After commenting on the dreadful state of the road from the Polish frontier, and mentioning some people he had met in Switzerland who knew Pierre, and talking about Monsieur Dessalles, whom he had brought from Switzerland to be his son’s tutor, Prince Andrey plunged eagerly back into the conversation about Speransky, which was still preoccupying the two old gentlemen.
‘If there had been any treachery, and any proof of a secret relationship with Napoleon, this would have come out in public,’ he was quick to argue, with no little passion. ‘Personally I don’t much care for Speransky – I never did – but I do care for justice.’
Pierre now recognized in his friend something he knew only too well, a need to get involved in a heated dispute about some neutral topic, purely to drown out thoughts that were too near the heart and too painful.
When Prince Meshchersky had gone, Prince Andrey seized Pierre by the arm and took him along to the room that had been prepared for him. A bed had been made up and open trunks and cases stood around. Prince Andrey went over to one of them and took out a box. Out of the box he took a bundle of letters. All this he did very rapidly and in silence. Then he got to his feet again and cleared his throat. There was a scowl on his face, and his lips were set.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you . . .’ Pierre could see that Prince Andrey wanted to talk about Natasha, and his broad face glowed with sympathy and pity. It was an expression that infuriated Prince Andrey, and although he carried on talking his tone was clipped, sharp and bad-tempered. ‘I’ve received a rejection from Countess Rostov, and I’ve heard rumours about your brother-in-law seeking her hand, or something like that. Is it all true?’
‘Well, it is and it isn’t,’ began Pierre, but Prince Andrey cut him short.
‘Here are her letters,’ he said, ‘and her portrait.’ He picked up the little bundle and handed it to Pierre.
‘Give this to the countess . . . if you happen to see her.’
‘She’s very ill,’ said Pierre.
‘Oh, so she’s still here?’ said Prince Andrey. ‘And what about Prince Kuragin?’ he snapped.
‘He left a long time ago. She’s been at death’s door.’
‘I’m very sorry to hear of her illness,’ said Prince Andrey. He laughed a cold, harsh, nasty laugh not unlike his father’s.
‘So Mister Kuragin has not bestowed his hand on Countess Rostov?’ said Prince Andrey. He snorted several times.
‘He couldn’t have married her, because he’s married already,’ said Pierre. Prince Andrey gave another nasty laugh, again recalling his father. ‘And where is he now, your brother-in-law, may I ask?’ he said. ‘He’s gone to Peters . . . oh, I really don’t know,’ said Pierre.
‘Well, it’s not important,’ said Prince Andrey. ‘Please tell Countess Rostov from me that she was and is perfectly free, and I send my best wishes.’
Pierre took the bundle with both hands. Prince Andrey, as if trying to remember whether he had anything more to add, or half-waiting for Pierre to come out with something, looked at him steadily.
‘Listen. Do you remember that difference of opinion we had in Petersburg?’ said Pierre. ‘Remember what we . . . ?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Prince Andrey answered hastily. ‘I said that a fallen woman should be forgiven, but I didn’t say I could forgive her, and I can’t.’
‘Surely, there’s no comparison, is there?’ asked Pierre.
Prince Andrey cut him short. He cried harshly, ‘Oh yes, go and ask for her hand again, be magnanimous, all that sort of thing? . . . Well, that’s all very noble, but I’m not up to following on in that gentleman’s tracks. And if you value my friendship, don’t talk to me ever again about that . . . well, all this business. Goodbye then. You will hand that on? . . .’
Pierre left him, and went in to see the old prince and Princess Marya.
The old man seemed livelier than usual. Princess Marya was just the same as ever, but through all her sympathy for her brother Pierre could see she was delighted that his marriage plans had collapsed. Looking at them, Pierre could sense the degree of contempt and antipathy all three of them felt for the Rostovs, and he realized that from now on in their presence it would be impossible even to mention the name of a girl capable of giving up Prince Andrey for anyone else in the world.
Over dinner they talked about the war that was clearly coming. Prince Andrey never stopped talking and arguing, first with his father then with Dessalles, the Swiss tutor, and although he seemed more animated than usual Pierre well knew the deeply hidden cause that lay behind all the animation.
CHAPTER 22
That evening Pierre called at the Rostovs’ to carry out Prince Andrey’s commission. Natasha was in bed, the count was out at the club, and Pierre, once he had handed the letters over to Sonya, went in to see Marya Dmitriyevna, who was keen to hear how Prince Andrey had taken the news. Ten minutes later Sonya came in to speak to Marya Dmitriyevna.
‘Natasha insists on seeing Count Bezukhov,’ she said.
