War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
int in his eyes and a restlessness in his movements, Prince Andrey went over to Natasha and sat down beside her. Pierre watched as Prince Andrey asked her something and she blushed as she replied.
But at that moment Berg came over to Pierre, and insisted on his settling a dispute on Spanish affairs that had arisen between the general and the colonel.
Berg was pleased and happy. A smile of gratification was never off his face. The soiree was proving a great success, the exact image of all the other soirees he had ever been to. All the details were identical: subtle exchanges between the ladies, the card-playing and the general raising his voice as they played, the samovar, the cakes . . . only one thing was missing, something he had seen at every soiree and now wished to replicate. There had not yet been any shouting from the gentlemen or an argument about something serious and high-minded. The general had started just such a conversation and Berg now brought Pierre into it.
CHAPTER 22
Next day Prince Andrey went to lunch at the Rostovs', invited by Count Ilya, and spent the whole day there.
Everyone in the house could sense who Prince Andrey had really come to see, and he made no attempt to hide his efforts to spend the whole day with Natasha.
There was a feeling of dreadful anticipation everywhere, not only in Natasha's inner being - frightened, but happy and excited as she was - but permeating the whole household, as if some portentous event was just about to come to pass. The countess watched Prince Andrey closely, with an air of great concern and sorrow, whenever he talked to Natasha, and when he turned to look at her she would respond rather coyly, talking of this and that. Sonya was afraid to leave Natasha on her own, and equally afraid of being de trop if she stayed with them. Natasha's face was drained of all colour from fear and anticipation if she was left alone with him for a single moment. She was struck by Prince Andrey's diffidence. She could sense that he had something to say to her but couldn't get it out.
When Prince Andrey had gone home that night the countess went over to Natasha and whispered, 'Well?'
'Mamma, for heaven's sake don't ask me anything just now. It's not something I can talk about,' said Natasha.
Nevertheless, Natasha lay in her mother's bed for a long time that night, scared and excited, her darting eyes gradually settling into a stare. She told her everything he had said - he had lavished praise on her, talked about going abroad, asked where they were spending the summer, and wanted to know all about Boris.
'But all this, this . . . Oh, I've never felt like this before!' she said. 'But I feel so scared when I'm with him, I'm always scared when I'm with him. What does it mean? Is this the real thing? Is that what it means? Mamma, are you asleep?'
'No, darling, I'm scared too,' answered her mother. 'Go on, off you go to bed.'
'No, I shan't sleep. Oh, sleep is so stupid! Mamma, darling, I've never felt anything like this before,' she said, shocked and panicky at the feelings she recognized in herself. 'Who'd have thought . . . ?'
Natasha now had the impression she had fallen in love with Prince Andrey the first time she had seen him at Otradnoye. Sudden happiness seemed to have caught her unawares with all its dreadful strangeness - how odd that the man she had chosen there and then (as she now knew for certain), this very man should turn up again, apparently not indifferent to her.
'It all had to happen - he came to Petersburg just when we were here. And we met, as we had to, at the ball. It was all fate. We're obviously victims of fate. Everything's been leading up to this. That first time, the minute I saw him, I had a special feeling.'
'What was it he said to you? What was all that poetry about? Read it to me . . .' said her mother pensively, casting her mind back to some lines of verse that Prince Andrey had written in Natasha's album.
'Mamma, he's a widower - is there anything wrong in that?'
'Hush, Natasha. Don't forget to say your prayers. Marriages are made in heaven,' she said, quoting the French proverb.
'Mamma, darling, oh, I do love you! And I'm so happy!' cried Natasha, shedding tears of excitement and happiness, and hugging her mother.
At that very moment Prince Andrey was sitting with Pierre, talking about his love for Natasha and his absolute determination to marry her.
That evening Countess Helene Bezukhov had given a reception attended by the French ambassador, a royal prince who had recently become a very frequent visitor at the countess's, and many brilliant ladies and gentlemen. Pierre had come down and wandered from room to room, unnerving all the guests by looking so tense, gloomy and preoccupied.
