Chương Chương 157 · 第157章

The day after the opera the Rostóvs went nowhere and nobody came to see

them. Márya Dmítrievna talked to the count about something which they

concealed from Natásha. Natásha guessed they were talking about the

old prince and planning something, and this disquieted and offended her.

She was expecting Prince Andrew any moment and twice that day sent a

manservant to the Vozdvízhenka to ascertain whether he had come. He had

not arrived. She suffered more now than during her first days in Moscow.

To her impatience and pining for him were now added the unpleasant

recollection of her interview with Princess Mary and the old prince,

and a fear and anxiety of which she did not understand the cause. She

continually fancied that either he would never come or that something

would happen to her before he came. She could no longer think of him by

herself calmly and continuously as she had done before. As soon as she

began to think of him, the recollection of the old prince, of Princess

Mary, of the theater, and of Kurágin mingled with her thoughts. The

question again presented itself whether she was not guilty, whether she

had not already broken faith with Prince Andrew, and again she found

herself recalling to the minutest detail every word, every gesture, and

every shade in the play of expression on the face of the man who had

been able to arouse in her such an incomprehensible and terrifying

feeling. To the family Natásha seemed livelier than usual, but she was

far less tranquil and happy than before.

On Sunday morning Márya Dmítrievna invited her visitors to Mass at her

parish church—the Church of the Assumption built over the graves of

victims of the plague.

“I don’t like those fashionable churches,” she said, evidently

priding herself on her independence of thought. “God is the same

everywhere. We have an excellent priest, he conducts the service

decently and with dignity, and the deacon is the same. What holiness is

there in giving concerts in the choir? I don’t like it, it’s just

self-indulgence!”

Márya Dmítrievna liked Sundays and knew how to keep them. Her whole

house was scrubbed and cleaned on Saturdays; neither she nor the

servants worked, and they all wore holiday dress and went to church. At

her table there were extra dishes at dinner, and the servants had vodka

and roast goose or suckling pig. But in nothing in the house was the

holiday so noticeable as in Márya Dmítrievna’s broad, stern face,

which on that day wore an invariable look of solemn festivity.

After Mass, when they had finished their coffee in the dining room

where the loose covers had been removed from the furniture, a servant

announced that the carriage was ready, and Márya Dmítrievna rose with

a stern air. She wore her holiday shawl, in which she paid calls, and

announced that she was going to see Prince Nicholas Bolkónski to have

an explanation with him about Natásha.

After she had gone, a dressmaker from Madame Suppert-Roguet waited on

the Rostóvs, and Natásha, very glad of this diversion, having shut

herself into a room adjoining the drawing room, occupied herself trying

on the new dresses. Just as she had put on a bodice without sleeves and

only tacked together, and was turning her head to see in the glass how

the back fitted, she heard in the drawing room the animated sounds

of her father’s voice and another’s—a woman’s—that made her

flush. It was Hélène. Natásha had not time to take off the bodice

before the door opened and Countess Bezúkhova, dressed in a purple

velvet gown with a high collar, came into the room beaming with

good-humored amiable smiles.

“Oh, my enchantress!” she cried to the blushing Natásha.

“Charming! No, this is really beyond anything, my dear count,” said

she to Count Rostóv who had followed her in. “How can you live in

Moscow and go nowhere? No, I won’t let you off! Mademoiselle George

will recite at my house tonight and there’ll be some people, and if

you don’t bring your lovely girls—who are prettier than Mademoiselle

George—I won’t know you! My husband is away in Tver or I would send

him to fetch you. You must come. You positively must! Between eight and

nine.”

She nodded to the dressmaker, whom she knew and who had curtsied

respectfully to her, and seated herself in an armchair beside the

looking glass, draping the folds of her velvet dress picturesquely. She

did not cease chattering good-naturedly and gaily, continually praising

Natásha’s beauty. She looked at Natásha’s dresses and praised

them, as well as a new dress of her own made of “metallic gauze,”

which she had received from Paris, and advised Natásha to have one like

it.

“But anything suits you, my charmer!” she remarked.

A smile of pleasure never left Natásha’s face. She felt happy and as

if she were blossoming under the praise of this dear Countess Bezúkhova

who had formerly seemed to her so unapproachable and important and was

now so kind to her. Natásha brightened up and felt almost in love with

this woman, who was so beautiful and so kind. Hélène for her part was

sincerely delighted with Natásha and wished to give her a good time.

Anatole had asked her to bring him and Natásha together, and she was

calling on the Rostóvs for that purpose. The idea of throwing her

brother and Natásha together amused her.

Though at one time, in Petersburg, she had been annoyed with Natásha

for drawing Borís away, she did not think of that now, and in her own

way heartily wished Natásha well. As she was leaving the Rostóvs she

called her protégée aside.

“My brother dined with me yesterday—we nearly died of laughter—he

ate nothing and kept sighing for you, my charmer! He is madly, quite

madly, in love with you, my dear.”

Natásha blushed scarlet when she heard this.

“How she blushes, how she blushes, my pretty!” said Hélène. “You

must certainly come. If you love somebody, my charmer, that is not a

reason to shut yourself up. Even if you are engaged, I am sure your

fiancé would wish you to go into society rather than be bored to

death.”

“So she knows I am engaged, and she and her husband Pierre—that good

Pierre—have talked and laughed about this. So it’s all right.” And

again, under Hélène’s influence, what had seemed terrible now seemed

simple and natural. “And she is such a grande dame, so kind, and

evidently likes me so much. And why not enjoy myself?” thought

Natásha, gazing at Hélène with wide-open, wondering eyes.

Márya Dmítrievna came back to dinner taciturn and serious, having

evidently suffered a defeat at the old prince’s. She was still too

agitated by the encounter to be able to talk of the affair calmly. In

answer to the count’s inquiries she replied that things were all

right and that she would tell about it next day. On hearing of Countess

Bezúkhova’s visit and the invitation for that evening, Márya

Dmítrievna remarked:

“I don’t care to have anything to do with Bezúkhova and don’t

advise you to; however, if you’ve promised—go. It will divert your

thoughts,” she added, addressing Natásha.