two elderly men and her brother were trying to conceal, and was herself
excited by it.
The huntsman stood halfway up the knoll holding up his whip and the
gentlefolk rode up to him at a footpace; the hounds that were far off
on the horizon turned away from the hare, and the whips, but not the
gentlefolk, also moved away. All were moving slowly and sedately.
"How is it pointing?" asked Nicholas, riding a hundred paces toward
the whip who had sighted the hare.
But before the whip could reply, the hare, scenting the frost coming
next morning, was unable to rest and leaped up. The pack on leash rushed
downhill in full cry after the hare, and from all sides the borzois that
were not on leash darted after the hounds and the hare. All the hunt,
who had been moving slowly, shouted, "Stop!" calling in the hounds,
while the borzoi whips, with a cry of "A-tu!" galloped across the
field setting the borzois on the hare. The tranquil Ilagin, Nicholas,
Natasha, and "Uncle" flew, reckless of where and how they went,
seeing only the borzois and the hare and fearing only to lose sight even
for an instant of the chase. The hare they had started was a strong and
swift one. When he jumped up he did not run at once, but pricked his
ears listening to the shouting and trampling that resounded from all
sides at once. He took a dozen bounds, not very quickly, letting the
borzois gain on him, and, finally having chosen his direction and
realized his danger, laid back his ears and rushed off headlong. He had
been lying in the stubble, but in front of him was the autumn sowing
where the ground was soft. The two borzois of the huntsman who had
sighted him, having been the nearest, were the first to see and pursue
him, but they had not gone far before Ilagin’s red-spotted Erza
passed them, got within a length, flew at the hare with terrible
swiftness aiming at his scut, and, thinking she had seized him, rolled
over like a ball. The hare arched his back and bounded off yet more
swiftly. From behind Erza rushed the broad-haunched, black-spotted
Milka and began rapidly gaining on the hare.
"Milashka, dear!" rose Nicholas’ triumphant cry. It looked as if
Milka would immediately pounce on the hare, but she overtook him and
flew past. The hare had squatted. Again the beautiful Erza reached him,
but when close to the hare’s scut paused as if measuring the distance,
so as not to make a mistake this time but seize his hind leg.
"Erza, darling!" Ilagin wailed in a voice unlike his own. Erza
did not hearken to his appeal. At the very moment when she would have
seized her prey, the hare moved and darted along the balk between the
winter rye and the stubble. Again Erza and Milka were abreast, running
like a pair of carriage horses, and began to overtake the hare, but
it was easier for the hare to run on the balk and the borzois did not
overtake him so quickly.
"Rugay, Rugayushka! That’s it, come on!" came a third voice just
then, and "Uncle’s" red borzoi, straining and curving its back,
caught up with the two foremost borzois, pushed ahead of them regardless
of the terrible strain, put on speed close to the hare, knocked it off
the balk onto the ryefield, again put on speed still more viciously,
sinking to his knees in the muddy field, and all one could see was
how, muddying his back, he rolled over with the hare. A ring of borzois
surrounded him. A moment later everyone had drawn up round the crowd
of dogs. Only the delighted "Uncle" dismounted, and cut off a pad,
shaking the hare for the blood to drip off, and anxiously glancing round
with restless eyes while his arms and legs twitched. He spoke without
himself knowing whom to or what about. "That’s it, come on! That’s
a dog!... There, it has beaten them all, the thousand-ruble as well as
the one-ruble borzois. That’s it, come on!" said he, panting and
looking wrathfully around as if he were abusing someone, as if they
were all his enemies and had insulted him, and only now had he at
last succeeded in justifying himself. "There are your thousand-ruble
ones.... That’s it, come on!..."
"Rugay, here’s a pad for you!" he said, throwing down the
hare’s muddy pad. "You’ve deserved it, that’s it, come on!"
"She’d tired herself out, she’d run it down three times by
herself," said Nicholas, also not listening to anyone and regardless
of whether he were heard or not.
"But what is there in running across it like that?" said Ilagin’s
groom.
"Once she had missed it and turned it away, any mongrel could take
it," Ilagin was saying at the same time, breathless from his gallop
and his excitement. At the same moment Natasha, without drawing
breath, screamed joyously, ecstatically, and so piercingly that it set
everyone’s ear tingling. By that shriek she expressed what the others
expressed by all talking at once, and it was so strange that she must
herself have been ashamed of so wild a cry and everyone else would have
been amazed at it at any other time. "Uncle" himself twisted up the
hare, threw it neatly and smartly across his horse’s back as if by
that gesture he meant to rebuke everybody, and, with an air of not
wishing to speak to anyone, mounted his bay and rode off. The others all
followed, dispirited and shamefaced, and only much later were they able
to regain their former affectation of indifference. For a long time they
continued to look at red Rugay who, his arched back spattered with
mud and clanking the ring of his leash, walked along just behind
"Uncle’s" horse with the serene air of a conqueror.
"Well, I am like any other dog as long as it’s not a question of
coursing. But when it is, then look out!" his appearance seemed to
Nicholas to be saying.
When, much later, "Uncle" rode up to Nicholas and began talking
to him, he felt flattered that, after what had happened, "Uncle"
deigned to speak to him.
