 War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy, translated by Alimer and Louise Maud. After Prince Andrew's engagement to Natasha, peer without any apparent cause, suddenly felt it impossible to go unliving as before, firmly convinced, as he was, of the truths revealed to him by his benefactor, and happy as he had been in perfecting his inner man, to which he had devoted himself in such ardour, all the zest of such a life vanished after the engagement of Andrew and Natasha, and the death of Joseph Alexievich, the news of which reached him almost at the same time. Only the skeleton of life remained, his house, a brilliant wife who enjoyed the favours of a very important personage, acquaintance with all Petersburg, and his court service with its dull formalities. And this life suddenly seemed to peer unexpectedly lonesome. He seized keeping a diary, avoided the company of the brothers, began going to the club again, drank a great deal, and came once more in touch with the bachelor sets, leading such a life that the Countess Helen thought it necessary to speak severely to him about it. There felt that she was right, and to avoid compromising her, went away to Moscow. In Moscow, as soon as he entered his huge house, in which he defeated and fading princesses still lived, with its enormous retinue, as soon as, driving through the town, he saw the Iberian shrine with innumerable tapers burning before the golden covers of the icons, the Kremlin Square, with its snow undisturbed by vehicles, the sleigh-drivers, and the hovels of the siftsev Vraschok. Those old Moskovites who desired nothing hurried nowhere, and were ending their days leisurely. When he saw those old Moscow ladies, the Moscow Balls, in the English club, he felt himself at home in a quiet haven. In Moscow, he felt at peace, at home, warm and dirty, as in an old dressing-gown. Moscow society, from the old women down to the children, received Pierre like a long-expected guest, whose place was always ready awaiting him. From Moscow society, Pierre was the nicest, kindest, most intellectual, merriest, and most magnanimous of cranks, a heedless, genial nobleman of the old Russian type. His purse was always empty, because it was open to everyone. Benefit performances, poor pictures, statues, benevolent societies, gypsy choirs, scores, subscription dinners, sprees, Freemasons, churches, and books. No one and nothing met with a refusal from him, and had it not been for two friends who had borrowed large sums from him and taken him under their protection. He would have given everything away. There was never a dinner or a soiree at the club without him. As soon as he sank into his place on the sofa, after two bottles of margauk, he was surrounded and talking, disputing, and joking began. When there were quarrels, his kindly smile and well-trimmed jest reconciled the antagonist. The Masonic dinners were dull and dreary when he was not there. And after a bachelor's supper, he rose with his amiable and kindly smile, yielding to the entreaties of the festive company to drive off somewhere with them. Shouts of delight and triumph arose among the young men. At balls he danced if a partner was needed. Young ladies, married and unmarried, liked him, because without making love to any of them, he was equally amiable to all, especially after supper. Il est charmant, il n'a pas de sexe, they said of him. He is charming, he has no sex. Pierre was one of those retired gentlemen in waiting, of whom there were hundreds good humorally ending their days in Moscow. How horrified he would have been seven years before, when he first arrived from abroad. Had he been told that there was no need for him to seek or plan anything, that his rut had long been shaped, eternally predetermined, and that wriggle as he might, he would be what all in his position were. He could not have believed it. Had he not at one time longed with all his heart to establish a republic in Russia, then himself to be a Napoleon, then to be a philosopher, and then a strategist and a conqueror of Napoleon? Had he not seen the possibility of, and passionately desired, the regeneration of the sinful human race and his own progress to the highest degree of perfection? Had he not established schools and hospitals and liberated his serfs? But instead of all that, here he was, the wealthy husband of an unfaithful wife, a retired gentleman in waiting, fond of eating and drinking, and as he unbuttoned his waistcoat, of abusing the government a bit, a member of the Moscow English Club, and a universal favorite in Moscow society. For a long time he could not reconcile himself to the idea that he was one of those same retired Moscow gentlemen in waiting he had so despised seven years before. Sometimes he consoled himself with the thought that he was only living this life temporarily, but then he was shocked by the thought of how many, like himself, had entered that life and that club temporarily, with all their teeth and hair, and only left it when not a single tooth or hair remained. In moments of pride, when he thought of his position, it seemed to him that he was quite different and distinct from those other retired gentlemen in waiting he had formerly despised. They were empty, stupid, contented fellows, satisfied with their position, while I am still discontented and wanted to do something for mankind. But perhaps all these comrades of mine struggled just like me and sought something new, a path in life of their own, and like me were brought by force of circumstances, society and race, and that elemental force against which man is powerless, to the condition I am in, said he to himself in moments of humility and after living some time in Moscow he no longer despised but began to grow fond of, to respect and to pity his comrades in destiny as he pitted himself. There no longer suffered moments of despair, hypochondria, and disgust with life, but the melody that had formally found expression in such acute attacks was driven inwards and never left him for a moment. What for, why, what is going on in the world? He would ask himself in perplexity several times a day, involuntarily beginning to reflect anew on the meaning of the phenomena of life, but knowing by experience that there were no answers to these questions he made haste to turn away from them, and took up a book, or hurried off to the club, or to Apollon Nikolaevich's to exchange the gossip of the town. Helene, who has never cared for anything but her own body, and is one of the stupidest women in the world, thought pure. He is regarded by people as the acme of intelligence and refinement, and they pay homage to her. Napoleon Bonaparte was despised by all as long as he was great, but now that he has become a wretched comedian, the Emperor Francis wants to offer him his daughter in an illegal marriage. The Spaniards, through the Catholic clergy, offer praise to God for their victory over the French on the 14th of June, and the French, also through the Catholic clergy, offer praise because on that same 14th of June they defeated the Spaniards. My brother Masons swear by the blood that they are ready to sacrifice everything for their neighbour, but they do not give a rubble each to the collections for the poor. And the intrigue, the astray allodge against the mana seekers, and fuss about an authentic scotch carpet in a charter that nobody needs, and the meaning of which the very man who wrote it does not understand. We all profess the Christian law of forgiveness, of injuries, and love of our neighbours, the law in honour of which we have built in Moscow forty times forty churches. But yesterday a deserter was knelted to death in a minister of that same law of love and forgiveness. A priest gave the soldier a cross to kiss before his execution. So thought Pierre, and the whole of this general deception which everyone accepts, accustomed as he was to it, astonished him each time as if it were something new. I understand the deception and confusion he thought, but how am I to tell them all that I see? I have tried, and have always found that they too, in the depths of their souls, understand it as I do, and only try not to see it. So it appears that it must be so, but I, what is to become of me, thought he. He had the unfortunate capacity many men, especially Russians, have of seeing and believing in the possibility of goodness and truth, but of seeing the evil and falsehood of life too clearly to be able to take a serious part in it. Every sphere of work was connected, in his eyes, with evil and deception. Whatever he tried to be, whatever he engaged in, the evil and falsehood of it repulsed him and blocked every path of activity. Yet he had to live and to find occupation. It was too dreadful to be under the burden of these insoluble problems. So he abandoned himself to any distraction in order to forget them. He frequented every kind of society, drank much, bought pictures, engaged in building, and above all, read. He read, and read everything that came to hand. Uncoming home, while his valets were still taking off his things, he picked up a book and began to read. From reading, he passed to sleeping. From sleeping to gossip in drawing rooms of the club, from gossip to carousels and women, from carousels back to gossip, reading and wine. Drinking became more and more a physical and also a moral necessity, though the doctors warned him that with his corpulence wine was dangerous for him. He drank a great deal. He was only quite at ease when having poured several glasses of wine mechanically into his large mouth. He felt a pleasant warmth in his body and a liability toward all his fellows in a readiness to respond superficially to every idea without probing it deeply. Only after emptying a bottle or two did he feel dimly that the terribly tangled skin of life, which previously had terrified him, was not as dreadful as he had thought. He was always conscious of some aspect of that skein. As with the buzzing in his head after dinner or supper, he chatted or listened to conversation or read. But under the influence of wine, he said to himself, It doesn't matter. I'll get it unraveled. I have a solution ready, but have no time now. I'll sink it all out later on. But the later on never came. In the morning, on an anti-stomach, all the old questions appeared as insolvable and terrible as ever, and Pierre hastily picked up a book. And if anyone came to see him, he was glad. He remembered how he had heard that soldiers in war went entrenched under the enemy's fire, if they had nothing to do. Try hard to find some occupation the more easily to bear the danger. To Pierre, all men seemed like those soldiers, seeking refuge from life. Some in ambition, some in cards, some in framing laws, some in women, some in toys, some in horses, some in politics, some in sport, some in wine, and some in governmental affairs. Nothing is