‘Am I finished with Prince Andrey’s love or not?’ she wondered, and then reassured herself with an ironical smile. ‘Silly girl, asking things like that!’ she thought. ‘What’s happened to me? Nothing. I haven’t done anything. I didn’t ask for this. No one will ever know, and I shan’t see him again,’ she told herself. ‘So, this much is clear: nothing has happened, there’s nothing to apologize for, and Prince Andrey can love me
CHAPTER 11
Anatole Kuragin was staying in Moscow because his father had sent him away from Petersburg, where he had been getting through twenty thousand roubles a year in cash and running up debts for a similar amount, and his creditors had begun to demand payment from his father. Prince Vasily informed his son that for one last time he would pay half his debts, on condition that he went down to Moscow, where a post had been found for him (with no little effort) as adjutant to the commander-in-chief, and finally made every effort to find a good marriage-partner. He suggested either Princess Marya or Julie Karagin.
Anatole had consented and gone down to Moscow, where he stayed with Pierre. At first Pierre was reluctant to receive Anatole, but it wasn’t long before he got used to him being there, started going out with him on some of his wild jaunts, and gave him money, ostensibly as a loan.
Shinshin had been quite right to say that Anatole had driven all the Moscow ladies crazy, especially by his offhand attitude and his obvious preference for gypsy girls and French actresses – he was said to be having an affair with the queen of them all, Mademoiselle George.4 He never missed a party at Dolokhov’s, or with any other member of the fast set in Moscow, he hit the bottle for nights on end, outdrinking everybody else, and attended every high-society ball and soirée. He was said to have had several affairs with Moscow ladies, and he was given to flirting with one or two of them in the ballroom. But he had steered clear of unmarried girls, especially wealthy heiresses, most of whom were not very pretty, and for one good reason known to none but a few of his closest friends: for the last two years he had been married. Two years before, while his regiment was stationed in Poland, a small-time Polish landowner had forced Anatole to marry his daughter.
It had not taken long for Anatole to walk out on his wife, but by agreeing to send a regular cash remittance to his father-in-law he had preserved the right to pass himself off as a bachelor.
Anatole was quite happy with his situation, himself and other people. With every fibre of his being he was convinced of what his instincts told him: there was no other way to live than the way he was living, and he had never done anything wrong in his life. He had no capacity for reflecting on how his actions might affect other people, or what the consequences of this or that action might be. He took it for granted that just as the duck was created to live on water, he was created by God to live on thirty thousand a year and occupy a high station in society. So strong was this conviction that when other people looked at him they accepted it and wouldn’t have dreamt of denying him either his high station in society or the money that he borrowed right and left, obviously with no thought of paying it back.
He was not a gambler – at least he was never bothered about winning money and he was a good loser. He wasn’t vain. He didn’t care what people thought about him. Still less could he have been accused of ambition. More than once he had infuriated his father by ruining his own prospects, and he laughed at honours of every kind. He wasn’t mean, and he never refused anyone who turned to him for help. What he loved was having a good time and chasing women, and since, according to him, these tastes were in no way dishonourable, and he was incapable of considering how his gratification of them might affect other people, he genuinely considered himself beyond reproach, he felt a real contempt for rogues and scoundrels, his conscience was clear and he walked tall. Men of pleasure, masculine versions of Mary Magdalene, are secretly convinced of their own innocence, and like their feminine counterparts they base this on the hope of forgiveness. ‘She shall be forgiven because she was full of love; he shall be forgiven because he was full of fun.’
Dolokhov, back in Moscow that year after his exile and his Persian adventures, now spent his time wallowing in luxury, gambling and the pleasures of the flesh, and he had his own good reasons for renewing his friendship with his old Petersburg comrade Kuragin.
