War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [146]
“So at least we can make full use of you now, dear Prince,” the little princess said, in French, of course, to Prince Vassily. “It won’t be as at our soirées at Annette’s, where you always run away. Remember cette chère Annette!”
“Ah, but you won’t go talking politics with me, like Annette!”
“And our little tea table?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Why did you never come to Annette’s?” the little princess asked Anatole. “Ah! I know, I know,” she said, winking, “your brother Ippolit has told me about your affairs. Oh!” she shook her finger at him. “I even know your Parisian pranks!”
“But he, Ippolit, didn’t he tell you?” said Prince Vassily, turning to his son and seizing the princess by the hand as if she was about to run away and he had barely managed to hold her back, “didn’t he tell you how he himself, Ippolit, pined for the dear princess and how she le mettait à la porte? Oh! C’est la perle des femmes, princesse!”*247 he said, turning to Princess Marya.
For her part, Mlle Bourienne did not miss her chance, at the word Paris, to enter as well into the general conversation of reminiscences.
She permitted herself to ask whether Anatole had left Paris long ago and how he liked the city. Anatole answered the Frenchwoman quite willingly and, gazing at her with a smile, conversed with her about her fatherland. Seeing the pretty Bourienne, Anatole decided that even here, at Bald Hills, it would not be boring. “Not bad at all!” he thought, looking her over. “She’s not bad at all, this demoiselle de compagnie. I hope she’ll bring her along when she marries me,” he thought, “la petite est gentille.”†248
The old prince was dressing unhurriedly in his study, frowning and thinking over what he was going to do. The arrival of these guests angered him. “What are Prince Vassily and his boy to me? Prince Vassily’s an empty babbler, so the son must also be a fine one,” he grumbled to himself. He was angry because the arrival of these guests raised in his soul an unresolved, constantly stifled question—a question in regard to which the old prince always deceived himself. The question was whether he could ever resolve to part with Princess Marya and give her to a husband. The prince had never ventured to ask himself this question directly, knowing beforehand that he would answer it in all fairness, and fairness contradicted more than feeling, it contradicted the whole possibility of his life. For Prince Nikolai Andreich, life without Princess Marya, despite the fact that he seemed to value her little, was unthinkable. “And why should she marry?” he thought. “She’s sure to be unhappy. Liza’s married to Andrei (a better husband would seem hard to find these days), but is she pleased with her fate? And who’s going to take her out of love? She’s plain, awkward. She’ll be taken for her connections, for her wealth. Don’t girls live unmarried? And all the happier!” So thought Prince Nikolai Andreich as he dressed, but at the same time the ever-deferred question called for immediate resolution. Prince Vassily had obviously brought his son with the intention of making a proposal, and would probably ask for a direct answer today or tomorrow. His name, his position in society were decent. “Well, I’m not against it,” the prince said to himself, “but he must be worthy of her. We’ll see about that.”
“We’ll see about that,” he said aloud. “We’ll see about that.”
And with brisk steps, as usual, he entered the drawing room, took everyone in with a quick glance, noticed the little princess’s change of dress, the ribbon on Bourienne, and Princess Marya’s ugly hairstyle, and the smiles of Bourienne and Anatole, and his daughter’s solitude amidst the general conversation. “Got herself up like a fool!” he thought, looking spitefully at his daughter. “No shame! And he doesn’t even want to know her!