War and Peace
music on wet boards, and young girls and old men, and the nearly
naked Hélène with her proud, calm smile, rapturously cried
“bravo!”—there in the presence of that Hélène it had all seemed
clear and simple; but now, alone by herself, it was incomprehensible.
“What is it? What was that terror I felt of him? What is this gnawing
of conscience I am feeling now?” she thought.
Only to the old countess at night in bed could Natásha have told all
she was feeling. She knew that Sónya with her severe and simple views
would either not understand it at all or would be horrified at such
a confession. So Natásha tried to solve what was torturing her by
herself.
“Am I spoiled for Andrew’s love or not?” she asked herself, and
with soothing irony replied: “What a fool I am to ask that! What did
happen to me? Nothing! I have done nothing, I didn’t lead him on
at all. Nobody will know and I shall never see him again,” she told
herself. “So it is plain that nothing has happened and there is
nothing to repent of, and Andrew can love me still. But why ‘still?’
O God, why isn’t he here?” Natásha quieted herself for a moment,
but again some instinct told her that though all this was true, and
though nothing had happened, yet the former purity of her love for
Prince Andrew had perished. And again in imagination she went over her
whole conversation with Kurágin, and again saw the face, gestures, and
tender smile of that bold handsome man when he pressed her arm.
CHAPTER XI
Anatole Kurágin was staying in Moscow because his father had sent him
away from Petersburg, where he had been spending twenty thousand rubles
a year in cash, besides running up debts for as much more, which his
creditors demanded from his father.
His father announced to him that he would now pay half his debts for the
last time, but only on condition that he went to Moscow as adjutant to
the commander in chief—a post his father had procured for him—and
would at last try to make a good match there. He indicated to him
Princess Mary and Julie Karágina.
Anatole consented and went to Moscow, where he put up at Pierre’s
house. Pierre received him unwillingly at first, but got used to him
after a while, sometimes even accompanied him on his carousals, and gave
him money under the guise of loans.
As Shinshín had remarked, from the time of his arrival Anatole had
turned the heads of the Moscow ladies, especially by the fact that
he slighted them and plainly preferred the gypsy girls and French
actresses—with the chief of whom, Mademoiselle George, he was said to
be on intimate relations. He had never missed a carousal at Danílov’s
or other Moscow revelers’, drank whole nights through, outvying
everyone else, and was at all the balls and parties of the best society.
There was talk of his intrigues with some of the ladies, and he flirted
with a few of them at the balls. But he did not run after the unmarried
girls, especially the rich heiresses who were most of them plain.
There was a special reason for this, as he had got married two years
before—a fact known only to his most intimate friends. At that time
while with his regiment in Poland, a Polish landowner of small means had
forced him to marry his daughter. Anatole had very soon abandoned his
wife and, for a payment which he agreed to send to his father-in-law,
had arranged to be free to pass himself off as a bachelor.
Anatole was always content with his position, with himself, and with
others. He was instinctively and thoroughly convinced that it was
impossible for him to live otherwise than as he did and that he had
never in his life done anything base. He was incapable of considering
how his actions might affect others or what the consequences of this or
that action of his might be. He was convinced that, as a duck is so made
that it must live in water, so God had made him such that he must spend
thirty thousand rubles a year and always occupy a prominent position in
society. He believed this so firmly that others, looking at him, were
persuaded of it too and did not refuse him either a leading place
in society or money, which he borrowed from anyone and everyone and
evidently would not repay.
He was not a gambler, at any rate he did not care about winning. He was
not vain. He did not mind what people thought of him. Still less could
he be accused of ambition. More than once he had vexed his father by
spoiling his own career, and he laughed at distinctions of all kinds. He
was not mean, and did not refuse anyone who asked of him. All he cared
about was gaiety and women, and as according to his ideas there
was nothing dishonorable in these tastes, and he was incapable of
considering what the gratification of his tastes entailed for others,
he honestly considered himself irreproachable, sincerely despised rogues
and bad people, and with a tranquil conscience carried his head high.
Rakes, those male Magdalenes, have a secret feeling of innocence
similar to that which female Magdalenes have, based on the same hope of
forgiveness. “All will be forgiven her, for she loved much; and all
will be forgiven him, for he enjoyed much.”
Dólokhov, who had reappeared that year in Moscow after his exile and
his Persian adventures, and was leading a life of luxury, gambling, and
dissipation, associated with his old Petersburg comrade Kurágin and
made use of him for his own ends.
Anatole was sincerely fond of Dólokhov for his cleverness and
audacity. Dólokhov, who needed Anatole Kurágin’s name, position, and
connections as a bait to draw rich young men into his gambling set, made
use of him and amused himself at his expense without letting the other
feel it. Apart from the advantage he derived from Anatole, the very
process of dominating another’s will was in itself a pleasure, a
habit, and a necessity to Dólokhov.