Ever since the night of the ball Pierre had been aware of an impending bout of nervous depression, and had been trying desperately to struggle against it. Since his wife's involvement with the royal prince Pierre had been unexpectedly made a gentleman of the bedchamber, and from that time he had felt a growing sense of weariness and embarrassment in court society, and his old thoughts about the vanity of all human life began to resurface more and more often. The affection he had recently noticed between his protegee, Natasha, and Prince Andrey had made him feel gloomier still because of the contrast between his position and his friend's. He made equal efforts to avoid two lines of thought: his wife, and the relationship between Natasha and Prince Andrey. Once again everything seemed meaningless on the scale of eternity; once again he faced the question, 'What's it all about?' Day after day, night after night, he forced himself to concentrate on masonic work, hoping to ward off any evil spirits. Shortly before midnight Pierre had come away from the countess's apartment and walked upstairs to his low-ceilinged room which reeked of tobacco smoke, where he had put on his tatty old dressing-gown and seated himself at the desk to carry on copying out the original transactions of the Scottish freemasons, when somebody came into the room. It was Prince Andrey.
'Oh, it's you,' said Pierre, looking distracted and none too pleased. 'I'm rather busy, as you can see,' he added, pointing to his note-book with the escapist look of a miserable man using work to get away from the trials of life.
Prince Andrey strolled in and stopped in front of Pierre with radiant bliss written all over his face, bursting with new life, and he beamed at his friend with the smugness of a happy man, never even noticing the gloomy face before him.
'Listen, dear boy,' he said, 'I tried to tell you yesterday, and I've come to tell you now. I've never felt anything like this. I'm in love, my friend.'
Pierre suddenly heaved a great sigh and flopped down ponderously on to the sofa next to Prince Andrey.
'With Natasha Rostov, I suppose,' he said.
'Yes, yes, who else could it be? I'd never have believed it, but the feeling's too strong for me. Yesterday I went through such torment and agony, but I wouldn't change that agony for anything in the world. I've never lived until now. I can't live without her. But can she love me? . . . I'm too old for her . . . Well, say something.'
'Me? Say something? Well, what did I tell you?' said Pierre, suddenly getting to his feet and beginning to pace up and down the room. 'It's what I've always thought. That girl's a real treasure . . . There's something special about her . . . My dear fellow, don't stop to think about it. Don't hesitate. Just get married, get married, get married! I know you'll be the happiest man on earth.'
'What about her?'
'She loves you.'
'Don't talk rubbish,' said Prince Andrey, beaming as he looked Pierre in the face.
'She does. I know she does,' Pierre cried angrily.
'No, listen,' said Prince Andrey, catching him by the arm and stopping him in his tracks. 'You can see what a state I'm in. I've got to talk to somebody about it.'
'Well, come on then, tell me all about it. I'm only too pleased to listen,' said Pierre, and his face changed perceptibly, the furrow of care on his forehead was smoothed away, and he listened with pleasure to what Prince Andrey had to say.
His friend was now just what he seemed to be, a new man, utterly changed. Where had his depression gone, his contempt for life, all that disillusionment? Pierre was the only person he could have spoken to so openly, and now he poured forth all that was on his mind. He began by planning his future well ahead with an easy spirit and great resolution, saying he wasn't prepared to sacrifice his own happiness for any silly ideas his father might have, and he would either make his father agree to the marriage and come to like her, or go ahead without his consent, and then he went on to marvel at the feeling that had overwhelmed him - something strange, new and beyond his control.
'I'd never have believed it, if anybody had said I could love like this,' said Prince Andrey. 'It's nothing like what I felt before. The whole world is split in two for me now: one half is her, and it's all happiness, hope and light; the other is not her, and it's all misery and darkness . . .'
'Darkness and gloom,' Pierre repeated. 'Oh yes, I know all about that.'
'I can't help loving the light. It's not my fault. And I'm so happy. Do you know what I mean? I know you're pleased for me.'
