games. The countess, when she had identified them and laughed at their
costumes, went into the drawing room. The count sat in the ballroom,
smiling radiantly and applauding the players. The young people had
disappeared.
Half an hour later there appeared among the other mummers in the
ballroom an old lady in a hooped skirt - this was Nicholas. A Turkish
girl was Petya. A clown was Dimmler. An hussar was Natasha, and a
Circassian was Sonya with burnt-cork mustache and eyebrows.
After the condescending surprise, nonrecognition, and praise, from those
who were not themselves dressed up, the young people decided that their
costumes were so good that they ought to be shown elsewhere.
Nicholas, who, as the roads were in splendid condition, wanted to take
them all for a drive in his troyka, proposed to take with them about a
dozen of the serf mummers and drive to "Uncle’s."
"No, why disturb the old fellow?" said the countess. "Besides,
you wouldn’t have room to turn round there. If you must go, go to the
Melyukovs’."
Melyukova was a widow, who, with her family and their tutors and
governesses, lived three miles from the Rostovs.
"That’s right, my dear," chimed in the old count, thoroughly
aroused. "I’ll dress up at once and go with them. I’ll make
Pashette open her eyes."
But the countess would not agree to his going; he had had a bad leg all
these last days. It was decided that the count must not go, but that if
Louisa Ivanovna (Madame Schoss) would go with them, the young ladies
might go to the Melyukovs’, Sonya, generally so timid and shy, more
urgently than anyone begging Louisa Ivanovna not to refuse.
Sonya’s costume was the best of all. Her mustache and eyebrows were
extraordinarily becoming. Everyone told her she looked very handsome,
and she was in a spirited and energetic mood unusual with her. Some
inner voice told her that now or never her fate would be decided, and
in her male attire she seemed quite a different person. Louisa Ivanovna
consented to go, and in half an hour four troyka sleighs with large and
small bells, their runners squeaking and whistling over the frozen snow,
drove up to the porch.
Natasha was foremost in setting a merry holiday tone, which, passing
from one to another, grew stronger and reached its climax when they all
came out into the frost and got into the sleighs, talking, calling to
one another, laughing, and shouting.
Two of the troykas were the usual household sleighs, the third was the
old count’s with a trotter from the Orlov stud as shaft horse,
the fourth was Nicholas’ own with a short shaggy black shaft horse.
Nicholas, in his old lady’s dress over which he had belted his hussar
overcoat, stood in the middle of the sleigh, reins in hand.
It was so light that he could see the moonlight reflected from the metal
harness disks and from the eyes of the horses, who looked round in alarm
at the noisy party under the shadow of the porch roof.
Natasha, Sonya, Madame Schoss, and two maids got into Nicholas’
sleigh; Dimmler, his wife, and Petya, into the old count’s, and the
rest of the mummers seated themselves in the other two sleighs.
"You go ahead, Zakhar!" shouted Nicholas to his father’s
coachman, wishing for a chance to race past him.
The old count’s troyka, with Dimmler and his party, started forward,
squeaking on its runners as though freezing to the snow, its deep-toned
bell clanging. The side horses, pressing against the shafts of the
middle horse, sank in the snow, which was dry and glittered like sugar,
and threw it up.
Nicholas set off, following the first sleigh; behind him the others
moved noisily, their runners squeaking. At first they drove at a steady
trot along the narrow road. While they drove past the garden the shadows
of the bare trees often fell across the road and hid the brilliant
moonlight, but as soon as they were past the fence, the snowy plain
bathed in moonlight and motionless spread out before them glittering
like diamonds and dappled with bluish shadows. Bang, bang! went the
first sleigh over a cradle hole in the snow of the road, and each of
the other sleighs jolted in the same way, and rudely breaking the
frost-bound stillness, the troykas began to speed along the road, one
after the other.
"A hare’s track, a lot of tracks!" rang out Natasha’s voice
through the frost-bound air.
"How light it is, Nicholas!" came Sonya’s voice.
Nicholas glanced round at Sonya, and bent down to see her face closer.
Quite a new, sweet face with black eyebrows and mustaches peeped up
at him from her sable furs - so close and yet so distant - in the
moonlight.
"That used to be Sonya," thought he, and looked at her closer and
smiled.
"What is it, Nicholas?"
"Nothing," said he and turned again to the horses.
When they came out onto the beaten highroad - polished by sleigh runners
and cut up by rough-shod hoofs, the marks of which were visible in the
moonlight - the horses began to tug at the reins of their own accord and
increased their pace. The near side horse, arching his head and breaking
into a short canter, tugged at his traces. The shaft horse swayed from
side to side, moving his ears as if asking: "Isn’t it time to begin
now?" In front, already far ahead the deep bell of the sleigh ringing
farther and farther off, the black horses driven by Zakhar could be
clearly seen against the white snow. From that sleigh one could hear the
shouts, laughter, and voices of the mummers.
"Gee up, my darlings!" shouted Nicholas, pulling the reins to one
side and flourishing the whip.
It was only by the keener wind that met them and the jerks given by the
side horses who pulled harder - ever increasing their gallop - that
one noticed how fast the troyka was flying. Nicholas looked back. With
screams squeals, and waving of whips that caused even the shaft horses
to gallop - the other sleighs followed. The shaft horse swung steadily
beneath the bow over its head, with no thought of slackening pace and
ready to put on speed when required.
