War and Peace
“I hate you, I hate you! You’re my enemy forever!” And Natásha
ran out of the room.
Natásha did not speak to Sónya again and avoided her. With the same
expression of agitated surprise and guilt she went about the house,
taking up now one occupation, now another, and at once abandoning them.
Hard as it was for Sónya, she watched her friend and did not let her
out of her sight.
The day before the count was to return, Sónya noticed that Natásha sat
by the drawing room window all the morning as if expecting something and
that she made a sign to an officer who drove past, whom Sónya took to
be Anatole.
Sónya began watching her friend still more attentively and noticed that
at dinner and all that evening Natásha was in a strange and unnatural
state. She answered questions at random, began sentences she did not
finish, and laughed at everything.
After tea Sónya noticed a housemaid at Natásha’s door timidly
waiting to let her pass. She let the girl go in, and then listening at
the door learned that another letter had been delivered.
Then suddenly it became clear to Sónya that Natásha had some dreadful
plan for that evening. Sónya knocked at her door. Natásha did not let
her in.
“She will run away with him!” thought Sónya. “She is capable of
anything. There was something particularly pathetic and resolute in
her face today. She cried as she said good-by to Uncle,” Sónya
remembered. “Yes, that’s it, she means to elope with him, but
what am I to do?” thought she, recalling all the signs that clearly
indicated that Natásha had some terrible intention. “The count is
away. What am I to do? Write to Kurágin demanding an explanation? But
what is there to oblige him to reply? Write to Pierre, as Prince Andrew
asked me to in case of some misfortune?... But perhaps she really
has already refused Bolkónski—she sent a letter to Princess Mary
yesterday. And Uncle is away....” To tell Márya Dmítrievna who had
such faith in Natásha seemed to Sónya terrible. “Well, anyway,”
thought Sónya as she stood in the dark passage, “now or never I must
prove that I remember the family’s goodness to me and that I love
Nicholas. Yes! If I don’t sleep for three nights I’ll not leave this
passage and will hold her back by force and will and not let the family
be disgraced,” thought she.
CHAPTER XVI
Anatole had lately moved to Dólokhov’s. The plan for Natalie
Rostóva’s abduction had been arranged and the preparations made by
Dólokhov a few days before, and on the day that Sónya, after listening
at Natásha’s door, resolved to safeguard her, it was to have been
put into execution. Natásha had promised to come out to Kurágin at the
back porch at ten that evening. Kurágin was to put her into a troyka
he would have ready and to drive her forty miles to the village of
Kámenka, where an unfrocked priest was in readiness to perform a
marriage ceremony over them. At Kámenka a relay of horses was to wait
which would take them to the Warsaw highroad, and from there they would
hasten abroad with post horses.
Anatole had a passport, an order for post horses, ten thousand rubles
he had taken from his sister and another ten thousand borrowed with
Dólokhov’s help.
Two witnesses for the mock marriage—Khvóstikov, a retired petty
official whom Dólokhov made use of in his gambling transactions, and
Makárin, a retired hussar, a kindly, weak fellow who had an unbounded
affection for Kurágin—were sitting at tea in Dólokhov’s front
room.
In his large study, the walls of which were hung to the ceiling with
Persian rugs, bearskins, and weapons, sat Dólokhov in a traveling cloak
and high boots, at an open desk on which lay an abacus and some bundles
of paper money. Anatole, with uniform unbuttoned, walked to and fro from
the room where the witnesses were sitting, through the study to the room
behind, where his French valet and others were packing the last of his
things. Dólokhov was counting the money and noting something down.
“Well,” he said, “Khvóstikov must have two thousand.”
“Give it to him, then,” said Anatole.
“Makárka” (their name for Makárin) “will go through fire and
water for you for nothing. So here are our accounts all settled,” said
Dólokhov, showing him the memorandum. “Is that right?”
“Yes, of course,” returned Anatole, evidently not listening to
Dólokhov and looking straight before him with a smile that did not
leave his face.
Dólokhov banged down the lid of his desk and turned to Anatole with an
ironic smile:
“Do you know? You’d really better drop it all. There’s still
time!”
“Fool,” retorted Anatole. “Don’t talk nonsense! If you only
knew... it’s the devil knows what!”
“No, really, give it up!” said Dólokhov. “I am speaking
seriously. It’s no joke, this plot you’ve hatched.”
“What, teasing again? Go to the devil! Eh?” said Anatole, making a
grimace. “Really it’s no time for your stupid jokes,” and he left
the room.
Dólokhov smiled contemptuously and condescendingly when Anatole had
gone out.
“You wait a bit,” he called after him. “I’m not joking, I’m
talking sense. Come here, come here!”
Anatole returned and looked at Dólokhov, trying to give him his
attention and evidently submitting to him involuntarily.
“Now listen to me. I’m telling you this for the last time. Why
should I joke about it? Did I hinder you? Who arranged everything for
you? Who found the priest and got the passport? Who raised the money? I
did it all.”
“Well, thank you for it. Do you think I am not grateful?” And
Anatole sighed and embraced Dólokhov.
“I helped you, but all the same I must tell you the truth; it is a
dangerous business, and if you think about it—a stupid business. Well,
you’ll carry her off—all right! Will they let it stop at that? It
will come out that you’re already married. Why, they’ll have you in
the criminal court....”
