War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
She nodded to the dressmaker, who knew her and was curtseying politely, and seated herself in an armchair next to the mirror, decoratively rearranging the folds of her velvet dress. She kept up a constant flow of pleasant chit-chat interspersed with enthusiastic admiration of Natasha's beauty. She inspected her dresses and spoke highly of them, speaking no less highly of a new dress of her own made from 'metal gauze', which she had just received from Paris and strongly recommended to Natasha.
'But you'd look nice in anything, my lovely darling!' she declared. A grin of pleasure had settled permanently on Natasha's face. She felt so happy, blossoming under the praises of this nice lady, Countess Bezukhov, who had once seemed so remote and important and was now being so kind. Natasha's spirits rose, and she felt almost in love with this kind and beautiful woman. As for Helene, her admiration of Natasha was quite genuine, and she really did want to see her enjoying herself. Anatole had asked her to bring Natasha and him together, and this was why she had come to the Rostovs'. She found the thought of bringing her brother and Natasha together most amusing.
Although Helene had once resented Natasha's ability to take Boris away from her in Petersburg, she now dismissed that from her mind, and as far as she was able she wished Natasha nothing but good. On her way out she took her protegee to one side and said, 'My brother came to dinner last night. We almost died with laughter - he won't eat, all he does is sigh for you, my lovely darling! He's crazy about you, my dear, simply crazy.'
Natasha blushed to the roots of her hair when she heard this.
'Look how she's blushing! Dear lovely girl!' Helene went on. 'But do come. Even if you're in love that's no reason to lock yourself away. Even if you're engaged, I'm sure your fiance would want you to go out rather than die of boredom while he's away.'
'So she knows I'm engaged. So they've been talking and laughing about it, she and her husband, Pierre, and Pierre's as straight as a die. So it can't be all that important.'
And once again, under the spell of Helene, something that had seemed dreadful now struck her as straightforward and normal behaviour. 'And she's such a fine lady, she's so nice to me, and she seems to have taken to me in a big way,' thought Natasha, gazing at Helene, wide-eyed and wondering. 'And why shouldn't I have a bit of fun?'
Marya Dmitriyevna came back in time for dinner, looking all serious and saying nothing, which suggested defeat at the hands of the old prince. She was too upset by the argument that had occurred to be able to sit down and talk calmly about it. When the count ventured a question she replied that all was well and she would tell him about it tomorrow. On hearing of Countess Bezukhov's visit and the evening invitation, Marya Dmitriyevna said, 'I don't care to associate with Countess Bezukhov, and I advise you not to do so, but now that you've promised, you'd better go. It will be a nice distraction,' she added, addressing Natasha.
CHAPTER 13
Count Rostov took his two girls to Countess Bezukhov's evening recitation. There were quite a few people there, but Natasha knew hardly anybody. The count noted with some displeasure that the company consisted almost entirely of men and women who were notorious for their free and easy life-style. Mademoiselle George4 was standing in one corner of the drawing-room surrounded by young men. There were several Frenchmen there including Metivier, who had been a regular visitor at Countess Bezukhov's ever since her arrival in Moscow. The count made up his mind not to play cards, not to let his daughters out of his sight and to go home the minute Mademoiselle George finished her performance.
Anatole was standing by the door, rather obviously on the look-out for the Rostovs. He welcomed the count, went straight up to Natasha and followed her in. At the first sight of him Natasha had the same feeling that had come over her at the opera: she felt flattered that he was so taken with her but scared by the absence of any moral barrier between them.
Helene gave Natasha a rapturous welcome, lavishing praise on her beauty and her appearance. Shortly after their arrival Mademoiselle George left the room to put on her costume.
The chairs were rearranged and people began to sit down. Anatole moved a chair aside for Natasha and was about to sit down next to her, but the count, who was keeping a wary eye on his daughter, sat down there himself. Anatole took his place behind them.