Nicholas overtook the first sleigh. They were driving downhill and
coming out upon a broad trodden track across a meadow, near a river.
"Where are we?" thought he. "It’s the Kosoy meadow, I suppose.
But no - this is something new I’ve never seen before. This isn’t
the Kosoy meadow nor the Demkin hill, and heaven only knows what it
is! It is something new and enchanted. Well, whatever it may be..."
And shouting to his horses, he began to pass the first sleigh.
Zakhar held back his horses and turned his face, which was already
covered with hoarfrost to his eyebrows.
Nicholas gave the horses the rein, and Zakhar, stretching out his arms,
clucked his tongue and let his horses go.
"Now, look out, master!" he cried.
Faster still the two troykas flew side by side, and faster moved
the feet of the galloping side horses. Nicholas began to draw ahead.
Zakhar, while still keeping his arms extended, raised one hand with the
reins.
"No you won’t, master!" he shouted.
Nicholas put all his horses to a gallop and passed Zakhar. The horses
showered the fine dry snow on the faces of those in the sleigh - beside
them sounded quick ringing bells and they caught confused glimpses of
swiftly moving legs and the shadows of the troyka they were passing.
The whistling sound of the runners on the snow and the voices of girls
shrieking were heard from different sides.
Again checking his horses, Nicholas looked around him. They were still
surrounded by the magic plain bathed in moonlight and spangled with
stars.
"Zakhar is shouting that I should turn to the left, but why to the
left?" thought Nicholas. "Are we getting to the Melyukovs’? Is
this Melyukovka? Heaven only knows where we are going, and heaven knows
what is happening to us - but it is very strange and pleasant whatever
it is." And he looked round in the sleigh.
"Look, his mustache and eyelashes are all white!" said one of the
strange, pretty, unfamiliar people - the one with fine eyebrows and
mustache.
"I think this used to be Natasha," thought Nicholas, "and that
was Madame Schoss, but perhaps it’s not, and this Circassian with the
mustache I don’t know, but I love her."
"Aren’t you cold?" he asked.
They did not answer but began to laugh. Dimmler from the sleigh behind
shouted something - probably something funny - but they could not make
out what he said.
"Yes, yes!" some voices answered, laughing.
"But here was a fairy forest with black moving shadows, and a glitter
of diamonds and a flight of marble steps and the silver roofs of fairy
buildings and the shrill yells of some animals. And if this is really
Melyukovka, it is still stranger that we drove heaven knows where and
have come to Melyukovka," thought Nicholas.
It really was Melyukovka, and maids and footmen with merry faces came
running, out to the porch carrying candles.
"Who is it?" asked someone in the porch.
"The mummers from the count’s. I know by the horses," replied some
voices.
CHAPTER XI
Pelageya Danilovna Melyukova, a broadly built, energetic woman
wearing spectacles, sat in the drawing room in a loose dress, surrounded
by her daughters whom she was trying to keep from feeling dull. They
were quietly dropping melted wax into snow and looking at the shadows
the wax figures would throw on the wall, when they heard the steps and
voices of new arrivals in the vestibule.
Hussars, ladies, witches, clowns, and bears, after clearing their
throats and wiping the hoarfrost from their faces in the vestibule,
came into the ballroom where candles were hurriedly lighted. The
clown - Dimmler - and the lady - Nicholas - started a dance. Surrounded
by the screaming children the mummers, covering their faces and
disguising their voices, bowed to their hostess and arranged themselves
about the room.
"Dear me! there’s no recognizing them! And Natasha! See whom
she looks like! She really reminds me of somebody. But Herr
Dimmler - isn’t he good! I didn’t know him! And how he dances. Dear
me, there’s a Circassian. Really, how becoming it is to dear Sonya.
And who is that? Well, you have cheered us up! Nikita and Vanya - clear
away the tables! And we were sitting so quietly. Ha, ha, ha!... The
hussar, the hussar! Just like a boy! And the legs!... I can’t look at
him..." different voices were saying.
Natasha, the young Melyukovs’ favorite, disappeared with them into
the back rooms where a cork and various dressing gowns and male garments
were called for and received from the footman by bare girlish arms from
behind the door. Ten minutes later, all the young Melyukovs joined the
mummers.
Pelageya Danilovna, having given orders to clear the rooms for the
visitors and arranged about refreshments for the gentry and the serfs,
went about among the mummers without removing her spectacles, peering
into their faces with a suppressed smile and failing to recognize any
of them. It was not merely Dimmler and the Rostovs she failed to
recognize, she did not even recognize her own daughters, or her late
husband’s, dressing gowns and uniforms, which they had put on.
"And who is this?" she asked her governess, peering into the face of
her own daughter dressed up as a Kazan-Tartar. "I suppose it is one
of the Rostovs! Well, Mr. Hussar, and what regiment do you serve in?"
she asked Natasha. "Here, hand some fruit jelly to the Turk!"
she ordered the butler who was handing things round. "That’s not
forbidden by his law."
Sometimes, as she looked at the strange but amusing capers cut by the
dancers, who - having decided once for all that being disguised, no one
would recognize them - were not at all shy, Pelageya Danilovna hid
her face in her handkerchief, and her whole stout body shook with
irrepressible, kindly, elderly laughter.
"My little Sasha! Look at Sasha!" she said.
After Russian country dances and chorus dances, Pelageya Danilovna
made the serfs and gentry join in one large circle: a ring, a string,
and a silver ruble were fetched and they all played games together.
