‘That’s not him. Don’t be so silly!’
‘Mamma,’ shouted Natasha. ‘I’ll bet you anything it’s him. I tell you it is. Stop, stop!’ she yelled to the coachman; but the coachman couldn’t stop, because carts and carriages were pouring out of Meshchansky Street, and people were shouting at the Rostovs to get a move on and stop holding everybody up.
And in fact, even though he was further away now, the Rostovs did get a glimpse of Pierre, or someone remarkably like him: there he was in his coachman’s coat, walking down the street with his head bowed and a serious look on his face, side by side with a little, beardless old man who looked like a servant. The old fellow, suddenly aware of being looked at by a face poking out of a carriage window, nudged Pierre on the elbow politely and said something, pointing towards the carriage. Pierre’s thoughts were miles away, and it took some time for him to grasp what the old man was saying. Eventually he got the message and looked in the direction indicated. The moment he saw Natasha he followed his instinct and strode quickly towards the carriage. But he had hardly gone a dozen steps when he pulled up, obviously with something on his mind. Natasha’s beaming face looked back at him from the carriage window glowing with amusement and affection.
‘Come on, Pyotr Kirillych! We knew it was you! Isn’t it marvellous?’ she shouted, holding a hand out to him. ‘How are things with you? What are you doing like that?’
Pierre took her outstretched hand and kissed it clumsily as he bumbled along beside the carriage, which was still moving.
‘Is anything wrong, Count?’ the countess asked, sounding surprised and sympathetic.
‘Huh? What do you mean? Don’t ask,’ said Pierre, and he glanced up at Natasha, though without having to look he had felt warmed by the glow of her radiant, laughing eyes.
‘What are you doing, then? Staying on in Moscow?’
For a moment Pierre said nothing.
‘Staying on?’ he then asked. ‘Er, yes, that’s what I’m doing. Goodbye, then.’
‘Oh, I wish I was a man. I’d stay on with you. I think it’s wonderful!’ said Natasha. ‘Mamma, please can I stay?’
Pierre looked blankly at Natasha, trying to say something, but the countess cut him short.
‘We hear you were at the battle.’
‘Yes, I was,’ answered Pierre. ‘Tomorrow there’s going to be another battle . . .’ he was starting to say, but it was Natasha’s turn to interrupt.
‘But there’s something wrong, isn’t there, Count? There’s something different about you.’
‘Oh, don’t ask. Please don’t ask. I can’t tell you. Tomorrow . . . No! . . . Goodbye, then. Goodbye,’ he said. ‘Terrible times!’
Letting the carriage go, he stepped back on to the pavement.
Natasha’s head was still sticking out of the carriage window. For some time her smiling face beamed fondly back at him, glowing with happiness tinged with amusement.
CHAPTER 18
Since his disappearance from home Pierre had been living for a couple of days in the empty house of his deceased benefactor, Osip Bazdeyev. This was how it came about.
When he woke up the morning after his return to Moscow and his meeting with Count Rostopchin, it took Pierre some time to realize where he was and what was required of him. When he was told that the names of the persons waiting so patiently to see him had been added to by that of a Frenchman who had come along with a letter from his wife, the Countess Hélène, he felt suddenly overwhelmed by the sense of alienation and hopelessness that was his weak spot. He had a sudden feeling that everything was finished, all over the place, broken down, there was no right or wrong, no future to look forward to, no way out of his present situation. A strange smile came to his face and he started muttering under his breath. One minute he would flop down on the sofa in an attitude of utter dejection, the next he would get to his feet, go over to the door and peep through the crack into the ante-room where the visitors were waiting, only to turn back with a wave of his arms and snatch up a book. The butler came in for the second time to say that the Frenchman who had brought the letter from the countess was most anxious to see him if only for a minute, and someone had come from Osip Bazdeyev’s widow to ask him to take charge of his books because she was leaving for the country.
‘Oh, er, yes, hang on, I’m coming . . . Or shall I . . . ? No . . . All right, go and tell them I’ll be there in a minute,’ said Pierre.
