soul. And suddenly that father whom she had judged would look for his
spectacles in her presence, fumbling near them and not seeing them, or
would forget something that had just occurred, or take a false step with
his failing legs and turn to see if anyone had noticed his feebleness,
or, worst of all, at dinner when there were no visitors to excite him
would suddenly fall asleep, letting his napkin drop and his shaking
head sink over his plate. "He is old and feeble, and I dare to condemn
him!" she thought at such moments, with a feeling of revulsion against
herself.
CHAPTER III
In 1811 there was living in Moscow a French doctor - Metivier - who had
rapidly become the fashion. He was enormously tall, handsome, amiable
as Frenchmen are, and was, as all Moscow said, an extraordinarily clever
doctor. He was received in the best houses not merely as a doctor, but
as an equal.
Prince Nicholas had always ridiculed medicine, but latterly on
Mademoiselle Bourienne’s advice had allowed this doctor to visit him
and had grown accustomed to him. Metivier came to see the prince about
twice a week.
On December 6 - St. Nicholas’ Day and the prince’s name day - all
Moscow came to the prince’s front door but he gave orders to admit no
one and to invite to dinner only a small number, a list of whom he gave
to Princess Mary.
Metivier, who came in the morning with his felicitations, considered
it proper in his quality of doctor de forcer la consigne, * as he told
Princess Mary, and went in to see the prince. It happened that on that
morning of his name day the prince was in one of his worst moods. He had
been going about the house all the morning finding fault with everyone
and pretending not to understand what was said to him and not to be
understood himself. Princess Mary well knew this mood of quiet absorbed
querulousness, which generally culminated in a burst of rage, and she
went about all that morning as though facing a cocked and loaded gun
and awaited the inevitable explosion. Until the doctor’s arrival the
morning had passed off safely. After admitting the doctor, Princess Mary
sat down with a book in the drawing room near the door through which she
could hear all that passed in the study.
* To force the guard.
At first she heard only Metivier’s voice, then her father’s, then
both voices began speaking at the same time, the door was flung open,
and on the threshold appeared the handsome figure of the terrified
Metivier with his shock of black hair, and the prince in his dressing
gown and fez, his face distorted with fury and the pupils of his eyes
rolled downwards.
"You don’t understand?" shouted the prince, "but I do! French
spy, slave of Buonaparte, spy, get out of my house! Be off, I tell
you..." and he slammed the door.
Metivier, shrugging his shoulders, went up to Mademoiselle Bourienne
who at the sound of shouting had run in from an adjoining room.
"The prince is not very well: bile and rush of blood to the head. Keep
calm, I will call again tomorrow," said Metivier; and putting his
fingers to his lips he hastened away.
Through the study door came the sound of slippered feet and the cry:
"Spies, traitors, traitors everywhere! Not a moment’s peace in my
own house!"
After Metivier’s departure the old prince called his daughter in, and
the whole weight of his wrath fell on her. She was to blame that a spy
had been admitted. Had he not told her, yes, told her to make a list,
and not to admit anyone who was not on that list? Then why was that
scoundrel admitted? She was the cause of it all. With her, he said, he
could not have a moment’s peace and could not die quietly.
"No, ma’am! We must part, we must part! Understand that, understand
it! I cannot endure any more," he said, and left the room. Then, as if
afraid she might find some means of consolation, he returned and trying
to appear calm added: "And don’t imagine I have said this in a
moment of anger. I am calm. I have thought it over, and it will be
carried out - we must part; so find some place for yourself...." But
he could not restrain himself and with the virulence of which only one
who loves is capable, evidently suffering himself, he shook his fists at
her and screamed:
"If only some fool would marry her!" Then he slammed the door, sent
for Mademoiselle Bourienne, and subsided into his study.
At two o’clock the six chosen guests assembled for dinner.
These guests - the famous Count Rostopchin, Prince Lopukhin with his
nephew, General Chatrov an old war comrade of the prince’s, and
of the younger generation Pierre and Boris Drubetskoy - awaited the
prince in the drawing room.
Boris, who had come to Moscow on leave a few days before, had been
anxious to be presented to Prince Nicholas Bolkonski, and had contrived
to ingratiate himself so well that the old prince in his case made an
exception to the rule of not receiving bachelors in his house.
The prince’s house did not belong to what is known as fashionable
society, but his little circle - though not much talked about in
town - was one it was more flattering to be received in than any other.
Boris had realized this the week before when the commander in chief in
his presence invited Rostopchin to dinner on St. Nicholas’ Day, and
Rostopchin had replied that he could not come:
"On that day I always go to pay my devotions to the relics of Prince
Nicholas Bolkonski."
"Oh, yes, yes!" replied the commander in chief. "How is he?..."
The small group that assembled before dinner in the lofty old-fashioned
drawing room with its old furniture resembled the solemn gathering of
a court of justice. All were silent or talked in low tones. Prince
Nicholas came in serious and taciturn. Princess Mary seemed even quieter
and more diffident than usual. The guests were reluctant to address
her, feeling that she was in no mood for their conversation. Count
Rostopchin alone kept the conversation going, now relating the latest
town news, and now the latest political gossip.