In an hour, all the costumes were crumpled and disordered. The corked
eyebrows and mustaches were smeared over the perspiring, flushed,
and merry faces. Pelageya Danilovna began to recognize the mummers,
admired their cleverly contrived costumes, and particularly how they
suited the young ladies, and she thanked them all for having entertained
her so well. The visitors were invited to supper in the drawing room,
and the serfs had something served to them in the ballroom.
"Now to tell one’s fortune in the empty bathhouse is frightening!"
said an old maid who lived with the Melyukovs, during supper.
"Why?" said the eldest Melyukov girl.
"You wouldn’t go, it takes courage...."
"I’ll go," said Sonya.
"Tell what happened to the young lady!" said the second Melyukov
girl.
"Well," began the old maid, "a young lady once went out, took a
cock, laid the table for two, all properly, and sat down. After sitting
a while, she suddenly hears someone coming... a sleigh drives up with
harness bells; she hears him coming! He comes in, just in the shape of a
man, like an officer - comes in and sits down to table with her."
"Ah! ah!" screamed Natasha, rolling her eyes with horror.
"Yes? And how... did he speak?"
"Yes, like a man. Everything quite all right, and he began persuading
her; and she should have kept him talking till cockcrow, but she got
frightened, just got frightened and hid her face in her hands. Then he
caught her up. It was lucky the maids ran in just then...."
"Now, why frighten them?" said Pelageya Danilovna.
"Mamma, you used to try your fate yourself..." said her daughter.
"And how does one do it in a barn?" inquired Sonya.
"Well, say you went to the barn now, and listened. It depends on what
you hear; hammering and knocking - that’s bad; but a sound of shifting
grain is good and one sometimes hears that, too."
"Mamma, tell us what happened to you in the barn."
Pelageya Danilovna smiled.
"Oh, I’ve forgotten..." she replied. "But none of you would
go?"
"Yes, I will; Pelageya Danilovna, let me! I’ll go," said Sonya.
"Well, why not, if you’re not afraid?"
"Louisa Ivanovna, may I?" asked Sonya.
Whether they were playing the ring and string game or the ruble game or
talking as now, Nicholas did not leave Sonya’s side, and gazed at her
with quite new eyes. It seemed to him that it was only today, thanks
to that burnt-cork mustache, that he had fully learned to know her. And
really, that evening, Sonya was brighter, more animated, and prettier
than Nicholas had ever seen her before.
"So that’s what she is like; what a fool I have been!" he thought
gazing at her sparkling eyes, and under the mustache a happy rapturous
smile dimpled her cheeks, a smile he had never seen before.
"I’m not afraid of anything," said Sonya. "May I go at once?"
She got up.
They told her where the barn was and how she should stand and listen,
and they handed her a fur cloak. She threw this over her head and
shoulders and glanced at Nicholas.
"What a darling that girl is!" thought he. "And what have I been
thinking of till now?"
Sonya went out into the passage to go to the barn. Nicholas went
hastily to the front porch, saying he felt too hot. The crowd of people
really had made the house stuffy.
Outside, there was the same cold stillness and the same moon, but even
brighter than before. The light was so strong and the snow sparkled with
so many stars that one did not wish to look up at the sky and the real
stars were unnoticed. The sky was black and dreary, while the earth was
gay.
"I am a fool, a fool! what have I been waiting for?" thought
Nicholas, and running out from the porch he went round the corner of
the house and along the path that led to the back porch. He knew Sonya
would pass that way. Halfway lay some snow-covered piles of firewood and
across and along them a network of shadows from the bare old lime trees
fell on the snow and on the path. This path led to the barn. The log
walls of the barn and its snow-covered roof, that looked as if hewn out
of some precious stone, sparkled in the moonlight. A tree in the garden
snapped with the frost, and then all was again perfectly silent. His
bosom seemed to inhale not air but the strength of eternal youth and
gladness.
From the back porch came the sound of feet descending the steps, the
bottom step upon which snow had fallen gave a ringing creak and he heard
the voice of an old maidservant saying, "Straight, straight, along the
path, Miss. Only, don’t look back."
"I am not afraid," answered Sonya’s voice, and along the path
toward Nicholas came the crunching, whistling sound of Sonya’s feet
in her thin shoes.
Sonya came along, wrapped in her cloak. She was only a couple of paces
away when she saw him, and to her too he was not the Nicholas she had
known and always slightly feared. He was in a woman’s dress, with
tousled hair and a happy smile new to Sonya. She ran rapidly toward
him.
"Quite different and yet the same," thought Nicholas, looking at her
face all lit up by the moonlight. He slipped his arms under the cloak
that covered her head, embraced her, pressed her to him, and kissed her
on the lips that wore a mustache and had a smell of burnt cork. Sonya
kissed him full on the lips, and disengaging her little hands pressed
them to his cheeks.
"Sonya!... Nicholas!"... was all they said. They ran to the barn
and then back again, re-entering, he by the front and she by the back
porch.
CHAPTER XII
When they all drove back from Pelageya Danilovna’s, Natasha, who
always saw and noticed everything, arranged that she and Madame Schoss
should go back in the sleigh with Dimmler, and Sonya with Nicholas and
the maids.
On the way back Nicholas drove at a steady pace instead of racing and
kept peering by that fantastic all-transforming light into Sonya’s
face and searching beneath the eyebrows and mustache for his former and
his present Sonya from whom he had resolved never to be parted again.
