'Boris, my dear,' said Anna Mikhaylovna, 'I know from a reliable source that Prince Vasily has sent his son to Moscow to get him married to Julie. I have such a soft spot for Julie and this would make me very sorry. How do you feel about it, my dear?'
Boris was beside himself at the idea of being made a fool of, and having wasted a whole month of dogged melancholia on Julie, and seeing all the lovely money from those Penza estates which he had mentally assimilated and put to good use pass into somebody else's hands, especially the hands of an idiot like Anatole. He drove straight round to the Karagins absolutely determined to propose. Julie welcomed him with a breezy cheerfulness, just happening to mention how much she had enjoyed yesterday evening's ball, and she asked when he was leaving. Although Boris had come with every intention of declaring his love and therefore speaking tenderly, he launched forth irritably on the subject of feminine fickleness, observing how women could switch so easily from sadness to joy, and how their mood depended entirely on who happened to be running after them. Julie took offence at this, and said yes, it was perfectly true that a woman needed variety, and anyone would get bored if nothing ever changed.
'In that case, my advice to you . . .' But Boris, with a vitriolic word on the tip of his tongue, was suddenly struck by a galling thought - he might end up leaving Moscow without having achieved his goal, and after a great waste of effort, something he'd never experienced before. He cut himself short in mid-sentence, averted his eyes from her nasty look of exasperation and indecision, and said, 'But listen, I didn't come here to quarrel with you. Quite the opposite . . .' He glanced at her, wondering whether or not to go on. Every last sign of annoyance had instantly vanished from her face, and her restless, imploring eyes were glued on him in avid anticipation.
'I can always arrange not to see much of her,' thought Boris. 'In for a penny in for a pound!' He blushed to the roots of his hair, gazed into her face and said, 'You know how I feel about you!' That was enough. Julie was beaming with triumph and self-congratulation, but she still made Boris go through everything that is normally said on these occasions - that he was in love with her and had never loved any woman like this. She knew that her Penza estates and her forests near Nizhny Novgorod gave her every right to demand this, and she got what she wanted.
The newly engaged couple, dispensing now with all references to trees that enfolded them with darkness and melancholy, were soon making plans for setting up a brilliant future residence in Petersburg, going the rounds as necessary and making arrangements for a magnificent wedding.
CHAPTER 6
It was getting towards the end of January when Count Ilya Rostov arrived in Moscow with Natasha and Sonya. The countess was still too ill to travel, but it was no longer possible to put things off until she got better; any day now Prince Andrey was due to arrive in Moscow. In any case they had to order the trousseau, sell the estate just outside Moscow, and take advantage of old Prince Bolkonsky's presence in the city to arrange for his future daughter-in-law to be introduced. The Rostovs' town house had not been heated, and since this was only a short stay and the countess wasn't with them the old count elected to stay with Marya Dmitriyevna Akhrosimov, with whom the count had a long-standing offer of accommodation.
Late one night the Rostovs' four sledges drove into Marya Dmitriyevna's courtyard in Old Konyusheny Street. She now lived alone, having married off her daughter and seen her sons enter the service. She still had a good bearing, still spoke her mind, opining vociferously on all subjects, and her whole personality seemed like a reproach to everyone else for all kinds of weaknesses, passions and impulses that she happened to consider beyond the pale. She rose early, donned her house-jacket and saw to the housekeeping, before driving off, if it happened to be a saint's day, first to Mass and then on to the gaols and prisons, where she did good work that she never spoke about. On ordinary week-days she dressed and received petitioners from all classes - there was someone every day. Then she took lunch, a good rich meal, always with three or four guests in attendance. She would spend the afternoon playing boston, and during the evening she would have the newspapers and the latest books read to her while she sat there knitting. She rarely interrupted her routine to go out, and if she did it was only to visit the most important people in town.