'Yes, I am,' Pierre agreed, and as he watched his friend, his eyes brimmed with sweet sadness. The brighter Prince Andrey's fate became, the gloomier his own seemed to be.
CHAPTER 23
If Prince Andrey was to marry he would need his father's consent, so the next day he set off to see him.
The old prince received his son's announcement with a show of outward equanimity which masked hidden fury. He couldn't understand how anyone could want to alter his way of living by introducing innovations when his life was drawing to its close. 'If they would only let me live my life out in my own way, and then do what they want . . .' the old man said to himself. Dealing with his son, however, he employed the kind of diplomacy that he reserved for special occasions. Adopting a calm tone, he discussed the whole matter.
First, the marriage was not a brilliant one in terms of birth, fortune or social standing. Second, Prince Andrey was not in the first flush of youth, his health was not good (the old man set great store by this), and the girl was very young. Third, there was his son; it would be a pity to entrust him to some slip of a girl. 'Fourth and last,' said the father to his son with a mocking glance, 'I appeal to you. Put it all off for a year, go abroad and see to your health, find a German tutor for Prince Nikolay - you've been wanting to do that - and then, if your love, passion, determination - whatever you want to call it - still matters to you, then get married. And that's my last word on the subject - I mean it, my very last word . . .' the old prince concluded, his tone clearly indicating that nothing was going to change his mind.
Prince Andrey could see through the old man: he was hoping that either Andrey's feelings or those of his fiancee would fail the test of a year's delay, or that he, the old prince, would be dead by the end of it, and he decided to fall in with his father's wish. He would make a proposal and then postpone the wedding for a year.
Three weeks after his last evening visit to the Rostovs' Prince Andrey returned to Petersburg.
After the conversation with her mother Natasha spent the whole of the next day waiting for Bolkonsky, but he didn't come. A second and a third day came and went - still no visit. Pierre stayed away too, and Natasha, unaware that Prince Andrey had gone off to see his father, didn't know what to make of his absence.
Three weeks went by like this. Natasha refused to go out. She walked the house like a ghost, gloomy and listless, weeping in secret at night, and she stopped going in to see her mother at bedtime. She was continually blushing and very touchy. She had the impression that her disappointment was an open secret and they were all laughing at her and feeling sorry for her. For all the intensity of her personal sorrow, it was hurt pride that made her misery even more painful.
One day she came in to see the countess and started to say something, only to collapse in tears. They were the tears of a child whose feelings have been hurt and it can't see why it is being punished. The countess did what she could to comfort her daughter. At first Natasha simply listened and listened, but then suddenly she interrupted her mother.
'Please don't, Mamma. I've stopped thinking about it - I don't want to any more! Oh why did he keep coming here and then suddenly stop?' There was a tremor in her voice and she was on the verge of tears, but she recovered her composure and went on to say, 'And now I don't want to get married at all. And besides I'm scared of him. Anyway, now I'm completely relaxed about everything.'
The day after this conversation Natasha put on one of her old dresses, one she knew she could rely on to feel good in all morning, and from first thing she resumed her old way of life, which had been abandoned ever since the ball. After morning tea she went out into the big hall, which she particularly liked because of its strong resonance, and did her singing practice, singing scales. When she had finished the first exercise she stood still in the middle of the hall and repeated one snatch of melody that particularly appealed to her. She listened enraptured, as if for the first time, by the charm of the notes as they swelled out to fill the vast spaces of the great room before slowly dying away, and suddenly she was happy again.
'Why should I bother about all that? I'm all right as I am,' she told herself, and she began walking up and down the room, not putting her feet down straight on to the echoing parquet, but doing a heel-and-toe at each step (she was wearing new shoes that she really liked), and listening as her heels clicked and her toes scraped rhythmically, which was just as nice as listening to the sound of her own voice. She glanced into a large mirror as she passed. 'Yes, that's me!' her expression seemed to say when she caught sight of herself. 'Very nice too. I don't need anybody else.'
