'Listen to him stamping about,' said Tikhon, nodding towards the sound of the prince's footsteps. 'Banging down on his heels . . . we all know what that means . . .'
Nevertheless at nine o'clock the old prince went for his usual walk, wearing his short, velvet coat with the sable collar and a sable cap. Snow had fallen overnight. Prince Nikolay's favourite path down to the conservatories had been cleared; there were broom marks in the swept snow and a spade had been left sticking out of one of the loosely piled snowbanks on either side of the path. The prince strode through the conservatories, the servants' quarters and the outbuildings, scowling and silent.
'Can a sledge get through?' he asked a venerable old steward rather like his master in looks and manner, who was escorting him back to the house.
'The snow is deep, your Excellency. I'm having the avenoo cleared.'
The prince nodded, walking towards the steps.
'Thank heaven for that!' thought the steward. 'The storm has passed! . . . It would have been a hard drive, your Excellency,' he added. 'And I did hear tell, sir, there's a minister coming to visit your Excellency.' The prince turned to the steward and glared at him scowling.
'You what? A minister? What minister? Who told you to do that?' he began in his thin, harsh voice. 'You don't clear the road for the princess my daughter, but you do for a minister! There are no ministers in my house!'
'Your Excellency, I just thought . . .'
'You just thought?' roared the prince, speaker faster and faster, and more and more incoherently. 'You just thought! You're all crooks and villains! . . . I'll give you just thought.' He brandished his stick at Alpatych and was going to hit him, but the steward instinctively dodged away. 'Just thought! . . . You villains!' He was still gabbling. But although Alpatych, shocked at his own temerity in dodging the blow, moved closer to the prince, bowing his bald head submissively (or perhaps it was because of this), the prince kept his stick down and ran off to his room, still yelling, 'Villains! . . . Put that snow back where it came from!'
Princess Marya and Mademoiselle Bourienne stood waiting for the old prince, just before lunch, well aware of his bad mood. Mademoiselle Bourienne's beaming face seemed to say, 'I don't know anything, I'm just the same as ever,' but Princess Marya looked down, pale-faced and terrified. The worst thing for Princess Marya was that she knew that she ought to do what Mademoiselle Bourienne did at times like this, but she simply couldn't. She felt, 'If I pretend not to have noticed anything, he'll think I'm not sympathetic. But if I pretend to be depressed and in a bad mood myself, he'll say' (as he often did) 'that I'm sulking . . .' and so on.
The prince glanced at his daughter's apprehensive face and gave a snort.
'Pfooh!' he muttered, or it may have been, 'Little fool! . . . And she's not here! What have they been saying to her?' he thought, noticing that the little princess was not in the dining-room.
'Where's Princess Liza?' he asked. 'Hiding away?'
'She's not very well,' said Mademoiselle Bourienne with a bright smile. 'She won't be coming down. It's quite natural in her condition.'
'Hm! hm! huh! huh!' growled the prince, sitting down to the table. He thought he'd been given a dirty plate, so he pointed to a stain and flung it away. Tikhon caught it and handed it on to a footman. The little princess was not unwell, but she was so abjectly terrified of the prince that when she heard he was in a bad temper she decided not to come down.
'I'm afraid for my baby,' she told Mademoiselle Bourienne. 'You never know what a scare might do.'
And indeed the little princess's life at Bald Hills was lived in a state of continual dread of the old prince, and a thorough dislike of him, which she wasn't aware of because the overriding terror obscured any other feeling. The prince had the same thorough dislike of her, but on his side it was blotted out by contempt. As the days went by at Bald Hills the little princess made a close friend of Mademoiselle Bourienne. She would spend whole days with her, and sometimes invited her to sleep in her room, and she often talked about her father-in-law, and spoke badly of him.
'We're to have company then, Prince,' said Mademoiselle Bourienne, unfolding her white napkin with pink fingers. 'His Excellency Prince Kuragin and his son, I believe,' she said in a tone of inquiry.
'Hm! . . . His Excellency is a nobody. I got his career going,' the old prince said spitefully. 'And I haven't the slightest idea why that son of his is coming. Maybe Princess Lizaveta and Princess Marya can tell us. I don't know what he's bringing his son for. I don't want him.' And he looked at his daughter, who had turned bright red. 'Not well, is she? More likely scared of the "minister", as that stupid Alpatych called him just now.'
