War And Peace: Book 8 - CHAPTER XII

作者: Leo Tolstoy

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Author: Leo Tolstoy

THE NEXT DAY the Rostovs did not go anywhere, and no one came to see them.

Marya Dmitryevna had a discussion with Natasha's father, which she kept secret

from her. Natasha guessed they were talking of the old prince and making some

plan, and she felt worried and humiliated by it. Every minute she expected

Prince Andrey, and twice that day she sent a man to Vosdvizhenka to inquire

whether he had not arrived. He had not arrived. She felt more dreary now than

during the first days in Moscow. To her impatience and pining for him there were

now added the unpleasant recollections of her interview with Princess Marya and

the old prince, and a vague dread and restlessness, of which she did not know

the cause. She was continually fancying either that he would never come or that

something would happen to her before he came. She could not brood calmly for

long hours over his image by herself as she had done before. As soon as she

began to think of him, her memory of him was mingled with the recollection of

the old prince and Princess Marya, and of the theatre and of Kuragin. Again the

question presented itself whether she had not been to blame, whether she had not

broken her faith to Prince Andrey, and again she found herself going over in the

minutest detail every word, every gesture, every shade in the play of expression

on the face of that man, who had known how to awaken in her a terrible feeling

that was beyond her comprehension. In the eyes of those about her, Natasha

seemed livelier than usual, but she was far from being as serene and happy as

before.

On Sunday morning Marya Dmitryevna invited her guests to go to Mass to her

parish church of Uspenya on Mogiltse.

“I don't like those fashionable churches,” she said, obviously priding

herself on her independence of thought. “God is the same everywhere. Our parish

priest is an excellent man, and conducts the service in a suitable way, so that

is all as it should be, and his deacon too. Is there something holier about it

when there are concerts in the choir? I don't like it; it's simply

self-indulgence!”

Marya Dmitryevna liked Sundays, and knew how to keep them as holidays. Her

house was always all scrubbed out and cleaned on Saturday; neither she nor her

servants did any work, and every one wore holiday-dress and went to service.

There were additional dishes at the mistress's dinner, and the servants had

vodka and roast goose or a suckling-pig at theirs. But in nothing in the whole

house was the holiday so marked as in the broad, severe face of Marya

Dmitryevna, which on that day wore a never-varying expression of

solemnity.

When after service they were drinking coffee in the drawing-room, where the

covers had been removed from the furniture, the servant announced that the

carriage was ready, and Marya Dmitryevna, dressed in her best shawl in which she

paid calls, rose with a stern air, and announced that she was going to call on

Prince Nikolay Andreitch Bolkonsky to ask for an explanation of his conduct

about Natasha. After Marya Dmitryevna had gone, a dressmaker waited upon the

Rostovs from Madame Chalmey, and Natasha, very glad of a diversion, went into a

room adjoining the drawing-room, and shutting the door between, began trying on

her new dresses. Just as she had put on a bodice basted together, with the

sleeves not yet tacked in, and was turning her head to look at the fit of the

back in the looking-glass, she caught the sound of her father's voice in the

drawing-room in eager conversation with another voice, a woman's voice, which

made her flush red. It was the voice of Ellen. Before Natasha had time to take

off the bodice she was trying on, the door opened, and Countess Bezuhov walked

into the room, wearing a dark heliotrope velvet gown with a high collar, and

beaming with a good-natured and friendly smile.

“O my enchantress!” she said to the blushing Natasha. “Charming! No, this is

really beyond anything, count,” she said to Count Ilya Andreitch, who had

followed her in. “How can you be in Moscow, and go nowhere? No, I won't let you

off! This evening we have Mademoiselle George giving a recitation, and a few

people are coming; and if you don't bring your lovely girls, who are much

prettier than Mademoiselle George, I give up knowing you! My husband's not here,

he has gone away to Tver, or I should have sent him for you. You must come, you

positively must, before nine o'clock.”

She nodded to the dressmaker, who knew her, and was curtseying respectfully,

and seated herself in a low chair beside the looking-glass, draping the folds of

her velvet gown picturesquely about her. She kept up a flow of good-humoured and

light-hearted chatter, and repeatedly expressed her enthusiastic admiration of

Natasha's beauty. She looked through her dresses and admired them, spoke with

admiration, too, of a new dress of her own “of metallic gas,” which she had

received from Paris, and advised Natasha to have one like it.

“But anything suits you, my charmer!” she declared. The smile of pleasure

never left Natasha's face. She felt happy, and as it were blossoming out under

the praises of this charming Countess Bezuhov, who had seemed to her before a

lady so unapproachable and dignified, and was now being so king to her.

Natasha's spirits rose, and she felt almost in love with this handsome and

good-natured woman. Ellen, for her part, was genuine in her admiration of

Natasha, and in her desire to make her enjoy herself. Anatole had begged her to

throw him with Natasha, and it was with that object she had come to the

Rostovs'. The idea of throwing her brother and Natasha together amused

her.

Although Ellen had once owed Natasha a grudge for carrying off Boris from her

in Petersburg, she thought no more of that now, and with all her heart wished

Natasha nothing but good. As she was leaving the Rostovs', she drew her protégée

aside.

“My brother was dining with me yesterday—we half died with laughing at him—he

won't eat, and does nothing but sigh for you, my charmer! He is madly, madly in

love with you, my dear.”

Natasha flushed crimson on hearing those words.

“How she blushes, how she blushes, my pretty!” Ellen went on. “You must be

sure to come. If you do love some one, it is not a reason to cloister yourself.

Even if you are betrothed, I am sure your betrothed would have preferred you to

go into society rather than to languish in ennui.”

“So then she knows I am engaged. So then they with her husband, with Pierre,

with that good Pierre, talked and laughed about it. So that it means

nothing.”

And again under Ellen's influence what had struck her before as terrible

seemed to her simple and natural. “And she, such a grande dame, is so

kind, and obviously she likes me with all her heart,” thought Natasha. “And why

not enjoy myself,” thought Natasha, gazing at Ellen with wide-open, wondering

eyes.

Marya Dmitryevna came back to dinner silent and serious, having evidently

been defeated by the old prince. She was too much agitated by the conflict she

had been through to be able to describe the interview. To the count's inquiries,

she replied that everything had been all right and she would tell him about it

next day. On hearing of the visit of Countess Bezuhov and the invitation for the

evening, Marya Dmitryevna said:

“I don't care to associate with Countess Bezuhov and I don't advise you to,

but still, since you have promised, better go. It will divert your mind,” she

added, addressing Natasha.

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