That morning Princess Marya went to the study door even more flustered than usual. She could only imagine that everybody knew her fate would be settled today, and everybody knew what she thought of it all. She read this on Tikhon's face and on the face of Prince Vasily's valet, who met her in the corridor carrying hot water and bowed low to her.
The old prince's attitude to his daughter that morning was extremely affectionate and forbearing. This look of forbearance on her father's face was only too well known to Princess Marya. It was the same look that came over his face when his withered hands were clenched with vexation at her failure to understand some arithmetical problem, after which he would get up and walk away, repeating the same words in a low voice over and over again.
He began talking, rather formally, and came straight to the point. 'A proposal has been made to me on your behalf,' he said with a forced smile. 'I'm sure you must have guessed,' he went on, 'that Prince Vasily has not come here with his ward' (inexplicably this was how the old prince referred to Anatole) 'to look at my beautiful eyes. Yesterday, they made me a proposal on your behalf. You know my principles. I refer the matter to you.'
'I don't think I understand you, Father,' said the princess, turning pale and red in turn.
'There's nothing to understand!' cried her father angrily. 'Prince Vasily finds you to his taste as a daughter-in-law, and is proposing to you on behalf of his ward. That's all there is to it. How can you not understand? . . . Well, come on, I'm waiting.'
'I don't know about you, Father,' the princess whispered.
'Me? Me? What's it got to do with me? Leave me out of it. I'm not the one getting married. What do you say? That is what it would be desirable to know.'
The princess could see that her father was bitterly against it, but it suddenly occurred to her that now or never her life's destiny would be decided. She looked down to avoid the gaze which rendered her incapable of thought, incapable of anything but her usual deference. 'My only wish is to do your will,' she said, 'but if I had to express my own desire . . .'
Before she could finish the prince cut her short. 'Well, that's splendid then!' he shouted. 'He'll go off with you and your dowry, and take Mademoiselle Bourienne along too. She'll be his wife, and you . . .' The prince stopped. He could see the effect of these words on his daughter. She had lowered her head and was on the verge of tears.
'Now listen, I was only joking,' he said. 'Remember this, Princess: I stick to the rule that a girl has every right to choose. And I give you complete freedom. Remember this: your happiness in life depends on your decision. No need to worry about me.'
'But I don't know . . . Father.'
'There's nothing to talk about. He'll do what he's told, whether it's marrying you or anybody else, but you are at liberty to choose . . . Now go to your room, think it over, come back in an hour's time and say yes or no in his presence. I know you will pray for guidance. Well, pray if you like. Only you'd be better off thinking. Off you go.'
'Yes or no, yes or no, yes or no!' he kept on shouting long after the princess had tottered out of the room as if she was groping her way through a fog.
Her fate had been decided, and her happiness was now secure. But what had her father said about Mademoiselle Bourienne? That had been a horrible jibe. Of course it wasn't true, but it was still horrible and she couldn't get it out of her mind. She walked straight on through the winter garden seeing and hearing nothing when she was suddenly brought to her senses by a familiar voice whispering - it was Mademoiselle Bourienne. She looked up and not two paces away saw Anatole with his arms round the French girl, whispering to her. Anatole whipped round and looked at Princess Marya with a horrified expression on his handsome face, but he was in no hurry to let go of Mademoiselle Bourienne's waist - who hadn't yet seen her.
'Who's that? What do you want? Wait a minute!' was the message on Anatole's face. Princess Marya gazed blankly at them. She couldn't believe what she was seeing. Then at last Mademoiselle Bourienne gave a cry and fled. Anatole bowed to Princess Marya with a sweet smile, as if inviting her to share his amusement at this strange turn of events, and then with a shrug he went in through the door leading to his room.
Within the hour Tikhon came to summon Princess Marya to the old prince, adding that Prince Vasily was with him. When Tikhon came Princess Marya was sitting on the sofa in her room with her arms around a weeping Mademoiselle Bourienne. Princess Marya was softly stroking her hair. Her lovely eyes shone with the serenity of old as she gazed with warm love and commiseration into Mademoiselle Bourienne's pretty little face.