CHAPTER VII
Toward evening Ilagin took leave of Nicholas, who found that they were
so far from home that he accepted "Uncle’s" offer that the hunting
party should spend the night in his little village of Mikhaylovna.
"And if you put up at my house that will be better still. That’s it,
come on!" said "Uncle." "You see it’s damp weather, and you
could rest, and the little countess could be driven home in a trap."
"Uncle’s" offer was accepted. A huntsman was sent to Otradnoe for
a trap, while Nicholas rode with Natasha and Petya to "Uncle’s"
house.
Some five male domestic serfs, big and little, rushed out to the front
porch to meet their master. A score of women serfs, old and young, as
well as children, popped out from the back entrance to have a look at
the hunters who were arriving. The presence of Natasha - a woman, a
lady, and on horseback - raised the curiosity of the serfs to such a
degree that many of them came up to her, stared her in the face, and
unabashed by her presence made remarks about her as though she were some
prodigy on show and not a human being able to hear or understand what
was said about her.
"Arinka! Look, she sits sideways! There she sits and her skirt
dangles.... See, she’s got a little hunting horn!"
"Goodness gracious! See her knife?..."
"Isn’t she a Tartar!"
"How is it you didn’t go head over heels?" asked the boldest of
all, addressing Natasha directly.
"Uncle" dismounted at the porch of his little wooden house which
stood in the midst of an overgrown garden and, after a glance at his
retainers, shouted authoritatively that the superfluous ones should take
themselves off and that all necessary preparations should be made to
receive the guests and the visitors.
The serfs all dispersed. "Uncle" lifted Natasha off her horse and
taking her hand led her up the rickety wooden steps of the porch. The
house, with its bare, unplastered log walls, was not overclean - it
did not seem that those living in it aimed at keeping it spotless - but
neither was it noticeably neglected. In the entry there was a smell of
fresh apples, and wolf and fox skins hung about.
"Uncle" led the visitors through the anteroom into a small hall with
a folding table and red chairs, then into the drawing room with a round
birchwood table and a sofa, and finally into his private room where
there was a tattered sofa, a worn carpet, and portraits of Suvorov, of
the host’s father and mother, and of himself in military uniform. The
study smelt strongly of tobacco and dogs. "Uncle" asked his visitors
to sit down and make themselves at home, and then went out of the room.
Rugay, his back still muddy, came into the room and lay down on the
sofa, cleaning himself with his tongue and teeth. Leading from the study
was a passage in which a partition with ragged curtains could be
seen. From behind this came women’s laughter and whispers. Natasha,
Nicholas, and Petya took off their wraps and sat down on the sofa.
Petya, leaning on his elbow, fell asleep at once. Natasha and Nicholas
were silent. Their faces glowed, they were hungry and very cheerful.
They looked at one another (now that the hunt was over and they were in
the house, Nicholas no longer considered it necessary to show his manly
superiority over his sister), Natasha gave him a wink, and neither
refrained long from bursting into a peal of ringing laughter even before
they had a pretext ready to account for it.
After a while "Uncle" came in, in a Cossack coat, blue trousers, and
small top boots. And Natasha felt that this costume, the very one she
had regarded with surprise and amusement at Otradnoe, was just the
right thing and not at all worse than a swallow-tail or frock coat.
"Uncle" too was in high spirits and far from being offended by the
brother’s and sister’s laughter (it could never enter his head that
they might be laughing at his way of life) he himself joined in the
merriment.
"That’s right, young countess, that’s it, come on! I never saw
anyone like her!" said he, offering Nicholas a pipe with a long stem
and, with a practiced motion of three fingers, taking down another that
had been cut short. "She’s ridden all day like a man, and is as
fresh as ever!"
Soon after "Uncle’s" reappearance the door was opened, evidently
from the sound by a barefooted girl, and a stout, rosy, good-looking
woman of about forty, with a double chin and full red lips, entered
carrying a large loaded tray. With hospitable dignity and cordiality in
her glance and in every motion, she looked at the visitors and, with
a pleasant smile, bowed respectfully. In spite of her exceptional
stoutness, which caused her to protrude her chest and stomach and throw
back her head, this woman (who was "Uncle’s" housekeeper) trod
very lightly. She went to the table, set down the tray, and with her
plump white hands deftly took from it the bottles and various hors
d’oeuvres and dishes and arranged them on the table. When she had
finished, she stepped aside and stopped at the door with a smile on her
face. "Here I am. I am she! Now do you understand ‘Uncle’?" her
expression said to Rostov. How could one help understanding? Not only
Nicholas, but even Natasha understood the meaning of his puckered brow
and the happy complacent smile that slightly puckered his lips when
Anisya Fedorovna entered. On the tray was a bottle of herb wine,
different kinds of vodka, pickled mushrooms, rye cakes made with
buttermilk, honey in the comb, still mead and sparkling mead, apples,
nuts (raw and roasted), and nut-and-honey sweets. Afterwards she brought
a freshly roasted chicken, ham, preserves made with honey, and preserves
made with sugar.
All this was the fruit of Anisya Fedorovna’s housekeeping, gathered
and prepared by her. The smell and taste of it all had a smack
of Anisya Fedorovna herself: a savor of juiciness, cleanliness,
whiteness, and pleasant smiles.
