War And Peace полностью

‘It’s her fault,’ he said to himself, ‘it’s all her fault. But what difference does that make? Why did I tie myself to her? Why did I tell her I loved her when it was a lie, worse than a lie?’ he asked himself. ‘It’s my fault. I ought to suffer . . . What? Disgrace and misery? What a load of rubbish,’ he thought. ‘Disgrace, honour, everything’s relative; nothing depends on me.’

‘Louis XVI was executed because they said he was a dishonourable criminal,’ (the idea suddenly occurred to Pierre) ‘and from their point of view they were right. But so were the others who died an excruciating death acknowledging him as a saint. Robespierre was executed for tyranny. Who’s right and who’s wrong? No one is. Just live for the day . . . tomorrow you die . . . I could have died an hour ago. And why worry when you’ve only got a second to live on the scale of eternity?’ But the moment he began to draw some comfort from this kind of thinking he suddenly had another vision of her, and him too at his most passionate, falsely declaring his love to her, and this brought a rush of blood to his heart, and he felt a need to leap up and walk about smashing and tearing anything that came to hand. ‘Oh, why did I say “I love you”?’ he asked himself over and over again. At the tenth time of asking a quotation from Molière occurred to him: ‘How the devil was he going to get himself out of a mess like that?’⁶ and he laughed at himself.

During the night he woke up his valet and told him to pack for Petersburg. He could no longer live under the same roof with her. He couldn’t imagine even talking to her now. He would go away in the morning, he decided, and leave a letter telling her they were separating for ever.

When morning came and the valet brought his coffee, Pierre was lying on a low sofa, fast asleep with an open book in his hands.

He woke up and stared around for a long time in some alarm, with no idea where he was.

‘The countess has asked me to inquire whether your Excellency is at home,’ said the valet.

But before Pierre had time to think of a reply, in walked the countess herself, calmly and majestically, clad in a white satin dressing-gown embroidered with silver, and her hair done up in two huge plaits coiled round her exquisite head like a coronet. Her only disfiguring feature was a tiny line on her rather prominent marble brow, indicating anger. Disciplined and unruffled as always, she kept her counsel while the valet was still in the room. She knew about the duel and had come to discuss it. She waited for the valet to set for coffee and go out. Pierre looked at her diffidently over his spectacles. His attempt to go on reading made him seem like a hare surrounded by the pack, lying there in full view of the enemy with its ears laid back. Sensing that this was absurd and impossible, he launched another diffident glance in her direction. She remained standing and looked down at him with a scornful smile, waiting for the valet to disappear.

‘Now what’s all this? What have you been up to? Answer me,’ she said sternly.

‘Me? What do you mean?’ said Pierre.

‘So you want to be a hero now! What’s all this about a duel? What are you trying to prove? Well say something! I asked you a question.’ Pierre turned over ponderously on the sofa and opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

‘If you’re not prepared to answer, I’ll do the talking . . .’ Hélène went on. ‘You’ll believe anything. They told you . . .’ Hélène laughed, ‘that Dolokhov was my lover,’ she said in French, with her usual bluntness, pronouncing the word amant like any other word, ‘and you believed them! So what does this prove? What have you proved by fighting this duel? That you’re a fool, an idiot – but this is common knowledge. Where does it get us? I’m a laughing-stock all over Moscow, everyone’s saying you got drunk, didn’t know what you were doing and needlessly challenged a man you were jealous of.’ Hélène’s voice was getting louder and louder as she became more and more passionate. ‘A better man than you in every way . . .’

‘Hm . . . hm . . .’ Pierre growled, scowling, looking away from her and not moving a muscle.

‘And what made you think he is my lover? . . . Eh? Because I like his company? If you were brighter and a bit nicer to me, I should prefer yours.’

‘Please . . . Don’t talk to me like that . . .’ Pierre muttered huskily.

‘Why not? I’ll say what I want, and I’m telling you there’s not many wives with husbands like you who wouldn’t take lots of lovers, but I haven’t!’ she said. Pierre tried to say something, glanced at her with strange eyes, whose meaning she did not comprehend, and lay down again. He was in physical agony at that moment; he felt a weight on his chest and he couldn’t breathe. He knew he must do something to put an end to this agony but what he wanted to do was too horrible for words.

‘We . . . er . . . we’d better . . . separate,’ he stammered out.

‘Yes, let’s! As long as you look after me financially,’ said Hélène. ‘Separation! Some threat!’