الفصل الفصل 152 · 第152章

Next day, by Márya Dmítrievna’s advice, Count Rostóv took Natásha

to call on Prince Nicholas Bolkónski. The count did not set out

cheerfully on this visit, at heart he felt afraid. He well remembered

the last interview he had had with the old prince at the time of the

enrollment, when in reply to an invitation to dinner he had had to

listen to an angry reprimand for not having provided his full quota of

men. Natásha, on the other hand, having put on her best gown, was in

the highest spirits. “They can’t help liking me,” she thought.

“Everybody always has liked me, and I am so willing to do anything

they wish, so ready to be fond of him—for being his father—and of

her—for being his sister—that there is no reason for them not to

like me....”

They drove up to the gloomy old house on the Vozdvízhenka and entered

the vestibule.

“Well, the Lord have mercy on us!” said the count, half in jest,

half in earnest; but Natásha noticed that her father was flurried on

entering the anteroom and inquired timidly and softly whether the prince

and princess were at home.

When they had been announced a perturbation was noticeable among the

servants. The footman who had gone to announce them was stopped by

another in the large hall and they whispered to one another. Then a

maidservant ran into the hall and hurriedly said something, mentioning

the princess. At last an old, cross looking footman came and announced

to the Rostóvs that the prince was not receiving, but that the princess

begged them to walk up. The first person who came to meet the visitors

was Mademoiselle Bourienne. She greeted the father and daughter

with special politeness and showed them to the princess’ room. The

princess, looking excited and nervous, her face flushed in patches, ran

in to meet the visitors, treading heavily, and vainly trying to appear

cordial and at ease. From the first glance Princess Mary did not like

Natásha. She thought her too fashionably dressed, frivolously gay and

vain. She did not at all realize that before having seen her future

sister-in-law she was prejudiced against her by involuntary envy of her

beauty, youth, and happiness, as well as by jealousy of her brother’s

love for her. Apart from this insuperable antipathy to her, Princess

Mary was agitated just then because on the Rostóvs’ being announced,

the old prince had shouted that he did not wish to see them, that

Princess Mary might do so if she chose, but they were not to be admitted

to him. She had decided to receive them, but feared lest the prince

might at any moment indulge in some freak, as he seemed much upset by

the Rostóvs’ visit.

“There, my dear princess, I’ve brought you my songstress,” said

the count, bowing and looking round uneasily as if afraid the old prince

might appear. “I am so glad you should get to know one another... very

sorry the prince is still ailing,” and after a few more commonplace

remarks he rose. “If you’ll allow me to leave my Natásha in your

hands for a quarter of an hour, Princess, I’ll drive round to see Anna

Semënovna, it’s quite near in the Dogs’ Square, and then I’ll

come back for her.”

The count had devised this diplomatic ruse (as he afterwards told his

daughter) to give the future sisters-in-law an opportunity to talk

to one another freely, but another motive was to avoid the danger of

encountering the old prince, of whom he was afraid. He did not mention

this to his daughter, but Natásha noticed her father’s nervousness

and anxiety and felt mortified by it. She blushed for him, grew still

angrier at having blushed, and looked at the princess with a bold and

defiant expression which said that she was not afraid of anybody. The

princess told the count that she would be delighted, and only begged him

to stay longer at Anna Semënovna’s, and he departed.

Despite the uneasy glances thrown at her by Princess Mary—who wished

to have a tête-à-tête with Natásha—Mademoiselle Bourienne

remained in the room and persistently talked about Moscow amusements and

theaters. Natásha felt offended by the hesitation she had noticed in

the anteroom, by her father’s nervousness, and by the unnatural manner

of the princess who—she thought—was making a favor of receiving her,

and so everything displeased her. She did not like Princess Mary, whom

she thought very plain, affected, and dry. Natásha suddenly shrank

into herself and involuntarily assumed an offhand air which alienated

Princess Mary still more. After five minutes of irksome, constrained

conversation, they heard the sound of slippered feet rapidly

approaching. Princess Mary looked frightened.

The door opened and the old prince, in a dressing gown and a white

nightcap, came in.

“Ah, madam!” he began. “Madam, Countess... Countess Rostóva, if

I am not mistaken... I beg you to excuse me, to excuse me... I did not

know, madam. God is my witness, I did not know you had honored us with

a visit, and I came in such a costume only to see my daughter. I beg you

to excuse me... God is my witness, I didn’t know—” he repeated,

stressing the word “God” so unnaturally and so unpleasantly that

Princess Mary stood with downcast eyes not daring to look either at her

father or at Natásha.

Nor did the latter, having risen and curtsied, know what to do.

Mademoiselle Bourienne alone smiled agreeably.

“I beg you to excuse me, excuse me! God is my witness, I did not

know,” muttered the old man, and after looking Natásha over from head

to foot he went out.

Mademoiselle Bourienne was the first to recover herself after this

apparition and began speaking about the prince’s indisposition.

Natásha and Princess Mary looked at one another in silence, and the

longer they did so without saying what they wanted to say, the greater

grew their antipathy to one another.

When the count returned, Natásha was impolitely pleased and hastened

to get away: at that moment she hated the stiff, elderly princess, who

could place her in such an embarrassing position and had spent half an

hour with her without once mentioning Prince Andrew. “I couldn’t

begin talking about him in the presence of that Frenchwoman,” thought

Natásha. The same thought was meanwhile tormenting Princess Mary. She

knew what she ought to have said to Natásha, but she had been unable

to say it because Mademoiselle Bourienne was in the way, and because,

without knowing why, she felt it very difficult to speak of the

marriage. When the count was already leaving the room, Princess Mary

went up hurriedly to Natásha, took her by the hand, and said with a

deep sigh:

“Wait, I must...”

Natásha glanced at her ironically without knowing why.

“Dear Natalie,” said Princess Mary, “I want you to know that I am

glad my brother has found happiness....”

She paused, feeling that she was not telling the truth. Natásha noticed

this and guessed its reason.

“I think, Princess, it is not convenient to speak of that now,”

she said with external dignity and coldness, though she felt the tears

choking her.

“What have I said and what have I done?” thought she, as soon as she

was out of the room.

They waited a long time for Natásha to come to dinner that day. She sat

in her room crying like a child, blowing her nose and sobbing. Sónya

stood beside her, kissing her hair.

“Natásha, what is it about?” she asked. “What do they matter to

you? It will all pass, Natásha.”

“But if you only knew how offensive it was... as if I...”

“Don’t talk about it, Natásha. It wasn’t your fault so why should

you mind? Kiss me,” said Sónya.

Natásha raised her head and, kissing her friend on the lips, pressed

her wet face against her.

“I can’t tell you, I don’t know. No one’s to blame,” said

Natásha—“It’s my fault. But it all hurts terribly. Oh, why

doesn’t he come?...”

She came in to dinner with red eyes. Márya Dmítrievna, who knew how

the prince had received the Rostóvs, pretended not to notice how upset

Natásha was and jested resolutely and loudly at table with the count

and the other guests.