"Take this, little Lady-Countess!" she kept saying, as she offered
Natasha first one thing and then another.
Natasha ate of everything and thought she had never seen or eaten such
buttermilk cakes, such aromatic jam, such honey-and-nut sweets, or such
a chicken anywhere. Anisya Fedorovna left the room.
After supper, over their cherry brandy, Rostov and "Uncle" talked
of past and future hunts, of Rugay and Ilagin’s dogs, while Natasha
sat upright on the sofa and listened with sparkling eyes. She tried
several times to wake Petya that he might eat something, but he
only muttered incoherent words without waking up. Natasha felt so
lighthearted and happy in these novel surroundings that she only feared
the trap would come for her too soon. After a casual pause, such as
often occurs when receiving friends for the first time in one’s own
house, "Uncle," answering a thought that was in his visitors’
minds, said:
"This, you see, is how I am finishing my days... Death will come.
That’s it, come on! Nothing will remain. Then why harm anyone?"
"Uncle’s" face was very significant and even handsome as he said
this. Involuntarily Rostov recalled all the good he had heard about
him from his father and the neighbors. Throughout the whole province
"Uncle" had the reputation of being the most honorable and
disinterested of cranks. They called him in to decide family disputes,
chose him as executor, confided secrets to him, elected him to be a
justice and to other posts; but he always persistently refused public
appointments, passing the autumn and spring in the fields on his bay
gelding, sitting at home in winter, and lying in his overgrown garden in
summer.
"Why don’t you enter the service, Uncle?"
"I did once, but gave it up. I am not fit for it. That’s it, come
on! I can’t make head or tail of it. That’s for you - I haven’t
brains enough. Now, hunting is another matter - that’s it, come on!
Open the door, there!" he shouted. "Why have you shut it?"
The door at the end of the passage led to the huntsmen’s room, as they
called the room for the hunt servants.
There was a rapid patter of bare feet, and an unseen hand opened the
door into the huntsmen’s room, from which came the clear sounds of a
balalayka on which someone, who was evidently a master of the art, was
playing. Natasha had been listening to those strains for some time and
now went out into the passage to hear better.
"That’s Mitka, my coachman.... I have got him a good balalayka.
I’m fond of it," said "Uncle."
It was the custom for Mitka to play the balalayka in the huntsmen’s
room when "Uncle" returned from the chase. "Uncle" was fond of
such music.
"How good! Really very good!" said Nicholas with some unintentional
superciliousness, as if ashamed to confess that the sounds pleased him
very much.
"Very good?" said Natasha reproachfully, noticing her brother’s
tone. "Not ‘very good’ it’s simply delicious!"
Just as "Uncle’s" pickled mushrooms, honey, and cherry brandy had
seemed to her the best in the world, so also that song, at that moment,
seemed to her the acme of musical delight.
"More, please, more!" cried Natasha at the door as soon as the
balalayka ceased. Mitka tuned up afresh, and recommenced thrumming
the balalayka to the air of My Lady, with trills and variations.
"Uncle" sat listening, slightly smiling, with his head on one side.
The air was repeated a hundred times. The balalayka was retuned several
times and the same notes were thrummed again, but the listeners did
not grow weary of it and wished to hear it again and again. Anisya
Fedorovna came in and leaned her portly person against the doorpost.
"You like listening?" she said to Natasha, with a smile extremely
like "Uncle’s." "That’s a good player of ours," she added.
"He doesn’t play that part right!" said "Uncle" suddenly, with
an energetic gesture. "Here he ought to burst out - that’s it, come
on! - ought to burst out."
"Do you play then?" asked Natasha.
"Uncle" did not answer, but smiled.
"Anisya, go and see if the strings of my guitar are all right. I
haven’t touched it for a long time. That’s it - come on! I’ve
given it up."
Anisya Fedorovna, with her light step, willingly went to fulfill her
errand and brought back the guitar.
Without looking at anyone, "Uncle" blew the dust off it and, tapping
the case with his bony fingers, tuned the guitar and settled himself in
his armchair. He took the guitar a little above the fingerboard, arching
his left elbow with a somewhat theatrical gesture, and, with a wink at
Anisya Fedorovna, struck a single chord, pure and sonorous, and then
quietly, smoothly, and confidently began playing in very slow time, not
My Lady, but the well-known song: Came a maiden down the street. The
tune, played with precision and in exact time, began to thrill in the
hearts of Nicholas and Natasha, arousing in them the same kind of
sober mirth as radiated from Anisya Fedorovna’s whole being. Anisya
Fedorovna flushed, and drawing her kerchief over her face went laughing
out of the room. "Uncle" continued to play correctly, carefully,
with energetic firmness, looking with a changed and inspired expression
at the spot where Anisya Fedorovna had just stood. Something seemed to
be laughing a little on one side of his face under his gray mustaches,
especially as the song grew brisker and the time quicker and when, here
and there, as he ran his fingers over the strings, something seemed to
snap.
"Lovely, lovely! Go on, Uncle, go on!" shouted Natasha as soon as
he had finished. She jumped up and hugged and kissed him. "Nicholas,
Nicholas!" she said, turning to her brother, as if asking him: "What
is it moves me so?"
Nicholas too was greatly pleased by "Uncle’s" playing, and
"Uncle" played the piece over again. Anisya Fedorovna’s smiling
face reappeared in the doorway and behind hers other faces...
