War and Peace

he 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.