FROM THE DAY of his wife's arrival in Moscow, Pierre had been intending to go away somewhere else, simply not to be with her. Soon after the Rostovs' arrival in Moscow, the impression made upon him by Natasha had impelled him to hasten in carrying out his intention. He went to Tver to see the widow of Osip Alexyevitch, who had long before promised to give him papers of the deceased's.
When Pierre came back to Moscow, he was handed a letter from Marya Dmitryevna, who summoned him to her on a matter of great importance, concerning Andrey Bolkonsky and his betrothed. Pierre had been avoiding Natasha. It seemed to him that he had for her a feeling stronger than a married man should have for a girl betrothed to his friend. And some fate was continually throwing him into her company.
“What has happened? And what do they want with me?” he thought as he dressed to go to Marya Dmitryevna's. “If only Prince Andrey would make haste home and marry her,” thought Pierre on the way to the house.
In the Tverskoy Boulevard some one shouted his name.
“Pierre! Been back long?” a familiar voice called to him. Pierre raised his head. Anatole, with his everlasting companion Makarin, dashed by in a sledge with a pair of grey trotting-horses, who were kicking up the snow on to the forepart of the sledge. Anatole was sitting in the classic pose of military dandies, the lower part of his face muffled in his beaver collar, and his head bent a little forward. His face was fresh and rosy; his hat, with its white plume, was stuck on one side, showing his curled, pomaded hair, sprinkled with fine snow.
“Indeed, he is the real philosopher!” thought Pierre. “He sees nothing beyond the present moment of pleasure; nothing worries him, and so he is always cheerful, satisfied, and serene. What would I not give to be just like him!” Pierre mused with envy.
In Marya Dmitryevna's entrance-hall the footman, as he took off Pierre's fur coat, told him that his mistress begged him to come to her in her bedroom.
As he opened the door into the reception-room, Pierre caught sight of Natasha, sitting at the window with a thin, pale, and ill-tempered face. She looked round at him, frowned, and with an expression of frigid dignity walked out of the room.
“What has happened?” asked Pierre, going in to Marya Dmitryevna.
“Fine doings,” answered Marya Dmitryevna. “Fifty-eight years I have lived in the world—never have I seen anything so disgraceful.” And exacting from Pierre his word of honour not to say a word about all he was to hear, Marya Dmitryevna informed him that Natasha had broken off her engagement without the knowledge of her parents; that the cause of her doing so was Anatole Kuragin, with whom Pierre's wife had thrown her, and with whom Natasha had attempted to elope in her father's absence in order to be secretly married to him.
Pierre, with hunched shoulders and open mouth, listened to what Marya Dmitryevna was saying, hardly able to believe his ears. That Prince Andrey's fiancée, so passionately loved by him, Natasha Rostov, hitherto so charming, should give up Bolkonsky for that fool Anatole, who was married already (Pierre knew the secret of his marriage), and be so much in love with him as to consent to elope with him—that Pierre could not conceive and could not comprehend. He could not reconcile the sweet impression he had in his soul of Natasha, whom he had known from childhood, with this new conception of her baseness, folly, and cruelty. He thought of his wife. “They are all alike,” he said to himself, reflecting he was not the only man whose unhappy fate it was to be bound to a low woman. But still he felt ready to weep with sorrow for Prince Andrey, with sorrow for his pride. And the more he felt for his friend, the greater was the contempt and even aversion with which he thought of Natasha, who had just passed him with such an expression of rigid dignity. He could not know that Natasha's heart was filled with despair, shame, and humiliation, and that it was not her fault that her face accidentally expressed dignity and severity.
“What! get married?” cried Pierre at Marya Dmitryevna's words. “He can't get married; he is married.”
“Worse and worse,” said Marya Dmitryevna. “He's a nice youth. A perfect scoundrel. And she's expecting him; she's been expecting him these two days. We must tell her; at least she will leave off expecting him.”