He looked and recognizing in her both the old and the new Sonya, and
being reminded by the smell of burnt cork of the sensation of her kiss,
inhaled the frosty air with a full breast and, looking at the ground
flying beneath him and at the sparkling sky, felt himself again in
fairyland.
"Sonya, is it well with thee?" he asked from time to time.
"Yes!" she replied. "And with thee?"
When halfway home Nicholas handed the reins to the coachman and ran for
a moment to Natasha’s sleigh and stood on its wing.
"Natasha!" he whispered in French, "do you know I have made up my
mind about Sonya?"
"Have you told her?" asked Natasha, suddenly beaming all over with
joy.
"Oh, how strange you are with that mustache and those eyebrows!...
Natasha - are you glad?"
"I am so glad, so glad! I was beginning to be vexed with you. I did
not tell you, but you have been treating her badly. What a heart she
has, Nicholas! I am horrid sometimes, but I was ashamed to be happy
while Sonya was not," continued Natasha. "Now I am so glad! Well,
run back to her."
"No, wait a bit.... Oh, how funny you look!" cried Nicholas, peering
into her face and finding in his sister too something new, unusual, and
bewitchingly tender that he had not seen in her before. "Natasha,
it’s magical, isn’t it?"
"Yes," she replied. "You have done splendidly."
"Had I seen her before as she is now," thought Nicholas, "I should
long ago have asked her what to do and have done whatever she told me,
and all would have been well."
"So you are glad and I have done right?"
"Oh, quite right! I had a quarrel with Mamma some time ago about it.
Mamma said she was angling for you. How could she say such a thing! I
nearly stormed at Mamma. I will never let anyone say anything bad of
Sonya, for there is nothing but good in her."
"Then it’s all right?" said Nicholas, again scrutinizing the
expression of his sister’s face to see if she was in earnest. Then he
jumped down and, his boots scrunching the snow, ran back to his sleigh.
The same happy, smiling Circassian, with mustache and beaming eyes
looking up from under a sable hood, was still sitting there, and that
Circassian was Sonya, and that Sonya was certainly his future happy
and loving wife.
When they reached home and had told their mother how they had spent the
evening at the Melyukovs’, the girls went to their bedroom. When they
had undressed, but without washing off the cork mustaches, they sat a
long time talking of their happiness. They talked of how they would live
when they were married, how their husbands would be friends, and how
happy they would be. On Natasha’s table stood two looking glasses
which Dunyasha had prepared beforehand.
"Only when will all that be? I am afraid never.... It would be too
good!" said Natasha, rising and going to the looking glasses.
"Sit down, Natasha; perhaps you’ll see him," said Sonya.
Natasha lit the candles, one on each side of one of the looking
glasses, and sat down.
"I see someone with a mustache," said Natasha, seeing her own face.
"You mustn’t laugh, Miss," said Dunyasha.
With Sonya’s help and the maid’s, Natasha got the glass she held
into the right position opposite the other; her face assumed a serious
expression and she sat silent. She sat a long time looking at the
receding line of candles reflected in the glasses and expecting (from
tales she had heard) to see a coffin, or him, Prince Andrew, in that
last dim, indistinctly outlined square. But ready as she was to take the
smallest speck for the image of a man or of a coffin, she saw nothing.
She began blinking rapidly and moved away from the looking glasses.
"Why is it others see things and I don’t?" she said. "You sit
down now, Sonya. You absolutely must, tonight! Do it for me.... Today I
feel so frightened!"
Sonya sat down before the glasses, got the right position, and began
looking.
"Now, Miss Sonya is sure to see something," whispered Dunyasha;
"while you do nothing but laugh."
Sonya heard this and Natasha’s whisper:
"I know she will. She saw something last year."
For about three minutes all were silent.
"Of course she will!" whispered Natasha, but did not finish...
suddenly Sonya pushed away the glass she was holding and covered her
eyes with her hand.
"Oh, Natasha!" she cried.
"Did you see? Did you? What was it?" exclaimed Natasha, holding up
the looking glass.
Sonya had not seen anything, she was just wanting to blink and to get
up when she heard Natasha say, "Of course she will!" She did not
wish to disappoint either Dunyasha or Natasha, but it was hard to sit
still. She did not herself know how or why the exclamation escaped her
when she covered her eyes.
"You saw him?" urged Natasha, seizing her hand.
"Yes. Wait a bit... I... saw him," Sonya could not help saying, not
yet knowing whom Natasha meant by him, Nicholas or Prince Andrew.
"But why shouldn’t I say I saw something? Others do see! Besides who
can tell whether I saw anything or not?" flashed through Sonya’s
mind.
"Yes, I saw him," she said.
"How? Standing or lying?"
"No, I saw... At first there was nothing, then I saw him lying
down."
"Andrew lying? Is he ill?" asked Natasha, her frightened eyes fixed
on her friend.
"No, on the contrary, on the contrary! His face was cheerful, and he
turned to me." And when saying this she herself fancied she had really
seen what she described.
"Well, and then, Sonya?..."
"After that, I could not make out what there was; something blue and
red...."
"Sonya! When will he come back? When shall I see him! O, God, how
afraid I am for him and for myself and about everything!..." Natasha
began, and without replying to Sonya’s words of comfort she got into
bed, and long after her candle was out lay open-eyed and motionless,
gazing at the moonlight through the frosty windowpanes.
