War And Peace: Book 3 - CHAPTER IV

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WHEN PRINCESS MARYA went into the room, Prince Vassily and his son were

already in the drawing-room, talking to the little princess and Mademoiselle

Bourienne. When she walked in with her heavy step, treading on her heels, the

gentlemen and Mademoiselle Bourienne rose, and the little princess, with a

gesture indicating her to the gentlemen, said: “Here is Marie!” Princess Marya

saw them all and saw them in detail. She saw the face of Prince Vassily, growing

serious for an instant at the sight of her, and then hastily smiling, and the

face of the little princess, scanning the faces of the guests with curiosity to

detect the impression Marie was making on them. She saw Mademoiselle Bourienne,

too, with her ribbon and her pretty face, turned towards him with a look

of more eagerness than she had ever seen on it. But him she could not

see, she could only see something large, bright-coloured, and handsome moving

towards her, as she entered the room. Prince Vassily approached her first; and

she kissed his bald head, as he bent over to kiss her hand, and in reply to his

words said, that on the contrary, she remembered him very well. Then Anatole

went up to her. She still could not see him. She only felt a soft hand taking

her hand firmly, and she touched with her lips a white forehead, over which

there was beautiful fair hair, smelling of pomade. When she glanced at him, she

was impressed by his beauty. Anatole was standing with the thumb of his right

hand at a button of his uniform, his chest squared and his spine arched;

swinging one foot, with his head a little on one side, he was gazing in silence

with a beaming face on the princess, obviously not thinking of her at all.

Anatole was not quick-witted, he was not ready, not eloquent in conversation,

but he had that faculty, so invaluable for social purposes, of composure and

imperturbable assurance. If a man of no self-confidence is dumb at first making

acquaintance, and betrays a consciousness of the impropriety of this dumbness

and an anxiety to find something to say, the effect will be bad. But Anatole was

dumb and swung his leg, as he watched the princess's hair with a radiant face.

It was clear that he could be silent with the same serenity for a very long

while. “If anybody feels silence awkward, let him talk, but I don't care about

it,” his demeanour seemed to say. Moreover, in his manner to women, Anatole had

that air, which does more than anything else to excite curiosity, awe, and even

love in women, the air of supercilious consciousness of his own superiority. His

manner seemed to say to them: “I know you, I know, but why trouble my head about

you? You'd be pleased enough, of course!” Possibly he did not think this on

meeting women (it is probable, indeed, that he did not, for he thought very

little at any time), but that was the effect of his air and his manner. Princess

Marya felt it, and as though to show him she did not even venture to think of

inviting his attention, she turned to his father. The conversation was general

and animated, thanks to the voice and the little downy lip, that flew up and

down over the white teeth of the little princess. She met Prince Vassily in that

playful tone so often adopted by chatty and lively persons, the point of which

consists in the assumption that there exists a sort of long-established series

of jokes and amusing, partly private, humorous reminiscences between the persons

so addressed and oneself, even when no such reminiscences are really shared, as

indeed was the case with Prince Vassily and the little princess. Prince Vassily

readily fell in with this tone, the little princess embellished their supposed

common reminiscences with all sorts of droll incidents that had never occurred,

and drew Anatole too into them, though she had scarcely known him. Mademoiselle

Bourienne too succeeded in taking a part in them, and even Princess Marya felt

with pleasure that she was being made to share in their gaiety.

“Well, anyway, we shall take advantage of you to the utmost now we have got

you, dear prince,” said the little princess, in French, of course, to Prince

Vassily. “Here it is not as it used to be at our evenings at Annette's, where

you always ran away. Do you remember our dear Annette?”

“Ah yes, but then you mustn't talk to me about politics, like Annette!”

“And our little tea-table?”

“Oh yes!”

“Why is it you never used to be at Annette's?” the little princess asked of

Anatole. “Ah, I know, I know,” she said, winking; “your brother, Ippolit, has

told me tales of your doings. Oh!” She shook her finger at him. “I know about

your exploits in Paris too!”