Natásha had made a strong impression on Kurágin. At supper after
the opera he described to Dólokhov with the air of a connoisseur the
attractions of her arms, shoulders, feet, and hair and expressed his
intention of making love to her. Anatole had no notion and was incapable
of considering what might come of such love-making, as he never had any
notion of the outcome of any of his actions.
“She’s first-rate, my dear fellow, but not for us,” replied
Dólokhov.
“I will tell my sister to ask her to dinner,” said Anatole.
“Eh?”
“You’d better wait till she’s married....”
“You know, I adore little girls, they lose their heads at once,”
pursued Anatole.
“You have been caught once already by a ‘little girl,’” said
Dólokhov who knew of Kurágin’s marriage. “Take care!”
“Well, that can’t happen twice! Eh?” said Anatole, with a
good-humored laugh.
CHAPTER XII
The day after the opera the Rostóvs went nowhere and nobody came to see
them. Márya Dmítrievna talked to the count about something which they
concealed from Natásha. Natásha guessed they were talking about the
old prince and planning something, and this disquieted and offended her.
She was expecting Prince Andrew any moment and twice that day sent a
manservant to the Vozdvízhenka to ascertain whether he had come. He had
not arrived. She suffered more now than during her first days in Moscow.
To her impatience and pining for him were now added the unpleasant
recollection of her interview with Princess Mary and the old prince,
and a fear and anxiety of which she did not understand the cause. She
continually fancied that either he would never come or that something
would happen to her before he came. She could no longer think of him by
herself calmly and continuously as she had done before. As soon as she
began to think of him, the recollection of the old prince, of Princess
Mary, of the theater, and of Kurágin mingled with her thoughts. The
question again presented itself whether she was not guilty, whether she
had not already broken faith with Prince Andrew, and again she found
herself recalling to the minutest detail every word, every gesture, and
every shade in the play of expression on the face of the man who had
been able to arouse in her such an incomprehensible and terrifying
feeling. To the family Natásha seemed livelier than usual, but she was
far less tranquil and happy than before.
On Sunday morning Márya Dmítrievna invited her visitors to Mass at her
parish church—the Church of the Assumption built over the graves of
victims of the plague.
“I don’t like those fashionable churches,” she said, evidently
priding herself on her independence of thought. “God is the same
everywhere. We have an excellent priest, he conducts the service
decently and with dignity, and the deacon is the same. What holiness is
there in giving concerts in the choir? I don’t like it, it’s just
self-indulgence!”
Márya Dmítrievna liked Sundays and knew how to keep them. Her whole
house was scrubbed and cleaned on Saturdays; neither she nor the
servants worked, and they all wore holiday dress and went to church. At
her table there were extra dishes at dinner, and the servants had vodka
and roast goose or suckling pig. But in nothing in the house was the
holiday so noticeable as in Márya Dmítrievna’s broad, stern face,
which on that day wore an invariable look of solemn festivity.
After Mass, when they had finished their coffee in the dining room
where the loose covers had been removed from the furniture, a servant
announced that the carriage was ready, and Márya Dmítrievna rose with
a stern air. She wore her holiday shawl, in which she paid calls, and
announced that she was going to see Prince Nicholas Bolkónski to have
an explanation with him about Natásha.
After she had gone, a dressmaker from Madame Suppert-Roguet waited on
the Rostóvs, and Natásha, very glad of this diversion, having shut
herself into a room adjoining the drawing room, occupied herself trying
on the new dresses. Just as she had put on a bodice without sleeves and
only tacked together, and was turning her head to see in the glass how
the back fitted, she heard in the drawing room the animated sounds
of her father’s voice and another’s—a woman’s—that made her
flush. It was Hélène. Natásha had not time to take off the bodice
before the door opened and Countess Bezúkhova, dressed in a purple
velvet gown with a high collar, came into the room beaming with
good-humored amiable smiles.
“Oh, my enchantress!” she cried to the blushing Natásha.
“Charming! No, this is really beyond anything, my dear count,” said
she to Count Rostóv who had followed her in. “How can you live in
Moscow and go nowhere? No, I won’t let you off! Mademoiselle George
will recite at my house tonight and there’ll be some people, and if
you don’t bring your lovely girls—who are prettier than Mademoiselle
George—I won’t know you! My husband is away in Tver or I would send
him to fetch you. You must come. You positively must! Between eight and
nine.”
She nodded to the dressmaker, whom she knew and who had curtsied
respectfully to her, and seated herself in an armchair beside the
looking glass, draping the folds of her velvet dress picturesquely. She
did not cease chattering good-naturedly and gaily, continually praising
Natásha’s beauty. She looked at Natásha’s dresses and praised
them, as well as a new dress of her own made of “metallic gauze,”
which she had received from Paris, and advised Natásha to have one like
it.
“But anything suits you, my charmer!” she remarked.
A smile of pleasure never left Natásha’s face. She felt happy and as
if she were blossoming under the praise of this dear Countess Bezúkhova
who had formerly seemed to her so unapproachable and important and was
now so kind to her. Natásha brightened up and felt almost in love with
this woman, who was so beautiful and so kind. Hélène for her part was