"Mary," she said, moving away from the embroidery frame and lying
back, "give me your hand." She took her sister-in-law’s hand and
held it below her waist.
Her eyes were smiling expectantly, her downy lip rose and remained
lifted in childlike happiness.
Princess Mary knelt down before her and hid her face in the folds of her
sister-in-law’s dress.
"There, there! Do you feel it? I feel so strange. And do you know,
Mary, I am going to love him very much," said Lise, looking with
bright and happy eyes at her sister-in-law.
Princess Mary could not lift her head, she was weeping.
"What is the matter, Mary?"
"Nothing... only I feel sad... sad about Andrew," she said, wiping
away her tears on her sister-in-law’s knee.
Several times in the course of the morning Princess Mary began trying to
prepare her sister-in-law, and every time began to cry. Unobservant as
was the little princess, these tears, the cause of which she did not
understand, agitated her. She said nothing but looked about uneasily as
if in search of something. Before dinner the old prince, of whom she was
always afraid, came into her room with a peculiarly restless and malign
expression and went out again without saying a word. She looked at
Princess Mary, then sat thinking for a while with that expression of
attention to something within her that is only seen in pregnant women,
and suddenly began to cry.
"Has anything come from Andrew?" she asked.
"No, you know it’s too soon for news. But my father is anxious and I
feel afraid."
"So there’s nothing?"
"Nothing," answered Princess Mary, looking firmly with her radiant
eyes at her sister-in-law.
She had determined not to tell her and persuaded her father to hide the
terrible news from her till after her confinement, which was expected
within a few days. Princess Mary and the old prince each bore and hid
their grief in their own way. The old prince would not cherish any hope:
he made up his mind that Prince Andrew had been killed, and though he
sent an official to Austria to seek for traces of his son, he ordered a
monument from Moscow which he intended to erect in his own garden to his
memory, and he told everybody that his son had been killed. He tried not
to change his former way of life, but his strength failed him. He walked
less, ate less, slept less, and became weaker every day. Princess Mary
hoped. She prayed for her brother as living and was always awaiting news
of his return.
CHAPTER VIII
"Dearest," said the little princess after breakfast on the morning
of the nineteenth March, and her downy little lip rose from old habit,
but as sorrow was manifest in every smile, the sound of every word, and
even every footstep in that house since the terrible news had come, so
now the smile of the little princess - influenced by the general mood
though without knowing its cause - was such as to remind one still more
of the general sorrow.
"Dearest, I’m afraid this morning’s fruschtique * - as Foka the
cook calls it - has disagreed with me."
* Fruhstuck: breakfast.
"What is the matter with you, my darling? You look pale. Oh, you
are very pale!" said Princess Mary in alarm, running with her soft,
ponderous steps up to her sister-in-law.
"Your excellency, should not Mary Bogdanovna be sent for?" said one
of the maids who was present. (Mary Bogdanovna was a midwife from the
neighboring town, who had been at Bald Hills for the last fortnight.)
"Oh yes," assented Princess Mary, "perhaps that’s it. I’ll go.
Courage, my angel." She kissed Lise and was about to leave the room.
"Oh, no, no!" And besides the pallor and the physical suffering
on the little princess’ face, an expression of childish fear of
inevitable pain showed itself.
"No, it’s only indigestion?... Say it’s only indigestion, say so,
Mary! Say..." And the little princess began to cry capriciously like
a suffering child and to wring her little hands even with some
affectation. Princess Mary ran out of the room to fetch Mary
Bogdanovna.
"Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Oh!" she heard as she left the room.
The midwife was already on her way to meet her, rubbing her small, plump
white hands with an air of calm importance.
"Mary Bogdanovna, I think it’s beginning!" said Princess Mary
looking at the midwife with wide-open eyes of alarm.
"Well, the Lord be thanked, Princess," said Mary Bogdanovna, not
hastening her steps. "You young ladies should not know anything about
it."
"But how is it the doctor from Moscow is not here yet?" said the
princess. (In accordance with Lise’s and Prince Andrew’s wishes they
had sent in good time to Moscow for a doctor and were expecting him at
any moment.)
"No matter, Princess, don’t be alarmed," said Mary Bogdanovna.
"We’ll manage very well without a doctor."
Five minutes later Princess Mary from her room heard something heavy
being carried by. She looked out. The men servants were carrying the
large leather sofa from Prince Andrew’s study into the bedroom. On
their faces was a quiet and solemn look.
Princess Mary sat alone in her room listening to the sounds in the
house, now and then opening her door when someone passed and watching
what was going on in the passage. Some women passing with quiet steps in
and out of the bedroom glanced at the princess and turned away. She did
not venture to ask any questions, and shut the door again, now sitting
down in her easy chair, now taking her prayer book, now kneeling before
the icon stand. To her surprise and distress she found that her prayers
did not calm her excitement. Suddenly her door opened softly and her old
nurse, Praskovya Savishna, who hardly ever came to that room as the
old prince had forbidden it, appeared on the threshold with a shawl
round her head.
"I’ve come to sit with you a bit, Masha," said the nurse, "and
here I’ve brought the prince’s wedding candles to light before his
saint, my angel," she said with a sigh.