Fetching water clear and sweet,
Stop, dear maiden, I entreat -
played "Uncle" once more, running his fingers skillfully over the
strings, and then he stopped short and jerked his shoulders.
"Go on, Uncle dear," Natasha wailed in an imploring tone as if her
life depended on it.
"Uncle" rose, and it was as if there were two men in him: one of
them smiled seriously at the merry fellow, while the merry fellow struck
a naïve and precise attitude preparatory to a folk dance.
"Now then, niece!" he exclaimed, waving to Natasha the hand that
had just struck a chord.
Natasha threw off the shawl from her shoulders, ran forward to face
"Uncle," and setting her arms akimbo also made a motion with her
shoulders and struck an attitude.
Where, how, and when had this young countess, educated by an emigree
French governess, imbibed from the Russian air she breathed that spirit
and obtained that manner which the pas de châle * would, one would have
supposed, long ago have effaced? But the spirit and the movements were
those inimitable and unteachable Russian ones that "Uncle" had
expected of her. As soon as she had struck her pose, and smiled
triumphantly, proudly, and with sly merriment, the fear that had at
first seized Nicholas and the others that she might not do the right
thing was at an end, and they were already admiring her.
* The French shawl dance.
She did the right thing with such precision, such complete precision,
that Anisya Fedorovna, who had at once handed her the handkerchief she
needed for the dance, had tears in her eyes, though she laughed as she
watched this slim, graceful countess, reared in silks and velvets and so
different from herself, who yet was able to understand all that was
in Anisya and in Anisya’s father and mother and aunt, and in every
Russian man and woman.
"Well, little countess; that’s it - come on!" cried "Uncle,"
with a joyous laugh, having finished the dance. "Well done, niece! Now
a fine young fellow must be found as husband for you. That’s it - come
on!"
"He’s chosen already," said Nicholas smiling.
"Oh?" said "Uncle" in surprise, looking inquiringly at Natasha,
who nodded her head with a happy smile.
"And such a one!" she said. But as soon as she had said it a new
train of thoughts and feelings arose in her. "What did Nicholas’
smile mean when he said ‘chosen already’? Is he glad of it or not?
It is as if he thought my Bolkonski would not approve of or understand
our gaiety. But he would understand it all. Where is he now?" she
thought, and her face suddenly became serious. But this lasted only a
second. "Don’t dare to think about it," she said to herself,
and sat down again smilingly beside "Uncle," begging him to play
something more.
"Uncle" played another song and a valse; then after a pause he
cleared his throat and sang his favorite hunting song:
As ‘twas growing dark last night
Fell the snow so soft and light...
"Uncle" sang as peasants sing, with full and naïve conviction that
the whole meaning of a song lies in the words and that the tune comes
of itself, and that apart from the words there is no tune, which exists
only to give measure to the words. As a result of this the unconsidered
tune, like the song of a bird, was extraordinarily good. Natasha was in
ecstasies over "Uncle’s" singing. She resolved to give up learning
the harp and to play only the guitar. She asked "Uncle" for his
guitar and at once found the chords of the song.
After nine o’clock two traps and three mounted men, who had been sent
to look for them, arrived to fetch Natasha and Petya. The count and
countess did not know where they were and were very anxious, said one of
the men.
Petya was carried out like a log and laid in the larger of the two
traps. Natasha and Nicholas got into the other. "Uncle" wrapped
Natasha up warmly and took leave of her with quite a new tenderness. He
accompanied them on foot as far as the bridge that could not be crossed,
so that they had to go round by the ford, and he sent huntsmen to ride
in front with lanterns.
"Good-by, dear niece," his voice called out of the darkness - not
the voice Natasha had known previously, but the one that had sung As
‘twas growing dark last night.
In the village through which they passed there were red lights and a
cheerful smell of smoke.
"What a darling Uncle is!" said Natasha, when they had come out
onto the highroad.
"Yes," returned Nicholas. "You’re not cold?"
"No. I’m quite, quite all right. I feel so comfortable!" answered
Natasha, almost perplexed by her feelings. They remained silent a long
while. The night was dark and damp. They could not see the horses, but
only heard them splashing through the unseen mud.
What was passing in that receptive childlike soul that so eagerly caught
and assimilated all the diverse impressions of life? How did they all
find place in her? But she was very happy. As they were nearing home she
suddenly struck up the air of As ‘twas growing dark last night - the
tune of which she had all the way been trying to get and had at last
caught.
"Got it?" said Nicholas.
"What were you thinking about just now, Nicholas?" inquired
Natasha.
They were fond of asking one another that question.
"I?" said Nicholas, trying to remember. "Well, you see, first I
thought that Rugay, the red hound, was like Uncle, and that if he were
a man he would always keep Uncle near him, if not for his riding, then
for his manner. What a good fellow Uncle is! Don’t you think so?...
Well, and you?"
"I? Wait a bit, wait.... Yes, first I thought that we are driving
along and imagining that we are going home, but that heaven knows
where we are really going in the darkness, and that we shall arrive and
suddenly find that we are not in Otradnoe, but in Fairyland. And then I
thought... No, nothing else."
