‘Oh well, God be merciful . . .’ said the count, half-joking, half-serious, but Natasha could see that her father was all flustered as he went through into the entry-hall and inquired diffidently and in the softest tones whether the prince and the princess were at home. After they had been announced the prince’s servants looked visibly embarrassed. One footman who was running over to announce them was stopped by another in the big hall, and whispered exchanges ensued. A maid-servant ran out to them in the hall and blurted out something to do with the princess. Then at last a curmudgeonly old footman emerged, only to inform the Rostovs that the prince could not receive anyone, though they were invited to go and see the princess. The first person to approach the visitors was Mademoiselle Bourienne. She greeted father and daughter with flamboyant politeness and led them off to the princess’s apartment. The princess scuttled in to meet the visitors and tramped over to them, blotchy-faced, obviously worried and frightened, while struggling in vain to appear casual and welcoming. She took against Natasha at a single glance, seeing her as a creature of fashion, frivolous, flighty and vain. It never occurred to Princess Marya that before setting eyes on her future sister-in-law she was already prejudiced against her, subconsciously envying her beauty, youth and happiness, and resenting her brother’s love for her. And besides this overwhelming feeling of antipathy, Princess Marya was still desperately worried because when the Rostovs had been announced the old prince had roared out that he wanted nothing to do with them – she could see them if she wanted to, but they mustn’t be let in to see him. Princess Marya had decided to receive them, but she lived in constant dread of the old prince doing something outrageous, because he had seemed particularly upset by the arrival of the Rostovs.
‘Well, here we are then. I’ve brought my little songstress to see you, Princess,’ said the count, bowing and scraping, his eyes darting about anxiously in case the old prince came in. ‘It will be nice for you to get to know each other. I’m so sorry the prince is still unwell . . .’ and after one or two more such platitudes he got to his feet. ‘With your permission, Princess,’ he said, ‘if I could just leave my Natasha on your hands for a short while . . . I’d rather like to pop round to Dogs’ Square to see Anna Semyonovna – it’s only round the corner – and then come back for her . . .’
Count Rostov had thought up this diplomatic ruse (as he told his daughter afterwards) to give the future sisters-in-law maximum freedom to talk, though it also reduced any risk of meeting the prince, who scared him stiff. This was something he refrained from telling his daughter, but Natasha realized how frightened and worried her father was, and she felt humiliated. She blushed because of her father, then felt furious with herself for having blushed, and she transfixed the princess with a bold, challenging glare intended to show that she wasn’t afraid of anybody. The princess said she would be delighted, and asked him not to hurry back from Anna Semyonovna’s, and then he was gone.
In defiance of several uneasy glances angled at her by Princess Marya, who wanted to talk to Natasha alone, Mademoiselle Bourienne stayed on and persisted in chattering about the pleasures of Moscow and the theatres. Natasha was still smarting from the embarrassing delay in the entry-hall, her father’s edginess and the constrained attitude of the princess, who seemed to think she was doing them a favour by receiving her. The whole situation seemed unpleasant. She didn’t like Princess Marya, who seemed very plain, pretentious and frosty. Natasha suddenly seemed to shrivel up, unconsciously adopting an offhand manner that alienated Princess Marya even more. Five minutes went by with the conversation laboured and constrained, and then came the sound of shuffling slippers speedily approaching. Terror was written all over Princess Marya’s face as the door opened and in came the prince, wearing a white night-cap and dressing-gown.
‘Ah, madam,’ he began. ‘Madam, Countess . . . Countess Rostov . . . if I’m not mistaken . . . I’m sure you’ll forgive me, do forgive me . . . I didn’t know, madam. As God’s my witness, I didn’t know you were honouring us with a visit. I came to see my daughter – which accounts for this costume. You’ll have to forgive me . . . As God’s my witness, I didn’t know,’ he repeated so unnaturally and so nastily, stressing the word ‘God’, that Princess Marya rose to her feet with her eyes glued to the floor, not daring to glance at her father or Natasha. Natasha rose too and gave a curtsey, also at a loss for something to do. Mademoiselle Bourienne was the only one capable of a sweet smile.
‘You’ll have to forgive me! You’ll have to forgive me! As God’s my witness, I didn’t know,’ muttered the old man, and after surveying Natasha from head to foot he walked out.