Mademoiselle George came out with a red scarf flung over one shoulder and her bare, fat, dimpled arms on show. She walked into the empty space reserved for her between the chairs, and struck a theatrical pose. There was a murmur of excited anticipation.
Mademoiselle George surveyed her audience sternly with her gloomy eyes before launching forth into a French poem about the guilty love of a mother for her son. In some places she raised her voice, in others she dropped to a whisper, raising her head triumphantly or pausing now and then to spit out her words with a throaty hiss and much rolling of the eyes.
'Exquisite, divine, so lovely!' came the voices on all sides. Natasha was watching the fat lady, but she couldn't hear anything, see anything or take in anything that was happening. She had no feelings other than being borne away irrevocably back to that strange, crazy world so remote from the world she had known before, a world in which there was no telling right from wrong or good sense from madness. Behind her sat Anatole; conscious of his proximity, she squirmed between anxiety and expectation.
After the first monologue the whole company rose and surrounded Mademoiselle George in rapturous acclamation.
'Isn't she beautiful!' said Natasha to her father, as he got up with the rest and struggled through the crowd towards the actress.
'I would say no, looking at you,' said Anatole, following behind Natasha. He picked his moment to say it, when she was the only one who could hear. 'You're so lovely . . . from the moment I saw you I haven't stopped . . .'
'Come on, Natasha, over here!' said the count, turning back for his daughter. 'How beautiful she is!'
Natasha didn't speak as she caught up with her father and stared at him with eyes full of wonderment and unanswered questions.
Several recitations later Mademoiselle George departed and Countess Bezukhov invited all the guests into the great hall.
The count tried to get away, but Helene pleaded with him not to spoil their impromptu ball. The Rostovs stayed on. Anatole asked Natasha for a waltz, and while they were dancing he squeezed her waist and her hand and told her she was enchanting and he was in love with her. During the ecossaise, which she also danced with him, when they were on their own Anatole said nothing - he just stared at her. Natasha doubted herself - could she have dreamt what he had said to her during the waltz? At the end of the first figure he squeezed her hand again. Natasha looked up nervously into his face, but there was so much assurance and warmth in his fond look and smile that as she glanced at him she couldn't bring herself to say what had to be said. She looked down again.
'Please don't say things like that. I'm engaged to be married, and I love someone else . . .' she gabbled. She glanced up. Anatole was not in the least disconcerted or embarrassed by what she had said.
'Don't tell me about that. What difference does it make?' he said. 'Listen - I'm in love with you, madly in love. Is it my fault you're so irresistible? . . . Look, it's our turn to start . . .'
In her state of high excitement and alarm Natasha stared round, wide-eyed and fearful, though apparently enjoying herself more than usual. She remembered almost nothing of what took place that evening. They had danced the ecossaise and the Grossvater. Her father had wanted them to go, and she had begged him to let them stay on. No matter where she went and who she talked to, she could feel his eyes on her. Then she had asked her father's permission to leave the room in order to rearrange her dress, and Helene had followed her out, chatting away and laughing at her brother's passion, and then she remembered coming across Anatole again in the little sitting-room, and Helene had somehow disappeared, they were left alone, and Anatole had taken her by the hand and said to her so tenderly, 'I can't come and see you, but can I really never see y
His big, gleaming, manly eyes were so close to hers that she could see nothing else.
'Natalie?' His question had dropped to a whisper, and her hands were being squeezed until they hurt. 'Natalie?'
'I don't understand. There's nothing I can say.' The response was written in her eyes.
Burning lips were pressed against hers, then she was instantly free again - and with a shuffling of shoes and a rustling of silks Helene was back in the room. Natasha had glanced round at her, then, red-faced and quivering, looked back at him, full of alarm and unanswered questions, before walking over to the door.
'One word, for God's sake, just one,' Anatole was saying. She stopped. She was longing to hear one word from him, one word to tell her what had happened and give her something to respond to.
'Natalie, one word . . . just one . . .' was all he could repeat, evidently not knowing what to say, and he kept on repeating it till Helene reached them.