CHAPTER XIII
Soon after the Christmas holidays Nicholas told his mother of his love
for Sonya and of his firm resolve to marry her. The countess, who
had long noticed what was going on between them and was expecting this
declaration, listened to him in silence and then told her son that he
might marry whom he pleased, but that neither she nor his father would
give their blessing to such a marriage. Nicholas, for the first time,
felt that his mother was displeased with him and that, despite her love
for him, she would not give way. Coldly, without looking at her son,
she sent for her husband and, when he came, tried briefly and coldly to
inform him of the facts, in her son’s presence, but unable to restrain
herself she burst into tears of vexation and left the room. The old
count began irresolutely to admonish Nicholas and beg him to abandon his
purpose. Nicholas replied that he could not go back on his word, and his
father, sighing and evidently disconcerted, very soon became silent and
went in to the countess. In all his encounters with his son, the count
was always conscious of his own guilt toward him for having wasted the
family fortune, and so he could not be angry with him for refusing to
marry an heiress and choosing the dowerless Sonya. On this occasion, he
was only more vividly conscious of the fact that if his affairs had not
been in disorder, no better wife for Nicholas than Sonya could have
been wished for, and that no one but himself with his Mitenka and
his uncomfortable habits was to blame for the condition of the family
finances.
The father and mother did not speak of the matter to their son again,
but a few days later the countess sent for Sonya and, with a cruelty
neither of them expected, reproached her niece for trying to catch
Nicholas and for ingratitude. Sonya listened silently with downcast
eyes to the countess’ cruel words, without understanding what
was required of her. She was ready to sacrifice everything for her
benefactors. Self-sacrifice was her most cherished idea but in this case
she could not see what she ought to sacrifice, or for whom. She could
not help loving the countess and the whole Rostov family, but neither
could she help loving Nicholas and knowing that his happiness depended
on that love. She was silent and sad and did not reply. Nicholas felt
the situation to be intolerable and went to have an explanation with his
mother. He first implored her to forgive him and Sonya and consent to
their marriage, then he threatened that if she molested Sonya he would
at once marry her secretly.
The countess, with a coldness her son had never seen in her before,
replied that he was of age, that Prince Andrew was marrying without his
father’s consent, and he could do the same, but that she would never
receive that intriguer as her daughter.
Exploding at the word intriguer, Nicholas, raising his voice, told
his mother he had never expected her to try to force him to sell his
feelings, but if that were so, he would say for the last time.... But he
had no time to utter the decisive word which the expression of his face
caused his mother to await with terror, and which would perhaps have
forever remained a cruel memory to them both. He had not time to say it,
for Natasha, with a pale and set face, entered the room from the door
at which she had been listening.
"Nicholas, you are talking nonsense! Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet, I
tell you!..." she almost screamed, so as to drown his voice.
"Mamma darling, it’s not at all so... my poor, sweet darling," she
said to her mother, who conscious that they had been on the brink of
a rupture gazed at her son with terror, but in the obstinacy and
excitement of the conflict could not and would not give way.
"Nicholas, I’ll explain to you. Go away! Listen, Mamma darling,"
said Natasha.
Her words were incoherent, but they attained the purpose at which she
was aiming.
The countess, sobbing heavily, hid her face on her daughter’s breast,
while Nicholas rose, clutching his head, and left the room.
Natasha set to work to effect a reconciliation, and so far succeeded
that Nicholas received a promise from his mother that Sonya should not
be troubled, while he on his side promised not to undertake anything
without his parents’ knowledge.
Firmly resolved, after putting his affairs in order in the regiment,
to retire from the army and return and marry Sonya, Nicholas, serious,
sorrowful, and at variance with his parents, but, as it seemed to him,
passionately in love, left at the beginning of January to rejoin his
regiment.
After Nicholas had gone things in the Rostov household were more
depressing than ever, and the countess fell ill from mental agitation.
Sonya was unhappy at the separation from Nicholas and still more so on
account of the hostile tone the countess could not help adopting toward
her. The count was more perturbed than ever by the condition of his
affairs, which called for some decisive action. Their town house and
estate near Moscow had inevitably to be sold, and for this they had to
go to Moscow. But the countess’ health obliged them to delay their
departure from day to day.
Natasha, who had borne the first period of separation from her
betrothed lightly and even cheerfully, now grew more agitated and
impatient every day. The thought that her best days, which she would
have employed in loving him, were being vainly wasted, with no advantage
to anyone, tormented her incessantly. His letters for the most part
irritated her. It hurt her to think that while she lived only in the
thought of him, he was living a real life, seeing new places and new
people that interested him. The more interesting his letters were
the more vexed she felt. Her letters to him, far from giving her any
comfort, seemed to her a wearisome and artificial obligation. She could
not write, because she could not conceive the possibility of expressing
sincerely in a letter even a thousandth part of what she expressed by
voice, smile, and glance. She wrote to him formal, monotonous, and dry
letters, to which she attached no importance herself, and in the rough
copies of which the countess corrected her mistakes in spelling.
There was still no improvement in the countess’ health, but it was
impossible to defer the journey to Moscow any longer. Natasha’s
trousseau had to be ordered and the house sold. Moreover, Prince Andrew
was expected in Moscow, where old Prince Bolkonski was spending the
winter, and Natasha felt sure he had already arrived.
So the countess remained in the country, and the count, taking Sonya
and Natasha with him, went to Moscow at the end of January.