After learning from Pierre the details of Anatole's marriage, and pouring out her wrath against him in abusive epithets, Marya Dmitryevna informed Pierre of her object in sending for him. Marya Dmitryevna was afraid that the count or Bolkonsky, who might arrive any moment, might hear of the affair, though she intended to conceal it from them, and might challenge Kuragin, and she therefore begged Pierre to bid his brother-in-law from her to leave Moscow and not to dare to show himself in her presence. Pierre promised to do as she desired him, only then grasping the danger menacing the old count, and Nikolay, and Prince Andrey. After briefly and precisely explaining to him her wishes, she let him go to the drawing-room.
“Mind, the count knows nothing of it. You behave as though you know nothing,” she said to him. “And I'll go and tell her it's no use for her to expect him! And stay to dinner, if you care to,” Marya Dmitryevna called after Pierre.
Pierre met the old count. He seemed upset and anxious. That morning Natasha had told him that she had broken off her engagement to Bolkonsky.
“I'm in trouble, in trouble, my dear fellow,” he said to Pierre, “with those girls without the mother. I do regret now that I came. I will be open with you. Have you heard she has broken off her engagement without a word to any one? I never did, I'll admit, feel very much pleased at the marriage. He's an excellent man, of course, but still there could be no happiness against a father's will, and Natasha will never want for suitors. Still it had been going on so long, and then such a step, without her father's or her mother's knowledge! And now she's ill, and God knows what it is. It's a bad thing, count, a bad thing to have a daughter away from her mother.…” Pierre saw the count was greatly troubled, and tried to change the conversation to some other subject, but the count went back again to his troubles.
Sonya came into the drawing-room with an agitated face.
“Natasha is not very well; she is in her room and would like to see you. Marya Dmitryevna is with her and she asks you to come too.”
“Why, yes, you're such a great friend of Bolkonsky's; no doubt she wants to send him some message,” said the count. “Ah, my God, my God! How happy it all was!” And clutching at his sparse locks, the count went out of the room.
Marya Dmitryevna had told Natasha that Anatole was married. Natasha would not believe her, and insisted on the statement being confirmed by Pierre himself. Sonya told Pierre this as she led him across the corridor to Natasha's room.
Natasha, pale and stern, was sitting beside Marya Dmitryevna, and she met Pierre at the door with eyes of feverish brilliance and inquiry. She did not smile nor nod to him. She simply looked hard at him, and that look asked him simply: was he a friend or an enemy like the rest, as regards Anatole? Pierre in himself had evidently no existence for her.
“He knows everything,” said Marya Dmitryevna, addressing Natasha. “Let him tell you whether I have spoken the truth.”
As a hunted, wounded beast looks at the approaching dogs and hunters, Natasha looked from one to the other.
“Natalya Ilyinitchna,” Pierre began, dropping his eyes and conscious of a feeling of pity for her and loathing for the operation he had to perform, “whether it is true or not cannot affect you since …”
“Then it is not true that he is married?”
“No; it is true.”
“Has he been married long?” she asked. “On your word of honour?”
Pierre told her so on his word of honour.
“Is he still here?” she asked rapidly.
“Yes, I have just seen him.”
She was obviously incapable of speaking; she made a sign with her hands for them to leave her alone.
