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WHEN PRINCESS MARYA went into the room, Prince Vassily and his son were
already in the drawing-room, talking to the little princess and Mademoiselle
Bourienne. When she walked in with her heavy step, treading on her heels, the
gentlemen and Mademoiselle Bourienne rose, and the little princess, with a
gesture indicating her to the gentlemen, said: “Here is Marie!” Princess Marya
saw them all and saw them in detail. She saw the face of Prince Vassily, growing
serious for an instant at the sight of her, and then hastily smiling, and the
face of the little princess, scanning the faces of the guests with curiosity to
detect the impression Marie was making on them. She saw Mademoiselle Bourienne,
too, with her ribbon and her pretty face, turned towards him with a look
of more eagerness than she had ever seen on it. But him she could not
see, she could only see something large, bright-coloured, and handsome moving
towards her, as she entered the room. Prince Vassily approached her first; and
she kissed his bald head, as he bent over to kiss her hand, and in reply to his
words said, that on the contrary, she remembered him very well. Then Anatole
went up to her. She still could not see him. She only felt a soft hand taking
her hand firmly, and she touched with her lips a white forehead, over which
there was beautiful fair hair, smelling of pomade. When she glanced at him, she
was impressed by his beauty. Anatole was standing with the thumb of his right
hand at a button of his uniform, his chest squared and his spine arched;
swinging one foot, with his head a little on one side, he was gazing in silence
with a beaming face on the princess, obviously not thinking of her at all.
Anatole was not quick-witted, he was not ready, not eloquent in conversation,
but he had that faculty, so invaluable for social purposes, of composure and
imperturbable assurance. If a man of no self-confidence is dumb at first making
acquaintance, and betrays a consciousness of the impropriety of this dumbness
and an anxiety to find something to say, the effect will be bad. But Anatole was
dumb and swung his leg, as he watched the princess's hair with a radiant face.
It was clear that he could be silent with the same serenity for a very long
while. “If anybody feels silence awkward, let him talk, but I don't care about
it,” his demeanour seemed to say. Moreover, in his manner to women, Anatole had
that air, which does more than anything else to excite curiosity, awe, and even
love in women, the air of supercilious consciousness of his own superiority. His
manner seemed to say to them: “I know you, I know, but why trouble my head about
you? You'd be pleased enough, of course!” Possibly he did not think this on
meeting women (it is probable, indeed, that he did not, for he thought very
little at any time), but that was the effect of his air and his manner. Princess
Marya felt it, and as though to show him she did not even venture to think of
inviting his attention, she turned to his father. The conversation was general
and animated, thanks to the voice and the little downy lip, that flew up and
down over the white teeth of the little princess. She met Prince Vassily in that
playful tone so often adopted by chatty and lively persons, the point of which
consists in the assumption that there exists a sort of long-established series
of jokes and amusing, partly private, humorous reminiscences between the persons
so addressed and oneself, even when no such reminiscences are really shared, as
indeed was the case with Prince Vassily and the little princess. Prince Vassily
readily fell in with this tone, the little princess embellished their supposed
common reminiscences with all sorts of droll incidents that had never occurred,
and drew Anatole too into them, though she had scarcely known him. Mademoiselle
Bourienne too succeeded in taking a part in them, and even Princess Marya felt
with pleasure that she was being made to share in their gaiety.
“Well, anyway, we shall take advantage of you to the utmost now we have got
you, dear prince,” said the little princess, in French, of course, to Prince
Vassily. “Here it is not as it used to be at our evenings at Annette's, where
you always ran away. Do you remember our dear Annette?”
“Ah yes, but then you mustn't talk to me about politics, like Annette!”
“And our little tea-table?”
“Oh yes!”
“Why is it you never used to be at Annette's?” the little princess asked of
Anatole. “Ah, I know, I know,” she said, winking; “your brother, Ippolit, has
told me tales of your doings. Oh!” She shook her finger at him. “I know about
your exploits in Paris too!”
