War And Peace

Boris came to a halt and stood there in the middle of the room, glanced round, flicked a speck of dirt off the sleeve of his uniform and went over to the mirror to examine his handsome face. Natasha kept quiet and peeped out of her hiding-place, wondering what he was going to do. He stood there for a moment before the glass, smiled at himself and walked towards the opposite door. Natasha was just about to call him when she had second thoughts. ‘Let him look for me,’ she said to herself.

Boris had only just gone when in through the other door came Sonya, all red in the face and mouthing some angry words through her tears. Natasha stopped herself from running out to meet her, and stayed in hiding, as if she was magically invisible, to watch what was going on in the world. She was enjoying an exquisite new pleasure. Sonya was muttering something and glaring round at the drawing-room door. The door opened and out came Nikolay.

‘Sonya! What’s wrong with you? How could you?’ said Nikolay, running up to her.

‘It’s nothing. Leave me alone!’ Sonya was sobbing.

‘No, I know what it is.’

‘That’s all right then. Go back to her.’

‘So-o-onya! Just let me speak! Can you really want to torture me – and yourself – over a silly bit of nonsense?’ said Nikolay, taking her hand. Sonya left her hand where it was, and stopped crying.

Natasha, holding her breath, as quiet as a mouse, looked out from her hiding-place with gleaming eyes. ‘What’s next?’ she thought.

‘Oh, Sonya! You’re more than the whole world to me! You’re everything,’ said Nikolay. ‘I’ll prove it to you.’

‘I don’t like it when you talk like that.’

‘Well, I won’t then. Please forgive me, Sonya.’ He pulled her close and kissed her.

‘Oh, how nice!’ thought Natasha, and when Sonya and Nikolay had gone out of the room she followed them and called for Boris.

‘Boris, please come here,’ she said with a sly, meaningful look. ‘I’ve got something to tell you. Here, here,’ she said, and she led him into the conservatory, to the place where she had been hiding between the tubs. Boris followed, smiling.

‘What something?’ he inquired. She was embarrassed. She looked round, and when she saw the doll she had dropped on to a tub she picked it up.

‘Kiss my doll,’ she said. Boris looked at her eager face, closely, tenderly, and said nothing. ‘You won’t? Well, come here then,’ she said, plunging further in among the flowers, and she threw the doll away. ‘Closer, closer!’ she whispered. She grabbed hold of the young officer’s cuffs, and her blushing face was a mixture of triumph and alarm.

‘Would you like to kiss me?’ Her whisper was barely audible, as she peeped up at him coyly, grinning and almost weeping with emotion.

Boris went red in the face. ‘You are a funny girl’ he managed to say, bending down towards her, redder than ever, but without actually doing anything. He was waiting for the next move. Suddenly she skipped up on to a tub to make herself taller than Boris, flung her slender, bare arms right round his neck, and flicked her hair back with a toss of the head. Then she kissed him right on the lips.

She slipped away between the plant-pots, went round behind the flowers and stood there with her head bowed.

‘Natasha,’ he said, ‘you know I love you, but . . .’

‘Are you really in love with me?’ Natasha broke in.

‘Yes, of course I am, but, please, we mustn’t do that again . . . In four years’ time . . . Then I shall ask for your hand.’

Natasha thought things over.

‘Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen,’ she said, counting on her tiny little fingers.

‘Good. It’s all settled then?’ And her excited face radiated delight and relief.

‘Yes,’ said Boris.

‘For ever?’ said the little girl. ‘Till death us do part?’ And, taking his arm, with happiness written all over her face she walked quietly beside him into the next room.

CHAPTER 11

The countess was so tired from receiving visitors that she gave orders not to admit any more, and the porter was told just to issue dinner invitations to anyone else who turned up with name-day congratulations. The countess was looking forward to an intimate chat with her childhood friend, Princess Anna Mikhaylovna, whom she had not seen properly since she had arrived from Petersburg. Anna Mikhaylovna, with her pleasant, careworn face, moved closer to the countess in her easy-chair.

‘With you I can speak my mind,’ said Anna Mikhaylovna. ‘We’re old friends, and there aren’t many of us left! That’s why I value your friendship so much.’

Anna Mikhaylovna looked at Vera and paused. The countess pressed her friend’s hand.

‘Vera,’ said the countess to her elder daughter (clearly not the favourite one), ‘you don’t seem to understand anything. Can’t you see you’re not wanted now? Go and see your sisters, or something . . .’

The lovely young countess gave a scornful smile, not at all disconcerted.