"Oh, nurse, I’m so glad!"
"God is merciful, birdie."
The nurse lit the gilt candles before the icons and sat down by the door
with her knitting. Princess Mary took a book and began reading. Only
when footsteps or voices were heard did they look at one another, the
princess anxious and inquiring, the nurse encouraging. Everyone in the
house was dominated by the same feeling that Princess Mary experienced
as she sat in her room. But owing to the superstition that the fewer
the people who know of it the less a woman in travail suffers, everyone
tried to pretend not to know; no one spoke of it, but apart from the
ordinary staid and respectful good manners habitual in the prince’s
household, a common anxiety, a softening of the heart, and a
consciousness that something great and mysterious was being accomplished
at that moment made itself felt.
There was no laughter in the maids’ large hall. In the men servants’
hall all sat waiting, silently and alert. In the outlying serfs’
quarters torches and candles were burning and no one slept. The old
prince, stepping on his heels, paced up and down his study and sent
Tikhon to ask Mary Bogdanovna what news. - "Say only that ‘the
prince told me to ask,’ and come and tell me her answer."
"Inform the prince that labor has begun," said Mary Bogdanovna,
giving the messenger a significant look.
Tikhon went and told the prince.
"Very good!" said the prince closing the door behind him, and
Tikhon did not hear the slightest sound from the study after that.
After a while he re-entered it as if to snuff the candles, and, seeing
the prince was lying on the sofa, looked at him, noticed his perturbed
face, shook his head, and going up to him silently kissed him on the
shoulder and left the room without snuffing the candles or saying why he
had entered. The most solemn mystery in the world continued its course.
Evening passed, night came, and the feeling of suspense and softening of
heart in the presence of the unfathomable did not lessen but increased.
No one slept.
It was one of those March nights when winter seems to wish to resume its
sway and scatters its last snows and storms with desperate fury. A relay
of horses had been sent up the highroad to meet the German doctor from
Moscow who was expected every moment, and men on horseback with lanterns
were sent to the crossroads to guide him over the country road with its
hollows and snow-covered pools of water.
Princess Mary had long since put aside her book: she sat silent, her
luminous eyes fixed on her nurse’s wrinkled face (every line of which
she knew so well), on the lock of gray hair that escaped from under the
kerchief, and the loose skin that hung under her chin.
Nurse Savishna, knitting in hand, was telling in low tones, scarcely
hearing or understanding her own words, what she had told hundreds of
times before: how the late princess had given birth to Princess Mary
in Kishenev with only a Moldavian peasant woman to help instead of a
midwife.
"God is merciful, doctors are never needed," she said.
Suddenly a gust of wind beat violently against the casement of the
window, from which the double frame had been removed (by order of the
prince, one window frame was removed in each room as soon as the larks
returned), and, forcing open a loosely closed latch, set the damask
curtain flapping and blew out the candle with its chill, snowy draft.
Princess Mary shuddered; her nurse, putting down the stocking she was
knitting, went to the window and leaning out tried to catch the open
casement. The cold wind flapped the ends of her kerchief and her loose
locks of gray hair.
"Princess, my dear, there’s someone driving up the avenue!" she
said, holding the casement and not closing it. "With lanterns. Most
likely the doctor."
"Oh, my God! thank God!" said Princess Mary. "I must go and meet
him, he does not know Russian."
Princess Mary threw a shawl over her head and ran to meet the newcomer.
As she was crossing the anteroom she saw through the window a carriage
with lanterns, standing at the entrance. She went out on the stairs. On
a banister post stood a tallow candle which guttered in the draft. On
the landing below, Philip, the footman, stood looking scared and holding
another candle. Still lower, beyond the turn of the staircase, one
could hear the footstep of someone in thick felt boots, and a voice that
seemed familiar to Princess Mary was saying something.
"Thank God!" said the voice. "And Father?"
"Gone to bed," replied the voice of Demyan the house steward, who
was downstairs.
Then the voice said something more, Demyan replied, and the steps in
the felt boots approached the unseen bend of the staircase more rapidly.
"It’s Andrew!" thought Princess Mary. "No it can’t be, that
would be too extraordinary," and at the very moment she thought this,
the face and figure of Prince Andrew, in a fur cloak the deep collar of
which covered with snow, appeared on the landing where the footman
stood with the candle. Yes, it was he, pale, thin, with a changed and
strangely softened but agitated expression on his face. He came up the
stairs and embraced his sister.
"You did not get my letter?" he asked, and not waiting for a
reply - which he would not have received, for the princess was unable to
speak - he turned back, rapidly mounted the stairs again with the
doctor who had entered the hall after him (they had met at the last post
station), and again embraced his sister.
"What a strange fate, Masha darling!" And having taken off his
cloak and felt boots, he went to the little princess’ apartment.
CHAPTER IX
The little princess lay supported by pillows, with a white cap on her
head (the pains had just left her). Strands of her black hair lay round
her inflamed and perspiring cheeks, her charming rosy mouth with its
downy lip was open and she was smiling joyfully. Prince Andrew entered
and paused facing her at the foot of the sofa on which she was lying.
