War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
And whenever they were in funds Anatole and Dolokhov would give him a thousand or two.
Balaga was a fair-haired, short, snub-nosed peasant in his late twenties, with a red face and a particularly red, thick neck, bright little eyes and a short beard. He wore a fine blue silk-lined kaftan over a sheepskin jacket.
He turned to the icon corner, crossed himself, and went over to Dolokhov, extending a small black hand.
'My respects to you, Fyodor Ivanovich!' said he with one of his bows.
'Good day to you, my friend. Ah, here's the man himself!'
'Good day, your Excellency!' he said to Anatole as he came in, and once again he extended a hand.
'I say, Balaga,' said Anatole, placing a hand on each of his shoulders, 'do you care for me or not? Eh? Now's the time for stalwart service. What sort of horses have you brought? Eh?'
'Did what your man said - brought your favourite beasts,' said Balaga.
'Right, listen, Balaga. Ride them to death if needs be, only get there in three hours. All right?'
'If they're all dead, 'ow are we going to get there?' said Balaga with a wink.
'Don't get funny with me. I'll smash your face in!' cried Anatole suddenly, glaring at him.
'Just my little joke,' chuckled the driver. 'Do anything for my gentlemen I would. We'll get you there as fast as horses ever galloped.'
'All right,' said Anatole. 'Come and sit down.'
'Sit down here,' said Dolokhov.
'I think I'll stand, Fyodor Ivanovich.'
'Nonsense! Sit down and have a drink,' said Anatole, and he poured him out a stiff glass of madeira. The driver's eyes lit up at the sight of the wine. After one polite refusal he tossed it off and wiped his mouth with a red silk handkerchief which he took out of his cap.
'Right, your Excellency, when do we start?'
'Er . . .' Anatole consulted his watch. 'Time we were off now. Listen to me, Balaga. You will get us there in time?'
'Oh yes, off to a good start and we'll get there all right,' said Balaga. 'Got you to Tver, didn't we? In seven hours. I bet you've not forgotten that, your Excellency!'
'D'you know, one Christmas I drove back from Tver . . .' Smiling at the memory of it, Anatole was talking to Makarin, who gazed back, lost in admiration. 'It was incredible, Makarka, we flew the whole way - you could hardly breathe. We crashed into a line of wagons and jumped two of 'em! How about that?'
'They was real horses,' said Balaga, picking up the story. 'Two young 'uns at the sides and that bay with the shaft' - he turned to Dolokhov - 'and you wouldn't believe it, sir, forty miles them beasts galloped. There was no 'olding 'em back, me hands was frozen stiff it was that cold. I let go o' the reins. "You 'old them yourself, sir," says I, and I rolled back down in the sledge. Didn't need no driving. Couldn't 'old 'em back till we got there. Hell's teeth, they got us there in three hours. Only one of 'em died, 'im on the left.'
CHAPTER 17
Anatole left the room and came back a few minutes later wearing a fur jacket with a silver belt, and a sable cap tilted at a jaunty angle, a good match for his handsome face. He paused for a look in the mirror and then turned to Dolokhov with the same mirror-pose and took a glass of wine.
'Well, Fedya, I'll say goodbye. Thanks for everything, and goodbye,' said Anatole. 'Well now, comrades, friends . . .' he thought for a moment, '. . . of my youth . . . goodbye to you all.' He had turned to Makarin and the others.
Although they were all going with him, Anatole evidently wanted to turn this address to his comrades into a moving and solemn ceremony. His speech was loud and measured, his chest was square and he was swinging one of his legs.
'Raise your glasses everybody. You, too, Balaga. So . . . comrades . . . friends of my youth, we've had some fun together, seen a bit of life, had lots of fun. Haven't we just! So, when shall we meet again? I'm off abroad! We've seen a bit of life, so goodbye, boys. I drink to you! Hurrah!' This said, he drained his glass, and smashed it on the floor.
'Your health!' said Balaga. He, too, drained his glass and wiped his lips on his handkerchief.
Makarin embraced Anatole with tears in his eyes.
'Oh dear, Prince, it breaks my heart to part from you,' he said.
'Come on! Let's get going!' shouted Anatole.
Balaga was half-way out of the room.