“But he, Ippolit, didn't tell you, did he?” said Prince Vassily (addressing

his son and taking the little princess by the arm, as though she would have run

away and he were just in time to catch her); “he didn't tell you how he, Ippolit

himself, was breaking his heart over our sweet princess, and how she turned him

out of doors.”

“Oh! she is the pearl of women, princess,” he said, addressing Princess

Marya. Mademoiselle Bourienne on her side, at the mention of Paris, did not let

her chance slip for taking a share in the common stock of recollections.

She ventured to inquire if it were long since Anatole was in Paris, and how

he had liked that city. Anatole very readily answered the Frenchwoman, and

smiling and staring at her, he talked to her about her native country. At first

sight of the pretty Mademoiselle, Anatole had decided that even here at Bleak

Hills he should not be dull. “Not half bad-looking,” he thought, scrutinising

her, “she's not half bad-looking, that companion! I hope she'll bring her along

when we're married,” he mused; “she is a nice little thing.”

The old prince was dressing deliberately in his room, scowling and ruminating

on what he was to do. The arrival of these visitors angered him. “What's Prince

Vassily to me, he and his son? Prince Vassily is a braggart, an empty-headed

fool, and a nice fellow the son is, I expect,” he growled to himself. What

angered him was that this visit revived in his mind the unsettled question,

continually thrust aside, the question in regard to which the old prince always

deceived himself. That question was whether he would ever bring himself to part

with his daughter and give her to a husband. The prince could never bring

himself to put this question directly to himself, knowing beforehand that if he

did he would have to answer it justly, but against justice in this case was

ranged more than feeling, the very possibility of life. Life without Princess

Marya was unthinkable to the old prince, little as in appearance he prized her.

“And what is she to be married for?” he thought; “to be unhappy, beyond a doubt.

Look at Liza with Andrey (and a better husband, I should fancy, it would be

difficult to find nowadays), but she's not satisfied with her lot.

And who would marry her for love? She's plain and ungraceful. She'd be

married for her connections, her wealth. And don't old maids get on well enough?

They are happier really!” So Prince Nikolay Andreivitch mused, as he dressed,

yet the question constantly deferred demanded an immediate decision. Prince

Vassily had brought his son obviously with the intention of making an offer, and

probably that day or the next he would ask for a direct answer. The name, the

position in the world, was suitable. “Well, I'm not against it,” the prince kept

saying to himself, “only let him be worthy of her. That's what we shall see.

That's what we shall see,” he said aloud, “that's what we shall see,” and with

his usual alert step he walked into the drawing-room, taking in the whole

company in a rapid glance. He noticed the change in the dress of the little

princess and Mademoiselle Bourienne's ribbon, and the hideous way in which

Princess Marya's hair was done, and the smiles of the Frenchwoman and Anatole,

and the isolation of his daughter in the general talk. “She's decked herself out

like a fool!” he thought, glancing vindictively at his daughter. “No shame in

her; while he doesn't care to speak to her!”

He went up to Prince Vassily.

“Well, how d'ye do, how d'ye do, glad to see you.”

“For a friend that one loves seven versts is close by,” said Prince Vassily,

quoting the Russian proverb, and speaking in his usual rapid, self-confident,

and familiar tone. “This is my second, I beg you to love him and welcome him, as

they say.”

Prince Nikolay Andreivitch scrutinised Anatole.

“A fine fellow, a fine fellow!” he said. “Well, come and give me a kiss,” and

he offered him his cheek. Anatole kissed the old man, and looked at him with

curiosity and perfect composure, waiting for some instance of the eccentricity

his father had told him to expect.

The old prince sat down in his customary place in the corner of the sofa,

moved up an armchair for Prince Vassily, pointed to it, and began questioning

him about political affairs and news. He seemed to be listening with attention

to what Prince Vassily was saying, but glanced continually at Princess

Marya.

“So they're writing from Potsdam already?” He repeated Prince Vassily's last

words, and suddenly getting up, he went up to his daughter.

“So it was for visitors you dressed yourself up like this, eh?” he said.

“Nice of you, very nice. You do your hair up in some new fashion before

visitors, and before visitors, I tell you, never dare in future to change your

dress without my leave.”

