ring affectation on his lips in answer to my remorse。”
Pierre was one of those people who in spite of external weakness of character—so…called—do not seek a confidant for their sorrows。 He worked through his trouble alone。
“She； she alone is to blame for everything；” he said to himself； “but what of it？ Why did I bind myself to her； why did I say to her that ‘I love you；’ which was a lie； and worse than a lie；” he said to himself； “I am to blame； and ought to bear … What？ The disgrace to my name； the misery of my life？ Oh； that’s all rubbish；” he thought； “disgrace to one’s name and honour； all that’s relative； all that’s apart from myself。
“Louis XVI was executed because they said he was dishonourable and a criminal” （the idea crossed Pierre’s mind）； “and they were right from their point of view just as those were right too who died a martyr’s death for his sake； and canonised him as a saint。 Then Robespierre was executed for being a tyrant。 Who is right； who is wrong？ No one。 But live while you live； to…morrow you die； as I might have died an hour ago。 And is it worth worrying oneself； when life is only one second in comparison with eternity？” But at the moment when he believed himself soothed by reflections of that sort； he suddenly had a vision of her； and of her at those moments when he had most violently expressed his most insincere love to her； and he felt a rush of blood to his heart； and had to jump up again； and move about and break and tear to pieces anything that his hands came across。 “Why did I say to her ‘I love you’？” he kept repeating to himself。 And as he repeated the question for the tenth time the saying of Molière came into his head： “But what the devil was he doing in that galley？” and he laughed at himself。
In the night he called for his valet and bade him pack up to go to Petersburg。 He could not conceive how he was going to speak to her now。 He resolved that next day he would go away； leaving her a letter； in which he would announce his intention of parting from her for ever。
In the morning when the valet came into the study with his coffee； Pierre was lying on an ottoman asleep with an open book in his hand。
He woke up and looked about him for a long while in alarm； unable to grasp where he was。
“The countess sent to inquire if your excellency were at home；” said the valet。
But before Pierre had time to make up his mind what answer he would send； the countess herself walked calmly and majestically into the room。 She was wearing a white satin dressing…gown embroidered with silver； and had her hair in two immense coils wound like a coronet round her exquisite head。 In spite of her calm； there was a wrathful line on her rather prominent； marble brow。 With her accustomed self…control and composure she did not begin to speak till the valet had left the room。 She knew of the duel and had come to talk of it。 She waited till the valet had set the coffee and gone out。 Pierre looked timidly at her over his spectacles； and as the hare； hemmed in by dogs； goes on lying with its ears back in sight of its foes； so he tried to go on reading。 But he felt that this was senseless and impossible； and again he glanced timidly at her。 She did not sit down； but stood looking at him with a disdainful smile； waiting for the valet to be gone。
“What’s this about now？ What have you been up to？ I’m asking you；” she said sternly。
“I？ I？ what？” said Pierre。
“You going in for deeds of valour！ Now； answer me； what does this duel mean？ What did you want to prove by it？ Eh！ I ask you the question。” Pierre turned heavily on the sofa； opened his mouth but could not answer。
“If you won’t answer； I’ll tell you …” Ellen went on。 “You believe everything you’re told。 You were told …” Ellen laughed； “that Dolohov was my lover；” she said in French； with her coarse plainness of speech； uttering the word “amant” like any other word； “and you believed it！ But what have you proved by this？ What have you proved by this duel？ That you’re a fool； but every one knew that as it was。 What does it lead to？ Why； that I’m made a laughing…stock to all Moscow； that every one’s saying that when you were drunk and didn’t know what you were doing； you challenged a man of whom you were jealous without grounds；” Ellen raised her voice and grew more and more passionate； “who’s a better man than you in every respect。 …”
“Hem … hem …” Pierre growled； wrinkling up his face； and neither looking at her nor stirring a muscle。
“And how came you to believe that he’s my lover？ … Eh？ Because I like his society？ If you were cleverer and more agreeable； I should prefer yours。”
“Don’t speak to me … I beseech you；” Pierre muttered huskily。
“Why shouldn’t I speak？ I can speak as I like； and I tell you boldly that it’s not many a wife who with a husband like you wouldn’t have taken a lover； but I haven’t done it；” 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 so that he could not breathe。 He knew that he must do something to put an end to this agony but what he wanted to do was too horrible。