皮埃尔自从妻子抵达莫斯科后，便想到什么地方去，以免同她在一起生活。罗斯托夫一家人抵达莫斯科后不久，娜塔莎就给他造成深刻的印象，迫使他忙着在实现自己的心愿。他前往特韦尔拜看约瑟夫·阿列克谢耶维奇的遗孀，她早就答应把已故丈夫的文件转交给他。
当皮埃尔回到莫斯科后，有人递给他一封来自玛丽亚·德米特里耶夫娜的信，她因有极为紧要的事情邀请他到家里去，这件事涉及安德烈·博尔孔斯基及其未婚妻。皮埃尔回避娜塔莎。他觉得，他对她怀有的感情比已婚男子对朋友的未婚妻应有的感情更强烈。这样一来，某种命运经常使他和她撮合在一起。
“发生了什么事情？他们有什么事情找我？”他一面想道，一面穿上衣裳，前去拜访玛丽亚·德米特里耶夫娜。“但愿安德烈公爵快点回来和她结婚啊！”皮埃尔在前往阿赫罗西莫娃的途中这样想。
在特韦尔林荫道上有个什么人喊了他一声。
“皮埃尔！你来了很久吗？”一个他所熟悉的声音道。皮埃尔抬起头来。两匹灰色的走马拉着一辆双套雪橇，马蹄翻起的雪花溅到雪橇的前部，阿纳托利和那个常有往来的伙伴马卡林乘坐这辆雪橇飞逝而过。阿纳托利装出一副衣冠楚楚的军人的典雅的姿态，身子笔直地坐着，他用海狸皮领裹住面孔的下端，稍微低垂着头。他的面色红润，歪歪地戴着一顶饰以白羽的帽子，露出一绺绺抹了油的、撒满细雪的卷发。
“真的，这是个地道的聪明人！”皮埃尔想了想。“他只图这一瞬间的快乐，没有任何远见，没有什么惊扰他，因此他经常快活，心满意足，泰然自若。为了要做个像他这样的人，我宁愿付出一切！”皮埃尔怀有嫉妒的心情想了想。
在阿赫罗西莫娃的接待室，一名仆役替皮埃尔脱下皮袄时说，玛丽亚·德米特里耶夫娜请他到卧室里去。
皮埃尔打开了大厅的门，看见娜塔莎带着消瘦、苍白而凶狠的面孔坐在窗口。她回过头来瞥了他一眼，蹙起额角，流露着冷漠而自尊的表情从房间里走出去。
“出了什么事？”皮埃尔走进房门时向玛丽亚·德米特里耶夫娜问道。
“好事哇，”玛丽亚·德米特里耶夫娜答道，“在这个世界我活了五十八年，还没有见过这样丢人的事。”玛丽亚·德米特里耶夫娜要皮埃尔保证对他知道的全部情况秘而不宣，并且告诉他，娜塔莎未经父母亲许可便拒绝未婚夫了，皮埃尔的妻子把她和阿纳托利·库拉金撮合在一起，因此他是拒绝婚事的祸根，娜塔莎正想趁父亲不在家时与他私奔，其目的在于秘密举行婚礼。
皮埃尔稍微耸耸肩膀，张开了嘴，倾听玛丽亚·德米特里耶夫娜对他所说的话，他不敢相信自己的耳朵。安德列公爵的未婚妻、如此强烈地被他疼爱的、从前招人喜欢的娜塔莎·罗斯托娃愿抛弃博尔孔斯基，而喜欢这个已经成了家的傻瓜阿纳托利（皮埃尔知道他这次结婚的秘密），居然如此钟爱他，以致同意与他私奔！皮埃尔简直不明白，也不能想象这等事情。
他从小就认识娜塔莎，她给他造成的和蔼可亲的印象与她的卑劣、愚蠢和残忍这一新概念在他心灵上不能兼容。他想起自己的妻子。“她们都是一丘之貉，”——他自言自语地说，心里想到，并非他一人遭到与那下流女人结合的悲惨命运。但是他仍旧十分惋惜安德烈公爵，十分惋惜他的自豪感受到损害。他愈益惋惜自己的朋友，就愈益怀有蔑视、甚至是憎恶的心情想到这个娜塔莎，刚才她脸上带着冷漠而尊严的表情在大厅中从他身边走过去。他不知道娜塔莎的心灵中充满着失望、羞耻和屈辱，也不知道她的脸上无意中流露出问心无愧的自豪和严肃的表情，这不是她的过失。
“怎么要举行婚礼！”皮埃尔听见玛丽亚·德米特里耶夫娜的话后这样说。“他不能举行婚礼，他已经结婚了。”