“Oh, nonsense, nonsense!” Anatole ejaculated and again made a
grimace. “Didn’t I explain to you? What?” And Anatole, with the
partiality dull-witted people have for any conclusion they have reached
by their own reasoning, repeated the argument he had already put to
Dólokhov a hundred times. “Didn’t I explain to you that I have come
to this conclusion: if this marriage is invalid,” he went on, crooking
one finger, “then I have nothing to answer for; but if it is valid, no
matter! Abroad no one will know anything about it. Isn’t that so? And
don’t talk to me, don’t, don’t.”
“Seriously, you’d better drop it! You’ll only get yourself into a
mess!”
“Go to the devil!” cried Anatole and, clutching his hair, left the
room, but returned at once and dropped into an armchair in front of
Dólokhov with his feet turned under him. “It’s the very devil!
What? Feel how it beats!” He took Dólokhov’s hand and put it on his
heart. “What a foot, my dear fellow! What a glance! A goddess!” he
added in French. “What?”
Dólokhov with a cold smile and a gleam in his handsome insolent eyes
looked at him—evidently wishing to get some more amusement out of him.
“Well and when the money’s gone, what then?”
“What then? Eh?” repeated Anatole, sincerely perplexed by a thought
of the future. “What then?... Then, I don’t know.... But why talk
nonsense!” He glanced at his watch. “It’s time!”
Anatole went into the back room.
“Now then! Nearly ready? You’re dawdling!” he shouted to the
servants.
Dólokhov put away the money, called a footman whom he ordered to bring
something for them to eat and drink before the journey, and went into
the room where Khvóstikov and Makárin were sitting.
Anatole lay on the sofa in the study leaning on his elbow and smiling
pensively, while his handsome lips muttered tenderly to himself.
“Come and eat something. Have a drink!” Dólokhov shouted to him
from the other room.
“I don’t want to,” answered Anatole continuing to smile.
“Come! Balagá is here.”
Anatole rose and went into the dining room. Balagá was a famous troyka
driver who had known Dólokhov and Anatole some six years and had given
them good service with his troykas. More than once when Anatole’s
regiment was stationed at Tver he had taken him from Tver in the
evening, brought him to Moscow by daybreak, and driven him back again
the next night. More than once he had enabled Dólokhov to escape when
pursued. More than once he had driven them through the town with gypsies
and “ladykins” as he called the cocottes. More than once in their
service he had run over pedestrians and upset vehicles in the streets
of Moscow and had always been protected from the consequences by “my
gentlemen” as he called them. He had ruined more than one horse in
their service. More than once they had beaten him, and more than once
they had made him drunk on champagne and Madeira, which he loved; and
he knew more than one thing about each of them which would long ago have
sent an ordinary man to Siberia. They often called Balagá into their
orgies and made him drink and dance at the gypsies’, and more than one
thousand rubles of their money had passed through his hands. In their
service he risked his skin and his life twenty times a year, and in
their service had lost more horses than the money he had from them would
buy. But he liked them; liked that mad driving at twelve miles an hour,
liked upsetting a driver or running down a pedestrian, and flying at
full gallop through the Moscow streets. He liked to hear those wild,
tipsy shouts behind him: “Get on! Get on!” when it was impossible
to go any faster. He liked giving a painful lash on the neck to some
peasant who, more dead than alive, was already hurrying out of his way.
“Real gentlemen!” he considered them.
Anatole and Dólokhov liked Balagá too for his masterly driving and
because he liked the things they liked. With others Balagá bargained,
charging twenty-five rubles for a two hours’ drive, and rarely
drove himself, generally letting his young men do so. But with “his
gentlemen” he always drove himself and never demanded anything for
his work. Only a couple of times a year—when he knew from their valets
that they had money in hand—he would turn up of a morning quite sober
and with a deep bow would ask them to help him. The gentlemen always
made him sit down.
“Do help me out, Theodore Iványch, sir,” or “your excellency,”
he would say. “I am quite out of horses. Let me have what you can to
go to the fair.”
And Anatole and Dólokhov, when they had money, would give him a
thousand or a couple of thousand rubles.
Balagá was a fair-haired, short, and snub-nosed peasant of about
twenty-seven; red-faced, with a particularly red thick neck, glittering
little eyes, and a small beard. He wore a fine, dark-blue, silk-lined
cloth coat over a sheepskin.
On entering the room now he crossed himself, turning toward the front
corner of the room, and went up to Dólokhov, holding out a small, black
hand.
“Theodore Iványch!” he said, bowing.
“How d’you do, friend? Well, here he is!”
“Good day, your excellency!” he said, again holding out his hand to
Anatole who had just come in.
“I say, Balagá,” said Anatole, putting his hands on the man’s
shoulders, “do you care for me or not? Eh? Now, do me a service....
What horses have you come with? Eh?”
“As your messenger ordered, your special beasts,” replied Balagá.
“Well, listen, Balagá! Drive all three to death but get me there in
three hours. Eh?”
“When they are dead, what shall I drive?” said Balagá with a wink.
“Mind, I’ll smash your face in! Don’t make jokes!” cried
Anatole, suddenly rolling his eyes.
“Why joke?” said the driver, laughing. “As if I’d grudge my
gentlemen anything! As fast as ever the horses can gallop, so fast
we’ll go!”
“Ah!” said Anatole. “Well, sit down.”
“Yes, sit down!” said Dólokhov.
“I’ll stand, Theodore Iványch.”