'Oh, Princess, I have lost your heart for ever,' Mademoiselle Bourienne was saying.
'Why? I love you more than ever,' said Princess Marya, 'and I shall try to do everything in my power to make you happy.'
'But you must despise me. You're so pure. You could never understand a passionate longing like this. Oh, only my poor mother . . .'
'I understand everything,' said Princess Marya with the saddest of smiles. 'Now, you calm down, my dear. I'm going to see Father,' she said and went out.
Prince Vasily was sitting there with one leg crossed high over the other, snuff-box in hand, his face suffused with emotion so extreme that he seemed ruefully embarrassed by his own sensitivity. When she came in he took a hasty pinch of snuff.
'Ah, my dear girl, my dear girl!' he said, rising to take hold of both her hands. He heaved a sigh and went on, 'My son's destiny is in your hands. Make your decision, good, dear, sweet Marie, whom I have always loved like my own daughter.' He stood back. There were real tears in his eyes.
'Hmph!' snorted the old prince. 'On behalf of his ward . . . er, his son . . . the Prince is making a proposal to you. Do you or do you not wish to be the wife of Prince Anatole Kuragin? Yes or no?' he shouted. 'After which I reserve the right to express an opinion of my own. Yes, my own opinion and nobody else's,' - this to Prince Vasily in response to a beseeching look. 'Yes or no! What have you to say?'
'My wish, Father, is never to leave you, never to separate my life from yours. I do not wish to marry,' she said with certainty, turning her lovely eyes on Prince Vasily and her father.
'Nonsense! Fiddlesticks! Stuff and nonsense!' roared the old prince with a great scowl. He took his daughter's hand, pulled her towards him, bent over without kissing her to place his forehead against hers so they were just touching, and squeezed her hand so violently that she winced and cried out. Prince Vasily rose to his feet.
'My dear girl, I must say this is a moment I shall never forget, never, but you are so kind, can you not leave us some small hope of touching such a good and generous heart? Say that perhaps one day . . . The future is so vast . . . Perhaps, one day . . .'
'Prince, I have told you all that is in my heart. You do me honour and I thank you, but I shall never be your son's wife.'
'Well, that's it, my dear fellow. It's been so nice to see you, so nice to see you. Go to your room, Princess, go along now,' said the old prince. 'It's been so nice to see you,' he kept repeating as he embraced Prince Vasily.
'My vocation is different,' Princess Marya was telling herself. 'My happiness will be in other people's happiness, the happiness of love and self-sacrifice. Whatever it costs I must make poor Amelie happy. She is so passionately in love with him. She is so passionately penitent. I shall do all I can to arrange for them to be married. If he's not rich I shall give her some money. I shall ask Father, I shall ask Andrey. I'll be so happy when she is his wife. She is so unhappy now, a stranger, all alone and helpless! Oh Lord, how passionately she must love him to be able to forget herself like that. Who knows, I might have done the same thing! . . .' thought Princess Marya.
CHAPTER 6
It had been some time since the Rostovs had had any news of their little Nikolay. It was mid-winter before one day a letter was handed to Count Rostov with what he recognized as his son's handwriting on the envelope. Letter in hand and dreading the worst, the count tiptoed rapidly off to his room, trying not to
be noticed, shut himself in and began to read. Anna Mikhaylovna soon found out about the letter (nothing escaped her in that house) and stole silently in to see the count. She caught him still holding the letter, and simultaneously sobbing and laughing. She still lived with the Rostovs despite the upturn in her fortune.
'My dear friend?' Anna Mikhaylovna inquired gravely, ready to offer any kind of sympathy. This made the count sob more violently. 'Little Nikolay . . . the letter . . . wounded . . . he would . . . he was . . . my dear friend . . . my darling boy . . . wounded . . . my little countess . . . commissioned . . . how can I tell my little countess?'