A footman wanted to come in and clear something away, but she wouldn't let him. She shut the door on him and continued her promenade. This morning she was back at last in her favourite situation, that of loving herself and being her own best admirer. 'There goes Natasha - such a charming creature!' she said, referring to herself once again in the words of some third-person collective male figure. 'Pretty girl, good voice, young, not doing any harm, just leave her in peace.' But, however much people left her in peace now, she couldn't be at peace, and she sensed this immediately.
Out in the vestibule the front door opened, someone asked, 'Are they at home?' and footsteps could be heard approaching. Natasha was busy admiring herself in the glass, but suddenly she no longer saw herself. She was listening to the sounds coming from the vestibule. When she did see herself again she looked very pale. It was him. She knew for certain, though his voice was scarcely audible through the closed doors.
White-faced and panic-stricken, Natasha flew into the drawing-room.
'Mamma, it's Bolkonsky!' she said. 'Mamma, this is awful, I can't bear it! . . . I don't want . . . all this pain! What shall I do?'
The countess had no time to answer. Prince Andrey strode into the drawing-room looking worried and terribly serious. The moment he saw Natasha his face lit up. He kissed the countess's hand and Natasha's, and seated himself alongside the sofa.
'It's some time since we had the pleasure . . .' the countess began to say, but Prince Andrey cut right across her question with a quick response, obviously anxious to get out what he had come to say.
'I haven't been to see you all this time because I have been away seeing my father. I had something very important to discuss with him. I didn't get back till last night,' he said, glancing at Natasha. 'I must talk to you, Countess,' he added, after a moment's silence.
The countess looked down with a heavy sigh.
'I am at your disposal,' she managed to say.
Natasha knew she ought to go, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. There was a strangulated feeling in her throat, and she stood there goggling, staring quite rudely straight at Prince Andrey.
'Now? . . . This minute? . . . No, it can't be!' she was thinking.
He glanced at her again, and that glance told her she was not mistaken. Yes, here and now, this very minute, her fate was being decided.
'Run along, Natasha. I'll call you,' the countess whispered.
With frightened and imploring eyes Natasha glanced at Prince Andrey and her mother, and left the room.
'Countess, I have come to ask you for your daughter's hand,' said Prince Andrey.
The countess's face flared red, but at first she said nothing.
'Your proposal . . .' the countess began at last in measured tones. He sat there in silence, watching her face. 'Your proposal . . .' (she was painfully embarrassed) 'is, er, welcome, and . . . I accept your proposal. I'm glad of it. And my husband . . . I do hope . . . but the decision must rest with her . . .'
'I'll talk to her when I have your consent . . . Do I have it?' said Prince Andrey.
'Yes,' said the countess, extending her hand to him, and it was with mixed feelings of remoteness and tenderness that she pressed her lips to his forehead as he bent to kiss her hand. She dearly wanted to love him as a son, but he seemed like an alien spirit, and besides she was afraid of him.
'I'm sure my husband will consent,' said the countess, 'but what about your father . . . ?'
'I have kept my father informed of my plans, and he gives his consent with the sole proviso that the marriage does not take place for a year. I was going to tell you about that,' said Prince Andrey.
'Well, Natasha is very young, but - does it have to be such a long time?'
'There was no other way . . .' said Prince Andrey with a sigh.
'I'll send her in to you,' said the countess, and she went out of the room.
'Lord, have mercy on us!' she kept repeating as she searched for her daughter.
Sonya told her Natasha was in her bedroom. She was sitting on her bed, pale-faced and dry-eyed, gazing at an icon and murmuring something as she crossed herself rapidly. Seeing her mother, she leapt up and flew across to her.
'What is it, Mamma? . . . What is it?'
'Off you go, go and see him. He's asking for your hand,' said the countess - coldly, it seemed to Natasha . . . 'Go on . . . off you go . . .' her mother murmured with a mixture of sadness and disapproval, and she gave a deep sigh as her daughter ran off.