Lopukhin and the old general occasionally took part in the
conversation. Prince Bolkonski listened as a presiding judge receives a
report, only now and then, silently or by a brief word, showing that
he took heed of what was being reported to him. The tone of the
conversation was such as indicated that no one approved of what was
being done in the political world. Incidents were related evidently
confirming the opinion that everything was going from bad to worse, but
whether telling a story or giving an opinion the speaker always stopped,
or was stopped, at the point beyond which his criticism might touch the
sovereign himself.
At dinner the talk turned on the latest political news: Napoleon’s
seizure of the Duke of Oldenburg’s territory, and the Russian Note,
hostile to Napoleon, which had been sent to all the European courts.
"Bonaparte treats Europe as a pirate does a captured vessel," said
Count Rostopchin, repeating a phrase he had uttered several times
before. "One only wonders at the long-suffering or blindness of the
crowned heads. Now the Pope’s turn has come and Bonaparte doesn’t
scruple to depose the head of the Catholic Church - yet all keep silent!
Our sovereign alone has protested against the seizure of the Duke
of Oldenburg’s territory, and even..." Count Rostopchin paused,
feeling that he had reached the limit beyond which censure was
impossible.
"Other territories have been offered in exchange for the Duchy of
Oldenburg," said Prince Bolkonski. "He shifts the Dukes about as
I might move my serfs from Bald Hills to Bogucharovo or my Ryazan
estates."
"The Duke of Oldenburg bears his misfortunes with admirable
strength of character and resignation," remarked Boris, joining in
respectfully.
He said this because on his journey from Petersburg he had had the honor
of being presented to the Duke. Prince Bolkonski glanced at the
young man as if about to say something in reply, but changed his mind,
evidently considering him too young.
"I have read our protests about the Oldenburg affair and was surprised
how badly the Note was worded," remarked Count Rostopchin in the
casual tone of a man dealing with a subject quite familiar to him.
Pierre looked at Rostopchin with naïve astonishment, not understanding
why he should be disturbed by the bad composition of the Note.
"Does it matter, Count, how the Note is worded," he asked, "so
long as its substance is forcible?"
"My dear fellow, with our five hundred thousand troops it should be
easy to have a good style," returned Count Rostopchin.
Pierre now understood the count’s dissatisfaction with the wording of
the Note.
"One would have thought quill drivers enough had sprung up,"
remarked the old prince. "There in Petersburg they are always
writing - not notes only but even new laws. My Andrew there has written
a whole volume of laws for Russia. Nowadays they are always writing!"
and he laughed unnaturally.
There was a momentary pause in the conversation; the old general cleared
his throat to draw attention.
"Did you hear of the last event at the review in Petersburg? The
figure cut by the new French ambassador."
"Eh? Yes, I heard something: he said something awkward in His
Majesty’s presence."
"His Majesty drew attention to the Grenadier division and to the march
past," continued the general, "and it seems the ambassador took
no notice and allowed himself to reply that: ‘We in France pay no
attention to such trifles!’ The Emperor did not condescend to reply.
At the next review, they say, the Emperor did not once deign to address
him."
All were silent. On this fact relating to the Emperor personally, it was
impossible to pass any judgment.
"Impudent fellows!" said the prince. "You know Metivier? I turned
him out of my house this morning. He was here; they admitted him in
spite of my request that they should let no one in," he went on,
glancing angrily at his daughter.
And he narrated his whole conversation with the French doctor and
the reasons that convinced him that Metivier was a spy. Though these
reasons were very insufficient and obscure, no one made any rejoinder.
After the roast, champagne was served. The guests rose to congratulate
the old prince. Princess Mary, too, went round to him.
He gave her a cold, angry look and offered her his wrinkled,
clean-shaven cheek to kiss. The whole expression of his face told
her that he had not forgotten the morning’s talk, that his decision
remained in force, and only the presence of visitors hindered his
speaking of it to her now.
When they went into the drawing room where coffee was served, the old
men sat together.
Prince Nicholas grew more animated and expressed his views on the
impending war.
He said that our wars with Bonaparte would be disastrous so long as we
sought alliances with the Germans and thrust ourselves into European
affairs, into which we had been drawn by the Peace of Tilsit. "We
ought not to fight either for or against Austria. Our political
interests are all in the East, and in regard to Bonaparte the only thing
is to have an armed frontier and a firm policy, and he will never dare
to cross the Russian frontier, as was the case in 1807!"
"How can we fight the French, Prince?" said Count Rostopchin.
"Can we arm ourselves against our teachers and divinities? Look at
our youths, look at our ladies! The French are our Gods: Paris is our
Kingdom of Heaven."
He began speaking louder, evidently to be heard by everyone.
"French dresses, French ideas, French feelings! There now, you turned
Metivier out by the scruff of his neck because he is a Frenchman and
a scoundrel, but our ladies crawl after him on their knees. I went to
a party last night, and there out of five ladies three were Roman
Catholics and had the Pope’s indulgence for doing woolwork on Sundays.
And they themselves sit there nearly naked, like the signboards at our
Public Baths if I may say so. Ah, when one looks at our young people,
Prince, one would like to take Peter the Great’s old cudgel out of the
museum and belabor them in the Russian way till all the nonsense jumps
out of them."
All were silent. The old prince looked at Rostopchin with a smile and
wagged his head approvingly.