'No, hang on,' said Anatole. 'Shut that door. We've got to sit down. That's the way.' The door was closed, and they all sat down.5
'Right boys, quick march!' said Anatole, getting to his feet.
Joseph, the valet, handed Anatole his sabretache and sabre, and they all went out into the hall.
'What about the coat?' said Dolokhov. 'Hey, Ignatka! Slip over to Matryona Matveyevna, and ask her for that sable coat. I've heard what elopements can be like,' said Dolokhov with a wink. 'She'll come tripping out more dead than alive, still dressed for indoors. Stop for a second and it'll be all tears, and "dear Papa" and "dear Mamma", then she's frozen stiff and she wants to go back in - so you've got to wrap her up straightaway in a big coat and get her into the sledge.'
The valet came back with a woman's fox-fur coat.
'Idiot, I said sable. Hey, Matryosha, the sable coat!' he shouted, his loud voice echoing through every room.
A pale, thin, good-looking gypsy woman with gleaming black eyes and curly black hair with a hint of grey ran out wearing a red shawl, with a sable coat over her arm.
'Here you are. You're welcome, I'm sure,' she said, visibly afraid of her master, but ruing the loss of her coat.
Instead of replying Dolokhov took the coat, put it round Matryosha's shoulders and wrapped her up in it.
'That's how it's done,' said Dolokhov. 'And then like this,' he said, turning the collar up round her head, leaving only her little face exposed. 'And then like this, see?' and he pushed Anatole's head forward towards the inside of the collar and the flash of Matryosha's smile.
'Well, goodbye, Matryosha,' said Anatole, giving her a kiss. 'Oh dear, no more fun over here! My regards to Styoshka. Goodbye then. Goodbye, Matryosha. Wish me luck.'
'God grant you all the luck in the world, Prince,' said Matryosha with her strong gypsy accent.
There by the steps stood two troikas, the horses held by two of the best young drivers. Balaga got into the first one, and raised his elbows high, taking his time to sort out the reins. Anatole and Dolokhov got in behind him. Makarin, Khvostikov and the valet got into the other sledge.
'All set?' asked Balaga. 'Away!' he yelled, wrapping the reins round his hands, and the sledge hurtled off down Nikitsky Boulevard.
'Wheee! . . . Garn! . . . Move! . . . Grrrh!' yelled Balaga and the young driver on the box, the only sounds in the night.
In Arbatsky Square the sledge bumped into a carriage with a dreadful crunch and shouts rang out, but off they flew down the Arbat. After driving the full length of Podnovinsky Boulevard, reining in and turning back, Balaga stopped the horses at the crossing by Old Konyusheny Street.
The keen young man on the box jumped down to hold the horses by the bridle. Anatole and Dolokhov walked off down the footpath. When they got to the gates, Dolokhov whistled. An answering whistle echoed back and a maid-servant ran out.
'Come on into the courtyard, or you'll be seen. She'll be here in a minute,' she said.
Dolokhov stayed by the gate. Anatole followed the maid into the courtyard, turned a corner and ran up the steps.
He was met by Gavrilo, Marya Dmitriyevna's giant of a footman.
'This way, sir. The mistress wants to see you,' said the groom in his deep bass voice, blocking the approach to the door.
'Whose mistress? Who are you?' Anatole asked in a breathless whisper.
'This way, sir. My orders are to show you in.'
'Kuragin! Get back here!' shouted Dolokhov. 'Traitors! Come on back!'
By the little back gate where he had stopped Dolokhov was wrestling with a porter, who was trying to shut the gate and lock Anatole in. Dolokhov bundled the porter a
CHAPTER 18
Marya Dmitriyevna had come across a very tearful Sonya in the corridor and forced a confession out of her. She had seized Natasha's note from Anatole and read it, and now she marched in to see Natasha, still holding the letter.
'You shameless little hussy!' she said to her. 'I don't want to hear a word!' Thrusting Natasha away while the girl gazed at her dry-eyed but speechless with amazement, she locked her in, ordered the porter to admit certain persons who were due to turn up that night, but not let them out again, and told her footman to show these persons up, and then she sat down in the drawing-room to wait for the abductors.