trivial, and nothing is important. It's all the same. Only to save oneself from it as best as one can, said Pierre. Only not to see it. That dreadful it. End of chapter 1. War and Peace. Book 8, chapter 2. Read for LibriVox.org by Eva Harnick. At the beginning of winter, Prince Nicholas Balkonsky and his daughter moved to Moscow. At that time, enthusiasm for the Emperor Alexander's regime had weakened, and the patriotic and anti-French tendency prevailed there, and this together with his past and his intellect and his originality at once made Prince Nicholas Balkonsky an object of particular respect to the Muscovites and the center of the Moscow opposition to the government. The Prince had aged very much that year. He showed marked signs of senility, by a tendency to fall asleep, forgetfulness of quite recent events, remembrance of remote ones, and the childish vanity with which he accepted the role of head of the Moscow opposition. In spite of this, the old man inspired in all his visitors alike a feeling of respectful veneration, especially of an evening when he came into tea in his old-fashioned coat and powdered wig, and, aroused by anyone, told his abrupt stories of the past or uttered yet more abrupt and scasing criticism of the present. For them all, that old-fashioned house with its gigantic mirrors, pre-revolution furniture, powdered footmen, and the stern shrewd old man, himself relic of the past century, with his gentle daughter and the pretty French woman who were revelantly devoted to him presented a majestic and agreeable spectacle. But the visitors did not reflect that besides the couple of hours during which they saw their host, there were also twenty-two hours in the day during which the private and intimate life of the house continued. Lutterly, that private life had become very trying for Princess Mary. There in Moscow she was deprived of her greatest pleasures, talks with the pilgrims, and the solitude which refreshed her at bold heels, and she had none of the advantages and pleasures of city life. She did not go out into society. Everyone knew that her father would not let her go anywhere without him, and his failing has prevented his going out himself so that she was not invited to dinners and evening parties. She had quite abandoned the hope of getting married. She saw the coldness and malevolence with which the old prince received and dismissed the young man possible suitors who sometimes appeared at their house. She had no friends. During this visit to Moscow she had been disappointed in the two who had been nearest to her. Mademoiselle Buryen, with whom she had never been able to be quite frank, had now become unpleasant to her, and for various reasons Princess Mary avoided her. Julie, with whom she had corresponded for the last five years, was in Moscow, but proved to be quite alien to her when they met. Just then Julie, who by the death of her brothers had become one of the richest heiresses in Moscow, was in the full world of society pleasures. She was surrounded by young men who, she fancied, had suddenly learned to appreciate her worth. Julie was at that stage in the life of a society woman when she feels that her last chance of marrying has come and that her fate must be decided now or never. On Thursdays Princess Mary remembered with a mournful smile that she now had no one to write to since Julie, whose presence gave her no pleasure, was here and they met every week. Like the old emigre who declined to marry the lady with whom he had spent his evenings for years, she regretted Julie's presence and having no one to write to. In Moscow Princess Mary had no one to talk to, no one to whom to confine her sorrow, and much sorrow fell to her lot just then. The time for Prince Andrew's return and marriage was approaching, but his request to her to prepare his father for it had not been carried out. In fact it seemed as if matters were quite hopeless, for at every mention of the young Countess Rostova, the old Prince, who apart from that was usually in a bad temper, lost control of himself. Another lately added sorrow arose from the lessons she gave her six years old nephew. To her consternation she detected in herself in relation to little Nicholas some symptoms of her father's irritability. However often she told herself that she must not get irritable when teaching her nephew, almost every time that pointed in hand she sat down to show him the French alphabet. Shealed so long to pour her own knowledge quickly and easily into the child, who was already afraid that auntie might at any moment get angry, that at his slightest inattention she trembled, became flustered and heated, raised her voice, and sometimes pulled him by the arm and put him in the corner. Having put him in the corner she would herself begin to cry over her cruel evil nature, and little Nicholas, following her example, would sob, and without permission would leave his corner, come to her, pull her wet hands from her face, and comfort her. But what distressed the Princess most of all was her father's irritability, which was always directed against her and had of late amounted to cruelty. Had he forced her to prostrate herself to the ground all night, had he beaten her, or made her fetch wood or water, it would never have entered her mind to sink her position hard. But this loving despot, the more cruel because he loved her, and for that reason tormented himself and her, knew how not merely to hurt and humiliate her deliberately, but to show her that she was always to blame for everything. Of late he had exhibited a new trait that tormented Princess Mary more than anything else. This was his ever-increasing intimacy with Mademoiselle Burienne. The idea that at the first moment of receiving the news of his son's intentions had occurred to him in jest, that if Andrew got married, he himself would marry Burienne, had evidently pleased him, and latterly he had persistently, and as it seemed to Princess Mary, merely to offend her, shown special endearments to the companion, and expressed his dissatisfaction with his daughter by demonstrations of love of Burienne. One day in Moscow, in Princess Mary's presence, she sought her father did it purposely when she was there, the old prince kissed Mademoiselle Burienne's hand, and drawing her to him, embraced her affectionately. Princess Mary flushed and ran out of the room. A few minutes later, Mademoiselle Burienne came into Princess Mary's room, smiling and making cheerful remarks in her agreeable voice. Princess Mary hastily wiped away her tears, went resolutely up to Mademoiselle Burienne, and evidently unconscious of what she was doing began shouting in angry haste at the French woman, her voice breaking. It is horrible, wild, inhuman, to take advantage of the weakness. She did not finish. Leave my room, she exclaimed, and burst into sobs. Next day, the prince did not say a word to his daughter, but she noticed that at dinner he gave orders that Mademoiselle Burienne should be served first. After dinner, when the footman handed coffee, and from habit began with the princess, the prince suddenly grew furious through his stick at Philip, and instantly gave instructions to have him conscripted for the army. He does not obey. I said it twice, and he does not obey. She is the first person in this house. She is my best friend, cried the prince. And if you allow yourself, he screamed in a fury, addressing Princess Mary for the first time, to forget yourself again before her as you dared to do yesterday, I will show you who is master in this house. Go, don't let me set eyes on you. Beg her pardon. Princess Mary asked Mademoiselle Burienne's pardon, and also her father's pardon for herself, and for Philip the footman who had begged for her intervention. At such moments, something like a pride of sacrifice gathered in her soul. And suddenly that father whom she had judged would look for his spectacles in her presence, fumbling near them and not seeing them, or would forget something that had just occurred, or take a false step with his failing legs, and turn to see if anyone had noticed his feebleness, or, worse the fall, at dinner, when there were no visitors to excite him, would suddenly fall asleep, letting his napkin drop, and his shaking head sink over his plate. He is old and feeble, and I dare to condemn him. She sought at such moments with a feeling of revulsion against herself. End of chapter 2, Recording by Eva Harnick, Pontavedra, Florida Alma and Louise Maud, Book 8 In 2011, there was living in Moscow a French doctor, Metivier, who had rapidly become the fashion. He was enormously tall, handsome, amiable as Frenchmen are, and was, as Arles Muscau said, an extraordinarily clever doctor. He was received in the best houses, not merely as a doctor, but as an equal. Prince Nicholas had always ridiculed medicine. But, latterly, Arles Muscau's advice had allowed this doctor to visit him, and had grown accustomed to him. Metivier came to see the prince about twice a week, on December 6, since Nicholas Day, and the prince's name day. All Muscau came to the prince's front door, but he gave orders to admit no one, and to invite two dinners, only a small number, a list of whom he gave to Princess Mary. Metivier, who came in the morning with his felicitations, considered it proper in his quality of doctor to force the consigne, to force the guard, as he told Princess Mary, and went in to see the prince. It happened that on that morning of his name day, the prince was in one of his worst moods. He had been going about the house all the morning, finding fault with everyone, and pretending not to understand what was said to him, and not to be understood himself. Princess Mary well knew this mood of quiet-absorbed curilousness, which generally culminated in a burst of rage, and she went about all that morning, as though facing a cocked and loaded gun, and awaited the inevitable explosion, until the doctor's arrival the morning had passed off safely. After admitting the doctor, Princess Mary sat down with a book in the drawing room near the door, through which she could hear all that passed in the study. At first, she heard only Metivier's voice, then her father's, then both voices began speaking at the same time. The door was flung open, and on the threshold appeared the handsome figure of the terrified Metivier, with his shock of black hair, and the prince in his dressing gown and fizz, his face distorted with fury, and the pupils of his eyes rolled downwards. You don't understand, shouted the prince, but I do. French spy, slave of Bonaparte, spy, get out of my house, be off, I tell you. Metivier shrugged his shoulders, went up to Mademoiselle Bourrienne, who at the sound of shouting had run in from an adjoining room. The prince is not very well. Barl in rush of blood to the head. Keep calm, I will call again tomorrow, said Metivier, and putting