"Well, good-by, your excellency, keep well!" said Rostopchin,
getting up with characteristic briskness and holding out his hand to the
prince.
"Good-by, my dear fellow.... His words are music, I never tire of
hearing him!" said the old prince, keeping hold of the hand and
offering his cheek to be kissed.
Following Rostopchin’s example the others also rose.
CHAPTER IV
Princess Mary as she sat listening to the old men’s talk and
faultfinding, understood nothing of what she heard; she only wondered
whether the guests had all observed her father’s hostile attitude
toward her. She did not even notice the special attentions and
amiabilities shown her during dinner by Boris Drubetskoy, who was
visiting them for the third time already.
Princess Mary turned with absent-minded questioning look to Pierre, who
hat in hand and with a smile on his face was the last of the guests to
approach her after the old prince had gone out and they were left alone
in the drawing room.
"May I stay a little longer?" he said, letting his stout body sink
into an armchair beside her.
"Oh yes," she answered. "You noticed nothing?" her look asked.
Pierre was in an agreeable after-dinner mood. He looked straight before
him and smiled quietly.
"Have you known that young man long, Princess?" he asked.
"Who?"
"Drubetskoy."
"No, not long...."
"Do you like him?"
"Yes, he is an agreeable young man.... Why do you ask me that?" said
Princess Mary, still thinking of that morning’s conversation with her
father.
"Because I have noticed that when a young man comes on leave from
Petersburg to Moscow it is usually with the object of marrying an
heiress."
"You have observed that?" said Princess Mary.
"Yes," returned Pierre with a smile, "and this young man now
manages matters so that where there is a wealthy heiress there he is
too. I can read him like a book. At present he is hesitating whom to lay
siege to - you or Mademoiselle Julie Karagina. He is very attentive to
her."
"He visits them?"
"Yes, very often. And do you know the new way of courting?" said
Pierre with an amused smile, evidently in that cheerful mood of good
humored raillery for which he so often reproached himself in his diary.
"No," replied Princess Mary.
"To please Moscow girls nowadays one has to be melancholy. He is very
melancholy with Mademoiselle Karagina," said Pierre.
"Really?" asked Princess Mary, looking into Pierre’s kindly
face and still thinking of her own sorrow. "It would be a relief,"
thought she, "if I ventured to confide what I am feeling to someone.
I should like to tell everything to Pierre. He is kind and generous. It
would be a relief. He would give me advice."
"Would you marry him?"
"Oh, my God, Count, there are moments when I would marry anybody!"
she cried suddenly to her own surprise and with tears in her voice.
"Ah, how bitter it is to love someone near to you and to feel
that..." she went on in a trembling voice, "that you can do nothing
for him but grieve him, and to know that you cannot alter this. Then
there is only one thing left - to go away, but where could I go?"
"What is wrong? What is it, Princess?"
But without finishing what she was saying, Princess Mary burst into
tears.
"I don’t know what is the matter with me today. Don’t take any
notice - forget what I have said!"
Pierre’s gaiety vanished completely. He anxiously questioned the
princess, asked her to speak out fully and confide her grief to him; but
she only repeated that she begged him to forget what she had said, that
she did not remember what she had said, and that she had no trouble
except the one he knew of - that Prince Andrew’s marriage threatened
to cause a rupture between father and son.
"Have you any news of the Rostovs?" she asked, to change the
subject. "I was told they are coming soon. I am also expecting Andrew
any day. I should like them to meet here."
"And how does he now regard the matter?" asked Pierre, referring to
the old prince.
Princess Mary shook her head.
"What is to be done? In a few months the year will be up. The thing
is impossible. I only wish I could spare my brother the first moments.
I wish they would come sooner. I hope to be friends with her. You have
known them a long time," said Princess Mary. "Tell me honestly
the whole truth: what sort of girl is she, and what do you think of
her? - The real truth, because you know Andrew is risking so much doing
this against his father’s will that I should like to know...."
An undefined instinct told Pierre that these explanations, and
repeated requests to be told the whole truth, expressed ill-will on
the princess’ part toward her future sister-in-law and a wish that
he should disapprove of Andrew’s choice; but in reply he said what he
felt rather than what he thought.
"I don’t know how to answer your question," he said, blushing
without knowing why. "I really don’t know what sort of girl she is;
I can’t analyze her at all. She is enchanting, but what makes her so I
don’t know. That is all one can say about her."
Princess Mary sighed, and the expression on her face said: "Yes,
that’s what I expected and feared."
"Is she clever?" she asked.
Pierre considered.
"I think not," he said, "and yet - yes. She does not deign to be
clever.... Oh no, she is simply enchanting, and that is all."
Princess Mary again shook her head disapprovingly.
"Ah, I so long to like her! Tell her so if you see her before I do."
"I hear they are expected very soon," said Pierre.
Princess Mary told Pierre of her plan to become intimate with her future
sister-in-law as soon as the Rostovs arrived and to try to accustom the
old prince to her.
CHAPTER V
Boris had not succeeded in making a wealthy match in Petersburg, so
with the same object in view he came to Moscow. There he wavered between
the two richest heiresses, Julie and Princess Mary. Though Princess
Mary despite her plainness seemed to him more attractive than Julie, he,
without knowing why, felt awkward about paying court to her. When they
had last met on the old prince’s name day, she had answered at random
all his attempts to talk sentimentally, evidently not listening to what
he was saying.
