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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.
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