‘Why should I bother about all that? I’m all right as I am,’ she told herself, and she began walking up and down the room, not putting her feet down straight on to the echoing parquet, but doing a heel-and-toe at each step (she was wearing new shoes that she really liked), and listening as her heels clicked and her toes scraped rhythmically, which was just as nice as listening to the sound of her own voice. She glanced into a large mirror as she passed. ‘Yes, that’s me!’ her expression seemed to say when she caught sight of herself. ‘Very nice too. I don’t need anybody else.’
A footman wanted to come in and clear something away, but she wouldn’t let him. She shut the door on him and continued her promenade. This morning she was back at last in her favourite situation, that of loving herself and being her own best admirer. ‘There goes Natasha – such a charming creature!’ she said, referring to herself once again in the words of some third-person collective male figure. ‘Pretty girl, good voice, young, not doing any harm, just leave her in peace.’ But, however much people left her in peace now, she couldn’t be at peace, and she sensed this immediately.
Out in the vestibule the front door opened, someone asked, ‘Are they at home?’ and footsteps could be heard approaching. Natasha was busy admiring herself in the glass, but suddenly she no longer saw herself. She was listening to the sounds coming from the vestibule. When she did see herself again she looked very pale. It was
White-faced and panic-stricken, Natasha flew into the drawing-room.
‘Mamma, it’s Bolkonsky!’ she said. ‘Mamma, this is awful, I can’t bear it! . . . I don’t want . . . all this pain! What shall I do?’
The countess had no time to answer. Prince Andrey strode into the drawing-room looking worried and terribly serious. The moment he saw Natasha his face lit up. He kissed the countess’s hand and Natasha’s, and seated himself alongside the sofa.
‘It’s some time since we had the pleasure . . .’ the countess began to say, but Prince Andrey cut right across her question with a quick response, obviously anxious to get out what he had come to say.
‘I haven’t been to see you all this time because I have been away seeing my father. I had something very important to discuss with him. I didn’t get back till last night,’ he said, glancing at Natasha. ‘I must talk to you, Countess,’ he added, after a moment’s silence.
The countess looked down with a heavy sigh.
‘I am at your disposal,’ she managed to say.
Natasha knew she ought to go, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. There was a strangulated feeling in her throat, and she stood there goggling, staring quite rudely straight at Prince Andrey.
‘Now? . . . This minute? . . . No, it can’t be!’ she was thinking.
He glanced at her again, and that glance told her she was not mistaken. Yes, here and now, this very minute, her fate was being decided.
‘Run along, Natasha. I’ll call you,’ the countess whispered.
With frightened and imploring eyes Natasha glanced at Prince Andrey and her mother, and left the room.
‘Countess, I have come to ask you for your daughter’s hand,’ said Prince Andrey.
The countess’s face flared red, but at first she said nothing.
‘Your proposal . . .’ the countess began at last in measured tones. He sat there in silence, watching her face. ‘Your proposal . . .’ (she was painfully embarrassed) ‘is, er, welcome, and . . . I accept your proposal. I’m glad of it. And my husband . . . I do hope . . . but the decision must rest with her . . .’
‘I’ll talk to her when I have your consent . . . Do I have it?’ said Prince Andrey.
‘Yes,’ said the countess, extending her hand to him, and it was with mixed feelings of remoteness and tenderness that she pressed her lips to his forehead as he bent to kiss her hand. She dearly wanted to love him as a son, but he seemed like an alien spirit, and besides she was afraid of him.
‘I’m sure my husband will consent,’ said the countess, ‘but what about your father . . . ?’
‘I have kept my father informed of my plans, and he gives his consent with the sole proviso that the marriage does not take place for a year. I was going to tell you about that,’ said Prince Andrey.
‘Well, Natasha is very young, but – does it have to be such a long time?’
‘There was no other way . . .’ said Prince Andrey with a sigh.
‘I’ll send her in to you,’ said the countess, and she went out of the room.
‘Lord, have mercy on us!’ she kept repeating as she searched for her daughter.
Sonya told her Natasha was in her bedroom. She was sitting on her bed, pale-faced and dry-eyed, gazing at an icon and murmuring something as she crossed herself rapidly. Seeing her mother, she leapt up and flew across to her.
‘What is it, Mamma? . . . What is it?’