She was still up when the Rostovs arrived and the pulley of the hall door creaked as it welcomed the Rostovs and their servants in from the cold. Marya Dmitriyevna was standing in the hall doorway, with her spectacles perched on the end of her nose and her head flung back, and she greeted the newcomers with a stern and angry look. Anyone might have thought she was annoyed at them for daring to come and was about to send them away again, but for the fact that she was simultaneously issuing detailed instructions to her servants for the accommodation of her guests and all their baggage.
'The count's things? Over here,' she said, pointing to the trunks without a word of welcome to anyone. 'The young ladies, over there on the left. All this fiddle-faddle!' she called to her maids. 'Get the samovar going! . . . Filled out nicely, very pretty,' she said to Natasha, catching her by the hood and drawing her close. Natasha was glowing red from the frosty air. 'Phoo! You're awfully cold! Come along, get those things off,' she shouted across to the count, who was wanting to come over and kiss her hand. 'You must be frozen too. Plenty of rum in the tea! Sonya, dear, bonjour,' she said to the other girl, this single French word bringing out the complex mixture of slight scorn and affection that determined her attitude to Sonya.
Eventually, when they had taken off their outer clothes, freshened up after the journey and come down to tea, Marya Dmitriyevna went round kissing them all.
'It does my heart good to see you. Thank you for coming to stay with me. It's been a long time,' she said, with a knowing glance at Natasha. 'The old fellow's here, and his son's due back any day now. You must make their acquaintance, you simply must. But we can talk about that later,' she added, glancing across at Sonya - a clear signal that she didn't want to talk about it in her presence.
'Now, listen,' she said, turning to the count. 'What are your plans for tomorrow? Who do you want me to send for? Shinshin?' She bent down one finger. 'That snivelling woman, Anna Mikhaylovna.' She bent down another. 'She's here with her son. He's getting married! Then Bezukhov, I suppose. He's here, too, with his wife. He ran away from her, but she came galloping after him. He had lunch here last Wednesday. Now, these people,' she went on, indicating the young ladies, 'I'll take them to the Iversky chapel tomorrow, and we'll call in on Madame Saucy Rascal.' (Her dressmaker's real name was Suzie Pascal.) 'You'll be getting all the latest things, I suppose. Don't look at me - sleeves are out here nowadays! Only the other day young Princess Irina Vasilyevna called in here, and what a sight! Looked as if she'd put two barrels on her arms. There's a new fashion every day now. And what will you be getting up to?' she asked the count abruptly.
'Everything's happened at once,' answered the count. 'All these rags to sort out, and now suddenly there's a buyer in prospect for the Moscow estate and the house. With your kind permission I'll pick my moment and slip over to the estate for a day or so. It would involve leaving the girls on your hands.'
'Splendid, splendid, they'll be all right with me. They'll be like wards of court. I'll take them wherever they ought to go - scold them a bit and spoil them a bit,' said Marya Dmitriyevna, extending a large hand to touch the cheek of her god-daughter and favourite, Natasha.
Next morning Marya Dmitriyevna took the young ladies off to the Iversky chapel and then to Madame Pascal, who was so intimidated by Marya Dmitriyevna that she always sold clothes to her at a loss in order to get rid of her as fast as she could. Marya Dmitriyevna ordered almost the whole trousseau. When they got home she sent everyone but Natasha out of the room, and called her favourite over to sit beside her armchair.
'Now, let's have a little chat. Congratulations on your engagement. He's a fine young man and you've hooked him! I'm very pleased for you. I've known him since he was
so high,' she said, holding her hand a couple of feet from the floor. Natasha coloured up with pleasure. 'I'm very fond of him and all his family. But listen! I'm sure you know old Prince Nikolay was very much against his son getting married. He's a funny old devil! Of course, Prince Andrey is not a child any more; he can get by without him. But entering another family against the father's will is not a nice thing to do. It ought to be done with peace and love. You're a bright girl - you'll know how to cope. Just use your wits and your kind heart. Then everything will be all right.'