his fingers to his lips, he hastened away. Through the study door came the sound of slippered feet, and the cry, spies, traitors, traitors everywhere, dealt a moment's peace in my own house. After Metivier's departure, the old prince called his daughter in, and the whole weight of his wrath fell on her. She was to blame that his spy had been admitted. Had he not told her, yes, told her, to make a list, and not to admit anyone who was not on that list. Then why was that scoundrel admitted? She was the cause of it all. With her, he said, he could not have a moment's peace, and could not die quietly. No, ma'am, we must part. We must part. Understand that. Understand it. I cannot endure any more, he said, and left the room. Then, as if afraid, she might find some means of consolation. He returned, and, trying to appear calm, added, and don't imagine that I have said this in a moment of anger. I am calm. I have thought it over, and it will be carried out. We must part. So find some place for yourself. But he could not restrain himself, and, with the virulence of which only one who loves is capable, evidently suffering himself, he shook his fists at her and screamed, if only some fool would marry her. Then he slammed the door, sent for a mademoiselle bourrienne, and subsided into his study. At two o'clock, the six chosen guests assembled for dinner. These guests, the famous Count Rostov-Shin, Prince Lapukin, with his nephew, General Chatrov, an old war comrade of the princes, and of the younger generation, Pierre and Boris Draubetskoy, awaited the prince in the drawing room. Boris, who had come to Moscow on leave a few days before, had been anxious to be presented to Prince Nicholas Balkonsky, and had contrived to ingratiate himself so well that the old prince, in his case, made an exception to the role of not receiving battleers in his house. The prince's house did not belong to what is known as fashionable society, but his little circle, though not much talked about in town, was one it was more flattering to be received in than any other. Boris had realized this the week before, when the commander-in-chief, in his presence, invited Rostov-Shin to dinner on Saint Nicholas Day, and Rostov-Shin had replied that he could not come. On that day, I always go to pay my devotions to the relics of Prince Nicholas Balkonsky. Oh, yes, yes, replied the commander-in-chief. How is he? The small group that had assembled before dinner in the lofty old-fashioned drawing room, with its old furniture, resembled the solemn gathering of a court of justice. All were silent, or talked in low tones. Prince Nicholas came in serious and taciturn. Princess Mary seemed even quieter and more diffident than usual. The guests were reluctant to address her, feeling that she was in no mood for their conversation. Count Rostov-Shin alone kept the conversation going, now relating the latest town news, and now the latest political gossip. Lapukin and the old general occasionally took part in the conversation. Prince Balkonsky listened as a presiding judge receives a report, only now and then, silently, or by a brief word, showing that he took heed of what was being reported to him. The tone of the conversation was such as indicated that no one approved of what was being done in the political world. Incidents were related evidently confirming the opinion that everything was going from bad to worse, but whether telling a story or giving an opinion, the speaker always stopped, or was stopped, at the point beyond which his criticism might touch the sovereign himself. At dinner the talk turned on the latest political news. Napoleon's seizure of the Duke of Oldenburg's territory and the Russian note hostile to Napoleon, which had been sent to all the European courts. Bonaparte treats Europe as a pirate-dozy-captured vessel that count Rostov-Shin, repeating a phrase he had uttered several times before. One only wonders at the long suffering or blindness of the crowned heads. Now the pope's turn has come, and Bonaparte doesn't scruple to depose the head of the Catholic Church, yet all keep silent. Our sovereign alone has protested against the seizure of the Duke of Oldenburg's territory, and even Count Rostov-Shin paused, feeling that he had reached the limit beyond which censure was impossible. Other territories had been offered in exchange for the douchey of Oldenburg, said Prince Polanski. He shifts the dukes about as I might move my serfs from Bald Hills to Bugukarowo, or Myriazan estates. The Duke of Oldenburg veers his misfortune with admirable strength of character and resignation, remarked Boris, joining in respectfully. He said this because, on his journey from Petersburg, he had had the honor of being presented to the Duke. Prince Polanski glanced at the young man, as if about to say something in reply. But changed his mind, evidently considering him too young. I have read our protest about the Oldenburg affair, and was surprised how badly the note was worded. We marked Count Rostov-Shin in the casual tone of the men dealing with the subject quite familiar to him. Pierre looked at Rostov-Shin with naive astonishment, not understanding why he should be disturbed by the bad composition of the note. Does it matter, Count, how the note is worded, he asked, so long as its substance is forcible? My dear fellow, with our five hundred thousand troops, it should be easy to have a good star. Returned Count Rostov-Shin. Pierre now understood the count's dissatisfaction with the wording of the note. One would have thought queered drivers enough had sprung up, remarked the old Prince. There in Petersburg, they are always writing, not notes only, but even new laws. Why Andrew there has written a whole volume of laws for Russia. Nowadays, they are always writing, and he laughed unnaturally. There was a momentary pause in the conversation. The old general cleared his throat to draw attention. Did you hear of the last event at the review in Petersburg? The figure cuts by the new French ambassador. Eh? Yes, I heard something. He said something awkward in his Majesty's presence. His Majesty drew attention to the grenadier division, and to the march past, continued the general. And it seems the ambassador took no notice, and allowed himself to reply that we in France pay no attention to such trifles. The Emperor did not condescend to reply. At the next review, they say, the Emperor did not once deign to address him. All were silent. On this fact relating to the Emperor personally, it was impossible to pass any judgment. Impudent fellows, said the Prince. You know Metivier. I turned him out of my house this morning. He was here. They admitted him in spite of my request, that they should let no one in. He went on, glancing angrily at his daughter. And he narrated his whole conversation with the French doctor, and the reasons that convinced him that Metivier was a spy. Though these reasons were very insufficient and obscure, no one made any rejoinder. After the toast, Champagne was served. The guest rose to congratulate the old Prince. Princess Mary, too, went round to him. He gave her a cold, angry look, and offered her his wrinkled, clean-shaven cheek to kiss. The whole expression of his face told her that he had not forgotten the morning's talk, that his decision remained in force, and only the presence of visitors hindered his speaking of it to her now. When they went into the drawing-room, where a coffee was served, the old men sat together. Prince Nicholas grew more animated, and expressed his views on the impending war. He said that our wars with Bonaparte would be disastrous so long as we sought alliance with the Germans and thrust ourselves into European affairs, into which we had been drawn by the peace of Tilsitz. We are not to fight either for or against Austria. Our political interests are all in the East, and in regard to Bonaparte, the only thing is to have an armed frontier and a firm policy, and he will never dare to cross the Russian frontier, as was the case in 1807. How can we fight the French Prince? said Count Reception. Can we arm ourselves against our teachers and divinities? Look at our youth. Look at our ladies. The French are our gods. Paris is our kingdom of heaven. He began speaking louder, evidently to be heard by everyone. French dresses, French ideas, French feelings, there now. You turned Metivier out by the scarf of his neck because he is a Frenchman and a scoundrel, but our ladies crawl after him on their knees. I went to a party last night, and there out of five ladies, three were woman Catholics, and had the Pope's indulgence for doing world work on Sundays, and they themselves sit there nearly naked, like the signboards at our public bat, if I may say so. Ah, when one looks at our young people, Prince, one would like to take Peter, the great old, old cudgel, out of the museum, and belabor them in the Russian way till all the nonsense jumps out of them. All were silent. The old Prince looked at Restoption with his smile and wagged his head approvingly. Well, goodbye, your Excellency. Keep well, said Restoption, getting up with characteristic briskness and holding out his hand to the Prince. Goodbye, my dear fellow. His words are music. I never tire of hearing him, said the old Prince, keeping hold of the hand and offering his cheek to be kissed. Following Restoption's example, the others also rose. Whether the guests had all observed her father's hostile attitude toward her, she did not even notice the special attentions and amyabilites shown her during dinner by Boris Drubetskoi, who was visiting them for the third time already. Princess Mary turned with absent-minded questioning, looked to Pierre, who, had in hand and with a smile on his face, was the last of the guests to approach her after the old Prince had gone out and they were left alone in the drawing room. May I stay a little longer, he said, letting his stout body sink into an armchair beside her. Oh, yes, she answered. You notice nothing, her look asked. Pierre was in an agreeable after-dinner mood. He looked straight before him and smiled quietly. Have you known that young man long, Princess, he asked? Who, Drubetskoi? No, not long. Do you like him? Yes, he's an agreeable young man. Why do you ask me that? said Princess Mary, still thinking of that morning's conversation with her father. Because I have noticed that when a young man comes on leave from Petersburg to Moscow, it is usually with the object of marrying an heiress. You have observed that, said Princess Mary? Yes, returned Pierre with a smile, and this young man now manages matters so that where there is a wealthy heiress, there he is too. I can read him like a book. At present, he's hesitating whom to lay siege to. You or Mademoiselle Julie Karagina? He's very attentive to her. He visits them? Yes, very often. And do you know the new way of courting, said Pierre with