________________________________________________
_ It was the eve of St. Nicholas, the fifth of December, 1820. Natasha
had been staying at her brother's with her husband and children
since early autumn. Pierre had gone to Petersburg on business of his
own for three weeks as he said, but had remained there nearly seven
weeks and was expected back every minute.
Besides the Bezukhov family, Nicholas' old friend the retired
General Vasili Dmitrich Denisov was staying with the Rostovs this
fifth of December.
On the sixth, which was his name day when the house would be full of
visitors, Nicholas knew he would have to exchange his Tartar tunic for
a tail coat, and put on narrow boots with pointed toes, and drive to
the new church he had built, and then receive visitors who would
come to congratulate him, offer them refreshments, and talk about
the elections of the nobility; but he considered himself entitled to
spend the eve of that day in his usual way. He examined the
bailiff's accounts of the village in Ryazan which belonged to his
wife's nephew, wrote two business letters, and walked over to the
granaries, cattle yards and stables before dinner. Having taken
precautions against the general drunkenness to be expected on the
morrow because it was a great saint's day, he returned to dinner,
and without having time for a private talk with his wife sat down at
the long table laid for twenty persons, at which the whole household
had assembled. At that table were his mother, his mother's old lady
companion Belova, his wife, their three children with their
governess and tutor, his wife's nephew with his tutor, Sonya, Denisov,
Natasha, her three children, their governess, and old Michael
Ivanovich, the late prince's architect, who was living on in
retirement at Bald Hills.
Countess Mary sat at the other end of the table. When her husband
took his place she concluded, from the rapid manner in which after
taking up his table napkin he pushed back the tumbler and wineglass
standing before him, that he was out of humor, as was sometimes the
case when he came in to dinner straight from the farm- especially
before the soup. Countess Mary well knew that mood of his, and when
she herself was in a good frame of mind quietly waited till he had had
his soup and then began to talk to him and make him admit that there
was no cause for his ill-humor. But today she quite forgot that and
was hurt that he should be angry with her without any reason, and
she felt unhappy. She asked him where he had been. He replied. She
again inquired whether everything was going well on the farm. Her
unnatural tone made him wince unpleasantly and he replied hastily.
"Then I'm not mistaken," thought Countess Mary. "Why is he cross
with me?" She concluded from his tone that he was vexed with her and
wished to end the conversation. She knew her remarks sounded
unnatural, but could not refrain from asking some more questions.
Thanks to Denisov the conversation at table soon became general
and lively, and she did not talk to her husband. When they left the
table and went as usual to thank the old countess, Countess Mary
held out her hand and kissed her husband, and asked him why he was
angry with her.
"You always have such strange fancies! I didn't even think of
being angry," he replied.
But the word always seemed to her to imply: "Yes, I am angry but I
won't tell you why."
Nicholas and his wife lived together so happily that even Sonya
and the old countess, who felt jealous and would have liked them to
disagree, could find nothing to reproach them with; but even they
had their moments of antagonism. Occasionally, and it was always
just after they had been happiest together, they suddenly had a
feeling of estrangement and hostility, which occurred most
frequently during Countess Mary's pregnancies, and this was such a
time.
"Well, messieurs et mesdames," said Nicholas loudly and with
apparent cheerfulness (it seemed to Countess Mary that he did it on
purpose to vex her), "I have been on my feet since six this morning.
Tomorrow I shall have to suffer, so today I'll go and rest."
And without a word to his wife he went to the little sitting room
and lay down on the sofa.
"That's always the way," thought Countess Mary. "He talks to
everyone except me. I see... I see that I am repulsive to him,
especially when I am in this condition." She looked down at her
expanded figure and in the glass at her pale, sallow, emaciated face
in which her eyes now looked larger than ever.
And everything annoyed her- Denisov's shouting and laughter,
Natasha's talk, and especially a quick glance Sonya gave her.
Sonya was always the first excuse Countess Mary found for feeling
irritated.
Having sat awhile with her visitors without understanding anything
of what they were saying, she softly left the room and went to the
nursery.
The children were playing at "going to Moscow" in a carriage made of
chairs and invited her to go with them. She sat down and played with
them a little, but the thought of her husband and his unreasonable
crossness worried her. She got up and, walking on tiptoe with
difficulty, went to the small sitting room.
"Perhaps he is not asleep; I'll have an explanation with him," she
said to herself. Little Andrew, her eldest boy, imitating his
mother, followed her on tiptoe. She not notice him.
"Mary, dear, I think he is asleep- he was so tired," said Sonya,
meeting her in the large sitting room (it seemed to Countess Mary that
she crossed her path everywhere). "Andrew may wake him."
Countess Mary looked round, saw little Andrew following her, felt
that Sonya was right, and for that very reason flushed and with
evident difficulty refrained from saying something harsh. She made
no reply, but to avoid obeying Sonya beckoned to Andrew to follow
her quietly and went to the door. Sonya went away by another door.