"I know, I expect you thought of him," said Nicholas, smiling as
Natasha knew by the sound of his voice.
"No," said Natasha, though she had in reality been thinking about
Prince Andrew at the same time as of the rest, and of how he would
have liked "Uncle." "And then I was saying to myself all the way,
‘How well Anisya carried herself, how well!’" And Nicholas heard
her spontaneous, happy, ringing laughter. "And do you know," she
suddenly said, "I know that I shall never again be as happy and
tranquil as I am now."
"Rubbish, nonsense, humbug!" exclaimed Nicholas, and he thought:
"How charming this Natasha of mine is! I have no other friend like
her and never shall have. Why should she marry? We might always drive
about together!"
"What a darling this Nicholas of mine is!" thought Natasha.
"Ah, there are still lights in the drawing room!" she said, pointing
to the windows of the house that gleamed invitingly in the moist velvety
darkness of the night.
CHAPTER VIII
Count Ilya Rostov had resigned the position of Marshal of the Nobility
because it involved him in too much expense, but still his affairs
did not improve. Natasha and Nicholas often noticed their parents
conferring together anxiously and privately and heard suggestions of
selling the fine ancestral Rostov house and estate near Moscow. It was
not necessary to entertain so freely as when the count had been Marshal,
and life at Otradnoe was quieter than in former years, but still the
enormous house and its lodges were full of people and more than twenty
sat down to table every day. These were all their own people who had
settled down in the house almost as members of the family, or persons
who were, it seemed, obliged to live in the count’s house. Such were
Dimmler the musician and his wife, Vogel the dancing master and his
family, Belova, an old maiden lady, an inmate of the house, and many
others such as Petya’s tutors, the girls’ former governess, and
other people who simply found it preferable and more advantageous to
live in the count’s house than at home. They had not as many visitors
as before, but the old habits of life without which the count and
countess could not conceive of existence remained unchanged. There was
still the hunting establishment which Nicholas had even enlarged, the
same fifty horses and fifteen grooms in the stables, the same expensive
presents and dinner parties to the whole district on name days; there
were still the count’s games of whist and boston, at which - spreading
out his cards so that everybody could see them - he let himself be
plundered of hundreds of rubles every day by his neighbors, who looked
upon an opportunity to play a rubber with Count Rostov as a most
profitable source of income.
The count moved in his affairs as in a huge net, trying not to believe
that he was entangled but becoming more and more so at every step, and
feeling too feeble to break the meshes or to set to work carefully and
patiently to disentangle them. The countess, with her loving heart, felt
that her children were being ruined, that it was not the count’s fault
for he could not help being what he was - that (though he tried to
hide it) he himself suffered from the consciousness of his own and
his children’s ruin, and she tried to find means of remedying the
position. From her feminine point of view she could see only one
solution, namely, for Nicholas to marry a rich heiress. She felt this to
be their last hope and that if Nicholas refused the match she had found
for him, she would have to abandon the hope of ever getting matters
right. This match was with Julie Karagina, the daughter of excellent
and virtuous parents, a girl the Rostovs had known from childhood, and
who had now become a wealthy heiress through the death of the last of
her brothers.
The countess had written direct to Julie’s mother in Moscow suggesting
a marriage between their children and had received a favorable answer
from her. Karagina had replied that for her part she was agreeable, and
everything depend on her daughter’s inclination. She invited Nicholas
to come to Moscow.
Several times the countess, with tears in her eyes, told her son that
now both her daughters were settled, her only wish was to see him
married. She said she could lie down in her grave peacefully if that
were accomplished. Then she told him that she knew of a splendid girl
and tried to discover what he thought about marriage.
At other times she praised Julie to him and advised him to go to
Moscow during the holidays to amuse himself. Nicholas guessed what his
mother’s remarks were leading to and during one of these conversations
induced her to speak quite frankly. She told him that her only hope
of getting their affairs disentangled now lay in his marrying Julie
Karagina.
"But, Mamma, suppose I loved a girl who has no fortune, would
you expect me to sacrifice my feelings and my honor for the sake of
money?" he asked his mother, not realizing the cruelty of his question
and only wishing to show his noble-mindedness.
"No, you have not understood me," said his mother, not knowing how
to justify herself. "You have not understood me, Nikolenka. It is
your happiness I wish for," she added, feeling that she was telling an
untruth and was becoming entangled. She began to cry.
"Mamma, don’t cry! Only tell me that you wish it, and you know I
will give my life, anything, to put you at ease," said Nicholas. "I
would sacrifice anything for you - even my feelings."
But the countess did not want the question put like that: she did not
want a sacrifice from her son, she herself wished to make a sacrifice
for him.
"No, you have not understood me, don’t let us talk about it," she
replied, wiping away her tears.
"Maybe I do love a poor girl," said Nicholas to himself. "Am I to
sacrifice my feelings and my honor for money? I wonder how Mamma could
speak so to me. Because Sonya is poor I must not love her," he
thought, "must not respond to her faithful, devoted love? Yet I should
certainly be happier with her than with some doll-like Julie. I can
always sacrifice my feelings for my family’s welfare," he said to
himself, "but I can’t coerce my feelings. If I love Sonya, that
feeling is for me stronger and higher than all else."