Julie on the contrary accepted his attentions readily, though in a
manner peculiar to herself.
She was twenty-seven. After the death of her brothers she had become
very wealthy. She was by now decidedly plain, but thought herself not
merely as good-looking as before but even far more attractive. She
was confirmed in this delusion by the fact that she had become a very
wealthy heiress and also by the fact that the older she grew the less
dangerous she became to men, and the more freely they could associate
with her and avail themselves of her suppers, soirees, and the animated
company that assembled at her house, without incurring any obligation.
A man who would have been afraid ten years before of going every day
to the house when there was a girl of seventeen there, for fear of
compromising her and committing himself, would now go boldly every day
and treat her not as a marriageable girl but as a sexless acquaintance.
That winter the Karagins’ house was the most agreeable and hospitable
in Moscow. In addition to the formal evening and dinner parties, a large
company, chiefly of men, gathered there every day, supping at midnight
and staying till three in the morning. Julie never missed a ball, a
promenade, or a play. Her dresses were always of the latest fashion.
But in spite of that she seemed to be disillusioned about everything and
told everyone that she did not believe either in friendship or in love,
or any of the joys of life, and expected peace only "yonder." She
adopted the tone of one who has suffered a great disappointment, like a
girl who has either lost the man she loved or been cruelly deceived by
him. Though nothing of the kind had happened to her she was regarded in
that light, and had even herself come to believe that she had suffered
much in life. This melancholy, which did not prevent her amusing
herself, did not hinder the young people who came to her house from
passing the time pleasantly. Every visitor who came to the house paid
his tribute to the melancholy mood of the hostess, and then amused
himself with society gossip, dancing, intellectual games, and bouts
rimes, which were in vogue at the Karagins’. Only a few of these
young men, among them Boris, entered more deeply into Julie’s
melancholy, and with these she had prolonged conversations in private
on the vanity of all worldly things, and to them she showed her albums
filled with mournful sketches, maxims, and verses.
To Boris, Julie was particularly gracious: she regretted his early
disillusionment with life, offered him such consolation of friendship
as she who had herself suffered so much could render, and showed him
her album. Boris sketched two trees in the album and wrote: "Rustic
trees, your dark branches shed gloom and melancholy upon me."
On another page he drew a tomb, and wrote:
La mort est secourable et la mort est tranquille.
Ah! contre les douleurs il n’y a pas d’autre asile. *
* Death gives relief and death is peaceful.
Ah! from suffering there is no other refuge.
Julie said this was charming
"There is something so enchanting in the smile of melancholy," she
said to Boris, repeating word for word a passage she had copied from a
book. "It is a ray of light in the darkness, a shade between sadness
and despair, showing the possibility of consolation."
In reply Boris wrote these lines:
Aliment de poison d’une âme trop sensible,
Toi, sans qui le bonheur me serait impossible,
Tendre melancholie, ah, viens me consoler,
Viens calmer les tourments de ma sombre retraite,
Et mêle une douceur secrete
A ces pleurs que je sens couler. *
*Poisonous nourishment of a too sensitive soul,
Thou, without whom happiness would for me be impossible,
Tender melancholy, ah, come to console me,
Come to calm the torments of my gloomy retreat,
And mingle a secret sweetness
With these tears that I feel to be flowing.
For Boris, Julie played most doleful nocturnes on her harp. Boris
read Poor Liza aloud to her, and more than once interrupted the reading
because of the emotions that choked him. Meeting at large gatherings
Julie and Boris looked on one another as the only souls who understood
one another in a world of indifferent people.
Anna Mikhaylovna, who often visited the Karagins, while playing cards
with the mother made careful inquiries as to Julie’s dowry (she was
to have two estates in Penza and the Nizhegorod forests). Anna
Mikhaylovna regarded the refined sadness that united her son to the
wealthy Julie with emotion, and resignation to the Divine will.
"You are always charming and melancholy, my dear Julie," she said to
the daughter. "Boris says his soul finds repose at your house. He has
suffered so many disappointments and is so sensitive," said she to
the mother. "Ah, my dear, I can’t tell you how fond I have grown
of Julie latterly," she said to her son. "But who could help loving
her? She is an angelic being! Ah, Boris, Boris!" - she paused.
"And how I pity her mother," she went on; "today she showed me her
accounts and letters from Penza (they have enormous estates there), and
she, poor thing, has no one to help her, and they do cheat her so!"
Boris smiled almost imperceptibly while listening to his mother. He
laughed blandly at her naïve diplomacy but listened to what she had
to say, and sometimes questioned her carefully about the Penza and
Nizhegorod estates.
Julie had long been expecting a proposal from her melancholy adorer and
was ready to accept it; but some secret feeling of repulsion for her,
for her passionate desire to get married, for her artificiality, and
a feeling of horror at renouncing the possibility of real love still
restrained Boris. His leave was expiring. He spent every day and whole
days at the Karagins’, and every day on thinking the matter over
told himself that he would propose tomorrow. But in Julie’s presence,
looking at her red face and chin (nearly always powdered), her moist
eyes, and her expression of continual readiness to pass at once from
melancholy to an unnatural rapture of married bliss, Boris could not
utter the decisive words, though in imagination he had long regarded
himself as the possessor of those Penza and Nizhegorod estates and
had apportioned the use of the income from them. Julie saw Boris’
indecision, and sometimes the thought occurred to her that she was
repulsive to him, but her feminine self-deception immediately supplied
her with consolation, and she told herself that he was only shy from
love. Her melancholy, however, began to turn to irritability, and not
long before Boris’ departure she formed a definite plan of action.