Helene accompanied Natasha back into the drawing-room. The Rostovs declined the offer of supper and went home.
When she got home Natasha was in for a sleepless night. She was tormented by a question that had no answer: which one did she love - Anatole or Prince Andrey? She certainly loved Prince Andrey - the strength of her love for him was still a clear memory. But she loved Anatole too - there could be no doubt about that. 'If not, how could all these things have happened?' she thought. 'If I could still smile at him as he smiled at me when we were saying goodbye, if I could let things go that far, surely I must have fallen in love with him at first sight. He must surely be a kind man, noble and good, and I couldn't help falling in love with him. What shall I do if I love them both?' she asked herself, but there were no answers to these terrible questions.
CHAPTER 14
Morning came with its bustle and trouble. Everyone got up and soon the house was abuzz with movement and chatter. In came the dressmakers once again. Down came Marya Dmitriyevna, and tea was served. Natasha kept glancing round at everyone, uneasy and wide-eyed, as if she wanted to anticipate every glance that came her way, while struggling to keep up a pretence of normality.
After breakfast - always her best time of the day - Marya Dmitriyevna seated herself in her armchair and called for Natasha and the old count.
'Now listen, friends, I've been thinking things over, and this is my advice to you,' she began. 'Yesterday, as you know, I went to see Prince Bolkonsky. Well, I did manage a little talk with him . . . He thought fit to shout at me. But I can shout with the best. I gave as good as I got.'
'But what was he like?' asked the count.
'What was he like? He's off his head . . . He just won't listen. I won't go on. We've given this poor girl enough to worry about as it is,' said Marya Dmitriyevna. 'But my advice to you is - finish your business, go back to Otradnoye . . . and wait.'
'Oh no!' cried Natasha.
'Yes, go back home,' said Marya Dmitriyevna, 'and wait. If your fiance comes here now there's bound to be a row, but if he's on his own he can sort things out man to man with his father and then come on to you.'
Count Rostov could see the wisdom of this proposal, and it met with his approval. If the old man eventually came round it would be better to visit him later in Moscow or at Bald Hills. If he didn't, the wedding would have to go ahead against his will, and it would have to be at Otradnoye.
'Yes, it's absolutely true,' said he. 'I'm only sorry I went to see him and took her with me,' said the count.
'There's nothing to be sorry about. Once you were here, you could hardly avoid paying your respects. If he didn't like it, that's his business,' said Marya Dmitriyevna, looking for something in her handbag. 'And with the trousseau nearly ready there's nothing to hold you up. I can send on the bits that aren't ready. I'll be sorry to see you go, but, God bless you, it's the best thing to do.' She found what she was looking for in her bag and handed it to Natasha. It was a letter from Princess Marya. 'She's written to you. She's really suffering, poor girl! She's afraid you might think she doesn't like you.'
'Well, she doesn't,' said Natasha.
'Don't talk such nonsense,' cried Marya Dmitriyevna.
'I just don't believe it. I know she doesn't like me,' said Natasha impudently, taking the letter with a look of such cold and grim determination that Marya Dmitriyevna peered at her more sharply and frowned.
'Don't answer back, young lady,' she said. 'What I say is true. Make sure you write back to her.'
Without replying Natasha went up to her own room to read Princess Marya's letter.
Princess Marya wrote that she was in despair at the misunderstanding that had arisen between them. Whatever her father's feelings might be, wrote Princess Marya, she asked Natasha to believe that she was bound to love her - she was the girl chosen by her brother, and for the sake of his happiness she would make any sacrifice.
'And another thing,' she wrote, 'please do not think that my father has taken against you. He is an old man and quite poorly, and allowances have to be made for him. But he is kind-hearted and generous, and he will come to love the woman who makes his son happy.' Finally Princess Marya asked Natasha to arrange a time when they could come together again.