an amused smile, evidently in that cheerful mood of good-humored railery, for which he so often reproached himself in his diary. No, replied Princess Mary. To please Moscow girls nowadays, one has to be melancholy. He's very melancholy, this Mademoiselle, Karagina, said Pierre. Really, asked Princess Mary, looking into Pierre's kindly face and still thinking of her own sorrow. It would be a relief, sought she, if I venture to confine what I'm feeling to someone. I should like to tell everything to Pierre. He's kind and generous. It would be a relief. He would give me advice. Would you marry him? Oh my God count, there are moments when I would marry anybody. She cried suddenly to her own surprise, and we stares in her voice. Oh how bitter it is to love someone near to you and to feel that. She went on in a trembling voice, that you can do nothing for him, but grieve him, and to know that you cannot alter this. Then there is only one thing left to go away, but where could I go? What is wrong? What is it Princess? But without finishing what she was saying, Princess Mary burst into tears. I don't know what is the matter with me today. Don't take any notice. Forget what I have said. Pierre's gaiting vanished completely. He anxiously questioned the Princess, asked her to speak out fully, and confined her grief to him. But she only repeated that she begged him to forget what she had said, that she did not remember what she had said, and that she had no trouble except the one he knew of, that Prince Andrew's marriage threatened to cause a rupture between father and son. Have you any news of the Rostovs? She asked to change the subject. I was told they are coming soon. I am also expecting Andrew any day. I should like them to meet here. And how does he now regard the matter, asked Pierre, referring to the old Prince? Princess Mary shook her head. What is to be done? In a few months the year will be up. The thing is impossible. I only wish I could spare my brother the first moments. I wish they would come sooner. I hope to be friends with her. You have known them a long time, said Princess Mary. Tell me honestly the whole truth. What sort of girl is she? And what do you think of her? The real truth, because you know Andrew is risking so much doing this against his father's will, that I should like to know. An undefined instinct told Pierre that these explanations and repeated requests to be told the whole truth expressed ill will on the Princess's part, taught her future sister-in-law and the wish that he should disapprove of Andrew's choice. But in reply he said what he felt rather than what he sought. I don't know how to answer your question, he said, blushing without knowing why. I really don't know what sort of girl she is. I can't analyze her at all. She is enchanting, but what makes her so I don't know. That is all one can say about her. Princess Mary sighed and the expression on her face said, yes, that's what I expected and feared. Is she clever? she asked. Pierre considered. I think not, he said, and yet, yes. She does not deign to be clever. Oh no, she is simply enchanting and that is all. Princess Mary again shook her head disapprovingly. Oh, I so long to like her. Tell her so if you see her before I do. I hear they are expected very soon, said Pierre. Princess Mary told Pierre of her plan to become intimate with her future sister-in-law as soon as the Rostovs arrived and to try to accustom the old Prince to her. End of chapter four, recording by Eva Harnick, Pontvedra, Florida. War and Peace, Book Eight, Chapter Five, read for LibriVox.org by The Maybeman. Boris had not succeeded in making a wealthy match in Petersburg, so with the same object in view he came to Moscow. There he wavered between the two richest heiresses, Julie and Princess Mary. Though Princess Mary, despite her plainness, seemed to him more attractive than Julie, he, without knowing why, felt awkward about paying court to her. When they had last met on the old Prince's name day, she had answered at random all his attempts to talk sentimentally, evidently not listening to what he was saying. Julie, on the contrary, accepted his attentions readily, though in a manner peculiar to herself. She was twenty-seven after the death of her brothers she had become very wealthy. She was by now decidedly plain, but thought herself not merely as good-looking as before, but even far more attractive. She was confirmed in this delusion by the fact that she had become a very wealthy heirloomess, and also by the fact that the older she grew, the less dangerous she became to men, and the more freely they could associate with her and avail themselves of her sufferers, sideways, and the animated company that assembled at her house without incurring any obligation. A man who would have been afraid ten years before of going every day to the house when there was a girl of seventeen there, for fearing of compromising her and committing himself, would now go boldly every day and treat her not as a marriageable girl, but as a sexless acquaintance. That winter, the Kerrigan's house was the most agreeable and hospitable in Moscow. In addition to the formal evening and dinner parties, a large company, chiefly of men, gathered there every day, sopping at midnight and staying till three in the morning. Julie never missed a ball, a promenade or a play. Her dresses were always of the latest fashion, but in spite of that she seemed to be disillusioned about everything, and told everyone that she did not believe either in friendship or in love, or in any of the joys of life and expected peace, only on them. She adopted the tone of one who had suffered a great disappointment, like a girl who has either lost the man she loved or been cruelly deceived by him. Though nothing of the kind had ever happened to her, she was regarded in that light, and had even herself come to believe that she had suffered much in life. This melancholy, which did not prevent her from using herself, did not hinder the young people who came to her house from passing the time pleasantly. Every visitor who came to the house paid his tribute to the melancholy mood of the hostess, and then amused himself with society gossip, dancing, intellectual games, and bouts rhymes, which were in vogue at the carriages. Only a few of these young men, among them boss, entered more deeply into Julie's melancholy, and with these she had prolonged conversations in private on the vanity of all worldly things, and to them she showed her albums, filled the mournful sketches, maxims, and verses. To Boris, Julie was particularly gracious. She regretted his early disillusionment with life, offered him such consolation of friendship as she who had herself suffered so much could render, and showed him her album. Boris sketched two trees in the album, and wrote, rustic trees, your dark branches shed gloom and melancholy upon me. On another page he drew a tomb and wrote, la mort est securable et la mort est travail. Ah, contrary l'est de l'est, il n'y a pas d'eux-tres assiles. Death gives relief, and death is peaceful. Ah, from suffering there is no other refuge. Julia said this was charming. There is something so enchanting in the smile of melancholy, she said to Boris, repeating word for word passage she had copied from a book. It is a ray of light in the darkness, a shade between sadness and despair, showing the possibilities of consolation. In reply Boris wrote these lines, elements du poison, dune, amtrop sensibil. Trois ans crêle de bouffier, m'aiseur est impossible. Tendre melancholy, ah, viennes m'aie consulite. Viennes calme les torements de mes sombre retraite, et m'aie une duccare secrète, et s'il pleure, crêle-je-sens crêle. Poisonous nourishment of a too sensitive soul, thou, without whom happiness for me be impossible. Tendre melancholy, ah, come to console me, come to calm the torments of my gloomy retreat, and mingle a secret sweetness with these tears that I feel to be flowing. For Boris duly played most dullful nocturnes on her heart. Boris read poor Liza aloud to her, and more than once interrupted the readings because of the emotions that choked him. Meeting at large gatherings, Julie and Boris looked on one another as the only souls who understood one another in a world of indifferent people. Anna Mikhailovna, who often visited the Kerrigans while playing cards with the mother made careful inquiries as to Julie's diary. She was to have two estates in Penzra, and the Nisra gored for it. Anna Mikhailovna regarded the refined sadness that united her son to the wealthy Julie with emotion and resignation to the divine will. You are always charming and melancholy, my dear Julie, she said to the daughter. Boris says his soul finds repose at your house. He has suffered so many disappointments, and is so sensitive, said she to the mother. Ah, my dear, I can't tell you how fond I have grown of Julie, latterly, she said to her son. But who could help loving her? She is an angelic being. Ah, Boris, Boris, she pulls, and how I put to her mother she went on. Today she showed me her accounts and letters from Penzra. They have enormous estates there, and she, poor thing, has no one to help her, and they do cheat her so. Boris smiled almost imperceptibly whilst listening to his mother. He laughed blandly at her naive diplomacy, but listened to what she had to say, and sometimes questioned her carefully about the Penzra and his regard estates. Julie had long been expecting a proposal from her melancholy adora, and she was ready to accept it, but some secret feeling of repulsion for her, for her passionate desire to get married, for her artificiality, and a feeling of horror at renouncing the possibility of real love still restrained Boris. His leave was expiring. He spent every day and whole days at the Kerrigans, and every day on thinking the matter over told himself that he would propose to Murrah. But in Julie's presence, looking at her red face and chin nearly always powdered, her moist to her eyes, and her expression of continual readiness to pass at once from melancholy to a natural rapture of marital bliss, Boris could not utter the decisive words, though in imagination he had long regarded himself as the possessor of those Penzra and Nisragoa estates, and had portioned the use of the income from them. Julie saw Boris's indecision, and sometimes the thought occurred to her that she was repulsive to him, but her feminine self-deception immediately supplied her with consolation, and she told herself that he was only shy from love. Her melancholy, however, began to turn to irritability, and not long before Boris's departure, she formed a definitive plan of action. Just as Boris's leave of absence was expiring, Anatola Kurrigan made his appearance in Moscow, and of course in the Kerrigans' drawing room, and Julie, suddenly abandoning her melancholy, became cheerful and very attentive