Just as Boris’ leave of absence was expiring, Anatole Kuragin made
his appearance in Moscow, and of course in the Karagins’ drawing
room, and Julie, suddenly abandoning her melancholy, became cheerful and
very attentive to Kuragin.
"My dear," said Anna Mikhaylovna to her son, "I know from a
reliable source that Prince Vasili has sent his son to Moscow to get
him married to Julie. I am so fond of Julie that I should be sorry for
her. What do you think of it, my dear?"
The idea of being made a fool of and of having thrown away that whole
month of arduous melancholy service to Julie, and of seeing all
the revenue from the Penza estates which he had already mentally
apportioned and put to proper use fall into the hands of another, and
especially into the hands of that idiot Anatole, pained Boris. He drove
to the Karagins’ with the firm intention of proposing. Julie met
him in a gay, careless manner, spoke casually of how she had enjoyed
yesterday’s ball, and asked when he was leaving. Though Boris had
come intentionally to speak of his love and therefore meant to be
tender, he began speaking irritably of feminine inconstancy, of how
easily women can turn from sadness to joy, and how their moods depend
solely on who happens to be paying court to them. Julie was offended and
replied that it was true that a woman needs variety, and the same thing
over and over again would weary anyone.
"Then I should advise you..." Boris began, wishing to sting her;
but at that instant the galling thought occurred to him that he might
have to leave Moscow without having accomplished his aim, and have
vainly wasted his efforts - which was a thing he never allowed to
happen.
He checked himself in the middle of the sentence, lowered his eyes to
avoid seeing her unpleasantly irritated and irresolute face, and said:
"I did not come here at all to quarrel with you. On the contrary..."
He glanced at her to make sure that he might go on. Her irritability had
suddenly quite vanished, and her anxious, imploring eyes were fixed on
him with greedy expectation. "I can always arrange so as not to see
her often," thought Boris. "The affair has been begun and must be
finished!" He blushed hotly, raised his eyes to hers, and said:
"You know my feelings for you!"
There was no need to say more: Julie’s face shone with triumph and
self-satisfaction; but she forced Boris to say all that is said on such
occasions - that he loved her and had never loved any other woman more
than her. She knew that for the Penza estates and Nizhegorod forests
she could demand this, and she received what she demanded.
The affianced couple, no longer alluding to trees that shed gloom and
melancholy upon them, planned the arrangements of a splendid house in
Petersburg, paid calls, and prepared everything for a brilliant wedding.
CHAPTER VI
At the end of January old Count Rostov went to Moscow with Natasha and
Sonya. The countess was still unwell and unable to travel but it was
impossible to wait for her recovery. Prince Andrew was expected in
Moscow any day, the trousseau had to be ordered and the estate near
Moscow had to be sold, besides which the opportunity of presenting his
future daughter-in-law to old Prince Bolkonski while he was in Moscow
could not be missed. The Rostovs’ Moscow house had not been heated
that winter and, as they had come only for a short time and the countess
was not with them, the count decided to stay with Marya Dmitrievna
Akhrosimova, who had long been pressing her hospitality on them.
Late one evening the Rostovs’ four sleighs drove into Marya
Dmitrievna’s courtyard in the old Konyusheny street. Marya
Dmitrievna lived alone. She had already married off her daughter, and
her sons were all in the service.
She held herself as erect, told everyone her opinion as candidly,
loudly, and bluntly as ever, and her whole bearing seemed a reproach
to others for any weakness, passion, or temptation - the possibility of
which she did not admit. From early in the morning, wearing a dressing
jacket, she attended to her household affairs, and then she drove out:
on holy days to church and after the service to jails and prisons on
affairs of which she never spoke to anyone. On ordinary days, after
dressing, she received petitioners of various classes, of whom there
were always some. Then she had dinner, a substantial and appetizing meal
at which there were always three or four guests; after dinner she played
a game of boston, and at night she had the newspapers or a new book read
to her while she knitted. She rarely made an exception and went out to
pay visits, and then only to the most important persons in the town.
She had not yet gone to bed when the Rostovs arrived and the pulley of
the hall door squeaked from the cold as it let in the Rostovs and their
servants. Marya Dmitrievna, with her spectacles hanging down on her
nose and her head flung back, stood in the hall doorway looking with
a stern, grim face at the new arrivals. One might have thought she was
angry with the travelers and would immediately turn them out, had she
not at the same time been giving careful instructions to the servants
for the accommodation of the visitors and their belongings.
"The count’s things? Bring them here," she said, pointing to the
portmanteaus and not greeting anyone. "The young ladies’? There
to the left. Now what are you dawdling for?" she cried to the maids.
"Get the samovar ready!... You’ve grown plumper and prettier," she
remarked, drawing Natasha (whose cheeks were glowing from the cold)
to her by the hood. "Foo! You are cold! Now take off your things,
quick!" she shouted to the count who was going to kiss her hand.