BOOK EIGHT: 1811 - 12
CHAPTER I
After Prince Andrew’s engagement to Natasha, Pierre without any
apparent cause suddenly felt it impossible to go on living as before.
Firmly convinced as he was of the truths revealed to him by his
benefactor, and happy as he had been in perfecting his inner man, to
which he had devoted himself with such ardor - all the zest of such a
life vanished after the engagement of Andrew and Natasha and the death
of Joseph Alexeevich, the news of which reached him almost at the same
time. Only the skeleton of life remained: his house, a brilliant wife
who now enjoyed the favors of a very important personage, acquaintance
with all Petersburg, and his court service with its dull formalities.
And this life suddenly seemed to Pierre unexpectedly loathsome. He
ceased keeping a diary, avoided the company of the Brothers, began going
to the club again, drank a great deal, and came once more in touch
with the bachelor sets, leading such a life that the Countess Helene
thought it necessary to speak severely to him about it. Pierre felt that
she was right, and to avoid compromising her went away to Moscow.
In Moscow as soon as he entered his huge house in which the faded and
fading princesses still lived, with its enormous retinue; as soon as,
driving through the town, he saw the Iberian shrine with innumerable
tapers burning before the golden covers of the icons, the Kremlin
Square with its snow undisturbed by vehicles, the sleigh drivers and
hovels of the Sivtsev Vrazhok, those old Moscovites who desired
nothing, hurried nowhere, and were ending their days leisurely; when he
saw those old Moscow ladies, the Moscow balls, and the English Club, he
felt himself at home in a quiet haven. In Moscow he felt at peace, at
home, warm and dirty as in an old dressing gown.
Moscow society, from the old women down to the children, received Pierre
like a long-expected guest whose place was always ready awaiting him.
For Moscow society Pierre was the nicest, kindest, most intellectual,
merriest, and most magnanimous of cranks, a heedless, genial nobleman of
the old Russian type. His purse was always empty because it was open to
everyone.
Benefit performances, poor pictures, statues, benevolent societies,
gypsy choirs, schools, subscription dinners, sprees, Freemasons,
churches, and books - no one and nothing met with a refusal from him,
and had it not been for two friends who had borrowed large sums from
him and taken him under their protection, he would have given everything
away. There was never a dinner or soiree at the club without him. As
soon as he sank into his place on the sofa after two bottles of Margaux
he was surrounded, and talking, disputing, and joking began. When there
were quarrels, his kindly smile and well-timed jests reconciled the
antagonists. The Masonic dinners were dull and dreary when he was not
there.
When after a bachelor supper he rose with his amiable and kindly smile,
yielding to the entreaties of the festive company to drive off somewhere
with them, shouts of delight and triumph arose among the young men.
At balls he danced if a partner was needed. Young ladies, married and
unmarried, liked him because without making love to any of them, he was
equally amiable to all, especially after supper. "Il est charmant; il
n’a pas de sexe," * they said of him.
* "He is charming; he has no sex."
Pierre was one of those retired gentlemen-in-waiting of whom there were
hundreds good-humoredly ending their days in Moscow.
How horrified he would have been seven years before, when he first
arrived from abroad, had he been told that there was no need for him
to seek or plan anything, that his rut had long been shaped, eternally
predetermined, and that wriggle as he might, he would be what all in
his position were. He could not have believed it! Had he not at one
time longed with all his heart to establish a republic in Russia;
then himself to be a Napoleon; then to be a philosopher; and then
a strategist and the conqueror of Napoleon? Had he not seen the
possibility of, and passionately desired, the regeneration of the sinful
human race, and his own progress to the highest degree of perfection?
Had he not established schools and hospitals and liberated his serfs?
But instead of all that - here he was, the wealthy husband of an
unfaithful wife, a retired gentleman-in-waiting, fond of eating and
drinking and, as he unbuttoned his waistcoat, of abusing the government
a bit, a member of the Moscow English Club, and a universal favorite in
Moscow society. For a long time he could not reconcile himself to the
idea that he was one of those same retired Moscow gentlemen-in-waiting
he had so despised seven years before.
Sometimes he consoled himself with the thought that he was only living
this life temporarily; but then he was shocked by the thought of how
many, like himself, had entered that life and that club temporarily,
with all their teeth and hair, and had only left it when not a single
tooth or hair remained.
In moments of pride, when he thought of his position it seemed to
him that he was quite different and distinct from those other retired
gentlemen-in-waiting he had formerly despised: they were empty, stupid,
contented fellows, satisfied with their position, "while I am still
discontented and want to do something for mankind. But perhaps all these
comrades of mine struggled just like me and sought something new, a
path in life of their own, and like me were brought by force of
circumstances, society, and race - by that elemental force against which
man is powerless - to the condition I am in," said he to himself in
moments of humility; and after living some time in Moscow he no longer
despised, but began to grow fond of, to respect, and to pity his
comrades in destiny, as he pitied himself.
Pierre no longer suffered moments of despair, hypochondria, and disgust
with life, but the malady that had formerly found expression in such
acute attacks was driven inwards and never left him for a moment.
"What for? Why? What is going on in the world?" he would ask himself
in perplexity several times a day, involuntarily beginning to reflect
anew on the meaning of the phenomena of life; but knowing by experience
that there were no answers to these questions he made haste to turn away
from them, and took up a book, or hurried off to the club or to Apollon
Nikolaevich’s, to exchange the gossip of the town.