Her glittering eyes, filled with childlike fear and excitement, rested
on him without changing their expression. "I love you all and have
done no harm to anyone; why must I suffer so? Help me!" her look
seemed to say. She saw her husband, but did not realize the significance
of his appearance before her now. Prince Andrew went round the sofa and
kissed her forehead.
"My darling!" he said - a word he had never used to her before.
"God is merciful...."
She looked at him inquiringly and with childlike reproach.
"I expected help from you and I get none, none from you either!"
said her eyes. She was not surprised at his having come; she did
not realize that he had come. His coming had nothing to do with
her sufferings or with their relief. The pangs began again and Mary
Bogdanovna advised Prince Andrew to leave the room.
The doctor entered. Prince Andrew went out and, meeting Princess Mary,
again joined her. They began talking in whispers, but their talk broke
off at every moment. They waited and listened.
"Go, dear," said Princess Mary.
Prince Andrew went again to his wife and sat waiting in the room next
to hers. A woman came from the bedroom with a frightened face and became
confused when she saw Prince Andrew. He covered his face with his hands
and remained so for some minutes. Piteous, helpless, animal moans came
through the door. Prince Andrew got up, went to the door, and tried to
open it. Someone was holding it shut.
"You can’t come in! You can’t!" said a terrified voice from
within.
He began pacing the room. The screaming ceased, and a few more seconds
went by. Then suddenly a terrible shriek - it could not be hers, she
could not scream like that - came from the bedroom. Prince Andrew ran to
the door; the scream ceased and he heard the wail of an infant.
"What have they taken a baby in there for?" thought Prince Andrew in
the first second. "A baby? What baby...? Why is there a baby there? Or
is the baby born?"
Then suddenly he realized the joyful significance of that wail; tears
choked him, and leaning his elbows on the window sill he began to cry,
sobbing like a child. The door opened. The doctor with his shirt sleeves
tucked up, without a coat, pale and with a trembling jaw, came out
of the room. Prince Andrew turned to him, but the doctor gave him a
bewildered look and passed by without a word. A woman rushed out and
seeing Prince Andrew stopped, hesitating on the threshold. He went into
his wife’s room. She was lying dead, in the same position he had seen
her in five minutes before and, despite the fixed eyes and the pallor of
the cheeks, the same expression was on her charming childlike face with
its upper lip covered with tiny black hair.
"I love you all, and have done no harm to anyone; and what have you
done to me?" - said her charming, pathetic, dead face.
In a corner of the room something red and tiny gave a grunt and squealed
in Mary Bogdanovna’s trembling white hands.
Two hours later Prince Andrew, stepping softly, went into his father’s
room. The old man already knew everything. He was standing close to
the door and as soon as it opened his rough old arms closed like a vise
round his son’s neck, and without a word he began to sob like a child.
Three days later the little princess was buried, and Prince Andrew went
up the steps to where the coffin stood, to give her the farewell kiss.
And there in the coffin was the same face, though with closed eyes.
"Ah, what have you done to me?" it still seemed to say, and Prince
Andrew felt that something gave way in his soul and that he was guilty
of a sin he could neither remedy nor forget. He could not weep. The
old man too came up and kissed the waxen little hands that lay quietly
crossed one on the other on her breast, and to him, too, her face seemed
to say: "Ah, what have you done to me, and why?" And at the sight
the old man turned angrily away.
Another five days passed, and then the young Prince Nicholas Andreevich
was baptized. The wet nurse supported the coverlet with her chin, while
the priest with a goose feather anointed the boy’s little red and
wrinkled soles and palms.
His grandfather, who was his godfather, trembling and afraid of dropping
him, carried the infant round the battered tin font and handed him over
to the godmother, Princess Mary. Prince Andrew sat in another room,
faint with fear lest the baby should be drowned in the font, and awaited
the termination of the ceremony. He looked up joyfully at the baby when
the nurse brought it to him and nodded approval when she told him that
the wax with the baby’s hair had not sunk in the font but had floated.
CHAPTER X
Rostov’s share in Dolokhov’s duel with Bezukhov was hushed up by
the efforts of the old count, and instead of being degraded to the ranks
as he expected he was appointed an adjutant to the governor general of
Moscow. As a result he could not go to the country with the rest of the
family, but was kept all summer in Moscow by his new duties. Dolokhov
recovered, and Rostov became very friendly with him during his
convalescence. Dolokhov lay ill at his mother’s who loved him
passionately and tenderly, and old Mary Ivanovna, who had grown fond of
Rostov for his friendship to her Fedya, often talked to him about her
son.
"Yes, Count," she would say, "he is too noble and pure-souled for
our present, depraved world. No one now loves virtue; it seems like
a reproach to everyone. Now tell me, Count, was it right, was it
honorable, of Bezukhov? And Fedya, with his noble spirit, loved him
and even now never says a word against him. Those pranks in Petersburg
when they played some tricks on a policeman, didn’t they do it
together? And there! Bezukhov got off scotfree, while Fedya had to
bear the whole burden on his shoulders. Fancy what he had to go through!
It’s true he has been reinstated, but how could they fail to do that?