"You’re half frozen, I’m sure! Bring some rum for tea!... Bonjour,
Sonya dear!" she added, turning to Sonya and indicating by this
French greeting her slightly contemptuous though affectionate attitude
toward her.
When they came in to tea, having taken off their outdoor things and
tidied themselves up after their journey, Marya Dmitrievna kissed them
all in due order.
"I’m heartily glad you have come and are staying with me. It was
high time," she said, giving Natasha a significant look. "The old
man is here and his son’s expected any day. You’ll have to make his
acquaintance. But we’ll speak of that later on," she added, glancing
at Sonya with a look that showed she did not want to speak of it in her
presence. "Now listen," she said to the count. "What do you want
tomorrow? Whom will you send for? Shinshin?" she crooked one of her
fingers. "The sniveling Anna Mikhaylovna? That’s two. She’s here
with her son. The son is getting married! Then Bezukhov, eh? He is here
too, with his wife. He ran away from her and she came galloping after
him. He dined with me on Wednesday. As for them" - and she pointed to
the girls - "tomorrow I’ll take them first to the Iberian shrine
of the Mother of God, and then we’ll drive to the Super-Rogue’s.
I suppose you’ll have everything new. Don’t judge by me: sleeves
nowadays are this size! The other day young Princess Irina Vasilevna
came to see me; she was an awful sight - looked as if she had put two
barrels on her arms. You know not a day passes now without some new
fashion.... And what have you to do yourself?" she asked the count
sternly.
"One thing has come on top of another: her rags to buy, and now a
purchaser has turned up for the Moscow estate and for the house. If you
will be so kind, I’ll fix a time and go down to the estate just for a
day, and leave my lassies with you."
"All right. All right. They’ll be safe with me, as safe as in
Chancery! I’ll take them where they must go, scold them a bit, and
pet them a bit," said Marya Dmitrievna, touching her goddaughter and
favorite, Natasha, on the cheek with her large hand.
Next morning Marya Dmitrievna took the young ladies to the Iberian
shrine of the Mother of God and to Madame Suppert-Roguet, who was so
afraid of Marya Dmitrievna that she always let her have costumes at
a loss merely to get rid of her. Marya Dmitrievna ordered almost the
whole trousseau. When they got home she turned everybody out of the room
except Natasha, and then called her pet to her armchair.
"Well, now we’ll talk. I congratulate you on your betrothed.
You’ve hooked a fine fellow! I am glad for your sake and I’ve known
him since he was so high." She held her hand a couple of feet from the
ground. Natasha blushed happily. "I like him and all his family.
Now listen! You know that old Prince Nicholas much dislikes his son’s
marrying. The old fellow’s crotchety! Of course Prince Andrew is not
a child and can shift without him, but it’s not nice to enter a family
against a father’s will. One wants to do it peacefully and lovingly.
You’re a clever girl and you’ll know how to manage. Be kind, and use
your wits. Then all will be well."
Natasha remained silent, from shyness Marya Dmitrievna supposed, but
really because she disliked anyone interfering in what touched her love
of Prince Andrew, which seemed to her so apart from all human affairs
that no one could understand it. She loved and knew Prince Andrew, he
loved her only, and was to come one of these days and take her. She
wanted nothing more.
"You see I have known him a long time and am also fond of Mary, your
future sister-in-law. ‘Husbands’ sisters bring up blisters,’
but this one wouldn’t hurt a fly. She has asked me to bring you two
together. Tomorrow you’ll go with your father to see her. Be very
nice and affectionate to her: you’re younger than she. When he comes,
he’ll find you already know his sister and father and are liked by
them. Am I right or not? Won’t that be best?"
"Yes, it will," Natasha answered reluctantly.
CHAPTER VII
Next day, by Marya Dmitrievna’s advice, Count Rostov took Natasha
to call on Prince Nicholas Bolkonski. The count did not set out
cheerfully on this visit, at heart he felt afraid. He well remembered
the last interview he had had with the old prince at the time of the
enrollment, when in reply to an invitation to dinner he had had to
listen to an angry reprimand for not having provided his full quota of
men. Natasha, on the other hand, having put on her best gown, was in
the highest spirits. "They can’t help liking me," she thought.
"Everybody always has liked me, and I am so willing to do anything
they wish, so ready to be fond of him - for being his father - and of
her - for being his sister - that there is no reason for them not to
like me...."
They drove up to the gloomy old house on the Vozdvizhenka and entered
the vestibule.
"Well, the Lord have mercy on us!" said the count, half in jest,
half in earnest; but Natasha noticed that her father was flurried on
entering the anteroom and inquired timidly and softly whether the prince
and princess were at home.