“It was my fault…” stammered the little princess, flushing.

“You are quite at liberty,” said the old prince, with a scrape before his

daughter-in-law, “but she has no need to disfigure herself—she's ugly enough

without that.” And he sat down again in his place, taking no further notice of

his daughter, whom he had reduced to tears.

“On the contrary, that coiffure is extremely becoming to the princess,” said

Prince Vassily.

“Well, my young prince, what's your name?” said the old prince, turning to

Anatole. “Come here, let us talk to you a little and make your

acquaintance.”

“Now the fun's beginning,” thought Anatole, and with a smile he sat down by

the old prince.

“That's it; they tell me, my dear boy, you have been educated abroad. Not

taught to read and write by the deacon, like your father and me. Tell me, are

you serving now in the Horse Guards?” asked the old man, looking closely and

intently at Anatole.

“No, I have transferred into the line,” answered Anatole, with difficulty

restraining his laughter.

“Ah! a good thing. So you want to serve your Tsar and your country, do you?

These are times of war. Such a fine young fellow ought to be on service, he

ought to be on service. Ordered to the front, eh?”

“No, prince, our regiment has gone to the front. But I'm attached. What is it

I'm attached to, papa?” Anatole turned to his father with a laugh.

“He is a credit to the service, a credit. What is it I'm attached to!

Ha-ha-ha!” laughed the old prince, and Anatole laughed still louder. Suddenly

the old prince frowned. “Well, you can go,” he said to Anatole. With a smile

Anatole returned to the ladies.

“So you had him educated abroad, Prince Vassily? Eh?” said the old prince to

Prince Vassily.

“I did what I could, and I assure you the education there is far better than

ours.”

“Yes, nowadays everything's different, everything's new-fashioned. A fine

fellow! a fine fellow! Well, come to my room.” He took Prince Vassily's arm and

led him away to his study.

Left alone with the old prince, Prince Vassily promptly made known to him his

wishes and his hopes.

“Why, do you imagine,” said the old prince wrathfully, “that I keep her, that

I can't part with her? What an idea!” he protested angrily. “I am ready for it

to-morrow! Only, I tell you, I want to know my future son-in-law better. You

know my principles: everything open! To-morrow I will ask her in your presence;

if she wishes it, let him stay on. Let him stay on, and I'll see.” The prince

snorted. “Let her marry, it's nothing to me,” he screamed in the piercing voice

in which he had screamed at saying good-bye to his son.

“I will be frank with you,” said Prince Vassily in the tone of a crafty man,

who is convinced of the uselessness of being crafty with so penetrating a

companion. “You see right through people, I know. Anatole is not a genius, but a

straightforward, good-hearted lad, good as a son or a kinsman.”

“Well, well, very good, we shall see.”

As is always the case with women who have for a long while been living a

secluded life apart from masculine society, on the appearance of Anatole on the

scene, all the three women in Prince Nikolay Andreivitch's house felt alike that

their life had not been real life till then. Their powers of thought, of

feeling, of observation, were instantly redoubled. It seemed as though their

life had till then been passed in darkness, and was all at once lighted up by a

new brightness that was full of significance.

Princess Marya did not remember her face and her coiffure. The handsome, open

face of the man who might, perhaps, become her husband, absorbed her whole

attention. She thought him kind, brave, resolute, manly, and magnanimous. She

was convinced of all that. Thousands of dreams of her future married life were

continually floating into her imagination. She drove them away and tried to

disguise them.

“But am I not too cold with him?” thought Princess Marya. “I try to check

myself, because at the bottom of my heart I feel myself too close to him. But of

course he doesn't know all I think of him, and may imagine I don't like

him.”

And she tried and knew not how to be cordial to him.

“The poor girl is devilish ugly,” Anatole was thinking about her.

Mademoiselle Bourienne, who had also been thrown by Anatole's arrival into a

high state of excitement, was absorbed in reflections of a different order.

