War and Peace
sincerely delighted with Natásha and wished to give her a good time.
Anatole had asked her to bring him and Natásha together, and she was
calling on the Rostóvs for that purpose. The idea of throwing her
brother and Natásha together amused her.
Though at one time, in Petersburg, she had been annoyed with Natásha
for drawing Borís away, she did not think of that now, and in her own
way heartily wished Natásha well. As she was leaving the Rostóvs she
called her protégée aside.
“My brother dined with me yesterday—we nearly died of laughter—he
ate nothing and kept sighing for you, my charmer! He is madly, quite
madly, in love with you, my dear.”
Natásha blushed scarlet when she heard this.
“How she blushes, how she blushes, my pretty!” said Hélène. “You
must certainly come. If you love somebody, my charmer, that is not a
reason to shut yourself up. Even if you are engaged, I am sure your
fiancé would wish you to go into society rather than be bored to
death.”
“So she knows I am engaged, and she and her husband Pierre—that good
Pierre—have talked and laughed about this. So it’s all right.” And
again, under Hélène’s influence, what had seemed terrible now seemed
simple and natural. “And she is such a grande dame, so kind, and
evidently likes me so much. And why not enjoy myself?” thought
Natásha, gazing at Hélène with wide-open, wondering eyes.
Márya Dmítrievna came back to dinner taciturn and serious, having
evidently suffered a defeat at the old prince’s. She was still too
agitated by the encounter to be able to talk of the affair calmly. In
answer to the count’s inquiries she replied that things were all
right and that she would tell about it next day. On hearing of Countess
Bezúkhova’s visit and the invitation for that evening, Márya
Dmítrievna remarked:
“I don’t care to have anything to do with Bezúkhova and don’t
advise you to; however, if you’ve promised—go. It will divert your
thoughts,” she added, addressing Natásha.
CHAPTER XIII
Count Rostóv took the girls to Countess Bezúkhova’s. There were
a good many people there, but nearly all strangers to Natásha. Count
Rostóv was displeased to see that the company consisted almost entirely
of men and women known for the freedom of their conduct. Mademoiselle
George was standing in a corner of the drawing room surrounded by young
men. There were several Frenchmen present, among them Métivier who from
the time Hélène reached Moscow had been an intimate in her house. The
count decided not to sit down to cards or let his girls out of his sight
and to get away as soon as Mademoiselle George’s performance was over.
Anatole was at the door, evidently on the lookout for the Rostóvs.
Immediately after greeting the count he went up to Natásha and followed
her. As soon as she saw him she was seized by the same feeling she had
had at the opera—gratified vanity at his admiration of her and fear at
the absence of a moral barrier between them.
Hélène welcomed Natásha delightedly and was loud in admiration of her
beauty and her dress. Soon after their arrival Mademoiselle George went
out of the room to change her costume. In the drawing room people began
arranging the chairs and taking their seats. Anatole moved a chair for
Natásha and was about to sit down beside her, but the count, who never
lost sight of her, took the seat himself. Anatole sat down behind her.
Mademoiselle George, with her bare, fat, dimpled arms, and a red shawl
draped over one shoulder, came into the space left vacant for her, and
assumed an unnatural pose. Enthusiastic whispering was audible.
Mademoiselle George looked sternly and gloomily at the audience and
began reciting some French verses describing her guilty love for her
son. In some places she raised her voice, in others she whispered,
lifting her head triumphantly; sometimes she paused and uttered hoarse
sounds, rolling her eyes.
“Adorable! divine! delicious!” was heard from every side.
Natásha looked at the fat actress, but neither saw nor heard nor
understood anything of what went on before her. She only felt herself
again completely borne away into this strange senseless world—so
remote from her old world—a world in which it was impossible to know
what was good or bad, reasonable or senseless. Behind her sat Anatole,
and conscious of his proximity she experienced a frightened sense of
expectancy.
After the first monologue the whole company rose and surrounded
Mademoiselle George, expressing their enthusiasm.
“How beautiful she is!” Natásha remarked to her father who had also
risen and was moving through the crowd toward the actress.
“I don’t think so when I look at you!” said Anatole, following
Natásha. He said this at a moment when she alone could hear him. “You
are enchanting... from the moment I saw you I have never ceased...”
“Come, come, Natásha!” said the count, as he turned back for his
daughter. “How beautiful she is!” Natásha without saying anything
stepped up to her father and looked at him with surprised inquiring
eyes.
After giving several recitations, Mademoiselle George left, and Countess
Bezúkhova asked her visitors into the ballroom.
The count wished to go home, but Hélène entreated him not to spoil her
improvised ball, and the Rostóvs stayed on. Anatole asked Natásha for
a valse and as they danced he pressed her waist and hand and told her
she was bewitching and that he loved her. During the écossaise, which
she also danced with him, Anatole said nothing when they happened to be
by themselves, but merely gazed at her. Natásha lifted her frightened
eyes to him, but there was such confident tenderness in his affectionate
look and smile that she could not, whilst looking at him, say what she
had to say. She lowered her eyes.
“Don’t say such things to me. I am betrothed and love another,”
she said rapidly.... She glanced at him.
Anatole was not upset or pained by what she had said.