Nicholas did not go to Moscow, and the countess did not renew the
conversation with him about marriage. She saw with sorrow, and sometimes
with exasperation, symptoms of a growing attachment between her son and
the portionless Sonya. Though she blamed herself for it, she could
not refrain from grumbling at and worrying Sonya, often pulling her up
without reason, addressing her stiffly as "my dear," and using the
formal "you" instead of the intimate "thou" in speaking to her.
The kindhearted countess was the more vexed with Sonya because that
poor, dark-eyed niece of hers was so meek, so kind, so devotedly
grateful to her benefactors, and so faithfully, unchangingly, and
unselfishly in love with Nicholas, that there were no grounds for
finding fault with her.
Nicholas was spending the last of his leave at home. A fourth letter had
come from Prince Andrew, from Rome, in which he wrote that he would have
been on his way back to Russia long ago had not his wound unexpectedly
reopened in the warm climate, which obliged him to defer his return till
the beginning of the new year. Natasha was still as much in love with
her betrothed, found the same comfort in that love, and was still as
ready to throw herself into all the pleasures of life as before; but at
the end of the fourth month of their separation she began to have fits
of depression which she could not master. She felt sorry for herself:
sorry that she was being wasted all this time and of no use to
anyone - while she felt herself so capable of loving and being loved.
Things were not cheerful in the Rostovs’ home.
CHAPTER IX
Christmas came and except for the ceremonial Mass, the solemn and
wearisome Christmas congratulations from neighbors and servants, and the
new dresses everyone put on, there were no special festivities, though
the calm frost of twenty degrees Reaumur, the dazzling sunshine by day,
and the starlight of the winter nights seemed to call for some special
celebration of the season.
On the third day of Christmas week, after the midday dinner, all the
inmates of the house dispersed to various rooms. It was the dullest time
of the day. Nicholas, who had been visiting some neighbors that morning,
was asleep on the sitting-room sofa. The old count was resting in his
study. Sonya sat in the drawing room at the round table, copying a
design for embroidery. The countess was playing patience. Nastasya
Ivanovna the buffoon sat with a sad face at the window with two old
ladies. Natasha came into the room, went up to Sonya, glanced at
what she was doing, and then went up to her mother and stood without
speaking.
"Why are you wandering about like an outcast?" asked her mother.
"What do you want?"
"Him... I want him... now, this minute! I want him!" said Natasha,
with glittering eyes and no sign of a smile.
The countess lifted her head and looked attentively at her daughter.
"Don’t look at me, Mamma! Don’t look; I shall cry directly."
"Sit down with me a little," said the countess.
"Mamma, I want him. Why should I be wasted like this, Mamma?"
Her voice broke, tears gushed from her eyes, and she turned quickly to
hide them and left the room.
She passed into the sitting room, stood there thinking awhile, and then
went into the maids’ room. There an old maidservant was grumbling at
a young girl who stood panting, having just run in through the cold from
the serfs’ quarters.
"Stop playing - there’s a time for everything," said the old
woman.
"Let her alone, Kondratevna," said Natasha. "Go, Mavrushka,
go."
Having released Mavrushka, Natasha crossed the dancing hall and went
to the vestibule. There an old footman and two young ones were playing
cards. They broke off and rose as she entered.
"What can I do with them?" thought Natasha.
"Oh, Nikita, please go... where can I send him?... Yes, go to the
yard and fetch a fowl, please, a cock, and you, Misha, bring me some
oats."
"Just a few oats?" said Misha, cheerfully and readily.
"Go, go quickly," the old man urged him.
"And you, Theodore, get me a piece of chalk."
On her way past the butler’s pantry she told them to set a samovar,
though it was not at all the time for tea.
Foka, the butler, was the most ill-tempered person in the house.
Natasha liked to test her power over him. He distrusted the order and
asked whether the samovar was really wanted.
"Oh dear, what a young lady!" said Foka, pretending to frown at
Natasha.
No one in the house sent people about or gave them as much trouble as
Natasha did. She could not see people unconcernedly, but had to send
them on some errand. She seemed to be trying whether any of them would
get angry or sulky with her; but the serfs fulfilled no one’s orders
so readily as they did hers. "What can I do, where can I go?"
thought she, as she went slowly along the passage.
"Nastasya Ivanovna, what sort of children shall I have?" she asked
the buffoon, who was coming toward her in a woman’s jacket.
"Why, fleas, crickets, grasshoppers," answered the buffoon.
"O Lord, O Lord, it’s always the same! Oh, where am I to go? What
am I to do with myself?" And tapping with her heels, she ran quickly
upstairs to see Vogel and his wife who lived on the upper story.
Two governesses were sitting with the Vogels at a table, on which were
plates of raisins, walnuts, and almonds. The governesses were discussing
whether it was cheaper to live in Moscow or Odessa. Natasha sat down,
listened to their talk with a serious and thoughtful air, and then got
up again.
"The island of Madagascar," she said, "Ma-da-gas-car," she
repeated, articulating each syllable distinctly, and, not replying to
Madame Schoss who asked her what she was saying, she went out of the
room.
Her brother Petya was upstairs too; with the man in attendance on him
he was preparing fireworks to let off that night.
"Petya! Petya!" she called to him. "Carry me downstairs."
Petya ran up and offered her his back. She jumped on it, putting her
arms round his neck, and he pranced along with her.