of Kurrigan. My dear, said Anna Mikhailovna to her son, I know from a reliable source that Prince Vasily has sent his son to Moscow to get him married to Julie. I am so fond of Julie that I shall be sorry for her. What do you think of it, my dear? The idea of being made a fool of, and having thrown away that whole month of arduous melancholy service to Julie, and of seeing all the revenue from the pens of his states, which had already mentally apportioned and put to proper use fall into the hands of another, and especially into the hands of that idiot, Anatol, paying to Boris. He drove to the Kerrigans with the firm intention of proposing. Julie met him in a gay, careless manner, spoke casually of how she had enjoyed yesterday's ball, and asked him when he was leaving. Though Boris had come intentionally to speak of his love, and therefore meant to be tender, he began speaking irritably of feminine inconstancy, of how easily women can turn from sadness to joy, and how their moves depend solely on who happens to be paying court to them. Julie was offended and replied that it was true that a woman needs variety, and the same thing over and over again would weary anyone. Then I should advise you, Boris began wishing to sting her, but at that instant the galling thought occurred to him that he might have to leave Moscow without having accomplished his aim, and her vainly wasted his efforts, which was a thing he never allowed to happen. He checked himself in the middle of the sentence, lowered his eyes to avoid seeing her unpleasantly irritated and irresolute face, and said, I did not come here at all to quarrel with you, on the contrary. He glanced at her to make sure that he might go on. Her irritability was suddenly quite vanished, and her anxious, imploring eyes were fixed on him with greedy expectation. I can always arrange so as not to see her often thought, Boris. The affair has been begun and must be finished. He blushed hotly, raised his eyes to her, and said, you know my feelings for you. There was no need to say more. Julie's face shone with triumph and self-satisfaction, but she forced Boris to say all that is said on such occasion, that he loved her, and had never loved any other woman more than her. She knew that for the Penzer estates, and Niseh Rogold's forests, she could demand this, and she received what she demanded. The Afian said, couple no longer alluding to trees that shed gloom and malecolly upon them, planned the arrangements for a splendid house in Petersburg, paid calls, and prepared everything for a brilliant wedding. End of Chapter 5. This recording is in the public domain. The Countess was still unwell and unable to travel, but it was impossible to wait for her recovery. Prince Andrew was expected to Moscow any day, the trousseau had to be ordered, and the estate near Moscow had to be sold, besides which the opportunity of presenting his future daughter-in-law to old Prince Balkansky while he was in Moscow could not be missed. The Rostov's Moscow house had not been heated that winter, and as they had come only for a short time and the Countess was not with them, the Count decided to stay with Maria Dmitrievna Akhroshimova, who had long been pressing her hospitality on them. Late one evening, the Rostov's four slaves drove into Maria Dmitrievna's courtyard in the old Kanyusheni street. Maria Dmitrievna lived alone. She had already married off her daughter, and her sons were all in the service. She held herself as a wrecked, told everyone her opinion as candidly, loudly, and bluntly as ever, and her whole bearing seemed a reproach to others for any weakness, passion, or temptation, the possibility of which she did not admit. From early in the morning, wearing a dressing jacket, she attended to her household affairs, and then she drove out on holy days to church and after the service to jails and prisons on affairs of which she never spoke to anyone. On ordinary days, after dressing, she received petitioners of various classes of whom there were always some. Then she had dinner, a substantial and appetizing meal, at which there were always three or four guests. After dinner, she played a game of Boston, and at night she had the newspapers or a new book read to her while she knitted. She rarely made an exception and went out to pay visits, and then only to the most important persons in town. She had not yet gone to bed when the Rostovs arrived, and the pulley of the hall door squeaked from the cold as it let in the Rostovs and their servants. Maria Dmitrievna, with her spectacles hanging down on her nose and her head flung back, stood in the hall doorway looking with a stern grim face at the new arrivals. One might have thought she was angry with the travelers and would immediately turn them out had she not at the same time been giving careful instructions to the servants for the accommodation of the visitors and their belongings. The Count's things bring them here, she said, pointing to the portmanteaus and not greeting anyone. The young ladies dare to the left. Now what are you dawdling for? She cried to the maids. Get the samovar ready. You've grown plumper and prettier, she remarked, drawing Natasha, whose cheeks were glowing from the cold, to her by the hood. Fu, you are cold. Now take off your things quick, she shouted to the Count who was going to kiss her hand. You're half frozen, I'm sure. Bring some rum for tea. Bonjour, Sanya dear. She added, turning to Sanya and indicating by this French greeting her slightly contemptuous, though affectionate attitude toward her. When they came into tea, having taken off their outdoor things and tidied themselves up after their journey, Maria Dmitrievna kissed them all in due order. I'm heartily glad you have come and are staying with me. It was high time, she said, giving Natasha a significant look. The old man is here, and his son's expected any day. You'll have to make his acquaintance, but we'll speak of that later on. She added, glancing at Sanya with a look that showed she did not want to speak of it with her in her presence. Now listen, she said to the Count, what do you want tomorrow? Whom will you send for? Shinshin? She cooked one of her fingers. The sniveling Anna Mikhailovna? That's two. She's here with her son. The son is getting married. He is here too, with his wife. He ran away from her, and she came galloping after him. He dined with me on Wednesday. As for them? And she pointed to the girls. Tomorrow I'll take them first to the Iberian shrine of the Mother of God, and then we'll drive up to the Super-Rogers. I suppose you'll have everything new. Don't judge by me. Sleeves nowadays are this size. The other day, young Prince's arena Vasilevna came to see me. She was an awful sight, looked as if she had put two barrels on her arms. You know not a day passes now without some new fashion. And what have you to do yourself? She asked the Count sternly. One thing has come on top of another, her rags to buy, and now a purchaser has turned up for the Moscow estate and for the house. If you will be so kind, I'll fix the time and go down to the estate just for a day and leave my lassies with you. All right, all right, they'll be safe with me, as safe as in Chonsery. I'll take them where they must go, scold them a bit, and pet them a bit, said Maria Dmitrievna, touching her goddaughter and favorite Natasha on the cheek with her large hand. Next morning, Maria Dmitrievna took the young ladies to the Iberian shrine of the mother of God and to Madame Super Rouge, who is so afraid of Maria Dmitrievna that she always let her have costumes at a loss merely to get rid of her. Maria Dmitrievna ordered almost the whole trousseau. When they got home, she turned everybody out of the room except Natasha and then called her pet to her armchair. Well now, we'll talk. I congratulate you on your betrothed. You've hooked a fine fellow. I'm glad for your sake, and I've known him since he was so high. She held her hand a couple of feet from the ground. Natasha blushed happily. I like him and all his family. Now listen, you know that old Prince Nicholas much dislikes his son's marrying. The old fellow's crotchety. Of course Prince Andrew is not a child and can shift without him, but it's not nice to enter a family against a father's will. One wants to do it peacefully and lovingly. You're a clever girl and you'll know how to manage. Be kind and use your wits, then all will be well. Natasha remained silent from shyness, Maria Dmitrievna supposed, but really because she disliked anyone interfering in what touched her love of Prince Andrew would seem to her so apart from all human affairs that no one could understand it. She loved and knew Prince Andrew. He loved her only and was to come one of these days and take her. She wanted nothing more. You see, I've known him a long time and I'm also fond of Mary, your future sister-in-law. Husbands sisters bring up blisters, but this one wouldn't hurt a fly. She has asked me to bring you two together. Tomorrow you'll go with your father to see her. Be very nice and affectionate to her. You're younger than she. When he comes, he'll find you already know his sister and father and are liked by them. Am I right or not? Want that be best? Yes, it will. Natasha answered reluctantly. End of Chapter 6. This recording is in the public domain. War and Peace. Book 8, Chapter 7. Recording for LibriVox.org by Eva Harnick. Next day, by Maria Dmitrievna's advice, Count Rostov took Natasha to call on Prince Nicholas Borkonsky. The Count did not set out cheerfully on this visit. At heart, he felt afraid. He well remembered the last interview he had had with the old prince at the time of the enrollment when, in reply to an invitation to dinner, he had had to listen to an angry reprimand for not having provided his full quota of men. Natasha, on the other hand, having put on her best girl, was in the highest spirits. They can't help liking me, she thought. Everybody always has liked me. And I'm so willing to do anything they wish, so ready to be fond of him for being his father, and of her for being his sister, that there is no reason for them not to like me. They drove up to the gloomy old house on the Vosgyvenka and entered the vestibule. Well, the Lord have mercy on us, said the Count, half in jest, half in earnest. But Natasha noticed that her father was flurried on entering the enter room and inquired timidly and softly whether the prince and princess were at home. When they had been announced, a perturbation was noticeable among the servants. The footmen who had gone to announce them were stopped by another in the large hall and they whispered to one another. Then a maid servant ran into the hall and hurriedly said something mentioning the princess. At last an old cross-looking footmen came and announced to the Rostovs that the prince was not receiving but that the princess begged them