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On reaching Moscow after her meeting with Rostov, Princess
Mary had found her nephew there with his tutor, and a letter from
Prince Andrew giving her instructions how to get to her Aunt Malvintseva
at Voronezh. That feeling akin to temptation which had tormented
her during her father's illness, since his death, and especially
since her meeting with Rostov was smothered by arrangements for
the journey, anxiety about her brother, settling in a new house,
meeting new people, and attending to her nephew's education. She
was sad. Now, after a month passed in quiet surroundings, she
felt more and more deeply the loss of her father which was associated
in her mind with the ruin of Russia. She was agitated and incessantly
tortured by the thought of the dangers to which her brother, the
only intimate person now remaining to her, was exposed. She was
worried too about her nephew's education for which she had always
felt herself incompetent, but in the depths of her soul she felt
at peace- a peace arising from consciousness of having stifled
those personal dreams and hopes that had been on the point of
awakening within her and were related to her meeting with Rostov.
The day after her party the governor's wife came to see Malvintseva
and, after discussing her plan with the aunt, remarked that though
under present circumstances a formal betrothal was, of course,
not to be thought of, all the same the young people might be brought
together and could get to know one another. Malvintseva expressed
approval, and the governor's wife began to speak of Rostov in
Mary's presence, praising him and telling how he had blushed when
Princess Mary's name was mentioned. But Princess Mary experienced
a painful rather than a joyful feeling- her mental tranquillity
was destroyed, and desires, doubts, self-reproach, and hopes reawoke.
During the two days that elapsed before Rostov called, Princess
Mary continually thought of how she ought to behave to him. First
she decided not to come to the drawing room when he called to
see her aunt- that it would not be proper for her, in her deep
mourning, to receive visitors; then she thought this would be
rude after what he had done for her; then it occurred to her that
her aunt and the governor's wife had intentions concerning herself
and Rostov- their looks and words at times seemed to confirm this
supposition- then she told herself that only she, with her sinful
nature, could think this of them: they could not forget that situated
as she was, while still wearing deep mourning, such matchmaking
would be an insult to her and to her father's memory. Assuming
that she did go down to see him, Princess Mary imagined the words
he would say to her and what she would say to him, and these words
sometimes seemed undeservedly cold and then to mean too much.
More than anything she feared lest the confusion she felt might
overwhelm her and betray her as soon as she saw him.
But when on Sunday after church the footman announced in the
drawing room that Count Rostov had called, the princess showed
no confusion, only a slight blush suffused her cheeks and her
eyes lit up with a new and radiant light.
"You have met him, Aunt?" said she in a calm voice,
unable herself to understand that she could be outwardly so calm
and natural.
When Rostov entered the room, the princess dropped her eyes
for an instant, as if to give the visitor time to greet her aunt,
and then just as Nicholas turned to her she raised her head and
met his look with shining eyes. With a movement full of dignity
and grace she half rose with a smile of pleasure, held out her
slender, delicate hand to him, and began to speak in a voice in
which for the first time new deep womanly notes vibrated. Mademoiselle
Bourienne, who was in the drawing room, looked at Princess Mary
in bewildered surprise. Herself a consummate coquette, she could
not have maneuvered better on meeting a man she wished to attract.
"Either black is particularly becoming to her or she
really has greatly improved without my having noticed it. And
above all, what tact and grace!" thought Mademoiselle Bourienne.
Had Princess Mary been capable of reflection at that moment,
she would have been more surprised than Mademoiselle Bourienne
at the change that had taken place in herself. From the moment
she recognized that dear, loved face, a new life force took possession
of her and compelled her to speak and act apart from her own will.
From the time Rostov entered, her face became suddenly transformed.
It was as if a light had been kindled in a carved and painted
lantern and the intricate, skillful, artistic work on its sides,
that previously seemed dark, coarse, and meaningless, was suddenly
shown up in unexpected and striking beauty. For the first time
all that pure, spiritual, inward travail through which she had
lived appeared on the surface. All her inward labor, her dissatisfaction
with herself, her sufferings, her strivings after goodness, her
meekness, love, and self-sacrifice- all this now shone in those
radiant eyes, in her delicate smile, and in every trait of her
gentle face.
Rostov saw all this as clearly as if he had known her whole
life. He felt that the being before him was quite different from,
and better than, anyone he had met before, and above all better
than himself.
Their conversation was very simple and unimportant. They spoke
of the war, and like everyone else unconsciously exaggerated their
sorrow about it; they spoke of their last meeting- Nicholas trying
to change the subject- they talked of the governor's kind wife,
of Nicholas' relations, and of Princess Mary's.
She did not talk about her brother, diverting the conversation
as soon as her aunt mentioned Andrew. Evidently she could speak
of Russia's misfortunes with a certain artificiality, but her
brother was too near her heart and she neither could nor would
speak lightly of him. Nicholas noticed this, as he noticed every
shade of Princess Mary's character with an observation unusual
to him, and everything confirmed his conviction that she was a
quite unusual and extraordinary being. Nicholas blushed and was
confused when people spoke to him about the princess (as she did
when he was mentioned) and even when he thought of her, but in
her presence he felt quite at ease, and said not at all what he
had prepared, but what, quite appropriately, occurred to him at
the moment.
When a pause occurred during his short visit, Nicholas, as
is usual when there are children, turned to Prince Andrew's little
son, caressing him and asking whether he would like to be an hussar.
He took the boy on his knee, played with him, and looked round
at Princess Mary. With a softened, happy, timid look she watched
the boy she loved in the arms of the man she loved. Nicholas also
noticed that look and, as if understanding it, flushed with pleasure
and began to kiss the boy with good natured playfulness.
As she was in mourning Princess Mary did not go out into society,
and Nicholas did not think it the proper thing to visit her again;
but all the same the governor's wife went on with her matchmaking,
passing on to Nicholas the flattering things Princess Mary said
of him and vice versa, and insisting on his declaring himself
to Princess Mary. For this purpose she arranged a meeting between
the young people at the bishop's house before Mass.
Though Rostov told the governeor's wife that he would not
make any declaration to Princess Mary, he promised to go.
As at Tilsit Rostov had not allowed himself to doubt that
what everybody considered right was right, so now, after a short
but sincere struggle between his effort to arrange his life by
his own sense of justice, and in obedient submission to circumstances,
he chose the latter and yielded to the power he felt irresistibly
carrying him he knew not where. He knew that after his promise
to Sonya it would be what he deemed base to declare his feelings
to Princess Mary. And he knew that he would never act basely.
But he also knew (or rather felt at the bottom of his heart) that
by resigning himself now to the force of circumstances and to
those who were guiding him, he was not only doing nothing wrong,
but was doing something very important- more important than anything
he had ever done in his life.
After meeting Princess Mary, though the course of his life
went on externally as before, all his former amusements lost their
charm for him and he often thought about her. But he never thought
about her as he had thought of all the young ladies without exception
whom he had met in society, nor as he had for a long time, and
at one time rapturously, thought about Sonya. He had pictured
each of those young ladies as almost all honest-hearted young
men do, that is, as a possible wife, adapting her in his imagination
to all the conditions of married life: a white dressing gown,
his wife at the tea table, his wife's carriage, little ones, Mamma
and Papa, their relations to her, and so on- and these pictures
of the future had given him pleasure. But with Princess Mary,
to whom they were trying to get him engaged, he could never picture
anything of future married life. If he tried, his pictures seemed
incongruous and false. It made him afraid.
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