After reading the letter Natasha sat down to the writing-table to write back. She began by jotting down an automatic 'Dear Princess . . .' in French, and then stopped. How could she go on after all that had happened the day before? Yes, yes, it really had happened, and now everything was different, she thought, sitting over the letter she had barely begun. 'Should I turn him down? Should I? Oh, it's too awful!' And to get away from horrible thoughts like these she went in to see Sonya and went through some embroidery patterns with her.
After dinner Natasha went back to her room and took up Princess Marya's letter again. 'Is it all over?' she thought. 'Has it all happened just like that and ruined everything that went before?' She could remember the full force of her love for Prince Andrey, but she still felt she was in love with Kuragin. She conjured up a picture of herself living happily as Prince Andrey's wife, a picture she had so often dwelt on in her imagination, but at the same time, burning with excitement, she brought back to mind every detail of yesterday's encounter with Anatole.
'Why couldn't that happen too?' she kept wondering in her fog of bewilderment. 'That's the only way I could be completely happy. With things as they are I have to choose, and I can't be happy unless I have both of them. I know one thing,' she thought. 'Telling Prince Andrey what's happened and hiding it from him are equally impossible. But with him nothing's been spoilt. But how could I say goodbye to Prince Andrey's love and all the happiness I've been living on for so long?'
'Please, miss,' whispered a maid, coming into the room looking all secretive, 'a man told me to give you this.' She handed her a letter. 'But please, miss, for the love of Jesus . . .' said the girl, as Natasha, not giving it a thought, broke the seal automatically and began reading a love-letter from Anatole, without taking in a word of it, aware of one thing only - it was a letter from him, the man she loved. Yes, she did love him. Otherwise, how could what had happened have happened? How could she have ended up with a love-letter from him in her hand?
Natasha's hands were shaking as she held on to that passionate love-letter, composed for Anatole by Dolokhov, and as she read it through she discovered in it echoes of everything that she herself seemed to be feeling.
'Since yesterday evening my fate is sealed: to be loved by you or to die. There is no other way . . .' the letter began. He went on to say that he knew her family would never give her to him, for secret reasons that he could reveal only to her in private, but if she loved him, she had only to say the word yes, and no human power could mar their bliss. Love would conquer all. He would snatch her away and carry her off to the ends of the earth.
'Yes, yes, I do love him!' thought Natasha, reading the letter for the twentieth time and dis
That evening Marya Dmitriyevna was going to the Arkharovs', and proposed taking the young ladies with her. Natasha pleaded a headache and stayed behind at home.
CHAPTER 15
Late that night when she got back Sonya went into Natasha's room and to her surprise found her fast asleep on the sofa, still dressed. On the table next to her lay Anatole's letter, open. Sonya picked it up and read it.
As she read she kept glancing down at Natasha, who was still asleep, watching her face in the hope of discovering some explanation of what she was reading, but finding nothing. Natasha's face was peaceful, gentle and happy. Clutching at her chest to stop herself choking, Sonya sank down into an armchair, pale-faced and trembling with emotion and horror, and burst into tears.
'Why didn't I see this coming? How can it have gone so far? Has she lost all her love for Prince Andrey? And how could she have let Kuragin go as far as this? He's a liar and a scoundrel, that's for sure. What will Nikolay do - dear, noble Nikolay - when he gets to know? So that's what it meant, that funny look on her face, all determined and excited, the other day, and yesterday, and today,' thought Sonya. 'But she can't possibly have fallen in love with him! She's probably opened that letter without knowing who it was from. She probably feels insulted by it. Surely she couldn't do that!'
Sonya wiped away her tears and went over to Natasha, looking closely at her face again.
'Natasha!' she said in a barely audible voice.
Natasha woke up and saw Sonya.
'Oh, you're back.'
And with the warm impulsiveness that can come over people at the moment of waking she hugged her friend. But when she saw Sonya's embarrassment she was embarrassed too, and suspicious.
'Sonya, you've read the letter, haven't you?' she said.
'Yes,' said Sonya softly.