Natasha had no recollection of entering the drawing-ro
But at that moment Berg came over to Pierre, and insisted on his settling a dispute on Spanish affairs that had arisen between the general and the colonel.
Berg was pleased and happy. A smile of gratification was never off his face. The soiree was proving a great success, the exact image of all the other soirees he had ever been to. All the details were identical: subtle exchanges between the ladies, the card-playing and the general raising his voice as they played, the samovar, the cakes . . . only one thing was missing, something he had seen at every soiree and now wished to replicate. There had not yet been any shouting from the gentlemen or an argument about something serious and high-minded. The general had started just such a conversation and Berg now brought Pierre into it.
CHAPTER 22
Next day Prince Andrey went to lunch at the Rostovs', invited by Count Ilya, and spent the whole day there.
Everyone in the house could sense who Prince Andrey had really come to see, and he made no attempt to hide his efforts to spend the whole day with Natasha.
There was a feeling of dreadful anticipation everywhere, not only in Natasha's inner being - frightened, but happy and excited as she was - but permeating the whole household, as if some portentous event was just about to come to pass. The countess watched Prince Andrey closely, with an air of great concern and sorrow, whenever he talked to Natasha, and when he turned to look at her she would respond rather coyly, talking of this and that. Sonya was afraid to leave Natasha on her own, and equally afraid of being de trop if she stayed with them. Natasha's face was drained of all colour from fear and anticipation if she was left alone with him for a single moment. She was struck by Prince Andrey's diffidence. She could sense that he had something to say to her but couldn't get it out.
When Prince Andrey had gone home that night the countess went over to Natasha and whispered, 'Well?'
'Mamma, for heaven's sake don't ask me anything just now. It's not something I can talk about,' said Natasha.
Nevertheless, Natasha lay in her mother's bed for a long time that night, scared and excited, her darting eyes gradually settling into a stare. She told her everything he had said - he had lavished praise on her, talked about going abroad, asked where they were spending the summer, and wanted to know all about Boris.
'But all this, this . . . Oh, I've never felt like this before!' she said. 'But I feel so scared when I'm with him, I'm always scared when I'm with him. What does it mean? Is this the real thing? Is that what it means? Mamma, are you asleep?'
'No, darling, I'm scared too,' answered her mother. 'Go on, off you go to bed.'
'No, I shan't sleep. Oh, sleep is so stupid! Mamma, darling, I've never felt anything like this before,' she said, shocked and panicky at the feelings she recognized in herself. 'Who'd have thought . . . ?'
Natasha now had the impression she had fallen in love with Prince Andrey the first time she had seen him at Otradnoye. Sudden happiness seemed to have caught her unawares with all its dreadful strangeness - how odd that the man she had chosen there and then (as she now knew for certain), this very man should turn up again, apparently not indifferent to her.
'It all had to happen - he came to Petersburg just when we were here. And we met, as we had to, at the ball. It was all fate. We're obviously victims of fate. Everything's been leading up to this. That first time, the minute I saw him, I had a special feeling.'
'What was it he said to you? What was all that poetry about? Read it to me . . .' said her mother pensively, casting her mind back to some lines of verse that Prince Andrey had written in Natasha's album.
'Mamma, he's a widower - is there anything wrong in that?'
'Hush, Natasha. Don't forget to say your prayers. Marriages are made in heaven,' she said, quoting the French proverb.
'Mamma, darling, oh, I do love you! And I'm so happy!' cried Natasha, shedding tears of excitement and happiness, and hugging her mother.
At that very moment Prince Andrey was sitting with Pierre, talking about his love for Natasha and his absolute determination to marry her.
That evening Countess Helene Bezukhov had given a reception attended by the French ambassador, a royal prince who had recently become a very frequent visitor at the countess's, and many brilliant ladies and gentlemen. Pierre had come down and wandered from room to room, unnerving all the guests by looking so tense, gloomy and preoccupied.