Natasha made no response, but her silence was not due to shyness, as Marya Dmitriyevna surmised. In point of fact, Natasha didn't like people poking their noses into anything to do with her love for Prince Andrey, which seemed to her so far removed from the ordinary run of human experience that in her view no one could possibly understand it. The only man she knew and loved was Prince Andrey; he loved her, and was due to return any day now and take her away. That was all she needed.
'I've known him such a long time, you see, and I do love your future sister-in-law, Masha. As they say, new sisters cause blisters, but she won't; she wouldn't hurt a fly. She's been asking me to bring you two together. You must go and see her tomorrow with your father. Try to be nice to her; she's older than you. By the time your young man gets back, you'll have got to know his sister and his father, and you'll have won them over. Am I right? This is the best way, isn't it?'
'Yes,' said Natasha without much enthusiasm.
CHAPTER 7
Next day, acting on Marya Dmitriyevna's advice, Count Rostov took Natasha to call on Prince Nikolay Bolkonsky. The count was unhappy about this; he was not looking forward to the visit and he approached it with dread in his heart. The last meeting with the old prince at the time of the recruitment levy was still fresh in his mind - he had invited Bolkonsky to dinner and in return he had been forced to sit through a furious diatribe for not having sent enough men. Natasha, by contrast, had put on her best dress and was in high spirits. 'They're bound to like me,' she thought. 'Everybody does. And I'm ready to do anything they want, and love them both for being his father and his sister. There can't be any reason for them not to like me!'
They drove up to the gloomy old house on the Vozdvizhenka and went into the vestibule.
'Oh well, God be merciful . . .' said the count, half-joking, half-serious, but Natasha could see that her father was all flustered as he went through into the entry-hall and inquired diffidently and in the softest tones whether the prince and the princess were at home. After they had been announced the prince's servants looked visibly embarrassed. One footman who was running over to announce them was stopped by another in the big hall, and whispered exchanges ensued. A maid-servant ran out to them in the hall and blurted out something to do with the princess. Then at last a curmudgeonly old footman emerged, only to inform the Rostovs that the prince could not receive anyone, though they were invited to go and see the princess. The first person to approach the visitors was Mademoiselle Bourienne. She greeted father and daughter with flamboyant politeness and led them off to the princess's apartment. The princess scuttled in to meet the visitors and tramped over to them, blotchy-faced, obviously worried and frightened, while struggling in vain to appear casual and welcoming. She took against Natasha at a single glance, seeing her as a creature of fashion, frivolous, flighty and vain. It never occurred to Princess Marya that before setting eyes on her future sister-in-law she was already prejudiced against her, subconsciously envying her beauty, youth and happiness, and resenting her brother's love for her. And besides this overwhelming feeling of antipathy, Princess Marya was still desperately worried because when the Rostovs had been announced the old prince had roared out that he wanted nothing to do with them - she could see them if she wanted to, but they mustn't be let in to see him. Princess Marya had decided to receive them, but she lived in constant dread of the old prince doing something outrageous, because he had seemed particularly upset by the arrival of the Rostovs.
'Well, here we are then. I've brought my little songstress to see you, Princess,' said the count, bowing and scraping, his eyes darting about anxiously in case the old prince came in. 'It will be nice for you to get to know each other. I'm so sorry the prince is still unwell . . .' and after one or two more such platitudes he got to his feet. 'With your permission, Princess,' he said, 'if I could just leave my Natasha on your hands for a short while . . . I'd rather like to pop round to Dogs' Square to see Anna Semyonovna - it's only round the corner - and then come back for her . . .'
Count Rostov had thought up this diplomatic ruse (as he told his daughter afterwards) to give the future sisters-in-law maximum freedom to talk, though it also reduced any risk of meeting the prince, who scared him stiff. This was something he refrained from telling his daughter, but Natasha realized how frightened and worried her father was, and she felt humiliated. She blushed because of her father, then felt furious with herself for having blushed, and she transfixed the princess with a bold, challenging glare intended to show that she wasn't afraid of anybody. The princess said she would be delighted, and asked him not to hurry back from Anna Semyonovna's, and then he was gone.