"No, don’t... the island of Madagascar!" she said, and jumping off
his back she went downstairs.
Having as it were reviewed her kingdom, tested her power, and made
sure that everyone was submissive, but that all the same it was dull,
Natasha betook herself to the ballroom, picked up her guitar, sat down
in a dark corner behind a bookcase, and began to run her fingers over
the strings in the bass, picking out a passage she recalled from an
opera she had heard in Petersburg with Prince Andrew. What she drew from
the guitar would have had no meaning for other listeners, but in her
imagination a whole series of reminiscences arose from those sounds.
She sat behind the bookcase with her eyes fixed on a streak of light
escaping from the pantry door and listened to herself and pondered. She
was in a mood for brooding on the past.
Sonya passed to the pantry with a glass in her hand. Natasha glanced
at her and at the crack in the pantry door, and it seemed to her that
she remembered the light falling through that crack once before and
Sonya passing with a glass in her hand. "Yes it was exactly the
same," thought Natasha.
"Sonya, what is this?" she cried, twanging a thick string.
"Oh, you are there!" said Sonya with a start, and came near and
listened. "I don’t know. A storm?" she ventured timidly, afraid of
being wrong.
"There! That’s just how she started and just how she came up smiling
timidly when all this happened before," thought Natasha, "and in
just the same way I thought there was something lacking in her."
"No, it’s the chorus from The Water-Carrier, listen!" and Natasha
sang the air of the chorus so that Sonya should catch it. "Where were
you going?" she asked.
"To change the water in this glass. I am just finishing the design."
"You always find something to do, but I can’t," said Natasha.
"And where’s Nicholas?"
"Asleep, I think."
"Sonya, go and wake him," said Natasha. "Tell him I want him to
come and sing."
She sat awhile, wondering what the meaning of it all having happened
before could be, and without solving this problem, or at all regretting
not having done so, she again passed in fancy to the time when she was
with him and he was looking at her with a lover’s eyes.
"Oh, if only he would come quicker! I am so afraid it will never be!
And, worst of all, I am growing old - that’s the thing! There won’t
then be in me what there is now. But perhaps he’ll come today, will
come immediately. Perhaps he has come and is sitting in the drawing
room. Perhaps he came yesterday and I have forgotten it." She rose,
put down the guitar, and went to the drawing room.
All the domestic circle, tutors, governesses, and guests, were already
at the tea table. The servants stood round the table - but Prince Andrew
was not there and life was going on as before.
"Ah, here she is!" said the old count, when he saw Natasha enter.
"Well, sit down by me." But Natasha stayed by her mother and
glanced round as if looking for something.
"Mamma!" she muttered, "give him to me, give him, Mamma, quickly,
quickly!" and she again had difficulty in repressing her sobs.
She sat down at the table and listened to the conversation between the
elders and Nicholas, who had also come to the table. "My God, my God!
The same faces, the same talk, Papa holding his cup and blowing in the
same way!" thought Natasha, feeling with horror a sense of repulsion
rising up in her for the whole household, because they were always the
same.
After tea, Nicholas, Sonya, and Natasha went to the sitting room, to
their favorite corner where their most intimate talks always began.
CHAPTER X
"Does it ever happen to you," said Natasha to her brother, when
they settled down in the sitting room, "does it ever happen to you to
feel as if there were nothing more to come - nothing; that everything
good is past? And to feel not exactly dull, but sad?"
"I should think so!" he replied. "I have felt like that when
everything was all right and everyone was cheerful. The thought has come
into my mind that I was already tired of it all, and that we must all
die. Once in the regiment I had not gone to some merrymaking where there
was music... and suddenly I felt so depressed..."
"Oh yes, I know, I know, I know!" Natasha interrupted him. "When
I was quite little that used to be so with me. Do you remember when
I was punished once about some plums? You were all dancing, and I sat
sobbing in the schoolroom? I shall never forget it: I felt sad and sorry
for everyone, for myself, and for everyone. And I was innocent - that
was the chief thing," said Natasha. "Do you remember?"
"I remember," answered Nicholas. "I remember that I came to you
afterwards and wanted to comfort you, but do you know, I felt ashamed
to. We were terribly absurd. I had a funny doll then and wanted to give
it to you. Do you remember?"
"And do you remember," Natasha asked with a pensive smile, "how
once, long, long ago, when we were quite little, Uncle called us into
the study - that was in the old house - and it was dark - we went in and
suddenly there stood..."
"A Negro," chimed in Nicholas with a smile of delight. "Of course
I remember. Even now I don’t know whether there really was a Negro, or
if we only dreamed it or were told about him."
"He was gray, you remember, and had white teeth, and stood and looked
at us...."
"Sonya, do you remember?" asked Nicholas.
"Yes, yes, I do remember something too," Sonya answered timidly.
"You know I have asked Papa and Mamma about that Negro," said
Natasha, "and they say there was no Negro at all. But you see, you
remember!"
"Of course I do, I remember his teeth as if I had just seen them."
"How strange it is! It’s as if it were a dream! I like that."
"And do you remember how we rolled hard-boiled eggs in the ballroom,
and suddenly two old women began spinning round on the carpet? Was that
real or not? Do you remember what fun it was?"