I think there were not many such gallant sons of the fatherland out
there as he. And now - this duel! Have these people no feeling, or
honor? Knowing him to be an only son, to challenge him and shoot so
straight! It’s well God had mercy on us. And what was it for? Who
doesn’t have intrigues nowadays? Why, if he was so jealous, as I see
things he should have shown it sooner, but he lets it go on for months.
And then to call him out, reckoning on Fedya not fighting because he
owed him money! What baseness! What meanness! I know you understand
Fedya, my dear count; that, believe me, is why I am so fond of you. Few
people do understand him. He is such a lofty, heavenly soul!"
Dolokhov himself during his convalescence spoke to Rostov in a way no
one would have expected of him.
"I know people consider me a bad man!" he said. "Let them! I
don’t care a straw about anyone but those I love; but those I love,
I love so that I would give my life for them, and the others I’d
throttle if they stood in my way. I have an adored, a priceless mother,
and two or three friends - you among them - and as for the rest I only
care about them in so far as they are harmful or useful. And most of
them are harmful, especially the women. Yes, dear boy," he continued,
"I have met loving, noble, high-minded men, but I have not yet met
any women - countesses or cooks - who were not venal. I have not yet met
that divine purity and devotion I look for in women. If I found such a
one I’d give my life for her! But those!..." and he made a gesture
of contempt. "And believe me, if I still value my life it is
only because I still hope to meet such a divine creature, who will
regenerate, purify, and elevate me. But you don’t understand it."
"Oh, yes, I quite understand," answered Rostov, who was under his
new friend’s influence.
In the autumn the Rostovs returned to Moscow. Early in the winter
Denisov also came back and stayed with them. The first half of the
winter of 1806, which Nicholas Rostov spent in Moscow, was one of the
happiest, merriest times for him and the whole family. Nicholas brought
many young men to his parents’ house. Vera was a handsome girl
of twenty; Sonya a girl of sixteen with all the charm of an opening
flower; Natasha, half grown up and half child, was now childishly
amusing, now girlishly enchanting.
At that time in the Rostovs’ house there prevailed an amorous
atmosphere characteristic of homes where there are very young and very
charming girls. Every young man who came to the house - seeing those
impressionable, smiling young faces (smiling probably at their own
happiness), feeling the eager bustle around him, and hearing the fitful
bursts of song and music and the inconsequent but friendly prattle of
young girls ready for anything and full of hope - experienced the same
feeling; sharing with the young folk of the Rostovs’ household a
readiness to fall in love and an expectation of happiness.
Among the young men introduced by Rostov one of the first was
Dolokhov, whom everyone in the house liked except Natasha. She almost
quarreled with her brother about him. She insisted that he was a bad
man, and that in the duel with Bezukhov, Pierre was right and Dolokhov
wrong, and further that he was disagreeable and unnatural.
"There’s nothing for me to understand," she cried out with
resolute self-will, "he is wicked and heartless. There now, I like
your Denisov though he is a rake and all that, still I like him; so
you see I do understand. I don’t know how to put it... with this one
everything is calculated, and I don’t like that. But Denisov..."
"Oh, Denisov is quite different," replied Nicholas, implying that
even Denisov was nothing compared to Dolokhov - "you must understand
what a soul there is in Dolokhov, you should see him with his mother.
What a heart!"
"Well, I don’t know about that, but I am uncomfortable with him. And
do you know he has fallen in love with Sonya?"
"What nonsense..."
"I’m certain of it; you’ll see."
Natasha’s prediction proved true. Dolokhov, who did not usually care
for the society of ladies, began to come often to the house, and the
question for whose sake he came (though no one spoke of it) was soon
settled. He came because of Sonya. And Sonya, though she would never
have dared to say so, knew it and blushed scarlet every time Dolokhov
appeared.
Dolokhov often dined at the Rostovs’, never missed a performance at
which they were present, and went to Iogel’s balls for young people
which the Rostovs always attended. He was pointedly attentive to Sonya
and looked at her in such a way that not only could she not bear his
glances without coloring, but even the old countess and Natasha blushed
when they saw his looks.
It was evident that this strange, strong man was under the irresistible
influence of the dark, graceful girl who loved another.
Rostov noticed something new in Dolokhov’s relations with Sonya,
but he did not explain to himself what these new relations were.
"They’re always in love with someone," he thought of Sonya and
Natasha. But he was not as much at ease with Sonya and Dolokhov as
before and was less frequently at home.
In the autumn of 1806 everybody had again begun talking of the war with
Napoleon with even greater warmth than the year before. Orders were
given to raise recruits, ten men in every thousand for the regular army,
and besides this, nine men in every thousand for the militia. Everywhere
Bonaparte was anathematized and in Moscow nothing but the coming war
was talked of. For the Rostov family the whole interest of these
preparations for war lay in the fact that Nicholas would not hear of
remaining in Moscow, and only awaited the termination of Denisov’s
furlough after Christmas to return with him to their regiment. His
approaching departure did not prevent his amusing himself, but rather
gave zest to his pleasures. He spent the greater part of his time away
from home, at dinners, parties, and balls.