“But he, Ippolit, didn't tell you, did he?” said Prince Vassily (addressing
his son and taking the little princess by the arm, as though she would have run
away and he were just in time to catch her); “he didn't tell you how he, Ippolit
himself, was breaking his heart over our sweet princess, and how she turned him
out of doors.”
“Oh! she is the pearl of women, princess,” he said, addressing Princess
Marya. Mademoiselle Bourienne on her side, at the mention of Paris, did not let
her chance slip for taking a share in the common stock of recollections.
She ventured to inquire if it were long since Anatole was in Paris, and how
he had liked that city. Anatole very readily answered the Frenchwoman, and
smiling and staring at her, he talked to her about her native country. At first
sight of the pretty Mademoiselle, Anatole had decided that even here at Bleak
Hills he should not be dull. “Not half bad-looking,” he thought, scrutinising
her, “she's not half bad-looking, that companion! I hope she'll bring her along
when we're married,” he mused; “she is a nice little thing.”
The old prince was dressing deliberately in his room, scowling and ruminating
on what he was to do. The arrival of these visitors angered him. “What's Prince
Vassily to me, he and his son? Prince Vassily is a braggart, an empty-headed
fool, and a nice fellow the son is, I expect,” he growled to himself. What
angered him was that this visit revived in his mind the unsettled question,
continually thrust aside, the question in regard to which the old prince always
deceived himself. That question was whether he would ever bring himself to part
with his daughter and give her to a husband. The prince could never bring
himself to put this question directly to himself, knowing beforehand that if he
did he would have to answer it justly, but against justice in this case was
ranged more than feeling, the very possibility of life. Life without Princess
Marya was unthinkable to the old prince, little as in appearance he prized her.
“And what is she to be married for?” he thought; “to be unhappy, beyond a doubt.
Look at Liza with Andrey (and a better husband, I should fancy, it would be
difficult to find nowadays), but she's not satisfied with her lot.
And who would marry her for love? She's plain and ungraceful. She'd be
married for her connections, her wealth. And don't old maids get on well enough?
They are happier really!” So Prince Nikolay Andreivitch mused, as he dressed,
yet the question constantly deferred demanded an immediate decision. Prince
Vassily had brought his son obviously with the intention of making an offer, and
probably that day or the next he would ask for a direct answer. The name, the
position in the world, was suitable. “Well, I'm not against it,” the prince kept
saying to himself, “only let him be worthy of her. That's what we shall see.
That's what we shall see,” he said aloud, “that's what we shall see,” and with
his usual alert step he walked into the drawing-room, taking in the whole
company in a rapid glance. He noticed the change in the dress of the little
princess and Mademoiselle Bourienne's ribbon, and the hideous way in which
Princess Marya's hair was done, and the smiles of the Frenchwoman and Anatole,
and the isolation of his daughter in the general talk. “She's decked herself out
like a fool!” he thought, glancing vindictively at his daughter. “No shame in
her; while he doesn't care to speak to her!”
He went up to Prince Vassily.
“Well, how d'ye do, how d'ye do, glad to see you.”
“For a friend that one loves seven versts is close by,” said Prince Vassily,
quoting the Russian proverb, and speaking in his usual rapid, self-confident,
and familiar tone. “This is my second, I beg you to love him and welcome him, as
they say.”
Prince Nikolay Andreivitch scrutinised Anatole.
“A fine fellow, a fine fellow!” he said. “Well, come and give me a kiss,” and
he offered him his cheek. Anatole kissed the old man, and looked at him with
curiosity and perfect composure, waiting for some instance of the eccentricity
his father had told him to expect.
The old prince sat down in his customary place in the corner of the sofa,
moved up an armchair for Prince Vassily, pointed to it, and began questioning
him about political affairs and news. He seemed to be listening with attention
to what Prince Vassily was saying, but glanced continually at Princess
Marya.
“So they're writing from Potsdam already?” He repeated Prince Vassily's last
words, and suddenly getting up, he went up to his daughter.