"Yes, and you remember how Papa in his blue overcoat fired a gun in
the porch?"
So they went through their memories, smiling with pleasure: not the sad
memories of old age, but poetic, youthful ones - those impressions of
one’s most distant past in which dreams and realities blend - and they
laughed with quiet enjoyment.
Sonya, as always, did not quite keep pace with them, though they shared
the same reminiscences.
Much that they remembered had slipped from her mind, and what she
recalled did not arouse the same poetic feeling as they experienced. She
simply enjoyed their pleasure and tried to fit in with it.
She only really took part when they recalled Sonya’s first arrival.
She told them how afraid she had been of Nicholas because he had on a
corded jacket and her nurse had told her that she, too, would be sewn up
with cords.
"And I remember their telling me that you had been born under a
cabbage," said Natasha, "and I remember that I dared not disbelieve
it then, but knew that it was not true, and I felt so uncomfortable."
While they were talking a maid thrust her head in at the other door of
the sitting room.
"They have brought the cock, Miss," she said in a whisper.
"It isn’t wanted, Polya. Tell them to take it away," replied
Natasha.
In the middle of their talk in the sitting room, Dimmler came in and
went up to the harp that stood there in a corner. He took off its cloth
covering, and the harp gave out a jarring sound.
"Mr. Dimmler, please play my favorite nocturne by Field," came the
old countess’ voice from the drawing room.
Dimmler struck a chord and, turning to Natasha, Nicholas, and Sonya,
remarked: "How quiet you young people are!"
"Yes, we’re philosophizing," said Natasha, glancing round for a
moment and then continuing the conversation. They were now discussing
dreams.
Dimmler began to play; Natasha went on tiptoe noiselessly to the table,
took up a candle, carried it out, and returned, seating herself quietly
in her former place. It was dark in the room especially where they were
sitting on the sofa, but through the big windows the silvery light of
the full moon fell on the floor. Dimmler had finished the piece but
still sat softly running his fingers over the strings, evidently
uncertain whether to stop or to play something else.
"Do you know," said Natasha in a whisper, moving closer to Nicholas
and Sonya, "that when one goes on and on recalling memories, one at
last begins to remember what happened before one was in the world...."
"That is metempsychosis," said Sonya, who had always learned well,
and remembered everything. "The Egyptians believed that our souls have
lived in animals, and will go back into animals again."
"No, I don’t believe we ever were in animals," said Natasha,
still in a whisper though the music had ceased. "But I am certain that
we were angels somewhere there, and have been here, and that is why we
remember...."
"May I join you?" said Dimmler who had come up quietly, and he sat
down by them.
"If we have been angels, why have we fallen lower?" said Nicholas.
"No, that can’t be!"
"Not lower, who said we were lower?... How do I know what I
was before?" Natasha rejoined with conviction. "The soul is
immortal - well then, if I shall always live I must have lived before,
lived for a whole eternity."
"Yes, but it is hard for us to imagine eternity," remarked Dimmler,
who had joined the young folk with a mildly condescending smile but now
spoke as quietly and seriously as they.
"Why is it hard to imagine eternity?" said Natasha. "It is now
today, and it will be tomorrow, and always; and there was yesterday, and
the day before...."
"Natasha! Now it’s your turn. Sing me something," they heard the
countess say. "Why are you sitting there like conspirators?"
"Mamma, I don’t at all want to," replied Natasha, but all the
same she rose.
None of them, not even the middle-aged Dimmler, wanted to break off
their conversation and quit that corner in the sitting room, but
Natasha got up and Nicholas sat down at the clavichord. Standing
as usual in the middle of the hall and choosing the place where the
resonance was best, Natasha began to sing her mother’s favorite song.
She had said she did not want to sing, but it was long since she had
sung, and long before she again sang, as she did that evening. The
count, from his study where he was talking to Mitenka, heard her and,
like a schoolboy in a hurry to run out to play, blundered in his talk
while giving orders to the steward, and at last stopped, while Mitenka
stood in front of him also listening and smiling. Nicholas did not take
his eyes off his sister and drew breath in time with her. Sonya, as she
listened, thought of the immense difference there was between herself
and her friend, and how impossible it was for her to be anything like as
bewitching as her cousin. The old countess sat with a blissful yet sad
smile and with tears in her eyes, occasionally shaking her head. She
thought of Natasha and of her own youth, and of how there was something
unnatural and dreadful in this impending marriage of Natasha and Prince
Andrew.
Dimmler, who had seated himself beside the countess, listened with
closed eyes.
"Ah, Countess," he said at last, "that’s a European talent, she
has nothing to learn - what softness, tenderness, and strength...."
"Ah, how afraid I am for her, how afraid I am!" said the countess,
not realizing to whom she was speaking. Her maternal instinct told her
that Natasha had too much of something, and that because of this
she would not be happy. Before Natasha had finished singing,
fourteen-year-old Petya rushed in delightedly, to say that some mummers
had arrived.
Natasha stopped abruptly.
"Idiot!" she screamed at her brother and, running to a chair, threw
herself on it, sobbing so violently that she could not stop for a long
time.
"It’s nothing, Mamma, really it’s nothing; only Petya startled
me," she said, trying to smile, but her tears still flowed and sobs
still choked her.
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