CHAPTER XI
On the third day after Christmas Nicholas dined at home, a thing he had
rarely done of late. It was a grand farewell dinner, as he and Denisov
were leaving to join their regiment after Epiphany. About twenty people
were present, including Dolokhov and Denisov.
Never had love been so much in the air, and never had the amorous
atmosphere made itself so strongly felt in the Rostovs’ house as at
this holiday time. "Seize the moments of happiness, love and be loved!
That is the only reality in the world, all else is folly. It is the one
thing we are interested in here," said the spirit of the place.
Nicholas, having as usual exhausted two pairs of horses, without
visiting all the places he meant to go to and where he had been invited,
returned home just before dinner. As soon as he entered he noticed and
felt the tension of the amorous air in the house, and also noticed a
curious embarrassment among some of those present. Sonya, Dolokhov,
and the old countess were especially disturbed, and to a lesser degree
Natasha. Nicholas understood that something must have happened between
Sonya and Dolokhov before dinner, and with the kindly sensitiveness
natural to him was very gentle and wary with them both at dinner. On
that same evening there was to be one of the balls that Iogel (the
dancing master) gave for his pupils during the holidays.
"Nicholas, will you come to Iogel’s? Please do!" said Natasha.
"He asked you, and Vasili Dmitrich * is also going."
* Denisov.
"Where would I not go at the countess’ command!" said Denisov,
who at the Rostovs’ had jocularly assumed the role of Natasha’s
knight. "I’m even weady to dance the pas de châle."
"If I have time," answered Nicholas. "But I promised the
Arkharovs; they have a party."
"And you?" he asked Dolokhov, but as soon as he had asked the
question he noticed that it should not have been put.
"Perhaps," coldly and angrily replied Dolokhov, glancing at Sonya,
and, scowling, he gave Nicholas just such a look as he had given Pierre
at the club dinner.
"There is something up," thought Nicholas, and he was further
confirmed in this conclusion by the fact that Dolokhov left immediately
after dinner. He called Natasha and asked her what was the matter.
"And I was looking for you," said Natasha running out to him. "I
told you, but you would not believe it," she said triumphantly. "He
has proposed to Sonya!"
Little as Nicholas had occupied himself with Sonya of late, something
seemed to give way within him at this news. Dolokhov was a suitable and
in some respects a brilliant match for the dowerless, orphan girl. From
the point of view of the old countess and of society it was out of the
question for her to refuse him. And therefore Nicholas’ first feeling
on hearing the news was one of anger with Sonya.... He tried to say,
"That’s capital; of course she’ll forget her childish promises
and accept the offer," but before he had time to say it Natasha began
again.
"And fancy! she refused him quite definitely!" adding, after a
pause, "she told him she loved another."
"Yes, my Sonya could not have done otherwise!" thought Nicholas.
"Much as Mamma pressed her, she refused, and I know she won’t change
once she has said..."
"And Mamma pressed her!" said Nicholas reproachfully.
"Yes," said Natasha. "Do you know, Nicholas - don’t be
angry - but I know you will not marry her. I know, heaven knows how, but
I know for certain that you won’t marry her."
"Now you don’t know that at all!" said Nicholas. "But I must
talk to her. What a darling Sonya is!" he added with a smile.
"Ah, she is indeed a darling! I’ll send her to you."
And Natasha kissed her brother and ran away.
A minute later Sonya came in with a frightened, guilty, and scared
look. Nicholas went up to her and kissed her hand. This was the first
time since his return that they had talked alone and about their love.
"Sophie," he began, timidly at first and then more and more
boldly, "if you wish to refuse one who is not only a brilliant and
advantageous match but a splendid, noble fellow... he is my friend..."
Sonya interrupted him.
"I have already refused," she said hurriedly.
"If you are refusing for my sake, I am afraid that I..."
Sonya again interrupted. She gave him an imploring, frightened look.
"Nicholas, don’t tell me that!" she said.
"No, but I must. It may be arrogant of me, but still it is best to say
it. If you refuse him on my account, I must tell you the whole truth. I
love you, and I think I love you more than anyone else...."
"That is enough for me," said Sonya, blushing.
"No, but I have been in love a thousand times and shall fall in
love again, though for no one have I such a feeling of friendship,
confidence, and love as I have for you. Then I am young. Mamma does
not wish it. In a word, I make no promise. And I beg you to consider
Dolokhov’s offer," he said, articulating his friend’s name with
difficulty.
"Don’t say that to me! I want nothing. I love you as a brother and
always shall, and I want nothing more."
"You are an angel: I am not worthy of you, but I am afraid of
misleading you."
And Nicholas again kissed her hand.