"Helene, who has never cared for anything but her own body and
is one of the stupidest women in the world," thought Pierre, "is
regarded by people as the acme of intelligence and refinement, and they
pay homage to her. Napoleon Bonaparte was despised by all as long as he
was great, but now that he has become a wretched comedian the Emperor
Francis wants to offer him his daughter in an illegal marriage. The
Spaniards, through the Catholic clergy, offer praise to God for their
victory over the French on the fourteenth of June, and the French,
also through the Catholic clergy, offer praise because on that same
fourteenth of June they defeated the Spaniards. My brother Masons swear
by the blood that they are ready to sacrifice everything for their
neighbor, but they do not give a ruble each to the collections for the
poor, and they intrigue, the Astraea Lodge against the Manna Seekers,
and fuss about an authentic Scotch carpet and a charter that nobody
needs, and the meaning of which the very man who wrote it does not
understand. We all profess the Christian law of forgiveness of injuries
and love of our neighbors, the law in honor of which we have built in
Moscow forty times forty churches - but yesterday a deserter was knouted
to death and a minister of that same law of love and forgiveness, a
priest, gave the soldier a cross to kiss before his execution." So
thought Pierre, and the whole of this general deception which everyone
accepts, accustomed as he was to it, astonished him each time as if it
were something new. "I understand the deception and confusion," he
thought, "but how am I to tell them all that I see? I have tried, and
have always found that they too in the depths of their souls understand
it as I do, and only try not to see it. So it appears that it must
be so! But I - what is to become of me?" thought he. He had the
unfortunate capacity many men, especially Russians, have of seeing and
believing in the possibility of goodness and truth, but of seeing the
evil and falsehood of life too clearly to be able to take a serious part
in it. Every sphere of work was connected, in his eyes, with evil and
deception. Whatever he tried to be, whatever he engaged in, the evil and
falsehood of it repulsed him and blocked every path of activity. Yet he
had to live and to find occupation. It was too dreadful to be under
the burden of these insoluble problems, so he abandoned himself to
any distraction in order to forget them. He frequented every kind of
society, drank much, bought pictures, engaged in building, and above
all - read.
He read, and read everything that came to hand. On coming home, while
his valets were still taking off his things, he picked up a book and
began to read. From reading he passed to sleeping, from sleeping to
gossip in drawing rooms of the club, from gossip to carousals and women;
from carousals back to gossip, reading, and wine. Drinking became more
and more a physical and also a moral necessity. Though the doctors
warned him that with his corpulence wine was dangerous for him, he
drank a great deal. He was only quite at ease when having poured several
glasses of wine mechanically into his large mouth he felt a pleasant
warmth in his body, an amiability toward all his fellows, and a
readiness to respond superficially to every idea without probing it
deeply. Only after emptying a bottle or two did he feel dimly that the
terribly tangled skein of life which previously had terrified him was
not as dreadful as he had thought. He was always conscious of some
aspect of that skein, as with a buzzing in his head after dinner or
supper he chatted or listened to conversation or read. But under the
influence of wine he said to himself: "It doesn’t matter. I’ll
get it unraveled. I have a solution ready, but have no time now - I’ll
think it all out later on!" But the later on never came.
In the morning, on an empty stomach, all the old questions appeared as
insoluble and terrible as ever, and Pierre hastily picked up a book, and
if anyone came to see him he was glad.
Sometimes he remembered how he had heard that soldiers in war when
entrenched under the enemy’s fire, if they have nothing to do, try
hard to find some occupation the more easily to bear the danger. To
Pierre all men seemed like those soldiers, seeking refuge from life:
some in ambition, some in cards, some in framing laws, some in women,
some in toys, some in horses, some in politics, some in sport, some
in wine, and some in governmental affairs. "Nothing is trivial, and
nothing is important, it’s all the same - only to save oneself from it
as best one can," thought Pierre. "Only not to see it, that dreadful
it!"
CHAPTER II
At the beginning of winter Prince Nicholas Bolkonski and his daughter
moved to Moscow. At that time enthusiasm for the Emperor Alexander’s
regime had weakened and a patriotic and anti-French tendency prevailed
there, and this, together with his past and his intellect and his
originality, at once made Prince Nicholas Bolkonski an object of
particular respect to the Moscovites and the center of the Moscow
opposition to the government.
The prince had aged very much that year. He showed marked signs of
senility by a tendency to fall asleep, forgetfulness of quite recent
events, remembrance of remote ones, and the childish vanity with which
he accepted the role of head of the Moscow opposition. In spite of this
the old man inspired in all his visitors alike a feeling of respectful
veneration - especially of an evening when he came in to tea in his
old-fashioned coat and powdered wig and, aroused by anyone, told his
abrupt stories of the past, or uttered yet more abrupt and scathing
criticisms of the present. For them all, that old-fashioned house with
its gigantic mirrors, pre-Revolution furniture, powdered footmen, and
the stern shrewd old man (himself a relic of the past century) with his
gentle daughter and the pretty Frenchwoman who were reverently devoted
to him presented a majestic and agreeable spectacle. But the visitors
did not reflect that besides the couple of hours during which they saw
their host, there were also twenty-two hours in the day during which the
private and intimate life of the house continued.
Latterly that private life had become very trying for Princess Mary.
