War and Peace
that was not pretty, but neither Mademoiselle Bourienne nor the little
princess felt this; they still thought that if a blue ribbon were placed
in the hair, the hair combed up, and the blue scarf arranged lower on
the best maroon dress, and so on, all would be well. They forgot that
the frightened face and the figure could not be altered, and that
however they might change the setting and adornment of that face, it
would still remain piteous and plain. After two or three changes to
which Princess Mary meekly submitted, just as her hair had been arranged
on the top of her head (a style that quite altered and spoiled her
looks) and she had put on a maroon dress with a pale-blue scarf, the
little princess walked twice round her, now adjusting a fold of the
dress with her little hand, now arranging the scarf and looking at her
with her head bent first on one side and then on the other.
“No, it will not do,” she said decidedly, clasping her hands. “No,
Mary, really this dress does not suit you. I prefer you in your little
gray everyday dress. Now please, do it for my sake. Katie,” she said
to the maid, “bring the princess her gray dress, and you’ll see,
Mademoiselle Bourienne, how I shall arrange it,” she added, smiling
with a foretaste of artistic pleasure.
But when Katie brought the required dress, Princess Mary remained
sitting motionless before the glass, looking at her face, and saw in the
mirror her eyes full of tears and her mouth quivering, ready to burst
into sobs.
“Come, dear princess,” said Mademoiselle Bourienne, “just one more
little effort.”
The little princess, taking the dress from the maid, came up to Princess
Mary.
“Well, now we’ll arrange something quite simple and becoming,” she
said.
The three voices, hers, Mademoiselle Bourienne’s, and Katie’s, who
was laughing at something, mingled in a merry sound, like the chirping
of birds.
“No, leave me alone,” said Princess Mary.
Her voice sounded so serious and so sad that the chirping of the birds
was silenced at once. They looked at the beautiful, large, thoughtful
eyes full of tears and of thoughts, gazing shiningly and imploringly at
them, and understood that it was useless and even cruel to insist.
“At least, change your coiffure,” said the little princess.
“Didn’t I tell you,” she went on, turning reproachfully to
Mademoiselle Bourienne, “Mary’s is a face which such a coiffure does
not suit in the least. Not in the least! Please change it.”
“Leave me alone, please leave me alone! It is all quite the same to
me,” answered a voice struggling with tears.
Mademoiselle Bourienne and the little princess had to own to themselves
that Princess Mary in this guise looked very plain, worse than usual,
but it was too late. She was looking at them with an expression they
both knew, an expression thoughtful and sad. This expression in Princess
Mary did not frighten them (she never inspired fear in anyone), but they
knew that when it appeared on her face, she became mute and was not to
be shaken in her determination.
“You will change it, won’t you?” said Lise. And as Princess Mary
gave no answer, she left the room.
Princess Mary was left alone. She did not comply with Lise’s request,
she not only left her hair as it was, but did not even look in her
glass. Letting her arms fall helplessly, she sat with downcast eyes and
pondered. A husband, a man, a strong dominant and strangely attractive
being rose in her imagination, and carried her into a totally different
happy world of his own. She fancied a child, her own—such as she had
seen the day before in the arms of her nurse’s daughter—at her
own breast, the husband standing by and gazing tenderly at her and the
child. “But no, it is impossible, I am too ugly,” she thought.
“Please come to tea. The prince will be out in a moment,” came the
maid’s voice at the door.
She roused herself, and felt appalled at what she had been thinking, and
before going down she went into the room where the icons hung and, her
eyes fixed on the dark face of a large icon of the Saviour lit by a
lamp, she stood before it with folded hands for a few moments. A painful
doubt filled her soul. Could the joy of love, of earthly love for a
man, be for her? In her thoughts of marriage Princess Mary dreamed of
happiness and of children, but her strongest, most deeply hidden longing
was for earthly love. The more she tried to hide this feeling from
others and even from herself, the stronger it grew. “O God,” she
said, “how am I to stifle in my heart these temptations of the devil?
How am I to renounce forever these vile fancies, so as peacefully to
fulfill Thy will?” And scarcely had she put that question than God
gave her the answer in her own heart. “Desire nothing for thyself,
seek nothing, be not anxious or envious. Man’s future and thy own fate
must remain hidden from thee, but live so that thou mayest be ready for
anything. If it be God’s will to prove thee in the duties of marriage,
be ready to fulfill His will.” With this consoling thought (but
yet with a hope for the fulfillment of her forbidden earthly longing)
Princess Mary sighed, and having crossed herself went down, thinking
neither of her gown and coiffure nor of how she would go in nor of what
she would say. What could all that matter in comparison with the will of
God, without Whose care not a hair of man’s head can fall?