CHAPTER XII
Iogel’s were the most enjoyable balls in Moscow. So said the mothers
as they watched their young people executing their newly learned steps,
and so said the youths and maidens themselves as they danced till they
were ready to drop, and so said the grown-up young men and women who
came to these balls with an air of condescension and found them most
enjoyable. That year two marriages had come of these balls. The two
pretty young Princesses Gorchakov met suitors there and were married
and so further increased the fame of these dances. What distinguished
them from others was the absence of host or hostess and the presence of
the good-natured Iogel, flying about like a feather and bowing according
to the rules of his art, as he collected the tickets from all his
visitors. There was the fact that only those came who wished to dance
and amuse themselves as girls of thirteen and fourteen do who are
wearing long dresses for the first time. With scarcely any exceptions
they all were, or seemed to be, pretty - so rapturous were their smiles
and so sparkling their eyes. Sometimes the best of the pupils, of whom
Natasha, who was exceptionally graceful, was first, even danced the pas
de châle, but at this last ball only the ecossaise, the anglaise, and
the mazurka, which was just coming into fashion, were danced. Iogel had
taken a ballroom in Bezukhov’s house, and the ball, as everyone said,
was a great success. There were many pretty girls and the Rostov girls
were among the prettiest. They were both particularly happy and gay.
That evening, proud of Dolokhov’s proposal, her refusal, and her
explanation with Nicholas, Sonya twirled about before she left home
so that the maid could hardly get her hair plaited, and she was
transparently radiant with impulsive joy.
Natasha no less proud of her first long dress and of being at a real
ball was even happier. They were both dressed in white muslin with pink
ribbons.
Natasha fell in love the very moment she entered the ballroom. She
was not in love with anyone in particular, but with everyone. Whatever
person she happened to look at she was in love with for that moment.
"Oh, how delightful it is!" she kept saying, running up to Sonya.
Nicholas and Denisov were walking up and down, looking with kindly
patronage at the dancers.
"How sweet she is - she will be a weal beauty!" said Denisov.
"Who?"
"Countess Natasha," answered Denisov.
"And how she dances! What gwace!" he said again after a pause.
"Who are you talking about?"
"About your sister," ejaculated Denisov testily.
Rostov smiled.
"My dear count, you were one of my best pupils - you must dance,"
said little Iogel coming up to Nicholas. "Look how many charming young
ladies - " He turned with the same request to Denisov who was also a
former pupil of his.
"No, my dear fellow, I’ll be a wallflower," said Denisov.
"Don’t you wecollect what bad use I made of your lessons?"
"Oh no!" said Iogel, hastening to reassure him. "You were only
inattentive, but you had talent - oh yes, you had talent!"
The band struck up the newly introduced mazurka. Nicholas could not
refuse Iogel and asked Sonya to dance. Denisov sat down by the old
ladies and, leaning on his saber and beating time with his foot, told
them something funny and kept them amused, while he watched the young
people dancing, Iogel with Natasha, his pride and his best pupil, were
the first couple. Noiselessly, skillfully stepping with his little
feet in low shoes, Iogel flew first across the hall with Natasha, who,
though shy, went on carefully executing her steps. Denisov did not
take his eyes off her and beat time with his saber in a way that clearly
indicated that if he was not dancing it was because he would not and not
because he could not. In the middle of a figure he beckoned to Rostov
who was passing:
"This is not at all the thing," he said. "What sort of Polish
mazuwka is this? But she does dance splendidly."
Knowing that Denisov had a reputation even in Poland for the masterly
way in which he danced the mazurka, Nicholas ran up to Natasha:
"Go and choose Denisov. He is a real dancer, a wonder!" he said.
When it came to Natasha’s turn to choose a partner, she rose and,
tripping rapidly across in her little shoes trimmed with bows, ran
timidly to the corner where Denisov sat. She saw that everybody was
looking at her and waiting. Nicholas saw that Denisov was refusing
though he smiled delightedly. He ran up to them.
"Please, Vasili Dmitrich," Natasha was saying, "do come!"
"Oh no, let me off, Countess," Denisov replied.
"Now then, Vaska," said Nicholas.
"They coax me as if I were Vaska the cat!" said Denisov jokingly.
"I’ll sing for you a whole evening," said Natasha.
"Oh, the faiwy! She can do anything with me!" said Denisov, and
he unhooked his saber. He came out from behind the chairs, clasped his
partner’s hand firmly, threw back his head, and advanced his foot,
waiting for the beat. Only on horse back and in the mazurka was
Denisov’s short stature not noticeable and he looked the fine fellow
he felt himself to be. At the right beat of the music he looked sideways
at his partner with a merry and triumphant air, suddenly stamped with
one foot, bounded from the floor like a ball, and flew round the room
taking his partner with him. He glided silently on one foot half across
the room, and seeming not to notice the chairs was dashing straight at
them, when suddenly, clinking his spurs and spreading out his legs,
he stopped short on his heels, stood so a second, stamped on the spot
clanking his spurs, whirled rapidly round, and, striking his left heel
against his right, flew round again in a circle. Natasha guessed what
he meant to do, and abandoning herself to him followed his lead hardly
knowing how. First he spun her round, holding her now with his left, now
with his right hand, then falling on one knee he twirled her round him,
and again jumping up, dashed so impetuously forward that it seemed as if
he would rush through the whole suite of rooms without drawing breath,
and then he suddenly stopped and performed some new and unexpected
steps. When at last, smartly whirling his partner round in front of her
chair, he drew up with a click of his spurs and bowed to her, Natasha
did not even make him a curtsy. She fixed her eyes on him in amazement,
smiling as if she did not recognize him.