to walk up. The first person who came to meet the visitors was Mademoiselle Burienne. She greeted the father and daughter with special politeness and showed them to the princess's room. The princess, looking excited and nervous, her face flushed in patches, run in to meet the visitors, treading heavily and vainly trying to appeal cordial and at ease. From the first glance, Princess Mary did not like Natasha. She sought her too fashionably dressed, frivolously gay and vain. She did not at all realize that before having seen her future sister-in-law, she was prejudiced against her by involuntary envy of her beauty, use and happiness, as well as by jealousy of her brother's love for her. Apart from this insuperable antipathy to her, Princess Mary was agitated just then, because on the Rostovs being announced, the old prince had shouted that he did not wish to see them, that Princess Mary might do so if she chose, but they were not to be admitted to him. She had decided to deceive them, but feared lest the prince might at any moment indulge in some freak, as he seemed much upset by the Rostov's visit. There, my dear princess, I have brought you my songstress, said the count, bowing and looking round uneasily, as if afraid the old prince might appear. I am so glad you should get to know one another. Very sorry the prince is still ailing. And after a few more commonplace remarks, heroes, if you will allow me to leave my Natasha in your hands for a quarter of an hour, princess, I will drive round to see Anna Semenovna. It is quite near in the dog's square, and then I will come back for her. The count had devised this diplomatic ruse, as he afterwards told his daughter, to give the future sisters-in-law an opportunity to talk to one another freely, but another motive was to avoid the danger of encountering the old prince of whom he was afraid. He did not mention this to his daughter, but Natasha noticed her father's nervousness and anxiety and felt mortified by it. She blushed for him, grew still angrier, and having blushed, Anne looked at the princess with a bold and defiant expression, which said that she was not afraid of anybody. The princess told the count that she would be delighted and only begged him to stay longer at Anna Semenovna's, and he departed. Despite the uneasy glances thrown at her by Princess Mary, who wished to have a tete-a-tete with Natasha, Mademoiselle Burien remained in the room and persistently talked about Moscow's amusements and theatres. Natasha felt offended by the hesitation she had noticed in the enter room by her father's nervousness and by the unnatural manner of the princess who she sought was making a favor of receiving her, and so everything displeased her. She did not like Princess Mary, whom she sought very plain, affected and dry. Natasha suddenly shrank into herself and involuntarily assumed an offhand air which alienated Princess Mary still more. After five minutes of irksome constrained conversation, they had a sound of slippered feet rapidly approaching. Princess Mary looked frightened. The door opened, and the old prince in a dressing gown and a white nightcap came in. Oh, Madame, he began. Madame, Countess, Countess Rostova, if I am not mistaken, I beg you to excuse me, to excuse me. I did not know, Madame, God is my witness. I did not know you had honored us with a visit, and I came in such a costume only to see my daughter. I beg you to excuse me, God is my witness. I did not know. He repeated stressing the word God so unnaturally and so unpleasantly that Princess Mary stood with downcast eyes, not daring to look either at her father or at Natasha. Nor did the latter, having risen and curtsied, know what to do. Mademoiselle Burienne alone smiled agreeably. I beg you to excuse me, excuse me, God is my witness. I did not know, muttered the old man, and after looking Natasha over from head to foot, he went out. Mademoiselle Burienne was the first to recover herself after this apparition and began speaking about the princess in this position. Natasha and Princess Mary looked at one another in silence, and the longer they did so without saying what they wanted to say, the greater grew their antipathy to one another. When the count returned, Natasha was impolitely pleased and hastened to get away. At that moment, she hated the stiff elderly princess who could place her in such an embarrassing position and had spent half an hour with her without once mentioning Prince Andrew. I couldn't begin talking about him in the presence of that French woman, sought Natasha. The same thought was meanwhile tormenting Princess Mary. She knew what she ought to have said to Natasha, but she had been unable to say it because Mademoiselle Burienne was in the way, and because, without knowing why, she felt it very difficult to speak of the marriage. When the count was already leaving the room, Princess Mary went up hurriedly to Natasha, took her by the hand and said with a deep sigh, wait, I must. Natasha glanced at her ironically without knowing why. Dear Natalie, said Princess Mary, I want you to know that I'm glad my brother has found happiness. She paused feeling that she was not telling the truth. Natasha noticed this and guessed its reason. I think, Princess, it is not convenient to speak of that now. She said with external dignity and coldness, though she felt the tears choking her. What have I said and what have I done, sought she as soon as she was out of the room. They waited a long time for Natasha to come to dinner that day. She sat in her room crying like a child, blowing her nose and sobbing. Sonja stood beside her kissing her hair. Natasha, what is it about? She asked. What do they matter to you? It will all pass, Natasha. But if you only knew how offensive it was, as if I don't talk about it, Natasha, it wasn't your fault, so why should you mind? Kiss me, said Sonja. Natasha raised her head and kissing her friend on the lips, pressed her wet face against her. I can't tell you. I don't know. No one is to blame, said Natasha. It is my fault, but it all hurts terribly. Oh, why doesn't he come? She came into dinner with red eyes. Maria Dimitrievna, who knew how the prince had received the Rostovs, pretended not to notice how upset Natasha was and gestured resolutely and loudly at table with the count and the other guests. End of Chapter 7, Recording by Eva Harnick, Pontevedra, Florida. War and Peace, Book 8, Chapter 8, read for LibriVox.org by Foreign Girl. That evening the Rostovs went to the opera, for which Maria Dimitrievna had taken a box. Natasha didn't want to go, but could not refuse Maria Dimitrievna's kind offer, which was intended expressly for her. When she came ready dressed into the ballroom to await her father, and looking in the large mirror there saw that she was pretty, very pretty. She felt even more sad, but it was a sweet than the sadness. Oh God, if he were here now I would not behave as I did then, but differently. I would not be silly and afraid of things. I would simply embrace him, cling to him, and make him look at me with those searching, inquiring eyes with which he has so often looked at me, and then I would make him laugh as he used to laugh. And his eyes, how I see those eyes, thought Natasha. And what do his father and sister matter to me? I love him alone, him, him, with that face and those eyes with his smile manly and yet childlike. No, I had better not think of him, not think of him, but forget him, quite forget him for the present. I can't bear this waiting, and I shall cry in a minute. And she turned away from the glass making an effort not to cry. And how can Sonya love Nicholas so calmly and quietly, and wait so long and so patiently, thought she, looking at Sonya, who also came in quite ready with a fan in her hand? No, she's altogether different, I can't. Natasha, at that moment, felt so soft and tender, that it was not enough for her to laugh and know she was beloved. She wanted now, at once, to embrace the man she loved, to speak and hear from him words of love, such as filled her heart. While she sat in the carriage beside her father, pensively watching the lights of the street lamps, flickering on the frozen window, she felt still sadder, and more in love, and forgot where she was going and with whom. Having fallen into the line of carriages, the rust of carriage drove up to the theater, its wheels squeaking over the snow. Natasha and Sonya holding up their dresses jumped out quickly. The count got out helped by the footman, and passing among men and women who were entering and the program sellers, they all three went along the corridor to the first row of boxes. Through the closed doors, the music was already audible. Natasha, your hair whispered Sonya. An attendant, differentially and quickly, slept before the ladies, and opened the door of their box. The music sounded louder, and through the door rose of brightly-leaved boxes, in which ladies sat with bare arms and shoulders, and noisy stalls brilliant with uniforms, glittered before their eyes. A lady entering the next box shot a glance of feminine envy at Natasha. The curtain had not yet risen, and the obituary was being played. Natasha, smoothing her gown, went in with Sonya, and sat down, scanning the brilliant tears of boxes opposite. A sensation she had not experienced for a long time, that of hundreds of eyes looking at her bare arms and neck, suddenly affected her both agreeably and disagreeably, and called up a whole crowd of memories, desires and emotions associated with that feeling. The two remarkably pretty girls, Natasha and Sonya, with counter-stuff, who had not been seen in Moscow for a long time, attracted general attention. Moreover, everybody knew vaguely of Natasha's engagement to Prince Andrew, and knew that the Rostovs had lived in the country ever since, and all looked with curiosity at a fiancé, who was making one of the best matches in Russia. Natasha's looks, as everyone told her, had improved in the country, and that evening, thanks to her agitation, she was particularly pretty. She struck those who saw her by her fullness of life and beauty, combined with her indifference to everything about her. Her black eyes looked at the crowd without seeking anyone, and her delicate arm, bare to above the elbow, lay on the velvet edge of the box, while evidently unconsciously she opened and closed her hand in time to the music, crumpling her program. Look, there's a Lenina, said Sonya, with her mother, isn't it? Dear me, Michael Kirillovich has grown still stouter, remarked the count. Look at our Anna Mihailovna, what a headdress she has on. The Karagins, Julie and Boris with them, one can see at once that they are engaged. Drobitskoi has proposed? Oh yes, I heard it today, said Shinshin, coming into the Rostovs box. Natasha looked in the direction in which her father's eyes were turned, and saw Julie sitting beside her mother