Ever since the night of the ball Pierre had been aware of an impending bout of nervous depression, and had been trying desperately to struggle against it. Since his wife's involvement with the royal prince Pierre had been unexpectedly made a gentleman of the bedchamber, and from that time he had felt a growing sense of weariness and embarrassment in court society, and his old thoughts about the vanity of all human life began to resurface more and more often. The affection he had recently noticed between his protegee, Natasha, and Prince Andrey had made him feel gloomier still because of the contrast between his position and his friend's. He made equal efforts to avoid two lines of thought: his wife, and the relationship between Natasha and Prince Andrey. Once again everything seemed meaningless on the scale of eternity; once again he faced the question, 'What's it all about?' Day after day, night after night, he forced himself to concentrate on masonic work, hoping to ward off any evil spirits. Shortly before midnight Pierre had come away from the countess's apartment and walked upstairs to his low-ceilinged room which reeked of tobacco smoke, where he had put on his tatty old dressing-gown and seated himself at the desk to carry on copying out the original transactions of the Scottish freemasons, when somebody came into the room. It was Prince Andrey.
'Oh, it's you,' said Pierre, looking distracted and none too pleased. 'I'm rather busy, as you can see,' he added, pointing to his note-book with the escapist look of a miserable man using work to get away from the trials of life.
Prince Andrey strolled in and stopped in front of Pierre with radiant bliss written all over his face, bursting with new life, and he beamed at his friend with the smugness of a happy man, never even noticing the gloomy face before him.
'Listen, dear boy,' he said, 'I tried to tell you yesterday, and I've come to tell you now. I've never felt anything like this. I'm in love, my friend.'
Pierre suddenly heaved a great sigh and flopped down ponderously on to the sofa next to Prince Andrey.
'With Natasha Rostov, I suppose,' he said.
'Yes, yes, who else could it be? I'd never have believed it, but the feeling's too strong for me. Yesterday I went through such torment and agony, but I wouldn't change that agony for anything in the world. I've never lived until now. I can't live without her. But can she love me? . . . I'm too old for her . . . Well, say something.'
'Me? Say something? Well, what did I tell you?' said Pierre, suddenly getting to his feet and beginning to pace up and down the room. 'It's what I've always thought. That girl's a real treasure . . . There's something special about her . . . My dear fellow, don't stop to think about it. Don't hesitate. Just get married, get married, get married! I know you'll be the happiest man on earth.'
'What about her?'
'She loves you.'
'Don't talk rubbish,' said Prince Andrey, beaming as he looked Pierre in the face.
'She does. I know she does,' Pierre cried angrily.
'No, listen,' said Prince Andrey, catching him by the arm and stopping him in his tracks. 'You can see what a state I'm in. I've got to talk to somebody about it.'
'Well, come on then, tell me all about it. I'm only too pleased to listen,' said Pierre, and his face changed perceptibly, the furrow of care on his forehead was smoothed away, and he listened with pleasure to what Prince Andrey had to say.
His friend was now just what he seemed to be, a new man, utterly changed. Where had his depression gone, his contempt for life, all that disillusionment? Pierre was the only person he could have spoken to so openly, and now he poured forth all that was on his mind. He began by planning his future well ahead with an easy spirit and great resolution, saying he wasn't prepared to sacrifice his own happiness for any silly ideas his father might have, and he would either make his father agree to the marriage and come to like her, or go ahead without his consent, and then he went on to marvel at the feeling that had overwhelmed him - something strange, new and beyond his control.
'I'd never have believed it, if anybody had said I could love like this,' said Prince Andrey. 'It's nothing like what I felt before. The whole world is split in two for me now: one half is her, and it's all happiness, hope and light; the other is not her, and it's all misery and darkness . . .'
'Darkness and gloom,' Pierre repeated. 'Oh yes, I know all about that.'
'I can't help loving the light. It's not my fault. And I'm so happy. Do you know what I mean? I know you're pleased for me.'