In defiance of several uneasy glances angled at her by Princess Marya, who wanted to talk to Natasha alone, Mademoiselle Bourienne stayed on and persisted in chattering about the pleasures of Moscow and the theatres. Natasha was still smarting from the embarrassing delay in the entry-hall, her father's edginess and the constrained attitude of the princess, who seemed to think she was doing them a favour by receiving her. The whole situation seemed unpleasant. She didn't like Princess Marya, who seemed very plain, pretentious and frosty. Natasha suddenly seemed to shrivel up, unconsciously adopting an offhand manner that alienated Princess Marya even more. Five minutes went by with the conversation laboured and constrained, and then came the sound of shuffling slippers speedily approaching. Terror was written all over Princess Marya's face as the door opened and in came the prince, wearing a white night-cap and dressing-gown.
'Ah, madam,' he began. 'Madam, Countess . . . Countess Rostov . . . if I'm not mistaken . . . I'm sure you'll forgive me, do forgive me . . . I didn't know, madam. As God's my witness, I didn't know you were honouring us with a visit. I came to see my daughter - which accounts for this costume. You'll have to forgive me . . . As God's my witness, I didn't know,' he repeated so unnaturally and so nastily, stressing the word 'God', that Princess Marya rose to her feet with her eyes glued to the floor, not daring to glance at her father or Natasha. Natasha rose too and gave a curtsey, also at a loss for something to do. Mademoiselle Bourienne was the only one capable of a sweet smile.
'You'll have to forgive me! You'll have to forgive me! As God's my witness, I didn't know,' muttered the old man, and after surveying Natasha from head to foot he walked out.
Mademoiselle Bourienne was the first to collect herself after this apparition, and she started to talk about the prince's poor health. Speechless, Natasha and Princess Marya gazed at each other and the longer they remained speechless and continued to gaze at each other, leaving unsaid all those things that ought to have been said, the greater was the mutual antipathy that rose between them.
When the count returned, Natasha, almost indecently pleased to see him, got away as fast as she could, with a feeling akin to loathing for that frigid old woman of a princess, who was capable of putting her in such an embarrassing position, and also of spending half an hour with her without saying a word about Prince Andrey. 'I just couldn't have been the first to talk about him with that Frenchwoman in the room,' thought Natasha. Meanwhile Princess Marya was tormenting herself in just the same way. She had known what needed to be said to Natasha, but she hadn't been able to bring herself to say it, partly because Mademoiselle Bourienne was in the way but also because she found it terribly difficult to begin talking about the marriage, though she couldn't have said why. The count was well on his way out of the room when Princess Marya scurried across to Natasha, seized her hand
and said with a deep sigh, 'Wait a second. I think I should . . .' Natasha looked at Princess Marya with a kind of scorn, though she too couldn't have explained why.
'Dear Natalie,' said Princess Marya, 'I want you to know how glad I am my brother has found such happiness . . .' She paused, conscious of telling a lie. Natasha noted the pause and guessed the reason behind it.
'Princess, I don't think this is the right time to talk about it,' said Natasha, with a show of dignity and aloofness, though she was choking on tears.
'What have I said? What have I done?' she thought the moment she was out of the room.
Natasha kept them waiting for dinner that evening. She was still up in her room, crying like a child, sniffling and sobbing. Sonya stood over her, kissing her hair.
'Natasha, there's nothing to cry about,' she kept saying. 'Why do you bother about them? It'll soon pass, Natasha.'
'No, if only you knew how humiliating it was . . . As if I . . .'
'Natasha, don't say anything. It's not your fault, so why should you bother? Give me a kiss,' said Sonya.