“越来越难办，”玛丽亚·德米特里耶夫娜说，“这个男孩太棒啦！真是个坏蛋！可是她还在等他，竟等到第二天了。非告诉她不可，最少不要再等了。”
玛丽亚·德米特里耶夫娜从皮埃尔那儿得知阿纳托利结婚的详情之后，便用骂人的话语表露自己对他的愤怒，还把请他前来的目的讲给他听。玛丽亚·德米特里耶夫娜担心伯爵或者每时每刻都可能抵达的博尔孔斯基在得知她有意向他们隐瞒这件事之后，要求与库拉金决斗，因此请求他以她的名义命令他的内兄离开莫斯科，叫他不敢在她眼前露面。皮埃尔在目前才了解到这件事对老伯爵、尼古拉和安德烈公爵都有危险，他于是答应履行她的意愿。她把她的各项要求简单而且明确地向他叙述之后，便请他到客厅里去。
“伯爵什么也不知道，你当心。你也装出一副似乎什么也不知道的样子！”她对他说，“我去对她说，没有什么可等的！如果你愿意，就请你留在我们这儿吃午饭。”玛丽亚·德米特里耶夫娜对皮埃尔大声地说了一通。
皮埃尔遇见老伯爵了。他困惑不安，心绪欠佳。这天早上娜塔莎告诉他，她已经拒绝博尔孔斯基了。
“真糟糕，真糟糕，mon cher①，”他对皮埃尔说，“这些没有娘管的小丫头真糟糕，我到这儿来，感到懊恼极了。我要向您坦率直言。你不是听见，她不征求任何人的意见就拒绝未婚夫了。就算这门婚事使我非常扫兴。就算他是个好人，也没有什么了不得，可是违背父亲的意旨是不会有幸福的，娜塔莎不是找不到未婚夫的人，但是这桩事毕竟拖了这样久了，她未经父母同意怎么会采取这样的步骤！目前她害病，天知道是怎么回事！伯爵，真糟糕，没有娘管的女儿真糟糕……”皮埃尔看见，伯爵的心情很不好，极力地想改变话题，然而伯爵又提起使他苦恼的问题。
①法语：我的朋友。
索尼娅现出惊惶的脸色走进客厅里来。
“娜塔莎觉得不太舒服，待在自己房里，想和您见面。玛丽亚·德米特里耶夫娜在她身边，也请您到房里去。”
“是的，你不是和博尔孔斯基合得来么，想必要转达什么，”伯爵说，“唉，我的天呀，我的天呀！从前的一切都很好啊！”伯爵抓住苍白而稀疏的鬓发，走出了房门。
玛丽亚·德米特里耶夫娜告诉娜塔莎：阿纳托利结过婚了。娜塔莎不愿相信她的话，要求皮埃尔本人来证实。当索尼娅带着皮埃尔穿过走廊步入娜塔莎的住房的时候，索尼娅把这件事告诉皮埃尔。
娜塔莎脸色苍白，神态严肃，她坐在玛丽亚·德米特里耶夫娜身旁，当皮埃尔刚一走进门来，她就用那宛如寒热病发作时闪闪发亮的、疑惑的目光迎接他。她没有流露一丝微笑，也没有向他点头致意，而是目不转睛地望着他，她的目光只不过是问他一件事：在他对待阿纳托利的态度方面，他是他的朋友，还是和其他人一样是他的敌人？对她来说，皮埃尔本人显然是不存在的。
“他什么都知道，”玛丽亚·德米特里耶夫娜指着皮埃尔、把脸转向娜塔莎时说道，“我所说的是不是真话，让他说给你听。”
娜塔莎犹如一头被击伤的、被追逐得筋皮力尽的野兽，不眨眼地望着向她逼近的猎犬和猎人，她时而望着这只猎犬，时而望着那只猎犬。
“娜塔莉娅·伊利尼奇娜，”皮埃尔开始说，他垂下眼帘，心里可怜她，而且厌恶他非做不可的这件事，“是真话，还是假话，对您来说横竖一样，因为……”
“他结婚了，这是假话吗？”
“不，这是真话。”
“在很早以前他就结了婚吗？”她问道，“说真的，好吗？”
皮埃尔向她下了保证。
“他还在这儿吗？”她连忙问道。
“是的，我刚才看见他。”
虽然她不能继续说下去，她打着手势，叫大家离开。
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