“We had better part；” he articulated huskily。
“Part； by all means； only if you give me a fortune；” said Ellen。 … “Part—that’s a threat to frighten me！”
Pierre leaped up from the couch and rushed staggering towards her。
“I’ll kill you！” he shouted； and snatching up a marble slab from a table with a strength he had not known in himself till then； he made a step towards her and waved it at her。
Ellen’s face was terrible to see； she shrieked and darted away from him。 His father’s nature showed itself in him。 Pierre felt the abandonment and the fascination of frenzy。 He flung down the slab； shivering it into fragments； and with open arms swooping down upon Ellen； screamed “Go！” in a voice so terrible that they heard it all over the house with horror。 God knows what Pierre would have done at that moment if Ellen had not run out of the room。
A week later Pierre had made over to his wife the revenue from all his estates in Great Russia； which made up the larger half of his property； and had gone away alone to Petersburg。
Chapter 7
TWO MONTHS had passed since the news of the defeat of Austerlitz and the loss of Prince Andrey had reached Bleak Hills。 In spite of all researches and letters through the Russian embassy； his body had not been found； nor was he among the prisoners。 What made it worst of all for his father and sister was the fact that there was still hope that he might have been picked up on the battlefield by the people of the country； and might perhaps be lying； recovering； or dying somewhere alone； among strangers； incapable of giving any account of himself。 The newspapers； from which the old prince had first heard of the defeat at Austerlitz； had； as always； given very brief and vague accounts of how the Russians had been obliged after brilliant victories to retreat and had made their withdrawal in perfect order。 The old prince saw from this official account that our army had been defeated。 A week after the newspaper that had brought news of the defeat of Austerlitz； came a letter from Kutuzov； who described to the old prince the part taken in it by his son。
“Before my eyes；” wrote Kutuzov； “your son with the flag in his hands； at the head of a regiment； fell like a hero； worthy of his father and his fatherland。 To my regret and the general regret of the whole army it has not been ascertained up to now whether he is alive or dead。 I comfort myself and you with the hope that your son is living； as； otherwise； he would have been mentioned among the officers found on the field of battle； a list of whom has been given me under flag of truce。”
After receiving this letter； late in the evening when he was alone in his study； the old prince went for this morning walk as usual next day。 But he was silent with the bailiff； the gardener； and the architect； and though he looked wrathful； said nothing to them。 When Princess Marya went in to him at the usual hour； he was standing at the lathe and went on turning as usual； without looking round at her。 “Ah？ Princess Marya！” he said suddenly in an unnatural voice； and he let the lathe go。 （The wheel swung round from the impetus。 Long after； Princess Marya remembered the dying creak of the wheel； which was associated for her with what followed。）
Princess Marya went up to him； she caught sight of his face； and something seemed suddenly to give way within her。 Her eyes could not see clearly。 From her father’s face—not sad nor crushed； but vindictive and full of unnatural conflict—she saw that there was hanging over her； coming to crush her； a terrible calamity； the worst in life； a calamity she had not known till then； a calamity irrevocable； irremediable； the death of one beloved。
“Father！ Andrey？ …” said the ungainly； awkward princess with such unutterable beauty of sorrow and self…forgetfulness that her father could not bear to meet her eyes and turned away sobbing。
“I have had news。 Not among the prisoners； not among the killed； Kutuzov writes；” he screamed shrilly； as though he would drive his daughter away with that shriek。 “Killed！”
The princess did not swoon； she did not fall into a faint。 She was pale； but when she heard those words her face was transformed； and there was a radiance of something in her beautiful； luminous eyes。 Something like joy； an exalted joy； apart from the sorrows and joys of this world； flooded the bitter grief she felt within her。 She forgot all her terror of her father； went up to him； took him by the hand； drew him to her； and put her arm about his withered； sinewy neck。
“Father；” she said； “do not turn away from me； let us weep for him together。”
“Blackguards； scoundrels！” screamed the old man； turning his face away from her。 “Destroying the army； destroying men！ What for？ Go； go and tell Liza。”
Princess Marya sank helplessly into an armchair beside her father and burst into tears。 She could see her brother now at the moment when he parted from her and from Liza with his tender and at the same time haughty expression。 She saw