From the room in which Nicholas was sleeping came the sound of his
even breathing, every slightest tone of which was familiar to his
wife. As she listened to it she saw before her his smooth handsome
forehead, his mustache, and his whole face, as she had so often seen
it in the stillness of the night when he slept. Nicholas suddenly
moved and cleared his throat. And at that moment little Andrew shouted
from outside the door: "Papa! Mamma's standing here!" Countess Mary
turned pale with fright and made signs to the boy. He grew silent, and
quiet ensued for a moment, terrible to Countess Mary. She knew how
Nicholas disliked being waked. Then through the door she heard
Nicholas clearing his throat again and stirring, and his voice said
crossly:
"I can't get a moment's peace.... Mary, is that you? Why did you
bring him here?"
"I only came in to look and did not notice... forgive me..."
Nicholas coughed and said no more. Countess Mary moved away from the
door and took the boy back to the nursery. Five minutes later little
black-eyed three-year-old Natasha, her father's pet, having learned
from her brother that Papa was asleep and Mamma was in the sitting
room, ran to her father unobserved by her mother. The dark-eyed little
girl boldly opened the creaking door, went up to the sofa with
energetic steps of her sturdy little legs, and having examined the
position of her father, who was asleep with his back to her, rose on
tiptoe and kissed the hand which lay under his head. Nicholas turned
with a tender smile on his face.
"Natasha, Natasha!" came Countess Mary's frightened whisper from the
door. "Papa wants to sleep."
"No, Mamma, he doesn't want to sleep," said little Natasha with
conviction. "He's laughing."
Nicholas lowered his legs, rose, and took his daughter in his arms.
"Come in, Mary," he said to his wife.
She went in and sat down by her husband.
"I did not notice him following me," she said timidly. "I just
looked in."
Holding his little girl with one arm, Nicholas glanced at his wife
and, seeing her guilty expression, put his other arm around her and
kissed her hair.
"May I kiss Mamma?" he asked Natasha.
Natasha smiled bashfully.
"Again!" she commanded, pointing with a peremptory gesture to the
spot where Nicholas had placed the kiss.
"I don't know why you think I am cross," said Nicholas, replying
to the question he knew was in his wife's mind.
"You have no idea how unhappy, how lonely, I feel when you are
like that. It always seems to me... "
"Mary, don't talk nonsense. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" he
said gaily.
"It seems to be that you can't love me, that I am so plain...
always... and now... in this cond..."
"Oh, how absurd you are! It is not beauty that endears, it's love
that makes us see beauty. It is only Malvinas and women of that kind
who are loved for their beauty. But do I love my wife? I don't love
her, but... I don't know how to put it. Without you, or when something
comes between us like this, I seem lost and can't do anything. Now
do I love my finger? I don't love it, but just try to cut it off!
"I'm not like that myself, but I understand. So you're not angry
with me?"
"Awfully angry!" he said, smiling and getting up. And smoothing
his hair he began to pace the room.
"Do you know, Mary, what I've been thinking?" he began,
immediately thinking aloud in his wife's presence now that they had
made it up.
He did not ask if she was ready to listen to him. He did not care. A
thought had occurred to him and so it belonged to her also. And he
told her of his intention to persuade Pierre to stay with them till
spring.
Countess Mary listened till he had finished, made some remark, and
in her turn began thinking aloud. Her thoughts were about the
children.
"You can see the woman in her already," she said in French, pointing
to little Natasha. "You reproach us women with being illogical. Here
is our logic. I say: 'Papa wants to sleep!' but she says, 'No, he's
laughing.' And she was right," said Countess Mary with a happy smile.
"Yes, yes." And Nicholas, taking his little daughter in his strong
hand, lifted her high, placed her on his shoulder, held her by the
legs, and paced the room with her. There was an expression of carefree
happiness on the faces of both father and daughter.
"But you know you may be unfair. You are too fond of this one,"
his wife whispered in French.
"Yes, but what am I to do?... I try not to show..."
At that moment they heard the sound of the door pulley and footsteps
in the hall and anteroom, as if someone had arrived.
"Somebody has come."
"I am sure it is Pierre. I will go and see," said Countess Mary
and left the room.
In her absence Nicholas allowed himself to give his little
daughter a gallop round the room. Out of breath, he took the
laughing child quickly from his shoulder and pressed her to his heart.
His capers reminded him of dancing, and looking at the child's round
happy little face he thought of what she would be like when he was
an old man, taking her into society and dancing the mazurka with her
as his old father had danced Daniel Cooper with his daughter.
"It is he, it is he, Nicholas!" said Countess Mary, re-entering
the room a few minutes later. "Now our Natasha has come to life. You
should have seen her ecstasy, and how he caught it for having stayed
away so long. Well, come along now, quick, quick! It's time you two
were parted," she added, looking smilingly at the little girl who
clung to her father.
Nicholas went out holding the child by the hand.
Countess Mary remained in the sitting room.
"I should never, never have believed that one could be so happy,"
she whispered to herself. A smile lit up her face but at the same time
she sighed, and her deep eyes expressed a quiet sadness as though
she felt, through her happiness, that there is another sort of
happiness unattainable in this life and of which she involuntarily
thought at that instant. _
Read next: First Epilogue: 1813 - 20: Chapter 10
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