'Oh no, father.'
Unabashed by her failed attempt at conversation, Mademoiselle Bourienne carried on chattering away about the conservatories and a beautiful flower that had just opened. By the end of the soup course the prince had subsided.
After dinner he went to see his daughter-in-law. The little princess was sitting at a small table chatting with her maid, Masha. She turned pale at the sight of her father-in-law.
The little princess had changed a great deal and now looked more ugly than pretty. Her cheeks were sunken, her lip was drawn up and there were bags under her eyes. 'Yes, I feel a bit weighed down,' she said in answer to the prince's inquiry after her health.
'Do you need anything?'
'No thank you, Father.'
'Good. Very well then.'
He went out and walked to the servants' room. There stood Alpatych with downcast head.
'Have you put that snow back?'
'Yes, sir, we have. God forgive me, sir, it was a silly mistake.'
The prince cut him short with his weird laugh.
'Oh, very well, then, very well.' He held out a hand for Alpatych to kiss, and then went off to his study.
That evening Prince Vasily arrived. He was met on what the staff called 'the avenoo' by the Bolkonsky coachmen and servants, who with much shouting struggled with the carriages and sledge over a road deliberately recovered with snow and brought them through to one wing of the house.
Prince Vasily and Anatole were conducted to their separate rooms.
Taking off his coat, Anatole sat beside a table, hands on hips, his beautiful big eyes staring at one corner, with a distracted smile on his face. He looked on life as one long party that someone was bound to arrange for him. It was in that spirit that he now viewed his visit to the irritable old country-gentleman and his rich, ugly heiress of a daughter. As he saw it, he might be in for a very jolly and amusing time. 'Well, why not get married, if she's got all that money? Never comes amiss, does it?' thought Anatole.
He shaved and perfumed himself with the scrupulous elegance that was now second nature to him, and with his natural look of disarming good humour he strolled into his father's room, with his head held high. Two valets were busy dressing Prince Vasily. He glanced around eagerly, and when his son came in nodded cheerfully, as if to say, 'Yes, that's just what I wanted you to look like.'
'Come on, Father, joking apart, is she really as ugly as all that?' Anatole asked in French, as though half-way through a subject much discussed on the way there.
'Don't be silly! The great thing is for you to try and be nice and polite to the old prince.'
'If he gets nasty, I'm off,' said Anatole. 'I can't stand old men like him. Can you?'
'Don't forget, as far as you're concerned everything depends on this.'
Meanwhile, in the maids' room not only the arrival of the minister and his son, but their physical appearance was known and described in detail. Princess Marya was sitting alone in her room struggling to control her emotions.
'Why did they write? Why did Lise tell me about it? It's quite impossible!' she thought, glancing at the mirror. 'How am I to go into the drawing-room? Even if I like him, I could never be my normal self with him now.' The very thought of her father's look reduced her to terror.
The little princess and Mademoiselle Bo
urienne had by now obtained all the necessary intelligence from the maid, Masha. They knew what a dashing fellow the minister's son was, with his rosy face and black eyebrows. They knew that whereas his father had struggled up the steps he had flown up them three at a time like a young eagle. Furnished with this intelligence, the little princess and Mademoiselle Bourienne, whose eager voices had reached her from the hallway, went into Princess Marya's room.
'They're here, Marie. Didn't you know?' said the little princess, waddling in and sinking heavily into an armchair. She was wearing a different gown, not the one she had had on that morning, but one of her finest dresses. Her hair had been beautifully done, and her face was excited, though it still looked wasted and drawn. Dressed in the fine clothes which she used to wear in Petersburg society, she showed the loss of her good looks all the more noticeably. Mademoiselle Bourienne, too, had added one or two nice finishing touches, which made her sweet fresh face look even prettier. 'So, you're staying like that, are you, Princess? They'll be here in a minute to tell us the gentlemen are in the drawing-room,' she began. 'We'll have to go down, and you haven't done anything to yourself!'
