Bab Bab 346 · 第346章

It was the eve of St. Nicholas, the fifth of December, 1820. Natásha 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 Bezúkhov family, Nicholas’ old friend the retired General

Vasíli Dmítrich Denísov was staying with the Rostóvs 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 Ryazán 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 Belóva, his wife, their three children

with their governess and tutor, his wife’s nephew with his tutor, Sónya,

Denísov, Natásha, her three children, their governess, and old Michael

Ivánovich, 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 Denísov 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 Sónya 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—Denísov’s shouting and laughter, Natásha’s

talk, and especially a quick glance Sónya gave her.

Sónya 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 did not notice him.

“Mary, dear, I think he is asleep—he was so tired,” said Sónya, 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

Sónya 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 Sónya beckoned to Andrew to follow her quietly and went

to the door. Sónya 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 Natásha, 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.

“Natásha, Natásha!” came Countess Mary’s frightened whisper from the

door. “Papa wants to sleep.”

“No, Mamma, he doesn’t want to sleep,” said little Natásha 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 Natásha.

Natásha 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 Malvínas 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 Natásha. “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 Natásha 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.