"What does this mean?" she brought out.
Although Iogel did not acknowledge this to be the real mazurka, everyone
was delighted with Denisov’s skill, he was asked again and again as
a partner, and the old men began smilingly to talk about Poland and the
good old days. Denisov, flushed after the mazurka and mopping himself
with his handkerchief, sat down by Natasha and did not leave her for
the rest of the evening.
CHAPTER XIII
For two days after that Rostov did not see Dolokhov at his own or at
Dolokhov’s home: on the third day he received a note from him:
As I do not intend to be at your house again for reasons you know
of, and am going to rejoin my regiment, I am giving a farewell supper
tonight to my friends - come to the English Hotel.
About ten o’clock Rostov went to the English Hotel straight from the
theater, where he had been with his family and Denisov. He was at once
shown to the best room, which Dolokhov had taken for that evening. Some
twenty men were gathered round a table at which Dolokhov sat between
two candles. On the table was a pile of gold and paper money, and he
was keeping the bank. Rostov had not seen him since his proposal and
Sonya’s refusal and felt uncomfortable at the thought of how they
would meet.
Dolokhov’s clear, cold glance met Rostov as soon as he entered the
door, as though he had long expected him.
"It’s a long time since we met," he said. "Thanks for coming.
I’ll just finish dealing, and then Ilyushka will come with his
chorus."
"I called once or twice at your house," said Rostov, reddening.
Dolokhov made no reply.
"You may punt," he said.
Rostov recalled at that moment a strange conversation he had once had
with Dolokhov. "None but fools trust to luck in play," Dolokhov
had then said.
"Or are you afraid to play with me?" Dolokhov now asked as if
guessing Rostov’s thought.
Beneath his smile Rostov saw in him the mood he had shown at the club
dinner and at other times, when as if tired of everyday life he had felt
a need to escape from it by some strange, and usually cruel, action.
Rostov felt ill at ease. He tried, but failed, to find some joke with
which to reply to Dolokhov’s words. But before he had thought of
anything, Dolokhov, looking straight in his face, said slowly and
deliberately so that everyone could hear:
"Do you remember we had a talk about cards... ‘He’s a fool who
trusts to luck, one should make certain,’ and I want to try."
"To try his luck or the certainty?" Rostov asked himself.
"Well, you’d better not play," Dolokhov added, and springing a
new pack of cards said: "Bank, gentlemen!"
Moving the money forward he prepared to deal. Rostov sat down by his
side and at first did not play. Dolokhov kept glancing at him.
"Why don’t you play?" he asked.
And strange to say Nicholas felt that he could not help taking up a
card, putting a small stake on it, and beginning to play.
"I have no money with me," he said.
"I’ll trust you."
Rostov staked five rubles on a card and lost, staked again, and again
lost. Dolokhov "killed," that is, beat, ten cards of Rostov’s
running.
"Gentlemen," said Dolokhov after he had dealt for some time.
"Please place your money on the cards or I may get muddled in the
reckoning."
One of the players said he hoped he might be trusted.
"Yes, you might, but I am afraid of getting the accounts mixed. So I
ask you to put the money on your cards," replied Dolokhov. "Don’t
stint yourself, we’ll settle afterwards," he added, turning to
Rostov.
The game continued; a waiter kept handing round champagne.
All Rostov’s cards were beaten and he had eight hundred rubles scored
up against him. He wrote "800 rubles" on a card, but while the
waiter filled his glass he changed his mind and altered it to his usual
stake of twenty rubles.
"Leave it," said Dolokhov, though he did not seem to be even
looking at Rostov, "you’ll win it back all the sooner. I lose to
the others but win from you. Or are you afraid of me?" he asked again.
Rostov submitted. He let the eight hundred remain and laid down a seven
of hearts with a torn corner, which he had picked up from the floor. He
well remembered that seven afterwards. He laid down the seven of hearts,
on which with a broken bit of chalk he had written "800 rubles" in
clear upright figures; he emptied the glass of warm champagne that was
handed him, smiled at Dolokhov’s words, and with a sinking heart,
waiting for a seven to turn up, gazed at Dolokhov’s hands which held
the pack. Much depended on Rostov’s winning or losing on that seven
of hearts. On the previous Sunday the old count had given his son
two thousand rubles, and though he always disliked speaking of money
difficulties had told Nicholas that this was all he could let him have
till May, and asked him to be more economical this time. Nicholas had
replied that it would be more than enough for him and that he gave his
word of honor not to take anything more till the spring. Now only twelve
hundred rubles was left of that money, so that this seven of hearts
meant for him not only the loss of sixteen hundred rubles, but the
necessity of going back on his word. With a sinking heart he watched
Dolokhov’s hands and thought, "Now then, make haste and let me have
this card and I’ll take my cap and drive home to supper with Denisov,
Natasha, and Sonya, and will certainly never touch a card again." At
that moment his home life, jokes with Petya, talks with Sonya, duets
with Natasha, piquet with his father, and even his comfortable bed
in the house on the Povarskaya rose before him with such vividness,
clearness, and charm that it seemed as if it were all a lost and
unappreciated bliss, long past. He could not conceive that a stupid
chance, letting the seven be dealt to the right rather than to the left,
might deprive him of all this happiness, newly appreciated and newly
illumined, and plunge him into the depths of unknown and undefined
misery. That could not be, yet he awaited with a sinking heart the
movement of Dolokhov’s hands. Those broad, reddish hands, with hairy
wrists visible from under the shirt cuffs, laid down the pack and took
up a glass and a pipe that were handed him.