When they had been announced a perturbation was noticeable among the
servants. The footman who had gone to announce them was stopped by
another in the large hall and they whispered to one another. Then a
maidservant ran into the hall and hurriedly said something, mentioning
the princess. At last an old, cross looking footman came and announced
to the Rostovs that the prince was not receiving, but that the princess
begged them to walk up. The first person who came to meet the visitors
was Mademoiselle Bourienne. She greeted the father and daughter
with special politeness and showed them to the princess’ room. The
princess, looking excited and nervous, her face flushed in patches, ran
in to meet the visitors, treading heavily, and vainly trying to appear
cordial and at ease. From the first glance Princess Mary did not like
Natasha. She thought her too fashionably dressed, frivolously gay and
vain. She did not at all realize that before having seen her future
sister-in-law she was prejudiced against her by involuntary envy of her
beauty, youth, and happiness, as well as by jealousy of her brother’s
love for her. Apart from this insuperable antipathy to her, Princess
Mary was agitated just then because on the Rostovs’ being announced,
the old prince had shouted that he did not wish to see them, that
Princess Mary might do so if she chose, but they were not to be admitted
to him. She had decided to receive them, but feared lest the prince
might at any moment indulge in some freak, as he seemed much upset by
the Rostovs’ visit.
"There, my dear princess, I’ve brought you my songstress," said
the count, bowing and looking round uneasily as if afraid the old prince
might appear. "I am so glad you should get to know one another... very
sorry the prince is still ailing," and after a few more commonplace
remarks he rose. "If you’ll allow me to leave my Natasha in your
hands for a quarter of an hour, Princess, I’ll drive round to see Anna
Semenovna, it’s quite near in the Dogs’ Square, and then I’ll
come back for her."
The count had devised this diplomatic ruse (as he afterwards told his
daughter) to give the future sisters-in-law an opportunity to talk
to one another freely, but another motive was to avoid the danger of
encountering the old prince, of whom he was afraid. He did not mention
this to his daughter, but Natasha noticed her father’s nervousness
and anxiety and felt mortified by it. She blushed for him, grew still
angrier at having blushed, and looked at the princess with a bold and
defiant expression which said that she was not afraid of anybody. The
princess told the count that she would be delighted, and only begged him
to stay longer at Anna Semenovna’s, and he departed.
Despite the uneasy glances thrown at her by Princess Mary - who wished
to have a tête-à-tête with Natasha - Mademoiselle Bourienne
remained in the room and persistently talked about Moscow amusements and
theaters. Natasha felt offended by the hesitation she had noticed in
the anteroom, by her father’s nervousness, and by the unnatural manner
of the princess who - she thought - was making a favor of receiving her,
and so everything displeased her. She did not like Princess Mary, whom
she thought very plain, affected, and dry. Natasha suddenly shrank
into herself and involuntarily assumed an offhand air which alienated
Princess Mary still more. After five minutes of irksome, constrained
conversation, they heard the sound of slippered feet rapidly
approaching. Princess Mary looked frightened.
The door opened and the old prince, in a dressing gown and a white
nightcap, came in.
"Ah, madam!" he began. "Madam, Countess... Countess Rostova, if
I am not mistaken... I beg you to excuse me, to excuse me... I did not
know, madam. God is my witness, I did not know you had honored us with
a visit, and I came in such a costume only to see my daughter. I beg you
to excuse me... God is my witness, I didn’t know - " he repeated,
stressing the word "God" so unnaturally and so unpleasantly that
Princess Mary stood with downcast eyes not daring to look either at her
father or at Natasha.
Nor did the latter, having risen and curtsied, know what to do.
Mademoiselle Bourienne alone smiled agreeably.
"I beg you to excuse me, excuse me! God is my witness, I did not
know," muttered the old man, and after looking Natasha over from head
to foot he went out.
Mademoiselle Bourienne was the first to recover herself after this
apparition and began speaking about the prince’s indisposition.
Natasha and Princess Mary looked at one another in silence, and the
longer they did so without saying what they wanted to say, the greater
grew their antipathy to one another.
When the count returned, Natasha was impolitely pleased and hastened
to get away: at that moment she hated the stiff, elderly princess, who
could place her in such an embarrassing position and had spent half an
hour with her without once mentioning Prince Andrew. "I couldn’t
begin talking about him in the presence of that Frenchwoman," thought
Natasha. The same thought was meanwhile tormenting Princess Mary. She
knew what she ought to have said to Natasha, but she had been unable
to say it because Mademoiselle Bourienne was in the way, and because,
without knowing why, she felt it very difficult to speak of the
marriage. When the count was already leaving the room, Princess Mary
went up hurriedly to Natasha, took her by the hand, and said with a
deep sigh:
"Wait, I must..."
Natasha glanced at her ironically without knowing why.
"Dear Natalie," said Princess Mary, "I want you to know that I am
glad my brother has found happiness...."
She paused, feeling that she was not telling the truth. Natasha noticed
this and guessed its reason.
"I think, Princess, it is not convenient to speak of that now,"
she said with external dignity and coldness, though she felt the tears
choking her.
"What have I said and what have I done?" thought she, as soon as she
was out of the room.
They waited a long time for Natasha to come to dinner that day. She sat
in her room crying like a child, blowing her nose and sobbing. Sonya
stood beside her, kissing her hair.
"Natasha, what is it about?" she asked. "What do they matter to
you? It will all pass, Natasha."
"But if you only knew how offensive it was... as if I..."
"Don’t talk about it, Natasha. It wasn’t your fault so why should
you mind? Kiss me," said Sonya.
Natasha raised her head and, kissing her friend on the lips, pressed
her wet face against her.
"I can’t tell you, I don’t know. No one’s to blame," said
Natasha - "It’s my fault. But it all hurts terribly. Oh, why
doesn’t he come?..."