Naturally, a beautiful young girl with no defined position in society, without

friends or relations, without even a country of her own, did not look forward to

devoting her life to waiting on Prince Nikolay Andreivitch, to reading him books

and being a friend to Princess Marya. Mademoiselle Bourienne had long been

looking forward to the Russian prince, who would have the discrimination to

discern her superiority to the ugly, badly dressed, ungainly Russian

princesses—who would fall in love with her and bear her away. And now this

Russian prince at last had come. Mademoiselle Bourienne knew a story she had

heard from her aunt, and had finished to her own taste, which she loved to go

over in her own imagination. It was the story of how a girl had been seduced,

and her poor mother (sa pauvre mère) had appeared to her and reproached

her for yielding to a man's allurements without marriage. Mademoiselle was often

touched to tears, as in imagination she told “him,” her seducer, this tale. Now

this “he,” a real Russian prince, had appeared. He would elope with her, then

“my poor mother” would come on the scene, and he would marry her. This was how

all her future history shaped itself in Mademoiselle Bourienne's brain at the

very moment when she was talking to him of Paris. Mademoiselle Bourienne was not

guided by calculations (she did not even consider for one instant what she would

do), but it had all been ready within her long before, and now it all centred

about Anatole as soon as he appeared, and she wished and tried to attract him as

much as possible.

The little princess, like an old warhorse hearing the blast of the trumpet,

was prepared to gallop off into a flirtation as her habit was, unconsciously

forgetting her position, with no ulterior motive, no struggle, nothing but

simple-hearted, frivolous gaiety in her heart.

Although in feminine society Anatole habitually took up the attitude of a man

weary of the attentions of women, his vanity was agreeably flattered by the

spectacle of the effect he produced on these three women. Moreover, he was

beginning to feel towards the pretty and provocative Mademoiselle Bourienne that

violent, animal feeling, which was apt to come upon him with extreme rapidity,

and to impel him to the coarsest and most reckless actions.

After tea the party moved into the divan-room, and Princess Marya was asked

to play on the clavichord. Anatole leaned on his elbow facing her, and near

Mademoiselle Bourienne, and his eyes were fixed on Princess Marya, full of

laughter and glee. Princess Marya felt his eyes upon her with troubled and

joyful agitation. Her favourite sonata bore her away to a world of soul-felt

poetry, and the feeling of his eyes upon her added still more poetry to that

world. The look in Anatole's eyes, though they were indeed fixed upon her, had

reference not to her, but to the movements of Mademoiselle's little foot, which

he was at that very time touching with his own under the piano. Mademoiselle

Bourienne too was gazing at Princess Marya, and in her fine eyes, too, there was

an expression of frightened joy and hope that was new to the princess.

“How she loves me!” thought Princess Marya. “How happy I am now and how happy

I may be with such a friend and such a husband! Can he possibly be my husband?”

she thought, not daring to glance at his face, but still feeling his eyes

fastened upon her.

When the party broke up after supper, Anatole kissed Princess Marya's hand.

She was herself at a loss to know how she had the hardihood, but she looked

straight with her short-sighted eyes at the handsome face as it came close to

her. After the princess, he bent over the hand of Mademoiselle Bourienne (it was

a breach of etiquette, but he did everything with the same ease and simplicity)

and Mademoiselle Bourienne crimsoned and glanced in dismay at the

princess.

“Quelle délicatesse!” thought Princess Marya. “Can Amélie”

(Mademoiselle's name) “suppose I could be jealous of her, and fail to appreciate

her tenderness and devotion to me?” She went up to Mademoiselle Bourienne and

kissed her warmly. Anatole went to the little princess.

“No, no, no! When your father writes me word that you are behaving well, I

will give you my hand to kiss.” And shaking her little finger at him, she went

smiling out of the room.

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1. Ebooks list page : 82
2. War And Peace: Book 4 - CHAPTER V
3. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER III
4. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER II
5. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER I
6. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER IV
7. War And Peace: Book 3 - CHAPTER XIX
8. War And Peace: Book 3 - CHAPTER XVI
9. War And Peace: Book 3 - CHAPTER XV
10. War And Peace: Book 3 - CHAPTER XIV
11. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER V
12. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER VI
13. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER XIX
14. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER XVI
15. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER XIV
16. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER XV