War and Peace

o betrothal ceremony took place and Natásha’s engagement to
Bolkónski was not announced; Prince Andrew insisted on that. He said
that as he was responsible for the delay he ought to bear the whole
burden of it; that he had given his word and bound himself forever, but
that he did not wish to bind Natásha and gave her perfect freedom. If
after six months she felt that she did not love him she would have full
right to reject him. Naturally neither Natásha nor her parents wished
to hear of this, but Prince Andrew was firm. He came every day to the
Rostóvs’, but did not behave to Natásha as an affianced lover: he
did not use the familiar thou, but said you to her, and kissed only her
hand. After their engagement, quite different, intimate, and natural
relations sprang up between them. It was as if they had not known each
other till now. Both liked to recall how they had regarded each other
when as yet they were nothing to one another; they felt themselves
now quite different beings: then they were artificial, now natural and
sincere. At first the family felt some constraint in intercourse with
Prince Andrew; he seemed a man from another world, and for a long time
Natásha trained the family to get used to him, proudly assuring them
all that he only appeared to be different, but was really just like all
of them, and that she was not afraid of him and no one else ought to be.
After a few days they grew accustomed to him, and without restraint in
his presence pursued their usual way of life, in which he took his part.
He could talk about rural economy with the count, fashions with the
countess and Natásha, and about albums and fancywork with Sónya.
Sometimes the household both among themselves and in his presence
expressed their wonder at how it had all happened, and at the evident
omens there had been of it: Prince Andrew’s coming to Otrádnoe and
their coming to Petersburg, and the likeness between Natásha and Prince
Andrew which her nurse had noticed on his first visit, and Andrew’s
encounter with Nicholas in 1805, and many other incidents betokening
that it had to be.

In the house that poetic dullness and quiet reigned which always
accompanies the presence of a betrothed couple. Often when all sitting
together everyone kept silent. Sometimes the others would get up and
go away and the couple, left alone, still remained silent. They rarely
spoke of their future life. Prince Andrew was afraid and ashamed to
speak of it. Natásha shared this as she did all his feelings, which she
constantly divined. Once she began questioning him about his son. Prince
Andrew blushed, as he often did now—Natásha particularly liked it in
him—and said that his son would not live with them.

“Why not?” asked Natásha in a frightened tone.

“I cannot take him away from his grandfather, and besides...”

“How I should have loved him!” said Natásha, immediately guessing
his thought; “but I know you wish to avoid any pretext for finding
fault with us.”

Sometimes the old count would come up, kiss Prince Andrew, and ask
his advice about Pétya’s education or Nicholas’ service. The
old countess sighed as she looked at them; Sónya was always getting
frightened lest she should be in the way and tried to find excuses for
leaving them alone, even when they did not wish it. When Prince Andrew
spoke (he could tell a story very well), Natásha listened to him
with pride; when she spoke she noticed with fear and joy that he gazed
attentively and scrutinizingly at her. She asked herself in perplexity:
“What does he look for in me? He is trying to discover something by
looking at me! What if what he seeks in me is not there?” Sometimes
she fell into one of the mad, merry moods characteristic of her, and
then she particularly loved to hear and see how Prince Andrew laughed.
He seldom laughed, but when he did he abandoned himself entirely to his
laughter, and after such a laugh she always felt nearer to him. Natásha
would have been completely happy if the thought of the separation
awaiting her and drawing near had not terrified her, just as the mere
thought of it made him turn pale and cold.

On the eve of his departure from Petersburg Prince Andrew brought with
him Pierre, who had not been to the Rostóvs’ once since the ball.
Pierre seemed disconcerted and embarrassed. He was talking to the
countess, and Natásha sat down beside a little chess table with Sónya,
thereby inviting Prince Andrew to come too. He did so.

“You have known Bezúkhov a long time?” he asked. “Do you like
him?”

“Yes, he’s a dear, but very absurd.”

And as usual when speaking of Pierre, she began to tell anecdotes of his
absent-mindedness, some of which had even been invented about him.

“Do you know I have entrusted him with our secret? I have known him
from childhood. He has a heart of gold. I beg you, Natalie,” Prince
Andrew said with sudden seriousness—“I am going away and heaven
knows what may happen. You may cease to... all right, I know I am not
to say that. Only this, then: whatever may happen to you when I am not
here...”

“What can happen?”

“Whatever trouble may come,” Prince Andrew continued, “I beg
you, Mademoiselle Sophie, whatever may happen, to turn to him alone for
advice and help! He is a most absent-minded and absurd fellow, but he
has a heart of gold.”

Neither her father, nor her mother, nor Sónya, nor Prince Andrew
himself could have foreseen how the separation from her lover would act
on Natásha. Flushed and agitated she went about the house all that day,
dry-eyed, occupied with most trivial matters as if not understanding
what awaited her. She did not even cry when, on taking leave, he kissed
her hand for the last time. “Don’t go!” she said in a tone
that made him wonder whether he really ought not to stay and which he
remembered long afterwards. Nor did she cry when he was gone; but
for several days she sat in her room dry-eyed, taking no interest in
anything and only saying now and then, “Oh, why did he go away?”

But a fortnight after his departure, to the surprise of those around
her, she recovered from her mental sickness just as suddenly and became
her old self again, but with a change in her moral physiognomy, as a
child gets up after a long illness with a changed expression of face.