She came in to dinner with red eyes. Marya Dmitrievna, who knew how
the prince had received the Rostovs, pretended not to notice how upset
Natasha was and jested resolutely and loudly at table with the count
and the other guests.
CHAPTER VIII
That evening the Rostovs went to the Opera, for which Marya
Dmitrievna had taken a box.
Natasha did not want to go, but could not refuse Marya Dmitrievna’s
kind offer which was intended expressly for her. When she came ready
dressed into the ballroom to await her father, and looking in the large
mirror there saw that she was pretty, very pretty, she felt even more
sad, but it was a sweet, tender sadness.
"O God, if he were here now I would not behave as I did then, but
differently. I would not be silly and afraid of things, I would simply
embrace him, cling to him, and make him look at me with those searching
inquiring eyes with which he has so often looked at me, and then I
would make him laugh as he used to laugh. And his eyes - how I see those
eyes!" thought Natasha. "And what do his father and sister matter
to me? I love him alone, him, him, with that face and those eyes, with
his smile, manly and yet childlike.... No, I had better not think of
him; not think of him but forget him, quite forget him for the present.
I can’t bear this waiting and I shall cry in a minute!" and she
turned away from the glass, making an effort not to cry. "And how
can Sonya love Nicholas so calmly and quietly and wait so long and so
patiently?" thought she, looking at Sonya, who also came in quite
ready, with a fan in her hand. "No, she’s altogether different. I
can’t!"
Natasha at that moment felt so softened and tender that it was not
enough for her to love and know she was beloved, she wanted now, at
once, to embrace the man she loved, to speak and hear from him words of
love such as filled her heart. While she sat in the carriage beside her
father, pensively watching the lights of the street lamps flickering on
the frozen window, she felt still sadder and more in love, and forgot
where she was going and with whom. Having fallen into the line of
carriages, the Rostovs’ carriage drove up to the theater, its wheels
squeaking over the snow. Natasha and Sonya, holding up their dresses,
jumped out quickly. The count got out helped by the footmen, and,
passing among men and women who were entering and the program sellers,
they all three went along the corridor to the first row of boxes.
Through the closed doors the music was already audible.
"Natasha, your hair!..." whispered Sonya.
An attendant deferentially and quickly slipped before the ladies and
opened the door of their box. The music sounded louder and through the
door rows of brightly lit boxes in which ladies sat with bare arms and
shoulders, and noisy stalls brilliant with uniforms, glittered before
their eyes. A lady entering the next box shot a glance of feminine envy
at Natasha. The curtain had not yet risen and the overture was being
played. Natasha, smoothing her gown, went in with Sonya and sat down,
scanning the brilliant tiers of boxes opposite. A sensation she had not
experienced for a long time - that of hundreds of eyes looking at
her bare arms and neck - suddenly affected her both agreeably and
disagreeably and called up a whole crowd of memories, desires and
emotions associated with that feeling.
The two remarkably pretty girls, Natasha and Sonya, with Count Rostov
who had not been seen in Moscow for a long time, attracted general
attention. Moreover, everybody knew vaguely of Natasha’s engagement
to Prince Andrew, and knew that the Rostovs had lived in the country
ever since, and all looked with curiosity at a fiancee who was making
one of the best matches in Russia.
Natasha’s looks, as everyone told her, had improved in the country,
and that evening thanks to her agitation she was particularly pretty.
She struck those who saw her by her fullness of life and beauty,
combined with her indifference to everything about her. Her black eyes
looked at the crowd without seeking anyone, and her delicate arm, bare
to above the elbow, lay on the velvet edge of the box, while, evidently
unconsciously, she opened and closed her hand in time to the music,
crumpling her program. "Look, there’s Alenina," said Sonya,
"with her mother, isn’t it?"
"Dear me, Michael Kirilovich has grown still stouter!" remarked the
count.
"Look at our Anna Mikhaylovna - what a headdress she has on!"
"The Karagins, Julie - and Boris with them. One can see at once that
they’re engaged...."
"Drubetskoy has proposed?"
"Oh yes, I heard it today," said Shinshin, coming into the
Rostovs’ box.
Natasha looked in the direction in which her father’s eyes were
turned and saw Julie sitting beside her mother with a happy look on her
face and a string of pearls round her thick red neck - which Natasha
knew was covered with powder. Behind them, wearing a smile and leaning
over with an ear to Julie’s mouth, was Boris’ handsome smoothly
brushed head. He looked at the Rostovs from under his brows and said
something, smiling, to his betrothed.
"They are talking about us, about me and him!" thought Natasha.
"And he no doubt is calming her jealousy of me. They needn’t trouble
themselves! If only they knew how little I am concerned about any of
them."
Behind them sat Anna Mikhaylovna wearing a green headdress and with a
happy look of resignation to the will of God on her face. Their box was
pervaded by that atmosphere of an affianced couple which Natasha knew
so well and liked so much. She turned away and suddenly remembered all
that had been so humiliating in her morning’s visit.
"What right has he not to wish to receive me into his family? Oh,
better not think of it - not till he comes back!" she told herself,
and began looking at the faces, some strange and some familiar, in
the stalls. In the front, in the very center, leaning back against
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