"So you are not afraid to play with me?" repeated Dolokhov, and as
if about to tell a good story he put down the cards, leaned back in his
chair, and began deliberately with a smile:
"Yes, gentlemen, I’ve been told there’s a rumor going about Moscow
that I’m a sharper, so I advise you to be careful."
"Come now, deal!" exclaimed Rostov.
"Oh, those Moscow gossips!" said Dolokhov, and he took up the cards
with a smile.
"Aah!" Rostov almost screamed lifting both hands to his head. The
seven he needed was lying uppermost, the first card in the pack. He had
lost more than he could pay.
"Still, don’t ruin yourself!" said Dolokhov with a side glance at
Rostov as he continued to deal.
CHAPTER XIV
An hour and a half later most of the players were but little interested
in their own play.
The whole interest was concentrated on Rostov. Instead of sixteen
hundred rubles he had a long column of figures scored against him,
which he had reckoned up to ten thousand, but that now, as he vaguely
supposed, must have risen to fifteen thousand. In reality it already
exceeded twenty thousand rubles. Dolokhov was no longer listening to
stories or telling them, but followed every movement of Rostov’s
hands and occasionally ran his eyes over the score against him. He had
decided to play until that score reached forty-three thousand. He
had fixed on that number because forty-three was the sum of his and
Sonya’s joint ages. Rostov, leaning his head on both hands, sat at
the table which was scrawled over with figures, wet with spilled wine,
and littered with cards. One tormenting impression did not leave him:
that those broad-boned reddish hands with hairy wrists visible from
under the shirt sleeves, those hands which he loved and hated, held him
in their power.
"Six hundred rubles, ace, a corner, a nine... winning it back’s
impossible... Oh, how pleasant it was at home!... The knave, double or
quits... it can’t be!... And why is he doing this to me?" Rostov
pondered. Sometimes he staked a large sum, but Dolokhov refused to
accept it and fixed the stake himself. Nicholas submitted to him, and at
one moment prayed to God as he had done on the battlefield at the bridge
over the Enns, and then guessed that the card that came first to hand
from the crumpled heap under the table would save him, now counted the
cords on his coat and took a card with that number and tried staking the
total of his losses on it, then he looked round for aid from the other
players, or peered at the now cold face of Dolokhov and tried to read
what was passing in his mind.
"He knows of course what this loss means to me. He can’t want my
ruin. Wasn’t he my friend? Wasn’t I fond of him? But it’s not his
fault. What’s he to do if he has such luck?... And it’s not my fault
either," he thought to himself, "I have done nothing wrong. Have I
killed anyone, or insulted or wished harm to anyone? Why such a terrible
misfortune? And when did it begin? Such a little while ago I came to
this table with the thought of winning a hundred rubles to buy that
casket for Mamma’s name day and then going home. I was so happy, so
free, so lighthearted! And I did not realize how happy I was! When did
that end and when did this new, terrible state of things begin? What
marked the change? I sat all the time in this same place at this table,
chose and placed cards, and watched those broad-boned agile hands in the
same way. When did it happen and what has happened? I am well and strong
and still the same and in the same place. No, it can’t be! Surely it
will all end in nothing!"
He was flushed and bathed in perspiration, though the room was not hot.
His face was terrible and piteous to see, especially from its helpless
efforts to seem calm.
The score against him reached the fateful sum of forty-three thousand.
Rostov had just prepared a card, by bending the corner of which he
meant to double the three thousand just put down to his score, when
Dolokhov, slamming down the pack of cards, put it aside and began
rapidly adding up the total of Rostov’s debt, breaking the chalk as
he marked the figures in his clear, bold hand.
"Supper, it’s time for supper! And here are the gypsies!"
Some swarthy men and women were really entering from the cold outside
and saying something in their gypsy accents. Nicholas understood that it
was all over; but he said in an indifferent tone:
"Well, won’t you go on? I had a splendid card all ready," as if it
were the fun of the game which interested him most.
"It’s all up! I’m lost!" thought he. "Now a bullet through my
brain - that’s all that’s left me!" And at the same time he said
in a cheerful voice:
"Come now, just this one more little card!"
"All right!" said Dolokhov, having finished the addition. "All
right! Twenty-one rubles," he said, pointing to the figure twenty-one
by which the total exceeded the round sum of forty-three thousand; and
taking up a pack he prepared to deal. Rostov submissively unbent the
corner of his card and, instead of the six thousand he had intended,
carefully wrote twenty-one.
"It’s all the same to me," he said. "I only want to see whether
you will let me win this ten, or beat it."
Dolokhov began to deal seriously. Oh, how Rostov detested at that
moment those hands with their short reddish fingers and hairy wrists,
which held him in their power.... The ten fell to him.
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