‘One word, for God’s sake, just one,’ Anatole was saying. She stopped. She was longing to hear one word from him, one word to tell her what had happened and give her something to respond to.
‘Natalie, one word . . . just one . . .’ was all he could repeat, evidently not knowing what to say, and he kept on repeating it till Hélène reached them.
Hélène accompanied Natasha back into the drawing-room. The Rostovs declined the offer of supper and went home.
When she got home Natasha was in for a sleepless night. She was tormented by a question that had no answer: which one did she love – Anatole or Prince Andrey? She certainly loved Prince Andrey – the strength of her love for him was still a clear memory. But she loved Anatole too – there could be no doubt about that. ‘If not, how could all these things have happened?’ she thought. ‘If I could still smile at him as he smiled at me when we were saying goodbye, if I could let things go that far, surely I must have fallen in love with him at first sight. He must surely be a kind man, noble and good, and I couldn’t help falling in love with him. What shall I do if I love them both?’ she asked herself, but there were no answers to these terrible questions.
CHAPTER 14
Morning came with its bustle and trouble. Everyone got up and soon the house was abuzz with movement and chatter. In came the dressmakers once again. Down came Marya Dmitriyevna, and tea was served. Natasha kept glancing round at everyone, uneasy and wide-eyed, as if she wanted to anticipate every glance that came her way, while struggling to keep up a pretence of normality.
After breakfast – always her best time of the day – Marya Dmitriyevna seated herself in her armchair and called for Natasha and the old count.
‘Now listen, friends, I’ve been thinking things over, and this is my advice to you,’ she began. ‘Yesterday, as you know, I went to see Prince Bolkonsky. Well, I did manage a little talk with him . . . He thought fit to shout at me. But I can shout with the best. I gave as good as I got.’
‘But what was he like?’ asked the count.
‘What was he like? He’s off his head . . . He just won’t listen. I won’t go on. We’ve given this poor girl enough to worry about as it is,’ said Marya Dmitriyevna. ‘But my advice to you is – finish your business, go back to Otradnoye . . . and wait.’
‘Oh no!’ cried Natasha.
‘Yes, go back home,’ said Marya Dmitriyevna, ‘and wait. If your fiancé comes here now there’s bound to be a row, but if he’s on his own he can sort things out man to man with his father and then come on to you.’
Count Rostov could see the wisdom of this proposal, and it met with his approval. If the old man eventually came round it would be better to visit him later in Moscow or at Bald Hills. If he didn’t, the wedding would have to go ahead against his will, and it would have to be at Otradnoye.
‘Yes, it’s absolutely true,’ said he. ‘I’m only sorry I went to see him and took her with me,’ said the count.
‘There’s nothing to be sorry about. Once you were here, you could hardly avoid paying your respects. If he didn’t like it, that’s his business,’ said Marya Dmitriyevna, looking for something in her handbag. ‘And with the trousseau nearly ready there’s nothing to hold you up. I can send on the bits that aren’t ready. I’ll be sorry to see you go, but, God bless you, it’s the best thing to do.’ She found what she was looking for in her bag and handed it to Natasha. It was a letter from Princess Marya. ‘She’s written to you. She’s really suffering, poor girl! She’s afraid you might think she doesn’t like you.’
‘Well, she doesn’t,’ said Natasha.
‘Don’t talk such nonsense,’ cried Marya Dmitriyevna.
‘I just don’t believe it. I know she doesn’t like me,’ said Natasha impudently, taking the letter with a look of such cold and grim determination that Marya Dmitriyevna peered at her more sharply and frowned.
‘Don’t answer back, young lady,’ she said. ‘What I say is true. Make sure you write back to her.’
Without replying Natasha went up to her own room to read Princess Marya’s letter.
Princess Marya wrote that she was in despair at the misunderstanding that had arisen between them. Whatever her father’s feelings might be, wrote Princess Marya, she asked Natasha to believe that she was bound to love her – she was the girl chosen by her brother, and for the sake of his happiness she would make any sacrifice.
‘And another thing,’ she wrote, ‘please do not think that my father has taken against you. He is an old man and quite poorly, and allowances have to be made for him. But he is kind-hearted and generous, and he will come to love the woman who makes his son happy.’ Finally Princess Marya asked Natasha to arrange a time when they could come together again.
