She caught several comments and thought she heard the names of Kuragin and Bolkonsky mentioned. But she was always thinking things like that. She couldn’t get it out of her mind that anybody who so much as glanced at her must surely be thinking about what had happened to her. With a heavy feeling and a sinking heart, as always in a crowd nowadays, Natasha walked on in her lilac silk dress trimmed with black lace, bearing herself as only a woman can, with poise and dignity totally belying the pain and shame in her heart. She knew she was pretty, there was no mistaking that, but this was no longer a source of pleasure for her. On the contrary, it had hurt her more than anything else in recent days, and it was particularly painful on this bright, hot summer’s day in town. ‘Another Sunday, another week,’ she said to herself, thinking back to the previous Sunday, ‘and still the same life that isn’t life, the same conditions that used to make life seem so easy. I’m still young and pretty, and now I know I’m a good person. I was wicked before, but now I’m good,’ she thought, ‘but these are the best years of my life and they’re slipping by, completely useless.’ She stood there next to her mother, nodding to people they knew who were standing near by. From force of habit Natasha watched the ladies to see how well turned-out they were, and looked disapprovingly at a lady not far away who held herself badly and crossed herself with a little cramped gesture. Then came the annoying thought that she was still being judged, and here she was, judging other people, so by the time the first sounds of the service rang out she was disgusted at the vileness of her character, disgusted that she had lost what purity of heart she had had before.
A venerable old priest with a gentle air about him took the service with the kind of peaceful solemnity that has such an inspiring and calming effect on the souls of worshippers. The sanctuary doors were closed, the curtain came slowly across and from within came a low voice uttering solemn words. Natasha felt herself inexplicably choking on tears, and she was swept by a feeling of blissful lassitude.
‘Teach me what to do . . . how to find righteousness for ever and ever . . . what to do with my life!’ she prayed. A deacon came out in front of the altar screen, and with his thumb sticking out he drew his long hair from under his robes, made the sign of the cross on his breast, and began the litany in loud and solemn tones:
‘In peace let us pray to the Lord.’
‘As a single community, all people together with no distinction of class, free from all enmity, united in brotherly love, let us pray . . .’ thought Natasha.
‘For peace from above and for the salvation of our souls . . .’
‘For the world of angels and the souls of all spiritual beings who dwell above us,’ prayed Natasha.
When they prayed for the army she thought of her brother and Denisov. When they prayed for all who travel at sea and on land she thought of Prince Andrey, prayed for him and prayed that God might forgive her for the wrong she had done him. When they prayed for all who love us, she prayed for her family, her father and mother and Sonya – newly aware of her wickedness towards them and the full strength of her love for them. When they prayed for those who hate us, she made herself think of enemies and people full of hatred so she could pray for them. In the category of enemies she included her father’s creditors and everybody who had any business dealings with him, and every time her mind strayed to enemies and those who hate us she thought of Anatole, who had done her so much harm, and although he hadn’t actually hated her she was delighted to have him as an enemy to pray for. Only when praying could she think clearly and calmly about Prince Andrey or Anatole, conscious that her feelings towards them dwindled away to nothing compared with her fear and love of the Lord God. When they prayed for the Royal Family and the Synod, she bowed very low and crossed herself even more devoutly, telling herself that although it was all above her head she couldn’t have any doubts – she just loved the ruling Synod and wanted to pray for it.
When the litany was over, the deacon crossed his stole over his breast and said, ‘Let us commit ourselves and our whole lives to Christ the Lord.’
‘Commit ourselves to the Lord,’ Natasha repeated in her heart. ‘O Lord God, I commit myself to Thy will,’ she thought. ‘I ask for nothing. I want nothing. Teach me what I must do, how to exercise my will! Take me unto Thee. Please take me!’ Natasha said, eager and full of emotion. She stood there without crossing herself, her slender arms dangling down, as if she expected to be seized at any moment by an unseen force that would deliver her from herself, from her misgivings and urges, her remorse, hopes and sins.
Several times during the service the countess stole a glance at her daughter’s radiant face and glittering eyes, and prayed for God to help her.
