War And Peace полностью

She ventured to ask how long Anatole had been away from Paris and whether he liked the city. Anatole, delighted to respond to the French girl, smiled and stared at her as they talked about her homeland. The moment he had set eyes on the pretty Mademoiselle, Anatole had decided that even here at Bald Hills he might be in for a good time. ‘Hm, easy on the eye,’ he thought as he examined her. ‘Quite something to look at, this lady’s companion! I do hope Marya will bring her along when we’re married,’ he mused. ‘She’s a nice little thing.’

Up in his room the old prince was taking his time dressing, scowling as he wondered what to do. The visitors annoyed him. ‘Prince Vasily and his son, they’re nothing to me. The old man is a stupid windbag and his son can’t be much better,’ he growled to himself. What annoyed him was that this visit raised in his mind a secret unanswered question that he was always running away from: could he ever bear to part with his daughter and give her to a husband? The prince always avoided this direct question, because he knew in advance that any answer would involve the truth, and the truth would undermine not just his feelings, but the meaning of his whole life. Little as he appeared to value her, for the old prince life without Princess Marya was unthinkable. ‘What would marriage do for her?’ he thought. ‘Make her unhappy, that’s for sure. Look at Liza married to Andrey (and I don’t think you’d find a better husband these days) – she’s not happy with her situation. And who would marry Marya for love? She’s a plain girl and so gauche. They’d want her for her connections and her money. Old maids don’t do too badly, do they? I think they’re happier!’ These were Prince Nikolay’s thoughts as he dressed, but the long-deferred question now had to be resolved. It was obvious that Prince Vasily had brought his son to make a proposal, and within a day or two he would ask for a straight answer. The family name and their social standing were immaculate. ‘Well, I’m not against it,’ the prince kept saying to himself, ‘I just hope he’s worthy of her. One day we shall see,’ he said out loud. ‘One day we shall. One day.’

And with his usual briskness he strode into the drawing-room and took in the whole scene at a single rapid glance: the little princess had changed her dress, Mademoiselle Bourienne was wearing a ribbon, Princess Marya’s hair looked hideous and the French girl and Anatole were smiling at each other while his daughter was being left out of the conversation. ‘She’s dolled herself up like a fool!’ he thought, glaring furiously at his daughter. ‘Has she no shame? And he doesn’t want to have anything to do with her!’

He went over to Prince Vasily.

‘Well, how d’ye do, how d’ye do, glad to see you.’

‘Friendship smiles at a hundred miles,’ said Prince Vasily, as always rapid, confident and familiar in his speech. ‘This is my younger son. I hope he will win your favour and sympathy.’

Prince Nikolay examined Anatole.

‘Yes, a splendid young man!’ he said. ‘Well, come and give me a kiss,’ he added, offering a cheek. Anatole kissed the old man, and watched him with composure and curiosity, waiting for one of the idiosyncrasies his father had told him to expect.

The old prince sat down in his usual place at one end of the sofa, pulled up an armchair for Prince Vasily, pointed to it and began to ask him about political developments and the latest news. He pretended to be listening closely to what Prince Vasily was saying, but his eyes kept turning to Princess Marya.

‘So, letters are coming from Potsdam now, are they?’ He repeated Prince Vasily’s last words, then he suddenly got up and went over to his daughter.

‘So you’ve got yourself all dressed up like this for the visitors, have you?’ he said. ‘You look very nice, I’m sure. A new hairstyle for the visitors – well, in front of the visitors I’m telling you this – in future don’t even change your dress without consulting me.’

‘Father, it was my fault . . .’ the little princess interceded, blushing.

‘You may do whatever you want,’ said the old prince, with a mocking bow to his daughter-in-law, ‘but she has no need to disfigure herself – she’s ugly enough as it is.’ And he sat down again in his place, ignoring his daughter, who had by now been reduced to tears.

‘Oh no, that hairstyle suits the princess very well,’ said Prince Vasily.

‘Well, sir, this young prince, what’s his name?’ said the old prince, turning to Anatole. ‘Come over here. Let’s have a talk and get to know each other.’

‘This is where the fun begins,’ thought Anatole, and he smiled as he sat down by the old prince.

‘Good, there we are. Now, my dear boy, they tell me you were educated abroad. Not like your father and me, taught to read and write by the local deacon. Tell me, are you in the horse guards?’ asked the old man, looking closely and insistently at Anatole.

‘No, I have transferred into the line,’ answered Anatole, finding it hard not to laugh.