CHAPTER IV
When Princess Mary came down, Prince Vasíli and his son were already
in the drawing room, talking to the little princess and Mademoiselle
Bourienne. When she entered with her heavy step, treading on her heels,
the gentlemen and Mademoiselle Bourienne rose and the little princess,
indicating her to the gentlemen, said: “Voilà Marie!” Princess Mary
saw them all and saw them in detail. She saw Prince Vasíli’s face,
serious for an instant at the sight of her, but immediately smiling
again, and the little princess curiously noting the impression
“Marie” produced on the visitors. And she saw Mademoiselle
Bourienne, with her ribbon and pretty face, and her unusually animated
look which was fixed on him, but him she could not see, she only saw
something large, brilliant, and handsome moving toward her as she
entered the room. Prince Vasíli approached first, and she kissed the
bold forehead that bent over her hand and answered his question by
saying that, on the contrary, she remembered him quite well. Then
Anatole came up to her. She still could not see him. She only felt a
soft hand taking hers firmly, and she touched with her lips a white
forehead, over which was beautiful light-brown hair smelling of pomade.
When she looked up at him she was struck by his beauty. Anatole stood
with his right thumb under a button of his uniform, his chest expanded
and his back drawn in, slightly swinging one foot, and, with his head a
little bent, looked with beaming face at the princess without
speaking and evidently not thinking about her at all. Anatole was not
quick-witted, nor ready or eloquent in conversation, but he had the
faculty, so invaluable in society, of composure and imperturbable
self-possession. If a man lacking in self-confidence remains dumb on
a first introduction and betrays a consciousness of the impropriety of
such silence and an anxiety to find something to say, the effect is
bad. But Anatole was dumb, swung his foot, and smilingly examined the
princess’ hair. It was evident that he could be silent in this way for
a very long time. “If anyone finds this silence inconvenient, let him
talk, but I don’t want to,” he seemed to say. Besides this, in his
behavior to women Anatole had a manner which particularly inspires in
them curiosity, awe, and even love—a supercilious consciousness of
his own superiority. It was as if he said to them: “I know you, I know
you, but why should I bother about you? You’d be only too glad, of
course.” Perhaps he did not really think this when he met women—even
probably he did not, for in general he thought very little—but his
looks and manner gave that impression. The princess felt this, and as if
wishing to show him that she did not even dare expect to interest him,
she turned to his father. The conversation was general and animated,
thanks to Princess Lise’s voice and little downy lip that lifted over
her white teeth. She met Prince Vasíli with that playful manner often
employed by lively chatty people, and consisting in the assumption
that between the person they so address and themselves there are some
semi-private, long-established jokes and amusing reminiscences, though
no such reminiscences really exist—just as none existed in this case.
Prince Vasíli readily adopted her tone and the little princess also
drew Anatole, whom she hardly knew, into these amusing recollections of
things that had never occurred. Mademoiselle Bourienne also shared them
and even Princess Mary felt herself pleasantly made to share in these
merry reminiscences.
“Here at least we shall have the benefit of your company all to
ourselves, dear prince,” said the little princess (of course, in
French) to Prince Vasíli. “It’s not as at Annette’s * receptions
where you always ran away; you remember cette chère Annette!”
* Anna Pávlovna.
“Ah, but you won’t talk politics to me like Annette!”
“And our little tea table?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Why is it you were never at Annette’s?” the little princess asked
Anatole. “Ah, I know, I know,” she said with a sly glance, “your
brother Hippolyte told me about your goings on. Oh!” and she shook her
finger at him, “I have even heard of your doings in Paris!”
“And didn’t Hippolyte tell you?” asked Prince Vasíli, turning to
his son and seizing the little princess’ arm as if she would have run
away and he had just managed to catch her, “didn’t he tell you how
he himself was pining for the dear princess, and how she showed him the
door? Oh, she is a pearl among women, Princess,” he added, turning to
Princess Mary.
When Paris was mentioned, Mademoiselle Bourienne for her part seized the
opportunity of joining in the general current of recollections.
She took the liberty of inquiring whether it was long since Anatole
had left Paris and how he had liked that city. Anatole answered the
Frenchwoman very readily and, looking at her with a smile, talked to her
about her native land. When he saw the pretty little Bourienne, Anatole
came to the conclusion that he would not find Bald Hills dull either.
“Not at all bad!” he thought, examining her, “not at all bad, that
little companion! I hope she will bring her along with her when we’re
married, la petite est gentille.” *
* The little one is charming.
The old prince dressed leisurely in his study, frowning and considering
what he was to do. The coming of these visitors annoyed him. “What are
Prince Vasíli and that son of his to me? Prince Vasíli is a shallow
braggart and his son, no doubt, is a fine specimen,” he grumbled to
himself. What angered him was that the coming of these visitors revived
in his mind an unsettled question he always tried to stifle, one about
which he always deceived himself. The question was whether he could ever
bring himself to part from his daughter and give her to a husband. The
prince never directly asked himself that question, knowing beforehand
that he would have to answer it justly, and justice clashed not only
with his feelings but with the very possibility of life. Life without
Princess Mary, little as he seemed to value her, was unthinkable to
him. “And why should she marry?” he thought. “To be unhappy for
certain. There’s Lise, married to Andrew—a better husband one would
think could hardly be found nowadays—but is she contented with her
lot? And who would marry Marie for love? Plain and awkward! They’ll