Anna Mikhaylovna sat down beside him, used her own handkerchief to wipe his eyes and then the tear-stained letter, dried her own tears, read the letter through, reassured the count and decided she would spend the afternoon preparing the countess, and after tea, with God's help, she would tell her everything. Over dinner Anna Mikhaylovna talked about the rumours from the war front and dear little Nikolay. Twice she asked when they had last heard from him, though she knew perfectly well, and then she thought they might well get a letter from him soon, perhaps this very day. Whenever these hints looked as if they were disturbing the countess and she began to direct worried looks first at the count and then Anna Mikhaylovna, Anna adroitly turned the conversation to something trivial. Natasha, who was more sensitive to subtleties of intonation, meaningful glances and facial expressions than anyone else in the family, immediately pricked up her ears and sensed something between her father and Anna Mikhaylovna, something to do with her brother, and she knew that Anna Mikhaylovna was preparing the ground. For all her boldness Natasha knew how touchy her mother was over anything to do with their dear Nikolay, so she decided it was best not to ask any questions over dinner. Not that she could eat anything - she was too excited to eat - she just kept wriggling on her chair, ignoring the protests of her governess. Once dinner was over she hurtled after Anna Mikhaylovna, raced across the sitting-room and flung herself on her neck.
'Auntie, darling, do tell me what's happening!'
'Nothing, my dear.'
'Oh no, you darling, sweet, lovely angel, I won't stop. I know you know something.'
Anna Mikhaylovna shook her head. 'You are a sharp little thing!' she said.
'Is it a letter from dear Nikolay? It is!' cried Natasha, reading an affirmative signal on Anna Mikhaylovna's face.
'Shh, for heaven's sake be careful. You know it could be a real shock for your mother.'
'I will, I will, but tell me about it. You won't? All right, I'll go and tell her now.'
Anna Mikhaylovna told Natasha roughly what was in the letter, on condition that she wouldn't tell anyone.
'On my honour,' said Natasha, crossing herself, 'I won't tell anyone,' and she rushed off to tell Sonya. She broke the news with triumphant delight: 'It's Nikolay . . . wounded . . . a letter . . .'
'Nikolay!' was all Sonya could manage, her face instantly drained of colour. Seeing Sonya so badly affected by the news that her brother had been wounded, Natasha suddenly became aware of the sad side of it all.
She rushed over to Sonya, hugged her and began to cry. 'Lightly wounded, but commissioned as an officer and now he's all right - he says so himself,' she forced out through her tears.
'Oh, I can see you women are all cry-babies,' said Petya, marching boldly up and down the room. 'Me, I'm just glad, very very glad that my brother has distinguished himself. All you can do is blubber about it! You don't understand the first thing about it.'
Natasha smiled through her tears.
'You didn't read the letter, did you?' asked Sonya.
'No, but she said it's all over and he's an officer . . .'
'Thank God for that,' said Sonya, crossing herself. 'But she might not have been telling the truth. Let's go and see Mamma.'
Petya was still marching around the room in silence.
'If I'd been where Nikolay was I'd have killed a lot more Frenchmen,' he said. 'They're a lot of savages! I'd have kept on killing them till they were lying around in heaps,' Petya went on.
'Don't talk like that, Petya, you're being silly!'
'I'm not being silly. Silly people cry when there's nothing to cry about,' said Petya.
'Can you still remember him?' Natasha asked suddenly, after a moment's silence.
Sonya smiled.
'Who, Nikolay?'
'No, Sonya, not just remember him, really remember him, everything about him,' said Natasha with an eager gesture, as if wanting to put real strength behind her words. 'I can remember Nikolay, remember him quite well,' she said. 'But I can't remember Boris. I can't remember him at all . . .'
'What do you mean, you can't remember Boris?' Sonya asked in some surprise.
'No, I don't really mean I can't remember him. I know what he's like, but I remember Nikolay much better. I only have to close my eyes and I can see him, but not Boris . . .' (she closed her eyes) 'no, there's nothing there!'
'Oh, Natasha!' said Sonya, looking away, all solemn and serious, as if she thought Natasha was unworthy of what she was now going to say, or as if she was saying it to a different person who was not someone to joke with. 'I have fallen in love with your brother, and whatever happens to him or me I shall never stop loving him for the rest of my life.'
Natasha gazed at Sonya, too surprised and puzzled to speak. She sensed that what Sonya was talking about was true, that such love did exist, only she had never known anything like it. She believed it might happen but she couldn't understand it.