“So it was for visitors you dressed yourself up like this, eh?” he said.
“Nice of you, very nice. You do your hair up in some new fashion before
visitors, and before visitors, I tell you, never dare in future to change your
dress without my leave.”
“It was my fault…” stammered the little princess, flushing.
“You are quite at liberty,” said the old prince, with a scrape before his
daughter-in-law, “but she has no need to disfigure herself—she's ugly enough
without that.” And he sat down again in his place, taking no further notice of
his daughter, whom he had reduced to tears.
“On the contrary, that coiffure is extremely becoming to the princess,” said
Prince Vassily.
“Well, my young prince, what's your name?” said the old prince, turning to
Anatole. “Come here, let us talk to you a little and make your
acquaintance.”
“Now the fun's beginning,” thought Anatole, and with a smile he sat down by
the old prince.
“That's it; they tell me, my dear boy, you have been educated abroad. Not
taught to read and write by the deacon, like your father and me. Tell me, are
you serving now in the Horse Guards?” asked the old man, looking closely and
intently at Anatole.
“No, I have transferred into the line,” answered Anatole, with difficulty
restraining his laughter.
“Ah! a good thing. So you want to serve your Tsar and your country, do you?
These are times of war. Such a fine young fellow ought to be on service, he
ought to be on service. Ordered to the front, eh?”
“No, prince, our regiment has gone to the front. But I'm attached. What is it
I'm attached to, papa?” Anatole turned to his father with a laugh.
“He is a credit to the service, a credit. What is it I'm attached to!
Ha-ha-ha!” laughed the old prince, and Anatole laughed still louder. Suddenly
the old prince frowned. “Well, you can go,” he said to Anatole. With a smile
Anatole returned to the ladies.
“So you had him educated abroad, Prince Vassily? Eh?” said the old prince to
Prince Vassily.
“I did what I could, and I assure you the education there is far better than
ours.”
“Yes, nowadays everything's different, everything's new-fashioned. A fine
fellow! a fine fellow! Well, come to my room.” He took Prince Vassily's arm and
led him away to his study.
Left alone with the old prince, Prince Vassily promptly made known to him his
wishes and his hopes.
“Why, do you imagine,” said the old prince wrathfully, “that I keep her, that
I can't part with her? What an idea!” he protested angrily. “I am ready for it
to-morrow! Only, I tell you, I want to know my future son-in-law better. You
know my principles: everything open! To-morrow I will ask her in your presence;
if she wishes it, let him stay on. Let him stay on, and I'll see.” The prince
snorted. “Let her marry, it's nothing to me,” he screamed in the piercing voice
in which he had screamed at saying good-bye to his son.
“I will be frank with you,” said Prince Vassily in the tone of a crafty man,
who is convinced of the uselessness of being crafty with so penetrating a
companion. “You see right through people, I know. Anatole is not a genius, but a
straightforward, good-hearted lad, good as a son or a kinsman.”
“Well, well, very good, we shall see.”
As is always the case with women who have for a long while been living a
secluded life apart from masculine society, on the appearance of Anatole on the
scene, all the three women in Prince Nikolay Andreivitch's house felt alike that
their life had not been real life till then. Their powers of thought, of
feeling, of observation, were instantly redoubled. It seemed as though their
life had till then been passed in darkness, and was all at once lighted up by a
new brightness that was full of significance.
Princess Marya did not remember her face and her coiffure. The handsome, open
face of the man who might, perhaps, become her husband, absorbed her whole
attention. She thought him kind, brave, resolute, manly, and magnanimous. She
was convinced of all that. Thousands of dreams of her future married life were
continually floating into her imagination. She drove them away and tried to
disguise them.
“But am I not too cold with him?” thought Princess Marya. “I try to check
myself, because at the bottom of my heart I feel myself too close to him. But of
course he doesn't know all I think of him, and may imagine I don't like
him.”
And she tried and knew not how to be cordial to him.