'Yes, I am,' Pierre agreed, and as he watched his friend, his eyes brimmed with sweet sadness. The brighter Prince Andrey's fate became, the gloomier his own seemed to be.
CHAPTER 23
If Prince Andrey was to marry he would need his father's consent, so the next day he set off to see him.
The old prince received his son's announcement with a show of outward equanimity which masked hidden fury. He couldn't understand how anyone could want to alter his way of living by introducing innovations when his life was drawing to its close. 'If they would only let me live my life out in my own way, and then do what they want . . .' the old man said to himself. Dealing with his son, however, he employed the kind of diplomacy that he reserved for special occasions. Adopting a calm tone, he discussed the whole matter.
First, the marriage was not a brilliant one in terms of birth, fortune or social standing. Second, Prince Andrey was not in the first flush of youth, his health was not good (the old man set great store by this), and the girl was very young. Third, there was his son; it would be a pity to entrust him to some slip of a girl. 'Fourth and last,' said the father to his son with a mocking glance, 'I appeal to you. Put it all off for a year, go abroad and see to your health, find a German tutor for Prince Nikolay - you've been wanting to do that - and then, if your love, passion, determination - whatever you want to call it - still matters to you, then get married. And that's my last word on the subject - I mean it, my very last word . . .' the old prince concluded, his tone clearly indicating that nothing was going to change his mind.
Prince Andrey could see through the old man: he was hoping that either Andrey's feelings or those of his fiancee would fail the test of a year's delay, or that he, the old prince, would be dead by the end of it, and he decided to fall in with his father's wish. He would make a proposal and then postpone the wedding for a year.
Three weeks after his last evening visit to the Rostovs' Prince Andrey returned to Petersburg.
After the conversation with her mother Natasha spent the whole of the next day waiting for Bolkonsky, but he didn't come. A second and a third day came and went - still no visit. Pierre stayed away too, and Natasha, unaware that Prince Andrey had gone off to see his father, didn't know what to make of his absence.
Three weeks went by like this. Natasha refused to go out. She walked the house like a ghost, gloomy and listless, weeping in secret at night, and she stopped going in to see her mother at bedtime. She was continually blushing and very touchy. She had the impression that her disappointment was an open secret and they were all laughing at her and feeling sorry for her. For all the intensity of her personal sorrow, it was hurt pride that made her misery even more painful.
One day she came in to see the countess and started to say something, only to collapse in tears. They were the tears of a child whose feelings have been hurt and it can't see why it is being punished. The countess did what she could to comfort her daughter. At first Natasha simply listened and listened, but then suddenly she interrupted her mother.
'Please don't, Mamma. I've stopped thinking about it - I don't want to any more! Oh why did he keep coming here and then suddenly stop?' There was a tremor in her voice and she was on the verge of tears, but she recovered her composure and went on to say, 'And now I don't want to get married at all. And besides I'm scared of him. Anyway, now I'm completely relaxed about everything.'
The day after this conversation Natasha put on one of her old dresses, one she knew she could rely on to feel good in all morning, and from first thing she resumed her old way of life, which had been abandoned ever since the ball. After morning tea she went out into the big hall, which she particularly liked because of its strong resonance, and did her singing practice, singing scales. When she had finished the first exercise she stood still in the middle of the hall and repeated one snatch of melody that particularly appealed to her. She listened enraptured, as if for the first time, by the charm of the notes as they swelled out to fill the vast spaces of the great room before slowly dying away, and suddenly she was happy again.
'Why should I bother about all that? I'm all right as I am,' she told herself, and she began walking up and down the room, not putting her feet down straight on to the echoing parquet, but doing a heel-and-toe at each step (she was wearing new shoes that she really liked), and listening as her heels clicked and her toes scraped rhythmically, which was just as nice as listening to the sound of her own voice. She glanced into a large mirror as she passed. 'Yes, that's me!' her expression seemed to say when she caught sight of herself. 'Very nice too. I don't need anybody else.'
