War and Peace by graf Leo Tolstoy
CHAPTER XIII
1153 words | Chapter 177
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.
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