Anatole had a genuine liking for Dolokhov because of his sharp wit and bold spirit. Dolokhov needed Anatole’s name, contacts and social standing to attract wealthy young men into his gambling circles, so he was using Kuragin without him being aware of it, though at the same time he found him amusing. As well as having a calculated need for Anatole, the very process of manipulating another man soon became a regular source of enjoyment for Dolokhov, even a necessity.
Natasha had made a big impact on Kuragin. Over supper after the opera he gave Dolokhov the benefit of his expert appraisal of her arms, shoulders, legs and hair, and announced his intention of having a bit of a fling with her. The possible outcome of such an entanglement was beyond Anatole’s powers of comprehension, just as he could never see the outcome of any of his actions.
‘She’s a pretty girl, old man, but not for the likes of us,’ Dolokhov said to him.
‘I’ll tell my sister to ask her to dinner,’ said Anatole. ‘How about that?’
‘Better wait till she’s married . . .’
‘Do you know something?’ said Anatole. ‘I do like little girls. It’s so easy to turn their heads.’
‘You’ve been in trouble with one little girl already,’ put in Dolokhov, who knew about Anatole’s marriage. ‘Watch what you’re doing!’
‘Well, it can’t happen again, can it?’ said Anatole with a good-humoured laugh.
CHAPTER 12
The day after the opera the Rostovs stayed in, and no one came to see them. Marya Dmitriyevna had a long talk with Natasha’s father, keeping it secret from her. Natasha put two and two together and guessed they were talking about the old prince and hatching something between them, and this made her feel worried and offended. She was expecting Prince Andrey any minute, and twice that day she sent someone to Vozdvizhenka to find out whether he had arrived. He hadn’t. She now felt worse than she had done during their first days in Moscow. Her impatience and longing for him were now exacerbated by the unpleasant memory of her encounter with Princess Marya and the old prince, and an anxious, worried feeling that she couldn’t account for. She kept on imagining either that he wouldn’t ever come or that something would happen to her before he did. She couldn’t just sit there quietly hour after hour, as she had once done, thinking about him. The moment he came into her mind, the memory of him blended with memories of the old prince and Princess Marya, the opera and Kuragin. Once again she wondered whether she might not have been to blame and whether she could be said to have broken faith with Prince Andrey, and again she found herself analysing every last word, gesture and change of expression on the face of that man who had somehow managed to arouse her in such a dreadful way. To the rest of the household Natasha seemed livelier than usual, but she was far from being as happy and contented as before.
Sunday morning came, and Marya Dmitriyevna invited her guests to go to morning service at her parish church, the Church of the Assumption.
‘I don’t like those modern churches,’ she said, obviously fancying herself as something of a free-thinker. ‘God is the same everywhere. Our parish priest is an excellent man and he puts on a nice service, it’s all very dignified, and his deacon’s just the same. What’s holy about giving concerts in the choir? I don’t like it. It’s too much like entertainment!’
Marya Dmitriyevna enjoyed her Sundays, and knew how to celebrate them. Her house had always been washed and cleaned on the Saturday, she and the servants all had a day off, and everybody put on their Sunday best and went to church. There was more food on the mistress’s table, and the servants had vodka and roast goose or pork at theirs. But nothing in the house marked the holiday more clearly than Marya Dmitriyevna’s broad, stern face, which assumed for the day a look of unwavering solemnity.
After church, when they had finished their coffee in the drawing-room, with the covers taken off the furniture, a servant announced that the carriage was ready and Marya Dmitriyevna, dressed in her best shawl, which she wore for visiting, got to her feet and solemnly announced that she was going to call on old Prince Bolkonsky to speak to him about his attitude to Natasha. After she had gone one of Madame Pascal’s dressmakers called and Natasha, only too glad of the distraction, went into an adjoining room, closed the door and began trying on her new dresses. Just as she had put on a sleeveless basted bodice and was bending her head to look in the mirror and see what it looked like from the back, she suddenly heard her father’s voice in the drawing-room in eager conversation with someone else – it was a woman’s voice, one that made her blush. It was Hélène. Before Natasha had time to take off the bodice she was trying on, the door opened and in walked Countess Bezukhov, wearing a dark-heliotrope velvet dress with a high collar, and smiling her sweet and friendly smile.