The little princess got up from her chair, rang for the maid, scurrying to work out what Princess Marya should wear, and then eagerly getting it all done. Princess Marya's self-respect had been offended by her own agitation at the arrival of a prospective suitor, and she was even more offended by the fact that her two companions couldn't conceive of anything different. To speak of the embarrassment she felt on her own account and theirs would have been to admit just how agitated she was, and to refuse to be dolled up as they were proposing would have led to no end of ridicule and to further persuasion. She flushed, the light went out of her lovely eyes, her face went blotchy, resuming its all too familiar and unpleasant look of victimization, and she gave herself up to Mademoiselle Bourienne and Liza. Both women strove with the utmost sincerity to beautify her. She was so plain that the idea of her being a rival could never have entered their heads, so they were genuinely sincere in their efforts at fixing her up, which they went about with the simple-minded womanly certainty that good toilette can make any face beautiful.
'No, no, dear, that dress won't do,' said Liza, backing off and looking obliquely at Princess Marya. 'Get her to fetch your maroon velvet. I mean it! You do realize this could decide your whole future. No, this one's too light. It won't do at all.'
It wasn't the dress that wouldn't do, but the princess's face and her figure, but this didn't occur to Mademoiselle Bourienne and the little princess. They still imagined that if they just swept her hair up and put a blue ribbon in it, and arranged the blue sash down a little on her maroon dress, and so on, then all would be well. They were forgetting that nothing could change Princess Marya's frightened face and her figure, and however much they tinkered with its setting and adornment, the face itself would still look pathetically unattractive. Princess Marya submitted like a lamb, and after two or three failed attempts her hair was scraped up on top of her head (which changed her completely and ruined her looks), and on went the best maroon velvet dress with the blue sash. The little princess walked around her a couple of times, straightened a fold here and eased the sash down there, and then looked at her, tilting her head first on one side and then the other.
'No, it's still not right,' she said firmly, throwing up her hands. 'No, Marie, it just doesn't suit you. I like you better in your everyday frock, the little grey one. No, please do it for me. Katya,' she said to the maid, 'bring the princess her grey dress, and, Mademoiselle Bourienne, you watch me arrange it,' she said, smiling as she looked forward to an artistic pleasure. But when Katya brought the dress Princess Marya was still sitting stolidly before the mirror, looking at her face, and in the mirror she could see her eyes brimming with tears and her mouth trembling - she was on the verge of breaking down and sobbing.
'Come on, dear Princess,' said Mademoiselle Bourienne, 'just one more little try.'
The little princess took the dress from the maid and went over to Princess Marya. 'Now, we're going to do something nice and straightforward,' she said. And the three voices, hers, Mademoiselle Bourienne's and the giggling Katya's, blended into a kind of happy babble like birds twittering.
'No, leave me alone,' said the princess, and there was so much urgency and suffering in her voice that the twittering stopped abruptly. They looked at the big beautiful eyes, full of tears and of thoughts, looking back at them imploringly and they saw that resistance would be useless, even cruel.
'Please change your hairstyle,' said the little princess. 'I told you,' she said reproachfully to Mademoiselle Bourienne, 'that Marie has the kind of face that this style doesn't suit. It really doesn't. Change it, please!'
'Just leave me alone, I tell you. None of this makes any difference,' said a voice near to tears.
Mademoiselle Bourienne and the little princess had to admit to themselves that Princess Marya looked awful dolled up like this, far worse than usual, but it was too late. She was looking at them with an expression they knew all too well, one that was thoughtful and sad. The expression wasn't frightening - she was incapable of frightening anyone, but they knew that when that expression came over her face she was going to be mute and immovable in anything she decided.
'You will alter it, won't you?' asked Liza, and when Princess Marya refused to reply Liza went out of the room.
Princess Marya was left alone. She didn't do what Liza had wanted, she didn't rearrange her hair, she didn't even glance at the mirror. With her eyes and hands drooping helplessly, she sat there daydreaming in silence. She dreamed of a husband, a man strong and masterful, an unimaginably attractive creature, come to bear her off into an entirely different world of his own, a world of happiness. She dreamt of a child, her own baby - like the one she had seen with her old nurse's daughter only the day before - and saw it at her own breast, the husband standing there, gazing tenderly at her and the child. 'But no, it's impossible. I'm too ugly,' she thought.