with a happy look on her face, and a string of pearls round her thick red neck, which Natasha knew was covered with powder. Behind them, wearing a smile and leaning over, with an ear to Julie's mouth, was Boris' handsome, smoothly brushed head. He looked the Rostovs from under his brows, and said something smiling to his betrothed. They're talking about us, about me and him, thought Natasha, and he no doubt is coming in her jealousy of me. They needn't trouble themselves, if only they knew how little I'm concerned about any of them. Behind them, said Anna Mihailovna, wearing a green headdress, and with a happy look of resignation to the wheel of God on her face. Their box was pervaded by that atmosphere of an affianced couple, which Natasha knew so well and liked so much. She turned away and suddenly remembered all that had been so humiliating in her morning's visit. What right has he not to wish to receive me into his family? Oh, better not think of it, not till he comes back, she told herself, and began looking at the faces some strange and some familiar in the stalls. In the front, in the very center, leaning back against the orchestra rail, stood Dolhoff in a Persian dress, his curly hair brushed up into a huge shock. He stood in full view of the audience, well aware that he was attracting everyone's attention, yet as much at ease as though he were in his own room. Around him, thronged Moscow's most brilliant young man, whom he evidently dominated. The count laughing nudged the blushing Sonya, and pointed to her former Adora. To recognize him, said he. And where has he sprung from? he asked, turning to Shinshin. Didn't he vanish somewhere? He did, replied Shinshin. He was in the Caucasus and ran away from there. They say he has been acting as minister to some ruling prince in Persia, where he killed Natasha's brother. Now all the Moscow ladies are mad about him. It's Dolhoff the Persian that does it. We never hear a word but Dolhoff is mentioned. They swear by him, they offer him to you as they would a dish of choice sterlet. Dolhoff and Anatol Kurogin have turned all our ladies' heads. A tall, beautiful woman with a mass of plaited hair, and much exposed plump white shoulders and neck, round which she wore double string of large pearls, entered the joining box, rustling her heavy silk dress, and took a long time settling into her place. Natasha involuntarily gazed at that neck, the shoulders and pearls and guaffir, and admired the beauty of the shoulders and the pearls. While Natasha was fixing her gaze on her for the second time, the lady looked around and, meeting the Count's eyes, nodded to him and smiled. She was the Countess Bisukhova, Pierre's wife, and the Count who knew everyone in this side, she leaned over and spoke to her. Have you been here long, Countess? He inquired. I'll call, I'll call to kiss your hand. I'm here on business and have brought my girls with me. They say Semyonov acts marvelously. Count Pierre never used to forget us. Is he here? Yes, he meant to look in, answered Helen, and glanced attentively at Natasha. Count Rostov resumed his seat. Handsome, isn't she? he whispered to Natasha. Wonderful, answered Natasha. She's a woman one could easily fall in love with. Just then the last jots of the overture were heard, and the conductor tapped with his stick. Some late comers took their seats in the stalls and the curtain rose. As soon as it rose, everyone in the boxes and stalls became silent, and all the men, old and young in uniform and evening dress, and all the women with gems on their bare flesh turned their whole attention with eager curiosity to the stage. Natasha too began to look at it. End of Chapter 8 The floor of the stage consisted of smooth boards, at the sides were some painted cardboard representing trees, and at the back was a cloth stretched over boards. In the center of the stage sat some girls in red bodices and white skirts. One very fat girl in a white silk dress set apart on a low bench, to the back of which a piece of green cardboard was glued. They all sang something. When they had finished their song, the girl in white went up to the prompter's box, and the man with tight silk trousers over his stout legs and holding a plume and a dagger went up to her and began singing, waving his arms about. First the man in the tight trousers sang alone, then she sang, then they both paused while the orchestra played, and the man fingered the hand of the girl in white, obviously awaiting the beat to start singing with her. They sang together, and everyone in the theater began clapping and shouting, while the man and woman on the stage, who represented lovers, began smiling spreading out their arms and bowing. After her life in the country and in her present serious mood, all these seemed grotesque and amazing to Natasha. She could not follow the opera nor even listen to the music. She saw only the painted cardboard and the clearly dressed man and women who moved, spoke and sang so strangely in that brilliant light. She knew what it was all meant to represent, but it was so pretentiously false and unnatural that she first felt ashamed for the actors and then amused at them. She looked at the faces of the audience, seeking in them the same sense of ridicule and perplexity she herself experienced, but they all seemed attentive to what was happening on the stage and expressed delight which to Natasha seemed feigned. I suppose it has to be like this, she thought. She kept looking around in turn at the rows of pomaded heads in the stalls, and then at the semi-newed women in the boxes, especially at Helen in the next box, who apparently quite unclothed, sat with a quiet tranquil smile, not taking her eyes off the stage, and feeling the bright light that flooded the whole place and the warm air heated by the crowd. Natasha little by little began to pass into a state of intoxication she had not experienced for a long while. She did not realize who and where she was nor what was going on before her. As she looked and thought the strangest fancies unexpectedly and disconnectedly passed through her mind. The idea occurred to her of jumping into the edge of the box and singing the air the actress was singing. Then she wished to touch with her fan an old gentleman sitting not far from her, then to lean over to Helen and tickle her. At a moment when all was quiet before the commencement of a song, the door leading to the stalls on the side nearest the Rostov's box creaked, and the steps of a belated arrival were heard. There, Skoragin, whispered Shinshin, Countess Bezuhova turned smiling to the newcomer, and Natasha, following the direction of that look, saw an exceptionally handsome adjutant approaching their box with a selfie shoot yet cut his bearing. This was Anatoly Koragin whom she had seen and noticed long ago at the ball in Petersburg. He was now in an adjutant's uniform with one epilogue and a shoulder knot. He moved with a restrained swagger, which would have been ridiculous had he not been so good-looking, and had his handsome face not worn such an expression of good-humored complacency and gaiety. Though the performance was proceeding, he walked deliberately down the carpeted gangway, his sword and spurs slightly jingling, and his handsome perfumed head held high. Having looked at Natasha, he approached his sister, laid his well-gloved hand on the edge of her box, nodded to her and, leaning forward, asked the question with emotion toward Natasha. Meshahman, said he, evidently referring to Natasha, who did not exactly hear his words, but understood them from the movement of his lips. Then he took his place in the first row of the stalls, and sat down beside Dolehub, nudging with his elbow in a friendly and offhand way that Dolehub whom others treated so fawningly. He winked at him gaily, smiled, and rested his foot against the orchestra's green. How like the brother is to the sister, remarked the count, and how handsome they both are. Shinshin, lowering his voice, began to tell the count of some intrigue of Kouragins in Moscow, and Natasha tried to overhear it, just because he had said she was Shaman. The first act was over. In the stalls, everyone began moving about, going out and coming in. Boris came to the Rostov's box, received their congratulations very simply, and raising his eyebrows with an upset-minded smile, conveyed to Natasha and Sonya his fiance's invitation to her wedding, and went away. Natasha, with a gay, catech smile, talked to him, and congratulated on his approaching wedding that same Boris with whom she had formally been in love. In the state of intoxication she was in, everything seemed simple and natural. The scantily-clad Helen smiled at everyone in the same way, and Natasha gave Boris a similar smile. Helen's box was filled and surrounded from the stalls by the most distinguished and intellectual men, who seemed to buy with one another in their wish to let everyone see that they knew her. During the whole of that entract, Kouragins stood with Dolhoff in front of the orchestra petition, looking at the Rostov's box. Natasha knew he was talking about her, and this afforded her pleasure. She even turned so that he should see her profile, in what she thought was its most-becoming aspect. Before the beginning of the second act, Pierre appeared in the stalls. The Rostovs had not seen him since their arrival. His face looked sad, and he had grown still stouter since Natasha last saw him. He passed up to the front rows, not noticing anyone. Anatoli went up to him and began speaking to him, looking at and indicating the Rostov's box. On seeing Natasha, Pierre grew animated, and hastily passing between the rows came toward their box. When he got there, he leaned on his elbows, and smiling talked to her for a long time. While conversing with Pierre, Natasha heard a man's voice in Countess Bizouhoff's box, and something told her it was Kouragin. She turned, and their eyes met. Almost smiling, he gazed straight into her eyes, with such an enraptured, caressing look, that it seemed strange to be so near him, to look at him like that, to be so sure he admired her, and not to be acquainted with him. In the second act, there was scenery representing tombstones. There was a round hole in the canvas to represent the moon, shades were raised over the footlights, and from horns and contrabass came deep notes, while many people appeared from right and left, wearing black cloaks, and holding things like daggers in their hands. They began waving their arms. Then some other people ran in, and began dragging away the maiden who had been in white, and was now in light blue. They did not drag her away at once, but sang with her for a long time, and then at last dragged her off, and behind the scenes something metallic was struck three times, and everyone knelt down and sang a prayer. All these things were repeatedly interrupted by