War and Peace by graf Leo Tolstoy
CHAPTER VII
1391 words | Chapter 171
Next day, by Márya Dmítrievna’s advice, Count Rostóv took Natásha
to call on Prince Nicholas Bolkónski. 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. Natásha, 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 Vozdvízhenka and entered
the vestibule.
“Well, the Lord have mercy on us!” said the count, half in jest,
half in earnest; but Natásha 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 Rostóvs 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
Natásha. 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 Rostóvs’ 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 Rostóvs’ 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 Natásha in your
hands for a quarter of an hour, Princess, I’ll drive round to see Anna
Semënovna, 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 Natásha 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 Semënovna’s, and he departed.
Despite the uneasy glances thrown at her by Princess Mary—who wished
to have a tête-à-tête with Natásha—Mademoiselle Bourienne
remained in the room and persistently talked about Moscow amusements and
theaters. Natásha 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. Natásha 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 Rostóva, 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 Natásha.
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 Natásha 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.
Natásha 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, Natásha 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
Natásha. The same thought was meanwhile tormenting Princess Mary. She
knew what she ought to have said to Natásha, 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 Natásha, took her by the hand, and said with a
deep sigh:
“Wait, I must...”
Natásha 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. Natásha 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 Natásha to come to dinner that day. She sat
in her room crying like a child, blowing her nose and sobbing. Sónya
stood beside her, kissing her hair.
“Natásha, what is it about?” she asked. “What do they matter to
you? It will all pass, Natásha.”
“But if you only knew how offensive it was... as if I...”
“Don’t talk about it, Natásha. It wasn’t your fault so why should
you mind? Kiss me,” said Sónya.
Natásha 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
Natásha—“It’s my fault. But it all hurts terribly. Oh, why
doesn’t he come?...”
She came in to dinner with red eyes. Márya Dmítrievna, who knew how
the prince had received the Rostóvs, pretended not to notice how upset
Natásha was and jested resolutely and loudly at table with the count
and the other guests.
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