'Tea is served. The prince will be going in immediately,' came the maid's voice through the door. She gave a start, horrified at what she had been thinking. And before going downstairs she rose, went to her icons, fixed her eyes on one gently illuminated black countenance, a large image of the Saviour, and stood before it for several minutes with her hands together. Princess Marya's soul was racked with doubt. Could she ever know the joy of love, earthly love for a man? In her thoughts about marriage, Princess Marya dreamt of family happiness, a home with children, but her first, her strongest, her most secret desire was for earthly love. This feeling was at its strongest when she was trying hardest to conceal it from others, and even from herself. 'O Lord God,' she said, 'how am I to subdue in my heart these thoughts that come from the devil? How am I to renounce for ever all evil thinking, so as to live at peace and fulfil thy will?' And the moment she formed this question God's answer came to her in her own heart. 'Desire nothing for thyself, seek for nothing, be not disturbed, envy not. Man's future and thy destiny shall be unknown to thee; but live in readiness for anything. If it be God's will to prove thee in the duties of marriage, be prepared to do his will.' With this soothing thought in mind (though also hoping that her forbidden earthly dream still might come true), Princess Marya crossed herself with a sigh and went downstairs, with no thought for her dress, or how her hair was done, or how she would go in, or what she would find to say. What could all of this signify beside the predestined will of God, without whom not a hair falls from the head of man?
CHAPTER 4
When Princess Marya came into the drawing-room Prince Vasily and his son were already there, talking to the little princess and Mademoiselle Bourienne. She clomped in, heavily on her heels, and the gentlemen and Mademoiselle Bourienne rose, while the little princess gestured towards her for the gentlemen's sake and said, 'This is Marie!' Princess Marya saw them all and saw them in detail. She saw Prince Vasily falter at the sight of her and take on a serious look for a moment, though i
t soon turned into a smile, and she took in the little princess's face watching the guests to see what they would make of her, Marie. She saw Mademoiselle Bourienne, too, with her ribbon, turning her pretty face towards him with a keener look than she had ever shown before. But him she could not see, only something big, bright and handsome that had moved towards her as she entered the room. Prince Vasily was the first to approach her, and she kissed his bald pate as he bent to kiss her hand, replying to a question from him - yes, she remembered him very well. Then Anatole came up to her. She still couldn't see him. All she felt was a strong, soft hand taking hers, and she allowed her lips to brush a white forehead beneath beautiful fair hair smelling of pomade. When she did glance at him, she was struck by his handsome looks. Anatole was standing with his right thumb crooked around a button on his uniform, chest out and spine back, swinging one foot with his weight on the other leg, his head gently tilted as he glanced at the princess in breezy silence, obviously not taking her in at all. Anatole was not a quick-witted or eloquent conversationalist, but he did have one attribute that is invaluable in society - composure stemming from total self-confidence. If a man lacking in confidence says nothing when introduced and lets people see that he knows his silence is wrong and he is struggling for something to say, the effect will be bad. But Anatole said nothing as he swung his leg and cheerfully observed the princess's hairstyle. It was clear that he was capable of serenely saying nothing for a very long time. 'Anybody who finds silence embarrassing can always start talking,' he seemed to imply, 'I'm not that way inclined.' Besides that, in his dealings with the fair sex Anatole had mastered the special attitude that most effectively arouses a woman's curiosity, awe and even love - an attitude of disdainful awareness of his own superiority. His manner seemed to say to them, 'I know you, yes I do, but why should I make the effort? That's just what you'd like me to do!' He may not have actually thought this on meeting women (and probably didn't because he was no great thinker at the best of times), but that was the impression created by his manner and attitude. Princess Marya sensed this and, as if to show that she didn't expect to interest him, she turned away to his father. The conversation ranged widely and was very animated largely because of the little princess with her tiny voice and the little downy lip that kept popping up and down over her white teeth. She met Prince Vasily with the bantering tone so often adopted by outgoing, chatty people, seemingly based on a long-established fund of amusing stories, mutual jokes and shared memories, some of them private, existing between two conversationalists, whereas there aren't really any shared memories at all, as in the case of Prince Vasily and the little princess. Prince Vasily was only too pleased to fall in with this tone, and the little princess managed to involve Anatole in the non-existent amusing stories from their past, though she scarcely knew him. Mademoiselle Bourienne soon caught on, and even Princess Marya was pleased to feel herself being drawn into the fun of reminiscing.