“The poor girl is devilish ugly,” Anatole was thinking about her.
Mademoiselle Bourienne, who had also been thrown by Anatole's arrival into a
high state of excitement, was absorbed in reflections of a different order.
Naturally, a beautiful young girl with no defined position in society, without
friends or relations, without even a country of her own, did not look forward to
devoting her life to waiting on Prince Nikolay Andreivitch, to reading him books
and being a friend to Princess Marya. Mademoiselle Bourienne had long been
looking forward to the Russian prince, who would have the discrimination to
discern her superiority to the ugly, badly dressed, ungainly Russian
princesses—who would fall in love with her and bear her away. And now this
Russian prince at last had come. Mademoiselle Bourienne knew a story she had
heard from her aunt, and had finished to her own taste, which she loved to go
over in her own imagination. It was the story of how a girl had been seduced,
and her poor mother (sa pauvre mère) had appeared to her and reproached
her for yielding to a man's allurements without marriage. Mademoiselle was often
touched to tears, as in imagination she told “him,” her seducer, this tale. Now
this “he,” a real Russian prince, had appeared. He would elope with her, then
“my poor mother” would come on the scene, and he would marry her. This was how
all her future history shaped itself in Mademoiselle Bourienne's brain at the
very moment when she was talking to him of Paris. Mademoiselle Bourienne was not
guided by calculations (she did not even consider for one instant what she would
do), but it had all been ready within her long before, and now it all centred
about Anatole as soon as he appeared, and she wished and tried to attract him as
much as possible.
The little princess, like an old warhorse hearing the blast of the trumpet,
was prepared to gallop off into a flirtation as her habit was, unconsciously
forgetting her position, with no ulterior motive, no struggle, nothing but
simple-hearted, frivolous gaiety in her heart.
Although in feminine society Anatole habitually took up the attitude of a man
weary of the attentions of women, his vanity was agreeably flattered by the
spectacle of the effect he produced on these three women. Moreover, he was
beginning to feel towards the pretty and provocative Mademoiselle Bourienne that
violent, animal feeling, which was apt to come upon him with extreme rapidity,
and to impel him to the coarsest and most reckless actions.
After tea the party moved into the divan-room, and Princess Marya was asked
to play on the clavichord. Anatole leaned on his elbow facing her, and near
Mademoiselle Bourienne, and his eyes were fixed on Princess Marya, full of
laughter and glee. Princess Marya felt his eyes upon her with troubled and
joyful agitation. Her favourite sonata bore her away to a world of soul-felt
poetry, and the feeling of his eyes upon her added still more poetry to that
world. The look in Anatole's eyes, though they were indeed fixed upon her, had
reference not to her, but to the movements of Mademoiselle's little foot, which
he was at that very time touching with his own under the piano. Mademoiselle
Bourienne too was gazing at Princess Marya, and in her fine eyes, too, there was
an expression of frightened joy and hope that was new to the princess.
“How she loves me!” thought Princess Marya. “How happy I am now and how happy
I may be with such a friend and such a husband! Can he possibly be my husband?”
she thought, not daring to glance at his face, but still feeling his eyes
fastened upon her.
When the party broke up after supper, Anatole kissed Princess Marya's hand.
She was herself at a loss to know how she had the hardihood, but she looked
straight with her short-sighted eyes at the handsome face as it came close to
her. After the princess, he bent over the hand of Mademoiselle Bourienne (it was
a breach of etiquette, but he did everything with the same ease and simplicity)
and Mademoiselle Bourienne crimsoned and glanced in dismay at the
princess.
“Quelle délicatesse!” thought Princess Marya. “Can Amélie”
(Mademoiselle's name) “suppose I could be jealous of her, and fail to appreciate
her tenderness and devotion to me?” She went up to Mademoiselle Bourienne and
kissed her warmly. Anatole went to the little princess.
“No, no, no! When your father writes me word that you are behaving well, I
will give you my hand to kiss.” And shaking her little finger at him, she went
smiling out of the room.
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