'Are you going to write to him?' she asked. Sonya sank into thought. The question of how she should write to Nikolay, or whether she should write at all, was worrying her. Now that he was an officer and a wounded hero was this the right time for her to remind him that she existed and that he had undertaken certain obligations towards her?
'I really don't know. I suppose if he writes to me I'll write back,' she said, blushing.
'You won't be too embarrassed to write to him?' Sonya smiled.
'No.'
'Oh, I'd be too embarrassed to write to Boris. I'm not going to.'
'Why should you be?'
'I don't know. I just feel awkward and embarrassed.'
'I know why,' said Petya, still stinging from Natasha's earlier comment. 'Because she fell in love with that fat man with the glasses,' (this was what Petya called his namesake, now Count Bezukhov) 'and now she's in love with that there singer,' (meaning Natasha's Italian singing-master) 'that's why she's embarrassed.'
'Petya, you are stupid,' said Natasha.
'No stupider than you, ma'am,' said nine-year-old Petya, for all the world like an elderly brigadier.
The countess had been prepared by Anna Mikhaylovna's hints over dinner. Back in her room she sat down in an armchair to gaze long and hard at the miniature of her son painted on her snuff-box lid, and her eyes were watering. Anna Mikhaylovna now tiptoed over to the countess's room with the letter and stopped at the door.
'Don't you come in,' she said to the old count who was following her. 'You can come in later,' and she closed the door after her. The count put his ear to the keyhole and listened.
At first he could hear them talking about this and that, but then there was only Anna Mikhaylovna's voice speaking and she went on and on until she was interrupted by a little shriek followed by a short silence, and then both voices were talking in tones of delight, then he heard footsteps approaching, and there was Anna Mikhaylovna opening the door. She wore a proud look, like a surgeon who has performed a tricky amputation and now invites the public in to admire his skill.
'It is done,' she announced triumphantly, motioning the count in to see the countess, who with the snuff-box and portrait in one hand and the letter in the other was pressing her lips first to one and then to the other. On seeing the count, she held out both arms to him, embraced his bald head, looked over it at the letter and the portrait, and then pushed the bald head slightly to one side so she could press them to her lips again
. Vera, Natasha, Sonya and Petya came into the room, and the reading of the letter began. It contained a brief description of the march, the two battles in which their dear Nikolay had taken part and his promotion, and it said that he kissed the hands of his mamma and papa, asking for their blessing, and sent kisses to Vera, Natasha and Petya. Greetings also to Monsieur Schelling, Madame Schoss and his old nurse, and a special kiss from him to his darling Sonya, whom he still loved and remembered as always. This made Sonya blush till her eyes watered. To get away from the staring eyes, she ran out into the hall, chased about, whirled round and round and then sank to the floor, her skirts ballooning, her face flushed and beaming. The countess was weeping.
'What can you be crying about, Mamma?' asked Vera. 'From what he writes we ought to be celebrating, not crying.'
This was true, of course, but the count and the countess and Natasha all looked at her reproachfully. 'Who does she think she is?' thought the countess.
Nikolay's letter was read out hundreds of times and anyone considered worthy of hearing it had to come in to see the countess, who never let go of it. The tutors went in, the nurses, Mitenka and several acquaintances. Every time the countess read the letter she did so with renewed enjoyment, and every time she discovered new virtues in her dear son, Nikolay. How strange it seemed, how extraordinary and how delightful, to think that her son, the little baby whose tiny limbs had stirred within her twenty years ago, the subject of many a row with the count for spoiling him, that son whose first little words she remembered so well - that son was now far away in a foreign land, in strange surroundings, a war hero, all on his own with no help or guidance, doing a man's job. The age-old experience of people the world over which tells us that babies in their cradles grow up bit by bit into men meant nothing to the countess. Every stage in Nikolay's ascent to manhood had come as a shock to her - it was as if there had never been millions and millions of other men growing up the same way. Twenty years before she couldn't believe that the little creature lying somewhere under her heart would one day cry out and suck her breast and learn to talk, and now she couldn't believe that the same little creature could have turned into such a strong, brave man, an example to all, if his letter was anything to go by.