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On Sunday morning Mrya Dmtrievna invited her visitors to Mass at her parish church—the Church of the Assumption built over the graves of victims of the plague.
“I don’t like those fashionable churches,” she said, evidently priding herself on her independence of thought. “God is the same everywhere. We have an excellent priest, he conducts the service decently and with dignity, and the deacon is the same. What holiness is there in giving concerts in the choir? I don’t like it, it’s just self-indulgence!”
Mrya Dmtrievna liked Sundays and knew how to keep them. Her whole house was scrubbed and cleaned on Saturdays; neither she nor the servants worked, and they all wore holiday dress and went to church. At her table there were extra dishes at dinner, and the servants had vodka and roast goose or suckling pig. But in nothing in the house was the holiday so noticeable as in Mrya Dmtrievna’s broad, stern face, which on that day wore an invariable look of solemn festivity.
After Mass, when they had finished their coffee in the dining room where the loose covers had been removed from the furniture, a servant announced that the carriage was ready, and Mrya Dmtrievna rose with a stern air. She wore her holiday shawl, in which she paid calls, and announced that she was going to see Prince Nicholas Bolknski to have an explanation with him about Natsha.
After she had gone, a dressmaker from Madame Suppert-Roguet waited on the Rostvs, and Natsha, very glad of this diversion, having shut herself into a room adjoining the drawing room, occupied herself trying on the new dresses. Just as she had put on a bodice without sleeves and only tacked together, and was turning her head to see in the glass how the back fitted, she heard in the drawing room the animated sounds of her father’s voice and another’s—a woman’s—that made her flush. It was Hlne. Natsha had not time to take off the bodice before the door opened and Countess Bezkhova, dressed in a purple velvet gown with a high collar, came into the room beaming with good-humored amiable smiles.
“Oh, my enchantress!” she cried to the blushing Natsha. “Charming! No, this is really beyond anything, my dear count,” said she to Count Rostv who had followed her in. “How can you live in Moscow and go nowhere? No, I won’t let you off! Mademoiselle George will recite at my house tonight and there’ll be some people, and if you don’t bring your lovely girls—who are prettier than Mademoiselle George—I won’t know you! My husband is away in Tver or I would send him to fetch you. You must come. You positively must! Between eight and nine.”
She nodded to the dressmaker, whom she knew and who had curtsied respectfully to her, and seated herself in an armchair beside the looking glass, draping the folds of her velvet dress picturesquely. She did not cease chattering good-naturedly and gaily, continually praising Natsha’s beauty. She looked at Natsha’s dresses and praised them, as well as a new dress of her own made of “metallic gauze,” which she had received from Paris, and advised Natsha to have one like it.
“But anything suits you, my charmer!” she remarked.
A smile of pleasure never left Natsha’s face. She felt happy and as if she were blossoming under the praise of this dear Countess Bezkhova who had formerly seemed to her so unapproachable and important and was now so kind to her. Natsha brightened up and felt almost in love with this woman, who was so beautiful and so kind. Hlne for her part was sincerely delighted with Natsha and wished to give her a good time. Anatole had asked her to bring him and Natsha together, and she was calling on the Rostvs for that purpose. The idea of throwing her brother and Natsha together amused her.
Though at one time, in Petersburg, she had been annoyed with Natsha for drawing Bors away, she did not think of that now, and in her own way heartily wished Natsha well. As she was leaving the Rostvs she called her protge aside.
“My brother dined with me yesterday—we nearly died of laughter—he ate nothing and kept sighing for you, my charmer! He is madly, quite madly, in love with you, my dear.”
Natsha blushed scarlet when she heard this.
“How she blushes, how she blushes, my pretty!” said Hlne. “You must certainly come. If you love somebody, my charmer, that is not a reason to shut yourself up. Even if you are engaged, I am sure your fianc would wish you to go into society rather than be bored to death.”
“So she knows I am engaged, and she and her husband Pierre—that good Pierre—have talked and laughed about this. So it’s all right.” And again, under Hlne’s influence, what had seemed terrible now seemed simple and natural. “And she is such a grande dame, so kind, and evidently likes me so much. And why not enjoy myself?” thought Natsha, gazing at Hlne with wide-open, wondering eyes.
Mrya Dmtrievna came back to dinner taciturn and serious, having evidently suffered a defeat at the old prince’s. She was still too agitated by the encounter to be able to talk of the affair calmly. In answer to the count’s inquiries she replied that things were all right and that she would tell about it next day. On hearing of Countess Bezkhova’s visit and the invitation for that evening, Mrya Dmtrievna remarked:
“I don’t care to have anything to do with Bezkhova and don’t advise you to; however, if you’ve promised—go. It will divert your thoughts,” she added, addressing Natsha.
Count Rostv took the girls to Countess Bezkhova’s. There were a good many people there, but nearly all strangers to Natsha. Count Rostv was displeased to see that the company consisted almost entirely of men and women known for the freedom of their conduct. Mademoiselle George was standing in a corner of the drawing room surrounded by young men. There were several Frenchmen present, among them Mtivier who from the time Hlne reached Moscow had been an intimate in her house. The count decided not to sit down to cards or let his girls out of his sight and to get away as soon as Mademoiselle George’s performance was over.
Anatole was at the door, evidently on the lookout for the Rostvs. Immediately after greeting the count he went up to Natsha and followed her. As soon as she saw him she was seized by the same feeling she had had at the opera—gratified vanity at his admiration of her and fear at the absence of a moral barrier between them.
Hlne welcomed Natsha delightedly and was loud in admiration of her beauty and her dress. Soon after their arrival Mademoiselle George went out of the room to change her costume. In the drawing room people began arranging the chairs and taking their seats. Anatole moved a chair for Natsha and was about to sit down beside her, but the count, who never lost sight of her, took the seat himself. Anatole sat down behind her.