“Don’t speak to me of that! What can I do?” said he. “I tell
you I am madly, madly, in love with you! Is it my fault that you are
enchanting?... It’s our turn to begin.”
Natásha, animated and excited, looked about her with wide-open
frightened eyes and seemed merrier than usual. She understood hardly
anything that went on that evening. They danced the écossaise and the
Grossvater. Her father asked her to come home, but she begged to remain.
Wherever she went and whomever she was speaking to, she felt his eyes
upon her. Later on she recalled how she had asked her father to let
her go to the dressing room to rearrange her dress, that Hélène had
followed her and spoken laughingly of her brother’s love, and that she
again met Anatole in the little sitting room. Hélène had disappeared
leaving them alone, and Anatole had taken her hand and said in a tender
voice:
“I cannot come to visit you but is it possible that I shall never see
you? I love you madly. Can I never...?” and, blocking her path, he
brought his face close to hers.
His large, glittering, masculine eyes were so close to hers that she saw
nothing but them.
“Natalie?” he whispered inquiringly while she felt her hands being
painfully pressed. “Natalie?”
“I don’t understand. I have nothing to say,” her eyes replied.
Burning lips were pressed to hers, and at the same instant she felt
herself released, and Hélène’s footsteps and the rustle of her dress
were heard in the room. Natásha looked round at her, and then, red
and trembling, threw a frightened look of inquiry at Anatole and moved
toward the door.
“One word, just one, for God’s sake!” cried Anatole.
She paused. She so wanted a word from him that would explain to her what
had happened and to which she could find no answer.
“Natalie, just a word, only one!” he kept repeating, evidently not
knowing what to say and he repeated it till Hélène came up to them.
Hélène returned with Natásha to the drawing room. The Rostóvs went
away without staying for supper.
After reaching home Natásha did not sleep all night. She was tormented
by the insoluble question whether she loved Anatole or Prince Andrew.
She loved Prince Andrew—she remembered distinctly how deeply she loved
him. But she also loved Anatole, of that there was no doubt. “Else how
could all this have happened?” thought she. “If, after that, I could
return his smile when saying good-by, if I was able to let it come to
that, it means that I loved him from the first. It means that he is
kind, noble, and splendid, and I could not help loving him. What am I to
do if I love him and the other one too?” she asked herself, unable to
find an answer to these terrible questions.
CHAPTER XIV
Morning came with its cares and bustle. Everyone got up and began
to move about and talk, dressmakers came again. Márya Dmítrievna
appeared, and they were called to breakfast. Natásha kept looking
uneasily at everybody with wide-open eyes, as if wishing to intercept
every glance directed toward her, and tried to appear the same as usual.
After breakfast, which was her best time, Márya Dmítrievna sat down in
her armchair and called Natásha and the count to her.
“Well, friends, I have now thought the whole matter over and this is
my advice,” she began. “Yesterday, as you know, I went to see Prince
Bolkónski. Well, I had a talk with him.... He took it into his head to
begin shouting, but I am not one to be shouted down. I said what I had
to say!”
“Well, and he?” asked the count.
“He? He’s crazy... he did not want to listen. But what’s the use
of talking? As it is we have worn the poor girl out,” said Márya
Dmítrievna. “My advice to you is finish your business and go back
home to Otrádnoe... and wait there.”
“Oh, no!” exclaimed Natásha.
“Yes, go back,” said Márya Dmítrievna, “and wait there. If your
betrothed comes here now—there will be no avoiding a quarrel; but
alone with the old man he will talk things over and then come on to
you.”
Count Rostóv approved of this suggestion, appreciating its
reasonableness. If the old man came round it would be all the better to
visit him in Moscow or at Bald Hills later on; and if not, the wedding,
against his wishes, could only be arranged at Otrádnoe.
“That is perfectly true. And I am sorry I went to see him and took
her,” said the old count.
“No, why be sorry? Being here, you had to pay your respects. But if he
won’t—that’s his affair,” said Márya Dmítrievna, looking for
something in her reticule. “Besides, the trousseau is ready, so there
is nothing to wait for; and what is not ready I’ll send after you.
Though I don’t like letting you go, it is the best way. So go, with
God’s blessing!”
Having found what she was looking for in the reticule she handed it to
Natásha. It was a letter from Princess Mary.
“She has written to you. How she torments herself, poor thing! She’s
afraid you might think that she does not like you.”
“But she doesn’t like me,” said Natásha.
“Don’t talk nonsense!” cried Márya Dmítrievna.
“I shan’t believe anyone, I know she doesn’t like me,” replied
Natásha boldly as she took the letter, and her face expressed a cold
and angry resolution that caused Márya Dmítrievna to look at her more
intently and to frown.
“Don’t answer like that, my good girl!” she said. “What I say is
true! Write an answer!”
Natásha did not reply and went to her own room to read Princess
Mary’s letter.
Princess Mary wrote that she was in despair at the misunderstanding that
had occurred between them. Whatever her father’s feelings might be,
she begged Natásha to believe that she could not help loving her as
the one chosen by her brother, for whose happiness she was ready to
sacrifice everything.
“Do not think, however,” she wrote, “that my father is
ill-disposed toward you. He is an invalid and an old man who must be