There in Moscow she was deprived of her greatest pleasures - talks with
the pilgrims and the solitude which refreshed her at Bald Hills - and
she had none of the advantages and pleasures of city life. She did not
go out into society; everyone knew that her father would not let her
go anywhere without him, and his failing health prevented his going out
himself, so that she was not invited to dinners and evening parties. She
had quite abandoned the hope of getting married. She saw the coldness
and malevolence with which the old prince received and dismissed the
young men, possible suitors, who sometimes appeared at their house. She
had no friends: during this visit to Moscow she had been disappointed in
the two who had been nearest to her. Mademoiselle Bourienne, with whom
she had never been able to be quite frank, had now become unpleasant to
her, and for various reasons Princess Mary avoided her. Julie, with whom
she had corresponded for the last five years, was in Moscow, but proved
to be quite alien to her when they met. Just then Julie, who by the
death of her brothers had become one of the richest heiresses in Moscow,
was in the full whirl of society pleasures. She was surrounded by young
men who, she fancied, had suddenly learned to appreciate her worth.
Julie was at that stage in the life of a society woman when she feels
that her last chance of marrying has come and that her fate must be
decided now or never. On Thursdays Princess Mary remembered with a
mournful smile that she now had no one to write to, since Julie - whose
presence gave her no pleasure was here and they met every week. Like the
old emigre who declined to marry the lady with whom he had spent his
evenings for years, she regretted Julie’s presence and having no one
to write to. In Moscow Princess Mary had no one to talk to, no one to
whom to confide her sorrow, and much sorrow fell to her lot just then.
The time for Prince Andrew’s return and marriage was approaching, but
his request to her to prepare his father for it had not been carried
out; in fact, it seemed as if matters were quite hopeless, for at every
mention of the young Countess Rostova the old prince (who apart from
that was usually in a bad temper) lost control of himself. Another
lately added sorrow arose from the lessons she gave her six year-old
nephew. To her consternation she detected in herself in relation to
little Nicholas some symptoms of her father’s irritability. However
often she told herself that she must not get irritable when teaching her
nephew, almost every time that, pointer in hand, she sat down to show
him the French alphabet, she so longed to pour her own knowledge quickly
and easily into the child - who was already afraid that Auntie might at
any moment get angry - that at his slightest inattention she trembled,
became flustered and heated, raised her voice, and sometimes pulled him
by the arm and put him in the corner. Having put him in the corner
she would herself begin to cry over her cruel, evil nature, and little
Nicholas, following her example, would sob, and without permission would
leave his corner, come to her, pull her wet hands from her face, and
comfort her. But what distressed the princess most of all was her
father’s irritability, which was always directed against her and had
of late amounted to cruelty. Had he forced her to prostrate herself to
the ground all night, had he beaten her or made her fetch wood or water,
it would never have entered her mind to think her position hard; but
this loving despot - the more cruel because he loved her and for that
reason tormented himself and her - knew how not merely to hurt and
humiliate her deliberately, but to show her that she was always to blame
for everything. Of late he had exhibited a new trait that tormented
Princess Mary more than anything else; this was his ever-increasing
intimacy with Mademoiselle Bourienne. The idea that at the first moment
of receiving the news of his son’s intentions had occurred to him in
jest - that if Andrew got married he himself would marry Bourienne - had
evidently pleased him, and latterly he had persistently, and as it
seemed to Princess Mary merely to offend her, shown special endearments
to the companion and expressed his dissatisfaction with his daughter by
demonstrations of love of Bourienne.
One day in Moscow in Princess Mary’s presence (she thought her father
did it purposely when she was there) the old prince kissed Mademoiselle
Bourienne’s hand and, drawing her to him, embraced her affectionately.
Princess Mary flushed and ran out of the room. A few minutes later
Mademoiselle Bourienne came into Princess Mary’s room smiling and
making cheerful remarks in her agreeable voice. Princess Mary hastily
wiped away her tears, went resolutely up to Mademoiselle Bourienne,
and evidently unconscious of what she was doing began shouting in angry
haste at the Frenchwoman, her voice breaking: "It’s horrible, vile,
inhuman, to take advantage of the weakness..." She did not finish.
"Leave my room," she exclaimed, and burst into sobs.
Next day the prince did not say a word to his daughter, but she noticed
that at dinner he gave orders that Mademoiselle Bourienne should be
served first. After dinner, when the footman handed coffee and from
habit began with the princess, the prince suddenly grew furious,
threw his stick at Philip, and instantly gave instructions to have him
conscripted for the army.
"He doesn’t obey... I said it twice... and he doesn’t obey! She
is the first person in this house; she’s my best friend," cried
the prince. "And if you allow yourself," he screamed in a fury,
addressing Princess Mary for the first time, "to forget yourself again
before her as you dared to do yesterday, I will show you who is master
in this house. Go! Don’t let me set eyes on you; beg her pardon!"
Princess Mary asked Mademoiselle Bourienne’s pardon, and also her
father’s pardon for herself and for Philip the footman, who had begged
for her intervention.
At such moments something like a pride of sacrifice gathered in her
soul. And suddenly that father whom she had judged would look for his
spectacles in her presence, fumbling near them and not seeing them, or
would forget something that had just occurred, or take a false step with
his failing legs and turn to see if anyone had noticed his feebleness,
or, worst of all, at dinner when there were no visitors to excite him
would suddenly fall asleep, letting his napkin drop and his shaking
head sink over his plate. "He is old and feeble, and I dare to condemn
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990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000