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One matter connected with his management sometimes worried
Nicholas, and that was his quick temper together with his old
hussar habit of making free use of his fists. At first he saw
nothing reprehensible in this, but in the second year of his marriage
his view of that form of punishment suddenly changed.
Once in summer he had sent for the village elder from Bogucharovo,
a man who had succeeded to the post when Dron died and who was
accused of dishonesty and various irregularities. Nicholas went
out into the porch to question him, and immediately after the
elder had given a few replies the sound of cries and blows were
heard. On returning to lunch Nicholas went up to his wife, who
sat with her head bent low over her embroidery frame, and as usual
began to tell her what he had been doing that morning. Among other
things he spoke of the Bogucharovo elder. Countess Mary turned
red and then pale, but continued to sit with head bowed and lips
compressed and gave her husband no reply.
"Such an insolent scoundrel!" he cried, growing
hot again at the mere recollection of him. "If he had told
me he was drunk and did not see... But what is the matter with
you, Mary?" he suddenly asked.
Countess Mary raised her head and tried to speak, but hastily
looked down again and her lips puckered.
"Why, whatever is the matter, my dearest?"
The looks of the plain Countess Mary always improved when
she was in tears. She never cried from pain or vexation, but always
from sorrow or pity, and when she wept her radiant eyes acquired
an irresistible charm.
The moment Nicholas took her hand she could no longer restrain
herself and began to cry.
"Nicholas, I saw it... he was to blame, but why do you...
Nicholas!" and she covered her face with her hands.
Nicholas said nothing. He flushed crimson, left her side,
and paced up and down the room. He understood what she was weeping
about, but could not in his heart at once agree with her that
what he had regarded from childhood as quite an everyday event
was wrong. "Is it just sentimentality, old wives' tales,
or is she right?" he asked himself. Before he had solved
that point he glanced again at her face filled with love and pain,
and he suddenly realized that she was right and that he had long
been sinning against himself.
"Mary," he said softly, going up to her, "it
will never happen again; I give you my word. Never," he repeated
in a trembling voice like a boy asking for forgiveness.
The tears flowed faster still from the countess' eyes. She
took his hand and kissed it.
"Nicholas, when when did you break your cameo?"
she asked to change the subject, looking at his finger on which
he wore a ring with a cameo of Laocoon's head.
"Today- it was the same affair. Oh, Mary, don't remind
me of it!" and again he flushed. "I give you my word
of honor it shan't occur again, and let this always be a reminder
to me," and he pointed to the broken ring.
After that, when in discussions with his village elders or
stewards the blood rushed to his face and his fists began to clench,
Nicholas would turn the broken ring on his finger and would drop
his eyes before the man who was making him angry. But he did forget
himself once or twice within a twelvemonth, and then he would
go and confess to his wife, and would again promise that this
should really be the very last time.
"Mary, you must despise me!" he would say. "I
deserve it."
"You should go, go away at once, if you don't feel strong
enough to control yourself," she would reply sadly, trying
to comfort her husband.
Among the gentry of the province Nicholas was respected but
not liked. He did not concern himself with the interests of his
own class, and consequently some thought him proud and others
thought him stupid. The whole summer, from spring sowing to harvest,
he was busy with the work on his farm. In autumn he gave himself
up to hunting with the same business like seriousness- leaving
home for a month, or even two, with his hunt. In winter he visited
his other villages or spent his time reading. The books he read
were chiefly historical, and on these he spent a certain sum every
year. He was collecting, as he said, a serious library, and he
made it a rule to read through all the books he bought. He would
sit in his study with a grave air, reading- a task he first imposed
upon himself as a duty, but which afterwards became a habit affording
him a special kind of pleasure and a consciousness of being occupied
with serious matters. In winter, except for business excursions,
he spent most of his time at home making himself one with his
family and entering into all the details of his children's relations
with their mother. The harmony between him and his wife grew closer
and closer and he daily discovered fresh spiritual treasures in
her.
From the time of his marriage Sonya had lived in his house.
Before that, Nicholas had told his wife all that had passed between
himself and Sonya, blaming himself and commending her. He had
asked Princess Mary to be gentle and kind to his cousin. She thoroughly
realized the wrong he had done Sonya, felt herself to blame toward
her, and imagined that her wealth had influenced Nicholas' choice.
She could not find fault with Sonya in any way and tried to be
fond of her, but often felt ill-will toward her which she could
not overcome.
Once she had a talk with her friend Natasha about Sonya and
about her own injustice toward her.
"You know," said Natasha, "you have read the
Gospels a great deal- there is a passage in them that just fits
Sonya."
"What?" asked Countess Mary, surprised.
"'To him that hath shall be given, and from him that
hath not shall be taken away.' You remember? She is one that hath
not; why, I don't know. Perhaps she lacks egotism, I don't know,
but from her is taken away, and everything has been taken away.
Sometimes I am dreadfully sorry for her. Formerly I very much
wanted Nicholas to marry her, but I always had a sort of presentiment
that it would not come off. She is a sterile flower, you know-
like some strawberry blossoms. Sometimes I am sorry for her, and
sometimes I think she doesn't feel it as you or I would."
Though Countess Mary told Natasha that those words in the
Gospel must be understood differently, yet looking at Sonya she
agreed with Natasha's explanation. It really seemed that Sonya
did not feel her position trying, and had grown quite reconciled
to her lot as a sterile flower. She seemed to be fond not so much
of individuals as of the family as a whole. Like a cat, she had
attached herself not to the people but to the home. She waited
on the old countess, petted and spoiled the children, was always
ready to render the small services for which she had a gift, and
all this was unconsciously accepted from her with insufficient
gratitude.
The country seat at Bald Hills had been rebuilt, though not
on the same scale as under the old prince.
The buildings, begun under straitened circumstances, were
more than simple. The immense house on the old stone foundations
was of wood, plastered only inside. It had bare deal floors and
was furnished with very simple hard sofas, armchairs, tables,
and chairs made by their own serf carpenters out of their own
birchwood. The house was spacious and had rooms for the house
serfs and apartments for visitors. Whole families of the Rostovs'
and Bolkonskis' relations sometimes came to Bald Hills with sixteen
horses and dozens of servants and stayed for months. Besides that,
four times a year, on the name days and birthdays of the hosts,
as many as a hundred visitors would gather there for a day or
two. The rest of the year life pursued its unbroken routine with
its ordinary occupations, and its breakfasts, lunches, dinners,
and suppers, provided out of the produce of the estate.
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