When Gavrilo came in to inform Marya Dmitriyevna that the persons had turned up but had got away, she rose to her feet with a scowl on her face, clasped her hands behind her back, and wandered from room to room, considering what to do. It was nearly midnight when she set off for Natasha's room, feeling the key in her pocket. Sonya was in the corridor still sitting there sobbing. 'Marya Dmitriyevna, please, for heaven's sake, let me in to see her!' she said.
Instead of replying Marya Dmitriyevna opened the door and went in. 'Hateful, disgusting girl, in my house, the vile little hussy! It's her father I'm sorry for,' Marya Dmitriyevna had been thinking, trying to control her fury. 'Hard as it may be, I shall silence the lot of them and hide it from the count.' She now strode imperiously into the room.
Natasha was lying perfectly still on the sofa with her head buried in her hands. She had been lying in exactly the same position when Marya Dmitriyevna had left her.
'You're a very nice girl, aren't you?' said Marya Dmitriyevna. 'Using my house to arrange meetings with your lovers! Let's put our cards on the table. And you listen to me when I'm speaking.' Marya Dmitriyevna touched her on the arm. 'Listen to me when I'm speaking! You've shamed yourself like a common little slut. I know what I'd do with you, but I'm sorry for your poor father. I shall hide it from him.'
Natasha didn't change position, but her whole body was racked with noiseless, convulsive sobs and a terrible choking. Marya Dmitriyevna glanced round at Sonya and sat down on the edge of the sofa next to Natasha.
'He's lucky I didn't catch him, but I shall,' she said, coarsening her voice. 'Do you hear what I say, eh?' She put a large hand under Natasha's face and turned it towards her. Both Marya Dmitriyevna and Sonya were shocked by the sight of Natasha's face. Her eyes were dry but gleaming, her lips were tightly compressed and her cheeks looked hollow.
'Leave me . . . a-lone . . . I . . . just let me die . . .' was all she could manage to say before wrenching herself viciously away from Marya Dmitriyevna and flopping back down into her former position.
'Natalya! . . .' said Marya Dmitriyevna. 'This is for your own good. Now just lie still. Come on, lie still like that. I won't touch you. But listen to me . . . I'm not going to go on about how bad you've been. You're aware of that yourself. But your father's due back tomorrow, and I want to know what I'm supposed to tell him. Do you hear me?'
Once again Natasha's body was convulsed with sobs.
'If he gets to know, what will your brother do, and your fiance?'
'I have no fiance. I've broken it off,' cried Natasha.
'It makes no difference,' Marya Dmitriyevna insisted. 'I mean, if they do find out, do you think they'll leave it at that? I know your father - he could easily challenge him to a duel. That will be all right, will it?'
'Oh, just leave me alone. Why did you have to interfere? Why? Why? Who asked you to?' cried Natasha, sitting up on the sofa and fixing Marya Dmitriyevna with a vicious glare.
'So what did you want?' screamed Marya Dmitriyevna, roused to fury again. 'I mean, you weren't exactly locked away, were you? Did anybody stop him coming to the house? Why did he have to carry you off, like some gypsy girl? . . . And if he'd managed it, do you imagine they wouldn't have caught him? Your father, your brother, your fiance? He's a swine and a scoundrel, and that's all there is to it!'
'He's better than any of you,' cried Natasha, raising herself up. 'If you hadn't got in the way . . . Oh my God, what now? Sonya, why . . . ? Oh, go away! . . .' And she sobbed with the kind of despair that people feel when they weep for troubles they know they have brought upon themselves.
Marya Dmitriyevna was about to speak again, but Natasha suddenly yelled, 'Go away, go away! You all hate me and despise me!' And she flung herself back down on the sofa.
Marya Dmitriyevna went on for some time pouring shame on Natasha, drumming it into her that everything had to be hidden from the count, and no one would know anything about it if only she would undertake to forget the whole thing, and not give off any signs that something might have happened. Natasha wouldn't respond. She had stopped sobbing, but she was now seized with bouts of shivering and trembling. Marya Dmitriyevna put a pillow under her head, covered her with two blankets, and brought her some lime-water with her own hands, but Natasha wouldn't respond to anything she said.
'Oh well, let her sleep,' said Marya Dmitriyevna, and she left the room, thinking Natasha must have dropped off. But she hadn't. Her staring eyes gazed out vacantly from her pale face. She never slept a wink all night long, she didn't cry and she never said a word to Sonya, who got up several times and went in to see her.
