War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [385]
When the count came into her room, she anxiously turned at the sound of a man’s footsteps, and her face assumed its former cold and even angry expression. She did not even get up to meet him.
“What is it, my angel, are you ill?” asked the count.
Natasha paused.
“Yes, ill,” she replied.
To the count’s anxious inquiries as to why she was so crushed and whether anything was wrong with her fiancé, she assured him that nothing was wrong and asked him not to worry. Marya Dmitrievna confirmed for the count Natasha’s assurances that nothing had happened. The count, judging by the supposed illness, by his daughter’s being upset, by the embarrassed faces of Sonya and Marya Dmitrievna, saw clearly that something must have happened in his absence; but it was so frightening for him to think that anything shameful had happened with his beloved daughter, and he so loved his cheerful tranquillity, that he avoided questions and kept trying to persuade himself that there was nothing in particular, and only grieved that, owing to her illness, they had to put off leaving for the country.
XIX
Since the day his wife arrived in Moscow, Pierre had been intending to go somewhere, only so as not to be there with her. Soon after the Rostovs’ arrival in Moscow, the impression Natasha made on him forced him to hasten to carry out his intention. He went to Tver, to see the widow of Iosif Alexeevich, who had long ago promised to give him the deceased’s papers.
When Pierre returned to Moscow, he was handed a letter from Marya Dmitrievna, who asked him to come to her on a very important matter concerning Andrei Bolkonsky and his fiancée. Pierre had been avoiding Natasha. It seemed to him that he had a stronger feeling for her than a married man ought to have for his friend’s fiancée. Yet some sort of fate constantly brought them together.
“What’s happened? What has it got to do with me?” he wondered as he was getting dressed to go to Marya Dmitrievna’s. “If only Prince Andrei would come quickly and marry her!” thought Pierre on his way to see Mrs. Akhrosimov.
On Tverskoy Boulevard someone called to him.
“Pierre! Been back long?” a familiar voice cried to him. Pierre raised his head. In a double sleigh harnessed to two gray trotters that kicked snow back into the dashboard, Anatole flashed by with his usual friend Makarin. Anatole was sitting upright in the classical pose of a military fop, the lower part of his face wrapped in a beaver collar, his head bent slightly. His face was ruddy and fresh, his white-plumed hat was cocked, revealing his curled and pomaded hair sprinkled with fine snow.
“Yes, indeed, there’s a true wise man!” thought Pierre. “He doesn’t see anything beyond the present moment of pleasure, nothing troubles him—and therefore he’s always cheerful, content, and calm. I’d give anything to be like him!” Pierre thought with envy.
In Mrs. Akhrosimov’s front hall, the valet, helping Pierre out of his fur coat, said that Marya Dmitrievna asked him to come to her bedroom.
Opening the door to the reception room, Pierre saw Natasha sitting by the window with a thin, pale, and spiteful face. She glanced at him, frowned, and, with an expression of cold dignity, left the room.
“What’s happened?” asked Pierre, coming into Marya Dmitrievna’s bedroom.
“A fine business,” answered Marya Dmitrievna. “Fifty-eight years I’ve lived in this world, and I’ve never seen such a disgrace.” And, after