the enthusiastic shouts of the audience. During this act, every time Natasha looked toward the stalls she saw Anatoly Koragin, with a numb throne across the back of his chair staring at her. She was pleased to see that he was captivated by her, and it did not occur to her that there was anything wrong in it. When the second act was over, Countess Bisouhova Rose turned to the rest of the box, her whole bosom completely exposed, pecking to the old count with a gloved finger, and paying no attention to those who had entered her box, began talking to him with an amiable smile. "'Do make me acquainted with your charming daughter,' said he she. The whole town is singing their praises, and they don't even know them. Natasha rose and cuts it to the splendid Countess. She was so pleased by praise from this brilliant beauty that she blushed with pleasure. "'I want to become a Moskva too now,' said Helen. "'How is it you are not ashamed to bury such pearls in the country?' Countess Bisouhova quite deserved her reputation of being a fascinating woman. She could say what she did not think, especially what was flattering, quite simply and naturally. "'Dear Count, you must let me look after your daughters. Though I am not staying here long this time, nor are you, I will try to amuse them. I have already heard much of you in Petersburg and wanted to get to know you,' said she, to Natasha, with her stereotyped and lovely smile. "'I had heard about you from my page, Drubitskoy. Have you heard he's getting married? And also from my husband's friend, Valkonsky, Prince Andrew Valkonsky.' She went on with special emphasis, implying that she knew of his relation to Natasha. To get better acquainted, she asked that one of the young ladies should come into her box for the rest of the performance, and Natasha moved over to eat. The scene of the third act represented a palace in which many candles were burning and pictures of nights with shot beads hung on the walls. In the middle stood what were probably a king and a queen. The king waved his right arm, and evidently nervous sang something badly and sat down on a crimson throne. The maiden, who had been first in white, and then in light blue, now wore only a smoke, and stood beside the throne with her hair down. She sang something moonfully, addressing the queen, but the king waved his arm severely, and men and women with bare legs came in from both sides, and began dancing altogether. Then the violins played very shrilly and merrily, and one of the women with thick bare legs and thin arms, separating from the others, went behind the wings, adjusted her bodice, returned to the middle of the stage, and began jumping and striking one foot rapidly against the other. In the stalls, everyone clapped and shouted, bravo! Then one of the men went into a corner of the stage. The cymbals and horns in the orchestra struck up more loudly, and this man with bare legs jumped very high and waved his feet about very rapidly. He was dooporn, who received 60,000 rubles a year for this art. Everybody in the stalls, boxes and galleries began clapping and shouting with all their might, and the man stopped and began smiling and bowing to all sides. Then other men and women danced with bare legs. Then the king again shouted to the sound of music, and they all began singing. But suddenly a storm came on, chromatic scales and diminished sevenths were heard in the orchestra. Everyone ran off, again dragging one of their number away, and the curtain dropped. Once more there was a terrible noise and clatter among the audience, and with rapturous faces everyone began shouting, dooporn, dooporn, dooporn! Natasha no longer thought this strange. She looked about with pleasure, smiling joyfully. Isn't it poor, delightful? Helen asked her. Oh yes, replied Natasha. During the untracked, a whiff of cold air came into Helen's box. The door opened, and Anatol ended stooping and trying not to brush against anyone. Let me introduce my brother to you, said Helen, her eyes shifting un-easily from Natasha to Anatol. Natasha turned her pretty little head toward the elegant young officer, and smiled at him over her bare shoulder. Anatol, who was as handsome at close quarters as at a distance, sat down beside her and told her he had long wished to have this happiness, ever since the Narishkin's ball, in fact, at which she had had the well-remembered pleasure of seeing her. Kurogin was much more sensible and simple with women than among men. He talked boldly and naturally, and Natasha was strangely and agreeably struck by the fact that there was nothing formidable in this man about whom there was so much talk, but that on the contrary, his smile was most naïve, cheerful and good-natured. Kurogin asked her opinion of the performance, and told her how at a previous performance Semyonova had fallen down on the stage. And, doing her counters, he said, suddenly addressing her as an old, familiar acquaintance. We are getting up a costume tournament. You ought to take part in it. It will be great fun. We shall all meet at the Kurogins. Please come. No? Really? Huh? Said he. While saying this, he never removed his smiling eyes from her face, her neck and her bare arms. Natasha knew for certain that he was enraptured by her. This place here, yet his presence made her feel constrained and depressed. When she was not looking at him, she felt that he was looking at her shoulders, and she involuntarily caught his eye, so that he should not look into hers rather than this. But looking into his eyes, she was frightened, realizing that there was not that barrier of modesty she had always felt between herself and other men. She didn't know how it was that within five minutes she had come to feel herself terribly near to this man. When she turned away, she feared that he might seize her from behind by her bare arm and kiss her on the neck. They spoke of most ordinary things, yet she felt that they were closer to one another than she had ever been to any man. Natasha kept turning to Helen and to her father, as if asking what it all meant. But Helen was engaged in conversation with the general and did not answer her look, and her father's eyes said nothing but what they always said, having a good time? Well, I'm glad of it. During one of these moments of awkward silence, when Anatoliy's prominent eyes were gazing calmly and fixedly at her, Natasha, to break the silence, asked him how he liked Moscow. She asked the question and blushed. She felt all the time that by talking to him she was doing something improper. Anatoliy smiled as low to encourage her. At first, I didn't like it much, because what makes it our unpleasantest song leisurely farm are the pretty women. Isn't that so? But now I like it very much indeed, he said, looking at her significantly. You'll come to the costume tournament, counters. Do come, and putting out his hand to her bouquet and dropping his voice he added, you will be the prettiest there. Do come, dear counters, and give me this flower as a pledge. Natasha did not understand what he was saying any more than he did himself, but she felt that his incomprehensible words had an improper intention. She did not know what to say and turned away as if she had not heard his remark. But as soon as she had turned away she felt that he was there behind, so close behind her. How is he now, confused, angry, or tired to put it right? She asked herself and she could not refrain from turning around. She looked straight into his eyes and his nearness, self-assurance, and the good-natured tenderness of his smile vanquished her. She smiled just as he was doing, gazing straight into his eyes, and again she felt with horror that nobody lay between him and her. The curtain rose again. Anatoly left the box serene and gay. Natasha went back to her father in the other box, now quite submissive to the world she found herself in. All that was going on before her now seemed quite natural, but on the other hand all her previous thoughts of her betrothed, of Princess Mary, or of life in the country did not once recur to her mind and were as if belonging to a remote past. In the fourth act there was some sort of a devil who sang waving his arm about, till the boards were withdrawn from under him and he disappeared down below. That was the only part of the fourth act that Natasha saw. She felt agitated and tormented, and because of this was Kuragin, whom she could not help watching. As they were leaving the theatre, Anatoly came up to them, called their carriage and helped them in. As he was putting Natasha in, he pressed her arm above the elbow. Agitated and flushed, she turned round. He was looking at her with glittering eyes, smiling tenderly. Only after she had reached home was Natasha able clearly to think over what had happened to her, and suddenly remembering Prince Andrew, she was horrified, and at tea to which all had sat down after the opera, she gave a loud exclamation, flushed and ran out of the room. Oh, God, I am lost, she said to herself. How could I let him? She said for a long time hiding her flushed face in her hands, trying to realize what had happened to her, but was unable either to understand what had happened or what she felt. Everything seemed dark, obscure and terrible. There, in that enormous illuminated theatre, where the bare-legged dupeur in a tinsel-decorated jacket jumped about to the music on red boards, and young girls and old men, and the nearly-naked Helen, with her proud calm smile, rapturously cried, Bravo! There, in the presence of that Helen, it had all seemed clear and simple, but now alone by herself it was incomprehensible. What is it? What was that terror I felt of him? What is this knowing of conscience I am feeling now, she thought? Only to the old Countess at night in bed could Natasha have told all she was feeling. She knew that Sonya, with her severe and simple views, would either not understand it at all, or would be horrified at such a confession. So Natasha tried to solve what was torturing her by herself. Am I spoiled for Andrew's love or not, she asked herself, and with soothing irony replied, What a fool I am to ask that! What did happen to me? Nothing! I've done nothing! I didn't lead him on at all. Nobody will know, and I shall never see him again, she told herself. So it is plain that nothing has happened, and there is nothing to repent of, and Andrew can love me still. But why still? Oh God, why isn't he here? Natasha quieted herself for a moment, but again someone instinct told her that though all this was true, and though nothing had happened, yet the former purity of her love for Prince Andrew had perished. And again in imagination she went over her whole conversation with Coragin, and again saw the face, gestures, and then the smile of that bold, handsome man when he pressed her on. End of Chapter 10 Rocketing by Foreign Girl West Country United Kingdom