Next day Count Rostov arrived back from his estate, as promised, in time for lunch. He was in a very good mood, being on the point of agreeing terms with the purchaser, and there was now nothing to keep him in Moscow away from his countess, and he had begun to miss her dearly. Marya Dmitriyevna came to welcome him with the news that Natasha had been quite poorly the previous day, but they had sent for the doctor and now she was feeling better. Natasha had not left her room all morning. With pinched, cracked lips, and dry, staring eyes, she sat by the window, uneasily watching people drive past down the street, and looking round nervously at anyone who entered the room. She was obviously waiting for news of him, waiting for him to come or at least write to her.
When the count walked in to see her, she turned uneasily at the sound of his man's heavy tread, and her face resumed its earlier cold, even vindictive expression. She didn't even get up to greet him.
'What is it, my angel. Are you ill?' asked the count.
Natasha was silent for a moment.
'Yes, I am,' she answered.
When the count asked anxiously why she was so depressed and whether anything had happened to her fiance she assured him that nothing had, and told him not to worry. Marya Dmitriyevna confirmed Natasha's insistence that nothing had happened. This imaginary illness, his daughter's agitated state and the embarrassment written all over the faces of Sonya and Marya Dmitriyevna told the count all too clearly that something must have happened while he had been away. But it was just too awful for him to imagine that anything scandalous might have happened to his beloved daughter, and he valued his present good humour and peace of mind so much that he shied away from further inquiries and tried to reassure himself that nothing very unusual could have happened, his only regret being that her indisposition would delay their return to the country.
CHAPTER 19
Ever since the day of his wife's arrival in Moscow Pierre had been intending to leave town, if only to get away from her. Shortly after the Rostovs' arrival, the deep impression made on him by Natasha caused him to carry out his intention with all speed. He left for Tver to see Osip Bazdeyev's widow, who had promised some time ago to hand over her late husband's papers.
When Pierre got back to Moscow he was handed a letter from Marya Dmitriyevna asking him to call because something very important had come up concerning Andrey Bolkonsky and his fiancee. Pierre had been avoiding Natasha. He could sense that his feelings towards her were stronger than they ought to be between a married man and a young girl engaged to one of his friends. But somehow fate kept bringing them together.
'What's happened now? What do they want me for?' he kept thin
In the Tverskoy Boulevard somebody hailed him.
'Pierre! When did you get back?' called a familiar voice. Pierre looked up. A sledge flew by behind a pair of trotting greys kicking up snow all over the front board - it was Anatole and his constant companion Makarin. Anatole was sitting bolt upright in the classic pose of a dashing army man, the lower part of his face muffled in a beaver collar and his head bent slightly forward. His face was fresh and glowing, his hat sported white feathers and sat at a jaunty angle, showing off pomaded curls with a sprinkling of fine snow.
'Now that's what I call worldly wisdom!' thought Pierre. 'He can't see beyond the pleasure of the moment, nothing worries him, so he's always happy and contented. What wouldn't I give to be like him?' he mused, full of envy.
In Marya Dmitriyevna's entrance-hall, as the footman helped Pierre off with his coat he said that his mistress wanted him to go up to her bedroom.
As he opened the hall door Pierre caught a brief glimpse of Natasha sitting by the window looking thin, pale and crabby. She glanced round at him, scowled and left the room with an air of icy aloofness.
'What's happened?' asked Pierre, going into Marya Dmitriyevna's room. 'A nice turn of events!' answered Marya Dmitriyevna. 'Fifty-eight years I've lived on this earth and never seen anything so disgraceful.' And after making Pierre swear not to breathe a word of what was to follow Marya Dmitriyevna told him that Natasha had broken off her engagement without telling her parents, all because of Anatole Kuragin, Pierre's wife having brought the two of them together, and Natasha had tried to elope with him while her father was away and get married in secret.
Pierre sat there with his shoulders hunched and his mouth wide open, listening to what Marya Dmitriyevna had to say, and he could hardly believe his ears. What, Prince Andrey's beloved fiancee, Natasha Rostov, always such a charming girl hitherto, had given up Bolkonsky for that fool Anatole, who was already married (Pierre knew his secret), fallen in love with him and agreed to elope? It was beyond Pierre's imagination or understanding! 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.