War And Peace

‘I gather you didn’t hear of the countess’s death while you stayed on in Moscow?’ said Princess Marya, immediately flushing crimson as she realized that by asking this question just after he had talked about getting his freedom she was putting a construction on his words that was possibly not intended.

‘No,’ answered Pierre, evidently unembarrassed by Princess Marya’s interpretation of his reference to gaining his freedom. ‘I heard about it in Oryol, and you can’t imagine how shocked I was. We were hardly the ideal couple,’ he said quickly, glancing at Natasha; he could see from her face that she was wondering what he would have to say about his wife. ‘But I was terribly shocked by her death. When two people fall out, the blame is always on both sides. And your own guilt becomes unbearable when it has to do with someone who is no longer with us. And when all’s said and done, to die like that . . . away from your friends and without consolation. I felt very, very sorry for her,’ he concluded, pleased to see a look of glad approval on Natasha’s face.

‘So you are back on the marriage market,’ said Princess Marya.

Pierre blushed to the roots of his hair, and for a long time he tried not to look at Natasha. When he did venture to glance across her face looked cold and severe – even, he fancied, disdainful.

‘But did you really see Napoleon and talk to him?’ asked Princess Marya. ‘That’s what everybody says.’

Pierre laughed.

‘No, I never did. Everybody thinks that being taken prisoner is like staying with Napoleon. I never saw him. I never heard anything about him. I was in much lower company.’

Supper was nearly over, and Pierre, who had begun by refusing to talk about his time in captivity, found himself gradually drawn into telling them all about it.

‘But you did stay on to kill Napoleon, didn’t you?’ Natasha asked him with a slight smile. ‘That was my guess when we met you by the Sukharev tower. Do you remember?’

Pierre admitted it was true, and from that question he was led on by Princess Marya’s questions, and still more by Natasha’s, to go into a detailed account of his adventures.

He began by telling his story with that tone of gentle irony that he always adopted nowadays towards other people and especially towards himself, but as he got on to all the horrors and suffering he had seen he got carried away without realizing it and began to speak with the controlled emotion of a man reliving powerful impressions of the past in his imagination.

Princess Marya kept looking from Pierre to Natasha and back with a gentle smile. In everything he said she could see only Pierre and his goodness. Natasha, her head propped up on one hand, and her face changing constantly as the story progressed, never took her eyes off Pierre as she relived all his stories with him. Pierre could tell from her eyes and also from the exclamations and the brief questions coming from her that she was capturing the full meaning of all that he was saying. She was clearly understanding not only what he said, but also what he wanted to convey without being able to express it in words.

When he got to the episode of the child and of the woman he was arrested for defending Pierre described it like this: ‘It was a terrible sight, children abandoned, some trapped in the fire . . . One child was dragged out right in front of me . . . and women were having things wrenched off their bodies, ear-rings torn off . . .’

Pierre flushed and hesitated. ‘Then this patrol came up and they just took everybody who wasn’t looting – all the men, that is – including me.’

‘I’m sure there’s something here you’re not telling us. You must have done something . . .’ said Natasha, and after a moment’s pause, ‘. . . something good.’

Pierre went on with his story. When he got to the execution he was going to spare them the horrible details, but Natasha wouldn’t let him leave anything out.

Pierre was on the point of telling them about Karatayev; he had risen from the table and was walking up and down, Natasha following his every step with her eyes.

‘No,’ he said, stopping short in his story, ‘you can’t possibly understand what I got from that illiterate man – that simple creature.’

‘No, go on, tell us,’ said Natasha. ‘Where is he now?’

‘They killed him almost in front of me.’

And Pierre began to describe the last days of their retreat, Karatayev’s illness (his voice shook continually) and his death.