War and Peace by graf Leo Tolstoy
CHAPTER XIV
1147 words | Chapter 178
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
forgiven; but he is good and magnanimous and will love her who makes his
son happy.” Princess Mary went on to ask Natásha to fix a time when
she could see her again.
After reading the letter Natásha sat down at the writing table
to answer it. “Dear Princess,” she wrote in French quickly and
mechanically, and then paused. What more could she write after all that
had happened the evening before? “Yes, yes! All that has happened, and
now all is changed,” she thought as she sat with the letter she had
begun before her. “Must I break off with him? Must I really? That’s
awful...” and to escape from these dreadful thoughts she went to
Sónya and began sorting patterns with her.
After dinner Natásha went to her room and again took up Princess
Mary’s letter. “Can it be that it is all over?” she thought.
“Can it be that all this has happened so quickly and has destroyed all
that went before?” She recalled her love for Prince Andrew in all its
former strength, and at the same time felt that she loved Kurágin. She
vividly pictured herself as Prince Andrew’s wife, and the scenes of
happiness with him she had so often repeated in her imagination, and
at the same time, aglow with excitement, recalled every detail of
yesterday’s interview with Anatole.
“Why could that not be as well?” she sometimes asked herself in
complete bewilderment. “Only so could I be completely happy; but now I
have to choose, and I can’t be happy without either of them. Only,”
she thought, “to tell Prince Andrew what has happened or to hide
it from him are both equally impossible. But with that one nothing is
spoiled. But am I really to abandon forever the joy of Prince Andrew’s
love, in which I have lived so long?”
“Please, Miss!” whispered a maid entering the room with a mysterious
air. “A man told me to give you this—” and she handed Natásha a
letter.
“Only, for Christ’s sake...” the girl went on, as Natásha,
without thinking, mechanically broke the seal and read a love letter
from Anatole, of which, without taking in a word, she understood only
that it was a letter from him—from the man she loved. Yes, she loved
him, or else how could that have happened which had happened? And how
could she have a love letter from him in her hand?
With trembling hands Natásha held that passionate love letter which
Dólokhov had composed for Anatole, and as she read it she found in it
an echo of all that she herself imagined she was feeling.
“Since yesterday evening my fate has been sealed; to be loved by you
or to die. There is no other way for me,” the letter began. Then he
went on to say that he knew her parents would not give her to him—for
this there were secret reasons he could reveal only to her—but that if
she loved him she need only say the word yes, and no human power could
hinder their bliss. Love would conquer all. He would steal her away and
carry her off to the ends of the earth.
“Yes, yes! I love him!” thought Natásha, reading the letter for the
twentieth time and finding some peculiarly deep meaning in each word of
it.
That evening Márya Dmítrievna was going to the Akhárovs’ and
proposed to take the girls with her. Natásha, pleading a headache,
remained at home.
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