

terrible look of rage and power, which she knew and had experienced in her own

case after the duel with Dolohov.

“Wherever you are, there is vice and wickedness,” said Pierre to his wife.

“Anatole, come along, I want a word with you,” he said in French. Anatole looked

round at his sister, and got up obediently, prepared to follow Pierre.

Pierre took him by the arm, drew him to him, and walked out of the

room.

“If you allow yourself in my drawing-room…” Ellen whispered; but Pierre

walked out of the room, without answering her.

Anatole followed him, with his usual jaunty swagger. But his face betrayed

uneasiness. Going into his own room, Pierre shut the door, and addressed Anatole

without looking at him. “Did you promise Countess Rostov to marry her? Did you

try to elope with her?”

“My dear fellow,” answered Anatole, in French (as was the whole

conversation), “I don't consider myself bound to answer questions put to me in

that tone.”

Pierre's face, which had been pale before, was distorted by fury. With his

big hand he clutched Anatole by the collar of his uniform, and proceeded to

shake him from side to side, till Anatole's face showed a sufficient degree of

terror.

“When I say I want a word with you …” Pierre repeated.

“Well, what? this is stupid. Eh?” said Anatole, feeling a button of his

collar that had been torn off with the cloth.

“You're a scoundrel and a blackguard; and I don't know what prevents me from

permitting myself the pleasure of braining you with this, see,” said Pierre,

expressing himself so artificially, because he was speaking French. He took up a

heavy paper-weight, and lifted it in a menacing way, but at once hurriedly put

it down in its place.

“Did you promise to marry her?”

“I, I, … I … didn't think … I never promised, though, because …”

Pierre interrupted him.

“Have you any of her letters? Have you any letters?” Pierre repeated,

advancing upon Anatole. Anatole glanced at him, and at once thrust his hand in

his pocket, and took out a pocket-book.

Pierre took the letter he gave him, and pushing away a table that stood in

the way, he plumped down on the sofa.

“I won't be violent, don't be afraid,” said Pierre, in response to a gesture

of alarm from Anatole. “Letters—one,” said Pierre, as though repeating a lesson

to himself. “Two”—after a moment's silence he went on, getting up again and

beginning to walk about—“to-morrow you are to leave Moscow.”

“But how can I …?”

“Three”—Pierre went on, not heeding him—“you are never to say a word of what

has passed between you and the young countess. That I know I can't prevent your

doing; but if you have a spark of conscience …” Pierre walked several times up

and down the room. Anatole sat at the table, scowling and biting his lips.

“You surely must understand that, apart from your own pleasure, there's the

happiness, the peace of other people; that you are ruining a whole life, simply

because you want to amuse yourself. Amuse yourself with women like my wife—with

them you're within your rights, they know what it is you want of them. They are

armed against you by the same experience of vice; but to promise a girl to marry

her … to deceive, to steal … Surely you must see that it's as base as attacking

an old man or a child!…”

Pierre paused and glanced at Anatole, more with inquiry now than with

wrath.

“I don't know about that. Eh?” said Anatole, growing bolder as Pierre gained

control over his rage. “I don't know about that, and I don't want to,” he said,

looking away from Pierre, and speaking with a slight quiver of his lower jaw,

“but you have said words to me, base and all that sort of thing, which as a man

of honour I can't allow any one to do.”

Pierre looked at him in amazement, not able to understand what it was he

wanted.

“Though it has been only tête-à-tête,” Anatole went on, “still I can't

…”

“What, do you want satisfaction?” said Pierre sarcastically.

“At any rate you might take back your words. Eh? If you want me to do as you

wish. Eh!”

“I'll take them back, I'll take them back,” said Pierre, “and beg you to

forgive me.” Pierre could not help glancing at the loose button. “And here's

money too, if you want some for your journey.”

Anatole smiled.

The expression of that base and cringing smile, that he knew so well in his

wife, infuriated Pierre. “Oh, you vile, heartless tribe!” he cried, and walked

out of the room.

Next day Anatole left for Petersburg.

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