A footman wanted to come in and clear something away, but she wouldn't let him. She shut the door on him and continued her promenade. This morning she was back at last in her favourite situation, that of loving herself and being her own best admirer. 'There goes Natasha - such a charming creature!' she said, referring to herself once again in the words of some third-person collective male figure. 'Pretty girl, good voice, young, not doing any harm, just leave her in peace.' But, however much people left her in peace now, she couldn't be at peace, and she sensed this immediately.
Out in the vestibule the front door opened, someone asked, 'Are they at home?' and footsteps could be heard approaching. Natasha was busy admiring herself in the glass, but suddenly she no longer saw herself. She was listening to the sounds coming from the vestibule. When she did see herself again she looked very pale. It was him. She knew for certain, though his voice was scarcely audible through the closed doors.
White-faced and panic-stricken, Natasha flew into the drawing-room.
'Mamma, it's Bolkonsky!' she said. 'Mamma, this is awful, I can't bear it! . . . I don't want . . . all this pain! What shall I do?'
The countess had no time to answer. Prince Andrey strode into the drawing-room looking worried and terribly serious. The moment he saw Natasha his face lit up. He kissed the countess's hand and Natasha's, and seated himself alongside the sofa.
'It's some time since we had the pleasure . . .' the countess began to say, but Prince Andrey cut right across her question with a quick response, obviously anxious to get out what he had come to say.
'I haven't been to see you all this time because I have been away seeing my father. I had something very important to discuss with him. I didn't get back till last night,' he said, glancing at Natasha. 'I must talk to you, Countess,' he added, after a moment's silence.
The countess looked down with a heavy sigh.
'I am at your disposal,' she managed to say.
Natasha knew she ought to go, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. There was a strangulated feeling in her throat, and she stood there goggling, staring quite rudely straight at Prince Andrey.
'Now? . . . This minute? . . . No, it can't be!' she was thinking.
He glanced at her again, and that glance told her she was not mistaken. Yes, here and now, this very minute, her fate was being decided.
'Run along, Natasha. I'll call you,' the countess whispered.
With frightened and imploring eyes Natasha glanced at Prince Andrey and her mother, and left the room.
'Countess, I have come to ask you for your daughter's hand,' said Prince Andrey.
The countess's face flared red, but at first she said nothing.
'Your proposal . . .' the countess began at last in measured tones. He sat there in silence, watching her face. 'Your proposal . . .' (she was painfully embarrassed) 'is, er, welcome, and . . . I accept your proposal. I'm glad of it. And my husband . . . I do hope . . . but the decision must rest with her . . .'
'I'll talk to her when I have your consent . . . Do I have it?' said Prince Andrey.
'Yes,' said the countess, extending her hand to him, and it was with mixed feelings of remoteness and tenderness that she pressed her lips to his forehead as he bent to kiss her hand. She dearly wanted to love him as a son, but he seemed like an alien spirit, and besides she was afraid of him.
'I'm sure my husband will consent,' said the countess, 'but what about your father . . . ?'
'I have kept my father informed of my plans, and he gives his consent with the sole proviso that the marriage does not take place for a year. I was going to tell you about that,' said Prince Andrey.
'Well, Natasha is very young, but - does it have to be such a long time?'
'There was no other way . . .' said Prince Andrey with a sigh.
'I'll send her in to you,' said the countess, and she went out of the room.
'Lord, have mercy on us!' she kept repeating as she searched for her daughter.
Sonya told her Natasha was in her bedroom. She was sitting on her bed, pale-faced and dry-eyed, gazing at an icon and murmuring something as she crossed herself rapidly. Seeing her mother, she leapt up and flew across to her.
'What is it, Mamma? . . . What is it?'
'Off you go, go and see him. He's asking for your hand,' said the countess - coldly, it seemed to Natasha . . . 'Go on . . . off you go . . .' her mother murmured with a mixture of sadness and disapproval, and she gave a deep sigh as her daughter ran off.
Natasha had no recollection of entering the drawing-ro